Tonight’s date with Margaret would be the first time he’d taken a woman out since his split up with Fiona three years ago.
He’d carried the emotional scars around with him for a long time, shunning female company and spending a lot of time with Tom Duncan in various bars, when Margaret had arrived at the school he had found himself attracted to her. Now he felt as excited as a teenager on his first date and didn’t know what to do with himself in the hours until seven o’clock.
He thought about calling round for Margaret but knew that it would seem too pushy. He contented himself with fantasies about the forthcoming evening, deciding where he wanted to eat, checking the paper for films in the area, and trying on most of the clothes in his old wardrobe.
By four-thirty he got twitchy, by five-thirty he had checked his car out thoroughly, twice, changed his clothes three times and had three showers.
By six o’clock he was driving in the direction of Margaret’s flat, cruising around her block twice before deciding on a quick pint to calm him down.
At ten to seven he was knocked on Margaret’s door dressed in his neatest black corduroy trousers, white cotton shirt and black velvet jacket he had not worn since his final honors year dinner some years previously.
She had dressed for the occasion, a sweatshirt proclaiming “FEED THE WORLD” and a pair of jeans seemingly comprised wholly of patches. Her first words were predictable.
“For God’s sake, Brian, you are not taking me out in that old hulk are you?”
The item in question was Brian’s 1970 Citroen 2CV, a relic from his first ever summer job. Although Brian had got very attached to it, most of his passengers never had a kind word.
He pretended to be hurt.
“You shouldn’t judge a car by its exterior. For all you know there could be a Formula one engine under that rusty body.”
She laughed…a delicious thing that sent a hot thrill to the pit of Brian’s stomach.
“A Formula one engine? Don’t make me laugh. I’ll be surprised if there aren’t pedals inside it.”
This provoked mock shock from Brian.
“Pedals! Pedals! What do you think I am, made of money? You’ll use the holes in the floor for your feet like everybody else. Anyway, do I get invited in for coffee or do we stand out here admiring my car all night?”
“Coffee? Oh no, we don’t have time for that if we’re to get to the La Scala for eight.”
“The La Scala?”
Realization hit Brian slowly.
“No Margaret, not James Bond, come on. I was hoping we could go to the Glasgow Film Theatre to see the old Jacques Tati movies.”
Now it was her turn to be indignant.
“Black and white? Dubbed or subtitled? I thought you were taking me out for a good time? After yesterday I think a little escapism would do me good, don’t you?”
~-o0O0o-~
Tony had seen the old man come into the graveyard and at the first sight of him had pushed himself tighter against the wall, willing his clothes to turn the same color as the stones around him.
But the old man seemed distracted, wandering aimlessly among the graves, muttering to himself and tugging at a long wispy beard. Tony almost laughed and felt he might be able to relax...just a little. And that was when the old man stiffened, as if hit by a sudden jolt of electricity.
Suddenly everything was quiet and still. Even the dark shadows under the trees seemed to have fallen quiet.
Away in the distance a train announced its arrival, but even the loud horn sounded distant and forlorn, its fading note echoing in his head long after the actual noise had passed.
A light mist rolled over the gravestones and fell in ever growing pools on the grass, pools of silver in the moonlight. Goosebumps ran the length of Tony’s arms and the air around him got cold, then colder still.
The old man seemed to be struggling, beads of sweat running down his cheeks, his leg muscles trembling violently, but Tony realized that he couldn’t move, rooted to the spot as a pair of blood red eyes shone out from the mist.
There was a strangled squeal, and Tony didn’t know whether it had come from himself or the old man, but all thought was driven from his mind as the vampire came out of the silver fog.
It was no longer frail, no longer a partially formed creature. Its body had filled and grown and its skin shone alabaster white as if lit with an inner glow. Long blonde hair flowed almost half way down its back and spread like a cape behind it. The moon glinted off fingernails that looked like burnished silver...razor sharp burnished silver. Its’ muscles stood out in sharp relief, pushing out against the skin in great knotted ropes and when it grinned its mouth was a gaping red maw filled with twin, three-inch fangs.
It moved quickly, swift and fluid like a great cat, covering the ground to the old man in two heartbeats, lifting the small body as if he was no more than a doll and raising his face to its eyes.
Something passed between them, something Tony couldn’t see, but he felt it all the same. Its head dropped to the old man’s throat and blood flowed darkly around the long fangs. The old man’s body relaxed then loosened even further, seeming to deflate.
The vampire looked up just once, its eyes now almost black in the dim light, its mouth a steaming pool of gore. It laughed…a great booming thing that shook the branches of the surrounding trees.
Tony saw the lust in its eyes as it bent once more to feed. He saw the fangs glint again and felt a scream begin to build inside his throat, a scream that he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain.
From the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the shadows, the glimmer of silver. He didn’t have time to turn. There was a low whistle as a missile moved fast through the air. The vampire screamed as a crossbow bolt sprouted from its neck, sending a new spray of blood onto the already-red flesh.
Something sailed past Tony...a fleeting glimpse of white that exploded as it hit the ground at the vampire’s feet and sent a cloud of powder into the air.
The creature screamed again, louder this time and began to rub vigorously at its eyes, its arms and its nostrils, clawing at its flesh with those silver talons, tearing strips of flesh from its body in long bloodless ribbons. A smell wafted through the night, and Tony tasted the unmistakable tang of garlic at the back of his throat.
Another bolt whistled across the clearing, taking the vampire in the shoulder just above its heart and bringing another scream, more of rage than of pain. The vampire tore the bolt from its flesh, the resultant hole welling immediately black with blood.
From the bushes to the left of Tony a man appeared, striding into the clearing, his long black overcoat flapping around his ankles. He was tall and thin, his gray hair showing silver in the moon. His eyes were in deep shadow, but his mouth was set in a grimace of determination. In his right hand he held a small hunting crossbow, and in his left a small white package. He raised his left arm and threw the package at the vampire.
Things happened fast after that. The vampire moved aside away from the missile, letting it explode over the body of the old man, moving almost faster than the eye could follow, but not fast enough to evade another crossbow bolt which embedded itself almost in the center of the creature’s chest.
“I’m getting closer you bastard,” the stranger shouted. “Next time it’s the heart.”
The vampire screamed again, so loud that Tony thought that his head might explode. It tore the new bolt from its flesh, hurling the missile back at the man in the overcoat. The man stepped aside almost nonchalantly, letting the bolt pass him by on the left-hand side, reloading the bow as he moved.
“This one ought to do it,” he said, and a smile spread across his face, a firm, flat smile that held no humor in it at all. It was at that moment that Tony realized he knew this man…he had seen his picture plastered over television and newspapers. At this moment Tony didn’t care if he was a psychopath…he felt like cheering as the man took the fight to the vampire.
Jim Kerr raised
the bow and pulled the trigger, just as the creature fled, melting into the darkness so smoothly that it was as if it had never been there. The man sent another crossbow bolt into the bushes where the vampire had been and grunted in disgust when there was no answering cry of pain.
He bent over the body of the old man, and Tony saw a small quiver of crossbow bolts slung under his arm like a holster, their razor sharp heads showing silver against the black of his shirt. He turned the old man over and probed his fingers into the holes at the old man’s throat. They came away dark and wet and he rubbed them clean against his overcoat, almost absentmindedly as he raised the crossbow and sent a bolt straight into the old man’s body, right over the heart.
Tony heard the thump as it went in, then a crack as the stranger took hold of the old man’s head and twisted, wrenching so hard that Tony believed that the head might be separated from the body.
The scream in Tony’s throat demanded attention, but he managed to hold it back as the man did one last thing, bending and placing a bulb of garlic in the old man’s mouth before striding purposefully out of the clearing following the direction in which the vampire had disappeared.
And now Tony could stand it no longer.
His throat finally released its hold on the scream and out it came, ringing shrilly through the night, accompanied by hot heavy tears which washed saltly into his mouth. As he tasted them he thought of blood, and the vampire’s teeth, and, finally, of the death of his friend Ian.
When a heavy hand touched him on the shoulder he fell into a dead faint, but he had been more than half way there already.
~-o0O0o-~
At the same time as Margaret and Brian were leaving for the cinema, Tom Duncan had ensconced himself on the high stool in the corner of the bar. He was already on his fourth pint of beer and one of the regulars had just bought him a whisky. Currently he just looked at it, nursing it, wondering whether to give in to temptation or whether to leave it alone.
In reality he had already made his mind up when it was put in front of him...a little bit of his mind already knew that...but he liked to fool himself that he still had a chance of sobriety. He muttered to himself, a fact that Dave the barman had noticed, but Tom looked like a man with a problem and Dave had seen many of them in his time.
Fucking headmaster…I wasn’t drunk, only had one to keep me going…How was I to know that one of the kids would get killed…Am I supposed to watch them 24 hours a day…Might as well get pissed…No better not, Jessie wouldn’t like it…Well, maybe just a wee whisky or two.
He paused to take a large gulp of the liquid, feeling its heat coursing into his stomach.
I can handle it, always could…Anyway, I’ll have plenty of time to myself now…I’ll let him calm down and then go back and get my job back…I’ll just have another wee whisky to keep me going.
Dave didn’t notice Tom leaving, it must have been sometime after ten o’clock but the bar was busy by that time and he had other things on his mind.
~-o0O0o-~
Jock Dickie was ensconced in his seat beside the fire, and nothing would get him to leave until he finished the drink in front of him…not the bell for drinking up time…not the fact that everyone else had gone, and definitely not that little snot of a barman. It wasn’t every day that your squirt of a kid stayed out all night after killing another brat. With any luck he wouldn’t be coming back.
“Good riddance,” he said out loud, bringing a quick glance from the barman. A glare from Jock was enough to send the man scurrying back to the dishwasher.
He took a long gulp of his whisky and washed it down with a mouthful of beer before sitting back and belching loudly.
“Hey Dave. Gie’s another whisky,” he shouted.
“Come on Jock. It’s past eleven...you’ll lose me my license.”
“Fuck your license. Just one more...then I’ll be off tae see to the wife.” Jock said, rising like a great bear and walking, a little unsteadily, to the bar.
He could see that the other man wasn’t going to disagree with him. When the whisky was set on the bar, he didn’t offer any payment. Dave didn’t argue.
“Always knew you had no balls,” Jock said, laughing as he downed the drink in one smooth motion. “I’ll be back in tomorrow for more of the same.”
He knocked over two stools on his way out and hit the wall so heavily that the whole room shook. He heard the bolts being shot in the door behind him as he stepped out of the pub and into the cold night.
The night air was cold and his legs suddenly buckled as if a sledgehammer had hit him. He wobbled, but didn’t fall. He hadn’t fallen over through drink since he was fifteen, and he wasn’t about to start again now.
He raised his head and howled like a dog. It felt so good that he did it again. A window opened on the other side of the road, but closed again as soon as they recognized Jock’s stout frame.
“Ssshhh.” He said in a deafening stage whisper, putting a finger to his lips in a strangely theatrical gesture, and giggled. Unsteady still, he turned his head towards home.
The Fish and Chip shop was closed and refused to open, even for him. He contented himself with kicking at the door, only stopping when he felt satisfied with the size of the dents he had left.
“Bastards…Fucking Bastards,” he said, muttering under his breath. He knew that he had drunk even more than usual, and that very soon his body would demand sleep, but he felt confident of his autopilot getting him home...it had never failed him yet.
It seemed like ages before he turned the corner into his street, and by that time the drink had taken hold completely...so much so that he failed to notice that the front door was lying open and there were no lights in the house.
It was only when he got to the bedroom and found that there was no sign of life that he suddenly became angry.
“Fucking bitch,” he screamed. “Where the hell have you got to this time?”
He searched every room, banging doors and crashing into walls, but there was no one in the house.
“I’ll kill you this time. I will, I’ll teach you to fuck with me.”
He fell, fully clothed into his bed, still muttering under his breath, but in less than thirty seconds he was fast asleep, and two minutes later he started to snore.
He hadn’t looked in the garden...but if he had he would have found his wife. He would have had trouble recognizing her...her head had almost torn from her body, a body that was strangely deflated, a body that was white as the moon overhead...white and bloodless.
And if he had looked long enough he would have seen her eyes open, would have seen the fangs emerge from bleeding gums, would have seen her rise, unsteady at first, then more sure as she headed for the house.
But he was asleep, and saw nothing, not even the pale white figure that leaned over his bed.
And even as the fangs went in and came out he felt no pain.
~-o0O0o-~
The drive to the cinema was leisurely, taking the sea route round the coast on an almost deserted road.
The old cinema was equally deserted, the film being in its fifth week in residence and having lost its appeal with the local cinema public who had moved on to the new blockbuster from Speilberg in the adjoining building.
Brian was shocked at how dull James Bond had become since the last one he had seen. He had given up on Bond movies when the smooth suave Englishman had replaced the rough, tough Scotsman. He thought now, as yet another body was blasted into small pieces, that he was right to give up. The present Bond was just going through the motions. The whole thing looked to him like just one massive moneymaking exercise with no heart.
Margaret love it, clapping at the audacity of the stunts, gasping at the perils of the hero and causing Brian’s heart to flutter by laying her hand on his thigh in the tasteful seduction scenes.
After the film Margaret was amused to discover that Brian was nervous. He’d started talking as soon as they left the cinema and was still going twenty minutes l
ater as they walked through the town, reminiscing about his childhood.
As they passed the Bingo hall on the town cross he became even more animated.
“It’s a crying shame. When I was a lad that was a beautiful picture house. My mates and me spent every one of our Saturdays there, watching westerns or Tarzan films or crap science fiction. Great it was. We’d sit about four rows back with our legs over the chairs in front, those giant figures looming over us and filling our heads with nonsense.”
“Formative…I think that’s what they call it these days. And to think that it only cost us two shillings to get in.”
She couldn’t resist it.
“Aye, them were the days. You could go out with ten bob, see a film, buy two stone o’ monkey nuts, a couple of pints and still have enough money left for a bag of chips on the way home. Luxury.”
They burst out laughing almost simultaneously, drawing a disapproving tut from a sour faced old man with a similar dog who was passing. After he’d passed they looked at each other and started them off again.
“Aye, but you know what I mean Maggie..I can call you Maggie can’t I? When we were younger…”
He was going on but she’d turned him off. Her name was Margaret. That’s what her dad had always told her. All through school she’d fought off the shortening of her name, often with tears coursing down her cheeks.
There was one old man who had been convinced that she was deaf because she’d never responded when he asked how ‘His little Maggie was getting on’. Margaret had been good enough for her father and it was good enough for her.
She realized that Brian had asked her a question,
“Sorry Brian, I was miles away. And by the way, my name’s Margaret.”
His face became so sad so quickly that she took pity on him.
“Come on man, loosen up. Lead me to the food...I could eat a horse.”
Eldren: The Book of the Dark Page 8
