The Reformed Vampire Support Group (11 page)

Dave grunted. Something about the timbre of that grunt made me turn my head to study his expression.

‘What?’ I said. And he sighed.

‘Well – I was wondering if it might turn out to be a problem,’ he confessed. ‘The way we look so harmless, I mean.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he might not believe that we’re vampires.’

‘But—’

‘Just think about it, Nina. We can’t fly. We can’t turn into bats. We aren’t a bit like Zadia Bloodstone. How are we going to prove who we are? Unless we fang the guy.’

It was a good point. As I turned it over in my mind, I realised that someone brought up on a diet of Bram Stoker might have trouble accepting the dismal reality of our condition. Even if that person
did
believe in vampires.

‘What about these?’ I said, tapping one of my canines. ‘These should do the trick, shouldn’t they?’

But Dave shook his head.

‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘They’re not especially big. Not like the ones in the movies.’ He gave a sniff. ‘You could open a can of fruit juice with those fangs in
Underworld
.’

‘So what do you suggest, then?’ I snapped. ‘Are you saying that one of us should volunteer to lie out in the sun?’

‘Come on, Nina.’ His tone was patient. No matter how hard I prodded him, he would never get riled; I figured he simply didn’t care enough to waste his energy on a sharp retort. ‘I’m not saying that,’ he murmured. ‘I just think we should be prepared.’

‘In case our killer doesn’t believe Father Ramon?’ I asked, jerking my chin at the priest. As Dave hesitated, I had a flash of inspiration. ‘Even if this guy doesn’t think we’re vampires, he’ll think we’re vampire supporters. And any vampires with friends like us
must
be harmless,’ I argued. When Dave didn’t answer, I shrugged. ‘Maybe you don’t agree,’ I said, turning away from him, ‘but whatever
happens, you ought to shave. Without all that hair you won’t look so suspicious.’

Dave’s mouth twisted. ‘Gee, thanks,’ he said dryly.

‘It’s true. Scrubby chins are for B-grade villains. You must have noticed.’ Then I spotted the fuel-gauge dial. ‘We’re getting a bit low on petrol, Dave.’

‘I know.’

‘We’ll have to stop at the next town.’

Luckily, the next town boasted an all-night service station, with a well-lit convenience store attached. As we pulled up beside a vacant pump, I stared in astonishment at the gigantic road train that was sitting nearby. Never before had I been so close to such a large vehicle.

It felt as if we’d parked next to a cruise liner.

‘Have you done this before?’ I inquired of Dave, overwhelmed by all the bright lights, big trucks and oily smells. Dave must have understood that I wasn’t thinking clearly – that I was confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Because he said, very kindly, ‘I’ve got my own car, Nina.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Of course.’

‘Do you think we should wake Father Ramon?’

We both surveyed the priest, who was still snoring away. It seemed a shame to disturb him. ‘He probably wouldn’t thank us,’ was my conclusion, and Dave agreed. But when he reached for the doorhandle, I caught his arm.

‘Do you think – I mean – can I go too?’

He hesitated.

‘Come on, Dave. Please? I haven’t been to the shops for
months
.’

You may be wondering why I had to ask permission – and why Dave seemed so reluctant to oblige. The reason is simple: I hadn’t been blooded. And although I’ve already mentioned blooding, I
didn’t really explain how important it is. You see, once you give in to that first impulse, and fang someone, you’re in trouble. You could fall off the wagon again at any time. According to Horace, the memory of that initial buzz stays with you; you’re like a heroin addict. But if you resist, you’ll never face the same degree of temptation ever again. Resistance gets easier and easier. That’s what Sanford says, anyway, and I believe him. After all, he’s had a hundred years of experience.

Horace was blooded just before he bit Sanford. Gladys was blooded at the Magdalene hospital; she fanged Bridget after a woman gave birth nearby. Bridget herself was blooded when she witnessed an accidental knife cut in the convent kitchen. But unlike Gladys, Bridget stood firm.

And she wasn’t the only one.

There are many theories as to why some vampires withstand the urge to infect people and some don’t. Sanford maintains that he never succumbed because he had the support of his wife. He says that Bridget was able to control herself owing to her very strong religious faith; she was accustomed to fighting what she called ‘the devil’s snares’. And Dave was lucky. His blooding took place the morning after he was infected, while he was staggering home. Though he passed another Saturday-night casualty on his way – a man who was bleeding from a split lip – Dave was still strong enough to ignore his own sudden, irrational desire to attack the guy’s jugular vein.

That’s why Sanford doesn’t worry about Dave the way he worries about Horace and Gladys and George, who aren’t allowed to go anywhere unless they’re accompanied by another, more reliable vampire. Gladys, for instance, has to take Bridget with her everywhere. Sanford and Dave are meant to be keeping a close eye on George and Horace. Casimir was always a special case; he
wasn’t supposed to appear in public unless he had at least
two
sponsors in attendance. (That was the rule, though he obviously wasn’t following it before he died.)

As for me, I was always the odd one out – because I’d never even been tempted. And when you’ve never been tempted, you’re treated like an unexploded bomb.

You get people looking at you the way Dave looked at me that night, under the blazing lights of a service station in the middle of nowhere.

‘Well … I dunno,’ he said. ‘There won’t be much to see. Just lollies and junk. Maybe a couple of stale meat pies …’

‘Five minutes. That’s all I want.’

But Dave shook his head.

‘It’s the sunnies,’ he objected. ‘Both of us wearing sunglasses, in the middle of the night. They’re going to think we’re here to rob the place.’

‘No they won’t. They’ll just think we’re wankers.’

‘Wankers can cop a lot of flack, mate. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’

‘Oh, come
on
.’ I was getting annoyed. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you could easily pass for a junkie after a bad week in jail.’ Seeing him swallow, I added, ‘Not that I’m any improvement, but let’s face it: you don’t need
me
to attract attention.’

‘We’ll ask Father Ramon,’ he decided, then reached over to jog the priest awake.

‘
What
? No!’ I tightened my grip on Dave’s arm. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Nina—’

‘Just check out that bloke over there!’ I said, pointing. ‘He’s much stranger than we are. If anyone looks like an armed robber, it’s
him
.’

The truck driver in question was huge, bald and wearing only a fox-fur waistcoat on his top half. A skull was tattooed across his scalp, and pictures of jellyfish adorned his bulging biceps. One narrow thread of beard ran along his left jawline, up over his top lip, and around to his other ear.

As he vanished into the shop, I offered up my final, clinching argument.

‘Anyway,’ I declared, ‘you can’t leave me here by myself. Not without a sponsor.’

‘Father Ramon—’

‘Might have a nosebleed,’ I finished, in triumphant tones. ‘It’s against the rules, Dave. You
know
that.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Dave sighed. ‘I’m too tired to argue. Let’s get this over with.’

He climbed out of the truck, and I followed him. It was unexpectedly cold; I found myself jigging from foot to foot while I waited for him to fill up the tank. Believe it or not, the changing numbers on the petrol pump fascinated me. So did the tyre-servicing equipment, and the window-washing squeegee, and the cage full of gas cylinders. It doesn’t take much to interest a person of my limited experience.

When I finally entered the shop, I was drawn first to the magazine rack, then to the rather impressive muffin display. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised that cranberry and walnut muffins even existed. It was also hard not to exclaim over the vast array of iced teas in the fridge, but I managed to restrain myself.

I didn’t utter a single word until Dave had finished paying the bleary-eyed man behind the counter. This man was obviously so exhausted that I doubt he would have raised an eyebrow if a T. rex had walked in and purchased a bag of popcorn. Two pallid vampires wearing sunglasses didn’t faze him in the least.

‘Wait,’ I said, as Dave began to nudge me towards the door. ‘Look. It’s an inflatable neck pillow. Do you think Father Ramon might need a neck pillow?’

‘I think he might need a neck
brace
, if we’re not careful,’ Dave warned me – and I soon saw what he meant. The bald trucker, who had preceded us out of the shop, was now standing near our bright orange van. His arms were folded, and there was a frown on his face. With him was another huge truck driver with grey hair and a beer belly. The two men were engaged in a muttered conversation as they stared at the back of the van.

Father Ramon was still asleep.

‘Don’t stop,’ Dave advised, under his breath. I had pulled up short at the sight of Baldie’s glower, and Beer Belly’s broken nose. ‘Let
me
do the talking.’

‘No,’ I whispered, ‘let me. They won’t punch me.’

‘Shh!’

Upon approaching our van, we quickly realised why it had attracted an audience. Now that the petrol pump beside it wasn’t humming away, the shrill piping of distressed guinea pigs could be heard quite clearly. I have to admit, it did sound odd.

Beer Belly seemed only mildly intrigued, but Baldie was scowling. ‘They’re guinea pigs,’ Dave explained, with a sickly grin.

Beer Belly retreated hurriedly; I had a feeling that he was embarrassed. Baldie sniffed.

‘They’re fine,’ I assured him, before Dave could continue. ‘It’s a big cage. They just don’t like travelling, that’s all – they’re very neurotic.’ Hoping to persuade this hulking, tattooed animal-lover that the guinea pigs were cherished pets (rather than tomorrow’s breakfast), I added, ‘They’re mine. Their names are Torquil, Huntingdon, Arabella and … um … Sanford.’

Perhaps I came across as being a bit odd, what with my sunnies,
my bleached complexion, and my list of romance-writer names. The trucker peered at me as if I’d just told him that I had two hearts.

‘Come on,’ said Dave, who’d pulled open the driver’s-side door. He didn’t exactly shove me back into the cabin, but he certainly applied a lot of pressure to my elbow. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner we can let ’em out, eh?’

I was astonished to see that Father Ramon hadn’t moved. Sliding into the seat next to him, I was assailed by a sudden, terrible fear that he might be in a coma – or worse – and shook him furiously.

He woke with a start, mumbling something about rosters. Then his eyes focused.

‘Nina,’ he croaked. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘No.’ I glanced into the rear-view mirror just as Dave joined us, slamming the door behind him. Like me, he peered up at the mirror.

We saw that Baldie was walking away.

‘Thank Christ,’ said Dave, and slumped against the steering wheel. In a matter of seconds, all the nervous energy seemed to drain from his limbs; his head drooped, his shoulders sagged, his lungs deflated as he heaved a great sigh of relief. ‘That could have been a disaster.’

‘What could have been a disaster?’ the priest demanded, and I had to explain that someone had heard our guinea pigs.

‘But it’s okay now,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it, Dave?’

‘I guess.’

‘Nobody’s going to call the
RSPCA
, or anything. It’s not illegal to put guinea pigs into the back of a removalist’s van.’ When Dave didn’t rally – when he remained with his forehead propped against the steering wheel – I regarded him with some concern. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him, conscious of a nauseous sensation in my own stomach. ‘Are you feeling sick?’

‘I’m feeling wiped out.’ He raised his head to address Father Ramon. ‘Can you take over now? I need a break. I didn’t realise how tiring this would be.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the priest replied. And he swapped seats with Dave, while I watched Baldie drive away in his enormous semitrailer. I was concerned that he might be heading west, and that we might continue to encounter him at other petrol stations, or on the kind of narrow, lonely, two-lane roads that you often see in horror movies about serial killers.

We were lucky, though. When he reached the highway he turned right, and I saw that he was heading in an easterly direction.

We turned left, continuing on towards Cobar.

Dave was soon
feeling well enough to drive again. But he wasn’t behind the wheel for very long. We were already through Dubbo when I checked the time, and realised that we had less than half an hour in which to protect ourselves from the deadly approach of sunrise.

So we pulled off the road before clambering out onto the dry red earth.

As we opened the back of the van, the guinea pigs warbled accusingly. They were in a foul mood. Father Ramon suggested that their cage be moved to the front seat; he wouldn’t mind the noise, he said, because it would help to stop him from dozing off.

‘We could put a towel underneath them,’ he added, but Dave shook his head.

‘It’s all right, Father,’ Dave replied. ‘They won’t keep
us
awake. Nothing ever does.’

Fortunately, the sleeping-bags were already unrolled, and tied down like cupboards or pianos. Had they not been secured, Dave and I might have bounced around like ping-pong balls every time the van hit a bend or a pothole. We might never have reached our destination in one piece. But we emerged unscathed from the final leg of the trip, which ended outside a place called the Miner’s Rest Motel.

Needless to say, I was unconscious long before our arrival. I missed the unforgettable sight of a desert dawn. I missed the kangaroos that fled from our approach, their grey backs bobbing above the sandbanks. Though I heard about these things later, from Father Ramon, I might have been six feet underground for all the impression they made on me. Lying in the back of the van, with my alpine sleeping-bag zipped up over my face, I must have listened to about ten minutes of rattles and jingles and high-pitched squeaking before I blacked out.