Bull Running For Girlsl (18 page)

The first stage production based upon John Polidori’s The Vampyre appears to be Le Vampire by Charles Nodier performed 13th June 1820 in Paris, at the Theatre de la Porte - Saint-Martin.

Anna Wilding nodded to Paula, her associate, who dimmed the lights and joined her on one of the red velvet covered chairs placed in a semicircle around a table; one of six in their small, private cinema. The small theatre was situated down one of Soho’s narrow, shabby streets. Hardly anyone noticed the place was there and no one ever prised off the old boards that covered the front entrance. Visitors used an indistinct side door. The drab walls inside the establishment were plastered with faded posters of the vampire greats
—
those whom Wilding admired. She had chosen Max Shreck as Count Orlock, Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee and Lon Chaney.

Paula, with her blonde bob cut, was quite a petulant vampire. “It doesn’t seem entirely fair that we have to watch Jack Palance in Bram Stoker’s Dracula
, again
.”

“And you would prefer
—
?”

“Well, I quite liked Mad Monster Party from 1968.”

“Animated vampires Paula
—
a very poor representation of our kind, as was Draculita in sixty-seven and The Nude Vampire in sixty-nine.”

“You really didn’t like the sixties films, did you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I had rather a soft spot for The Fearless Vampire Killers in sixty-seven, and then there is nothing comparable to Roger Vadim’s Blood and Roses from sixty-one. Beautiful photography, a fine example.”

“The Fearless Vampire Killers. Agreed. But did you have to kill the whole cast of Billy the Kid vs. Dracula from sixty-six?”

Wilding gave Paula a cool look. “Think about that for a moment Paula.”

Paula settled down into the plush red seat, put her feet up on the table in front of her and sulked a little.

“Cheer up Paula. Tomorrow you can have your choice, so button it down and pass me the popcorn.”

They settled down for the afternoon to watch
Nosferatu
, this time with Klaus Kinski in the role, followed by a discussion on the allure of silent film versus talkies.

Meanwhile, Nick Grant, who had been up until dawn the night before, slept fitfully, splayed across his enormous bed in his large mansion on Eel Pie Island:

MAGIC THEATRE

ENTRANCE NOT FOR EVERYBODY

It had happened again; Nick saw the red neon sign above the door and took one step closer. He knew the words came from the novel
Steppenwolf
. Nick’s father, Mathew Grant, had been overlooked for the part of Harry Haller in the film. The part had been given to Max Von Sydow. But that is where the book, film, and the nightmare parted company. He had that nightmare for the last seven nights in a row and now, during the day. Each time when he entered the movie theatre it ended in the same way
—
in his death. The only difference was the way in which Nick Grant met his demise. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he was condemned each time to face the magician, although he could never actually focus on his visage.

As dreary day blended into restless night, Nick was confronted again by the nightmare. In this instance the magician bade Nick lie down on a bed face-upwards to gaze at the already blood-stained edge of a guillotine. The blade lingered, seemed to jar on its descent, and then it hurtled down towards his throat. His murderer was just a blurred image, and as the blade cut through—he awoke with a scream.

Startled from his nightmare, and soaked in sweat, Nick thought he heard the noise of a boat engine refusing to turn over, close to the island on which he lived. His hands were trembling and his step unsure as he staggered to the bathroom and threw cold water over his face. He stared into the mirror. Frustrated, bleary-eyed and angry, Nick went back to bed, praying that he would be able to get some rest. Just as his head hit the pillow his torment returned, and this time he was incarcerated in total darkness. The room smelt like a damp cellar and he could hear a sharp, scratching sound on wood not far away. Someone switched on a light. It was the magician again, and as each other time, the face was just a blur. Nick felt something uncomfortably close by his left shoulder and a gutter-like reek
fi
lled his nostrils, just as a rat bit into his neck.

Once more he awoke from the nightmare, shaking.

Nick threw the sheet from his sweating body and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Something fell crashing to the floor as he fumbled for the bedside light. He switched on the lamp and looked down at the framed photo that had fallen. It was the picture of his wife and daughter, both wearing identical retro fifties dresses of pale blue with the brown poodle pattern. It usually made him smile, but Nick wasn’t smiling now.

He stared at his hands; they were shaking uncontrollably.

Nick put one hand to his throat, pulled it away and then looked down at it. His eyes widened as he rubbed the thin smear of blood from his palm. The blood vanished and he realised that he must still be in part of the nightmare. He stumbled against the bed and rushed into the bathroom to stare into the mirror again. There was no blood, not a speck. Nothing.
No blood
—
that had to be good, right?
He had never been so terrified in his life. Sitting down on the edge of the bath, Nick tried to think of anything that would break him free from the terror that haunted him.

“Am I going crazy?” he muttered.

He had to ground himself. He thought of Stella and Alison, of who he was and what he had accomplished. He had two homes: one in Hollywood, and one in London. He had a stunning wife, Stella, and a beautiful daughter named Alison.

Nick could feel the tears welling up.

He spent most of his time in Hollywood. He had a golden rule: if his wife was on one continent, he would mess about with women on the other. No mixing continents and women
—
or cities for that matter. He might be sexually amoral, but he loved his wife.

Still trying to extract himself from the nightmares, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

Could all these nightmares be manifestations of guilt?
he thought.
Christ! The women can go to hell if only the nightmares will stop. Keep thinking. Take your mind off the nightmares.

He liked his London house on Eel Pie Island on the river Thames. He thought of those who used to live on the island, of the artists, boat builders and hippies now long gone, along with the footbridge. The island was only accessible now by boat, and belonged to him
—
Nick Grant
—
Film Star.

He dragged himself back to bed and was just beginning to fall into a strange state of half sleep when the phone rang.

“Nick, it’s me
—
Nick?”

He recognised the voice and struggled to wake up.

“Nick, I need you to remind your mother about Ali’s birthday. It’s Saturday and nothing has arrived. I’ve tried to ring her but with the time difference and everything; I can never get hold of her. Will you
—
Ali stop that. Leave it. Leave it!
Well, Nick, will you find out what’s going on?”

He tried to make out the time on the clock. “Stella, do you know what time it is here? It’s late.”

“Sorry, darling. I know it’s late there. Will you phone your mother tomorrow?”

“Stella?” Nick could hear Ali shouting in the background. “Yes
—fi
ne, I’ll call.” He put the phone down. He had told her about his nightmares earlier in the week and she had dismissed them again, suggesting that his imagination was a little too freaky for her to understand.

He turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, afraid of the shadows and terrified of the faceless magician. Unable to sleep, and too frightened to, Nick picked up the bottle of Valium, gulped some down with water and tried again to get back to sleep. He was so very, very tired.

As Nick came round he could make out the smell of stale smoke that sometimes lingered in bars and in places where people crowded together. Bright lights hurt his eyes and he saw that the light was coming from a mirror surrounded by bulbs that dazzled and confused him. His eyes learnt to focus again and he thought he must be in a dressing room. A woman walked in wearing a full length black cloak. She examined his face and his neck closely. As he fully regained consciousness Nick also realised that he was tied to a chair.

“What the hell
—
how did I get here? What the fuck is going on?”

The woman spoke. “Bringing you here was no problem, no problem at all. I can make you appear and disappear at will. Just like this little fellah.”

The woman held a black hat before her, the sort that a magician would draw a white rabbit from. And draw it she did. The rabbit wriggled and squeaked, its legs scratching at her wrist, drawing blood and making her laugh all the more. With a swift movement she bit into its neck and ripped off its head
—
its blood spraying across the mirror.

Startled, Nick stared at her in disbelief. Reeling from the shock, he failed to recognise her at first. Initially, there was nothing about her body or the way she moved that immediately disclosed anything about her
.

It’s amazing what runs through your mind when you have just seen a rabbit lose its head
, he thought. He noticed that she wore no jewellery; not even a watch.

She sipped from a glass and savoured the taste. “Don’t you remember me Nick? You were once rather keen on me, if my memory serves me correctly, before you
acted
in vampire films.”

She moved her face closer to his and seemed to sniff his neck. Revulsion flowed through him. Her eyes seemed like black pools within a snow-white face. She was made up in a hideous, geisha style and he still had trouble placing her.

“Let me jog your memory.” The woman took off a black wig and tossed it carelessly onto a table. Her hair was red.

“You’re kidding me.” Nick looked at her incredulously. He had never bothered to remember her name.

“Anna Wilding,” she stated plainly.

Nick may not have remembered her name but he remembered his unexpected distaste of her during sex. He had spent the night with her in her hotel room that one time in Rome but made a quick getaway when he had sobered up enough. He didn’t really want her then and he certainly didn’t want her now.

Wilding continued. “You know, Nick, I didn’t think that you would let me down quite so badly.” She fingered a rabbit’s foot key ring attached to a belt that wound around her slender waist. She took another sip from her glass and licked her red lips. “Your father was pretty piss-poor in the part of Love at First Bite. You seem to have, shall we say, adopted his cinematic presence.”

“What do you mean?” Nick braced himself.

“I mean, Nick darling, that I killed your father.”

Nick’s thoughts went back to his father’s accident two years before. Sweat began to form on his forehead and he fought the desire to throw up.

Wilding pulled herself up onto the table. She flung the cloak aside and crossed her long, pale legs that tapered off into killer silver heels. She laughed a little, as if she couldn’t wait to share her joke, and pushed the chair round so that Nick faced a computer. He saw himself on the monitor, tied to the chair. Wilding reached for the mouse and clicked. He saw himself in his new film that was doing very well,
The Death Doom of the Double Born
, released in
2007 (the original short story by Bram Stoker hadn’t a vampire in it, but the film did now). Many actors that he recognised then came into view on the screen, all meeting their deaths by decapitation in so many, new, horrible and perverse ways.

There was the lead actor from
Dracula Sucks
from
1979,
Mamma Dracula
from
eighty, and
Rockula
from
ninety. The last one made Nick sick to his stomach; it was a movie still of his father as he appeared in
Love at First Bite
. There was a quick flash of his face in makeup, then the decapitation, some years later in the car crash. His head lay on the blood-splattered floor of the car. Wilding clicked again. Yet another still appeared
—
again, one of the scenes from the ‘accident.’ The impact dislodged a steel plate from the truck and it shot through the windscreen. Wilding clicked back to his father. Nick would never forget his face, with his mouth fixed in a terrified grimace and his hair matted with blood.

“My private collection.” Wilding smiled. She brought her face close to Nick’s neck again and he felt the sharp points of her teeth tease and threaten to puncture his skin. He could feel the heat of her breath and he struggled furiously against the binding.