Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  The darkness was gone; along with the imagined bundles of dead babies and severed limbs.

  The spell was broken.

  Why was she down here?

  She felt such an idiot now.

  Maybe she’d drunk too much wine with Electra this afternoon after all. On an empty stomach, too.

  She looked at the sleeve of the silk blouse. The purple fibres gleamed under the light of the single 100-watt bulb.

  There was a white mark from the saltpetre on the walls. The same white powdered the fingertips of the lace gloves she wore.

  Now she felt angry at herself — and guilty: she’d no right to mess up clothes belonging to someone else.

  She looked up, realizing she’d heard something.

  A soft sound it was; like a note quietly played on a glockenspiel, not with a hammer, but with a bare knuckle.

  The sound came again.

  She looked towards the direction from which it came.

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  There, right at the end of the basement, almost concealed by the stagnant shadow, was what appeared to be a door.

  She moved towards it, her head tilted to one side.

  The door was of steel; a single great chunk of it like a piece of armour-plating from a battleship.

  It was hinged at one side.

  At the other side four padlocks held it shut. Two of the padlocks had begun to rust; the other two were shiny and new, as bright as mirrors in the glare of the light bulb.

  Now, where on earth does that lead? she thought. Lightly she touched the cold steel, sensing its great thickness; metal like that would stop cannon shells.

  As she touched the metal door a vibration tingled her fingers; simultaneously, she heard the glockenspiel note again.

  Someone’s knocking on the other side, she thought. The realization came to her quite coolly, even matter-of-factly. Somehow, someone’s got themselves locked in on the other side. I’ve got to let them out. I’m the only one who can do it.

  But who’s there?

  It s me.

  Instantly she imagined the blond-haired man on the other side of the door. Somehow he was trapped. He needed to escape the cold void that lay beyond that steel door. He’d been lost in there for months.

  Again that drowsy giddiness came. The idea of someone — a beautiful young man with beautiful blond hair and a beautiful smile — of someone being lost underground for months didn’t seem strange. The simple fact was that he had got lost, he was hungry — oh-so-hungry after all this time. Suddenly she felt protective towards him. So incredibly protective. As if he was a lost child, his eyes all big and dewy and trusting. She would bring him out into warmth and safety. She would feed him, look after him.

  The keys, Bernice.

  The voice seemed to ring through the metal door at her and straight through the bone of her skull, bypassing her ears entirely.

  Use the keys, Bernice. Open the door.

  She held up the bunch of keys.

  So many keys. Which ones opened the padlocks?

  A sense of urgency infected her blood. She had to get the man out of there. She imagined him pale and shivering. Hunger had made him weak. Only she could save him now.

  …don’t do it, don’t do it, the voice of reason was faint again as if something — that power from outside — had subdued it…don’t do it, don’t open the door. Open that door and you will see something that will split your mind in two; then something will be done to you that should remain nameless. Pain and despair will become your universe…

  There were two new-looking keys on the ring, glinting as brightly as the padlocks. Try these first, she thought, drowsily.

  She carefully, with slow, oh-so-slow, deliberate movements, slipped the first shiny key into the bright new padlock. The key turned a fraction, then stopped.

  Try again, Bernice. You can do it. Oh believe me, you are beautiful;

  I can’t wait to touch your face. The voice trickled like electricity through the steel door.

  She used the same key on the second new padlock. It opened smoothly.

  With that same mechanical slowness she singled out the other shining key and tried the first padlock again. With a satisfying click the mechanism released the hasp. Unlocked.

  Now for the old padlocks.

  She frowned slightly. These might be more difficult: the mechanism might have rusted.

  Oh, you can do it, Bernice, the voice encouraged. A prickling sensation ran across her skin under her blouse, tingling to the tips of her breasts. A wonderful, silky voice. She recognized it. It was the man from the video. She recognized the cultured American accent. Such a kind voice. She imagined that voice whispering to her beneath the bedclothes.

  If the padlock mechanism has seized you‘ll find a WD40 aerosol somewhere in the basement. Spray a little on the padlock. It’ll open.

  She worked her way steadily through the bunch of keys, her eyes huge in her face and staring glassily in front of her as if she was sleepwalking.

  There was no fear now. Only a kind of dull anticipation. This was what her whole life had been working towards. This was what she had been born to do. To release the blond man from whatever dark place lay beyond the basement door.

  The padlock mechanisms hadn’t rusted after all.

  One by one she unlocked the remaining two.

  They dangled by their C-shaped hasps through the steel loops in the door and steel door frame. Once she’d slid them from the loops she could open the door. Simple.

  She removed the first one. Easy.

  Second one. It squeaked a little, the loops there were a tight fit.

  Third.

  Slowly does it. There.

  One left.

  Then she could swing open that heavy steel door and see him standing there.

  Come on, Bernice, the voice seemed to sigh at her. That’s a girl, that’s a beautiful, beautiful girl I always believed in you. Not like the others who thought you were awkward and clumsy; who thought you weren’t good enough for them. We are soul mates. I’ve always loved you…always will love you —

  Quickly now she worked the hasp loose. Rust slowed its release; it squeaked — a thin, mouse-like sound. In a second it would be free.

  That’s it, Bernice. Open the door. I can’t wait any longer; I’m so cold and tired and I want to —

  ‘STOP IT!’

  The voice boomed down at her.

  She screamed with shock and spun round.

  A great shambling figure loomed out of the darkness at her.

  CHAPTER 18

  1

  Bernice screwed her eyes up against the light. But all she could see was the monstrous silhouette bearing down on her along the barrel of the basement.

  Frightened, she demanded, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Me.’

  The figure slid out of the shadows with a near-reptilian smoothness. ‘Give me the padlocks,’ came the voice; it was low and simmered with menace.

  ‘Jack?’ She shielded her eyes against the glare of the light.

  ‘That’s me,’ the voice agreed, as unfriendly as ever. ‘Padlocks.’

  He emerged from the dazzling wash of light to stand in front of her. The mean eyes glared into hers; the tattoos on the face stood out as if they were some mutant tracery of thick, blue veins.

  ‘Padlocks,’ he prompted and held out a massive paw.

  Despite her fear of the brutish-looking man, she felt intense annoyance. She’d decided what to do — to open the steel door — and now this ugly ape of a man had decided she had no right to do so; in fact, he’d assumed the authority to tell her what she could or could not do.

  ‘I heard a noise behind the door,’ she said. ‘I think someone’s trapped in there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ She laughed in disbelief. ‘So we’ve got to check. Someone might be hurt!’

  ‘The only person who’ll get hurt is you.’

  This was more a threat than a suggestio
n she might have an accident, or might be in some kind of danger. Again, a sense of resentment flared.

  ‘I’m going to open the door,’ she said defiantly. ‘I think there’s someone trapped in there.’

  She turned round and tugged at the remaining padlock.

  A pair of huge arms appeared at either side of her; one hand brushed her own hands away with a careless ease as if they were nothing more than a pair of fragile butterflies; then his tattooed fingers gripped the padlock hasp and snapped it back into the mechanism with a sharp snick.

  ‘Padlocks,’ he repeated, his voice low; he wasn’t going to be deflected from what he saw as his God-given duty.

  ‘Oh’ She nodded sharply at a shelf beside the door. ‘There.’

  Fuming, she watched him replace the padlocks one by one. Now, what infuriated her most was the realization that he was the one with power — she was the one who was powerless.

  He’s taken away the right for me to decide what to do. In two seconds flat he’d gained control of her. She clenched her fists.

  ‘Keys,’ he said in that flat unemotional voice. ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘Who gave you the right to tell me what to do?’

  He didn’t reply, merely held out a muscular paw for the keys; his beast-like eyes fixed coldly on her.

  ‘I’m going to tell Electra. What are you going to do about that?’

  ‘Keys. Give them to me.’

  With a savage sigh, she slammed the bunch of heavy keys down into his hand.

  In a low voice he said: ‘Piss off. Don’t come down here again.’

  ‘What did you say to me?’ Her face burned with fury. ‘What did you say?’ Angrily she locked her eyes on to his, trying to stare him down.

  He stared coldly back: bullets wouldn’t have dented the icy expression.

  ‘Shit,’ she spat, broke eye contact and stormed out of the basement back to her room.

  2

  Jack Black returned the bunch of keys to the cupboard in reception. The lobby was deserted. He stood there for a moment, sensing the pulse of the building — it was slow, old…dying. Like the town.

  Jack Black didn’t translate the feeling into words. Words only got in the way of what was real. From the bars and restaurant off the lobby came the buzz of conversation and the muffled thump of music. In the Silver Suite there was a meeting of something called the Royal Order of Buffaloes (antediluvian branch): they were a bunch of old blokes, squashed uncomfortably into suits and half strangled by ties that they only wore for their shit-stupid meetings and funerals.

  In the women’s toilets, scribbled on the tampon machine, were the words: ‘Question: Why is Electra like a pendulum? Answer: Because she swings both ways? In a cruder hand someone had scrawled: LESBO!

  And all through the hotel electrons flowed along old wiring, and water pumped through furred pipes to bathrooms like blood through elderly arteries.

  Black lifted his hands. Feeling the vibrations come trickling through his skin, he raised his deep-set eyes to the ceiling.

  On the counter an advertising flyer for the hotel stated: The Station Hotel s architectural style is strictly Victorian Gothic, designed by G. T. Andrews and built in 1863 in the typical railway hotel manner to cater for the rail traveller of the day who demanded something grander than the coaching inn of yesteryear.

  You could have told him all that, but when he pictured the hotel in his mind’s eye all he saw was the skull of a huge animal resting on a windswept plain. Inside crawled insects feeding on the remaining shreds of skin and brain. And in the earth beneath the skull were yet more creatures waiting to feed on the insects.

  He licked his cracked lips. The scar on the side of his head that ran from ear to eye like a streak of bright red lipstick began to tingle.

  He sensed the people in the hotel scurrying to and fro with no more insight into their existence than the insects in that great rotting skull.

  Thoughts trickled down through five floors of brick and wood:

  - dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones -

  They can’t treat me like that. I’ll tell Electra as soon as I see her. After all, what’s she running here? A hotel or a doss house for moronic thugs like Jack Black — and if that’s his real name, I’ll eat my hat — now, eyeshadow, eyeshadow. Where did I put it?’

  He closed his eyes. The Bernice bitch was in her room, trying on the other bitch’s clothes. He sensed her anger at him for preventing her from opening the steel door in the basement. That anger was now slipping into an unfocused feeling of rebelliousness. He saw her sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror, wearing a long black dress, the near-black blouse shot through with purple thread. She was applying make-up, slipping on silver rings over the black lace gloves that reached above her elbows. The silver rings bore designs of bird skulls, human skulls, magic eyes.

  Bernice Mochardi’s thoughts ran through his own shaven head. ‘He’s no right to tell me what to do. He’s probably on the run from the police, probably got his hand in the till. Electra’s a fool. Now, there: my dear, don’t you look a Gothic princess? Welcome to Castle Dracula. Come freely. Go safely. And leave something of the happiness you bring…’

  The lift door opened with a rumbling sound.

  He watched the man step out — Leppington, they called him. He had the same name as the town. Jack Black watched the man cross the lobby to the reception desk. There was something fascinating about him. Jack Black had to watch him even though it made the man uncomfortable.

  - so bloody what, Black thought coldly; I could slap him flat on his back with just one punch.

  Go on, do that now; give the runt a slap, you know you d love to see the blood come oozing thick as treacle from his busted nose.

  Leppington, dressed in jeans — clean jeans, all neatly pressed — and expensive sweatshirt was going to leave his key at reception.

  But because he’s seen me here he won’t do it, Black thought, because he’s thinking the moment he’s gone I’ll take his key, go up to his fecking room and rob his fecking shoes and razor and stuff, then piss on his fecking bed. As if!

  Now he’s slipping the key into his pocket, even though it’s got a big chunky red plastic fob wired to it and it’ll dig into his leg every time he sits down; now he’s pretending he’s come all the way down here to pick up a tourist leaflet from the desk, and now he’s going to walk by me as if I don’t exist.

  Give him a slap. Go on. There’s something about that Leppington twat that’s got under my skin; he’s making my arms itch; my scars are tingling like a line of ants is running along it. Hit him: deck the fucker!

  ‘Jack…Jack. We need more mineral waters in the bar.’ It was the bitch, Electra. ‘I think the people of Leppington are turning all virtuous on me and are drinking sparkling water instead of beer.’

  Jack grunted and shambled off in the direction of the basement door.

  Electra shot a grateful smile at him

  She’s frightened of me, he thought, but she’s fascinated, too. Just look at her, she can’t take her eyes off me.

  He shot a look back at the guy, Leppington. And he can’t stand the fucking sight of me. No doubt about that. He’s imagining me being cuffed by the cops and hauled away. He’d like that.

  David Leppington saw the vicious look Jack Black shot him before he opened the basement door.

  Jack Black was going to be trouble before long, David told himself; Bernice thought so; for the life of him he couldn’t understand why Electra had so eagerly employed him.

  Come on, David, he thought, I think you can hazard a guess at the real reason. Electra lives alone. Many women would find a tattooed, muscular mesomorph like Jack Black sexually exciting.

  Even so, weird the way David had come out of the lift to find Jack Black standing there, big ugly tattooed face raised to the ceiling, hands raised, too, like he was communing with the divine or something.

  Electra swept across the lobby after giving Black his instructions.
<
br />   ‘Good evening, David,’ she said, elegant as ever in a black blouse and leather trousers. ‘Can we tempt you into the restaurant tonight?’

  ‘Not tonight, thanks. I thought I’d try the local cinema.’

  ‘Don’t let me be the one to put you off, but the latest Arnie extravaganza’s getting a pretty lousy press.’

  ‘No, I thought I’d try…what do they call it?’ He searched his memory. ‘The cinema club?’

  ‘Ah, Cinema Society. They show the classics in the little library theatre.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s not too bad. There’s even plenty of leg room. What’s on the bill?’

  Duel

  Her forehead creased. ‘I don’t know it. Western?’

  ‘No, the early Spielberg film with Dennis Weaver. Basically it’s about a man being chased across country by a big truck.’

  ‘Ah yes, it’s a Spielberg month.’

  ‘They’re running it back to back with The Colour Purple.’

  ‘Ah, now I do know that one. An episodic film, unabashedly literary too. I love it. Anyway, have a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Electra smiled as David left the hotel through the revolving door. She thought: now why couldn’t more of her guests be like him? Weekdays she got sales reps who looked glum, were often homesick and would get quietly drunk in the bar. Weekends it tended to be couples away for some illicit tryst. Like the pair in Room 101. Now there would be a mattress that would take some airing on Monday.

  ‘Bring the bottles straight through into the bar,’ she told Jack Black as he hefted the heavy crate as though it was made from nothing more than duck’s eider. ‘You locked the basement door after you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her with those eyes with their unfathomable depths.

  Mmm…perhaps he’s undressing me mentally, she thought, with a wicked little tingle. I wonder what he’s like under the duvet? A real beast, I shouldn’t wonder. ‘Jack?’