Right, so I managed to finish and be happy with this chapter sooner than I thought! So two updates this week!

This is a 'stream of consciousness' chapter for each of the characters That is, thoughts as they run through their heads as they think them.

It isn't exactly the 'stream of consciousness' style though as it is mainly in the third person. Just so's we clear.

So this isn't an eloquent chapter, but I hope I've got their voices alright.

I own nothing, except the errors here, of which I'm sure there are many.

'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..'

John Milton Paradise Lost

ALEX

Knocking. Loud cracking against the wood.

Alex stayed where she was, not moving a muscle from her place in the kitchen, one hand suspended over the kettle as she made herself eleven o'clock tea.

There was someone at the door. Hal and Tom were out. She was alone.

Knocking, louder, harder.

Why were they making some much noise? Couldn't they tell no one was in.

'Hello?' Said a female voice. She didn't know it. Who was it? 'Hello, I'm here to read the gas meter?'

Alex breathed, the Gas-man – or 'woman' Alex corrected herself – reading the meter, that was fine. She put down the spoon she'd been gripping and stepped towards the double doors.

Nothing to fear from the Gas-reader.

Or was there? She stopped. Reading the gas was a normal everyday job. But so were the police and lawyers and café workers, and they weren't all normal people were they? She edged back, keeping her hand on the half open swing doors.

The knocking started again. There was a punch of metal on wood – the letter slot. Had she been seen? Heard?

This was silly, Alex remonstrated herself. Not everyone was a vampire, Jesus, she'd gone through twenty-one years of her life not meeting a single one. They were an infinitesimal percentage of the population. 0.1% no, 0.001%. Man up Millar.

'I just need to come in quickly.'

Yeah I bet you do. Alex thought. What better way to get an invitation into someone's home then the innocent job of reading the gas meter? No one would suspect it. Like those taxi driver murders she read about, or that Sherlock episode; no one suspected the humble anonymous cabby.

'Hello?'

No one's in. No one will be in ever for you.

Hal would handle it. He would take charge in his calm, old British, no nonsense way. He would look at her with those eyes and say 'Stop being ridiculous Alex.' And he would go answer the door. Why did she find the thought of a condescending Hal so comforting? Or was it just the thought of someone else here, a 'wing man'. She'd never needed them before, Christ was she turning into one of those pathetic girls who couldn't do anything unless their boyfriend said they could? No, definitely not, she'd told Hal to screw off last time he'd suggested taking the rubbish out, what did his last slave die of. She grimaced; thinking about it, probably not the best choice of words around Hal.

There was a pause, had they left? Alex hadn't heard the footsteps down the stone steps yet. Were they waiting? To see if she was there? To pounce?

0.001%... one in every one thousand people. Alex had met more that a thousand people, think about it; school, home, nights out, shopping trips, holidays. How many had been vampires, watching her, eyeing up a meal. How many times has she been this close to being killed?

Another clang of metal as something came through the door, then the crushed of gravel under shoes receding away.

Alex waited, just to make sure. Could she hear anything? Nothing? But wait, was that? No, nothing.

Slowly, ever so quietly Alex backed away letting the swing door silently close. Then she pursed her lips and as gently as she could let out her breath, one second, two seconds, she let her breath go out for ten whole seconds.

How long had she been holding it? How long had she been standing there?

It was over, there was nothing to fear.

Crack.

Alex gasped and whirred around bumping into the bar reaching behind her for something, knocking over the mug. Smash.

Shit. Alex spun around at the noise of the china hitting the floor, Shit, shit SHIT.

Her hands were to her head, she was crying, her feet caught under her, she collapsed into the corner of the units. She was sobbing, as quietly as she could, one hand over her mouth to muffle any sound, she was breathing hard, she was hyperventilating, she couldn't move, she was going to die.

Above her the kettle light went off, it's automated switch now in the off position.

TOM

Tom was humming to himself as he worked in the basement. The radio buzzed in his headphones. It was a good song, fun and catchy. The lady singing was clearly having a good time – he tried not to think about what this lady looked like in the music videos. He'd seen one once, flicking through the channels. Tom frowned as he remembered the gyrating almost naked female form. They had mothers, and how could their father's let them do that, showing everything to millions. Was humming along to this right, or was it 'perpetuating the degrading behaviour that had become the disappointingly acceptable way for women to behave nower days' - thank you Hal.

Tom suddenly saw McNair's frowning face.

Tom stopped working. It was just talking now, that was fine. Perhaps they would play some Coldplay. He liked Coldplay, they sung songs about fixing people and colours and paradise.

He looked down as the plank he'd been sawing, giving it one more push and pull as the end plonked off. It was the right size now he decided for the frame. Leaning down, Tom picked up the discarded scrap of wood that had just been sawed off. And that would be a good stake size too, he thought with satisfaction. His thumb went to one end, after some whittling that is.

He could do that tonight. Wait until nine o'clock as Hal had said, then stretch and say he was going to sleep, just like Hal had said. And shut his door, turn down the lights and bring out his whittling knife.

That's when he was most happy.

And it was all thanks to Hal.

He hadn't been sure at first, going back to his old life didn't feel like a step forward now he was human, but this new life was about being happy, and he was happy; he was enjoying himself. And it weren't all about hunting was it?

Like now, this was normal non vampire related; humming along to tunes as he hammered, even if Hal would shout at him for the noise, all he had to do was say 'Aright mate, sorry' and then he could get back to it.

He was even going out on his own now, Hal said he didn't need him anymore.

Hal was going out himself, they would leave together then Tom would head one way, Hal the other. He wondered what Hal got up to. Hal never spoke about it, but Hal always needed prodding about everything, even before. Only problem was he was a bit more prickly about it.

Alex kept prodding Hal about where they went, Tom'd seen Hal get angry at that and didn't want to rock the boat by adding to it. Hal was fine, he was a little away-with-the-fairies at times, but thinking was better than killing so there was nowt to complain about. And Hal was solid. He hadn't told Alex anything, and he made sure that Tom wasn't left alone with Alex, he knew his poker face was no good, Hal was helping him.

Alex.

Tom paused again.

He did feel guilty about keeping her in the dark. But she had been so firm on no supernatural nonsense from the beginning, and she was getting worse. There had been a calling card from the gas people the other day, but Alex had been in, even up in the attic – as she said she was – you could hear the door. He'd found a smashed mug in the overflowing kitchen bin, come to think of it; Alex didn't empty the rubbish anymore.

He'd have to mention it to Hal. Hal would know what to do. He always did.

Tom turned up the volume as another tune came one and picked up his hammer, back to work!

HAL

'You were tantric about it.'

Hal couldn't stop thinking about his run-in with the vampire Sid. The conversation had gone deeper and more disturbing than he'd intended. And it wasn't just what Sid had said.

'Just remember; I am Henry fucking Yorke; I may not be back, but I'm definitely not gone.'

He walked around the house like a ghost. He was a ghost. Alex was asking questions again – was everything okay, where's your head at, hello?

Smile.

What did she want him to say? Sorry Alex, yes I'm fine thanks just tired, work is busy.

Always smile.

Work was busy, but it wasn't busy enough. There were jobs to do in the house, but never enough, and none he could concentrate on. At least Tom was enjoying himself doing whatever banging and infernal din he was doing in the basement. Had he told Hal what he was doing? He couldn't think over the noise, couldn't hear his own thoughts, but that was good wasn't it?

'it was all about savoring it, the anticipation; to experience every last second until that last spark of life filled your head and you could feel their screams warming your bones.'

Warm his bones like swallowing searing lava, warming from the outside in. He looked down at a coffee he had made, had he made it. He looked over, Alex was holding one as well, maybe she made it. He took a sip. He felt the vague heat in his throat, nothing more; no tremors of ecstasy, no inside out.

She was talking again asking questions; what did he and Tom get up to. He snapped, what does it matter, we're fine. He regretted that later, she had looked to innocent when she asked, and so hurt when he'd replied. He sighed, he would cook dinner to make up for it.

'This aint no fairytale, you keep this up and you'll flip, like always. Because you can never sustain it, because you don't want to.'

Maybe he was flipping. All he knew was when he was all calm and smiling and happy, he didn't feel it. The dressing up clothes were getting ragged, he felt ragged. He must have drifted off again, the potatoes were over-boiling, he'd reached out and burnt his hand. For Fuck's Sake! He looked at his hand, at the darkening red skin and stinging pain. No Tom, everything was fine. Yes Alex, help is very much appreciated, what a clot I am haha.

Smile.

He took another look at his hand; another week or more of healing, another disfigurement.

The food was hollow in his mouth. He could taste more now he thought, or was he just telling himself that as some sort of consolation. He swallowed some chicken, the dry fibres moving down his throat, then a small sip of wine, weak and thin…

'how can you not be going crazy mental because you can no longer have the taste?'

How indeed? They were talking at him again, what had they been saying?

Smile.

References

Stream of consciousness:

This is a type of literary writing that was popular in the 1890-1920s. I have had the fortune to read some books in this style. Personally not a big fan, but as a style, it is interesting.

If you really want to know more, see examples in Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway (1925) or if you really want to punish yourself James Joyce Ulysses(1922) .

a narrative mode that seeks to portray an individual's point of view by giving the written equivalent of the character's thought processes, (thank you Wikipedia)

Wikipedia's explanation in full can be found here which I think is a good place to start: wiki/Stream_of_consciousness_(narrative_mode)

'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..'

John Milton: Paradise Lost