by Helen Harper
A trim female vampire holding a clipboard glances at me from the crowd in the centre of the hall. The people surrounding her all appear to be human. I’m surprised at how many of the new recruits have brought family members to see them off, as if they were going on a European cruise rather than giving up their lives to the vampires. A couple of the family members are upset: there is one older woman in particular whose muffled sobs provide an uncomfortable backdrop to the smiling faces of the majority. I’m with the sobber. The logical part of me recognises that the vampires offer security and inhuman longevity and health. It’s the inhuman part that bothers me. I don’t have anything against tribers – far from it. I’m just happy with who I am now. I wonder if my feelings will be different this time tomorrow. I sincerely hope not.
Still holding the sherry glass, I push my way carefully through to Clipboard Lady and give her my name. She smiles at me, but it’s far more functional and perfunctory than welcoming or reassuring. I sense a coldness in her that seems to be directed entirely at me.
‘Ms Blackman,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Family Montserrat.’
For some reason I think of the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. I can’t quite imagine Michael Montserrat in lederhosen, though.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, hoping I have quelled the fear in my voice enough to avoid raising suspicion.
‘You may say your last goodbyes now. The opening ceremony will begin in about fifteen minutes.’
I have no one to say goodbye to. I spare my mother a brief thought but I know that, unlike my grandfather, she feels her job as a parent was done and dusted the day I reached eighteen. There are no bad feelings between us and she wasn’t a bad mother. Merely … busy with other things, I suppose. It would be different if my father were still alive. I hope he’d have understood what I am doing.
I make my way through a set of mahogany doors and into what looks like a hotel conference room. Apart from the vials of glistening red blood sitting on the silver platter at the front, that is. There’s only one other person in here – a silver-haired man who is sitting near the vials and staring at them. I can’t work out whether the expression on his face is resignation or anticipation.
I’d like to head for the safety of the back row but I’m here for one specific reason. The other recruits will probably be too new to be involved in what is really going on but that doesn’t mean they won’t be targeted at some point. I need to get each one to take me into their confidence. The last thing I want is to have a dozen new BFFs – actually, no, scratch that: the last thing I want is to be turned into a vampire. But if I’m going down this route, I’m going to make it worth everyone’s while. I draw back my shoulders, take a deep breath and smile. Not too broadly – any recruit would feel a bit scared and nervous – but hopefully enough to put the man at his ease.
I sit next to him. He twitches slightly as if he’s trying to pull away.
‘This is surreal, isn’t it?’ I offer as an opening gambit.
His head jerks but he stays quiet. I stick my hand out. ‘Bo Blackman,’ I say. ‘By the look on your face, I think we’re both feeling the same right about now.’
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me but eventually he grasps my hand and shakes it. His palm is dry and his grip is strong, contradicting what I assumed was terror on his part.
‘Peter,’ he answers. ‘Peter Allen.’ He raises his eyes to mine. ‘And how are you feeling then?’
‘Excited. Nervous.’ I swallow. ‘Scared.’ At least I don’t need to fake those last two emotions.
He looks down at his lap. I realise with a jolt that he’s holding a crucifix, twisting it over and over in his fingers. It seems baffling that a devout Christian would want to give themselves over to the vampires. Back in the sixties, there was a long drawn-out publicity campaign to persuade the public at large that vampires did indeed have souls and that they were not an affront to God, no matter which version of God you believed in. I remember watching one of those nostalgic television programmes a year or so ago – you know, the type that’s dirt cheap to make, pulls in an audience by the million and includes Z-list celebrity pundits commenting on a countdown of the best moments of … whatever. One of the clips which made it into the top ten was of a bloodguzzler being doused in a vat of holy water, grinning and smiling into the camera the entire time. As I recall, this particular clip wasn’t included as proof that vampires aren’t harmed by religion (and therefore are not considered evil in the eyes of God) but more because at the same moment the vampire volunteer’s head went under, a seagull decided to dive bomb the outdoor bath constructed specially for the event.
Despite the success of the campaign across middle England, many humans still rail against the vampires’ existence. They point to sections of the Bible like that one from Leviticus: ‘If any one of the house of Israel or of the strangers who sojourn among them eats any blood, I will set my face against that person who eats blood and will cut him off from among his people.’ They conveniently choose to forget other parts which don’t fit with current beliefs. Pointing out that the Bible also says stubborn children should be stoned doesn’t lessen their antipathy to the bloodguzzlers. It’s easy to pick and choose quotes to suit your purpose. Regardless, the majority of churchgoers avoid the vampires whenever they can.
Peter notices my reaction to his cross. He tries to laugh, although the result is more of a choke than a guffaw. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I guess I am feeling scared and nervous, just like you. I need something to cling to.’
I’m curious. ‘Is it helping?’
‘The cross?’
I nod.
‘No, I think it’s actually making me feel worse. What if…?’ his voice trails off.
Impulsively I reach over and squeeze his hand. ‘You’re no longer considered clean in God’s eyes? We’re probably all thinking that, even those of us who aren’t sure if we have faith in a higher power.’
‘Why are you here?’ he asks.
I’m prepared for this. O’Shea and I spent time discussing various scenarios to explain why I’ve decided to join the vampires and then choosing the most plausible – and the one likely to garner me the most ‘friends’ as a result. For this plan to work, I need the traitors to believe I’m prepared to turn on the Family and help destroy it from the inside. I also need the other new recruits to trust me in case they are approached themselves. I’m not in a position to lie too blatantly either – I’ve been in the news too much lately to pretend to be someone I’m not.
I give a heavy sigh. For a moment I think I’ve been too melodramatic but Peter squeezes my hand as if to reassure me. ‘Joining any of the Families wasn’t something I considered until a few days ago,’ I admit. Lies are always more believable when they’re woven with half-truths. ‘I had a good life. I mean, I was lonely, but I had a good life.’
‘Lonely?’
‘My father passed away several years ago and my mother is always away. I have a grandfather who I see from time to time but he’s,’ I pause, as if searching for the right word, ‘difficult.’ I let Peter read into that what he will. ‘And I have no significant other to speak of. I always wanted children,’ I add sadly.
‘But you’re young! There’s plenty of time to meet someone.’
I nod. ‘Well, I had met someone. I was in love with my boss.’ Sorry, Tam, I tell him silently. It’s for a good cause.
A knowing look flashes across Peter’s face. ‘Is he married?’ he asks gently.
‘Divorced. I thought there was a chance that one day…’ I sigh again. ‘Except now he’s dead. A vampire killed him and all my colleagues.’
He looks shocked. I hope I’ve hit the right balance between bitterness and pain.
‘Why would you join a Family when a Family killed the man you loved?’
‘I need to understand why. Maybe by becoming a recruit, I’ll discover how he incurred their wrath. And…’ I look down and awkwardly tug at my hair.
‘Ye
s?’ prompts Peter.
‘I’ve heard that vampires don’t experience emotions the same way that we do.’ According to my grandfather this theory is rubbish but it serves my purpose, so I continue. ‘This could be a good way to shut off the pain. It also means the police won’t come after me any more.’ I glance up at him. ‘They think I’m responsible for killing Tam. My boss.’
‘You?’
I try not to be irritated by Peter’s incredulity. ‘I know! It’s ridiculous to think that I could do such a thing!’
He moves his hand up my arm and gently turns me towards him. ‘That’s terrible. Simply terrible.’
I sniff and sneak a look at his eyes from under my lashes. Peter Allen does indeed appear to be swallowing my story whole.
‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ he murmurs.
I try not to smile. Score one for the daemon, then. I’d suggested to O’Shea that I say that myself. He told me the words would be too pat but it was a good strategy to imply them. I have to give him credit for being more cunning than I’d thought. No wonder he got away with his dodgy dealings until now.
‘How about you?’ I ask, deciding the time is right to encourage my fellow recruit to take part in everyone’s favourite pastime – talking about themselves. Now that I’ve delivered my own story, I can focus on everyone else. With any luck, Peter will turn out to be a bit of a gossip and I won’t need to repeat my tale to every new recruit.
He withdraws, however, and his face clouds over. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
I wait a few beats. It’s amazing how often people will say they’d ‘rather not talk about it’ and then open up. Apparently, Peter is the exception to the rule. He stays mum.
‘I understand,’ I murmur, cursing inwardly. ‘We all have our secrets.’
He smiles gratefully. I wonder if his reticence has anything to do with the crucifix that he is still clutching tightly. Before I can say anything else, however, the relative silence of the small auditorium is interrupted.
‘OM smegging G!’
I wince. The ‘I’m too lazy to use actual words’ voice belongs to a bouffant bottle-blonde. She’s done up to the nines: high heels, tight black dress, sparkling jewels and long scarlet fingernails. So much for it being difficult to gain admission into the Families. Maybe Michael Montserrat is wanting a little relief from his darker Family members.
The blonde is followed by several others. Peter goes back to staring at the floor but I reckon a little curiosity about the other recruits won’t be out of place so I stare openly at them all. By the time everyone is inside, I’ve counted an unlucky baker’s dozen. I’m not particularly superstitious, but I can’t help thinking it isn’t a coincidence that our little band numbers thirteen.
There is a young girl in a wheelchair; no prizes for guessing her motives for being here. I spot a couple of older men including, I note, a retired politician who has often been on the front pages for all the wrong reasons. I seem to remember there were allegations of fraud. It surprises me that he’s here; I guess he was innocent after all. The others are a mish-mash of the nondescript and the showy: bespectacled nerds, beefed-up athletes and straitlaced suits.
Someone once said not to judge a book by its cover. Whoever it was clearly never worked as a private investigator. How people look can give an observer information about who they really are. Attention to detail is vital. It’s something I’m not particularly skilled at, but I’m training myself to get better. For example, the youngish man in a suit who sits diagonally behind me may look dapper but his cheap, scuffed shoes and ever-so-faint twitch in his upper eyelid suggest an entirely different story. I’m interested in one woman whose hair suggests downtrodden housewife but whose clothes are more rebellious teenager. Anyone sporting contrasts in their appearance usually reflects those same contrasts in their personality. According to Tam, anyway. I make a mental note to talk to her as soon as I can.
I realise that the loud blonde is assessing me in much the same way as I am examining everyone else. She lifts an eyebrow in my direction when she sees me watching her, and raises a tanned hand to her perfectly coiffed hair. I register the watch on her wrist: a Timex. It doesn’t match her clothes and make-up or the way she holds herself. Perhaps I’ll speak to her soon, too.
By my side, Peter mutters something. I turn back to him just as the door closes with a deafening finality. My stomach drops unexpectedly at the sound. I see a vampire looping a twisted red rope around the handle, effectively locking us in. I understand it’s symbolic rather than a real barrier, but it’s clear that everyone in the room feels the same. The turning is about to begin.
Chapter Fifteen: Bloody PowerPoint
I suppose I’d been assuming it would be Michael Montserrat himself. Instead, the door behind the table of vials opens and a large male vampire strides in. As soon as he begins to speak, I recognise his voice: it’s Ursus, the one who came after me at The Steam Team. He doesn’t waste time smiling.
‘Good morning. The Family Montserrat is pleased to welcome you into our midst.’ He gazes around at all of us expectantly as if waiting for a reply. When there is none, he continues. ‘Before the turning takes place, there are some matters that need to be addressed. I understand that you are all nervous and keen to start as soon as possible.’ His mouth widens as if he’s going through the motions of smiling but not quite managing it. ‘However, it is vital you fully understand what is about to happen.’
He gestures to some invisible force and a projector screen drops down. A part of me squirms. Death by PowerPoint.
As soon as the screen clicks into place, an image appears of the Montserrat logo. It’s a twisting, almost Celtic, design and no doubt familiar to everyone in the room. I think it’s supposed to suggest eternity and strength; it’s unfortunate that these days it looks more like a tattoo you can get in any high street shop. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’ve seen it for sale as a temporary skin transfer. But I suppose that pretending to be a vampire for a day is easier than actually becoming one.
Ursus clicks on a handheld device and the next slide appears, filled with dense, tightly packed writing which he reads aloud. Despite the style of his delivery, I am rapt.
‘You are the lucky few,’ he intones. ‘Thousands apply to join us and few are accepted. It is not an easy road to take. From the moment you accept the Montserrat blood into your veins, you are beholden to us. Loyalty is non-negotiable and we do not tolerate anything other than obedience.’ Given the current circumstances, that’s obviously not as true as he’d like us to believe. ‘You will leave your human lives behind. Many of you will never see your biological families again. Some of you may not survive the turning process.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the more serious looking recruits raise a nervous hand. ‘How likely is it that we won’t make it?’
Ursus moves onto the next slide. Clearly this question has been anticipated. ‘Between eight and fourteen percent of new recruits do not make the turn. The reason why is unknown. We have studied our intakes for many years and there is no pattern. However, expect that at least one of you will not see what tomorrow brings.’
There’s a sudden nervous shifting. People start eyeing each other up. Who will be the statistical death? Several turn to the girl in the wheelchair with knowing glances. I feel my insides tighten. Ursus’s words remind me that I could well be making the worst decision of my life. I think of the alternative: of running away and hiding so I can be tracked down and killed by the rogue vampires while their buddies take over the world. It doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.
The next slide appears. ‘There are numerous myths you need to be aware of,’ Ursus continues. ‘To begin with, vampires are not immortal.’ I already know this and I’m sure the rest of the recruits do too. Everyone, however, leans forward slightly. ‘Your lives will be lengthened to an expectancy of around three hundred years. You will not be invincible, although you will be freed from the majority of
illness that strikes other species. Accidental death and,’ he pauses, ‘death by design do still occur occasionally. Predators remain.’
Another hand goes up. ‘What about sunlight?’
‘You will be vulnerable to the sun’s glare between the first twenty to sixty months from the date of your turning. Everyone is different. After that, while you will not enjoy beach holidays, you will be able to venture outside without feeling too uncomfortable. Holy water and crucifixes will not hurt you. By becoming one of us, you are neither relinquishing your soul nor your faith.’ Next to me, Peter sits a little straighter. ‘A stake through the heart will pretty much finish you off, as will fire or beheading. And for the first year, you will find your body remains as weak as a human’s.’ Ursus attempts another smile. It still doesn’t work. ‘However, the concept of threshold boundaries holds true – unless the property is a business or uninhabited.’
I’d often wondered about that. It’s reassuring to know that a vampire cannot just break into your house and drink from you.
‘By joining our Family, you are subject to our laws. Let me stress that murder is verboten. You will drink blood but you will not drain, and for the first few years you will only drink from pre-assigned volunteers.’ I repress a shudder at the thought the many vampettes exposing their jugulars for our delectation. ‘There are, of course, other crimes. If you are found guilty of any crime, the response is usually immediate execution.’
‘So you can be killed even if you just steal something?’ someone blurts out.
Ursus turns cold eyes on the speaker. ‘Are you planning to steal something?’
‘I… I…’ she stutters. ‘No, of course not but…’
‘Well, then, what’s the problem?’ He carries on as if she’s not spoken. ‘Until your solar weakness is diminished, you will remain here. We will train you and help you find your new path in life, whatever that may be. Once you leave here, you will be required to attend meetings and fulfil duties as determined by the senior members of the Family. You will also pay a monthly tithe. Contact with other Families is not forbidden but we do require you to inform us of any exchanges that occur, no matter how innocuous. These are issues that we will explain in more detail before you venture back into the real world.’