Chapter Eleven - London
Spike was at sea – in more ways than one. He'd managed to get a cabin below the waterline on a liner sailing for Southampton. "Going home," he thought bitterly. "London hasn't been home since I was changed." He was still upset by the knowledge that his leaving had hurt Buffy. He knew she was missing the closeness they had shared, but he wouldn't let himself hope that she loved him. "Funny thing," he thought, "never thought much about hope before. Now, all I can hope is that I can get used to being without her."
Everything was set up for when he arrived. He had never thought he'd need to use all this, so elaborately set up by his brother, but here he was. He'd never talked about his family to Angel, Dru or Darla, he'd just implied he didn't have one. It seemed the only way to keep them safe. But he still managed to see his brother sometimes. It had been a glimpse of another world, seeing John, his little brother, living his life, marrying, getting older. He hadn't had any children, but before he died, he arranged to leave all the family property to his brother William under an assumed name. He'd even arranged with the solicitors that from time to time, the 'death' of the heir be recorded and another fictitious identity created to benefit from the 'will'. All Spike had to do, was contact the firm of solicitors, once a year, to let them know he was still around. Spike had argued with his brother that he didn't need it – that vampires didn't need property like that - but his brother hadn't listened, and for some reason, each year, around John's birthday, Spike had contacted the firm of solicitors with the agreed password.
Spike found he was dreaming about Buffy every night – nothing new there. The difference was the dreams. Sometimes he saw her slaying vampires, although there was something wooden about the way she was fighting that worried him. Sometimes he just saw the inside of the house, her bedroom, the Magic Box – apparently random snapshots of her life. He missed her so much – not just the presence in his mind, but seeing her. The one photo he'd managed to pack just wasn't the same.
The night his ship docked, he caught a train to London. Leaving Waterloo station, he travelled to an address in Kensington. The address was a large block of, Spike surmised, very expensive flats. The concierge checked his passport and a letter of introduction and gave him the keys. "Welcome, Mr. Wilson," he greeted Spike after the formalities, "I'm glad to have a resident up in 16 at last, it doesn't look good when the places are empty." Spike took the lift to the sixth, and top floor. He opened the door and put his small bag down just inside. The hallway was quite a size, but he took a quick look around. "Two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, dining room and oh, yes, lounge," he thought. He recognised quite a few things around the place – they'd come out of the family home – some pictures and books. John had tried to make the place seem like home. How long had John been dead? Spike couldn't remember. He was so tired – he picked one of the bedrooms at random and threw himself onto the bed. He was asleep in moments.
He was awakened next morning by a key opening his door. "Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, it's just me, Mrs. Atkins – your housekeeper?" Spike got up and pulled his hand through his hair. Fuzzily, he remembered, yes there was a housekeeper employed to keep the place going. He went into the hallway. She bustled up to him with her hand outstretched. "It's so good to meet you at last. You've been in America, I understand. Still, home's always best, isn't it? How long since you've been home?"
"Long time," said Spike, shaking her hand.
"Look, here am I wanting to chat, and you're all jet-lagged and tired," she continued. "Is there anything you need now? If not, I'll just get on with my usual routine and you can let me know what you'll be needing before I leave – you know, food preferences, things like that. Don't worry, I was warned to expect some strange things, and I made sure there was some fresh blood in the fridge. I got pig's blood, but if you'd rather have something different, I can change it – I've got to confirm the regular order anyway." Spike must have been looking dazed, because she went on, "Sorry, why don't you go and lie down. Can I get you anything?"
"N..no thanks, I just need to freshen up a bit. Thanks," he called.
Spike went back into the bedroom and noticed an en suite shower room. "Just what I need," he thought and turned on the unit. As the cool water cascaded over him, he found he could actually string two thoughts together without losing the thread. "Wow, John really went to town, didn't he? I don't know how he did it, but he set me up really well." Not for the first time was he grateful for his little brother's practical nature.
When he'd showered and dressed, he went into the lounge. He could smell fresh coffee and changed his mind and went into the kitchen. "I thought you'd appreciate some coffee," said Mrs. Atkins, "I mean, living in America so long, you're bound to drink coffee. You sit down at the table there. You've had some post – arrived before you did – sit yourself down and drink your coffee while you read it. It looks kind of official, if you know what I mean. I'll just go off and do the bedrooms now." She placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him and handed him four envelopes. The first was from the solicitors' firm, welcoming him and warning him that he should receive shortly details of his bank accounts and investments. The other envelopes contained financial details and a new credit card. Spike had to read the enclosed details several times before it sank in. He was a very wealthy man!
As he went into the lounge, he noticed that Mrs. Atkins had opened the curtains, but before he could say anything, she said, "Don't worry, Mr. Wilson, the glass was changed as soon as we knew you were coming here. Nothing can get in to irritate your skin condition."
"I should have known," thought Spike, "They've thought of everything."
One other useful thing he learned from Mrs. Atkins, was that London no longer shut down at 5.30! Many shops stayed open much later, and with that thought in mind, he planned a shopping trip after dark, painfully aware of how little he had brought with him.
After the shops closed, he spent a large part of the night just walking around, trying to tie up in his mind this London with the one in his memory. It had changed a lot, but when he got back just before dawn with several bags full of goodies purchased on his newly acquired credit card, he was tired again. "Funny," he thought, "using my old name is making me revert more and more to William." He looked at what he'd bought - clothes – and none of them black! There seemed to be a lot of blue. He shrugged. "We'll just call this my 'blue period,'" he thought, sadly. CDs – a mixture – some things which fitted with what he'd brought, some which looked very out of place. "It's just this mood, this loneliness," he thought. He set up the CD player he'd bought and put on one of his purchases – a compilation of soppy love songs! Some of them were quite old – "I always was a hopeless romantic," he thought as the sounds of 'Unchained Melody' by the Righteous Brothers filled the room. "Still, it's sometimes nice not to have to fit an image."
A couple of days later, his dream changed slightly. The dream still involved seeing Buffy and a feeling of deep sadness but there was another feeling pervading the atmosphere – worry, anxiety – something like that. He woke in the early evening and knew something was wrong. He didn't know what, but he could find out. As early as he decently could - he didn't want a brassed off Watcher - he rang Giles. After the required questions about each other's health, he got down to what was worrying him. "What's the matter with Buffy. Don't say nothing, 'cos, I know something's worrying her – it's not Dawn, is it?"
Giles seemed genuinely puzzled at first. "There's nothing wrong with either Dawn or Buffy," he replied. "Buffy's still a little disorientated of course, but they really are both fine. Of course, she's having to look for a job, but that's..."
"What? Why is she looking for a job? She's going back to college, isn't she?" Spike interrupted.
"Well, no," Giles continued, "you see, Joyce's insurance policies were largely exhausted by her medical bills. The house belongs to Buffy and Dawn, but there's not much else left. I've given her what I can afford, but..."
"Wait, if she needs money, I can arrange that," Spike began.
"Well, I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm sure she wouldn't want you stealing for her," Giles sounded very disapproving.
"Wait," Spike chipped in, "who said anything about stealing? I've got a bit – all legally obtained, honest. How much would she need as a regular income, say, so that she could go back to college? It would need to seem to be from somewhere else – couldn't you find a cover story to imply that Joyce had an extra policy that needed to mature?"
Giles thought about it. If the money didn't seem to come from Spike, he couldn't see the harm. He named a figure. "Are you sure more wouldn't be better?" Spike questioned.
"No, if it's too much, she's more likely to find it suspicious," Giles countered. He agreed to set up the details in the US and then contact Spike's solicitor.
"Look, can I call from time to time, y'know, see how she's doing?" Spike asked after the details had been arranged. "I won't contact her directly, I'd just like to know."
Giles softened a little. "Yes, I can see no harm in that," he answered.
A week later, Spike received a letter from the Watcher's Council which had been forwarded to him by his solicitor.
Dear Mr. Stevas,
We have been informed by a Mr. Rupert Giles of your wish to be of assistance in our fight against the dark forces. While we are willing to consider this offer, you understand, we will need certain assurances from you before we can proceed. If you are willing, we would like to send a contact to meet with you. We suggest meeting in ------- (a coffee bar) at 9pm tomorrow evening.
Yours sincerely,
Quentin Travers.
Spike arrived at the coffee bar at the appointed time. He ordered a coffee and looked around. He was alert. Any number of the patrons in the bar could be Council operatives; there's no way they would send one alone. After several minutes, an attractive, blonde haired woman walked to his table and sat down. She looked like an athlete, compact and muscled without looking masculine. "Mr. Stevas?" she questioned, looking at him carefully.
He nodded, "I'm using the name 'Wilson' at present, if you don't mind," he replied.
The woman looked at him for a moment and said, "Yes, I can see now you are the same person, although your appearance has changed a little since the photo we have on file."
"Y'mean the hair?" He grinned. "Well, I must admit, I miss the blonde look, but at the moment, I'm trying not to be too obvious. Now, you know who I am, how about you introduce yourself?"
"Lydia Watkins, Watcher with the Watchers Council," she replied.
"Well, and how many of the people around me are also from the Council?" he asked looking meaningfully around him.
"Well, most of them," she replied, "but as long as you behave yourself, you won't need to find out."
She started to ask questions then, obviously checking information against their records – not doubt recently updated by Giles. At last, she said, "Well, Mr.... Wilson," while we cannot as yet admit you to the Council or involve you in many of our activities, there is perhaps something with which you can help. There has been a recent rash of disappearances and deaths – commuters and people out late at night – people travelling on the tube. The hub seems to be around Covent Garden, but we have no real idea of the cause as yet. Why don't you have a snoop around and see what you can find. If you have any information, you can contact me on this number," she handed him a card. "Oh, and you may find this useful," she took a package from the chair beside her and gave it to him. "Goodnight."
Curious, Spike opened the package. Inside was a detailed map of the London Underground – the Tube. Not just the usual available to the public thing, this one contained fire exits, unused tunnels, links to service tunnels, links to ...... everything. When he looked up, she had gone.