The Persecution of the Wolves

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Once they got back into the truck, Matthew fished his mobile from his pocket and reluctantly sent a text to Isaac.

Sheep totally mutilated, definitely some kind of animal attack. No helpful evidence, though. Richard letting farmer know now. Tell you more later. M.

After hitting send and putting the phone away, he started the car and drove back to the village. Richard was already on the telephone to the farmer explaining what they’d found. With his heightened hearing, Matthew could hear everything Jack said as well as Richard, and was relieved when both men seemed to agree there was no point involving the police. If someone had shot the sheep, or trapped it, then yes, as it was clearly someone engaging in illegal activity. But the authorities could hardly arrest a wild animal, could they?

Matthew found himself desperately hoping it would be an isolated incident. If it was, then there was no need to pursue it further, to worry. But if it happened again, clearly things were going to get much more complicated, in terms of the villagers who were in the know about his and Isaac’s true natures, and having to involve the police. He hated having to lie about this stuff, which was why he was so glad he was “out” to a fair number of people in Eyam, namely the descendants of those who had been around when their secret had been discovered back in the 1500s. It made life a great deal easier, especially when it came to disappearing down to the caves every full moon with his brother.

Matthew dropped the vicar off at the rectory, thanked him for his support, and went home. There he switched on the computer and started rooting around the web for any evidence of similar attacks nearby, as well as anything that might lead him to believe there were other werewolves around. He still found it hard to comprehend how such a small device could be so powerful. He remembered when computers had filled rooms, buildings, and a time when research had been done by visiting archives, pulling old newspapers, and actually talking to people.

He shook his head and thanked his lucky stars Isaac enjoyed this stuff. His computer whizz younger brother—though younger was almost an irrelevant word when you were centuries old—was the one who kept them under the radar of the government. Obviously, the discovery of two men of their age would ring a million alarm bells, so when records became computerised, plugged into central databases, and whatever other mumbo-jumbo they used nowadays, Isaac had devised a way for them to stay in Eyam, their true natures undetected. It was simple, really. A combination of fake identities, name changes, and the occasional greased palm. He didn’t know all the details, as he didn’t understand how it worked, and if he was honest with himself, it was better he didn’t know. It was not above board, which he disliked. But it was better than being locked up in a lab somewhere being tested. Or worse, killed.

Fear was a powerful motivator, and for this reason, he was extremely grateful for the support of the villagers. They were amazing, really—to know and accept what he and Isaac were and not treat them any differently. Granted, the secret had been passed from generation to generation along with the reason it was kept, which meant it was never sprung on anyone—it was just something that was part of every old family in the village.

Matthew and Isaac had good, long-standing relationships in Eyam, and had for hundreds of years. He just hoped nothing would jeopardise that.

After some more poking around online, Matthew turned up nothing that helped him, so he—with a small degree of relief—turned off the computer. Wretched thing. At least it had put his mind at rest. If there had been no other attacks, then it was unlikely there were any other werewolves or less supernatural predators in the area. On the other hand, he still had no idea who or what was responsible for the sheep’s s*******r. People’s thoughts would instinctively turn to him and his brother, and in a way, he didn’t blame them. In the absence of a better explanation, what else were they supposed to think?

He just hoped they could be convinced otherwise.

A glance at his watch told him he still had several hours to kill before he had to be in work. Pretty much the whole day, really. Sitting around with nothing but his thoughts wasn’t an option, and he knew for a fact he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on reading or watching the television. Something physical would help. That decided, he grabbed his keys and headed out.

A few seconds later, he was knocking on his neighbour’s door. “Mrs Smithers? It’s Matthew. Come to see if you’ve got any chores that need doing.” He knocked a little harder, knowing the old dear’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be. And he should know—he’d been acquainted with her since she’d been born, almost eighty-five years previously.

After a minute or so she answered the door, looking as confused as she always did. It was hard for him to see her that way, as he remembered her in more lucid days.

Smiling, Matthew spoke more gently. “Good morning, Mrs Smithers. I hope I didn’t wake you. I’ve found myself at a loose end and wondered if you had anything you needed me to do? Gardening, mow your lawn, fetch your shopping?” He sounded a little desperate, but it didn’t really matter—his neighbour was well aware he was rubbish at doing nothing. As a result, he’d been doing chores for her since well before she’d become incapable of doing them herself. She seemed to recognise it was as much her doing him a favour as the other way around.

After a beat, she realised who she was talking to, and her face lit up in a beautiful smile as she reached for him. “Matthew! Good morning, young man. Lord, I’ll never get used to calling you that. How on earth did I get to look older than you?”

Matthew surreptitiously looked around to make sure there was no one close by who might overhear their conversation. It would certainly pique the curiosity of anyone who didn’t know what the old lady was talking about. But at least if they did hear, he’d be able to use the excuse that it was the ramblings of someone who only had the barest grasp on her mind. It wasn’t nice, but he’d have to do it if it became necessary.

Patting her hand, he spoke again. “Yes, it’s me, Mrs Smithers. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you, Matthew. And you? Did you have a… busy night?”

It was obvious what she was referring to, but a little odd she’d remembered that of all things. “I’m well, too, thank you. Yes, Isaac and I had a busy night, and I’ve had a busy morning, too. There’s been a torn-up sheep found on the moor. Alex Kennedy and Kevin Jones found it first thing walking their dogs, and let the vicar know. I went up there with him to investigate.”

The old lady gasped. “How terrible. Why don’t you come on in and tell me all about it?”

Matthew’s heart sank. If Mrs Smithers had immediately grasped the potential severity of the situation, what hope did he and his brother have for coming out of the other side of this unscathed? “Yes, of course. Let me just take my boots off.”

Mrs Smithers stepped back into the house and ushered him in. “Nonsense. There’s a perfectly good doormat there. Wipe off the worst of the mud and you’ll be just fine. My old eyes won’t be able to see the dirt anyway.” The eyes in question twinkled with mischief, and Matthew couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. Dorothy Smithers had been adorable from the moment she’d come into the world, and he dreaded the day that she would leave it. If things had been different, she could have been his wife, could have borne his children. But he and his brother had decided very early on that romantic relationships were not something they could indulge in, for the safety and sanity of everyone involved. And every time he saw Mrs Smithers, every time she took a turn for the worse, slipped a little further into dementia, he remembered exactly why they’d made that decision.

It didn’t make it any less painful, though. It was just a stark reminder that they were doing the right thing. Their lives were complex enough without the added complication of romantic love and, in his case, children. Isaac’s sexuality added a whole other layer of difficulty. He hadn’t come out, and insisted there was no point, as partners were not on the agenda.

Matthew understood his perspective, especially since, up until recent years, being gay had been frowned upon by society. Why rock their already precarious boat?

He was pulled from his thoughts by Mrs Smithers, who gave an exaggerated cough, then waved at him when he flicked his gaze to her.

“Earth to Matthew. Are you coming in then?”

“Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts.”

“Yes, I realise that. I do it quite often myself. Let’s go into the sitting room. Would you like a cup of tea? Something else?”

“A cup of tea would be wonderful. Would you like me to make it?”

“Go and sit down, Matthew. I’m not quite so infirm that I can’t make a drink.” Her tone was firm, decisive, so he did as she said, trying in vain to hide his grin. She was a tough old broad, bless her, and he was sure she had many years left in her. Thank God.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shot him a glance that would have turned a lesser man to stone, which just made his grin widen. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a clip round the ear. Dorothy Smithers did not fear Matthew, not in the slightest, and for that he was grateful. It was nice to feel normal once in a while.

After a few minutes, she came through to the sitting area with a tray containing a teapot, two cups and saucers, two spoons, a small jug of milk, and a sugar bowl, which she placed on the table. She did tea in the old-fashioned manner, which Matthew loved. In the modern world with its modern ways, pouring tea from a proper pot was a great pleasure, one he hurriedly indulged in before Mrs Smithers could.

He smiled at her almost apologetically as he checked the colour of the tea in the pot to make sure it was strong enough, then filled the two cups.

“Thank you,” the old lady said, adding three sugars and a spot of milk to hers before picking up the cup and saucer and settling them on her lap. “Now, tell me about this sheep.”

Trying hard to ignore the feeling of discomfort that went along with dragging it all up again, he recounted what had happened, taking a breath every now and again and having a sip of his tea. The scalding liquid that splashed across his tongue and down his throat did little to distract him.

When he had finished, Mrs Smithers remained silent, regarded her cup for several seconds, then returned her gaze to him. She looked decisive, determined, and even before she’d spoken, he knew he was going to like what she said next.

“Matthew.” She spoke calmly, though the tiniest quaver gave away her strong feelings on the subject. “I’m sorry this has happened, and I want you and your brother to know I am behind you one hundred percent. I know you didn’t do this, wouldn’t do it, and I’ll tell anyone who will listen. If I can help you in any way, I will. And that’s my final word on the subject. I suspect you want to discuss it even less than I do.” She took a gulp of her tea and placed the cup and saucer back down on the tray, then got out of her chair with a movement that belied her age. “What are you waiting for, young man? Come and see what I’d like you to do for me. I hope you’re feeling energetic. You may regret offering to do my chores today.”

Falling into step behind her as she led him out into the back garden, the smile took over his face once again. Her support, her words, and now her willingness to help distract him made him realise just how lucky he was to have such good friends in the village. Perhaps things wouldn’t be that bad. Perhaps years of friendship with the villagers and their mothers and fathers, and grandmothers and grandfathers before them would mean something. Trust, support, belief. He hoped that wouldn’t be too much to ask.

When he and Mrs Smithers emerged into the garden, she immediately launched into a list of tasks.

“Could you mow the lawn, sweep up, pull the weeds, dig up any of my summer plants that have gone over, tidy up the laurels and the conifers—they’ve gone crazy with all the sun we’ve had—and then, if you’ve got time, have a look at one of my fence panels? I think those conifers may have been pressing against it and it’s buckled. If you can sort it out, fantastic. If not, I’ll give you some money and I’d be grateful if you could get me a new panel next time you’re passing somewhere that sells them.”

He listened and mentally logged everything she’d mentioned, though most of it was par for the course. Basically tidy up the garden, then check out the fence panel. It would take him a good couple of hours, maybe more depending on exactly how wild the trees and bushes had gone.

“No problem, Mrs Smithers. I’ll get it all done for you before I have to go to work, and if you need a new fence panel, I’ll get that sorted.”

“You’re good to me, Matthew. Thank you. I’ll call you when lunch is ready. Do you fancy anything in particular?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any of your delicious homemade bread?”

“You’re in luck.”

“Then any kind of sandwich is good for me.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll be pottering around if you need me.”

“Thank you. And Mrs Smithers?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek, then chuckled as she blushed and waved him away before scuttling back into the house faster than he would have thought it was possible for her to go.

Matthew whistled a tune as he headed into the gloom of the old lady’s shed to get the lawnmower. The next few hours were going to be a breeze. It was just Isaac coming home and the conversation that would follow he wasn’t looking forward to.