Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty Two

Midnight-Dockside Lambeth Bridge 21st September 1987.'

The Albert Embankment transformed into a chaotic carnival of flashing blue lights, illuminating the night with an eerie glow. London Bridge stood closed, wrapped in blue-and-white cordon tape that fluttered in the mild breeze, carrying the stench of polluted, salty water and an unsettling sense of doom.

The LAS had abandoned their vehicles halfway up the Embankment, creating a barricade to deter would-be onlookers. Officers, the coroner, and medical responders gathered in a huddle, engaging in an impromptu meeting.

A passerby, or perhaps an anonymous caller, likely felt compelled to dial 999, prompting a swift response from everyone involved. The LFB remained by the water in the process of packing up. I couldn't help but sympathise with them; dealing with such incidents in the dead of night with limited visibility couldn't be pleasant. As sporadic raindrops fell, I watched the staff hurriedly setting up temporary shelter under the glow of streetlights.

Blue plastic sheeting was hastily stretched across the pavement. Beneath one streetlight, I spotted a bundle shaped like a body, swathed in bin liners. I lingered in the shadows, concealed by the bankside wall—near enough to witness but far enough to remain unnoticed.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced over the thick stone wall, envisioning how the body might have been disposed of. During low tide, it would require two people to lift it three and a half to four feet high, gaining enough leverage to throw it into the water. Alternatively, a single person could hoist it over the edge during high tide with choppy waters, letting the current carry it away.

The anonymous call to the police implicated a lone individual, and I hoped my view wouldn't trigger memories of me disposing of a wrapped corpse in the slimy green cesspit.

Surface of the Thames carried an eerie quality, a sheet of fog steadily advancing. I certainly didn't want to meet my end in such a way. Despite Dalton's advice to lie low and head to Scotland for answers, an unshakable feeling urged me to witness this scene.

Dalton had left to gather more information on a new suspect named Mathew, leaving me to ponder how he had survived. I was a child when he died, so what motive could he have now? Who was he affiliated with, if not with the people around Skip? The dots between his death and mine weren't connecting, especially after all I had witnessed.

This led me to The Whitlocks, a name unfamiliar until now. Dalton had mentioned them, emphasising the importance of keeping our troubles away from their doorstep. He said he hadn't crossed the line for them, but could I trust his word? The world seemed uncertain, and my trust in anyone was dwindling.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and focused on my heightened hearing. Attempting to sense heartbeats, I absorbed the mass of voices and ambient sounds. Laughter, discussions of weekend plans, and the huddle nearest to the wrapped bundle caught my attention. Bubbles and oozing fluids echoed through the air, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of horrified reactions.

"Officer Lewis," someone exclaims, and I rocked on my heels, realising that my suspect pool had just been reduced by one. As I contemplated my next move, heavy footsteps approached—the unmistakable clop of the skipper.

"What the hell are you doing here?" his whispered words reached my ears, and I immediately thought, "What the."

"I can smell you, Georgie lad, and there's no mistaking your heart going two to the dozen." The skipper was right; my heart raced. I wasn't sure if it was for Lewis's dead body or if the skipper knew I was there. Feeling a little foolish, I whisper back, "How? I mean, that's bloody freaky."