The Cross. Scott G. Mariani

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СКАЧАТЬ Cormac demanded, pointing at the screen.

      ‘Shush. Keep your frigging voice down.’

      ‘Where did you get this computer? What are you doing?’

      ‘Fuck off,’ Dec rasped at him, shutting the lid of the laptop. ‘Leave me alone.’

      ‘Still going on about fuckin’ vampires, Dec? Is that why you’ve started wearing that cross again?’

      ‘They exist. They’re out there. And I’ve got to do something about them, so I have. Or else . . .’

      ‘Or else what?’

      ‘You don’t want to know,’ Dec said darkly, a quaver to his voice.

      ‘Catch yourself on, bro.’ Cormac jerked his chin at the curtained window, in the direction of the house next door. ‘Listen. I’m just as gutted about that poor wee girl as you are. But friggin’ vampires . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘You keep goin’ on about this stuff and Ma and Da are going to have your scrawny wee arse put away in the loony bin, so they are. Look at the state of you – big dark rings around your eyes like a friggin’ panda.’

      Dec pointed a warning finger at him. ‘You’ve got no idea what’s happening, Cormac. None of you have.’ He snatched up the laptop and started bundling it back into his sports bag.

      ‘Where’d you get the dosh for that thing, anyway?’

      ‘None of your business,’ Dec muttered, slinging the bag over his shoulder and heading for the door.

      Cormac stared after him. ‘Fuck d’you think you’re off to this time of night, wee man?’

      ‘Keep out of it, all right? I fucking mean it, Cormac.’

      ‘Right. Right. Steady, bro,’ Cormac said, backing off.

      Dec tugged open the bedroom door and listened for a moment to the steady snores coming from his parents’ room. Satisfied that they were safely asleep, he padded down the stairs, let himself silently out of the back door and carried the sports bag to the Audi. He was watching his parents’ bedroom window as he started the rattly motor. No lights came on. He drove off.

      On the edge of Wallingford was a quiet lane with a layby where truckers sometimes parked up overnight. The layby was empty. Dec pulled into it and killed the Audi’s engine.

      He was definitely going to need a proper office. He didn’t think the credit card company would stump up for that though. Better start doing the lottery, and hope he’d more luck with it than his folks did. He slid across into the passenger seat, unzipped the sports bag and laid his laptop across his knees. Thankful that he’d paid that bit extra for mobile internet connection, he went back into Errol Knightly’s vampire hunter website. The inside of the car flickered with the glow from the screen as he clicked from page to page of the site.

      ‘Have you been feeling unwell?’ one section asked in bold capitals. ‘Lethargic? Not quite yourself? Having strange dreams? IF YOU THINK YOU MAY BE THE VICTIM OF A VAMPIRE, PERHAPS YOU ARE. Click here to find out how WE CAN HELP YOU or to order one of our special vampire protection kits. All major debit and credit cards accepted.’

      ‘This is so cool,’ Dec said out loud. Clicking open another page, he came across the video segments that he’d been unable to access on the public library computer. When he saw that one of them consisted of a recent satellite news channel interview with the man himself, he went straight to it and maximised the image to full size on the screen.

      Errol Knightly was seated in a plush TV studio armchair across a low table from the pretty, rather elfin blonde interviewer. For effect, a lit candlestick stood on the table, next to a glossy hardback copy of Knightly’s bestseller They Lurk Amongst Us.

      The star of the show was dressed all in black, with a large silver cross on a chain around his neck. He looked completely at ease and was flashing warm smiles at the interviewer.

      ‘Your book has been out a month and is quickly becoming one of the year’s literary phenon . . . phenomena,’ the pretty blonde said, glancing at her script, ‘with worldwide sales of over thirty thousand copies a day. How would you explain its appeal to so many people?’

      Knightly’s smile grew even broader at the mention of his sales figures. ‘Because it’s all true,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Vampires exist. They’re out there. And in our hearts, millions of us know it.’

      ‘Fuck, yes,’ Dec breathed, watching intently.

      The pretty blonde looked about to move on to her next question, but Knightly graciously overrode her, producing a piece of paper from his black jacket.

      ‘This,’ he said, flourishing it, ‘is just one of thousands of letters my office receives, from ordinary people whose lives have been touched by these monsters. This lady – we’ll call her “Mrs Evans” – wrote to me to tell me of the sudden, tragic disappearance of her husband John, after forty years of happy marriage. Mr Evans went out for a walk with the dog one night. The dog came home, alone and in terror. John Evans hasn’t been seen again. Except,’ Knightly added darkly, ‘I’m sure he has been seen, by the innocent victims whose blood he has since feasted on.’

      The blonde seemed to balk at his assertion. ‘You believe he—’

      ‘Became a vampire. Yes. I know he did. My extensive research indicates that, of the thousands of people who disappear mysteriously every year, a significant proportion end up as members of this unspeakable race we call the Undead.’

      ‘A significant proportion? How many people are we talking about?’

      Knightly made an expansive gesture. ‘Of course, it would be foolish, and completely unscientific, to try to put a figure on it. The fact is that nobody knows. Potentially, I would estimate that it could be anything up to fifty per cent.’

      ‘Fifty per cent!’ Dec echoed, awestruck.

      Knightly paused, his expression serious and earnest. ‘The historical records on this date back many centuries, you know. This is nothing new. It’s been happening all along, right in our midst, from ancient times until the present. Look at the Highgate Vampire, for example. From 1967 to 1983, this creature terrorised London, claiming young women and drinking their blood. This is proven fact, not fiction. And many hundreds of other cases like it have never been explained, until now.’ Knightly grabbed the book off the table and held it up for the camera.

      Not taking his eyes off the screen, Dec touched the marks on his neck.

      The pretty interviewer forced a smile. ‘Absolutely fascinating, Errol. I’m sure, though, that many viewers will still find this . . . well, a little hard to believe. What would you say to people at home who feel these stories of vampires are just a bit far-fetched?’

      ‘Wankers,’ Dec muttered – and then realised that, until just a couple of days ago, he would been one of the disbelieving wankers himself.

      But Knightly retained his composure with polished cool. Replacing the book on the table, he leaned back in his seat and chuckled. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their personal view,’ he said, ‘if it helps to keep them in their comfort zone. I only hope and pray for their sakes – indeed, for their very souls – that they never find out the СКАЧАТЬ