The Red Slayer

It isn’t hard to figure out which way Sir and his posse went. Once I trace my steps back to the mossy central room, the only corridor I haven’t gone down is directly opposite the spiral staircase. From the first corner, the grim atmosphere of human misery turns into a cream-walled passageway with navy-blue carpets. Pipes, vents and sterile lights hang above. Doors are half open, showing empty offices, even a kitchenette.

The door next to the kitchenette would seem like your average cleaner’s closet to the untrained eye. But it can be an arsenal to the desperate teen in search of answers. I empty every bottle with a flame symbol on the label into an empty wash-bucket until I have a colourful mixture with dizzying fumes rising from it. The kitchenette has a recycling bin full of glass water-bottles. Their plastic snobbery will be their doom. I half-fill five with my odorous brew and bung them with fabric torn from the hem of my pinafore, making sure one end touches the mixture. There’s a mop propped at the back. And old-fashioned one with a wooden shaft. I snap it across my leg, giving the end half a jagged point.

Two corners later, I hear Sir’s voice. What do you know? He does laugh. It’s cold and heartless. It’ll blow a hole right through you.

‘Can it be true?’ he says, joyfully. ‘All this time, we overlooked a chemical imbalance?’

‘Yes,’ replies a tinny voice, must be on speakerphone. ’That’s why I need male test subjects. Females die instantly. I need fresh meat to double-check.’

I crouch beside the door and peek through the crack. The mere quality of that tinny voice clenches my stomach. I want to scurry away and hide rather than have it address me.

‘You’re in luck, my friend,’ says Sir. ‘I have just secured two teenage boys. I’ll get them to you this evening and you can pay me upfront.’

‘Excellent. May I ask how you acquired them?’

‘They quite literally fell into our clutches, along with a girl.’

‘A girl?’

‘A short redhead. Pretty thing she is; the daughter of—what was that?’

A thud at the door interrupts him. It’s me throwing a disinfectant bottle refilled with water at it before I dart around the corner to hide.

‘Someone check it out,’ snaps Navy.

A droog steps out, dressed like a 1930s gangster, complete with pinstripes and spats. His back is to me while he kneels to pick up a bottle.

The makeshift stake is thrust into his heart before he knew I was there. Like Karen, he starts to age, though when I pull the stake out, he turns to dust in half the time.

‘Well?’ shouts Sir, having not heard a thing. ‘Answer me!’

The door opens again. This time, a blonde droog wearing a bottle-green suit and floral tie pokes his head into the corridor, distracted by the pinstripe suit atop the pile of dust.

He gasps, ‘Sir—’ but that’s the last thing he ever says.

I swing down from the pipes and kick him in the jaw. His head twists in the opposite direction. He falls, but my stake finds his heart. He’s ashes before he hits the floor.

The disembodied voice within asks, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘There is.’ I step into the room and shut the door behind me.

‘What the—?’ cries Navy. ‘How did you get out?’

Sir, indifferent, addresses the speaker on the long table in the centre of the room, ‘I’ll call you back,’ and presses the disconnect button before crossing his arms and raising his eyebrow at me.

Navy comes forward, eyes aglow. I pull out the guard’s lighter and ignite it. I giant flame spikes between me and him. Navy halts, but the anger in his face is replaced with fear when I take out my can of hairspray and hold it before the flame as a warning.

‘Don’t try it,’ I say. ‘I’ve killed five of your kind now. Do you want to be the sixth?’

Navy glances at Sir, who steps around the long table stand opposite me, albeit out of range. ‘You are quite the wild card, girl.’

I scoff. ‘Don’t call me “girl”. I am a lady.’

‘Of course,’ replies Sir bitterly. ‘If you escaped the cell, why are you here and not gunning for the nearest exit?’

‘She’s probably come to demand that information off us,’ says Navy.

‘No need,’ I reply. ‘Your friend, Harrison, told me before…’ I pause. ‘…things got heated between us.’

That was awful. I can picture Sean Connery slow-clapping in the corner.

Navy clenches his jaw. Sir rolls his eyes. ‘So what brings your Ladyship to us?’

I cut straight to the chase. ‘What do you know about my mother?’

Sir’s looks dumbfounded. ‘That’s all?’

‘I heard you say my father tried to protect her from your kind. What did you vampires want with her?’

‘Oh,’ he says, even chuckles. I want to punch him ’til he stops breathing for that.

‘Tell. Me. Now!’ I say through gritted teeth.

Sir smirks. ’You have no idea how many of us coveted her. Her singing voice was intoxicating. I saw her myself, before you were born. She sang Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi and I desired her more than anything.’

My stomach sinks. I’ve seen that performance. Dad has a recording. He said she taught herself German and Italian so she could sing Puccini and Mozart. Two languages I could have excelled in if she hadn’t died.

‘The problem was,’ Sir continues, ‘None of us could have her. Every time an admirer approached your father got in the way. He had her all to himself. And then, as if to rub our noses in it, he married her.’

‘Let me guess,’ I say, ‘He knew you vampires had your eyes on her and made sure she was protected?’

Sir’s laugh are like claws across my chest. ‘He failed in the end.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shakes his head. ‘I and many others wanted what your father had, but no one I knew would ever stoop so low as to…’ His voice trails off.

‘Never what?’ I find myself spitting.

‘Kill her.’

My arms go limp. ‘You’re lying. She—she died in a fire.’

‘Is that what your father told you?’

I mumble something about my aunt and uncle before I raise my voice. ‘I was there. Vampires are extremely flammable. How could they commit arson?’

Sir shakes his head again. ‘If I knew who did it, I’d kill them for taking such talent from the world. Your mother was a treasure. She should have been preserved, immortalised—’

‘Get to the [fracking] point!’

’But vampires did it, I assure you. It’s a common trick of ours to set the site on fire to cover our tracks. After the tragedy, we had vagabonds coming into our clubs, bragging that they had been part of it. They never named the ringleader, no matter how much we tortured them.’

My head is pounding. I look down but the blue carpet is going blurry.

It can’t be true. One of those things tore my family apart. Where was Mum before it all went to Hell?

I was watching her from above. I couldn’t sleep so I snuck to the landing while she sat on the sofa with Dad and played…something. Ukulele? Guitar? I can’t even remember what song it was.

I grumble until the memory progresses. It’s dark. I wasn’t scared of it, but I did scream.

Why would I scream? Was I the first to see the fire?

No, I screamed before the fire, someone was breaking in on the upper floor.

I’m too far into the memory to shut it out. People scuffle in the darkness while I’m paralyzed with fear. Someone scoops me up in their arms. I recognise Dad’s scent. He still uses sandalwood shaving cream to this day.

That’s when the fire starts. The smoke smothers me. I can barely breathe through all the coughing.

‘Jason!’

I gasp. Mum’s voice.

‘Jason, get Iorwen out of here! I’ll get Kayley!’

My baby sister is crying. Her screams of sheer terror cut right through me.

These new recollections are swiftly followed by the regular dose of memories: the sirens, the hospital, me screaming, and ending up at my aunt and uncle’s.

I blink hard and come back to the conference room. Sir and Navy stare cautiously at me as I realise I’ve fallen to my knees and my eyes are streaming with tears.

It was all their fault. They are the reason I don’t have a mother or sister. They are responsible for Dad’s mental breakdown. I had to spend four years being abused by my uncle and cousins because of them.

I roll my shoulders and feel the uneven skin on my back brushing beneath my shirt. My scars burn with the memory of the day they were carved into my skin. My head throbs from every punch thrown at me. My skin prickles from bygone pinches. Even my ribs ache from their kicks.

‘She’s insane,’ says Navy.

‘No, she’s just a frightened child,’ says Sir. He comes to stand over me. I look up into his red eyes. They don’t scare me anymore. I’m so monumentally angry that they have become manifestation of everything I hate.

He grins as I haul myself upright. Once again, he grasps my chin to examine my face. His look betrays more than lust for money or blood. It’s—well, lust. ‘I couldn’t have your mother, but I can have the next best thing.’

He shouldn’t have come within groin-crushing range. All that suave dignity shattered by a single up-thrust of my knee.

‘Sir, look out!’ shouts Navy as his master stumbles back.

Too late. With lighter and hairspray in hand, I spew fire right into the pervert’s face. The fire spreads down his neck as he stumbles blindly for relief. I have no sympathy at all.

The moment he turns to ashes, Navy turns on me. ‘You bitch!’

I duck his grasp, though not quickly enough to stop him knocking the lighter out of my hand. His fangs extend to the fullest.

Bring it on.

He’s all about his fists this one. I hope he doesn’t have a significant other. He lunges forward with blind swipes, not even aiming. His stance is awkward and insecure. It’s like he wants to be knocked over.

It’s one of my self-defence nit-picks. I learned Tai-Chi when I was eight to ease my anxiety, using an online course. Dad taught me Aikido. It’s not the most respected martial art but you’re less likely to be charged for assault if you get mugged. Elisa taught me and Luke Taekwondo. Since then, I’ve added gymnastics into the mix.

Each time Navy throws a punch, I land a blow of my own, taking him down little by little. Duck his right, punch the diaphragm. Evade his left, grab it, send him stumbling to his knees and kick his feet out from under him.

He recovers himself quickly and I miss my chance to kick him in the back. But now he is dazed, his fists are down. His head is an open target. I leap off a chair and deliver a perfect roundhouse kick that careens him into some filing cabinets.

Navy pulls himself up, panting. One of his fangs has chipped.

‘You’re really pishing me off,’ he says.

He rushes to pull the chair out from under me, but I perform a backward cartwheel onto the table, clipping his chin with my heel.

‘You insane little bitch!’ he hisses.

I jump off the table and give him a roundhouse kick. ‘Don’t call me little!’ I kick him in the balls out of spite. He’s going to regret ever laying eyes on me.

When he tries to punch again, I grab his arm and twist it behind his back. I know the pain he’s in after my shoulder dislocated. One swift kick to his back will pull it out of its socket and he’ll be so giddy with pain the fight will be out of him.

But I let go. He doesn’t deserve the dignity of dying with defeat. I stand right behind him as he gets up. Poor bastard doesn’t know I’m standing right behind and he walks right into the stake.

I leave him to crumble alongside his master’s pile of rubble with it still in his heart and pick up the lighter on my way out.

A breath escapes me that I didn’t know I was holding back. My feet move on autopilot down the corridor. Those bottles of mixed chemicals corked with rags are still where I left them. They were meant to be a failsafe in case I needed to make a quick escape, but they’ll serve a different purpose now.

I stop at the foot of the spiral staircase, look up to the door and ascend. The music is livelier now, the volume of the music mixed with the revelry from the patrons. I slip inside and no one notices.

No one even notices. They’re dancing in couples to pre-recorded swing music. The seated ones, drunk on their blood cocktails, stare idly into space or talk among themselves. No one has left since I was last here, though there are a few new faces.

There’s no point announcing my intentions. With a flick of the lighter, the rag ignites and I throw it as hard as I can into the crowd.

The music stops and everyone turns in horror at the ones who were hit go up like a Christmas tree. Before they can look where it came from, a second bottle smashes in the corner where Sir sat, followed by another in the bar area.

The flames spread as the flammable liquids soak into the carpet and spread to other vampires. The ones not ignited scream and rush for the main exit but the door won’t budge. I silently commend Luke as I send the fourth bottle their way.

I leave the fifth to go off as I leave so they can’t escape through here. Fire doors will give me time to do that badass, emotionless walk back towards the fire exit and the narrow alley. Outside is wilder than inside. Sirens and flashing lights everywhere. I should be reliving the most traumatic night of my life right now, but my insides are cold. You could jab me with a pin and I wouldn’t react.

‘Iorwen!’ shouts Olga. An arm threads around my back and leads me towards the noise. ‘She’s all right, everyone.’

Another arm wraps around me. ‘Oh, thank god,’ says Dante. ‘When the building went up, I thought…’

‘She’s alive!’ cries Luke some ways off.

I lift my head to acknowledge him, but I stop moving altogether when I notice Dad by his side, pale with worry.

© Alice of Sherwood, September 2019