Dead Men Walking

“We need more mayonnaise,” Tom said, starring into the fridge.

“Was that directed at me, or an observation on society in general?” Sammy asked him, flippantly.

Tom placed the empty jar down on the side and started to clean his glasses. He usually sat in the kitchen while Sammy cooked, making observations and rarely helping. He spent most of his time in this century these days, but when it came to housework he could be uncharacteristically backward.

Sammy looked up as the door bell sounded.

“I’ll get it,” I told her quickly, putting down my knife and looking pointedly at Tom. Amy appeared at my side and quietly resumed chopping the onions.

Francis was leaning against the wall outside. I recognised the glint in his eye the moment I saw it. Mischief. The gaunt, unscrupulous teenager with the unsavoury friends had spent the last decade dabbling in anything and everything risqué that he could get his hands on, from ancient blood magic to a-grade drugs. He shared a flat in Camden with a group of wannabe mystics who also formed a heavy metal group, and was only saved from the embarrassing cliché of the generic “vampire-goth” by the fact that he actually was one. I had only known him for a year, and he had become a member of the living dead in the same year Tom had ran into him in a London backstreet bookshop, which was 1995. Ten years on and his treatise on living life (or death, now) had remained unaltered.

I pretended not to have noticed. Whatever he had done now, I really didn’t want to know. He could dig his own holes, but I wasn’t in the mood for one of his little escapades.

“Hey” I said, in my best would-be nonchalant tone. “Come on in.”

“Wait.” He said, his face creasing into the typically puckish smile. “I want you to come see something first.”

He motioned for me to step out with him, but I hung back. “What is it?” I asked, not even bothering to hide the suspicion in my voice.

“It’s in my van. Come see.”

I rolled my eyes and followed down to were his van had pulled up next to mine. “Well?”

Francis took the keys out of his pocket, twisted them in the lock and wrenched the door open. I thought I heard a small gasp. Frowning, I took a few steps forward. “What the-?”

Francis was holding out his hand, and a second later small, impossibly thin hand ventured out from the darkness to join it. He was muttering something quietly, coaxing the hand’s owner as one might coax a frightened animal or a stupid child. After a pause, a bare foot shuffled into the streetlight and alighted onto the tarmac, joined shortly by another foot and a reluctant young girl.

She was a year or so younger than Francis, pale, small and extremely thin. She wore pale, baggy clothes, and everywhere flesh showed so also did her bones, each over-pronounced joint straining against the tautly stretched skin. She was draped in a white angora shawl, brittle-blonde hair pulled untidily back and wrapped in a large headscarf. Her eyes were large, glinting in the orange glow of the streetlamps and streaked with black mascara. She shot a nervous, uncomfortable look at me, a half-reproachful one at Francis and then fixed her eyes in the floor. The girl moved with the heavy slowness of exhaustion.

“This is Josephine, she’s… a friend. Josephine, this is Ryan.” Francis had not yet let go of her hand, and suddenly put his mouth by her ear and whispered something. She turned and he attentively helped her back into the front seat. Then, for the first time since her emergence, Francis looked me in the eye.

“Good god.” I said simply, trying to take everything in. Then, after a pause; “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Quite a find, huh?” He was looking at me, his face half hidden in shadow, but I could tell there was a grin on his face. I could hear the pride in his voice.

“Were did you meet her?”

“Mark did.” Mark was Francis’ sire. He was a sadistic, grasping bastard who ran a pub at the side of Camden canal. “She was at the Raven with some old git. Bit like Tom, actually.”

“And?”

“And we pinched her. Well, it was more like a rescue really,” he said, pulling out a hip-flask.

“You have to be joking! Tom will hit the roof!”

There was a pause. “I was wondering if you’d do me a favour, actually.”

“And what might that be?” my tone was becoming more aggressive every time I spoke.

“Well, it’s that. Could you tell Tom for me? Is he in there?”

I nodded.

“Well, just as a favour, like. I knew he wouldn’t react well to her.”

“Then why the fuck did you bring her?” I demanded in a livid whisper. I made a fist and punched the side of the van. It was all I could do to stop myself hitting him.

“Ah, c’mon, Ryan. She’s here now.”

“Fine.” I said. “Just fine. But don’t think you’ll get away with it just because I tell him. You’ll have to come up with an explanation.” I told him to wait for a few minutes, and then I turned and stalked sulkily up to the house. This was the last thing I needed. Tom was grumpy enough at the moment, without Francis pulling stunts like this. And Amy would find this girl a most uncomfortable housemate, without a doubt.

I shuffled down the hall and through into the kitchen. Sammy’s cooking scented the air with a warm, comforting aroma.

She and Amy were pouring over another sketchbook in the far corner, and Tom was staring out at the stars. “Were have you been?” Amy asked as I re-emerged.

“Francis is just…getting his stuff.” I murmured unhappily. It suddenly occurred to me how often we were referring to this girl as a “thing”.

Tom looked over at me sharply. “Something wrong?” he asked me. Without waiting for my reply, which was a few moments in forthcoming, he went the side and poured himself a measure of Rum.

“He’s…brought a friend with him.” I took a deep breath and inwardly cursed Francis and all his recklessness. “She’s a vessel.”

Tom took the glass from his lips and placed it heavily on the side. “I sincerely hope you mean that in the ceremonial sense.” His voice was taught with restrained anger.

“No.” I told him, feeling hopelessly guilty, which was ridiculous since I had nothing to feel guilty about. Francis had always had a knack for dragging others into trouble with him, and I realised he was doing it now to me at this very second. “I mean she’s a receptive psychic.”

“Are you sure, Ryan?” Sammy asked me from the corner.

“That stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.” Tom drained his rum and then turned to Sammy. “They will have to stay at mine then. This is no place for a girl like that.”

Sammy looked disappointed, I thought for a moment she was going to argue.

Sammy’s relationship with Tom had always been slightly strained. She frivolous in all the ways Tom was tawdry, and although Tom’s education was vastly more extensive than Sammy’s, she had always had the firmer grasp on most social conventions and many of the finer things in life. Sammy had the quintessential lust for life that the lucky are blessed with, the endless sense of fun and that subtle grasp of very good humour.

To Tom, fun was a bizarre, inconstant and illusive material, forever misguiding him and evading his grasp. Outwardly, he had always seemed to have a very limited range of emotions. I had only known him to have any sort of romantic attachment once, and that was long ago and had ended badly. I was sure he wasn’t cold on the inside, but he seemed so on the outside. He could seem at times to be a stone wall. As much as we respected and cared for him, he was hard to live with and Sammy needed Francis a lot more since I had gone back to my home.

“You go and speak to her,” he said to Sammy. He had slipped into a tone of command, one he always used when he was stressed, and one we had learned not to interrupt or dispute. “Speak quietly and keep calm, and for God’s sake don’t touch her, and don’t let her in the house. Send Francis up here.”

I spent the rest of the evening watching trash T.V. in the lounge with Amy. I couldn’t get comfortable on the low, sprawling sofa, so I ended up on the floor while Amy lolled about among the cushions. Francis nodded to me and winked at Amy as he emerged from the Kitchen, and made a hasty exit, not waiting for Tom. Tom said goodnight curtly, shared a few whispered words with Sammy on the doorstep, and left.

Sammy stalked moodily into the kitchen. I thought I heard a stifled sob. Amy got up quietly and followed her into the kitchen. I heard them talking, but I could not make out the words. I wanted to talk to Sammy about the girl, this exciting find, this rare breed. I closed my eyes and cast back in my mind to seeing the pale girl emerging so shyly from the grim van. I had heard about vessels, of course. Tom had never let either Sammy or I get involved with any, but I knew that he had been in contact with one some years before.

Amy and Sammy emerged from the kitchen. Sammy was carrying two plates of Chilli. Amy padded across to me as Sammy laid the table.

“I’m going to bed now. See you later.” She bent down and kissed me on the forehead.

“Night.”

Sammy pressed the T.V. remote and the screen flicked off. I rose heavily and helped myself to a bottle of wine from the shelf. “Tut tut.” I said, unscrewing the bottle’s lid. “What would Tom say?”

“He has learned to avoid my wine at all costs. You, I believe have no such refined tastes.”

“True,” I said, sitting down. We both began to eat in silence, until I could not contain the questions any longer. “What’s she like?”

Sammy wiped her mouth and took a mouthful of her wine. It was as if we were school children plotting mischief. All of Francis’ little machinations elicited a similar result between us. I would have avoided it had I known, I always felt later that I was too mature for this sort of carry on.

“She’s…odd. Her aura was all over the place. Did you feel how invasive she was?”

“I did.”

“Do you think Tom will let us see her again?” I did not like the excited tone in her voice.

“I don’t know. He can’t have been too angry – he didn’t raise his voice. But then again, I don’t see how we’ll convince him to let us see her again.” I cleared my throat and said quietly, “She’s not one of the ancient devices. She’s just a girl.”

She sighed. “I know.” But she did not sound convinced. Neither was I. This girl, this strange girl, was something we had never seen the likes of before, and we were eager as children with new toys but could not play with them.

A receptive psychic is someone who, through sheer weakness of mental ability, is incapable of preventing psychic messages from penetrating his or her conscious mind. Psychic frequencies ebb and flow around us all the time, most of us are oblivious to them. A psychic can tune into them and interpret them, but a receptive psychic has no control over the messages and images that enter their thoughts. Most can barely distinguish between their own eyes and their mind’s eye, and if they are not born insane, they soon become so.

The mystic benefit of a Receptive Psychic is that they can be possessed by any sort of spirit with incredible ease and are sensitive to the most faint psychic murmurings. In ancient times, magicians and soothsayers would keep these unfortunates as slaves, and since they are almost in all cases incapable of caring for themselves, such is usually their status today if they are involved with mystics as opposed to doctors, in which case they are usually locked away in a hospital. Francis was not vicious, but he was no philanthropist either, and neither were his friends. I began to imagine what her life would be like in their flat. She would have no friends, no freedom. She would be seen as a rare and valuable tool for their magical dabbling. I could imagine them inviting friends round to practices rituals and ceremonies on her, and for the first time I began to see why Tom would never let us have contact with one.

We talked about Tom for the rest of the evening, and recapped the last few weeks. We made plans to go and see Tom tomorrow, as well as Francis. Then Amy pulled out a sketchbook from under the sofa and I took my cue to leave.

“‘Night, then, Ryan.”

“G’night.”

I got a call from Tom in the morning. Early.

“Hello?” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Amy, who had draped herself over my arm during the night, mumbled in her sleep as she rolled over. I was surprised the noise of my phone ringing hadn’t woken her up, she hated the harsh monophonic bleep of my dated ring tone.

“Sorry to wake you,” Tom began curtly. I thought that this semblance of courtesy was an omen I was about to be talked into something. Without waiting for a reply Tom continued, business-like; “I need you to pick up the Lesser Key of Solomon from the library and come over here. Now, if that’s possible.”

“Uh…sure.” I was already pulling on my jeans. I had the vague notion that they were beginning to smell.

“Thank you. Oh, and Ryan? Don’t tell Sammy.”

“Of course.”

He hung up. I snuck out the backdoor. I picked the heaviest music I had in my C.D. changer and turned it up loud as I pulled out of Sammy’s drive, pressing back imaginings of just how pissed off she was going to be with me when I got back. Despite the fact that I was, it would be cowardly of me to assert I was merely following orders by not telling her where I’d gone. She’d be in a right royal strop, and Tom well knew it. It pissed me off the way he could just play havoc with our friendships. I couldn’t tell if I was angrier with him for doing it so high-handedly, or with myself and Sammy for letting him.

I spent most of the journey trying to remember exactly what the Lesser Key of Solomon was. I remembered having read the name many times, but I was never much of a scholar and Tom was too busy with his own business than to waste his time trying to educate Sammy or I in mysticism, or at least any more than he had already tried and failed to do. I wondered if it was relevant to the girl. Well, logically it had to be. It had to be something to do with Francis, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me not to tell Sammy, and if it was to do with Francis, it was to do with Josephine. He had little else to be interested in Francis for. Tom had given up on him and moved on to his next protégé, a young Wiccan from the local comprehensive who was having apocalyptic visions.

It didn’t take me long to find the book, in fact, it had been resting on the mantelpiece. I slipped the well-thumbed volume into my bag and retreated through the library.

Francis’ van wasn’t on the drive when I pulled up outside Tom’s house. I swore loudly, kicking the car door as I opened it. Sammy was going to be furious. Not necessarily with me, but that vague, undirected anger that only women seem to feel and everyone around them suffers for. Grabbing my bag, I trudged moodily towards the front door.

Tom opened it only seconds after I knocked. He ushered me in with an impatient gesture and then went into his study. I knew better than to follow, so I dropped myself onto the stairs and waited quietly.

He emerged, looking haggard, after about five minutes. He shut the door behind him and locked it, not as ominous a sign as an outsider might have thought. Tom was habitually reclusive and regarded whatever space he studied in as a matter of intimate secrecy. He stared at the floor for a moment before addressing me.

“Did you bring the book?”

I nodded. “You’ve sent him away, haven’t you?” I sounded more petulant than I had wanted to, but in truth I was simply irritated by his callousness.

“Yes,” was his simple reply.

“And the girl?”

“She’s upstairs,” he said, his voice taking an edge of sternness, and I knew why. He was taking the girl in, for some reason he would disclose at his own liberty, and did not want any interference from me or Sammy. Clearly he’d chosen me to summon here as the least rebellious of the two in order to make clear the ground rules. He walked over to his kitchen door. “Come through, have a drink,” he invited, somewhat stiffly, “We need to talk.”

His kitchen was roomy and pristine. In fact, it was the only place in the house not flooded with books and notes. Not even one recipe book stood on the shelves. Tom didn’t do cooking. Sammy often bitterly remarked that performing kitchen duties was all the good she was to him these days. She’d said it to him once, which didn’t go down at all well. I sighed as I sat down, and pushed the old book onto the table.

Lifting it carefully, he carried the book into the hallway, putting it down on a side-table. Walking back in, he pushed the kettle’s power switch to “on” and reached out for mugs. I sat and waited expectantly.

“Did you sleep well?” I finally asked after a few moments passed in which Tom did nothing but stare sullenly at the tea-bags.

“No,” he said bluntly, and for a moment I expected him not to elaborate. “The girl has nightmares. I went in to find Francis trying to drug her.”

“Drug her?”

“Oh, you know, sedatives,” he explained. “Heavy-duty ones. They obviously use them to keep her quiet until she’s wanted.” His voice was suddenly full of anger, and I could understand why. I was shocked that Francis could treat a young girl like that.

“So you…”

“Told him to get out of my house, and if I he came anywhere near here again I would call the police,” he told me, bluntly.

“So what is the book for?” I asked tentatively.

“Her. It mentions vessels,” Tom had begun to pace the room. The kettle was bubbling angrily, but he was ignoring it. “Of all the low things to be caught up in…haven’t I told him? Haven’t I told you all?”

“Well, maybe the situation…” I began a half-hearted defence.

“Bugger the situation. He should have kept well away.”

I went over and poured the tea myself. Tom stood by the window, continuing to mutter darkly under his breath. The only word I got was ‘decrepit’. I handed him his tea and reached for the sugar. Tom pored a rather large measure of whiskey into his.

“So then, what now?” I asked him as I put the teabags back.

“Now I have been saddled with that ship-wreck of a human being when I have other things to be doing,” he replied grumpily, taking a large gulp.

“Sammy and I could…”

“Could what?” he snapped, looking at me properly for the first time. I noticed a rawness in the dark skin beneath his eyes, and my first instinct was to think that he had been crying. But then, that was ridiculous. “What could you do for her? She’s far beyond help, and certainly beyond yours.”

And knowing when to keep quiet, I stopped at that.

“But…” Tom said, taking a deep breath and then a long drink. “I do need a favour. I’m going into the library, and then out to see someone. I need you to…feed her. Make sure she’s okay and all that.”

“Sure.” I said, looking around and wondering what I could make.

“Good,” said Tom, briskly pushing his mug into my hands and going out of the kitchen. I heard keys jangle and the door opening. “Just don’t touch her,” he called back at me before leaving me, bewildered, stood holding two mugs alone in the kitchen.

Upon realising he hadn’t actually told me whereabouts in the house she was, I explored. The first floor was a labyrinth of packing crates, most of which seemed to be full of various sized vials. An old pastime of mine was unlocking the secrets of Tom’s activities, but that pastime had long since lost it’s attraction, so I merely stepped deftly around the boxes and crowbars to reach the first guest bedroom. It was empty.

I could not find her anywhere on the first floor, it was in a small back-room on the second floor that I found her, huddled down in a corner, sitting cross-legged on a thin mattress with a coverless quilt and several other blankets wrapped around her. Her eye make-up was badly smudged, giving her an even more gaunt appearance, showing up her chalk-pale skin and the cheeks bones that so sharply protruded over her hollow cheeks.

She looked sharply up at me as I peered around the door. There was a fleeting trace of recognition on her face, and the corners of her mouth trembled. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to smile or about to burst into tears. “Do you remember me?” I asked.

Nodding, she pulled the quilt closer about her shoulders. There was a sudden flurry of wings at the window as a crow tried to settle on the ledge, and she seemed to jump a mile, gasping in fright and pressing her back against the wall. Then she put her hand to her forehead and sighed heavily.

“Are you hungry?”

Seeming rather taken a back, all she did was blink at me, and then nodded again. But when I asked her what she’d like she was apparently at a loss and just looked around the room in as if dazed. “Toast?” I offered.

Again, she inclined her head, but then opened her mouth. At first no words, only a dry scratching cough came out, and then she spoke so quietly I could only just hear. “Please. Yes...pl-please.”

My turn to nod, I nodded and retreated back down the dark corridor, my mind racing. Why had she been put in there, without even a proper bed to sleep on? Tom had plenty of spare rooms, very comfortable ones. I knew Tom was slightly put out to be looking after her, but to stow her away in a dingy little room like that seemed cruel and not like him.

Tom’s kitchen was gaunt and easy to navigate. As far as foodstuffs went, he only kept the barest minimum to survive on, with the exception of filter coffees, which dominated most of the cupboard space. I made up a few slices quickly and took them up with some orange juice.

She had washed her face by the time I returned, and she was perched on the end of her mattress rearranging her shawl.

“There,” I said, handing her the plate, “I couldn’t find any jam or anything…” I began, but she wasn’t listening, but instead was eating at an alarming speed. “Slow down!” I said, surprised. “You’ll…you’ll make yourself ill.”

She licked her lips, a wistful expression on her face, and obeyed, carefully slowing her intake. I watched her eat for a few seconds, before the truth slowly dawned on me and I realised why she was so hungry.

She was obviously starving. I was stunned. I knew from reading that physical weakness enhanced the ability of a receptive psychic, but I would never have believed Francis of being so callous as to actually deny her basic sustenance merely to exploit this unusual talent. This was worse than neglect, it was deliberate and pitiless cruelty. I felt sick.

I turned away, not knowing whether to question her, or to leave it be. I was beginning to feel angry, and I knew that wasn’t good for her, and I spun around sharply when she whimpered. “Can you tell what I’m thinking?” I blurted out without thinking, suddenly intrigued.

“Yes.” Her voice was very faint and she looked frightened again.

“Am…am I right?”

She nodded slowly and her eyes suddenly misted with tears.

“Oh, God, don’t…I’m sorry, please don’t cry,” I garbled, slightly panicked. Whenever Sammy cried Amy was usually around to deal with it, coping with Amy’s tears were a mandatory boyfriend duty, but I didn’t have a clue what to do for this girl who I couldn’t even touch. “It’s okay now. We’re going to look after you. You won’t have to see Francis ever again.”

She wasn‘t really crying, though. She just brushed her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the dampness. It was hard to see, the room was fairly dark, but I was almost certain I could see a line of scars across the back of her hand. Tiny, neat puncture marks.

“Fucking hell…” I whispered, and she looked up, surprised. “He’s been drinking you.”

She quickly hid her hand beneath the folds of her shawl, and wouldn’t meet my gaze. I stood speechless for a moment, but the silence was broken when my phone rang in my pocket.

“Where the hell are you?” came Sammy’s irate voice on the other end of the phone as I hastily made my way out to the hallway.

“At Tom’s.” I said, wondering whether to get her over.

“What? Why? Why didn’t you tell us? Amy’s worried sick–”

“Never mind that,” I said impatiently. “Listen, he’s send Francis back to London – no, listen,” I interjected, cutting quickly over her explosion of protest. “There’s a perfectly good reason. You won’t believe it.”

“There’s…what?”

I sighed. I couldn’t in good conscience ask her over, nor leave the house. And I didn’t want to give her information until I was totally sure. I’d have to wait. “I’ll call you back, okay? I promise I’ll tell you everything, I just can’t really do it over the phone. Tell Amy I’m sorry and I’ll see you later.”

She had begun to protest, but I hung up on her. Thrusting the phone into my pocket, I hurried back down the stairs.

I spent most of the time between the phone-call and Tom’s return skulking about the living room. The T.V. screen was almost totally obscured by trails of wax that had dripped from candles. I could not tell if this was purposely done or the result of some mishap Tom had not gotten around to rectifying. I riffled through a few files he had lying on the coffee table, mostly concerning the Rosenheim poltergeist. I was about to make myself a second cup of tea when I heard Tom’s car pulling up.

He was laden down with books when he shuffled in, and I hurried to help him.

We spread them out on his dining room table. I looked over the volumes. They were modern works on blood-rites. One of them was stained badly, and I wondered exactly who it was Tom had just been to visit.

“So you knew then? That he’d been…you know.”

“Oh, he’s been doing far more than tasting her.” Tom said, matter-of-factly. “He’s been letting blood from her for the last month at least.”

“Christ!”

“Indeed.” Without another word, he strode out and went into his study, re-emerging seconds later with an armful of plastic wallets. He spread them out on the table and then looked up at me.

“We’ve got some work to do,” he said.

I nodded, then cleared my throat. “Why have you got her in that little back-room, Tom?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked faintly amused. “I would have thought that was obvious, Ryan.”

I bit my lip. Clearly I had missed something. After a moments consideration I simply sighed and shrugged my shoulders.

“She is a receptive psychic, yes? As sensitive to a psychic signature as you are to sound or scent. Well, my rooms have had visitors of all kinds, and the energies moving in them are inappropriate for her to be exposed to.”

“I see,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of all that myself.

“Of course,” he continued, turning back to the papers, “I will be making more comfortable arrangements for her as soon as I can. Now, if I might direct your attention back to the point, Ryan…”

But Tom too was then distracted from his point by the doorbell. I flinched at the sound and prayed to any and all of the Gods that Sammy hadn’t decided to put in an appearance. Tom didn’t notice my reaction and ambled away to answer.

I glanced across the table. We certainly did have work to do; I was beginning to wonder just how long I’d end up staying here now.

“Ryan!”

I went out to see what it was Tom wanted. A girl in a school-skirt, hair in bunches and an ostentatious pentacle hanging on a chain around her neck, stood leaning against the door frame with tear-filled eyes. “I’m off -” Tom announced, pulling on his coat. “Won’t be long. Get Sammy here and get to work reading through those papers.”

I just nodded, Tom gave me a brief smile of recognition and with that, put his arm about the girl and departed. Going back to the dinning room I sat down and pulled out my phone, pausing to push the door shut before I dialled Sammy’s home number. She agreed to come over, leaving Amy to shop in town, and I found myself once again embroiled in the strange toil of explaining magic.