by Amy Cross
“Help!” she screams, her voice filled with panic as blood runs from a wound on her forehead. Blood is pouring from the meaty wound at her shoulder. “Somebody help me!”
“Climb out through the back,” I tell her, making my way around to the rear of the car. “Hurry!”
“Help me!” she sobs, while clambering over the back seat and starting to reach out through the shattered window with her remaining arm. “Somebody -”
Before she can finish, the car slams back across the road. I hear her scream, but only for a fraction of a second; as soon as the car hits a low stone wall, Carol's cries are drowned out by the sound of metal and glass shattering in the force of the impact. The car rolls as it grinds against the stone wall, and then there's a crunching sound as some hidden force is rolls the car along the grass, smashing the fence in the process and wrapping its wooden remains around what's left of the vehicle. I stare in horror as the car finally slams down and come to a halt, and after a moment I realize I can once again hear Carol's desperate, sobbing cries coming from somewhere in the mangled metal.
Hurrying across the road, I have to pick my way around chunks of debris as I reach the car. I see the dismembered arm and reach to pick it up, before realizing that there's no point. Instead, I hurry around to the car's other side.
“Carol!” I call out. “Say something! Where are you?”
Stopping at the far end of the vehicle, I see that her head and chest are hanging out of the shattered rear window, with pieces of glass embedded in her neck. Blood is spattering down against the tarmac, but Carol slowly turns and looks at me. As soon as she opens her mouth, however, more blood gushes from her throat and runs down her chin. She's trying to say something, but all that emerges is a frantic gurgle. Pieces of glass are lodged in the stump where her arm was ripped away.
“Leave her alone,” I whisper, looking around at the dark fields that run along either side of the road. I know who's doing this. “Please -”
Suddenly an enormous grinding sound fills the air, and I turn just in time to see the car scraping back across the road, sending sparks flying. Picking up speed, the car turns as Carol cries out again, and this time the impact with the oak tree is heavy enough to cause the entire trunk to start leaning precipitously. Still trailing the broken fence, the car is dragged back halfway across the road before slamming forward once more and shattering one side of the tree.
When he killed my mother, he was subtle.
Tonight, he's using brute force to smash my wife to pieces.
Hearing the groaning sound again, I look up and see that the oak tree is starting to fall. I step back as the trunk slams down against the road, and the force is strong enough to shake the ground and knock me off my feet. Landing hard amid shards of glass and carbon fiber, I wince as I feel a sharp pain in my chest. Turning, I see that the car has been dragged back to the middle of the road, and now the shattered rear section if starting to rise up into the night air, with Carol's bloodied face and her remaining arm still poking out through the back window.
“Leave her alone!” I shout, barely able to hear my own voice over the sound of grinding metal. More sparks are filling the air. “Please, stop!”
The car is now standing upright, resting on what's left of its mangled front, but a moment later even this section starts to rise, and I watch with a growing sense of shock as the entire car starts to lift up from the road. The broken fence is hanging down now, with chunks of metal and pieces of the oak tree tangled in the sections of wood and wire. As the car rises twenty, maybe thirty feet toward the starry sky, the fence keeps the rest of the debris attached, until the car is left hovering high above me with a trail of metal and wood hanging down almost to the tarmac. Broken branches, chunks of shattered stone and even the dismembered arm are all caught in the horrific, skirt-like web.
And high above, at the top of the car, Carol is sobbing and screaming for help, even as her blood runs down the vehicle's sides.
“Please don't do this,” I stammer, as the car rises even higher. “I know she's not a good person, but don't do this to her. Let me talk to her first.”
She's still sobbing as the wrecked car hangs in the air.
“Please don't do this,” I add. “Why would you even -”
And then, with sudden force, the car slams back down toward the road. I run for cover, and Carol's final scream is quickly drowned out by the sheer cacophony of the car's remains shattering violently against the tarmac.
Five
“Sir Patrick Buchanan!”
Stopping in the corridor, I turn as quickly as my aged body will allow, and sure enough I see that one of the young whippersnapper police officers is hurrying toward me. Adjusting my grip on my trusty walking stick, I feel a shock of arthritic pain.
“The prime minister's office is this way, Sir Patrick,” the officer explains, taking my arm as if he intends to guide me back the way I just came. “If you'd like to follow me...”
“I know perfectly well where the prime minister's office is to be found,” I reply. “I'm not yet so old that I don't remember my way around this place. After all, I did live here for nigh on a decade, although admittedly that was a very long time ago now.”
“Of course, Sir Patrick,” he replies. “I didn't mean to offend, Sir Patrick. It's just that the prime minister is waiting to greet you.”
“And I shall be honored to make his acquaintance,” I explain, “but I'm afraid I had another reason for accepting his very kind invitation and showing up today.” Turning, I look toward the rather modest door that leads to the basement, and I feel a dull weight in my heart as I realize that the moment has finally arrived. “Now if you'll excuse me, there is somebody else I wish to visit first. It has been a very long time since I saw him last, but somehow I rather think he'll be expecting me.”
***
“Where are you?” I call out as I step into the darkened chamber, leaning heavily on my cane. “It's me! You remember me, don't you? I'm sure you have a very fine memory. You'd have to, living as long as you do.”
I wait, but there's no reply. All I see is the darkness in front of me, although I can feel his presence and I know that I'm being watched.
“Have you been having fun with the prime ministers who came after me?” I ask. “They've been something of a mixed bag, haven't they? I suppose three of them were alright, although one was a complete idiot. Still, that's not a bad record, is it? And I'm sure they were each very surprised when they were led down here on their first day and introduced to the vampire of Downing Street. Did you enjoy their reaction, I wonder? As far as you're concerned, are we all just -”
Suddenly an electric light flickers to life above me, illuminating the chamber and revealing nothing more than a few old tables and chairs pushed against the far wall. Hearing footsteps over my shoulder, I turn and see to my surprise that a workman is wheeling a mop and bucket into the basement.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, clearly as shocked by my presence as I am by his, “I didn't know anyone was down here.”
I turn and look back toward the far end of the basement, toward the spot where the vampire used to dwell. There's absolutely no sign of him at all, and no sign that he was ever here. Stepping forward, I look around, convinced that there has to be some kind of mistake, but for the first time the basement actually has the look and feel of...
Well, of a basement.
“I can give you a moment, if you like,” the workman says. “I can come back later if you wanna be alone down here for some reason.”
“What is this place used for?” I ask.
“I'm sorry?”
“The basement. Who comes here?”
“Well, I do. And a few of the others on the team. We keep stuff down here that the folks upstairs might need again. I know it's not very tidy, but it's actually quite a godsend.” He hesitates for a moment. “Listen, I really don't mind leaving you alone for a bit, but do you mind if I grab a steamer first? Then I can be out of your hair
for a while, yeah?”
***
“Sir Patrick!” Benjamin Mawson says, hurrying over to me and shaking my hand with great enthusiasm. “Such an honor to have one of my illustrious predecessors in the office. Such an honor, really.”
“Hmm,” I mutter, already somewhat repulsed by this man's slick demeanor. He strikes me as more of a used car salesman than a prime minister, but I suppose the electorate must have had a good reason to vote for him.
Then again, perhaps he's one of those vacuous idiots who simply rode his luck into office. Back in my day, one needed a little more substance if one wanted to become prime minister.
And he has the handshake of a car salesman.
“Now I know we're not strictly on the same side,” he continues, gesturing for me to head over to the desk, “but I hope we can enjoy one another's company. After all, not many people know what it's like to be in this job, do they? Would you care for a whiskey?”
“I don't drink,” I reply, as I start limping toward the desk.
My desk.
Or it was, once. When I was a younger man.
Wincing, I feel a shot of pain running up my right leg. Even now, more than forty years after the car accident that killed Carol, I suffer hip problems. It's almost as if my body is worried I might forget what happened, although there's precious little chance of that ever happening. Even with this goddamn fog in my mind.
“I'm sure the place has changed a lot since your day,” Mawson continues. “Then again, I'm sure some things have stayed the same, too. Maybe the old bookshelf -”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“I'm sorry?”
“The basement,” I continue a little breathlessly. “I went down there and it's empty. Where is he?”
Mawson hesitates, but it's clear from the look in his eyes that he knows exactly what I'm talking about. He looks down at his desk for a moment, before glancing at me again.
“He left,” he explains. “Just after I came to power, actually. He said that what he wanted was no longer here, and that he'd spent long enough cowering in the shadows. And before you wonder... No, I'm afraid I don't know where he went. Just that he's long gone from here.” He smiles. “It's quite a relief, actually. I can't imagine what it must have been like to live in the place and have him down there all the time, lurking in the basement. The whole thing sounds utterly frightful.”
I stare at him, still not quite able to believe what I'm hearing.
“Gone?” I whisper finally.
“Absolutely. And with that, so ends one of the most unusual periods in British history, eh? Imagine how people would react if they knew there'd been a real, live vampire ensconced in the basement of Number 10 for almost three hundred years. My word, there'd be riots. Are you sure you don't want a whiskey?”
Reaching into my pocket, I carefully take out the ring-box that I brought along. If this -
“I say,” Mawson continues, with trepidation in his voice, “that's not... That's not it, is it?”
“He must still be looking for this thing,” I whisper, shuddering at the thought of that creature roaming the country in search of the box. Or rather, in search of what's inside the box. “I was right to keep a low profile. If he'd found me...”
I carefully turn the box around, making sure that Mawson can see it from all sides.
“So you brought it home, did you?” he chuckles. “Well, I suppose this is where it belongs, after all. Something of such power and importance should never be allowed to rattle about in the country at large. I must admit, I had some people try to track you down, but you're a difficult man to find, Sir Patrick. One might almost think you'd been hiding yourself away.”
“I never thought he'd leave the basement,” I whisper. “Never in a million years. Longer, even. I thought he'd be here until the bloody place crumbled to dust.”
“I suppose these things move in mysterious ways,” he points out, opening the top drawer of his desk before turning to me and holding his hand out. “Don't worry. It'll be quite safe here, just as it was safe for so many centuries before.”
I hesitate, before passing the ring-box over to him. As soon as I've set the box on his palm, however, I notice that there are some unusual pock-marks and scars running across his flesh.
The hand before me is lighter than the hand I saw in the basement.
The nails are not as long, the fingers not as tapered, yet the marks and lines look awfully familiar. Indeed, I rather think I can even see some faint blood-stains around the wrist.
I instinctively reach out to take the box back, but he pulls his hand away.
“There are twelve of us,” he says calmly.
I meet his gaze.
“Unfortunately,” he adds, “the other eleven don't like me very much. What do they call themselves? That's right, the Order of the Eleven. Such pretentious nonsense.”
He hesitates, meeting my gaze, before looking down at the box again.
“Oh, I can still reach out with my mind and make things happen,” he continues. “As I did with your mother, shortly after I'd identified you as a decent bet. The trouble is, the other eleven can do the same thing, and we're constantly interfering with one another's plans. We really ought to meet up some time and try to coordinate our activities, but I doubt that'll ever happen. In fact, the other eleven don't really like me very much. Sometimes, when we reach out and try to meddle with the same pathetic little human mind, we end up tearing it completely apart.”
“You?” I whisper.
“You're a very smart man, Mr. Buchanan. I have been trying to guide you to this moment for so very long, although unfortunately others have been trying to guide you along different paths. Humans are such easy things to control. Your lives, your destines, your needs and wants. I just had to place a crack in your soul at an early age. Hence the dead mother.”
“You won an election,” I point out, still trying to make sense of this madness. “You won a landslide. You campaigned up and down the country.”
“Via video-links and holograms,” he replies. “Frightfully clever stuff, never would have been possible before but you know how times change. I took advantage of modern technology. That and social media, anyway. Why bother going anywhere when you can just send messages all day and all night, eh?” He looks down at the box. “Do you have any idea how long I've waited to get my hands on this? Hundreds and hundreds of years, lurking in that basement, begging and pleading like some kind of hobbled monster.”
“It doesn't work like that,” I reply, trying not to panic. “I had to give it to you freely, and with a full understanding of what I was doing.”
“And you did,” he says with a smile. “In your own mind, at least, and that's what was important. I didn't snatch the box from you, you gave it to me. Your reasoning was flawed, but at the time you believed you were doing the right thing. That's what matters. Come on, you know these things are always hotbeds of semantics.”
“You have to give it back to me!”
“Opening it shouldn't take me very long,” he continues, trying but failing to pull the lid back. “I'll manage to bypass their little puzzles soon enough. And when I do, things are going to change. Three hundred years is a long time to wait patiently, but the upside is that one has time to think. And to plan. You prime ministers are all the same. Well, most of you. There were one or two who weren't aware of me, purely because I chose to stay quiet and ponder. But most of you have been down to visit me, and you're all basically the same. Weak, power-crazed and foolish. I could read all your minds like books. Especially yours, Sir Patrick.”
He turns to walk away, before stopping as his gaze falls once more upon me.
“Oh you poor, wretched thing. Would you like me to put you out of your misery right now? Or would you prefer to eke out the rest of your miserable existence? It's all the same to me either way but I suppose it would be nice if you got to witness what comes next. I can read your thoughts, you know. Your terror. Your fear. Your shame. Ju
st as I've read the thoughts of all your predecessors and successors. And do you know what? You politicians, you're all the same.”
Suddenly I scramble to my feet and run, filled with panic as I realize that I have made the most terrible mistake. Sheer blind terror fills my soul, and I can hear Mawson's laughter echoing far behind me as I limp along the corridor. A police officer asks if I'm alright, but I ignore him and hurry to the hallway, and then finally out into the street. Even now, I can hear Mawson laughing, although I do not know whether the sound is real or whether it's simply echoing inside my head.
Because you are in my head, aren't you?
Two cabinet members are coming this way, and they briefly smile and offer some encouraging comments, but I cannot even think what I might say to them.
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
“Beg your pardon?” one of them replies.
“The laughter! Do you hear it?”
They glance at one another, and it's clear that they hear no such thing.
Leaning heavily on my cane, I head away from Number Ten and toward the gate at the street's eastern end. Once I have navigated my way beyond the security cordon, I cross the busy road and make my way to Richmond Terrace, and finally I reach the banks of the river. Feeling an intense pain in my chest, I lean against the wall and reach into my pocket, fumbling for a moment before finally taking out the key that I previously removed from the ring-box. I feel as if my mind is fit to burst, but finally – after all these years – I allow my defenses to fall.
At that very second, the distant laughter becomes a furious scream.
I suppose he finally managed to open the box.
Or rather...
I suppose you finally managed to open the box.
And you didn't find anything inside, did you? Because I have the key right here with me. The one thing you want, and it's in my hand. I can feel you in my head, rifling frantically through the pages of my thoughts, rushing back and forth in an attempt to learn the truth while you still can. I have no need to hide anything, not now, so I'll tell you for free: I was never like the other prime ministers you thought you were tempting. I was trained to deal with you, to get the key away from you and then to taunt you at the very end so that you'd show your true nature. Now you're trapped in that place forever, and you won't get the key. That much, I promise you.