"You wouldn't want to drive that on a night like this," said Scavinio.
"No. It's a delicate thing at the best of times."
"You'd have to go a long way to find a modern car as beautiful as one of these." Scavinio delicately touched the curves and bulges of the Jag.
"It was what I always wanted," said Marco standing on the other side of it. "Cost me fifteen thousand Euros and I've driven it once. I saw all sorts of things come and go. You'll have seen them too, I guess, but I always liked these cars. Sports cars these days look designed to scare you. This is like an oil painting. A work of art."
"Were things better in the old days?" Scavinio's question was rhetorical and Marco refused to answer. He wasn't talking about the car. Marco clicked the door open and sat inside. After a moment Scavinio joined him. He was behind the wheel, in control, but Marco wanted to change the subject.
"You're still struggling with all this, aren't you?"
Scavinio gripped the wheel and steered himself along an imaginary journey. "How long does it take to accept what is really going on, Marco? How long did it take you?"
"Doesn't matter how long it took me, we're all different. Look at Rob. He came to terms with it in a few days. For me, several years, but after so long you see they're the same people they always were."
"Were they?" Scavinio considered it.
"Yeah. How long have you known them? A few months. The impact lasts longer than that. If anyone is struggling to come to terms with it, it's them." Marco spat the words out and jabbed his finger on the dashboard. "You don't believe me? Let me tell you a little story about something that happened to Dee a few years ago."
-
The four of them weren't stuck in the house in Obergrau all the time. They travelled; sometimes together, sometimes alone. Dee would hear about some curiosity, an event or an object and she'd go and find out more about it.
One autumn she visited Salzburg, looking for books about the musical heritage of the city. Not the usual names like Mozart, but anything that was a little more obscure. She found a bookshop in the old town and was browsing when she noticed a man walk in with a parcel.
He went to one side with the owner of the shop and unwrapped the parcel. It was covered in linen, folded over and over, and tied with cord. Inside was a book, something big and old, leather bound. The owner of the shop examined it and eventually approved it and the man who brought it in was paid.
Dee's curiosity was too much to control and she asked what the book was. It was a seventeenth century collection of botanical lists, quite rare and very expensive. Not quite what Dee was looking for, but what really caught her attention was what the shop owner said next: the man who brought it in was the last man in Salzburg who could repair and restore books of this age.
Well, she found an excuse to leave and being much younger than the book restorer caught up with him and followed him back to where he worked close to Nonnberg Abbey. It was a tiny place set within a narrow terraced street that followed the steps up the abbey hill. She stood outside for several hours waiting for the book restorer to leave, but he lived here so Dee had to wait until all the lights went out.
Inside, the ground floor was his workshop and it was like a laboratory. There were smells of cleaning fluids and glues; bench mounted tools, racks of card, drawers of parchment. There were inks, quills, brushes, a wooden rickety old printing press. The place looked like a revolutionary's publishing house ready for another batch of pamphlets. But on shelf after shelf Dee found stacks of manuscripts in varying states of disrepair.
Then he found her. The book restorer turned on a light and confronted Dee, but he was obviously not afraid of her. Even though she had got in without a key or smashing a window her presence didn't scare him a bit.
He said his name was Gottlieb. "You must be a collector. No other reason for being in here at this time."
"I'm always looking for something unusual. Never been in a restorer's workshop before."
Gottlieb was very old. It was hard to tell how he still had the eyesight and the steady hand to work, but he managed. He showed Dee all the different manuscripts and what needed to be done to repair them.
There were pages with the tiniest of holes waiting for the finest of threads to bind them together. A book about gloves commissioned by a Bourbon princess; a treatise on ailments associated with hunting for a 15th Century trader from Padua; maps of the Paris swamps and routes through them.
Dee saw the completed spines, glued and hardened, ready for the hardback covers to protect the edges of the paper and the stitching. There were title pages of colourful creatures and unpronounceable introductions in Catalan and Finnish. Around the workshop the manuscripts were brought back to life until they were healthy enough to be returned to their owners.
Except one.
"This, I finished twenty years ago," Gottlieb explained. "The gentleman who paid for its repair never came back."
The book, abandoned like an unwanted child, was only small, maybe fifteen by ten centimetres. It had a vivid blue pigskin cover with an embossed sun and fiery rays in gold. Inside, the text was small and filled every page to the edge.
"And what's it about?" asked Dee.
Gottlieb sat and summarised. It was a small journal, he explained, commissioned by a nobleman in 1210. The book is a report into the events that took place in a small village two years earlier.
'In 1208 five villagers had been accused of heresy and were to be burned at the stake. The wood piles were prepared, the victims shackled and coated with pitch. Then the fires were lit and the villagers stood back from the heat as the five heretics roasted. But the fire was not punishment enough and the bishop who had travelled from Brandenburg wanted their agonies to be even worse. He approached the fires, mouthed his incantations of fury and threw a red powder into the flames. As a consequence, the mixture of fire and the mysterious red powder was an explosion so violent it destroyed the heretics, the bishop, the onlookers, the village and the surrounding fields and woodlands in every direction. From the epicentre of the blast the ground was blackened and at the edges of the destruction, many kilometres away, mature trees were flattened in a fan shape radiating away from the blast. The explosion was heard in adjacent valleys and when people saw the clouds rising ever upwards they took it as a sign of God's anger. They came to see what had happened, but found nothing except the blackened landscape looking like a vision of hell. Slowly, life in the surrounding areas went back to normal, but then one night a villager who was at the burning showed up in a nearby town. People were astonished that anyone could have survived, but over the following weeks more and more of them reappeared as if returning from the dead.'
"Which is, of course, what they are," said Gottlieb. Dee understood why he had chosen that particular book. "The powder," he explained, "thrown into the fire is believed to have been red sulphur, which some say is used to create the Philosopher's Stone."
"For alchemy," Dee said.
"Yes. But not just for alchemy. The Philosopher's Stone can also be used to heal and to achieve immortality. When the bishop threw the powder on the flames he obviously had no idea what he was doing, but the victims didn't die."
"So what happened?"
They became opposite. Instead of death their existence became opposite to life. An anti-life, an opposite state of existence."
Dee wasn't sure what Gottlieb meant, but he was more interested in making a different point. "There were fifty to sixty villagers and most of them survived. You are what you are because of what they became. Now there may be as many as ten thousand of you."
"Vampires?"
"That's just one of the names to describe you. Your kind continue because you carry some essence of those original villagers who died and yet didn't die. If they kill first before feeding their condition is not passed on, but if they feed first their victim will become like them. They contain the Philosopher's Stone within them and now it's within you."
As the book had been
abandoned so long ago he let Dee keep it. Over the years she tried to find the village described, but she never found it and doubts whether the story is even true, but she thinks it's the best explanation for the origins of what she is. She still has the book. It's probably worth millions, but she'll never sell it.
-
"It's a difficult word to use," Scavinio muttered to himself.
"What?"
"Vampire. It means too much. It's a loaded word. Is there not an alternative, something more plausible?"
"They'll still be the same people, whatever word you use."
"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if Lenny Harper's stakes had been several inches to the right?" said Scavinio.
Jongbloed had thought about it many times. He thought about it most at Wim Seger's funeral when the band turned up long after everyone else had left. And again when he met a solitary figure mourning the death of her mother hours after the burial had taken place on a warm, sunny Rotterdam day. If Lenny Harper had known what he was doing he would have spared Susan Bekker the heartbreak later in life that she still talked about in her darkest moments.
"Penny for them?" Scavinio asked.
"What if? Everything has a what if attached to it. You can waste too much time wondering what if: what if Micky Redwall hadn't split up our band; what if," he stopped himself before he mentioned the Valentine's Day Kiss; Susan's fatal meeting in 1974. "So, what are they doing at the moment? Still rehearsing?"
"They've gone into one of their mysterious moods, which I don't get. They're cosying up to this Terence Pearl guy. Nuts doesn't begin to describe it, but they're interested in him for some reason. Any clues, Marco? You know 'em better than me."
Jongbloed sighed. "Maybe they want to keep an eye on him. No more Lenny Harper surprises coming out of nowhere."
"Yeah, yeah. They might not be so lucky a second time. So when do we get to see this thing on the road?"
"I might take her out tomorrow." Jongbloed laughed. "Get another old girl out on the road, eh Tom?"
35 (October)
Listening to Toten Herzen rehearsing, Rob Wallet hoped the acoustics of the Ahoy and all the other arenas would be better than this enormous tin shed. The warehouse might well have been the ideal European location for storing ninety thousand tins of peaches, but it buzzed and crackled like the afterburners of a jet engine. It was always the same with guitars and steel trussed rooves; a high frequency distortion that left human ears feeling like they'd been filled with limestone. Watching Toten Herzen rehearsing, Wallet hoped they'd get their act together and move around a bit more. As they finished another song he spoke over the PA.
"Can I make a small suggestion?" They stood, hands on hips and waited. "Can't you move around a bit more. You're sort of huddled in the middle of the stage like you're comparing one anothers' strings." No response. (Could they hear him?) "It's a big stage, use it. From back here you look like one big fat guitarist."
Dee stepped up to a microphone. "It's only a rehearsal. It's not like we're on stage tomorrow night."
"Just suggesting, that's all. Put on a show, give 'em their money's worth."
"Maybe we can get the white tie and tails out, put on a bit of vaudeville."
"I'm not suggesting you go that far, but what are these ramps for here. Come down them. Shove your guitars down my throat."
"We'd love to, Rob" Dee said, "but we don't want to damage them. They're all we've got."
"Promise me you'll move a bit more on the night."
"Rob," Susan stepped up to another microphone, "just shut up worrying."
"I'm not worrying. Look, you're better than this. You want to be in a rock band then why don't you look like one!" He could see them looking at each other. Could he push them far enough without getting eaten.
"Rob," Susan again, "if you want to conduct the English National Opera go and ring them up. We'll move when we decide to move."
"Not sure I can wait that long. That Flying V's wasted on you if no one can see it being played." That was it, he'd lit the blue touch paper and now all he had to do was wait for the spark. Susan finally marched down one of the ramps. Rene stood behind his drums to see this. She jumped down from the end of the ramp and strode over to the sound desk. Once in range she launched a right hook that sent Wallet flying over the equipment into a heap on the hard floor. She stood over him, looking down through a black waterfall of hair. "If you want a show then go out and arrange for the magic ingredient."
"What? What magic ingredient? That hurt, that did." Her legs looked a lot longer from his angle. He was growing to like Susan when she was mad.
"Go and find your mad friend with the Cathar spaceship and find out if he's still willing to join us onstage."
"That's, er, that's a bad idea, Susan. Are you serious?"
"Make yourself useful. I got here before Elaine did and I know you wouldn't want that."
Wallet stood up rubbing his jaw. It didn't really hurt. "Tell her to move a bit, as well. She makes John Entwistle look like Freddie Mercury." She suppressed a grin. Wallet saw it: Susan Bekker definitely suppressed a grin.
-
During the day cows would hang their heads over the hedgerow whenever anyone walked along the lane. Terence Pearl would wonder what they were after. Food, probably. That's the usual reason why an animal bonds with a human being. It wants a free meal: it wants nourishment. Pearl didn't have any pets. Not because he was too tight to feed them, but because of the commitment; emotional, temporal and physical. He didn't have children. His wife left him three years after they got married and he swore he wouldn't make that mistake again. So Pearl wandered the lanes around Westerfield alone, but call him lonely and you'd get a short answer.
His evening stroll always concluded along Church Lane coming back into the village. (He wondered what he'd do in summer when his agonising aversion to sunlight forced him to take his evening strolls later into the night: the sun only disappeared at half ten in July!) But on this particular evening he noticed a shadow on the corner of the roof of the Church House. Pearl slowed his walk to a curious stroll. The Church House was a small building with a pitched roof, but Pearl couldn't remember there ever being a chimney or large gargoyle up there. As he reached the gate he could see that the shadow was in fact Rob Wallet, sat on his haunches peering down at Pearl like a large cat watching a bird.
"Mr Wallet?" Pearl couldn't think of anything more appropriate.
"Off home, Terence?" said Wallet.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Well, you live thataway," Wallet gestured towards the other side of the village where Pearl's house marked the start of open countryside, "and you're walking in that direction, so I figured, well, call it an intelligent guess."
"I suppose so."
"I thought you of all people would appreciate a bit of intelligence. In fact, have you noticed how intelligence loosely rhymes with Terence?"
"Mr Wallet," Pearl was conscious of other villagers seeing him talking to a figure on a roof, "are you drunk?"
Wallet looked over the edge of the roof. "No. I'm high!"
Pearl couldn't really argue with that. A car was heading towards him, headlights blinding. He stepped aside and as the light passed he wondered if Wallet would still be on the roof. Did the driver see him? Was he really there? Pearl turned back to the church and sure enough Wallet was still anchored to the roof, watching.
"You don't move very quickly, do you, Terence?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr Wallet." Pearl stepped through the gate and stood on the church side of the hedge. He thought he might be less conspicuous if only the top half of his body could be seen talking to the Church House roof.
"We spoke to you a couple of weeks ago, but you still haven't told us who your mystery colleague is."
"I've been meaning to."
"What's wrong with you, Terence? You're an intelligent man, cleverer than me, and yet you side with someone who's no friend of yours. Haven't you grasped the benefit
s of working with me? All the things I can do for you? What's he giving you for all this?"
"A sense of right, a sense of righting a terrible wrong."
"Oh Terence. All your efforts, all the time you're devoting to this; how much do you think that time is worth? Don't you have any sense of self-worth? You're a teacher."
"Retired, actually."
"It still makes you a teacher whether you're retired or not. It's a calling, isn't it? A vocation? You can't just stop being a teacher. And besides, I thought teachers were all about spreading the truth. The inviolability of facts. The fundamental truths?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose so, but you can't use facts for evil purposes." Pearl suddenly looked up at Wallet with a fearful expression. He pushed himself against the hedge and felt for the crucifix hanging somewhere around his neck.
"I can show you the truth, Terence. I tried the other week, but it doesn't seem to have fired you up. Maybe I need to try harder to inspire you. What does it take, Terence? What can I offer you to make you see sense and come with me?"
"Please Mr Wallet, you're making me feel very scared."
"You don't have to be scared of me, Terence. I'm just trying to do the right thing for you. You love knowledge, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Come with us and we'll show you the world. We're a rock band. Not your kind of music, I know, but we travel the world. All those cultures, new people to meet, places to wonder at." Wallet hadn't moved an inch all the time he'd been talking. Crouching on his haunches, fingers together, sometimes talking directly to Pearl, other times to the darkness up the road towards the open fields. "Come on, Terence. You've written a lot of toe-curling bollocks about us. Don't you want to know the truth? Don't you owe it to yourself, a man of learning?"
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 26