The Mammoth Book of Dracula (69 page)

It was cold in here, as cold as a deep freeze. Alison turned round. There were dark patches of blood on her cheeks, her neck, her raised hands. “Help me.” Something he could hardly see pushed him back into the doorway.
“Please.”
The, door closed on him. Wren crouched behind it for a long time, trying to hear. But there was no sound. The door fitted so neatly into its frame that it could almost have been part of the wall. It couldn’t be opened from the outside. When he stood up, his eyes were stinging. There was blood in his mouth.

~ * ~

After the bunker, the house seemed like a vast emptiness. Wren climbed the stairs numbly, entered his flat without switching on the light, and stood there for a moment. Then he began to remove his clothes. The cold of underground seemed to have followed him. It was the beginning of winter. He ran a warm bath, took a razor blade from the cabinet and half embedded it in the soap. Then he lay down in the water. The left wrist sliced open as easily as a fish. The right wrist was harder, because he’d cut a tendon or something in his left hand. He made two longitudinal gashes before hitting the vein. Then he rested his head between the taps and watched the blood spreading like two bright flames in the water. Soon he couldn’t feel anything but the faint trickle of water from his exposed feet. There was blood in the air now, darkening, clotting above his face. Then two eyes opened in the sky of blood.

Schreck. The landlord gripped Wren’s shoulders and pulled him up. The water seemed almost freezing. Gently, he took Wren’s left hand and lifted the open wrist to his mouth. Wren felt a tongue probe the edges of the wound. Then Schreck took the other wrist and drank from it. The comfortable haze of blood was receding, and a black emptiness was starting to take its place. Wren felt other wounds open: the old razor-cuts along his inner arms, and the bite-mark on his right shoulder. Schreck leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. He seemed to have more than two lips.
There are no revelations,
Wren thought.
Only more of the same. A monster disguised as itself.
He put his arms round Schreck, and felt himself lifted easily from the red water.

Later, he opened his eyes to find himself in bed. Schreck was sitting beside him on the duvet. As Wren looked at him, the landlord picked up a glass and put it in Wren’s hand. It was neat vodka, Schreck’s own. The best. Wren felt his wounds sting as the alcohol opened up his circulation. Behind the drawn curtain and the leaded glass, it was daylight. Wren tried to smile. “What do you call a cunt with teeth?” he asked, his voice sounding thin and childish.

“I know. Dracula.” Schreck glanced at the small table near the bed, the two brandy glasses and crystal dessert bowls. “I’m sorry about her,” he said. “My little friends. She’s with them now.”

“Do you always turn your friends into versions of yourself?”

The landlord shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?” He stroked Wren’s hand with a surprising tenderness.

They stared at each other for a while, like a couple making up after a row. Then Schreck asked: “Do you want her back?” Wren nodded. “I’m sorry. You can’t be with her. Not that way. You’re just not the type ... But there’s a whole world out there for you.” Schreck gazed at the curtained window. When he looked back at Wren, there were tears in his eyes. “Richard. I need someone who’s not like me. Someone to live for me, love for me ... and eventually, die for me. To feel the pain I can’t feel.” He stood up. “I’ll leave you now. There’s food in your fridge, booze in your cabinet. I’ve cleaned the bath. All you need to do is rest. If you want me, just knock on my door. I’ll wait.”

Then he picked something up from the floor and put it on Wren’s bedside table, next to the alarm clock. It was the cake of soap with the razor still in it. “Your choice,” he said. “There are many ways out. But remember, the real evil is the denial of need. Do what you have to.” The door opened and closed softly. Wren blinked at the drying wounds on his wrists. The power to heal. The power to harm. He sat with his arms wrapped across his chest, rocking himself gently.
Father. Mother.
He drank some more vodka and began to cry. He cried until his throat ached and his eyes were burning. When night fell, he was still crying. But he still hadn’t picked up the razor blade.

The leaves are falling as if from far away,

as if a garden had withered in space;

the way they fall is like saying no.

—Rilke

<>

~ * ~

BRIAN STABLEFORD

Quality Control

BRIAN STABLEFORD taught Sociology for twelve years at the University of Reading before becoming a full-time writer in 1988. He has published more than a hundred books, including over sixty novels, sixteen collections, seven anthologies and thirty non-fiction titles.

His vampire fiction includes the novels
The Empire of Fear, Young Blood
and
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampires of Eternity,
as well as a number of short stories. He has also translated numerous works of French vampire fiction, including Paul Feval’s
Vampire City
and
The Vampire Countess,
Marie Nizet’s
Captain Vampire
and Ponson du Terrail’s
The Vampire and the Devil’s Son.

Stableford’s recent titles include
Alien Abduction: The Wiltshire Revelations
and
Prelude to Eternity.
He has also completed a five-volume set of translations of the scientific marvel fiction of Maurice Renard, and a six-volume set of the scientific romances of J. H. Rosny the elder.

The author was the recipient of the 1999 Science Fiction Research Association’s Pilgrim Award for contributions to SF scholarship, and he has also been presented with the SFRA’s Pioneer Award (1996), the Distinguished Scholarship Award of the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts (1987) and the J. Lloyd Eaton Award (1987).

Having observed the world and what’s happening to it, Dracula advances his plans to re-establish himself and his fellow vampires as the dominant species ...

~ * ~

BREWER HADN’T BEEN in the Goat and Compasses for nearly a year. He didn’t need to go into places like that nowadays; he always met his runners on safer ground. His legitimate business was booming and it didn’t seem politic to be frequently seen in a pub known to be favoured by dealers, pimps and other assorted riffraff. There were no big players on view now, though; it was only lunchtime.

He found Simple Simon propping up the bar, looking no fatter and no more prosperous than he ever did, but not looking like a boy on the brink of starvation either. Brewer still thought of Simon as a boy although he must have been well into his twenties by now. Clearly, he was still working—if not for Brewer then for someone else.

“Hello, Simon,” Brewer said, taking the youth by the elbow and leading him away from the bar to a booth in the corner. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”While Simon thought about how to answer that he went back to the bar and ordered a couple of pints.

When Brewer carried the tankards over to the booth and set them down Simon had the grace to look slightly guilty, but he didn’t look scared. Brewer had never mastered the delicate art of terrifying his pushers, preferring to represent himself as a man who was as gentle and trustworthy as his product. Sometimes, he regretted his laxity. There was always the chance that some under-terrorized imbecile would grass him up if the police put the screws on tight enough.

“It’s okay,” he said, staying in character. “No threats. I only want an explanation. You owe me that much, at least.”

“An explanation of what?” Simon asked, although he knew full well.

“An explanation of why you haven’t picked up your supplies lately. I know you too well to believe that you’ve decided to straighten up, so you’ve obviously found an alternative supplier. You don’t have to tell me who it is, but I need to know what it is you’re peddling. I thought I had the kind of product that wouldn’t easily be outdone. If my recipe book is out of date I really ought to catch up. It’s not the money, of course—it’s a matter of professional pride.”

“It’s not better,” the youth muttered. “Not really. It’s just different. New.”

“You’re telling me you’re a fashion victim? Some new designer product hits the street and you feel like you have to switch brands in case your mates think your habit’s passé?” Brewer tried hard to imply that it was unbelievable, but he knew that it was only too likely.

“It’s not like that,” Simon said, uncomfortably. “It’s just... people can be very persuasive.”

“You mean they threatened to break your legs if you didn’t ditch my stuff and start selling theirs?”

“Not exactly,” the boy muttered, unable to muster enough conviction to tell a convenient lie. The trouble with Simon was that he was vulnerable to the mildest forms of persuasion, provided he was approached in the right way.

“It’s okay,” Brewer lied, hoping that he didn’t sound too convincing. “It was bound to happen. It’s the hectic pace of technological innovation—not to mention the money that’s being poured into neurochemical research. I’m only one man, and I can’t be expected to create and supervise the psychotropic revolution by myself. There’s room for everyone in a boom market, no need for conflict. This is 1999, after all—we’re not Jurassic crack dealers, are we? I just need to know what’s going on. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t retail my products as well as theirs?”

Simon shrugged awkwardly. Plainly there was.

Brewer wondered whether it might have been optimistic to assume that his new rivals were men like him: civilized people with degrees, well-appointed laboratories and a serious interest in the next phase of human evolution. Maybe the old-time crack dealers were trying to get back into the game. If so, he shuddered to think what their quality control must be like. He stared over Simon’s shoulder and let his eyes wander while he wondered how much trouble he might be in.

His wandering gaze was suddenly arrested and held by a trim figure easing its way out of a booth on the far side of the room. His attention would have been caught even if he hadn’t recognized the face lurking behind the opaque sunglasses, but the shock of realizing who she was intensified his reaction considerably.

Simon looked around to see what Brewer was staring at, but turned back quickly, as if he were afraid to look upon such a startling profile.

“Does she come in here often?” Brewer asked.

“Sometimes. Still counts a few of the working girls as friends. They say her old man doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t keep tabs on her during the day.”

“Must be the laid-back type.” Brewer used the sneer to cover up an unexpected stab of jealousy. For nearly a year Brewer had supplied Jenny with happy pills in exchange for sex, but she had been using too many other things, and she had never quite come off the game. He had dumped her when she had gone far enough downhill not to be special any more. In his experience, nobody ever climbed back up that kind of hill once they’d started to roll, but Jenny now looked
extra
special—far better than she ever had before. That was difficult to believe, given that she must be at least Simon’s age, with the sweet succulence of innocence far behind her.