by Thomas Emson
Jenna hissed, craving food. They’d been told to be guard dogs, here.
There were half a dozen of them, the other three taking care of the upper two floors. But since her troop was dead, what was the point in staying?
She’d go out and nourish herself.
She thought about her family, who were now only blood.
She thought about her friends, named them all in her head, but felt nothing but the urge to feed from them.
She thought of Jake and the blood in him, and she ached for his liquid.
Jenna growled and sprang for the window.
Chapter 38
HISTORY AND MYTH.
LITHGOW sobbed and shivered, saying, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die.”
Sassie, rolling up Lithgow’s sleeve, said, “Let me have a look, Fraser,” and he settled down.
They’d got a cab back to Lithgow’s flat in Fulham. The cabbie got worried when Lithgow started to cry, saying he’d turn into “one of them”, he’d “die and walk the streets at midnight”. But Sassie calmed him down by saying he’d be all right, and Lawton calmed him down by telling him to shut his gob.
Lawton poured Famous Grouse into glasses. He’d got the bottle out of Lithgow’s drinks cabinet.
Lawton jabbed a tumbler-full into Lithgow’s hand. “Drink that, let Sassie have a look,” he said.
Sassie studied Lithgow’s arm while Lithgow gurgled down the liquor.
“You’re all right,” she said, “it didn’t even break the skin.”
“There you go,” said Lawton, “thick-skinned after all, Lithgow.”
Lithgow relaxed a little, whisky spilling down his chin. “I thought I was going to die. Thought I-I’d turn into – they were vampires, weren’t they, they were fucking vampires.”
Sassie and Lawton looked at each other, like concerned parents sharing eye contact after a terrible revelation from their child.
Lawton said, “I’ve never seen anyone die like that – turn to dust.”
“Well, we all turn to dust,” said Sassie, her cheeks red, knowing it was bullshit.
And Lawton said what she’d expected him to say: “Not two seconds after being stabbed in the heart, we don’t.”
“Oh, my God,” said Lithgow, “oh, my God.”
Sassie said, “Do you think those pills made them like that?”
Lithgow said, “Oh, my God,” again and again, pouring himself another drink.
Lawton said, “We’ve got to find those people who were in that house. We’ve got to find out who owned it. If they’re anything to do with this. Any idea where they went, Fraser?”
Lithgow shook his head.
Lawton said, “My respect for you has gone up from zero to halfa- per-cent after discovering you kept Famous Grouse in your drinks cabinet. Try a bit harder to remember, and it might go up another notch.”
Lithgow screwed up his face and shook his head again.
“Did you know them, Fraser?” said Sassie.
“No, I didn’t,” he said.
Lawton said to Sassie, “What d’you think they were, those things? D’you think they were – you know, what Fraser said?”
Sassie said, “Ed told me the Babylonians had blood-cults. Maybe there are people worshipping Babylonian blood-cults in London. It is a multi-cultural city, and we do have freedom of religion in Britain.”
Lawton said, “And there’s Druids carrying out human sacrifice in Wimbledon, and the Home Counties has Satan worship on Sunday afternoons.”
“You’re not far from the truth,” said Sassie.
Lithgow whimpered. Sassie sat on the settee and swigged at her drink, and she winced. She handed it to Lithgow, who slurped it down.
Lawton said, “Whatever they are, at least we know how to kill them.”
“We still don’t know what that cuneiform on the lip of the jar said. That might hold a clue,” said Sassie. “And I’m not sure why there’s an image of Alexander on the vase. Have you got a computer, Fraser?”
Five minutes later, Sassie and Lawton sat next to each other at the table, Googling “Alexander the great legends myths vampires vases” on Lithgow’s Macbook.
They got millions of hits and Sassie said, “You’ve really got to be careful with the internet. Everything you read has got to go through a bullshit filter.”
Sassie scrolled through the links. Lawton leaned in and he smelled her. His arm rested against her arm, and she made no attempt to move away.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s have a look at this,” and she opened a link that took them to a blue-coloured page with Courier type, which Lawton had to squint to read.
Sassie’s eyes skimmed the page, and as she read she hummed. Lawton tried to follow the words. But he’d never been much of a reader. And the number of words crammed on the screen made his eyes blur and his focus wane.
Sassie said, “According to this one, Alexander the Great entered Babylon victorious after defeating the Persian king, Darius.”
“And that’s history or myth?” said Lawton.
“That’s history, that’s truth – it happened in 331BC at the Battle of Gaugamela,” she said.
Lawton looked over at Lithgow. He was sitting on the couch, nursing his uninjured arm. He had a tumbler of Famous Grouse in his hand, and Lawton could smell the whisky. An itch for the drink played in chest. He could imagine the fiery liquid burning his throat and washing that itch away.
But then Sassie said, “And when Alexander led his armies into Babylon, it says here,” and Lawton returned his attention to her as she continued: “He issued an order that none of his troops should enter the homes of the Babylonians.”
“Do you think that’s true?” said Lawton.
“I don’t know. Says it’s a local account. I don’t know.”
“All right,” said Lawton, “but why issue that ruling?”
Sassie, her finger tracing the lines, said, “Doesn’t say. Okay, let’s go back to Google, here. And” – she typed in “ruling homes Babylonians” after the list of words in her initial search, and then hit the google search button – “we’ll see what comes up.”
What came up was another mile-long list of hits.
Lawton blew air out of his cheeks.
Sassie trawled through the list, then opened one link.
A black screen popped up, blotched by yellow and orange lettering declaring it to be the website of The Alexander Myths. The colours were so violent that Lawton flinched.
Sassie, reading the yellow-on-black writing, said, “Says that Alexander had heard that demons ruled Babylon, and they dwelled in all the homes. He made the ruling to protect his troops, and then set about finding the demons.”
“And did he find them?” said Lawton.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t say.”
They trawled through a dozen websites, each offering strange and impossible details about Alexander the Great.
Lithgow snored on the couch, and Lawton envied him.
Then Sassie said, “Look at this,” and Lawton turned to the screen, which was now yellow with red and blue text. Sassie said, “Here, look, it says that Alexander fought three demons and destroyed them.
He – look, Jesus – he kept their remains in jars stolen from Darius’s treasure chest and – bloody hell, Jake – and had images of himself as a conquering hero defeating the monstrous army painted on them.”
* * *
“I’ll take you back,” said Lawton.
Heat rippled through Sassie’s belly, and her skin goosepimpled.
Without thinking she said, “Okay,” and stood.
“Hey,” said Lithgow, leaping to his feet, “hey, you’re not leaving me here, are you? What if those things come back? What if they’ve got a taste for me?”
“Don’t worry, Fraser,” said Lawton, pulling on his coat, “it’d be a first for anyone to have a taste for you.”
“Jenna did, you bastard.”
Lawton tensed. Colour rushed into his face. Sass
ie saw anger flash in his eyes. He glared at Lithgow, who sagged back into the settee.
Lawton said, “I’ll be here at 8.00 a.m., Fraser, so you be ready.”
“Wh-why?”
Lawton said, “We’re going to see Christine Murray, going to tell her about what we’ve found today.”
“No way, Lawton.”
“The only way, Fraser.”
Chapter 39
BLOODY REPORTER.
Metropolitan Police HQ, Scotland Yard – 10 a.m., February 9
MURRAY said, “Can you tell me if my story” – she held up a copy of the paper – “published this morning is true, Dr. Frome?”
The pathologist, a red-haired woman with pink-framed glasses, opened and closed her mouth, but no words came out. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked across to Commander Peter Deere and Superintendent Phil Birch.
Birch had gone purple, and he glowered at Murray.
Deere wore a frown, and sweat gathered in the furrows on his brow.
He didn’t like Saturday morning press conferences, Murray knew that.
He wanted to be on the golf course on Saturday morning.
Deere said, “This is a leaked document, and we don’t comment on leaked documents. The results of the port-mortem examinations have not been made public. Inquests have opened on the twenty-eight victims of the Religion tragedy. The actual, official post-mortem results will be made public by the coroner, during the inquest.”
Journalists shot questions at Deere, Birch, and the pathologist.
A press officer tried to bat the queries away, but they kept coming.
Cameras flashed and microphones were thrust forward.
Murray smiled and sat back in her chair. She laid the paper in her lap and read the front page headline:
Bodies drained of blood And then a sub-deck read:
Nightclub dead’s organs “had shrivelled”.
The press officer got control of the reporters and said, “One at a time, one at a time, please.”
Murray’s arm shot up.
The press officer said, “You’ve had your question, Christine.”
But a guy from The Sun with his hand up glanced across at Murray and said, “No, let her ask a question. Go ahead, Chris,” and the others said, “Go ahead, your show, Christine.”
Silence fell and Murray said, “And could you confirm if my sources were correct when they indicated that the bodies had been drained of blood?”
Deere leaned into the microphone on the table in front of him and feedback squealed. He flinched, gathered himself, and said, “We don’t comment on leaked reports.”
“I understand,” said Murray, “that there were no trauma wounds on the bodies – can you give us an idea how the blood could have been drained?”
Murray stared at the pathologist. The tag sitting on the table in front of the pink-spectacled woman said her name was Dr. Pauline Frome.
Dr. Frome stared right back at Murray, her face fixed in a frown.
Deere said, “We’re still looking into that, Christine, now – ”
Murray said, “How’s the investigation going, Superintendent Birch? You seem to be adding to the body count every night. Thirty on Thursday, forty-seven last night – more than a hundred people dead in three nights. Do you have any idea what’s causing this?”
Birch’s eyes burned with fury. He said, “We are continuing our investigations,” in a robotic voice.
A Mirror reporter said, “Do you believe it’s anything to do with drugs?”
“Certainly,” said Birch, “drugs were involved in the first deaths at Religion. We’ve yet to ascertain if drugs were involved in the latter tragedies.”
The Sun reporter who gave way to Murray said, “Have you looked at the possible link to terrorism?”
“We don’t know,” said Birch, “of a possible link to terrorism.”
“Yes, but have you looked at a possible link to terrorism?” said The Sun man.
Birch craned out his neck and said, “No, we haven’t.”
Deere said, “There’s no evidence to suggest that this is linked to terrorism, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Well,” said a BBC London reporter, “what is it linked to, Commander Deere? What do you say to Londoners who think you’ve lost control of the streets, who are too scared to go out after dark?”
Deere said, “We say that we’ve not lost control of the streets and we do advise Londoners to take special care if they’re outside after dark. But we must remember, these terrible events have been mostly contained in the central areas of the capital. This is not a London-wide incident at the moment.”
Murray shot her hand up again and before anyone gave her the go-ahead, said, “Some of these people who died at Religion, they described themselves as vampires” – Deere and Frome squirmed –
“and I understand, as my report states, that a few of them had incisions on their bodies. Do you link these incidents to vampirism?”
A hush spread through the room.
And after a few seconds Deere said, “No.”
“No?” said Murray as the other journalists started to shout questions again.
“How do you explain the blood loss, then?” said another reporter.
Deere’s wide, fearful eyes flitted around the room. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Birch hunkered down next to him, his cheeks purple with rage. Dr. Frome stood up and said something to the press officer before striding out of the press conference.
Murray, shouting over the cacophony, said, “Has the drug ‘K’ got anything to do with this? Have you tested the drug, yet?”
Birch fixed her with a glare, and Murray felt the hatred shoot from his narrow eyes.
Chapter 40
THIS CHARMING MAN
SASSIE, arms folded, watched as Ed Crane studied the jar.
Lawton had brought it in that morning, reluctantly handing it over before heading out to meet the journalist, Christine Murray.
Sassie yawned. She wanted to be home, in bed. But instead she’d had to drag herself over to the college, the only place she’d meet Crane – there was no way she’d let him come over to her flat, and she needed his expert eye; so it was college or nowhere.
Crane, eyes on the jar, said, “Late night?” He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sassie, and she felt her cheeks redden. He said, “You’re blushing, sweet Sassie. You know” – he turned to face her – “you are the sauciest saucepot in the School of Humanities, and I can’t understand why we’ve not gone beyond that delicious kiss we shared at that lovely riverside pub so recently.”
Shame flared on Sassie’s face. She said, “Four years ago, Ed – I-I was a student – I-I was drunk, and you took – I was – that’s enough – ”
He laughed, gazed at the jar again. “It was only a kiss, Sassie. Tongues, that’s all.”
“Ed, please – ”
“Why so embarrassed? We’re both adults.”
She gritted her teeth. Her legs felt drained of strength. She slumped into the chair behind her desk and wished Crane hadn’t come here.
She glared at him, and felt hate rise in her breast.
Crane laughed again and ran a hand through his dark hair. Sunlight splintered off his ruby ring. He put the jar down on Sassie’s desk and took the chair opposite her. He draped an ankle across his knee and laid his hands on his inner thighs.
Sassie steeled herself and let the anger and the shame seep out of her. She said, “Are you able to help me, Ed? Do you know what the cuneiform says?”
He leaned forward and took hold of the clay pot once more, rolling it around in his hands. He looked at it and said, “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nothing?”
“All it says” – he twisted the pot around, reading the cuneiform on the lip – “is that this is the property of the Kings of Babylon – or some such nonsense.” Crane shrugged and placed the pot back on the desk. He scratched his chin and said, “Do you know where this friend of yours
got it?”
“No,” said Sassie, “I don’t.”
“I mean, it might be stolen, don’t you think?”
“It might be, but that’s not my business, is it – not mine, not yours.”
“You don’t think?” said Crane. “You don’t think we have a responsibility to return it to the rightful owner?”
“Only if you know who the rightful owner is, Ed.”
He chuckled. “I see – of course.” He narrowed his eyes. “Was there – anything in the pot, do you know?”
“When?” she said.
“When your – um – friend found it?”
“I don’t know if he did find it. I think he bought it on eBay.”
“He – eBay –? ” said Crane, blowing air out of his cheeks.
“Ask him yourself, Ed. He’ll be here in a while to pick it up,” she said, and then: “What about vampires? You said that Babylonians had vampire cults.”
Crane shrugged. “Ancient peoples had all kinds of cults.”
She took a breath and said, “You know these deaths – ”
“Yes, I know. It’s all over the news. Standard’s full of it every day.”
“Well, what do you make of it all?” she said.
“Now there’s a non-sequitur: from vampire cults to deaths in London.”
She felt the colour fill her cheeks. “The bodies have disappeared, Ed.”
“Gangs, drug lords, I don’t know,” said Crane, and he brushed his shoulder as if he were wiping away dust. “I’m surprised at you, Sassie. I think you need to have dinner with me so I can put you back on the straight and narrow. You need to get out more.”
Sassie shut her eyes. She tried again, saying, “Do you still think the depiction on the jar is Alexander the Great?”
Crane said, “Looks like the image we have of him. But then he could be one of many Greek heroes.”
“And these things, these bodies with their hearts gouged out? You still think they could be depictions of vampires?”
“Could be a depiction of demons, could be anything; could be humans – Alexander’s countless enemies,” said Crane. He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m not being helpful, am I, Sassie.”
