The Reformed Vampire Support Group (36 page)

‘Mum—’

‘There’s only one guinea pig left downstairs. You’d better grab it before someone else does,’ she finished. Then she retreated into her room, slamming the door behind her.

I suppose that I could have said sorry, but I didn’t. There are only so many times you can apologise for being a vampire. I did, however, take her advice about the last guinea pig, which was looking decidedly unwell – listless and mangy, and much too thin. Sometimes guinea pigs in that sort of condition can leave you feeling a bit off-colour; there are vampires of my acquaintance (Gladys, for instance) who wouldn’t have touched the thing. But I always find that the relief of being able to tell yourself that it was ‘a merciful release’ far outweighs any physical side-effects, when you fang a sick guinea pig. So I shut myself in the bathroom and did what I had to do, conscious all the while that Reuben was prowling around the house, his ears pricked and his curiosity inflamed.

‘I guess you’ve gotta be really careful with the dead ones,’ he
remarked, as I thrust my zip-lock bag full of lifeless guinea pig into Mum’s freezer. ‘Or someone might call the
RSPCA
.’

I grunted.

‘Where do you get them from?’ he inquired, and I said, ‘We breed them.
George
breeds them.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Speaking of dinner, Mum says you can open a tin,’ I continued, trying to change the subject without being too obvious. ‘There are tins over there, in the pantry.’

‘As long as they’re not in the freezer!’

‘Ha-ha.’ (I’d heard that joke before.) ‘So do you know how to … you know … do everything?’ It had occurred to me that Reuben probably hadn’t used a stove, or washed a dish, or seen a refrigerator since he was fourteen years old. ‘Do you want me to open a tin for you?’

The flush that mantled his face made his eyes look greener than ever.

‘I’m not a
complete
retard,’ he snapped, before regretting his sharp tone and proceeding in a more conciliatory fashion. ‘What I mean is that I used to live in a normal house, once.’

‘Sure.’

‘I can remember what to do. I can remember how to use a tin-opener.’ He set his gun down on the table, then padded across the cracked linoleum towards the pantry. ‘My mum was such a lush, I’ve been cooking since I was six,’ he continued, peering at my own mother’s selection of tinned soups and stews. ‘My brother just wanted to eat corn chips all the time.’

‘When are you going to contact your brothers, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Soon?’

Reuben didn’t answer immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on our selection of tuna. ‘Maybe,’ he said at last.

‘Are you going to tell them what really happened to you?’

‘Maybe.’ His voice was strangled; he ducked his head, as if he were surveying the condiments on a low shelf, and I suddenly caught a glimpse of the fourteen-year-old boy lurking beneath his hardened, prickly, nineteen-year-old carapace.

I realised that, after being imprisoned in an underground tank for all of five years, Reuben hadn’t been given a chance to grow up properly.

‘No offence, or anything,’ I went on, choosing my words with care, ‘but I think you should get some kind of counselling. Because what you went through – it’s bound to have messed you up a bit. It would have messed
anybody
up a bit.’

He stiffened. ‘You think I’m messed up?’ he said, glaring at me.

‘No more than I am.’ When this failed to appease him, I decided to elaborate. ‘Why do you think I go to a vampire therapy group every Tuesday night? I’m not there for the laughs, Reuben.’

He snorted. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Even though – well, it’s pretty funny, isn’t it? A vampire therapy group.’

‘I only wish it was.’

‘Dermid won’t join something like that,’ he assured me. ‘Not in a million years.’

‘If a million years is how long it takes …’ I replied, with a shrug. When Reuben frowned, I reminded him that Dermid had all the time in the world to change his mind. ‘He’s not the same person. Not any more. He’s a vampire.’ I tapped my bony chest. ‘Do you think
I
used to be like this? No way. I was completely different.
Completely
. I used to have
fun
.’

‘You do seem really old, sometimes,’ Reuben conceded. ‘I mean, the way you talk and stuff.’

‘That’s because I am old. I’m fifty-one.’

‘
Fifty-one?
’ His expression almost made me laugh. ‘Jeez, I didn’t
… I thought …’ He trailed off, then rallied bravely. ‘Well, you don’t look it,’ he avowed. ‘In fact I hope I look as good as you do, when I’m fifty-one.’

‘No, you don’t.’ I probably sounded more abrupt than I’d intended, because he gave a little start. ‘You might think you do, but you don’t.’

‘I was just kidding, Nina.’

‘It’s always the same thing, day after day. Year after year. The fatigue, and the pain, and the nausea – they never let up. You always feel hungry. You always feel thirsty. You never go anywhere or meet anyone—’

‘Whaddaya mean?’ he interrupted. ‘You went to Cobar, didn’t you? You met me!’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Seems like you’ve had a much better time than
I
have, lately!’

‘I guess so, but—’

‘Try being a werewolf, and see what that’s like!’

The phone rang then; it made us jump, and put a stop to our exchange. Sanford was on the other end of the line. He told me that he had reached Nefley’s place, but that no one was answering his knock. What’s more, Nefley’s garage door was open.

‘
It has his number painted on it, so it must be his
,’ Sanford explained. ‘
And it’s empty. There’s no car inside
.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t have a car,’ I hazarded.

‘
Oh, he has a car. He mentioned it to Father Ramon
.’ There was a brief exchange that I couldn’t hear properly. Then Sanford said, ‘
Ah
.’

‘What?’

‘
According to Father Ramon, the McKinnons kidnapped Nefley at Dave’s house. So the car might still be parked near Dave’s
.’

‘Then maybe he’s gone to fetch it,’ I speculated. ‘Nefley, I mean.’

‘
In his condition?
’

‘Well – he hurt his left leg and his left arm, didn’t he?’ I was thinking back to my brief glimpses of Nefley Irving, trying to work out whether he was right- or left-handed. ‘He could probably drive it back, if he’s got an automatic.’

‘
Don’t be ridiculous, Nina
.’

‘I’m not being ridiculous!’ It irked me that Sanford was falling into his old habit of treating my every utterance as if it were the babbling of a three-year-old. ‘He’s probably right-handed! And you only need one foot!’

‘
Don’t you think it would be a lot simpler if he asked a friend to bring it back for him?
’ Sanford asked, in the kind of wearily patronising tone that he always adopts when he thinks I’m being dense. It raises my hackles every time – especially when
he’s
the one who isn’t thinking straight.

‘What makes you think he even has any friends?’ I demanded, before it occurred to me that we were being sidetracked into yet another bout of vampire-ish bickering. And since I was determined not to fall into that trap, I made a heroic effort to change the subject. ‘So are you going to stay there, or what?’ I asked.

‘
Maybe for a little while
.’ After a long pause, he added, ‘
If Nefley’s gone to fetch his car, why leave the garage door open?
’

I pondered for a moment. ‘Because it’s hard for him to get in and out of the driver’s seat?’

‘
Good point
.’

‘Sanford – what are we going to do if Dave can’t find Dermid?’

This time the pause was so long that I was afraid he hadn’t heard me, and was opening my mouth to repeat the question when he finally said, ‘
Well … in that case we’ll have to start watching the news, I suppose
.’

‘You don’t think he might go back to Wolgaroo Corner?’

‘
It’s possible
.’

‘He could sleep in one of those underground tanks, but what would he do about shopping?’ I was intrigued despite myself. The notion of an outback vampire wasn’t entirely implausible; I had a sudden mental picture of Dermid driving around the desert plains at night, setting traps for kangaroos and ordering his supplies over the Internet. But of course he wouldn’t feel well enough to go trap-setting a lot of the time. And he wouldn’t restrict himself to kangaroos, either – not unless he had some kind of emotional support. He would start to prey on campers, and shearers, and stranded motorists.

He’d start arousing suspicions soon enough.

‘
I’m going to call Dave
,’ Sanford remarked, interrupting my train of thought. ‘
Keep me posted, all right?
’

‘All right.’

‘
You might want to alert Bridget, as well. She’d probably like to know what’s going on
,’ Sanford concluded. Then he abruptly broke the connection.

I was about to dial Bridget’s number when Reuben said ‘Nina!’ in a strangely high-pitched voice. Turning, I saw that he had opened a tin of baked beans, and was standing at the sink with the tin in one hand and a plate in the other. But he set down his plate with a rap.

‘Look,’ he croaked, pointing out the kitchen window. I looked – then gasped.

Dermid McKinnon was tottering through the back gate, dragging Nefley Irving along with him.

I’d been right,
you see. Nefley
had
gone to retrieve his car. He didn’t have any friends who could fetch it for him, so he’d caught a cab to Dave’s house, then driven his own vehicle back to Parramatta with one arm in a sling.

It hadn’t been easy. He’d been forced to stop once or twice when his nerves had failed him. But he’d managed the journey somehow, despite his handicap. And he hadn’t caused any accidents along the way.

Unfortunately, however, his good luck hadn’t lasted. Upon arriving home, he’d pulled up in front of his garage, heaved himself out of his car, and hobbled across a crumbling stretch of asphalt to push open the roller door. He hadn’t seen the shadowy figure lurking nearby. And since he’d left his pistol on the front passenger seat (in plain view of anyone with highly developed night-vision), he’d soon found himself being compelled – at gunpoint – to drive Dermid McKinnon back to my mum’s place.

Don’t ask me what Dermid’s motives were. Having lost his ute, he certainly needed transport. But I still don’t understand why he suddenly felt the need to rescue his father. Was it guilt? Or fear? Or something to do with money? Perhaps there wasn’t any logic
to it at all; he certainly wasn’t making much sense when he yelled at me through Mum’s kitchen window.

‘
You let go of my dad right now, or I’ll blow your friend away!
’ he screamed.

It was an odd sort of threat, because Nefley was no friend of mine. We hadn’t even been formally introduced. I recognised him, of course, despite the fact that his purple, sweat-soaked, badly illumined face was contorted with fear. I also felt sorry for him – as I would have felt sorry for anyone trapped in a headlock, with a pistol jammed against his skull. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel like hurling myself out the door to save him.

If he had been Mum, or Dave, or Father Ramon, it would have been different. But Nefley?

‘Oh, shit,’ Reuben hissed, out of the corner of his mouth. He cut a glance at the table.

‘Don’t move,’ I warned.

‘
Get Dad!
’ Dermid was still yelling, his bulging, bloodshot eyes just centimetres from the glass. ‘
Bring him out here! Now!
’

‘You go up,’ said Reuben, under his breath.

‘No. You,’ I replied.

‘Nina—’

‘He can’t kill me. He can’t infect me, either.’

‘But—’

‘Call Dave. Go now.’ Raising my voice – and my hands – I addressed Dermid. ‘He’s just going to get your dad! Okay? Your dad’s upstairs. Can you hear me?’ As Reuben started to back away, I added (with more than a trace of anxiety), ‘Maybe you should come inside, eh? Before our neighbours call the police?’

‘
DON’T TOUCH THAT
!’ Dermid’s hand jerked, and suddenly his gun was aimed at the window. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Reuben had been edging closer to the rifle.

‘Leave it!’ I snarled. ‘Get going!’

Reuben hesitated.

‘We’re sitting ducks, you moron!’ I shrilled, and the insult seemed to shock Reuben into a state of heightened awareness. His gaze flitted across the wide expanse of glazing in front of us; he must have realised that we were silhouetted against the light, as vulnerable and exposed as goldfish in a bowl. At any rate, he abandoned any notions that he might have entertained concerning the rifle. Instead he made for the stairs, his chiselled features drawn tight with tension, his green eyes blazing.

‘I’ll be back,’ he promised. ‘Just … just be careful, okay?’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

Before I could thank him (through clenched teeth) for this vote of confidence, he had disappeared – leaving me all alone in the kitchen. For a few seconds I simply stood there with my hands up and my heart pounding. Then it occurred to me that Dermid didn’t look well. Though he’d clearly recovered a lot of his strength, he wasn’t by any means a raging bundle of energy. And it crossed my mind that fresh human blood might not have quite the same explosive impact on a half-formed vampire as it has on someone who’s already undergone a full transformation.

I began to move sideways, very slowly and carefully.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked Dermid, trying to project my voice through the glass. ‘There’s only me in here now!’

Dermid shook his head. Though his tattooed arms were still brown and muscular against the grubby pallor of his T-shirt – though his scarred cheeks were still plump and his hair hadn’t lost its gleam – the infection had already left its mark on him. I could see traces of it in his yellowing irises, and his pinprick pupils. His mucus membranes were turning a livid, unhealthy colour; dark
patches were forming near the wound on his neck.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ he cried. ‘Or I’ll shoot your friend!’