by Paul Berry
‘I’ve got to get home. My dad’s ordering pineapple pizza.’ Hawaiian, you dumb idiot. I groaned inwardly at myself.
‘Yum, sounds scrumptious.’ Marcus sighed.
‘If you change your mind, let us know,’ Philip said. ‘Our type need to stick together.’ I knew what he meant by ‘our type’ and wished I had talked to them about it, but instead I muttered ‘bye’ and walked away. After thirty seconds I stopped and turned around, about to tell them I’d changed my mind and ask them to take me with them, tell them the stuff in my room wasn’t important, that secretly I hate being trapped by it. A double decker pulled up next to the shelter and they got on. The bus trundled past me and I kept my head down, tears running off the end of my nose.
I look into the shelter, hoping they have returned and tell me about their new life in London and how they still want me to live with them. It is empty. I start speed-walking home so I don’t miss the start of the cartoon. As I cross the road, a black car screeches to a halt. I hold up my hands, my heart pounding.
‘Sorry!’ I shout. I try to look though the windscreen, but the glass is tinted. I run to the pavement and the car remains stationary, its engine humming. On the bonnet is the round Mercedes emblem. As I walk, it follows me. I stop and it jerks to a halt.
‘What do you want? Do I know you?’ I ask loudly. The car lurches forward and disappears down the road, blowing up a funnel of dried leaves from its undercarriage.
I arrive home with enough time before the cartoon to make a cup of Earl Grey tea and pour a bowl of Frosties. This episode is one of the best. The children are stuck in a giant web and nearly eaten by the Demon Queen of Spiders. Luckily their resourceful pet unicorn cuts through the web with its horn, the Spider Queen shrieking as she loses her grip and falls into a bottomless abyss.
I change channels and Margaret Thatcher is on the news, resplendent in a blue suit and grinning smugly under her nuclear mushroom hairdo. I wince and switch off the TV, flipping the disco ticket between my fingers. On one side the two skeletons grin back at me, on the other is written in spooky lettering: ‘Sports Hall 8 p.m. Witches and werewolves, vampires and ghosts welcome! You’ll have a fang-tastic time!!!’
I scrunch it into a ball and drop it in the bin.
I’ll make up an excuse when Rachel interrogates me about not going, maybe some kind of ache afflicting my stomach or back. Maybe both.
I go to my room and admire the shelves my dad put up. His DIY experiments usually end in disaster. Last month he proudly announced that he’d repaired the leaky bath – until water cascaded through the ceiling like a mini waterfall, flooding the kitchen. This time he’d been more prudent and bought a spirit level to line up the holes he drilled in the wall. On the top shelf I’d lined up my books, the first half for hardbacks in size order followed by paperbacks in author alphabetical order. The bottom shelf is for videos in title order.
On top of the video recorder is the film I was watching last night, Taste the Blood of Dracula. I rewind it and start watching the end, where a brooding Christopher Lee is trying to escape from an abandoned church but is prevented by a wooden cross hanging from the door.
I lie back on my bed and imagine Mr Hewitt as Dracula on top of me, covering me with his cape and pressing himself between my legs. I try to struggle but he holds my arms down, murmuring, ‘You know you want this,’ his lips pressing against my neck and his teeth cutting into my skin.
I slide my hand into my jeans.
There is a loud knock on the bedroom door and I instinctively grab a pillow to cover my hips and press the pause button on the remote control.
‘Yep!’ I shout.
The door opens and my dad cautiously pokes his head round.
‘Hey, Sam. How was your day?’
‘It was fine.’ I check to make sure the pillow is still covering me. I wonder when he got back from work, as I didn’t hear the front door bang closed.
‘Can I have a chat?’ When he wants to ‘have a chat’ it usually involves a conversation that is mutually awkward.
The film is frozen at the best part, where Christopher Lee, eyes blazing red and fangs bared, is smashing his way through a stained glass window.
‘Mr Hewitt, your art teacher, called. He said Terry has been causing you problems again.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, feeling mortified that Mr Hewitt called my dad at work.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Rachel’s going to talk to him about it, don’t worry.’
His eyebrows knit together angrily. ‘If that little shit bothers you again I’m going to rip his ugly head off.’
‘I usually ignore him.’
‘I’m not surprised he’s the way he is. His parents are a waste of space too.’ He takes a deep breath and exhales, his face relaxing. He looks at the flickering image of Christopher Lee. ‘You’d think he’d be podgy from the amount of blood he drinks.’
‘He’s a vampire. I don’t think they get fat.’
‘Running after terrified virgins must be good exercise.’ He holds out the crumpled ticket between his fingers, one edge stained brown from something in the bin, probably a wet tea bag. ‘You’re still going to this, aren’t you?’
I cringe when I see it. Next time I throw something away I’ll hide it deeper under the rubbish.
‘Nice try, but Rachel told me about it last week,’ he says. ‘She said you’d change your mind.’ Rachel has been more sneaky about planning this one by getting my dad on board to check up on me. I make a mental note to lock her in a cage with hungry lions next time we meet.
‘I’ve been given the important mission of persuading you.’
‘You can’t. There’s a horror marathon on TV tonight.’ They’re showing both versions of The Thing, the black-and-white original and the colour one in which the man’s head detaches itself from his body and grows insect legs. Then afterwards, one of my favourites, The Fog, in which a seaside town is terrorised by the vengeful ghosts of leprous sailors.
‘It might be more fun than staying in your room every Friday night watching horror films,’ he says.
‘I like staying in my room watching horror films.’
‘Which is fine, but come on, live a little. You might meet the girl of your dreams.’ He gave up on Rachel becoming my girlfriend a long time ago but still thinks the right one is out there for me.
‘It’s just a stupid disco,’ I say. ‘Besides, I won’t have enough time to find a costume.’ He knows that my wardrobe is stuffed with oversized horror film t-shirts, any of which would be appropriate for a Halloween party.
‘Well, I’ve already taken care of that.’ He goes to his bedroom and comes back with one of the grey plastic covers he keeps his suits in.
‘Why do you look so nervous?’ I ask. ‘Are you going to propose?’
‘Very funny. No, I have a special present for you. Do you wanna see it or not?’
‘No.’ His face drops. ‘I’m joking! Yes, please show me what’s hidden inside that big plastic bag.’
He impersonates a drum roll. ‘Ta daa!’ He pulls out a long cape. ‘You’re gonna make that guy who kills Dracula a very jealous man.’
I can’t hide the delight in my eyes. It is made of thin blue material, the style similar to the one Peter Cushing wears in Dracula.
‘Where did you get it?’ I ask. My dad taps the side of his nose.
‘That’s a secret I’ll take to the grave. I have connections in the vampire community.’
‘Was it Rachel’s dad?’ He works as a costume designer in the theatre.
‘My lips are sealed.’ He starts sliding the cape back into the bag. ‘So, are you still going? I can take it back otherwise.’
‘No, don’t! I’ll go!’
‘I thought it would convince you.’ He shakes it at me. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Try it on.’
‘Very handsome. Ready to conquer the world.’ I look at my reflection in the mirror.
If Van Helsing was skinny and dishevelled, I would be perfect for the role. I flex my shoulders and feel the material caressing the backs of my legs.
He looks at the poster pinned to the back of the door of Peter Cushing thrusting out a crucifix, his face perpetually stern.
‘Once we get some gel in your hair and tame that bird’s nest, you’ll look exactly like him,’ he says. ‘And there’s one more surprise.’ He fumbles in his pocket and hands me a circular glass bottle with an ornate silver cap.
‘Back, creature of the night!’ he shouts theatrically. It looks like a vampire-hunter’s hip flask. ‘I filled it with special holy water that’s been blessed by Smirnoff.’ I unscrew the cap and sniff, wrinkling my nose at the vodka. ‘Look at the cap.’ Engraved on the top in gothic letters are my initials – ‘SB’, Sam Black. I can’t help smiling; this is definitely one of his better presents.
‘It’s amazing. Thanks.’
‘Just don’t get caught with it.’ He looks at the bedside table, at the bottle of pills I take for anxiety, and shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. I know he wants to have ‘the conversation’ again.
‘How’s it going with those?’
‘They’re going fine.’ I usually take one a day to keep the anxiety from becoming a rampaging beast.
‘Any bad days recently?’ he says.
‘No. Everything’s been fine.’ ‘Fine’ always peppers these conversations. ‘Fine’ meaning I haven’t thought about killing myself recently.
‘I know I’ve been working a lot, but I promise from next week I’ll be home more.’
Hey, Dad, I’ve been teleporting in my sleep to strange places and bringing objects back. I also hallucinated a falling book in the library today, and last night I went to the park and thought I saw a man who was a vampire suck someone’s blood. I imagine his expression if I told him; incredulity, then terror that his unbalanced son had well and truly lost his marbles.
‘Seriously, if you don’t want to go it doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Stay in and order pizza. Go crazy and have cheesy garlic bread too.’
‘No, it’s fine. I really want to go.’ I start to fidget with anticipation when I think about wearing the cape.
‘As long as you’re sure.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. ‘Try to enjoy yourself. If you start feeling bad, call and I’ll pick you up.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be ok.’
He looks around the bedroom walls at the horror posters. Above my bed, Freddy Krueger snarls, his razor glove glinting next to his burnt face.
‘No wonder you have nightmares sleeping beneath that,’ he says.
‘He watches over me. I think even nightmares are afraid of him.’
The reason I like horror films so much is that they show you the monsters that stalk your dreams, and once you’ve seen them they can’t hurt you anymore because you know they’re just illusions of fake blood and prosthetics. Although I do get tingles of fear from the poster above my desk of the Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea with a giant squid wrapped around it. I imagine how terrified the crew must be, trapped inside while the squid is trying to crush them like a tin can.
‘I’m going to a restaurant with Sarah tonight, but I won’t be home late,’ he says.
‘Tell her I said hola.’
‘I’m so glad you both have the same bad taste in films.’
‘You’ve no appreciation of art.’
‘I think she just bought you Friday the 13th. That’s full of blood and guts, right?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Great. I’ll remember not to eat while I watch it with you odd bods.’
I like her more than his last girlfriend, who always talked to me hesitantly as though I was something fragile, ready to shatter if she said the wrong thing. A few weeks ago Sarah bought me Beetlejuice and we watched it while eating caramel popcorn, stopping the tape and shushing my dad when he kept complaining that he didn’t understand what the hell was going on.
He’s staying overnight more often at her house, but the next day he always looks sad. I’m not sure if it’s because he misses her or because he feels guilty about spending less time with me. He keeps asking if I’d be ok if she lived with us in the future, but I just answer with the non-committal ‘fine’.
I’m scared to tell him I am starting to forget what my mother was really like, my memory of her becoming just what I see in photographs. It was my idea to attend the same college she taught at despite my dad’s objections that it would be better to start somewhere fresh. I’d fantasise that the walls had somehow absorbed some of her essence, allowing me to be close to her again, but since starting there last year I’ve felt nothing. Apart from her name on the memorial, there’s no indication she was ever a teacher there. I think the college is trying to forget what happened by containing it to names inscribed on a column of stone, far away from the classrooms so the tragedy won’t infect the living and cause history to repeat itself.
‘I’ll leave you alone with your monsters,’ he says, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 5
The pills make me sleepy, and when I look at the fluorescent numbers on the clock radio next to the bed they flicker ‘21:00’. My heart lurches.
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.
I had the dream again, although it’s more of a nightmare, the one about the night before my mother left on the French trip. She had gone to bed early, complaining about a headache, and my dad was working late again at his office. Before I went to bed I opened her bedroom door to ask if she wanted a glass of water. She was lying on top of the bed in the dark, only wearing her underwear, perfectly still, not even the rise and fall of breathing from her chest. I was sure she was dead and crept up to her. I moved my palm towards her face to feel her breath like the detectives did in the crime shows my dad always watched. She smelt strange, almost synthetic.
A black tentacle poked out of her mouth.
I screamed and she turned onto her side and nodules sprouted from her spine, stretching the skin like spindly fingers trying to rip their way out. That was the first time I remember seeing something that wasn’t real.
I stretch the numbness from my legs, the joints in my toes popping. My t-shirt is sweaty and stuck to my chest and I listen for any sounds in the house, but there is only silence. On the ceiling the glow-in-the-dark stars my dad helped me arrange gently fluoresce in their constellations that match the real ones.
I silently yawn and see two red eyes staring at me from the darkness.
I squeeze my eyes closed. It is just another hallucination, just like the book falling in the library.
I hold my breath, willing it to go away. I open my eyes. They continue staring and I glare back defiantly, clenching my fists, ready to attack if they dart towards me.
They’re the lights from the video recorder on my desk.
I exhale with relief and start laughing, stretching my arm out and turning on the lamp, keeping my eyes closed until they adjust to the light. My mother taught me this trick when I was a child to avoid scrunching them in pain. She also told me to say ‘bless you’ after anyone sneezed to stop an evil spirit crawling into their body.
On the table there’s a note folded into a little triangular tent inscribed with ‘To Sleeping Beauty!’ in my dad’s scribbly handwriting. I smooth it flat.
There’s money by the phone and a number for the taxi. I’ll be home before 10 p.m.
Luuurve World’s Greatest Dad.
p.s. Kill some vampires for me!
p.p.s. Stop reading this and get ready!
p.p.s.s. I said stop reading this!
I wish he’d woken me befo
re he left, but he always says I look like a skinny cherub when I’m asleep.
I go downstairs and cross the lounge into the kitchen, navigating around the furniture in the semi-darkness, pretending I’m a cat with night vision. I clink open the fridge door and the light inside makes my shadow creep up the wall until my head is touching the ceiling. I imagine my shadow detaching itself like Peter Pan’s and dancing around the kitchen like a carefree ghost.
I crunch on an ice cube and decide what to do. I could just not go to the disco and lie to my dad, but he seemed more excited about it than I did. As he’s in cahoots with Rachel, she’d tell him I didn’t go.
I think about the Van Helsing cape. When I tried it on I felt protected as though it was chain mail. I slink back into the lounge and glance at the small framed photo of my mother on the bookshelf, the moonlight winking off the glass. It’s almost disappearing into the spines of the books as though my dad put it there so that it will slowly be swallowed up and forgotten. That is the only picture of her on display; the rest are confined to photo albums.
A green digital ‘2’ blinks on the answer machine and I press the ‘listen to message’ button.
‘It’s Rachel. I’m running late so I’ll meet you outside the main college entrance at eight-thirty. No excuses!’ I delete it and the next message plays. There’s a garbled noise like a waterfall and I realise it’s music. ‘Sam, I’m waiting for you. You’d better come. Please come. I have a cat tail glued to my arse.’
I have a shower and then scoop some of my dad’s gel into my hair, pulling it into spikes like he does, but I end up looking like a startled hedgehog. I smooth it back flat so that it looks more like Peter Cushing’s and splash some aftershave on my neck, feeling calmer because I smell like my dad.
I take a pair of tweezers and pluck out a couple of hairs growing between my eyebrows. My eyes are the same as his, a chocolate brown that appears black in the evenings, the pupils almost bleeding into the iris. I asked my parents once why they only had one child. My dad said I’d cried so much as a baby that they thought about hiring me out as a burglar alarm. ‘You sounded like a howler monkey with toothache.’ My mother had gently cuffed the top of his head and ruffled my hair, saying the reason was that they couldn’t improve on perfection. My dad winked at me, then glanced at her and mimed a drinking motion with his hand while crossing his eyes. She punched the top of his arm and laughed.