Naylor would leave if he wanted to; there are countless places where he’d be freer to indulge himself. But somehow he always comes back, drawn to his home. The water of the subterranean Fleet runs in his veins and his bones are packed with the ash and grime and soot of this city. He feels its pulse and it makes his own flesh quicken with arousal; he breathes deep the dark secret smell belched from the vents of the Underground, a scent so pervasive that the living do not register it, and to him it tastes of an eternal promise. Though its buildings fall and rise with the years, and the faces on the streets change, this is his place.
Yet he’s restless, like any young man. He chafes at Reynauld’s rule, and when his feet itch he burns up the miles. In this last century he has taken the increasingly easy opportunities to travel, a tourist of particular tastes. He goes where the mess he makes will pass unnoticed, where bodies fall unexamined. He was in Ethiopia after the Italian invasion and South Africa during the Second Boer War. He stalked the trenches of Ypres and the Somme, took enthusiastic though perfectly bipartisan part in the Spanish Civil War, and favoured the Eastern Front throughout the upheaval of World War II. His accent went unremarked in Korea and Vietnam though he was forced to be more cautious there: he has huge advantages of stealth and evasion but he’s not invulnerable. He spent a chunk of the 1970s and 80s in South America under various regimes, was annoyed to miss the First Gulf War but made up for the loss in the Balkans at his leisure, and Sarajevo is still a place he remembers with nostalgia. When the invasion of Iraq took place he made sure he was embedded with the American ground troops: he disliked the weather but appreciated the many opportunities presented to him after dark.
He’s back home now, the wildness out of his system for the moment, his feral hunger temporarily assuaged. Under grey skies his behaviour is more restrained – in this he’s no different from any young man of the City who jets off to Ibiza or Ayia Napa and goes a bit crazy, the heat and the copious drink and the easy sex going to his head. After his frenetic vacation he wants to kick back a bit and relax, hanging out with friends like Ben. Just chill.
But this latest run-in with Reynauld has fired him up. The girl’s death didn’t have anything to do with him, for fuck’s sake – he’d never touched or even met her. He’s been blamed purely out of habit.
Aggrieved, he casts around for release or for vengeance. And with the innocent recounting of an old story, he thinks he just might have found the way to it.
7: Four for the Gospel Makers
Last night it was wet and slick on the streets and the puddles were red with neon. I went underground instead. Word was there was something on the Circle Line, something that hunted along the platforms late at night when there were hardly any travellers left – just the lost. Something that slithered out of the dark tunnel mouth like a snake and left fang marks in its prey.
Mind the gap.
I caught up with it deep in the AM. Not saying which station, but we were three flights of escalators below street-level and the air smelled stale and burnt like all of the day’s hopes gone up in smoke. I lurked about on the northbound platform, doing my Lone Female thing on a bench with head bowed like my bloke had just dumped me, ignoring the drunks and the clubbers, hoping that no one with a pulse was going to try anything on because I always feel a bit bad when I hurt a live one. Not too bad, but a bit. Call me sentimental.
With the third tube train pulling out I found myself alone. Suddenly it was quiet, only the growl of an unseen engine on another line to keep me company. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stir. My senses are honed to the presence of vamps. I knew there was one there even before I raised my face and saw him ooze from behind a pillar.
He looked like he lived in the Underground, did this one: bald as a rat’s tail and pale as a slug. Shabby-looking parka coat. Lips all black and cracked with hunger: typical Bloodkind. As he closed on me I stood, pulled a stake from under my own coat with a slick movement and had it heading for his ribcage before the sudden flash of alarm in his red eyes had time to work its way through to his forebrain. It was only instinct that enabled him to twist aside from the stake, and the wooden point scored his ribs beneath his arm, catching on the cloth and jerking out of my hand. Bastard. I followed my strike up with a tae kwon do kick to the solar plexus and he folded over my New Rock boot like wet newspaper. But he didn’t go down. He just staggered back down the platform, shaking his head and staring like his chicken nuggets had just stood up and pecked at his face. His mouth was suddenly full of jagged teeth.
I slipped another stake from my belt-holster and reached into an inside pocket of my coat for the bottle there.
‘Bitch,’ he said. He’d have been wasting breath if he had any: insults don’t hurt me. Especially insults from a corpse who hadn’t realised yet that he was supposed to be lying down for the rest of eternity. Well, it was going to be a steep learning curve for this guy.
‘Watch your language, Potty-mouth,’ I sneered. As he came in swinging I ducked and smashed the bottle right into that ugly face of his. Holy water. Works a treat on the undead. The vamp threw his hands up to his face, screaming, and fell back – right over the platform edge. Down he went on to the live rail. There was a crack and a spark and then he exploded into dust, just as a gust of wind muscled out of the tunnel mouth to announce the arrival of the next train. My vamp blew away like someone had just emptied a bagless vacuum cleaner out into the wheelie bin. The driver never even saw him. Which is cool as far as I’m concerned.
A good night’s work. I’ll be back on the streets tomorrow.
XOXOXO
StakeGirl
I click on Publish and the text vanishes as the page reformats itself. Your blog post has published successfully! it tells me. View Blog? In a new window?
Click. I always like to make sure: goddamn paragraph breaks seem to appear and disappear at random. I scan the finished product with a sense of satisfaction. It looks good, from the StakeGirl logo in blood-red lettering at the top to the visitor counter at the bottom of the page, which is ticking up even as I watch. No comments, of course: I don’t allow comments, it just turns into a brawl and there’s no dignity in that. StakeGirl has to keep her dignity. The picture at the head of today’s post is one of a tube train shooting past that I snagged from the Net and Photoshopped to add a bit more atmosphere. I’m thinking that tomorrow or the day after I’ll do something set in Kew Gardens – I like the Victorian glasshouses full of tropical trees and I’ve got a nice picture of a strangler fig.
Kerchunk. Damn – that’s the sound of the front door. He’s home early – if this is what you call his home. He doesn’t usually bother with the front door either.
Quickly I fold the little notebook, stuff it into my rucksack and slip that under the bed. Naylor’s a stupid git for all his cockiness: he never bothered searching my bag and doesn’t know I’ve got the laptop. I’d like to keep it that way. Can’t have him interfering with the blog. Moving quietly, I arrange myself on the mattress, curling up on my side. The chain that attaches to the iron bedstead has caught on something out of sight and tugs at my ankle uncomfortably. I fix my eyes on the back of the door, feeling my stomach knot with anticipation. There’s not much light in the room, even though there’s a streetlamp bang outside, because the windows are pasted over with newspaper. Enough, though, to show the drifts of takeaway food cartons and the few sticks of crappy old furniture that the house owners couldn’t be bothered to take with them when they moved out.
The door opens, and in walks Naylor. A flick of the light-switch and the single bare bulb comes on, making me blink and throwing into focus the dingy room with its broken detritus and its peeling rose-patterned 1970s wallpaper, and me on the bed that sits in the middle of the room, curled up, waiting for him. I once saw him nest there during the day, in a top corner behind that wallpaper; spinning shadows until he faded away into the plaster, emerging at dusk like a bubble of damp bulging out through the rose print. The place is a real pit,
irredeemably seedy. I’ve got no idea who’s paying the electricity bill, though I’m pretty sure it’s the neighbours’ wireless broadband I’ve been riding. I hitch myself up on one arm. My skin is doing all sorts of horrible things at the sight of him: burning and crawling, moisture leaking into every pore. My insides are tying themselves in knots.
‘Hi, honey,’ he says with a cold smirk. ‘I’m home.’
He’s not alone. Shit. What’s going on? I’ve been kept here over a week and this is the first time he’s brought anyone back with him. Two men. One look assures me that they’re not vampires, whatever they are: they’re just not good-looking enough. Both have close-shaven heads and beat-up faces, one is black and youngish with scarred cheeks, the other’s white and starting to get grizzled. They’ve a thuggish, bored look about them. Their eyes widen as they spot me but they don’t say anything, just stare and then glance at Naylor speculatively.
‘This is Joanne,’ he says, like he’s introducing someone at the office. ‘Jo, meet Luke and Mark. They’re doing a little job for me.’ Luke’s the younger one, it turns out. Naylor dumps a white plastic bag on the small table and I catch a whiff of hot food. Smells like Chinese tonight. He usually lets me eat after he’s finished with me.
‘Help me,’ I whisper, widening my eyes pleadingly at the two strangers. I’m real interested in what their response will be. Luke snorts incredulously with a brief but expressive cast of the eye at Naylor. Mark grins, amused.
So that’s the way it’s going to be. My stomach clenches and I lose all appetite, though it’s twenty-four hours since I last ate.
‘Business first,’ says Naylor, going into the table’s single drawer. He finds a couple of envelopes which he passes to Mark. ‘Two passports. Two Eurostar tickets to Brussels, first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Brussels?’ says Luke. ‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You’re going to be disappointed: it’s the most boring shitehole in Europe. Office-central for Boring. On that bit of paper there’s the address for a Timothy Grey and a copy of his ID photo. You two are going to go to his flat and secure him; he’s one of those Eurocrats, so don’t expect any interesting conversation. Grey by name, grey by nature, I guess. Make sure he’s out of sight; I don’t want another soul involved and I don’t want him damaged. Then call me. That’s all. Keep it low-profile. And if anyone else finds out …’ There’s an odd emphasis to the ‘anyone’.
‘They won’t, boss,’ says Mark. The guy’s clearly old-school gangster.
‘They’d better not. Fuck me over, and there won’t be enough left of you to send home in a shoebox.’
‘No worries.’
‘If you get this right …’ Naylor’s eyes narrow and his face suddenly looks as sharp as an axe-blade. ‘It’s the high life for us all. Anything you want. Jet-ski up the fucking river to work if you like; snort coke off the tits of supermodels. I can be very generous with my office bonuses.’ He turns his head and looks at me, and a chill like a Jurassic centipede crawls up my spine as I note the speculation in his eyes. ‘You fancy a bit of that, say?’
‘No,’ I whisper, appalled.
‘She ain’t no supermodel,’ says Luke.
Mark sniggers and agrees: ‘Bit on the porky side, isn’t she? Not that there’s anything wrong with curves, mind. Gives you something to hold on to.’
‘You know what she is?’ Naylor swaggers slowly toward me, reaching to seize my jaw and draw me upright on my knees for their inspection. I’m wearing the same black leggings and grey lycra sports-top that I came here in. Stained now, and none too clean. ‘She’s a vampire hunter.’
‘No kidding.’ They snigger like schoolboys.
‘She came here to stake me. Instead I staked her – right up that fat ass.’
Yeah. I came here to slay him. After he dared me. After he gave me his goddamn address. I remember only too clearly that night in the club when I first saw that beautiful, delicate face, as he leaned in so that it was nearly touching mine. I remember the lurch of my heart, smitten by the impossible promise of his green eyes – and the flutter of my pussy. I remember wondering why someone that fabulous had taken notice of me. I’d been about to find out: ‘You’re StakeGirl,’ he’d said.
Hell, I’d thought. How did he know? Yes, I’d used some indistinct photos of myself on the blog, but not raw ones. I never show my face and besides, StakeGirl is a good forty pounds lighter than I am. Not that I have any problem with my curves – they’ve always stood me in good stead – but I know that people expect a vampire hunter to look like a cross between an Olympic athlete and a swimwear model. Suddenly I’d found myself nervous as hell.
‘You smell just like your blog,’ he’d said, as if answering my unspoken question. ‘And both like bullshit.’ As I’d opened my mouth to protest, he’d added, ‘Have you ever even seen a real vampire?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I’d said huffily. The way I’d recoiled from him must have telegraphed my discomfort because my friend Elliot had spoken up from behind me. Elliot had been keeping an eye on me that night.
‘Everything all right, Jo?’
‘If you want to slay a vampire, you fake, you come and find me.’ Naylor had drawn back his lips, running the tip of his tongue over his upper incisors – and I’d watched wide-eyed as two cruel fangs slid down into place over his human teeth.
‘Jo?’ Elliot had become insistent. He was right behind the stranger. ‘Hey you: hands off her.’
‘Bet you don’t dare,’ he’d whispered to me, ignoring the big guy. Mocking. Then he’d told me his address and, as Elliot dropped a hand on his shoulder, had turned and stared at him. Elliot is six-five and a bodybuilder but one look from those green eyes had made him quail. He’d shrunk back and let the wiry little man disappear into the crowd. And I’d sat there quivering with shock.
So I’d come here to find him, just like he wanted. I’d thought hard about it of course. I’m not actually a tae kwon do master in real life. I mean, I did some lessons for about six months a while back, but I pulled something in my knee and never got back into it after taking time off. So OK, I don’t really kill vampires. But StakeGirl does, and in some ways she’s more real than Joanne. How many people know or care about Joanne, compared to her? I just thought I had to give StakeGirl her chance. It was my shot at living in her shoes for real.
And maybe it had something to do with the way he made me feel, when those contemptuous green eyes fixed on me. The wet burn that flooded my core. I couldn’t just forget that. He needed teaching that I wasn’t to be despised. That I was tough enough to take what he had to dish out.
So I whittled myself some stakes and bought myself a mallet from a camping shop and came to this house one sunny afternoon. Just an ordinary terraced house in a run-down part of town. From the outside it looked abandoned, its windows milky and blind with the pasted newspaper. I got in through the tiny walled back yard, finding a kitchen window cracked ajar. I probably made far too much noise clambering over the sink, but I reckoned he’d be unconscious during the day, probably down in the cellar. I was wrong, of course. He was here, in this shadowy back room, this creaky old bed. He lay with his hands folded across his stomach, perfectly still. Not breathing or anything. I felt sort of sick, getting my stake and mallet out. I was suddenly unsure I had the strength to drive it through a real-life ribcage, and I didn’t really want to, even if he was a vampire. I’m not the sort of girl who goes round on a Friday night picking fights. I don’t like hurting people. I’m scared of the police. All of a sudden this didn’t look like such a good idea at all. And as I lowered the point of the stake toward his breastbone in its faded old Stones T-shirt, watching it tremble, he opened his eyes and grabbed my wrist and, grinning, broke my grasp on the wood with a single twist of his hand.
After that he did things to me that it makes me sweat to recall.
And now he’s here with two leery-looking blokes in tow and they’re all eyeing me up. The two
goons are shifting their hips slightly, probably wondering if Naylor’s just taking the piss, whether they’re going to be made fools of or whether they should play along. And probably wondering what I’ll be like if they do get a go. Luke wets his lips.
‘Please, no,’ I beg, widening my eyes. There are snakes of terror crawling up and down my back. I don’t know these guys and I don’t know what they might do to me.
‘Shit. She going to bleat all the time?’ Luke asks, pulling a face. He’s definitely the less cool of the two: Mark just grins at the sound of my plea.
‘I could gag her,’ Naylor concedes. ‘But then you wouldn’t be able to get your cock in that big mouth.’ He licks my cheek and I cringe away from him. ‘That’d be a waste, wouldn’t it? She’s got real cocksucker lips, don’t you think?’
‘There’s more than one way to gag a woman,’ Mark agrees, hefting thoughtfully at the bulge at his crotch. I’d swear it’s looking bigger already.
Luke grins, catching up. ‘Just got to keep her mouth busy, haven’t we?’
Oh, God. I need to hold out for more time. ‘Wait – I need the toilet,’ I blurt. ‘Honestly, Naylor, I’ve been chained up all day: I’m bursting for a pee.’
He grabs the single braid at the back of my scalp and tugs my head back, jerking it from side to side just enough to hurt. ‘Tsk. Poor little girl.’ He puts on a sing-song voice, mocking me: ‘Poor lickle Jo want to go wee-wee?’
‘Please!’ The pain of his hair-tugging is making my eyes tear up.
‘What if I don’t let you? What if one of my nice gentlemen-friends here fucks you till you piss all over yourself?’
That’s a horrible thought: I burst into a flush of sweat. ‘Please, no!’
‘Huh. All right then.’ Letting me go, he passes his hand over the padlock at my ankle and the metal half-loop jumps free. As I stumble off the bed he swats at my ass; not playfully, but with the intent to humiliate me. There’s a burst of general laughter.
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