He was the obvious choice of emissary.
Feeling all eyes upon him, Father Ramon ran a hand through his silvery thatch. ‘You want me to go? Is that it?’ he said. There were nods all round.
‘You can’t make him go by himself,’ Mum flatly objected. She stood up, then went to remove her shepherd’s pie from the oven. ‘You don’t know what he’d be up against. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Of course not.’ Sanford’s manner was stiff. ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything of the kind. Naturally, someone else would have to go with him. Someone who can drive, for instance. Someone like Dave.’
‘Me?’ said Dave, in faltering tones. Catching his eye, I thought he looked scared. Like a kid. Like a vampire.
Then all at once he squared his shoulders.
‘Okay,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll go.’
The rest of us gaped at him in astonishment. Before anyone could comment, however, Horace reappeared with a zip-lock bag full of dead guinea pig.
‘Where do I put this?’ he wanted to know.
While Mum was explaining that all guinea pigs had to be placed in the freezer until rubbish-collection night, I slipped from the room. It was an act of pure cowardice. Being small, I was an obvious candidate for the outback road trip. Not only did I convey a distinctly harmless impression; I could also be folded into a car boot or suitcase during the day.
It was a prospect that appalled me.
So I muttered something about taking my turn, and went to fetch a guinea pig from under the stairs. I won’t describe exactly what I did with that guinea pig, because after so many years I’ve mastered the art of detaching myself from the whole repugnant procedure. I’ll listen to my iPod. Or I’ll take the radio into the bathroom with me, and concentrate on a talkback show. Or I’ll imagine something beautiful: like Zadia kissing a tall, handsome, teenage boy, for example, amid the crystalline formations of the cave in which she sleeps.
That night, however, I couldn’t distract myself from the misery of my situation as I stooped over the bath, a dead guinea pig in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Bloody drool was dripping from my mouth. My hair was matted with blood and saliva. I was a mess. A joke. And not only that: I was useless. I’d ducked for cover while Dave had stepped up to the plate. For years I’d been accusing the others of being typical bloody vampires, and now that the chance had come to act – to be involved – I had piked. I’d done what most vampires would do: which is, of course, nothing.
It flashed into my mind that maybe Casimir was better off dead. I thought, What’s the point of living, if you’re a vampire? I felt so pitiable. So victimised. Nevertheless, while it seemed monstrously unfair that someone should be attacking powerless invalids like me, I could also understand the sense of revulsion motivating Casimir’s killer. After all, vampires made me sick. How could I blame other people for having the same response? I was in the unfortunate position of resenting behaviour that I could understand perfectly.
For several minutes I plunged deeper and deeper into an emotional black hole. Then, with an enormous effort, I hauled myself out again. I made a decision.
Like Zadia Bloodstone, I summoned up all my failing strength and prepared to do battle. Only I wasn’t wrestling with a drug cartel or a protection racket.
I was fighting the infection in my veins.
‘I’ll go,’ I said, upon re-entering the kitchen. ‘I’ll go with Father Ramon.’
Everyone stared. Sanford frowned. Dave slowly rubbed his unshaven jaw, as he always does when he’s troubled.
‘Oh, no you won’t,’ said Mum. She had just slapped a plate of shepherd’s pie in front of the priest. ‘You’ll stay right here.’
‘I’m going, Mum,’ was my firm rejoinder. ‘It’ll be good for me.’
‘Good for you?’ Mum exclaimed. ‘It’ll be the bloody death of you!’
‘No, no.’ Sanford once again surprised me by leaping to my defence. ‘Not if we use a truck, it won’t. The risk of exposure will be minimal.’
‘A truck?’ I echoed. ‘What truck?’
It was promptly explained to me that the priest would be hiring a truck for his journey: a truck with an enclosed storage compartment at the rear, in which vampires could safely be stowed throughout the sunlit hours of the day. As long as this storage compartment was properly sealed – and fully secure – it would be the perfect solution to our difficulties.
‘We could even line the interior with black plastic,’ Sanford remarked, as my guts unclenched slightly. Thank God, I thought. They won’t be putting me in a car-boot.
‘It’ll cost a bit, though,’ Horace protested. And there followed an argument about funding, because he didn’t want to shell out any more cash. I’m afraid we have this kind of argument quite often. Gladys doesn’t earn very much, you see, and neither does George. Bridget augments her pension by making knitted animals and quilted placemats for a local gift shop. Dave isn’t exactly rolling in money, either, though he tries to do his bit. And despite the fact that I manage to get by, it’s not as if my books are runaway bestsellers. I mean, it’s not as if I’m Stephanie Meyer or anything.
Sanford and Horace are by far the richest members of our group. But after they had spent several minutes bickering about who was going to hire the truck, I couldn’t take it any more. ‘Let me pay,’ I said. ‘Since I’m the one who’ll be using the damn thing.’
‘And me,’ Dave added. ‘Since I’ll be going as well.’
Two passengers, however, would be the absolute limit. According to Sanford, there would only be enough room for three people in the cabin of the truck. And even then, it would be a tight squeeze.
‘Which is another reason why Nina is such a good candidate,’ he said. ‘She’s small, she’s childish and she’s not intimidating. If it’s a question of laying someone’s fears to rest, she’s a much better prospect than Horace or George.’
Talk about a backhanded compliment. ‘Gee, thanks,’ I growled. But no one paid any attention. I don’t think my mother heard me at all; she was busy trying to convince Sanford that Bridget looked even more harmless than I did, what with her sparse white hair and rickety limbs and tranquil blue eyes. Who could ever view Bridget as a threat? But Sanford wouldn’t hear of sending Bridget. (‘You know perfectly well what her hips are like,’ he said crossly.) And no one else was on Mum’s side, either.
Not even me.
‘I’ll be all right, Mum,’ I insisted, though I still had grave doubts about the entire undertaking. ‘I’ll have a sleeping-bag, and it’ll only be for a couple of days. I’ll be fine.’
My mother doesn’t take kindly to being contradicted. Her lips thinned, and her eyes narrowed. After swallowing a mouthful of shepherd’s pie, she insisted that she herself should go.
But I shook my head.
‘You have to stay here, in case the killer shows up,’ I retorted. ‘Besides, I don’t want to sit on my arse while other people do all the work, and take all the risks. I’m not a child. I’m a responsible adult, with something positive to contribute.’
In other words, I wasn’t your typical vampire.
You might believe that my head was full of Zadia Bloodstone when I volunteered for the trip. I’m quite sure that everyone else did. Horace even muttered something about my ‘strapping on the old skean-dhu’ (referring to the Scottish dagger that Zadia customarily employs). But I wasn’t thinking about Zadia at all. I was thinking about Casimir.
Casimir had been a typical vampire – the quintessential vampire, in fact. And look what had happened to him! Whereas I … well, I was different. I was active and empathic and dependable and involved. I wasn’t anything like Casimir.
It’s funny what lies you tell yourself when you’re scared to death.
7
For my trip to the country I packed the following items: one toothbrush, one tube of toothpaste, one comb, two sets of underwear, two pairs of tights, two jumpers, two skirts and as many blouses as I could stuf
f into my old Globite suitcase. I also took my pink coat, my sunglasses, my woolly beret and all my various supplements.
My guinea pigs, however, travelled in their own hutch.
There had been a lot of discussion about whether the guinea pigs should go. On the one hand, guinea pigs are dirty and troublesome, and require constant feeding. On the other hand, they’re a much safer option than farm animals. When Horace wondered if Dave and I should perhaps start fanging sheep, the suggestion was vetoed. ‘Do you seriously think that Nina would have the strength to chase a sheep around a paddock?’ Sanford scoffed. ‘I’ve seen her lose her breath after climbing three flights of stairs.’
So in the end Father Ramon loaded four guinea pigs into the back of his rented truck, together with a wooden hutch, some old newspapers, and a bag full of food pellets and lettuce leaves. Though we were all slightly worried about the storage compartment’s inadequate ventilation, we had to concede that it would certainly help to muffle any telltale squeaks or squeals.
‘I mean, it’s not as if those animals are going to live very long,’ Horace pointed out. ‘And if they suffocate before they’re fanged, so what? No one’s actually going to starve to death as a consequence.’
Sanford grunted. He doesn’t approve of missed meals – not after seeing what six decades under a concrete slab can do to a vampire. When Casimir was finally released from his underground confinement, back in 1973, he looked just like a bog mummy. He couldn’t even blink for a week. His tongue was kippered, his teeth were loose, and his eyeballs had shrunk to the size and consistency of dried peas. It was a month before he could string three words into a basic sentence.
Whenever the rest of us lose our appetites at the prospect of fanging yet another unfortunate guinea pig, Sanford always drags out his before-and-after photographs of Casimir.
‘If the situation gets desperate,’ Sanford advised me, ‘then a pig is your best alternative. Better than a sheep or a cow. But steer clear of rodents; they’re nothing but trouble.’
‘I know that, Sanford. Don’t worry.’ Standing by the front door, surrounded by apprehensive, whey-faced vampires, I was suddenly desperate to go. I’d had my fill of Sanford’s ponderous counsel. Even a trip into the unknown seemed less arduous than sitting through yet another lecture about speed limits or bad mobile reception. ‘Goodbye, Mum,’ I said, stepping forward to give her a hug. ‘Don’t you worry, either. I’ll be back before you know it.’
My mother didn’t reply. She didn’t have to; her rickety frame was stiff with disapproval, even as she patted me on the back.
When I let her go, she folded her arms and hunched her shoulders.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Harrison.’ Dave must have been under the impression that a lump in my mother’s throat had rendered her speechless. He can’t have seen the angry glint in her eye. ‘Nothing will happen to Nina. I’ll take good care of her.’
I couldn’t suppress a snort, and even George looked doubtful. It was hard to see Dave as a bodyguard. Despite his shaggy hair and impressive height, he’s always been remarkably unassertive – not to mention squeamish. In fact he’s the only one among us who’s ever risked public exposure by illegally purchasing human blood from a hospital orderly. And he did this, not because stale human blood is a better option than the fresh animal variety (it isn’t), but because he’s never been too happy about those nasty, messy sessions in the bathroom.
I suppose, when you think about it, he’s quite a sensitive person in many ways. In fact it’s probably no coincidence that he stopped playing his guitar after he was infected. Something about a vampire’s life managed to ‘block his creative flow’, as Sanford once put it. As far as I’m concerned, you have to be pretty sensitive to have a creative flow at all, let alone a blocked one.
‘Yes, you mustn’t fret about us.’ Father Ramon tried to sound reassuring as he laid a hand on Mum’s shoulder. ‘Your job is to take care of yourself. Mind you don’t open the door to anyone while we’re gone. Not even if they’re collecting for a charity.’
‘Oh, I won’t,’ Mum assured him.
‘We’ll be back on Sunday,’ said the priest, who was determined not to disrupt the parish schedule any more than he had to. ‘By that time,’ he added, ‘I’ll have worked out what to do with Casimir’s ashes.’
‘Good,’ said Mum. She wasn’t happy about the two bulging plastic bags that were now squirrelled away in her laundry cupboard. Only Father Ramon could have persuaded her to take them (after he’d dragged them out of Casimir’s apartment, that morning); if Sanford had tried to give them to her, she would have thrown them right back in his face. ‘Because I don’t want that creature lying around here,’ she continued. ‘Not even in the rose-beds. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit.’
‘Mum – he’s dead,’ I assured her, for perhaps the tenth time. ‘Casimir’s dead now.’
But she still looked unconvinced. And I suppose it’s understandable, really – since dead vampires are few and far between.
Father Ramon tried to change the subject.
‘You shouldn’t run out of groceries before Monday,’ he remarked, falling back into his usual role of ministering angel. ‘I must have bought enough for a week.’
‘Yes, and it was very kind of you, Father,’ said Mum. ‘There aren’t many people who’d put themselves out the way you do. Especially when you get so little thanks for it.’ And her gaze slid accusingly towards Sanford, who ignored her.
She’s never been able to persuade him that he takes Father Ramon for granted. No doubt Sanford feels that, after donating so much money to St Agatha’s, he’s paid off any debts of gratitude that he might owe.
‘Here,’ he said, pressing the silver bullet into Father Ramon’s hand, ‘don’t leave this behind. You might need it.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ The priest sounded faintly apologetic. ‘I almost forgot.’
‘We’ll ring you if we get any response from that Internet maniac,’ Sanford went on, ‘though if he hasn’t replied by now, I don’t suppose he will. And Horace will keep an eye on the Internet, just in case there’s any mention of Casimir’s passing.’
A brief silence fell as we all contemplated the dreadful possibility of global exposure. After all, there was nothing to stop our adversary from plastering photographs of his handiwork all over the World Wide Web. (Except, perhaps, the fear that he might be risking attack from the horde of super-vampires infesting his imagination.)
‘As long as no one posts our addresses,’ Dave mumbled.
Horace made a dismissive noise.
‘That slayer doesn’t know where we live,’ he insisted, with the kind of arrogant assurance that makes other people want to kick him in the crotch. ‘We would have seen him, if he did. He would have tried to break into someone’s house, but he hasn’t – even though it’s been two whole days. If you ask me, he’s gone back to where he came from.’
‘Nobody did ask you, Horace,’ Mum snapped. And Sanford patiently reiterated that we couldn’t be sure of anything until the weekend, since a lot of people worked during the week.
‘But Casimir was killed on a Tuesday,’ Horace began, before Gladys interrupted. As usual, she wanted to complain about something.
‘I have to be home before Monday,’ she whimpered. ‘I’ll lose my job, otherwise. They only gave me one week’s leave, and I almost didn’t get that—’
She went on to grumble about the shower schedule, but no one was very sympathetic. Gladys can keep griping for hours on end, so it’s best not to encourage her.
‘Do we have to discuss this now?’ I objected, cutting her off in mid-whinge. ‘We’ll never get anywhere at this rate.’
‘Yes, we shouldn’t linger,’ Father Ramon agreed. ‘It’s going to be a long trip, and the sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll get back.’
When I picked up my suitcase, it was like a signal. There was a sudden burst of activity. Father Ramon pulled open the front door. People fumbled for their sunglasses. G
eorge murmured something about taking good care of the guinea pigs, while Bridget produced three woollen scarves she’d knitted the previous night. ‘Just in case you get cold on your trip,’ she explained in her whispery voice.
Sanford insisted on carrying my case to the truck, even though he isn’t much stronger than I am.
To be honest, although we referred to it as a truck, the vehicle parked in the street was actually a small removalist’s van, with SAXBY’S HIRE & HAUL painted on its fluorescent orange sides. According to Father Ramon, Saxby’s hadn’t been able to offer him a more muted shade, because fluorescent orange was the company’s official colour.
‘We’ll probably be noticed anyway, out in the country. No matter what we’re driving,’ he’d said. Nevertheless, he’d replaced his cassock with a dark grey jumper and a pair of jeans, to make himself a bit less conspicuous.
Dave and I were also wearing our most harmless-looking clothes. We didn’t want anyone to think that we were junkies or university students or creative nonconformists – let alone vampires.
‘Well … goodbye, then.’ I blew a kiss at my mum, who had accompanied Sanford out of the house. Then I waved at the others – at Bridget and Horace and Gladys and George – who were still hovering on the threshold, peering at me through their sunglasses. ‘Take care of yourselves, and we’ll see you on Sunday.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Mum warned, as I climbed up into the van’s rather smelly cabin. ‘Just do what Father Ramon says.’
‘I will.’
‘Maybe you should take a cricket bat, or something,’ she fussed. But Father Ramon shook his head.
‘How are we going to persuade anyone that we’re harmless, if we’re carrying cricket bats?’ he said gently. ‘Believe me, Estelle, I’ll be very careful.’ He looked at Dave, who was loading luggage into the back of the van. ‘Perhaps you could take the first shift, Dave, and let me grab a few hours sleep,’ he concluded.
The Reformed Vampire Support Group Page 7
