Bull Running For Girlsl (19 page)

“You sick fuck!” His stomach wrenched and he fought the desire to throw up once more. She drew away quickly.

“Your father tried to get away from me. He wasn’t nearly quick or clever enough. It has always been this way; so many actors to kill, so little time to get round to them all.”

Nick heard the door open behind him and another woman entered the room. She had short, blonde hair and the palest of grey eyes. He stared at her, hoping for some fresh explanation of what was happening to him.

“Wow, Paula you look great,” Wilding gasped.

Paula turned around so that Wilding could get a better look at her costume, or the one she was
nearly-not
wearing. She looked like some sort of Bunny Girl but instead of being all-black, her tight bodice was covered in crimson sequins.

“Perfect, just perfect. The most glamorous magician’s assistant.” Wilding grabbed Paula by the waist and gave her a hug.

“I wanted to look my best and this costume won’t show the blood. Anyway, this act is a little messier than the last.”

Both the women laughed. Paula pulled Nick’s chin up and grinned at Wilding. “Everyone who is
anyone
is out there.” She looked towards the door and laughed nervously. Before he had time to move at all Wilding was upon him with lightening speed and her teeth pierced his skin. She took great pleasure in his blood. But, suddenly she pulled back.

Paula came closer to him, her eyes coming to life at the sight of his blood.

“No Paula. He is mine.” Wilding snarled at her.

Weakened by the ordeal, Nick fell into a half faint, blood still pouring from his neck. Wilding licked her finger and placed it on the wound. A few seconds later the blood stopped flowing.

Still shocked and weakened, he was dragged between the women down a dim corridor and out onto a small, brightly-lit stage with a film screen behind it. On the large screen
fl
ickered the photos of all the lead actors that he had seen on the computer screen. The stills included one of his father’s head, enlarged to a gigantic size and it towered over the audience. The applause was polite and petered out as quickly as it arose. Nick blinked and wished he could shield himself from the glare of the spotlights. A little steadier now, he could make out the small tables, surrounded by barely-visible forms shifting in the shadows. His throat hurt and he struggled to see clearly.

“I must get out of here.” His voice cracked and the words sounded foolish.

This was met with even more polite applause and some laughter. He heard someone cough in the audience. At first the lights had dazzled his eyes, it was just too bright to see
—
but then
there
it was, ominous and sinister before him—he saw the long black coffin.

Wilding and Paula pulled him over to it. He wavered above it, steadied himself and felt his strength returning slightly before his knees buckled beneath him. With no great difficulty, the women forced him into the coffin. He felt the cool, ivory satin on his cheek, as he struggled
—
and a sweet rose perfume in the air above him as the lid was closed.

He heard the terrible sound of a saw cutting into wood, felt the coffin vibrate. Horrified, he struggled against the binding, holding his breath. He listened. He waited. Then it came.

“Oh, Christ!”

The saw broke through the wood.

For a moment it stopped and he could see light though the half-sawn lid. A few seconds later he gave out a shrill cry as again he heard the deafening sound of the buzz saw hovering somewhere above him.

“Christ! Let me out
—
Stop!”

The coffin lid was ripped off and a dark figure stood above him.

“What? What?” cried Nick, the light half-blinding him again as he took in great gasps of air.

A man hauled Nick out of the coffin and onto his feet. There was blood everywhere and something almost tripped him up as he stepped forward. He looked down
—
into Paula’s pale, grey eyes, just before her head rolled over and over, and then off the stage. There was no sign of Wilding.

“It got a little messy, I’m afraid. We only got here with a few seconds to spare. Once
they
agreed that this should be stopped.” The stranger helped support Nick and guided him to a small table where he sat him down.

“Are you the police?”

The rope was removed from Nick’s wrists and he rubbed the red marks where the flesh had almost been broken.

The stranger sat on the chair next to Nick and smiled. “Well. From now on you just might say we are, since we have to put a stop to all these psychopathic crimes.”

“What exactly,” said Nick, trying to get his breathing under control, “is going on?”

My name is Goran Decanski and I represent, let us say, the more
traditional
of my kind. Not now to be associated with the diseased filth that lies at your feet. These mad vampires meet here in The Magic Circle with their nasty goings-on and such like.” Goran poured himself a glass of red wine from the bottle that stood, already half empty, on the table.

Nick was feeling a little more in control, but he tried not to look at the many blood-splattered body parts around him. He pushed an empty glass towards Goran.

“I am so sorry, where are my manners?” Goran poured another glass.

Goran was the kind of vampire that looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
. He was Byronic, not at all like the modern looking Wilding, with her red hair and black eyes.

Nick put the glass to his lips and hesitated. “This
is
wine, I take it?”

Goran gulped from his glass and laughed. “Yes, it is wine. Let me ask you my dear friend, have you never licked your own wounds or sucked your own thumb after a pin prick?”

“Well, yes.” Nick felt the panic rising again and clenched his hands, ready to run
—
that is, if he were strong enough.

“Did you like the taste?”

“I can’t say I thought about it much.”

“Well, blood tastes of birth and life, of a
particular life
if you can imagine such a thing. To me each individual is like wine, some are excellent and some have simply gone off. I accept each life as it comes along; usually the sick and the dying. I don’t make a celebration of it and I don’t kill actors just because they don’t portray vampires in a certain way. Wilding developed a taste for hideous ritual. She began to kill actors, not to survive but to please her aesthetic taste, which to me is abhorrent. I am not proud of being a vampire. I am simply what I am
—
but I do not make a carnival out of it.”

A great sadness struck Nick as he remembered that the mad vamps had killed his father. They had thought it a scream to stage the car accident.

“Wilding got away tonight and I will stop her eventually. But unfortunately she always finishes what she begins. So you must, for the time being, stay out of the limelight.”

“My wife and daughter?”

“They must disappear too, until Wilding is stopped.”

Goran rose quickly from his chair. “She drank from you?” he said, examining Nick’s throat. “Only time will tell if you turn. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to help us?”

Nick took a deep breath. He hesitated for a second.

“Oh yes, I want a piece of that.” Nick raised his glass.

Wilding had killed his father, and many times, himself in his nightmares. But it may have taken just the one bite to damn his soul
—
and he had to work out just how he was going to get revenge. Maybe he would have his own private party next year, especially for Wilding.

Less than a week later, Nick was in the Phoenix café on Hollywood Boulevard looking pretty much as he always did. Still suave, lapping up all the adulation from people in the café who asked for his autograph. Nick had a bodyguard now, a very special one at that, one who had been a vampire for a very, very long time. Goran let a few of Nick’s admirers through for the autographs, the last he would ever give.

“One at a time please, ladies. He can only sign one at a time.” The impromptu signing over, Nick and Goran retreated to the quiet luxury of a Lamborghini.

“Do you think you can give all this up?” asked Goran, gesturing at the car and the girls.

Nick was more thoughtful than usual, as he considered his wife and child.
Why was it that when you just started to really appreciate everything, it all gets fucked up?

“I know I can. This life was getting a little out of hand. Do you know how much that birthday of Alison’s cost? Five thousand pounds for a performer and Tiffany bracelets in the party bags for God’s sake.”

“Very expensive.” Goran smiled.

“Yeah, but that was my last chance to spoil her. Have you got the documents? Will you see that they get them?”

“I will do that.”

Goran showed him the new passports with the new identities for his wife and daughter. Nick knew that today would be the last time he would see his little girl for a while. It would be too dangerous for her to be around him now; and perhaps, if Wilding
had
turned him, that part of his life would be gone forever. He would not have to act the part of a vampire anymore, he might
become
one. The terrible realisation of that then fell upon him like the coffin lid. They would have to disappear and take on new identities,
somewhere
. But not with him.

The dualitists is a reference to the title of the short story, “The Dualitists” otherwise named, “The Death Doom of the Double Born”, written by Bram Stoker. It was first published in
The Theatre Annual
1887.

It occurred to Elena that perhaps she wasn’t living the best possible life; that in fact she was never moved to extremes anymore. She had been afraid to think too deeply or act accordingly. Within her banal activity and thoughtless repetition she barely existed, treading water, hesitant to join the others who called to her from within. Elena was aware of them all; a small army of malcontents who were trying to build a bridge from fresh hewn bones, and bound together with rotting sinews of the dead. Reluctantly Elena stayed away from those darker corners of her mind where the dualitists dwelt and where her former selves waited in quiet expectation.

Every Thursday and Saturday evening Elena worked as an usher at the Royal Exchange Theatre on Cross Street, in the city centre of Manchester. She showed people to their seats, sold programmes and was given a clipboard with a list of stage directions for opening and closing the doors for the actors.

8:22 p.m. Open for entrance of Hamlet, then close door.

8:25 p.m. Open for exit of Hamlet, then close door.

8:26 p.m. Open for entrance of Ophelia, close door.

Those were the kind of duties expected of her, and so forth. At the interval she was required to sell ice cream or coffee and use the antiquated till, which never worked properly and made her look a complete fool when it jammed. A queue would quickly build up with frustrated theatre-goers who simply wanted to be served and take a quick pee before the curtain went up for the second half of the performance.

Still, there were always the perks. Elena had seen
Romeo and Juliet
(in fact, many of Shakespeare’s plays), also Tolstoy and Arthur Miller, amongst others. She got to meet actors in the green room and received free tickets for each performance. There was always Thursday night at the Press Club, where the actors and theatre staff would wind down, listen to the singers, laugh at the bawdy, bad jokes of the comedians, and occasionally dance. Some actors would get up, sing and tell jokes too.

Elena met a few famous names there; Vanessa Redgrave for one, who was an excellent actress, if not a little befuddled sometimes. When Elena said hello to her she couldn’t help but think about that crazy award speech Vanessa had delivered once; it must have gone on for ten minutes, until the audience slow-clapped her off the stage.

Sure, Elena had slept with one or two of them (the actors, not the playwrights and certainly not Vanessa Redgrave or the audience). Only last Thursday Elena had taken great delight during a performance of
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins, in waiting until the last second to open a door for an actor. He had continued to ignore her after a one night stand, she being an usher; she was only the hired help after all. He made it quite clear that a blow job didn’t constitute full sex, so he hadn’t really been unfaithful to his girlfriend (who was playing Desdemona in
Othello
in York). The ushers were supposed to open the doors for actors, well before they reached the end of the aisle. Elena smiled with pleasure as she watched the beads of sweat roll down her one-night stand’s face, when the tip of his golden slipper touched the bottom of the door as he tried to make his exit. She opened the door the instant his nose touched the small round window. When she didn’t open the door quickly enough, he swore at her under his breath and glared over his shoulder as he made his way back to the dressing room. He was shaking so much his red satin turban threatened to fall off.