Part 14 (2/2)

'Not yet,' I forced myself to say. I couldn't, not yet. I just couldn't. I sank down on the couch and watched as he resumed his garments, again without any hurry.

'But soon,' he said. I nodded. Certainly, soon. Otherwise I was likely to self-combust. I laid a hand on the scar as his jeans slid up his admirable thighs.

'That's a bullet wound?'

'Shrapnel, from a grenade,' he said. 'It was curved so it left a big scar. The boy who inflicted it died. So much evil,' he said. Then he gathered me close to his chest in a ma.s.sive hug. 'And now, so much good,' he said.

'The boy died?' I asked, sensing that I was about to find the key to Daniel. A key, anyway.

'Of course,' he said, face m.u.f.fled in my hair. 'I shot him. Killed him instantly. He was fourteen.'

I held him close. He did not cry. I expect that he had already wept all the tears he had for futility and horror and nightmare. He unb.u.t.toned my s.h.i.+rt and laid his face against my breast. We did not speak.

The light began to wane. I watched the sunbeams travel from one side of the window to the other before Daniel sat up and kissed me, hard, on the mouth.

'Corinna,' he said, looking deep into my eyes.

'Daniel,' I replied.

'I must go. Now, you can ask me. Ask me anything you want to know.'

I couldn't think of anything to ask but, 'Where do you live? How can I find you?'

He let go of me to write down an address and a phone number on the memo pad. Then he said, 'Ask,' and I asked the question which I really couldn't phrase properly.

'Why do you find me beautiful?'

'Because you are,' he said simply. 'Think of where I have been, what I have seen. In Palestine, thin means hungry, starving, sick. In Melbourne, thin means a child, a heroin addict or an anorexic. I love your flesh, your curves.' He caressed my thigh and hip. 'May they never grow less,' he added. 'I am going,' he said, and kissed me again, and went. He remembered the bread and the flyers for Cherie Holliday and closed the door gently behind himself.

I simply didn't know what to think, or feel, and I sat on the couch until the sky was dark and it was time to feed cats and myself and go to bed. So I did those things, and dreamed fiercely erotic dreams which woke me at four flooded with heat, sweating freely, and in need of a nice cold shower.

The morning began ordinary and continued so until nine. I rose, I baked, I taught Jason more useful facts about yeast, I fed him and the cats and myself and sold most of the morning's bread. I made some phone calls. Meroe came in. She seemed pleased. She was wearing a red silk wrap with sacred ibis embroidered on it.

'How did the ritual go?' I asked, handing over blueberry m.u.f.fins and knot rolls.

'Very well. Should bring her within three days. I gave Andy some herbal tea. I think he might have slept. Alcoholics don't sleep properly. Cheer up, Corinna! So far today our own little mental health casualty hasn't done anything unusual.'

'The day is young,' I said gloomily. I had half expected to see Daniel. But it was too early for those who fly by night.

Meroe asked, 'Who are you going to get to help you in the shop now that those girls have an honest job?'

'I really don't know.' I sighed. 'As for the other problems, I have set up a meeting with James and I intend to skin him alive.'

'What if it isn't him?' she asked.

'Then on general principle. Do him good. Why? Do you suspect someone else?'

She made a fluid gesture with the red silk wrap.

'It is an illogical universe until you discover the underlying sense,' she told me.

'I understood everything you said until the bit about ”underlying sense”,' I said.

Meroe went out. Goss came in.

'I can help out until Friday,' she said. 'And if you could give me the wages up to then I could get my dress early.'

'Carol will keep it for you,' I said soothingly. I do not pay wages in advance. Carol Holland, though she is a Goth whose features are hard to discern through that thick white pancake they wear, is a reliable young woman and she and Goss were quite close. I told Goss so. She grimaced.

'Don't do that too often, the wind might change,' I warned her.

She got behind the counter to complain to Horatio, who never minds complaints as long as they are accompanied by skilled ear-tickling and fur-caressing.

'So, you've been to Blood Lines before?' I asked. 'How did you come to go there? Just a whim?'

Silence. Goss wasn't talking to me yet.

'Have you actually read Interview with a Vampire?' I continued. 'It's quite a remarkable book. Started a whole fas.h.i.+on. If it hadn't been for Anne Rice, Buffy would never have existed. Or Angel. No one has tried to make vampires s.e.xy since the Hammer horror movies. I was there for the revivals. Christopher Lee. They used to film them in Highgate Cemetery near where I lived in London. He was a very suave, very cool vampire. ”I vont to drink your blode.” '

I managed the accent with the effortless ease of someone who had seen every Hammer horror movie, even The Revenge of Dr Phibes. Actually, I had seen them in secret. Grandma would not have approved of vampire movies. So they had a sweet, secret charm. My adolescent rebellion. That, and cigarettes of course. Of the two, Hammer was only slightly less addictive.

'I saw the film,' mumbled Goss.

'Interview with ...?'

'A Vampire. Yes. It was cool. Way cool. I saw it six times and bought the DVD. It's got extra scenes,' she announced proudly. Goss was talking to me again, which was good.

'If you liked the film so much, you must have been drawn to Blood Lines. Is it a Goth club?'

'Goths, some S&M. There's back rooms, but you have to be a member to go in there. Lestat told me they had a torture chamber in the crypt.'

'Well, of course,' I began and bit my tongue. Sarcasm is fatal to conversations with anyone under twenty-five. Either they don't get it and you have to explain, which is embarra.s.sing, or they are much better at it than you and you get withered. Neither a.s.sists communication. Goss gave me that look which said 'are we having a conversation or is this one of those attempted motherdaughter things which is going to be so uncool that I will have to have a ritual bath to wash off the uncoolness?' and I shook my head.

'I'm just curious,' I said. 'Who was it who invited you and Kylie to a weekend Slayerfest before Daddy got you cable? And who still has my tape of the Buffy musical which I would like back sometime, if you please?'

'Sorry,' she said. 'I thought you might be about to tell me to stay away from bad company,' she said, laughing to show that it was a joke.

'I would,' I said. 'But I don't consider Goths bad company. No one who takes that much trouble over their costumes is trouble, usually. Besides, we have the best-dressed Goths in the southern hemisphere, which is why they filmed the triumph scene of Queen of the d.a.m.ned here,' I said knowledgeably. I knew about that film. I had supplied the bread for their sandwiches.

'Oh yeah, that's right. Well, let's see. You go up the steps and convince the door b.i.t.c.h to let you in, then you go into a sort of lobby, then there's the big room, they call it the Theatre des Vampires, all hung with red velvet. Big screen. There's lights in the curtains too. But it's pretty dark.'

'What sort of music?'

'Techno,' she said. 'Eversun. SPF 1000. You know.'

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