Becky showed him up towards the top floor. There were three beds inside the room, which looked as though the girls’ suitcases had exploded all over it, with the contents of them thrown out across the room. Banes could smell hairspray and perfume so strongly that it stung his nose.
‘That’s my bed, there.’ She pointed to the one closest to the bathroom. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Becky said, colour rising to her cheeks as she tucked her hair back behind her ear. ‘So, um, do you want a drink, or something?’
Banes looked over to a vanity table covered with bottles, hair products, and condoms.
‘Sure. I’ll have a vodka.’
‘We ran out of mixer,’ she said, stumbling over to the table.
‘Neat is fine.’
She poured them out two measures into plastic shot glasses and came back to the bed with them, sitting as close to Banes as she could.
‘Well – cheers, then.’
With some resolve, she downed the shot in one; Banes smiled as she gritted her teeth.
‘What’s funny?’ she asked.
‘You just looked so determined,’ he said.
‘Shut up,’ she said, smiling as she playfully hit his shoulder. ‘I’m just a bit nervous.’
‘About sleeping with me?’ he asked.
‘Kinda,’ she said. ‘Like, I still, you know, want to have sex, but you’re different to any guy I’ve slept with before. I don’t want to seem like some virgin who doesn’t know what she’s doing.’
‘Relax,’ he said, brushing her hair back. ‘You don’t have to worry about that.’
He kissed her; she wrapped her arms around his neck as he pushed her down onto the bed, his hand going to unbutton her shorts, his fingers slipping between her thighs and into her body. Her skin was soft under his, and beneath everything, she smelled sweet.
She was inexperienced and clumsy; a trait he found endearing more than anything else. Her nails ran over his back, unable to scratch his skin, as her breathing became hitched and she tugged on his hair, desperately trying to bring him closer to her. He could smell her blood under her skin. The thought of biting her rose in his mind. Making her a vampire. Someone he could impress, someone who could love him. As suddenly as it came, the thought left, and he was left looking down at a drunk teenager who was away from home for the first time.
Afterwards, she curled up beside him, her head resting on his chest.
‘You’re the best person I’ve ever met,’ she muttered, closing her eyes.
‘I’m glad,’ Banes said as she fell asleep, ‘but that’s a fucking pity.’
He was awakened by the sound of a hairdryer. He blinked; it took a few seconds to remember where he was. The curtains were still drawn over the balcony window, bright sunlight peeking around their edges. He reached for his sunglasses.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Becky said, coming out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Fresh out of the shower, and without any makeup, she looked very young. He felt uncomfortable. Wrong.
‘That’s okay,’ Banes said, rubbing his eyes. It felt as if he had barely slept at all. He looked down at his phone, and saw that it was eleven in the morning.
‘Are those contacts?’ she asked, pointing to his eyes.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s a medical thing.’
‘Oh,’ she said, pink spots rising to her cheeks. ‘I really enjoyed last night.’
‘I’m glad,’ Banes smiled, reaching for his top.
‘Were you in the army?’ she asked.
‘What?’ he asked, sitting upright in bed.
She pointed to his amulet which lay against his chest, ‘that, it looks like a dog tag.’
‘It’s not and I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘So, do you want to get some breakfast? I’ll pay.’
‘Sure,’ she said, brightly. ‘Just give me a few minutes, okay?’
They left the room just as Becky’s friends came back, looking ashen and with their hair stuck up in tuffs. They eyed Banes and sank into the room.
‘Not a fucking word, Becs,’ one of them said, as she collapsed on the bed.
Becky smirked and took Banes’s hand. She took him to a British café, which was covered in Union flags, the walls lined with framed photographs of the Royal family, and a massive, flat screen TV set to ITV. Becky went over to order as he took the shadiest table available. The café was quiet, and patronised by Britons, all recovering from the night before.
‘I hope the others got back alright,’ she said.
‘Who?’ Banes asked, taking a sip of his juice.
‘My friends who have the other room,’ she said, picking at the crust of her bacon sandwich. ‘So, like, do you have any plans for today?’
‘I rarely have any plans at all,’ he said, as a hush fell over the café. Out of the corner of his eyes, the TV screens flashed red.
‘Well, our flight home is in two days’ time,’ she said, around them people were setting down their food, their eyes fixed on the screens, ‘if you want to hang out or anything before then.’
‘Hey, just shut up for a minute,’ he said as he turned around in his seat, the waitress turned up the volume on the TV, where an intensely serious anchor looked into the camera, the words breaking news run across the bottom of the screen.
‘If you’re just joining us now, breakings new just in this hour. The Prime Minister has been found dead at her residence in Number Ten Downing Street. I repeat, the Prime Minister has been found dead. The nature of her death is, as of yet, unknown to us at this point. Neither the police, nor a spokesperson for Number Ten, have yet made any comment surrounding the cause of death. There are unconfirmed reports of an ambulance being called to Downing Street in the early hours of the morning. All that we currently know for certain was that she was pronounced dead at the scene. We go live now to our political correspondent, Barry Whitemore, outside of Downing Street. Barry?’
The camera cut to a stony-faced man, clutching a microphone and projecting the very essence of solemnity. Banes could see behind him that the entire area surrounding Downing Street had been cleared, and was cut off from the reporters and curious public, who had been pushed back to Trafalgar Square.
‘Thank you, Grace,’ Barry said, his voice etched with seriousness over the screech of sirens and the whir of helicopters. ‘As you can see, no-one but the emergency services have been allowed access onto Downing Street at this moment. Much of the area has been completely closed off to us; Westminster Station has been closed, as has Westminster Bridge. If you are travelling through central London today, please be aware of the disruption. As said before, we currently do not know anything surrounding the death of the Prime Minister. Details are scarce, here; we currently do not know how or when she died. We do know, now, that the first ambulance had been called to the scene at approximately six-fifteen this morning. Whether the death was sudden or not, we cannot say. However, there are unconfirmed reports that the Prime Minister had been ill for several days, some are saying weeks, even, which would explain her numerous cancellations leading up to her death.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Becky said, quietly, her large eyes drawn to the screen. ‘I always thought she was a right old cow, though. But still, you never picture something like this happening, do you?’
Banes ignored her and remained focused on the screen, as an elderly, sunburnt man hushed Becky.
Barry had paused; he had placed a finger in his eyes, and his eyebrows drew tightly together. Banes could just detect the faintest glimmer in his eyes, which Barry was well aware meant that this was the biggest moment of his career, as he straightened himself up and faced the camera.
‘There is a confirmed report that the police are treating the Prime Minister’s death as suspicious,’ he said, as the hairs on the back of Banes’s neck stood up. ‘This comes after two unnamed members of staff in Downing Street were also rushed to hospital during the night, one of whom died shortly upon arrival while the other remains in critical condition.’
‘Bloody
disgrace!’ a man roared. ‘We won’t stand for this!’
‘What’s the country coming to,’ the waitress said.
‘Fuck,’ Becky said. ‘So, she was murdered, then? That’s what suspicious means, right? Right, Banes? Banes?’
His insides were saturated with ice. The world fell away as he grew numb. He mindlessly placed a twenty euro note down on the table, and left.
‘Banes?’ Becky said, tugging on his arm as he walked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘They’re eating themselves,’ he said. ‘Look, Becky,’ he said, grabbing her shoulder so that she faced him, ‘you’re a sweet girl, but when you go back to Britain, something really fucked up is about to happen. It’s been going on for a while now, but it’s going to get worse. I don’t know what exactly, but it’s coming.’
‘What?’ she asked. ‘Banes, what’s going on?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘everything that is happening in Britain right now; all of the poverty, and the hunger, and the hatred, and the violence, and the cruelty – all of that is by design. And it’s designed by people who want to cannibalise the world. To them, life is worth no more than what it can produce. These people will drain the blood out of everything and everyone, just because they can, and there’s no-one to stop them. And, this?’ he said, pointing back towards the television. ‘This is just them eating each other.’
‘Banes?’ she said. He kissed the top of her forehead.
‘Stay safe.’
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, turning away from her. ‘I don’t have any plans, but I’ve been relying on the bravery of other people. And, now, I might fucking die, but who gives a shit about my life, apart from me, anyway? It’s a lovely, sunny day; enjoy the weather, but we’ve got to start somewhere.’
About The Author
Eve Maleham
Eve Maleham, raised in Weston-super-Mare, living in London, is a writer tortured by her own dyslexia.
She has a Masters in scriptwriting from Goldsmiths College, and a bachelor’s in media practice from the University of Westminster. She cut her teeth writing long, convoluted novels before realising that she was a better scriptwriter then novelist.
She enjoys a nice cup of tea, Korean films, cats, and disobeying the state.
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