Outsider (23 page)

She would not feed on them. She could not.
Too many shared memories.
But, I am a vampire.
She looked
around, scanning the crowd of happy punters again. Here you go.
Shining like a beacon, about her height, a green mohican and a
quiet face, a camera dangling from around her neck, looking
absentminded and absentmindedly looking around while draining a
pint glass from its yellowish liquid. Oh yes, she smelled like a
perfect meal…….

* * * * * * *

The perfect meal was not noticing the
vampire. You would have thought that by now she could have spotted
a vampire from a mile away, just by the discrepancy in the energy
field. Sid hadn't learnt yet that vampires were dangerous. Her only
knowledge of this predatory kind was Joy, and Joy had never
threatened her, hurt her or attempted to kill her. They had idle
chats or intellectual conversations, and they slept together every
now and then. Joy was actually safer than any of Sid's past
girlfriends. So, no, there was no warning notice pinned on her
radar to say: beware of vampires, avoid them, they are dangerous.
The dangers of hanging out with vampires were more like
intellectual and literary notions to the writer.

Just before her eyes crossed looks with
Dee-Dee, someone put a hand on Sid's shoulder and greeted her,
providing distraction.

"Hey, Sid! Glad you could make it!"

"Hi, Dawn! How are things?"

"Cool! Have you seen our new T-shirts?"

Dee-Dee watched her chosen victim drift away
to a table of paraphernalia already surrounded by fans of the
headlining band.

* * * * * * *

Emotionally Wrong. The name sounded right for
her ex-bandmate. The drummer counted them in with a rapid-fire
kicking of her bass drum. The singer almost missed her cue when she
spotted Dee-Dee in the audience. But she had seen her disappeared
friend so many times, in so many crowds, at so many gigs, that she
had gotten used to the visual hallucinations. Twelve years on, who
could forget that strange and sad summer? Her voice, distorted in
the speakers, slammed into ears, unprepared for the sudden
onslaught. The bass followed suit in a rumbling motion, and the
lead guitar cut through the music with a dry overdrive. The Dee-Dee
lookalike was just a lookalike; the real Dee-Dee would have come
forward. The singer sang on. Had Dee-Dee disappeared first, or had
the drummer died first? The police had, of course, immediately
suspected the missing musician. Nevertheless, the singer knew:
Dee-Dee would have never killed a friend, never; she was just not
the type.

The vampire, nerves shredded by the punk-rock
music, a sound that had barely changed since the Fireheads, tried
to keep the memories at bay ─at least, her replacement had talent
and actually fitted with the image of the band─ and refocus on her
meal. The meal was a busy photographer, apparently more
specifically fascinated by the alluring guitar player whose legs
were restlessly moving, covering miles across the stage.

* * * * * * *

Sid had just finished washing her hands when
the blond woman in the white shirt entered the presently deserted
toilets. Sid had noticed her and pegged her as a musician because
of the energy about her. The photographer could sense something
else, something unusual that she had sensed before,
something…….

Sid identified the extra factor, but
belatedly. The woman with striking grey eyes often hidden by the
wild sweeps of her hair, had already closed the space between them;
Sid had barely a fraction of a second before the tips of the fangs
graze the fragile skin of her neck, to guess.

As suddenly as her confident move, the
vampire withdrew, shock painted across her youthful facial
features.

"Who do you belong to?" Her icy voice
demanded.

"What?!" Belong?! Sid viewed herself as a
free agent.

Dee-Dee's nostrils dilated. "What's the name
of the vampire who feeds on you?" Something felt off. There were no
telltale scars, but the smell was there, unmistakable. And this
puny photographer was not even scared?! She looked surprised
alright, but there was no reaction of fear to Dee-Dee's resurfacing
rage. "What's the name?" She repeated icily.

"Joy." There was almost a hint of challenge
in Sid's voice.

"Joy……." Dee-Dee slowly echoed. Joy was a
vampire, too. She remembered the tall woman with long, dark hair
cascading down to the waist, as tall as Toni. Had Toni made her? Or
was it the other way around? Or maybe, they just happened to share
the same territory, regardless of their different origins.
Unlikely. How powerful was Joy? How ancient could she be?

Dee-Dee was powerful; a powerful and ancient
vampire had made her. How ancient Toni was, happened to be a
totally irrelevant factor to the raging fledgling. Dee-Dee was
powerful, young, but angry, angry enough to challenge another
vampire. She pushed her prey against the wall and her fangs pierced
the skin, savaging the tarantula tattoo. Sid didn't react to the
pain. She had not expected the pain. She had never really thought
about the pain fangs could inflict: for her it was still an
intellectual notion. Because, even during her first encounter with
Joy, the encounter interrupted by Death herself, pain had not been
part of the equation. Joy's M.O. was to mesmerize her victims and
make them feel pleasure. When Joy feasted on Sid's menstrual blood,
there was no reason for mesmerizing and Sid felt genuine sexual
pleasure.

This vampire was deliberately inflicting pain
to Sid. Sid hated it. Sid knew about pain, way too much, and hated
it. Something else she probably hated as much, was to be used as a
pawn in a chess game.

Sid knew she was in no danger to lose her
life. Death would have already been there in a flash of full moon
to intervene and feed the vampire another prey, even in a moonless
night. So she trusted Death, Sid felt irritated by this attitude.
She could feel this irritation despite the striking pain occasioned
by the vampire sucking on her skin, munching on her blood. Imagine
a beast is eating you alive. Ok, once the skin had been pierced,
there was no need for fangs anymore, but Sid's skin was sensitive
and Dee-Dee wanted to cause pain. She felt enraged by the past
hitting her again and again, one way or another. Tonight she could
not ignore it; she could not escape from her own pain.

She eventually pulled away from Sid's neck.
Sid's eyes stared at her from a face gone pale. Dee-Dee stepped
back, unsettled by the intensity and the pulling quality of the
brown eyes, feeling it tugging strongly at something inside her. A
great hunger. Sort of feeding…….

"What are you?" Her icy voice stumbled. Sid
frowned. What was she?! What did this vampire mean? The vampire
looked away, breaking the link. "Tell Joy I'm in town."

And then, Sid was alone in the toilets, with
only her bleeding neck as certitude that the whole bizarre scene
had really happened.

INTERLUDE

"Jo Davenport”, chapter one (courtesy of the
author Sid Wasgo)

7 pm. I don’t wanna feel that way for Janis
but I do. It feels so useless and uncomfortable. It makes looking
at her in the eye so difficult.

I arrive at the restaurant way too early. She
gets caught up in the bus traffic and is late. But at least she
turns up and I’m so glad. Because it is my forever fear that even
people who say they are my friends, even them, forget all about me
and never show up, and don’t even acknowledge that I exist.

So, Janis turns up and I feel relieved and I
feel uncomfortable. Because it feels so uncomfortable to sit at a
table with a woman I’m crazy for. I have not told a soul but every
time I cycle through the city, I’m gonna cycle through her street
and contemplate her doorstep. I surely keep this secret from
her.

So, we sit at the same table and I feel stiff
as a wooden stick. I’m crazy for this woman and she’ll never be
crazy for me. Maybe I shouldn’t be there at all. Maybe I should
never see her again. Maybe I should never phone her again. Maybe I
should erase her from my life and erase myself from hers. Before my
guardian spirits make the decision for me. But you know, when I
don’t see her, when I don’t hear the rich sound of her voice, I
don’t feel totally happy (euphemism: totally happy doesn’t exist
for me).

So, I sit at this table with her, blinded by
her smile and unable to look at her in the eye for too long. Well,
actually, it’s like, our eyes meet and I look away.

This Mexican place is my favorite restaurant.
That’s why I invited her here. Tonight out of every possible 7.30
pm (with traffic delay, please). I wanted to eat cactus. The
cactus, nor slimy nor crunchy, turns out to be a disappointment. I
like it slimy as okras. Janis prefers crunchy bits. Even if right
now she is very much into cold avocado soup. Creamy thing.

She watches me eating a stuffed tomato and
comments:

“You left the tomato.”

“No, I haven’t attacked it yet.”

Typical of me: stuffing first, container
last. What do other people do with it? I have a look around and
find out I’m the only one eating a stuffed tomato tonight. I
say:

“The first time I ever thought about suicide,
I was six and a half. The only thing which kept me from acting on
it was pancakes.”

She smiles more broadly. As intended, the
pancake factor is one of the positive ingredients of life. She
loves pancakes.

“Especially with butter, sugar and lemon.
What about you?”

Me? I have to think hard, scrape my brain,
because contrary to a widely spread belief, I’m not so much into
whipped cream banana pancakes. Sugar? Lemon? No. Grimace. The
answer pops up and pops out:

“Maple syrup.”

From pancakes to tattoos there is only one
giant step. We cross over the Rubicon without any qualms. Because
Keiko, a mutual acquaintance, who has every complicated design she
can think of, challenged me, coaxed me into, talked me into,
influenced me, convinced me, to go for it. A skull is sprawled on
the top part of my right arm. The X of the X-Files green and
stamped on its forehead, vampire teeth cynical and grinning. Purple
snakes dancing around my biceps like an armband. Now, I know why I
hesitated so long.

“Was it painful?”

I grin, with a hint of cynicism, but without
the vampire teeth:

“What do you think?”

She looks at me, thoughtfully, and
inquires:

“Are you into S&M or do you like
pain?”

I feel revolted. Like a tidal wave, it sweeps
the cynicism away. I lose my footing. Has she been thinking that
all along, since the first day we met? What is it: my more than
occasional leatherwear? My short hair constantly shaved then
bleached? My pierced eyebrow? I frown, recoiling with revulsion at
the possibility of an S&M involvement from my part. I slowly
reply:

“The simple suggestion shocks me.”

She apologizes. Her smile radiates
warmth.

I don’t like pain. But I went through it long
enough to let Keiko’s tattooist, a talented woman, cut through my
skin, puncture it and engrave the colourful human skull and its
reptilian acolytes deep around my arm. Janis doesn’t like pain
either. A dental appointment is her idea of Hell on Earth.

The six-and-half-year-old little girl is
still on my mind. She chose pancakes versus Death on a rainy
afternoon. It was a boring family outing at St Michael’s Mount. I
still wonder why.

My one and only tattoo is hardly two weeks
old. Healed up, but itchy. Janis gets up to go to the loo. I watch
her walking away. Swinging her hips and her shoulders. Like if she
was on high heels. I could imagine a purse dangling at her
fingertips. Does she always walk like that? She looks so smart and
elegant. Is she feeling self-conscious? Can she feel my gaze
following her a few inches behind? Jeans, white shirt, flowing
around her lanky frame. I think she wears flat shoes. I forget to
look at her feet. When she comes back, my eyes flee, quickly,
swiftly.

She says she is off to the States in
December. Buying her ticket next week. New Mexico. Arizona. The
Four Corners. I’d love to fly with her and see the desert. Feel the
hot sand of the Painted Desert under my bare feet. I keep the
tantalizing thought safely hidden in a secret recess of my
brain.

Dessert time. A discreet drizzle behind the
window. I order a Mexican hot chocolate. I am not into drinking
chocolate, but I wanna try this utmost traditional recipe. It’s got
a reputation of ultimate experience. She orders cookies: chocolate
chili, wedding, cinnamon. She isn’t so keen on them after tasting.
My hot chocolate is one of the most wonderful things on Earth.

Time to make tracks. Already? It is always
too soon.

Predictable lines:

“You’re going home?”

I smile inside. “Nope.”

“Where are you going?”

“Brixton.” Well, it’s only ten minutes from
my home in Camberwell. I’m flatsitting this month. That’s how I
love my life. Half of it (no more) all over the place. I’ll be
catsitting in Kennington after. I make sure Janis knows when I’m
there, so I can invite her around to watch videos. X-Files is my
weak point. Not the weakest. But anyway, Janis is a fan of Agent
Scully, too.

As payment for our dinner, I produce a
voucher. I won it on a radio show. About time I use it: the
expiration date is tomorrow.

11 pm. I walk Janis to the bus stop. I love
this woman. I wanna spend every possible second with her. I wait
with her. We talk under the dark rainy sky. About ex-girlfriends.
Hers has been giving her a hard time since they split up, about two
years ago. I bumped into mine at the latest Gay Pride. Oh, what a
cliché. But I didn’t hide behind a tree, as there were no trees
around.