“I’m not a vampire, okay?”
“Course you’re not, Babe. It’s just an expression. When, though? My diary’s pretty empty as usual. Apart from your police interview on Tuesday, we can pencil him in for any day you like.”
Kate left the room, with Angie in tow. Would the woman never go home? She shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon. I’m going back to bed, if that’s okay? I feel shattered after last night.”
Without waiting to see what her friend made of this, she climbed up the stairs to the top floor. She could hear Angie climbing the first couple of steps behind her, before coming to a halt. Please leave me alone, she thought. I love you dearly, but sometimes you can be the biggest pain in the arse imaginable.
“Bye then, Darlin’. I’ll come round again later. See how you are. We can talk about Window-boy tonight.”
She’d bought herself a few hours at least. She was not going to give Mike up, not after all he’d done for her. He had saved her life, no matter how much Angie scoffed at that. He’d waited with her for hours in hospital, when most men would have been off like a shot the moment they realised they weren’t going to get a shag. And he hadn’t tried it on in the cab (although, to be fair, he must have known that she wouldn’t be up for it with two suspected broken ribs and concussion).
The door slammed downstairs. Angie had gone. Kate retraced her steps to the spare-bedroom. Despite her recent feed, the Craving was still there. Maybe just half a cup more, to help her sleep.
#
It was dark when she awoke. She’d slept all day. She switched the bedside lamp on. There was a bar of chocolate on her bedside cabinet, with a post-it sticker on it saying “Sorry”. Cheapskate. She could at least have bought her a box of chocolate liqueurs.
There was a choking sound from downstairs. It sounded like a vomiting cat. Angie? No. If she was in the house, she’d be sitting on the bottom of the bed, waiting for her to wake up.
That just left Clive.
She was in her dressing-gown and down the stairs in an instant. She threw open the door. Clive was awake again, thin watery vomit all over his face, soaking into the bed-sheets. He was gagging on it. What were you supposed to do, first-aid-wise? Turn him on his side; put him in the recovery-position. Bit tricky, with handcuffs on both wrists.
He tried to speak, but gagged again. She couldn’t bear to see him like this. She was well aware of the irony. She was happy to chain him up (well, maybe not happy, but willing to do it if it meant she could feed). She was more than willing to drain the blood from his veins to satisfy the Craving, killing him one fluid ounce at a time. But she couldn’t cope with seeing him in physical pain. She was the same with regular food, in a way. She enjoyed eating meat and fish, but didn’t like her food to look as if it had been skipping round a field or swimming in the ocean before ending up on her plate.
She left the room, closing the door behind her. He was still retching in there. She ran up the stairs, and grabbed the phone. She hated the idea of running to Angie yet again, but what else could she do? Angie would know what needed to be done. She was dependent upon her for just about everything. She was the addict, and Angie the dealer, sourcing men’s blood for her. That was just the way it was.
Angie answered on the second ring. It was almost as if she was expecting the call. She’d be right over. It was like a doctor coming out on an urgent house-call. A thought occurred. Angie wanted Mike to come over, but knew that she wasn’t keen on giving him up. What better way to get him here than to kill off her existing Feed? Angie knew full well that her morals would go out of the window if she was hungry enough. What better way to put Mike on the menu than to clear out the larder?
She heard a key in the lock downstairs. That woman was quick when she wanted to be! She must have been waiting for the call. This was planned. This was so planned. She had been manipulated into this, just as Angie had manipulated her into just about everything else she regretted about her life.
She couldn’t face going downstairs. It wasn’t just that she dreaded seeing Clive again; it was not wanting to see Angie any sooner than she had to. Most of the time, she loved that woman to pieces, but at other times – which were more and more frequent of late – she’d have quite happily punched her face in. Not that she could, of course. Without Angie, she’d be well and truly stuffed. And her friend would slaughter her in a fight, anyway.
She waited. More choking. Angie’s voice downstairs, soothing and reassuring (which almost made her laugh in the circumstances). And then silence. She waited, and then she waited some more. She resisted the urge to go and investigate. She didn’t want to see what was down there.
Eventually, Angie entered the room. She held the blue mug out to Kate.
“I’ve brought you your supper. Last of the batch, I’m afraid.”
“He’s -?”
“Very much so. Still tastes delicious though, I bet. Now get that down you. You look like you need it.”
“Thank you. For coming over.”
“You didn’t fancy coming downstairs and helping me out? Worried about breaking your nails?”
“I’m sorry.”
Angie shrugged. “Not to worry. There’s nothing you could have done. Besides, I’ve saved you the best job. I don’t envy you having to wash his pillow-case.”
Kate allowed herself a small smile.
“That’s more like it,” Angie approved. “It’s not all bad, anyway. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”
Kate stopped smiling. She knew what was coming.
“There’s your Mike, for example. That bloke who you allegedly didn’t feel sorry for yesterday. Window-boy. Plenty of delicious blood coursing through his veins, I bet.”
Angie gave her a huge grin. They had been friends for a very long time, pretty much since they had first become neighbours. They knew each other intimately (more intimately than any man would ever know her, that was for sure!) Angie was well aware that she was starting to have feelings for Mike, even after such a short space of time. But more than that, she knew all about the Craving, and just what it did to her. Sooner or later, she’d give in to it, even if it meant sacrificing Mike in the process. And Angie would be there, syringe at the ready, when that happened.
#
Kate phoned the glazing company, and left a message on their out-of-hours answer-phone. She was due to have glass fitted. Could they send someone different from last time, please? Not that there was anything wrong with the last person they’d sent. He’d been very polite, and good at his job. She’d recommend him to anyone. It was just that she’d prefer someone different this time round, if that was okay?
They phoned back on Monday morning. The glass would be ready to fit tomorrow. Had there been a problem with their fitter? No, she had stressed; no problem at all. As she’d said earlier, it was just that she’d rather have someone different this time. A lady, maybe.
Monday was a long day. All of her days were long, of course. She was stuck in the house. She could only go out at night. She’d tried going out in the daytime, but it hadn’t worked out. Angie had joked that the sun burns vampires, and she’d end up in a puddle of sizzling flesh if she risked it, but it was as much a mental thing as a physical one. Being out before sunset induced panic attacks. She could sit in her garden for a while without too much discomfort, but the moment she was out in public she became convinced that everyone was staring at her; that they could all see how hideous she was, what a monster she had become. She didn’t feel like that at night for some reason. Maybe it was down to her addiction. The Craving always seemed strongest at night-time, and it blotted everything else out. But during the day, she couldn’t step past her front-gate without feeling short of breath, panicky, overwhelmed.
She wasn’t entirely comfortable with people visiting her at home either, if the truth be told. But somehow, it wasn’t as bad as being outside. Maybe it was because she was in her own little world. Somehow, everything felt safer when she was here. Not that she welcomed visitors, of course. But she was less concerned about them reading her blood-stained soul when she was at home, as she had other things to worry about. The risk of them finding her dinner handcuffed to the bed upstairs, for example.
It wasn’t just the boredom that made Monday so long. It was the Craving. It had only been a day since she had fed, but she’d started feeling it already. Usually she could go a few days before it kicked in. She used to be able to go months. That worried her; it worried her a lot. She’d always had the Craving, ever since her teens, but she hadn’t known what it was until Angie showed her. She’d been tested for everything imaginable. Her skin had looked like a pin-cushion, so often had her blood been tested. It was ironic that they had taken so much blood from her in their search for a diagnosis, when all she had wanted was for them to give her some of the red-stuff back.
The psychiatrists had come next. This was in her early twenties. She’d gone down to about seven stone by then. Her parents were convinced that she was bulimic. It led to arguments. They accused her of slowly killing herself, and she resented them for refusing to believe that this wasn’t self-induced. She’d never got on with her father, for very good reason, but she’d been close to her mother up until then. But the constant lectures, the accusations, the fights were too much for her to cope with on top of everything else. Eventually, she’d moved out. That in itself caused friction, as her mother was determined that she should stay at home, and be looked after (whether she wanted to be looked after or not), but she wasn’t sure she could cope with any more parental care. Her father seemed indifferent whether she stayed or left. To be fair, life was not much fun for any of them back then.
Her parents had money, and were keen to ensure she had somewhere decent to live, so she’d ended up here. Next to Angie. The best thing which could have happened to her, or the worst, depending on your point of view.
The psychiatric sessions went on for years. She’d had counselling. She’d had cognitive behaviour therapy. She’d had eye-movement-desensitisation-something-or-other. None of it worked. And after each session, she returned home in daylight, shaking like a malaria sufferer, doing her best to control the nausea with only limited success.
Her weight fell to a little over five stone. Back in hospital, tubes all over the place, more tests, and discharged home again. Three times. Five stone! She shuddered to think how close to death she must have been at that stage.
Angie had changed all that. Angie had found what was wrong with her, and had fixed it. That night the summer before last had saved her life. But maybe cost her soul, if there was such a thing.
After that first time, it had been a full three months before she’d done it again. She doubted that she would have found another man to feed from, but for Angie. She’d recovered after that first victim, piled on the pounds, back up to ten stone no less, even though she wasn’t eating any more than previously. It was almost as if the blood she’d taken from him was medicinal. The shaking stopped, as did the nausea, the stomach cramps. Instant, miraculous recovery. So when she started deteriorating again, Angie urged her on. And volunteered to help her find a suitable candidate. She’d done as she was told. And the rest was history.
In the last year and a half, there had been seven of them, including Clive. She’d gone six months without a feed last summer, when her disgust at herself had become so overwhelming that she tried draining the blood from meat she’d bought at the butchers instead, but she’d given in to the Craving when it became unbearable. Her self-loathing may have been all-consuming, but even that had been swamped by her blood-lust in the end.
So there had been three victims in the first year, six months off to try to cure herself, and then four in the last six months. It was definitely worse since she’d started up again. The one before Clive – Mark, his name had been – had lasted a week and a half before he died. But she had gone looking for another Mark just a week afterwards. And now Angie was suggesting she should have two on the go at the same time, like some sick drinks-cabinet of involuntary blood-donors. Maybe she should hang them upside down above a bar, and install optics to pour herself a drink from them whenever she felt thirsty.
She shivered. She hoped it was the macabre thoughts she was having, rather than the full-scale shakes coming on already. Shivering with broken ribs wouldn’t be any fun at all.
Maybe the worst part of all this was how dependent she was on Angie. Angie knew her secrets. She procured men for her. She disposed of the bodies on her own now, as she was fed up with Kate vomiting every time they had to bury one of them. If anything happened to her friend, she was well and truly stuffed. She would never be able to do this on her own, but the Craving would destroy her if she didn’t.
But on the other hand, the thought of a life-time of this – the men, the pain, of Angie herself – was almost more than she could bear.
#
Tuesday was even worse than Monday. There was the police, for a start. And then there was Mike.
The police-man turned up promptly. To the minute. He said his name as he came in, but she was too nervous to remember it. Angie was here. Kate had told her that she wasn’t in need of legal representation, especially from someone who had no legal qualifications at all, but Angie had insisted and she had as always given in.
She had told the officer that she had been assaulted but did not wish to press charges. He had been disappointed; there was a good chance that the incident would have been caught on the CCTV cameras outside the nightclub, or there could well be footage of her assailants running away afterwards. Was she sure she didn’t want the girl to be cautioned, at the very least? No court proceedings that way. Just a slap on the wrist.
Angie had intervened at this stage – it was only a matter of time before she stuck her oar in – and had tried to convince her to prosecute. After what they did to you, they deserve everything they get. She told the officer – rather unhelpfully – that if it was down to her she’d go round their houses and rip their faces off, and didn’t take kindly to him pointing out that she would be arrested if she did. Political correctness gone mad, she called it. Why shouldn’t they get a good kicking after what they’d done?
She then asked whether he would be able to trace the men involved; let her know their addresses. Not that she was planning on doing anything to them; she’d just been joking about that. She just wanted to check that they weren’t local, that was all.
It was a relief when the door-bell rang. It gave Kate the opportunity to leave them arguing away in the kitchen over whether data protection rules was political correctness gone mad, too. It was less of a relief when she opened the door. Mike was standing there, a sheepish grin on his face, like a teenager on a first date.
“Hi,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was harsher than she intended. He couldn’t be here. Not with Angie indoors. Not ever.
“I’m here to fix your window,” he replied, sounding a little hurt. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you.”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
She hesitated. What to do? She couldn’t let him in, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to send him away. He’d think she was mad, and she didn’t want him thinking that about her. For some reason, his opinion mattered.
“Window-boy!”
Fuck. Angie was here. And she was adding insult to serious injury by patronising him as well.
“Come in, come in,” her friend bid him. “Don’t just stand there; she doesn’t bite. Well, she does sometimes, but none of her boyfriends seem to mind that much. She’s got pretty teeth, don’t you think?”
Mike shrugged, at a loss how to respond to this. He stepped inside, gave Kate a well-meaning smile, and followed Angie towards the kitchen. She closed the door, and hastened after them.
Mike put his toolbox by the broken window. He exchanged nods with the police officer. “Would you like to go through to the front-room?” he asked. “It’s going to be cold in here when I take the board off.”
“Front-room!” cackled Angie. “How cute is that?”
Mike shot her a poisoned look. Angie smiled sweetly back at him, or as sweetly as she knew how.
The police-man got to his feet, ready to leave. Kate panicked. She needed him to stay until Mike was finished. The moment Angie was alone with Mike, she’d jab him with a syringe. He didn’t deserve that. He was nice. Much too nice for her.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kate stammered. “About this caution you mentioned. Could you tell me more about it? Maybe I’ll proceed after all.”
Angie gave her a curious look. She then glanced over to Mike, and then back to Kate again. Realisation dawned. She gave a knowing smile.
“I don’t think you should waste any more of this officer’s time, Kate. He’s no doubt got more serious crimes to investigate. There’s been all those murders round here lately, after all.”
Kate tensed. Her ribs screamed in protest. She clasped her hand to her chest.
“Those are dealt with by CID,” the officer was saying. He hadn’t noticed her discomfort. Mike had left the room again, presumably to fetch the glass. Angie was trying to shoot her knowing looks, but was being so obvious that a child could have read them. If the police-man saw them, he’d know something was up. There was too much going on. She couldn’t cope with everyone at once.
The officer caught sight of Angie in mid-smirk. He looked irritated.
“Is there something the matter, ma’am?” he asked. It was clear from his tone that he’d taken Angie’s expression to mean that she was ridiculing him. She grinned back at him, and shook her head. “No. Nothing the matter at all. You’re doing a fine job here, Officer.””
Mike came back in with the pane of glass.
“How long will you be?” Kate asked.
“I’ll be in and out in a quarter of an hour, tops.”
“Two minutes more like, if you’re like most men,” Angie quipped, earning herself a glare from everyone else in the room. She shrugged. “Oh, come on, you all know it’s true. It’s harsh, but it’s fair.”
The next fifteen minutes went by very slowly indeed. Kate kept asking questions about cautions, to keep the police officer there until Mike had finished. He was clearly starting to think that she was mentally sub-normal, as she quickly ran out of sensible questions, and took to asking the same questions twice in slightly different ways, or making random enquiries such as can people with cautions still leave the country to go on holiday if they want? The officer started checking out his wrist-watch when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was fidgeting with his pen. It was only a matter of time before he gave up on her. And left Mike to Angie.
Eventually, and very much to her relief, Mike was finished.
“Well, I’ll be going.” He loitered, as if deciding whether to give her a peck on the cheek on his way out. If that was what he was thinking about, he decided against it. He headed for the kitchen door.
“Wait,” called out Angie. She turned to the police officer. “Did we mention that he was there when the incident took place? Wouldn’t you like to take a statement from him?”
The police-man looked at Mike, and then back at Kate. He raised an enquiring eyebrow. She shook her head. He got to his feet.
“I don’t think that will be necessary. It’s time I was off. If your change your mind – if you’d like to take things further – give me a call. I’ll take a statement from this gentleman here if you do.”
“Off you go, then,” said Angie, escorting him to the door. “Go and solve those murders you’ve been rattling on about.”
Mike continued to loiter. Kate gave him a smile. “Thanks. For the window. And for Saturday night.”
He looked embarrassed. Like a big kid. She liked that. He was sweet.
“I’ve got to be going. But call me, okay? Maybe we could go out on another – go out, again.”
He was going to say date. She’d have given anything to go out on a nice, normal date, like everyone else did. But how could she? It would only be a matter of time, and the Craving would take over. She didn’t want him to be around when that happened.
Angie was closing the door on the police officer. Kate sprung into life. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll see you out.”
“Going so soon?” Angie asked. “I thought you might want to stay for a cup of tea or something. You tradesmen like your cuppas, don’t you? You’re famous for it. Life’s one permanent tea-break, I bet.”
“I’ve got to be going.”
Kate gave Angie a look. Her friend grinned back at her. She stood aside. “Oh well, best not keep you. I’m sure you’ve got urgent work to attend to. There’s bound to be a broken greenhouse out there somewhere, just crying out for attention.”
“Goodbye Kate.”
“Goodbye.”
He left.
Angie followed him. Kate stepped outside to go after her, but thought better of it. She didn’t like it out there. Not with the sun up. He’d know what she was like if he saw her out there. He’d know, and he wouldn’t like what he saw at all.
Angie caught up with Mike as he was getting in his van. Kate could see her pointing at her house. Mike shook his head, and glanced at his watch. Angie kept talking.
“Angie!” Kate called, trying to conceal the panic. “Can you come here a minute?”
Angie waved her arm, signalling for Kate to join them. The bitch.
They carried on talking by the van. Angie pointed in her direction a couple of times. Kate took a couple of steps up the garden path, but came to a halt. She could go no further. She was stuck in limbo, not daring to go out, but too scared to go back in and leave Angie to her own devices.
Eventually, Mike gave her a wave, closed the door of his van, and drove away. Angie stood watching the van depart, and then retraced her steps, coming to a halt a few steps away.
“What was that about?” Kate asked through clenched teeth, only narrowly swallowing down the string of swear-words she would have used if speaking to anyone else. If she had a syringe handy, she would have been tempted to use it.