The Reformed Vampire Support Group

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘I don’t know if he’s in here or not,’ was all I could say. ‘But we’d better check, don’t you think?’

  Sanford gave a nod. Father Ramon made an approving noise. But Horace gestured towards a gigantic wardrobe that occupied about a quarter of the available space. Taped to one of its doors was a poster of Béla Lugosi.

  ‘That closet’s pretty big,’ said Horace, uneasily. ‘What if he’s in there?’

  ‘You should take a look,’ Sanford suggested. Horace blinked, his face a study in consternation. Before he could think up an excuse, however, Dave and I raised the lid of Casimir’s coffin.

  Then we dropped it again.

  Bang!

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said the priest.

  I couldn’t reply. I had covered my mouth. Dave grabbed my arm suddenly, pulling me backwards as he straightened.

  ‘Oh, man,’ he groaned.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Sanford darted forward. ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Dave rasped. At which point Horace relinquished his candle, thrusting it at Father Ramon. As the priest staggered, and I flinched, it was Horace who helped Sanford to raise the lid of the coffin again – exposing the grisly contents of that satin-lined box.

  I’ll never forget what we saw in there. Not ever.

  A dense pile of ash lay pillowed on several folded sheets. This ash had been slightly disturbed by a puff of displaced air; a sharpened stake had also scored a deep trench through its powdery heart. But despite all this interference, there was enough shape left in the mound to tell us everything we needed to know.

  The ash was so fine – so delicately moulded – that I could see Casimir’s nostrils, and his earlobes, and his grin of agony.

  There could be no doubt at all that he was dead.

  3

  When I saw Casimir’s remains lying there, I was appalled. I was shocked. I was very, very frightened. So were Dave and Sanford and Horace.

  But we didn’t feel bereft. That’s something I have to make clear. We didn’t grieve for Casimir because we didn’t really like him.

  It was Casimir, you see, who first brought the vampire infection to this country.

  He left Europe at the end of 1907, alarmed by the growing number of people there who had been reading Dracula. After choosing one of the most isolated spots on earth as his destination, he disguised himself as an Egyptian mummy, lying dormant and well-wrapped for the duration of his long sea voyage. In January 1908 he arrived in Sydney, where his sarcophagus was delivered to the Australian Museum. And on the night of January 23, he was released from his temporary entombment by Horace Whittaker.

  If you check out the vestry of St Agatha’s on a Tuesday evening, you’ll find yourself looking at a collection of vampires who wouldn’t even be there, if it weren’t for Casimir Kucynski. Either directly or indirectly, he was responsible for infecting every single one of us. Take Horace, for instance. Horace was an aspiring young archaeologist when he prodded at Casimir’s bandages, down in that dank museum basement a hundred years ago. I’ve seen him in a sepia-tinted photograph, wearing a high collar and a silly hat; you almost wouldn’t recognise his clear gaze, straight back and fresh face. Of course, it’s possible that Horace was a bit of a reprobate even before he became a vampire, but I doubt it. I think he changed after Casimir bit him. I don’t believe that the upright twenty-one-year-old in that picture would ever have considered making money off shonky Internet scams.

  Naturally, Horace claims that his money comes from a cutting-edge computer program that he designed several years ago. But I beg to differ. From some of the things that George has let drop, I figure that Horace is running an embezzlement ring out of their house. And one of these days we’ll all get stung because of it.

  At any rate, Horace was Casimir’s first victim – though of course he wasn’t the last. After attacking Horace, Casimir was able to escape from the museum and bite Gladys Blakers, who was a streetwalker at the time. In fact, before the end of 1908, Casimir had managed to infect fifteen people (most of whom are now either dead or living in Melbourne). He was not, however, directly responsible for infecting Sanford, Bridget or George. Those three suffered from secondary transmissions.

  Sanford Plackett was the doctor who treated Horace a day or two after Horace became infected. In one sense Sanford was very unlucky; if he hadn’t been stitching up a wound before his arrival in Horace’s bedroom, Horace might not have attacked him. In another sense, however, Sanford was very lucky indeed. He had a jewel of a wife (named Maud) who was a former nurse; she had also read Dracula, and was quickly able to work out what had happened. Not only that, but within a few months they had developed a crude ‘digestive powder’, which was an early prototype of the enzyme supplements that vampires take now.

  You have to give Sanford his due. He might be a humourless, opinionated know-it-all, but there isn’t a vampire in Australia who wouldn’t have been worse off without him. It was Sanford who freed us from the necessity of drinking human blood. It was Sanford who started the Reformed Vampire movement. And it was Sanford who finally dealt with Casimir, confining him for more than sixty years in a strongbox under a cement slab. Sanford was also the one who located Gladys, Bridget and George – just in time to stop them from spreading the infection any further. Mind you, I’m not saying that Bridget would have bitten anyone. She was the nun who nursed Gladys at the Magdalene Hospice, after Casimir’s attack, and she would have sealed herself up in a crypt rather than harm another living soul. But George was just a teenaged boilermaker’s apprentice when Gladys lured him into a dark alley. He was as brainless then as he is now, so he didn’t know enough to stop himself from fanging other people, once he was blooded.

  You won’t understand about blooding, because it’s a difficult concept to grasp. Basically, it’s that moment when, as a vampire, you first smell fresh human blood and have to fight the urge to bite someone. Microscopic amounts of blood won’t trigger the reflex; a flossing accident or razor nick won’t send most vampires into a feeding frenzy, though I have to admit that even grazed knees and hangnails make us feel uncomfortable. It probably takes about five millilitres of blood before the response kicks in. And then you have a choice: you can either give into it or not.

  George gave into it once. He fanged a woman named Ethel (who was later murdered by her own family) before Sanford tracked him down and stopped him. The Placketts also looked after Gladys, and did their best for Bridget Doherty. Thanks to Sanford and Maud, there wasn’t another case of infection in the whole of Australia until 1973 – when Casimir ran amok again.

  In my opinion, he should never have been released from that strongbox.

  I suppose you could almost say that it was Father Ramon’s fault. After Maud died, Sanford was in a bad way. He was particularly upset that she had refused to become a vampire on her deathbed. So he turned to the priest for comfort. One thing led to another, until finally Sanford made his confession to Father Ramon. At which point the priest found out about the vampire buried under the cement slab.

  Now, Father Ramon is a decent man. It’s written all over his face. With his solid build, shaggy grey head and big brown eyes, he looks like an elderly labrador, seasoned and weary but not disillusioned. He spends a lot of time visiting sick people, organising charity collections and counselling wayward teenagers. It was therefore hardly surprising that he should have felt for Casimir, back in 1973.

  Father Ramon was of the opinion that Casimir had suffered enough. So Sanford dug up the strongbox and slowly brought its contents back to life. After which that scheming, slimy, oyster-eyed Lazarus made a beeline for the nearest pub – where Dave Gerace became his next victim.

  Poor Dave had been playing a gig at one of the harbourside hotels. He hadn’t left until the early hours, by which time he’d downed just a few too many beers. In fact he was so legless that he never even realised what had happened; upon waking up in a gutter the next morning, on top of his guitar, he’d assumed that he was s
uffering from a really bad hangover, and had crawled home to spend the day in bed.

  Luckily for his flatmates, he had lost his wallet near the site of the attack. Sanford and Horace found it there, half-hidden by weeds, the following night. So they were able to identify Casimir’s victim, and pay him a visit before Dave was strong enough to do anything regrettable. I suppose they were pretty quick off the mark, really. I just wish they’d been a fraction quicker. Because if they had been, I wouldn’t be writing this now.

  Sanford was living with Casimir at the time, and was therefore well placed to monitor his guest’s state of health. What’s more, as a physician, Sanford had a keen eye for physical changes. It’s normally impossible to disguise the symptoms of fresh human blood; a single mouthful can triple your strength, boosting your energy levels like a drug (or so I’m told). Dave’s blood might have been adulterated by alcohol, but its effect on Casimir’s metabolism was still noticeable. When Casimir returned home from his meeting with Dave, Sanford took one look at that two-faced louse and knew damn well what he’d been up to. But there was nothing to be done – not with daylight fast approaching. Forced into bed, Sanford wasn’t able to lift a finger until he woke up again, by which time Casimir was raring to go. Still invigorated by the residual effects of Dave’s blood, Casimir bolted. And Sanford couldn’t stop him; it takes more than one reformed vampire to restrain another vampire who happens to be in Casimir’s condition.

  That’s why Sanford was forced to pursue Casimir. That’s also why he broke off his pursuit, very briefly, to call Horace and George from a phone box. Unfortunately, by the time reinforcements arrived, it was too late. I had already staggered out of a friend’s place, unaccompanied, to vomit up the gin I’d been drinking. And Casimir had already stuck his fangs into me.

  I’ll tell you right now, that was my last ever drink. Though I was always a bit of a party animal in my early years, I’ve been as sober as a judge since 1973.

  I haven’t really had any choice.

  So that’s my depressing story. And Dave’s. And Sanford’s. And the rest of the group’s. Is it any wonder that we weren’t saddened by the passing of Casimir Kucynski? Is it any wonder that our immediate and heartfelt reaction was fear, rather than sorrow?

  Because let’s face it: as a vampire, the very worst thing that you have to deal with – worse than the isolation, and the indignities, and the health problems – is the fact that a large chunk of the world’s population wants to kill you. For no good reason. (After all, if vampires were permanently attached to other people’s jugular veins, the entire planet would be populated by vampires. And it isn’t, is it?) Not only that, but a large chunk of the world’s population also knows how to kill you. Despite the vast number of stupid vampire myths floating around, most people nowadays have grasped at least one fundamental truth: to kill a vampire, you either cut off his head, plunge a stake through his heart, or stick him outside in the sun.

  Apparently, Casimir had been staked.

  ‘This is bad,’ croaked Horace, who was the first to find his voice. And he rose abruptly, backing away from the coffin. ‘This – this is a slaying.’

  Father Ramon crossed himself. Sanford wiped his mouth, as if battling a sudden urge to throw up. His face was drawn tight.

  ‘Keep calm,’ he quavered. ‘We have to think. We have to figure this out.’

  ‘We have to check the wardrobe,’ said Dave.

  Everyone swung around to stare at the piece of furniture in question. I remember how my gut seemed to drop through the floor. I remember thinking: Is the killer in that wardrobe? If not, where is he? In the neighbouring flat? In a car downstairs? What if he’s outside, waiting for us?

  ‘We have to leave,’ I said, hoarse with fear. And Dave’s grip on me tightened.

  ‘Shh!’ he warned, as Father Ramon – our brave protector – advanced a few steps, his candle elevated, his eyes fixed on the wardrobe. But Horace stopped him. After briefly casting around for an alternative weapon, Horace had reached for the wooden stake.

  ‘Use this!’ he suggested, before his arm was knocked aside by a furious Sanford Plackett.

  ‘There might be fingerprints!’ Sanford hissed. Whereupon Horace scowled.

  ‘What?’ he squawked. ‘Don’t be so stupid!’

  ‘It’s evidence, Horace!’

  ‘Bite me, Sanford!’

  ‘Hello there!’ said Father Ramon. Though his voice was steady, his hands were shaking; I could tell by the way the candle flame flickered. ‘My name is Ramon Alvarez,’ he continued, addressing one of the cupboard doors. ‘I’m a Catholic priest, and I mean you no harm. Why don’t you come out and talk to us? We won’t hurt you, I swear.’

  There was no response. Not even a creak or a shuffle.

  ‘Maybe we should fetch that stool from the other room.’ Dave was talking under his breath. ‘Or a knife from the kitchen …’

  But it was too late. All at once the priest leaned forward, yanking open the door in front of him.

  He jumped back just in time to dodge a long-handled spade.

  It fell onto the floor with a mighty clang, barely missing his toes. I must have screamed, because Dave began to pat me on the shoulder. ‘It’s okay. It’s nothing,’ he said, without much conviction.

  Meanwhile Father Ramon had opened the second door, and the third. Behind each of them I could see jangling coathangers, discarded shoes, a collection of dowdy overcoats and a high shelf stuffed with shirts and towels and knitwear – but no lurking assassin. There wasn’t even a muddy footprint, or a telltale hint of disarray among the contents of the wardrobe.

  ‘No one’s in here,’ the priest said with a sigh. He bent to pick up the spade, which was encrusted with dried soil.

  I wondered if Casimir had been burying his dead guinea pigs.

  ‘Someone should call Gladys,’ Sanford urged, sounding deeply shaken. ‘Tell her to lock the doors and stay in the car.’

  Almost without thinking, I fumbled in my pocket, searching for my mobile phone. Dave and Horace did likewise. But when Sanford plunged his hand into Casimir’s ashes, I forgot about Gladys. For a moment I just stared in disbelief.

  Because Casimir’s face was gone. It had crumbled away beneath Sanford’s touch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I yelped.

  ‘We can’t let anyone find him like this.’ Sanford’s lips were trembling. His eyes were glistening. I’d never seen him so agitated. ‘You know what will happen. We can’t risk it.’

  ‘Sanford’s right.’ Horace muscled in before I could object. ‘Jesus, Nina, we don’t want the police to see! What if they work out that Casimir was a vampire?’

  I had to laugh, though it wasn’t funny. Not the least little bit. ‘There’s a coffin in here, Horace!’ I reminded him. ‘Of course they’ll work it out!’

  ‘No they won’t,’ said Father Ramon, his expression grave and tired. ‘They’ll think poor Casimir was mentally unbalanced.’ And he laid his hand gently on the coffin. ‘What should be done with the ashes?’ he asked Sanford. ‘How should they be interred? What will the official cause of death be, in such a case?’

  These were all good questions. Unfortunately, they were also hard to answer. Try telling the police that someone has turned to ash after being staked in the heart, and see how far it gets you.

  ‘Do we have to tell the coppers?’ I objected. ‘We don’t want them poking around. Suppose they come looking for us? Suppose they find Casimir’s address book?’

  Suddenly I stopped, appalled by a terrible possibility. If the killer had found Casimir’s address book, then he (or she) might already know our names – and where we lived.

  The same notion must have occurred to everyone else in that room at exactly the same instant. We stared at each other for two or three seconds, in absolute horror, before Dave croaked: ‘Did Casimir even have an address book?’

  Nobody knew. Not even Father Ramon. Horace began to claw at his hair.

  ‘This is bad,’ h
e shrilled. ‘This is bad.’

  ‘We have to go.’ Dave was getting antsy. ‘Right now.’

  If he hadn’t started jerking me out of the room, I would have agreed. For all we knew, Casimir’s killer was in the neighbouring apartment, waiting to pick us off, one by one, as we made our exit. For all we knew, Bridget and Gladys and George were already dead.

  But I hate the way people assume that I’m brainless, just because I look like a kid. I hate the way they keep pushing me around.

  ‘And where are we supposed to go, exactly?’ I demanded, shaking off Dave’s hand. ‘What if there is an address book? What if this slayer knows where to find us?’ The full import of our situation hit me, then; it was like copping a bucket of water full in the face. ‘Christ!’ I spluttered. ‘What about my mum?’

  There was no immediate response. Even the priest was stumped; he stood dazed with shock and lost for words, exactly like the rest of us. I was thinking: How can this be true? How can this have happened? It didn’t seem real.

  Finally, however, Horace began to use his head.

  ‘This guy is a slayer,’ he reasoned, in a halting and tentative sort of way. ‘If – if he used a stake, he must know his vampire lore. Which means he probably thinks that a crucifix will kill us.’ When Horace discerned no spark of comprehension in the eyes of his audience, he added impatiently, ‘We should go to St Agatha’s. He won’t be looking for us there. Vampires aren’t meant to hang out in churches.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I suddenly realised that we would have to start putting ourselves in the killer’s shoes. ‘Horace is right. We should go to St Agatha’s.’

  ‘But what about …?’ Father Ramon didn’t finish his sentence. He simply gestured at Casimir – or what was left of Casimir.

  ‘That can wait,’ said Dave. He didn’t, however, inject enough urgency into his reply, which was pitched too low and phrased without emphasis. (Dave always talks as if he’s ever so slightly stoned.) As a result, the priest remained unconvinced.