She swept an arm along the rickety bookshelf, sending a row of Viz’s tomes tumbling to the floor in a swirling grey blur of dust.
The old man clambered to his feet. ‘You embarrass me like this and you wonder why you are not fit to wear the brand?’
‘GUYS!’ I screamed, and finally they shut up. ‘You’re fighting over nothing. I have one shitty boss already, I don’t need two more.’ I stood up from my chair. ‘Find someone else to do your dirty work, because I’m going home.’
‘There is no one else,’ said Viz.
‘Of course there is,’ I replied, throwing up my hands. ‘Call the police. Call the army. Call the frigging coastguard for all I care.’
‘That would create pandemonium,’ he replied. ‘No, ours is a secret war. A battle that won’t be recorded in the history books.’
‘Why not? Why not get the law involved?’
‘Because normals aren’t equipped to fight vampires,’ he said. ‘They’d be peashooters against battleships.’
‘That’s what you call us, is it? “Normals”?’ I shook my head. ‘Jesus, what am I even doing here? Angels and demons and holy weapons? I don't even believe in God!’
‘And He probably doesn’t believe in you either,’ said Viz. ‘So show Him why He should.’
I paused for a moment, but barely. ‘I’m nothing special. I’m not cut out to stop an army of undead bastards. I’m sorry,’ I said, heading for the door. ‘I’m bashed to bits and I’m working on about two hours sleep. I need my bed.’
Viz stood up now, wobbling on his cane. ‘The reason you’re not getting your eight hours is because of what you’ve become,’ he said, then, as though it were obvious, ‘it’s one of your blessings, to be able to function on a bare minimum of sleep. You are the Nightstalker after all.’
‘That wretch is no Nightstalker,’ said Gen, cementing her position on the matter for about the hundredth time. ‘The dagger belongs in my hands.’
As I made for the door, I snatched up my backpack and threw it over my shoulder. ‘Just for that, I’m keeping the knife.’
‘Give that back right now,’ she demanded, reaching for her morning star.
‘Leave her be,’ sighed the old man, placing a hand on Gendith’s elbow.
She begrudgingly stood down, shaking with pent up aggression. ‘What did I tell you?’ she told Viz. ‘She’s no saviour. She’s nothing special. She’s the same as the rest of them.’
It stung, but not so much that I stopped moving.
8
My head was at war with itself.
All I’d ever wanted in life was to stand apart from the crowd. To be significant. To reach my potential. And yet what had I ever done to achieve those goals? I stood out all right—so long as I wasn’t at a Sisters of Mercy concert anyway—but that’s about where my quest for individuality ended. I wasn’t unique. I wasn’t extraordinary. Gendith was right. Fish hook earrings and ripped fishnets don’t make a person special, just a different kind of nothing.
But then wasn’t that just the way of things? Weren’t we all just pretenders, acting like we were something more than worker ants, but showing up at the ant-hill all the same. Saying no to something more didn’t make me a failure, it just made me human. Another Desk Babysitter among millions more.
I still couldn’t shake that feeling though. The feeling that I’d been shown a way out of the ant-hill—a true, special calling—and I’d gone the other way. As I strode to catch the last train home, I looked at the brand on my palm. There was magic in that thing. A blessing from on high. Was I really going to let that go to waste?
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, accompanied by the theme tune to Tales of the Unexpected. I didn’t need look at it to know who was. Neil. He’d called three times already, and he’d call again. I just couldn’t face talking to him though. The argument I was having in my head was all the conversation I could handle.
By the time I arrived home it was just short of midnight, and Neil was not a sunny bunny.
‘Where were you?’ he demanded. ‘I must have called you ten times, Abbey.’
‘I’m sorry, okay. Some work people went out for drinks and asked if I wanted join them.’
I hated lying to him, but what could I do? I was hardly going to tell him that I’d been hanging out with a couple of angels. Neil wrote fantasy stories, but that’s all they were to him: stories. If I came through the door banging on about real-life vampire cults and magic daggers I’d have looked fucking mental.
‘You could have at least texted me,’ he said, hurt.
‘I tried,’ I said. ‘I guess my phone must have run out of battery.’
‘You guess?’ He took the breathing tube from his nostrils and leaned in to sniff my breath. ‘I don’t smell booze on you, Abbey. Tell me the truth.’
I felt like a reverse alcoholic being castigated for her sobriety.
I tried a joke. ‘You know the pubs in this town, always watering down their drinks...’
The gag went down like a turd on a wedding cake. Neil replaced his breathing tube and looked back at me, forehead knotted, a dimple forming a crease between his eyebrows.
Then he saw my palm.
‘Whoa, what the hell is that?’ he said. I tried pulling my hand away, but I wasn’t fast enough. ‘Did you hurt yourself? What happened?’
‘I’m fine, I said. ‘It’s just a… um… I got a body mod, that’s all. Tattoos are such old hat, aren’t they?’
He traced a finger gently along the grooves of the brand. ‘What does the Z stand for?’
‘It’s not a Z,’ I explained, turning my hand sideways. ‘It’s an N for… um… Neil! That’s right, I got your initial burned on to my palm, so… surprise.’
He held my hand softly in his, looking at the brand and wincing.
I felt terrible bullshitting him like that, but there was no walking it back now. ‘So then... do you like it?’
He looked up at me with the sad eyes of a Basset Hound. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I love it.’ Then he had a sudden thought. ‘Hey, I don’t have to get one though, right?’
* * *
Lying to Neil and telling him that I’d willingly had my hand seared to a crisp wasn’t exactly my finest hour, but it beat telling him the truth. Besides, what did the truth matter now? I’d said no to being the Nightstalker – closed the door on that for good. The events of the last couple of days had been insane and dangerous. The smartest thing I could do was leave that stuff well alone, even if I couldn’t stop looking at my hand and wondering What if?
I woke the next morning to a grim sky the colour of a detuned TV. It seemed only fitting, I supposed. I couldn’t have it both ways – either I chose to live in a world full of magic and mystery, or I carried on with my boring, humdrum way of life. Oh well, at least this way I wouldn’t get my throat torn out by some bloodthirsty hellspawn. At least this way I got to see a new sky each morning, even if it was a grey one.
But something had changed. The planet had shifted on its axis. The world I thought I lived in was a lie. I knew that now. Knew the truth. Monsters walked the streets, magic was real, and no one but me had a bloody clue about it.
Now I saw danger everywhere. Peril, lurking around every corner. Menace, squatting on its haunches, ready to pounce. I saw it in the smallest of things. I saw it in the sideways look I got from a stray dog as I exited my flat. I saw it in the creepy, spidery veins of an old woman's calf as she threw bread crumbs to a flock of mangy pigeons. I saw it in the gaunt-faced drunk with the rotting teeth, chewing on a strip of—what was that?—raw meat?
I’d never been the most trusting of people, but now that mistrust had been turned up to eleven. It was as though my eyes had been opened, and now there was no closing them. I was witnessing the world in a whole new way, noticing unforeseen details, seeing through the grand illusion. My surroundings looked like the picture from a brand new telly, still configured to its presets, the colours a bit too rich, the picture so sharp it looked
like something from a bad soap opera. I wasn’t just observing the world anymore, watching the narrative unfold around me like it was someone else’s story. I was the story now, and the story was menacing and weird.
I blinked a couple of times to clear my senses, then took a breath and pointed my eyes straight ahead.
Get a hold of yourself, Beckett. You’re going to work, that’s all. Nothing weird there. Nothing weirder than Gary anyway. Focus on your little life and ignore the bigger picture.
Brown frosted leaves crunched underfoot as I cut through the park. I wasn’t far from Thamesmead station now, but I’d have to take a detour to get there. The whole site was undergoing construction, and the developments had severed the direct route from my flat and forced me to start my daily commute with a grinding hike over the grubby flyover that dominated most of the area. I passed between the concrete outer wall of the overpass and a line of traffic cones, choking on the exhaust fumes of passing cars until I reached the stairs that lead to the station.
Winding my way down the steps to street level, I ran into a stick-thin man dressed in a pinstripe suit. He was standing halfway down the stairs, feet a shoulder-width apart, his posture stiff and unnatural. He wasn’t doing anything. Wasn’t checking his phone, wasn’t listening to headphones, wasn’t reading a newspaper or begging for money. He was just standing there like a crazy person doing absolutely nothing.
I carried on by, expecting him to at least move slightly as I passed, but he didn’t move a muscle. Even his eyes stayed still, fixed on the horizon, not tracking me in the least. I wondered for a moment if he was a human statue—I even checked to see if he had a box of change at his feet—but no, he was just a man… waiting. Waiting for what I had no idea, and I didn’t care to stick around and find out. His stillness made me uneasy. It was the stillness of a cat about to pounce. Of a big red button, ready to be pressed.
As I made my way past him, I felt a strange tingle, as though I’d grazed something charged with static electricity. I trotted down the next flight of steps, spurred on by the queasy feeling in my stomach. Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, I couldn’t help but cast a look back to see if the man had moved at all—
Only he wasn’t there anymore.
Had he headed up to the overpass? Had he dropped something and ducked behind the concrete balustrade to pick it up? I got my answer when I turned around to continue my walk and found him stood right in front of me.
‘Morning,’ said the skinny man.
He stood the exact same way he had back on the stairs, legs a shoulder-width apart, back ramrod straight, a store mannequin’s pose.
I was too stunned to reply, so I nodded instead and headed for the train station, which was still a walk away.
What the hell was that? Did the guy have a twin brother? A twin brother who just happened to be wearing the exact same outfit? Was this some freaky performance art, and if it was, what the hell was it doing out here in Thamesmead at seven o’clock in the morning?
I quickened my step, thankful that I’d chosen to dress in accordance with the LPO’s new dress code that day. Because of Gary’s edict, I was wearing a sensible pair of flats instead of a towering pair of platform knee-highs, so I could manage a decent clip.
I glanced over my shoulder as I hurried off and saw the pinstriped man again. He still wasn’t moving, and yet in the time I’d taken my eye off him, he’d somehow managed to close a significant distance between where I’d left him and where I was now.
He gave me a wink and I felt my heart rear into my neck. Was I the butt of some sick joke? Were a bunch of lookalikes working in tandem to put the scares on an unsuspecting member of the public?
No.
I wasn’t being punked, I was sure of it. I was being hunted.
Turning from the pinstriped man and breaking into a jog, I sped by a row of graffiti-covered hoardings and hung a right at the far end—
Only to be confronted again by the pinstriped man.
He stood the same as before, cutting me off, feet planted, chest puffed out. ‘Don’t I get a hello?’ he leered.
‘Get away from me,’ I said, taking a step back.
He hadn’t touched me, and yet I felt like I’d been mugged. This wasn’t right. I’d taken the safe path, I’d said no to the angels, and yet there it was, the impossible, waggling its tongue at me still.
The strange man smiled at me. He wore his black hair slicked back to his scalp in a way that might have been fashionable in the last century. His features were pale and cruel, and there was something wicked in his eyes. Something nasty.
I darted around him and carried on past, but as I brushed by the pinstriped man, something happened.
A letter J glowed on his forehead.
J for Judas.
I looked about for help, but there was no one around.
‘So, you’re the new Nightstalker, huh?’ he said, chuckling. ‘What are you, a diversity hire?’
Twin fangs shot from beneath his upper lip as he assumed his true form.
It was daylight... just about anyway. What the hell was a vampire doing out at this hour?
Instinctively, I went for the dagger that I’d been keeping in my backpack, but stopped short when I remembered that I’d left it at home. Shit.
Pinstripe lunged for me, nostrils flared, his breath hot and reeking of something animal. His fingernails dug into my shoulders like the talons of a bird of prey, but instead of carrying me off to his nest, his head came forward and his fangs flashed for my neck.
I only just managed to stop him from breakfasting on my throat. The moment I realised I wasn’t packing the dagger, I found my hand reaching into my jacket pocket and returning with my house keys between my knuckles. The vamp was fast, but even so, I managed to get the pointy end of my door key between my jugular and his bite.
I jammed the metal into his face and caught him between his lower eyelid and the soft flesh of his eyeball. He yowled and recoiled, and when he looked up again I saw a ruby red teardrop running down his cheek.
‘I’m going to open you up and dance on your guts,’ he growled, wiping the blood from his face.
I didn’t stick around to find out whether he meant that literally.
I ran as fast as I could, my heart going two-hundred beats a minute, my panicked breath firing in hot spurts. I could hear the vampire running after me, his footfalls heavy, slapping hard against the pavement as he drew ever closer. I picked up the pace, my thighs burning as the adrenaline screamed through my body, daring me to run faster still.
I felt his fingers snatch at my long brown hair (yes, a lesser-spotted brown-haired goth!) and felt my head dip backwards as he took hold. A scream squeaked through my scorched throat, and then I tore away, leaving him with a fistful of curls.
I made it to the train station and threw myself across the ticket barriers and into the foyer. Commuters scattered as I sprawled across the tiled floor, my legs kicking out in fright, face lit with fear, eyes wild and darting.
Pinstripe was gone.
No, he’d just stopped chasing.
I could see him beyond the barriers, not a crease in his suit, not a bead of sweat upon his candle-white skin.
He smiled a razor blade smile, then lifted a lock of my hair to his nose and inhaled deeply.
‘See you soon, Abbey,’ he mouthed, then melted into the crowd with his prize.
There was no getting away from this. The moment I’d touched that dagger, it was too late to go back. The monsters, the magic, the mayhem – it was all out there, whether I liked it or not. It didn't matter that I wanted nothing to do with it, it wanted something to do with me.
9
I called in sick to work. I was hoping the temp might pick up the phone so I could relay my excuses to her, but my clown shoe of a boss took the call personally.
‘Sick how?’ he demanded. ‘How exactly are you sick?’
‘Put it this way,’ I replied, ‘it’s coming out of both ends.’
&n
bsp; I find that phrase tends to shut down any further questioning, and it worked a charm on this occasion, as it always did.
‘You can’t keep taking days off like this, Abbey. It’s not on.’
‘Go back and check your records. I haven’t taken a sickie since a pony broke into my house and I had to spend all day chasing it out with a spatula.’
Sometimes, just to keep things interesting, I like to switch out grossness for absurdity. Tactically, I find it just as effective. After all, who makes up a story that unlikely and that specific? Only a true diabolic, that’s who.
‘We need you here at the office. You have responsibilities.’
‘Right,’ I replied. I was tempted to ask him to remind me what those were exactly, but he told me anyway.
‘You perform a valuable function at the LPO, Abbey,’ he said, using my name like a politician. ‘We need you here.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘I'm sure the system will survive one day of me not logging a few knackered umbrellas.’
The line went quiet for a moment while he thought of a comeback, then: ‘Are you saying your job’s not important, Abbey?’
‘No, but—’
‘You're the designated first-aider on your floor and your backup is on leave in Corfu. What are we going to do if someone suffers a work-related accident?’
‘I already told you I’m sick, Gary. How about instead of worrying about some potential mishap, you show a bit of compassion for mine?’
More radio silence. ‘You know,’ he finally said, ‘if your job’s really as dispensable as you say it is, maybe the post isn’t necessary.’
Jesus Christ. For a bloke who looked like he bought his clothes in Mothercare, he sure did like to act the big man.
‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ I told him, and hung up the phone.
I went back to the flat after that. My plan was to return to the angels, but not without collecting the dagger first. After my run-in with Pinstripe, I didn’t feel safe without it.
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