I started writing this story because I really really needed to know why Josie let Mitchell into her life. I've worked that out as best as I can, and there's more to follow. I'd love to know who's reading, and any thoughts or comments you're inclined to share.
Giant smile & wave to the BH bloggers, with special thanks to SunnyFla and carianna!
xx Fleem
As always, characters belong to BBC and the wonderful BH creators, cast & crew. Thanks for letting us spend more time with them.
November 1969
Though it's been several weeks since that day, Mitchell has never really let me alone. He keeps showing up in my dreams.
In one dream, Herrick arrests me and Mitchell bails me out of jail. In another, two bats fly into my bedroom and turn into Herrick and Mitchell. I'm tied to the bed and Mitchell is trying to give me cups of tea but Herrick keeps taking the cups and smashing them on the floor.
I dream Roger and Mitchell are both in my flat. Roger offers Mitchell a hit from the water pipe. Mitchell says no thank you I'd prefer blood. Then Roger asks Mitchell if he's ever done any dancing.
Once I dream that Mitchell and Jenna are over for drinks and they have a screaming row in the kitchen over who has to mop the floor. Jenna kicks Mitchell in the shins and he concedes it's his turn to mop.
Sometimes he appears in the dreams with fangs and strange black shoe-button eyes. I know I should be afraid of him but I'm not, because he's doing something ordinary: smoking a cigarette, reading a newspaper, eating toast. Then Herrick, dressed as a policeman, comes in and arrests him.
My memories have taken on a dreamlike quality, and I'm no longer sure what really happened and what I remember only from the nights I gasp myself awake from the strangeness. When Mitchell said he was a vampire, that had to be another nightmarish bit of fantasy. Like the all-black eyes. Like the wolves I heard howling here in the city. Like the single cigarettes I notice in random places around the flat that aren't there the next time I look.
Lately the dreams have been less frequent, and I'm once again regaining my equilibrium. I still bolt the door if I hear voices in the stairway. I've canceled the milk delivery. I've learned to take tea and coffee black.
Since that day, I've not allowed anyone into the flat. I know it seems weird. James and Albert will stop at the door to pick me up when we go out, or to leave off various well-chosen provisions - takeaway food, or a bottle of nice wine, but I don't invite them in. We spend time at their place, amidst the easels and empty takeaway boxes.
Roger rings me again. He's about the last person I want to speak to at the moment, but I haven't the energy to tell him to go away.
"Josie, I've been thinking of you. Are you all right?"
"As well as can be expected, thank you."
"I just picked up the paper, and I wanted to let you know, the police say they've caught the killer. He was part of a drug and prostitution ring they've been hunting for months. The case is closed."
"Well, erm, that's good news, I suppose."
"I should say it is. You don't sound terribly relieved about it."
"Oh, no it's quite reassuring."
"Then why don't you sound quite reassured? You really should get a new place, one that isn't a crime scene."
"I know. I just don't have the energy to move. It's not so bad now. It's quiet. They've rented out the empty flat already. Couple of musician blokes. I don't think they have any furniture yet, they're sleeping on the floor."
"Are they loud?"
"Not so far."
"If they bother you, or if anything frightens you, you can stay at our place. Lydia won't mind."
"Thanks. I stayed at James and Albert's for awhile. I think I'll be fine now."
I'm getting home from work, a long day full of high-pitched whinging, ankle twisting, and imperious mothers demanding extra attention for their little darlings. As I'm walking up the path, I see on the front steps a pretty bunch of roses, wrapped in a red ribbon. I have a pathetic, ridiculous fantasy that they're from Roger, begging me to come back to him, then I rebuke myself for ever thinking anything so soppy.
I can't resist taking a peek. Inside the card, the line beside the great curly printed "To:" is blank. In slanting, uneven scrawl, is written:
I am so very sorry. Please help me.
-Mitchell
Christ.
Before anyone sees me, I take the flowers and sprint upstairs.
Once safely inside, I find I've broken out in a sweat. My heart is racing. I drop the flowers on a chair and pour myself a sherry.
The roaring sound in my ears is making it hard to think. Help him? What could I do? What does he want with me? I thought I'd already helped him quit killing: he didn't kill me. Wasn't that enough?
This means he's probably been creeping around my house. He may still be somewhere nearby. What would I do if I saw him? I'm still not entirely sure he's in his right mind. Should I be afraid of him? He didn't hurt me that day.
I ring James and Albert, but they don't pick up. I haven't told them what happened to me in my flat, only that someone has been arrested for the murders. It would be too much to explain, and I'm not sure if they would even believe me. After all, if someone else told me the same thing had happened, I wouldn't believe it for a second.
Here are these flowers. Here is a note. I can't throw them in the bin. I can't put them back outside. I can't look at them. Finally, I leave them in the cupboard.
I check twice to make sure the door is bolted. He's done me the favor of not killing me. That's really it. I'd better go to bed, I've got work in the morning.
That was a crap night's sleep.
When I return home this evening, there's another bunch of flowers. The same note.
I am so very sorry. Please help me.
-Mitchell
I hold my breath and turn around, scanning the area for anyone lurking in the bushes or behind a car or something. I don't see anyone. The flowers go into the cupboard beside the first bunch. He's not going away. He must be on the run, from the law or his employers or god knows what. A fugitive? This can't continue. It's nervewracking. He's going to show himself sooner or later. Who knows what might happen then?
Another day. I've been home from work for only a few minutes when Albert and James appear at my door. James is tall, bespectacled, and baby-faced, with prematurely receding blond hair. Albert is shorter with dark hair and twinkling blue eyes that carry an everpresent laugh. They invite me to the "premiere" of their latest performance piece. I'm delighted to go.
The performance takes place not far from my house, in front of a laundrette. Through the window are visible several old ladies patiently waiting for their clothes to dry, oblivious to the happening outside. The boys wear smart white suits and sit at a folding table on the pavement. The table is set with cups and saucers and a teapot, but their faces are obscured: they wear brown paper bags on their heads with little holes cut out for the eyes. James puts a portable phonograph on the ground and turns it on. It plays "Tea for Two," slightly scratchily, over and and over, the playback arm resetting itself back at the edge of the 45 as soon as the song ends. They pour each other tea and pretend to drink it, but because they are wearing bags on their heads, it dribbles down the paper and into their laps.
At the end, they both stand, the spilled tea visible all down the fronts of their suits, and Albert ceremoniously pours the remainder of the tea out onto the pavement. When they are finished, without removing their paper bags, they take dignified bows, pack all of the tea dishes into a hamper, fold up the table, pick up the phonograph, and walk off. The audience of bemused passers-by applauds politely but has no idea what to make of them.
James has pronounced the performance "a smashing success." We go back to their flat to celebrate with brandy and takeaway curry, and then I get a taxi home.
My god. Mitchell is here. He kneels at the steps, sets down yet another bunch of flowers, and turns to go. He freezes when he sees me coming up the path. It's unreal, he's even wearing the same suit. At least I can stop expecting him to leap out of the shadows.
I'm not going to let on how frightened I am.
There are hollows under his eyes. His face is drawn and pale. He has the haunted expression of a prisoner of war looking out from behind a barbed wire fence.
"Help me," he whispers, his voice cracking in desperation.
I don't know if I should be sorry for him or if I should be furious. He's got an incredible amount of nerve to come back and face me, after what happened, after what he's told me.
"Why should I?"
"Because I can't help myself. "
It's both a candid description of his problem, and a confession. No expectations. No promises. No excuses.
I remember when he sat down beside me and told me what he was. I saw that he wanted to escape from that room every bit as much as I did. He never chose to live that way. When Herrick told him, quite emphatically, to kill me, he didn't do it. He wants the chance to do right.
If a person is drowning, you don't sit and wait for someone else to help the poor fellow. You don't force him to prove he deserves saving. You dive in and pull him to safety.
I take a deep breath and decide to trust him. I think he's astonished I haven't run away screaming.
"How do you think I can help you? "
He looks at the floor with an expression of pure despair.
"Listen. Please. I'm so lost, Josie. I want you to know me. There's no reason you should want to, but I'm asking you, please. I don't know what I can offer you in return. I can empty the bins and do the washing up. Anything I can give you, it's yours.
"I don't really know what happened. That day, with you, something shook loose. I couldn't wall it off anymore. I realized you were right. I wanted to stop."
He's visibly shivering. I touch his arm.
"Are you frightened?"
"Petrified."
I understand almost nothing. He's huddled on the sofa, hugging himself tightly as if he wants to be smaller. I put a hand on his shoulder to try and calm him down.
He needs to talk. The words spill from him so fast and so urgently I can barely comprehend what he's saying. War. Obligation. Addiction. A vampire society. Slavery. Horror. Tears glisten in his eyelashes, but don't fall.
He says he's seventy-six, but despite his obvious exhaustion, he looks like a young rock star, with arrestingly-shaped eyes that change in the light from green to dark amber and back again, longish dark hair curling at the ends in a fashionably unruly way, and pale unlined skin. My disbelief must be showing, because he suddenly frowns, takes my hand, pulls me over to the bathroom and stands next to me, in front of the mirror.
"Just look," he says. I'm alone in the reflection. I look beside me; he's there. In the mirror, he isn't. There's no way to deny it. He's telling me the truth. He's been telling me the truth all along. I wonder, if vampires are real, what else could be.
He's explained that vampires take care of one another's appearance. Once again I'm overwhelmed with curiosity.
"How do you shave?"
"That's one of my only special powers," he says, with a rueful, dimpled half-smile. "Along with healing very quickly." He looks absolutely radiant when he smiles. It's like switching on a floodlight. I'm a bit unnerved.
"W-will you need help if your mates aren't around?"
"Er, I might." The smile fades. He shifts nervously. Maybe I've embarrassed him. "Tell me about you."
"I have a quiet life. I go to work, I come home, I like to read and knit and listen to music. I studied world history at Uni. I'm a dancer and I teach dance to children as well, which pays my rent between gigs. I'm between gigs now..."
It's alarming, the way he's staring at me, brows knit, not blinking. Maybe he's hungry.
"Don't look at me like that please. You're frightening me."
"Oh! Jesus. Sorry."
Trying to defuse the tension, I say, "I'll... I'll go make some tea, sit tight."
That intense look. He didn't mean anything by it. As I fill the kettle, I worry about what I might be getting myself into. He hasn't seen himself in a mirror for decades and has no idea what his face looks like. He'll need me to tell him.
When I come back with the tea, I ask him, "Why did it take so long for you to say you were a...vampire?" The word still sounds ridiculous to me. "When you finally did tell me I thought you were out of your tree."
"I knew you would stop talking to me. I didn't want you to."
"You had an extremely odd way of showing it. I seem to recall you told me quite specifically to shut up, and then you..."
"Sorry. I had to do it. I was at my limit right then. I couldn't bear any more. I was afraid I might hurt you if you kept asking me those questions. You were right, about all of it. I'm not kidding myself - you only wanted to know why we were there, and then for us to go away, that's all. But I couldn't forget the things you said. You had my number. You spoke to me like I was human, and I didn't want to disappoint you."
It's not funny, but I can't help laughing. "Now that's rich. Are you saying you wanted me to like you?"
He hangs his head, shamefaced. "Stupid, isn't it?"
I don't answer.
"What does all this seem like to you?" he asks.
This initially strikes me as a terribly strange question, but on reflection, it makes perfect sense. Here's where I start helping him. What he needs, more than anything, is some perspective.
"From my point of view, you broke into my flat and took me hostage. You told me some unbelievable story about having killed hundreds of people, then an even more ridiculous story about why you were afraid to stop. None of it made sense to me."
"Why did you let me in today? That all had to be hideous for you."
"It was."
"I could have killed you."
"You didn't, Mitchell, you listened to me. Letting you in might be the stupidest thing I've ever done. But I reckon if you were planning to kill me, I'd be dead by now. It must have been important to you, whatever I said, because here you are.
"Also, I do like you."
Really, "like" is far too simple a word for what I'm feeling about him. I'm intrigued. Resentful. Frustrated. Awestruck. Frightened. Attracted. Nervous as hell. He's beautiful like a wild animal. I can't stop watching him.
I don't tell him I'd heard him talking to Herrick that day, that I know more of his story than he's told me. He came back to face me, admitted he needed help, made no excuses. I don't think many people would be able to do that. After everything he's done, he still has courage and humility. I wonder how he's survived.
"What has your life been like?" I ask.
"Mainly I do what I'm told. Every few nights we go out and ...
"And what?"
"You know."
"Oh you mean kill people?"
"Yeah."
"Do you like it?"
"Like it? It's how we live. It's what we live for. You watch them and try to predict what they'll do. If I meet the postman, it's never just, 'Good morning, looks like rain,' it's 'Good morning,' but I'm thinking about how far away the next dark alley is so I can drag him in there and kill him.
"To be honest, it makes you hate people. They are so easy to fool. A smile and a nod and they think you're their best friend. It's pathetic."
"But you still do it. What do you really say to them? If you plan to kill them."
"As little as possible. Too much conversation makes it all worse."
"Because you might like someone?"
He doesn't answer. There's a full minute during which his expression goes from pained to grief-stricken to bitter to blank. When he speaks again, his voice is halting.
"The first time you watch the light leave someone's eyes, it's horrifying, but it gets easier after that, because you know what's in store, the rush, the satisfaction. When it happens, you lose yourself. It feels like victory. It feels like release. It feels like you are doing what you were meant to do. "
He trails off. I'm appalled but fascinated. He's looking at the tabletop, at the mug of tea, looking anywhere but at me.
"I've done such awful things," he says.
"Do you want to tell me about them? "
"If I do you'll beg me to stop. "
"I won't like it but you can tell me if it will help anything."
"Won't help. Not now. Just know that I haven't been a nice person for a very long time. You're the only person I've talked to like this for years and years. Who's not dead."
"Should I be flattered? Did you kill everyone else?"
He nods miserably.
"It must be very lonely for you."
He's quiet again for a long time.
"I never saw a way out before. None of this is me: the clothes, the petty crime, the cover stories. I don't know if there is a me. I've just been whatever he wanted me to be."
"Really? Because you certainly seem to have a mind of your own. You didn't do what you were told to do. Nobody made you come here, you worked that out for yourself. After everything that happened between us, you looked me in the eye and asked for help. It can't have been easy."
I lean closer to him to meet his eyes, and take his hand. It's so cold. I cover it with both of my hands, trying to warm it. He starts a little at the contact. I don't think he's used to being touched.
"I think you are worth saving," I say.
"Are you sure?" He looks almost incredulous. "You only have to say the word and I'll never bother you again." I don't know what he expected, but I can't send him away. I don't think I've ever met anyone as lonely as he is.
"Listen. I've seen this monster you keep talking about. It is hurting you. It may be bloodthirsty and cruel, but I don't think you are."
His face softens as the knotted muscles at his jaw and temple relax. Despite the day's growth of beard against his ashen skin, right now he seems very, very young. He looks down at the table, where both of my hands are still wrapped around his. With his free hand he unconsciously pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes and looks back up at me.
"You don't have to be this nice to me. I don't deserve it."
"'Deserve' has nothing to do with it. I'm going to try and help you. Mind you, I've no magical talents. I smoke too much. I'm prone to self-pity. I still read children's books. I fall asleep with the television on. I don't know a thing about the care and feeding of runaway vampires, so we'll have to make things up as we go. Okay?"
I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint
-Billy Bragg