Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Fifteen

'Officer Reynolds 1987,'

Was that the truth? Or a work of fiction? I was left speechless. My mouth stayed shut, allowing my brain to digest what I'd heard – imagining the image of long, dirty claws slithering from the skipper's fingers. I thought he was pulling my leg, but the pain etched on his face was all too real. It defied everything I knew, and to think a boy had caused it.

One that shouldn't have been able to survive being burnt. Who was he? Where is he? And what's the relevance to me? I still had the feeling he was holding back.

"Was that the truth?" Taking a much-needed swig of whiskey. I can see why he dusted it off. "Every word, lad, every blooming word," Skip breathes heavily as he spoke without moving his eyes from looking down.

Charlie looked agitated. He slid further away on the sofa, fidgeting. Still, his eyes were crumpled together. Charlie had a problem. I don't know what it was, but the story bothered him too. I watched his fingers drag up and down his legs before standing up, wincing again, and heading to the holdall on the side. Charlie was hurting; maybe that's what he'd been holding back. I'd forgotten all about the antique-looking box; what could be so important about it, and who was the person who brought it to him?

"So, what happened? Were the claws real? Or are you trying to wind me up with that bit?"

"The pain? Has it started yet?" Skip finally removed his eyes from the hand and glass to stare directly at me. His wrinkles gathered, displaying a troubled look on his face. Even if he'd avoided my question, there was more to that story. A picture paints a thousand words, and I was looking at the opening scenes of a terrible movie – especially producing claws. In the back of my mind, there was an element of denial. A voice tells me it was all nonsense because that would make me feel better. Safer.

The more I thought about it, the more I saw a parallel and an unusual feeling. It was creeping up on me. The night has moved in rather quickly, with the moonlight shining through. Charlie pulled the box from the bag and carefully let it rest on the table.

"Do you remember any of the Diner incidents?" Charlie reluctantly sat back down while keeping his distance. "You, ok? Seem in a bit of pain. Erm, a little. Why?" Reaching for the bottle. I was getting the feeling the rest of the story was coming. And I wouldn't like the 'what happened. "To answer your question, George, I'm having bowel trouble, being probed for cancer. I didn't want to bother you because it might be nothing. So, forget that. Have you seen them yet?" Charlie piped up, arms folded, finger pressed firmly on his lip.

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Georgina. Were you ever good at connecting the dots?' With Charlie's confession swirling in my eardrums, I heard a Chris again; this time, it made me freeze. The story, the pictures, and being drugged all had me on edge and feeling jumpy. My hand gripped the bottle mid-tilt as the hackles shot up. Every time I hear him, I drift into that nightmare. How different Chris was. It's harder than it looks, trying not to seem mad, no matter how near the edge I am, slowly looking around without making it obvious.

'Oh, so it's like that, is it?' This time, it was close; I could feel a chill hovering near my right shoulder. I had to be cracking up, or Chris was haunting me—penance for not saving him. Yet every time he spoke, it concerned what was happening.

"You're not real. You're dead... sorry I couldn't help you, but that's the end," I tried to whisper. "What's that, lad?" The skipper had heard, leaving me in a tight spot, feeling my face turning red. "Erm... I said. This mess can't be real. With Chris dead, will we ever see the end of it? You know, this nightmare," Trying my best not to sound like a total fruitcake. That was the best I could do.