Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  How much longer can we, the people, be asked to bear this disgusting assault upon our dignity? How much longer can we be expected mutely to endure? I put it to you that the answer to that question is: not a moment longer! Not a minute, sir! Not a second!

  From this time forth we must chart a new course. It is now plain to all of us here at the Gazette that the current way of doing things is simply not up to the task of protecting our Empire. The modern methods of our leaders have been exposed as being altogether without backbone or merit. Would it not behove us to look towards the past as inspiration for how we ought to conduct ourselves? Why do we not now reach once again for the solutions of previous centuries? I am only a humble scribbler, but I have lived a long while on this brave little island and it seems to me that such an approach is the only sane response to the crisis.

  As to exactly where we ought to begin, I leave that to smarter fellows. Still, even a man as ordinary as I has heard whispers of the growing influence of the Council of Athelstan. Even I have heard of the Tanglemere Faction. And even I – like, I dare say, a good many of you – have lately begun to wonder whether the Council might not do a very much better job than that mob of floundering incompetents who stand at present at the helm of state.

  JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

  12 January. Somewhat to my surprise following the appalling events of the day, and having completed an entry in her journal, Mina fell almost at once into a deep slumber.

  She had said to me after the tragedy at the church, and once the news of the second bombing had reached us, that she wished to speak to me in detail and at length. I feared I knew the topic. She sees connections between things which do not – which cannot! – possibly exist. All is coincidence, appalling coincidence.

  He is dead. He is dead. We saw him crumble into dust.

  I confess myself relieved that Mina went so immediately to sleep – a sleep so profound that she could not easily or lightly be roused. Now I wonder about the nature of that sleep – especially after my own experience.

  Five hours ago, at a little after ten, I lay down beside my wife and did my utmost to close my eyes. Yet even that seemed beyond my powers. The darkness would not come. My mind was filled with rogue thoughts and wandering concerns. I was beset by unwelcome memories and strange theories of my own – by one in particular.

  How often in recent weeks have I thought of Miss Sarah-Ann Dowell, and of what might have befallen her? Something in the business of her disappearance – not so very different, perhaps, from that of my friend Jack Seward – has long struck me as significant, though I cannot say quite why. Nor can I explain the reason, as I lie in the gloom of an unfamiliar hotel room, why two names ought to have come to me.

  The first of them? Sarah-Ann’s distant beau: Thom Cawley.

  The second? The name of the criminal gang to which that young man was affiliated: the Giddis Boys.

  It was with these unpleasant details in mind that I stole in silence from the bedside, dressed myself as swiftly as I was able and stepped with quiet purpose from the room.

  For too long have I been a passive recipient of tragedy. Something is bearing down upon us and I must stir myself to uncover the truth.

  When I entered into the hallway which lay beyond the marital room, I strode in the direction of the staircase which would lead to the lobby and to the promise of the city beyond. Yet I was stopped before I had moved a dozen paces by the voice of my son.

  ‘Jonathan?’ he said. His voice sounded strange to me, deeper than before.

  ‘What do you mean by addressing me so?’ I asked. ‘And what do you mean by being abroad at such an hour? I had thought you asleep. You have not, I trust, suffered another of those… attacks?’

  ‘No, Father. I have not. But I could not settle. Poor Lady Godalming… The things we saw today.’

  I relented a little at this. ‘Try not to linger on such moments. Sleep if you can and tomorrow the world may look a little brighter.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Father.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ I urged him. ‘Tell me what it is that ails you. For your conduct has for months now been most… bizarre.’

  He looked at me with a frail hope in his eyes. ‘I want to tell you,’ he said. ‘But it is as though… I am not always permitted to do so. As though I am a prisoner in myself. I have tried to explain… more than once.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Has this to do with school?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It concerns nothing that is without at all. Rather, it relates to what is within me.’

  ‘Did we not speak of such matters?’ I asked. ‘When Miss Dowell was still amongst us?’

  He shook his head. ‘This is of another sort. There is a kind of war within me. Between two fathers. You, Jonathan Harker, and…’ He said no more. I sensed that he wished to speak on, yet was he silent.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You know I am your father.’

  ‘Yes. Yet in a certain sense there is – is there not? – another…?’

  I felt a surge of anger. ‘What is this? Who have you been speaking to? Who has been speaking to you?’

  ‘Nothing, Father… nothing which has form.’

  ‘Your mother? Is this your mother’s work?’

  ‘Most assuredly not.’

  I looked down at the boy and, confronted with the evidence of my disapproval, he averted his gaze.

  ‘Father?’ he said. ‘Father, what happened the year before my birth? What happened to you and Mother then?’

  ‘Go to sleep, Quincey,’ I said, as coldly as I could. ‘Go to sleep and let us not speak of this again.’

  He grimaced. ‘Father, please—’

  ‘Enough. I care to hear no more of this. You are fatigued, I think, and prone to wild imagination. Now: sleep.’

  He turned to go back into his room and I began to walk away. Then he called after me, and there was in his voice a cunning which made me – for an instant – despise him. ‘Where are you going, Father? Whom do you seek?’

  I turned around, meaning to chastise him. Yet when I did so, his door was closed and the hallway was empty again.

  It was with considerable relief that I stepped briskly out of the hotel and emerged onto the street. London rarely sleeps. It is in a constant broil. I was unsurprised to find plenty of street life in evidence before me.

  We are staying in Bloomsbury, not far from Russell Square. My head filled with unpleasant questions but I was determined to begin my quest. I left the hotel behind me and headed south, towards the river and the district of London which was, in secret matters at least, ruled over by the Giddis gang.

  In the past, I have been cursed with too exact a memory. After tonight, I wonder if the reverse might not now be the case. For I can recall little of my long walk to Vauxhall. There are in my mind only flashes and impressions. I remember the streets, narrow and dark. Some of the cries of the night people, of invitation or of despair. After a time, I remember the river, and it was when I crossed the bridge which yawns above the water that my memory seems most detailed and exact. I can still hear the noisy, hungry rush of it.

  Afterwards, I came to where I thought that I was meant to be, in a long, low street filled on every side with establishments of dubious sorts, all selling liquor in spite of the lateness of the hour. I dare say that I stood out against this vista, neatly dressed as I was in clothes of mourning. Or, perhaps, my long walk had rendered me as draggletailed and seamy as my surroundings.

  I remember stepping into three separate taverns (if one can dignify them with the name) and buying strong drink in each before endeavouring to make my enquiries. I spoke quietly and in circumlocutions, though without the least success.

  In the fourth house, I was more plain-spoken, my demeanour no doubt aided by the draughts. Having purchased another grimy glass, I asked the barman, a thin-faced, perspiring fellow, if he knew of the Giddis Boy called Cawley.

  He held up his hand, dirty palm outwards, in a
brisk, definitive gesture.

  ‘But you recognise it,’ I pressed. ‘You do. You recognise that name.’

  He leaned across the bar, with odd, nervous energy. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘That’s my advice to you. Get out of this place and go back to your home.’

  ‘I mean nobody any harm.’

  ‘No doubt that’s true. But there are plenty here who’ll mean great harm to you.’

  I was about to press my advantage and question the fellow further when I noticed that he was gazing at something behind me, close to the door by which I had entered. As soon as he understood that I had seen his expression, he cast his eyes towards the ground. I turned in time to see a figure dart from the doorway and out into the thoroughfare beyond.

  It was not the figure of a man, however, but rather that of a woman. Even from the merest glimpse of her, I knew her at once. Recognition gave me more gladness in my heart than I know how to express.

  Gladness and guilt also. Oh, but there was guilt in great quantity.

  I dropped my glass and ran after her, out onto the street beyond.

  ‘Sarah-Ann!’ I called. ‘Sarah-Ann!’

  She did not stop or slow her pace, or in any way acknowledge my proximity.

  ‘Please!’ I cried out. ‘Please stop!’

  She did not. She ran on, and I followed as she turned hurriedly left and plunged into a darkened alley. I did not hesitate but followed post-haste, my heart beating madly, an awful optimism rising within me at the thought that I might, even now, be able to save her.

  I remember running, yes. I remember hoping. I remember my body quivering at the exertion. I remember her blonde hair swaying and disappearing into darkness.

  And after that I remember nothing. Nothing at all.

  * * *

  I woke early in the morning, disrobed and beside my wife once more. For the briefest moment I attempted to persuade myself that my experience had been nothing but another dream. The most cursory inspection, however, showed grime upon my skin, and grazes also. I did not panic and I kept my head. I made sure that I washed thoroughly before Mina woke. I dressed most quickly. We are to leave London today and return home. It feels miserably like a retreat.

  I have said nothing to her about the events of the night. She has shown no indication thus far that she even noticed my absence.

  What is happening to us? Dear God, but what is happening to us all?

  I cannot – I will not – believe the very worst.

  FROM THE DIARY OF ARNOLD SALTER

  15 January. It has been a good day. I have not had a chance to write much in here for some weeks, such have been the demands of the Gazette. Numerous pieces* have I penned for that resurgent organ, arguing not only for the harshest possible penalty for those malefactors who assail our capital city but also for a wide-reaching reconsideration as to how we conduct ourselves as a nation. Time and again, I have made the argument that we should return to first principles: strength, courage in our convictions, and the willingness at certain times to behave in a way that the weak or indecisive might choose to see as ruthless.

  Words have fairly poured out of me. I have not written in years with such fluency and ease. And readers have responded well. The mailbag, I am told, is bulging with messages of approval.

  This afternoon I went to Fleet Street – at the summons of no less a personage than Mr Cecil Carnehan – and I have to say that the experience was an altogether pleasant one. Greeted at the door by an attentive clerk, brought up to the office of the deputy editor with great fanfare and pomp, ushered at once into his presence and presented with a glass of good wine, in spite of the earliness of the hour – I was treated in other words with all the deference and respect to which my rank ought long to have entitled me. How very different from my last visit here!

  Once the clerk had left us and I was seated opposite friend Carnehan, the junior newspaperman leaned forward in his chair. He too had a glass of wine in hand. This he held out before him in a toast.

  ‘Well, Mr Salter…’

  The young pup paused after this, no doubt expecting me to insist that he refer to me henceforth by my Christian name.

  D—n me if I would allow him that satisfaction!

  I simply took a sip and waited.

  ‘Mr Salter,’ he went on at last, ‘I wanted to ask you here today to offer you my most hearty congratulations.’

  I was modest and I was magnanimous. ‘Most kind.’

  ‘Our circulation has increased markedly since your column started to appear in our pages. Never let it be said that I am a petty fellow, nor one who cannot admit when he has made a blunder.’

  I smiled.

  ‘So I am happy to say, sir, that you were right and I was wrong. There is indeed a public appetite of the most pronounced sort for opinion of your kind. Indeed, your analysis has made you more famous than ever before – and us all a good deal richer.’

  ‘I am only glad,’ I said, ‘that you saw the truth of things in the end. Besides, it is your support that has allowed me to ascend to such a position. You should not be too hard on yourself, Mr Carnehan. It was your wisdom that saw the value of my words… eventually.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And I want you to know how much we at the Gazette all value your work. Truly, you are one of the family. Should there be anything you need from us… Anything at all…’

  ‘Most kind,’ I said. ‘But you need not worry. I am a simple sort of man who enjoys simple pleasures. I cannot easily be bought.’

  He seemed relieved at my words.

  ‘And I am not about to leave you, Mr Carnehan, for some other, richer, older newspaper. The Gazette’s in my blood, sir. Rest assured, you have me for as long as you need me.’

  The young fellow smiled. ‘Then that is really very good.’

  ‘Good health,’ I said and swallowed the last of my wine.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Carnehan, ‘to refill your glass.’ This he did most deftly, leaning towards me over his desk. When it was done, as if he were frightened of eavesdroppers, he murmured: ‘Now there is something that I have been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Your friends…’

  ‘Now, what friends would those be?’

  He hesitated, then pressed on. ‘The… Tanglemere Faction…’

  I grinned, said nothing and took another hearty swallow of the wine.

  ‘Well…’ Carnehan went on, quiet as a mouse, ‘… whatever you want to call them.’

  ‘I do know,’ I said at last, ‘who you mean.’

  ‘What do they want? I mean – what is their ultimate objective?’

  I wondered for a moment how much to tell him. Would he be able to manage, as I have managed, those passing but unsavoury emotions of guilt and uncertainty at the spilling of blood, even in so fine and necessary a cause as this? No. The very question is ridiculous. A cub like Carnehan, like much of his generation, is not used to the making of difficult choices, nor to the living with them. And so in the end, I told him only a sliver of the truth.

  ‘They want first to stoke the flames,’ I said. ‘Then they want to set the land to burning. And once it’s over, we’ll all build a better, finer kingdom on the ashes of our mistakes.’

  * In this, at least, Mr Salter did not exaggerate. In the present volume, I have elected to reproduce only a representative sample of his oeuvre.

  DR SEWARD’S DIARY

  (kept by hand)

  15 January. Four days have passed since my own spirit was first returned to me. There is still much fog in my mind. Yet I have walked on, out of the last of England, and towards the sea.

  I write these words on a beach where I have made my temporary home, amongst the sand and stone and driftwood.

  I know that I have not been well – that I might, in fact, have belonged most properly in the care of the asylum itself – but I know also that I am recovering. Day by day I feel a little stronger.

  There is a small town nearby which is, in truth
, barely more than a village.

  Its name – of course – is Wildfold.

  I have stolen there after dark and scavenged some meagre sustenance. I am still emerging slowly, getting stronger and realising in increments what must be my purpose.

  Much has happened, I am sure, in London and with the people whom I love. Yet I know that my place is here.

  How do I know this?

  It is because I have seen them, here, in this far-removed place. I have seen them glide amongst the shadows, seen their weird infection start to spread.

  I should have seen it earlier. I should have realised from the first. A great and potent force has set itself against us, all but invisibly at first, but growing now in boldness and determination. It fancies itself all-wise, I think, yet it cannot be. Surely it has made a mistake – even a small one? Perhaps – yes – perhaps my survival is already proof of that.

  FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF MAURICE HALLAM

  16 January. The whole world seems now to be in uproar. It must be so if I can sense it even here, alone in my sickroom in my luxurious eyrie.

  I wonder sometimes if my body – that ruined failing engine, choked, filled with tar and fog, nearing the end of its period of usefulness – might not act as a metaphor for the ills which assail the nation. For within me something stirs and flails and thrashes. I know its name, though I dare not speak it often. It is eager to emerge and it is hungry to be born, but as we approach the point of parturition it struggles and causes me much agony. Its haste to return means only pain; pain and the certain knowledge of the imminence of my mortality.

  It began, or so I realise now, from the moment when we entered the Transylvanian citadel and I was made to drink from the Black Grail, though pain of the physical sort did not announce itself until Paris. It began in my belly, deep in the guts of me, but now it surges, quite unfettered, throughout the whole of my system.