Anne Billson - Suckers

I closed it into a fist before Dexter could see.

This was hopeless. It was all going wrong. I'd been imagining it would be like my encounter with Fitch in Violet's garden, but the memory of the power I'd felt then must have turned my head. This was no longer a game. It was me on my own against sixty of them: not good odds.

I got up, straining to appear casual, but evaluating potential escape routes in the turmoil of my mind: (a) from my current position to the main exit was roughly thirty feet, with about five tables and ten standing customers in the way; (b) from my current position to the emergency exit was across a bare stretch of floor in full view of the dozens of customers who were standing at the bar, and after that would be required a great many complicated weaving manoeuvres through the tables nearest the door; (c) from my current position to the Ladies toilet was less than ten feet, and I had to pass only three people directly.

I went for this last option. It was the only door I could be sure of reaching before my stomach heaved one last heave and I threw up. Halfway there, I was hit by an attack of the cramps, but I struggled on to the swing door.

Inside was a sort of small, useless airlock and another door leading directly into the Ladies. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to sharpen my wits until, behind me, the outer door creaked. Just in time, I tucked myself away in the nearest cubicle. I could hear stiletto heels clattering over the floor, then there was a crash and a sigh and the sound of someone in the cubicle next to me. Vampires, it seemed, had to attend to their routine bodily functions like the rest of us.

I kept quiet and waited. While I waited. I did what I usually did in the circumstances — I read. I read the graffiti on the back of the door, and I read the small print on the wrappings of the spare toilet-rolls, and I read the instructions on the Tampax machine.

And as I was reading — insert coin in slot, pull knob etc — that sick feeling in my gut returned, but this time I knew what it was. I'd had sick feelings in my gut many times over the past few days. It hadn't been so surprising considering what I'd been through, but now the feeling was much, much worse. A kind of dull ache, which ebbed and flowed in a great tidal wave even as l grasped its significance.

I was trapped in the middle of a bar full of vampires who flew into a feeding frenzy at the smell of fresh blood. And there was plenty of fresh blood here. The reopened wound in my hand was pumping, fresh and tasty, come and get it, but that wasn't the worst of it. My ovaries had always been regular as clockwork and they weren't about to let me down now, even though the time of the month had slipped my mind, as it usually did until the cramps weighed in to remind me.

Oh, great. Now I was really in for it.

I didn't know how I was going to get out of this one.

My period had started. Bang on time.

I inserted a twenty-pence piece into the tampon machine and extracted a packet of two. And, because I didn't know what else to do, I stayed where I was and read the small print on the packaging. And that was how I learned the tampons were no longer being manufactured in Havant, Hants; the address was now somewhere nearby in Molasses Wharf. I should have been formulating some ruse to extricate myself from this predicament. Instead, I sat there wondering whether female vampires menstruated and, if so, what they did with their used tampons.

It felt as though aeons had passed, but according to my watch I'd been in there only ten minutes. Time itself had slowed to a crawling pace; there was still more than an hour before my appointment. I was beginning to think it might be a good idea to skip it. Perhaps I could hunker down for the night where I was, and take off at dawn in complete safety. In the absence of a better plan, I stuck with this one for a while, but then things started to get a little hairy.

While I sat and gibbered, there was a lot of the coming and going common to the toilets of all pubs, clubs, and discos. People clip-clopped in and out of cubicles, chattering aimlessly about whether so-and-so was going out with whatsisname, or which lipstick best complemented one's dead-white skin, or whether it was better to go for the jugular or the carotid. There was a fair amount of giggling, and I even thought I detected the tell-tale tippety-tap of metal on porcelain, the familiar and rather nostalgic sound invariably followed by that porky little snuffle as illegal substances were inhaled.

Every so often, someone would try to open my door and find it locked.

Only now, someone was knocking and asking if I was all right.

'I'm fine,' I said, a bit too quickly.

There was a pause. There was breathing, and clip-clopping heels. Then more clip-clops, different ones. The clip-clops mingled. Another voice. 'What's going on?'

'She's been in there ages. I think she's ill.'

'No, I'm not,' I said, but I couldn't think of another excuse for staying cooped up for so long, so I added, 'I'll be all right in a sec.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'll be fine . I just need to be on my own for a little while.' Now I was sounding like Duncan. I wondered whether they could smell the blood.

Then the first voice said, 'Are you sure you're all right?'

'Absolutely,' I chirruped. 'No problem.' For God's sake, go away , I thought.

'Are you new to this? Are you feeling rough? Would you like me to get you a drink? Ruby? Profondo Rosso?'

The thought of a pint of Profondo Rosso instantly made me want to throw up. 'No,' I groaned. 'Oh, no thanks.'

'She does sound ill,' murmured the second voice. 'Is she with someone? Maybe we should get the manager.'

'I thought that guy tasted funny. A bit gamey, I thought. Obviously hadn't bathed for weeks — I can still smell him.'

'I'll be out in a minute,' I said quickly, trying to sound perky, but not so perky that I was ready to emerge right that instant. 'I feel better already. Really I do.'

'If you're sure.' There was the noise of two pairs of retreating heels, then the clip-clops parted company and one set paused and came back. 'Look, what you need is a good swig of plasma. It'll make you feel much better. Hang on a bit, and I'll get you some.' She was off again before I could protest. A do-gooding, busy-body, nosey-parker kind of vampire. This was all I needed.

When I was certain she'd gone, I left the cubicle. In the mirror I saw my lipstick was smudged, so I quickly retouched it and squirted another blast of Fleur de Paris all around my neckline. Then I scrunched the bloodied glove under the cold tap and wrung it out and stretched the sodden fabric back over my suppurating palm. It smarted something rotten, as though I'd been rubbing it with sandpaper. The other hand wasn't so bad, but I felt as though I were radiating waves of human scent.

Just then, over the noise of the running tap, my ears picked up a small, neat chopping noise coming from one of the cubicles behind me. I'd thought I was on my own, but now I realized someone else was here, operating under cover of the water. I reckoned she'd be waiting for the coast to dear before she emerged, but I wasn't wasting any more time — I dug out the cigar tin and unwrapped the rosary and wound it snugly around my bloodied glove and then buried the hand in the pocket of my jacket. I was going to aim straight for the main entrance. With any luck, the cross would be sending out enough anti-vampire vibrations to make them want to steer clear without knowing why.

I snatched one last long look in the mirror, and held it just a few beats longer than I should have done. It was dispiriting to realize how closely I resembled the rest of the clientele. And then I did a double take, and my stomach fell through the floor. Behind me, the cubicle door was opening. And, of course, nobody was coming out. It was just me, alone with my reflection. I made myself turn around, quite slowly, and as I turned I heard a little sniffle, followed by a little sigh.