enough to put a spark in his dull eyes.
There was a deep gash on his arm, which festered as it tried to heal. She bound it with her scarf, wrapping his thin limb tight.
He hugged her and slept like a baby. She arranged his hair away from his eyes and imagined his life. It was like the old days, when vampires were hunted down and destroyed by the few who believed. Before Dracula.
The Count had changed nothing for Ion Popescu.
8
Bistritz, a bustling township in the foothills of the Carpathian Alps. Harker, carrying a Gladstone bag, weaves through crowds towards a waiting coach and six. Peasants try to sell him crucifixes, garlic and other lucky charms. Women cross themselves and mutter prayers.
A wildly gesticulating photographer tries to stop him, slowing his pace to examine a complicated camera. An infernal burst of flash-powder spills purple smoke across the square. People choke on it.
Corpses hang from a four-man gibbet, dogs leaping up to chew on their naked feet. Children squabble over mismatched boots filched from the executed men. Harker looks up at the twisted, mouldy faces.
He reaches the coach and tosses his bag up. SWALES, the coachman, secures it with the other luggage and growls at the late passenger. Harker pulls open the door and swings himself into the velvet-lined interior of the carriage.
There are two other passengers. WESTENRA, heavily moustached and cradling a basket of food. And MURRAY, a young man who smiles as he looks up from his Bible.
Harker exchanges curt nods of greeting as the coach lurches into motion.
HARKER’s Voice: I quickly formed opinions of my travelling companions. Swales was at the reins. It was my commission but sure as shooting it was his coach. Westenra, the one they called ‘Cook’, was from Whitby. He was ratcheted several notches too tight for Wallachia. Probably too tight for Whitby, come to that. Murray, the fresh-faced youth with the Good Book, was a rowing blue from Oxford. To look at him, you’d think the only use he’d have for a sharpened stake would be as a stump in a knock-up match.
Later, after dark but under a full moon, Harker sits up top with Swales. A wind-up phonograph crackles out a tune through a sizable trumpet.
Mick Jagger sings ‘Ta-Ra-Ra-BOOM-De-Ay’.
Westenra and Murray have jumped from the coach and ride the lead horses, whooping it up like a nursery Charge of the Light Brigade.
Harker, a few years past such antics, watches neutrally. Swales is indulgent of his passengers.
The mountain roads are narrow, precipitous. The lead horses, spurred by their riders, gallop faster. Harker looks down and sees a sheer drop of a thousand feet, and is more concerned by the foolhardiness of his companions.
Hooves strike the edge of the road, narrowly missing disaster.
Westenra and Murray chant along with the song, letting go of their mounts’ manes and doing hand-gestures to the lyrics. Harker gasps but Swales chuckles. He has the reins and the world is safe.
HARKER’s Voice: I think the dark and the pines of Romania spooked them badly, but they whistled merrily on into the night, infernal cake-walkers with Death as a dancing partner.
9
In the rehearsal hall, usually a people’s ceramics collective, she introduced Ion to Francis.
The vampire youth was sharper now. In a pair of her jeans (which fitted him perfectly) and a Godfather II T-shirt, he looked less the waif, more like a survivor. Her Biba scarf, now his talisman, was tied around his neck.
‘I said we could find work for him with the extras. The gypsies.’
‘I am no gypsy,’ Ion said, vehemently.
‘He speaks English, Romanian, German, Magyar and Romany. He can co-ordinate all of them.’
‘He’s a kid.’
‘He’s older than you are.’
Francis thought it over. She didn’t mention Ion’s problems with the authorities. Francis couldn’t harbour an avowed dissident. The relationship between the production and the government was already strained. Francis thought
There was a deep gash on his arm, which festered as it tried to heal. She bound it with her scarf, wrapping his thin limb tight.
He hugged her and slept like a baby. She arranged his hair away from his eyes and imagined his life. It was like the old days, when vampires were hunted down and destroyed by the few who believed. Before Dracula.
The Count had changed nothing for Ion Popescu.
8
Bistritz, a bustling township in the foothills of the Carpathian Alps. Harker, carrying a Gladstone bag, weaves through crowds towards a waiting coach and six. Peasants try to sell him crucifixes, garlic and other lucky charms. Women cross themselves and mutter prayers.
A wildly gesticulating photographer tries to stop him, slowing his pace to examine a complicated camera. An infernal burst of flash-powder spills purple smoke across the square. People choke on it.
Corpses hang from a four-man gibbet, dogs leaping up to chew on their naked feet. Children squabble over mismatched boots filched from the executed men. Harker looks up at the twisted, mouldy faces.
He reaches the coach and tosses his bag up. SWALES, the coachman, secures it with the other luggage and growls at the late passenger. Harker pulls open the door and swings himself into the velvet-lined interior of the carriage.
There are two other passengers. WESTENRA, heavily moustached and cradling a basket of food. And MURRAY, a young man who smiles as he looks up from his Bible.
Harker exchanges curt nods of greeting as the coach lurches into motion.
HARKER’s Voice: I quickly formed opinions of my travelling companions. Swales was at the reins. It was my commission but sure as shooting it was his coach. Westenra, the one they called ‘Cook’, was from Whitby. He was ratcheted several notches too tight for Wallachia. Probably too tight for Whitby, come to that. Murray, the fresh-faced youth with the Good Book, was a rowing blue from Oxford. To look at him, you’d think the only use he’d have for a sharpened stake would be as a stump in a knock-up match.
Later, after dark but under a full moon, Harker sits up top with Swales. A wind-up phonograph crackles out a tune through a sizable trumpet.
Mick Jagger sings ‘Ta-Ra-Ra-BOOM-De-Ay’.
Westenra and Murray have jumped from the coach and ride the lead horses, whooping it up like a nursery Charge of the Light Brigade.
Harker, a few years past such antics, watches neutrally. Swales is indulgent of his passengers.
The mountain roads are narrow, precipitous. The lead horses, spurred by their riders, gallop faster. Harker looks down and sees a sheer drop of a thousand feet, and is more concerned by the foolhardiness of his companions.
Hooves strike the edge of the road, narrowly missing disaster.
Westenra and Murray chant along with the song, letting go of their mounts’ manes and doing hand-gestures to the lyrics. Harker gasps but Swales chuckles. He has the reins and the world is safe.
HARKER’s Voice: I think the dark and the pines of Romania spooked them badly, but they whistled merrily on into the night, infernal cake-walkers with Death as a dancing partner.
9
In the rehearsal hall, usually a people’s ceramics collective, she introduced Ion to Francis.
The vampire youth was sharper now. In a pair of her jeans (which fitted him perfectly) and a Godfather II T-shirt, he looked less the waif, more like a survivor. Her Biba scarf, now his talisman, was tied around his neck.
‘I said we could find work for him with the extras. The gypsies.’
‘I am no gypsy,’ Ion said, vehemently.
‘He speaks English, Romanian, German, Magyar and Romany. He can co-ordinate all of them.’
‘He’s a kid.’
‘He’s older than you are.’
Francis thought it over. She didn’t mention Ion’s problems with the authorities. Francis couldn’t harbour an avowed dissident. The relationship between the production and the government was already strained. Francis thought
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