Harold and James

Two vampires

Harold and James sat, dozing, rays of light falling on their faces, skin like pastry. It was Harold who woke first and looked over at his friend and wondered for the millionth time how long it was that they had been together. He sat and thought about all of his victims, all the lives he had taken over the years and, not for the first time, marveled: it would have had to run into the thousands, the population of a small city and beyond. He felt no pity, in fact, it was his belief that he was an usher, ushering them into a better place, and that they were, if anything, to be envied. In his mind, it was all a question of belief: he believed that there was an afterlife, a place that was better than this one, (though he had seen no evidence to prove his theory, except for the fact that he was what he was). He knew also that, because of what he was, the afterlife was not available to him �" his reward, he was living now �" destined to live on this plane and no other �" that was the cost of his immortality. He would never be resurrected to see a golden crown, would never live to meet the creator; he knew this, and for this, he felt sorrow and pain and regret.

Moments of lucidity came, always in the moments before he had taken some poor fool’s life, for it seemed to him that in seeing a person die, watching their realization that their life was lost, he seemed to gain some insight into all of it, this puzzle that was his life, but as soon as the insight was gained, it was lost, and he was back to roaming the streets, seeking new ways to slay people and satisfy the hunger, always the hunger. He sat and watched his old friend snore; like him, a vampire, centuries old, dozing on his floral lazy-boy, mouth open like an old dog’s, a layer of saliva falling on a chin that was cracked and lined and looked like an old piece of glazed pottery.

From the outset, James looked normal, perhaps a little pasty though nothing out of the ordinary: balding, hair clipped at the sides and coming out of the ears, certainly not the effective vampire that he was. Just then he woke and looked around, his eyes misted and then tightening into focus and it was this tightening that suddenly gave it away, showed the intellect, and, for a moment, the cruelty within.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s five-thirty.

And so it was, with this exchange, that they had just completed the same conversation that they had both had for centuries, around this time of the afternoon. And, like clock-work, the two felt the gnawing from within their stomachs, a gnawing that would soon spread throughout their bodies and become cravings that within hours would become insufferable. They looked at each other and then out the window and watched the sun dip on the horizon.

It was James who rose first, made his way to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror and began his usual routine: turned the hot water on then  stood under it, washed the ancient body, then got dressed in his night-time attire: his usual pinstripe suit and tie. When he had done all this, he stood and looked at himself in the mirror, looked at the skin that was like aged leather, sagging on a face that was downright ugly, forced a smile, revealing incisors that gleamed, brushed them, rinsed out the toothbrush, spat and left the room and the two men passed each other and Harold stepped into the bathroom and went about his own movements, their routines almost exact.

Harold stood and looked at the mirror and braced himself. Lately, a feeling of dread would wash over him at seeing his reflection. Voices, starting off as whispers, would be set off in his head:

Why are you here? Why do you even bother? End it; it would be better if you were dead. And, who are you, anyway?

It was the ‘who are you?’ voice that always got him the most, for, to him, losing his identity meant losing the last fragment of sanity that he had and the thought of going mad terrified him.

He had seen madness over the years, one of the worst, a young alcoholic who would sit on a park-bench, screaming at no-one and everyone �" a tall figure, dressed in a black suite that had started to tear, looking and smelling like a burnt tree-stump, holding a bottle to his lips. Harold stood and gritted his teeth, gripped the sink and looked at his reflection.

‘I’m Harold, damn it, Harold Ramis. I’m a vampire and that’s the end of it! I am here, damn it! I will be here at the end, to see what it is that will be, and not everyone is that lucky!’

And so it was, always with this statement, that the voices became silent. He looked around and contemplated them for a moment, knowing what they were: entities that had chosen a different path, spirit-beings that had fallen long ago. It was a mystery that he often wondered about: why they bothered concerning themselves with him; after all, he had no part in eternity and was therefore useless to their envy. He looked at himself. This much he knew: that the creator had put all things in their order and at their appointed time, and though he himself was a scourge to the creation, even he had a part to play and that part would ultimately come to an end as would he and that thought gave him peace. He switched the bathroom light off and stood in the hall and saw his old friend, standing, watching him, like some silent pallbearer, and together they walked down the concrete stairs and out onto the road.

The street was cold and the two men pulled their overcoats close. The sound of women’s laughter emanated up the street, along with an acoustic guitar and singing. They walked to their usual haunt of late and stood in the line-up and waited to be let inside and just then, a curvy woman in a ski jacket jostled Harold. He could tell by the jostling, her dimensions, her body weight, musculature, the amount of blood in her system, the size of her organs, and even, he fancied, what her blood would taste like, though, of course, this was a stretch and so it was, just like that, he had his target for the night.

The line moved forward and they stepped inside and stood amidst a sea of others who were standing, holding glasses filled with beer, all looking up at a television screen. James looked over at Harold, and could see, by the look on his face, that he too had chosen a target. He stood and watched the older man work, watched him lean over a woman and saw her looking up at him and marveled at the old man’s dexterity and poise, then saw his own target getting away, then walked over to her, stood and looked into a pair of deep blue eyes.

‘So, you come here often?’

They smiled at each other, at the coy line.

‘Sometimes, you?’

‘Sometimes…so, are you here on business or pleasure, and what may I ask is the beautiful lady’s name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Sarah, it’s a nice name, honest. So, where are you from?’

‘I’m from London, on holiday.’

And so it went: another conversation with another woman.

‘So, Sarah, what sort of music do you listen too?’

‘Oh, you know, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, stuff like that.’

‘You know, all of those bands, I’ve got back at my place, on Vinyl.’

‘Really!’

‘We could go now, if you wanted to.’

‘Hey, sure.’

And with that, he led her out into the cold night, back up the street and to the apartment where he lived. He reached into his pocket and opened the door with his key and they walked up the stairs; her heals clacking on the cement, sending his heart racing. He opened the internal door and led her onto the couch and drank her in, her body like a giant delicious fruit, all curves in a black dress, and he felt his libido coming at a lightening pace and had to retire to the kitchen to contain himself.

‘Would you like something to drink? Some wine, perhaps?’ He called out.

‘Sure, what’ve you got?’

‘Chiraz.’

‘Sounds good.’

The fridge door squeaked open and he reached in and pulled out the wine and opened it with a cork and poured two glasses and walked back into the lounge and handed her a glass, leaned in and started kissing her neck, felt the warmth of it and then the warmth of her hand, a sculptor’s masterpiece, lying in his, reached for her mouth, felt it mash against his and then started undressing her. Underneath her clothes, she was big, and he marveled at her and they made love on his rug and then, after it was over, he kissed her on the neck and just as she was falling asleep he bit into it and started draining her, so gently and with such little fuss that it was only in the moments before her death that she suddenly woke and looked with terror at him, realizing what it was that was done before her heart stopped its beating and he felt the life-giving blood mingling with his own, sustaining him, reinvigorating and rebirthing him and he collapsed his head back onto the floor and let go of her hand as it grew cold then rolled over and looked at the body, admired her a*s that was like a giant peach.

Harold lay there, looking up at the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of the blood running through his veins, his body warming like a battery coming back to life. Now, he could go about his movements and having just drank several pints of live blood, could last well over a week, and then heard the front door squeaking.

A tall figure walked into the room and stood over him and he looked up and saw the old man’s sallow face, the skin of it flopping a little, and then a lined hand lifted to his mouth and wiped away small droplets of blood from the mouth that looked as if it were painted with lipstick and the two men regarded each other.

‘What time is it?’

Harold got off the carpet and the two men sat back down on their lazy boys and drew the curtains. The dawn light rose up them like a yellow tide and the closed curtains became a gold box in the room and Harold regarded James and smiled a weary smile.

‘Well, by the looks of it, your little venture was a success.’

‘Yes.’

‘Quite pretty, wasn’t she.’

‘Yes.’

‘Had some size about her, too.’

‘Yes, you could say that.’

Harold felt sleep dimming at him, the warmth of the room sending him into dreams. He looked over at his old friend and saw that the eyes were already closed and that the mouth was already open.