Blood Will Out (7 page)

S
o
, thought Hugo Shawcross,
these are the Island Players that
really
matter, according to Marie Maxwell,
née
Gastineau
. At his first introduction to the group, answering the queen bee's call, he had met only some of those now assembled, and the meeting had been in the flat belonging to Jim Landers, the owner of the bookstore on Smith Street, and current president of the Island Players. His minimalist one-bedroom, book-lined flat opposite Elizabeth College, the boys' private school on the island, was a very different setting from the elegant high-ceilinged sitting room in the former Gastineau townhouse. It was Jim Landers who had invited Hugo to join the group after he visited the store, and they had got into conversation about books both current and rare.

The eleven Island Players were perched on ornate upholstered chairs with gilt backs, or sunk into the brocaded cushions of Empire-style sofas with curved, carved legs. The paintings in heavy gilt frames around the walls looked to be of the
Monarch of the Glen
variety; if there were family portraits they must be elsewhere, which was a pity. The Persian carpet beneath their feet was huge and in poor shape, worn thin in places, which probably meant it was an antique, thought Hugo, and worth a ton of money. He surveyed the chosen few assembled for the reading.

First, Jim Landers. Probably in his mid-fifties, with a neat grey beard and closely and carefully barbered hair. He was well-read, and modest enough about his erudition to make Hugo feel vaguely uncomfortable. There was a restrained and distant quality about him — not so much all passion spent, thought Hugo, as most passions not released.

Next to him sat Ginnie Purvis, who taught English in the private girls' school in St. Peter Port. She did little to hide her adoration of Jim Landers, though he appeared not to notice. Taller and bigger-boned than Hugo, she made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, because she appeared not to notice him at all. But then, from the way she was peering at the script he had handed around, she was probably short-sighted and reluctant to put on her glasses. Hugo put her in her late forties and, as she bent her head over the script, he could see the grey roots of her expensively bronzed and highlighted hair.

Next to her sat Douglas Lorrimer, who was in partnership with Elton Maxwell, heading the leading estate agency on the island, and his wife, Lana. Lorrimer was a small man physically, but he made up for his lack of size with a booming voice and bombastic manner. From their introduction at Jim Landers's, Hugo gathered he was the financial advisor to the group, which put him squarely in the pro-vampire camp, and in Hugo's corner. “Creative concerns,” he told Hugo, “are not in my bailiwick. I leave that to the artsy crowd,” pointing at Marie and chortling. Marie, Hugo noticed, did not seem in the least offended — but then, this was her husband's business partner, and taking offence was probably inadvisable.

From the condescension shown to Lana Lorrimer by Marie, however, it looked as if Lana had only made the cut by virtue of her marriage. But some of the condescension could be because Lana was a well-endowed blonde in her forties who could curl her lip quite as effectively as the queen bee. She was in the process of reading his script, and Hugo could not tell from her expression whether she liked it or not. As if feeling his eyes upon her, she looked across at him and, suddenly, winked. It was so swift he wondered if he had imagined it. But he bore it in mind.

Sitting in the centre of the circle were Marie and her daughter, Marla. Hugo had never yet set eyes on Elton Maxwell, but, if his daughter had combined the genes of both parents, it seemed likely he was handsome, fair-haired and tall. When not spitting blue murder at him, Marie was a striking woman, somewhere in her forties, with dark hair and eyes, unlike her blonde, blue-eyed daughter. But they still looked very much alike.

Elodie Ashton was sitting next to Raymond Morris, who had introduced himself as part-time artist and director of Hugo's “
oeuvre
,” as he called it. Sporting a pencil-line moustache above very white teeth, he was dressed all in black, from his beret to his boots and, when asked by Hugo about his painting, described it as “a blend of Dali with a dash of the Douanier, but all my own.” Hugo said he couldn't wait to see it. Well, what else does one say to someone who was going to direct one's own “
oeuvre
”?

Elodie was in animated conversation with the man sitting on the other side of her, who had arrived late. Hugo had been trapped in small talk with the Lorrimers about the intricacies of the open and closed housing market, and had watched with annoyance as a tall, grey-haired man with strong features, who looked to be in his fifties, took the seat he had planned to make his own. From what he could hear, Elodie and the man were talking about finances, and there was something about his beautifully cut tweed jacket and air of self-possession that suggested money. As Hugo took one of the three remaining seats, Elodie called out to him.

“Hello, Hugo. I don't think you've met Aaron Gaskell.”

Aaron Gaskell nodded, smiled and raised his hand, revealing a magnificent Rolex on his wrist. Hugo had recently checked a similar timepiece out and backed off at the astronomical price. He disliked him immediately.

“Hello. I know who you are. This looks like a lot of fun.”

A pretty young woman with bouncing blonde curls sat down next to him, and her dazzling smile smoothed over Hugo's ruffled feelings. Unlike the other Island Players in the room, who had come dressed in the
de rigueur
shreds and patches as seen on professionals shown rehearsing on TV, she was dressed simply, but formally. Her short-sleeved blouse revealed just a hint of cleavage, and her pencil-skirt showed off long legs that were either tanned or stockinged above stiletto heels. On her ring finger was one of the largest diamonds Hugo had ever seen, so big he couldn't see if it concealed a wedding ring.

“I know who I am, but I don't know who you are,” Hugo replied, echoing, he hoped, the conversational tone, and was gratified to hear her trill of laughter.

“You Hugo Shawcross and me Tanya.” She giggled and pointed across the room to a man who was coming back from some other area of the house, carrying what looked like a double Scotch. “And that,” she said, “is Tarzan. Well, he's my husband.” Which settled the wedding-ring question.

Tarzan was large, heavy-jowled, his elephantine build accentuated by the baggy pachyderm-coloured corduroys he was wearing. He looked considerably older than his Marilyn Monroe look-alike wife. He glanced across at her and shambled over to sit by Jim Landers, displacing Ginnie Purvis, who scowled and moved down next to Marie Maxwell.

Recovering from the disappointment of not himself being Tarzan, Hugo asked, “What is Tarzan's name?”

Tanya appeared to find this exquisitely funny. She leaned across the circle of chairs and called out, “Hey, Rory, there's someone here who doesn't know who you are! Imagine that!”

She turned to Hugo and pursed up her scarlet lips in mock-disapproval, then, with a sweeping gesture in the direction of her husband she said, “Let me introduce you to island royalty, Hugo. Marie, Ginnie and Rory. The oh-so-elite, blue-ribbon members of the Gastineau clan. Taa-daa!”

The reactions of the assembled Island Players varied from amusement on Elodie's part, to annoyance from Marie and Ginnie. Marla gave a nervous giggle, and the Lorrimers looked bored.

“Shut up, Tanya,” Lana said.

There was very little reaction from either Raymond Morris, Aaron Gaskell or Jim Landers, and Hugo got the feeling this was predictable behaviour from Tanya.

“Gastineau?”

His own reaction was one of surprise. He could see now a family resemblance between Rory and Ginnie, but a very different mix of Gastineau genes had swum in Marie's direction.

“I know about Marie, but I didn't realize …”

“Then you're one of the very few. Rory's the oldest, and Marie's the youngest. Ginnie is in between, in more ways than one.”

“But her name is Purvis.”

“Married and divorced. Years ago. He came out of the closet once it was no longer terribly terrible to be gay.”

“Poor woman.”

“Poor ex-Mr. Purvis in my opinion.” Tanya snorted, giving an oblique character assessment of Ginnie Purvis. “Ginnie's ex was a sweetie, they tell me. But she chucked him out.”

Hugo looked around the room. Things were turning out better than he could have dared hope. The group was beginning to look quite promising, and the island was the perfect place to work on his script while he lay low for a bit, until his mainland problems died down. Besides, he needed time to pursue his other reason for being here, and he had made a promising start with that, quite inadvertently, as it turned out.

Marie Maxwell was tapping her pencil against her script, and making clucking noises, but there was one more question Hugo wanted to ask.

“So, if your husband's the oldest, why don't you live here?”

Tanya giggled and patted Hugo's hand. “Heavens, Rory live in a ground-floor flat? Over his dead body, darling. We live in the family pile out in Forest. That's where the Island Players perform.”

So there was another Gastineau mansion. Probably where the family portraits hung. But Marie was catching his eye and calling the group to order.

“Attention, everyone. Let's go around the circle introducing ourselves for our newest member, Hugo, and then we'll take turns reading his
marvellous
play. But first, Hugo, would you say a few words to the
uninitiated
among us about —” Marie gave a theatrical shudder, “
vampires
.”

There was an uneasy ripple of laughter around the circle and Hugo got to his feet.

“Count Dracula,” he said, surveying the group, “said it best.
The blood is the life
. He was quoting the Bible, actually. Deuteronomy. The vampire is a once-human creature who chooses his victims carefully for great beauty or intelligence, a thirst for power, an appetite for cruelty, the ability to influence others. They are the chosen ones, the embodiment of one of the most powerful forces in life.” Hugo paused. “Sex,” he said and surveyed the room, realizing with a thrill they were hanging on his every word. “And of all our worst fears.” He paused again.

“Death.”

Some, including Marie, began to look uneasy, and Hugo was torn between annoyance and relief when Tanya gave a wriggle and squealed, “Ooh, scary!”

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, Tanya. The vampire can only cross the threshold if he is invited into your home and your life. It is only when you allow evil in that it can enter.”

To the manifest irritation of the assembled Island Players, Tanya had more to say.

“That's a tricky one, isn't it? I mean, how do you know? Some of the ones in the shows look quite — normal.”

Hugo decided to be facetious. “When in doubt you must avoid the gaze of the vampire. Do not look into his violet eyes.”

With a dramatic timing so perfect it could have been staged, the door flew open and a young man stood there. He was tall, slender, fair-haired and pale-skinned, his bloodless colouring accentuated by his dark clothing. He rested his hand on the door frame as his beautiful eyes swept the room. Whether they were violet or not, Hugo couldn't make out from where he stood, transfixed.

“Sorry to be late,” he said. “May I come in?”

His voice was musical, the inflexion studied, slightly affected, an expensive private school education resonating through the vowels. Beside him, Hugo felt some sort of physical reaction from Tanya Gastineau. It seemed like a recoil, rather than a wriggle, but that was unlikely. Bedazzled, both of them, he was sure.

The young man's arrival was greeted by an outburst of nervous laughter from most of the group. Marla Maxwell was the first to speak.

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, breaking into giggles, “You're such an idiot. You're always late.”

Marie Maxwell looked from the young man to her daughter.

“Who is this?”

Marla smiled with an unfeigned innocence that was totally suspect and completely unconvincing.

“He's a friend I invited to come along to the reading, Mother. Charles Priestley.”

Raymond Morris interrupted what looked to be turning into a mother-daughter fight to the death.

“Sit down, young man. We need some more young males, so you may come in useful. Let's get on with the reading.”

Charlie Priestley ran weightlessly across the room and squeezed himself in on the sofa between mother and daughter. The assembled thespians held their breath and waited for one of Marie's explosions. Most of them had witnessed the outburst with Hugo, and were still mildly surprised they were planning to perform what had been described as a depravity. But only mildly. Most of them also knew the reason for her
volte-face
.

Visibly simmering, but valiantly keeping her emotions under control, Marie gave Raymond one of her hostess-with-the-mostest smiles.

“Raymond already has a good idea of what he is looking for, haven't you, Raymond?”

Raymond smiled inscrutably, and they began.

It went surprisingly well. As he listened to them read, Hugo wished he could have a say in the casting, but felt reasonably sure that the black-clad Raymond would have the last word, heavily influenced by Marie Maxwell. He had already had his mind changed for him about his Lilith, and prayed that Morris had the intelligence and the backbone to cast the right person as the vampire. When it came to the men, he wasn't sure the power necessarily lay with Rory Gastineau.

No, now there was the beautiful Charles Priestley. A gift from the gods, a fallen angel if ever he saw one. He could almost hear the beating of his wings.
Back to the drawing-board
, thought Hugo.
Can't pass up a chance like this
.