Outsider (12 page)

Track number five, she is a total mystery/
Hovering on the edge of your dreams/ Never, never, never there for
you/ Who are you, who are you to her/ But just another dancer in
the crowd//

And tomorrow will be another day/ with
sunshine in the blue sky/ You’ll be hiding in black velvet, of
course/ Waiting for destiny to knock your door down.”

The Goddess reached the last verse, the verse
Baby Dyke was always waiting for, because the voice would turn into
a raspy sound, something grabbing her heart:

“
Track number five/ She’s got the voice
and the smile/ The matching grey eyes/ And you know it/ Track
number five/ She is the siren/ Never calling your name/ Oooooh you
want it so/ You want her so/ Oooooh you want her…….”

The vampire looked into Sid’s eyes and Sid
looked back. The green-mohicaned woman was under a spell, no longer
the spell of a voice and a keyboard, but Joy’s mesmerising spell.
Judy didn’t see the vampire reached for Sid’s hand. Sid, who was
not the most tactile person in the world but didn’t mind a bit of
handholding with a woman on a very occasional basis, accepted the
slender fingers and followed without any resistance, straying away
from the stage and her favourite band for the first time ever. Baby
Dyke watched them walk away. The show went on.

* * * * * * *

In the strangely deserted beer garden, Sid
felt suddenly more relaxed. The rush of energy abruptly left her.
The moon was welcoming her. The vampire turned to her, a smile
growing slowly on her playful lips. Sid smiled back. She was
herself again, free from the spell now that they were outdoors, in
the deep, wide night. Now slightly surprised to find herself in
intimate terms with such company.

“I can’t,” she simply stated when Joy
annihilated the space between them, wondering how to decline the
advances of a gorgeous woman, when, simply, this gorgeous woman was
not her type. And not who she wanted.

“Are you sure you can resist me?” The voice
was sensual and wispy, the smile broader, the lips parted, showing
the tips of the fangs.

Sid’s smile widened, knowingly, having read
too many classics. Her eyes glowed with renewed amusement. Here was
possible death, at last. Yes, why not at the teeth of a female
vampire.

“I just cannot say yes,” she rephrased,
feeling suddenly wiser, or was it crazier. Death on a silver plate,
death under the moon, the death of legend, the one death she could
accept –or take- without worrying about karmic consequences for her
Akashic records. Not her fault, never her responsibility, if a
vampire wanted to feed on her…….

And she was turning it down? She had learned
to say NO?! My, my, maybe she had gone totally insane!

Frustration flared briefly on the vampire’s
face. Hunger wanted to sink fangs into the tantalising tarantula
tattooed on Sid’s jugular.

“You really believe you can resist me. This
is what attracted me to you. I am hungry, but I also feel lonely.
Shall I feed on you or shall I make you mine, shall I make you like
me?”

The moonlight intensified, brighter and
brighter. Sid felt suddenly tempted. Wow, grow new teeth, not to
worry about the dole office anymore, fly through the night (
Come
on, you gotta gimme that one! It’s my greatest fantasy!
)

The vampire’s fingers were soft on the nape
of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Oh temptation. Sid was
thoroughly enjoying the game. She knew she could resist any
temptation. When she wanted to.

“I had centuries of loneliness. You could
keep me company.”

But a woman, sliding down the light of the
moon, appeared at their side. She had long, raven hair down to her
waist and the most gorgeous coppery skin, muscles slightly bulging
in her arms, authority in her attitude and her voice.

“Enough, Joy, Sid has other things to
do.”

Death! She was Death! Death, who had rejected
Sid so many times. Death, who Sid longed to be with, more than
anyone else in the world. She was head over heels for Death, wanted
Death to take her into her warm and tender embrace. She so much
wanted Death to take her away from everything, everyone, and all
the suffering of this world. And Death wouldn’t have minded, after
all, Sid, whatever names she’d used along the years, had
occasionally proven of some interest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? And
who the fuck are you?” Joy raised her voice with anger.

“I am Death, of course.” Gazing at Joy with
irony. “I was just chatting with Life and we were commenting on how
well and better Sid had started doing recently. We’re pleased with
her attitude these days. That’s a nice change.” Looking at Sid:
“Except for getting drunk tonight. By the way, Sid, I’m afraid
you’ll have to put up with your drug-induced mania for a while
longer.”

“Thank you for the information.” Feeling
suddenly sober.

“And what has it got to do with you if I turn
her into a vampire? She wouldn’t be dead!”

“She would be undead. Life and I cannot let
this happen. She belongs to us and especially to me.”

Ownership. ‘scuse me but there, Sid had to
bash her sixpence worth in the middle:

“Hey, maybe I wanna be a vampire!”

“Shut up there. And I thought for a minute
you were getting wiser. Let me handle this.”

Great. Sid crossed her arms over her stomach,
slightly sulking, but only slightly. Because, after all, it was
Death who had told her to shut up, and after all, she had great
respect for Death. Death was telling Joy:

“We have great plans for Sid. It might take
her a long time to get into it but it is her destiny. And no one’s
got the right to change that. You least of all.”

“But what if I never agree to your plans?”
Sid again.

“Oh, sweet child.”

“I ain’t sweet!”

“Your rebel streak again, .” There she
used Sid’s secret name, the name of her secret core, so secret that
the spelling was unknown. That made Sid shut up for real.

“Ok, but what about me?” Joy’s frustration
was shifting to exasperation. She could do nothing against Death’s
decision, no matter how powerful and immortal she was herself. “I’m
hungry! I need to feed!”

“Let me see,” replied Death with equal mood.
She pulled out a hand-size computer out of her jeans back pocket,
started pushing keys and scanning a mini-screen, then eventually
reading out loud:

“Dawn Ferndale, Terri Harley.”

Sid jumped: “you must be joking!”

“Oops! Sorry! Wrong year!” The two names had
no cause of extinction written in the next column. It was too far
away in time. She punched a few more keys:

“Year 2001. Month of July. 28th day. Oh, busy
night for me! Quite a few people for collection. Let’s see. Teddy
Longhorn.”

“A man? I’m more into wimin these days.”

“Well Joy, it’ll have to do for now because
he is the only one with no apparent reason for collection.
Therefore, he must be yours. You’ll find him easily, he’ll be
marked for you.”

The vampire sighed, rather disgruntled.

“Now, I must be off. Sid, behave
yourself.”

“When will I see you again?”

Death smiled, and her smile was a more
powerful spell than any Joy would have ever tried.

“You know it: you’re still doomed to
immortality.”

Sid sighed, disgruntled, too.

Death pocketed her computer and the light of
the moon took her away. Sid and Joy looked at each other. Joy
walked away. Sid followed.

Inside, the vampire found her imposed prey as
easily as promised. Sid smiled, amused. She identified Teddy
Longhorn as the guy who had claimed she had the hots for Terri.
What would he think if he knew that the writer had the hots for
Death herself? She smiled more wildly. He’d never had the
opportunity to find out, his death would be sweet and bespelled.
Lucky him, she thought, claiming back her piece of dance floor in
front of Dawn’s keyboards. Dawn was as usual bent over her
instrument, going mad in tempo. Terri who was not requesting but
ordering the crowd to give her “
five
”, walked closer to Sid,
palm extended, and as usual, because the writer couldn’t bear to do
like anyone else (how to be noticed otherwise?), Sid squeezed the
singer’s hand briefly. The next punter copied her shamelessly.

WPC Glenn had only volunteered because D.I.
Madison had the most incredible blue eyes and he always sported
elegant suits. But he was so dedicated to his work that no one
could really approach him. He had requested a female volunteer for
one night undercover, for one night of mingling with a raucous
crowd, for one night of rocky music. D.I. Madison had never looked
at WPC Glenn before, now he had, albeit in the most sober
manner.

Do not take any risks. Just keep an eye on
the various goings-on. Watch for people leaving the audience by two
or three. Do not drink anything but orange juice (WPC Glenn was
allergic to citrus fruits). And do not take any risks. We are
dealing with a very dangerous killer here, maybe two.

Heather Glenn was just under 5’5’’ but still
taller than Joan Jett or Ani DiFranco. She wouldn’t impress any bad
guys but, not being a stranger to karate and judo, she knew how to
use surprise as a most effective weapon. She was not stocky or
petite. Her hair was a mass of vague, dark curls generally held
together in a ponytail. She knew how to smile innocently and had
plenty of wits. If required to, she was a sharp shooter.

And there she was at the Greystoke in
Teddington, watching the cosmopolitan crowd, while D.I. Madison
covered the outside. It was a happy crowd, mixing local lads with
Second Look groupies, mini-skirts with……. green mohican. That one,
a tattooed punk with an expensive-looking camera, didn’t seem to
mix well with the crowd, despite the bottle tightly grasped by the
left hand. If you paid a bit more attention to this green mohican
currently in conversation with the singer of the band, you could
notice the green was slowly fading into yellow.

A punk with a camera. WPC Glenn added the
writer to her list of potential suspects, while leisurely sipping
some apple juice. She resumed her scanning of the crowd, ignored
the fidgeting Baby Dyke, and contemplated a very feminine-looking
woman. Early twenties. A long mane of black hair striped with white
strands. She was amicably chatting with a Second Look roadie. No,
somehow, Heather couldn’t peg her on her list. And moved on. The
victims found after each second Look gig were female. She started
focussing on the men. None of them could look handsome enough to
her eyes, none of them had looks to surpass or even match those of
D. I. Madison’s. She chided herself and stirred her brain back to
the increasing crowd.

When Judy walked in, WPC Glenn only noticed
her because she went to sit on a bass speaker and talk with the
green mohican. An accomplice?

And the music started. The green mohican was
already taking photos and dancing, wild.

* * * * * * *

When the green mohican and the gypsy-eyed
woman, somewhere in the middle of the second set, started across
the standing crowd, walking hand in hand, WPC Glenn surmised that
something was about to happen, something more important than her
apple juice. When they came out of the crowd, ignoring the lively
world around them, the undercover policewoman stepped forward to
follow them, but arriving at the covered pool tables, she found
herself intercepted by one burly man after another, until the punk
and the goth walked out into the beer garden, and Heather stood in
front of a woman whose masculine features screamed butch dyke at
every second.

Heather looked at the spiky, short, blonde
hair, the predatory smile, the bulging arms, the green top showing
off well-developed abdominal muscles. She didn’t get to detail the
butch more, because the butch spoke with honey in her voice.
Heather found herself barely reluctantly hijacked for a drink at
the bar, after a last wistful look toward the beer garden where a
murder might, or might not, be about to happen.

The strong fingers that had played with
Heather’s ponytail on the way to the bar, stuck a small glass of
sherry in Heather’s hand. Heather listened to the babbling of the
butch dyke, who, albeit discreetly, was sussing her out. When a
very feminine woman joined them, one with long, dark hair and
delicate spectacles, the butch dyke exclaimed, as honey-voice as
ever:

“Darling! Meet Allison!”

Allison? Was it a code word between these two
lesbians? Heather started to wonder if she was about to be picked
up for a threesome and started to worry. She had no idea how to get
out of this situation. This hadn’t been broached from any angle in
any of the various training courses she had attended.

When she noticed the goth and the punk no
longer holding hands coming back from the beer garden, her worry
magnified by ten: was she just being picked up for a threesome, or
was she intended as the next murder victim…….

“So, this is what you do for a living?”

Joy ignored him. She swallowed the last drop
of blood from Teddy Longhorn’s lifeless body. She was still in a
very bad mood. To top it up, Teddy’s blood had the one bitter tinge
she had never been crazy about. She slowly turned her head to look
at the newcomer and spat contemptibly:

“Hello, Blondie, offering yourself for
dessert?”

D. I. Madison was a relatively handsome man
in his early thirties. A reasonable 5’9’’, that night he favoured a
dark blue summer suit over a white shirt, but no tie. His feet
sported very standard blue suede shoes. As a matter of fact, Joy
had a great aversion for blue eyes. Grey would have been just about
ok. Dark brown was always ideal.