The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Dazed, Sarah was helped to her feet. Their hands held her everywhere and nowhere, moving along her body as soft as silk. She tried to talk but whenever she opened her mouth, someone's hand, cold and rank, slipped over it. She saw the pattern in the curtains travel by in a blur though she could not feel her feet on the floor. Then the night was upon them, and the frost in the air sang around her ears as she was swept into the sky, embedded at the centre of their slippery mesh of bodies, smelling their clothes and the scent of something ageless and black, lifting off the skin like forbidden perfume. Is she all right now ? she wanted to ask, but her words wouldn't form in the ceaseless blast of cold air. Sarah couldn't count the women that cavorted around her. She drifted into unconsciousness thinking of how they had opened the veins in their chests for her, how the charge of fluid had engulfed her face, bubbling on her tongue and nostrils like dark wine. How her eyes had flicked open and rolled back into their sockets with the unspeakable rapture of it all.

Having phoned ahead, Manser parked the car at midnight on South Wharf Road, just by the junction with Praed Street. He was early, so instead of going directly to the dilapidated pub on the corner he sauntered to the bridge over Paddington Basin and stared up at the Westway, hoping for calm. The sounds emanating from that elevated sweep were anything but soothing. The mechanical sigh of speeding vehicles reminded him only of the way those witches' mouths had breathed, snake-like jaws unhinged as though in readiness to swallow him whole. The hiss of tyres on rain-soaked tarmac put him in mind of nothing but the wet air that had sped from Knowlden's chest when he was torn open.

By the time he returned, he saw in the pub a low-wattage bulb turning the glass of an upstairs window milky. He went to the door and tapped on it with a coin in a prearranged code. Then he went back to the car and opened the boot. He wrestled with Laura and managed to clamp a hand over her mouth, which she bit, hard. Swearing, he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in her mouth, punching her twice to get her still. The pain in his hand was mammoth. She had teeth like razors. Flaps of skin hung off his palm; he was bleeding badly. Woozy at the sight of the wound, he staggered with Laura to the door, which was now open. He went through it and kicked it shut, checking the street to make sure he hadn't been seen. Upstairs, Losh was sitting in a chair containing more holes than stuffing.

"This was a good boozer before it was closed down," Manser said, his excitement unfolding deep within him.

"Was," Losh said, keeping his eyes on him. He wore a butcher's apron that was slathered with blood. He smoked a cigarette, the end of which was patterned with bloody prints from his fingers. A comma of blood could be mistaken for a kiss-curl on his forehead. "Everything changes."

"You don't," Manser said. "Christ. Don't you ever wash?"

"What's the point? I'm a busy man."

"How many years you been struck off?"

Losh smiled. "Didn't anybody ever warn you not to piss off the people you need help from?"

Manser swallowed his distaste of the smaller man. "Nobody warns me nothing," he spat. "Can't we get on?"

Losh stood up and stretched. "Cash," he said, luxuriously.

Manser pulled a wad from his jacket. "There's six grand there. As always."

"I believe you. I'd count it but the bank get a bit miffed if they get blood on their bills."

"Why don't you wear gloves?"

"The magic. It's all in the fingers." Losh gestured towards Laura. "This the one?"

"Of course."

"Pretty thing. Nice legs." Losh laughed. Manser closed his eyes. Losh said, "What you after?"

Manser said, "The works."

Wide eyes from Losh. "Then let's call it eight thou."

A pause. Manser said, "I don't have it with me. I can get it tomorrow. Keep the car tonight. As collateral."

Losh said, "Done."

The first incision. Blood squirted up the apron, much brighter than the stains already painted upon it. A coppery smell filled the room. The pockets of the pool table upon which Laura was spread were filled with beer towels. "Soft tissue?"

Manser's voice was dry. He needed a drink. His cock was as hard as a house brick. "As much off as possible." "She won't last long," Losh said. Manser stared at him. "She'll last long enough." Losh said, "Got a number five in mind already?" Manser didn't say a word. Losh reached behind him and picked up a Samsonite suitcase. He opened it and pulled out a hacksaw. Its teeth entertained the light and flung it in every direction. At least Losh kept his tools clean.

The operation took four hours. Manser fell asleep at one point and dreamed of his hand overpowering the rest of his body, dragging him around the city while the mouth that slavered and snarled at the centre of his palm cupped itself around the stomachs of passers-by and devoured them.