by Mike Bennett
David staggered back and watched, knowing that at any second Underwood’s hands would cease to flail and tear at the stake, and crumble to dust along with the rest of him.
But they didn’t.
‘Flinch! You bastard!’ Underwood screamed through a mouthful of blood.
‘What – ?’ David struggled to understand what he was seeing. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you fucking die?’
Flame suddenly flashed at the base of the stake. David stared, open-mouthed. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Tentatively, he took a couple of steps closer to the coffin. What he saw sent a wave of numbness through him. At the burning base of the stake, the wound in Underwood’s chest hissed and bubbled, and an eerie red mist twisted and twined about the stake like a living thing, scorching the wood and making the blood-saturated shirt sizzle and steam.
‘Oh shit!’ David cried. ‘You – you’re healing yourself, aren’t you!’ Suddenly, he remembered the mallet in his grip and swung it to strike at Underwood’s face, but this time Underwood’s hand shot up and caught him by the wrist. The sudden, jarring halt caused the mallet to fly from David’s hand. It spun over the coffin and skittered across the floor. Then, with his free hand, Underwood wrenched the burning stake from his chest and struck David across the face with it in a shower of cinders.
David screamed, tearing his wrist free from Underwood’s grip. He staggering back, clutching at his face, feeling at his eyes for damage. He opened them, blinking, and was relieved to realise he could still see. But the feeling of relief was short-lived, for what he saw was Underwood climbing out of the coffin, the smouldering stake in his fist.
Underwood wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and thrust the stake accusingly at David. ‘A cricket stump!’ He shouted. ‘You tried to assassinate me with a cricket stump?’
‘It’s a fucking stake, isn’t it? A stake through the heart, that’s what the legends all say! You’re supposed to be fucking dead!’
Underwood shook his head, amused. ‘Oh, you dolt, Flinch. When are you going to learn that everything you think you know about my kind is nothing more than flapdoodle?’ He began to walk towards David, slapping the bloody end of the stake into his palm.
David backed away.
Underwood continued. ‘I presume you’re a fan of Mr Stoker’s much-celebrated novel, eh? Well, the bad news is, Flinch, that whilst Dracula is a jolly entertaining yarn, it is, I’m afraid, only that – a yarn, a fantasy. While I,’ he grinned. ‘I am the reality.’
‘No. Nothing can survive a stake through the heart! No living thing can survive that kind of trauma!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Underwood. ‘Then I’m either dead, or – ’ he gripped the scorched and bloody hole in his shirt and ripped it apart: the wound in his chest had completely healed. ‘Praise the Lord! I must be a miracle!’ He chuckled and tossed the cricket stump aside. Then he put up his fists. ‘Come on then, Flinch. Let’s see what you’re made of.’
David frowned, confused. ‘What?’
‘Come on. Put ’em up. Let’s see how you fare against an opponent who isn’t fast-asleep.’
David was aghast. ‘You – you want a punch up?’
‘Absolutely! We’ll settle this the old-fashioned way. Marquis of Queensbury rules, of course.’
David hesitated for a moment. He quickly looked Underwood up and down, checking his size and weight. Then his eyes darted around the room, taking in those things that might help him or hinder Underwood. Then he nodded. ‘Alright.’ Then with a smile, he added, ‘But as for the Marquis of Queensbury? Fuck that.’ He launched himself forwards, dropping down and scissoring Underwood’s legs with his own. Underwood toppled hard over backwards, his cry of surprise was cut off as he hit the floor and his head bounced off the flagstones.
David spun, snatching up the copper mallet and rolling to a crouching position. Then he sprang, swinging the mallet in an arc as he came down towards Underwood’s head. Underwood saw it coming just in time and rolled, the mallet almost taking the skin from his cheek as it smashed down onto the stone.
In a second, Underwood was back on his feet. ‘You bounder!’ He raised his fists. ‘You know, I can almost forgive you for trying to kill me. In a way I almost admire you. I mean it takes guts – and a man in your position needs guts – but really! That trick with the feet: where did you learn to fight like that? China?’
‘In the army. I did my time, just as family tradition dictates.’
‘Yes, well it also dictates that you fight like a gentleman, which is evidently a lesson I’m going to have to teach you myself.’ Underwood came forward fast, two jabs from his left fist striking almost as one before he hit David with a right hook that sent him reeling.
David staggered against a pillar. For a second he clung to it, breathing hard, tasting the blood in his mouth and sensing Underwood’s movements behind him. Then he pushed back, spinning around, his right leg lashing out in a karate kick – but Underwood side-stepped, impossibly fast. David’s unbroken momentum made him fly off-balance right onto an upper cut from Underwood. He crashed sideways into the coffin lid that stood against the plinth. It rocked and almost fell down, but David held on to it, pinning it with his weight, pressing his face against the cool, smooth surface of the wood and waiting for the two he saw of everything to focus into one.
‘Had enough, Flinch?’ said Underwood.
David wondered at the potential of the coffin lid as a weapon. It was heavy, no good as a club or even a shield, but ... The flicker of a smile played at the corner of his mouth as an idea occurred to him. He groaned, closed his eyes and staggered backwards, as if he were on the verge of collapse. ‘Enough?’ he said, woozily.
Underwood kept his fists up and regarded David with a wary eye. ‘Yes. Ready to throw in the towel? No shame in losing to a better man.’
‘Better man?’ David laughed. Even though his back was turned to Underwood, he had fixed his position from the sound of his voice. ‘Better man, my arse!’ He whirled around and smashed his fist into Underwood’s face. Underwood staggered and David followed fast with a karate kick that caught Underwood squarely under the jaw and sent him spinning into a pillar. David ran back to the plinth, seized the coffin lid and came around with it raised like a battering ram. He targeted Underwood’s throat, and charged. Underwood saw it coming too late to get clear; he threw his hands up, crossing them over his face in the second before the coffin lid smashed into him, breaking both arms on impact. Underwood screamed. He tried to push back, but his arms were useless.
‘Die, you bastard!’ David shouted. Bracing the coffin lid against his right thigh, he drove it unrelentingly into the attack. He had heard Underwood’s arms break and could see the agony on his face, and maybe something else. Fear.
‘That’s right, you fucker! Who’s the better man now, eh?’ David pushed with all his strength, straining so the veins on his neck stood out like cables. ‘Who’s the fucking dolt now then, you – ’ He suddenly shot forward, grunting with the impact as the coffin lid thudded into the empty pillar. He looked to where Underwood had been a moment before and a small cry of fear broke from his lips: all he had pinned now was the collar of a burning shirt.
David glanced down. The rest of Underwood’s clothes lay in a blazing heap at the foot of the pillar. ‘Oh, shit!’ He didn’t notice the blood-red mist flowing away from the fire, seething silently around his feet to coil in dark congregation behind him. As soon as he realised what had happened, it was too late. One second he felt himself gripped by hair and the waistband of his shorts, the next he was flying across the cellar towards the wall. He didn’t have time to raise his hands – he struck it head-on and dropped to the floor. Conscious, but barely, darkness reached for him. He raised his head, pushing and clawing at the flagstones, knowing that he had to get to his feet or die. From the corner of his eye, he could see Underwood approaching.
‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Keep away, I’ll, I’ll – ’
�
��You’ll do what, Flinch?’ said Underwood. His voice was unperturbed, almost cheerful. ‘Give me a jolly good hiding?’ He took David by the hair and twisted his head back so they were face-to-face.
David looked at Underwood. He was naked, his body completely healed, even his humour seemed restored. David spat a gob of blood onto the floor. ‘Yeah. But you’ll have to give me a second to get my breath back.’
Underwood chuckled. ‘You know, Flinch, for a while there I was seriously entertaining the idea of letting you go and giving the position of guardian to your sister. By her own admission, she’s evil, and she certainly knows who’s boss. However, after this little scuffle of ours, I’ve decided I like you. You’re a bounder, a cheat, and – very nearly – a murderer. Your father would be proud.’ He patted him on the cheek.
‘Fuck you, Milord,’ said David. ‘I’ll never serve a murdering bastard like you.’
Underwood’s smile twisted into something crueller. His fingers tightened in David’s hair. ‘Oh yes you will, my boy. As of this moment you can consider yourself hired. You will serve me; you will defend me; and if necessary you will die for me.’
‘No – ’
Underwood slapped David’s face. ‘Don’t interrupt! Now, as your employer, it behoves me to give you your first verbal warning. This little spat we’ve just had here: I’ll let it go this time, but if you try anything like it again, not only will you fail miserably, but as a punishment, I’ll be forced to kill someone dear to you. And should you try to run away, I’ll track you down, and again, I’ll kill someone dear to you.’
David shook his head as best he could. ‘You can’t. There is no-one dear to me. I’ve got no friends, my mother’s dead, and my only family is my sister – and as far as I’m concerned you can do what you like to her.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Oh? No one dear to you? How sad – and yet – how jolly queer. You see, I was having the strangest dream just before I was so rudely awoken. I dreamt about you, and a lovely blonde German girl.’ Underwood felt David tense. ‘I think her name was Lisa. Yes, Lisa. She was such a succulent creature: young, firm, ripe.’ His smile widened to reveal his sharp canine teeth. ‘Good enough to eat, in fact.’ He chuckled and released David’s hair. He stood up and began to walk away. Behind him, he could hear David getting to his feet. He stopped and waited.
David stood shakily. ‘You, you fucking bastard!’ He ran at Underwood. The vampire turned, and punched him straight back into the wall. David was out cold before his body hit the floor.
Underwood strolled back and smiled down at him. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
David opened his eyes. He lay on the cellar floor, his cheek lying against the cold stone in a sticky pool of his own coagulated blood. He moved and winced at the pain. Everything hurt. Slowly, he shifted himself to a sitting position. He saw the cricket stump that he had tried to kill Underwood with a few feet away. The lower half was dark with blood; the centre was still smouldering. He picked it up at the unburnt end and looked at it more closely. Incredibly, Underwood had survived. A stake through the heart – the oldest vampire assassination trick in the book – and he had survived it.
‘Which goes to show, everything I know about his kind is just ... flapdoodle.’ David threw the stump away and got to his feet.
What now? He asked himself. He looked up the stairs; to what he knew was the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. Wearily, he took hold of the banister and trudged upstairs. A few moments later he emerged into the hallway and stopped. He could hear a piano. He turned to the direction of the music and listened: he recognised the piece. It was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. He walked in the direction of the music, following it to its source. He turned a corner and saw a light coming from a room ahead. The lounge. As he came upon the doorway the room slowly revealed itself: first, the gramophone, the music drifting through its gleaming brass horn and the 78 rpm disc revolving on its turntable. Then Lydia, reclining in an armchair, her smiling face turned in the direction of something he couldn’t yet see. He continued to approach. On the coffee table was a bowl of water with white rose petals floating in it. The water was pink. Beside it was a discarded white hand-towel, blotted with bloodstains. Under the table, a pair of desert-booted feet lay motionless upon a rug that was raked-up and twisted. David’s eyes moved from the feet, up the legs clad in blue denim, to the upper body, slumped on the sofa at an angle that suggested it had been shoved aside. It was Gavin. His skin was as white as freshly fallen snow, stained at the throat by smears of blood that centred around two black puncture wounds. Beside him, dressed in an immaculate black evening suit and tie, Underwood sat listening to the music with his eyes closed. His hair was neatly cut and slicked back, and the smoke from a cigarette unravelled upwards from between his fingers.
‘Hello, Flinch. How nice of you to finally join us.’
David looked at Lydia. ‘Where was he?’
‘Who?’ asked Lydia.
‘Gavin.’
‘Oh, him. He was in the boot of Beltran’s car. We parked him about a mile down the road.’
‘So, it was you who took him, then.’
‘Yes,’ Lydia swept a lock of hair over her ear. ‘Oh, but don’t hate me for it, David. I slept on your idea of releasing him and offering His Lordship no choice other than volunteer blood donors for breakfast. But I came to the conclusion that it was … foolhardy.’
‘Foolhardy?’
‘Yes.’
‘But – what happened to – ’
‘Oh do shut up, Flinch. You’re thoroughly spoiling the atmosphere,’ Underwood turned to David. ‘Yes, Lydia was right to do what she did and you were, par for the course, completely wrong. I mean, can you imagine how I felt when Lydia told me about your little fait accompli? Especially after you’d just tried to bally well knock me off with a cricket stump. I was quite livid.’
‘So you killed him?’
Underwood drew on his cigarette and raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Why? Someone dear to you, Flinch?’
David looked away. The other chairs in the lounge, he realised, were conspicuously empty. ‘Where are the Bensons?’ he asked. ‘The barber?’
‘Oh, they’re long gone,’ said Lydia. ‘While the barber was giving His Lordship a trim, Miguel and Gerald went and got your late friend here,’ she indicated Gavin. ‘They parked the Mercedes outside – with him still in the boot – and then Miguel took my car and ran the Bensons and the barber back into town.’
‘Charming couple, the Bensons,’ said Underwood.
‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Lydia.
Underwood looked at David and his expression soured. ‘I say, Flinch. Why don’t you go and get yourself cleaned up? You can’t go out looking like that. You look like you were dragged here behind a team of frightened horses.’
David looked confused. ‘What? Go out?’
‘But of course,’ said Underwood. ‘I thought we’d all go into town. I trust you have no objections?’
David looked at the body of Gavin lying beside Underwood on the sofa.
Underwood followed his gaze. ‘Oh, don’t worry about him; he’ll be fine there for the time being. You can take care him of him later on, what?’
‘Yes,’ said David. His head felt strangely numb. ‘Yes, I ... suppose so.’
Underwood shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Really, Flinch, I think it’s about time we started to observe proper protocol around here. Start as we mean to carry on, hmm? From now on, you shall address me as, “Master”, all right?’
David swallowed; his saliva still bore the coppery taste of his own blood. ‘Yes ... Master.’
Underwood’s blood-stained lips parted in a slow, cruel smile. ‘Jolly good, Flinch. Carry on.’
Thank you for reading Underwood and Flinch: Resurrection.
If you’ve enjoyed the story so far, you’ll be happy to know that
the Underwood and Flinch Chronicles continue in
Volume 2: Bonded in Blood
Click
this link to go to the book’s Amazon page and begin reading Bonded in Blood in moments.
