Kirk edged along the walkway. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, for all the use that would do.
Out of all of the places to spend the night of his 30th birthday, he thought. The third floor of a condemned block of maisonettes, in the depths of one of Glasgow’s myriad of deprived housing scheme. It would have been fairly low on his list of venues, had he had a choice.
He checked his watch. It was only eight o’clock; hopefully he’d have time for a couple of pints later on. He might need them.
The walkway stretched into the blackness. The streetlights, predictably, rarely worked around here. No sooner had the council replaced the bulbs but they were taken out by air rifles or stones. Most of the area was uninhabited now, steel shuttered and abandoned – in reality it had been written off by the planners long before the last family had moved out. He was relying on a Maglite torch to illuminate his path, but even that could only bring limited relief to the oppressive darkness.
He was nearing the end of the path when he heard the sound. He had started to think it was a false lead, just another wasted night hunting shadows. The sound of movement set against the complete silence up here was unmistakable though.
Kirk gulped. No matter how many times you did this, it was still scary. Even the thought that they were out there at all was still sometimes enough to send a shiver down his spine. You just never knew how they would react.
His hand felt for the reassuring trigger of the crossbow, which was loaded with an ash bolt. Each one took him over an hour to get right, but they were worth their weight in gold. It should do the job if it had to, assuming that his aim was good.
He had practiced countless times in his basement, shooting dummies and targets. It was easy down there though, he knew. In the field, nerves made a difference. Controlling your breathing, keeping as calm as you could – it could be the difference between life and death.
The crossbow was quite a revelation. Firearms were a strict no-go in Scotland. Sure, there were people who could always get you what you needed, for a price, but the thought of spending years in Barlinnie for the privilege of owning a pistol made it an extremely unattractive option. Crossbows, bizarrely, were not subject to any sort of license. In any case a crossbow was as quick and deadly as a gun in the right hands and infinitely quieter.
Kirk crouched down against the wall as he reached the final door. Once this concrete block would have been a new homes for families moved from the slums in the city out to the brave new world on the outskirts. It was hard to believe now, with shutters covering the doors and windows and seemingly endless gang related graffiti stretching from one end of the block to the other. There was only one threat facing him tonight, however, and it was strictly of the supernatural variety.
The steel shutter that had covered the door was hanging off. The only flat on this level to show signs of tampering, and it would be the furthest away from the stairs. That figured, they were nothing if not careful. The dull thud of a bass line could be heard, very low but he could hear it nevertheless. Some repetitive nonsense, he thought. Even death didn’t improve your taste in music.
Without warning, the door burst off its hinges and flew over the balcony into the night beyond. Kirk hoped there was no one below, unlucky enough to be caught in its downward path. What a way to go, death by door. He smirked as he brought up the crossbow.
“Oh fir fuck sakes,” the figure drawled, in broad Glaswegian, “It’s Bufty the fuckin vampire slayer.” He cracked his knuckles theatrically, and opened his mouth to reveal two of the biggest fangs Kirk had ever seen. Despite the show of strength with the door though, Kirk didn’t feel particularly threatened.
It took a second to take it all in. Traditionally one of the most feared of all supernatural beings, since the Dracula myth had taken hold off in the early twentieth century, the very word ‘vampire’ brought to mind an elegant, powerful and sexy adversary.
The reality was different. Much different, in fact. This particular vampire was not wearing a flowing black cloak, but was dressed in a grey Lacoste shellsuit and a pair of Nikes which had seen much better days. Aside from the impressive fangs, there was nothing remotely interesting about him, with his short ginger hair and palid complexion he could have been from any housing scheme in the city. Which, Kirk supposed, was as good a way to blend in as any.
“What the fuck are you doin here?” he continued, “Ah’m chillin’, listening to some tunes and doing no cunt any harm, what the fuck do you want? And can you stop pointing that fucking thing at me, it’s dangerous.”
Fast as vampires could be, Kirk had the upper hand on this occasion. He had the crossbow pointed straight at the figure, and from its expression he could tell he was having the desired effect.
“I don’t really want any trouble with you,” he said, “And I certainly don’t want to use this,” he glanced at the crossbow “But I’m no about to come up here unarmed. You might be hungry, and I’ve already given blood this week.”
The figure appeared to visibly relax at this. Kirk knew that he couldn’t simply wander about the city indiscriminately killing vampires. He wouldn’t last long if he did, there were certainly more of them these days than he could ever remember in the past. They were split into different factions, sure, but they were quick to band together if they had to.
“Whit do ye want then? You’ve no come up here just for the views, although I must admit they are impressive.” He gestured outwards, towards the city of Glasgow which stretched out in the distance towards the horizon.
“I need some information from you. A little birdy told me you might be able to help. After that, I’ll be on my way.” Kirk said.
“I suppose you had better come in then,” said the vampire as he turned and went back through the door. Kirk heard a clicking noise and was relieved that the fangs were gone.
Inside the flat was much more pleasant than Kirk had expected. Although it smelled of damp and neglect, there were some attempts to make it habitable. A vase of flowers sat on the mantelpiece and candles burned, giving it an almost homely feel. There was a radio playing in the kitchen, which was where the dance music was coming from.
“It’s a nice wee place you have here,” said Kirk. He’d been in enough vampire dwellings to know that it could have been much worse. Some of them were disgusting, filthy hovels. That said, humans weren’t always the cleanest of creatures so perhaps that was a bit unfair.
“You’re John Ferguson, yeah?”
“Aye, that’s me,” confirmed the vampire. “I’ve heard about you. Kirk Campbell, aye? Bufty the vampire slayer,” he sniggered again at the name, “So what are you doing here?”
Where to begin, thought Kirk. He knew this particular vampire was in hiding, or at least avoiding something. Even a creature of the night would normally avoid this sort of area. It’s not like they were destitute, having certain skills that could earn them a lot of money – legal or otherwise. With the 24 hour economy, there were even a few of them around the city in normal employment. One of the city’s bigger casinos was actually owned by vampires, albeit through an elaborate trail of offshore companies.
Despite their reputation, Kirk had found over the years that vampires were like humans in that most of them were reasonable enough. There were some absolute wankers, but that was hardly a condition exclusive to them. The problem was that the bad ones tended to be very bad and just as hard to stop. Which is why, at eight pm on his thirtieth birthday he was inside a condemned building in a dilapidated development on the Southside of Glasgow rather than in the pub.
“What do you know about Jimmy McMichael?” he asked. He’d put the crossbow down, although still kept a hold of it just in case. It was fair to say that pointing a crossbow at someone’s chest was not conducive to conversation.
“Never heard of him,” Ferguson said, “No idea.”
“Look, I know you have had dealings with him in the past, and I am pretty sure you’ve pissed him off. I just need some background. I’ll pay you.” Kirk drew his ace. A bag of blood, obtained through a contact at the blood transfusion service, would keep a vampire going for several days. They might not hunt humans in the way that popular folklore would have you believe – for the most part, anyway – but none of them could resist a bag of fresh O+.
