Anno Dracula Dracula Cha Cha Cha (55 page)

Van Helsing’s group weren’t the only defenders of humanity on the streets. Donna Rogers wasn’t the only vampire ready to meet fist with fang.

Enoch Powell was
everywhere,
making speeches and giving interviews. He called for calm in a manner calculated to inflame the extremists he loftily disavowed. Marcus Obadiah, a defrocked priest, said outright what Powell hinted at, declaring Holy War against the unclean monsters who lurked among pure humans and should be exorcised with fire, silver and the stake.

Someone had cheekily vandalised the Sir Francis Varney Memorial in St James’ Park, chiselling a hole in the chest of the statue of the former Viceroy of India — a reference to the Second Mutiny, when the unlikeable Varney was strapped over the barrel of a gun and had a cannonball fired through him. Two eccentrics, Seán Manchester and David Farrant, were picked up by the Kingstead Night Watch while trying to break into Lucy Westenra’s long-since-vacated family tomb. They claimed they only wanted to make sure the girl remained truly dead. Having fallen out with each other, Manchester and Farrant were conducting an entertaining feud in the letter columns of the local paper. Poor Lucy — if she’d been let lie, the world might be a better place.

A Unigate delivery tanker was hijacked by men in Beatles wigs and Sgt Pepper tunics and five hundred gallons of blood poured into the sewers. That would congeal into a vile lagoon. Old rumours circulated about the things which lived under the city. The blood was said to be the staple diet of the Black Swine of Hampstead, the India-Rubber Men and the Ghost of Guy Fawkes.

Prominent vampires, including Lord Ruthven, Baron Meinster and — would you credit it? — Paul Durward, were called on to condemn Donna Rogers and all weaselled out of saying much. The vampire murderer might be sulking that his quiet killings were driven off the front pages by public bloodletting. In his absence, Rogers became the Bloodthirsty Monster of 1968.

The papers ran photos Bellaver issued of the warm WPC, graduating from Hendon with a smile, but darkened and retouched to make her a cross between Myra Hindley, Cruella de Vil and Graf von Orlok.

Kate had imagined right-wing commentators would be torn between labelling Craven a cop-killing tearaway who deserved what he got and a heroic vampire-slayer saving womankind from monstrous affronts. The fact that Craven’s victim was a policeman carrying out his duty to protect the public was so seldom mentioned she suspected newspaper proprietors had issued a dictat that this was to be suppressed. The story was out in distorted forms, skewed for the prejudices of whoever was retelling it.

The Manfred Commission convened early, and was taking depositions from whoever it could haul in, starting — of course — with Enoch Bloody Powell. The real action would be on the streets rather than in Whitehall committee rooms.
Private Eye
was already running clever-clever jokes about the ‘Sangfroid Commission’, whose chairman found excuses to hold meetings in Soho basements to examine testimony from exotic dancers. Kate had heard rumours that James Manfred was a private connoisseur of kink.

Jessica’s granddad was stuck in jail but protesters were calling for the ‘heroes of humanity’ to be freed. If the Circle of Light had killed Kate instead of Griffin, they’d be out on bail. Despite the papers, the Metropolitan Police couldn’t let people who murdered their officers get away with a rap on the knuckles and a ‘don’t do it again, son’. Peter Craven, a minor, couldn’t be named by the press in connection with the murder he’d committed, but could in connection with his own death — prompting a high degree of squirming circumlocution which served to confuse the man on the Clapham Omnibus. A delegation from the
Socialist Vampire
showed up in Holborn to protest the arrest of Donna Rogers, though it must choke them to take a stand on behalf of a pig lady who was also a
nosferatu
sister. The presence of rival protestors suggested imminent street-fights which would make the Blood Riots look tame.

Jessica Van Helsing, Kate’s new best friend, said she’d persuade her Paul to stage a rally for peace between the warm and the undead. She thought he could get John Lennon and John Blaylock to appear and headline a free concert in Hyde Park. Kate had to admit Jess and Paul made a pretty poster couple for human-vampire love, but reckoned peace had already had its chance. Everyone was picking sides for war. Also, she didn’t need to hear Blaylock sing ‘The Laughing Gnome’ ever again.

The worst news was that Bellaver was out. Someone had to take the fall for letting Rogers get at Craven. He was the obvious candidate. Over half his personnel — pretty much the only vampire detectives in the Met — were suspended or reassigned. Norman Pilcher, of all people, was temporarily running B Division. He knew how to make a BOP bust but not how to run a murder investigation, so there was no progress on the Carol Thatcher/Laura Bellows killings. Among the coppers in the frame as replacements for Bellaver were Charlie Barlow of the New Town Task Force and James Anderton of the Cheshire Constabulary, warm men known for sweeping implementation of brutal policies. From now on crimes involving vampires would not be investigated by vampires. It was a short step towards the Met deploying Vampire Slayer units more efficient than a crowd of crossbow-waving yobs in Beano masks.

Assaults by the warm against vampires skyrocketed in the daylight hours and well into the evening. With the Circle of Light busted, a group calling itself The 98.6 — after that song — was active. They were careful about being caught, inducing bouts of amnesia in witnesses which Marcus Monserrat couldn’t cure. The Unigate blood tanker stunt was one of theirs. There would be an equal or disproportionate response from the vampire community. New-borns who’d been painted with CND signs and searching for mystic inner peace last month formed little circles around Carpathian Guard left-behinds whose expertise in guerilla resistance was a prized commodity. The Living Dead, the vampire motorcycle gang, patrolled suburban streets, claiming they’d protect any viper hassled by The 98.6. The shady entrepreneur Hogarth — Big Bloodsucker Hog — put extra undead bouncers on his nightclubs. Imposing bodies stood on every corner of the West End Jungle.

According to Nezumi, the Diogenes Club were caught up in high-level politics. Richard Jeperson had to get out of bed, while the Lovelies took to the corridors of power in order to dissuade pin-striped dolts from courses of idiocy. Even their powers of fascination were strained. Doubtless chuckling at his luck, Harold Wilson was presently on holiday in the Scilly Isles, waving his pipe at reporters and posing in a Ganex mac which didn’t suit the climate. That put the hardly inspiring Home Secretary Jim Callaghan in the hot seat as acting Head of Government. All police leave was cancelled. The Home Office ordered teargas and garlic spray in bulk. These preparatory measures were leaked to the press. Lord Ruthven, scenting blood in the water, made noises about a snap election. He came back early from
his
holiday in Scotland to make the Prime Minister look bad.

Carol and Laura were still dead. Whoever was responsible was still at large. As of now, only Kate Reed seemed interested in bringing them to book.

16

‘I
was surprised when you called,’ Kate told Eric DeBoys. ‘I didn’t think a new-made blood like you would be interested in an old stick like me.’

DeBoys grinned, showing off his chin dimple as well as his teeth. ‘I’m at St Bartolph’s to learn from my elders.’

‘I’m not a teacher. And I’m not an elder.’

‘No, but you’re an example.’

The School of Vampirism had its own dusk till dawn student bar, The Deconsecrated Chapel. Pampered vermin nestled in straw-filled cages hung from the vaulted ceiling. Mice, rats, piglets. Movie posters hung in alcoves, replacing sacred images. Someone had magic-markered red eyes and fangs onto Rudolf Valentino in
The Count,
W.C. Fields in
Never Give a Sucker an Even Break
and Orlon Kronsteen in
London Screams
and lipstick-kissed heart-shaped wounds on the necks o f J ean Harlow in
Red Dust,
Jane Fonda in
Cat Garou
and Mavis Weld in
Clara Croft.
She’d seen that before, at Thomas Nolan’s studio — the work of the same alteration artist, or just a trend she’d not noticed till now?

Just in case this date was more than social or — perish the thought! — romantic, she had let Nezumi come along and sit in the corner. Not that Kate could have stopped her bodyguard. The underage elder drank sugared blood through a straw. The high glucose content was added artificially, not because the donors were diabetic. She shooed away a couple of warm boys who tried to chat her up.

Most of DeBoys’ fellow Black Monks were in the bar. Armstrong and Anna were having a quiet argument while Keith and Withnail posed in the dark at the edge of the dance-floor.

Dru, the vampire girl she’d seen with a warm crowd a few days ago, was here, alone. She sported a black eye and a simmering, angry attitude. Grabbing one of Nezumi’s cast-offs, she nuzzled his neck with alarming attack.

Things were changing on campus, as folk found out who their real friends — or real enemies — were. In the pulpit, Moïse King played records. The Zombies’ ‘Time of the Season’, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown’s ‘Blood’, Question Mark and the Mysterians’ ‘96 Tears’. Cathy and Pony go-goed in perfect sync on a chessboard floor with lit-up white squares. Scruffy guys watched the twins, fascinated.

No sign of James Eastman. She supposed this wasn’t his scene.

King spun The Royal Guardsmen’s ‘Snoopy vs the Red Baron’ —
not
a favourite pop pick of Kate’s. Responding to the song, Nezumi finished her drink and started dancing with the French girls. They responded aggressively, like basketball players marking a star shooter. Noticing Nezumi, King gave her a Japanese theme, playing Biff Bailey and His Jazzmen’s ‘Sukiyaki’. She sang to the instrumental, in a clear soprano.
‘Ue o muite arukō.’
‘I hold my head up high.’ If King had known Nezumi’s tastes, he’d have dug out ‘Three Wheels on My Wagon’ or ‘Nellie the Elephant’.

Kate and DeBoys drank Gold Top. The Boy Eric wasn’t on a student grant budget. She guessed he was from money. Everything about him was expensive. He had a Norman name. DeBoys. DeBois. Of the woods. That made sense: he had a big bad wolfish aspect, like someone who rode to hounds but longed for game more dangerous than the fox.

She hadn’t drunk Gold Top in a while. She tried not to think who it had come from. This was good stuff. If she stood, she’d be a little giddy.

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Kate asked.

‘Do
we grow up?’

‘I wonder sometimes,’ she admitted.

‘My degree is in Law… but I might go into politics.’

‘Which party?’

‘That’s the problem. None of them appeal.’

‘Traditionally, thanks to Lord Ruthven, the Tories are the Vampire Party. Enoch Powell has probably undone that. A well-spoken lad like you’d be welcome on the editorial board of the
Socialist Vampire.’

‘A bunch of Scrawdykes,’ DeBoys sneered. ‘So many Points of Order, never a Point of Action.’

‘Do you want Action?’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Indeed I do. Elders go still, you know…’

As I said, I’m not…’

‘I never said you were… I mean Professor Croft. He’s like a lizard. He never moves. He hasn’t moved. He’s found his crack — his coffin — and he’s comfortable in it.’

So, Croft’s disciple might have outgrown his master? Or wanted her to believe that.

‘Don’t underestimate him,’ she said.

‘I don’t. He’s survived centuries. But he’s stuck. When I turned, things sped up. It’s the same for the rest of us.’

‘The Black Monks?’

‘You could call us that.’

This evening, he wasn’t wearing robes, but a black velvet Carnabetian suit. His cream ruffle shirt was unbuttoned. Medallions — inverted crosses, a boar’s head, a
Blue Peter
badge, a ruby-eyed Aztec skull — clustered on his hairy chest.

It was a good thing she’d dolled up. Kate wore a Jean Varon outfit, a purple minidress with a mesh midriff and matching lace-up boots. Not something she’d buy for herself, she’d demanded the gear as a gift from Richard Jeperson. The Diogenes Club were obliged to pacify her after a simple job went south on a cross-channel ferry.

‘We move fast, Kate.
Think
fast. We should call ourselves the Quick.’

‘Do you have a motorbike?’

DeBoys laughed. ‘Like Jimmy the Yank? No, Lord no. I drive a Jag.’

‘
I
drive a Mini.’

‘But you’re Quick. I can see it.’

‘Maybe I used to be. Then I. well, I did grow up. I was always the Sensible One. They called me that when I was alive, as a polite kind of insult. “Sensible” meant “unmarriageable”.’

Why was she telling this lupine toff her life story? Was she fascinated? Or was it the Gold Top? Her brain was fizzing.

‘Where are “they” now?’

‘My friend Penelope — who is mostly who I mean when I say “they” — is still knocking about. Though she
didn’t
get married, as it happens. Bit of a failure, there. Goes to show you shouldn’t gloat too much.’