Being Human: Ausencia [Hal/Eve, sequel to Lonely Rivers] 3/3
Title: “Ausencia”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: AU!future as shown in episodes 4.01, 4.07, 4.08.
Summary: To save humanity the War Child must die. Eve found a loophole but humanity isn’t as grateful as it should be. Sequel to Lonely Rivers. [Hal/Eve, side Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title is Spanish for absence.
Dedication: for shirogiku and non-canonical.
A/N: Here it is, the final piece of the prophecy chapter. *sob*
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Regus tells her to eat something. Eve rolls her eyes - haven’t they been through this? Regus grins and offers her a tin of biscuits. They are a bit stale but she cannot really concentrate on the taste anyway. She smiles gratefully.
It has been a stressful week. Caught between the vampire plague and the outbreaks of cholera, typhus and tuberculosis among the humans, Hal decided to shut down the newly opened hospitals in order to restaff the lab at the palace. In Eve’s opinion, it was a disastrous idea: humans needed qualified medical help if only to keep the blood supply running, whereas no one really believed that the cure for the plague could be found. Hal and Eve had a vehement row in the middle of a council meeting and he still did things his own way. Frankly, Eve was too worn out to argue any longer. It bothered her how indifferent she had become even if she told herself she was just biding her time.
The backlash was terrible. The resistance fighters launched a series of attacks, bombing the blockposts around London and stationing their own guards on the perimetre, effectively cutting the city off from the rest of the country. Most human collaborators were either executed or defected to the resistance. It was the beginning of open warfare. More terrorist acts followed. Fergus got killed when a mined car meant for Hal exploded prematurely.
“There’s a picture of a naked woman on the tin,” Eve observes, twiddling the biscuit tin in her hands. The woman in question is dark-haired, curvaceous and has sensual, ruby-red lips.
Regus snatches the tin away from Eve and shrugs apologetically. She chuckles. Regus pours himself a glass of whiskey, gives it a thought and pours another one for Eve.
“To Fergus,” he proclaims, raising the glass. Eve knits her eyebrows. “Thank God the bastard’s dead,” Regus adds and downs the whiskey.
They keep quiet for a while, a bizarre, long-drawn-out moment of silence for Fergus. Regus’s words seem oddly half-hearted. He doesn’t have any particular fondness for anyone in the palace except maybe Eve, but she knows for a fact he doesn’t want them dead either. Not even Hal.
“He got a good death though,” Regus mumbles. “The kind of death he wanted.”
“Fergus wanted to die?” She finds it hard to believe.
“He wanted to die for Hal.”
Whiskey, amber-coloured and sharp-smelling, splashes in the glass as Eve rocks it meditatively. She never knew that about Fergus but she can relate. She grew up with a reason to die.
The phone rings, interrupting Eve’s ruminations. Regus picks up the receiver, listens to the voice on the other end of the line and informs Eve that Hal wants to see her. With a sigh, she sets the glass aside and gets up. She fixes it with a doubtful look, picks it up again and drinks the liquor in one gulp. She’ll most likely need all the sedatives she can get if their great lord has another shouting match in mind.
Hal looks tired, humanly so, dark shades beneath his eyes, irritation building up in his every gesture. They are all tired, steeped in fatigue that is bone-deep. The challenges of true leadership. He scowls when Eve jokingly brings it up and asks her what the devil she knows about true leadership.
“I know that it’s not a game,” Eve answers. “It’s more demanding than killing pretty girls and gambling on dogfights.”
Hal chuckles mirthlessly. His fingers move fluidly around a small object. He often strums out some odd rhythm, it’s his way of keeping focused, but it’s the first time Eve sees him twisting something in his hand.
“What’s that?” Eve asks.
Hal holds up his palm, revealing a small white domino. She reaches out to touch it. Hal’s fingers curl around the piece as if involuntarily, shielding it from her.
“A memory,” he whispers.
“Of Leo?” It’s only half a question; she knows the answer.
“I didn’t invite you here to reminisce,” Hal says briskly and gestures for her to sit down. “I want you to take over the force.”
“The coppers? Are you kidding me?”
“Fergus might have been a shit person but he commanded respect from the likes of him. They will rip the rebels’ heads off with their bare teeth for what was done to him.”
“He died in the line of duty,” Eve points out. “They should have expected that.”
Hal puts the domino down. It captures Eve’s look, mercifully averting it from a blood-stained glass on the edge of the table.
“We need the police force,” Hal says clearly. “They are the final line of defense. Right now they fear the plague almost as much as they fear me but they hate the resistance more than they fear the plague. I want this brutish horde reigned in. You are the only person I trust to do this.”
Eve looks up. Trust has never been an issue between them, if only because they never had it.
“Why?” she asks.
“You never lose sight of the objective. That is something you and Fergus have in common.”
It is also something that is not entirely true.
“These people have butchered thousands of humans,” Eve says hotly. Her cheeks flush pink. She is relieved to know she can still get properly angry about something. “They have hunted werewolves for sport. They have served as wardens in death camps. They gave me this!” She jerks her sleeve up to expose the brand. “And now you want me to work with them?”
“They have done all that on my orders,” says Hal calmly, lest she should ever forget. She never would: she steels her mind against such forgetfulness every day. “And now they will work with you on my orders.”
Eve reaches for the domino again. Hal catches her hand. Their eyes meet.
“Okay,” she says. “If you reopen the hospitals.”
“Out of the question.”
“People are dying!” she exclaims and almost succeeds in making herself believe that she cares this much.
“So are my people,” Hal counters.
He lets go of her hand, gets up and walks around the table, coming to stand behind Eve. She tells him to stop being childish. He protests that it’s called “negotiating”. The sound of liquid pouring into a glass reaches her ears. She rises to face Hal who is holding up a glass of blood invitingly.
“I shall restore the one medical officer per camp system,” he says, “if you drink. You should know what you’re fighting for.”
She hates this man. Precisely this man, she knows that now. Hal Yorke has too many layers. He is a labyrinth easy to get lost in. The man in front of her is just one of many lurking inside him but he is the face from the posters, the pitiless bastard playing cruel, never-ending games.
He brings the glass closer to her mouth. If she moves forward a couple of millimetres, her lips will touch its rim. Her eyes train into Hal’s. Two can play that game.
“If I drink,” she says, “you will do that and you will also address the people, calling for peace.”
Hal laughs. Eve takes the glass quickly and pours its contents down her throat before she has changed her mind. The richness of flavour sears the roof of her mouth. She swallows convulsively, her face contorting with disgust mingled with pleasure. She knows what she looks like; she has seen a lot of young vampires tasting their first blood. Shivers run down her spine. She refrains from licking her lips and looks at Hal again. He is smiling that steely smile of his, but it has long since bled out of his eyes, replaced by a dark, haunted expression. She doesn’t know what to make of it.
He leans closer as if to kiss her and freezes when their lips are barely an inch apart.
The next day he delivers the promised speech and she puts on the black coat with a red armband and goes out in the streets.
* * *
Recruitment rule number one: don’t tell the newbie what is going to happen to him; tell him what isn’t. He is never going to die. He is never going to grow old. He is never going to succumb to diseases. Funny that: as if vampires don’t lie enough.
Hal’s own maker was a doctor. An army surgeon during a war. He left as soon as he taught Hal the basic necessities, and Hal never saw him again. Needless to say, neither the surgeon whose name Hal can’t even remember now, nor the Old Ones ever mentioned even the remote possibility of a plague that would eat away at you from the inside and grind your body into dust within a few hours. Dry or a drinker, young or old, no one is immune.
Never going to die. Never going to grow old. Never going to succumb to diseases. Many people recall these words now, repeat them like a mantra, hoping it would somehow cancel the effects of the plague and restore the world to their expectations. Quite often these words were the last thing they heard before they died. At least Hal never lied to his recruits.
Blood tastes different these days. He drinks out of habit and because if he stops, he will have time to reflect on the world as it is and he will crumble under the weight of all that guilt. He sets up the dominos, a twisted homage to Leo, and he lingers in front of every door as if hoping they lead into Purgatory where Leo is waiting. There are days when he catches himself looking at the wooden chair legs for a little too long.
The phone rings just as he is about to try and force himself to sleep. His hand hovers over the receiver as he decides whether or not he should pick up. It’s probably Regus or someone from the palace guard, and the latter can only mean bad news.
He picks up after all (of course he does) and listens to the silence on the other end. Not even the sound of breathing.
“I liked your speech,” Mr Snow says. “It was very fake.”
“Really?” Hal asks. “I meant every word.”
“Oh, there is a vast difference between meaning what you say and believing it.”
Hal clenches his fingers around the receiver. He has so many questions on his mind.
“Did Hettie and Jacob find you?”
“Hettie and Jacob are dead.”
Hal shouldn’t be surprised but he is. That’s all there is to it: surprise, bland, vapid, devoid of triumph or mourning, a distant cousin of resignation.
“What is it?” he whispers, not hoping for an answer.
Mr Snow chuckles.
“Will it surprise you if I tell you I don’t know? It amazes me, you see, that there is something in this world that I don’t know. It feels good to be amazed.”
Silence starts again. It runs like an old film reel, cracking and fizzing.
“You were always my favourite,” Snow tells him. “You’re welcome to find me, provided you live through this.” One more soft chuckle follows. The sound travels down Hal’s spine, cold and sticky. “But you don’t intend to. Those little shards of humanity that persevere inside you no matter how many times I break you - what are they telling you? That you deserve this punishment?”
Deserve it? Perhaps. Hal looks at the spirals of dominoes on the floor and smiles a little.
“Tell me, Hal,” says Mr Snow. “Was she worth it?”
Hal hangs up with such force that a crack shoots through the body of the phone. Does Snow really believe that a girl is what it all boils down to? He bursts out laughing and he laughs as he steps into the domino circles and watches the pieces fall.
* * *
Cutler knocks warily on the door before poking his head into the room. The last time he came in without knocking Hal shoved a cross in his face.
The curtains are drawn. Chilly darkness reigns in the room. Cutler puts a mug of coffee and a stack of thin daily newspapers down on the table. The top newspaper has a hand-drawn illustration on the front page depicting the War Child in a police uniform.
Hal pays no attention to any of this. He stares blankly at the half-opened window. Cutler almost slips when he inattentively steps on one of the dominos scattered all over the floor.
“So…” he ventures. “That’s it then? We’re all going to die.”
He tries to sound nonchalant. But the plague is spreading and the rebels are getting closer and closer every day. For once they have real power in their hands. Maybe the War Child really had to die to make them act.
“Looks like it.”
Cutler positions himself in front of Hal, trying to catch his eye.
“And you’re just gonna do nothing about it?”
“What do you suggest?” Hal asks, indifferently.
“Leave! Go somewhere far away. To South America.”
Hal’s lips twitch, forming a condescending half-smile.
“I told you once: there is nowhere to run. It will find you in South America. It will found you in bloody Antarctica.”
Cutler leans into him, studying his face obsessively. Hal shifts his gaze onto him reluctantly.
“Please,” Nick says in a barely audible whisper, a vague movement of lips. He can’t even hear his own voice but there, he’s finally said it.
“What?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Never mind.” A cross in the face would seem like a blessing now, but Hal just stands there, quietly, and Nick thinks that maybe one of the reasons the rock bands have died out is because they were always right. After years of waiting nothing came.
* * *
It feels strange to be hated. Eve likes to think she is no stranger to the feeling but she has never been the object of true hate before. These days she is caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The vampires hate her because half of them blame the plague on her and the other half thinks her very existence makes them look like idiots: first the War Child must die, then the War Child must be protected at all costs, now the War Child has replaced Fergus and nobody deigned to ask their opinion on the matter. At least the vampires seem to respect her enough not to try and ram a stake into her back. Or perhaps they just fear Hal too much.
The resistance hates her for her betrayal. She should be okay with this - they have never been stronger or more single-minded, - but she isn’t, not really. Deep inside, she is still the girl who shook their hands for luck before they went on a mission.
You’re a vampire, she tells herself every morning. The mirror echoes her by displaying no reflection. She puts on her black coat, scraping her nails against the red armband and the tabs and the stripe bearing the symbol of her new species. She handles the security of the palace, she dismantles the resistance bombs, she drinks a glass of blood a day and takes the rest from Hal when he doesn’t bother to hide from her. (He’s been doing that a lot, as though he’s got any right to give up now.) She hasn’t thought about Annie in ages. Sometimes, right before she goes to sleep, she replays Fergus’s words in her head: One of these days, when the shit hits the fan, you’ll have to decide once and for all who your people are. It sounds like yet another prophecy. She’s had too much of those.
Someone calls out to her as she walks down the empty street. She spots Regus lurking in an alley between two bombed-out buildings. She makes sure nobody is watching and comes closer. They haven’t seen each other since she was given this job.
“War Child!” He looks her over and whistles. “Blimey, you look scary.”
Eve snorts. “Thanks.” Her gaze travels down to a rectangle of paper in his hand. “Is that-?” She recognizes it immediately. They used to come laminated, marked with a year and a barcode. The one Regus is holding is rumpled, poorly printed, featuring only a few words and a bold signature.
“A travel permit. I’m going in the morning.”
She can’t imagine how he got it. The city is closed off and under siege. All visa centres have long since been shut down.
“They’ll come after you if they find out.” As she speaks, she realizes that her men will be assigned to do it. “They’ll stake you.”
“Didn’t stop you the first time around, did it? Come with me. Even if you win, even if whatever side you’re on wins, the plague might still get you. It’ll be a stupid, meaningless death. You deserve better.”
He pulls out a second permit. Eve looks at it. Twenty-five years ago, Regus made the same proposition to Annie, and she agreed. Eve never stopped wondering what would have happened if Annie had refused.
“I’ve been traveling with fake papers my whole life,” she says apologetically. “I’ve changed so many names I can’t recall half of them. I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Regus nods in understanding. She should tell him that she will miss him, that he’s always been good to her, that she considers him the closest thing to a friend she has had here. The words get stuck in her throat. Regus leans forth, grabs the front of her coat and says firmly:
“Don’t let them get you. Not the resistance, not Hal, not his jealous cronies, not that goddamn disease. Don’t let anyone get you.”
Eve smiles and kisses him on the cheek.
“You as well.”
* * *
In the morning, the library is quiet as a burial ground. Dust settles on half-empty shelves. True to himself, Regus took what he could carry with him. Nobody appreciated his work; nobody would miss him or the documents.
Eve wanders the palace aimlessly. In the first days after her transformation, everything here bustled with energy. She can’t find a single maid now; they have all been slaughtered for blood, some of the luckier ones defected in time. The ring around the city is tightening. Very soon the rebels will storm the palace. The vampires don’t have an army in the field; only the police force, tired, disappointed and unreliable.
She halts by Cutler’s door as she hears music streaming from underneath it. She walks into the room. It’s strange that he is still alive. Perhaps the sheer power of his devotion to Hal is holding him in this world.
“What’s that?” she asks.
Cutler looks up from his bottle of liquor. The whole room stinks of it.
“It’s called music,” he says. “A harmonious combination of sounds… pleasant to the hearing… yadda-yadda-yadda.”
Ha bloody ha. She gives him the look that spells: tosser. Cutler reads it right and shrugs to show that he doesn’t give a shit about her opinion of him. He kicks a chair closer to her, and she sits down.
“It’s called Disorder,” he says after a pause. “The song. Fitting, eh?” And then: “Why did you come back?”
She understands what he means, but hell if she knows the answer.
“I thought I’d make a difference.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
Instead of replying, Eve takes the bottle away from him, drinks and scrunches up her face. She doesn’t even want to know what it is. It’s too strong.
“Hal thinks we deserve it,” Cutler mutters.
“Did he say that?”
“Didn’t have to. He gets like that sometimes.” He reclaims the bottle. “When he’d just recruited me… He disappeared five years later. He was gone for over half a century. When he came back, shortly before the revolution, he said he’d wanted something different.” He brings the bottle up to his mouth and takes a swig. “I can see that in him now. Except there’s nothing left.”
For a moment Eve wants to be a normal girl. A girl who could cry.
The song spills over into the next one, loud and neurotic. Eve thinks she could develop a liking for this kind of music.
She looks around the room. She has never been in Cutler’s quarters before, never had a reason to visit, and he wouldn’t have let her in anyway. There is nothing between them anymore, no animosity, no rivalry, just the solemn kinship of the dying.
She spots records piled up on the table next to an old laptop modified with black market spare parts. There is a printer with a crumpled sheet of paper sticking out and a number of old newspapers under the table. Bookcases contain few books in contrast to Hal’s quarters, but the shelves are lined with little toy car models. They come in different colours, red and silver and deep forest-green, unlike anything you’d see out in the streets these days. Eve is certain they have beautiful foreign names but she wouldn’t ask.
Cutler turns the volume up. They don’t talk anymore.
* * *
The night is quiet save for the occasional shell bursts and backfires of gunshots. There are piles of dust all over the palace and nobody to clean them up.
The throne room is immersed in darkness. Eve is sitting on the floor in front of one of the tall windows, arms wrapped around her drawn up knees. One of the red banners flutters gently in the breeze coming from an open window; the other is in a heap on the floor. Hal’s portrait watches her impassively. Eve sings under her breath:
When I was young, I fell in love.
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead.
Will we have rainbows, day after day.
Here's what my sweetheart said…
She rocks gently back and forth, empty of thought or fear, empty of anything but her own off-key singing. She catches a glimpse of Hal leaning against the doorpost and tries to bite back a smile of embarrassment.
Que será, será,
Whatever will be, will be,
The future's not ours to see…
“My Mum used to sing it to me,” she explains when he approaches. “Appropriate for the situation, isn’t it?”
“I want to show you something,” says Hal.
He lowers himself on the floor next to her and sets a glass teapot down between them. There is a bundle of dried herbs on the bottom of it. Hal upends a thermos over it, flooding the teapot with hot water. Eve leans closer and watches, filled with bright, childish delight, as the bundle slowly expands and unfurls into a beautiful blooming flower. She looks up at Hal, her face brightening into a wide smile. There are so few pretty things left in the world.
“It’s called flowering tea,” he says. “I found it in the pantry. Thought you might…”
He trails off. He isn’t used to doing simple nice things and expecting nothing in return.
“Do you think I caused it?” Eve asks. She is still smiling at the flower but her tone is serious. The smile is ripping at the seams.
“How could you cause it?”
“Dunno. With my mystical War Child powers, as the prophecy goes.”
Hal flashes her a sceptical look. “By all means. You caused it. Shame on you.”
Eve smiles crookedly. Outside, the city is burning. She wouldn’t have thought there was anything left to burn. She wonders what the rebels will do to them when they get here. Stake them? Burn them? Chop them into little pieces and feed to the rats?
“They might just let the plague do its work,” Hal suggests. “Or maybe they won’t even notice we’re here when they raze the palace to the ground.”
How optimistic. Eve looks around the empty throne room, trying to figure out where to find cups. It’s a long way down to the kitchen. Hal fishes two crumpled paper cups out of his pocket and offers them to her.
“When you told me about Leo and your ghost friend,” she says uncertainly, “you didn’t lie, did you?”
“Would you rather I did?”
She fills the cups with steaming, fragrant tea.
“My Mum used to live the same way. The werewolf was my Dad, obviously, and the vampire-.”
“John Mitchell,” Hal interrupts. “I know. Herrick’s protégé.”
“Do you think Leo would approve of this?”
“I don’t care,” Hal retorts in the voice that suggests he cares a little too much. “Leo died. Pearl faded. I was alone. I didn’t-.”
“Tom died,” Eve cuts him off. “Mum faded. I was in a prison camp. I know what alone means.”
The gunshots thunder much closer now. Tomorrow merciless torrents of fire will give way to candles flickering in the broken windows and screams will turn into hymns floating up to the skies, celebrating the final victory of humanity.
“I hope you survive,” Hal says. “One day they might even forgive you. The last vampire on earth.”
Eve ponders the idea. It sounds lonely.
“I think,” she says slowly, “I wouldn’t mind sharing the laurels.”
She meets his eyes briefly and looks away again. The cup warms her palms and the sweet fragrance of the infusion soothes her. It would be nice not to die tonight.
* * *
Hal looks at the girl who escaped from him six months ago and returned of her own volition. The girl who refused blood for as long as she could. The girl who made tea and fought tooth and nail for what she was born for. The girl who wouldn’t mind spending a little more time in his company.
Tomorrow there will be rains to put out the fires as Disney films dictate. There will be round dances and public prayers. Years from now, grass will cover the ruins of London and flowers will grow over the bones of those who died in the camps. They will be remembered for a while and then they will be forgotten. Such is human memory. It honours the war, not the victims.
The domino in Hal’s pocket feels heavy. He thinks that he wants to live after all.
There is a rasping feeling in his throat. No wonder, with all the dust that covers the floors. Hal is on the verge of cleaning it up himself, if only because he can’t stand untidiness.
He covers his mouth with his hand and coughs quietly a few times to clear his throat. He lowers his hand slowly. It comes away smeared with black fluid.
August, 2012
A/N 2: After years of waiting nothing came. - from “Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box” by Radiohead.
“It’s called Disorder,” he says after a pause. “The song. Fitting, eh?” - Cutler is listening to Disorder by Joy Division.
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: AU!future as shown in episodes 4.01, 4.07, 4.08.
Summary: To save humanity the War Child must die. Eve found a loophole but humanity isn’t as grateful as it should be. Sequel to Lonely Rivers. [Hal/Eve, side Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title is Spanish for absence.
Dedication: for shirogiku and non-canonical.
A/N: Here it is, the final piece of the prophecy chapter. *sob*
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Regus tells her to eat something. Eve rolls her eyes - haven’t they been through this? Regus grins and offers her a tin of biscuits. They are a bit stale but she cannot really concentrate on the taste anyway. She smiles gratefully.
It has been a stressful week. Caught between the vampire plague and the outbreaks of cholera, typhus and tuberculosis among the humans, Hal decided to shut down the newly opened hospitals in order to restaff the lab at the palace. In Eve’s opinion, it was a disastrous idea: humans needed qualified medical help if only to keep the blood supply running, whereas no one really believed that the cure for the plague could be found. Hal and Eve had a vehement row in the middle of a council meeting and he still did things his own way. Frankly, Eve was too worn out to argue any longer. It bothered her how indifferent she had become even if she told herself she was just biding her time.
The backlash was terrible. The resistance fighters launched a series of attacks, bombing the blockposts around London and stationing their own guards on the perimetre, effectively cutting the city off from the rest of the country. Most human collaborators were either executed or defected to the resistance. It was the beginning of open warfare. More terrorist acts followed. Fergus got killed when a mined car meant for Hal exploded prematurely.
“There’s a picture of a naked woman on the tin,” Eve observes, twiddling the biscuit tin in her hands. The woman in question is dark-haired, curvaceous and has sensual, ruby-red lips.
Regus snatches the tin away from Eve and shrugs apologetically. She chuckles. Regus pours himself a glass of whiskey, gives it a thought and pours another one for Eve.
“To Fergus,” he proclaims, raising the glass. Eve knits her eyebrows. “Thank God the bastard’s dead,” Regus adds and downs the whiskey.
They keep quiet for a while, a bizarre, long-drawn-out moment of silence for Fergus. Regus’s words seem oddly half-hearted. He doesn’t have any particular fondness for anyone in the palace except maybe Eve, but she knows for a fact he doesn’t want them dead either. Not even Hal.
“He got a good death though,” Regus mumbles. “The kind of death he wanted.”
“Fergus wanted to die?” She finds it hard to believe.
“He wanted to die for Hal.”
Whiskey, amber-coloured and sharp-smelling, splashes in the glass as Eve rocks it meditatively. She never knew that about Fergus but she can relate. She grew up with a reason to die.
The phone rings, interrupting Eve’s ruminations. Regus picks up the receiver, listens to the voice on the other end of the line and informs Eve that Hal wants to see her. With a sigh, she sets the glass aside and gets up. She fixes it with a doubtful look, picks it up again and drinks the liquor in one gulp. She’ll most likely need all the sedatives she can get if their great lord has another shouting match in mind.
Hal looks tired, humanly so, dark shades beneath his eyes, irritation building up in his every gesture. They are all tired, steeped in fatigue that is bone-deep. The challenges of true leadership. He scowls when Eve jokingly brings it up and asks her what the devil she knows about true leadership.
“I know that it’s not a game,” Eve answers. “It’s more demanding than killing pretty girls and gambling on dogfights.”
Hal chuckles mirthlessly. His fingers move fluidly around a small object. He often strums out some odd rhythm, it’s his way of keeping focused, but it’s the first time Eve sees him twisting something in his hand.
“What’s that?” Eve asks.
Hal holds up his palm, revealing a small white domino. She reaches out to touch it. Hal’s fingers curl around the piece as if involuntarily, shielding it from her.
“A memory,” he whispers.
“Of Leo?” It’s only half a question; she knows the answer.
“I didn’t invite you here to reminisce,” Hal says briskly and gestures for her to sit down. “I want you to take over the force.”
“The coppers? Are you kidding me?”
“Fergus might have been a shit person but he commanded respect from the likes of him. They will rip the rebels’ heads off with their bare teeth for what was done to him.”
“He died in the line of duty,” Eve points out. “They should have expected that.”
Hal puts the domino down. It captures Eve’s look, mercifully averting it from a blood-stained glass on the edge of the table.
“We need the police force,” Hal says clearly. “They are the final line of defense. Right now they fear the plague almost as much as they fear me but they hate the resistance more than they fear the plague. I want this brutish horde reigned in. You are the only person I trust to do this.”
Eve looks up. Trust has never been an issue between them, if only because they never had it.
“Why?” she asks.
“You never lose sight of the objective. That is something you and Fergus have in common.”
It is also something that is not entirely true.
“These people have butchered thousands of humans,” Eve says hotly. Her cheeks flush pink. She is relieved to know she can still get properly angry about something. “They have hunted werewolves for sport. They have served as wardens in death camps. They gave me this!” She jerks her sleeve up to expose the brand. “And now you want me to work with them?”
“They have done all that on my orders,” says Hal calmly, lest she should ever forget. She never would: she steels her mind against such forgetfulness every day. “And now they will work with you on my orders.”
Eve reaches for the domino again. Hal catches her hand. Their eyes meet.
“Okay,” she says. “If you reopen the hospitals.”
“Out of the question.”
“People are dying!” she exclaims and almost succeeds in making herself believe that she cares this much.
“So are my people,” Hal counters.
He lets go of her hand, gets up and walks around the table, coming to stand behind Eve. She tells him to stop being childish. He protests that it’s called “negotiating”. The sound of liquid pouring into a glass reaches her ears. She rises to face Hal who is holding up a glass of blood invitingly.
“I shall restore the one medical officer per camp system,” he says, “if you drink. You should know what you’re fighting for.”
She hates this man. Precisely this man, she knows that now. Hal Yorke has too many layers. He is a labyrinth easy to get lost in. The man in front of her is just one of many lurking inside him but he is the face from the posters, the pitiless bastard playing cruel, never-ending games.
He brings the glass closer to her mouth. If she moves forward a couple of millimetres, her lips will touch its rim. Her eyes train into Hal’s. Two can play that game.
“If I drink,” she says, “you will do that and you will also address the people, calling for peace.”
Hal laughs. Eve takes the glass quickly and pours its contents down her throat before she has changed her mind. The richness of flavour sears the roof of her mouth. She swallows convulsively, her face contorting with disgust mingled with pleasure. She knows what she looks like; she has seen a lot of young vampires tasting their first blood. Shivers run down her spine. She refrains from licking her lips and looks at Hal again. He is smiling that steely smile of his, but it has long since bled out of his eyes, replaced by a dark, haunted expression. She doesn’t know what to make of it.
He leans closer as if to kiss her and freezes when their lips are barely an inch apart.
The next day he delivers the promised speech and she puts on the black coat with a red armband and goes out in the streets.
* * *
Recruitment rule number one: don’t tell the newbie what is going to happen to him; tell him what isn’t. He is never going to die. He is never going to grow old. He is never going to succumb to diseases. Funny that: as if vampires don’t lie enough.
Hal’s own maker was a doctor. An army surgeon during a war. He left as soon as he taught Hal the basic necessities, and Hal never saw him again. Needless to say, neither the surgeon whose name Hal can’t even remember now, nor the Old Ones ever mentioned even the remote possibility of a plague that would eat away at you from the inside and grind your body into dust within a few hours. Dry or a drinker, young or old, no one is immune.
Never going to die. Never going to grow old. Never going to succumb to diseases. Many people recall these words now, repeat them like a mantra, hoping it would somehow cancel the effects of the plague and restore the world to their expectations. Quite often these words were the last thing they heard before they died. At least Hal never lied to his recruits.
Blood tastes different these days. He drinks out of habit and because if he stops, he will have time to reflect on the world as it is and he will crumble under the weight of all that guilt. He sets up the dominos, a twisted homage to Leo, and he lingers in front of every door as if hoping they lead into Purgatory where Leo is waiting. There are days when he catches himself looking at the wooden chair legs for a little too long.
The phone rings just as he is about to try and force himself to sleep. His hand hovers over the receiver as he decides whether or not he should pick up. It’s probably Regus or someone from the palace guard, and the latter can only mean bad news.
He picks up after all (of course he does) and listens to the silence on the other end. Not even the sound of breathing.
“I liked your speech,” Mr Snow says. “It was very fake.”
“Really?” Hal asks. “I meant every word.”
“Oh, there is a vast difference between meaning what you say and believing it.”
Hal clenches his fingers around the receiver. He has so many questions on his mind.
“Did Hettie and Jacob find you?”
“Hettie and Jacob are dead.”
Hal shouldn’t be surprised but he is. That’s all there is to it: surprise, bland, vapid, devoid of triumph or mourning, a distant cousin of resignation.
“What is it?” he whispers, not hoping for an answer.
Mr Snow chuckles.
“Will it surprise you if I tell you I don’t know? It amazes me, you see, that there is something in this world that I don’t know. It feels good to be amazed.”
Silence starts again. It runs like an old film reel, cracking and fizzing.
“You were always my favourite,” Snow tells him. “You’re welcome to find me, provided you live through this.” One more soft chuckle follows. The sound travels down Hal’s spine, cold and sticky. “But you don’t intend to. Those little shards of humanity that persevere inside you no matter how many times I break you - what are they telling you? That you deserve this punishment?”
Deserve it? Perhaps. Hal looks at the spirals of dominoes on the floor and smiles a little.
“Tell me, Hal,” says Mr Snow. “Was she worth it?”
Hal hangs up with such force that a crack shoots through the body of the phone. Does Snow really believe that a girl is what it all boils down to? He bursts out laughing and he laughs as he steps into the domino circles and watches the pieces fall.
* * *
Cutler knocks warily on the door before poking his head into the room. The last time he came in without knocking Hal shoved a cross in his face.
The curtains are drawn. Chilly darkness reigns in the room. Cutler puts a mug of coffee and a stack of thin daily newspapers down on the table. The top newspaper has a hand-drawn illustration on the front page depicting the War Child in a police uniform.
Hal pays no attention to any of this. He stares blankly at the half-opened window. Cutler almost slips when he inattentively steps on one of the dominos scattered all over the floor.
“So…” he ventures. “That’s it then? We’re all going to die.”
He tries to sound nonchalant. But the plague is spreading and the rebels are getting closer and closer every day. For once they have real power in their hands. Maybe the War Child really had to die to make them act.
“Looks like it.”
Cutler positions himself in front of Hal, trying to catch his eye.
“And you’re just gonna do nothing about it?”
“What do you suggest?” Hal asks, indifferently.
“Leave! Go somewhere far away. To South America.”
Hal’s lips twitch, forming a condescending half-smile.
“I told you once: there is nowhere to run. It will find you in South America. It will found you in bloody Antarctica.”
Cutler leans into him, studying his face obsessively. Hal shifts his gaze onto him reluctantly.
“Please,” Nick says in a barely audible whisper, a vague movement of lips. He can’t even hear his own voice but there, he’s finally said it.
“What?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Never mind.” A cross in the face would seem like a blessing now, but Hal just stands there, quietly, and Nick thinks that maybe one of the reasons the rock bands have died out is because they were always right. After years of waiting nothing came.
* * *
It feels strange to be hated. Eve likes to think she is no stranger to the feeling but she has never been the object of true hate before. These days she is caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The vampires hate her because half of them blame the plague on her and the other half thinks her very existence makes them look like idiots: first the War Child must die, then the War Child must be protected at all costs, now the War Child has replaced Fergus and nobody deigned to ask their opinion on the matter. At least the vampires seem to respect her enough not to try and ram a stake into her back. Or perhaps they just fear Hal too much.
The resistance hates her for her betrayal. She should be okay with this - they have never been stronger or more single-minded, - but she isn’t, not really. Deep inside, she is still the girl who shook their hands for luck before they went on a mission.
You’re a vampire, she tells herself every morning. The mirror echoes her by displaying no reflection. She puts on her black coat, scraping her nails against the red armband and the tabs and the stripe bearing the symbol of her new species. She handles the security of the palace, she dismantles the resistance bombs, she drinks a glass of blood a day and takes the rest from Hal when he doesn’t bother to hide from her. (He’s been doing that a lot, as though he’s got any right to give up now.) She hasn’t thought about Annie in ages. Sometimes, right before she goes to sleep, she replays Fergus’s words in her head: One of these days, when the shit hits the fan, you’ll have to decide once and for all who your people are. It sounds like yet another prophecy. She’s had too much of those.
Someone calls out to her as she walks down the empty street. She spots Regus lurking in an alley between two bombed-out buildings. She makes sure nobody is watching and comes closer. They haven’t seen each other since she was given this job.
“War Child!” He looks her over and whistles. “Blimey, you look scary.”
Eve snorts. “Thanks.” Her gaze travels down to a rectangle of paper in his hand. “Is that-?” She recognizes it immediately. They used to come laminated, marked with a year and a barcode. The one Regus is holding is rumpled, poorly printed, featuring only a few words and a bold signature.
“A travel permit. I’m going in the morning.”
She can’t imagine how he got it. The city is closed off and under siege. All visa centres have long since been shut down.
“They’ll come after you if they find out.” As she speaks, she realizes that her men will be assigned to do it. “They’ll stake you.”
“Didn’t stop you the first time around, did it? Come with me. Even if you win, even if whatever side you’re on wins, the plague might still get you. It’ll be a stupid, meaningless death. You deserve better.”
He pulls out a second permit. Eve looks at it. Twenty-five years ago, Regus made the same proposition to Annie, and she agreed. Eve never stopped wondering what would have happened if Annie had refused.
“I’ve been traveling with fake papers my whole life,” she says apologetically. “I’ve changed so many names I can’t recall half of them. I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Regus nods in understanding. She should tell him that she will miss him, that he’s always been good to her, that she considers him the closest thing to a friend she has had here. The words get stuck in her throat. Regus leans forth, grabs the front of her coat and says firmly:
“Don’t let them get you. Not the resistance, not Hal, not his jealous cronies, not that goddamn disease. Don’t let anyone get you.”
Eve smiles and kisses him on the cheek.
“You as well.”
* * *
In the morning, the library is quiet as a burial ground. Dust settles on half-empty shelves. True to himself, Regus took what he could carry with him. Nobody appreciated his work; nobody would miss him or the documents.
Eve wanders the palace aimlessly. In the first days after her transformation, everything here bustled with energy. She can’t find a single maid now; they have all been slaughtered for blood, some of the luckier ones defected in time. The ring around the city is tightening. Very soon the rebels will storm the palace. The vampires don’t have an army in the field; only the police force, tired, disappointed and unreliable.
She halts by Cutler’s door as she hears music streaming from underneath it. She walks into the room. It’s strange that he is still alive. Perhaps the sheer power of his devotion to Hal is holding him in this world.
“What’s that?” she asks.
Cutler looks up from his bottle of liquor. The whole room stinks of it.
“It’s called music,” he says. “A harmonious combination of sounds… pleasant to the hearing… yadda-yadda-yadda.”
Ha bloody ha. She gives him the look that spells: tosser. Cutler reads it right and shrugs to show that he doesn’t give a shit about her opinion of him. He kicks a chair closer to her, and she sits down.
“It’s called Disorder,” he says after a pause. “The song. Fitting, eh?” And then: “Why did you come back?”
She understands what he means, but hell if she knows the answer.
“I thought I’d make a difference.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
Instead of replying, Eve takes the bottle away from him, drinks and scrunches up her face. She doesn’t even want to know what it is. It’s too strong.
“Hal thinks we deserve it,” Cutler mutters.
“Did he say that?”
“Didn’t have to. He gets like that sometimes.” He reclaims the bottle. “When he’d just recruited me… He disappeared five years later. He was gone for over half a century. When he came back, shortly before the revolution, he said he’d wanted something different.” He brings the bottle up to his mouth and takes a swig. “I can see that in him now. Except there’s nothing left.”
For a moment Eve wants to be a normal girl. A girl who could cry.
The song spills over into the next one, loud and neurotic. Eve thinks she could develop a liking for this kind of music.
She looks around the room. She has never been in Cutler’s quarters before, never had a reason to visit, and he wouldn’t have let her in anyway. There is nothing between them anymore, no animosity, no rivalry, just the solemn kinship of the dying.
She spots records piled up on the table next to an old laptop modified with black market spare parts. There is a printer with a crumpled sheet of paper sticking out and a number of old newspapers under the table. Bookcases contain few books in contrast to Hal’s quarters, but the shelves are lined with little toy car models. They come in different colours, red and silver and deep forest-green, unlike anything you’d see out in the streets these days. Eve is certain they have beautiful foreign names but she wouldn’t ask.
Cutler turns the volume up. They don’t talk anymore.
* * *
The night is quiet save for the occasional shell bursts and backfires of gunshots. There are piles of dust all over the palace and nobody to clean them up.
The throne room is immersed in darkness. Eve is sitting on the floor in front of one of the tall windows, arms wrapped around her drawn up knees. One of the red banners flutters gently in the breeze coming from an open window; the other is in a heap on the floor. Hal’s portrait watches her impassively. Eve sings under her breath:
When I was young, I fell in love.
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead.
Will we have rainbows, day after day.
Here's what my sweetheart said…
She rocks gently back and forth, empty of thought or fear, empty of anything but her own off-key singing. She catches a glimpse of Hal leaning against the doorpost and tries to bite back a smile of embarrassment.
Que será, será,
Whatever will be, will be,
The future's not ours to see…
“My Mum used to sing it to me,” she explains when he approaches. “Appropriate for the situation, isn’t it?”
“I want to show you something,” says Hal.
He lowers himself on the floor next to her and sets a glass teapot down between them. There is a bundle of dried herbs on the bottom of it. Hal upends a thermos over it, flooding the teapot with hot water. Eve leans closer and watches, filled with bright, childish delight, as the bundle slowly expands and unfurls into a beautiful blooming flower. She looks up at Hal, her face brightening into a wide smile. There are so few pretty things left in the world.
“It’s called flowering tea,” he says. “I found it in the pantry. Thought you might…”
He trails off. He isn’t used to doing simple nice things and expecting nothing in return.
“Do you think I caused it?” Eve asks. She is still smiling at the flower but her tone is serious. The smile is ripping at the seams.
“How could you cause it?”
“Dunno. With my mystical War Child powers, as the prophecy goes.”
Hal flashes her a sceptical look. “By all means. You caused it. Shame on you.”
Eve smiles crookedly. Outside, the city is burning. She wouldn’t have thought there was anything left to burn. She wonders what the rebels will do to them when they get here. Stake them? Burn them? Chop them into little pieces and feed to the rats?
“They might just let the plague do its work,” Hal suggests. “Or maybe they won’t even notice we’re here when they raze the palace to the ground.”
How optimistic. Eve looks around the empty throne room, trying to figure out where to find cups. It’s a long way down to the kitchen. Hal fishes two crumpled paper cups out of his pocket and offers them to her.
“When you told me about Leo and your ghost friend,” she says uncertainly, “you didn’t lie, did you?”
“Would you rather I did?”
She fills the cups with steaming, fragrant tea.
“My Mum used to live the same way. The werewolf was my Dad, obviously, and the vampire-.”
“John Mitchell,” Hal interrupts. “I know. Herrick’s protégé.”
“Do you think Leo would approve of this?”
“I don’t care,” Hal retorts in the voice that suggests he cares a little too much. “Leo died. Pearl faded. I was alone. I didn’t-.”
“Tom died,” Eve cuts him off. “Mum faded. I was in a prison camp. I know what alone means.”
The gunshots thunder much closer now. Tomorrow merciless torrents of fire will give way to candles flickering in the broken windows and screams will turn into hymns floating up to the skies, celebrating the final victory of humanity.
“I hope you survive,” Hal says. “One day they might even forgive you. The last vampire on earth.”
Eve ponders the idea. It sounds lonely.
“I think,” she says slowly, “I wouldn’t mind sharing the laurels.”
She meets his eyes briefly and looks away again. The cup warms her palms and the sweet fragrance of the infusion soothes her. It would be nice not to die tonight.
* * *
Hal looks at the girl who escaped from him six months ago and returned of her own volition. The girl who refused blood for as long as she could. The girl who made tea and fought tooth and nail for what she was born for. The girl who wouldn’t mind spending a little more time in his company.
Tomorrow there will be rains to put out the fires as Disney films dictate. There will be round dances and public prayers. Years from now, grass will cover the ruins of London and flowers will grow over the bones of those who died in the camps. They will be remembered for a while and then they will be forgotten. Such is human memory. It honours the war, not the victims.
The domino in Hal’s pocket feels heavy. He thinks that he wants to live after all.
There is a rasping feeling in his throat. No wonder, with all the dust that covers the floors. Hal is on the verge of cleaning it up himself, if only because he can’t stand untidiness.
He covers his mouth with his hand and coughs quietly a few times to clear his throat. He lowers his hand slowly. It comes away smeared with black fluid.
August, 2012
A/N 2: After years of waiting nothing came. - from “Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box” by Radiohead.
“It’s called Disorder,” he says after a pause. “The song. Fitting, eh?” - Cutler is listening to Disorder by Joy Division.