by Alan Baxter
‘Hello, Mr Baker. I wonder if I might arrange to meet with you.’
‘First you explain who the fuck you are and how you get this number.’
Isiah had the feeling that this really was the Baker he wanted. The accent was there. Not broad, but there. Dave was an idiot. Isiah had an incomparable experience of the various races of humans in the world. He had studied martial arts with the warrior monks of ancient China, philosophy with the sufis of old Persia, magic with the shamans of the Americas and hundreds more. But it did not take his remarkable knowledge to place a middle eastern accent over a Mediterranean one. The guy must look different enough too. Maybe Isiah was just more used to human diversity. Dave had probably never been further than the outskirts of town in his life. Isiah decided it would be best to come as clean as possible with this one, keep him on side. ‘I believe we have a common interest, Mr Baker. I got this number from a sleazebag called Dave.’
There was angry exhalation at the other end of the line. ‘I know who you mean. Why did he give you this number?’
‘He’s a prick,’ Isiah said, matter-of-factly. ‘Besides, I threatened to rip his lungs out, and he’s a coward too.’
There was a humourless laugh from Baker. ‘True enough. What is this common interest of which you speak.’
Bombshell time, note the reaction. ‘Samuel Harrigan.’
Isiah could almost feel Baker stiffen, he imagined his expression, confused and angry. ‘We will meet. Royal Hotel Bar, two hours.’
‘One hour,’ Isiah replied with conviction, keep the advantage. ‘I’ll know you. Be there on time.’ He hung up before Baker could reply. He had no idea how much of a player this Baker was, but whatever the situation he had to keep the upper hand. Piss him off enough to gain some respect, but not enough to make an enemy.
He sat back in his armchair, closed his eyes, breathed a long, tired sigh. He knew the Royal Hotel. He would get there early, make himself comfortable before Baker arrived, but he still had some time. Baker would probably try to assert himself by arriving late, he seemed the sort.
For a short while Isiah sank into a calm meditation, resting body and mind. Just a quick recharge while he had the chance. But it was not long before he opened his eyes again, knowing that he really could not afford to relax too much. There was something that he could do in the time before his meeting that might give him a better idea of Baker’s place in the scheme of things. The more he knew the better, after all.
He closed his eyes and swiftly left his body, flying across the city to a dingy basement under an old, broken down warehouse. He slipped through the thick stone walls into a large, dank room. Six people were there, sitting around a scratched table. They seemed to be arguing. The one Isiah was looking for was at the head of the table, smiling as the others squabbled. He looked up to the ceiling, where Isiah’s astral self was hovering, raised a gnarled hand in greeting. Isiah smiled and snapped back to his body.
As he appeared in the dark, damp basement room the raised voices of argument tailed away, everyone turning to face him. Some of the men bore stunned expressions, others smiled. The old man at the head of the table stood, smiling broadly, and came around to shake Isiah’s hand. To most people this old man looked like a well dressed gentleman, elderly but distinguished. Respectable. To Isiah’s eyes the hand he shook was thin and skeletal, the nails long and black. The man’s head was nearly hairless, the skin and flesh of his face drawn, little more than an animated skull. He looked like a centuries old cadaver which, in truth, was what he was. His long, viciously sharp canine teeth glinted in the light of the single bare bulb as he smiled.
‘It’s been a long time, Isiah. What have you been up to?’
Isiah was glad to release the cold, bony fingers. ‘Not a lot. You?’
The old vampire laughed, his head rocking back. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever tell each other our business.’ He gestured for Isiah to take a chair.
Isiah sat, deliberately not looking at any of the others around the table. His brief scan had revealed three more vampires among the five of them. The other two were mortals. They knew they were surrounded by vampires and were scared, but seemed quite used to it.
‘You, er... You know this guy, Vincenzo?’ one of the other vampires asked.
Vincenzo shot him an acid look. ‘Silence.’
Isiah felt the vampire shrug, lapsing into a begrudged quiet.
Vincenzo looked back to Isiah, his smile returning. ‘You don’t often grace us, my friend. What can I do for you today?’ He indicated a bottle of whiskey on the table.
Isiah gently shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I was wondering if you might share some information on someone I have to deal with shortly. I know very little about him, but perhaps you might be able to help.’ The old vampire nodded, gesturing for Isiah to continue. ‘Well, he calls himself Baker. He’s of middle eastern descent, but I’m not sure where exactly. He’s into the gangster thing, but he strikes me as pretty small time, not on anything like the scale of your operations I’m sure.’
The old vampire smiled again. ‘You flatter my petty crime wave, Isiah.’
Isiah openly laughed. ‘A petty crime wave, as you call it, that is worth millions and has been ongoing for, what is it now, two hundred years?’
Vincenzo chuckled. ‘My family is indeed old, however we stray from the point. I believe I may know who you mean. There is a man of middle eastern descent in this city that sometimes calls himself Baker, sometimes Johnson and sometimes Ahmed Akhtar. His real name is Ben Abdul Hussein and he is less than small time.’
Isiah stood up, nodding his thanks. ‘I’d like to stay and catch up, Vincenzo, but my time is rather limited.’
Vincenzo stood also, extending his hand again. ‘As is always the way, no? I’ll see you again soon?’
‘Of course. Thanks for your help. May I use your bathroom?’
Vincenzo smiled that chilling smile again. He obviously enjoyed smiling a great deal. ‘Until next time.’
Isiah headed to the end of the dank room. He trotted up worn stone steps without looking back. At the top of the steps he ducked into a filthy, dripping toilet. He seemed to spend a lot of time in other people’s bathrooms, rarely for their intended purpose. This time he wanted to use the toilet so that he could be behind a locked door while he briefly left his body. They were friends, but they were still vampires.
Putting the seat lid down he sat and closed his eyes. He knew now what he had suspected. Baker was no real threat, not likely to be a problem. All he had to do was convince the would-be mobster to tell him what he needed to know. Now he needed to find a quiet place to arrive in the Royal Hotel.
A moment later he returned to his body, safe in the knowledge that room 403 was vacant. He would wait here and gather himself a little, take every opportunity for a breather. He knew Vincenzo wouldn’t mind.
He could hear the vampires’ voices from the safety of the toilet, echoing off the stone. ‘And then what?’ one of them was asking, laughter in his voice. The previous argument seemed to be over.
‘The poor sap is standing there, over the body of this chick, and there’s blood everywhere. Man, he looked furious, fists clenched and all that! And he looks up and he yells, “I’ll fucking kill you!” and he came running at the two muggers and started slamming, one, two, three! Those guys didn’t stand a chance, man!’
Another voice joined in. ‘You just sat and watched all this go down? The girl gets whacked and then the guy beats the two muggers to a pulp?’
‘Yeah. I’m just sitting up there on the rooftop, looking down at the show! And he did more than beat them. He killed them, with his bare hands, like an animal. When I dropped down and took his blood, it was like drinking a boiling river, man! Beautiful!’
There was laughter all around as Isiah shuddered. Then that other voice again. ‘Man, never hurt a girl when the guy that loves her is standing right there. There’s no fury like that in the world.’
There were lots of
murmurs of agreement and laughter, but they faded to Isiah, lost as his memory overwhelmed him. He had been thinking repeatedly of Megan today and had no idea why. Every once in a while the pain would rise again, even after all this time. His beautiful, wonderful Megan, over five centuries ago. His Scottish bride.
Never hurt a girl when the guy that loves her is standing right there. There’s no fury like that in the world. It was just such a fury that had set the rest of Isiah’s immortal path. When he was a different man, a mortal man. An Englishman named Edward. He had been alone and bitter before he met her, then, for the first time in his life, he had been happy.
It was not unusual for English soldiers to pass by Edward and Megan’s home in the Highlands. Always feuding, the English ran Scotland by force, treating the Scots like animals. But the soldiers always passed by on the ridge some distance away. They had no reason to come down into the valley and Edward was pleased that they were left alone. Megan would shiver when she heard the sound of distant hooves, and Edward would put a hand on her knee or hug her tightly, trying to squeeze out the memories of the injustices she had endured before at the hands of the English.
Then one morning as the watery autumn sun was lifting the nights rain from the loamy ground, the sound of hooves came thundering right beside the house. Megan stood kneading dough for bread and Edward could see the terror in her eyes. He put aside the tools he had been cleaning and went to her. ‘It’s all right, love,’ he said quietly, kissing her cheek, but his heart was pounding furiously in his chest. The horses had reined up outside and they could hear raucous English voices bantering with each other.
‘What’s this then, eh? Pretty little home in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen it before down here and thought it must be the home of some warty old witch, but that’s not what we were told in the village, now is it?’
Edward kissed Megan again, feeling her lips tremble beneath his. ‘It’s all right,’ he assured her again, but he didn’t believe himself.
The English outside were playing with them. ‘A young man and his beautiful wife we were told, were we not?’
‘Indeed. Quite comely she is by all accounts.’
‘Quiet and harmless, please leave them alone, we were told!’
‘Leave them alone? Well, that’s assuming they meet their taxes!’
Megan drew her breath in with a hiss as Edward strode toward the door. ‘Edward, no!’
But Edward could no longer bear the taunting or the fear and knew that sooner or later he would have to face them. It might as well be now with some dignity remaining to him. If it was taxes they wanted then he would find the money somehow. He grasped the door handle and, with a deep, quavering breath, pulled it open. Directly outside the door stood a soldier, unshaven and brutish. He wore chain mail and a tarnished breastplate and his hand rested on the rounded hilt of a short sword. His face split into a yellow toothed grin as the door swung open and in a blur his hand shot upwards, drawing the sword from its scabbard with a sharp metallic hiss. The blunt pommel of the hilt filled Edward’s vision then a bright light exploded in his head.
He could hear distant, wavering noises, laughing and cursing and Megan screaming. He realised that he was on the floor and tried to get up onto all fours. His head pounded, agony coming in short, sharp stabs behind his eyes. Then rough hands grasped his shoulders and he was dragged to his feet. An ugly, scarred face leered into his own, the mouth working but Edward could make no sense of the words. His body felt like a half-filled wineskin, his vision swimming and blurring.
He felt his arms pulled up behind him and then a burning sensation in his wrists. He tried to struggle but had no strength and realised that he was being tied to one of the low roof beams of their small home. As his vision swam he could see Megan being held by two men, kicking and screaming, her hair like fire around her head, eyes wild. He tried to reach out for her but his wrists were firmly tied and he hung painfully from the thin beam, his feet dragging on the dirt floor. He tried to stand and each time his knees buckled, his body weight yanking painfully on his raw wrists as he yelled incoherently.
As his vision began to clear he could see that there were four soldiers there, laughing and shouting. One of them threw their small table out of the way, clearing a space on the floor of their home. Then he turned and took hold of Megan, trying to force her to the ground. She screamed and spat, clawing at his face. With a sneer of disgust he slapped her across the jaw, her hair whipping up as blood flew from her lips. Edward screamed, straining at his bonds, kicking at the ground. He found his voice and began to yell. ‘Leave her alone, you bastards, leave her alone! What gives you the right?’
He could see terror in Megan’s eyes looking up at him as she was thrown to the floor. The soldier began tearing off her dress as the others held her down. Megan’s head whipped from side to side, her screaming a piercing wail. Edward pulled frantically at the ropes binding his now bleeding wrists, the whole house shaking with his efforts. ‘No, you bastards, no! Leave her alone!’ His words became incoherent shouts as he thrashed against his restraints, threatening to tear the house down.
Then the soldier was forcing himself onto Megan, laying over her as she screamed. With an evil grin one of the other soldiers stood up and came over to Edward. He dodged left and right as Edward tried kick him and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘Best you don’t watch too much of this, eh?’ Edward writhed and kicked, tears streaming from his eyes. He spat at the soldier holding his hair. With a twist of his mouth the soldier pulled back his free hand and balled up a fist. There was nowhere for Edward to go as the fist came flying towards his face.
There was heat and a hissing, crackling sound. Edward’s throat felt raw and he began to cough. Suddenly he snapped open his eyes. ‘Megan!’
The house around him was wavering walls of flame, thick, dark smoke roiling above him. Megan lay on the floor in the middle of the room, her dress shredded, her face bloodied. She was very still. ‘Megan! Oh, no, Megan!’
Edward began thrashing against the ropes again. The heat was unbearable, the smoke threatening to choke him, the whole house burning furiously. With a crash of coals and flames the beam that Edward was tied to gave way, one burning end crashing to the floor. Edward staggered behind the fallen beam, dragging his tied wrists together. Becoming dizzy from the heat and smoke he managed to pull his wrists to the burning end of the beam and the red hot wood seared through the rope. He howled with pain as his hands and wrists were scorched and blistered, but the moment he was free he stumbled across the room, falling on his knees.
Megan’s dress was torn open down the front, her legs bare, underclothes ripped and blood stained, revealing her battered, cut chest, raw thighs. Her face was bloody, eyes bruised and puffy. Edward began frantically smoothing her blood soaked hair, chanting her name quietly between sobs like a mantra. She didn’t move or breath.
He looked into her eyes, open and glassy and gently closed the lids. He leaned back with her head cradled in his lap, and bellowed her name at the heavens. The heat of the burning house began to bake his bare skin, but he barely noticed.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as sections of the house began to collapse. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together, the wrenching pain of loss threatening to tear his heart from his chest. He had taken her from her home, from her family. He had thought that he was enough to make her life worth living, that she was right for him, what he deserved after the life he had had. And now this. His beautiful Megan.
More of the house began to fall, burning timbers crashing down around him. Staggering to his feet he was battered by burning debris and instinct took over. Crying and shouting meaningless noises he staggered from the burning wreck of his home, crashing through the flaming door and rolling over and over on the damp loam outside. After a moment he shakily found his feet and stood watching his house burn, a funeral pyre for his Megan. Unable to watch any more he hung his head, tears pouring from his
eyes and he repeated her name over and over again. On the soft ground he could see the tracks of the soldiers horses, from where they had come and leading off toward the ridge when they had left again after destroying his life.
Slowly a red veil of rage slid down behind his eyes. His chest settled, the tears stopped flowing. Taking a deep breath down into his lungs he turned toward the ridge and began to walk. His stride was long and determined, his back straight, head high. Within a hundred yards he was running, following the tracks of the horses hooves in the wet grass.
He ran for more than an hour, not noticing the distance or his fatigue. Coming down the lee of a stony ridge, he spotted four horses tethered to some scrubby trees. He stopped, chest heaving, and stared down into the vale. There, sheltering against a rocky outcropping, were the four English soldiers, lounging on the grass around a small fire, talking in loud, carefree voices. Edward clamped his teeth together, refusing to let the tears rise. He strode down towards the men.
Their conversation was a muted muttering to him. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, all he could see was the red wash of rage and the leering faces of the English soldiers that had raped and murdered the only person he had ever truly loved, or that had ever really loved him.
The leader of the soldiers was the first to notice him, striding towards them with hate in his eyes, his face the scowl of an avenging angel. The leader stood up, his face a combination of disbelief and sudden concern and fear as Edward stepped over two of the other soldiers. He placed his hand firmly against the leader’s chest before he could react and floored him with a mighty shove. As the man fell, Edward reached out with his other hand and grabbed the hilt of the short sword in the soldier’s belt, pulled it free as the man toppled over backwards.
The other soldiers were just beginning to scramble to their feet as Edward reversed his grip on the sword, grasped it tightly in both hands, blade pointing to the prone leader. With all his might, he plunged the sword downwards, the point slamming into the breastplate and chain mail covering the soldier’s chest, punching through with barely a moment’s resistance and slicing in between ribs and muscle. Edward felt the blade stab through to the chain mail covering the man’s back. The soldier’s eyes bulged as he curled up around the blade, screaming. His scream began to gargle as blood bubbled up his throat and speckled his lips. Edward released one hand from the hilt of the sword, rammed his fist into the leader’s face, knocking him back onto the grass. At the same time he yanked on the sword, ripping it free with a wet sound of protest, blood spraying up from the gaping wound. He spun around, transferring the sword to his right hand as the other three soldiers converged on him, their own swords drawn, their faces betraying shock and fear.