by Thomas Emson
McCall said, “I’ll wring your neck, you skinny little shit. You went out with my daughter, too. You killed her, you murdered her.”
Richard calmed McCall down, telling him to keep an eye on Crane.
Murray still burned, though, fury simmering in her veins.
And then Lithgow said, “Have you told Jake?”
“What?” said Murray. “That you’ve betrayed us? Been stringing us along all this time?”
“I haven’t, I haven’t,” he was saying, his face creased.
Murray said, “I’ve not told him yet. I was waiting for the right time. When you weren’t there. I didn’t want to accuse you outright, Fraser. I wanted to talk it over with Jake.”
Lithgow, his voice a squeak now, “Talk it over, then. Talk it over. I’m innocent. I’ve done fuck all, man. I’ve helped. I got us to Manchester. I helped catch that bastard,” he said, pointing at Crane.
“They fell for it, Fraser,” said Crane.
“Shut up, Crane,” said Lithgow, “don’t lie, don’t wind them up – tell the truth: I didn’t know anything – my – my dad – oh, fucking hell,” and tears filled his eyes.
“He’s a good actor,” said Crane. “Had me fooled, too. They said we had an insider. Well done, Fraser, good man.”
“Shut up,” said Lithgow, face turning red, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Crane said, “Your dad’ll be proud – ”
Lithgow screeched, launching himself at Crane. Murray tried to stand in Lithgow’s way, but got shoved aside. Richard lunged forward, grabbing Lithgow round the waist, Lithgow throwing punches in Crane’s direction but nowhere near to hitting the man. Richard dragged him away saying, “It’s okay, Fraser, it’s okay,” and Crane laughing.
McCall picked Crane up off the chair, swung him round, and punched him on the chin. Crane’s legs buckled and he slumped to the kitchen floor, out cold.
Richard pinned Lithgow, still crying, still saying he was innocent, against the kitchen door.
Murray went over and said, “Tell me the truth, Fraser.”
“I am, I am. I knew nothing. I’ve said all this: I got the drugs through Steve Hammond. He told me I didn’t have to buy them, just distribute, make a profit. Hammond got me the contact, told me where to meet this guy. They came to him, asked for a dealer, he sent them to me. Christ.”
“And now Hammond’s dead,” said McCall. “How bloody convenient.”
“It’s not for me, it’s not,” said Lithgow. “If he was alive, he could tell you.”
Richard let go of Lithgow and Lithgow stumbled across the kitchen, steadying himself against the fridge-freezer.
“He denied being involved in drugs when I spoke to him,” said Murray.
“He would, wouldn’t he,” said Lithgow. “And he – he was a liar, man.”
McCall said, “I guess you are too, Lithgow.”
“No,” said Lithgow, “no, I’m not. Not on this. I want Jake, here. I want to see Jake.”
“He’ll be here,” said Murray.
The doorbell rang.
Murray said, “Might be him,” and she walked out of the kitchen, through the living room. Her heart raced. All the strength seemed to have left her, and she felt dizzy. She stopped, touched her brow. The doorbell rang again. Lawton was here, she thought; they could sort this out, now.
She opened the door, ready to say, “Thank God you’re here,” to Lawton, but her throat clogged and her voice didn’t come out.
She stared, her body cold.
Detective Superintendent Phil Birch, with four hefty-looking men in black T-shirts behind him, said, “Good evening, Christine.”
PART FOUR.
RESURRECTION.
Chapter 91
ARMY OF 3.
LAWTON found that a part of Central London had been virtually blocked off – from Tottenham Court Road tube station along Oxford Street to Oxford Circus station, down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus, west to Leicester Square tube, then up Charing Cross Road to Tottenham Court Station again.
Police crawled all over Old Compton Street, Poland Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, and Wardour Street.
But Lawton, Rabbit, and Milo got in using Milo’s security firm credentials. The van sported a Milo’s Security logo. The men wore blue overalls showing the same logo. The cops let them through, no problems.
Lawton tried to call Murray but couldn’t get an answer. He furrowed his brow and stared at his phone. They’d been round to her house in Pimlico, but there was no one in. Then he’d called Lithgow and again, no response, the line going straight to answer machine.
Milo spotted his concern and said, “Trouble?”
Lawton said, “I’ve got a feeling it might be.”
They parked on Frith Street, opposite a gallery. Soho Square opened up behind them. But the street was quiet and shadows fell from the tall buildings. Milo slapped a security at work sign in the van’s window.
Lawton then called Ray Brewer, the guy who did all the light shows at Religion, hoping Ray was all right. He got through and they spoke for five minutes. Ray told Lawton what he wanted to know, and then asked something Lawton didn’t know: “When will all this be over, Jake? When can we get back to work?”
Lawton told Milo and Rabbit about the call, and he told Rabbit what he wanted him to do, saying at the end, “And then wreck the fucking thing so no bastard can switch them off.”
They went into the back of the van, checked the weapons. The rear smelled of wood. They’d bought piles of foot-long ash posts from the builder’s merchant in Peckham. Rabbit had been sharpening them into stakes in the back of the van. Sawdust lay thick on the floor. Lawton strapped the spear in its scabbard to his back. He clipped a torch and a knife in its case to his belt. Milo piled handfuls of stakes into a rucksack, and swung it over his shoulder. Rabbit armed himself too, stakes slipped into the hoops of a tool belt around his waist, stakes in the pockets of his boiler suit. Then he brushed sawdust from something he’d brought into the van that was wrapped in a duvet.
Milo said, “What the fuck is that?”
Rabbit said nothing, just unrolled the duvet to reveal what was wrapped up in it.
Lawton stared and said, “Jesus Christ, Rabbit. Where the fuck did you get that?”
“Off an insurgent. Holed it away. Sneaked it out when I came home.”
Milo said, “What the hell is it?”
Lawton said, “How do you smuggle an RPG-7 out of Iraq into the UK?”
“With a lot of balls, sarge,” said Rabbit, “that’s how.”
Milo said, “It’s a what?”
Rabbit, stroking the weapon, said, “Rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Pop a stake into the hollow tube, here. And” – he raised the weapon to his shoulder.
“Jesus, Rabbit,” said Lawton, “We get the picture.”
Milo said, “You mean to shoot wooden stakes at vampires using that thing?”
“It can fire warheads, blow up tanks at a range of a hundred metres,” said Rabbit. “Imagine what it can do to one of those things.”
Lawton saw Milo trying to imagine.
Rabbit said, “What about your mates, sarge?”
“I don’t know,” said Lawton, staring down at his phone. Fear coiled in his belly. He licked his dry, chapped lips. Times like this, he could do with booze.
“Where’d you seen them last?” said Rabbit.
Milo stroked the RPG like someone stroking a dog he’d been told might bite.
Lawton told Rabbit he’d dropped them off at Murray’s place and then spoken to Lithgow less than an hour later. He said Sassie had been taken, he was sure of it, and Murray’s kids too. And now he thought Murray, Lithgow, and McCall had also been taken.
“Seems we’ve got a fight on our hands,” said Milo, feeling the weight of the rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
“Odds are stacked against us,” said Lawton.
And Rabbit, smacking his lips, said, “That’s just the way we like it, eh, sarge?”
Chapter 92
CHOOSING SIDES.
THE woman who had shot Hammond said, “Where’s my brother?”
Her eyes were wide and hatred sizzled in them. “Tell me where he is or I’ll have you all butchered right now.”
Lithgow’s chest fluttered with fear. He was sweating, his head spinning. The copper named Birch and a crowd of heavies had swarmed into Murray’s house and bundled them into the back of a Transit. They’d brought them here to the club. They beat Jenna’s dad after he put up a fight. He’d cut one of the heavies with a bread knife before they overpowered him. Richard Murray had a swollen eye after trying to defend his wife, but Mr. Murray was no fighter.
Where the fuck was Lawton?
Where the fuck was Dad?
Was it true what Murray said? Was his dad part of this? Lithgow felt sick, wanting to throw up. He couldn’t be, not his dad. He was a pain in the neck, yes, but not a killer, not like these people.
Murray said, “Where are my sons, you cow? I’ll kill you.”
The woman said, “I am utterly terrified. Where’s my brother?”
They’d been hauled up into a room with no windows. It smelled of disinfectant. Empty shelves lined the wall. They were coated in dust, festooned in spiders’ webs.
Birch and his heavies kept an eye on Lithgow, Christine and Richard Murray, and Mark McCall. The thugs, muscled and ugly, wore black T-shirts and had what looked like red leather laces tied around their wrists.
The woman who shot Hammond perched on the windowsill, dust from the sill powdering her navy trousers. Next to her, his face swollen, stood Crane, and it was Crane who spoke, saying, “The soldier killed him, Nadia. And these bastards, they helped. They’re all responsible.”
The woman’s face turned purple and she twitched. She seemed about to throw herself forward, lashing out at any of the four of them – Murray, her husband, McCall, or Lithgow.
Then the door opened.
The woman settled back on the windowsill.
Lithgow’s mouth dropped open.
He felt nauseous.
He made the shape of the word, “Dad,” but no sound came from his throat.
Bernard Lithgow glared at the captives. And then his eyes settled on his son, whose mouth still formed that dad-word shape.
And then his dad went, “Speak up, Fraser, will you.”
And Lithgow found his voice, saying, “Dad, what’s going on? Why are you here? What’s happening?”
Murray said, “I told you, I said he was involved.”
Crane laughed and said, “It’s Daddy.”
The dark-haired woman snapped at Crane, telling him to shut up, and Crane frowned.
“Dad,” said Lithgow, “this woman killed Steve Hammond. She murdered him. I saw her shoot him.”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I only wounded him. Then we hung him, alive, over Kea’s ashes and cut open his throat. And we watched him bleed to death.”
The hairs on Lithgow’s nape stood on end. Beside him, Murray gasped, and he sensed her shivering. Richard Murray said, “Jesus Christ.”
And then McCall said, “You turned my daughter into a monster.”
“That was Fraser and his pills,” said the woman.
“No – no, please,” said Lithgow.
“I’ll kill you if I get the chance,” said McCall, glaring at Lithgow.
His dad looked at him and said, “You were such a disappointment to me, Fraser. But this seemed like an opportunity to redeem yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lithgow, his voice a whine.
“You did what was expected of you, but then” – his dad shook his head and furrowed his brow – “you did something quite unexpected.
You took responsibility. It was surprising, to say the least.”
Lithgow said, “I-I don’t understand.”
“You betrayed us,” said McCall.
Lithgow turned to the Murrays, to McCall, and he saw disgust in their faces. He said, “Honestly, I didn’t – I didn’t know.”
Then Murray said, “It’s okay, Fraser, I believe you.”
“I don’t,” said McCall.
Murray said, “You surprised me, too. You’ve been really brave, and this isn’t your fault.”
Lithgow looked at her, his eyes blurred with tears. His dad started to laugh, and then so did the heavies and Crane. Only the woman kept a straight face, staring at him with her purple eyes.
His dad, letting his laughter die down, said, “This is mightily sweet, I must say, but we have to come to the point.”
“The point?” said Murray.
“Yes. The point,” said Lithgow’s dad. “The point being, Fraser, do you want to live or die? Which do you prefer?”
Lithgow said, “What?” barely getting the word out.
“You have a choice,” said his dad. “You see, despite your rapscallion ways, you are, in fact, the progeny of a great family. Your lineage is royal.” His dad looked him up and down and said, “Surprising, I know, to look at you. But there it is.”
Lithgow shook his head, confused, so many things spinning about in his brain.
“So,” said his dad, “You can die with these” – he flapped a hand and made a face at the Murrays and McCall – “people, or join me.”
Lithgow gathered himself. His mind cleared. He looked his father in the eye and tried to remember anything good the older man had done for him. Apart from getting him off drugs charges, he could think of nothing; nothing that ever showed Bernard Lithgow loved his son.
Lithgow glanced at Murray, then faced his father again: “I’ll stay with them,” he said.
Crane said, “Ha! Told you.”
Murray said, “Fraser, it’s all right – ”
“No,” said Lithgow, “I’m not a coward. I’m not a scumbag, and I’m not useless like you think I am, Dad. I’ll stay with them.”
His dad stared at him for a few seconds. And then he said, “All right.”
Lithgow’s blood turned cold, and he thought he’d piss his pants.
“It appears,” said his dad, “that I’m going to have to make a decision on your behalf again, you fool.”
Lithgow frowned.
“Keatch,” said his dad, and the heavy with a blonde buzz-cut came forward, “bring him along,” and Keatch seized Lithgow.
Lithgow shouted. McCall tried to go to his aid, but the other heavies beat him off again.
Lithgow screamed and struggled, but Keatch was bear-strong.
Lithgow’s dad opened the door, walked out. Keatch hauled Lithgow out the door and said, “Say bye to your buddies.”
Chapter 93
PROTECT THE HUMAN.
DR. AFDAL Haddad sat in his wheelchair, surrounded by boxes.
The boxes contained his laboratory, the scientific bric-a-brac he’d collected over the decades. He sighed, relief sweeping over him. It had taken him a lifetime of learning, of experimenting, to achieve what he’d achieved: to create a pill containing particles of Kea that would spread the plague of vampirism through a population.
Since their arrival at Religion, the chemist had been holed away in a fourth floor room, producing a final batch of Skarlet before this evening’s ceremony that would bring about Kea’s rebirth.
An aluminium briefcase sat on Haddad’s lap. He opened it. Two clay pots lay in the case’s foam lining. The pots contained the ashes of Kakash and Kasdeja.
A vampire scuttled into the room and sniffed. The creature had been a boy once, aged fifteen or sixteen, Haddad guessed. The chemist put on his trilby, touching the band of red skin clipped to the hat. The vampire curled its top lip back and bared its fangs. Haddad knew it was hungry.
Desperate to sink its teeth into my throat, thought the old man.
But it couldn’t. Not while the fragment of demon attached to the hat protected Haddad. It was the cloth of the trinity. The remains of Kea, Kakash, and Kasdeja. It grew from their shoulders like wings, like capes; it fell from t
heir bellies as loincloths; it fanned from their heads like hair.
Those rags, those pieces of skin, had been stored in a chest beneath his father’s house for years. After those soldiers killed his brothers and stole the spear and the remains, the boy Haddad returned to the house in the morning. His brothers’ bodies were gone, but the chest remained, buried safely from prying eyes. He dragged it to his uncle’s house where it stayed.
A year later, the young Haddad was sent to Britain. His uncle died in the 1940s. Haddad returned to Iraq for the funeral, but the chest had gone.
It took him forty years, but he found it in the house of Constantin Friniuc.
How it got to Romania, he didn’t know; he didn’t care. The family still had the remains, and in 1983 Haddad was ready to repossess them.
The vampires smelled their origin on those fragments of skin, and it spoke to their instincts. It said, Don’t touch; this is not food.
“Come on,” he said to the vampire, “wheel me to the lighting booth.”
The vampire came up behind Haddad and started to push his wheelchair. Haddad felt the hairs on his nape rise – he had his back to a creature that could rip out his throat without a second thought.
The vampire rolled him out into the corridor.
“I was a boy when they stole these vases,” said Haddad, “and it took me a lifetime to find them again.” He shut the briefcase. “Kakash and Kasdeja, soon to join Kea. For the first time since the days of Alexander, the vampire trinity will reign. And London will be their Babylon.”
“Doctor,” said the boy, “what will happen to us? And to humans?”
“What was your name before?”
“My name, it was Jed.”
“Jed, I am a descendent of Nebuchadnezzar. I have a covenant with these gods, with your makers. My fellows and myself, we shall serve them and enjoy their protection. Our task will be to harvest humans for them, producing food. Of course, you and your kind, the vampire legions, will go hunting, and make more vampires. But we must make sure the human doesn’t die out completely.” Haddad smiled. “We – they – will become a protected species. There will be controlled culls.
