Chris Simms: Savage Moon

'Course I did. So she's been feeding a good quarter of an hour then?'

'I suppose so, I think she's about full.'

'I should hope so. She took almost six ounces just before five this morning.'

Jon realised that, though they were talking to each other, both of their eyes were glued to the baby.

'I thought I heard you moving around. I wasn't sure if it was a dream.'

Jon sat down and passed a hand over the sheen of pale hair covering his daughter's head. Her skull was so warm and he had the urge to kick off his shoes and climb in beside them. Sod work and the bunch of dirty old men he was trying to protect.

'What are you up to today?' he asked.

Alice reflected for a moment. 'Thought I'd skip into Manchester for a spot of shopping, pop into the gym for a massage and sauna, have lunch in Tampopo then go to the cinema or theatre. Or I could sit in all day with this gum-toothed little monster latched on to my tit.'

Jon looked at her, relieved to see she was smiling.

'Actually, your mum's coming over and we're going to the park. Might stop for a coffee somewhere. I may even end up doing the feeding thing in public,' she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding down at her swollen breasts.

Jon frowned. 'That's not a problem, is it?'

She hunched a shoulder. 'Some people can be funny. You know, they reckon it shouldn't be done outside.'

Jon shook his head. 'That's totally wrong. It's the most natural thing in the world.'

Alice put on an upper class voice. 'Not very civilised though, is it?'

He let out a snort, then remembered the scene from their back yard. 'Did you hear that bloody cat screeching in the night?'

Alice was looking back down, attention almost completely absorbed by her baby. 'No.'

'God, it was a horrible noise. I can see where the word caterwaul comes from. It was on our back wall, something down in the alley was really putting the shits up it.' He paused. 'Which park are you going to?'

'I don't know. Probably Stockport Little Moor, walk along the river there.'

Jon glanced at her mischievously. 'Well, don't stray from the path, OK? What if the thing scaring the cat last night was the Monster of the Moor? It's only twenty miles away from here. It could have crept down from the hills looking for fresh meat.' Alice glanced up, looking alarmed. 'Jon, stop it! That's horrible.'

He grinned sheepishly, surprised at her reaction. 'It's only a joke Ali.'

'Well,' she said, hand cupping Holly's head protectively. 'It's not funny. Imagine being that poor woman. Your last memory some savage black beast lunging at your throat. What's happening with that anyway?'

Jon's eyes lingered on his wife. The outburst wasn't like her. He'd noticed a few since the birth. Brief flashes of insecurity, even tears at the most trivial of human interest stories from the news. He shrugged. 'The local bobbies out near Mossley Brow are dealing with it. Apparently they've called in some expert in charge of the panther enclosure at Buxton zoo. He's giving them advice on how best to trap it.' He grinned. 'Last I heard there was a proposal to draft in a regiment from the Paras to stake out the moor with lamb chops.'

'Oh, that's ridiculous.' Her hand moved across to Holly's crown then back to her forehead. Rhythmic, soothing, even though their daughter wasn't crying. 'There must be a better way of catching it. People aren't safe with that thing roaming around.'

Jon felt himself frowning. What had happened to her sense of humour? He thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd heard her laughing. When she was working as a beautician she'd always be giggling, relaying the gossip from the salon, recounting Melvyn's outrageous exploits in the Gay Village. Too much time in the house, that was the problem. He hooked a frizzy strand of hair from her face. 'Hey Ali, why don't you leave Holly with my mum and nip into Melvyn's for a haircut? Your work mates, they'd love to see you.'

'It's not a barber's, Jon. He'll be fully booked for days.' Suddenly she shuddered. 'You've put me off now. We'll probably end up going to the Trafford Centre.'

Jon pictured the gargantuan shopping centre on the eastern edge of Manchester. 'I'd rather take my chances with the Monster of the Moor than the hordes of zombies shuffling around in that place. And give Melvyn a call; the treat's on me, all right?'

Half an hour later Jon was grinding a cigarette out in the car park of Longsight police station.

Much to Alice's disapproval, he'd been smoking again since his involvement in the hunt for the Butcher of Belle Vue that had taken place earlier that year. It had culminated in a major clash with his SIO, DCI McCloughlin. In the pressure cooker environment of a major investigation, one such occurence might not have been problematic, but it was a repeat of a similar falling out they'd had on the Chewing Gum killer case the year before.

Nothing had been explicitly said, but it was no surprise to Jon when he wasn't among the officers named to work with McCloughlin on his next case. Instead, he'd been moved to DCI Edward Summerby's syndicate. The man was white-haired, overweight and due to retire next year. Jon wasn't that bothered

— he was finding it impossible to cope with McCloughlin's dictatorial style anyway.

The only problem was that the less demanding cases were being farmed out to Summerby in the run up to his retirement. The result was that Jon found himself walking down the corridor to a side room, where he made up a team of one trying to catch the assailant of men skulking round car parks looking for casual sex. How fucking sad, he thought, knowing it was a fairly commonplace practice. A natural consequence, he concluded, of a society that, despite all its comforts and luxuries, left many feeling isolated and alone. So they jumped into their cars in search of contact with other humans.

His smoking went up and down in its frequency. Some days he hardly touched them, but on others the nicotine was a vital way of perking him up. You're just tired, he told himself, not wanting to admit that the job he so loved could be starting to bore him. Stifling a yawn, he pressed the buttons on a dispensing machine and watched as a spindly stream of black coffee fell into the plastic cup below. The liquid died away to a succession of droplets like the end of a piss. He picked up the cup and entered the side room.

As he made his way over to his desk in the corner, a few colleagues working on a fraud case acknowledged him with a lift of an eyebrow or a tilt of a head. None smiled: there was a tarred brush dangling above DI Spicer and no one wanted to get too near.

He sat down, glanced at his in-tray and turned on his computer. Increasingly this was now his routine — sitting at a desk and spending all day staring at his screen or shuffling paper.

The search of the crime scene at the car park hadn't revealed anything other than the trail of blood. A sample had been taken and tested for DNA, but there was no match on the national database. Following that, Jon had placed an incident board at the end of the car park giving the time and date of the attack and requesting that anyone with information call his number. The phone hadn't gone once.

He'd even parked there himself one evening and approached car drivers as they pulled up. It was amazing how many men had 'got lost', 'made a wrong turn' or were 'looking for a toilet' as he produced his badge.

When he decided to approach a car with his identification hidden, he'd been greeted by the sight of a fifty-year-old man sitting with his flies wide open. His penis was jutting upwards like an extra gear stick. Jon almost nicked him for gross indecency. When he returned the next night he was the only one there; word obviously spread fast within that particular community.