by Mike Bennett
‘Stop!’ shouted the tall guard, trying to get a clear shot. ‘Stop, or – ’ The order froze on his lips as Underwood suddenly sank his teeth into the short guard’s neck.
The tall guard stepped back, away from his partner’s screams. ‘Dios mio!’ He fired a shot without thinking, and cried out when he saw it had hit his partner in the left shoulder blade. The bullet passed through the short guard and hit Underwood in the chest. Underwood’s eyes flashed up to see the tall guard trying to aim at him with wildly trembling hands. Underwood fixed the guard with a stare, savouring his terror for a few moments before releasing him with a friendly wink. ‘El diablo!’ The tall guard fired again, repeatedly, no longer caring whether he hit his partner or not, which was just as well, because he did. ‘Lo siento, Carlos! Lo siento!’ He was about to fire again when Underwood raised his face from the still-pumping wound and shouted:
‘Flinch! For God’s sake, man! What am I paying you for?’
The tall guard had a clear shot at Underwood’s head. He held his breath, aimed …
But then another gun fired. The tall guard’s head snapped back as a bullet from Flinch’s Luger hit him just above the right eye. He toppled over backwards, dead. ‘Sorry sir,’ said Flinch. ‘I had to go around the front of the car to get my gun.’
‘Yes, yes. Well, never mind.’ Underwood resumed drinking.
‘Shall I get you a cloth, sir?’ said Flinch, walking around to the passenger door. ‘We’ve no napkins of course, but I believe I may have a clean chamois somewhere.’ He listened for a reply, but there was none, save the gurgle of blood in the throat of the dying guard. Flinch sighed and looked at his watch. He sat down in the passenger seat and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and pushed the door open wider so as to get a better view of the moonlit landscape. It was a lovely night, cloudy but warm. From behind him came the sound of a body falling to the road.
‘Flinch?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where’s that cloth? I’ve got this bastard all over me.’
‘Sorry, sir, I was just enjoying the night.’
Underwood came around the side of the hearse, the blood that covered his chin and clothes glistened black in the moonlight. ‘Oh yes. Yes it is nice, isn’t it? Still, time waits for no man, old chap. You’ve got to get going.’
Flinch got up and handed Underwood a cloth.
Underwood grimaced. ‘That’s dirty. Don’t you have a clean one?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t had a chance to do any washing these past few days.’
‘Oh you are a clod, Flinch.’ Underwood took the cloth and wiped his face and hands.
‘Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. Will you be getting back in the casket or driving up front with me?’
‘Neither. I mean, look at me, Flinch; this suit’s utterly ruined.’ He ripped his shirt and waistcoat open and pointed to the bullet wounds on his chest. The black holes had stopped bleeding and already begun to heal. ‘Look where that bloody fascist shot me.’
‘Not a very nice welcome, sir.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Underwood, kicking off his shoes. He picked them up and inspected them. ‘These are all right, though; nothing a spot of spit and polish won’t take care of.’ He handed them to Flinch.
‘Yes sir, I’ll have them looking as good as new before tomorrow evening.’
‘Not that I’ll be needing them tomorrow evening, but still, good show, Flinch.’
‘Would you like me to take the suit, sir?’
‘No, it’s had it I’m afraid. It’s soaked up more claret than your grandfather used to at Christmas.’
‘Oh dear.’
Underwood removed his cufflinks, took out his cigarette case and lighter, and unhooked his watch from his waistcoat. He handed them all to Flinch. ‘Here, take these, would you?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Flinch took them and put them in his jacket pocket.
‘Now, are sure you know the way?’
‘Yes, sir, I have a map and directions. ’
‘Good, I’m going to have to go on ahead. It’ll be light soon and I want to get in and smarten up before the sun rises.’
‘Very good, sir. Lago and his friends have been there tonight and made the place all ready for us, so there should be a fire burning in the hearth, and something for you to eat in the kitchen.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll see you in a bit then.’ Underwood shooed him back. ‘You’d better get back, I know the suit’s wet but it’ll still go up.’
Flinch nodded and took a few steps back. Even though he had seen Underwood’s transformation process perhaps a thousand times, the sight still filled him with awe, and he felt a thrill of anticipation run through him.
Underwood grinned. ‘Right-ho then, Flinch. Carry on.’
Flinch watched as Underwood dropped into a crouch and then sprang upwards, launching himself into the night as the miracle that always made Flinch want to simultaneously weep and applaud, happened again. Underwood’s body lost its corporeal form, disintegrating into what the superstitious peasants of Eastern Europe had once believed to be smoke; a dense cloud of blood-red molecules – Underwood’s molecules – swirled up and away from the road. The intense heat generated by the molecular destabilisation caused Underwood’s clothes to burst into flames and fall away from him in blazing ruins as, still rising, the vampire began to take his new form.
Flinch raised a hand to shield his eyes as tatters of burning clothing fell around him. Then he looked up into the sky to where Underwood – phoenix-like, with smoke and burning embers still trailing in his wake – spread his black wings against the cloud-shrouded moon. The bat beat its wings, and even though it was perhaps twenty feet overhead, there came a strong down-rush of air that fanned the flames below and caused Flinch to stagger amidst the whirling eddies of ashes and embers. When he looked up again, his Master had gone.
He laughed. ‘There goes another Saville Row suit. Some people have got money to burn, all right.’ He shook his head and walked over to kick around the burning scraps. As always, there was nothing left to identify the clothes or their owner.
He walked around to the back of the hearse and looked down at the guard that Underwood had been feeding upon. He bent to feel for a pulse. The guard was alive, his pulse was faint but it was there. Flinch straightened up, drew the Luger from the waistband of his trousers and shot the man twice in the neck where Underwood had bitten him, and once – for certainty’s sake – in the head. Then he replaced the lid on the coffin before easing it back into the hearse and slamming the door. He turned to the dead guards that lay sprawled in the light from the headlights of their car. ‘Adios amigos.’ He gave them a friendly salute before getting back into the hearse and leaving them under a fine cloud of dust and exhaust.
Flinch saw the distant light of the farmhouse from miles away. At first he thought it was a star, low in the sky. But as he drew nearer, the light grew larger, becoming a small cluster, then distinct, individual lights. Now he could see the shape of the building against the hills and trees that surrounded it.
He felt a mingled sense of sadness and trepidation as he approached the gates. He was forty-seven years old and had been Underwood’s guardian for twenty years, succeeding to the role after his father retired back in 1938. What a time for the old man to retire, the eve of the Second World War. The war had been a ferocious and terrible time, but what adventures he and his Master had had together. And now here he was, rolling towards his own retirement; much earlier than his father had done, and much earlier than he himself had ever expected to. He’d never thought of himself as being a farmer, not least an olive farmer. But when His Lordship had made the decision to lay himself to rest, they’d had to decide where that resting place should be. All the allied Western countries were becoming increasingly difficult to keep a low profile in. It really came down to Africa, Spain, or possibly Italy. However, His Lordship was uncomfortable with Italy’s proximity to the Eastern Bloc countries, and since it had a thrivi
ng Communist Party of its own, he had felt it best to steer clear of it for now. Underwood didn’t want to wake up under communism, so of the remaining two, Flinch by far preferred Spain. Underwood had accepted his decision and they’d made the necessary arrangements to procure this remote farmhouse deep in the countryside of Europe’s only remaining fascist dictatorship. As much as Flinch disliked the idea of being in a fascist state, the Sect were strong here and he had no fear of being interfered with – though obviously their earlier run-in with the law suggested that word had yet to filter down to the lower ranks of the Civil Guard, but these things took time.
The Spanish house had seemed perfect. It was surrounded by olive groves for miles around. The groves had come with the land, and Flinch had arranged for a farmer and his family to move in to a smaller house on the land in order to manage the crop. The farmer would teach him the tricks of the trade, though whether or not he would actually become a farmer himself or just be a wise overseer, he hadn’t yet decided.
Members of the Sect had been making the place ready for weeks now, receiving items belonging to both Underwood and himself and installing them in readiness for their arrival. Flinch had been consulted on every stage of the preparations; he’d wanted to get it just right. After all, it was to be his home for what might turn out to be the rest of his life.
He drove through the open gates and up the winding path to the house. Lights burned in most of the windows. Obviously, His Lordship was making himself comfortable. Flinch parked the car in front of the house and got out.
The front door was ajar and he entered the candlelit hallway. The tiled interior was cool and Bing Crosby’s, Aren't You Glad You're You? drifted from deeper inside the house. Flinch smiled; evidently the phonographic records had arrived intact. He walked towards the sound of the music and entered the lounge. The phonograph was playing, but there was no one in the room.
He wandered through the house to the kitchen. A girl of about eighteen years sat slumped in a chair at the table. Her head hung forward so her chin rested on her collarbone, and her dark hair was tied back in a pony tail. Blood had trickled down her neck but stopped short of the collar of her white cotton blouse. Flinch went over and felt her pulse. She was alive; the Civil Guardsman had evidently taken the edge of Underwood’s appetite. Flinch took his handkerchief and wiped the blood from her throat. He’d put her to bed and she could be on her way tomorrow. She’d have no memory of what had happened to her.
There was a note on the table from señor Hernandez saying he had arranged things to the letter of Flinch’s instructions and that he hoped His Lordship enjoyed the meal. Flinch smiled and went through to a small room, along the far wall of which hung an arras. A breeze played around the bottom of the curtain. Flinch drew it aside to reveal a small flight of stairs that led to the roof patio. He ascended and emerged to find Underwood dressed in a fresh black suit and staring out across the dark expanse of countryside.
‘Hello, Flinch,’ he said without turning.
‘Hello, sir. Is everything alright?’
‘Everything’s fine, Flinch. I’m just savouring the night for the last time. Listen to the crickets: must be millions of them out there.’
Flinch joined him. ‘Well, not exactly the last time, sir. Just the last time for a while.’
Underwood smiled. ‘A very long while, Arthur. Fifty years is a lifetime for many people.’
‘It is, sir. Certainly it’s the rest of my days. I sometimes wonder what kind of a world you’ll be awakening to.’
‘Yes, so do I. The way the world’s going these days, mankind will either be flying rocket ships to Venus or ... well, it won’t be at all, eh?’
Flinch nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Nuclear war is indeed a frightening thing.’
‘Insane, isn’t it?’ Underwood sighed. ‘I’m tired, Arthur. These last two wars have been so bloody awful. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good war. In war, vampires are the last thing on anybody’s mind, and the feeding is out of this world, as you know. But things just seem to be getting out of hand, you know? And now, with the bomb and this bloody race to build ever bigger, ever nastier versions of it. I mean, well, that’s not war, is it? War’s a rotten business, certainly, but it’s not all bad. Besides bringing out the worst in men, it can often bring out the best in them too: courage, honour, camaraderie. But nuclear war?’ He shook his head. ‘That’ll be the end of everything, I fear.’
‘Yes, sir. We do seem to be heading into a very dark time.’
‘Yes, and I don’t want to be here when it happens. The human race isn’t just my favourite tipple, you know. It’s very dear to my heart in many ways. I mean, I used to be part of it.’
Flinch nodded. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cigarettes. ‘Perhaps a fag would cheer you up, sir?’
Underwood took one and accepted a light. ‘Thanks.’ He exhaled the smoke in a sigh. ‘I’ve grown tired of death as well. I used to be able to respect what I did, you know? I saw myself as part of nature’s design: a leveller, a harvester of a crop that needed to be contained lest it grow out of control, you know?’
‘Well, one could argue that it has grown out of control, sir. The population of the world isn’t exactly dwindling.’
‘No, I realise that. But the A-bomb, the H-bomb and whatever other lettered bomb they might be working on at the moment, they’ll take care of the population in an instant – do the work of a billion vampires overnight.’
‘Yes, sir. You’re not wrong there.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘I think all of us question the meaning of our existence from time to time, sir. “What am I here for?” we ask ourselves. “What does it all mean?”’
‘Any ideas, Flinch?’
‘Not really, sir. Life is just being here and trying to make the best of it before they finally do drop the bomb.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Yes. Yes, of course it is.’
‘Still, I do know what I’m here for. And my reason – as I see it, my purpose – is about to lie down and, as you say, die for fifty years.’
‘I’m leaving you at sixes-and-sevens with your raison d’etre am I, Arthur?’
Flinch looked away over the balcony. ‘No sir. I, I shall continue to serve you. My duties may be about to change, but you’ll still need me, even if it’s just to polish the silverware.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Thank you, Arthur.’ He laid a hand on Flinch’s shoulder and looked to the east, where the night was beginning to pale at the horizon. ‘Ah look, the morn in russet mantle clad walks upon the eastern thingy-me-bob.’ He dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. ‘Come, old chap. We have work to do. I’ve already been down to check the crypt and everything’s been done to order. All we need do,’ he smiled wanly, ‘is get on with it.’
They went downstairs and through the house until they came to a room that had been designated as the library. Packing crates filled with books were piled up everywhere and the walls were lined with bookcases waiting to be filled.
‘Do you plan on spending much time in here, Arthur?’
‘I imagine I’ll spend a good deal of time here sir. Books will probably be my primary source of entertainment.’
‘Did you speak with señor Lago about getting a television?’
‘I did sir, but decided against it. No doubt it will only show what General Franco and his chums want us to see, and I’ve no interest in any of that nonsense.’
‘Not that you could understand it anyway, eh?’ Underwood walked to one of the bookcases. It was the only one with a book in it. Underwood picked up the book. It was a paperback copy of Dracula. He handed it to Flinch. ‘A cunning marker, by the way.’
Flinch smiled. ‘I had Lago and his people mark the spot with what I felt was an apt title.’
‘Yes, I must say it made me chuckle. But not as much as this.’ The book had being lying against a concealed switch. Underwood pressed it and there was a click. He stepped back and took hold of the edge of
the bookcase. It was hinged and he swung it slowly open to reveal a staircase that led down to dim candlelight. ‘Bravo, Flinch.’
‘Merely following your instructions, sir.’
‘Yes, but still. It’s terrific fun, isn’t it? Shall we close it up again and then you can have a go?’
Flinch looked at his watch. ‘I really think we should be getting on, sir. I can have plenty of goes in the future.’
‘Yes,’ said Underwood with a note of regret in his voice. ‘Yes, I’m sure you shall. Oh well, let’s be getting on then.’ He stepped into the secret passage and started down the stairs. Flinch followed. The stairs ran down the side of the wall into the cellar. Candelabras had been set into the walls at regular intervals and all now blazed with light as Underwood and Flinch walked to the oak coffin that sat on a low stone plinth in the centre of the floor.
‘Lovely job down here too, Arthur. Still a bit musty, though. You’ll need to air it fairly regularly.’
‘Yes sir.’
Underwood laid a hand on the coffin lid, feeling its smooth, waxed surface. Then he turned to Flinch. ‘So, about the resurrection procedure; you’re all clear on what to do?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Everything will be done according to your specifications.’
‘I don’t want a big fuss. None of that Dennis Wheatley nonsense.’
‘No, sir. I shall pass on your instructions in this, and in all things, to the letter.’ Flinch’s voice trembled slightly. He cleared his throat and smiled.
Underwood patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll be fine. I’ve done this many times before.’
‘It’s not that, sir, I know that. It’s just – well, this is goodbye, isn’t it?’ A tear ran down his cheek.
Underwood smiled. ‘Yes, Arthur. I suppose it is.’ He extended his hand. ‘Thank you, for everything. You’re a credit to your family name, and when I look in your eyes I see your father, his father, and all of their fathers going back over the centuries to dear old Matthias. You have all been my friends and most trusted servants, and I shall always be thankful for that. You have done them proud, Arthur.’