‘My jacket!’
Retaliation was more instinct than anything else. The knife was mostly for show, to frighten. She had killed someone once and was in no hurry to repeat that. However, the ferocity of its attack took her by surprise and before she knew it she was hammering the blade up into the side of its head. She stabbed three times in quick succession, felt the impacts down her arms, heard the sound of bone breaking under the blade, felt something wet on her hand as she struggled to hold on to it. She pulled the Balisong out and swung with the knuckles, catching it in the jaw with enough force to send it to its knees. Beth stepped back and kicked it hard in the chest, knocking it over.
‘Fucker!’ she screamed, fear and anger mixing.
It rolled back to its feet and flung itself at her, hooked claws outstretched. Beth tried to dodge the lunge but screamed as hooks pierced flesh and dragged her to the ground. She tried to roll it over but was desperate to hold on to the knife.
It was strong. It was on the top. She felt her skin tear, on her chest, her face, her head, as it clawed at her. At some subconscious level her brain acknowledged the sound of cheering and shouting. She stopped trying to push it off. Fingers still wearing knuckles grabbed its head. Her arm was clawed open. A mouth full of jagged, wicked-looking teeth opened and drooled on her before trying to bite her fingers.
The knife flashed out into its chest over and over again, viscous warm blood spraying her. Then she was stabbing its throat to the sound of booing. Then she was stabbing under its chin and into its mouth as it howled. Blood made the metal of the knife slippery and she lost her grip on it. The creature flinched away from the blade, not realising it was stuck in its flesh. Beth screamed and put all her force into punching it in the face. She felt bone crack under the blow from the knuckleduster. The thing’s head snapped around and it spat blood into the night air. Beth bucked her hips, grabbed its hair and dragged its head down towards the sand, rolling at the same time. The creature made strange keening sounds and rolled off her.
Beth was lying on the bloody sand next to the stinking thing. The moment’s respite let her body tell her just how much pain she was in. She had to suppress it. She swung her leg over herself, using the momentum to roll onto the creature, which was wriggling around on the sand in obvious agony. She straddled it and grabbed its slick head. Its blood looked thicker than she thought was normal and black, even in the light. She barely registered the ringing of a mobile phone as she powered her brass-knuckled fist repeatedly into its face, smashing and then powdering bone as she made the face look like something other than a face. It stopped moving. She didn’t stop hitting it. She didn’t notice McGurk leaving.
Eventually she stopped and looked up to see the crowd, silent, just staring at her. She got to her feet and staggered towards them. Some of them stepped back.
Beth heard the creature get up behind her. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She clenched her fist around the brass knuckles. She had no fight left in her but that didn’t mean she was going to stop fighting. She heard a ripping sound as vicious spurs of bone shot through its coat from its elbows. Beth started to turn.
Then there was light everywhere, wind and noise, shouted voices telling her that they had guns and that she needed to get on the ground. Gunfire. It didn’t sound like it did on the telly. Shot after shot. Beth sank to her knees and then toppled forward onto the sand. The creature fell close enough for her to see its dead eyes.
A shadow blocked out some of the light. There was more shouting. Have to shout to be heard over the wind and the noise from the light in the sky, she thought. There was a pretty man – sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, well dressed in dark clothes – way out of her league. And he had a gun. A man with a gun was telling her to let go of the brass knuckles. Beth was worried that if she started laughing she wouldn’t stop. She was dead. She was sure of that. What danger is a dead woman with brass knuckles against shouting men with guns? she wondered.
She wasn’t dead. The paramedics had done a good job. The painkillers had done a better one. She was still a mess but she could walk and most of her limbs still worked. They had wanted to take her to hospital. Apparently she needed to be there. The blond man who seemed to be in charge had said no. There had been an argument, which he’d won. She was in an interview room in the big police station on Kingston Crescent. They had outdone themselves in making the room look institutional.
She hurt, but anger was carrying her through. It had to because what she knew about the world, particularly a previously unquestioned faith in – no, knowledge of – the non-existence of monsters, had been challenged. She had anger to deal with this. The alternative was a shaking crying mess.
The door opened. He was attractive, Beth thought as the blond man she had seen at the stadium entered. He had a folder under one arm and was carrying two cups of tea. There was something military in his bearing, but an officer not a squaddie. She’d known enough squaddies to recognise them.
He put one of the mugs down in front of her.
‘I made it myself,’ he said. ‘And put lots of sugar in it.’
It smelled good to Beth. It smelled familiar.
He opened the folder. The only thing in it was a black and white photograph of her sister. Beth looked at him and then the picture. It was a good picture. She’d been caught in an unguarded moment. The smile on her face was genuine. Beth had seen too few of those in her life, but you could truly see how beautiful Talia had been. She hadn’t needed the make-up and the attitude.
‘Where is she?’ the man asked.
‘Dead, died in a terrorist attack. You may have heard about it.’
The man watched her for a while. His face was the perfect example of an adult disappointed by a wayward young person. He had children or a younger sibling, Beth decided. She broke the gaze and took a sip of the tea. It was good.
‘Then why are you looking for her?’
‘What was that?’ Beth asked, meaning the creature she had fought. The man looked at her again, seemingly coming to a decision.
‘A very strong and dangerous man with a series of unfortunate genetic deformities and deep-seated psychological problems. He was probably high on PCP.’
Beth considered this, nodding as he was speaking.
‘Bullshit.’ More silence.
‘Okay. What do you think it was?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure you do.’
‘We saw the lights from the bridge. We investigated.’
‘Did I kill it?’
‘No, I did.’
Beth nodded again. ‘Good. I think you did it a favour.’
‘Look, Elizabeth—’
‘Beth. Who are you?’
‘My name is Malcolm du Bois. I’m working with Special Branch. Would you like to see some ID?’ Beth just shrugged. ‘You’re in more than a little bit of trouble. Particularly with your previous—’
‘What is the sentence for gladiatorial fighting these days?’
Du Bois looked at her and smiled. ‘Fine. I need some information. If I don’t get it, I’ll lock you up. This is an anti-terrorist investigation. I can make you disappear for a long time and then make sure that you get sentenced to the full extent of the law. If I do get the information I want then I’ll let you go.’ He tapped Talia’s photo.
‘You think my sister’s alive?’
Du Bois leaned back in his chair. He was getting tired of being asked questions. He pulled his cigarette case out of the pocket of his tailored leather coat.
‘Cigarette?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been told they’re bad for you.’