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“Oh, do I? You listen to me Johnson, you can’t tell me what to do. I’m the top banana around here, and I can do what the bloody hell I like.”

“Of course you can, Prime Minister. However, I feel I should draw your attention to the fact that there appears to be a zombie cat, or zomcat as MI5 are calling them, running around in Nobblethwaite, a village in West Yorkshire not too far removed from Huddersfield. One can only speculate about how silly you’d look if news were to break about an undead cat running riot during the President’s visit, given that you’ve told him that you’ve wiped out all the zombies. And what if he were to see the thing for himself? Heaven forbid that that should happen.”

The P.M. lowered his newspaper and thrust his jaw forward.

“You’re right, Johnson. We can’t allow that. We’ve got to get rid of the thing. But we don’t want Johnny Public to know about it, not after we’ve told him we’ve got rid of all the zombies. We need to sort it out on the Q.T. Let me see. What can we do?”

“Send in a small group of the S.A.S., Prime Minister.”

The P.M. sighed petulantly.

“If we did that, everybody would know we had a problem, Johnson. I know, let’s get that chap onto it.”

“What chap?”

“The one we used last time. You know, Ensign Pennant or whatever he’s called.”

“You mean Flagg Banner, Prime Minister.”

“That’s right. It’s a bloody silly name, if you ask me. That’s why I couldn’t remember it.”

“A bit like Camemblert, then.”

“What? What’s that, Johnson?”

“Nothing, I’ll get in touch with Mr. Banner right away. Will that be all, Prime Minister?”

“Yes, that’s will be all for now, Johnson.”

CHAPTER 5

He sat at his kitchen table and perused the dossier that he’d been handed by his MI5 handler. It gave him precious little to go on.

In summary: there was a village called Nobblethwaite, any number of witnesses who’d seen things that didn’t add up, not even with each other, let alone with any possible underlying reality, and there were no pictures.

But he’d seen enough in his time to know that, even so, it might mean there was a threat to his country that had to be exterminated — and he prided himself on his ability to exterminate threats.

He stood six feet one-inch-tall, was lantern-jawed, and had a wiry strength that belied his slim physique. His name was Flagg Banner; it was a name that was feared throughout the British Isles.

Banner unfurled himself from his chair, moved with an easy grace to the kitchen and made a mug of tea. With his mug of tea in his hand, he gave some thought to the tools he’d need for his latest job. When he’d finished his tea, he packed a specially adapted suitcase with the tools he’d chosen. He put some clothes in an overnight bag, and threw the suitcase and bag into the back of his car, a green Land Rover Defender that looked as though it would be at home on a battlefield.

He climbed into the car and drove north up the M1. He turned off the motorway at junction 24 and drove to Nobblethwaite. Due to the many road works on the M1 the journey took up the entire day and most of the evening, so it was 10.30 p.m. by the time he reached his destination. He pulled up in the car park of the Ne’er do well inn, took his bags from his car, and walked through the front door.

For a village pub, it was surprisingly busy. Banner heard a hubbub of conversation as soon as he stepped inside. Within seconds of his entry, it stopped and heads turned to look at him. He narrowed his eyes and returned the stares. No-one held his gaze. Satisfied that he’d laid down a marker, he went to the bar and looked at the names of the beers on offer. Behind him, the hubbub of conversation resumed.

“I’ll have a pint of Nobblethwaite Best, please,” he said, “and a room for the night.”

The landlady surreptitiously looked him up and down to get the measure of him, as she did with all the strangers who visited her pub, and then she got a glass and pulled the stranger a pint.

“You don’t sound like you come from these parts,” she said.

“I’m not, I’m from London.”

The landlady nodded. She’d suspected him of being a southerner. She took a set of keys from the wall behind her and held them towards him.

“See that door?” She asked, indicating a door at the back of the room.

Banner nodded.

“There’s some stairs at the back of it. Your room’s the first on the right at the top.”

Banner held out his hand to take the keys from her. She pulled her own hand back.

“Not so fast,” she said. “We don’t want any trouble round here. We won’t stand for it. Have you got that?”

Banner’s lips curled into a smile.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Now kindly give me the keys.”

Against her better judgement, the landlady handed them over.

He looked around the room for someone to talk to who looked as if he might be a promising source of information. His eyes soon settled on a group of three old men sitting at a table in the corner. He picked up his two bags with one hand as if they weighed nothing, and with his pint in the other, he went over to their table and put his pint on it. Once again, the hubbub of conversation stopped and all the eyes in the crowded pub fell on him.

“Mind if I join you?” He asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he placed his bags on the floor and pulled up a chair.

“Cheers,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

“You don’t want to linger in these parts,” said one of the old men.

“Why not?”

The old man shook his head.

“T’ curse of t’Slawits,” he said.

“The curse of what?”

The old man took a long pull of an e-cigarette; the end glowed.

“T’ curse of t’Slawits. They were a family that used to live up on the big hill outside the village. Nodger Hill we call it. T’Slawits had a gipsy curse put on ’em nearly three hundred years ago. They used to own all the land round here as far as he eye can see, including this village. The last of ’em still owns a lot of it. But it’s all cursed, and so are we. So you’d best not stay too long, or you’ll end up cursed too.”

“This curse, what does it do to you?”

“It’s not what it does to us; it’s what it does to t’Slawits.”

“Tell me more.”

“It’s turned ’em into a family of were-cats.”

“Were-cats? What are they?”

“They’re like were-wolves but worse. They’re men that change into cats, big buggers they are, like lions or tigers, and they’ll tear you to pieces as soon as look at yer.”

Another of the old men took an e-pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Banner.

“Don’t take any notice of Sam,” he said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There’s no curse and no were-cats. There’s some’at afoot, though, that’s for sure.”

Banner narrowed his eyes.

“What do you reckon it is, then?” He asked. “If it’s not a were-cat?”

“You’ll have heard of the Beast of Bodmin Moor. We’ve got one of them up here. Let’s call it the Beast of Nobble Moor. It’s a big bugger just like Sam says, and it’s vicious, too. It killed five men ’ere last week, right outside this pub, and it’ll have you too, if you don’t watch yer step, so think on.”

“Bloody ’ell,” said the third of the trio. “I’ve never heard anything so daft in all me puff as what these two have just been telling thee. You know these rich folk as don’t ’ave anything better to do than keep exotic animals? I reckon one of ’em down in Huddersfield or Barnsley had a big cat like a cougar or some’at like that, and it escaped. Naturally, the owner couldn’t let on, because what he was doing was illegal. Anyway, that cougar or whatever it is, it’s living on Nobble Moor, and it’s been surviving by eating deer and rabbit. But it’s got a taste for human blood now, and you mark my words, it’ll be back ’ere, and when it is, there’ll be hell to pay.”