By Midnight

by Mia James

‘I’m a pupil at Ravenwood,’ said April, almost apologetically. ‘Mrs Townley sent me.’

  At the mention of the librarian, Mr Gill’s whole demeanour changed. ‘Mrs Townley?’ said the old man, straightening up. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? How is Marjorie?’

  Marjorie?

  ‘She seems, um, very well,’ said April dubiously.

  ‘Splendid times we had by the Serpentine,’ said Mr Gill, almost to himself.

  April waited for a moment, but Mr Gill was lost in his memories.

  ‘The book?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah yes, the book,’ said the shopkeeper, returning to his previous hostility. ‘I dare say we have something like it in the local history section. You’ll find it through the reading room,’ he said, indicating a small door behind his counter.

  Beyond the doorway, April found herself in a miniature version of an old-fashioned library, the kind you’d expect to find in a nineteen-twenties country house or an Agatha Christie novel, with wooden floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and two sloping reading tables in the middle of the room. Little hand-written signs were tacked to the front of the shelves: ‘Classical Rome’, ‘Natural History’, ‘Psychology’ and so on. Slowly she walked around, reading the spines of the books. She was no scholar, but even she recognised some of the titles: Origin of Species by Charles Darwin; George Stubbs’ The Anatomy of the Horse; Relativity: The Special and General Theory by Albert Einstein.

  ‘Wow,’ said April. She wasn’t exactly sure how rare or valuable these books were, but she knew they were probably worth thousands each, if not more. The little corridors formed by the shelves had lots of twists and turns; it was quite a maze back there and it seemed much bigger than the shopfront had suggested.

  Hidden around a corner she finally stumbled across the ‘Local History’ section. It was crammed with picture books, full of old maps and sepia photographs of the area a hundred years ago, and books with faded gilt titles like Dr Crippen, the Holloway Poisoner, The Battle for Churchyard Bottom Wood and The Life and Death of Samuel Tizylor Coleridge. It was all murder and death everywhere. She pulled out some books and checked their indexes, but there was no mention of vampires and no sign of the book Miss Holden had recommended. Still, April felt she was making progress of a sort, and she had the thrill of discovering a place she knew her father would absolutely love. Making a mental note to tell him about it, she walked into the section labelled ‘Medicine’. Her eye was drawn to one ancient-looking book bound in black leather with hinges on the outside. There was just one word on the outside: Necronomicon.

  ‘Don’t touch that, please,’ said Mr Gill abruptly, making April jump. She hadn’t even been aware he was behind her. He pushed past her and draped a cloth over the book. ‘Some of these titles are very delicate,’ he said.

  Okay, keep your hair on, she thought, I wasn’t going to set fire to it.

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ he asked pointedly. April was reluctant to tell him, but she had the distinct feeling Mr Gill was about to throw her out if she didn’t say something intelligent.

  ‘Well, I’m looking for something on diseases and myths, something along those lines?’

  The old man walked over to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a slim volume with a green cover. ‘This may be of some use,’ he said, indicating a reading table and stool.

  April nodded her thanks and sat down. The book was called The Healing Word: Folk, Myths and Medicine. April turned to the index and was almost overjoyed to see the entry under ‘V’: vampires, p. 124. She quickly turned to the page: Vampirism has always been linked to disease. It is often dismissed as allegorical tales about the Black Death—undead strangers coming to remote villages and killing everyone —creating a story people can understand to make sense of the inexplicable. To simple peasants the idea of strange zombie creatures drinking blood makes more sense than the idea of some invisible bacteria carried in the air. But all the traits of the vampire - marks on the neck and wrists, lust for blood, hypersexuality, enlarged teeth, sensitivity to sunlight and even garlic - can all be explained in other ways. They are the symptoms of rabies and porphyria, to name but two of the diseases common at the time that could have added proof’ to the rumours and speculation about vampirism.

  Feeling disappointed, April carefully replaced the book and returned to the front desk.

  ‘Not what you wanted?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You were looking for something about the Highgate Vampire, I take it?’

  April almost gasped and Mr Gill gave her a slight smile. ‘One needn’t be Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. ‘You were looking for information on the cemetery and on old myths. Fairly easy to see the link.’

  ‘Oh,’ said April, a little embarrassed. ‘I thought I might find a book on it here.’

  Mr Gill scoffed. ‘Cobblers, the lot of it, I won’t have them in the shop.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Books about the Highgate Vampire, they’re not worth the paper they’re printed on,’ he said. ‘But if you really want to know, it’s all up here.’ He tapped a finger against his forehead.

  April’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

  ‘When something that exciting happens on one’s doorstep, it would be churlish to pass up the opportunity to get your feet wet, as it were. All happened in the early seventies, you see. I’m sure Marjorie - Mrs Townley - will remember it as well as I do.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Mr Gill indicated a tall stool facing his counter and April sat down.

  ‘I’m only telling you this because of our, uh, mutual friend, you understand?’ he said, pouring her a cup of tea from a tartan flask.

  April nodded.

  ‘As long as that’s clear. Well, back in the nineteen-sixties, Highgate Cemetery was in rather a sorry state. I suppose many of the relatives of the … ah … inhabitants had died off themselves and the graves had become overgrown and somewhat neglected. It became a gathering place for some rather unsavoury characters, hippies and so on, and there were quite a few incidents of graves being desecrated, even bodies removed. Anyway, one night, a chap claimed he saw a “spectral presence” and wrote to the local paper asking if anyone else had ever had a similar experience in the area. Well, that was a red rag to a bull, of course, and they were inundated with reports, although none of them seemed to match: ghosts, blood trails, dead foxes—’

  ‘Dead foxes?’ interrupted April.

  ‘Yes, there was a story that they were being found dead, with their throats torn open. But, of course, it was probably just one animal killed by a dog and the numbers got steadily increased in the telling. Interesting though.’

  ‘Interesting? Why?’

  ‘Oh, interesting that they should have chosen foxes rather than cats or rats or birds. Foxes are quite important in folklore, you see. They’re a symbol of cunning and deception and also of hunting, for obvious reasons. The pagan Welsh believed witches could transform themselves into foxes.’

  April stared down at her cup, her brow furrowed. ‘I saw one,’ she said very quietly. ‘A dead fox, I mean.’

  Mr Gill frowned. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last week. Just inside the north gate of the cemetery.’

  The old man couldn’t hide his concern. ‘Well, it was probably hit by a car, poor thing. People do drive up there like demons. Probably just crawled off somewhere quiet to die.’

  April nodded noncommittally. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, dear child. After all, remember that none of this vampire hoopla has ever been substantiated and the people who claim to see them are the sort who call in to radio shows claiming to have seen Lord Lucan in their local supermarket. There are a lot of people who think it was all a hoax.’

  ‘And are you one of them?’

  ‘When it comes to vampires, you do find most of it is … well, not to put too fine a point on it, it’s rubbish. Personally I think “vampire lore” is often
a case of people seeking out Eastern European folklore and making it fit their story, rather than the other way around.’

  ‘But how did they get from ghosts and folklore to vampires? ’

  ‘Now that’s the interesting part of the Highgate story. The week after the original letter, someone else wrote in to the paper claiming that the original spectre had been a vampire, brought over from Eastern Europe in a coffin. The claim was completely unsubstantiated, but the media picked up on it, it made the six o’clock news and the story grew and grew. There were tales of a woman being beheaded and even a vampire being staked in a tomb and a nest of them being cleared out of the cemetery. All very unlikely, but that never stops journalists in search of a good story.’

  ‘So you think it was all nonsense?’

  ‘Oh no, quite the contrary.’

  April looked at him, feeling cold all of a sudden. ‘You think there were vampires in the cemetery?’

  ‘I don’t think there were. There are. Present tense. And not only in the graveyard.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh yes, my dear. It’s my belief that vampires are real and that they are living among us.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  By morning break on Tuesday, it was all around school. By lunchtime, a buzz of rumour had mutated into the gospel truth and the original story had been embellished beyond all recognition. In fact, Simon’s plan had worked so brilliantly, even April was beginning to wonder if there was some truth behind it. They had hatched the plot in Americano the previous evening. April had still been reeling from her conversation with Mr Gill, but as Caro had brought Simon along, she hadn’t been able to discuss it. She had been so troubled by Mr Gill’s revelation - she wanted to dismiss him as a mad old eccentric, but he was so sincere it was hard to doubt him - she couldn’t concentrate on the job in hand.

  ‘Hey! Sleeping beauty!’ said Caro, snapping her fingers at April. ‘Get with it, we’re here to work out how to combat these rumours about you, remember?’

  ‘Shhh …’ said April, looking behind her to check they weren’t being overheard. ‘I don’t want it spreading to the whole village. It’s bad enough as it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry, honey,’ said Simon, leaning in to whisper.

  ‘We’re going to fight fire with fire. Give them a taste of their own medicine.’

  His plan was simple and, as it had turned out, devastatingly effective, working on Simon’s theory that gossip was currency; people always wanted new angles on the same story, and having the latest angle was like gold dust. By the end of the day, the whole school believed Caro and April’s version of events: that April had wandered into the kitchen at the party and had stumbled on Marcus Brent trying to ‘debag’ one of his friends. Frankly, it was the sort of horseplay that often happened among members of the rugby team, but when Simon had insisted on adding the phrase ‘gay scrum’, it had taken off like wildfire. It had been the girls’ intention to imply there had been something a bit suspect about the boys’ behaviour, but they had reckoned without the power of a juicy rumour to multiply. By the time the story came back to them at the end of the day, it appeared that the boys had been involved in some of the most extreme practices available to the imagination. April was shocked that the rather strait-laced pupils of Ravenwood could come up with such filth, but overjoyed that people were now looking at her with pity rather than disgust.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, darling?’ said Davina. She had run into the Faces in the Ladies by the refectory, which was something of an office for them. She didn’t often see them in the canteen. ‘I knew that Marcus was a dirty boy, but I had no idea! It must have been terrible for you.’

  ‘And you so innocent and all,’ said Layla with a sneer. ‘It must have been quite a shock to see what boys really look like.’

  ‘Is it all true?’ asked Chessy eagerly. ‘Did you really see him do that thing with his tongue?’

  April had shaken her head to it all and maintained an aloof ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ position, but that had only added fuel to the fire.

  ‘Golly, if she can’t even bring herself to describe it, it must have been truly revolting,’ she heard Chessy say to Davina as they left the bathroom.

  Funny how people are always prepared to think the worst of someone, thought April as she looked into the mirror. Of course she was delighted that the plan had worked so well, but she was beginning to feel a little guilty. Not that Marcus and his cronies had had any qualms about spreading a rumour about her, but somehow April couldn’t feel too pleased about their success. The truth was, the one thing she had really wanted to happen hadn’t: Gabriel hadn’t called. It had been three days now and she hadn’t heard a peep from him. She’d hoped to bump into him at school, but he never seemed to be there. In fact, she’d only ever seen him in school twice, both times on her first day: once in Philosophy, and once heading for the gates. Maybe I’ll see him on his way home today, she thought with a jolt of excitement. Not that he’s about to fiall in love with this. She looked in the mirror, pulling at her cheeks. God, I look tired. Does everyone else see these rings under my eyes too?

  She put down her bag and pulled it open, rummaging around for her concealer. It was forbidden for girls to bring make-up into school, but like most of the other rules, it was openly flaunted. She certainly couldn’t imagine any of the teachers stopping the Faces from touching up their lip gloss or mascara, which they did constantly, even during lessons. In fact, now she came to think of it, those girls were given an awful lot of leeway. I guess it’s just an unconventional school. Which is the understatement of the year.

  April stopped, make-up forgotten. She could hear a noise coming from one of the cubicles. Crying? She crept a little nervously along the line of cubicles, her ears straining. A muffled sound came from the cubicle at the end.

  ‘Hello?’ she whispered, tapping gently on the door.

  This time she heard a definite sob and she pushed at the door, surprised when it opened. It was Ling Po, sitting on the toilet seat lid with her feet tucked under her, her arms crossed defensively.

  ‘Are you all right, Ling?’ asked April softly. The Chinese girl shook her head and looked at the floor. She seemed to be cradling her left arm.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you hurt?’

  She shook her head again and pulled her cardigan tighter around her. April frowned. ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ she asked. ‘Can I see?’

  Ling pulled away angrily. ‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’ Then she looked up at April with frightened eyes. ‘Don’t tell them,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t tell them you saw this!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said April, a little confused. She could see Ling was clutching a paper towel to her wrist. She reached out, meaning to help her if she could, but Ling jumped back as if April had struck her.

  ‘Please, Ling, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You can leave me alone!’ whispered Ling, pushing past April and running out of the bathroom.

  ‘Sorry I spoke,’ said April, staring after her. She was just stepping out of the cubicle when something caught her eye: there were little red spots on the white plastic toilet seat. Blood? She leant closer. Yes, it was definitely blood. For a fleeting second, April thought of Mr Gill and his claim that vampires were everywhere, but then she dismissed it. Oh no, thought April with a feeling of horrible pity. She’s a cutter. April’s friend Rachel in Edinburgh had been through a phase of self-harm when her parents had divorced and she recognised the pattern. God knows, April could relate to Ling’s experience - the upheaval of coming to a new school, plus the pressure of trying to fit in with the Faces - she felt for the poor girl.

  Shaking her head, she walked back to the sink and picked up her concealer. I’ll ask Caro who she thinks I should speak to about it, she thought, leaning in to the mirror. Suddenly, April had a thought and almost laughed out loud. Imagine if the Faces were vampires, she thought, they wouldn’t be able to us
e mirrors, would they? That would mess up Davina’s beauty regime.

  Suddenly her head was jerked backwards by her hair.

  ‘Making ourselves pretty, are we?’ hissed Marcus, bringing his face up close to hers. ‘I think it will take a little more than that.’

  ‘What are you—’ began April, but her sentence ended in a squeak as Marcus tightened his grip on her hair and used it to yank her backwards across the room, banging her head hard against the tiled wall. She cried out in pain and fear, but Marcus grabbed her throat and squeezed.

  ‘I suppose you thought it would be funny, didn’t you? Hmm?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said April through gritted teeth. Marcus was really hurting her, but she didn’t want to let him know that.

  Marcus grabbed another handful of her hair and twisted her head down. ‘Oh, I think you do,’ he whispered. ‘You and your freaky little friends have been spreading lies about me.’