Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure (9 page)

‘Pardon?’ Brian says.

‘The man is in shock,’ Dolan states. ‘He’s talking gibberish. We can’t rely on his account.’

‘I feel alright actually,’ Brian says.

‘Delirious, too. He’ll slow us down. Brian, you’d better stay here while we look for a police station.’

‘We can’t leave him here,’ Henrietta says.

‘Fine,’ Dolan huffs with a tut. ‘But listen, Brian. We put our lives on the line saving you so don’t slow us down, okay? We need to keep moving and find a police station.’

Brian blinks and looks back at Henrietta who just nods almost imperceptibly.

‘Okay,’ Brian says.

‘Right, we’re leaving,’ Dolan says with a look left then a look right while he rubs his beard. ‘Which way? Which way to go?’

‘We can’t go that way,’ Henrietta says, indicating the road Brian came from. ‘So we’ll have to go back that way past the theatre, but that’s not safe, either…’

‘Damn it,’ Dolan mutters. ‘I think both directions are dangerous.’

‘Right,’ Henrietta says slowly, lifting her eyebrows. ‘I think there was an alley back there we could try?’

‘Come on. We’ll find an alley or something,’ Dolan says, marching off and leaving Henrietta staring in wonder, Brian staring in shock and Bennie staring at his bottle of whiskey.

‘Want some?’ Bennie asks, holding the bottle out to Brian.

‘Thanks,’ Brian says, taking the golden liquid that he drinks down thirstily.

‘You two should stop drinking,’ Henrietta says quietly as they walk back down the road. Clinging to the side in the shadows while searching for the alley Henrietta saw. She looks round constantly. Back to the van then ahead towards the theatre. She checks the sides, the dark windows and doorways while following Dolan stomping ahead muttering to himself. ‘You’ll get dehydrated,’ she adds quietly.

‘Nah, that’s bollocks that is,’ Bennie announces too loudly.

‘Shush,’ Henrietta whispers, waving a hand at him.

‘Well, people say that, don’t they…that some stuff dehydrating you but, like…it’s liquid so how can it dehydrating you?’

‘Dehydrate, not dehydrating. And it takes more water from your body to process that alcohol than the whiskey gives you. So you’re put into a deficit which means you get dehydrated.’

Bennie and Brian look at the bottle suspiciously. ‘Nah,’ Bennie says, deciding he will trust his own instincts instead of scientifically proven facts.

‘So, like,’ Brian says slowly as he stares at Bennie, ‘you that Bennie are you?’

‘Me? I am,’ Bennie says. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Bennie.’

‘Oh right. Brian,’ Brian says, shaking hands. ‘Er…my kids love your music.’

‘Cool,’ Bennie says. ‘I think The Boys are zombies, though, so I might be solo from now on.’

‘Not zombies,’ Dolan mutters from ahead.

‘Or we could be Bennie and The Zombies.’

‘Not fucking zombies.’

‘Bennie and The Zombie Boys.’

‘Not fucking ZOMBIES.’

‘Dolan, shush,’ Henrietta says, alarmed at the noise they’re making. ‘All of you be quiet.’

‘What do you do, Brian?’ Bennie whispers theatrically.

‘Van driver,’ Brian whisper-shouts back as Henrietta winces.

‘Oh wow. You got a van then?’

‘Er…I did…it’s on fire back there.’

‘Oh mate, that’s awful. You’ll need a new van now.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Cos, like, you can’t be a van driver without a van…you’re just a driver.’

‘Yeah,’ Brian says sadly.

‘Alley,’ Henrietta says, pointing at the dark, narrow gap between the buildings.

‘I am not going down there,’ Dolan says, stopping to stare into the deep shadows.

‘We don’t have any choice. It’s either past the theatre or back the way Brian came,’ Henrietta says.

‘Right,’ Dolan states emphatically. ‘I see. Indeed. Yes. Well one of you should go first.’

‘Why?’ Brian asks.

‘Because I am an important person,’ Dolan says as though the answer is obvious. ‘Henrietta is a topless model, Bennie is a twat and you’re a van driver without a van.’

‘I’m not a topless model.’

‘Have you ever got your boobs out? Yes, I think you have, therefore you are a topless model. Right, one of you go first and make sure it’s safe,’ Dolan says, waving at the alley.

‘I will go,’ Bennie says, trying to stand bravely upright but extending too far and staggering back a few steps.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Henrietta says with a groan. ‘Someone give me a phone.’

‘Er, the networks are down?’ Dolan points out.

‘I need a torch,’ Henrietta says.

‘I don’t have a torch,’ Dolan says.

‘Your phone will have a torch.’

‘You are not draining my battery. What if the networks come back?’

‘Brian, have you got a phone?’

‘In the van.’

‘Okay, Bennie?’

‘Hi, Henrietta.’

‘Have you got a phone, Bennie?’

‘Got an iPhone.’

‘Can I use it please?’

‘Yeah sure, who you calling?’

‘I’m not…’

‘I like your dress, Henrietta.’

‘Thanks, Bennie.’

‘Looks really nice on you.’

‘Okay, thanks, Bennie.’

‘Don’t you think Henrietta looks nice, Brian?’

‘She looks lovely. I said you look lovely.’

‘Okay, great. Got the torch…stay close and…’

‘Not that close,’ Dolan hisses as the rock star bumps into his back.

Using the iPhone as a torch she tentatively edges into the mouth of the alley. High brick sides with barred windows give an appearance of a medieval castle. Big wheelie bins bright red in colour and emblazoned with the London refuse collector’s logo. Rubbish strewn everywhere. Newspapers, bin bags, takeaway food cartons and empty beer cans cover the floor. She pauses within two steps, straining to hear the faint rustling coming from a big pile of rubbish next to the wheelie bins. She takes another step, holding the bright light on the bags as a small head pokes up through the thin membrane to twitch whiskers and stare into the world beyond. Beady eyes fix on the light, which shakes as she shudders from head to toe at the sight of the fat rat claiming his territory.

She edges over to the far side and creeps on past while flicking the light back to the rat on the bags with a belief the thing will charge and run up her legs any second.

The men behind huff and puff, wheezing with fear and fright. Feet scuffing the ground that kick cans into bottles that roll noisily over the concrete ground. It stinks of piss and rotten food with used orange-coloured capped hypodermic syringes dropped from the junkies’ hands to lie amongst the shit. Barefooted she goes and each step is checked and watched for fear of being pricked by a dirty needle.

She looks up at the windows and behind to the men, back at the wheelie bins then down at the ground. The light shines bright to illuminate the immediate area but only serves to make the shadows ahead look deeper and seemingly loaded with predators that will tear the flesh from their bones.

A door on the right and another huge pile of rat-infested bin bags stacked high. Rodent squeaks sound clear with tiny nails that scrape and teeth that chew noisily into the scraps left behind. The stench of piss is joined by damp mould, foul air and stale body odour.

A grumbling noise brings her to a sudden stop with the breath held in her throat. A rumbling growl followed by a hiss of air. It comes again, rhythmic and flowing with an organic, natural sound. Her eyes go wide, expecting the worse and ready to flee back down the alley.

‘Sounds like my nan,’ Bennie says too loud and too close, and the rest jump from the sudden verbalisation.

‘Shut up,’ Dolan whispers, angered, fearful and terror-stricken.

‘What? My nan snores like that,’ Bennie says, followed by the sound of liquid being sloshed and his throat working to down the whiskey.

Snoring. That’s all it is. Someone snoring.
She works to bring her heart rate down and focus on the sound and now Bennie has put a name to it she recognises it for what it is.

Another step and hold. The light shines ahead. Another step and the light picks out a pair of feet attached to a pair of legs that stretch across the alley floor.

The grumble comes deep and full of bass from lungs exposed to mould, cold air and god only knows what else. She takes another step, watching as the tramp comes into view.

Big boots unlaced and wedged on the skinny bare legs full of cuts, bruises and scars. Varicose veins show clear like a road map down the backs of his calves. The shorts are baggy and several sizes too big. A tied-off piece of filthy string holds them round his thin waist and a filthy old Arsenal top hanging in strips that barely cover his emaciated frame. Thin, rangy arms scarred by track marks where the needles have plunged into veins that have sunk and broke until he’s been forced to work up and down to find a way to inject the heroin. Hands matted black with grime, fingernails long and brown. His right hand clutching a can of Special Brew and on his left hand sits a fat rat once again twitching his whiskers at the shining orb of light hovering in the air.

Grumble and hiss. Grumble and hiss. She stares down, taking in every sordid and awful detail of the man that walks the streets of London unseen, unnoticed and uncared for. The myth that beggars make more money than bankers is broken instantly. The man could be anywhere from thirty to fifty and is almost ageless in the squalor of his life.

A wet rasping sound comes clear and long. It goes on for seconds and the sleeping tramp smiles at the relief of the gases passed from his arse. The air fills with the foul smell of warm faecal matter and she watches as the rat turns its head and creeps from the tramp’s hand and over his bare leg to sniff the source of the wonderful new smell. Henrietta gags and quickly covers her mouth, unable to summon the courage to step over the tramp and continue their escape.

The rat leans down like a dog sniffing something he is unsure about. The tiny muscles bunch under the black, glistening fur ready to give flight should the need be called for. The head twitches as the nose works to determine the scent as a food source and a decision is made that further investigation is needed. The rat drops from the leg onto the ground inches from the hemline of the tramp’s shorts. It stares up into the darkness of the tramp’s groin, stepping one tiny leg after the other with the neck stretching to sniff.

Another wet rasping noise, longer and fouler than before. The rat flinches but holds his ground and this time the lure is too great. It goes into the opening, crawling against the flesh of the tramp’s thigh with only the thick twitching segmented tail flailing about.

Henrietta pukes. It cannot be helped. A big, dirty rat going up a tramp’s shorts and the bile spews from her mouth to splatter across the beggar’s bare legs. She freezes at the action, once again covering her mouth. The vomit slides thick down his skin to drip on the ground and the tramp murmurs in his sleep.

Just keep going. Step high and get over. Just keep going.

‘HAHAHAHA,’ the tramp’s laugh roars out with a voluminous voice booming to roll and echo down the high walls. A hand goes to his groin to scratch at the tickle he can feel in his sleep. Henrietta steps high and tries to look at the puke on his legs, the rat in his shorts, his hands firking about and his bearded, sunken-eyed face grinning to show broken teeth as he laughs and mutters dreamily.

She brings her last foot over his leg and goes to step high again as Bennie starts giggling with sudden mirth.

‘Shush,’ Dolan says urgently.

‘That tramp’s got Henrietta Swallow between his legs.’ Bennie snorts the laughter out as Brian chuckles. The tension is too high. The fear too great. The sustained focus has been on for too long and Henrietta snorts a laugh at the incredible surrealness and noticing that she is indeed between a tramp’s legs.

Her hand clamps harder but not to stop the vomit or stifle a scream but to hold in the hysteria. She steps high again, going clear over the legs and waiting while Dolan, Brian and Bennie get over with Bennie grinning from ear to ear and Brian still chuckling.

‘FUCKARSE,’ the tramp roars in his sleep. ‘BIG WILLIES.’

The laughter breaks through her fingers, deep and braying as Bennie bursts out with unrestrained giggles.

‘WANKPUSS…I AM…I AM…WANKPUSS…’

A hand on her back and Dolan propelling her forward while she tries to keep the laughter in. Dolan would just go in front and run but she has the torch so he stays behind waving his hands while hushing and shushing the other laughing three to be quiet.

‘Wankpuss the tramp,’ Bennie snorts. ‘Should we take him with us?’

‘No!’ Dolan almost shouts, causing the tramp to twitch as he giggles and scratches at the rat delving in his shorts.

‘Hey, Wankpuss,’ Bennie calls out soft and drunk. ‘Wanna come with us?’

‘Move.’ Dolan pushes Henrietta hard, snapping the laughter off and forcing her to stumble against the wall. ‘Get me the fuck out of here.’ He gets in close behind, propelling her forward with his heavier body weight. His breath snatching in terror at the confined space and being surrounded by idiots, tramps and rats. His shiny black shoes now dirty and scuffed and the white shirt under his black jacket smeared with grey and brown streaks. His hand grips her upper arm, squeezing tight while marching on.

‘Dolan.’ She tries to yank free but his hands are big and clamped hard. ‘Take it easy.’

‘Just keep fucking moving.’

‘We are…Dolan, slow down. I can’t see properly.’

‘Move.’

‘I’ve got no shoes on.’

‘I don’t fucking care.’

‘Hey,’ Bennie calls, trying to keep up with the new frantic pace. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘Shut your fucking mouth, you little prick.’ Dolan simmers with terror-fuelled anger coursing through his body. He has to be out of here. He must be out of here.

The alley twists and turns down straight lines that reach hard right angles as they snake through the deep building lines of a city built larger over many hundreds of years. Barbed-wire fencing protects low walls. Security lights blaze in their eyes. A dog barking furiously from somewhere close. Henrietta tries to watch the ground ahead but her arm hurts from being gripped so hard and pushed forward.

Dolan wheezes noisily through his nose from the exertion. The sweat pours down his face into his beard. Mutterings sound under his breath, but although his mind longs to be out of here his body cannot sustain the fast pace.

She tugs her arm free as he slackens off to try and snatch air into his starved lungs. Silent now. She doesn’t speak but keeps on leading them through a maze of brick hedges and doors covered with thick iron bars and cameras glowing red lights to record and track their progress that will be saved onto hard drives that will never be seen.

That he is terrified is obvious and she swallows down the irritation of his manner. He is Dolan the head of factual programming for Channel Four. He
is
an important person and the key to her gaining a future in broadcasting. Keep him safe, keep him alive, but more than that don’t piss him off. Do what he wants and reap the rewards.

She holds an image clear in her mind. Of the theatre given over to a production film crew as she talks into the camera retelling the tale of the night they survived. What exactly they are surviving is beyond her. Something bad, that’s for sure, and a nagging voice in the back of her mind that she supresses. Bennie will say how great she was and no doubt Brian will sell his story to the press, too. She doesn’t blame him. He will need the money for a new van. Dolan, though. He’s the important one. Keep Dolan on side.