Evelina - "Love You To Death"

Evelina

  “Love you to Death”

  by

  Tim Pearsall

  Copyright 2015

  Chapters

  Chapter 1:

  “Your pain is my pleasure”

  Chapter 2:

  “Your fear is my strength”

  Chapter 3:

  “Your despair is my promise”

  Chapter 4:

  “Your death is my life”

  Chapter 5:

  “And for all I've done...”

  Chapter 6:

  “...could you forgive...

  ...my deadly desire?”

  Prologue

  Cairo, Egypt - 1985

  Evelina (Eve) held her baby tightly and scowled at the people teeming on the street beneath the hotel window. Cairo, her baby, suckled on her thumb. While Cairo the city, lay simmering below.

  “Look at them…” She muttered to her wide-eyed infant, nodding down to the swarm of cars and people on the street below, “…Never trust them, not one of them. They will fail you. All of them…” She turned her emerald green eyes away from the thronging street to stare into the warm trusting eyes of her baby, “… For when you fall in fear and pain, they will not come to you.”

  She stepped back into the room, where the father of the baby lay in a bloody puddle. A soft but urgent knock turned her eyes to the door,

  “Who’s there?” She called. It was Franco, he spoke through the door,

  “The car is ready mistress.” Seconds later she faced him in the doorway saying,

  “He…” She motioned to the man prostrate on the floor, “…Will not be coming.”

  Chapter 1

  “Your pain is my pleasure...”

  A hotel room, London - 2000

  A raven-haired beauty speaks, her voice suggestive of pleasures to come,

  “Let me fix you another drink first,” She pushed the man away with a smile, her sparkling green eyes full of promise, and poured the wine quickly, making sure the little pill in his glass had fully dissolved.

  She downed the rest of her champagne,

  “Salut.” Then lifted his glass to his lips, encouraging him to do the same.

  Inside her mind, deep in that dark recess, she could feel his lust. It was fuel for a craving all of her own.

  The wine bottle was left behind as she eased him backwards into the bedroom. While he groped and pawed, she deftly removed his clothing. She laid him on his back on the bed, head on the pillow, naked and breathless with excitement. He stared at her in fascination, ignoring the strange numbness that had begun in his legs.

  Strange, beguiling and sensuous, she stripped away her own clothing and cast it away through the open bedroom door. Black silk underwear gave way to warm amber skin, soon she was naked but for an unusual soft leather garter. A sheath for a pale shimmering dagger.

  “For protection.” She purred. He tried to reach for her, but the creeping numbness was now a total paralysis. In sudden fear he looked up into her face. She smiled, teeth white and perfect, green eyes as cold as death. With a sigh of anticipation she unsheathed the brutal silver blade and loomed over him like a ravenous animal.

  She hungered. He tried to speak, to shout in terror; but nothing came. She straddled his legs,

  “You can’t move, but you can feel pain...” She raised the blade to his throat, “..And fear.” Teasing the skin, before moving the point to his chest.

  “This…” It slid between his ribs, “...Will…” She twisted it, “...Hurt!”

  It was the purest agony. His eyes bulged and watered, and his brain hammered. And how she loved it! From the instant of his suffering she swam in ecstasy. She groaned, shuddering with an earthy physical delight.

  The minutes passed, and as his suffering increased, so her ecstasy also rose. She began to use the knife more carelessly, each agony inflicted bringing her closer to a frenzied climax, her blood splattered body shaking uncontrollably until she could prolong it no more, she plunged the dripping blade deep into his chest sending a fountain of blood into the air. The man watched through tear-filled eyes as she pushed her face into the ruby fountain of his blood and stared down at him. Her green eyes wide and unblinking, her body quivering like a plucked wire.

  At the moment of his death she cried out and collapsed on him, exhausted, squirming in his gory remains, gasping in the aftermath of orgasm.

  Eventually she peeled herself off him, wiped herself down with a bed sheet and went into the shower.

  As always she made every effort not to leave any evidence of her presence, and she left the hotel room unseen.

  Outside in the street it was dark and raining, a shiny black car glittered wet in the lamplight, for a moment the street was filled with the sound of Barbieri's Don Quixote as she opened the rear door, moments later they were gone.

  London, Windsor - 2000

  The following February morning arrived bright and cold. Richard Bryant strolled to work, hands in his pockets, collar turned up. A young man, he was a partner in a small printing business founded five years earlier with a school friend. Their premises were in the quaint old part of Windsor, little more than a mile from where Richard and his pale blue-eyed wife Susan had a mortgage on a small modern town house.

  Richard walked to work, despite owning a car, he enjoyed the exercise, often changing his route in order to investigate some part of the town's old hidden alleyways and historic buildings. One of his favourites was a large three storey Victorian town house, the lower part of which had long since been converted into a shop, The Windsor Scientific, a second-hand bookshop. Chock-full of pamphlets; travel guides maps, science journals, magazines and comics, as well as a vast number of well-thumbed paperbacks. Above the peeling doors there was a faded quotation in gold paint:

  'A prudent man does not make the goat his gardener'

  The shop was owned and run by a man who appeared as old and ruined as many of his books, Dr Von Vohberg. Each morning he would haul out the patched and mildewed canvas canopy before dragging out his trestle tables topped with bargain or ‘One for the way home’ books. Richard would often say good morning as he passed by on his way to work; the withered old man would turn slowly, smile and return his greeting in a grave and deeply accented voice. Richard was surprised then, when he turned the corner to find the canopy still up and the shop still closed. As he neared he saw the doors swing open and the back of a tall slim man come shuffling backwards, dragging a trestle.

  “Good morning.” Richard announced as he approached, part by habit, part out of nosiness. The tall slim man turned slowly, much in the manner of the old man, and nodded.

  “My father is ill...” His voice was deep, grave, and with a east European accent, “…A message would you like me to accept for him?” Richard was caught out; he hadn’t expected a conversation. The tall son continued,

  “I am Walther, of his two sons the eldest. His, er, business I am looking after until he is well again.” He held out his hand in politeness. Richard felt more than a little awkward, realising that Walther had mistaken him for a friend of his father.

  “Sorry to hear that, I hope he’s on his feet again soon...” He found himself shaking the tall man's hand as he spoke, “...Actually I don’t really know him that well.” He confessed, feeling hot under the tall man’s penetrating gaze.

  “Ah. I see.” Walther nodded in understanding as he released Richard’s hand. There followed a moment of awkward silence before Richard carried on his way.

  A little farther on he called in to buy a morning newspaper, there had been another grisly murder in the City and he wanted to read more a
bout it. The headlines summed it up:

  The Ripper: Another Slashing!

  The tabloids had been enjoying themselves speculating on the identity and motives of the latest serial killer to hit London, They had already invented several increasingly bizarre theories, all hungrily accepted/rejected by the nation’s crackpots and mystics eager to join in the circus. . Richard had already flipped the paper around to the sports section by the time he reached the short driveway leading up to his premises.

  He was pleased to see his business partner’s car parked neatly in its usual spot, Phil was always in early. Philip Leach had been Richard’s friend since high school, his best man when he’d married Susan, and together they had started up in business. As friends and equal partners.

  A roadside campfire, England - 2000

  On a dark, cold night a smoking campfire lit the man's face, his gnarled Asian features belied a deep cultured voice,

  “We are born with envy, we are consumed by it...” The man muttered through the smoke of his camp fire, staring, not at his companion, a drunken hag sprawled semi-conscious in a deck chair facing him, but into the flames and at the world that lay beyond their glowing circle, “...It makes dogs of men. turns friend against friend...” The firelight glowed hot in his eyes, “...Turns lovers into-” Smoke drifted across his face, stinging his unflinching eyes. In time he closed them, letting his mind roam high on to the astral plane, searching, always searching, hoping for another glimpse of her.

  A house in the English countryside - 2000

  With her long black hair streaming behind, teenaged Cairo dashed full-tilt along the forgotten and dusty twilit secret corridors of the rambling old mansion house. During a frantic game of ‘It’ with her imaginary friends she’d lost her bearings and popped through the tiny wooden door hidden beside a long abandoned welsh-dresser. Stopped dead in her tracks, staring, her eyes unnaturally wide from the constant gloom, she realised with a sick feeling in her stomach where she was. The cellar.

  “This place gives me the horrors!” She whispered to her friends as she wiped sweat from her pale almond face with the back of her hand. Rooted to the spot, she stared in morbid fascination at the heavily bolted wooden door that led to Sir Clive’s laboratory.

  “He gives me the horrors as well.” She turned her gaze away from the door and parted the cobwebbed hair that hung across her face. Without turning her head, her eyes roved the walls and ceiling. The windowless corridor was dirty with years of neglect, the light sick and yellow from a single weak bulb. With a sudden shiver she imagined a million vile insects crawling through the soft plaster and sagging timbers. Then, with another, deeper shudder, she remembered the last time she’d found herself down there in the cellar. Involuntarily, she turned to face the dresser, where she had crouched, hidden inside the ‘dog-kennel’ and watched in fear as Sir Clive led a young woman into his laboratory, a red glow on their faces from the open doorway.

  “And there were others.” She wiped her sticky palms vigorously against the side of her ragged and crumpled white cotton dress, and then turned again quickly, startled at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “It's him!...” She warned her friends, remembering something she had overheard in the kitchen, “...He's as mad as a hat-stand you know!” Like a startled cat she leapt back through the tiny opening beside the dresser into the sanctuary of her catacombs, scampering swiftly and silently upwards through the secret innards of the house. Across silent landings, up twisting stairways, along dusty corridors past empty bedrooms until she reached the cleansing silver and shadow of the moonlit upper floors.

  London, Windsor

  Richard strode cheerfully up the steps to Reception,

  “Morning Cyndy...” He called over his shoulder while hanging his jacket. “…Out last night?”

  “Yeah…” Her reply came through pursed lips as she applied her lipstick, “…I dumped Mike last night.” She remarked, deadpan, while turning her attention to sorting the morning’s mail. Richard laughed; he had long ago given up trying to keep track of Cyndy's boyfriends. She was short and pretty, hair in a messy blonde bob, although that changed almost as often as her boyfriends. She gave the false impression of being the archetype blonde bimbo, often turning the tables on an unsuspecting ‘male sexist arsehole’.

  The busy morning passed by as quickly as usual and it was soon lunchtime. Richard and Phil often took lunch together in a nearby pub, the Seven Stars, nothing fancy, just a pint and a sandwich, but they enjoyed the break from work and the chance to chat like friends. Since Richard had married they had stopped meeting in the evenings as often as they used to, not because Susan had been awkward about it, things had just changed. The pub was already busy when they arrived at just after one o’clock and they were lucky to find two stools by the window.

  Halfway through his sandwich Richard mentioned the bookshop,

  “It’ll be a shame if the old place closes down.” Phil shrugged,

  “Everything changes eventually, and it is a bit of an eyesore.” Richard put down his sandwich in mild annoyance,

  “No, no it’s not an eyesore. It’s got character, unlike most of the new bland, corporate-image designer-bollocks shop fronts going up in the high street today.” He waved a dismissive hand indicating the fashion shops and burger bars that lined the busy shopping street.

  “Every street in every town looks the same, same shops, same products, Same bland faces.” There was a slight pause before Philip restarted the conversation,

  “So, do you know the old boy who owns it then?” Richard finished chewing before answering.

  “No. Not really, but funnily enough I met his son this morning. He assumed I knew his dad, I don’t know why but I’ve got the strangest feeling about it.” Phil gave him a sideways look,

  “So, is this another one of your famous hunches?” Richard paused in thought for a moment, unable to explain his feelings,

  “Oh I don’t know, forget it, it's probably nothing.”

  “Hmm, we'll see.” Phil had always admired Richard's intuitive grasp of things, how he could always see the whole of the moon when others just stared.

  They sat in comfortable silence for a while, both gazing out of the window as the sky darkened and a light drizzle began to fall.

  “We had better run for it.”

  Walther Von Vohberg, Windsor

  At an antique wooden desk at the rear of the bookshop, Walther pored over his father's files and diaries, trying to get them into some sort of chronological order, “The older ones are fine, but these...” He shook his head at the pile of densely scribbled notebooks, “...Ramblings.” He opened one at random, reading the words aloud,

  “She will transfix her prey, secure under her gaze they will offer no resistance. AT ALL COSTS AVOID THOSE EYES!”

  He put the notebook down with a sigh of sadness.

  Eve, a Cage fight- London

  Eve didn't fight for the money. Her benefactor, Sir Clive, whom she'd been blackmailing for years, made sure she wanted for nothing.

  Eve didn't fight for the money, she fought for the sheer visceral pleasure of it. The problem was she was too good at it. She had become a star, people followed her and that was bad. So she lost a few important fights and dropped from the limelight. After that she limited the frequency of her fights and made sure to lose a few for good measure.

  Tonight she was up against Sparkle, a sassy, much touted young fighter who was tipped for stardom. Eve had already made up her mind to lose the fight without much pain, but that was until she got into the cage and her opponent goaded her, grinning and threatening,

  “Gonna smack-you-up, bitch!” Her opponent was tough, a semi-professional and a good boxer. Eve abandoned her plan to throw the fight and laid into her, I'm going to knock that stupid grin off her face!” She led with a kick, followed by quick jabs, Sparkle parried and jabbed back, quick on her feet, “She's good.” Eve feigned a lunge, then swung into a kick across
her legs. Sparkle went down but quickly rolled and hit Eve with a surprise high kick to the nose. The crowd roared at the sudden flow of blood, Sparkle bathed in the applause, and it was the half-second Eve needed to finish the fight. She poked Sparkle in the eye, grabbed her head and slammed her knee into her face, kicked her legs away and punched her to the floor. Sparkle was out.

  London, Windsor

  “We’d better run for it.” Richard and Philip left the pub and returned to their office to be confronted by a stern faced Cyndy,

  “You have a ‘client’ waiting in your office…” She uttered the word client like an oath. The two men looked surprised, knowing there were no appointments booked, “…She’s been here fifteen minutes and if-” Richard interrupted her,

  “Cyn, what is it? What’s wrong?” She looked genuinely upset for a moment, then shrugged and put her face straight,

  “I don’t know, there’s something about her, something weird. I don’t like her, but it’s more th-” She didn’t have time to finish, all three of them turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, a voice sweet and low, her diction impeccable but with a trace of a European accent,

  “Do you expect me to wait for much longer?” The beautiful raven-haired woman smiled delightfully as she finished her sentence, leaned against the door frame and tilted her head. Philip was the first to recover his composure; smiling from ear to ear he apologised for keeping her waiting and escorted her into his office, calling over his shoulder for Cyndy to provide coffees. She and Richard exchanged looks for a moment before she stomped off to the kitchen,

  “Where do we keep the rat poison?” He heard her mutter.

  A few minutes later Richard intercepted Cyndy in the corridor with the coffee tray,

  “It’s okay Cyn, I’ll take them in for you.”

  Philip’s office door was closed; Richard struggled for a second with the handle, and then strolled in wearing his most charming grin. Philip was sat at the side of his desk with the mysterious young woman at its front; both were leaning forward and smiling. Richard felt more than a little unwanted, “Three’s a crowd” He thought to himself as he set down the tray.

  “Thanks Rich…” Philip sounded just a little sheepish, “…Listen; we can fit in a small rush order this week can’t we?” They both knew the schedule was already full for the rest of the week at least, but Phil had given him a look; he wanted a favour. Richard was not going to let him off quite so easily,

  “What sort of rush order?” He demanded bluntly. The workshop was printing flat out and a disruption could be costly.

  “Oh it’s just a few copies of some rare old books, you know, family heirlooms, that kind of thing.”

  “So why the ‘rush’?” Richard teased him, kept him dangling for a few moments, and was very tempted to keep him there, but they had been friends for so long, and besides Phil had never had much luck with girls, so if it would help,

  “Yes sure Phil, of course we can, no problem, book it in for the end of the week. I’ll leave it for you to sort out.” With a wink he turned and left the office, saying,

  “Nice to meet you.” To the woman as she fixed him with a green-eyed gaze.

  A little while later Richard was in the print shop checking over the production schedules for later in the week when Cyndy strolled up and gave him a slip of paper. It was a note from Phil.

  ‘Rich, I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off, I'm going to pick up those books myself, it might speed things up, see you tomorrow, Phil.’

  Richard and Cyndy just looked at each other and laughed,

  “The dirty git, you wait til I see him tomorrow!”

  A roadside campfire, England

  In a litter-strewn lay-by at the side of the A34 south from Stratford-upon-Avon, the rugged Asian man once more stirred soup over an open fire. His companion, her face set in an unfriendly crumpled scowl, sipped from a flask and occasionally spat on the ground between her feet,

  “Ain’t that crap ready yet?” She gasped, barely able to speak, pointing at his soup and spitting again. The man, apparently unmoved by her rudeness, his voice smooth and resonant, had a habit of quoting from Shakespeare,

  “When I was at home I was in a better place; but travelers must be content.” He continued to gently stir his pot.

  London, Windsor

  At home that evening Richard chatted with Susan, about the days events. She laughed when he told her about Phil’s antics and promised to tease him about it when she next saw him. They had a good relationship; caring without being over-possessive and they enjoyed each others company. She worked in a department store and either of them could be first to get home. They ate mainly out of the freezer during the week and they both liked to get things ready for the others arrival, that usually entailed opening a bottle of wine, preparing some bread and salad, and putting something in the microwave. Tonight they’d had lasagne and leaves with some garlic bread, their evening had been comfortable and relaxing and as usual they went to bed together and had soon fallen asleep.

  Richard had never suffered from nightmares:

  He woke suddenly with that terrifying sense that someone else was in the room. Although it was dark he could still see clearly, everything seemed normal. Until he heard the breathing, like the panting of an animal, coming from below the edge of the bed on Susan’s side. Very slowly he reached across and gently shook Susan, she didn’t stir, he shook her again more firmly, again she didn’t stir and then his hand felt warm and wet. He sat bolt upright, trembling. Susan lay naked beside him, dead, a long handled dagger embedded in her chest. From below the edge of the bed a face rose up, a girl child, a feral child with the eyes of an animal, she was on her knees. Blood dripped from her chin, the tiny gaps between her teeth stained red. She licked her lips and laughed, head back, almost a howl. Fixing Richard with eyes that have seen hell, she rose up, naked, and scampered around the bed to the door,

  “Come with me.” Her voice hummed like a swarm of insects. He leapt up and ran, through the bedroom door-

  -into a hot red gravel wasteland. It wasn’t day, and it wasn’t night. The moon was high and shimmered a pale purple, the sun lay burnt orange on the horizon. He ran on, a hot dark path burned his bare feet, he too was naked. On either side of the path stood strangers cheering, urging him on. He had a knife in his hand.

  He arrived at a house, alone in the wilderness; a palace made of sand and smoke. Through a doorway of fire and across a hallway of ice he came to a wide staircase of sandstone blocks. She waited at the top. On her hands and knees she grinned salaciously at him.

  He mounted the steps, leaving imprints in the sandy blocks like footsteps on the shore. As he neared her she rolled over and bounced up on to her feet, urging him forward with her finger until they reached a bedroom.

  The bed was a wide altar of ashes; she threw herself down backward sending up plumes of charcoal dust. She urged him on. Richard stood at the foot of the bed, knife in hand, ready to take her and then kill her. It was what she wanted. He knew it. He placed a knee on the bed and leaned forward.

  And then he woke, shaking, shocked, confused and afraid. Susan was on her knees beside him; the bedside lamp was on.

  “I couldn’t wake you!…” She almost yelled, sounding concerned, “…Are you okay? I’ve been shaking you for ages.” He pulled himself up into a sitting position, wet all over with sweat.

  “God you’re soaked!” She’d leaned forward and touched his cheek.

  “I’m okay, I need the bathroom...” He climbed off his sweat-soaked side of the bed and trudged to the bathroom, “…Grab me a clean Tee shirt would you?” She took one from his drawer and followed him,

  “Must’ve been some nightmare, what was it about?” She asked, watching him splash cold water on his face. Richard glared at his reflection in the mirror and asked himself, “Good question - what the hell was it about?” The dream had left him with a feeling of confusion and shame,

  “I don't
know, but it was so real, I've never dreamt so vividly before, it was like I was really there.”

  “Where?”

  “I don't know, it was crazy, I thought I'd left...” He struggled for words, “....Gone into a different dimension or something.”

  “Like the Astral plane?”

  “What?”

  “Oh it's a like a parallel world or something.”

  “Yeah well it was weird enough.”

  “What happened?” He didn't want to tell Susan about the girl,

  “It’s gone already, I can’t remember...” he lied, “…I was being chased by something.”

  A house in the English countryside

  Cairo woke suddenly, aware of the scurrying feet of a mouse close by,

  “Hello Mr Mouse.” She lay underneath her bed with her teddy and other favourite things. Items mostly collected on her solitary wanderings of the vast old house. The hoard lay on a folded blanket and included a cigarette lighter, toreador trinket box, straw hat and a crystal paperweight.

  The house was very quiet, she could hear the ticking of the clock on the landing and knew that it must be around 02:00am.

  The mouse had made her think of cheese, she rolled from under her bed in her slightly grubby pyjamas and set off for the kitchen. But not via the main staircase, as usual Cairo took to the darker passages. A few moments later she entered the kitchen via the servant's stairs, grabbed a plate and headed for the fridge. There was some cold meat, lots of cheese, and even a slice of pie. She took a swig of orange juice straight from the bottle, then stacked her plate,

  “I hope Mr Mouse likes smelly cheese.” She whispered in the ghostly hush of the rambling old house. And then in moments she had disappeared back into the dark passages,

  “Coming Mr Mouse, I hope you're hungry.”

  Back in her bedroom she placed tea-lights on the floor and laid out a trail of tiny cheese crumbs for the mouse to follow. She fell asleep again just before dawn, happy to have played with her new friend, Mr Mouse.

  Richard, Windsor

  Richard rose late the next morning, Susan had already left for work, her commute was further and she always left first, but for some reason he missed her more that morning. He felt tired and nervy, the dream had upset him deeply, because of its contents, his apparent lust for the little girl and the murder of his wife had shaken him to the core., “I'm no paedo, what the hell, it was so damn fucking real.”

  His walk to work was tense, he felt distracted and wary, as if he was being watched. He hardly noticed where he was and was surprised when he was spoken to by the tall man outside the Windsor Scientific bookshop,

  “Father is feeling a little better today, good morning.” Richard stopped, looked up at the man, taking in his appearance, his academic-looking suit and thin moustache, a noble face.

  “Oh that's good, must be a great relief for you.” He managed to reply. And again felt hot under the tall man’s gaze.

  “I must see to the canopy. Good day.” Richard felt like he’d been let off the hook and hurried on his way. He bought a newspaper as usual and cheered up a little at the sight of Phil’s car parked in its usual place. He found himself eager to find out how he’d got on with the glamorous new client. In the reception Cyndy was sipping coffee and pointed with her pencil to the door of the print room,

  “He’s in there...” She obviously meant Phil, “…With a pile of knackered old books.” Richard smiled, hung his jacket and went in to see him, his newspaper under his arm.

  “Hi Phil. So, how did you get on with Madame Voluptua?” He joked and expected Phil to respond in a similar vein, he was disappointed,

  “Hmm? Sorry Rich, what did you say? Sorry mate, I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Phil hadn’t even looked up. Richard stood there, apparently unnoticed for several more seconds before he tried again,

  “So how many books are there? And how much rescheduling is there?” Phil was still too engrossed in his work to notice him.

  “Philip!” He sharp tone had little effect,

  “Umm? Listen Rich, why don’t you just let me get on with this, ‘the sooner the better’ and all that?”

  The effects of the nightmare and that vague feeling of unease all built up at once, Richard lost his cool, he grabbed Phil by the shoulders and spun him around so that they were face to face,

  “Since when did you start running this business on your own? We’re supposed to be partners, remember? You made me look like a fucking idiot in front of that woman yesterday and now you’ve completely wrecked our schedules just because you fancy the glossy tart!” Richard saw the expression on Phil’s face change from surprise and indignation to an awful realisation. He slumped down heavily onto one of the nearby swivel chairs, a distant look on his face,

  “Rich I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.” He shook his head as if to clear it and rubbed his temples. Richard was just about to apologise for ranting at him when Cyndy’s voice made them both turn.

  “Coffee time!…” She marched in with two steaming mugs, “…There’s a complaint from the workforce, you know, the ones that do all the real work around here. They want to know how they’re supposed to get anything done with all that shouting going on?” The two men sipped their coffees in brooding silence. Phil’s weird behaviour further increasing Richard’s disquiet. In the end Richard grudgingly apologised and agreed to leave Phil to get on with it. And then without knowing why, while Phil had turned away, he took the opportunity to pick up one of the smaller books and hide it inside his newspaper,

  “See you for lunch?” Once again he received no reply.

  London, Central

  Eve was drawn down into the London Underground once more. Entering at Hammersmith she bought a day-ticket and made the half-hour trip on to Liverpool Street station where she changed to the Central Line. Far busier, where the passengers were at their most dense, she stood close to a couple whose body language gave away their recent arguments. Their mixed feelings of anger and fear hit her like the first cigarette of the day. Shortly she moved on. Boarding a train heading towards Oxford Circus, where, in times before CCTV, she could have wandered for hours if she’d wanted.

  Impossible to completely hide her striking beauty, she dressed down, applied no make up (although she rarely did anyway) and pulled back her hair with a rubber band. She wanted anonymity, to feel without being noticed, to wallow in the waves of human emotion.

  She spurned the opportunity of an empty seat, preferring to stand amongst the close packed commuters. After a time, she had no idea how long, she found herself next to a woman dressed in heels and a suit. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses but Eve knew they were puffy from crying. She followed her from the train, like a parasite greedily lapping at the slurry of emotion emanating from the unhappy woman.

  It came to an abrupt end when the woman used a swipe card to enter a glass tower block, but already Eve had known the woman was close to her destination, the woman’s mind had hardened, blocking off whatever it was that was upsetting her so much, steeling herself for a day at work.

  Eve returned to the Underground.

  The house in the Countryside

  Down in the cellar of a large old English mansion-house, Sir Clive, once a high ranking official of the British Foreign Office, polished his bright stainless steel surgical instruments and dreamed of immortality.

  He didn't notice his multiple reflections in the mirror-like bowls, scalpels, saws and tweezers, his bright bald head and mad, obsessive beady eyes.

  “It’s in the brain...” He repeatedly muttered to himself. “…They nearly had it, those great Victorian men of science, they nearly had it!…” He dropped his tools as a thought crossed his mind, “…Here.” He tapped a forefinger on the side of a lifelike plastic human head. The lines at the corners of his eyes tightening as he grinned in certain knowledge.

  London, Windsor

  Richard closed his office door, a thing he rarely did, and sa
t behind his desk with the little old book held before him just below the desk’s edge. Dark red in colour, the cover thick leather with the title long ago worn off, it seemed such an innocent little thing, “Might be a family bible…” Very carefully turned back the thick cover and opened it at the first page. In the background, he could hear Cyndy answering the phone, everything seemed quite ordinary, “…So why am I shaking?” The book contained text in Latin; he couldn’t read a word of it. There were however, a great many sketches, drawings, and diagrams. It was divided into sections; the first part contained drawings of various tools and implements that he could not discern the use of. The second part depicted many naked men and women with detailed notes beneath them and arrows pointing to different parts of their bodies. It occurred to Richard that it might be a primitive medical journal of some kind and he kept on carefully turning the dry old pages.

  The third section showed the same naked bodies except that this time they were accompanied by the tools from section one. The bodies were mutilated, torn and broken by the disembodied hands holding the now vicious looking implements. He realised with a sick feeling in his stomach that it was no medical journal, but an instruction manual for the systematic torture of human beings. He pressed on into section four, noting that there was a name and town at the top of each page, beneath the name was a picture of either a man or woman being mutilated by the implements. At the bottom of each of those pages was a single line of text, the same text repeated over and over again. He thought it might be in Latin but wasn't sure.

  From out of nowhere Cyndy’s voice made him jump,

  “Is that one of her ladyship’s books?…” She stood in front of his desk, “…Must be very interesting, you didn’t even notice me come in. Can I go to lunch now?” With a start, Richard saw that it was twelve o’clock; he had been poring over the book for more than an hour. His mind raced,

  “Cyn, do you mind taking a later lunch today? There’s someone I need to see. I’ll be back by one!” He almost ran out of the office without another word. Cyndy glared after him and then slammed back into her chair,

  “They’ve flipped! Both of them.” She moaned to herself as she picked up the phone to call a friend.

  Richard found himself out in the street, in the cold without a jacket. He’d left the office in a kind of daze, the contents of the little book appalled him, and somehow he knew that the mysterious woman’s other books were going to be the same, or worse. His thoughts turned to Philip, “What the hell’s he getting into?” He had all questions and no answers, “Who said there’s no such thing as coincidence?” He asked himself, standing outside the bookshop. Peering through the gloom he spied Walther sitting at a desk in the far corner, head down as if reading. He entered, pleased to find the shop empty, taking the book out of his pocket as he approached. Walther looked up and smiled politely. He seemed about to speak but Richard cut in first,

  “I would like your opinion of this.” His abruptness caused no more than a slightly raised eyebrow as Walther accepted the book from him. He studied its cover for a few moments and took out a magnifying glass from his desk drawer, then with an air of sudden interest, opened it seemingly at random. The seconds ticked by on the old shop clock and Richard started to feel a little foolish. He asked himself, “Why am I doing this? It’s only a book.” Walther’s face had changed from an expression of polite interest to one of barely concealed agitation.

  “From whom did you receive this atrocity?” He slammed the book shut, his tone demanding an explanation. The shop was still empty, the noise from the street faint and distant, drowned out by the ticking clock. Walther continued to demand an explanation,

  “Such a book can not be yours. I ask you again, how is it in your possession?” Richard had never been one to be bullied,

  “Hold on. I brought the book to you remember? You’re supposed to be answering my questions!” Walther rose from behind the desk, a full six inches taller than Richard, with an air of quiet dignity he crossed to the door and locked it shut.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Richard raised his voice warily. Walther held up a placating hand,

  “Please. Come with me…” He led Richard through a faded curtain to a small cluttered room at the back of the shop, “…Sit, please…” And motioned to a worn leather armchair, “…I will tell you all I can about the book. And in return, you will tell me where its owner is to be found.”

  “Yes, er, I mean no, I can't...” Richard babbled, “...I have to get the book back before he notices it's missing.”

  “I see. Then perhaps we should meet later, after you finish work perhaps?”

  “I can't just give you someone's address, that's a breach of-”

  “Do you know what it's made of?”

  “What? What's that got to do with- ”

  “The cover...” Walther handed the book back to Richard, “...Is made of human skin.”

  The house in the Countryside

  Cairo sat cross-legged beneath her bedroom window. For perhaps the thousandth time in her life, she brushed her shining black hair aside and carefully turned the faded pages of an old magazine, ‘Film Review and the Stars 1961-62’. As usual she stopped and stared at the portrait of Marlon Brando, carefully tracing the contours of his face with her forefinger.

  “Isn't he handsome?” She whispered. Her friends silently agreed.

  Eventually she slid the magazine under her bed, rose and gazed out of the securely locked window.

  London, Windsor

  Richard had returned to the office in a state of distraction, he had agreed to meet Walther after work and trade with him the address of the mysterious woman for information about her. He looked after reception while Cyndy had lunch, grateful that the phone didn't ring too often, and managed to slip the book back with the others while Philip wasn't looking. It had been irritatingly easy; Philip hadn't even turned around to acknowledge his return from lunch. “It's all in my mind.” He told himself, “There's nothing sinister going on.” But he couldn't shake off the nagging unease. Taking up a sheet of paper, he decided to try his usual problem solving technique of writing things down. In large pink highlighter he wrote the titles to three columns; Woman with books, Philip, and Dream. It didn't help.

  The afternoon dragged fretfully by until it was home time. Cyndy left on the stroke of five, Richard followed shortly afterwards, leaving Philip to lock up alone. The early evening was dark and cold; moisture hung in the air and settled on the glistening wet parked cars. The bookshop was already closed and in darkness. As he approached he saw a tall silhouette waiting in the doorway, Walther stepped out of the gloom.

  “We have a bargain my friend...” His tone was expectant, and he placed himself directly in Richard's path, “…You have the address, yes?” Richard stopped abruptly, annoyed at his tone but still eager to talk to him,

  “Yes, I've got it. But before I give it to you I want a lot more information, I want to know why you want it so badly.” Walther hesitated for just a second,

  “Very well, but perhaps we should go somewhere more comfortable?” Richard agreed and led him to his usual pub, half full with people on their way home from work. They found seats by the imitation real fire, Richard with a pint of beer and Walther with a large glass of red wine.

  “Forgive me if I ramble a little. There is much to tell. Perhaps too much…” Walther explained, “…You may have read in the scientific journals recently of the discovery of a new part of the brain? Yes? No? Well the theory is that they can now control the part of the brain that causes the ageing process. To such a point that it may be possible to halt it altogether. Eternal life may be just around the corner.” He paused as Richard interrupted,

  “What's that got to do with-”

  “Please? Let me finish before you bombard me with questions.” They both took sips from their drinks before he resumed,

  “In my country it has been known for centuries that some people have extraordinarily long
lives. These people are mutations, the part of the brain that has now become known to science does not function in the normal way and they live ‘forever‘. It is well known that the brain sends out signals to the body using electronic pulses, what is not so well known is that these pulses are also broadcast out into the air, as brain 'waves’ if you like. The mutants that I am speaking about are able to receive these brain-waves, and it is the act of receiving them that stalls the gland that governs the ageing process. And so the net result is that the person does not get older...” His final sentence was delivered in a flat monotone, “…These mutants have been known in my country for many centuries as the undead.”

  Richard nearly choked on his beer,

  “Oh for Christ's sake! You're telling me you're a fucking vampire hunter?” Walther continued his tale, quite unruffled,

  “Scientists have been studying the power and intensity of brainwaves for many years and have reached the not surprising discovery that when a person is suffering some kind of stress or trauma their brain wave emissions increase dramatically. With physical pain causing the greatest increase in brainwave activity. The undead that I speak of are not blood-sucking vampires, my friend, they feed on the brain 'waves' of others. And I'm sure you can see that people who are suffering make a much more satisfying ‘meal’ than those who are not. Do you follow?” Richard nodded, speechless again.

  “So, these Undead become gradually addicted to the intensity of suffering people, dependent on them as drug-users are to their habit.” He paused for a while, allowing Richard time to digest his story and ask a question,

  “How do you know all this? How come it hasn't been all over the newspapers?” Walther replied indirectly,

  “My father studied these creatures for most of his life, after he met one when he worked in a Nazi concentration camp. She went by the name Evelina Navaja and was not a prisoner; she was the mistress of the Commandant, an officer in Hitler's Schutzstaffel, or SS as they came to be known. My father was conscripted to help with the disposal of the prisoners; he escaped eventually and joined the Resistance movement. He was a good man, god rest his soul.” Walther fell quiet and Richard realised with a shock that his father, the man who ran the bookshop, must have died, he could think of nothing to say and after a time Walther continued,

  “I found him this afternoon, half out of bed. The doctor assured me that there would have been no pain. I do not wholly believe him. His heart stopped. I will bury him on Saturday.” He fell silent again; his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Richard fetched more drinks giving him the time to compose himself. On Richard's return Walther was himself again and began talking immediately, the flickering fire lending a reddish glow to his face,

  “Perhaps I should get to the point at last. A few weeks ago my father wrote to me where I was working in Vienna, he said that he had at last tracked down the creature he'd met at the concentration camp all those years ago. She was here in London and was responsible for the recent spate of, erm, rather gory murders. He went on to say that his health was deteriorating rapidly and that I was needed. Since my arrival two weeks ago I have read his many copious notes and listened to his advice. I am ready to complete his mission and destroy the monster. The main problem would have been finding her, but now, by an extraordinary coincidence, she has come to me. I believe the owner of that little book is the creature I seek.”

  Richard pursed his lips, a sceptical look on his face.

  “Just let me get this straight. You want me to give you the address of a woman you’ve never seen so that you can go and kill her? Is that right? Doesn't that make me an accomplice to murder?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. Once more Walther was unflustered,

  “Strictly speaking Richard, yes. Except that this creature is not on any census forms, has no nationality and possibly is not even wholly ‘human’. I prefer to think of the killing as a service to mankind, she or it, should not be allowed to live.” It was too much for Richard,

  “No way, I'm out of here, you're insane!” He rose hurriedly to leave, Walther rose after him and called out at his departing figure,

  “We have a bargain, remember. Think it over. Come to the shop tomorrow.”