When Lilith turned out to be a daywalker, albeit with eyes greatly sensitive to sunlight, Sid looked at Joy. The vampire acknowledged with a hint of embarrassment: "It's a recent evolutionary factor."
In the movie, a mysterious client had hired Lilith to eliminate people from the order of the Illuminati. Almost each kill was matched with a feeding session, and feeding sessions almost every time involved sex. Each time the silver-screen vampire commented on the quality of the blood, Joy echoed her in Sid's front room.
One illuminati: "C-minus. Too ironny." The bodyguard of the previous dead: "F-grade. Druggy shit." Goth woman from the Transilvania Bar: "Nice and salty. B-plus." Photographer's blood: "He never looked better than a C, anyway." Sethan Blake's prognostic on Lilith's lover: "Smells good. I think he'll make the grade." At the end of the movie, when Lilith, after defeating Sethan in a sword fight, fed on his blood, Joy once again echoed her: "A-plus, oh at last, some full-bodied vintage stuff."
Credits rolling out on the small TV screen revealed to Sid the name of the actress incarnating the vampire in PVC. Joy smiled appreciatively: "Eileen Daly. Tasty blood."
CHAPTER NINE
"I dream of a world where I can be a drag king and have my motorbike, as I'm so tired of this world, no love, no understanding, so merciless that I work as a mercenary" (Sid Wasgo)
Sid rode alone to the Breakdown, a bikers' café in West London, where she enjoyed being anonymous. Joy had been very vague and for a few nights, off to adventures she would never mention. It was her pattern. Sid had gotten used to it. It suited her: she didn't want to get attached.
So, there she was, by a beautiful evening in May, looking at the sky still a bit too pale to please most vampires, in the shade of a building sporting racing colours and easily passing for a garage. Plethoras of motorbikes lined on and off across the front yard.
She was not a regular at this friendly venue, it was only her second visit, but she had been looking forward to an opportunity to leave her crash helmet among other crash helmets under a staircase again. Parking her Eliminator, she scanned the various groups of people chatting and enjoying the spring evening. She smiled lightly: hairy bikers were not the fabled trend of the moment. Leather was paramount; age was spanning every possibility with extremes reaching sixty-something. You were never too old for a motorbike.
She crossed the threshold and a medley of rock classics welcomed her, starting with Rock me, Shock me, an eighties number by the immortal Girlschool, a band whose albums hadn't had the opportunity to grace her stereo yet. Blissful ignorance.
A smell of hot chocolate tickled her nose while she paid her entry fee to a leather-clad man with a handlebar for mustache over his friendly smile. She scanned the still quiet room with her myopic eyes, spotted two women talking and standing in front of the stage stuck at the end of the room. One she recognized as Terry Harley, as animated and enthusiastic as ever, the other one was a stranger whose lanky frame was barely covered by tight pieces of clothing, and whose aura betrayed as another singer. She was towering a head above the freckled face. Sid was looking forward to see her band perform. She had never seen Emotionally Wrong but had spotted their name on gig listings countless times and wondered.
* * * * * * * *
Dee-Dee crossed the threshold of the public venue, dropped a bank note on the table in front of the man with the handlebar, and moved on in, knowing she was underpaying her entry fee. She was in a bad mood, the same bad mood that she had been carrying for the last twelve years, and her blazing eyes had said so to the man.
The sky was now dark and she could mingle with the crowd of oblivious potential meals. Her ears recognized the tune at this moment of the soundtrack: Hotel California by the Eagles. It was almost like a trip back in time, the venue had not changed a decibel.
She was wearing one of her many white shirts, a stark contrast among the flurry of leather jackets. Her wild hair was mostly hiding her storm-grey eyes and her hands were trying to dig holes in the pockets of her standard tight, faded jeans. She meandered among the beer guzzlers and the tequila aficionados.
She remembered the venue. She remembered the petrol tank hanging above the bar ready to collect patrons' tips. The Fireheads had been there, on this very stage, and the drummer had felt cramped at the back. Their singer had just had enough room to jump and crawl.
She heard the short burst of drums underscoring the Eagles' hit. The support band was getting ready. She made her way to the stage to check them out. Musicians had been the bloody treats she enjoyed the most all over the world since becoming a vampire. She hated her need to feed, but at least, she could control it long enough to carefully select her prey and not kill it. Her. Her preys were always female. In sight of the stage, she froze and double-backed, shocked. But what did she expect? That the Fireheads would fold back and die after her mysterious disappearance and everyone would retire into nine-to-five jobs? Yes, the Fireheads had folded, but not died. Here were the singer and one of the bass players she had rocked with. The drummer was familiar, too, despite her shaved head, but who was she? Dee-Dee had bled the Fireheads drummer to death……. A peroxide blonde was tuning an electric guitar. A cordless electric guitar. She was all leather-clad and looked classy, almost a joke among the ……. What was the name of the band? Not the Fireheads, she would have noticed that on the flyer. Maybe the guitar player was not a classy joke, maybe the singer had left her punk roots behind and gone all rock 'n' roll. Music is a world of intensity. One of your mates disappears, another one is killed, the shock can do that to you: overnight shape-shifting.
She would not feed on them. She could not. Too many shared memories. But, I am a vampire. She looked around, scanning the crowd of happy punters again. Here you go. Shining like a beacon, about her height, a green mohican and a quiet face, a camera dangling from around her neck, looking absentminded and absentmindedly looking around while draining a pint glass from its yellowish liquid. Oh yes, she smelled like a perfect meal…….
* * * * * * *
The perfect meal was not noticing the vampire. You would have thought that by now she could have spotted a vampire from a mile away, just by the discrepancy in the energy field. Sid hadn't learnt yet that vampires were dangerous. Her only knowledge of this predatory kind was Joy, and Joy had never threatened her, hurt her or attempted to kill her. They had idle chats or intellectual conversations, and they slept together every now and then. Joy was actually safer than any of Sid's past girlfriends. So, no, there was no warning notice pinned on her radar to say: beware of vampires, avoid them, they are dangerous. The dangers of hanging out with vampires were more like intellectual and literary notions to the writer.
Just before her eyes crossed looks with Dee-Dee, someone put a hand on Sid's shoulder and greeted her, providing distraction.
"Hey, Sid! Glad you could make it!"
"Hi, Dawn! How are things?"
"Cool! Have you seen our new T-shirts?"
Dee-Dee watched her chosen victim drift away to a table of paraphernalia already surrounded by fans of the headlining band.
* * * * * * *
Emotionally Wrong. The name sounded right for her ex-bandmate. The drummer counted them in with a rapid-fire kicking of her bass drum. The singer almost missed her cue when she spotted Dee-Dee in the audience. But she had seen her disappeared friend so many times, in so many crowds, at so many gigs, that she had gotten used to the visual hallucinations. Twelve years on, who could forget that strange and sad summer? Her voice, distorted in the speakers, slammed into ears, unprepared for the sudden onslaught. The bass followed suit in a rumbling motion, and the lead guitar cut through the music with a dry overdrive. The Dee-Dee lookalike was just a lookalike; the real Dee-Dee would have come forward. The singer sang on. Had Dee-Dee disappeared first, or had the drummer died first? The police had, of course, immediately suspected the missing musician. Nevertheless, the singer knew: Dee-Dee would have never killed a friend, never; she was just not the type.
The vampire, nerves
shredded by the punk-rock music, a sound that had barely changed since the Fireheads, tried to keep the memories at bay ─at least, her replacement had talent and actually fitted with the image of the band─ and refocus on her meal. The meal was a busy photographer, apparently more specifically fascinated by the alluring guitar player whose legs were restlessly moving, covering miles across the stage.
* * * * * * *
Sid had just finished washing her hands when the blond woman in the white shirt entered the presently deserted toilets. Sid had noticed her and pegged her as a musician because of the energy about her. The photographer could sense something else, something unusual that she had sensed before, something…….
Sid identified the extra factor, but belatedly. The woman with striking grey eyes often hidden by the wild sweeps of her hair, had already closed the space between them; Sid had barely a fraction of a second before the tips of the fangs graze the fragile skin of her neck, to guess.
As suddenly as her confident move, the vampire withdrew, shock painted across her youthful facial features.
"Who do you belong to?" Her icy voice demanded.
"What?!" Belong?! Sid viewed herself as a free agent.
Dee-Dee's nostrils dilated. "What's the name of the vampire who feeds on you?" Something felt off. There were no telltale scars, but the smell was there, unmistakable. And this puny photographer was not even scared?! She looked surprised alright, but there was no reaction of fear to Dee-Dee's resurfacing rage. "What's the name?" She repeated icily.
"Joy." There was almost a hint of challenge in Sid's voice.
"Joy……." Dee-Dee slowly echoed. Joy was a vampire, too. She remembered the tall woman with long, dark hair cascading down to the waist, as tall as Toni. Had Toni made her? Or was it the other way around? Or maybe, they just happened to share the same territory, regardless of their different origins. Unlikely. How powerful was Joy? How ancient could she be?
Dee-Dee was powerful; a powerful and ancient vampire had made her. How ancient Toni was, happened to be a totally irrelevant factor to the raging fledgling. Dee-Dee was powerful, young, but angry, angry enough to challenge another vampire. She pushed her prey against the wall and her fangs pierced the skin, savaging the tarantula tattoo. Sid didn't react to the pain. She had not expected the pain. She had never really thought about the pain fangs could inflict: for her it was still an intellectual notion. Because, even during her first encounter with Joy, the encounter interrupted by Death herself, pain had not been part of the equation. Joy's M.O. was to mesmerize her victims and make them feel pleasure. When Joy feasted on Sid's menstrual blood, there was no reason for mesmerizing and Sid felt genuine sexual pleasure.
This vampire was deliberately inflicting pain to Sid. Sid hated it. Sid knew about pain, way too much, and hated it. Something else she probably hated as much, was to be used as a pawn in a chess game.
Sid knew she was in no danger to lose her life. Death would have already been there in a flash of full moon to intervene and feed the vampire another prey, even in a moonless night. So she trusted Death, Sid felt irritated by this attitude. She could feel this irritation despite the striking pain occasioned by the vampire sucking on her skin, munching on her blood. Imagine a beast is eating you alive. Ok, once the skin had been pierced, there was no need for fangs anymore, but Sid's skin was sensitive and Dee-Dee wanted to cause pain. She felt enraged by the past hitting her again and again, one way or another. Tonight she could not ignore it; she could not escape from her own pain.
She eventually pulled away from Sid's neck. Sid's eyes stared at her from a face gone pale. Dee-Dee stepped back, unsettled by the intensity and the pulling quality of the brown eyes, feeling it tugging strongly at something inside her. A great hunger. Sort of feeding…….
"What are you?" Her icy voice stumbled. Sid frowned. What was she?! What did this vampire mean? The vampire looked away, breaking the link. "Tell Joy I'm in town."
And then, Sid was alone in the toilets, with only her bleeding neck as certitude that the whole bizarre scene had really happened.
INTERLUDE
"Jo Davenport”, chapter one (courtesy of the author Sid Wasgo)
7 pm. I don’t wanna feel that way for Janis but I do. It feels so useless and uncomfortable. It makes looking at her in the eye so difficult.
I arrive at the restaurant way too early. She gets caught up in the bus traffic and is late. But at least she turns up and I’m so glad. Because it is my forever fear that even people who say they are my friends, even them, forget all about me and never show up, and don’t even acknowledge that I exist.
So, Janis turns up and I feel relieved and I feel uncomfortable. Because it feels so uncomfortable to sit at a table with a woman I’m crazy for. I have not told a soul but every time I cycle through the city, I’m gonna cycle through her street and contemplate her doorstep. I surely keep this secret from her.
So, we sit at the same table and I feel stiff as a wooden stick. I’m crazy for this woman and she’ll never be crazy for me. Maybe I shouldn’t be there at all. Maybe I should never see her again. Maybe I should never phone her again. Maybe I should erase her from my life and erase myself from hers. Before my guardian spirits make the decision for me. But you know, when I don’t see her, when I don’t hear the rich sound of her voice, I don’t feel totally happy (euphemism: totally happy doesn’t exist for me).
So, I sit at this table with her, blinded by her smile and unable to look at her in the eye for too long. Well, actually, it’s like, our eyes meet and I look away.
This Mexican place is my favorite restaurant. That’s why I invited her here. Tonight out of every possible 7.30 pm (with traffic delay, please). I wanted to eat cactus. The cactus, nor slimy nor crunchy, turns out to be a disappointment. I like it slimy as okras. Janis prefers crunchy bits. Even if right now she is very much into cold avocado soup. Creamy thing.
She watches me eating a stuffed tomato and comments:
“You left the tomato.”
“No, I haven’t attacked it yet.”
Typical of me: stuffing first, container last. What do other people do with it? I have a look around and find out I’m the only one eating a stuffed tomato tonight. I say:
“The first time I ever thought about suicide, I was six and a half. The only thing which kept me from acting on it was pancakes.”
She smiles more broadly. As intended, the pancake factor is one of the positive ingredients of life. She loves pancakes.
“Especially with butter, sugar and lemon. What about you?”
Me? I have to think hard, scrape my brain, because contrary to a widely spread belief, I’m not so much into whipped cream banana pancakes. Sugar? Lemon? No. Grimace. The answer pops up and pops out:
“Maple syrup.”
From pancakes to tattoos there is only one giant step. We cross over the Rubicon without any qualms. Because Keiko, a mutual acquaintance, who has every complicated design she can think of, challenged me, coaxed me into, talked me into, influenced me, convinced me, to go for it. A skull is sprawled on the top part of my right arm. The X of the X-Files green and stamped on its forehead, vampire teeth cynical and grinning. Purple snakes dancing around my biceps like an armband. Now, I know why I hesitated so long.
“Was it painful?”
I grin, with a hint of cynicism, but without the vampire teeth:
“What do you think?”
She looks at me, thoughtfully, and inquires:
“Are you into S&M or do you like pain?”
I feel revolted. Like a tidal wave, it sweeps the cynicism away. I lose my footing. Has she been thinking that all along, since the first day we met? What is it: my more than occasional leatherwear? My short hair constantly shaved then bleached? My pierced eyebrow? I frown, recoiling with revulsion at the possibility of an S&M involvement from my part. I slowly reply:
“The simple suggestion shocks me.”
She apologizes. Her smile radiates warmth.
I don’
t like pain. But I went through it long enough to let Keiko’s tattooist, a talented woman, cut through my skin, puncture it and engrave the colourful human skull and its reptilian acolytes deep around my arm. Janis doesn’t like pain either. A dental appointment is her idea of Hell on Earth.
The six-and-half-year-old little girl is still on my mind. She chose pancakes versus Death on a rainy afternoon. It was a boring family outing at St Michael’s Mount. I still wonder why.
My one and only tattoo is hardly two weeks old. Healed up, but itchy. Janis gets up to go to the loo. I watch her walking away. Swinging her hips and her shoulders. Like if she was on high heels. I could imagine a purse dangling at her fingertips. Does she always walk like that? She looks so smart and elegant. Is she feeling self-conscious? Can she feel my gaze following her a few inches behind? Jeans, white shirt, flowing around her lanky frame. I think she wears flat shoes. I forget to look at her feet. When she comes back, my eyes flee, quickly, swiftly.
She says she is off to the States in December. Buying her ticket next week. New Mexico. Arizona. The Four Corners. I’d love to fly with her and see the desert. Feel the hot sand of the Painted Desert under my bare feet. I keep the tantalizing thought safely hidden in a secret recess of my brain.
Dessert time. A discreet drizzle behind the window. I order a Mexican hot chocolate. I am not into drinking chocolate, but I wanna try this utmost traditional recipe. It’s got a reputation of ultimate experience. She orders cookies: chocolate chili, wedding, cinnamon. She isn’t so keen on them after tasting. My hot chocolate is one of the most wonderful things on Earth.
Time to make tracks. Already? It is always too soon.
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