Dave nodded. But I wasn’t satisfied; I still felt that my mother needed a break.
‘Dermid can have a sleeping-bag in the basement,’ was my next suggestion. ‘After all, he’s a vampire now.’
‘Not yet, he isn’t.’ Sanford refused to yield. ‘And before he becomes a vampire, he’s going to be quite ill. Which is why he needs a proper bed, close to the bathroom. Where you can keep an eye on him, Estelle.’
‘Oh.’ Mum was talking through clenched dentures. ‘That’s my job, is it?’
‘I’m afraid so. Just for the day.’
‘And what about the other two?’ she demanded. ‘Am I supposed to be looking after them all day, as well? While everyone else is fast asleep?’
‘I won’t be fast asleep,’ Reuben volunteered. When we all looked at him, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, defiantly. ‘I’m not a vampire,’ he continued, ‘so I can help, if you want. It’s the least I can do.’
‘You’re planning to stay, as well?’ said Mum. Her voice was faint, and had a visible effect on Reuben – who began to deflate like a balloon.
‘Or I can leave,’ he mumbled. ‘Whatever.’
‘No!’ I couldn’t understand why Mum was being so dense. (It didn’t occur to me that she was completely exhausted.) ‘Reuben will be really useful! Can’t you see that, Mum? He’ll take some of the load off! He can make sure that Barry doesn’t escape!’
‘But not by breaking Barry’s legs,’ Sanford warned quickly. ‘If anything happens to either of these men, Reuben, you’ll have to answer for it. Physical violence will not be tolerated.’
‘I know that,’ said Reuben, sulking.
‘Are you sure you can cope?’ Sanford pressed. ‘Are you sure you can resist the urge to attack?’
‘Better than you can, probably,’ Reuben retorted, ‘since there won’t be a full moon. Like I told you, I’m not a vampire.’
It was a snappy little comeback, and I couldn’t help admiring it. Even Mum seemed impressed; it’s not often that anyone leaves Sanford tongue-tied, and she surveyed Reuben with a glimmer of approval. Bridget looked embarrassed, while Dave threw me a sidelong glance, as if trying to gauge my reaction.
At last Horace broke the spell. Blinking up at us from the bottom of the staircase, he groggily asked, ‘What’s going on?’ At which point everyone remembered that we didn’t have all the time in the world.
There was a sudden flurry of movement. Sanford seized hold of Dermid; Mum shuffled over to Barry; Dave tossed me his car keys, then headed straight for the basement. I was about to go outside when a plea from Father Ramon made me pause on the threshold.
‘If you do end up talking to Barry McKinnon,’ he said plaintively, to the entire gathering, ‘could someone please ask him where he’s put that orange van? Because if we don’t get it back, there’ll be hell to pay. As it is, I don’t know what I’m going to tell Saxby’s Hire and Haul.’
‘It’s all right, Father.’ Oddly enough, Reuben was the one who replied. He had clearly gained confidence from his exchange with Sanford, and was now cheerfully helping to rearrange Dermid’s legs. ‘Whatever you tell ’em, they’ll believe you. Because you’re a priest.’
Sanford, however, felt obliged to add a qualification.
‘Just as long as you don’t tell them the truth, of course,’ he said.
Then he hoisted Dermid’s torso off the floor, as I went to retrieve Nefley’s pistol.
25
Once again, I’m going to have to cheat – because I can’t say that I was really around, on Monday. While events unfolded above my head, I was locked in my mother’s basement, dead to the world.
I’ll have to tell you what I was told by other people. Like Reuben, for instance.
Reuben passed out before I did. He grabbed a sleeping-bag from the basement, hauled it upstairs to the top landing, and dozed off outside Barry’s room, just like a guard dog. Not that Barry needed guarding, at that precise moment; he was still heavily drugged, and had been chained to a bedpost using handcuffs presented to my mother on the occasion of her retirement. (They had her name engraved on them – together with the words TIME, GENTLEMEN – and had come in a presentation box with miniature cricket bat, a bottle of Guinness and a night stick.) Since the guestroom window was barred, and the guestroom door had been locked, most of us felt that Barry was well secured.
Nevertheless, Reuben took a few extra precautions. He jammed a chair under the guestroom doorknob, before positioning himself in a carefully chosen spot between the chair and the staircase. Then he fell asleep, well satisfied, with Nefley’s pistol hidden inside his sleeping-bag. I had given him this pistol myself, despite Sanford’s protests, and Mum had backed me up. ‘It’s safer with Reuben than it would be with any of us,’ she’d insisted. ‘At least Reuben’s actually fired a gun before.’ Mum had gone on to say that it was her house, and that if Sanford wanted to turn it into a high-security prison, she had every right to a fully-armed response team.
I think she may have been a bit worried about Dermid, to tell you the truth.
Unlike his father, Dermid wasn’t tethered to anything. Nor was the door to his room locked. Sanford had maintained that such measures would be ill-advised, since Dermid would feel as sick as a dog upon awakening, and would require prompt and ready access to the toilet. Mum wasn’t about to argue; not once she had seen the colour of Dermid’s face.
She also had to concede that, with a broken arm and a sprained ankle, Nefley Irving wouldn’t be much of a threat. That’s why his door wasn’t locked, either. Mum did, however, lock the basement, once Sanford and I were safely bedded down in there. And she made sure that every rake, spade, broomstick and mop handle was locked away in the outside laundry. She didn’t want Nefley sharpening any stakes, you see.
After doing all this, Mum went to sleep herself – and for a while there was peace in the house. But at 8.36 AM, Reuben was awakened by the trilling of a mobile phone. It was Barry’s phone, and it was tucked into Reuben’s pocket (along with Barry’s wallet, car keys and sunglasses). Anyone else would probably have ignored the call; Reuben, however, decided to indulge his reckless streak. Adopting a deep, rough, flattened voice, he answered as Barry McKinnon. At which point he found himself talking to none other than Forrest Darwell, who had just touched down at Sydney airport.
Forrest wanted to organise an ‘exchange’ with Barry. For one hundred thousand dollars (cash), Forrest was keen to take possession of Barry’s werewolf. This would have to be done in a secure and isolated spot, where the transfer of a drugged teenager from one car to another wouldn’t be noticed. Forrest would bring a briefcase full of money; Barry would bring the werewolf. Neither man would bring a gun, a companion, or any form of ID.
Forrest didn’t explain how he was intending to smuggle his purchase out of Australia. He did, however, admit that he was having a hard time accumulating enough cash to complete the proposed transaction. ‘I couldn’t have got that kind of money through customs,’ he explained, ‘and any kind of transfer over ten grand is tracked through the system like a goddamn rogue elephant.’ Nevertheless, he was hoping to have the required sum by the end of business that day, after negotiating with ‘a third party’. Would Barry be able to meet him afterwards and hand over the goods?
Gruffly, Reuben said ‘yes’. He agreed to wait for Forrest’s next call, which would confirm that the cash was available. Together, they would then decide on a suitable location for the rendezvous. Since Forrest himself knew nothing of Sydney, he wouldn’t be able to pick a good spot. ‘But you can make that decision,’ he said, just as the real Barry McKinnon began to moan and curse behind the guestroom door.
Luckily, Reuben happens to be a very smart guy. When Forrest asked what the noise was, Reuben told him that the ‘delivery’ was ‘causing trouble’, before promptly signing off. By the time Mum had staggered upstairs, about fifteen minutes later, Reuben had devised a clever plan for dealing with Forrest Darwell. And Barry was roaring
like a newly caged lion.
‘I told you,’ Reuben said, as he and Mum both winced at the muffled crash of a stainless-steel bedpan hitting the floor, ‘we shoulda tied his hands behind his back.’
‘And let him piss all over my good sheets?’ Mum objected. ‘He has to be able to use the bedpan.’
Reuben shot her a pitying look. ‘He won’t use the bedpan. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t piss all over the walls. Like I said – he’s an animal.’ Listening to the frantic rattle of steel against brass, Reuben frowned. ‘I just hope your bed’s heavy enough, or you won’t have much of a spare room left,’ he finished.
As it happened, he was right. Barry demolished that guestroom. Even with a brass bedstead attached to his ankle, he managed to smash the light fitting, topple the bedside cabinet, pull the doors off the wardrobe, tear up the sheets, rip down the curtains, and piss on the rug. He also punched a hole in one wall, and cracked a pane of glass in the window.
But Mum only discovered this much later, when she able to inspect the damage. She couldn’t risk entering Barry’s room while he was still in residence, or he would have killed her. Instead she had to stand by while he vented his fury with a series of cracks and thuds and wild, incoherent yells that seemed to shake the whole house.
As Reuben remarked, it was very fortunate that Mum lived in a freestanding terrace. Otherwise someone might have called the police.
I suppose it hardly needs to be said that Nefley woke up once the shouting started. (Only a vampire could have slept through that racket.) He was confused, at first, and quite scared; when Mum heard a scuffling sound, she went into my room and found Nefley trying to arm himself with the lava lamp. But she soon persuaded him that there was no immediate danger, since the howling captive next door was none other than Barry McKinnon, handcuffed to a bedpost.
‘We’re waiting for him to tire himself out,’ she explained, ‘and then we’ll see what he might do in exchange for a cup of coffee. It’s not that we mean him any harm. It’s just that he’s a bit of a handful – as you know.’
By this time, of course, Mum was well aware that Barry had attempted to kill Nefley Irving. So she felt sure that Nefley wouldn’t object to Barry’s imprisonment. In fact she was convinced that Nefley would come to sympathise with the vampire cause, just as soon as he realised that we all – werewolf, vampire and average person alike – shared a common enemy in Barry McKinnon. That’s why she decided to turn on the charm. That’s why she helped Nefley downstairs, cooked him breakfast, and cut up his bacon for him. That’s also why she gave him such a full and detailed account of recent events, including the silver-bullet quest, the visit to Cobar, and the werewolf fights.
She cooked breakfast for Reuben, as well; he practically inhaled it while he described how a bunch of vampires had saved his life. ‘They’re just like normal people, only sicker,’ Reuben informed Nefley. ‘In fact they’re the ones who need protection, not us.’ He then appealed to my mother. ‘Not one of ’em has ever tried to bite you – eh, Mrs Harrison?’
‘Nope,’ said Mum.
‘The priest told me all about it,’ Reuben continued, shovelling scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘They have these rules they have to follow, and medicines they have to take, and therapy they have to do. It’s like they’ve got AIDS, or something. You just have to take a few precautions.’
‘What about the man upstairs?’ asked Nefley, in his rather high-pitched voice. As if on cue, a huge thump sounded from the room above them; they glanced up at the ceiling, as Mum sighed. ‘The other man, I mean, not Barry,’ Nefley amended, after a brief pause. At that stage he was wavering, but not fully convinced. ‘You just said that he was bitten last night.’
‘So? You got a problem with that?’ Reuben’s tone was scornful. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘Horace did it,’ my mother intervened, from the kitchen sink. ‘He’s a piece of work, I’m afraid – always has been. I never had any time for Horace.’ She turned to face the two men. ‘Thirty years ago, Casimir did what Horace just did, and got buried alive for a quarter of a century. If you ask me, the same thing’s going to happen to Horace.’ She pulled a face. ‘And about time too.’
‘You reckon? I think he deserves a bloody medal,’ Reuben replied. ‘Dermid’s a killer. You can’t help wanting to bite him. I bit him myself.’
‘How do I know you’re not just servants of the coven?’ Nefley interrupted, in a manner that was both anxious and fretful, yet strangely avid as well. According to Mum – who later described the whole conversation to me in microscopic detail – Nefley was quite obviously a bundle of nerves beneath all his extra padding; she classified him as the type who becomes a ‘hysterical’ drunk. (Having worked in a pub for so many years, she still analyses people like a barmaid.) Sitting there at the kitchen table, with his fluffy hair on end, and his arm in a sling, and his small eyes puffy with sleep, Nefley was a perfect candidate for Mum’s hysterical drunk category. ‘How do I know I can believe you?’ he went on, when his reference to covens drew a complete blank. ‘How do I know you’re not just familiars dedicated to luring new victims into the vampires’ lair?’
Mum and Reuben exchanged glances. ‘Well – I dunno, Nefley,’ Mum said at last. ‘I mean – this is the lair. Here you are. What’s your objection?’
‘You’ve been here since yesterday, and no one’s taken a bite outta you yet,’ Reuben reminded him. ‘It’s been thirty years between victims, mate. I reckon you’re more likely to get hit by a car than bitten by a vampire.’
‘And you’re free to go any time,’ Mum added, ‘as long as you think you can handle things on your own, with that leg playing you up. It won’t be easy. Sanford’s left a stock of painkillers, but if there’s anyone who can take care of you for a few days …’ Mum trailed off at this point, because it was somehow perfectly obvious that Nefley didn’t have anyone to take care of him. You only had to look at the stains on his clothes, she said later.
Nefley stared at her in astonishment.
‘You’re – you’re not going to keep me here?’ he stammered, whereupon Mum shrugged.
‘How can we?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.’ Another huge thud from upstairs confirmed the truth of this claim. ‘In fact, you’ll be making things a lot easier if you do go.’
‘And if you don’t come back,’ Reuben added. ‘At least, not with a sharpened stick, or nothing.’ He leaned forward, exuding a kind of manic intensity. ‘See, these people saved my life,’ he said. ‘So I’ve got a duty to save theirs. And if you decide that you still want to get rid of ’em, then you’ll have to go through me first. Which you don’t wanna do. Because I’m no vampire, Nefley – I’m more than a match for you, mate.’
This hardly needed saying, in Mum’s opinion; the contrast between Reuben and Nefley was almost ludicrous. She reckons it was like watching a muzzled greyhound contemplating a generous bowl of vanilla custard. As Reuben narrowed his eyes, Nefley blanched, then offered up some feeble excuses. He’d been misinformed, he insisted. There was too much sensational coverage, out there. The facts weren’t being publicised as they should be – vampires weren’t arguing their case well enough. If he’d known the truth, he would never have … have …
‘Killed Casimir?’ Mum concluded. And Nefley’s face crumpled.
‘Your friend wanted to bite me,’ he shrilled. ‘That’s why he answered my message!’
‘Yeah, but it was entrapment, wasn’t it?’ said Mum (who’s watched a lot of TV cop shows). ‘Besides, he wasn’t my friend. I didn’t like him.’ Remembering the task she’d set herself, she quickly changed tack. ‘Still doesn’t mean he deserved to die, though.’
‘Look.’ Reuben was getting impatient. He addressed Nefley in a more forceful manner. ‘There are some screw-up dickhead vampires, just like there are screw-up dickhead people. But most vampires are okay. Like Nina, for instance. She’s a really nice person.’
‘Which one is Nina?’ Nefley quavered. ‘Is
that the knitting lady?’
‘Nina’s the little one with all the hair,’ Reuben said. ‘The one who lent you her room. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘Her life seems pretty awful, if you ask me,’ Reuben went on. ‘She can’t go out in the daytime. She can’t go to parties. She’s always sick. Isn’t that right, Mrs Harrison?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The last thing she needs is some idiot trying to stab her with a fence post – which is why you have to keep your mouth shut about all this.’
‘But—’
‘There are lots of idiots out there, Nefley. Lots of ’em.’
‘But if you tell everyone the truth, no one will want to kill vampires!’ Nefley exclaimed. And Reuben gave a snort.
‘Oh, yeah?’ he said.
‘There’s always going to be people who’ll try to kill vampires, love.’ Having seated herself at the table, Mum began to quote Sanford, word for word. ‘The press has been so bad, over so many years, that you wouldn’t be able to change things fast enough. Every vampire on earth would be wiped out long before the truth really sank in. Because some people are just phobic about vampires – like they are about spiders.’
‘And werewolves,’ Reuben added. He then went on to explain how hard it had been for him, and how he simply wanted a quiet life, and how there would always be McKinnons dedicated to exploiting the weaknesses of other people. After which he confessed that he’d never had a job, while he quizzed Nefley about finding employment in the postal service. Would there be an opening for someone like Reuben in mail-sorting, or delivery? Because he wanted to start a new life – as a normal person – and the first step would be to look for paid work.
It’s possible that Nefley found this appeal quite flattering. Being an impressionable sort of bloke, he also would have been heavily influenced by the free meal, the borrowed towels, and the friendly domesticity of Mum’s kitchen. In any event, according to her, he really loosened up after that. He even offered to stay and help her with the McKinnons, though (as she later remarked) what kind of help he could have provided, with a broken arm and a sprained ankle, was anybody’s guess.
The Reformed Vampire Support Group Page 26