Why should it be, then, that on one cold night in November, he should be walking around the town with a boy from the stables, talking of scary stories? His good friend, James, who was, as I stated, a boy from the local stables, was completely the opposite of Simpson, and was a gullible boy, basically living in a make-believe world. Quite a lot shorter than Simpson, you would never see fear upon his glowing face, and he was not a person to be unhappy for long. Secretly, Mr Simpson admired him and his quiet complacency very much.
As James skipped along the nocturnal, lamp-lit streets of old London, Mr Simpson followed closely behind, hands in his pockets and a heavy scarf covering his mouth. James stopped suddenly at the last corner of the 'respectable' end of Soho, and turned into the slum streets which he knew better than anything else. Simpson followed, lifting his top hat over his distinctive eyebrows lest he be spotted by one of the street hookers and 'exposed'. He realised very quickly that his whole reputation as a gentleman was being jeopardised by the very steps of the blue-eyed urchin walking in front of him.
'Here Charlie!' he shouted, pointing eagerly. 'Did you ever go in that house?'
Charlie, as he was known commonly, looked up at the grave abode in front of him. It was hardly a house; the 1m square windows were smashed to the panes, and all pretty paint had been stripped from it. There was a small entrance to the left hand side, and Charlie could see a vacant rocking chair from the outside, with a knitted shawl upon it as though the inhabitant had just left it. 'Can't say that I have, Bourne,' he replied, raising an eyebrow at the curious repugnance of it all. 'Why, does it concern me at all?'
'No, not really,' said James, smiling wistfully. 'But you do like mysteries, don't you?'
Charlie lifted his top hat and ruffled his hair about a bit before putting it back on. 'Yes, I must confess that I do,' he said, stroking the stubble on his chin. 'Get to the point!'
James looked hurt. 'Well, sir,' he muttered, increasing the suspence to the point that Charlie almost wanted to strangle him, 'it is connected with a very strange story, one that I don't believe myself, but of course, as my mum in Southend used to say, you never do know.'
Charlie looked at his friend with a look of disbelief. 'You're a stupid coward, Bourne, you'll believe anything your mother tells you,' said he. 'What rubbish has dear Mrs Bourne been penetrating your mind with now?'
Unusually for the situation, James grinned, his teeth glimmering in the twilight. 'That, Mr Simpson, is the house of a man called Willis.'
Charlie's face broke into a smile, and he laughed mockingly. 'Now really, James, I have to get home, and I do believe I've got an article to work on tomorrow.'
'Now really, His Honourable Sir Simpson, I do believe you ought to hear this out!'
'Alright, but I must assure you that if you start babbling on about your damned mother in Southend, I'll wring your hallowed neck!'
'Oh no, of course not sir, because this is a real matter of some importance to me...'
'And your mother.'
'No! Now just hear the story, God damn it!' James' face turned redder with the second. 'And now to Mr Matt...'
'Now you see, James, you've completely lost the plot, you've changed his name! Mr Willis or Mr Matt?'
'Mr Matt to me and Mr Willis to everybody else. I'd known him for a long time and I met him back home in Southend.'
'That damned home of yours! You ought never been born, James, and you know it!' However harsh this sounded from the lips of Mr Simpson, he did not feign an interest in the story. In fact, he was rather curious. 'But this Matt person you say, what manner of man was, or is, he?'
'Of very unstable disposition, sir,' replied James. 'He was a drinker. May I carry on?'
'Yes, of course.'
'This Mr Matt, or, Willis, well, I had known him ever since I was a child. He and I were friends, but as we grew older, we grew further and further apart seeing as he went back to Surrey. When I found out that he had moved to London, and not more than a few yards away from the stables and Miss Tointon, I was determined to find him.'
'And this Miss Tointon- she is your, ahem, object of your affections?'
James blushed. 'Yes. But Matt had always been a bit of a mad kid. He turned out really wild, that's why I didn't want nothing to do with him any more. Never so bad as this.'
'How bad?'
'Well, one night, when I was walking about when I was bored, I heard a scream from the house over there. The house of a family with eleven kids. I believe them infamous in this part o' town. Yes, and after the scream, I ran out to the house, and I saw him. Matt. Attacking this poor girl, trampling on her like a horse's foot upon the rose bed.'
'What a scandal!' Charlie slapped his face.
'Have some compassion, man! It does get much, much weirder than this. I saw him- biting the girl's neck.'
'Are you sure that he wasn't just, err, kissing her?'
'Oh, no sir. I'm perfectly sure. Because he glanced over at me, and I felt my blood run cold in my veins. That man has turned into something- something horrible. With teeth!'
'Teeth? Are you sure, man?'
'Yes- I ran away, as soon as possible. The last I heard of the girl was that she'd disappeared the next day, but that the pool of blood was still there. And Matt- I searched him out right here yesterday, and he refused to let me in. He was in the cabinet!'
Charlie seemed more intrigued by the second by which the moon wavered in the sky. 'What a marvellous tale, James! I congratulate you deeply on your storytelling, which is much improved these last couple of weeks!'
James pleaded with the gentleman. 'God forgive you, Charlie, but it's true. Believe me. Search Mr Willis out tomorrow, I'm sure he'd come and see a stranger. But for God's sake, be careful. I don't want you to have teeth, too, however much I hate you!'
Charlie held out his hand and shook it vigourously with James'. 'Count on it, I will,' he said, as he departed the scene through the shadow of the ancient Gothic cathedral.
Mr Simpson was the next day rudely awakened by three sharp raps on his door. He turned over in his bed, his face in his pillow. 'Bloody hell somebody go and get the door!' A few minutes later, the young blonde maid, whom I might say he rather admired himself, arrived at his bedroom door, shaking him. 'Mr Simpson, there is a gentleman downstairs to see you.'
'And what does this gentleman call himself?'
The maid ran downstairs again, enquiring after the bloke's name. Charlie shook his head. Dumb blondes. A second later, she returned. 'Says his name is Matthew, sir. Says that it's urgent, sir.'
'Really? Well fetch me my jacket, and I'll come and see what all this nonsense is about, then.'
Charlie ran down the stairs, the shirt that he'd slept in still clearly visible under his jacket. He caught sight of the young man standing in his hall, and wasn't sure that he'd seen him before. Yet, he readily shook hands with him, and was sure that he did not look suspicious. The young man spoke in a deep, Cockney accent, and seemed somewhat hasty in introducing himself. 'Matthew Willis, sir.'
Charlie froze on the spot on hearing the name. He looked the man up and down for any suspicious 'markings' that might expose him. Nevertheless, as he was not one to be swayed by James, he assured himself that he would make friends with this man before wiping his hands clean of him. 'And what business do you have here, Mr?'
'Call me Matt, Mr Simpson.'
Charlie could see that Matt was winking constantly at the maid. He looked at her severely and she blushed. Matt carried on talking. 'I'm a fugitive, I suppose you know what that means?'
'Yes, I do. Now why have you come to bother me with your tales?'
'You know why I'm a fugitive? Know why I'm on the run?' Matt walked up closer to Charlie, standing taller but not as tall as him. He whispered in his ear. 'I'm a spy, Charlie old boy,' he said. Charlie shivered at the very prospect that this man knew his name. 'If you ever need someone who can, err, get you the lowdown, I'm your man.'
How on earth had this Matt person, whom Charlie had never known and never wished to know, come to know that he was a journalist and that he was struggling day and night for a story? 'By Jove, you're a salesman!' he exclaimed. 'And you're bloody good at it. Get out of my house, now!'
Matt winked at the maid once more. 'See you around.. ..err..'
'Camilla,' she replied.
'Yeah, erm...'
'I said get out of my house or I'll shove you out!'
Charlie pushed the man out onto the street, and, as soon as he came, he was gone.
James kicked himself laughing when he had heard of this story that Charlie had related to him. 'Matt? A charmer? Him? Nah, he's way too wild for that. He'd have just picked any girl up and made love to her if she was pretty, and made merry of her if she was plain. She's a great bitching fool if she likes him like you say she does.'
'I won't have you speak of Camilla in that way!' he snapped. 'But I did not find any markings on him as you had said. I had found him really friendly until thirty seconds before he left.'
'Aha, you haven't found his evils now,' replied James. 'I believe him capable of any and every evil this world has ever known. We just have to expose him.'
'What of? Of this creature you say he is? How in the Devil's name would we do that? I don't believe you for a second, Bourne.'
'Well, you should. I saw him alright, and I've known him since the beginning of my time. I'll show you.'
'Never. You wouldn't dare!'
'I would. Meet me behind the spire of the Cathedral tonight, and we'll go search him out. I've always wanted to prove you wrong, Charlie, and I will!'
A drowsy, sleepy-eyed Charlie opened the door at precisely three in the early hours of the morning, only to be greeted by a red-faced James. 'Why are you here?' he said, batting about in front of him in a drugged state. 'If you're here for the m-money, it's over t-there,' he shuddered.
'No, Charlie,' replied James, raising an eyebrow. 'Something- something's happened. I fear the worst.'
'You hear? You hear the worst? Of what? I hear lots of things, never have I heard a song called The Worst....'
James punched him square in the nose and knocked the bottle of cheap gin out of his hand. 'Idiot!' he shouted. 'Come on, you have to see this! Drunk or not!'
'Skunk? I'm not a skunk.. ...James, where are you taking me?' Charlie cried, still drunk and in his pyjamas as James dragged him along the street in the hail.
The field was empty but all could be heard for miles around. James pulled Charlie sharply along the muddy ground and struggled like he had with his master's horses just that day. 'Bugger this,' he whispered, as a swirl of cold, grey, murky air exited his frozen lungs. He left Charlie on the side of the stables, his drunken head leaning against a spare plank of wood lying against the side. He looked around. There was a constant hissing in the air which never disappeared. There was something completely wrong about everything; the horses, the buildings, even the grass- which were a horrid grey with the sky. Living for the moment which he always did, he picked up a horsewhip from one of the hooks on the iron gate at the rear, and he walked around with a hunched back. 'Come out, vampy, I know you're there....' he whispered, secretly and absolutely terrified. As he spoke louder, there was a quivering in his voice. 'I know you're there, you can't hide from...' he did some sort of fancy dance thing with his legs which he thought made him look tough but in actual fact he looked stupid. 'You can't hide from James Bourne, vampire slayer supreme!'
Suddenly, the wind crept up with him, and blew him flat on his face in the mud. The hissing was still there, only louder, with groans as well. James refused to look up, the coldness in his veins holding all his limbs in the same place. The hissing stopped, but he could hear footsteps. Two pairs of footsteps. Great, another vampire. He listened harder, shifting slightly to behind one of the bushes. The footsteps were coming closer, along with a click of something else. James felt something rise up in his nose, and tried to stop it. One sniff and he could be found out.
'Aaa. ....aaa... ....ACHOOOOO!' he sneezed loud enough probably for the vampire, Matt, to hunt him out and drag him by the collar to an untimely death, or rather, a new life as a vampire. Matt did not notice, however, but somebody else did.
'James?' cried the voice. James looked up from his post in the bushes, and there was Charlie, staggering around crying a load of nonsense. James stood up, and shouted. 'Charlie, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?'
Charlie walked on, the vampire behind him and waiting for an opportunity to strike. James was about to jump out of the bushes, when Charlie turned round, flailing his arms out in the air, and singing. 'Happy Birthday to... ..ME, happy birthday to James, happy birthday to the bush right there...'
'Charlie, for the love of fuck get out of there!' James did not want to risk his life for his friend, I mean, he was just a pompous git in his eyes, but perhaps he had to. He stepped out of the bush.
Charlie turned around. He waved at James, falling in and out of a drug induced sleep. His arm came to a stop right in front of him when Matt reached out, and bit him square on his wrist. 'Charlie, no!' James screamed, but it was too late. Charlie was one of them, stupid drunk bastard. At least he couldn't feel the pain.
At that moment, James' eyes caught Charlie's. They were red and bloodshot, whether it was from the drink or the vampire bite, he didn't know. But Charlie, was still good old Charlie. 'Down boy, DOWN!' Charlie shouted, swinging his arm around with Matt still attached to it. Charlie started singing again. 'When I was just a little girl...'
As it seemed, Matt hadn't quite bitten Charlie deep enough, because Charlie was still a human. He would only have a few seconds left, thought James, seeing the moon gradually resign it's place in the sky to the sun. Only a few more seconds left of twilight.
Charlie was merry as ever, still singing. He had finally flung Matt all the way so that he hung by his trousers on a hook by one of the horses. James couldn't resist laughing at the sight. 'Erm, I think we should call the police, Charlie,' he said, dragging his courageous (drunk, rather) comrade aside and hitting him in the head. 'Don't, ever, get, drunk, again!' he said, with a slap for each word. There was no response.
'Charlie?' James said, shaking Charlie vigourously. 'Charlie, it's sunny now, you're okay and I'm okay.. ..we can both go home! Charlie?'
James looked Charlie in the eye, and Charlie, for a few seconds, did not look back. At a minute to six, a minute to daylight, however, he did look back. James almost fainted with the sight of those red, round eyes, with pupils that were gradually enlarging. Charlie drew closer to James, and James tried to run. He had nowhere to go, though, because Charlie's huge arms were holding him back.
'Charlie.. ...CHARLIE!!!'
The teeth and the pool of blood were still there the next morning.
Camilla awoke to three characteristic, Wagnerian raps on the flimsy wooden door. She had been up all night, frantically waiting for her master and knitting for once in her life to retain her sanity. At these knocks, she leaped up from the grand leather chair in the main room, one which she was never meant to sit on. She opened the door, and smiled, for it was indeed her Charlie. He threw his arms around her, his face right up against her neck. She felt her heart bump in her ribs so loud, she was sure he could hear it. His friend, too.
'Camilla, you have a nice neck!' he said, abruptly.
'What?'
'All the better to bite...'