Chapter 18: London Calling

(excerpted from the blog of Dr. Nicholas Fineman)


Wednesday, September 27

I have a new client (Finally, it’s been eons!) The consultation arrived on referral from good old Jake Seward down in Ashford Commons. Seward specializes P.T.S.D cases. Plane crashes, bomb victims, dead babies - that sort. It’s been years since that rummy sent me a genuine tragedy, so I must admit my curiosity is peaked!

The subject’s name is Patricia Bower. Ms. Bower is thirty three-years old, but probably doesn’t look a day over thirty-two. West Cambry native; raised by one of those fine, old patrician families who packed her off to King’s Church for her A-levels mere moments before they had forgotten she ever existed. The girl might have proved a touch underachieving in that regard, having toiled as a part-time “art therapist” for the past seven years. Whether this was due to true shiftlessness or some sort of misguided, neo-hippie mentality is an open question, I suppose. Nevertheless, I’d wager that teaching half-wits how to make macaroni sculptures probably wasn’t her late mum and dad’s idea of a proper legacy.

The case sounds fairly mundane on paper: bourgeois urban professional with a vaguely neurotic family history and a tragic twist of fate. The only difference is that Ms. Bower’s tale boasts a spectacularly gruesome climax. It seems she was widowed last August while on holiday in northern Spain. The happy young newlyweds had set out for a weeklong trip through the Pyrenees – a la one of these horrible “Reality TV adventures” you’d watch twits endure on the BBC4. Unfortunately, this particular trip served up rather a bit too much reality for our starring couple. On the evening of August 23rd 2004, Ms. Bower wandered into a San Gaspiard police station, babbling incoherently and covered in blood. Authorities discovered Francis Bower in the woods near their campsite ten days later. Well, they discovered a small percentage of him, anyway. It seems the poor lad had been brutally mauled by some unidentified animal.

Ms. Bower vanished before the police could question her, leaving the in-laws to claim the body. She apparently managed to stay off the radar for more then a year after that - not that anyone seemed particularly anxious to find her, mind you. Francis Bower’s death was ruled accidental: a “freak occurrence.” My personal opinions on this subject are murky at best. If a bear happens upon you and devours you in your sleep, can one really consider that an accident? Or is this perhaps some degree of murder?

I can imagine my dear chum Henry chuckling at such naked animism, and, as usual, blaming it on my Catholic upbringing.

God, I hope she’s good looking.

***

Friday, September 29

My sincere apologies for yesterday, dearest online diary. Or blog-ary. Or whatever it is I should be calling you (I swear I can’t keep up with the techno-babble!) Came down with a minor case of “not-giving-a-toss,” yesterday, I’m afraid, but I’m feeling much better now. I will credit this miraculous recovery to my intriguing new patient!

Ms. Bower arrived at the office ahead of schedule. When I opened the door, she was already lounging on the couch, her slender neck propped at a low angle, pale, lithe arms crossed neatly on her chest like a funereal corpse. I confess, the sudden sight of her in this pose gave me a jolt, and the memory of it has continued to unnerve me for reasons I cannot fully explain. For nearly an hour, the patient barely spoke, and then only in a series of strange, acerbic riddles that suggested “treatment” was still the farthest thing from her shattered little mind. When I mentioned her husband, she responded with a shy smile, as if to shame me for being such an insufferable bore.

I promised dear Henry that I wouldn’t “talk shop” in these personal logs, but her consultation was so unusual that I feel I must record a few thoughts. To be quite honest, my practice – though modestly successful – is typically a very dull, dull affair. I mostly earn my keep by providing an audience for Luddites with bland childhoods and tedious sexual dysfunctions. The tragedy is, most people already know exactly what they want to tell their analysts the moment they make the first appointment. How many sessions it will take to actually reveal their “dark secret” is a function of how deep their pockets are and how utterly melodramatic they want it to sound when they finally do. As that old firebrand Ned Fordham used to tell his new wards on their rotations at Langstrom: “Welcome to the new priesthood, lads.”

(That sounded right cruel, I know. But, as dear Henry has suggested, this journal is for my therapeutic benefit, not theirs.)

To my delight, Ms. Bower was nothing like the gray, suburban solipsists I’ve grown accustomed to. So far from them, in fact, that I allowed her to do nearly all of the talking. I even bothered to take notes for once! At this early stage, my best guess is that the woman suffers from a form of latent paranoid psychosis, with an onset triggered by the violent death of her spouse.

To say that Ms. Bower is delusional is an understatement. Unlike traditional schizophrenics, however, Bower does not appear particularly troubled by her delusions. There could be a multitude of medical reasons for this: post-traumatic shock, self-medication…even good, old-fashioned denial might do the trick! However, my suspicion is that we are dealing a rare form of highly functioning Cognitive Dissociation Disorder. C.D.D. would allow her to maintain a modicum of outward stability without ever needing to confront the eccentric beliefs that govern her bizarre behavior. A C.D.D sufferer develops a core belief system based on some brand of popular otherworldly phenomenon; an interior logic that is fantastic on its surface, yet adheres to a set of concrete rules and idioms that are so widely known that it can be connected - albeit just barely - to the real world. UFOs usually do the trick nicely. Then again, so does Jesus Christ.

Victims of C.D.D will often use the illness as a tool of empowerment, attributing to themselves special talents or supernatural qualities that act as defensive walls against future trauma. As she spoke, I instantly recalled a case ten years ago, while a resident at Canns-Jofre Hospital in Strand. A fellow named Wilson Reed had recently lost his adolescent daughter in a terribly dreadful tube incident. Without warning, a disturbed young manic-depressive had shoved his nine year-old daughter from the platform mere seconds before the number nine local train pulled into the station. The tragedy was replayed dozens of times in all the tabloids, but it took almost a full year before Reed’s C.D.D dementia reared its ugly head. When it finally did, the poor fellow began to loudly proclaim that he’d gained the ability to read minds.

The cause and effect there was so bloody obvious, I doubt one needed to attend a medical school to sort it out. You see, Reed could’ve saved his daughter, if he’d only had the capacity to know her killer’s thoughts at that fateful moment in the Underground. Telepathy became Wilson Reed’s “talisman.”

For Patricia Bower, it is vampires.

***

Wednesday, October 5

Started the day off in Chelsea. A quick bite at Union Counter, then met Henry for a short match. Unbearably short, it turned out – a 6-0 trouncing. I have to stop eating rich foods before these bloody games! Henry wanted to go two for three, but I faked a hamstring injury and called it a day. Not very sportsmanlike of me, I know, but I wish he hadn’t been such a right bastard about it. Pointing with his racquet, calling his shots. I had half a mind to tell him where to shove it.

Attempted the novel again. Not exactly bruising the keys nowadays, mind you. These evening hours are making me lazy. But what shall I write about? Neurotic bankers with soft penises? Write what you know, indeed. At this rate, I could be the next James bloody Mallory. Inspiration, where art thou?

Ms. Bower showed up early for her session again. This time, I was certain I had locked my door, and Justine insisted she never saw her go in at all. It is a precarious thirty foot climb to the south window of my office, with only a weathered old trellis to use for footholds. Still, I wouldn’t put it past her to try. Paranoids will often go to great lengths to reinforce their delusions.

Either way, she was there, adopting the same lifeless façade as before. I don’t mind saying I am sexually attracted to her. She is beautiful, but in disquieting way, like a doll’s alien beauty. Her piles of still black hair cascaded over the end of the chaise, like a painting of the Thames at night. As usual, her eyes were huge and savage, bulging like wet dollops of blood from the wide, white plain of her forehead.

I let her speak. Her words match her looks so flawlessly; wan and iridescent, like clouds of moths. There are moments I begin to wonder if she is attempting hypnosis. She stares at me unblinkingly, and describes a dozen crimes too terrible to repeat. She speaks of a thirst I do not understand, tells of wandering the earth for centuries, bathed in death and dark, dark visions. I am enthralled, immobile. I can hear the sound of my own heart beating, and something strange tells me that she can too; that indeed she is timing her poetry to that muscle’s manic rhythm, coaxing the questions from my lips. “What of conscience?” I ask, foolishly. “Hunger is the conscience of Gods,” she whispers.

The hour ended too quickly, though I confess I do not recall her leaving at all. I will tell Justine to cancel all my appointments for the week.

This bird needs a lot of help.

***

Friday, October 14

I had Henry over for dinner tonight. What a pest! He must’ve left a hundred messages on my machine, voicing his “mild concern” over my recent absence. I explained that I’d been a bit under the weather, and still wasn’t feeling very much like a night on the town. But, being a good-natured bloke, he offered to stop by with a hot curry and a spot of brandy instead. How could I rebuke such a heroic gesture?

It was almost 8 P.M. by the time he rung me up. I’d been awake for hours by then, and, truth be told, I was utterly famished. Good old Hen poured us out a couple of snifters, then set to clattering about in my kitchen. We made some small talk as he fussed over a flaccid lump of beef from the corner market. Henry droned on and on about this horrid-sounding little nature show, something about a family of ferrets or squirrels or some bloody nonsense. The roast looked so limp and white in his hands, and there was something incredibly unappetizing about it. I couldn’t help but ponder how long it had been dead; it’s organs scooped out by inbred Yorkshire surgeons, the meat soaped and scalded by a hundred gray processes to disguise the fact that it once had eyes and teeth and a heart and a mind to drive it all.

After what felt like an eternity of ferrets and eviscerated cow, I finally coaxed Henry to sit down for a freshener. He noted my somewhat pale complexion, and promised that the spot of brandy would be enough to “redden my cheeks.” I nodded hopefully and inched closer to him on the sectional. I hadn’t bothered to pull on a pair of trousers yet, and the leather felt good against the skin of my thighs. I thought of all that tough gray meat, trapped behind my masquerade of skin . Henry’s body looked much better: a taut, pink balloon full of blood and electricity. I could smell the whole evening on him. He’d popped down a few drinks before he came by. Probably working his nerve up to do something rash, but I sensed I was going to beat him to it. For the first time since I’d known him, I could read the man’s hidden passions like a tawdry magazine. It was a wonderful sensation, sliding forth gracefully, meeting his green eyes with mine, the hot music of his breath thumping out of his chest.

I kissed him. The too warm tongue rolled slowly in my mouth, an underwater death roll. “Oh,” he gasped, his eyes like two pinned stars. Delicately, I took Henry’s hand in mine, and steered it my lips. “Do you fancy a shag, my dear Henny boy?” I purred.

The shock didn’t register on his face quite the way I’d hoped, but in the next moment it no longer mattered. Unable to contain myself, I felt my fangs slide down, crunching through bone. The finger cracked off at the knuckle, and I brandished it like a grisly cigar in my smile. Henry flopped backwards on his bum. An ounce of his steaming blood dotted my yellow Djbouti runner like a modernist painter’s masterstroke. For a long moment he sat there, clutching the red stump, his eyes filling with the dull, blank misery of a doe in the killing fields. Whatever Henry glimpsed in my new face had changed him, instantly and forever. I slid the severed digit in and out of my mouth suggestively, giggling and suckling as the wonderful red warmth drained down my gullet.

“Don’t look so glum, love” I told him. “Imagine if I’d got your knickers down first.”

A sly, mammalian look crossed his face, and then he was moving, stumbling blindly into the void of shadows, upsetting my Arbisher chaise and smashing a shelf of soft jazz CDs along the way. My love rose like an empress in his path. He was screaming like an infant lamb when she tore his throat out. To my new ears, it sounded like a beautiful, lonesome sonata.

I know so many things now, dear diary. This new education of mine has been like awakening from a long, long dream. I know that food is a memory of youth. I know that evil is morality absent time.

I know that “Patricia Bower” is not my mother’s real name. Poor Patricia and her husband met the same bear in those woods that night. She found me sleeping as well.

As we dined, she spoke to me again of the two blondes: one less than alive, one more than dead. One was a monster in the shape of a girl, with fire for blood and ice for hands. The other was a boy called William, and he was to my mother as a favorite hound. The girl must pay an old debt, but she wishes the boy by her side again.

She needs my help.

But I know that when they arrive, I will let neither one of them live long enough to hurt her again.

Got to go, now. Justine just rang up with a cup of hot lentils, and I’m still starving.

***

“Welcome to London,” hollered the unremarkable man in the even less-remarkable suit. “Watch your step…”

Buffy took his hand instinctively as she hopped off the platform onto a grassy plain. It was like the stranger had been handpicked to match the weather. His drab clothes and cloud-wisp of a hair were a perfect camouflage against the sky. But - rain clouds aside - it sure didn’t feel like “London.” No Big Ben, for one. No cute double-decker buses or uber-serious guards in big, furry hats, either. Instead, the place had the look of a grim suburb, like Sunnydale with an extreme dose of the flu. At the horizon, a quartet of smokestacks belched something not quite brown that crumpled like a wave over a checkerboard of beat up rowhomes and cracked asphalt. The air smelled a little like toast. Which would’ve been nice, except that Buffy knew it definitely was not toast. Gazing past the headquarters’ black gates, she thought she could make out some kind of rundown strip mall.

So much for the glamorous homecoming, she thought.

The “headquarters.” That itself was a whole new level of whatever, entirely. The architecture of the new Watcher’s Council seemed to fail in spectacular ways. A dozen bleak stone rectangles littered the sprawling campus, competing for attention with a grid of souless shrubbery. At the center of it all stood a dowdy old cathedral, complete with a rose window and a hackneyed bell tower. The grounds seemed more like a low-rent boarding school than a Top Secret Monster Hunter Command Center.

Which (duh) is probably the whole point.

One by one they filed off the chopper into a bustling throng. The strangers were identically dressed and friendly in a majorly spooky way, like an army of mimes. A pair of them flanked Sam as she emerged. A third in an old leather bomber moved in sharply, his eyes buried behind a giant pair of Aviator sunglasses. He was saying something that Buffy couldn’t hear over the rambling of the helicopters. She watched Samantha Finn’s face start to twist…

Somewhere in the crowd, an American voice called out Buffy's name, and seconds later a lanky, scarlet-haired woman swam towards them. The woman's face was familiar, but just barely. Buffy was feeling stronger since the nap, but the process of connection actual dots still gave her a sort of musty headache.

“Hey,” she managed. “Err…Mandy. Melanie?”

The girl looked crushed. And a little P.O’ed. “Vi,” she sniffed. “Violet Singer.”

For some bizarro reason, an image of dry cornflakes popped into Buffy’s head. “Hellmouth!” she blurted. “Hellmouth Vi. Right. Oh, sorry. It’s, uh, been a while…”

Before she could finish digging the foot out of her mouth, Xander brushed past her, wrapped the girl they used to call Shy Vi up in one of his warm, trademark hugs.  A weird volt of jealousy slashed through her.  Buffy hadn’t gotten one of those.

Giles picked his way forward, gaping in abject horror at the intruders. “Ms. Singer. Mind telling us what the devil is going on?”

The slayer collected a military posture, her eyes glazing over with something like contempt. “Rupert,” she said. “I’m sorry.  Really, it just couldn’t be helped.”

“What couldn’t be helped? Who are all these people?”

“…an’ keep your soddin’ hands off me!” bellowed Spike. The vampire burst from a scrum of uniformed soldiers, batting them away like flies. He grabbed the nearest one by the scruff of the neck and marched him up, flanked by a half dozen wary men. “This todger jus' tried to give me a jab,” he explained, nodding at the needle in the terrified man’s hand.

“Bl-Blood sample,” the hostage stammered.

“Standard quarantine countermeasure,” Violet explained. “Had a parasitic zombie virus last month, traveled in the host’s blood.  Messy stuff, lost a lot of good people…”

“Ridiculous.” Giles’ eyes were blazing. “I wasn’t notified of any… zombie virus, did you say?”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t been notified about, G,” Violet quipped.  Buffy studied the woman's sharp expression. There was something darker going on there, a smug satisfaction. She'd been looking forward to this, maybe for a very long time.  Behind her, on the green knoll that bordered the landing pad, a procession of C.I.A. looking guys and Slayers was closing in quickly.  “You’ll all need to come with us now.  Management wants to meet with you.”

There was a tense silence. “Bollocks,” said Spike.

“Pardon me?”

Spike steered his hostage into a rough headlock. “Ain’t goin’ anyplace with a pack of soldier boys jus' took a poke at me.  So, what say Management drags its flabby posterior out here and meets us, yeah?” A ring of soldiers closed in, drawing a bead on him with a dozen crackling Tasers. “That’s it lads, come along,” he chided. “’’Nother step, Professor Prickles here loses a head.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Xandered sputtered.

“Don’t,” Buffy said. “It’ll be okay.”

“It will not be okay!” Spike retorted. “You don’t know this lot like I do, Slayer. Leave it to me.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Violet.

The vampire stiffened.  “Yeah? You can’t imagine how wrong you are, love.”  Buffy pictured that icy old leer spreading behind the mask.   She watched helpless as Spike's elbow twisted slowly sideways, and saw the medic’s face turn purple when he tried to scream.

“Stand down,” called a reedy voice from the rear, the soldiers parting before it.

Its owner strode forward, chestnut hair blowing like a mane.

“He’s not bluffing,” said Dawn.  “He never bluffs.  That's why he sucks at poker.”