Thea: A Vampire Story

by Steven Jenkins

  They sell spades at work, but I couldn’t risk running into someone I know—especially Kate. Didn’t think I could face her line of questioning. I’m a terrible liar and I’m bound to confess all as soon as I saw her. I felt guilty enough buying the bloody thing from the DIY shop thirty miles away. For some reason, I felt that a woman buying a spade immediately suggested murderer. So I bought a few potted plants and a rake, just in case.

  And a few bottles of wine in the shop next door.

  Our garden can barely hold the title. There’s just a small wooden shed, a tiny patch of dying grass, and a pathetic, concrete patio section for barbecues. We haven’t had a barbecue in years, since even before Thea was born—when Mark was still living with us. Now, it’s stained green and covered in weeds.

  I enter the shed, breaking a massive cobweb as the stiff wooden door opens. I haven’t been in here in ages; it’s filled mostly with junk: a rusty lawnmower, which I haven’t used in awhile, a leaf-blower, which I’ve never used, a few boxes, and some cracked plant pots. I prop my new rake against the wall, place the new plant pots on the shelf, and then kneel down to inspect the floor. Maybe I could pull up the wood and bury him underneath. At least in here I can keep the door shut and take as long as I need. I give the floor a tap and quickly come to the conclusion that I haven’t got a hope in hell of pulling this wood up.

  It has to be the garden, then. I’ll just have to be really quiet and pray to God one of the neighbours doesn’t see me.

  A flash of Jared’s torn throat hits me.

  What the hell are you doing, Sarah? You can’t bury someone in the garden. This is not you. You have to tell someone.

  No! This is the only way. Thea comes first. Nothing else matters.

  I check my watch: 10:17 A.M. Need to get busy.

  Just as I step out of the shed, it suddenly dawns on me that I haven’t called Thea’s school. I race into the house and grab my mobile from the handbag. There are two missed calls from Mum.

  Shit! I just remembered! I’m meant to be working tonight! I need to tell them that I’m sick. Bloody hell, Mum is coming round later to babysit.

  I dial her number; my muscles tighten up as I wait for the call to connect. Don’t know why I’m so nervous; it’s not like Mum will work out what’s happened.

  Or would she?

  “Hi, Sarah,” Mum says through the phone. “I’ve been trying to call you for a few days. Where’ve you been hiding?”

  “Nowhere,” I reply, cagily. “Things have been a little hectic, that’s all.”

  “How’s Thea? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “She’s fine,” I reply, desperate to push the conversation on. “I won’t need you to babysit tonight. I’m not working. Sorry if it’s short notice.”

  “Oh, right. That’s okay. Maybe I’ll pop round anyway. I’d love to see Thea.”

  A jolt of panic hits me. Thank God she can’t see my face. “No, Mum. She’s sick. She’s got a nasty stomach bug. We both have. That’s why I’m not working later.”

  “A stomach bug? Sounds awful.”

  “Yeah. So it’s probably best that you stay away. I wouldn’t want you to get it, too.”

  Mum falls silent.

  Has she been cut off?

  “Mum,” I say. “Are you still there?”

  She finally speaks. “Is this about your father?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this about what I asked you to get for me? Are you trying to avoid me?”

  “No, Mum, of course not. We really are sick. Thea’s off school today. She’s still in bed.”

  “What’s happening about the blood?”

  “Shush, Mum. Don’t even mention it, especially over the phone.”

  “How else am I supposed to ask you? You don’t reply to any of my messages.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just been preoccupied.”

  “Sarah, your father hasn’t got long left, so I need an answer: yes or no? It’s not hard.”

  What the hell do I tell her? She’s going to want the money back.

  “Come on, Sarah,” Mum pushes, “spit it out.”

  “Kate couldn’t get it,” I blurt out. “Her dealer’s in prison.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No, he’s gone down for twenty years,” I stutter, nervously. I can’t help it. “They caught him with a houseful of drugs.”

  “Well, when did this happen?” she asks. She knows I’m lying—I can sense it.

  “The other day.” I’m drowning in lies. I need to end this conversation now. “Look, I told you it’s dangerous to discuss this over the phone, so just change the subject. It’s not happening, Mum.”

  “Okay then,” she replies, suspiciously, “I’ll get it from somewhere else. I’ll pop round in a bit to get the money off you.”

  Shit! The five grand!

  And then something occurs to me: I should have just given her my blood in a vial. She would have given it to Dad, realised it was fake, and be none the wiser.

  Bloody hell! You’re an idiot, Sarah!

  “It’s not safe to come here,” I say, struggling to contain the alarm in my voice. “You’ll catch the bug and give it to Dad. It’s too risky.”

  “Don’t pretend you give a shit about your father, Sarah. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  “I care about you, though.”

  Through the phone, I can hear Mum sigh in frustration. “Do you have my money?”

  I don’t have an answer. I’m out of lies.

  “Come on, Sarah,” Mum says, “Where is it?”

  What the hell do I say?

  And then the words “I spent it,” fall from my mouth.

  “What! Already?” Mum screams down the phone. “On what?”

  “I had to pay off a credit-card bill,” I lie. Where did that come from? But every lie that passes my lips creates a whole new set of questions.

  “You stupid girl, Sarah!” Mum snaps. “That money was for your father. How could you be so bloody selfish?”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply quietly, my finger hovering over the cancel button on the phone.

  “Sorry? Sorry? You do realise that you’ve just killed your father. Are you happy now?”

  Any other day, after any other of Mum’s rants, I’d be consumed with guilt. But I have a daughter to take care of, and a body to bury. “I’ll get you the money,” I say, this time with authority. “But right now Thea is my priority. So I’m going, Mum. And I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that’s just—” Mum starts to say, but I end the phone call mid-sentence.

  I’ve got bigger problems—like how on earth am I going to get Jared to the garden? He’s got to weigh at least ten stone. I need to put him into something like a body bag, that way I can drag him out. But what can I use instead of a body bag? Bin bags are too weak. I could go shopping for something, but I’ve already burned up way too much sunlight. There must be something in the house I can use.

  A vile image of me hacking his body to pieces pops into my head. Don’t even think about it, Sarah. It’s not going to happen.

  Just as I shake the thought away, the solution suddenly comes to me.

  Mark’s old sleeping bag!

  I march into the hallway, stopping at the cupboard under the stairs. As soon as I open it I see a bloated bin bag filled with Mark’s leftover junk. On my hands and knees, I scramble to drag it out, pushing past a bag of old coats I’ve been meaning to give to charity, a box of rusty tools that have never been used, and various other pieces of crap that have found their way in here. I rip the bag open, and the red and green sleeping bag with orange lining pops out like a Jack-in-the-box. I cough when a cloud of dust hits my face. The sleeping bag stinks of mildew, like a derelict old house. Not that it matters one bit. I ball it up and start to climb out of the cupboard, but then something catches my eye: Thea and Ivy’s old baby monitor, still up on the shelf. Forgot I still had it. Picking it up, I peer down at the tiny, dusty screen. I wonder i
f it still works. I push the On button, but nothing happens. It probably just needs a charge. Why on earth did I keep this thing? Did I really think that I’d be having another child in the future? But when I pick up the camera from the shelf, all those memories of watching my little babies sleep come flooding back.

  Some things are just too hard to part with.

  If I can get it working again, I can use this monitor to watch over Thea. So I take it into the living room and plug it into the socket. The red charge light comes on, putting a tiny smile on my face. But then I remember what the sleeping bag is for, and realise that there’s absolutely nothing to smile about.

  I exit the living room and head up to Thea’s room. At her door, I brace again, nerves creeping over me. What if Thea’s wide-awake? Waiting for me?

  No, I would have heard something by now.

  Jesus Christ, I’m really afraid of my own daughter.

  I take a slow, deep breath, and then unlock the door. Thea’s weight is still pressing against it. It means she’s still sleeping. That’s good. I push hard on the door and then slip through the gap.

  Inside, I can plainly see that Thea hasn’t moved a muscle since earlier. Please be breathing. The panic dwindles when I see her chest moving. Thank God.

  I walk over to Jared, stare down at his body, and hold back a rush of vomit. The carpet all around him is now a dark, reddish brown, and thick, almost as if he’s lying on a rug. I doubt that will ever come clean again.

  I pull the zip of the sleeping bag until it opens out completely, and then I lay it flat on the carpet beside him.

  Now comes the part that I’ve been dreading. I let out a long exhalation and kneel down by his side. Don’t look at his face. I slip my hands under his back and legs, and start to roll him onto the sleeping bag. His body feels stiff as if moving a piece of furniture. By accident, I catch a glimpse of his face; his eyes are closed, but his mouth is hanging wide open. So is his throat. I gag, and then swallow a little sick—but I keep focused, keep pushing until Jared’s body is on the sleeping bag.

  I zip him up all the way, with just his head sticking out of the top, and then grab two handfuls of sleeping bag. The fabric is puffy, so I have a decent grip. I lift him so that his blood-drenched head and shoulders are off the floor; I can’t risk leaving a trail of it on the carpet. Just as I start to haul the body through the doorway, I realise something: I should’ve put him into the sleeping bag headfirst. Bloody hell!

  I’ll have to start again.

  No, it’s too late now. Keep moving.

  On the landing, I stop when I see a trail of blood. “Shit!” There’s a fucking leak? I quickly grab a towel from my bedroom and wipe down the sleeping bag. I can’t see any obvious tears in the fabric. I must have just dragged it through the blood and gore on Thea’s carpet. Fucking hell!

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I pause for a moment. How am I supposed to get him down? Roll him? No, I’ll just have to slide him, one step at a time. I start to lower the sleeping bag down carefully, feet first, struggling against his weight. When he reaches the centre of the staircase, my fingers start to slip, and I lose my hold. “Oh fuck!” I say as the body thuds against each step, the sound echoing around the house. Chasing after it, I almost lose my footing, so I grab hold of the banister. Jared’s arm dangles out of the sleeping bag when he finally crashes onto the hallway floor. Wincing, I stuff it back inside and start to drag him along the hallway towards the back door, followed by another trail of blood.

  In the kitchen, I stare at the blood for a moment. What a mess. I sigh and then rub away the beads of sweat from my brow. It’s fine, Sarah. Don’t panic. It should wipe off the wooden floor and kitchen tiles easily. And the carpets can be shampooed. It’s just like red wine.

  Lots of red wine.

  22

  The ground is tough, forcing me to hit the dead grass as hard as I can. And each time I do, I check if the neighbours are watching. Luckily, the wall is a little too high on the left side of the garden, but Mary’s fence on the right side is only about five feet high, with a thin gap between each wooden slat. In my mind, I see her head popping over, peering down at me, wondering why on earth I’m digging a great big hole in the garden. I suppose I could make up some bullshit story about re-turfing the lawn, especially given the state it’s in. But what happens if the police come calling? What if they ask Mary if she’s seen anything suspicious?

  Digging a human-sized hole in your garden isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

  Maybe an hour and a half passes before it’s deep enough to fit the body. Another foot or so down would be better, but I need to get rid of the evidence now. The sun will be down in a few hours, and Thea will be up—confused and hungry. I need to be up there, ready to keep her calm.

  Calm?

  How the hell am I meant to do that? Watch a movie? Sing her a lullaby? She’s a vampire, for Christ’s sake! There’s no calming her down! She can’t be reasoned with. Not right now anyway. The only thing that will calm her down is time.

  And blood.

  Back aching, arms and legs fatigued, I drag the sleeping bag out of the kitchen, along the garden, and then roll it into the hole. It lands with a loud thump, causing me to scan for witnesses again. It’s about three feet deep, six feet in length, and around two feet wide. Using the spade, I prod the sleeping bag until it fits snugly into the hole, all the while refusing to look at Jared’s face.

  I quickly shovel the dirt back down into the hole until the body is completely submerged. On my knees, I scoop up handfuls of dirt and scatter it across the lawn. Once that’s done, I finish by flattening out the mound with the back of the spade. There’s a rusty old wheelbarrow by the shed, left here from the previous owner. I wheel it over to the centre of the heap, concealing the evidence.

  I try not to think that there’s a boy buried in my garden. But it’s impossible. I see Thea again, crouched over him, his throat torn out, blood gushing all over everything. I see his face, lifeless and—

  Shut up, Sarah!

  This was just a nasty mess that needed to be cleaned up! Jared isn’t worth crying over! The little bastard was going to take Thea away from me!

  After everything I’ve been through!

  What kind of monster would do that to a mother?

  I take another look around and then head for the house.

  What about his mother? And his father? They’ll be wondering where the hell their son is. They’ll be crushed when they find out. Suicidal. Like I was.

  Reaching the back door, I glance at the grave, imagining police exhuming the body, Jared’s parents falling to their knees at the sight of their rotting son. My hands start to quake, and I’m suddenly short of breath. I think I’m going to faint. I squeeze the doorframe as hard as I can, but my body slides down until I’m on my knees.

  I see an image Thea’s face—before I poisoned her—and I focus on it.

  That’s what I’m fighting for. My angel. All this guilt, this self-pity will have to be put on hold. Thea is still sick, and she’s not likely to get better any time soon. So once she is, once she can control her urges, then we’ll leave this house. For good. Let the police come for us. Let them unearth the body. By then we’ll be long gone, away from boys, away from Mum and that tosser of a father. We’ll start a new life, with a new home. Thea won’t need friends—or school. She’ll have me to look out for her, to teach her. The way it should have been from the start.

  My hands start to settle; so does my breathing. I straighten up, the faint feeling gone, and enter the house.

  Time to get cleaning.

  23

  Thea is sleeping on her bed. I gaze up at her every few seconds as I scrub the blood from her carpet. Even though she looks like the same sweet Thea, seeing her wrists and ankles tied to the metal bedframe turns my stomach more than Jared’s blood ever could.

  The mess on the walls and wardrobe wiped off pretty easily, but the carpet stain is deep, so I’ve had to use every cleaning
product I could find in the house. Some of it is coming up, but not enough to hide the evidence if someone came snooping. And I can’t exactly say that the stain is just red wine—the area is just too big. You’d need a crate of it to make that excuse convincing.

  After more than two hours spent on my hands and knees, I finally stand up and inspect the job. The carpet is ruined, so I drag Thea’s white, fluffy rug directly over the stain. It’s not the ideal solution, but it’ll have to do for now.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the thin rope around Thea’s wrists. I hope I didn’t tie them too tight. I wouldn’t want to cut off the circulation. What if I end up permanently damaging her hands?

  She’s a vampire. She’ll heal.

  But I had to restrain her, at least for the time being. She’s a long way off from controlling her urges. So be patient—ride it out until the end of the week and see what happens.

  I still haven’t told the school. They’ll be calling tomorrow, asking where she is. I’d better phone them first thing, tell them she has a bug. The last thing I need right now is Social Services pestering me.

  I notice the clock on the bedside cabinet. 5:12 P.M. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. I feel nauseated just thinking about Thea the way she was last night. Like a wild animal tearing into its prey. It was horrendous! Maybe tonight will be better. Who knows what difference twenty-four hours will make?

  At her bedside, I check that the ropes are tight enough, and then kiss her on her cheek. It feels cold.

  Too cold.

  I try to put the worry to the back of my mind. There’ll be plenty of time for that when the sun disappears.

  I walk over to the doorway, blow her a kiss, and then lock Thea in.

  Outside her room, I press my back against the wall and close my eyes. Jared’s distorted face still haunts me; can’t seem to shake it off.

  A big fucking drink should do the trick.

  * * *

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, finishing off a ham and cheese sandwich. I’m not in the least bit hungry, but I haven’t eaten a thing all day. How could I though, after what I had to do?