The Reformed Vampire Support Group

by Catherine Jinks

  He went on to explain that, even if the police were called, they might not pay any attention. ‘What if they think Father Ramon’s a lunatic?’ he continued softly. ‘Or what if they get there too late?’ It was more than likely, he added, that one of the McKinnons would drive by the presbytery, just to make sure that it had burned to the ground. And if they saw that it hadn’t? ‘They’ll take off,’ he opined. ‘They’ll be gone before the police even get to Nefley’s place.’

  ‘I – I suppose so.’ Despite my fuzzy head, I could understand Horace’s reasoning. ‘But Dave was right, Horace – even if we do manage to rescue Reuben, the McKinnons will come after us—’

  ‘No, they won’t.’

  ‘Horace—’

  ‘Not if we tell them we’re vampires.’

  I peered up at him, floundering.

  ‘What?’ I croaked.

  ‘Nina, they think you’re dead. You said it yourself.’ The relish in his voice was all too obvious. His eyes glittered. His teeth gleamed. ‘If they see you, and they see me, and we play things right, they’ll be too scared to come after us.’ He gestured at his outfit – at his cape and boots and frockcoat – with the air of somebody clinching an argument. ‘If you like, I can lend you my cape,’ he offered.

  ‘But …’ I was very tired. I wasn’t thinking clearly. ‘But what about the guns?’ was my next objection. ‘It’s probably true, what Dave said. We might not have a chance to say that we’re vampires. Barry will shoot first and ask questions later.’

  ‘Only if he can see what he’s shooting at.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten something.’ He rubbed his hands together, like a super-villain on a cartoon show. ‘Everyone has. You’re so caught up in how we can’t fly or shape-shift or go out in the sun that you’re not focusing on what we can do.’ Suddenly he leaned forward, grabbing my wrist. ‘We can see in the dark, Nina,’ he reminded me. ‘If the lights are off, Barry won’t shoot first. He won’t know what’s going on. We will, though. We’ll have that gun off him before he can say “Dracula”.’

  ‘Who will?’ I queried, disengaging myself. ‘Who are you talking about? You and me and who else?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No one,’ Horace replied at last, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Just us.’

  ‘By ourselves?’ I should have turned him down right there and then. I probably would have, if I’d been in good health. The trouble was that I felt confused; despite my reservations about Horace, I could see his point. The police might not respond. The McKinnons might leave early. And Horace’s plan of attack didn’t seem utterly unrealistic.

  ‘Have you asked anyone else?’ I inquired. ‘What did Dave say?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Horace waved his hand dismissively. ‘Dave wouldn’t listen. Neither would Sanford. They’re both too scared – not like you. You have guts.’

  ‘So has Dave,’ I objected. My mind started to wander. I thought about Dave advancing into the McKinnons’ basement, and climbing the presbytery stairs ahead of me. I remembered watching him square his bony shoulders before he went to check the front of the orange van. Though he might have been tall, he wasn’t that strong; he had the same brittle-looking wrists and hesitant, shuffling tread as I did. Yet over the past few days, he had demonstrated the most enormous courage – unlike certain other vampires of my acquaintance.

  You couldn’t help admiring him. At least,I couldn’t.

  ‘Nina, we don’t have much time,’ Horace urged. ‘It’s now or never.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sanford and your mum are shut away in the guestroom. Everyone else is down in the basement. When Father Ramon gets back, it’ll be too late.’ His fingers closed on a handful of doona; the muscles in his neck were taut. ‘We can’t mess around, Nina. It’s your decision. Do you want to save Reuben or not?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ The implied criticism annoyed me. ‘But how are we going to get there, if Dave won’t drive us?’

  ‘We’ll take a cab.’

  ‘A cab?’

  ‘You’ve been blooded, haven’t you? It’ll be fine.’ Releasing the bedclothes, Horace whipped a mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll book one. We can pick it up around the corner. I’ve got plenty of cash.’

  ‘It’s a long way, though—’

  ‘Come on, Nina! Will you or won’t you?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t go by myself – the McKinnons don’t know me. They don’t think I’m dead.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Throwing off my doona, I sat up. Immediately my head began to swim. ‘Oh God. I hope I can do this.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ Horace passed me my boots. ‘You’ll be fine. We’ll look out for each other. And when we’ve freed the werewolf, he can deal with the McKinnons himself.’ Horace gave a snort of amusement as I lurched to my feet. ‘That’s something else Dave hasn’t considered: how the McKinnons are supposed to come after us if the werewolf has bitten their legs off!’

  ‘Reuben won’t do that,’ I weakly protested. ‘He can’t do that – not right now. He’s got teeth just like everyone else, except when it’s a full moon.’

  Horace, however, wasn’t listening. He had dialled a taxi service, and was quietly ordering a cab. I was impressed that he knew what to do; it’s not as if vampires go around ordering cabs every day of the week. I was also amazed that he could remember Nefley Irving’s address, which had completely slipped my mind.

  I was having a hard time trying to remember anything – even the fact that Horace should never, ever be trusted.

  ‘All right,’ he finally declared, snapping his mobile shut. ‘Are you ready? Are your boots on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are your sunglasses?’

  ‘Uh – I don’t know.’ I had to think for a moment. ‘The McKinnons took them.’

  ‘Don’t you have a spare set?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your mum? She must have a pair.’ After a brief wait (during which I struggled to recall something – anything – about my mother’s sunglasses), Horace said, ‘Would they be in her handbag?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then we’ll pick them up on our way out. Her handbag is on the hall table.’ He took my hand. ‘Just follow me. And keep the noise down. We don’t want anyone hearing us.’

  By now you must be wondering if I’d gone mad. I don’t blame you, really; to have gone in a taxi with Horace – let alone on a rescue mission – was something I wouldn’t normally have done. Don’t forget, however, that I still hadn’t fully recovered from what Sanford would have called my ‘gastric upset’. I was groggy and disoriented. I was also afraid of the police. And though I wasn’t completely convinced that Horace and I could pull it off alone, I did believe that his scheme might just work.

  Creak. Cre-e-eak. It was astonishing that no one heard us, as we crept down the old wooden stairs. I can only assume that somewhere behind the closed door of the guestroom, Mum was receiving instructions from Sanford – instructions so exhaustive that she missed our stealthy footsteps. (Normally she has the ears of a lynx.) Upon arriving in the vestibule, Horace fished around in Mum’s handbag while I reached for my yellow coat. But Horace stopped me. He shook his head.

  Only after we had slipped out the front door, holding our breaths at the snap of the deadlock, did he feel secure enough to speak.

  ‘You wouldn’t have scared anyone in that coat,’ he muttered. ‘The blouse is bad enough, but that coat makes you look like Tweety Bird.’

  I was too listless to protest, or to accuse him of looking like Darth Vader. Instead I followed him around the corner into the next street, shading my eyes from the overhead lights.

  As soon as we were at a safe distance from the house, he turned to give me my mother’s sunglasses.

  ‘This is where I said we’d be,’ he explained. ‘In front of number one. I hope we don’t have to wait long – Father Ramon might be back any minute.’

  ‘Hor
ace.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These are prescription lenses.’ I’d completely forgotten. ‘Mum’s short-sighted.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘I can’t wear these. I won’t be able to see a thing.’

  At that precise moment, two beams of light swept across the pavement. They heralded the sudden appearance of our taxi, which rounded the corner behind us and slid gracefully to a halt not far from where we stood. Luckily I was still wearing Mum’s sunglasses; if I hadn’t been, the glare would have burst the blood vessels in my eyes. But when the vehicle pulled up, Horace had to guide me towards it. Otherwise I probably would have fallen over.

  I might as well have been squinting through a couple of very thick slabs of toffee.

  ‘Whittaker for Parramatta?’ the driver asked, as soon as Horace had opened the rear door.

  ‘That’s us,’ said Horace. He pushed me inside, then slid in next to me. The door slammed; the car began to move.

  Even through the distorting prescription lenses that were perched on my nose, I was able to see how well-protected the driver was. A thick, transparent plastic screen curved around him, preventing easy access from any of the passenger seats. This screen, I assumed, had been erected as a precaution against attacks by thieves or crazy people – but it would be just as effective against vampires like Horace.

  I wondered if it would also act as a kind of noise filter, blocking out conversation.

  Probably not, I decided.

  ‘You should close your eyes if those glasses are bothering you,’ said Horace, completely disregarding the driver’s close proximity. I shook my head.

  ‘No,’ I rejoined. ‘You close your eyes. And I’ll take your glasses.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’re the one who can’t control your impulses, Horace – not me.’ Though I didn’t actually use the word blooded, he knew exactly what I meant. And he wasn’t happy about it, either. At any other time he probably would have told me to go jump in the lake. On this occasion, however, he had to comply, lest I refuse to cooperate with him.

  So we swapped sunglasses, just as the driver addressed us from behind his screen.

  ‘Going to a party?’ he wanted to know.

  Horace and I exchanged glances.

  ‘Uh – not really,’ Horace said at last, speaking for us both. (I was completely tongue-tied.)

  ‘Ah.’ The driver nodded. ‘Just been, have you?’

  ‘N-o-o …’ Horace sounded bemused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh – I figured you must have won first prize, that’s all,’ the driver cheerfully observed. ‘It’s the Addams family, right? Gomez and what’s-her-name. The daughter.’

  I blinked. Horace scowled.

  ‘Gomez?’ he expostulated. ‘What do you mean, Gomez? I don’t even have a moustache!’

  ‘Maybe you’re thinking of Grandpa Munster,’ was my wary suggestion. I wouldn’t normally have become involved in a conversation about sixties sitcoms, even though it’s a very vampire-ish kind of subject. (Dave and Gladys and Horace are always arguing about who played what character in My Favourite Martian and The Twilight Zone.) But I was so completely out of my depth at this point that I seized on such a harmless and familiar topic with gratitude.

  It stopped me from thinking about the dangers that lay ahead.

  ‘Grandpa Munster!’ Horace was outraged. ‘I don’t look that old!’

  ‘Hang on – who was Grandpa Munster?’ the driver interposed. ‘Was he that Frankenstein guy with the green face?’

  ‘No!’ yelped Horace. ‘Grandpa was a vampire. I’m supposed to be a vampire. Can’t you see that?

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Stands out a mile.’ The driver might have been humouring us. Or perhaps he really did believe that Horace looked like a vampire. At any rate, he seemed anxious to change the subject. ‘I tell you what, though, don’t ever go anywhere as a mummy,’ he advised. ‘I went to a costume party last month as a mummy, and I nearly brained myself when one of my bandages got caught on a doorhandle …’

  He went on to recount some of his more farcical party-related exploits, while Horace sulked and I tried to concentrate. I have to admit, it was difficult to muster my thoughts. The driver’s stories were very distracting – though they also had an oddly calming effect. When someone’s rattling on about blocked toilets, collapsing marquees, and penis-shaped birthday cakes, it’s hard to convince yourself that you’re in a life-or-death situation.

  Perhaps that’s why, instead of focusing on more important issues, I found myself wondering why Horace had ‘plenty of cash’. As far as I was aware, he didn’t deal in cash; he ordered his groceries, paid his bills, and transferred his money online. In fact he’d often remarked that electronic banking was a godsend to every vampire who didn’t keep bankers’ hours.

  When the driver eventually finished his narrative, I turned to Horace and said quietly, ‘Where did you get the cash?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where did you get the cash?’ I repeated. ‘You didn’t send Mum out for it, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  Something about his slippery, sidelong glance made me suspicious; I was struck by a sudden misgiving.

  ‘It’s not Mum’s, is it?’ I squeaked. ‘You didn’t steal it from her, did you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Horace’s denial left me unconvinced. Sure enough, after a brief pause, he added, ‘It’s a loan – I’ll pay it back.’

  ‘Horace!’

  ‘I’ll pay it back! I’ve got plenty of money!’ At that instant his mobile tootled, and we both fell silent. It was obvious that someone at Mum’s place had finally noted our absence.

  ‘That’s yours, is it?’ the driver queried, after listening to several electronic renditions of the chorus from ‘Hey, Big Spender’.

  ‘Yes,’ said Horace.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘No,’ said Horace – rather rudely, I thought. The driver must have thought so too, because he didn’t say anything else for some time. Neither did his passengers. Though I would have liked to tear strips off Horace for raiding my mother’s purse, I was acutely conscious that every accusation levelled at him would be overheard by a total stranger. And I didn’t want that.

  In fact I didn’t want to be in the taxi at all. That unanswered phone call had shocked me out of my daze; I’d begun to have serious doubts about Horace’s strategy. But I couldn’t discuss my misgivings in front of the driver. And if I told him to return home, there would be hell to pay. Horace would kick up such a stink that we’d probably be thrown out of the car.

  So I decided to put my foot down just as soon as we reached Nefley’s flat. That’s when I would refuse to help Horace after all. Instead I would make him order another cab, and we would sneak away before the McKinnons spotted us.

  Unless, of course, we were lucky. I was willing to mount a rescue attempt if the McKinnons weren’t around. Or if they were too drunk to move. Or if they had mislaid their guns.

  But I wasn’t about to risk my neck otherwise.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the driver. With a start, I realised that he was slowing down. ‘What number is it?’

  ‘Oh – ah – just stop here,’ Horace replied. As the cab pulled over, he fumbled in his pocket. ‘How much do we owe you?’

  I didn’t catch the driver’s response. I was too busy peering out at a street lined with nasty red-brick apartment blocks (most of which appeared to have been built in the 1960s), and wondering which of them contained Nefley Irving’s residence. Only when Horace raised his voice did I notice what was happening inside the car.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ Horace was saying. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘That’s the fare, mate.’

  ‘But it’s extortionate! It’s highway robbery!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Horace.’ I was appalled. The last thing we needed was a full-blown public confrontation. I had a vision of people spilling out of nearby doors and hanging out
of nearby windows. ‘Just pay him the fare!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t have enough money.’ As my jaw dropped, he wailed, ‘How was I to know it would cost so much? I don’t catch cabs!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ the driver calmly informed us. ‘You can put it on your credit card.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Horace. ‘I didn’t bring my credit card.’ He turned to me. ‘Do you have a credit card?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘I didn’t bring anything, Horace! Not even my coat!’

  ‘Then you’re in trouble,’ said the driver – less calmly, this time. ‘Because either I drive you to where you can get some money, or I’m calling the police right now.’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘Wait,’ stammered Horace. ‘I’ve – I’ve got an idea. Hang on.’ He began to punch a series of digits into his mobile keypad.

  My own inclination was to turn around and go home. There would be credit cards at home, even if there was no cash. And if the worst came to the worst, other people could help pay for our trip.

  Besides, I was becoming less and less enthusiastic about Horace’s proposed rescue scheme.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded of him. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Dave,’ he replied.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘I’ll ask him to bring us some money.’

  The sheer nerve of this manoeuvre left me speechless. I wouldn’t have dared ask Dave to drive all the way to Parramatta, just to bail me out of a tight spot. And I soon found out that Horace shared my reluctance – because when the ringtone sounded, he presented me with his mobile.

  ‘You talk to him,’ Horace suggested. ‘He’d do anything for you.’

  The audacity! I gasped. I choked. I couldn’t find the right words; what do you say to someone like Horace? But before I could tell him where he should stick his bloody phone, headlights flashed in the rear-view mirror.

  I glanced around to see Dave’s car heading straight for us.

  21