Things that go bad in the night
Sadly, nothing lasts.
When I was growing up in a suburb of London, we used to eat fish and chips out of old newspapers.
Now I read the news on a tablet computer and I don’t think it would react very well to be covered in grease.
When I was a child, I also believed that monsters were not real. They filled the pages of the comic books I loved reading but I was certain there were no real werewolves or vampires or other scary creatures hiding in the shadows.
Now, I knew the truth.
I sighed and rubbed my face.
As a bounty hunter specialising in capturing hideous creatures which had broken the terms of the licences allowing them to stay at liberty, I was used to strange situations.
But after a night in which I had faced the remains of the malevolent dead and become romantically entangled with the woman of my dreams, I felt tired and emotional.
My upper lip quivered as I watched Florence T. Butterworth climb into a car and drive away.
She was many things. A woman with a reckless disregard for personal hygiene and fashion, a shapeshifter, and the head of the top-secret government department known simply as the Ministry, which was in charge of regulating monsters in Great Britain.
They were also the main client for my bounty hunting business.
It was little wonder I was in a state.
I took a deep breath. I needed to get a grip.
I decided to go home and have a hot bath.
After soaking in the tub for an age, I dressed in my smartest suit and had tea and a crumpet.
I felt on a much more even keel as I drove to the Ministry. Though I had been here countless times before and knew the first name and star-sign of the official at the entrance, I followed the correct procedure by identifying myself before setting off down the long corridor.
Open plan offices lay on either side. Through small windows I could see Ministry staff wearing their pin-striped suits sitting at rows of desks and working away.
I reached the door to their boss’s office.
I knocked and strode in.
Florence T. Butterworth was lighting a new cigarette with the still glowing butt of her previous smoke. Fresh dandruff lay on the shoulders of her dark business suit. Her desk was empty apart from a large glass of whisky.
I knew from past experience that this was her equivalent of brunch.
She took a sip and looked me in the eye.
“I really enjoyed what happened between us,” she said, “And none of us know what the future will bring, but for now we need to go back to being fellow professionals. Is that acceptable?”
I nodded. There was a glimmer of hope and that was enough for me.
Florence T. Butterworth knocked back the rest of the drink in one, then took a sheet of paper out of a drawer.
She held it to me.
I took it from her without saying anything and left.
We were done with conversation for today. It was time for me to get back to work.
The note had the details of my new assignment. I read it once I was back in my car.
A cold chill ran its finger down my spine.
I shivered and set off.
I drove for hours, through the busy streets of London, which seeped life reassuringly from every pore, until I reached the outskirts of the city. The buildings began to fall away and those that were left were run down at best, with derelict shells making up the rest. Graffiti crawling over road bridges and walls screamed unrest.
On an old map this area would have been marked, Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
Double checking all the doors were locked I drove on.
Finally, I reached the destination spelt out on the note.
Even though there were no other vehicles on the road, I indicated and pulled up. The light of another day was beginning to fail as I climbed out of the car.
The cold that had touched me earlier had not left me. It had spread as I considered what waited for me. It had found its way into the marrow of my bones, and I was not sure it would ever leave me.
Deal with it, I told myself and headed for the gates across the road. They were made of thick metal bars that had been darkened by many years of rain and pollution.
They opened reluctantly, groaning as if I had awoken them from a long sleep.
I left them open – in case I needed to make a hasty retreat – and stepped inside.
The structures rose up all around me. The headstones and the tombs. Some of the resting places were relatively simple memorials: Fine marker stones with inscriptions that had worn away over the years. Others were testaments to the wealth of those buried within.
There were stone mausoleums with sloping rooves and pillars rising on either side of sealed entranceways. Columns rose from some, with a statue of the long-dead inhabitant standing looking out over the world they had left behind.
To my left an obelisk rose highest of all. Whoever was buried there wanted to make sure everyone who came to this place knew how important they were.
Before death brushed their cheek with its bony finger and called them down into the cold ground, where the worms did not care whose flesh they consumed. Rich man or poor man it was all the same.
With these dark, dour thoughts swirling around my mind, I continued deeper into the Necropolis.
It had been constructed, and populated, at a time when Britain was an Imperial Power, a sprawling, greedy beast that dictated its will over millions of lives throughout the world.
Those buried there were industrialists and politicians, bishops and landowners and nobles.
The last of them had been committed to their resting places more than one hundred years ago and since then this place had been abandoned and forgotten by the people of the city of London.
The ordinary people, those who did not know what still lurked in the dark places.
I stopped in my tracks.
I was sure I had seen something moving in-between the tombs. Flitting past in the distance.
But there was nothing now.
Just me. A bounty hunter in a City of the Dead.
I carried on my way, until – there! It had not been my imagination.
There were figures out there. Dark, indistinct shapes darting past.
I kept going and soon it was clear they were following me, tracking my progress.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I already knew I would not be alone tonight in this cursed place.
The note had told me.
I weaved my way in-between more tombs. They grew older the further I went into the Necropolis and some were leaning over at alarming angles or had collapsed in on themselves.
Weeds tangled among the cracked and crumbled stone, infecting the crevices with their barbed shoots.
Ahead of me a new tomb appeared.
This still stood complete.
And its door was not sealed.
Aware I was still being watched by the shadowy figures on the edge of my vision. I moved towards the opening and called out, “I’ve been sent by the Ministry.”
The darkness visible inside the tomb rippled. There was someone inside there.
Something, I reminded myself.
And it was stirring at my words.
I steeled myself, tried to keep the fear pulsing through me at bay, and spoke again:
“You have breeched the terms of your licence. You have been seen outside the Necropolis and you know full well its boundaries are your boundaries. The ordinary world beyond is a no-go zone.”
The Ministry had eyes and ears everywhere and though I did not know exactly who had reported this rule breaking I had no reasons to doubt its veracity.
And there was no question as to what had to happen next.
“I am going to bring you in,” I said. Then waited for a response.
It came moments later: a voice that drifted from within the tomb; a whisper with sharp edges.
“What are you?” it asked.
“I am a bounty hunter,” I replied.
The voice hissed and said, “You are a fool if you think this is anything other than the night you die.”
Fighting to sound confident, I told it, “I’ll see the dawn and the blood will still flow warm inside me, but you’ll be in a cage in the Ministry.”
At this laughter spiralled out of the darkness and seconds later a monster followed.
The voice revealed itself.
Its fingers appeared first, clinging onto the sides of the opening. Each was long and wrinkled and tipped with curling, yellowed nails.
They twisted and probed and scratched at the stone of the tomb.
I stood firm, as next, a face emerged.
It was gaunt and narrow. Deep lines cut into ghastly, pale skin. Two bloodshot orbs stared out at me and a mouth cracked open.
“You,” it said. “You expect to defeat me. Pathetic thing. Human thing.”
It pronounced the word ‘human’ with sneering disdain.
As far as this monster was concerned, we were the lowest of the low.
As the rest of it unfurled, I could kind of see its point.
It had stepped free of the tomb and raised itself to its full height and now towered over me.
It was over twelve feet tall and two vast wings rose from between its shoulders.
Sweat trickled in icy rivulets down my face and I began to shake.
I couldn’t stop myself, no matter how hard I tried.
The monster, seeing this, laughed, a harsh, sickening cackle. Then it cried out: “I am the King of the Vampires and you are my prey.”
All my attention had been on this nightmarish vision but now – I realised with a new flash of horror – the creatures which had been observing me, had moved closer and were now surrounding me.
Trapping me.
Close up, I could see they resembled the monster. They were aberrations
The monster reared up and flapped its wings and addressed them: “Serve your Master, My Children. Destroy this man. This bounty hunter.”
It could have killed me with ease but it seemed this King did not want to get its hands dirty with human gore.
Its subjects would do its bidding – and do it happily, from the grins on their hideous faces as they moved towards me.
They were a heartbeat away.
Which meant it was now or never – and right on cue, dozens of wooden stakes filled the night sky.
They hurtled forwards and began to strike the creatures. They barely had chance to cry out before they exploded into dust.
I stayed stock still, not wanting to be an accidental casualty – but the men and women who had released the stakes had done so with clinical accuracy, and within seconds all of the creatures were destroyed.
My rescuers stepped forwards. The men and women from the Ministry still dressed in their pin striped suits but now each carrying a crossbow.
Walking in the midst was a familiar, wonderful figure.
Florence T. Butterworth.
She had devised the plan to send me into the Necropolis and confront the Vampire King while drawing its subjects out into the open.
All on my own, as far as the creatures and their master knew.
But while they were preoccupied with me, the others sneaked in, and that was it. Game over. Almost.
The Vampire King was screaming in frustration and rage.
Florence T. Butterworth strolled up to him and said, “We can take you back to the Ministry in small pieces or whole. It is of little concern to me at this stage, because your rein is over.”
The Vampire King’s shoulders slumped, and its wings grew limp. A fat tear dripped down its wizened face.
“Checkmate,” I said under my breath and stood and watched as it was led away.
Florence T. Butterworth lingered and my skin began to tingle as I wondered if we were going to be alone again.
She looked at me and laughed.
“Calm down,” she said, “I was thinking we should go to a bar and celebrate with a glass of champagne. And after that I will be going straight back to the office. I have a mountain of paperwork to do.”
I smiled at her. “The drinks are on me,” I said, and together we walked away into the night.
There were fresh horrors out there, but they would have to wait.