[Vampire Babylon 01] - Skarlet (2009)

by Thomas Emson

  The UV light was blinding.

  Kea lurched forward, its skin starting to char, the red flesh turning black.

  But the monster still gave off a sense of power.

  It attacked.

  Lawton braced himself. He felt weak and thought he couldn’t take much more. But he had to stand his ground. He yelled, racing forward to face, head-on, Kea’s charge. He leaped at the monster and the monster swatted him away. But Lawton grasped for the bone-sword in the beast’s shoulder and yanked, the weapon sliding out of the flesh.

  Kea shrieked. Smoke belched from the wound.

  Lawton sprang to his feet, armed again.

  Kea came again, flying at Lawton, smoke tailing off its body.

  Lawton braced himself, squatting down. He sprang at Kea, bonesword held out. They clashed. Kea bear-hugged Lawton, Lawton driving the sword into the monster’s chest next to the other weapon, both horns now buried in the demon’s heart.

  Kea’s momentum forced them backwards, sent them tumbling over the edge of the platform.

  Kea bit into Lawton’s shoulder as they he fell. Lawton yelled out.

  The bite was like acid on his skin. His chin rested on the monster’s shoulder. Lawton saw the points of the bone-swords sticking out of Kea’s back.

  They plummeted, the breath rushing out of Lawton.

  Lawton struggled, trapped by the monster’s bear hug, its arms like tree trunks wrapped around him.

  Heat came from Kea, now, its body burning up. The vampire opened its arms, flapping them as if to slow its fall, and Lawton came free.

  They drew apart, Lawton holding on to the hilts of the bone-swords, Lawton on his back and Kea above him. He’d be crushed under the vampire’s body when they hit the cavern floor.

  Smoke swelled from Kea’s flesh. The skin scorched and flames ignited on its arms, its legs, its scalp.

  Lawton struggled to breathe.

  He tugged out one of the bone-swords from Kea’s chest, skewered it back into the vampire’s heart. The monster shrieked and flailed. It tried to shake itself loose. Its violent thrashing caused them to roll through the air. Lawton felt as if he were being ripped apart. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs somewhere in the back of his throat by now. The ground hurtled towards him.

  Kea started to disintegrate, ashes whipping off its body, smoke swirling.

  Lawton yelled for his life.

  PART FIVE.

  AFTERMATH.

  Chapter 107

  ENEMIES OF THE STATE.

  Home Office, Queen Annes Gate, London –

  February 18, 2008

  THE Home Secretary said, “Eighteen bodies were recovered from the ruins of Religion. The fire last Monday destroyed the building and caused devastating damage to nearby structures. That area of Soho will be shut to the public until further notice.”

  The Home Secretary coughed and continued:

  “Among the bodies discovered were, as reported in the newspapers, John Petrou, a well-respected High Court judge, and the admired QC, Bernard Lithgow. The body of a former King’s Regiment soldier, Richard Andrew Bittle, was also discovered. We believe, at this time, that Mr. Bittle may have started the fire.”

  The reporters who’d gathered for the news conference shuffled.

  Cameras clicked and flashed. The Home Secretary frowned, providing the photographers and cameraman with a serious image.

  “Mr. Bittle,” said the Home Secretary, “served in Basra with Jake Lawton, who had been questioned by police in connection with the deaths of twenty-eight people at Religion on February the sixth, 2008. Now, as we all know, you gentlemen and ladies of the press”

  – a murmur went through the room – “made a number of bizarre allegations after the bodies of those twenty-eight victims went missing. You made bizarre allegations when a vicious drugs war broke out in London, which resulted in the deaths of many innocent people. I am not going to confirm or deny any of those allegations. They are, to be honest, not worthy of comment. They are speculation at best, lies at worst.”

  Hands shot up among the reporters. The Home Secretary raised an arm and went on:

  “There will be time for a few questions at the end, but let me finish.”

  The reporters dropped their hands.

  “The police still wish,” said the Home Secretary, “to question Jake Lawton. He was known to have entered Religion on the night of the fire, but no trace of him has been found. Police wish to question him about his involvement in the fire, and continue to seek his help in the inquiry surrounding the deaths of the twenty-eight people at the club on February the sixth. If you glance up at the screen behind me”

  – the Home Secretary heard the hum of the screen – “you will note the images of three people police wish to question. They are, as you’ve noted, Jake Lawton, Christine Murray – one of you, I hasten to add, who has disappeared with her husband, Richard, and her sons, David and Michael – and Aaliyah Sinclair.”

  Cameras flashed again, and reporters scribbled in their notebooks.

  Whispers swept through the press pack. The Home Secretary coughed again and continued:

  “We advise the public not to approach these individuals if they are spotted, but to contact the police immediately. Certainly, Mr. Lawton is a dangerous individual. He has been, in the past, accused of a crime while serving as a British soldier in Iraq – a crime that brought shame to all the brave men and women who are fighting for the freedoms of the Iraqi people and the security of the free West.”

  The Home Secretary nodded her head to indicate the speech had ended.

  Reporters peppered questions at the podium. Arms shot up and voices crisscrossed. It was bedlam, and a Home Office press officer stood to calm the throng.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “ladies and gentlemen – ”

  The Home Secretary took the rag of scarlet skin from her jacket pocket and held it to her nose for a moment. She sniffed, drawing in the ancient odours, the musky stench.

  The press officer said, “Mrs. Burrows will gladly answer your questions about her recent promotion and the present situation, and the newly promoted Detective Chief Superintendent Phil Birch from the Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command” – he gestured to the bespectacled man holding a clipboard – “can also respond to any queries you might have with regards these incidents.”

  Reporters shouted, raising their arms, thrusting their microphones forward, shouting Jacqueline Burrows’s name. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and she pointed to the Sky News correspondent bobbing up and down in the front row.

  Chapter 108

  EXILES.

  Wells Next The Sea, Norfolk – 2 p.m., March 8, 2008

  CHRISTINE Murray, standing in the shadows of the pine trees, gazed out towards the sea. She couldn’t see the water, but heard its swish as it came in. The sand stretched for miles. Dunes crested the beach. She watched the stick figures of David and Michael running from the water.

  “It’s like being the last people on earth,” she said.

  “One day we might be just that,” said Richard, his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

  They were silent.

  Then Murray said, “No sign of Lawton or Aaliyah – or Sassie.”

  Richard shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Murray said, “Jake Lawton walks at night. That’s what they say, isn’t it? A ghost.”

  “Who says?” Richard sounded irritated. He didn’t like rumours, speculation; he liked facts.

  “The forums, the bloggers. They say he never sleeps.”

  “He never did. He was insomniac.”

  “He kills in the dark, that’s what they say. Walks at night, kills in the dark. If he is alive, I think he might have gone after the Fuad brothers.”

  Richard said, “I’m sure he’ll be in touch, soon.”

  “But I’m not absolutely sure he made it out of Religion alive. No one saw him; we’ve not heard a thing. Just these rumours. And as for Sassie – ”


  “She’s one of them, Chrissie, you know that.”

  Murray said nothing.

  “I hope the boys will be all right,” said Richard. “They saw terrible things. I don’t think Michael is really coping.”

  “I’ve been an awful mother.”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  She shivered against him and he pulled her closer. She felt alone, though. Lost to the world. But they were exiles, after all. Banished from society. The authorities considered Lawton Public Enemy No.1. And anyone consorting with him would be held to account, too.

  “They’re re-grouping, aren’t they. Burrows is Home Secretary, now,” said Murray. “She’s got more power. She’ll protect Haddad; she’ll protect them all. Let’s hope Fraser’s doing some good. I’ve not heard from him in weeks.”

  “Where was he the last you heard?”

  “Some festival in Manchester.”

  “Any drugs?” said Richard.

  She shook her head. “Not the kind we were looking for. But it’s only a matter of time. They’ll lie low, then start again. And they’ve got more of a power base, now. Burrows almost at Number Ten.”

  “You don’t think –?”

  “Why not, Richard? Why wouldn’t she want the top job? That’s what they’re after: power. They want an empire and they’ll stop at nothing.”

  Murray listened to the sea and to the wind whistle through the pines and silver birches, thick behind them.

  Richard said, “Do you think there are many out there still? The vampires?”

  “Yes, I think so. I think they’re still feeding, but picking off people that won’t be missed. They’ll rise again when they hear that call. When Haddad gets his act together. That’s all he’s lived for. Kakash is next for him. And lord knows what that thing’s going to be like.”

  “Shall we go back to the caravan?”

  Murray nodded, got up and held out a hand to her husband.

  Richard called the boys, and the stick figures quickened their pace.

  They made their way back through the trees. A twig snapped to her right, and Murray jerked her head round to see. She tightened her grip on Richard’s hand.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Murray shook her head, gave a weary smile. She didn’t say anything; didn’t want to scare the boys. But as they all headed back to the caravan park, Murray knew they were being watched.

  * * *

  Romford, Essex – 11.15 a.m., April 2, 2008

  Lithgow said, “A quarter of Black Death, please,” and eyed the rows of jars lining the shelves while the blonde woman poured out his sweets into the scales.

  He’d spotted the Mr Simms Olde Sweet Shoppe, and all his worries seemed to get rinsed away.

  He was here to visit a club called Scandals that night. He’d told Murray, “I’ve heard that there’s a new drug on the go down here. This lad I met, he says it’s red with a ‘K’ on it – but then he said it might be a ‘J’ – he wasn’t sure, but I thought it’s worth checking.”

  And Murray said, “It’s worth checking, Fraser.”

  After the fire at Religion, after he’d got out, Fraser went back to his flat and flushed the Skarlet pills he’d kept in the jewelled box down the loo – what he should’ve done that Thursday morning after those people died. He’d packed a bag and disappeared, phoning Murray with his new mobile phone number – and only Murray. Since then, she’d been his sole contact.

  “Have you heard from Lawton?” he’d asked her.

  She said she hadn’t.

  Where was he, then? Lithgow had saved his life, after all; saved them all. Reached the ultraviolet switch after Rabbit died. But now he’d been abandoned. Lawton had gone underground, some said. But Murray wasn’t sure he’d even got out of Religion. The last she saw of him, he was falling off the platform with that monster. Lithgow didn’t believe in God, but he prayed that Lawton had made it out alive.

  Because without Lawton, Lithgow knew they were doomed.

  The woman scooped the sweets into a bag and handed them to Fraser with a smile. He paid and smiled back, although he found it hard these days.

  He strolled into the high street and sat on a bench. He stared into the bag of sweets. His mind drifted to his childhood, to his mum taking him to sweet shops behind his dad’s back and buying him all kinds of treats.

  “Don’t tell your dad,” mum would say, “or I’ll get into trouble – we’ll both get into trouble.”

  He felt empty. He had no father, now. No mother. He just had these friends he never saw.

  He picked out a sweet. He held it up and rolled it around between finger and thumb. Black, coated in sugar. He popped it into his mouth, and the sourness singed him. He puckered his face and sucked on the sweet. It was the most powerful sweet he’d ever tasted. He swore, and an elderly woman glanced at him as she passed.

  Fraser sucked on the sweet and shuddered.

  He’d licked off the sugary coating and now it was a smooth ball in his mouth. But still the sourness oozed out of its core. He waited for the bite, for the crunch. His eyes were half-closed, unaware of his surroundings, his mind back in childhood.

  A girl said, “You all right? Look like you’ve been stung by a wasp.”

  Fraser jolted and opened his eyes. He wrapped up the bag of sweets in his hand.

  “Don’t I get one?” she said, glancing at the sweets in the bag, then back up to Fraser’s face.

  “They’re strong,” he said. “Acquired taste.”

  “Show me.”

  He looked at her. She had short dark hair. She was about twenty, pretty and frail, wearing a vest-top and jeans. He opened the bag and showed her. The girl made a face and pulled out her tongue.

  “Ugh, Black Death, I’ve heard of those,” she said. “They’re really strong. Only for tough guys.”

  “Acquired taste,” he said again.

  She nodded, looked him in the eye. “I’ve got something that’s an acquired taste, too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” and she put something in Fraser’s hand. She leaned into him and he smelled her sweat. She said, “If you like it, come to Scandals tonight. I’ll be there,” and she walked away.

  Fraser watched the crowd swallow her. Then he opened his hand and stared at the pill.

  He grinned.

  Chapter 109

  BORN AGAIN.

  Glastonbury – 11.54 p.m., June 28, 2008

  DIXIE said, “So where the fuck’s Perry got to? I ain’t seen him since last night.”

  “He was with some Christians,” said Chuck, “telling ’em that the Bible says that ‘grass is good’ so justifies smoking pot.”

  “Aw, he’s a fucking wanker. They’ll mush his brain, man,” said Dixie, rolling a joint. “They got brainwashing techniques, those Christians, brainwashing techniques Perry can’t cope with.”

  Chuck said, “I told him. I said, ‘Perry, get the fuck away, they are evil, man, evil.’ But he wasn’t having it, Dixie. They were like, ‘We’ve got the best drug in the world, and it can cleanse your soul,’ and Perry goes, ‘Can I smoke it?’ And then they go, ‘No, man, it’s Jesus Christ, and he’s your saviour,’ and Perry’s there, Dixie, he’s there giving it all that.”

  “Aw, man,” said Dixie, popping the roach in the joint’s backside, “they’ll twist everything and he’ll get involved again. Like he did with those Buddhists last year, man.”

  “And those jugglers the year before that – he thought juggling could bring world peace.”

  Dixie, eighteen, had been coming to Glastonbury on his own – well, with his mates and without his parents – for four years. His mum and dad first brought him and Perry here when Dixie was ten and Perry was seven. This was Perry’s second Glastonbury without his mum and dad tagging along. They were here somewhere; they were always here.

  But at least they weren’t in Dixie and Perry’s faces.

  Dixie said, “He’s always getting caught up in things, man, we got t
o keep an eye on him,” and he lit the joint. The flame glowed orange in the gloom of the tent. They were camped near the Other Stage where they’d watched the Super Furry Animals play earlier that night.

  Now, Chemical Brothers’ tunes wafted across the campsite, and Dixie nodded his head to the distant rhythm as he belched out a plume of smoke.

  Chuck, a schoolmate of Dixie, had been given the job of chaperoning Perry this year. But he was crap at the job, really. And he let the fifteen year old wander off. Nothing wrong in that – if the fifteen year old had any sense of where he was and who he was. But Perry was fucked in the head. Probably all the drugs their mum and dad smoked when he and Dixie were growing up.

  “You got to go look for him, man,” said Dixie, drawing more smoke into his lungs. His head swam.

  “No way, Dixie, no way. He’s your brother, man.”

  “Yeah, and we voted you nanny this year.”

  “No way – give me a pull – ” And he snatched the joint from Dixie, sticking it between his lips. His cheeks hollowed as he drew the fumes into his throat.

  Dixie said, “Aw, man, I can’t fucking lose him.”

  He took the spliff back and smoked it. The cigarette paper crackled as the flame ate into it. A tail of smoke plumed from the end of the joint. The tent flap opened and, through the veil of smoke, Dixie saw his brother’s blurry face.

  Dixie flinched and blinked. His eyes adjusted to the faint light inside the tent. His brother looked –

  “You look weird, man,” said Chuck. “Those Christians give you a pill, yeah?”

  “Yeah, man,” said Perry, his voice a hiss, and when he opened his mouth Dixie saw –

  “Hey, where d’you get those fangs, man?” said Chuck.

  Dixie’s insides turned cold. He creased his brow and watched his brother crawl into the tent. Perry looked at him and Dixie stared into his eyes and Dixie said, “What’s wrong with your eyes, man?”