Bloodsuckers

A Beckworth Story

Godfrey stirred in his coffin and pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block out the rattles, whistles and creaks of the battered twenty-five-year-old transit van as it protested its way along the A5.

Cedric claimed he remembered the Romans building it centuries before it was called Watling Street, but Godfrey didn’t believe him. Over the years they’d spent together he’d spotted enough gaps and contradictions in Cedric’s stories to know he always lied.

For years – decades probably – he’d pointed out the obvious inconsistencies

“You can’t have been there in the ninth century,” he’d once said, “Last year you told me you were here when the Vikings came.”

Cedric would never back down, would shift his stories, make implausible claims about long journeys over land and sea that explained gaps and - if pinned down - resort to outright gaslighting.

“No, I never said that” he’d say, “you must have misunderstood me.”

Now Godfrey hardly ever bothered challenging him.

What was the point?

To think, thought Godfrey, looking through the dark at a patch of rust that looked like Africa, he’d once been impressed by Cedric – even awed by him.

He didn’t blame himself. Couldn’t. When Godfrey first ran into Cedric in a London pub when Victoria had been Queen, he had been impressive - tall in tailored clothes, eagle-eyed and dark with words and stories of thousands of miles and faraway places.

How was he – a dock-rat who’d never been further than twenty miles from where he’d been born – supposed to have worked out it was all smoke and mirrors?

How was he to know Cedric was a charlatan?

But which of their kind weren’t?

They were all con-artists – things pretending they were things other than themselves to beguile and glamour their stupid marks.

One thing he did believe Cedric on was he’d missed the best times – that once those like them had ruled over vast estates and multinational companies used to harvest and rear their prey.

Parties that went on for weeks, each sunset bringing new deliveries of living delicacies from all over the world.

He knew it was true because he’d seen the evidence himself; cold ruins on cliffs with torn-up crypts, tumbledown forgotten shrines hidden in bracken carved with half-man-half-bat images, and paintings in old galleries of beautiful, pale rosy-cheeked couples with dreadful, mirthful eyes in front of dark fields.

And less and less as the years went by, very occasionally in fading old hotels or walking in private parks under moon and stars they ran into another of those calling themselves the old nobility – those as old or older than Cedric, who swapped tales of people and places with him in tones of fond nostalgia.

Godfrey had missed it all by a century or more but hadn’t known it when he’d accepted what Cedric had so easily and charmingly convinced him was a gift.

In the 1980s, when things were less desperate and they still had a little money, before the permanency laws, they’d gone to Tanzania on holiday. It had been supposed to be about breaking free of the past and creating memories. And there had been some good times; climbing Kilimanjaro at night, swimming in phosperence under moonlight and feeding in ways they no longer could at Europe.

But on their dark safari Godfrey found himself envying the herds of strong wildebeest and pitying the thin, scarred lions who he suddenly saw as not proud predators at the summit of the food chain but desperate parasites a hoof-kick away from a broken bone and slow starvation.

…

“Where will we stop?” Godfrey asked, hating that he could not decide for himself, hating that he could never decide anything for himself.

“Not far, old boy,” Cedric called back, hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the tinted windscreen past the squealing wiper-blades, “don’t you worry, not far now, go back to sleep and by evening we’ll be there. You’re going to love it. It used to be my home - such a grand old house I had here. I promise you’ll love it and when do I ever lie?”

Godfrey rolled onto his back, folded his hands over his chest, closed his eyes and thought about what he might have been had he gone to a different pub or stayed in his room that night, what he might have made of himself before death had he never met Cedric. Whether he’d have found a girl and got married. Whether he’d have had children who’d had children, who’d had children.

Whether there would be some of his blood truly alive today.

What that would feel like.

Whether or not he was even capable of imagining it.

…

Godfrey was woken by the sound of a rough banging on the door of the van.

“You got your papers?” A male voice said, so abruptly it was almost rude.

“Yes, yes,” said Cedric, “all present and correct, we’re registered, and all our stamps are up to date.”

“Hand them over.”

There was a pause and the sound of rustling papers.

“Right,” said the voice, “you got your week. We’ll bring you food tomorrow and on your last day.”

“Very good of you, sir,” said Cedric, “we won’t be any trouble.”

“Good. You know the rules well enough. You stay here and if anyone sees you in town..”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Cedric, hurriedly “you won’t even know we’re here and we’ll be gone before you know it.”

Godfrey waited until he heard the man stamp away before getting up and going to sit in the passenger seat next to Cedric.

He looked out at a handful of dirty sheep grazing on an anonymous grass field.

“Where are we?” He asked, flatly.

Cedric turned to him with a grin, “this,” he said, pointing theatrically at the rain-shrouded countryside around them, “is Beckworth!”

“Beckworth?”

“Yes – Beckworth. In one of the oldest places in Britain – there’s been people here since long before even the Romans arrived.”

“Oh. So it’s old then.”

“Oh, much more than old – ancient!”

“So what?” Godfrey said. “It’s not like we can see any of it.”

“Come on, old chap,” said Cedric, “Do try to be more optimistic. Take a deep breath in – you can feel the heritage.”

“No, I can’t,” Godfrey said, and went back to staring out of the window at the sheep.

…

The next evening the man who had demanded their papers returned with two pints of blood in surgical plastic bags, thin faced and mean in farm overalls. He stepped past Cedric up into the van without being invited and peered around.

“Disgusting how you bloodsuckers live,” he said, “it stinks in here.”

“Sorry, Sir,” said Cedric. “I’m afraid we’ve come down in the world a little and while we do our best to keep things tidy times are hard.”

“Better before, was it?” The man said, a sharp point in the tone of his words.

“Oh no, Sir,” said Cedric, “It was a dreadful time – things like us feeding on humans like whenever we liked, stalking and draining you, your money and your blood. We had to be stopped! It’s much better now.”

The man looked at him, saying nothing. Then a sly expression came over his face.

He turned round, holding the two bags of blood behind his back.

“Beg for it,” he said, “on your knees, both of you. Beg for it.”

“My good man,” said Cedric, bowing to the waist, “there’s no need for that, surely?”

“Man is it now?” The man said. “I liked Sir better. Or even better how about Lord? Both of you on your knees right now, or I take this back with me.”

“Sir,” Cedric protested.

“On your knees and repeat after me,” the man said, stepping out of the van, turning and backing away, the bags of blood still behind his back.

Godfrey looked desperately at Cedric. Neither of them had fed in weeks.

They couldn’t afford dignity.

Cedric sighed and slowly dropped to one knee, gesturing at Godfrey to do the same.

“Both knees, bloodsuckers,” the man said, waiting until both were mired in the mud. “Now repeat after me: Lord and Master.”

“Lord and Master,” they both mumbled.

“Speak up,” the man said, “I can hardly hear you. Lord and Master.”

“Lord and Master,” said Cedric and Godfrey, looking straight ahead, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“We humbly beg of you, as the filth that we are.”

Obediently, they chorused his words back at him.

“For our daily bread.”

“For our daily bread.”

When it was over the man tossed one of the bags at them. It landed with a wet squelch front of them, dark on the dark grass.

“You’re pathetic you know,” said the man over his shoulder as he walked away back down the path to the town. “My great-great-granddad would have loved to see this – he staked so many of you back when you were something to be scared of.”

“Master, but the other bag?” Cedric called after him.

“Split that one,” the man shouted back as he disappeared into the night. “And be grateful for it. Stay where you are. I’ll be back at the end of the week.”

“He broke the law,” said Godfrey after he’d gone.

Cedric said nothing.

“What ho,” he said, later, after he’d composed himself. “What use is the law if nobody cares when it’s broken?” He picked up the bag and handed it to Godfrey. “You have it. Just be a good chap and save me a sip.”

Godfrey looked at him. “Are you sure?”

Cedric nodded. “You’re a growing boy and what’s a few days more for and old thing like me?”, he said, “chin chin, drink up now.”

Godfrey fell on the bag, slurping and gulping, feeling life shoot through his body, sensing the stirrings of dark power, a hint of transformation, wondering what it would be like to never be hungry and what he would be if he could feed at will as their kind had in the old days.

…

Their argument began the next evening and quickly became very bitter.

It began the same way it always did - Godfrey whining and complaining, Cedric dismissing what he said as if it were of no consequence.

“There’s no plan is there?” Godfrey said early on, pointing an accusatory finger at Cedric, his voice getting louder as he worked himself to greater and greater anger. “There never has been. This is it for us.”

“No, no, no my dear,” said Ceric, spreading his arms, “it’s just a down and there’ll be ups soon – trust me.”

“Trust?” Godfrey scoffed. “That’s what you said to me the first time we met, and it’s always been down and down and down. Look at the state of us now.”

“Things will improve,” Cedric said, “one day soon we’ll be back on top and then places we’ll go and the things we’ll see! Luxury! Wonder! Majesty!”

“Just stop it!” Godfrey shouted. “You lie and lie. I don’t even know if you were even ever there. A Roman Senator? A Hungarian Count? A Norman Baron? I don’t believe any of it. You were probably always a bottom-feeder, scaping and bowing in front of your betters, the way I do to you because I have no choice. I bet you were always just what you made me.”

“Stop looking back, old chap,” Cedric said back, trying to sound calm and in control, “it’s the future that counts. You must be optimistic – look on the bright side. It’s not so bad – we’re gypsies on the open road, wild and free.”

“Wild and free?” Godfrey mocked. “You call this free? Registered and tagged, begging our way around shitholes like this one. You can tell me what to do but you can’t tell me what to think.”

Each night of that week followed the same pattern – the same decades old recycled and repeated fight, simmering, peaking and then subsiding into silent resentment in their coffins.

Until the last night.

…

“Sorry old bean,” said Cedric as the man appeared on the path from the town in the gathering twilight, “I’ll need to share this meal with you – need to get my strength up for our next adventure.”

“Whatever,” said Godfrey, sullenly.

“Still here, bloodsuckers?” Called the man as he drew near, “I can smell you both, you know. You stink of death.”

Cedric bowed to him. “Yes, sir,” he said, “sorry about the odour, unpleasant for us all, eh? Thank you for your hospitality and warm welcome. We’ll be on our way before daybreak.”

“Make sure you are,” the man said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a bag, “here’s your meat.” He dropped it “Go on, eat up like good little animals.”

Godfrey realised straight away there was something wrong with it by the sound of it hitting the ground, by the way it thudded rather than squelched.

“I’ve aged it for you,” the man said,” kept it nice and warm too. Now say thank you and eat up.”

Godfrey could barely bring himself to touch it, but his hunger compelled him to.

The blood had clotted, and now it was a mostly one congealed festering and rotting scab.

“Good Sir – Lord,” said Cedric, “those of our kind can’t drink this. It must be living.”

The man shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers, it’s that or nothing,” he said. “Makes no difference to me what you do with it.”

Without being asked to Cedric dropped to both knees.

“Please, Lord,” he begged, “I’m so hungry. Please.”

The man stepped forward to look down on him. “Pathetic,” he said, “so pathetic.”

He spat on him, then turned and began to walk away, back to his home, looking forward to telling his friends the story of how he’d tamed the two predators.

He didn’t see Cedric rise to his feet or the change that came over his pale, thin face.

“Wretch” Cedric said, his voice deeper and suddenly free of all cheery affectation. “Stop. I command you.”

The man froze mid-step and turned to see Cedric undisguised, looming taller than his height and wreathed in black shadow darker than night.

“My proper title is Sir Cedric, once of Willo, this town where your forefathers were our family’s food. In my name and those of my ancestors I order you to your final duty.”

“Cedric,” Godfrey said, watching the man’s face move from an expression of great anger to one of great fear.

“Be quiet my love,” said Cedric without looking at him. “Do not come between me and my prey before I invite you.”

Like a sleepwalker the man came forward then dropped to his knees in the mud.

“Good,” said Cedric. “Rise and give me your throat.”

The man got to his feet and tilted his chin up to the dark sky. Godfrey heard the beat of the man’s terrified heart and felt his fangs rise in his mouth.

And then Cedric was on him, sucking and gulping as the man twitched and spasmed on his feet.

After a few minutes Cedric stepped back.

“Feed, Godfrey,” he said, gently, “I command it.”

And Godfrey did. They both did. For hours, until just before dawn when the man’s life finally gave out, his eyes rolling whitely in their sunken sockets as he chocked out his last breath.

…

“I told you stories, not lies,” said Cedric, the man’s cold body between them. “And so much of what I told you was true. It might not have all happened to me, but it was true. I told you those stories because they’re our history. Yours as well as mine, even if you weren’t there. There’s so few of us left now – I wanted you to know more than just my story.”

“What now?” Godfrey asked.

“They will come,” said Cedric, “you will go, and I will stay to meet them.”

“You’ll come find me afterwards?”

There was a long silence.

“No, I think not,” Godfrey said, “you will feel it when you are free, and then you can do as you like. In my coffin there is a compartment – easily found if you’re looking for it. In there you will find some trinkets to sell. Jewels. A painting. A crown. Enough for you to make a new start.”

“They will come for me,” said Godfrey.

“They may not,” Cedric said, “before it is over I will tell them only I fed. That you ran instead because I ordered it and because those like you must do what those like I say. Some of the laws may still hold.”

“Will it be soon?”

“It will be now – I can hear them coming. You can too now you’ve fed.”

And Godfrey found he could – on the path to the town he felt the blood of many men and women rising to him as they drew closer, felt their life, their fear and their anger.

Cedric got to his feet. He pulled Godfrey up and briefly embraced him.

“Go now,” he said, “I tried to do right by you but know I failed. I am sorry. I thought it would be better than this. When we met, I truly thought it would be.”

“No,” said Godfrey, shaking his head, “we can do this together.”

“I command you go,” Cedric said, softly, tenderly, kissing Godfrey on the forehead, “go fast and go far. Try to remember it’s about the future and the past, old bean. Don’t dwell on history, but don’t forget either – we must carry it with us or what have we left?”

Godfrey could not help one last look – as he pulled the old van away towards the old Roman road, in the rear view mirror, he saw a string of lights, torches and lanterns, threading its way along the path towards Cedric who was standing over the drained corpse, his arms outstretched as if in welcome, looking up at the reddening sky, up at his vanishing future, up at the coming of the cruel and hateful dawn.