The Reformed Vampire Support Group (2 page)

‘Hello, Sanford.’

‘How are you, Nina?’ Father Ramon inquired, pulling out from the kerb.

‘Oh – you know. Nauseous. As usual.’

I didn’t want to complain too much, because that’s what vampires do. They complain too much. But I needn’t have worried. Gladys did the complaining for me.

‘I bet you’re not as nauseous as I was last night,’ she said, moving over to give me some space. ‘I was trying to sell a timeshare, and I spewed all over the phone. At least a cupful of blood. It no sooner went down than it came back up again. I lost the sale and everything – didn’t I, Bridget?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bridget, who was knitting. Bridget’s always knitting. She was eighty-two when she was infected, so she can’t do much else. Even climbing stairs can be a problem for Bridget, because of her hip joints.

There’s only one thing worse than being a vampire, and that’s being an elderly vampire with bad hips.

‘Have you been taking your enzymes, Gladys?’ asked Sanford, from the front seat. He craned around to peer at her. ‘Every morning, before you go to bed?’

‘Of course I have!’

‘What about other treatments? Have you been drinking those herbal concoctions again?’

‘No!’ Gladys exclaimed, sounding defensive, though it was a perfectly reasonable question. Gladys smells like a hippie, because she’s always treating her manifold health problems with miraculous new oils or exercises or meditation techniques. She even looks like a hippie, in her beads and her shawls and her long, flowing skirts. Having been infected back in 1908, she can’t bear to expose her legs; ladies didn’t do that sort of thing in the old days, and Gladys likes to think of herself as a lady – even though she was actually a common streetwalker. She also likes to think of herself as a
young
lady, despite her old-lady obsession with bowels and feet and joint-pain, because she was only twenty-four when she first got infected. But I’m here to tell you, she’s about as young as a fossilised dinosaur egg.

‘I haven’t even been burning scented candles,’ she whined, ‘and I’m still getting that rash I told you about. The one on my stomach.’

‘It might be a bad response to the supplements,’ Sanford mused. ‘I could adjust your levels a bit, I suppose. Have you had any dizzy spells?’

‘Yes! This morning!’

‘What about headaches?’

‘Not since last week. But the other night one of my toenails fell off in the bath—’

At this point I could restrain myself no longer.

‘Hey! Here’s an idea!’ I growled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Let’s all talk about our allergies, for a change! That’ll be fun.’

There was a long pause. Father Ramon glanced into the rear-view mirror, shooting me one of those reproachful-yet-sympathetic looks in which he seems to specialise. Sanford sniffed. Gladys scowled.

‘Well, what do
you
want to talk about, then?’ she demanded. ‘What have
you
been doing lately that’s so wonderful? Watching re-runs of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
?’

‘I’ve been writing my book,’ I said, knowing perfectly well what sort of reaction I’d get. And when Sanford removed his sunglasses briefly, to massage the bridge of his nose, I braced myself for the usual guff about how I was putting everyone at risk (even though I write under a pseudonym, and use a post-office box for all my correspondence).

‘Yeah, yeah, I know what you think of my books,’ I added, before Sanford could butt in. ‘Spare me the sermon – I’ve heard it all before.’

‘They’re not doing us any good, Nina,’ he replied. ‘People are scared enough already; you’re only making things worse.’

‘Zadia’s not scary, Sanford. She gets fan mail. She’s a
heroine
.’

‘She’s a symbol of your flight from reality.’ This was one of Sanford’s stock remarks. For at least twenty-five years he’d been telling me that I was stuck in the denial phase of the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle (rather than the anger, bargaining, depression or acceptance phases), because I had refused to embrace my true identity as a vampire. ‘You feel compelled to invest vampires with a battery of superhuman powers,’ he said, making reference to Zadia Bloodstone,
‘just so you can tell yourself that you’re not really a vampire. You’re living in a dream world, Nina.’

‘No –
you’re
living in a dream world.’ I was trying to be patient. ‘You talk to me like I’m still a kid, even though I’m
fifty-one years old
. Do you know how boring that can get?’

He did, of course. Everyone did, because I’d mentioned it often enough. It had been a good thirty years since our group’s first meeting, so we knew each other pretty well by this time. We’d also covered every subject known to man over and over and over again. It’s something that tends to happen when you don’t mix very much with other people.

Sometimes I look around St Agatha’s vestry on a Tuesday night, and I think to myself,
If I never see any of you ever again, I’ll be a happy vampire
.

‘You might have lived for fifty-one years,’ Sanford chided, without even bothering to glance in my direction, ‘but you’re still a kid at heart. You’re stuck in a teenage timewarp. You still think like a teen. You still behave like a teen.’

‘What – you mean like this?’ I said, and flipped him the finger. Gladys giggled. Father Ramon changed gears abruptly, though his voice remained calm.

‘Come on, now,’ he remonstrated. ‘That’s enough. If you want to argue … well, you should at least wait until the meeting.’

Sanford’s mobile phone began to trill. While he fumbled inside his jacket, I turned my face to the window. Street lamps were gliding past, illuminating the kind of neighbourhood that I’ve always enjoyed looking at. House-fronts were shoved up hard against the pavement. Though the gaps between shrunken curtains and broken cedar slats I could see flickering television screens, curling drifts of cigarette smoke, and people rushing from room to room, slamming doors.

But I couldn’t see enough. I never can. I always get a fleeting glimpse of normal life before it’s whisked away – before I’m back in a crowded car with a bunch of vampires.

‘Oh. Hello, Dave.’ Sanford had found his phone, at long last. ‘Yes. Yes. Dear me. That is troubling. Yes, I’ll tell him.’ Addressing the priest, Sanford delivered Dave’s news with solemn emphasis. ‘Dave says that Casimir won’t answer his intercom,’ Sanford announced. ‘They’ve been trying for about ten minutes. Dave wants to know if you still have a spare key.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Father Ramon. He sounded worried. ‘Tell him I’ll swing round.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Sanford addressed his mobile again. ‘He said we’ll swing round. Yes. Well, I hope so. All right. Yes, see you soon.’

He hung up.

I don’t think anyone quite knew what to say, initially. Sanford appeared to be thinking. Father Ramon was obviously reassessing his planned route; he suddenly pulled into someone’s driveway, and executed a rather clumsy three-point turn. Bridget was looking puzzled.

I couldn’t even pretend to be anxious. In fact I was downright disgusted. ‘Ten to one Casimir’s out on the prowl,’ I said at last, airing a very natural suspicion. ‘I bet he’s got his fangs into somebody
as we speak
.’

Boom! Instant uproar. If I had set fire to Gladys, I might have triggered a less impassioned response.

‘Nina!’ Father Ramon seemed genuinely horrified. ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say!’

‘You shouldn’t talk about people like that,’ Bridget protested. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses that she wore, but her face was even whiter than usual. It was almost as white as her hair.

Sanford twisted around to admonish me.

‘Casimir Kucynski hasn’t set a foot wrong since being released,’ he pointed out, in frigid accents. ‘That was five years ago. Casimir’s reformed now.’

‘Reformed?’ I folded my arms. ‘He sleeps in a
coffin
, Sanford!’

‘He’s doing his best, Nina. Casimir is a victim too – just like the rest of us.’ Sanford’s tone became pompous. ‘You know you’re not the only one who was infected by Casimir. If the others have forgiven him, why can’t you?’

‘Because he’s a creep,’ I replied, without fear of contradiction. Casimir Kucynski
was
a creep. Even Sanford couldn’t deny it. Though Casimir might have called himself a reformed vampire, he was anything but. He would go on and on about ‘the good old days’, when you could buy your very own black people. (‘Black people blood is meaty,’ he’d reminisce, smacking his lips and grinning like a skull.) He would do the most awful things with his tongue, which was long and blue, like one of those poisonous jellyfish. He had eyes like oysters, and teeth like tombstones.

In fact, if you want my honest opinion, Casimir had been a vampire for so long that he wasn’t really human any more. It’s vampires like Casimir who give other vampires a bad name. But try telling that to Sanford. Even now he maintains that it’s important not to draw any kind of distinction between what’s human and what’s vampiric. He insists that vampirism is just another form of humanity – that there’s nothing inherently wrong with being a vampire. And whenever I try to contradict him, he gives me a lecture about my attitude.

‘Casimir is probably sick,’ said Father Ramon, playing the peace-maker as usual. ‘He probably can’t get out of bed.’

‘That’s right,’ Sanford agreed. ‘He might be having an adverse reaction to his supplements. It’s happened before.’

I could have reminded him, at this juncture, that Casimir had also suffered adverse reactions from fanging dead rats. But I didn’t speak. Instead I stared out at the passing streetscape, which was undergoing a slow transformation: the turrets, avenues, door-knockers, mailboxes and iron railings were giving way to signage, awnings, plate glass, traffic lights and concrete barriers. Pedestrians strolled along, swaddled in winter coats. Coloured lights flashed inside a corner pub.

I lifted my sunglasses, to get a better look at the festivities. It was only going to be a quick squint.

But Sanford nearly bit my head off.

‘Nina!’ he squawked. ‘There are headlights everywhere! Do you want your eyes to start bleeding again?’

Welcome to my world. It’s the kind of place where you can’t do the simplest thing without risking a full-blown haemorrhage.

God
I’m sick of it.

People often think
that vampires live in decrepit old castles, or mausoleums, or sprawling mansions full of stained glass and wood panelling. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

Perhaps it would be, if all the vampires in this world were millionaires. But since the ones
I
know are just ordinary working stiffs (so to speak), their dwellings tend to be on the modest side. They can’t afford towers or gargoyles or enormous iron gates. Some of them can’t even afford a broadband connection.

Nevertheless, there are certain features that distinguish a vampire’s domicile. A vampire, for instance, doesn’t like picture windows. In fact a vampire doesn’t like windows at all. So you’re not going to find a vampire living in a modernistic glass box featuring lots of skylights and breezeways.

For the same reason, a vampire’s windows are always well covered. Shutters and curtains are favoured over vertical or venetian blinds. Rubbery draught excluders are attached to most of the doors, and there’s never an exposed keyhole or an unsealed mail slot.

What’s more, a vampire likes to sleep somewhere special. Somewhere safe. So a vampire’s abode usually contains the kind of bolthole that you often don’t find in normal homes. Sanford, for instance, lives in a former bank and sleeps in the vault. Gladys and
Bridget live in an old butcher’s shop and sleep in what was once a refrigerated meat locker. Even Dave has managed to find a skinny little duplex with a disused darkroom in it.

As for me, I sleep in the basement of my mother’s big Victorian terrace house. It’s quite a nice space, really, even though Mum had to brick up the front window, and block off the outside door. There are quite a few cockroaches, but they only come out at night, when I’m upstairs. And we use a dehumidifier to keep the damp under control.

But Casimir never had the funds to inhabit anything vampire-friendly. While the rest of us have managed to support ourselves one way or another, Casimir was always far too antisocial; he used to get by on a disability pension, augmented by the occasional gift from those of us with money to spare. As a result, he could only afford to occupy a one-bedroom flat. A
down-market
one-bedroom flat.

The building itself was a dingy art-deco structure, all blood-coloured brick and pus-coloured paint. It stood three storeys high, on a narrow patch of mangy grass. There was a separate laundry block, as well as a two-car garage.

When we arrived there, we saw Dave’s blue hatchback sitting out the front.

‘Don’t park too close to Dave,’ I suggested, leaning forward to address Father Ramon. ‘It might look too busy. Like an emergency, or something. People might get interested.’

‘She’s right,’ Sanford agreed – to my utter astonishment. ‘Park around the corner a bit.’

So we parked around the corner a bit, some distance from the nearest street lamp. As we swept past the hatchback, I spotted Dave in its driver’s seat, with Horace beside him. They had been smart enough to stay huddled in the car, instead of hanging around the front entrance.

I should probably explain, at this point, that Dave Gerace is the only vampire in our group who can drive. When he was infected, back in ’73, he’d already had his licence for just over two years (having acquired it at the age of seventeen), and he’s managed to renew it regularly ever since, by means of various cunning and questionable ploys. That’s why he’s spent the last three decades chauffeuring the rest of us from pillar to post. You have to admire him for it; personally, in Dave’s position, I’d have been tempted to
run over
Casimir, instead of faithfully picking him up every Tuesday night. But Dave’s so tolerant and mature. And sensible. And safety-conscious. Once I was listening to some music in his car, and when I asked him to pump up the volume a bit, he wouldn’t. He said he was worried that my ears might start bleeding, the way my eyes and nose and gums often do. It’s funny: to look at him, you’d think he was a teenager. But a lot of the time he acts just like my mum.