April 14th, 1997

"There he is, get him!" shouted one of the boys. George ran from his hiding spot, a gangly, skinny teenager in what were now ripped jeans and a torn plaid shirt. The one good thing about being this skinny is that he was frightfully fast. So fast, that it nearly saved his neck. Nearly. George ran into the ringleader of the boys, Samuel "Spotty" Sedgwick, although no one called him that to his face. What he lacked in dermatological efficiency he made up for in sheer size and muscle. George bounced off the larger boy and landed on his bum. Still dazed, he almost fainted when he was lifted into the air in a strangle hold and smacked into a wall.

Dimly, he wondered why his neck hadn't developed calluses from the sheer number of times this happened to him. Why did people just seem to want to hurt him? Did he smell funny or something?

The other boys gathered round now, laughing in anticipation of whatever horrors were about to be visited on George's person. George's eyes darted from one to another, marking their faces; Shaun Baker, Thomas Cartwright, Nicholas Battersby and Gordon Stotch. Spotty smacked his head into the wall again and again, each thud harder than before. George was rapidly losing consciousness, but was dimly aware of an anger growing inside him. The odd thing was, it didn't feel like his anger, it was almost as if there were a stranger in his head. George found his eyes marking the boys faces again, as if making sure of their identities for some reason.

Spotty drew back one ham sized fist for what would surely be the coup-de-grace.

George mumbled something.

Spotty cocked his ear.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Not the glasses please." George stammered out again.

"Oh, right." Spotty took George's glasses and handed them to Shaun who dutifully stuck them in his pocket.

"Thank you." murmured George. "You are a kind soul –"

Something cannonballed him into darkness.

George awoke in the hospital, and at first he thought:

"When did I become a mummy?"

He put his fingers up to his face and felt the bandages there. There was an enormous shooting pain in the center of his face, which indicated that his nose was severely injured.

"Don't touch that, young man." Said a voice.

George turned towards the voice.

"Are you a doctor? Where is my family?"

"I'm not a doctor. I'm a police constable. My name is Sgt. Angel. Your family is outside, and you will see them shortly. I just had a few questions I wanted to ask you about the incident."

George knew the fate of tattletales.

"I'm not naming names. I can take care of myself." He said stubbornly.

"George, we know the name of the boy you fought with, as well as all of the ones who witnessed it." He said sternly.

"Then what do you want to know? I spent most of the fight unconscious anyway. Talk to Spotty about it." The pain was getting worse, and George was getting annoyed. Weren't you supposed to comfort victims of assault, instead of grilling them with stupid questions?

"I'd like to talk to Spot-erm, Samuel, but unfortunately he isn't in as good a shape as you. In fact, I am not sure he will ever recover from the coma he is in. Now I understand that you have been bullied frequently-"

"What?" shrieked George.

Sgt. Angel started. Surely the boy's voice should have changed by now? He rubbed his ears, wincing.

"When you hit him with that brick, you put him into a coma, George. Surely you remember that?" he asked.

George began shouting and thrashing on the bed, only realizing then that he was restrained.

"No! This is too much. They beat the bloody hell out of me, they knock me unconscious and now I'm being accused of hurting him? I've never hit anybody with anything in my life! Get out! Get out, you stupid PC! I didn't hit that overgrown git with any bloody brick! It must have been one of his friends aiming for me! Get out, I say!"

George suddenly lapsed into silence. The doctor rushed in, and exclaimed. Blood was seeping from the bandages.

The doctor was ushering the shocked PC from the room when a voice stopped them.

"One down." It said. Although the voice emerged from the bandages, it sounded nothing like the rather nervous and shrill voice from before.

"Sorry?" said the doctor and the PC together.

"Four to go."

The PC looked a long time at the young man, then took his cap and left.

When George was released from the hospital, the other boys gave him a wide berth, as if what that stupid PC had said was true. How on earth could George hurt someone and not remember it?

April 14th, 2008

"I told you, when I'm the wolf I don't remember anything I do. It's like I'm a different person, or thing. A really angry thing. That's why I don't blame Tully for scratching me, although I have to wonder why he wasn't locking himself up. That whole business with wanting to be matey with me and having me fight with you two, and keeping what he did a secret until he was in good with me…that was all him. He can't blame the wolf for that."

"And that's why you got rid of him." Said Mitchell, finishing off a kebab (he'd gotten George to buy it for him, claiming he left his wallet at home) and tossing the napkin and stick in the trash. It never ceased to amaze George how much his friend ate. Just walking down the street, Mitchell had devoured more than what George ate in a full day. And kept his shape, the bastard.

"Well, he was a wanker. I'm glad he's gone." Chimed in Annie. They had gone on an outing, feeling a need to get out of the house that was rare for all three of them.

Mitchell stopped at another street vendor, this one selling hot peanuts and pretzels. He held his hand out to George for more money. George and Annie rolled their eyes, while George leaned up against the glass of an antique shop to fish for his wallet. There was a chime, and George fell into the shop; what he thought was a window turned out to be the door. Mitchell and Annie burst into laughter as George got to his feet, dusting himself off frantically. Worried he might have broken something expensive, he saw a gently chuckling older gentleman smoking a pipe picking up an enormous stuffed raven which he placed on a shelf.

"You'll want to watch yourself, my boy. These things don't take kindly to being smashed." He said.

Annie and Mitchell followed George into the shop.

The proprietor nodded at each of them, startling Annie who hadn't been seen by anyone that day. Poor soul, he must be dying. The terminally ill usually had the ability to see her just as supernatural creatures did.

"Temptations, Ltd." Read Mitchell from the now backwards writing on the shop window.

"Feel free to look around, and see if anything catches your interest." He said.

The three friends spread out through the shop, glancing at the incredibly varied and exotic collection. There were items ranging from medieval torture devices to rather sinister looking paintings and statuary to relics of what surely had to be primitive and savage cultures. While each object certainly captured their interest, there was nothing they actually wanted to bring into their home. The proprietor eyed them with something like amusement, as if a joke had just been told and only he got the punchline. He gave Annie the creeps, and she moved towards the door suddenly feeling as if the place were a giant Venus Flytrap waiting to snap shut. Mitchell was looking hard at some of the various things in the shop as well, and unconsciously moved to join Annie without turning his back on them or the strange proprietor.

"I don't get many of your lot in here. In fact, I don't think I ever have." Said the old man suddenly.

"What do you mean, 'our lot'?" asked Mitchell.

The old man smiled again, still enjoying his joke.

"Young people, of course." He said, still staring directly at Mitchell.

Though the three did not discuss it with each other at the time, each of them had a distinct sensory experience within the store. To Mitchell, the objects smelled coppery, almost as if they had been dipped in blood and set on display. To Annie, the objects seemed to emit a vague discordant note like the constant pressing of an out of tune piano key. To George, the objects glowed with a slight sickly green phosphorescence. He made his way over to a case that contained antique coins.

"Lord, look at these! Ancient Roman coins! I used to collect coins when I was a kid. These here, they are Tyrian Shekels, solid silver. The same coins supposedly paid to Judas!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, exactly like those!" said the old man. "You know your coins, young man. I am afraid those have been promised to another, but perhaps you might be interested in a recent acquisition of mine.

The old man pulled out a wooden box and opened it carefully. The silver coin was double headed, with the picture of a benevolently smiling man on one side, and the snarling face of a beast on the other.

"That would be a representation of the god Janus, patron of gateways, who looks both into the future and the past." Said George.

The man nodded, pleased with George's description.

"Janus was the patron of duality itself, past and future, coming and going, good and evil. A study in how man is divided." He looked intently into George's eyes as he said this.

George looked at the coin. He suddenly wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He had only five pounds in his pocket, not nearly enough for what he suspected the coin must be worth.

"If you are interested, I'll just check my invoice and see how much to charge." He left the coin on the counter and retreated into the back.

"George, come on! I don't like it in here, its creepy!" said Annie.

"Yeah George. Something's not right here." Added Mitchell.

"It would be rude to leave when he's expecting me to stay. I'll wait until he comes back and tell him I can't afford it. Hmm, that seems silly to have left it on the counter like that. Someone else might have walked away with it!" said George.

Annie and Mitchell left the store and stood outside shivering even in the hot midday sun. The bell chimed merrily.

After about five minutes, the man returned, and looked surprised to see George standing there.

Recovering, he picked up a handful of price tags and handed them to George.

"I am sure one of these belongs to the coin. Be a good chap and read me the price from the right one. My eyesight isn't what it used to be."

George looked through the tags. To his surprise, all of them read 5 pounds and referred to minor knickknacks. The one for the "Janus Coin" read 5,000 pounds. George's heart sank.

"It's this one. 5,000 pounds. I'm sorry, but that is really beyond my budget." He said sadly.

"Are you sure it's the right tag? Not one of these others?" asked the old man, still acting shocked by George's behavior.

"Yes, quite. It says 'Janus Coin' right on the back." Said George.

"Hmmm. I'm almost sure it must be an imitation." Said the old man. You know your coins, son. If you say it is a fake, I will sell it to you for 5 pounds."

George shook his head.

"Nope, it's completely real. If you find the right collector, you might get double." He said helpfully. George really wanted the coin, but he had to be honest with the old guy. He was begging to be robbed.

The old man put his pipe down.

"Three chances I gave you. Three chances to cheat me, and you refused. You are quite a remarkable young man, and I'm sorry to say I underestimated you!"

"What?" asked George. So intent was he on gazing at the coin, he hadn't heard a word the old man said.

"I said I am very impressed with your honesty. I would like you to take this coin as my gift. I am aware of what it is worth, and I do this for a fellow coin lover. I do not often meet such as you in the world. I almost always get the 'wrong sort' in here. The 'right sort' can't even find the place. Perhaps Janus had the answer for us all along. That good and evil can exist in the same person. Do you believe that?"

George wasn't entirely sure what the old man was talking about, but the last statement seemed especially aimed at him.

"Yes. I can say I'm 100% sure of it." He said.

"There is more inside of you than even you suspect, my friend. Take the coin with my blessing; a rare thing, that!"

"Thank you! I mean, if you are sure. If you change your mind, let me know." George scribbled his cell phone number and address down on the back of the price tag for the coin. He slipped it into his pocket and left the store whistling.

The old man sat in the dark silence of his store, a red tinge coming into his eyes.

"Now this should be interesting!" he said aloud.

There was the sound of rustling wings, and suddenly there was a raven on his shoulder.

"Yes, it will be." Croaked the raven.

When George emerged from the shop, he found Annie and Mitchell glaring at him.

"You didn't buy anything from that barmy old codger, did you?" he asked.

"No, I didn't." said George, truthfully.

"Good. Let's go home, I'm knackered."

"But it's barely past noon!" George exclaimed.

"I'll see you guys there." Said Annie, disappearing with a pop.

"Well, that was rude!" Said Mitchell, annoyed.

"I'll say." Added George.

"Now, about those pretzels…" said Mitchell, holding out his hand.

Sighing, George gave him the whole five pound note.

The gang had a leisurely dinner, with George doing both the cooking and the cleaning up. After watching The Real Hustle, he went up to his room took off his dressing gown and slippers and crawled into bed. The gnomes on the walls gazed down at him with cheerfully evil expressions, and he wondered for the 50,000th time why he never changed the blasted wallpaper. He remembered the coin, and got up to fish it out of his jeans pocket and got back into bed. He turned the coin over and over in his hands staring at both the smiling human face and bestial lupine face. Just like him, a coin flipping over and over. Settling the coin on his thumb, he flipped it expertly into the air. The faces flashed at him rapidly, man…wolf…man…wolf…man…wolf…it almost gave the illusion that it was the same being rapidly changing expression. The coin seemed to take longer than it should have to come down, and even then in slow motion. George snatched the coin out of the air while sleepiness suddenly weighted down his lids. Blearily looking at the coin one more time, it seemed that now the human face was scowling, while the lupine face resembled an overeager puppy. As sleep claimed him, the coin fell from his outstretched hand, rolled across the floor and dropped neatly into a small crack between two boards.