Tragic Silence

by E. C. Hibbs

  People huddled over against the rain, and partners kept close together under their own umbrellas. The scene reminded me a little of something I remembered reading when I was studying history: about how armies of old would gather together, with their shields above their heads and around their sides, and then encroach on the enemy’s stronghold undeterred, like some kind of giant metal caterpillar. Funny how the same thing was being done in modern-day London: city-goers versus the typical English weather.

  I didn’t know what I was more used to: the near-constant rain or the way people tried to completely ignore it. But despite it, what struck me most on that particular day was nobody seemed to be walking alone. I saw gangs of teenage boys with their hoodies up over the heads; men and women walking hand in hand. Two girls laughing together.

  I heard the soft harmony of a hymn being sung nearby, and looked up to see the Great West Door of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. A cool wind caressed my face as I peered out from under the rim of the umbrella. Pointed gold hands showed up vividly on the black face of the clock tower, and told me it was almost four o’ clock. People moved around me as I tried to make out the hymn, to see if I recognised it – but it was hard to tell over the rain, traffic, and mix of conversations. An image of Lucy’s panorama flashed in my head, and I realised that I’d never actually been inside. So I made up my mind and slipped through the door.

  I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful shelter from the rain. The space inside was huge: I felt as though I were the size of an ant as I stared all around. I hadn’t been into many buildings like this: Buda Castle a few times, and some other places when I was younger. But even if I went to them all the time, then I didn’t think they’d ever stop amazing me.

  The hymn was louder now: echoing off the walls and the ceiling. Up ahead was the choir at the far end of the Cathedral, the seats facing them full of people. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but listened anyway. I followed the nave towards the circle of light in the ceiling, filtering down from the Dome I saw so often from the Millennium Bridge. I didn’t sit with the others, just stood to one side. Now that I could hear the words and tune clearly, I recognised the hymn after all – which surprised me a little, because even though my family and I celebrated Christmas and Easter, the only songs I really knew were carols. But I remembered that hymn from when I was younger. It sounded like something that Apa’s late mother, Katalin, would have sung to herself.

  “I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;

  Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.

  Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?

  I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.”

  Soft applause filled the space taken by the hymn, and I gave a small smile. I’d followed what I remembered of the tune in my head, but I didn’t know the lyrics in English, so I hadn’t been able to silently mime them as they were sung. But when the choir and the organist began to prepare for the next piece, I turned from them, and strayed into one of the smaller chapels to the side of the nave.

  The first thing I saw was an iron wrack with a box of white candles hanging beneath it. Other candles, already lit, burned from their own individual holders above a tray of sand. I approached as a new piece of music began to play behind me. I stared at the flickering flames, each a teardrop shape, and waving in a wind that I couldn’t feel. Some of them were low, and their frozen wax dripped down towards the sand like white stalactites, but all shone.

  I wondered about all of the people who had come there before me, and lit a candle for some reason. For a loved one, maybe? Perhaps for themselves, preparing for a job interview? Every single flame had been struck for some important cause, each person who held a match to their chosen wick asking for help and blessing.

  Underneath the wrack was a chest with a small slot in the top, for donations. I fetched my purse and felt around for a coin. My fingers closed around a two pound one and I glanced at it, but then paused. It wasn’t two pound. It was the 100-piece forint that I’d saved. It must have been misplaced with my English coins.

  I studied it for a while, having not looked at it for some time. It was just as I remembered, with the coat of arms in the gold centre, and Magyar Közársasag etched around the silver outer circle. It shone in the light of the flames – it had been minted the year I left Hungary, so its surface wasn’t scratched and chipped.

  I slid it into the chest. I knew no-one would be able to use it, but it felt like the right thing to do.

  I picked up a candle, stuck it into a holder, and held a match to another. The red end flared as the fire caught, and I gently placed it next to my candle. After a moment, the wick blackened and I blew out the match, burying it safely in the sand tray. My candle stood tall and smooth, the newest to the day’s collection of wishes.

  But I asked for nothing. To me, life was the way it was for a reason, and I would somehow get by, until my end came. Instead, I reached over, and dug my thumbnail into the wax, carving it as best I could into the four letters of Lucy’s name. Then I blew a kiss to the sky and left the Cathedral, back into the rain, leaving the burning flame in the dry chapel behind me.

  That simple act of lighting a candle made me feel so much better. Even the sky was beginning to brighten as I walked back onto the street. It was a strange light: not intense, but what little of it there was seemed to reflect off every wet surface and rebound back at me. I quickly put my sunglasses on for some relief, and began to move through the crowd.

  I jumped as someone tapped me on the shoulder, and looked around.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Frank stood there, dripping wet, his hair dark from rain and plastered to his face. “My shift finishes at four, remember?”

  “You’re soaking!” I quickly moved the umbrella over his head and he adjusted his red uniform top.

  “Thanks.”

  “I keep telling you to get one of your own,” I said, shaking my head with a chuckle. “Even I’m more prepared than you!”

  “Ah, it’s just rain. Rain never hurt anybody.” Frank pushed his hair away from his forehead and wiped his eyes. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you had a day off?”

  “I did. I decided to go for a walk.”

  “What, to the place where you spend six out of every seven days?”

  “No! I went to the Cathedral.”

  Frank frowned. “Oh. Okay.”

  The sign for Barbican station appeared across the road and we went inside. I shook out my umbrella and tucked it back into my bag; then Frank and I showed our tickets and hurried down to the platform. The tall surrounding buildings rose above us, dark against the sky. We didn’t have to wait long until a train emerged, and the two of us quickly claimed a pair of seats near the doors.

  “How was your day?” I asked as we moved on into the tunnels.

  Frank sighed, resting his head against the window. “Long,” he replied, drawing out the word.

  I smiled. “I’ll bet you can’t wait for your day off.”

  He agreed with me. “I’ll probably sleep until noon!” He stifled a yawn and undid the top button of his collar. “Hey,” he said, distracting me from my gazing at the mirage of black bricks outside, “why don’t you come back to mine for a bit? I’ve got chicken out to defrost.” He leant forward, and lowered his voice. “And you’re looking very pale.”

  I swallowed, holding a hand to my throat. It had been burning a little that day. I was beginning to recognise it over just feeling thirsty for something water-based. It had more of a heat to it, as though I’d eaten pure chilli powder.

  I nodded. “Alright. What did you have in mind for the chicken?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got some spuds... we could have chips with it, I suppose, or baked potato.”

  “That sounds like a plan.” I absent-mindedly ran my fingers through my hair, combing it out. The train slowed, and the two of us got up to leave. Then it was a short walk from Farringdon to Frank’s house. It wasn’
t much bigger than my flat, but covered two floors, and there was an attic that he had piled to the ceiling with knick-knacks. The rooms were slightly larger, and he had a second bedroom that was used as a movie library. When he’d showed me that, I’d laughed, reminded of the study in our old house. It was full of bookshelves, which were in turn crammed with DVDs. A lot of them were the old Hanna-Barbera cartoon collections – which I learned he had a particular obsession with.

  Frank changed out of his uniform into his typical white t-shirt and black pants combo, before we headed to the kitchen and began work on preparing the food. A mug of tea each in hand, he wrapped the chicken in foil and began to warm up the oven, whilst I peeled the potatoes. I glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall to check when to begin frying them.

  “Where did you get that thing?” I chuckled, studying the painted white and brown house-shaped body around the face.

  He looked up to see what I meant, and his eyes shone. “Donaueschingen. I thought: I can’t have lived in the Black Forest and not owned one.”

  I picked up my cane and moved over to look closer at it. It wasn’t very big, but the details were amazing. The pendulum swung underneath in a perfect sweeping rhythm. “Is that where they’re from?”

  He nodded, and came over behind me. “Eighteenth century, I think, is when they started making them there.”

  I realised the minute hand was almost to the top of the face. Frank must have noticed that I was watching.

  “Have you ever heard one at o’ clock?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He gently pushed the hand over the numeral reading twelve. The tiny bird shot out of the door above the face, calling out five times. I felt myself grinning, and then laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “How has that not driven you mad?”

  Frank smiled. “No idea,” he said, and looked at me. I gazed back, taking in the brilliant green of his eyes. I’d never seen eyes that colour. They were mesmerising; like if you stared into them for too long, then you’d never be able to tear yourself away.

  His hands appeared on my arms, and I knew what was coming. A memory of what had happened by the Serpentine flashed like a gunshot, and I quickly pressed myself into him, forcing it into a hug. I felt him hesitate and I gazed into the middle distance, waiting – and eventually he returned it, putting both of his arms behind my back. My right hand remained on my cane and I gripped it tightly.

  Frank knew why I hadn’t let him kiss me, and he didn’t press me on it – which made me want to kiss him back even more. Before him, I’d never met anybody, and all I had to go on were simple assumptions about what a relationship was like. Eventually, I’d settled for good friends who held hands and hugged. But now there seemed to be a chance for me, it was terrible to think I might actually have been right: that my expectations would only ever be met, not proved wrong or transcended. I would never know anything more.

  He rubbed my back and then let go of me.

  “You’d better have some blood,” he stated, cupping my chin before turning and opening the fridge door. “You don’t want to pass out.”

  I grimaced. He always had to put it so bluntly. “How much do I need to have?”

  He pulled out a unit from the middle shelf, took a glass from a cupboard, and filled it to half-way before handing it over. I took it gingerly.

  “I’m never going to get used to this,” I muttered.

  He shook his head. “No, you will,” he assured. “Now, best to get it down, before it warms up too much.”

  I scowled at him.

  “The sooner you do it, the sooner it’s gone,” he said simply, and began busying himself lowering the chips that I’d sliced into the deep fat fryer.

  I listened to the oil hissing as the potato strips hit it, and studied the glass. The transparent sides were stained red, and I realised as I watched the surface of the dark liquid that my hand was shaking. I bit my lip, imagined that it was fruit juice, and then quickly swallowed it all in three mouthfuls. The strong, iron taste was blissful as it passed down my burning throat, and I ran my tongue over my teeth, savouring it. Even though I hated this, I couldn’t deny how wonderful the taste was: so luscious and replenishing.

  It was always those moments when I noted just how grateful I was that Frank was with me, who let me drink my fill from transfusion units and not living people. He’d told me the latter was more common, and did admit that drinking from the neck is much better, because there was more strength and a greater taste that bottled blood just couldn’t compensate for. He had been forced to do it once, when he was a juvenile and Hanna hadn’t been able to secure any units, but they’d taken less than the usual half pint that would be enough to sustain them through a month.

  Frank explained to me that the whole notion of blood drinking to stay alive was metaphorical rather than life-threatening. No vampires would die if they didn’t drink regularly, but it increased the risk of them suffering a complete nervous breakdown from lack of it. Leaving drinking for that long would make them go on a spree, and the metaphor came into play simply because if you did get to breaking point, then you could expose yourself. He told me that was why I’d snapped in Hyde Park before he’d knocked me out: I had pushed my body dangerously close to its limits.

  I rinsed out the glass, and pink water swirled away. Frank was still at the hob with his back to me.

  “So...” I said quietly, “what other kind of powers do you have? Besides the wings and stuff, I mean?”

  Frank shrugged. “Not much more. Why?”

  I opened one of the overhead cupboards and pulled out two dinner plates. Then I filled the glass with fresh water to wash down the blood. “Can you do things with your mind? Like moving things or... stopping things moving?”

  Frank didn’t answer. But almost as soon as I became aware of that, it hit me that the atmosphere had changed: he was too quiet. I looked around to find him staring at me, and his eyes were hard. The fryer sizzled beside him.

  “What is it?” I asked uncertainly. My voice seemed to snap him out of it a bit and he glanced down, but his face stayed rigid.

  “Move things with your mind?” he repeated flatly. Then he nodded slowly, but it wasn’t in answer to my question. It was in realisation, I noticed – and shock. “I think I understand now.”

  I blinked. “Understand what?”

  “Why you’ve never told me much about your turner. A demon, right?” he asked

  I quickly put the glass down so I wouldn’t spill the contents. Frank watched me intently. I held his eyes, pressing my lips together nervously. My teeth nicked the bottom one but I ignored it, and nodded. The faint taste of my own blood filled my nose as I spoke.

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Frank tore a sheet of kitchen paper off the roll on the wall and passed it to me. I balled it up and held it to my mouth to soak up the blood. There seemed more of it than usual, but I was unsure whether I was only imagining that because I was so unnerved. He sighed deeply and rested his jaw in the palm of his hand, leaning back against the worktop.

  “Do you want me to tell you the difference?”

  I frowned. “The difference?”

  “Between vampires,” he explained quickly. “There are two kinds of full vampire.”

  I paused. This was new. I thought he’d basically told me everything I needed to know. And I was right in that he’d told me what I needed to know, but not necessarily everything. So I nodded in response.

  “Alright,” he said. “It all depends on what happens when you’re bitten. That’s why I made sure you gave permission. We’re all juveniles in the same way, but when you come of age and you did give permission, if your turner helps you through it, then you become a harmless vampire. That’s what I am. It just refers to the fact that we don’t kill to feed: just take what we need here and there, and don’t leave any long-term disturbance. But if you didn’t give your permission: if your turner just bit you, transferred venom, and then just left you, then it’s dif
ferent.”

  He hesitated. “I thought – I was worried that – it had happened to you; that that was why you were on your own, and hated your turner so much.”

  I felt my face change as he spoke: narrowing, if it’s possible for a face to do that. I’d wondered why Frank seemed so different from the Lidérc. Despite what he – it – was, they both shared the same fundamental makeup, and so did I. But now, going right down to basics, there were three types: juvenile, like me; harmless, like Frank; and...

  “What happens if you don’t give permission?” I asked.

  Frank sighed, running his tongue over his lips quickly. He averted his eyes. I didn’t avert mine.

  “Tell me,” I insisted, and he gritted his teeth.

  “You can manage to make it through coming of age alone, but not in one piece. You become a different type of vampire.” He quickly reached over and shook the basket inside the fryer to move the chips around. “Demonic.”

  In my mind, the fiery eyes flashed from their black, shining sockets, and I shivered. That was one of the terms that had been floating around my head ever since it all began, but I was somewhat surprised to find it was an actual name for a vampire. It almost seemed too fitting, too outstandingly obvious.

  “They transcend a lot of what defines a harmless,” Frank carried on. “Actually, a lot of what people think they know about vampires as a whole comes from them. Their lifespan is extended – that’s because when a turner isn’t controlling venom output, then more of it is released into the juvenile, and it’s like a drug. It contaminates them in large doses; changes their body chemistry. They lose the red eyes that juvenile and harmless vampires have – when they’re not normal, then they become like fire. They can become a shapeless mist if they want; they can become lights like will o’ the wisps; manipulate fire; lose their reflections...”

  He wavered off and paused, glancing at me. I was perplexed with horror. “Go on,” I said tightly.