Jan Siegel - Prospero’s Children

She fell asleep.

At breakfast, Alison was irritable. ‘Nightmares,’ she said. ‘I thought I could hear voices crying, shrieks, moans. I expect it was the wind.’ Will looked innocent, Fern bland. She had risen early to dispose of the broken vase; it was one Robin had said might be valuable; but then, his daughter reflected, he always said that. A rapid confabulation had revealed that Will, too, had witnessed the fight in the night.

‘I slept well.’ Fern asseverated sweetly.

Will merely smiled, and attacked his Frosties.

A little to their surprise, Alison chose to go for a walk later, declining company even before they had had an opportunity not to offer it. Afterwards the back door, unlatched, swung open; the dog was waiting outside. ‘Come in,’ Fern said. ‘You don’t have to wait for permission. You’re always welcome.’ She came in, hobbling on three legs: there was blood on the fourth, dried into brownish crystals, and more blood clogging the thick fur of her ruff. She lay down at Fern’s feet and fixed her with that steady unhuman gaze.

That’s a wolf, ‘said Will.’ I know it is. Where did you find it?’

‘She found me. Get some antiseptic; I’ve seen a bottle of Dettol somewhere. She’s hurt.’

‘It was her,’ Will said, ‘last night—wasn’t it?’

‘Fetch the Dettol.’

The animal was docile while Fern cleaned her wounds and applied cream from a tube of Savlon, crusted from long disuse, which was all they could find. The tears in her shoulder were deep and ugly but her expression appeared indifferent, beyond suffering. ‘Lougarry,’ Fern murmured. The tired muzzle lifted; the ears pricked.

‘ Thank you,’ said Will.

Robin phoned that evening: Alison spoke to him at length and hovered when Fern took over, making confidences impossible. Of course we’re selling, ‘he reiterated a little too forcefully.’ Leave it to Alison. Bright girl. Knows what she’s doing. Gave me the name of a useful chap over here—professor of witchcraft—they have professorships for everything in America. What’s that, darling? Can’t hear you.’

The line shouldn’t be this bad, thought Fern, giving up. We live in an age of satellite technology. Supposing it isn’t the phone…

Alison left on Monday, promising to return by the end of the week. ‘She may be involved in this business,’ Will said, ‘but I don’t believe she’s the real enemy. She’s not…she’s not frightening enough.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Fern. ‘The Devil in person? Yesterday you complained you were scared; today you’re complaining you’re not scared enough. That isn’t logical.’

‘I’m still scared,’ Will explained, ‘but not of Alison. She’s all slippery charm: you think you’ve caught her out—you think you can pin her down—but her personality just slithers away from you as if it were greased. Mrs Wicklow says she saw her before, but she isn’t absolutely sure. She must have come here after something, but she hasn’t tried to search the house. We think she’s controlling that creature that sniffs in the night, but we don’t know . We can’t prove anything.’

‘I thought you believed in the impossible,’ said Fern. ‘Now you want proof.’ She was anointing Lougarry’s injuries as she spoke: once Alison had gone, the dog had come into the kitchen and lain down in the place beside the stove which she had taken for her own.

‘Not exactly. I want to know what we’re up against.’ Will cupped his chin in his hand, gazing dreamily into the middle distance. ‘What’s really going on? Sometimes I feel we’re tangled in a dark web of supernatural forces, but if you try to snatch at a single strand it frays into a shadow and then there’s nothing there. What the hell are we all looking for, anyway?’

‘Actually,’ Fern began, finally resolved to tell him about the key—but Mrs Wicklow came in, cutting her short, and the impulse to confide passed.

Inevitably, the housekeeper objected to Lougarry. ‘Great-Cousin Ned had a dog,’ Fern reminded her. ‘You told us so.’

‘That’s not a dog,’ said Mrs Wicklow. ‘Looks more like a wolf. It’s probably savage, anyway. If it’s been killing sheep there’ll be real trouble, police and that. I’d better go call someone to fetch it away.’

‘ Have any sheep been killed?’ Fern challenged, unobtrusively crossing her fingers. She had a feeling that taking mutton on the hoof would be well within Lougarry’s scope.

Mrs Wicklow conceded grudgingly that they hadn’t. ‘Been fighting, though, by the look of it,’ she said. ‘Those cuts look nasty. You want to take it to t’ vet: he’ll see to it. I daresay t’ reverend would give you a lift.’

Lougarry’s lip lifted in a soundless snarl.

‘I don’t think she’d like that,’ Fern said.

‘What’ll you do about feeding it? Haven’t thought about that, have you? You can’t just give it Madam Slimline’s leftovers.’

A picture of rabbits came into Fern’s head—rabbits scattering in a panic, scuts flashing white. ‘We’ll fix up something,’ she said evasively. ‘Anyhow, she doesn’t belong to us. She comes round sometimes: that’s all.’

‘Scrounging,’ said Mrs Wicklow, hunching a disapproving shoulder.

A knock on the back door heralded the arrival of Gus Dinsdale, further complicating the argument. ‘If she’s a stray,’ he said, ‘you ought to hand her over to the authorities.’

‘She’s not a stray,’ Fern snapped, feeling beleaguered. ‘She belongs to this old man: I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him round here quite a lot. I think he’s a kind of tramp.’ Will glanced quickly at her, his eyebrows flicking into a frown.

‘I know the one you mean,’ Gus said unexpectedly. ‘Interesting type. Seems to be out in all weathers and there are more lines on his face than a street map, but I’ve seen him striding over the moor at a pace that puts most hikers to shame. We’ve exchanged a few words now and then; he’s intelligent and cultured, certainly not a drunk. I would guess he’s one of those who choose a life on the road—they feel hemmed in by the walls of civilisation, trapped in the kind of surroundings we would call home. A free spirit. I never realised he had a dog. I must say, this creature appears to be an appropriate companion. She looks more than half wild. A free spirit herself, no doubt.’

‘It’s wild all right,’ said Mrs Wicklow, still refusing to allow the visitor the dignity of gender. ‘If Fern touches t’ cuts it’ll bite her for sure.’

(‘Who’s the old man?’ Will inquired, for his sister’s private ear; but she shook her head.)

‘The dog seems to trust her,’ Gus was saying, evidently won over by his own image of the free-spirited wanderer and his maverick pet. ‘Animals can very often sense when they’ve found a friend. After all, you’ve heard the story of Androcles and the lion, haven’t you?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Mrs Wicklow retorted, scoring points where she could.

But Gus had turned back to Fern. ‘Does she have a name?’ he asked.

‘Lougarry,’ said Fern. She didn’t say how she knew.

‘Odd,’ the vicar mused. ‘I wonder…it sounds almost as if it might come from the French. Lougarry… loup garou .’

‘ Loup garou ,’ Will repeated, struggling with his accent. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Werewolf,’ said Gus.

It was after lunch and Lougarry had departed on affairs of her own before the Capels were left to themselves. ‘It’s time we had a serious discussion,’ said Will. ‘There are too many things you’re not telling me. The old man, for instance. And Lougarry. Do you think she really is a werewolf?’