Blood & Sand

Edvard Munch - "Vampire"

“Say bleh!”

“BLEH!”

The flash goes off without a sound. I always anticipate a click or a puff of smoke, but phones these days are made for people with secrets.

The caveman in the pollo shirt scrolls through the dozen photos he’s taken, then, presumably satisfied, tucks the phone into his jeans pocket.

His face and neck are beet red, but he’s smiling through the pain, if he even feels it.

I’m smiling too, a big, fake, saccharine smile.

“Those are quite impressive.” The man says, pointing at my fangs.

“That’s because they’re real.” I smile a little less, so only the tips are visible, and widen my eyes at the children either side of me.

Instinctively, they rush over to their father, all riled up on fear and sugar.

It’s not real fear though, of course.

They know there’s nothing real in this place; the cobwebs aren’t real, the fog isn’t real, the blood isn’t real, and the actors, well, we might as well not exist.

The man doesn’t laugh but he looks like he wants to.

Instead, he says, “Good one, mate” and ushers his family towards the gift shop.

I let my smile drop completely, feeling a sort of lull, a peaceful unmasking.

But it doesn’t go unnoticed.

From behind the reception desk, Monica gestures me over with a hooked finger.

The last of the guests are making their way to the exit, filling the room with a low buzz, like flies swarming rotten meat.

“Leo…” She begins, donning a lifeless smile of her own. “You were looking a little glum there. Don’t take your role too seriously, you’re not dead yet.”

It takes an embarrassing amount of energy not to roll my eyes.

“All I’m saying is, vampires are theatrical, they’re… fearsome. They don’t stand around looking gormless. You have to be on even when there’s no one around, mm?”

I press my lips together and make the same sound.

Mm.

Monica smiles once more, harder this time. I notice the hairline crack in her name badge, crossing out half the letters.

Then I’m in the changing room, folding my costume into a neat little pile and placing it gently into my locker.

I’m wearing a dark blue shirt, the top button undone, and acid wash jeans. Before I leave, I drape a burgundy scarf around my neck and let my hair down, blinded momentarily by bright auburn tresses.

The streets of Whitby are both vile and quaint. The stench of overflowing rubbish bins hits the nose as soon as you take your first step.

Then there’s the bird shit: on the pavement, the bins, the handrails. The seagulls themselves walk among the townspeople, so large you might mistake one for a lost child.

This is the only place in England where you are encouraged to shield your food rather than your purse, lest some great vulturous biped snatch it from your mouth, mid bite.

Not that it isn’t fun to watch stupid people suffer. And I see a lot of that here. Suffering.

It isn’t just the ignorant, no. It’s everyone.

The street performers doused in silver paint brighter than their futures, the waiters and waitresses ducking into dark corners on their fag breaks just to escape the nausea of other people, even the food-faced children rushing to the arcade with pockets full of pennies while their parents spend the real cash on booze and blow.

They’re all on a spectrum of suffering, but no matter how minor, none of it goes unnoticed. Not by me.

I take my own suffering to The Black Dog. When the pub first opened, the name was too indelicate to ignore. Even more indelicate, I ordered myself a Blood and Sand; scotch mixed with cherry liqueur, vermouth, with a slice of blood orange.

Food isn’t exactly a passion of mine, not even a vague interest if I’m being honest. But this was a monumental discovery.

Alcohol and sugar. Who knew it could be such a fine and lethal concoction?

I became a regular from that day. At least, that’s how the overly indifferent bar staff saw me.

I saw myself as a shadow, a wraith. I was certain I was not to be messed with, even if I could not remember the last time that claim was put to the test.

That night at The Black Dog, the night that followed my run in with Monica, the pillar box red of Mr Caveman’s sunburn seared into my memory, I entered the pub without so much as glancing at its patrons. Instead, I headed straight for the bar, ready to take up my usual seat, already uncoiling the scarf from around my neck.

But my seat was occupied.

This niggled me, but it was to be expected from time to time. My scent resides on that stool, but those microscopic traces of my being cannot be identified by the naked, human eye.

I took a seat to the right and was greeted rather solemnly by a bartender I did not recognise. The pub had such a high turnover of staff, I often wondered whether behind the scenes things were so grim they sent fresh faced students running back to Mummy, or if it was the mundane crowd of faces like mine that saw them drained of what little sanity they had to begin with.

After placing my usual order, I finally turned my attention to the punter to my left, the one who had unknowingly claimed my seat as their own. Their hair was shaved on both sides, with the central portion twisted into intricate plaits, like those of a Shogun or Valkyrie. Their eyes were framed by kohl and black eyeshadow, and just below their bottom lip, a silver spike glistened.

Anyone else might have worried about getting caught, but the stranger had been eyeing me long before my gaze settled on them.

My pulse, or in the very least, the echo that was left of it, did not jump at my wrist, but there was a level of intrigue there. I had not cruised The Black Dog in some time, deciding quite early on that I would not “shit where I ate”, neither of those actions making much sense given my current state, or the state of the pub for that matter.

I didn’t have to ponder it too long. When my drink arrived, the stranger locked eyes with the bartender and said, “I’ll have what he’s having” and a small nod was exchanged.

I could have remained silent, let their little fantasy fizzle out, but I was in a playful mood.

“It’s not for everyone.” I brushed the glass lightly with my fingernails.

The punter smiled. It was an uneven smile but not without charm.

“I’ve been told that before.” They said, voice charred like most of the pub’s regulars. “This is where I’m supposed to say ‘I’m not for everyone’ and even though you’re cringing internally, you say-“

“I have an eclectic taste.”

We’re both smiling now, and it isn’t as painful as it could be.

When their drink arrives, we raise our glasses in a small, impromptu toast.

“To good taste.” I say, taking a large sip.

“To good taste.” Their eyes darken. “And poor decisions. Leopold.”

The ice rattles in my glass and there’s laughter in my chest.

“I beg your pa-a-ardon?”

I look down and the drink is no longer in my hand, the stranger is sliding it away from me, keeping their eyes firmly fixed on mine.

The barstool begins to slip away too, replaced first by my feet, and then the floor.

A pair of cold lips press against my ear.

“Shhh…This will all be over soon.”

The Night Watch

 

He woke up in the chair again, silently damning himself for letting his mind slip, however briefly, into darkness. But being asleep, well, not truly asleep, but on the cusp of it, was just so sweet, so consuming. It was hard to resist, and even harder to come back from.

Only once the man lowered his arms did he realise just how tightly he’d been gripping the shotgun. His hands were warm, or the metal was. He stopped to flex them, stretching his fingers like roots creeping beneath the soil, then replaced his grip. The gentle click of skin against wood and metal was uncomfortably close to the sound of a dry mouth upon waking. He took his left hand from the gun and reached towards a small, round coffee table he’d dragged out from the living room. Sadly, the flask was just as warm as the Remington, but its contents, tap water with a splash of whiskey, still hit the spot.

This was one of many long nights; dining room chair pulled up to the front door, the nose of the shotgun propped against the keyhole, trigger finger cocked in waiting. The only sounds he heard that night were the bones of the house creaking, and the dull thud of his own heartbeat. Now might have been a good time to venture upstairs and stretch out those weary limbs. He could have washed his face at the sink, careful not to peek at his ageing reflection in the shards of mirror above the basin, and then he might have wandered into the spare room at the end of the hall, though it did more harm than good to see the crib still standing, its lone occupant a dead eyed panda bear swaddled in a single yellow blanket.

But he didn’t move from his seat, he couldn’t. Because that’s when it would strike. He had no proof of this of course, except for the way it had happened the first time. And hadn’t it been successful? Hadn’t it claimed the very thing it wanted just by waiting for the head of the household to fall asleep? The man scoffed, feeling the shotgun follow the sharp rise and fall of his chest. There was no chance in Hell or indeed on Earth that he would allow it to happen again. No, whenever this thing chose to return, the man would be ready for it, and this time he would not let it get away so easily.

As the sky’s sullen expression turned to one of bashful reverie, the man finally rose up from his chair, leather boots squeaking beneath his weight. The crooks of his elbows burned from their ninety-degree pose, and the gun felt heavier now. He carried it like an infant, weighed down by their own drowsiness, until he reached the family mantel. There, above the wood framed faces, his grandmother’s carriage clock with the hands that refused to tick, and a couple of unlit candles, he hung the Remington. It looked as though it belonged there among the debris of his old life, and so he felt no reluctance as he turned his back on it, before retreating, at long last, to bed.

The duvet hadn’t been washed for some time and smelled strongly of sweat, but by this point, with dawn encroaching, the man revelled in the small amount of comfort it provided. He’d finished off the flask as he mounted the stairs, and it burned within him now like the stench of gasoline; unpleasant to some, sweet as perfume to others. Within moments, the sleep he’d been evading finally took hold. He watched the backlit curtains flicker and fade, until they were only an imprint behind his eyes. As he felt himself sink, his left hand splayed out against the mattress, grasping at the under sheet where another body used to lie.

Downstairs, on the other side of that previously manned door, something entered its finger into the lock, and turned. There was just enough room in front of that old dining chair to slide open the door. The intruder took a few seconds to adjust to the sight of the place, then closed the door with little more than a muffled click. It walked at a steady pace into the living room, scanning the items on the mantel. In the window of the carriage clock, the thing stooped to counter its own reflection. The face, like the man’s, was bearded, with pale blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. When the thing looked at the photographs, it saw itself in three of them. The fourth was the lone image of a child, no more than five years old. A long, arthritic finger traced the face of the child in the photograph, before covering her eyes with the pad of its thumb.

Then it turned its attention to the shotgun on the wall.