Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  There was a timelessness to it all; as if some immense occult machinery was meshing great dark gears in a world beyond this one in order to slow down time. Someone — or something — apart from Electra didn’t want him in that basement.

  And at the end of that long drawn-out moment, which was as silent as the proverbial grave, the telephone rang.

  CHAPTER 23

  1

  David sat around the kitchen table with Bernice and Jack Black as Electra went to answer the telephone in reception. Jack Black nipped out the cigarette between his finger and thumb. Then lit another, his ugly face suddenly a bright luminous yellow in the light of the flaring match.

  Drops of rain crackled against the window. The time was ten past two.

  David knew he couldn’t even begin to drop the question of where the girl had gone until he’d satisfied himself she wasn’t in the basement.

  He glanced at Bernice, noticing fully for the first time the Victorian-style clothes she wore and the black eyeshadow and blood-red lipstick. He realized he was looking at her in a kind of wide-eyed stupid surprise; he’d simply not taken in her Goth clothes, make-up and vampire-bat jewellery until now. Obviously because of that crazy performance upstairs with the blood-stained woman; then Electra’s calm denial that anything criminal had happened in the hotel tonight. (Bizarre, perhaps, Electra would concede; but criminal? Definitely not.) Now the full effect of Bernice’s clothes and blood-red lipstick struck him: it was darkly erotic; in other circumstances, he would admit (at least to himself), that it was turning him on.

  Suddenly he realized Bernice had seen he was staring at her; her cheeks flushed pink as if she was embarrassed to be seen dressed like that. He quickly looked away from her to the clock on the wall as if checking the time had become the most important thing at that moment.

  Seconds later he glanced back at her. She deliberately looked across the table at him, making eye contact. The message he read there was clear enough:

  Black and Electra are hiding something: they know what happened to the girl.

  2

  Bernice sipped the coffee. It was lukewarm now; it didn’t taste that pleasant but her mouth was so dry. It must be something to do with the shock of what had happened tonight.

  David Leppington was looking at her across the table. She wondered if he was thinking the same as her: Something terrible had happened to the girl. That Electra knew more than she was telling. That Jack Black had thrown the girl from the lift into that black heart of the basement, like he was throwing a scrap of meat to wolves.

  She’d enjoyed staying at the hotel. She liked Electra. But this was all too much.

  She told herself: As soon as I can, I’m going to check out of this hotel. It’s a madhouse…

  3

  As soon as I can I’m going to check out of this hotel. It’s a madhouse…

  The words trickled clearly enough into Jack Black’s brain. It was the weird bitch thinking that shit. Doc Leppington was thinking words like: Contusion. Fiona was showing signs of shock. Best check the basement as quickly as possible. Then Doc Leppington’s mind wandered; there was a tingle of lust trickling through the man’s brain; he was thinking: Why on earth does Bernice dress like that? Christ, I can’t take my eyes off her lips — they’re so red; and just look at the shape of her hips showing through that long black skirt; you can see her breasts through that…oh, give it a rest, David. You’re not a schoolboy getting a hard-on over a girl you’ve seen in some sticky old magazine. Concentrate on the matter in hand. What happened to Fiona Hill? Where is she now?

  Black listened to the man’s thoughts rattling away now with all the speed and purpose of an express train. Shit, the man had a brain like a machine.

  Black searched their heads for one word that had lodged inside his for the last twenty-four hours.

  He didn’t know where that word had come from. But it wouldn’t go.

  It was like when he heard the name Leppington.

  Then he knew he had to come here ’cos the name went round and around in his head: Leppington, Leppington, Leppington. His brain bleated it over and over.

  Jack Black wouldn’t get his tongue round words like prescience or destiny, or even fate. But he knew he had to come to Leppington — there was something here for him; something important; something connected with the black lightning that he’d seen (and only he could see it) flowering in great dark airbursts over the town. Yeah, it was to do with that, all right…only he didn’t quite know what.

  And just as the word Leppington had gone around and around his brain like a wasp trapped inside a glass jar, now a new word went round and round and round and round…buzzing so furiously it wouldn’t let him sleep. The new word didn’t mean that much to him. Overuse and misuse had robbed it of its meaning. Except, when the word buzzed insidiously through his head, it brought other ideas associated with it. Something verminous, bloated…purple veins…hunger…pain…disease. The word buzzed inside his head now.

  And that word was:

  VAMPIRE.

  4

  Electra walked into the kitchen. Her movements were quick. David saw that once again her composure had deserted her. She swept across the kitchen floor, the gold roses on the black silk kimono catching the light.

  ‘David,’ she said sounding almost breathless. ‘I’m terribly sorry, I’ve bad news.’

  He stiffened. The phone call…

  Images shuttled chaotically through his head: His parents’ boat had capsized, his half-sister’s baby was dying of meningitis, burglars had ransacked his Liverpool flat. Katrina had hanged herself in the mental hospital grounds…

  ‘On a night like this, too.’ David forced himself to concentrate on what Electra was saying; her eyes were full of compassion.

  ‘That was the hospital. Your uncle, George Leppington, was admitted to casualty a couple of hours ago. They’re asking if it’s possible for you to go up there. They need to speak to a member of the family.’

  David was on his feet, heart beating faster. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Are they still on the phone?’

  ‘No, they’re assuming you’ll go there straightaway. I can telephone them back if —’

  ‘No. Thanks, anyway. I’ll go straight to the hospital.’ Suddenly he realized he was barefoot. ‘I just need to go back to my room for a moment first.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I use the key on the hotel-room keyring to get in through the front door?’

  ‘Yes. Use the one marked “Residents’ Door” to the right of the revolving door.’

  David felt once more that he’d become a straw thrown on a fastflowing stream; events were carrying him along. He could only go with the flow. Running concurrently with these thoughts was a concern for his old Uncle George. He liked the man. He found himself hoping that for whatever reason he had been admitted to hospital it wouldn’t be serious.

  ‘Don’t worry about things here,’ Electra said quickly — and confidently. ‘We’ll take care of it.’

  He glanced at Jack Black. The man sat there with his characteristic wooden expression. Bernice sat with her hand over her mouth, looking up at David with concerned eyes. She genuinely felt for him; and again he experienced a sense of empathy when their gazes locked briefly.

  ‘One detail, though,’ David said as he pushed the chair back under the table. ‘Where is the hospital? Can anyone give me directions?’

  Bernice jumped in. ‘Electra. Can I take your car? I’ll drive David there, if that’s OK?’

  Electra nodded readily enough. ‘Yes. Good idea. Keys are on the

  hook by the door. You’re used to the clutch? It can be fierce.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got the hang of it now.’

  ‘Thank you.’ David nodded gravely at Electra, then said to Bernice, ‘You don’t have to. It’s pretty late.’

  ‘No worries,’ Bernice said quickly. ‘I’ll meet you in reception in five minutes.
’

  For a moment David felt as if he was demanding too much in having Bernice chauffeur him to the hospital at this time of night. Then he realized she badly wanted to get out of the hotel. She didn’t feel safe here any more.

  And certainly he didn’t want to leave her here alone. He wondered if he should ask Electra to call the police after all. But there was an air of collusiveness between Electra and Black now.

  And what about Fiona Hill? he asked himself. Why didn’t Electra want him to venture down into the basement? Maybe the reasons were mundane — perhaps she bought illegally imported beer that she stored down there; maybe there were a couple of dirty mattresses where she romped with the thug Black and his equally dodgy mates? Who knew?

  Saying goodbye to Electra and Black (who merely grunted, eyes expressionless as ever) he headed into the lobby. The lift was still jammed open by the table, so he ran lightly up the stairs. Now his thoughts were for his uncle. He wanted to make sure George wasn’t seriously ill. Perhaps they could take him home tonight. He was sure there would be a spare room up at Mill House where he, David, could stay so he could look after the old man. But what about Bernice? He didn’t want to leave her to go back to the hotel alone in the middle of the night.

  With the questions flitting unanswered around his mind he returned to his room, pulled on socks and shoes, then ran back down to reception where Bernice stood in the long skirt and lace gloves, the car keys clinking in her nervous fingers. The look of relief on her face when she saw him was obvious.

  Poor kid had been frightened, waiting there alone in the lobby. Where were Electra and Black? Returned to the scene of the crime?

  No, he told himself. Leave the speculations. His uncle was what mattered now.’

  ‘Ready?’ asked Bernice.

  ‘Ready,’ he replied walking rapidly across the lobby towards her.

  ‘The car’s out back,’ she said and led the way through the kitchen to the back door.

  5

  They went out to the black Volvo parked in the rear courtyard. Beads of freshly fallen rain stood like pearls on its roof. Discreetly stencilled in gold on the passenger door were the words: STATION HOTEL, LEPPINGTON. WEDDINGS, CHRISTENINGS, PRIVATE FUNCTIONS.

  Bernice unlocked the doors. The central locking device clicked and the lights flashed as the alarm system disarmed itself.

  She climbed into the driving seat; David climbed in wordlessly beside her and fastened his seat belt.

  God, I must look like a fright dressed like this, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself as she adjusted the rear-view mirror. The lipstick seemed to glow a luminous red while her eyes were darkly shaded almond shapes centred by whites that glistened in the gloom. Do I look like Dracula’s daughter or what? she thought. Perhaps I could wait in the car at the hospital. I shouldn’t be traipsing about like this in public.

  ‘Is it far?’ asked David in a flat voice.

  ‘About five minutes.’

  That was as far as the conversation went. She felt she should say something reassuring, but she knew it would end up sounding absurd or somehow grossly unsympathetic.

  She started the engine and drove across the courtyard, the car’s headlights shining off the brick walls of the hotel.

  Seconds later she took a right, following Main Street past the station and the vast brooding pile of the slaughterhouse.

  Rain splotched the windows, and she set the wipers to intermittent.

  Main Street was empty of traffic. The wet road reflected the orange street lamps. A cat slinked along the pavement with a broken-necked sparrow in its jaws. The only people she could see were a couple of middle-aged men walking unsteadily along the street, while a third paused to urinate in the doorway of the delicatessen.

  The man pissed a great steaming pool onto the mat on which was printed the word WELCOME.

  And you’re welcome to it, thought John Doyle, boozily magnanimous, as he shook himself before zipping up his flies. Piss. It’s the only thing I’ve got plenty of. Piss, piss and piss, not forgetting the drop that always runs down your leg. He belched. I shouldn’t have bet every penny in my damned pocket on that last hand of poker.

  Bloody stupid thing to do.

  Blame the beer.

  Beer always makes you do stupid stuff. You’re forty-six years old, for bugger sake. Don’t you ever learn?

  Too much damn’ beer. Pub for three hours, then across to Sad Sam’s for poker and more beer. Sad Sam’s mongoloid son served it up in any old glass he could find. Of course he sucked the froth from it in the kitchen. You pretended not to notice. But you could taste his spit on the rim of the glass because Sad Sam’s son ate nothing but Polo mints all night — crunch, crunch, crunch…

  And Sad Sam’s mongoloid son always wore a cardboard crown on his stupid ugly head. It was gold with day-glo orange writing on it that said Burger King. Now is that a stupid thing to do? Wear a cardboard crown? Even if you are missing a chromosome or something?

  Oh, got to ease up on the beer, old son. Bladder can’t take it anymore.

  He wrinkled his nose at the steaming piss in the doorway; it flickered gold and sunlight-yellow under the street lights. Looks quite pretty really. Quite pretty.

  He hawked and spat into the puddle of liquid his liver and kidneys had doggedly spent all evening processing.

  And so Jesus turned water into wine.

  Well, li’l ol’ me turned Heineken Export into water…salty old water…

  He realized he was leaning forward, resting one hand on the shop door for support.

  Where were them other buggers?

  With an effort he stood on his own two feet, then walked with considerably less aplomb than a thirteen-month-old taking its first baby steps.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted thickly as Smith and Benj strode away down Main Street. ‘Hey! Way up, lads…way up for us, can’t yer?’

  Groggily, he followed them. ‘Hey, way up, me laddi-owes.’

  They didn’t hear. Kept on walking.

  ‘Cloth ears,’ he grunted, and walked faster, one foot squelching where he’d walked through a puddle somewhere on the way back into town.

  He put his head down and zig-zagged solidly forward. He was perhaps twenty paces from the bridge, his two mates had just reached the other side, when he felt a hand lightly catch his sleeve.

  ‘Excuse me, have you the time?’

  He stopped and turned his whole body to see who it was standing in the darkness of the alleyway.

  He screwed up his eyes. It was a girl with light fluffy hair, shining gold in the street lights. A pair of beautiful eyes looked up into his.

  John Doyle felt a sensual prickle go tingling up his spine.

  ‘Have you got the time?’ she repeated. God, the girl’s voice was pretty.

  ‘Time,’ he echoed, his tongue feeling stiff in his mouth. ‘Time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aren’t you Moberry’s lass? Samantha?’

  ‘No, I’m Dianne, Sammi’s older sister.’

  He looked down at the cleavage exposed by the open buttons of her blouse. Dear heaven, he could even see a black lacy bra — just a flash of it.

  He’d not seen underwear as pretty as that on a living person ever…dimly he pictured his wife’s heavy-duty no-nonsense industrial-strength bras.

  God, he even sensed the woman’s body heat: it came at him in waves — a sexual energy radiated from those eyes that burned up at him.

  He swallowed. ‘Dianne Moberry…yes…yes…I remember you. You’re — you’re beautiful…’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  She fluttered long eyelashes. All wrapped into one, she was girlishly innocent yet a mature woman — worldly, experienced, sensual.

  The eyes held him. They shone, huge and round in the street lights.

  She was beautiful and —

  And, oh God, he wanted her. He wanted her more than anything else in the world. Every cell of his body screamed out to him to touch her; he im
agined putting his face next to hers and feeling the heat radiating through her skin.

  ‘I’ve always liked you, Mr Doyle,’ she whispered huskily. ‘You always looked so strong.’

  ‘Did I?’

  He gazed into her eyes, hypnotized, feeling his soul leaking out of his body and into hers.

  ‘I bet you could lift me up as if I was as light as a feather.’

  ‘I could, yes…I could,’ he breathed, loving her sense of presence.

  She stepped back into the shadows of the alleyway.

  ‘Mr Doyle. Why don’t you try?’

  ‘Lift you up?’ His heart beat fast, blood roared through the arteries in his neck, rivalling the roar of the swollen Lepping foaming around the rocks just paces away.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered from the shadows, her eyes burning like twin lights. ‘Lift me up, Mr Doyle. Please.’

  He stepped from the pavement into the gloom of the alleyway, guided by her burning eyes.

  He reached out, finding her narrow waist by sense of touch.

  Then he lifted her up.

  Oh…He breathed in deeply when he felt her lips touch his bare throat.

  6

  ‘The hospital’s just up there on the hillside,’ Bernice said as she turned off the main road and followed a lane that snaked uphill. ‘Warm enough?’ she asked, her fingers resting on the fan switch.

  ‘Uh? Yes, fine. Sorry, I was miles away,’ David said with a smile.

  She smiled back, feeling a sudden intimacy with him there alone in the car. My God, she thought, why aren’t we riding out into the countryside under different circumstances?

  Not this grim drive up to the hospital, not knowing if his uncle is alive or dead.

  The night seemed intensely dark, she thought, somehow darker than normal. The street lights appeared to have difficulty in casting their orange glow more than a few miserable paces.