The Reformed Vampire Support Group (27 page)

I was too listless to protest, or to accuse
him
of looking like Darth Vader. Instead I followed him around the corner into the next street, shading my eyes from the overhead lights.

As soon as we were at a safe distance from the house, he turned to give me my mother’s sunglasses.

‘This is where I said we’d be,’ he explained. ‘In front of number one. I hope we don’t have to wait long – Father Ramon might be back any minute.’

‘Horace.’

‘What?’

‘These are prescription lenses.’ I’d completely forgotten. ‘Mum’s short-sighted.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘I can’t wear these. I won’t be able to see a thing.’

At that precise moment, two beams of light swept across the pavement. They heralded the sudden appearance of our taxi, which rounded the corner behind us and slid gracefully to a halt not far from where we stood. Luckily I was still wearing Mum’s sunglasses; if I hadn’t been, the glare would have burst the blood vessels in my eyes. But when the vehicle pulled up, Horace had to guide me towards it. Otherwise I probably would have fallen over.

I might as well have been squinting through a couple of very thick slabs of toffee.

‘Whittaker for Parramatta?’ the driver asked, as soon as Horace had opened the rear door.

‘That’s us,’ said Horace. He pushed me inside, then slid in next to me. The door slammed; the car began to move.

Even through the distorting prescription lenses that were perched on my nose, I was able to see how well-protected the driver was. A thick, transparent plastic screen curved around him, preventing easy access from any of the passenger seats. This screen, I assumed, had been erected as a precaution against attacks by thieves or crazy people – but it would be just as effective against vampires like Horace.

I wondered if it would also act as a kind of noise filter, blocking out conversation.

Probably not, I decided.

‘You should close your eyes if those glasses are bothering you,’ said Horace, completely disregarding the driver’s close proximity. I shook my head.

‘No,’ I rejoined. ‘You close
your
eyes. And I’ll take
your
glasses.’

‘But—’

‘You’re the one who can’t control your impulses, Horace – not me.’ Though I didn’t actually use the word
blooded
, he knew exactly what I meant. And he wasn’t happy about it, either. At any other time he probably would have told me to go jump in the lake. On this occasion, however, he had to comply, lest I refuse to cooperate with
him
.

So we swapped sunglasses, just as the driver addressed us from behind his screen.

‘Going to a party?’ he wanted to know.

Horace and I exchanged glances.

‘Uh – not really,’ Horace said at last, speaking for us both. (I was completely tongue-tied.)

‘Ah.’ The driver nodded. ‘Just been, have you?’

‘N-o-o …’ Horace sounded bemused. ‘Why?’

‘Oh – I figured you must have won first prize, that’s all,’ the driver cheerfully observed. ‘It’s the Addams family, right? Gomez and what’s-her-name. The daughter.’

I blinked. Horace scowled.

‘
Gomez?
’ he expostulated. ‘What do you mean,
Gomez?
I don’t even have a moustache!’

‘Maybe you’re thinking of Grandpa Munster,’ was my wary suggestion. I wouldn’t normally have become involved in a conversation about sixties sitcoms, even though it’s a very vampire-ish kind of subject. (Dave and Gladys and Horace are always arguing about who played what character in
My Favourite Martian
and
The Twilight Zone
.) But I was so completely out of my depth at this point that I seized on such a harmless and familiar topic with gratitude.

It stopped me from thinking about the dangers that lay ahead.

‘Grandpa Munster!’ Horace was outraged. ‘I don’t look
that
old!’

‘Hang on – who was Grandpa Munster?’ the driver interposed. ‘Was he that Frankenstein guy with the green face?’

‘No!’ yelped Horace. ‘Grandpa was a vampire. I’m supposed to be a
vampire
. Can’t you see that?

‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Stands out a mile.’ The driver might have been humouring us. Or perhaps he really did believe that Horace looked like a vampire. At any rate, he seemed anxious to change the subject. ‘I tell you what, though, don’t ever go anywhere as a mummy,’ he advised. ‘I went to a costume party last month as a mummy, and I nearly brained myself when one of my bandages got caught on a doorhandle …’

He went on to recount some of his more farcical party-related exploits, while Horace sulked and I tried to concentrate. I have to admit, it was difficult to muster my thoughts. The driver’s stories were very distracting – though they also had an oddly calming effect. When someone’s rattling on about blocked toilets, collapsing marquees, and penis-shaped birthday cakes, it’s hard to convince yourself that you’re in a life-or-death situation.

Perhaps that’s why, instead of focusing on more important issues, I found myself wondering why Horace had ‘plenty of cash’. As far as I was aware, he didn’t deal in cash; he ordered his groceries, paid his bills, and transferred his money online. In fact he’d often remarked that electronic banking was a godsend to every vampire who didn’t keep bankers’ hours.

When the driver eventually finished his narrative, I turned to Horace and said quietly, ‘Where did you get the cash?’

‘What?’

‘
Where did you get the cash?
’ I repeated. ‘You didn’t send Mum out for it, did you?’

‘No.’

Something about his slippery, sidelong glance made me suspicious; I was struck by a sudden misgiving.

‘It’s not
Mum’s
, is it?’ I squeaked. ‘You didn’t steal it from her, did you?’

‘Of course not!’ Horace’s denial left me unconvinced. Sure enough, after a brief pause, he added, ‘It’s a loan – I’ll pay it back.’

‘
Horace!
’

‘I’ll pay it back! I’ve got plenty of money!’ At that instant his mobile tootled, and we both fell silent. It was obvious that someone at Mum’s place had finally noted our absence.

‘That’s yours, is it?’ the driver queried, after listening to several electronic renditions of the chorus from ‘Hey, Big Spender’.

‘Yes,’ said Horace.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘No,’ said Horace – rather rudely, I thought. The driver must have thought so too, because he didn’t say anything else for some time. Neither did his passengers. Though I would have liked to tear strips off Horace for raiding my mother’s purse, I was acutely conscious that every accusation levelled at him would be overheard by a total stranger. And I didn’t want that.

In fact I didn’t want to be in the taxi at all. That unanswered phone call had shocked me out of my daze; I’d begun to have serious doubts about Horace’s strategy. But I couldn’t discuss my misgivings in front of the driver. And if I told him to return home, there would be hell to pay. Horace would kick up such a stink that we’d probably be thrown out of the car.

So I decided to put my foot down just as soon as we reached Nefley’s flat. That’s when I would refuse to help Horace after all. Instead I would make him order another cab, and we would sneak away before the McKinnons spotted us.

Unless, of course, we were lucky. I was willing to mount a rescue attempt if the McKinnons weren’t around. Or if they were too drunk to move. Or if they had mislaid their guns.

But I wasn’t about to risk my neck otherwise.

‘Here we are,’ said the driver. With a start, I realised that he was slowing down. ‘What number is it?’

‘Oh – ah – just stop here,’ Horace replied. As the cab pulled over, he fumbled in his pocket. ‘How much do we owe you?’

I didn’t catch the driver’s response. I was too busy peering out at a street lined with nasty red-brick apartment blocks (most of which appeared to have been built in the 1960s), and wondering which of them contained Nefley Irving’s residence. Only when Horace raised his voice did I notice what was happening inside the car.

‘Is this a
joke?
’ Horace was saying. ‘You can’t be
serious!
’

‘That’s the fare, mate.’

‘But it’s extortionate! It’s highway robbery!’

‘
For God’s sake, Horace
.’ I was appalled. The last thing we needed was a full-blown public confrontation. I had a vision of people spilling out of nearby doors and hanging out of nearby windows. ‘Just pay him the fare!’

‘I can’t.’

‘
What?
’

‘I don’t have enough money.’ As my jaw dropped, he wailed, ‘How was I to know it would cost so much? I don’t
catch
cabs!’

‘It’s all right,’ the driver calmly informed us. ‘You can put it on your credit card.’

‘No, I can’t,’ said Horace. ‘I didn’t bring my credit card.’ He turned to me. ‘Do you have a credit card?’

‘Of course not!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘I didn’t bring anything, Horace! Not even my coat!’

‘Then you’re in trouble,’ said the driver – less calmly, this time. ‘Because either I drive you to where you can get some money, or I’m calling the police right now.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t do that!’

‘Wait,’ stammered Horace. ‘I’ve – I’ve got an idea. Hang on.’ He began to punch a series of digits into his mobile keypad.

My own inclination was to turn around and go home. There would be credit cards at home, even if there was no cash. And if the worst came to the worst, other people could help pay for our trip.

Besides, I was becoming less and less enthusiastic about Horace’s proposed rescue scheme.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded of him. ‘Who are you calling?’

‘Dave,’ he replied.

‘
Dave?
’

‘I’ll ask him to bring us some money.’

The sheer nerve of this manoeuvre left me speechless. I wouldn’t have dared ask Dave to drive all the way to Parramatta, just to bail me out of a tight spot. And I soon found out that Horace shared my reluctance – because when the ringtone sounded, he presented me with his mobile.

‘You talk to him,’ Horace suggested. ‘He’d do anything for you.’

The audacity! I gasped. I choked. I couldn’t find the right words; what do you say to someone like Horace? But before I could tell him where he should stick his bloody phone, headlights flashed in the rear-view mirror.

I glanced around to see Dave’s car heading straight for us.

Dave’s hatchback cruised
past, then pulled over to the kerb a few metres ahead of us.

I immediately jabbed Horace in the ribs.

‘It’s Dave!’ I squeaked.

‘I know,’ Horace rejoined.

‘Go and get some money! Quick!’ was my advice, which Horace rejected.

‘No –
you
go,’ he said. Clearly, he didn’t relish the prospect of asking Dave for anything. ‘I’ll stay here.’

‘All by yourself?’ (What I meant, of course, was: all by yourself with an exposed neck in front of you?) ‘I don’t think so, Horace.’

He gestured at the plastic screen that separated him from the driver, as if to say ‘it’ll be fine’. But I shook my head.

‘Not an option,’ I firmly decreed. ‘You go, and I’ll wait.’

‘We can both go.’

‘No, you can’t,’ the driver interrupted. He turned to look at us. ‘I’m not having you both take off in your friend’s car.’

‘Here.’ I divested myself of Horace’s sunglasses. ‘Take these, and give me back Mum’s. Or you’ll break your neck before you get there.’

Horace sighed. Then he swapped sunglasses and climbed out of
the cab. I tried to watch as he shuffled towards Dave’s hatchback, but Mum’s prescription lenses wouldn’t let me; they blurred and distorted everything I focused on. So I shut my eyes and waited.

At last I heard footsteps approaching. They were obviously Dave’s, because as soon as they stopped, he began to speak.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said gruffly, almost in my ear. ‘Bit of a mix-up. How much do we owe you?’

I opened my eyes, and saw that Dave had leaned down to address the driver. By squinting, I could just make out the wad of notes that was changing hands. While the two men completed their transaction, I pushed open the rear passenger door.

Like a visually impaired person, I practically had to feel my way out of the cab.

‘Okay,’ Dave continued. He tucked something into his pocket. ‘Thanks, mate. Have a good one.’

‘What’s up with all these sunglasses?’ the driver demanded in reply. ‘Who are
you
supposed to be, anyway?’

‘He’s supposed to be a rock star,’ I supplied, knowing that Dave wouldn’t understand the question. Then I slammed the door and stumbled off the road.

I was finding it hard to keep my balance.

‘What’s wrong?’ Dave asked, upon joining me. ‘Are you feeling sick, still?’

‘I can’t see. These are Mum’s sunnies. They’ve got prescription lenses.’

‘For God’s sake, Nina …’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was, too. ‘I’m really sorry, Dave.’

‘Here.’ He pressed another pair of sunglasses into my hands. ‘Put these on.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got a spare set in the glove box.’

‘Dave, this wasn’t my idea—’

‘Later.’

By then our cab was on the move again. I was able to see its red tail-lights disappearing into the shadows, thanks to Dave’s trendy Ray-Bans. His blue hatchback was sitting, dark and motionless, some distance from the nearest streetlight – so he didn’t need my assistance to reach it, despite the fact that his eyes were unprotected. He managed quite well on his own, without tripping or haemorrhaging or bumping into a tree.

But when he arrived, he nearly had a heart attack. Horace wasn’t waiting for us.

‘What the …?’ Dave yanked open the hatchback’s front passenger door, as if expecting to find Horace curled up in a footwell. I scanned our immediate surroundings.

There wasn’t a human being in sight.

‘He can’t have gone off by himself!’ I exclaimed, as Dave extracted a pair of sunglasses from his glove box. ‘He can’t be that stupid!’

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Dave growled. Having shielded his eyes, he was able to survey the row of brick apartment buildings that occupied one whole side of the street. ‘Which one is it?’ he asked. ‘Which one is number seventeen?’