The Reformed Vampire Support Group (3 page)

During all the years I’ve known him, he has never,
ever
exceeded the speed limit.

‘You might want to come with me, Sanford,’ Father Ramon remarked, when his own vehicle had stopped moving. He jerked at the handbrake as he turned his key in the ignition. ‘Casimir might need some help.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Sanford replied. Then he glanced into the back seat. ‘Someone had better stay with Bridget,’ he added. ‘She wouldn’t even make it up the stairs.’

‘I’ll stay,’ Gladys offered, in a feeble voice. ‘Casimir smells, and I feel sick enough already.’

‘Then I’ll go too,’ I said. Because the sad fact is that Gladys happens to be a chronic whiner, who rarely talks about anything except her own health problems. She claims that she suffers more severely from symptoms and side-effects than the rest of us do – though
I’ve noticed that she’s never too sick to curl and colour her hair. (She’s not a natural blonde, that’s for sure.) At any rate, I was in no mood to hear about her rotting toenails.

‘I want to see Casimir’s flat, anyway,’ I said, pushing open the back door. ‘I’ve never been in there.’

‘It isn’t very exciting,’ the priest observed doubtfully. He seemed to have forgotten that
any
new venue is exciting when you don’t get out much. Like the rest of our group, I have to put up with a very limited existence: I never meet any strangers, I conduct most of my business online, and I’m frequently so ill or exhausted that I spend entire nights slumped in front of the television.

So I ignored Father Ramon and set off towards Dave’s car.

By this time it was empty. Dave and George and Horace had already climbed out, and were standing around with their hands in their pockets, waiting for us. Dave was dressed in his usual jeans and denim jacket, so he looked all right. George was wearing the kind of baggy, oversized, swamp-coloured clothes that you see on most sixteen-year-olds these days, so he wasn’t too conspicuous, despite the orange fuzz on his scalp.

Horace, however, had arrayed himself in a Gothic assortment of crushed velvet, black satin and patent leather that shouldn’t be allowed, in my view. He might as well have had
I AM A VAMPIRE
embroidered across the front of his watered-silk waistcoat. An outfit like that is going to get him staked one of these days; it’s exactly what Boris Karloff would have worn, if he’d joined the cast of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.

‘You shouldn’t be out in that stuff,’ I muttered, as soon as I was close enough to be heard. ‘Why not go the whole hog, and put on a bloody bat costume?’

‘Get in the car, Horace!’ Sanford snarled. He was close on my heels, and took me by surprise. Even Dave looked startled. But Horace
merely lifted one side of his mouth, exposing a yellowish fang.

‘Bite me, Sanford,’ was all that he said.

‘Is the intercom actually working?’ Father Ramon quietly asked Dave, before any further comment could be made on the subject of Horace’s ridiculous costume. ‘Did you press the other buttons?’

‘Only one,’ Dave replied. ‘A woman said hello.’

With a grunt, the priest pulled a bunch of keys from somewhere beneath his cassock. And Horace snorted.

‘I don’t know why you’re so worried about
my
clothes attracting attention,’ he remarked. ‘Father Ramon’s wearing a
dress
, for God’s sake!’

‘Shut up, Horace,’ said Dave. He must have been quite rattled, because he rarely snaps at anyone. On the contrary, he tends to slouch glumly in the background, hiding behind his hair and his five-o’clock shadow.

Sanford always used to say that Dave was stuck in the depression phase of the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle. But then again, Sanford was born in the nineteenth century; he thinks that any man who doesn’t shave every morning is either clinically depressed or a prison inmate.

He also likes to see women wearing hats, even in the middle of the night.

‘George, you should go and sit with Bridget and Gladys,’ he said, as Father Ramon strode down Casimir’s front path. ‘If anything happens, they’ll need somebody with them; they’re not fit to take care of themselves.’

Then he followed Father Ramon, leaving the rest of us dumb-struck – because George Mumford isn’t someone I’d like to have taking care of
me
. One look at his gormless, waxy, nondescript face is enough to tell you that he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box.

But perhaps that was why Sanford had decided to get rid of him. Perhaps Sanford felt that George was much better out of the way.

Horace certainly seemed to think so.

‘Yes, off you go, George,’ said Horace. ‘No reason why we should all head up there. We wouldn’t fit in, for a start.’

‘How do you know?’ I was taken aback. ‘Have you been inside Casimir’s flat?’

Horace shrugged.

‘I had to upgrade my
PC
, so I gave my old one to Casimir,’ he revealed. ‘
Someone
had to get him connected.’

‘To the Internet?’ This was ominous news, which hadn’t been debated at any of our meetings. Before I could pursue it, however, Dave beckoned to us.

‘Hurry up,’ he said, ‘if you’re coming.’

And we went.

The main entrance to Casimir’s building was protected by a security door with a missing pane of glass. Beyond it, a shabby foyer contained a noticeboard, a light switch, and something that was either an empty planter or a very large ashtray. The carpet looked older than I am. Cobwebs fluttered from inaccessible corners of the ceiling.

I couldn’t imagine how Casimir’s coffin had been lugged all the way up to the top floor.

‘Don’t make too much noise,’ the priest murmured, putting a finger to his lips. It was unnecessary advice. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt horribly vulnerable as we approached Casimir’s apartment. Every creak of the stairs made us wince. Every peephole in every numbered door seemed to be aimed straight at us, like a loaded gun. I couldn’t help wondering how on earth Casimir had survived in such a crowded place. How had he smuggled in his
guinea pigs? And by what means had he disposed of their telltale little corpses?

‘Uh-oh,’ said Horace, under his breath. I peered past him, unnerved by a muffled roar of canned laughter. Clearly, the occupants of number twelve were watching television. The walls were so thin that I could hear the clink of cutlery, and the sound of someone coughing.

Father Ramon had reached number fourteen. Even from where I was stationed, bringing up the rear, it was obvious that Casimir’s lock had been tampered with.

The spare key wouldn’t be needed after all.

‘It could have been a robbery,’ the priest said at last, his voice a mere thread of sound. ‘Casimir might have been scared away if he woke up and found the place ransacked.’

‘But why not call us?’ I whispered. And Horace hissed, ‘Let’s just go in. Now. Before somebody asks what the hell we’re doing.’

There was really no choice. Father Ramon pushed at Casimir’s front door, which creaked open to admit us. One by one, those of us wearing sunglasses slowly removed them.

Inside the flat, total silence reigned. I couldn’t even hear the humming of a fridge.

‘Casimir?’ said Father Ramon, hesitantly.

No one replied. It was very dark. Even so, there was enough light spilling across the threshold to show me that Casimir had taped sheets of cardboard over the windows. I could also see how bare the living room was; it contained one stool, one recliner chair, a portable
TV
on top of a milk crate, and a wooden desk supporting Casimir’s personal computer.

‘This place wasn’t robbed,’ Horace opined, as Father Ramon flicked the switch by the door. But nothing happened.

‘Oh dear,’ said the priest.

There was no bulb in the overhead socket. Vampires are extremely sensitive to artificial light; I realised suddenly that Casimir must have functioned quite well with only the
TV
and computer screens to illuminate his domestic environment.

That’s why I offered to turn on both machines.

‘I’ll do it,’ Dave said softly, and sidled towards them, step by cautious step. Sanford took the priest’s arm.

‘Just stand still, Father,’ he advised, in an undertone. ‘You might run into something, otherwise.’

At that instant the
TV
clicked on, brought to life by a jab of Dave’s finger. Shots rang out and music blared; we all flinched like nervous chihuahuas. Frantically Dave scrabbled around for the remote, which he used to adjust the volume.

For some reason, however, that blast of noise had changed things. It had broken the spell cast by such a creepy, all-encompassing silence. We felt safer, and more courageous.

Horace, for example, suddenly marched towards the kitchen.

‘There’s no one in here,’ he announced, peering into a narrow, murky, unrenovated nook. ‘Unless Casimir’s hiding in a cupboard.’

Gently, Father Ramon shut the front door. Sanford headed for the bathroom. Dave and I peered through another door, into a space that looked pitch black from where we were standing.

‘His coffin’s in there,’ the priest informed us. Dave and I exchanged glances.

‘You’ve got the best eyes,’ Dave pointed out – and it was true. I have terrific night vision. Perhaps it’s because I was infected at a younger age than anyone else in our group.

‘I found a candle,’ said Horace, from inside the kitchen. ‘Matches, too.’

But by then I was already stepping into Casimir’s bedroom, where I almost fell over his coffin. It had been placed directly onto
the floor, you see, and lay much too close to the entrance. Upon crouching down, and running my hands over a large expanse of polished wood, I discovered an extremely handsome piece of funeral furniture with brass fittings, carved embellishments, and a lid that was divided into two parts.

I couldn’t lift even one of these parts by myself.

‘You’ll have to help,’ I told Dave, who was hovering around in a nervous manner, as if he expected something to come leaping out of the shadows. Obediently, he squatted, his knees cracking.

‘You don’t think he’s still in there, do you?’ Sanford enquired from the doorway. All at once the room was flooded with a faint golden glow; I glanced around to see that Horace had entered, carrying his candle. He was shielding the flame with one hand, looking positively spectral in his black cape and frockcoat. His lank, oily, slicked-back hair gleamed like a billiard ball in the flickering light.

On either side of him stood Sanford and Father Ramon, their faces creased with anxiety.

‘I don’t know if he’s in here or not,’ was all I could say. ‘But we’d better check, don’t you think?’

Sanford gave a nod. Father Ramon made an approving noise. But Horace gestured towards a gigantic wardrobe that occupied about a quarter of the available space. Taped to one of its doors was a poster of Béla Lugosi.

‘That closet’s pretty big,’ said Horace, uneasily. ‘What if he’s in there?’

‘You should take a look,’ Sanford suggested. Horace blinked, his face a study in consternation. Before he could think up an excuse, however, Dave and I raised the lid of Casimir’s coffin.

Then we dropped it again.

Bang!

‘What’s wrong?’ said the priest.

I couldn’t reply. I had covered my mouth. Dave grabbed my arm suddenly, pulling me backwards as he straightened.

‘Oh, man,’ he groaned.

‘What’s in there?’ Sanford darted forward. ‘Is it him?’

‘Oh, shit,’ Dave rasped. At which point Horace relinquished his candle, thrusting it at Father Ramon. As the priest staggered, and I flinched, it was Horace who helped Sanford to raise the lid of the coffin again – exposing the grisly contents of that satin-lined box.

I’ll never forget what we saw in there. Not ever.

A dense pile of ash lay pillowed on several folded sheets. This ash had been slightly disturbed by a puff of displaced air; a sharpened stake had also scored a deep trench through its powdery heart. But despite all this interference, there was enough shape left in the mound to tell us everything we needed to know.

The ash was so fine – so delicately moulded – that I could see Casimir’s nostrils, and his earlobes, and his grin of agony.

There could be no doubt at all that he was dead.

When I saw
Casimir’s remains lying there, I was appalled. I was shocked. I was very, very frightened. So were Dave and Sanford and Horace.

But we didn’t feel bereft. That’s something I have to make clear. We didn’t grieve for Casimir because we didn’t really like him.

It was Casimir, you see, who first brought the vampire infection to this country.

He left Europe at the end of 1907, alarmed by the growing number of people there who had been reading
Dracula
. After choosing one of the most isolated spots on earth as his destination, he disguised himself as an Egyptian mummy, lying dormant and well-wrapped for the duration of his long sea voyage. In January 1908 he arrived in Sydney, where his sarcophagus was delivered to the Australian Museum. And on the night of January 23, he was released from his temporary entombment by Horace Whittaker.

If you check out the vestry of St Agatha’s on a Tuesday evening, you’ll find yourself looking at a collection of vampires who wouldn’t even be there, if it weren’t for Casimir Kucynski. Either directly or indirectly, he was responsible for infecting every single one of us. Take Horace, for instance. Horace was an aspiring young archaeologist when he prodded at Casimir’s bandages, down in
that dank museum basement a hundred years ago. I’ve seen him in a sepia-tinted photograph, wearing a high collar and a silly hat; you almost wouldn’t recognise his clear gaze, straight back and fresh face. Of course, it’s possible that Horace was a bit of a reprobate even before he became a vampire, but I doubt it. I think he changed after Casimir bit him. I don’t believe that the upright twenty-one-year-old in that picture would ever have considered making money off shonky Internet scams.

Naturally, Horace claims that his money comes from a cutting-edge computer program that he designed several years ago. But I beg to differ. From some of the things that George has let drop, I figure that Horace is running an embezzlement ring out of their house. And one of these days we’ll all get stung because of it.