episode #17

[robling_t]

Jason's pulling at his lead with all the pent-up energy of a wolf who's not had a proper outing in a few goes. We've already had a turn up to the shops at the river for cheap sushi and cheese, walking back now along the wooded cycle-path near Sandra and David's house; my boots squash in the trodden-thin paste of mulberries and cottonwood fluff slicking the tarmac, one more earthy scent in this moist air by the water.

Pleasant enough night for it, if one must.

A young man on a bike whirrs round the curve from the footbridge, just a bit too fast. Goes into a skid at the sight of the gigantic wolf in his path and sweeps into me, knocking us both down into a tangle of wheels and flailing arms. He's all abashed grins as he tries to sort himself and his messenger-bag. "Sorry, man --"

I've landed heavy on one elbow, shooting pain drawing forth a grimace. The sudden, sharp ache of uncanny reflex, predator's smile blossoming forth eager to rend, to strike, to drink -- The cyclist halts in the act of reaching to offer me a hand up, eyes gone wide:

"The fuck?"

(Jason would lie, would have some pat story about goth kids and the possibilities afforded by throwing money at a particularly unprincipled oral surgeon. It's as well he's not able to speak, caught flat in the startled muttering whimpers of his playacting at being an ordinary dog.) Slowly, one hand raised to show I'm aware of the cyclist's distress, I lumber to my feet. "Look, we don't need to make a big --"

The man grabs up a fallen branch, brandishing the splintered end at me with wildly shaking hands. "You stay the fuck away from me --"

The shock of impact is almost familiar by now, my first stupid thought is bugger, another one's hit the lung. "Right, that was just bloody rude," I croak as he stands blinking at me in surprise.

I pull the crude spear free and throw it well aside, wincing at the drag of insulted muscles. There's a sudden sharper stink above the choking tang of my own blood, the front of the cyclist's trousers going dark with damp. "But -- supposed to --"

Telly. "Go home," I rasp, meeting his eyes. "Go... stay with your Mum for a bit or something. And get some bloody therapy," I add, considering.

Mechanically, he sets his bike to rights and walks it away, little dance of shaking his left leg with each step as if he's not quite sure why his trousers are dragging at him. I stagger sideways to lean heavily against a lamp-post. "I liked this shirt," I say to Jason's disbelieving gape, plucking at the gory ruin.

The were braces himself and throws his head back to howl, full-throated cry that's quickly answered: Sandra, some few streets over, and then a bit farther down the river Susan, checking in with her children's distress more quickly than I could have rung. In the far distance there's a fainter echo. I can guess at what's been said.

Jason has his sister's key, on the ring in the pair of trousers in my rucksack. What her neighbours would think if they see me, dragging through their street soaking in blood at the heels of a great strange wolf. But I gain the door without any twitches of curtains, all these good householders tucked up in their beds at this hour of the night. (No wolves of their own to walk.) I can't steady my hands enough at first, eternal-seeming moments of scrabbling at the lock before it finally clicks home and the door gives way to let me fall inside.

Now that my subconscious is convinced I've reached a place of safety the rush of superhuman energy drains away like someone's pulled the plug in a bath. I shed bloodied clothes to fall where they may and collapse into Sandra and David's guest-bed in my bare skin, trusting that they'll be patient enough to wait for a proper explanation.

(And at the last, Jason, hopping up onto the foot of the bed to circle once before he settles to guard me at my feet.)