Harkat had drained the bath, put the plug back in and turned on the hot tap, so it was almost full with fresh water when I arrived. I tested the temperature, added a dash of cold, turned off the taps and slid in — heavenly! I raised a hand to brush a lock of hair out of my eyes but my arm wouldn’t lift all the way — I was too tired. Relaxing, I decided to just lie there a few minutes. I could wash my hair later. To simply lie in the bath and relax … for a few minutes … would be…
Without finishing the thought, I fell soundly asleep, and when I awoke it was night again, and I was blue all over from having spent the day in a bath of cold, grimy water.
CHAPTER TWO
WE RETURNED to the hotel at the end of another long, disappointing night. We’d stayed at the same hotel since coming to the city. We hadn’t meant to – the plan had been to switch every couple of weeks – but the search for the vampaneze had left us so exhausted, we hadn’t been able to muster the energy to go looking for fresh accommodation. Even the sturdy Harkat Mulds, who didn’t need to sleep very much, was dozing off for four or five hours each day.
I felt better after a hot bath and flicked on the TV to see if there was any news about the killings. I learnt it was early Thursday morning – days melted into one another when you lived among vampires, and I rarely took any notice of them – and no new deaths had been reported. It had been almost two weeks since the last body was discovered. There was the slightest hint of hope in the air — many people thought the reign of terror had come to an end. I doubted we’d be that lucky, but I kept my fingers crossed as I turned the set off and headed for the welcome hotel bed.
Sometime later I was roughly shaken awake. A strong light was shining through the thin material of the curtains and I knew instantly that it was midday or early afternoon, which was way too soon to be even thinking about getting out of bed. Grunting, I sat up and found an anxious-looking Harkat leaning over me.
“Wassup?” I muttered, rubbing the grains of sleep from my eyes.
“Someone’s knocking at … your door,” Harkat croaked.
“Tell them to please go away,” I said — or words to that effect!
“I was going to, but…” He paused.
“Who is it?” I asked, sensing trouble.
“I don’t know. I opened the door of my room a crack … and checked. It’s nobody connected with the hotel, although … there’s a staff member with him. He’s a small man, carrying a big … briefcase, and he’s…” Again Harkat paused. “Come see for yourself.”
I got up as there was a round of fresh knuckle raps. I hurried through to Harkat’s room. Mr Crepsley was sleeping soundly in one of the twin beds. We tiptoed past him and opened the door ever so slightly. One of the figures in the corridor was familiar – the day manager of the hotel – but I’d never seen the other. He was small, as Harkat had said, and thin, with a huge black briefcase. He was wearing a dark grey suit, black shoes and an old-fashioned bowler hat. He was scowling and raising his knuckles to knock again as we closed the door.
“Think we should answer?” I asked Harkat.
“Yes,” he said. “He doesn’t look like the sort who’ll … go away if we ignore him.”
“Who do you think he is?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s something … officious about him. He might be a police officer or in … the army.”
“You don’t think they know about…?” I nodded at the sleeping vampire.
“They’d send more than one man … if they did,” Harkat replied.
I thought about it for a moment, then made up my mind. “I’ll go see what he wants. But I won’t let him in unless I have to — I don’t want people snooping around in here while Mr Crepsley’s resting.”
“Shall I stay here?” Harkat asked.
“Yes, but keep close to the door and don’t lock it — I’ll call if I run into trouble.”
Leaving Harkat to fetch his axe, I quickly pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt and went to see what the man in the corridor wanted. Pausing by the door, not opening it, I cleared my throat and called out innocently, “Who is it?”
In immediate response, in a voice like a small dog’s bark, the man with the briefcase said, “Mr Horston?”
“No,” I replied, breathing a small sigh of relief. “You have the wrong room.”
“Oh?” The man in the corridor sounded surprised. “This isn’t Mr Vur Horston’s room?”
“No, it’s—” I winced. I’d forgotten the false names we’d given when registering! Mr Crepsley had signed in as Vur Horston and I’d said I was his son. (Harkat had crept in when no one was watching.) “I mean,” I began again, “this is my room, not my dad’s. I’m Darren Horston, his son.”
“Ah.” I could sense his smile through the door. “Excellent. You’re the reason I’m here. Is your father with you?”
“He’s…” I hesitated. “Why do you want to know? Who are you?”
“If you open the door and let me in, I’ll explain.”
“I’d like to know who you are first,” I said. “These are dangerous times. I’ve been told not to open the door to strangers.”
“Ah. Excellent,” the little man said again. “I should of course not expect you to open the door to an unannounced visitor. Forgive me. My name is Mr Blaws.”
“Blores?”
“Blaws,” he said, and patiently spelt it out.
“What do you want, Mr Blaws?” I asked.
“I’m a school inspector,” he replied. “I’ve come to find out why you aren’t in school.”
My jaw dropped about a thousand kilometres.
“May I come in, Darren?” Mr Blaws asked. When I didn’t answer, he rapped on the door again and sung out, “Darrrrennn?”
“Um. Just a minute, please,” I muttered, then turned my back to the door and leant weakly against it, wildly wondering what I should do.
If I turned the inspector away, he’d return with help, so in the end I opened the door and let him in. The hotel manager departed once he saw that everything was OK, leaving me alone with the serious-looking Mr Blaws. The little man set his briefcase down on the floor, then removed his bowler hat and held it in his left hand, behind his back, as he shook my hand with his right. He was studying me carefully. There was a light layer of bristle on my chin, my hair was long and scruffy, and my face still carried small scars and burn marks from my Trials of Initiation seven years before.
“You look quite old,” Mr Blaws commented, sitting down without being asked. “Very mature for fifteen. Maybe it’s the hair. You could do with a trim and a shave.”
“I guess…” I didn’t know why he thought I was fifteen, and I was too bewildered to correct him.
“So!” he boomed, laying his bowler hat aside and his huge briefcase across his lap. “Your father – Mr Horston – is he in?”
“Um … yeah. He’s … sleeping.” I was finding it hard to string words together.
“Oh, of course. I forgot he was on night shifts. Perhaps I should call back at a more convenient…”