Blood Loss: A Vampire Story

by Andy Maslen

  I wanted to say no. To rage against her teasing tone as she picked apart my arguments. But the trouble was, she was besting me. Only the previous month I had sat in a room in a police station with an obese man with rotting teeth who was accused of multiple rapes. The evidence against him was overwhelming. There was no doubt in my mind that he was guilty. I could tell that he was relishing every moment of the discussion. His eyes kept sliding over my front and despite the fact I was wearing my robes, with a high, white wing collar and barrister bands at my throat, I felt he could see right through them. I would cheerfully have locked him up myself, without a trial, and lobbed the key into the Thames. But I was his defence counsel and it was my job to get him off. And, I am ashamed to say, I did. Two of the police officers who’d investigated his case had screwed up the chain of custody on a pair of women’s underwear he’d kept as a trophy. The prosecuting counsel was new to his job and fluffed a couple of cross-examinations. I presented evidence of his levels of fitness that would make his supposedly chasing one of his victims for 300 yards along a residential road a medical impossibility. The jury found him not guilty. Afterwards, the foreman, a young guy, a student, I think, from one of the better universities, came up to me outside Court.

  “We all thought he’d done it,” he said. “But we followed the judge’s instructions. You were so good in there we had no option. How can you live with yourself? I couldn’t.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked off into the sunshine. I drank rather more red wine that night than was good for me and went to sleep screaming into my pillow.

  Even in the dark, I could tell Peta Velds was smiling. Her voice had a lilting, mocking quality. She squeezed my hand tighter then released it.

  “Poor Caroline. Don’t mind me. You’re right. My family is terrible. Some of the things we have done would make your blood run cold in your veins. But that is why we are here in this Godforsaken place. We are researching skin cancer and cell mutations brought on by UV radiation. My family’s foundation is pouring millions into David’s research. Your fiancé is a genius. He works so hard for us. I know you are worried about him so it is my duty to reassure you that he is fine.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, when with a hum, the lights went back on the lift. A loud bang came from somewhere in the shaft above us and then it jolted into motion again. I released a breath I had been holding and blinked in the light. I turned to face Peta Velds, noticing as I did that she was covering her mouth.

  “I hope you can do that, Ms Velds. I really do.”

  The lift rocked to a halt and the doors slid open. At last we had reached her office – and breathable air.

  My relief was short lived.

  The lift has stopped about three feet lower than the floor level. In front of us was a sharp-edged steel beam – the edge of the office floor where it intersected with the lift-shaft. Below it was smooth concrete.

  “How tiresome,” she said. “No matter. You look fit, Caroline. Climb out. I will steady you.”

  I am fit. And strong. I used to row at Cambridge and the other girls mocked me for my shoulders. They were all powerful rowers but I was easily the best – to my occasional chagrin. When buying robes for court, I still have what one outfitter in Chancery Lane called, “square shoulders, like a man’s”.

  So I placed my hands flat on the cold steel edge of her office floor and hauled myself onto the carpet. As I got a knee planted on the floor, I felt Peta Velds put her hands on my hips and hold me. She shoved, hard, and I virtually flew into the room, landing in a splayed crouch that made me glad I was wearing a trouser suit. How she managed it I don’t know, but she was out of the lift and standing by me, pulling me to my feet almost at the same moment. Then, as if to deride me for my undignified entrance into the room, the lift smoothly completed its journey, the doors gliding shut with a whisper of bearings somewhere inside the mechanism.

  Waiting for us was a man dressed in a dinner suit. He was holding a long dagger.

  9

  Minutes of meeting between Peta Velds and Caroline Murray LLD (taken by J.S. Le Fanu, General Counsel, Velds Industries) 11th October 2010

  I had been opening post for Peta when she arrived with her guest, one Caroline Murray, a barrister of Roxburgh Chambers, Middle Temple. Their arrival was a little unorthodox: the lift was playing up and they had to clamber out onto the floor like mountaineers. I introduced myself. Caroline Murray appeared flushed and touched her throat several times as we sat around the meeting table. The reddening crept steadily down her neck and spread towards her ears. I noticed that Peta was quite unable to keep her eyes away from the darkening skin at Miss Murray’s throat. These are my shorthand notes, transcribed and copied to Caroline Murray for her records.

  PV: I am sorry you have had such a long journey to reassure yourself as to your fiancé’s health. And for the malfunctioning elevator.

  CM: [laughing] That’s perfectly OK. Just a little hiccup. But I would really like to see David. He is at work today, I assume? As you have taken his phone away, I can’t contact him.

  PV: David is at work, why wouldn’t he be? And as to the phone, I do not permit any of my scientific team to have phones here. The work in which they are engaged is secret, and I am afraid nowadays there are just too many temptations to share things on social media. They have all signed contracts and non-disclosure agreements drafted by Mr Le Fanu, so there really shouldn’t be a problem. They are well remunerated to compensate them for my unorthodox approach – yes, Caroline, you may raise your eyebrows all you want; I know my approach is out of the common way. As I say, David is downstairs. I shall ask him to come and join us.

  CM: Can’t we go to him? I’d love to see his lab.

  PV: Impossible. The laboratory is top secret. Out of bounds to anybody without security clearance. Unless your name is on Mr Stoker’s list, I’m afraid a visit is out of the question.

  CM: And Mr Stoker would be?

  PV: My Head of Security. He and Mr le Fanu work closely to ensure our work here is protected physically, virtually and legally. I will not tolerate any breaches. Excuse me one moment.

  [Ms Velds crosses room to desk intercom and asks Dr Harker to join her. She tells him to take the stairs.]

  CM: While we wait for David, I’d like to ask you about something I heard in Great Yarmouth. Apparently there have been accidents, and a viral infection of some sort. Is that true? Are people falling ill? Is there something about David’s work that is dangerous?

  PV: Goodness me, Caroline. What a lot of questions. In any large lab there will be health and safety incidents from time to time. But a virus? No. Ridiculous gossip from those peasants in the town. I provide jobs, which, believe me, are in short supply in these parts. I look after them when they are ill, or pregnant. People get ill everywhere. There is no virus here. A guard fell awkwardly and did sustain an injury. But his untimely demise was due to incompetence at the local hospital, not anything that occurred here. They should model their hygiene protocols on ours: they would have far fewer iatrogenic deaths if they did.

  CM: It’s a little unfair to suggest that deaths from superbug infections are caused by doctors, Ms Velds. They do their best with limited resources.

  PV: That’s as may be. And please call me Peta. In any eventuality, our health and safety practices are out of the top drawer. You may inspect the report from the Health & Safety Executive inspector who audited the lab at the start of this project. She found nothing to complain about, did she Mr Le Fanu?

  JSLF: I seem to remember she left us smiling.

  [The door to the stairs opens. Dr David Harker enters]

  DH: Caro! What are you doing here? I thought my email was clear. It’s over.

  CM: David, please sit down and talk to me. It was your last email that made me decide to come up here to see you. It was so out of character. I simply can’t believe you meant it. I thought it must be stress.

  DH: I’m not stressed. I enjoy it here. Peta gives me everything I co
uld possibly need. For my work, I mean. Don’t you Peta?

  PV: I try, David. I try.

  CM: What’s that on your neck? The plaster. Have you hurt yourself?

  DH: It’s nothing. I got stung by a wasp. It got a bit infected.

  CM: A wasp? It’s October, David. There aren’t any wasps. Look, what’s going on? You’re acting decidedly oddly. And why won’t you look at me? What’s wrong, darling?

  DH: It was in a mask. We wear them when we’re working with radioactive isotopes. It must have hibernated or something. Like the big one that stung your Dad’s finger inside his gardening glove a few years back. When was that? January? Anyway, I’m fine. Look, I really think this was a mistake. I have to go. We’re about to run a gamma radiation flood test on rat skin cells. I wish you hadn’t come. Peta, can I go now?

  PV: I don’t see that I can stop you, Dr Harker.

  [Dr Harker leaves by stairs.]

  PV: Satisfied, Ms Murray? It is not David’s health that bothers you at all, is it? But rather his rejection of you as a lover. I sympathise. For a woman like you, a brilliant and attractive husband would have been quite a trophy.

  CM: What do you mean, a woman like me? I am wealthy, successful and with excellent prospects in the legal profession. By this time next year there is every chance I shall be a QC.

  PV: Which is what men dream of, yes, of course. “Oh, I want to marry a woman who is better paid and better qualified than I.” How little you know of male psychology, Caroline. Forgive me, Sheridan, but you would agree with me, I am sure. The human male wishes to marry an attractive female who will bear him many strong children – preferably sons. Why do you suppose they fixate on our breasts? It is because they bestow life on those heirs they yearn for. You are, and please, I only say this in a spirit of candour, not the best a man like David Harker could secure for his brood mare. He has always been the subject of attentions from the opposite sex. At conferences, symposia, and so on. It is only his innocence and dedication to his work that blind him to their advances, I am sure you must have noticed that.

  CM: I think I’ve had enough of this, Ms Velds. I don’t know which century you think you’re living in but times have moved on. David and I were very happily engaged – and shall be again. I’m leaving. You will hear from me again.

  PV: Oh, I don’t doubt it, Caroline. I don’t doubt it.

  [Miss Murray leaves by stairs.]

  10

  Caroline Murray’s Journal, 12th October 2010

  After that disastrous meeting with Peta Velds and her General Counsel, I feel utterly deflated. David seemed fine in himself, he just didn’t want to be in the same room with me. I mean, he wasn’t hyper, or depressed, just massively unbothered and eager to get away. But that was strange, wasn’t it? We are still engaged. I’ve resolved to do some digging on Peta Velds and to try to figure out what sort of a hold she has on David. Lucy and I had a somewhat dispiriting dinner at the pub and we both went to bed at about 10.00 p.m.

  Lucy kissed me good night in the hallway between our two doors. I tried not to hold myself rigidly but to reciprocate the hug, as I’d learnt on the seminar. She has her faults but she is a sweet thing at heart and she knows how physical contact is difficult for me.

  “Relax, darling,” she whispered in my ear. “Breathe.”

  Then she was gone, shutting her door behind her with a reminder that we were due to leave for London at nine sharp and not to oversleep. I got undressed for bed, removed my makeup and cleaned my teeth. As I got into my pyjamas I caught a glimpse of myself in the wardrobe’s mirrored door and wondered. Was David getting second best marrying me? He’s always said he loved me from the moment we first met and it’s true I have never doubted him for a moment, but I know there are women far better looking then I am who move in the same circles as he does. You’d think all those science-y types with their white coats and thick glasses would be a plug ugly bunch. But I’ve met a couple of his colleagues at Christmas parties and my goodness they scrub up well. Apart from the randy Dane, there were a couple of interns last year who I swear were there because they’d missed the door marked “models”. All tanned legs, minidresses and long blonde hair. In comparison I felt decidedly frumpy in my lawyer’s standby mufti of navy linen dress and pearls. Nothing to be done about it, I reflected with a sigh, and climbed into bed. I knew I should be reading witness statements so as not to fall too far behind in my cases, and had brought a stack with me. The trouble was, I couldn’t concentrate on work. All I could think about was ghastly Peta Velds and her imperious manner. That and the creeps she had hired to protect her. So I turned to a thriller I’d bought at a service station on the drive up, something easy to get through with a lurid cover illustration and the author’s name in red metallic capitals. I read for an hour or so then, when I felt sleep mercifully tugging at my eyelids, and my consciousness, I laid it on the night stand and closed my eyes.

  I have no idea how long it took me to fall asleep, but it seemed no sooner had I closed my eyes than I was wide awake. I checked the time on my phone. It was just after 2.00 a.m. I wasn’t sure what had broken my sleep but my heart was pounding fiercely, I was breathing rapidly and shallowly and I was covered in a sweat. My first thought was that I was having a panic attack. I switched on the bedside light and scrabbled in my handbag for my Rescue Remedy. A couple of sprays onto my tongue and a few slow breaths and I began to regain some semblance of normal functioning. Then I heard a faint sound from across the hallway and my pulse jumped again. It came from the direction of Lucy’s room and I realised I had heard it in my sleep and that was what had roused me.

  I pulled on the cheap towelling dressing gown that hung on the back of the bedroom door, stepped into the matching slippers and opened the door onto the corridor. It was pitch-black: pubs are legally required to have night lights if they take guests but I supposed the bulb had blown. The noise came again, a low moan and a sharp indrawn sigh of breath. It made me feel distinctly uncomfortable as it had an undeniable sexual quality to it. But something else. Beneath the sigh, there was an edge to the sound, as if someone were in pain. I say someone because the voice sounded nothing like Lucy’s. Yet I knew she was alone. She is not averse to an occasional pickup – I think it goes with her professional territory – but I had kissed her goodnight not four hours earlier and unless she had returned to the prowl in downtown Great Yarmouth, that was how she should still have been.

  I crossed the yard of blue carpet, wondering as I did why so many provincial hotels have the same fleur de lys pattern, and knocked at Lucy’s door.

  “Luce. Are you OK? I heard something,” I said, trying to pitch my voice loud enough to carry into the room but quiet enough not to wake any other guests.

  There was no answer. Perhaps, I thought, she’d been having a nightmare. I turned to go back to my own room, and as I did so, I stepped on something that crunched underfoot. It sounded like glass — from the light bulb, I wondered. That’s when I heard it again. Out here in the corridor it was clearer, and there was a definite pleading note to the cry.

  I turned and knocked harder on the door. There was no reply and I was properly scared by now. I tried the knob but she had locked the door. I rattled it and the door shook in its frame, the twisted and blackened Elizabethan timbers having long ago fallen out of alignment. So I did what the hero in my thrillers would have done. I turned the knob fully clockwise to disengage the latch, stepped as far from the door as I could and then slammed myself against it, using those rower’s shoulders of mine. With a loud, crunching crack, the latch tore through the flimsy wood of the frame and I fell into the room. The sight that greeted me will haunt me for ever.

  Lucy lay on the bed on her back, no nightie or pyjamas, moaning faintly, arms flung out to either side, breathing heavily and still emitting those sad little moans of pleasure or pain – it was hard to tell which. Kneeling over her, also naked, was a young woman: she appeared to be sucking at Lucy’s breast. As I stumbled into the room, she wh
irled round, leaping from Lucy’s prostrate form to land on all fours. Her hands were bent into claws that dug into the wooden floorboards. Hissing at me, she scuttled sideways towards the window. Her mouth was wide open, almost as if her lower jaw had broken from its hinge, and two long needle-like fangs descended from her upper gums, somehow behind her regular teeth. They were dripping with blood and some translucent substance, and the mixture of fluids ran down her chin and dropped to the floor in long strings.

  The muscles of her arms were like thick ropes beneath her skin and with one long limb she wrenched the sash window open and swung herself out. I was torn between wanting to watch where she went and going to Lucy. In the end I’m afraid my curiosity won out, and I rushed to the window and looked down. The girl was crawling straight down the wall, head first. Her arms and legs were braced against each other and she used the tension in the muscles to lock herself tight to the surface of the wall, pushing fingers and toes into the cracks where the mortar had fallen away from the bricks. She detached her arms as she reached the ground and simply walked away from the base of the wall on her hands, like an acrobat, before righting herself with a spring. Glaring balefully back at me with red-rimmed eyes, she ran lightly away into the shadows at the side of the road and was lost from view.

  Now I turned to my friend. I knelt by the bed and cradled Lucy’s head in my arm. Her left breast had two small punctures, one each side of the nipple, which was swollen and very red. The punctures were bleeding – a steady flow that I attempted to staunch with a wodge of tissues I grabbed from the box on her bedside table and pressed down firmly over the wound. The pressure made her cry out and she opened her eyes.