course, that they’d taken a hell of a long time to close in on the Beast of Gévaudan all that time ago. Assuming what they’d got really had been the right one. There had never been any definite proof. As a result of which , the Beast still preyed on people’s minds after more than two hundred years.
“Well, well,” she mumbled with her chin on her knees, “I’m really surprised.”
Johnstone stroked her hair for a long moment.
“There’s someone who’s not surprised at all,” he said.
Camille turned to look at him. It was quite dark now, and she couldn’t see his face properly. She waited. At night he had to say more because his sign language couldn’t be seen. In the dark he could be almost fluent.
“Someone who doesn’t believe in it,” he said.
“In the hunt?”
“In the beast.”
Another pause.
“Don’t get it,” Camille said. She sometimes fell into involuntary imitation and compacted her own sentences by clipping the first word.
“Who doesn’t believe there is a beast,” Johnstone explained, with effort. “No beast. And who told me, confidentially.”
“I see,” Camille said. “So what does this someone believe it is, then? A dream?”
“No.”
“A hallucination? A collective delusion?”
“No. Someone who does not believe there is a beast.”
“Nor sheep torn to bits?”
“No. Of course not. Sheep, yes. But no beast.”
Camille shrugged her shoulders in despair. “So what does this someone believe it is, then?”
“A man.”
Camille sat up straight and shook her head. “A man? Who kills sheep with his teeth? And what about those bite marks?”
Johnstone pulled a face in the dark. “The person thinks it’s a werewolf.”
Another pause. Then Camille put her hand on Johnstone’s arm.
“A werewolf?” she whispered instinctively, as if the evil word could not be spoken out loud. “A werewolf? You mean a nutter?”
“No, no, a werewolf. There’s a person around here who thinks it really is a werewolf.”
Camille tried to make out Johnstone’s face in the dark, to see whether he was having her on, or what. But the Canadian’s expression remained stony and serious.
“Are you talking about the kind of guy who turns into a monster at night with claws that grow and hair that sprouts all over and canines that stick out over his lower lip? The sort of guy who goes around eating people lost at night in the woods and then stuffs his hairy chest inside his suit jacket in the morning before going in to the office?”
“You got it,” said Johnstone, seriously. “A werewolf.”
“And we’re supposed to have one around here?”
“Yup.”
“And it’s supposed to have eaten all those sheep since the end of winter?”
“Anyway the last twenty of them.”
“What about you?” Camille asked hesitantly. “Do you believe in it?”
Johnstone smiled vaguely and shrugged his shoulders.
“Good Lord, no,” he said.
Camille stood up, smiled herself, and waved her arms as if she was chasing shadows away.
“So who’s the oaf who told you all that?”
“Suzanne Rosselin.”
Camille, dumbfounded, stared hard at the Canadian still sitting on the step with his helmet in his hand, and still as calm.
“Is that true, Lawrence?”
“Yup. The other evening, when you were fixing the leak. She said it was a fucking idiot of a werewolf that was holding the whole region to ransom. That was why the tooth-prints weren’t normal.”
“Suzanne said that? You really mean Suzanne?”
“Sure. The old bag.”
Camille stood there in dismay, her arms hanging loose by her side.
“What she said,” Johnstone specified, “was that the fucking idiot of a werewolf had been –” he hunted for the right word “– had been awoken by the return of the wolves and that now he was taking advantage of their raids, which allowed him to cloak his own crimes under their mantle.”
“Suzanne is not crazy,” Camille muttered.
“You know very well she’s completely round
“Well, well,” she mumbled with her chin on her knees, “I’m really surprised.”
Johnstone stroked her hair for a long moment.
“There’s someone who’s not surprised at all,” he said.
Camille turned to look at him. It was quite dark now, and she couldn’t see his face properly. She waited. At night he had to say more because his sign language couldn’t be seen. In the dark he could be almost fluent.
“Someone who doesn’t believe in it,” he said.
“In the hunt?”
“In the beast.”
Another pause.
“Don’t get it,” Camille said. She sometimes fell into involuntary imitation and compacted her own sentences by clipping the first word.
“Who doesn’t believe there is a beast,” Johnstone explained, with effort. “No beast. And who told me, confidentially.”
“I see,” Camille said. “So what does this someone believe it is, then? A dream?”
“No.”
“A hallucination? A collective delusion?”
“No. Someone who does not believe there is a beast.”
“Nor sheep torn to bits?”
“No. Of course not. Sheep, yes. But no beast.”
Camille shrugged her shoulders in despair. “So what does this someone believe it is, then?”
“A man.”
Camille sat up straight and shook her head. “A man? Who kills sheep with his teeth? And what about those bite marks?”
Johnstone pulled a face in the dark. “The person thinks it’s a werewolf.”
Another pause. Then Camille put her hand on Johnstone’s arm.
“A werewolf?” she whispered instinctively, as if the evil word could not be spoken out loud. “A werewolf? You mean a nutter?”
“No, no, a werewolf. There’s a person around here who thinks it really is a werewolf.”
Camille tried to make out Johnstone’s face in the dark, to see whether he was having her on, or what. But the Canadian’s expression remained stony and serious.
“Are you talking about the kind of guy who turns into a monster at night with claws that grow and hair that sprouts all over and canines that stick out over his lower lip? The sort of guy who goes around eating people lost at night in the woods and then stuffs his hairy chest inside his suit jacket in the morning before going in to the office?”
“You got it,” said Johnstone, seriously. “A werewolf.”
“And we’re supposed to have one around here?”
“Yup.”
“And it’s supposed to have eaten all those sheep since the end of winter?”
“Anyway the last twenty of them.”
“What about you?” Camille asked hesitantly. “Do you believe in it?”
Johnstone smiled vaguely and shrugged his shoulders.
“Good Lord, no,” he said.
Camille stood up, smiled herself, and waved her arms as if she was chasing shadows away.
“So who’s the oaf who told you all that?”
“Suzanne Rosselin.”
Camille, dumbfounded, stared hard at the Canadian still sitting on the step with his helmet in his hand, and still as calm.
“Is that true, Lawrence?”
“Yup. The other evening, when you were fixing the leak. She said it was a fucking idiot of a werewolf that was holding the whole region to ransom. That was why the tooth-prints weren’t normal.”
“Suzanne said that? You really mean Suzanne?”
“Sure. The old bag.”
Camille stood there in dismay, her arms hanging loose by her side.
“What she said,” Johnstone specified, “was that the fucking idiot of a werewolf had been –” he hunted for the right word “– had been awoken by the return of the wolves and that now he was taking advantage of their raids, which allowed him to cloak his own crimes under their mantle.”
“Suzanne is not crazy,” Camille muttered.
“You know very well she’s completely round
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