Vampire "Unseen" (Vampire "Untitled" Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Stop this.

“Don’t mourn for the old life,” his subconscious spoke with the soft skills and competent tones of an effective manager. “Keep fighting to build a new future. Focus on that. Focus on getting better... For Ildico.”

Ildico.

He searched his laptop for images of her. A picture of her could defeat a thousand thoughts of Nisha. He chose a favourite at Castle Bran, the castle most associated with the story of Dracula. She had taken him there for research, to help him with his story. They had taken a walk in the forest, trudging through crisp fresh snow, enjoying one another’s company.

He remembered how he had been overcome with a sudden urge to throw her to the floor and rape her. It was a completely non-linear thought at the time and now he realised it was the first time he had such an intrusive violent thought. They were walking and suddenly he wanted to punch her and hurt her and throw her to the floor. He wanted to tear at her clothes, he wanted to see her cry.

Why should he want such things?

He had never desired such a thing before. In fact, until that point the thought of violent sex was a turn off. He was a sophisticated and intelligent young man who was kind and respectful to women. There had never been arousal or enjoyment from such ideas before. So why did it suddenly become so damn sexually frustrating? For what reason should his mind become consumed and overwhelmed by rape fantasies?

As he relived the memory he felt his eyes begin to dart backwards and forwards. It hurt him, like a knife screwing into his head, it made his eyes feel sore. He noticed his hands begin to tremble as the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensed.

Calm it down... think of Ildico.

It worsened.

He closed the laptop with shaking hands and whispered the words, “Sublimation. Get better. Do it for Ildico. Calm down.”

It worsened further.

God, he really could rape Nisha Khumari right now. To lay between her legs, fucking her, choking her, watching her cry.

His teeth began clamping together as the clenched muscles travelled from his shoulders to neck and face. With pain in his jaw he hissed the words, “Ildico won’t love you if you behave like this.”

The words acted like cold water splashed in his face. There was a short shock and the trembling and clenched muscles began to ease.

It was the purer thoughts that helped, thoughts on Ildico. That was what he wanted. If she loved him, if she desired him, that would somehow make everything better. He had to win her heart by being good. Win her heart. Sublimate these terrible feelings and desires for the sake of winning her heart. She was a prize worth fighting for. Do what it takes. Do whatever it takes. Fight these urges and impulses. Sublimate this negative desire. For Ildico.

Do it for Ildico... Don’t even think about Nisha... don’t think about her. Don’t. DONT!

----- X -----

“One has been completely disembowelled. The abdomen is empty and the entrails have been stretched out to either side. He looks like a pig carcass in a butcher’s window.”

The cultured voice asked, “Could it be an animal attack?”

Lupescu furrowed his brow. “Not unless this animal is using a big knife. The bodies aren’t eaten or torn or... Mr. Noica, I assure you, you don’t need a medical degree to see that this was done with a bladed weapon.”

“I’m sorry, I realise that may have sounded condescending. I often get called out to violent crimes that are not A.V.I.’s”

“Sir, with respect. I don’t understand why I need to call you anyway. I just know that if something this violent happens without reason, like this thing in Noua...”

“Noua! Oh, my God, Noua! ...of course, Noua is on the outskirts of Brasov.”

Lupescu caught the surprise. The situation was a collage of information that didn’t quite fit together for him; but to the man on the phone, it sounded like everything made perfect sense.

“Mr. Lupescu, please secure the murder scene and ensure your officers are safe. The person who did this may attack again and do so without warning, the murderer may not even realise what they’ve done. I’m coming to Brasov now and will be there in about two hours.”

“It happened before in Noua,” Lupescu said. “When I was just starting out in the police it happened. In fact, I think it’s happened twice.”

“Not twice,” Noica added. “In Noua, it’s happened four times. I’ll be there in two hours.”

----- X -----

As the landlady unlocked the apartment door the policemen began sweating. Ciprian withdrew his weapon. He would go into the apartment alone. In the wait for the landlady he had formed a mental image of finding another dead body inside. The most recurrent thought would be to find this Englishman slumped against the wall in a pool of blood. Better that than finding him alive and crazy.

The door pushed open.

Linoleum floor in the entrance. A mild scent of bleach. There was an open door to the left, another door ahead, and a corner to the right. He edged inside and peeked through the left door. A kitchen, empty.

The door ahead looked like a sitting room. There was a sofa under the window and an armchair facing the main wall, but there was nobody in there. The chair was odd, it was right in the centre of the room.

Ciprian backed out and moved into the dogs-leg corridor. The first door was a bedroom; covers were strewn about the place and a smell of sweat and mildew. He crouched to look under the bed. Nothing.

The bathroom was next.

Spots of blood on the porcelain. Brown streaks on a bar of soap that could be blood. There was a plastic bucket in the bathtub, a towel hung over the side, crumpled clothes on the floor. Evidence of a presence. Evidence that someone had been there.

The last room had no furniture and led to a balcony.

Empty. The place was empty. He holstered his weapon and walked back through the apartment. “It’s clear,” he called to the other police hovering on the landing outside.

He looked in the sitting room again and noticed the oddly placed armchair in the centre of the room. This time he noticed a few nested tables ahead of the chair upon which was a cruciform, a large wooden cross with a silver figurine of Christ. When he turned back he saw the wall of notes. The longest length of the room was covered in neatly arranged sheets of yellow legal paper to make eight large panels. They covered almost the entire wall. There was writing all over these pages. Whoever sat in that chair looked at these writings like they were paintings in an art gallery. The writing was in English and seemed a disjointed mess. Outside the apartment the policemen laughed at a joke he hadn’t heard whilst at the same time Ciprian’s blood turned very cold. He called out to the policemen and snapped his fingers three times to signal them.

They went quiet. “What is it?” one of them called.

“We need to get the photographer out here,” he replied.

His eyes darted across the pages, reading out all the words that his school level English language skills could understand. Words like, vampire, kill, murder, hide, blood, massacre. Everywhere he looked the notes seemed to say vampire, vampire, vampire, kill, kill, kill. One note in the bottom corner looked like it had been scratched on. The handwriting was shaky and the pen had trailed a messy jagged line before tearing the paper to scratch the wall. It said ‘Fuck Nisha, Kill the bitch.’

Mihai had told him he was looking for an English vampire. Whoever lived in this apartment had no television, radio, books or any form of entertainment that could be seen. The only thing here was an empty chair facing a wall full of murderous ideas written in English.

Ciprian looked back to the armchair.

“Who sits in this chair?” he wondered aloud. “And where are you now?”

----- X -----

Lupescu pushed through queues of people to find Lucian Noica. The public areas of Brasov police station always looked like a rush hour train station and queues of three and four hours to get a rubber stamp on a driving license or passport were not uncommon. People brought food and had picnics whilst standing in line. It was noisy, even this late in the day when most people had gotten what they wanted or given up waiting.

“Dr. Noica?” Lupescu asked looking at the out of place man. “I’m Ion Lupescu.”

Noica was about fifty years old, immaculately dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit and a tie that couldn’t be set more perfectly straight with a spirit level. His light brown hair was immaculate, his shoes were shined to glass... Jesus Christ, he was fucking perfect.

Noica reached out a hand to shake as he stood. Lupescu noticed the double cuff to his shirt and the subtle silver cufflink holding them. All his life he’d wanted a shirt like that. Against Noica, he suddenly felt like a dishevelled, overweight slob and as they walked back to his office he had to fight the urge to stare at him.

“We have a person of interest we’re searching for,” Lupescu began. “His name is Paul McGovern and we believe he is either British or American.”

“But you haven’t found him in the local vicinity?”

“No. He wasn’t just sitting there if that was what you mean.”

“That is what I mean.”

Lupescu waited for Noica to continue. He didn’t.

“McGovern is renting a place in Noua,” he continued. “It’s only a few hundred metres from the murders. The victims, Nealla Stolojan and Raul Ponta, have a... cohort, I suppose you could describe him as. A young kid. He’s twelve years old, mentally retarded, a heroin addict and has full blown AIDS.”

“Unlucky.” Noica said matter-of-fact.

Lupescu snorted a laugh. “Yes, you could say that. So this kid, Mihai, he told one of my officers about an English vampire.” He paused to see how Noica took the word ‘vampire’. He made no movement. “The boy led us to an apartment block where we discovered the name of Paul McGovern and inside the apartment my officers found what they are describing as ‘vampire writings’ across the wall.”

“Vampire writings?”

Lupescu shrugged. “That is how it was described to me. It’s being photographed as we speak.”

“Would it be possible to see the apartment this evening?”

“We should get photographs tonight, but I doubt forensics will have the place ready until tomorrow. I’m afraid most things are going to wait until the morning. We’ve got the kid, Mihai downstairs we want to talk to, but he’s not easy to communicate with and we’re having a specialist social worker come in first thing to help us.”

The phone rang. Lupescu answered. “Buna... Da...” he started writing notes quickly then looked up to Noica and repeated the information so that Noica could hear too. “Paul McGovern went through passport control... Do you know his destination? ...he went to London. OK... when did this happen?”

The call ended.

“He’s left the country?” Noica asked mildly startled.

Lupescu nodded. “He flew out of Bucharest a few days ago... I take it this is what you were expecting?”

Noica pursed his lips. “No. It’s not what I expect. Mr. McGovern may be just some ordinary crazy person, not an A.V.I, or he may not be the person responsible.”

“McGovern is the only person we’re looking for.”

“I know,” Noica said. His brow furrowed, he looked uneasy.

“Let me just say it,” Lupescu said. “This guy killed two men, at least two that we know of and then he’s fled the country. But it all happened suddenly, he was fine, then he was violent. That’s the sort of person you specialise in, right?”

Noica nodded solemnly and said, “That is my area of expertise,” then more seriously, “But the type of person I deal with rarely has the sense to flee the crime scene. The same mental disintegration that makes them violent is what stops them having common sense. It’s an illness that damages their brain, it makes them violent and stupid. But this McGovern... if he is the perpetrator, he managed to travel to Bucharest, board a plane and fly to London. That is hardly the behaviour of a man suffering mental disintegration.”

Lupescu stared directly at Noica and said, “The old women would call a man this violent a vampire.”

Noica nodded. “I hope he’s not. He wouldn’t be the first to keep his mental faculties once he became violent. But... you don’t ever want to have to deal with one of these things.”

“Things?”

“A ‘vampire’ like this. A vampire is a poor, deluded and sick man, Mr. Lupescu. They’re violent but they’re also confused. Their brain tissue softens, a symptom called encephalomalacia. To put it in simple terms they’re suffering a rapid descent into Alzheimer's with outbursts of violent behaviour. But there are rare occasions when the brain softens and the violence erupts but the man keeps his wits and thoughts about him. Take my word for it, you don’t ever want to come across one of these - things!”

----- X -----

What he was doing was stupid beyond compare, but somehow he just couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t even six in the morning and he’d left the squat and travelled across town to walk the streets of his recent past. He was back in West London. It was still dark and it was bitterly cold, but it was better to be on his feet in the street than in bed and dreaming. Strange noises and anxiety had kept him awake at the squat. Fantasy dreams overlapped with real events and his brain seemed to assimilate the whole thing as truth. His dreams had always been vivid and lifelike, but of late they had become troubling and confusing. Somehow he felt he’d lost the ability to tell fact from sleeping fiction.

The most vivid dream was of fighting a policeman after attacking the kids in the park yesterday. The boy was unconscious on the ground and the girl was gasping for breath, the gardener was coming to help and using his mobile phone. As he ran from the scene he’d been confronted by a passing police constable. They’d scuffled. The policeman had tried to use restraining moves on him but he’d escaped using brute force. He had an enduring image of the policeman on the floor with blood rushing from the bridge of his nose after stomping on his face... But that couldn’t be true. He had no memory of that detail as actually happening, yet everything else in the dream was perfectly remembered from the real event.

It was a worry.

This is what had happened in Romania. Dreams that felt real, reality that felt like a dream. A soft merging of truth and fantasy that were impossible to separate. In Romania it had gotten so bad that he managed to convince himself that Ildico had given him a blowjob and then dreamed of a vampire killing her. Then he convinced himself that he’d dreamed the blowjob and killed her himself. In the end he discovered that none of those things had happened... or had they? Were any of those things true? His memories were untrustworthy. His ability to create new memories was compromised. This was the sickness that he had to control and defeat. Crazy memories. Crazy dreams. Crazy behaviour.