* * *
The policeman sucked on his pencil before scribbling in his notepad.
“So let me get this straight,” he said, obviously puzzled. “You’re telling me you did this all on your own.”
He nodded down to the ground where the would-be attacker was out cold. Her assailant looked like he’d been hit by a truck.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah told the PC. “I was frightened. He came running at me. I hit him harder than I intended.”
The constable looked unconvinced. Then he spotted the karate club badges on her hold-all.
“You any good?” he asked.
“Black belt,” she said proudly. “I’m not someone to mess with.”
That, the PC agreed, was fairly obvious.
The ambulance arrived and the attacker, now softly moaning, was loaded onto a stretcher.
Sarah watched him being carted off. She supposed she should feel sorry for the man, but she reckoned he’d asked for it.
The PC had one last question for her. “For my report. I need to know what karate move you used.”
Sarah suddenly laughed, the tension flowing out of her. “Oh, I didn’t use karate. At least, not in the way you think.”
She showed him the trophy inscribed with the words: Karate Regional Champion.
It was an impressive looking piece of hardware and would look good on her mantelpiece.
She just hoped she could get the head-shaped dent out of it…
Interview with the Vampire
The room was stark, airless, all windows blocked so no hint of daylight peeked through – just perfect for what was about to happen, Lestat told himself.
“What do you want to know?” he asked the pale, nervous looking man across the table.
“Everything,” his companion replied, whipping out his notepad and pen. “I want to know everything about your background. How you became a vampire, how many people you’ve killed, what motivates you, whether you have any regrets.”
Lestat smiled, revealing perfect, even, white predator’s teeth. “Regrets? Do I have regrets? Of course not. What would be the point? I am a hunter. Mankind is my prey. I do what I have to do.”
He laughed – a chilling, brittle, tauntingly callous snarl. “Besides, I enjoy it. It is intensely pleasurable. Why deny it?”
The man’s hand raced across the page, the lines a mere scribble in his haste to capture every word, every heinous utterance, of New Orleans’ most notorious bloodsucker.
“So you aren’t bothered that people think of you as a parasite, of the fear and loathing you engender? You don’t care that you are shunned by all except those who would wish to destroy you?”
Tapping a finger against his thin, cruel, lips, Lestat mused. “Why should I mind? It is only natural that I am feared. With fear comes power, and power is the most exquisite aphrodisiac.”
He leant forward, suddenly, coming so close that the human was momentarily hypnotised by the stare of the deep, dark, soulless eyes.
“I know what you are thinking,” the undead noble hissed, heavy with menace. “Are all the stories about my kind true? All the awful, terrifying, nightmare legends? Well, my trembling friend, I can assure you that they are.”
His inquisitor gulped, muttering: “So you’re telling me that you could end a man’s life without a moment’s hesitation, drain every last drop of life force from his body until only a hollow husk was left behind?”
“Of course.”
“You would show no mercy, no compassion. You wouldn’t stop until you’d bled him dry?”
“I wouldn’t stop until he had been driven beyond all hope of salvation,” Lestat agreed. “Inflicting despair is all part of the fun.”
Putting his pen down, the man sighed. “There’s no point carrying on with this…”
Lestat frowned, surprised that the encounter was being brought to an unexpectedly rapid conclusion.
“…because I can see you’re perfect for the job,” the man announced. “You’ve got just the qualities and attitudes we’re looking for.”
He beamed. “I think you’re going to fit in really well here at the Internal Revenue Service.”
Lestat found himself blushing. It was so rare to be appreciated these days.
“Just before I bring the interview to an end, do you have any questions for me?” the official asked.
Thinking about it for a moment, Lestat ran his tongue over his razor-edged fangs.
“The remuneration packet,” he enquired, “does it include dental?”
Hampered
Lucy jumped, heart thumping, the sudden burst of noise and heat right above her head catching her by surprise. For a moment she gulped, trembling, but quickly recovered and giggled loudly. No-one had told her the burner’s roaring flame would be so loud – or so close.
“You all right, love?” Paul shouted over the racket, giving the balloon pilot a momentary dirty look. “He should have warned you.”
“Of course I am, silly,” she scolded him. “Nothing to worry about. A few singed hairs, and I haven’t got much of my dignity left, but it’s brilliant. Just wonderful. I love it.”
She smiled at him, luxuriating in the feeling of the balloon rising higher, yet noting the look of concern that stayed in her husband’s eyes – even as she squeezed his arm reassuringly.
Lucy knew what he was thinking – that this trip was too ambitious, that the strain would be too much, that the excitement and exertion would overwhelm her. But Paul was wrong. It was like a tonic, a jolt of delicious electricity surging through her failing body, making her feel alive again.
“I’m not a cripple yet,” she’d told him, when he’d tried to talk her out of it on the drive down to the launch site.
“But it’s asking so much of yourself. And you haven’t had many good days recently. You‘ve been so tired,” he’d pointed out. “I can cancel, ring up right now and tell them we’ve changed our minds. We can lose the deposit. I don’t care about the money, only that you’re happy and okay.”
It was a key moment, she knew, a telling instant that gave a glimpse of how the future would be; how Paul would regard her.
“If you really want to make me happy,” she’d said determinedly, “treat me like a normal person. Don’t let the MS win, not yet. Let me fight it.”
So here they were – a 1,000 feet up, floating magically, moving effortlessly across the Wiltshire skies. It was, Lucy told herself, difficult to explain the experience without gushing in clichés – it was simply enchanting; unreal, like something from a dream.
She’d expected it to be thrilling, of course, but what she hadn’t prepared for was the absence of wind, of noise, of any feeling of movement. The basket and its occupants were just swept silently and without vibration – borne along as part of the wind, captured in its eerie cushioning bubble.
It was only by looking down at the hotchpotch of fields and hedgerows passing underneath that she knew they were moving at all.
Occasionally, the pilot would tug on his rope, causing a fierce whooshing from the burner housed directly under the canopy mouth. That would startle the sheep below, sending them running mindlessly across the grass, and eliciting puzzled barks from dogs far off.
But mostly there was silence. Total quiet. Silence enough to think – think about what had to be done.
Tugging his sleeve, Lucy tried to get Paul’s attention. He’d just spotted Salisbury Cathedral coming closer in the middle distance and was busy photographing it, gawping at the famous spire.
Going up to the top had been one of the things they’d promised themselves they’d do, she remembered… before the multiple sclerosis had changed all their plans.
“Hey,” she said. “Take one of me. Lucy on her big day out.”
Pulling open her jacket, she revealed the necklace he’d got her for their last anniversary.
“What are you wearing that for?” he said, puzzled. “I hardly think it’s suitable, do you?”
“
I’ve always wanted to be Lucy in the sky with diamonds,” she joked. “I’ve waited years for this moment.” Then added softly: “And I don’t suppose I’ll get many more chances to wear it.”
Paul turned quickly, but not fast enough. She saw the frown – and the tears.
He busied himself, leaning over the edge of the wicker basket, taking more photographs of the city and the cathedral; shaking hands working the buttons, not even bothering to focus – taking picture after picture after picture… more than he’d ever need.
And in that crucial second, Lucy knew what she’d decided was right. Today was the day.
Bringing her up here had been tough for Paul, his overwhelming love and devotion battling to overcome his flood of reservations. Soon, she knew, he’d smother her with his kindness and over-protection, hold her too close and prevent her living any kind of normal life.
It had to end. It had to end now while she still had any independence and feelings of self worth.
Arms protesting, she managed to inch herself to her feet from the high chair rigged up for her. Gritting her teeth, she raised herself up to the edge of the thick wicker.
Lucy prayed neither of the men would turn round, that both would be mesmerised by the view of the ancient town, its network of narrow streets and the relentless traffic pounding south towards the coast on the elevated section of the ring road.
A burst from the burner covered her moans as she began to clamber over the edge of the basket.
Only inches now…
Her fingers gripped the edge and pulled, her frail body part way over, head staring straight down. The ground below was a blur of colours and textures, like an oil painting viewed from far too close up.
Dizziness swept over her, dancing black dots exploding across her vision, ears filling with the thundering of her straining heart. Every joint burnt with fire at the exertion. The pain was unbearable – more than she could ever have dreamt.
Then, unbelievably it was there – the tipping point. Welcoming gravity took away her burden. She grasped the side of the basket – only her feeble grip preventing her tumble.
This was it…
There would only be three or four seconds before hitting the ground, she reflected – feeling both dread and exhilaration. But oh what bliss those precious instants would be. She wouldn’t be crippled, dependent – she’d be a soaring bird released from captivity.
With a last heart-breaking glance at Paul’s unaware back, she made a solemn wish that he would understand; would one day forgive her.
She whispered silently: “Please have an extraordinary life. Be happy. Be brave. I will always love you.” And let go.
And for a fleeting, heavenly, elated moment Lucy knew what it was like to truly go out on a high…
Artful Dodger
The reporter regarded Josie with an expression half sneering and half pitying. She knew what he thought. He was convinced she was either a self deluding fool or a scheming fraud.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, his voice heavy with irony. “You’re telling me you expect someone to pay £500,000 for a load of old house bricks?”
“That’s right,” she told him, ignoring the sarcasm. “They’ll buy one of the greatest art works of the year and get it at a bargain price.”
He coughed theatrically, rolling his eyeballs. Josie flushed with anger. This was the typical reaction from the tabloids. What did they know about it, she thought angrily. What did those philistines know about modern art? The nearest thing they recognised to culture were £5 posters of girl tennis players scratching their backsides.
She’d been expecting some press scepticism. There had been more than a few raised eyebrows over her last three pieces – a goat cut in half and preserved in formaldehyde, a collage assembled from discarded Kleenex tissues and the old tent (a snip at just £400,000 including soiled sleeping bag). But she’d proved everyone wrong when the pieces sold within weeks.
Normally, she’d shrug off the teasing headlines and mocking opinion columns, but there was something about this reporter’s rudeness that got to her. He seemed determined to ridicule her, right to her face. It was maddening.
She could visualise how her studio looked to his jaundiced eyes. All he could see was a junk-yard stacked high with haphazard piles of old metal, half dismantled toilet cisterns, crusty paint pots and giant ripped canvases. He couldn’t perceive the creative energy, the artistic potential in the crude materials…
And she had a good idea how she appeared to him. She considered her unkempt hair and carefully mismatched clothes gave her a Bohemian air, but he probably reckoned she looked more like a student who’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.
The reporter grinned, savouring his attack: “So you don't subscribe to the view of most serious art critics that it’s just a load of over-hyped rubble and people could get better bricks at a DIY store?”
A murderous thought crossed Josie’s mind. It was lucky for him that she didn’t have one of the bricks to hand, she told herself darkly.
“This work is my masterpiece. It has depth of vision, a technical virtuosity. There is a modernity and immediacy in the execution of–”
“The cementing?” the man suggested mischievously.
That was it. I don’t have to put up with this, she decided.
“I think it’s time you left,” she said frostily. “I have to get to the gallery for the unveiling.” She put on her coat and herded him to the door. “It’s an invitation-only do. Only for those with taste, culture and refinement.”
She flashed him her nastiest look. “No press, naturally.”
An Ugly Way To Go - and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales Page 9
