Sylvestre
A short story and first chapter of a longer piece by SK Renait
Copyright © 2011 by SK Renait
The right of SK Renait to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Life Away
By S K Renait
Prologue
“What is
it, do you suppose, a vampire really wants?”
Baxter’s temples began to pound,
painfully. All his life he had
gone out of his way to avoid confrontation. On a few occasions when a better
man would have stood his ground, risked a bruise or two, he had opted to shy
away and accept whatever contempt came his way. But on this night, back to the
wall so to speak, in a dark alley located somewhere between his hotel and
getting completely lost he realised, barring miracles, something a tad more
unpleasant than a little disdain threatened to befall him.
He contemplated for a moment trying
to fight his way out. Soccer practice as a lad had shown him the awful inequity
between boot and unprotected shin and fancied, whenever he thought about such
matters, that if ever the crisis of a physical tussle arose he would call on
that experience and execute the perfect foul, maybe follow it up with a poke to
the eye and a knee to the groin.
Today though did not feel like the
right time to test the effectiveness of such a plan. For all he knew his
antagonist might be carrying a knife or worse, a gun - items not seen on the
football field, in the days of his youth anyway. With little internal argument
Baxter quickly persuaded himself that even without such implements the
stranger’s superior physique would probably negate any such pre-emptive measure
and would only result in a double dose of agonizing pain.
It had all kicked off with a sadly
inadequate: “Look, I don’t want any trouble; I’ve got no money on me. What is
it that you want?” The unconventional and bizarre answer the stranger gave took
Baxter by surprise, not that he knew what constituted a conventional answer –
regardless, it made the situation more difficult. What do you say to someone
who poses such a question? Who knows or for that matter cares what a ‘vampire’
wants, whatever that’s supposed to mean. What a daft thing to say. “Sharp
teeth,” Baxter replied after a few moments, desperately hoping his answer would
be seen more as humour than enmity.
To his enormous relief the stranger
took a step back and smiled; it seemed a pretty genuine smile too. Considering
the vampire reference as nothing more than a quip Baxter was nonetheless
pleased to see the man possessed an ordinary set of teeth and in fine condition
too.
“Well,” the stranger said, “that’s
not a bad answer, all things considered.”
Baxter felt an easing of tension and
wanted to exploit it fully; perhaps a miracle would not be needed. “You’re the
first vampire I’ve met.” He tried to sound jovial and unconcerned, a
contributor rather than a detractor. “I hope I get the opportunity to meet
more.”
“I can’t help you there,” replied
the man, “I myself have never met another one. The best I could do is let you
go, leave the rest to fate.” Baxter felt euphoric. “Could do,” the man
repeated. Baxter felt less euphoric. “You look disappointed.”
“I am,” Baxter confirmed. His eyes
growing accustomed to the shadowy gloom in the alley picked up more detail. He
could see what he had felt when the man had hauled him off the street; he felt
envy at the man’s stature. “I thought for a moment you were going to let me
go.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Well, if it helps any, you should
know that my doctor says I’ve got terrible blood; I should never donate any,
especially to vampires. I like French food you see. I eat a lot of garlic”
“Ah, garlic, Stocker’s remedy. Is there anything else I should know?”
The developing banter could only be
good news, thought Baxter. After all, negotiators always try to form a
relationship with hostage takers, do they not? “My name is Helsing, Abraham
Helsing,” Baxter tried as a rejoinder, exploring the theme further. “Do you
mind if I ask you your name?” he chanced.
“You may call me Sylvestre, Mr
Helsing - who eats garlic and is no doubt wearing a crucifix and carrying a
wooden stake! I truly have made a bad choice tonight, haven’t I?” Sylvestre’s
tone and attitude seemed to Baxter to be fully compliant to his strategy of
turning this threat-laden encounter into a more convivial experience.
“Pleased to meet you, Sylvestre.”
Baxter wondered if he should offer his hand, but thought better of it. He
needed to find a way to close the deal, to sell the idea of his freedom rather
than buying the idea of him as a victim.
A business friend advised him once that a good deal is one in which
something is left in for the other guy. His goal was to get out of the alley,
unharmed. What could he offer?
Unexpectedly Sylvestre provided the
answer. “I think if I got to know you I might like you, so I am going to give
you the chance to earn your release.
I am going to ask you three questions and if you answer them to my
satisfaction I’m going to let you go and you will never see me again. Agreed?”
“I couldn’t ask for more!” Baxter
replied with genuine enthusiasm, though misgivings rested heavily on his face -
a frozen smile doing little to hide the turmoil inside his head.
“Here we go then, first question.
What is the best defence against vampires?”
Baxter considered this for a moment, garlic and crucifixes
would not do. Although they both constituted the traditional defensive arsenal
of the archetypal vampire slayer, the challenge Baxter faced demanded more
originality. “Well, I’ve read the books and seen the films; I suspect relying
on such nonsense won’t help me here. I am going to have to fall back on personal
experience - experience gained in a real life encounter with a vampire. The
only defence I know,” he paused for effect, to add weight to the answer, “is to
answer three questions correctly.”
For a second time Sylvestre smiled.
“Ha! Yeah, that will do. A clever answer so you pass and we move on to the
second question.” He took a couple of steps back, creating a comfort zone
between them and easing the tension a little. “Let’s pretend that you are the vampire and I am your prey. It’s been three weeks since you’ve had
a feed; nourishment is desperately required. Pain throughout your body demands
a fresh source of blood. Your chosen source stands before you trapped in a dim
and decrepit god forsaken part of the world, begging for release. Is there any
reason why you should let him go?” Sylvestre stepped close once more looking at
Baxter intently, expectantly, almost as if he really wanted an answer to the
question: as if he wanted a reason not to hurt him. Baxter smiled.
He did not see the blow, the power and speed of which
combined to send him flying through the air and into the wall of the alley.
Dazed by the assault he lay still, breathing heavily trying to get his confused
mind working again. He knew now that he was in mortal danger. Knew not because
of the strength of the blow but because of the look of desperation hewn on
Sylvestre’s face as he had asked the question. The man’s derangement had a
sinister aspect that Baxter realised he could not possibly understand. For a
split, terrifying second, Baxter wondered if the man seriously intended to take
his blood.
“Answer the questions and I’ll let
you go.” Sylvestre stood above Baxter and bent down over him as he spoke,
emphasising each word in an impatient fashion. Seconds ticked by, a light
drizzle freshened the air and fell in gentle tickles on Baxter’s face. He sat
up drained physically and mentally. “There is no reason,” he said finally. “We
all have to do what we have to do.”
“So I should kill you then,”
Slyvestre retorted, standing up straight and stretching his back in a
self-congratulatory display.
In contrast Baxter sat slumped, head
hanging, a trickle of blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead.
“A vampire, as you claim to be,” he instantly regretted his choice of words but
pressed on, “would have no choice.”
“As the lion with the gazelle?”
suggested Sylvestre, ignoring the slight.
“Yes” Baxter said, nodding: “If
there was no alternative.”
Sylvestre wagged his finger
disapprovingly. “You have obviously resigned yourself to your fate my friend,
but you forget we have an agreement and I am enjoying your answers so here is
the last question. Stand up,” he commanded. Baxter obeyed, staggering up using
the wall as a support. “We both know vampires don’t exist, right?” Sylvestre
said pointedly, as if checking attitudes. Baxter nodded. “That’s not the
question by the way,” he continued in a more respectful tone and with a cheeky
grin. “The question is what are you going to do? Are you going to beg for your
life, knowing that someone else will die tonight, because they will if you don’t,
or do you sacrifice yourself so another may live? Your choice is to die or have
another killed. By gaining your freedom you will be directly responsible for
the death of someone else.” Sylvestre turned away for a second, as if checking
availability of alternatives. He turned back and winked: “By the way, a little
clarification. When I said we both know vampires don’t exist, what I meant is,
after all these years I still have trouble getting to grips with the fact that
I am one.”
No response. They stood, a few feet
apart, staring at each other. The drizzle, accumulating on Baxter’s hair and
face, started to make him feel uncomfortable and wet. He began to shiver
slightly. A notion suddenly popped
into his head. “If you are a vampire,” he paused for a moment, catching up with
the idea, “what have I got to worry about - I mean surely that means I too will
become one? ” It seemed an obvious point.
“No!” Sylvestre declared
emphatically: “You will die. It doesn’t work like that. Now answer the
question,” he sounded irritated.
Baxter ran a palm across his eyes to clear the rain. “You’re
not wet!” he exclaimed suddenly, voicing his thought before he had time to
think. His own clothes had lost the initial silvery sheen of trapped moisture
as the fabric absorbed the rain and became damp, increasing the discomfort he
felt. Sylvestre’s looked equally wet but his hair and face appeared completely
dry.
Sylvestre said nothing and waited,
becoming increasingly impatient for a reply to his question. Baxter stood
transfixed, bemused by the anomaly. What does this mean? Panic took control,
taking command of buckling legs, sending him careering up the alley in a blind
rush to get away from the stranger, narrowing his options further as he reached
a dead end. Frantically searching for a means of escape or a way of gaining
height, he found a handleless metal door and thumped it wildly screaming for
help. None came, but neither did Sylvestre. He just stood eighty meters away at
the entrance to the alley, motionless. Baxter looked around trying to find
something to defend himself with. An empty wine bottle, discarded amongst a
pile of rubbish caught his eye. Gripping the neck tightly he tried to smash it
against a wall but it bounced off and refused to break.
A voice spoke softly in his ear:
“Stop, put it down, you will hurt yourself. Now answer the question.”
Baxter stood for a moment, wondering
about the acoustics of the alley. Letting the bottle slip from his grasp he
heard it smash on the ground. Typical, he thought. Placing a forearm against
the wall he leaned in, resting his head against it. “Can you hear me,” he
whispered
“Perfectly” came the response. “Your
answer, if you please.”
Once again Baxter spoke as the thoughts came into his head,
desperation driving spontaneity. “You should let me go. I should accept your
offer of freedom. I wouldn’t be responsible for anyone’s death. If you kill me
or not someone else will die the next time you feel the need and then another
and another. The only way I could prevent any of this is not by sacrificing
myself but by stopping you and I know I can’t. If I offer myself to you I’ll
simply be the next one in the chain.
So let me go, please!” Baxter
turned his head toward the man and waited. Nothing happened. “Did you hear me?” he asked
“Yes,” came the reply after a few
moments. “Yes, it’s another good answer, you are doing well but there’s a
problem with it.”
Baxter did not want to know what the
problem was but couldn’t help asking: “What’s that?”
“Well, I know and you know, we both
know, you’re a coward. So what if you could stop me, if you could kill me, now,
here, tonight in this alley - would you do it? Would you murder me to save the
lives of others? And what would you say to the police? That a vampire tried to
kill you? You still don’t believe it yourself. Do you think anyone else would
believe you? You would spend the next twenty years in jail or an asylum. Are
you prepared to do that?”
Something snapped in Baxter. Yes he
was a coward, yes he did not believe the man was a vampire and yes he probably
couldn’t kill someone: not even to save his own life. But for all that, he
suddenly found some grit and determination. Perhaps his cowardice had its
limits. Perhaps for one moment he
doubted the resolve of the menace down the alley. Whatever it was, he had had enough. “That’s more than three
questions,” he stated as he began to walk back towards the entrance. He reached
the end in silence, stopped for a moment and looked Sylvestre straight in the
eye then tried to brush past.
To his astonishment and considerable
relief Sylvestre stood aside saying, “You’re right, a deal is a deal. Go back
to your hotel. You will never see me again.” No further persuasion was needed,
Baxter moved purposefully away wondering how long the man had been following
him.
He felt surprisingly calm. He had no
idea where he lay or how he got there. Neither detail seemed to matter, in fact
nothing seemed of importance anymore. He couldn’t feel the wound but saw a
growing pool of blood forming around the ground his cheek lay on. So
this is it, he thought. He tried to move, first a leg then an arm, but
found neither responded; a paralysis gripped his body. Breathing became optional, forcing gasping effort. A heavy slow and
irregular beat thumping in his chest combined with a sudden searing pain in the
back of his neck that radiated down his arms, culminating in a fingertip
explosion of intense heat. Bowels and bladder simultaneously gave way, soiling
his trousers and producing a nauseating stench, filling his nostrils with the
smell of humiliation. Stomach contents mixed with blood erupted in a torrent
from his mouth adding volume to the mess already accumulated in a dark red
pool. Spasms ripped through in waves of gathering intensity jerking limbs this
way and that like an out of control marionette, signalling the onset of death.
Just a few moments of miserable consciousness remained before the darkness took
hold, just a few moments in which he thought he saw a little boy standing in
the distance, watching.
The attack when it had come came from behind, fast and furious.
Baxter would never have known who had committed it except for the words uttered
in the frenzy of the assault. “I told you you’d never see me again.”
