France – 1916
It's quiet. Too quiet. He can hear a faint scrabbling sound to his left. He ignores it, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the gloom ahead. Probably just rats, he thinks. He breathes out slowly, careful to blow his breath to one side. He's well-camouflaged here, but you can never be too careful. He learnt that the first day he arrived here, in this sea of mud. A shell took out three of the men he'd trained with. A few steps to his right, and he'd have been among them. There's no Full Moon tonight. For that at least, he's grateful - though the enemy could be feet away and he'd never know it. The mist hangs low, shrouding the line opposite. He tightens his grip on the rifle, fingers like ice, despite the gloves. His last pair. His eyes scan the scene – barbed wire pierces through the muck. The Germans look to have retreated, but he has a feeling, no more than a hunch, that someone on the other side is doing exactly what he is – waiting. He can see the tattered remains of a uniform, covering what must have been a man once, lying half-way between the lines. The earth has made a pretty good job at swallowing the body. Pure, white bone pokes through one of the sleeves, as though trying to claw its way out. He hears the scrabbling sound again, this time a little to his left. Some soldiers whisper of unseen horrors, lying in wait out there. Ghosts of men, preying on the living. He doesn't believe a word of it. Superstitious claptrap. Rats, definitely, he thinks, reminding himself to stamp on a few when he gets back to the dug-out. It feels like hours that he's been lying here, hidden by the bank of mud that the last explosion hurled up. The waiting is the worst. The silence allows his mind to roam too far. Thoughts of home, long-gone now. The decision had been made for him, by what had happened on the streets of Dublin, when he'd fired on his own. He'd done his duty, but his family hadn't seen it that way. The priesthood or the army, and he'd made the wrong choice. No matter that they'd have lost him either way, he could see that now. He'd never have made a priest, not even a piss-poor one, not with what he'd got up to with Aoife behind the parochial house anyway…
There.
The mist's lifting, finally. The pinpoint, amber glow of a cigarette, lighting a pale face just for a second.
He takes aim, fires. The report sounds so loud in the darkness. The bullet hits its mark – with a bit of luck it'll have hit the bastard who did for his captain the other day. He slips down from his hiding place as bullets slam into the duckboards above his head.
"Nice one, mate," says Arthur, once he's crawled back to the dug-out. "How many now?" he asks, rummaging in his pocket.
"Not enough," replies Mitchell. He watches as Arthur blows on a piece of shiny metal, a cap from a German beer bottle, and pushes it into the gap between the boards along the wall. Ten bottle caps lie in a row. He can still see that skull in his mind, stark white against the mud, the hollows where the eyes sat empty, devoid of any humanity now. He draws a pack of Woodbines from his pocket, and opens them. He offers one to Arthur, who never refuses the chance of a fly smoke.
Never enough…
1938
Mitchell woke with a start. His head felt like it was splitting open, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. The sign of a good night, usually. For a second he couldn't place where he was. A train compartment. He could just about remember that much, through the haze. Vague images started to come back, of a dingy room, a red scarf draped over a lamp, a trail of blood falling slowly down white skin, so pale it was almost luminous in that pitiful light. He licked his lips without even thinking about it. It had been so good, that feeling of holding another's life in his hands again. The duffle bag he'd crammed with what few possessions he had, lay at his feet. So that's what woke me up, he thought. He searched for his hipflask, hair of the dog and all that. He found it at the bottom of the bag. Battered metal, and worn leather, stained with god knows what. Then he remembered exactly where he'd been given it – France. He threw it back in the bag, and slung it up into the luggage rack.
Where was Herrick, anyway? He'd tell him such thoughts were maudlin, a weakness that only humanity needed to suffer. They could afford to be sentimental, their lives were short, meaningless. Mitchell could hear his voice in his ear:
"They can't see the bigger picture. They're trapped in their world of supposed "freedom". They rail against it, but they never do anything. They sleepwalk through, shuffling towards death. They hide from life, in their pokey little brick houses, two-up, two-down lives. It's sad, really. Poor things…"
Blood and booze…Christ, he needed a leak. He stumbled as he stood up again, the result of so much blood after a break. He yanked at his cheap tie, throwing it on the seat beside him, then shrugged off his jacket. He took a deep breath, then let it slowly out. Why had he even tried it? Such a pointless exercise. Nothing could change the past, nothing could change the future. He was a killer – pure and simple. And he'd been that a long time before that fateful day in France, when he'd fallen into Herrick's tender clutches. That day was etched into his brain, his last day as a living, breathing being. A bitter thought came to him – that the crows had more respect for the dead than the vampires had. He remembered advancing slowly, his rifle trained on the 'men', not quite believing his own eyes at the scene unfolding before him. He remembered offering his life for the sake of his men, and Herrick's smile at his naivety, at what passed for courage in his god-forsaken bones. The deal being struck with the piercing of his flesh, in that unholy silence, as the vampires stood back, melting into the mist. Herrick's whispers, that he'd have a new life, a better life, a free life…It seemed to take forever, as his senses left him, then a strange taste in his mouth – the vampires' communion and its twisted nature. He'd grimaced at that, memories of priests reciting words that meant nothing to him until that moment, when death took him for its own. Then there'd been nothing.
Well, that wasn't quite true, was it?
He slammed shut those memories, of what went on beyond the door. Nothing, until he felt something land on his face, and waking to the harsh cries of crows, angry at losing their hard-won meal. His eyes had opened to a new world, and he'd never looked back, never wavered.
Until now.
The door to the gentlemen's toilet stayed firmly shut. Mitchell hammered the door.
"Ah, come on. No one can take that long, unless you've got a woman in there…in which case, fair play to ya, but…" He could see the train guard at the end of the corridor. Was there anyone in that toilet at all?
"Tickets!" the guard knocked on the first compartment's door. Mitchell pushed against the door and it gave. God these things were a tight fit. Especially if a woman was standing right behind the door. His blonde mystery woman…
"Please…" she whispered, "Don't give me away! I don't have a ticket…" A London accent.
"I don't know now…that's not very fair…I mean the guy's only doing his job…"
"Quick! He's coming…" She yanked him into the toilet, pushing the door shut behind him.
"We haven't even been introduced, darlin'…" Mitchell drawled. The guard was moving closer now. Mitchell could hear his heartbeat above the one that was so close to him now.
"Please…" she repeated.
A loud knocking.
"Tickets. Come on, I haven't got all night…" Mitchell put a finger to his lips. The girl nodded slowly. He opened the door, shielding her from sight.
"Thank you sir." A cursory glance from the guard, turned into a more searching one. He seemed to be weighing Mitchell up and down. "First Class, is it?" Mitchell straightened, sensing trouble. He felt the girl's hand grip at his arm behind the door, as if she knew what he was thinking. It was the guy's sneering tone that did it – not good enough for the likes of him. He'd show him. He'd show him alright.
"Ah. There you are soldier." Herrick appeared at the guard's shoulder. "I'd have thought you'd had enough time to spruce yourself up. I was about to send out a search party." He leaned into the guard, and whispered: "You must forgive my sergeant. Last hurrah before we head back to camp. I'm afraid he was celebrating a little too much." Herrick's pointed gaze fell on Mitchell's shirt. He'd forgotten all about it in the rush for the train. A final gift from the redhead, as her life had ebbed away. Small, but just noticeable.
"Fell in with a bad crowd." Herrick's eyes seemed to cool as he spoke. "But he'll be fine once we're back in harness. You know how it is." The guard nodded slowly, seeming to take Herrick's word for it.
"I do indeed, sir." The man puffed up. "I served in the war. Saw things you wouldn't believe." He jerked his head in Mitchell's direction. "These young'uns don't know they're born, do they sir? Not like us." Mitchell's resentment at the smug man's attitude was increasing by the second. He'd seen the horror – the real horror – the nights where no man slept, the weak cries of their comrades keeping them awake as they bled to death in No Man's Land, mere feet away from help. Enemy guns trained on their trenches to pick off anyone foolish enough to go after them. They were dead already, though no one had the guts to tell them. Mitchell gazed at the man with contempt. He recognised the type – the ones who spoke in such glowing terms of war were always the ones who'd seen the least action - the man had probably never even seen the Front, he seemed a more likely candidate for the catering corps…literally…
"Indeed," muttered Herrick. "Well, we mustn't keep you from your very important duties." The guard smiled uncertainly, not quite sure whether he'd just been complimented or not. He wisely chose the latter, and left them to it. Herrick shook his head.
"I don't know. I leave you for five minutes," he peered over Mitchell's shoulder. "Hello, my dear. You can come out now. We haven't been introduced. Mitchell…" he chided, "keeping such a charming young lady to yourself." Mitchell felt a pang of possessiveness, as the girl edged round to face Herrick. He held out his hand, and the girl took it. "My name is Herrick. And I am glad to see Mitchell here was taking care of you." He was toying with him, Mitchell knew. The knowing gleam was back in those cold eyes.
"Mary. My name's Mary." Herrick's eyes widened.
"Is it? I knew a Mary in London. Sweet girl. A nurse." An icy chill ran through Mitchell. His eyes met Herrick's. And there it was, the malice beneath. He couldn't conceal his hatred. It blazed through him.
You bastard. And I'll bet she's in the Thames...
Herrick bowed his head, the movement was lost on the girl, but not on Mitchell.
Guilty as charged. Does it matter, really?
The game was subtly changing, altering with each kill. He realised that now. And it was a question Mitchell really didn't want to answer. And all the while the blood he'd drained from the pretty redhead was calling him back. It always did. From the moment the old man's blood had touched his lips. The hunger was whispering to him even now:
It doesn't matter. She didn't matter. None of them do. No more than a moment in your life. Not even that. Driftwood.
He let it in, let it cushion him, as it always did. Every nerve and sinew relaxing, warming. An illusion, he thought, just for a second, before looking his maker full in the face.
No. It doesn't matter.
Herrick was right. The nurse would have ended up dead in some dark alley anyway, if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was. She was no different to that barmaid, really, in the scheme of things.
"Sergeant, you'd better get cleaned up. That's a nasty shaving cut. I'll take care of Mary," Herrick noticed the look in Mitchell's eyes, and smiled. "Where are you heading to, my dear?" Paternal, friendly, like the uncle you always liked, thought Mitchell. That was Herrick's secret – never let them see the monster until it was too late.
"Newcastle. I couldn't afford the fare, I -" Herrick interrupted.
"No need to explain Mary. There's plenty of room in our compartment. If we can't help a fellow traveller in need, then what are we coming to?" He turned and placed a hand in the small of her back. As he led her away down the corridor, Mitchell knew he was beaming from ear to ear.
Having scrubbed as much of the blood out as he could, and sloughing cold water over his face to sober up enough to hopefully pass even Herrick's inspection, Mitchell hurried back to the compartment. He needed to sober up fast. Whenever Herrick introduced himself to a human, it rarely ended well. He found Mary sitting alone, leafing through the evening paper. He dragged the door open as loudly as he could.
"Oh! You startled me!" she whispered, beaming up at him, wide-eyed. "Thank you for not, you know…"
"No trouble," said Mitchell, as he reached above her for his duffle bag. That was funny, he could have sworn his bag was round the other way. Mary seemed to notice his hesitation.
"Your bag fell down. I put it back up. Is that ok?"
"Fine." Mitchell kept his eyes on the luggage rack.
"He's very nice, your captain. Said he'd see if there were any sandwiches going, if I was peckish."
He snorted. Captain…
"Yeah, he's a prince. I'll be right back." He didn't give her a chance to interrupt him as he slammed the door again.
He could just about buy the bag falling, it had clouted him awake, after all. But what he could not buy was the fact that it had a completely different knot in the cord. He stopped in the corridor and looked back at the compartment door. He could be mistaken, of course. Let her rifle all she liked, there was nothing personal in his bag. He didn't do personal.
"What the hell are you playing at, Herrick?" The older vampire watched Mitchell slump into the seat opposite, before putting down his fork and knife, and setting aside his napkin. The dining car was empty, apart from the waiter and one other passenger by the faraway window, dozing under a newspaper.
"Nothing, Mitchell. I am merely being polite." Ever the polished gentleman act. It had begun to grate on Mitchell more often of late.
"A quick fumble then I chew her throat, is that it?" Herrick's eyes went to the waiter at the bottom of the carriage.
"A little louder. They might have missed that in Edinburgh. And I'd advise you to keep your voice down, if you don't wish sweet Mary to be thrown off at York. We've all done it."
Mitchell snorted, as he plucked a bread roll out of the basket, and began tearing it apart.
"Yeah but in your day it'd be a bugger to hop a horse and cart." He watched Herrick's smile fade just slightly. His maker's ego was a fragile thing at times, though he always recovered quickly.
"As it was in your day too, Mitchell, you're not that young anymore."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning – a little company will do you good. You're always moaning that you're bored with my company."
Mitchell leaned forward, glaring at him.
"You're playing a game." Herrick's face was all outraged innocence.
"I don't know what you mean. I am being polite. Now we have a very long journey ahead of us, and I would like to finish my – I'm not actually sure what this is – "
"Since when do you do the old 'Good Samaritan' bit?"
"Add a little Hail Mary in there, why don't you?" Herrick said testily. He pushed his plate away. "Why should I have any ulterior motive?"
"Because you don't even breathe without checking what's in it for you?"
"You know me so well." Herrick's voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"This world is a harsh, unforgiving place at the best of times – and our kind are the cause of much of it, as we should be," he said, noticing Mitchell's ironic look. "She reminded me of a client I once knew, that's all. You have my word, Mitchell, I will personally escort her off the train in one piece. There, are you satisfied?" He snapped his fingers at the waiter, the conversation was seemingly over. "I think I'll have some dessert." He made a show of perusing the menu. "What do you think, a little Charlotte Russe?"
"Didn't you eat her in Paris?" Mitchell snapped. Herrick grinned.
"It's good to have you back, Mitchell. In the fold, I mean. Not that you were ever really away." Mitchell looked away for a moment, then sighed. He sat back in the chair, and waited for the waiter to take away the dishes, before speaking again.
"Why did you recruit me?" He watched Herrick pour wine into two glasses, and push one of them towards him. He downed it in one, holding it out for a refill.
"The honest truth?" Mitchell nodded. Herrick poured more wine into his glass.
"I saw something in you. An anger. You were born of war, Mitchell. That hunger, that rage, was there in you already. It only needed to be released," he paused, waiting for his words to sink in. "You were a natural. Aside from the running away bit, that was a tad disappointing, I have to say, but then again, some of the best recruits waver occasionally."
"But not you," said Mitchell.
"Not me." Herrick brushed a crumb from the table. "But you, Mitchell…from the moment you accepted what you were, you were the darkest recruit I've ever seen." Herrick took a sip of his own wine. "Tell me, what do you feel, right at this moment?" Mitchell looked down at his hands. There were no tremors now, no twinges of guilt in his mind. He felt at peace for the first time in weeks, no nagging thoughts of what had happened in the past. Let it go. Let it all go…He looked up at his maker, and smiled.
"Exactly!" said Herrick, a sly look on his face. "Why put yourself through such torment? The decision was made a long time ago, Mitchell." He drained the last of his wine. "By the way, why did you enlist?" It came so out of the blue, Mitchell blinked. Herrick continued. "I mean, you didn't have to. Not as though you'd have got the white feather treatment, not in Ireland. They'd probably have given you a medal for not joining up." Mitchell laughed, to cover his surprise at the question.
"Think I was drunk. Must have been." He watched Herrick's smile widen. "Got a vague memory of betting someone I wouldn't do it – half a bob. Think I'm still owed it."
But that's not true…
I made my choice.
Not that simple, surely?
"Will I tell you why I think you joined up, Mitchell?" Herrick said silkily, taking his silence for agreement.
"Go on."
"You wanted another life. You saw a chance, and you took it. A way out. You knew that deep down inside, you were made for something better. That's not a fault, Mitchell, that's what marks you out." Herrick sat back in his seat. "You wanted more. I recognised that in you – when you pleaded for your men. You're a natural leader. People look up to you." Mitchell grunted in disbelief.
"Yeah, sure. Seth, maybe, but then he looks up to anyone who can string two words together and not fall over their own shoelaces."
"In fairness, that was only the one time, but Seth has his uses."
As do I, thought Mitchell, cynically.
Herrick made a show of pulling his pocket watch from his jacket.
"Dear me, is that the time?" He clicked his fingers at the waiter again. This time, the man brought over a plate of sandwiches and set them down on the table. "Sergeant, you will be on report when we get back to barracks, is that clear?" Mitchell eyed him, but he recognised the ploy. He smarted a little at the tone, chafing at Herrick playing his tin-pot soldier role, but bit back a retort.
"Do you think that's enough time for our little friend to have rummaged through our things more thoroughly?" Herrick's mouth twitched into a grin. Sharp as ever, thought Mitchell. He doubted if Herrick had anything personal in his case either. Vampires tended to travel light.
"Now that's not very nice, after our hospitality. Still, I did promise her a bite to eat." He pushed the plate towards Mitchell. "What? It's a joke!"
Herrick watched him stalk back down the corridor. He closed his watch, tapping it lightly. Then he raised his glass in a mock toast, muttering under his breath:
"Goodbye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square…"
When he got back to the compartment the woman was asleep. He slammed the door shut to wake her. She jolted upright.
"Sorry. Mary, isn't it?" She nodded, smiling. "Compliments of my captain." He handed the plate over as he sat down.
"Thanks for this. I thought I'd more money in my purse. You're very kind, I feel terrible for imposing on you," she said through a mouthful of cheese and pickle. She ate as though she hadn't had a meal in a while, thought Mitchell. He looked at her with new eyes. She was skinnier than he remembered, but her hair seemed golden in the lamplight, and those legs he'd admired so much on the platform did seem endless. And he had to admit, when it came down to company, he'd much prefer some inane chatter with someone he'd never met to his maker's almost mystical occupation with backroom vampire politics. Didn't take a lot to work out they were fleeing some trouble or other. He couldn't remember anything happening, other than the death of that old man, and who'd miss another old codger anyway? He didn't concern himself with what happened in the aftermath of a kill - that was for others to take care of. It would be a long journey, but anything had to be better than Herrick's "secret war" spiel. That and answering the question why he'd joined up in the first place. Wouldn't take long for his maker to realise he'd never answered that particular question.
"So Mary," he flashed her a smile, as he settled back, "tell me all about yourself."
He'd found over the years since he'd been recruited, that humans loved nothing more than to tell you their life story, no matter how boring their circumstances. The times he'd listened, seemingly engrossed in the trials and tribulations of secretaries and shop girls, their names and faces blurred by the passage of time. All told a variation of the same sad story – parents who didn't understand them, employers who shouted at them then tried to touch them up behind the counter, boyfriends who didn't seem that interested in putting a ring on their finger. He'd tormented some with taunts of how it was too late to worry about that, right as he pierced their flesh, as tears streamed down their faces. He enjoyed that terror, he often watched mesmerised as the eyes flashed fiercely, desperate to cling on to life, just as it ebbed away from them. The taste sharpened, he savoured it, revelling in his notoriety. The monster in the dark, waking to find the covers saturated in blood, wondering if there was just one more drink in the lifeless body next to him. It was an addiction, he realised that now, but it had its hold on him. No amount of handwringing, promises not to kill - only to drink a little from drugged whores in back alleys, could hide the truth. Not any longer. He'd been mad to think he could fight it. He couldn't run from what he was. It was time to let himself drown in it. Herrick was right. Embrace it, truly live this strange, wonderful life. It was the only way.
Among the chatter, he learned that Mary had a fiancée, supposedly. Michael. A "right nice fella", she'd said with a faraway look in her eye. No ring as yet, but he was saving up for it, he'd put the deposit down with the jewellers' already. He smiled at that. She was indeed just another of the daydreaming girls, waiting for the ring before anything more. Right. Michael was a soldier, newly enlisted. She'd had the grace to look a little ashamed that she'd been gossiping about him to a stranger.
"It's just, you're such a good listener."
"It's fine, Mary. I thought you must be spoken for, nice girl like you."
She'd beamed even more at that, her cheeks blushing.
"He's doing his training right now."
"Really?" like he was interested. "Which regiment?"
"Same as you."
"The Royal Dublin Fusiliers?" He said it without thinking. It was the first personal bit of information he'd given her in the whole conversation.
She nodded, then smiled a little uncertainly. He changed the subject, asking her where she lived. Five minutes later he was being regaled with tales about her Aunty Mavis, who she lived with in a tiny flat near Waterloo Station. How she worked in Boots, how her boss was a "dried-up old prune" called Miss Ellis. He let her waffle on, all the while something was nagging at his brain. At first he put it down to coming down from the barmaid's blood, but something felt off. He felt his eyes drift from her face to her neck, the exact spot where the main artery sat, just beneath the skin. Ridiculous. He'd drunk more than his fill from that last kill. He forced his gaze back to her face. She was looking at him with concern.
"Are you alright? You look a bit peaky."
"Something must have disagreed with me." She commiserated with him.
"I get that way when I've had a shandy. Not that I drink a lot," she hastened to add, knocking her bag onto the floor as she said it. The clasp opened, and a small bundle of tissue paper tipped out. She stooped to pick it up, but Mitchell was quicker than her. He held it up to the light. Mary's face turned white.
"What have we here? Present for your sweetheart?" She made to snatch the roll back from him, but he held it up out of her reach. She sat back in her seat, and crossed her arms. She looked even more attractive in a temper. He smiled to himself. "Wouldn't happen to be the York Road, would it? Where you really live, or should I say, work?" He'd hit the right spot. The shocked look on her face said it all. The York Road had been famous when he'd been in the army, for a warm bed, and an equally warm body next to you - for a price. Her eyes blazed at him.
"I don't know what you're talking about. How dare you – " Mitchell opened the tissue, to find a gold tie pin, with a chunk of diamond in the centre.
"It's amazing what Boots sells these days, isn't it?" He waited for her to answer, but she stayed silent, her eyes now resolutely on the floor at her feet.
"I think we're both running, aren't we, Mary?" She looked back up at him, surprised.
He held out his hand. She waited a moment before snatching the pin back, and dropping it into her handbag. She was growing in confidence, now.
"I don't think either of us is what we appear to be. The Royal Dublin Fusiliers?" She said it with a mocking smile. "They disbanded years back. And if you're going to make out you're a soldier, you and your so-called "Captain", you might want to make sure you're in the same regiment. He said he was in the Royal Army Corps." She took a breath, and looked him straight in the eye. She hadn't seen the subtle change in his features, as she'd spat the words at him.
"So if I'm a liar, what does that make you, John Mitchell?" She was astonished when he burst out laughing.
"The same as you, sweetheart. A liar, and a cheat. Fancy a drink?"
It had started slowly, Mary thought. She'd allowed herself one drink, then another, sure she could hold her drink. But she'd soon lost count of how many she'd had. She was talking too much, she knew, but everything came spilling out. It wasn't a lie as such, she did work part-time in Boots, but there never seemed enough money left at the end of the week. And then she'd been told of a way to make money, hand over fist. She smiled in recollection. And the sly way she'd been drawn into it, the smartly dressed woman who stopped at her counter, coming back again and again, tempting her, pointing out the advantages, never any of the disadvantages. Oh they never did that, she thought bitterly.
I'll do it. Just the once.
And then she'd met Michael, and everything changed. Her world had turned upside down. She was going to surprise him in Newcastle – he didn't know she was coming. It had all been last minute. A new life on the cards, finally. She'd taken the pin, she'd earned it, hadn't she?
"Yes. You earned it. Ssh…" as his hand slid up her skirt. She'd slapped his face at that. He'd just laughed, but he'd kept his hand where it was. She thought his eyes had gone a funny colour, for a second, but that was impossible. Trick of the light.
"He won't know. I won't tell him, will you?" he'd whispered. She'd answered playfully:
"What kind of a girl do you think I am?"
And she knew that, even though she was drunk, that something wasn't quite right, that she should stop, that this was madness…but it felt right somehow…she was enjoying every second of it…the thrill that someone could enter the compartment any moment and…oh that felt good…
"I won't tell him…" she said softly, her breath was growing more rapid now, she could almost hear her own heartbeat. She closed her eyes. She was so close to -
Then it struck her. Drunk as she was. Something hazy. When she'd been hiding in the toilet. The mirror…
Her eyes flew open. She saw him for what he truly was – the man your mother always warned you about, the one waiting in the shadows, the monster with the black eyes, all humanity gone.
"No, you won't…"