Call Me Ismay (25 page)

Sgt. Wade was furious and amazed, yet maintained a professional tone. “Mr. Gidley, before you utter another word, do you have a full understanding of just how much you are incriminating yourself? That what you are stating is tantamount to a confession?”

“Incrimination!” Gidley chuckled self-righteously. “That would fall under the presumption that any action of My choosing would be considered to be criminal. Truly, in the grand scheme of the realm, is taking a life criminal, or is it actually just inconvenient?”

Wade took on his most serious of deliveries. “Sir. I will have no more of this mockery. Are you wishing to make a statement of confession, or no?”

“Copper, it wouldn't matter if I made a statement here to you today, or in a court of law with those vacuous, baritone-voiced magistrates attempting to enforce meaning from just so many words on a piece of paper. Myself and Mr. Lyons have been and always
will
be the individuals to choose whether We accept any kind of a cure, legal or otherwise.”

Gidley took a swift puff off his cigar as Sgt. Wade stood silent and disbelieving. After a moment passed, the policeman cleared his throat and prepared to place the Parliamentary Secretary under arrest.

“Bartholomew Gidley,” Wade pronounced, reaching slowly for his handcuffs. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, however, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Gidley remained stoic, unmoved, as though he hadn't even heard Wade's commandment. At last he set aside his cane, and placed his hand on the rail of the brake van, as if he was bracing for some sort of impact.

“I don't presume to speak for you, copper, but
My
ticket on this train is not round-trip.”

In an instant, the pudgy little man whirled around to face Wade, who hadn't the time to react as his handcuffs were ripped out of his hands, into the open air and off the speeding train. Gidley then planted his shoulder into Wade's chest and shoved him brutally up against the back wall of the brake van. Wade clawed for his semi-automatic, but Gidley seemed to anticipate that move and had already grabbed Wade's wrist, and now the men were in for a violent bit of wrestling for the weapon. Their faces were virtually pressed together, Wade making a valiant attempt to overcome Gidley's grip, but already starting to fail. As their tangled arms bent down towards the brake van's rail, Gidley pushed his nose practically up against Wade's, and locking his coal-black eyes with his, shushed Wade from his frantic panting, and began murmuring a terrifying sort of chant.

“Human flesh pulled off her bones... My Mother's breasts cut off... while heart and liver have no home ... this blood will be enough.”

Wade, trembling and pale, thought he saw a kaleidoscope of fire in Gidley's eyes and gradually became transfixed, even comforted, by the inevitability of what he already knew was going to happen next.
Of course,
Wade thought
, those punctures, those perfect little punctures on that young man's neck-

Gidley's mouth flew open, two fangs descended from the top row of his teeth, and immediately he plunged them into the soft portion of Wade's neck, eagerly seeking out the arteries with their precious cargo. Wade suddenly kicked a bit, causing Gidley to plunge his teeth deeper into his flesh, and while the vampiric rule was to keep things clean, Gidley often couldn't help himself in the course of an attack and soon his victim's blood was dripping down his chin and onto his clothes.

Several cars ahead on the train, Edward Lyons, who had absorbed himself completely in his maps, suddenly convulsed as a high-pitched whine went off in his ears. “Bloody hell! Gidley's gone unclean again!” he growled angrily, tossing his maps aside. He grabbed his hat and dashed out of the compartment, heading for the back of the train.

In another far less luxurious, decidedly cramped compartment, Lillith was nearly deafened by the shriek, jolting poor Marcus- who was seated right next to her- so badly that sections of the newspaper he was reading went flying. “Sorry, sorry, sometimes I have a terrific headache, that's all,” she apologetically reassured him, knowing that Gidley most likely was up to his old exploits on another part of the train.

Meanwhile, the attack- which had turned into a perverse sort of embrace- continued. Wade rapidly lost consciousness from Gidley's intrusive fangs, as they engaged in a lethal combination of drawing out blood from Wade's neck as Gidley sucked in air, and pumping in venom as he exhaled. Gidley had long, long before gone through the initial phase of infection which few vampires actually survived: he was successfully inured to his own venom. So-called “young” vampires (every vampire at first bite is considered young, regardless of age) are initially only able to draw blood, not poison their victim. As the “teething” process continues, a form of adolescence- perhaps better described as natural selection- is experienced, and if the initiate is able to fight off the effects of their first injection of venom, which is intended to fully immobilize the vampire's victim, then they are able to continue on towards a state of vampiric stability. Gidley had passed the test centuries before, shaking off the poisonous effects as if they were nothing more than a slightly inconvenient fever.

Death draped itself over Wade's limp body, his skin now white as porcelain. Gidley drew in deep breaths, grinning selfishly, feeling Wade's blood entering his own circulatory system, cleansing and sustaining and reviving him. He was not in such a deep reverie, however, that he could not make out the sound of rushing footsteps inside the train, approaching at a furious pace. In two quick moves, Gidley stood up, grabbed Wade's jacket by the collar, and swiftly hoisted the dead policeman's body over the railing on the hind end of the train. He let it go and watched it crumple headfirst onto the tracks as the train sped away. Almost simultaneously, Edward Lyons came bursting through the brake van's door, just in time to see Wade's policeman helmet fly end over end and off into the distance.

“Kill the Christ Child, Bart-
what the
hell
have You done?” he exclaimed, sizing up Gidley and the streaks of blood that ran down his face and onto the front of his buttoned-up shirt.

“Killing two birds with one stone, Sir,” Gidley proudly proclaimed, looking like a strangely well-dressed butcher. “He
did
know something, and therefore could not stay on this train.”

Lyons sighed, exasperated. “You didn't tell Me it was a policeman! Bartholomew Gidley, when through the course of so many damnable centuries are You going to accumulate enough experience and knowledge to anticipate the possibility that this policeman could very well have a few colleagues awaiting his arrival in Southampton? When is the very concept of that kind of foresight going to find its way into that rat's maze of a brain of Yours?”

“Well,” Gidley said, appearing for a moment to give the matter serious thought. “I can always pull them aside and eat them too!”

Lyons grabbed Gidley manfully by the arm and pulled him close. “Listen, You half-wit. I have worked far too long and hard to get to this moment, the opportunity to begin a whole new generation, for Me to be cut off at the knees by a few careless and stupid mistakes. Our power is not unlimited, and You should have observed that in this bleeding country, watching Me subjugate myself as some bleeding-heart sap in support of women's rights. Every transition must be made with the utmost discretion! So, if We are to blend in, disappear, and be forgotten into the American desert, as was Our plan, I will not be able to tolerate any further excursions that involve Your damn fool blood credits!”

“Point taken,
Sir!”
Gidley snapped, yanking his arm out of Lyons's grip and narrowing his eyes in anger. “But what about
You
, old chap? Have
You
shown discretion by bringing along that little tart from Cornwall? She'll have You taking the cure and swearing off blood and You'll be dead in five years!”

Lyons seethed. “Lillith is
My property
. Do You understand? Not another word against her from You, Gidley, or I'll have Your dark heart in the hands of a vivisectionist the moment We disembark in New York, I swear it!” Lyons's tone left little doubt that he did not mean it to be taken in a pejorative sense. He pulled out a pocket watch. “I believe We are about forty minutes away from Southampton. Now, in the meantime, We've somehow got to get back into Our assigned compartment on this train without drawing attention to Ourselves.” He pocketed his watch and then produced a handkerchief from his jacket, and began dabbing at the unsightly gore on Gidley's shirt. “If anyone expresses concern, You slipped and fell and hurt Your jaw.”

Gidley collected his cane and looked down at himself, realizing just how much of a bloodstain there was on his chest. “That must have been some fall, Sir,” he muttered. “I daresay it provided Me enough blood credit to carry Me all the way through to the Wasatch.”

                                 *********

Berth 44 in Southampton continued to roil with activity, and by now smoke was starting to rise from three of the
Titanic's
four smokestacks. Kerry Langston had been herded with hundreds of other steerage passengers across one of the gangways, and he fancied himself as one of many insects who- like mosquitos- had dared to penetrate the ship's seemingly imperturbable skin. While the boarding process was swift for the third class passengers once they had been examined for lice and other infections, Langston couldn't help but deliberately drag his feet for a moment in order to take in the ship's cleanliness, its warmth, its bright shining lights. Many a foreign tongue chattered around him, but he knew they had to be verbalizing the same excitement over the ship's unexpected accommodations that he felt; until now, travel by steerage was something to be endured, not enjoyed. Although each room was decidedly sparse, the ship seemed to convey comfort to even the lowliest of passengers. Normally, the smell of fresh paint was something that had nauseated him, but in this instance Langston reveled in its pungent, sparkling white newness. It was as if the ship's builders wanted to convey a sense of welcome to everyone.

In brutal honesty, the opinions held by those in steerage could not have been further from J. Bruce Ismay's mind. As he strolled the length of the platform alongside the ship, he chatted excitedly with the ship's architect, Thomas Andrews, and Harold A. Sanderson, member of the firm of Ismay, Imrie and Company. Ismay punctuated his words with a walking stick as he spoke, adding a bit of unavoidable smugness in doing so.

“I daresay that we perhaps have gone one better than the Hamburg-Amerika Line, do you not agree, gentlemen?”

Andrews chuckled and Sanderson responded clinically. “I believe,” he called out, having to raise his voice as the crowds at the port grew gradually louder, “that we have built two new ships that are not surpassed in size and magnificence, and yet at the same moment I do not think there is as simple and as straightforward a ship afloat as this one for getting from one part of it to another. It really is a marvel of design.”

“You flatter me, Harold,” Andrews replied, his eyes sparkling as he seemed to relentlessly drink in the ship's detail at any given moment, rarely taking her eyes off of her. “Not bad for a lad from Comber, though I doubt you would ever see the likes of her sailing down the Glen River!” Ismay smiled while Sanderson broke into a very rare faint grin.

“Harold, I should like to draw your attention to the First Class Promenade Deck- those glass windows?” Ismay gestured up at the A Deck Promenade, where the forward section had been enclosed. “In certain weather, we encountered some trouble on the
Olympic
, with some of our passengers getting drenched with bow spray.

Since the
Titanic
is the latest thing in the art of shipbuilding, absolutely no money was spared in her construction, and, therefore, I ordered the forward promenade enclosed.”

“It's true, he did,” Andrews interjected. “Mr. Ismay, do you know what we shipbuilders have nicknamed those windows?”

“No, I don't.”

“We call them the 'Ismay screens.' It seemed appropriate,” he added, drily. Ismay pondered this bit of information for a moment, then nodded his head in a quiet sign of approval. Sanderson stoically regarded the large windows, also in silence; the only sound to come from him was the jiggling of coins, as he absent-mindedly fondled the loose change in his pockets.

Two stewards who were making their way towards the aft end of the ship overheard the exchange. As they walked past, one of them whirled around for a moment, determining none of the important men were in earshot, and took into account that the noise at the port rendered it highly unlikely anyone could hear him. He turned back around, nudged his colleague in the ribs, cocking his head near his friend's ear.