Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  Lydia came out and stood beside him. ‘As I said, we don’t have a Plan B, David.’

  ‘Then we have to come up with one.’

  Lydia sighed. ‘So what do you propose? We bleed Ana to death? There’s no one else around.’

  David frowned. He turned to her. ‘Bleed Ana?’

  ‘Well, no, I’m joking, obviously.’

  ‘No. No, you might have something there! I thought about it earlier but dismissed it because I didn’t think it was what John was getting at, but now I know what John actually was getting at, I’m suddenly thinking, why not?’

  ‘Bleed Ana to death?’

  ‘No, not to death, just a little. We take a pint – no more than they’d take in a blood donor clinic.’

  ‘And then what? Sit her down with a cup of tea and a biscuit? Are you mad?’

  ‘No,’ David was suddenly excited. ‘Think about it: it doesn’t even have to be Ana, it can be any of us, you, me – ’

  ‘No Flinch shall bleed.’

  ‘Alright, so not one of us, but what about all these Sect people you’ve got coming? Surely they’d be happy to sacrifice a pint of their blood in order to raise their Master?’

  Lydia’s top lip curled in contempt. ‘You can’t be serious? You want to bleed our guests? It’s not exactly good manners, is it?’

  ‘Not all of them. We won’t need to. We’d only need one or two pints to do the job – if that, even. See, the stomach is a sensitive thing; after a long period of disuse, it can’t take too much of anything – and fifty years is a very long period of disuse. So my guess is, all Underwood will actually be able to digest is a couple of mouthfuls.’

  Lydia waved a hand. ‘Oh, pooh! Why are we told to bleed a whole person’s worth of blood if all he needs is a couple of mouthfuls?’

  ‘Because that’s probably what they always used to do. They’d grab a victim, Underwood would take what he needed in terms of blood, and then they’d just kill ’em – regardless of the amount needed, or taken.’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. It’s not what Underwood wants at all.’

  ‘Well, he has to adapt, Lydia. You said so yourself – he’s not waking up in 1958, is he?’

  ‘No, but – ’

  ‘But nothing! Work with me on this, will you? Who could we use to start with?’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re seriously suggesting we bleed our guests? The Sect members?’

  ‘Well, it may not even come to that, we can probably get by with staff and trusted friends. Ana is one, Conchi’s another. Who else? Humour me. Who’d be up for it, in theory?’

  Lydia shrugged. ‘Well, there’s Beltran of course – Doctor Morales – he’s a masochist, amongst other things. He’d do it at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘A doctor?’

  ‘Yes, he runs a sexual health clinic in Malaga. He’s the one who screened Gavin’s blood for us.’

  ‘Can he get medical supplies?’

  ‘Get them? The man’s apartment is positively awash with them. It’s a fetish of his. He’s quite incorrigible.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. Lydia, this is it! This is our Plan B!’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  David touched his temples, as if trying to further coax Plan B by stimulating them. ‘This doctor friend of yours, could he bring us the stuff we’d need for a blood transfusion?’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘David, this isn’t a plan, it’s an arse on a stick.’

  ‘No, this will work! We raise Underwood and no-one gets hurt. There’ll be no corpses, no cops, no trail of death and destruction. It’s brilliant!’

  ‘It’s deranged.’

  ‘Answer me! Can Doctor Morales get blood transfusion equipment?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Okay, call him now and ask him to bring it out here along with anything else he thinks we could use.’

  ‘David – ’

  ‘Oh, and don’t forget to ask if he’d be willing to donate a pint personally.’

  ‘Underwood won’t like this.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk, Lydia. I’m the guardian and it’s my call. If he doesn’t like it, don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility.’

  ‘And so what are we going to do about the boy, Gavin?’

  ‘Uhh,’ David’s mind was racing. ‘I don’t know. He’ll be okay for now, I mean, we can leave him here for another night. You’re right: dropping him in broad daylight – especially today – well, it just isn’t practical. I can take him tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Well, that’s something at least. He can be on standby in the event that you finally come to your senses.’

  David turned to her, his eyes bright. ‘Oh, I’ve come to my senses, Lydia. Don’t you see? You were right when you said that society had evolved and Underwood has to evolve with it. And this – this is a key part of that evolution.’

  ‘What is? You’ve lost me.’

  David took her by the arms. ‘It’s this: no one has to die – not tonight, not ever. The vampire is going to evolve, and we shall be the architects of his evolution, Lydia. Using science and practical methods of blood transference, we can ensure that Underwood need never kill anyone ever again.’

  Lydia was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘You know, that’s possibly the weirdest idea I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘But it’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it’s possible, but – ’

  ‘No buts. It’s possible, and that’s enough.’

  ‘David, can you hear yourself? You sound like Victor Frankenstein.’

  David smiled. ‘Ahh, but Frankenstein was a genius.’

  ‘Frankenstein was a nut.’

  ‘Come on. We have to get cracking.’ He turned and strode off towards the house.

  Lydia watched him go. To herself, she murmured, ‘Get cracking?’ She shook her head and started slowly after him. ‘Brother dear, you’ve already cracked.’

  Nigel ‘Hodge’ Hodgekiss sat at a table in Bar Pepe Mendes with a glass of Cruzcampo beer and a tapas portion of green olives. He was reading a novel written in basic Spanish intended for learners of the language. On a previous reading of the book, he’d made copious notes in the page margins explaining what – for him at the time – had been new words. Many of these words were now in his active Spanish vocabulary, but not all. Hodge popped another olive into his mouth and stared in utter bewilderment at a phrase he’d evidently once been quite familiar with – since he hadn’t made any notes about it – but had now completely forgotten.

  ‘Estoy agotada,’ he murmured, hoping that maybe the sound of the words might jump-start his memory. It didn’t. He looked over to the bar. A couple of local men were engaged in lively discussion about something mysterious; Hodge couldn’t follow a word of it. For a second he considered going over and asking them what estoy agotada meant, but even if they explained it to him, Hodge wouldn’t be able to understand their explanations. It was for this reason that Hodge sat at a table rather than at the bar; people always spoke to him when he sat at the bar, and try as he might, he could never understand a word they were saying.

  He’d come out to Spain in 2002 with his then girlfriend Sharon and they’d rented an apartment in Benidorm together. He’d got a job at Keith’s pub and Sharon had tried to find work as a beauty technician. Nails were her speciality. Unfortunately, none of the English-speaking salons needed a nail technician, and Sharon couldn’t speak a word of Spanish – not even “nails”. So she’d abandoned her job quest and – specialist professional that she was – sat around on the beach waiting for a suitable position to become available. They’d split up three months later. Sharon returned to England, and Hodge stayed on at The John Bull Tavern.

  Hodge loved Spain. He loved everything about it. But the one thing that had always proved an insurmountable obstacle for him was the language, or more specifically, the Andalucian pronunciation of it. He’d been s
tudying Spanish for years; the bookshelves of his apartment were bowing with the weight of dictionaries and textbooks, CDs and cassettes. But these recordings were all invariably made by speakers of Castilian Spanish from the north of the country. On the cassettes they always spoke very clearly, and Hodge could always rewind anything he didn’t catch the first time. However, here in Andalucia, the pronunciation sounded completely different. Andalucian Spanish was famously hard to grasp, even for northern Spaniards, who had told Hodge that in Andalucia, people “eat” the endings of their words. He’d found that to be true, especially inland here in Almacena. Here they ate not only the ending of a word, but as much of the remainder as they could swallow with it – or at least that’s how it sounded to Hodge.

  He closed his eyes and strained to understand the flow of the conversation at the bar trying to glean a flash of meaning from a word or phrase.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  He understood that phrase well enough, and the voice spoke with a Dublin accent. Hodge opened his eyes as Damo Sullivan pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

  ‘Alright mate,’ said Hodge. ‘’Ere, what does, “estoy agotada” mean?’

  ‘I’m knackered,’ said Damo.

  ‘Yeah, sure you are. But what does, “estoy agotada” mean?’

  ‘It means, “I’m knackered”.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Hodge rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. ‘Of course it is. Agotar – to exhaust. How could I forget that?’

  ‘Maybe because you’re never knackered enough to need to use it.’

  ‘I get knackered often enough.’

  ‘How? What do you do that’s knackering?’

  ‘I go running sometimes. That’s knackering. Especially in this heat.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not gonna go up to a Spanish person, all puffing and panting with a face like a wet turnip and say, “estoy agotada”, now are you?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Well, that’s why you’ve forgotten it then, isn’t it? If you don’t use it – you lose it. So, what’s the story? What do you wanna see me about that can’t wait until tonight?’

  ‘It’s about Mark Coleman.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘No. Heard what?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? Oh no, the fucking eejit. What was it, smack? I knew he’d get into that one day.’

  ‘No, he was bloomin’ murdered.’

  Damo’s mouth was open, ready to receive an olive. He dropped the olive but his mouth stayed open. ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘It’s true, and do you have to say “fuck off” when you mean “I don’t believe it”? It’s not very nice.’

  ‘Alright, well I don’t fucking believe it.’

  ‘Well, like I said, it’s true.’

  Damo picked up another olive and popped it into his mouth. ‘How?’

  ‘Someone cut his head off.’

  ‘Get away! You’re fucking shitting me.’

  Hodge shook his head. ‘I wish I was, mate.’

  ‘They cut his head off? What with?’

  ‘I dunno, the paper didn’t say.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’

  ‘Do you want a beer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hodge raised his hand and gestured to the barman. ‘Dos cervazas por favor.’ The barman nodded and Hodge turned back to Damo.

  ‘Do they know why?’ Damo asked.

  ‘Why he was murdered? No, not that they’re saying anyway, but I reckon it was them Russians.’

  ‘What, the Russians in Benidorm?’

  ‘Yeah, of course the Russians in Benidorm, how many other Russians was Coleman involved with?’

  ‘How do I know? He was a dealer, he might have known loads of Russians.’

  ‘Alright, well, let me re-phrase that: how many Russian mafia type’s nephews was Coleman involved in murdering?’

  Damo shrank down in his seat. ‘Shut the fuck up, H,’ he whispered urgently. ‘You never know who can speak English in these places.’

  ‘Oh, yes I bloody do. You and me and no bugger else – more’s the pity.’

  ‘You don’t know that. The barman speaks a bit.’

  ‘Yeah, he knows “hello” and “Manchester United”, but I don’t reckon he knows “murdering” somehow.’

  ‘He might do, it’s on the telly a lot.’

  ‘Well let’s find out shall we?’ Hodge turned to barman who was approaching with their drinks. The barman set the drinks down. ‘Gracias and murder,’ said Hodge.

  ‘De nada,’ said the barman with a smile. He turned and walked away.

  ‘See? We could be discussing plans to put a bomb under King Juan Carlos’s bed and no-one would be any the wiser.’

  Damo shook his head. ‘Bollocks, mate. You got to be careful at all times, because you never know who can understand you. It’s that fucking simple.’

  ‘Oh, good. So can I take it then that you’ve been careful at all times?’

  Damo took a sip of his beer. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you haven’t told any of our old associates where we are?’

  ‘Wha-! Why the fuck would I do that?’

  ‘Not intentionally, sure, but – you know – maybe by accident, like when you’re out clubbing or something down on the coast.’

  ‘Wha-! Are you fucking mental? Here’s me telling you to be careful with your gob – because you’re not – and now you’re asking me if I am? Me? I’m the fucking soul of discretion, I am. Not like you with your big flapping cake hole.’

  ‘Well, what about when you’re all loved up?’

  Damo was aghast. ‘Do I look fucking stupid or something? Have I got a track record of being a fucking eejit that I’m unaware of?’

  ‘No, but, you know, you’ve got a track record for taking the kind of chemicals that loosen lips and sphincters.’

  ‘What are you going on about sphincters for? Are you saying I take it up the arse?’

  The men at the bar looked over. Damo grinned at them amicably. ‘El futbul es la vida.’ The men chuckled and went back to their conversation.

  ‘Look mate,’ said Hodge in a lower tone. ‘I’m not accusing you of being a canary or a queen, I’m just asking if you might have said anything to anyone. We need to be sure.’

  ‘It fucking sounds like your accusing, Hodge. But for the record, no – I’ve said bugger-all. Jesus. I gotta say, I’m a bit fucking hurt.’

  ‘Aw, come on, mate. You know I don’t actually think you’d say anything stupid. I just wanted to check is all.’

  ‘Well now you know. So, you can apologise.’

  Hodge sighed. ‘Aw, come on.’

  ‘Apologise, please. First you tell me that a dear friend of ours is dead, and then when I’m all in shock, you accuse me of being an idle gossip with a slack arsehole. Seriously, I am – I’m hurt.’

  ‘Alright, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I should fucking think so.’

  Hodge looked into his drink a moment. ‘So, what do you reckon then? You think it was Sergei’s mob what’s done him in?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Damo nodded and finished his drink. ‘Deffo. We’re in big fucking trouble.’

  The men at the bar laughed. Damo and Hodge looked over at the men and then back at each other. ‘See?’ said Damo, tapping the side of his nose, ‘I reckon they understood that alright.’

  14

  LYDIA ENTERED THE STUDY to find David staring deep into the glow from John’s computer monitor. ‘Hallo, still swotting up on all things vamp?’

  David ignored the question. ‘Have you cancelled the excess guests?’

  ‘Yes, but they weren’t very happy I can tell you. Naturally, I told them it was your fault – I mean, your orders. And seeing as how you’re the new guardian, they’ve agreed – reluctantly – to abide by your demands.’

  ‘Good. Did you take those chairs downstairs?’

  ‘Anna did.’

&nbs
p; ‘But I asked you to do it.’

  ‘Anna’s your servant, David, not me. Anyway, why couldn’t you do it yourself? Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the cellar after all these years.’

  ‘No,’ David answered, perhaps a little too defensively. He checked his tone. ‘I mean, er, I’m just … busy, researching.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘So how many can we expect?’

  ‘What, guests? You said twenty, remember?’

  ‘Yes. I just wanted to check that you did.’

  ‘How could I possibly forget?’

  ‘So who are they?’

  ‘Oh, no-one you’d know. In fact they’re mostly locals: our lawyer, señor Hernández and his father; our notary, señor Lago – both family firms, been with us for yonks. Then there’s Miguel – my personal assistant, Conchita, the Bensons, and your sacrificial donors of course – Beltran and Ana. I can’t believe they’re actually going to let you do this to them. They’re nattering about it now in the kitchen.’

  ‘Who? Beltran the doctor? He’s here now?’

  ‘Yes. He’s just arrived.’

  David pushed his seat back. ‘Did he bring the blood transfusion equipment?’

  ‘I believe so, but you’d better ask him yourself. I’m afraid I don’t speak medicalese.’

  David looked at his watch and got up. ‘Right then, let’s go.’

  Lydia smiled, amused. ‘You’re very determined, aren’t you?’

  ‘I find it helps when you need to get things done.’ He left the room.

  Lydia strolled after him. ‘You know, when I was speaking to you yesterday, I thought you lacked the balls for all of this. No offence, but I honestly thought you’d have legged it by now.’

  ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t have preferred to.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s not too late.’

  He stopped and turned back to her. His face was resolute. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Oh, of course it’s not. There are planes flying out all the time these days, and so many airports – ’

  ‘Look, Lydia,’ he walked back and stopped when they were face to face. ‘Fair or unfair, I’m the guardian, you’re not. That’s it, the end. Are we clear?’

  She traced the line of one of his biceps with her fingernail. ‘There’s that determination again. You know your eyes seem to darken to a deeper shade of blue when you’re like this; it’s very attractive.’