Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  It wasn’t there.

  He tried the door.

  It was unlocked.

  David froze, momentarily paralyzed by the wrongness of the situation. What was going on here? Warily, he pushed the door open. ‘Gavin?’

  Silence and cool air, tainted with the acrid smell of the toilet bucket, drifted back to him. David entered and went down. Everything was as it had been when he was last here: the bed, the table and chair, the bucket, but no prisoner, no Gavin.

  ‘Gavin?’ he shouted. ‘Are you here? It’s me. I’m, I’m going to take you home.’ He had hoped Gavin might be hiding somewhere, that he might have come out of the shadows, frightened but relieved to see it wasn’t Lydia or Ana. But he didn’t come. David dropped to the floor to look under the bed. His hand landed in something wet. He checked his palm. It was blood.

  ‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, God, no.’ He knelt and looked more closely at the filthy floor. Here and there beside the bed were small, dark splashes of blood.

  ‘Underwood!’ David got to his feet. ‘You bastard! You came here last night, didn’t you? What? Tired from all the flapping around, were you? Fancied a snack before turning in? And so you came down here and killed him – but – ?’ He looked around. ‘But where’s the body? What did you do with the body?’

  It didn’t fit Underwood’s modus operandi, or at least what David knew of his modus operandi so far. Underwood discarded the dead, tossed them aside to be cleaned up by his servants. He didn’t dirty his hands with such domestic drudgery as tidying up. So then, where was the body? Unless Underwood hadn’t been here at all, which meant ... David’s expression darkened. ‘Lydia.’

  He ran up the stairs and out into the corridor. He almost stumbled over the food he’d left by the door before righting himself and running on down to the kitchen and out the back door into the courtyard. Heat and light struck him, and he ran, half-blinded by the glare, out onto the front drive. Amid the droning of the crickets, Ana’s red Fiat sat alone beneath the trees. Lydia’s Land Rover and Beltran’s Mercedes were both gone. David’s mind raced.

  ‘Damn it, Lydia!’ he shouted. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He turned back to the house. Underwood. All right – what if he does have Gavin? What if he started snacking on him last night, then took him down to his crypt, half-dead, to be finished off for breakfast. Would he do that? David began clenching and unclenching his fists. He might.

  Slowly, he started towards the house. He was a few steps from the front door when, above the sound of his footsteps crunching on the gravel, he became aware of another sound: the sound of distant engines approaching. He turned to see Lydia’s Land Rover coming up the drive in a cloud of dust. There was another car behind it, but he couldn’t make out if it was Beltran’s Mercedes or something else. He walked back and positioned himself in the centre of the drive. As the Land Rover drew closer, David recognised Cynthia Benson sitting in the passenger seat. She and Lydia were laughing at something. Probably me, he thought.

  The car rolled to a halt and Lydia waved at him. She got out. ‘What’s that face for? You look like bigger boys stole your ice cream.’

  ‘Where’s Gavin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The guy in the cellar: your prisoner.’

  Lydia frowned. ‘What do you mean, where is he? He’s in the cellar, isn’t he?’

  David shook his head. ‘No.’

  As Cynthia got out from the passenger side, the back doors opened and Gerald and Miguel got out as well.

  Lydia pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. ‘You mean he’s escaped?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Sorry, what’s going on?’ asked Cynthia.

  ‘The prisoner’s escaped or something,’ Lydia replied.

  ‘I say,’ said Gerald. ‘Clever chap! Any idea how?’

  ‘He didn’t escape,’ said David. ‘There’s blood on the floor.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Lydia. ‘Well, I wonder what’s happened to him?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘Me? How should I know?’

  ‘You took him out of there, didn’t you?’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Why would I do that? He doesn’t matter to me. He’s a scrap for you and Underwood to fight over.’

  ‘Lydia, please, don’t fuck about. If you know where he is, you’ve got to tell me.’

  Another car door opened and David turned to see a small, portly bald man getting out of a VW hatchback. The man then reached back into the car and took out an old leather briefcase.

  Lydia turned and extended a hand to the new arrival. ‘David, this is señor Alberto Ramales, the town barber.’

  ‘Hola,’ said Alberto with a smile.

  ‘Hola,’ said David. ‘Habla Ingles, señor ?’

  ‘No, no.’ Albert smiled and patted his briefcase. ‘Cut, cut.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘I taught him that, eh, Alberto?’ He indicated his own hair to David. ‘He does me, you see? And all I ever need to say is “recorte, por favor, Alberto,” and he’s off like a whirling dervish.’

  Alberto joined in Gerald’s laughter.

  David turned his attention back to Lydia. ‘All right. So where’s Gavin?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. As soon as I got up, I went in to town to get rid of the Mercedes and pick up the Bensons.’

  ‘What do you mean, get rid of the Mercedes?’

  ‘Well, we have to get rid of it, don’t we? After all, the owner’s gone missing. What would happen if a police helicopter should chance to spot it on our drive? A search warrant? I need hardly tell you that that’s the last thing we need around here.’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’

  ‘Well, fortunately I have a mechanic friend in town who doesn’t mind turning his hand to some dodgy work now and again. I paid him to take it off my hands – change the plates, give it a re-spray, whatever these people do – and he’ll sell it on, and that’ll be the end of that.’

  ‘And then she came to get us,’ said Cynthia. ‘I understand you need a couple of blood donors.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Like we said last night, David, it’s the best thing for everyone.’

  ‘So, what, have you seen Gavin at all? Did you take him any breakfast this morning?’

  ‘No, sorry. I’ve got so used to Ana taking care of him he just, sort of, slipped my mind.’

  ‘So, that must mean Underwood’s had him, then,’ said David. ‘Last night, when he came home from his trip into town.’

  Lydia shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose he might have done. He knew about him, after all.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, David, it was inevitable he’d find out. He’d probably have smelt him or something.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean handing him Gavin on a plate was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks to the right thing! It felt right enough to me at the time. And anyway, the whole matter is neither here nor there since the poor boy’s almost certainly dead. Right now, we need to focus on the living and how to serve them this evening.’

  ‘Ah yes, David,’ said Gerald, his chuckle barely masking the anxiety that was suddenly in his voice. ‘Lydia says there’s no chance of a repeat of last night’s little ... er ... mess happening again, but are you quite sure about that? I mean, I’m always game to help out a chum, of course, but not to the extent that I – well, you know, die, as it were.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Gerald,’ said David. ‘Underwood’s been fully restored last night, and it’s looking like he had a little supper before bedtime as well. He’s not going to need more than a few pints.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cynthia. ‘Of course, while I have no doubt that you know what you’re talking about, David, what if it should turn out that His Lordship does need more than a few pints? I mean, we’re still in rather … uncharted waters here, aren’t we?’

  David’s headache throbbed. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. ‘If he needs more, he won’
t hurt you. You’re Sect. If he’s unsatisfied, I guess he’ll just hunt some poor bastard down and kill them.’

  ‘I say,’ said Gerald. ‘Maybe we should keep old Alberto around as a standby meal, you know, just in case His Lordship does go a bit potty.’

  ‘Oh, that’s an excellent idea,’ said Lydia. ‘I mean, obviously we don’t want to have another burial on our hands, but I’d rather dig a dozen graves than have another tongue-lashing from the Master.’ She smiled at Alberto. ‘Quieres algo para comer, Alberto? Mmm? A little something to eat? We need to keep your strength up, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said David in a low voice. ‘And so begins another night on the murder-go-round of Underwood and Flinch.’

  Gerald overheard him and laughed. ‘Yes, rather. Round and round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows.’

  Oh, I know, thought David. He turned and walked away towards the house, he was suddenly feeling nauseated and felt sure it had little, if anything, to do with his hangover.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Lydia called after him. ‘I hope you aren’t planning on getting drunk again.’

  ‘I’m going to get the transfusion gear set up,’ he called back. ‘I may be some time.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.’

  David raised a hand without turning and entered the house through the front door. Once inside he slumped against the wall. The stone felt cool on his back and helped him to focus.

  Okay, he thought. Either Gavin is dead, or lying in the cellar half-dead and waiting for Underwood to rise and finish him off. Either way, Underwood seems to have decided that murder is still the preferred way of satisfying his hunger. And that means this barber, Alberto, is most likely the next course on the menu.

  So, what can I do? How can I stop it? Can I stop it? I mean, I went down there before when the bastard was a barely a sack of dusty old bones and he filled my head with hallucinations that drove me half fucking mad. What did John say about it in his notes on communion? It’s some kind of evolved defence system that kicks in when he’s unconscious and intruders come near. The negative emotions they feel overwhelm them and they freak out.

  He remembered the light bulb shattering and the pitch dark that had followed; the sound of the coffin opening; and the certainty that the half-rotten vampire had awoken and was rising. He felt again the terror that had crippled him, groping on his hands and knees, blinded – actually blinded – by fear or the power of Underwood’s unconscious illusions. ‘No,’ he said, ‘dear God no, I can’t go through that again. If he could do that before, what’s he capable of now that he’s fully restored?’

  Another voice, calmer and more rational, spoke up in his mind: But you’re forgetting the resurrection – nothing happened there.

  Yeah, but I wasn’t planning on chopping his head off then, was I? I was there to bring him back to life, not send him screaming back to Hell.

  So that’s what you have to do again. Go down as if you mean him no harm; have no fear, no hate, nothing but love in your heart.

  He laughed at the thought. Love? Oh yeah, like I’m going out on a first date – go down with big bunch of flowers with a silver crucifix concealed in the middle. Or a box of chocolates: holy water liqueurs.

  You can do it. You can kill him.

  I can’t! He’s too strong. I could never chop his head off now.

  Yes, you’re right. But fortunately, that’s not the only way to kill a vampire.

  So what am I supposed to do? Drag his coffin upstairs and out into the fucking sunlight?

  His other voice was silent, as if waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said David aloud. ‘I can’t do that. I ... I couldn’t.’

  Yes, you can. It’s the best way; as old as time. Everybody knows it. Especially you.

  Where? Where would I find the stuff?

  The garage. There’s a work shop in the back, remember?

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. I remember. Tools, on the walls. Wrenches, spanners, hammers.’

  Mallets.

  ‘Yes. Mallets.’

  And in the corner, standing upright in an old box, for all the little odd jobs around the house and grounds?

  ‘Timber. Planks and stuff.’ David’s stomach turned over and he put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from retching. When the moment had passed, he wiped a dew of cold sweat from his brow. ‘I can’t. I just can’t do that.’

  You have to, David.

  He steadied himself against the wall and took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I know. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but somehow, before the sun goes down tonight, I’ve got to get down to that cellar and hammer a stake through his fucking heart.’

  20

  THE GARAGE DOORS HUNG OPEN. The padlock and chain still lay in the dust where he had flung them yesterday afternoon. David went inside and moved quickly to the rear of the garage and the door that led to the workshop beyond. The air in the workshop smelled like it hadn’t been disturbed for a long time; a warm bouquet of sawdust, creosote, and engine oil. Dust motes rolled lazily in sunlight that seeped through windows opaque with dust and cobwebs. He flicked on the light. Against the back wall was a workbench, and in the corner next to it was a box with numerous pieces of timber sprouting from it. He went over and began to rummage through the contents: it consisted mostly of old planks and off-cuts.

  Was there another stash of wood somewhere? He looked around, but couldn’t see any more. Where were the fence posts kept? Did they keep them here, or did they get contractors in to do that stuff? He had no idea, and since he wasn’t about to go asking Lydia, he pulled a length of wood from the box. It was a short plank of about four feet long. He hit it against the workbench; it seemed solid enough. If he had an axe or a hatchet, he could split it to a pointed end and then he’d have a stake.

  On the wall to the left of the window was a rack with various tools mounted on it: hammers, drills, saws, mallets. He went over for a closer look at the mallets. There were three types arranged vertically – one with a rubber head, one with a wooden head and one with a copper head. He took down the wooden one. It was bulky and lacked weight; he’d need something heavier than this. He took down the copper head and felt its heft. Yes, he thought, this was just right – light enough to swing easily and yet heavy enough to smash a stake through breastbone. He set it aside and resumed his search for an axe. Weirdly, there didn’t seem to be one, but there was a petrol-powered chainsaw. Maybe he could use that? Not to split the plank, but to split Underwood: he wouldn’t even have to take the lid off the coffin, he could just tear through it and Underwood’s neck in one go. He smiled. No, too risky, too much noise. Even if he didn’t wake Underwood, he’d attract the attention of Lydia and her friends. He looked around. There had to be an axe somewhere, it was a farm for God’s sake!

  At the far end of the workshop, he saw the long wooden handles of more tools rising from behind some old bicycles. He went over and pulled the bikes aside. He realised with a momentary pang of nostalgia that these were the bikes that he and Lydia had owned when they were kids. They seemed so small to him now. His bike had been handed-down to him by way of Martin and then John, but Lydia’s had been bought especially for her. He hesitated, remembering her for a moment as the little girl she had once been. She hadn’t always been a bitch. Once he had even loved her.

  Once?

  He came back to the present and put Lydia’s bike aside with the others. Then he began separating the tool-handles, tearing thick, crusty cobwebs apart as he pulled the tools out one by one: a shovel, a pick axe, a fork and – ah, here it was – an axe. As he pulled it free, a dusty cricket bat and three stumps fell into view from where they had been pinned behind it. It was the set that they had played with as kids. Or rather, the set Arthur had wanted them to play with, but none of the Flinch boys were ever much into cricket; they’d all been too much into football. Beneath the dust, the bat and stumps looked almost new. He lowered the axe
and pulled out one of the stumps. It was about seventy centimetres long and ended in a spike at one end. He thumbed the spike, it wasn’t exactly razor sharp, but with that mallet, it wouldn’t have to be. He looked back at the planks: he could be here for ages trying to split them into a decent stake. Here, on the other hand, were three, ready-cut and ready to go.

  He grinned. ‘Howzat?’

  A few minutes later he was hurrying around the side of the house with the stumps and mallet wrapped loosely in a small canvas tarpaulin he’d pulled from under the workbench. He was heading for the front door; from there he could swiftly move down the hallway to the library without needing to go anywhere near the kitchen. The last thing he needed was Lydia and her chums asking why he was clutching a mysterious, filthy bundle to his chest.

  The front door was open. He went through – and ran straight into Gerald.

  ‘Oh! I say,’ Gerald chuckled. ‘Beg pardon, David. I didn’t see you coming.’

  ‘Oh, no, my fault Gerald,’ said David struggling to keep the disturbed contents of the tarpaulin together. The mallet had shifted and he could feel it threatening to spill itself and the stumps onto the floor.

  ‘Here,’ said Gerald, ‘Let me help you.’ He moved to support the bundle but David stepped back sharply.

  ‘No!’

  A stump slid out from the tarp and clattered to the floor.

  ‘Hello,’ said Gerald, stooping to pick it up. ‘Getting ready for a game, are we?’

  David tried to sound cheerful. ‘Er, no not exactly. I’m, er – I’m taking them to a friend of mine ... in town ... tomorrow. I’m just going to wrap them up. They’re a present.’

  ‘Really? You’ve a friend in town who plays cricket? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Actually, it’s for the kids of a friend. They like cricket, but they can’t get the necessary kit around here. You know how it is.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Football crazy, the Spanish, aren’t they? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but it wouldn’t be my game, you know. No, I’m much more of a cricket man. What do you make of Flintoff?’