van, not graffiti,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh yeah? What did they say?’
‘Dumb things,’ he replied, looking vaguely embarrassed. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ Then he flicked an uneasy glance at the priest.
But Father Ramon hadn’t been disturbed by our chatter. Clearly, he
was
able to sleep through anything; in fact he didn’t even wake up when we narrowly avoided hitting a fox on the road. Though Dave braked hard, and I yelped, and the engine stalled, Father Ramon slumbered on peacefully.
After that, I didn’t bother keeping my voice down. I felt free to exclaim at the moonlit views, and to complain about potholes, and to comment on the farmhouses that we passed. Dave didn’t say much. He’s never been a hugely talkative person, and driving in the country must have been quite a challenge after thirty-five years spent pottering around suburban backstreets. At last, however,he proposed that we discuss our plans.
‘We haven’t decided what we’re going to tell this Barry McKinnon guy,’ he observed. ‘If we show up on his doorstep, and he’s actually there, what’s the procedure? Do we mention those bullets straight off? Do we explain how we found him? Or do we go in undercover, so we can search his house when he’s not looking?’ Dave’s long face grew longer as he contemplated this last scenario. ‘I suppose we could pretend that we’ve broken down,’ he said, ‘and ask to use the guy’s toilet.’
‘Yes. I suppose we could do that.’ For the first time I really focused on the task ahead; until that instant, I had been more concerned about our journey than our destination. I tried to imagine the mysterious Barry, who lived in the middle of nowhere without a phone. I tried to imagine knocking on his front door at ten o’clock at night.
I tried to picture a welcoming grin – a friendly reception – and I couldn’t.
‘This is going to be hard,’ I muttered.
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘What do
you
think we should do?’
‘I dunno.’ Dave scratched his jaw. ‘Hard to say, until we get there.’
‘If we see garlic and crucifixes all over the place, then we’ll know where we stand,’ I remarked, and he gave a sour little smile.
‘Yeah. That would make things a lot simpler. Scarier, but simpler.’
‘We could tell the truth, in that case. We could just introduce ourselves, and explain why we’re no threat. I mean, it’ll be pretty obvious, even to a fanatic.’ I peered down at my fluffy pink coat, and my chewed fingernails, and my wasted legs in their wrinkled tights. ‘We look so feeble and hopeless.’
Dave grunted. Something about the timbre of that grunt made me turn my head to study his expression.
‘What?’ I said. And he sighed.
‘Well – I was wondering if it might turn out to be a problem,’ he confessed. ‘The way we look so harmless, I mean.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he might not believe that we’re vampires.’
‘But—’
‘Just think about it, Nina. We can’t fly. We can’t turn into bats. We aren’t a bit like Zadia Bloodstone. How are we going to prove who we are? Unless we fang the guy.’
It was a good point. As I turned it over in my mind, I realised that someone brought up on a diet of Bram Stoker might have trouble accepting the dismal reality of our condition. Even if that person
did
believe in vampires.
‘What about these?’ I said, tapping one of my canines. ‘These should do the trick, shouldn’t they?’
But Dave shook his head.
‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘They’re not especially big. Not like the ones in the movies.’ He gave a sniff. ‘You could open a can of fruit juice with those fangs in
Underworld
.’
‘So what do you suggest, then?’ I snapped. ‘Are you saying that one of us should volunteer to lie out in the sun?’
‘Come on, Nina.’ His tone was patient. No matter how hard I prodded him, he would never get riled; I figured he simply didn’t care enough to waste his energy on a sharp retort. ‘I’m
‘Oh yeah? What did they say?’
‘Dumb things,’ he replied, looking vaguely embarrassed. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ Then he flicked an uneasy glance at the priest.
But Father Ramon hadn’t been disturbed by our chatter. Clearly, he
was
able to sleep through anything; in fact he didn’t even wake up when we narrowly avoided hitting a fox on the road. Though Dave braked hard, and I yelped, and the engine stalled, Father Ramon slumbered on peacefully.
After that, I didn’t bother keeping my voice down. I felt free to exclaim at the moonlit views, and to complain about potholes, and to comment on the farmhouses that we passed. Dave didn’t say much. He’s never been a hugely talkative person, and driving in the country must have been quite a challenge after thirty-five years spent pottering around suburban backstreets. At last, however,he proposed that we discuss our plans.
‘We haven’t decided what we’re going to tell this Barry McKinnon guy,’ he observed. ‘If we show up on his doorstep, and he’s actually there, what’s the procedure? Do we mention those bullets straight off? Do we explain how we found him? Or do we go in undercover, so we can search his house when he’s not looking?’ Dave’s long face grew longer as he contemplated this last scenario. ‘I suppose we could pretend that we’ve broken down,’ he said, ‘and ask to use the guy’s toilet.’
‘Yes. I suppose we could do that.’ For the first time I really focused on the task ahead; until that instant, I had been more concerned about our journey than our destination. I tried to imagine the mysterious Barry, who lived in the middle of nowhere without a phone. I tried to imagine knocking on his front door at ten o’clock at night.
I tried to picture a welcoming grin – a friendly reception – and I couldn’t.
‘This is going to be hard,’ I muttered.
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘What do
you
think we should do?’
‘I dunno.’ Dave scratched his jaw. ‘Hard to say, until we get there.’
‘If we see garlic and crucifixes all over the place, then we’ll know where we stand,’ I remarked, and he gave a sour little smile.
‘Yeah. That would make things a lot simpler. Scarier, but simpler.’
‘We could tell the truth, in that case. We could just introduce ourselves, and explain why we’re no threat. I mean, it’ll be pretty obvious, even to a fanatic.’ I peered down at my fluffy pink coat, and my chewed fingernails, and my wasted legs in their wrinkled tights. ‘We look so feeble and hopeless.’
Dave grunted. Something about the timbre of that grunt made me turn my head to study his expression.
‘What?’ I said. And he sighed.
‘Well – I was wondering if it might turn out to be a problem,’ he confessed. ‘The way we look so harmless, I mean.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he might not believe that we’re vampires.’
‘But—’
‘Just think about it, Nina. We can’t fly. We can’t turn into bats. We aren’t a bit like Zadia Bloodstone. How are we going to prove who we are? Unless we fang the guy.’
It was a good point. As I turned it over in my mind, I realised that someone brought up on a diet of Bram Stoker might have trouble accepting the dismal reality of our condition. Even if that person
did
believe in vampires.
‘What about these?’ I said, tapping one of my canines. ‘These should do the trick, shouldn’t they?’
But Dave shook his head.
‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘They’re not especially big. Not like the ones in the movies.’ He gave a sniff. ‘You could open a can of fruit juice with those fangs in
Underworld
.’
‘So what do you suggest, then?’ I snapped. ‘Are you saying that one of us should volunteer to lie out in the sun?’
‘Come on, Nina.’ His tone was patient. No matter how hard I prodded him, he would never get riled; I figured he simply didn’t care enough to waste his energy on a sharp retort. ‘I’m
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