The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Sarah woke up to find that her right eye had puffed closed. She caught sight of herself in a shard of broken mirror on the wall. Blood caked half her face and the other half was black with bruises. Her hair was matted. Not for the first time, she wondered if her conviction that Laura had died was misplaced. Yet in the same breath, she couldn't bear to think that she might now be suffering with similar, or worse, injuries. Her thoughts turned to her saviours — if that was what they were. And if so, then why hadn't she been rescued?

She relived the warmth and protection that had enveloped her when those willowy figures had reached inside the car and plucked out her child. Her panic at the thought of Laura either dead or as good as had been ironed flat. She felt safe and, inexplicably, had not raged at this outrageous kidnap; indeed, she had virtually sanctioned it. Perhaps it had been the craziness inspired by the accident, or endorphins stifling her pain that had brought about her indifference. Still, what should have been anger and guilt was neutralized by the compulsion that Laura was in safe hands. What she didn't want to examine too minutely was the feeling that she missed the rescue party more than she did her own daughter.

Refreshed a little by her sleep, but appalled at the catalogue of new aches and pains that jarred each movement, Sarah made her way back to the larder where she found some crackers in an airtight tin. Chewing on these, she revisited the hallway and dragged open the heavy curtains, allowing some of the late afternoon light to invade. Almost immediately she saw the door under the stairs. She saw how she had missed it earlier; it was hewn from the same dark wood and there was no door handle as such, just a little recess to hook your fingers into. She tried it but it wouldn't budge. Which meant it was locked from the inside. Which meant that somebody must be down there.

"Laura?" she called, tapping on the wood with her fingernails. "Laura, it's Mum. Are you in there?"

She listened hard, her ear flush against the crack of the jamb. All she could hear was the gust of subterranean breezes moving through what ought to be the cellar. She must check it out; Laura could be down there, bleeding her last.

Sarah hunted down the kitchen. A large pine table sat at one end of the room, a dried orange with a heart of mould at its centre. She found a stack of old newspapers bound up with twine from the early 1970s by a back door that was forbiddingly black and excessively padlocked. Ransacking the drawers and cupboards brought scant reward. She was about to give in when the suck of air from the last yanked cupboard door brought a small screwdriver rolling into view. She grabbed the tool and scurried back to the cellar door.

Manser stayed Knowlden with a finger curled around his lapel. "Are you carrying?"

Knowlden had parked the car off the road on the opposite side to the crash site. Now the two men were standing by the wreck of the Alfa. Knowlden had spotted the house and suggested they check it out. If Sarah and her daughter had survived the crash — and the empty car suggested that they had — then they might have found some neighbourly help.

"I hope you fucking are," Manser warned.

"I'm carrying okay. Don't sweat it."

Manser's eyebrows went north. "Don't tell me to not sweat it, pup. Or you'll find yourself doing seventy back up the motorway without a fucking car underneath you."

The sun sinking fast, they hurried across the field, constantly checking the road behind them as they did so. Happy that nobody had seen them, Manser nodded his head in the direction of the front door. "Kick the mud off your boots on that bastard," he said.

It was 5:14 p.m.

Sarah was halfway down the cellar stairs and wishing she had a torch with her when she heard the first blows raining down on the door. She was about to return to the hallway when she heard movement from below. A lot of movement. Creaks and whispers and hisses. There was a sound as of soot trickling down a flue. A chatter: teeth in the cold? A sigh.

"Laura?"

A chuckle.

The door gave in just before Knowlden was about to. His face was greasy with sweat and hoops of dampness spoiled his otherwise pristine shirt.

"Gun," Manser said, holding his hand out. Knowlden passed him the weapon, barely disguising his disdain for his boss. "You want to get some muesli down you, mate," Manser said. "Get yourself fit." He checked the piece was loaded and entered the house, muzzle pointing ahead of him, cocked horizontally. Something he'd done since seeing Brad Pitt do the same thing in Se7en .

"Knock, knock," he called out. "Daddy's home."