“IF IN LONDON TUESDAY VISIT ME FIRST STOP LYCANTHROPY STOP SZABO”
After taking the last pull off my Woodbine and nubbing it out into the “Worthington E” ashtray, I folded the telegram and put it back in my jacket. Nobby Clarke had arrived with a beer each for me, him and Dicky Toolan.
“Everything all right, Gonby?” asked Nobby, opening a packet of Woodbines and offering them around the table.
“Yeah,” I said, pensively, “There was a word I meant to look up, that’s all. Anyway, it’s him you should be worrying about…”
“I’m fine,” snapped Dicky. He wasn’t fine, and we all knew why that was. There was only ever the one thing the matter with him.
“Snap out of it,” said Nobby, “there’s plenty more fish in the cut. We’ll be in London in a couple of hours! Imagine what we’ll see there!”
Dicky didn’t look interested in answering, but before he could have, I interjected, “I thought we’d nip over to Carnaby Street. Have a look around…”
“Carnaby Street? What the hell are you talking about, Gonby?” protested Nobby, with a laugh, “It’s 1973, man!”
“Just a quick visit. Come on, we’d better drink up. Train leaves in fifteen minutes.”
□ □ □ □ □
“This place? What are you playing at, Gonby?”
I pushed open the door and heard the familiar tinkle of the bell. Mosca appeared beneath the flap of the counter and then hurried into the back, calling “Master! Master!” Yet Petru Szabo appeared from the other side of us, as if materializing from the particulate air. His hair was a little greyer and longer than the last time we’d met, his sideburns much thicker. [Details of Gonby’s first meeting with Szabo can be found here. — Editor’s Note]
“Gonby! So wery glad you could come! Is your friend looking for anything in particular…?”
I shook my head. While Carnaby Street had undoubtedly got tackier, Szabo’s shop had simply got dustier. “I think Dicky’s cape phase has passed, Petru.”
“Then you are here because of my telegram. Please: follow me.”
Szabo led us into the back room, a windowless, candle-lit space with a heavy walnut table in the middle. On it was a messy but deliberate arrangement of maps, charts, lunar calendars, handwritten letters and horoscopes. Mosca served whisky from a crystal decanter.
“I think the word you used was… lycon, lickan, ly…”
“Lycanthropy, Gonby. When a man can change his form into that of a wolf. A wery dangerous condition. Mosca. Go and check the skies.”
Mosca scurried out past the counter. Nobby Clarke asked, “What exactly is gooin’ on, Mr Szabo, and how does it involve us?”
Szabo removed cigars from his tailcoat and offered us each one, which we all politely refused, preferring my Woodbines. Having lit his perfecto, the Transylvanian gave a quizzical look to the returning Mosca, who shook his head.
“There is cloud, master,” he said.
“Thank you, kind friend. ‘Tis a pity you weren’t here earlier, gentlemen. The night is not our ally. We ought to be leawing.”
“Are you coming to the match?”
“Match? It is a hardly a match. Not a fair one, any way.”
“Whaddaya mean?” said Dicky, petulantly, “We done ‘em 3-1 back in August. At Highbury.”
“Gentlemen, ewery year dere wis a gaddering, a wild conwention of dee wolfmen…”
“Arsenal Stadium would provide dem with de flesh dey desire…”
“Werewolves?”
“I know. Hawing studied my charts, their prewious appearances and some of the more cryptic behawiour of dem, I am fully conwinced that this years wabid carnage will take place in N5.”
“Where’s that?” asked Nobby.
“Highbury. Your destination tonight, I believe?”
“You mean ‘Highbury’ the area, or ‘Highbury’ the ground…?”
“De wolfmen like green spaces. Dey may choose Highbury Fields. But Arsenal Stadium would provide dem with de flesh dey desire.”
“Flesh? Human flesh?”
“Dey are wolfmen, after all.”
“Werewolves?”
“Yes, I know. But dis is different.”
□ □ □ □ □
We took Szabo’s landau to the ground, despite the rush hour. The traffic on Upper Street was appalling, and by the time we neared Highbury Fields the after-work traffic had bled into football traffic. We entered the Clock End around 7.15, Mosca staying behind to tend the horses. Szabo surveyed the scene agitatedly, his eyes flitting between sky and stands.
The first half was enjoyable enough, and we got to see King John’s opener and Charlie George’s equalizer in relative peace. Dicky Toolan fell in love with the girl at the snack bar. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. The problems began at half time. Just as an American marching band was taking to the field to entertain the public, the clouds above the open terrace parted and between them shone a huge and perfectly round moon. I heard a spine-chilling howl, and watched as one by one, the parkas, polo-necks, bell-bottomed corduroys and sheepskin overcoats of the assembled Londoners began tearing, to reveal black fur and powerful hind quarters. After terrified gasps, the crowd began to warn each other, or anybody who could listen and might be able to help them, what they were seeing. “Werewolves! Werewolves! Werewolves!” they cried, as the wolfmen began tearing into the clothes and flesh of their victims. “Werewolves! Werewolves! Werewolves!” The marching band was playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” and gradually the cries of the crowd and the melody of the band combined.
We-re-wolves, we-re-wolves, we-re-wolves,
We-re-wolves, we-re-wolves, we-re-wo-olves...
“I know! I know!” shouted Szabo back at them, agitatedly, and as the line of wolfmen spread from the paddock of the West Stand we made a break for it and headed for the exit on Highbury Hill, our trousers flapping as we ran. Before we could make it out, however, a wave of wolfmen started emerging from the East Stand terracing, flailing at the humans with their long, bent claws and snarling with sharp teeth. We retreated hastily.
Back in the middle of the Clock End, away from both fronts, Szabo produced some blue flowers from his tailcoat jacket and passed them to me. “If they get too near,” he said, “try to force this on them,” then, responding to mycuriosity, he added, “This kills dem. And pretty much ewerything else. Be wery careful…”
The band had disappeared and the teams were back on view. Supernatural carnage continued on the terracing. But when the referee blew his whistle, all the werewolves suddenly stopped their feeding frenzies and maiming binges and cocked their ears. And they remained well-behaved for the rest of the match, even after the Doog had put us back in the lead. The whistle-happy referee had much to do with this, as did the crowd who expressed their disapproval at the whistle-happy ref by whistling. St John’s Ambulance began clearing away the dismembered limbs and fleshless carcasses, unmolested by the perpetrators of the gruesome acts, who sat stock still on the terraces, but for the occasional happy wag of the tail; survivors went to the snack bars for a reviving cup of tea, and we had to settle for a two-two draw after John McAlle managed to find his own net late on.
Back in the landau, as Mosca drove us to Euston, I asked Szabo what he thought of the match.
“Interesting. I wouldn’t mind seeing another one someday. Hopefully next time it won’t be marred by wolfmen.
“Werewolves,” I said, lighting up a Woodbine.
“Indeed we are, Gonby,” replied Szabo, “Indeed we are.”