Werewolves of Soho Read online

  We walk along the platform. It's strange to think that fifty years ago there were still trains stopping here, still people using the station as part of their daily lives. Then some bureaucrat decided they could save money by shutting the place down and diverting all passengers to Southfields. A magnificent place like Byfleet Station was just shut up and forgotten, a part of London's history shuttered and ignored. The authorities wouldn't even let us arrange a visit down here, which is why we had to be more inventive, with a pair of bolt-cutters. Thankfully no-one really gives a damn about us being here anyway. It's not like there's anything valuable down here.

  "Maybe we'll see Lady Eustace," Margaret says, grinning.

  "Maybe," I say. I don't say anything, but I'd prefer not to talk about ghosts. For one thing, they don't exist, and for another, they just perpetuate the idea of a place like Byfleet Station being separate from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, Lady Eustace is a pretty powerful legend. It's said the ghost of a suicidal woman from many years ago haunts Byfleet Station, often to be seen at the end of the platform, preparing to throw herself under a train. Then again, exactly the same thing is said about Embankment Station. I don't suppose the real Lady Eustace threw herself under two separate trains at two separate stations, so I imagine there's some... imaginative elaboration going on when the story is told.

  Heading through into the old ticket hall, we find a largely empty space with a magnificent domed roof. Again, it's hard not to imagine what this place must have been like in the early 60s, when thousands of passengers each day flooded through here on their way to and from the trains. To see the place left abandoned like this, it almost breaks my heart. But at the same time, there's a real thrill at being the first people to come down here for so long.

  "Who needs ghosts?" I say, shining my torch up the walls. "There's enough to look at without pretending there's a bunch of dead folk wandering about down here."

  "Spoilsport," says Margaret, going over to look at the window to the old ticket booth. It's about the size of a wardrobe, standing slightly away from the wall. "Funny," she says, peering at it.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she replies. "Just this ticket window. The glass is covered in something, I can't see inside at all."

  I wander over. When the station was open back in the 60s, there'd be someone sitting in the booth, selling tickets. Now it's just another abandoned part of the station, all the staff long gone and most of them probably dead. I put my hand on the glass to try to wipe the strange yellow stuff away, but I realize all the crap is actually on the inside.

  "What d'you reckon it is?" Margaret asks.

  I shrug and walk around to the door, but it's locked. I guess we'll never see inside.

  "I don't think we'll ever know," I say. "Probably just mold." I wander over to the other side of the hall, then I walk a few yards down another corridor and shine my torch ahead. I'm probably the first person to stand in this tunnel in almost half a century; the first living thing, anyway. I breathe deep, but the air is thick with dust so I don't get much freshness. There's a distant rumble, the sound of a train passing in a different tunnel. That's another strange thing about these abandoned stations: often, just a few hundred meters away, there are busy stations still in use.

  There's a scream behind me. I turn just as Margaret comes running over, grabbing my arm and turning to look back toward the ticket hall. "There's someone in there!" she says, her voice completely taken over by fear. She's clutching my arm, and she seems genuinely terrified.

  "What are you talking about"? I ask, my heart racing. There shouldn't be anyone else down here, not even security guards. But maybe we missed a CCTV camera, or we tripped an alarm, or -

  "In the ticket booth," she says. "I heard someone knocking from inside. There's someone in there, Martin!"

  I relax. Okay, she's just getting spooked out. "Seriously?" I ask. "Come on." I walk through to the ticket booth. Trying the door again, I find it's still locked. It feels like there's a heavy-duty bolt inside, so I don't reckon I'll be able to bash the door down, and anyway - I wouldn't want to break something so old and beautiful. I look behind the booth, which is free-standing a few inches from the wall. There's no way in or out other than the door.

  "Do you hear anything?" Margaret asks. She's nearby now, but she seems unwilling to come too close. It's funny how the mind can play tricks on you: she's convinced she heard something.

  I look at the glass of the ticket booth. I still can't make out what the yellow stuff on the inside is, but it's covering the view completely, so I can't see inside. The funny thing is, looking at it now, it's clear that it's not mold. It's more like some kind of foam. I put my ear up to the side and listen, but there's nothing.

  "Don't take this the wrong way," I say, "but I think you imagined it."

  Margaret edges closer, clearly still nervous. "I bloody didn't," she says. "I heard it, knocking properly. There's something in there."

  I shake my head. "You've been watching too many crap horror films." I sigh. "Whatever it is, let's just leave it in there. I'm sure it was perfectly happy before we arrived, and I'm sure -"

  "What's that?" Margaret asks, pointing at something behind me, her face turning white with fear.

  I look at the glass, and at first I don't see anything. But then, slowly, I realize what she's pointing at. In the yellow crap covering the glass, there's a hand-print. Rough and dirty, sure, but a clear human hand-print. On the inside of the glass. And I know for a fact that it wasn't there a few minutes ago. I'd have seen it.

  "Can we go now?" Margaret asks, grabbing my arm. Her voice is trembling slightly and getting rather hushed.

  "Sure," I say, trying - and failing - to sound totally cool. I might not believe in ghosts and crap like that, but I can still get spooked now and then, and right now I'd rather start heading back to civilization. I need a drink, a good pint of ale.

  We quickly head back along the corridor toward the platform from which we can jump down onto the tracks. Margaret hurries ahead, while I keep looking back over my shoulder. There's nothing there, of course. Hell, I must have imagined the whole thing. That hand-print was there all along, I just didn't notice it the first time. It's funny how your mind can make you believe in strange things. There must be a rational explanation. Ghosts, monsters and stuff like that, it's all just a load of rubbish.

  When we get to the platform, I pull out my camera and start taking a few photos. The flash lights up the darkness.

  "Can we go now, please?" Margaret asks, already climbing down onto the tracks. She's in a real hurry to get out of here.

  "Hang on," I say, taking a couple more photos. "We'll probably never get a chance to come down here again, you know. Maybe no-one will. I need this for my blog -"

  I look up as there's a sudden banging sound from back along the corridor. Just a single bang, like a wooden door being pushed open. Okay, places like this can make little noises of their own accord, but that sounded deliberate. And slowly, as I look along the curving corridor, I see a shadow starting to shuffle into view on the white tiled wall.

  "Fucking hell," I say under my breath.

  "Martin!" hisses Margaret. "Come on! It's coming!"

  I know I should leave. Right now. It's the only sensible thing to do. But for a moment, I genuinely consider waiting, just a few more seconds. Whatever 'it' is, that thing seems to be moving very slowly. Surely just a couple more seconds and it'll come into view, and I'll still have time to run. I want to see it, to make sure it's just an illusion. So I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching the wall at the end of the corridor, watching the shadow slowly getting larger. Any second, I'll see the thing. And then -

  "Halt! Don't move!"

  I spin around. At the other end of the platform, three men in military fatigues are running toward me. I turn and head toward the edge of the platform, but as I jump down I fall and bang my head on one of the thick metal rails. I get up and see that Margaret has already started to run an
d is a long way down the tunnel. I don't blame her, it's good that she saved herself. I'll just sort this mess out and then I can go and buy her a beer.

  "Stay where you are!" shouts a man's voice.

  "Don't fucking move!" shouts another.

  I get to my feet and turn, to find the three men are right next to me, up on the platform, pointing their guns down to me as I stand on the tracks.

  "It's okay," I say, putting my hands in the air. "I'm a blogger! I don't want to -"

  "Where is she?" one of the soldiers shouts at me.

  I stare at him. Does he mean Margaret? Damn, I was hoping he hadn't seen her.

  "You have ten seconds," the man shouts, "to tell me where Dr. Olivia Thatcher is hiding, or I'll drop you right here and now."

  "Who?" I ask, stammering slightly, suddenly feeling as if I've stumbled into something much bigger than I ever imagined. Clearly I'm in the middle of someone else's battle. "I don't know who that is!"

  "Nine," says the man, staring at me down the barrel of the rifle.

  "You can't shoot me!" I shout, for the first time becoming a little concerned by these soldiers and their trigger-happy attitude.

  "I have rolling authorization to shoot terrorist suspects," the lead soldier says.

  "Terrorist? I'm not a -"

  "Six!" he shouts, clicking his rifle as he takes a better aim at my head. His two friends are also aiming directly at me.

  "I'm just down here for historical research!" I shout. "I'm not a terrorist, I'm trying to -"

  "Four!" the man shouts.

  I get down on my knees and put my hands behind my head. "Look! I'm not a terrorist! I'm not a threat! I'm just down here doing some research! My blog is -"

  "Three! Where is Dr. Thatcher?"

  "I have no idea!" I scream.

  "One!" the man shouts.

  "I don't know what you're talking about!" I scream at him.

  There's a pause as the three men stare at me, their rifles still aimed at my head.

  Finally, the lead soldier speaks. "I believe you," he says, and then he fires and I feel something hit me between the eyes.

  And then everything goes black.

  Jess

  "Jess?" says a voice in the distance. At first I ignore it, but it calls me again. "Jess!"

  Slowly, I open my eyes and...

  and...

  something's

  different...

  I can see the stars. Okay, I know that sounds boring, but I really mean it. I can see them. I can really see them. Looking up at the night sky, I can see hundreds and hundreds of stars. After all these months living in London, surrounded by light pollution, I'd forgotten what it was like to be able to really see the stars in the night sky. And now here I am, flat on my back on the cold concrete ground in the courtyard behind the club, in the middle of Soho, and I can see all the stars in the sky in the most amazing detail.

  I sit up suddenly.

  There's a noise behind me.

  I turn and see Duncan standing by the wall. He looks sad and stony-faced, and there's a haunted look in his eyes. Next to him, slumped on the floor, is the figure of a man who I immediately recognize as the one who attacked me. He's still breathing, I can tell, even from all the way over here.

  Wait, I was attacked...

  I look down at my chest and see blood stains all over my clothes. Desperately, I grab at the ripped fabric, but there's no pain and the blood itself looks old and dried. Putting my hands where the wounds should be, I find that there's nothing there except clean, un-pierced flesh. It's like I was stabbed, but I wasn't, but... I was.

  "What the fuck happened?" I ask, getting to my feet.

  Duncan stares at me, not saying anything.

  On the floor, the attacker groans as he starts to wake up.

  "I got..." I say, still trying to find the wounds. It's as if my body just healed itself. I remember feeling the blade slicing into my heart, its serrated edge tearing through the muscle, and then... nothing. I look at my watch and see that it's just gone midnight. I can't have been out here for more than a few minutes. Sure, wounds can heal fast, but multiple stab wounds in less time than it takes to boil a kettle? I think not...

  "What happened?" I ask again.

  "I'm sorry," Duncan says solemnly.

  I stare at him. His seriousness makes me worried. He has such dark, heavy eyes and he seems to know something that I don't. And he looks almost as if... almost as if there are tears in his eyes.

  "Did you..." I look at the injured attacker. "Did you save me? What happened?"

  On the floor, the attacker rolls over. His face is mashed and sliced up. There's no way he's going to live much longer.

  "I didn't save you," Duncan says suddenly.

  I look up at him. "I feel..." I pause, trying to find the right words. "I feel pretty good, considering I just got stabbed."

  Duncan still has that worrying, almost haunting look in his eyes. "I guess..." he says, then pauses. "I guess I'm good at keeping people alive." On the floor, the stabber starts to move. Duncan puts his foot on the guy's neck and crunches downwards; the guy stops moving. "Depends on the patient," Duncan adds.

  I look down at the guy's body. "Who was he?" I ask.

  "A mugger," says Duncan. "Or a thief you disturbed. That's what the official report would have said, anyway. But it's a pretty major coincidence."

  "You think someone sent him to kill me?"

  Duncan nods. "They're wiping out every trace of Greystone. Every last hint that the organization ever existed. They know you know about it, so... It's not safe for you here."

  "I work here," I say.

  "You'll die here. If you stay here." He steps toward me. "London's burning tonight, and the flames are heading straight for you."

  I look up into his dark eyes. "Bit melodramatic," I say.

  "Thanks. I've been practicing."

  "It's a good line."

  There's a commotion behind us, and two or three girls run out from the back of the club. They hurry straight past us, but one of them trips. I help her up.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  "Fucking police raid," she says, before running off.

  I spot something that fell from her bag when she tripped. Picking it up, I realize it's a pack of coke. I guess that explains why she wanted to get out of there.

  "Come on," says Duncan, grabbing my arm.

  "For fuck's sake," he says. "First the explosions. Then the stabbing. Now a police raid on the club where you work. Do you seriously not think this is a little suspicious?"

  I stare at him. "They can't -"

  "They can," he says. "And they will. Greystone has to be eliminated. Tonight. Every trace of it. And right now, you're probably the only trace that's left. Well, you and me. So -"

  "Shit!" shouts a voice, and I turn to see Rossiter running out the back door. He's got a load of bags in his arms, and he's sweating like the pig that he is.

  "Don't move!" shouts a voice from back inside the club.

  Rossiter glances over his shoulder, then hurries on. A shot rings out, and Rossiter stops in his tracks. He turns and looks at me, and slowly a small red dot on his forehead starts to drip down his face. Finally, he falls to the ground.

  "Run!" Duncan says, pulling me out of the yard. We head down the back alley, running for our lives as a helicopter appears overhead.

  Margaret

  "If you move," whispers a female voice in my ear, "we're both dead. So keep still." She has her hand clamped tightly over my mouth as we hide in the dark tunnel. In the distance, I can hear a few voices, but they seem to be getting further and further away. Occasionally, there's the clicking sound of a radio bursting into life, as the soldiers discuss their operation.

  "I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth," says the voice, her breath hot against my ear. "But you have to stay quiet. If those men hear us, we'll both be shot on the spot. Do you understand?"

  I don't dare move at all. I just stand there, waiting
to see what happens next.

  "I said, do you understand?" the voice hisses in my ear.

  I nod, terrified.

  Slowly the woman takes her hand from my mouth. I step forward and turn to look at her, but in the dark of the tunnel it's hard to make anything out except that she seems to be tall.

  "What's your name?" the woman asks. She has an upper-class English accent, and she speaks quickly, as if she really means business.

  "Margaret Rose Buchanan," I say cautiously. "Flat 4b, Holdacre Crescent, NW2 4 -"

  "Okay," says the woman. "All I needed was your name."

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  There's a pause. "You can call me Olivia," she says, stepping toward me. I can see, now, that she's a middle-aged woman, quite strikingly beautiful. She also has mud and blood on her face, and her clothes are torn with red stains all over them. She looks like she's been in the wars - literally.

  "What happened to you?" I ask, looking her up and down.

  "Nothing," she says. "But we have to get out of here right now." She sighs. "I don't have to help you, but I'm willing to let you follow me. As long as you're not noisy and as long as you're not too fat to walk at a decent pace -"

  "I'll be fine," I say firmly.

  "Do you have a mobile phone?" she asks.

  I nod.

  "Give it to me."

  "It's switched off."

  "Give it to me!" She holds her hand out.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and hand it to her. She puts it on the floor.

  "That cost me sixty quid!" I say.

  "It's a mobile tracking device," Olivia snaps back. "It'll get us both killed, like your friend."

  "Martin -" I say, turning back toward the station.

  "The guy you were with?" Olivia asks.

  "I have to see if he's okay," I say, stepping awkwardly over the rails.

  "He's dead," Olivia says.

  "He's not," I say, determined to go back and check on him. He can't be dead. There's no reason to kill Martin, he's such a friendly guy and all he wants to do is explore some history. Killing him would be inhumane, it'd be monstrous.