Blue Skin: Book Two

Chapter 3

3

With a bag of left-over chicken, I step out into the cool night air, away from the heat of the kitchen, and the stink of pizza and kebab meat.

But I’m safe indoors.

Ever since the curfew was lifted, Newton Port has got worse. Hardly any police patrolling the streets, there are too many roaming vampires, and the HCA are practically non-existent. They probably thought the place wasn’t worth protecting. Either that or the country really is on the brink of collapse, and this town is just one of the first few to get swallowed.

Just up the street, by the post office, there’s a g**g of boys standing around a red suped-up car. Loud music blaring out from the stereo. Thick puffs of smoke seeping out from each open window. And there’s a skull glued to the dashboard; its fangs razor sharp; its hollow eye sockets staring straight at me. Most likely fake, but I cross the road, anyway.

The street bins are overflowing with rubbish, and most of the shop windows have steel shutters or bars. I used to think it was just to keep the vampires out, but looking at those jerks across the road, it’s obvious that this cesspit has more than one type of monster.

But all this mess, all these dirt-bags, the lack of police, lack of HCA—it’s exactly why I’m here. I wouldn’t survive five minutes anywhere else.

When I arrive at my street, I see a man loitering in front of my building. He’s too scruffy to be HCA, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a vigilante. Apparently, there’s a £1000 reward for ratting out any hidden vampires. And I dare say a grand would go pretty far in a town like this.

It’s at least ten minutes before the guy stumbles away from the flat. I wait until he’s out of sight, and then jog over to the front door. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I remove my key.

The street suddenly lights up, and I tighten with panic.

Turning, fists clenched, I see a blue van. Please don’t stop. It drifts past at a snail’s pace, disappearing onto the next street.

I let out a long sigh of relief.

You’d think after all these months living here, working in that grease-pit, walking home alone, that the cold, stomach-churning anxiety would have passed by now. But after every shift, after every trip to the supermarket, I still find myself ramming the key into the lock and diving into the hallway like I’m being chased by a crazed killer.

Like Michael.

Oh, God. Even thinking about that bastard sends painful shock-waves through my body. Those confident, powerful eyes. That look of horror after he shot Mum.

I shake off the hideous memory and slam the door behind me.

The building has five floors, two flats on each level. Mine is at the very top, right next door to some dead-beat druggy and his occasional weird girlfriend. I’ve hardly said two words to them since I moved in, but it’s better that way. This is not a place to make friends.

The stairs are a b***h to climb, especially when my tired legs feel like iron. All I want to do is collapse in a heap on the bed, close my eyes, and dream about all this disappearing.

At the top, I creep pass the druggy’s door, praying that the creaking floorboards beneath the ripped, filthy brown carpet don’t wake them. But in a town this rough, 4:00 a.m. is way too early for bed.

My door shudders open, the bottom scraping against the floor. I should ask the landlord to fix it, but I doubt he’d give a s**t. I slam the door, attach the chain, and then release a worn-out breath, feeling somehow relieved that I’m back home safe in this dump. I hang my coat on the wall-hook, and then peer down at my disgusting clothes. God, I wish I’d packed a suitcase before leaving Ammanford, instead of having to endure these second-hand monstrosities. Jeans at least two-sizes too big. Green jumper, clearly meant for a sixty-year-old. And brown boots that belong on a hobo.

The sound of the TV is low as I walk along the hallway. At least Ben has finally started to listen to me about keeping the volume low when I’m not here. “Morning,” I say, just as a great big yawn leaves my mouth. “Sleep okay?”

Ben nods his head, his bright yellow eyes glowing with the glare of the TV.

“You hungry?” I ask, rolling up my sleeve.

Ben glances at my wrist and notices the scab. It’s bleeding a little. “Don’t worry about that,” I say. “I’ll use the other one.” I roll my other sleeve up only to find an even bloodier scab. I try to alternate wrists, but I’ve been so exhausted, so spaced out lately that I forget which one I used last. The left one looks the least shredded, so I sit next to him on the two-seater couch, and float my arm under his chin. The pain isn’t a problem anymore, but it still makes me queasy to watch him do it, so I focus on the TV instead. There’s a rerun of Murder, She Wrote on one of the channels. God knows why a vampire would watch something so lame—but who am I to judge? I should check the news again; see if anything’s changed out there. Any miracle breakthroughs. Maybe there’s a woman—somewhere—who’s finally conceived a human baby. It’s possible. All this has to end someday.

Hasn’t it?

I don’t feel his bite. “What’s wrong?” I ask, confused.

Ben shakes his head, his eyes looking down at the dirty carpet. ‘Not hungry.’

“What do you mean, you’re not hungry? You haven’t fed since yesterday.”

Ben gets off the couch, heading for the door. He’s avoiding me.

“Where are you going?”

‘Sun is coming.’

I follow him out of the living room. “Not for at least an hour. Come on, Ben. You have to feed.”

He stops at the bedroom doorway. ‘Not hungry.’

My wrist stings like hell, but he’s got to drink something. The last time he went a day without feeding, it almost killed him.

He steps into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Ben?”

Nothing.

God, he’s stubborn. He may look like a fully-grown man, but I’m still living with a moody teenager. Now I know what Mum went through with me. All those times I mumbled an answer to a question. Stormed up to my bedroom. Slammed my door just for the added drama. “Fine. Be like that then. Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

Inside the kitchen, I open the plastic bag and pull out the chicken pieces. They’re stone cold, and the flat doesn’t have a microwave. I could put them under the grill for a couple of minutes, but I’m used to cold food. I pour myself a glass of water and then sit at the microscopic table, tucking into the chicken. The meat should have been thrown out hours ago, because it’s as tough as wood—but I stuff it into my mouth, nevertheless.

The brown and orange kitchen barely has the space for anyone to stand, let alone cook anything decent. The scratched worktop can just about cope with a kettle and a toaster, and the ancient oven and grill has the world’s thickest layer of welded-on grease and scum. And no matter how many times I scrub the floor, I still can’t shift those awful brown stains across the cracked white tiles.

Chewing my one and only meal of the day, I notice something on the windowsill. A handprint. It’s dark. I walk over to it. What the hell is that? Oh, s**t! Has someone broken in? But then I see the specks on the floor.

It’s blood.

“Ben!” I stomp out of the kitchen, over to the bedroom. “You’ve been out again, haven’t you? I’ve told you a million times that it’s dangerous! Why don’t you listen to me?”

Ben is lying on the double bed, his closed eyes facing the grey curtains. He thinks he can fake-sleep me? I invented it. “I know you’re awake. It’s still dark outside.”

No response.

“You’re really starting to piss me off now. You think being locked up in this flat all day is tough? Try leaving behind everything you’ve ever known to work in a kebab shop. I’m eighteen years old. This is not what I thought I’d be doing with my life.”

Still nothing.

“You think I want us to live like this? Trapped in this s**t-hole? Well, I don’t. I want to go home, back to Sean, but I can’t—because I’m stuck here with you.”

A wave of guilt washes over me.

I shouldn’t have said that. It just slipped out.

Ben’s eyes slowly open, but he still doesn’t look at me.

“I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean it.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s not your fault we had to leave.”

Ben finally turns to me, and only now do I notice the bloodstain on his grey t-shirt. “Another cat?”

Ben shakes his head. ‘Dog.’

I imagine a cute little Pug ripped to shreds in someone’s front garden, or a Chihuahua dressed in pink, beheaded in the park, but then I remember that the place is crawling with strays, all of which are usually unsightly, flea-infested scruff-balls. “Jesus, Ben. What’s the matter with you? You should have waited until I got home. I don’t mind feeding you.” He looks at my raw wrist. “You don’t have to worry about me. It’ll heal.”

He looks away again.

Groaning, I pat him on his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again. Okay?”

I wait for a response, but nothing comes.

“Ben?”

There’s silence for few seconds before I see a subtle nod. It’s the best I’m going to get out of him, so I’ll take it. “Good. Now get some sleep.”

I leave the bedroom, return to the kitchen, and then finish off my stale chicken.

Part III

SEAN RICHARDS