The Big Smoke Read online

  Mel led him inside. The air was warmer, thick with sweat and perfumes, with incense and candle wax and liquor. The racks were crowded with black splashed with burgundy and emerald, rare patches of white. Jewellery glittered in display cabinets. Little angels clung to the walls side by side with black-and-white photographs of black-clad people in cemeteries. A large painting of a sad woman lying in a rowboat surrounded by water lilies hung behind the cash register. Candles cast flickering shadows across the group of perhaps twenty swampies spread across two antique-looking sofas and a scattering of cushions in one corner.

  There was a polite round of applause as Kevin and Mel entered, but he quickly realised the two things weren't related. A young fella was just sitting down on a cushion, a book in his hand.

  Standing centre stage, like a circus ringmaster, another man was gesturing to the youngster with an open hand, saying 'very nice, very nice'. The MC wore a long black coat with a velvet vest over a lacy white shirt, the ensemble capped off with top hat and cane.

  'Blake,' Mel told him.

  The ringmaster greeted them with a flourish. 'Ah, my dear Melpomene. So glad you could make it. And you've brought another poetry lover to our little murder; how kind.'

  Murder? Kevin baulked, but no one seemed to notice his confusion.

  A girl squealed and juggled over, her tits barely restrained by a corset, to smooch Mel on the cheek.

  'Hi,' she said to Kevin, looking at him from behind a comb of thick lashes. 'I'm Bella. As in Belladonna.' She pouted, as though daring him to take a bite.

  Others shouted greetings. Blake struck his cane on the timber floor and the group settled. Kevin leaned on a counter next to Mel. He was aware of kohl-rimmed eyes regarding him. Bella hovered, quivering on knee-high boots with two-inch heels. Her eyes caught the light, reflected red like a dog's in headlights: one of Blake's favourites then; or Mel's. How many more red-eyes were there in the group? The leeches would be hard pressed to match a vampire one on one, but their presence emphasised to Kevin that he was on dangerous ground.

  Blake recited some verses about a lost girl. The gathering seemed to be into it, and while Kevin couldn't doubt Blake could tell a story, he couldn't help feeling he was missing something. Maybe it was the old language the poem was written in, or the rhyme, or just that fact that the swampies seemed to hang on every word.

  When the applause ended, Blake said to him, 'What about you, young man? Want to give it a shot?'

  'I don't write poetry.'

  'No? Well, that wasn't one of mine, more's the pity.' A polite chuckle from the audience. 'Where are you from? What do you do?'

  'I'm from out of town. I am — was — a mechanic.'

  'You want a look under my hood?' one asked, a tall, pale lad with a goatee, his clothes all lace and velvet. Looked like he'd snap in a strong breeze.

  'I could use an oil change,' said Bella, so much cleavage you could rest a stubby there.

  'Give it a rest, Bella,' another said.

  Giggles and teases rippled through the audience.

  'Share your good things, Mel,' Bella said, her tone more pleading than seductive.

  'Give us a poem, just a short one,' said another.

  'Now that you're here, go right ahead.' Blake waved magnanimously with his cane. 'Your audience demands it!'

  'Sure,' Mel said, and they fell quiet. 'In honour of our new guest. But we can't stay.'

  She put a hand on Kevin's chest, right on top of the AC/DC logo on his T-shirt, and began to recite. Bon had never sounded like this. Nor Brian. Without music, with her emphasis and spacing, her non-rock beat, her woman's voice bragging about dirty deeds, offering to be a back door man. Whoa!

  'Well, that was different,' Blake said as the applause died away. 'We might as well get down to it. Talk among yourselves while our guest and I have a chat. Melpomene, lead the way.'

  They went to a back room where the main feature was a sewing machine. A couple of limbless dressmaking dummies stood in various states of undress. The room was littered with cloth, the walls decorated with pages torn from magazines and pencilled patterns.

  'You lose your phone?' Blake asked Mel as he shut the door behind them.

  'Greaser needed me. A spot of bother in the Valley.'

  'So I gathered. No reason not to call.'

  'I'm here now.'

  'You taste him yet?'

  'We've been busy.'

  He raised his eyebrow at that, swept his gaze over Kevin. 'Well, get to it. Let's see what he's got.'

  She turned to Kevin. 'Do you mind? I have to taste before you can see the Needle.'

  'You didn't mention that.'

  'Didn't want to scare you.'

  Blake chortled. 'Yeah, she's so scary, ain't she? Wait.' He left the room, leaving them staring at each other, Kevin nervous, she seemingly amused, and returned shortly with a silver chalice, which he passed to Mel.

  Kevin held out a hand. She pulled the blade from her boot. Blood splattered into the chalice. The wound closed before the cup was full, but she was satisfied.

  Mel sipped.

  Her pupils dilated to black: 'Fuck me.'

  Mel filled her mouth again, then turned to Blake and kissed him, long and tenderly. The poet stumbled back, eyes shut, face turned to the ceiling, a thin trickle of blood running from one corner of his mouth. Mel wiped it with a finger.

  Blake moaned. His face was swollen and ruddy, his eyes fevered and bulging, the whites webbed with scarlet veins.

  'Dangerous, isn't it — tasting one of us?' Kevin asked. 'Bedlam and all that.'

  'You're too young to have that many ghosts,' Mel said. 'Besides, I have an aptitude.'

  'Aptitude? I had one of them once.'

  She gave him a curious look, as though she should know what he meant, but didn't. Like hearing a song she'd heard once, but not knowing its name or even where she'd heard it.

  'I guess I should thank you for asking,' he said. 'You could've put that spike in my heart and taken what you wanted any time.'

  'Between you and me, I prefer the head, if you can afford the risk. Longer recovery time if you don't do any permanent injury.' She winked. 'And don't think I wasn't tempted. Not after that chomp you left in Greaser for me to heal. It was only the extremity of the situation that prevented me, that and your apparent contrition.'

  'Oh, yes,' Blake whispered. His lips drew thin and tight, eyebrows almost meeting over the furrow as he stared at Kevin. 'Quite the time you've been having, chum. Making friends in all the wrong places. I think the Needle will definitely want to meet you.'

  'How soon?'

  'I'll get Greaser to set it up; once we're done.'

  'I'll see Kevin gets to him,' Mel said.

  'Um, we're meeting,' Blake said.

  'He's all I've got for you tonight. That should be plenty of grist for the mill.'

  'I want you here.'

  'Viscounts have already taken a shot at him. VS will be all over it by now.'

  'All the more reason to stay.'

  'He needs to get to the Needle. You should come too.'

  'I'm meeting.'

  'And I'm not.'

  For a long moment, they stood with gazes locked.

  Blake blinked. 'Come, come, I have forgotten my hospitality.'

  'Blake,' Mel said, but he was ushering Kevin out, his hand hot on Kevin's elbow, his breath gusting with the heavy scent of fresh blood.

  Blake pointed at a hooting boy in velvet and said, 'Ambrose, our guest needs a drink. A little something for the road.'

  Bella huffed, and the rest went quiet. Kevin could hear the candles flicker; the room was so silent.

  'It's short for Ambrosia, don't you know,' Blake said, in a stage whisper that made his fawning gang giggle.

  The blushing boy came to him, arms out, wrists up. 'Unless you prefer it somewhere else.'

  Kevin shook his head. 'I've eaten.'

  Mel touched his arm. 'It wouldn't hurt. You've been running on empty for days; that nip you
took from Greaser hasn't even touched the sides. I can tell.'

  'He's already had Greaser?' Ambrose said. 'That Snipe?'

  'That Snipe is my friend,' Mel said.

  'Sure, but—'

  'The arm is fine.' Kevin pulled his knife.

  'A blade? Really?' The kid looked crestfallen.

  'The country boy is shy,' Blake said, and was rewarded with another chuckle from his flock. It did little to ease the air of anticipation, however; all gazes meeting on that pale patch of flesh in Kevin's grip.

  Kevin cut the kid's arm, was rewarded with a quick intake of breath, from Ambrose and those watching; the wound gave up its liquid, and he lapped. If Blake had expected him to be squeamish about eating in public, well, guess again, wanker. Besides, he needed information, and neither Blake nor Mel was being overly forthcoming.

  'Better than goon,' one murmured.

  The connection came, a deeper current under the crimson rush. The boy — estranged from his parents on account of his homosexuality, working his way through art school, a living cliché — was one of Blake's three red-eyes, fed on blood passed around in a chalice. They and the rest of the gang called themselves The Romantics; they hung out in cafes and clubs when they weren't at university or working behind counters or dole bludging. They knew the reality of Blake's nature; that was why they'd joined his Murder. Blake needed a big gang of red-eyes and wannabes. There were other vampire gangs out there, gangs like Johnny Slick's Viscounts — hungry for turf, hungry for veins. It was only VS that kept them from tearing each other apart, by restricting the numbers of vampires and red-eyes, and enforcing hunting grounds to keep the factions apart. Certain bars and clubs, certain hospitals at certain nights of the week, made available to certain gangs outside their own little ecosystems of give and take. Making other vampires was strictly verboten unless the Old Man gave the nod for some act of loyalty. Mel was Blake's only vampire offspring. They had arrived together a few years back, on Blake's Grand Tour of the world; he called her his muse. Others called her his slave, his daughter, his second. Ambrose's blood didn't reveal what she called herself.

  A part of Kevin — the loneliness, or perhaps merely the ever-present hunger — wanted very much to know. So compell ing, the thought of opening her flesh, there on her pale neck, firm yet soft, the taste of her, the life she'd led, the lives she'd consumed, and often he sensed, at Blake's request.

  Kevin clung to Ambrose, his heart pounding as the blood and memories sizzled through his veins. The aroma of lust and blood clouded his senses. Hopeful faces peered at him. Bella's fleshy hand was at her throat, as though already feeling his fangs in her.

  Hunger urged him to sink again into the boy, but he resisted.

  'Another? More? A growing boy needs to eat.' Blake peered at him, face flushed with fervour.

  And Kevin saw in Ambrose's lifestream:

  Blake, thrashing Ambrose with his cane. The boy, naked crouched, his ribs and back striped and mottled with welts. Melpomene saying, enough, and Bella in the background, staring, with big, wet eyes. And Blake, pushing Mel away, and stabbing. And turning back to Ambrose, a single slash spilling crimson: 'suffer for your art, boy'. And Ambrose thanking him. Thanking him as Bella licks at the blood, and Blake takes her while he sprouts poetry, and Mel slowly heals, rumpled and forgotten

  'There's more where that came from,' Blake said.

  Kevin forced himself to let Ambrose go. 'I've had enough.'

  The kid slumped and someone helped him to a nearby sofa. They watched the cut heal where Kevin had smeared his own blood on it. The boy was a red-eye, suckled on Blake's blood; despite the anti-coagulant in Kevin's spittle he'd have healed quickly enough, but Kevin figured he owed the kid something for the donation.

  'In that case, get out.' Bloody sweat beaded Blake's forehead and upper lip. 'Out. All of you. Out!'

  Blake scrabbled with shaking hands at a satchel hanging from a coat rack, and took from it a notebook bound in leather, and a long box, which he opened quickly, like an asthmatic digging for a puffer, and pulled free a fountain pen.

  He saw Kevin staring and said, 'Nothing like the scratching of the nib upon parchment. So pure!' And then, when no one had moved, 'Out! Out!'

  Kevin said, 'What about the Needle?'

  'Yes, yes. Melpomene can keep you off the streets until the arrangements have been made. Now, out, the lot of you — out!'

  'Blake's a twat,' Mel said as soon as they hit the street.

  'What's that?'

  'Giving you Ambrose like that. Risking, maybe even hoping, you'd lose it.'

  'Why would he do that?'

  'To make a point. To me.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Don't worry. Just remember that Blake always puts Blake first, and you'll be fine.'

  The car was where they'd left it.

  'How was his lordship this evening?' Greaser asked.

  'His usual charming self,' Mel said.

  'So, what now?'

  'Let's drive. Give Kevin the Cook's tour of Brissie.'

  Kevin held his hand out. Greaser scowled, but gave him the keys.

  Once they were rolling, he said, 'Those blokes back at the tatt shop—'

  'The Viscounts,' Greaser said.

  'Yeah, the Happy Days bunch. Why were they there?'

  'The bowling alley was shut?'

  Mel ignored Greaser's joke. 'They're from the south side. They aren't meant to be this side of the river. They'll get their knuckles rapped.'

  'But they were looking for me. How did they know I'd be there?'

  'Jack Flash might've been having a bob each way,' Mel said.

  'No, he was the Needle's mate,' Greaser said. 'He wouldn't have crossed him. Why even bother to tell us Kev was in town if he was going to shop him?'

  'The bint?' Mel suggested.

  'You mean the counter girl?' Kevin asked.

  'Jen might have connections, I s'pose,' Greaser said. 'I don't know her too well.'

  'And why the Viscounts? Why would they care?' Mel wondered.

  'A favour? They want West End, but the Vultures won't have a bar of them. And everyone wants the Valley. Maybe they thought the bumpkin, sorry mate, no offence, but maybe they thought Kev would give them a bargaining chip.'

  'But why would Jen go to them? Why not go straight to VS?'

  'No contacts?'

  'What, she couldn't get the number out of the book?'

  'Couldn't drop a note through the letter box? No, there's something going on.' She looked at Kevin, as though he had some secret written on his forehead.

  Greaser huffed and sat back in her seat. 'I don't know why we stay here, Mel. Why do we stay here?'

  'That's why.' She poked a finger at a queue lined up for cabs or a bus, or maybe to get into some fancy club.

  'Nom, nom, nom,' Greaser said, sarcastically.

  'Brissie's not the only town in Queensland,' Kevin said.

  'It's the biggest. Easy to get lost in. To go unnoticed in.'

  'Except for VS watching everyone,' Greaser said. 'Taking tithes.'

  Mel looked at Kevin. 'Get rid of VS, and this could be a very nice town indeed.'

  'That's not why I'm here.'

  'No? I've seen inside your blood.'

  'Then you know who I want.'

  'What makes you think you can get Mira without going through the rest of them?'

  'That's what I need to speak to the Needle about.'

  No one spoke for a while and he turned on the radio. Mel turned it down.

  'Nice car,' Greaser said.

  'Yeah,' he said. 'A friend gave it to me.'

  'Subtle,' she said.

  'It's a classic.'

  'If you die, can I have it?'

  Mel scolded her, but Kevin laughed. 'Why not?' And then sobered. 'When do I get to see the Needle?'

  'Blake's off in reverie,' Mel said. 'Could be tomorrow night. Maybe the night after.'

  'Damn.' His hands tightened on the wheel as he stared at the val
leys of concrete and bitumen. Now that Hunter knew he was here, the clock was ticking. He would never see Hunter coming in this crowded, foreign wilderness.

  'Are you in such a rush to die?' Mel asked.

  'Should I drop you two somewhere?' Kevin asked.

  'Why? Where are you going?'

  He gestured to the city, a vague somewhere.

  'Don't be silly,' Mel said. 'You'll stay with me tonight.'

  Greaser shook her head. 'Now who's in a rush to die?'

  'You can mind the car,' Mel told her, and Greaser mumbled, 'Well, just remember that I get your flat when you kick the bucket.'

  NINE

  They'd been told to report immediately on arriving at Thorn, but Reece was taking a detour.

  'We'll be late,' Felicity said as they rode the lift.

  'Better late than dead on time,' Reece said.

  'You think we're for it?' She trembled, and he admired her control as she pulled herself together in a matter of seconds.

  'Clock's ticking. I want to see if Mira can buy us some time.'

  'She can't even tell the time.'

  'We'll see.'

  They got out on 11 and stepped through the sliding doors into the ward: off-white walls, rows of beds, tinted windows. A suffocating scent of antiseptic, the stale-breath hint of blood, clouded around them. Hospitaller Dr Tran and esteemed Treasurer Tony Campbell had their heads together at the far end of the room, right outside the restricted area. They looked up like startled emus as Reece and Felicity approached. Campbell jerked his head in their direction, an action akin to throwing a stick for a dog, and Tran strode toward them, his hands in the pockets of his white smock, stethoscope looped around his neck like a snake.

  'What are you two doing here?' the doctor demanded to know.

  'Wanted to check on the boss,' Reece said.

  'No visitors in isolation.'

  'Since when?'

  'Since now.'

  'How is she?' Reece indicated the sealed door at Campbell's back, marked by a No Entry sign and the newly placed scarlet psi symbol marking it as a mental isolation room, dangerous to enter.

  'The cacophony has worsened. The Strigoi is deep in bedlam now. Any deeper, she may never surface again.' He shrugged. What was one to do?