Countess Dracula

by Guy Adams

  ‘Agreed. We need to find somewhere nearby. The mountains are covered with old farmhouses and abandoned outbuildings – we must be able to find somewhere.’

  ‘Then get dressed. We’ll go and take a look.’

  To remember what the area used to be like wasn’t difficult once you went off the well-trodden paths. This entire chunk of land had been open fields and farmland before the money and glitter came and carved it all up between them. Still, the abandoned buildings remained, and many of them would stay in good shape until the day when the city’s inevitable expansion would swallow them up.

  Elizabeth and Nayland found the perfect place only a couple of miles from their house. A small barn surrounded by an orange grove that had been left to grow wild. The long grass was littered with rotting fruit, their cultivator having upped sticks and left once he’d sold enough of his land to let him out of the orange business for good. Nayland imagined he would have packed up his truck and driven away with a smile on his face. Screw long hours in the trees when the idiots from the East Coast had money to burn.

  The doors on the barn were intact but unlocked. They could soon see to that – a bit of security was only a length of chain and a padlock away.

  Inside was a mess but that could easily be dealt with. The previous owner had abandoned much of his equipment: buckets were piled in the corner and old, rusting tools hung from hooks on the walls.

  Nayland looked up. The roof seemed intact, though there was no sure way of telling until it rained.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said.

  ‘It reminds me of home,’ Elizabeth replied, not meaning it as a compliment.

  ‘You don’t have to live here,’ he reminded her. ‘It serves one purpose and for that it’s ideal.’

  He still wouldn’t quite meet that ‘purpose’ head on. While he might have made his decision he was still doing his best to avoid facing its implications.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Let’s not rush at this.’

  ‘Who’s rushing? We’ve found a place and I want to make myself better again. So find me someone who can help me do that.’

  ‘We still need to get a chain for the door, and somewhere you can actually—’

  She pointed behind him. Turning to look he spotted an ancient tin bath, rusted and filled with offcuts of wood.

  ‘You can’t use that,’ Nayland said. ‘It’s filthy.’ The absurdity of what he was saying suddenly struck him and, on an impulse that seemed to come from nowhere, he burst into laughter.

  He supposed it must be shock, an outlet for the stress he had been feeling over the last twenty-four hours. At least, that was how he tried to convince himself. Better that than admit he was so cold-hearted that he could actually find the situation comic.

  Elizabeth had no problem with her own laughter. ‘Oh, Frank, you are the silliest idiot sometimes.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘I know you don’t believe it but I do love you a little, you know.’

  ‘A very little.’ He got his laughter under control. ‘You bloody should do, given what I’m doing for you.’

  She reached up and kissed him. ‘And don’t think I won’t thank you again with the body you help me to heal.’

  Nayland didn’t want even to think about that just yet. But he kissed her back nonetheless, taking his opportunities on the rare occasion they presented themselves.

  ‘Let’s get back to the house,’ he said. ‘I need to get myself ready.’

  Nayland was selecting a suitably nondescript outfit from his wardrobe when he noticed the old makeup box. Hidden away behind racks of shoes, it was a buff leather case still filled with the tools of his trade from when he had been working as an actor with touring theatre companies. He remembered the first time he had sat in the make-up studio for a movie, partly thrilled, partly worried that this was a part of the job that was no longer under his control.

  He pulled the case out, set it down on the bed and opened it out. Like a doctor’s bag it had extendable sections inside that had compartments for his oil sticks, pancake and sponge. There was a lower section containing a couple of bottles of spirit gum, some remover and a selection of false hairpieces. There were also a couple of moustaches and a goatee that had a somewhat piratical air, with the chin-beard working its way to a point. He held the goatee up to his face and looked in the mirror.

  ‘I am Chandu!’ he intoned, mimicking the hero of radio and screen. ‘Mystic of the magical arts! My power is in my eyes!’

  Too much, Nayland decided.

  He looked again and found a more conventional beard, this one in light grey.

  Looking once more in the mirror he decided it would do the job admirably. He would have to lighten his hair slightly to match (though not as much as he would have liked – it already had a fair amount of grey) but it would go some way towards altering his appearance.

  He selected his clothing to match, picking out items that were a little older and more unfashionable: a sports jacket that was now baggy on him, a plain white shirt and some light grey slacks. Clothes that wouldn’t make an impression. He dressed himself and checked that everything he needed was in the make-up case. One of the bottles of spirit gum had been left slightly open and the contents were now useless but the other was still fine even after years of being ignored.

  Nayland was about to leave before a stray thought brought him back to his wardrobe to check the drawers. He pulled out a pair of driving gloves. He’d appeared in enough crime pictures to know that fingerprints were what police nailed criminals on, so why leave any if it could be avoided?

  He put the gloves in his pocket and headed out. He checked his watch. He had agreed to meet Elizabeth at the old barn in a couple of hours. She had her own preparations to make.

  It was hard to choose a car that was as discreet as his clothes: he had never liked a vehicle that was bland. Settling for the oldest, a Cadillac Le Salle Coupe that at least had been through enough years on the road to have had the edges knocked off it, he headed towards Los Angeles.

  As the light began to fade from the sky he pulled over by the side of the road and took a few minutes to fix his make-up. It wasn’t perfect, working in such limited conditions, but when you’d fixed your slap in the dressing rooms of places like the inappropriately named Grand Theatre in Doncaster you could wield an eyeliner anywhere.

  By the time he crossed the line into Los Angeles he was in character, hiding as far away from the man who was Frank Nayland as he could. It was better that way, he had decided: let the theatricality of it swallow him whole, all the easier not to feel.

  He hadn’t been in the city for some months. Hollywood had a habit of forgetting that the outside world existed, becoming its own little bubble community. Besides, for all that he had acclimatised to American life there was still something about its cities that seemed too raucous and alien to Nayland. More and more these days he did his living in his own head, sitting in his viewing room or on the patio with a book. The real world had ceased to offer him much and he gladly avoided its company.

  Still, much better that they hunted for prey here than in the incestuous streets so close to home. As the night came alive around him, he was just another cruising driver working his way through the seedy streets looking for a woman.

  Nayland had the image of a perfect girl in mind: someone not so attractive, someone who would be glad of the business and not ask too many questions. It took him half an hour before he found her, by which time he had his cover story well prepared.

  ‘Hey honey!’ he called. ‘You got time for a party?’ He had pitched his accent with a New York Bronx flavour. He’d always struggled with American accents, even after all these years, and the more obvious they were the easier.

  She was leaning against the closed door of a bakery. No doubt the warm air that sidled up from the vents would keep her warm in the early hours when business got slow and the chill descended. It was hard to guess her age, so thick was the makeup she had app
lied in order to cover the traces of acne scars. Maybe late twenties, Nayland decided, but pretending to be five years less. Looking at her teeth when she came closer, he saw they were the yellow of a stained toilet pan and as crooked as a drunk’s. He decided that she smoked compulsively, probably not just tobacco either.

  ‘What sort of party?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing too major. Two or three friends of mine have rented out a little farmhouse up in the Hollywood Hills and we’re all bringing a girl each, you know, to liven things up a bit.’

  ‘Up in the Hills? That’s too far.’

  ‘You don’t like to travel? It’s nice up there. I’ll pay you for your time.’

  ‘I’ll be gone all night.’

  ‘So I’ll pay you for all night. Better for you – no need to be hanging around this place for hours. We’ll have a few drinks –’ Nayland took a guess, ‘– plus some dope if you like that kind of thing. Gary’s our guy for that, the stuff he gets … Jesus, it’s like the herb of the gods or something. Anyway,’ Nayland just kept talking, acting casual, ‘if you don’t want to make a night of it then that’s up to you. Is there anyone else around here that might feel differently?’

  ‘I like to smoke,’ she said, still undecided but clearly wavering.

  ‘Who doesn’t? Am I right? Anyway … I need to be getting over there before they’ve nabbed my share, so if you can tell me where I might find someone else I’d be obliged. Hell of a shame, I have to say, honey: you have beautiful hair …’

  Her eyes lit up even brighter and Nayland felt like a heel. Here he was, trying to lure her with drugs, when all it took to melt her heart was a compliment. ‘My mom always said my hair was my best feature.’ She ran her fingers through it. It was as yellow and sickly-looking as her teeth.

  ‘Your mom was right.’ And where was she now? Nayland wondered. ‘Beautiful.’ He built in a small pause, a moment in which to reflect. ‘But I really got to go.’

  ‘I suppose I could come,’ she said, ‘as long as you pay the full rate.’

  ‘Money’s no problem,’ he said. ‘What are we talking here? What do you normally earn? Couple of bucks an hour? How about we call it twenty straight? Extra compensation in case you missed a good night.’

  The girl sighed. ‘Hell, for twenty bucks you can drive me to San Remo, I guess. I got bills and that’s the sort of money I can’t afford to turn down.’

  Nayland reached for his wallet and pulled out the money. ‘Let me give it to you up front, that way it’s done. I’ll drop you home in the morning, too – I’ve got to head back this way as it is. In fact, I’ll throw in breakfast somewhere. I don’t know about you but I can eat like a horse the morning after …’

  She climbed in. ‘I don’t eat much,’ she confessed, then looked awkward as if admitting to some kind of failure. ‘But there’s nowhere good to eat around here.’

  Nayland could believe that – unless you were a rat, at least.

  ‘I get you, the stuff some places serve … I think Len was bringing some barbecue so we’ll have something to take the edge off the booze when we get there.’

  ‘So, you in town long?’ she asked.

  ‘A flying visit, just meeting up with the guys and then heading back east.’

  She nodded, well-trained enough not to push it too far with the questions. If a client wanted to talk then they talked: the last thing most of them wanted was the third degree.

  Nayland made it easy for her, filling the journey with a fabricated life story, role-play taken to the nth degree. He told the girl about a messy divorce in New York, a woman who had tired of his weeks on the road, selling cleaning products to housewives. He told her how this had been a rebirth, how he now relished his time away, free as a bird, able to go anywhere and do anything. He realised, even as he was speaking, how much of this was wish-fulfilment on his part but once he’d started he found it impossible to stop. Besides, as long as he kept talking she couldn’t talk herself and the last thing he wanted was to know anything about her. Let her be two-dimensional. Let her be a cypher. A bit player. If he allowed her to become real he would only feel more guilt.

  He kept his eyes on the road, not even wanting to commit her face to memory, and by the time he reached the dirt track for the barn he was in the middle of a nonsensical story about the time he had spent working as a sailor in his youth.

  ‘This the place?’ she asked. ‘It looks kind of remote.’

  ‘It sure is,’ Nayland admitted. ‘That’s the way we like it. That way we can make all the noise we want and nobody complains.’

  As they pulled up outside the barn itself the girl was truly beginning to have doubts. ‘There’s no sign of anyone else,’ she said. ‘You sure you got the right place?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ he insisted. ‘They’ll just be inside.’

  There was a slight flicker of light coming from beyond the shuttered windows so she could almost convince herself that he might be telling the truth. She got out of the car, walking just behind him as he headed towards the main door.

  ‘Hey guys!’ he shouted. ‘Hope you didn’t start without us?’

  Nayland opened the door and the silence on the other side was a damning answer to his lie.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ the girl said from behind him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Honey,’ he said, trying his best to make the tone of his voice match the sweetness of the word, ‘you worry too much.’ He held out his hand and beckoned her to take it. ‘What’s to be scared of?’

  Cautiously, she took his hand. He yanked her violently towards the open doorway and shoved her inside. Pulling the door shut behind her, he leaned against it and tried not to listen as she began to scream.

  The door shoved against him as she pushed it desperately, trying to escape, but he held fast. As a solid crunching noise silenced her screams he realised he had been holding his breath. He let it out, gasping in some night air.

  ‘This the best you could do?’ came Elizabeth’s voice from the other side of the door.

  ‘She’s got blood in her,’ he said. ‘What more do you want? I’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to watch?’ she asked and he gritted his teeth at the perverse humour in her voice.

  ‘This is your business,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any part of it.’

  Nayland walked over to the car, his whole body shaking as the reality of the night’s affair crashed in on him and knocked away the foolish games of his constructed persona. A sudden rush of nausea forced him into the shadows beneath the orange trees where he threw up amidst the smell of blossom and warm earth.

  He could faintly hear the sound of blood splashing against the inside of the tin bath, like a rainstorm on a corrugated-iron roof. This helped his sickness not one jot and he was trapped there for all of five minutes, dry-heaving under the umbrella of the night sky’s beauty.

  Once he was sure he could move, he went to lean against the bonnet of the car and fumigate his mouth with a cigarette.

  Eventually the barn door opened and Nayland looked up.

  Elizabeth was silhouetted against the gas lamps that she had lit inside.

  ‘You finished?’ he asked.

  She walked forward, escaping the illumination of the lamps and letting the moonlight catch her. She was naked, her skin still streaked with blood. She looked like a freshly born animal.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Nayland didn’t know what to say. Elizabeth was a nightmare, but one of such sensuality that he found he wanted her anyway. She was a monster, the fruit of her butchery drying in the light night breeze. Beauty daubed with horror.

  ‘You look like you,’ he said, truthfully.

  ‘Good,’ she replied, lying back in the dust of the ground in front of the barn. ‘So come over here and fuck me.’

  Later, Nayland helped Elizabeth to store a couple of large clay jars in the far corner of the barn. He knew better than to ask her what they contained. She kept a sm
all bottle to take home.

  ‘I thought it had to be fresh,’ he said.

  ‘Who knows? That’s what I need to find out. The effect is so short-lived. I need to see how long I can make each body last.’

  ‘Let’s hope it works – we can’t be picking up a new hooker every day.’

  ‘If only there was someone who could deliver.’

  He looked at her, disapproving of her casual joke.

  ‘Don’t lecture me again, Frank,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Let’s just go home, get dressed up and show the world what we’re made of.’

  And what might that be? he wondered. Blood and tears and all things evil.

  Nayland kept silent. He was beyond argument now: he had made his bed and the dry earth of it was still smeared across his knees.

  They got in the car and he drove them back towards the main road.

  Elizabeth rose up in her seat, fishing between her legs. She pulled something out and laughed as she recognised it in the pale light.

  ‘You lost this,’ she said, tossing his false beard onto the dashboard. ‘When you wear it next you can lick your lips to remind yourself of me.’

  Fabio was not quite the liar that most people took him for. He had indeed started his life in Sicily. Like so many in Hollywood he had dragged himself up from simple beginnings: born into a life of penury, the son of a greengrocer and a woman who embroidered with needles as sharp as her tongue. He had been only too eager to see the back of the place and had run away at sixteen for a fresh start in America. While he certainly exaggerated his connections with the world of organised crime, he had served his time in the business during his youth. Running for the Cocozzas, doing odd jobs, making deliveries. He never sank too deep into the life, not through any great sense of morality but rather because he wasn’t very good at it. He’d been too small and fat to intimidate anyone (the one time he had been sent to deliver a ‘message’ to a late-paying client, the man had taken his baseball bat off him and beaten him to a pulp with it). His bosses had been lenient: in fact, they hadn’t been in the least bit surprised when he’d come crawling back with loose teeth and a face that looked like a bullet wound. They’d expected it.