The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

“Look, what’s the matter with you, Alison? Insomnia or what? It’s like talking to a bloody corpse!”

I blinked and looked up. Cassandra’s beautiful black eyes stared back at me, awaiting an answer. Heavy emerald coloured beads hung from her ears, tugging the delicate lobes downwards. Her eyes were lined with the same luscious green and there were green ribbons nestling in her mass of hair, green slippers on her feet and a rich green and scarlet scarf tied around her waist. My own eyes felt weak at this vision of intense colour and they gently shut again. The noise of the canteen faded around me to a gentle murmur of voices, saying ‘go to sleep Alison, go to sleep’. I decided, for once, to obey without argument.

Suddenly a fist fell with fury just in front of me, shaking the table and slopping my coffee over the rim of the cup. I looked at the alien hand in surprise.

“For God’s sake!” Cassandra screamed.

Remembering her question, I quickly gulped down the remainder of my coffee whist I formed an answer in my mind. Satisfying Cassandra was no easy task. She was a well-known expert interrogator.

“I’m tired,” I said feebly. Cassandra stared back, her crimson lips set in a firm, demanding line. She made no movement, it was no good, and I would have to elaborate. “I only got a few hours kip last night.”

Still Cassandra made no movement, her face remaining expressionless. We sat in silence for several moments, and then she said, pouting intriguingly, “Why?”.

“We-ell…” I shifted in my seat and glanced around. The canteen was filling up rapidly as eleven o’clock approached and elevenses beckoned from the biscuit trolley. How could I explain here … now? For I had no doubt that I would tell Cassandra about Thomas, given the right time and the right place. She was my best friend after all. I wanted her to know but meanwhile she waited. I shifted again and smirked. “I … I had a visitor you see. Last night.”

Cassandra’s right eyebrow shot up, interested but her pout remained.

“Oh yes, who?”

“And the night before,” I added.

“Who?” Cassandra grabbed my arm with the hand that lay across the table, curled up like a sleeping lion. “Alison, who?”

I shrugged and sighed. How could I explain this? I tried to sound casual. “We saw him in the pub the other night. Doctor Death.” I grinned uneasily and Cassandra nodded.

“His real name is Thomas. He’s going to live with me.”

I couldn’t think of any more arbitrary information to give her. I had to tell her the most important thing. I know you read and hear that people wake up and the night before all seems like a dream … they doubt the truth of what they were told last night … but I didn’t feel like that. I accepted Thomas at his word; he was definitely a vampire all right.

“Is he really so passionate that he keeps you awake all night?” Cassandra asked scathingly.

I was shocked. I glanced around afraid that the Powers that Be in the vampire world had heard and would intervene unpleasantly in some way. Surely a comment like that would be seen as … sacrilegious to say the least. “Cassandra, I don’t sleep with him,” I told her, worriedly and keeping my voice low and hoping that she would do the same. God knows, I didn’t want to offend any one of that select breed, the Living Dead.

Cassandra shrieked with laughter, throwing her head back so that the sound issued from her mouth in a graceful arc, like Thomas’s black cloak, spread like wings. I shut my eyes tightly; I could see him standing there, now a man, now a bat.

“Well, what the Hell do you do, then?” Cassandra giggled, mopping her eyes. I leant towards her, glancing quickly around.

“Cassandra, listen… he’s a vampire.”

My friend fell suddenly silent.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I saw him change into a bat and back again with my very own eyes. That’s why he’s only awake at night, he sleeps in the day, in a coffin.”

Cassandra began to giggle again. She listened to me drone on, silent, staring at me blankly. Then I caught it, the glint of concern in her eyes, mixed with disbelieve. I sighed. I knew how Thomas must have felt now.

“You don’t believe me, do you? But you must! You must meet him! He’ll tell you it’s true.”

Cassandra began to giggle again.

“He sounds a right nutter to me.”

“No! He’s a vampire! He really is!”

“And you’re a head case to believe him.”

“But, it’s true.”

“It’s not true.” Her giggles had stopped now and she assumed her manner of a mother admonishing a naughty child. “A vampire, Alison, really!” She shook her head impatiently. “Look you’re tired, no wonder you’re imagining things.” She stood up, rubbing creases out of her skirt. Holding out her hand to me, she said “Come on, let’s go back to the lesson. Jane and Joseph went ages ago.”

I took the hand offered to me wordlessly, it was no use arguing, I knew Cassandra. Like the Pope, she was infallible. Like me, she would not accept Thomas’s claim without proof.

* *

One-thirty found me wandering along the corridor outside the canteen. I had already had my dinner and was rather at a loss for what to do. Cassandra was in the library finishing that English Literature essay which we were meant to hand in yesterday. I thought it best not to interrupt her work again, so I was staying well away. Joseph was on a Geography hike across the Pennines and Jane had gone home early. I paced back and forth. I wished that Thomas were there to talk to, he would understand how bored and frustrated I was. He would prove his identity to Cassandra by… by… drawing her to him and gently sinking his fangs into her beautiful white throat… and she would gasp; “Alright Alison, it was true… I believe you…” and I would stand there, my arms folded, holding my power like an incandescent laser-beam over his head.

Just then, I noticed Mr. Henry approaching in the distance. As I watched, he walked into the wall, stood back and apologised. I tittered. He was obviously missing his glasses profoundly. As he drew nearer, I dived through the door nearest me, not wishing to be seen by him.

The door swung shut as I cannoned into a screen standing stupidly just inside the door, which fell over with a hollow crash. I sprawled on top of it, praying that there wasn’t a beauty show or photographic exhibition going on. I lay still, listening. Silence. There was nobody there. Thankfully, I clambered off the screen and read the words scrawled hurriedly on it.

‘Blood Donor Session. Gone for Lunch.”

I stared at the words blankly, and then slowly a grin spread across my face like a malignant cancer. ‘A rare treat’… I righted the screen and rubbed my hands in glee. ‘A rare treat indeed!’

There was a row of chairs in the centre of the hall. I tried to imagine approaching one with the intention of having a needle driven into my arm and blood sucked out. I shuddered. I would feel like someone going on Mastermind or trudging towards the electric chair like Jimmy Cagney… I decided I would rather let Thomas bite me, if I had the choice. At least it would be a little more… erotic. I smiled to myself as I picked up several test tubes from the table and studied them, absently. I tried to imagine Thomas’ face when he saw what I had brought home. ‘A rare treat’… indeed! Then my eye fell on what appeared to be an icebox under the table. I knelt down and opened it. The temperature overwhelmed me… it brought Thomas into the room, into the hall, beside me… touching me… like ice, like ice… I grinned as I saw the bags of blood stacked neatly inside the icebox. I began to pick them up quickly and stuff them inside my jacket. I could always pretend that I was pregnant if anyone asked. Pausing, I wondered if it mattered to Thomas what type of blood he drank; well I decided, I’ll let him choose. I left several bags in the box to make the theft appear less obvious. I stood up, just in time to hear the hall door swing open.

For a moment I stood there frozen, panic draining my limbs and clutching my brain in a vice-like grip. That moment of hesitation proved fatal. The two nurses caught up with me as I began to hurry out of sight, behind the screens; I knew then, that my guilt would be recognised within minutes. The nurses were like Laurel and Hardy. The large one possessed a fierce expression and loud voice, with which she now stopped me in my tracks.

“You! What do you think you’re doing?”

I turned and grinned sheepishly, my mind a blank. All I was aware of were the bags of blood forming a lumpy mass inside my jacket. The thin nurse smiled quickly back. She was obviously beneath the bigger nurse both in status and stature.

“Well? I’m waiting,” the big nurse informed me, folding her arms and stepping towards me.

“Did you want to give blood?” asked her partner kindly.

I shook my head numbly.

“No… I just… wondered…”

“What’s that in your jacket?” demanded the large nurse, stepping forward and ripping open my jacket in a quick movement. I watched the crimson bags fall to the floor in a shower around my feet. The thin nurse stared, horrified. Her friend gripped my arm and pulled it.

“You’d better come with me, Miss.”

I stared at her, uncomprehending. Then I did what anyone would do in that situation. I fainted. At least, I pretended to faint. But as I lay there, my cheek touching the cool brown tiles, I remembered that the two people with me were nurses; they would probably realise the fact that my faint was manufactured. Quickly I blinked, opened my eyes and sat up groggily.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and the thin nurse put her arm round me sympathetically. Her ogre of a partner however, stood there frowning at me suspiciously.

“Better take her to the nurse’s room,” she barked and the thin nurse jumped up, urging me to do the same. She led me out of the hall. I managed to stagger once or twice but I don’t think her friend was convinced. She watched me go with beady, suspicious eyes, wondering why anyone would want to steal a lot of blood that would obviously be of no use to anyone.

The nurses’ room reminded me of the inside of a fridge. Not that it was cold; no, indeed it was so hot and stuffy that my head began to feel like it was stuffed with hamster bedding after a while. But racks lined the walls, filled with first aid equipment, bottles, cotton wool, tubes of cream, bandages, plasters, test tubes … there were even three racks of magazines beside me. I thought this rather strange, as I had only ever known the nurse to dish out aspirins or occasionally to stick a plaster on somebody’s finger or toe. Perhaps this room was all show, just to make the patient feel secure. I glanced nervously at the door; I didn’t feel secure at all. I shifted on the hard, white bed and squeezed my hands together, trying to formulate an explanation for the eccentric behaviour in my mind.

The door opened and the college nurse entered. She was an old, plump, friendly soul, given to matchmaking something terrible. She smiled cheerily as she squeezed past some racks positioned awkwardly just inside the door. I smiled feebly back. I was glad that the blood nurses weren’t there to stand and glare disbelievingly at me. The nurse settled her bulk into a chair beside the bed and took a thermometer from a rack behind her.

“It’s Alison, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she stuck the thermometer into my mouth.

“You’re a friend of Cassandra’s, aren’t you?” I nodded as she grasped my wrist and took my pulse. “Lovely girl, so pretty. Don’t you think?”

I nodded again, wondering what Cassandra would say if she were here. “I’ll tell you what, lots of men are after her, I know it. But there is someone she’s got her eye on. Anyone can see it.”

I pricked my ears up. I couldn’t see it… or else I just hadn’t seen it.

“You know who it is? Pulse normal,” the nurse told me, dropping my wrist. “It’s that Barry Maguire who does drama with her.”

I choked and the nurse removed the thermometer quickly. Cassandra had always claimed that she hated Barry Maguire. A prudish lump of overcooked bacon, she called him.

“Temperature normal,” said the nurse, returning the thermometer to its allocated rack behind her. She frowned, “Well now, what’ve you been up to Alison? What caused you to faint?”

I thought quickly, I could probably manage to bluff my way through this.

“I’m tired,” I said, smiling bravely. “I can’t think straight.”

The nurse nodded, pleased.

“Can’t sleep, eh? Got something on your mind, have you? Boyfriend trouble?”

I shook my head, stifling a smirk. If only she knew!

“Have you been to see your doctor?” she asked, crossing her legs. “Given you some pills, has he?”

I shook my head again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my doctor. I wasn’t even sure if I had one.

“No, not yet,” I sighed miserably, “but I will if this goes on.”

“Good girl.” The nurse stood up. “You’d better go home now. Try and get some sleep, that’s what you need. Want some aspirin?”

I climbed off the bed, shaking my head for the third time. What would I want an aspirin for?

“Thanks anyway,” I said, my hand on the doorknob. I was beginning to feel desperate for a blast of fresh air. “Tarah then.”

“Come back if you need anything and you mark my words, it won’t be long ‘til Cassandra and that Barry Maguire get together. You’ll see.”

I left her tidying the already spotless racks, humming I only have eyes for you under her breath. I grinned to myself as I stepped out of the room, closing my eyes as the cold air whistled around my ears. Oh, for a life of sensations rather than thoughts.

* *

“Just a half please, Mrs. O’Rourke,” I said as an afterthought. Mrs. O’Rourke raised one immaculately lined eyebrow and said nothing. I gazed admiringly at her blue and yellow satin backless dress but soon began to feel dizzy with fatigue. This feeling of exhaustion seemed quite a normal state to be in now; I had grown accustomed to it. It only really affected me when I tried to concentrate on something. And, of course, those forty winks I had stolen this afternoon when I had been sent home from college had refreshed me – for a few hours, anyway. I was beginning to feel tired again now. Just time for a quick chat with Joseph and Cassandra and then home to bed I decided. I took my half pint and headed towards my friend’s customary corner table.

“How was the Pennines?” I asked Joseph, sitting next to him.

Cassandra, I noticed, was watching me rather suspiciously. However, my mind was too weary to try and work out reasons and motives. I ignored her.

“Wet,” replied Joseph mildly. He smiled gently and drained his Guinness. A silver swordfish gleamed in his ear and I tried, without success, to imagine him stomping through teeming rain and force eight gales, across muddy fields with a heavy rucksack on his back and huge boots with nails in the bottom on his feet. Joseph was far too gentle and sensitive a creature to survive geography field trips such as that one. Yet he faced each challenge without complaint or surprise and came out unscathed. I admired his composure.

“And how was your day?” he asked me. I saw Cassandra’s eyes light up.

“Oh, okay” I said quickly before she could interrupt. I prayed that she wouldn’t have heard any of the rumours about me trying to steal blood, that I knew would be flying around like spaghetti. I doubted if I could bluff my way out of any confrontation with her.

“The usual,” I continued desperately, my hands beginning to tremble. I knew that Cassandra was going to say something… that gleam in her eyes… the way she drummed her fingers on the tabletop…

“That’s not what I heard,” she began. I sighed and stared miserably at my boots. “I heard something quite different, some story about you trying to rob blood from the donor nurses and then fainting. And spilling all the blood on the floor.”

“What bullshit,” I retorted, “I never spilt any.”

I glanced at Joseph. He was staring at his hands which he had laid palms upward on the table. Cassandra was watching him carefully as well, perhaps expecting some sort of a reaction from him. I hoped he would pretend not to have heard her and it would all be over but slowly he raised his eyes to her.

“Blood?” he repeated.

Cassandra nodded and grinned. I don’t think she realised what agony she was putting me through, or maybe she did. Perhaps she was getting me back for her unfinished English Literature essay.

“Who told you that?” I asked hoping that I sounded scathing.

Cassandra shrugged. “No one in particular, it’s all over the place, people saw you.”

“Like Hell,” I was getting hassled and angry. “They’re all lying.”

In desperation, feeling on the very brink of an abyss, I tried to change the subject. “Anyway, I’ve been hearing some things about you as well.”

Cassandra paused, haughty but curious.

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes, you and Barry Maguire.”

“Barry Maguire?” Cassandra laughed loud and long while I fidgeted nervously and looked around. This wasn’t going to work. “Who told you that?”

I swallowed as I realised that I had put myself well and truly into a corner. All gossip like that was known to emanate from only one person.

“No one.” Said Cassandra.

She stared at me and narrowed her eyes. Even Joseph was watching me carefully now. I felt myself blush slowly redder and redder.

“It was the nurse, wasn’t it?” she said. “The College nurse, so the story is true, you really did faint.”

“I didn’t,” I argued weakly. I felt attacked from all sides now.

“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Joseph gently.

I could feel tears of self-pity pricking my eyes as three sleepless nights washed over me. Quickly I stood up and drained my glass. Mumbling incoherently that I was going, I dashed out without giving even Mrs. O’Rourke a goodbye wave. Joseph and Cassandra stared blankly after me.

* * *

I feel a twinge of embarrassment as I remember how I raced home from the pub that night and threw myself onto the couch in the back room, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt so isolated, the only person who knew, surrounded by a sea of laughing and jeering faces, uncomprehending, not wanting to listen or believe or just be kind. That old feeling of timelessness, of rootlessness, cascaded over me as I lay there, and I imagined myself as a fated Byronic exile, the archetypal outcast from society, the Shelleyan misunderstood genius. My life was obviously in the hands of Fate; I didn’t belong, and therefore I would not be treated kindly. I felt powerless… it was all so unfair. Where was justice now?

I continued to lay on the couch, motionless, until my sobs had abated completely. Simply lying there and listening to the silence of the night surround me, seemed to cure my many ills – temporarily.

When I finally broke my trance and sat up, I was somewhat startled to see Thomas sitting just across the room from me. He was staring out of the window, his hands folded neatly upon his lap, no expression on his face. As I moved, those sorrowful, tragic eyes wandered over to my red and blotchy face and rested there, saying nothing. We shared the silence for a while. The ticking of the clock became ominously loud. Finally, Thomas spoke softly.

“You left the front door open.”

Another pause. Then, “I’ve shut it now,” he told me, smiling. He stood up, stretching his limbs slowly and deliberately as he did so. Then, with a swirl of nocturnal cloak, he left the room.

Fear gripped me at first. Then I heard him making a cup of tea in the kitchen, humming a tune that I could not quite recognise, to himself. I lay very still, not thinking, closing my eyes and letting the gentle sounds drift over me, a peaceful feathery eiderdown of nothingness. I wondered if this was what being Undead was like; I wouldn’t mind an eternity of this. I drifted through the Universe, my mind catching on nothing but sensations…when Thomas returned with my Rich Tea mug. I couldn’t even begin to tell him what was wrong. But he was a very sensitive and patient vampire; six hundred odd years of forced living had made him so. He waited as I got up and paced around the room a few times, opening the window and blowing my nose loudly on some tissues I had found on the windowsill. Finally I sat down and told my friend my troubles. Cassandra’s reaction to my telling her about Thomas… the blood… the scene with my friends in the pub. I didn’t mention my exhaustion. I thought that Thomas may take that as a hint and leave forever, or at least get very offended. Thomas listened to my tales of woe. He said nothing, not even touching me. There was a long silence afterwards. Then there was an insistent knocking at the door.

I hesitated; I thought that Thomas may want to say something to me of a comforting or consoling nature. But he just sat there, his hands clasped together, his shoulders hunched like a giant crow, his eyes fixed on the twirly patterns in the carpet. I walked wearily to the door and opened it.

It was Cassandra and Joseph. The vivid green of Cassandra’s ribbons and ear rings in the gloom faded to a dirty black colour. The silver swordfish gleamed in Joseph’s ear as he turned to face me.

“Hope we didn’t disturb you,” he said, “it is late.”

I felt dazed and confused, as if there was something of vital import that I had to try to remember to tell my friends, and I had forgotten it. I shook my head and tried to link words in my mind to form a coherent sentence.

“What… time is it?” I stammered.

“Ten past twelve.” Cassandra stepped into the hallway and enveloped me in a warm, motherly hug. Now that the electric light shone on her, she was a mass of bright, luscious reds and greens, rich and vibrant. When she stood back I saw that even her gloves were deep, blood-red. Grimacing, I thought of those bags of blood….”We were worried about you,” Cassandra told me, again, a mother rebuking a small child. “Running off like that. We didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m alright.” I hoped that they didn’t notice my red eyes or runny nose. I watched Joseph follow Cassandra into the hallway and gently shut the front door behind him. Suddenly I remembered Thomas. I was seized with a wild excitement. Now was my chance to prove to Cassandra that I had been telling the truth that morning. My friend really was a vampire. I tried to imagine her face when Thomas turned into a bat before her eyes. I grabbed her arm.

“Oh, Cassandra, you can meet Thomas! He’s here now. Come and meet him. And then maybe you’ll believe me… he is, really, a vampire.”

I couldn’t miss the worried look that passed between Joseph and Cassandra. Obviously, she had told him all about my wild claims that Thomas was one of the Living Dead. Clearly Joseph didn’t believe any of it, either. But it didn’t matter, now. I would show them! Tugging at Cassandra’s arm, I dragged her into the back room. Joseph followed.

The room was empty. I ran to the open window and scanned the sky. There was no sign of a bat flapping slowly into the distance, but I knew that that was how Thomas would have made his getaway. I restrained an urge to scream, “Thomas! Come back, you bastard!” into the night air with immense effort. Why had he done this? I gripped the windowsill and sighed furiously. It was as if he had read my mind!

“Well, where is he?” asked Cassandra gently, behind me. From the way that she touched my shoulder I knew that she thought that I was ill. Perhaps I was. But I knew what I had seen and what I hadn’t.

“He was here… he was,” I muttered fiercely “he’s gone… he’s flown away, through the window.”

It was too painful to look up, to confront the two pairs of concerned and sympathetic eyes, to see the disbelief that faced me from my two closest friends. Until they saw him, Thomas existed as a vampire only in my own mind. To them, I was suffering from nervous exhaustion, hallucinations, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, my imagination taking over my mind. I could not bear to even find out what they thought I could be suffering from. It was just too painful.

“If you wouldn’t mind going now… I’m a bit tired.”

Silently, Joseph and Cassandra left, leaving me standing alone by the window. My misery was bountiful that night, why had Thomas treated me in this way? It appeared to me, to be a deliberate trick… to ruin my credibility. Now even my own friends believed me insane. Shelley seemed a very real figure to me now. After a while I left the window and sat down on the couch. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I was waiting for Thomas. I hoped that he would return quickly now the damage was done. My anger died inside me like a balloon going down.

Something fluttered and banged against the window. I sat up quickly, wide-awake now. Sure enough, a black shape hurtled through the window and before it hit the carpet, Thomas was standing there, his cloak spread like wings, his arms outstretched. In that moment, he reminded me of Jesus pinned to the crucifix. I was suddenly aware of a different power in the room… a greater power… a power of the night, the nocturnal. I stood up.

“Where did you go?” I asked. “Cassandra and Joseph really do think I’m mad now.”

“Sorry,” he said quietly, going to the window and closing it.

I noticed that his dark hair fell over his eyes as if it had been blown by the wind, which of course, it had.

“I don’t want to meet them yet.” He turned back to me, his gaze piercing and yet it seemed to drift towards me, rather than cut into me. “I’ve been… moving my coffin, I’m going to put it in that shed.” He pointed to the tiny shed in the garden that was filled with tools and general junk.

“You’ll have to clear it out a bit first.”

“I know,” he seemed preoccupied, shrugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Well, I’m off then.”

“Where?”

Thomas paused before he crossed the room

“It’s… in Wythenshawe Park at the moment.”

I gasped. “Your coffin?”

“Yes, I’ll… go out the front door.”

“But how can you do it?” I began to panic, imagining Thomas stuck in a police cell somewhere, in broad daylight. “It’s much too heavy! Someone will see you!”

Thomas obviously wanted to leave, he smiled warily.

“I’ll be careful.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s gone two, I don’t think many people will be around.”

I took a step towards him and stopped.

“Can I come? I’ll help you carry it.”

Thomas looked at me, reaching out a white hand. I waited for the icy touch on my cheek, but it didn’t come. He dropped his hand limply to his side.

“No, I’ll manage. I’m very strong… Er haven’t you read Nosferatu?”

I watched him pause on the doorstep, raise his arms and flap away, a bat once more. If only Cassandra could see him now. I gazed after him and nodded. Yes, I remembered that bit in Nosferatu, Count Dracula carried all his own coffins. I had a sudden urge to read the book again. As usual, I wasn’t a bit tired now. I climbed the stairs slowly, reminding myself to leave a bedroom window open for Thomas when he returned.
Now go to Chapter Four.

The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

I awoke two hours later with back and neck ache. I rose stiffly,

cursing and feeling exceedingly irritable. I paced around the room a few times attempting to clear my head, then I looked at the timetable that was hung on the wall and discovered that I had an English lecture at nine. Going back to bed was out of the question now, and I had to put up with Mr. Henry and his snide remarks for two more hours! My bad humour raged through me like a team of locusts on their path of destruction. I tripped over Bosworth on the way out to the kitchen and lay on the floor for quite a while, trying to abate my temper. However, Bosworth soon became curious and started walking over my back. With a loud scream I leapt up, causing the cat to fly across the room as if thrown. He landed with a crash against the far wall. Bosworth ran off, unhurt but an exceptionally ugly pink and blue vase, which was balanced on the picture-rail, tottered and smashed onto the floor. I stared at the fragments dully; it was probably one of the few ornaments that were worth any money in this house.

I went on to spill cornflakes all over the kitchen floor as I grumpily made breakfast. I couldn’t face clearing either them or the broken vase up; maybe tonight my mood would improve. I left the house, kicking the fragments of pottery out of the way.

Riding my bike along Park Road with the wind blowing through my angry brain, I felt better. I thought of Thomas, the whole incident seemed like a dream now. I had no proof that it had actually happened really, except for the throbbing in my head that told me that I had not slept last night. I wished that I had kept Thomas’s cloak and that I was wearing it now; I would have no trouble dealing with Mr. Henry then. I could not lose, wearing that cloak. What would Thomas be doing now? Probably serving bacon butties and mugs of tea to long-distance lorry drivers I thought, wheeling my bike into the shed and tying a lock round it securely.

When I arrived at my English Literature class, my bad humour returned in a rush. Mr. Henry sat behind his desk, squinting at some papers in front of him. As I passed, he looked up and glowered darkly at me, though how he knew it was me I couldn’t tell. He couldn’t possibly recognise me without his glasses, which were obviously at the menders.

I sat down next to Cassandra, sighing. She was scribbling something on a piece of paper in a great hurry and seemed not to notice me. I dropped my books on the desk with a crash; I wanted Cassandra to look up and acknowledge my presence but she didn’t and continued to write at great speed. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked her what she was doing. She didn’t answer; in fact she didn’t even pause or show any sign of hearing my question, my temper rose.

“Now look,” I said irritably, “I’m getting a bit sick of your childish games. I’m warning you, you’d better not be playing the old ‘ignore Alison’ ploy, just tell me what you are doing.”

This time Cassandra looked up, icily. We stared at each other wordlessly for a while. Then she said,

“I’m trying to get this essay finished for,” she consulted her black and green ornate wristwatch, “precisely nine o’clock.”

She paused dramatically, her voice quiet and controlled. You could tell she took drama lessons.

“And as it is now eight fifty eight, I have just two minutes in which to complete it. So Alison, if you’ll just shut up and stop these childish interruptions, I might be able to get on.”

She turned back to her essay. I stared furiously.

“Forgive me for interrupting again then,” I said, having trouble keeping myself from shouting, “but haven’t you noticed Mr. Henry has no glasses? You may recall that I crushed them yesterday, which means that he can’t do any marking. Which means, what are you getting so worried about? He can’t even see your bloody essay, never mind mark it.”

If I had hoped that Cassandra would be relieved, or grateful to me for pointing this out, I was wrong. Her mouth set into a thin line and she slammed her pen down in anger. Luckily I was saved from more verbal abuse by Mr. Henry, who stood up and stumbled to the front of the class blindly calling weakly for silence.

“I’ve an announcement to make concerning work this week,” he called. There was silence instantly; it seemed I was not the only one who expected Mr. Henry to postpone all classes while his glasses were at the menders. The entire class waited with bated breath.

“My spectacles are now at the opticians being repaired following that unfortunate incident yesterday concerning myself and … a certain member of the class.”

There were several cheers and Nigel the punk, clapped me on the back crying, “Nice one, Al.”

But Mr. Henry had not finished. Raising his hand, he continued

“I’m afraid this means bad news for you lot. As I can’t read ‘Hamlet’, which we were in the middle of discussing, or prepare notes on it, you’ll have to do it yourself. This means finishing reading the play, writing notes on all the characters and major incidents in it in preparation for some essays which I will set later this week.”

Mr. Henry’s voice was drowned by boos and shouts of protest from around the room. I felt a cold shiver go through me, so this was his way of retaliating. He raised his voice higher, until it became a squeak, above the noise.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this, if my glasses were still intact we wouldn’t have to do all this written work. You only have a certain person to blame.”

There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. I stood up angrily but what could I do? Everyone was against me now; I seethed silently and sat down, putting my head in my hands. What underhand and cowardly tactics; I could not bear to look up, for I knew that Mr. Henry would be gloating at his desk, smirking quietly and congratulating himself on his successful retaliation.

“And don’t think that you needn’t do the essays, as I won’t be able to mark them,” he added smoothly, not bothering to keep the blatant triumph out of his voice, “because Mrs. Johnson has kindly said that she’ll do the marking. That includes last week’s essay … will you pass them to the front please.”

I sneaked a look at Cassandra, fury and horror dripped from her like sweat. Her appearance as a model pupil was very important to her. I remembered her saying, ‘if you keep the small rules then you can break the big ones’. I had often wondered about this; and, to her, handing in essays on time was one of the ‘small rules’ you ought never to break. However, this time it was going to be broken; and I was the one to blame. I could feel everyone’s anger and resentment turned towards me. I wondered sadly about the consequences of my impulsive act of fury yesterday, as usual, I was going to regret it. It all seemed so unfair; I had only been defending Chatterton, after all. I longed to pour out the story of my unjust punishment to Thomas, I was sure that he would sympathise.

Meanwhile, a bitter silence enveloped the room. Cassandra turned carefully, away from me. Mr. Henry sat behind his desk, rubbing his hands together in glee. I sank my head into my arms, which lay across the desk, and I wished that, like Chatterton, I could fall into a slumber that I would never awaken from.

* *

“You’d better watch yourself, Alison. “I’m going to get you for this,”

growled Nigel the punk, advancing upon me threateningly. I looked round, panic stricken. We stood in a blood red field of poppies, the flowers smothering the ground in a thick, dense carpet. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Cassandra sitting near the fence painting, an easel before her. She wore a straw hat and flimsy cotton frock like in the ‘Flake’ adverts on telly. Her eyes were thickly misted with romance and she would not focus upon me.

“Cassandra!” I screamed, “Help.”

I saw her stand up, absently putting her things away. Her eyes roamed her painting dreamily as she picked it up. Then, tucking it under arm she strode past me without a word. I was beside myself, Nigel’s hands closed around my throat and squeezed.

“Cassandra!” I choked desperately.

She turned casually, her mercurial eyes drifting among the clouds and called over her shoulder.

“It serves you right. You deserve all you get.”

And, swishing her gauze dress lazily as she walked, she was gone. Nigel continued to kneel on my stomach and choke me, his face contorted with rage, his voice crazed with anger.

“Three essays! Three bloody essays!”

A movement caught my eye behind Nigel and there stood Mr. Henry, laughing evilly. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose, held together with bits of Sellotape, completely without lenses. I watched him stride forwards through the poppies, crushing them mercilessly beneath his feet. He stood before me, holding a box of matches out between his forefinger and thumb; with deliberation he struck a match, and bending down, set fire to my beloved Dr. Martens, which were on my feet at the time. I tried to kick the flames out but it was no good, I was struggling for breath. The smell of burning leather and wool (my socks) grew stronger as I heard a strange rattling sound coming from my throat, I was almost dead now. Tiny orange flames leapt around my ankles like Dante’s Hell, Mr Henry danced around, laughing.

“Set her alight! Kill her, Nigel!”

I screamed so loudly that I woke myself up, I gazed round the room, bewildered and down at my feet. My Doc Marten’s were still on them, intact and without burns or blisters. The television still chattered away to itself in the corner; the window was open, although the night was cold and dark now and I got up and shut it. Leaning against the sill, I thought back over my dream. It certainly showed how guilty I was feeling; anyway, I hoped that Mr. Henry felt satisfied now. Freud would certainly have had quite a few things to say on the subject of my repressed psychosis.

The clock on the shelf showed half past eleven; yawning, I decided to go to bed. I rubbed my neck, vowing to stop all this sleeping in chairs; it was probably that which made me so bad tempered. As I turned to go, I heard a gentle tapping at the front door, I hesitated, wondering whether to answer it. It could be Nigel the punk, or Cassandra coming to beat me up and leave me for dead in the hallway. On the other hand … it could be Joseph, come to offer me some comfort … or even Mr. Henry wanting to apologise for his cowardly behaviour. I strode to the door and opened it a little way.

“Yes?”

“Alison? Can I come in?”

I stepped back to let the dark figure enter, he seemed to bring a piece of the night with him. He looked taller than last night, menacing.

“I forgot all about you coming,” I admitted.

Thomas smiled as if he had expected me to forget. I still can’t believe how I let someone like Thomas slip so easily through my memory. I put it all down to fatigue, though my tiredness had disappeared completely now, falling away from me like a shroud I had constructed around me. I led Thomas into the back room and went to make some tea. I could hear him walking around the room, looking at things, examining pictures. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice those horrendous pseudo-French statuettes on the picture-rail.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he said when I returned.

His accent seemed more pronounced tonight; almost German I thought to myself as I handed him his tea.

“I was just going to bed,” I explained. “I’ve had a bit of a … rough day.”

“Oh?”

He seated himself on the edge of a chair, carefully spreading his cloak behind him so that it would not get creased. He looked at me seriously, expectantly.

“Go on.”

“Well, it was just this teacher, Mr. Henry. He thinks that Chatterton killed himself because of guilt and insists that I should believe it too.”

I found myself telling Thomas the entire story; how he had turned the rest of the class against me, how guilty I felt … even about my dream. As I had expected, he was full of sympathy and indignation.

“It’s a terrible story that’s been spread around, that Chatterton was a cheat and a fraud,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “and people believe it as a ‘fact’. Poor boy, no wonder he took his life.”

“No wonder,” I echoed. I drained my mug of tea and walking over to the window, looked out. It was too cloudy to see the moon but quite dry and still. “Are you working again tomorrow?” I asked, without turning.

“Yes.”

“It must be tiring. When do you finish?”

“About … about … in the afternoon. Different times.”

“Why don’t you come round after, then?”

“I … can’t.”

I turned, hearing the hesitation in his voice. He looked away, getting up quickly.

“I can’t I have to go home.”

For the first time, suspicions and unanswered questions began to rise like monsters out of the gloom in my mind. Who exactly was the strange foreign gentleman who came to see me each night and only at night? I determined to find out.

“Where do you live, anyway?” I asked.

Thomas stood with his back to me, his shoulders hunched, like a vulture. He made no answer. I approached him and gently touched him on the shoulder.

“Thomas?” I said softly. He shook his head, resting it against the wall. It was as if the weight of that skull was just too heavy for him to bear.

“I don’t,” he whispered.

I was confused. “You don’t live in a house?”

He turned to face me, then that air of melancholy seemed to overwhelm and almost smother him.

“No,” he told me gently, “I don’t live.”

I stared; his face was lovely in its sadness, whiter than I had ever seen it before, thinner and emptier. The sadness fell out from his eyes and vanished into the carpet as if it had never really existed. He blinked slowly and smiled at my expression. Again, the unnatural gleam of his teeth struck me. Gently, he reached out a cold, white hand and stroked my cheek. His touch was web-like, it was so light; cold enough to cause me to want to shudder and withdraw, but I remained still, staring.

“What do you mean, you don’t live?” I asked finally. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled again and took my hand. Within minutes it was like a block of ice. “Come on, come for a walk.”

As I have mentioned before, it was a pleasant night, cloudy but fairly warm for April. I soon discovered that I was forced to half-run to keep up with Thomas’s long legged, graceful strides that carried him smoothly along the pavement at incredible speed. He led the way, needless to say, across Park Road, down the little snicket behind the rows of huts where the battery hens were kept and into the playground nearby. In the darkness, the swings and roundabouts loomed silently, ghostly shapes that did not welcome nocturnal intrusions, especially not from adults.

I sat on a swing that creaked, hostile; I wondered how old Thomas was and began guessing… in his twenties, thirties, or forties, older? In his ‘teens? I suddenly realised how ageless he was. I wanted to approach him on the subject but at the same time, I didn’t, it was so insignificant and petty anyway. I heard a dull thud behind me and swung round; Thomas had leapt from the top of the climbing frame onto the grass below. I wished I had seen him jump, with his cloak billowing out behind him, he would have resembled … a black phantom … a crow … a bat …

“Alison,” he said, walking towards me. His voice sounded strange and thin, emanating from the night’s silence like that and the word was unfamiliar on his lips … he didn’t suit speaking English. I waited until he sat down on the swing next to me, scuffling his shoes along the ground. His eyes were on the ground, the distance, the sky, anything but mine.

“I have something to tell you,” he said at last. “Something that you may find hard to believe.”

He was silent for several minutes, I couldn’t think of anything to say either, so I kept quiet as well.

“You see,” he finally told me, “I don’t work at ‘A Quick Bite’.”

I felt his eyes on me. I bit my lip, frowning.

“No.” I shook my head.

“What?” he asked, sharply.

“No, I don’t find that hard to believe. I’ve never heard of the place, anyway. ‘A Quick Bite’!” I chuckled, “I thought you were winding me up, people do you know. What’s so hard to believe about that?”

I glanced at him; the look of seriousness and distress on his face confused me.

“It doesn’t matter, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me.”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head slowly. “You misunderstand, this is hard to believe, not ‘A Quick Bite’, I … you see … I … I am … a …a…, er …a vampire.”

I think I sat in silence for quite a while, and then I laughed.

“Oh, I get it! That’s your job, is it? You dress up and go round frightening young maidens with your cries of ‘I want to bite your neck’ …

“No, no, look, I don’t dress up, I don’t pretend, I don’t have to. I really am a vampire, I really am.”

I sat there and stared at him, his serious, concerned expression, his black clothes … the sweeping, nocturnal cloak … the white skin … the fingers like candles … icy to touch … a vampire … I found myself laughing hysterically, ignoring my powers of logic and reasoning, which told me that it all made sense … it had to be true … but still, I laughed without discretion, without control.

I went on laughing uncontrollably. Thomas looked at me, sighed and turned away. His frustration was obvious. Somewhere in the depths of my brain, the cells of reason went on connecting, working things out. That would explain the sneaking away before sunrise … the fangs when he smiled … the aversion to sunlight ... and the accent must be Rumanian. My brain was delighted with itself; it had worked everything out. But I found it rather hard to accept the conclusion that it reached, a vampire? My laughter died in my throat as Thomas turned to me.

“Finished?” He didn’t even smile.

I nodded, sheepishly, still smirking.

“It’s not a joke, you know,” he told me sternly, “you shouldn’t laugh.”

I shrugged. “You were right, it is hard to believe, you might just be deluded.”

Again, Thomas sighed. Crossing his legs, he looked up at the sky and recited:

“I am a vampire, I was born a vampire, six hundred and forty-seven years ago in Transylvania, Rumania. I drink blood, amongst other things; I sleep in the daytime and venture out at night. I can turn into a bat, climb walls and you can’t see me in a mirror. I will always be a vampire. I am immortal, lifeless … one of the Living Dead … destined forever to wander the earth until some Angel of Mercy plunges a stake through my heart and releases me from this … from this …”

He broke off, dropping his eyes to the ground. I shifted uncomfortably and thought. After six hundred and forty seven years I could understand getting somewhat … tired of life. And knowing that it may stretch on for years yet, maybe forever, with everyone dying around you … I could see the reason for Thomas’s melancholic disposition now. One who was truly tired of life.

“Where do you keep your coffin?” I asked, hoping that a change of subject would cheer him up a bit.

“The mortuary at Wythenshawe Hospital,” he answered, standing up and clasping his hands behind his back so that he resembled Sherlock Holmes, but without the pipe. I watched him, thinking ‘I am looking at a vampire’.

Do you kill many people?” I asked suddenly.

He walked a few paces away and turned to me, smiling faintly, his fangs gleaming, deadly weapons of incision and death.

“I haven’t killed anyone for nigh on … oooh … it must be forty years,” he told me reflectively, “and that was only because I was crossing the ocean and was thirsty. ‘Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.’ Oh I love Coleridge, don’t you?” Seeing my puzzled expression, he walked towards me and knelt at my feet. “You see, it’s true that I would drink blood all the time if I didn’t have to kill for it, but I think I have become a little … soft in my old age and I make do with water.” He smiled slowly at me, his eyes on my neck; I pulled my collar up nervously. “Occasionally I steal the odd bag of blood from the hospital, though that is a treat … a rare treat.”

He laid an icy hand on my leg and I could feel his breath on my cheek as his fangs hovered near my throat. Panicking, I performed a backward roll off the swing and scurried off into the undergrowth, I hardly dared breathe as I hid amongst the nettles. Any doubts about Thomas’s identity were now forgotten, a vampire was out to kill me and make me one of The Undead. I watched, trembling, as Thomas stood up, brushing mud off his knees, I held my breath as he began to walk towards me.

“Alison! Alison!” he called softly.

I didn’t answer, I feared for my life. Thomas stopped in front of me.

“Come out, Alison. Come on, I didn’t mean it.”

His head moved slowly from side to side, then he turned away.

“Bloody hell, I was only joking.”

He was beginning to walk away when I decided to reveal myself; I took a few hesitant steps out of the dense shrubbery. At that moment, I saw something that I am quite unable to describe adequately. Thomas changed into a bat, in mid-step, his back still towards me, he swept his arms outwards to form a graceful black arc with his cloak and seemed to dissolve … shrink … his form buckled and melted into a tiny black bat, which flapped quickly away into the cloudy distance.

I stood there, frozen in mid-step, my mouth hanging open like a bat cave. After some time, my knees gave way and I collapsed onto my backside on the grass. Now I couldn’t possibly doubt that my friend was a vampire … or could I? Could my eyes have deceived me? I had always considered them my friends, but were they really to be trusted? Still, my logic stamped its foot in frustration and said; yes it was obvious, are you blind? He’s a vampire, it’s obvious. Fear gripped me suddenly and shook me until my teeth rattled; he was telling me the truth all along and now he’s gone. I wouldn’t believe him, so he has gone poor thing, to wander, a lost soul over all the planes of the earth … if only I had listened, believed, trusted … but now it was too late. The words echoed hollowly around the inside of my ribcage, too late. The bird – or rather, the bat – had flown, I felt suddenly, empty and cold. I had lost a friend; I found that knowledge completely unacceptable. One so strange and rare could not just stumble into my life and the next minute, be gone like that. I sat on the damp grass and waited.

Half an hour later I began to numbly accept the fact that perhaps Thomas would not come back. Feeling stiff, cold and completely drained, like La Belle Dame sans Merci’s victim in Keats’ poem, I struggled to my feet and began to trudge slowly towards the hen houses. I hoped that the movement would ease my agony a bit but I was not surprised when it didn’t. What would I do now? What would Thomas do now? Turning the corner, past the chicken houses, the journey seemed interminable, even the chickens seemed restless.

Strange … that rustling, that flurrying of wings was getting louder, I stopped and scanned the huts for any sign of an intruder. The rustling grew still louder; nearer … I looked up, shielding my face with my arms as the bat descended. I was Leda and this creature, the swan, a punishment from the Gods. Thomas stood there, lowering his arms.

I leapt towards him and grabbed at his cloak, I was ecstatic, nervous, and apologetic to say the least.

“What a graceful landing,” I said.

He looked at me and smiled, a slow and delicious vampire’s smile.

“After six hundred and forty years of practise, you do tend to get rather … skilled in these things.”

We walked home, the vampire and his friend.

* * *

Again, we sat in the back room and talked until five. Chatterton was amongst the subjects covered once again, but Thomas spent a lot of time telling me of his native Transylvania, in which he had spent the first few hundred years of his life. He was indeed a well-travelled vampire, over the years he had lived in Leningrad, Florence, San Francisco, Berlin, Austria, Venezuela and England.

“I like England the best,” he told me. “particularly, London. I was going to go back there next, I used to live in London, near Waterloo, that was in the eighteenth century.”

I gripped the arms of my chair.

“You … knew him, then?”

Thomas shook his head sadly.

“I’m sorry to say that I didn’t. I didn’t really know anyone, I … prefer … solitude, and it’s easier.”

“But still … you were so near! You could have known him! You could have saved him, even.”

We both thought of the young Chatterton lying dead on his bed. Waterloo, so near … and Holborn, so far.

As dawn approached, Thomas stood up and prepared to leave.

“It’s such a long way … Wythenshawe hospital,” I said sympathetically. To tell the truth, I was thinking only of diving into my own bed and grabbing a bit of shut-eye at that moment.

“Mmm.” He paused, his hand on the front door. “Actually … Alison … I wonder … if you don’t mind … I could live here?” He looked up, enthusiastic for the first time.

“Yes… have you a cellar? A garden shed? I could store my coffin there … if you don’t mind, that is…” He trailed off as he saw my shocked expression.

“No, no I don’t mind,” I told him hastily, thinking: what if my Mam finds a coffin in my garden shed? How can a vampire possibly carry a stolen coffin through the streets of Timperley without being noticed, even at night? What if my Mam – or worse – my Dad sees him? What if…? Out loud I smiled and said that’s fine. Keep it in the shed.”

Thomas grinned; swiftly he bent towards me and kissed me lightly. I felt the sharp prick of his fangs even then, like needles, the fear had gone though. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me now. As I watched the thin, sinister black figure hurry off down the road, I smiled and thought: my friend is a vampire.
Now go to CHAPTER THREE