VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 22, continued from 01/06/11

CHAPTER 22.

LONDON, 1914.

            Jacob Harvey kissed his sweetheart goodbye, then climbed onto the train that would take him away from her forever.

            His eighteenth birthday had been two days ago, and the day after that he had volunteered to join the army, and The Great War for Civilisation.

            Victoria, his sweet heart, watches the train pull away from the station in a cloud of smoke and steam, and stood watching until it disappeared from sight. Despite her tears, she was proud to see him go. He had promised to write to her as soon as he could, and she was sure that he would be back by Christmas.

            She mounted her automobile and was driven back to her father’s fine house beside Hide Park. Once indoors, she shut herself away in her room, closed the curtains, and set to work at her embroidery.

            A few moments later, there was a knock on her door, and the serving maid entered.

            “Juliet?” Victoria greeted her.

“Sorry to intrude, ma’m,” the girl said. “Letter for you, ma’m, came when you were at the station.”

            “Thank you Juliet,” Victoria took the letter. “You shall not be required for the rest of the day.”

            When the girl had left, Victoria looked at the letter. It was from Lady Charlotte, whom Victoria had met at a dance the week before. A tall lady who looked to be in her late twenties, but who carried herself with the dignity of a far older lady.

            It read,

            “Miss Victoria,

            Please be so kind to meet me at Jenny’s Tea Rooms at six tomorrow evening. We have important matters to discuss.

            Kind regards,

            Lady Charlotte Rathbone”

“I know what you are,” Lady Charlotte said to Victoria. “I have seen the way that you hide yourself from the daylight, and come to life in the night. I have seen the way in which food and wine hold no joy for you. I see the lust in your eyes and lips. I know what you are, for you and I are the same.”

They had only exchanged a few pleasantries in the quiet tea room before Lady Charlotte had launched herself into this speech.

“I have not the foggiest idea of what you speak of,” Victoria replied defensively.

“You know exactly what I speak of. But you fear it. We are not made for the world of day. You are made to be dark and beautiful and free, and you shall be, when you are willing to remember…”

“Just what exactly do you think I am?” Victoria said as she stood to leave.

“A daughter of the night.”

“Humbug,” Victoria said as she stormed out of the tea room.

“Return to me when you are willing to remember,” Charlotte called after her.

Victoria left her home very little in the days which followed. She read or worked on her embroidery in her darkened room, and ate little. When she slept, which was very rarely, her dreams were full of blood.

It was very quiet in her house in those days. Her father and elder brother were away at war, and her elder sister was married. Only she and her mother remained.

Her family and her few friends put her bad mood down to the absence of her boyfriend, and the worsening situation on The Western Front.

After two weeks she received a letter from Jacob, saying that his basic training was over and that he would be sailing to France the next day. He said that he missed her, and looked forward to seeing her soon, when the war was won.

She did not see Charlotte for several weeks, until she unintentionally met her

at a Charity Dance to raise money for the recently war wounded.

            “Good evening Miss Victoria,” Charlotte greeted her casually.

            “Good evening,” she had replied coldly.

            “You look tired. You shall find that you sleep better in the day time.”

            “Lady! Have you no manners?”

            “What use are manners to a monster?”

            “Quite so,” Victoria said as she strode away.

            Yet she could not keep her eyes from Charlotte, watching her from the other side of the hall. Nor could she bring herself to concentrate on or enjoy the music and dancing. Some deep, dark instinct constantly nagged at her soul.

            At around midnight, when the punch had strengthened her heart and clouded her mind, she strode over to Charlotte, who stood alone staring out at of a huge bay window.

            “Lady Charlotte, I detest you, but you intrigue me,” she said quietly, for fear of anyone else hearing.

            “Look outside,” Charlotte said.

            Victoria obeyed. The light from the window illuminated the well tended gardens. Beyond that, smoke danced from the silhouettes of distant buildings. Beyond that, a coal black sky was filled with stars around which a full moon sat enthroned.

            “How beautiful the night is,” Charlotte continued. “How dark, how wild, how free. The laws of God and Man have no place there. There is only timeless beauty and instinct.”

            “It is a pretty night,” Victoria was forced to agree.

            “Come out with me into the night.”

            Without waiting for an answer, Charlotte glided off across the room, then though a door, into the garden. Victoria followed her until they stood alone in the garden.

            “Do you remember yet Victoria?”

            “No. I’m sure that I don’t know what you mean.”

            “What of your dreams?”

            Victoria looked up at the glittering night sky, then up at Lady Charlotte’s majestic face.

            “Blood. I’ve dreamt of blood.”

            “Oh yes, I’m sure you have. Do you thirst for it?”

            “That is horrid…”

            “It’s Divine.”

            “I think that you are mentally unwell, Lady Charlotte, may I recommend that you take yourself to a doctor.”

            “I am quite well, thank you. But I can see that you need more time. I shall be in Jenny’s all evening tomorrow, I shall see you then.”

            With that, Charlotte floated out of the garden and left Victoria alone in the night.   

.   

            Victoria tried to sleep that night. But every time that she drifted off, she dreamed of herself hunting through the smoggy streets of Victorian London. Stalking men, biting them, killing them, feeding from them.

            She slept in this fitful manner until noon. When she finally dragged herself out of bed, she had no appetite for breakfast.

            She gathered newspapers and studied the action on The War. It seemed to be going well. She thought about her Jacob, wondering how he was doing and when he would write again. She daydreamed about him coming home a hero, just in time for Christmas, and then they would be married. But the daydreams seemed hollow to her.

            She had no appetite all day, and a strange thirst plagued her, which no amount of water or tea would quench.

            As hard as she tried to busy herself with newspapers, and then embroidery, and then sewing, and then reading poetry, she could not stop thinking about her dream, or about Charlotte.

            She knew that there was something very wrong about herself, and the more she thought about the more she realised that there had always been something wrong about herself. She had always found it hard to make friends, she was always tired in the day time and restless at night, and in summer she would be sunburnt very easily and her eyes would hurt. She was thin and pale, even by the fashions of the time, she never enjoyed her food, even though she was always hungry- or thirsty.

            And her thirst got worse, and she could not stop thinking about her dreams of blood.

            At six in the evening it became intolerable. She summoned her maid and asked her to prepare her evening dress and have the automobile ready to take her away in an hour. 

            She found Charlotte sat at the back of the tea room, with half glass of gold coloured liquid and a half smoked cigarette in an ivory holder.

            “I knew you’d be back,” Charlotte said.

            “And a good evening to you too,” Victoria replied testily.

            “Take a seat. Would you like a drink? A cigarette?”

            “No thank you. I require answers. Something is wrong with me…”

            “Dearest Victoria…Nothing is wrong with you. Let me tell you a story… One thousand three hundred years ago, I went through a similar situation to which you are going through. You too have already been through this before, but you do not remember it yet. But let me tell you what happened to me. I was in Denmark, during the pinnacle of a time which is now known as The Viking Age. I was the daughter of a Jarl, an Earl or Lord, and at the age of fifteen I was initiated into a coven, a sort of priesthood, of the priestesses of Freya, The Lady…”

            Victoria listened, totally spellbound.

            “There were initiation rites, most of which you would find immoral and horrific, but which were mostly very enjoyable. I became a Godi, a Priestess of Freya, but I became something more. My teacher knew it, she said that nothing of the like had happened since her grandmother’s time, and she accepted my authority. The blood lust fell upon me, as did the night love, and the sure and curtain knowledge that I would never truly die until the Ragnarok, and that even after that, I would rise again.

            “I became what I am now. I believed that The Lady had made me that way, so that I could slay Her enemies, and so that I would always remember and honour Her. I have died many times since then, but I have not forgotten Her, I have not changed. I am what you are- a Vampyre.”

            “A vampire? You are telling me that we are vampires?”

            Charlotte stubbed out the end of her cigarette and finished drinking her mead.

            “Yes. We are the Daughters of The Night. The creatures which men call vampires.”

            “I find that hard to believe.”

            “I am sure that you do, but you find it harder to ignore. You are beginning to remember.”

            “Yes…”

            “Come with me, Miss Victoria,” Charlotte stood and took her hand, “I shall show you something beautiful.”

            They steeped out of Lady Charlotte’s chauffeur driven Rolls Royce into a dingy street of narrow buildings in the East End of London. The night was dark, and the smog thick.

            “Meet us back here in two hours, please,” Charlotte told her chauffeur.

            “Yes m’lady.”

             Charlotte led Victoria along the street, then down a cobbled ally between dilapidated buildings until they reached a door with peeling red paint.

            Charlotte knocked on the door three times sharply, paused, then two more times.

            They waited for a few moments.

“Who is it?” a girl’s voice asked from behind the door.

“Charlotte.”

They heard a bolt slide and a key turn, then the door opened.

A tall, slender young lady stood in the door way. Her large green eyes were unusually bright, and her red hair hung below her tiny waist. She wore a gentleman’s smoking jacket as though it were a dressing gown, and had no shoes on her stockinged feet. She looked inquisitively at Charlotte, then Victoria, then back to Charlotte.

“The usual, Charlotte?” the girl asked.

“No thank you, Violet, my friend shall be requiring something special tonight.”

“Come this way,” the girl said.

Victoria followed them up steep narrow stairs with a thread bare carpet. The rational part of her mind told her that the situation was very odd, the girl was clearly of the lowest classes and that Charlotte was being very silly in taking her to this horrible place. Yet some animal instinct, some mad hunger, drove her on. She found herself in a small, dim room with a low ceiling, a hookah pipe stood in one corner and the rest of the room was furnished entirely with an assortment of rugs and cushions.

The girl, who looked to be the same age as Victoria, reclined by the pipe, and Charlotte sat at the other end of the room on a pile of cushions. Victoria sat beside Charlotte, her back against the wall.

The girl undid her smoking jacket to reveile corset, briefs, stockings and a great deal of white flesh. Victoria could not help noticing how long and pale the girl’s neck was. Taking a candle, the girl lit the hookah, and puffed on it, filing the room with sweet smoke. She then offered the pipe to Charlotte, who inhaled deeply from it and offered it to Victoria, who declined.

“What’s it to be?” the girl asked sleepily.

“My friend has not done this before, I shall let her go first,” Charlotte said.

The girl looked at Victoria and smiled sweetly, then beckoned her over with her little finger.

Victoria had no idea what was expected of her, but a dreadful yearning was building inside her.

“Go…” Charlotte said, softly but firmly.

Victoria moved awkwardly over to the girl and sat down beside her. The girl took her hand and kissed her on the check. When Victoria did not respond, the girl took her other hand and placed it on her thigh. Leaving Victoria’s hand on her thigh; she then held Victoria’s head gently and faced it towards her. Victoria looked at the beautiful face inches from her own, smiling at her and gazing with emerald eyes into her own. She closed her eyes, and a moment later she felt soft lips on her own, and then a delicate tongue slide into her mouth.

Instinct took command of reason.

Charlotte lit a cigarette and watched as they kissed and ran slender hands over each others bodies.

Victoria’s lips found the girl’s neck. The skin was unbelievably smooth and the taste and sent irresistibly sweet.

The girl lay back, so that Victoria lay on top of her. Victoria held one of the girl’s hands in each of her own.

Then she bit.

The girl screamed as Victoria bit deep into her neck, fastening her jaws around her jugular. Then the scream turned to a sickly gargling and chocking as Victoria ripped her throat out. Still holding her hands, Victoria began to drink from her bleeding neck.

Charlotte stood and undressed in a few quick strokes, then was at the girl’s neck before she was fully dead.

When the corpse was finally cold and dry, Charlotte and Victoria turned on each other and made love on the blood soaked cushions.

        

They sat in the back of the Rolls, watching grey streets drift past.

“I feel some what light headed,” Victoria said.

“That would be the opium, my dear,” Charlotte told her.

“Oh gosh… Opium?”

“From the girl…”

Then Victoria no longer cared. She watched the dark streets fly by, and remembered other streets, which were yet the same. The smoggy, gas lit street of Victorian London, where horses raced and where the world was not at war.

“My Jacob!” Victoria suddenly examined. “I have betrayed him.”

“Do not worry about him,” Charlotte said, gently taking her hand. “You will not see Harvey again for a very long time, and when you do, he will not hold this against you.”

'Nam VII

I miss the rocks and the heather,

The mountains and the Stars,

And the pretty larl lasses

With internal scars,

I miss Kendal's cold gray stone,

Westmoorland's gentle fells,

That hounorable land

Where my Heart dwells,

I miss the song of English birds,

The taste of English stout,

But the Lasses and the Stars,

I miss them more than owt.

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 21, continued from 27/05/11

CHAPTER 21.

 

Image by Victoria Frances)

John Harvey woke at eleven o’clock in the morning. As he opened his eyes, the thin streaks of daylight that passed through his curtains added to the discomfort of his exhaustion.

            He had been up until five the previous night, and slept enough to avoid the dawn, but not enough to refresh himself.

            The night before, he had put a pair of sunglasses on his bedside table, which he put on before getting out of bed. He pulled on his trousers, then opened the curtains. It was over cast and raining, so the glare of the sun was tolerable, and he would have an excuse to wear a hat and gloves for extra protection.

            He brushed his teeth and showered, then put on a black suit, with black pinstripe waist coat, his best black shirt and a black tie. Unable to face food, he drank a cup of tea.

            Today is going to hurt, he told himself, for several reasons.

            He had not been out in the day time for almost ten years, and he had not been inside a church since his parent’s funeral.

With this in mind, he followed his tea with a glass of port, then filled a hip-flask with port for later.

            Looking at his clock, he saw that it was ten to twelve.

            He gathered his black trilby hat with the grey band, a pair of black leather gloves, an umbrella (black) and a bunch of white lilies which he had ordered a few days earlier. He hoped that wearing sunglasses on a rainy day at a funeral would acceptable- men always seemed to do that in American films.

            Seeing as she was always late, it surprised him when Charlotte rang his doorbell at exactly noon.

            Like him, she was dressed for both protection and formal respect, wearing a long black dress under a black trench coat, black boots and stockings, black lace gloves, sunglasses and carrying an umbrella.

            They embraced silently, then climbed into her car.

            Few words were said during the journey. The rain grew steadily worse until they reached their destination.

            John took a large swig of his port.

Saint Mary’s Church stood in a large grave yard on the outskirts of York. It was an unpretentious building of moderate size, with a round tower. An example of the more modest side of medieval architecture. A holly bush grew on the left hand side of the gate to the church yard, and a yew tree on the right, another yew tree and a tall oak stood amongst the graves. The grave stones and stone crosses ranged in age from very recent to around three hundred years old, some were in a state of substantial disrepair.

            As they left the car, Harvey reflected that Victoria would have liked the old church. At another time, they could have sat there together in the moon light. Perhaps she had done that in her youth. It was a good place to rest her body.

            There were several minutes before the service started, and a small crowd waited outside the church, many of whom wore sunglasses despite the rain, whilst other waited inside.

            Charlotte recognised several colleges in the porch and began talking to them, whilst John waited awkwardly, clasping his bouquet of lilies. He knew no one apart from Charlotte. He had not been introduced to any of Victoria’s family or friends, and it was too late for that now.

            He was a stranger at his lover’s funeral.

            Soon they went inside and took a seat near the rear of the church. Every pew was full, and most of the mourners were deathly pale and wore their sunglasses inside.

            John considered it a fine tribute to Victoria that so many of her kind would face the discomfort of the day and holy ground for her.

            The inside of the church was of a humble, Protestant style. Only one cross and one stained glass window bore down from the Alter. Most of the mourners kept their heads down to avoid looking at it, and some could barely hide their pain.

When the vicar took his place in the pulpit, he looked around him and was clearly uncomfortable with his sinister congregation. He welcomed the mourners, then said a few words about Victoria’s tragic and untimely death. Then a hymn was sung, although almost no one knew the words.

            Then Victoria’s father, a tall, broad shouldered old man with military side burns took the Alter. His wrinkled skin was pale, but he wore no sunglasses, instead he stared defiantly at the day.  He stood with his back straight, his hands behind him, and a look of noble determination on his face as he spoke.

            “I do not know why my daughter is dead. I cannot image why men came for her in the night and stole her life away. But I know that she will be remembered, by her family, her friends, and for her work.

            “My Victoria was a good woman, and a wonderful daughter. All here can see that she had many friends. She will be missed dearly, and remembered lovingly.”

            Then the old man took his seat, and the vicar said a few more words, before her coffin was carried out of the church by her father and the rest of the bearers.

            As he followed her body outside, John reflected that the service was usually short, and that this was for the best. Victoria had not been a Christian, and would not have wanted endless hymns and prayers, or to cause discomfort to her mourners. The church funeral must have been her parent’s idea, but they had respected her nature and kept it brief. It was lucky that they had been Protestants, because a Catholic funeral would have been far less widely attended.

            The vicar said a few more words and a prayer as her coffin was lowered into the ground.

            John looked across at Charlotte and saw that tears flowed freely from under her sunglasses, mixing with the rain and falling at her feet. This surprised him. He had never seen Charlotte cry, she was the most stoic person her had ever met, and as far as he knew Victoria was more of a business connection than a close friend.

            Victoria’s parents put a hand full of earth and a bunch of white roses into her grave. Then a girl who looked so much Victoria that she had to be her sister dropped a bouquet of lilies, white roses and red roses on the coffin. When no one else stepped forward, John gave his lilies to the grave.

            “See you in the next world, Victoria,” he said softly.

            Then he turned from the grave and saw the crowd dispersing. Charlotte stood staring at the open hole of the grave, weeping openly.

            “We shall see her again,” he said as he embraced her.

            “I know,” Charlotte whispered.

            He put his arm around her and led her to the car.

            Once inside, John took a swig of his port and offered it to Charlotte. When she declined, he finished it himself. Charlotte wiped the tears and smudged make up from her eyes, then started the car.

            John watched through the rain pelted windows as the grave yard fell from view.

            “It must be worse for her family,” he said eventually. “At least we know why she died, to them it is just horrible madness.”

            “Yes, we know why she died,” Charlotte said quietly. “Do you feel guilty?”

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            “Germaine killed her, not I, and he has paid for his crimes.”

            “If you meet him again in the next world, will you make him pay again?”

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            “’We have forever. We can do what we want’,” John said wistfully.

            “What was that?”

            “Something that Lloyd once said, ‘we have forever, we can do what we want’”.

            “Partly true. We have a very long time…”

            “We shall see Victoria again, in the next world, or the next, or the next.”

            “Aye, sometime between now and Ragnarok. I look forward to it…”

            It was almost dark when they reached Molly’s home.

            John was glad to be rid of the sun and his dark glasses.

            Molly met them at the door, hugged them both, and took them inside. She poured them each a glass of mead, asked them about the funeral, and then served a large fry up. After that they sat, drank and talked for a couple of hours until Charlotte announced that it had been a very long day and she was going to bed.

            John sat up with Molly for another hour, and then went home.

            Molly cleared away the glasses and did the washing up, then went to bed.

            She found Charlotte in her bed, curled up under the blankets, with the bed side light on. Her pillow was wet with tears, and she was still sobbing softly.

            Molly climbed into bed beside her, and wrapped her arm around her.

            “You were very close, weren’t you?” Molly said.

            “Aye, once we were very close.”

            Molly turned off the light, and soon they were asleep in each others arms.

      

            As soon as John got home, he was struck by inspiration.

            He grabbed the note book in which he wrote his poems, scribbled out everything which he had written about moths, then, possessed by a passion ,scribbled down;

“The Tragedy of Moths.

Moth, why do you fly to candle light,

Or dance against the window bright,

When you wander through the night?

Why batter your pretty wings in vain,

Or end you short life in burning pain?

If you love the light, enough to die,

            Why do you fly,

                        In the inky night?

And not the daylight sky?”

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, Chapter 20, continued from 21/05/11

CHAPTER 20.

            A moment after Hunter had walked in, John was distracted by the ringing of the phone.

            “Hello, Black Boar,” he answered.

            “Hello John, its Charlotte. How are you?”

            “Not bad, are you okay?”

            “Quite well. Have heard about Victoria’s funeral. It’s in a week. Three o’clock at St Mary’s in York. Can you manage that?”

            “Shall have to,” John said, knowing that it would be uncomfortable, and hoping for a cloudy day.

            “Good man. I shall be going too. Molly will not be attending. I know the area, so I could give you a lift if you like.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Right, I’ll be round for you at noon, and I’ll drive us all back that night and we’ll meet up with Molly at her place.”

            “Thank you, Charlotte, see you then.”

            “Good bye.”

            “The thing about Lloyd,” Lloyd said, sipping his strawberry juice,” is that he is dead.”

            “Dead?” Hunter could not hide his surprise. “Entirely dead?”

            “Quite thoroughly dead.”

            “And how do you know this?”

            Lloyd leaned forward to quietly further the conspiracy.

“Because my men and I killed him a few days ago.”

“Really? Can you prove this?”

“Were the police to be involved, I would have to deny everything...”

“The police will not be involved, I serve a higher power.”

“Good egg. There are two ways in which this could be proved to you. The police have not yet found the bodies of Lloyd and his accomplice. You could wait until they do and read the newspaper, or you could pop round to Flat Five of the Queen’s Street Penthouses and see what my men and I have left of him.”

“Thank you for that information, sir, I shall investigate further,” he wanted to question the man further, but something told him that it would be best not to. Being an optimistic man, he reasoned that he had probably met a fellow ‘Soldier of God’, and that it would unprofessional to intervene.

Hunter stood to leave, and Lloyd looked up longingly at him.

“There will be a reward for any information which aids me in my enquiry.”

“Not at all, I wouldn’t dream of it. Good luck, sir.”

Lloyd smiled with smug satisfaction as Hunter walked out of the pub. He finished his drink, then decided that he deserved a fine cigar, another drink, and a bit of Wagner on the jukebox. There was only one small phone call to be made, and then all would be well.

Hunter could not wait. He walked the town’s streets for over an hour until he found Queen’s Street. The building appeared to be empty.

He took a lock picking set from his pocket and quickly opened the door. He went into the hall, up the stairs and soon found the door to Room 5.

The smell hit him as soon as he had picked the door open. The foul, yet sweet smell of decaying corpses. He saw the first body on the floor, with much of its head missing, but that was nothing compared to the mutilated body on the floor of the lounge. From what was left of it, it looked every inch the vampire, from its deathly pale skin to its evening suit.

He began to search the rooms for further evidence.

After a few minutes, when he had deduced that a lady had also stayed in the penthouse, he was started by the storm of many boots trampling the floor. He drew his hammer from his belt and turned to the door.

“Drop your weapon! Don’t move,” the leading member of the police SWAT Team shouted.

A dozen men in uniforms, with black helmets and assault rifles faced Hunter.

“By God, what is going on?” Hunter demanded.

“Drop your weapon!”

“What the blazes!”

“Drop you weapon and raise your hands, or we will open fire! You are under arrest for multiple murder!”   

            When Lloyd got home, he found that Anne was already asleep in his bed. She looked so peacefully and beautiful that he did not wish to wake her.

            He cooked himself some diner, and read for a while before joining her in bed.

            When he woke the next evening she was gone. Thinking that she may have risen early to cook breakfast, he rolled over to slept for a while longer.

            When she did not wake him, and was not in the room the second time he woke, he got out of bed, dressed, and went down to the kitchen. She was not there so he looked around the house.

            He could not find her. What he did eventually find was a note pinned to the front door which read;

            “Dear Lloyd.

            I am sorry. I must leave you. You have been so kind to me, but I cannot live like this.

            By the time you read this, I shall be close to France, as I write this at dawn. Please do not look for me. I wish to see my family and my friends again.

            Perhaps I shall visit you one day.

            Hope that you understand, I thank you, and I shall miss you,

            Love from Anne. Xx”

            Lloyd was not happy, but at least she had not robbed him.

            He made himself a cup of tea, sat down and lit a cigar. It could be worse, he decided, far worse. Anne had been pretty, and nice, and fun, but she was odd. Decidedly odd. And French… far too French. And this was the best thing for her.

            Vampyres and humans rarely made good couples. Humans could rarely appreciate the violence, and their lack of a few centuries of life experience made them seem immature.

            He ate a little breakfast, dressed and set off to the pub, where he met John.

            “Evening Harvey.”

            “Evening. How goes it?”

            “Fairly jolly. Anne has gone home, don’t you know?”

            John did not look surprised.

            “How do you do?” Lloyd continued.

            “Managing. Going to Victoria’s funeral in six days.”

            “Dash. Day time?”

            “Aye.”

            “’The garish light of day’, what?”

            “Quite. Did things run smoothly last night?”

            “Very. Tomato juice please. Oh, yes, that reminds me. Next time those two Gothic types come in, buy them both a drink on me, and tell them to let me know if I can ever do them a favour.”

            “As you wish. I’ll call that seven pounds.”

            “Jolly good.”

            Lloyd took his drink, put some Wagner on the jukebox, and took a seat.

            Anne sat in a crowded compartment on a cross channel train. The journey had taken longer than she had hoped, and she was tired. There was only the darkness of the tunnel outside, and it felt strange to know what she was miles below the sea, and even stranger to know that she was going home.

            She looked at her clock and realised that Lloyd would be awake and know that she was gone. She would miss him, but she did not think that he would miss her for very long.

            Despite all that, she felt good. She felt free.

            Years ago, when she had run away from home to live with The Count, she had thought that she was free. When John and Lloyd had killed Germaine and she had become Lloyd’s lover, she had thought that she was free. But she realised then, as she flew alone through that dark tunnel, that she was truly free for the first time in her life.       She felt the train rising upwards. In a few minutes she was out of the tunnel. Through the windows, she could see the night sky above her. The dark land outside the carriage was France- home.

            When the train finally stopped, she leapt out of her seat and pushed past the crowd at the door. She jumped down onto the cold concrete platform and looked around her. There was a woman stood a dozen yards away who looked familiar, but so much older than she had remembered.

            Anne’s mother stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then waved frantically and rushed over. They embraced awkwardly, the gazed at each other.

            “Anne!” her mother exclaimed. “Oh, Anne, where have you been?”

            “Out.”

            “What have you been doing?”

            “Nothing.”

            Her mother embraced her again, and kissed her on both cheeks. She took her by the hand and led her out of the station. There would be plenty of time for questions later.

Detective Inspector Clark was puzzled, and that made him angry.

            After an anonymous call from a phone box, a SWAT  Team had arrested a man at the scene of a double murder. The problem was that the murders had clearly been perpetrated several days earlier. The arrested man, a James Hunter, was unwilling to offer any explanation as to why he was at the scene of the crime, but insisted that the crime had been carried out by a different, unnamed man, who happened to look a bit like him. James Hunter had been founded armed, but with a hammer rather than the pistol which had been used in the crime. The tip off had stated that Hunter was returning to the crime scene, to gloat and possibly to rob it. The valuables in the penthouse supported this possibility. Hunter claimed that he was innocent, but refused to explain his actions at all, and blamed all on the unnamed look alike.

            Clark was convinced that Hunter was both guilty and insane, but did not know how to prove it.

            The Detective Inspector finished his coffee, got his coat and set off home. Tomorrow there would be further questioning, and- he hoped- further answers.

            By the time Lloyd had finished his drink, the Black Boar had become crowded. He decided that go some where quieter, but wanted to speak with John further.

            He went to the bar, waited until John had finished serving a few Emo girls, and caught his eye.

            “Harvey, I say Harvey…”

            “Tomato juice?”

            “No thank you. Wondered if you would care to pop round tomorrow? Midnight, have a bit of diner, a few cigars, games of poker maybe…”

            “Am busy this week. After the funeral, a day or two after, I would be honoured to join you.”

            “Jolly good. Shall be just like old times, what. Ta ta.”

              Two days later, Lloyd woke and founds his weekly newspapers posted through the door. The Times told him that the Conservative Party was doing something stupid again, but it was the local newspaper which caught his eye.

            The headline read ‘SOUTHERNER ARESTED FOR LOCAL MURDERS’. The article stated;

            ‘Police have arrested a man on suspicion of the murders of two men in our town last week

            The man, believed to have been an assassin from London who suffered from schizophrenia, as arrested last week in the Queen’s Street Penthouses. The two victims are unnamed, but the police believe that they were members of the French Mafia. The man, whose name has not been released to the press, returned to the scene of the crime and was arrested by a SWAT Team after an anonymous tip off. He is reported to have threatened the police with a hammer.

            Detective Inspector Clark told us, “I am shocked by the brutality of this crime, but glad that we caught this madman before he could do any more harm. If international criminals think that they can use our town as a battle ground, they will have to think again.’

The man is being held in custody, and will stand trial next week.’

           

Lloyd rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

After breakfast, he rolled up the newspaper, put it under his arm and strolled down to the Black Boar.     

It was a quite night in the pub. Molly worked behind the bar whilst John did some paper work in the back room.

She looked up from cleaning a glass when Lloyd strolled in with smug satisfaction written all over his face.

            “What ho Molly!” Lloyd greeted her.

            “Alright?” she replied.

            “Jolly good, thank you.”

            “You seem in a good mood tonight, what have you done?”

            “Be a good wench and fetch Harvey for me, and I’ll show you.”

            Molly reluctantly put down the glass and summoned John. Lloyd spread the newspaper out on the bar.

            “Evening Lloyd,” John said.

            “Good evening old boy. Have a look at this…”

            John and Molly read the front page of the newspaper.

            “What have you been up to, Lloyd?” John asked.

            “Keeping us both out of trouble.”

            “I don’t want to know anything about this,” Molly said, and went back to her work.

            James Hunter did his thirtieth press-up, then caught his breath and did thirty sit-ups.

After that he knelt on the concrete floor of his cell and prayed to his God.

Then he lay down on his hard, narrow bed. He knew that he would be okay, eventually. He was a soldier of God, and his God loved all good men and women. He would be delivered. Eventually.

Alice woke at nine in the morning and felt exhausted.

            She had been out with her friends the night before, stayed up very late, and drunk a great deal. With all the speed and dexterity of a horror movie zombie, she reached out for a glass of water on her bed side table. She drank it down in one, quenching the desert in her throat, then went back to sleep.

            Almost an hour later, she woke again. After looking at the clock and remembering that she had nothing to do all morning, she rolled over and tied to get back to sleep.

            She could not. Her mind was active, even though her body was not. Her head did not hurt. She had the type of hang over which comes from a lot of practice, and drinking a bit of water and nothing too silly. She felt tired and disconnected, as though her brain was wrapped in cotton wool, but she could still think in an intense yet sporadic manner. She remembered saying something unkind to Sam when she had happened to meet him at the bar. She remembered giver her phone number to a man who she would almost certainly never want to see again.

            It is unfair, she thought, how at the time everything seems great, but the next morning you only remember the bad bits.

            Then she thought about John, and felt sorry for him. She had tricked him into writing to her as part of some bizarre experiment to amuse herself, they had become something like friends, and now he was upset and she was ignoring him.

            She dragged herself out of bed, made some coffee and toast, then turned on her computer. She reread his message and then replied.

           

            “Dear John

            I’m sorry to hear about your loss. Hope you are okay.

            Please write to me again after the funeral, it is always interesting to hear from you.

            I’m okay. Been quite busy with university. Had a good night last night, I think.

            Take care,

            Alice. X”

            The rest of the week passed uneventfully, until the day of Victoria’s funeral.