Language in the Blood

by Angela Lockwood

  Chapter 7: Fergus

  In 2007, curiosity got the better of me. Ninety-two years after I’d left, nobody would be alive to recognise me, so I made arrangements to visit Edinburgh. Sailing my yacht into Ocean Terminal and mooring next to the royal yacht Britannia would cause quite a stir, so I had George rent an apartment for me in the New Town. In my parents’ day it had been an ordinary area, but George assured me it was very posh now. He rented a flat on Great King Street not far from where I had grown up in Clarence Street.

  I couldn’t just get on a plane though. Someone like me would cause all sorts problems at security. There were just too many questions and machines that didn’t detect and mirrors that didn’t reflect me. The trip overland and by boat took three days, despite me driving by night and Roberto taking over by day. When we arrived, I was feeling stiff, cold and hungry, but George had arranged a fantastic dinner courtesy of the Seafield Edinburgh Cat and Dog Home. I opened the door to our flat and a most adorable Scotty dog came running towards us. I turned to George and smiled.

  ‘You really shouldn’t have, George!’

  ‘I know what a cranky bastard you can be after you’ve been restrained for a while,’ George said as Roberto fled to his room, the wee wuss!

  As George cleaned away the rest of dinner I sat down to read the Edinburgh Evening News. George informed me that this was the paper for finding all the best spots for the impending Hogmanay party. Edinburgh on 30 December was the ideal place for me. No daylight til nine o’clock and sunset at four. Edinburgh; a city rife with junkies, dossers and other elements the police wouldn’t investigate for too long. Truth was, though, I hated the cold. It made my bones ache and it made me hungry. I resorted to putting a hot water bottle under my jumper to keep me warm and the hunger at bay. Hunger was a problem, as satisfying it often led to questions and a hasty departure. But I was here for a reason.

  ‘So, George, did you find her?’ I asked

  ‘Eventually. But, she is dead,’ he replied drily.

  ‘Well I expected that. She’d be a 112 if she was still alive!’ I said getting up to boil another kettle for my hot water bottle. I was surprised I’d ever managed to live here in this cold, damp climate.

  ‘I found her grave. Her married name was Henderson and she left three children and eight grandchildren.’

  Good for her! I was genuinely pleased Fiona had moved on with her life, but something bothered me.

  ‘Hang on. Henderson, you said?’

  ‘Yes, Cameron. She married an Alistair Henderson,’ George said handing me the digital camera so I could look at a picture of the gravestone.

  ‘Fucking Hootie! She married fucking Hootie!’ I cried in disgust.

  ‘Her husband died in 1960,’ George told me.

  ‘Just as well, the treacherous bastard,’ I said outraged.

  ‘Do you want to know about your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t tell me they are still alive...’ I gave George a look that told him not to answer that. ‘No I don’t want to know. I just wanted to know about Fiona,’ I told him.

  I’d never wanted to go back home before as the shame of my ‘desertion’ would have been hard for my family to bear. I should have staged my own death back at the beginning, but I was young and scared and by the time I realised what I had done, it was too late. I’d never looked my family up, scared I might discover something that would upset me, but later that night I went out alone to have a look around the old neighbourhood.

  Edinburgh had changed; my old family home was still there, but now there where BMWs and ugly black wheelie bins in front of it. I watched the large sash and case windows for a long time until the current inhabitants switched off their lights, then I let myself in and climbed to the second floor. ‘Hodge’ the shiny brass plate said.

  I’m not proud of what I did next. Whether it was the nostalgia or the cold and the hunger a crime took place that kept the Lothian and Borders police busy for many months and I know that they still haven’t solved the case. No one could fathom why a nice middle class couple should be found in their bed with their throats cut. I knew – they’d had the misfortune of being in my house. I was glad the couple wasn’t discovered for a few days and that in the end it didn’t make the French news. I knew George and Roberto would have disapproved.

  As I wiped the blood from my mouth, I looked around. The flat was very different now with its new IKEA kitchen and plush furnishings. My brothers and I used to share the room that had now become a dining room. Our coal fire in the living room had been replaced with a fake gas fireplace. I needed to get out of there! After a quick search I found a few interesting pieces of jewellery and left. I walked briskly uphill to George Street, as I knew some of the bars and clubs there would still be open. I stopped in the middle of the street and screamed at the top of my lungs in frustration, swore, then screamed again. I would have loved nothing more than to have come home in my uniform, taken Fiona in my arms and gone back to my old life, but the war and a stupid vampire had robbed me of the chance. It still made me angry.

  Two lads came up to me and put their arms around me. By the looks of it they had been drinking for a while. ‘Let it all out, pal! You’ll feel better afters.’

  Things hadn’t changed that much then. The human warmth and the abuse of alcohol were still there. Ian and Stewart, as I later discovered they were called, guided me towards The Dome, which was – according to them – the best place to be. I laughed when they dragged me up to the commercial bank in George Street.

  ‘Aye right, the commercial bank will be serving the likes of me a drink now,’ I said, smiling, thinking they wouldn’t be opening their doors at this time of night. But the former bank had been transformed into a swanky bar. I bought the lads drinks for the rest of the night. Compared with the Côte d’Azur it was a cheap night and I felt at home talking to some Edinburgh lads like me.

  The next day, George woke me with a Westie. It was a sweet little thing that followed George around like, erm, well like a puppy dog.

  ‘Do you like dogs, George? ‘I asked.

  ‘Not really. I’m not an animal person and dogs? Well, I think the little critters smell!’ At that point I had my breakfast.

  ‘Hogmanay, George! What’s happening tonight then?’ I asked him merrily. Food always put me in a good mood.

  ‘I think you are best to just go up to Princes Street and mingle with the crowds’

  ‘Anybody we know in town?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Cameron, but Kasabian is playing.’

  ‘I like them. Can anyone go and see them?’ I asked.

  ‘No, unfortunately not and I didn’t manage to get you tickets to the concert in the gardens, but I heard the street party is pretty good and you’ll probably hear the bands playing in the gardens from there.’

  ‘We’ll make do, dear George. Just make sure you get me a few hot water bottles otherwise I’ll eat the lot of them.’ Being warm made me less hungry and therefore less dangerous.

  At about ten o’clock I made my way towards Princes Street where there were already crowds of people. George had decided to stay home; the thought of being surrounded by heavily drinking Scots put him off. Roberto had decided to meet up with a girl he had met in French class during the summer. She lived in Edinburgh and he’d arranged to meet her and her friends in a pub. Roberto was staying out of my way in Edinburgh. He felt I was dangerous and on edge, despite my upbeat banter.

  I didn’t mind going out by myself, as socialising with the two of them was often difficult and I felt like behaving badly that night, throwing myself into the party and seeing what happened. I pushed my way through to Princes Street until I was standing right behind the Ross bandstand. Fiona and I had gone there a few times to listen to the music on a Sunday afternoon, but the crowd tonight was quite different.

  The mix of alcohol and warm, dancing bodies made me feel rather light-headed. I had tasted sweet innocent Fiona’s lips, but I found myself wondering how her blood
would have tasted. And what would the vodka-infused blood of a modern, not-so-innocent Edinburgh woman taste like? The crowd was getting more and more dense and a girl with a scarf and a woolly hat bounced against me. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘You’re gorgeous!’ she yelled above the noise.

  ‘Erm, I like your hat!’ I said surprised.

  ‘You got any booze?’ she asked me. My oh my, Edinburgh lasses were very different these days!

  ‘Just a wee dram of whisky.’ I didn’t drink the stuff, but I thought I’d look the part carrying a hipflask, and now it had the desired effect of attracting some prey.

  ‘Let’s drink that and then find some more. I don’t like whisky but I’ll have it. Then let’s see if we can get some port. I love port!’ she yelled. She took a large swig from my hipflask, put her arm around my waist and gazed up drunkenly. I bent down and kissed her hard. She didn’t feel the cut I made in her lip with my fang. Just as well I’d had breakfast or the mix of blood and alcohol might have made me do something really stupid.

  Fucking vodka! Fucking cheap vodka at that. ‘Why do you want port if you have been drinking vodka all night?’ I asked her as I pulled away.

  ‘You can taste that?’ she asked, bemused.

  ‘Yes. That and something vile and chemical,’ I said with distaste.

  ‘That’ll be the Red Bull. It keeps you awake, man!’ she yelled excitedly.

  ‘Have you ever considered champagne?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, I have champagne all the time, you Tory twat!’ she said, giving me a disgusted look. Then she kissed me again and I snacked until the bells went off.

  ‘Happy bloody 2008,’ she slurred.

  ‘Happy 2008, Fiona,’ I murmured.

  ‘I’m Cathy by the way,’ she said, punching me in the ribs. And then she smeared her bloodied lips all over my mouth again. Soon after that we walked down to her place on Leith Walk.

  ‘We need some fucking port,’ shouted Cathy, as we reached the top of the road.

  ‘Now! Port! You promised, you bastard!’ she yelled.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anywhere still open,’ I told her looking around. I was getting a wee bit bored of this girl; she was just so loud and drunk and vodka was not my favourite flavouring.

  I was about to call it a night when she said ‘Alright, let’s go back to mine. Fergus will be clawing at the door by now anyway. I bet my da’ fell asleep and didn’t pay him any attention.’

  ‘Who’s Fergus?’ I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

  ‘He’s ma dug.’

  ‘Oh, well! Let’s go and meet Fergus then,’ I said cheerfully, putting my arm around her shoulders again.

  We came to one of the Georgian tenements and she told me to keep quiet as we went in. When we reached her front door, I heard the dog scratching at the other side and, when he heard Cathy putting her key in the lock, start to bark excitedly.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Fergus. You’ll wake my da’,’ she hissed.

  We shouldn’t have worried, her dad had passed out on the couch surrounded by beer cans, and the telly was still on.

  ‘Fucking brilliant, man. Port!’ she said, lifting a bottle off the table and putting it to her mouth. She offered me the bottle, but I declined.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough, ta.’

  ‘Suit yersel. Let’s go to my room; I don’t want to wake ma da’,’ she said, grabbing my hand and leading me to her room. Then the hat, scarf and coat came off and I discovered she had pink stringy hair and about five earrings in each ear. She had that pale skin colour you only get by living in Scotland for many years and avoiding vegetables. She had a pretty enough face though, and if I closed my eyes I could just about forget the pink hair.

  I sat on the bed and pulled her on to my lap. Just as I was undoing her bra, Fergus managed to get into the room, leaped on to the bed and tried to lick my face.

  ‘Get off,’ Cathy shouted. But she didn’t look too hot at this point and suddenly made a bee line to the bathroom, where I heard her throw up.

  ‘I’ll take Fergus for a walk…’ I shouted through the bathroom door. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Breughhhh’ came the answer, so I put the leash on Fergus and we disappeared into the Edinburgh night.

  Fergus loved being in the car and just wouldn’t settle down. He tried to jump on to the front seat and George swore he was going to kill him before we even reached Haddington. I managed to convince him not to, as I do like my food fresh and this bouncy Alsatian would keep me satisfied until Dover.