one twisted voice Read online

  A murmur of conversation brought me around. Eyeing me from the steps of the walk-up townhouse were three youths. They were straggly, unkempt: I was in good company. Since my “problem” metamorphosed it has been a struggle to maintain a decent wardrobe. Two, three times a month my togs get shredded, and I wasn’t on a pay scale to replace them with the best of threads. Duffy said I should invest in a nice Lycra jumpsuit, good and stretchy, but I told him I’m a PI not a freakin’ superhero. So I’d become a regular at the various thrift stores and cheaper-end strip malls where I picked up off the rack sale items. As it was, my raincoat was a size too big, and my chinos a bit baggy around the knees. My Doc Marten boots were my only long-term investment, but I’d had to replace the laces plenty of times. To the three youths I wouldn’t appear an obvious target for robbery, but you never could tell. I looked at them, holding them under my gaze, and they stared back with that ballsy attitude that comes from youth.

  ‘You Dalton?’ one of them finally asked. He was skinny, had a turn in one eye. In some cultures a cockeye was a sign of evil. In The City it just meant you looked stupid.

  ‘Who were you expecting?’

  ‘You don’t look like a cop.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not, so you can stop trying to hide that joint behind your back.’

  The youth brought out a skinny spliff and took a toke on it. ‘How’d you know I was smoking?’

  I was going to tell him I could smell the pot from a dozen yards away, but I didn’t. ‘Kinda goes with the territory,’ I said as I took a look up the steps to the townhouse. It was dilapidated. Actually, that was too kind a term. It was a dump. Probably the worst dump in a dump of a neighbourhood. It was three storeys tall, had a peaked roof with dormer window – blacked out my astute Private Dick mind noted - and was painted the colour of cow manure. The only other colour in evidence was the proliferation of graffiti sprayed on the front door and steps.

  The other two youths flanked Squint Eye. One was fat and sweaty, the other skinny and dirty. They muttered something to him, and he waved them down. He did all the talking: The Big Kahuna. Apparently he could talk and smoke at the same time, the joint bobbing and flaring with each exhalation.

  ‘Are you packing?’ he said.

  With a look up at the blacked-out window, I asked, ‘Should I be?’

  ‘I have to pat you down before you can see Mister Bishop.’

  ‘Do that,’ I told him, ‘and you’ll have to have one of your pals roll your next joint.’

  At his incredulous look, I added, ‘You want to keep your hands, right?’

  ‘Shit, man! No need to be so aggressive.’

  ‘Nobody’s patting me down. Now, are you going to show me inside or do I just kick the door in?’

  Squint Eye took a step back, glancing at each of his friends in turn. I made a noise in my throat, something akin to a growl.

  ‘We have to check that you don’t have certain objects on you.’

  ‘Objects?’

  ‘Icons,’ he said.

  ‘What? Like Marilyn Monroe?’

  Again the incredulous look. I gave him a lazy smile, the twinkle of an eyetooth.

  He told his buddies to hold the fort. God help the Alamo if they were their only hope. Then he went up the steps. I followed, avoiding stepping on the graffiti tags. They weren’t the usual gang symbols. These I recognised as something much more telling: pentacles, pentagrams, black magic seals, and one that said, “Punk’s not dead, just rotten”. Go figure.

  To be fair, I was surprised that someone with enough cash to hire a PI would live in a dive like Bishop’s house. But then, with his condition, I supposed it was also fair that he’d prefer to hide out in this run down quarter of The City than set himself up in a swanky pad downtown. And before anyone asks: I’m not talking about his albinism.

  Squinty Eye unlocked the front door. He made a flourish like a Vegas magician. Maybe he expected applause but opening a door with a key wasn’t that impressive to me.

  ‘You aren’t coming in?’ I said.

  He used the glowing ember of his spliff to indicate a set of sagging stairs. ‘All the way to the top.’

  ‘Does Bishop have something against light bulbs?’

  ‘Hurts his eyes,’ Squinty Eye said. ‘He only permits the use of candles.’

  I wondered if that was why the youth had a gammy eye: squinting by candlelight.

  I went inside, my Airware soles sticking to a threadbare runner carpet. I didn’t like to think about what I was stepping in. The door was pulled to behind me. I was in darkness. Funny enough, a residual effect of my ‘problem’ is a heightened sense of smell, but my eyesight was no better than before, but then a hang over topped up with five measures of DV had left me seeing double. Double the darkness in this instant.

  I pulled out my cigarette lighter and snapped it open. A quick roll of the wheel on the flint and I got a stuttering yellow flame going.

  The stairwell stank worse than a mattress in a crack whore’s pad. I tried not to breathe but it was difficult to accomplish going up on legs rubbery from a heavy session. I sucked air in at the corners of my mouth, my teeth clamped tight, tongue watering almost as much as my eyes. The lambent flame from my Zippo chased shadows before me like thieving jackdaws fleeing the scene of a crime.

  From above came the soft strains of music. I half expected something esoteric, exotic. I got Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Awe-ah-he-ah-helll….

  I frowned. Not because Bishop should enjoy old-school rock ’n’ roll, but how the hell could Buddy ‘Rave On’ when the volume was so low? Rock ’n’ roll should be played loud and proud, man.

  Reaching the penultimate step I paused, checking either side of the landing with my impromptu torch. The shadows now swayed at the periphery of the luminance like broad shouldered vultures. A shiver went up my spine, ruffling the short hairs on the back of my neck. What the hell was I doing here taking a job like this? Oh, yeah. The money. I’d a big family to support in Jack, Jim and Johnny. That’d be Daniels, Beam and Walker, if you were wondering.

  I stepped up onto the landing. The runner carpet had literally run out. I was on bare boards, worn and stained. Much of the stench emanated from them. I held the lighter closer to the boards and saw that they were a rank sticky mess. A reddish brown sludge. For all intents and purposes Bishop’s cleaning habits extended to someone throwing down a bucket of water in his room and letting the water sluice the filth out onto the landing. Gathered in the cracks were bunches of hair like you find stuck in your shower plughole. They weren’t fur balls coughed up by a cat, I was certain.

  Was any amount of cash worth treading on that floor? Freakin’ A. Despite what he was, Bishop’s money was as good as anyone else’s.

  I rapped on the door.

  The music was turned down even further so it was just a tinny burble, sounding like a wasp stuck in a tin can.

  ‘Enter.’ Bishop managed to mangle that single word.

  I pressed my fingertips to the door and gave it a gentle shove.

  Bishop was seated on an old chair, hand carved by the look of things. In the small room with its peaked ceiling and blacked out dormer window, the two candles he’d lit were ample to illuminate him, as well as cast a baleful glow over me. I blinked.

  Not at the light but at the naked man sitting cross-legged before me. With his white skin and lean frame, Bishop looked not unlike a third candle, the way he was perched crookedly on the chair. His hair hung loose, a fringe of gossamer over his eyes. Without looking up, he said, ‘Ah, Roman Dalton. You came as promised.’

  ‘Just so we’re straight from the get go, when my business card states Private Dick the emphasis is on ‘private’. So no funny business, bub.’

  ‘You are uncomfortable with my state of undress?’

  ‘So long as you keep your legs crossed and your hands in your lap you can dress as you please.’

  ‘I didn’t take you for the homophobic type; in fact I did not think you sh
ared many of the prejudices I see in other men.’

  ‘I’m not homophobic. I have few prejudices. Just wasn’t expecting you sitting there in the buff.’

  ‘My condition makes clothing uncomfortable for me.’ He waved the back of a hand to a sideboard across the room. On top of it were many vials and bottles. ‘I must apply many salves and potions in order to stave off inflammation of my skin. It suits me to sit unclothed in the cool darkness, but if you wish me to put on a robe I’ll gladly do so.’

  ‘So long as you don’t perform an impromptu Riverdance you can do what you want.’

  Bishop sniggered to himself. ‘You are a funny man, Roman.’

  Speak for yourself, Bishop, I thought.

  I clicked off my Zippo, pushed it into my raincoat.

  ‘Please. Come in and close the door.’

  I stepped inside, checking for somewhere clean to set my feet. It was an impossible task. I took a look around. Not much in the way of belongings.

  It was almost as if Bishop read my mind. ‘I have little need of material things,’ he said, his thick tongue slurring his esses. ‘That is not to say that I am not wealthy. Your fee is assured, Dalton.’

  ‘Would rather see the readies, if you don’t mind.’

  He waved at the sideboard again. ‘Top drawer.’

  I moved to the cupboard and pulled open the drawer. A stack of Benjamin’s peered back at me. I didn’t take them out.

  ‘You dither,’ he said, sounding disappointed. ‘It is not enough?’

  It wasn’t the amount of cash, just that a pang of morality told me that this was blood money. Literally. Despite being down at my heel, was I really so desperate to take a wage from such as Bishop?

  ‘I thought that you of all men would be the last to judge me,’ Bishop said.

  I quirked a brow at him.

  ‘Let’s not play games, Dalton. You know what I am as assuredly as I know what you are.’ He finally lifted his head and his eyes flashed redly in the wan light.

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ I admitted.

  ‘And you rebel against the notion of working for a Strigoi?’

  ‘If a Strigoi is the same as a vampire then I have to admit I don’t have much love for bloodsuckers.’

  ‘”Let him without sin cast the first stone,”’ Bishop quoted.

  ‘I don’t drink blood.’

  ‘No but you have consumed raw flesh. Where’s the difference?’

  I stood there. A sour taste rose in my gorge. But what could I say. He was right. ‘Not out of choice.’

  Bishop placed a hand to his chest. His fingers were long, the tips bulbous and spatula-like. His nails had been bitten to the quick. ‘You think I had any choice in my condition?’

  I offered him a shrug. Maybe he’d been jumped in a dark alley by creatures of the night the way I had, except his sire was a little more suave than the hairy bikers who put the bite on me.

  He laughed, a bubbling noise that emanated from his gut. ‘You thought at first that I was an albino. Understandable when you viewed my pale skin.’ Again he touched his chest, and I noted that since entering the room I’d never seen it rise or fall. ‘But this is not the result of a lack of pigmentation, but due to being bloodless.’

  On closer inspection his skin not only looked translucent, it also looked parchment-like, a bit scaly. Dehydrated.

  ‘When was your last drink, Dalton? No. You need not answer. I can smell that it was but a little while ago. You’re an alcoholic, yes?’

  ‘I’m no alcoholic,’ I sneered. ‘I’m a drunk.’

  ‘And a belligerent one at that.’ Bishop waved away his remark. ‘Forgive me. We are not here to cast aspersions. My point is that you rely on the crutch that your cups offer you.’

  See-sawing my head, I could only offer a grimace of agreement.

  ‘I too need to drink,’ Bishop said, ‘only my tipple is not bourbon. Are we so unalike?’

  ‘My drinking habit never kills anyone,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Only your liver.’ Bishop smiled, and I saw that his toothsomeness was all the more prominent because of the number of canines in his mouth. Way too many. No wonder he slurred his words. ‘There’s a joke I’ve heard tell by drunkards. It goes something like, “I have a drink problem. I can’t get enough of it.”’

  Hardy-hardy-har. Bishop was proving a right ol’ wheeze. I barely cracked a smile at his wit.

  He actually looked embarrassed, and again made the waving motion.

  ‘I’m in a worse position than any of those drunkards,’ he said. ‘I have a drink problem. I can’t get any of it.’

  I thought about Squint Eye and his buddies outside. I hadn’t checked their throats for hickeys but I just bet that Bishop had chewed down on them at some time. It was how bloodsuckers made their goons, wasn’t it?

  ‘It’s a bitch having to go cold turkey,’ I said.

  He indicated the floor.

  ‘As you can tell I’ve attempted to assuage my thirst. Don’t worry, it isn’t human blood. It is the blood of stray dogs and cats, even a pet goat.’ He plucked at the dry skin of his abdomen. ‘As you can tell, I have gained no sustenance from it. It caused nausea and vomiting: yet I have not touched human blood in weeks.’

  ‘A vamp with a conscience,’ I said.

  He shook his head, corrected me. ‘A Strigoi with a fear.’

  ‘Fear of what?’

  ‘Dying.’

  ‘I thought your kind was immortal.’

  ‘We enjoy a long life – if you excuse the contradiction coming from a revenant such as I – but only for as long as the blood stock lasts.’

  ‘Big city out there. Lots of human cattle. I shouldn’t have thought it was a problem gaining donors.’ I studied his eyes. They were disconcerting, but I had to be honest there was little of the beast in them. ‘I have my ear to the ground, and haven’t heard about anyone turning up dead with their throats torn out. Now either you’ve been careful in disposing of the bodies or you’re telling the truth. You haven’t been preying on humanity.’

  ‘Once I did,’ he admitted. ‘But I was never greedy. I only took what I needed. And only from the lowlifes and criminals of The City’s underbelly. But lately I have been too fearful to drink from my usual font.’

  ‘That’s twice you’ve admitted to being afraid. What has a Strigoi got to fear – apart from crucifixes and pointy stakes that is?’

  ‘You recall the AIDS pandemic, yes? It did for many of my kind in the eighties and nineties. Can you think of anything more terrible than a haemophiliac wampyr? The AIDS virus made us haemorrhage from every orifice. Eyes, nostrils, ears…’

  ‘And a case of diarrhoea from hell, I bet.’

  ‘It was not a nice way to go.’

  I tried to picture Count Dracula emptying his bowels and it wasn’t a pretty image.

  ‘So, what? You fear a disease? A virus?’

  ‘I fear something in the blood, yes. But not what you’d suspect. You said you keep your ear close to the ground; have you heard of OOZE?’

  ‘The new party drug?’

  Bishop nodded. ‘Though it’s hardly the same as Poppers or E or even the cocaine wealthier addicts rely on for a good time.’

  He was right there. OOZE was an underground drug, and users were the same type who usually injected themselves with horse tranquilizer or household cleaning fluids. They were the self-same people that Bishop once drank from.

  ‘OOZE changes its users. You shall see the signs soon. They are becoming something less than human, and their blood is like poison to my kind. Worse, than that, it is lethal. Think necrotizing venom and you will get a fair idea of what becomes of a Strigoi who sups from an OOZER.’ Bishop leaned forward. ‘I am a reanimated corpse. I do not wish to be a reanimated rotting corpse.’

  ‘The zombies hold the patent on that condition,’ I said, but Bishop didn’t appreciate my quip.

  He said, ‘I am but one of many Strigoi who have taken residence in The City. I am not the on
ly one abstaining from drinking. I cannot predict how long it will be until we can bear the thirst any longer. I fear more than OOZE, Dalton. I fear that we will turn our cravings to cleaner blood.’

  ‘Do that and you’ll find you have a new problem,’ I promised.

  ‘And that is why I sought you out. We’d rather not have you as an enemy. On behalf of my brethren I come to you with a request for help. Stop this drug flowing through the veins of the underworld, give us a source of sustenance once more, or the previously untapped good, innocent people will begin to die.’

  THREE

  Pay phones are as rare as chicken teeth in The City. But I finally found one in the back of a 7-Eleven and called Duffy to come collect me. I ignored the looks I got from the pedestrians out on the street while I waited for my taxi. They knew I was an outsider, off my usual patch, and therefore I was to be suspicious of. Funny when they hadn’t taken note of a bloodsucker in their neighbourhood.

  A couple of Asian tuffs eyed me up. They were Koreans at a guess, judging by their tall builds and oblong heads. Maybe they could see outline of the wedge of notes making a satisfying bulge in my breast pocket and fancied taking Bishop’s upfront payment from me. I scratched an ear, trailed my hand down and accidently on purpose pulled my collar to one side so that they could see the butt of my revolver poking out from my shoulder holster. The two tough guys decided that easier pickings were to be had elsewhere.

  Back in the 7-Eleven I’d checked out the food on offer. It was halal stuff, when I could have just eaten a nice bacon sandwich. I decided to abstain from food, but could as sure as hell have supped a bourbon or three. But I didn’t give in to temptation. I was on the job, and despite my cravings I had to get my head clear. I sucked on a Breath Saver, gagging on the anti-septic flavour, but it was better than the sour taste rising from my gut. I kicked my heels against the curb. Duffy had made it clear he was in no hurry to collect my drunken ass and ferry it back across The City, but I trusted he wouldn’t make me wait too long.

  So much for trust.

  It was the best part of an hour before his old taxi pulled up alongside me.