Chapter One

An old book

1990

The gentle hands flick through the pages of the battered book…

My name is uninteresting. Who am I, where was I born or where are my parent from … who cares. Uninteresting. I am not a maker, a doer. I am just me, plain little me. If you want to give me a name … call me Jane Smith … or Jane Eyre. As the governess. As the character.

I once was a governess. And yes, dear reader, I met my Mr Rochester. Thus my story has a happy ending. In a way, a highly unethical way.

I took care of my charge. I had to. Poor angel. Left adrift in a world of strangers. I took pity on him. I could have run away. Dereliction of duty. Yes, it has a name. I could have. I did not. Who would have helped, cared? Who would have believed him? In those days, his people were already very far from being popular. They may be rich, they certainly are mighty. What is certain is that they are rightly feared. He fears them; he has all the reasons to fear them because he is as ruthless as them. He says he does not want to be like them… He says.

I know better, I am a teacher, a governess. I am trained to detect lies.

I really do not know why I am writing this. I stopped this diary a long time ago. In those days, all the young ladies had a diary. Where I was employed, we used to call it in French: un journal personnel. Le journal d'une ame. A soul's diary; a soul's journey.

In those days of private education, young ladies of means did not go to private boarding schools. No, the teacher was allowed to set a foot in their own household. Though naturally not on an equal footing.

We were better than the cook but less than the personal valet and her ladyship's private chambermaid. We could avoid eating in the servants' hall but had to resign ourselves to be served lunch with our young pupils. In the nursery or in the classroom. Some grand days, we were allowed a peak to the library!

Not for us the grand dining room. Not ballroom, no salon. Whether grand or humble parlour. The governess was only to be seen, but not heard… like her charges.

This is ironical because one momentum day I was heard but could not be seen. And all changed.

Was not to be seen or heard was my aim. I totally missed the point. I ridiculously failed and it saved my life and got me this permanent post. This post for the past 35 years or so. My employer is very attached to my services. He does not leave our modest house without me to watch over him

Diary, diaries … tell me my past. One previous entry of the diary reads as follows.

May 11th 1855: Dear Diary,

I promise to write to Aunt Mathilda and my dear Uncle Septimus. Tomorrow. After church. My last remaining family. I owe them that.

After dear Papa's affairs had fallen in such disastrous states that dear Papa had no choice but do the honourable thing, my dear Aunt very kindly opened her door, her house and her heart to the double orphan.

I am still at a loss as to understand how dear Papa's suicide could have helped mending his situation or give money back to his customers but so it is. The bank closed, the banker closed his account. The Reverend Deacon Septimus Brocklehurst is totally unlike Mrs Charlotte Bronte's fictional character. Uncle Sept is a good man and his wife Aunt Mattie is the best of aunts. I must write to them about this place.

This is my first post. I shall be given 75 pounds every trimester. Seventy five pounds! As I am just 22, I am going to be a very rich young lady.

I must keep my head down. As not to provoke any man above my condition. Gentlemen do not marry their employee, Miss Bronte. They bed them and leave them adrift. The poor girl is to count herself lucky if she is not shamed by an enlarging belly.

I know I should not write this or use that word…. Nobody is going to read you. I know some employers do. Which is why I have one ready to peruse, full of spiritual devotion. Ready for nosy employers. It would make Uncle Sept if he knew. As he knows better, he would probably inform My Lady, this is not my real book.

You, my real honest book. My friend and nobody will ever read you but me. Where was I? Oh, Yes…

I do not know – God bless me- what a gentleman does with a lady when they lay side by side in a bed. But I know how it ends. Disgrace. I mean she is disgraced and he carries on with his life, ready to disgrace another virtuous maid. I am virtuous … and rich. Rich very soon. Less than two months.

My first salary will be divided in four parts … one part for my dear guardians, one part in case in ill health, one part to be saved if horror, I was to lose this lucrative post and one part for daily expenses.

I am so happy it feels giddy…

My charges are two ladies.

A rather unpleasant young lady of fourteen. Next year, she will need me less. In theory. In practice, her parents count on me to help her understand the basics of the management of a household: addition and subtraction. Isabella does not seem to understand that money spent does not grow on trees. Lord This or the Right Honourable That are but one and just the same. Men are me; they have the upper hand, our husband is our master. We are given a weekly allowance for the household's expenses; if we overspend said pin money by a penny, our earthly master, our husband will show his displeasure.

Some husbands are known to whip their wives. Known to humiliate said wives in front of us, the servants. Poor Isabella. She is pretty; the type of face which ages considerably after one or two 'interesting situations'. Once her beauty gone, she will not have much to help her to keep Lord This or Mister That near her side.

Sophia is nicer, possibly because she is younger. I will manage even if they carry on commenting rather loudly about my brown silk which 'has seen better days'. Insufferable pampered minxes. But they can be kind. Yes kind. Isabella loves music and she has sincerely thanked me yesterday after listening to Schubert. As for Sophia who still needs to sleep with her doll... My charges can be kind and my lot could be worse.

Sir Marmaduke and Lady H are, how to … they are snobs. Haughty snobs. I am convinced they would look down on our dear Queen. The manor is large. But not 'that' large. Sir M is just a younger son. He is not the viscount. They live in the Dower house. Really to boast of having more than 20 servants in this rather small …house is plain showing off and bad taste. Could it be possible that they would compete with the W.?

Viscount W. and Lady W. are more … simple. More… subtle. Gentler. Life is strange. My employers who live in that smallish house are way wealthier than the people living in the real grand house. Lady H was quite an heiress. It is said she wanted to become a viscountess. She cannot complain. Sir Marmaduke is a baronet. Created by our late good king, Sailor William. Now this was a very naughty king. And I really should not write more about our dear Queen's late uncle.

It is strange. I heard the knocker as I went to my room and the house is eerily silent. I could have sworn I just heard like a cry of terror. I must leave you and see what Sophia has done. I am sure she has found a mouse. Or a bat…

After the last bubble of life had been extracted, spilt; he got bored. Again. Bored and sated. It happened just like that. It always happened like that. Without warning.

He was blood drunk, angry at the world. Angrier at himself. Disgusted with the creature he was. By the rivers of blood which followed him. He hated the world; because the world tolerated him. If Justice meant something, surely by now the world would have rejected him. Would have vomited him back to where he belonged: Hell.

The calm passing of the days has carried on and the blood fest has not stopped. It never stops. Would it ever stop?

The maid's body fell back on the chair, her neck half gone, chewed up to the cervical vertebrae.

Downstairs, faintly coming from the cellar, he could hear good old Fergus having fun with… with Annabella. Anna, no… Not Anna… Sophia. Yes Sophia. The noble lady of the manor had knelt, knelt to begging him to take her instead of her child, which he did obligingly.

He would not drink the child but Fergus would. Fergus had no niceties about him. Whom did he kill first? A young girl. A girl older than the one he had agreed on. The daughter, the eldest daughter. She was practising the piano. Well, she would be - now - unable to murder anymore Wolfgang. Silence after Mozart is still signed Mozart. Silence after Isabella was … a blessing. The girl had no musical ear; surely her parents could, should have prevented the cacophony. Sir Marmaduke, the portly human who was so welcoming to Colonel Henry Yorke was not going to repeat the mistake of inviting him in.

"Pray do come in, Colonel. My hall is yours"

Initially, Yorke had not planned the assault. He blamed the horse, the loosened iron… After listening to Miss H.'s musical holocaust, he felt like calling the wrath of God was totally justified.

What if … she had played right? Would he have killed her? Yes after doing the dishonourable thing.

Lately, he was spiralling out of control. Giving free rein to his baser instincts. She was still theoretically a child. He has known quite intimately another fourteen year-old in another cycle.

It was better. Better this way. Annabella or Sophia (strange Britain where about each aristocratic family felt compelled to bestow over and over again the very same names to its members) was going to die. Slowly. Sadly. Fergus liked to drink the blood dripping from the knife. Drop, drop… He rejoiced in the fear, the terror. For him, he did not rejoice in the pain. No, all he cared about was the blood; more and more blood. Lovely velvety fluid. Fluid of life for him. Humans were there just to be … harvested.

Sophia was dead, her parents were dead. And the last maid was dead…

Fergus must have caught the last human standing in the House. Fergus knew his duty. Clear the house from any trace of humanity. Live humanity .

He gave a long look at the long corridor. He could hear not heartbeat. Good. It would not do to leave any human alive able to give a description. Victoria's Scotland Yard Police Force might be better than the Georgian Bow Street Runners. Things were improving. Slowly, very slowly. Slowly enough to miss the obvious and hang the innocent. Humans were less prone to hang for minor offences. Australia had a lot of saved lives to prove it. Stupid humans. All too prone to blame those too weak to defend themselves.

Still, a survivor could not be allowed. He thought he heard some noise in one of the rooms. Still no heart-beat. Humans could never stop their tell-tale heart. He opened the door. It was as he thought. No human. A room with an open window. A room for… a female if he was to take on account the crumpled crinoline with a carelessly thrown reddish skirt on the faded carpet. Just an open window and…

And a pulse. A woman with a pulse.

He looked outside the window and… yes here she was. Too far from his reach. Way too far. Holding to the grapevine. Standing on the wisteria top branches.

In her long unmentionables. With nice ankles. Too far from his reach. Almost out of her mind. Almost ready to fall from the tree branch which was giving her some foothold. If he followed her, it would break. Out of reach.

"Come here, I am not going to… I am going to kill you. Sorry, One should never lie to a lady"

"I am not a lady"

"I would not have taken Lady H to tolerate her husband's paramour in her house"

The owner of the neat pair of ankles… and legs (he could not comment on the knees) looked at him angrily.

"You may kill me; you will not insult my good name… nor my employer's reputation"

"A lady then. You know, in my days… young ladies were not allowed to climb on trees, nor show their underwear to any man. But their wedded husband. I blame Miss Austen for this."

"Are you somehow drunk?"

Yes, he was. Blood drunk. Alcohol… gave him headaches. Blood … blood made him drunk. Drunk and brazen. He … he was flirting with a girl who was standing half naked in a tree because otherwise he would have killed her and it was … fun. How long … when was it that he has actually flirted with a lady? Madrid? Yes, Spain and a lady who was wooed with tulips…

He had wooed; he had loved the lady. And he had been loved… and… he had lost her. He could have killed her but he did not. He was waiting for her in her father's house … with her father. Talking in earnest about a dowry … when they had heard the commotion. He had known the outcome before the duena, the panting duena covered in blood could speak. Could explain. He had seen the blood; explanations were superfluous.

Outside church, a child had been begging. The maid, her charge, Dona Ximena had wanted … as never in Madrid lived a most generous lady… Dona Ximena wanted to give some piastras to the child beggar. What happened was a mystery. She bent to give the money, she shook then fell; a red rose at her neck. The flower got larger and larger … and it was blood. The beggar left holding the opened purse, running and giggling. Dona Ximena's purse and it was all. The duena had called for help. The child was nowhere to be found but her charge. The heir to her master the most noble Don Carlos Grande De Espana, the betrothed of the Ingles senor was no more.

After that… after that… He did not remember much. Except the pain, the hurt and the silence. He was … he had been so angry, so hurt. The grief was unbearable. Ximena was innocent; yet she had been slaughtered. A sacrificial lamb.

He knew the child. Hettie. Hettie would pay. It would take him one hundred years, one thousand years. This account would be settled. What mattered was what had stopped to matter. Ximena must have crossed her door by now. He was alone. All alone with grief for only companion.

It must have been planned. He knew who he could thank for.

If he had been with her… As a ghost, his fiancée would still have been around. He felt sure she would not have left him alone. She would have stand by him. If he had been with her… Killed in front of a church. The church he could walk in as his powers were getting stronger over the centuries. The church Ximena was to become his beaming bride. If he had been with her…

A concerted attack with a message for him. Thou shalt have no other God but me. Thou shalt not escape me. He was owned, body and soul. He had tried to break free and Ximena had paid the price of this miserable show of independence. After that…

Somehow he must have left Spain. He somewhat remembered staying in France in … in … when was it? Yes the Revolution. Vampires liked blood baths, thrived on blood. It sure was bloody. French, Spanish; who cared? Blood tasted the same. Then.

Then? South America under the cover of El Libertador and? … And? Turkey, war. Balaclava; Sevastopol. Back to Britain when humans started bartering for Peace.

Britain … and this nonsensical child in her underwear for all men to see her ankles and her knees. Nice knees.

"When are we leaving my lord? … A human! Shall I get her?"

"Go to London. Wait for me. Just say you are to … to be entertained. You are my … Aide de Camp. You should be offered shelter with some tolerable comfort"

"Yes, my lord"

Fergus left the room. Nobody knew or wanted to know where the mood would take Lord Harry when he was drunk.

He would … wash. Eat, Take some money and go to London. Or go to London now… ride like Hell and all its Devils were in hot pursuit. The horse had lost its iron. As the stable lads could not, and would never again… The vampire henchman hesitated. Should he? Wisely, he refrained. His face could be cleaned down by the stables. As for the horse, he would get to London in easy stages. Or wash off the blood in the first river. Pretend to be nice and leave Henry Yorke to finish this brilliant day by nipping into this very nice morsel. Lucky Lord Harry. Fergus was not to meet Lord Harry till 1919 in Shanghai.

The monster had disappeared to re-appear moments later holding the cumbersome crinoline. And shoving it in her direction. In not so many words, if and as she was a lady … she was supposed to dress back. She was told in stringent terms she was to put on her crinoline and her red dress, or skirt… or whatever females called this thing.

The monster was drunk … and wicked. And sinful. How could she dress in a tree? She had removed the dress and the large whale boned petticoat to climb over the window. How had she come to think that she could save her life by hanging forlornly to a vine some three or four floors above the garden would remain a mystery?

Upon hearing the commotion, she had quickly run to the staircase and seen Sir Marmaduke bleeding to death with a young dashing… ghoul? A man ghoul? At his neck, while outside her vision field, the rest of Burton the valet… Burton's body was shaking and something was… drinking? From it!

The monsters, the killers… were laughing. Seized with a terror which knew no bound, the young governess had let drop skirt and petticoat, climb out and gingerly walk deep, away to the safety of the wisteria and the grapevine and a few decorative Tudor external walls decorations. Her stays had never seen such commotion!

And now … now, the monster wanted her to dress. Because she was immodest!

"I CANNOT DRESS ON THIS BRANCH. I will not. It is a trick. You will not trick me. By the powers given to me, by the Church… err... I beseech you err I mean I command you…"

"Exorcism does not work. One cannot be well over three hundred years and not learn a trick or two. Put that dress or I shall put it myself"

The worst part was that he looked so serious. He was … it was like he was really offended by her unmaidenly actions. In truth, to be saved this way… If ever she was to be saved. She could see the stern police inspectors. To have to answer to questions by a pitiful 'I was saved because I showed him my legs and my … long drawers, in my … tights. And he commented on my garters… The shame.

It has lasted too long. He climbed out the window with the dress under his arm after letting the crinoline fall further down. The plan was to let the large underdress reach the grass; the wisteria had other plans. At mid height of the wall, the lace got entangled and stuck the garment like an immodest flag floating to the wind.

He had to let the dress or the skirt or … what was the fashion for ladies fall a bit further down. Lovely. Tomorrow, the police would wonder as why a lady's dress and the rest were hanging on a grapevine while the household was getting butchered… Creepy murderers. Killers with a perversion for ladies petticoats.

A foot here, a branch there. Another foot here and… and his prey. His unwilling prey was his and his right hand grasped her terrified left hand … when his and her foothold broke. They were falling head first to the ground when both hands grasped at the first available support branch. Which was not a branch but the crinoline? The cotton fabric held and ripped off. Sending the couple further down. To another branch or a red velvety dress. Which also ripped and sent them further down? To the wisteria, the real wisteria and to the lawn. They were alive and the prey was still his.

She was alive. No broken neck. The crinoline and its whalebones had accomplished a miracle. The crinoline would never save her life again as it stood near at her back like a pair of dirty white wings

She was alive, bruised, dishevelled in her unmentionables. Legs encased in some female long legged pantaloons. In a personable young man's arms. Who was a monster!

The monster looked at her. His eyes were dark.

"I DO NOT WANT TO BECOME A VAMPIRE. Promise me to kill me. I do not want to become… like you"

"I could… I can make you eternal. You could become my … dark bride?"

"I want to die. I mean I want to live. To live in God's eternal life. I do not want to be a vampire. I am not afraid of Death even if … if your way to… inflict it is painful"

From the outside, it seemed that a young couple had decided to elope at the time My Lady H was being served tea. The man's arms were still around the young lady's waist and not ready to leave.

A human… uninterested by Eternal Life. A novelty! And he was sated. He did not want to drink, to kill. He had a headache, a bloody hangover because God was rewarding him with His usual sick sense of humour. A human ready to risk death; happy to court Death rather becoming Immortal. A nice pair of ankles with a nice waist and a …bleeding cheek. He felt his eyes getting dark but obliged them to appear human again.

Inside the human chest, the pulse was beating now serene. As if Death was not feared. As if it was just some inconvenience like too much sugar in tea. So… she did not want to be like him. She preferred to be …inferior.

She was not inferior. She simply wanted, accepted to move on… if it had to come to this. In Heaven, she would be reunited with Papa, her Mother and the little brother who never lived. Later she would welcome Aunt Mattie and Uncle Septimus. Possibly she would meet Isabella and Sophia. In Heaven, she was confident dear Isabella would learn to play the piano.

She was a child; she knew nothing about life. About the big bad wolves who lusted after innocent maidens. Life would make her cry; wish she had accepted his offer. God was a bit of a bastard who enjoyed tricking its creatures. Torturing his creatures by rubbing where it hurted. Showing them prizes never to be obtained. Love never to be given. Never to be shared. Life was only grief.

The young lady raised her hand to touch a very old scar from a long forgotten battle. He was drunk, his lips and cheeks were covered in blood. He had killed her employer and probably all the household. He was sad, so sad. Tired, bewildered. Lost. Maybe she could… help him. Not save him. Only him could save himself but help him, she could,

He was not going to kill. Not now, not yet. Not again. All he wanted was to lose his self into the gentle eyes, the rosy cheeks, and the kind smile of an otherwise rather simple Miss.

Fergus had left the gates open. The gates were allowing life to flow in. His fingers found her chin, caressed the bruised cheek. He raised the chin to meet …

1890

Thirty five years, I cannot believe it has been almost forty years. The happiest years of my life.

Since that fateful day, I have seldom written my thoughts. I am too afraid of the consequences if someone was to read this book.

Hal who has forbidden me to use his proper title has gone outside for a meeting with… his family. They… his people are angry at him. He is of some sort of royal blood. His … sire, his father for us mortals wants his heir back in the fold. My charge says nothing would induce him to return but me leaving him.

I had to promise I am never to cross some sort of door. I said yes; the look he shot back means he was not duped. If and when the time comes, I am not afraid. I will wait for him. Death is not the end. Why should I stay? If and when the Lord calls me, I shall be ready and will obey to His calling.

Life is good; life has been good. We left the Dower House in a hurry. I put on my lady's smart amazon riding outfit while he was ransacking all the drawers looking for money. Once he decided to join humanity ranks, he felt he could not profit from years of endless crimes. I have made my duty to help him save himself. He is in a way the child I never had. My eternally young charge.

Mr and Mrs Smith were as poor as the proverbial church mice. In a way though Hal has always contrived to provide some elegance in our life.

"A lady will not be seen in the summer without a sunshade umbrella. In French lace. A lady always travels first class. The price does not object. A gentleman never forgets to show his lady the high regard he holds her in by offering her as often as needs be some gentle trinket. Jane, this is just a simple necklace. The pearls are very small".

Mr and Mrs Hal Smith have been very happy. Thank you. We hid in a village looking for a gardener and a schoolmistress. I have never written to Aunt Mattie. Simply every year out of the blue, they would receive thirty gold guineas. Coming from Sir Marmaduke's safe.

Thirty gold coins like the ones given to Judah who betrayed our Lord. I have betrayed my people, my employer, his family and all the servants. I see their ghosts at night. I wake up and shriek. Hal holds me like I was some sort of ship mast, holding in the tempest. And I … I stay for his sake.

We were newlyweds, then brother and older sister. Now we are mother and son. I can see the fear growing in his eyes. He mutters words like cycle. Cycles? He begs me to accept… to be recruited. I do not fear Death, I do not need to. He fears it for me.

Lady H household accounts, her servants salaries, Sir Marmaduke's safe … all is gone now. We have sparse habits. We have to. Still, we are poor and we cannot get in debt. I know he is going to try and ask from his people some… some blood money. I cannot accept. It is my turn to do something for us. Because come to think of it. I have done nothing. But let my skirt and petticoat down. And my dear love has saved me. We have lived forever after as happy as the Queen and her dear Albert. And I have been spoilt, utterly spoilt.

"You have helped me, saved me. You have made me human. The least I can do is to let you enjoy the life of the lady you are. You are not going to work. A woman, my woman working?"

I must not allow him to be beholden to his people. I can still work. I am almost sixty years old. Fifty seven says the birth certificate. Thus I do not look old. Probably having no children has helped in keeping a slim waist and a 'neat' pair of ankles!

Once a governess, always a governess. I have found this offer of a position in the Times.

Recently bereaved gentleman with a young daughter looks for a respectable governess with experience. Young ladies need not apply. Serious offer. Large house in the Cotswolds. If the lady is married, her husband could easily find work on the estate. Ideal.

Hal does not know. I have given our address to the poor grieving widower. I have to meet him this afternoon while Hal is clutching at straws. His damsel in distress is going to save him as usual.

There is always hope in life. There is always a decent way out. I am happy and I have very good reasons to be hopeful. Hal will find work. And… and we shall find some solution as to explain his never aging. He can be saved. He will be saved. I do more than hope. I know. There is hope for him.

I hear the knocker. It must be him. Poor Mister Herrick.

1955

Life is full of sadistic ironies. Like me in Berlin in 1945. Doing surely God's work by killing the occasional SS. Like today going to Bristol because I am so bored with Life, with blood, with myself I am hanging at anything to give some semblance of existence to my life. My death.

A dog fight. Again. Cutler who has improved like old Port tells me the man in charge has a sick sense of humour that should get me entertained and he does not cheat. He does not cheat a lot. Barry, Cardiff, London. I really don't care. Life is just a blur, just the flick of an eyelid about to close on a glazed eye.

Dog fight. I am getting bored. I was getting bored.

Bristol. I knew the name. I knew who he was. I knew the day would come where Retribution would come. Snow … Snow, dear, highly revered Mister Snow. Old geezer Snow had told me who I had to thank for.

I knew who he was. I bet he had never seen me. Why should he? He was just a newly made vampire. Doing what he was told. Do this, kill that. Kill the human. Make sure the ghost does not stay. Burn the house down. Leave no memento. Leave no branch as to allow any survival. Erase all memory. Leave just a blank slate. Slaves need no past. They are just here to obey their masters.

1890

As for hoping you are going to live with a ghost…. Hettie and her recruit will make sure the spirit cross her door. It is for your own good, you understand.

I will not. I will not allow my heir to live like… like a Bohemian. With a human! Why not with a dog while you are at it!

From what I have heard, some children of Darwin' faith in an ever happy afterlife is quite touching; that is if you believe in fairy tales.

You will rule London for me… or Wales like Fat Bertie? You are still too young for Britain. But the day will come.

Welcome back, my dear prodigal son.

The future is yours as the past is just ashes.

Yes, drink, drink some more. It numbs the pain, it negates the void. Drink and welcome back to the fold.

A governess, really. Hal, a governess? It was just an anonymous lady. With such an unremarkable name.

….

1955

Herrick is strutting like a circus compere. I have lost… a lot. And I do not mean money. He opens the door wide as he expects me, an Old One to pay my betting losses. His guys have left us alone. Two bosses to discuss an uneventful sporting event. I smile. I am trying to find a new way to wipe out the man's silly grin. I want his death to be … spectacular!

It will settle a few accounts, teach a salutary fear to the young interlopers who think they can rule our world. My world. Henry Yorke Ltd. Lord Harry's world.

I shall give Bristol to Cutler. The kid is really improving. Making me proud.

Henry Yorke always pays his debts. Even if it takes him a century. He'll find you.

Herrick offers some drink. 'Some drink'. Modern glasses. Blood on … ice? Served in a whisky tumbler! I smile. Such bad taste must be rewarded. I must have looked sarcastic; the imbecile feels he needs to pour the blood, his back turned. Does he lick the last drop of blood from the bottle neck? I would not be surprised. For all his talk about class, the man has no elegance.

I leap. I hold the stake and I… I am going to tell him why. I have waited so long. I can wait a few more seconds. This is not for me, this… Funny, isn't it? Weird, certainly.

"William Herrick, I kill you … I am killing you because you … once you are dead, then I… I shall be able to forget" (Why do I have to explain? Stupid f#####g sense of chivalry! Jane deserves it; hence her killer deserves to be killed… properly. In an orderly fashion. So it makes sense)

"Wait. I… I have something for you. Wait, I have something for you. Something. Look by the decanter…"

All I see is a picture. The picture of a battered old book from the previous century. The type of book ladies used to write their inner thoughts. A diary.

The man is bonkers. I raise my stake. Herrick is strong, I am stronger. William is barely one hundred years old. He cannot resist to the vicious arm twist I hold him in. I look at the silly peace offering .. and it strikes me.

I know that book and Herrick now knows I know.

After the … deed, Hettie has proceeded to set the house, my house… 'our' house on fire. While she was looking in our bedroom for whatever jewellery which might have been (sorry, Hettie. The last valuable of the mere trinkets I have begged Jane to accept had been sold), Herrick was in charge of the ground floor. He must have found the book and not inform his sire.

Herrick plays the long game, it would seem. And he is bartering the book. I want that book. I want it so bad it is raw. I can live as long I have no memory. Give me this book. Give me my life, my memories back. It is rough and it is going to be rougher. I want the book and I do not care about Herrick.

He promises to avoid London. He will give me back my bets.

The bastard! I knew he had cheated. The sums did not add up. I am almost 450years old and I am still poor at compute. Centuries have applied a thick layer of educated varnish; deep inside I am still the street urchin who could not write or read his name.

I want the diary. If I kill him, the diary is as good as lost. I have no choice. Either I let him go and live his miserable life of a rat; either I can say goodbye to something which means my own life has some value.

I know where to find him; I can put a bounty on his head. Some dogs have been trained; I can unleash them and put them in his scent. He knows that.

Where is the bloody book?

I must give my word. Word of honour, Word of a gentleman. Word of an Old One.

Do I have a choice?

Under a floorboard. In an attic. Above a whorehouse. My Jane's book. My pure Jane. Her book above a… Herrick should be flayed alive. He is already running down the stairs to the safety of the street.

I run down the same stairs in the opposite direction. I reach the house. The madam says her protégées are asleep. Good. I would hate to kill the poor girls. The painted old doxy will no more steal their earnings. I do not even stop to wipe my lips.

I want the book. So many years ago, I had not wiped my face from the blood of all my victims. It had not prevented me to find my Jane. I lift the board, I take the book out. I look at the first page. I flick through the book. I know the writing; I still can smell some old lavender. It is her book. I t was her book and now the book is mine.

I have reached Cardiff. I was supposed to discuss with Cutler my plans for his future. I do not know what to do. It is like a new cycle was brewing. Something fresh. Something waiting in the shadows. Something starting. Something something something.

I have read the book. I would cry if I could. I can't. I want to cry. But I can't. Who would believe me? Sharks don't cry. I am a top predator. I have killed so many people. I have been so many people.

I am a predator who grieves for his victim. It hurts so much I can't breathe. I would not breathe. If I could breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts.

I just want to grieve. Alone.

I can't. The boys have found a new dog. For the fights. I smile. I pretend to be interested. I feel hollow. I function. Like an automaton.

She was nice. She gave me her youth. She believed in me. She gave me life; her life. She writes about life, about hope. Is there life for me still? I am dead. I am more than dead. As for hope, how can there be hope for me?

She is dead. She has been dead for sixty five years.

Life… life has no hope for me.

1990

"Do not touch that book, Pearl. Hal does not want anybody to touch it"

"It is too late. I have started reading it. It is quite sad… yet so..."

"It belongs to Hal, Pearl. He will tell us, when he is ready."

"He will not know when he is with the dominoes"