The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Read online

  “You saw Odell?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Mention of the dead man brought the scene in the alleyway back to mind. The smell of the body; the boy’s sobs. There were other faiths, thought Ballard, beyond the one he’d once shared with the creature beneath him. Faiths whose devotions were made in heat and blood, whose dogmas were dreams. Where better to baptize himself into that new faith than here, in the blood of the enemy?

  Somewhere, at the very back of his head, he could hear the helicopters, but he wouldn’t let them take to the air. He was strong today; his head, his hands, all strong. When he drew his nails towards Suckling’s eyes the blood came easily. He had a sudden vision of the face beneath the flesh; of Suckling’s features stripped to the essence.

  “Sir?”

  Ballard glanced over his shoulder. The receptionist was standing at the open door.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, preparing to withdraw. To judge by her blushes she assumed this was a lover’s tryst she’d walked in upon.

  “Stay,” said Suckling. “Mr Ballard . . . was just leaving.”

  Ballard released his prey. There would be other opportunities to have Suckling’s life.

  “I’ll see you again,” he said.

  Suckling drew a handkerchief from his top pocket and pressed it to his face.

  “Depend upon it,” he replied.

  Now they would come for him, he could have no doubt of that. He was a rogue element, and they would strive to silence him as quickly as possible. The thought did not distress him. Whatever they had tried to make him forget with their brain-washing was more ambitious than they had anticipated; however deeply they had taught him to bury it, it was digging its way back to the surface. He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew it was near. More than once on his way back to his rooms he imagined eyes at his back. Maybe he was still being tailed; but his instincts informed him otherwise. The presence he felt close-by – so near that it was sometimes at his shoulder – was perhaps simply another part of him. He felt protected by it, as by a local god.

  He had half expected there to be a reception committee awaiting him at his rooms, but there was nobody. Either Suckling had been obliged to delay his alarm-call, or else the upper echelons were still debating their tactics. He pocketed those few keepsakes that he wanted to preserve from their calculating eyes, and left the building again without anyone making a move to stop him.

  It felt good to be alive, despite the chill that rendered the grim streets grimmer still. He decided, for no particular reason, to go to the Zoo, which, though he had been visiting the city for two decades, he had never done. As he walked it occurred to him that he’d never been as free as he was now; that he had shed mastery like an old coat. No wonder they feared him. They had good reason.

  Kantstrasse was busy, but he cut his way through the pedestrians easily, almost as if they sensed a rare certainty in him and gave him a wide berth. As he approached the entrance to the Zoo, however, somebody jostled him. He looked round to upbraid the fellow, but caught only the back of the man’s head as he was submerged in the crowd heading onto Hardenbergstrasse. Suspecting an attempted theft, he checked his pockets, to find that a scrap of paper had been slipped into one. He knew better than to examine it on the spot, but casually glanced round again to see if he recognized the courier. The man had already slipped away.

  He delayed his visit to the Zoo and went instead to the Tiergarten, and there – in the wilds of the great park – found a place to read the message. It was from Mironenko, and it requested a meeting to talk of a matter of considerable urgency, naming a house in Marienfelde as a venue. Ballard memorized the details, then shredded the note.

  It was perfectly possible that the invitation was a trap of course, set either by his own faction or by the opposition. Perhaps a way to test his allegiance; or to manipulate him into a situation in which he could be easily despatched. Despite such doubts he had no choice but to go however, in the hope that this blind date was indeed with Mironenko. Whatever dangers this rendezvous brought, they were not so new. Indeed, given his long-held doubts of the efficacy of sight, hadn’t every date he’d ever made been in some sense blind?

  By early evening the damp air was thickening towards a fog, and by the time he stepped off the bus on Hildburghauserstrasse it had a good hold on the city, lending the chill new powers to discomfort.

  Ballard went quickly through the quiet streets. He scarcely knew the district at all, but its proximity to the Wall bled it of what little charm it might once have possessed. Many of the houses were unoccupied; of those that were not most were sealed off against the night and the cold and the lights that glared from the watch-towers. It was only with the aid of a map that he located the tiny street Mironenko’s note had named.

  No lights burned in the house. Ballard knocked hard, but there was no answering footstep in the hall. He had anticipated several possible scenarios, but an absence of response at the house had not been amongst them. He knocked again; and again. It was only then that he heard sounds from within, and finally the door was opened to him. The hallway was painted grey and brown, and lit only by a bare bulb. The man silhouetted against this drab interior was not Mironenko.

  “Yes?” he said. “What do you want?” His German was spoken with a distinct Muscovite inflection.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Ballard said.

  The man, who was almost as broad as the doorway he stood in, shook his head.

  “There’s nobody here,” he said. “Only me.”

  “I was told—”

  “You must have the wrong house.”

  No sooner had the doorkeeper made the remark than noise erupted from down the dreary hallway. Furniture was being overturned; somebody had begun to shout.

  The Russian looked over his shoulder and went to slam the door in Ballard’s face, but Ballard’s foot was there to stop him. Taking advantage of the man’s divided attention, Ballard put his shoulder to the door, and pushed. He was in the hallway – indeed he was half-way down it – before the Russian took a step in pursuit. The sound of demolition had escalated, and was now drowned out by the sound of a man squealing. Ballard followed the sound past the sovereignty of the lone bulb and into gloom at the back of the house. He might well have lost his way at that point but that a door was flung open ahead of him.

  The room beyond had scarlet floorboards; they glistened as if freshly painted. And now the decorator appeared in person. His torso had been ripped open from neck to navel. He pressed his hands to the breached dam, but they were useless to stem the flood; his blood came in spurts, and with it, his innards. He met Ballard’s gaze, his eyes full to overflowing with death, but his body had not yet received the instruction to lie down and die; it juddered on in a pitiful attempt to escape the scene of execution behind him.

  The spectacle had brought Ballard to a halt, and the Russian from the door now took hold of him, and pulled him back into the hallway, shouting into his face. The outburst, in panicked Russian, was beyond Ballard, but he needed no translation of the hands that encircled his throat. The Russian was half his weight again, and had the grip of an expert strangler, but Ballard felt effortlessly the man’s superior. He wrenched the attacker’s hands from his neck, and struck him across the face. It was a fortuitous blow. The Russian fell back against the staircase, his shouts silenced.

  Ballard looked back towards the scarlet room. The dead man had gone, though scraps of flesh had been left on the threshold.

  From within, laughter.

  Ballard turned to the Russian.

  “What in God’s name’s going on?” he demanded, but the other man simply stared through the open door.

  Even as he spoke, the laughter stopped. A shadow moved across the blood-splattered wall of the interior, and a voice said:

  “Ballard?”

  There was a roughness there, as if the speaker had been shouting all day and night, but it was the voice of Mironenko.

  “Don’
t stand out in the cold,” he said, “come on in. And bring Solomonov.”

  The other man made a bid for the front door, but Ballard had hold of him before he could take two steps.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Comrade,” said Mironenko. “The dog’s gone.” Despite the reassurance, Solomonov began to sob as Ballard pressed him towards the open door.

  Mironenko was right; it was warmer inside. And there was no sign of a dog. There was blood in abundance, however. The man Ballard had last seen teetering in the doorway had been dragged back into this abattoir while he and Solomonov had struggled. The body had been treated with astonishing barbarity. The head had been smashed open; the innards were a grim litter underfoot.

  Squatting in the shadowy corner of this terrible room, Mironenko. He had been mercilessly beaten, to judge by the swelling about his head and upper torso, but his unshaven face bore a smile for his saviour.

  “I knew you’d come,” he said. His gaze fell upon Solomonov. “They followed me,” he said. “They meant to kill me, I suppose. Is that what you intended, Comrade?”

  Solomonov shook with fear – his eyes flitting from the bruised moon of Mironenko’s face to the pieces of gut that lay everywhere about – finding nowhere a place of refuge.

  “What stopped them?” Ballard asked.

  Mironenko stood up. Even this slow movement caused Solomonov to flinch.

  “Tell Mr Ballard,” Mironenko prompted. “Tell him what happened.” Solomonov was too terrified to speak. “He’s KGB, of course,” Mironenko explained. “Both trusted men. But not trusted enough to be warned, poor idiots. So they were sent to murder me with just a gun and a prayer.” He laughed at the thought. “Neither of which were much use in the circumstances.”

  “I beg you . . .” Solomonov murmured, “. . . let me go. I’ll say nothing.”

  “You’ll say what they want you to say, Comrade, the way we all must,” Mironenko replied. “Isn’t that right, Ballard? All slaves of our faith?”

  Ballard watched Mironenko’s face closely; there was a fullness there that could not be entirely explained by the bruising. The skin almost seemed to crawl.

  “They have made us forgetful,” Mironenko said.

  “Of what?” Ballard enquired.

  “Of ourselves,” came the reply, and with it Mironenko moved from his murky corner and into the light.

  What had Solomonov and his dead companion done to him? His flesh was a mass of tiny contusions, and there were bloodied lumps at his neck and temples which Ballard might have taken for bruises but that they palpitated, as if something nested beneath the skin. Mironenko made no sign of discomfort however, as he reached out to Solomonov. At his touch the failed assassin lost control of his bladder, but Mironenko’s intentions were not murderous. With eerie tenderness he stroked a tear from Solomonov’s cheek. “Go back to them,” he advised the trembling man. “Tell them what you’ve seen.”

  Solomonov seemed scarcely to believe his ears, or else suspected – as did Ballard – that this forgiveness was a sham, and that any attempt to leave, would invite fatal consequences.

  But Mironenko pressed his point. “Go on,” he said. “Leave us please. Or would you prefer to stay and eat?”

  Solomonov took a single, faltering step towards the door. When no blow came he took a second step, and a third, and now he was out of the door and away.

  “Tell them!” Mironenko shouted after him. The front door slammed.

  “Tell them what?” said Ballard.

  “That I’ve remembered,” Mironenko said. “That I’ve found the skin they stole from me.”

  For the first time since entering this house, Ballard began to feel queasy. It was not the blood nor the bones underfoot, but a look in Mironenko’s eyes. He’d seen eyes as bright once before. But where?

  “You—” he said quietly, “you did this.”

  “Certainly,” Mironenko replied.

  “How?” Ballard said. There was a familiar thunder climbing from the back of his head. He tried to ignore it, and press some explanation from the Russian. “How, damn you?”

  “We are the same,” Mironenko replied. “I smell it in you.”

  “No,” said Ballard. The clamour was rising.

  “The doctrines are just words. It’s not what we’re taught but what we know that matters. In our marrow; in our souls.”

  He had talked of souls once before; of places his masters had built in which a man could be broken apart. At the time Ballard had thought such talk mere extravagance; now he wasn’t so sure. What was the burial party all about, if not the subjugation of some secret part of him? The marrow-part; the soul-part.

  Before Ballard could find the words to express himself, Mironenko froze, his eyes gleaming more brightly than ever.

  “They’re outside,” he said.

  “Who are?”

  The Russian shrugged. “Does it matter?” he said. “Your side or mine. Either one will silence us if they can.”

  That much was true.

  “We must be quick,” he said, and headed for the hallway. The front door stood ajar. Mironenko was there in moments. Ballard followed. Together they slipped out on to the street.

  The fog had thickened. It idled around the street-lamps, muddying their light, making every doorway a hiding place. Ballard didn’t wait to tempt the pursuers out into the open, but followed Mironenko, who was already well ahead, swift despite his bulk. Ballard had to pick up his pace to keep the man in sight. One moment he was visible, the next the fog closed around him.

  The residential property they moved through now gave way to more anonymous buildings, warehouses perhaps, whose walls stretched up into the murky darkness unbroken by windows. Ballard called after him to slow his crippling pace. The Russian halted and turned back to Ballard, his outline wavering in the besieged light. Was it a trick of the fog, or had Mironenko’s condition deteriorated in the minutes since they’d left the house? His face seemed to be seeping; the lumps on his neck had swelled further.

  “We don’t have to run,” Ballard said. “They’re not following.”

  “They’re always following,” Mironenko replied, and as if to give weight to the observation Ballard heard fog-deadened footsteps in a nearby street.

  “No time to debate,” Mironenko murmured, and turning on his heel, he ran. In seconds, the fog had spirited him away again.

  Ballard hesitated another moment. Incautious as it was, he wanted to catch a glimpse of his pursuers so as to know them for the future. But now, as the soft pad of Mironenko’s step diminished into silence, he realized that the other footsteps had also ceased. Did they know he was waiting for them? He held his breath, but there was neither sound nor sign of them. The delinquent fog idled on. He seemed to be alone in it. Reluctantly, he gave up waiting and went after the Russian at a run.

  A few yards on the road divided. There was no sign of Mironenko in either direction. Cursing his stupidity in lingering behind, Ballard followed the route which was most heavily shrouded in fog. The street was short, and ended at a wall lined with spikes, beyond which there was a park of some kind. The fog clung more tenaciously to this space of damp earth than it did to the street, and Ballard could see no more than four or five yards across the grass from where he stood. But he knew intuitively that he had chosen the right road; that Mironenko had scaled this wall and was waiting for him somewhere close by. Behind him, the fog kept its counsel. Either their pursuers had lost him, or their way, or both. He hoisted himself up on to the wall, avoiding the spikes by a whisper, and dropped down on the opposite side.

  The street had seemed pin-drop quiet, but it clearly wasn’t, for it was quieter still inside the park. The fog was chillier here, and pressed more insistently upon him as he advanced across the wet grass. The wall behind him – his only point of anchorage in this wasteland – became a ghost of itself, then faded entirely. Committed now, he walked on a few more steps, not certain that he was even taking a straight route. Suddenly the fog
curtain was drawn aside and he saw a figure waiting for him a few yards ahead. The bruises now twisted his face so badly Ballard would not have known it to be Mironenko, but that his eyes still burned so brightly.

  The man did not wait for Ballard, but turned again and loped off into insolidity, leaving the Englishman to follow, cursing both the chase and the quarry. As he did so, he felt a movement close by. His senses were useless in the clammy embrace of fog and night, but he saw with that other eye, heard with that other ear, and he knew he was not alone. Had Mironenko given up the race and come back to escort him? He spoke the man’s name, knowing that in doing so he made his position apparent to any and all, but equally certain that whoever stalked him already knew precisely where he stood.

  “Speak,” he said.

  There was no reply out of the fog.

  Then; movement. The fog curled upon itself and Ballard glimpsed a form dividing the veils. Mironenko! He called after the man again, taking several steps through the murk in pursuit and suddenly something was stepping out to meet him. He saw the phantom for a moment only; long enough to glimpse incandescent eyes and teeth grown so vast they wrenched the mouth into a permanent grimace. Of those facts – eyes and teeth – he was certain. Of the other bizarrities – the bristling flesh, the monstrous limbs – he was less sure. Maybe his mind, exhausted with so much noise and pain, was finally losing its grip on the real world; inventing terrors to frighten him back into ignorance.

  “Damn you,” he said, defying both the thunder that was coming to blind him again and the phantoms he would be blinded to. Almost as if to test his defiance, the fog up ahead shimmered and parted and something that he might have taken for human, but that it had its belly to the ground, slunk into view and out. To his right, he heard growls; to his left, another indeterminate form came and went. He was surrounded, it seemed, by mad men and wild dogs.

  And Mironenko; where was he? Part of this assembly, or prey to it? Hearing a half-word spoken behind him, he swung round to see a figure that was plausibly that of the Russian backing into the fog. This time he didn’t walk in pursuit, he ran, and his speed was rewarded. The figure re-appeared ahead of him, and Ballard stretched to snatch at the man’s jacket. His fingers found purchase, and all at once Mironenko was reeling round, a growl in his throat, and Ballard was staring into a face that almost made him cry out. His mouth was a raw wound, the teeth vast, the eyes slits of molten gold; the lumps at his neck had swelled and spread, so that the Russian’s head was no longer raised above his body but part of one undivided energy, head becoming torso without an axis intervening.