Red Grow the Roses (22 page)

‘Oh!' For a moment she struggled to think of anything she could say that was even close to polite. ‘Well,' she mumbled at last, ‘that explains why Naylor's picking on you. He'd find that even more amusing.'

‘Well, it's one vicar joke I could live without,' he replied, and she wanted to give him a kiss for that. He did have a sense of humour after all.

‘Um,' it was her turn to say, and she looked away as she tried to sort her head out. She knew that plenty of her friends would jeer in his face and throw him out if they were in her position. Lots of pagans felt that they were an oppressed minority constantly under attack from a Christian-based Establishment. Funnily enough – she knew this because her sister was an evangelical – lots of Christians were convinced that
they
were the oppressed minority, constantly under attack from a secular society that had sold out wholeheartedly to sex, drugs and lunatic New Age individualism. ‘Have you tried going to your Church? Naylor's pretty old: he might be vulnerable to Christian ritual.'

Doug shook his head. ‘Sorry: I'm an Anglican. The Church of England “doesn't have an official standpoint on the existence or spiritual provenance of so-called vampires.” That's what I was told. We sit on the fence on this – as on so many things. The Catholic Church …' He rolled his eyes. ‘They believe, all right. I've talked to some of my colleagues at ecumenical meetings. Tried to, anyway. The Catholic Church makes a great big noise about the reality of spiritual warfare, but they've got an absolute lockdown on any priest attempting to tackle vampires or discuss their existence. I can't work out whether it's siege mentality or … well, in my Dan Brown moments I wonder if they're in some sort of pact.'

Cerri grimaced, and impulsively reached over to squeeze his hand. ‘Don't worry, Doug. I'm on your side. We'll give it a go, eh?'

‘No magic.' His hand was cool and firm and though he didn't respond he didn't shrug her off either.

‘All right then, if that's what you want. Now. …' She sat back, already starting a mental checklist. ‘I'm going to have to get some stuff together. If you give me your address I'll meet you there in a couple of hours.'

* * *

The vicarage was out in a suburb, in what would once have been a village on the outskirts of the City; some of the oldest buildings were very large and would have been grand in their time. Then gradually every inch of green space had been filled in with more houses. The majority were 1930s semis but in the 70s someone had lined the whole of the high street with concrete blocks that looked like they were winners of an Ugly Competition and now hosted exhausted-looking discount tile emporia and charity shops, along with an international array of takeaways. Then the whole place had filled up with cars – cars parked nose to tail down every inch of kerb, creeping in single file down one-way streets barely wide enough to allow wing-mirrors to pass each other. The grand houses had been split up into flats that housed students for the nearby university college, and the air smelled of kebab fat and exhaust fumes. Tucked away behind the shops was a large brick church and in its shadow a double-fronted house which would have looked quite gracious if it had been given a newer coat of paint.

Over his door was one of those Ichthus fish symbols that Christians liked. Cerri wrinkled her nose at it.

Doug opened the door to her with a nod and a half-smile. He looked rumpled. One hand was thrust into the pocket of his loose trousers.

‘Hi,' said she. ‘Nice house.'

‘Thanks. The diocese are selling it and moving me into a semi.' He waved her into the hall and added, ‘We need the money.'

The place certainly had a spartan look despite its spaciousness: it was obvious he lived on his own. Cerri waited as he closed the front door and turned to stare at her, blinking.

‘You OK, Doug?'

‘Uh … Yeah, I've just woken up, that's all. I haven't been sleeping at nights.' He rubbed his hand across his face; she noticed that his hair was sticking up untidily. ‘I must have crashed out when I got back. Slept for an hour, I think.'

‘You look like you need coffee.'

‘Um. Yeah. In the kitchen.' He pointed down the hall. ‘After you.' She started to head down there. ‘What's in the rucksack?' he said to her back.

‘Salt, mostly.' With a glance around the roomy but bare kitchen, Cerri shucked off the big rucksack to lay it on the dining table. Its straps tugged at the shoulders of her blouse and, aware that Doug was staring, she glanced down and saw that her emerald-green bra cup and the plump bulge of her right breast were both exposed, ‘Sorry,' she said, more cheeky than sincere, smoothing the cloth back into place. He shook himself and turned away abruptly.

‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea?'

‘Black tea if you like, thanks.' She leaned one hip against the dining table. He was very seriously busying himself looking for mugs and spoons and though she waited he didn't turn round or speak again. ‘Let's hope no one reports this to the tabloids,' she said with a grin. ‘Can't you see the headline? “The Witch and the Vicar!”'

‘Oh … Please don't. That's all I need.' He tapped the top of the kettle in agitation as the heating element began to hum. Cerri wondered why he was so determinedly keeping his back to her, then realised with delight: he had a stiffy. He must have woken up with one when she knocked, and the poor guy was embarrassed. With a smile to herself she made a big, noisy show out of undoing the rucksack's buckles and straps, pulling out bag after bag of kosher salt and stacking them, until Doug felt safe enough to rejoin her.

‘What do we need salt for?'

‘Sealing the entrances to the house. You'll see.' She fished out a plastic bottle the size of a stick grenade and put it down in front of him. ‘These are for you.'

‘Garlic capsules?'

‘One, four times a day at six-hour intervals, day and night. Garlic is your friend, Doug.' With a flourish she produced a glass bottle from one of the deep side pockets of the rucksack: “Garlic- and ginger-infused olive oil”, said the label. ‘I got this at the deli.'

Doug startled slightly and licked his lips. ‘I assumed that sort of thing was just superstition.'

‘Not exactly.' Cerri sat down and tried a cautious sip of her tea. ‘Vampires are all different, you see. The older they are, the weirder they get, and the stronger – but the more things you can use against them. Like, a young vampire, a modern one: he could walk on consecrated ground. But an old one couldn't.' She had a sudden anxious thought. ‘Naylor's not actually been into your church, has he?'

‘No. He hangs out by the lich gate.' He grimaced sheepishly. ‘I've actually spent the last few nights in the church: it seemed safer. Not exactly comfortable though.'

‘Well, it's good news, in a way. Anyway, garlic's just about the one thing they none of them like; the taste turns their stomachs. Get it in your bloodstream, Doug.'

He popped the top and extracted a gelatine capsule; it glowed golden between his fingers, like a drop of amber. ‘Well, that's simple enough.'

‘Just remember: once you start down that road you're going to be taking it for the rest of your life. They've got long memories.' She smiled bleakly. ‘And that's assuming you really are prepared to piss Naylor off. Everything I know about him tells me you'd be better off giving him what he wants.'

‘No,' he said flatly, and swallowed the garlic capsule. ‘Now what about this salt?'

‘OK. Before it gets dark, you want to go round and lay a line of salt across every outer door and every window, and the fireplaces if you've got them.'

‘Like he can't step over a line?'

‘I'm hoping not.'

‘That sounds …' He spread his hands. ‘Dodgy.'

‘No. It's like – think of the Israelites being told to paint the door lintels with blood, in Exodus, so that the Angel of Death would pass on by their houses. That wasn't magic, was it? It's a mark of territory. Salt stands for blood, in this case. It says, “Private property: keep out.” Like the consecrated ground thing. Vampires – old ones anyway – I think the world they live in is different to the one we see.'

‘And it's got to be kosher salt?'

‘No, but that underlines the point we're making. And before you ask, they can't go into mosques or gurdwaras or Hindu temples either.'

He didn't argue, just nodded. He looked tired and strung-out. Cerri felt the desire flex within her to kiss that unhappy mouth and give him something completely different to think about.

‘You might as well start down here then.' She pushed a two-kilo plastic bag of salt toward him. ‘Grab some scissors.'

‘Are you going to show me first?'

‘I'm not touching it. It's your house; your God. Make sure it's a good thick band, that's all.'

She stood at his shoulder and watched as he poured out a line a handspan thick across the kitchen windowsill and smoothed it with his palm. ‘Now you need to mark it.'

‘With what?'

‘The signs of your faith. A cross or whatever. The Lord's Prayer in Latin.'

‘Do I look like a Catholic priest?' he wondered dryly. ‘You'll be asking me for holy water and the Host next, will you?'

‘It'd help.'

‘Sorry. I could bless some bread, but it'd still just be bread as far as the Church is concerned.' He held his fingertip out to the salt, then hesitated and looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘If you were doing this for yourself, what would you be drawing?'

‘I'd be writing in hieroglyphs.'

‘And what exactly would you write?'

‘The invocation of my goddess, Bast.'

‘The cat?'

‘The goddess of joy and pleasure. That's my particular path, Doug.'

He exhaled down his nose, almost a snort but not quite. Then he drew in the salt with his fingertip: the Ichthus fish shape flanked by crosses. As he took up the bag and turned away from the window she failed to step back and he bumped into her hard enough to shower some of the salt over them both and on to the floor. ‘Sorry,' he said automatically, looking down between them and then getting flustered by what he saw: the jut of her breasts in their tight blouse, the hitch of her hip.

Cerri didn't balk, just smiled. She saw his irises widen. The air between them felt thick.

‘I am grateful,' he said, breaking the silence. ‘For your help. I mean, you're being very kind. You've got no reason to help me.'

‘It's a favour for a friend. Besides,' she added, knowing she was being mischievous, ‘I think you're cute.'

He laughed, uncomfortably. ‘I rather wish the vampire wasn't of the same opinion. Um. So how come you know so much about them? What's your connection to all this?'

‘Me? Didn't Amanda tell you?' She braced herself. ‘I used to be a donor for one.'

‘A donor?'

‘Blood donor. A regular … feed.'

He pulled away, suspicion tainting his expression. ‘Naylor?'

‘What? No!' She flushed, and was annoyed that she did. ‘Amanda's employer. Reynauld.'

Doug swallowed. ‘Doesn't that make you …?'

‘What?'

‘A part-vampire?'

‘No, it doesn't. If everyone they took a bite out of got turned into one of them, the whole world would be wall-to-wall bloodsuckers.'

‘So it's him you're doing the favour for?'

She nodded.

‘He's … what? A nice-guy vampire?'

‘Well, he's nicer than Naylor, certainly.' She was feeling defensive for the first time since they'd met. ‘What about you, Doug? You said you've already met vampires. You were adamant you knew what they looked like.'

He didn't like that turn in the conversation. ‘A long time ago. When I was a student.'

‘Did he bite you? Or did
she
?'

He flinched. ‘No.'

‘But you got a good look? You were so sure?'

He jerked his chin. ‘I need to get the windows done before dark.'

They had a few hours until nightfall at this time of the year, even on a grey day like this, but it was clear Doug didn't want to talk. Cerri hefted a spare bag of salt in each hand and followed him through the house. It gave her, after all, a chance to look round his place. Several of the rooms were, it turned out, shut up and unused, and the furnishings in the ones he did live in were modern and cheap-looking; Doug seemed to live simply. He had a big collection of books – not just theology but a whole load of historical novels – and from the photos framed on the wall of his living room it looked like he'd made several trips to the Far East and made a lot of church friends. He owned a computer – a Mac, she noted with tribal approval – but there was no TV in sight.

‘You don't watch television?'

‘I prefer the radio.'

The building was echo-haunted due to being so empty, and slightly creepy. All the bulbs were eco-fluorescents, which cast a dim yellow light that didn't seem to illuminate the high, shadowy ceilings. Cerri was glad she didn't live here. Outside the door of an upstairs room Doug hesitated.

‘Perhaps you should wait outside. This is my bedroom.'

‘You shy, Doug?' She grinned. ‘Scared I'm going to see your big stash of porn mags?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Or is it that, faced with a bed, you won't be able to resist having your wicked way with a poor innocent girl?'

Doug opened his mouth, paused, then shook his head. ‘Well, if you find one of those in the house, send her home right away. And,' he added firmly, ‘I'll see you downstairs.'

Cerri giggled to herself as she went back down.

With the whole house salted, they finished by sealing the front door, then Cerri led the way back into the kitchen. ‘Phase two,' she announced, brandishing the big bottle of olive oil. ‘For if he gets past the salt.'