Outsider (16 page)

It used to be her life, the only life she had
ever desired. And one night, a betrayal, two sharp canines piercing
the fragile skin of her neck, drawing blood and life force……. If
Toni had offered immortality, Dee-Dee would have turned it down.
Toni never asked; she took, selfishly, greedily, she imposed her
will over Dee-Dee’s.

Rage and hate were still coursing through
Dee-Dee’s veins, rushing through her arteries. Twelve years were
nothing when you had immortality, you could dwell with anger for
centuries and it would never be a waste of time.

She suddenly realized her relentless feet had
reached the morphing of Railton Road into Atlantic Road, where
nightlife had started and daylife was still lingering. Time for
dinner.

“
Vampires make wishes / On rising stars, /
On re-birthday cakes, / On wells boarded over, / On the last star
of the night, / On black horses, / On lamps without genies, / On
pennies lost, / On someone else’s dreams / Left behind.” (Wendy
Rathbone)

January felt mild and inspiring. Days had
this energy they only provide after Winter Solstice. Even if nights
still crushed the afternoons obnoxiously early, days were slowly
lengthening and Sid felt like waking up, shaking away the sluggish
coat of the previous year. The weather was windy, but mild and a
song was gently tickling her mind ……. I was a precocious kid not
sure in which mould to fit ……. Her 14-eyelet, black boots were once
again taking her to the local charity shop, bumping her into
hurrying people on the busy main street. They were walking on,
ignoring her. She felt invisible and right now preferred so. She
could always do better without people’s attention. Her path crossed
the one of a pair of constables, more exactly a PC younger than Sid
and a fresh-faced WPC hardly taller than her. What were they doing,
patrolling outside their usual perimeter? They were chatting away,
unaware of Sid. Their usual perimeter extended widthwise from the
local library (too small for Sid’s needs) to the tube station where
ticket touters stood at attention; lengthwise down the market
street where the illegal trade of DVD’s and cigarettes was
exceptionally quiet for a Saturday afternoon; and occasionally down
the parallel awkward artery, when they felt like disturbing
drug-dealers’ lives.

Sid arrived at the crossroad near the local
police station.
The building might be the explanation for the
two cops’ wandering, Sid thought; they had tea break there and
drank some insipid coffee dispensed by a vending machine especially
designed for them.

……
. I was a precocious kid not sure in
which mould to fit,

When I realized my body was not what I
thought it was …….

More potential lyrics tickling her brain
cells, Sid noticed the change of lights and stepped onto the street
with two other pedestrians. The charity shop squatted a corner,
unassuming. Their profits benefited children available for adoption
and foster care. Sid stepped in.

……
. I tried to grow up as different as I
could,

It turned out that I was good at generally
missing the mark …….

Sid walked between racks of clothes feminine
enough to make her skin crawl with primeval disgust. She reached
the overloaded bookshelves and almost immediately, her instinct
guided her to a hefty novel: “Sunshine” by Robin McKinley. She had
never heard of it, but the attraction felt very strong. She picked
it up and contemplated the illustration on the cover: a distant
house on the opposite shore of a lake. She stared at it a moment,
trying to guess hidden secrets, forgetful of the world around her.
She turned the book over after awhile and read the comment on the
back cover……. A vampire novel.

Why would she read a vampire novel when she
was sleeping with the genuine artifact? But the call of the book
was very strong. She decided to buy it, wondering if Joy had read
it. Where was Joy? In the middle of a day, certainly sleeping away
from the sun, of course. What was she up to these days? She hadn’t
seen her for at least a week. Joy had for habit to come and go as
she pleased, never missing the menstruating time of Sid’s female
body, showing up every now and then for some─

Another item caught Sid’s attention, “The
Dream Pack”, driving away the previous thoughts, grabbing center
stage. She picked up the bulky volume with clumsy hands. It was not
a volume per se, it was a combination of apparatuses, all the
necessities you’ll ever need to work with your dreams─ the author
dixit. She kneeled down to the floor, edging to the left end of the
shelving unit. She dropped Robin McKinley’s novel to free the
various parts of the Dream Pack. She had heard about it and thought
it too fancy and too light to be of any use to her. Forgive her for
being such an advanced dreamer! Even so, she felt great curiosity
towards the two hardback books. One read on the cover: “The Dream
Journal: a record of your dreams”. She wasn’t fond of the
illustration: a childish interpretation of a dream, pretending to
be as old as a Pompeii mosaic (gifted child). The other book was
actually a folder containing “The Dream Book”, 20 “Dream Cards”, a
“Dream Eye Pillow”, to “Dream more vividly and more memorably”. She
opened the folder, to escape from the cow running away from a river
on the cover. Someone had added colourful stars to the uniform blue
of the cardboard. She read the instructions to stuff the Dream Eye
Pillow. Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, Lavender, Basil. She picked out a
Dream Card: Dream Action #1. A giant goose with a human sitting
astride her neck, flying between clouds, over castles, hills and
trees. At the back of the card: an interpretation and a
visualization exercise.

Still oblivious of the people around her, Sid
picked up the Dream Journal. Hard cover to make it last. She opened
it to a dedication. Someone named Toni had stuck more colourful
stars of various sizes on another uniform, blue background. Toni
had written, with confident and round letters:
“Dear Dee-Dee,
always remember to dream your life and live your dreams. I wish you
the most beautiful dreams in the entire universe.”
A few pages
later, Dee-Dee had written a dream. Her handwriting looked hurried
and unsure.

Sid looked up. The world crashed into view. A
child of five tumbled over a book carelessly left on the floor by
another punter. His hands broke the headbanging, but he still cried
out for his mother.

Sid put the Dream Pack back together, checked
the price sticker, decided it was her lucky day and it was always
better not to push her luck: homebound she was, where a novel
started recently awaited. Slightly shaking inside. Carrying two
treasures. A plastic bag turned out to be a great bonus, as
raindrops were now smashing all over the pavement. She got
thoroughly drenched in the next minute. Who knows how long it would
last. She didn’t, she never watched the weather forecast.

It would be dry in a coffin…….

“
Winged women sleeping upside down

With bats”

(Wendy Rathbone)

In the black box of her room, Joy stirred,
her curves shaped by a black silk sheet. Night was slowly
insinuating fingers of consciousness into her brain, coaxing cells
into action one after the other, methodically. She rolled onto her
right side, grabbing a silky pillow and hugging it tightly, her
mind reaching full function, cold, circling around her awakening
hunger. She heard a gentle moan, felt a soft ripple in the air. One
of the ghosts sharing the room was greeting her. They were the
souls of two faithful hounds that, acknowledging her dominion over
all canids, had attached themselves to her, ready to snarl at the
mere whiff of a potential intruder.

Relinquishing her hold on the pillow, Joy sat
up in one fluid movement, and considered the next ten hours. She
vaguely considered a few clubs north, south and centre. Somehow,
the West End was appealing to her senses. A rich smell of blood
invaded her nostrils with anticipation. She pushed away the sheet
and left her round bed for a quick shower. Whoever had first
claimed that water was an etheric eraser and vampires were etheric
beings, had forgotten to notice that back in those archaic times,
not that many people could swim. Incidentally, Joy could, even if
she hadn’t bothered for a few decades.

The round bed occupying centre stage in her
room was a recent acquisition, something she had started to yearn
for after her first taste of Sid’s menstrual blood. After a night
spent in the green-mohicaned writer’s bed, the narrowness of
coffins had exploded in her brain. Her black ebony coffin, soberly
lined with soft, purple velvet, had suddenly become incongruously
obsolete. She had subsequently discovered that housewives had not
ditched their chintz in conveniently waiting skips (besides, what
was so wrong with chintz? Joy didn’t know, she had never had
chintz), but gay men and vampires – yes, vampires! – were Ikea’s
best customers. So much for the appeal of Swedish curves to the
masses. Her coffin relegated in one of her vast closets, she had
embraced the sci-fi age and gone for a sophisticated, but soberly
black, computer with flat monitor, scanner and faster-than-light
laser printer. She never printed – nor scanned – anything, but in
her self-induced, insomniac days and unsociable nights, she would
avidly surf the worldwide web, discovering places where she had
never gone before.

She stepped out of the shower, her dripping
body wrapped in a huge, fluffy towel, and sat on her wonderful bed
that didn’t know lust nor dreams, drying her long black and white
mohican with a smaller towel. As every evening, she had cut her
excess hair and readjusted her white extensions. Fashion had been a
somewhat different kettle of fish, back in her living days.

Her room was still pitch black, windows well
blacked-out, her eyes well adjusted to the lack of contrasts. She
considered sitting at the computer and ordering some dark red silk
sheets, and smiled at the absurd need for a colour in a room where
the only splash of light was the electric blue of her computer
screen. She got up, dropping the towels, and still naked, but dry,
sat in the corner dedicated to everything email and website.

She clicked the monitor on and her smile
widened. She opened the one email she had expected, her tongue
gently testing the sharpness of her fangs. Dinner date tonight. The
few bags of blood she kept in a small fridge would stay there,
until the next urge to spend a night in, but out on the net. Or
until the next urge to indulge in a literary orgy. One wall was
layered with books. Another wall was a huge wardrobe gathering the
black little numbers she favored in the summer and the black gothic
outfits for the winter clubs. Breeches and wide sleeves with
narrow, lacy cuffs. Tight leather waistcoats and high-heeled boots
matching the curves of her legs and climbing up to her knees. Just
definitely dressed to kill.

Dress to kill? New Scotland Yard was still
failing to pick up her trail despite D.I. Madison’s untimely
demise. She had slightly changed her diet. She loved London and
intended to keep on coming and going as she pleased. The new deal
had satisfying drawbacks.

* * * * * * *

The meeting point was a lesbian venue, a chic
and fashionable bar in the West End, with a selective clientele and
a discreet outside. Joy rang a bell and the female bouncer, smaller
than her, but more muscular –this said, nothing compared to the
strength of a vampire–, let her in. The vampire walked in with the
confidence of a regular client and took in the long room. The world
was her oyster and she quite liked her first impression of the
premises. On the right-hand side, a long bar shining with chromes
and brimming with alcohol and cocktails. On the left-hand side,
alcoves sheltering plush sofas and armchairs of black leather, and
intimate encounters of various kinds. Perfect for vampires. She
smiled with satisfaction. Now, why was it her first time in this
heavenly set up? Oh yes, of course. Like Lestat de Lioncourt, she
had a taste for a dash of sordid. There ended the comparison:
Lestat favored thieves, she favored rock chicks. Right on cue, a
compiled sound track was playing American female singers with an
edge.

The second alcove harbored her dinner date: a
woman with blond, long hair, smiling with confidence, and a woman
with pale, brown skin, smiling engagingly and playfully.

“You must be Joy,” spoke the woman with
Nordic cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. It was a statement rather than
a query. She was taking the lead. “I am Uta and this is my partner
Jemima.” She placed a nonchalant arm around the shoulders of the
passive-looking woman, establishing ownership. In the dimness of
the alcove, Joy’s eyes had no problems distinguishing the curly,
short hair, the finely chiseled features and the soulful, brown
eyes. Her thin body was sheathed in a long, shiny dress cut out of
dark red satin. She had been told Jemima wore no underwear.

Uta was as tall as her partner, but her
posture was authoritative. Masculine clothes suited her graceful
frame: black chino trousers with a black dinner shirt. Flat
moccasins. Joy thought she was interesting vampire material, but
would probably be a troublesome companion. This said, Uta and
Jemima, as a team, would have been remarkable and remarkably lusty
vampires. She smiled, at the vision, and at the couple.

“Have a seat,” Uta went on, gesturing towards
an empty space next to her, and opposite to Jemima.

Joy remembered the details ruling the order
of the courses for tonight’s meal: Jemima liked to be watched, Uta
liked watching. Joy was too arrogant to care about an audience. The
two delicious-looking lesbians were perfect for each other.