The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

I had to wait half an hour before Dr. Lloyd-Jones would see me. Horse-face kept telling me triumphantly that the Doctor was ‘behind schedule’ and I must be patient. Her continual sneering and tossing of the head really got on my nerves, and I only managed to control my anger by sheer concentration of will. I leafed idly through a glossy magazine and read the article on Post-Natal Depression; I was half-way through the follow-up article entitled How to Learn to Love your Baby, when the receptionist called my name in her clear-cut, horsy tones. I folded the magazine deliberately carefully and slowly, knowing that she was watching. I wanted to say something cutting as I passed her, but my mind was a blank after all that petty Baby-talk. At least I would never have to sit in this awful paddock again and watch her grazing vacantly. The thought gave me all the power I needed. I contented myself with a slight snigger when she had turned her back.

“Ah, Alison! So sorry to have kept you waiting!” Dr. Lloyd-Jones turned happily from his casual pose by the window as I came in. His hands were in his pockets, the customary barley-sugar in his mouth. “I hope I won’t keep you too long.”

“I hope so too,” I muttered, throwing myself into my familiar comfy chair.

The Doctor ignored me, reaching instead for his usual white paper bag on the desk-top.

“Barley-sugar?”

I shook my head vehemently.

“Well, let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” The Doctor settled himself in his swivel chair, crossing his legs gracefully. The movement reminded me of my mother folding her deck chair up on the beach at Skegness. Every gesture of the Doctor’s, however whimsical and abstract, was careful, planned, precise. One of his beautiful, pale hands lay across his knee as if it had been carved in that position, while the other stroked his tiny, immaculate moustache pensively. That dancing light never left his eyes, the permanent grin forever lurking around the corners of his mouth. There was silence for several moments and I eyed the Gothic painting on the wall, wondering whether to leave or not. I had begun to fidget nervously when Dr. Lloyd-Jones spoke again. “You see, Alison, I feel we are getting near the truth. The basis for your problem… all your problems.”

“I don’t have any problems now,” I said, aggressively.

The Doctor laughed merrily, his eyes jumping with his laughter.

“Oh now… I think you know that that, my dear, is not true. And I think you also know what… or who… is responsible for these… imaginings. I say imaginings but you know as well as I do that what you have seen is as real as you or I.”

I stared miserably at my Doc Martin’s. I was stupid to have agreed to come back, even for only one more time. I was in a corner again. It was just as I expected.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, sharply, trying to sound contemptuous. But I knew that my guilt was seeping through like water under the bathroom floor.

Dr. Lloyd-Jones could obviously see it all showing through, for he laughed all the more and swung wildly in his leather chair.

“I think you do, my dear! I think you do! I’m talking about your friend… the vampire”. He leaned across the desk, grinning, and I grew suddenly alarmed. Surely the Doctor hadn’t seen Thomas… surely he had no real proof? Yet he sounded so confident and sure… “Ah yes, I do believe all you have said,” he continued happily, “I believed every word of it. I know, I know, you haven’t really said anything to me, directly, but… ” He tapped my notes which lay spread out on the desk in front of him. “It’s all here, in black and white. Just because you’ve changed your mind and are doing your best to dismiss all your previous claims as hallucinations… ” He leant back in his chair, staring at the ceiling in delight. “Oh, I can see right through you, Alison. After all, I am a psychiatrist. And I’d like to meet this vampire of yours very much. In fact I insist.”

I sat, rigid, in my chair, gripping the arms for dear life. Of course, he could just be humouring me. Perhaps that was the usual psychiatric strategy with hallucinating patients – to insist that what they are seeing is real. But there was something about the Doctor’s manner which aroused my suspicion… I didn’t trust him at all. And I would never, ever allow him to meet Thomas. I stood up, and found my knees shaking like jelly. As I clutched at the edge of the desk for support, I caught sight of the words ‘the reality of the vampire in Western Europe’ scribbled across a piece of paper in the Doctor’s wild, flamboyant writing. I shut my eyes involuntarily. Now I was sure. Dr. Lloyd-Jones really did believe in vampires… and I was suddenly gripped by Thomas’s vision of himself in a cage, on a platform, with Dr. Lloyd-Jones below, grinning and pointing at Thomas with a long stick. Around him were many distinguished faces, every eminent doctor in the country would flock to see Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s indisputable evidence of the reality of the vampire in Western Europe. I let a little moan escape from between my lips. As I opened my eyes I saw the Doctor, poised in his swivel chair, his legs crossed, a horribly satisfied grin on his face. That did it. I was definitely getting out of here. I had heard, and seen, quite enough.

I lunged towards the door handle and wrenched the door open. Glancing over my shoulder as I made my hasty exit, I saw Doctor Lloyd-Jones behind his desk, the smile still on his face, his eyes on The Nightmare. He looked directly at me as I hesitated, and winked. I slammed the door cutting his image from my range of vision. As I rushed by her desk, the receptionist looked up, astonished, tossing her head nervously and glancing back at the Doctor’s door. I broke into a run. I could hear her thin calls of “Miss Smith! Miss Smith!” following me as I raced out into the car park behind the clinic.

It took me a moment to realise that in my haste I had run out through the wrong door; I felt quite lost at first, standing there amongst the Audi’s and the BMW’s. I stumbled around for a moment, trying to find the way round to the front of the clinic. The sound of a car starting and the crunch of its tyres on the gravel seemed extraordinarily loud to me in my intense state of panic. Then I saw the road leading round the side of the clinic and ran thankfully towards it.

I was just rounding the corner when I heard a roar and screech behind me. I swung round and felt the whole of my body turn white with light from the glare of the head-lights, which were turned full on. I didn’t see the car. But I felt it. The metal grazed my elbow and leg as it swerved wildly. I didn’t feel any pain, just shock. I collapsed onto my knees by the roadside, staring ahead, stunned. I wondered how the car had managed to miss me – and had it really missed me? I couldn’t tell. Perhaps I was on my way up to heaven right now. Reason and proportion were absolutely lost on me. I was only aware of sensations – the dazzling glare of the headlights, the screech of the tyres, the wetness of the ground beneath me. And then, the excruciating harshness of the laugh which echoed around me, thin and piercing though it was.

“Alison, my dear! So sorry!” Dr. Lloyd-Jones exploded into another torrent of bubbling, hysterical laughter which I allowed to spill over me like the waters of life. I blinked at the thin, gawky figure kneeling beside me stupidly. It was nearly dark and I could just be imagining him. I could have imagined the whole incident… just like I had imagined Thomas right from the start. I stared at Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s grinning, quivering face, and knew that I was not imagining this. I could feel the cold water seeping through the bum of my jeans, and the viciousness of the drops smashing against my face. I wanted desperately to get up and run away, away from the nauseating Doctor, home to Thomas, but I could not trust my legs to bear my weight as they usually did. I shivered.

“My dear Alison, it was my fault entirely. Are you hurt?” I shook my head numbly as the Doctor put his arm firmly around me and led me to his car. I didn’t see the car but I could smell the leather of it’s seats; I was also aware that it had no roof for the rain continued to fall around me. “let me take you home. It’s the least I can do,” the Doctor chortled, climbing into the car himself. “Now, don’t worry. We’ll be home in no time. No time at all.”

The car set off with such a jerk that I had to cling to the black leather seat to stop myself from rolling right over the back and being deposited on the roadway. We turned out of the clinic onto Washway Road; then I was only aware of the air roaring in my ears and attempting to tug the hair from my head as we picked up speed. I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering how Dr. Lloyd-Jones could possibly see adequately – surely the rushing wind would cause his eyes to water profusely? There was darkness all around, except for the bright lights of passing cars, and a blurring of sound and sensation until it all mixed into one confusing state of being. Perhaps this was what Keats had meant by ‘negative capability’. I clung to the seat and allowed the speed to clear my brain.

I opened my eyes quickly as the car stopped. I could see only blackness and vague shadowy forms, and I could hear nothing. I had distant recollections of roaring wind in my head and bright light but now the absence of any sensations gave me only a feeling of falling. I was in a void, passing through time and space without a sound. Dr. Lloyd-Jones turned the engine off, and immediately the intense silence began to scream at me. I was compressed by it and preserved by it. I was metamorphosed by the total lack of anything on which to feed my senses. Something touched my face and I cried out. That tinkling, annoying laugh followed, sounding out of place and almost blasphemous towards the silence.

“Don’t be frightened, Alison.”

The voice seemed disembodied, floating out of the blackness and then being swallowed up by it. For the first time I began to feel definitely uneasy. I didn’t really want to be stuck here, with the obscene Dr. Lloyd-Jones, apparently nowhere near home. I moved my leg but the ache reminded me how close I had come to being run over by the malicious Doctor in his phantom roofless car. A movement high above caught my eye; I could just make out the gentle swinging of the tops of tall fir trees against the sky. Panic clutched my stomach. This seemed to be a forest!

“Where is this?”

I gasped, finding my voice.

There came an irritating giggle in reply, and a sudden flood of silvery light as the gibbous moon was revealed through scudding clouds for a moment. In that moment, I made out the dark giants of pine trees all around, watching; and I saw Dr. Lloyd-Jones sitting in the seat in front of me. He had twisted right round so that he was leaning over the back of the seat. His white hand gleamed dully yet beautifully, laid casually upon my knee. I couldn’t see his other hand; but I could feel it, stroking my face like a cobweb. The sensation made me shiver uncontrollably. And I could see his white teeth flashing like the Cheshire Cat’s perpetual grin. Then the moon disappeared abruptly, plunging us both into darkness once more.

“Dr. Lloyd-Jones,” I hissed fiercely, “take me home at once!”

“But Alison, I can’t do that. At least not yet.”

The Doctor’s smooth voice coiled itself around me like a Boa-Constrictor. His hand was on my shoulder, gentle and caressing. “I need you to tell me something first. I think you know what it is.”

For a moment fear floored me. He could kill me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know! And, of course, he wanted to know about Thomas. He wanted to know all about him. But I couldn’t betray my friendly vampire, not possibly!

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said feebly.

“Oh, now, I think you do. You’re going to tell me all about this vampire you know.”

The Doctor giggled again. “And don’t deny it I know that it’s true.”

I didn’t deny it. I knew it would be absolutely pointless. I felt drained, numb. My leg and elbow ached and I just wanted to get home and run into those dark folds of Thomas’s nocturnal cloak. I felt completely exhausted.

The silence stretched out and I closed my eyes. I hoped that maybe Dr. Lloyd-Jones had forgotten his demand and I could stay like this forever. I felt his delicate hand flicker around my throat and then suddenly dive inside my jumper. I sat up and tried to remove his hand from my breast by force but his fragile frame concealed a vicious strength which fought against me. Anger overwhelmed me, banishing my fear.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” I screamed.

Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s merry tones seemed unaffected by his physical exertions.

“Perhaps you could tell me about your vampire?” he suggested cheerfully.

I wondered frantically just how much he wanted to know. Anything, anything, just to get him away from me. Forgive me, Thomas, I thought desperately.

“Alright, yes, I know a vampire,”

I said, still struggling. Dr. Lloyd-Jones sighed happily and I knew that he was waiting for me to go on. “I know a vampire… called Thomas. He’s six hundred and thirty seven years old. And he comes from Romania. I finally managed to remove the Doctor’s creeping pale hand from my person. “Satisfied now?”

That horrible laugh again. I suppose that the Doctor must have clapped his hands together, for a small smacking sound permeated the darkness.

“Not quite, my dear, not quite,” he crowed joyfully. “I would like a little more information.”

“What for?” I demanded.

“Just interest, my dear,” he sang, “just interest.”

Of course I didn’t believe him. I could see his intentions as clear as daylight, and they were just what Thomas had always feared. He wanted to capture Thomas and show him off as The Doctor’s Discovery. He would keep my beloved vampire in a cage and force him to change into a bat before his audience’s eyes… And of course, he would never allow Thomas to be hurt or killed; he knew that Thomas longed for some freak accident to happen one day, or the murderous hand of some heaven-sent assassin to rob him of his unwanted eternal life. However unlikely these incidents may seem, Thomas clung to them, knowing that, by the laws of probability, one of them was bound to happen eventually.

As I thought of this I realised that I couldn’t possibly let Dr. Lloyd-Jones get his greedy little hands on Thomas, no matter what he might threaten to do to me. I caught the dull gleam of the Doctor’s hand as he raised it to his moustache, and I took my chance. I leapt out of the car, over the edge of the door, not wishing to fumble needlessly with the handle, and I landed with a thump on the carpet of pine-needles which layered the soft ground. As I lay there, I heard a car door click open. The moon emerged briefly and I saw clearly the bulk of Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s beautiful car gleaming in the moonlight. It reminded me of Cruella DeVille’s car in The 101 Dalmatians. Just before the moon vanished again, I glimpsed the gawky form of Dr. Lloyd-Jones climbing gracefully out of the car. I wasted no more time. I set off at a sprint through the wood, in which direction I did not know. My leg ached as I put pressure on it, but that did not bother me now. It was frightening, running headlong through darkness and complete silence. The thumps of my feet upon the pine-needles sounded hollow, like my heart. I kept running into tree trunks, tripping over roots and being slashed and impaled by malevolent branches. I ran on and on. The darkness seemed to stretch forever. After a while I slowed to a hasty walk when I thought that Dr. Lloyd-Jones had ceased to be so very close a danger. I began to fell chilly so I broke into a jog again. I could have been anywhere in the world. This place reminded me of the Black Forest in Germany, which Cassandra and I had visited last year on our tour of Europe. And, my word, it certainly was black. I could run with my eyes closed and it would make no difference, I still continued to collide with trees and branches.

After about an hour of stumbling through the undergrowth, the trees began to thin out and, as the moon briefly lit up the scene around me, I saw that I was on the edge of a dense pine forest which gave way eventually onto a bleak landscape of sloping ground, tufted here and there with brown grass which swayed in the wind. I recognised this desolate place vaguely but I couldn’t put a name to it. I memorised the landscape around me while I could still see it. Then, as darkness enveloped everything again, I set off down the slope towards a wall that I could just make out. I hoped that this wall would reveal, on its other side, some sort of civilization which I would be able to recognise for certain. As I wandered wearily through the darkness, it began to rain again. The ground turned to slippery mud beneath my feet.

When I finally reached the wall, I leant against it and waited patiently for the moon to show its face again. I hoped that somewhere along the wall would be a gate, or a stile, but I was not prepared to walk up and down searching for a way out, groping in the darkness. I would go by sight. While I waited I wondered about Thomas. He must be quite worried about me by now. At least. I hoped that he was.

After ten minutes my patience was rewarded by the moon throwing down its silvery light over everything for a few seconds. Quickly I scanned the stone wall and saw a wooden stile about ten feet to the left of me. I swore loudly and went to climb it. It was difficult, for it was high and, of course, completely dark. As I reached the top of the stile the moon came out and illuminated the landscape behind me. Immediately I recognised it. The bleak, barren hills… the muddy slopes… the stone walls… I glanced over my left shoulder and just glimpsed the dull shine of metal in the moonlight as its beams disappeared. I began to descend the stile carefully. This was Lyme Park - I had been here many times before, though not recently. But I still recognised it. And behind me was the Adventure Playground, which I had found so thrilling as a child. But Lyme Park was out near Disley, which was miles away from cosy little Timperley where Thomas would be waiting anxiously for me. I jumped off the stile and began to jog quickly across the car park. I prayed that Dr. Lloyd-Jones wasn’t lurking there in his beautiful but deadly car, waiting for me to emerge. But there appeared to be no-one there, so I began the long jog along the mile-long roadway through the park, the rain dripping down the inside of my neck and off the end of my nose.

I don’t know how I managed to summon up the strength to clamber over the main gate at the entrance which was padlocked shut. The park must have been closed for hours. A wave of anger swept over me as I realised that Dr,. Lloyd-Jones must have made his own hasty exit while the gate was still open, ages ago, cosy in his car. I held my watch up to the streetlight and was somewhat disappointed to discover that it was only ten to ten. It felt much later than that. Still. That meant that I could hopefully thumb a lift home. I raised myself wearily from the pavement, on which I had collapsed, and began to walk along the main road, my thumb a weary beacon beside me.

After ten minutes a Cortina car pulled up behind me. I ran over to it thankfully but, discovering that the driver was a man, hastily turned my back and ran down a side street and hid until the man had gone. I had had quite enough of men for one night. I was luckier with the next car. It was a Daimler driven by a wealthy-looking woman wearing a white fur coat. On the seat beside her were two little Labrador puppies, white like her coat. I wondered if there was any link. I still had Cruella DeVille in my mind. I sat on the edge of the luxurious seat, trying not to drip on the expensive upholstery. The woman dropped me at Wilmslow Road, where she lived, she explained. I watched the Daimler turn into the road which led up to Bruntwood park. The houses on that road were very exclusive, huge ranch-like mansions, with three or four cars parked on each forecourt, a Daimler or a Jaguar usually amongst them.

I was almost in Gatley when a man pulled up and offered me a lift. Although the driver was an old man, I figured that if I travelled in the back, I would be safe. So I sat amongst old carpets and tools (he was a carpet-layer) until I reached home. I tumbled out of the van, hardly able to believe that I was standing at the end of my road and there, just visible amongst the rooftops, was my house.

* * * * *

“What the Hell happened to you?”

Thomas stood outside the kitchen and stared at my dripping, mud-stained form. As I closed the front door behind me I found that I did not even have the energy to answer him. I went over to my friend and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“I’ll tell you afterwards,”

I said wearily. “Make us a cup of tea, will you? I’m going to have a bath.” I began to climb the stairs.

When I reappeared I felt more like talking. A hot cup of tea greeted me in the back room, and Thomas fetched his cloak from its place on the banisters and wrapped it around me. I closed my eyes and felt myself fall through space as the nocturnal folds encompassed me and I was the Queen of the Night again. I described these feelings to Thomas, who was totally unsurprised as if to feel anything else would have been bizarre.

“After all, it is a vampire’s cloak.”

He told me reproachfully. I was comforted to hear that my feelings were natural, anyway.

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to then?”

Thomas asked, after a while.

I sighed as I thought of what a long story it was going to be.

“Certainly I am,” I replied, “if you’re prepared to listen” Then a thought struck me and, setting my cup down firmly, I turned to Thomas. “Listen, you’re going to have to leave. You could go… abroad. He wants to capture you, he knows about you, I’m afraid I - I told him.” Thomas looked down at the carpet. I could see his knuckles tensed snow-white as he squeezed his hands together. “It’s just like you said,” I continued miserably, “these psychiatrists… they have ways and means… ”

There was silence as Thomas and I avoided each other’s eyes. I wanted to tell him that it was not too late, I hadn’t told Dr. Lloyd-Jones that much, and I had put up a struggle, at least… but I didn’t want to make myself look a hero. I certainly didn’t feel like one now. Thomas’s silence pointed accusing fingers at me… he didn’t have to say or do anything. The only slightly redeeming path open to me now was to simply launch into the full story of that evening’s events… which I did without delay.

Throughout my detailed explanation Thomas kept his eyes fixed upon what must have been a particularly fascinating area of the carpet. He didn’t interrupt at all so that when I neared the end of my story I felt as if I were talking to myself, not someone else. The silence afterwards supported this sensation; but Thomas brought himself into life at last by asking if I wanted another cup of tea. A little bewildered, I said yes, wondering just what was going through my friendly vampire’s mind at this moment. But, on reflection, I should have expected this; it was the way Thomas (and all vampires?) digested news – slowly and in a state of solitude. Perhaps this stemmed from six hundred odd years of living with and trusting only oneself. I admired Thomas’s self-possession and confidence in his own judgement. I didn’t trust myself at all. I knew how frequently I let myself down.

When Thomas returned he smiled vaguely at me as he sat down, as if trying to remember who I was. He stared at his own cup vacantly as I sipped my tea. I was waiting for him to break the silence, not me. I felt I had done quite enough talking for that evening.

“Tell me, Alison,” said Thomas at last, sounding uncharacteristically uncomfortable, as if the long silence – or my story - had embarrassed him. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Tell me – did you get hurt? When the car knocked you down?”

In reply I showed him the graze which ran down the outside of my right leg and the similar injury to my elbow. He looked briefly and turned away. I suddenly realised that he might feel a little responsible for Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s attack on me. I moved further up the sofa and grabbed his arm.

“Hey look, I hope I’m not making you feel guilty about any of this that’s happened.”

Thomas sighed deeply and dropped hid head into his pale, slim hand. For the first time I noticed a beautiful ruby ring on one of his delicate fingers. I wondered if it was real and if it was at all significant.

“Of course I feel guilty, I am responsible for all this.”

He stared at the carpet miserably. “I knew this would happen. You will be in danger now, because of me.”

I giggled.

“I don’t regard Dr. Lloyd-Jones as a very real ‘danger’. He can’t hurt me. Anyway, I’ll never see him again now.”

“Not a danger? He tried to run you over!” Thomas was full of indignation.

“OH, he didn’t. He didn’t want to hurt me. Why should he?”

I settled back on the sofa, pulling Thomas’s cloak tighter around me. “No, he just wanted me to tell him about you. You’re the one who’s in danger. He’s going to tell everyone what you really are and expose you as: The only living twentieth century vampire. You’d better go away – go back to Romania.”

“Oh, what’s the point?”

Thomas stood up and began his usual pacing up and down the room. I watched him through half-closed eyes. “Runningaway – to what? Another six hundred years, isolated from everything and everyone… from you… hunted all the time, and never to die… I don’t want to flee to Romania, the land of the Undead… and let it all start all over again.”

“But,”

I objected, “you don’t want to become the first vampire showpiece either, do you? You don’t want to be captured?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Well then, what’s the alternative? There is no alternative.”

“But there is.”

Thomas stopped and crossed the room quickly to me. He sat beside me, facing me, and his tortured eyes were full of such pleading that I almost began to consider what he was saying as a realistic option. “You can help me. You know you can. I can’t kill myself but if I could, you know I would. If you’ll do it… and you could… say you will, Alison, please.”

Something inside me wanted to agree to this wild, morbid act… but it was a very small something and it was swamped instantly by my reasoning (how would I do it?), my emotions (how would I bring myself to do such a thing to my beloved Thomas?) and, surprisingly, by my morality, which I didn’t even think existed (how could I bring myself to kill anyone?) No, my reaction was instantaneous. I stood up, pushing Thomas away.

Christ Thomas, not that again. Don’t mention it again. Don’t even think about it again. I think it’s totally selfish and unreasonable of you to go on and on at me about… such a horrific idea.”

I stroked his hair affectionately just to show that I was not really unforgivably outraged. If I considered it, which I did later, it was really a very reasonable request to make. But then my emotions would begin to scream, and I would have to banish every thought of murder from my mind. But while Thomas was present, I would have to refuse to even consider the idea. It was a tactic – a way of making up my mind alone… in true vampire style. I removed Thomas’s cloak from around me and draped it over the huddled, miserable figure. “Now, I’m going to bed,” I said firmly, walking wearily towards the door. Thomas looked even smaller and sadder from there. But I couldn’t allow his misery to affect me now, at least not too much. “It’s been a long day. I’m knackered.”

I began to climb the stairs again, weary once more – this time to my bed.
Now go to Chapter Eleven...

The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

The next day it rained. That, when I look back on it, could have been an omen, for it marked the beginning of something, a period in my life which I would prefer, now, to simply cut out and throw away. I can remember each day very clearly, every minute detail, standing out in my memory like Braille. I remember it rained. Every day, it rained.

That Thursday was showery but it remained warm. The grey clouds hung low, scraping the rooftops, pressing in so that no fresh air could get in, and no fresh air could get out. The town existed in a state of isolation, contained within the borders of these grey clouds like a coffin. A coffin lined with cushioned silk of a suffocating crimson.

I turned away from the window as Joseph hurried up. His hands were buried in his pockets, his bald dome gleaming like a boiled egg, an affable grin on his face. His teeth shone a pearly white against his olive skin, and I thought again how natural he was for a toothpaste advert. He could make an easy fortune that way.

“Well then.” He sauntered up to me and took my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I followed him along the corridor, grateful for his company. Unlike Cassandra, his attitude towards me had not changed in the least since their betrayal of me to the nurse and my subsequent hostility and anger towards them both. In fact he seemed to either be unaware of the whole incident, or maybe he just tactfully ignored it. He never mentioned my visits to the psychiatrist, or my tales of vampires, both of which he must have known about through Cassandra. However, his silence about these events was tempered by a gentle concern and support, which I appreciated. In some ways I saw him as a much dearer friend than Cassandra. I loved his quiet but thoughtful company; which was why I had asked him to come with me to the nurse today. I needed moral support. The ordeal in front of me appeared terrible that day, I don’t know why. It was only the ceremonial removing of the dressing from my burned arm.

As we approached the sick room, Joseph ceased to whistle ‘Two Little Boys’ and nudged me gently. “Cassandra told me about your friend. Thomas, is it?” Absently he dodged a hippy, an acquaintance of James’, who was approaching at a gallop, beads swinging. The hippy shot past, disappearing finally around the corner of the corridor. “Apparently she met him the other day.”

“Yep, she did, “I said. I could just imagine Cassandra going into raptures over the incredibly beautiful and enigmatic Thomas. I smiled to myself, I suddenly wanted Joseph to meet him. “You should meet him,” I told my friend impetuously.

Joseph nodded.

“I should like that very much.” We halted outside the door of the sick room and he knocked firmly. “According to Cassandra he sounds a… fascinating character.”

I laughed.

“What did she say?”

“Oh… just that he was… let’s see… an incredibly beautiful and enigmatic figure. She put him on the same level as Humphrey Bogart and Lord Byron.”

“Well, she’s right for once.”

From inside the sick room the nurse called “Come in!”

Joseph opened the door, glancing at me and raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

“I can’t think why you keep him hidden away then.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say something like, ‘well, he has this problem concerning daylight, you see,’ but I kept my mouth shut, and followed Joseph into the antiseptic atmosphere of the sick room.

The nurse sat at her desk, her plump form swathed in white linen like a mummy. She saw me, beamed, and stood up.

“Well then, Alison! Time for the great unveiling! How is it feeling? All right? Good. On the bed, dear.” I perched on the end of the bed, holding my arm out obediently. The nurse bent over me, reaching into her apron pocket for her scissors. She glanced at Joseph, who was leaning against the door, watching. “You’re Joseph aren’t you? I remember you coming in with that sprained wrist. Basketball, wasn’t it?”

“I was only watching actually. I got hit by the ball.”

The nurse laughed raucously as she removed my bandage.

“I remember now. Dangerous, these sports.” She was silent as she cleaned my skin, which was bright red, like raw meat. “This is much better. Much better. Leave it to the air now.” She leaned towards me. I could see the streaks of white in her hair and the eternal spot near her eye. “He your boyfriend now?” she whispered, nodding towards Joseph.

I giggled, catching Joseph’s horrified expression which, luckily, the nurse couldn’t see...

“No, honest, he’s just offering me moral support,” I told her.

“What for? You’re surely not frightened of having a bandage removed?” The nurse shook her head, scandalised. “Honestly, students. No backbone. Whatever are you like when you’re in real pain?”

“Oh, I’m all right then,” I reassured her.

“Well, there you go then.” The nurse stood back, clearing away the old dressing. “It’ll be alright now. Off you go.”

As I followed Joseph through the door she caught my elbow in her pink, plump hand.

“Oh, Alison,” she said in a low, carefully casual tone. “I forgot to ask. How’s it going with the psychiatrist? You are going, aren’t you?”

“Not any more,” I said firmly. “There’s no point. I’m not going any more.” I smiled at the nurse’s frowning, worried countenance. “But I’m feeling much better now, don’t worry.”

The nurse withdrew her hand cheerfully and watched Joseph and I leave. I had surprised myself. I hadn’t realised that my mind was so firmly made up concerning my visits to Dr. Lloyd-Jones. But, now I thought of it, there did seem very little point in seeing him any more, particularly now he was getting so very curious regarding Thomas. I didn’t want to get my friendly vampire into any trouble… and surely continuing to see the doctor would be tempting fate in that direction.

As Joseph and I walked along the corridor a splatter of raindrops blew noisily against the window. I linked my arm in Joseph’s. It looked as if the grey clouds had begun, at last, to release their burden.

* * * *

That evening I was teaching Thomas how to make savoury pancakes when the phone rang. I stalked through into the front room and snatched up the receiver. I hated being interrupted in the middle of anything.

“Yes?” I barked crisply. I imagined that it would probably be my mother, dithering about some domestic triviality, or, worse still, my father, demanding that the house be looked after properly from now on. But it was neither. A cultured, smooth voice answered.

“Yes, yes, indeed! Hello there, Alison! And how are you, my dear?”

Recognising Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s happy tones immediately, I sank down in an armchair, shoving Bosworth grumpily aside.

“Alison, I hope you can come tomorrow. I’ve made an appointment for you. I’d like very much to see you.”

I gazed dully at Chatterton, laying in peaceful repose across that bed. The harsh electric light glanced off the glass, causing the painting to be partly concealed behind blocks of dazzling sheens. It was time to move that painting, I decided. It had hung on that wall long enough. I would move it upstairs, in the back room. It would cover up that damp patch above the bed.

“Dr. Lloyd-Jones,” I said flatly, “I’m afraid I won’t be coming any longer.”

The doctor’s tone was indignant.

“But, Alison! May I ask why?”

I searched in my mind for an answer.

“I don’t want to. I don’t see any point.”

“You don’t see any point!”

The bubbling, tinkling laughter trickled down the phone like a stream. “But that’s ridiculous. You need these sessions, Alison.”

“Like Hell.”

“Oh, but you do! You do! You need to talk. I can feel we’re getting there.”

“I don’t think I need… ”

“But are you a Doctor? How can your judgement be trusted?” There was a pause, in which I guessed the Doctor was popping a barley-sugar in his mouth. “We’re getting there. One more meeting. Tomorrow, at five-thirty?”

The phone went dead and I stared at it, hostile. Suddenly I didn’t trust Dr. Lloyd-Jones any farther than I could have thrown him. His hysterical laughter grated on my nerves and caused me to shudder inside. His probing questions cornered me until I felt like screaming. Rape! Yes, that’s what it was. A gross invasion of my privacy.

Thomas walked in, then, wiping his white hands on a tea-towel. He had hung up his cloak for the time and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He looked at my figure slumped in the armchair, the dead receiver still in my hand. He cleared his throat.

“Now, I’ve mixed in the egg… what do I do next?” Sensing my misery, he came over to me, gently loosening my grip on the telephone receiver and placing it back on the hook. “Alison, what’s the matter? Who was it?”

I smiled wearily.

“I have to go back to see Dr. Lloyd-Jones tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Thomas squatted down by the armchair, his dark eyes searching my face. “You just told me you weren’t going any more. There’s no reason to go back, is there?”

“Not really. But he says it’s the last time.”

“And after that?”

“After that…”

I stared over Thomas’s shoulder without seeing. He had been right. Never, ever trust a psychiatrist! Not wishing to alarm my friendly vampire unduly, I had not told him the complete content of my conversation with the wily doctor… suffice it to say that I had told him I simply was not going back. But, one last time… and after that…

”after that I shall never ever go within three thousand miles of a psychiatric clinic again. In fact, I shall run away. To Romania. With you. And we’ll live in sin for ever and ever.”

Thomas smiled.

“Sounds great.”

I stood up, picking Bosworth up and re-establishing him in his usurped seat. I took Thomas’s hand and led him back into the kitchen.

“Then,” I told him, “Then, you add the milk a little at a time.” Thomas followed me, silently. “Then you beat it.”
Now go to Chapter Ten...

The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

I finished college at five the next day and walked straight to the psychiatric clinic. I was over an hour late (my appointment had been for three forty), but I had forgotten about my History lesson, for some reason. I felt that I could not miss it again as I had been absent on Monday. Anyway, I was unable to see Dr. Lloyd-Jones as the type of person who would have stuck very rigidly to the appointment system – though I fully expected the disapproval of his horse-headed receptionist.

I got it, alright. I followed her immaculately filed nail down the list of names until it stopped, accusingly, at mine. The lovely looking receptionist shook her yellow mane fiercely and snorted, staring at me. She was wasted in Timperley, she was made to be a soap opera extra in Dallas. I smiled at her blandly.

“Your appointment was an hour and a half ago, Miss Smith,” she said reproachfully. She seemed to have taken my lack of punctuality as a personal insult.

“Yes, I know,” I explained patiently, “I’ll apologise to Dr. Lloyd-Jones, don’t worry.”

The receptionist tossed her head again, her arrogant stallion blood bubbling to the surface.

“Miss Smith, I’m afraid you can’t possibly turn up this late and expect to see the Doctor. It’s out –“

“Ah, Alison!”

I turned to see Dr. Lloyd-Jones grinning at me from the doorway of his office. He stepped back, gesturing theatrically for me to enter the room. “I’ve been expecting you. Come in. Come in.”

I went in, shooting a final, triumphant glance at the receptionist. She looked away, tossing her head as if she didn’t care, but I knew that she did. I grinned and rubbed my hands in glee, entering the doctor’s den.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I said, sitting down in my familiar cushioned chair and glancing at the grey brain floating in its solution of formaldehyde. The room was pleasant in the late afternoon; the sun streamed weakly in through the window, throwing it’s slanting beams across the desk and floor. Dr. Lloyd-Jones shut the door and strolled round behind the desk, smiling faintly, his hands in his pockets.

“Late? Are you?” He glanced quickly at his watch. “Dear me yes, you are a bit.”

As I had thought, he showed not the slightest concern, unlike horse-face.

“Ah, well. Let’s begin then! Like a barley sugar?”

I took one politely and returned to my chair. There was a long silence which I felt unable to fill; I had nothing to say… nothing that is, which would not lead me to mention Thomas, either directly or indirectly, intentionally or unintentionally. It was strange, this knowledge that you must avoid a certain topic at all costs… suddenly my entire range of conversation dried up… it was not that I could not talk about anything except Thomas… but it certainly felt that way. I sat there, chewing on my barley sugar, examining my Doc Marten’s critically. Dr. Lloyd-Jones also sat in silence, chewing and watching me above the pyramid formed by his fingertips, which were pressed together pensively.

“Well, how do you feel?” he asked finally.

I looked up sharply, my eyes meeting his. He sniggered.

“I’m… very well, thank you,” I answered awkwardly. There descended yet another long, still pause. “How are you?”

“Oh wonderful, wonderful.” Dr. Lloyd-Jones smiled widely, swinging on his chair, his teeth flashing in the sunlight. He seemed reluctant to talk about himself today, even though I was also reluctant to talk about myself. The doctor continued to stare and smile at me, drumming his immaculate fingers on his desktop. I wondered if we were just going to sit here in silence until it was time to go. The idea began to appeal to me; but the doctor seemed suddenly gripped with the desire for conversation – or perhaps monologue, for I didn’t enter very actively into the discussion at first.

“You say you feel better?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And you’re… sleeping better?” The doctor said raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

“I’ve already said I am.”

“And…” Dr. Lloyd-Jones leaned across the desk resting his chin carefully on top of the tank containing the hideous, yet fascinating portion of cerebral anatomy. “Tell me Alison, how is your vampire?”

I gazed into those piercing, permanently happy eyes, sucking on my barley sugar frantically. This was an entirely new strategy, where, if anywhere, was this leading to?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I stammered finally. I found that I could not meet the doctors’ dancing gaze any longer.

“How strange.” He whirled round on his swivel chair, pushing with his pointed shoe like a child on a roundabout.

“And you told me, only the other day, that you had seen a vampire in your dream. I wouldn’t have thought that you would forget a vision of such a creature in a hurry.”

There was no malice in his voice, but I felt trapped. I remembered Thomas’s effortless lies and fabrications the night before to Cassandra; and I thought desperately, why couldn’t I do that? Why must it always be so difficult for me to protect Thomas’s skin? Mercilessly the doctor continued in his casual tone, still spinning like a child’s toy behind his desk.

“Also, I read in your notes that you – let’s see " He ceased to turn, bending over my case notes idly, “- you were very persistent in your claims that you had seen and had contact with a vampire.”

“Who told you that?”

Dr. Lloyd-Jones smiled indulgently.

“A reliable source.”

I was silent. I couldn’t think straight.

“Is it true?”

“Of course, it’s not bloody true!”

“Well, why did you say it then?”

I sighed; I didn’t understand why I couldn’t handle this. I wished that Thomas were with me now to tell those terrible lies with ease and grace.

“Look, why do you think I’m here? I’m ill, aren’t I? I thought that I saw a vampire… it was in my head.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Look, what is this?” I stood up and approached the doctor’s desk angrily. He continued to lean towards me, watching and smirking insolently, I banged my fist down on the table in front of him, and he winced slightly. “I thought you were a doctor! I thought that the idea was to make me better! So, why are you trying to convince me that my… hallucinations were real? Why are you trying to confuse me?”

“Am I confusing you? I’m sorry.”

Dr. Lloyd-Jones picked up a silver fountain pen from beside the photo of his family and began to roll it back and forth, along the desktop. I watched it, fuming but mesmerised. The doctor coughed sharply. “Do sit down, Alison, you’re making me quite nervous.

Still watching the pen, I sat down. I felt numb, and yet utterly confused. Here I was trying desperately to deny the existence of someone I knew existed, to a person who was trying to convince me that the someone really did exist. No wonder I was confused.

“You’re wrong anyway,” the doctor told me, picking the pen up and holding it between his delicate white fingers, as if it were an ancient archaeological treasure. He stroked his neat black moustache thoughtfully, smiling gently beneath it. “I am not a doctor so I am not trying to make you feel better. As a psychiatrist, I am attempting to make you see, perceive and cope with the reality around you.”

“Does that include vampires?” I muttered, sullenly.

“If that is part of reality, then yes.”

“But it’s not!” I cried, exasperatedly. “Anyone can tell you, vampires are not real!”

“Only because they haven’t seen one.” Dr. Lloyd-Jones swivelled in his chair until he was facing the print of The Nightmare. He gazed at the Gothic monstrosity, pensively. “Once you see something with your own eyes, it becomes part of reality.”

I said nothing. This conversation seemed to have taken a definite, dangerous plunge into the murky depths of philosophy. Questions concerning the reality of existence were always best left to experts like Descartes and Plato, I had always thought. I wanted to leave, but at the same time I didn’t. Here, at last, was someone who was prepared to believe in Thomas, but I couldn’t say anything… I had promised. ‘Never trust a psychiatrist’, Thomas had told me ominously; so I was forced to keep silent whilst the doctor gazed at Fuseli’s painting, smiling to himself.

“I would be quite prepared to believe in your vampire friend, you know, I am no sceptic,” he told me quietly, pressing his fingertips together in front of his chin. “If he is a part of your existence, then don’t deny his reality. Don’t you think you owe that to him, at least? I would very much like to meet him, I find I believe in him already!” He giggled, delighted. “May I meet him?”

I stood up. I was suddenly convinced that this desire to meet a vampire was linked with the doctor’s morbid obsession with death that runs like a vein of Blue John all through his satanic family. Those stuffed creatures became menacing, pressing on the sides of their tanks, infected with that vampire un-deadness. And would Thomas’s hollow body be propped on a hat stand and placed in the most favourite position, just inside the front door? No… I could stop this; I must not allow the doctor to see Thomas as any cost. Though I didn’t know how to even begin arguing against Thomas’s existence now, perhaps the best move would be to simply leave quickly. I walked to the door and opened it. When I looked back, the doctor was still gazing blissfully into the depths of the painting on the wall.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t meet my friend,” I said quietly. I hesitated, wondering if I was being firm enough.

The doctor didn’t even look up. “Goodbye then.”

I shut the door quietly behind me and left the clinic.
Now go to Chapter Nine...

The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

The afternoon sunlight came in through the window of the classroom, catching on Mr. Henry’s glasses as he pushed them back on the bridge of his nose with great care. He looked up and gazed slowly around the room.

“Of course, that graveyard scene, with the noble prince with his skull has become the great classic of the tragic nature of this play… which we all know by now don’t we?”

As he looked around the room once again turning his head very slowly so that his greasy black hair shone like new leather his magnified eyes swam behind the thick lenses, obviously a source of great pride to him.

I stuffed my hand into my mouth quickly – I couldn’t help it, how could I possibly take him seriously? Beside me Cassandra nudged me in the ribs.

“I see he’s got his glasses mended. Thank God”. She remarked lazily.

I could only answer her mutely as I bit down on the side of my hand… so hard that it reminded me of Thomas’s fangs.

Mr. Henry droned on and on, his words fast losing shape in the tedium of that Friday afternoon feeling.

Mr. Henry cleared his throat sharply, raising his voice suddenly.

“Alison, please do share the joke with us. Obviously something I’ve said amuses you.”

“It … it … it’s just so funny,” I spluttered.

Mr. Henry glared at me icily and nodded slowly. Beside me, infected by my mirth, Cassandra had begun to giggle.

“Obviously.” Mr.. Henry folded his arm slowly. “Obviously it’s just… so… funny. But what is ‘it’?” He leant on his desk, attempting to look cool and witty. “Let me see now… what sort of incident would our good friend Alison find so entertaining. Hamlet’s love for his father? His hatred for his step-father? His death? Ophelia’s death?”

“That’s it!” I jumped to my feet, still grinning. “Ophelia’s death. Your suggestion that it may have been brought on by herself, that’s funny. It’s outrageous! It’s so obvious that men drove her to her death, can’t you see that?”

I dissolved into laughter again. Mr. Henry stared at me, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk nervously. His eyes darted around, swimming like frightened minnows behind the new lenses. He knew that he was being made to look a fool but he could do nothing about it.

* * * *

Later, in the canteen, Cassandra and I sat eating our lunch. We went over the events in our English Literature lesson that morning and laughed again. When a silence fell, Cassandra put her elbows carefully onto the table and cleared her throat. She wore at least twenty multicoloured bangles that slipped noisily down her arm.

“Al,” she said, gazing intently at her empty paper cup, “I wondered if – you know – if you’d been to … you know, you said you were going to go … I wondered?”

“The psychiatrist?” I supplemented helpfully.

Cassandra nodded gratefully, her rainbow shaped earrings bouncing in relief. I looked away, all my previous hostility concerning this subject had gone, or at least faded but I still had to tread very carefully around the subject of Thomas – who was, as I had promised him, a figment of my imagination after all.

“I saw the psychiatrist yesterday,” I told my friend, as casually as I could. “Dr. Lloyd-Jones, he was alright, a bit odd but I feel much better.”

Cassandra nodded, smiling warmly.

“You seem much better.” There was a pause as Cassandra studied her mulberry painted fingernails. “What did you talk about?” she asked.

I shrugged vaguely.

“Oh … things … you know.”

“Did you mention… your friendly vampire?” She smiled secretly and I smiled uncomfortably back.

“Oh him… I mean that,” I muttered, thinking desperately. “It’s… it’s a bit embarrassing really. It was…” I shrugged again “… all in my head, I suppose.”

Cassandra nodded slowly, she broke the plastic teaspoon carefully before she spoke.

“You were very insistent that this bloke was a real vampire,” she said. “He was living with you, wasn’t he? Thomas, was that his name?”

“Yes, Thomas that’s right.”

There was another pause and I realized that I would have to explain more fully.

“Well, you see, there is a bloke called Thomas and he is living with me, only he’s… he’s not … a… vampire.” I felt sure that she would see through my lie. It all sounded so terribly weak to me. “I don’t know why I said he was, how could he be? There’s no such thing as vampires. They’re just a myth.”

Cassandra was silent. Her many rings sparkled under the electric lights, rather like Thomas’s fangs had done the previous night. Then she looked up at me, her smile returning.

“It’s just a myth, as we all know.” She gazed at me, curious now. “So what’s this Thomas like? Describe him.”

“I can’t.” I felt temporarily floored. “You’d have to meet him.”

“Tonight?”

I sighed. Cassandra rose from the table and I knew that the decision had already been made. Yet again it was all out of my hands. My destiny was already drawn up. What had I let Thomas and myself in for now?

“Alright, tonight,” I agreed miserably.

* * * *

Cassandra and I arrived at my house in the middle of the afternoon. The sunny weather had remained and I had left all of the upstairs windows open to air the rooms. A fresh breeze was blowing, stronger than yesterday and the curtains billowed out gently through the open windows like different coloured flags, marking each separate territory. We entered the house and made ourselves each a chocolate milk shake, intending then to go out and sit in the garden. But upon thinking that I heard footsteps on the stairs and voices, I went out into the hall to investigate and almost collided with my father as he came down the stairs. He glared at me, his blue eyes cold and hard like pebbles on the beach and then turned to a small, smartly dressed man behind him.

“Mr. Whittaker, this is my daughter Alison, who is living here at the moment. Alison, this is Mr. Whittaker, the valuer from the Estate Agents.”

The tiny, dapper chap smiled politely and nodded his balding head. I towered a full foot above him and I could tell that this fact unnerved him. He fidgeted with his thin black tie, I noticed that there were patches of sweat that were spreading, like cancer, beneath the arms of his pale blue shirt and his fingertips were stained with nicotine. I took a gulp of my milk shake as I studied him.

“Good day,” I said casually, “I hope you find everything… presentable.”

I caught my dad’s eye at last and we stared arrogantly at each other for a while. He was the first to look away. Even so, he was bound to have found something to criticize. Surreptitiously I glanced at the damp patch of wine on the wall of the front room. It was faded – you could hardly see it now. I was glad that I had been out while those two business-like idiots had tramped round the house, scrutinizing everything, missing nothing and valuing it all. The idea of selling the house seemed suddenly abhorrent to me; it was my castle after all.

“Mr. Whittaker was just leaving,” my dad told me grimly, avoiding my eye very carefully. He opened the front door and stepped back politely.

I raised my glass as the tiny shrew-like man stepped through it, still smiling nervously and sweating.

“Good day,” I said again.

Cassandra had made a quick exit out of the back door when she had heard my father’s voice. I followed her out into the garden and we sat beneath the apple tree, sipping our milk shakes. Bosworth came over and flopped down on the grass next to us, leaping up to snap at flies every so often. Cassandra laughed at him, teasing him by throwing bits of earth into the air and watching him grab and swallow them without even appearing to notice that they were not, after all, flies.

“When’s Thomas coming round then?” she asked after a while.

“Later,” I answered, glancing automatically at the shed. It was bizarre to think that Thomas was already here, lying in a deep sleep in his coffin, not twenty feet from us. I wondered how Cassandra would react if I showed her my vampire in his sleeping state but Thomas would never forgive me, I abandoned the idea. Then my father came out of the house, that beautiful Byronic scowl on his face. His thick eyebrows were pulled low over his shifty, mean eyes; his face was one of extraordinary contradictions and angles, smattered with features that did not belong there, nothing matched. The face itself, was quite lethally geometric and bony; grey like a pebble washed by the sea, yet the cheeks were rosy, the eyes bright; thin almost emaciated, as far as the neck. Then something happened to my fathers’ body; it expanded alarmingly and grew squat, rotund. The buttons of his shirt clung to their respective buttonholes for dear life, stretched taut across his expansive middle. But in contradiction to this roundness, his arms and legs were long and bony. Taken as a whole, he strongly resembled a beetle. Every piece of his torso seemed independent and out of proportion to the rest; it was as if he had been sewn together from all sorts of different bits and pieces, a second Frankenstein’s monster. I remember he used to terrify me as a child, now he just irritated me.

My dad saw Cassandra and nodded at her, dismissively but it was me that he was making a beeline for. I stifled a sigh and thought of what potential state of neglect I could have overlooked in the house, a pot out of place? An ashtray not emptied? A coffin in the shed? Almost dropping milk shake in panic, I tried to force myself to be calm. I could bluff my way out of this. I fixed my face into a casual, insolent smile.

“You,” my father began, shaking a finger at me, “are not fit to live alone in this house.”

I kept smiling, yawning deliberately as he elaborated on this accusation.

“How many times must I remind you that this house is not yours, it’s mine. I’ve got to sell it and you’re supposed to be responsible about it. I told your Mum you’re obviously not responsible but, oh no, she says you’re nineteen, you’re quite responsible enough.”

“Well, she’s right,” I said, throwing a daisy in the air and watching Bosworth eat it.

“Is that what you think? Well, I don’t, I certainly don’t.” My father folded his arms across his barrel-like chest and glanced around the garden, presumably to help him concentrate, while avoiding my eye. “Don ‘t you think that it’s completely irresponsible, not to mention bloody dangerous, to go out and leave all the windows open? What are you trying to do, invite a burglar in? You’re certainly making sure that he’d feel welcome!”

I couldn’t help it, I thought of the night Thomas broke in. The house certainly wasn’t secure against visitors from beyond the grave. I glanced at Cassandra, who had spluttered on a mouthful of milk shake and was trying to disguise her titters in a sudden coughing fit.

“Dad, no one would break into any of these houses in the daytime, someone would see them. These houses… they’re so close together and they’re so nosy round here,” I added maliciously.

“That’s the kind of attitude that house-breakers must adore,” my father told me smugly. After a slight pause, he went on to the next item he had found to criticise. “Now, there’s something missing. A vase, pale pink I think it was, or orange, from the hall.”

“Ah,” I said guiltily. I must have been mad to think that my dad wouldn’t notice its absence. “That, well it was an accident, Bosworth did it. I didn’t realise that it was worth anything.”

My father nodded, pleased that he had me at his mercy. He even met my eye; he must have felt at quite an advantage, both morally and physically, as I remained seated in the grass at his feet.

“Everything in this house is worth something, my girl, remember that. Your mother was very fond of that ornament; I don’t care whose fault it was.” There was another silence; perhaps the lecture was over now. But my father remained where he was, stroking his gaunt chin thoughtfully. The lines on his face caused the skin to look like a piece of origami sculpture. His withering, grey hair was ruffled in the wind and he looked like a character from a children’s picture book, Grandpa on the ranch.

“Another thing,” he said slowly, “the shed.”

I grabbed hold of the rickety wooden fence behind me, feeling the earth move beneath me. My empty glass hit the grass with a thump and rolled into Bosworth, who leapt up, startled. I felt sure that I had gone as pale as Thomas, the blood draining away like water going down a plughole. What now? What now? How could I explain a coffin in my shed? Or what if my dad opened it? How did I explain a sleeping vampire in my shed?

“Tell me,” said my dad, his perpetual scowl deepening, folding his face with neat creases like a newspaper, “what on earth is that huge crate? It looks like… some sort of… cupboard… very heavy…”

I caught my breath.

“You didn’t try to lift it?”

“Well… not lift it… just shift it but it weighs a ton. Alison, what is it?”

The killer question. Luckily I was good at thinking under pressure. My mind raced ahead of time.

“Well, it’s a sort of big chest. Someone I know gave it to me. It used to be their grannies.”

“Very nice, I’m sure.” My dad gave me one of his condescending glances. “But why is it in my shed?”

“It’s… just temporary. I don’t want to leave it out in the garden, do I now? It’ll get warped in the rain. I want to put things in it eventually.”

“You mean it’s empty? I tried to open it but it seems to be locked. Why’s it so heavy then?”

Relief overwhelmed me. I hadn’t considered that vampires would lock their coffins, by whatever means, once inside but it was logical really. I was beginning to feel quite secure with this story of the ancient treasure chest. I picked up my glass and stood up, I felt better. I could look down on my father now and he quickly looked away. I began to stroll inside.

“It’s heavy because… the wood it’s made from, I suppose. It’s very old, very well made. I’ll get it moved sometime. Come on Cassandra.”

“That wasn’t true, was it? About the old, terribly well made chest?” Cassandra tasted the stew and grimaced. She sprinkled black pepper and garlic salt into the mixture. “What’s in it really? Opium?”

I sat on top of one of the worktops nearby, buttering bread. I felt truly relaxed now that my father was gone. I hadn’t realised what a vast amount of stress parents, particularly my parents, put on their children. I would probably have suffered a coronary at nineteen if I had stayed at home, or been driven to an early suicide; arsenic and water of course, like Chatterton.

“It was true, actually. The chest is empty.”

“Alison.” I nearly fell off my precarious perch. I hadn’t heard Thomas creep in and, besides that, I hardly recognised him. He had tied his hair back into a ponytail and borrowed my maroon jumper from my wardrobe, discarding his cloak. I wondered if he had flown upstairs in the form of a bat, when he had glimpsed Cassandra through the window. If this was so, I would have thought that he would have taken a long walk elsewhere, preferring to avoid my curious friends. But clearly, the ways of the vampire were diverse and secretive.

“Oh, Cassandra,” I explained hastily, gesturing with my knife, “this is Thomas.”

Cassandra was already gazing at Thomas, transfixed. She continued to stir the stew mechanically.

“Hello there,” she said slowly, stammering a little; or was that my imagination? Was I not the only one who found Thomas an imposing, disturbing figure then? It appeared not. For the first time I saw Thomas, not as a vampire belonging exclusively to me in my own world, but as a person, a friend, spreading his bat like wings into other people’s sphere of consciousness. I saw him, as I think Cassandra must have seen him, a towering, gaunt figure, with terribly pale skin, hollow dark eyes set in a fragile face; a morose figure, probably a phlegmatic, melancholy character with tendencies towards the macabre and general bouts of moodiness. All this, we would have seen, a man without his shroud, his epidermis, his mysterious nocturnal cloak which would have given him away as what he really was, a vampire.

“Ah, you must be Cassandra, then.” Thomas smiled slightly so as not to reveal his fangs and gave a little theatrical bow. Of course, Cassandra was delighted. A fellow follower of drama at last! I noticed that Thomas was also trying to disguise his accent but he wasn’t very successful.

“You’re foreign, aren’t you?” Asked Cassandra. “Where do you come from?”

Thomas was not in the least bit thrown. That evening I was to become aware of just how good a liar he was.

“I was born in Poland,” he said effortlessly. “I have lived here for… fourteen years but I still retain a little of my accent.”

“You must tell me about Poland.” Cassandra tasted the stew again, her bangles clattering to her elbow as she raised her arm and she turned to me. “Al, this is ready.”

“Right,” I said, leaping off the table.

* * * *

We spent the rest of the evening sitting in the back room and talking. I was greatly impressed at Thomas’s extensive knowledge of all aspects of the Polish community, country and life. Later I realised that he was probably just describing Romania; the chances were that Cassandra would never find out the difference, anyway. I could tell she was completely infatuated by Thomas, not in a lustful or soppy sense; but she hung on every word of his conversation. While at the same time treating him with a mixture of respect, curiosity and friendliness, which was a rare brew to be found in Cassandra’s attitude towards others at any time but I knew exactly how she felt. Thomas carried the magnetic quality, an idiosyncratic charisma like a torch wherever he went; and the magic enchanted every acquaintance he made; a witch’s spell that never failed. I half expected Cassandra to bring up the subject of my visit to the psychiatrist at any time, and consequently vampires but she seemed to be avoiding that topic pretty neatly. I thought that, perhaps she didn’t think that Thomas knew that I had ‘ah … problems’.

Towards one o’clock, I collected up the many empty cups and went out into the kitchen to make one last cup of tea. Cassandra and Thomas were engaged in an intricate conversation concerning equal pay for women. I was glad that Cassandra so obviously liked Thomas. I suddenly wanted to take him into college and show him off to all my friends, like a new dress. Then I realised that this would be impossible, due to college only being open during daylight hours. Bosworth wound himself around my ankles, mewing pitifully. I slopped some Whiskas into his bowl and bent down to put it on the floor for him. That cat had such strange meal times. As I crouched in the kitchen doorway, watching my orange cat munch happily, I realised that I could hear Cassandra and Thomas quite clearly. I tried to figure out the scientific reason for this but I couldn’t so I gave up and listened instead.

I was interested to discover that my two friends had left the subject of monetary feminism behind and had turned instead, to me. Was there a link?

“I wondered if you knew.” That was Cassandra.

“Yes, I’m quite aware.” Thomas’s reply was quick and casual; I knew that they must be discussing my psychiatric treatment. This annoyed me a little, why couldn’t they discuss it in front of me?

“I hope you don’t think that I’m nosey… it’s none of my business really…”

No, Cassandra, it isn’t I thought fiercely.

“It’s just that it… it fascinates me a bit I suppose, in a funny way. She seemed so convinced that you… you were a … a vampire.”

There was a stunned silence and I had a sudden urge to giggle.

“A… what?” Thomas’s shock and disbelief were superb.

Cassandra tittered nervously.

“Well, a vampire. You know, one of those blokes who sleeps all day in a coffin and goes round drinking blood.”

I held my breath, if Cassandra thought… if she just considered a moment… then she would realise. The massive, suspicious chest in the garden shed… the paleness… the foreign accent… beneath that silly maroon jumper was a real, live vampire.

“She denies it now, admits it was all in her mind but at the time she… she really seemed to believe it.”

I heard a sound then, that I didn’t recognise; then I realised that Thomas was laughing; a low hard laugh that I could tell was accompanied by a shaking of the head.

“A vampire? Dear, dear me. Poor Alison, she is quite ill.”

I shoved my fist into my mouth to stop myself from screaming, that appalling, patronising tone! I knew that Thomas was only acting, but – Christ – he was such a bloody accomplished actor!

“I’m sorry,” said Cassandra “I didn’t mean to be telling tales, I thought you knew. I thought it might be… a private joke.”

“I didn’t know, I wouldn’t joke at Alison’s expense. Not about something like this anyway.” Thomas’s voice became contorted with horror and loathing. “Vampires are monsters, you know. I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”

The kettle whistled and straightening up, I went to turn the gas off. Vampires are monsters I kept thinking. Was that really how Thomas thought of himself? A horrible, horrific monster? Or was that part of the act as well? Still, Thomas had well and truly thrown Cassandra off the trail, now. The one who I was trying to protect supported her belief in my mental illness. The situation was bizarre and ludicrous. All this lying and acting, fake stories and pretend illnesses, deception and intrigue, and what was it all for? To protect a vampire from the world! I smiled to myself, placing the teapot on the tray. Piling cups alongside, I picked up the tray and breezed into the back room, avoiding Bosworth who insisted on running back and forth in zigzags just in front of my feet.
Now go to Chapter Eight