The Evil Seed (30 page)

How they must have
laughed, she thought, revelled in their youth and power! How like angels they
must have felt! How many dreams must they have haunted? How many chosen men
remained with Rosemary in their hearts and memories? Oh yes, they must have
laughed, as they slipped invisibly through the crowds, touching flesh in a
million ways, scenting the thrill of trapped blood.

Alice shivered, almost
glimpsing for an instant the fatal glamour. Then she stood up deliberately. No
more, she told herself. Time had finally run out.

She wondered whether she
would be sick. The panic was almost unbearable, with a momentum of its own,
like spinning, like vertigo, like the biggest roller-coaster in the world with
grinning Death at the controls and nothing but spangled black horror all
around.

‘Oh shit,’ said Alice,
and began reluctantly, with the drums of panic still hammering, to plan her
attack.

One

ROSEMARY HAD BEEN RIGHT; I WAS ILL FOR THE
NEXT FEW days, and the light hurt my eyes, but in time, even that symptom
faded. I lay low in the warehouse, never alone; sometimes it was Rafe who
stayed with me, sometimes Elaine, sometimes Zach. I ran a low fever for close
to two weeks, eating little, but drinking much, for it seemed to me that I
would never quench my thirst. I saw Rosemary only briefly, and then, never
alone; she would appear for a few minutes to check on my progress, or show me
the newspapers to keep up with Scotland Yard’s manhunt. It seemed that the ‘Body
in the Weir’ had been shelved for the time being, to be replaced by the ‘Swan
Inn’, an unrelated case of murder and arson, thought by the Yard to be a cover
for burglary. Two bodies had been found, too badly charred to be recognizable,
but dental records showed them to be those of the bartender and the waitress. ‘A
man is being questioned by the police,’ blared the newspaper in self-satisfied
tones, a pronouncement which afforded sly amusement to my companions.

Rosemary would read
these accounts to me, then she would be on her way again with a smile and I
would be left to grind my teeth in helpless love and hate. She looked radiant
on those visits; her face vivid, her hair like clouds. She wore dresses of
flowered crêpe and silk chiffon and white linen with rose borders; every time I
saw her, something different, exotic almost to indecency in that austere
post-war decade, dancing through life like a fever dream. She radiated power on
those visits, power and purity. The very touch of her cool fingers on my neck
was enough to leave me sweating with desire; unstable as I was, I am always
amazed that I never blurted out my revolt, stupidly, in my fever. Perhaps I
did, and my wardens never thought anything of it. I suppose that, in that
respect, we of those warehouse days and red nights were all brothers.

It was on one of these
occasions, as I was nearing recovery, that she told me she was married. I was
sitting by a window, looking on to the bare land at the back of the building. I
had been reading a book, but had laid it aside when she came in, pulling back
the blanket to stand up and greet her. Java was waiting at the door, his
shoulder against the door-jamb. She was lovely that day, her hair all windblown
against a dress of drab green, her eyes sparkling with youth and life.

‘Danny, congratulate me!’
Her voice was breathless from the wind, her hands stretched out impulsively.

‘I’m married!’

I hesitated for a long
moment, aware, in the preternatural stillness, of a pulse just below my left
ear, ticking away my blood’s time.

‘Who to?’ I managed to
stammer.

Rosemary frowned.

‘Well, Robert, of
course. Who else could it be?’

Robert. I had hardly
even thought of him for all the time I had been there. It was not that the news
came as any surprise; no, I had already in my heart given him up as lost, but
now that it was a certainty, the feeling of guilt (yes, and jealousy, too),
came upon me with such heaviness that I was forced to slump back on to my chair
to avoid collapse.

‘Why, Danny.’ Her voice
was petulant now. ‘I do believe you’re cross.’

I found my voice, not
without an effort. ‘Of course not. I’m very happy. I’m just not quite well yet.’

‘Poor Daniel.’ She
leaned forwards, her hands cupping my face. A faint scent of lavender reached
me from her skin, like a memory. ‘Better?’

I nodded, not trusting
words.

‘Robert … Is he, will
he be, I mean?’

She laughed,
enchantingly. ‘Oh, Danny,’ she said. ‘You’re so sweet. Is
that
why you
looked so cross? You thought he’d be one of us? Oh no. I never mix business
with pleasure.’ She kissed me lightly on the cheek. Her kiss was like a tiny
sting. ‘He’s nothing. Protection.’

‘I don’t understand.’

She sighed.

‘Robert
loves
me,’
she said. ‘He loves me now to the point of unreason. He’s a man; he needs
something to protect. It makes him happy; it makes him feel strong. Not every
man gets the chance to die for what he loves, Danny; in a way, he’s one of the
lucky ones. Your Robert would never be strong enough to face the way things
really are; I have given him the dream.’

Something must have
shown on my face; she smiled, touched my hand with the briefest, chastest of
kisses.

‘Don’t worry, Danny. He’s
happy.’

‘Why?’ My voice was
almost a wail.

Rosemary sat on the arm
of my chair, and touched my face with her fingertips.

‘No one said it was
going to be easy,’ she said. ‘Being chosen isn’t easy. We stand out in crowds.
The cattle smell us, envy and fear us. They know that they are natural prey.
That’s why we need a protector. Someone to lie for us, to shield us, to die
for us if he has to. Do you think that the hunt for us will die down? The
police are stupid, but some day one of them will get too close. They are slow
and dogged; eventually some accident will lead them unwittingly to our door. We
have to feed; we can travel, we can hide, but one day they will catch up with
us. And when that time comes, when the search comes too close, we need to give
them a sacrifice. Someone to take our place.’

‘Robert.’

‘He’s the ideal choice,
Dan. He provides impeccable cover for me, for the others, even you …’

‘Me?’

‘Of course. When he’s
caught, you can come out of hiding. What better reason for you to disappear
than if you think your best friend is a murderer? You didn’t want to betray
him, so you ran away. At the very worst, all they can charge you with is
shielding a suspect, and you know as well as I do that they wouldn’t put you in
prison for that. And after that? Well, you can find your own protectress then,
your Roberta, if you wish. Just let your killer instinct take over.’

I thought that over for
a few moments, though not, I am afraid to admit, with the horror I should have
felt. I had done too much by then to show a normal human response, and I had
betrayed my friend too many times already to feel squeamish about doing it
again. Be content in knowing that I made the right choice, though for the wrong
reasons. I think it very likely you too might have done the same thing. But at
that time I really considered what she gave me: that enticing poison draught. I
wanted it. I needed it with all the longing of my killer instincts. I reached
for her, clasped her like a dream in my arms; I felt chiffon, air, smelt the
perfume of-lavender, but her substance eluded me as it always did, and it was
so gentle that I hardly felt it that she pulled away from me.

‘Later,’ she said softly.
‘When you’re whole again. Ask me again.’

‘One kiss,’ I said.

Rosemary smiled.

‘Flesh,’ she said, with
a smile. ‘You’re still so human, Danny. Later, you’ll understand, later, when
you’re with us for ever, that blood is power. Blood.’

‘I love you,’ I said (it
was almost true)
.

‘Then love me,’ she
answered, holding out her wrist, its deltas under her blue skin.

I did as she said, power
flooding my mouth, running down my chin, drowning my veins in the secret music
of its flowing. Great thoughts filled my inspired brain, thoughts which I never
quite remembered later, but which flowered there in the darkness as I fed upon
her and she upon me, thoughts of creation and infinities, each unfurling in the
red darkness like hearts in flower, longings and ecstasies undreamed of,
pleasures of the blood more monstrous and sublime than were ever any pleasure
of the flesh. For an instant I was void, a wailing infant in the eternal
absence of myself, then I was creator, galaxies in my mind’s eye, then
annihilator, blood at my fingertips, blood in my voice, blood filling my giant
footprints as I walked. Afterwards, I could never recapture that fleeting
moment of absolute power, but, God forgive me, I lusted after it evermore,
though all I can remember with any clarity now is the taste, so like the taste
of tears.

One

SUMMER GREW HOT; THE CROWDS CAME THAT YEAR
AFTER all, and we endured the heat as best we could.

We came out at night,
not that the days could hurt us, but because it was our time. The warehouse was
airy and dry, like a hospital ward, and we were comfortable. I say, ‘we’. Zach
and Elaine, with the little boy Anton, shared my exile — maybe to keep an eye
on me. Rosemary lived with Robert in a house close by, in Grantchester. Where
Rafe and Java lived, I never knew. I suspected that they kept close to
Rosemary, to guard her, but could not know for sure. The days passed uneasily,
but with a kind of harmony, like the long summer holidays of my childhood, but
the nights were sharp-focused, full of the glamour of the chase, intensified
all the more by the police presence in the town which was constant, but as
discreet as could be managed. We were careful, however, choosing our victims
carefully among the vagrant population, singling out a tramp, a tourist travelling
alone, someone who would not be missed until much later.

I did not see Turner for
a long while, nor did I read his name in the papers; the Scotland Yard
investigation was headed by a Superintendent Lamb, who, as far as we could
guess, seemed to be wasting his time and resources in dragging the Cam for more
bodies. The investigation had veered away from us.

Rosemary had money,
stolen in part from earlier victims, some of it given to her by her previous
benefactor, and sometimes we bought wine and cigarettes from the late-night
off-licence, and drank and smoked in our borrowed lodging like dilettante
students discussing art and poetry. I saw her every night; she came late, after
midnight, and I often wondered to myself how she managed to come so regularly without
having to explain herself to Robert. Maybe she drugged him, I thought. Even if
she did not, he was enough under her spell to let her do anything she wanted.

I kept on the fringes of
events; believe me or not, I killed no one, but I did feed, ravenously. I rode
the carnival-wheel all that time, in nights beyond dreaming or description. We
drank whisky and wine mingled with blood. We fed from each other. We loved one
another in ways which transcended the purely physical, though my appetites
called for that kind of loving, too. And still, behind the curtain of that past
glamour, there was the hidden canker of my hate, the culmination of my love and
my hunger. At present, it seems that my descriptive powers are forsaking me; I
can hardly even visualize the glory of that time, as if the memory of what
happened after that has cast a darkness over the images there. I remember
happiness, without knowing what form it took, remember the words, power, joy,
rapture, without being able to visualize even the simplest memory.

At times such as these,
I can almost delude myself into thinking that she is really dead; it takes a
great effort of will to continue my story at times such as these. My young
doctor thinks that the writing itself is perpetuating my delusions; that as an
academic, I have been too much involved in reading my truths from books, and
seek to make my fabrication true by writing it. Others disagree, seeing my work
as an effort from my subconscious to exorcize the sickness within my psyche.

I tell this to my young
friend to cheer him up; he really does seem very depressed about my case
nowadays, even when I let him beat me at chess. I tell him it isn’t good for
him to become emotionally involved with his patients. He smiles, sadly, knowing
that my seeming rationality is no indication of any improvement in my
condition; sometimes I hint to him, in the words of my namesake, that when he
has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be
the truth — that what he fears might yet be true. Sometimes, when I say these things,
he looks so wretched, feeling, perhaps, that he has failed me, that I fabricate
some insane remark, simply to justify his beliefs, and he rewards me with his
smiles, and maybe a game or two of chess. He tries to feed my interest in
psychology by telling me about some of his other cases: the girl next door is a
schizophrenic, sixteen years old and wracked with personality disorders. He
feels confident that she will make a full recovery, however, as she responds
well to treatment. Responds well to
him,
more likely. I want to tell him
to be careful
…
Rosemary was just another such young innocent.
Suddenly I feel very uneasy about that girl. I want to tell him to keep away
from her, but I have teased him too much today. He humours me, but does not
listen.

Time, I must try to
remember how short it is; but the pills they give me stretch time, so that
wasted days melt into wasted days. I was telling you about the summer before I
killed her. Most of all, I have to tell you
how
I killed her, so that
you too can do the same, when your time comes. And you must not be as weak as
I.