I had to fight my way to the end of the meal. But at last I was able to stand up and go to bed. There was one last thing I had to know.
“Is there a problem with the telephone?” I asked.
Patrick Duclarc glanced sharply in my direction.
“I tried to send an e-mail,” I added. “I just wanted to tell my parents about the market that we visited today. My mother loves markets. It was a great market.” I realized I was babbling and shut my mouth.
“Yes.” Patrick nodded. “The telephone line is broken.”
Nathalie smiled at me but her eyes were cold. “The repairmen will come tomorrow.”
“You can telephone them then,” Adrien added, although there was no need.
“Right.” I forced a smile. “Good night, then.”
“Good night, Jack.”
They were still watching me as I went back downstairs to my room.
I went to sleep. It took me four hours and by the time I finally closed my eyes, the bed felt like a sack of potatoes that has been left out in the rain, but somehow I managed it. The next thing I knew, incredibly, it was ten o’clock and the sun was streaming in through the window. My clothes were scattered across the floor where I had left them. And there were no punctures in my neck, my wrists or anywhere else.
And here’s the funny thing. With the coming of light, I began to doubt myself. My dad always had said that I had an overactive imagination and I really did wonder if I hadn’t allowed my thoughts to run away with themselves the night before. The garlic, the hatred of light, the absent reflection, the name . . . it was true that they all pointed to only one conclusion. But vampires didn’t really exist. Everyone knew that. What would my parents say if I asked them to take me home because I was scared? My sister, Isabelle, would never let me live it down.
When I went up for breakfast, Nathalie was in the kitchen and she looked utterly normal, pleased to see me.
“Are you feeing better, Jack?” she asked me.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Please. Help yourself!” There were croissants and honey on the table. Coffee and orange juice. I glanced out of the window and saw Adrien, already in the swimming pool. An ordinary family on an ordinary day.
“We thought we would go to Antibes this afternoon,” Nathalie went on. “There is the Château Grimaldi, which may interest you. Also, there is a very beautiful cathedral that we can visit.”
It was almost as if she had said it on purpose, to prove to me that I had imagined everything the night before.
“A cathedral?” I repeated. “Are you coming?”
“But of course. Adrien and I will come with you.”
If she and Adrien were vampires, if they even had a drop of vampire blood in them, they wouldn’t possibly be able to enter a holy place like a cathedral. That was when I decided that I wouldn’t make a break for it after all. It was also when I made my single worst mistake. I also decided that I would put Vladimir Duclarc to the test. One small experiment and I would know exactly what he was. And if I was proved right, then I would contact my parents and nobody would be able to argue with me.
I spent the morning swimming and sunbathing with Adrien. We played Ping-Pong—there was a table in the garage—and chatted as if nothing had happened. Just after lunch we drove down the coast to Antibes, which was an impressive, densely packed town held back from the water by a huge seawall. The cathedral was a striking, strangely modern-looking building, all orange, white and yellow, next to the chateau that Nathalie had mentioned, but to be honest I don’t remember much about it. Because this was where I was going to put my plan into action. And I had to do it without being seen.
Nathalie and Adrien had both entered the cathedral ahead of me—and I’d noticed that neither of them had so much as hesitated. I went in third and as I passed through the main door, my hand slid into my trouser pocket and cradled the empty shampoo bottle that I had stolen from the bathroom and hidden there earlier. I waited while the two of them walked ahead to the altar, which was surrounded by dozens of panels, each one showing a different biblical scene. Nathalie had told me that the altar itself was medieval. But I wasn’t interested. I found what I was looking for almost at once. A font, close to the main door. And I was in luck. Just as I had hoped, it held a couple of inches of water.
Holy water. Do you get the idea? It was one thing that I knew a vampire couldn’t stand. And there was no need to call my parents. If I was protected with a bottle of holy water, even a bottle that had once contained anti-dandruff shampoo, I would be safe. Making sure that nobody was watching, I managed to half fill it, then put the lid back on and slip it back into my pocket. I was feeling much more comfortable when, ten minutes later, we went back out into the cobbled courtyard and stood in the sun. The night could bring whatever it pleased. This time I was prepared.
In fact, the shadows were already stretching out by the time we got back to the house, and it was only then that I began to have second thoughts. Perhaps I should have legged it for the airport. Right now I could have been in the air, on my way home. But you have to put yourself in my shoes. This was a vampire I was talking about. A vampire in the south of France! If I’d run all the way home to England with an accusation like that and was then proved wrong, my parents would think I was crazy. I’d never live it down.
One way or another, I had to be sure.
Patrick was working late that night and we didn’t eat until half past eight. When I came up to the living room, there was no sign of Adrien. Nathalie was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a coq au vin. And Vladimir was sitting in an armchair with some sort of leatherbound book balanced on his lap. I’ve already mentioned that one feature of the living room was a spiral staircase. It stood to one side and twisted up to a gallery with bookshelves behind. Patrick had a desk up here and the gallery stretched the whole length of the room. It couldn’t have been better. Making sure that nobody had seen me, I climbed quietly up and, keeping well back, continued along until I found myself directly above the reading man. The shampoo bottle was in my pocket.
Here, at last, was the final test. A tiny drop of holy water would mean nothing to an ordinary man. But to a vampire it would be like being stung by acid. It would burn his flesh—I’d seen it often enough in films. Being careful not to fumble, I took out the bottle and poured as little as I could into the cap. Then I reached out over the balcony. Vladimir Duclarc was directly below me. I turned my hand.
No more than two or three drops fell down, but they hit him directly on the head. And that was when I knew, without any doubt at all, that I was right. Vladimir screamed and leapt out of his chair. The book tumbled to the floor. As Nathalie rushed across from the kitchen, he stood there, one hand pressed against his face. It was as if he was being burned alive. I couldn’t believe that a minuscule amount of water could have had such an effect. But of course, this wasn’t ordinary water. This wasn’t an ordinary man.
Vladimir looked up angrily. I threw myself back, pressing my shoulders against the bookshelves. He couldn’t see me. He couldn’t possibly have guessed I was there. Nathalie was next to him, dabbing at his skin with a tea towel. She was muttering to him—but even if she had been speaking in English I wouldn’t have understood what she said. I stayed where I was, the bottle still in my hand. Eventually the two of them left the room, heading out into the garden, and I more or less tumbled back down the stairs. By way of an experiment, I dripped some of the holy water into my own hand. I felt nothing. It had no effect on me. But I wasn’t a vampire. Not yet. Nor did I have any intention of becoming one.
I didn’t go back to my room right then, although, as it turned out, everything would have been different if I had. I was feeling hot. The night was utterly still and seemed to be weighing down on me. I went out into the garden to get some air.
And that was when I heard them. Vladimir and Nathalie were kneeling close to the pool. He was splashing his face with non-sacred water. Neither of them heard me as
I crept out behind them. But I heard them. And this time I understood at least part of what they said.
“Jack . . .” They were talking about me. “Hier soir . . .” Something about the night before. “Le sang . . .” That was definitely a word I knew. Vladimir had mentioned blood.
They talked for a couple of minutes. It was infuriating that I could only hear a few words of what they said and could only understand about half of that. But then came a sentence that rushed out of the darkness as if projected onto a screen.
“Il doit être tué . . .”
And that I did understand: “He must be killed.”
Vladimir Duclarc spoke again.
“Ce soir.” “Tonight.”
What a fool I had been! I had managed to prove beyond any doubt that Vladimir Duclarc was indeed a vampire, but in doing so I had exposed myself and left myself a prisoner in the house at the very worst time, after sunset, with at least six hours of darkness ahead. As I stood there, it seemed to me that the heat of the night had been drained away, replaced by an Arctic chill. I was on my own with them. There was no way out. And by the morning I would be dead—or worse. Suppose they turned me into one of them? What would it be like to live for a thousand years, condemned to hide in the shadows, feasting on the blood of other human beings?
Why had my parents sent me here? What did my French exams matter anyway? How had I let this happen to me?
There was a storm that night, one of those fat, heavy, spectacular storms that you only get in tropical climates when the heat of the summer becomes too much to bear. There was no wind but the thunder was deafening, the lightning so fierce that it seemed to rip the whole world in two. The rain held off for as long as it could. Then it all came down at once, smashing into the house and turning the dry earth into livid, splattering mud. The wolves were howling too—at least, I thought I heard them. But it was the thunder that I remember most, great fists of it, slamming into the side of the house as if it wanted to smash down the walls.
I was awake. Even without the storm I wouldn’t have slept a wink. I watched the shadows leaping across the room, the intense white light blasting against the brickwork, lingering for a few seconds and then disappearing as fast as it had come. Where were Adrien and the others? I had no idea. Crouching, miserable, on the bed, still fully dressed, I cursed my own stupidity. I should have left when I had the chance. There was nothing natural about this weather. Vladimir Duclarc had somehow summoned it up.
“Il doit être tué . . . ce soir.”
He must be killed. Tonight. Before he can tell anyone what he knows. We will make him one of us and he will serve us forever. Suddenly afraid, I reached out and turned on the lights. Nothing happened. The power supply had been cut. Of course. That would have been simple to arrange.
The door crashed open.
And there he was, on the other side. Vladimir Duclarc. He was wearing his black jacket. His long hair streamed behind him. His face, caught in another burst of lightning, had no color at all, a snapshot from a cemetery. His eyes blazed. His mouth was open, his teeth glistening white. I knew he had come for me. I had been expecting it. But this time I was ready for him.
“Go back to hell!” I screamed.
I had the shampoo bottle and I hurled the contents directly into his face, then followed it, hurling myself onto him. There was only one way to get rid of a vampire. I had known what I had to do and, horrible though it was to contemplate, I had prepared myself.
The wooden stake had come from the garden. I had found it in a flower bed and had sharpened it with a knife stolen from the dinner table. With all my strength, I rammed it into Vladimir Duclarc’s chest, slanting down toward his heart. Another bolt of thunder struck at that precise moment. Vladimir screamed but I heard nothing. The sound was drowned out by the elements. I pulled the stake out and struck a second time. I felt the point tear through his soft flesh. Blood, warm and black, spurted out, splashing into my face. I felt nauseous. But I had to be sure. One last time I ripped it out and then stabbed down again. This time I found his heart. I saw the light go out in his eyes. Blood, pints of it, gushed out of his mouth. He fell to his knees and I stood over him, knowing that in seconds he would crumble into ash.
Except that he didn’t.
He was dead. That much was certain. I was drenched in his blood. There was blood all over the walls and floor. Then the lights blazed on. The return of the electricity was so sudden and the lights so bright that I was startled. I looked around. Patrick and Nathalie Duclarc were standing in the corridor. Both of them were wearing dressing gowns. Patrick was staring at me, his face filled with horror. Then his wife began to scream.
There is not much more to tell.
It seems that I was wrong about Vladimir Duclarc. He wasn’t a vampire after all.
First of all, he came from Slovakia, which is nowhere near Transylvania. He had a little house in a place called Kežmarok where he worked as an antiques dealer, specializing in traditional Slovakian clothes, which he himself liked to wear.
What else can I tell you about him? Well, he didn’t like garlic, but you already knew that. But it also turned out that he suffered from a condition called photophobia, which meant that he was extremely sensitive to light. He couldn’t go out in the day without giving himself severe headaches and permanently damaging his eyes. Not surprisingly, perhaps, he felt very embarrassed about his condition and the family preferred not to mention it, although, of course, all in all it would have been better if they had.
Apparently he had come to my room that night because he was worried about me. According to Patrick Duclarc, the entire family had been a little concerned about my behavior in the last few days. And they had thought I might be scared, on my own, in such a spectacular storm. Patrick and Nathalie had come downstairs a few seconds after Vladimir had opened the door. Both of them had witnessed the attack. Nathalie was now in bed, sedated. It was Patrick who had called the police.
After I had murdered Monsieur Duclarc, I was driven down to the police station at Nice, but I wasn’t interviewed until the next day, when my parents arrived. Both of them looked completely shocked. They were accompanied by someone from the British embassy, a man called Mr. Asquith. They hadn’t let me get changed yet. Apparently they still needed to take forensic evidence and I suppose I must have looked quite a sight, covered from head to toe in blood.
I told them about the way Vladimir had vanished over the wall and I also described what I had seen in the mirror. My parents didn’t say very much to me. Mum cried a lot and Dad just kept on staring at me and shaking his head. Anyway, Mr. Asquith went away for a few hours and when he came back to me, he explained that there was actually a small door in the wall—I’d never noticed it—and that far from turning himself into a bat, Vladimir Duclarc had simply let himself out that way.
As for the mirror, that was the stupidest thing of all. I’ve already told you that it was on a door leading into a walk-in closet. Well, what I hadn’t realized was that door was covered in some sort of two-way glass. When the light was turned off inside the closet, the glass became a mirror. But when it was turned on, you could see right through it. When I’d seen Duclarc standing in front of the door on that sixth day, just before dinner, the light had been turned on. It was as simple as that. He had no reflection—and if I’d stood next to him, I wouldn’t have had one either.
By now, I was feeling pretty sick, as I’m sure you can imagine. But there was still my last piece of evidence.
“What about the holy water?” I exclaimed. It was a relief to be able to express myself in English. “I dropped a tiny bit of it onto Mr. Duclarc and it burned him!”
But it seemed that the man from the embassy already had an answer to that.
“The water you dropped went straight into Monsieur Duclarc’s eye,” he explained. “And it was in a shampoo bottle. It had mixed with the shampoo that was still inside. Monsieur Duclarc had sensitive eyes anyway . . . as a result of his medical condition.
No wonder he cried out in pain. The shampoo stung him quite badly.”
“But I heard them talking about me!” I protested. “He said quite clearly that he was going to kill me.”
It took a little longer to work that out, but in the end we discovered that I was wrong about that too. Vladimir had been talking about me. He had been offering to give me a lesson in French and that was what I had heard. The French for “lesson” is leçon and not le sang, which sounds almost the same but means “blood.” As for the rest of it, I had misheard that too. He had been complimenting me on my grasp of the language, and he hadn’t said:
“Il doit être tué.”
Which means “He must be killed.”
But “Il doit être doué.”
Which means “He must be intelligent.”
It was all a terrible misunderstanding.
I had to stay with the French police for a whole week, but in the end I was allowed to return to England. But not home. My dad explained to me that, after what had happened, I wouldn’t be able to come home for some time. Instead, I was sent to a sort of hospital called Fairfields. Actually, I might as well be honest. The sign outside read East Suffolk Maximum Security Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
And that’s where I’m writing this. I’m hoping they won’t keep me here much longer, although it has already been one year. Mind you, my therapists tell me that I’m doing very well, and although they still give me lots of drugs, overall they’re very pleased with my progress.
I also, incidentally, took my SATs while I was here. And I’m delighted to tell you that my visit to Nice must have helped. Because, despite the rather unfortunate things that happened during my stay, I got a 760 in French, so perhaps my father was right and the exchange was worthwhile after all.
SHEBAY
It was without doubt the most shocking thing she had ever heard.
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