Chapter 8
London, 28 May 2004
There are a number of ways of travelling from London to Glasgow in comfort. There are regular flights, there's a train service, buses travel up and down the motorway, and cars can be hired. Most of those methods present problems for someone with an aversion to sunlight – especially at this time of year – but I suspect that Giles' reasons for choosing my mode of transport were less pure than they might have been.
That's how I end up in the back of that same bloody van for another ten hours. He left me cooling my heels overnight before I left too – down in that underground complex that seems like an old-fashioned version of the Initiative's warren. Yes, it had been cleaned up, and yes, the cells held desks rather than chains, but there are some smells you just can't wash away completely.
I spent the time before we set out trying to get some sleep. Not that it was comfortable. The similarities between that place and the Initiative kept me on edge, and the floor was hard and cold. I'm not easily scared, but memories of my time there, and of the results of the chip … they make my blood freeze. The Initiative left me helpless. I can take a lot – between Angelus and Dru and Buffy, I think that's obvious, but being helpless – that's different. When it was obvious that sleep was going to elude me, I read my way through the paperwork Giles gave me.
I pick up the file again as I sit in the van. Top of the pile are my own papers and details. The details he fabricated mesh with the passport I got in LA. William Sinclair - not my real name, but one I've used often enough over the years that it fits, you know? I'd have given myself a more interesting employment history though - Giles has me down as a bouncer in some unknown club somewhere, with a couple of other similar jobs in the past. Still, I'm making my own history now - I'm even sort of legitimate for the first time in over a century. You could say this is the first day of the rest of my life, but that would be too trite even for the poet in me.
The file on the girls is surprisingly empty. Oh, there are plenty of words; it's the facts that are thin on the ground.
There's a photo and some details for each of them. I read what's written, trying to flesh it out into a real person to go with the photo, but it's not easy.
The first one is the active Slayer, name of Fiona Walker. She's small and dark haired with fair skin and blue eyes - pretty little thing. She's seventeen, and lives with her parents in Glasgow - an area called Mansehill. She had a Watcher, a Gus Wilson, assigned to her, but there's not a lot about him here.
She was doing ok, by all accounts. She actually wanted to learn all about demons and such, and was studying when she wasn't actually slaying. She was a first year student at the University of Glasgow, and seemed happy according to everyone who was interviewed by the police after her disappearance. Of course, her Watcher is down as a private tutor in the police reports, and it looks as though they were looking at him as being responsible for her disappearance but couldn't find anything more than circumstantial on him.
The second woman is older. Jean McKenna's in her mid twenties, fair but not particularly memorable in appearance, and she's a teacher. She shares a flat with another teacher, somewhere in Stirling. She went to work one morning, left that evening, but never got home. There aren't any obvious suspects according to the police report on that one.
The third woman is older again. Morag Kirkpatrick is divorced and runs her own business in Glasgow. She looks like the archetypal successful business woman – smart, appears younger than the age would imply, snappy dresser too, judging by the photo. She's got some sort of import/export company as well as a small shop in the city itself. She must deal in some pretty exotic stuff since the police originally thought that she'd been abducted because of some shipment she'd recently received which contained some rare artwork. The police are still looking for a major crime angle on that one, but haven't come up with anything.
Given that the three women had nothing in common as far as the police were concerned, and the fact that the disappearances are being investigated by two different police forces, there's no link been made between them. I do my best to etch the three faces onto my brain. These are Slayers - like Buffy. No one gets to tangle with Slayers except me. Call it professional pride if you like, but that's just how it is.
The other bit of information I pick up is that the address of the flat Giles has picked out for me is the same as the business address of the Watcher. Seems the Council has given him a cover story - he's apparently the local contact for a company specialising in the procurement of rare books – it's called 'Watcher Rarities'. I wonder if it's a real company or just something to cover their activities. I mean, Giles had to be a librarian while he was Buffy's Watcher. I expect I'll find out, but the idea of being in the same building as a Watcher isn't exactly comforting news.
When Giles appeared again this morning, it was to provide me with a bag of much needed sustenance – pig and cold – before telling me it was time to leave. We took the lift to that same loading bay, and I quickly scanned the area but there was no sign of a big send off. I didn't see the driver – the engine of the van was already running, and Giles escorted me to the back and watched as I climbed in.
"It should still be daylight when you arrive," he informed me. "And the van will be parked in full sun. When it's dark, you'll be able to exit, but the driver will have gone by then. Here's a map of the city," he added, throwing one of those A to Z books at me. "You'll have plenty of time to find the flat on the map and plan a course there."
He closed me in then, and I heard him walk away.
The journey north is every bit as uncomfortable as I'd thought it'd be, and I'm relieved when the van finally comes to a halt. I know, by that instinct common to all vampires, that the sun's still too high, so I sit tight, away from the door just in case someone opens it from the outside. I needn't have worried. When I finally judge that I should be safe enough and open the door, the car park is deserted. It looks like an industrial park - small units doing everything from wrought iron work to baking pies - but it's late, and there's no one around. Giles had a post-it stuck on one page of the map he supplied and an industrial park circled, so I assume that's where I am, and I start to walk.
I get sidetracked, though. I mean, I never did get the chance to have a serious drinking session before I left LA. I know what I'm like. Enough to drink and I'd do something that'd get me noticed, and it's hard to seem like you're dust when someone remembers seeing you. Times like that the blond hair is a distinct disadvantage, but I'm not about to change it.
You know, I don't think I'd have taken to drinking so much whisky in California if the beer'd been better. First stop, I have myself a few pints of heavy. Now that's good stuff. Pub was owned by the brewery, though, so once I'd tried what was available there, I move on and find another owned by a different brewery.
By the time I'm in the fourth pub, I seem to be making friends. One local, a big chap with a red face who goes by the name of Mac, decides that, since I'm obviously not local, I need someone to look after me. I try to persuade him that I don't, but either the beer's affected his hearing or he doesn't understand my accent, because he doesn't take any notice. When the pub finally closes at midnight, he drags me on to a club nearby, somewhere with hours extended beyond the normal, and there we have a few more pints, this time accompanied by whisky chasers, and when we finally leave, I'm having problems walking in a straight line. How he's managing it, I have no idea. He insists on walking me to the flat, telling me it's not out of his way – at least I think that's what he said. It's just as likely he thinks he's going to crash with me, but I'll cross that bridge later. Besides, he's able to show me a short cut which isn't on the map. That might be because it involves crossing some gardens – I'm not too clear on that.
On the way, Mac's trying to teach me the words to a song, and I join in, just to show him I'm not too drunk to pick up on what he's saying. After a while it becomes a contest of sorts – and we lurch along vying to outdo each other in volume.
When we finally get to the flat, I'm finding it difficult to stop the road from moving under me, and … I suspect that might be the whisky chasers I had on top of the beer in that last place.
As we reach the building, and while I'm looking for a way into the lower level which tallies with the address I've been given, my companion decides it's a good time to fall asleep. He's slumped against the wall, and then he starts to snore noisily. I take one look at him, check he's ok, and then turn my attention back to getting inside.
I find the door - it's at the back of the building - and fumble in my pocket for the key Giles gave me. Once inside, my bag is dumped by the doorway, and I go back outside to get Mac. I drag him inside, and, after a quick rummage through my memories of the habits of drunk humans, decide to make up a bed of sorts in the bathroom which has the joint benefit of being a room I won't need for a bit, and having no carpets or other things that will retain a smell when the inevitable happens.
I check around the flat, eventually finding the bedroom. There's a bed with pillows and blankets but no sheets. I grab one of the blankets and go back to cover Mac where he's lying, oblivious to the world, and still snoring fit to wake the dead. It occurs to me that that doesn't bode at all well for me – something I find oddly funny.
Satisfied I've done what I can, I go into the bedroom where I fall onto the bed, relieved to have the opportunity to lie down at last. At least the world doesn't spin quite so fast that way. Closing my eyes makes it even slower.
It's not long before I'm wakened by someone banging at the door. That's followed by the sound of a key in the lock. I sit up quickly. Vamp constitution being what it is, I'm feeling a lot steadier, even though I know it hasn't been that long since I lay down. I get up cautiously, alert, wondering who's got a key.
Of course, as soon as I see him, I know who he is. He might be wearing jeans, but he's got the woolly jumper and glasses look to go with it, and, of course, he's got a cross held high in one hand, and a stake in the other.
I relax when I see him; human I can deal with.
"Watcher," I greet him. "To what do I owe this … intrusion?"
"Spike, I assume," he mutters, the cross remaining between us.
"The one and only, but you haven't answered my question."
"I had a call from one of the neighbours. She told me someone had broken into the flat dragging a dead body. And that before you killed him, you were both singing 'Flower of Scotland'."
"Dead body?" I ask, glancing in the direction of the bathroom from which the sound of snoring hasn't decreased in the slightest.
"So, he's not dead yet. Keep out of my way while I see to him."
I step backwards, allowing him access to the bathroom. It's obvious that he's not going to believe I haven't been snacking unless he can see it for himself.
He takes Mac's pulse, and checks his neck for puncture wounds, but of course, he doesn't find any.
"Where?" he asks, looking less confident, but still with the cross between him and me.
"Where did I bite him? Don't they teach you that any more? There was a time that part of Watcher training was a crash course in the major arteries of the body. What's his pulse like? Not that I don't know, I can hear his heart from here, and it's a damn sight more healthy sounding than yours right now."
He looks even more confused at that, so I take pity on him. Of course, if all his information on vampires comes from the Council, it stands to reason that he isn't going to work it out on his own.
"I haven't bitten him. Not a taste. Met him in a pub on the way here, and he thought I was too puny to look after myself. Walked me here then promptly passed out, so I brought him in, just in case something else wanted to snack."
"You expect me to believe that?" he asks, looking at me. "You've got a victim here, incapacitated, and you haven't been tempted?"
"Tempted? Yeah, well, that's different. It's what you do with the thoughts, though."
"You seem remarkably recovered if you've been drinking with him," he mutter, his tone sarcastic.
"Well, vamp constitution. We heal faster than humans, and that goes for the damage caused by alcohol. It's a blessing and a curse." I sigh melodramatically at that. It just seems appropriate. He doesn't notice. I give up and turn my back on him.
"Anything to drink in this place?" I ask, moving towards the room that seems to be the kitchen.
I don't wait for an answer, but when I get to the kitchen, I quickly check out the cupboards. To tell the truth, I don't really want any more to drink - at least, not like that. I do find a jar of coffee sugar, and some teabags, and there's an electric kettle. I check out the fridge, and there are a few containers filled with something red. I take one out, sniff it cautiously, and get the clear scent of pig's blood.
I hear him coming up behind me, so I turn to meet his gaze.
"You got this?"
"Er, yes. Mr. Giles suggested I should get some in so you wouldn't have any … excuses when you arrived."
"And the tea and coffee?"
"I had some car trouble a couple of months ago - used to crash down here rather than going home late. It's left over from then."
"Want a cuppa?" I ask. I have to say, I'm impressed. From all raging righteousness, he's gone through confused and straight to making some actual sense remarkably quickly.
"Coffee, please," he answers. He doesn't look happy, but I'll settle for the fact that he puts the stake away although the cross is still in his hand.
I put the kettle on and find a small saucepan for the blood. There's no microwave, so that's one purchase I'll have to make soon. I open another cupboard and find a small selection of mismatched crockery, among it, a few mugs.
One's a souvenir of the Queen's silver jubilee in 1977, so I take it out and spoon some coffee into it.
"I'll keep that one for you, if you like," I offer. "I know you humans are a tad squeamish about drinking out of mugs that've had blood in them. That and, well, it doesn't seem right, drinking blood out of that."
I pick out another one – the plainest of those remaining – just dark blue - and take it to the stove where I pour the blood into it. When the kettle boils, I add water to the coffee granules.
"No milk, so it'll have to be black. Want sugar?"
He shakes his head. Funny, I get the feeling I've worried him more by offering him coffee than I would have if I'd made a lunge at his neck.
I eye the cross disapprovingly, and he tightens his grip on it.
"Put that bloody thing down," I tell him as I put the coffee on the small table by the window. "And sit down."
To my surprise, he does as he's told. I sit opposite him, and sip at my blood. I try to remember what Giles' file said about the Watcher, but I don't remember much.
"So, you know me, how about you introduce yourself? Or do you want me to call you Watcher?"
"Wilson, Gus Wilson," he says, putting the cross on the chair beside him nervously.
"Well, Wilson, Gus Wilson, I'm pleased to meet you." I offer him my hand across the table, and he accepts it, shaking it before he realises what he's done. That's what I love about good, well brought up humans. Give them a social signal like an outstretched hand, and the brain doesn't get involved at all – it's instinctive.
He moves his hand away fast enough when he realises what he's done, and I can't help smiling at the reaction.
"You been a Watcher for long?" I ask.
"Two years," he says, obviously meaning that he's not green, while the same words mean exactly the opposite to me.
"I see. Where'd you study?"
"I did my degree in Classics here at Glasgow, then spent a couple of years studying other, less well known, languages in the States, then came back here to study with the Council."
I study him as he speaks. He's tall, slight, fair-skinned, with reddish fair hair. His eyes are pale blue, and have that 'rabbit in headlights' look about them.
"And Giles has no doubt told you all about me," I offer.
"I've read the Council records on William the Bloody," he agrees, "and Mr. Giles has given me some of your more recent history."
"Then you know I've given up on eating people."
"He said that you appeared to have given up killing, but that I wasn't to trust you."
"Ok, I can live with that for now. But if we're going to work together, you're going to have to trust me eventually."
He yawns then, and I feel pity for him. He should still be somewhere safe, researching and reading and whatnot. He's not fit to be out in the real world, but I don't think Giles has too many options these days between the increase in Slayer numbers and the fact that so many Watchers are gone.
"Go home to bed," I tell him. I think we'd both be better for some sleep. "When do you get into the office?"
"Nine thirty," he answers.
"Ok. Sometime after that, I'll pop upstairs. You can fill me in on what's what happening around here."
I stop then, waiting for a reaction, but then I remember something. "That's assuming you've got curtains or something up there."
"Yes, er, I've got blinds," he answers. "And the back staircase is enclosed."
"Better and better," I agree.
I drink the last of my blood, and stand. He follows my lead, and picks up the cross before walking to the door. I suspect I've turned a few of his preconceptions on their heads, but I think he'll be easier to work with than Giles – maybe even as promising as Wes, albeit without the experience. I push away the reminder that Wes is gone. Feeling the loss of humans isn't something I'm equipped for, so I just do my best to ignore it.
He walks up the stairs, but before I hear any engine starting, there's a scream. I run after him, and spot him running in the direction of an alley across the road. I follow him, catching up quickly, and then I hear another sound, more of a scuffle this time, and overtake him.
Some kid – he's got a knife - and it's at some poor girl's throat. He sees me coming, and his first reaction is just to talk his way out of it.
"Just go back where you came from," he says calmly. "You don't get involved here, you don't get hurt."
"I like the part about not getting hurt," I reply, continuing to approach slowly and taking in every aspect of the situation.
Gus chooses that moment to run up behind me. The knife wielder tenses at that, taking in the two of us.
"One step closer and I'll cut her throat," he mutters.
"Oh, good," I say, allowing my face to change. "That'll just make things easier for me."
His jaw drops at that, and there's a split second of indecision before he drops the girl and tries to run off. It doesn't take too much effort to get a foot in his way, though, and he falls headlong on his face. I sit on top of him, just holding him enough that he's not going anywhere. He's gibbering a bit, and he seems to know some swear words that I don't, but he's stuck and he knows it.
Gus watches me, waiting for my reaction, but I let my face revert. The vamp face was just for the purpose of scaring him - something I used to great effect when I was first chipped. It might not have got me a meal, but it kept me out of a fair bit of trouble. Once Gus seems sure that I'm not going to take advantage of my situation, he approaches the girl, who's almost hysterical with fright, but otherwise seems unhurt. He pulls a phone out of his back pocket and presses 999, explaining the situation. I had hoped he wouldn't feel the need to do that. Involving the authorities just makes things difficult, and I'm sure that I could have scared him out of his bad habits if I'd had the chance. Pretty soon, there's a police car and an ambulance on the scene. The girl's taken off to be checked over, and the low-life that attacked her is removed to the nearest police station.
By the time the police finally leave, it's fast approaching dawn, and I've had to agree to give a full statement later in the day - but at least they've agreed to come to Gus' office for that. They haven't been able to interview the girl, and all I've said is that he lost his bottle when he saw the two of us, and tried to run for it. If the girl remembers anything, I'll just suggest that the lighting's pretty bad in the alley, and that she was rather distraught. Pain as they could be, at least the police in Sunnydale weren't liable to go looking too closely into things that could possibly have a supernatural bent. I'm not so sure that'll work here.
Gus doesn't say a lot before he leaves. To be honest, I think he's just too confused to know what to think, and that's probably a good thing for now. Whether I like it or not, I'm going to have to work with him. Truth is, I think I could get to like him. He's intelligent, that much is obvious, and, while he's green, he seems willing to accept things a bit more on trust than Giles ever has. All in all, I reckon he could work out well - with the right sort of guidance.
When it's all gone quiet again, I lock the door to the flat behind me and find my way back to the bed. I'm half asleep when I realise that there's something wrong, and it takes me a moment to realise what it is. It's too quiet. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten all about Mac. I jump up, suddenly worried that he's choked or something, and run to the bathroom. The blanket I put over him is still there, but he's gone, the only reminder of his presence the puddle of foul-smelling mess that trails across the floor towards the toilet. I can only assume he slipped away while I was outside. Maybe the sirens and flashing lights permeated his stupor, I don't know. Still, if he could get up by himself, then I've got to assume he'll be ok. I decide to ignore the puddle for now, opening a window and closing the bathroom door in the hope that the smell will have stopped turning my stomach by morning.
With that, I go back to bed, settling myself as comfortably as I can, while promising myself that, first thing chance I get, I'll buy myself some sheets and a nice, cosy duvet. I may be room temperature, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a bit of comfort.
