Chapter 2: Brit
1977 and the Côte d’Azur lay before me. The world was my oyster, or as Wee Tam once said, the world was my lobster – seafood and sayings weren’t exactly his strengths. He wasn’t the brightest, but he fair made us laugh. I was a very long way from Edinburgh and my childhood friends now though and even further away from the sweet and innocent boy that had gone off to war in 1914.
I had driven my car up the windy roads to a hill overlooking Nice Airport where they were reclaiming land for a second runway. A human would have seen just the lights in the distance, but I could see the second runway actually taking shape. I felt like Tony Curtis standing there, looking over Nice in my smart leather sports jacket and driving gloves. Only the Ford Granada let me down on the glamour side. I’d desperately wanted a Ferrari Dino like Curtis had in The Persuaders, but it simply didn’t look big enough to hold an adult sized male in the boot. I had bought the Granada in England as it was spacious and I could hide in it during the day whilst on the road. It got hot and uncomfortable, but it saved me from burning to a crisp in the sun.
Most people came to Provence for the hours of sunshine, the sea and maybe even the smell of its lavender fields. I was attracted by the smell of money – it was almost as intoxicating as the smell of blood. It might have seemed a strange choice for a Scottish vampire; I had expected to be like a midge, that wee bloodsucking beastie that likes it up north, but I turned out to be more like a mosquito or even a cold-blooded reptile that thrives in a warm climate. Somehow, I really hate the cold!
I liked Nice and thought it very pretty lying there squeezed between the sea and the hills. I loved its Italian-style plazas and its wide boulevards with their palm trees. I’ve always liked palm trees and Fiona and I had often taken a walk to the botanical gardens to look at the one Edinburgh had in its glasshouse. They were just so wonderfully exotic. The Brits had messed about a bit with Nice but the end result was rather charming: its wide promenade stretching 7km from the port almost to the airfield, providing a space between beach and town for people to see and be seen. Promenade des Anglais they called it.
I hadn’t been back to Scotland, and even England was too cold for my liking, so I had decided to go south and the Côte d’Azur seemed like a great place to be. I had bought a small apartment off the Rue Gambetta in Nice. It was close to both the town and the beach and there were shops and businesses in the area that stayed open late. I had never before lived in a city without an underground and I was under no illusions that living on the Côte d’Azur would bring its challenges.
I didn’t know anyone yet but I’d always managed to find my feet in a new town, and I was sure Nice too would have a seedy underbelly where I could fence my stolen goods and nurture my criminal contacts. I would need a new identity and the papers to back it up.
Food wasn’t a problem – in those days a cheap bottle of wine and some sleeping tablets were doing the trick. At night there’d be small groups of young people on the beach, sitting around barbecues or campfires. They’d lean against their backpacks and discuss their InterRail travels. I was young, or at least looked it, and had travelled a little so I fitted right in. They’d play their guitars and cook their cheap sausages while I provided them with drugged wine. Eventually they’d all be sound asleep and I would take my pick. The next morning there’d be no more damage than a few marks that looked like mosquito bites and a cheap wine headache. They’d be left wondering only where that nice chap Cameron was off to next.
Sometimes the French police would crack down on people sleeping on the beach and I had to put in a bit more work. One trick was to hang around Nice station with a map and ask some fellow travellers for help. I would be trying to find an apartment that a friend had lent me on the Rue Gambetta. Of course I would ask them if they had a place to stay and offer them the floor of my mate’s apartment if they didn’t. I met some lovely, but frankly very naïve, people in those days. Today we would have become Facebook friends, but in those days we exchanged addresses. I always gave my name as Alistair Henderson from Edinburgh and put Hootie’s address. I hoped he was still living and at the same address – the thought of the 82-year-old getting strange cards from backpackers from all over Europe amused me no end!
One night I got talking to a Swedish girl. She was sitting in front of Nice station with her head in her hands and tears streaming down her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, while my stomach rumbled.
‘Someone stole my money,’ she sobbed.
‘Have you been to the police?’ I asked with mock concern.
‘What’s the point? I know it was Anders.’
‘Anders?’ I asked and sat down next to her.
‘My boyfriend who left me here. He asked me to get him some cigarettes while he watched the rucksacks and the money. Thank Christ he left me the rucksack. My InterRail card and my passport I carry with me but the money he had on him,’ she explained, while she dried her tears. She was very pretty with a golden tan and almost white blonde hair.
‘And where is the bastard now?’ I enquired.
‘Probably on his way to Greece. He told me the wrong departure time and now he is long gone.’
She told me they’d had an argument the day before. He had proposed to her on the beach and she thought that before she said yes she should be perfectly honest with him. She confessed that a few months before, in a moment of weakness, she had slept with his best friend Torsten. She’d asked Anders if he still wanted to marry her and they’d argued deep into the night. She thought they had finally kissed and made up. Obviously not!
‘You poor thing! I’ll tell you what. A friend lent me his apartment and you’re welcome to stay.’
She looked at me suspiciously for a moment, but then her face broke into a smile. I looked so young and innocent, what harm could I possibly do?
‘That would be fantastic,’ she said.
‘I can lend you enough money to get back to Sweden too,’ I said, getting up and offering her my hand to help her to her feet.
‘Thank you so much! That’s very generous of you. I promise to pay you back.’ Then, taking my hand, she said ‘I am Brit Gustafson.’
‘Hi. I am George Baxter from London.’
I knew a nine year old George Baxter in London. If this nice Swedish girl were to send back the money, it would no doubt make him very happy.
I took Brit to my apartment and suggested we have a bottle of wine and a pizza. I had placed a bin next to my chair and hoped she wouldn’t notice me disposing of some of my food and drink. I decided to wait before dosing her with a sleeping pill as I had the idea that she liked me and would probably be grateful. I wasn’t disappointed. Brit was not a shy girl and angry revenge sex makes for a great night. Getting intimate with a woman and smelling the blood rushing under the skin had become both an exciting and confusing experience for me. At first I’d tried to ignore it – the thought of feeding is exciting in itself – but then I explored a bit more and found that in the grip of passion I could get away with cutting a lip or scratching a neck. Once I tried to bite a girl in the heat of the moment, but she yelped and pushed me out of the bed. She screamed when she felt the blood running down her neck. I had to do a lot to calm her down and even convinced her she must have had an insect bite that I opened up again by being a bit too rough. I had become more careful over the years and Brit’s blood would have to come later.
After we had made love for most of the night, I gave her a glass of water with the tablet saying it was aspirin and would stop her from having a hangover. She took it without question and went to brush her teeth. It was risky leaving it so late as she’d be asleep until about eleven o’clock, well after it had become daylight. I took the risk as, after all the exertions of the night, I was quite hungry. I could taste the sun and the sea in her and even the mild aroma of patchouli and sun cream in her blood was not unpleasant.
Afterwards, I put some insect bite ointment on her as it seemed to treat
vampire bites too. Then I lay next to her and thought of the best way to get her out of the apartment. I couldn’t let her stay. She’d want to open the curtains and go to the beach. She’d probably want to make me breakfast and suggest other things that a vampire just can’t do. Best to deal with it swiftly.
By around ten o’clock I had a plan. I looked over at Brit lying naked on top of the covers, her long limbs stretched out and her blonde hair draped over her face and arms. I felt myself getting aroused again. Delicious Brit! How I wanted her to stay for another night, but it was daylight already and I had to get her to leave. I took a few deep breaths and gently shook her shoulder.
‘Brit. Sorry love. You’ve got to wake up.’
She turned round and stretched her arms above her head. Christ she was beautiful! ‘What time is it, George?’
I was incredibly turned on at the sight of her perfect little breasts. As I said, she wasn’t shy and made no effort to cover up. NO! She had to go.
‘Time to get up and get dressed,’ I told her.
‘Shall I get some croissants?’ she offered as she slid out of bed.
‘No, you have to go.’ I handed her her clothes and got some money out of my wallet. It was a lot, easily enough to get her back to Sweden. She disappeared into the bathroom and I heard her showering and brushing her teeth. She came out dressed in a sleeveless summer dress and looking a bit sad. She went to open the curtains, but I grabbed her arms and told her again that she had to leave.
‘Jeez George! Why the sudden rush?’ She looked at me suspiciously for a moment, but then started packing her rucksack.
‘Erm... the friend that lend me the apartment is a bit more than a friend. She’s my girlfriend and she’ll be arriving from Nice airport at noon if her flight is on time.’
She whirled around. ‘Fuck! FUCK! You bastard! We did it in your girlfriend’s bed?’
‘Come on Brit. We’re both adults and you’re obviously no angel. You needed a place to stay, we had fun and no harm was done. At least, not if you leave now,’ I said cheerfully.
She angrily grabbed the pile of banknotes and I helped her put the rucksack on. Then she left.
‘Bon voyage, Brit,’ I said as the door slammed.
So like I said: not sweet, not innocent and always on the lookout for my next meal – preferably in attractive packaging.
Language in the Blood Page 5
