Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  Suddenly she walked forward into the shadows at the. end of the basement where it narrowed until it was little more than a passageway to —

  To nowhere, Electra. It goes nowhere. It’s a dead end…

  (Just like your life, kid.)

  Now she could see nothing. She held out her hands into the darkness and walked forward.

  Her fingers met it. It was cold and hard. The iron door that had frightened her so much as a child.

  Frightened her mother, too. (I can hear noises at the other side of the door,’ her mother had said. ‘Sometimes I think I can hear people moving about through there.’ Dad had laughed it off, saying that there was nothing on the other side of the door but a section of disused basement.)

  Mum claimed to have heard noises in the basement the day she died.

  Found dead in the basement. She had died alone. Cold when they found her; eyes wide; brush head gripped in both hands the way the Angel Gabriel holds his sword you when smiting demons. ‘There was a little pool of wee spreading out fwom her bottom,’ her father had mumbled towards the end, ‘a little pool of wee, Electwa. Can you imagine it? Your mother would have been so embawassed if she’d have known.’

  Well, she wouldn’t know anything. She was as dead as a door-nail.

  By touch, Electra checked the two padlocks that held the door shut. With a fatalistic shrug she gave the locks a good hard pull, almost daring them to come flying off in her hand.

  When she was fifteen she’d seen a war documentary at school. It showed a soldier single-handedly firing a big field gun. Stripped to the waist, he lifted this big artillery shell up in his arms as if it was a baby, slipped it into the gun’s breech, then fired it; the shock wave from the gun shook leaves from the trees. Most of her classmates wriggled or chatted — war documentaries interested teenage girls NOT! But Electra had seen something extraordinary. The single gunner’s comrades all hid behind a mound of earth because the enemy were swarming over the hill and firing down at the lone gunner.

  Fatalistically, that lone gunner, working in an exposed clearing in the wood, must have known that any second one of the hundreds of bullets buzzing through the air towards him would take his life. But he was beyond caring. He’d carry on firing the big gun until he was killed.

  Even then Electra had a premonition that the clip of film was somehow significant. Now she empathized with that doomed gunner with an intensity that bordered on the monstrous.

  She too felt as if she was fighting a losing battle (not the hotel; oh no, not the hotel, that was running at a profit).

  Death’s hurtling towards me, she thought, not in the shape of a bullet. No, it’s something else. Just as lethal. She could feel it; just as she felt the blood running through her veins.

  At that moment, the bell on the reception desk rang, breaking the spell.

  With a sigh she stepped back out of the shadows and headed for the basement steps.

  Maybe it’s my Prince Charming; he’s come to take me away from all this. But she knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. Prince Charmings don’t call on one-horse towns like Leppington. Just like the soldier in the documentary, she’d have to face the onslaught alone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dr David Leppington stepped through the doorway of the cafe into the fresh air. It was only a couple of minutes away from check-in time at the hotel across the market square. Now he really was looking forward to that hot shower.

  He hoisted the holdall over one shoulder.

  He’d taken barely a couple of steps in the direction of the hotel when he saw a middle-aged man in day-glo orange overalls hurrying towards him. One look at the man’s tense expression told him something was wrong.

  The man called to David, ‘Hey, mate, is there a telephone in the cafe?’

  ‘I think so,’ David said, expecting there would be. Immediately there was a shout from his left.

  ‘Tony! Best get the fire brigade out here, too. We can’t shift him.’

  David shot a look left to where a knot of men in the same orange overalls — street cleaners, he guessed — were clustered over something where the road ended at the massive brick wall of the slaughterhouse.

  David’s instincts immediately joined forces with his professional training. A figure lay face down on the ground. Mentally he ticked off the possibilities: aneurysm, cardiac arrest, asthma attack, stroke, epileptic fit.

  Heart beating faster as adrenalin squirted into his system, he hurried across the cobbled road to where the man lay.

  The man wore street-cleaner overalls.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ David asked crisply.

  ‘Who are you?’The man who’d asked the question was more scared than aggressive.

  ‘I’m a doctor. What happened to him?’

  ‘It’s our mate. He’d got his grab stuck down the drain.’ The man nodded at a metre-long pole with a mechanical clamp at one end on the ground beside a sloppy mound of silt; the device resembled an elongated set of forceps. ‘When he tried to free it, that’s when he got his own hand stuck down there.’

  ‘Here, watch this, please.’ David handed his bag to one of the workmen and crouched beside the trapped man who lay face down on the ground, his arm thrust down into the drain. David could only see as far as the wrist. Oil-black slime covered the man’s hand and fingers. The drain itself was nothing remarkable; a surface-water run-off drain you’d find set at the side of any road. The iron grating had been lifted clear and set on the ground just a metre or so away.

  ‘Hello, I’m a doctor,’ he told the man. ‘Can you move your fingers?’ No response.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  Daft question. David saw the man staring, eyes bulging, at his arm as it vanished into the water. His face was as white as freshly fallen snow. The muscles stood out in his neck as if he was using every shred of will-power to stop screaming out loud.

  ‘What’s your name? Can you hear me? Tell me your name.’

  Again no response. The man stared down into the drain where his hand was trapped with all the astonishment of someone watching angels dancing on a pinhead.

  David glanced up at the nearest workman — a man pushing fifty with grey stubble on his chin. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Ben Connor.’

  ‘How long has Ben been stuck like this?’

  ‘Ten minutes. At first we thought he was just pulling our legs. You know, a practical —’

  ‘You’ve tried pulling him free?’

  ‘We tried. He’s locked solid.’

  ‘Ben,’ David said gently. ‘Ben. Can you hear me?’

  ‘He’s only got his hand stuck,’ said one of the younger workmen; he wore a black jeep hat pulled down tight over his head; the man’s expression was sullen.

  ‘No, I don’t like the look of him,’ David said quickly, his training in A&E coming rushing back. ‘He’s going into shock.’

  ‘That serious?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Why?’ the young man in the jeep hat asked in disbelief. ‘He’s only got his flipping hand stuck.’

  ‘Shock is serious, believe me.’ David touched the man’s skin: cold, clammy; it looked pale. Yep, classic symptoms of shock. He checked the pulse in the man’s neck. It was rapid and far from strong. Shock. Definitely shock.

  ‘We’ve got to get this man’s arm out of there,’ he told the older workman.

  ‘How? We’ve tried.’

  ‘Just give me a minute.’ He crouched down beside Ben who was still staring down into the drain as if something marvellous was going to emerge. ‘Ben…can you hear me?’

  No response. The eyes glistened with a strange intensity.

  ‘Ben…we’re going to get your arm out of there.’

  Then the trapped man spoke with a morbid fascination. ‘My fingers…my fingers.’

  ‘Your fingers?’ David said gently. ‘What about your fingers?’

  The man swallowed. His eyes never flinched from his arm disappearing into the black
drain water. ‘My fingers…something’s biting them.’

  ‘There’s something biting your fingers?’

  ‘Rats,’ the young man said almost belligerently as he looked down at his trapped workmate. ‘Fucking rats have got him.’

  ‘There aren’t any rats down there,’ the older man said. ‘I’ve never seen a single rat in them drains, or in the sewers here, in all my —’

  ‘Ah!’

  The man’s self-control snapped. He looked down into the drain and let out a roar of sheer pain. He was panting but his face became even more pale.

  ‘My fingers. They’re eating my fingers…uh — uh…’

  With another groan he slumped forward. David managed to get his hand under Ben’s face before it hit the iron edge of the drain.

  ‘What’s wrong with Ben?’ the old man demanded, frightened.

  ‘He’s fainted.’

  ‘Then he won’t feel anything,’ the young workman announced in a self-satisfied way.

  The next moment another workman ran up — the same one who had asked about the telephone in the cafe. ‘Fire engine and ambulance are on their way. Uh, what’s the matter with Ben now? He’s not —’

  ‘No,’ David said quickly. ‘He’s not. And I want it to stay that way.’

  ‘You mean —’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening to his hand down there,’ David said quickly, ‘but he’s gone into shock.’

  ‘The fire engine will be here soon,’ said the young man in a way that was really starting to get up David’s nose. ‘Why can’t you wait until they get here?’

  ‘Because he’s showing signs of blood loss — this is a severe case of shock.’

  ‘But he’ll be all right?’ asked the older man, eyes wide.

  ‘Only if we get his hand free. Believe me, shock can kill as efficiently as a bullet.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  David nodded at the four strongest-looking men. ‘You, you, you and you.’ He felt in gear now; focused on saving the man’s life. ‘Grab him by the overall. On the count of three, lift. Lift straight up as hard as you can. OK?’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Please do as I say. Your mate’s life depends on it. OK, get a good grip. Make sure you lift straight upward, otherwise you’ll snap his arm back against the elbow joint.’ He glanced at each face in turn; they’d follow his instructions to the letter. ‘OK, one, two, three — lift,’ They lifted, with David holding the unconscious man’s head. For the first few centimetres the body lifted easily from the floor. Then the arm pulled tight. David glanced down into the drain: the water surged round the man’s fingers like black syrup. The hand remained locked tight. As if it had been set there in concrete.

  ‘Next time pull harder.’

  The young man protested, ‘It’ll pull his bloody arm out of its socket.’

  ‘Easier to re-socket the joint than restart his heart. His pulse is pretty weak.’ David took a deep breath while cradling the man’s head. ‘Go on the count of three again. One, two, three…now.’

  This time the four men strained, clenched their teeth, veins standing out in their necks. They heaved like they were taking part in a tug-of-war.

  The trapped man muttered; his eyes flickered open and rolled, showing the whites; even though he was unconscious the pain was punching its way through his brain.

  ‘Come on. Pull harder.’

  David glanced back at the arm. It actually seemed to be stretching as if it was made from elastic; the strain on it was immense. He imagined the tendons cracking, the fibres stretched to breaking point.

  Come on, come on…

  Human beings are tough cookies…the arm shouldn’t actually snap off…but, hell, look at the way it’s stretching. The shoulder joint’s going to pop any second.

  ‘Yesss!’

  Every man there sang out the second the hand snapped clear of the drain; the man lifted as easily as a doll now; in fact, the sudden release almost threw the four men off balance.

  ‘Right, listen carefully.’ David marvelled; his tones of quiet authority seemed to come from someone else. ‘Lay him down on the ground. Gently does it. Gently. Stand back, please.’ David expertly moved the unconscious man into the recovery position, lifting the man’s leg that was furthest from him and rolling him onto his side. Quickly, he checked the unconscious man’s airway: breathing still shallow and rapid, but otherwise tolerable.

  ‘Jesus, look at his hand,’ one of the men said.

  ‘Rats. I told you it was rats.’

  ‘And I told you there aren’t no rats under here.’

  ‘All sewers’ve got rats.’

  ‘These haven’t. I’ve been going down there for the last forty years.’

  ‘What had a go at his hand, then?’

  David was too busy checking the man’s vital signs to join in the great rat debate.

  At last he could turn his attention to the man’s hand. Gently he lifted the man’s muscular arm in both his hands. Drain water blackened it to the elbow. He looked more closely.

  Hell, what a mess.

  The man’s rubberized work gloves had been torn to nothing but loose strands that dangled from the cotton cuff of the glove.

  ‘Told you, Doc.’ The irritating young man in the black jeep hat again. ‘Tell me that isn’t the work of a rat?’

  David didn’t reply. The injured man needed his attention most.

  The hand was smeared with that slick wet mud, black as oil, reeking thickly of drains. But overlaying the black were red smears of blood. He saw that the middle finger and forefinger were severed at the knuckle. The thumb had been cut through just above where it joined the hand. The stumps looked like chopped-up sausages. Splinters of startlingly white bone poked from the muck and blood.

  David checked the tattered remains of the glove for any sign of the severed fingers. Nothing there.

  Raising the man’s arm to slow the bleeding, he looked up at one of the men. ‘The cafe will have a first-aid box. Please bring it…wait a second, I’ll also need a roll of cling film, a plastic bag full of ice cubes and a couple of clean towels.’

  The man didn’t question the list and sprinted away in the direction of the cafe.

  The young man in the black jeep hat said, ‘Why haven’t you used a tourniquet to stop the bleeding?’

  ‘I want him to bleed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m controlling the bleeding. The flow of blood is washing the dirt from the wound.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Shut up, Stevo.’ The older workman sounded tired. ‘Let the doctor work.’

  David looked up gratefully at the older workman. ‘What you could do for me is get as much material out of the drain as possible.’

  ‘His fingers?’

  David nodded. ‘If we can find them the surgeon might be able to reattach them.’ As the man walked towards the drain David added, ‘Best use the mechanical grab. Not your own hands.’

  ‘Don’t worry. No danger of that.’ The workman picked up the grab and lowered the business end into the drain where he began hoisting out silt and twigs dripping with that filthy, stinking water.

  ‘Watch out for rats, Greg,’ the young man said.

  ‘I told you, there aren’t any rats.’

  ‘What got Ben’s fingers, then?’

  The old man shrugged and concentrated on pulling the mud out of the drain.

  David kept quiet while he studied the man’s wounded hand. True, rats could gnaw away fingers, but it would take hours for them to do this kind of damage — and usually the victim was long dead by the time they got to him or her, perhaps murdered and dumped in undergrowth where the rats could patiently work undetected. Also, this damage wasn’t at all consistent with rat bites: the finger bones had been crushed to splinters, not gnawed. And now he’d carefully wiped away some of the mud from the hand he could see further bites on the man’s hand and fingers. These hadn’t punctured the skin, but they had left a series of d
eep indentations in what approximated a letter C shape.

  He recognized these bite marks clearly enough. Only it wasn’t possible they’d been inflicted while the man’s hand was down the drain. They must have been inflicted (possibly self-inflicted?) earlier in the day.

  The workman returned with the first-aid kit, and the rest of the items David had listed.

  As David worked, quite a crowd gathered to watch, their eyes wide. It certainly beats TV medical dramas — why, you can almost taste the blood, can I you, Mrs Jones?

  The voice in the back of his head tossed forward the odd flippant remark, but he didn’t allow it to affect the way he worked — his own fingers moved swiftly, skilfully applying dressings to the still-raw wounds. The man’s blood washed over his own hands to the extent he had to sometimes pause to wipe his fingers on the cafe’s towel — which bore a picture of Whitby Abbey, some part of his mind dispassionately noted. He’d hand that over to the ambulancemen for incineration.

  He called to the grey-haired workman clearing out the drain. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I’ve got everything out I can get with the grab.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you want me to try using my hand?’

  ‘No. It’s not worth the risk.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ he asked, pointing at the pile of oozing silt.

  ‘I’ll go through it.’ David gently placed the injured man’s hand down onto a folded towel.

  ‘Would you like me to keep his hand held high?’ asked a teenage girl eagerly. ‘That slows the blood loss, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, thanks. He’ll be fine like that.’ Ideally, the hand should be raised but he didn’t want the man’s blood being spread round any further than it had to be. ‘But if you could keep an eye on him and shout to me if his breathing becomes laboured or if he comes to. OK?’

  She smiled and nodded, pleased to be put in charge.

  ‘Thanks.’ David moved across to the pile of silt. If anything, it looked like a mound of sloppy diarrhoea. Trying to avoid breathing through his nose, to minimize catching the stink, he took a couple of pencils from his jacket pocket and held them like chopsticks. (See, David, he told himself, even all those boozy nights spent in Chinese restaurants weren’t wasted.) With the improvised tweezers he quickly began to pick up anything that looked as if it might belong to poor Ben across there on the pavement. Twigs, leaves, cigarette butts, a spent cigarette lighter, a foreign coin — all dross washed into the drain from the street. Then he saw a stubby sausage-shaped object. Chopstick-style, he plucked it from the grue like it was a big, juicy prawn.