Chris Simms: Savage Moon

Lights on the track, flashing blue. Lots of them. The procession of vehicles was speeding towards the farm. 'Here!' Jon yelled, waving his arms. 'I'm here!'

The police cars didn't slow. He pointed the rifle upwards and pulled the trigger. A weak pop and the procession continued past. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see the black shape was now less than thirty metres away. He turned in the other direction. The sheds were just ahead. Half running, half hopping, he set off, the anticipation of the claws sinking into his back increasing with every step. Into the courtyard, railings lining the edge of several deep trenches. He thought of hiding in one, then imagined being trapped down there as the creature, with claws extended, dropped into the other end. A wooden door led into the shed on his right. Please. Please God you have to be open. Gasping for breath, he yanked the handle. Locked. He rammed the tip of the barrel into the gap between the edge of the door and the frame, started levering it violently back and forth. The barrel suddenly snapped with a loud crack. As the broken halves dropped to the ground he looked wildly around. There was one other door in the far corner of the courtyard. Knowing it was his last chance, he hobbled towards it, curled his fingers round the rusty handle and pulled. No! It wouldn't budge. As he sank against the wooden surface the walkie-talkie sounded in his pocket.

'Hello? Can anyone hear me? Jon, are you out there?'

Fresh energy exploded inside him. A chance to survive, however slim. He pulled the handset out. 'Rick! I'm in the field above the house. There's some sheds on the other side. For fuck's sake, hurry!'

At the edge of his vision a black form slid round the corner of the wall. His sense of elation vanished as he slowly turned his head. Holy Mother of God. The panther's pelt was dripping with gore, the fur matted together in stiff clumps. Beneath it he could make out a human form, totally soaked in blood. The cruel hooks of the weapons clinked against the concrete as the person lowered himself onto all fours and began crawling towards Jon, long tail dragging behind.

Jon sank to the ground, drew his knees up and held his palms out. 'Please, please, don't do this. I have a baby. I have-' Snot broke from his nose. His eyes filled with tears once again and he choked on his words.

Snarling quietly, the creature drew closer and a sour stench filled the air. The lower jaw of the panther had been removed and the upper part of the animal's head sat snug on the person's skull, long teeth curling down over his forehead. Now within striking distance, he sank on to his haunches and the low snarling stopped.

Pressing himself back against the door, Jon's breath came in short snatches through his nostrils. The head lifted up and he found himself staring into James Field's eyes.

'I remember you.'

Jon blinked. Terror had robbed him of the ability to reply.

'DI Spicer, isn't it?'

He raised himself up a little and wiped the snot from his lips.

'You offered me your card, tried to help me with a job. You have a good heart.'

Jon cleared his throat. 'Are you going to kill me?'

Field shook his head. 'One more person will die tonight, but it won't be you.'

Jon felt some of the elation return to mix with his sickening fear. He looked at the blood and dirt smeared on the other man's face.

'I disgust you. I can see it in your eyes.'

Jon swallowed. 'You… your appearance. It's shocked me.' Field glanced down at his own body. 'I've been sleeping in ditches, fields and woods. Living off whatever I could find, washing in that river.'

'You were following the Medlock?' He nodded. 'Since Kerrigan.'

Unsure if Field would strike, Jon slowly lowered one knee, the ankle throbbing with pain as he slid his foot outwards.

'Following it back here to Sutton?'

'Not Sutton. Kiboroboro. The killer. That's what the prisoners at Hola knew him as. They never found out the names of their mzungu guards, so they gave them nicknames instead.'

'I read your project about Kenya.'

Field smiled. 'Good. I knew you'd come across it sooner or later. The project you read — the original — has gone to the Manchester Evening Chronicle . I sent it to the crime reporter there. Once tonight is over she will have to tell the truth.'

'It was terrible, what happened there.'

Field raised a bloody claw and used it to scratch at his head.

'You shaved your dreadlocks off.'

'Yes, I think this pelt has given me lice.'

'Where did you get it?'

'The Burma market in Nairobi. You can buy anything there.'

'When you met your relatives?'

'Yes. You know Trevor Kerrigan raped my mother when she couldn't pay her rent?'

'We'd guessed as much. How did you learn that?'

'The letters she sent to our relatives in Kenya. In one she mentioned his surname. It was easy to track him down when I returned to Britain.'

'And Peterson?'

'You know why. For pushing Danny into killing himself.'

'Rose Sutton?'

Field shrugged. 'If he'd had any children, I would have killed them too. He destroyed my family. You've read my project, but you won't know what men like Ken Sutton did. You should know. Everyone should know.'

He sat down and crossed his legs, never letting go of the weapon in each hand. 'My grandfather, Magayu Gathambo, was an educated man. He went to the Tumutumu Presbyterian Mission in Nyeri. He worked as a clerk for a lawyer in Nairobi, then joined the British Army when World War Two broke out. When he returned home his family were living in squalor. But he refused to join the men who whispered about ending white rule. He still believed in those British values of decency and fair play, hoping they might be applied to black people too. When the soldiers drove into Nairobi in their Land Rovers, loud speakers blaring, ordering all Kikuyu to pack one bag and leave their homes, he cooperated.'

'Operation Anvil,' Jon whispered.

James inclined his head. 'Correct. At the screening centre in Subuku they tied him to a chair and extinguished cigarettes on his back. They shocked him with electricity and forced hot eggs into his anus. My grandmother, Muringo, had her breasts squeezed with pliers and banana leaves rammed into her vagina. They didn't confess to the oath because they hadn't taken it. But once they were set free, they took it straightaway. Muringo remained in Nairobi, Magayu left for the forests of Mount Kenya to join the KLFA. He fought for three years, living as I have done, before he was captured on a return visit to see his wife in Nairobi. They were both immediately put into the Pipeline.'

Beyond the courtyard Jon saw the glow of torches starting to bob across the fields. He heard dogs whining and snatches of speech on the breeze, orders being given in low voices.

James cocked his head to the side, eyes staying on Jon. 'Time is running out, your reinforcements will be here soon. When Magayu arrived at his camp the doors to his cattle truck were thrown open. They ran a gauntlet of whistle-blowing guards and barking alsatians. Officers screamed, “Piga! Piga sana!” Beat them, keep beating them! They were stripped naked and forced into a cattle dip of disinfectant. Some drowned in the stampede. He was issued with a pair of yellow shorts, two blankets and a wristband with a number. The few possessions he had were stolen, his clothes burned on a bonfire. He was graded as a black suspect, the ones most dangerously committed to independence. He was moved from camp to camp in shackles, forced to work laying roads, digging trenches, even building the runways for the international airport outside Nairobi. Many died on that project, but still he refused to confess the oath. He was eventually classed as hardcore and sent to Hola for breaking there.'