by Tom Becker
After a twenty-minute sprint Jonathan raced panting through the grounds of St Christopher’s. It was quieter here, and only the presence of lights in a couple of windows suggested that anyone was awake at all. He dashed through the courtyard and reached the entrance to Alain’s ward. Mercifully, the door wasn’t locked. Upstairs, in the reception area, there was one nurse sitting quietly behind the desk, her face illuminated by a reading lamp. She was deeply engrossed in a stack of medical reports, and didn’t notice Jonathan until he had nearly crept past her.
“Hey!” she called, but he was already running down the corridor. There wasn’t the time to argue, and anyway, the more security on their way to Alain’s room the better.
He ran from memory now, cutting left and heading through one of the wards. The lights were off here and most of the patients were asleep. Jonathan could hear their troubled murmurs as they dreamed. In the background he heard another nurse shout with surprise, and then a loud alarm was echoing through the building. It woke up the patients in the next ward, and as Jonathan dashed through it a small man with a wild look in his eyes set upon the patient in the bed next to him. The room disintegrated into a wild mess of fighting and screaming. Over his shoulder Jonathan could see the first wave of white-coated orderlies struggling to regain order. It was going to take them a long time.
Outside the ward he took a skiddy right turn, nearly slipping over on the slick surface of the linoleum. Then he was on his dad’s corridor. Most of the rooms were locked shut, but at the end one door was open, and light streamed out from it on to the corridor. Jonathan’s heart skipped a beat. It was his dad’s room. No noise was coming from inside it. He stopped running and walked slowly towards it, sweat running down his forehead and his breaths coming in snatches. There was nowhere to run – nowhere to hide now. In some detached part of his brain, Jonathan realized that he didn’t have any sort of weapon. If Vendetta was in there, Jonathan would probably soon be as dead as his father. Clutching on to the door frame with his good arm, Jonathan looked inside.
The bulb above the bed cast a pool of light inside the room, and instantly he could make out the figure of Alain Starling stretched out in the bed, as if he hadn’t moved since the last time Jonathan had been there. Next to him a man had pulled up one of the visitors’ chairs on the far side of the bed, and was leaning in towards him.
“No!” cried Jonathan, and rushed forward.
The man in the chair turned, revealing a round, friendly face with a startled expression, and Jonathan was stopped in his tracks.
“Jonathan?” the man said.
“Who are you? How do you know my name?”
The man flipped open his wallet, revealing an identification card. “My name is PC Shaw. We’ve been looking for you, Jonathan. Everyone’s been very worried.”
“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked suspiciously.
“We received a phone call tonight from a friend of yours. Mrs Elwood. She said that you’d told her your dad was in danger. So. . .” He waved a hand around the room. “Here I am. I was just checking he was breathing. I’ve never seen a coma like this before. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Jonathan?”
Jonathan felt his shoulders begin to relax. Mrs Elwood had understood after all. His dad was safe. They were all safe. Suddenly he could feel his arm begin to throb again. Even so, he began to laugh. “I would, but you’d never believe me. It sounds crazy.”
“Well, it’s a crazy world,” came a voice from behind him.
Jonathan whirled round. A figure was standing in the corridor, swathed in the shadows.
“Ah, Jonathan, this is my superior,” said PC Shaw. “Carter Roberts, head of the Special Investigations Unit.”
The figure walked into the room, and Jonathan gasped. It was Vendetta.
26
Jonathan’s head spun. He gasped and took a step back, pointing at Vendetta. By the bed, PC Shaw was still talking.
“Mr Starling’s not responding to any stimulus, sir. Nurses say he’s been like that for a couple of days. I can’t see that he’s in any immediate danger, though.”
“It’s him! He’s the danger!” Jonathan shouted.
Shaw chuckled. “Now Jonathan, I don’t think you have to worry about Mr Roberts. He’s a very senior police officer. He’s been leading the investigation into your disappearance.”
“But he’s been trying to get me! And he’s come here to kill my dad!”
“Actually, it was me that told Mr Roberts about your dad, and asked him to come down here. You need to calm down, son. These sort of crazy allegations don’t help anyone.”
Vendetta held a hand up to Shaw. “Don’t worry about it, Constable. Seeing as I’ve been dragged out of bed to stand guard over a comatose patient, I’m happy to hear the boy out.” He turned to Jonathan smiling. “So … how exactly have I tried to ‘get’ you?”
“You were looking for your dagger that you cut people open with, so you sent Carnegie after me, but you didn’t know that we were friends.” He spoke breathlessly, the words tumbling out over and on top of one another. “But then you got the dagger and you came here to feed on my dad, but we found out and I managed to warn Mrs Elwood and now I’m here so you can’t do anything…”
The look of bewilderment on PC Shaw’s face was enough to stop him in his tracks. “Listen son,” the policeman began sympathetically. “I know you’ve been through a lot but—”
“It’s true!” Jonathan shouted. “I’m telling you, it’s the truth! You have to believe me! He’s a vampire!”
The room fell into silence. Then the sound of Vendetta’s mocking laughter filled the air. “You got me. Guilty as charged. I am a vampire. Dracula’s great-grandson, or something like that.”
“Sir, the kid’s obviously had a rough few days…”
“That’s all right, Shaw. I’ve been called a lot worse.” He reached a hand out towards Jonathan, who shrank away from him. “Look, Jonathan, you’re badly injured. Someone needs to have a look at that arm – it looks like it’s broken. Why don’t you let us take care of you, and then you can tell PC Shaw why I’m a vampire. He might even let you make a statement.”
Jonathan edged back towards his dad’s bedside. “Stay away from me, Vendetta. I’m not going anywhere.”
The two men exchanged glances with each other. PC Shaw sighed and rose out of his chair. “Come on, son. It’s not the time to be playing these sorts of games.”
“It’s not a game! My dad’s life is in danger!”
Shaw skirted round the bed and advanced upon Jonathan. He kept his hands up in the air in a non-threatening gesture. “Once we’ve patched you up and you’ve had a rest you’ll feel a lot better. Things’ll seem different in the morning, I promise.”
Jonathan looked around frantically for some kind of weapon he could use to ward off the policeman, but the room was bare.
“Come now. Let’s go get a coffee or something.”
Shaw reached out and clasped hold of his good arm. Jonathan squirmed frantically, but it was no use. He was down to his last reserves of strength, and the policeman was surprisingly strong. Although he was trying not to squeeze too tightly on Jonathan’s arm, his grip was still as firm as a vice. He led Jonathan firmly towards the door, ignoring his squirming and shouting. Vendetta looked on with undisguised amusement. Tears of frustration sprang into Jonathan’s eyes. He had come so far, and got so close, but it had all been for nothing.
“We’ll talk back at the station when you’ve calmed down,” said Vendetta. “I have a feeling we’ll have a lot to talk about, don’t you?”
Jonathan kicked out at him, missing by a foot or so. He gave Vendetta a vicious stare. “If you harm my dad, I’ll kill you. Do you hear that? I’ll kill you, and Marianne, and Grimshaw. ALL OF YOU!”
With an oath Shaw managed to drag him out of the room, and slam the door behind t
hem. The boy’s shouts could still be heard echoing down the corridor as he was led away. Vendetta smiled, and turned to Alain Starling.
“Well now. Looks like we’re finally alone. I’ve been waiting to meet you for some time. I should congratulate you on your son. He’s quite a remarkable boy. Not remarkable enough to save you, but still … most impressive. You’re going to miss him.”
And with that, he turned off the light.
The boy was running out of energy now. Shaw had managed to grab one of the orderlies and together the two of them bundled Jonathan back through the wards. At first he had struggled like a wildcat, but it was impossible to keep up the fight. Now he was close to admitting defeat; his kicks were weaker, and his head lolled wearily to one side.
By all accounts, Shaw should have felt elated. He had been personally responsible for the retrieval of one of the boys. Maybe Jonathan would be able to lead them to Ricky. The whole case could be sewn up within hours, and it would all be down to him. In such a high-profile case such as this, a promotion would be a certainty. It would probably make his career. So why wasn’t he happy? Why did he have this strange feeling that something was terribly wrong? Why was there a nagging voice at the back of his head telling him that he had missed something of great importance?
They had reached the reception. Soon they would be out of hospital and heading for the police station. Jonathan had stopped moving altogether now, and he hung like a dead weight from the two men. Shaw knitted his brows together. Think, man! he told himself What have you missed? The boy had cooked up such an unbelievable story that it was hard to imagine that there was a word of truth in it. Daggers and vampires, all those characters with ridiculous names…
And then, like that, there it was. Shaw stopped and urgently shook Jonathan.
“Who’s Marianne?”
“What?”
“Marianne. You mentioned her back there. Who is she?”
Jonathan sighed wearily. “She’s a bounty hunter who was hired to kidnap me and Ricky. She has fluorescent hair and two accomplices – a weird little bald guy and a giant who can run really quickly. She returned Vendetta’s dagger to him, and he’s going to use it to kill my dad. Believe any of that?”
Suddenly the fog lifted from Shaw’s mind, and everything fell into place: the photograph of Ricky in Trafalgar Square, the CCTV footage of the giant, the conversation Roberts had had with the biker in the lock-up garage. It might sound insane, but the boy was telling the truth. A grim look descended on to Shaw’s face.
“Every word, actually. Come on.”
They rushed back to the room, only to find that the door was locked. Ushering Jonathan out of the way, Shaw took a run-up and put his shoulder to it, bursting it off its hinges. Inside the room he scrabbled for the light switch. Vendetta was crouched over Alain, his dagger raised above his head. He spun round at the commotion, and the policeman took a step back in horror. Where before had been the cool face of Carter Roberts, head of the Special Investigations Unit, now there was an angular, bestial mask of hatred. The colour had drained from his face, his eyes had contracted into black slits, and sharp stained teeth protruded out from his lower lip. Beside Shaw, Jonathan offered up a silent prayer of thanks. There was no blood on Vendetta’s fangs – they had got here just in time.
Vendetta hissed with fury and stepped away from Alain. “I told you to take the boy out of here,” he seethed, running a thick red tongue over his lips.
“He forgot to say goodbye to his dad,” Shaw replied calmly.
“Another minute, and it would have been too late for that. Can’t you do anything right?”
“Why don’t you step away from the bed, sir … or whatever you are?”
Vendetta paused, calculating his next move. As he flexed his hands Jonathan stared at them in horrid fascination. The skin had aged until it looked like yellowed parchment, and the fingers were bony and elongated. Long dirty nails cut menacingly through the air.
“And if I don’t?”
“Step away from the bed!”
The vampire didn’t hesitate. With a snarl it leapt at Shaw, springing with incredible power. The policeman was caught off guard, and could only throw his hands up to protect his face as Vendetta crashed into him. The two of them fell, and rolled across the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Jonathan saw a fist rise and come down again, heard a grunt of pain. Then something gleamed in the strip light, and he recognized the dagger. Jonathan hurled himself in a desperate dive towards it, but only succeeded in bouncing off Vendetta’s fist. It felt like running headlong into a brick wall. His broken arm throbbed with pain.
The vampire spat with anger and hurled Shaw out of the way, sending the policeman flying on to the bed. Vendetta turned and went after Jonathan, blood dripping from his right hand. He held aloft the dagger and laughed thickly, and Jonathan knew that it was all over. The vampire grabbed him by the collar and whispered in his ear.
“After I’ve finished with you, I’m going to drain your father.”
Jonathan swung a punch at his chest, but the vampire didn’t even flinch. With one hand Vendetta pressed him against the wall, and with the other he sliced carefully down his neck with the dagger. Half-numb with terror, Jonathan could see the thin stream of red liquid running down the front of his clothes. Vendetta leaned in, and he could feel his freezing breath upon his neck. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to stop.
Everything stopped. There was a scream of anguish, but it didn’t come from Jonathan’s mouth, and suddenly Vendetta had released his grip. Before Jonathan hit the floor in a heap, he saw an unfamiliar figure standing behind the vampire. Then he was dimly aware that someone had stumbled out of the door; and Shaw was standing over him, and the other man, and Jonathan realized that he did know who it was after all. Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw was his father.
27
Outside a police station in central London, the rain pattered gently down on to the journalists gathered around the front entrance. Some jabbered excitedly into their mobile phones, while others scribbled their thoughts down on sodden notepads. Photographers checked their equipment settings against the lighting. Television correspondents practised their pieces to camera. Everywhere, there was the hum of expectation.
A policeman headed through the revolving doors and out on to the street. Immediately the journalists raced towards him, forming a scrum of microphones and flashbulbs. They all began shouting questions at once, until the policeman raised a hand for silence.
“I have a short statement to read out, and then I’ll take your questions.” He cleared his throat and flattened out a piece of paper in his hand. “Last night police officers working in conjunction with the Special Investigations Unit were able to locate and rescue one of the two children snatched by a gang of kidnappers in the past week. The child is unharmed and has been reunited with his family. The perpetrators of this crime have yet to be apprehended. It is believed that they have fled the country. Nevertheless, the SIU is confident that the kidnapping ring has been permanently disabled, and that it poses no further threat to children here. Any questions?”
“Constable Shaw…” began one reporter.
“Sergeant Shaw,” he corrected with a smile.
“Sorry, Sergeant Shaw. Could you tell us the name of the child the police have rescued?”
“Yes. His name is Ricky Thomas. He is doing very well and is glad to be back at home.”
Sergeant Shaw glanced away. The reporter seized on the pause and piped up with another question. “We were expecting the SIU to have some comments on this case, but they are refusing to answer any questions. Is there any truth to the rumour that Chief Carter Roberts was removed from the case due to incompetence?”
“I can’t comment on that. I can confirm that Mr Roberts has resigned from the SIU with immediate effect.”
“What about the other chi
ld?” The reporter glanced down at his notebook. “Jonathan Starling? Any clue as to his whereabouts?”
“At this precise moment in time we cannot locate him, though we are following up several leads. I can assure the public that we will not give up until we have recovered the boy.”
On the other side of the road, two figures looked on with amusement. One was a young teenager, his unruly brown hair rustling in the breeze. His arm was in a sling and his face was covered in cuts, but there was a smile on his face and he rested easily against a low stone wall. The other figure was a tall, hairy man wrapped up in a thick coat. A battered wide-brimmed hat was forced down over his head, and his eyes were full of distaste.
“That policeman’s loving every second of this, isn’t he?”
“Let him. If he hadn’t listened to me, my dad would be dead.”
The man growled. “I feel stupid in this hat. I don’t see why I couldn’t wear mine.”
“You look stupid. But you’re on my side of London now, so you have to do things my way. If you’re going to be in a mood, Carnegie, you can go back to Darkside now.”