Bouncing out of the hedge, the boy did a victory lap, his arms held up above his head, his hands glowing softly in the orange glare of the street lights. He shouted something, but his voice was garbled and only a choking grunt carried to Sam.
‘Hairy fucking bollocks,’ shouted one of his compatriots. The group laughed like a pack of hyenas. There was something distasteful and disrespectful in the laugh that sent Sam over the edge.
Waves of fury burned through him. Sam did not know where it came from, but the pit of his stomach was afire with brutal need. It felt like life was seeping back into atrophied limbs: as if he had been sleeping, and consciousness was returning, bright and furious. Those kids had been pissing around on his street for months now, and nobody had the courage to go and tell them to fuck off. Well, Sam thought to himself as he struggled into a pair of jeans, that ended now.
Storming down the stairs, he wrenched the front door open and stalked over to where the youths stood. One of them saw him coming and shouted something. The rest turned to watch him curiously. One said something, and the rest began to laugh.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Sam shouted at them, the sheer fury in his voice stilling the group for a second. ‘You bunch of inbred, useless fucking louts. You lot are everything that’s wrong with society – a bunch of fucking shits. Nothing more and nothing less, just a bunch of fucking shits. You’ve got no purpose except to torment people, and it’s not right. If I had my way, I’d put every single one of you down like rabid dogs, here and now. I’d kill you. Do you understand?’ He fixed one tall boy with bad acne in a glare, and the boy had to look away. ‘You aren’t children – you’re a pack of feral savages. You’re a disgrace.’
There was a moment of silence, and then someone towards the back sniggered. ‘Fuck off, granddad,’ a girl shouted. Sam stared at them in disbelief. For a moment, he’d had them, he knew. For a moment, he had felt their shame. The group was resistant to it though, and more heckles came after the first. A can of beer landed by his feet and showered him with lager. Sam, confused, took a step back.
What the hell am I doing out here? he thought to himself. The self-righteous rage had abandoned him, and outright terror was waiting in the wings. He took another step back. Sensing his fear, the group began shouting more obscenities at him. Another can hit him on the shoulder, spinning him around. When he regained his balance, he found the tall youth standing by him. The boy grinned spitefully and shoved Sam in the chest.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the youth kept asking, repeating the words like a mantra. Suddenly, sirens swelled in the distance and the group stopped as one and looked up. The noise got louder, obviously coming in their direction, and one by one the group began to melt away. The tall youth was the last to go. ‘You’re fucked,’ he hissed. ‘I know where you live.’ He turned and ran, leaving Sam with the threat hanging heavy in his ears.
Sam sat down in the middle of the street and tried to make sense of what had just happened. Tabby came out and tried to help him to his feet. She was speaking in the background, but her words were a buzz. ‘I thought they were going to kill you … called the police … what got into you … medication …’ The words drifted past him as he sat and tried to work out why he had reacted like that.
It had been so stupid. He had made his home, himself and his wife a target. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Then he stiffened in Tabby’s arms. He had shouted at the youths – he had spoken.
‘What is going on?’ Grímnir asked. There was a definite slur in his voice. Cam thought that considering the amount of beer the big man had consumed, it was only right that his speech was a bit messed up. They sat on the sofa in Cam’s front room, watching the television.
Cam took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he began with drunken authority. ‘Those kids are on a road trip and they decided to stop at that old house …’
‘Why?’ Grímnir asked with confusion. ‘It is all falling down.’
‘Yes, but that’s not the point. It’s a movie. If they hadn’t stopped there, then there wouldn’t be a movie, would there?’
‘What is a movie?’
‘It’s what we’re watching.’ Cam racked his brain for an analogy. ‘Like a story. You had stories, right?’
‘Oh, a story,’ Grímnir said. ‘Yes, we had great stories around fire pits, where each man would compete to tell the best, and the loser would have to drink a flagon of mead!’ He barked a laugh.
Cam looked sideways at the big man. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘Anyway, they stopped there, and in a minute …’ As if on cue, there was a roaring noise from the television and an overweight man in dungarees and a mask of human skin drove a chainsaw into the body of one of the unfortunate teenagers. Blood went everywhere. The two sat and watched in silence for a few minutes. Cam risked a glance at Grímnir, and saw a look of open wonder on his face.
‘Good huh?’ Cam asked.
‘It is magnificent,’ Grímnir agreed.
‘There’s loads just like it. I’ve got a massive collection.’
‘Where? I need one right now.’
‘Well, we’ve still got the rest of this one to watch first,’ Cam said a little defensively.
‘What?’ Grímnir demanded.
‘The movie,’ Cam explained, as if to a dullard. ‘There’s no point watching another one yet. We’ve got to finish this one first.’
‘The … movie … is ridiculous. Those children are weak and foolish, and the psychotic human is fat and slow. I meant the roaring sword,’ Grímnir said. ‘I lost my sword, but that would be a worthy substitute.’
Cam took a long drink from the tequila bottle clutched in his hand. His drunken faculties tried to make sense of what his companion was talking about. ‘You mean the chainsaw? You want a chainsaw?’ Cam burst out laughing.
Grímnir stared at him until he stopped choking on the fiery alcohol, which had caught at the back of his throat. ‘Yes – I want a Chain-Sword.’
‘Right,’ Cam said, looking back at the screen as a girl was hung on a meat hook. ‘No problem. I’ll get you a hockey mask too.’
Saturday
GRISLY REMAINS FOUND AT HOUSE OF PSYCHIC, went the headline. Sam read the story in the paper with morbid fascination as he ate some toast and waited for Tabby to get ready. His stomach felt better this morning, but his breakfast tasted strangely flat, like ashes.
Early this morning, a body was found in a house in the Bowdon area of Manchester. Danielle Stone, a well-known clairvoyant and psychic, was discovered by clients who were due to attend a midnight séance. As yet, the police have made no statement except to confirm that the body of Ms. Stone was discovered in the early hours, and that they are treating the death as suspicious.
‘Sam, are you ready?’
Sam looked up from a graphic description of how Ms. Stone’s body had been found with her throat torn out, drained of blood, and partially eaten. No wonder the police were treating it as ‘suspicious’. The press were already toying with the word ‘vampire’. ‘Yes,’ he said and revelled in his ability to say it.
Tabby came into the kitchen, her hair freshly dried. ‘Let’s go then – I’m sure Dr. Jackman is very busy.’
‘He’s a doctor. He’s supposed to be busy.’ Together they walked out the front door and over to the car. Sam stared at it. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he hissed, anger threatening to overwhelm him. The passenger side of the car had been keyed. The words ‘fucking cunt’ were scraped into the paintwork in foot-high letters. ‘Son of a fucking bitch!’ Sam shouted.
‘Sam,’ Tabby chastised. ‘Stop swearing, and for God’s sake keep your voice down.’ Sam bit back an angry reply, fighting the unreasoning hatred that was welling up in him like a dark fog.
‘It was that kid, I know it was.’
‘Probably,’ Tabby said in a business-like tone that made Sam want to yell at her. ‘There’s nothing to do about it now.’
‘I could rip his spotty little head off and ram the car down
his fucking throat,’ Sam said with feeling.
‘Sam, what’s the matter with you? Kids act up. It’s not pleasant, and we’ll report it to the police, but there’s no need to get so angry. It’s not like you.’
She was right. It wasn’t like him. He took a few calming breaths, and the rage retreated into his gut. It was still there though, roiling around like a sack full of angry venomous snakes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been feeling myself recently.’
Tabby smiled at him, and it was like the sun coming out after a storm. The anger faded away.
‘I know, Love,’ she said. ‘You’ve been through a lot; you’re bound to act a bit differently for a while. Now, we can’t drive it like that, so go and get some parcel tape and cover it up.’
Dutifully, Sam went back into the house and got a roll of tape. Between them, they covered the foul words. Then they drove to the hospital.
Sam brooded about the damage done to his car while Tabby chatted about how surprised Dr. Jackman was going to be when Sam spoke to him. Sam just grunted occasionally in agreement.
They waited fifteen minutes for Dr. Jackman whose clinic was, apparently, already running late. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Autumn,’ he greeted them when they were finally sat in his office, his perpetually tired smile not reflected in his eyes. ‘How are you both this morning?’
‘We’re fine,’ Sam replied grumpily. ‘Now tell me what’s going on.’
Dr. Jackman stared at him with a blank expression. Then, slowly, the light dawned behind his eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said with genuine surprise. ‘You spoke.’
‘Yes, it was quite a shock to us as well, Doctor,’ Tabby said.
‘Right, well, I suppose it would have been. A pleasant one though.’ Dr. Jackman quickly unravelled Sam’s bandages. He seemed taken aback, and even Tabby blanched slightly at what was underneath.
‘What?’ Sam demanded worriedly.
‘There’s nothing,’ Dr. Jackman said weakly.
‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked with a hard edge to his words.
‘There’s nothing. There’s no wound, no scar … nothing.’ He picked some thread out of the bandages. He held them up, so Sam could see them. ‘The stitches. They’ve come out by themselves. You’re completely healed. It’s impossible.’
‘It’s a miracle,’ Tabby said.
‘No … there must be a rational explanation. Your husband must have some freakish regenerative ability. Maybe a hugely increased metabolism or something …’
‘Freakish?’ Sam asked dangerously. He had stomached enough of this man who one minute insisted he would not speak for the rest of his life, and now, shown to be incompetent, was trying to blame his failure on him. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Doctor.’ He twisted the last word sarcastically.
‘Sam …’ Tabby began.
‘No,’ Sam interrupted. ‘He told me I wasn’t going to speak again. Do you know how terrifying that was for somebody who’s trained as a solicitor, who wants to be barrister? To be told that I wouldn’t be able to support my family or do my job? He was wrong. And now he’s calling me a fucking freak?’
A snarl rumbled somewhere deep in Sam’s throat. ‘Now wait a minute,’ Dr. Jackman said. ‘Your wounds have been well documented. I consulted with a number of colleagues. There was no way you should have been able to speak ever again. Even if I made a mistake about that, there was no mistake about the damage to the tissue of your throat. It was practically torn out. Your body has healed an injury that should have required months – possibly years – of rest and treatment, in one day. If we’re being frank, it should have killed you. The medical applications of your … ability … could be vast.’
‘So, what are you saying then? That I’m some sort of mutant? An oddity? Some bizarre monster to be poked and prodded and tested?’ The rage was back, swelling in him, ugly and out of control.
‘No, not at all. This is amazing, Mr. Autumn. Your healing rate is amazing. You are amazing.’
‘Listen to the doctor, Sam, this is good news. He’s only trying to help.’
‘Of course he is,’ Sam sneered. ‘That’s all you ever talk about. Dr. Jackman this, Dr. Jackman that.’ As he said it, Sam realised that it was true. Ever since yesterday, all Tabby had talked about was Dr. Jackman. His opinion, his diagnosis, how clever he was. Anger spilled into his tone. ‘You fucking slag, why don’t you just fuck him here and be done with it? Then they can take me away and strap me down in some lab, and you and Doctor-shithead-Jackman can live happily ever after.’
‘Sam,’ Tabby said, her voice quiet, full of hurt, pathetic.
It was too late. All the vitriol and anger that had been building in Sam since he had been bitten finally exploded. ‘And then you can go and suck off the little prick that fucked up my car, since you don’t think it’s anything to get upset about. Fuck you, Tabby. Fuck you all.’ He turned and stormed out of the room.
Part of him was incredulous about what he was doing. The things he had just said to the woman he loved were unforgivable. Sam couldn’t understand what possessed him. There was something in him, something that wanted to cause pain, to say the worst things it could, to sow destruction and chaos. He stalked through the hospital. His face was a mask of such sheer aggression that people pushed themselves up against the walls to let him pass. Sam barely noticed.
Reaching the entrance, he stepped out into the bright morning air. In the winter chill, beneath the weak sunlight, he turned his face up to the heavens. He felt more alive than he ever had. The dark thing delighted in the words he had said, the truths he had spoken. Why had he never seen it before? Tabby was always flirting with people, telling him to grow up while she whored herself all over the place. He couldn’t think of any specific examples, but that wasn’t the point.
Hot rage coalesced into something cold and bitter, and a vast calm settled over him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned. Tabby stood there, her eyes wide and full of tears. Her face was crumpled in hurt and heartache. Sam despised her then.
‘Sam, what’s going on? I know you’re upset, but that was an awful thing to say. I love you, Sam. Just come home and we’ll sort everything out.’
For a moment, Sam’s world seemed to balance on a knife-edge. Then slowly, ponderously, inevitably, it tipped towards the darkness. ‘Fuck off, Tabby. I never want to see your fat, ugly face ever again.’ He turned and began to walk away. He heard her begin to cry but ignored it. He felt an enormous sense of liberation and he smiled.
She chased him and grabbed his shoulder again. Sam turned and slammed his clenched fist into her face, driving her to the ground. She stared up at him, her crying stopped, as she clutched a split lip.
Their eyes met, and Sam felt panic and hurt and loss fighting to be heard, but they were small voices, overwhelmed by the greater call: the vicious exhilaration of violence. He spat at her contemptuously, then turned and walked away. This time she did not chase him.
For once, sleep brought Mark dreams. He woke amidst bunched-up sheets and sweat-drenched pillows, and there were tears on his face. He sat at the edge of the bed and scrubbed them away angrily. Then he held his head in his hands. The phone rang again – the noise had woken him – and he ignored it. Eventually it stopped.
‘Time,’ he said with a cracked voice.
‘The time is ten-thirty-two and forty-seven seconds in the am,’ a pleasant female voice intoned. Mark lay back on the bed. He had overslept. He tried to remember what the dreams had been about, and they came tumbling back.
Groaning, he got up and walked into the en-suite bathroom. The shower was hot and relaxing. Mark tried to forget the night’s memories, but they would not go away. Eventually he was forced to face his past.
Nearly two thousand years ago, he was called Marcus; an ignorant boy who had learned that the world held more secrets and mysteries than he could ever possibly comprehend. Even now, millennia later, he still did not understand everything that happened in that circle of standing stones, the d
ay before he was due to marry Annaea. He sighed. He had wandered the world for an age, seeing unbelievable sights and accruing vast knowledge, possibly even wisdom, yet this torment persisted.
He remembered his words even now, and his crass and haughty arrogance still caused him shame.
I know enough. I know that Rome is the centre of the world, and eventually all people will bow to its greatness. Rome will last forever, and I am Roman. He had said them with such conviction. The words haunted him now.
The curse brought on him had caused him nothing but misery. He had challenged the girl, demanding she prove who she was, and the proof she showed him was complete.
Mark was immortal, unkillable. It was the secret dream of his entire species – to live forever and see the mysteries of time unravelled. It should have been a blessing, but the girl had told him there would be a price, and the price was so high it had leeched all the joy from him.
One thing he realised was that even though his body had lived for a vast amount of time, his heart and soul had died four months after the events in the stone circle. Mark felt dead: a zombie. He only had one purpose, and yet for all his resources, he was unable to fulfil it, no matter how many times he tried.
Mark spent a couple of months trying to kill himself back around the fall of the Roman Empire, when he realised it had all been for nothing – until then, he had clung to the insane belief that the price was worth paying if his civilisation survived. When the Germanic mercenary, Odoacer, captured Ravenna in 476 and deposed Romulus Augustus, Mark came to the conclusion that his life was futile. Out of time, out of hope, in a world he did not recognise, he degenerated into madness.
In the months after the Empire collapsed, he truly began to understand the meaning of immortality. It was helplessness, and loneliness, and a resistance to fire and water, blades and clubs, cold and poison; no matter what he tried, he would not die. He went through agonies and by the end, he realised that he had no choice but to play the fairy woman’s sick game.
Immortals' Requiem Page 10