by Amy Cross
I glance toward the open door, but I can't bring myself to go through. In fact, the thought is utterly horrifying.
“Leave him be for now,” I mutter finally. “I don't care to listen to his excuses. We've got enough to deal with, what with having to explain away Sir Marmaduke's sudden disappearance. He was an important man, Moore. He was a former PM, people are going to want to know how he died, and I hardly think we can tell them the truth.”
“No, Sir. Quite right, Sir.”
“How do you think the public would react if they learned that Sir Marmaduke Gladpole had been torn apart by a vampire that lives in a cave beneath Number 10?”
“They would react with alarm, I imagine.”
“And what the hell are we going to tell his family?”
“If I might be so bold, Sir,” Moore replies, “I believe the matter can be dealt with rather tidily. Assuming, that is, that you would be content leaving me to deal with things.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, before realizing that perhaps I should let Moore get on with the clean-up. I certainly know I can trust the man, and frankly I'm all out of ideas. Sometimes, I think I should have left politics well alone and stuck with my career in the city.
“Get it done,” I stammer finally, as I watch the open door that leads into the main part of the basement. I can't see anything in there, but there's a trail of blood leading into the shadows and I can feel a presence staring out at me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Challenging.
“Perhaps you should go back upstairs,” Moore adds. “I shall let you know in the morning how things have turned out.”
“Of course,” I reply, turning and heading toward the stairs. My legs are a little shaky and I have no idea how I shall pull myself together for the rest of the evening, and my mood isn't helped when the duty officers carry the rolled tarpaulin up the stairs ahead of me. When the side of their burden bumps against the wall, I hear bare bones rattling together.
A shudder passes through my chest.
“And make sure this place is locked properly tonight,” I add, turning to Moore and then looking at the open door. “We don't want that thing to get out. Not that he ever seems to want to come out, but you know what I mean. He shouldn't even have a chance.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
With that, I head up the stairs, going back to the party and the laughter and the bright lights. Even as I try to entertain the gathered dignitaries, however, I can't help thinking back to the sight of Sir Marmaduke's shredded corpse, and I can't help wondering whether perhaps tonight's slaughter was intended as some kind of message. Or perhaps a warning of what might happen if I don't cooperate.
Four
“It's over.”
Standing at the window, staring out at the dark street, I feel the dull weight of certainty in my chest. In the past, every setback and disaster simply spurred me on, but this time it's all different. I'm different. Mired in sleaze and scandal, facing the lowest poll ratings of my career, I find to my great surprise that I lack both the energy and the inclination to fight back. Earlier today I caught myself thinking through a resignation statement while I was on the toilet, and that was the moment when I realized it was time to quit.
The lure of a quieter life in the countryside is too great to ignore.
“I shall resign in the morning,” I whisper, before spotting Moore's face reflected in the window. “Don't try to talk me out of it. The time has come.”
Turning, I see that he's standing in the doorway. Good old reliable Moore, the man who showed me the ropes when I first came to Downing Street. The man who, I suppose, will be here long after I am gone. He seems as much a fixture of the place as that infernal black door.
“Very good, Sir,” he says dourly.
See?
Even he doesn't see a way forward for me. Hell, Moore probably knew the game was up long before I came to that realization. Always one step ahead. The power behind the throne.
“I need to go to the basement,” I continue. “I need to speak to him.”
“Are you sure that's wise, Sir? Speaking strictly in terms of precedence, it's generally not considered the done thing to say goodbye to the gentleman who dwells beneath.”
“I don't give a damn,” I reply. “There's something I've been meaning to ask him for quite some time now, but I never had the courage. If tonight is my last chance, then I owe it to myself to finally spit the question out, don't I?” I pause for a moment, feeling a sudden and rather unexpected flurry of strength and determination in my chest. “I want to ask him about -”
***
“- my mother,” I continue, as I stand in the cold basement and stare into the darkness. “It was you, wasn't it? You reached out somehow from down here and you caused her death. You must do that a lot. You manipulate little events trying to make them snowball into more significant events, but why? Why my mother? Why my life?”
I wait for him to speak. Even though he has rarely answered any of my questions over the years, I feel as if he might perhaps show a little pity tonight. After all, he knows that I am to resign in the morning, and I certainly hope that over the past ten years he and I have developed some form of mutual understanding. Not friendship, but perhaps a degree of respect.
“Did you kill my mother?” I ask suddenly, surprising myself with the directness of the question. “And if you did, why the hell was it necessary? Was it to somehow drive me here, to set me on a course that would lead to me becoming prime minister? Because it did, you know. Her death changed something in me and made me the man I am today. I dare say that if she'd lived, I'd never have ended up standing here. But why did you want that? Why did you want to steer me into this role?”
And still he doesn't answer. I can feel his stare reaching out to me from the void, as if he has left some greater question hanging in the air. He speaks so rarely, but I am determined to make him speak tonight. One final time.
“You saved me once before,” I continue. “A few years ago, my ratings were collapsing and I was heading for certain electoral defeat, and then everything turned around. That was your doing, wasn't it? For some reason, it served your purpose to keep me here for a while longer. And now things are bad again, except this time I wouldn't accept another term, even if you offered it on a silver platter. I just want to know why you were so determined to kill my mother all those years ago and -”
Suddenly I spot something moving in the shadows. I instinctively take a step back, just as a hand reaches forward with its palm upturned.
Even after all this time, he still waits.
“You can't have it,” I say firmly.
The hand remains firmly, defiantly in place.
“Do you think I'll give it to you because of my mother?” I ask. “Is that it? Do you think I'll break down and give you what you want, just so that you'll tell me why you killed her? Because if you think that, then you don't know me at all. I would never endanger my country, my world. I would rather die.”
And still the hand waits for its prize, just as it has waited for so many centuries.
“The world would burn, wouldn't it?” I continue. “If you ever got what you wanted, the world would go down in flames. You're actually rather pathetic, you know. You have such power, but still you can't take the one thing you truly desire. No, that one thing has to be given to you, and despite all your patience down here and despite all the men and women who have come through the office upstairs and been introduced to you, you've never been able to persuade even one of them to acquiesce to your demands. That must really hurt. You must feel like such a failure and -”
Suddenly I hear a low, snarling hiss coming from the shadows.
“You must feel like such a failure,” I add, forcing myself to stand firm even though my heart is racing. “Well, join the club. When I entered politics, there was so much I wanted to accomplish, and I've achieved barely any of it. I suppose that's still better than average, but it doe
sn't feel so good right now. Then again, at least I've managed to withstand all your attempts to turn me. I stood strong, and if you thought a frightened little boy would grow up to become a man who'd finally betray this country, then you were sorely mistaken.”
Another growl rumbles in the darkness, but I stand my ground.
“How many other lives have you manipulated from down here?” I ask. “How many other mothers have you killed?”
The growl subsides, leaving me standing in silence, still staring at the outstretched hand.
“If you were really powerful,” I continue, “you'd crawl out of here and show your face to the world. I confess, I don't entirely understand how you can have such great strength in some regards and yet such weakness in others, but the evidence is right in front of me. Instead, you create damaged people and bring them here, hoping they'll break their own backs in your service.”
Reaching into my pocket, I take out the small ring-box that has sat all this time in my desk drawer, and I hold the box out until it's just an inch or two from the creature's hand.
“You can't even lean forward and take it from me,” I add. “You can't even -”
Suddenly he bursts into my head. I gasp and drop to my knees as I feel the immense strength of his mind swimming through my own thoughts. He's searching for something, swelling his already bloated presence until I feel as if my consciousness is going to be squeezed into oblivion. Just as I think that maybe I won't be able to withstand this onslaught, however, I feel a kind of strength pushing back from over my shoulder, giving me just enough power to hold my thoughts together. This conflict persists in my mind for a moment longer before finally my head becoming my own again, and his mind withdraws once more to the safety of the shadows.
He didn't find what he was looking for.
And as I take slow, deep breaths and stare at the darkness, I can feel his anticipation. His desire. The rocky walls of this chamber are positively dripping with his need to possess what's in the box I'm holding, and my understanding is that he has never been so close. At the same time, he cannot simply snatch the box from me. It has to be deliberately and willingly placed in the palm of his hand, by someone who understands fully what he or she is doing, and who makes the move in good faith. I could give him the box right now, I could break a chain of resistance that stretches back to the early eighteenth century, and in return I would probably be granted whatever I wanted.
All I have to do is drop this little box into the palm of his hand. Such a simple thing.
***
“And this is why,” I continue, as I stand at the lectern outside Number 10, with Carol for once at my side, “I believe that for the good of this country, and for the good of my party, it is time for me to stand aside so that a new leader can take the reins and lead our great nation forward.”
As hundreds and hundreds of cameras flash in my face, I look down at my notes. For a moment, however, I can't help glancing at the ground and thinking of the basement down there, and of the creature that lurks even now beneath the feet of the world's media. If only they knew...
***
“So I hope you understand that I'll be filing for divorce on Monday morning,” Carol mutters as we drive along the dark country road, mere hours after leaving Number 10 for the last time. “No offense, darling, but now you're no longer PM, you don't really hold any interest for me.”
“I anticipated as much,” I reply, gritting my teeth. The car's headlights pick out the narrow road ahead, but otherwise there are no lights for miles. London is so far behind us now, but I'm still not sure my thoughts are entirely protected. “Let's just get home and see the children, and then tomorrow we can discuss how we move forward. I'm sure we can come to an amicable arrangement.”
“There's nothing to discuss. I'll be moving out, I'll be taking Livia and Marshall, and I'll be writing a big fat tell-all book about your time in office. As for amicable, well... I wouldn't bet on it, mate. I want the house, for starters. I'll take your study and use it as a work-space while I'm getting the book together.”
I grip the wheel a little tighter.
“Perhaps we could talk about that last point,” I suggest after a moment. “A book -”
“Don't think I don't know all your dirty little secrets,” she continues. “I know which of your cabinet members were bonking which others. I know which supposed family guy was paying off his mistress to keep quiet about his second brood of over-privileged kids. I know which film star used to snort coke off the table in the cabinet office during parties.” She pauses. “And I know about that disgusting creature in the basement.”
I glance at her. She can't mean...
“Keep your eyes on the road, dear,” she adds.
Looking ahead, I feel a sense of cold dread creeping through my chest.
“I'm not just a pretty face, you know,” she continues. “I noticed you creeping down there a few times, so eventually I followed you one night early in your second term. I overheard those ridiculous, long-winded conversations you were having. At first I thought you were losing your marbles, but then I heard that horrible, rasping voice replying to you. God almighty, Patrick, I knew there were some state secrets knocking about, but a vampire in the basement? Seriously? Does he have a name, or do you just refer to him as the thing?”
“I think you should think very long and very hard about what you say next,” I tell her cautiously. “You don't want to mess with things you don't understand.”
“Don't tell me what I want.”
“Carol -”
“Or what I don't understand.”
“Carol, please -”
“Don't underestimate me, Patrick!”
“Of course not, I just -”
“I mean, what's in here anyway?” Reaching into her pocket, she takes out the ring-box that I thought I'd left in my old desk drawer for my successor to find. “What -”
I slam my foot on the brake pedal, bringing the car screeching to a halt with such violence that we're both flung forward toward the dash, saved only by our seat-belts. Carol lets out a startled gasp and drops the ring-box, and I immediately lean down to try to find it in the foot-well. Filled with panic, I feel as if everything is coming unraveled.
“Are you a maniac?” she screeches. “You could have killed us both!”
“Where is it?”
“I think you've bruised my chest!”
“What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid woman?” I snap, finding the box and holding it up. “I don't think this is supposed to ever leave Number 10!”
“I tried opening it, but it seems to be locked. I'll get a knife on it, that should do the trick.”
She tries to snatch the box from my trembling hands, but I pull away just in time.
“Don't think this won't be going in my book as well,” she sneers. “I'm going to blow the whole fucking farrago wide open. I've had plenty of time to think about what to do after your inevitable fall from grace, Patrick, and tomorrow morning I'll be starting a whole new life without you hanging onto me as baggage. In fact, I think I might even -”
Suddenly she tries again to snatch the box. I manage to push her away, and then I unbuckle my seat-belt and clamber out of the car so that she won't get another chance. My mind is racing, and all I can think is that I have to get this box back to Number 10 as soon as possible. If it was safe for the cursed thing to be out in the open like this, someone would have removed it long ago.
Kicking the door shut, I stumble out onto the grass verge next to the road. Once I've made sure the ring-box is still in my hands, I turn and see that Carol is sneering at me from the car's passenger seat.
“Oh you sad, pathetic man,” she says with a grin. “This morning you had power. This morning you were important. Now you're nothing. Why did you turn down a security escort this evening, anyway? Do you still have that idiotic notion that you're a man of the people? Don't you think that was a rather foolish move? I know you want to get back to a normal life, but
still, by breaking protocol you've left yourself in a rather vulnerable position.” Reaching into her bag, she takes out a rather large carving knife. “Give me the box, Patrick. I need it for my book deal.”
I shake my head.
Sighing, she unfastens her seat-belt and climbs over into the driver's seat, and then she starts trying to get the door open.
“Let's not drag this out, Patrick,” she mutters, struggling with the door. “You're only delaying the inevitable. You don't understand how -”
She lets out a sudden shriek as the car jerks back across the road and slams against the side of a large oak tree. No sooner has the car come to a halt, than it jerks forward and bumps up onto the grass verge, hitting a wooden and wire fence.
“What the hell are you doing?” Carol shouts, frantically trying to get the door open. “Patrick, let me out of this car right now!”
“I don't -”
She screams as the car rises up at the front, and I watch in horror as the entire vehicle flips over and slams down onto its roof. The windows shatter and Carol falls down from the seat. A moment later the car starts slowly rotating on its roof, scraping against the tarmac as Carol cries out and desperately tries to crawl through one of the shattered windows. She's screaming, begging for help, but when she tries to reach through one of the broken windows her arm immediately catches on a shard of glass, tearing the flesh from wrist to elbow.
“Get out of there!” I shout, before taking a step forward so I can help her. “Carol -”
Suddenly the car slams across the road and hits the tree again, this time smashing the boot and sending a wheel spinning off into the bushes. At the same time, part of the tree shatters and splinters, and an ominous creaking sound emerges from high above in the night sky.
Something long and bloodied hits the tarmac and rolls. It takes a moment before I realize that the force of the latest impact ripped her arm clear away from her shoulder.
“Carol!” I yell, hurrying over to the car and crouching down, just in time to see that she's crawling through to the back seat and trying to reach the broken rear window. “You have to get out of there! He's -”