Blood RED

by Paul Kane

  “Alone again at last,” it growled. “And I think we both know your real name, don’t we?”

  ‘Peter’ swatted the gun out of her hands, sending the weapon flying across the park, then grabbed her by the wrists. Rachael was on the verge of tears now. The creature shoved her back onto the ground.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Does this form upset you, the face of the man you’ve just murdered? Then how about this one?” Peter’s features slipped easily into those of Mike.

  “Please can we try again?” it said in Mike’s voice. “Pathetic! Or how about this?” Now Mike became Will from last night. “I’m at your service, Rachael,” the beast said with a bow.

  Her head was throbbing madly, but the implications of this weren’t lost on her. “You’re sick!” she said.

  “I’m hungry,” the creature replied. “I hadn’t planned for it to end like this, but I suppose the surroundings do have a familiar feel to them.” It gazed up at the trees. “All that’s missing is the cottage.”

  She thought about asking, why her? But Rachael knew the answer to that already. Quite apart from the fact that it was after some kind of twisted revenge, it wanted to devour her. That was a compliment on some level, to know that she was special. To know that he’d stop at nothing to have her.

  “And now the time for games is over. Now I ...” The beast paused for a moment, then spasmed. Something came through his chest, something large and pointed. It was one of the sharpened railings from the gate, dislodged when the van had crashed through. Now the creature had been skewered on it, writhing in pain, and returning to its proper form. Rachael crawled sideways on her hands and knees, and saw Peter behind the thing—holding the railing like a knight in a jousting tournament. Blood poured from his shoulder and he looked like he was about to keel over.

  “You’re ... you’re a terrible shot,” he managed, grimacing.

  The beast staggered forwards, pulling the railing out of Peter’s hands. It turned around and slashed at him, missing only by centimetres.

  “Fry ... fry it ...” Peter found the strength to call. “The matches.”

  Rachael woke as if from another dream, taking out the matches again and trying to strike one. It went out immediately.

  The beast found its prey then, grabbing Peter by both arms and yanking him forwards onto the spiked end of the railing; impaling him, too. The youth’s head lolled, then his body went slack.

  Rachael’s hand went to her mouth and she almost dropped the box of matches. The monster pushed Peter’s limp form slowly off the railing, then turned to come after her. Rachael finally got the match to light and tossed it at the thing. The spirits covering its fur meant the fire caught quickly, but still the creature came, staggering towards her. Just when she thought it was going to reach her, the beast finally toppled over, writhing in agony, legs kicking, arms flailing. Then it stopped, spent, resigned to its fate. She watched with some degree of satisfaction as it roasted in front of her.

  “Who’s ... who’s afraid now?” Rachael whispered. “Who’s afraid of the big, bad ...” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Rachael crawled to Peter on her hands and knees, but his lifeless eyes told her there was no hope for him. She was suddenly very cold in spite of the heat coming off the beast. Rachael scrabbled around on the ground until she found Peter’s discarded jacket. The van was still burning in places, though that was dying down now—but in the glow of those flames, she saw that the dark material of the jacket was in fact red.

  She put it on, then brought her knees up to her chest, covered her head with the hood, and began to cry like the little girl she felt inside.

  EPILOGUE

  Rachael rose from the couch in a sweat. Steph, in the chair opposite, got up and went to her friend. “Bad dream again?”

  Rachael didn’t answer, but instead asked, “What time is it?”

  “Half five ... You’ve been out for ages. Hardly surprising, really. Want a drink?” Steph had some red wine on the go, in spite of the hour, the glass and bottle behind her resting on the glass coffee table. “Cuppa or something, I mean?”

  Rachael nodded and took the steaming mug gratefully when Steph returned from the kitchen with it.

  “The police called. They want to pop round, do a follow-up at some point when you’re ready. I told them to leave it for now—was that okay?”

  She nodded again.

  “Had quite a sexy voice, actually, that copper,” Steph said.

  Even for the Greenham Estate, the events of last weekend had caused quite a stir. Of course, nobody had come out while the actual ‘trouble’ (as the authorities called it) was going on, but plenty emerged when they saw the ambulances and police cars descending en masse. Not even they had been able to ignore the gunshots and explosions for long.

  “I still can’t believe you went there on your own. That was really stupid, you know.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, stupid. Is there any word on Tilly?”

  “I called earlier. She’ll be in hospital for a long time, they said. But hey, at least they were able to get to her in time to save her. When she’s feeling stronger, we’ll visit—’kay?”

  “I’d like that,” said Rachael.

  As always, Stephanie had done her best to look after Rachael; had even taken some time off. Let someone else do the caring for a change, that’s what she’d told her.

  “It’s where you should be, really. In hospital, I mean.”

  Rachael had refused to stay in, checking herself out once the doctors had given her the once over. “I’m fine,” she’d told them, but Steph begged to differ.

  “I just can’t get over what happened to those youths.”

  Rachael pulled a face. “Hey, let’s not forget they attacked me, too. And they would have done much worse when they caught up with me again.”

  “But didn’t you say that one helped ... what was his name?”

  “Peter. Yeah ... he helped.”

  “That was his top you had on when they found you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Rachael said bluntly.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Steph got out her make-up and applied more blusher.

  “What doesn’t?” Rachael put her drink down and hugged herself.

  “An animal like that, why it would come into the city—why it would it do those things ... I mean, had it escaped from somewhere or what?”

  Rachael shrugged. “Are they any closer to figuring out exactly what it was?”

  “I heard mention of a cat of some kind—”

  “No, it definitely wasn’t a cat.”

  “A large dog, then maybe? There were all kinds of rumours.” Stephanie rubbed furiously with the blusher before delving in her bag for lipstick. It wasn’t as if they were going out anywhere—they wouldn’t be doing that for quite some time—but she always felt naked without it.

  “Maybe.” Rachael chewed her lip.

  “Your description was pretty vague, Rach. Course, it would have helped if they’d had the body.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” snapped Rachael. “I thought it was dead.”

  “Guess it must heal really fast.”

  “I guess.”

  Steph busied herself with the lipstick, turning to get a better view. As she did so, the edge of the mirror caught Rachael on the couch. She blinked and looked again.

  “Something wrong?” asked Rachael.

  Steph didn’t answer. She was too frightened to even speak.

  “I said: is there something wrong, Stephanie?”

  Oh yes, she wanted to say, there’s plenty wrong. You’re not my friend, you’re not Rachael at all ... Not with all that singed fur ... Not with those scars on your chest and arm. Which means Rachael must be—

  She felt breath on the back of
her neck. “Do you want to know—do you really want to know what did all of this?” asked the voice.

  Steph tried to shake her head.

  It grinned. Just as it had when it crawled quietly across the grass to where Rachael had been sitting. It had let her see exactly what she wanted to see: its death. But, like everything else, it had been an illusion. All part of the play. Oh, and the wait had been worthwhile. She’d been so ... delicious. But now it was getting hungry again. In a way, it was glad Stephanie had seen its true face in the make-up mirror. A quick meal and then definitely a visit to the hospital to see Tilly again. Why wait till she was stronger? That would only prolong things.

  Then on again, to another city ... Or maybe back to the countryside. Yes, it had a hankering to return there once more.

  Maybe one day, it would even find someone to match Rachael, though it doubted that very much. She’d been unique; special.

  Its claws grew long as it stroked the back of Steph’s neck, drawing the first spots of blood.

  “And they all lived happily ever after,” it said, laughing—mesmerised, as always, by those perfect droplets of red.

  For Mike Carey. Superb writer and wonderful friend.

  PROLOGUE

  She’d been acting out of her skin that evening.

  Acting confident, but not cocky; acting sexy, but never cheap; acting just that little bit vulnerable—though the last one wasn’t that hard for her, not really—the full range in fact. The perfect combination, she’d found, to attract a certain kind of man. The ‘no strings’ sort of guy. Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies ... The kind of guy she could have a good time with knowing it would never really last—how could it? By the morning it was always over, the night’s activities already passing into memory. But was that so bad? It at least made her feel alive, for a little while at any rate. Served its purpose ... until the next time. Until she began to feel those desires again; that insatiable lust.

  Little more than an addict really, she’d come to realise over time: come to accept, more like. Some people needed caffeine or alcohol, craved nicotine, couldn’t live without snorting or shooting up. With her it was different. What she needed she could only find one way, by doing what she did so often. Luring (alluring?), hoping she’d entice the next one. It wasn’t really that difficult to attract a man, if the truth be told. Some would screw a hat stand if you put a skirt and some lipstick on it. She liked to think she was a little more discerning than that in her choices—had more taste—though perhaps she was just kidding herself? No, she had to be into them, otherwise a massive part of the whole endeavour was missing. And she didn’t want to feel like she was being used. If anything, she was the one using them. She was in control, she told herself; never let herself forget.

  It made her sad sometimes, that she couldn’t really form any connections outside of sating these urges. Maybe therapy would help her, she wondered every now and again, though she highly doubted it. And she’d simply be too embarrassed to open up to anyone about all this anyway; they wouldn’t—couldn’t possibly hope to—understand. Or maybe it was about not wanting the help, not wishing to be any way other than how she was. Being scared to change; you couldn’t fight your nature, could you? For her, feeling anything other than the pleasure of the moment was always dangerous, would leave her really vulnerable. Much better not to know the men she went with, that way things wouldn’t get complicated. That way she wouldn’t get hurt.

  Only tonight had been different. Tonight, she’d met him.

  The bar had been full, but not jam-packed. Not so crowded that she’d missed spotting him when he entered; couldn’t really miss him. There’d been the usual handful of guys who’d had a stab, of course, but she’d been able to smell the whiff of desperation on them a mile away. And while it was true that desperate men were also grateful men (and for grateful read ‘would work harder’), for her that was always a particular turn-off. There was usually a reason they were desperate, after all. Where was the fun or challenge in that for her? They had to be just appealing enough, but not out of reach. She didn’t want someone who knew how good looking they were, and used it. Didn’t want someone who thought they were the one in charge. Give and take was fine, but not dominance. Not over her.

  But then there was him.

  As soon as she’d clapped eyes on the man, she knew she had to have him. Felt sure that it would be a wild ride with him. That hair, those eyes—the twinkle in them—his build. And that was before she even got talking to him ...

  She’d positioned herself at the bar so that he was sure to notice her as he made his way across to order. Looking over her shoulder, she was disappointed to see that the man had already been intercepted and stopped in his tracks by a girl quite a bit younger than herself, wearing a black crop-top that might as well have been a bra, and a black mini-skirt that might as well have been a belt. The girl was doddering around on some of the highest heels ever invented; her skin nut-brown (obviously fake) in contrast to her peroxide blonde hair and pale, pink lips. In one hand she held a tiny handbag and in the other was an alcopop. She might as well have had ‘I’m easy’ tattooed on her forehead.

  The man smiled politely at her, but manoeuvred around the girl with an ease that belied his size, leaving her wondering what had just happened—because apparently it didn’t happen often. Within moments of being left behind, though, the girl had already spied another suitable candidate and was tottering off in his direction. God help him.

  She sipped what was left of her own red wine and grinned, admiring the way he’d handled the situation. Then she tried to catch his eye, but not be obvious about it, looking away as he looked over himself. When she glanced across again, however, brushing back a strand of her long, dark hair, the man had disappeared and she thought she might have missed her chance.

  Until he appeared beside her, that was, and said: “Excuse me, but would you like a drink?”

  That made her start, she wasn’t used to being crept up on. Was usually so aware of everything that was going on around her. Maybe too aware ... Had to be. But at the same time she kind of liked the feeling it gave her: of being surprised.

  No cheesy lines from this one: no “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together ...”; no “I think you just dropped something ... my jaw!” Only an offer of a top-up, one of the reasons why she perpetually kept her glass at almost empty.

  “That would be ...” she began, then simply nodded and smiled.

  He bought the drinks and they chatted, all very light, nothing heavy. Nothing of great significance shared, apart from the fact he was from out of town. And while she’d acted the way she thought would get him interested—pretending to be something she wasn’t as usual—he’d actually been confident, but not cocky; sexy, but never cheap. And vulnerable...? She could definitely see a sadness in his eyes, but maybe it was her own sorrow reflected back?

  It just made her want him all the more.

  After a while the subject was broached, by her this time rather than whatever guy she was with. “Maybe we could go somewhere a bit more private? You know, to talk?” It left things open, nothing said overtly—for all he knew she just meant a less noisy venue. But she was pleased when he nodded, and suggested his hotel. Again, that might only have meant drinks back there, but she had a feeling both of them knew exactly what it entailed.

  A cab ride later and they were there. She had to admit, she’d been expecting something a little less ... seedy. Had no right to, she supposed, given what she wanted from him. What she needed. At least that’s what she told herself, once again justifying her activities to herself.

  “Is everything okay?” he’d asked her, as they’d made their way through what was laughably called the lobby of the place, peeling wallpaper hanging like it was trying to commit suicide.

  “Uh-huh,” she’d replied, knowing it wasn’t but willing
to follow this man anywhere. He just had something about him; even if she hadn’t been out looking for what she could find tonight, she’d probably still have gone with him.

  He nodded, smiled that charming smile, and told her his room was on the third floor, the top floor. The lift wasn’t working so they took the stairs, her behind him—granting her the opportunity to watch those muscled thighs in action, her eyes straying higher to just under his jacket. Watching those buttocks rub against each other, against the tight material of his trousers; feeling those familiar pangs of anticipation. Aware that she was rapidly losing control of this situation, that she had from the moment he first walked into the bar.

  Down the corridor to the last room on the left, and he’d held the door open for her as he had done with all of them so far (the perfect gentleman), waving a hand for her to enter and then shrugging off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair, displaying his broad chest and biceps beneath an open-necked shirt. The room was just as depressing as the rest of the hotel, bare except for the bed, a wardrobe and a dresser in the corner. Serviceable enough she guessed; adequate for what they were about to enter into. She took off her own coat, smoothing down the lilac dress she was wearing. Not too short, not too long. Just right ... like in that fairy tale. He took her in now properly, she could see. Looking her up and down admiringly. She tucked her chin into her neck, coyly. Another act.

  “Is there ... do you mind if I just freshen up first?” she asked him. It was something she always did, prolonging the release a little.

  He nodded, held his hand out to the side to show her the bathroom door and flicked on the light switch, which was just outside. She walked past him, paused, then said: “My ... my name’s Samantha.” It wasn’t really the done thing, but she felt compelled to tell him somehow, like it made a difference. She waited, but he said nothing in return.