The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and Vincent got a pretty clear view from his kitchen window. The moving van was a small one, and there was just the driver and a single helper, carrying in a bunch of boxes and crates. Vincent didn’t see any furniture and that puzzled him until he remembered the Schultz cottage had been sold furnished. Still, he wondered about the boxes, which seemed to be quite heavy. Could the whole story be on the up-and-up and the boxes maybe filled with more gold coins? Vincent couldn’t make up his mind. He kept waiting for the woman to drive in, but she didn’t show, and after a while the men climbed into their van and left.

  Vincent watched most of the afternoon and nothing happened. Then he fried himself a steak and ate it, looking out at the sunset over the lake. It was then that he noticed the light shining from the cottage window. She must have sneaked in while he was busy at the stove.

  He got out his binoculars and adjusted them. Vincent was a big man, and he had a powerful grip, but what he saw nearly caused the binoculars to drop from his fingers.

  The curtain was up in her bedroom, and the woman was lying on the bed. She was naked, except for a covering of gold coins.

  Vincent steadied himself and propped both hands up on the sill as he squinted through the binoculars.

  There was no mistake about it – he saw a naked woman, wallowing in a bed strewn with gold. The light reflected from the coins, it danced and dazzled across her bare body, it radiated redly from her long auburn hair. She was pale, wide-eyed, and voluptuously lovely, and her oval face with its high cheekbones and full lips seemed transformed into a mask of wanton ecstasy as she caressed her nakedness with handfuls of shimmering gold.

  Then Vincent knew that it wasn’t a plant, she wasn’t a phoney. She was a genuine refugee, all right, but that wasn’t important. What was important was the way the blood pounded in his temples, the way his throat tightened up until he almost choked as he stared at her, stared at all that long, lean loveliness and the white and the red and the gold.

  He made himself put down the binoculars, then. He made himself pull the shade, and he made himself wait until the next morning even though he got no rest that night.

  But bright and early he was up, shaving close with his electric razor, dressing in the double-breasted gab that hid his paunch, using the lotion left over from summer when he used to bring the tramps up from the city. And he put on his new tie and his big smile, and he walked very quickly over to the cottage and knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked a dozen times, but nothing happened. The shades were all down, and there wasn’t a sound.

  Of course he could have forced the lock. If he’d thought she was a plant, he’d have done so in a moment, because he carried the souvenir in his coat-pocket, ready for action. And if he’d had any idea of just getting at the coins he would have forced the lock, too. That would be the ideal time, when she was away.

  Only he wasn’t worried about plants, and he didn’t give a damn about the money. What he wanted was the woman. Helene Esterhazy. Classy name. Real class. A countess, maybe. A writhing redhead on a bed of golden coins—

  Vincent went away after a while, but all day long he sat in the window and watched. Watched and waited. She’d probably gone into town to stock up on supplies. Maybe she visited the beauty parlor, too. But she ought to be back. She had to come back. And when she did—

  This time he missed her because he finally had to go to the bathroom, along about twilight. But when he returned to his post and saw the light in the front room, he didn’t hesitate. He made the half-mile walk in about five minutes, flat, and he was puffing a little. Then he forced himself to wait on the doorstep for a moment before knocking. Finally his ham-fist rapped, and she opened the door.

  She stood there, staring startled into the darkness, and the lamp-light from behind shone through the filmy transparency of her long hostess-gown, then flamed through the long red hair that flowed loosely across her shoulders.

  “Yes?” she murmured.

  Vincent swallowed painfully. He couldn’t help it. She looked like a hundred-a-night girl; hell, make it a thousand-a-night, make it a million. A million in gold coins, and her red hair like a veil. That was all he could think of, and he couldn’t remember the words he’d rehearsed, the line he’d so carefully built up in advance.

  “My name’s Solly Vincent,” he heard himself saying. “I’m your neighbor, just down the lake a ways. Heard about you moving in and I thought I ought to, well, introduce myself.”

  “So.”

  She stared at him, not smiling, not moving, and he got a sick hunch that she knew just what he’d been thinking.

  “Your name’s Esterhazy, isn’t it? Tell me you’re Hungarian, something like that. Well, I figured maybe you’re a stranger here, haven’t got settled yet, and—”

  “I’m quite satisfied here.” Still she didn’t smile or move. Just stared like a statue; a cold, hard, goddam beautiful statue.

  “Glad to hear it. But I just meant, maybe you’d like to stop in at my place, sort of get acquainted. I got some of that Tokay wine and a big record-player, you know, classic stuff. I think I even have that piece, that Hungarian Rhapsody thing, and—”

  Now what had he said?

  Because all at once she was laughing. Laughing with her lips, with her throat, with her whole body, laughing with everything except those ice-green eyes.

  Then she stopped and spoke, and her voice was ice-green too. “No thank you,” she said. “As I say, I am quite satisfied here. All I require is that I am not disturbed.”

  “Well, maybe some other time—”

  “Let me repeat myself. I do not wish to be disturbed. Now or at any time. Good evening, Mr—” The door closed.

  She didn’t even remember his name. The stuckup bitch didn’t even remember his name. Unless she’d pretended to forget on purpose. Just like she slammed the door in his face, to put him down.

  Well, nobody put Solly Vincent down. Not in the old days, and not now, either.

  He walked back to his place and by the time he got there he was himself again. Not the damfool square who’d come up to her doorstep like a brush salesman with his hat in his hand. And not the jerk who had looked at her through the binoculars like some kid with hot pants.

  He was Solly Vincent, and she didn’t have to remember his name if she didn’t want to. He’d show her who he was. And damned soon.

  In bed that night he figured everything out. Maybe he’d saved himself a lot of grief by not getting involved. Even if she was a real disheroo, she was nuttier’n a fruitcake. Crazy foreigner, rolling around in a pile of coins. All these Hunky types, these refugees, were nuts. God knows what might have happened if he’d gotten mixed up with her. He didn’t need a woman, anyway. A guy could always have himself a woman, particularly if he had money.

  Money. That was the important thing. She had money. He’d seen it. Probably those crates were full of dough. No wonder she was hiding out here; if the Commies knew about her haul, they’d be right on the spot. That’s the way he figured it, that’s the way Specs Hennessey, the real-estate man, had figured it.

  So why not?

  The whole plan came to him at once. Call a few contacts in the city – maybe Carney and Fromkin, they could fence anything, including gold coins. Why the setup was perfect! She was all alone, there was nobody else around for three miles, and when it was over there wouldn’t be any questions. It would look like the Commies had showed up and knocked the joint over. Besides, he wanted to see the look on her face when he came busting in—

  He could imagine it now.

  He imagined it all the next day, when he called Carney and Fromkin and told them to come up about nine. “Got a little deal for you,” he said. “Tell you when I see you.”

  And he was still imagining it when they arrived. So much so that both Fromkin and Carney noticed something was wrong.

  “What’s it all about?” Carney wanted to know.

>   He just laughed. “Hope you got good springs in your Caddy,” he said. “You may be hauling quite a load back to town.”

  “Give,” Fromkin urged.

  “Don’t ask any questions. I’ve got some loot to peddle.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’m calling for it now.”

  And that’s all he would say. He told them to sit tight, wait there at the house until he came back. They could help themselves to drinks if they liked. He’d only be a half-hour or so.

  Then he went out. He didn’t tell them where he was going, and he deliberately circled around the house in case they peeked out. But he doubled back and headed for the cottage down the way. The light was shining in the bedroom window, and it was time for the wandering boy to come home.

  Now he could really let himself go, imagining everything. The way she’d look when she answered the door, the way she’d look when he grabbed her gown and ripped it away, the way she’d look when—

  But he was forgetting about the money. All right, might as well admit it. The hell with the money. He’d get that too, yes, but the most important thing was the other. He’d show her who he was. She’d know, before she died.

  Vincent grinned. His grin broadened as he noticed the light in the bedroom flicker and expire. She was going to sleep now. She was going to sleep in her bed of gold. So much the better. Now he wouldn’t even bother to knock. He’d merely force the door, force it very quietly, and surprise her.

  As it turned out, he didn’t even have to do that. Because the door was unlocked. He tiptoed in very softly, and there was moonlight shining in through the window to help him find his way, and now there was the thickness in the throat again but it didn’t come from confusion. He knew just what he was doing, just what he was going to do. His throat was thick because he was excited, because he could imagine her lying in there, naked on the heap of coins.

  Because he could see her.

  He opened the bedroom door, and the shade was up now so that the moonlight fell upon the whiteness and the redness and the golden glinting, and it was even better than he’d imagined because it was real.

  Then the ice-green eyes opened and for a moment they stared in the old way. Suddenly there was a change. The eyes were flame-green now, and she was smiling and holding out her arms. Nuts? Maybe so. Maybe making love to all that money warmed her up. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her arms, and her hair like a red veil, and the warm mouth open and panting. What mattered was to know that the gold was here and she was here and he was going to have them both, first her and then the money. He tore at his clothes, and then he was panting and sinking down to tear at her. She writhed and wriggled and his hands slipped on the coins and then his nails sank into the dirt beneath.

  The dirt beneath—

  There was dirt in her bed. And he could feel it and he could smell it, for suddenly she was above and behind him, pressing him down so that his face was rubbing in the dirt, and she’d twisted his hands around behind his back. He heaved, but she was very strong, and her cold fingers were busy at his wrists, knotting something tightly. Too late he tried to sit up, and then she hit him with something. Something cold and hard, something she’d taken from his own pocket; my own gun, he thought.

  Then he must have passed out for a minute, because when he came to he could feel the blood trickling down the side of his face, and her tongue, licking it.

  She had him propped up in the corner now, and she had tied his hands and legs to the bedpost, very tightly. He couldn’t move. He knew because he tried, God how he tried. The earth-smell was everywhere in the room. It came from the bed, and it came from her, too. She was naked, and she was licking his face. And she was laughing.

  “You came anyway, eh?” she whispered. “You had to come, is that it? Well, here you are. And here you shall stay. I will keep you for a pet. You are big and fat. You will last a long, long time.”

  Vincent tried to move his head away. She laughed again.

  “It isn’t what you planned, is it? I know why you came back. For the gold. The gold and the earth I brought with me to sleep upon, as I did in the old country. All day I sleep upon it, but at night I awake. And when I do, you shall be here. No one will ever find or disturb us. It is good that you are strong. It will take many nights before I finish.”

  Vincent found his voice. “No,” he croaked. “I never believed – you must be kidding, you’re a refugee—”

  She laughed again. “Yes. I am a refugee. But not a political refugee.” Then she retracted her tongue and Vincent saw her teeth. Her long white teeth, moving against the side of his neck in the moonlight . . .

  Back at the house Carney and Fromkin got ready to climb into the Cadillac.

  “He’s not showing up, that’s for sure,” Carney said. “We’ll blow before there’s any trouble. Whatever he had cooked up, the deal went sour. I knew it the minute I saw his face. He had a funny look, you know, like he’d flipped.”

  “Yeah,” Fromkin agreed. “Something wrong with old Vincent, all right. I wonder what’s biting him lately.”

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  The Legend of Dracula Reconsidered as a Prime-time TV Special

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER LIVES AND WORKS in central London, where he is a director of the Soho movie-marketing company The Creative Partnership, producing TV and radio scripts, documentaries, trailers and promotional shorts. He spends the remainder of his time writing short-stories and novels, and he contributes a regular column about the cinema to The 3rd Alternative.

  His books include the novels Roofworld, Rune, Red Bride, Darkest Day, Spanky, Psychoville, Disturbia, Soho Black, Calabash, Full Dark House, Plastic and The Water House, and such short story collections as The Bureau of Lost Souls, City Jitters, Sharper Knives, Flesh Wounds, Personal Demons, Uncut, The Devil in Me and Demonized. His short story ‘Wageslaves’ won the 1998 British Fantasy Award, and ‘Breathe’ is a new novella due from Telos Publishing. Fowler also scripted the 1997 graphic novel Menz Insana, illustrated by John Bolton.

  “I know what a grimly debilitating task it is trying to sell to television,” admits the author. “You pursue a clueless commissioning editor for months, nearing a deal, only to find that they have been replaced by someone who knows even less. I have more respect for plumbers, carpenters and people who drive vans, because at least they know what they’re doing.

  “It struck me, as I waltzed through yet another meeting with Channel 4 editors about ‘a new series like that one Roald Dahl used to do’ (none of the executives could remember what it was called – nor had they read his original stories) that here was a parasitic relationship corresponding to that of a vampire and his victim. Voila – the story does what it says on the tin.”

  The cautionary tale that follows should serve as a warning to all aspiring scriptwriters . . .

  Journal of J.H.

  16 July–NYC

  I figured with a name like mine it was the best thing to do, kind of like an omen, y’know? I started it while I was at school – just about the only thing I did start at school apart from a fuckin’ fight. I got maybe seventy, seventy-five pages finished before they threw me out. Most of the guys in my year were taking advanced business studies, high-risk trading in non-government-approved chemicals, how to improve your yield by cutting your shit with powdered laxative. Lemme tell you, I stayed out of that stuff ’cause I’m a white boy and I just don’t got the connections. So if I didn’t live down to the neighborhood expectations, sue me – I walked outta school with bigger plans.

  I wanted – I want – to write. I knew that much when I was five. Not classical stuff, ’cause let’s face it a guy like me ain’t ever gonna get to college given the fact that if my Ma ever got hold of enough money without turning tricks or robbing a bank, only the latter of which is unlikely, she’d blow it on a trip to Vegas to see Wayne Newton before she turned it over to me. So I figure I have to do it the other way around, which is write something first then sell it to the Big
Boys. And hence the thing about my name, which is Harker, John Harker like the guy in Dracula, which gives me what to write about.

  See, a guy with a pothole in his head can figure out the future is in media. You got more leisure time, you got more technological hoozis to play with, satellites and hi-definition and sixty-‘leven channels, you’re gonna need more programming to put out on the air. These network guys are strip-mining the past for black-and-white sitcoms no one watched the first time around ’cause they were so crummy, anything they can slam out into the ether, build themselves some ratings and get a station profile, get advertisers knocking at their door with thirty-second spots for haemorrhoid ointment, and a guy like me, written off in the third grade as one of the Future Losers of America, stands a real chance of selling them something. First a pilot, then a series, then ninety-eight shows stripped weeknights coast to coast, bouncing off into space for the rest of eternity. Immortality, man. Immortality.

  But first things first. I just finished writin’ a sure-fire script, a new version of The Legend of Dracula told from my viewpoint, John Harker’s angle on the battle with the Lord of the Undead, and let me explain here that this script cost me on account of I got caught writing it in the store and they threw me out, so as of today I got no job.

  Which means, according to this Self-Help book I’m readin’, it’s time to take stock of myself.

  I got my health, my height and my happiness (if a lifestyle scenario which excludes fun, sex and money can be called that). I got an apartment in Queens. I’m renting with these two guys who’re never home, but findin’ the rent keeps me working my butt off half the night at the store, only now I don’t have that job.

  So I’ll get another, no big deal, and meanwhile it allows me the time to go through the phone book calling the networks to find out who’s the big cheese in each organization that I can send my script to. The script’s a second draft for a feature-length TV movie, but it’s all there, they can make out what it’s about, so I outlay a fucking grotesque amount of money on photocopying and postage and send off twenty-three separate envelopes in the Manhattan area.