.

all fours, no longer able to scream; what came from his gaping mouth was a deafening, high-pitched howl.

      As the moon shimmered above him and the transformation neared completion, he began to run, shambling forward on four unsteady, newborn legs, then faster and faster, as the last vestiges of his rational self succumbed to the animal that roared in his blood, until he was racing through the dense, snowy forest, towards a distant light and a plume of grey chimney smoke, towards the thick smell of animal fear that drifted through the frozen trees.

      The following morning, for the second time in barely a week, Frankenstein had woken up in a strange place, with no memory of how he had arrived there, or what he had done; compounding the strangeness this time was the fact that he was naked, and lying beside a main road.

      Mercifully, the road was deserted, as dawn was barely scratching the sky in the east. But even as he looked around in an attempt to get his bearings, the cold of the German winter bit at his naked skin, and he knew he needed to find shelter, quickly. The patch of ground where he had woken up was a circle of damp green grass, the snow thawed away, as though he had been emitting tremendous heat while he slept. He was coated in something sticky, and when he rubbed his hands across his face, they came away streaked with red.

      Frankenstein reeled, but then the wind blew hard across him again, and he tried to put the red substance from his mind and concentrate on staying alive. He began to stagger alongside the road, his breath clouding in front of him, towards a gentle slope in the terrain, above which smoke was rising in lazy loops.

      Beyond the rise lay a farmhouse, facing away from the road and out over frozen fields and the forest beyond. Frankenstein tried to open the small gate, but his fingers were so cold that they refused to grip; he half-climbed, half-fell over it, his body screaming in pain as he landed in the hard, freezing snow. He staggered towards the house, prepared to risk the likely wrath of whoever it belonged to, knowing that he had to get out of the cold, had to or else he would surely die, when he saw a long washing line strung between the house and a tree that rose from the middle of the garden’s small lawn. He made for it, his feet numb and his grey-green skin now a virulent shade of purple, and hauled clothes down from the line, scattering the pegs on the ground.

      Once he was dressed, Frankenstein thumbed a lift in the back of a pick-up truck, burying himself deep beneath a pile of sheepskins, which had carried him as far south as Dortmund. He had spent nearly two weeks in a homeless shelter on Kleppingstraße, only being forced to leave when a kind, nervous woman named Magda had started to take a little too much of a friendly interest in him.

      Frankenstein still didn’t know who he was, but he knew that nothing good would have come from encouraging her affection. And so he had left, in the middle of the night, and resumed his journey, following the cargo routes through Germany, looking for something, anything, that might unlock his memory.

      Frankenstein watched as Andreas slowly wheeled his truck round, and headed out on to the northbound lane of the road. Behind him were row after row of articulated lorries; huge rigs, eighteen and twenty-two wheeled, their trailers towering above him in the darkness of the parking area. When Andreas’s pick-up had been absorbed into the stream of red lights on the motorway, he made his way through the labyrinth of vehicles towards the diner that lay beyond the filling station.

      Jeremy’s was a no-frills kind of place; a simple, greasy, one-storey building, in which Jeremy and his wife Marta sold heaped platefuls of cheap, starchy food to the endless stream of lorry drivers making their way south, to Paris, to Bordeaux, to Spain and Portugal beyond. Most were wired on coffee or amphetamines, and wanted nothing more than something hot to line their stomachs; it was these low expectations that Jeremy and Marta were experts in accommodating.

      Frankenstein was not interested in the food, or even the temporary respite from the cold that sitting in one of the café’s linoleum booths would provide. He was only interested in finding a way of continuing his journey, of continuing south. He had no money to offer any of the drivers, and no goods to barter: no drugs, or alcohol, or pornography. There was always a chance that he might find a driver who craved human companionship, who was quietly going crazy at the isolation of being on the road, of the disembodied voices that floated into his cab via CB radio. But it was unlikely; the men who lived this nomadic life did so largely because they wanted as little to do with other human beings as possible.

      “Are you a thief?”

      The voice was soft, and lilted sweetly on the night air. It seemed to contain no accusation, only curiosity. Frankenstein turned to see the owner of it standing in the shadows between two of the enormous lorries.

      It was a little girl, a tiny thing of no more than eight. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, thick, sensible work boots and was holding a small model of a truck in her hand; she was every inch a driver’s daughter. She was frowning at him, staring up at his huge frame, her forehead furrowed.

      “I’m not a thief,” Frankenstein replied, lowering his voice. “Are you?”

      The little girl smiled, involuntarily, at such a naughty idea, then remembered herself, and frowned again.

      “Of course I’m not,” she said, firmly. “This is my daddy’s lorry.” She reached out and touched the wheel of the truck she was standing beside; it was taller than her.

      “Where is your daddy?” asked Frankenstein. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own. It’s cold.”

      The little girl pointed to Jeremy’s transport café.

      “Daddy’s playing cards,” she said. “The clock said he had to stop driving, but he’s not tired.”

      “Does he know you’re out here on your own?”

      “No,” she replied, proudly. “I sneaked out. No one saw me.”

      “You shouldn’t do that. It’s dangerous.”

      “Why?” she asked. “Aren’t I safe with you?”

      Frankenstein looked down at the tiny figure beside the wheel.

      “You’re safe,” he said. “But we should still get you back to your daddy. Come on.”

      He held out a huge, mottled hand, and the little girl skipped forward and took it. She smiled up at him as he began to lead her towards the café.

      “What’s your name?” she asked, as he stopped at the edge of the parking area, checking that nothing was about to pull up to the fuel pumps.

      “Klaus,” he said, leading her forward across the brightly lit forecourt.

      “That’s a nice name.”

      “Thank you.”

      “My daddy’s name is Michael.”

      “What about yours? What’s your name?”

      “My name is Lene. Lene Neumann.”

      “That’s a pretty name,” said Frankenstein.

      “You’re nice,” replied Lene, smiling up at the monster that was holding her hand. “I like you. Are you going south? I bet my daddy will give you a lift with us.”

      Frankenstein was about to reply when an almighty crash rang out above the noise of the idling engines. He looked at the truck stop, and saw a commotion in the small diner, before the screen door slammed open, banging with a noise like a gunshot against its metal frame.

      A man was silhouetted against the fluorescent lighting of the transport café. He was short, and heavy-set, with a baseball cap perched on the top of his round head.

      “Lene!” the man bellowed. “Lene! Where are you, sweetheart? Lene!”

      The man leapt down from the doorway, and ran across the forecourt in their direction. He would see them as soon as he reached the shade of the fuel station’s canopy. Behind him, a cluster of men and women followed him out of the diner, all calling Lene’s name.

      “That’s my daddy!” exclaimed Lene. “He’s looking