Anne Billson - Suckers

He regarded me sceptically. 'What could be worse than that?'

Even though the only other diners in the place were a couple of deadbeats wolfing down plates of cheap spaghetti, I leant over the table towards him, trying to close the gap between us, because I didn't want anyone else to hear what I was going to say. I'd rehearsed it in my head so often, but once it was out in the open it sounded preposterous and lame at the same time. 'Violet is not human. She's a vampire.'

Duncan's reaction was unexpected. I'd been prepared for him to laugh in my face, or blow his top, or just be bewildered. Instead, he dropped his cigarette and clapped his hand over his mouth, scraping his chair back from the table and sitting there with his eyes bulging.

'Are you all right?' I enquired, thinking perhaps he was about to be sick. He responded from deep within his throat; impossible to tell whether it was yes or no. 'Duncan…?'

After what seemed an eternity, he took the hand away from his mouth. Even his lips had turned pale. He picked up the cigarette, extinguished it, and immediately lit another. Then he said, much too late, 'I don't believe you.' His voice was steady, probably too steady. He didn't seem to be having a problem with vampires per se — just with the idea of Violet being one.

'Yes, she is,' I said.

He shook his head. 'You're wrong. Not her.' And he smiled a secret smile to himself. I had never expected persuasion to be an easy task, but in all my rehearsals of this scene I'd concentrated on the brief history of the species, its nocturnal habits, dietary requirements, recorded sightings et cetera. Now all this information was redundant. 'You know what a vampire is, then,' I said.

'Of course.'

'You believe …' I began, but he cut in. 'My father did a series of paintings when I was about five or six. I asked him all about them, and he told me. Kids liked scary things, he said.'

'Then you'll know it's true. About Violet, I mean. She only comes out at night.'

'Don't be absurd. You don't know what you're talking about.'

'But I saw her!' I blurted out. 'I followed her.' Duncan's face went from colourless to flushed in an instant. He took a quick look round the room, but no one was showing the slightest interest in our argument. 'Jesus Christ, I don't believe this. You've been following her? Jesus Christ, Dora, you're sick .'

He scraped his chair back again, even further away from the table, preparing to get up. The finality of the movement and the accompanying screech of wood against lino cast me into despair. I'd blown it, and it was Grauman's fault. Duncan may not have been acknowledging my existence before, but at least I'd had my pride. Now, I had nothing. He was going to stomp off in a huff and I'd never see him again, and if I did see him he would despise me. The future stretched ahead of me like a vast grey nothingness. The idea of it was overwhelming, and I burst into tears.

'Oh, Christ,' said Duncan. He handed me a grubby paper tissue. There was a pause, which I filled with snivelling. 'I'm sorry…' he said haltingly. 'I haven't been fair…' His voice had lost its harsh edge.

But now I was sobbing convulsively, and his change of heart made it worse. All the pent-up emotions of the past few weeks came bubbling to the surface. I thought about the tickets to Paris, and the unfairness of everything, and great spasms of sorrow welled up and forced their way out of my mouth. Wave after wave, until I no longer cared if people stared.

Duncan paid for the lasagne and coaxed me towards the door. 'Come on,' he said. 'What you need is a nice cup of tea.' I found this protectiveness comforting, and rather seductive. As he led me outside and hailed a taxi, I made an effort to calm myself down, but this led only to a fresh outbreak of sobbing. In the cab, though, a part of my brain was congratulating itself. The crying jag had been a brilliant move. Grauman would have been proud.

Duncan's flat wasn't so very different from the last time I had seen it, except that now everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. I sat on the sofa and took nervous sips of tea, wondering how to steer the conversation back to Violet when there wasn't any conversation to begin with.

Duncan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in the contents of the ashtray. I tried to kick-start the dialogue. 'Sorry about earlier — about what I said.'

'S'all right.' He was combing abstract designs into the ash with a spent match.

I tried again. 'She sings, does she?'

'Who?' His ears pricked up a bit. 'Oh, all the time. Non-stop. Didn't I tell you she used to be a singer?'

I nodded. 'You also said she'd had her portrait painted by Fernand Khnopff.'

He grunted, not really paying attention.

'Fernand Khnopff! ' I repeated. 'Fernand Khnopff died in 1921.'

That got through to him. He frowned.

' 1921 ,' I said again.

Half a dozen expressions flashed across his face in rapid succession. 'So?' he said at last. 'She's older than me.'

'She'd have to be quite a bit older. Work it out .'

Duncan got to his feet and began to prowl up and down. 'For Heaven's sake, what is this?' he muttered to himself. 'What does it matter how old she is?'

'She frightens me,' I said. 'You don't know what she can do.'

His face was set in a grimace. I wondered how much time I had before he lost his temper again. For a while he went on pacing, before coming to some sort of decision and parking himself firmly in front of me. 'I can't believe you're saying these things,' he growled. 'She's the sweetest, kindest, nicest person. You'll see.'

'I'm sure she is.' I shuddered at the memory of how close I'd come to meeting her. Perhaps now was the time to fill him in on the details. But he was saying something. I could see his lips moving. I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, so I asked him to say it again.

'I said, she'll be here any minute now, you'll be able to see for yourself .'

'Jesus! ' Before I knew it, I was on my feet, slamming my mug down so violently that tea slopped over the rim. 'Here? Now? '

He checked his watch. 'Any minute.'

'But…' I said the first thing that popped into my head. 'But it's too early, only seven o'clock.'

He snorted. 'What did you think? She only comes out after midnight? Grow up.'

I grabbed my bag. 'I'm off.'

'Fine,' he said, but he didn't step aside. For a second or two, we stood there face to face, and he looked genuinely upset to see me go. Under any other circumstances, I would have stayed. But not under these, no way. I went round him.

'Stay if you like,' he said, following me to the door but making no attempt to help as I fumbled with the lock. 'Maybe I should have introduced you before. Then you'd never have worked yourself up into this state.'

'I'm not in a state,' I snapped. 'And there's really no point in me staying, because none of this has anything to do with me, not really.' Finally I managed to pull the door open. I was on the point of stepping out on to the landing, but I didn't, because Violet was standing right there in front of me.

Somebody — probably me — made a small strangled noise.

'Ah,' she said, looking straight at me. 'My little shadow.'

'What?' asked Duncan.

She wafted past. I saw, but didn't feel, her furs brushing against my hand as she swept by. When I looked back, she was standing on tiptoe to kiss Duncan on the cheek. 'How sweet,' she was saying to him. 'You've brought me an audience. Or should we say a billet-doux? '

I turned back to the door. Escape was just a step away. The problem was, I couldn't move, not an inch. I was staring hard at my feet, willing them to walk, when I felt a soft voice at my ear.