CHAPTER 24.
After two hours of trawling social networking sites, entering Alice’s email address and searching for her profile, they found her. Her profile so a photo of a pretty girl with brown hair, gave her vocation as ‘Student’ and her location as ‘Edinburgh’.
“This assists us a great deal, but Edinburgh is a very big place, and I do believe that it has two universities. We may have to adopt a different strategy,” Lloyd said as he stubbed out his cigar.
“What do you intend?”
“I don’t know, let me sleep on it. More coffee, and cake? I have some splendid cake.”
“Thanks.”
Lloyd went to the kitchen, leaving John to stare hopelessly at the computer screen. He returned minutes later with fine cake.
“This is a long shot…” Lloyd said, “but do you think that she would actually choose to meet you?”
“Perhaps, I don’t know. It would be odd, she would probably suspect that I was some manner of stalker. Shall try.”
“Never try to predict a woman’s mind. Step outside with my Harvey.”
They went out into the overgrown wasteland which was Lloyd’s back garden and looked up. A few thin strips of cloud passed over a starry sky, illuminated by a crescent moon.
“Women are like the sky, Harvey, my grandfather told me that. They- like the moon- change constantly, clouds pass quickly, sometimes they are light, sometimes they are dark, sometimes the sun shines down, sometimes they rain right on your parade. Yet they are always the same sky.”
John was not sure if he agreed, but he nodded sagely anyway. Soon the sky would change again, the sun would rise, and he would have to go to sleep.
Molly woke up after sunset. Charlotte was away working, so she had the bed to herself as she stretched, cat like, between the sheets. She had the night off work and nothing in particular to do. Reaching over the bed, she found her ashtray and cigarettes, then rearranged her pillows to lounge upright and lit one.
She was only half way through smoking it when her door bell rang. Irritated, she got out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and, cigarette between lips, answered the door.
She found Dave stood outside, in his best suit and with a bouquet of white roses in hand.
“Dave?” she said, experiencing surprise and annoyance in equal measure.
“Alright Molly. Please don’t interrupt me, I’ve got something to say,” he locked eyes with her. “I love you Molly. I have done since I first met you, and I reckon I always will. So I’ve got to ask you, Molly, would you be my girlfriend? Properly I mean…”
“No. I mean, no thanks Dave. I love Charlotte, you know that.”
“I thought you’d say that. I just had to ask… Hear me out. I’ve spent a lot of time with you lot, you vampires, and I reckon I know how you think, and I reckon I like it. Your psychotic bastards, but you’re damn cool about it. You don’t give a shit, really, do you? And I reckon I know why. You reckon you all live forever, with reincarnation and that. I reckon we all do. So I don’t give a shit either. I want you to know how I feel, and how I’ll always feel... Maybe we can go out in the next life, I can wait… I’m going to go home now Molly.”
He handed her the flowers.
“Alright Dave, thanks. I’m going back to bed now. See you.”
“See you later.”
She put the flowers in a vase, made a cup of coffee, went back to bed and lit another cigarette.
That was weird, she thought, or wyrd, maybe Charlotte was right.
At that moment, John was finishing his breakfast. He considered washing it down with wine or port, but he had drunk all the alcohol in his house.
Plenty more where that came from, he told himself, got a pub full of it. But maybe I should take it easy tonight…
He had half an hour before work started, so he looked at his emails. There was one from Alice, sent a few hours earlier. It read;
“Dear John,
Am good, thanks.
Finished the vampire study, thanks for helping me with that.
Don’t know about meeting you. It would be a bit weird. I don’t really know anything about you. Let me think about it.
Take care,
Alice.x
P.S. You don’t want to drink my blood, do you? I’m really not into that. Or Goth-boys, I went out with a Goth when I was a teenager and I don’t want anything to do with them. LOL.”
He thought for a few moments, then replied.
“Dear Alice,
Am 31 years old. Own and work in a pub called The Black Boar, where you are welcome to come for a drink. Live in the north of England. Wear a black leather jacket most of the time, but am not a Goth, have never worn make up.
Could send you a photo if you like (Vampyres can be seen in photos and mirrors).
Tell me more about yourself.
Take care,
John.x”
After that, he set off to work. He remembered what Lloyd had said about women the night before, and reflected on his own unsuccessful love life. Previous lives had not been much better; there had been Molly once, but she was so different to other girls, and he had had another wife once (and he couldn’t even remember her name), apart from that he had been lonely. Lloyd had not done any better, possibly worse.
What chance do we have, he thought, if we can only appreciate the sky in the dark?
He managed not to drink anything until midnight, when the pub was very quiet. He took a bottle of port from the cellar, made a note of it in the books, poured himself a large glass and put the rest in his bag for later.
He closed the pub at two and walked over to Lloyd’s house. Lloyd made coffee and pies for them, then they set to work.
“Any new ideas?” John asked.
“I have worked my cunning to the utmost, but, alas, no… How about you?”
“Some progress. She is considering meeting me…”
“Splendid.”
“And have established that she is not a Goth.”
“Not a Goth? I say, that narrows it down a bit amongst the vampire lovers. You emailed her, I take it?”
“Aye. Asked to meet her. She said she needs time to think about it, and wants to know more about me. Am trying to find out more about her.”
“Jolly good. You keep working on that. We’ll have a trawl through the old internet, see if we can spot her in a ‘chat room’, then have a look to see if she has replied.”
It was eight o’clock the following night, and Alice was not in a good mood. She had been woken constantly by nightmares for the last two nights, but she could not remember what they were about. Her head hurt, as though something inside it was trying to burst out.
She had tried to work on an essay for an hour, but she could not concentrate. She saved what little work she had done and turned to her emails in the hope of some distractions. She found John’s email and began reading it, until her phone rang.
“Hi,” she answered.
“Hi, it’s Sam,” an unpleasantly familiar voice replied.
“What do you want?”
“To talk. Is that okay?”
“Not really.”
“Come on Alice, we were close once…”
“Then you cheated on me.”
“I’m really sorry about that. I was so stupid. I loved you, really. Can’t we be friends?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Firstly, you cheated on me. Secondly, you were a really shit boyfriend. You’re an arsehole, and you’re really boring and selfish- in and out of bed. You’re shit, Sam, you’re really, really shit!”
Then she hung up.
She turned off her computer and phoned Tracy.
“Hi Tracy… Yeah, not bad, and you? ... Good. Do you want to go to the pub?... Now…. Yes…. Okay. Thanks… see you there.”
John went home after work that night. He and Lloyd’s search the previous night had been unproductive, so they had decided to stick to emailing her. John would try to meet her, failing that, he would try to gather more information about her.
After a steak and a glass of port, he turned on his computer. There was an email from Alice, written at two in the morning.
“Dear John
Okay, Im curious, send me a photo. (And if it’s a photo of some film star with his shirt off, ill be really pissed of).
Here’s more about me. I’m a 24 year old student (had to retake a year or two). I live at Edinburgh . I really like coffee and cocktails with sparklers and books and cats, and I really hate my exboyfriend. He is really shit.
Maybe I’ll meet up with you, if I’m bored, or your cute or some thing. Maybe.
Seee you,
Alice. Xxxx
PS are you really a vampire/”
He realised from her spelling and from the time that she had written that she had been drunk. This called for some subtly, she was interested, but she might wake in a bad mood the next day and regret it. Even if that was the case, he now knew a little more about her, so there was no great hurry.
He found a half decent photo of himself from Molly’s last birthday party and attached it to his reply, which read;
“Dear Alice,
How are you?
Here is a photo for you.
Cats and books are pretty good, do you ever read Blake?
Let me know if you want to go for a drink one night next week.
Take care,
John. X”
“How goes the mission?” Lloyd asked at the bar the next night.
“Well,” John relied as he poured Lloyd’s tomato juice. “She is interested in meeting me, am playing it cool. Now know that she is 24, amongst other things.”
“Good show. You keep playing it cool, Harvey, damned cool. I shall do some further scouting when I get home.”
“Thanks.”
Lloyd took a seat in the far corner of the bar. Tony and a few of his men came in soon afterwards, ordered beer and went out into the ally to smoke.
Several minutes later Clive and Evil Sophie came in. After ordering their drinks, Evil Sophie approached Lloyd’s table.
“Hi Lloyd,” she greeted him.
“Evening Sophie,” he replied casually.
“How are you doing?”
“Not bad, what can I do for you?”
“You know that favour you owe me…” she toyed with her hair.
“Yes…”
“Could you kill my boss for me?”
“Maybe. Why do you need me to kill him?”
“Well…” she thought about it for a while,” he is an arsehole.”
“That’s it? I mean, really, who isn’t? I shall do you only one favour, may I recommend that you wait until you really need something.”
John looked at his emails immediately upon arriving home. He found a reply from Alice and read it.
“Dear John,
Thanks for the photo, you’re quite cute for an undead guy.
Yes, I really like Blake, and Yeats and Scott and Burns. Are you into poetry?
Okay, I’ll meet you next Thursday, at the Scott Monument (near Waverley train station) at 8. Is that ok for you?
See you then,
Alice.xx”
He smiled wolfishly, replied in the affirmative, and poured a large glass of port to celebrate.
CHAPTER 25.
Light snow fell from a dark sky as John Harvey took the short walk from Waverley Station to The Scott Monument. Invisible clouds hid the moon and stars but their role was taken up by the countless lights of street lamps, towering buildings, cars and buses. The music of a lone piper drifted through the air.
John had prepared for this moment for days. He had revised his reading of Blake and Scott, and had attempted to read Burns- but had dismissed him as illegible to an Englishman. He had picked out his attire carefully, endeavouring to look attractive and successful, yet also casual. He had been briefed by Lloyd, who knew from the internet that Alice was still single and seemed to be busy and happy.
He did not know if he intended to kill her, seduce her or befriend her. It did not matter. All that mattered was that he was hunting, and he was close.
The vast gothic tower which served as the Monument to Sir Walter Scott loomed above him. Huge steps, each as tall as a man, led up to the pedestal on which Scott sat enthroned. Monstrous yet elegant arches rose above the stone statue, above that four spires which any church would proudly call a steeple surrounded the massive main spire which rose above the highest buildings around, adorned with lesser spires, arches and gargoyles.
Many people stood in the plaza which stood in the monument’s shadow, yet somehow he knew Alice as soon as he saw her.
Bright steely-blue eyes gazed out from a pale, lightly freckled face. Long, fey, mousey brown hair hung down around a fitted brown bomber jacket. Blue jeans and black boots covered her long legs. She turned to face him, as though his instinctive recognition was mutual.
“Alice?” he asked when she came into arms reach.
“John?” she replied.
“Aye, how are you?”
“Good,” she lied, because she had recognised him from so many dark dreams, and so many things were beginning to make sense. She mastered herself, and made her face into a mask. “How was your journey?”
“Okay. No problems. It’s good to finally meet you,” he held out his hand and she shuck it.
“You too. There’s a half decent pub across the bridge, do you want to go for a drink?”
“Aye, sounds good.”
They walked across the plaza, towards the majestic castle upon its rugged hill, through a genteel park and over a broad bridge. Then she led them up steep steps and though a short, dark alley, to a wide street filled with tourist friendly shops.
“Just a bit further,” she said.
They went into a large, crowded pub, which had a sign on the door boasting that it sold ‘the best haggis in Scotland’.
“What are you drinking?” he asked her.
“Whiskey, on the rocks, please,” she replied.
He ordered that, along with a glass of red wine and a packet of nuts for himself, and noticed the bar man’s distain when he handed over an English ten pound note on which The Queen’s face smiled as she oppressed that proud people.
“You have a nice accent,” he said as he handed her the drink and took a seat. “Where are you from?”
“Not far from here. A wee village called Rosewell. You’ve not got a bad accent either, almost sounds Scottish. Where exactly do you stay?”
“Kendal, larl town, not far from the border.”
“With the Mintcake?”
“Aye, that’s the one…. This pub is alright, do you come here often?”
“Not really, it’s a tourist pub, but it’s the nearest to the station, and it’s a cold night. You said you own a pub, what’s it like?”
“Better than this. Its kind of a biker pub, bit dingy but comfy, bands play some times.”
“Cool, what else do you do?”
“Too much work, a bit of reading and writing…”
“And drinking the blood of the living?”
“Not much.”
“You’re not what I was expecting. Pale, I guess, but…”
“No fangs? No pointy ears? No long talons?”
“Something like that… You look younger than I expected too. You said you were thirty one, you look more like twenty one.”
“Thanks, I did say we age slowly.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said thoughtfully. “So you like poetry then?”
“Aye, Blake and Poe and Scott.”
“And Robbie Burns?”
“Yes, and Burns.”
“What’s your favourite poem by Burns?”
“It’s… I don’t know. Lied. Hate Burns.”
“Because you can’t understand him?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Its easy for me, my Nan used to talk like that, a proper Highlander, she was.”
“Understood. Have some family from up there, but none I’ve ever met.”
“You’ve got Scottish blood and you’re sat here drinking wine like a wee lassie when you could be drinking whiskey!”
“Can drink plenty of whiskey,” he said defensively.
“I’m only joking. Do you think I’m some Scottish Nationalist or something?”
“No… well maybe I did, a bit. It’s the accent, and you say ‘wee’, and the freckles.”
“Do ye nay like me freckles, ye soft- sheep-stealing-Saxon?!”
Half of the men in the pub turned round to stare at them, and they both laughed.
“I don’t often say ‘wee’, it just seems to happen when I’m in tourist pubs talking to southerners…” she said.
“Alright. Think I swear more when talking to southerners.”
They laughed again.
“I seem to have ran out of whiskey, do you want one?” she asked.
“Aye, cheers.”
They drank and talked until long after John’s last train home, and continued drinking and speaking until after last orders when they were the last people in the pub and were asked to leave.
“May I walk you home?” John asked her.
“I’ll get the bus, but you can come round for coffee if you like.”
“Cheers.”
They walked a short distance together to a bus stop, waited a few minutes, then rode the bus for a few minutes before alighting on a quiet street. They walked, hand in hand and staggering slightly, down the street until they came to a large, modern block of flats.
“Up here, Saxon,” she said, leading through the door, up a flight of stairs, along a corridor and through another door into her flat.
John took a seat on the sofa in her tiny sitting room, whilst she stood leaning in the door frame.
“How do you like your coffee?” she asked.
“Bit of milk, two sugars, please.”
She disappeared, there was a rattling of draws for a few moments, then she returned empty handed. She put a delicate hand on his shoulder and looked at him with her bright eyes.
Eyes like steel under a summer sky, he thought.
“I’ve ran out of coffee,” she said, “shall we skip that and go straight to bed?”
“Aye, that would be good,” he said, pleasantly surprised.
She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. He took off his jacket and shirt, pulled off his boots and socks, and lay down on the bed. She took off her jacket and climbed astride him.
“You’re beautiful Alice,” he said.
She smiled and kissed him briefly on the lips.
Then she ran a hand down his chest, then kissed his neck.
“I wanted this for so long,” she said, kissing his neck again.
Suddenly her teeth sunk into his flesh. A moment later, and his jugular was torn from him.
He lay helpless and dying as she sat astride him, watching his blood flow. In his eyes she saw no pain, no fear, only a desperate questioning.
“You let me burn, and then forgot all about me,” she said, licking his blood from her lips. “But then you reminded me what I am, so now we are even.”
Lloyd walked home from The Black Boar, he had had an uneventful night, and wondered how his friend was doing. As he reached his street, the town hall clock struck three.
He felt no pain.
“Jolly good,” he said to himself.
Then he looked up at the dark sky and, in an excessively theatrical manner, he blew God a kiss.
We have forever, he thought as he lit another cigar.
The tall girl with the blonde hair and a new dagger in her boot sat in a late night Paris café. She nibbled on chocolate bread in between sips of beer, watching all the people stagger home with hungry eyes. It had been a good holiday, she reflected, so good that she might just stay.
EPILOGUE.
TEN YEARS LATER.
The British soldiers charged across the battlefield.
Dodging the German machine gun bullets, they fought their way into the German lines. Rifles flared and bayonets flashed as they leapt barbed wire fences made of coiled pipe cleaners. The grey faced German soldiers stood still as statues in their egg box fort whilst the British soldiers surrounded them. The British Sergeant threw a hand grenade and the last of the Germans were knocked dead by a sweep of John Harvey’s hand.
He looked down on the ruins of his game, and was pleased.
Other children his age were only interested in computer games, but Little John (as his parents called the nine year old) loved the toy soldiers which had once belonged to his grandfather. Battered little toy soldiers; green plastic British soldiers, and grey plastic Germans.
He would play on the computer too, but only war games. The toy soldiers were more fun, and the very best thing was to go out into the woods with his BB Gun and plastic sword. His father had once bought him a die cast model of a First World War Biplane, but John had never taken it out of the box. He wanted to learn to play chess, and his mother had promised to teach him soon.
Somehow he felt that all this was very important.
His teachers were always impressed in history classes by his knowledge of the Wars. His parents sometimes worried about his love and knowledge of war. Just as they worried about the strange glint of intelligence, or was it hunger, in his dark eyes; and the strange, world weary, maturity which he occasionally showed; and the way he burnt so easily in the summer sun; and the way he was often so restless at night. But he was a happy child, most of the time, and quiet, and they hoped it was just a stage which would pass. Apparently, his friend’s parents had experienced something similar with their child, and they weren’t bothered- so that helped.
He dreamed about war sometimes. In his dreams he was a knight in shining armour, or a Nineteenth Century soldier with a sword and a pistol, and sometimes he was a soldier in green- like his toys- and fighting in the trenches.
He also felt that this was very important.
Sometimes he had other dreams, which were horrible nightmares. He would wake up cold and sweaty and shaking, and not able to remember what the nightmare had been about. The only thing that he would remember was that he had to remember the name ‘Alice’.
He did not understand why, but he knew that it was very, very important.
He held up the toy Sergeant, who posed with a grenade in one hand and a rifle in the other. This one was his favourite- he was called Sergeant Lloyd. In Little John’s imagination, Sergeant Lloyd was a great hero who had fought for his country for a thousand years.
The door bell rang. He dropped the toy and ran to the door.
His mother had already opened it, and let in his friend and her mother. John knew a lot of boys, but he only had one close friend. He had known her since nursery school, and felt like he had known her forever. Sometimes his parents joked that he would have to marry her when he grew up- but that made John angry.
The pale girl with the long black hair pushed past her mother and smiled at John. At one and the same time, it was a smile which expressed innocent joy, and a smile which said that she knew something which no one else knew.
He hugged Vicky- who was his best friend- then led her off to see the German fort he had made.
She looked down at the grey painted and carefully cut egg boxes and coils of fluffy barbed wire, and the little green and grey men with their plastic guns. It stirred something resembling a memory in her young, yet ancient mind.
“That’s nice,” she said mildly, but without much conviction. “Do you want to go play in the graveyard?”
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