London Under Midnight Part 1

Simon Clark.

London Under Midnight.

For Janet.

FIRST BLOOD.

VAMPIRE SHARKZ.

* They're coming to get you *.

Just as spores drift in the atmosphere, the ones that are New-Life are carried from the mountains in fast-flowing rivers to infect the waterways of England. They advance through this myriad of arteries to reach deep into the heart of its capital city.

Here, the ancient Thames still runs its cold, dark waters between s.h.i.+ning office blocks. Once, where there was barely any life in the river, little more than eels and rats, now there is New-Life. And it's to this place that New-Life brings the Gifta ***

'Madam! You have ten minutes to save your life. Quickly! How are you going to do it?'

The girl merely waved at him as she jogged along the riverside path in the direction of Tower Bridge, London's iconic landmark of lattice steelwork and Cornish granite.

'Don't stay out too long,' he called after her. 'The sun is setting!'

So far, Elmo 'Diogenes' Kigoma had spent ten days in the mock sailing boat on top of the pole. He asked the same question of everyone who pa.s.sed by.

A pair of youths roller-bladed along the path.

'Gentlemen! You have ten minutes to save your life,' he told them. 'Quickly! How are you going to do it?'

'You daft b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!'

'Drop dead!'

Elmo had heard worse. 'I'll tell you how to save your lives. Abstain. Abstain.' He continued even though he knew they were out of earshot. 'Abstain. That, my friends, is the secret to longevity. I came from the Congo when I was twenty. I'm now eighty-six years of age. Abstain, my friends.'

The sun slipped behind the city's horizon. After the fierce heat of the day it would soon drop cool enough to drive him into his sleeping bag in the little airborne vessel, one that could only be accessed by the rope ladder that he'd pulled up after himself. The council promised they would come back again in the morning to take down the boat, which he'd fixed up here on top of the pole in the dead of night. His two sons had helped him. Both were as embarra.s.sed as h.e.l.l to do what their father asked of them. But they're good sons, Elmo told himself. They are loyal. He always knew they'd help him on his final mission. One that would end tomorrow; if the Mayor of London got her way.

He peered in the direction of Tower Bridge that spanned the Thames. It was one of the quirks of the river that its currents nearly always deposited the bodies of those it claimed at the foot of one of its baroque towers that soared almost two hundred and forty feet above the water. The bridge even boasted its own morgue for the drowned. One of the party boats glided downstream. Strings of coloured lights blazed along its flanks and festooned the superstructure. He could hear music from a band. On deck, sleek men and women in beautiful clothes drank champagne.

Elmo shouted, 'You've got ten minutes to save your life. Quickly! How are you going to do it?'

From the boat he heard a PA announcement. The captain was pointing Elmo out - London's latest landmark: an old black man in a plywood dinghy fixed ten feet above the ground on top of a telegraph pole.

'Save your lives. Abstain!'

The floating revellers cheered, then toasted him with their effervescent wine.

'If you desire longevity - abstain.' He sighed, then said to himself, 'Oh, they can't hear you, Elmo.' Nevertheless, he still had faith. Taking a deep breath, he tried to reach out to them with his voice. 'People ask of me, "Elmo? Why sit in the boat?" I reply: "I sail in search of the new man and new woman who have the ears to listen to my words." '

Lights had appeared in the neighbouring hotels and apartment blocks by the time he'd finished calling out to the occupants of the pleasure boat, although they'd long since lost interest in him.

'Maybe I should debate with the fish in the river and the birds in the air,' he told himself. 'Will they have a better understanding of my message?' He allowed his gaze to settle on the bank of the river where bushes swayed in the breeze. For a moment his sharp eyes regarded the movement of leaves without realizing what he was seeing.

Elmo stood up in the boat; it swayed a little on the pole. It was safea even though the council claimed it wasn't. Elmo had built boats that had run rapids and navigated rivers full of crocodiles. So why should a boat that would never ever touch water be safe? He angled his head to one side to identify what he saw.

'Don't be afraid.' He spoke gently. 'Child, come out where I can see you.'

He was certain he could see a young woman standing in the bushes, as if fearful of being seen. 'Please don't be afraid, child. I can't hurt you. Look, I'm up here in the air in my little sail boat.' The girl stayed in the bushes, though he could see the glint of her eyes. 'My name is Elmo Kigoma. I have a mission. I'm here to save these people's lives, but no one will listen. Sometimes they shout out bad names. Yesterday, a boy threw bottles at me. Look at that on my arm. I had to use my scarf as a bandage.' The old African preacher tilted his head to one side. 'Why is it you won't come out here and speak to me? If you're in trouble I might be able to help.'

The gloom deepened the shadows, yet he could still see the pair of eyes. They shone like twin splinters of gla.s.s. 'Are you hungry?' he asked. 'Alas, I don't have money. There are sandwiches. And cake. A lovely ginger cake my neighbour baked for me.' A pause. 'Child, are you hungry?'

From the direction of Tower Bridge, a cyclist casually pedalled his machine, while listening to music on headphones. He was oblivious to the world around him as day decayed into night. Elmo watched the girl as she stepped out of the bushes. The movements were rapid, almost feline. He glanced from the girl, who stared at the approaching cyclist, to the area around the riverbank. It was as deserted as a graveyard at midnight.

His heart thudded as he stood up in the plywood boat.

'You!' he cried at the girl. 'I know what you are. Edshu the trickster made you. You're a Dead-bone Woman! Is your hair sticky to the touch? Can you feel the beat of your heart? Or does it lie still in your breast? Do you know it yet, girl? Do you know the truth?' He witnessed the cyclist's lazy approach. Elmo yelled at him, 'Go back! Don't come any closer! She will hurt you!'

The man simply stared vacantly forward as he pedalled. Even from here Elmo could hear the music pounding through the man's headphones. Dear heaven, the man wouldn't hear the thunder of Armageddon above that.

'Hey!' Elmo screamed. 'Watch her!' Then he turned to the young woman. She was incredibly gaunt. Her fingernails were the same deathly blue as her lips and the rings beneath those feral eyes that blazed so hungrily at the man on the bike. Her jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt were nothing more than worn bands of fabric through which he could see her pallid skin.

With a panther-like grace she leapt on the man. For a moment he continued to pedal as he fought to maintain the balance of his machine. But the girl clung to his back. As he twisted round to look at his attacker Elmo saw that she clamped her mouth over the man's face. She chewed with such an expression of bliss that Elmo had to turn away.

The metallic crash of the bike falling on to the path forced the old preacher to look once again. The man lay on his back. His fists were clenched in agony by his side. The girl sat astride his chest. After she slammed her mouth on to his bulging eye the head of tousled hair twisted from side-to-side as yet again her jaws crunched shut, like a starving man would bite into a ripe, juice-filled apple.

Elmo gulped. He could hardly breathe. Yet he couldn't turn away. Even when she moved from her victim's face to another part of his body, Elmo couldn't close his eyes. The horror of what the creature did next would remain seared on Elmo Kigoma's heart until his dying day.

ONE.

VAMPIRE SHARKZ.

* They're coming to get you *

The graffiti spread across London that long, over-heated summer in a great, blazing rash. The big blood-red lettering was everywhere: bridges, walls, subways, statues, gravestones - you name it. This time, some joker had sprayed it in crimson along the aluminum flanks of the train that squealed to a stop in the tube station at Piccadilly Circus.

The subterranean station lay deep under the London streets. On this humid July night it made the atmosphere more stifling than a tropical nightclub. The comparison wasn't a wild one. The platform swarmed with men and women who'd already spent hours in the pounding clubs and pubs. On the hot midnight air, perfume and alcohol odours clashed amid the sound of laughter and party beasts singing the night away.

'Vampire Sharkz! Vampire Sharkz!' A drunk male dressed as a nun used both his fists to pound the VAMPIRE SHARKZ graffiti on the side of the train. 'Vampire Sharkz! They're coming for you!' His foot caught in his wimple and he staggered backward ranting, 'Vampire Sharkz! They're coming to get you!' The drunken man-nun whirled across the platform swinging a fist. Mascara smeared the man's face. His lip-glossed mouth was a vermilion slash.

Ben Ashton stepped in front of the girl to s.h.i.+eld her with his own body until the man went windmilling away.

The girl smiled up at Ben; it was so warm it made the sultry air chill in comparison. 'Thank you,' she breathed. 'n.o.body's ever saved me before.'

Ben smiled back. 'Don't mention it.'

The man-nun punched wildly into the air.

'Just who is he fighting anyway?' the girl asked.

'His own personal demons, if you ask me.'

'Ben.' Her expression took on a certain quality that made Ben Ashton's spine tingle. 'We don't have to go to the club. You could come home with mea' The shrug she gave with a bare shoulder managed to be both shy and suggestive at the same time. 'I like you.' The smile was like a flood of warm plasma in his veins. 'Do you want to?'

The surge of people for the train carried them into the carriage. A moment later they sat side-by-side. Ben had only met the girl a couple of hours ago. He'd been to collect a cheque from an editor who insisted on paying contributors in person, just so he could have that pleasure-thru-power buzz of watching them sign a contract that waived all their creative rights away. Later, Ben had wound up at a party at Soho House, the club for film industry young-bloods. It had been hotter than h.e.l.l. He'd manoeuvred his way through the packed bodies to the only open window in the upstairs bar where a girl, with blonde hair cascading down her back, watched the clientele.

'Is this the coolest part of the room?' was Ben's best opening line, after he had endeavoured to make himself heard in this raucous hot-house of ambition. The beautiful woman conceded that it was. Then she invited him to share the breeze from the window. They hit it off like magic. Everything they discussed they agreed on. They loved the same food; the same music, and concurred that London was slowly going mad. Then he suggested a quieter club that he knew so they'd caught the tube even though it was only a couple of stops away.

Just a moment ago she'd made that tantalizing suggestion: 'You could come home with me.'

As the train surged along the tunnel he said softly, 'I'd like that.' Then, as his mouth broadened into a grin, he added, 'A lot.'

'That's great.' Her eyes twinkled as she scrunched her bare shoulders with pleasure.

Ben said, 'What line do we need?'

'We'll stay on this one. We can get off at Holborn then get a taxi from there. It's not far.'

This was a theme-park ride of erotic proportions; that headlong rush downward where gravity takes hold. There's no going back. In his mind's eye he saw himself making love to this beautiful blonde-haired G.o.ddess. He glanced down at her bare ankles. A gold chain glittered there. On her feet were sandals that displayed toe-nails that had been painted a vivid purple. She scrunched her shoulders again. Ben found it so s.e.xy - a suggestion of shyness and, in the words of the song, sweet surrender.

Her eyes twinkled as she gazed into his face. 'I'm glad you said yes.' Her hand found his.

'I'm glad I said yes,' he replied with feeling.

Then she shared an intimate secret with him. 'You'll be able to watch me have s.e.x.'

The train sounded loud again. Ben Ashton found he was noticing the clamour of revellers sat around him.

'Watch you?' he echoed.

'Yes.' Her face shone with excitement.

'd.a.m.n,' he groaned.

'What's the matter?'

'I've just remembered. I've got to work tonight.' He grimaced. 'Deadline tomorrow. I clean forgot.'

'Oh no. I was so looking forward to you being there tonight,' she told him. 'I can just picture you in my favourite costume.' She squeezed his hand even more tightly as if its pressure would be enough to change his mind.

'Sorry. I'll lose my contract if I'm late.'

'What is it you do again?'

'I'm a writer.' He slid forward on the seat, ready to stand as the train roared into the station.

'A writer! That's amazing. I've always wanted to do that.' Through the gla.s.s behind her, the graffiti sprayed there made it appear as if her blonde head was haloed by a blood-red mist. 'What do you write about?'

'Vampires.'

Before he knew it he was standing on the platform watching the train pull out, carrying the beautiful woman away. She waved to him but what he noticed most was the graffiti: VAMPIRE SHARKZ.

* They're coming to get you *

TWO.

From a wonderful night to c.r.a.p had taken seconds. Ben Ashton now walked along the embankment. The night still burned hotter than a Bangkok knocking-shop. The chimes of Big Ben sounded a s.h.i.+mmering two across a town that seemed h.e.l.l-bent on enjoying itself until the doomsday. Lights blazed from buildings. Taxis hurtled along the road to the right of him. To the left, the wide stretch of the River Thames was an expanse of liquid darkness. From this angle it didn't even reflect the lights on the opposite bank. It was as black as the pupil in the centre of your eye.

There were no other pedestrians nearby. Only a couple approaching arm-in-arm in the distance. Now was a great time to vent his frustration.

'If it wasn't for bad luck I wouldn't have any luck at all,' he fumed. 'I thought I'd struck golda and what is it she wanted? Me, to watch her performance with her boyfrienda that's justa just b.o.l.l.o.c.ksa'

Ben paused to lean forward against the wall so he could look down into the river. The full tide had swollen it. Its surface now lay just a few feet below street-level so he could see his forlorn reflection gazing right back at him. 'And you know something else, Ben Ashton? You shouldn't be talking to yourself. You know what happens to people who do?'

His own reflection held his gaze. A broad face framed by unruly black hair. There I am, he told himself. A thirty-something writer that feels as if Christmas has just been cancelled. Stupid b.u.g.g.e.ra Now you're feeling sorry for yourself.

A shape floated by in the water. Even though it was the dead of night he could see enough in the street lights to identify it as a jacket, perhaps chucked into the river by a reveller. Come to think of it, he disliked looking into the river. It was more than dislike, it made him s.h.i.+ver. To look at the Thames creeping blackly along like that seemed to divert some of its cold currents through his own bloodstream; chilling a vein or two. Ben took a step back but the water exerted an uncanny grip on him. When he was as close as this to the river it always s.n.a.t.c.hed him back to the week he'd moved to London, and left his mother's home for good. He'd been high on the exhilaration of living footloose and fancy free in one of the biggest cities in the world - all those thrills and possibilities: they were lying waiting for him to come along and scoop them up in his two hands. That's when he'd walked down here, just like tonight. Full of the joys of freedom, he'd come to this very spot, near Cleopatra's Needle, to gaze happily over the wall into the water.

A corpse had been floating there. It had been naked with the arms and legs stretched out so it formed a white X mark there in the oily, black water. He remembered alerting a group of men nearby, 'There's someone in the water.' Then it all happened so fast. More people appeared from nowhere. A police car arrived. Within moments of Ben shouting 'There's someone in the water', the body had been dragged out on to one of the pleasure-boat jetties.

Ben had stared down at the sopping remnant of human flesh in the street light. Someone had said, 'It's the body of a young woman.' He'd seen the b.u.t.terfly tattoo on her waxy arm. The tattooed image had pink wings fixed to a green body. He'd seen a pattern of freckles on her thigh in the shape of a palm print. There was a bizarre detail he still remembered clearly. These days he couldn't figure out whether it was some product of the shock; a detail burned into his brain by imagination, as he tried to deal with the horror of this dripping corpse that two hours ago might have been a living, breathing woman, laughing and talking with friends in a bar. But in one of the cadaver's hands that had bunched into a tight fist was a child's plastic doll. Strangely the doll - also naked - and the woman appeared similar. But the woman must have been struck by the propeller of a pa.s.sing boat because that's where the similarity ended. The plastic doll still had her head.

'Hey!'

Ben's bones nearly jumped free of his skin.

'Ben! Where on earth have you been? I haven't seen you in months.'

Ben whirled round to find a familiar face. 'April?'

'Why the hesitation? Don't tell me I've changed that mucha but you haven't seen this.' She touched her short dark hair. 'I had the old mop cut off just after you left.'

April's familiar face was a welcome one. Even though he'd been back in London six months he'd convinced himself that he'd never see her again. Now, here she was: April Connor. The same sparkling eyes, the same light-up-the-room smile. Her body-language now exuded a supple confidence that she lacked before. Meeting April Connor by chance at two in the morning would have made his night. What tore the pleasant surprise apart was that she stood arm-in-arm with a tanned man, sporting close-cropped blond hair and gold neck chains. The man appeared every inch a millionaire success story.

'April, it's lovely to see you.' Immediately Ben's words sounded awkwardly formal. He tried to be more easy-going. 'How's life treating you?'