The Mammoth Book of Dracula - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  He found Simple Simon propping up the bar, looking no fatter and no more prosperous than he ever did, but not looking like a boy on the brink of starvation either. Brewer still thought of Simon as a boy although he must have been well into his twenties by now. Clearly, he was still working—if not for Brewer then for someone else.

  “Hello, Simon,” Brewer said, taking the youth by the elbow and leading him away from the bar to a booth in the corner. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”While Simon thought about how to answer that he went back to the bar and ordered a couple of pints.

  When Brewer carried the tankards over to the booth and set them down Simon had the grace to look slightly guilty, but he didn’t look scared. Brewer had never mastered the delicate art of terrifying his pushers, preferring to represent himself as a man who was as gentle and trustworthy as his product. Sometimes, he regretted his laxity. There was always the chance that some under-terrorized imbecile would grass him up if the police put the screws on tight enough.

  “It’s okay,” he said, staying in character. “No threats. I only want an explanation. You owe me that much, at least.”

  “An explanation of what?” Simon asked, although he knew full well.

  “An explanation of why you haven’t picked up your supplies lately. I know you too well to believe that you’ve decided to straighten up, so you’ve obviously found an alternative supplier. You don’t have to tell me who it is, but I need to know what it is you’re peddling. I thought I had the kind of product that wouldn’t easily be outdone. If my recipe book is out of date I really ought to catch up. It’s not the money, of course—it’s a matter of professional pride.”

  “It’s not better,” the youth muttered. “Not really. It’s just different. New.”

  “You’re telling me you’re a fashion victim? Some new designer product hits the street and you feel like you have to switch brands in case your mates think your habit’s passé?” Brewer tried hard to imply that it was unbelievable, but he knew that it was only too likely.

  “It’s not like that,” Simon said, uncomfortably. “It’s just... people can be very persuasive.”

  “You mean they threatened to break your legs if you didn’t ditch my stuff and start selling theirs?”

  “Not exactly,” the boy muttered, unable to muster enough conviction to tell a convenient lie. The trouble with Simon was that he was vulnerable to the mildest forms of persuasion, provided he was approached in the right way.

  “It’s okay,” Brewer lied, hoping that he didn’t sound too convincing. “It was bound to happen. It’s the hectic pace of technological innovation—not to mention the money that’s being poured into neurochemical research. I’m only one man, and I can’t be expected to create and supervise the psychotropic revolution by myself. There’s room for everyone in a boom market, no need for conflict. This is 1999, after all—we’re not Jurassic crack dealers, are we? I just need to know what’s going on. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t retail my products as well as theirs?”

  Simon shrugged awkwardly. Plainly there was.

  Brewer wondered whether it might have been optimistic to assume that his new rivals were men like him: civilized people with degrees, well-appointed laboratories and a serious interest in the next phase of human evolution. Maybe the old-time crack dealers were trying to get back into the game. If so, he shuddered to think what their quality control must be like. He stared over Simon’s shoulder and let his eyes wander while he wondered how much trouble he might be in.

  His wandering gaze was suddenly arrested and held by a trim figure easing its way out of a booth on the far side of the room. His attention would have been caught even if he hadn’t recognized the face lurking behind the opaque sunglasses, but the shock of realizing who she was intensified his reaction considerably.

  Simon looked around to see what Brewer was staring at, but turned back quickly, as if he were afraid to look upon such a startling profile.

  “Does she come in here often?” Brewer asked.

  “Sometimes. Still counts a few of the working girls as friends. They say her old man doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t keep tabs on her during the day.”

  “Must be the laid-back type.” Brewer used the sneer to cover up an unexpected stab of jealousy. For nearly a year Brewer had supplied Jenny with happy pills in exchange for sex, but she had been using too many other things, and she had never quite come off the game. He had dumped her when she had gone far enough downhill not to be special any more. In his experience, nobody ever climbed back up that kind of hill once they’d started to roll, but Jenny now looked extra special—far better than she ever had before. That was difficult to believe, given that she must be at least Simon’s age, with the sweet succulence of innocence far behind her.

  “So laid-back he’s creepy,” Simon said. “You want to go say hello?” He didn’t really think he was going to be let off that easily, but there was a distinct note of hope in his voice, doubtless encouraged by the intensity of Brewer’s stare. He wouldn’t have got off that easily, either, if the girl hadn’t got up from her seat at that very moment and started for the door, waving goodbye to her erstwhile friends—who looked after her with naked envy, but rather less hatred than might have been expected.

  Brewer didn’t spare Simon another glance, but he said “I’ll be back” in his best Schwarzenegger drawl. He left the pint he’d hardly touched on the table.

  ~ * ~

  It wasn’t difficult to catch up with Jenny; she wasn’t hurrying.

  “Can I offer you a lift somewhere?” Brewer said, as he drew level with her.

  She seemed genuinely surprised to see him. Perhaps she’d been too deep in conversation to see him enter the pub and perhaps she hadn’t glanced in his direction while she made for the door. She stopped and turned to look up into his eyes. Her own eyes were hidden by the dark glasses but he imagined them blue and clear, as radiant as her complexion.

  “I don’t know, Bru,” she said, blithely. “Which way are you going?”

  “Any way you like,” he said. “It’s my afternoon off.”

  “Nothing cooking back at the lab?” Her voice was gently teasing; there was no evidence of hard feelings regarding the way their previous acquaintance had drifted to its end.

  “We only do the lawful stuff by day,” he told her. “Half the night too, most days. Difficult to find time for fun and games. The last civil service lab’s due to close next April—not cost-effective. Private contractors like me do all the statutory health and safety work these days, as well as all the forensic testing. Never been busier.”

  “Health and safety work? Is that what you call it?”

  It was more a veiled insult than a joke. He’d always offered products that were as safe and as healthy as he could contrive. He liked all his customers to stay fit and well—and happy too.

  “Quality control is what I call it,” he said. “Making sure that the goods you buy at the supermarket, or over the pharmacist’s counter, are exactly what they’re supposed to be and as pure as scientific ingenuity can make them. It’s vital work in these corrupt times. There’s more money in faking designer drugs than there is in faking designer jeans or fine wines, and you know how paranoid people are about their food since last year’s pesticide plague. You look incredibly well, Jenny. I’d never have believed it. You must have kicked all your old habits.” He emphasized the word all very slightly.

  “Every last one,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

  “In the multi-storey. I never park illegally. Where do you want to go? Home?” He started walking again as he said it, pointing the way with a languid finger

  “I guess.” She must have known that he was burning with curiosity, but she carefully didn’t say where home was. “Everything’s rosy with you, then?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” he assured her, having no intention of telling her that some rival was taking a big bite out of his synthetics trade. “The revolution is bang on course.
The great crusade continues.” He always took care to sound as if he wasn’t serious when he said things like that, but he was. He didn’t see himself as one more drug-peddler in the shark-infested soup; he really did believe that psychotropic chemistry would pave the way for the next step in human evolution. He’d tried to explain that to Jenny a dozen times and more, back in the old days.

  “I know,” she said, perhaps implying that although she’d kicked the habits which had been destroying her she hadn’t given up on everything she bought on the street... or perhaps not.

  “I hear you’re living with a laid-back creep,” he said, as they stepped into the lift that would take them up to level nine of the multi-storey. “Only comes out at night—some kind of vampire, maybe?”

  She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. In fact, she turned her head away, as if she didn’t want him to be able to read her reaction too accurately. As she moved her head the skin at the side of her neck stretched, and lifted an odd discolouration briefly into view above the collar of her neat black blouse. It looked like a lovebite, but Brewer only caught a momentary glimpse of it before she turned again and it disappeared.

  “I’m with someone,” she admitted. “I’m not like I used to be, Bru. I learned to apply a little quality control of my own, just in time.”

  This time the insult wasn’t even veiled.

  “It’s okay,” Brewer said, uneasily. “I’m only curious, not jealous. We were never married, were we?”

  “No,” she said, colourlessly. “We never were.”

  When she got into the car—without pausing to admire it, although it certainly warranted a certain respect—she had to tell him where home was.

  “Docklands?” he echoed, deliberately overdoing the contempt. “I thought even the yuppie dinosaurs had moved out of there. I suppose it’s handy for your old stamping grounds, though.”

  “It’s quiet,” she said, as if that were explanation enough. Then she looked away, as if she wanted to punish him for wanting to hurt her feelings—but she didn’t try to get out of the car again, and she seemed perfectly relaxed as he zigzagged down to the barrier and out into the traffic.

  He let the conversation lapse while he threaded his way through the crowded streets, pretending to concentrate hard but continually stealing sidelong glances at her at every junction. She gave him directions in an absurdly overabundant fashion, as if he couldn’t be trusted to find his way around the City Security Zone or through the road-works fringing the last of the Jubilee Line extension building-sites.

  ~ * ~

  The place to which Jenny eventually guided him was, indeed quiet—which wasn’t surprising, given that it was one of those maximum security buildings with a fiendishly complicated entry system and no ground-floor windows.

  “Are you going to invite me in for a coffee?” he asked, as she got out. She hesitated, with her hand on the door handle, as if waiting for some extra inducement. Thinking that he understood, he reached under the seat and released his secret stash. “I can sweeten it for us,” he said.

  “You’re crazy, keeping that stuff in your car,” she said. “Especially a thief-magnet like this.”

  “We scientific geniuses have ways of thief-proofing our homes and vehicles,” he said, airily. “We don’t need that kind of hi-tech fortress.” He nodded at the armoured entry-door with all its smart sensors.

  She let go of the door handle without opening the door. “If you’re coming up for coffee,” she said, “you’d better put the car in the basement. And if you want it sweet, you can have all the sugar you need. Put that stuff back where it came from.”

  He did as he was told. It would have suited him better if she’d been tempted, but he certainly wasn’t going to insist.

  It was almost as difficult to get into the subterranean car park as it was to get through the building’s main door, and Jenny had to produce two different ID cards to open the doors of the lift which took them up to the apartments—all the way up, as it transpired. Jenny’s new man lived in the penthouse.

  “The trouble with security,” Brewer observed, as they made their ascent, “is that it works both ways. If there were a fire, you’d never get out—and the fire brigade wouldn’t be able to get in to help you. Where I live it’s simple to get in and out, even though it’s not easy. My security systems are glorious in their subtlety.”

  “Just like you,” she said, with telling sarcasm. Perhaps, he thought, she’d only invited him in to score a few points by showing him everything that she’d accomplished since he dumped her. On the other hand, living in a maximum-security love-nest with a guy that Simple Simon called a creep must have its downside. If she often went back to the Goat and Compasses to pass the time of day with whores whose beat she’d once shared she must be desperate for congenial company.

  Brewer wasn’t surprised to find that Jenny’s boyfriend wasn’t home. He was, however, mildly surprised to discover what kind of place his home was. It wasn’t particularly plush, considering the rent one had to pay for that kind of situation and that kind of safety, and it was certainly no leftover yuppie’s style-trap. All the walls were lined with shelves and all the shelves were fully laden, ninety per cent with books and ten per cent with CDs: thousands of each. There was an alcove in the living-room fitted out as a workstation with a pair of widescreen PCs whose screensavers swirled different shades of blue and grey around one another in endless mirror-image sequences. Brewer took note of the laser-printer and the idle fax machine, but they weren’t interesting enough to warrant close study. The glass in the broad window was heavily smoked; even though the sun was shining the room was distinctly dim.

  It would have taken hours to make a detailed study of all the book-titles, but a quick scan told him that they were all non-fiction, with no obvious specialism. The CDs were mostly audio or read-only, but there were at least fifty user-disks. If they weren’t just for show, that added up to an awful lot of gigabytes.

  “Are you taking an Open University degree or something?” he asked, although he was painfully aware that it left much to be desired as a conversational gambit.

  “No,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She had finally taken off her sunglasses, but he still hadn’t seen her eyes.

  “Mind if I use your loo?” he asked, figuring that he would only get eaten away by curiosity if he didn’t.

  “Into the hallway, second door on the right,” she answered, unsuspiciously.

  The bathroom was ordinary enough. He turned the taps on while he opened the cabinet and began a scrupulous examination of everything stored there. His trained eye skated over the cosmetics and probed for something that didn’t look quite right, something revealing. He didn’t expect any illegals, or even anything particularly esoteric, but in his experience there were always clues in a bathroom cabinet for an expert eye to decode.

  He grinned when he found three pill-bottles without proprietary or prescription labels lurking in a corner behind a flask of skin conditioner. When he shook the capsules out they didn’t have any indicative markings. He picked up three of each kind of capsule, slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket and turned the taps off.

  By the time he came out he’d triggered Jenny’s urge to go. When she locked the door behind her he moved swiftly into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, just on the off chance.

  This time the anomaly leaped right out at him. Three non-standard hooks had been installed in the left-hand wall and the grille below them had had two bars removed so that three fluid-filled bags could be hung there. Brewer didn’t like to judge by appearances but the straw-coloured fluid that filled the bags looked like blood-plasma—the real thing, not the standard synthetic substitute. He just had time to squeeze a sample into one of the specimen bottles he always carried with him before moving swiftly back to the living-room and taking up his coffee cup.

  “Well,” he said to Jenny, as she came back into the room “you certainly landed on your fee
t. I’m glad. How did you kick the hard stuff—some kind of substitution programme?” Her eyes were blue and radiant, exactly as he’d expected, and they had a curious haunted look that was very attractive—as if they had seen far more than they had ever hoped or expected to.

  “Willpower,” she said, shortly. “You don’t seem to have taken too much harm from sampling your own products—but you were always a moderate man. I suppose you’ve got plenty of girlfriends, just as lovely and every bit as eager as I was?”

  “No one special,” he said.

  “No one is,” she retorted. He wondered if it was a philosophical remark or yet another insult, to be understood as including an unspoken to you.

  “Anyhow,” he told her, truthfully, “I don’t know anyone as lovely as you. You used to be pretty, all right, but now ... what’s your secret, Jenny? I bet those kids you were talking to in the pub would give a hell of a lot to know it.” He couldn’t help adding: “They must really hate you now.”