The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories

  Copyright 2017 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: May 2017

  Tenderling was originally published

  in standalone form in March 2015

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  A new prime minister is led down to the basement of Number 10, where he meets a surprising house guest...

  A man finds his remote cabin being terrorized by a woman who only says the same three words over and over...

  Billions of miles from Earth, a computer must make a difficult decision about a spaceship's last surviving crew-member...

  As she struggles to look after her dying daughter, a mother notices strange noises in the house...

  In the ruins of a planet ravaged by alien invasion, a young girl must decide whether to fight, or to simply try to stay alive...

  After moving into a new house with her parents, young Cally Taylor realizes that perhaps one of the previous occupants never left...

  On a remote mountain road, a woman comes face to face with a dead, frozen woman in a wrecked car...

  The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Ghost Stories contains the new stories The Vampire of Downing Street, The Decision, Pets, Frozen Charlotte, When Ghosts Dream and Let Me In, as well as a revised version of Tenderling. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

  Table of Contents

  The Vampire of Downing Street

  Previously unpublished

  Let Me In

  Previously unpublished

  The Decision

  Previously unpublished

  When Ghosts Dream

  Previously unpublished

  Pets

  Previously unpublished

  Tenderling

  Revised version

  Frozen Charlotte

  Previously unpublished

  The Vampire of Downing Street

  and Other Stories

  The Vampire of Downing Street

  One

  When I was five years old, my mother died in a series of car accidents.

  The first accident took place on the Holloway Road on a sunny July day, when a lorry rear-ended a car in which my mother was a passenger. The impact was strong enough to crush and kill the car's driver, but my mother suffered no more than a broken wrist and a fractured collarbone.

  Nine days later she was the passenger in a car that was hit side-on by a motorcycle.

  This time she ended up in hospital for several weeks, due to a shattered pelvis. She was eventually released shortly before her thirty-sixth birthday, only to be involved in a third accident on her way home. She was traveling once again as a passenger, when her sister lost control on a bend in the road and drove into a tree. My aunt was killed on impact. Mother suffered a nasty bang to the head and was rushed straight back into hospital.

  Finally, several weeks after that, she was driving herself home when her brakes failed and she slammed into the back of a truck. She suffered massive internal injuries, which were mostly inconsequential since her head was almost completely sliced off as the upper half of her body crashed through the windscreen. She was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Everybody said she'd been the victim of a terrible set of coincidences, but even at the age of five I knew better. I sensed that some hidden force had reached out and taken hold of my mother's life, and had smashed her to pieces until she was dead. I felt the shadow of some power in my life, of something that had noticed me. Even if I didn't see its face, and even if I didn't know its name, I knew it was out there somewhere, and I felt certain – even then, even at the age of five – that this thing would not lose interest in me after bashing my mother to death. I knew that one day I would come face to face with this evil, and that I would learn the reason for what it had done.

  And I did learn that reason, but only much later. Only after I had become prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

  ***

  “It's got to be aliens,” Carol whispers as we stand grinning and waving on the step outside 10 Downing Street. “They're going to tell you the truth about aliens.”

  “I think you're getting a little carried away,” I whisper.

  The flashes of hundreds of cameras are almost blinding us. Reporters from all the major channels are shouting my name over and over, trying to get me to say something newsworthy. Already, they want to move the news cycle along.

  “They made out like it's some massive, earth-shattering secret that's revealed to every new prime minister on his first day in office,” Carol points out, still grinning and waving. “What else could it be? It has to be aliens. Maybe Roswell was real. Maybe aliens are already here.”

  “Well, I'll find out soon enough,” I mutter, forcing a smile as I turn and wave toward the BBC cameras. “Secretary Moore wants to take me straight down to the basement after we're done out here. Even before I get the cabinet together. Whatever it is, it must be down there beneath the house. What if -”

  “Let's not talk about it here,” she says, nudging me in the ribs as she continues to wave. “You never know, some asshole might try lip-reading what we're saying, and you're already so jumpy. You're cute when you're nervous, Patrick.”

  “I'm not nervous.”

  “Of course you are. I can read you like a book.”

  ***

  “I shall leave you alone for a short time,” Mr. Moore says as we stand in the darkened chamber at the bottom of the stairs. “When you're finished down here, come back the way you came and I shall endeavor to answer any questions you might have. It is traditional for there to be questions. I shall also prepare a brandy for you.”

  I turn to him.

  “Is all this really necessary?”

  “All what?”

  “Well, the theatricality.” I look at the single candle he's holding, which is all that lights the chamber. I'm not sure he could have made the scene seem more gothic and dramatic, even if he'd tried. “The secrecy. The whispered voices. The vague allusions to something that's going to shock me to my core. Why can't you just come out and tell me what's going on?”

  “The door is right ahead of you,” he continues, conspicuously not responding to my point. “When you are ready, please go through. Your arrival is keenly anticipated.” He hesitates, before handing the candle to me and then turning to shuffle away. After a moment, however, he stops and glances back at me. “And if I might be so bold, I should like to offer one further piece of advice. Hear him out. Listen to what he has to say. Do not be too quick to...”

  He pauses, as if he's not right sure of the right word.

  “Do not panic too readily,” he adds finally.

  “And this happens to every new prime minister, does it?” I ask. “They're all led down here to this door, and told to go through?”

  “They are, Sir.”

  “So it's some big secret that we're all told on our first day in office?”

  “It is, Sir.”

  “Something the rest of the world knows nothing about?”

  “A degree of discretion is necessary, Sir.” He hesitates for a moment, as if he has some other nugget of wisdom to impart. “Take your time down here, Sir,” he adds. “There's really no need to rush or panic. I shall inform the ministers
that you are otherwise detained.”

  With that, he turns and makes his way up the stairs, leaving me all alone in the chamber.

  “Rush or panic?” I say after a moment, looking down at the flickering candle and then turning to look at the large wooden door at the chamber's far end. “Why would I...”

  My voice trails off.

  This is absurd. I am the prime minister of one of the world's most influential nations, I have just won a landslide election victory, I command a healthy majority that will allow me to push through the reforms I promised on the campaign trail, this is my moment to stand tall and proud so that I might announce my plans. It's my moment of glory. So why am I standing here in a dark, dank-smelling basement with a candle in my right hand, armed only with a few cryptic comments made by a man who in my opinion might well be a few sandwiches short of a picnic?

  Taking my phone from my pocket, I bring up Carol's number and start typing a message before seeing that I have no signal.

  “Right,” I mutter, slipping the phone away before taking a deep breath as I look toward the wooden door. “Of course.”

  Whatever's behind that door, apparently it's more than a state secret. Apparently even the royals don't know about it. Apparently, it's known only to a select few.

  And today, I become one of those select few.

  “Right,” I say again, before realizing that I'm stalling.

  I step toward the door and reach for the handle.

  “Right.”

  I take another deep breath, before turning the handle and pushing the door open. As I do so, I remind myself that I'm one of the most important and famous men in the world right now, which means that it's not exactly likely something bad could happen to me down here. In fact, as the door bumps against a rough stone wall, and as I step forward into an icy, echoing dark chamber, I suddenly realize that this is most likely an elaborate prank. I wouldn't be surprised if my old university buddies Stammy and Porker jumped out at any moment and yelled “Surprise!” with their usual glee. They're probably right here, tittering in the shadows, waiting to make me jump out of my skin.

  I wait.

  No “Surprise!” so far.

  A faint breeze is blowing past me, but otherwise this weird underground chamber seems utterly abandoned. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I hold the candle up and watch as the flickering flame lights the rocky wall all around. It's as if down here, deep beneath Number 10 Downing Street, there's a large cave that has been hollowed out of the ground. The floor is smooth, but the walls and ceiling are craggy and rough, with chunks of gray stone hanging down. Honestly, it's like something from a melodramatic horror film. I duck down under one of the low-hanging chunks and step forward, once again reminding myself that nothing can happen to me, and I hear my own cautious footsteps echoing as I walk forward.

  Somewhere nearby, water is dribbling from the ceiling and spattering against the rocky floor.

  Nothing can happen to me.

  I'm too important.

  “Well this is certainly... interesting,” I say out loud, for the benefit of any pranksters who might be lurking in the shadows. “I'm a busy man, though, so -”

  Suddenly I hear a creaking sound over my shoulder, and I turn just as the wooden door swings shut. My first instinct is to go and pull the damn thing open again, and I take a step in that direction before stopping as I realize that this must be part of some arcane initiation ceremony. I'm still clinging to the hope that Stammy and Porker are responsible, but I suppose it's equally possible that I'm being inducted into some arcane part of government life. I simply have to stay strong, and not look like a frightened fool, and get the bloody thing over with.

  Holding the candle up, I turn and look ahead, but all I see is darkness.

  “I don't have all evening, you know,” I call out, while taking my phone from my pocket and double-checking that I still have no signal. “Listen, whatever this is, can we get it started? I have a room full of rather excited MPs waiting for me, and if I'm not there soon they might just start on the port. I told the country I'd hit the ground running and...”

  My voice trails off.

  This is really is absurd, isn't it?

  I'm one of the most powerful men in the world and I'm standing in a bloody cave, holding a candle and talking to myself. If the tabloids got wind of this, they'd have me over the coals. The last thing I want is to storm off in some self-important huff, but the fact remains that this is my first day as PM and I'm expecting a call from the President of the United States at any moment. The last thing I need is to be hanging about in some kind of low-rent dungeon. Finally, sighing, I turn to head back to the door.

  And then I freeze as I feel a hand touch my shoulder from behind.

  Two

  “Buchanan out! Buchanan out! Buchanan out!”

  “All you politicians are the same!”

  “Scum!”

  “Damn it, can't they move those people away from the end of the street?” I mutter, pacing back over to my desk. “Or cut the wires on their loudspeakers or something?”

  “I believe they've been moved back as far as they can,” Mr. Moore replies archly. “Human rights, and so on and so forth.”

  “Oh, blast their human -”

  Catching myself just in time, I look down at the various papers spread across my desk and after a moment my gaze falls upon the chemical weapons report. I've been delaying reading that particular report all morning, but I know the generals are going to want to talk my hind off later. Reaching down to open the report to the first page, I see a map that frankly seems like gobbledygook. I turn to the next page and flinch at the sight of a photo showing a young chap with horrific burns on his body. I hesitate for a moment longer, before turning to see that Moore is still watching me rather calmly from the doorway.

  “What's my approval rating this morning?” I ask.

  “Best not to know, Sir.”

  “Just tell me.”

  He clears his throat.

  “Sir, approval ratings are not always the most reliable -”

  “Tell me, Moore, or I'll replace you with someone who will.”

  “I believe the trackers have you at... 28%, Sir.”

  “Twenty...”

  My voice trails off as I digest that rather sobering news.

  “But last night I was at 31%,” I point out. “All I've done since then is sleep. How can I have dropped three points in my sleep?”

  “It's natural,” he replies, “for a prime minister in his fifth year to face a drop of some degree.”

  I pause for a moment as the protesters' distant cries continue to fill the street outside, and for a few seconds I can't help but think back to that day almost five years ago when I stood fresh-faced and optimistic on the steps, waving to the cameras and promising good things for my country. My approval ratings in those first weeks never dipped below 70%, and I genuinely thought that I knew what I was doing. I thought all the prime minister before me must have been fools, and that I'd figured it all out. Now it seems as if even when I'm catching forty winks, people can't stop hating me.

  Even my own wife hasn't been home in almost a month. We've told the rags she's staying in Cambridgeshire for the children, but that's a whopper. I'm sure my approval rating at home is far lower than 31% right now. Carol hates me. Everyone hates me.

  “I need to speak to him,” I say suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “To whom, Sir?”

  I look over at Moore and see that same old inscrutable gaze staring back at me.

  “You know who,” I say firmly.

  “I'm afraid I -”

  “Don't bullshit me, Moore,” I continue, barely able to spit the words out as I feel a rising sense of frustration. “He said I could go down and speak to him again if things ever got bad, and I'm pretty sure this situation counts as bad. I'm facing a general election in six weeks' time and at this rate my entire party's
going to be obliterated. I'm still the prime minister, at least for now, and I demand to go down to the basement and see him! And you know exactly who I bloody well mean, man, so get on with it.”

  “I would have to check,” Moore replies, “and ascertain whether the gentleman in question is currently disposed to receiving visitors.”

  “Of course he'll meet me,” I mutter, feeling as if the protesters' chants are going to drive me out of my mind. “He told me during our first encounter that I could always go down and speak to him. I've not done that before, but right now I'm all out of options. So go to him, Moore. Tell him I'm coming back down to the basement.”

  ***

  “When I first came down here,” I whisper, sitting on a stool in the pitch-black chamber, with only the light of a candle to disturb the void that surrounds me, “you told me two things. The first was that one day, at my darkest hour, I could come and call upon you for assistance. I replied that I probably wouldn't need to do that, but you said to keep the idea in my back pocket anyway, just in case.”

  I pause for a moment, staring down at the rocky ground, before slowly turning and looking at the darkness ahead. He hasn't said a word since I came through the wooden door, but I know he's here. I can feel his presence.

  “Well, you were right,” I continue. “If you have any assistance to give at this juncture, I would be extremely grateful.”

  I wait for a reply, but all I hear is silence and all I feel is a very faint flutter of cold air. One thing I've noticed during my two trips down to the basement is that one becomes very aware when one is in the company of someone who doesn't breathe. One doesn't really notice, in one's everyday life, that the people around one are always breathing in and breathing out; one rather takes that for granted. Until, that is, one encounters somebody who does not breathe in, and who does not breathe out. Then, one notices the silence with great clarity. One rather gets the heebie-jeebies. I remember that was one of the first things I noticed about him five years ago, after he placed his hand upon my shoulder.