Legends of the living dead have filled the pages of mythology since time immemorial. If ninety-nine point nine percent of the stories can be explained as hallucinations, tricks of the light, moving shadows or sheer imagination, a hard core of disquieting fact remains. The vampire lives in the minds of men. When was it born? Perhaps in the dim distance of the remote past when the racial subconscious was being moulded. What keeps the vampire tradition alive in the mind of modern man? The two tiny words of "what if...?" Leroy Thompson met a girl in a dark country lane. He offered her a lift. He met her again and again, but always by night. Then he looked in the driving mirror and saw only his own reflection... She cast no shadow in the headlights... She screamed and leapt from the car before he reached a bridge that crossed a moonlit stream... What if?
Release date:
September 30, 2014
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
320
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LEROY THOMPSON pushed back his Tyrolean trilby and rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes Thompson had been driving hard. He had driven a long way. He was tired, yet only physically tired, his brain was in that mood that usually comes to a man in the small hours of the morning.
He put the loud pedal down hard and his big sedan tore into the night like a bullet on wheels. He drove for another hour and then slowed to take a right-hand left across the moor. He went down through the gears with a skill born of long practice and complete familiarity with his car. The black sedan lurched gently as it took the rough surface of the by-road in its stride.
The moor gave way to agricultural country. The by-road became little more than a lane, but it was a lane that saved Leroy Thompson twenty odd miles a night and he was glad to take it. The old Roman road had run this way and the druids had used it before that, so the local archæological society claimed. Leroy guessed that they knew what they were talking about. He was prepared to take their word on the origins of the road. It was certainly straight enough here to justify the Roman claim. There were other parts that weren’t so straight. In many places it twisted and curved like the proverbial cow’s hind leg. Leroy changed down and began to negotiate the curves carefully.
He saw a darker patch moving in front of him and blinked a little as he braked. Somebody walking? He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was three a.m. The headlights revealed the sharp clear outline of the figure in front. Headlights and moonlight shone on glossy black hair, shoulder length. The girl turned at the sound of the sedan’s engine. There was scarcely room to pass. Leroy wound down the passenger window and leaned across.
“Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
“Hell,” grunted Leroy. “What kind of answer is that?”
“I don’t know if I want a lift”
“Are you just walking home from the last one?” Then he noticed her cloak. “Sorry, I guess you’re a nurse on late shift at the cottage hospital.”
“No.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“I’m not a nurse.”
“Look, Miss, I’m tired and I’ve driven a long way. If you want a lift you’re welcome. If you’d rather not, there’s no offence.”
“I’d like to come, please.” She climbed in rather tentatively. Her raven tresses fell seductively across her shoulders as she entered. Looking at her he got the impression she wasn’t very familiar with cars. That wasn’t surprising if she lived locally. He got a look at her dress as she climbed in. It was the most becoming evening gown he had ever seen. It clung to her superb figure like a second skin of deep red velvet. Its low cut emphasised rather than concealed the fullness of her firm young breasts. Leroy Thompson began to feel considerably less tired. Maybe this was going to be his night. Life had been very ordinary for months. It was about time something interesting, or exciting, came his way. He could feel the blood tingling in his veins as he let in the clutch and slid the big sedan along the lane once more.
“This is nice,” said the girl softly. Leroy listened to her voice and felt his throat beginning to go pleasantly dry with anticipation. Her voice matched the rest of her. It was all woman. Her words were as soft as honey, as exciting as rare continental perfume. He wondered who she was and what the devil she was doing out here on this lonely East Anglian countryside. What could a girl like her be doing in a lane? She was dressed for a Mayfair dinner party. He glanced down curiously to see what kind of shoes she was wearing. A shaft of moonlight fell obligingly through the side window and down on to the floor on her side. Leroy suppressed a startled gasp. His incredibly lovely passenger wasn’t wearing shoes. She was as barefoot as a gipsy dancer. Gipsy? Perhaps that was the answer. But did gipsies wear dresses like that? He cast another swift sidelong glance at her magnificent figure. Come to think of it, who did wear dresses like that? The style was as old as Nell Gwynne, older perhaps. A fancy dress ball? Out here in the wilds? Things weren’t making sense.
“What’s your name?” asked the girl suddenly. Her words cut across Leroy’s thoughts.
“Leroy Thompson,” he smiled.
He wondered what the hell was wrong with him. He was behaving as awkwardly as a high school kid on his first date. “What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.
“Lilette,” she whispered softly. The way she said it there was magic in it.
“It’s a lovely name,” murmured Leroy, knowing as he spoke that it must sound as corny as old rope. She didn’t seem to find it corny. Her soft black hair moved a little closer to him in the moonlit interior of the sedan. Without making it obvious he slowed down and depressed the clutch gently. The sedan rolled to an almost imperceptible halt. Her big, round, black eyes regarded him enquiringly.
“We are stopping? Do you live here?”
“No.”
“Why have we stopped?”
“We’ve run out of petrol!” It was the oldest line in the world. Nobody would have bought that one, not even Eve in the Garden of Eden, thought Leroy. The incredible girl beside him raised one magnificently arched eyebrow.
“Petrol, what is that?”
Leroy wondered who was kidding who? They didn’t come that green, not even out here, not anywhere that he had even been. This wasn’t Tiber. They’d heard of petrol in the South Sea islands. This was East Anglia, England, 1964. Petrol had been a household word here for half a century.
A nasty thought went trickling through Leroy’s mind like a spilled glass of iced water. Was this girl sane? Had she escaped from some mental institution? He had heard rumours that there was a home for the criminally insane in these parts, but that its exact whereabouts were a closely guarded secret. Without appearing to, he took a long, slow look around the moonlit horizon. There was a building away to the west. It was pretty big, but he couldn’t make out exactly what it was. An asylum? He felt a thrill of fear as he looked into the girl’s dark eyes. Was there a knife concealed under that cloak? Did a deadly stiletto nestle next to her garter? It was a romantic thought! Leroy didn’t feel romantic, in that sense He didn’t feel romantic in any sense, any more. He felt strangely disturbed. The girl was looking at him curiously.
“What is wrong Leroy?” she asked. “Don’t you like me?”
“You were joking about the petrol, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Joking?” She had an odd habit of repeating his intonation as well as his actual word or words.
“Joking,” he explained slowly, “you know, making fun of me?”
“No. What is petrol?” She was deadly serious and he accepted it this time.
“Petrol is what powers the car. The engine won’t go without it.”
“Engine?” she asked. He looked at her searchingly. She was serious.
“Where have you been living?” he asked.
“Over there, with my fathe. . .
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