BiteMarks

by Drew Cross

  Back outside the air smells like suntan lotion and cocoa butter, until I raise the sandwich back to my mouth again and drown it out with savory food aromas. I can feel the burn of chili heat on my tongue, the weight of the tools in their brown paper bag and the first tingle of adrenaline as I walk.

  * * *

  Nobody is afraid of the dark. They're afraid of what might be out their stalking them under its smothering cover, stick-limbed night predators that pick off the careless and unaccompanied who stray across their paths, but not the darkness itself. I am no longer afraid of what might be waiting for me out there in the enveloping black, that would mean acknowledging that there are worse monsters in this world than myself.

  The unfamiliar kitchen is not quite pitch dark. Orange light from the display on the oven illuminates a small area, a star burst of light that probes my eyes like the beam from a laser pen if I look at it directly. I am alone for now, with only the sounds of my thudding fluttering heart and the hollow clatter of loose heating pipes under the floorboards to disturb me.

  It is somewhere around two in the morning; late enough to be sure that the man upstairs is sleeping unless he's an insomniac or heard me entering the house. I doubt it, I was quiet, and insomnia effects those prone to self analysis, troubled by their thoughts and actions and overwhelmed by the absence of daytime with its benign distractions.

  I've dressed for the occasion, all in black of course, right down to the eye liner smears around my dark eyes and crying from the corners. Only my teeth are purest white, fangs fixed in place - dangerous porcelain, I want him to see them in his mind for a long time to come. I head up the stairs happy that there's not been any movement overhead. The bradawl and axe twitch in my hand, and dying flowers are breathing their wasted last in a waterless vase on the landing, incongruous with the image of the man that I know, I wonder if there is a partner living here too?

  Deep carpets cushion my footfalls and mask the creak of shifting floorboards; the air is thick with tastes of lavender oil and spoiled lilies. The deep reverberations of a sleeping man's breath mingles with the soft lullaby whisper of ruffled leaves through an open window. I slip into the room from which the breathing sounds are emanating with only the movement of air to announce my presence.

  Jamie Moore is deep in slumber, lying on his back with his mouth open and slack. There is a lamp on his bedside table and I quietly remove the bayonet bulb with gloved hands, placing it on the carpet out of reach. I watch his chest rise and fall mesmerized for a moment, and raise the axe above my head; one more rise and fall and then I slam the blade down hard with a peace shattering roar.

  * * *

  The sound of rapid voices and a rattle of unpleasant sounding laughter erupts a short distance away up ahead. We're almost on top of them now, the lazy drift of sweet tobacco smoke floating into my lungs on shallow breaths. Dixon is sitting on the bough of a fallen beech tree, elevating himself above the others and flanked by the two Moore brothers. Nobody has seen us yet. He pats down his trousers and snakes a slight hand into his pocket, emerging with a bright yellow box of 'swan' matches.

  I step out into the clearing to the noise of twigs breaking beneath me and the harsh rasp-flare echo as he strikes a match across the abrasive side of the box. The conversational drone dies instantly and a dozen of pairs of feral eyes flicker towards me, burning like the wavering flame in Dixon's still hand.

  Meg and Will don't pause at all, a measure of the trust that they have developed in me. They move forwards to stand one on each shoulder, I can feel their tense trembling and risk a glance at their faces – blank and hard but falling just short of composure. The absence of obscenities and immediate violent reaction tells me that they're as surprised as my Granddad had told me that they would be - 'If a man's prepared to come to your own backyard to deliver his threat to you, then he probably means it'.

  “I've come to tell you that you won't be messing with any of us three again.”

  My voice sounds much higher than usual. There is a short pause and then Dixon laughs incredulously, looking around for support.

  The rustling movement of others is loud and menacing amongst the leaf-litter. I slip the kitchen knife down my sleeve, ten inches of serrated steel intent.

  “Let me clarify for you.”

  My tone is lower now and calm, even though I am screaming and shouting inside, rage beating a regular rhythm against the back of my eyes. The tormentors are transformed back into mere children again now, fearful of the dark sheen of the blade. I raise the knife to eye level, allowing them to study the contours fully and I smile.

  * * *

  The percussion thud of the axe head into the bedside table, accompanied by an animal roar in the darkness, wrenches the sleeping man awake. His hand scuttles frantically after the switch for the lamp – click, click, click – nothing happens and the fear is a tidal wave that holds him screaming in place, crushed against the mattress half-blind and disorientated.

  In the absence of sight his other senses are heightened, he feels the sharp point like a needle settling on the hollow of his throat and opens his bladder involuntarily. Sharp white teeth gradually come into view a foot away from his face, followed by dark eyes that appear to be leaking black tears. Police constable Jamie Moore listens carefully to the softly spoken words that follow, laying paralyzed with fear in his own cooling urine, and he agrees with every single word that the man that he had believed he knew says.

  Chapter 12

  I carry the man's screams around with me like a souvenir all day, taking out his fear to study its pleasing contours from time to time. This part of me has lain dormant for a long while. The side that wants to be feared, bearing its sharp teeth in threat at those that might seek to hurt me and sinking them into those that ignore the warnings. Usually I am uncomfortable when having to resort to physical violence, considering the fact to be indicative of a failure on the part of my intellectual abilities. I expect to be able to talk people away from having to find out what I'm capable of. Not right now though; I feel no guilt or shame, and I strongly suspect that Moore will eventually emerge as a better human being for the encounter. Sometimes more extreme measures can achieve surprising results like that. I had forgotten the particular resonance of screams uttered in abject terror, the strange musicality of the notes that replay in the mind afterward.

  Word has reached me that another meeting of the Vampire Society has been arranged for tonight, but it did not come via the venue owner and meets organizer, Kevin Lee. I'm evidently no longer invited, not considered to belong to the fold now that I've withdrawn my details from the database. The rejection stings intensely, the touch of a hot iron on cold skin. It is a fight to keep the maelstrom of internal reactions at bay; panic, sorrow, desperation, rage and different kinds of bloodlust running a rapid repeating mental slideshow until I manage to press the lid back down and drive in the nails again.

  Karen is supposed to be visiting tonight, but I cannot allow her to see me like this. The fleeting distraction of the standard array of sexual releases on offer won't work, can't reasonably be expected to scratch the maddening itch. I need blood and my self control is dangerously askew, a bad combination. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

  “Well, hello there. I'm looking forward to tonight, Officer Marks.”

  Her tone is playful and suggestive, I suppress the sudden urge to tell her everything, take me as I am or leave me forever.

  “Hi, that's why I'm ringing actually. I'm feeling pretty peculiar and just wanted to see if we could put it off to another night.” You see I've got this urge to drink somebody's blood and it can't wait.

  “Oh.”

  One simple syllable, but I can hear the years of disappointments. The long lonely waits for men who never showed up and silent furious taxi rides for one, back to the embrace of a neatly made cold empty bed. “I'm not giving you the brush off, Karen; I love everything about being in your company. I just don't bear resemblance to the Shane that you
know right now. Could we get together on Friday instead?”

  The reply sees her familiar tone back again. “That would be great; I've just had a particularly hard day and was looking forward to seeing you and unwinding. Hope you're feeling like yourself again soon. I'll call you later.”

  One call finished, another couple to make. Time's getting short if I'm going to set things up for later on tonight.

  * * *

  The thronging crowd outside 'The Pit' is just like the building itself, haphazard and spilling out across the road in threatening disheveled disarray. The individuals making up this untidy scene are a study in the outsider lifestyle; svelte preening pretty boy skinheads lining up alongside corpse decorated Goth girls, long haired aging rockers in tattered and studded leather biker jackets or ripped blue denim, chatting animatedly to fatigue wearing and gel-spiked under-agers trying to pass for eighteen in their nu-metal band tops. In amongst the rainbow-haired chaos we are stood in a small huddle of our own, smoking a tightly rolled joint and fidgeting from foot to foot to stay warm in the rapidly descending chill of the half-lit evening.

  Most of the streetlights in this section of town are regularly broken by well-aimed stones, which suits the darkness loving rock crowds that flock here on live band nights. The darkness brings danger though; the drunk or stupid that stray into the surrounding industrial wasteland are picked off on occasion by opportunistic predators.

  The club itself is painted black outside and in, crumbling and patched up with boards over the windows and a collage of posters on top of the boards advertising gigs past, present and future. There are black steps made from some sort of hard resin with stainless steel trims leading up to the entrance doors. Here and there is a dark sheen of spilled alcohol or old blood dappling the pocked floor surface in between the discarded nub-ends.

  The more focused surge of the crowd says that they've started to let people in now, the box office booth open to sell the last few tickets to those who didn't have the foresight to buy in advance. Thick-necked doormen wear tight black t-shirts with 'security' emblazoned in bold white capitals on the chest and back, they stand in pairs either side of the doorway, with more watching unseen in the back-rooms monitoring the CCTV pictures. I reach the front with my ticket in one hand and the smoldering roll-up in the other, handing both over to the bouncer with a smile. He smiles back and takes a huge draw on the joint, finishing it in one giant breath before tossing it to the floor and grinding out the embers with a steel-toed boot.

  “Good shit.”

  He laughs and exhales a long vapor trail of smoke, resembling a fighter jet speeding on a death mission.

  “Do you boys, and girl,” he nods towards Meg, “have any more illicit substances concealed about your persons?”

  “No, that was the last of it.”

  “Raise your arms above your head for a moment.”

  I do as I'm told and he pats down my slim frame gently, running a large hand across the front of my thigh on the blind side to the crowd and grazing the crotch area for an instant. I lean into his hand.

  “Well, just pop back to the foyer later and find me if you need anything. I've got everything that you might desire near at hand.”

  He emphasizes the last word and pats my arms back down to my sides, holding my eye contact for a beat and then winking.

  “I'll be sure to do just that.” I give him my best coy smile, touching his chest as I step past and slip through the open doorway behind him into the weird green gloom of the club's interior.

  The foyer of the club is lit by acid green spotlights, and there are two sets of stairs trimmed with LED lighting in the same shade. The main staircase takes you up to the 'Arena' which is the central stage area with several bars and a large polished wood dance floor. There is a further wrought iron spiral staircase in the 'Arena', which leads up to the grandly named 'Balcony bar. Essentially a few scabbed and scarred tables and chairs on a mezzanine above the dance floor, offering respite for those whose legs and body's have had enough for one night. The second set of stairs from the lobby takes you down into the 'Basement', which has another small bar along with a snack counter and a tiny stage for less well known and local acts.

  We head down to the Basement, knowing that less people gather down there and that we won't have to queue for drinks. It also has the added advantage of playing a more extreme soundtrack, which appeals to my tastes and frightens off any 'trendies' that might be slumming it for the night. 'Trendies' is our term for those who think that it's okay to wear Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren to a heavy metal gig, providing they're also wearing a skate chain and baggy jeans. The doormen routinely turn them away for their own safety, but every so often they slip through the net, and more than one has left traces of his DNA on the unforgiving steps outside.

  The door staff are not averse to the occasional bit of violence to liven up their nights, but with a sideline business in peddling class A's and B's to the clubs clientele, they are understandably not too keen on inviting a police presence to the premises. Hence the segregation of the mainstream from the more profitable metal crowd is maintained.

  As predicted the bar in the Basement is nearly empty at the moment, and we are soon seated in discomfort on the unyielding wooden benches around the periphery with matching JD and cokes in our hands. The DJ is playing a track that sounds like someone being drowned in a bathtub full of mud to a backdrop of faulty air-raid sirens – fine by me but not suited to Meg's more refined tastes, she winces visibly.

  “What the hell is this supposed to be?” She raises her voice to make herself heard over the blare of the music.

  “Not sure. Might be something by The Berserker,” I shout in reply, cupping my mouth with my hands to direct the reply to her ear.

  “It's crap, let's go upstairs; the band starts playing in a little while anyway.”

  I roll my eyes, but stand up and follow anyway, with Will bringing up the rear as we climb two flights of dimly lit stairs up to the Arena. A few nods register from regular faces with nicknames that I can't be bothered to remember; I nod in return and spot a gaudy poster on the wall. There is a stark white background with a vivid red, pink and black illustration depicting the characterized torso of a red stiletto wearing woman torn open to reveal a fetus amongst her innards. I recognize the poster as the cover of the album Coral Fang.

  “Looks like The Distillers are playing next month, who's up for that one?”

  “Don't think I've heard them,” replies Meg.

  “Me neither,”says Will.

  “Wait here then, I'll get something put on so you can have a listen.”

  I head for the DJ's booth, the dread-locked occupant leaning over the side to listen to my request.

  “What would you like, my friend?”

  “Anything off Coral Fang, by The Distiller,s please.”

  “Probably going to upset the teeny moshers, but what the hell? I'll play Die On A Rope and see what reaction we get.” He laughs enamel white reflecting the glow from a strobe light.

  “Thanks.” I hop back down from the side of the box and rejoin the others. “The next track's a Distillers track, so listen up.”

  The rapid bouncing opening bars of the familiar punky tune spring out of the vast speakers that line the walls, as well as from the tall stacks by the stage side. A couple of teens get up and start to pogo on the empty dance floor until self-consciousness gets the better of them. Around the edges some of the older men propping up the bar start to nod their heads in time with the music, taking small nervous sips from the rapidly warming lager in plastic pint 'glasses' and looking around them with chameleon roving eyes, striving hard to catch the attention of lone young females.

  “What do you both think?” I have to raise my voice a little over the top of the tune to catch their attention.

  “I like it, very punk.” Will makes a mock devil hand with two fingers raised like horns and pretends to head-bang to the beat.

  “Is this a female vocalist?”
asks Meg.

  “Yes, but with a vocal like an angry lion.” I spring at her with clawed hands baring my teeth and she bats me away laughing.

  The opening riff of a vaguely familiar song intervenes, pulling the attention of the room up to the raised stage. The crowd gives a small ironic cheer as the guitar technician who is testing the equipment takes an exaggerated bow. He puts the electric guitar back down and strums out a few notes on the bass guitar, frowning before altering the tuning slightly and trying again. The bass rumble through the large speakers seems to travel straight through your body and back out of the other side; you can feel it as much as you can hear it. Another roadie gives a drum roll on the enormous kit on a raised plinth at the back of the stage, then just as abruptly stands up and walks away, apparently happy enough with the set up. The roadie with the bass guitar adjusts the microphone stand and gives the microphone a couple of taps before he starts talking into it.

  “Can you all hear me, even the ugly sods at the back over there?”

  “YES!”The shout is accompanied by a ripple of laughter.

  He puts the bass back down and walks back off the stage with a wave.

  People are starting to make their way to the forefront at the foot of the raised stage, and the security staff has created a small corridor between the stage and the standing and dancing area using low and slightly battered metal barriers. They begin to take up their positions facing the crowd. The purpose of the set up to allow them to identify and remove the injured when the mosh pit ignites, rather than a desire to keep us away from the stage itself.