ure, too much sun makes me itch and blood sausage tastes superb
after midnight, but compared to my distant vampire heritage,
Aunt Daisy had to cope with far worse. She drove a black cab at
night, and consequently earned more money in the winter than in
the summer. To compensate, she'd tried working as a courier,
hidden from sunlight beneath a crash helmet. But the summer heat
got to her. Now she was gone, dead at the tender age of 145 from
dehydration, and I pondered the set of keys that represented her
last wishes for me: the pleasure of managing a small,
self-catering holiday home in Suffolk.
After a slow train journey from Liverpool Street station,
courtesy of over-running engineering works, the local taxi took
20 minutes to whisk me from sleepy Saxmundham station to the
house.
"Here you are, Island Farm," he announced.
"Wow, is there a moat?"
"Not of water. That's why the name's such a good source of local
humor. There isn't a stream for miles."
Paid and tipped, he headed back to the station. My total factor
sunscreen kept the blistering June sun at bay, while the
two-storey house at the end of the long driveway shimmered
gently in the heat. Bees buzzed, birds tweeted and I felt glad
for travelling light with only my vanity case. What did he mean,
not of water? Mind you, set amongst summer's rioting flora, the
old stones did present themselves as an island of seclusion.
The front door, I appreciated. An ancient affair of solid oak, I
could almost see the parchment proclamations nailed to it in
days of yore. Actually, on closer inspection, those could be the
very nail holes. The key fit the lock. The door opened.
Fancy the previous visitors leaving all that broken glass on the
kitchen floor. I briskly swept up the shards with my
stiletto-clad feet and put the incident from my mind. Why start
on a bad note? I found the fridge well stocked, so I put my
supply of blood pudding away and settled down for a brie salad
sandwich with a jasmine tea. Considering that I'd not even
noticed where the nearest house was, whoever played that distant
flute must've had great lungpower. I half listened during my
snack, before taking a tour of my new property.
According to Auntie's list of bookings, the next paying guests
weren't due until around mid-day on Monday, which gave me two
whole days of indolent relaxation. The kitchen led to a
conservatory, while the first floor contained three sizeable
bedrooms. I set up my portable CD player on the kitchen table,
along with a variety of CDs that should see me through the
weekend.
The hours took care of themselves, making their entrance and
exit so discreetly that I didn't notice them pass. Only when my
gaze strayed to the wall-clock did I realize that evening had
arrived. At the bottom of the garden, a full moon hung low and
large over a line of distant trees. The local telephone
directory and a swift phone call took care of dinner. A pizza
was on the way over from the nearby village. Cooking for one
felt like too much of a chore. After enduring London for so many
months without a break, melted cheese was a fitting reward for
my stoic efforts.
A loud knock at the front door.
"Evening, lady, here's your spicy Mexican, no garlic, with a
medium diet cola and classic strawberry cheesecake." In his late
teens, he didn't even get off the motorbike during the
transaction. I gave him cash and a reasonable tip.
Only when I turned did I spot the parchment nailed to the door.
Someone could sure hammer quietly. "Your sort go home," it read.
Charming. Hadn't I just contributed to the local economy? I
mean, many second homes can stand empty for months on end.
Whereas Island Farm sees more comings and goings than some
border crossings. On reflection, the note must've been meant for
the untidy previous guests. A forgettable distraction on such a
fine night.
I'd only intended to rest my eyes for a moment, when I placed my
head in the crook of my arm on the table. Events and the heat
had all proved more tiring than I'd appreciated, as a noise woke
me from a deep sleep. Hang on, wasn't that the sound of glass
breaking?
Silly me, I must've knocked a glass off the table while asleep.
If the previous visitors didn't bother to clean up after
themselves, no wonder the locals got riled.
Another knock at the door. Bemoaning the lack of a security
chain, I cautiously opened it to find half a dozen people, each
carrying a blazing torch. "Ah, a quaint local custom," I
exclaimed. "Let me find a suitable reward for your theatrical
efforts. An apple each, perhaps? Or I might just have some
oranges."
"Your sort aren't wanted," a man said, in the lovely local
accent.
"But I've just bought diner from the village pizza restaurant,
and the tip was pretty good, in my estimation."
"Your aunt is a vampire," he continued. Obviously the ringleader
of the rabble.
"My aunt died on Monday."
"Sorry to hear it. But the point remains, you're a vampire too."
"Technically."
"What does that mean?"
"My symptoms respond to treatment. Or, to put it another way, I
don't bite."
"Stake her," came the cry. They all joined in, "Stake her stake
her stake her." I shook my head. It's so bad that we've lost
faith in our medical system. In a scatter of gravel, a motorbike
skidded to a halt between the mob and me.
"Let her be," the brave lad suggested. Surely this was proof
that the tip had been sufficient? The gang shifted with
uncertainty.
"We'll call it a night, Brett, but only because your dad's firm
is the main employer hereabouts." The ringleader turned to go.
"Actually, we're the only employer. If this goes further, don't
forget that the firm could re-locate any day." They slunk back
along the driveway and Brett gave me a serious look. "We need to
talk."
"Then do come in. I'll put the kettle on."
Once indoors, he offered a thin, ungloved hand for me to shake.
"Brett D'Amico," he said.
"Connie Hewlett."
I busied myself making the tea while he sat at the kitchen table
and glanced through my CD collection. "I didn't take you for a
Nu-tronics fan," he said with a smile.
"Death samba is timeless." I joined him.
"Look, don't worry about those idiots from the village. I'll get
my Dad to make them do some snap overtime, if you wish."
"No need, it's okay. I'm only here for the weekend, then Island
Farm is fully-booked for months."
Crashing glass announced the return of the village idiots, via
the conservatory. Brett fought two of them, but the other four
soon had me in a losing position. Judging by the preponderance
of sharp wooden stakes, my holiday was about to be cut short.
When Brett killed the light, I acted on instinct, biting one of
them and feeding incredibly quickly and deeply. Don't ask where
I got my strength from. Well, from some inner anti-goddess, I
guess. While feeding, the body helped protect me from the other
attackers, until they'd all fallen before me into a pool of
moonlight.
When Brett was shoved to the floor, I took care of one of the
remaining pair. But the final housebreaker scrambled to his feet
and drew a gun on us, which brought all our fight to a dead
halt. He caught my eye and smiled slyly.
"No, this won't kill you, it will vanquish you for all
eternity."
"Say... what?" I managed, although my cunning question didn't
prevent him from taking aim.
"The bullets are made of wood. It takes staking to a whole new
level." His spine snapped and his knees buckled.
"Pardon me for interrupting," said Aunt Daisy, removing her
hands from his neck. "I couldn't help but see how you were
doing, before heading off to the Far East." She still wore her
motorbike leathers, with her greying hair in a severe bun.
"I thought you'd had enough of driving, Auntie?"
"I'm going to set up my own little rickshaw company with the
proceeds from my life insurance. By the way, thanks for weighing
down my corpse in Highgate Pond. Hello Brett."
"Hello Mrs H."
"Sorry Brett," I said, as he got up and brushed himself down.
"Honestly, I've never done that sort of thing before. You know,
the biting and the slurping stuff. Never been forced to,
really."
"No worries. We'll keep them out of daylight until tomorrow
evening, when Dad can switch them to kitchen work." He flashed a
set of super-sharp teeth.
For the first time since leaving London, I felt completely
relaxed. Ah, the soothing effects of jasmine tea. I might even
visit the pizza parlor later on, to make sure this heavy-handed
mob didn't spoil such a heavenly product. The firm also supplied
the best organic blood sausage in the land, and I began to
wonder if its much-publicized secret ingredient wasn't simply a
drop of humanity.