“What was the last sighting of this beast, or were-cat, or whatever it is?”
“It wore up at Slawit Hall, last any of us heard. It killed the old man Bob Slawit and his grandson.”
“It never killed Bob Slawit. That thing is Bob Slawit, he’s the were-cat. I saw him change wi’ me own eyes. One minute he was a man, just same as you and me, and t’next he’d changed into some’at ’orrible, from t’depths of hell. Covered in ginger fur he was, and big as a bull, and strong as an ox. He even had horns.”
“Cats with ’orns? I allus knew you were a daft bugger Charlie, but I never knew you were that bloody daft.”
“Where else has this thing been seen, apart for Slawit Hall?”
“It wore in t’village here, rampaging through the high street where it killed five young men before it went up to Slawit Hall and killed Bob Slawit’s grandson. Since then we haven’t seen it, but there’s some as say it killed some coppers before any of us ever saw it, and some as say they’ve heard it howling at night, and there’s some as say they’ve seen it skulking up on Nobble Moor, looking for prey. My advice to you is to keep well away from it, whatever it is.”
“Thank you for your advice gentlemen, you’ve been most helpful,” said Banner, finishing his pint. “I think it’s time I turned in. I’ve had a long day.”
He stood up, picked up his two bags, and went up to his room.
“Who wore that clever bugger?” One of them asked after Banner had left.
“I don’t know, but he’s a southerner. Did you notice he never offered to buy a round? That’s southerners for yer. I’ll tell you some’at else, and all. I reckon He’s come up here to interfere in some’at he knows nowt about.”
“Well, if that is why he’s come here, he’s in for a right bloody shock when that were-cat claps eyes on him. He won’t know what’s hit him if he gets in its way.”
The three men all nodded in agreement and picked up their pints of Nobblethwaite Best. Each of them took a very small sip of his drink, then set his pint back on the table, and nodded in unison with the others.
Early next morning, Banner hoisted himself from his bed, showered, dressed, and strapped on the shoulder holster for his Smith and Wesson model 29 classic Magnum .44, along with the ankle holster for his Smith and Wesson .38 special, his backup sidearm. He checked the effect in the mirror, and, satisfied that he wouldn’t alarm the locals by looking as if he was bearing firearms in public, he went outside. It was a foggy morning, and the houses further along the cobbled street were shrouded in mist, giving them a ghostly quality.
Banner walked past them, leaving the small village behind, went up to the top of Nobble Hill, and saw Slawit Hall for the first time.
It stood on its own in the mist, huge and menacing. Behind it, he knew, hidden by the mist, was Nobble Moor, a wilderness of rolling hills covered in grassy swamps and patches of heather.
There was police tape around the doors of Slawit Hall, but there were no police guarding the place. It seemed they’d got whatever evidence they expected to find and abandoned the crime scene. He ignored the tape and pulled his Magnum .44 from its holster and went inside. He found himself in a classic entrance hall with panelled walls and a grand staircase straight ahead. It was dilapidated and covered in cobwebs. Keeping his gun at the ready, Banner advanced cautiously. Ahead of him on the floor there was the chalk outline of a man, or at least of part of a man. It looked as if he was missing his head, and possibly an arm.
Banner inspected the entire house. There was no sign of old man Slawit, or of the were-cat, or whatever it was that had killed five young men in the village. Banner suspected it had been, if anything, a zomcat. He didn’t know what zomcats might be able to do, but since this one had killed five young men, and possibly other victims, it had to be treated with the greatest respect.
He went back outside. The mist was rolling in from Nobble Moor and it was getting thicker. For Banner, this wasn’t good news; it meant that if the zomcat put in an appearance, he wouldn’t be able to see it until it was almost on him.
Keeping his gun at the ready, he made his way back along the drive to the cobbled street that led down the hill into Nobblethwaite. Before he got to the end of the drive, he saw an outline in the mist. He stopped and narrowed his eyes into slits.
It was a cat. A ginger cat.
He levelled his gun slowly, so as not to alert it to his presence, and took careful aim. It advanced towards him through the mist. He squeezed the trigger and blasted its head to Kingdom Come. The body of the cat remained on its feet for an instant without a head, and then it toppled sideways onto the drive.
Banner blew the smoke from the muzzle of his gun and slipped it into his holster. He walked up to the headless cat corpse and inspected it. He quickly realised that he hadn’t destroyed a zomcat; he’d killed an ordinary ginger tom, somebody’s beloved pet, no doubt. He shrugged and pulled his pistol out again, and cautiously made his way back to the village.
He called in at the village butcher’s shop. Albert the butcher was proudly showing of his new mincing machine to one of the locals, feeding a sheep’s head into the hopper and watching as it emerged from a funnel as a pink mush with specks of white in it.
“Morning,” said Banner.
Albert and the local both turned their heads and looked at him as if he was an alien, which, in a sense, he was.
“Can I help you?” Albert asked.
“Yes,” said Banner. “I’d like five pints of cow blood and one of those joints you’ve got hanging up. I’d like to collect them at five o’clock today, please. But I’ll pay you now.”
Albert and the local man looked at each other before Albert tore himself away from his demonstration and opened his till.
“Twenty-five pounds please,” he said.
“That’s a bit steep isn’t it?” Banner asked, as he handed over the cash.
“It’s what you pay for quality products. We don’t sell any of that supermarket rubbish round here.”
“All right. See you at five o’clock.”
Banner left.
“Bloody southerners,” said Albert.
As dusk was falling, Banner pulled a chair over to the first-floor window of a bedroom in Slawit Hall, and sat in it. Through the window he had a good view of the edge of Nobble Moor. He’d sprinkled trails of cow blood across the moorland near to Slawit Hall. They led to the joint of meat he’d bought, which was positioned a good distance from the house, but still well within his line of sight.
He set his rifle on a tripod trained it on the joint of meat.
Now, it was a question of remaining still and silent for hours on end, if necessary, while retaining his concentration.
Dusk turned to night. Banner could still see the joint of meat clearly because he was looking at it through a night-sight. He kept stock-still.
If the zomcat came sniffing around the meat, it would get its head blown off, just like the other unfortunate cat that had crossed Banner’s path.
A shape disturbed the grass. It could have been a cat — or another small animal. Banner ignored it and kept his focus on the joint of meat. There was no point in alerting the zomcat by letting off a shot at something vague, which might not even be the zomcat. He wanted a clean shot at a quarry he could identify.
The only movement he made was that of his stomach and chest as he breathed, slowly and deeply, keeping his body in a state of relaxed readiness.