Chris Simms - Savage Moon

Ten minutes later he unlocked his front door, eyes automatically moving to the end of the corridor in anticipation of Punch bounding delightedly towards him. All there was were a few dead leaves lying on the carpet. Their dry, lifeless forms made him feel uneasy and he found himself picking them up and tossing them out the door.

The house was quiet. He leaned into the front room. Empty. Kitchen lights were off. Hanging his jacket on the banister, he climbed the stairs. Little sucking sounds from the nursery. He looked in, just able to make Holly out in her cot, her eyes open and a dummy moving back and forth between her lips.

Just in time, he thought. He hurried down the stairs and flicked the kitchen light on. Alice's dinner stuff was all still out, plate lying on top of other dirty washing up in the sink. Opening the fridge, he saw she hadn't prepared a bottle. Shit. He touched the kettle, relieved it was only faintly warm. The water was about right for Holly's bottle. After washing his hands, he mixed up four ounces then climbed back up the stairs.

Once she was safely on his lap, he removed her dummy, instantly replacing it with the bottle's teat before she could start crying. She began sucking away and Jon was able to relax. The curtains weren't quite drawn and through the gap he was able to see a black cat sitting on their yard wall. It appeared to be sunning itself in the orange glow from the streetlamp above. After a minute the animal stood up and stretched. Then it looked into his yard before dropping silently down on to the concrete. Watching it, Jon wondered how a panther might compare. Was it five, ten, fifteen, times larger? What did a panther weigh? Six stone? Maybe more? And was that how it moved, cautious yet graceful? He craned his head to watch as the cat began to explore. It approached the patch of wall to the side of their back gate, sniffed, then turned round and sprayed the stone with urine. One day, Jon thought. Punch is missing for one day and already the bloody cats are claiming the yard as their own.

Holly's head slumped back, milk glistening on her chin. The bottle was almost empty so he returned it to the windowsill, burped her, then placed her gently back in the cot.

In the darkness of their bedroom he could see Alice's form curled beneath their duvet. Her breathing was slow and deep. She probably hadn't even woken when he unlocked the front door. Well, so much for talking things through with her tonight.

First thing in the morning, he told himself, as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Shedding his clothes as quickly as possible, he slipped beneath the covers and closed his eyes.

The bells in the tower were ringing furiously, but the noise they produced was high pitched and tinny. One hand resting on the rough stone of the parapet, Jon turned his eyes from the minaret that towered above him and looked out across the desert plain. Through the heat haze, far away on the horizon, a dark shadow wavered, expanding out and then contracting back in on itself. Jon squinted, trying to make out if it was approaching or retreating. Sheets of rain drifting down? Its black edges were growing more defined, and he realised with a sense of dread that it was advancing across the sands with incredible speed. What was it? One moment it seemed like the billowing sail of a ship, then it changed to something more like liquid, silently flowing forwards like an ocean bed creature. A dust storm? But there was no wind to propel it forward.

In the foreground was a train of camels. The animals were running, long legs seeming to intertwine for a moment before stretching apart again. They were crying out in distress, but the sound that came from their mouths — just audible above the infuriating bells — was the grating whinny of horses. Suddenly he had a sense of the sheer scale of the thing as blackness swept around the animals’ legs before swallowing them up completely.

Now the stone beneath his palm started to tremble and shake. He began to moan, knowing only seconds remained before the fortress was engulfed. Finally his eyes snapped open, the bells morphing into the electronic ring of his mobile. Alice's hand was on his shoulder, roughly shaking him.

'I've got it,' he said, sitting up in the darkness.

'It's in your trousers.'

He blinked, realising his hand was scrabbling about on the bedside table. Trousers. She's right. A moment later the phone was in his hand. The screen's clock read five fifty-three. 'Jon… DI Spicer here.'

'Sir, it's Sergeant Morris, radio room at Longsight.'

A burst of adrenalin brought him fully awake. 'What's up?'

'Sorry to ring so early. We've received a call from Inspector Clegg, Mossley Brow. Ken Sutton just turned up at the station there. He's got the body of a panther in his trailer outside.'

By the time Jon got to Mossley Brow the sky was beginning to lighten. Parked in front of the station was the red McConnel tractor Jon remembered from Sutton's farm. A crowd of people was gathered round the aluminium trailer attached to the rear, several police officers amongst them.

Jon parked on the opposite side of the road and hurried towards the excited babble of voices. A person with a camera was on the station steps, directing proceedings.

'OK, please step to the side those of you at the front,' he shouted, sweeping one arm outwards as if parting a curtain. A young man with blond hair began to straighten up in the trailer, obviously struggling with something heavy. That other bloke from Sutton's farm, Jon thought, as a chorus of cheers rang out and the photographer's flash started going off.

He was about to move round to the back of the tractor when he spotted Carmel Todd chatting animatedly to a colleague. How did she get here so fast? He scanned for other familiar faces, soon spotting Ken Sutton at the edge of the crowd, his face totally expressionless.

Avoiding Carmel, Jon walked round to the front of the tractor, knowing what he was about to see. The young man had his arms hooked under the front legs of a large black cat. Its head lolled forward, a long drool of blood hanging from its partly open jaw. The man was grinning triumphantly at the camera as more flashes went off.

Jon spotted Clegg by the station doors. The man's eyes were fixed on the spectacle, a huge smile on his face. 'What the hell is going on?' Jon demanded.

Clegg's eyes met his and his smile faltered. 'They've caught it, boss, it's over.' He nodded at the trailer. 'The blond guy bagged it in the field above Sutton's farm. He was waiting in a hide he'd built in a tree.'

Jon looked down the steps. 'Why do I appear to be the last person to be told about this?'

Clegg's eyes swept over the crowd of excited locals. 'Word travels fast. I called your station at Longsight.'

Yeah, and who else, Jon thought, glancing at the reporter from the Manchester Evening Chronicle . 'And the journalists? Who tipped them off?'

'The guy in the trailer. He rang in for his reward.'

'And did you find out exactly who he is?'

'A relative of Sutton's apparently. I'm not sure of his name.'

'You were meant to be checking on his identity and firearms certificate.'

Clegg looked awkward. 'It was on my list, I just hadn't quite got round to it.'

Useless prick, Jon thought, turning towards the crowd. The photographer had cocked his camera so its lens pointed up at the orange sky. With his other arm he started to gesture again. 'Can you get it so its head is hanging over the side of the trailer? Yes, that's it, perfect. Just lift it up a shade.'

Blood started streaming over the metallic surface and the photographer focused in on it. Slowly he moved down the steps, finally crouching below the animal's head and shooting upwards for a more dramatic angle. Onlookers vied to get in at the edges of the shot, young lads holding their thumbs up. Jon was reminded of a photo of a lynching in America's deep south. The same cruel triumph shone in everyone's eyes.