The train pulled into Ballarat and we emerged into a bright summer day. Gary, peering at signs on posts and bus windows, finally found the right stop. We reached Sovereign Hill with no further difficulty.
"Thanks. I'll meet you back in town," he said, inspecting the fence with a view, I assumed, to jumping it and avoiding the entry fee.
"I'm going in to pan for gold, remember?"
He decided not to make a fuss. "At the entrance then, at the end of the day. Or. Or I'll come find you when I'm done."
"Sounds like a plan," I smiled encouragingly. It didn't chase away the vaguely worried crease that had returned to his brow.
I paid for both of us, so he wouldn't have to sneak in. I am aware he has a finite income from the investments his parents left for him, and a mindset still bogged down in how much things used to cost in the sixties.
A few people in period costume were there for the meet-and-greet. The usual shop was there, filled with ceramics, tea-towels and, as this was a gold rush re-enactment town, vials of gold flakes and items of gold jewellery. Ballarat's place in history was also heralded by all the forms in which one could buy the Eureka flag - the standard flown by the miners striking and later dying for their rights. Gary seized upon the pictorial map of the place and found his destination.
"Right. See you later." He didn't move.
"You sure you don't want me to…?"
That got him going. "No. No, it's fine."
I watched him go, then walked out into the re-enacted past.
The dirt road forked in front of me. To my left the street dropped away to a miniature diggings, with a creek running through the middle of it and a handful of people already crouched by the water's edge, panning inexpertly for gold flakes. On either side of the dusty road were timber shops and hotels done in period style. There were no signs promoting modern products, only hand-painted wooden tiles. I wandered along the boardwalk, inspecting the shops. I found one that sold scented cedar roses, and bought a bag of lilac ones for Kate. I held one in my hand and surreptitiously sniffed it from time to time. It reminded me of Nanna.
Perambulating in the sunshine was unexpectedly pleasant. The earthy scents, the absence of twenty-first century noise, the sound of my shoes on wood and the clop of horse hooves on soil. The world of wall-to-wall consumerism and people shouting to be heard was far away. Not even the visual cacophony of advertising hoardings disrupted the serenity. It was hardly a surprise Alberto preferred living here to inhabiting the twenty-first century.
My mobile phone rang, jarring the peace and making me feel ashamed of the disruption. I usually try to set it on a discreet buzz, but Amisha from the library keeps sneaking it off me and changing the ringtone. I was currently scrabbling for a phone that was loudly singing the Inspector Gadget theme tune. I seized it and pressed the button. "Yes, Lissa here."
"Melissa, baby, hi! How's my little bookworm?"
The sudden happiness at the sound of my father's voice spiked and dropped in about a nanosecond. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him when he was sober.
"What do you want, Dad?"
"Can't I call to talk to my own little girl? My lovely little librarian?"
Oh, he loved the sound of himself when he was like this. I took a steadying breath. "Do you think you can call back later?" Like, when you're sober? "I'm busy right now."
"Aww, don't be like that, baby. I'm coming to Melbourne soon. I thought I'd take everyone out to dinner." He sounded so reasonable, despite the slur. "I want to meet Kate's mysterious Anthony."
"Anthony isn't mysterious, Dad. He's a lawyer."
"I haven't met him, and I should," he continued. "I'm Katie's daddy and I should know any man she's going out with. Are you going out with anyone, honey?"
"No, Dad." My last potential boyfriend was slaughtered by a vampire. Kind of puts you off.
"That's a shame, sweetie. You're lovely. A lovely librarian."
"Dad, you're drunk."
"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."
Apologies were nothing new, either
He lurched onto a new bad subject. "How's your Mum, by the way?"
How the hell was I supposed to answer that one? "Fine. Last I heard." In fact, the last I'd seen of her was on a departing tram after I'd threatened to set her on fire if I ever saw her anywhere near my sister again.
"Yeah, well. She's a survivor, your mum."
"When will you be in Melbourne?" Anything to change the subject.
"I'm coming this week." He sounded more cheerful, "I thought we could all go out to dinner."
Argument was fruitless. Kate must have already told him it would be all right. She's the peacemaker in the family. Which makes me the guerrilla insurgent, I suppose.
"Fine."
"And if there's anyone you'd like to bring along…" Hint, hint. I imagine he is where I get my subtlety from.
Yelling at him for not listening would not have helped, so I ignored the comment. "I suppose I'll see you when you get into town," I said. "And Dad, it would be good if Anthony could meet you while you were sober."
A moment of silence ended with the bitterly spoken: "You're so much like your mother."
Sticks and stones are nothing to words. He hung up. My hand fumbled with the cancel key and I clumsily tucked the phone back into its pocket.
Deep breaths tamped down the tears that threatened. These things were done and past and I was getting on with the now. I deliberately put my father out of my head. If he kept with tradition, he probably wouldn't show up anyway.
My Nanna Easton always told me that there was nothing like keeping your hands busy to keep your mind off upsetting things. This no doubt explained the prodigious amount of knitting, sewing and baking she did.
I'd always preferred distracting my emotions with my brain. Only one diversion came to mind. I had to find Gary and Alberto. I suspected it was not a good idea, but I was desperate to override my sudden distress.
When Gary had traced his finger over his map, looking for his rendezvous point, I'd only vaguely registered where he was looking. Consulting my own map now, I tried to correlate my memory with the locations labelled so clearly. He had traced the upper street, as I recalled, at the farthest end from the entrance.
Right. I jammed the map into my bag and strode up the dirt road. Delicious scents wafted from a bakery as I passed, and my stomach spasmed with nausea. Distress had that effect on me. Further along, the warm, waxy smell of the candlemakers was more soothing. Both stores were full of people and I couldn't imagine any undead tete-a-tete occurring within. I kept going until I had run out of stores.
I looked at the last shop on the block, then back at the map. Then back at the shop. At the undertaker's shopfront, with unfinished coffins displayed artfully in one window, next to a tiny ornate black coffin.
"You've got to be kidding me." I actually said that aloud, figuring that one good cliché deserves another.
It was as well that I knew that vampires didn't actually sleep, let alone in coffins, or I would have wondered what kind of cheesy, teeny creature of the night was loitering in the vicinity.
The door swung open easily, but the workshop was empty. The space was festooned with exhibits of nineteenth century funerary props on one side and planks of wood and carpentry tools on the other. A rear door led to a darkened space which stored a couple of replica funeral carriages from the gold rush era. One carriage was obviously for the posh people, being all glass sides and black velvet curtains. The other, a plain black wooden vehicle, was for everyday wear. Murmurs emanated from the shadows behind the posh one.
Announcing myself would have been sensible and polite, but I was struck, belatedly and acutely, with the awareness that my presence was an intrusion. What I wanted was to back out undetected and leave Gary to his secret vampire business, which was certainly none of mine.
I stopped moving and held my breath. A swift glance assured me I wouldn't trip over anything as I turned.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" That was Gary, with the faintest of doleful notes in his voice.
In a dither of concern and damned curiosity, I hesitated.
"I would hardly have written to Mundy if I didn't," replied a man's peculiarly-accented voice.
"Well, no."
"Since Mary died, I am tired of it."
"Do you really need me?"
"What else? Self-immolation?" The sneer in the voice was half-hearted.
The reply was a silence that was almost palpable. I could imagine Gary staring at his feet. Both the concern and, regrettably, the curiosity were mounting.
"There's always the other path," the other voice spoke again. An American accent, maybe? The venom was more direct, that time.
"All right," Gary conceded, reluctantly. "But where? And how?"
"Here, of course. As for how…" The voice broke off, and when I heard it next it had dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Someone's here."
Damn. For a moment I toyed with running for it, but that was stupid. I would have to 'fess up.
"Gary, hi! It's me."
Gary's head popped up from behind the posh carriage.
"What are you doing here?"
Truth or white lie?
Truth. "I got a phone call that upset me. I thought if I found you it would make me forget about it."
"You shouldn't have." He was unimpressed.
"You're right," I mumbled, ashamed of myself. The undercurrent of concern I'd felt at the conversation drove me to add, "Still. It sounds like you could use a hand."
Another face appeared in the shadows. Exotic, lean, dark-eyed, pale and grim, it was the face of, well, an undernourished and deeply unhappy undertaker.
CHAPTER 8
"I assume that," said Alberto the Undertaker, "belongs to you."
No-one does disdain like the undead.
"This is Lissa," said Gary gruffly, "She isn't supposed to be here.
"You became curious, didn't you?" said Alberto, regarding me shrewdly. The mean twist dissolved from his lip. "Mary was like that." Had he been alive, his Eurasian features would have been movie-star gorgeous, with his high angled cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and full mouth, but his undeadness robbed him of that potential.
"It's not like that with Lissa," said Gary.
"No?" Alberto's voice faded. "Perhaps it's as well."
In the ensuing silence, I took a brace of steps and paused at one end of the carriage. Gary and Alberto were standing opposite one another, but their eyes weren't meeting. Both were looking down - a strangely sad scene.
"Can I help?" fell off my tongue before I'd thought about it.
"Not really," said Gary, at the same time that Alberto said: "Perhaps."
Gary gave Alberto a sharp glance, then faced me.
"We're fine."
"We are not," argued Alberto. "I am not. We need to solve this. Simply, quickly and without fuss."
"You folks aren't good at this, I know," I said firmly, "but do you suppose I could have a straightforward explanation?"
Gary twitched in discomfort and refused to reply. Alberto had no such qualms.
"I would like Mr Hooper to kill me," said Alberto, in an extremity of impartiality, "He will need to burn my body afterwards."
Gary winced.
"Oh," I said. A couple of images scalded their way across my memory. Magdalene so coldly dispatching of poor, broken Thomas. Angela Priestley, struggling even after her heart had been torn from her chest. Tug, burning in Priestley's house like a candle, but not before he'd used his newly acquired, elongated canines to tear holes in my throat. My third bite.
"Why?" I finally asked.
Alberto looked at me. Like all the vampires I'd met, he seemed bleached, inside and out. Whatever emotions he had were distant, almost a cerebral rather than a heart response, and dominated by ennui. He looked sad, but like someone who'd been sad for so long it was simply part of him, rather than anything he really felt any more.
"I am no longer interested in my own continuation," he said.
"His - companion," Gary had taken a moment to find a satisfactory word, "died last month. He's feeling a bit..."
"Mary wasn't the first," said Alberto abruptly. "She's the third I've buried. I don't want to do it for a fourth."
"What do you mean 'companion'?" I asked incredulously. The way neither of them looked at me told its own story. "She was your lover?"
I can't believe I ever berate Gary for being tactless.
Alberto narrowed his eyes at me. "Why shouldn't she be? Because she was human and I no longer am? Because she was old?"
That distracted me. "Was she old?"
"She was 89," he said, still with that narrow look. "I offered to turn her. She said she didn't want to be 89 for eternity." His almond-shaped eyes looked right into mine. "And yes, she was my lover. For almost 50 years."
"How? What? I mean," I floundered trying to express the basic concept, which should have been simple enough, of how the undead could raise itself, as it were. I suppose the same way the undead could move any muscle - an act of will, animated by that weird stuff they had instead of blood. Why, though, would they want to? Surely there wasn't any physical pleasure in it for them. Belatedly I realised this question was far more personal than I really wanted to explore.
Alberto's smiled wryly. "What is sex, after all, but the exchange of bodily fluids?"
"You drank from her?"
"We found it enhanced the experience."
I caught a glimpse of Gary. If he'd been alive, I imagine it would have been very funny to observe his pop-eyed embarrassment and unsettled clearing of the throat to change the subject. Somehow, he managed to convey the impression of both without doing either.
Flippancy provided a refuge from my embarrassment. "So, now she's dead and you want to end it all?"
The disdain made a return engagement. Alberto looked acidly at Gary. "Did you bring her for a reason?"
"I had to find my way here," Gary admitted quietly.
"Oh. Well, that I understand. Does she have to stay?"
"She helps me to think."
This was an admission that my input would be appreciated after all. I was sort of flattered, but mostly aghast, particularly as I had only myself to blame.
"You and I," I said to Gary urgently, "need to talk."
He didn't protest, like I'd expected. He told Alberto he'd be back in a minute, and walked out into the sunlight with me.
He looked up and down the roadway, stepped off the porch, crossed the dusty street and mounted the steps into the little wooden church opposite before I realised where he was headed.
"What are you doing? You can't go in there!"
"Yes I can. Anyone can."
"No, I mean you're allowed, but you can't." It was one thing for him to step into my house uninvited. I had no idea what walking into a church would do to him.
"Oh. That." He gave me a weary, crooked smile. "This isn't a proper church. Nobody uses it for that. It's only a," he searched for the word, "prop. Stage dressing. I thought you'd rather talk in private."
"Yes," I replied crisply, recovering from concern to rediscover my distress. And distress made me angry. I followed him inside.
Gary took a back pew inside the little mock-church and sat studying the floor. I sat beside him, trying to work out what aspect of this troubled me the most.
"Why do you let Mundy make you do these things?" I don't know if it was the worst thing, but it was high up on the list. Gary was here at Mundy's bidding, after all.
Gary, however, is a lousy subject for getting mad at. It all washes off him. I sighed and sat next to him. "You don't have to do this. Let's go home."
"If I don't, he'll do it the other way."
"What other way is that?"
He stopped hunching and leaned back on the hard seat to stare at the ceiling instead.
"You remember I told you about when I became a vampire?"
"You said someone came loo
king for a recruit."
That 'someone' was Gunther. He had found Gary, dying of a brain tumour and eager to hold onto the life that was being denied him. It had all been a colossal cheat. Gary was still here, but his undead brain couldn't absorb new information easily or make those imaginative leaps necessary for creative learning. Gary dropped out of university, unable to keep up. His house was full of books, their margins filled with notes, but progress was impossibly slow. He'd never be an engineer now.
"Yeah. Well. Vampires are hard to kill," he said.
"I've noticed." I thought of Angela Priestley's drawn out, ugly, pitiful, pitiless death. Sometimes I relived in it my sleep.
"And the older they are, the more difficult it is. The skin gets really tough. So suicide is really, really hard. Our bodies can mend quickly, unless we've actually lost pieces. And self-immolation is awful."
I had seen a vampire burn. I couldn't imagine any of them choosing it as a method of self-destruction.
"So if one of us wants to end it, someone else needs to help. We have the strength to get it done fairly fast. Most won't do it."
"And Gunther said he'd turn you if you killed him afterwards."
"Yes."
Gary's voice was very calm. He stared into the middle distance, that slow blink of his betraying thoughts bubbling underneath.
"What happened?" I asked.
He took a long time to answer. "Dad had to help me. Gunther let us tie him down in the shed, and we used a mallet and some tent pegs."
I tried to imagine Gary's father doing this appalling thing. Hell, I couldn't even imagine Gary doing it.
"After I changed, I tried to back out, but Gunther said he'd go for Mum."
Ah.
"He told us what to do. After we staked him, I cut out his heart and we used kerosene to burn it in one of Mum's old cooking pots. The rest of him shrivelled up like a husk. We had to cut him up and hide the bits in garden rubbish to take to the tip."
Gary's hazel eyes rested briefly on my face, registering how I was taking this. "It wasn't so bad," he said lightly, "No blood, not very messy."
"Gary, that's hideous."
"Yeah," he said, looking away again.
That light in my head brightened by several watts, as I remembered the peculiar grammar Mundy had used to talk about it. He's prepared to make someone to do it for him. "Alberto has threatened to make an executioner of his own if you don't do it. Is that it?"
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