Descendant

Bynes Road

We drove Bullet back to Beddington Park. The woods where the middle-aged woman and the little boy had been killed were already screened off with ten-foot-high sacking, and signs saying Metropolitan Police No Entry. I took the Kit out of the trunk of the car, and then we showed our identity cards to three sweating bobbies in shirtsleeves, who allowed us in.

Inspector Ruddock was still there, looking even closer to detonation than before. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What the devil do you want?”

“We’re going to be following any trail that the perpetrators may have left behind them.”

“About bloody time. I wanted to get the dogs out hours ago, but believe it or not I was countermanded.” He pronounced “countermanded” as if it were one of the most disgusting words in the English language, like “mucus.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” I said, trying to calm him down, but that only made his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare even more widely. I have to say, though, that I loved apoplectic Englishmen like him, especially if they were on my side. They were like hand grenades with the pin out, morning till night.

Jill let Bullet off the leash and he scampered off through the woods. I gave Inspector Ruddock a halfhearted salute, and then I followed Bullet and Jill, carrying my Kit.

“Madness,” I heard Inspector Ruddock protesting. “Bloody lunacy, the whole bloody thing.”

In the clearing, we found two forensic scientists from the Metropolitan Police Laboratory at Hendon, still raking through the leaves and taking photographs.

“OK if we play through?” I asked them.

One of them stood up and took out a pipe. “Actually, old boy, we’ve just about finished here. No footprints, but plenty of blood samples. If you catch the blighters, we should be able to match them for you.”

He lit up his pipe, and he was sucking at it furiously when his companion came over, holding up his tweezers.

“George — have a dekko at this.” I thought he was showing us a leaf at first: a curled-up shred of something pale and wobbly, with turquoise-tinged edges.

George took out his pipe and peered at it. “Human skin,” he said, almost at once. I suddenly thought of the shots that I had fired at the ginger-haired girl, and the lumps of flesh that had sprayed out of her arm.

“That’s green,” said Jill.

“Of course, which tells us that the owner of this particular piece of skin must have been dead for at least twenty-four hours.”

I looked at Jill and gave her the slightest shake of my head. She looked back at me, wide-eyed. Don’t say a word about Screechers.

“Odd,” said George. “You haven’t had any earlier reports of any missing persons in this area, have we?”

“Not that I know of,” I told him. “But take that piece of skin back to your laboratory, would you, and preserve it? We might need it for evidence later.”

George said, “What’s going on here? I really get the feeling that we’re being kept in the dark.”

“Yes, you are. And for a very good reason.”

George took out his pipe again. “It’s not very helpful, you know, when they keep us in the dark. Hard to know what we’re supposed to be looking for.”

“You’re looking for anything that doesn’t seem to be natural. Like that piece of skin.”

“Hmm,” said George, frowning around the clearing as if he had lost something important.

Bullet picked up the Screechers’ trail almost immediately, and began to trot ahead of us with his nose down. He led us to the edge of the park, and out into the suburban streets again, heading back in the direction of Croydon Aerodrome. Every now and then we found spots of blood on the sidewalk, which indicated that the ginger-headed girl must have been pretty seriously wounded.

Jill said, “Another thing — I always thought that vampires could only come out at night.”

“You’re thinking about the nosferatu, like Dracula, and all the vampires you see in the movies.”

“The strigoi are different?”

“They have some similarities, but they’re more like distant cousins. The thing is, the strigoi were isolated for hundreds of years in the forests and mountains and small village communities in Romania, and because of that they became very inbred, and they developed different strengths and different weaknesses. They can walk around in sunlight, which the nosferatu can’t do, and they can eat normal food. And, like I say, there’s even a legend that female Screechers can even conceive.”

“How can a dead woman give birth to a live baby?”

“Search me. How can a dead woman walk around at all? But when a strigoi vii becomes a strigoi mort, there’s a radical change in its body chemistry. It becomes — I don’t know, like liquid mercury, and smoke. It can walk on ceilings and it can pass through a gap only an inch wide, which is why the people in Romania always close their windows at night, even in the summer.”

“Here, look,” said Jill. Bullet had reached a red mailbox at the corner of the street — what the British call a pillar box. The female Screecher must have leaned against it for a while, because there were splatters of blood on the asphalt pavement all around it, and a smear of blood on the white enamel plaque which gave the times of mail collections.

“I hope she hasn’t gone too much farther,” I said. We had already walked over a mile and a half, and we were close to the perimeter of the aerodrome.

But Bullet turned around and barked at us, and so we continued.

We climbed a grassy hill next to the main airfield, where young children were flying kites and kicking footballs. From here, we could see all the way across Croydon, with its Victorian town hall tower, and even as far as the City of London, and the dome of St. Paul’s. It could have been idyllic, “Earth has not anything to show more fair,” if we hadn’t been following that dogged black Labrador on the trail of strigoi.

As we crossed the grass, Jill said to me, “I was wondering how you started chasing Screechers. It’s rather a funny choice of career, don’t you think?”

“Hey — I’m not a professional Screecher-chaser. My real job is giving cultural advice to businessmen. You know, if American executives want to know how they should behave when they sell their products in Belgium, say, or Greece, or India, I tell them what the protocol is. In India, for instance, nobody ever says no. You want something they don’t have, they always tell you tomorrow.”

“So why Screechers?”

“My mother’s fault, most of all. She was Romanian. She told me all about the strigoi when I was little, and when I went to college I did a whole lot of research into them. Without really meaning to I became something of an international expert.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about my mother just now. I didn’t want Jill to know how intent I was on hunting down Duca, and destroying it, and why. In any case, anger was unprofessional. Anger could lead to fatal mistakes.

Bullet led us across the field and back into crowded residential streets. Soon I found that we were walking down a street that I recognized. It was the same street where the birthday-party massacre had taken place. We passed the same house and the same Victorian church, and soon we were back on the busy main road, just opposite the Red Deer pub. I would have given £5 for a beer right then, even a warm one, but of course the pub’s doors were closed.

We passed a small parade of shops, a barber’s and a chemist’s and a sweetshop. Outside the sweetshop there was a color poster for The Curse of Frankenstein, starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, showing next week at the Regal Cinema.

“I can’t stand horror films,” said Jill, and then she looked at me with a self-deprecating smile. “I’m really not very good for this job, am I?”

“Jill — nobody’s good for this job, believe me, but some poor sucker has to do it. You’re doing fine.”

Jill bent down to take hold of Bullet’s collar and we crossed the main road. On the other side, the streets were even narrower and the houses were smaller and closer together — orange-brick Victorian terraces with black slate roofs. We walked up a short steep hill into Bynes Road, which backed on to the main London to Brighton railroad line. We were only halfway up the road when — just above the rooftops — a Pullman express train flew past, with its distinctive brown-and-cream carriages, and pink table lamps shining in every window. Whoosh, bang, a decompression of air, and it was gone.

“That was the Brighton Belle,” said Jill. “London to Brighton in sixty minutes flat, and a good lunch, too.”

“Well — we’ll have to do that one day, you and me, when this is all over. And paddle in the sea.”

“Yes,” she said, “that would be lovely.”

Bullet continued to sniff his way along the sidewalk, but then I said, “Grab his collar, Jill! Look.”

About a hundred yards farther up the street, a glossy black Armstrong-Siddeley saloon was parked. Apart from a ten-year-old Morris and a motorcycle, it was the only vehicle in the street, and it was far more expensive than anything that the people round here could have afforded — well over $4,000 new, I would have guessed.

Bullet whined and strained, but Jill pulled him back across the street, and we took shelter in the doorway of a small laundry on the corner. The woman behind the counter looked at us oddly, but didn’t come to ask us why two grown people and a dog were playing hide-and-go-seek in the front of her shop.

We waited over ten minutes, and then the front door of the house opened. After a further pause, a tall gray-haired man in a gray suit appeared. He was too far away for me to be able to see his face clearly, but he had a very upright bearing, and he was carrying a cane. He opened the garden gate, and as he did so he turned back to the house, as if he were saying something to the occupant. Then he climbed into the Armstrong-Siddeley and drove off.

Bullet made another strangled noise, as if he were disappointed that the man had gone. “I’ll bet money that was Duca,” I said.

“Well, we have his registration number,” said Jill. “All we have to do now is get the Ministry of Transport to look it up for us. NLT 683.”

“I’ll call Terence. Then I want to take a look in that house.”

I went into the laundry and asked the woman if she had a phone I could use. “Of course,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, sure. My girlfriend and I are just playing a trick on somebody. It’s his birthday.”

“Oh,” said the woman, blinking at me. Then, “You’re American, aren’t you?” as if that explained why I was behaving so strangely.

When the MI6 operator put me through to Terence, he sounded distracted. I gave him the license number of Duca’s car, and told him that I’d call him back later.

“But, Terence — on no account take any action, even when you’ve found out who the car belongs to.”

“Don’t worry, old man. I wouldn’t have the first idea.”

We walked up Bynes Road toward the house. It had a peeling, brown-painted front door, and a knocker in the shape of Mr. Punch. The tiny front garden was covered over with concrete but dandelions were growing up between the cracks. I tried to see into the front window but a pair of sagging net curtains were drawn across it, and all I could make out was the sunlight shining in the backyard. In Louisville they would have called this a “shotgun” house, in the sense that you could fire a shotgun in through the front door and the pellets would go clear through the house without touching anything.

The front door of the adjoining house opened, and an elderly woman appeared, wearing a flowery summer dress that appeared to have been modeled on a bell-tent, and wrinkled red socks. From the open door I could hear “Diana” playing on the radio. “I’m so young and you’re so old.”

The elderly woman made a phlegmy noise in her throat and said, “If you’re looking for the Browns, mate, they’ve been poorly.”

“Really? When was the last time you saw them?”

“Three days ago. The doctor’s been round twice a day. He even came round in the middle of the night. I asked him what was wrong with them and he said meningitis.”

“Was that their doctor? The guy in the black sedan?”

“That’s right. He’s not their usual doctor, though. Their usual doctor’s Dr. Bedford. I suppose he’s on his holidays, Dr. Bedford.”

“Yes, I imagine he is. Well — thank you for telling us.”

The elderly woman didn’t appear to be in any hurry to go back into her house. She said, “I go to Dr. Cotterill myself. She’s a woman doctor. You don’t want to go to a man doctor at my age. I get this rash on my legs, see.”

“I see.”

I thought we were going to be delayed there for hours, talking about the woman’s skin problems, but after two or three minutes a younger woman appeared at her front door and told her that her tea was getting cold, so she went inside.

I said, “Thank God the British can’t survive for more than ten minutes without a cup of tea.”

“I think there’s somebody in the living room,” said Jill. “I saw a shadow moving across toward the door.”

I shielded my eyes with my hand, and she was right. There was definitely somebody in the house, moving around, although it was impossible to tell what they were doing. I decided to go in cold. Normally, I would have made sure that we had covered the back of the house, but the railroad embankment was very steep and trains were rattling past every three or four minutes, some of them at fifty or sixty miles an hour, and even a Screecher would have thought twice about trying to escape that way.

I opened the garden gate and went up to the front door. It may have been bolted on the other side, but the main lock was only a cheap Yale. I turned my back on it, and at the same time I reached behind me and took out my gun. Jill said nothing, but held on to Bullet’s collar and waited. “Don’t let Bullet go,” I warned her. “These bastards are capable of breaking his neck without blinking. And once I’m inside, bring my Kit in, will you, as quick as you can?”

“All right,” said Jill, apprehensively.

I had started to count to three, “One — two — ” when I heard the young man’s voice inside the house.

“Who’s there? Is there somebody outside? Beryl — there’s somebody outside, I can smell them!”

Without any more hesitation I kicked backward and the door burst open. I barged into the hall and hurled myself sideways so that I virtually bounced off the wall. There were three or four coats hanging up and for one desperate moment I was entangled in empty sleeves, as if the coats were trying to catch hold of me, but then I fought my way out of them and pushed my way into the living room.

The young man we had seen in the park was standing in the far corner, behind a frayed brown couch. Lying on the couch was the gingery-headed girl, with its knee heavily bandaged. The living room was stuffy and hot, and there was a sickening smell of putrescent flesh and dried herbs, the unmistakable stench of Screechers.

“Jill!” I yelled, pointing my gun at them with both hands. “Get in here, now!”

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” the young man sneered at me. “Kill us?”

“We’ll suck you empty,” said the gingery-haired girl. “You and your girlfriend. And your bleeding dog.” There was no doubt where the piece of skin in the park had come from: the girl’s face had a pale greenish tinge to it and its eyes were already starting to milk over. It was very close to becoming a strigoi mort.

Jill came in with my Kit. Bullet was close behind her, eager to get at the two Screechers, but Jill said, “Stay, Bullet!” and he reluctantly waited in the hallway, panting, his tail thumping against the umbrella stand.

Keeping my gun pointed at the young man, I went down on one knee and opened up my Kit. The young man started to come around the side of the couch, and as it did so it took his kitchen knife out of its belt.

“I’m going to split you wide open, mate, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

I was reluctant to shoot it. For one thing, I didn’t want the neighbors to call the police. For another thing, I had only six Last Supper bullets left, and I wanted to conserve them. The young man came up to me, crouching slightly, holding out its knife, and grinning. Like most Screechers, it thought that it was immortal, and that even if I shot it, it would survive.

“I think that’s near enough, son,” I warned it. Out of my case, I lifted the Bible with the ash-wood cover and the silver crucifix, and held it up in front of it. Immediately, it turned its face away, as if I had shone a blinding light in its eyes. The gingery-haired girl clamped both her hands over its face and cried out, “What’s that? Micky, what’s that?”

“I’ll tell you what this is. This is the first Bible that was translated into Romanian for Serban Cantacuzino, of Wallachia, when he swore to rid his country of unholy vermin like you.”

“Take it away!” the girl screamed at me. “Take it away, it’s hurting my eyes!”

The young man raised one hand to protect its face, and started to edge its way toward me again. But then I handed the Bible to Jill, and said, “Open it where it’s bookmarked, and hold it up high.”

She took the Bible and found the faded red ribbon. Then she opened it wide and held it up. It was marked at Revelation, Chapter 20: “A prins balaurul — arpele eel veche, care este Diavolul i Satan, l — a legat pentru o mie de ani.”

Both Screechers found it almost impossible to see. When I had first used this Bible on a Screecher, during World War Two, I hadn’t been able to believe that the word of God could have such a blinding effect on them. But they were totally unholy, and it did. It was like throwing salt on slugs.

I shoved my gun back into its holster and took out my silver-wire whip. I made Jill take a step backward, toward the door, and then I lashed it sideways so that it wound itself around the young man’s chest, pinning its arms. I gave the whip a sharp yank, and the young man fell onto the worn-out carpet, struggling and swearing.

“What you done to me, you bastard? What you done?”

You never forget how to restrain a Screecher. After you’ve done it often enough, you could almost do it in your sleep. Kneel on its chest, fasten its thumbs together with the silver thumbscrews, then drag off its rancid shoes and fasten its big toes together, until you hear the screws crunch into the bones. The gingery-headed girl kicked and wrestled me, too, but for a Screecher it was very weak. I must have hurt it badly when I shot it, and Jill helped me by holding the Bible right in front of its turquoise-mottled face so that it was completely dazzled.

When I had tightened up their thumbscrews and toescrews, I pulled the young man so that it was sitting upright, and unwound the whip. Then I dragged the girl off the couch so that it was sitting upright, too, back-to-back, and I wound the whip around both of them, so hard that it was cutting into their arms.

Jill looked at me, and I could see that she was disturbed.

“You’re going to regret this, you bastard,” the young man told me.

“Not half as much as you are, sunshine.” You see how British I was becoming, and I’d only been there a couple of days. “Especially if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

“I’m not telling you nothing. You can effing eff off.”

“I want to know where Duca is, that’s all.”

“Micky’ll split you wide open and I’ll drink you dry,” the girl spat at me.

“Um, I don’t think so. You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that I can’t kill you. The truth is, I can, and I’m going to.”

Jill was still holding up the Bible. I said, “It’s OK, Jill, you can put that down now. The only way these characters are getting out of here is in a sack.”

She slowly closed the Bible and put it back into my Kit. “You’re not really going to.?”

“Kill them? Of course. They’re half-dead already. But I need some information first.”

“Why should we tell you anything?” said the young man. “If you’re going to kill us anyway, what’s the effing difference?”

“The difference is that if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to hurt you both very badly.”

Jill said, “Jim — can I talk to you? Outside, if that’s all right.”

“Sure. These two aren’t going anyplace.”

She went out into the front garden. I could see that she was very agitated. Bullet stayed close to her and kept looking up at her anxiously.

“Jim, they told me that you were going to kill the Screechers, when you found them, but I never realized that it was going to be like this.”

I didn’t know what to say. She was a lovely and sensitive young woman and I really didn’t want to distress her, but she had to realize that we were hunting some of the most disgusting parasites on the face of the earth and there was no easy or humane way of exterminating them.

“Listen,” I said, “why don’t you go back to that laundry and call Terence for me again? Tell him where we are and tell him that we’re going to need an unmarked van. He’ll know what you mean.”

“I don’t know how you can do this,” she said.

“If it’s any consolation, neither do I.”

“How long do you need?”

“Give me ten minutes, OK? If they’re going to talk, that should be long enough.”

“And if they don’t?”