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Nicholas Brookes – p.i. ~ the story concludes.
12:36 May 26 2007
Times Read: 1,083






Chapter Four



“So what do you recall of that night, Nicholas?” She asked me curiously.

For some reason, I found her use of my name disturbing.

Yet, as I answer her, I find that she’s seemingly more affable than I recall, almost friendly; suggested by her smile of encouraged and occasional verbal prompts.

“I had followed Lee from New Brighton, down the promenade, toward Egremont. Then I had watched from the other side of the way from her as she’d approached a fisherman, with his long black carbon-fibre rod dangling a line into the water.

She had struck up a conversation with him: not difficult for a young pretty woman, dressed in next to nothing; while he was portly and in his fifties; and obviously on his own. Then, as they talked, she had had turned and embraced him, holding him tightly: and torn open the man’s jugular. And blood had spurted from the open wound, as I’d watched: and she’d eaten his flesh as he died, choking on his own blood.

When she had seemed satisfied; she had dropped his body to the ground and then continued to walk down the promenade, not even looking back at the corpse.”

As I finished talking, Nancy looked down to the toes of her elegant shoes.

Finally after a second or so, she returned her gaze to mine.

“You weren’t meant to live…” She told me, flatly.

“But then, how was I to know she’d eat first?”

“What?” I asked, in a high-pitched voice.

What she said has had me feeling stunned.

She intended me to be a meal? Was that it?

So, that’s what I asked.

And the redhead laughed, briefly.

“Aw c’mon, a two-bit private-eye. It was to be a game, with my little sister. I just wondered how long it’d take for her to realise she was being followed...”

Completely thrown by what I’d heard I just stared open-mouthed.

“But Lee liked you and when you fought back she let you run, to live, like us.”

“You what!” I queried, loudly.

And she continued talking slowly, as if to a child.

“Judging by what I’ve seen, you’ve made your firstkill…”

Crossing her arms, Nancy Lockheart paused and smiling, she expanded further:

“The mess you made in the office suggests you fought the change, here…”

“The lift?” I quizzed.

“Ah, your firstkill, the caretaker,” she smiled; “Well, I do clean up, after family..”

“Family?”

“Nicholas my sweet,” again that familiar use of my name, “you are Kindred.”

The redhead smiled at me.

“And Lee does want to see you again!”

Nicholas Brookes – p.i.
13:47 May 21 2007
Times Read: 1,094

Chapter Three



Crouching down I dipped my right forefinger into the dark congealed mess.

I don’t know why. But, I did. It’s not as if I thought about it, I didn’t,

The compulsion was almost overwhelming.

I brought the finger to my lips, tasting the dark bittersweet syrup.

It was strange to me, never in a thousand years would I have done such a thing, yet I had just done so… There was a dichotomy to my action. I felt repulsed by what I’d done; yet still found the taste somewhat gratifying.

Once the lift got to the ground floor, I closed the gate and left the building quickly and left Temple Court and begun to walk down Dale Street toward the river.

Bright as it was, I was glad of my glasses, as they quickly turn as dark as I needed to shade my eyes from the glare of the light.

Passers-by look at my curiously and I can’t help but wonder whether its me they’re looking at, or just my growing feeling of unease.

I walked down to the riverfront and stood by the railings overlooking the new landing stage and rolled and smoked one cigarette after another, watching as the ferry crossed the Mersey several times. I watched the Sea-cat come in with passengers disembarking from Ireland; and Japanese tourist passed by me, with their cameras and smiles for one another. Eventually I decided to return to my office.

Once back at the building, I pull the lift-gate open and entered the lift.

There was no blood on the floor I noticed.

So, the rumours were true, the building does have a maintenance man…

Jarring on its journey upward, the old lift swayed at times as I made my way back to the office and the mess there.

Much as I keep telling myself to walk as I find the thing so scary, I never have.

I guess I’m just lazy.

So I use the lift.

But, sometimes the old ratchet and cable system that works the thing makes it sway so, you almost feel as if the next inch of its journey will abruptly change; and you’ll suddenly go plummeting ground ward.

So, I’m always glad when I get to my floor, even if it is as dark as it is.

Yet, as I opened the cage door, I noticed light through the partially open office door.

‘Odd,’ I mused, ‘I can’t recall leaving it on.’

So, with mounting unease, I’d walked as quietly as possible to the door: and stood just to the left of the doorway, as I pushed open the door and peered inside.

“Mister Brookes…?” A voice: a woman’s voice enquired, as I pushed it further open.

Nancy.

It was my client.

“Didn’t know I’d left the door open.” I pronounced, standing in the doorway.

“I didn’t know you were such a poor housekeeper.” She responded mirthlessly.

“Maids day off,” I retorted, entering my office and turning my seat upright.

Then as I sat and leant forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped and steepled my fingers together.

Righting the chair that generally stood in front of my desk and putting it back in place, Nancy stared at me.

“So,” she began, “are you going to tell me what happened here?”

“Lady, if I knew, I might tell you...”

“Might?” She queried.

“Yeah, ‘might’…” I told the redhead, as I reached down, opened the drawer and retrieved my bottle of whiskey.

“Things have got stranger and stranger for me, since I met you and your sister…”

Pouring my drink, I cast a quick glance at her as I spoke.

She was watching me, closely.

Studying me, I thought.

“So… you met my sister?” Ms. Lockheart asked me.

Met her?

That was one way of phrasing it…

“Yes.”

That I’d remembered.

Then nothing… except, there were memories: flashes of thought more like… of blood, pain… and then, a blank.

Something had happened to me: and the half-smile the redhead she wore suggested she knew more than I did.

Nicholas Brookes – p.i.
14:47 May 10 2007
Times Read: 1,128

Chapter 2



As if wasn’t bad enough that I had to find the rent, I’ve woken to find that someone has trashed my office. What little furniture I have is overturned and there are papers everywhere. And, there’s a hole in my memory the size of a night.

I know I drank a lot, but that’s never resulted in memory loss before.

So why now?

As I attempt to rub my head clear of the fog clouding my thoughts, I realise that the left shoulder is moving well – the one that had been bitten: it’s healed.

Surreal.

That and the memory loss infer something strange. But, that’s not for now.

For now, I think perhaps a walk is called for, to the riverfront perhaps? I need a clear head; especially if I’m going to figure out what to tell Nancy Lockheart today.

‘Sorry love, but the night before last, your sister tore a piece out of me and now I feel a tad strange!’ Oh yes, I can see that going down well.

But, I’ve got to tell her something: besides anything else, I need to get paid.

And then, whatever I tell her, it’s got to have the ring of truth to it.

I take my coat from the floor and pull it on and don my reactolites: sometimes I’m told they look ‘cool.’

But they’re not shades, they’re small round gold-framed glasses, even if the prescription isn’t a strong one. I need them, as I’m photosensitive and wearing them there’s no migraine. But, I swear, if one person calls me John Lennon while I’m out, then I’ll scream. Gaunt I maybe; thinning hair, check; round gigs, check!

But dead? Well, not yet.

Yet these thoughts quickly pass as I close the cage doors to the lift and absently stare down as I pressed the button for the ground floor.

At my feet is a pool of blood: dark and congealed.

The Old House
23:22 May 09 2007
Times Read: 1,134

James stood in the hallway and closed the front door. Outside it was sunny, while inside it was dark, gloomy and foreboding. He closed his eyes for a second, before looking to his younger self, walking up the stairs, hand upon the balustrade.

He had sworn not to return here again, having left many years earlier. Yet here he was once again. James opened his eyes and decided to follow, as he had once chased that first kiss. His life had been spent full of angst, looking back on the self-destruction of his life, avoiding the move.

As he toured the second floor James recalled the brooding type she had been drawn to, who no longer existed and he felt hollow, as he tried first one door, then another.

With cautious steps he warily trod through the miasma of memory.

Many of the doors were locked, yet one opened to a dust strewn room, full of detritus which he walked through, to look out of grime covered windows: and, James drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped through the dirt, to stare out at the sunny day outside.

Nicholas Brookes - p.i.
18:04 May 08 2007
Times Read: 1,150

I work from an old building just round the corner from Moorefields Station, in Liverpool. Inside it’s all wrought iron walkways, with two stairways, that make their way between the thirteen floors.

I know there’s a maintenance man; but maybe he’s just a legend, the same as I’ve learnt of. I don’t know. But, I digress: as I was starting to say, my office is right at the top, on the thirteenth floor. There is a lift, but like the light bulbs on the third and seventh floor, it doesn’t get to my office door.

All of this makes it sound as though I’m hard done by. I’m not.

The building has a beautiful old Victorian façade and pleasant to the eye; and the rent is cheap, which allows me the luxury of the single malt that I like to drink.

And, I’d been drinking the odd one or three tots that afternoon, three days ago, as sunlight gamely fought to pass the grime covering the office windows.

There’d been a knock a knock on the door, so as no-one was expected I’d taken my feet of the desk, at the possible prospect of a customer.

“Come in,” I’d called out; continuing with, “we don’t stand on ceremony here.”

It was as I’d been saying ‘here’ my words dried up – not a good thing when you’re in my trade: private investigator. But, in my defence, I have to say that she gorgeous and I am male after all.

She had entered the room in a white summer dress, with a two-inch wide brown-belt cinched to a tight waist. The redhead had smiled, as I’d stared at her shapely bare legs and yellow patent leather court shoes.

Bright green eyes had surveyed my small office and she had betrayed a look I can only describe as distain: and the white of her dress just highlighted how grey the room was, with one filing cabinet, one armchair next to it; my desk, the seat before it; and the swivel seat I relished.

Ah, I forget the two windows, one of which opens: neither of which had been cleaned since the building was erected, over a hundred years before: of that I’m sure.

All in all my office was a visual testament to decay.

I didn’t mind though, it was mine and the bills were nearly up-to-date.

Again, I’m losing track of where I was up to.

I was there in my office and she had called.

In a white summer dress, with a two-inch wide brown belt cinched tight to a narrow waist, the redhead smiled; as I’d stared, at her shapely bare legs and yellow court shoes, with high heel.

I recall thinking how luscious her lips were as she had licked her lips in slow motion; the act as sensuous as almost anything I’d seen.

“That’s a heckuvva trek getting here,” the redhead pronounced as she sat in the seat before my desk as I’d gestured for her to do.

“Aye,” I’d responded: “maybe it’s why I so rarely go out for lunch?”

She quickly eyed the bottle of scotch I’d forgotten to stash two drawers down on the right, in its usual home.

“You mean, you do eat?” She’d quizzed curtly.

“Sorry, unnecessary,” she’d continued. “I just need to know if you’re free this week, to follow my sister?”

‘Free?’ I’d felt like laughing at that one: if I’d anymore free-time on my hands, I’d have said I was on holiday.

“So where did you find my services advertised?” I’d asked.

“Searching for private eyes in this area. When I’d googled in ‘cheap’ you came up.”

I’d assumed she’d been joking – even though my website gives a price structure, nowhere there does it say I’m cheap.

“So you’re aware of my rates?” I’d enquired stone-faced. If she’d been joking it’d been at my expense; if she wasn’t – well, I’d felt a little insulted.

I’d been a private investigator for five years: and I hadn’t been declared bankrupt, yet. But, that still didn’t mean I could afford to offend a potential customer by being too sensitive.

“I’m aware,” she had told me, lips pressed tightly together, as she had opened up the capacious handbag she had placed on her lap: and from inside she’d pulled out an equally bulging wraparound wallet.

“That’s enough for two days of your time I believe?” She’d told me, placing ten twenty-pound notes across the table to me.

“Why thank you,” I’d responded as I took the money and began to count it out.

“My names Nick. Well, that’s what I prefer. You’ve seen the rest on the door.”

‘Nicholas Brookes - private investigator’ it said on the office door, in black letters on gold, painted on the frosted glass.

“Well hello Nicholas Brookes, my names Nancy Lockheart,” she had said to me with distinct formality; “ My sisters name is Lee, but you need a photo, don’t you?”

“Erm, yes..” I’d replied, shoving the money in the first draw down on the right.

“Here,” she had pronounced, reaching into that capacious bag once more, to retrieve an A4 size envelope, which she’d passed across the desk toward me.

I’d opened the envelope and pulled out a black and picture of a young woman, mid to late teens, long face, wide eyes, with long sandy blonde hair, parted in the middle.

She’d been wearing dark make-up that had given her a dark vamp-like look.

‘Did you realise she looks like Avril Lavigne the singer, in heavy make-up, with black and purple hair?’ I’d wanted to ask, for more than two seconds.

“I need to know where my sister goes when she disappears. And before you ask a stupid question, I’ve asked her of course. But all I get is stupid answers and distraction.”

As she had spoken, I had listened; my focus though had been her attractive nylon clad legs, as I willed her to cross them: ideally slowly.

“Now my sisters the only one left. She’s twenty-eight,” she had continued, “And I don’t expect her to roll in, at some stupid hour of the morning, a few nights every month, covered in blood!”

At that point I’d wanted to make a witty comment; but, guessing how it would’ve been received, I’d needed the work. So holding back from making a comment that would leave me in lumber I had kept my mouth shut.

“That’s not good enough, I need to know where she goes..” she’d added, running a hand through her hair.

“So, just what do you want me to do about it?” I’d asked, after a suitable pause, still distracted.

“Follow her, see what she does and then tell me about it. That’s what I’m paying you for, results.”

This had definitely piqued my interest by then.

She had smiled

“So do you’ll take the job then?” She’d asked.

I’d nodded my assent.

“Good,” she’d responded, “Just be by the toilets near Perch Rock Fort in New Brighton; at about ten. She’ll pass you about ten anytime between then and eleven… at least, if she runs true to form!”

“Explain that, will you?” I’d asked curiously.

“Like I said,” she began slowly, as if she’d been getting bored, “regular as clockwork Lee goes out. Never says were she’s going. Then when she comes in, she just sleeps, all day!”

“Sounds like any normal teenager to me, I’d said, trying to be witty once more.

And boy-had I regretted making that remark.

I mean, if looks could kill, I’d have been dead on the spot.

“She’s no bloody teenager though, is she?” The redhead had snapped at me.

‘Fort Perch Rock, in New Brighton?’

Now I’d not been too familiar with that strip of land that sits between The River Dee and The River Mersey: The Wirral.

It’s across from the ‘Pool, but it may as be like another country; the snobby attitude of the people; and the posh way they talk. But, it does have a lot of green and a lot of clean beaches. I remember that from days out with the folks.

And… I’m rambling again.

“I figure the diary can handle a booking,” I’d told her: knowing that the work would pay the rent and buy me some food and a bottle.

“How do you know Mister Brookes? You haven’t even looked.” She’d quizzed me, smiling once more, her arms crossed.

“I have a very retentive memory,” I’d retorted, not willing to admit how empty my diary had been.

“When do you need me?” I’d added quickly, so as to distract her from asking more awkward questions.

“Tomorrow.” The redhead informed me flatly.

“Tomorrow?” I’d repeated.

“Yes, she had answered, with certainty, the smile fixed on her face.

Nancy Lockheart had stood and smoothed down her skirt.

As she had opened the door to leave, she had paused a moment to look back at me.

“Nicholas Brookes, I expect a full report two days from now. Alright?”

Then with that parting question, she’d been gone.

I’d finished my scotch and had reached down to the draw first down on the left and pulled out the A to Z for the Wirral. I’d work to do, transport routes to learn and all to do before the next night.

So I’d put the bottle away in its usual home, two drawers down on the right…

And that’s how this story had begun: I had found New Brighton easily enough.

It’d just taken a train journey, then a walk down to the waterfront.

And at 10:17 there she’d been… so I’d followed her, past the pubs and clubs onto the promenade: and, I’d found out where Ms. Lockheart’s sister went, as I’d been hired to do. She’d gone to find food.

With her Goth lifestyle; her sister had not realized her true self: and her wolverine nature. And, having taken rather a large chunk out of me, when Lee had discovered she was being followed; I wonder if she has transmitted her infection to me?

‘Will I soon become like her?’ It’s a thought I’ve been having as I sit here drinking, aware there’s another night of the full moon… and my head is starting to really ache.

I guess it could be the whiskey? It could be…

THE STRANGER IN THE FOG
18:02 May 08 2007
Times Read: 1,151

THE STRANGER IN THE FOG





Industrialization had brought many changes to the lives of people living in Britain in tie latter part of the 'nineteenth century, but the inhabitants of London paid dearly for the opulence of a few.



One of the prices for this industrialization had been the thick choking fog that limited one’s vision and clogged the lungs. And this was the fog that Della Crosthwaite walked in and exacerbated her ill temper.



Della had teen a farm girl who rapidly became aware of the harsh realities of city life when she had moved to London all those years ago.

Her cousin from Wiltshire had visited, thankfully just for the weekend as the idea of playing wet-nurse to her cousin and her country way did not appeal she just did not have the time.

Since the new girl had moved onto her pitch there'd been less custom for her. Now she could have made a fuss, but the local Peeler had already warned her off any more fighting. So she’d worked long hours and seen a lot of gentlemen to make up what she'd lost through that snippet working her pitch.

Then the fog had got worse and they’d even given it a new name, ‘smog.’

She needed money, if only for her cousin’s upkeep, which is what had brought her out this night. But the custom wouldn’t come out. They couldn’t see their money. Yet, saying that, she considered the pickpockets couldn’t see the marks, let alone their pockets to pick.

So business was poor and now Delta is on the way home, grateful she lives nearby.

She runs a hand through her thick shoulder Length blonde hair, sighing loudly and cursing herself at the lateness of the hour and the loss of the rich tom to that new bint on the block.

She walks faster past each alleyway entrance, very conscious of the dark things, which could be hiding. Her heels click at a staccato rate as Della cinches her shawl around her narrow shoulders.

Shivering inwardly, her eyes dart quickly tact and forth, whilst a sense of foreboding threatens to overwhelm her as she walks the fog enshrouded streets.

The light cast by the normally bright gas lamps hardly permeates the stygian murk of the dark swirling fog; and it is from beneath the dimmed luminescence of one such street lamp that she notices a shadow, so dark that it seems tangible.

The shadow slowly lengthens to the size of a man and then stands erect. Amazed, Della watches as the figure appears to solidify into the form of a man dressed all in black. His face is lowered so that the looks at the c0tbles. Slowly he looks up to face Della, his dark brooding eyes the focus of her attention. With his pale skin, gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes he has the aspect of something not quite human and, as he walks toward her, the choking fog seems to part before him as if ward of his touch.

He steps forward saying, “It’s a bad night tonight, certainly for a woman on her own.”

His voice was deep and sounded tired.

"T’ain't ever a good night to be out nowaday’s," she mutters quite breathlessly.

She looked toward the man, appreciating his style of clothing that belonged on someone dressed for the opera, or for a funeral, and expensive in taste, although somewhat out of date.

Hearing the man speak, the young woman wondered at his accent considering for a second that it was perhaps Russian or something like that

“There’s no one out today,” he told her. His voice sounded drained.

“True,” she responded, thinking to herself business is poor tonight.

Then looking at the man who was staring at her with a penetrating gaze, she asks, And you sir, are you all right?”

“I’m famished.”

Then as he walks toward her the man stumbles a little, pleading with a piteous desperation,

“So famished… I need… to eat.”

“Well sir, come with me then. But…” She halts mid-stride, right hand in the air, “we'll have to be quiet I have my cousin staying with me and I don't want us to disturb her.”

“Oh my dear,” the gentleman expands, “to be fed I will be as quiet as you could possibly want."

"Good.” The woman pronounces. Then extends her right hand, telling him. “I’m Della.”

He takes her Land gently and brings it to his pale lips, kissing the back gently, leaving the woman surprised at how cold his lips feel against her flesh.

“Hello my name is Wolfgang, Wolfgang DeFiscue.”

She blushes at his action, noting how his eyes are drawn to her cheeks as they suffuse with blood.

“Very well, come sir, then come with me."

And, introductions made, she takes his hand in hers, guiding him towards her rooms nearby.

Her home is an end terrace property. At the front door Della stands by the entrance, gesturing with her hand for the man to follow.

“You could be kind enough to invite me in?”

“Certainly sir,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “do come in, if you want to eat.”

Although obviously fatigued, he smiles a little as he eases past the woman. As she holds the door open he enters, saying to her, “Thank you.”

Then as Della closes the door against the dank London, foggy London night, she states, “The larder is bare, I’m afraid.”

Then, pausing a moment, she adds “But then I don’t think you like your food solid, do you?”

An eyebrow lifts, and then in a tone of mock incredulity he says to her, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Della walks ahead of De Fiscue down a small hallway, leading him into front parlour and, turning to him, she says, “ Well, first you materialise out of thin air; you won’t come into my home unless invited, and ...”

“Yes?”

“Well, look behind you, that’s the giveaway.”

Wolfgang De Fiscue turns around to see what she means – the mirror behind him doesn’t produce a reflection.

“Yes,” he admits, smiling ruefully, “that is a giveaway, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But ma’am … I’m still so hungry, “ he tells Della, staring at her elegant neck as she removes the shawl from her shoulders, exposing a fine gold chain which drapes down and into the cleavage created by her ample bosom.

“'I know what you are,” Della pronounces, “but what I don’t know is why you need my … assistance?”

"It is simple,” he explains, “Since I was made into what I am … I have not enjoyed the chase … the hunt … and the kill.”

During the pause that follows Della interjects, saying, “Yes, go on?”

“So I’d find someone willing to exchange some money for my sustenance.”

He prowls the small room, hands clenched behind his back. "In Rumania I was a gentleman, with title, land and as much money as a man could want, or need. Then I was made … and …”

Again he pauses, remembering.

“It isn’t possible to run an estate when you can only go out at night, so I left my birthland and travelled here, seeking he who made me … to ask why he had." He looks at Della, his eyes pleading for understanding.

"I will feed you, after all I've had a bad night and I need the money,” she assures him, “but first you pay me.”

“How much?”

“Five pounds.”

“Certainly,” be says, calmly withdrawing a billfold from an inner pocket of his jacket and counting off not one, but two five pound notes.

He passes the money to Della, saying, “I do so need to feed.”

“So, do so …” she tells him, breathlessly.

Wolfgang to Della's left and reaches forward his right hand to pull her hair away from her neck.

“When you’ve had enough stop,” she murmurs, “I don’t want to die.”

“Don't worry, he says quietly, lowering his face towards her, hands sliding along the length of her throat, cool, yet gentle.

Della closes her eyes at his touch. She feels his hands on her shoulders as he presses down his sharp teeth, which puncture her kin and allow hint to feast upon her blood. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid, and she can feel her heart beat faster as sucks slowly.

Della becomes more euphoric with each passing second

She opens her eyes as she begins to feel fatigued, pushing herself away from his tight embrace.

“Sir,” she tells him, his skin no longer as pale as it had been, “now you’ve been fed, it is time for you to go.”

He looks again at her neck with longing, “Yet still hunger.”

“I can't help that if you feed again I’ll will not survive.”

“But, I must,” he begins, his top lip drawing well away from his upper row of teeth, “I must feed so that I can continue to …”

“Sir," Della says indignantly, her voice rising a little, “I said I can’t help that. If you feed again I will not survive.”

He turns to face her, his face twisted into a portrait of steer malevolence.

“My dear, there is a darkness within us all, so do forgive me if I feed mine.”

He stares deep into the woman’s eyes, mesmerising her, as he says slowly, “You will satisfy my hunger so I can survive.”

Della shakes her head to clear away the fog that dulls her thoughts.

“Sir," she responds, “it is late and I am tired and you have had enough to survive.”

“Not enough,” he whispers, his words almost mandible to human ears.

“If you won’t be satisfied with what I offered you ...” she says to him, slowly backing away from his hands, formed into talon-like claws, “then …”

Della reaches to the chain that she wears around her neck and pulls it away from her flesh, withdrawing that gold cross that has lain between her breasts. She holds the symbol before herself and he holds his forearm up, shielding the hated object from his sight.

As he lunges at her, Della dives toward a nearby door, opening it.

The door opens to show the long, heavy chain, which rattles as the room's occupant turns to see what is happening.

“Now,” she shouts, “You said you didn't like the chase…”

'Ripping the chain and cross from her neck and throwing them to the floor, she enters the room and, assured of victory, Wolfgang follows.



* * *



Once inside the small room, devoid of all furniture except a bed, Della looks to her cousin, already hirsute. Smiling coldly, she turns to face her protagonist.

“This is my cousin Rose. She’s here to stay the weekend, the locals don’t like her.”

Rose snarls, pulling at the chain around her neck

“Unlike you, sir, she enjoys the chase … the hunt …”

Stepping towards the wall and away from her cousin's wolverine sight, Della finishes quoting the line that she’d heard earlier, “and the kill.”