Jeremy Hunted 5: Sanguine

This story is fast becoming a serial! Help! I can't stop it!
Anyway, this is part 5 and the other 4 are here.

http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html
Part 2: The Lodger
Part 3: Breakfast Invite
Part 4: Deal with the Devil

Andrew awoke at the sound of a loud shout. It sounded more frustrated than angry or upset. It was followed by a loud crash and series of decidedly modern curse words. On a normal day Andrew would have slept through all this, but he had been rather jumpy since yesterday due to Jeremy. Andrew had encountered many hungry vampires before and knew what they were capable of. Jeremy had never caused Andrew any concern because he’d kicked the habit 40 years ago. Now that Jeremy had fallen off the wagon, altruistic motives aside, Andrew had been in a constant state of anxiety. For the past 18 hours, he’d been jumping at shadows and starting at small noises. To top it off, a newly-acquired neck-brace was impairing his ability to keep a proper watch on his surroundings.

So far Jeremy had demonstrated an impressive show of willpower after a patchy start. Granted he had a tendency to snarl if you startled him and he kept watching Andrew like he was a gazelle on the veldt; but he had saved Frank’s life, and had ridden in the ambulance with him and Andrew. After Andrew had been given his neck brace and Jeremy had given the hospital staff Frank’s passport and ID, the vampire had stomped back into the house and holed himself up in the kitchen. Andrew was too nervous to hang about and so had beaten a strategic retreat to his room. For the rest of the afternoon, he’d sat on his bed with his back pressed hard against the wall while he read back issues of The Beano. He could hardly concentrate on the antics of Dennis the Menace as he heard the loud crashes coming from downstairs and his eyes kept flitting between his comic, the door and the loaded gun next to him.

After a few hours the crashes died down and Andrew, gun in hand, decided to brave the unknown. He found a fantastic mess in the dining room. Every mug in the house was piled on the table in a state of ceramic carnage. Mugs were chipped, cracked, missing handles and several sported large gaps where chunks had been bitten out of the rim. The lucky mugs had simply been reduced to brightly-coloured chalk. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The counters and floors were littered with pots and pans. They were warped out of shape especially the handles, which were all sporting deep handprints. The kettle hadn’t survived. Amidst the cookware were dozens of boxes. Andrew hadn’t expected this though. He’d figured that the boxes and pans would be for sausages or tinned ham or something similarly meaty. He hadn’t expected 8 boxes of PG Tips to be torn open and ravaged. Nor had he foreseen the empty wrappers from twenty packages of McVities digestive biscuits.

He heard the noise of the telly in the sitting room and after cautiously poking his head in, saw Jeremy watching Tomorrow’s World. Andrew gasped. If Jeremy was actually watching the device he’d shunned as the “seizure box,” something was seriously wrong. Andrew took it as an evil portent and ran full tilt back to his room. He’d spent a very fitful night in which his few minutes of sleep were haunted by visions of predatory jaws attacking his throat in a red-tinged gloom. The last night he’d spent like that, he’d been ten years old. Jeremy was the one to help him conquer that walking nightmare. Now Jeremy was the nightmare.

As Andrew awoke in the dim grey light, he jumped to the mirror and examined his body for bites. Nope, he was clean. The neck brace was getting in the way, so Andrew ripped it off and chucked it in the corner. His neck wasn’t feeling much better, but he could turn his head now —besides, he’d dealt with much worse before. The filthy language was still coming from Jeremy’s room and Andrew broke into a cold sweat. Mopping his brow, he took the gun out from under his pillow and methodically scooted the dresser away from the door where it was acting as barricade. With utmost caution, Andrew inched through the door and across the carpeted hall to the master bedroom.

“Jer?” he asked in a dry timid voice.
“Yeah, what,” came the snappish answer. Andrew flinched. It still didn’t sound like Jeremy. Jeremy’s voice had always been melodious and soft, like someone who worked with very small children. This new voice was deep and commanding and (it seemed to Andrew) very tetchy.
“Everything alright in there? Can I come in?” Andrew asked.
“You can if you promise not to do anything bone-headed with that gun,” was the short reply.

Andrew took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then he reached for the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Looking more closely at it, Andrew saw that the knob had been squished into a lump of compressed brass. He then noticed the door was ajar and (after putting the Gun down his jeans) he nudged it open with his trainer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you silly man,” grumbled Jeremy.

Andrew breathed again. That sounded more like the real Jeremy. Walking into the room, however, Andrew abruptly changed his mind. Jeremy looked terrifying. He was clad only in his bathrobe, and its seams were in danger of popping. The reason was obvious; Jeremy’s usually frail frame was now covered in taught muscles and sinew. His skin was flushed and sweating, like he’d been jogging. He wasn’t huge like Arnie, or some other body-builder, but he looked athletic, strong… lethal. His snowy hair was still jet black and shiny, his face still focused and predatory. The vampire’s head swiveled towards him with uncanny swiftness. Dark predatory eyes considered the frightened Andrew.

“Still pretty scary, eh?” he asked Andrew, his sharp face softening a little.
Andrew knew that lying was pretty pointless. He only managed a nod.
“Are the eyes better at least?”
Andrew shrugged. “They don’t look quite so… evil,” he admitted. “You just look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I could say the same for you,” said Jeremy. The words were kindly, but in his strong forceful voice, their warmth was lost.
“I…” Andrew began but he abandoned the topic, “…heard swearing and shouting,” he finished, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh,” said Jeremy absently. He pointed to his dresser which was now a pile of splinters. “I keep smashing things,” he grumbled. “Controlling my strength was always difficult in the old days, but after forty years I’m out of practice... That and my clothes don’t fit now.”
Andrew noticed the pile of shredded cloth next to the mutilated dresser.
“You do look a little… bigger,” said Andrew carefully. “Want to borrow some of my clothes for now?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, the way I’m buggering up everything, they’ll probably come back as dust rags.”

Jeremy’s powerful shoulders hunched as he sighed, looking thoroughly embarrassed. It gave Andrew enough courage to approach him. He strode up to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy’s body tensed when the hammy hand touched his body and he dove out of its reach.

“Sorry, just a reflex,” Jeremy said, trying to collect himself.
“No problem.” Andrew had been reaching for his gun, but he played it off like he was only trying to scratch his bum. He didn’t want to hurt Jeremy’s feelings. “How long are you going to be like this?”
“I dunno. A week or two perhaps,” answered Jeremy. “I tried to calm myself down with some tea yesterday. You probably saw how well that went.”
“Did you eventually get a cuppa?” asked Andrew.
“I drank 48 cups,” said Jeremy. “When we ran out of sugar I used golden syrup...and then jam. I also ate all the biscuits, including your secret stash of Penguins. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Andrew with a smile. “Not the worst that could happen, considering. Well, we’ll have to get you some more clothes in the meantime.”
“I suppose it was time to get new clothes anyway,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I’ll say. The fact that you held on to those Victorian togs for so long is astounding.”
“They weren’t Victorian!” said Jeremy defensively.
“Oh c’mon? Where else would you have gotten braces and a frilly shirt?”
“The sixties.”
“’kay . Y’got me there,” said Andrew finally relaxing a little. “I’ll get you some of my old shirts, jeans, socks, underpants...”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “Never mind about the knickers though. I’ll manage.”
“Oh grow up— they’re clean!” said Andrew.
“Only because I do your laundry. I’ve seen what you do to them first,” said Jeremy, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll manage without. At least enough to go to Marks & Spencer and get some more… and a new kettle. I get the feeling I’ll be wanting a LOT more tea.”

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2


Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.

He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.

Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.

As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.

The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.

“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.

“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.

“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.

“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”

“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.

“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”

“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.

“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.

“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).

“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”

“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.

“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.

“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.

“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.

Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”

“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.

“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”

“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”

“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”

“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.

“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”

“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”

Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.

“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”

“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.

“It is?” asked Andrew.

“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”

“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.

Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”

“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.

“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.

Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.

“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.

“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.

“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.

Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.

"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.

(continued next week)

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in part 1.  For those of you just jumping in, the only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a vampire and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.

Frances “Frank” Timothy Tercero climbed shakily out of the black taxi and stood in front of 23 Girton Rd NW11 8AG. The cab had driven past it three times while they had looked for the house number, and after some arguing and calculations using the other houses, they eventually realized that it must have been here. Frank gripped his suitcases and gulped at the towering hedges that were trimmed to a tidy and forbidding 10 feet. A small “Rooms To Let” sign was stuck in it, drowning in tiny green leaves. Upon inspection, Frank found a low metal gate peeking out from a portal cut in the privet wall. It opened silently and he peered into the gloom. A large ash tree caressed the red-tile roof of a handsome half-timber house and blocked the few rays of sunlight that were brave enough to climb over the hedge. Sure enough a pair of brass numbers glinted in the dim green light. This was number 23.

“Crap,” he muttered. Steeling his courage, and taking a deep breath, Frank marched resolutely up the walk towards the glassed in boot room. He marveled further at the gloomy front yard. Instead of a lawn there was a sea of ground ivy that strayed onto the flagstone walkway and caught at his trouser legs. A sun catcher made of lead and stained yellow glass twirled idly in an unfelt breeze. Frank wondered what on earth the sun catcher was meant to catch, seeing as there wasn’t a speck of light. He glanced up at the windows and smiled at the old-fashioned diamond shapes of the leaded panes.

“Just like something out of Shakespeare’s time,” he said to himself with a grin. Frank had very little imagination, but he had a highly developed romantic mind. He’d never read a lot of novels as a kid or watched cartoons. He’d preferred to read books about history and famous people of centuries past. While his generation was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and “Thunder Cats”, he was pouring over books about the Roman Empire and the Ancient Greece. He’d read about the lives of Lincoln, Jefferson, Bonaparte, Charlemagne and Caesar.

And he read about England. It was a fascinating country to him —it was like all the world’s history had been crammed into an island the size of Louisiana.  All his life he’d wanted to visit it. And now that Father Brennan was making him take an enforced sabbatical from Seminary it seemed a good place to find himself. He winced at the memory of that meeting, and with a heavy heart, rang the doorbell.

He waited a while, and no one came. He decided he must not have pushed the button hard enough and tried again, pushing firmly on the button. This time the brittle rubber button became stuck to his thumb and came away from the post, pulling the plastic casing with it. Some wires that looked thoroughly dead and rotten trailed back to the doorpost. Uncertain what to do next, Frank looked around to see if he could spot anyone at the windows, but all he could see were heavy curtains.

Leaning on the glass door it gave way immediately and he wandered into the boot room, twiddling his fingers in anxiety. He approached the heavy white door featuring a brass knocker shaped like the head of Hermes. Frank knocked firmly and the sound bounced off the glass panes. His eyelids suddenly drooped as he unleashed a head-splitting yawn. Checking his cellphone, he noted that back in Baltimore it was 6am, while over here, it was around lunchtime.

He was shaken out of his tiredness when he heard hissing whispers on the other side of the door. It sounded like two people having a heated argument they didn’t want overheard. With a sudden hiss of “shut-it!” the door popped open and two men stood grinning on the threshold. Both of their grins seemed rather forced.

Frank pushed up his spectacles to get a better look at them. They both looked like men in their mid-thirties but their similarities ended there. One looked like a quiet gentleman with eccentric taste in clothing; he wore an overlarge shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers that were held up by very old-fashioned two-button suspenders. He was pale and very thin, almost sickly looking, like some of the chemo patients Frank had worked with — except for a mop of snowy shoulder-length hair. His grin revealed very white teeth with long canines. Frank wasn’t normally put off by these. He was a quarter Italian and all his Mediterranean cousins sported long canines. But in this pale man’s face they were a little eerie.

The other man was his complete antithesis. While the former looked like a slight breeze would knock him over, this one looked like he could punch through a commercial bus. He was tall, muscular and covered in tattoos and piercings. Unlike his friend, he was more moderately dressed in black jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising the band, “Zombie Cromwell” His head was shaved but his face sported a jet-black goatee broken here and there by scar tissue. His grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.

The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.

“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.

“Oh, right!” spluttered Frank in embarrassment. “I’m Frank Tercero, we spoke on the phone.” He extended a hand in greeting, and pale man shook it with a firmer grip than Frank would have supposed.

“Frank, right! I’m Jeremy Bates and this is my friend, Andrew Fletcher. Come on in and we’ll get you sorted. Did you have a good flight?”

Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval.

“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”

“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.

“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity.

“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”

“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”

“Oh, that explains why you don’t have your little collar-thing on,” said Andrew coming up behind them. He was carrying the two heavy suitcases like they were lunchboxes and when he threw them on the bed there was an ominous creak from the springs. Frank was about to explain that pre-candidate seminarians who did wear Roman collars didn’t wear them on sabbatical, when Jeremy’s head whipped around and gave Andrew a pointed look. He charged into the hall dragging Andrew’s bulk with him.

“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.

Frank looked at the door in bewilderment and immediately heard hushed arguing again, like he’d heard on the landing, only this time he could hear every word.

“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.

“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.

“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.

“So am I!”

“Well, he’s a paying guest, so he trumps you on that much.”

“You never asked me to pay!”

“I would never think of asking you to pay, but I think you’d have the common decency to show a little politeness now and then, especially for my tenants!”

“I was being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”

“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.

“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!”

“It’s my house!”

“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our secret!”

“SHHH!”

There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible.

Frank stared at the door non-plussed. He shoved the suitcases on the floor and kicking off his shoes climbed into the bed, fully dressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a gay love-nest by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”

He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely.

Jeremy Hunted Part 1

Not sure whether this is a 2 or 3 parter, but I think this merits a bit of expansion. Not sure where I'm going yet, so we'll see what happens. ; ) ~Monica
PART ONE: THE OLD DOG

“ARGH!!!”

Andrew had scarcely draped his coat over the armchair (which Jeremy had asked him not to do over fifty times) when heard a cry and crash upstairs and ran to see what was going on.

After a clumsy hike up the narrow stairs, Andrew stood in the upstairs hallway, trying to discern where the noise came from. He checked in his room first. He knew that Jeremy liked to poke around in his room while he worked at the pub. Andrew didn’t like it, but decided not to let Jer know that he was on to him. He wasn’t worried about things disappearing — Jeremy wasn’t the sort to go around pinching things, he was merely curious. He sifted through Andrew’s belongings like an archeologist dug through ruins; he was to find out about the world outside his stuffy townhouse. Jeremy didn’t get out much. The last time he’d gone to the Odeon at Swiss Cottage, “The Shawshank Redemption” had been playing.

                Every few decades, Jeremy would get lonely and curious about the world and decide to stick his head out. He’d try to suck up all the information that he could and then he’d lose interest and cling to those facts for the next fifteen years or so. Andrew had observed him one time with a pile of his t-shirts next to the computer. The man was laboriously typing (with two fingers) the band names on his shirts into the Google search engine and would occasionally gasp at the results. The internet was one of the few concessions Jeremy had made to modern innovation; it allowed him to do his shopping without leaving the house.

Andrew peered into his room which was empty and (to all appearances) untouched. He checked Jeremy’s room and there was nothing there either, but something was different that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. He eventually looked in the guest bedrooms, which were resolutely empty despite the “Rooms to Let” sign by the privet hedge. It was in one of these that Andrew saw a fallen curtain rod and a pile of dusty cloth in a large pile. There was something thrashing under it muttering a stream of Victorian obscenities.  

                “Jer?” asked Andrew, picking up the pile of cloth. The awkward bundle weighed as much as a small child, which would have given the anemic Jeremy some trouble. It was immediately apparent to Andrew, however, that Jeremy’s main struggle was with the cast iron curtain rod that had skewered him through the chest.

                “Jer?” cried Andrew in alarm.

                “Little help?” gasped Jeremy, his face screwed up in pain.

                Andrew immediately grasped the heavy rod in his hand and yanked it out of Jeremy’s ribcage with a sickening “crunch.” Jeremy uttered a sharp cry and shuddered, but he seemed to shake it off shortly and sat up. His punctured shirt was damp with clear plasma, as was the carpet beneath him.

                “You alright?” asked Andrew in alarm, kneeling next to his friend.

                “I’m fine. It missed my heart by a few inches, but that was a close shave.”

                “I would think you’d have been a little more careful about your choice of décor, Jer,” said Andrew, eyeing the menacing spear on the end of the rod.

                “It was an antique,” said Jeremy with a shrug.   

“So are you,” said Andrew shaking his head. Already the hole in Jeremy’s chest was getting smaller, and Andrew could see paper-white skin through his rent shirt.

                “What were you doing anyway?”

                “I was taking the curtains down to be cleaned. Need to tidy up for the new lodger.”

                “We’re getting a lodger?” asked Andrew.

                “Yep, should be here tomorrow. He’s an American fellow here on a sabbatical.”

                “A yank lodger?” asked Andrew in surprise.

                “Americans need rooms to stay in like everyone else,” said Jeremy with a shrug.

                “You going to be…”Andrew trailed off uncomfortably. “Okay with it?”

                “I need the money, Andrew. Vampire-hunting doesn’t pay the bills, and things have been getting tight.”

                “No I mean with the…” Andrew stared at Jeremy’s chest as his wound shrunk to the size of a pea and then disappeared, leaving behind only pale, blue-veined skin, still damp with yellowish plasma.

                “Oh, you mean, am I going to drain his blood like it was Ribena?” said Jeremy with a shrug. “Oh please. It would take more than some American priest to make me go berserk.”

                “He’s a vicar?” asked Andrew agog.

                “No, he’s a papist something-or-other. He’s a deacon or a seminarian or something… I forget which he said it was.”

                “A religious nutter? Are you barking?”

“I don’t really care what he is as long as he pays rent. Help me carry these to the laundry room.”

“And you think he’ll be okay with living with a vampire?” asked Andrew with a frown. He shouldered the dusty bundle with a violent sneeze before following Jeremy downstairs. Apart from a few stiff jerks and quiet groans, Jeremy seemed otherwise fine again.

“I don’t intend to tell him I’m a vampire, Andrew,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes. “And you better keep mum too, got it?”

“Oh, because I’m Mr. Subterfuge, ain’t I?” said Andrew with a snort.

Jeremy paused and gripped his head. “…I can see where this may lead to some difficulties.”

“I’ll try to keep it secret,” said Andrew with a shrug, “but you know me.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy looking nervous. “Just put the curtains down there. I’ll have Olivia take care of them,” he added, pointing to the stone floor in the laundry room. Andrew complied and tried to wipe his dusty hands off on his black jeans.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Andrew eyeing Jeremy anxiously. He only realized now that the curtain-rod had gone completely through Jeremy’s sternum. There was a twin hole through the back of Jeremy’s white shirt as well.

“Bit peaky. And frankly starving,” said Jeremy grimly. “It takes a lot out of me to regenerate like that.”

“You want me to go get food?” said Andrew.

“Would you?” asked Jeremy, looking hopeful.

 “Yeah. Who do you feel like hitting up then?” asked Andrew. “Singh?”

“No, I can’t do Indian on an empty stomach,” said Jeremy with a grimace.

“How about Maarouf?” asked Andrew.

“Yeah. Lebanese would hit the spot,” nodded Jeremy. “Get some lamb kebabs (rare) with rice, falafel, tabouli salad — oh! And get that really good hummus with the pita bread,” said Jeremy eagerly.

Andrew’s face spread in his usual lopsided grin full of chipped teeth. “Yeah, sure, Jer. See you in a bit, eh?”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy.

“No problem. I was hungry, myself,” said Andrew.

“No, I mean thanks for… well, everything. I’ve been feeling a lot… better since you moved in,” said Jeremy.

“No man is an island, Jer,” said Andrew. “I think being around other people is good for you. Even if ‘other people’ is only me.”

“Oh, you’re good company, Andrew,” said Jeremy. “You just listen to rubbish bands.”

Andrew shook his head and grabbed his coat again on his way out the door trying to remember Jeremy’s order. “If that priesty-nutter starts to suspect, he can just watch you eat all that GARLIC and relax,” he mumbled.

Next week: PART TWO: Lodgers

The Night Job

My dear friend Icy got me thinking about England this week. Andrew and Jeremy were characters I'd invented during my short study-abroad at Cambridge. I simply like Andrew for being a large lovable hooligan.  I don't have many characters like that.

Andrew felt himself waking up and fought it. He lost rather quickly. With supreme effort he tried to unglue his eyelids. He blinked red-eyed in the dim light that signified it was the wee small hours of the afternoon. He was suddenly aware that this was not his bed.  It was a familiar bed, and by familiar it didn’t fall into either category of girlfriend or one of his drunken mates. Instead he recognized the leaded windows and oak-beamed ceiling of Jeremy Bates’s house. How the hell had he wound up here? Jeremy was an old friend to be sure, although they hadn’t worked together in ages, but why here? HOW here?

He’d left the bike at the flat, he was sure of that. He couldn’t remember getting on the train last night and taking the Northern Line to Golders Green (that would have involved two transfers!). Nor could he remember stumbling down Finchley Road trying to look sober. That walk would have taken hours at any rate. Had he really gotten THAT pissed last night? That wasn’t like him. Realizing he was fully clothed, Andrew stuck his large clumsy hands in his pockets to look for clues.

 When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.

Kicked him out, come to think of it—that was a first. He wondered what protocol was for getting his stuff back. Most of it was Sasha’s and a lot of it wasn’t worth bothering over, but he really wanted his motorcycle helmet, and the commemorative 1966 World Cup Champions mug that had been a gift from his Uncle Arthur. Maybe Jeremy knew how the standard “I’m-really-sorry-and-I-know-you-said-you-never-wanted-to-see-me-again-but-can-I-pop-in-and-get-my-rubbish” transaction went. Did he have to bring a “second?”

He thought more about Sasha and fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t too hard; he’d had a lot of practice after 36 years.

Unable to go back to sleep, and not sure he wanted to in any case, Andrew wound his way down the narrow staircase. He heard a clattering in the kitchen and made his way towards the large and very old dining table, currently set for one.

Jeremy was in the kitchen, heating up baked beans in a saucepan. Two pieces of bread suffering from third-degree burns were smoking pathetically on a chipped plate. Andrew managed a half-grin. Only Jeremy could have buggered up beans on toast.

“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.

“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. Gloaming perhaps?”

“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.

“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes

“So…er…uh…”

“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.

“I found you this morning while I was getting the paper. You were at the street corner trying to bash in a postbox. You kept screaming, ‘this bloody thing took my money and won’t give me a Kitkat.’ Sound familiar now?”

“Uh. No.”

“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan.  “I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.

“Yeah. We broke it off,” finished Andrew. He watched Jeremy try to chisel the remainder of his beans out of the pot with a lemon zester.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy.

Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You never liked her.”

Jeremy had the pained expression of one determined to make a clean breast of it. “She was an illiterate chav with more piercings than brain cells who thought that the greatest contribution to modern civilization was Heinz’s line of microwavable puddings.”

Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.

“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room.

“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.

“That’s because you need glasses.”

“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”

“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean.  “Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot better than Sasha.”

“You’ve never liked any of them, Jer.”

Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”

“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.

“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”

Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.

Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly.

“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.

“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”

“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”

“Torch-what?”

“It’s just a show.”

“On the wireless?”

“No. I keep telling you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a wireless,” he added.

“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.

“She said, ‘How in the hell after all this time can you come out and say such utter plonk? Telling me you were seeing another girl woulda been more honest than this rubbish about bein’ a vampire hunter!’”

“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”

“Eh?”

“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”

“ Yeah. One of those. I’ll admit it’s a first. Usually they call an ambulance and I’m under surveillance for a few days.”

“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”

“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”

“On the contrary— you don’t look young enough to be my son anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.

“Brother?”

“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.

“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.

Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”

“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.

“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”

Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere.

“Er… so how much money did I shove into that postbox?”

Saturday in Golders Green

Lingonberry the cat looked down on the body from the bookcase. He arched his back and hissed at it, his ginger stripes sticking up like a boot brush.

“Shut up! Stupid cat!” hissed Beverly.
“Nyarrrrow!!” wailed Lingonberry before launching himself off the top shelf onto the sofa. Normally Beverly would have shooed him away– she didn’t like hair on her sofa– but seeing as it was covered in blood it seemed rather pointless now.

Beverly caught sight of herself in the mirror, standing over the body of the late Gregory Finster: shady solicitor. She self-consciously ran a hand through her spiky grey hair. She had always said she’d never be one of those old women– those bulldoggy women with severe frowns and even more severe haircuts. Yet, here she was. She even had the jumper with floral embroidery, which she wore under a man’s corduroy coat, complete with string bag. She had never realized it before until now– until she was staring at her reflection holding the bloodied fire-iron. The transition from forty-and-fabulous to cake-hatted-old-lady had been so gradual since Paul had died that she’d never noticed.

She felt like she was having an out of body experience as she tried to find the young woman hiding under all the folds and wrinkles on her face. She knew there were more pressing matters to deal with right now, like getting rid of Gregory’s body, but she wanted to look in the mirror a little longer. There was a knock at the door and she dropped the fire tongs.

“Shit!” she cried suddenly, looking at the body and the blood everywhere. She wrung her hands as she danced in her panic. If only she’d had more sense than to give Greg a key to her house. If only Greg hadn’t sneaked in and started taking photographs, photographs of things he should have left well enough alone about.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Her mind suddenly focused like a laser. Looking around she saw the utility closet. With tremendous effort, she rolled Gregory up in the living room rug and pulled it to the closet.

KNOCK-KNOCK!
“MUM? Are you in?”
“I’m on the toilet, David!” Beverly cried giving the closet one last shove. “Let yourself in!”
“It’s locked, mum!”
“Is it?” asked Beverly, who knew for a fact that the door was locked. “I’ll be out soon! Just hold on a mo’!”

Beverly’s eyes swung to the large red patch on the couch and she stifled a scream of frustration. She couldn’t hide the couch. Why in the hell did she get a white settee? She must have been mad! Turning around in circles, her vision lit on blanket she was knitting for her daughter. She threw the blanket over the vivid red stain, satisfied that the blanket covered it nicely. She winced. It still smelled horrible in here. It was probably due to Gregory. She needed something to cover it.

“Mum! Are you alright?”
“Must have been the curry I had!” she cried as she dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a few items. She plunked down a plastic bucket and sponge mop, sprayed disinfectant in the air, and saturated the couch with upholstery cleaner. She only just had the presence of mind to wash the blood off her hands.

“Come in!” she called.
“MUM! We’ve been through this! The door’s locked!”
“Oh! Silly me!” cried Beverly, running to the door.
She flung it open and flashed a giddy smile.
“Gran!”
“Gran!”

Beverly knelt down and scooped up her granddaughters, Kristen and Lizzie.
“How are my girls!” cried Beverly cheerfully.
“Krissie showed me the pirate movie and Mum yelled at her!” said Lizzie with a gap-toothed grin. “But I wasn’t scared!”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “You were so scared. You were hiding from skeletons all last night.”

“Did you forget we were coming, Mum?” asked David with a grin.
“No! I was looking forward to it! You know old people, Dave. When you got to go, you got to go.” Beverly didn’t meet his eyes as she led them hastily past the sitting room.

“The couch is still damp, dears. Let’s have a picnic on the terrace.”

“Hang about,” said David stopping in the living room and looking around.

Beverly was sure her heart had stopped as David’s sharp eyes took in the dry mop and bucket, the missing carpet and the knitted blanket on the sofa… with the needles still in it. Damn.

“Oh, I see what’s going on,” said David, with a crooked grin. “Mum, how could you?”
“Oh David,” began Beverly, fighting tears.
“You just had to finish tidying up before we came in!” cried her son, shaking his head.

Beverly nearly fainted, she felt so light-headed. “That’s right. I couldn’t resist one last bit of cleaning. The house was such a tip.

David shook his head. “You’re too much, Mum. You need to relax.”
“I am as God made me. Now who wants sandwiches?”
“Excellent! I’m starving!” cried Kristen running out onto the terrace. He father followed her. Soon only Lizzie was left.
“Gran?”
“Yes, Lizzie?”
“I’m a pirate! Arr!!” cried Lizzie.

Beverly paused a moment.
“Would Lizzie the Pirate like to dig for buried treasure in the garden?”
“YES!” cried Lizzie jumping up and down.
“Good! I’ll go get a spade,” said Beverly walking out the back door and towards the shed.

“I love going to Gran’s house,” declared Lizzie, joining her sister on the terrace.
“Why’s that Liz?”
“’Cause Gran always lets me dig in the garden.”