Alice turned and began to walk towards the exit, making sure to replace her shoes. The others hung back on the periphery of her vision, but made no attempt to come any nearer.
Ginny’s gaze froze the back of her head, and Alice glanced back, almost casually, and kept on walking. The exit was twenty yards away.
But maybe they’ll just kill Joe instead.
The thought struck her like a jet of cold water, so that she faltered, almost losing her poise. And then she was out of the gate, and into the safe, open street, and the game – whatever it had been – was over. After a while she began to shake.
Two
THIS TIME, HE was sure it was her. Joe craned his neck above the crowd, oblivious to stares and irritation.
‘Ginny!’
The figure turned, and it was not Ginny; disappointment sleeted through him, and for an instant he wondered, how on earth he could have mistaken that girl for Ginny. Then it was Ginny again, Ginny almost grotesquely changed. And, calling her name, thrusting with his elbows, he began to bludgeon his way through the mass of bodies.
‘Ginny! Wait!’
The girl turned to face him, standing alone by the side of a shooting-range, pale face, pale hair, pale hands, looking frail and thin in her black clothes, ghostly against the glare of the lights. As he reached for her she shrank a little, and he smelled the acetone scent of the white spray in her hair above a sharper, smoky smell like burnt paper.
‘You came,’ she said.
He held her close. It was not the time for questions, he thought. She was so clearly vulnerable.
‘What’re you doing out here?’ he said, forcing a little laugh. ‘You certainly got me going for a while, you and your disappearing act. I thought you’d walked out on me.’ He smiled, looking for needle-tracks and trying not to make it too obvious.
Ginny stared at him blankly, and Joe knew he had to get her home. She didn’t look like someone who’d OD’d and there weren’t any needle marks on her arms. But she did look ill, and he’d had enough experience to know what some pushers cut their dope with; it wasn’t called ‘shit’ for nothing.
‘What’re you on?’ he whispered, putting his arm round her shoulders.
Ginny looked at him, hesitating.
‘Have you got any more?’ he said. She’d have to ditch it, of course, he thought; the last thing he wanted was another barney with the police. He kept his voice quiet and patient.
‘Have you?’
Ginny shook her head. Good. That was something. Now all he had to do was to take her home and to hope that she hadn’t been taking strychnine or arsenic or washing powder or anything else in her China white. Christ, what a mess. And where had she got the money? The last he knew of it she had been broke, just eligible for the lowest of social security payments. He swore softly under his breath as he took Ginny by the shoulders and led her, like a blind child, out of the gates and into the street.
If he’d had any sense, he thought, he’d have ditched her as soon as he found out. He had enough hassle looking after himself without taking on a screwed-up junkie girlfriend. He’d seen enough of them when he was on the road with the band to know that the bad trips and the cold turkey and the overdoses weren’t all you got, no: sometimes you hit the jackpot and you got the collapsed veins, the brain damage and the nasty diseases from dirty needles. That was why he’d never really bothered with much more than the odd bag of grass. Joe didn’t mess with junkies; it was a rule for happy living.
But this was Ginny.
Fairground noise faded behind them, their steps real once more against the cobbles of the alley. She followed him, head bent, one hand tucked confidingly into his, the other clutching a fold of his coat. His heart did a quirky little off-beat at the sight of her, the mask of paint leaving her skin oddly, touchingly vulnerable, and at that moment, he knew that he would have done anything for her, he would have died for her, like a folk-song hero, her name on his bloody lips. The violence of his longing almost stunned him; lost in thought, he remained silent until they reached the flat. They crept in aware of the watchful presence of Joe’s landlady. Then, he said, as he opened the door: ‘There’s nothing you haven’t told me, is there?’
She centred her dark gaze upon him, almost aimlessly, shook her head.
‘You’ve got to trust me,’ Joe went on. ‘I love you. I want to help you. You’re too smart to be into that kind of thing. You know that, don’t you?’
Ginny smiled, almost imperceptibly, nodded.
‘Right. Come on in, then.’
Again, the almost imperceptible nod.
‘So why do a runner on me like that? Who’d you go running to?’
Her response was inaudible, a fluttering of breath, like paper. Joe took her hands again, trying not to crush them in his hot grasp.
‘I can’t hear.’
‘I was frightened …’ It was hardly more than a whisper. ‘After what Alice told you … You’d go away …’
‘No chance.’ It was almost beyond him to refrain from grasping her there and then, crushing her to him. Fear stayed him. She was too small, too slender. He wondered if he would ever dare to seize her in passion.
‘No way. I’m here for the duration, Gin. You and me against the world. Forget Alice. We don’t need her.’ The words came rushing out, all the words he had never found for Alice, words he had dreamed, whispered, imagined in the night, words unspoken, hidden away. Never had Joe spoken words like that before; but now, somehow, he found them, and the veils across Ginny’s eyes were lifted, despair changing into something approaching hope. And in his wonder and the joy of that breakthrough, Joe was still conscious that at some point in that outburst, the details of which were already misting over in his thoughts, he had made a promise, only half-realized, less than half-remembered. There would be no regrets, that he knew. Whatever he had pledged was hers now. Only looking into Ginny’s eyes, he knew that. But as he put his arms around her and gently led her inside, he was still able to wonder what it was he had promised her.
Two
THERE WAS NO time for euphoria. She had not escaped, but had won for herself instead a kind of reprieve. No time to glory in that, she thought, but yes, time, a little, to prepare herself for the attack that was certain to come. Glancing through the window at the street, she picked up the phone, dialled the Fulbourn number, let it ring.
‘I’d like to speak to Doctor Menezies, please. It’s very important.’
‘I’m sorry, the doctor isn’t available. Who is this, please?’
‘I’m Alice Farrell. I saw the doctor this morning. Please, when will he be back?’
‘I’m afraid the doctor is ill. Doctor Lowrey is dealing with all his cases for the moment.’
‘But he was fine when I saw him this morning!’ said Alice.
‘There was an accident, just after lunch.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘What kind of an accident?’ Alice heard her voice rise. ‘Please!’
The receptionist hesitated.
‘The doctor was hit by a car, Mrs Farrell. A hit-and-run. The police were called. They’re looking into it.’
Alice hung up in silence, feeling numb and slightly sick as she faced the truth which had stalked her since she first set eyes on Ginny.
There was no escape from them now, she thought. The timelessness which Alice loved so much had made Cambridge a prison for her, a stronghold for the nightwalkers; a nomad town where nearly two-thirds of the population came and went at intervals of three years apiece, a town of rented rooms and stolen intimacies. They walked the same cobbled streets, stood in the same archways, heard the same hymns from the chapels over the river from decade to decade, their faces mingling with those of their prey in the stream of memory.
They passed unnoticed as they lingered on the edge of that river of humankind, choosing their victims carefully: here a tramp, to be found in a pool of blood and wine, there a tourist tra
velling alone, elsewhere a student with needle-tracks on his arms and a reputation for dangerous living. Cambridge has a high suicide rate; statisticians tend to blame this on stress or drugs. Easy to find reasons; so easy to ignore the evidence.
How they must have laughed, she thought, revelled in their youth and power! How like angels they must have felt! How many dreams must they have haunted? How many chosen men remained with Rosemary in their hearts and memories? Oh yes, they must have laughed, as they slipped invisibly through the crowds, touching flesh in a million ways, scenting the thrill of trapped blood.
Alice shivered, almost glimpsing for an instant the fatal glamour. Then she stood up deliberately. No more, she told herself. Time had finally run out.
She wondered whether she would be sick. The panic was almost unbearable, with a momentum of its own, like spinning, like vertigo, like the biggest roller-coaster in the world with grinning Death at the controls and nothing but spangled black horror all around.
‘Oh shit,’ said Alice, and began reluctantly, with the drums of panic still hammering, to plan her attack.
One
ROSEMARY HAD BEEN right; I was ill for the next few days, and the light hurt my eyes, but in time, even that symptom faded. I lay low in the warehouse, never alone; sometimes it was Rafe who stayed with me, sometimes Elaine, sometimes Zach. I ran a low fever for close to two weeks, eating little, but drinking much, for it seemed to me that I would never quench my thirst. I saw Rosemary only briefly, and then, never alone; she would appear for a few minutes to check on my progress, or show me the newspapers to keep up with Scotland Yard’s manhunt. It seemed that the ‘Body in the Weir’ had been shelved for the time being, to be replaced by the ‘Swan Inn’, an unrelated case of murder and arson, thought by the Yard to be a cover for burglary. Two bodies had been found, too badly charred to be recognizable, but dental records showed them to be those of the bartender and the waitress. ‘A man is being questioned by the police,’ blared the newspaper in self-satisfied tones, a pronouncement which afforded sly amusement to my companions.
Rosemary would read these accounts to me, then she would be on her way again with a smile and I would be left to grind my teeth in helpless love and hate. She looked radiant on those visits; her face vivid, her hair like clouds. She wore dresses of flowered crêpe and silk chiffon and white linen with rose borders; every time I saw her, something different, exotic almost to indecency in that austere post-war decade, dancing through life like a fever dream. She radiated power on those visits, power and purity. The very touch of her cool fingers on my neck was enough to leave me sweating with desire; unstable as I was, I am always amazed that I never blurted out my revolt, stupidly, in my fever. Perhaps I did, and my wardens never thought anything of it. I suppose that, in that respect, we of those warehouse days and red nights were all brothers.
It was on one of these occasions, as I was nearing recovery, that she told me she was married. I was sitting by a window, looking on to the bare land at the back of the building. I had been reading a book, but had laid it aside when she came in, pulling back the blanket to stand up and greet her. Java was waiting at the door, his shoulder against the door-jamb. She was lovely that day, her hair all windblown against a dress of drab green, her eyes sparkling with youth and life.
‘Danny, congratulate me!’ Her voice was breathless from the wind, her hands stretched out impulsively.
‘I’m married!’
I hesitated for a long moment, aware, in the preternatural stillness, of a pulse just below my left ear, ticking away my blood’s time.
‘Who to?’ I managed to stammer.
Rosemary frowned.
‘Well, Robert, of course. Who else could it be?’
Robert. I had hardly even thought of him for all the time I had been there. It was not that the news came as any surprise; no, I had already in my heart given him up as lost, but now that it was a certainty, the feeling of guilt (yes, and jealousy, too), came upon me with such heaviness that I was forced to slump back on to my chair to avoid collapse.
‘Why, Danny.’ Her voice was petulant now. ‘I do believe you’re cross.’
I found my voice, not without an effort. ‘Of course not. I’m very happy. I’m just not quite well yet.’
‘Poor Daniel.’ She leaned forwards, her hands cupping my face. A faint scent of lavender reached me from her skin, like a memory. ‘Better?’
I nodded, not trusting words.
‘Robert … Is he, will he be, I mean?’
She laughed, enchantingly. ‘Oh, Danny,’ she said. ‘You’re so sweet. Is that why you looked so cross? You thought he’d be one of us? Oh no. I never mix business with pleasure.’ She kissed me lightly on the cheek. Her kiss was like a tiny sting. ‘He’s nothing. Protection.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She sighed.
‘Robert loves me,’ she said. ‘He loves me now to the point of unreason. He’s a man; he needs something to protect. It makes him happy; it makes him feel strong. Not every man gets the chance to die for what he loves, Danny; in a way, he’s one of the lucky ones. Your Robert would never be strong enough to face the way things really are; I have given him the dream.’
Something must have shown on my face; she smiled, touched my hand with the briefest, chastest of kisses.
‘Don’t worry, Danny. He’s happy.’
‘Why?’ My voice was almost a wail.
Rosemary sat on the arm of my chair, and touched my face with her fingertips.
‘No one said it was going to be easy,’ she said. ‘Being chosen isn’t easy. We stand out in crowds. The cattle smell us, envy and fear us. They know that they are natural prey. That’s why we need a protector. Someone to lie for us, to shield us, to die for us if he has to. Do you think that the hunt for us will die down? The police are stupid, but some day one of them will get too close. They are slow and dogged; eventually some accident will lead them unwittingly to our door. We have to feed; we can travel, we can hide, but one day they will catch up with us. And when that time comes, when the search comes too close, we need to give them a sacrifice. Someone to take our place.’
‘Robert.’
‘He’s the ideal choice, Dan. He provides impeccable cover for me, for the others, even you …’
‘Me?’
‘Of course. When he’s caught, you can come out of hiding. What better reason for you to disappear than if you think your best friend is a murderer? You didn’t want to betray him, so you ran away. At the very worst, all they can charge you with is shielding a suspect, and you know as well as I do that they wouldn’t put you in prison for that. And after that? Well, you can find your own protectress then, your Roberta, if you wish. Just let your killer instinct take over.’
I thought that over for a few moments, though not, I am afraid to admit, with the horror I should have felt. I had done too much by then to show a normal human response, and I had betrayed my friend too many times already to feel squeamish about doing it again. Be content in knowing that I made the right choice, though for the wrong reasons. I think it very likely you too might have done the same thing. But at that time I really considered what she gave me: that enticing poison draught. I wanted it. I needed it with all the longing of my killer instincts. I reached for her, clasped her like a dream in my arms; I felt chiffon, air, smelt the perfume of lavender, but her substance eluded me as it always did, and it was so gentle that I hardly felt it that she pulled away from me.
‘Later,’ she said softly. ‘When you’re whole again. Ask me again.’
‘One kiss,’ I said.
Rosemary smiled.
‘Flesh,’ she said, with a smile. ‘You’re still so human, Danny. Later, you’ll understand, later, when you’re with us for ever, that blood is power. Blood.’
‘I love you,’ I said (it was almost true).
‘Then love me,’ she answered, holding out her wrist, its deltas under her blue skin.
I did as she said, power flooding my
mouth, running down my chin, drowning my veins in the secret music of its flowing. Great thoughts filled my inspired brain, thoughts which I never quite remembered later, but which flowered there in the darkness as I fed upon her and she upon me, thoughts of creation and infinities, each unfurling in the red darkness like hearts in flower, longings and ecstasies undreamed of, pleasures of the blood more monstrous and sublime than were ever any pleasure of the flesh. For an instant I was void, a wailing infant in the eternal absence of myself, then I was creator, galaxies in my mind’s eye, then annihilator, blood at my fingertips, blood in my voice, blood filling my giant footprints as I walked. Afterwards, I could never recapture that fleeting moment of absolute power, but, God forgive me, I lusted after it evermore, though all I can remember with any clarity now is the taste, so like the taste of tears.
One
SUMMER GREW HOT; the crowds came that year after all, and we endured the heat as best we could.
We came out at night, not that the days could hurt us, but because it was our time. The warehouse was airy and dry, like a hospital ward, and we were comfortable. I say, ‘we’. Zach and Elaine, with the little boy Anton, shared my exile – maybe to keep an eye on me. Rosemary lived with Robert in a house close by, in Grantchester. Where Rafe and Java lived, I never knew. I suspected that they kept close to Rosemary, to guard her, but could not know for sure. The days passed uneasily, but with a kind of harmony, like the long summer holidays of my childhood, but the nights were sharp-focused, full of the glamour of the chase, intensified all the more by the police presence in the town which was constant, but as discreet as could be managed. We were careful, however, choosing our victims carefully among the vagrant population, singling out a tramp, a tourist travelling alone, someone who would not be missed until much later. I did not see Turner for a long while, nor did I read his name in the papers; the Scotland Yard investigation was headed by a Superintendent Lamb, who, as far as we could guess, seemed to be wasting his time and resources in dragging the Cam for more bodies. The investigation had veered away from us.