No Less the Devil

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In loving memory of Grendel MacBride, my constant companion, muse, and very own little fuzzy serial killer

2004–2021

Malcolm ran. One hand curled against his chest, the wrist swollen and aching, the fingers numb and almost black in the sickly yellow streetlight. His other hand clenched around the strap of his tatty old rucksack. Ancient trainers squealing on the slippery cobbles as the rain battered down.

Breathing hard.

Teeth bared.

Tears blurring the shuttered shops and parked cars that lined Archers Lane.

Sobbing out the words as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the wolves: ‘Please God. Please God, no. Please, please, please, please, please...’

Behind him, a high-pitched howl echoed through the night.

‘Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease...’

At the end of the street, he hammered around the corner onto the Chanonry, feet skidding out from underneath him, sending him crashing into the boot of a rust-brown hatchback hard enough to set the car’s alarm screaming. Lights flashing angry orange as he scrambled upright and staggered out into the road. Three o’clock in the morning and the houses on both sides of the road were in darkness: no one peering out their windows to see what all the fuss was about. No one to witness what was happening. No one to save him.

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