Chapter 6: David Ryan
So I came to London and made the underground my new home. Unsurprisingly, I’m not the only vampire who’s taken refuge here. In my second night on the platforms of the Central Line train, I saw the first immortal since my creator. Lucas. Like me, he had black eyes and brown, wavy hair, and as with all of our kind, he’s utterly beautiful.
But he totally ignored me at first. Well, more that he pretended that he hadn’t seen me, that I wasn’t there. When we finally spoke, about a good four weeks later, he seemed alright to be honest.
We’re not friends or anything, we don’t hang out. In fact, we try not to occupy the same platform at the same time if we can. But we have a strange bond. Well, I say bond, it’s more a common ground that we share.
We refrain from feeding on humans.
I do it out of disgust; Lucas, I suspect, does it out of sheer apathy. If you thought I was an odd, mildly depressed vampire, let me tell you now that Lucas takes my condition to the extreme end of the spectrum.
He didn’t tell me how he came to be like this, but I suppose he’s been around for so long that nothing interests him any more. Not even blood. I’m glad he was in a generous mood when we talked though, because it was Lucas that introduced me to the idea of blood-bank robbery.
“How long since you last fed?” Lucas asked me in a half-interested tone. My oil-black eyes were what he focused on as he asked that.
Christian had told me that my eyes would become black soon, and then red again once I had some blood in me. The colour of our eyes tells you whether we are well-fed or starving. My creator had offered to bring me my first meal while I was still at his apartment, but I’d refused.
“I haven’t… fed… once,” I told Lucas. I’d already mentioned that I was over a month old.
He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm.” After deliberating a few seconds, he warned me that I’d have to get some nutrition in me soon. “You’re far too young to go without eating for much longer.”
“I know,” I assured him. “I’ll think of something,” I said under my breath. But of course he heard me; I kept forgetting that he had the same advantages that I do.
“You don’t want to kill,” he murmured so quietly that I was the only one who heard. “And you’ve never wanted to kill… Hmm.” Then he shrugged and told me about the donated blood idea.
Reluctantly, he went on to ask whether I was aware of all the rules and regulations I needed to follow. I sensed he would’ve been even more reluctant to explain it all to me from the deep relief I saw on his face when I said that yes, I’d been armed me with all the know-how by my creator.
My creator.
I think about him often, how can I not? My first time – and if I’m totally honest, my first proper kiss. As a human, I didn’t get around to figuring out how I felt about Christian – emotionally that is; physically, I did want him – and as a vampire, it’s a lot more complicated.
For one thing, I feel connected to him. Deeply. Like we’re a part of each other. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that in a romantic way, but is it impossible that we’re tied in some way? Because it was his venom that changed me? Because my blood sort of wounded him too? And could there be some significance in the fact that we’d only finished making love when he bit me? Sex sort of bonds you to each other, doesn’t it?
I don’t know.
Thankfully, there’s been no sign of Christian or Lydia in London, or anyone who I believe is associated with The System. Yet. I don’t know why, but I can’t help thinking that my path will collide with them all some day. Christian, at least.
That’s just how my luck works.
Today’s actually a very lucky day. I’ve gone exactly 6 months without triggering the suspicions of the humans on the underground and avoided the bad vampires above ground – yes, I see The System as the bad guys, the rebel that I am. And also because it’s Wednesday, and every Wednesday is an auspicious day.
It’s the day I don’t have to wait too long before I see him.
See the man I see twice a day, but see him for the second time, earlier than usual. At 3.30pm instead of around 6. I always see him in the morning when he gets on the tube for work, but waiting until 3.30 is better than waiting till 6 in the evening to see him once more. On Wednesdays, he works till 3pm, jumps on the tube and is at the stop near his home 30 minutes later.
And I’m ready and waiting in my seat on the platform, in position to see him exit the carriage and make his short walk home.
The first time I saw him, I’d just stared. I don’t need to look long to remember a face, but I couldn’t look away from his. Mature and wise, crinkles around the light green eyes. Strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. Medium-brown hair, cropped short and neat. Handsome and youthful, he didn’t look like he was in his early forties.
And very, very human.
I didn’t move as he hopped onto the train, stood by the door and then disappeared into the dark tunnel. Later that day, on the return journey, he seemed tired and eager to get off the train and go home.
Curious to know what he did at work, I followed him onto the train the next day, keeping my distance, my grey hood pulled over my face. Not that he would’ve noticed me – he reads on the train, and can do it even if he isn’t sitting down.
He works in one of the tall, but not-quite-scraping-the-sky, buildings in the City, the type that requires a security pass to use the lifts so you can’t go beyond the foyer. And with the kind of receptionist that seems to know everyone who works there and raises an eyebrow at anyone that isn’t dressed in a suit.
Because of my brilliant eyesight, from the other side of the road outside his office block, I could make out which button he pressed in the lifts before the door closed. His office is on the 7th floor; the silver board next to the lifts told me that floor is occupied by an international bank. I honed in on the voices and sounds up there and realised he works as a senior analyst for the firm.
I know what he does on a day-to-day basis because I spent the rest of that week monitoring him and the 7th floor. If I really wanted to, I could actually whiz into that building, sneak into the lifts after someone’s exited it, use a stolen security card to get up to his office and watch him work. No one would see me – I have a knack for hiding places.
Or I could climb the outside of the building and hang outside his window. But I’m not interested in what he does at work. I’m interested in what he does outside of it. Especially on Wednesdays.
It’s nearly half-past 3 now and if I still had a beating heart, it’d be pounding real fast now, anticipating his arrival. I really try my best to stay away from him all week. I watch him get on the train for work, I watch him return, and go about my usual business in the interim. In fact, after that first week of obsessive stalking, I promised myself that I’d leave him be. And I do, mostly.
But Wednesdays are just special.
Right, here comes his train. I know it’s his train because I can hear him breathe inside it. I know, obsessive to the point of psycho, but I can recognise his breathing, hone in on it even over all the sounds of the underground. I think I know him better than his family and friends and colleagues, and I haven’t said one word to him.
The coming routine, I know by heart:
The cold, whooshing air blows by my face. The train slows and then comes to a halt. Waiting commuters on the platform close in on the doors of the tube, while those inside the carriages converge towards the nearest exit. He’s usually one of the first to jump off, with his black briefcase in one hand, his book in the other. It’s winter now, so his long black coat is over his snappy designer suit. Without thinking, he heads for the subway exit. I follow him with my ears and when I know he’s walked into his street, I get off my seat and go after him.
Knowing where he lives, I don’t need to keep him in sight, and so I take a roundabout route to his house. I speed-run when no one’s looking. If anyone is around, I’m too fast for th
em to see. The light breeze my passing leaves behind is just a gust of wintry wind.
His house is a detached property in a quiet but homely street. His car is parked in the driveway, but due to traffic and parking issues in the City, he leaves it at home and uses public transport. Taking out his keys, he unlocks the front door.
Then it happens. My favourite part. A little girl named Veronica, but always called Ronnie, runs up to him and hugs his legs. She’s not much taller than his knees, with brown ringlets for hair and rosy, bulging cheeks. I know she’s a little older than her height suggests, but she must surely love being small for her age. Because he picks her up in his arms and twirls her around and around before giving her a kiss and asking, “Where’s mummy?”
“Kitchen,” says little Ronnie and together they shut the door and head for the kitchen at the rear of the house.
The small family eats in their wonderful kitchen, and as they do so, they talk about their day. He poses several questions to his daughter, asking for all the little details of her day at nursery. Then, when the child is worn out from monopolising her day, he turns to his wife Carol. From the expression on his face as he listens to her, I know her day doesn’t interest him a great deal.
But it’s not because he doesn’t love her, it’s just that she doesn’t do much. A lady of real leisure. After dropping Ronnie off at school, she spends all her day in a salon styling her fair hair, or in a beauty parlour getting facials for her creamy-coloured skin, or at a tea party with other housewives, or out shopping. Hardly gripping stuff!
Then they play with their daughter for a couple of hours. This is when he comes alive, really alive. Like he was born to do this. Not to be that fast-paced City worker, but a father. He is a really good dad.
Ronnie gets sleepy and tired around the same time every day and once she’s tucked up in bed, the adults retire to their room. The first time I’d watched them all, I had no idea they were going off to their bedroom, so I’d crept around the house until I found them. That’s when I realised that he was very much in love with his wife and they still had a good relationship.
I didn’t watch, of course I didn’t, what do you take me for? I turned around and made my way back to the train station. Nowadays, I just leave the moment Ronnie falls asleep.
I’m not proud of my stalking. Like I said, I decided after the first week that I’d leave him alone. But I can’t help it. I’m addicted.
Watching him with Ronnie, it just feels like… like living my childhood all over again. But with a loving, caring, wonderful father looking after me. Ronnie’s father looking after me.
But he’s not just her father. He’s my father too. Yes, that’s him, my real father.
David Ryan.