Suzie and the Monsters (8 page)

All systems green. So far so good.

I open the inner door, and that starts blinking. I insert Dom’s ID again, but immediately the door turns red on the display and half the rest of the house turns amber. Somewhere an alarm trills. Damn. I race for the stairs and up, the guard’s radio in my pocket squawking ‘Greg? What the hell’s happening out there? Greg?’

The bedroom is on the first floor at the front of the house. I was able to guess the location by watching the lights in the house last Saturday. Besides, it’s a nice south-facing view, and the room has large windows to make the most of it. The house is only about twenty years old and the design and decor have a modern elegance. It’s a shame I’m in too much of a hurry to enjoy it.

I barrel off the wall at the top of the staircase and bounce into the bedroom just in time to see a naked leg disappearing into the wardrobe. I race after the leg, through a curtain of white shirts, and slam cheek-first into a heavy steel door. It stops me dead, but the door wasn’t fully closed and the impact sends Alex sprawling across the floor inside his secret chamber. I push the door open and search for a light switch, which turns out to be in the obvious place. Alex scrambles to his feet. He is dressed in blue boxer shorts and a white Ibiza T-shirt, and he looks terrified.

The room is quite plain, just a leather chair, some bottled water, a desk with a telephone, and a Dodgeson computer display showing CCTV images and floor plans flashing red. There’s also a briefcase and a metal security box.

‘You’re not what I expected,’ he says.

‘I’m not what anyone expects,’ I reply. ‘Tell me, Alex, do you remember Jessie?’ He shakes his head, but he’s lying. ‘Oh, you must remember her. Tall, long blonde hair, pretty dress with large daisy print, tattoo of a butterfly on her left arm?’ He shakes his head again, and moves to put the chair between us. He keeps glancing at the display. ‘Don’t lie to me, Alex. Tell me about the night you raped her. Did you have fun? Did her screams excite you?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he whispers.

‘Tell me where she is, Alex.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he repeats.

‘Alex, Alex. You know, and I know, that a helicopter will be here in five minutes, maybe sooner, and I don’t plan on waiting around for it. Which gives you one minute exactly to tell me where she is.’

Alex shoves the chair at me and makes a run for it. He thinks I’m only a girl. I jump over the flying chair and grab hold of him, and once again the taser comes in handy, although it’s less effective with this second use. He crumples to the floor, and I straddle him, pinning his wrists to the floor while I take my hunting knife from its ankle holster.

‘Goodbye, Alex,’ I say, and he screams briefly as I cut deep into his neck. Bright, beautiful arterial blood fountains into the room and Alex convulses furiously beneath me, but he is quickly unconscious. I dive down to drink the life-rich fluid, feeding for the first time in days, and this deep blood is the finest. I take a few mouthfuls, enough to satisfy, not enough to be missed by the people who will be examining him soon. My face and hair and clothing are streaked and stained. No doubt I look like a monster. I am a monster.

I pick up the briefcase and security box. I have no idea what’s in them, but I’m certainly curious. Back in the bedroom I smash a window and throw my treasure onto the lawn below, before dropping down after them, and a few seconds later I’m throwing them over the wall and following. I can hear the distant chopping of the approaching helicopter, but there’s just enough time for me to reach the Mini, strip out of my gloves, shoes and running suit, and bundle everything into plastic bin bags in the boot. I drive off, dressed in my grey Nike tracksuit and an old pair of trainers, and head away from the city, following the river upstream, lights dark, until I’m far enough away that I’m sure the helicopter won’t spot me. It’s as good a place as any to stop for a few minutes and clean the blood from my face and hair in the river.

*

After a long, cleansing shower at home, I head out again, dressed in jeans and a hilarious Bloodsucking Girl tank top, and still in my old trainers, taking my blood-stained clothing to the household waste centre, where I make sure it gets compacted. Then I leave the box and briefcase with Alia, and head into town for my weekly waxing and pampering session, hair and nails, manicure, pedicure, at Francesca’s, stopping on the way to buy a new hunting knife and holster, having thrown out this morning’s murder weapon with the bloody clothes. I emerge from the salon at lunchtime looking not unlike Penelope Cruz. Francesca has a real talent for copying celebrity hairstyles.

I’m not far from Covent Garden, so decide to visit Burberry’s, which is always a dangerous thing to do, and afterwards, fully and elegantly clothed in my new purchases, relax for an hour in Dalla Terra with a glass of the Sagrantino Di Montefalco.

I remember to text Cleo. ‘Be outside at 6.30. Bring comfortable shoes.’

Later, at home, I check the internet for news about this morning’s activities. There isn’t much. ‘Local business man Mr Alex Graham was assaulted and killed in his home shortly after 4 pm this morning. The attacker is believed to be a young woman acting alone,’ and so on. There’s even a picture of me, a dark, slender hooded figure, taken from one of the security cameras, grainy, and black and white, but it doesn’t show my face clearly. If that’s really the best they’ve got, then my sabotage of the Dodgeson computer servers must have worked. I imagine there is still evidence that could lead the police to me if they search thoroughly, but I’m probably safe enough.

At six thirty I’m in my Mini, outside Cleo’s house, wearing my red dragon corset, a short black salsa skirt with a black thong underneath, and my Tributes. My lips are a fantastic Hollywood Red, thank you Bobbi Brown. In all it’s a strange blend of styles, but it’s sexy as hell. Cleo appears wearing a short Desigual dress, white with lilies at the front and stripes at the back. She’s still not fully at ease walking in her Meteoritas, but damn she looks good.

She slides into the passenger seat, filling the car with raspberries and patchouli, delicious, Elle by Yves Saint Laurent, and whatever she was about to say or do is forgotten. ‘You look dangerous,’ she says after studying me.

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t know. It’s like you stepped out of a magazine. I’m afraid to touch you.’

I laugh. ‘Did you bring some shoes for dancing?’

‘Will the Truffles be okay?’ she asks, indicating her bag.

‘They’ll be okay. Come on, close your door.’

I pop in the CD soundtrack to Curdled, and forward to Danza Macabra to get us in the mood for the evening, and kiss Cleo hungrily before driving off. This song always makes me want to grab a knife and dance around the house like Gabriella. One of the advantages of living alone is that I can do exactly that.

I love Colombian dance. Every summer I go to the Feria de Cali, the great Salsa festival, and in February this year I went to the Carnaval de Barranquilla, full of brilliantly coloured costumes and thousands of people enjoying music and dancing. Even better, since sexual attitudes in Colombia are quite progressive, and there’s even a chance that gay marriages will be legal next year, it’s easy for me to find gorgeous Colombian girls to dance Cumbia with.

The couple who teach the Friday evening Salsa class are both from Colombia, Alejandro from Cali, Isabel from Medellín. They’re in their thirties and teach professional dance classes during the week, and are often entering Latin dance competitions. I help them work on new routines, and have always kept the relationship professional. I love dancing with them too much to risk complicating things.

‘Suzie chica!’ Alejandro says when we arrive. ‘We missed you last week!’

‘Sorry, but look what I found,’ I reply with a grin, hugging Cleo to me tightly. ‘Cleo, this is Alejandro, and over there is his beautiful wife Isabel.’ I wave across the hall at Isabel, who grins and waves back.

The first two hours of the class is just basic steps, but it’s fun dancing with Cleo, teaching her the rhythms and moves, holding her close and stealing kisses from time to time. Later as the class gets more advanced, she takes a seat and lets me mix with the more experienced dancers in my unofficial role as the third teacher of this class. I love the energetic footwork of Salsa Caliente. At eleven o’clock, the class finishes and soon the hall is empty except for Alejandro, Isabel, Cleo and myself, none of us in a hurry to leave.

We crack open a bottle of wine, switch the CD, Armando Hernandez, dim the lights, and spend a couple of hours Cumbia dancing, so much sexier than Salsa, swapping partners from time to time, until Cleo, exhausted, starts tripping over her feet.

*

There’s a parking spot free just outside my flat, which is rare but I’m certainly not complaining. I walk round to support Cleo, who is sleepy and rather unwisely back in her heels.

My attention is caught by a car passing by slowly, unusually slow, something that always makes me a little nervous, and I turn in time to see the passenger window rolling down. The face is half-familiar, and the eyes are fixed on me with intensity. My instincts are shrieking danger, screaming at me to run, and the silencer that is suddenly aimed at me isn’t a surprise, just the logical development of the moment. But I can’t move, or, to be specific, I can’t move out of the path of the bullet, because behind me is Cleo, oblivious and innocent, and my need to protect her overwhelms the urge to leap for cover.

It’s like being hit in the chest by a giant, invisible fist. I’m thrown backwards, back against Cleo. Three more blows to the chest. I’m sliding down the wall, pain exploding inside me, flowers of blood blossoming above my left breast. I’m aware distantly that Cleo’s shouting at me, but it’s not until she gets her phone out that I remember there are worse things than being shot. I grab her phone and fling it away. ‘No doctors,’ I say. ‘No police.’

I find my iPhone, tap in the code, but suddenly there’s too much blood smeared across the glass and I can’t get the phone to work, and I’m trying to wipe it off but everything hurts so much and I’m crying tears of frustration. Cleo takes the phone from me. ‘Call Alia,’ I say. ‘Tell her to hurry.’ I hug my knees to my chest and just concentrate on breathing, and for a long time all I’m really aware of is the fire in my chest and the blood pounding in my ears, until, an eternity later, Alia is here, taking my left arm, Cleo under my right, carrying me up the stairs to my flat, and I’m trying to tell Alia to send Cleo home, but they’re not listening to me, just arguing with each other, I can’t understand them, but at last I’m in bed and the pain is starting to recede and the relief is euphoric so that it’s nice to just lie here like this for now.

Alia and Cleo come into the room. God they smell good. ‘Ai!’ I cry out as I find my wrists and ankles are tied to the bed frame. ‘Let me go,’ I plead. I’m so hungry! ‘Please!’ I pull at the chords, and the wooden frame creaks, but doesn’t break. I try to catch their eyes but they’re avoiding eye contact.

Alia sits on the bed next to me, keeping her eyes locked on Cleo’s. Cleo has been crying, and looks confused and frightened. ‘Please help me, Cleo,’ I whimper, which just makes her cry again. She keeps her eyes fixed on Alia.

‘Quiet, Suzie,’ Alia orders me. ‘I’ll help you, but I need to talk with Cleo for a minute.’ She takes Cleo’s hands. ‘I’m glad you were here to look after my girl, but I think it would be best if you went home now. I promise you I’ll take care of Suzie.’

Cleo shakes her head. ‘I’m staying.’

‘Because you’re her friend?’ Cleo nods. ‘Then you need to make me some promises. This is very important.’ Alia waits until Cleo nods again. ‘Okay. Good. First, you must never ask her how old she is.’ Cleo frowns, but nods. ‘You must never ask her her real name.’ This startles Cleo, but eventually she nods again. ‘And if she ever gets hurt like tonight, there are three rules: don’t call for a doctor, don’t make eye contact, and make absolutely sure she can’t hurt anyone.’

‘But why?’

‘I made these promises to someone twenty years ago, when I was about your age. I didn’t understand then, but I have begun to. This is the first time I have ever seen Suzie hurt, and yet look. Where are the bullet holes? You don’t need me to tell you that something impossible has happened tonight. I will tell you, however, that Suzie hasn’t aged a day in the twenty years I’ve been her friend, that I’ve never seen her eat anything, that she is faster and stronger than anyone else I’ve ever met, and that she has a talent for messing with people’s heads. I will tell you also that I love her almost more than anything in this world.’

‘Alia!’ I plead, and pull at the chords again.

‘Do you promise?’

Cleo nods. ‘I promise.’

‘Okay, little Suzie. Tell me what you need.’

‘Hold out your arm, yes, closer, closer, a little closer,’ and then my teeth are piercing her wrist, her rich, hot blood flooding my mouth, a few drops escaping to run down my cheeks, but swallowing as much of that life-giving, healing nectar as possible, thinking of nothing but its liquid ecstasy and the thrilling of my veins, until she yells ‘Stop, Suzie! Stop! Enough!’

I release her with a gasp, and cry out ‘Alia!’ as she collapses on top of me. She needs help and I am trapped. ‘Untie me!’ I beg Cleo, but she’s in shock. ‘Damn it, Cleo! Alia needs help!’ Cleo looks at me reflexively, but she’s no longer in danger from my eyes. ‘Please Cleo, help Alia, or let me help her.’ Cleo shakes her head, but only to clear it, for she stands up abruptly and starts working at the knots holding my wrists until suddenly my hands are free and I am holding Alia who is barely conscious, pulse weak, her skin cold. Blood from her wrist is staining the bed sheets. I tell Cleo where the bandages are, and she runs to the kitchen to get them, while I hug my love Alia, whispering her name over and over.

Confession (Saturday)

It’s a long night for me, too much to do for me to really stop and think about the consequences. I have difficulty breathing whenever I do think about it, about the fact that Alia and Cleo know what I am, a monster, the stuff of nightmares. I have drunk the blood of my beautiful Alia, and not just a lick, a trickle, but deep hungry devouring. There are moments when I just have to sit and let the tears flow for a while, until I force myself back into action.