Bloodthirst Page 6

  A thin-faced, smartly dressed young man gave his name quickly, and added: ‘I’m frightened, too.’

  When it came to Lionel’s turn, he did not know what to say. Mentally he asked himself: ‘Why am I here?’ Something held him back from admitting the truth, so, with lowered head, he mumbled: ‘Like the others, I’m scared.’ He realized that, after all, he had perhaps spoken the truth.

  As the evening passed with activities and discussion to break down inhibitions, tension mounted which was heightened by periodic personal dramas. A girl, who announced she hated her mother, was invited to sit cross-legged before a cushion.

  ‘You must imagine that the cushion is your mother, and you’ve got to tell her how you loathe her,’ Sam said.

  ‘But I can’t,’ the girl protested. ‘She only died three months ago.’

  ‘All the more reason,’ Sam said. ‘Come on, Sally, lay the ghost!’

  Sally gave the cushion a couple of weak blows, whispering: ‘I hate you, Mummy. I hate you, Mummy.’ As the clamour of encouragement increased round her, she began to beat more fiercely, raising a cloud of dust with her clenched fists.

  ‘I hate you, Mummy I hate you, Mummy!’ she shouted. Tears gave way to laughter as she finally fell back exhausted.

  ‘Now for something more formal,’ Sam announced. ‘Each find a partner.’

  Lionel found himself opposite Sylvia, a girl whose long black hair hung untidily over a man’s red sports shirt.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked hesitantly.

  She nodded.

  ‘One of you must say: “Who are you?”’ Sam instructed. ‘And the other must answer and then the first one will say: “Thank you”, and then immediately ask again: “Who are you?” This goes on for five minutes, and then you reverse roles.’

  ‘You go first,’ Sylvia muttered.

  ‘All right,’ said Lionel. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sylvia,’ she replied and stopped.

  ‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ said Lionel. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sylvia, and I live alone in a bedsit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lionel. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sylvia, and I’m a student but I can’t communicate with the others who go to my classes.’

  ‘Thank you. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sylvia, and ‘I’m 23, and I don’t trust men and I hated my father and I wish I didn’t bite my fingernails.’

  ‘Thank you. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sylvia,’ she whispered sorrowfully. ‘And I don’t seem to get my relationships right. I like people — I mean, I’d like to have friends and all that. I’d like to love someone, but each time this happens they want things from me I cannot give.’ She began to get desperate.

  ‘I’m Sylvia,’ she stated, normal again. ‘And I think the whole world needs putting right. I hate the Government, and I’m on the side of the blacks and I’m for Irish Civil Rights and the tupamaros, and I think our consumer society is rotten through and through and I’m for revolt.’

  ‘Thank you. Who are you?’

  And so the game went on, and Lionel realized the simple ‘Thank you — who are you?’ formula probably brought more to the surface in a few minutes than hours on a psychiatrist’s couch. When it was Sylvia’s turn to lead, Lionel played his hand skilfully.

  ‘I’m Lionel Tedworth,’ he told her. ‘And I agree society is rotten. I believe we should all do something positive about it, make our own contribution no matter how small. That is why I work with sick people … ’ He stopped, pretending embarrassment at this admission.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, impressed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Lionel Tedworth. Like you I don’t seem to be able to make deep relationships. I mean, genuine ones, not those based on … ’ Here he faltered and Sylvia nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Thank you, Lionel. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Lionel Tedworth, and I’d very much like to see you after this session for coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and smiled at him suddenly, and equally suddenly he felt the evening was going to be a success after all.

  They arrived at her room above an old shop in Chalk Farm at midnight. Lionel tiptoed on the creaking stairs but she said: ‘Don’t worry about noise. The couple opposite my room are away, and old Mr Hertz upstairs is so deaf he can’t hear anything. I can always play my record player as loud as I like.’

  She unlocked an apple-green door on the first landing and took Lionel into a large room with a high, old-fashioned ceiling. In one comer was a curtained sink, in another was a legless bed with a pile of books by it. In the centre a record player rested on a coffee table, while an old kitchen table covered with books and papers stood beneath the high sash window. The wallpaper was mercifully faded.

  Lionel saw that Sylvia had tried to brighten the room with posters, a blow-up of a romantic-looking guerrilla leader, another of a Chinese girl’s torso, and a coloured print of the earth photographed from an Apollo rocket.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please,’ said Lionel from the edge of her bed.

  ‘I thought Sam was brilliant tonight,’ Sylvia said, spooning coffee granules into a pair of mugs while an electric kettle steamed on her work table. ‘You didn’t join in much,’ she added accusingly.

  ‘No, but I did try.’

  She handed him a hot mug and sat at the far end of the bed.

  ‘What’s your real hang-up, Lionel?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ he confessed. ‘Lately I have had feelings of doom — that, without me understanding it, something dreadful has been happening to me.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I’ve had a feeling of dread since I was a little girl. I think it’s a dread of society — I mean, society as it is now, corrupted by money. I was thinking of throwing up college and working on a kibbutz, but now I think I’ll become a communication counsellor like Sam. He was telling me of a course which makes you a qualified counsellor in three months. What do you do at the hospital? You’re not a doctor, are you? I hope not. Doctors are sick. They won’t even recognize acupuncture … ’

  ‘I’m a sort of … ’ Lionel’s mind tried to think of what he could be. ‘Massage is my line,’ he said. ‘Yes, I specialize in massage.’

  His truthful conscience, which had been the pride of his mother, reflected that this was hardly a falsehood. He rubbed about twenty pairs of buttocks twice daily with liquid soap and spirit to prevent bed sores.

  ‘You must get inspiration, touching so many people. I want to touch people all the time, but unfortunately they take it the wrong way. They see something sexual in it.’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ Lionel mused. ‘People can be so unenlightened.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Of course, I’m all for sexual freedom. One day I’d like to go in for group marriage, but I think it’s important a relationship is built on something more than reaction between people’s glands. I mean, I’ve got a mind.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lionel agreed automatically, his thoughts occupied with a strange hunger which made his hands tremble as he held the coffee mug.

  ‘I mean, a relationship should be beautiful and happy and fun and not based on screwing. But it seems all the men I meet are only interested in bed. Like my father. Sometimes I think all men are the same. They want to use women the way my father used my Mum,’

  ‘Perhaps not all.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I think I could trust you, Lionel,’ she told him, looking into his plump face. ‘You’re sort of older and more mature. I mean, if I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t let you come into my room tonight, would I? I must tell you that I think sex is something holy, and one can’t have something holy with just anyone, can one?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. He had hardly been listening to her earnest words. His mind had been struggling to control the frightful images which drifted like phantasmagoria from his troubled subconscious.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the girl asked. ‘You look
a bit … ’

  ‘I think I’m all right, but perhaps I’d better go.’

  ‘Oh, don’t leave yet, Lionel. If you are upset about something, you can tell me.’

  He was not sure how it happened, but before he could get to his feet the girl was close beside him, her arms round his neck, and under her weight both fell back across the bed. With a clumsy movement she switched off the standard lamp above them. Now there was only the glow of a small reading lamp on the table, and by it Lionel watched her bend over him, her lank hair tickling his face as she came closer. Air hissed softly through her teeth. Her lips pressed painfully against his, her tongue seeking entrance to his mouth. For a moment he could hardly believe what was happening, then he abandoned himself to the fearful excitement which swept over him as side by side they panted with the force of their fantasies.

  ‘Oh love, oh love,’ Sylvia moaned, her hands dancing over his chest and along his thighs. ‘Let me take this shirt off. I want you to hold me.’

  For a moment she sat up, tugging the maroon acrilan shirt over her head. She was without a bra, and as Lionel saw her ivory skin the excitement tightened within him like some terrible spring. Experimentally he ran his fingertips down her back. With a whimper she was beside him again.

  ‘You have magic fingers. No wonder you are a healer. Love me with your hands.’ Sylvia rolled on to her stomach, her face buried in the pillow while Lionel knelt on the bed beside her, his trembling hands sliding up and down her back.

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ she cried as his ringers made furrows o£ pleasure along her flesh. From then on their words became mere noises as they rolled and grappled. Soon they were naked, and the girl knelt on the bed, her head down, her hair falling to the blanket.

  ‘From the back,’ she commanded.

  Lionel saw the vertebrae taut under the smooth skin. His hands continued to run over the firm flesh. Leaning forward, he reached beneath her chest and kneaded the soft breasts which swung free with her shivering rapture.

  With his left hand again massaging her spine in time to the rhythm of their bodies, he frantically reached for his wallet with his right. He pulled it from the hip pocket of his trousers and managed to open it. In the stamp pocket he felt something sharp and, with a grunt of satisfaction, withdrew a scalpel blade. Until now it had been a pencil sharpener.

  Holding it firmly between his finger and thumb, he drew the micro-sharpened point gently across the shoulders of the girl writhing against him. The skin parted neatly at the touch of the steel. It was as easy as pulling a zipper, and by the time the blade had reached the end of the stroke blood was beading where the incision began. Sylvia seemed unaware of what was happening, her body too excited by the phrenetic stimulation of the stranger.

  While Lionel’s body continued to play the role of the frenzied lover, his detached mind looked down on the ragged line of blood with delight never experienced before. Again the narrow blade crossed the sweat-sheened skin, again so deftly that blood welled without Sylvia realizing what was happening.

  With a harsh cry she collapsed across the bed and Lionel followed, his mouth greedily following the long scalpel cuts. The salt taste actually made him shout.

  ‘Ah, Lionel, I’m so glad, I’m so glad,’ murmured Sylvia. Then she demanded: ‘What have you done? My back, it’s warm and wet … surely … ’

  She squirmed from beneath him, looked at his face, gave shuddering cry and fainted. When Lionel reeled to the sink he saw why. A spotted mirror reflected features dyed by the quenching of an unnatural thirst.

  He wiped himself with a dishcloth, mechanically collected his mangled clothing and dressed. With chilling certainty he knew now exactly what he must do. He gave a professional glance at the body on the smeared bed, threw an old eiderdown over it and walked into the haunted night.

  Chapter 7

  The night was wet and cold in Romilly Street as Peter led his father into La Capannina, but the welcome from the waiters to the narrow restaurant made them feel they had entered the tropics after an arctic winter. The proprietor, Gianni, seated them at a comer table and asked: ‘Is the young French lady coming tonight, doctor?’

  ‘She’ll be along later,’ Peter replied, explaining to Ambrose that Anne-Marie was delayed at the hospital. He turned to Gianni. ‘Do you mind if we wait with our drinks until she arrives?’

  ‘Of course not, signor. Take your time, but may I say the osso buco alia Milanese is very good tonight.’

  Ambrose looked round the room with approval. It was already more than half full, and the clamour of animated conversation was rising. He recognized a television actress and began to feel that after his lonely life in Northumberland he was back at the hub of things.

  ‘Before the charming Anne-Marie arrives I’ll give you these notes I made on vampirism at the British Museum Reading Room,’ he said to his son, passing over an exercise book filled with his neat writing. ‘It’s all I could glean at short notice.’

  ‘It looks as though you worked hard,’ Peter said, turning the pages and noting the headings. ‘I’m very grateful.’

  ‘I had my reward,’ smiled Ambrose. ‘I came across a fascinating case, so interesting that I feel there is a book to be written about it. But may I ask why you — a doctor 1970s — should be interested in such an odd and ancient. I should have thought you men of science would have dismissed Dracula and his kind as old wives’ nonsense.’

  ‘There’s something so strange happening with my patients that I’m leaving no stone unturned to try find some clue to it. Remember I said that lycanthropy I were probably born as a result of people suffering hydrophobia. Now I’m looking to legends for some hint of behaviour which at the moment baffles me. Perhaps crazy line of research, but this appetite for blood … ’ And he went on to explain the situation in Fleming Ward.

  By the time they had finished they were on their drink.

  Ambrose shook his silvery mane.

  ‘I’m afraid my gleanings are not likely to help you,’ he admitted. ‘Vampires in a super modem hospital like yours seem too far-fetched. While I thrive on old legends, admit I must agree with you about their non-supernatural origins. In the case of this particular myth it probably began as an explanation from the activities of sufferers from necrophilia. In which case I’m afraid there is nothing in the belief to help you.’

  From the waiters came the sound of enthusiastic greetings and Peter looked up to see Anne-Marie, the target of many eyes in a white velvet dress, walk into the restaurant.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said as Peter rose and gave her a kiss of welcome. ‘Hello, dear friend,’ she said to Ambrose. ‘A whisky and Coke,’ she added to Gianni.

  ‘How revolting,’ exclaimed Ambrose in mock horror The French girl smiled and raised her shoulders exaggerated Continental gesture.

  ‘Blame Les Beatles. They made it the rage of Paris When I was small, and so to me it appeared to be a really trendy drink. Now I am grown up it still has some sort of association from those far-off days when I used to save my few francs each week to buy their singles.’

  They bent their heads over the menus, chuckling over such fractured English as ‘nuck of veal served with jellow nice’. After their orders had been taken, Anne-Marie said, ‘Don’t let me interrupt you. I understand Peter is trying to get your help in solving his narcoleptic problem. That story you to us about Owlwick Grange gave him the idea.’

  ‘He has all my notes,’ said Ambrose, ‘so there’s no point in detailing the horrors of the nastiest creatures in folklore.’

  ‘You said there was one case that particularly interested you,’ said Peter.

  ‘Ah, yes. That is because it is historically accurate.’

  ‘You must tell us,’ said Anne-Marie as her sogliola di Dover was placed before her.

  Ambrose sipped his wine and then brought out a notebook.

  ‘Let me read you this translation from Michael Wagener’s Beitrage ztir philosopischen Anthropologie, which was published in Vienna i
n 1796,’ he said. ‘“Elizabeth (name suppressed, family still living) was wont to dress well to please her husband, and she spent half a day over her toilet On one occasion, a lady’s maid saw something wrong in her her headdress, and as a recompense for observing it, received such a severe box on the ears that the blood gushed from her nose, and spurted on to her mistress’s face. When the blood drops were washed off her face, her skin appeared much much more beautiful — whiter and much more transparent on the spots where the blood had been.

  ‘“Elizabeth formed the resolution to bathe her face and her whole body in human blood so as to enhance her beauty. Two old women and a certain Fitzko assisted her in her undertaking. This monster used to kill the luckless victim, and the old women caught the blood, in which Elizabeth was wont to bathe at the hour of four in the morning. After the bath she appeared more beautiful than before.

  ‘“She continued this habit after the death of her husband (1604) in the hopes of gaining new suitors. The unhappy girls who were lured to the castle, under the plea that they were to be taken into service there, were locked up in a cellar. Here they were beaten till their bodies were swollen. Elizabeth not infrequently tortured the victims herself; often she changed their clothes which dripped with blood, and then renewed her cruelties. The swollen bodies were then cut with razors.

  ‘“Occasionally she had the girls burned, and then cut up, but the great majority were beaten to death. At last her cruelty became so great that she would stick needles into those who sat with her in a carriage, especially if they were of her own sex. One of her servant girls she stripped naked, smeared her with honey, and so drove her out of the house … ’

  ‘Why do that?’ interrupted Anne-Marie.

  ‘To attract the forest insects to torment her, I suppose,’ explained Ambrose. ‘Anyway, to continue: “When she was ill, and could not indulge her cruelty, she bit a person who came near her sick-bed as though she were a wild beast.