NAM' VI

Have been doing a tad more writting recently, after weeks of writing only the most shockingly poor poetry. (Vietnam is a rather intoxicating place, but I have been a little too stressed to be inspired.) Have started a sequal to Vampre: Hunting The Moon, which shall be called Vampyre: Paris in the Day Light, and a book about Vietnam, called Beautiful Chaos. A sample from the begining of Beautifull Chaos is to be found below.

Beautiful Chaos.

The taxi driver pointed to his head, and my head, and the book that was sticking out of my bag, and said ‘Hanoi’, over and over again.


Eventually I realised that I had to think, because I was going to Hanoi, and some one might steal anything that was easy to steal.


This was one of several ways in which he tried to warn me about the dangers in Hanoi, which was ironic, because that extortionately expensive taxi ride was the only time I was robbed in Vietnam


That taxi ride was not enjoyable. I really needed a smoke, and I had lost my lighter in Malaysia. It took a long time to explain to the driver that I wished to go to the area around a lake, rather than a hotel.


Before the taxi, I had spent two hours in the airport, because I was in the wrong room for collecting my luggage. All of the Russian people in the room should have been a clue, but I had not slept for two days.


My time in Vietnam did not start well. But it got better. Then worse, then better, then worse, then better…

HANOI.

I emerged from the highwayman driven taxi into chaos.


Three days without enough sleep, food or water had not put me into the finest frame of mind.


The first thing that one ought to understand about Hanoi is the traffic. The traffic looks like it wants to kill you, but it is infact trying very hard not to kill you. The traffic in Hanoi (where one can expect to see a hundred motor bikes and a dozen cars on every street) does not stop. Even at the traffic lights. At the traffic light, one side of the road stops, maybe, if they feel like it. Instead, the traffic drives around you. One walks slowly into the traffic (and if there is a road to Hell, it is in Hanoi) and the traffic drives around you.


The streets are busy. The pavements is mostly used for storage space or as an extension of a café or shop, or as motor bike parking, so one walks in the road. With The Traffic.


There are people, of every nation and and every class, everywhere. Many of them are trying to sell you something.


I needed to call the Director of the school in Hai Duong City, but my phone did not work. So I went to an internet café, and things started to get better.


The lovely lady in the café called the Director for me, and the bar man gave me matches so I could smoke. That was the last I saw of Hanoi for quite some time.

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON CHAPTER 17, continued from 17/04/11

Image by Holly Payne.

CHAPTER 17.


“Come in Harvey,” Lloyd said. “Get your jacket off and take a seat.”
John’s face, despite the pain which was engraved on it, was set in grim determination. Without another word, he took of his jacket to reveal the sword slung over his back and the sword-bayonet tucked into his belt, and followed Lloyd into the front room. He sat near the fire, whilst Lloyd sat opposite him. Lloyd sat with his back straight, his hands clasped together, and his face a mask of concentration.
“Tell me what has happened, Harvey, and I shall help you.”
“The Count de Sainte Germaine has killed Victoria. We need to kill him.”
Lloyd’s face showed no emotion as he took in the information. He did not question anything. Instead he stood and led John upstairs to his study.
John had not seen this room before. It was a small, square room with an oak desk, chair and set of draws. There were maps on one wall, a map of the local county, a large map of Britain, a map of France and a map of the world. On another wall there huge a sword identical to John’s, a flintlock pistol, and a medieval broad sword.
Lloyd unlocked the top draw of the set of draws and produced two pistols. Both were revolvers with short, broad barrels and silencers attached. He tucked one in his belt and passed the other to John.
John looked at it as though he did not understand. Lloyd held the revolver closer and looked his friend squarely in the eye.
“I remember when a gentleman did not use missile weapons,” John said.
Lloyd remembered that too, but he also remembered the years in which he and John had use pistols, muskets, rifles and cannons against the French. However, the distant look in John’s eyes told him not to contest the point.
“Cannot consider myself much of a gentleman anymore,” Lloyd said as he tucked the second revolver into his belt against his back, then took a box of bullets and put them in his jacket pocket.
“Don’t think you ought to have both those blades,” Lloyd continued. “Their weight will slow you down and they stand out a mile away. I take it you also have a knife.”
John nodded and reluctantly put the sword bayonet down on the desk. Then he readjusted the sword.
“Better, old chap, we must be professional. Do you know where Germaine lives?”
John’s head throbbed. It was hard to think straight. He had known that Lloyd would offer action rather than comfort, but things were moving even faster that he had anticipated. He forced himself to concentrate. In Lloyd’s study he was in another world. A world of war where they were still soldiers. A world without Victoria.
“Don’t know,” John said, and pushed himself harder. “He must be somewhere close. He has been to my house twice, and he must have spied on me. He is almost certainly in this town.”
“Good. But where? Think, old chap.”
“He would be somewhere very expensive. The best he could find. Rented accommodation; as he has not been here long and he will not intend to stay. And old fashioned. He has never moved on, he would want an eighteenth century building.”
“Exactly… Queen’s Street?”
“Aye. One of the penthouse flats on Queen’s Street is very likely.”
“Off we go then.”
John thought that he saw Lloyd look wistfully at the swords on the wall as they left the study. After that he paused only to put on a trench coat and a bowler hat and to get a pair of leather gloves for both of them, and then they went out into the rain.


Molly finished drinking from Dave’s neck.
She sat back on his sofa, and he put his arm around her protectively. For a few moments they both stared blankly at the wall. Led Zeppelin played on Dave’s CD player.
It had been over a month since she had last visited him. She had been busy with Charlotte, and she knew that Charlotte did not approve of her ‘relationship’ with Dave. She far preferred Charlotte’s company to Dave’s, and sometimes worried that he was becoming too attached, but there was something about seeing the big man turn into a puppy which she found oddly comforting, and, in the end, she needed to drink.
“Do you really enjoy that?” Molly suddenly felt compelled to ask.
“Yes… I know it’s really fucked up, but I really like it.”
“Good.”
She kissed him on the neck, on the two healing punctures, and he smiled.
“Would you like a joint?” he asked.
“Okay, thanks, but don’t you have work in the morning?”
“It doesn’t matter.”


The town hall clock struck three, and Lloyd winched as he and John marched down the main street.
Bells had not bothered him quite so much in the last few days, but he knew the pain would never go away. He was just getting used to it.
They turned left, walked down a deserted road for a few minutes, then walked along the river. The rain was still heavy, and the night silent. They crossed an old, stone bridge then they were at Queen’s street.
There were three penthouse flats upstairs in the massive, majestic Georgian house, but only one had dim light showing through the curtains. They deduced that Germaine was in that penthouse- number five.
They strode to the entrance, up several polished stone steps to a porch made of Greek style pillars holding a stone roof. There was an intercom by the stout door, and Lloyd pressed the button for number five.
John began to worry. What if it was the wrong home? What if they could not find The Count?
“Yes?” a voice answered, and John thought that it might be the man in white.
Lloyd said something in French, and the intercom replied in the same language.
Then a buzzer rang and they were able to open the door. They entered a small hallway where two potted plants flanked a marble floor. Two doors led to the right and left, and a grand staircase ran up ahead of them.
Lloyd took a revolver from his belt and John took off his jacket and drew his sword. Then they climbed up the stairs.
At the first floor they found a long hall way which they followed cautiously until they reached room number five.
John knocked on the door, then he and Lloyd moved to either side of it.
Mathew opened the door and peered out.
Lloyd leaped out in front of him, slammed the revolver forward so that its barrel smashed through his teeth and into his mouth. Then he fired.
Mathew’s head exploded backwards, and he fell.
Lloyd and John quickly pushed the body inside and closed the door. They were in a lounge with three sofas, a piano, and coffee table with a harpsichord resting on it and an empty bookshelf. One door led to the left and another to the right.
Before they could explore either, The Count de Sainte Germaine burst into the room. Pistol in one hand, cane in the other, and a look of pure hatred on his scared face.
Before The Count could fire, John took a step forward and lunged at his hand, stabbing through flesh and bone. The pistol fell from his wounded hand. John stood ‘on guard’, keeping eye contact with Germaine. The Count staggered backwards, clutching his arm and snarling.
“All yours Harvey,” Lloyd said coolly.
John advanced on The Count, who stood his ground and raised his cane like a sword.
“I hate you terribly,” Germaine said.
John easily knocked the cane aside, then struck him across the face with his sword. Blood splattered the wall, and The Count fell to the floor.
John stood over him.
“You killed Victoria,” John said bitterly.
“You kissed my wife.”
“Fail to see the comparison,” John said as he held his sword over The Count’s chest.
“Do your worst,” Germaine snarled defiantly. “I will be back for you.”
“Give him something to remember you by,” Lloyd told John.
It was an unpleasant prospect, but John realised that he was right.
Aware that he could not raise too much attention, John knew that he had to silence his enemy. He took out his knife, put down his sword and leaned over The Count’s body; he forced open The Count’s mouth and quickly cut out Germaine’s tongue. Then he swapped knife for sword and stabbed his sword into Germaine’s belly, then cut into both of his eyes as the Count gargled on his own blood.
Lloyd sat back on a sofa, grinned with grim satisfaction and lit a cigar.
“I do believe that he was always rather keen on his instruments,” Lloyd suggested.
John took the harpsichord and smashed it over Germaine’s face.
“Smoke?” John asked Lloyd.
“Certainly Harvey.”
John joined Lloyd on the sofa, took a cigar, and smoked a few drags from it as he watched Germaine writhe on the floor.
“Just like the old days, eh?” Lloyd said.
Something about that statement jarred in John’s mind. It was too true. He had hoped those days were over, so he took up his sword again and stood over Germaine.
“Death is God’s way of telling us that we have to change,” he said, just before he cut The Count’s throat, then stabbed his heart for good measure.
“Good show,” said Lloyd. “Best we were off.”
Before they could leave a girl in a white dress, with dark hair and even darker eyes ran into the room. She fell to her knees before the body.
“You killed him…” she whispered as tears welled in her eyes.
“He killed Victoria,” John said, somewhat overwhelmed by events.
“You loved her?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then that was fair… but what am I to do now.”
Lloyd stepped in. He believed in destiny.
“Come with me, lady,” he told her,” everything will be fine.”

Dave looked out of his window and watched Molly walk down his road. When she had left his street and was out of view, he closed the curtains.
He hoped that he would see her again, and knew that he would miss her.
In a few hours he would have to go to work. It didn’t matter to him. At that time he was so stoned that almost nothing mattered very much to him.
He went through to his bedroom, laid down, and instantly fell to sleep.


Lloyd and the girl with the dark eyes sat together on a sofa in John’s lounge. She sipped a glass of brandy, whilst he smoked a cigar. John sat opposite them, also sipping a brandy.
The girl had collected a bag of possessions from Germaine’s home, then they had left, locking the door behind them and posting the key back though the letter box. There had been no sign that the other inhabitants of the penthouses had been disturbed by the incident. Lloyd had given her his coat and hat, then they had walked back to John’s house, which had been closer than Lloyd’s. John had cleaned his sword and gloves, and then poured the drinks.
John was dazed by the entire situation. Firstly, he had recently lost a lady whom he was very much in love with. Secondly, he had just brutally killed a man for the first time in a very long time. Thirdly, and strangely almost the most disturbingly, was the situation with the girl. Her reaction to the death of The Count, after her original shock, had been flippant. She had prepared herself to leave the penthouse with a distant calm, and now sat with his killers although they were friends.
“May I ask your name?” Lloyd asked her, as though they had met at a party.
“Anne,” she replied in a gentle voice with a trace of a French accent.
“And may I ask your relation to The Count.”
“I was his mistress.”
“May I enquire as to what you mean by that? The word has lost much of its original meaning and become somewhat ambiguous.”
“I was his lover once,” Anne said with a slight blush. “In the end, I think I was his slave, but he was not overly unkind to me…”
John watched the conversation in a daze. It was so surreal, and he had become so detached, that it was like watching a play.
He had soon noticed the scars on the girl’s arms, and assumed that her relationship with Germaine had been similar to Dave’s with Molly, but now he was beginning to suspect that it was far more complicated. He was unsure if the girl was a vampyre or not, and could think of no civilised way to ask.
He sipped more brandy, and began to feel very weary.
“I do believe that I understand,” Lloyd said sagely. “I take it, then, that you do not partially object to our interference in matters.”
The girl looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes drifted to the ceiling, and her slender hands toyed with her unruly hair.
“I know what he did to your friend,” she said to Lloyd, and it seemed as though she had forgotten that John was in the room. “You had to do what you did. I cannot hold it against you… I was becoming tired of Germaine. He was so charming once, so exciting… but I think that he was mad…”
“Thoroughly mad,” Lloyd agreed helpfully.
“But I do not know what I am to do now… I know no one else, and I must admit that I had become quite dependant on him.”
“Do not worry,” Lloyd said casually. “You may stay with me until we can arrange matters for you.”
“That would be very kind.”
“We had best be off,” Lloyd stubbed out the last of his cigar. “It is getting rather late.”
John stood and led them to his door like a sleepwalker.
“Thank you, Lloyd,” he managed to say.
“Think nothing of it, Harvey.”
“Take care,” the girl said as she left, as though she had suddenly remembered him.
John sat down heavily in his chair, finished his brandy. He wanted to sleep, but he knew there was one more thing that he had to do.
He phoned Charlotte.
“Hello, Professor Charlotte speaking,” she answered.
“Hello, its John.
“Evening John, how are you?”
“Not so good, Charlotte. Victoria is dead.”
“Shit. What happened?”
“Germaine killed her.”
Charlotte had been a good friend of Victoria’s, but many life times of death and war had hardened her, she had to concentrate on the facts, tears could come later.
“Are you and Molly okay? I could set off to join you now,” she suggested.“We are fine, thank you. Germaine has been dealt with in a finite manner.”
“Understood.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, but I will be.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet…. How about you?”
“It is hard,” he said plainly.”
“Okay, I’ll contact her family, and let you know about the funeral. Take care John.”
“You take care too. Goodbye.”
“See you.”
He poured another glass of brandy, but before he could finish it, he fell asleep in his chair.


Lloyd lay down to sleep on his sofa. The girl was asleep in his bed. He was glad to be back in Britain.


“He came in the middle of the night,” the farmer’s daughter said. “He beat up my pa until he was unconscious, then he bit me. I thought he was going to kill me, I think he wanted to kill me at first, but he did not. Pa fought so bravely, but the man had a knife. Then he locked us in the basement. When we escaped in the morning, he was gone, but he had taken our money and a few of pa’s clothes. We did not understand at all…”
The farmer’s daughter began to cry. She was tall, with blonde hair and dark eyes, and one of many people whom James Hunter had seen in similar or worse situations.
He had followed a trail of bodies to Calais, then the trail had ended. He had considered setting off blindly to England, for that was surely where the monster had gone, but he waited. There had been so many ways in which he could have left Calais, and he could not be entirely sure that he had left France. Then, after a few days he had heard about the stolen boat and the missing Frenchman, so he had travelled at once to Dover.
Once there the trail had gone cold. The stolen boat had not docked in Dover, no one had seen anything suspicious, and there were no murders or unusual attacks in the newspapers.
But Hunter was not the type to give up easily.
After a few days he heard of an abandoned boat which had been washed up a few miles north of Dover. A quick investigation showed that it was the one which had been stolen in France.
He set off to the site of the boat and began investigations. After a couple of days he had read in a local newspaper about an unusual attack on a farmhouse in the next town.
That was there he had met the girl. Her father was still in hospital, and her mother would not talk of the incident.
“It is okay,” he tried to reassure her. “He will not come back.”
“I hope that he never comes back, ever…” she tried to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Did he give his name?”
“No?”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I need your help to stop him.”
“It was dark, and I was scared… He was quite tall, as tall as you, and he had long hair… I don’t remember anything else.”
“Thank you, did he have an accent? French?”
“No. Not French. English, posh. That’s all I know…”
“Thank you. Would you like to pray with me?”
“No.”
“Then I must be on my way. Thank you again, God bless you.”

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, Chapter 16, continued from 13/04/11

CHAPTER 16.

In the early hours of Monday morning, under a light rain, John Harvey walked Victoria to her car.

“It has been a pleasure, lady,” he said as he took her in his arms.

“Indeed, a pleasure,” she replied as she kissed his neck.

“Shall visit you next week.”

“And I shall call you soon, good bye.”

“Good bye.”

She entered her car, waved, then started the engine.

Hidden upon the roof of a house on the other side of the road, Mathew, the man in white, watched her drive away.


Fine, clear notes rang out from the harpsichord which The Count de Saint Germaine played.

He sat with the instrument, propped up with velvet cushions on a heavily padded sofa in a large lounge which was tastefully decorated in the Regency style. The lady with the dark eyes listened adoringly as he played, even though he was far from his usual standard. The bones in his arms were still sore, and his hands were cold and numb and the skin raw, but he still played better than most people could dream of. The scar across his face was a thin, white streak, and his legs were healed enough for him to walk with the aid of a cane.

Mathew walked into the room, bowed politely and stood silently for several minutes until The Count had finished playing.

“Your mission?” The Count asked him lethargically.

“You were correct, my lord,” Mathew said. “The woman in the black dress is his lover. She has left his home now, it seems that she lives far from here.”

“Very well. You must find out all you can of her, especially where she lives.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mathew bowed again and then left the room.

“Play again, my lord,” the girl said. “Play me a song to remind me of Paris.”


Just as Monday’s sun began to rise, Lloyd reached his home. It had been a very long, hard journey, and only one more obstacle lay in his path.

Along with so many other things, he had lost the keys to his house.

He knew that the ground floor windows would be locked, but the windows on the first floor were not. He stretched weary arms, then pulled himself up onto the porch. Then he crawled along the sloping porch roof and rose unsteadily to his feet. There was a large bay window facing him. He tried to pull up the window, but he could not. Cursing, he steadied himself with his left hand, and took out his flick knife with the right. He prised the knife blade under the window, between the bottom of the frame and the ledge. When it was in, he twisted the blade, forcing open a tiny gap. He slipped his left hand fingers into the gap. When he tried to lift the window he lost his balance. He wobbled, but managed to keep his footing. The window slipped down to crush his fingers. He cursed. Then he returned the knife to his pocket, and put both hands under the window. He relieved the weight from his left hand, and was able to lift the window.

After the first inch, the counterweight kicked in, and it opened freely.

He crawled through the window and landed ungracefully on the floor.

In the first piece of convenience which he had experienced in many days, the window had led to his bedroom.

He closed the window, pulled the curtains tightly shut, took off his coat, and went to sleep.


Alice came home from a lecture in the early afternoon on Monday morning. Sam had stayed over the night before, it had been a late night. In the morning she had woken at eight, after only a few hours sleep, and left him snoring in her bed. She was exhausted after university, and intended to go to sleep.

Her flat was unusually tidy when she got home, and she was grateful to Sam for cleaning it. She undressed rapidly, and got into bed. Just before she fell asleep, she noticed a small, solid object amongst the sheets. She reached down and found a mobile phone.

It was not her phone.

She turned it on, and investigated.


On Monday night, The Black Boar was quite busy. Tony and three of his men stood at the bar, five Emo lads stood outside smoking, and the usual Goth couple were sat in their corner. Molly and John worked behind the bar.

“How is Victoria?” Molly asked him during a quiet spell.

“Good.”

“Did you two have a nice weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Are you seeing her soon?”

“Yes.”

“Cagey?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay, I don’t need to hear all the filthy details, just as long as you two are happy.”

John put down the rag he was using to wipe the bar and smiled at her.

“Things are going really well, Molly, Thanks for asking… Really rather keen on her.”

“Good.”

Just then, Lloyd walked in. He was back in his usual smart attire, had shaved off his beard, and had paid particular attention to his hair and teeth after days of neglect, but his eyes were wild and dark from exhaustion, and he lacked the usual spring to his stride.

Tony’s men edged away to make room for him at the bar, and John stepped over the meet him.

“Evening Lloyd.”

“Evening Harvey,” Lloyd forced a smile, but his voice was dry.

“How was your holiday?”

“There was an excess of hunting… In short: Not very well.”

“That bad?”

“I do not wish to talk about it, old chap. I wish to be in a familiar place, with familiar people, and have a nice drink of strawberry juice.”

“Certainly.”

Lloyd handed over the correct money and then looked around the bar.

“Harvey, could you do me a gigantic favour?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Could you dispose of that bell?” he pointed to the ‘last orders’ bell which hung above the bar.” Yes, that terrible bell there, it must never be rung, it is imperative.”

“As you wish, Lloyd.”

“Thank you.”

Lloyd took his drink with barely steady hands and retired to a quite corner.

A few moment later, the Goth girl went to the bar.

“Pint of snakebite and a pint of stout, please,” she said to John.

“Five pounds please,” he said as he poured the first drink.

“Cheers. Is Lloyd okay?” she asked.

John was surprised that she knew his name, and even more surprised that anyone would enquire about his friend. She could see that on his face.

“He looks upset… We like him,” she explained shyly. “He keeps the Chavs away.”

“He has been very busy,” John said. “He shall be alright.”

Half an hour later, Lloyd returned to be bar.

“Harvey, old chap,” Lloyd said, “I quite forgot to ask you how you are. Forgive me.”

For the second time, John was taken aback.

“Am very well, thank you Lloyd.”

“Have you been up to much in my absence?”

“Been quite busy. Met a lovely young lady called Victoria…”

For a moment Lloyd’s wolfish smile returned to his gaunt face.

“…and The Count de Sainte Germaine tried to steal The Black Boar and kill a few people…”

“That old bastard,” Lloyd snarled. “Why can’t he just die like the rest of us… It seems we have rather a lot to talk about. Would you care to come round after work?”

It had been years since Lloyd had invited John to his home. John was hoping that Victoria might call him, but he did indeed have a lot to talk about with his old friend, and she could always call his mobile phone if she wanted.

“It would be an honour Lloyd. Strawberry juice?”

“Why thank you Harvey.”


Late Tuesday morning.

Tracy had been summoned by Alice for emergence coffee. She had suggested that they meet in Italia, the most fashionable coffee shop in the city, and that was where she now sat waiting. She had not seen Alice for over a week; both had been busy with work, and Alice refused to see her when Andy was around. This annoyed Tracy a little, but she understood how difficult things could be with ex-boyfriends or, in fact, men in general. They were- in Tracy’s opinion- the inferior sex. Andy was beginning to shape up to her expectations, but he still had a lot of work to do. Sam- in Tracy’s opinion- was merely an inferior specimen.

She sipped a cappuccino, and considered finding a newspaper to read whilst she waited.

But then Alice arrived, wearing more makeup than usual and looking close to tears.

Tracy stood to embrace her friend, kissed her on both cheeks, when in Rome, and then sat down with her.

“What is the matter darling?” Tracy asked.

“I have left Sam,” Mary said.

“Why?” Tracy struggled to force back a smile of self satisfaction.

“He was cheating on me… The bastard was sleeping with Loren… The silly bitch left her phone in my bed…”

“Your bed! The bastard. How are you feeling?” Tracy took her friends hand.

“Terrible. At first I was just shocked, then angry. I called Sam straight away, he tried to deny it at first, but I had read the texts he had sent her…The fucking bastard. I feel… betrayed…”

“All men are bastards.”

“All the men we know are bastards.”

Tracy hugged her friend again.

“Fuck them, do you want a cappuccino?” Tracy asked.

“Yes please… and get them to put a flake in it, please.”

“Anything you want, darling.”

Tracy returned a few minutes later with the drink. Alice took a sip from it, then they sat in silence for a while.

“How are the vampires?” Tracy asked, trying to change the topic of conversation.

“I haven’t heard from any of them apart from John, and that was ages ago. Haven’t been bothered with it really. And I’ve been busy, with uni’, and with Sam… Things seemed to be going so well...”


Victoria woke at sunset to the sound of her windup alarm clock, stretched, and got out of bed. She looked adoringly at the lilies on her bedside table, then opened her curtains. The distant, rose red glow of the setting sun against a dark purple sky told her that it was going to be a pleasant night. She hoped to go for a walk later on, but first she had a lot of work to do.


John worked behind the bar with Olly on Tuesday night. When he got home he cooked a steak and sat reading Blake, waiting for Victoria to call. She had not called the night before, and had been glad not to have been interrupted whilst he and Lloyd had caught up, but now he missed her and hoped that she would call.

He had told Lloyd about The Count, and Lloyd had taken it all in his stride. Then he had told him about Victoria, and Lloyd had seemed genuinely pleased for him. He thought that he should tell Victoria that Lloyd was not all that bad, and arrange for them to meet the next time that she was around. Only then had Lloyd told him how a mysterious girl had robbed him and left him stranded in France, John was sure that his friend was withholding a lot of information, but did not press him on it.

It got to an hour before dawn, and still Victoria had not called.

He considered calling her, but remembered how Molly kept telling him not to act too keen, and restrained himself.


The next night he waited for an hour after he had finished work, then called her. There was no reply.

He tried again after an hour, and when there was still no reply he decided that she must be busy. He listened to the radio, but everything on it seemed to annoy him.


The night after that, he tried to call her as soon as he was home from work, and again there was no reply.

He tried again after an hour, then tried again twice. No reply. He knew that she could easily be busy with work or friends, but a nagging instinct would not let him relax. It was foolish, he told himself, he had only spent a few days with her and already he felt like he was in love. He cursed his own obsessive personality. Once he had read an occult hand book on Vampires, it stated several old pieces of folk law, one of which was that if you needed to escape from a vampire you could drop a bag of rice at the vampire’s feet, and the vampire would be compelled to stop and count the grains of rice. The instinct to hunt and the obsession to have and hold and understand went hand in hand.

He did not sleep well that day.


The next night at work passed painfully slowly. One of his favourite local bands was playing, but he could not appreciate it. Molly tried to cheer him up, but it did not work.

It was raining during the walk home, which did not improve his mood. When he stepped through his doorway, intent on calling her immediately, he found out why he had not been able to get in touch with her.

On his door mat laid a battered bunch of blood stained white lilies, held together by a necklace which he knew to belong to her.


Lloyd sat in his favourite chair, it was black and leather covered, listening to Wagner and smoking a cigar. The room was it by a dozen candles, and small fire burnt in the heath, and the rain rattled against the windows.

The nightmare of his trip to France was behind him. He had found a spare key in his house and had that copied. He had ordered a new wallet and replacements for all his cards. He had not ordered a new passport, as he had no intention of leaving the country any time soon. All the clocks and anything else with a bell on it had been removed from the house.

He was glad that John Harvey was well. They had had their differences over the years, but in the end, they would always be friends. The business with the Count had been handled respectably, and he looked forward to meeting Victoria.

He remembered his lady Marion, and reflected that in all the centuries which had passed, he had never quite found a girl to match her. He realised that he had not really tried.

He thought that it might be time to find another women. Maybe one that was not too psychotic. Maybe he could even find a nice, open minded girl, and settle down…

He was disturbed from that pleasant thought by the ringing of his doorbell.
He cautiously opened his door to find John stood out in the rain.

The first thing that he noticed was the bulges under his friend’s jacket where a sword was poorly concealed.
John was soaking wet, his eyes sore and his skin very pale.

“Need your help, Lloyd,” John said.



Vampyre: Hunting the Moon, Chapter 15 (continued from 06/04/11)

CHAPTER 15


“I’ll have that one,” Charlotte said to the girl in the pet shop.

“Cute, isn’t he?” the girl said.

“It will do.”

“Would you like a cage for him?”

“No thank you, just something to take it home in.”

The girl put the white guinea-pig into a plastic box with several air holes.



At sunset, Charlotte stood in a clearing in the woods near Molly’s home. In one hand she held a small, sharp knife; in the other she held the white guinea-pig by the scruff of its neck. A bottle of mead lay at her feet.

The oak, ash and yew trees around her had all but lost their leaves. Red and golden light shone through the trees from the west. The air was cool and still. Somewhere a dog barked.

She slit the guinea-pig’s throat. As the tiny creature thrashed to its death, she let the blood splash her face and body. Then she took a few steps to the north and began to walk in a circle which was marked by drops of blood. When the circle was complete she discarded the creature, returned to its centre and picked up the mead.

“Wights of this land, I offer you this blood and ask you to bear witness,” she said softly and clearly. ”I call upon The Lady, the Goddess Freya, Mistress of Odin, Queen of Battle, Empress of the Noble Dead. I drink to you, Lady, and honour you, and give you this offering.

“I thank you for our victory last night. May there be many more, and may many warriors be sent to you hall! To Freya!” she took a swig from the bottle. “Hail and was’ail!”

Then she poured the rest of the bottle onto the ground.

After taking a small bow, she strode out of the circle and wiped the blood off herself and her knife, then put a greatcoat on over her bloody dress.

She would have preferred to have used a real pig, but it would have been inconvenient.



As darkness fell over Calais, Lloyd left his hotel room.

On the torturous journey through France he had stolen money, clothes, food, blood and a few other things from those people who had been unfortunate enough to have crossed his path. He wore a pair of stout old boots, faded black jeans, a white shirt, a grey trench coat and a broad brimmed black hat. He was painfully aware that his new clothes were of terrible taste, but they at least fitted and his own had been reduced to rags. There was the additional bonus that no one who knew him would recognise him, especially with the ragged beard which he had grown.

A pair of earplugs were jammed in his ears, and there was a flick-knife in the inside pocket of his coat.

He was well rested after his first days sleep in a bed after far too many day of sleeping outside. He smiled as he walked towards the docks. Murder and the theft of a boat lay ahead.

He was practically a pirate.

His mood was only slightly spoiled when he walked past a newsagents and saw a head line which he translated to ‘MANHUNT’, looking closer at the newspaper, he was able to deduce that the police were hunting a serial killed after a string of murders, and that an informer had given them a name to chase. The name was Lloyd.

It was definitely time to leave.

When he reached the shore he avoided the main port and walked north along the coast, past the marina, and then down the estuary to where the small pleasure ships and fishing boats were harboured. He walked past several empty yachts until he found what he was looking for.

A small white boat with a sail, a petrol engine and a small cabin; where a young man was working the ropes, ready to moor for the night.

“Excuse me, fellow, do you have the time?”

The man replied in French, saying ‘hello’, and then something which Lloyd did not understand.

“Napoleon was a syphilitic dwarf!” Lloyd shouted.

Then he took advantage of the man’s confusion and leapt aboard the boat. The Frenchman dropped his rope and prepared to defend himself, but he was too late to prevent Lloyd from kicking him in the shin, then giving him a left hook to the face. The Frenchman hit out, but Lloyd blocked the blow with his left hand and drew his knife with the right. He stabbed the Frenchman in the kidneys, then covered his mouth with the left hand before he could cry out. The man struggled, until Lloyd slit his throat.

Lloyd dropped the body when it stopped moving, licked the blood from his hands and searched his body for keys. The he quickly untied the rope and rushed to the controls in the cabin.

Too many buttons.

He turned the key to start the engine, then pressed a button which seemed to do nothing. He pulled a lever which made the engine roar, but the boat did not move. The engine strained. The anchor was still down. He hammered three more buttons which made some lights flash. Then he tried a lever which started a rattling sound behind him, and the boat began to move.

He managed to steer the boat out of the estuary and past the dock, then pulled more levers and pressed more buttons until it went faster.

Suddenly he found himself in a shipping lane, where dozens of massive craft sailed towards him. Shocked, he turned the boat sharply north, barely avoiding collision, and into the open sea.

When the boat was a mile from shore he left the cabin and returned to the corpse. He sampled some more blood from the neck wound, decided he was tired of the taste of the French, and dragged the body overboard. Soon the sea spray would wash away the blood

He returned to the cabin, checked the boat was on course, and rummaged through the man’s picnic basket.

As he was giving serious thought to a prawn sandwich, the sea became choppy.



At that moment, James George Harry Hunter looked at his pocket watch.

As he suspected, it was time to kill the enemies of mankind.



“What have been doing?” Molly looked, unimpressed, at Charlotte’s blood stained dress.

“Honouring the Gods,” Charlotte said plainly. “Like a good northern lady ought to.”

Molly blushed. She knew how important these things were to her lover, and knew that her failure to attend the autumn equinox had not been forgotten.

“I always consecrate the solstice with you,” Molly said defensively.

“True. But that is not the same. Odin made the world,” and that settled the matter. “I have more mead, would you like some?”

“I have work soon…”

“I fail to see you point.”



Unlike Lloyd, James Hunter could read French was well as any man alive.

Whilst visiting France to assist a priest in a series of exorcisms, he had noticed a string of violent assaults in western France. Having carefully studied the articles, he had deduced that a vampire, or possibly a pair of vampires, was marauding through France. Hunter’s wide experience of occult and religious matters had left him with an open mind, and he had long considered the possibility of the existence of vampires.

This was just the opportunity he had been waiting for: an opportunity to test his theories and take action.

He had begun by following the trail of bodies, from Calais to Paris and then west again, gathering as much information as he could about the thing which had robbed so many of their lives and blood.

Every article he had read, every witness he had spoken to, ever crime scene which he passed through, convinced him further that his quarry was a vampire- a man like creature which drank the blood of the liking. At every step he quickened his pace, eager to face the monster.



There was a terrible storm. Lloyd regretted his prawn sandwiches.

“Damn you France! You shall not beat me!” he yelled.

Mist and cloud reduced visibility to about an inch. That was not a problem to a creature who relied mostly on scent and sound. The problem was the wind which tore at the sails and the waves which threw the boat around like a tennis ball.

He abandoned the cabin and cut the sail free with his knife. That steadied the boat a little.

Lloyd was cold and wet and tired. The wind had long ago torn his hat from his head, and it whipped his hair against his face.

He hammered buttons and levers until the boat went even faster, kept it pointed toward England, and hoped for the best.



John and Victoria lay together on his bed. The remains of their breakfast sat on a tray by the floor. The curtains were open, so they could see the moon and glittering stars.

“At times like this, I am glad to be that which I am,” she said, “we have all of the night to ourselves.”

“How did you first knew that you were one of us?” he asked her, suddenly curious to know everything about her.

“I have always remembered that. It was in 1822, and I was fifteen. My childhood had been hard, I did not like to be out in the daytime, and I found it hard to make friends with the other girls. Sometimes my grandfather used to sit up late at night with me and tell me stories about the war, but I do not remember anything else nice from that time… Then, the night after my fifteenth birthday, my older sister and her husband- they were so pale, but everyone was then, and she was so pretty and he was so handsome- came to me and told me that they were taking me out. They took me to the back room of a gentleman’s club and there were some of my sisters friends there, and some of them had blood on their lips… And there was a young man sat on a chair, his skin was tanned so he must have been a working man, and he was sedated, they must have given him opium or laudanum or something. They gestured to him, and I bit him. I don’t know why, really, it just seemed the thing to do. I bit him until he bled and I liked it. It seems monstrous now, but at the time it seemed so natural… Ever since then I have always know, during The War it took a while for me to accept it, but in this life I could not forget, even when I was a child... How was it for you, do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said, unsure if he could tell her things which he had shared with no one in that life time. Then he decided that he trusted her, and more than that. “It happened after Agincourt. I was badly wounded during the battle, I would have died if Sir Lloyd had not protected me….”

“Lloyd? Captain Lloyd? Is that why you let him take The Eagle?”

“Yes, and because he was my friend. Anyway, was very badly wounded, barely conscious all the way back to England. The monks and healers tried to heal me, but all they could do was stop me dying. Just lay in my bed whilst my wife took care of me. Then one night my wife and Lady Marion, Lloyd’s wife, came to me- I think they had always been vampyres- and they gave me a red liquid to drink. After that I healed fast, but could not face the sun again. Think that Lloyd changed too, soon after that.

“Lloyd and I met each other again in The Napoleonic Wars. We remembered each other then, and we hunted together.”

“That is a little sad, you did not have a choice.”

“Do any of us have a choice? I chose to live.”

She smiled and cuddled against his chest.

“Do you meet many people from the past?” he asked her.

“I don’t think so, I may have known Charlotte before, but I am unsure. What was Lloyd like?”

“Before Agincourt he was a great man. A fine swordsman, and the best hunter in England. He lost his eye in battle soon after we landed in France. He drank a lot after we got home, the eye bothered him, you see. He was still a great man, but he was not happy. In the Napoleonic Wars, he was a predator, and he drank far too much, but he was not a bad soldier. He does not drink alcohol anymore.”

“You still know him?”

“Yes, but you would not like to meet him.”

“That bad?”

“Preferred him when he was drunk.”



The storm had died down, but the sea was still choppy.

Lloyd was soaking wet and freezing. Salt stung his eyes.

Across the sea he saw an array of lights moving toward him, and at first he thought it was some huge ship come to crush him.

But it was not, he realised.

It was land.

It was England.

The steered the boat towards the lights, which were a small fishing village. When he was a quarter of a mile away, he turned left and sailed along the coast. The sun would be up before long, and it was too late to book a room for the night or go much further. And he had very little money, was in a dead man’s ship and looked like a drowned tramp.

He begun to form a plan as he sailed, heading closer to the coast and looking for an estuary.

Before long, one came into sight and he steered the boat down it. After a few minutes the village was behind him and there were only fields, trees and sleeping cattle beside the river.

After a few minutes he saw what he was looking for- an outlying farm house a few minutes walk from the river.

He shut down the boats engine and jumped into the freezing water. Gasping for breath and shivering madly, he half swam, half waded until he reached the river bank. Then he stood, caught his breath, shuck the worst of the water off his clothes and watched the boat drift out to sea. He hoped it would be a long time before anyone found it.
Then he walked towards the farm house. He was going to get what he needed, and someone was going to have a very unpleasant morning.

'Nam V: Vietnamese Etiquette.

An British fellow in Vietnam ought to be aware of the following etiquette;

Smoking- Vietnamese ladys do not smoke, but most Vietnamese gentlemen smoke a great deal. A gift of a cigarette between smokers can be quite significant, one can dine out on it, or make a friend for life. In addition, one may smoke almost anywhere; in a taxi carriage, in a cafe, in a hotel, almost anywhere- this is a most civilised and agreeable situation.
Rubbish- When in a street side cafe, of the type patronised by locals, it is poor form to put rubbish of any kind on the table; packaging, cigareete butts and such like are to be thrown under the table. The staff do not clean the floors untill closing time and a floor covered in rubbish is a sigh of good business.
Hands- when giving or taking something, such as money or a business card, one ought to use both hands.
Smoking- 'Tis import to smile in Vietnam, especially during an arguement, failure to do so may result in bloodshed.
Drinking- Very few Vietnamese ladys drink and the gentlen tend to drink small quantities in the evenings (they know that drinking ale everyday is good for a fellow), but they only drink heavily on special occasions. For this reason, bartender may refuse to serve a fellow after he had drunk as little as six or seven pints. 'Tis best not to argue, for the Vietnamese are Stubborn fellows. On the other hand, the Vietnamese gentlemen like to down their drinks, and it is a sign of friendship to do so with them.

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 14 (Continued from 29/03/11)

IMAGE BY VICTORIA FRANCES

CHAPTER 14

ENGLAND, 1417.

As far as the lady was concerned, peasants were worth no more than the animals which they raised.
After her husband had fought bravely in the invasion of France and recovered so remarkably from the wounds which he had suffered at Agincourt, King Harry had decided that he was favoured by God and had chosen to knight him. So on the following Michael Mass John Harvey had become Sir Harvey, and she had become his Lady, a Lady with noticeable influence in court.
She was a Lady, and she was something else too, something different and superior to the common herd of mankind.
That was why she cared nothing for the lives of the peasants which she took.
A year ago, a year after Agincourt, she had hunted with her husband. That was after he was fully healed, and after he had found that he could see better in the night than the day, and after the thirst had begun. That was when she and Lady Marion had revealed their true natures to their husbands. That was a golden age, when they were heroes of the King’s Court by day and predatory monsters by night.
John had enjoyed it at first, when he and his wife and his friend and his friend’s lady had hunted together. He had enjoyed the freedom, and the power, and the joy of satisfying the thirst- the lust- for blood.
Then he had noticed how the sun had begun to hurt his eyes, and he had begun to fear for his soul. He had hunted less and less often, and he had considered embarking on a pilgrimage, but had settled for a large donation to The Church. Then he hunted only once or twice a year, and alone, because he did want others to see the things which he did in the dark night, or to witness the things which his beloved lady did.
Lloyd and Marion also began to disapprove of the way the lady hunted, of her zeal and excess.
So she hunted alone.

It was a warm night in the end of summer. Crickets sang in the fields as pheasants slept deeply after a long day of toiling at the harvest. A crescent moon shone down on her as she tethered her horse to a tree at the edge of a forest where bracken and wild flowers grew tall between the trees.
Her horse nuzzled her shoulder, and she patted its head until it was quiet, then she set off into the trees. She could see every branch and root and flower in the dark forest, so she stalked silently from tree to tree. Badgers scurried back into their dens when they saw her, and deer continued to sleep as she passed by their graceful forms.
The nights target lay two hundred yards further ahead. A solitary cottage in a small glade. Already, she could smell the remains of a cooking fire, and the filth of animals and men.


The watchman saw her horse as he strolled down the road. He leaned his staff against the tree and raised his lantern to inspect the horse. A horse tied up alone at that time would have been suspicious enough, but on close inspection the horse resembled one which had been seen near the sight of many murders, and which the watchman had seen himself galloping away from a nearby village weeks ago where a young man had been drained of his life’s blood.
‘White Death’, the pheasants called that horse, when they spoke of it to scare their children. They believed that it was the mount of Satan, or the horse of Death himself.
After only a moments hesitation- in which duty over came superstitious fear- he grabbed his staff and ran for the nearest village to raise the alarm.
The cottage had walls made of uncut stone, a single window covered by sacking, a door of roughly cut wood and a roof of turf. Chickens slept in their pen near by, and a small stream ran beside it.
She pushed open the wooden door, which creaked more than she would have liked it to have done. She knew that there would be no dog to wake them, because she had killed it the night before. As she had expected, she found a young couple sleeping in a bed of bracken and woollen blankets, and their baby sleeping at their feet.
She crept up to the bed, and took her dagger from inside her cloak.
With one blow she cut the man’s throat. As he choked on his blood, his wife woke and the baby began to cry. The peasant girl sat bolt upright and screamed for a moment before she was knocked back, held down by her flaxen hair and stabbed to death. Not quickly, but one wound after another, the first few to paralyse her, then inhuman teeth ripped open her sun burnt neck, then more cuts aimed to draw as much blood as possible.
After that, the lady turned to the man’s body, and began to drink the hot blood that flowed from his neck. The baby’s screaming distracted her from the ecstasy of the feed. She reluctantly pulled away, licked her lips, then turned her knife on the child.
That was how they found her.
She was wet with baby’s blood as the watchman, and the local men armed with staffs and sickles dragged her away.
Had she not been recognised as a Lady, they would have lynched her on the spot. As it was she was locked in a barn with some cows, until the morning when men at arms where summoned. Then her hands and feet were forced into chains, and she was roughly placed in the back of a horse drawn wagon, and escorted to Lancaster Castle. Once there she dragged to a dark, stinking cell in the dungeons, and left with only the distant cries of witches, murderers and thieves to keep her company.

That evening Sir Harvey read the letter which a page had delivered to him with shacking hands. A letter bearing the stamp of The Duke of Lancaster, which told him that his wife was incarcerated in his castle, and would stand trial for murder and witchcraft at the end of the month.
He read it again. The words could not sink in. It had to be some nightmare. He read it a third time, screwed it up, threw into the fireplace, and poured himself a glass of ale.

The lady sat in a corner of her cell. Waiting for news. Waiting for the visit from her husband which did not come.
The rats had learnt to keep away from her, but the place was foul with lice and flees. The straw which made her bed was half rotten, and there was no other furniture.
Thrice a day a glass of water and a plate of bread and cheese were pushed through an opening in her door. She had pleaded with the unseen figure who performed this task, but it would not speak to her, would not tell her what lay ahead. She knew there should be some sort of trial, and that her husband’s influence, maybe even the King’s influence, might save her from death, but she began to fear that the trial would never come, and she would simply be left to rot in that hole.
Then, after several long and miserable days, the heavy iron door of her cell flew open. The light of a torch burned her eyes, and she huddled in the corner like a startled animal. Two men at arms with drawn swords flanked the door, and the jailer strode up. He put a bowl of water, a wooden comb and a paper rapped parcel down on the floor.
“Trial at noon, m’lady,” he said. “Tidy thy self.”
Then she was left alone, and the door was slammed shut.
She opened the parcel to find one of her dresses, a plain one, but far better than the rags she wore. She knew then that her status still carried some benefit, and wondered if her husband had sent it for her. She dressed, and washed as best she could with the cold water, and tried to brush the tangles out of her hair.
Soon after she had finished the door opened again and the jailor and a man at arms stepped in, whilst a third man guarded the door. They put chains on her unresisting hands and feet without a word and pulled her to her feet. Blinking against the torch light, she was half led, half carried up cold, damp stone steps to a corridor where the daylight from the windows blinded her.
Two more men at arms waited there, and they replaced the jailor and led her to the castle’s courtroom. She was placed in the docks in the middle of a crowded, round room with coats of arms on the walls and more men at arms at the doors.
She had to shut her eyes tight against the sun. Desperate to understand what was happening, she blinked a few times and looked at the room briefly. To her eyes there were only blurred shades of red and orange. She could just make out the judge who sat in the middle of the room, the Witchfinder who would be the prosecutor sitting opposite her, and the huge audience around her. She could not see John Harvey, nor hear his voice.
A man joined her, standing just outside the docks, and told her that he had been sent by the King to defend her in court. She asked him what she had been charged with, and he told her that it was thirty two counts of murder, and Witchcraft. She asked if Sir Harvey was present, and he could only shake his head.
The trial flew by like a nightmare for her.
The Judge read out the charges, and she knew that she was being tried for every person who she had killed in two years, and one or two whom she had not.
Then the Witchfinder made his case, saying that she had been found at the sight of the murder, in the act of killing a baby, beside two other corpses. He pointed out the similarities between that killing and the twenty nine others, namely wounds to the neck and the draining of blood. With regards to witchcraft, he stated that she had been found with blood on her lips, and that the dead had been drained of blood, and that The Bible forbade the drinking of blood. In addition, he pointed out to the Judge that she could not see in the daylight, and killed at night: she was a creature of darkness and evil.
Witnesses were called. First the Watchman, who spoke calmly and confidently about the horror he had seen, and the other murders over the last two years, and the sightings of her horse at most of these murders. Secondly the farmers who had aided in her arrest were paraded in, and each one muttered that he had seen her with blood on her lips as she killed a baby. Thirdly, a physician was called, who had investigated the corpses and found that they had all died of stab wounds, and that the man and the woman had been drained of blood. He had also investigated the bodies of two other victims, two months ago and one year ago; both had been drained of blood, and one had bite marks about the neck.
Her defendant told the Judge that she was a Lady of high status and flawless reputation, and that that should be taken into account.
Then the Judge asked her if she pleaded guilty or not guilty, and she pleaded guilty, because she knew that to plead not guilty would lead to torturous trials to prove her guilt.
The Judge pronounced that she was to be burnt until she was dead, then he said a few words about a good woman being dragged low by sin. Then the Witchfinder said a few words about the constant threat of The Devil’s temptation, then she was led down steep wooden steps from the dock to a tiny cell.

She could not sleep that night in the cell.
She did not fear death, was she remembered enough to know that she would come back. But she feared the pain of the fire, and she wanted her husband by her side.

At dawn a priest came to see her, and she sent him away. She was given a meal of ale, bread, cheese and ham. She drank the ale, but could not eat.
Then men at arms came for her and took her to the court yard, where she was chained in place on the back of a wagon. Then she was driven out of the castle’s menacing gates, down a cobbled road, through the streets of the city, to the hill where they killed people.
If she had been able to see, she would have seen the massive pyre that stood beside an empty gallows on the top of the hill. She could had seen the city below her, and the slow, wide river that flowed through it, into gently rolling hills, and out to the distant sea. She could have seen the lines of men at arms and the huge crowd who had come to watch her die. But she could only hear the braying mob and feel the sun burning her eyes.
A man shouted for silences, then read out the many charges against her. The mob booed and spat and crossed themselves as they listened.
She was carried from the wagon, and up to the great wooden pyre where she was chained to a stake amongst the timbers and branches.
A priest began to read Mass, and a man in a black mask stepped forward with a burning torch.
The faggots at the foot of the fire caught quickly. The flames licked up at her feet, and the braches around her legs caught fire.
She opened her eyes against the pain and tried to look around her. She could not see her man.

John pushed his way to the front of the crowd, where two men at arms in polished armour with swords in their belts and halberds in hand caught him, and held him respectfully but firmly by the shoulders.
“Steady, Sir Harvey,” the larger of the two men at arms grunted.
He stared up at his lady, fastened to the pyre, her face so pale and blank that it looked like she was already dead. More men at arms moved towards him.
“My lady!” he shouted, but he was drowned out by the crowd.
The flames leapt higher.
“My Lady!” he shouted again, and caught her eye.
He gazed up at her, and she stared down. A single tear marked the only emotion on her deathly face.
“Do not remember me this way John…” she said. “Do not remember what I have become… Do not remember me at all.”
“I will not forget thee, Alice.”