Descendant (18 page)

“Are you regular patients of Dr. Watkins? I’m afraid I’m only temporary here myself.”

“Oh, sure. I mean, my fiancée is. Dr. Watkins helped to deliver her, so I’m sure that he’d want to help her as much as he could.”

“Well, all right. I’ll ask Dr. Duca if he can see you. He’s the locum.”

“That would be great. It’s just that we want to make absolutely sure that—you know—we don’t have any little surprises.” God, I must have sounded dumb.

“Who shall I say?” asked the receptionist, clicking down the switch of her intercom.

“Mr. Billings and Miss Erskine.”

The receptionist leaned forward and shouted, “
There’s a Mr. Billings and a Miss Erskine here, Doctor! They’re going to be married on Saturday and they were wondering if they could have a word!
” She didn’t really need an intercom: I was sure that Duca must have been able to hear her across the corridor.

There was a moment’s silence, and then I heard Duca’s voice for the very first time, and I felt as if centipedes were crawling over my shoulders. “
Of course. Why don’t you ask them to come through?
”

Suave, measured, with that distinctive Romanian accent that reminded me of all the other
strigoi mortii
I had encountered. I almost felt that the past twelve years had shrunk away completely.

The receptionist led us across the hallway to a door marked
PRIVATE
. She knocked, and showed us in. My heart was beating in slow, painful thumps, as if I had been running for my life.

Duca was standing by the window, looking out over the back garden. It was very tall, over six foot three, and it was wearing an immaculate light gray suit, with a dark gray shirt underneath it, and a white starched collar. Its gray silk necktie was tied just a little more flamboyantly than the average Englishman would have tied it in those days, and its gray, combed-back hair was just a little longer than the average Englishman would have allowed it to grow, so that it curled over its collar at the back. It had a single diamond sparkling in the lobe of its left ear, which the average Englishman would have thought was incontestable proof of homosexuality. Not only that, it was wearing some kind of lilac cologne, at a time when even Old Spice was considered a little suspicious.

But like most
strigoi mortii
, it was devastatingly handsome, even in my eyes—and I detested Duca more than anything alive or dead. Its face was angular, with hooded, sea green eyes, and a sharp, straight nose. Its jaw was clearly defined and it had lips of extraordinary sensuality, as if it had just finished giving a woman the most intimate kiss imaginable, and had not yet wiped its mouth. The girl at the house in Schildersstraat had been right: it strongly resembled a male incarnation of Marlene Dietrich.

It turned away from the window and smiled at us. Behind it, in the garden, I could see a dilapidated pergola, so wildly overgrown with creepers that it looked as if it were infested with green snakes. Beside it stood a marble statue of a pensive woman, holding a water jug.

“So, you are to be married,” said Duca. It turned its head toward me, but it never once took its eyes off Jill. “You are a very lucky man, Mr. . . .”

“Billings. John Billings.”

“And your very desirable bride-to-be?”

“Catherine Erskine.”

“Catherine . . . ah, yes. In my country you would be called Katryn, which means ‘pure.’ You are an extremely beautiful woman, Catherine. You deserve many years of joy.”

“Thank you,” said Jill. Although Duca was being so absurdly flirtatious, I had the feeling that, in a way, she was enjoying it. Its voice was so mellow and yet it had an air of intense danger about it that was both alarming and attractive at the same time. It gave me the same sensation as standing too close to the edge of a cliff. For some reason, I always feel insanely tempted to throw myself over.

“Why don’t you both sit down?” it asked us. “Then you can tell me what it is that you wish to know.”

We sat down in two leatherette armchairs facing Duca’s desk. Or rather Dr. Norman Watkins’s desk, because it had Dr. Watkins’s nameplate on it, and a sepia photograph of a rather overweight family standing by a sea wall somewhere. Duca eased itself into a high-backed chair and tilted itself back, still keeping its eyes fixed on Jill.

“We were wondering about birth control,” said Jill, and blushed. Either she was a very good actress, or else she was genuinely embarrassed. “We’re not at all sure what the best method is.”

“Well, you are both mature adults, capable of deciding what your priorities are,” Duca replied. “Are you looking for complete safety, or are you looking for unmitigated pleasure?”

“Both, I hope,” I told him, but Duca still didn’t look at me.

Duca raised its eyebrows. “No method of course is foolproof. But there are four different ways in which you can lessen the risk of conception. The occlusive cap, sometimes known as the Dutch cap, which would cover the neck of your desirable young lady’s womb and prevent the entry of spermatozoa. The sheath, or condom, which would prevent spermatozoa from entering your desirable young lady at all. Then there are chemical pessaries or solutions which kill the spermatozoa on contact.

“You can practice
coitus interruptus
, withdrawing yourself from your desirable young lady immediately prior to ejaculation; or you can try the rhythm method, whereby you should only have intercourse with your desirable young lady during that time of the month when she is not ovulating.”

The way in which its tongue lingered around the words “your desirable young lady” would have really raised my hackles, if I had genuinely been intending to marry Jill. But all I did was nod, and say, “Unh-hunh, I see,” as if I were taking this all very seriously, and didn’t realize how lubriciously it was talking to her.

“It’s difficult to decide, isn’t it?” said Jill. “Which method do you personally recommend?”

“Well . . .” said Duca, “the rhythm method of course is the best for natural pleasure, but it is very unreliable for contraceptive purposes.
Coitus interruptus
is also unreliable in that some spermatozoa can escape prior to ejaculation, or the husband may not be prompt enough in his withdrawal. Also, somewhat
messy
.”

“The sheath sounds the most effective to me,” I put in.

For the first time, Duca really looked at me. “You
may think so, my dear sir. But it is only effective if you can be relied upon to wear one.”

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t? I’ve always used one before.”

“Perhaps one night you may have drunk too much wine, and forget. Perhaps one night you may decide that you are tired of sheaths, that they diminish your pleasure. After all, what does it matter to you? You are not the one who will have to carry the child, and go through the agony of labor.”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“In my opinion, the Dutch cap is the best protective, because your desirable young lady herself will ensure that she always fits it.” Duca lifted its thumb and two fingers, as if it were folding a Dutch cap prior to insertion. It was one of the most sexually suggestive gestures I had ever seen anyone make.

“Where can I get one?” asked Jill. “Do they sell them at the chemist’s?”

“No, no. Your doctor has first to measure your cervix so that you have the correct size. Then he has to demonstrate to you how to insert the Dutch cap so that it snugly seals the neck of your womb. Usually I insist that my young ladies insert it for themselves at home and then visit the surgery so that I can ensure they have learned how to fit it correctly.”

Jill looked at me, her eyes wide, and the look on her face said
absolutely not
.

I cleared my throat and said, “That was—uh—very enlightening, Doctor, thank you. I think you’ve told us just about everything we need to know. Maybe my fiancée
and I should go away now and talk this over between ourselves.”

“Of course,” said Duca. “But you are to be married in only a few days’ time, so if your desirable young lady has need of my services it would be better if you made your decision sooner rather than later.”

“Sure,” I said, and stood up. As I did so, however, Duca looked at me again and this time its sea green eyes narrowed a little and a crease appeared in the middle of its forehead, as if it had suddenly remembered something.

“You know, my dear sir, it’s very strange. You remind me very much of somebody I once knew well.”

“I do?”

Duca nodded “I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s in your expression. You don’t have any Romanian blood in you, do you?”

“Me? My parents were Irish.”

“Irish? It’s still very strange. I have a long memory for faces, and your face . . . it’s so much like this person I knew.”

“Can’t help you, I’m afraid,” I told him. But he kept on staring at me and I was convinced that he could see my mother looking out of my eyes.

At around six that evening, the sky clouded over from the west and it grew so dark that Terence had to drive with his headlights on. Rain began to fall on the windshield, big fat drops as warm as blood.

We drove to Jill’s house in Purley and Terence parked in the driveway. We had decided that there was no point in my going all the way back to central London, so Jill had invited me to stay over. Terence would find me a local bed-and-breakfast in the morning, and have my cases brought down.

Charles Frith had arranged with Inspector Ruddock for a watch to be kept on the Laurels throughout the night. The police would alert us immediately if Duca left the house, and follow it, although they were under strict instructions not to attempt to stop it. If they did, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What’s next, then?” asked Terence, tugging on the parking brake.

“We need to get into the Laurels sometime during the day when Duca’s out. What I’m looking for is his wheel, the talisman that he wears around his neck.”

“Why do you want that?”

“Two reasons. When a live Screecher becomes a dead Screecher, its physiology changes. It can slide through the narrowest of gaps, and it can run so fast that you can barely see it, but it has very poor night vision. The wheel has properties which realign the rods and the cones in its eyes, so that it can see in the dark.”

“But if Duca wears it around its neck—” said Jill.

“It doesn’t—not during the day. If it did, its eyes would be much too sensitized, and it would practically be blinded, especially if the sun came out. If we can find Duca’s wheel, and take it, Duca is absolutely certain to come looking for it.”

“And I suppose we’ll be waiting for it, when it does?”

“You’ve got it. We’ll catch it in a sealed and darkened room, so that it won’t be able to see us and it won’t be able to escape.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll tie it up, nail it down, decapitate it, and dispose of the body, just like the other Screechers. The only difference between exterminating a live Screecher and a dead Screecher is that the dead ones’ bodies have to be cut into four pieces and each piece has to be buried well away from the others.”

Terence looked queasy. Jill said, “I don’t have to be there when you kill it, do I?”

“Not unless you want to. It’s dangerous, and its pretty damned disgusting, and the dead ones usually scream blue murder.”

“In that case, I think I’ll pass.”

As we went into the house, lightning flickered over the trees at the end of the garden, followed by an indigestive
rumble of thunder. Jill’s mother was in the dining room, wearing an emerald green sari, and setting the table for dinner. Her father was in the living room, standing in front of the fireplace.

“Captain Falcon! Good evening! Perhaps I can offer you a snifter?”

“I’ll have a Scotch, if that’s OK.”

He went over to a large drinks cabinet and opened it. “I’ve just been given some very palatable single malt, as a matter of fact.”

“That sounds . . . very palatable.”

He handed me a heavy cut-crystal glass brimming with whiskey. I didn’t usually drink this much alcohol in a week.

“Jill’s mother has been having a bit of a word with her,” said Jill’s father, leaning forward confidentially and lowering his voice to make sure that Jill and her mother couldn’t hear him.

“Oh, yes?”

“It turns out that Jill’s rather taken with you.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize. But what she has to understand is—”

“I suppose it’s partly the danger that she finds attractive. Women do, don’t they? They get starry-eyed about racing drivers and test pilots and mountaineers and suchlike.”

“I’m afraid I’m not doing anything nearly as glamorous as that.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s certainly had an effect on our Jill, or so her mother tells me. She was very upset about what you were doing, no question about it. But she was even more upset that she might not have the gumption to go on working with you.”

“Oh. I see. I’m sorry. But I think she needs to know that—”

Jill’s father lifted his hand. “All I’m saying to you, old boy, is that I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take advantage of her. No offense meant. But I’m her father, and obviously I have to have her best interests at heart.”

“Of course. I totally understand.”

“Good man. Just thought that it would be better to get things straight.”

I sipped my whiskey. Jill’s father was right. It was very palatable, and I began to feel much more relaxed. But I couldn’t help asking myself why I hadn’t quite managed to admit that I was married.

Dinner was strange but very good. I had never eaten any kind of curry before, and this was a Burmese curry, with fishy-tasting rice and chicken simmered in coconut and a bewildering selection of pickled vegetables and fried chillies and chopped cilantro leaves.

We ate out of small decorative bowls, and drank very cold light ale, making a toast every time we took a drink. “Here’s to international friendship!” “Here’s to Bullet!” “Here’s to Harold Macmillan!”

Jill’s parents asked me about my family and my life in Connecticut, but they assiduously avoided the subject of what I was doing here in England, and why I needed Jill and Bullet to help me.