by Preston, Ken
‘Karl? Really?’
‘I know who murdered him.’
Barry sat back in his chair, staring silently at Emma.
‘But keep it to yourself, all right?’ Emma said. ‘I’ve got no proof.’
‘How do you know he did it?’ Barry said.
‘I accused him and he admitted it to my face.’
‘Oh shit.’ Barry leaned forward again, elbows on knees. ‘You’re telling me this scumbag knows that you know?’
‘Afraid so, yes.’ A brief image of Gilligan standing in front of her as she sat on her bed, him unzipping his trousers and pulling out his engorged cock, flashed through her mind. She pushed it out of her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine, he hasn’t tried anything.’
‘Not yet,’ Barry said. ‘Who is it?’
‘An Irishman goes by the name of Gerry Gilligan. He’s part of the Slaughterhouse Mob.’
‘Does Coffin know about this?’
‘No. Thing is, me and Joe aren’t exactly best buds right now.’
‘That’s what happens when you’re a celebrity,’ Barry said.
‘Believe me, it’s nothing to do with that,’ Emma said. ‘Joe will hate being in the limelight.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Did you hear that Jonathan Ross invited him on his show for an interview?’
Emma couldn’t help but smile. ‘I would love to see that, but it isn’t going to happen.’
‘Have you told Nick about this Gilligan fella?’
Emma leaned forward in her chair. ‘No, and you don’t tell him either. In fact, you don’t tell anyone, got it?’
Barry put his hands up. ‘Okay, okay, I won’t.’
Emma leaned back again. ‘But there is something you can do for me. I want you to do some digging on him, find out everything you can. I know he’s got connections with the Real IRA, and he was mates with Brendan Kavanagh, used to be landlord at O’Donoghue’s before somebody took a dislike to him and murdered him.’
Barry was shaking his head. ‘Bloody hell, Emma, you’ve been mixing with some right lovely types, haven’t you?’
‘Just get me some info on this piece of shit, all right? Gerry Gilligan, you got that?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I got it.’
‘Good,’ Emma said. ‘We need to put this bastard behind bars for what he did.’
‘Can I help you, Miss Wylde?’
Emma jumped at the sound of the voice from behind her. She spun round, standing up at the same time. Came face to face with Frances Lockridge.
‘You startled me,’ Emma said.
That wasn’t quite true. Lockridge had scared the crap out of her. Emma’s heart was still racing and she had to fight to keep her breathing under control.
‘Maybe that’s because you have a guilty conscience,’ Lockridge said.
‘What?’ Emma said, taking a step closer to Lockridge, who took another step away.
‘Don’t you try and intimidate me, young lady,’ the editor said. ‘I know your type.’
‘My type?’ Emma said, almost spitting the words out. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
Barry stood up. ‘Hey, let’s all calm down shall we?’
Lockridge glared at Barry. ‘I’m perfectly calm, thank you. And I would ask you to escort this woman off the Birmingham Herald premises. She no longer works here and so is trespassing, and I will call the police if I have to.’
‘I see I’m not the only one who doesn’t work here anymore,’ Emma said. ‘You having a clean out, getting the yes people in?’
Lockridge’s cheeks coloured a little. ‘And your attitude young woman was the reason why Karl Edwards gave you your notice.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Emma snapped. ‘I don’t believe Karl gave me the sack, and even if he had been planning on it, he would have talked to me first. Let me ask you one thing. Are you investigating who murdered him?’
‘The police have that matter in hand.’
Emma stepped up close to Lockridge, got right in her face. The editor tried backing away again, but she was up against a desk and had nowhere to go.
‘If something like this had happened while Karl was here he would have had the entire newsroom investigating,’ Emma said, her voice low. ‘And he wouldn’t have let anybody off the hook, himself most of all, until he got the murdering bastard’s name and face plastered all over the front page.’
‘As I said—’
‘Yeah, I know, the police have the matter in hand.’ Emma laughed, and even to her ears it sounded like the sharp bark of a crazy woman. ‘The fucking cops have got nothing but their dicks in their hands right now. And all the while you’re sitting here turning the Herald into a cheap gossip mag. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Frances Lockridge snapped her mouth shut and turned to face Barry. ‘Please escort this woman out of my newsroom before I call security and ask them to escort you off with her. And if I have to resort to that, believe me Barry, you will not be coming back.’
‘You should go,’ Barry said.
‘Yeah, I’m out of here,’ Emma said.
Emma strode through the newsroom, aware that all eyes were on her. The lift doors opened immediately when she pushed the call button. Barry stepped into the lift with her. As Emma stood inside the lift, waiting for the doors to close, she could see Lockridge standing and watching her. Staring at her, chin tilted up, so that she appeared to be looking down her nose at Emma, and that colour still in her cheeks.
The lift doors slid shut, breaking their eye contact.
‘Bloody hell, Emma,’ Barry said. ‘You still need to work on your people skills, you know that?’
‘You’re telling me I need to work on my people skills after we both just got talked down to by that horse-faced bitch?’
‘Hey, don’t take your anger out on me, I’m trying to help you here!’
‘By escorting me off the premises?’
‘That’s right, Emma. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was being threatened with the sack up there, and if that happens I’m not going to be able to help you nail this murdering bastard Gilligan. You need me in the Birmingham Herald, not out looking for a job.’
‘All right, all right,’ Emma said.
The lift doors slid open.
‘Go home and calm down,’ Barry said. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘You promise?’
‘Absolutely.’
Emma stepped out of the lift. Turned and faced Barry as the doors began to close. ‘Hey, thanks.’
The doors shut before Barry could reply.
* * *
Emma walked through the city, down New Street. She had to pause whilst a tram trundled past before she could cross Corporation Street. The city centre was busier than ever, it seemed. Like the entire population of Birmingham was out, getting done what they needed to do before darkness fell.
Before the vampires came out.
Birmingham, always aching to catch up with London and become a city of importance in UK culture had suddenly found itself in the news after all. But not in a way the city councillors wanted. The vampires were big news now. The television debates and programmes about vampire folklore and history that had been a nightly fixture since they first became public were only going to intensify now that a group of them had escaped.
Emma stepped off the kerb and hurried across the wide road before another tram arrived. She walked up the narrow New Cannon Passage until it opened out at the top. Birmingham Cathedral dominated the city here, sat amongst one of the few green spaces in the centre.
Emma scanned the Cathedral grounds as she walked. Many people used it as a shortcut from Colmore Row down to New Street whilst others sat on the park benches or gathered in groups to sit on the grass. She spotted Mitch, pushing the baby buggy with Louisa May fast asleep inside it.
‘How did it go?’ Mitch said.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Emma said. She squatted down and looked at Louisa May. ‘Her cheeks are red, is she all right?’
Emma gently stroked her daughter’s cheek with the back of her fingers.
‘She feels hot.’
Mitch squatted down beside Emma. ‘That’s what happens when they’re teething. Honestly, Emma, don’t worry.’
‘I’m going to take her home,’ Emma said. ‘You’re going to Angellicit now, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know, I’m still not sure it’s such a good idea.’
‘Aww, come on Mitch, what do you mean you don’t think it’s a good idea?’
‘Exactly what you know it means, I’m not so sure anymore that it’s such a good idea, and I think you should go to the police.’
‘They don’t want to know, I told you that.’ Emma stood up, looked around her. ‘They’re too busy thinking about vampires.’
‘Well, I can understand that,’ Mitch said.
‘Are you going to do this? For me?’
Mitch stood up. ‘All right, Emma, enough of the emotional blackmail. I’ll keep on him for a while longer.’
‘Good. Thank you.’ Emma took hold of the buggy’s handles. ‘I’ll see you tonight. Make sure you get inside before dark.’
‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Mitch said.
Emma stood up and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Be safe.’
* * *
Mitch headed for Angellicit. As he walked, he kept up a constant surveillance of his surroundings, glancing over his shoulder, checking out the faces in the crowds. He cut down a few side streets, took the long way around past the Bullring, down the wide stone steps towards Digbeth before backing up on himself and cutting through New Street Station.
Mitch was pretty sure he wasn’t being followed, he couldn’t see any reason why he would. But he wanted to be sure.
Especially as he was the one who was going to be doing the following soon.
When he finally arrived at Angellicit he hung back, on the opposite pavement and out of sight of the entrance. The club was still closed up, too early in the day for it to be open and doing business. Even so, he didn’t want to be spotted hanging around. Acting suspicious.
At least that’s what he told himself.
The way his insides tightened up at the sight of the club, his prison for several days, told him a different story. The ones who had held him captive, the ones who had tortured him, they were gone now. Merek Guttman, Steffanie Coffin, those two Chinese bastards, that fake doctor, Shaddock, they were either dead or in prison.
Except for Steffanie. She was still out there, somewhere. Unaccounted for.
But the men in there now? Joe Coffin and his Slaughterhouse Mob? They had done nothing to hurt Mitch. In fact, they had been instrumental in rescuing him.
But still, the sight of that building, that doorway.
Mitch stepped back into the shadows where he couldn’t see it anymore.
And he waited for Gerry Gilligan to make to make an appearance.
chelsea and madison
Something had changed.
The city centre emptied of people as darkness fell. Steffanie watched them scuttling inside like the cockroaches they were, but instead of the light it was the dark that startled them. And from up here they looked like insects. Some nights Steffanie felt that if she opened the window and reached out she could scoop the tiny figures up and cram them into her mouth, and she could chew on them and crunch their bones, their hot blood running over her lips and down her chin.
Michael grunted as he chewed on the carcass, sucking every last drop of blood he could manage from it. Steffanie ran her hand over his head, through his unwashed, tangled hair. Her boy had long since bled the dog dry but still he sucked on it. He was desperate for blood, they both were.
But they had to stay hidden. They couldn’t venture too far from their hiding place, couldn’t take too much risk in their need to feed. If they were discovered now, in their weakened states, they would be caught.
Steffanie watched as two young women left a bar and climbed into a taxi. Both of them laughing. Probably with a combination of fear and excitement. Steffanie knew that feeling well. The fear of stepping onto a stage under the bright spotlights, her bare flesh glistening with oil, the excitement of knowing all those men were watching her.
Devouring her.
Steffanie placed a finger in her mouth, ran the nail over her tongue.
She needed blood.
She needed sex.
This was no life, hiding from people when they should be out hunting. When the people, the cattle down there, should be hiding from her.
Steffanie had discovered the empty building shortly after escaping from Angellicit the night Joe Coffin murdered Merek Guttman. Downstairs the ground floor was being redeveloped as a bar, another one to add to the long line of clubs and pubs that already ran down both sides of Broad Street. But on the first and second floor they were left alone. None of the builders or labourers ventured upstairs.
During the daytime Steffanie and Michael were disturbed by the noise of drills and hammers, of shouted curses and laughter. But at night the place was theirs and they were free to roam at will.
Most evenings she sat at the window and watched as the revellers outside grew steadily drunker and rowdier. She almost envied them. That loss of self-control as the alcohol flooded their systems, their inhibitions flung away like the shackles that they truly were.
Steffanie had picked off one or two of them over the last couple of months, brought them back here so that Michael could drain them completely dry, make sure they never turned. But she had to be careful. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself and Michael. With just the two of them they were vulnerable and she didn’t want the police, or Joe, to discover their hiding place.
And so they had stayed hidden, feeding when they could on the occasional human. But tonight it looked like even that was becoming denied to them as suddenly the human cattle seemed to have grown wary of the night. Why was that? Why did they all scuttle from the protection of their taxis and straight into the clubs and the bars?
Usually they roamed Broad Street, shouting and laughing and screaming, sometimes in delight and sometimes in anger.
Easy pickings.
Especially the ones so intoxicated they could hardly stand, the ones who wandered off the main thoroughfare and found themselves down an unlit side street.
But tonight the atmosphere was different. The pubs and the clubs still throbbed with music and the sound of people getting steadily drunker. But the streets, they were empty. Everyone was staying indoors.
Michael was still sucking at the body of the dead dog, his face buried in its carcass. There was no blood left in the body. Why didn’t he realise that? It had long been sucked dry.
‘Stop it!’ she hissed, pushing him away.
Michael fell on his back on the dusty, concrete floor. He gazed up at Steffanie, his face blank, his eyes dark.
‘Mummy?’
Steffanie turned away, looked out of the window again. That one word was all he ever said to her. Drove her mad.
Another taxi drew up and stopped outside Moochers. Two girls and two men climbed out of the taxi, took a quick look around and ran, almost sprinted, inside. As though they were scared of something. Something that only came out at night.
Like vampires.
Could it be true? Were there more vampires at large? Steffanie had thought that she and Michael were the last ones. After all, the others were dead now. She had watched from her hiding place as the Noonan brothers, and Harry and the others were dragged outside into the sunlight.
There were none left.
Joe Coffin had made sure of that.
Hadn’t he?
Steffanie looked back at Michael, who had returned to the dog carcass and was sucking at its chest cavity. It was a risk, but she had to leave him alone for a little while. She had to go outside and explore. Find out what was going on.
There was no point telling him wha
t she was doing. The boy had limited intelligence. Barely knew any words besides ‘mummy’. The rest of the time he made do with hooting and grunting. He seemed to live by instinct alone, apart from when Steffanie was giving him commands. That was different and most of the time he was proving to be very pliable.
What pleased her most of all was his hatred of his father. That was something she hadn’t taught him.
Steffanie crept downstairs, her eyes sharp in the darkness, picking out the steps with ease. Pausing in the bar area, Steffanie saw that a carpet had been laid today. At one end of the room were stacks of tables and chairs, the chairs wrapped in opaque cellophane. Steffanie hadn’t realised the project was this far along. Once the bar opened for business, she didn’t think they would be able to stay hidden for very long.
They had to get out, find somewhere else to hide.
Steffanie eased open the window at the back of the building and climbed outside. She could smell Indian cooking, exhaust fumes, and hundreds of human scents all mixed together. Some of them were man made like body sprays and perfumes, but underneath all that were the intoxicating odours of flesh and sweat and the merest hint of blood.
Steffanie crept past the skip overflowing with plasterboard and splintered wood. She ran down Sheepcote Street to where it met Broad Street.
It was deserted.
She stopped running, straightening her back and shoulders, fluffing her fiery red hair out and began walking down Broad Street as though she owned it.
* * *
The city had grown. It was full of light and shone in the dark. Chitrita had never seen anything so beautiful or magical in all her days. She walked around the perimeter of the garden roof, gazing out at the city below her, marvelling at the wonder of it all. She lifted her hand and reached out as though gathering up the flickering lights.
This city could be hers.
The wind tugged at her hair and at the ivory dress splashed with scarlet blood. The full moon bathed her in an unearthly light, strong enough to cast a faint shadow across the rooftop. She stepped up onto the lip of the roof and held out her arms, her hair blowing in the wind.
