The ward was usually calm. The nurses and doctors went quietly about their jobs. The only time it became stressful was when families came to visit. Most of the time, the patient recovered and it was so nice to see the poor man surrounded by happy faces, even when the injuries were permanent. Some other days, the patient's condition deteriorated so much that despite all the available monitors, the most modern technology and drugs, the patient just faded away and died. Some never woke up and carried on their existence no better than vegetables. Able to breathe by themselves, fed by tubes, moved by nurses and physiotherapists, tested by consultants, eyes permanently closed to the world. Always asleep. Forever lost in their dreams. Do patients in a coma dream? Some say yes when they finally open their eyes to the world around them. Some say they never lost consciousness and were there always. Yelling desperate cries for help, trying to communicate in silence that they were "here". Please listen to me. Please, please…The families knew that once their loved one was sent to the ward, it meant the best care was given, but the odds were poor.

This was the end-game for severe head injuries, brain trauma you name it. For patient file 9314, the game had started far away from this peaceful hospital. First, a stopover at Camp Bastion Helmand, and then a medical helicopter for 30-40minutes to Kabul intensive care unit, back to Europe. Dawood , overbooked enough already, had transferred the sleeping man to Birmingham, all airlifted strategic aero medical evacuation to a Role 4 unit , courtesy from Her Majesty's Army. Not that it made a bit of difference. The man remained unmoved, unperturbed, drowned in that eternal sleep.

Slowly the ugly wound chest the explosive had caused was healing; the bomb had also left another nasty scar on a leg which was also on the road to recovery. The comatose traveller had found no cause to flicker his eyes. Feeling sorry for him, the nurses had tried to find out if some family could find a way to reach out. No family, poor chap, no family at all. Though Irish and those guys had more cousins than a rabbit has bunnies, he had no family at all. Just the record of a Belfast orphanage.
A child abandoned by his teenage mother? Teenage pregnancy was a big problem. Full of themselves, those slags. Binge drinking and the bloke sees an opening... Condom, me, who needs condoms. 9 months later, the live baby boy doll had become a burden.

Soon enough, the baby was mired into the "child in need" agency of the time, one of those numerous agencies who dealt with "children at risk". Then one day, the child ended up in a care home. The word Orphanage meant the poor girl had at least tried to do right by her kid. What had been her untimely death? Alcohol, drugs, AIDS?

Must not have been easy for the poor mite. Irish orphanages were not renowned for their quality of care. Years later, such quality would come under more sinister colours. Poor, poor guy. Though from the look of him, he must have done well somehow, somewhere.

Good looking, awake, he must have been a charmer. Tall, quite tall, well over 6 feet. 6'2" said the record. Fair skin, chestnut wavy hair. The short crew cut from the army had not carried on being implemented by the doctors. Those blue eyes must have made him very easy on the eye. Said eyes were closed by stubborn sleeping eyelids.

Some of his friends of the Royal Irish Regiment had called in at the beginning. Now, without visitors, it was left to the staff to care for him and they did. They cared for the sleeping young Regular Army lieutenant. Barely 29, from now on a vegetable.

He was drowning, by now he should have felt the bottom of the pool, but he was diving deeper and deeper in. Bad enough that his temper ran on a short fuse; he was now experiencing short fuse panic. Full swing, full mode panic. He managed to stop the deep plunge, but where was he, what was up, what was down. Deep, he must be deep because his ears were ringing; the pressure around his chest was intensifying. Breathe, he had to breathe. He did not breathe. Vampires do not do breathing. He needed air, blessed air. Open your mouth let the air in. It was water, if he opened his mouth the water would run down his trachea drowning him. Air, water. Breath. Up, down. Where was the surface? The air was free, ready, waiting for him at the surface of the pool.

Where was the surface of that pool, of that sea, that ocean? Because that was no pool. He should have guessed when she asked him if he was ready to dive, "back into action". Some nonsense to see if after all that time spent without physical training, he might be less fit. He was fit. George had toyed at one point with the idea of joining a gym. He had not messed about. After Herrick death, his "first" death, he had cut down on the pizzas and kebabs. Saving the money for a cheap gym, buffing up his lanky frame, to the point of getting jealous comments from other porters on his successful workout routine. After…Bristol, he had become more of a recluse, spending all his free time in the attic, trying to figure out how to escape the Old Ones wrath, how to tell Annie. Might as well follow Cara in her crazy suicide. Whatever, he was fit. You had to be fit if you wanted to survive the very long winters of the Ice Age.

Now, this fit man was going to die of drowning. That was ridiculous. He was praying for air, oxygen he did not need. The surface, where was that fucking surface. Up? Down? Side? Right? Or Left? He was going to die. Why had the woman said as he was diving?

- "You must not feed, never"

The light, he saw the light, the surface. He started going up to it, which was weird because it was down. The light was down. Either he had totally lost his bearings or he was dying. The pressure was getting more and more uncomfortable around his chest, in his chest; his vampire lungs were getting manic, begging also for air, his human soul, praying for air. The light was turning black; he was never going to make it. Visions started to crowd his mind. Like that turbaned guy with jet black vampire's eyes aiming for his neck and the explosion at the same time or almost. The fangs digging into his neck were repulsive. It was Herrick all over again, and just like Herrick, it felt like rape. A physical rape, a soul rape. It was disgusting; he could not override the need to vomit. One cannot vomit in the sea unless one intended to drown. Air, air. The chest pain was unbearable. He had to reach the surface, he would reach the surface. His leg injury was killing him, his chest was killing him. The explosion sound was deafening. Air, air…Now he was falling, falling…

Nurse Corporal Brighton was changing the feeding line when the patient started tossing in his bed. A quick press on the panic button. The young man was jerking madly in his bed. He had to restrain him otherwise he was going to fall and hurt himself more. More nurses rushed to help him. The wounded lieutenant was having a seizure. Diazepam was introduced into his IV catheter. He slowly subsided, breathing more evenly. Who would have thought it, an epileptic seizure after all those months of quiet? Not that the head injury had not been severe. But the medical issue had been more the chest. The leg and the two small neck wounds would not have got him a ticket to Birmingham. It must have been a very violent explosion, because he would not awake. He had been now in a coma for how many months. That was easy to remember, the very same day of the nightmarish dastardly Box Tunnel crime.

Since that seizure, the lieutenant's Glasgow coma score had steadily improved. Comatose he was, yet so tentatively close to consciousness. The outlook was getting brighter every day. Funny, it was on the very same day they arrested the criminal, the nutcase of the BT20. Good riddance to the criminal who had been shot by the police as he had had the nerve to resist arrest. Everybody was in a celebratory mood that day. Next evening, the Irish soldier opened his eyes.

Air, light. Please, air. He jolted upright on the bed, gasping for dear life. One second he was being staked by George, the pain excruciating, yet there was such peace, such joy to be finally freed from the vampire gene, next second he was…where was he? The air was delicious. No there was no air. No need for air. He was acutely conscious of the male care assistant who had come into his room. The man's pulse was racing wonderfully closer. Closer.

Nurse Brighton was really surprised, this was quick recovery. Now, everything was getting crazy. The heart monitor was bleeping madly, like the patient had had a cardiac arrest. For someone proclaimed dead by the machines, the patient sure did look alive. Wild eyes, bewildered eyes. Black irises. Blue irises. A trick of the light.

- "Are you OK, Sir? Please lie down, you must be exhausted, sir. Come in Baker. Mr Swanson, I mean Lieutenant Swanson, please, you must rest, please"

The sounds of all those heart beats, those pulses, it was intoxicating like drowning in a pool of pure blood. How long was it since he had fed? He needed to feed; the Hunger was unbearable; it was going to be so good to give in. The glorious feeling of his fangs coming down was divine. The eyes were turning black. It was going to be just as glorious as on the day those 20 Darwin's children had been feasted on!

20. Box Tunnel 20. Jesus. He opened his eyes, noticing for the first time the faces of the nurses around him.

- "So happy to have you back with us, Lieutenant Swanson. Please, rest. Take a deep breath. We are all so happy to have you back. From now on, this is going to be all so much better. Our staff is going to take good care of you ". Jesus, where was he? Who were those people? Who was this bloody Swanson everybody was mentioning. Yeah, he was back. Back where, back when? Back to the fucking life of a vampire.

He wanted them to leave, go 'way-out. Except he was exhausted, like a baby. He just wanted sleep, sleep.

The consultant gave a soundless finger snap. All the staff but the matron and he, left the room. Wonderful, Swanson was back. Back but as one would expect, shattered by the experience. The patient needed rest and supervision.

As the days went by, Mitchell slowly learned to move his neck without getting a blinding headache, and to regulate his laboured breathing. Looking at hands he did not recognize, he tried often to stay upright, but that was more often than not met by a blinding nausea if not downright sickness. The nurses were satisfied. His chest wound had almost completely disappeared. Fact was, all his wounds, even the scars, had gone, all but the one to his left chest. While they were commenting approvingly on his amazing powers of cicatrisation (if you only knew…), the doctors were making him swallow every pill of every colour known under the sun, anti-epileptic drugs, anti-emetics, iron tablets, (since he had regained consciousness, his haemoglobin levels were dropping dramatically yet he was not bleeding), more blood transfusions (at least this red cell count has stopped dropping, but it was still quite low).

- "What would you like tonight for your tea, Lieutenant? There is pizza on the menu"

Sadly, the pizza he ordered with pleasure had looked back at him and decided not to oblige. He could not bear the idea of swallowing this... thing. Leaving the tray untouched but for the water, he started to close down to all sensations. Such as the pulse of the tray bearer.

- "Not partial to Italian food, huh? You're like me. Now, proper English food, oops, sorry, I mean proper Irish food, that`s the thing. There is some shepherd pie left, do you want any?"

If looks could kill, this nurse was dead. The blabbering idiot had kept on and on, until he had groaned, tortured by the Thirst. The nurse had sighed taking out the tray. His ears left him in no doubt that he'd been described as unthankful bastard. If food was a territory where he was not successful, physical autonomy was back. Gingerly at first and then more assured as the days went by, he stood up, walked around and removed each and every line from his body to the distress of his carers. I can walk, I've had no fits, I am fine; besides, the monitor can`t find my pulse. Do I look dead to you? No! Remove those machines, I won`t find sleep with them.

After successfully getting rid of the telltales about his real status, he had managed to avoid the friendly help for a shave. Swanson, since that was the name he was going under, liked electric razors. Like me, good guy! The mirror test had confirmed the Blood Lust feeling. This was earth, a much more recent Earth. A request for newspapers told him that it was now June 2011. Following the royal newlyweds, the paparazzi were everyday commenting on the future queen's figure, looking for a bump, or no bump, whatever bump it was. Sod off. Who cares about the bloody Royals? I`m Irish, I fought in 1916 against you! This train of thought sobered him up, as what followed the assertion, was: I died for King and Country in 1917 - for your great-great-grand father.

Birmingham Hospital. Good, he had to leave, the doctors were starting to get worried, he was not fitting the typical recovery route. He was becoming more and more atypical. One day - and the moment was nearing - one would start wandering on the wild side, the dark side of the "what if…" What if Lieutenant Swanson was a vampire?

Discharge signed (You must not. You are too weak. I will tell the head surgeon, the brass, the colonel!) I'm signing myself out. Have I had a seizure lately? No! I promise not to drive, the DVLA will be happy. Good bye, what? Yes, I will swallow the pills and see my GP ASAP. Where? Belfast! Back Home.

In a frenzied hurry to leave before those morons discovered that a biblical revelation was about to burst open, he threw his military pyjamas on the floor, getting quickly into whatever civilian clothes this person who was not him had in his travel bag.

He was in too much of a hurry to investigate what sort of clothes this bloke liked. And it was enough of a surprise to discover his foot size was now 48, while his trousers were clearly way longer than he remembered. Jeans nowhere near as tight, cotton shirts, no vest, a sensible corduroy jacket. This man was the epitome of staidness. Not even boots.

The ATM screen was requesting his pin code. What pin code. How could he be that stupid? Unless. Pressing his date of birth, his real date of birth, he was relieved to see that it worked. Next buy a train ticket, far from, from where? The migraine had started again. Constantly hammering his temples, the back of his head, the chest tightness was playing too.

Those hearts, those veins, full of racing, juicy, lovely blood, food, prey. The train, I must not get in that train, get out, leave, blood, feed. This was a nightmare, a long nightmare; he left the train at the nearest station. What is the right station? He climbed back. Where was he going? Why was he going down to Wales? The headache was rising to unbearable intensity. Eyes closed, he wished to die so it would stop. The rising tide of bile was overwhelming; he had…

- "Oh God, how disgusting? My bag!"

- "Sorry, so sorry…"

Fleeing the carriage, he tried to breathe but all the carriages were full of more passengers, more racing veins. Going back to his place, walking on the vomit, he closed again his eyes against the light. Next time, buy sunglasses. Please, can someone have mercy on me? Sleep came and took the weary man away in its fold.

For a dream, that was "some" dream. The pure heroin shots he tried in the eighties had not been as wild. Thatcher regnant, he had dabbled into any chemical available over or under - deep under - the counter. This had seriously depleted his finances, but made no difference at all to his primary addiction: blood. He was a junkie, primarily on blood. The rest gave the bonus of killing on acid. He woke up so many days with a dead body; he lost count of his victims. There was an epidemic of overdosing which had nothing to do with drug abuse. He killed senselessly, Big Bad John in full swing, never awake, never conscious, always on a high, never low on blood supply.

The trip, today, was less violent but as bizarre as can be. A queue in a train station, then some lift in the cold which blended with an Eskimo who turned out to be Annie .Annie who was no longer a ghost, Annie who was pregnant and gave him a daughter. Kemp arrived? Kemp, he was dead! Annie had made sure of that. More lift, with a woman in white and Johnny Boy Weissmuller in 1941 Hollywood teaching in how to swim. And drowning to wake up in the BT20. Except Lia was not there replaced by a woman telling him off.

- "You must not feed, Mitchell. You must avoid feeding. It is of the utmost importance you do not feed ever again. Sorry for the pool trick. We were rushed for time. We shall meet again."

- "Must not feed, must not feed…"

- "If some people cannot handle their drink, they should avoid travelling. Look at my bag!"

The headache was better, the nausea was leaving him. The violin symphony of heartbeats had finished its last bow. He looked at the train ticket dug deep in his left pocket. Barry Island. Why? He was from Belfast. He searched his chest pocket. Inside on a military document, a crew cut man looked at him. Who was that man? John Mitchell Swanson? He did not remember he looked like that. Fact was he was pretty sure he had not looked like that. He was tall by 1917 standard, but this man he was now was taller plus stockier.

Who was he really? The train carried on running on its rails. The sick passenger dozed off more than once, looking so unwell that a wide space was left around him. By the time he reached his destination the migraine was back with a vengeance. He should not have thrown away the pills. Mitchell, you are stupid, Nina would say. Who was Nina? He was a vampire, what the shit was he thinking? He was no fucking vampire, was he? He had forgotten his name.

The carriage was empty now. He had to leave. Picking up the duffle bag, he shot to the nearest toilets, making sure no one was in with him. In the army, you do not mess about when you empty your bladder; as a Dracula follower, you guess that any human would be freaked out by the missing reflection in the mirror. He freshened up. A hotel, no a B&B. Paid cash, no questions asked. Where to go, with what money? He knew he should have drawn out more money. He was lost in that town; not that lost, his steps taking him to a HSBC bank. Why HSBC? My dear Mitchell, the wisest sharpest financial sharks are from Hong Kong; the Old Ones have always banked with their Asian Counterparts. And their bites are quite juicy! Herrick and his lame jokes...