by Mike Bennett
Underwood laughed. ‘Yes, I can see that he might. Lovely chap, Arthur, though a tad ... how should I put it ... evil?’
‘Yeah, that just about hits the nail on the head.’
‘But he never hurt either of you, did he?’ Underwood asked, concerned.
‘Oh no,’ said Lydia. ‘He never hurt us. He loved us. He loved to tell us tales about you and our ancestors, and the responsibilities we inherited by being young Flinches.’
‘Mmm,’ said Underwood. ‘Responsibilities of which you seem to disapprove, Flinch.’
David looked down at his glass, nursing it in both hands like it needed him as much he needed it. ‘I respect life, sir, I don’t take it.’
‘No, of course you don’t. But of course you realise I take life by necessity; it’s a matter of personal survival.’
‘Yeah, well, I call it murder.’
Underwood exhaled a stream of smoke and sang, ‘You say murder, and I say survival, you like potato, and I like pot-ahto.’
David shook his head in disbelief. ‘With respect, My Lord, how can you be so flippant?’
Anger suddenly flashed in Underwood’s eyes, ‘Flippant? You dare to call me flippant, when all this time I’ve been nothing but patient and gracious with you – you, a plaguey little sot who deserves to be dragged outside and horse-whipped?’
David opened his mouth to reply but no words came out.
Underwood saw this and smiled. ‘But there you are; I have manners, which is more than I can say for you. I could see the younger generation’s manners going to pot back in the 1950’s. Obviously, you’re something of a contemporary teddy boy, hmm?’
‘No, sir,’ said David. ‘I, I’m just ... ’
‘A conscientious objector?’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s about right.’
‘Ah, and a vegetarian too, I’ll wager?’
‘Er, no,’ said David, puzzled. ‘No I’m not a veggie.’
‘You mean, you eat meat?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I say, it’s rather hypocritical of you to call my carnivorous behaviour murder, while you yourself are, in all probability, currently digesting flesh.’
David frowned. ‘Well … respectfully, sir, I don’t think your murdering a human being is quite the same as me having a cheeseburger.’
‘Oh no, there is a big difference, Flinch: I kill my own meals, while you prefer to have yours killed for you, hacked up by some butcher who gets the poor beast’s blood all over his apron, so you don’t have to get it all over your conscience.’
Lydia grunted. Since his momentary anger, Underwood’s nails had hardened again and she found herself struggling with the remains of a straggler.
David shook his head. ‘Look, I know the whole meat-is-murder argument, and I agree that from a certain point of view – maybe a Buddhist’s – that I might seem a bit of a hypocrite.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Underwood.
‘But you aren’t exactly a Buddhist.’
‘Nor am I a hypocrite.’
Lydia managed to sever the straggler. It flew across the room, pinged against the rim of David’s glass and rebounded into his drink. David looked at the remains of the nail in the bottom of his glass. He put the drink aside, took another glass from the sink, and filled it. ‘I’m just saying, Your Lordship, man is more than … an animal.’
‘Tell that to Darwin, Flinch. He’d tell you man is nothing but an animal: a “long pig”, as the cannibals used to say.’
David took a drink. ‘Yeah, well, try telling that to a judge and jury.’ He was beginning to slur his words. ‘Tell them that man is just a long pig, an animal that you’ve got every right to dine on as you see fit. You tell them that, and see what they say back.’
Underwood rolled his eyes. ‘Oh do shut up, Flinch, your tedious platitudes are beginning to give me indigestion. I hope this is just the drink talking; if you turn out to be a bore I may have to terminate your employment. And I believe I did mention the terms of dismissal?’
David shut his mouth and a silence ensued.
Lydia, who had been filing the rough edges of Underwood’s nails, suddenly became aware that the noise of her filing was now the only sound in the room. She stopped and lay down her file. ‘There, that’s better. All done.’
Underwood looked at his nails and his dark expression brightened. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, Lydia. You have a talent.’
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ said Lydia. ‘Would you like me to do your toenails as well? I imagine they could be a bit in-grown, seeing as you’ve had your shoes on all this time.’
Underwood nodded. ‘Yes, I daresay you could be right there. I’m holding them back right now, and that’s where they’ll stay until I’m in the bath where I can tackle them myself. I don’t think it would be quite gentlemanly to inflict such a potentially unpleasant sight on a young lady.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind.’
‘Ah, but I do, Lydia. I have my vanity, hard to believe though it may be in my present condition.’ He got up. ‘So now, if you’ll permit me, I’ve been more than sufficiently hideous for one evening already – for which, incidentally, I must apologise. I behaved terribly earlier on. My only defence is that I was ... unwell.’ He held out a hand for the manicure set. ‘However, presenting you with my feet is one grotesque display I can, and will, avoid. So if I may?’ Lydia handed him the manicure set. ‘Thank you. Now, I have to get cleaned up. I’ve been in the grave for fifty years and frankly, I smell like it.’ He walked to the door.
‘My Lord?’ said Lydia.
Underwood stopped in the doorway and turned back.
‘Beltran and Ana: they believed they would be coming back – as vampires, like you.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Will they?’
Underwood shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh,’ Lydia looked down to her feet.
Underwood scratched his beard. ‘The, er, resurrection was a bit of a disaster all round, wasn’t it? But, for what it’s worth, I know you were both doing what you thought was best, and I’m willing to move on; make a clean slate of it, as it were, if you are?’ He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Lydia looked at David, who picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured a generous measure into his glass. She looked back to Underwood and smiled. ‘Of course, My Lord, and we apologise to you as well.’
David’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
‘Oh, no, really,’ said Underwood. ‘There’s no need for apologies. You are, after all, only human.’
Lydia broke into a peal of girlish laughter. ‘Oh, very good, sir. We are, aren’t we, David? Only human?’
David’s mouth contorted into a smile. ‘Yeah. Some of us, anyway.’
Underwood was about to leave when he turned to David. ‘Oh, and Flinch, lay out one of my suits, would you? Nothing too sombre and I think we can forget the tie as well, since you’re all dressed rather ... ’ he gestured to their robes, ‘… informally. Hmm?’
David’s expression smudged with bewilderment. ‘But, I don’t know... er ... ’
‘Don’t know what, Flinch?’
‘I don’t know where your clothes are, sir.’
Underwood frowned. ‘Oh. Come to think of it, neither do I.’ He looked at Lydia. ‘I don’t suppose you know where my rooms are?’
‘I do, My Lord. John has had everything prepared for you for months.’ She got up and went to join him. ‘I’ll take you there and give you the tour.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Lydia extended her hand to the hallway. ‘After you, My Lord.’
‘Oh no, ladies first.’
Lydia bowed slightly before leading the way. Underwood turned back to David. ‘Looks like you’ve got some competition here, Flinch.’ He turned and followed Lydia out into the hall.
David raised his glass and said in a low voice, ‘Cheers, Milord. I’ll drink to that.’
17
WHILE LYDIA WAS SHOWING U
NDERWOOD AROUND UPSTAIRS and Miguel was tidying up the kitchen, David took his drink and sauntered off to the lounge. The TV in the corner was on with the sound turned down. On-screen, a naked couple were entangled in a sweaty, gyrating knot. David raised his eyebrows; evidently, one or two of the party guests had been in here seeking amusement prior to the ceremony. He sat down on the sofa and took a sip from his drink. As he watched the buttocks rise and fall on the screen, he wondered how he was going to get Gavin, their sacrificial guest, back to Malaga. He looked at the glass he held loosely between finger and thumb, listening to the ice clink as he swirled it slowly around.
‘I should call Steve,’ he said, slurring the words. ‘Tell him I’ve fallen off the wagon and ask his advice.’ Then he sniggered as the absurdity of the scenario played out in his mind. ‘Hello, Steve? It’s Dave. Listen, I’m pissed, but I’ve got a really good excuse ... ’
‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Lydia. She stood in the doorway with Miguel behind her.
‘That arse,’ said David, pointing at the screen. ‘It’s a good listener, but it’s not so hot on advice.’
‘Why are you watching this, you pervert?’
‘Because it’s a distraction. Look at it, see how distracting it is? Look at her, how can she do that?’
‘Yes. It is pretty amazing,’ said Miguel.
‘David,’ Lydia walked in and stood between him and the television. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘I know. Get out of the way, will you?’
‘You know the Master will be down soon, don’t you? He’ll want to talk to you.’
‘Bollocks to him.’
‘David!’
‘Your friends are still in the cellar, Lydia. Shouldn’t you be cleaning them up?’
‘Hey, David, come on, man,’ said Miguel. ‘Have some respect.’
‘Who asked you, man?’ David sneered. ‘She has to get used to this nightly chore if she wants to be his guardian. Ha! Guardian? Glorified corpse disposal operative, that’s what that job is. Under normal circumstances we might be able to leave the mess for Ana, but unfortunately tonight she is the mess.’
‘Hallo everyone,’ said Underwood. He had showered and shaved and his damp hair was tied back into a pony tail. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck; a perfectly pressed pair of black trousers, and a new pair of black shoes. ‘Having another ding-dong are we? Seems every time I join you two you’re in the middle of a row.’ He saw the entanglement of naked limbs on the television. ‘I say, that doesn’t look too comfortable.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. David’s taking things rather badly. He’s – ’
‘Pissed,’ said David.
‘Yes, I can see that. Perhaps you ought to have a coffee or something, Flinch.’
‘Yes,’ David said without looking up. ‘I should. I don’t like drinking.’
‘Why do you do it then?’ asked Underwood.
‘It’s a hobby,’ David got slowly to his feet and handed his glass to Lydia. ‘Everyone needs a hobby, that’s what I say, and drinking is mine. I tried to give it up recently but, events have sort of ... overtaken me this evening. It won’t ... happen again... probably.’ He looked Underwood up and down. ‘You look a lot better.’
‘And you look a lot worse. Why don’t you go and change out of that ridiculous gown? Take a shower. And, er, better make it a cold one, eh?’
‘Yes. I’d like that, actually,’ said David. ‘I’ve been wanting to get out of this stupid get-up since before I even put it on.’
‘Well, go on then. We’ll see you when you come down.’
David nodded. ‘Alright.’ He walked past them, staggered a little, lined himself up with the doorway, then went out into the hall and off in the direction of his room.
‘I’m so sorry about David, Your Lordship,’ said Lydia. ‘He’s ... well, he’s an alcoholic. He has a disease.’
Underwood was taken aback. ‘A disease? Really? What?’
‘Alcoholism.’
‘Alcoholism’s a disease?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I never,’ said Underwood. ‘Have they found a cure?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity. So, I suppose the old remedy still applies, eh? Keep the rum beyond reach of the rummy.’
Lydia nodded sombrely. ‘Yes, ideally, though as you can see, David is rather a chronic case.’
‘Yes, poor chap. I’ll have to see if I can do something about that. Anyway, I’m glad he’s gone since it’s actually you that I wanted to talk to.’ He held a hand out to the door. Miguel stepped aside from where he stood in the doorway. Underwood smiled at him. ‘Would you excuse us, old chap? I have some delicate matters to discuss with Miss Flinch.’
‘Of course, My Lord,’ Miguel gave a little bow as Underwood and Lydia passed into the hall.
‘Let’s go to the kitchen,’ said Underwood. ‘I always think of the kitchen as the heart of the home, don’t you?’
A moment later they were sitting at the kitchen table. Underwood folded his hands before him and smiled. ‘So, you’re older than your brother, yes? Not by much, though – am I right?’
‘I’m thirty-eight, sir.’
‘Ah, I didn’t ask your age, Lydia. A gentleman never asks a lady her age. But thank you. May I say that you don’t look it – you could be ten years younger.’
Lydia blushed. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Now, how old would you say I am, hmm?’ He turned his face from side to side so she could inspect his profile.
She laughed. ‘I’ve no idea, My Lord. But I’m sure you look a lot younger than you are.’
He smiled. ‘I was thirty-two when I became a vampire. Mind you, we aged a lot faster back in my day – my human day, that is. A man was lucky if he reached his mid-fifties, so by that reckoning I was middle-aged. And I’ve aged since I was changed too. Not much, but I’ve put on a couple of years.’
‘Well, you look very good for any age, sir. Perhaps it’s your diet?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, very good, Lydia. I do like a woman with a sense of humour.’ Then his expression became a little more serious. ‘Your brother, he doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of becoming my guardian, does he?’
‘No sir. He’s only doing it because he thinks I’m evil.’
‘Are you?’
‘Evil?’
Underwood nodded.
‘Yes, sir.’
Underwood smiled. ‘I see. And your brother?’
‘Well, you can see for yourself: he’s a complete disaster.’
‘I mean is he evil?’
‘No, sir. He’s a wimp.’
‘The resurrection blood transfusion business – that was his idea, you say?’
‘Oh, totally. John and I were all set to stick to the sacrificial tradition.’
‘So what happened?’
‘David did. John sent for him. He wanted David to get the job over me because, as he so often said, David was the next in line – next brother in line, of course. David turned up just before John died, which gave John just enough time to pass the sword.’ She shook her head, slightly drunk and not a little disgusted. ‘If you ask me, the whole ascension thing’s got nothing to do with birthdays, and everything to do with willies.’
Underwood raised his eyebrows. ‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, My Lord. I mean, gender: David’s a man, apparently.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Oh, well yes, traditionally the position of guardian is a man’s job. But it hasn’t always been practical, or even possible to have a male Flinch as guardian.’
‘Really? I never knew that.’
‘Oh yes, Catherine Flinch was the first woman to become my Guardian, she was one of three daughters – their father couldn’t seem to seed a boy. Catherine became my guardian while her sisters went on to bear sons, and so the line went on.’
‘What happened to Catherine?’
Underwood looked down at the table, as if seeking for his memories in the whorls of the knotholes in t
he woodgrain. ‘She ... she served me well.’
‘I’m sorry, My Lord, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No, no,’ said Underwood, brightening. ‘I was just remembering her, that’s all. Anyway, tell me, you say you were going to stick to the sacrificial tradition; did you have anyone in particular in mind?’
Lydia leaned forward confidentially. ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a young man in the cellar, all ripe and ready for the slaughter. John and I discussed the procedure and I knew exactly what to do.’
‘I see. Well, I think had you been able to stick to tradition, your friends would still be alive. Again, my sincere apologies for their deaths. It was most unfortunate.’
‘Really, sir, there’s nothing to be sorry for, you were only doing what comes naturally. And like you said, they wanted it, didn’t they? But can I ask you? How come they aren’t coming back as vampires?’
Underwood smiled. ‘If everyone I killed came back as a vampire, and then in turn, everyone they killed became a vampire too, just how many humans do you think would be walking the Earth right now?’
Lydia thought for a moment then said, ‘Not many, actually.’
Underwood nodded. ‘Quite so. Vampirism isn’t spread like a cold sore; it’s something I bestow, and I do so rarely. So rarely in fact, that I can’t remember the last time I did.’ He seemed to lose focus for a moment then said, ‘Oh, that’s a lie, actually. I remember perfectly well – but it’s neither here nor there.’ He picked up Miguel’s cigarettes and offered her the pack. ‘Fag? I’m sure Miguel won’t mind.’
She took one. ‘Thank you.’
Underwood gave her a light. ‘So, do you feel that you’re more suited to the role of guardian than your brother?’
Lydia smiled. ‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘And so, I take it you think the masculine privilege to be somewhat unfair?’
‘I do, sir.’
Underwood lit his cigarette. ‘Well, the system exists, Lydia, not because women are kinder and gentler than men – experience has certainly taught me otherwise – but simply because it’s never been the done thing in society. You see, from a public point of view you would be my valet, my man, as it were. And it’s quite unthinkable, generally speaking, that my man should be a woman.’
