Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  An awful thought began to form itself; disquieted, I thrust it away.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Mr Amory seemed to me to be at once both inquisitive and concerned. ‘Mrs Harker, there is another matter which I must discuss with you. It has to do with your missing friend, ma’am. Dr Seward.’

  I began to ask Mr Amory to explain. Yet before I could say more, the door to the study was thrown open. Jonathan entered. Dressed in black, he ought to have seemed sufficiently smart for the ceremony which awaited us. In some fashion, however, for all that his tie was well-knotted, his cuffs held neatly together with silver links and his face clean-shaven, there was about him a frayed quality, an air of dishevelment. To me the cause was, sadly, quite plain – a bottle of strong drink, taken, no doubt, under the pretext of requiring additional moral courage for the duties which lay ahead. I frowned at the sight of him, and I dare say that he saw my disapproval writ upon my face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for interrupting.’ His gaze passed on to the manservant. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘This is Mr Amory,’ I replied, no doubt rather tartly, ‘of whom you have often heard me speak.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jonathan, somewhat glibly. ‘You are most welcome, sir.’

  ‘I am here,’ said the butler, ‘to represent my master and mistress, Lord and Lady Godalming.’

  My husband softened. ‘Then you do them – and us – great credit. Mina? It is almost time to leave now. Everything is ready and all is prepared.’

  As he spoke, another slender figure stepped into the room – seeming almost to glide into our presence. My pale, thoughtful boy, Quincey.

  ‘We should go now,’ he said with that too-mature brand of earnestness which is his most familiar manner. ‘For the Professor is waiting.’

  We all agreed that this was so, and we practically processed out of my little study into the hallway beyond and to the drive where our carriage was waiting.

  As we reached the door, Mr Amory drew near to me and said in a low voice: ‘Ma’am? The question of Dr Seward. I would truly be most grateful if we might discuss it later.’

  ‘We shall. After the funeral. Though I think I may judge from your tone that whatever news you have is not good.’

  He looked levelly at me. ‘Later then, ma’am. Let us talk of such things later.’

  Jonathan ushered us around the carriage. Shortly before he himself embarked I saw that he took a swift, deep swig from a silver hip flask which flashed briefly in the light in its journey from coat pocket to mouth and back again. This receptacle safely secreted, he joined the three of us and urged the driver to depart. I looked with disappointment yet without surprise at my husband, who would not return my gaze.

  I wish to speak to him again of that theory which still takes form in my mind. Yet I cannot. I dare not. He is more fragile than I believe he knows. The drink is but a symptom of something greater which lies, perhaps, in us both.

  The funeral service itself was a mean, perfunctory thing, quite unworthy of the life our dear friend had led. We four – we Harkers and the redoubtable Mr Amory – were the sole mourners.

  The priest, our local Reverend, Jackson St Clair, is a rake-thin, desiccated man in whom I have never seen much evidence of hope or charity. He had not known the Dutchman and so was able to rehearse only those biographical particulars with which I had myself provided him.

  As he spoke on in his drab, querulous tones, and as we managed an inexpert rendition of a single hymn, I surveyed the faces of our meagre congregation. Mr Amory, resolute yet labouring beneath the strain of responsibility; my husband, his skin pouchy, perspiring despite the chill of this wintry afternoon; and my son, who struck me as now not as sullen or as withdrawn as he has seemed in recent months, but rather suddenly and startlingly vacant.

  His face was blank and – a thing of subtle horror – almost without character. He seemed distant during the service, as though he were present in purely physical terms. At the time, I believed that this was merely his method of bearing the sadness of the day, just as I had my busy list of tasks and Jonathan, regrettably, his hip flask.

  Now, however, as I write, I am no longer sure at all.

  After the service was over, we went outside, into the graveyards, to watch the coffin lowered into the earth. This sight was as bleak as ever it was. The vicar, who is evidently upon the cusp of a head cold, snivelled as he spoke those ancient words which accompany interment.

  As is traditional in so grim a scene, a thin drizzle began, the rainwater oddly slick and even viscous, like oil on one’s skin.

  Jonathan moved to stand a little closer to me, so close, in fact, that I could smell the liquor upon him. As the coffin was lowered into its allotted place by four glum pall-bearers, I found myself regretting our choice to lay Van Helsing in this rustic spot.

  I took one step farther from my husband’s side, closer now to Mr Amory, and in that moment I lost sight of my son. I looked but I could not see him. I wonder – oh, how fervently I wonder – whether, had I paid closer attention, I might not have stopped (or at the least alleviated) that shocking thing which followed.

  The coffin which contained the body of our old friend had been lowered into its allotted place and the pall-bearers stood back. There was a moment of respectful silence before the vicar was to intone the last words of the ritual. Yet this quiet was broken not by the oddly indifferent tones of the man of the cloth, but rather by the sound of my son making a noise which lay somewhere between a whimper and a gasp.

  I turned to look, and saw that Quincey was now paler than ever before. He did not speak. He seemed to sway, to and fro, upon his feet. Before any of us could catch him he staggered and fell heavily backwards.

  At once, Mr Amory and I were by Quincey’s side. My husband looked on with an expression of dumb horror. I reached out. I touched my boy as he lay on the damp grass. I saw that he was shaking, his whole body thrashing and flailing, in the grip of some paroxysm or fit. Mr Amory held him firm as shudders wracked the boy’s form.

  ‘Quincey,’ I murmured, ‘my dear one. Be still. Be still now, I pray you.’

  His mouth was flecked with foam and spittle. His eyes pivoted wildly in their sockets. He moaned once, twice, three times. The vicar and the pall-bearers stepped forward, meaning to offer their aid but Mr Amory bade them keep their distance so that the boy might be granted space. Jonathan looked down at us, blinking as though he had been rooted to the spot.

  Then my child fell still. His eyes looked up now towards the heavens and he spoke in quiet, earnest tones of absolute sincerity.

  ‘The south has been set to burning, in the service of his design. And know this…’ His eyes moved downwards. Quincey trained his gaze at us, but it was as though there were nothing of him at all in the look: merely a blankness, more hideous than ever before. ‘He is coming soon to claim me. Unless I find the strength to fight it.’

  Quincey gave a final, convulsive shudder. His eyelids fluttered shut and the boy lay still.

  In the aftermath of this incident there was a horrified silence in the graveyard until, from somewhere unseen but nearby, a colony of rooks rose squawking into the sky, their cries sounding to me horribly like human laughter.

  FROM THE PALL MALL GAZETTE

  6 January (evening edition)

  FRESH OUTRAGE COMMITTED AT HEART OF CITY. MANY WOUNDED AND FEARED DEAD.

  As we go to press, news has reached our offices of a major conflagration in the south of the city, in the vicinity of Vauxhall. Early reports remain confused, yet it does seem probable that an incendiary device was exploded in a busy thoroughfare. The region has a reputation as a stronghold of that notorious criminal gang known as The Giddis Boys.

  Has the war between criminals exploded once again into the broader life of London? If so, then it has burst its banks to encompass the lives of the innocent, for the blast will doubtless have claimed lives of the law-abiding as well as those of the law-breaker.

  Details have still to emerge,
but if the suspicions of this newspaper are correct then we say this unto the authorities and His Majesty’s Government: something must to be done to stem this tide of gang violence – done swiftly and without compunction. More will follow soon upon this subject, in our popular new leading column: ‘Salter Says’. No doubt our correspondent will have much to say.

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  6 January * Later. The rest of the day and that evening have passed in an atmosphere of profound gloom. The Professor is buried. We saw the first of the earth placed upon the coffin. It is devoutly to be hoped that, in spite of the dramas which have attended his laying to rest, he is now at peace.

  Mr Amory, who has been a constant source of wisdom and support, remains with us. As I write, he slumbers upstairs. My husband, meanwhile, is by now almost certainly in his cups, for he has taken himself to the drawing room and closed the door behind him. I have no wish to interrupt him or even, if truth be told, to be at this moment by his side. As I passed by that room an hour ago I heard emanating from within a deep, dull, whisky-sodden snore.

  As for our boy, he has recovered. After his swoon in the graveyard we brought him to the vestry, where he was revived. He seemed exhausted, yet he showed no sign of remembering much of his fit. Certainly, he displayed no memory at all of those peculiar words which he spoke before he fainted. He appeared quiet and thoughtful enough at supper and without any visible sign of distress.

  Nonetheless, it has become clear that he is far from well. I would keep him with us, away from the school, and seek out the advice of expert physicians. These recommendations I shall make to my husband when he deigns to emerge from his stupor.

  Earlier, dear Mr Amory looked in, his face drawn and fatigued. He asked me if we could speak ‘on the most urgent matter, concerning Dr Seward’.

  I smiled weakly at this kind fellow. ‘Is it to be more bad news?’

  He frowned. ‘I fear that may be so, ma’am.’

  ‘Then may we speak of it tomorrow? I am not sure that I could bear any more disaster now.’

  I saw from his expression that the butler understood. ‘I can wait one night more,’ he said. ‘But, ma’am, it ought not to be left for any longer than that. Every hour that we delay may bring tragedy closer.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I give you my word. You can tell me everything in the morning.’

  He agreed and left, and so our little house is all abed. Dear me. What a long and difficult day it has been.

  I shall sleep deeply and well tonight, I know it. I shall not dream.

  FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF MAURICE HALLAM

  7 January. For a week now I have been more unwell than ever before in all my misspent life. Not once in that septet of days have I found myself to be in my perfect mind. Such persistent misfortune should suffice as an explanation for my distressing absence from these pages.

  My condition is said by Gabriel to be a form of tropical fever, no doubt picked up in the course of our wanderings. The symptoms are delirium, extreme physical weakness, a febrile temperature and, on several unpleasant occasions, a tendency to hallucinate.

  Mr Shone and I have not spoken of what passed between us at the docks on the day that we returned to England. We are both Englishmen, after all, and we understand very well the power which lies in omission and in a kind of shared forgetting. We have known almost from birth (for society has long celebrated its potency) the awful potential for dominion which lies within the lacuna.

  While all that is unspoken has settled around us, our relations have undergone a sequence of subtle modulation. He has never been more the master, and never have I been so dependent upon him. We have moved into a hotel of the expensive but discreet kind at the fashionable end of Charlotte Street. We have a small suite of rooms, each adjacent to the other and linked by one adjoining door, which is generally kept locked.

  The décor is that of bourgeois luxury, and since my palate has always favoured decadence, I find that I am here altogether at home. At the least, I have found it to be a fine place to be so wretched an invalid.

  It has all been a thoroughly ugly experience, wearisome and dull. Gabriel, however, has been most kind, attending to me often and consulting several specialists who have prescribed much bed rest and intimate attention.

  Every night, late in the evening, Gabriel visits me in my chamber and insists that I drink a foul-tasting medicine, a thick, soupy draught which he promises will aid my recovery. The tincture is sour and metallic – but I do as I am bidden and I drink deep. I obey Gabriel Shone in all things and in all ways. For surely – how he could not? – he has my best interests at heart.

  Gabriel himself has been busy. In England he is become all energy and verve. Of exactly how he has occupied his time, and precisely to what his considerable ambitions might amount, I know not. Yet I am sure that the focus of his attention is no longer simply the seeking-out of pleasure but rather some species of business. I hear voices from the room next door: voices of serious men, voices which seem to me to speak of the great professions, of the Bar, the House, the Synod. Voices, above all, which are saturated with money and influence.

  On only two occasions has the door which connects my room with Gabriel’s been left unlocked and ajar. The first was three days ago. With a remarkable effort of will, in considerable pain and tortured by fever, I rose, ungainly and without speed, from the bed and took myself to the far side of the chamber. Silently, I peered through into the room beyond and saw there Mr Shone surrounded by men of the gravest sort, all dressed in raven black. One, absurdly, had with him a large and elderly Irish wolfhound. Gabriel himself seemed more sombre than ever he had before – upright and sincere, listening to his guests with almost courtly attention and with a gracious ease as he received their enquiries and compliments.

  I recognised none of these visitors, but I do believe that I know the type, men who are born to power, those who, through all manner of systems and levers, rule the Empire (and the kind of men, let it not be forgotten, who once made this country so thoroughly intolerable for me, and those who are like me). I said nothing to Gabriel of what I saw, but merely returned to my sickbed.

  The second occasion when the door was left open and unlocked was but an hour ago, and even now I do my best to persuade myself that what I saw was only fancy or imagination, a vision conjured wholly by my illness. As before, I heard voices from the next room – one Gabriel’s, but the other that of a woman. Something in their low, conspiratorial tone urged me to pay close heed. Rising on rickety legs and with blood singing in my ears, I crept to the door and strained to see.

  The vision that awaited me was hideous indeed, and surely – surely, if there be justice and sanity at all in this world of disharmony and sin – cannot have been the truth of things. Nonetheless, I believe that I saw with Gabriel Shone, dressed in all his respectable finery, and standing beside him, far closer than propriety would ever allow, one hand held against his ruined eye, the nightmare figure of the Transylvanian woman, Ileana.

  Gabriel sighed and chattered softly at the lady’s touch, and I experienced a curious certainty that something passed between the two of them at this weird contact. There was also in that place a most unexpected scent – that of smoke and burning, although no fire was lit.

  Neither of them saw me, or so I believe, and so I crept back to my invalid place, clammy and afraid, though, somehow, not altogether surprised.

  Although I try to reassure myself that what I saw was an hallucination, I believe that I know the reality of it. As to its broader significance, I cannot be certain, though I have several theories, all of which lack the slightest comfort or goodness. As I write these words I wait – for Gabriel to come through to me, for my evening draught, for my dark medicine. I hope only that ingestion brings peace, sleep and a portion of merciful forgetting.

  FROM THE PALL MALL GAZETTE

  8 January

  SALTER SAYS: A GLIMMER OF HOPE AMONGST THE YOUNG

  It will come, I dare
say, as small surprise to many of you that I have for some years now exhibited towards the younger generation an attitude of something not so very far from despair.

  Those who are now under the age of forty seem to me too often to be a pampered and indolent lot. Born into an Empire which has provided for them, they nonetheless chafe ungratefully against it while accepting all its bounty. Having done nothing at all to build the world as it exists today, they criticise their elders and take the gifts of our society for granted. They are also – and almost to a man – far too lenient and forgiving when it comes to the criminal classes, speaking with doubt of the death penalty and looking back upon the days of public executions with wearisome squeamishness. For the consequences of such moral cowardice one needs look, I fear, no further than the recent carnage in London.

  However, it is my very great pleasure to be able to tell you today that there is at least one representative of that generation who gives me cause for hope. The name of the young man in question is Mr Gabriel Shone. He is lately returned from an expedition across Europe with some bold new ideas as to how to govern our ailing nation.

  For inspiration, he has reached into the past and proposed a return to the more robust methods of our forefathers. In this he has shown a rare perceptiveness and acumen which is a credit to his youth.

  The young man was once the ward of the late Lord Stanhope and, as such, has inherited his benefactor’s seat in the Council of Athelstan. From his temporary home in a well-known hotel on Charlotte Street, Mr Shone has held court, receiving notable parliamentarians, residents of the back benches, a large number of Whiggish donors, a brace of journalists from the better sort of newspaper, at least two members of the current Cabinet and, most often, his mentor and friend, Lord Tanglemere.

  Let us hope that they all take heed of the words of this impressive young gentleman and that his own generation are inspired by his example. It seems likely that Mr Shone may one day seek election – unless, of course, there be any means by which he might obtain influence over the state by swifter means. It is a pity that at present the Council itself holds only ceremonial power. What a force for good it might be if it were allowed again its old responsibilities. Just imagine what could be achieved if the singular Mr Shone were ever to stand at the head of it!