BiteMarks (9 page)

“
There was never a dull moment.”

* * *

Our memories do not belong to us.

Most of them are insubstantial, fragile like incense ash, easily disturbed and dashed into soft fragments by a thoughtlessly directed exhalation. Then they are forever changed, still in existence but now in pieces, lost amongst the merciless onslaught of new experiences that are soon to become more fractured memories for the pile too.

I remember my father's eyes, but the other pieces, the remaining topography of his facial features is gone. I remember those eyes in snapshots of time; frozen scenes from a life that has lost it's connection with the one that I have replaced it with now.

Me aged six or seven, seeing the conspiratorial mischief that sparked in those eyes as he whirled my mother around the living room in a raucous tango. Her laughing, making a show of trying to fend him off and then allowing him a brief chaste kiss before laughing some more.

Me aged nine or ten, watching twin fires ignite in the centers of those eyes as he grabbed my arm tightly, thrusting the can towards my mouth and splitting the soft lips with the hard rim. Her crying and gaunt with Auschwitz eyes, doing nothing to stop it; putting her fear for herself before her motherly duty to defend me. Me looking at her and hurting, drinking the bitter tasting lager but concentrating on the taste of my blood underneath it.

Me aged twelve or thirteen, those same eyes as lifeless pools, no ripples of emotion disturbing the surface, sinking into the dark hollows of his face, a gradual slide closer and closer towards desiccation. Me fascinated by the effects of the drink, surely the consumption of so much liquid should hydrate this living corpse? The heavy sweet clouds of vapor snaking out with the cruel words that he spoke.

Me aged fourteen, facing that sick alien rage in his eyes again as he charges at me in my room. Side-stepping, then punching hard one-two-three, taking pleasure in the loud moan as he sags to the floor.

Then pulling a razor from its hiding place between my books, pressing the keen edge against the taut pulsing cords in his neck. A small red bead escaping, rolling down inside the collar of his dirty shirt, the fire and alcohol dying away, replaced by the sobering influence of fear. The tears coming to his eyes as he sees what he has helped to create.

Other memories bubble under the surface too.

A young boy, alone and sobbing once again in a small locked toilet cubicle in a small locked church school in the middle of nowhere. He can smell hospitals, bleach and watery disinfectant over the top of something festering.

He looks around with wet red eyes grown accustomed to the gloom, taking in the dirty fingertip smudges on uneven off-white walls, the rough-edged scars on the back of the lop-sided door, childish declarations of love scratched in with drawing pins and pencil sharpener blades, edged with biro and felt-tip pen. The sentiments are strange to him, and the faint delighted shrieks of laughter from the distant playing field are not his to share.

He takes the small blade that he has been concealing and presses it against his perfect pale skin, applying pressure until the blood begins to run; concentrating on the sensation, how it lifts him from the numb fog that passes for his usual emotional plain. His tears have stopped. Later the cutting will evolve, becoming something else entirely, but for now he sits in semi darkness embracing the pain like a lost lover. 

Eyes, blood, pain, rage.

* * *

The fanged man moves with purpose now, animated by his burning need. He carries a mental freeze-frame of himself walking these same streets a long time ago holding his mother's hand. Back then it is dark but he's not afraid, since the night is alive with activity. A sweating man cruising past slowly in a purring car, a loud slurring voice singing to the sky, the rasp of an unseen match, the smell of sulphur in the air.

She plucks the head of a bristly purple flower, crushing it slightly between her fingers and then passing it to him, smiling as he raises it to his nose. The flower is lavender, floral and medicinal all at once, the smell is soothing but he hates it, associating it with what else these nights holds in store. Her skirt matches the pretty color of the bloom and he hates it too. The material is soft and fluid; brushing her legs with a soft shush-shush as she moves. Economical enough to show off the frilly stockings that she is wearing and, if she is not careful, short enough to display the absence of any other underwear.

She stops when they reach the familiar corner that meets Woodborough Road, talking to a sharp faced woman with bad teeth and bad skin who is supposed to watch him when his mother is 'busy'.

A car stops within minutes, his mother lifting her skirt to show the man what's on offer. There is a brief exchange of insincerities, both sounding bored of the charade, then she is gone forever.

The memory does not anger the fanged man. It has lost the power to do so with that strange obsessive repetition which dilutes all emotional impact. The past is a stranger's photo album for him, a thing of curiosity but without context or meaning. In the present he is almost feverish now, a shark amongst baitfish in a confined tank.

Having decided on a particular girl, a car had pulled up before he'd reached her and she'd been whisked away, the resonance wasn't lost on him. His second potential target had appeared to be alone in the shadows, until the light from a passing motorbike had caught the gleam of gold on the doorstep behind her, bringing two motionless and muscular young black men into view.

There had been nights like this before. Nights when the hunt had been doomed to frustration and he'd retreated, striving for some sort of solace through unsatisfactory masturbation until dawn bled in over the window-sill, tired of the obscene spectacle.

There. The girl is perfect; tall, slim, mocha-skinned and wearing a short tight skirt. The skirt complements her skin tone, a soft purple material that swirls, if pressed you might call the shade lavender.

“
Hi there honey, I'm Cristal, memorable like the champagne.”

“
I bet you are. I'll bet you even taste memorable don't you, sweetheart?”

The connotation lost for now.

“
You bet I do, babes. You got a car or shall we slip round here out of view?” She gestures to a short alleyway behind her.

“
I think it'll have to be your place this time, you lead on.”

She takes a short stroll up the alley, far enough back to be hidden from the road, but close enough to be able to see what they're doing in the unreal light from the lamp-post. “Well here we are honey, now we're alone what would you like to do?” She smiles revealing teeth that are surprisingly white and even.

“
You have a beautiful smile, Cristal. Would you like to see mine?”

“
Sure.”

The grimace that follows belongs to an animal and stays in her mind forever. It is as far removed from what she recognizes as a smile as night is from day. It is not as easy to tear through human flesh with your teeth as you might imagine, even with special implants like the fanged man's. The muscles of the human jaw are not designed to provide the necessary bite pressure to bring down living prey. It takes inhuman strength and an absent heart to tear and gouge the face of a fighting, pleading, screaming person into unrecognizable pulp. 

For him, though, this is ecstasy. The screams rising from the initial tone of shocked surprise, through the hysteria of agony, then back down to guttural animal squeaks and dull moans, are merely an interesting composition of notes – an organic orchestral arrangement.

The life giving blood fills his mouth with a pop of teeth through skin and muscle, splashing over his face, running down over his chin and between his sharp fingers, already sticky as it starts to clot between the digits. It tastes like life, it gives life, it is life.

She stops moving, dead or playing possum; he couldn't care less which, bloodlust sated for now anyway.

Her open eyes are full of blood, looking at him accusingly.

“
You want to know why? Because I don't like lavender.”

Finally he leaves. Few people here even take a second glance at the pale, blood-spattered monster walking past them and melting away into the dark folds of the night.

* * *

It was the screaming that snapped me awake. I've heard a lot of screams in my life, perhaps enough to consider myself an expert on the subject, and these are amongst the worst female screams coming from somewhere close. The noise darts in through the open window, seeming to bounce off the walls in the confined space before lodging firmly behind my eardrums, the sensation like the buzzing of a wasp under glass.

Ghost is in the room, alert before I am. His eyes reflect the scarce light, eerie rainbow flashes in the gloom.

I grab crumpled trousers off the top of the laundry basket; falling over them and swearing as I wrestle them on in the darkness. The screams are weaker now – no time to find a top or the dog's lead.

I run out and down the stairs shoving the door shut behind me. Ghost is a silent gray streak ahead of me, knowing the way with his superior senses. My lungs are burning already, the cold air stings my nostrils as it enters, and my legs drag sand-bag heavy, unwilling to wake up fully and help me to keep up the pace.

The dog comes to a sudden stop in front of the entrance to one of the rat-runs. There are people beginning to gather already, rubber-necking and doing nothing remotely helpful. I hope that she's still alive, whoever she is.

“
Holy shee-it! Fucked this bitch up good and proper, man, you get me? Like mother-fucking road-kill, bruv!”

“
Has anybody called for an ambulance?”

I push my way past as I ask the question, crouching down at her side to check for signs of life. Black blood thickening like tar in the cracks in the pavement, fresher stuff oozing out of the puncture wounds on her face and neck. She moves a little at my touch, though. Not dead. Yet.

“
I said has anybody called a fucking ambulance?” 

Raising my voice above the excited chatter.

“
She be needing an undertaker, you ask me.”

Appreciative laughter from the growing group of spectators. 

I approach the comedian, starting to simmer a little now. “Give me your phone.”

“
Fuck you, man.”

I lean in closer, voice softer and intimate now, with a slight vibrato in it.  “Let's try again. I need your phone to call an ambulance with, you can give it to me or I can take it from you.”

I don't bother to conceal my growing rage now. I can feel the topography of my face changing with the expanding emotion; lips retreating backwards in a snarl, fists clenched, muscles tense, eyes ignoring everything else around us as tunnel vision sets in. He looks at my face, makes a weak sound like the beginning of laughter somewhere deep in his throat, then gives me the phone.

A brief pause follows my dialing. Impatiently I relay the urgency of the situation to the calm voice in the emergency services control center, asking them to alert Detective Inspector Karen Cobb to this attack in connection with an ongoing investigation.

“
Catch.” I throw the phone back at the loud-mouth, feeling a brief stab of satisfaction when he fumbles it to the floor, swearing in dismay.

Crouching, I lean back over the injured girl and press my fingers firmly against the severest looking ragged tear around her throat. The blood stops flowing, but occasional droplets force their way out through my fingers. They run in warm trails down my bare forearms, leaving intricate patterns that are mesmerizing and brutally beautiful. I bend my head down as if to listen to her breathing, trembling with need, but aware that the crowd are still watching us in the gloom. I turn my head away so that they don't see me touch the tip of my tongue to the coppery liquid coating my skin, and savor one sweet sip of her.

The flash of blue lights from the arriving ambulance illuminate her face and I place her now despite the disfigurement. Cristal, the girl who asked for a light, too pretty for these streets, now aware that her life is escaping her body. 

“
I'm not like him, but I'll find him though,” I whisper to her before the paramedics begin to whirl around us in a blur of green and yellow, congratulating me on keeping her alive, whilst moving me aside and making it clear that they're in control now.

“
Here, use this to wipe your arm.” I'm handed a bundle of antiseptic wipes.

The medic gestures again. “Wipe your mouth too, somehow you've managed to get some on your lip.”

Chapter 7

My dream is the apparition of a memory.

In my limbo state between waking and sleep I am a hovering entity overhead, watching on in pain, unable to fight the images away and unable to deafen my ears to the minute details of conversations with the dead - suspended in time.

“
Did you ever ask yourself what the meaning of life is?”