by steve higgs
‘Good afternoon, Margaret,’ I responded, reading the name badge on her chest. ‘How is today treating you?’ I held that people were in general much more likely to provide answers if you established a brief rapport before quizzing them on subjects they might well otherwise resist interrogation over.
‘Very well, thank you,’ came her reply. ‘But we close at four o’clock. If you were hoping to come in, I’m afraid you will be very short on visiting time.’
‘Actually, I am here to see Dr. Bryson. Is he in today?'
‘One moment please while I check that he is available.’ She bustled off into the back office. I could hear a brief exchange, although I could not make out what was being said. I heard the scrape of a chair as someone stood to get up and it was a man that came out into the reception area first.
‘Dr. Bryson?' I enquired with a hopeful and cheerful tone, wanting to set him at ease. I left any further words until he had confirmed or denied I had the right man.
‘Yes, I am Barry Bryson,' the man looked unhappy. I need to embellish that to get the picture across though. The man in front of me, whether it was Barry Bryson or not, looked hopelessly lost, as if the entire weight of the world was on his shoulders and there was no escape from the horror that was his life. He was a tall and broad-shouldered man, perhaps six feet eight inches tall, but he was hunched over as if deflated, so it was hard to gauge an accurate height. His shoulders were drooping, and his head quite bowed as if it were hard to hold up. Even his face appeared to be sagging.
I knew his age to be forty-five or forty-six just from his school year which I found on Facebook, but he looked ten years older than that. I logged this information for later consideration.
Margaret had followed Barry back in and had taken up position a few feet away straightening the little handouts at the side of the counter, clearly doing something vaguely work-related while conveniently eavesdropping.
‘Dr. Bryson,' I started.
‘Barry, please,’ he interrupted.
‘Barry, I'm Tempest Michaels. I am investigating recent reports of a Bigfoot seen in this area for the mother of Michele Sweeting-Brand, the woman who was injured yesterday and hoped we might talk about what you saw.' I focused on his face to see what reaction would surface. If possible, he sagged a little further. Was it guilt I was looking at? Had he made it up? He would not be the first person to report a paranormal sighting that turned out to be a big fat lie. Sounding and looking utterly defeated, he invited me back to his office where we could chat in private.
Barry's office looked like the rest of the Park, and like Barry himself for that matter in that, it was tired and worn out and sagging at the seams. Shelves dominating one wall contained mostly box files, arranged by year on some shelves and by alphabet on others. Most would not stand straight and were battered to breaking point.
Barry went around the desk and sat back in his tired looking chair. It was an office swivel chair that groaned a little under his weight. There was an additional chair opposite me against the far wall. Barry waved his hand in the general direction of the chair and leaned back.
‘What is it that you wish to know? I told the reporters everything more than once.’
‘Barry, so far you have retold your tale to people that did not believe you, I am here to listen to what you actually have to say. I get paid to investigate the paranormal, so I want to hear your story firsthand.' I expected Barry to brighten at this. My experience was that people with an unbelievable story to tell, wanted desperately to tell it, but found no one believed them. Presenting them with an interested and willing listener always seemed to generate a retelling with gusto and often exaggeration. If Barry was not so inclined, then was it because he had in fact not witnessed anything and now felt exposed by my potential probing?
‘Ok, Mr. Michaels,' Barry said. ‘I'll tell you what I saw.'
Less than half an hour later I was home. Barry had not had much to tell, leaving me utterly convinced that he was lying and had seen nothing at all. I was now stood in my kitchen looking at the dogs snuffling in the garden while I stirred a tea bag idly around my favourite R2D2 mug.
I wanted to dismiss Dr. Barry Bryson, but somehow, I could not shake the feeling that there was more to his story, fake or otherwise. Barry had recanted his story almost verbatim from the article published in The Weald Word. I had prodded him for more information. ‘What was the light like? Did the creature turn towards you at any point? Did you notice any other wildlife about and how was it acting? How far away were you from the creature? How could you be sure it was not a man in an outfit?'
He has answered all the questions with practiced and bored ease as if the answers were rehearsed. I suspected that they were. Barry had apparently been on his way to work at the Kent Predators and Prey Wildlife Park on the morning of Tuesday 21st. He usually arrived at 0700hrs to open up and prepare for the day, but on the day in question, he had left home early because he wanted to spend some time using the computer in work to conduct research for a new book he was writing. He was a published author he assured me. His home computer didn’t work, and he did not currently have the money to replace it or get it fixed. Anyway, his usual route brought him down Bluebell Hill. His car took a puncture causing him to have to fight the wheel to keep control. He admitted that his car was also in need of attention but that he had no money to attend to that either.
With a tyre to change, he had pulled to the side of the road where there was a hard shoulder area. As he was putting the jack back into the boot along with the wrecked tyre, he spotted what he described as a large bear-like creature emerge from the wood line thirty metres away. It walked upright and was moving away from him. He was able to get his phone out and catch a series of pictures of the creature, but the lighting was poor and the quality insufficient to attract the national press who he admitted to contacting. I had asked him who he had spoken to and at which papers or websites and he had recanted names of persons at The Sun, The Mail and The Mirror which I noted for checking later.
He went on to describe the creature in great detail, estimating the hair length, weight, height etcetera and then explained that he held a Ph.D. in Zoology where his dissertation was on the Modern Evolution of the Predatory Mammals of England. He pointed behind my head to a framed certificate on the wall which I politely glanced at to play along.
Thinking back now, I should have asked him if there was, in fact, a wrecked tyre still in his boot. I had missed a chance to catch him out and prove he was lying. There was probably no need though since I was already convinced he was.
There was one point in the conversation that I was troubled by, another bit that didn't fit. He had reacted oddly when I referred to the creature as a Sasquatch. Placid throughout the interview he became animated at the mention of the word Sasquatch, stating, ‘It is not a Sasquatch.' He then explained that the Sasquatch was a North American creature and should in no way be confused with what he had seen.
Bull barked at the door to be let back inside which broke my focus. I realised that the tea had gone cool and that I was now stirring the bag around a well-stewed cup. I was missing something vital; I could sense it or feel it like a non-superhero version of Spidey-sense.
I poured the tea away and went to let the dogs in.
Hot Chocolate. Monday, September 27th 1816hrs
After Frank's warnings, I decided that I needed to address the potential Kent vampire issue head-on. If they were planning to attack me then getting to them first might defuse the issue, but if not, it might force them to move early which would interrupt what might be a well-conceived plan on their part. I might be giving them too much credit, or they might not be involved at all, in which case Frank's theories were all wrong. I knew where they would be tonight though, so I could end the speculation and perhaps ask them about Ambrogio.
I let Frank know what I was planning out of courtesy and to my surprise, he insisted on coming along with me. He said he could act as an interpreter (?), and th
at he knew some of them because they relied on him to provide their demand for rare books (and probably vampire comics I suspected). Whatever the case, he felt the chance of violence was greatly reduced if he was there. I told him I was bringing Jagjit and Big Ben anyway and would be in Jagjit's car so could collect him. He wanted to take his own vehicle though and would meet me at the M2 motorway services at Junction 8.
With all the recent weirdness, I wanted to drop in at my office and make sure it was still there, or at least unmolested. I needed to walk the dogs anyway and Rochester High Street and nearby castle grounds are a delightful place for it.
It was 1835hrs when I pulled into my parking space behind the travel agent. Bull jumped from the passenger seat and onto my lap to look out of the window, clearly excited and ready to get out and sniff things.
I clipped both he and his brother to the same lead and opened my door to plop them on the floor. They broke into a run instantly, held in check only by my thumb on the ratchet of their extendable lead. They hauled me across the car park and pawed impatiently at the door while I fumbled for my keys in the twilight. I unlocked the entry door from the street and watched the dogs bound, now untethered, up the stairs ahead of me, keen to get to wherever they were going and unconcerned that their tiny legs would not permit them to come back down.
My office was, in fact, unmolested despite my concern, so I flicked the light on and checked my emails again.
I had a further forty-four new emails since I had last checked. I scanned quickly to dismiss the junk but found what I was looking for and hoping not to see three from the top: Ambrogio has sent me another message.
Mortal,
You and your kin will die tonight.
I had been threatened before of course. By big men. With big guns. But I had to admit that I was finding this a little unsettling and I felt exposed because I had no idea who this guy was or who he might be sending after me. Feeling unsettled made me angry though, so the fire in my belly was telling me to find this idiot and slap him around until he apologised. I shut the machine down and scooped up both dogs, went out the door and then put them down again so I could lock up.
Back on the street, I elected to get a hot drink from the coffee shop across the road. This was mostly so that I could flirt with Hayley if she was there. They shut soon, so perhaps there would be talk of what she had planned when she finished and perhaps a natural course for the conversation to flow into us meeting at some point after work one day.
As I was thinking this, she came out of the shop. They closed at 1900hrs so with fifteen minutes to go she was starting the routine of bringing the fold-out tables and chairs inside.
‘Hello, Tempest,’ she smiled broadly. ‘Who are the little guys?’
‘This is Bull and Dozer,’ I said pointing to each in turn. ‘They are my trusted lieutenants. I am surprised you have never seen them before.’
‘I would have remembered you two,' she said as she bent down to pet them. They recognised a willing masseuse and were both struggling to beat the other to the best spot at her hands.
She straightened up and wiped her now well-licked fingers on her pinny. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Yes, but purely on the chance of seeing you of course,’ I ventured. This drew a sly smile as she opened the door to let me in.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Just a tall, skinny hot chocolate to go please.' I wondered if the dogs were allowed in, I could not remember taking them in before and could not recall seeing dogs in there. It was close to closing though and we were the only people in the place apart from whichever of her colleagues I could hear banging about in the kitchen out of sight. I took them in anyway, expecting she would object if she felt the need to.
‘So, are you after the reward?’ Hayley asked conversationally as she poured milk into a jug for heating.
My eyebrows went up. ‘What reward?’
‘Oh. It’s all over the local news, some American vampire hunter has posted a ten-thousand pounds reward for information leading to the capture of the Maidstone Vampire. His name is... hold on.’ She whipped her head around to face the kitchen. ‘Martha?’ No response. ‘Martha?’
‘What?’ came a voice back from the kitchen.
‘What was the name of that American guy? The Vampire Hunter.’
‘Vermont Wensdale,’ I said for both to hear.
‘Yeah, that's it. Do you know him?'
‘We have met,’ I said through tight lips. A reward. That was going to bring the crazies out in droves. I had visions though of Vermont being inundated with calls and emails from people who live next door to an Emo.
‘One skinny, tall hot chocolate to go.' Hayley was holding my beverage out for me to take. The cup had a number on it with, "Call me" written in her girly, rounded script.
I paused to fish out a business card. ‘I will call you, but please tell me I am an idiot if I don’t.’ She smiled once more as I took my drink off the counter and headed out to make sure the boys were well walked before I went out to meet the vampires.
Kent Vampire Nest (or is that Hive?). Monday, September 27th 2030hrs
I had my rip-stop kit on again when Jagjit came for me at 2030hrs. I had too little time for a proper dinner, so had quickly made a tuna sandwich and eaten it while dressing.
Jagjit had a large, black, nearly new Japanese Utility vehicle with a double cab, so there was plenty of room for me and a bag of gear just in case. I got in the back next to Basic. Big Ben was already in the front. I paid the guys fifty pounds per hour for this kind of work and they were still doing it at mate's rates. It was rarely exciting but often entertaining and I think they did it because they wanted to rather than because I was paying. We tended to go for a beer afterward unless it was too late or Big Ben was off to get laid somewhere.
I had already explained to Jagjit that we were meeting Frank on the way there, so a few minutes later we were pulling off the motorway and into the services to join up with him.
I spotted Frank's car in an obvious spot under a lamppost as we came into the car park. It was where he said he would be, but he had failed to mention that Poison would be with him. She was leaning against the tail end of the car fiddling with her phone, thumbs going like mad as she typed on the tiny keypad.
‘Who the hell is that, Tempest?’ asked Big Ben who was now staring at Poison like a dog in heat.
‘That, Ben is Poison. Real name no idea, but she is Frank's assistant in the shop. I did tell you to go in there.'
‘But you didn’t tell me there was a honey in there. It looks like a crap shop full of weird stuff. I would have gone in for her.’ Big Ben was practically salivating.
Poison looked good. It was still warm out and she was wearing stretchy pants like you might wear to the gym and a pair of high-top trainers, both black. Her midriff was showing again, and we could all see her nipples through the stretchy fabric of her top. As if feeling our eyes on her she pulled her jacket closed and zipped it up.
‘Just try not to get her naked until after we finish tonight, Ben. Okay?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Work now. Shag later. Got it.’
As we pulled up next to Frank’s car, his window powered down. ‘Whatcha chaps!’ He said with great enthusiasm. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Let’s just take two minutes to discuss the plan, Frank,’ I replied as I got out.
‘Hello, Tempest,' Poison purred in my direction, still slouched against the rear of Frank's car. ‘Who is your big friend?'
Jagjit rolled his eyebrows, ignored again while Big Ben leapt at the chance to introduce himself. I could hear Poison laughing at whatever Big Ben was telling her as I moved to stand between Jagjit and Frank. They were both leaning out of their cars with the two driver's doors parallel to each other and the cars facing opposite directions.
Big Ben saw us waiting and came around to join us with Poison following him.
‘Our intention tonight is to visit the Kent vampire group at their clubhouse. Ther
e I will ask them what their intentions are and whether they actually have any knowledge of or involvement with a person called Ambrogio who appears to want me dead. There is a danger that they are planning to attack me or do harm to me so we may meet hostility.'
‘How many people are we talking about?’ asked Big Ben.
‘Frank?' I prompted.
‘Maybe as many as fifty. I could not find a membership list or roster to know how many members they have, and although the flyer did not say bring a friend, I would not be surprised if there were additional non-members there as well.'
‘Okay, so it is an unknown force with unknown intentions. When we get there, Big Ben and I will approach the group, but everyone else stays in the cars until we know whether they are hostile or not. Keep the engines running, please. If we need to make a fast escape Big Ben and I will have the option of getting into the back of Jagjit's truck until we are clear. Frank and Poison, likewise, stay close to Jagjit, and if Big Ben and I come running you get out of there quick.'
I let that sink in for a few moments. ‘Of course, this might be a completely harmless group getting together to watch vampire movies in their clubhouse. We are only guessing that they may be involved in which case we will apologise for interrupting them and for the incident at Aylesford two days ago and be on our way.’
Basic raised his hand slowly. ‘You don’t have to raise your hand if you have a question, Basic.’ Big Ben said.
‘Will it just be vampires?’
‘I believe so, Basic.' Getting an actual question from Basic was pretty much unheard of, so I didn't want to discourage him, but I wanted to know why he asked. ‘Why do you ask?'
‘I don’t like werewolves,’ he said flatly. ‘Werewolves are big and hairy and nasty. Vampires are sexy.’
Everyone seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding their agreement. To allay any lingering concerns, I asked Frank what he thought.
‘Werewolves and vampires don’t mix James,' Frank stated using Basics actual name, which I had no idea how he knew. ‘Well known fact that one.'