Title: I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside (1/4)
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: To 4x07.
Warnings: Violence; swearing; blood drinking; minor character death; oc death; masturbation; sex.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.
Summary: August, 1954. Hal hasn't been himself lately, and maybe a change will do him good.
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Hal's suit is still damp with blood, the shirt stiff and rusty. Cutler throws them into the dustbin and unscrews the lid of the petrol can. The heat slaps him in the face when he tosses in the match. Cutler's shirt is clinging to his sticky skin, and he plucks the soggy cotton away from his back, his armpits. It only brings a moment's relief. The sun's too fierce, and the fire is like its own separate circle of hell, but Cutler's been given a job to do and Hal's never trusted him with this before. Has never needed this before, but that's beside the point. Cutler retreats into the meagre shade and watches the flames consume the evidence.
The yard is hot, but at least there's the hint of fresh air. Inside the pub it's hotter still, and the air is thick with beer and smoke and stale sweat. Too many men, cooped up together: Hal's little entourage is depressingly male. Not for the first time, Cutler wonders where all the lady vampires are. And, not for the first time, he takes one look at Hal and decides he can live without knowing. The memory of what Hal did to that woman the night before is a little too fresh, and the ashes of those ruined clothes are still smouldering.
Cutler trudges to the bar. He fills a glass and holds it out, but Hal waves the congealing liquid away with disgust. It doesn't keep long in this heat. Waste not, want not – Cutler grew up with rationing – and he downs it himself, grimacing around the sourness.
"I think it's gone bad," he says. He'd swear that he can actually see the stuff clotting inside the decanter. "We should get one of those refrigerators."
Hal grunts in response, and that's not good. Hal Yorke is never short of something to say: he always has just the right words, or precisely the wrong ones. Now he's staring mutely at Cutler, jacket discarded, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt unfastened. He's coming undone. Hal looks tired: maybe he hasn't been sleeping. None of them have been sleeping well, not since the thermometer hit ninety and London began to swelter. Maybe that's why Hal's temper is so unpredictable, why he was so savage last night. So messy. Maybe that's why his appetite is so erratic – feast or famine – although Cutler's hunger is as insistent as ever, the curdled blood only dulling its edge. They need a good storm to clear the air – or maybe a change of air.
"Let's go on holiday," Cutler says.
"Holiday," Hal echoes, as though he's never heard the word before, but surely even he needs to get away from this place sometimes.
"The south of France," Cutler urges.
Palm trees and expensive cars. Cutler's seen the photographs – Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo – and never mind how it stung his pride to see the travel agent's knowing smile when he handed over the brochures. This time, Cutler can afford to go. Well, strictly speaking, it's Hal's money, but he won't begrudge Cutler his share. They'll stay in the best hotels and drink cocktails on the terrace. Dance with all the pretty girls and watch the sun rise over the Mediterranean.
"The tosspot's got an idea." Fergus flops down into a chair. The chair between Cutler and Hal.
"A change is as good as a rest," Dennis says, taking the seat on Hal's other side. And this isn't right, the two of them agreeing with each other. This isn't what Cutler was planning: it's supposed to be him and Hal, just the two of them.
"I'm not leaving the country," Hal frowns. "Herrick will do something stupid the moment I turn my back."
Bugger Herrick. Cutler's tired of hearing about the man, about what a danger he is, when they can't do anything about it.
"It's politics," Hal told him, but what's the point in being an Old One if you can't just kill whoever you want?
"What about the seaside?" Dennis says. He's busy mopping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. It can't be pleasant under that beard, and Cutler's chin feels itchy just thinking about it. "Fresh air. Ice cream."
"Girls that don't taste of smog." Fergus grins.
"Where?" Hal asks, and Cutler knows that he's lost. If Hal is asking questions, that means he's interested.
"Southend," Dennis suggests. But that's where the old people go, and Cutler isn't going to spend his holiday watching geriatrics tottering along the promenade and snoring in their deckchairs.
"What about Brighton?" he says.
And that's how Cutler finds himself driving Fergus and Dennis to the south coast. He puts his foot down once they reach the motorway, but Hal's Bentley has long since disappeared from sight – hardly surprising, given the way that Louis drives. Predictably, they've managed to pick the hottest day of the year. The air is stifling, sweat is gluing Cutler's back to the leather upholstery, and of course Fergus would have to be a backseat driver. Cutler idly considers ploughing into the central reservation, just so he doesn't have to listen to the bickering behind him.
But then the sea is shimmering enticingly, and if there aren't any palm trees lining the seafront, then there is a row of flag poles outside of the Grand Hotel. Brisk, salt breeze, and the sweat cools deliciously on Cutler's skin. He strolls into the Victorian splendour of the lobby, while liveried porters whisk their suitcases inside.
"You've got a sea view," Fergus grumbles.
"And a balcony," Cutler gloats, throwing the door open. He steps outside, trying not to wince in the sunshine: his sunglasses are buried somewhere in his case. "What's the matter? Haven't you?" He already knows the answer – Fergus is across the corridor, along with Louis and Dennis – but he asks the question anyway, just to watch the man's face turn sour.
A sea view and a balcony: this is the life. They've put him next door to Hal, as well. Which is exactly where he should be – it's not like he's surprised, or anything – because he's the heir apparent, after all. Cutler's never met the Brighton crowd, but he's starting to like them already.
"They obviously know who the VIPs are," Cutler smirks.
There's violence etched into the lines on Fergus's forehead, and now he's stalking towards Cutler and his knuckles are clenching white. The girls aren't going to dance with Cutler if he has a broken nose, and he's shifting onto the balls of his feet, ready to make a run for the door, when Fergus pulls up short. Cutler looks round and finds Hal frowning at the pair of them.
"We're here for a holiday," Hal tells them, "not a run in with the police. I don't want any trouble here at the hotel. None of that fucking 'tomb service' nonsense." He eyes Cutler's rumpled suit with distaste. "I want you both dressed for dinner, seven o'clock sharp."
Hal isn't happy. Hal's disappointed with them. Hal is giving orders, and expecting them to just fall into line. Cutler smiles: he knew a holiday would be a good idea.
Cutler slips off his shoes. He hurls himself onto the bed, rolling on the soft, snowy sheets and sinking into the nest of pillows. But something around there doesn't smell very sweet, and he's got a nasty feeling that it's him. It turns out that he's got his own bathroom: en suite, that's what they call it. There's a big enamelled tub standing on clawed feet, and he sets it running while he peels off his clothes. The marble tiles are chilly against his feet. The water eventually starts to cool, but hauling himself out seems too much like hard work. Cutler wallows, soaking London out of his pores, until his fingers wrinkle like an old man's – and he's never going to know what that's like, not now: he and Hal are going to stay like this forever. Cutler shivers.
He glances at his watch – and launches from the tub, sending water sloshing across the floor, all that lovely marble turning slick and slippery as he sprints for the bedroom. He's going to be late; he needs to sort out his suits, to get them pressed and hung. But there's no need to panic: that's what they have staff for, in a place like this. Cutler picks up the telephone.
Seven o'clock sharp, and they're all assembled in Hal's room, perching on the chairs, on the bed, while Hal walks up and down like a general inspecting his troops.
"The local coven has kindly invited us to dinner," Hal tells them. "I want you all on your best behaviour. That means no fighting." He looks at Louis, who simply shrugs. It's not like Louis actually goes looking for trouble; trouble just seems to have an unerring knack for finding him. "No arguing." Fergus grins: he's been around long enough to find out exactly what he can get away with. "No comedy," Hal says, and Cutler has no idea who that's directed at, because he's busy checking his lapels for the tiniest traces of lint. "And absolutely no killing our hosts." Hal smiles toothily. "Not unless I say so."
That's it, they're dismissed: they get to their feet. Hal sits down.
"I don't understand," Louis says. It's a not uncommon phenomenon. "I thought you said seven o'clock."
"I did." Hal stretches out an arm and retrieves his newspaper from the table. "But I think I can afford to be fashionably late. It's not like they can start without me, is it?" He turns to the sports pages and begins to read.
Dinner, it eventually turns out, is at a little club tucked away on a side street in Clifton Hill. They're clearly very careful about their clientèle: Cutler knocks on the plain black door and finds himself staring up at a man who could be Louis' brother.
"Louis, you cunt!" the man roars, and maybe he is a relative, after all. Clearly, there's no love lost.
"Billy Sullivan. I don't fuckin' believe it." Louis is shoving his way forwards, cracking his knuckles, and there's no way Cutler is going to get caught in the middle of those two lumbering idiots.
"I shoulda fuckin' killed you when you were still with the Messina gang," Sullivan growls, the tendons standing rigid in his neck.
"That's enough." The speaker only comes up to Cutler's shoulder, but the doorman retreats in the face of his anger.
"Is there a problem?" Hal's voice is soft, his smile as bright and sharp as one of Fergus's knives.
"My apologies, Lord Harry." The newcomer bows. He has an Errol Flynn moustache, and something of the same debonair manner gone to seed, but the French accent spoils the illusion. "It's an honour to have you with us in our little town."
"Anton," Hal says. "It's been too long. What is it – fifteen years?"
"Over twenty, my lord."
"It's Hal, remember. Just Hal."
This Anton might have known Hal longer than Cutler has – hell, everyone's known him longer than Cutler – but he doesn't see why they have to be on first-name terms. Then Hal is performing the introductions, and he beckons Cutler forwards while the others have to wait their turn. They finally get to Louis, and it turns out that there's an old feud between the doorman and him. Something to do with racetrack gangs and a turf way – the narrative is confused, and more than a little confusing: Louis is no raconteur – and neither of the men is inclined to forgive and forget. Louis glowers at Sullivan as they pass, but they make it inside without any bloodshed.
The noise stops when they walk in; everything stops. The band sits, instruments drooping in their hands. The dancers pause, couples slipping apart and turning towards the entrance. Knives and forks clatter down onto plates as the diners abandon their food and rise to their feet. Heads bow as they pass and, here and there, someone sinks to their knees. Which is stupid, because it won't save them if Hal has murder on his mind: Cutler knows that from personal experience. All the same, it's not often that anyone shows him the respect he deserves, and so what if it's for Hal – for both of them – rather than him. If Cutler had his way, they'd stay like that: not for long, just another minute or two. But Hal is smiling and gesturing for them to continue. False modesty sits surprisingly well on him, although it couldn't quite be mistaken for the real thing.
The band launches into a jaunty number, and the dance floor whirls back into life. Anton waits until Hal and Cutler are seated before taking his place across from them. The others are shown to a different table – it's only Cutler who deserves a place at the top table, with Hal – but Cutler's jeer is cut short by a crushing pain in his toes. It might look for all the world as though Hal's full attention is on their host, but he doesn't take his foot away until Cutler closes his mouth.
"Herrick and that boy of his caused a spot of trouble in Paris," Hal says, while Anton pours the blood. "It might have turned nasty, if Anton hadn't taken care of things. He was a commandant in the police at the time."
He doesn't really look like a policeman. Cutler tries to picture him in uniform, but the closest he can manage is Claude Rains in Casablanca. "So that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Cutler says, and this time he manages to get his foot out of the way before Hal stamps down. Hal will get him later – one way or another – if he's so inclined, but Cutler has to take his victories where he can find them.
"Hardly." Anton's moustache seems to bristle at the idea. "They were tourists. They thought that they could come into my city and do what they liked, that it wouldn't matter. They didn't have to live there." He stops, nervous eyes studying Hal's face. "No offence, my lord."
"None taken," Hal tells him, and maybe he really, honestly does like the man. Or maybe this is what it takes to hold onto an ally.
Anton's thoughts seem to be running along similar lines. "I do hope that you enjoy your little … holiday." There's the slightest pause, the hint of a question behind the word.
Hal's face is bland, but Cutler has no doubt that he's enjoying the man's fear. "We're only in Brighton to enjoy your sea air. I want you to forget that we're even here."
"Would you like someone to show you around?" It's dangerous, having an Old One pay a visit, but there are potential rewards, as well. "Show you the sights, the best places to feed."
Hal glances over his shoulder. Dennis and Fergus are clinking champagne glasses, knocking the stuff back as though it were water. A waitress in a black satin dress is smiling at Louis – and, god help them, Louis is smiling back and his hand keeps stealing to the woman's arse.
Hal shakes his head. "I think my boys can manage to entertain themselves."
"I have a treat for you," Anton says, as he calls their waiter over. "A real French chef, not like the ones you have in London. I had him brought over from Paris."
"How thoughtful," Hal says and his smile never slips, even though Cutler knows that the only kind of French food he admires wears stockings and Chanel No 5.
Cutler's not overly keen on it either, he remembers, as he wrestles with his lobster. Then a voice from the stage silences the room as effectively as their earlier appearance: a voice that's somehow sweet and sultry at the same time – Cutler turns and sees a face to match. He's never heard anyone quite like her. He's never heard anyone, not even Nat King Cole himself, sing Unforgettable quite so much like they mean it, and his applause is spontaneous. Hal's too.
"Tell me," Hal asks, "do you always have so many humans in here?"
He inclines his head towards one of the booths, towards a woman draped in what might actually be werewolf fur. The man she's with is slipping out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, and the woman takes a discreet few mouthfuls without so much as smudging her lipstick.
"We're a very broad-minded kind of town." There's a hint of defiance in Anton's voice – or it might even be pride.
"The original Sodom-on-sea." It sounds like Hal approves. "And you have them working for you, as well." His eyes are on that singer, and of course he noticed her – you'd have to be dead not to. Well, deader.
Anton shrugs. "Lena is safe. She came over from Germany before the war. Sings better than Dietrich."
Which isn't difficult. She's a damn sight better looking than Dietrich, too, swaying ever so gently in time to the music, and the sequins on her dress are dazzling when they catch the light.
"Bring her over," Hal murmurs, "when she's done."
Anton hesitates. "She's popular," he protests. "She'll be difficult to replace."
Hal stares at him, and he's still smiling, but there's something frozen about his smile now, and Cutler sits up straighter in his chair. Hal isn't used to hearing the word "no" and, judging by the way he's squirming, Anton is painfully aware of that. Then he beckons to the maître d' and whispers something in his ear – and that's that. When Cutler calls it a night, he looks back and he sees the woman shimmering into the seat he's just vacated.
Cutler's hotel room is dark – and bloody freezing. He hurries to shut the balcony doors. He falls into that nice soft bed, and the bed's cold, too. Cold and empty. But tomorrow he's going to have his pick of all the girls in Brighton. Cutler falls asleep with his head full of beaches and girls in shiny black dresses bringing him an endless supply of blood.
tbc