Michael Ford: Jane Vows Vengeance

The waitress arrived with Jane’s drink and took away the empty glass. Jane held the glass in her hand, feeling the coolness of the sides and thinking.

“I assume George never knew,” she said.

“I would think not,” said Byron. “That would certainly be awkward. Can you see Miriam sitting him down and saying, ‘Dear, the bad news is that I’ve had an affair. The good news is that he’s an ancestor. Oh, and by the way, the bairn has a good chance of being a vampire.’ ”

Jane almost choked on her cider.

“What?” Byron asked.

“The bairn,” Jane said. “I mean Walter. He’s not a vampire.”

“More’s the pity,” said Byron.

“You’re missing the point,” Jane said. “This proves that vampires and humans can … well, you know.”

“Make bairns?” Byron suggested.

“Precisely,” Jane said. “What’s more, it apparently doesn’t mean the child will turn out like us. And Miriam knew all along and didn’t say a word. That horrible old woman!”

“Now, now,” said Byron. “Can you blame her for being suspicious of our kind after what William did?”

Jane started to reply, but stopped. “I suppose not,” she said after a few moments. “Poor Walter,” she added. “What must he think?”

“You’ve told people about yourself before,” Byron said.

“Just Lucy,” Jane said. “And she’ll believe anything. I mean, she’s willing to believe anything. Walter’s different.”

“Is he?” asked Byron. “Maybe you just need to give him a chance.”

Jane shook her head. “It may be too late,” she said. “I’ve been lying to the poor man for years. His mother has been lying to him for years. He’ll probably never trust a woman for as long as he lives.”

“That will take him far,” Byron remarked. “And speaking of the devils, here are William and Miriam now.”

Walter’s parents came to the table and sat down, Miriam next to Jane and William next to Byron. Both of them looked exhausted.

“Well?” Byron said.

Miriam looked up. “It went fairly well until we got to the vampire part,” she said.

“We considered not telling him about that, but it would have been rather difficult to explain why his father is the same age he is,” William added. “Also, he was a wee bit curious about the fact that his mum was kidnapped by Charlotte Brontë.”

“He must think we’re all mad,” Jane said.

“I don’t think he knows what to think,” said Miriam. “He’s probably hoping it’s all a dream.”

“Where is the boy now?” Byron asked.

“Taking a walk,” said Miriam. “With Lilith. She seems to soothe him for some reason.”

“That’s because he can’t hear her talk,” Jane said. She hesitated before asking, “Does he know about me?”

William shook his head. “We thought it best to leave that to you,” he said.

“ He thought it best,” Miriam said, cocking her head at William. “I was all for getting everything out in the open.”

“I guess I should go find him,” Jane said. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

“Kensington Gardens,” William answered. “He said he wanted to see the statue of Peter Pan.”

“It was his favorite book when he was a boy,” said Miriam.

Jane stood up. “Wish me luck,” she said.

It wasn’t difficult to find Walter. For one thing, he was letting Lilith walk on her own three legs, which meant they couldn’t walk terribly quickly. For another, he was exactly where William had said he would be, near the statue of Peter Pan. As Lilith sniffed around Walter stood looking at the figure of the little boy who never grew up.

“If you’re looking for Neverland, I believe it’s second star to the right and straight on to morning,” Jane said.

Walter turned around. “You know they added the word ‘star’ for the Disney film,” he said. “It’s not in the book.”

“I know,” Jane said. “I tried to get him to put it in, but he wouldn’t have it.”

Walter, apparently either not hearing her or not registering the meaning of her words, went back to looking at the statue.

“I used to pretend I was Peter,” he said. “My mother bought me a cap like his and I found a cardinal feather in the yard and stuck it in the band. I even had a little bell I carried around and rang whenever Tinker Bell was part of the game I was playing.”

“You had quite an imagination even then,” Jane remarked.

Walter looked over at her. “My mother told me a pretty unbelievable story today,” he said.

“Did she?” Jane said.

“She claims she’s a vampire hunter,” said Walter. “And William, he’s supposedly a vampire. Also, he’s my father.”

Jane tread carefully, unsure of how solid the ground on which she now walked was. “You do resemble him,” she said.

To her surprise, Walter laughed. “Oh, and Suzu was really Charlotte Brontë. I forgot that part.”

Jane waited for him to question her about her role in the drama that had unfolded in the pet cemetery, but he didn’t. She wondered if perhaps he’d forgotten. He seemed transfixed by the statue of Peter Pan.

“What would you say if your mother sat you down and told you that story?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Jane thought for a while before speaking.

“Did you read the Narnia books when you were small?” she asked Walter.

“Yes,” he answered. “I loved them. Why?”

“Do you remember in the first book when Lucy has told the others that she’s found Narnia inside the wardrobe? They don’t believe her, so they go to the old Professor and ask him what he thinks. He tells them that there are only three possible explanations for what she’s said—she’s telling lies, she’s mad, or she’s telling the truth.”

“I remember that,” Walter said. “And they decide that since they’ve never known her to tell lies, and she isn’t crazy, then she must be telling the truth.”

“Right,” said Jane. “Well, suppose we apply those same rules to what your mother told you today. Have you ever known your mother to lie?”

“Not until today. She never even tried to get me to believe in the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny or Santa Claus. She never let me believe in them. She always told me that I should know the difference between what was real and what was imaginary.”

“All right,” said Jane. “And although it pains me to say this, I don’t think she’s mad. Which leaves the possibility that she’s telling the truth.”

Walter shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. Jane, she wants me to believe that vampires are real .”

“How do you know they aren’t?”

“ Everybody knows they aren’t,” said Walter.

“Who’s to say what’s real and what isn’t?” she asked him. “Some of the most unbelievable things are real. Did you know there’s a type of sea slug that eats anemones and then uses their stinging cells for its own defense? If you ask me, that’s far weirder than the notion of vampires. And what about the platypus? It’s the Frankenstein’s monster of the animal world, as if somebody sewed together parts of a beaver, a crocodile, and a duck and then added some poison sacs for good measure.”

“If I didn’t know better, I might think you want me to believe in vampires.”

“I’m just saying it’s an option,” Jane replied.

“Let me ask you this,” Walter said. “What would you think if your mother told you that vampires were real?”

“I wish she had,” Jane said, snorting. “Then I wouldn’t be here right now. Not that I don’t want to be here,” she added. “I mean I wouldn’t be here the way I am, although even if she had told me about vampires I wouldn’t have known Byron was one, so it probably all would have turned out like this anyway.”