"What's it
about?"
Everyone asks
this, as you'd expect, when I say I have just had a book published.
"Werewolves,"
I reply.
"Ah, you're
getting on the bandwagon!" they say. "Trying to ride Twilight's
coattails. Everyone's reading books about vampires and werewolves these
days."
It seems that
people think I wrote the book thinking about what the next current fashion in
novels would be. If only! If only I could write that fast.
In reality, I
started Leaving
the Pack in 1990. Back then, as far as I can
remember, werewolves were the American one terrorising London, or were the
wolf-like beings of Whitley Strieber's Wolfen,
from nearly a decade before (we'll leave Teen Wolf aside, shall we?).
So if a species of
intelligent wolves could exist, why not a race of men who were like wild beasts
inside, whose hormone and pheromone production was affected by the moon? No
reason. It seemed scientifically feasible to me.
I wrote a novella,
and slowly expanded it into a novel over a number of years as I worked on other
things, too. And as the years passed, I saw werewolf books and movies appear
again. It's like clothing - you don't need to worry about your wardrobe not
being in style. Just keep the outfits until they come back into vogue. You
write what you want and sooner or later, someone will think it's the right time
for it.
Werewolves and
vampires are like denim jackets: they're never going to go out of fashion for
very long. Romance is like blue jeans: there are lots of cuts, but it's
essentially the same thing, and it's always in fashion. Put werewolves and
romance together and you have a look that has lasted since Levi Strauss was
wearing pocket watches.
But just like the Wolfen, my werewolves were different to everything I had seen and read
about both before and after. They're not paranormal beings. They can't infect
you; only kill you - albeit with extreme ease. But they only kill you if you
upset them.
In short, they're
real. So real that I had at one time considered writing "an Interview with
the Werewolf," where I got this whole novel from one of their kind
spilling the beans on the rest of his race.
And a part of me
still sometimes wonders whether I might not get a knock on my door one of these
nights, now that the book has come out, from some dark strangers inquiring
exactly where I got my information from. If that does happen, I hope they will
consider that I've shown them in a positive light. But I'll let them review the
manuscripts for the next two novels, to make sure there's nothing disagreeable.
I wouldn't want to upset them.
Blurb:
Nobody believes in
werewolves.
That's just what
Paul McHew and his friends are counting on.
They and their
kind roam our city streets: a race of people from whom the terrible legend
stems; now living among us invisibly after centuries of persecution through
fear and ignorance. Superficially Caucasian but physiologically very different,
with lunar rhythms so strong that during the three days of the full moon they
are almost completely controlled by their hormonal instincts, you might have
cursed them as just another group of brawling youths or drunken gang-bangers.
Now at the point of extinction, if they are to survive their existence must
remain restricted to mere stories and legend, but, paradoxically, they also
must marry outside their society in order to persist.
The responsibility
for negotiating this knife-edge is given to Paul, who runs the streets with his
friends during the full moon, keeping them out of real trouble and its
resultant difficult questions. Having succeeded for years, he finds his real
test of leadership comes when he meets Susan, a potential life-mate, to whom he
will have to reveal his true identity if he is ever to leave his pack.
10% of the
author's royalties will be donated to WWF, the World Wildlife Fund.
Excerpt:
Paul turned his attention to the remaining man, lying on his belly,
holding his face. He rolled him over and pulled his hand away to reveal a large
gash on his left cheek, running from just under his eye down to the angle of
his jaw. It was deep, with ragged edges, and was bleeding profusely.
The sluice gate inside Paul shut with the force of a falling guillotine
and the adrenaline immediately began to rise once more. This time, however, it
was impure. Mixed with vitriolic rage, it boiled dangerously. Paul let the
man's hand go and stood up, whirling around to face the pack, his face grimaced
with anger. The wound was obviously a bite, and the one rule of running with
the pack was not to give in to the urge to seriously damage someone, especially
in a way that would arouse interest, something a bite was sure to do. Once
teeth were used, it was easy to inflict a mortal wound. That had to be avoided
at all costs. There was just no room for such mistakes, and the pack knew it.
This had not happened in a very long time. Paul had had to reprimand two of the
others in the past and it had been an unpleasant experience for all of them.
This incident now, just as he needed to think about leaving the pack in James’s
hands, made him furious. He could not brook this behavior. He did not intend to
leave James the job of controlling an unruly mob. He had to castigate. Lessons
had to be learnt, however painful that was to be.
“Who did this?” he snarled.
They remained silent, avoiding his eyes as he glared at each one of
them, his rage threatening to explode into violence.
“Who was it?” he roared, trying to expend his fury through his voice and
lessen the chance of unnecessary physical action.
Sebastian took a deep breath and stepped forward, meeting Paul's eyes
and holding them, ready to become the subject of his wrath.
“You stupid little fuck!” Paul shouted as he strode towards him,
spitting the last word out from just in front of his face.
“Sorr—”
“Don't fucking speak. Don't try to say a word.” Paul stopped Sebastian’s
apology by grabbing his throat. Sebastian stood there, his cheeks turning
crimson as he struggled to breathe and then gave up, relaxing himself as much
as he could. Paul knew he was trying to slow down the build-up of his own
aggression, his own adrenaline, which would soon reach a level at which he
would have to fight back. Paul ignored this. His own fury attained an intensity
that Sebastian could never reach, would rend him if he tried to struggle. He
heard the whisper approach him with its appealing message, a susurrus sweeping
along the street from unseen alleys, rearing up out of the black water below
him, tempting him, telling him to squeeze, to place his might in the locked
knuckles and permit them do as they would. “Wield your power!” it whispered.
“Subjugate!”
Paul continued speaking. “What have you been told?” He addressed the
whole group. “What have I said about fights? The most important thing about
these days? James? What have I told them?”
“No teeth.”
“No teeth,” Paul repeated, nodding, looking hard at Sebastian, who did
not show any indication that he had heard. The epin eph rine ran through Paul’s
arteries like acid, scalding his every cell as they cried out in concert,
screaming for action. The voice whirled around him like a tornado, threatening
to tear him from himself. Seductions and temptations reached out of the wind
like hands and tried to take him into it, but he blocked them out, concentrated
on the centre of his being. In that place was his reality, a knowledge which
outweighed any coaxing or beguiling tones, a knot so heavy that it anchored him
in spite of the gales about.
“What would have happened if you had bitten him a bit lower and cut his
jugular? He would be dead, of course. And I would be in trouble if there were
questions about a man being bitten to death, wouldn't I? And I don't like
trouble. Especially, when it's not of my own making and the source of the
trouble is not getting the same aggravation as me. And why would you not be
getting hassle? Because you'd be dead, wouldn't you? And I don't like killing
people. So don't make me kill you, all right?”
As he said this, he released his hold on Sebastian's throat, letting him
fall to his knees and gulp lungfuls of air. He shook off the voice repugnantly
and it instantly vanished from his mind, its whisper swept away along the river
into the gloom. The gates opened and the anger began to subside once more. All
that was left was a slight dizziness at the depth of the void and a bitter
taste in his mouth. He watched Sebastian for a second, making sure he was in
control and not about to attack. Then he looked up at the others.
“I think we both need a drink. Let's get out of here. The cops will
arrive soon.”
