Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  They were now driving uphill, the lane flanked by houses, all in darkness, their occupants deeply asleep and oblivious to the fun and games at the Station Hotel tonight, she thought.

  All except one. There stood a semi with a bedroom light lit. A second later the door opened, casting a block of yellow light onto a front-garden lawn.

  Jill Morrow recognized the sound of her husband’s knock on the front door — a furtive apology of a knock made by a weak-as-water man; she opened it straight away.

  Would he pay for this!

  She’d wring the money and domestic chores out of him until he bleated.

  ‘Jason,’ she hissed, seeing him straightaway as he hung back in the shadows. ‘Do you think I can’t see you hiding there?’

  He didn’t reply.

  The breeze blew, opening the split of her cotton dressing gown and sending an icy draught up her bare legs as far as her waist.

  ‘Jason. You better have a damn’ good reason why you didn’t come home last night, or you’ll never come through this door ever again.’

  ‘Jill,’ her husband’s voice was low, whispery. ‘Let me in. I’m cold.’

  The voice sent a shiver down inside her stomach.

  ‘What’s your excuse this time? And what have you done with the car?’

  ‘Jill…love…let me in, please. I’m cold.’

  His voice sounded so familiar, yet so different. That whispery quality sent a shiver — a sensual, erotic shiver — deep down inside her. It made her conscious of the cool breeze round her bare legs, and the slight, almost tickling, friction of her T-shirt across the tips of her breasts. She folded her arms in front of her, aware her nipples were hardening and rising.

  The pressure of her dressing-gown collar at the base of her neck became a caress. She shivered again. Her anger ebbed away. In place of that vanishing anger she now felt a sultry warmth. She wanted to see her husband again.

  He’s been gone too long, she thought. I want to run my fingers through his hair; just like I did when we were courting; I want to see his cute habit of rubbing the nub of bone above his eyebrow; that sexy smile.

  ‘Jill. Aren’t you going to ask me inside?’

  His voice was warm, pleasant and deeply, deeply loving. The sound of it made her skin feel so exquisitely sensitive. The breeze moved each hair on her legs. The material of her T-shirt touched and clung to the curves of her stomach, bottom and breasts; her thighs tingled.

  Again he spoke, lovingly and patiently; an effortless patience. He would wait there until apple blossom filled the trees in the orchard if he had to. The idea pleased her; he’d wait there devotedly, like a medieval knight; he’d be chivalrous, courteous, completely devoted. Images from the romance books she’d read — and loved for their escapism — blossomed like summer roses deep within her heart.

  ‘Jill,’ whispered her husband from the shadows. ‘Can I come inside the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘Come in, Jason.’ She stepped back from the threshold and beckoned him.

  He stepped into the hallway. Then, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he smiled.

  Now his eyes never left hers. They were huge: they filled his face. They shone.

  Her heart melted. She was in love again.

  In a moment he had swept her into the living room. Her heart clamoured.

  He was peeling off her dressing gown; then he gripped the neck of her T-shirt. In one fluid movement he tore it wide open. Feeling her legs go weak, almost watery, she allowed him to sit her naked in the armchair. Never once did he take his eyes off her — those wonderful eyes, shining like they contained living flames.

  Then he was holding her tightly. She felt a pressure between her legs — a sweet pressure, strong, firm, purposeful.

  Then…

  He was inside her.

  And he felt so marvellous.

  He entered her more deeply than he’d ever done before.

  She felt him sliding, sliding, sliding, sliding —

  — in, in, and in.

  Oh.

  Her heart swelled, the blood thickened her arteries and filled her lips.

  The curtains were open: she saw the hospital on the hillside blazing with light.

  Still he pushed inward; he seemed to flow into her — a one-way motion, going into her deeper and deeper. Now she felt him so deep inside she felt a pressure just below her ribs, warming her.

  Then she felt a sting from inside — a sting that, although intense, felt strangely sweet; as if he was drawing out a thorn that had been deeply embedded inside her womb.

  Now his lips closed over her nipple. The sting came there too.

  But she was too drowsy, too warm, too much in love to protest.

  She turned her face to the uncurtained window. The lights of the hospital in the distance were growing dim.

  I know what’s happening to me, she thought sleepily, and I don’t care. This is love.

  Her eyes closed, leaving on her retina the dying image of car headlights moving like a star into the grounds of the hospital.

  7

  Bernice slotted the car into a white-painted space in the visitors’ car park. She didn’t switch off the engine.

  David looked at her. She noticed how large his irises were in the dark like round dark pools.

  ‘Are you going back to the hotel?’ he asked. She detected a hint of reluctance in his voice as if he thought it would be a bad idea.

  ‘No,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I’ll wait here in the car.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. You know what hospitals are like.’

  ‘I could get a coffee or something in the waiting room,’ she agreed. Then she thought of her Gothic-looking clothes, complete with the long lacy gloves. ‘Electra’s sheepskin coat is in the back. I’ll wear that, then at least I’ll look half decent.’

  He gave a little smile. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Oh, I think I still need that coat.’

  They climbed out of the car. Bernice slipped Electra’s coat on; it was big and warm; the cuffs came down to the ends of her fingernails. Then, side by side, they walked to the twin doors marked CASUALTY.

  CHAPTER 24

  1

  David walked across the car park to the door marked CASUALTY. Already his stomach muscles were tense with apprehension. His uncle was an old man in his eighties: strokes, embolism, heart attacks were all too common at that age.

  The wind gusted across the hillside, driving drops of rain with stinging force.

  He glanced at Bernice. She wrapped herself deeply into the warm sheepskin coat; he glimpsed her lace-clad fingers poking just below the cuffs.

  He was grateful she’d come. Visiting a sick relative in casualty at three in the morning is a hell of a lonely thing to have to do.

  They went straight to the hospital reception desk where the clerk — a middle-aged man with tufts of grey hair brushed across a balding crown — took David’s details (while shooting a couple of glances at Bernice, David noticed: the man was no doubt wondering what the low-down was about her, with her blood-red lipstick and heavily shadowed eyes from the make-up).

  ‘A nurse will be along in a minute, Dr Leppington, if you and your, ah, companion would like to take a seat.’ The clerk indicated the usual drab rows of grey plastic chairs that inhabit many a hospital waiting room: they were dotted here and there with people — mostly men, mostly drunk, with tissues clamped to bleeding noses, eyes, ears. The exception was a child in a dressing gown, flanked by two anxious-looking parents.

  The little boy had a papier mache bowl on his knee; there was a whiff of vomit in the air, vying for dominance with an aroma of now stale beer.

  ‘We might be in for a long wait,’ David told Bernice as they sat down. ‘You like a coffee or something?’

  Before she could answer, a tall nurse, as thin as a pole, swung aside a pair of rubber doors. ‘Mr Leppington?’ she called, ‘Leppington family?’

  Insta
ntly all the drowsy heads in the waiting room perked up and looked round, the glazed eyes now sharp with interest.

  A Leppington? Here? David could almost read their minds.

  He stood up, acutely aware that a dozen pairs of eyes had fixed on him. ‘Here,’ he said.

  ‘This way please, Mr Leppington. Cubicle five.’ The nurse held open the rubber door for David and Bernice to pass through. In front lay the standard casualty cubicles fronted with green plastic curtains. That hospital smell immediately flooded his nose. The walls were covered in notices that were instantly recognizable to him from his days on A&E in Liverpool: a hand-written notice on a cupboard ran FLAMAZINE CREAM — ONCE OPEN DO NOT PUT BACK IN CUPBOARD BUT IN BIN. Then there was the faithful notice, many times pored over when a suspected overdoser was brought in: this was headed MANAGEMENT OF ACUTE PARACETAMOL OVERDOSAGE. Even though the building was strange to him the paraphernalia of the casualty ward was keenly familiar.

  The nurse hurried on ahead. ‘Dr Singh,’ she called to a young Asian dressed in surgical greens complete with hat and with a surgical mask hanging loosely down against his throat. He was standing at the end of the corridor scrutinizing a sheet of paper. ‘Dr Singh, Leppington family for patient in number five.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, nurse.’ Smiling, he strode forward. ‘Mr Leppington? Quite a famous name in these parts.’

  David nodded and decided to correct the title — not for ego’s sake but because it would make things easier for them both if they could avoid the usual doctor-to-patient pidgin. ‘It’s Dr Leppington.’ David smiled and held out his hand. Dr Singh shook it.

  ‘Ah, a medical doctor? Good, good. Lazy man that I am, I can rely on jargon now.’

  David added, ‘This is my friend Bernice Mochardi.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the doctor with an understanding nod. ‘This way, please.’ He held open the curtain. ‘Don’t be alarmed. Your uncle is still in something of a mess. We don’t get the chance to clean our patients too thoroughly at weekends. Casualty tends to get rather lively after the public houses close, you’ll understand, doctor?’

  David nodded. Friday and Saturday nights, hospitals — whether in inner cities or peaceful-looking market towns — might as well be in war zones for the number of blood-soaked casualties that are stretchered in.

  When Dr Singh moved to one side David got his first good look at his uncle lying on the bed.

  The old man was unconscious and lay with a sheet pulled halfway up his bare chest. He breathed rhythmically, although there was a wet bronchial crackle coming from his mouth. David noticed an airway tube had been inserted.

  Then he saw the blood.

  Damn…

  It had turned George’s snowy grey hair into a mat of reddish brown. David moved round the bed, automatically checking the colour of the skin — pallid, almost the colour of lard with that same shiny white characteristic of shock; the lips were bluish.

  Then he saw what appeared to be a pair of sanitary towels bound to the side of his uncle’s head with a crepe bandage. Initial treatment in casualty favours the effective rather than the pretty. Blood had soaked through the white dressings in dandelion-shaped blots of red and brown.

  ‘What happened?’ asked David, looking up.

  Dr Singh tilted his head slightly. ‘No one knows precisely. There’s a gash in the side of the head. Unconsciousness resulted from the blow; while —’

  ‘He was attacked?’ David asked, shocked.

  ‘That’s not for us to say.’

  ‘Skull fracture?’

  ‘Not possible to say, either, until we can get him up to X-ray.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  Dr Singh shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, it’s Saturday night.’

  ‘Look, I think you need to give his case priority. He’s more than eighty years old.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern, doctor, but we have our priorities, too.’

  ‘Where are the police?’

  ‘They have been informed.’

  ‘Are they in the building? Can I talk to them?’

  Again, Dr Singh could only make the reply that was sounding increasingly painful to him. ‘It is Saturday night. I’m sorry.’

  David put his fingers to his mouth and looked down on his uncle; the old man’s brow was furrowed as if some mighty problem still weighed on him even in the depths of concussion. The white — the worryingly white — bloodless eyelids twitched and fluttered, occasionally exposing the glassy sheen of an eye. He felt a hand on his forearm. He looked down to see Bernice’s oval face looking up at him. Her eyes were full of concern.

  David breathed out slowly. So this is how it feels to be on the other side of the fence in casualty: the relative of the patient. It felt shitty; he didn’t feel in control; he was becoming emotional. He took a deep breath and said evenly, ‘How seriously hurt is my uncle?’

  Dr Singh’s large brown eyes were sympathetic. ‘It’s not at all possible to say.’

  Oh, for Godsakes don’t say ‘Because it’s Saturday night’ again, David thought with a sudden fury.

  ‘The injury doesn’t appear to be overly serious. But, then again, you must appreciate his considerable age is a factor. Eighty plus, you say?’ David nodded. ‘Eighty-five, I think. Who brought him in here?’

  ‘Ambulance. Apparently, after he was injured he managed to telephone.’

  ‘Then he was able to speak when he telephoned?’

  ‘No. Emergency services heard him…make a noise. That was all, the telephone remained off the hook so they were able to call up your uncle’s telephone number and address on the Telecom computer, then dispatch police and an ambulance. They showed great initiative, don’t you think?’

  ‘They did,’ David agreed. ‘After X-ray he’ll be taken to a ward for observation?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately I can’t say precisely when. It is, after all —’

  ‘Saturday night.’ David gave a small smile; he felt calmer now. ‘I know,’ he said in a way which he hoped was understanding, not sarcastic. ‘I did my casualty spell in Liverpool’s Royal. You have my sympathies.’ The curtain swished crisply to one side. It was the tall nurse again.

  ‘Dr Singh. The duodenal in cubicle one. Looks as if she’s haemorrhaging. There’s a sixty-year-old arrest in eight. And there’s a cooking-oil burns in three.’

  Dr Singh gave an apologetic sigh. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please…sit with your uncle if you wish. We have a vending machine in reception should you require refreshment.’ He stepped through the curtain, then paused. ‘One word of warning, I would avoid the oxtail soup if I were you.’ He smiled. ‘Back as soon as I can.’

  Then there were three, David thought. He fought down an inappropriate smile that was straining at his mouth. Saturday night in casualty is when patients are no longer referred to by name but by the ailment or injury they are suffering from. And the only diagnosis a doctor feels confident to make with any degree of certainty is which hot drink to avoid from the vending machine. And despite it all, the world still manages to keep on revolving smoothly around the sun.

  Bernice lifted a pair of plastic chairs alongside the bed. He felt grateful — enormously grateful and touched — by her willingness to join the night vigil.

  They sat there side by side watching the sleeping man; hearing the wet sound in the back of his throat; breathing in the antiseptic fumes of the hospital; seeing the blood dry to a flaky skin on the old man’s face. David felt an impulse to reach out and hold Bernice’s hand. It would feel so good to feel the pressure of another human’s skin against his.

  But that typical English reserve kept both his hands resting palm down on his knees.

  The hands of the clock on the wall reached ten past three. And at that moment George Leppington opened his eyes — they were wide, staring glassily at the ceiling; his lips cracked open, too; his jaw strained as his mouth opened wide.

  And that was when he began to speak.

  2

 
; The old man spoke quickly, clearly, in a breathy kind of voice: ‘Thrutheim, come I; Vlaskjalf, Sokkvabekk, Valholl, Thrymheim. Briethablik are my many houses. Here I wait for Ragnarok; here I will fight with Fenrir beneath the tree of the world. This is Grimnismal…this is where I wait for Ragnarok with the eight hundred.’ He breathed deeply; his eyes swivelled down and fixed on David. The eyes were bright and shining, as if the old man had seen something as fascinating as it was horrible. ‘David…I am Ishtar; I have broken down the gates of the underworld and set the dead upon the living; forgive me, I had no choice…no choice…I’m sorry, David. But time was running out.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Bernice asked. She sounded frightened by the old man’s words. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘He’s confused. He’s taken quite a knock on the head — haven’t you, uncle?’ He lightly touched the old man’s hand that lay motionless on the blanket. ‘Uncle George. Can you tell me what happened? Were you attacked?’

  ‘Attacked?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Dynamite.’

  ‘Dynamite?’

  ‘I set charges on the iron fence in the cave. Thought I’d given myself enough distance. The explosion threw me against the wall.’

  ‘But what on earth were you using dynamite for?’

  ‘I had to open up the caves.’ He looked at David, the eyes glassy. ‘I had to break down the gates of the underworld. I had to set the dead upon the living.’

  David glanced at Bernice. Her eyes were fixed on his uncle’s face; she concentrated on every word he said with an intensity that was puzzling. The old man was confused. He’d been dreaming, surely.

  ‘David.’ The old man gripped David’s hand. ‘I should have brought you to Leppington earlier and explained everything. It’s my fault I’ve left it too late.’

  ‘I’m here now, uncle, relax.’

  ‘No. There were things I should have told you. I started when you were a baby. I talked to you from the day you were born, because I knew you understood speech even then. I told you our history and our destiny. I was still telling you when your mother took you away from Leppington. She shouldn’t have done that, but she was an outsider…she was frightened of the truth; she didn’t want to be involved.’