The Reformed Vampire Support Group

by Catherine Jinks

  Not, at least, until his plan had been thoroughly discussed by a full meeting of the Reformed Vampire Support Group.

  ‘The second you make that call, we’ll have to resign ourselves to possible exposure,’ Sanford had told the priest. ‘Because if the McKinnons are arrested, they’ll talk. And next thing you know the police will be on our doorstep, and we’ll be answering questions about Nefley and Casimir and our forged identity papers. That’s why every one of us has to be in total agreement as to whether this is our best option.’

  ‘Which it isn’t,’ had been my view. ‘Not for Reuben, it isn’t. He doesn’t want the police to know anything about him.’

  But my proposal that we liberate Reuben ourselves had been shot down in flames. Even Father Ramon had warned me that a rescue attempt would be far too risky, because the McKinnons were armed.

  As for Sanford, he’d rejected the whole idea.

  ‘We’re not in one of your books, Nina,’ he’d said, before turning to Father Ramon. How long, Sanford had inquired, were the McKinnons intending to remain at Nefley’s apartment? Two hours? Three?

  ‘Until about seven or eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ the priest had advised him.

  ‘In that case, we’ll have plenty of time to think things through.’ Sanford’s gaze had dropped to Nefley’s motionless bulk. ‘For instance, we can’t even consider calling the police until we decide what we’re going to do with this fellow.’

  There are occasions when Sanford simply won’t budge, no matter how hard you push him. Father Ramon must have realised that he would be fighting a losing battle, because he decided not to argue. Instead he promised to wait. Then he quaffed a very strong cup of coffee and drove off in his battered grey car, having refused to swallow even one of Sanford’s pep pills. ‘I’ll be all right to drive,’ he declared, dismissing Sanford’s worries about residual sedation and slow reflexes. ‘Anyway, it isn’t very far. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  We had to satisfy ourselves with this assurance, because we had other things to fret about. There was Nefley, for example; he had to be carried up to the guestroom. There was the problem of the bathroom door, which had been bolted from the inside. And there was the looming question of what we were going to do when Father Ramon returned.

  Would we, or would we not, try to save Reuben?

  I won’t bore you with an account of how Dave and George and Horace and Sanford finally managed to manoeuvre Nefley back upstairs. Let’s just say it was a job and a half. Getting the bathroom door open was no cinch, either; it had to be kicked repeatedly until the screws on the bolt gave way, taking large splinters of the doorjamb with them. (‘For Chrissake,’ Mum groaned, when she saw the damage, ‘why didn’t you just knock a couple of holes through the wall, instead? At least I would have got a three-way bathroom.’)

  But the greatest problem of all was deciding what to do about Reuben. Nefley, we knew, wouldn’t be nearly as much of a challenge; everyone agreed that he might be persuaded to stop hating vampires, if he saw how nice Bridget was. By feeding Nefley, and fixing his arm, and explaining how we’d saved his life, we could probably convert him to a different viewpoint.

  Unfortunately, however, this approach wouldn’t work with the McKinnons. A loaded gun, I insisted, was about the only thing that they would understand.

  ‘Which is why we have to rescue Reuben,’ I begged. ‘Which is why we can’t just walk away. Because if we do, it will mean we’re just as cruel as Barry is.’

  Needless to say, this observation didn’t go down very well. Horace rolled his eyes. Gladys said, ‘Speak for yourself, Nina.’ Even Dave didn’t look too convinced.

  ‘I dunno if it’s cruel to be scared of getting your head blown off,’ he remarked, in cautious tones. ‘Cowardly, perhaps, but not cruel.’

  We were sitting in the basement, on an assortment of kitchen chairs. Not all of us were present; Mum was with Sanford, tending to her uninvited guest, while George was in the bathroom, vomiting. But Horace had come down, as had Dave, and Gladys, and Bridget.

  It was Bridget who reacted most strongly to my graphic description of Reuben’s miserable life.

  ‘I do think you’re right, Nina,’ she said. ‘I do think it would be wrong to abandon someone who’s being treated like that, no matter who they are.’

  ‘Of course it would.’ Conscious of an overwhelming sense of apathy in the room, I renewed my attack with more vigour. ‘This is a turning point for us. We have to decide: are we good people or bad people? If we’re good people, we have to do the decent thing.’

  ‘But would a werewolf do the decent thing for us? That’s what I want to know,’ Gladys grumbled. ‘What if we rescue him, and he turns around and eats someone?’

  I was about to accuse her of being deliberately obtuse when Dave interrupted. ‘This isn’t about mounting a rescue attempt, Gladys,’ he said patiently, from behind his hair. ‘This is about whether or not Father Ramon should call the police.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ Horace sounded perplexed. ‘I thought a rescue attempt was one of our options.’

  ‘It’s not one of my options!’ Gladys exclaimed. And I said, ‘No one asked you to lift a finger, Gladys. We know that isn’t your style.’

  ‘Hush.’ Bridget threw me a gently reproachful look. ‘Poor Gladys isn’t well – you mustn’t blame her for not being able to do things.’

  ‘We’re all of us not well, Bridget,’ Horace retorted. At which point I realised that, for the first time in several hours, I’d become faintly nauseous. And I wondered how long it would be before I, too, was puking my guts out in the bathroom upstairs.

  To distract myself, I jumped back into the discussion.

  ‘Horace is right,’ I announced. ‘We should at least consider a rescue attempt. It would be our only way of keeping the police out of things.’ I didn’t have to explain that if the police discovered our secret, we might be exiled, or confined, or experimented on, or – even worse – end up like that vampire who was scraped off her own back steps, after her family had shut her out of the house. (According to Sanford, her clothes had been buried along with her, because so much of her had soaked into them.)

  But Dave was shaking his head.

  ‘There’s no telling what the police will do, Nina,’ he countered. ‘Even if they’re tipped off, they might never find their way here. We don’t know what the McKinnons are likely to tell them. Our names might never crop up.’ When I glared at him, he fingered the stubble on his jaw – but wouldn’t back down. ‘The anonymous phone call would be much less risky than the rescue option,’ he continued. ‘If we’re voting, I’d vote for the phone call.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’ Gladys was scowling. ‘I don’t see why we have to get involved at all. This is our future we’re talking about! Just because Nina’s in love with this werewolf—’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘—doesn’t mean we have to reveal ourselves, and flush a hundred years of hard work down the toilet.’

  ‘I am not in love with Reuben!’ The accusation made me feel sicker than ever. Especially when Horace smirked, and Gladys sniffed, and Dave quietly scratched his nose, eyes cast down. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Reuben! It’s all about us!’

  ‘Then why are you so keen to waltz in there like Zadia Bloodstone, and earn his undying gratitude?’ Horace asked slyly. He was in his element; he always loves needling people. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a crush to me. Eh, Dave?’

  Dave didn’t answer; he was still staring at the floor. I was furious at his lack of response, and vaguely alarmed, as well. I certainly didn’t want Dave thinking I was in love with Reuben.

  Bridget leaned over to pat my arm.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention, dear,’ she murmured. ‘You know how Horace likes to tease.’

  ‘I’m not teasing her.’ Horace’s injured expression was utterly bogus, and made me want to punch him in the mouth. ‘I’m simply stating a fa
ct. If Nina isn’t in love with that werewolf, why would she want to take such a huge risk?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be such a huge risk!’ I spluttered, at which point Dave lifted his head. He was frowning.

  ‘Nina, they have guns,’ he reminded me. ‘You heard what Father Ramon told us. How can we fight them if they’re armed?’

  ‘Maybe we wouldn’t have to,’ I said, raising a hand before he could speak. ‘Listen. Just think about it. The last time they saw us, Dave, we were dead. Dead. They think we’re dead, you and me. So how are they going to react when we walk in on them?’

  During the silence that followed, I scanned the room – and saw at once that I’d made a big impression on Horace. He was sitting bolt upright, and the sneer had been wiped clean off his face.

  ‘Nefley mentioned a spare key,’ I went on. ‘A spare key under a peg basket. Suppose we found it, and snuck in, and confronted Barry McKinnon? Ten to one he’d be half-asleep, at this hour—’

  ‘And we could say that we’re the undead!’ Horace interjected, his eyes sparkling. ‘We could talk in a monotone – you know – like zombies. You cannot kill us, Barry. We shall always return.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Dave’s tone was a mixture of alarm, derision and disbelief. But Horace ploughed on regardless.

  ‘You could wear some of my clothes!’ he suggested. ‘It would scare the living daylights out of them! You could slick your hair back!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Horace.’ Gladys didn’t bother to hide her exasperation. ‘Don’t be such a fool.’

  ‘This isn’t a movie, mate,’ Dave warned.

  ‘But it could still work!’ I avowed, desperate to win his approval. ‘We’d have the element of surprise, don’t you see? Barry wouldn’t be expecting us. We’d sneak in. He’d be confused. He wouldn’t know how to react—’

  ‘Of course he would. He’d shoot us.’ Dave seemed to have no doubts on that score. ‘You’ve seen what they’re like, those two. They’re animals. I don’t care how confused they are; they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.’

  ‘I’m sure Sanford and Father Ramon wouldn’t want us doing anything dangerous,’ Bridget piped up. ‘I’m sure they’d agree with Dave. Someone could get badly hurt. It wouldn’t be sensible.’

  ‘And what happens afterwards?’ Dave added. ‘What are we supposed to do with the McKinnons once we’ve got Reuben out of there? Ask them nicely to go home?’

  It was a good question. I hadn’t really considered that side of things.

  As I lapsed into thought, Horace cocked his head.

  ‘Kill them?’ he proposed, with obvious relish.

  ‘No!’ I rounded on him. ‘Of course not! We’re not murderers!’

  ‘In that case, they’ll come after us. They won’t just walk away.’ Dave leaned towards me. ‘They’ve got my wallet, Nina. They know my address.’

  ‘But they don’t know mine!’

  ‘You can’t be certain of that.’

  ‘Yes I can. Father Ramon didn’t tell them. He said so.’

  ‘But what about Nefley Irving?’ Slowly and clearly, with a kind of laborious determination, Dave kept blowing my arguments out of the water. ‘Maybe they got your address off Nefley. He might have found it in Casimir’s address book. Along with your phone number and everything else.’

  ‘You mean those two McKinnon people know where we are?’ Gladys exclaimed.

  I glared at her.

  ‘Of course not,’ I snapped. ‘Why would Nefley Irving tell them where I live?’ Then I turned back to Dave. ‘They’re not his friends, Dave. They tried to kill him, remember?’

  ‘If they tried to kill him, they might have twisted his arm as well,’ Dave replied. ‘They might have forced the address out of him – he doesn’t look like a guy who’d need much forcing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Wait. Just wait a minute.’ Gladys sat up straight. ‘Are you saying that fat man upstairs knows my address?’

  Horace heaved an impatient sigh.

  ‘That’s what we were talking about before,’ he said. ‘Don’t you listen? The man upstairs is the one who killed Casimir.’

  ‘We think,’ Dave amended. ‘Which means that he probably stole Casimir’s address book.’ Horace ignored Dave, fixing his attention on Gladys. ‘So, yes – he probably does know where you live. And where I live, as well.’

  ‘Which means that those other men might know, too? The men with the guns?’ Gladys demanded.

  Horace shrugged. Dave said, ‘Maybe.’

  Gladys surged to her feet.

  ‘Then we have to call the police! Right now!’ she cried. ‘Before those gunmen show up here!’

  Dave and Horace exchanged glances.

  ‘I doubt they’ll do that,’ was Dave’s opinion.

  ‘Why should they?’ Horace agreed. ‘They’ve got their werewolf. They don’t need to come looking for us.’

  ‘But they might!’ wailed Gladys. She was getting worked up, the way she always does when her physical comfort is threatened. Bridget immediately took her hand.

  ‘Shhh,’ Bridget entreated. ‘Don’t worry, dear. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘We have to call the police!’

  ‘I’m sure we will.’ Blinking, Bridget looked to Dave for confirmation. ‘I’m sure that’s what we’re going to do. Isn’t it?’

  Dave hesitated. His eyes swivelled in my direction.

  Then his brow creased.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  I didn’t reply. I wasn’t able to. If I had, I would have vomited all over the basement rug.

  It was one of those occasions when you can’t make polite excuses, or withdraw discreetly. Instead I jumped up, clapped my hand over my mouth and ran upstairs. I reached the bathroom just as George was emerging from it, and nearly knocked him over on my way to the toilet bowl. What happened next isn’t something you want to hear about. All I can say is that I’ve experienced much worse; when you’ve spent nearly three hours straight with your head in the toilet, a ten-minute session doesn’t seem so bad.

  Mum heard me, of course. She always does. She came in, held back my hair, wiped my face, then led me off to my bedroom when I was done. ‘Just have a lie down,’ she recommended. ‘You’ll be fine in a moment.’

  ‘I feel so awful …’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘It isn’t fair.’

  ‘You’re right. It isn’t.’ Mum knew the drill. Having tucked me into bed, she draped a damp washcloth over my forehead and turned off all the lights. At the door she encountered Sanford.

  ‘Just leave her alone,’ Mum warned him. ‘She’s been overdoing it.’

  ‘She’s not in any pain?’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘How’s your tummy, Nina?’

  ‘Go away,’ I moaned – because I hate having people hover over me when I’m sick. Mum gave it up long ago; she understands that if I’m left to myself, and don’t have to fight off suggestions about hot water bottles or extra pillows, I’ll be up and about soon enough. That’s probably why she ushered Sanford away from the threshold of my room, and why she closed the door with such authoritative, ‘out-of-bounds’ firmness.

  Unfortunately, I was too depressed to be grateful. I kept remembering Reuben’s lopsided smile, and his bewildered anger, and his irrepressible vitality. To most of the others, Reuben was just an abstract concept. They didn’t see him as a flesh-and-blood human being. They didn’t realise that turning our backs on Reuben would be like tying up a dog, then leaving it to starve.

  That’s how I felt, anyway.

  I wondered if Dave was experiencing a similar sense of obligation. I wondered if he would vote in favour of an anonymous tip-off. Bridget would. The priest would. Gladys probably would – unless Sanford frightened her into submission with gory tales of sun exposure. As for Horace … well, it was impossible to tell what he would do. Except twit me about Reuben, of course, just to get up my nose.

  That
was another thing that really, really depressed me: the fact that people might think I was in love with Reuben. The fact that Dave might think I was in love with Reuben, just because Horace had been shooting his stupid mouth off.

  ‘Sssst! Nina!’

  It was Horace. He’d pushed open the door and stuck his head into my room; when I turned to squint at him, the rest of his body quickly followed his head.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he whispered, leaning against the door so that it softly clicked shut behind him. ‘Can you talk, or are you sick?’

  ‘What is it?’ I mumbled. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s not what I want. It’s what you want,’ he rejoined. And I stared at him in sheer perplexity.

  ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘Nina …’ Stealthily he approached the bed, his black cape swishing around his ankles. Before I could order him to keep his distance, he knelt down on my woolly bedside mat, thrust his face into mine, and hissed, ‘We’ve got to go and rescue Reuben!’

  20

  ‘What?’ I said vaguely. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We have to get Reuben back ourselves,’ Horace insisted.

  ‘We have to!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because …’ He hesitated, glancing at the door. ‘Because I can’t afford to get involved with the police, Nina.’

  ‘None of us can,’ I pointed out. But he shook his head.

  ‘No, I really can’t. More than anyone else,’ he assured me.

  ‘Why?’ The question was hardly out of my mouth before I realised why. ‘You’ve been running a scam,’ I concluded, without waiting for an answer. ‘Some kind of Internet scam. I knew it. I knew it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you don’t know anything,’ he retorted. ‘And the less you know, the better.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ I turned away from him, peevishly rubbing my eyes. ‘What’s the matter with you, Horace?’

  ‘The matter with me is that I have to pay rates! Unlike some people who live with their mothers,’ Horace snarled. Then he recalled that he was trying to be persuasive, and quickly changed his tone. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m … well, I’m a bit worried. I could go to jail, Nina.’