Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  As the Boat Train roared into the open country, Wade fought the urge to pace the length of the train like a caged panther. This unexpected sojourn to Southampton had to bear some significance, he believed, but he had only a vague idea of what awaited at the end of the line. He'd been able to deduce from some of the chatter on board the train that the main attraction at their destination was called Titanic. The only details he could muster from his own experience was that he'd heard back on the streets of London that some shipbuilders in Liverpool had put together some sort of gilded barge that couldn't be expected to stay upright in the water, because it was so large. However, for the most part, the fact that Gidley and presumably Lyons were headed to America was to Wade the most significant siren's call of bad news.

  Soft talking could be heard coming from Lyons and Gidley's compartment, although the constant rolling thunder from the train's wheels made it impossible for Wade to determine with certainty what was being said. Growing stiff with tension as the train steamed on, Wade could no longer contain his interest, and was beginning to loiter there far longer than he had intended. Upon hearing what sounded like a latch being released, Wade turned away and began heading slowly, not wanting to appear being rushed, towards the back of the train. A moment passed and the definitive sound of a door sliding open was heard, and after a moment of feeling only the train rocking beneath his feet, Wade suddenly had the unnerving sensation of being watched by someone flood over him. He turned and found himself looking right at Bartholomew Gidley, who was standing about ten feet away, peering outside his compartment.

  Gidley's expression was at once contemptuous and mocking, his coal black eyes hurling invisible stones of hatred at Wade. “The White Star Line's copper, are you?” he spat out after a moment of sizing up the sergeant.

  “City of London Police, actually,” Wade calmly replied.

  “Does your employer make it a habit to have the likes of you harassing its first-class passengers?” Gidley growled.

  “I am not employed by the White Star Line, nor would I presume to speak on behalf of the White Star Line. While City of London Police normally patrol Greater London, all of England and Wales falls within our legal jurisdiction, and at our own discretion we take it upon ourselves to monitor certain individuals if we have reason to believe they might be involved in any suspicious activity.” Sgt. Wade was truly in his element, at once patient in his explanation and yet firm.

  Gidley's eyes narrowed, and it was quickly becoming obvious to Sgt. Wade that this man held a certain prejudice when it came to authority. “Good God,” Gidley muttered, “give a miserable empty-headed bunch of young buggers a pistol, uniform and hat, and they'll come to believe that they have the whole of Britain by the pistachios.” Gidley broke into what could only be described as a predatory grin, and Wade heard the voice of whom he supposed was Edward Lyons coming from the compartment.

  “Bart Gidley, close the bloody door and draw those curtains immediately!”

  “In a moment, Sir,” a malevolently amused Gidley replied, never taking his eyes off the expectant face of the police sergeant. The two men stood facing each other, their gaze unbroken while the train's movements caused their shoulders to sway in rapid motion. Gidley stared at Wade, fixedly. “I suppose if your suspicions have been aroused, young man, you would do well to leave Us be and keep them focused on the pickpockets and purse snatchers at the station We left behind this morning, with all the rabble and the mere mortals. You will be misusing your time and undoubtedly your fine detective skills trying to place guilt on Those who don't just break the rules if They so choose, but also make them.”

  “No need for such defensive speech, sir,” Wade replied coolly, not taking Gidley's bait. “But I should like to point out that suspicions don't come about without cause, nor can someone rightfully claim to be not guilty when they are not truly innocent.”

  Gidley blinked for the first time during their exchange, then quickly whirled around, sliding the compartment door shut, but not drawing the curtains. “Mr. Lyons, this man knows something. How he came to be in possession of this knowledge, I know not quite yet, but he could make things difficult when We disembark at Southampton- if he doesn't take some sort of action before We get there.”

  Lyons, unperturbed, glanced up at him while still clutching the map of Utah- an unusually large Masonic ring glittering on the little finger of his right hand as the sun shone into their compartment. He had been too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay much attention to just what exactly Gidley was up to. By now, he was used to his secretary picking fights at random and was mainly just annoyed with all of the noise. He stared at Gidley and then sighed heavily. “And how are We to address it? This isn't going to be another unpleasant bit of business such as that hors d'oeuvre You were allowed to have at the cemetery?”

  “Not at all, Sir,” Gidley replied, perversely obedient. “For all You know, I merely... need to use the lavatory, hmmm?”

  Lyons thought for a moment, then shrugged. “If it keeps Us on time, may You go about Your bathroom proclivities with discretion- and I do mean, absolute cleanliness and discretion.” He turned his attention back to his map.

  Sir. Gidley could hardly contain his glee. He reopened the door and stepped back out of the compartment, where Sgt. Wade remained, unmoved.

  “Let's have a word, then,” Gidley muttered to Wade. “If it's all the same to you, I should like to partake of a cigar, but it will have to be on another part of this train- where My fumes and our words will not pollute the air. Lead us to the back, will you?”

  Sgt. Wage did not flinch. “After you, sir.”

  Gidley grunted at him and then pushed on, thumping his cane aggressively as they went. To Wade's utter astonishment, Gidley took them on a journey that stretched from one railcar to the next, eventually taking them to the brake van on the hinder end of the train.

  “Make way, you lazy sods!” he barked at two drovers who were asleep in the brake van. The men, startled, took quick action on Gidley's order and headed forward. Gidley positioned himself on the open area at the very end of the train, the cool April air swirling about, while Wade cautiously stood in the doorway.

  Moments passed as the train rolled along, a short tunnel or two causing a momentary blackout of light, but otherwise it was the lush greenery of the Hampshire Downs that whistled past as the train seemed to gain speed. From a crocodile leather cigar case in his pocket, Gidley produced a Por Larranaga cigar from Cuba and, with deliberation lit it, puffing slowly and letting little tufts of smoke enjoy a brief moment of existence before being evaporated by the rushing air.

  The train swayed slightly as it cranked along, forcing Sgt. Wade to bend his knees for balance while Gidley remained immovable, like a steel peg that had been hammered into the ground. After a few moments passed, Gidley slightly lowered his cigar from his mouth and began speaking, never taking his eyes off the rails as they continually accumulated into tiny little lines in the distance.

  “Do you believe that Cain was cursed by God for slaying Abel?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Sgt. Wade was befuddled but remained officious.

  “Was Cain... cursed by God... for slaying Abel?” Gidley repeated, as if speaking to a dullard.

  Wade took a moment to mentally compose his response. “I suppose if we are expected to accept such a notion from what is taught from the pulpit to the faithful, I would believe so, yes.”

  “The pulpit,” Gidley sneered, as if rolling something sour over his tongue. “Many things are taught from the pulpit, but they are frequently at odds from what is reality. What might have started with Cain may not have been a curse at all, but a gift. A gift that was supposed to have been a punishment from the Almighty, but instead turned like a once-loyal dog biting the leg of its master.” He turned his eyes to the sergeant, clutching his cigar close to his chest. “So much of what the masses believe with heartfelt certainty is completely out of line with what existence actually allows Us to be. Some
say that horrible monsters are never to be seen in the light of day, that there are to be clear delineations between light and dark, good and evil, night and day, when the disturbing truth actually lies somewhere in-between.”

  Sgt. Wade's tone began to grow terse. “Why the sudden philosophy, Mr. Gidley?”

  “I'll have you know, copper, that Our philosophy is anything but sudden. It has been a progression of many years in the making, long before the rails on which We now ride were even laid upon the ground, and in some ways dating back to when this very same ground was cooling down from its molten creation. Your attempts to marginalize it or foist authority upon it are futile, to say the least.” He drew a long, satisfied puff off of his cigar, the train's whistle many cars ahead of them wailing in the distance, and like a cat toying with a mouse Gidley delicately tapped a few ashes from the tip of the cigar.

  “Do you suppose they have any of Marconi's wireless equipment on board this train?”

  “Come again?” Wade asked warily.

  “Wireless equipment, for bored passengers to send little love notes to their families, or perhaps in case of emergency. They say this bucket of bolts that we're headed for in Southampton has some of the most powerful radio equipment in use by anyone, anywhere. It's an amateur fascination of Mine, although it's usually under the auspices of issuing false naval messages or forging distress signals in the interest of collecting a few extra coins.” Sgt. Wade stood sentry, swallowing hard but not responding while Gidley chuckled indulgently.

  His eyes still fixed upon the receding horizon, he spoke again. “This has to do with the glove, doesn't it?”

  Sgt. Wade's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly, a flash of astonishment flew through his eyes. “I once again beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Don't be obtuse. We are men, and I knew it was just a matter of time until someone would come forward with inquiries regarding that damn blasted glove. I realized that in My haste to silence that little bastard, I had almost certainly left it behind.”

  Sgt. Wade was furious and amazed, yet maintained a professional tone. “Mr. Gidley, before you utter another word, do you have a full understanding of just how much you are incriminating yourself? That what you are stating is tantamount to a confession?”

  “Incrimination!” Gidley chuckled self-righteously. “That would fall under the presumption that any action of My choosing would be considered to be criminal. Truly, in the grand scheme of the realm, is taking a life criminal, or is it actually just inconvenient?”

  Wade took on his most serious of deliveries. “Sir. I will have no more of this mockery. Are you wishing to make a statement of confession, or no?”

  “Copper, it wouldn't matter if I made a statement here to you today, or in a court of law with those vacuous, baritone-voiced magistrates attempting to enforce meaning from just so many words on a piece of paper. Myself and Mr. Lyons have been and always will be the individuals to choose whether We accept any kind of a cure, legal or otherwise.”

  Gidley took a swift puff off his cigar as Sgt. Wade stood silent and disbelieving. After a moment passed, the policeman cleared his throat and prepared to place the Parliamentary Secretary under arrest.

  “Bartholomew Gidley,” Wade pronounced, reaching slowly for his handcuffs. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, however, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Gidley remained stoic, unmoved, as though he hadn't even heard Wade's commandment. At last he set aside his cane, and placed his hand on the rail of the brake van, as if he was bracing for some sort of impact.

  “I don't presume to speak for you, copper, but My ticket on this train is not round-trip.”

  In an instant, the pudgy little man whirled around to face Wade, who hadn't the time to react as his handcuffs were ripped out of his hands, into the open air and off the speeding train. Gidley then planted his shoulder into Wade's chest and shoved him brutally up against the back wall of the brake van. Wade clawed for his semi-automatic, but Gidley seemed to anticipate that move and had already grabbed Wade's wrist, and now the men were in for a violent bit of wrestling for the weapon. Their faces were virtually pressed together, Wade making a valiant attempt to overcome Gidley's grip, but already starting to fail. As their tangled arms bent down towards the brake van's rail, Gidley pushed his nose practically up against Wade's, and locking his coal-black eyes with his, shushed Wade from his frantic panting, and began murmuring a terrifying sort of chant.

  “Human flesh pulled off her bones... My Mother's breasts cut off... while heart and liver have no home ... this blood will be enough.”

  Wade, trembling and pale, thought he saw a kaleidoscope of fire in Gidley's eyes and gradually became transfixed, even comforted, by the inevitability of what he already knew was going to happen next. Of course, Wade thought, those punctures, those perfect little punctures on that young man's neck-

  Gidley's mouth flew open, two fangs descended from the top row of his teeth, and immediately he plunged them into the soft portion of Wade's neck, eagerly seeking out the arteries with their precious cargo. Wade suddenly kicked a bit, causing Gidley to plunge his teeth deeper into his flesh, and while the vampiric rule was to keep things clean, Gidley often couldn't help himself in the course of an attack and soon his victim's blood was dripping down his chin and onto his clothes.

  Several cars ahead on the train, Edward Lyons, who had absorbed himself completely in his maps, suddenly convulsed as a high-pitched whine went off in his ears. “Bloody hell! Gidley's gone unclean again!” he growled angrily, tossing his maps aside. He grabbed his hat and dashed out of the compartment, heading for the back of the train.

  In another far less luxurious, decidedly cramped compartment, Lillith was nearly deafened by the shriek, jolting poor Marcus- who was seated right next to her- so badly that sections of the newspaper he was reading went flying. “Sorry, sorry, sometimes I have a terrific headache, that's all,” she apologetically reassured him, knowing that Gidley most likely was up to his old exploits on another part of the train.

  Meanwhile, the attack- which had turned into a perverse sort of embrace- continued. Wade rapidly lost consciousness from Gidley's intrusive fangs, as they engaged in a lethal combination of drawing out blood from Wade's neck as Gidley sucked in air, and pumping in venom as he exhaled. Gidley had long, long before gone through the initial phase of infection which few vampires actually survived: he was successfully inured to his own venom. So-called “young” vampires (every vampire at first bite is considered young, regardless of age) are initially only able to draw blood, not poison their victim. As the “teething” process continues, a form of adolescence- perhaps better described as natural selection- is experienced, and if the initiate is able to fight off the effects of their first injection of venom, which is intended to fully immobilize the vampire's victim, then they are able to continue on towards a state of vampiric stability. Gidley had passed the test centuries before, shaking off the poisonous effects as if they were nothing more than a slightly inconvenient fever.

  Death draped itself over Wade's limp body, his skin now white as porcelain. Gidley drew in deep breaths, grinning selfishly, feeling Wade's blood entering his own circulatory system, cleansing and sustaining and reviving him. He was not in such a deep reverie, however, that he could not make out the sound of rushing footsteps inside the train, approaching at a furious pace. In two quick moves, Gidley stood up, grabbed Wade's jacket by the collar, and swiftly hoisted the dead policeman's body over the railing on the hind end of the train. He let it go and watched it crumple headfirst onto the tracks as the train sped away. Almost simultaneously, Edward Lyons came bursting through the brake van's door, just in time to see Wade's policeman helmet fly end over end and off into the distance.

  “Kill the Christ Child, Bart- what the hell have You done?” he exclaimed, sizing up Gidley and the str
eaks of blood that ran down his face and onto the front of his buttoned-up shirt.

  “Killing two birds with one stone, Sir,” Gidley proudly proclaimed, looking like a strangely well-dressed butcher. “He did know something, and therefore could not stay on this train.”

  Lyons sighed, exasperated. “You didn't tell Me it was a policeman! Bartholomew Gidley, when through the course of so many damnable centuries are You going to accumulate enough experience and knowledge to anticipate the possibility that this policeman could very well have a few colleagues awaiting his arrival in Southampton? When is the very concept of that kind of foresight going to find its way into that rat's maze of a brain of Yours?”

  “Well,” Gidley said, appearing for a moment to give the matter serious thought. “I can always pull them aside and eat them too!”

  Lyons grabbed Gidley manfully by the arm and pulled him close. “Listen, You half-wit. I have worked far too long and hard to get to this moment, the opportunity to begin a whole new generation, for Me to be cut off at the knees by a few careless and stupid mistakes. Our power is not unlimited, and You should have observed that in this bleeding country, watching Me subjugate myself as some bleeding-heart sap in support of women's rights. Every transition must be made with the utmost discretion! So, if We are to blend in, disappear, and be forgotten into the American desert, as was Our plan, I will not be able to tolerate any further excursions that involve Your damn fool blood credits!”