*[Denny was the sort of wimp who never complained in restaurants, even if there was a rat in his salad. And he had not even ordered a salad; he was strictly a steak and chips man.]
* * *
The station was closed; well it was two O’ clock in the morning. ‘Damned one horse town!’
He supposed he had not really thought this through; he had been carried away up to this point, and now he was stalled – for the next four hours until the station opened. The sensible thing to do would be to lamely slope off back home and wait, but he could not bring himself to do it; it would be such a letdown, like taking a step backwards. He sat down on a bench to wait.
* * *
By the morning, he had collected quite a bit of change; taking off his shoes had earned him even more. He only wished he had had a violin case or even a scruffy hat. Still he had made more than enough for a return ticket.
As the train pulled away, he did not notice the creeping darkness spreading over the streets he was leaving behind
After about ten minutes, Denny’s brain woke up, and he realised that he was travelling in the wrong direction; he must have got on the wrong train. ‘Damn! Oh damn and hell and – bugger – bugger – bugger.’
He panicked, what the hell was he going to do? Without thinking, he pulled the cord marked “Emergency Only” and, in much smaller letters, the injunction “Improper use will result in a fine”
As far as Denny was concerned, this was an emergency. The train lurched and shuddered to a halt halfway through a tunnel. Still operating on automatic or “stupid mode” as Tamar called it, he tried to open the door it was locked, as train doors are during journeys. Had it been a real emergency such as the train being on fire this could have been a problem but apparently nobody had thought of this.
The automatic locking is presumably to prevent children, stupid people and the suicidal from leaping off a moving train. If you want to kill yourself, you will just have to jump off a bridge like normal people, just as long as you do not disrupt the trains. (Of course if you really want to die by rail travel you could always risk the buffet car.)
He heard someone coming. ‘Oh hell!’ He fumbled and managed to open the window and scramble through; it was a bloody good job he was so thin, he thought. He landed on the tracks and cut his leg and his hand. ‘I am not having a good day,’ he thought, and he ran, or rather limped quickly, back down the tunnel.
After about twenty minutes, he realised that he was still in the dark. ‘This is a bloody long tunnel,’ he thought. Perhaps he was going the wrong way. The train had only just entered the tunnel before it had stopped, he was sure. Surely he should have been out by now.
He heard voices behind him; he turned and the voices stopped. He carried on limping, and the voices started again, and underneath them, now that he was listening, he could hear footsteps. He stopped and turned again, silence fell again. One more episode of this and Denny lost his temper; he squared up to the shadows behind him.
‘Okay,’ he snapped, ‘who the hell are you? I’ve had a bloody awful day so far, and it’s still only half past six in the morning. I’m just not in the mood to play “Grandmother’s footsteps” in the dark. So what do you want?’
He said all this with hardly a quaver in his voice. (His acting skills were really coming along.) The only response was a gust of silvery laughter and a blast of cold wind.
Ghosts? He wondered and shrugged; Tamar had taught him to be unafraid of the ethereal.
‘If you’re going to be afraid of something’ she had said, ‘be afraid of the thing that’s solid enough to bash you over the head with a big stick. A spirit can’t hurt you and mostly they don’t want to.’
He had taken her word for it; she ought to know he reasoned and wasn’t the world full of enough dangers to worry about. It was nice to know there were some things he did not have to fear.
There was anyway, the – to Denny’s mind – far more pressing problem of where the hell he was. Since he had not hit daylight yet and he was certain that he should have by now, clearly something had gone very wrong – par for the course really. But he still had to work out what he had done; he was having that strange feeling of destiny again, as if he was being manipulated. The only thing he could do was carry on following the tracks. He looked down; the tracks were gone – Well, of course they were! He would have been far more surprised if they had still been there.
‘Oh well,’ he thought resignedly, and headed off in what he hoped was the right direction. Since he now had no idea where he was trying to get to this made navigation a bit redundant.
He trudged on; the voices were still behind him murmuring constantly. It was annoying, like listening to someone else’s Walkman on a bus. He wondered if this were another nightmare; it had that same feeling and the nightmares had been so real. He closed his eyes and tried to open them again in a futile attempt to wake himself up, which is impossible, when you are not, in fact, asleep. It occurred to him that the only time you think you’re dreaming is when you’re not. Apart from the voices (he wondered what would happen if he just turned round and charged at them) he felt strangely calm now; bored even. The nightmarish feeling was ebbing, as was his frantic anxiety about Tamar. He was almost sleepwalking. A cloud of shimmering moths lit up the darkness, and he watched them dazedly, the effect was almost hypnotic. The voices behind him ceased to bother him, they felt almost soothing. It no longer mattered where he was going or why as long as he kept on walking and he felt like he could walk forever.
* * *
Of course, forever is a long time. Denny came to in a small room that was reminiscent of a cell. His head hurt, as if he had been drinking, as did his leg, foot and his hand, all of which had been thoughtfully bandaged by some unknown person. He was lying on a camp bed; he got up and tried the door it was quite naturally locked. He decided that there was no point in shouting for help. He was locked in a cell, and presumably whoever had put him in there had done so deliberately and was, therefore, unlikely to respond to a cry for help by letting him out. Besides which, his head hurt too much; at least he was not tied up.
He sank down on the camp bed; it collapsed, trapping him inside.
‘Christ,’ he groaned. ‘How much worse can this day get?’ He immediately regretted this since asking this question usually guarantees that any minute now you’re going to find out.
‘That depends on you,’ said a voice above him, ‘and how co-operative you’re willing to be.’ A hand reached down and helped Denny to extricate himself from the mangled bed.
‘Okay,’ said Denny, ‘I’ll buy it, although you might want to work on the voice – a little deeper perhaps; more Darth Vader and less Julian Clary; that is, if you expect to be taken seriously when you make statements like that.
The man stared coldly at him.
‘I was just saying.’
‘Hmm, I think that that female has had a bad effect on you. Before you met her, I think you would have been properly frightened.’
‘Of you?’ Denny was scornful.
The man stepped into the light. Denny took an involuntary step backward. ‘Oh my God!’
‘No.’ the man gave an evil, fanged grin. ‘Not your God. But I do move in mysterious ways.’
Denny scanned the cell for an appropriate weapon. He spotted a wooden chair and dived; he smashed it against the wall and it splintered. If he had thought about it, he might have wondered why his adversary did not try to stop him. When he plunged the broken chair leg into his heart to absolutely no effect, it became pretty obvious.
‘Oh, just look at that.’ The (presumed) vampire simpered in camp tones, pulling the piece of wood out disdainfully. ‘A perfectly good shirt – ruined.’ He grinned and took Denny by the throat in an iron grip. ‘A lesson,’ he said. ‘I cannot be killed by any means that you possess, puny mortal.’
‘Puny mortal?’ croaked Denny. He was going for withering scorn, but since he was being choked to death the best he could manage was cracke
d gasping, which is not nearly the same. ‘Who writes your lines?’ he added caustically.
The vampire (or whatever he was) released him. ‘You will stay here,’ he said. ‘You cannot be allowed to interfere with our plans.’
‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ rasped Denny, and immediately wished he had not. What fatal flaw was it that made him say things like that?
‘Fool,’ said the vampire thing. ‘You have no idea what you are mixed up in, do you? Well let’s just say I have my reasons. If it is any comfort to you, you will die soon enough, but I do not have to explain my reasons to you.’
Denny remembered something. ‘Tamar,’ he said, more to himself than anything else.
His captor turned and grinned evilly at him. ‘Tamar Black cannot save you,’ he sneered, ‘if she’s even still alive – which I doubt.’
‘She is,’ said Denny defiantly. ‘She is,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I’d know – I’m sure I would – I’d feel it.’
~ Chapter Nine ~
‘Tamar Black is dead, or she soon will be. We have to send another.’ The thin man addressed his cabal.
There was murmuring around the table. ‘She’s not dead yet,’ spoke up one.
‘She may yet prevail,’ said another, ‘she is quite – remarkable.’
‘And who else is there to send anyway?’ said yet another.
‘There is one,’ said the thin man. ‘He does not realise it yet, but he is already on his way to us.’
‘A man?’ said the first voice. ‘But he cannot, only a woman can … and a woman of great power at that. It has to be her; this is what we decided.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said another voice, and there was some nodding.
‘All right, it’s got nothing to do with her being a woman; it just has to be her then. Only her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because – shut up!’
‘Because, idiots – she is the only one who has the power to stop the – “Master”,’ someone else interrupted.
‘Oh! – well why didn’t you just say so then?’
The thin man waved his arms for silence. ‘Yes, yes, I am aware. You have misunderstood me. She is in trouble, and we must send someone to help her. And he is the only one who can.’
‘How can you know this?’
‘Because he is the only one who will try.’
* * *
It was morning – just barely, but it was definitely getting lighter. Stiles’ head started to nod – the coming dawn meant that the danger was passing. Stiles knew better than this really, but thirty five thousand years of human instinct* was taking over.
*[This instinct is taken advantage of by burglars and hotel thieves the world over – when even the most nervous and paranoid of people, the kind who stay awake all night with a shotgun in their hands finally feel safe and fall asleep. Of course, what usually happens to these people is that the dawn chorus then keeps them awake. – A phrase that sounds a lot more pleasant and musical than the reality of a single magpie cawing incessantly in the eaves (so that, when you look out of the window to throw a stone at it, you cannot even see it) and sounding remarkably like an old man clearing his throat.]
A shadow fell across him and he leaped up brandishing a handful of smouldering straw. The girl jumped backwards; he burnt his hand and dropped the straw, cursing.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said, shaking his fingers and blowing on them.
She came nearer. ‘Here, let me see.’
He held out his hand cautiously.
‘You stayed up all night?’ she said. ‘That’s so – chivalrous.’
Stiles felt suddenly tongue-tied. She was so beautiful, and she was looking at him with … what was it, admiration? The close proximity of beautiful young women was not something that Stiles was used to in any circumstances. And no woman of any kind, except his late wife, had ever looked at him with anything other than disinterest at best.
‘Oh – well,’ he stammered. ‘I um – not really – I just – it seemed – er …’
She was rummaging in a backpack, which seemed to be mainly full of weapons. Eventually, to his relief, she brought out a roll of bandage and a small jar. ‘Arnica,’ she said. ‘It’ll help with the pain.’
It did too; it was remarkable – like magic. (Very like magic, in fact.) She bandaged up his hand.
‘Is that better, Detective?’ she asked.
He waved his good hand dismissively. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I think, under the circumstances, you should call me Jack.’
She looked intensely pleased. ‘Thank-you – Jack,’ she said and gave him a dazzling smile. Stiles actually blushed, something he had not done in at least thirty years.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at his feet, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I get the feeling that you arrived just in time.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘Where are we anyway?’ This was starting in the wrong place, but at least it was a start.
‘Scotland – somewhere – I think. I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Scotland? How the hell did I get to Scotland – on foot – unless?’ He glanced at the empty whisky bottle. She shifted uncomfortably, but Stiles did not notice.
‘You weren’t exactly on foot,’ she said.
And he vaguely remembered the flying. ‘Oh,’ he said and then he shook his head. ‘But you …?’
‘Hmm let’s just say it’s a good job they stopped when they did. I’d just about had it.’
‘Are you saying that you followed me from London – on foot in …’ He checked his watch. ‘Three days?’
‘Um.’
‘No wonder you were knackered.’
There was a silence; she waited for the inevitable next question, and it came.
‘So, who the hell are you?’
There was a further silence, so he began again. ‘Let’s start simple. What’s your name?’ He was in good cop mode now, feeling more like himself again.
The girl hesitated for a moment; she was never supposed to have met him face to face; he was not supposed to know about her at all. ‘Kitty,’ she said.
Stiles saw her glance at a small cat that had wandered in out of the snow. ‘Kitty … Winter.’
He looked at her shrewdly. ‘Kitty – the vampire slayer?’ He indicated the sharp stakes poking out of her backpack.
She smiled. ‘If you like – that’s one way of putting it.’
‘Surely that’s a myth – syndicated.’
Kitty shrugged. ‘Put it this way,’ she said, ‘most people think that vampires are a myth. I did myself until recently. But now I know different and so do you.’
Stiles docketed this information. ‘And why did they kidnap me?’
‘I don’t know. I – we – the men who sent me to protect you, they only know that they’re trying to kill you. But they don’t know why. I’m sorry – I know they’re working on it.’
Stiles thought about this. ‘So, hang on if they’re trying to kill me and you’re here to stop them – no wait. Why did they bring me all the way out here, and risk you catching up with them? They must know about you. Don’t they? And if they got past you long enough to grab me, then why didn’t they just kill me in London when they had the chance? You don’t have to be a criminal mastermind to see that it doesn’t make sense.’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘You certainly know how to ask the awkward questions.’
‘I’m a copper.’
‘I know. I won’t forget it. You’re a lot shrewder than …’
‘Than what, than I look?’
‘No, I just meant …’
‘Look, do you know why? It’s okay if you don’t.’
‘No, I do – I think. It’s just – well it’s embarrassing. You see those were female vampires and vampires tend to be – lascivious.’ She went pink. ‘And you’re a man and you’re not bad looking you know for …’
Stiles held up his hands, revolted. �
��Okay, okay, I get it, don’t say anymore – I feel sick.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure I was in time. I mean you were still fully dressed when I found you. I was right behind them; I don’t think anything happ …’
‘It doesn’t really; it’s just the idea that they wanted to …’
‘Be glad they did,’ she admonished, ‘otherwise you’d be dead. I got careless; I was distracted – deliberately I think. And then I left you alone with some muscle-bound idiot – when I think what could have happened.’
‘Well it didn’t. Good job I’m so handsome eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Oh.’
Stiles was surprised at how easily he had accepted all this, despite the fact that he had seen it with his own eyes. He suspected that it was because he was treating the whole thing like a bad dream. With its good points too of course, he thought, looking at Kitty. For some reason – and not turpitude either – he kept envisioning her in a short skirt and ankle socks waving pom-poms.
‘So, what do we do now?’ he asked.
‘We have to get moving. We’ll go to my place; I know somebody who might know what to do. It’s time to find out what’s really going on with you.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘It’s about two weeks on foot, but we’ll hitch or take a train. Got any money?’
Stiles checked his pockets. ‘No.’
‘It doesn’t matter; there’s ways and means. If you don’t mind bending the law.’ She grinned slyly at him.
He looked out at miles and miles of nowhere. ‘Got to get back to civilisation first.’
‘Yes it’s about three or four days on foot. I’m afraid I can’t fly?’
Stiles groaned. ‘I could use a drink.’
Kitty looked uncomfortable. She made a decision. ‘I have a confession,’ she said. ‘It was me who put that whisky in your desk drawer and I spiked your orange juice.’
Reality Bites Page 4
