03-Savage Moon (2 page)

Jon felt like a wildlife photographer observing the secret interplays that take place between the creatures of the night. Sightings of foxes were becoming more and more common in the neighbourhood and he felt a slight thrill that a wild animal could be just metres away, roaming the streets and alleys, using the darkness to claim an urban territory as its own.

Suddenly a tingle worked its way down his spine as he thought about what had taken place up on Saddleworth Moor not three weeks ago. A farmer's wife had been savaged to death by some creature and a frenzy of 'mystery beast' fever had gripped the nation ever since.

Jon knew from recent newspaper articles that the loss of sheep was a fairly commonplace occurrence for many farms in and around Britain's national parks. The problem had got so bad around Bodmin during the mid-nineties that the Ministry for Agriculture, Fisheries and Food had commissioned a scientific investigation to determine once and for all if a wild panther was stalking the bleak expanses of Dartmoor. The study was inconclusive and the issue had lapsed back to occasional sightings of large black cats. But ripped open and disembowelled carcasses of sheep continued to be found in the more remote parts of the countryside.

The Suttons' farm on Saddleworth was suffering particularly badly and the wife, a few years younger than her more elderly husband, had taken to going out at night and patrolling the perimeters of their land on a quad bike. On the fateful night, the husband had been away from home, staying overnight at a big sheep market in Keswick up in the Lake District. According to numerous witnesses, he'd got mightily drunk before staggering off to his hotel room at gone two in the morning. When he returned home the next day his wife was nowhere to be found. Eventually he'd gone out on to the moor, spotted the abandoned quad bike and then discovered her corpse alongside the remains of a partially eaten ewe in a nearby ravine. Both of their throats had been torn out and short strands of wiry black hair were found under the wife's nails. Laboratory analysis revealed that the hair belonged to a panther.

The cat on their yard wall was now backing away, a horrible low noise emerging from deep within its throat. Deciding there was enough distance between it and the unseen adversary below, it turned and leaped onto the adjoining wall before disappearing up and over the neighbour's garage with a frantic scrabble of claws. The gap in the cloud closed up, the scene vanished and silence returned.

From beyond the curve of the earth came a faint glow, just strong enough to separate black horizon from dark sky. Night was coming to an end.

The creature remained motionless, body pressed into the tundra-like grass of the moor. Before it the ground dropped away, clumps of gorse quickly dissolving into the gloom. Further down the slope two sheep sheltered at the base of a particularly dense bush.

The wind shifted and the long hairs that emerged from the tips of the creature's ears bent ever so slightly. This new current of air carried up from the plains of Cheshire stretched out below. Contained in it were some interesting sounds and scents. The noise of engines, the sharpness of exhaust fumes, the presence of Man.

The creature's gaze moved across the uncultivated land, settling on the outermost edge of urban sprawl leading back into the city of Manchester itself. Its eyes narrowed slightly and it examined the lights that twinkled from street lamps and cars and people's homes.

Two

Jon stood in front of the draining board the next morning, unscrewing caps of dirty feeding bottles and dropping them into the sink full of warm water. His eyes felt itchy and tired and he raised his hands to rub them. But his fingers were covered in soapy bubbles and he had to use the heels of his palms instead. It only made them feel worse.

He leaned to the side and scooped a spoonful of muesli into his mouth. As he did so his eye caught on the row of photos stuck to the fridge door by an assortment of coloured magnets. His and Alice's wedding day. Chewing on the cereal, he stared with a slight smile at an image of his wife. She'd picked a simple white off-the-shoulder dress with a gossamer shawl that shimmered in the sunlight. Unusually for Alice, she'd worn her hair up, clips carefully arranged so that a few strands hung down at the sides of her face.

They'd opted for a registry office, much to both of their mothers' disappointment, but Alice was keen to get married before the baby arrived and it was their only option at such short notice. After a brief debate during which Jon felt he was being guided to the right answers by Alice, they'd decided on a humanist wedding. He wasn't bothered whether it was religious or not, but his mum still went to her local Catholic church every Sunday and he could sense her disappointment deepen.

The day itself had been clear and crisp, pale blue May skies, blossoming chestnuts swaying in the light breeze. The sort of day when you could feel the world easing itself into the start of summer. He had been nervous before the ceremony, anticipating that the gravity of the commitments they were about to make would slam home at any moment. But the impact never came and he'd floated through the day feeling like he was playing a lead part in some sort of strange play.

For after the ceremony they'd booked a function room at the Marriott hotel, close to where Alice's mum lived in Worseley. It was meant to be a small, simple and inexpensive reception, but the guest list soon began to multiply. Jon remembered their slight argument when he'd added the names of his team mates from Cheadle Ironsides rugby club. Probably wasn't such a good move after all, he now admitted to himself, remembering the flaming sambuccas that had begun appearing towards the end of the night.

Half way through the evening, in a brief moment alone with Alice, he'd mentioned how surreal everything felt, almost as if he was at someone else's wedding entirely. To his relief she had immediately agreed, gushing that it all felt like a dream to her too. Just in time he'd stopped himself from saying that wasn't quite what he'd meant. Instead, he'd sat back and lit a celebratory cigar, grinning as Rick, his friend and colleague, expertly twirled Alice around the small dance floor.

He looked down at the silver wedding band on his finger, still finding the sight of it there slightly bizarre. Shaking his head, he turned back to the sink and scrubbed at the bottles with a small brush. Satisfied they were clean, he lined them up in the rack, shoved it in the microwave and turned the dial to three minutes on full power.

Christ, he thought, what did I actually do with my time before this baby was born?

Punch sat in his basket patiently watching Jon's every move. 'I know, I'll be ready in a minute,' he said with a self-conscious glance towards the door, aware of how Alice laughed at him for chatting to the dog. Once he'd eaten the remainder of his cereal, he crouched in front of the washing machine and started emptying damp babygrows and bibs into a plastic washing basket. Turning the key in the back door, he stepped out into their yard and began hanging the miniature items from the clothesline.

The sun was just clearing the end of the alleyway and a horizontal shaft of orange light cut across the top of the yard walls. Punch came padding out, nose to the ground, to begin his usual check around. When he reached the wooden door leading into the alleyway itself he stopped and began sniffing loudly.

Jon looked over his shoulder. 'Smell something boy? Some- thing been prowling about, hey?' He pegged out the last babygrow and ducked into the kitchen for the dog lead and his jacket. As soon as he unlocked the wooden door, Punch shoved his way past Jon's legs and began excitedly cutting back and forth across the cobbles. Jon looked to the side. Their bin had been tipped over and the refuse sack partially dragged out. Something had ripped it open and removed the remains of the chicken they'd eaten two nights before. Bones were scattered around, pieces of vertebrae crushed and mangled. 'Bastard foxes,' Jon muttered to himself, thinking how he'd have to sweep the mess up later. Punch's head was down and he was snorting away at the base of the yard wall opposite. Abruptly he turned around and sprayed some urine over the spot.

'Something been marking your territory? Well, Punch, if it comes over into our yard you'll see it off, won't you?'

The dog heard the words 'see it off ' and began to look around eagerly at the tops of the walls, tongue hanging from his open mouth. It was the phrase Jon used whenever they spotted a squirrel in the local park and it was Punch's cue for a mad dash towards the smaller animal. Jon knew his dog was doomed to eternal failure in his chases, but it amused him to see his pet frantically dancing around a tree trunk, excitedly barking up at the branches.

'Come on then, I haven't got long.' He set off towards the end of the alley, cold autumnal air clearing his head. Out on Shawbrook Road the yellowing leaves were beginning to curl and drop from the trees. Kicking aside spiky horse chestnut shells, Jon thought about how it was getting dark by seven-thirty each evening. The clocks would go back in another few days and then things would get really miserable. Bloody great.

He reached the grounds of Heaton School five minutes later, striding along the track that dissected the playing fields, Punch keeping pace off to his side like a hunting party's outrider. As he skirted the edge of Heaton Moor Golf Course he looked across the dew-covered grass at the bunkers full of damp sand. Cobwebs glistened on the clusters of gorse bushes that crouched in the still morning air and curls of steam rose where the sun's rays sliced through the trees to his side.

Ten minutes later he was back home and unlocking the kitchen door. Punch waited obediently as his wet paws were dried with an old towel, then they both stepped back into the house.

Silence.

Jon took off his coat, grabbed a bin liner and the dustpan and brush, then went back out into the alley and swept up the scattering of bones. After dumping them in the fresh bag, he placed the ripped bag inside it too and walked back into the kitchen. He made a cup of tea, then climbed the stairs and peered into their dimly lit room. Alice was lying on her side with the duvet peeled back. Holly's tiny body was alongside her, face pressed against an exposed breast. Jon could smell the slightly musty aroma of milk.

'She scoffing again?' he said, placing the cup of tea on the bedside table.

Alice smiled. She had a serene expression on her face and it was one Jon had never seen until she'd become pregnant. It carried a suggestion of peace and contentment and he was always delighted to see it. 'She woke up as you took Punch out. Did you clean his paws before you came in?'

Irritation suddenly needled him. He could sense Alice's mounting resentment of his dog – now the baby had arrived, Punch had dropped in her affection. He had even spotted her looking at the animal with obvious distaste.

'Course I did. So she's been feeding a good quarter of an hour then?'

'I suppose so, I think she's about full.'

'I should hope so. She took almost six ounces just before five this morning.'

Jon realised that, though they were talking to each other, both of their eyes were glued to the baby.

'I thought I heard you moving around. I wasn't sure if it was a dream.'

Jon sat down and passed a hand over the sheen of pale hair covering his daughter's head. Her skull was so warm and he had the urge to kick off his shoes and climb in beside them. Sod work and the bunch of dirty old men he was trying to protect.

'What are you up to today?' he asked.

Alice reflected for a moment. 'Thought I'd skip into Manchester for a spot of shopping, pop into the gym for a massage and sauna, have lunch in Tampopo then go to the cinema or theatre. Or I could sit in all day with this gum-toothed little monster latched on to my tit.'

Jon looked at her, relieved to see she was smiling.

'Actually, your mum's coming over and we're going to the park. Might stop for a coffee somewhere. I may even end up doing the feeding thing in public,' she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding down at her swollen breasts.

Jon frowned. 'That's not a problem, is it?'

She hunched a shoulder. 'Some people can be funny. You know, they reckon it shouldn't be done outside.'

Jon shook his head. 'That's totally wrong. It's the most natural thing in the world.'

Alice put on an upper class voice. 'Not very civilised though, is it?'

He let out a snort, then remembered the scene from their back yard. 'Did you hear that bloody cat screeching in the night?'

Alice was looking back down, attention almost completely absorbed by her baby. 'No.'

'God, it was a horrible noise. I can see where the word caterwaul comes from. It was on our back wall, something down in the alley was really putting the shits up it.' He paused. 'Which park are you going to?'

'I don't know. Probably Stockport Little Moor, walk along the river there.'

Jon glanced at her mischievously. 'Well, don't stray from the path, OK? What if the thing scaring the cat last night was the Monster of the Moor? It's only twenty miles away from here. It could have crept down from the hills looking for fresh meat.' Alice glanced up, looking alarmed. 'Jon, stop it! That's horrible.'

He grinned sheepishly, surprised at her reaction. 'It's only a joke Ali.'

'Well,' she said, hand cupping Holly's head protectively. 'It's not funny. Imagine being that poor woman. Your last memory some savage black beast lunging at your throat. What's happening with that anyway?'

Jon's eyes lingered on his wife. The outburst wasn't like her. He'd noticed a few since the birth. Brief flashes of insecurity, even tears at the most trivial of human interest stories from the news. He shrugged. 'The local bobbies out near Mossley Brow are dealing with it. Apparently they've called in some expert in charge of the panther enclosure at Buxton zoo. He's giving them advice on how best to trap it.' He grinned. 'Last I heard there was a proposal to draft in a regiment from the Paras to stake out the moor with lamb chops.'

'Oh, that's ridiculous.' Her hand moved across to Holly's crown then back to her forehead. Rhythmic, soothing, even though their daughter wasn't crying. 'There must be a better way of catching it. People aren't safe with that thing roaming around.'