by Ken Preston
This was what the crying sounded like. A tiny child who had managed to put a lid on the screaming, crying fit, and was desperately trying to keep it there. Because she knew, if she lost control, she’d be in even more trouble than ever.
Emma thought about opening her eyes, find out who was crying, maybe ask why. But her eyelids felt like they were glued shut, and her head ached something awful. Best just to stay lying where she was, not move a muscle. If she moved, she had the feeling she was going to open up a whole new world of hurt.
Emma tried ignoring the soft crying, tried remembering why she hurt so much. Had she been drinking? Must have been one hell of a night out, to be feeling like this, and no memory of it at all. Seemed a little unfair, really, to have had such a good time she now felt so crap, but couldn’t even remember it.
There was a dream, though. She could remember that. Faces, hovering over her in the dark. Teeth. Long, sharp teeth.
The Bloofer Lady.
Who was the Bloofer Lady?
You never read Dracula, did you, Emma?
The Bloofer Lady was dead. Van Helsing and the others staked her through the heart and then cut off her head and stuffed her mouth with garlic.
Emma shifted slightly, trying to ease out the kinks in her neck and back. A spike of pain stabbed through her head, and she uttered a small groan.
This wasn’t a hangover. The dreams were fading now, but still she could see the teeth, and red, glowing eyes. Emma remembered being at the club, seeing Coffin murder Tom Mills. When had that happened? It seemed like it could have happened years ago, or maybe it was just now.
Anxiety began flooding Emma’s stomach and chest as she began remembering more. Steffanie, the old man, taking Craggs to Edwards.
Emma tried opening her eyes. The lids were stuck together, coated in something that had dried up, and was now gritty and hard. She managed to lift a hand and rubbed at her left eye. The stuff flaked off beneath her fingers, and she managed to open that one eye.
Her vision was blurry, and she had to squint against the sickly yellow light. She tried rubbing at the other eye and winced at the touch. Now that she thought about it, she realised the whole right side of her face was throbbing.
As her vision cleared, she could see that the ends of her fingers were coated in a red powder, like dried blood.
Memory returned. The narrowboat, floating like a ghost ship out of the canal tunnel. The man at the tiller, waving to her, pulling up alongside her. Abel, reaching out with his gloved hand, his fingers closing around her jacket and pulling.
That was all she remembered.
The sound of soft crying was still coming from somewhere to her side. And movement, too. It was difficult to pinpoint the noise over the sound of an engine grumbling away.
Emma closed her eye as she realised what had happened. She was on the narrowboat, Abel’s prisoner. She must have hit her head when he pulled her on board and bled into her eyes from a cut on her forehead.
Why was she still alive? Why hadn’t he killed her? Or maybe he had, and this was the moment she woke up as a vampire.
That didn’t feel right, though. Weren’t vampires supposed to be sexy and lithe and powerful? Emma felt like a ragged collection of throbbing aches and pains, and the thought of the dried blood on her face made her feel ill.
Some vampire she would make.
No, Abel had kept her alive for some reason.
But she doubted that state of affairs was going to last too long.
Emma looked towards the sound of soft crying. She was lying on the floor in the cabin. It felt like she had been dumped at the far end of the boat’s narrow interior. There was seating on either side of a table. A girl was lying on her back on the table, at least Emma assumed it was a girl, as she could see her long hair hanging over the edge of the table, almost touching the floor. Other than that, all she could see of her were her bare feet and slender ankles. A small figure squatted on top of her, with its back to Emma, and she was weakly pushing at it, trying to fend it off. But the figure was too strong and was bent over her. Emma could see its head moving up and down, as though it was licking at something.
Emma could guess what.
Slowly, and as quietly as she could manage, thankful to have the sound of the narrowboat motor to cover her, Emma braced her hands against the floor and started pushing herself upright. A spike of pain, stabbing through her head, and the right side of her face began throbbing even more.
The vampire on the table, and Emma was sure that’s what it was, another vampire, was too small to be Abel. And besides, he had to be steering the narrowboat. Which meant there were more of them than she had realised.
Emma stifled a groan as more pain shot through her head and down her neck and back. She paused, held herself still, wondering if the vampire might have heard her, but it didn’t pause in its feeding, didn’t turn and look at her. The sound of the engine was acting as a cover for her. Clenching her mouth shut tight, Emma screwed her eyes shut and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her head swam with the pain, and for a terrifying moment she thought she might pass out. But then the dizziness passed, and the agony in her head subsided a little.
Emma watched the vampire with her one open eye. So small, looked almost like it could be a child. It stopped its feeding and sat up, its back still to Emma. Had it heard her? Had she been discovered?
But then the child vampire giggled and gathered up some of the girl’s long hair in its hands. It seemed fascinated with it, winding the long, fair strands around its fingers, and stroking it, softly. The vampire opened out its hand and let the girl’s hair fall between its fingers. With another revolting giggle, it grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard, and the girl screamed.
Emma watched, appalled and fascinated and terrified. The girl screamed and cried, and begged the child to stop pulling on her hair, but this just encouraged the vampire to pull harder and more often, increasing its delight. It was like a spoilt little brat, finding fun in hurting others.
A vampire child.
Dear God, no.
How old could this child have been when he was bitten and turned? Four? Five?
About the same age as—
Oh no. Not Michael.
As if hearing his name, although Emma had not spoken it out loud, she was almost sure of that, the boy stopped pulling on the sobbing girl’s hair, and turned slowly around.
Despite the blood and dirt smeared over his face, the red, puffed lips and the pointed teeth, and the eyes narrowed down into a cruel, curious stare, Emma recognised him immediately.
Michael Coffin.
Her insides shrivelled up and contracted beneath that stare. The little boy showed no signs of recognising her, but then why would he? Steffanie had brought him with her to their clandestine meetings, but the boy had only ever shown interest in his toys or his snacks. And did he even have any memory of what he used to be, or his mother or father?
The vampire jumped from the table, landing directly in front of Emma, almost on top of her, due to the confines of the cabin. Squatting in front of her, like a bloody imp from hell, Michael examined Emma with a strange mixture of childlike curiosity and naked hunger. Emma pushed herself flat against the cabin door behind her, twisted her head away when the boy reached out with a blood stained hand to touch her face.
“Michael, no, don’t,” she whispered.
The vampire snatched its hand back when she spoke, as though it had been stung. Was he still unsure of who he was? What kind of creature had he now become? Emma noticed his fingernails had grown thicker and stronger, more pointed. They now looked like claws.
He reached out again, touched her hair, ran his clawed fingers through it. Clumsily, he pushed it off her face and draped it behind her ear. Her face twisted away, Emma still watched him from the corner of her eye. The little boy’s face had relaxed, some of the hunger gone from its expression.
It was as if playing with her hair was soothing him. Was this somethi
ng Steffanie had allowed him to do? Did he still have a trace memory of his life as a normal little boy?
“Michael,” Emma whispered.
The vampire cocked its head, like a dog noticing something interesting. Did he understand? Did he know his name?
“Michael, I want you to listen to me,” Emma said, softly, working hard to keep her voice level and as soothing as possible. “You’re a very sick little boy, Michael. A poorly boy. But I can get you help. We can make you better.”
The child vampire leaned in close, eyes alive with a sudden interest. His breath stank of clotted blood and putrefaction, and Emma could feel waves of cold emanating off him, as though he had the complete inverse of a fever. His fingers were in her hair again, stroking, the claws against her scalp.
He opened his mouth, and his pink tongue darted out and licked at the crusted blood on his lips. Emma pushed back against the cabin wall, willing it to magically dissolve behind her, so that she could pass through it and disappear into the cold, dark canal water outside.
The engine cut out. The sound of the old boat creaking, a splash of water outside, the soft crying of the girl lying on the table, and the gentle thrum of rain on the cabin roof, all of these noises filled the gap left by the silence of the dead motor.
Michael looked up at the sound of footsteps above them. Abel, moving around, securing the narrowboat to a mooring post. Michael squatted on his haunches, no longer interested in Emma. He tipped his head back and followed the sound of Abel’s footsteps as he walked around on the deck.
Emma took the opportunity to slip her hand inside her pocket. If she could call Coffin, even just alert him to her situation before the mobile was taken off her, there was a chance he might find them.
Her pocket was empty. Carefully, with no sudden movements, watching Michael staring intently at the ceiling, Emma tried her other pocket.
Also empty.
Fuck!
Abel must have searched her when he dragged her on board. Maybe he’d thrown the phone over the side, and it was now lying at the bottom of the canal, keeping company with bicycles and shopping trolleys.
Abel’s heavy footsteps were now travelling down the length of the boat’s cabin roof, and Michael was tracking him all the way, his head craning around. Was Abel coming down below?
Emma closed her one good eye, trying to keep the debilitating fear at bay enough that she could think. Without her phone, she was cut off from everyone. Who knew how long she had been unconscious, and how far Abel had travelled down the canal in that time. They could be miles away now, from the park where the police were conducting their search.
The cabin door opened, and Abel ducked inside.
Michael rushed up to him, bounding over the girl who cried out as he stepped on her stomach, and shouted, “Daddy! Daddy!”
His voice was thick, and slightly slurred, deeper even, than Emma would have thought.
Abel patted the boy on the head, but all his attention was on Emma.
“You just can’t keep away from me, can you?” he said.
“At least—” Emma croaked, but her mouth was too dry to speak properly. She worked a little saliva up and tried again.
“At least you’re wearing some fucking clothes this time.”
Abel chuckled, drew a little closer. “I can soon change that.”
Emma closed her one functioning eye. She felt so fucking tired.
“No, that’s okay.”
The cabin was so small, crowded out with the four of them in it. And it felt hot in here, and stank of blood and sweat and shit.
There was movement, the sound of the girl crying out.
Emma opened her eye, tried opening the other one, but it was stuck closed. Abel had pulled the girl upright, so that she was sitting on the table. He grasped her head in both hands, her long, lank hair trailing over his fingers and across her shoulders. Some of it was matted to her face, and Abel wiped her hair off her forehead and out of her eyes, whilst holding her up with his other hand around the back of her head.
“Julie,” Emma said. “Julie look at me.”
Her wide eyes, brimming with fresh tears, were fixed on Abel’s face, only inches from hers. Her lips were trembling, but she was holding herself together. Just.
Her top was slashed and red with blood, and now that she was sitting up, Emma could see the wounds on her arms. Abel had been keeping the girl alive, so that Michael would have a steady supply of fresh blood, for a while at least. Just like they did with Jacob, kept prisoner in the cellar for the old man to feed on.
Abel leaned forward and kissed the terrified girl on the lips. She tried to pull back, but he was too strong, his grip on the back of her head too firm. The kiss was tender, almost loving. When Abel pulled back, Julie’s tears had cut long, thin streaks through the blood and dirt on her face.
“There, there,” Abel whispered. “There’s no need to cry. We’re all one big, happy family here.”
“Julie, look at me!” Emma hissed.
Julie’s eyes flicked towards Emma, but Abel’s grip kept her head firmly locked in place.
“We’re going to get out of here, Julie. Okay? The police are looking for you, hundreds of them, scouting the area. They’ll find us, and they’ll get us out of here, and they’ll put this sick fuck behind bars, and you’ll never see him again.”
Abel was chuckling softly. He let go of Julie, and she fell on her back on the table, and cried out in pain.
“Stop feeding this poor girl’s head with your lies,” he said. “I left them far behind, they’ll never find us now.”
Emma smiled. It hurt, and it felt more like a snarl than a smile, but she managed it. “Fuck you, nature boy. You know who else is looking for you? Joe Coffin. And when he does find you, he won’t make the same mistake as last time, he’ll make sure you’re dead.”
Abel didn’t reply. He sidled around the edge of the table, the boy vampire following him constantly. When he got to Emma, he held up a coil of thick rope.
“Turn around,” he said.
“Fuck off,” Emma said.
Abel grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted her around. Emma screamed as bolts of pain shot down her back, and she fell on her face on the cabin floor and cried out again at the sudden throb of pain in her skull. Abel used the rope to tie her hands behind her back, and then to her ankles. Her feet were pulled up under her bottom, and she had to arch her back to keep the pressure off her shoulders, as he pulled the rope tight.
Abel backed out of the cabin, a terrible grin on his face the whole time.
When he got to the door, he said to Michael, “Keep an eye on them. And drink more of the young girl’s blood if you like, but leave the other woman alone. I’ll have my fun with her later.”
Michael squatted on one of the seats and watched them like a dutiful guard dog.
A fucking guard dog from the depths of hell, Emma thought.
She listened as Abel walked up and down on the boat and started the engine up. Soon they were moving again.
Maybe that’s a good thing, she thought. Maybe I haven’t been out of it as long as I thought, and we’re not very far from where Abel snatched the girl. He’s moving on because he’s worried that he’s still too close to the police, searching the park. If that’s the case, we might have a chance yet.
Listening to the motor grumbling along, and feeling the gentle movement of the boat, Emma tried hard to believe that might be true.
antiques
Coffin opened the car’s boot and gazed down at the pathetic collection of guns, lying beside Coffin’s chainsaw.
“Oh, shit,” he sighed, and picked up a pistol, a Browning Hi Power. “Was this the best you could do?”
Rob stood beside him. He’d been looking pleased with himself, but now his grin faded.
“What? You said bring guns.”
“This thing is older than Craggs. Does it fire?”
Stut joined them, standing the other side of Coffin. When he saw the gun
in Coffin’s hand he burst out laughing.
“Fffffuck me, where’d you get that from? An antique shop?”
Rob raised his hands in exasperation. “Joe said, bring guns, all right? It was the best I could do!”
“At least we got this,” Stut said, leaning into the boot and picking out a sawn-off shotgun.
“Give me that,” Coffin growled, and pulled the shotgun out of Stut’s hands, swapping it for the pistol.
“Yeah, yeah, of course, J-Joe.”
Rob leaned in the boot and pulled out a Russian Tokarev pistol and held it out at arm’s length, pointing it across the car park.
“It’s fucking impossible to get your hands on a gun these days, not like it was when I were a kid. The only way I got hold of these pistols is because they’re classed as antiques, and they’ve been decommissioned.”
“Shit, are you t-t-telling me these are d-dummies?” Stut said.
“Course not, you stupid fucker,” Rob snapped. “They’ve been adapted. They’ll work all right.”
Coffin opened up the shotgun and slipped two shells inside, then snapped it shut again. He shoved more shells in his pockets.
Stut lifted his shirt and shoved the handgun in the waist of his trousers.
Rob said, “Are you fucking serious?”
“What?”
“You’re going to blow your balls off doing that.”
“I know how to handle a piece, I left the safety catch on.”
Rob snorted. “Yeah, you’ve usually got your piece in your hand, all right.”
Stut and Rob looked at Coffin, waiting for their orders. Coffin cursed inwardly. A gangly kid covered in tattoos of naked women and tigers, and a stuttering Teddy Boy. Was this all that was left of the Slaughterhouse Mob? Where had all the tough guys gone? The old school, like Craggs.
Coffin’s Harley was parked next to the car. Did he really need to go inside the club and face Steffanie again? Why not send these two idiots in to clean up, while Coffin climbed on his bike and headed off somewhere, anywhere? Permanently. Maybe he could stop by the hospital and collect Laura and Jacob.
