Dire Straits

by Helen Harper

  I’m surprised that vampires use therapy – it seems a very modern phenomenon. I suspect that if I start talking about the trauma I’ve experienced over the last few days, I’ll end up a bawling, shaking mess.

  ‘Bo, your appointment is already scheduled for 3am.’

  ‘I don’t need counselling,’ I protest.

  ‘Regardless, you will take it.’ His tone brooks no argument.

  My chest tightens. It is an almost impossible situation. I won’t be able to trust the counsellor so I’ll have to skirt around the important stuff as well as trying to appear to open up. Yet another thing to worry about.

  Ursus turns on the projector and another PowerPoint presentation beams up, uninspiringly entitled ‘Rules and Regulations’. Despite our anxiety about Matt, there’s a collective groan. We settle in for a long session.

  By the time we break for coffee and muffins – because it turns out vampires do eat real food – I’ve realised there’s an element of genius in Ursus’s monotonous lecture. It provides information we need to know and is delivered in such a boring manner that we have no choice but to calm down and stop fretting. More goblets of blood are produced, along with typical teatime fare, although I note that Ria hovers over them as if afraid to let them out of her sight. I bet they won’t be sitting unattended in any empty rooms from now on. I speculate whether she knows the truth about what’s going on, or whether she’s merely been told to stay with the blood without being given a reason.

  One of the other recruits, an amiable man wearing glasses who has told me that his back acne has miraculously cleared up since he woke from his turning, eyes the goblets then makes a move towards them. Even though the others are engaged in conversation, everyone glances towards him and watches, some more surreptitiously than others.

  He murmurs something to Ria and she hands him a glass, her face expressionless. He stares down at it, takes a deep breath and raises it to his lips. He gingerly takes a sip and his eyes widen. In about three seconds flat, he drains the whole thing. His eyes close in ecstasy although nothing else happens. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting. He certainly doesn’t immediately sprout long white fangs and there’s no clap of thunder.

  My hands are trembling so I shove them into the pockets of my jumpsuit and turn away. As I do, I see Ursus looking at me. ‘It’s time,’ he says.

  I nod, just as I see another one of our little group venture cautiously over to the blood. It’s been less than two days; there are still twenty-seven more to go. Unhappily, I follow the large vampire out.

  He leads me towards the back of the mansion. We pass the corridor I discovered yesterday with Nicky and Nell, although this time I avoid pausing to check Michael’s portrait. I’m taken to a large office, complete with Victorian fireplace, vast mahogany desk and comfortable leather-backed chairs. Ursus backs out, closing the door behind him.

  I’m expecting to see a friendly counsellor. Instead Arzo is by the window, gazing out from his wheelchair.

  ‘Are you my therapist?’ I ask him drily.

  He turns, deftly spinning one wheel as if he’s been practising all his life, and looks me over, scanning every inch of my body as if to check I’m still in one piece. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I kind of thought you’d be prettier.’

  He snorts. ‘So did I. How’s it going, Bo?’

  I lift my eyes to his. ‘Pretty bloody awful. You?’

  ‘You don’t want to know the trouble I’ve had with my bladder.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right about that.’ I give him a half-smile. Pity for his situation is not going to be appreciated.

  ‘I heard about the recruit who tried to hang himself.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I murmur noncommittally, ‘right after he tried to shag me.’

  ‘It was definitely the spell then?’

  I shrug. ‘What else could it be?’

  Arzo runs his hand through his hair. ‘There’s never been anything like this before. It’s crazy.’

  I sit down in one of the leather chairs. ‘Did Michael tell you about the theory that there’s a new Family Head trying to usurp everyone else?’

  ‘Michael?’ Suddenly I feel embarrassed. Arzo must register my discomfort because he dismisses it with a wave of his hand and answers my question. ‘Yes,’ he says grimly, ‘he told me.’

  ‘It’s got to be a woman. I smelled rosewater at Wiltshore Avenue just before I found O’Shea. And the fact that his spell targets men means it makes sense that a female, who’ll be immune to its effects, is orchestrating all this.’ A thought begins to form but it’s cloudy; before I can fully grasp it it’s gone and Arzo is speaking again.

  ‘There’s no evidence that it’s contagious.’

  ‘No, but it somehow makes sense. And Lucy, I mean Charity Weathers, told me it was a woman.’

  ‘You mean the human who was shoved under the train?’

  I nod. ‘I would have been too, if the police hadn’t showed up.’

  There’s a glimmer of anger in his eyes. ‘I heard about that.’

  I shrug. Foxworthy and Nicholls’ actions seem like they happened an eternity ago. Besides, what was I going to do about it? I tell him about Beth and how it’s possible she’s involved.

  He frowns. ‘And yet you say she helped you save this Matthew character?’

  ‘It could be a double bluff. You know, gain everyone’s trust, make it look like she’s the good guy. Maybe she knew I was on to her and this was the only way she could think of to make me believe otherwise.’ At Arzo’s look, I give a short laugh. ‘Yeah, I know. It seems unlikely to me, too. But there’s something about her that I don’t trust.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘I’m going to continue getting everyone to like me. Especially Beth.’

  He starts to chuckle. Affronted, I glare at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You probably don’t need to try very hard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘People generally like you, Bo. I’ve never seen you try very hard yet everyone who meets you wants to be your friend.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Give me an example of someone you know who doesn’t like you.’

  I think about my grandfather. I’m sure he loves me; like is another matter. But I don’t think he likes anyone apart from that damn cat so I don’t suppose he really counts.

  ‘Boris,’ I say finally. ‘He despised me.’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Michael Montserrat. I tried to attack him.’

  ‘Under duress,’ Arzo replies mildly. ‘Besides, I think Lord Montserrat likes you very much.’

  I have nothing to say to that so I change the subject. There is something else I need to know. ‘Arzo, how hard is this going to be?’

  He knows I don’t mean finding the creepy new vampire Head. ‘Harder than anything you’ve experienced before.’

  ‘Well, gee, don’t sugar coat it,’ I try to joke. It falls flat.

  His expression is serious. ‘How do you feel so far?’

  ‘Tired. I’ve got a headache that doesn’t want to go away. And,’ I lick my lips, ‘earlier when someone else drank, my hands started to shake.’

  ‘That’ll get worse, Bo. Have you ever seen a heroin addict trying to kick the habit?’

  ‘Only on TV.’

  ‘Then you have no idea how rough it’s going to get. Night sweats, hallucinations, your body screaming in pain…’

  ‘You failed to mention all this before, you know.’

  ‘Would it have made a difference?’

  I think about it. Probably not. ‘Why did you do it?’

  He’s silent.

  ‘Why did you choose not to drink?’

  ‘I understood the question. I’ve just never really told anyone about it before.’

  ‘Not even Tam?’

  He laughs slightly and shakes his head. ‘No, not even Tam.’ He sighs. ‘There was a girl. Dahlia. The most beautiful
person I’d ever seen. We met in the National Gallery of all places.’

  I try not to look surprised. I find it hard to imagine Arzo wandering around looking at paintings.

  ‘Yes, Bo,’ he continues gently, ‘I do have a cultured side. I’ve even been known to read poetry from time to time. Anyway, I bumped into Dahlia in front of Jane Austen’s portrait. She was a huge fan of Pride and Prejudice.’ His face twists. ‘I think she was looking for a Mr Darcy.’

  I stay quiet. This is obviously a difficult story for Arzo to tell and I don’t want to interrupt with an inane question that’ll make him clam up.

  ‘We went on several dates. I knew within five minutes of meeting her that I was in love. Spending the rest of my life by her side was all I wanted.’ Pain crosses his face and he looks away. ‘Then she disappeared. There was no trace of her. She didn’t answer her phone. I couldn’t track her through it because this was in the days before mobile phones. Her family didn’t know where she was and she didn’t show up to work.’ He lapses into silence again.

  I watch him for several moments. When it’s clear he’s not going to speak I ask, ‘You thought she’d been recruited?’

  He nods. ‘My best friend told me she’d suggested it was what she was going to do. One day, when I’d been working, she’d taken him to look at this very house. So, because I would follow her to the ends of the earth, I persuaded Lord Montserrat to recruit me too.’

  ‘Michael?’

  He nods.

  ‘Out of season?’

  Arzo smiles faintly. ‘I can be very persuasive. And they had the space. For some reason, that was a particularly bad year for recruits surviving the turning process.’

  Horrified, I stare at him. ‘Was Dahlia one of those who didn’t make it?’

  ‘No.’ He laughs humourlessly. ‘No, she wasn’t. She was back out in the real world, eloping to Gretna Green with my so-called friend.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, Arzo. I’m so sorry.’ I reach over to take his hand but he draws back. Pity is a bitch.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I just thought I’d made a terrible mistake by turning because she wasn’t here after all. I didn’t drink. It was hell but I damned well didn’t drink. I was going back to get her. Except when I made it to the full moon and became Sanguine instead of vampire and went back out, I found them together.’ His mouth twists. ‘Blissfully happy.’

  There’s nothing I can say that’s going to make him feel any better. This is a whole load of hurt that he’s obviously been carrying around for a long time. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell you,’ I murmur.

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘No. Bloody Michael Montserrat. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you she wasn’t here.’

  ‘It’s vampire policy, Bo. You know that. It’s a pledge of silence.’

  ‘He could have made a sodding exception. He didn’t have to recruit you.’

  ‘He needed an investigator.’ Arzo sighs. ‘It suited his purposes. No matter what else happens, Lord Montserrat is all about the Family.’

  I feel guilty for making this about me but I can’t help feeling conned. ‘And now he’s got two.’ At Arzo’s confused look, I explain. ‘Two investigators.’

  Comprehension flickers across his face, combined with sympathy. ‘He has more than us working for him these days. And he didn’t frame you for O’Shea, Bo. Nor did he have anything to do with the attack at Dire Straits.’ Arzo’s voice drops. ‘I helped persuade you as well.’

  I look away. No one actually makes me do anything I don’t really want to do – my grandfather will attest to that. But Arzo isn’t lying when he says he joined in with Montserrat to persuade me. But what’s done is done. I still a feel a prickle of betrayal but there’s not much I can do about it now.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you, Arzo. I really am,’ I say. Not just with Dahlia but with the Dire Straits’ attack too. I look him in the eyes. ‘I just don’t want to be a vampire.’

  ‘It’s less than a calendar month, Bo. You might be likeable but you’re stubborn as a goddamn mule. You’ll make it.’

  I wish I had his optimism. I return to the matter in hand. ‘I need a phone and internet access, Arzo. It’s too suspicious for me to talk to Montserrat on his own so can you tell him to get them for me? I’ve got the personnel files but I’m sure he and half the freaking bloodguzzlers in this place have gone through them over and over again. I’ve got leads on the outside I need to follow, as well as what’s going on in here.’ And I don’t want to speak to Montserrat himself because I’m pissed off with him after hearing Arzo’s revelations.

  My old colleague nods in agreement. ‘I’ll let him know.’

  I stand up to go. ‘Is there anything that’ll help me beat the cravings?’

  His face is curiously bland. ‘I found masturbation helped.’

  I blink, nonplussed. ‘Er … okay.’

  He grins. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  I wrap my arms round my body and hug myself. ‘Mmm.’

  Chapter Nineteen: Betrayal

  The following nights pass very slowly. I continue with project Be Nice to Everyone In Case They Tell You They Are Part Of A New Vampire Conspiracy. I’ve brought Beth into our little girlie fold since Matt’s ‘suicide attempt’ and she, Nell, Nicky and I often spend our precious free time together. Keep your friends close and all that. It doesn’t really get me anywhere, though. I just feel more and more tired and Beth rarely seems to open up.

  The day after my request for a phone and the internet, I receive a terse note in Montserrat’s now-familiar script. It informs me that I can tell him who to contact and what leads I want to follow outside the Family and he will see to them. As I’m not about to give Rogu3 up to anyone, no matter who they are, and I don’t want to subject the potentially innocent D’Argneau to a vampire-induced interrogation, I scribble a message back asking him to find out exactly how O’Shea’s spell breaks down and how women are affected by it. I expect another message in return, implying that if that’s all I have to go on then I’m a fairly useless private investigator. Oddly, however, I hear nothing.

  I’m fairly certain I didn’t imagine the teasing, light-hearted turn our relationship had taken so the current silence between us troubles me. I still feel annoyed on Arzo’s behalf and, as the hours and days pass, that emotion grows. I’ve scarcely seen Michael except when he’s swept by on his way to goodness knows where, and that encourages the antipathy. This is his sodding Family – what is he doing exactly to keep it intact and safe? There’s not even any information about what’s happening with Matt, although I assume he’s still alive or we’d have heard otherwise. I try to catch Montserrat’s eye when he passes by, indicating that I need to talk to him, but he either doesn’t notice or ignores me.

  The lack of action disturbs me so, by the third night when I’m confident that the others are tied up in a debate over Edgar Allen Poe and why he saw fit to hide his vampiric self from the world when his writing made it so patently obvious, I try to be more proactive. At least Tam would approve. All this skulking around and ingratiating myself is getting me nowhere.

  On the pretext that I need some study notes, I head back to the recruits’ bedrooms. Matt’s door is wide open and the room is clearly unoccupied; his bed has been stripped of its sheets. The sight makes me shiver. I guess they’re not expecting him to return any time soon. I go past my own room then down to Beth’s. Like most of us, old human habits die hard and her door is firmly closed. Theoretically, there’s no reason for it; none of us have any personal possessions or things to hide. We’re all one big happy Family. Of course, I’ve got Montserrat’s laptop – much good it’s doing me – but neither Beth nor anyone else should have any contraband. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that’s not actually true.

  I pause outside, one ear cocked just in case one of the others has decided to follow me. When I’m positive there’s nothing but silence, I twist the doorknob. The door creaks slightly an
d I wince at the sound. I nudge it open and peer inside.

  Her room is identical to mine in size and layout. Beth is apparently a bit of a slob. A discarded jumpsuit lies crumpled at the foot of the bed and her sheets are twisted. Not that I’m a neat freak or anything – the state of my car attests to that – but I’ve never been able to leave my room in the morning unless my bed is made up. I guess everyone has their little foibles.

  I make a mental snapshot of what the room looks like. Normally I’d use a camera to avoid making silly mistakes when I carry out a search but I don’t have that option any more. Once I’m satisfied that I have memorised the details, I start with the bed. There’s nothing under the pillow or inside the pillowcase; the mess of sheets hides nothing more than the off-putting smell of stale sweat and body odour. It’s good to know that Beth’s sleep is being disturbed in the same way as mine: I’m waking up several times a night covered in clammy sweat while the pit of my stomach whispers to me that it needs just one tiny drop of blood to settle it down.

  I lift up her mattress. There’s nothing there. The walls are bare and, other than some clean underwear shoved into the drawer in the bedside table and the standard-issue recruit shoes that she refuses to wear, I can’t see anything suspicious. I pick up her jumpsuit and pat it down, then stick my hand into each pocket. Again I come up empty. Either Beth is cleverer than most blondes get credit for or there’s simply nothing here.

  I’m just about to edge my way back out again when my gaze falls on the jug next to the bed. It’s exactly the same as mine. I glance inside, swirling the dregs of the water that remains at the bottom. It’s just water. Disappointed, I put it down, making sure it’s in exactly the same position. That’s when I realise that something feels wrong.