Literary Agent Required

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.”