‘Keep it,’ he insisted, not turning back. ‘It’s better off in your hands.’
I looked at the dagger again, then down at the remains of the vampire, and then at the trashed room.
‘Well, shit.’
5
It took some serious elbow grease to clean that place up, but clean it up I did.
I was at it for hours, pushing a mop, back and forth, back and forth, until the basement was gleaming. By the time I was done making the place spotless, the sun was threatening to rear up and spit its yellow venom.
I snuck out before the morning crew arrived and headed for Bakerloo station to catch the first train home. It was cold as the witch’s tit outside, and the pavement was sugared with frost. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and breathed into my hands as I walked. It was gearing up to be another bastard of a winter.
The journey to Thamesmead left me with plenty of time to think, but I failed to make much sense of my scattered thoughts. Not only was there the mysterious old man’s info dump to trawl through, there was also the fact that I’d killed a guy. I had ended someone’s life. That was kind of a big, horrible deal. Okay, he was, apparently, a vampire, and it was very much done in self-defence, but still, I’d killed someone.
I found myself circling back again and again to the comforting idea that I’d just gone momentarily loopy and that it hadn’t happened after all. I must have been imagining things. Must have. There were no such thing as vampires, and angels belonged in Sunday School, not the real world. The tiredness must have gotten to me, that’s all. I always figured it would take more than a double shift at the office to break my brain, but there I was, convinced that I’d slain a bloodsucking creature of the night and been recruited by a divine being. Mum had lost her marbles when she was relatively young, and here I was jumping on the crazy train with her. Choo choo!
But then there was the brand, and the dagger too: cold, hard proof that the events of last night had actually taken place. I reached for my backpack—a spiky black rubber thing that looked like a hedgehog on its way to Torture Garden—unzipped it, and stared down at the weapon inside. The quicksilver shine of its blade gleamed back at me, impossibly bright. If only Neil could see what I’d just seen, he’d cream his jeans. All that make-believe he wrote about in his goofy novels was actually happening!
The train pulled into Abbey Wood Station and I made my way to the high rise council flat I called home. From a distance, Thamesmead looks quite impressive with its dramatic tower blocks thrusting from the bank of a shimmering, silver lake. On a nice day, it looks like the future. It’s only when you get closer that you find out the lake’s choked with rubbish and the towers all stink of piss. If you ever want to get a feel for Thamesmead without actually going there, check out the dystopian masterpiece, A Clockwork Orange, which was shot right on my doorstep. There’s a scene in it where Malcolm McDowell and his droogs are strolling through Thamesmead’s concrete hellscape, when he suddenly turns and kicks one of them in the crotch. It’s a sensation I feel every time I arrive home.
The tower’s lift was out of order as usual, so I had to haul myself up nine flights of stairs to reach my apartment. By the time I got there, I was shattered. I stared at the brand on my palm accusingly. Apparently, my new-found superpowers were good for vampire killing, but not much use when it came to the everyday task of scaling steps.
I twisted my key in the lock and let myself into the flat quietly, doing my best to keep the volume down so I didn’t wake Neil. Of course, I’d be well within my rights to have given my boyfriend a shake considering the night I’d had, but it was only six in the morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to kick him out of bed just yet. Besides, I had to yo-yo back to the office again in a few hours thanks to my shitty supervisor, and needed all the sleep I could get.
Most of all though, I just wanted my brain to turn off; for the picture inside my head to turn still and black, and for all the things that had happened to me that day to shut up and go away. And who knew, maybe when I woke up, I'd find out that the trauma I’d been through had been a dream after all, like the ending of a kid’s first creative writing assignment.
But before that, I needed food. I slipped off my Doc Martens, tiptoed to the kitchen, and opened up the fridge. I hoovered up the leftovers of a chicken korma then stripped off my blood-stained clothes and popped them in the washing machine. I checked my naked body for any signs of injury, but found my skin smooth and unblemished. Ordinarily, I bruise like a peach at the slightest knock, but I’d been bashed about like a Chris Brown special and didn’t have a mark to show for it. Weird.
I reached into the laundry hamper, found a nightgown that didn’t smell too rank, and tugged it on. Switching off the lights, I made my way to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and I couldn’t make out much, but the sight of the room always depressed me, so I really didn’t mind. I padded over to my side of the bed without difficulty, there being little to trip me up. The room was so sparsely furnished that it looked like a San Fernando Valley porn set. Picture a lonely, malnourished pot plant sitting on a dresser beside a tacky, reproduction painting, and above the bed’s headboard, a string of fairy lights, tacked to the wall with push pins for a pathetic bit of cheer.
Neil lay in bed, snoring soundly. He wore a breathing mask that was hooked up to an oxygen tank by his side. Neil was born with an incurable genetic disorder called cystic fibrosis, and the extra O2 being piped into his system helped with his breathing. Everywhere he went, that tank would go with him. Without it, he was out of breath. Too long without it, and he was in real trouble. Neil had an estimated life expectancy of about forty-one years old. I try not to think about it. I try every day.
Neil and I met during our A-Levels when we were both seventeen. Back then, his condition wasn’t as serious as it is now. I tell myself that even if I knew how bad it was going to get, that I’d still have gone out with him. Whether or not that’s true, I really don’t know, but I like to tell myself it is.
Neil’s learned to live with his condition, and copes with it brilliantly. He’s limited in what he can do physically, but I’ve never known a freer mind. The things he comes up with, the places his brain goes… I don’t know where he gets it. He’s no slacker either. If I suffered like he did, I’d have given up on my dreams a long time ago. Not him though. He soldiers on, working into the wee hours, writing his books and paying his half of the rent from the royalties, no matter what. Which is just as well. While I’d be more than happy to pay Neil’s way, the money just isn’t there. Even with our combined wages, the two of us are piss poor. Taking care of Neil’s condition is expensive, even on the NHS, so we’re constantly bootstrapping. The disability benefit he gets helps a little, but not much since the Tories slashed the fuck out of it. It might not be so bad if either of us had parents to fall back on, but with Neil’s folks both in the ground, and mine pissed off to Spain to live with their mistress (Dad), or fallen off their rocker (Mum), we had to make do with the pittance our jobs brought in. Which is precisely why I couldn’t afford to tell my boss to swivel, and why I really had to get some shut-eye in time for my next bullshit shift.
I slipped under the covers beside Neil, worried that I wouldn’t be able to sleep with all the crazy going on inside my head as I played and replayed my epic battle with an honest to goodness vampire. Instead, I conked out the moment my head hit the pillow.
6
Astonishingly, I managed to wake up after just two hours of sleep, and when I stepped out of bed, I felt completely restored. Can you believe I actually bounced out of bed?
Bounced!
This was a lifetime first.
Even after a good eight hours of kip, I usually wake up feeling like death warmed-over, but instead of leadenly rolling off the mattress and stumbling for the toilet, I woke up feeling like I’d been hooked to the mains. Within seconds, I went from being completely unconscious to fully alert, firing on every piston and keen to take on the world.
&nb
sp; Before that though, I had to eat, and my nose told me something was cooking. The sizzle of bacon and butter tickled my nostrils, drawing me to the kitchen.
‘Morning,’ said Neil, cramming a mountain of rashers between two doorstops of buttered white bread and setting it on a plate. ‘I made breakfast.’
He smiled and threw in a wink for good measure. Unruly bed hair sat high on his round head, and a cute little pot belly poked between the folds of his blue towel dressing gown.
I responded with a delighted, ‘Morning,’ kissed him on the cheek, and tore into the bacon butty. ‘God, that’s good,’ I said, using the back of my wrist to wipe grease from my lips.
‘Take a seat’ He aimed the spatula at a chair. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’
‘No can do,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
‘What? Where to?’
‘Back to work. Gary’s got me working another shift.’
‘That actual prick.’
‘You are not wrong,’ I agreed, between hurried mouthfuls of fluffy white bread.
I set the empty plate in the sink, only remembering at the last minute that I had a big N sizzled into my palm. I didn’t have time for that conversation, so I hid it quickly, placing my hand behind my back before Neil could get a look at it. Whatever had happened to me last night was a conversation for another time. I headed for the bathroom.
‘Hey, do I get a goodbye hug at least?’ Neil asked, jutting out his bottom lip cartoonishly.
‘Of course, you big twat,’ I said, and threw my arms around him quick enough that he didn’t notice the brand.
After that, I showered, threw on some clothes, and slipped on a mitt to disguise my palm; a fingerless, black leather-and-lace number that I picked up in Camden Town one time. I couldn’t find its partner though, so I left the flat looking like some kind of drag Jacko.
I arrived at the office, dreading what I might find there. If my memory of last night’s events were to be believed—and at this point, I really couldn’t be sure that they could—I’d gotten into a tangle with a vampire, wrecked a storage room, and reduced my attacker to a pond of bloody ash. I’d covered my tracks though, or at least I hoped I had. After the old man had given me his calling card, I spent hours mopping up the place, re-hanging the toilet cubicle door, and removing every last trace of my… well, homicide, I suppose. I mean, if you want to get technical about it. Justifiable homicide though, to be sure.
I hung my coat and sat down at my desk, which I’d already returned to an upright position and reset to its usual, messy state. I needed something to occupy my mind. For a moment, I thought about doing my job, but quickly reconsidered. I mean, why break the habit of a lifetime? So, instead of getting any work done, I pottered around the web for a bit until I arrived at a cool idea.
I opened a tab for eBay.
So long as I wasn’t going to be this Nightstalker thingummy—and I absolutely, positively wasn’t—I had a perfectly decent magic dagger in my backpack going to waste. I wondered what I could get for that at auction. Surely there must be a line of neckbeards waiting to cough up for an honest-to-goodness enchanted artifact? A nice big bundle of money would have been a total game changer. We had to escape that shitty, spirit-killing flat. The pair of us had been there too long already, and the mould sprouting from the walls couldn't be doing anything for Neil’s condition. What if selling that dagger was our ticket out of there?
‘Why are you looking at eBay?’ came a voice over my shoulder. It was Gary of course.
I shut down the tab and switched to Sherlock. ‘No reason,’ I said.
He harrumphed and steepled his fingers in that way only arseholes do. ‘You managed to polish off less than half of the backlog last night, Beckett. Are you going to make up for that, or am I going to have to take away your web privileges?’
The gall of that idiot. Every time I walked by his desk he was reading the Daily Mail or smack-talking on some Alt-Right forum.
‘I’ll make up for it,’ I told him, doing my best to keep the edge out of my voice.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘And don’t let me catch you shopping around for any more of your Fields of the Nectarine albums anymore.’
‘Actually, it’s Fields of the Nephilim.’
‘Don’t be such a pendant.’
‘I think you’ll find the word is pedant.’
‘See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.’
I wanted to throttle him with my bare hands, but knowing my luck, someone would miss him. ‘Sorry, Gary, I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
He folded his arms imperiously. ‘About that... did something happen here last night, Abbey? Something downstairs?’
‘What? No, nothing happened here,’ I insisted. ‘Nothing at all.’
Were there cameras down there that I didn’t know about? Did I leave behind some clue? I racked my brain, trying to figure out where I might have gone wrong. Did somebody find a trace of leftover vampire? Did I fail to wring all the blood out of that mop? Did I blink and miss the fanged man’s head popping off and rolling under a shelf? Was I about to be escorted from the premises in handcuffs?
‘Ash,’ said Gary. ‘I found ash all over the surfaces downstairs.’ He mimed wiping a finger along a horizontal plane. ‘Tell the truth, Abbey, Were you smoking down there?’
What? Of all the things he could have noticed, that’s what caught his eye? A man had been killed, a room turned upside down, and yet the only thing he cared about was the possibility of someone using the basement to take a cheeky cigarette break?
There were about a hundred things I wanted to say to him, most of them expletives, but I was smart enough to know when to play dumb. ‘I don’t know anything about that, Gary,’ I said with a polite shrug. ‘I don’t smoke.’
He glowered at me, and somehow I resisted the urge to lift him over my head and bounce him off the nearest wall.
He went to leave, but before he did, he fired off one last FU.
‘I thought I told you there was a new dress code, Beckett. Get rid of the glove. You look like that dead paedo with the pet monkey.’
7
There has to be more to life than this. Has to.
Over and over the thought went, nagging at me, daring me to do something about my sorry lot in life. Of course, there was an obvious solution to this problem, but since it meant acknowledging the events of the previous night, I ignored it.
The ignoring did not work.
I took off the glove and stared at the brand on my palm.
‘No,’ I said, like my hand was a cat trying to swipe the last of my lunch. ‘Forget it. Not happening.’
I thought about how powerful I’d felt before. How… flowing I’d been in battle. Well, apart from the bits where I was getting my arse kicked, or I was running away.
‘I said no!’
The temp looked at me, startled, as she passed my desk. I avoided her stare and pretended to work until she was out of sight.
I looked down at the brand on my hand again, tracing the letter with my finger.
N for Nightstalker.
What was I doing? Why was I playing so hard to get? I’d been offered the chance to be something more than a Desk Babysitter, and I’d said no out of hand. Shouldn’t I at least hear the old man out? What if he was telling the truth and I was meant for something better? What if I really was special?
No, it was absurd and it was dangerous. My mind was made up.
It did not stay made up for long.
My shift finished at three o’clock, Gary’s meagre concession for making me work back-to-back shifts. I was travelling south on the Bakerloo Line, heading for home, when I felt myself standing up and exiting the train early. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t carry on with this shitty life I’d crafted for myself, knowing that I might have passed up something great. Something... something extraordinary.
Standing on the platform, commuters jostling me from left to right, I reached into my wallet for the
old man’s calling card. There it was, black text on plain white: his name, Vizael, along with an address in Bethnal Green.
The card will evaporate by next nightfall, so don’t leave it too long.
I remembered the old man’s words and checked my phone for the time. It was winter and had just gone three-thirty, meaning the sun was about to go down on the day. As I contemplated this, I felt the calling card turn brittle as a thin skim of ice, and within moments, it had begun to crumble between my forefinger and thumb.
‘No, no, no!’ I said.
Using my phone, I went to take a picture of the card before it disintegrated, but when I swiped the camera open, my aging handset froze. I knew from experience that it would take a good ten seconds to get its act together, by which time the card would be dust.
I hurriedly dived into my backpack and whisked through its contents in search of a pen. Snatching hold of a half-empty Biro, I pulled up my sleeve and frenziedly copied the details of the crumbling card onto the inside of my arm.
‘Come on, come on!’
I managed to get it down just in time. As I scrawled the last letter of Vizael’s address onto my flesh, the card turned into a fine powder and was carried away by the gust of an oncoming train.
‘Shit the bed,’ I sighed.
The exertion of transcribing the address had really taken it out of me. What a laugh. The Sanctified one, rendered breathless by a hurried spot of shorthand. The world was in great hands.
I checked the blue dot on my phone’s map again. Yes, this was definitely it, I was in the right place. Google said so, and Google doesn’t lie.
The address on my forearm had led me to an abandoned industrial park in an ungentrified part of Bethnal Green. I had to sneak under a rusted chain link fence to get access to the place, and when I did, all I found were a couple of decommissioned gas towers surrounded by vacant warehouses bearing the name of companies that didn't exist anymore.
Sanctified: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Branded Book 1) Page 4
