Bring Me to Life

by Scarlett Parrish

  God, Nathan, when did you become so determined to be uncaring?

  I know the answer, could tell you to the exact day and hour.

  Just like I could tell anyone who cared to ask why a vampire who can't feel the cold feels the need to wear a scarf sometimes. It's an affectation.

  A reminder of how I don't like to be bitten. An unusual thing for a vampire to think about, one might say, to which I'd always reply, "How do you think I got like this in the first place?"

  The bite marks, like the bullet hole in my thigh, don't show anymore, but mental scars take longer than a few decades to fade sometimes.

  Sometimes, fate doesn't allow them to fade.

  My poky basement flat doesn't look any different when I return; a battered copy of Anna Karenina lies on the coffee table, its bookmark tucked roughly one third through the book for the umpteenth time of reading. Though I favour French literature, I sometimes venture into Russia too. I keep a number of books on the go at once.

  Everything's in exactly the same place, just as I left it. Nothing ever changes, and that's just the trouble.

  I let out a heavy groan---yet another of my affectations. No need to breathe, and no one around to hear it, but I have to let my frustration out somehow.

  I need something to break the monotony but only have routine things to do. Flick though a TV guide. Skim through my CD collection. Open up the netbook and connect to the Internet.

  A marvellous invention, that.

  I can communicate anonymously with people all over the world. Join fora, discuss books, films, the burgeoning acceptance of the undead walking among us without anyone knowing who I am. What I am.

  Communicating anonymously is both a convenience and a burden. Connecting to the internet does not necessarily make for a connection with another person.

  Then again, sometimes it does. My email alert makes its electronic announcement, and the pop-up gives away nothing. There's a name I don't recognise, but I click on the message anyway.

  It's been a long time since my blood ran cold; being undead, a walking corpse, the blood in my veins is cold already. I drink from other people, yes, but once inside me, it never holds any heat.

  Not that cold temperatures bother me; I'm aware of them---I still have that sensation, that awareness, but it no longer troubles me physically.

  Rarely, as now, do I feel a chill racing through my veins alongside that lifeless blood, something on a whole new level of cold.

  Fuck.

  Covering my mouth with one hand, I stare at the screen, wishing I'd never bothered checking my emails. I should have lain down on the settee, tried to sleep. Pretended to, at least. Read a book.

  Watched television I don't care for. Anything but this.

  Even after I screw my eyes shut, brace myself, and open my eyes again, the message is still there on the screen. A pseudonym, an unrecognised email account (security reasons, in case the wrong person happens along), a coded message and a thinly-veiled calling in of a favour, thanks to a promise long-ago made.

  Sergeant, I need your help.

  Chapter 4

  I MET WILL DURING the Second World War, but only because of Adam, who came first. The two will always be linked in my mind, no matter how much I try to forget Adam.

  I'd just been invalided home to London after being shot in the leg, in France. Came back home with a bullet hole in one thigh but with the information I'd been sent to collect. At the time, I didn't know whether to be grateful for getting a Blighty or not. I was out of harm's way, sure enough (discounting bombings of course; I refer to being directly, literally, in the line of fire), but I was stuck behind a desk for the rest of the war filling in paperwork regarding other people's secret missions. Codenames and passwords swam before my eyes, and I resented not being able to bloody do something. But it was what it was; the situation I was stuck with.

  I left work late one night, limping home in the darkness. My wound had healed in the sense of not causing any pain, but discomfort niggled me from time to time. My damn thigh knew it was going to rain before I did. I hoped no car would speed around a corner in the blackout, heading straight for me, because although I could hold myself up on my own two feet, I was no Jesse Owens. I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of the way in time. I also knew of other people who'd limped home from the war, bleeding and broken, only to be further injured by foolhardy drivers who failed to take account of the darkness.

  "Hey. Hey!"

  Footsteps behind me, and automatically, mine sped up, or tried to. Wincing, I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. Better to just carry on and hope the other person was calling on someone else.

  "You. With the long coat on."

  Definitely me. Given that there was hardly anyone else about, it was inevitable. Hardly anyone that I could see, anyway.

  "What?" I spoke as sharply as I could, stopping and spinning round on my heels just to add to my impatience. I was a soldier, a bloody good one too, aside from the hole in my leg---no reason to be scared of a civvie. And I wasn't. Just annoyed at the interruption. I liked to be left alone with my thoughts on the short walk back to Mrs. Hudson's boarding house.

  The other man stopped short; I could only see his outline, not much of his features at all. I only knew he was slightly shorter than I, with a slender build. Dressed in dark clothing, as most people were.

  "Good God." He gave a low, quick laugh.

  "No need to be so aggressive, old chap."

  "When accosted in the street by a complete stranger? And I'm far from old."

  "No." Another brief laugh, which irritated me for some reason. I felt like I was being mocked.

  "At least, not as old as me," he went on.

  "How do you know?"

  "How do I know what?"

  "That you're older than me."

  "Huh." I wouldn't have called the noise he made a laugh, but there was definitely a mocking tone to the sound. "I'm older than a lot of people."

  "That's as may be," I said, throwing off his--- so I thought---clumsy attempt to be mysterious.

  There was no need for such drama. We stood in the dark on a deserted London street; the sirens could go off at any moment. "But would you mind telling me what this is all about?"

  "Nathan, isn't it?"

  I startled, breath catching in my throat.

  Cocking my head, I fought the night-blindness and tried to study him, not coming up with much. "How did you...?"

  "Oh, I'm---" he pointed behind him at nothing in particular. Just the direction from which we'd come "---acquainted with one of your work colleagues. Stuart. Stuart Henley?"

  "Major Henley?" It surprised me that first of all, this...this upstart knew my name and used it, and that he knew Major Henley, whose first name I couldn't bring myself to use, even under these circumstances.

  Especially under these circumstances. This man could be anyone, and given the nature of my work...I could have kicked myself at confessing I knew the man to whom he referred. Not only that, but I'd casually confirmed his rank too.

  Nothing a self-respecting spy wouldn't already have worked out, anyway, I said to myself, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, hoping I didn't look too uncomfortable.

  "Yes. Yes, I suppose he is. Major Stuart Henley indeed. We knew each other way back."

  I'd heard rumours about the Major. Talk.

  Nothing confirmed, everything kept very hush- hush. But what I had heard was enough to make me wonder exactly how this man knew him.

  "I don't care how you know---"

  "You've no idea how I know---knew---him," the man pointed out, and if it hadn't been so dark, he probably would have seen me blush.

  "I mean who. Who you know. Who you associate with is no concern of mine, but---"

  "There's---"

  "But," I said firmly, taking one step closer in the hopes I'd come off as assertive and not to be messed with, "neither do I know how the hell you know my name."

  "I heard someone mention it
when you left work. Look, I..."

  I wasn't sure if that was true. In those days, things were more formal. Even equals used titles rather than names, and that was something I found reassuring. Rules and regulations were why I got on so well in the army. Even though I was no longer in the thick of it. The structure, the routine, all of it. I knew what would happen and when and why.

  This, here, now, was an unknown quantity.

  "I don't even know your name," I blurted out.

  That was how it started. I said I didn't know his name, and he told me. Adam Locke. He was there the next night too. Ostensibly to apologise for alarming me the first time around, but I had to wonder, especially after that possibly-coded mention of Major Henley.

  Even if he was that way inclined, that didn't mean he was interested in me. Hell, he didn't even know me, perhaps had just seen me leave work once or twice. None of it made sense.

  That was always the way with Adam. Nothing about him made sense.

  He had food. He had a talent for acquiring things I hadn't seen in years, even as a man with connections. Naturally, the words "black market" had risen to my lips, and he'd had the good grace to at least try to look offended. He'd taken a big risk in letting me see the cakes made with real eggs, the alcohol, certain fruits.

  "Where do you get all this?" I'd ask then answer myself with a quiet, "Don't tell me. It's better I don't know, right?" And he'd simply smile, leaving me wondering exactly what he wanted from me.

  "There are some things it's better you don't know," he'd say.

  I didn't force the issue. Maybe I should have.

  But the nineteen forties were a time of secrecy, after all. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could mean one's life.

  I inhale and exhale sharply, something like a gasp, but not. It's as if while daydreaming, I subconsciously decided to say something then backed out. But I'm in the room alone. No one ever comes back here with me, and the only visitor I get these days is Alyssa, and that's by appointment.

  Back in the room, Nathan. I'm still tapping the mobile phone's keypad, like a nervous teenager trying to pluck up the courage to ask someone out.

  Marvellous little devices, these. From speakeasy phones with which one had to ask the operator to connect you to the desired number, to something that could easily fit in the palm of one's hand. I sometimes hear people say things like, "Do you remember the eighties, when mobiles were the size of house bricks?" and I laugh, because twenty years or so isn't that much of a stretch for me.

  These ones think they're delving back into the prehistory period of toys and gadgets, but my memories go a lot further back.

  I copied Will's number into my phone, knowing I'm going to use it. I don't want the ceremony of sitting at the computer, re-reading his email, copying out the number, all that build up. If the number's in my phone, I can just grit my teeth, scroll through my meagre phone book, and hit call.

  No trying to settle my nerves in front of a glowing computer screen. Just the decision to do it, then done.

  In theory. I don't know how long I've been like this, sitting on the edge of an armchair, ready to spring up and run away.

  Sergeant, I need your help, followed by some digits. Sergeant, I need your help, a phone number, and nothing else. Nothing overt, that is. I know who the email was from, and I know he needs me, and he knows I can't possibly refuse.

  Not after everything I owe him.

  How the bloody hell can a vampire get nervous? I wonder, and almost swear my thumb trembles as I hit a button, any button, on the phone to make it light up again.

  Phone book. Scroll right to the end. Just do it.

  Alphabetically, he's the last one on my list.

  Vampires don't throw up except on very rare occasions when we drink from someone who's extremely ill. In my case, cancerous blood never did agree with me, although some of the undead love it. I guess it's an acquired taste.

  Anyway, we hardly ever throw up, but I feel pretty damn close to it now. Every time the phone rings at the other end, a wave of something washes over me, and in the moment between the rings ceasing and the call fully connecting, I realise: it's fear.

  Sergeant---can't seem to let go of that title---

  Nathan Stephenson is capable of fear.

  "Hello?"

  Christ. That voice. I haven't heard it in so long. We've kept in touch very carefully, not very often. Just checking in every few years with coded messages left in newspaper personals ads, post office boxes, and latterly, emails. The addresses change, but there's always something there to say, "It's me."

  "It's me."

  Silence on the other end of the line, and naturally, I don't even hear him breathing, but I know he's still there.

  "I got your message." Obvious, but I need to say something to break the agonising silence.

  "Right."

  I almost see him nod in acknowledgement. I might not have seen him in years, but I can't forget what he looks like, his mannerisms, habits, tics.

  "Right," he says again. "Thanks for calling."

  "You knew I would."

  "Yes. Yes."

  Another pause, which I have to remedy with words. "You said you needed my help?"

  "Can we meet?"

  It's a shock, yet at the same time, kind of not.

  It has to be something big, judging by the tone of his email. A simple sentence, but with a world of terrible possibility in those five words.

  "Nathan?"

  "Yes, I'm still here. Still here. You, uh, you want to meet? Why?"

  "It's difficult to explain over the phone. Where do you live?"

  "What?" It's that serious, then. He's never before asked for my address. What he doesn't know, he can't accidentally pass on to someone else. We've both moved around, but always managed to keep tabs on each other in a remote, dancing-around-each-other way. Email addresses and phone numbers aren't rooted in bricks and mortar. But now he's actually asking where I live?

  "I know, I know. We have that little unspoken agreement to look out for each other, but from a distance, yes?"

  Yes. That's it exactly. There's a connection between us with a name, deep blue eyes, and a lethal smile, and perhaps, just perhaps, if there's too much communication between us, something alchemical will occur, and together, we'll summon him.

  "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  "Will." I take a moment to steady my nerves, the unfamiliar chemical rush of adrenaline through my long-dead veins. Thank goodness I drank recently; otherwise, my insides would be tying themselves up in all sorts of hormonal knots. "Tell me why." Why is this important? Why now? Why can't we just go back to acknowledging each other then fading into the background?

  "How safe is it? Where you live?"

  "Safe?" I really have to stop echoing what Will says and start thinking and speaking for myself. "Safe for what? Or who? I mean, I live here."

  "No, I mean for a newborn."

  I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My depth perception zooms in and out, and for what seems like an eternity, I fear crashing forward through the glass-topped coffee table.

  "Nathan? Nathan? You still there?"

  "Yes." I haven't felt faint in a long while.

  "Yes, I'm still here. Sorry, I..." Clasping the edge of the table in one hand, I make a clumsy attempt to steady myself. "Will, tell me you haven't..."

  "How safe is your place for a newborn?"

  I knew it. I knew he'd only call in the debt when it was something as big as this. Newborns, I can't stand; not because there's inherently anything wrong with them, but they take me back. They remind me of when I started out, the fact I didn't want it. Some enter into it with eagerness, and I hate their happy, smiling, paled faces, their damned enthusiasm. Any pity I feel is always directed at myself. All right, I admit it. Every time I come face to face with a newborn, I feel jealousy. I envy their ability to choose.

  "Nathan?"

  I shake myself, sit up straight, then gave in, letti
ng myself slump against the chairback. "It's a basement flat with blackout blinds."

  "Anything get in at all?"

  "Very little. I use lamps at night. Not overheads." I can take one-hundred-watt bulbs; I just choose not to. I prefer to read by lamplight.

  The television or computer screen often provides an accompanying ambient glow.

  "Good, good. Look, you know what I'm going to ask, right?"

  "You want somewhere to stay."

  Will makes a sound like the beginning of a word then swallows whatever he was about to say.

  "I know. I remember," I assure him. Trying to tell him I'll keep my promise, but not in so many words. Never let it be said that Sergeant Nathan Stephenson isn't a man of honour. Decades ago, I made Will keep a promise, assured him I owed him one.

  Bit of a devil's bargain. I've been dancing around the possibility of him letting it go, never calling it in, but I should have realised it was too much to hope for.

  "Nathan." There's a pause, and I know he's steadying himself to say something further. I can't imagine what would be worse than this. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  "Why can't you take this newborn you're so concerned about to a safe house?" I demand, silently adding, like you did with me.

  "Because..."

  There are people who look after newborn vampires. Get all their paperwork sorted; death certificates and so on. Like a Citizens' Advice Bureau for the undead.

  "It's what you did with me," I point out, probably cruelly, as of course Will would remember.

  Back in my day, safe houses were far more basic than they are now. We weren't legal then.

  Acknowledgement was the best we could hope for, but with that brought the inevitable persecution. It was all done underground. Sometimes literally, as a way of avoiding sunlight. Legality didn't bring much acceptance when it came; not straight away, that is.

  "I know."

  "You could have stayed with me."

  "Nathan, you know I couldn't."

  He's right. I'm just being selfish. Selfish and angry and resentful. There was no way Will could have hung around to baby me until I got used to being dead.