7. Euphoria

Passion is always a mystery and unaccountable, and unfortunately there is no doubt that life does not spare its purest children; often it is just the most deserving people who cannot help loving those that destroy them.

            - Herman Hesse

“Good morning, sweetie,” Mallory breathes in his ear as he wakes.  “Ready to be reborn?” 

“No,” Billy says casually, sitting up in bed.  “I’ve changed my mind.  Would you mind terribly?” 

Mallory tuts and pretends to think about it.  Before she can come up with an appropriately sarcastic answer, Billy has dived on top of her.

“Happy birthday,” Seth says from the doorway.  He shrugs off his robe and joins them.  It occurs to Billy, as he finds himself fellated, bitten and sodomised all at once, that this might not exactly be how everybody imagines turning twenty-one.

***

Tonight is the big night.

They've talked him through the ritual a dozen times in the last few weeks, no doubt to put his mind at rest.  First, Seth will bite him, and drink heavily.  Mallory will then drain him, to the point of death.  The next step involves him drinking enough vampire blood to restore his body to health, making him like them in the process.  Neither Seth nor Mallory has ever used the word "immortal", but the implication is there.  The plan had been for Billy to drink from both Mallory and Seth, so that he would be a part of both of them.  But, as neither of them has ever heard of such a trick being pulled off successfully, it was ultimately decided that Billy would drink Seth's blood.

"Snob," Mallory had laughed when Seth suggested it.

"Oh don't be like that, darling," he'd said.  "All I mean to say is that my blood is older."

"And stronger, yes, I know.  Not to mention of a higher class - "

"I never said that.  I wouldn't, not ever."

The two of them have spats all the time.  Christ, their fighting could be blamed (or thanked) for Billy's presence in their lives in the first place.  But this brief and abrupt exchange had an altogether different feeling to it.  As if it were a conversation they'd had more than once.  At the time Billy wanted to know more, but all they said was that they'd have a very, very long time to get to know each other properly.

They’re more nervous about it than he is.  It’s quite sweet, really.  Funny that a pair of substance-abusing vamps would want to do right by him.  Billy knows they’ve noticed the tiny pinpricks and yellow bruises in the crook of his arm.  It must be killing them, not asking him about it.  He is grateful that he hasn’t had to feed them the lie he has ready.  Anyway, they’ll find out soon enough about the little gift he has prepared for them.

He hasn’t received much in the way of gifts this year.  No brothers or sisters, after all, and the few friends he once had are long gone.  His fault, not theirs.  A card did arrive in the post yesterday from Randall.  Thank god he hadn’t decided to wish him “Happy Birthday” in person.  Billy doesn’t know how well he’d do face to face with perhaps the only real connection he has to his old life.  He’s felt the urge to pick up the phone and call Randall a couple of times in the last few weeks, but something always stops him.  The runaway instinct, as he’s come to know it.

Not that he’s run very far.  How many family holidays did he spend in this flat as a child?  On rainy days he would always insist on keeping the windows open so that even if they couldn’t go down to the promenade, they could still smell the salt in the air.  That way they were still on holiday.  It stings a little, just how much Billy wishes he could have given his parents more of that younger, innocent self, instead of transforming into the arrogant teenager who wouldn’t be caught dead spending the summer holidays with his parents.  “And anyway, if we’re so comfortably middle class, how come the summer home is in Brighton and not France?”  God, what a little cunt he was capable of being.

Alone, dozing in the living room while Seth showers and Mallory makes coffee, Billy’s reverie is broken.  Distracted by something rhythmic, almost musical.  He stands and carefully paces the room, trying to determine the source.  Mallory humming in the kitchen?  No.  Seth singing in the shower?  He never does that.  But that faint tune persists, like a song being played on a radio through a wall.  If he closes his eyes and holds his breath, it could almost be Happy Birthday To You, but then all he can hear is the shower, and he exhales heavily.

“Thanks, mum,” he says quietly.  “Thanks, dad.”  His cheeks redden at the thought of one of the others overhearing.  He wonders if vampires can see the dead.  Seth and Mallory have not once remarked on the middle aged couple who appear to be making themselves at home just lately.  Perhaps because they’re his ghosts, and his alone?  Or maybe it’s just all in his head, and it doesn’t matter if Billy becomes an immortal blood-drinking vampire tonight or remains a twenty-something living in an inherited holiday home, either way he’s always going to be able to see his father’s pale, bruised face in the corner of his vision and hear his mother speaking in muffled half-words.

“Did you say something?”  Mallory asks as she enters the room with a mug in each hand.

“Just talking to myself,” Billy answers, taking one and sipping the potent black mixture.  “Getting senile in my old age.”  Mallory laughs.

“Don’t worry,” she says.  “You’ll never be as old as him in there.”  She nods towards the bathroom.  It dawns on Billy that he has never asked either of them how old they are.  Would it be a faux pas?  How old can a vampire get, anyway?  Would Seth have looked out of place at the Crucifixion?  Might Mallory have been a lady friend of Chaucer’s?  He abandons this ludicrous train of thought in favour of pulling Mallory into his lap and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I love you,” he tells her breasts.

“They love you too,” she says.  “Very, very much.”

She slides off his lap and onto the sofa next to him, picks up one of his dirty books from the floor and begins to flick through it.  Billy excuses himself, and goes into the bedroom to quickly write the note to accompany the gift he’s prepared.  It takes less than a minute; he’s written and rewritten it in his head so many times.  He signs it with a simple B, then folds it in half and leaves it on the dresser for them to find later.

"Your name is not Billy."  The words are spoken in his ear, softly.  He knows he should be alarmed, but he can’t suppress the heavy, happy ache at hearing his mother’s voice again.  The closest thing he’s come to a message from her since the card she wrote, sealed and put up on the mantelpiece an entire week before his last birthday.  Something he had thought nothing of, just a little tradition of hers; a leftover from his childhood, when seeing the card on the mantel would build excitement for the coming milestone.

How was he to know that by the time he turned twenty, just seven days later, both of his parents would be dead?  Killed by a drunk driver who walked away with little more than a concussion and a fresh piss stain in his jeans.  They say God watches over children and drunks.  Shame about those in the middle.  

Billy had never known the meaning of hate until that day.  It’s one of those words that gets bandied around a lot by way of exaggeration and overstatement, but doesn’t tend to carry much weight in general conversation when you really think about it.  You dislike an overcooked steak.  You despise the man responsible for the death of your entire family.

Of course, small-time gods can't protect you round the clock.  "What goes around comes around" was always one of his mother's favourite clichés and, as luck would have it, just over a month later, that same drunk died in a house fire.  It was the first time in Billy's life that any prayer, wish or karmic mantra had ever actually come up with the goods.  For a long time, the thought of his parents' killer screaming out in agony as his alcohol-infused body scorched and blackened like a Crêpe Suzette was the happy place he went to when the real world became just too fucking unbearable.

That has changed in time.  The world is still its cold, unforgiving self, but Billy has learned to find comfort in the strangest of places.  By throwing himself into whatever physical sensation is on offer, by allowing two strangers to bite him when such a thing should have sent him running, screaming “monster”.  Who would have thought that one of the monsters would have wide blue eyes and be in need of a little solace herself?

Seth emerges from the bathroom, furiously trying to dry his mess of dark hair with a towel, otherwise completely naked.  Billy watches him dress, aware that Seth may be taking longer than is necessary on account of his audience, then holds out his hand.  Seth takes it, and neither of them say anything for a moment, each savouring the other’s touch.  Then Billy leads him into the living room, where Mallory has plugged his battered iPod into the speakers and chosen a playlist at random.  Nina Simone, or Billie Holliday – something black and raw and golden to the ears.  No, not Billie: it is definitely Nina Simone.  It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life –

“Good morning, sweetie.  Ready to be reborn?”

Who said that again?  Was it Mallory, or that other voice?  He feels exhausted; anticipation of this evening has worn him out.  He senses that Seth and Mallory feel the same; together, they return to the bedroom, strip, and cuddle up on the bed, content to while away the afternoon this way.

“Miles to go before we sleep,” his father always used to say jokingly, on the long car journeys back from Billy’s grandmother’s house.  The simple utterance of the phrase itself usually helped to lull Billy to sleep in the back seat.

That’s not quite right though, Billy thinks, not anymore.  He’s gone so far he's coming back round again.  The bleach blond is almost entirely gone now, reverted to his natural russet brown.  The tattoos are still there, obviously, but they don’t seem to have a point anymore.  They’re just a fact of his body, like the puncture holes in his neck, forearms and thighs, like the shiny burn between his index and middle finger that he got as a consequence of too many badly rolled cigarettes.

His skin could almost be a diary of everything he has done in the last year.  And after all of that, after months of trying to exert control over his life in any way he can, he has finally found a way.  Making this choice has brought Billy closer to bliss than he ever thought possible.  Not quite peace, not yet.  But the door is open.

What he’s curious about is whether it will hurt.  More than what he has become used to.  You’ll find out soon, Billy thinks, and at that he feels himself smiling: involuntarily, uncontrollably, mere flesh reacting to joy just like an erection or butterflies.  Oh, to be human.

Lying there as the sky outside darkens, Billy ponders asking Mallory what he has wanted to know for a while now.  Namely; what brought her back to his door that first time?  He is unsure Seth would like any answer to that question, so Billy holds his tongue.  He supposes it doesn’t matter how or why Mallory ended up inviting herself and her husband into his life, just that she did.

Life is all about the little accidents.  The driver with a six pack in his footwell.  The road slick with rain.  There are happy accidents, too.  A young punk, with awful peroxide hair and tattoos he already regrets, staggering into a bar and catching the eye of a most unusual couple. 

The playlist has come to an end.  Alex might have seen that as an omen.  Billy likes to think of it as a private joke between him and fate.  He disentangles himself from the bed, and instinctively Seth and Mallory’s bodies close around the gap he leaves.

“I’m going for a bath,” he tells them.  “And when I come back…”

Mallory grins, and even Seth can’t prevent a little fang from showing in his excitement.

Billy toys with the idea of telling them everything, right now, but he knows he won’t.  He imagines they prefer the blank slate that now has their fingerprints all over it. 

“Don’t take too long, darling,” Mallory says.  “I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

He has betrayed them.  He let them fall in love with somebody who doesn't exist.  And he is about to betray them again.  Billy kisses them both quickly, chastely, on the cheek.  The urge to say something, anything else rises up in his chest, but before any words can tumble out he is in the bathroom, the door closed and bolted behind him.

He turns on the taps and leaves the tub to fill, perching restlessly on the rim, still naked, his reflection facing him from above the sink.  He is suddenly filled with energy; his fingers and toes tighten and uncurl, his breathing quickens.  Billy blinks, and in an instant the body he sees in the mirror is smooth and clean; free of all the tattoos and tiny scars he has acquired in the last year.  A heavy lock of hair curls over his forehead the way it did when he was a teenager, before he started having it cut short.

"Hello Alex," he whispers.

The bath is ready.  He skims the surface with his fingers; the heat feels good.  He reaches for something from a shelf beneath the mirror, something he placed there earlier, and then steps into the water.

Does he falter, even for a second?  Does he hesitate, and think of the lovers in the next room, who have sworn to make him theirs by blood?  Does he question, even once, that he is doing the right thing?

No.  Instead, he simply lowers himself into the bath, razor handle clutched tightly between his palms like a good luck charm.  He can’t believe how good the water feels against his skin; the sound of it lapping against the sides of the tub is hypnotic.  This feeling, he realises, with a stark and sudden clarity, is the dragon he’s been chasing all year.  Everything has been leading up to this moment.

They are here with him now, Greg and Miranda Brown, sat on either side of the old-fashioned bath, looking down at him as he sinks lower into the water.  For a second he has a vision of himself when he was five, his mother gently pouring warm water over his lathery head, his father’s strong hands tickling him to distract from any soap that might make its way into his eyes.  He is unable to imagine any other moment in his life when he has been this happy.

"Come home," they say.  And so he does.

 ~