Flowers of a Wolf

Chapter 4

DAY 8

They had a lead. Rawford was on point, Hammersmith supporting, and five others from the investigation team sat in a long wheel-base van with no markings, on Norman Street.

"I've got eyes on the target," Hammersmith said. There was a pause, then "now entering the changing rooms. You're up champ" she added, the mic resting inside her jacket lapel picking up her voice loud and clear.

Stephens walked through the single automatic door into the entrance hall of Finsbury Leisure Center. It was fairly quiet, but unsurprising for a Tuesday afternoon he thought. Inside it was warm, close even, with a background smell of chlorine from the pool pervading the space. One family loitered this side of the barrier, while beyond he spied several adult males, walking in and out of the gym entrance. And further away, legging-clad females - in pairs - marched down a corridor. He saw none of the criminal personas who made up his day job. Nor the target.

Swiping the borrowed pass, he headed down the corridor to the men's changing room for the pool, ignoring Hammersmith who was loitering by a vending machine.

Walking inside, he scanned two elderly men finishing up getting changed but didn't spot the target. He knew the layout of the space, after walking the leisure center the previous day to prepare. Knew where the toilet cubicles and shower entrance were and positioned himself with clear sight and proceeded to get changed. Someone exited the toilets but it wasn't their target. Similar build and shape, even the gray Adidas tracksuit, but shaved sides on his head. Rawford looked away as the man frowned at him.

He placed his bag inside the locker, stared at the token lock mechanism, and a little laugh caught in his throat.

He'd been in his local gym two weeks ago. His first time back in a gym since before Lockdown. He'd been for a workout. A terrible first session filled with all sorts of newfound aches and when he'd returned to the changing room afterward, he'd realized the locker had taken his pound coin. The back of the door said 'Use x1 token.' What the fuck! he'd thought. On the way out, he found a young lad in the center's uniform, hair braided, smiling through braces.

"Your locker took my pound coin" he'd begun, indignation lacing his speech.

"Sorry sir?" enquired Little Arse, as Stephens now thought of him.

"The locker. In the changing rooms. Didn't spit back out my coin."

"Ah yes sir, they use tokens sir" Little Arse was no longer smiling.

"Then why the fuck did they choose a token size the same as a pound coin? Incidentally, the same size as the coin taken by every other locker in the rest of fucking England? Eh?"

The young man tried to look apologetic, then remembered how much he was paid. "Everyone just puts their bags on the side of the pool and..."

Steven smiled at the memory and closed the locker door.

"Oi mate."

Rawford turned and saw the man who'd exited the toilet block moments earlier. His face frowning, creasing, and then Rawford stopped focusing on his face as a sharp pain suddenly blossomed across his face, centered on the bridge of his nose, where the stranger's fist had collided with it.

What the–!

Next, he was on his back, his head wringing from the collision with the tiled floor. Then a sharp, biting sensation along his side forced him to cough and swallow his cry as a size 11 foot crashed into it. And again. It was all he could do to curl up into a ball on the cold tiled floor, naked but for his trunks.

"Yeah, this is the one Mikey, right fucking bandit," and two men stood over him. Where the hell is my Airwave? he wondered through the fog of pain. Then realized that the clunky mobile device - used by all British police forces - was sitting in his kit bag in the locked locker.

I'm going to fucking die in Speedos, he thought.

And then he saw him. Their suspect standing over him, leering down at him. Too much blonde hair, mid-30s, and those eyes above his gray tracksuit. A Wolf's eyes.

It's him, Rawford knew it. Blood clogged his eyes and mouth, but he ignored it. He pushed himself up, pain tearing across his injured side, and lunged at the man.

But the man he'd called Mickey swatted him away easily and then he, the Wolf, kicked Rawford squarely in his Speedos, and it was all Rawford could do but to double up.

"Yeah you queer fuck. Coming in places like this" added Mickey.

"Yeah yeah," and then the Wolf was crouching, words whispering in his ear, just for him.

"I see you, Detective Rawford." Each word sent a jolt through him.

And then the two men were gone.

Rawford lay there in his own pain and piss when the ringing band in his head was assailed by a repetitive high-pitched blast. "Warr! Warr! Warr" 

Over and over. Then darkness, and he fell unconscious.

***