Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective: Ultimate Omnibus Volume 1 of 4 (Operation WetFish, Vampire Detective Ultimate Omnibus)

by Adam Carter

  Baronaire did not seem convinced. “Jeremiah understands, but he can’t know what it’s like. He’s too old to understand what it’s really like for me.”

  Thompson frowned. So far as she could see, Jeremiah and Baronaire were both in their thirties. Maybe Jeremiah was older than he looked, but he sure couldn’t be that much older. She said nothing however; Baronaire was talking and she didn’t want to interrupt while she had him going at last.

  “I just don’t know what’s me any more,” he said. “What’s me and what’s ... whatever’s inside. Do you understand that? Can you understand what it’s like walking around everyone at work, on the streets, in here; everyone seeing one person, but you knowing that deep down you’re someone else entirely?”

  Thompson leaned on the bar in thought. “I was born in nineteen sixty-five,” she replied. “By the time I was twelve I realised I was different. By thirteen I kinda realised why. It wasn’t until I was fourteen I told myself to stop pretending I was like the other girls. I remember one time in the showers at school, after swimming. The other girls were all talking about the various boys in their year. I was just eyeing up the naked girls I was with, realising how wonderful it is to be hiding.” She smiled. “Nineteen seventy-nine. Not very accepted behaviour back then, still isn’t really, although there’s progress. There’s always progress.

  “By the time I was an adult, long before then actually, I realised I didn’t care what people thought about me. I was who I was and if someone thought I was weird then that was their problem. I wasn’t going to live my life trying to fit in. I was proud of who I was, still am. But I’m open about how I feel, about who I am. I find girls don’t mind at all. They think it’s fun, something a little different to talk about, yeah? Guys ... guys have always been a bit strange about it. Some are fine, some still for some reason think they’re going to get somewhere with me, which I totally don’t understand. And some are just plain ugly about it. Maybe they just fear the competition.

  “I went to see an old friend earlier. Kate, haven’t seen Kate in ten years. We ... we had something special going on. Thought it might last, but I don’t last and I’m kidding myself if I ever think I will. It was nice seeing her again, but I shouldn’t have gone back. Kate’s moved on, she’s done what she wanted in life and she’s happy. And me? Well, I’m happy enough being me, but I guess I just felt I needed something of what used to be me.”

  She realised he was staring at her. “You finished?” he asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you without your trench coat and it scares me.”

  He laughed, rubbing at his eyes. “You’re a good kid, Thompson.”

  “Kid? I’m not even five years younger than you, and call me Jen for God’s sake.” She saw his face fall. “What?”

  “Something Jeremiah said. About God and ... It doesn’t matter.”

  “No, what did he say?”

  “That he was on a mission from God and there was a guy called Richard on a similar mission, who’s asleep right now but one day might wake up and take over the world.”

  Thompson stared at him.

  Baronaire stared back.

  They both broke into a fit of laughter.

  “I’m sorry I screwed up,” Thompson said once they had control of themselves again. “Back at the docks? I didn’t mean for any of that stuff to happen.”

  Baronaire waved it off. “Forget it.”

  “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Charles.”

  “And I’d never do anything to hurt you. You’re just not my type.”

  She had no idea what he meant by that, but he rose, leaving his drink untouched, and slipped into the trench coat which had sat beside him the whole way through, unnoticed. His only true friend. He nodded at her in gratitude. “Thanks for the support, Detective. And please, call me Baronaire.”

  OPERATION WETFISH

  BOOK 4

  CHRISTMAS

  ON THE KERB

  CHAPTER ONE

  As arguments went, it had been something of a scorcher and had ended with Holly hitting her boyfriend in the face with a stiletto. Her choice of weapon was somewhat ironic, since it was symbolic of the crux of the argument, but the reality was it was just the closest thing to hand. Holly had stormed out in a temper after that, leaving her boyfriend with blood streaming down his shocked face. He didn’t like her choice of work, which was fine – she wasn’t thrilled about it herself – but until he got off his backside and found himself a job someone had to pay the rent.

  Holly Anderson had had high hopes when she was young. A prominent ballerina, a perfect A student, her parents had always known she was going places. She was pretty, bright and had a friendly disposition; all things which made prospective employers sit up and take note.

  But then she had met Carl and everything had spiralled, and not in a good direction. Her parents didn’t approve, her teachers didn’t approve, her mentors at ballet certainly didn’t approve; but she was fifteen and she was in love. She was an adult, she told herself, had adult feelings and was more than capable of making adult choices in life. So she had done the very adult thing and run away with Carl.

  Three years later and her life was a mess. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in a long time, Carl – three years her elder – had had a total of two jobs in all their time together, neither of which had lasted more than a month. They had survived on his benefits for a while, but Carl just kept drinking more and more and someone had to pay the rent and put food on the table. Her once proud visions of becoming a ballerina star sucked down the drain, Holly had taken a job in a fast-food chain, working all hours and getting very little pay. The more she worked, the more money Carl had to drink with, and the more he drank the more Holly grew annoyed.

  One day she had it out with him, told him they had to save money, had to buy someplace better than the single-room flat they rented. She was eighteen years old, her dreams had evaporated, but she was still going to make something of herself. If nothing else, she still had her pride.

  It was when she was walking home from work at two in the morning that her life changed forever. Shift-work meant her day ended at all hours, and she had always seen women hanging around in the street, waiting for lifts or else touting for them. Holly knew they were whores just from the way they dressed, turned her nose up at them or else crossed the street to avoid them. She had principles, and if her parents could have seen her even in close proximity as these girls they would have exploded.

  But she had not seen her parents in so long she couldn’t see it mattered what they thought any more.

  It had been a hot night, she remembered that part well. She was walking briskly, not needing a jacket, feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing, where she was. She hadn’t heard the footsteps behind her, didn’t realise she was being followed. She walked her usual route home, taking a shortcut through an alley which had a single lamppost halfway through but whose bulb had never been working. Suddenly something grabbed her from behind, a hand clamped about her mouth and her eyes widened as she tried to scream, but found the hand clasped too tight. The other arm encircled her stomach, dragging her further into the darkness. She was thrown against a wall with enough force to daze her, her head striking the brick, her vision hazing as she tasted blood in her mouth. She tried again to scream but a terror she had never known before gripped her chest and she could not even manage a yelp.

  There was a man standing over her. He was tall, unkempt, with thick stubble and the stench of alcohol. Holly tried to scrabble to her feet, but he kicked her in the stomach and she doubled over, retching into the mud. She felt his weight upon her as he grabbed her by the hair, yanking hard and slamming her back into the wall. She fought him with flailing arms, but he slapped her hard across the face and her mind exploded in pain. She could feel him pawing her, struggling with her blo
use, but her strength was fading and fear was overruling all her efforts.

  Then she was suddenly released and there was some form of commotion. She could see figures struggling in the darkness, heard the man scream loudly. Hands grabbed Holly once more, but while they were rough and far from gentle they were not intrusive. She was half-dragged back the way she had come, stumbling several times, and as she emerged back into the light of the poorly-lit street she collapsed to her hands and knees, vomiting.

  The prostitutes she had always ignored, always looked down upon, had seen her enter the alley, seen the furtive man follow her, and knew there was trouble. They had saved her from a terrible fate, perhaps even saved her life, and all she had ever done was hate them and all their kind.

  She spent the next hour with the one who had physically dragged her out the alley. There was nowhere open for them to talk, but the prostitute, whose name was Tammy, took her to her flat, which it turned out wasn’t very far. Holly was shaking all night, spilled the tea she had been given, could hold down no food Tammy made for her; but Tammy was kind and patient and voiced no word of complaint.

  The following morning Holly woke up on a stranger’s settee, the events of the previous night flooding back to her. She ran to the toilet and vomited once more, although her shaking had finally stopped. She returned to the living room to find Tammy tidying up. Out of her fishnet leggings and tarty low-cut top Tammy looked just like any other normal girl her own age. She was dressed in tight jeans and a light-blue blouse. Her dark silky hair was extremely straight and beautiful, her face bore no signs of make-up or lipstick, although there was a small scar upon her cheek. Her smile was genuine and infectious, banishing the scar entirely with its joviality, for her general demeanour was one of quiet friendship. Still smiling, she told Holly she was making breakfast and hoped her guest liked honey with her porridge.

  The breakfast was divine and Holly managed to keep it down. While they ate Holly looked about, marvelling at how Tammy could afford such a place. Holly lived in a one-room bedsit, while Tammy had more space than Holly would have known what to do with. And that didn’t even take into account the television and stereo equipment.

  “Friends in high places,” Tammy had said while she poured some orange juice.

  “How much do you earn exactly?” Holly had asked, astounded by what she was seeing and hearing. Her upbringing had always taught her that whores were dirty, disease-ridden beasts. All of them junkies who would stab you in the back even while you were in their flea-infested bed. But here Holly was sitting at a breakfast table opposite a stunning young woman who could cook, kept a tidy house and who clearly enjoyed her life. She was someone Holly might have been friends with, might have met at school without even knowing she was living this lifestyle.

  They talked about Tammy’s work, mainly because Holly was fascinated, and Holly compared it to her own. She was going nowhere, but then neither job had many prospects for advancement. Tammy chose her own hours, didn’t have to take verbal abuse from her employers, or snide comments from her co-workers. And she didn’t have to come home from work stinking of chip fat.

  Of course, there was one huge drawback to Tammy’s line of work and Holly would never have considered it for herself. Yet she was interested, since this threw her entire outlook askew.

  “We stick together,” Tammy explained while she washed up, with Holly drying. “It’s a team effort out there on the street, Holly. Every girl knows precisely where the others are at any given time. We look out for each other, no one else is going to.”

  “Don’t you have pimps doing that?”

  “We don’t, no. Different areas, different rules. We work by ourselves, for ourselves, which means we get to keep all the money we make.”

  “But on TV ...”

  Tammy smiled as she scrubbed the pot with soapsuds. “We have an understanding with the police, Holly. They look after us, and we do special favours for them in return.”

  “Special favours? Come on, that’s low.”

  “Not really, since it means we’re protected. And by special favours I don’t mean what you’re thinking. We act as eyes and ears, informants if you like. No one knows, no one ever finds out, and we’re not ever asked for much information anyway. It’s been ... four months since any of us have seen hide or hair of the law. Oh, they also make sure no patrols come around the area, and if they can’t stop them they let us know they’re on their way.”

  “That’s some protection.”

  “It’s a pretty good life.”

  “Apart from the work.”

  “You don’t like men, Holly?”

  Holly pulled a sympathetic face. “You can’t tell me you enjoy your work, so don’t even go there.”

  “You’re right, of course. To be honest though, most of the guys are your average Joe, wanting average things. Sometimes you get someone you could have done without, but you get used to them. I’m not saying I’d choose this life if I had somewhere else to go, but things could be a lot worse for us out there. And without pimps we get to turn guys down if we really don’t like the look of them. Of course, we all have bills, so turning down work’s never a good idea.”

  Holly had left shortly after and headed for home. She arrived to find Carl asleep in front of the TV, the remains of a takeaway littering the table and floor, newspapers and magazines strewn everywhere. Holly began to tidy up, made the bed, went to put the kettle on to find the water had been turned off again. She looked through the cupboards to see what she could make for lunch, reached for the bread only to pull back her hand when a mouse scampered out from behind the loaf. She closed the cupboard sharply and gathered up a towel and clean underwear so she could go take a shower. She hadn’t washed since yesterday and could still smell her attacker’s grubby, alcohol-stinking hands upon her.

  She ventured down the corridor to find the communal bathroom flooded. It happened at least twice a week and the landlord had yet to send anyone to fix it. Ever. One of the nice tenants one level above her always popped down to mend it when he had the time, but he was on holiday for the next week. It looked as though she wouldn’t be bathing for a week.

  Holly went back to her room and lay on the bed, sobbing.

  When Carl woke up he asked her whether she’d done any shopping yet. He hadn’t even noticed she was late home by at least six hours.

  Two years later Holly had hit him across the face with her stiletto.

  *

  It was cold on the street, and Holly wasn’t especially fond of this time of year. Snow had settled heavily and there was the promise of more to come. It was eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve and she had nowhere else to be. Christmas was always a busy time for the girls. Either husbands went looking for some Christmas romance or else single men wanted some memory to drink to the following day. Now aged twenty, Holly had been working the streets for over two years. Less than a week after being attacked in the alley, Holly had gone back to Tammy and asked her for a job. Tammy had laughed in her face, asking her whether she wanted an interview, but Holly had been insistent. Tammy had not tried to talk her out of it; just made her realise what she was getting in for. Holly had been determined, didn’t have much else going for her; but she knew she was attractive and wanted to use that while she was still young.

  Holly had been quickly indoctrinated into the gang, passed their initiation with a tremendous amount of respect, and had never looked back. Her one regret in life was not taking on a new job, it was staying with Carl this long. Even after she had left Carl to move in as Tammy’s roommate, she still saw the bum, even though she didn’t know why. It was as though she was punishing herself for the life she had fallen into, as though she was convinced Carl was all she deserved. She didn’t even regret leaving her pristine life of a promising ballerina. She had learned more in the last two years than she had through her entire straight A life at school. Tammy was her sister now, the two were inseparable, and like a proper family they looked out for one another.
>
  Or at least they usually did. Tammy had gone away a few days ago, saying she was going to spend time with her family. Holly had been looking forward to spending Christmas with her: Tammy was going to cook and already had the turkey in. Holly was suddenly glad she was working tonight. Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without Tammy.

  Holly was dressed in warm black tights, a too-short red Santa’s helper skirt, and a top to match, low-cut of course. Atop her head there rested a lopsided red hat complete with white bobble and bell. She remembered Christmases as a kid and compared them with what she was doing now. She might well be in bed by midnight, but she wouldn’t be sleeping, making sure she didn’t disturb Father Christmas as he came to fill her stocking.

  She felt a car slowing behind her; Holly had spent so long at this job that it was as though she had eyes in the back of her head. She slowed her pace accordingly, accentuating the sway of her hips so the driver of the car could get a good solid look at her before deciding whether to stop. The bonnet of the car slowly passed her and the driver slowed right down so he could keep pace. She regarded him casually, although in reality she was sizing him up for a potential wacko. One could never be too careful, especially this time of year. He was stern-faced, sour of expression, and there was no sense of nervousness about him. He was in his thirties probably, and wore a casual shirt and trousers. There was no music playing from his stereo, no Christmas songs, which was a good enough reason to set off alarm bells.

  She continued walking for several moments; he wasn’t going to say anything so she thought she might string him along a bit. He just kept pace with her, staring at her and making her cringe.

  When she could take it no longer she stopped walking and noted the car stopped immediately. She turned to regard him then and placed a hand upon her hip, tilting her body the way models always do in the magazines. “Are you following me?” she asked with a smile.