by Anne Billson
I went for this last option. It was the only door I could be sure of reaching before my stomach heaved one last heave and I threw up. Halfway there, I was hit by an attack of the cramps, but I struggled on to the swing door.
Inside was a sort of small, useless airlock and another door leading directly into the Ladies. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to sharpen my wits until, behind me, the outer door creaked. Just in time, I tucked myself away in the nearest cubicle. I could hear stiletto heels clattering over the floor, then there was a crash and a sigh and the sound of someone in the cubicle next to me. Vampires, it seemed, had to attend to their routine bodily functions like the rest of us.
I kept quiet and waited. While I waited. I did what I usually did in the circumstances - I read. I read the graffiti on the back of the door, and I read the small print on the wrappings of the spare toilet-rolls, and I read the instructions on the Tampax machine.
And as I was reading - insert coin in slot, pull knob etc - that sick feeling in my gut returned, but this time I knew what it was. I'd had sick feelings in my gut many times over the past few days. It hadn't been so surprising considering what I'd been through, but now the feeling was much, much worse. A kind of dull ache, which ebbed and flowed in a great tidal wave even as l grasped its significance.
I was trapped in the middle of a bar full of vampires who flew into a feeding frenzy at the smell of fresh blood. And there was plenty of fresh blood here. The reopened wound in my hand was pumping, fresh and tasty, come and get it, but that wasn't the worst of it. My ovaries had always been regular as clockwork and they weren't about to let me down now, even though the time of the month had slipped my mind, as it usually did until the cramps weighed in to remind me.
Oh, great. Now I was really in for it.
I didn't know how I was going to get out of this one.
My period had started. Bang on time.
Chapter 2
I inserted a twenty-pence piece into the tampon machine and extracted a packet of two. And, because I didn't know what else to do, I stayed where I was and read the small print on the packaging. And that was how I learned the tampons were no longer being manufactured in Havant, Hants; the address was now somewhere nearby in Molasses Wharf. I should have been formulating some ruse to extricate myself from this predicament. Instead, I sat there wondering whether female vampires menstruated and, if so, what they did with their used tampons.
It felt as though aeons had passed, but according to my watch I'd been in there only ten minutes. Time itself had slowed to a crawling pace; there was still more than an hour before my appointment. I was beginning to think it might be a good idea to skip it. Perhaps I could hunker down for the night where I was, and take off at dawn in complete safety. In the absence of a better plan, I stuck with this one for a while, but then things started to get a little hairy.
While I sat and gibbered, there was a lot of the coming and going common to the toilets of all pubs, clubs, and discos. People clip-clopped in and out of cubicles, chattering aimlessly about whether so-and-so was going out with whatsisname, or which lipstick best complemented one's dead-white skin, or whether it was better to go for the jugular or the carotid. There was a fair amount of giggling, and I even thought I detected the tell-tale tippety-tap of metal on porcelain, the familiar and rather nostalgic sound invariably followed by that porky little snuffle as illegal substances were inhaled.
Every so often, someone would try to open my door and find it locked.
Only now, someone was knocking and asking if I was all right.
'I'm fine,' I said, a bit too quickly.
There was a pause. There was breathing, and clip-clopping heels. Then more clip-clops, different ones. The clip-clops mingled. Another voice. 'What's going on?'
'She's been in there ages. I think she's ill.'
'No, I'm not,' I said, but I couldn't think of another excuse for staying cooped up for so long, so I added, 'I'll be all right in a sec.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'll be fine. I just need to be on my own for a little while.' Now I was sounding like Duncan. I wondered whether they could smell the blood.
Then the first voice said, 'Are you sure you're all right?'
'Absolutely,' I chirruped. 'No problem.' For God's sake, go away, I thought.
'Are you new to this? Are you feeling rough? Would you like me to get you a drink? Ruby? Profondo Rosso?'
The thought of a pint of Profondo Rosso instantly made me want to throw up. 'No,' I groaned. 'Oh, no thanks.'
'She does sound ill,' murmured the second voice. 'Is she with someone? Maybe we should get the manager.'
'I thought that guy tasted funny. A bit gamey, I thought. Obviously hadn't bathed for weeks - I can still smell him.'
'I'll be out in a minute,' I said quickly, trying to sound perky, but not so perky that I was ready to emerge right that instant. 'I feel better already. Really I do.'
'If you're sure.' There was the noise of two pairs of retreating heels, then the clip-clops parted company and one set paused and came back. 'Look, what you need is a good swig of plasma. It'll make you feel much better. Hang on a bit, and I'll get you some.' She was off again before I could protest. A do-gooding, busy-body, nosey-parker kind of vampire. This was all I needed.
When I was certain she'd gone, I left the cubicle. In the mirror I saw my lipstick was smudged, so I quickly retouched it and squirted another blast of Fleur de Paris all around my neckline. Then I scrunched the bloodied glove under the cold tap and wrung it out and stretched the sodden fabric back over my suppurating palm. It smarted something rotten, as though I'd been rubbing it with sandpaper. The other hand wasn't so bad, but I felt as though I were radiating waves of human scent.
Just then, over the noise of the running tap, my ears picked up a small, neat chopping noise coming from one of the cubicles behind me. I'd thought I was on my own, but now I realized someone else was here, operating under cover of the water. I reckoned she'd be waiting for the coast to dear before she emerged, but I wasn't wasting any more time - I dug out the cigar tin and unwrapped the rosary and wound it snugly around my bloodied glove and then buried the hand in the pocket of my jacket. I was going to aim straight for the main entrance. With any luck, the cross would be sending out enough anti-vampire vibrations to make them want to steer clear without knowing why.
I snatched one last long look in the mirror, and held it just a few beats longer than I should have done. It was dispiriting to realize how closely I resembled the rest of the clientele. And then I did a double take, and my stomach fell through the floor. Behind me, the cubicle door was opening. And, of course, nobody was coming out. It was just me, alone with my reflection. I made myself turn around, quite slowly, and as I turned I heard a little sniffle, followed by a little sigh.
She looked as if she'd downed a few too many Rubies. Strands of mousy-coloured hair had escaped from her chignon and were spilling over one of her eyes. Her make-up needed reapplying - especially around the nostrils - her nose was running, and her mascara smeared where she'd been rubbing her eyes. And then there were the large, greenish-grey blisters on one side of her face - blisters which even the thick foundation failed to conceal.
Of all the toilets in the world, Patricia Rice had to walk into mine.
And I thought the jig was up until I remembered she wouldn't know me from Eve, because she'd never set eyes on me before, so I gave her my best ring of confidence and headed towards the door. She loped alongside me in a chummy manner until something pulled her up short and she swung into my path. 'Wait a minute,' she said, racking what few brains she had. This is very strange. I can see your reflection.'
'Not really,' I said. 'It's this new type of mirror they've just developed in the Pharmasan labs, especially for putting on vampire make-up.'
She frowned, and for a moment I thought I was going to get away with it. No such luck: she was dumb, but not that dumb. She squinted at the mirror, then back at me. 'But I can't see
me,' she said, her voice rising in shrill excitement. 'You're a nip, aren't you? My God, you are. You're a nip spy.'
There was no time to think, because she grabbed at me. All I did was bring my hand up out of my pocket to fend her off. There was a dull crunch as the knuckles mashed into her cheek, but it wasn't my fist which hurt her so much as the rosary wrapped around it, and the blisters instantly cracked and spurted a greenish liquid. She backed away from me, clawing at her steaming complexion and making a noise like a whistling kettle. I charged through the doors, pausing in the airlock to thrust my fist back into my pocket, and then I took a deep breath and sauntered back into the bar. I felt horribly exposed, but no one was looking. They all went on chattering and drinking and being boring, so I started to pick my way through them. I went past where I'd been sitting and, out of the corner of my eye, glimpsed Dexter and Josette and their friend. I could feel Dexter's eyes boring into the back of my skull; he was trying to put his finger on what it was about me that had piqued his curiosity. I had no intention of hanging around long enough for him to figure it out.
I wasn't thinking far ahead, but I had a vague idea that if only I could reach the Multiglom reception desk, I'd be safe. I was counting on the black clothes, brisk pace, and garlic to see me through the night. The receptionist could call me a cab to take me back to W11. All I had to do was get out of the bar. I squeezed past some standing customers, and wove around some tables, and the Exit sign was there, right in front of me. I was so close I could have stretched out and grasped the door handle. I was so close I could almost have punched a hole through the glass and flexed my fingers in the night air. So close, but not close enough, because at that moment there was an almighty crash. In front of me, the glass door quivered in sympathy, and I knew my number was up. Someone shouted, 'Stop her!' and then there were other voices, and I couldn't work out whether they were shouting or sighing or gasping, but the sound was elemental, like the ocean trying to rip pebbles off a beach. This was it. This was the beginning of the end. I'd made a complete mess of things, and now I would never see Duncan again.
Even then, there was a residual thought that, if only I wanted to badly enough, I could still make it to the door. And I wanted to very badly indeed. There was an outside chance all that yelling had nothing to do with me, so I pretended not to notice it, and prepared for one last desperate lunge. I might have made it, too, if the slimeball sitting nearby hadn't stuck out his leg and tripped me up. As I scrabbled for balance, someone else sank his fingers so hard into the fleshy part of my upper arm that it made me squeak with pain and I brought the rosary back out of my pocket and clouted him with it. He fell back screeching and clutching at his face, just as Patricia Rice had done. I liked the effect, but I didn't get a chance to try it again because I was spun round, and dragged back, and then somebody did something to the nerves in my arm which made my fingers jerk open of their own accord. The rosary dropped to the floor, and someone kicked it away and I couldn't see it any more. The first thing I saw when I looked up was Patricia Rice standing on a table, her legs splayed out like a striptease artiste, hair flying all over the place and half her face mashed into raw hamburger with cucumber relish. She was pointing a finger and shrieking that she'd seen me, in the mirror, and she didn't have to stop and explain, because they all knew.
Now I was on the receiving end of their attention, they didn't look in the least bit human. How could I ever have imagined I would blend in? They loomed over me, jockeying for position with the points of their elbows, the hunger sharpening their features so they looked like painted demons. I could smell their breath, and it was worse than bad - it was like the gas coming up from a bucketful of pig's entrails left too long in the sun. And their colour was unnatural; under the white lighting their skin was flat and dead, and the make-up made it look like mouldy old dough.
But I got a grip on myself. I told myself sternly I wasn't like the student, I wasn't some hapless nip who had strayed in off the street. And this had obviously thrown them off balance. They couldn't work out what I was doing there, dressed and made up to look like one of them. I glared defiantly, and - I hoped - a little contemptuously. Dead or alive, they were scum and I wanted them to know it. They had led worthless lives and now they were leading equally worthless deaths.
'Let's party,' hissed the man who had made me drop the rosary. Once he had been fat, but death had left him sagging like a perished balloon. He pinched my arm like someone testing an oven-ready chicken and licked his once-plump lips with a rasping sound.
'Wait.' He was held up by a woman with eyes so pale they were almost transparent. 'We should question her. What's she up to?'
'And who else knows about it?' snarled a man with a nose like a vulture's beak. Ex-Lardo rounded on Vulture Man and sneered. 'What does it matter who knows? Nothing can stop us now. Rotnacht here we come.' At mention of the R-word, there was an outbreak of shushing. It was some sort of military code, like Operation Sealion or Market Garden, a nip too far, and careless whispers could prove costly.
'Ssshh. Don't even talk about you-know-what in front of nips.'
'They might as well know they've got it coming.'
Some of them were bickering now. I felt myself being pushed and shoved and pulled, first one way, then the other, until it started to hurt. So this was how it was going to end. It might have been my imagination, but out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the barman shrug in resignation and duck out of sight once more.
But no, I wasn't like the student. I wasn't going to stand for this shoddy treatment. If they'd homed straight in, I wouldn't have had a chance, but the squabbling had given me heart. It helped me forget the masks and see them as I'd seen them before - as little people with tiny brains and no imagination, drones who hadn't a hope in hell of doing things properly.
Unfortunately, Ex-Lardo came to a unilateral decision. 'I don't give a toss,' he said to no one in particular, and raised one of my arms to his mouth. His breath warmed the inside of my wrist as he paused to seek the most direct tap into the vein. So disagreeable was this sensation that I started babbling for all I was worth: 'Stop it I wouldn't do that if I were you Violet wouldn't like it Rose Murasaki wouldn't like it or Clara Weill or Livia or whatever she's calling herself nowadays.'
This was the trump I'd been holding in reserve, but now I was hoping like mad we were still playing the same game, that the cards hadn't been shuffled and dealt out in a different order while I hadn't been looking. As the words left my mouth, I began to have doubts. What if they'd never heard of her? What if we'd been wrong, and she hadn't come back after all? What if they were so hungry they didn't care?
But it did the trick. It was as though my arm had suddenly turned white-hot. Ex-Lardo dropped it and stared, blinking stupidly. There was a hush, broken by a disgruntled muttering.
'Rose Murasaki?'
'Who's Violet?'
'You mean you don't know?'
'Murasaki.'
'Better not touch.'
'Rose'll go mad.'
Three of them still had me in their grip, and though they weren't tugging any more, they showed no signs of wanting to let me go. Nobody was quite sure what to do. I avoided looking at any of them directly; I didn't want them to see I was bluffing. Instead, I stared at the floor, concentrating on the footwear - an assortment of brogues, winkle-pickers, cha-cha heels, and satin slippers, patent or suede, but all of them, every last blasted shoe, in black and black and black.
Then, without warning, I felt myself released. I saw the feet shuffle and regroup, making way for other feet which were coming my way. They advanced without the slightest hint of urgency, and it was by his feet that I recognized him, even though the boots had changed. They were a peculiar, pock-marked hide, cut wide and handsome like cowboy boots and stacked up on chunky dirt-digging heels which had been worn down so far on the inside edge that he rolled as he walked, a bit like a landlocked sailor. In any other circumstances, I would have feared for my life. But I was fea
ring for my life already. And at least these boots weren't black.
I looked up.
'Well, look who's here,' said Grauman. He wasn't smiling.
I asked him what had happened to the snakeskin. 'I am going through an ostrich phase,' he said, looking round. 'I was told there was a disturbance in the farmyard. I had no idea it would be you.' He sighed. 'You had better come along with me, before these people force you to provide them with the next round of drinks.' I tucked in right behind him as he retraced his steps. The vampires fell back, but gracelessly. He had spoiled their fun and they resented his presence. Some of them grumbled rebelliously, but none dared touch.
It was only when we were well out of earshot, when he'd got me outside and had grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me halfway across the road to the Multiglom Tower, that he dipped his head and hissed into my ear, 'This time, you little bitch, I will see you boiled in oil before I let you make a fool out of me.'
I'd gained time, at least, and I didn't really think I was going to be boiled in oil. The death of a thousand cuts, perhaps, or my spine snapped in a dozen different places, but I couldn't see him resorting to the oil option because it would have been over far too quickly.
We went straight into the Multiglom Tower, and no one lifted a finger to stop us, neither the neo-Nazi guards nor any of the other figures that were flitting around.
'You wanted to get to see Violet,' said Grauman, as the revolving doors propelled us smoothly into the white marble reception. 'You did, didn't you? Well, you will get to see her now.'
Chapter 3
He leaned against the wall of the elevator and looked me up and down. 'Dora Rosamond Vale. Just what do you think you are playing at?'