The Reformed Vampire Support Group

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Sanford? You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Because of your adolescent infatuation with this werewolf—’

  ‘Can’t hear you! Be there in a minute! Bye!’

  I broke the connection.

  ‘Not good?’ said Dave, as I returned his mobile.

  ‘Not good.’ I delivered myself of a full-body sigh. ‘He was just gearing up, by the sound of things.’

  ‘Then he should be over the worst of it before we get there.’

  ‘Maybe. I hope so.’ But I wasn’t about to bet money on it. ‘Dave?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Um … did Horace ever ask you to come to Nefley’s place with us?’

  Though Dave lifted an eyebrow, his expression was hard to read behind the inscrutable expanse of his wraparound sunglasses.

  ‘What do you think?’ he replied.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Bloody Horace, I thought. What a liar he is!

  24

  The drive back home might have been grim, but at least I wasn’t in Father Ramon’s car. He later informed me that Reuben spent the entire journey vilifying Barry and Dermid. In fact Reuben’s threats became so vicious that when we all arrived at Mum’s place, he was told not to go anywhere near the McKinnons; instead he was forced to stand apart with his hands in his pockets, while both cars were being unloaded.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to help?’ he queried, as Dave and I wrestled with Dermid’s limp form. I’m convinced that Reuben wasn’t intending to kick anyone in the head. I daresay he genuinely wanted to be useful. But Dave turned him down flat.

  ‘You can keep well clear,’ Dave said shortly. ‘This guy isn’t safe for you to touch.’

  ‘He’s not reformed,’ I added, by way of explanation. Whereupon Reuben cleared his throat.

  ‘The priest told me this was your idea,’ he announced, his eyes glittering in the darkness. ‘This whole rescue deal. He told me I’ve got you to thank, Nina.’

  ‘Uh …’ I glanced at Dave, but he was halfway inside the car by then, and his face was hidden. ‘Actually, I wasn’t the only one …’

  ‘It took a lotta guts,’ Reuben continued, as if he hadn’t heard me. His expression was grave, his manner uncharacteristically calm. Nevertheless, I could feel the banked-down heat radiating from his tense, wiry figure. ‘What you did – I mean, you risked getting yourself killed. Just to save my life.’

  ‘Not really.’ I was feeling very uncomfortable, by this stage. ‘It’s pretty hard to kill a vampire.’

  ‘I still owe you. Big time. Because you’re the one who didn’t give up.’

  ‘Well – okay. Thanks. But don’t tell Sanford that,’ I begged. ‘He’s mad enough as it is.’ And I glanced over to where Sanford was busy with Horace, who was so heavily drugged that he couldn’t make his own way into the house. Neither could Barry, of course; Father Ramon was having to drag him up the front steps.

  At the top of those steps I could see my mother, framed in the vestibule doorway. Her arms were folded.

  ‘Who is this Sanford guy, anyhow?’ Reuben wanted to know. ‘And why should he be mad at you?’

  ‘Oh … he’s just a vampire,’ I said vaguely, distracted by Mum’s threatening demeanour. ‘And he’s always mad at me.’

  ‘Not while I’m around,’ Reuben declared. His tone had an edge to it. ‘If anyone starts tearing strips off you, Nina, I’ll do the same to them. You won’t ever regret what you’ve done for me, swear to God.’

  Mystified and bemused, I shook the hand that he thrust in my direction – conscious all the while of Dave’s wordless disapproval. Not that Dave was impolite, exactly: just rather aloof. And he wasn’t the only one. I soon realised that nobody else was warming to Reuben either, despite his many attractive qualities. And this became even more obvious when we all piled into the vestibule.

  It was a tight squeeze. Though George and Gladys were shut up in the basement (well away from any tempting cuts or nosebleeds), there still wasn’t enough room for everyone. Yet despite the lack of space, Bridget and Sanford and Dave seemed to shrink away from Reuben, as if from something radioactive.

  I suppose it doesn’t take much to alarm a vampire; you just have to look as if you could kick down a door, or throw a punch. Reuben certainly conveyed this impression. And the fact that he was a known werewolf made things ten times worse.

  ‘Uh – this is Reuben, everyone,’ Father Ramon announced, after a brief and awkward silence. ‘Reuben, I don’t think you’ve met Sanford, or Bridget, or Estelle. Estelle is Nina’s mother. This is her house.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Reuben, gruffly.

  Bridget’s response was a timid half-smile. Sanford grunted. As for Mum, she didn’t seem interested in Reuben at all. Instead she fixed me with a stony glare. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, my girl,’ she said. And I braced myself for a tongue-lashing of biblical proportions.

  It was Father Ramon who came to my rescue.

  ‘Not now,’ the priest broke in. ‘Let’s sort things out first. Where are we going to put these three, for a start?’ He surveyed the unconscious bodies cluttering up Mum’s vestibule. ‘We can’t just leave them lying here.’

  ‘You’re bloody right, we can’t!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘I’ve already got one upstairs – I don’t want any more! There aren’t enough beds in the house for all of them! And what’s going to happen when they wake up?’

  It was a good question. It certainly galvanised Sanford, who wrenched his gaze away from Reuben’s teeth and began to fire off orders. Thanks to Sanford, we suddenly stopped dithering around. We started to organise ourselves.

  Firstly, Bridget agreed to take Gladys home – because we were no longer at risk of being attacked by Nefley Irving. It was felt that Gladys, especially, should be kept well away from Barry and Reuben, since we didn’t want another unfortunate fanging incident. And when Father Ramon offered the two women a lift, he was told to go back to the presbytery as soon as he’d dropped them off. ‘Have a good, long sleep,’ was Sanford’s advice, ‘and don’t come back until you’re feeling refreshed.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said the priest, running his hands through his hair, ‘though it won’t be easy. I have a parish meeting at eleven, but I can always postpone that until next week.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have everything worked out by next week,’ Sanford assured him, then turned to Dave with another set of instructions. Dave was given the unenviable job of driving George and Horace over to Sanford’s place, where Horace would be locked in the old bank vault for a while. (‘Just to be on the safe side,’ as Sanford put it.) Meanwhile, Sanford would remain at Mum’s house; he wasn’t yet in a position to take charge of Horace, because he had Nefley and Dermid to look after.

  Dermid, especially, would need round-the-clock care.

  ‘Transformations are never pleasant,’ Sanford explained, ‘but there are certain measures I can take to make things easier for everyone involved.’ These measures would include the application of poultices, the elevation of the feet, and absolutely no painkillers of any kind. Some form of counselling would also be advisable. ‘Which means, in essence, that I’ll be extremely busy,’ Sanford observed, ‘and won’t have any time for Horace in the immediate future. So you, Dave, will be responsible for making sure that he remains isolated – and restrained, if necessary – until tomorrow night. Can you do that?’

  Dave blinked. ‘I guess …’

  ‘It’s vitally important that he doesn’t have access to any nonvampires. Even Father Ramon will be at risk. Horace is sick in the head, right now – you understand that, don’t you?’

  Dave nodded. He seemed resigned. But Mum wasn’t about to knuckle under so easily.

  ‘Can’t they all go to your place?’ she asked Sanford. ‘Why am I the one who ends up with a houseful of hostages?’

  ‘Because somebody has to be here during the day, to nurse Dermid McKinnon,’ Sanford repeated, in long-suffering accents. ‘As fo
r Nefley, he can’t be in the same house as Horace.’ Breaking off, Sanford suddenly glowered at me – and inquired, in waspish tones, what I was intending to do with Barry McKinnon. ‘He’ll be waking up soon, and I’d like to know what your plans are.’

  It was a nasty moment. Needless to say, I had no idea what to do with Barry. I hadn’t given the matter any thought. And as I glanced around, cringing beneath a barrage of accusing and expectant looks, I realised that no one else knew what to do with him either.

  Even Mum was giving me the hairy eyeball.

  ‘I – I guess we’d better tie him to the spare bed,’ was the only recommendation that I could come up with.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Mum. ‘He can’t stay in the guestroom forever.’

  ‘No. I realise that.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell him that his son’s a vampire?’ Father Ramon gently inquired, whereupon a kind of pall settled over everyone – except Reuben.

  ‘I will,’ he piped up, with a fair degree of relish. But his offer was roundly ignored. When Sanford finally spoke, it was as if Reuben didn’t exist.

  ‘Once Barry finds out that his son is a vampire, he might become more amenable to persuasion,’ was Sanford’s theory. ‘He might reassess his priorities, and abandon some of his prejudices.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Dave seemed doubtful. ‘You don’t think he’ll just want to shoot Dermid, as well?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not if we talk to them both.’ As Reuben opened his mouth, Sanford pressed on. ‘In fact that should be our tactical approach. We have to communicate with these people, and find a common point of reference. We have to persuade our enemies to become our friends. Don’t you agree, Father?’

  The priest hesitated. It was Dave who said, ‘Barry McKinnon doesn’t strike me as an open-minded kind of guy.’

  ‘He’s a total bastard!’ I burst out, just as Reuben cleared his throat.

  ‘No offence,’ he muttered, from one dim corner of the vestibule, ‘but you’re fooling yourselves if you think you can ask that piece of shit to do the right thing. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.’

  Again, there was no immediate response – and I found myself feeling sorry for Reuben. He was being treated as an outsider, perhaps because his status was so unclear; though he hadn’t been accepted as one of us, he also couldn’t be classified as a bad guy.

  Only Father Ramon seemed prepared to acknowledge his contribution.

  ‘Mmmm. Yes. I take your point,’ the priest said at last. ‘But I do believe Barry might listen to us if we approach him from a position of advantage. You have to remember that we don’t know how he feels about his son. There might be quite a deep connection.’

  ‘In which case he’ll want to shoot us for making his son a vampire,’ Dave glumly observed. And Reuben endorsed this view.

  ‘The only thing a McKinnon understands is a loaded gun,’ he said. Then he jerked his thumb at the door. ‘Like the one you left outside,’ he warned me. ‘You should probably bring that in, y’know.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry.’ I’d forgotten about the pistol, which was still lying on the back seat of Dave’s car. Sanford’s eyes widened.

  ‘You brought a firearm with you?’ he exclaimed. And Dave said, ‘We didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘If we hadn’t taken it off Barry, he would have used it on us,’ I confirmed. ‘It belongs to him.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Reuben spoke with complete authority. ‘It belongs to whoever owns that scummy little flat we were holed up in.’

  There was a general gasp. Even Mum winced. I’m pretty sure most of us realised that if the gun in question did indeed belong to Nefley, it had probably been fired at Casimir’s head.

  ‘You mean it’s Nefley’s gun?’ asked Dave. ‘Oh, man.’

  ‘We should get rid of it,’ Sanford decided.

  ‘Get rid of it!’ Reuben was clearly appalled. ‘Are you joking? You’re gunna need that gun! Without that gun, you’re defenceless! The McKinnons will eat you alive!’

  It was an unfortunate choice of phrase, which reminded those of us who were still conscious (and not sprawled on the floor, or draped across the stairs) that we had a werewolf in our midst. Reuben must have realised this, because he flushed.

  Sanford frowned.

  ‘Violence begets violence,’ he said stiffly, in his most pompous manner. ‘It’s the last resort of any rational human being. You should understand, Reuben, that as vampires we’ve spent most of our lives battling against the violent compulsions borne of our diseased instincts. So we don’t believe in using brute force where persuasion can be just as effective.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘We have a murderer in our custody upstairs,’ Sanford pointed out, ‘and he’s already demonstrated a noticeable shift in his outlook since he arrived here several hours ago. Thanks to the power of reasoned argument.’

  ‘Really?’ This was news to me. ‘Are you talking about Nefley Irving?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t hate vampires any more?’ asked Dave, his face a study in disbelief.

  ‘He doesn’t fear vampires any more,’ Sanford corrected. ‘He’s received medical treatment from a vampire, he’s been nursed by a vampire, and he’s enjoying the gracious hospitality of a vampire’s relative. He’s beginning to realise that we’re no threat either to him or to the human race.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Knowing that Sanford can be something of an idealist – and that Bridget never has a bad thing to say about anyone – I looked at my mother. Mum has a pretty jaundiced view of humanity in general; you can trust her not to mince her words. ‘Is he really changing his mind, or is he just pretending?’

  ‘Maybe you should ask him yourself,’ Dave muttered, to which Sanford’s response was, ‘That’s not possible. He’s asleep. It’s four o’clock in the morning, don’t forget.’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget that,’ Mum grumbled, before finally answering the question I’d put to her. ‘If it’s an act, it’s a bloody good one,’ she had to concede. ‘And I wouldn’t have thought a pathetic little bloke like Nefley would be smart enough to put on convincing show. Especially when you consider how dopey painkillers can make you.’

  ‘But what did he say about Casimir?’ Father Ramon interjected, before Reuben suddenly hijacked the conversation.

  ‘Okay – you know what? I’m glad you talked some sense into this guy … whoever he is. That’s great,’ Reuben said, all clenched fists and restless feet. ‘But I’m telling you right now, if you convince Barry McKinnon that you’re harmless, you’ll be annihilated.’

  ‘Reuben—’

  ‘Wait. Just listen.’ He cut me off. ‘If you’re not gunna shoot him, you’ve only got one choice. You’ll have to pay him to go away. Because he will listen to money.’ Peering around at the array of bad haircuts and op-shop clothes that surrounded him, Reuben seemed to lose heart. ‘But I don’t reckon you’ve got a hundred grand to spare, eh?’ he inquired, without much hope.

  ‘A hundred thousand dollars?’ yelped Sanford. Mum nearly choked on her own indrawn breath, and Bridget said, ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worth to him,’ Reuben insisted. ‘A hundred grand. That’s what he was gunna sell me for – the dirty rotten yellow scumbag arsehole.’ When his fierce gaze alighted on Barry McKinnon’s defenceless beer gut, I wasn’t the only one who started forward. Even I could see that Barry’s paunch constituted a very tempting target.

  Fortunately, Reuben was able to restrain himself; Dave didn’t have to do more than grab his arm and murmur a warning. It was just as well, because a scuffle in that tiny space would have left more than one person injured.

  ‘Do you really think that if we paid him enough, Barry McKinnon would simply walk off?’ Sanford had clearly been pondering the price on Reuben’s head. ‘Despite what happened to his son?’

  Reuben shrugged. ‘If you could beat Forrest Darwell’s offer? Yeah, I reckon,’ he said, instiga
ting a brief discussion about Forrest Darwell. Mum wanted to know who Forrest Darwell was. Father Ramon reminded her that someone called Darwell was flying into Sydney that very morning. (‘He talked to Barry on the phone, remember? I heard them,’ the priest elaborated.) Reuben began to explain that Forrest Darwell was a millionaire fight promoter when Sanford brusquely interrupted him.

  ‘That’s all very well, but we can’t stand around here forever. Those drugs will be wearing off soon,’ Sanford barked. His gaze swept the overcrowded vestibule. ‘Dave, you can go and get George out of the basement – he’ll shift Horace with you. Tell Gladys she’ll be going home with Father Ramon. Nina, I want you to fetch that gun from Dave’s car; when you’re done, you can help me to move Dermid. Father, you and Estelle can take Barry up to his room—’

  ‘Which room?’ Mum interrupted. By this time she was very, very annoyed; I could see it in her baleful eye, and hear it in her grating voice. ‘The guestroom, you mean?’

  ‘I think so.’ Sanford gave a brisk nod. ‘And Dermid can stay in Nina’s room.’

  ‘Nefley’s in Nina’s room,’ Mum pointed out, with dangerous calm.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ For the first time, Sanford sounded rattled. ‘Um …what about your room, then?’

  ‘My room?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be for long,’ Sanford promised. ‘If you need a rest, you can use the daybed in the living room.’

  ‘For Chrissake!’ Mum was about to explode. The veins throbbed on her forehead as her face assumed a congested, purplish colour.

  I hastily tried to intervene.

  ‘Surely it wouldn’t be safe for Mum to have Dermid around?’ I objected, and was immediately given a short lecture as to why Dermid’s predatory instincts would only become really dangerous during the second night of his transformation. ‘You might recall what happened to Dave,’ Sanford concluded, ‘and how he resisted the urge to infect, that first morning. Am I right, Dave?’