by Drew Cross
BiteMarks
by
Drew Cross
ISBN 1461092264
EAN 978-1461092261
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
'BiteMarks' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:
http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com
http://ninwriters.ning.com
'BiteMarks' is the copyright of the author, Drew Cross, 2011. All rights are reserved.
All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.
Chapter 1
I am haunted by the ghosts of childhood memories, by the cruel promise of eternal sunshine and an innocence which should have endured, that died in increments and took my only two friends with it. They are relics from a time when darkness and pain were unfamiliar strangers, as fleeting in their attentions as the slow summer midges which could be outrun with a sudden burst of speed. Now they crush me with the knowledge that they contain, taunting me with snapshots of my past and whispering, intoxicated by the vicious belief that one day they can reclaim me.
We cannot change our pasts, cannot take back the evils, small or large, that we have visited upon others, but we can choose not to be defined by our previous actions and so that is what I try to do each day. I try not to think about the past, as if this could somehow make it cease to have existed, striving not to visit my memories often, although they often choose to visit me; shadows in the corners of my thoughts which I push away without acknowledgment, afraid that they might break down the mask that I wear to face the world each day.
The creature that I seek is haunted too. I can feel the twin snakes of rage and pain in his thoughts now and hear the metronymic beat in the chasm where his heart should be. I would have left him alone, even with the knowledge that looking into his eyes might tell me more about the nature of what I am, but the pebble that he dropped into the calm surface of my world threatens to disturb things in the sediment that I have spent my short life concealing.
There are things with teeth down there in my dark places, things that I must feed with my secret arcane practices. They are never sated, screaming with wordless voices and waiting to consume me and those around me if I let them.
Chapter 2
The girl draws in a sharp breath through clenched teeth and moans with a mixture of pain and pleasure; her white-blond hair feels like falling snowflakes where it brushes my skin. She has a tattoo on her neck, two small red pin-pricks and the words BITE ME in Gothic lettering, stark against her near translucent paleness. A thin rivulet of blood snakes down her bare back, an escapee from the small clean incision on her shoulder blade. I kiss her deeply, my mouth still wet with her blood, holding her close and feeling her tremble, wanting to consume her, she runs her tongue over my elongated fangs as if she can read my thoughts. I can taste peppermint and vodka, the blood as a sweet honey tang underneath, her skin is aromatic with cocoa butter and the soft smoky musk of burning incense clings to her hair.
We are not alone, although we can pretend to be, shrouded by the semi-darkness and our own intense intimacy. We are in an upstairs room above the Old Angel, the bar locked to the general public, or at least to the usual motley gang of rockers, Goths and students that usually gather here for the cheap drink and live music. This is a regular private meeting of 'vampires' and willing 'donors', a closed door invitation only event run by the Vampire Society. The society is forced to exist in different forms, outwardly it is an appreciation club for role-players and fans of the old Hammer horror films, a tongue-in-cheek nod to all things Dracula in order to avoid the attentions of the intolerant. The other face is as a place to belong for like-minded people who choose to live the lifestyle in a more literal way. Everything that takes place here is governed by rules, the key ones being consent and safety. The fangs are veneers, purely for show not for biting, and whilst blood is consumed it is taken by syringe or by cuts in safe areas inflicted by sterile blades.
I do not refer to myself as a vampire because of the supernatural and predatory connotations implied by the term. I am a blood fetishist, a human being with complex reasons for having an erotic association with the vampire mystique. Except for the organizer of the meets, the landlord, who keeps a database of our details, we don't know each others real names, although I gather from previous events and the occasionally loose tongues of some members, that we can count a doctor and a barrister amongst our ranks.
“Thank you.”
The girl, breathless, pulls her black t-shirt back over her head, suddenly shy after this swapping of fluids with a stranger. She is young and this is the first time I have seen her, and therefore probably the first time she has experienced this new array of sensations.
“No, thank you .”
I lean in using a hand to hold her soft hair out of the way and kissing her gently on the lips, eyes open to meet her own.
“I'd like to see you here again sometime. Of course there are plenty of other guys and girls for you to meet here too though … ”
She smiles coquettishly. Leaning closer she kisses me again with lingering enthusiasm.
“Funny, I didn't notice any of them.”
* * *
“Marks?”
“Sir?”
“Briefing's in five minutes with CID, if that's enough time for you to finish preening yourself?”
The Inspector strides off without further pleasantries, but I can't help but like the grumpy old sod anyway.
Marcus Cooke emerges still dripping from the shower, hurriedly toweling himself down and putting on his shirt having heard the Inspector's words.
“Why can't you put some pants on before your shirt? I don't want to see your dick every day.”
“Seeing my dick is the highlight of your day and you know it.”
He grins in his usual stupid broad fashion and slaps me on the backside as he passes to get to his locker.
Marcus is, like me, a probationer police constable, fresh out of training school at Ryton-on-Dunsmore and getting to grips with the day to day realities of trying to establish and maintain order on the mean streets of Nottingham. He has mixed ethnicity, but refers to himself as black, muscular, with dark curly hair and a quick and easy wit; a couple of years older than my twenty two. At only five feet four inches tall, and unapologetically gay; the traditionalists love him. He is by his own admission, too short, too black, too gay and too loud for the force; like an erection in church mate he says and winks, and like an erection he enjoys the friction.
“Hey, Spooky and Homo, briefing's starting.”
The sneered taunt comes from a passing Paul Strang, an experienced but lazy beat cop who harbors an instinctive dislike of the pair of us. We grab our kit belts in unison and head for the briefing room.
“Shall I punch his fat head or do you want first shot mate?”
Marcus grins again as he finishes the sentence.
“Let me decide whether I want to keep this job first,” I say, stepping through the doorway into the briefing room.
“Thanks for joining us, gentlemen, take a seat.”
We do as we're told; when Detective Inspector Karen Cobb gives you an instruction you follow it expediently. She allows us to sit before continuing.
“Okay, most of you aren't stupid, well at least some of you, so you'll have realized that this is not a routine briefing. It goes without saying that you keep the details of this to yourselves, and that CID will be handling any subsequent investigation; so in the unlikely event that any of you turn up something of interest, you'll let me
know without delay.”
She pauses allowing Detective Sergeant Kevin Henshall to outline the details.
“Right, what we have so far is a serious assault on an Elaine Morris at around about one last Saturday morning on Magdala Road. Some of you will know Elaine, since she's well recorded for a variety of soliciting offenses, which is of course what she was doing in Mapperley Park in the early hours in the first place.”
There is a low ripple of conversation from parts of the room.
“No, this isn't the kind of assault that you're thinking ladies and gents. There was no attempt at sexual activity and we can virtually rule out her pimp too, seeing as how his appearance apparently stopped the attack.”
Paul Strang speaks up.
“She probably ripped off a punter; getting attacked is an occupational hazard for tarts.”
“Possibly.”
DS Henshall flips over the page of a large flip-chart, displaying three blown up colour photographs pinned to it. The woman's face and neck has multiple deep puncture wounds, and blood seeps from these gashes and from eyelids which are swollen shut. She looks like the victim of a nasty glassing, the bits that aren't bloody are swollen and discolored; and the horrors continue with shots of her scratched and punctured hands and forearms.
“What the hell was she attacked with, a broken bottle?”
The question comes from Jamie Evans, Strang's regular partner, another bigoted asshole.
“No with his teeth and nails. He just walked up and attacked her, no attempt at conversation, then calmly strolled away. That's why we're briefing you today; he stopped because he was disturbed not because he was finished. Our other problem is that courtesy of Messrs. Bennett and Jones, Elaine has retracted her brief initial statement and gone to ground, which probably means that they're planning on dealing with this situation in their own inimitable style. We're all aware of what happens when those two cretins decide to get something done, and we don't want chopped up punters left right and center fucking up our statistics.”
Detective Inspector Cobb steps back in to have the final word.
“No statement means no crime and no official investigation for the time being, but one other thing you should be aware of is that this nut was described as having long sharp teeth and claw-like nails. Before she stopped talking Elaine described him as a vampire. Personally, I don't believe in vampires, but I do believe that we have a sick bastard out there who's not going to stop at ripping up one, and now our friendly neighborhood gangsters are going vigilante which gives us problems. That's enough excitement for you boys and girls for one day, now get out there and get on with what you're paid for. Oh, and if you see anyone with big teeth wearing a long black coat, hold a crucifix near him and let us know.”
* * *
Summer amongst the long grasses, their dusty-lipped fronds kissing and brushing the bare legs of three pale children, two boys and a girl running joyful and free from umbilical restraint. The air is cobalt with scents of clean running water and the zigzag memories of dragonfly wings, the sun, a blazing heaven, dots tan speckles on lithe young limbs.
I am in the lead, stretching away from Meg and Will, with burning thighs and my lungs full with the exhilaration of exertion, giggling at their increasingly miserable shouts for me to slow down and let them both catch up. When I deem that they are starting to flag, I stop and flop down on the feathery floor in a theatrical swoon.
Will arrives first, the smallest and eldest of our group, and shyly sits down blowing hard from the effort of the chase, swiftly followed by Meg with roses blooming in her usually white cheeks, who drops down limply at my side. Unable to talk momentarily, we sit in silence, the quiet broken only by my self-satisfied grin and their annoyed but becoming amused expressions against a backdrop of diminishing sighs and gasps.
A solitary pearl of scarlet begins to roll down Meg's shin, a shallow scratch clawed by a stray thorn perhaps. Instinctively I lean down and gently wipe it away with my fingertip, then lean in close and touch my lips to the wound to kiss the pain away. A pair of butterflies dappled black, white and russet flit between the obstacle course of our prone forms in a riotous high-spirited waltz. Soft wings pitter-patter a brief rapid rhythm against my cheek, then are gone again in a heartbeat, the warm breeze drying Meg's blood on my lips.
* * *
I have always felt most alive at night. Tonight is no exception, the warm breeze carries the promise of magic, caressing my pale skin and twisting patterns in dark hair that I wear longer than my employers like, but still shorter than I would prefer. It is starting to get late, the only illumination provided by sparse street-lighting like giant amber eyes hidden amongst the foliage of the large trees bursting out of the tarmac pavement.
There are occasional darker patches where there should be lights, bulbs repeatedly smashed by street dealers until the council gave up replacing them, and now dark silhouettes flit there selling 'rocks' and 'brown', crack cocaine and heroin for the walking dead. This is the Mapperley Park district of Nottingham, disarmingly beautiful by day, with large double bay-fronted properties prevalent along the wide tree-lined roads. Appearances are deceiving though, when the sun goes down this is the red-light district, populated by predatory pimps and their merchandise, street-walking parodies of sexuality readying to service their furtive clients.
It is my habit to take an interest in my surroundings, so I happen to know that the prostitution started here decades earlier when an army base was erected nearby, providing a steady stream of servicemen willing to pay for their pleasures. The base is now long gone, but the girls remain, contained in a small network of streets between Mansfield Road and Woodborough Road, the two main arteries into the city center. Whenever the boundaries of this patch start to sprawl, spilling glassy eyed waifs with needle-tracks and bones for limbs onto the more visible main roads, targeted policing forces them back into the darkened estate and councillors can breathe easy again. The arrangement seems to work for almost everybody.
Over time the houses have been split into bedsits and flats, the area becoming increasingly populated by the girls and those who live off them, along with immigrants and students drawn by the cheap rents. At some point a bright spark had the idea to house recently released former prisoners here too, since the area was already synonymous with crime any re-offenders could pass relatively unnoticed amongst the other detritus. Pimps deal drugs to their girls and the punters, recruiting the desperate from the ranks of the students and immigrants to join the others selling their souls for a few dirty notes at a time. Occasionally the girls rob the men who pay to rape them or stab the pimps who beat them, and some of the punters prefer not to pay at all; but by and large these incidents go unreported, the police and the respectable residents of the city are short on sympathy for junkie whores and kerb-crawling perverts.
I am left alone here, just another misfit amongst many, I don't wish to know these people and they have no desire to know me, the arrangement suits everybody just fine. Tonight the air carries the lingering scent of lawns cut earlier in the day and the occasional spicy green aroma of a different grass wafting from an open doorway, a weird mix of the twin normality's that co-exist here. Ghost, my three year old Weimaraner pads along at the side of me, claws clacking on the street surface, slowing his pace slightly whenever he feels tension in the lead. I stop to let him sniff the blackened base of a gate post, which he splashes briefly with a message of his own. The night is alive with the sounds of the street life; loud patois voices arguing in an upstairs flat, the rasp and flare of a match lighting a cigarette down an alley, and the ugly symphony of grunts and half-hearted moans from a parked car.
I moved here two years ago, uncomfortable with having lived in more pleasant parts of town where the people made unwanted and unwelcome attempts to be neighborly by injecting themselves into my life. On my first walk around the new area I was confronted by a glassy eyed, mixed race man. Skinny and much shorter than my six foot three inch frame, but comp
ensating for it with the Stanley knife he clutched in a twitching hand. His movements were staccato, wracked with the agitation of the hopelessly addicted in need of an immediate fix, and the sight of a strange, lone young male, wearing eyeliner and nail polish and dressed in black, carried the promise of an easy rob. I kept the knife blade and threaded it onto the silver crucifix neck-chain that I sometimes wear; the agitated addict – Marvin is his name I later learned – still stalks the same roads, but he crosses both himself and the street when he sees me coming now. I got Ghost soon after as a further deterrent in case it was needed, but either the grape-vine spreads news fast or people have become accustomed to my presence, and there have been no other such incidents.
Ghost stiffens, a ridge of coarse hair rising along the length of his spine, the tatty looking feline crossing our path freezes momentarily, eyes ablaze, then scurries away underneath a parked car. I crouch down and smooth his hackles back down, soothing him with low words. He rewards me with an enthusiastic wet tongue in the ear, excitable as ever like the rest of his breed. I named him after the visionary singer in Poppy Z Brites' novel Lost Souls, one of the few books to move me to tears; and was later delighted to discover that Weimaraners were in fact known as ghost-dogs by American hunters seeing them for the first time outside of Germany. They are hunting dogs, approximately the same size and shape as Dobermans, with silver-grey fur and piercing blue or amber eyes; bred for hunting deer and boar, they stalk their prey in eerie silence.
Home is a worn three-story Victorian building, entered through a heavy side door which leads directly up to the top floor flat. The flat is high-ceilinged with elaborate cornices and thick decorative dado rails throughout; there are polished wooden floors even in the ample bathroom, which has a deep slipper bath that grips the timber with clawed lion's feet. I open the large fridge freezer and start to assemble the components for dinner, plump blue-gray tiger prawns, crisp spring onions and bean sprouts, a small bitter head of chicory, fragrant coriander, red Thai shallots and fiery chillies. Closing the fridge I open up the larder, selecting coconut cream, fish sauce, soy sauce and good oil, before remembering the caster sugar, garlic and limes.