1 comments/ 7051 views/ 0 favorites Man Apart By: TheWitcher Milestone. Her eighteenth birthday represented a milestone, they said. Some fucking milestone, she thought. Time to move out, time to enter 'mainstream society', outgrown the care system, yadda yadda. What the fuck did she know about mainstream society? She'd been in care since she was ten, courtesy of an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Now, since hitting her 'milestone', she was out. Twelve months in a shithole supervised house with four other misfits - 'assisted transition' they called it - then she was on her own. If that wasn't frightening, she didn't know what was. She drifted reluctantly up the last flight of stairs, sucking heavily on a smoke. It stank of piss, the brick walls marked with graffiti, no light working as usual; the moonlight was bright enough. Curtis's door was half open. Not ajar, just the bottom of it was busted where the police had put his door in the last time and Housing hadn't fixed it. Standing before it on the landing she was nervous and anxious all over again. Her stomach was jumping. She sucked smoke into her chest - stubbed the butt out on the sill of the open window - unconsciously rubbing her cheek where he'd hit her. Shit. She didn't want to go through with it. Almost as if the door was working against her, as if it had heard her thoughts and wanted to thwart her, it swung open. Curtis stood in the frame, looking back over his shoulder into the flat, his cafe latte skin partially hidden beneath a white muscle vest and blue sweat pants, hair shaven into swirling patterns close to the scalp. His head swung around, bad skin and stubble, and he saw her, jumping slightly at her proximity. In that brief moment she saw bloodshot eyes, smelt weed from the flat, on him. "Fuck Taylor, what the fuck you doin' stood out here?" he said, voice a little slurred, looking around suspiciously. "You're fuckin' late." "Hey Curtis, good to see you, too," she said, trying for cool, managing lippy. Her heart was hammering. He glared at her before standing back to let her in. For a moment she hesitated, thought about backing out, backing off. Shit, where was she going to go? She brushed past him into the filthy flat, passing through the tattered hall with its smell of damp plaster, its peeling walls, into the lounge. Here the smell of rot was overwhelmed by the fug of cigarette smoke, cannabis, body odour. A massive television took up one wall, fake black leather furniture the other three - squeezing the archway leading into the kitchen into a narrow walkway. A sick looking rubber plant, which doubled as a communal ashtray, stood forlorn in the corner and a low coffee table with a glass top, filthy with discarded butts, home to an overflowing ashtray, lay in the centre of the room. It was too warm. Ryan slouched discarded in the armchair. Big, muscular, pale skin dotted with freckles, shaven head - spliff in one hand, bottle of beer in the other, raised in brief greeting as she entered. A girl in jeans and purple tee-shirt was sat on the sofa. Young - no older than fourteen, she thought - pale, thin, hair in a tight ponytail dyed black and gold, drinking from a bottle. The girl looked back at her with frightened, lost eyes - so disconcertingly like a mirror from the past that Taylor found herself staring. She shivered, picked up a bottle of beer from the table, flicked the top off with the dirty opener, swallowed a big slug of the warm liquid. "Taylor! You're fuckin' late..." Curtis said from the doorway, emphasising every word in his thick 'street' accent, holding his scarred arm out in an invitation for her to leave that way. "He's waitin', in the bedroom - fuckin' get on with it will you?" "Alright, Curtis," she said, her eyes on the girl. She wasn't much older than Taylor'd been when Curtis got his claws into her. "Just need a beer, before, you know..." "Fuck, Taylor - you are one stupid bitch," he said angrily, his eyes flashing. She read the signs. "Okay, okay, I'm going, alright." She took another slug of beer, struggling to swallow it quickly. "Just remember, the price is eighty. I told him you were still seventeen, got it?" "Yeah, I got it." Another slug; she really needed the fuzziness of an early stage drunk. She put the nearly empty bottle down on the glass of the coffee table, dumped her puffa jacket on the empty chair and twisted around Curtis towards the hall. He grabbed her face as she passed, his fingers digging painfully into her cheeks. "Just remember, you fucking work for me," he said. "What he wants, you do, got it?" She nodded, her face trapped. "I said, have you fuckin' got it?" "Yeah, Curtis, I got it, I got it." "Good." He let her go and she hurried into the grubby hallway, ducking into the bathroom as she passed. The toilet was filthy, stained with shit and piss, the plastic flooring yellowed and peeling. Gingerly she lowered herself into a crouch above the seat, emptied her bladder. Washed her hands in freezing water - a frightened, pale face staring back from the cracked mirror above the sink. at least the bruise on her cheek had almost faded. There was no towel so she shook her hands off and wiped them on her jeans. The door to the bedroom was closed, white painted plywood marked with bootmarks - left by the police or one of Curtis's friends. She stalled, what was the etiquette in this situation? Should she knock? Despite her nerves, perhaps because of them, she almost giggled at that. Almost, but she could feel Curtis's eyes on her back and she knew it was only a matter of moments before he lost it with her. She turned the handle and pushed it open a little way, its bottom hissing on the surface of the carpet. The bedroom stank like something had died in it. It was usually stale, musty, but this was new - a foul miasma filled with an icy menace that made her want to turn and run. If it wasn't for the feel of Curtis's baleful glare on her back she might have done just that. There was something forbidding about the room, something that hadn't been there before - even when Curtis had dragged her in there screaming and crying. She shuddered. The room was dark even with a little light from the hallway leaking around the opened door, the moon visible as a silver shadow on the fabric of the drapes. She could sense his presence, the warmth of another person, the sound of his breathing, small noises as he shifted on the bed. "Uh... Hi, hello," she said, nervous, peering around the door. "You're late," the voice said, slow, cultured. There was an accent but it was unfamiliar, not local - not like most of the men Curtis had got to fuck her. "Sorry, uh..." She struggled to think of an excuse, failed. "Sorry." "Come in, then. Let's not waste more time, shall we," he said. She heard him shifting on the bed, still hidden in shadow. It was as if the darkness clung to him, she thought, as if he somehow repelled light. "Right. Yeah, of course." She entered the room, pushing the door closed behind her, suddenly light blind in the dark. "Uh, what..." "Come here, girl." Frightened, heart hammering in her chest, she crossed to the bed. It wasn't her first time, Curtis had made her fuck her first man years before, pimping her illegally and profitably - for him; she never saw a penny other than the 'gifts' she got given - but it was her first time as a 'professional' in her own right. At eighteen she was too old for Curtis's 'friends', had to make her own way. Another milestone? Gradually her eyes adjusted to the dim light, details emerging from the darkness - the cheap wardrobe, chest of drawers, the surfaces strewn with Curtis's shit, the shape of the bed against the wall beneath the window - the man still a mystery, bathed in shadow. "Take them off." "What?" "Your clothes. Take them off." "Right, okay." She turned around, looking for inspiration, somewhere to hang her clothes. For a while she stood still, feeling as if she was teetering on the brink of a long fall. Finally, reluctantly, with shaking hands she pulled her vest top over her head, discarding it on the already cluttered top of the chest of drawers. Unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down - stumbling over her boots as she tried to remove them - sat on the bed to kick them off. She had worn her best underwear - choked off a nervous giggle at that - a black lacy bra and panties. For a moment she sat on the bed, frightened to go further, frightened to stop. All of a sudden she felt like crying, like running away. "Come on, girl," he said. "I haven't got all night." She jumped, swallowed her fear. Forced herself to unfasten her bra - oh, God, her hands were really shaking - letting it slide along her arms and fall to the floor, her tits bouncing free. She lifted her ass off the bed, sliding her panties down onto the floor, took a deep breath, felt sick, dizzy. He moved on the bed next to her, his weight rocking her. Shit. His face loomed out of the darkness - gaunt, bone-white. He was bald, hairless - his skin so pale she could see a roadmap of dark veins through his scalp - horrible yellowed eyes, the stink of something rotten. She jumped, nearly screamed - instinctively recoiling from his sudden presence. Quicker than she could think his broad, thick hands grabbed her arm, her shoulder, pulling her back on to the bed - pushing her firmly down. For a moment his jaundiced eyes bored into hers and she smelt the stench of him, a carrion smell that turned her gut. Cold icy dread settled on her, fear cramping her belly. She thought about calling for help, about screaming, but this was Curtis's place - who would find that strange? Then he was on her, crushing her down with his weight, and she knew no help was coming. She felt his mouth on hers, his breath foul, stinking with the smell of something dead, his long tongue forcing its way into her mouth - slimy and cold and tasting of decay. She almost gagged, her stomach heaving. His fingers were thick, coarse, topped with long, dirty, sharp nails that dug into her, scratched her. He fucked her hard, forcing her legs open, his cold cock thrusting painfully into her while she lay terrified, supine beneath him - like a slab of meat. She couldn't bear to look at him, staring instead up at the mouldy ceiling above, gripping the headboard with whitened knuckles while he used her body as he wished. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he groaned and she felt him shoot his load into her - the liquid surprisingly, horribly cool. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her skin crawling with horror, revulsion. But that wasn't the worst part. After he'd fucked her, when she'd thought it was all over and started to relax, she felt his nails on her abdomen, digging into her skin, her flesh. He cut her, slicing his nail across her belly - just above her pubic hair - the sudden pain making her squeal. She tried to sit up, to roll away, but he held her down with phenomenal strength. Then, while she whimpered pitifully, he licked her blood off her skin, his cold, slimy tongue licking over her belly, sucking her blood from her wound while she lay still like death, shaking in the dark. Eventually he seemed satiated, finished with her. He dressed quickly - a dark suit, a long dark coat, a hat covering his bald pate. She lay still, too scared to move, her belly throbbing with the pain of the cut, her cunt sore from the friction of his fucking. "How much?" he said, his eyes glinting in the dark. She started. Rubbed her eyes, remembering. "Curtis said eighty," she mumbled, scared, shell-shocked. Briefly she saw his teeth again, a flash of white against the dark. "Have one hundred," he said. He pulled the notes from his billfold, dropping them onto the chest of drawers. "Until the next time." She flinched, just the thought. He left quickly after that, slipping around the door, leaving it ajar behind him. Taylor lay still for a long time, afraid to move. She felt worthless, dirty, used. Before, she had been forced into it, beaten if she didn't do as she was told. This time it was down to her, all down to her. She had sold herself, her body, her self-respect, everything she had. She felt something tickle her face - her hand felt wetness - she was crying. Fuck. From the other rooms of the flat she heard talking, heard the front door open, close. In no time she knew Curtis would be in, looking for his money. She gathered herself together - she knew she didn't want him to see her like this, didn't want to be naked anymore. Sat up, dressing hurriedly. By the time she was pulling her jeans on he was there, eyeing her body as she struggled to pull her vest top over her head, to cover her tits. "Where's the money?" She nodded at the chest of drawers. Curtis gathered the notes, leafing through them. "A hundred. Not bad." He picked three notes out, handed them to her. "Here's sixty." For a second she hesitated. In her mind the money, the reason for doing this, was dirty, tainted. Taking it would somehow make her dirtier - as if what had happened was fair, reasonable. "Sixty is good for a first time whore like you, you ungrateful bitch," he said, misunderstanding her hesitation. "Fuckin' take it or take nothing." She took the money, pushing it into the pocket of her jeans. Whore. That's what she was now, a fucking dirty whore. She rubbed her eyes. "That's better. You want another beer? Some weed?" "No. I've got to go," she managed, feeling sick, pushed her bra into her jacket pocket. Curtis laughed. "Don't worry, it'll get easier the more you do it. Drink more, use some shit - you'll soon forget." He walked off, chuckling. "I'll call you when I find someone to fuck you." ****** Taylor walked the streets. Dawn couldn't be far off, it had been late when she left the flat and she knew she'd been walking for hours. Her feet ached but she barely noticed. For a short time it had rained, just enough to soak her, to make the streets shine. She'd been crying - her thick mascara smeared across her face and hands - but now she felt numb, her mind unable to focus beyond putting one foot in front of the other. The streets were empty, or practically so. She'd passed a few other people, some of them homeless - one had offered her a drink of something from a plastic flagon - but she barely even saw them, lost in her own misery. After leaving the flat she'd made it as far as the landing before she threw up - beer and bile burning her throat, coughing up a thin yellow liquid. After, she'd stood for what seemed like ages in the stairwell, gulping down cool, fresh air, her stomach heaving. Finally, she'd staggered away, stumbling down the stairs and into the night. She had no destination in mind, nowhere she wanted to be, no idea where she'd been going until she passed the phone. She called the police, telling them about the girl in Curtis's flat - it was a small chance but it was more than anyone had done for her at that age. Perhaps it would be enough. Nobody should be made to feel like this, she thought. It was as she passed the park's tall gates that she heard the noise, a muffled scream in the dark. It cut through her isolation, chilling her blood. She froze, listening. For a while there was nothing, then she heard another sound, weaker than the last - a groan of pain, a gasp. She looked about, the road was deserted - winding up the hill into the distance, dark buildings, her shared house just visible where it left the park side, or down to an empty junction with a bigger road. She peered through the bars of the gates, trying to make out anything in the dark, but beyond was only blackness. She was on the verge of turning away, of running up the hill when she heard the third sound - a low cry, bitten off. It galvanised her with a sudden resolve that surprised herself, the urge to do something worthwhile. She slipped the bolt on the smaller pedestrian access gate and entered the park beyond. It seemed deserted, the path picked out in the moonlight stretching away before her - a rose garden to her right, colours drained to monochrome in the dying moonlight, trees and open space to her left. Nervously, she followed the path. She was almost on him before she saw him. He lay in the centre of the path where it curved to go around the trees, lying on his back, facing the dark copse - clearly hurt, his hand clutching his side, his face screwed up with pain. A slug-trail of dark blood stretched from him towards the trees. "Uh... Are you alright?" she said, standing a little distance from him, her eyes looking nervously about. He looked over at her, his eyes dark pools, his hair like midnight. "No. Help me, quickly. Help me up." His voice was deep, his accent subtle, unknown but strangely familiar. Slowly, realisation dawned, a feeling of dread creeping up her spine. The man in the room. "Girl, I'm hurt, they'll be here soon - I need your help. Please." The accent was the same but it wasn't him, she knew that. This man was younger, obviously not bald. Hesitantly she shuffled forward, her eyes alert. "What's happened, shall I call the police?" The man shook his head. "No. No police. Just help me up, quick." She knelt next to him. He was young, early twenties, no more. Dark suit, white shirt. For just a moment, as she approached him, he drew back, recoiled, then he seemed to relent, letting her loop his free hand over her shoulder. His other, pressed to his side, was dark with blood, a lot of blood. Working together, his legs struggling to lift him, she got him to his feet with a gasp of pain. Once upright he leaned heavily on her, he was tall - a good six or more inches taller than her own five seven. The floor where he'd been lying was stained with blood. "What happened to you? Have you been robbed?" She looked around anxiously. "No, no. Please, we need to go, now." A long hiss sounded from the copse, aggressive, angry, rich with menace. Taylor felt icy fingers grip her heart. Suddenly she wanted to be very far from that copse and whatever it concealed. As quickly as she could manage they staggered back towards the gates, glancing back at the copse with almost every shuffling step. The gates seemed like an eternity away, no closer each time she looked, the sense of danger increasing with every passing breath. There was something bad behind her, far too close behind her. Eventually she reached the gates, passing through onto the still deserted road. This time as she glanced back she was sure she could see a figure stood on the pathway - no more than a dark silhouette, but somehow she knew that he watched her, watched her with yellowing eyes, menace emanating from him in waves. Suddenly her heart was in her mouth, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw breath - it was him, she knew it. Oh, God. Like a pair of drunks they staggered up the hill, which suddenly seemed a lot steeper than the last time she'd climbed it. With each stumbling step she imagined the man behind her, emerging from the park to grab her, to drag her back in, but each time she looked the road remained as deserted as before. When they finally cleared the edge of the parkland, put an empty road between her and the figure, she started to relax a little. Maybe it would be okay, maybe she was wrong. The man on her shoulder looked weak, for the past few metres as they'd hurried to cross the road he'd stumbled more often and she hadn't failed to notice his little gasps of pain as he'd tried to keep up with her frantic steps. His head was hanging down and he was hunched forward, hand still pressed to his side. "Look, I'm no expert but I think you need a hospital, a doctor or something." He shook his head weakly. "I'll be okay; just need somewhere to rest, inside." Her house was just ahead. She glanced back, the road remained clear, but the memory of her fear was still heavy upon her. She really didn't want to be alone. Not today, not after...that. Even the company of a total stranger would be better than that. Man Apart She surprised herself for the second time. "Look, my house is up there. You can stay there for tonight, okay?" He looked up, met her eyes and her breath caught in her throat, a strange shock passing through her. Even with his face screwed up in pain she was startled by how handsome he was; his face fine boned, his eyes a little angular - a touch of eurasian heritage, perhaps - and a startling violet shade. He had a prominent dimple on his chin, she noticed. "Thank you," he said in that strange accent of his. Her heart thumped. For some reason she couldn't get her breath to answer. The door was locked when she reached it, fumbling in her pocket for the key; for once she didn't want to wake the live in staff - their no visitors without notification rule was going to be a bummer to get around with a bleeding man on her shoulder. Eventually she succeeded in unlocking it and the two of them stumbled into the poky hallway. It was cleaner and better decorated than Curtis's flat. But, then, so was prison. With some difficulty the two of them made it to the top of the stairs, without making so much noise that anyone had to come and investigate, and into the relative sanctuary of Taylor's room. She guided him to the bed, letting him slump down on the duvet with a groan. It was nearly five-thirty according to the bedside clock. Didn't matter - she felt filthy, the stranger's blood the least of her concerns; she had to have a bath. The man on the bed had fallen onto his back, head facing away from her, he seemed to be asleep already. Strangely, she felt shy about taking her clothes off in front of him. Instead she grabbed a towel from the chest, dumped her bloodstained jacket on the chair and wandered, fully clothed, into the bathroom. It was only when she returned, wrapped in a towel, to find him lying absolutely still on her bed that she wondered how she would explain a strange corpse in her room to the police. She felt his neck, his skin soft, a little cool, found his slow, steady pulse easily enough, her hand lingering a little longer than strictly necessary. At least he isn't dead, she thought. Not yet, anyway. It didn't look as if there was much chance of getting into her own bed anytime soon, though. With a sigh she hunted out her most conservative pyjamas - a pair of long pants and a shirt in matching plaid - dressed hurriedly with her back turned to the bed. When she was finished fatigue finally caught her, her energy seeming to drain away all at once so that she could barely keep her eyes open. Reluctantly she eyed the chair, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep perched on it. The bed was big enough, just, for two people, she knew. Funny, the thought of sharing it with the stranger didn't seem bad. Better than being alone. With a little hesitation she climbed onto the bed, shifting him over with her body, curling up with her back to him, facing the door. After a few moments the feel of his warmth against her back was comforting, pleasant. By the time she'd wondered about her strange reaction, she was asleep, the birds singing beyond her window. When she awoke the room was dark, the late afternoon sun weak through the drapes. He was still asleep, lying on his back almost exactly as she'd seen him last. For a while she lay still, listening to his steady heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. She felt so at ease, so...content, that it took her a few moments to realise that she was lying with her head nestled on his chest. In her sleep she'd moved to lie in the crook of his arm, resting her head beneath his chin, her arm draped possessively over him. The front of his shirt was wet where she'd dribbled a little. For as long as she dared she lay still, cheek resting on his chest, unwilling to spoil the way she felt by letting reality seep back in. Finally her fear of his waking overcame her reverie. Moving carefully so as not to disturb him she slid off the bed, picking her way through the bedroom to the door. He didn't stir as she exited, closing the door quietly behind her as she left. The cut on her stomach hurt like hell, a hot throbbing pain, and she needed two things badly: coffee and a smoke. The coffee was easy to organise and, within a few minutes of padding in her pink fluffy slippers into the kitchen, she was sipping delicately at a hot cup of the bitter liquid, gulping paracetamol quickly enough to burn her tongue. The smoke was harder, the house had a strict no smoking policy, and she was forced to open the back door and lean outside to avoid an argument. When she returned she heard the sound of voices, the front door closing and a few seconds later the house superintendent, Alison, walked in: matronly in jeans and a green sweat top, curly black hair and glasses. She glanced at Taylor as she entered, smiled in greeting, flicked the kettle on. "That was the police at the door - doing to house to house," she said, as if she was directing an episode of NYPD Blue. "Wanted to know if we saw anything." Spooned coffee into a mug near the sink. "Huh?" "Haven't you heard?" she said, raising her eyebrows in question. "Someone got murdered just down the road, in the park. The police are all over the place." Taylor froze, her blood turning to ice. Alison looked at her strangely, stirring water into her mug. "Are you okay, Taylor?" she said. "You look like you've seen a ghost." "What? No. No, I'm okay. Really. Just tired, late night." Oh, shit. Who the hell was in her room? Alison smiled, her florid face trying for an understanding look. "What time did you get in?" Taylor shook herself, tried to focus. "Uh... About five I think..." What if he was the murderer? Oh, fuck. "Alone?" Alison's face said that she knew the answer before she heard it. Taylor shrugged. "No, a friend came back with me." Alison nodded, trying for her motherly look. "Come on Taylor, you know the rule. No visitors without notification." "I know but it was a little difficult, really short notice. Honest." She smiled lop-sidedly. Her most endearing look. Alison pursed her lips and Taylor knew the argument was over. "Alright, Taylor. Just once, though... Don't make a habit of it." Taylor nodded, sipping her coffee to hide her nerves. "So, who got killed?" "Don't know, some of the girls said it was a local homeless person," she said, political correctness personified. "That's what... Three in the past month or so?" Taylor nodded absently, following Alison as she carried her coffee through into the living room. She curled up on the sofa. "What about your friend?" "Um... He's still sleeping," she said, wincing ever so slightly on the 'he', staring into her coffee so she wouldn't need to look at Alison's disapproving frown. For fuck's sake, what did she think, that she was a virgin or something? She just hoped she didn't ask for a name - that would be awkward. "Hmm. It's nearly four, perhaps you'd better get him up?" Taylor hesitated for a second, then: "Okay. I'll go make him a coffee, now." "That would be nice," Alison said, smiling encouragement. ****** He was still asleep on her bed. She put the coffee on her bedside table, sat next to him. For a while she just watched him sleep, he looked so peaceful, so handsome - far too good to be in her bed. Eventually she reached out, tentatively shook his shoulder. "Hello, are you awake?" she said, feeling a little foolish. He didn't stir so she shook him a second time, a little harder. "Hello. It's gone four in the afternoon, you have to get up." He blinked, his violet eyes settling on her, his hand rubbing his hair. "Hi," she said, smiling. "I got you a coffee." "Uh, thanks," his voice hoarse, sleepy. "How are you feeling?" "I'm good. Better," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. Wakefulness seemed to seep into him slowly, his hands rubbing his eyes, his hair. It took a while before he turned to face her. "I owe you my life, I think. I don't even know your name." His eyes were so intense she felt herself blush slightly, looked down. "Taylor. Taylor Mackenzie. You?" "Alex. Nice to meet you Taylor." He smiled and she felt suddenly boneless, weak. "And thank you, I'm in your debt." He sipped his coffee, raised the cup in thanks: "Twice over." She smiled shyly. "So what happened to you?" He rubbed his face with his hands. "I was attacked, as you saw." "By who?" He paused for a moment, his eyes still on her. He seemed to be thinking. "That's a... A long story. And not for now. Maybe later... Can I use your bathroom?" "Sure. I'll show you." When he stood his movements were sure and graceful, no trace of the difficulties he seemed to be suffering from the night before. Which meant, she realised, that the blood must have belonged to someone else. Shit. "Are you okay?" he said, catching her suspicious look. For a moment she stood undecided. She remembered the sound from the copse, the sight of the strange man watching her. But this was murder and all the evidence was there; he was at least a suspect. She should go and tell the police. But she so much didn't want it to be true. She remembered how good it had felt to wake up next to him, her head resting on his chest. She'd never felt like that. She took a breath. "Look, the police were here earlier. Someone got killed in the park last night," she said. His eyes were suddenly alert. "And you think I might be responsible?" "You tell me." Please convince me. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Okay. I didn't kill anyone, I promise," he said. His eyes searched hers. He seemed to be thinking, his face undecided. Then, after a moment: "Look, I'll tell you everything, explain everything - but not here, not now." For a second he paused again, glanced at the clock. "How about over dinner... tomorrow evening? Unless you have plans..." Plans? Yeah, like getting fucked by total strangers for money. I don't think so. She smiled. "Dinner'd be nice." "Good, it's a date." She got butterflies when he said that. He peeled his jacket off, it had a large slash cut through it on the side, the gap crusted with blood. Beneath it his white shirt was slashed in the same place, soaked so thickly with blood that the fabric was stiff. He peeled the shirt off. There was no wound. His skin beneath the slash mark was covered with blood, dried in the right place - but his skin was whole and unmarked. He looked at her watching him with her eyes wide. "Taylor, I'll tell you everything over dinner, okay? Trust me. Please." The last had a pleading tone. She stared at him for a long while before answering. "Okay, I think I trust you," she said at last. Then: "Come on, the shower's down here." While he showered she washed the worst of the blood from his jacket in the sink. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Besides, he could hardly walk past the police, even in the dark, with blood all over his clothes. He emerged with a towel tied about his waist. Again Taylor found herself staring. He was perfect, his body chiselled, athletic. He didn't seem to notice. "I need to get a change of clothes," he said, pulling his pants on, drying himself. "Shall I pick you up at seven tomorrow?" "Yeah, okay. What shall I wear?" She tried to sound cool, tried not to let her excitement show. He looked her up and down, in her pyjamas and slippers. "Come as you are," he said, smiling warmly. She blushed furiously. ****** "So, is Alex really your name?" she said, sipping her coffee. They sat at a window table in a small Italian bistro opposite the cathedral, its bulking stonework lit in the orange glow of spotlights. For Taylor the meal had passed in a blur, she couldn't remember a time when she'd felt happier, more alive. Sat opposite, looking, she thought, really sexy in a dark suit and light blue shirt, Alex had been perfect: charming, attentive, everything she'd hoped. Just being with him had made her feel excited. Conversation during dinner had been light; mostly he'd talked and she'd listened. He'd chatted easily about her, the little she'd been willing to share, not pushing her, accepting. Later about food, wine, places he'd been - somehow he'd made her feel as if she was the centre of his conversation despite the little she could contribute, caught her up in his company. The one subject they hadn't touched had been him, it had been like a ghost at the table - a thing waiting to be acknowledged. All day before he picked her up she'd been like a woman possessed. For a second time that day she'd bathed, soaking as long as she dared. Worryingly, the wound on her belly looked worse - inflamed, raw - and hurt really badly. She'd tried to ignore it. She had bought a pair of hold-ups, black and lace topped, but had to borrow a bra and panties from Karen, another resident, which were white lace. Her tits were slightly larger than Karen's so they were pushed up ever so slightly - something she didn't really mind. Alice, whose room was opposite, lent her the dress. It was tight and black and short to show off her slim figure, her long legs, but it was sleeveless - leaving the celtic knot tattoo on her left shoulder exposed - which made her a little nervous. Alice also helped her with her make-up and Alison surprised her by donating an expensive perfume. It was so long since she'd been on an actual date that she'd forgotten what was involved. No, scratch that, she'd never been on a proper date. It probably explained why she was so nervous. Eventually she was ready. Smiling back from the hall mirror, the pretty girl with the blond pixie cut and bright blue eyes looked a million miles away from the frightened face in Curtis's bathroom. Even Alison had told her that she looked fabulous just before she'd run out to Alex's waiting car, seeming to approve of the change in her, if not the reason. As he'd ordered coffee she'd slipped out to the bathroom. When she'd returned the coffee was waiting and a new intensity seemed to hover over the table. For a while he'd sat quietly and she'd asked about his name. It seemed harmless. It broke the tension. He smiled. "Sort of. I suppose it's a translation," he said, playing idly with his spoon. After a while he looked up, his face serious. "Well, I promised you the truth, though it's difficult to know where to start." He paused, looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Before I do I want to say two things. First you should know that I've never told anyone what I'm going to tell you; so I have no idea how you'll react." She remained silent, watching him, cradling her coffee cup gently. "Second, I've had a really good time this evening. No matter what you think of me from now on," he said, smiling a crooked smile on his so perfect face. Taylor felt herself flush, had to look away. For some reason she felt really warm, couldn't stop smiling. "Thank you. Me too," she said. She wanted to say more. Wanted him to reach across then and kiss her, or hold her hand, or something. Wanted it so badly it was like a physical ache, her skin tingling, but his eyes were distant and she knew it wasn't going to happen. Not then. "Okay, as you guessed my name is not Alex. It's Aleksey. Aleksey Iosifovich Makarov, in fact. Although my friends call me Lyosha," he said, smiling at her, "or Alex, now. I was born in nineteen sixty-three in Leningrad, which is now Saint Petersburg in the Soviet Union, which is now Russia, and -" "Whoa, hang on..." Taylor held up her hand to stop him. Stared at him. He wasn't kidding. "Wait, that makes you... What? Fourty-six, fourty-seven?" He didn't look older than twenty-five, six at a real push, she thought. "Fourty-six. Although to be honest, I've stopped counting." "No way. You look... I mean, I thought you were younger..." She felt deceived, a little disappointed - as if the chance of there being something between them was receding. Did it matter that she was only eighteen? She didn't think she minded him being older. "Physically I am," he said, sensitive to the disappointment on her face. He paused. Sipped his coffee, visibly struggled to find his next words. "Taylor, this isn't easy to explain... Okay, I'm a vampire..." He watched the incredulity in her face, held up his hand to stop her speaking. "At least that's the name that's stuck." He sipped his coffee, staring out of the window pensively. She stared. This was weird. She tried to work out if he was teasing her. Did he think she was stupid, was that it? Just some stupid kid from care. Because she wasn't. That was one thing everyone could agree on - she wasn't stupid. She may have cut a lot of school - who didn't? - and her qualifications were a little light, but she wasn't stupid. "I was sixteen when I was infected with the virus... The scientists believe that our bodies age about one year for every five that pass - so physically I'm twenty-three, twenty-four." He looked at her, saw the disbelief on her face, looked down. "I'm not doing this very well," he said. "It'll probably make more sense if I start again, right at the beginning, okay?" She nodded, took another sip of coffee. For a while he was quiet, organising his thoughts. "Okay," he said at last, "there's an island in what used to be the Soviet Union called Ostrov Vozrozhdeniya - Rebirth Island. It was apptly named. After the end of World War Two, at the beginning of the Cold War, it became the location of a Soviet bioweapons facility." He paused, his eyes down. "You have to understand - it was the Cold War; the Soviet Union, everyone, was looking for new weapons. At Vozrozhdeniya they were experimenting with recombinant DNA, ways to weaponise diseases - things like anthrax. Anyway, during this research they created or stumbled upon the virus. Moebius they called it. "It isn't a true virus, I'm told. It doesn't behave like other viruses, anyway. But, of course, it was mostly, if not entirely, engineered; not natural. "When it infects a human host - in large concentrations - it alters the host's DNA. Makes them stronger, faster, enhances senses - extends lifespan. As you saw with my wound, it also speeds healing," he said, looking up at her. "The potential was obvious." She nodded, unsure what other reaction was expected. She wasn't sure how much sense it all made, it was so far from her life that she had no frame of reference. "They brought in people from the Gulags, from state orphanages. Infected them. Many died." His face was distant. "The first of us - the first of the 'Oprichniki', the 'Men Apart' - was created in nineteen fifty two, the year before Stalin died. At that time they thought he was the vanguard of a new army of enhanced soldiers. It wasn't to be. "You see, the virus enhances its host but it also brings with it its own suite of weaknesses, too. We react badly to UV light, to sunlight - it makes us torpid, weak. Hardly an advantage in an army." He smiled. "But worse than this, the virus also attacks the central nervous system - creates an insatiable thirst for blood, which is where the moniker came from. Vampires." He spoke as if to himself, his face deep in thought. "Without blood the virus alters the personality of the host - breaks down brain function, makes them paranoid, anxious, hyper-aggressive - eventually driving them insane. It also accelerates their enhancements - makes them stronger even as it destroys their mind," he said, looking at her. "The virus is transmitted in saliva, you see, needs to enter the bloodstream to infect a host - through wounds or by biting - like rabies." Taylor felt the first stirrings of unease, sipped her coffee to cover it. "Of course the first Oprichniki didn't know this. Almost invariably they went insane - like animals, feral, wild." He was talking quietly now, more to himself than her. "The changes were irreversible. But that wasn't the worst. People bitten," he said, wincing, "people bitten, infected by them underwent the changes, too. Everywhere the Oprichniki went, a plague followed." Man Apart He swallowed the last of his coffee. "Those of us created later were better off - we knew, were supplied with blood, or obtained it from one another. By that time the program had been declared a failure, stopped, covered-up. It became our job to hunt down and stop the feral Oprichniki - and those they'd infected." "Is that why you're here?" she said, her voice steady despite her growing fear. He nodded. "The first Oprichnik, a man called Malyuta Skuratov, is still alive," he said. "I've been assigned to stop him. I followed him here." He smiled wryly "I'd thought I was hunting him...until the park." He smiled at her. She tried to smile back, but it felt a little sickly. "What's he like?" she said, trying to keep her voice light. He looked at her. She sipped her coffee, covering her tension. Outside the window traffic passed by, people strolled past. "Odious," he said, his face hard. "He seems to have indulged his thirst for blood before the virus drove him completely insane, but he is very far from normal. If you ever meet him, you'll know. He's an evil, cruel man." The shadow of something passed briefly behind his eyes. Her palms were sweating. "What happens to the ones...bitten...by the..." She waved her hand to show she was struggling with the word. "You know...feral vampires." "The virus attacks their brains in much the same way - the degradation seems to be quicker if anything - they end up degenerate, craving blood. Fortunately, in low concentrations the virus doesn't enhance its host and they lack the ability to infect others - so there's no cascade effect," he said, toying with his cup. "Strangely, they seem to develop a protective personality towards the person that infected them - and a hatred of other vampires." Fear crawled over her, gooseflesh on her arms. Her hand massaged the wound on her abdomen beneath the table. Oh, fuck. "It was men infected by Skuratov who attacked me in the park, probably them who killed the murdered man. I drove them off, but they were in the copse - waiting. If you hadn't come along..." He smiled warmly but cold sweat was running down her back. "Alex..." Her voice sounded odd, strained. "What?" "Alex... I think I've been bitten." She watched the colour drain from his face. "There's a cure, right? A vaccine or something?" she said, speaking quickly, words tumbling out. She was on the verge of sobbing. He stared at her, as if he wanted to speak but couldn't, his face white. "Alex...you're scaring me..." She wanted to scream at him to hold her, to reassure her, to make it all okay, to stop looking at her like that... "Okay. Sorry. Right..." He looked frightened, concerned. "Okay, start at the beginning... It may not be him..." Her head dropped, staring down so he couldn't see her face. She didn't even want to think about what had happened; she really didn't want to tell him about it - that would kill any chance of romance between them. Shit. It was only when she'd thought the words that she realised how badly she'd wanted it to happen. Fuck. Unless he wanted an insane cannibalistic prostitute for a girlfriend... Yeah, right, she thought. "Oh shit. Okay, here goes..." she said. Slowly she explained what had happened, described the man in as much detail as she could. He was pretty distinctive. Long before she finished she could see the truth on Alex's face. It was him. Alex looked aghast. She rubbed her face, brushing her tears away, stared back at him defiantly. Weirdly she realised that she was more frightened of seeing the rejection in his eyes than she was of the virus. Her armour came back down. Who the fuck was he to judge her? It felt brittle. She felt brittle. It wasn't fair. "Taylor - I need to look at your wound. Will you come to my hotel, or shall I come back with you?" She shook her head, turning to hide her face from him, not to let him see how close to crying she was. "Look, I'll go see a doctor in the morning, don't worry about it." She grabbed her purse. Stood. "What? Wait..." If she stayed any longer she was going to break, she could feel it. Any second now she'd be sobbing on his chest, begging him to hold her, to make it okay... Alex fumbled with money. As if by magic the waiter appeared - like Mr Benn's fucking shopkeeper, she thought. He got between them, mumbling about the food, asking if they'd enjoyed the meal. Taylor made for the door. She didn't run but she walked quickly, she knew the area well. By the time Alex extricated himself she was gone. He stood at the entrance, looking about, confused. Traffic drove past the bistro, people walked along the pavement. No sign of her. What the hell had just happened? He shouted, calling several times: "Taylor!" People looked. Stared. No Taylor. For a moment he considered that it could be the onset of the virus, dawning irrationality, anxiety. The thought made him sick. It was too soon, he knew that, but the thought... He needed to find her. He wanted to find her. Wanted to know what he'd done that was so wrong. He should have known it. In the park, when she'd come near him, he'd smelt Malyuta on her. He'd dismissed it at the time as the smell of the infected men. Realised now that he should have trusted his instincts. He checked his watch, just past midnight. Cure? There was no fucking cure. Infected people had to be 'retired', 'euthanised', 'calmed' - they all meant killed. The chance of the virus mutating - allowing cross infection - was too high, no chance could be taken. Not Taylor. There was no fucking way he was going to let that happen. He needed to speak to Polina. He needed to find Taylor. Taylor first. ****** Alison opened the door a crack, peering out around the chain. Behind her he could see other faces. He didn't think any were Taylor. He wasn't surprised she was so nervous, he'd been hammering on the door so hard it had been shaking in the frame. "Hi, uh, is Taylor here? I really need to talk to her." "No, no she isn't," Alison said, her face hard. "What have you done to her? Have you upset her?" He sighed. "Yes. Yes I have," he said. "But I don't know how. I really need to talk to her... Please." His candour seemed to disarm her a little. Her face softened. "Look, she isn't here, alright." "Do you know where she might be? It's really important." "No, I don't." "She's probably at Curtis's place." A new voice, shouting from within. "Curtis's place?" he said. "Do you have the address?" "No. I can show you." Alison closed the door, unchained it. Opened it again, wider. The speaker came forward. A girl, same age as Taylor, shoulder length brown hair, jeans and a grey hooded sweat top. "Alice, are you sure about this?" said Alison, concerned. Alice nodded. "Taylor's alright. And she liked him," she said, nodding at Alex, "I could tell." "Okay. Look Mister -" Alison started. "Alex." " - Alex. Curtis is trouble, a real nasty piece of work. If you must go there, leave Alice out of it, okay?" "I will. Thank you." He turned back to the car, Alice walking alongside. "Alex." Alison. He turned. "Taylor really liked you, you know. Don't mess it up for her." He had nothing to say to that. ****** "That one. With the broken door," Alice said, pointing. "Thank you, Alice. Do you want to go down to the car to wait?" Alice laughed. "No, I want to watch. I have a strange feeling Curtis isn't expecting you," she said, putting a strange emphasis on the word 'you'. Alex shrugged. "Stay back, then, okay?" Loud music was playing in the flat, the beat thumping. He knocked, banging hard on the door. Nothing. Impatient, he knocked again, hammering on the door so that the broken bottom panel shook like a cat-flap. Still nothing. For a brief moment he smiled at Alice, then he turned and kicked the door off its hinges, sending it smashing into the wall with an almighty crash. The music went off. Alice looked at him, her mouth as wide open as her eyes. "I have limited patience," he said. He strode into the flat. "Taylor!" he shouted, stepping over the remains of the door. "Taylor, are you in here?" The door to the bathroom was open - empty - the one to the right closed. He couldn't be bothered with subtlety now - kicked it out of the frame to fly across what was obviously a bedroom. Empty. "What the fuck!" a voice said. When he turned a tall, burly man with short ginger hair was stood there, the thick half of a pool cue in hand. "Are you Curtis?" he said. "Fuck no. Who the fuck are you?" "I'm looking for Taylor. Is Taylor here?" "What the fuck you talking about, you fucker? You can't come in here like this, I'll fuck you up..." He brandished the cue. Alex growled, kicked him in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the lounge with a massive grunt of exhaled air. His body crashed into an oversize TV, toppling it backwards with the sound of smashing glass and plastic, before ending up on top of it in the corner. He didn't get up. "Curtis, I assume?" Alex said, standing in the doorway of the lounge. Curtis stared, wide eyed and stupid. A bottle of beer in his hand. "Yeah, man - I mean, what the fuck?" "Is Taylor here?" "What?" Alex took a step inside. Ryan groaned heavily. "I said, is Taylor here?" Slowly and quietly, menace in every word. Limited patience. Curtis looked at his face, colour draining from his own. "No, man. No, she isn't. I mean - fuck. Look at my crib." Alex cursed. "Listen. I have to find her. Do you know where she is?" "No. How should I know where that stupid bitch is?" His cellphone rang. He flicked it open. "Hello?" "Alex? Is that you?" She sounded frightened. "Taylor! Where are you? What's wrong?" "Alex. You've got to help me, please. He wants money. He says he'll let me go if you give it to him. Alex...I'm sorry about earlier. I'm frightened." The phone went quiet. "Taylor? Taylor!" The next voice spoke in Russian. "Hello Lyosha." Damn. "Malyuta! What have you done with her?" "Nothing. Yet. She's quite lovely, tasty. I can see why you like her." "Leave her alone!" "Gladly. All I want is a little money, enough to see me out of the country, perhaps. And you can have her back - untouched." "How much?" "Five thousand. In cash, obviously." It was clear that Malyuta had a fair idea how much cash he had. This was just one of the drawbacks with avoiding sunlight - it was hard to bank. "Alright." He checked the time. One fourty-five. "When? Where?" "Midnight, tomorrow. In the centre of the footbridge over the river, the one opposite the gallery. Do you know it?" "Yes." "You will enter from the west bank no earlier than midnight." "Yes. I understand," he said. "Let me talk to her again." The phone went quiet for a moment, again. "Alex?" "Taylor, listen. I've agreed an exchange with him, tomorrow night, midnight. Just sit tight, okay?" "Okay Alex." "Taylor?" "Yes." "Remember what I said - about the virus driving people mad, aggressive. Don't do anything to make him angry, alright? Just sit tight. Wait." "Okay. Alex..." The phone clicked off. "Ha, see. Bitch is able to get -" Almost without thinking, Alex backhanded him across the face. There was a crunch of breaking bone and Curtis seemed to spin in space, flipping over to crash onto the glass topped coffee table, smashing it into a hundred bloody splinters, practically where he'd been standing. It made him feel a little better. He took a wide eyed and giggling Alice home. ****** The river was swollen with recent rains, its churning surface brown with sediment. At eleven fifty he stood on the west bank, staring across the river, drinking bitter coffee from a paper cup. He couldn't see anyone on the bridge. He waited, he wasn't going to risk Taylor's life by being early. He'd already completed one circuit around it - crossing one bridge up from the footbridge, walking past it and crossing one bridge further down. There were the usual people - evening revellers, loiterers, workers - but nothing out of the ordinary. The footbridge itself was a modern construction of steel and aluminium, suspended from two enormous steel A-frame masts set on the west bank. Running for nearly five hundred feet, between an athletic ground on the east and the commercial centre of the city on the west, it offered no opportunity for concealment. It was, in short, a good place to choose for an exchange. The money was in a rucksack, slung over one shoulder. It was slightly short of five thousand, some few hundred, but it would have to be enough. He doubted that Malyuta would be counting it too thoroughly anyway. Midnight. Somewhere far off a clock chimed. He checked the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, hidden by his jacket. Eyes alert he started onto the bridge. It was lit by a number of floodlights and uplighters set at intervals along its surface, shining with a blueish light. Beneath he could hear the hiss of the water rushing past. There were a couple of people using the bridge, but it wasn't until he was about a third of the way to the centre that he saw Malyuta and Taylor, walking towards him from the other side. She still wore the dress she'd had on last night, a ladder in one stocking, over it her black puffa jacket. Her make-up was smeared, mascara run all around her eyes, but she seemed to be okay. She was just as pretty as ever, he thought, those blue eyes that had caught his from the first, her full lips. He smiled at her, trying to reassure her. He stopped short, waiting for Malyuta to take the lead. "Hello Lyosha," he said, speaking in English. He wore a long black coat, a hat covering his bald head, pulled down low on his face. He held Taylor's wrist in his left hand, the downstream side. "Malyuta." His eyes never left Taylor. She tried to smile at him, a fleeting curve of her lips, but her eyes betrayed her fear. For a while there was silence as a man walked past, glancing oddly at them as he hurried by. "I know you'll find this hard to believe, Lyosha, but it's good to see you again. It's been too long since the Oprichniki were together." "You're right. I do find that hard to believe." Malyuta smiled, spoke to Taylor. "There are few of us left. We have spent most of the last thirty years killing one another, but we have much in common. All of us were outcasts, even before we became 'Men Apart'... Sorry, I forget, in the twenty-first century it should be 'People Apart' - there are women vampires too." Malyuta chuckled in his throat. Alex kept quiet, not wanting to risk angering him. "Lyosha here is an orphan. His parents died in the Gulag, he was raised by the state - isn't that right Lyosha?" "Yes, it's right." Malyuta laughed again. "Something you have in commmon with our friend Taylor, here." He tugged on her wrist, pulling her forward. She flinched. "Indeed." Alex kept his eyes on Taylor, trying to reassure her. "You seem to have become quite attached to her, Lyosha." "Yes, I have. And I've brought the money you wanted." "Good. Good." Malyuta laughed. He lifted Taylor up by the wrist - as if she weighed no more than a small child - swinging her over the railings to dangle helplessly above the surging water. It was done in a second. Taylor hung there, shrieking in panic, her legs scissoring the air helplessly, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. "No!" Alex yelled, stepping forward. Malyuta smiled - lowering Taylor slightly so she screamed again. Alex froze, hands away from his body, face frantic - showing he had no hostile intent. "Alex!" she screamed, kicking helplessly in Malyuta's grip. She had never been so scared. She couldn't swim, the water was surging fifteen feet below her, fast and freezing cold. If he dropped her, she was going to die. She whimpered slightly. "Put the money down, Lyosha," Malyuta said quietly, eyes narrowed, showing no apparent strain from holding Taylor's weight in one hand. Taylor's shoe fell free, spinning down to disappear into the churning water. She was staring wide eyed, petrified. "Okay, okay. Here." He lowered the bag to the bridge, stepping back, hands out. "Just bring her back in...please." Taylor swung like a pendulum. Malyuta smiled. "Now, where would the fun be in that?" He dropped her. Taylor shrieked in panic. "No!" Alex screamed, leaping forward, instinctively reaching for her. He didn't pause, shucking his jacket he threw himself over the edge of the bridge, diving into the water after her. Taylor hit the water with her back, the strength of the current already tearing her along even as she went under. The water was freezing, shock at the icy cold making her gasp for breath - she swallowed water, coughing and choking - suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't get air down her throat. It was pitch black, she couldn't even tell which way was up the current was tumbling her about so much. Her puffa jacket soaked up water like a sponge, becoming heavier, dragging her down. She was going to die. Desperately she struggled to get her jacket off. It was so cold. The current churned her about. For a brief moment she broke the surface and saw the bridge off in the distance then, still unable to draw breath, she was under again, spinning in the dark. Her chest was burning, her mind screaming at her to breathe... She knew she was thrashing, trying to get up but nothing made sense...she couldn't seem to grip her jacket. It was so cold. Alex hit the water like an arrow, sliding into its depth. Already he could feel the effects of the cold on his body - his heightened metabolism struggling to compensate, the virus fighting to survive, to keep its host alive. Blood was flowing away from his limbs - trying to keep his core warm. He tried to let the water work for him - surfacing naturally, not trying to swim, letting the current wash him along at Taylor's speed, eyes desperately scanning the surface. He saw people on the banking pointing, shouting - just ahead. For a moment the current surged and he saw her, just her blond head on the surface for a moment. He struck out for her, all the strength of his enhanced body fighting against the current. It was like swimming up a mountain, every stroke seemed to bring her no closer, each movement accelerating the chilling of his arms, his legs, his body. Taylor knew she was panicking, grabbing the water as if it was a ladder she could climb, her numb hands and legs uselessly pedalling water. At least she didn't feel cold anymore, for some reason she felt warm. She closed her eyes. It was a shame, she thought, she'd really have liked to kiss Alex, now she wasn't going to see him again. Somehow that seemed really important. More important than anything else. She wondered if he'd miss her. Alex reached for her, tried to grab her jacket, but his hands were numb and he couldn't get a grip. She'd stopped moving, her eyes closed. Desperate he tried again, this time he snagged her hair. He gripped it as if his life depended on it, pulling them closer. His other hand got around her neck, pulling her closer, pulling her head out of the water onto his chest, stretching her chin up. For a moment she was absolutely still, like a rag doll, then he felt her gulp air, coughing, thrashing about weakly. Relief surged through him. He lay still, supporting her. He knew he wasn't strong enough to swim to the shore, the enemy now was cold. If they didn't get out soon hypothermia would be the killer. The current swept them downstream, towards another bridge, one he'd crossed earlier. On it he could see strobing lights - blue and red - people gathered, watching. He lay back, waiting. As they approached, ropes flew from the bank, floatation aids falling into the water ahead of him. Voices were shouting but he couldn't make out what was being said, focused on the nearest aid.