Suzie and the Monsters (25 page)

‘I felt like the night was being stolen from me. I felt like the city I loved had already been stolen from me, and I needed to get away for a while. But I came back. I always do. London is my home, my cruel and corrupting heart and soul.

‘I was away from London for several years, and when I came back they’d knocked all the buildings down on the bridge. That was such a shock! That beautiful bridge had been part of my life for over two hundred years. The cruelest thing about being a vampire is being constantly reminded how nothing is permanent, nothing is sacred, nothing that is loved will not be taken from you.’

I look at Cleo, wondering if I could bear to lose her. Just the thought of it makes painful knots in my chest. Cleo reaches out to hold my hand, and says, ‘Forever and ever.’ I just stare at her, wondering if she realises how inappropriate that is, until she frowns and demands, ‘What?’

She’s genuinely baffled. ‘That’s what David Bowie says just before he discovers his true love has been lying to him for hundreds of years,’ I explain.

‘Mmm...’ says Alia. ‘Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon. I must have watched that a hundred times as a teenager.’ She starts singing the duet from Lakmé, and I join in, neither of us actually knowing the words, until we burst into laughter. Cleo looks at us like we’re mad, no doubt wondering why on Earth we’re singing the British Airways theme tune.

The pain of loving Alia suddenly cuts through me like a knife. I look away and wipe fresh tears from my eyes. Alia, my Alia, understanding this distress, excuses herself suddenly and heads for the bathroom.

Turning back to Cleo, I apologise. ‘I’m sorry. And thank you, Cleo. Forever and ever. I like that idea. I promise I will never lie to you. I can’t honestly promise to tell you everything, but I will do my best to answer the questions you ask. Just please remember that my memories are a minefield for me, and that today is a very unusual day.’

Cleo nods. ‘I understand. And thanks, Suzie. Elizabeth.’

‘God. Please don’t call me that. It’s one name I refuse to call myself. I freak out whenever someone calls me that, even if they’re just mistaking me for someone else. I was Elizabeth for fifty years. I was Elizabeth when I betrayed my husband to a gruesome death. At least I hope he’s dead. Really, properly dead.’ I pray that even all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, couldn’t put my husband back together again.

I lean back with a smile and sip my wine, and wait for Alia to come back before continuing.

‘The reason why I’m telling you all this. The eighteenth century was a time of change. London gradually claimed the night, despite which the criminal class prospered. The Evangelicals eventually forced the taverns to shut on Sundays. Woman as a sexual creature was slowly forgotten. She became something pure that needed to be sheltered, an idea that I had grown weary of in the sixteenth century. By the end of the eighteenth century they were closing the pleasure gardens, the fun ones anyway.

‘A century is a long time, and I had many identities, many adventures, many lovers, but through it all was a sense of decline and loss and I grew very depressed at times. The mid-century was a kind of crisis point for me. I found it increasingly difficult to associate myself with London’s robbers and murderers, although I have always been both myself. I no longer wanted to sit in the taverns in Covent Garden and make friends with the prostitutes, or make merry with the girls down at the waterfront. I had grown so weary of watching youth stripped and beauty disfigured by disease. Instead of revelling in London’s darkness, I wanted to fix it somehow.

‘But how absurd is that? A murdering hell-fiend wanting to bring others to justice?’

‘Happens all the time on TV,’ Alia grins.

‘Yeah, right. Mr I’m-too-good-to-kill-humans saving pathetic damsels in distress. If it was me, I’d be dis-dressing the damsels and killing their boyfriends for dessert. Do you think there’s a series in that?’

‘I’d watch it,’ Alia and Cleo say together.

‘So would I,’ I laugh. ‘We’d need a tag-line. “There’s more than one way to eat a woman,” maybe?’ Smiles all round.

‘Anyway!’ I cry, ‘Justice. Well that was a laugh. The magistrates received the fines they imposed on the criminals they faced, so they had an incentive to find everyone guilty, and God help you if you were poor. Any woman suspected of prostitution was dispatched to Bridewell where she would be whipped and imprisoned, and then put to work beating hemp.’ Actually, Bridewell was technically a house of correction and conditions were relatively good compared to the prisons. It was built on the site of Bridewell Palace, where King Henry lived for a while, although by the time I came to London I think it was the French ambassador who lived there.

‘Even the great Henry Fielding, who was, I dare say, honest and dedicated, was rumoured to have sent men to prison just because he didn’t like the look of them. And if you did have money, there was always someone to bribe to escape justice. A shilling for the Charley — the watchman, that is — a crown for the constable, and you could get away with anything. I frequently did. I really shouldn’t complain about a corrupt justice system, but really, who wants to live in a world where monsters get away with murder?

‘To top it off, I returned to London in 1759 to discover the chief magistrate was blind! John Fielding, Henry’s little half-brother, who was knighted a couple of years later. I thought the city had gone completely mad. But, you know, there’s a reason why Lady Justice is depicted blind. Sir John would never judge a person by the way they looked. He had very acute hearing, however, and could recognise criminals from the sound of their voice. And while he shared Henry’s passion for reforming the justice system, he didn’t have his brother’s arrogance. What really touched my heart is that he had helped to found an asylum for orphan girls, although that place really only scratched the surface of London’s need.

‘His real handicap was the corruption of the system around him. He knew, for example, that there were brothels out there where young children worked as prostitutes, but no one could produce any evidence of them.

‘I was stalking him for quite a while, this strange, passionate, blind man, and I even moved into his house, which was above the magistrate’s court at No. 4 Bow Street. I hypnotised the servants to believe I was some mysterious, eccentric relative they weren’t supposed to talk about, and I made his irritating, moralising wife and her joined-at-the-hip niece oblivious to my presence, so that I could sit in the corner of the room, reading a book, the servants bringing me tea whenever I wanted. It also gave me a good view of the Brown Bear across the street, which is where the runners were based.

‘The only person I didn’t hypnotise was Mary, Henry’s widow, whom no one else liked, but I did. She was a sweetheart, and mostly ignored by everyone, her two sons being away at school, and it amused her greatly that Lady Fielding and Maria, the niece, couldn’t see me. Mary’s bedroom was at the top of the house, and that’s where I would go if I was feeling lonely, or whenever I had to make myself scarce, such as when the annoying Miss Chudleigh came to visit John, which was just about every day. All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to live.

‘One night, after a few weeks of this, John stayed up later than usual, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. He’d sent the servants to bed — he didn’t need them, he was always very independent. His wife and niece were already long asleep. I sat, quiet as a mouse, studying him. Blind people fascinate me, because my eyes have no power over them, and because I don’t need to explain my age. Suddenly he asked, “Who are you?” I knew he was talking to me. I had always tried to conceal my presence from him, but no doubt there had been the noise of my movement, my whispered conversations with Mary, remarks made by the servants, and he was nobody’s fool.

‘“Call me Nell, sir,” I replied, “and please don’t be alarmed. If you wish me to leave, I will depart, and never cross your path again. But if you let me stay I can be of service to you.”

‘“I should have you thrown in prison!” he growled at me, at which I simply laughed. After a few seconds he calmed down and asked, “What service?”

‘“I can be your secret eyes,” I told him. “I can tell you who is giving and taking bribes, and what is being concealed. Ask me questions, and I will bring you answers. But I won’t stand before the magistrate.”

‘He sat quietly, thinking for a minute, then demanded, “Why should I trust you, when you have cast a spell on my household? And what would you ask of me in return?”

‘“Of course you have no reason to trust me,” I replied. “You shouldn’t. But there are many who serve you now whom you should trust less than you seem to. And I ask for no more than I have taken already. A quiet corner in which to read, and a cup of tea to keep me warm.”

‘“What is it you are reading at present?” he asked eventually.

‘“The Governess,” I told him. “Sally writes very well, I think.”

‘“You have a good voice, Nell,” he said finally. “My wife disapproves of my family’s writing. If you will read to me in the evenings, I will be glad of your company.” I’m paraphrasing, of course. He always sounded very pompous when he spoke, but his heart was good.

‘And that’s how we began. As an agreement, that became a friendship, that grew into a love affair of sorts. There was love between Sir John and his wife, but it wasn’t physical. Maybe it had been, once upon a time. Or maybe she had never understood how to distract and seduce him, how to tear him away from his obsession with his dark mistress, which was something I was all too familiar with, for London is my mistress too.

‘Or to use it. Our favourite game was to sneak down into the dark courtroom, where I would pretend to be a prostitute brought before the magistrate. He would interrogate me, and I would supply lurid, graphic details of the dozens of sexual encounters that I had supposedly had during that day’s business, and really I’d seen enough over the centuries to have no need to invent anything. Until, overcome by the intensity of his need, he would order me to be stripped and caned, which he would do himself, pausing often to suck my nipples and explore my aching, wet pussy with urgent fingers, finally pushing me down onto all fours so he could fuck me from behind. And let me tell you, the man had stamina. Very satisfying. Well worth the pain.

‘It was the longest sexual relationship I’ve had with any man, apart from my husband, mainly because he couldn’t see the evidence of what I was, although he began slowly to suspect. After all, that’s when the English really started to believe in vampires...’

*

Arriving back at the hotel room, I ignore the sleeping Jenny and attack Cleo with teeth, and lips, and urgent hands, and we are both still half-dressed when I push her onto the bed. My need for her right now is too great. To possess her, to be possessed by her, two parts made impatiently whole. It is a return to our violent love-making of Friday morning, only this time fuelled not by the sexual frenzy of bloodlust, but by the discovery of true love after decades of heartache and loneliness. For me anyway — Cleo’s just enjoying herself. My orgasm, when it comes, is long, and intensely painful, and afterwards I’m crying, I don’t know why, and kissing Cleo all over the neck and face, and her beautiful lips, of course, soft yet urgent.

This goes on for quite a while before I remember Jenny and look round. Jenny has not only woken up, but has retreated to safe distance, sitting on one of the chairs and watching us with a rather startled expression. ‘It looked like a private moment,’ she explains, then reaches for what looks like a half-eaten bowl of lasagne. There seem to be the remains of three or four different main courses strewn around the room. ‘I couldn’t decide, and I didn’t think you’d mind,’ she says. ‘Help yourself, if you want.’ I shake my head. Cleo laughs. Jenny shrugs.

Later, after we’ve all had a shower, we get dressed, Jenny in bra and dress only. Her savaged nipples are clearly causing her discomfort, but the fabric of the dress rubbing against them had been even worse. ‘Try these on,’ I say, handing her the Oroblu Milly hold-ups. I love watching women put on hold-ups. Jenny’s already looking a lot healthier after a day of mostly rest and eating, but it’s fascinating now to watch the aura of strength encompass her. It’s very subtle, a slight shifting of posture, a general lessening of tension, the shadow of fear in her eyes replaced by a new thoughtfulness.

‘I love the way these make me feel,’ she tells me, running her fingers across the dots in the dark sheer fabric.

‘With your legs, it’s a crime to wear anything less elegant.’ I put the two pairs of shoes, Gianmarco Lorenzi and Burberry, on the table in front of her. ‘Do you agree that these shoes are mine, that I am perfectly within my rights to send you away wearing nothing more than you do now?’ She nods.

‘Good. I’d like to give you a gift, but you have to make a choice. And it’s not a choice about shoes, it’s a choice about your life, about who you are. You can take everything that has happened between us, wrap it up into a secret memory of Spring madness, and return to being the naïve Jenny who goes clubbing with her friends looking for a cute boyfriend. Do you understand?’ She nods again.

‘If that’s what you want, then take the Burberry heels and run. Get out of here, don’t look back, and never come looking for me again.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘If you want this weekend to be merely the start of an adventure, the beginning of a long journey, not only of self-discovery, but also of what it is to be a woman, then take the Lorenzis.’

She sits looking at the two pairs of shoes for a long time, then reaches out and, with only a tremor of hesitation, picks up the Lorenzi sandals. She slips her feet into them, and ties the black satin ribbons around her ankles. There is both fragility and determination when she looks at me again. ‘Now what?’

‘That’s up to you. You’re free to leave, anytime you like, but if you want me to be your guide on your new life, it will have to be on my terms.’

‘Which are?’

‘Well, from now on my name is Mistress Suzie. Not Mistress, and not Suzie, but Mistress Suzie. Whenever you talk to me, or about me, whether or not I can hear you, that’s the name you will use.’