by Nick James
The Victorian Vampire
by
Nick James
Copyright © Nicholas Plumridge 2019
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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Contents
Also by Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Also by Author
The Misplaced Man: Who is in charge of his destiny?
Chasing the Dragon (The Misplaced Man Book 2)
Fallen Dynasties (The Misplaced Man Book 3)
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank my partner in crime and life, my darling wife Sarah. And of course, my beta readers Dawn Walker, Layla Bennett and Amanda Spreadbury. Thank you for all your help.
Finally, I hope that my grandparents are looking down at me proudly, as their bodies have been lost to time, their memories and souls are still with us, although Grandpa Woolcott will be watching The Arsenal instead.
To Frank & Margaret Woolcott and Arthur & Margaret Plumridge, I miss you every day, the world seems duller without you somehow.
Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.
Stephen King
Chapter 1
A lot of people do not believe in souls. But when you no longer have one, you certainly know about it. You have a void in your body, which gnaws away at you. Drink, food and loose women, I’ve tried them all, but nothing will ever fill that hole. Although, feeling the love of a good woman almost makes me feel human.
Then when you add a lack of heartbeat and pulse, your body feels like a shell, a half-filled suitcase that you drag your organs and brain around in. Then you add the need to feed, which consumes you, your friends, family, and even your true love. You will tear them asunder, sometimes destroying several generations.
Sometimes I think the reason we do not have a soul is because God knows what the demon inside will drive you to do. So, he took his gift away. But then again very few choose this existence, because you couldn’t call it a life.
My name is Albert Nathanial Morris. I am a vampire and, like many others, I did not choose to be a vampire. I grew up in London around the Whitechapel area in a little house on Middlesex Street. I was born 24 August 1868. My father, Nathanial, was a well-respected painter and decorator, and deeply religious. His wife of many years and my mother was called Anne. At only five feet tall and petite, it meant she had a difficult pregnancy, to which she told me on a regular basis, so I was their one and only child. That upset them both.
The early years were not too bad: school and chores, and the odd beating here and there, especially if I took the good Lord’s name in vain. Well, what would you say if you were twelve and stubbed your toe on your bed and you hadn’t learnt any swear words yet?
At the weekends I helped my father with his business, decorating the rich families’ houses around the boroughs of London. My main duty was to push the barrow containing my father’s tools and paints as we didn’t have the money for a horse and cart. Even if we did, in our part of London the horse would be stolen within the hour, and every household and pub within walking distance would be eating stew for the next few days.
When I did manage to break free from my family’s bonds, my best friend and I would run riot through the streets trying not to be caught by the police, or the other names they were called: copper, slops, scufty, bulky, rozzers, old bill, and crushers. Our favourite was ‘bastards’, not witty or catchy, but shouting ‘the bastards are coming’ sounded just right for us.
My best friend, Adrian Michaels, was the one who always got caught and given the back hand of justice. When we reached sixteen, I topped out at five feet eleven inches, which was a couple of inches above my father, but Adrian carried on until he reached six feet two. Between this, his flame-red hair and being the width of a beanpole, the Peelers could see him in any street, day or night.
In the summer of 1885, I had been working with my father for two years, but no money had come my way as I was in training and had to pay for room and board. Some parts of the job were fun, being inside all the nice houses and seeing all the exceptionally clean housemaids, who would sometimes give me a kiss and a cuddle, especially if I had seen them about when I was growing up. But apart from that, the day-to-day work was dull and boring. I wanted a new life – one of fun and adventure.
I was sat in our local pub, The Slaughtered Lamb, having a pint with Adrian, who was working at a local abattoir and was covered in blood and pissed off.
‘We gotta get out of ’ere, mate, this place is boring me to death,’ he said, taking a large draught of dark brown ale.
I shrugged and looked at the barmaid behind the bar. She was in her fifties, but what could be seen spilling out of her top was worth a look.
‘What do you want to do? I’m sick of it, too, but what else is there, apart from robbing?’ I asked, catching the eye of the barmaid. The look she returned was not pleasant to say the least.
We were being jostled in every corner. It was one of those times of the day when there were shift changes from the surrounding factories, so tired men wanted a pint to drown their sorrows before heading home to the family or drinking their fill and getting some paid company before going home.
I will not act all pious like my father and say I have never paid for sex. Living in Whitechapel, you won’t find a single girl from a good respectful family, especially in the pubs Adrian and I frequented. The company was nice albeit brief (my fault). I left with less money, but without my virginity.
‘What about the army? My cousin Bill went to India and loved it there, all the women and curry you could eat,’ Adrian said with a gap-toothed smile, which he acquired after pinching a woman’s bum one night in the pub. Let’s say her husband didn’t appreciate his hands-on approach.
I frowned. ‘Didn’t he die over there?’ I asked.
He gave me a thoughtful look, which looked like a donkey eating a salty carrot. He wasn’t a pretty boy, despite what he thought.
‘Well, yeah, but that wasn’t the army’s fault. The postcard we got said he was drunk and decided to climb up a building to some woman’s room,’ Adrian said.
‘Did he fall? I can’t remember,’ I admitted, taking another sip from my pint, hoping my mum would forgo the ‘you’re such a d
isappointment’ speech when I made it home, although the reason I drank was to get through such conversations without losing my temper.
Adrian chuckled. ‘Yeah, he managed to get to the window, and the husband was standing there inside the bedroom window and punched him right off the ledge,’ he said, straining his memory back to when they received the postcard from his cousin’s friend who had served alongside him in the army.
I rubbed my face and looked around, same old people, same old smell. You had more chance of getting a knife in the gut around here than finding a girl to marry. Unless I do what Mum says: go to church and find a nice Catholic girl. Sorry, Mum, look around you. If there is a God, he’s not doing a good job.
‘Do you think the army would take us?’ I asked.
‘Well, my cousin was as flat-footed as an elephant, so if he can get in I don’t see why not.’ He grabbed my now empty pint pot and headed off to the bar.
As I waited, I thought about my future. I could work with my father until he dies and follow his slow and methodical working practices while he belittles me at every turn, or I could save money from my on-the-side work and build my own customer base, starting with places my father wouldn’t touch, like pubs and knocking shops.
Adrian finally returned. He had been trying to chat up the barmaid to see if she had a back room they could play in, but he was given a forceful no. ‘So, what do you think, Bert, want to fight for Queen and country?’ he asked before starting to assault his new pint.
‘My father would kill me, or worse,’ I said, pulling a scared face.
‘What could be worse than that?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Mum would cry, then pray for me, then they would talk to me for the rest of my life about what a disappointment of a son I am.’ I took a draught of my pint, which was so unpleasant I felt like I could chew on it.
An old toothless man with a bloody apron came stumbling into us. ‘You two boys wouldn’t…wouldn’t…’ he stuttered while looking like he was going to be sick over our drinks. ‘…Wouldn’t make it in the army. Ugly ’ere told me his plans.’ The old man started to laugh, and then started to poke my friend in the chest while laughing.
Now, I grew up with Adrian and we classed each other as family, but even I wouldn’t get away with doing that to him.
First thing to notice was the vein in his neck, which was pulsing so much it looked as though it was outside his skin. The next thing was him handing me his half-empty glass. And the final hint I had that something was about to go bent was the old man’s nose being splattered across his face. Plus point was that Adrian knocked him down. Not so good point was his three friends who came to his aid.
Adrian launched himself at the three, head first into a fellow ginger’s face. I used the two pint glasses to blind the other two – having chewable ale thrown in your eyes is not nice, especially followed by cheap glass pint pots. I managed to take one down with a quick kick to his bollocks, but his colleague caught me with a punch, which felt like granite knocking me flat on my arse.
Once again Lady Luck was on my side – or, in layman’s terms, it was the barmaid. My assaulter crumpled, which left her standing over me with a truncheon she had taken from an ex-lover. I never did dare ask if he was a policeman or not. As the man who hit me was in the realms of unconsciousness, a voice barked a slang word which I hadn’t heard in years, not since my schooldays, ‘Peg it, mutton shunters!’ (Run, police!)
Using the knocked-out man as somewhere clean to put my hands, I managed to get up just as I heard a whistle blast coming from the charging police. What I didn’t know at the time was that the fight had already spilled into the road.
Catching sight of the bloodied but weirdly smiling Adrian, who seemed to be fighting all comers, we locked eyes. ‘Peelers!’ I shouted, and we bolted to the door and into the street which was awash with brawlers and police. I watched my friend dodge the truncheon from a newly arrived copper, but that didn’t stop us running.
We stopped two streets over panting. ‘Well, that’s me out of a job.’ The redhead chuckled, then cleared his nose of snot and blood which splattered onto the cobbles scaring a nearby rat.
‘I’d better get home; they are going to be angry anyway,’ I said, knowing that a night-long lecture was coming my way. ‘But as you’re jobless, go and find what you need to join up. I think my future as a painter is coming to an end.’
Adrian agreed, and we parted laughing as always.
Chapter 2
‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, BOY!’ boomed my father as soon as the city noise had been shut away by the front door. He was standing at the end of the hall, still all prim and proper as was Mother standing behind him.
‘Well, Albert, where have you been?’ she asked.
Clearly, they weren’t going to be understanding. ‘I had a drink with Adrian, but something happened,’ I admitted, and then waited for the floodgates of tears to come from Mum. ‘But it wasn’t our fault.’ Yes, lying is a sin, but according to my parents everything is.
‘Taking the demon drink. You remember what that did to your uncle,’ Father spat angrily. Uncle John had walked in front of a carriage after a skinful. ‘You bring this family name into the dirt; you’re an embarrassment to us, boy. If I didn’t need you tomorrow so badly, I would cast you out so you can join the dregs of society that you love to associate with,’ and with that statement he stormed back into the front room, just leaving my mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks. But, for once, she didn’t say a word and just walked away to join Father.
I headed upstairs to my small room. As ever, the house was in pristine shape, even the stair carpet was as clean as a nun’s dream. My room had also been tidied, so I filled my wash basin with fresh water and washed the bloody remnants from the fight before undressing and getting into bed, hoping that Father would be in a better mood on the morrow.
The next morning I quickly learned I was wrong. I pushed our barrow for over an hour in stony silence with the London early morning mist clawing at my face. Father just walked in front of me, not even casting an eye at me. Breakfast had been bad enough, Father said nothing, and Mother told me it was time I started to act my age. Clearly, they didn’t understand the irony that giving me the silent treatment was hardly acting their ages.
With a sheen of sweat now covering my skin, we finally arrived at the three-storey town house belonging to Mr and Mrs Alistair McAdams. I parked up the barrow by the kerb as my father walked around to the servants’ entrance situated at the rear of the property. I waited for him to return. Thankfully the weather was mild today, which meant I didn’t have to empty the whole contents into the house, but then again Father might just make me do that as punishment.
I could see the odd curtain being twitched from the surrounding houses. If you weren’t a tradesman, our type of person wasn’t wanted in this area; and workmen from the houses would arrive to turn you off the patch, sometimes with menaces.
I was pulled out of my musings by my father. ‘Albert, start bringing the stuff in, and hurry up about it,’ he shouted from the side of the house. He obviously wasn’t going to help today.
I grabbed the folded-up dust sheet, headed towards the back of the house and walked into the kitchen. The well-rounded and red-faced cook just flicked her head towards another door.
‘Thanks, ma’am,’ I uttered and walked past. I found my father talking to a tall, balding man, clearly the butler to the property. ‘Where do you want these, Father?’
They stopped and stared at me. ‘In there, boy, we are painting the cellar, it’s all cleared out ready,’ he said and pointed to a side door with stairs that descended into darkness.
As the creaking steps dropped away, there were oil lamps burning on cupboards allowing me to see the vastness of our job ahead – a good few days’ work.
It took me several trips to empty the whole barrow and, as I thought, Father was using it as punishment. The benefit of this toing and froing was that I bumped into one
of the housemaids, a blonde giggly girl called Emily Barker, but she scuttled away quite quickly when the cook shouted for her. Things were looking up.
Father walked off the job to see a new customer to give him a quote, leaving me to start preparing the room for painting, mainly making sure it was free from dust, so washing down the walls here we come.
This part of the job was always hard, especially as you’re trying to rid the place of all the dust while you had heavy-footed sods banging around above and flexing the floorboards letting even more dust float to the ground. ‘Bloody hell!’ I swore, throwing my washing rag back into the bucket of water.
‘Now, now, Berty, that mouth of yours will get you into trouble,’ said a soft voice coming from the stairs.
I looked over and saw the typical black and white uniform of a housemaid, not the curvy girl from earlier, this one was tallish and thin.
‘Don’t you recognise me, Albert?’ The girl walked slowly down the stairs holding a sandwich and a glass of milk.
I squinted in the oil lamp-bathed room, then the flickering light illuminated her face. I smiled. ‘Annabel, Annabel Abbot. Well, this is a nice surprise,’ I said. We had gone to school together for a few years, but then one day she never turned up.
She smiled putting down the plate and glass, and then she placed her hands on her hips. ‘How are you, Berty? You look well,’ Annabel said, but she kept her tones low so the upstairs staff wouldn’t hear us talking.
‘Yes, I’m good thank you. You are looking well, too. Why did you leave school?’ I asked, and then looked at the food and drink.
Her uniform rustled as she shrugged. ‘The cook sent those down for you,’ she added and walked a bit closer, flicking her dark eyes upwards. ‘My father owed a lot of money, so he pulled me out of school and managed to get me a position here,’ she explained. There were tears in her eyes, but she had always been a strong girl. Many boys had limped away from her at school after trying to pursue her.
