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  “I’ll call Terence. Then I want to take a look in that house.”

  I went into the laundry and asked the woman if she had a phone I could use. “Of course,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, sure. My girlfriend and I are just playing a trick on somebody. It’s his birthday.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, blinking at me. Then, “You’re American, aren’t you?” as if that explained why I was behaving so strangely.

  When the MI6 operator put me through to Terence, he sounded distracted. I gave him the license number of Duca’s car, and told him that I’d call him back later.

  “But, Terence—on no account take any action, even when you’ve found out who the car belongs to.”

  “Don’t worry, old man. I wouldn’t have the first idea.”

  We walked up Bynes Road toward the house. It had a peeling, brown-painted front door, and a knocker in the shape of Mr. Punch. The tiny front garden was covered over with concrete but dandelions were growing up between the cracks. I tried to see into the front window but a pair of sagging net curtains were drawn across it, and all I could make out was the sunlight shining in the backyard. In Louisville they would have called this a “shotgun” house, in the sense that you could fire a shotgun in through the front door and the pellets would go clear through the house without touching anything.

  The front door of the adjoining house opened, and an elderly woman appeared, wearing a flowery summer dress that appeared to have been modeled on a bell-tent, and wrinkled red socks. From the open door I could hear “Diana” playing on the radio. “I’m so young and you’re so old.”

  The elderly woman made a phlegmy noise in her throat and said, “If you’re looking for the Browns, mate, they’ve been poorly.”

  “Really? When was the last time you saw them?”

  “Three days ago. The doctor’s been round twice a day. He even came round in the middle of the night. I asked him what was wrong with them and he said meningitis.”

  “Was that their doctor? The guy in the black sedan?”

  “That’s right. He’s not their usual doctor, though. Their usual doctor’s Dr. Bedford. I suppose he’s on his holidays, Dr. Bedford.”

  “Yes, I imagine he is. Well—thank you for telling us.”

  The elderly woman didn’t appear to be in any hurry to go back into her house. She said, “I go to Dr. Cotterill myself. She’s a woman doctor. You don’t want to go to a man doctor at my age. I get this rash on my legs, see.”

  “I see.”

  I thought we were going to be delayed there for hours, talking about the woman’s skin problems, but after two or three minutes a younger woman appeared at her front door and told her that her tea was getting cold, so she went inside.

  I said, “Thank God the British can’t survive for more than ten minutes without a cup of tea.”

  “I think there’s somebody in the living room,” said Jill. “I saw a shadow moving across toward the door.”

  I shielded my eyes with my hand, and she was right. There was definitely somebody in the house, moving around, although it was impossible to tell what they were doing. I decided to go in cold. Normally, I would have made sure that we had covered the back of the house, but the railroad embankment was very steep and trains were rattling past every three or four minutes, some of them at fifty or sixty miles an hour, and even a Screecher would have thought twice about trying to escape that way.

  I opened the garden gate and went up to the front door. It may have been bolted on the other side, but the main lock was only a cheap Yale. I turned my back on it, and at the same time I reached behind me and took out my gun. Jill said nothing, but held on to Bullet’s collar and waited. “Don’t let Bullet go,” I warned her. “These bastards are capable of breaking his neck without blinking. And once I’m inside, bring my Kit in, will you, as quick as you can?”

  “All right,” said Jill, apprehensively.

  I had started to count to three, “One—two—” when I heard the young man’s voice inside the house.

  “Who’s there? Is there somebody outside? Beryl—there’s somebody outside, I can smell them!”

  Without any more hesitation I kicked backward and the door burst open. I barged into the hall and hurled myself sideways so that I virtually bounced off the wall. There were three or four coats hanging up and for one desperate moment I was entangled in empty sleeves, as if the coats were trying to catch hold of me, but then I fought my way out of them and pushed my way into the living room.

  The young man we had seen in the park was standing in the far corner, behind a frayed brown couch. Lying on the couch was the gingery-headed girl, with its knee heavily bandaged. The living room was stuffy and hot, and there was a sickening smell of putrescent flesh and dried herbs, the unmistakable stench of Screechers.

  “Jill!” I yelled, pointing my gun at them with both hands. “Get in here, now!”

  “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” the young man sneered at me. “Kill us?”

  “We’ll suck you empty,” said the gingery-haired girl. “You and your girlfriend. And your bleeding dog.” There was no doubt where the piece of skin in the park had come from: the girl’s face had a pale greenish tinge to it and its eyes were already starting to milk over. It was very close to becoming a strigoi mort.

  Jill came in with my Kit. Bullet was close behind her, eager to get at the two Screechers, but Jill said, “Stay, Bullet!” and he reluctantly waited in the hallway, panting, his tail thumping against the umbrella stand.

  Keeping my gun pointed at the young man, I went down on one knee and opened up my Kit. The young man started to come around the side of the couch, and as it did so it took his kitchen knife out of its belt.

  “I’m going to split you wide open, mate, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

  I was reluctant to shoot it. For one thing, I didn’t want the neighbors to call the police. For another thing, I had only six Last Supper bullets left, and I wanted to conserve them. The young man came up to me, crouching slightly, holding out its knife, and grinning. Like most Screechers, it thought that it was immortal, and that even if I shot it, it would survive.

  “I think that’s near enough, son,” I warned it. Out of my case, I lifted the Bible with the ash-wood cover and the silver crucifix, and held it up in front of it. Immediately, it turned its face away, as if I had shone a blinding light in its eyes. The gingery-haired girl clamped both her hands over its face and cried out, “What’s that? Micky, what’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you what this is. This is the first Bible that was translated into Romanian for Serban Cantacuzino, of Wallachia, when he swore to rid his country of unholy vermin like you.”

  “Take it away!” the girl screamed at me. “Take it away, it’s hurting my eyes!”

  The young man raised one hand to protect its face, and started to edge its way toward me again. But then I handed the Bible to Jill, and said, “Open it where it’s bookmarked, and hold it up high.”

  She took the Bible and found the faded red ribbon. Then she opened it wide and held it up. It was marked at Revelation, Chapter 20: “A prins balaurul—arpele eel veche, care este Diavolul i Satan, l–a legat pentru o mie de ani.”

  Both Screechers found it almost impossible to see. When I had first used this Bible on a Screecher, during World War Two, I hadn’t been able to believe that the word of God could have such a blinding effect on them. But they were totally unholy, and it did. It was like throwing salt on slugs.

  I shoved my gun back into its holster and took out my silver-wire whip. I made Jill take a step backward, toward the door, and then I lashed it sideways so that it wound itself around the young man’s chest, pinning its arms. I gave the whip a sharp yank, and the young man fell onto the worn-out carpet, struggling and swearing.

  “What you done to me, you bastard? What you done?”

  You never forget how to restrain a Screecher. After you’ve done it often
enough, you could almost do it in your sleep. Kneel on its chest, fasten its thumbs together with the silver thumbscrews, then drag off its rancid shoes and fasten its big toes together, until you hear the screws crunch into the bones. The gingery-headed girl kicked and wrestled me, too, but for a Screecher it was very weak. I must have hurt it badly when I shot it, and Jill helped me by holding the Bible right in front of its turquoise-mottled face so that it was completely dazzled.

  When I had tightened up their thumbscrews and toescrews, I pulled the young man so that it was sitting upright, and unwound the whip. Then I dragged the girl off the couch so that it was sitting upright, too, back-to-back, and I wound the whip around both of them, so hard that it was cutting into their arms.

  Jill looked at me, and I could see that she was disturbed.

  “You’re going to regret this, you bastard,” the young man told me.

  “Not half as much as you are, sunshine.” You see how British I was becoming, and I’d only been there a couple of days. “Especially if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

  “I’m not telling you nothing. You can effing eff off.”

  “I want to know where Duca is, that’s all.”

  “Micky’ll split you wide open and I’ll drink you dry,” the girl spat at me.

  “Um, I don’t think so. You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that I can’t kill you. The truth is, I can, and I’m going to.”

  Jill was still holding up the Bible. I said, “It’s OK, Jill, you can put that down now. The only way these characters are getting out of here is in a sack.”

  She slowly closed the Bible and put it back into my Kit. “You’re not really going to . . . ?”

  “Kill them? Of course. They’re half-dead already. But I need some information first.”

  “Why should we tell you anything?” said the young man. “If you’re going to kill us anyway, what’s the effing difference?”

  “The difference is that if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to hurt you both very badly.”

  Jill said, “Jim—can I talk to you? Outside, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. These two aren’t going anyplace.”

  She went out into the front garden. I could see that she was very agitated. Bullet stayed close to her and kept looking up at her anxiously.

  “Jim, they told me that you were going to kill the Screechers, when you found them, but I never realized that it was going to be like this.”

  I didn’t know what to say. She was a lovely and sensitive young woman and I really didn’t want to distress her, but she had to realize that we were hunting some of the most disgusting parasites on the face of the earth and there was no easy or humane way of exterminating them.

  “Listen,” I said, “why don’t you go back to that laundry and call Terence for me again? Tell him where we are and tell him that we’re going to need an unmarked van. He’ll know what you mean.”

  “I don’t know how you can do this,” she said.

  “If it’s any consolation, neither do I.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Give me ten minutes, OK? If they’re going to talk, that should be long enough.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  The Curse of Duca

  The two Screechers looked up at me as I came back into the house and I don’t think that I have ever seen such hatred on any creature’s face, human or not.

  “You still don’t want to answer my questions?” I asked them. “All I need to know is where Duca is hiding himself, and how many people he’s infected.”

  “You can kill us but we won’t die,” said the young man, contemptuously. “You can even cut our heads off and we won’t die.”

  “Oh, yes, I know that. But that can only happen if your body is able to escape from the place where I put it, and your head is still reasonably intact. Since I’m going to bury your bodies in consecrated ground, and I’m going to boil your heads until there’s nothing left of your brains but soup, which I’m going to pour down the drain, there isn’t much chance of that happening.”

  “Duca will find you, and Duca will make sure that you suffer.”

  “Duca doesn’t have to worry about finding me. I’m going to find it first. I have a score to settle with Duca.”

  “Well, we’re not going to help you find him,” said the gingery-haired girl.

  “You want to bet?” I asked it. I went to the windows which overlooked the backyard, and pulled down the grubby net curtains. Then I came back and wrapped the curtains around the Screecher’s heads.

  “What are you doing, you tosser?” the young man said, spitting to get the net curtain out of its mouth.

  “Guy Fawkes’ Night just came early,” I told it.

  “What?”

  I took the holy oil out of my Kit, unstoppered it and poured it over their wrapped-up heads.

  “Bloody hell, that burns!” the young man shouted, tossing its head violently from side to side. The girl didn’t say anything, but sucked in its breath because the oil hurt so much.

  I took a box of Swan Vestas and struck one, holding it up in front of them so that they could see the flame.

  “Now do you want to tell me where Duca is hiding?”

  “You’re mad, you are!” the young man screamed. “I’m not going to tell you nothing!”

  “The choice is yours, buddy. How about you, sweetheart, are you going to tell me where Duca is?”

  “Go to hell,” the girl retorted, its voice muffled under the nets.

  “In that case, you don’t leave me any alternative.” The match had burned right down to my fingers and I had to blow it out and take out another one.

  At that moment, though, Jill came back into the living room. She looked wide-eyed at the two Screechers with the net curtains wrapped around their heads, but she didn’t ask me what I was doing. Instead, she said, “I’ve just spoken to Terence. He’s identified the car.”

  “Well, that’s good news for these two. Comparatively speaking.”

  Jill had written the car-owner’s address on the back of a laundry bill. “It belongs to Dr. Norman Watkins, the Laurels, Pampisford Road, South Croydon. He’s in general practice, but most of his patients are private.”

  “So . . . I wonder what a strigoi mort is doing, driving his car around?”

  “Terence is leaving now. He’s going to collect his car from Beddington Park, and then he’s coming over here with a van. He says that he shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “That’s plenty of time. Do you want to take Bullet for a walk while I do the necessary?”

  Jill said, “All right. Come on, Bullet.” But when she reached the door she hesitated. “Do you have to do this? I mean, is there really no other way?”

  “Come on, Jill—you saw for yourself what these two jokers are capable of. And once they become strigoi mortii they’ll spread their infection like wildfire.”

  “Can’t they be given a proper trial?”

  “Jill—justice is a human right. These goddamn things are halfway to losing their humanity already.”

  “Duca will drain your blood, even if we can’t,” said the gingery-haired girl. “I promise you that, you piece of shit. I promise both of you.”

  “Watch your language,” I told it.

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Terence arrived just after 5:00 PM, followed closely by a dark blue Austin van. Jill and I were sitting on the low brick wall in front of the house, with the mid-August sun in our eyes.

  The van was driven by a whippet-thin man in a brown boiler suit, with a sharp purple nose and hair that stuck up at the back of his head. His companion was big and silent, with a blue-shaved head and a scar under his nose where his harelip had been sewn up.

  Without a word, the two of them opened the back doors of the van and carried two folded-up coal sacks into the house. Terence went in after them and came out almost immediately, looking queasy. “My God, ‘Jim.’ ”


  “Nobody said that it was pleasant.”

  “I know, but all the same.” He pressed his hand over his mouth and held it there for a while, his eyes watering. “My God. I wish I hadn’t had those sausages for lunch.”

  Micky and Beryl hadn’t been easy to kill, especially since I was on my own, and I wasn’t nearly as young and as fit as I used to be during the war. The only way to kill them together was to force Beryl facedown onto the floor, with Micky on top of her, facing upward. Even though they were both restrained, they still twisted and fought and cursed, and I had to wedge their shoulders underneath the legs of a dining chair to keep them still. I hammered each nail directly into Micky’s eye sockets, and at nine inches they were just long enough to penetrate the back of Beryl’s skull, too, which was sufficient to numb her. Then I got out my saw and cut through their necks, leaving both of their heads in the kitchen sink.

  The driver and his companion came shuffling out of the house, with one of the sacks swaying heavily between them. Terence winced and looked in the opposite direction. “What do you plan to do about Duca?” he asked.

  “Go after it,” I told him. “But this isn’t something we can rush. Duca’s going to be a hell of a lot wilier than these two, and much more difficult to nail down. We need to do some reconnaissance first.”

  “What’s your suggestion?”

  “Well, it’s posing as a doctor, isn’t it? So let’s make a doctor’s appointment.”

  Pampisford Road was a three-mile-long avenue that ran along the east side of Croydon Aerodrome. Most of its houses had been built in the mid-1930s—large detached residences hidden behind laurel hedges—but they weren’t as opulent as Jill’s parents’ house, and most of them weren’t nearly so well maintained. Their front gates were sagging on their hinges and their gardens were overgrown with weeds.

  We parked on the grass verge about fifty yards away from the Laurels and walked the rest of the way, leaving Bullet in the car. On the gatepost there was a tarnished brass nameplate with the name Dr. Norman Watkins, FRCS, General Practitioner, engraved on it. Beyond the gate there was a shingled driveway, where Dr. Watkins’s Armstrong-Siddeley was parked. The house was pebble-dashed and painted white, although the pebble-dash was gray from years of weathering and there was a bright green streak of damp down one wall, where the guttering was broken.