Square Your Debt

Brian's taken to working late nights for less than the minimum wage at a loading dock off the harbour. He's pretty sure what he's doing isn't completely legal, but he needs the money and no the no-questions-asked work that's on offer. There are three other guys who work with him who obviously know each other from previous jobs and general business. They're nice guys; the tallest one keeps on asking Brian if he wants some more work and as tempting as it is to take the offer he can't. He's not that kind of guy and he doesn't want to be -- dammit, it's not his fault he's shifting what's probably stolen or illegal goods, it’s the government's.

Last September, late in the month like they'd been putting it off, the government had issued a new law. "The Declaration of Bloodlines Act" insisted that any applicant for a job must include his immediate family tree for the past five generations. Since then, Brian's been struggling to keep a job for more than a couple of months at best. He was fired from his last job for missing too many days of work during the three days a month of the full moon, but the "y' mangy mutt!" didn't go unheard afterwards.
He's at the back of the van, white to match all other vans of illegal tradesmen, when raised voices are heard. He hears a shot, and there's a moment of panic while he realizes that they've got guns, that they're the police before he drops the box in his arms and just runs. He doesn't look where he's going past trying not to fall over, and he keeps his head down as the shots seem to follow him down the streets that reek of fish. Blocks later he has to stop for air because it feels like his lungs are empty; he doubles over and lights up. Lifting the cigarette to his lips isn't the best idea, it's not going to help him catch his breath but it helps him calm his heart and relax his pulse.

Brian's lean muscles are on fire, he hasn't ran that much since high school and his old jeans were ripped further up the leg than he remembered them being earlier tonight. Or yesterday evening; Brian's not wearing a watch and his mobile at home in his small flat. His arms have got tattoos up and down them, weaving murals of his life for all to see in full colour. The full moon on his upper arm was sentimental, the feeling of comfort he gets while looking at the moon is something most wolves can't shake after too many years of changing, too many years of hiding in human form; waiting to become free as a wolf. It was a joke, a bet that led him to get the wolf howling underneath it but now he likes it. The wolf looks like him, and he appreciates the irony of freedom this wolf has when he can't leave his apartment at all during the change.

Brian’s t-shirt is v-necked and a muted shade of purple like faded material and rain washed petals, the sleeves stop short of his elbows to reveal colourful arms and long fingers. His jeans are skinny and hug his hips tightly; one side tugged down to reveal the spidery handwriting style tattoo along his hip. The same handwriting can be found across his small, thin chest and on his other hip in the same placement. Doves adorn his navel, dipping low on his body, only the outlines of two doves facing each other as they fly.

"What -- what you got for me Brian?" The voice is from an old man, wheezing like the last winter hadn't quite left him yet though they were almost halfway through summer. "You got my money?"

Brian turns, lifting his head up from his smoke and facing the weedy man before him. "No, you know I don't Thomas. I haven't got a job, how the hell could I pay you without any money? Besides, if I do get any money I've got to pay my rent first, and my gas. I've been living on my smokes and the soup kitchen but they're going to stop feeding me soon. They know I've got a place to live."

"I need my money Brian, I need it fast. Got myself into a spot of bother down at the bookies -- well, you know." Thomas had a scarf wrapped round his neck that cover his mouth and made his speech slower than the hacking cough did alone. "Listen, I need that money, and I need it by Friday. Otherwise you gonna have to find yourself another supplier."

Brian dropped his cigarette to the ground, and ground it out with his foot. Thomas smiled thinly, his face suddenly showing his deep wrinkles and the unhealthy yellow tint to his olive skin. "You gotta get me my money Brian, I need it." He left, walking slowly away with a dragging limp and a jacket that was two sizes too big for the tiny man and obviously too heavy. He pulled the snow along with him, shifting it with a long sound that stretched out as he trudged on. Eventually, Brian walked away.

It was late before Brian got home. The full moon began in a few days and without a supply of the now illegal concoction that eased his muscles and bones into the transformation easily he would be in constant pain over the weekend. He couldn’t trust himself alone in the flat and there was only one solution. Either find some money, or abandon the city for the wild pack in the nearby forests who accepted wolves in need of help. He might make it for this moon, but he didn’t want to spend his weekend with wolves he didn’t know. He’d just need to square his debt then, and quick before Thomas did his infamous disappearing act again.



Brian’s money plan hadn’t got far past step one: get some money. He was getting desperate with the countdown reaching a mere twenty-four hours to go and he still hadn’t raised any money. He had the thirty quid from his Mother hat she sent as an early birthday present. She was probably expecting him to spend the money on a nice jumper, or some music that he liked, not buying himself a ticket out of meeting new people. He grimaced at the thought of her reaction but carried on with his calculations; if everything went smoothly she would never have to know. With the money he had been saving for the rent and his birthday money, Brian had one hundred pounds to pay Thomas, but he needed more. He left his apartment with a selection of his wardrobe and headed for the charity shop by his flat to sell it off, but even that only came to a total of roughly thirty pounds. He still needed another forty at least for Thomas’ potion, and he was running out of things to sell.

Brian’s walking back from the charity shop quickly, his feet crunching on dried autumn leaves. The sun was setting lowly in the trees and casting an auburn glow over everything in its path. He could always try to find those guys from before, but they were probably trying to lie low after the cops if they weren’t banged up by now. Selling his belongings had raised some of the money Brian needed, but time was running short fast and his options were limited. Brian walked through the streets, head down and eyes averted from anyone who passed him by. The police were still looking for those involved in the illegal trading system, and he couldn't be sure that no-one had ratted him out under pressure. So as the street lights dimmed, Brian ducked his head under a battered fedora hat and wrapped a scarf round his neck that was more fashionable than warm to move amongst the shadows.

The building he arrives at is altogether too large and comfortable for the suburb it's in, and it stands mockingly in a residential area like a luxury office building stands in the squalor and filth of the poor and homeless. The outside looks like a grand Georgian home with four floors and the front door on the second floor led down to the pavement with sandstone steps. The surrounding buildings stand dwarfed by the grand house, dwarfed and simplified in the shadows of its historical style. Brian knocked on the door to the house, quickly with three sharp raps that hurt his already freezing knuckles. The door, which was too wide to be a single door and too thin to be double doors, was answered within seconds by a severe looking man dressed in a pinstriped suit.

“Marcus Glade?!” There was no reply but a sneer, but Brian stumbled on. “I worked with some of his men on the cargo job a few nights ago. I need more work; I need to speak to someone who can get me work, fast.” The silent man in the doorway simply cocked an eyebrow and made to shut the door. Brian slammed his shoulder and foot through the door to stop it, pushing against the man as he spoke quickly. “My name’s Brian Jensen – I worked on the job last Thursday with Jacobs and Armstrong.”

“The one that got botched?” The man’s voice was nasal and grating, but he stopped pushing quite so hard on the heavy wooden door, relieving Brian’s shoulder from its painful struggle between the doorframe and the door itself. “You must be desperate to admit to being part of that. In.” He stepped back, pulling the door with him wide enough that Brian could just slip through. “Sit. Wait.”

Brian sat on the seat gestured at, watching the walls around him as though they would bite him. They were a peach colour that shone like gold in the light of the chandelier hanging down from the centre of the square hall’s ceiling, decorated in glass baubles which reflected the light in every direction. As Brian sat on the plump chaise lounge, gold to match the room, he surveyed the overstuffed room with obvious interest. As much furniture as possible that could be stuffed so casually into the hallway had been, possibly to awe any newcomers; be those guests or clients. The dresser beside him was draped in antiques and shiny metals; a silver candle holder; a large, three part mirror that reflected the painting on the opposite wall and a leather bound book with brass corners open for visitors to sign their name with the large black fountain pen which wasn’t secured to anything. The flamboyant furnishing spoke volumes about the wealth of their owner. Marcus could obviously afford to furnish this house over if the possessions were stolen, but that was not all. Leaving the door unlocked during the day obviously said that he was too powerful to be stolen from. Marcus Glade was Brian’s ticket out of his life.



Hours later Brian ran through a puddle of cold water which sloshed up into his old trainer to skid to a halt in front of Thomas. The old man shook his head as Brian shoved money into his hands saying softly, "You're too late kid." He took the money anyway, but didn't hand over the desired bottle. "I don't have any left, I got other customers. This'll cover last month's that you owe me, so we can start fresh next moon, eh?"

Now Brian was on a bus watching the rain and wind batter the bus fiercely as it drove out of the city. With any luck the pack out in the woods would still be welcoming latecomers in an hour's time.