“Good morning, Mr Collins.”
“Good morning,” I answered. “Please call me Peter.”
“Peter, then,” he nodded. He seemed out of breath, either from his stumbling walk over the beach or a certain urgency which I could detect in his movements, his hurried, almost rude “let’s get down to it” manner.
“Peter, you said you would be here for one more day?”
“That’s right,” I answered, for the first time studying him closely where he sat like some strange garden gnome half in the shade of the beach umbrella. “This is my last day.”
He was a bundle of dry wood, a pallid prune, a small, umber scarecrow. And his voice, too, was of straw, or autumn leaves blown across a shady path. Only his eyes were alive. “And you said you have no family, few friends, no one to miss you back in England?”
Warning bells rang in my head. Maybe it wasn’t so much urgency in him – which usually implies a goal or ambition still to be realized – but eagerness in that the goal was in sight. “That’s correct. I am, was, a student doctor. When I get home I shall seek a position. Other than that there’s nothing, no one, no ties.”
He leaned forward, bird eyes very bright, claw hand reaching across the table, trembling, and—
Her shadow suddenly fell across us as she stood there in that costume. Karpethes jerked back in his chair. His face was working, strange emotions twisting the folds and wrinkles of his flesh into stranger contours. I could feel my heart thumping against my ribs . . . why I couldn’t say. I calmed myself, looked up at her and smiled.
She stood with her back to the sun, which made a dark silhouette of her head and face. But in that blot of darkness her oval eyes were green jewels. “Shall we swim, Peter?”
She turned and ran down the beach, and of course I ran after her. She had a head start and beat me to the water, beat me to the raft, too. It wasn’t until I hauled myself up beside her that I thought of Karpethes: how I hadn’t even excused myself before plunging after her. But at least the water had cleared my head, bringing me completely awake and aware.
Aware of her incredible body where it stretched almost touching mine, on the fiber deck of the gently bobbing raft.
I mentioned her husband’s line of inquiry, gasping a little for breath as I recovered from the frantic exercise of our race. She, on the other hand, already seemed completely recovered. She carefully arranged her hair about her shoulders like a fan, to dry in the sunlight, before answering.
“Nichos is not really my husband,” she finally said, not looking at me. “I am his companion, that’s all. I could have told you last night, but . . . there was the chance that you really were curious only about our nationality. As for any veiled threats he might have issued: that is not unusual. He might not have the vitality of younger men, but jealousy is ageless.”
“No,” I answered, “he didn’t threaten – not that I noticed. But jealousy? Knowing I have only one more day to spend here, what has he to fear from me?”
Her shoulders twitched a little, a shrug. She turned her face to me, her lips inches away. Her eyelashes were like silken shutters overgreen pools, hiding whatever swam in the deeps. “I am young, Peter, and so are you. And you are very attractive, very . . . eager? Holiday romances are not uncommon.”
My blood was on fire. “I have very little money,” I said. “We are staying at different hotels. He already suspects me. It is impossible.”
“What is?” she innocently asked, leaving me at a complete loss.
But then she laughed, tossed back her hair, already dry, dangled her hands and arms in the water. “Where there’s a will . . .” she said.
“You know that I want you—” The words spilled out before I could control or change them.
“Oh, yes. And I want you.” She said it so simply, and yet suddenly I felt seared. A moth brushing the magnet candle’s flame.
I lifted my head, looked toward the beach. Across seventy-five yards of sparkling water the beach umbrellas looked very large and close. Karpethes sat in the shade just as I had last seen him, his face hidden in shadow. But I knew that he watched.
“You can do nothing here,” she said, her voice languid – but I noticed now that she, too, seemed short of breath.
“This,” I told her with a groan, “is going to kill me!”
She laughed, laughter that sparkled more than the sun on the sea. “I’m sorry,” she sobered. “It’s unfair of me to laugh. But – your case is not hopeless.”
“Oh?”
“Tomorrow morning, early, Nichos has an appointment with a specialist in Genova. I am to drive him into the city tonight. We’ll stay at a hotel overnight.”
I groaned my misery. “Then my case is quite hopeless. I fly tomorrow.”
“But if I sprained my wrist,” she said, “and so could not drive . . . and if he went into Genova by taxi while I stayed behind with a headache – because of the pain from my wrist—” Like a flash she was on her feet, the raft tilting, her body diving, striking the water into a spray of diamonds.
Seconds for it all to sink in – and then I was following her, laboring through the water in her churning wake. And as she splashed from the sea, seeing her stumble, go to her hands and knees in Ligurian shingle – and the pained look on her face, the way she held her wrist as she came to her feet. As easy as that!
Karpethes, struggling to rise from his seat, stared at her with his mouth agape. Her face screwed up now as I followed her up the beach. And Adrienne holding her “sprained” wrist and shaking it, her mouth forming an elongated “O.” The sinuous motion of her body and limbs, mobile marble with dew of ocean clinging saltily. . . .
If the tiny man had said to me: “I am Necros. I want ten years of your life for one night with her,” at that moment I might have sealed the bargain. Gladly. But legends are legends and he wasn’t Necros, and he didn’t, and I didn’t. After all, there was no need. . . .
IV
I suppose my greatest fear was that she might be “having me on,” amusing herself at my expense. She was, of course, “safe” with me – insofar as I would be gone tomorrow and the “romance” forgotten, for her, anyway – and I could also see how she was starved for young companionship, a fact she had brought right out in the open from the word go.
But why me? Why should I be so lucky?
Attractive? Was I? I had never thought so. Perhaps it was because I was so safe: here today and gone tomorrow, with little or no chance of complications. Yes, that must be it. If she wasn’t simply making a fool of me. She might be just a tease—
—But she wasn’t.
At 8:30 that evening I was in the bar of my hotel – had been there for an hour, careful not to drink too much, unable to eat – when the waiter came to me and said there was a call for me on the reception telephone. I hurried out to reception where the clerk discreetly excused himself and left me alone.
“Peter?” Her voice was a deep well of promise. “He’s gone. I’ve booked us a table, to dine at 9:00. Is that all right for you?”
“A table? Where?” my own voice breathless.
“Why, up here, of course! Oh, don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. And anyway, Nichos knows.”
“Knows?” I was taken aback, a little panicked. “What does he know?”
“That we’re dining together. In fact he suggested it. He didn’t want me to eat alone – and since this is your last night . . .”
“I’ll get a taxi right away,” I told her.
“Good. I look forward to . . . seeing you. I shall be in the bar.”
I replaced the telephone in its cradle, wondering if she always took an apéritif before the main course. . . .
I had smartened myself up. That is to say, I was immaculate. Black bow tie, white eveningjacket (courtesy of C & A), black trousers and a lightly-frilled white shirt, the only one I had ever owned. But I might have known that my appearance would never match up to hers. It seemed that everything she did was just perfectly right. I could
only hope that that meant literally everything.
But in her black lace evening gown with its plunging neckline, short wide sleeves and delicate silver embroidery, she was stunning. Sitting with her in the bar, sipping our drinks – for me a large whiskey and for her a tall Cinzano – I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Twice I reached out for her hand and twice she drew back from me.
“Discreet they may well be,” she said, letting her oval green eyes flicker toward the bar, where guests stood and chatted, and back to me, “but there’s really no need to give them occasion to gossip.”
“I’m sorry, Adrienne,” I told her, my voice husky and close to trembling, “but—”
“How is it,” she demurely cut me off, “that a good-looking man like you is – how do you say it? – going short?”
I sat back, chuckled. “That’s a rather unladylike expression,” I told her.
“Oh? And what I’ve planned for tonight is ladylike?”
My voice went huskier still. “Just what is your plan?”
“While we eat,” she answered, her voice low, “I shall tell you.” At which point a waiter loomed, towel over his arm, inviting us to accompany him to the dining room.
Adrienne’s portions were tiny, mine huge. She sipped a slender, light white wine, I gulped blocky rich red from a glass the waiter couldn’t seem to leave alone. Mercifully I was hungry – I hadn’t eaten all day – else that meal must surely have bloated me out. And all of it ordered in advance, the very best in quality cuisine.
“This,” she eventually said, handling me her key, “fits the door of our suite.” We were sitting back, enjoying liqueurs and cigarettes. “The rooms are on the ground floor. Tonight you enter through the door, tomorrow morning you leave via the window. A slow walk down to the seafront will refresh you. How is that for a plan?”
“Unbelievable!”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Not my good fortune, no.”
“Shall we say that we both have our needs?”
“I think,” I said, “that I may be falling in love with you. What if I don’t wish to leave in the morning?”
She shrugged, smiled, said: “Who knows what tomorrow may bring?”
How could I ever have thought of her simply as another girl? Or even an ordinary young woman? Girl she certainly was, woman, too, but so . . . knowing! Beautiful as a princess and knowing as a whore.
If Mario’s old myths and legends were reality, and if Nichos Karpethes were really Necros, then he’d surely picked the right companion. No man born could ever have resisted Adrienne, of that I was quite certain. These thoughts were in my mind – but dimly, at the back of my mind – as I left her smoking in the dining room and followed her directions to the suite of rooms at the rear of the hotel. In the front of my mind were other thoughts, much more vivid and completely erotic.
I found the suite, entered, left the door slightly ajar behind me.
The thing about an Italian room is its size. An entire suite of rooms is vast. As it happened I was only interested in one room, and Adrienne had obligingly left the door to that one open.
I was sweating. And yet . . . I shivered.
Adrienne had said fifteen minutes, time enough for her to smoke another cigarette and finish her drink. Then she would come to me. By now the entire staff of the hotel probably knew I was in here, but this was Italy.
V
I shivered again. Excitement? Probably.
I threw off my clothes, found my way to the bathroom, took the quickest shower of my life. Drying myself off, I padded back to the bedroom.
Between the main bedroom and the bathroom a smaller door stood ajar. I froze as I reached it, my senses suddenly alert, my ears seeming to stretch themselves into vast receivers to pickup any slightest sound. For there had been a sound, I was sure of it, from that room. . . .
A scratching? A rustle? A whisper? I couldn’t say. But a sound, anyway.
Adrienne would be coming soon. Standing outside that door I slowly recommenced toweling myself dry. My naked feet were still firmly rooted, but my hands automatically worked with the towel. It was nerves, only nerves. There had been no sound, or at worst only the night breeze off the sea, whispering in through an open window.
I stopped toweling, took another step toward the main bedroom, heard the sound again. A small, choking rasp. A tiny gasping for air.
Karpethes? What the hell was going on?
I shivered violently, my suddenly chill flesh shuddering in an uncontrollable spasm. But . . . I forced myself to action, returned to the main bedroom, quickly dressed (with the exceptions of my tie and jacket) and crept back to the small room.
Adrienne must be on her way to me even now. She mustn’t find me poking my nose into things, like a suspicious kid. I must kill off this silly feeling that had my skin crawling. Not that an attack of nerves was unnatural in the circumstances, on the contrary, but I wasn’t about to let it spoil the night. I pushed open the door of the room, entered into darkness, found the lightswitch. Then—
—I held my breath, flipped the switch.
The room was only half as big as the others. It contained a small single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe. Nothing more, or at least nothing immediately apparent to my wildly darting eyes. My heart, which was racing, slowed and began to settle toward a steadier beat. The window was open, external shutters closed – but small night sounds were finding their way in through the louvers. The distant sounds of traffic, the toot of horns – holiday sounds from below.
I breathed deeply and gratefully, and saw something projecting from beneath the pillow on the bed. A corner of card or of dark leather, like a wallet or—
—Or a passport!
A Greek passport, Karpethes’, when I opened it. But how could it be? The man in the photograph was young, no older than me. His birthdate proved it. And there was his name: Nichos Karpethes. Printed in Greek, of course, but still plain enough. His son?
Puzzling over the passport had served to distract me. My nerves had steadied up. I tossed the passport down, frowned at it where it lay upon the bed, breathed deeply once more . . . and froze solid!
A scratching, a hissing, a dry grunting – from the wardrobe.
Mice? Or did I in fact smell a rat?
Even as the short hairs bristled on the back of my neck I knew anger. There were too many unexplained things here. Too much I didn’t understand. And what was it I feared? Old Mario’s myths and legends? No, for in my experience the Italians are notorious for getting things wrong. Oh, yes, notorious . . .
I reached out, turned the wardrobe’s doorknob, yanked the doors open.
At first I saw nothing of any importance or significance. My eyes didn’t know what they sought. Shoes, patent leather, two pairs, stood side by side below. Tiny suits, no bigger than boys’ sizes, hung above on steel hangers. And – my God, my God – a waistcoat!
I backed out of that little room on rubber legs, with the silence of the suite shrieking all about me, my eyes bugging, my jaw hanging slack—
“Peter?”
She came in through the suite’s main door, came floating toward me, eager, smiling, her green eyes blazing. Then blazing their suspicion, their anger as they saw my condition. “Peter!”
I lurched away as her hands reached for me, those hands I had never yet touched, which had never touched me. Then I was into the main bedroom, snatching my tie and jacket from the bed, (don’t ask me why!) and out of the window, yelling some inarticulate, choking thing at her and lashing out frenziedly with my foot as she reached after me. Her eyes were bubbling green hells. “Peter!”
Her fingers closed on my forearm, bands of steel containing a fierce, hungry heat. And strong as two men she began to lift me back into her lair!
I put my feet against the wall, kicked, came free and crashed backward into shrubbery. Then up on my feet, gasping for air, running, tumbling, crashing into the night, down madly tilting slopes, through black chasms of mountain pine w
ith the Mediterranean stars winking overhead, and the beckoning, friendly lights of the village seen occasionally below . . .
In the morning, looking up at the way I had descended and remembering the nightmare of my panic-flight, I counted myself lucky to have survived it. The place was precipitous. In the end I had fallen, but only for a short distance. All in utter darkness, and my head striking something hard. But . . .
I did survive. Survived both Adrienne and my flight from her.
And waking with the dawn, and gently fingering my bruises and the massive bump on my forehead, I made my staggering way back to my still slumbering hotel, let myself in and locked myself in my room – then sat there trembling and moaning until it was time for the coach.
Weak? Maybe I was, maybe I am.
But on my way into Genova, with people round me and the sun hot through the coach’s windows, I could think again. I could roll up my sleeve and examine that claw mark of four slim fingers and a thumb, branded white into my suntanned flesh, where hair would never more grow on skin sore and wrinkled.
And seeing those marks I could also remember the wardrobe and the waistcoat – and what the waistcoat contained.
That tiny puppet of a man, alive still but barely, his stick-arms dangling through the waistcoat’s armholes, his baby’s head projecting, its chin supported by the tightly buttoned waistcoat’s breast. And the large bull-dog clip over the hanger’s bar, its teeth fastened in the loose, wrinkled skin of his walnut head, holding it up. And his skinny little legs dangling, twig-things twitching there; and his pleading, pleading eyes!
But eyes are something I mustn’t dwell upon.
And green is a color I can no longer bear . . .
BRIAN STABLEFORD
The Man Who Loved the Vampire Lady
BRIAN STABLEFORD HAS PUBLISHED more than fifty novels and two hundred short stories, as well as several non-fiction books, thousands of articles for periodicals and reference books, several volumes of translations from the French, and a number of anthologies. He is a part-time Lecturer in Creative Writing at King Alfred’s College, Winchester.
The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books) Page 8
