London Under Midnight

    

    

    The graffiti spread through London that summer like wildfire. Its population carried on with life as usual in one of the richest cities on the planet. But beneath the surface there is change. Men and women are going missing without trace. What has the old African preacher seen emerging from undergrowth near the river? Is this the essence of evil encountered long ago? Ben Ashton is an investigative writer. When he's commissioned to find out who is responsible for the 'Vampire Sharkz' graffiti he thinks his luck has changed for the better. Little does he guess how wrong he is?

    

    

    
From Publishers Weekly

    Clark's efforts at an original variation on the vampire theme yield a novel whose plot is farfetched even by the standards of supernatural fiction. Journalist Ben Ashton is researching the origins of a graffiti tag scrawled around London warning of "Vampire Sharkz" when he encounters a real vampire in the person of unrequited flame April Connor. April is one of a rapidly growing pack of vampirized mortals doing the bidding of Edshu, an African trickster god who, for reasons murkily elaborated, is using London, and his antagonism of Ben specifically, as a means of testing the moral mettle of all humanity. Much mayhem ensues before Ben discovers that the only effective way to eliminate the vampire scourge is through the power of positive thinking. Clark (
Darkness Demands
) keeps the action brisk and the gore pulsing, but the novel's events are so contrived that they have to be explained for the reader's benefit in windy oratory passages from an eccentric displaced African preacher, who's the only one who can make any sense out of them. This is passable pulp, but anemic fare as far as vampire fiction goes.

    

    

    
From Booklist

    Here's a treat for horror fans. When mysterious graffiti starts appearing all over London, magazine writer Ben Ashton is hired to write a story about the person behind it. Little does Ben know that the graffiti ("Vampire Sharkz. They're coming to get you") isn't just pointless vandalism. Like Anne Rice in her early vampire novels, Clark really gets under the skin of the modern vampire; rarely has the psychological trauma of transforming from mortal to immortal been rendered so movingly, and rarely has the vampire bloodlust been so vividly described. Clark, familiar to some fans of horror fiction but largely unknown by everybody else, deserves a much wider audience. This thrilling, terrifying, and deeply affecting story might just be the one that captures it for him.

    

    

    
From Kirkus Reviews

    A rapacious breed of vampire inundates London under the direction of an African trickster god in this horrorfest set against an urban backdrop.

    Some smart-alecky graffiti artist is marking London with the creepy message, "Vampire Sharkz: They're coming to get you," and bright young writer Ben Ashton's editor at glossy Click This magazine gives him 11 days to get to the bottom of what seems to be a hot story. His research takes Ben to visit the apparently nutty old African preacher Elmo Kigoma, who's seated in a boat perched on top of a pole along the Thames. The end of the world is coming, Elmo warns passersby: From his vantage point during the night, he has witnessed raving gangs of savage creatures emerging from the river, attacking bikers and pedestrians at random, sucking their blood greedily, then regurgitating their feast back into the victims, who in turn become vampires. Ben doesn't believe a word of it… until he sees for himself. Elmo tells him the vampires are acting on the mischievous prodding of African trickster god Edshu, who tests humans periodically by pitting them against each other. When Ben hears of the attack on his old friend (and unrequited love) April Connor, who then disappears, he moves into action. He enlists the help of both Elmo and April's fiance, wealthy shipping scion Trajan, to identify the vampires and locate the island in the Thames where they find shelter. Clark dramatizes April's ghastly plight on the vampire island; eventually, she and another bloodsucker decide they have to return to London proper and spread the news of the amazing benefits of drinking blood. Descriptions of ripping flesh and dripping liquids become repetitive, though Elmo's resolution of the vampire crisis through New Age-y visualization techniques is clever, even endearing.

    Plenty of gore, but pretty routine.

    

    

    "Without doubt the best horror author the UK can currently claim as its own."

    
-SFX

    

    "Simon Clark has what it takes to be another Stephen King."

    
-Hellnotes

    

    

    
H.
(scanning) &
P.
(OCR, formatting & proofing) edition.

    

    

    

    
For Janet

    

    

    
VAMPIRE SHARKZ

    ☺
They're coming to get you
☺

    

    Just as spores drift in the atmosphere, the ones that are New-Life are carried from the mountains in fast-flowing rivers to infect the waterways of England. They advance through this myriad of arteries to reach deep into the heart of its capital city.

    Here, the ancient Thames still runs its cold, dark waters between shining office blocks. Once, where there was barely any life in the river, little more than eels and rats, now there is New-Life. And it's to this place that New-Life brings the Gift…

    

    

    'Madam! You have ten minutes to save your life.
Quickly!
How are you going to do it?'

    The girl merely waved at him as she jogged along the riverside path in the direction of Tower Bridge, London's iconic landmark of lattice steelwork and Cornish granite.

    'Don't stay out too long,' he called after her. 'The sun is setting!'

    So far, Elmo 'Diogenes' Kigoma had spent ten days in the mock sailing boat on top of the pole. He asked the same question of everyone who passed by.

    A pair of youths roller-bladed along the path.

    'Gentlemen! You have ten minutes to save your life,' he told them. 'Quickly! How are you going to do it?'

    'You daft bollocks!'

    'Drop dead!'

    Elmo had heard worse. 'I'll tell you how to save your lives. Abstain.
Abstain
.' He continued even though he knew they were out of earshot. 'Abstain. That, my friends, is the secret to longevity. I came from the Congo when I was twenty. I'm now eighty-six years of age. Abstain, my friends.'

    The sun slipped behind the city's horizon. After the fierce heat of the day it would soon drop cool enough to drive him into his sleeping bag in the little airborne vessel, one that could only be accessed by the rope ladder that he'd pulled up after himself. The council promised they would come back again in the morning to take down the boat, which he'd fixed up here on top of the pole in the dead of night. His two sons had helped him. Both were as embarrassed as hell to do what their father asked of them. But they're good sons, Elmo told himself. They are loyal. He always knew they'd help him on his final mission. One that would end tomorrow; if the Mayor of London got her way.

    He peered in the direction of Tower Bridge that spanned the Thames. It was one of the quirks of the river that its currents nearly always deposited the bodies of those it claimed at the foot of one of its baroque towers that soared almost two hundred and forty feet above the water. The bridge even boasted its own morgue for the drowned. One of the party boats glided downstream. Strings of coloured lights blazed along its flanks and festooned the superstructure. He could hear music from a band. On deck, sleek men and women in beautiful clothes drank champagne.

    Elmo shouted, 'You've got ten minutes to save your life. Quickly! How are you going to do it?'

    From the boat he heard a PA announcement. The captain was pointing Elmo out - London's latest landmark: an old black man in a plywood dinghy fixed ten feet above the ground on top of a telegraph pole.

    'Save your lives. Abstain!'

    The floating revellers cheered, then toasted him with their effervescent wine.

    'If you desire longevity - abstain.' He sighed, then said to himself, 'Oh, they can't hear you, Elmo.' Nevertheless, he still had faith. Taking a deep breath, he tried to reach out to them with his voice. 'People ask of me, "Elmo? Why sit in the boat?" I reply: "I sail in search of the new man and new woman who have the ears to listen to my words." '

    Lights had appeared in the neighbouring hotels and apartment blocks by the time he'd finished calling out to the occupants of the pleasure boat, although they'd long since lost interest in him.

    'Maybe I should debate with the fish in the river and the birds in the air,' he told himself. 'Will they have a better understanding of my message?' He allowed his gaze to settle on the bank of the river where bushes swayed in the breeze. For a moment his sharp eyes regarded the movement of leaves without realizing what he was seeing.

    Elmo stood up in the boat; it swayed a little on the pole. It was safe… even though the council claimed it wasn't. Elmo had built boats that had run rapids and navigated rivers full of crocodiles. So why should a boat that would never ever touch water be safe? He angled his head to one side to identify what he saw.

    'Don't be afraid.' He spoke gently. 'Child, come out where I can see you.'

    He was certain he could see a young woman standing in the bushes, as if fearful of being seen. 'Please don't be afraid, child. I can't hurt you. Look, I'm up here in the air in my little sail boat.' The girl stayed in the bushes, though he could see the glint of her eyes. 'My name is Elmo Kigoma. I have a mission. I'm here to save these people's lives, but no one will listen. Sometimes they shout out bad names. Yesterday, a boy threw bottles at me. Look at that on my arm. I had to use my scarf as a bandage.' The old African preacher tilted his head to one side. 'Why is it you won't come out here and speak to me? If you're in trouble I might be able to help.'

    The gloom deepened the shadows, yet he could still see the pair of eyes. They shone like twin splinters of glass. 'Are you hungry?' he asked. 'Alas, I don't have money. There are sandwiches. And cake. A lovely ginger cake my neighbour baked for me.' A pause. 'Child, are you hungry?'

    From the direction of Tower Bridge, a cyclist casually pedalled his machine, while listening to music on headphones. He was oblivious to the world around him as day decayed into night. Elmo watched the girl as she stepped out of the bushes. The movements were rapid, almost feline. He glanced from the girl, who stared at the approaching cyclist, to the area around the riverbank. It was as deserted as a graveyard at midnight.

    His heart thudded as he stood up in the plywood boat.

    'You!' he cried at the girl. 'I know what you are. Edshu the trickster made you. You're a Dead-bone Woman! Is your hair sticky to the touch? Can you feel the beat of your heart? Or does it lie still in your breast? Do you know it yet, girl? Do you know the truth?' He witnessed the cyclist's lazy approach. Elmo yelled at him, 'Go back! Don't come any closer! She will hurt you!'

    The man simply stared vacantly forward as he pedalled. Even from here Elmo could hear the music pounding through the man's headphones. Dear heaven, the man wouldn't hear the thunder of Armageddon above that.

    'Hey!' Elmo screamed. 'Watch her!' Then he turned to the young woman. She was incredibly gaunt. Her fingernails were the same deathly blue as her lips and the rings beneath those feral eyes that blazed so hungrily at the man on the bike. Her jeans and T-shirt were nothing more than worn bands of fabric through which he could see her pallid skin.

    With a panther-like grace she leapt on the man. For a moment he continued to pedal as he fought to maintain the balance of his machine. But the girl clung to his back. As he twisted round to look at his attacker Elmo saw that she clamped her mouth over the man's face. She chewed with such an expression of bliss that Elmo had to turn away.

    The metallic crash of the bike falling on to the path forced the old preacher to look once again. The man lay on his back. His fists were clenched in agony by his side. The girl sat astride his chest. After she slammed her mouth on to his bulging eye the head of tousled hair twisted from side-to-side as yet again her jaws crunched shut, like a starving man would bite into a ripe, juice-filled apple.