Читать книгу The Monster Trilogy - Brian Aldiss - Страница 21

She went over to look at the little glass panel of the air-conditioning unit. It was functioning perfectly. Nevertheless, the motel suite felt arid to her, lifeless, airless, after her flight through the sky.

Mina Legrand’s rooms were on the second floor. Her years in Europe prompted her to open a window and let in a breeze, sanitized by the nearby desert. Enterprise sprawled out there, the park and sign of the Moonlite Motel, and, beyond them, the highway, on which were strung one-storey buildings, a store or two, and a used car lot, with a Mexican food joint marking the edge of town. Pick-ups drove by, their occupants preparing to squeeze what they could from the evening. Already dusk was settling in.

Turning from the window, she shucked off her green cover-alls and her underwear and stepped into the shower.

Despite the pleasure of the hot water coursing over her body, gloom settled on her. She hated to be alone. She hated solitude more of late. And perhaps Joe had been absent more of late. Now she would be seeing less of Larry, too. And there were the deaths in the back of her mind, never to disappear. Sky-diving was different; paradoxically, it took her away from loneliness.

She was at that age when wretchedness seeped very easily through the cracks in existence. A friend had suggested she should consult a psychoanalyst. That was not what she wanted. What she wanted was more from Joe, to whom she felt she had given so much.

She discovered she was singing in the shower.

‘Well, what did I do wrong

To make you stay away so long?’

The song had selected itself. To hell with it. She cut it off. Joe had let her down. What she really needed was a passionate affair. Fairly passionate. Men were so tiresome in so many ways. In her experience, they all complained. Except Joe, and that showed his lack of communication …

With similar non-productive thoughts, she climbed from the shower and stood under the infra-red lamp.

Later, in a towelling robe, she made herself a margarita out of the mini-bar, sat down, and began to write a letter to Joe on the Moonlite Motel notepaper. ‘Joe you bastard —’ she began. She sat there, thinking back down the years.

Finishing the drink, she got a second and began to ring around.

She phoned home, got her own voice on the answerphone, slammed off. Rang through to Bodenland Enterprises, spoke to Waldgrave. No one had heard from Joe. Rang Larry’s number. No answer. In boredom, she rang her sister Carrie in Paris, France.

‘We’re in bed, for God’s sake. What do you want?’ came Carrie’s shrill voice, a voice remembered from childhood.

Mina explained.

‘Joe always was crazy,’ Carrie said. ‘Junk him like I told you, Minnie. Take my advice. He’s worth his weight in alimony. This is one more suicidal episode you can do without.’

Hearing from her sister the very words she had just been formulating herself, Mina fell into a rage.

‘I guess I know Joe light years better than you, Carrie, and suicidal he is not. Brave, yes, suicidal, no. He just believes he leads an enchanted life and nothing can harm him.’

‘Try divorce and see what that does.’

‘He was unwanted and rejected as a small kid. He needs me and I’m not prepared to do the dirty on him now. His whole career is dedicated to the pursuit of power and adventure and notoriety – well, it’s an antidote to the early misery he went through. I understand that.’

The distant voice said, ‘Sounds like you have been talking to his shrink.’

Mina looked up, momentarily distracted by something fluttering at the window. It was late for a bird. The dark was closing swiftly in.

‘His new shrink is real good. Joe is basically a depressive, like many famous men in history, Goethe, Luther, Tolstoy, Winston Churchill – I forget who else. He has enormous vitality, and he fends off a basic melancholia with constant activity. I have to live with it, he classifies out as a depressive.’

‘Sounds like you should chuck Joe and marry the shrink. A real smart talker.’

Mina thought of Carrie’s empty-headed woman-chasing husband, Adolphe. She decided to make no comment on that score.

‘One thing Joe has which I have, and I like. A little fantasy-world of mixed omnipotence and powerlessness which is very hard to crack, even for a smart shrink. I have the same component, God help me.’

‘For Pete’s sake, Mina, Adolphe says all American woman are the same. They believe —’

‘Oh, God, sorry, Carrie, I’ve got a bat in my room. I can’t take bats.’

She put the phone down and stood up, suddenly aware of how dark it was in the room. The Moonlite sign flashed outside in puce neon. And the bat hovered inside the window.

Something unnatural in its movements transfixed her. She stood there unmoving as the pallid outline of a man formed in the dusky air. The bat was gone and, in its place, a suave-looking man with black hair brushed back from his forehead, standing immaculate in evening dress.

Fear brushed her, to be followed by a kind of puzzlement. ‘Did I live this moment before? Didn’t I see it in a movie? A dream … ?’

She inhaled deeply, irrationally feeling a wave of kinship with this man, although he breathed no word.

Unconsciously, she had allowed her robe to fall open, revealing her nudity. The stranger’s eyes were fixed upon her – not upon her body, her breasts, the dark bush of hair on her sexual regions, but on her throat.

Could there really be some new thrill, something unheard of and incredible, such as Joe seeks? If so … if so, lead me to it.

This was a different hedonism from the aerial plunge from the womb of the speeding plane.

‘Hi,’ she said.

He smiled, revealing good strong white teeth with emphatic canines.

‘Like a drink?’ she asked. ‘I was just getting stewed all on my ownsome.’

‘Thanks, no,’ he said, advancing. ‘Not alcohol. You have something more precious than alcohol.’

‘I always knew it,’ Mina said.

Lack of motion. Stillness. Silence.

‘More goddamned trees,’ Bodenland exclaimed.

At least there was no swamp this time.

He stepped over the driver, tied and cowering under his tarpaulin,and slid open the door. After a moment, he stepped down on solid earth. Somewhere a bird sang and fell silent.

These were not the trees of the Carboniferous. They were small, hazel and birch and elder, graceful, widely spaced, with the occasional oak and sycamore towering above them. Light filtered through to him almost horizontally, despite heavy green foliage on every side. He guessed it was late summer. 1896, near London, England, according to the driver and the co-ordinates. What was going on in England, 1896? Then he thought, Oh yes, Queen Victoria …

Well, the old Queen had a pretty little wood here. It seemed to represent all the normal things the time train, with its hideous freight, was not. He savoured the clear air with its scent of living things. He listened to the buzz of a bee and was pleased.

Seen from outside, the train when stationary was small, almost inconsiderable, no longer than a railroad boxcar. Its outside was studded and patterned with metal reinforcers; nothing was to be seen of the windows he knew existed inside. Somehow, the whole thing expanded in the relativism of the time quanta and contracted when stationary. He stared at it with admiration and curiosity, saying to himself, ‘I’m going to get this box of tricks back to my own time and figure it all out. There’s power beyond the dreams of avarice here.’

As he stood there in a reverie, it seemed to him that a shrouded female figure drifted like a leaf from the train and disappeared. Immediately, the wood seemed a less friendly place, darker too.

He shivered. Strange anxieties passed through his mind. The isolation in which, through his own reckless actions, he found himself, closed in about him. Although he had always believed himself to have a firm grip on sanity – was not the world of science sanity’s loftiest bastion? – the nightmare events on the train caused him to wonder. Had that creature pinned to the torture-bench been merely a disordered phase of sadistic imagining?

He forced himself to get back into the train and to search it.

It had contracted like a concertina. In no way was it possible to enter any of the compartments, now squeezed shut like closed eyes. He listened for crying but heard nothing. The very stillness was a substance, lowering to the spirits.

‘Shit,’ he said, and stared out into the wood. They had come millions of years to be in this place and he strained his ears as if to listen to the sound of centuries. ‘We’d better find out where the hell we are,’ he said aloud. ‘And I need to eat. Not one bite did I have through the whole Cretaceous …’

He shook himself into action.

Hoisting the driver up by his armpit, he said, ‘You’re coming too, buddy, I may need you.’

The smothered voice said, ‘You will be damned forever for this.’

‘Damned? You mean like doomed to eternal punishment? I don’t believe that crap. I don’t really believe in you either, so move your arse along.’

He helped the creature out of the train.

A path wound uphill, fringed with fern. Beyond, on either side, grew rhododendrons, their dark foliage hastening the approach of night. He peered ahead, alert, full of wonder and excitement. The trees were thinning. A moth fluttered by on a powdery wing and lost itself on the trunk of a birch. A brick-built house showed some way ahead. As he looked a dim light lit in one of its windows, like an eye opening.

Tugging his captive, he emerged from the copse on to the lawn. The lawn was sprinkled with daisies already closing. It led steeply up to the house, which crowned a ridge of higher ground. A row of pines towered behind the roofs and chimneys of the house, which lay at ease on its eminence, overlooking a large ornamental pool, a gazebo and pleasant flowerbeds past which Bodenland now made his way.

A young gardener in waistcoat and shirtsleeves saw him coming, dropped his hoe in astonishment, and ran round the other side of the house. Bodenland halted to give his reluctant captive a pull.

On a terrace which ran the length of the house stood classical statues. The sun was setting, casting long fingers of shadow which reached towards Bodenland. As he paused, another light was lit inside the house.

Uncertain for once, he made towards the back door and took hold of the knocker.

The ginger man was watching and listening again, an opera glass in his right hand. With his left hand, he stroked his short red beard appreciatively, as if it had been a cat.

He stood in the wings of the Lyceum Theatre with the delectable Ellen Terry in costume by his side, gazing on to the lighted stage.

On the stage, before a packed auditorium, Henry Irving was playing the role of Mephistopheles in a performance of Faust. Dressed in black, with a black goatee beard and whitened face, the celebrated actor spread out his cloak like a giant bat’s wings. Back and forth he stalked, menacing a somewhat aghast Faust, and chanting his lines:

So great’s his Christian faith, I cannot grasp

His soul – but I’ll afflict his body with

Lament, and strew him with diverse diseases …

Thunderous applause from the audience, all of whom believed in one way or another that they were in some danger of damnation themselves.

When the play was finished, Irving took his bows before the curtain.

As he made his exit into the wings, he passed the ginger man with a triumphant smirk and headed for his dressing room.

Both Irving and the ginger man were smartly attired in evening dress when they finally left the theatre. The ginger man adjusted his top hat at a rakish angle, careful that some curls sizzled over the brim to the left of his head.

The stagedoor keeper fawned on them as they passed his nook.

‘’Night, Mr Irving. ’Night, Mr Stoker.’

The ginger man pressed a tip into his hand as they passed. Out in the night, haloed by a gas lamp, Irving’s carriage awaited.

‘The club?’ Irving asked.

‘I’ll join you later,’ said the ginger man, on impulse. He turned abruptly down the side alley to the main thoroughfare.

Irving swung himself up into his carriage. ‘The Garrick Club,’ he told his driver.

In the thoroughfare, bustle was still the order of the day, despite the lateness of the hour. Hansoms and other carriages plied back and forth in the street, while the elegant and the shabby formed a press on the pavements. And in doorways and the entrances to dim side-courts were propped those beings who had no advantages in a hard-hearted world, who had failed or been born in failure, men, women, small children. These shadowy persons, keeping their pasty faces in shadow, begged, or proffered for sale tawdry goods – matches, separate cigarettes, flowers stolen from graves – or simply lounged in their niches, awaiting a change of fortune or perhaps a nob to relieve of his wallet.

The ginger man was alert to all these lost creatures of the shadows, eyeing them with interest as he passed. A thin young woman in an old bonnet came forth from a stairway and said something to him. He tilted her head to the light to study her face. She was no more than fourteen.

‘Where are you from, child?’

‘Chiswick, sir. Have a feel, sir, for a penny, bless you, just a feel.’

He laughed, contemptuous of the pleasure offered. Nevertheless, he retreated with her into the shadow of the stairs with only a brief backward look. Ignoring the two children who crouched wordless on the lower steps, the girl hitched up her dress and let him get one hand firm behind her back while with the other he rifled her, feeling powerfully into her body.

‘You like it, sir? Sixpence a quick knee-trembler?’

‘Pah, get back to Chiswick with you, child.’

‘My little brothers, sir – they’re half dead of starvation.’

‘And you’ve the pox.’ He wiped his fingers on her dress, thrust a sixpenny piece into her hand, and marched off, head down in case he was recognized.

Newsboys were shouting. ‘Standard. Three Day Massacre. Read all abart it.’ The ginger man pressed on, taking large strides. He shook off a transvestite who accosted him outside a penny gaff.

Only when he turned off down Glasshouse Street did he pause again, outside the Alhambra music hall, from which sounds of revelry issued. Here several better dressed whores stood, chatting together. They broke off when they saw a toff coming, to assume a businesslike pleasantness.

One of them, recognizing the ginger man, came up and took his arm familiarly. Her face was thickly painted, as if for the stage.

‘Ooh, where are you off to so fast, this early? Haven’t seen you for ages.’ She fluttered her eyelashes and breathed cachou at him.

This was a fleshy woman in her late twenties – no frail thing like the girl Stoker had felt earlier. She was confident and brazen, with large breasts, and tall for a street walker. Her clothes, though cheap, were colourful, and bright earrings hung from the fleshy folds of her ears. She faced him head on, grinning impudently, aware with a whore’s instinct that she looked common and that he liked it that way.

‘What have you been up to, Violet? Behaving yourself?’

‘Course. You know me. I’m set up better now. Got myself a billet round the corner. How about a bit? What you say? We could send out for a plate of mutton or summat.’

‘Are you having your period?’ His voice was low and urgent.

She looked at him and winked. ‘I ain’t forgotten you likes the sight of blood. Come on, you’re in luck. It’s a quid, mind you.’

He pressed up against her. ‘You’re a mercenary bitch, Violet, that you are,’ he said jocularly, allowing the lilt of brogue into his speech. ‘And here’s me thinking you loved me.’

As she led him down the nearest back street, she said, saucily, ‘I’ll love what you got, guv.’ She slid a hand over the front of his trousers.

He knew she would perform better for the promise of a plate of mutton. London whores were always hungry. Hungry or not, he’d have her first. The beef first, then the mutton.

‘Hurry,’ he said, snappishly. ‘Where’s this bleeding billet of yours?’

The knocker was a heavy iron affair with a fox head on it. It descended thunderously on the back door.

‘Eighteen ninety-six,’ said Bodenland aloud, to keep his spirits up. ‘Queen Victoria on the throne … I’m in a dream. Well now – food and rest with any luck, and then it’s back to poor Mina. Can’t even phone her from here.’ He laughed at the thought.

The house loomed over him, unwelcoming at close quarters to a stranger’s approach.

In the sturdy door was set a panel of bull’s eye glass. He became aware that someone was studying him through it. Despite the gathering dusk, he saw it was a woman. Came the sound of bolts being drawn back. A lighted candle appeared, with a hand holding the candlestick and, somewhere above it, a plump and unfriendly woman’s face.

‘Who are you, pray?’ He was surprised to see that as she spoke she held a small crucifix in front of her. Giving her a guarded explanation, he asked for Mr Stoker and inquired if it would be possible to beg a night’s lodging.

‘Where are you from? Who’s that you have with you?’

‘Madam, I am from the United States of America. This is a criminal in my charge. I hope to return him to the USA. Perhaps we might lock him in one of your outhouses for the night.’

‘You actors – all the same! You will not learn to leave poor Mr Stoker alone. He’s not well. He has the doctor to him. Still, I know he would not turn you away. He has a kind heart, like all Irish people. Come in.’

They entered the rear hall, going through into a scullery which contained a large stone sink and a pump with a long curving iron handle. A maid in a mob cap was inefficiently stringing flowers up at the window. The woman, evidently Mrs Stoker, ordered her to get the key to the tool shed.

A male servant was summoned. He and the maid accompanied Bodenland out to a tool shed standing at the end of the terrace to the rear of the house. The male servant had lit a storm lantern. It was already very dark.

The driver was whimpering, and refused food and drink.

‘I shall be gone from here by morning,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have departed from human life.’

‘Sleep well,’ Bodenland said, and slammed the door.

When the back door was closed and the bolts drawn across, the little raw-handed maid picked up her flowers again.

‘What are you doing?’ Bodenland asked curiously.

‘It’s the garlic, sir. Against the critters of the night.’

‘Is that an English custom?’

‘It’s Mr Stoker’s custom, sir. You can ask the cook, Maria.’

Mrs Stoker returned. She was a solid middle-aged lady, impressively dressed in a gown of grey taffeta which reached to the floor. She had over it a small white frilled apron, which she now removed. Her hair was brown, streaked with grey, neatly parcelled into a bun at the back of her head. She was now smiling, all defensiveness gone from her manner.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Borderland.’

‘It’s Bodenland, ma’am. Originally of German extraction. German and English on my mother’s side.’

‘Mr Bodenland, pardon my hesitation in letting you in. Life is a little difficult at present. Do please come through and meet my husband. We should be happy if you would consent to stay overnight.’

As he uttered his thanks, she led him along a corridor to the front of the house. In a low voice she said, ‘My poor Bram works so hard for Mr Henry Irving – he’s his stage manager, you know, and much else besides. At present he’s also writing a novel, which seems to depress his health. Not a happy subject. I’m not at all sure gloomy novels should be encouraged. My dear father would never allow us girls – I have four sisters, sir – to read novels, except for those of Mrs Craik. Poor Bram is quite low, and believes strange forces beseige the house.’

‘How unfortunate.’

‘Indeed. Happily, I inherited my father’s strong nerves, bless him. He was a hero of the Crimea, don’t you know.’

She showed Bodenland into a large drawing room. His first impression was of a room in a museum, greatly over-furnished with pictures – mainly of a theatrical nature – on the walls, plants in pots on precarious stands, ornate mahogany furniture, antimacassars on over-stuffed chair-backs, books in rows, and heavy drapes at windows. Numerous trophies lay about on side tables. It seemed impossible to find a way through to a thick-set man busy adjusting garlic flowers over the far window.

Better acquaintance with the room enabled Bodenland to appreciate its graceful proportions, its ample space, and its general air of being a comfortable if over-loaded place in which to spend leisure hours.

The man at the window turned, observed that it was almost dark, and came forward smiling, plucking at his ginger beard as if to hide a certain shyness, and put out his hand.

‘Welcome, sir, welcome indeed. I’m Abraham Stoker, known to friend and foe alike as Bram, as in bramble bush. And this is my wife, Florence Stoker, whom you have already met, I see.’

‘I’ve had that pleasure, thank you. My name is Joseph Bodenland, known as Joe, as in jovial.’

‘Ah, then you’re a son of Jupiter – an auspicious star. Are you a military man, Mr Bodenland?’

‘No, by no means.’

‘Both Florence and I are of military stock. That’s why I ask. My grandfather was Thomas Thorley of the 43rd Regiment. Fought against Bonaparte, later took part in the conquest of Burma, 1824. Florence’s father, Lt Colonel James Balcombe, served in India and the Crimea, with great distinction.’

‘I see. Came through all right?’

Florence Stoker asked, to cover her guest’s awkwardness, ‘Is your family prosperous? You Americans are so expert at business, so I hear.’

‘I know your compatriot, Mark Twain,’ Stoker said, turning to give an anxious tug at the curtains. ‘Most amusing chap, I thought. I tried to get him to write us a play.’

Genially taking Bodenland’s elbow, he led him through a maze of tables on which various keepsake albums and other mementoes lay, towards a cheerful log fire.

Over the fireplace hung a large oil, its eroticism not entirely out of keeping with the luxury of the rest of the room. A naked pink woman sat fondling or being fondled by a cupid. Another figure was offering her a honeycomb in one hand and holding a scorpion’s sting in the other. The figure of Time in the background was preparing to draw a curtain over the amorous scene. Bodenland regarded it with some amazement.

‘Like it?’ Stoker asked, catching his glance. ‘Nice piece of classical art. Bronzino’s celebrated “Venus, Cupid, Folly, and Time”. An all-embracing title.’ He laughed and shot a glance at his wife. ‘It’s a copy, of course, but a good one.’

When they had settled down in armchairs, and Mrs Stoker had rung the bell and summoned the maidservant, and the maidservant had adjusted the curtains to everyone’s satisfaction – ‘That girl has no feeling for the symmetry of folds,’ said Mrs Stoker, severely – they lapsed into general conversation over a glass of sherry.

At length Bodenland said, ‘Of course, I know your name best as author of Dracula.’

‘Is that a play you would be speaking of?’

‘A book, Mr Stoker, a novel. It’s world-famous where I come from.’ After a long pause, he added, ‘All about vampires.’

‘What do you know about vampires, may I ask?’ Looking suspicious.

‘A fair deal, I guess. I’m given to believe I have locked one in your garden shed.’

At this news, Stoker pulled again at his beard. He went further and pulled at his lip. Then he got up rapidly up from his chair, wended his way across the room, and peered through the curtains, muttering.

He came back, still muttering, frowning, his broad and rugged face all a-twitch.

‘I shall have to see about that later. Anyhow, you’re mistaken, allow me to say. It does so happen that I am writing a novel at present all about vampires, which I intend to entitle “The Undead” … Hm, all the same, I like the starkness of that as a title: “Dracula” … Hm.’

‘He works too hard, Mr Bodenland,’ said Mrs Stoker. ‘He’s never home till after midnight. He’s back today only because tomorrow is a special day for Mr Irving.’

She rose. ‘Excuse me, sir. I must confer with Maria, our cook. Dinner, at which we hope you will join us, will be ready at eight o’clock prompt.’

When the two men were alone, Stoker leaned forward to poke the fire, saying as he stared into the flames, ‘Tell me, do you have any theories regarding vampires?’

‘I assume they are products of the imagination. As I rather assume you are too.’

Stoker then gave him a hard look, holding out a glowing poker.

‘Is that some sort of joke? I don’t find it funny.’

‘I’m sorry, I apologize. I meant that to be sitting here with you, a famous man, seems to me like wild fantasy.’

‘Wilde? Oscar Wilde? He was once engaged to my Florence. Well, he’s got himself into a real pickle now, to be sure … Let me ask you this. Men are made to feel guilty about the sexual side of their natures. Do you believe that sex and guilt and disease and vampires are all related?’

‘I never thought of it.’

‘I have reason to think of it, good reason.’ These words, spoken with a morbid emphasis, were accompanied by equally emphatic wags of the poker, as though the ginger man was conducting the last bars of a symphony. ‘Let me ask you a riddle. What does the following refer to, if not to planets: “A night on Venus means a lifetime on Mercury”?’

Despite the obvious good nature of his host, Bodenland was beginning to wish he had looked for a simple inn for the night.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Syphilis, Mr Bodenland, that’s what I’m talking about. VD – the soldier’s term for it. Syphilis, the vampire of our amorous natures, that’s what. “Thou hast proven and visited mine heart in the night season.” That’s what the psalm says, and a ghastly saying it is … Now, perhaps you’d care to have a wash before we go in to dinner.’

This was a moment to be grasped, Bodenland saw, in which to explain how he had arrived, and how his country was more distant than even the imaginative Stoker might guess.

Stoker listened with many a tug of the beard, many a dubious shake of the head, many a ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’ many a ‘Saints in heaven!’ At the end, he remained stubbornly unbelieving, saying he had endured many a far-fetched thing acted out on the stage, but nothing like this. He knew of occupants of the wards of the nearby lunatic asylum who believed themselves to be Napoleon, but even there none imagined they came from a future when their mothers were as yet unborn.

‘I come from an age where anything can be believed,’ Bodenland said, half-way between amusement and irritation. ‘You evidently live in an age where nothing can be. Even when you have proof.’

‘What proof do you offer?’

‘Tomorrow, you shall see the vehicle by which I arrived here.’

Nodding rather grimly, Stoker rose from his armchair. ‘Very well then, until that time I shall be forced to play the mistrustful host, who doubts the veracity of his guest, and regards his account as merely a tall story told before dinner.’

‘I hope, sir, that over the soup you may reflect that my sincerity in this matter is some token of my honesty.’

‘… And by the cheese course I’ll have swallowed your every word!’ With an explosion of laughter, Stoker led his guest from the room. His good humour went some way towards smoothing Bodenland’s ruffled feelings. It was only later that he came to realize how human beings came equipped with a defence mechanism which saved them accepting immediately anything which lay beyond their everyday experience; for so it was to prove in his own case.

The dining room was decorated in scarlet, and less elaborately furnished than the drawing room. They sat down to a laden table under a large chandelier, the heat from which Bodenland found uncomfortable. Round the walls of the room, mahogany dressers, sideboards and carving tables gleamed, reflecting the light muzzily.

Everything looked prosperous, safe, snug, repressive. Stoker looked through the curtains and muttered in Bodenland’s ear, ‘I’m worried about that hostage you put in my shed.’ In other respects, he played the role of genial host.

Clutching a decanter of red wine, he ushered his doctor in to the proceedings. Dr Abraham van Helsing was a fussy little man with a sharp bright face and cold bony hands. He wore a velvet suit and smelt of cologne. He laughed and smiled rather much when introduced to Bodenland.

‘And you should be resting, Bram, my friend,’ he said, wagging a finger at Stoker. ‘You should not be embarking on a heavy meal, you understand?’

Bodenland thought there might be some truth in this observation, reluctantly though it was received by his host. Before them were laid a huge cold home-cured ham, a leg of mutton, ptarmigan, and a grand brawn jelly, which trembled slightly in its eagerness to be eaten. A little tablemaid circulated with a tureen of chicken and celery soup.

‘It’s the full moon tonight,’ announced Stoker, tucking his linen napkin under his chin. ‘The lunatics will be restless.’ Turning to Bodenland, he added by way of explanation, ‘The lunatic asylum is next door to us – quite a way through the trees, I’m happy to say. Used to be a priory, in the days before Oliver Cromwell. It’s quite a pretty place, as such places go. I thought I saw someone or something out on the terrace, by the way, but we won’t go into that. Mustn’t spoil our appetites.’

‘You’re like my father – nothing spoils your appetite,’ said Florence Stoker, affectionately, smiling at her husband.

‘I’m big and tough and Irish – and can’t help it.’

‘Nor can you ever take a holiday,’ added van Helsing. ‘You’re too dedicated to work.’

‘And to Henry Irving,’ said Mrs Stoker.

Stoker winked good humouredly over his soup spoon at Bodenland.

‘Well, it was Henry’s Mephistopheles gave me the notion for my Count Dracula. I’m sure I shall have a hit, if I can ever get the damned book finished.’

‘When do you hope to finish?’

Ignoring the question and lowering his voice, Stoker said, ‘It may be because I’m writing this novel that the house is surrounded by eerie forces. Van Helsing doesn’t seem to understand – in fact only the loonies next door seem to understand. Must be going loony myself, shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘You’re sane, we live in a nice scientific world and the soup’s delicious,’ said van Helsing, soothingly. ‘Every single problem in the world will soon be capable of a scientific resolution. Just as the savage populations of the world are being brought into the arms of civilization, so the already civilized world will soon be turned into a utopian meritocracy.’

The conversation became more general. Mrs Stoker spoke of the happily married state of each of her sisters. Servants brought in more food. More wine was poured.

As Bodenland was confronted by huge green blancmanges, plum pies with ornamental pastry crusts, bowls of cream, jellies, and trifles decorated with angelica, Stoker reverted to the subject of asylums, which seemed to prey upon his mind.

‘Many of the poor fellows in the asylum suffer great pain. Dementia and its sores are treated with mercury. It’s agonizing, I hear. It’s a matter of wonder why such suffering should be visited on humanity, Mr Bodenland. Would you care to visit the asylum with me?’

Bodenland shook his head.

‘I’m afraid all that interests me is getting home.’

Stoker leaped from his chair with a sudden impulse and went to peer through the window again.

‘It’s a still night,’ he declared, in the voice of one announcing the worst. ‘It would be ideal for cricket now, if only it was day.’ He laughed.

‘Come and eat your trifle, Bram,’ his wife said, sharply.

Certainly, the night was still. The full moon shone across the woods that choked the valley, to glitter on the massed slate roofs of the asylum. A bell in the small clock tower crowing the institution chimed midnight, spinning out its notes as if about to run down. The cool light glittered on rows of window panes, some of them barred. It sent a dagger of light plunging down through the narrow orifice of Renfield’s skylight to carve a square on the stones close by where he lay on his pallet of straw. During the day he had attacked a male nurse, and was in consequence secured in a strait-jacket, with his arms confined.

He amused himself by alternately grinding his teeth and humming like a fly trapped in a jar.

‘Ummmm. Ummmm. Ummmmmmmm.’

His eyes bulged in their sockets. He stared unblinkingly at the white square on the floor nearby. As minute by minute it slid nearer to him, it changed from rancid milk to pale pink, and then to a heartier colour until it appeared to him as a square pan of blood.

He stretched his neck to drink from it. At that moment, the whole cell was flooded with moonlight, and a great joyous humming sounded as if a thousand hornets were loose.

Crying in triumph, Renfield sprang upward, arms above his head in the attitude of a diver. He was naked as the day he was born. He burst through the skylight and landed gracefully on the icy slopes of the asylum roof, which stretched away into the distance like ski slopes.

As he danced there, a great winged thing circled overhead. He called and whistled to it with a flutelike noise, playing imagined pan pipes. Lower it came, red eyes fixed upon the naked dancer.

‘I know your secrets, little lord, I know. Come down, come down. I know how human blood makes you sick – it makes you sick, yet on it you have to depend, depend, deep end. Jump in the deep end, little lord …’

It circled still, the beat of its wings vibrating in the air, scattering moonlight.

‘Yes, you come from a time when all blood was cool and thick and slow and lizard-flavoured. That time of the great things, I know. They’ve gone and you have only us, little lord. So take my blood at last, slopping in its jug of flesh just for you – and I shall poison you. Ummmm. Ummmm.’

He pirouetted on the rooftree and the great winged thing swooped and took him. It enfolded him lasciviously, biting into him, into the creamy flesh like toffee-apple, as it wrapped him about with the great dry wings, biting, drinking deep with a love more terrible than fury – and then with disgust, as it flew off, vomiting back the blood into his empty face.

Renfield sniggered in his sleep. His eyes remained open and staring like glass buttons on a child’s toy, but he dreamed his terrible dream.

Red curtains closed over the eye of the moon as van Helsing pulled them together after a brief scrutiny of the terrace. The Stokers were leaving the dining room as they had entered, arm-in-arm. Bodenland was following when the doctor tugged at his sleeve and drew him back.

‘Permit me to ask – is there a pretty little Mrs Bodenland back home where you come from?’ He looked down at his nervous hands as he spoke, as if ashamed to pry.

‘I’m married, yes, doctor. That’s one good reason why I am bent on getting home just as soon as I can.’

He made to move on, but the doctor still detained him.

‘You understand why I enquire. I am in charge of Mr Stoker’s health. The conjugal arrangements are not good in this household. As a result – as a direct result —’ He paused, and then went on in a whisper. ‘Mr Stoker has unfortunately contracted a vile disease from what the French call a fille de joie, a woman of the night. You understand?’

Not being fond of the doctor’s fussy little ways, Bodenland made no reply, but stood solid to hear him out.

Van Helsing tapped his temple.

‘His brain’s affected. Or he believes it affected. Which, in the case of brains, amounts to much the same thing. He believes – well, he believes that mankind has become the host for a species of parasite beings, vampires, who come from somewhere distant. I speak scientifically, you understand. From one of the planets, let’s say. He regards this as the secret of the universe, which of course he is about to reveal. You can never trust a man who thinks he knows the secret of the universe.’

‘I’m not so certain about that, doctor. The secret of the universe – provided there is such a thing – is open to enquiry by anyone, by any interested party, just like the secrets of the personality.’

‘What secrets of the personality?’

‘Like why you rub one index finger against the other when you talk … No, wait, doctor, I’m sorry. That was impertinent.’

The doctor had turned on his heel in vexation, but Bodenland charmed him back, to ask what treatment he was giving Stoker for his disease.

‘I treat his sores with mercury ointment. It is painful but efficacious.’

Bodenland scratched his chin.

‘You won’t have heard of penicillin yet awhile, but I could get a hold of some. And in a very few years Salvarsan will become available.’

‘You’re making no sense to me, sir.’

‘You know, Salvarsan? Let’s see, would you have heard of Dr Ehrlich’s “magic bullets” at this date?’

‘Oh.’ The doctor gave a chuckle and nodded. ‘I begin to get your drift. Bram Stoker makes his own magic bullets – to kill off his imaginary vampires, you understand.’

At that juncture, Stoker himself put his head round the dining-room door.

‘There you are. I thought you must have gone into the study. Mr Bodenland, perhaps you’d care to inspect my workshop? I generally spend an hour pottering in there after dinner.’

As they went down a side-passage, Stoker put an arm round Bodenland’s shoulders.

‘You don’t want to pay too much attention to what van Helsing says. He’s a good doctor but —’ He put a finger to his temple, in unconscious imitation of van Helsing’s gesture of a few minutes past. ‘In some respects he has a screw loose.’

On the door before them was a notice saying, Workshop, Keep Out.

‘My private den,’ said Stoker, proudly. As they entered, he drew from an inner pocket a leather case containing large cigars, and proffered it to Bodenland. The latter shook his head vigorously.

He studied Stoker as the ginger man went through the rigmarole of lighting his cigar. The head was large and well-shaped, the ginger hair without grey in it, though a bald patch showed to the rear of the skull. The features were good, although the skin, particularly where it showed above the collar, was coarse and mottled.

Feeling the eyes of his visitor on him, Stoker looked sideways through the smoke.

‘Here’s my den. I must be always doing. I can’t abide nothing to do.’

‘I too.’

‘Life’s too short.’

‘Agreed. I am always ambitious to make something of myself.’

‘That’s it – cut a dash at the least, I say. Needs courage.’

‘Courage, yes, I suppose so. Do you reckon yourself courageous?’

Stoker thought, squeezing his eyes closed. ‘Let’s put it this way. I’m a terrible coward who’s done a lot of brave things. I like cricket. You Yanks don’t play cricket?’

‘No. Business and invention – that’s my line. And a lot of other things. There are so many possibilities in the world.’

‘Do you long to be a hero?’

The question was unexpected. ‘It’s a strange thing to ask. My shrink certainly thinks I long to be a hero … One thing, I have a need for desolate places.’

Giving him a sceptical look, Stoker said, ‘Mm, there’s nothing more desolate than the stage of the Lyceum on a slow Monday night … What does your family think of you?’

The interrogation would have been irritating on other lips. But there was something in Stoker’s manner, sly, teasing, yet sympathetic, to which Bodenland responded warmly, so that he answered with frankness.

‘If they can’t love me they have got to respect me.’

‘I wish to be a hero to others, since I’ll never be one to myself.’ He clapped Bodenland on the shoulder. ‘We have temperamental affinities. I knew it the moment I set eyes on you, even if you come from the end of next century, as you claim. Now have a butcher’s hook at this, as the Cockneys say.’

The workshop was crammed with objects – a man’s version of the ladies’ drawing room. Curved cricket bats, old smooth-bore fowling-pieces, a mounted skeleton of a rat, stuffed animals, model steam engines, masks, theatrical prints, framed items of women’s underwear, a chart of the planets, and a neat array of tools, disposed on shelves above a small lathe. These Bodenland took in slowly as Stoker, full of enthusiasm, began to talk again, lighting a gas mantle as he did so.

‘My Christian belief is that there are dark forces ranged against civilization. As the story of the past unfolds, we see there were millions of years when the Earth was – shall I say unpoliced? Anything could roam at large, the most monstrous things. It’s only in these last two thousand years, since Jesus Christ, that mankind has been able to take over in an active role, keeping the monsters at bay.’ Foreseeing an interruption, he added, ‘They may be actual monsters, or they may materialize from the human brain. Only piety can confront them. We have to war with them continuously. If Jesus were alive today, do you know what I believe he would be?’

‘Er – the Pope?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. A Bengal Lancer.’

After a moment’s silence, Bodenland indicated the work-bench. ‘What are you making here?’

‘Ah, I wanted to show you this. This is part of my fight against the forces of night. Sometimes I wish I could turn the gun on myself. I know there’s evil in me – I’m aware of it. I must ask you about your relationships with the fair sex, so called, some time.’

He held out for examination a cigar-box full of carefully wrought silver bullets, each decorated with a Celtic motif running about the sign of the Cross. He exhibited them with evident pride in their workmanship. An ill feeling overcame Bodenland. The sickly light of the gas mantle seemed to flare yellow and mauve as the room swayed.

‘These are my own manufacture,’ said Stoker and then, catching sight of Bodenland’s face, ‘What’s the matter, old boy? Cigar smoke getting to you?’

Recovering his voice, Bodenland spoke. ‘Mr Stoker, you may be right about dark forces ranged against civilization, and I may have proof of it. What do you make of this?’

He brought forth from his jacket pocket the article he had retrieved from Clift’s ancient grave in the Escalante Desert. In his palm lay a silver bullet, its nose dented, but otherwise identical to the ones in Stoker’s cigar-box.

‘This was found,’ he said, unsteadily, ‘in a grave certified scientifically to be sixty-five point five million years old.’

Stoker was less impressed than Bodenland had expected. He stroked his beard and puffed at his cigar before saying, ‘There’s not that much time in the universe, my friend. Sixty-five point five million years? I have to say I think you’re talking nonsense. Lord Kelvin’s calculations have shown that, according to rigid mathematics, the entire limit of the time the sun is able to emit heat is not greater than twenty-five million years. Admittedly the computations are not exact.’

‘You speak of rigid mathematics. More flexible mathematical systems have been developed, giving us much new understanding of the universe. What once seemed certain has become less certain, more open to subjective interpretation.’

‘That doesn’t sound like progress to me.’

Bodenland considered deeply before speaking again. He then summoned tact to his argument. ‘The remarkable progress of science in your lifetime will be built on by succeeding generations, sir. I should remind you of what you undoubtedly know, that only three generations before yours, at the end of the eighteenth century, claims that the solar system was more than a mere six thousand years old were met with scorn.

‘Time has been expanding ever since. In light of later perspectives, sixty-five million years is no great length of time. We understand better than Lord Kelvin the source of the energies that power the sun.’

‘Possibly you Americans might be mistaken? Do you allow that?’

With a short laugh, Bodenland said, ‘Well, to some extent, certainly. This bullet, for instance, proves how little we have really been able to piece together the evolution of various forms of life in the distant past.’

Turning the bullet over in his palm, Stoker said, ‘I would swear it is one of my manufacture, of course. You’d better tell me about this extraordinary grave, and I’ll strive to take you at your word.’

‘It’s pretty astonishing – though no more so than that I should be here talking to you.’

He ran through the details of Clift’s discovery, explaining how the dating of the skeleton was arrived at.

During this account, Stoker remained impassive, listening and smoking. Only when Bodenland began to describe the coffin in which the skeleton was buried did he become excited. He demanded to know what the sign on the coffin looked like, and thrust a carpenter’s pencil and paper into Bodenland’s hand. Bodenland drew the two fangs with the wings above them.

‘That’s it! That’s it, sure enough – Lord Dracula’s sign,’ said Stoker in triumph. He seized Bodenland’s hand and shook it. ‘You’re a man after my own heart, so you are. At last someone who believes, who has proof! Listen, this house has drawn evil to it, and you brought more evil with this feller in my tool shed, but we can fight it together. We must fight it together. We’ll be heroes, the heroes we dreamed of —’

‘You’re a great man, Mr Stoker, but this battle’s not for me. I don’t belong here. I have to get back home. Though I certainly invite you to see the vehicle I use, parked down in your woodlands.’

‘Listen, stay another day.’ He grabbed Bodenland’s arm lest he escape at that very minute, and breathed smoke like an Irish dragon. ‘Just one more day, because tomorrow’s a special one. Come on, we’ll join that old fool van Helsing and have a glass or two of port and talk filth – if the wife’s not about. Tomorrow, that great actor whom I serve as manager, Henry Irving, bless his cotton socks, is to receive a knighthood from Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Windsor Palace. It’s the first time any actor has been so honoured. Now what do you think of that? Come along too – it’ll do your republican Yankee heart good to witness such a deed. After that you can high-tail it back to Utah or wherever you want. What do you say?’

Bodenland could not help being affected by the enthusiasm of the man.

‘Very well. It’s a deal.’

‘Excellent, excellent. Let’s go and toast ourselves in some port. And I want to hear more about your adventures.’