Chapter 8: Charley
In the days that followed Hélène’s death, I didn’t feel much like going out or doing anything, I just lay on the bed in my apartment torturing myself with could haves and should haves. After 14 days, the pain in my stomach became unbearable and snapped me out of my thoughts. I went looking for some easy food, the kind you find under many a bridge in Paris.
I was soon unable to pay my rent and so I moved my few possessions back into the catacombs. I wasn’t upset about leaving my apartment, I had got the place to leave Hélène and now I hated it. Exploring the miles of catacomb tunnels kept my mind occupied and I was able to avoid meeting anyone I knew. I ventured out only to feed on the banks of the Seine – the murder rate must have gone up in 1926.
Before, and during, my time with Hélène I hadn’t taken a lot of human blood. It was seriously tasty, but it also changed me somehow. I was afraid that it was addictive and that after a while I wouldn’t be able to control myself. Now, though, I didn’t care and I felt the blood affecting me even more than I’d feared. It altered me physically; I could now see as well in the dark as in the light, my hearing had improved tremendously and my sense of smell was different. I could now smell only the blood or, more accurately, emotion and the state of the blood. I could detect fear, excitement and illness, but the usual human smells were gone. I could no longer smell a woman’s perfume or the stench of a tramp.
The worst thing about human blood, I was to find out much later. It was a change of character. Maybe I was the devil’s creation, as the seven sins became more alluring and my virtues diminished. I began to see the world through different eyes. I killed my first woman, an unfortunate prostitute in the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought I would feel different, but the killing left me emotionless. To feed, to kill – it felt good – and it healed the pain. Afterwards, there was a lifeless body, but it meant nothing to me.
One night, I was walking along the Seine when I heard my name shouted from above.
‘Cameron! Is that you?’
To my great surprise, I spotted my friend Charley leaning over the wall. I must have been quite a shocking sight, as I’d lived on the streets for a while and my clothes were torn and dirty.
‘Cameron! Wait up, I’ll come down,’ he shouted as he ran along to the bridge and the stairs.
‘Charley. How are you?’ I said, reluctantly, when he joined me on the riverbank. I was embarrassed about my clothes and didn’t want to speak to him.
‘Good golly! Look at you! Have you been living on the streets?’ he asked, looking me up and down.
‘Yes. For a while now. It really isn’t that bad,’ I said, wanting to go. I was feeling very uncomfortable.
‘I am so sorry, Cameron. I tried to find you when I came back to Paris and heard about Hélène.’
I didn’t like the look of pity in his eyes so I replied angrily. ‘I’m fine Charley. Apartments are overrated. Money, possessions – it’s all very bourgeois.’
‘Let me help you. Please...’ Charley pleaded, and he moved closer to me.
‘I have to go. I’ll see you around.’ I turned round abruptly and started to walk away.
Charley shouted after me: ‘I still live at the same place. Please come and visit, if only to have a bath. Jesus Christ man, I could smell you from half a mile away!’
I had to walk away quickly. All I could see were the veins in Charley’s neck. The smell of his healthy, well-nourished blood was making me quite dizzy. Bloody hell! What am I becoming? How deep had I descended that I wanted to sink my teeth into my best friend? That was the problem with human blood; it healed and made you feel better, but it also washed the humanity and moral sense right out of you. I went on a crash diet of rat and dog, avoiding humans even more than usual, but it wasn’t easy – human blood was addictive and my body screamed out for it.
When I felt I could mingle with people again without wanting to sink my fangs into them, I went and visited Charley. His apartment was much the same, but I noticed a few new objects. My eye was immediately drawn to a Fabergé easter egg sitting on the mantelpiece.
‘I thought you’d like that,’ he said gaily, ‘but come let’s get you cleaned up. You smell like you’ve been living in a sewer.’
I put the egg down reluctantly, the workmanship and the luminous pink, guilloché enamel were dazzling. The urge to keep it was very strong. I looked around me. I’d been in this house several times before, but I had never felt such a strong feeling of envy. I wanted this and I wanted it badly!
‘So Charley. Still happy surrounded by all your meaningless treasures?’ I asked, as I looked around, my eyes picking out the items of value. Charley gently pushed me upstairs to the bathroom and gave me some of his clothes.
‘Leave yours in this bag. I’ll get the maid to burn them,’ he told me.
Later, when I was clean and dressed, we sat down in the study, Charley with a cigar and a Cognac.
‘Are you still sponging off your parents and shirking your responsibilities while supporting a struggling painter that really should give up and find something better to do?’ I asked, as I sat moping in my chair.
‘Miaow, Cameron!’ Then, in a soft voice, ‘I suppose I can’t blame you for being bitter.’
‘How was America?’ I asked, trying to sound friendlier.
‘Mummy wouldn’t cave. She rather likes this drab girl, as she’s the daughter of her friend Rosemary Watson – of the Pennsylvania Watsons. So both Mummy and Dad wanted this marriage. It was that or no more money and Paris,’ he told me.
‘So you got married?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Yes. And it is awful. She hasn’t stopped complaining since we got back here! The food is bad, the French are rude, the streets are dirty and so on and so on. Oh, Cameron! I am so glad you are back in the land of the living!’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Charley,’ I murmured, fidgeting with the buttons on my suit jacket.
‘We need to cheer you up. We need to have some serious fun!’ he said happily.
‘Will your new wife be joining us?’ I asked him with a wink.
‘God, I hope not! Now Cameron, I want to show you something.’ We got up and made our way down to his garage. He switched on the light and there before me was a brand new beauty of a car. I was pleased to see he had the latest Packard model, the 343 Dietrich convertible in dark green, with white wheel trims and a white, soft-top roof. It was majestic. I thought again of sinking my teeth into Charley’s neck and driving off with this beauty until the sun came up. Charley opened the garage door and we got into his car. We sped off around Paris, eventually stopping on a quiet street in the 6th arrondissement close, to the Jardin du Luxembourg, but also to the more lively Montparnasse area. We went into one of the buildings and walked up to the 3rd floor. Before we went in, I asked if there were any mirrors.
‘Aha! No. I remembered that! Cameron, my friend, you are really not doing well with getting over all your issues,’ he said, shaking his head as he opened the door. He led me around a comfortable two-bedroom apartment and told me I could stay there. He had decorated it simply but tastefully. There was a sofa, two comfortable chairs and a coffee table, and he had invested in a rather nice art deco drinks cabinet and matching cupboard. The kitchen had space for a small dining table and some chairs. There were two bedrooms, each with a double bed, wardrobe and a couple of bedside cabinets. I liked the lamps on them and he told me he had bought them at Tiffany’s in New York on his last trip home. I was also pleased to find that there was a large, windowless cloakroom just off the hallway. I would be able to spend the daytime there in comfort.
As he showed me around, Charley explained, ‘I got this place to get away from Hope now and then. It’s just so much easier to crash here after a night out than to go home and deal with the nagging.’
‘Good grief, man! How long have you been married?’ I asked him.
‘Five weeks too long,’ he said, sighing deeply.
‘
I’m getting rather curious to meet this woman now. No one can be that bad!’
‘Yes, I know, I’m sure she is a sweet girl, I just…’
We went back into the study and Charley started rooting around in the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whisky. ‘Listen Cameron. Stay here as long as you like, just put me up now and then.’ He offered me a whisky, which I refused.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s your place.’
‘Anyway, I hope to do most of my partying with you anyway, so you can carry me back. Or do you drink too these days?’ he asked.
‘Only in moderation and never in public.’
‘Yes, you are rather an oddball with your food, drink and mirrors,’ he said, laughing. He sat down with his whisky.
‘Wait until I tell you my latest phobia, well it isn’t so much a phobia as a skin condition. I can’t tolerate sunlight at all,’ I told him with a big smile. Maybe if I treated it all like a big joke, just some oddball things I did, Charley would leave me be.
‘Allergy? I thought it was due to the war,’ he asked me, surprised.
‘It started out that way, but now my skin actually blisters in sunlight. I think since I’ve spent so much time in the dark my skin can’t handle the light anymore.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell Hélène?’ he asked me, looking troubled.
‘I couldn’t. She already found the not eating in public very hard to deal with so to add that I couldn’t be out in daylight, I don’t think she would have taken it well. In retrospect, she didn’t take my not telling her well either,’ I said wryly and I got up to look around the apartment again.
‘Sorry I brought it up, Cameron. I suppose you have a right to be an oddball, you’ve been through a lot with the war and then Hélène. I imagine living on the streets can’t be easy either,’ he said, quietly.
‘There is something else you need to know about me,’ I said, pulling out some identity papers, ‘I now go by the name of François Beaufort.’
Surprised, Charley looked at the fake identity papers. ‘Why are you pretending to be French?’
‘I lost my papers and frankly I don’t want to be found. It was just easier to get some French papers.’ It was no problem for me to pretend to be French; people were genuinely surprised when I told them I wasn’t.
‘Are you a wanted man?’ Charley asked me, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘Probably am now for having stolen papers,’ I joked. I wanted the conversation to end there so I distracted Charley by asking him if I could have a shot of his car. We went downstairs and he let me take the wheel of a machine that must have cost more than my dad probably earned in several years. It was fast and powerful and for the first time in a long while I felt some happiness again.
Charley pulled me back into the light again, metaphorically, and we immersed ourselves in the luxurious and debauched party scene of 1920’s Paris. With his wealth and connections, Charley got invited to the most extravagant gatherings and I loved it. He was the life and soul of most of these parties and I thrived in the presence of his sparkling personality. But I was also viewing the world with different eyes now; lust, envy and greed had become my driving forces and I knew I would kill to get what I wanted.
I met Hope a few weeks after I moved into Charley’s apartment. As it was a balmy summer’s night, Charley and I had chosen a table outside a café and he had ordered a large bottle of champagne, which was like flypaper to the girls in the late 1920s (and I’m sure it still is). There was something irresistible about the stuff and I was soon to find out that it attracted me too.
We asked two comely secretaries, who worked in the city and were enjoying an after work drink, if they wanted to join us and they readily agreed. Suddenly Hope appeared, standing next to our table and crying. She was small, with doll-like but not unattractive features and with lustrous, wavy, auburn hair. If she hadn’t been crying, I’d have thought her actually quite pretty.
‘Hope! What the hell?’ Charley sounded annoyed.
‘Oh Charles. I’m so sorry to come out here, but I just received the telegram. I am so, so sorry but your father has died,’ Hope sobbed as she handed him the telegram.
Charley read the telegram, then got up and hugged her, but only briefly. He turned to us and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me. It appears that I have a funeral to go to.’
‘I am so sorry,’ we said, almost in chorus.
‘Now Cameron, buy the ladies another round and make sure they get home safe.’
He handed me a large wad of cash and told me he’d probably be in America for a few weeks and to take care of myself. Then he and Hope got in a taxi and left for home.
The girls were quite happy to stay and drink another bottle of champagne with me and they got rather drunk. When I suggested going back to my place for a nightcap they readily agreed. With an arm around each girl’s waist to hold them up, I walked them to the apartment. Mrs Maréchal, came out into the hallway as we were making so much noise going up the stairs.
‘Monsieur Beaufort! Can you please ask your lady guests to be a little quieter. It is two o’clock in the morning!’ she said, in a hushed but very angry voice, glaring up the stairwell at us.
‘Sorry, Madame Maréchal,’ I said, leaning over the bannister and giving her an apologetic smile.
‘And you girls – you should be ashamed of yourselves. Young ladies should not get drunk and visit a gentleman’s apartment,’ she added which only made the girls giggle louder. Madame Maréchal shook her head and went back to her apartment.
I managed to drag the giggling girls inside and opened another bottle of champagne. It wasn’t long before the two of them were sound asleep on the sofa. Would they feel it if I just had a wee nibble? Where would be the best place to bite and not leave a suspicious mark? I decided to go for the wrist first on Sandrine. I punctured the vein with one fang and started drinking, she moaned and tried to move her arm, but was soon sound asleep again.
This was the first time I had drunk champagne-infused blood. It was light and slightly fizzy on the tongue. Really very, very good! I didn’t drink too much; about half a litre which any average sized human could spare without any problems. I selected a vein on Séverine’s leg and had another fabulous drink. I struggled to pull my fangs out of her shapely leg as she tasted just too good, but I knew I had to show restraint. There had been witnesses, so killing them would certainly get me in trouble. I didn’t find it hard to kill humans any more, but I had a strong survival instinct. Killing humans just leads to trouble.
I tried to wake Séverine, as I was feeling very much awake, but she pushed me away drowsily. I felt so alive and awake that I just had to get out of the apartment and walk off some of my energy. I returned to the apartment a few hours later, still buzzing on their blood. I woke the girls an hour before sunrise.
‘Now. You girls were a bit accident prone last night,’ I told them. ‘You Sandrine, were running your arm over a railing and pricked yourself on a nail that was sticking out, and you Séverine stabbed yourself with a corkscrew trying to open a bottle of wine.’
‘I did?’ asked Séverine, frowning and rubbing her leg.
‘Yes. You did. Now, you’d better go home and put some iodine on those cuts. I don’t have any in the house, but you shouldn’t take risks – that nail was quite rusty.’ I kissed them both on the cheek and ushered them out of the apartment. I was pleased with myself. Champagne-flavoured blood without any killing! I had the idea that with small doses like that I might be able to keep my urges in check.
Language in the Blood Page 17
