by Mike Bennett
‘So how did Catherine get away with it?’
‘She played the role of a man: wore her hair short and a selection of specially tailored corsets.’
‘Well, that can’t have been much fun.’
‘On the contrary, we had a great deal of fun. Nothing like pulling the wool over the eyes of the establishment, eh? And in our case, it was a double deception: me as a human, she as a man. And if anyone found out, then they didn’t live long enough to make it public knowledge.’ He chuckled.
‘Well, these days, My Lord, no deception is necessary; women are considered equal to men in every respect.’
‘Are they, indeed?’
‘Yes sir. Why, there have even been women Prime Ministers in Britain, India ... and some other places too.’
‘Really? How interesting.’
‘Oh yes. Times have changed while you’ve been sleeping, sir.’
‘Haven’t they, just? I half-expected to wake up to a nuclear wasteland. Instead I find women Prime Ministers and ... you.’
Lydia smiled. ‘Welcome to the 21st Century, Lord Underwood.’
David stood under the cold water of the shower with his eyes closed and scenes from the resurrection ceremony flickering over and over on the silver screen of his memory. He saw again the desiccated Underwood pulling Beltran towards him; saw again the fanged mouth closing over Beltran’s horrific wound; and then Beltran’s death, shaking as the life was literally sucked out of him. David began to tremble, though it was nothing to do with water temperature.
‘Oh God, what have we done?’
He felt tears in his eyes and for a moment, he let them come, mixing with the water that flowed over him as in memory he looked down again from the top of the cellar stairs, terrified and powerless, as Underwood embraced Ana. He saw again the face of the monster as it looked up at him, dismissing him with contempt before Lydia pushed him away from the scene of the crime. He wondered if Ana had tried to fight; if at some point she had realised that all she was, was food.
‘Oh, what have we done, Lydia? John? Dad? Dad, you fucker! Why didn’t you just bang a stake through his fucking heart back in ’58 and free all of us from this fucking curse!’ He slammed a hand against the tiled wall of the shower stall and it slipped on the wet surface, causing him to stagger and almost fall. ‘Shit!’ He righted his balance and shut off the water. ‘Fuck! FUCK!’ he struck the wall again, defying it and drunken gravity to knock him down. But he stood steady.
He got out of the shower and looked at his face in the misted mirror, wiping it so he could meet his own eyes. ‘And so,’ he whispered, ‘it falls to me to be either his guardian or executioner.’ He pointed at his refection, as if telling himself how it was going to happen. ‘If I can get him to do things my way – and that’s looking pretty bloody unlikely right now – then I will guard him. But if he won’t, I can’t just allow him to go on murdering people. Potato or fucking potahto, it all boils down to the same thing, which means that I’ll have to be his executioner. I don’t know how, but I can find out from the diaries. I don’t know when or where, but I do know that one day the moment is going to present itself, and when it does I will kill the bastard. I swear it.’
‘Ah, Flinch,’ Underwood said as David walked into the kitchen fifteen minutes later. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ David had shaved and put on Levis and a fresh t-shirt. He walked over to the coffee pot, averting his eyes from the vampire and trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. ‘Would anyone like a coffee?’
‘Not for me,’ said Underwood. ‘I never touch the stuff.’
David sneered, his back turned to Underwood and Lydia as he tapped a couple of spoonfuls of coffee into the percolator. ‘Of course not, My Lord. Lydia?’
‘Why not?’ said Lydia. ‘I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight, anyway.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said David. ‘After all, we’ve got corpses to dispose of, haven’t we?’
‘Oh God, David, not tonight, for Heaven’s sake!’
David turned to face them. ‘Well what else are we going to do? Leave them down there to stink up the Master’s chamber?’ He smiled. ‘That wouldn’t do, would it, Milord?’
Underwood watched David through the unravelling smoke of his cigarette. ‘Have a care, Flinch. You’re obviously still rather tipsy.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry sir, I am. But still, I think you’ll agree, I do have point about the bodies in the cellar.’
Underwood raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, you think I’ll agree, do you?’
‘Was, was I wrong to think that?’
‘Yes, you were. Really, Flinch, you seem to have absolutely no sense of your position. You act like we’re a couple of chums, when in fact I am your master, and you are my servant.’
‘I apologise, sir. I don’t wish to speak out of turn,’ David’s tone was sincere, albeit with a slight whiskey inflection. ‘But, if I may just say ... ?’
Underwood nodded. ‘Please, do.’
‘I never actually wanted to be your servant, sir.’
Underwood smiled. ‘Well, that’s rather your hard cheese, isn’t it?’
David’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, sir, I suppose it is.’
‘You are, by right of birth, the next in line for the job. Why, if you didn’t do it, then the role would fall automatically to Lydia here.’
‘Actually,’ said David, ‘I don’t know if that would be a very good idea either.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Let’s just say I don’t think you’d be good for each other.’
Underwood turned to Lydia. ‘Is that so, Lydia?’
‘David thinks I’d be a bad influence, My Lord.’
Underwood chuckled. ‘Yes.’ He turned back to David. ‘Perhaps her bad influence is just the thing I need, Flinch. She’s just been telling me about this young man you have down in the basement; that you knew all about him, and yet refused to use him as a sacrifice.’
David shot a look at Lydia. ‘As I told you before, sir, I wanted to resurrect you humanely. I felt we could restore you without necessarily killing anybody.’
‘And as I told you before, in that, you were entirely mistaken.’
‘Yes sir, but I felt we had to try, didn’t I? To try to turn over a new leaf – for your own sake.’
‘Oh? Explain.’
‘Well, I have explained my reasons to Lydia, My Lord, but she’s obviously omitted to explain them to you. To be brief, forensic technology has come a long way in the past fifty years; if you think you go around killing people as you’ve done in the past then you’re seriously mistaken. The days of draining a corpse and just tossing into a ditch by the side of the road are over.’
‘By “modern forensic technology”, you mean, the constabulary?’
‘Yes, the constabulary, the law, the fuzz, the coppers – they’ll track you down, sir, and they will bang you up in no time.’
‘Will they? I hardly think that likely. Lydia has been telling me that we have a number of senior police officials in the Sect.’
David looked at Lydia. She beamed at him like the cat that got the cream. He shook his head and turned to Underwood. ‘That’s as maybe, sir, but it’s not enough. A bent copper on one force or another isn’t gonna be able to save you from the modern Spanish equivalent of Scotland Yard. I mean, already there are corpses piling up: we’ve got two downstairs that will soon be attracting the flies. What are we gonna do with them?’
‘Bury them?’ Lydia suggested.
‘Okay. So we bury them, and then tomorrow night we’ll have one, maybe two more. And what’re we going to do with those?’
Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Bury them.’
‘So how long will it be before half the town is buried around the back of our house? There’ll be a trail of blood leading to our door so red you’d be able to see it from outer space!’
Underwood nodded. ‘Of course, you have a point Flinch, which is why in the past I’ve
always tended to move around a lot.’
‘In the past, sir, that might have been a solution. A body here, a body there, different police forces with no lines of communication. I’m sure you could evade detection for a good long while. But you see, it’s not like that anymore. Police forces work together, even on an international level, and they will find you – and quickly too. And then what? To them, you’re a new species, a thing of myth and folklore made flesh. They’ll have you locked up in a lab in no time and be running tests on you for … well, forever.’
‘The cell hasn’t been built that can hold me, Flinch.’
‘I’ve no doubt that was the case, sir, but they could build one now, trust me.’
Underwood thought for a moment then turned to Lydia. ‘What do you think, Lydia?’
Lydia looked uncomfortable, she shrugged. ‘He may have a point, My Lord, but I feel sure that with the right Flinch at your side you could evade capture as easily as you always did with our forefathers.’
Underwood smiled and turned back to David. ‘Yes, perhaps. But it is true, I am, shall we say, “acquainted” with MI5, MI6 and a number of other of the world’s secret service departments. Actually, I remember your father and I had a spot of bother with the FBI in New York shortly after the last war. Dashed clever chaps, I have to say.’
‘Exactly,’ said David, ‘and however smart they were like then, they’re a lot smarter now. Which is why if you want to remain free, My Lord, then using donors as I ... tried to do earlier, is the only way forward. You could use Sect people, they’d all be more than willing.’
‘Yes,’ said Lydia, ‘but that doesn’t mean – ’
Underwood held up a hand. ‘Enough, please. Clearly there is much to consider in what you’re both telling me.’ Without saying another word he stood up, walked to the kitchen door and went outside.
For a moment, both David and Lydia waited for him to return. When he didn’t, David turned to the coffee percolator and pulled out the pot of freshly brewed coffee. ‘How do you take it, Lyd? Cream, sugar?’
‘Just what are you playing at, David?’ hissed Lydia. ‘One minute you say you don’t want this job, next minute you say you do. And now, not only are you saying you don’t want it, but you’re trying to fuck up my chances of getting it as well, filling the Master’s head with – ’
‘With the truth, Lydia. Like it or not, what I said is true. You’d be caught. He’d wind up in a lab and you’d go to prison for the rest of your life, if you were lucky.’
‘Oh don’t be so bloody practical! You’ve no romance in you, David Flinch, you never did have. You should have been a fucking accountant.’
David held up her coffee mug and pointed at it enquiringly.
‘Black!’ she snapped. ‘No sugar.’
‘Here you are, then.’ He set the mug before her and sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘We’ll drink this then we’ll get Miguel and go down to the cellar and start bringing the bodies up. It’ll be hard work, and messy too, but with a bit of luck we might get them into the ground before sun-up.’
‘Oh, fucking wonderful,’ Lydia snatched up Miguel’s cigarettes. ‘Why couldn’t he have killed them outside?’
‘Yeah,’ David shook his head. ‘So thoughtless of him, wasn’t it? Still, at least we haven’t got white carpeting down in the cellar, eh? That’s something at least.’
Despite herself, she smiled at him. ‘Have a care, Flinch.’ She laughed a little.
‘Yeah, and have a care yourself. And give me one of those fags, will you?’
Underwood strode in from outside. ‘My word, it’s a lovely night. I’m going out.’
‘Out, My Lord?’ said Lydia.
‘Yes, but don’t concern yourselves,’ he said as he crossed the kitchen. ‘You just carry on and enjoy your coffee.’ He disappeared into the hallway.
David looked at Lydia. ‘He’s, er, he’s going out.’
Lydia nodded, her face suddenly pale. ‘Yes.’
‘Still, don’t worry yourself.’ He raised his coffee mug. ‘Let’s just enjoy our coffee.’
Underwood returned, carrying one of the sports bags that Beltran had brought the medical equipment in earlier. ‘I say, I saw this beneath the stairs in the cellar. Could I possibly have it?’
Lydia did her best to smile. ‘Yes. It’s ... just a bag.’
‘Smashing,’ Underwood looked at David. ‘Follow me, Flinch. I need to talk to you, man to man, as it were.’ He smiled at Lydia. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Oh … of course not, sir,’ said Lydia. ‘Why would I mind?’
David got up and followed Underwood out of the kitchen door.
Lydia watched them go. She thought about Underwood’s new bag, and then about Beltran – who had no further use for it or anything else – lying dead downstairs, waiting for her to drag him up and bury him. She felt her eyes filling with tears and she quickly wiped them away. Then, she picked up David’s whisky bottle and poured a generous measure into her coffee.
David followed Underwood across the courtyard. They passed the fountain and went out under the archway onto the front drive. When they were a short distance from the house, Underwood stopped, turned to him, and held out the bag.
David was unsure how to respond. ‘Sir?’
‘Well, take it Flinch, it’s a bag, it won’t bite.’
David took it.
‘You know Flinch, there are several reasons why the position of guardian is best suited to a man, and I’m going to show you one of them.’ Underwood began unbuttoning his shirt.
David’s brow furrowed. Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked down to the bag. He opened it and checked inside: it was empty. He looked back to Underwood, whose shirt was now fully unbuttoned and fluttering in the breeze. Underwood bent forwards and started to remove his shoes. David wished he weren’t so drunk so that he might be able to make better sense of what was happening.
‘I was just saying to your sister,’ said Underwood, ‘that traditionally, a gentleman’s gentleman had to be, well, a gentleman. You see, there were places that only men could go. I’m not just talking about clubs and societies, but institutions and things – you know, like Parliament for example. You follow me?’ Underwood handed David his shoes.
‘Er, yes, sir,’ David took the shoes and held them.
‘Put them in the bag, Flinch, soles first if you please.’
David did as he was told.
‘But that’s not the only reason it’s a man’s job,’ said Underwood, taking off his socks and handing them to David.
David put them in the bag also.
‘There are the physical reasons too. Men are stronger and more aggressive than women, which always comes in handy in a scrap, eh?’
‘I ... suppose.’
‘And then there’s this,’ he indicated his current semi-dressed state. ‘You see, sometimes I have to fly out of a place in a hurry.’ Underwood handed David his shirt. ‘And when I do, it’s necessary for me to take off all my clothes – lest I lose them.’ He began unfastening his trousers.
‘Er, I’m sorry sir, I don’t think I understand.’
Underwood dropped his trousers and stepped out of them. ‘Well, it’s obvious isn’t it, Flinch? I can’t go stripping down to my birthday suit in front of a woman, now can I?’
‘You can’t?’
‘Oh good heavens, no, of course not. It’d be embarrassing for both of us, and of course, it’s not unthinkable that she might have inappropriate desires,’ he held out his trousers, adding with a smile, ‘I mean, considering my age, I like to think I’m still in pretty good shape, eh?’
David took the trousers and put them in the bag. ‘Er – yes sir, but, what I don’t understand is why you need to get undressed in the first place.’
Underwood stopped. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘About the whole transformation thing?’
‘Well, I read something about it in John’s n
otes but I thought ... ’
Underwood took off his boxer shorts and handed them to David. ‘Thought what?’
‘I thought he was ... parroting myth.’
‘Myth?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Well, you need to read that chapter again I’m afraid, Flinch, because there’s nothing mythical about me, I can assure you.’
‘Oh. I see.’
Underwood smiled. ‘No, you don’t. But you will in a minute. Zip up that bag and stand back, will you?’
‘Sir?’
‘Stand back. I haven’t done this in a long time, you know, so I’ll probably be a bit rusty. When I’m in tip-top shape I can do it in the wink of an eye, but needless to say, I’m not. Anyway, get back.’
David took a couple of steps back.
‘Good. Now, I want you to start counting down slowly from five to zero, that should be plenty of time. On zero, throw that bag up in the air as high as you can. Okay?’
David frowned. ‘Er, could I ask why, sir?’
‘So I can catch it, of course.’
‘But why catch it when I can just pass it to you now?’
Underwood clucked his tongue. ‘Just do as I say, Flinch. I’m going into town and I may be some time, so don’t wait up for me, take the rest of the night off – after you’ve taken care of the … household chores, that is.’
David doubted whether his “chores” would be over before sunrise but he felt little good would come of saying so. He nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Good. Start the count.’
David took a step back and started counting out loud. ‘Five.’ Almost immediately he felt a heat begin to radiate from Underwood’s direction.
‘Four.’ Red smoke began to seep from Underwood’s skin. David stared in disbelief. Was it smoke, or something else? It certainly appeared to be the same as whatever Underwood had turned his nails into earlier, but now it was surging from his whole body.
‘Three.’
The smoke poured, thicker, hotter, not rising as smoke should, but funnelling around the core of Underwood’s form like a small tornado. ‘What?’ David cried. ‘What are you doing?’