Chapter 7
Andre and I trudged through the rain. The pavement had been reduced to puddles which concealed ruts that snagged the wheels of the stolen shopping trolley. The muscles in my back ached from dragging the giant Rogue all the way from the morgue.
Finally we reached the office and slumped against the side of one of our unmarked black vans, which I was surprised to find parked in the street. Exhausted, Andre sank to the floor while I examined the van.
"Get up!" I ordered, startling him. "This is our stolen van".
I grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet. With a finger to my lips, I nodded to the wall by the entrance. Andre jogged clumsily to his assigned position.
I slid my key slowly into the lock and quietly edged the door ajar.
Peering inside, I came face to face with ice-blue eyes identical to mine.
"Thought you two were dead", said Charles in a nonchalant manner, as he pulled the door open further.
"We were attacked at the Mor...." started a breathless Andre.
"We know. They hit them all. This is not a case of opportunistic thieves, this was a co-ordinated attack on the Elders and the Secret", interrupted Michael.
It was evident Andre and I had walked into the middle of a conversation.
The other four Cleaners were busy dissolving the corpses of more Rogues and patching up their own wounds.
"Do you think it's going to be like last time?" John asked the others, a hint of fear in his voice.
"Let's fucking hope not" replied Michael, his slight Irish accent noticeable when he swore.
The bodies of half a dozen of the Rogues we had encountered at the Morgue were piled up next to the disposal vats, where George was searching them for anything useful before their obliteration.
"This idiot installed GPS in the vans, they used it to find us," Charles said, glaring at John.
"Why do you even need it? You've only lived in the city for forty bloody years!"
John glared back. "Everything keeps changing", he replied in an embarrassed mutter.
"Luckily we weren't downstairs when they attacked, we were up here interrogating those Rogue prisoners" said Charles, addressing me.
"We jumped them from behind as they went down the stairs and slaughtered the diluted bastards", said John.
Before Andre and I could be regaled with more graphic details of the fight, there was a series of knocks at the front door. George pulled shut the door that divides the disposal room from the rest of the ground floor, and marched over to answer the front door. The entrance was actually a door within a door. The whole wall could slide away to allow the vans through, but there was a smaller door for pedestrians.
George peered through the peep-hole and then pulled the small door open. Two middle-aged police officers stepped over the threshold and removed their hats.
"Good afternoon gents", said the taller of the two.
"Ah, PC Andrews and PC Smith. The dirtiest of all the Filth!" replied an uncharacteristically cheerful George, before clapping them both on the backs. The two police officers laughed.
It was strange hearing George talk this much at all, let alone make jokes.
"Now, we directed the attention away this morning, but we had to cover up reports of gunfire as fireworks further down the road, so it's gonna cost ya double the usual," said the smaller police officer in a friendly Cockney accent.
"No problem mate," replied George, smiling and matching the accent.
"Cuppa tea while you wait?"
"That'a be great", smiled the taller police officer.
George disappeared up the stairs for a few moments, before returning with a paper bag bulging with cash clamped under his arm, and a mug of tea in each hand.
George engaged in friendly small-talk with his contacts at the Met Police while the rest of us busied ourselves trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was evident from their manner that the two police officers had no idea of the nature of our organisation, and likely presumed us to be common criminals who wanted limited exposure to the law. While finishing his tea and chatting to George, the taller police officer leaned against the dividing door to the disposal room. I was glad he did not possess our senses and therefore could not notice the stench of blood and decomposition from the pile of Rogues rapidly mummifying just a few metres away.
Just as the two corrupt police officers were saying their goodbyes to their friend George, the door hinges strained briefly then popped off the wall and the door crashed to the ground. In strutted two immaculately dressed beautiful people.
One appeared to be a young woman, who wore a beautiful pale yellow summer dress the same colour as her long hair. The man was slightly older, very tall, in a bespoke navy three-piece suit with neat dark slicked-back hair. His muscles would have been bulging through his clothes if they were not so perfectly tailored.
"What the f-fuck!" spat the female in a rage. Her pretty face suddenly contorting into a twisted fury. "Where is-s my dinner? Why are all the s-supplies-ss empty? Why are you s-so incompetent!?"
Both her canines and incisors were large and sharp fangs, giving her a perpetual menacing hiss.
In our shock as we realised the two intruders were actually Elders, we entirely forgot about the two Human police officers. Michael rushed forward to bow and explain the situation to the female Elder.
"The stocks have only been dry for a few hours, we will have it fixed soon", he grovelled.
"Unacc-septable!" she hissed ferociously and slapped him with the back of her hand.
Michael was thrown to the ground with a deep gash on his forehead where an ornate ring on her finger had cut to his skull. After scrambling to his feet, the usually foul tempered Michael bowed respectfully to the two Elders, blood cascading down his face and splashing onto the floor.
"Whoa what's going on 'ere?" interrupted the taller police officer. The female Elder turned to look at him, noticing him for the first time.
"Oh s-so you do have s-some s-supplies remaining. I hope you weren't keeping thes-se for yourselves-s", she said to us while smiling sweetly at the police officer who had dared speak to her. Her incisors and canines protruded over her red lips when she smiled, shattering the illusion of friendliness.
She rushed forward and pounced onto the chest of her target with incredible speed, wrapping her legs around him and plunging her fangs into his throat. He fell backwards onto the stone floor as she straddled his chest. The male Elder appeared behind the shorter police officer and sank his teeth into his jugular so quickly that the cup of tea he had dropped in shock had yet to shatter on impact with the stone floor. The two Elders drained the policemen dry while we watched.
"Fix the s-situation!" hissed the male Elder after his exsanguinated police officer fell limply to the floor. "One does-s not appreciate being f-forced to hunt. If-f this-s continues one may be f-forced to take out f-frustrations on the donors-s and you will have a lot more to deal with."
He did not have the furious tone of the female Elder but instead appeared perturbed at the notion of having to talk to his servants to issue orders, as if it demeaned him by association.
The female wiped the blood off her face with the back of her arm as she rose to her feet. The male Elder dabbed at the blood at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. They walked together through the hole where the smaller of the doors had recently stood. They were greeted silently by the silhouettes of men in suits carrying black umbrellas, who opened the doors to the back seat of the waiting Rolls Royce before driving away.
"You were right about not wanting to meet any Elders... they're right cunts," said Andre, breaking the silence. We all shot him disapproving looks.
In the wake of the Elders' departure, we argued about how to deal with the bodies of the two policemen.
John did not understand the issue, "destroy them as usual," he advocated with a disinterested shrug.
"We can't just sweep this under the rug you moron." I snarled. "When they don't report back, the station will search for them, and when they aren't found the press will go wild." I said, pacing back and forth between the desks.
"So what do you propose instead?" asked Charles.
"No idea", I replied as I sank defeated onto my desk chair.
We argued for an hour over possible courses of action while Andre slept where he had collapsed with his head on his desk. Eventually we agreed the best course of action was to publicly expose their corruption.
"If they were taking bribes from us to ignore reports of crimes, divert attention, and leak information, they must have been doing the same elsewhere with people dangerous enough to kill them if it goes wrong," argued Charles.
"The papers will love it, maybe they attempted extortion, or perhaps the two policemen were trying to redeem themselves," said John.
"That's still killing two coppers," said Michael. "The papers will sympathise and the public will demand action. The Police will crack down hard on corruption and stop at nothing to hunt down whoever we frame and all like them", he said. "It will make it impossible for us to recruit some replacements from the force.".
"Suicide", mumbled Andre, who had woken but kept his head on his desk while he listened to the debate. "Write letters admitting to corruption and how they can't live with the guilt".
"Finally a good idea!" I said, rising from my desk chair. "I'll get back-dated research for an article prepared in the media that would have exposed their corruption. Write in their suicide letters that they were aware of the articles impending publication and had to choose between prison or death."
"Make sure the autopsies are carried out at one of our morgues to cover up any discrepancies", added Michael, who was still dabbing at his forehead with a bandage to absorb the blood from his wound while it healed.
My colleagues all nodded in agreement and set about carrying out their roles while I rang a contact at the Sun newspaper. The Sun was the perfect paper to use to leak information. It was widely read and did occasionally, but not too often as to make them trivial, publish high profile exposés. Plus I enjoyed the irony of vampires writing articles for a newspaper called 'The Sun'.
We took any useful equipment from the two policemen, kevlar vests, handcuffs, truncheons and the two official identity badges, before John bundled the corpses into the back of one of the vans, to throw them off Suicide Bridge in Archway with the notes George had written in their pockets.
The creaking hinges of the hastily repaired door woke me at the return of my colleagues. I had fallen asleep at my desk for a few hours.
By the time Michael and John had climbed the spiral stairs to their desks I was already shovelling several spoonfuls of instant coffee powder into my mug of warmed pig's blood.
"Now that disaster has been avoided, we have other pressing matters to deal with," said John, retrieving his mug from his desk and joining me at the fridge.
"What do we know about the Rogues who hit the morgues and attacked here?" I asked.
"Fuck all" replied Michael in his irritated Northern Irish brogue.
"There is nothing on them to say who they are or where they come from!" called Charles from downstairs in the disposal room.
He was in the process of showing Andre how to destroy bodies and other evidence. I heard the splashes and hisses of the sodium hydroxide and water being poured onto the pile of bodies in the vats, followed immediately by the different splashing sound of Andre vomiting onto the stone floor.
"No leads there, but we got something from the other interrogation," said John. "He didn't know much but he sang like a choirboy to stop Michael hurting the girl."
Michael chuckled proudly from his desk. "He said they were moving to that part of Tottenham because they were staying away from a large group of other Rogues. Something to do with a bunch of gangs uniting under a charismatic nutter. That sounds like the type who would raid the Elder's blood supplies; probably trying to make a name for himself."
"Did you get an address?" I asked.
"Not quite, but he had heard a rumour about them congregating at a club in Camden Town," answered John.
"Well then what are we waiting for?" came the voice of George from the stairs. I hadn't heard him return.
George placed a black hold-all bag on his desk, unzipped it and pulled out three small pistols in leather holsters.
"Colt 38 Detective Special", he said, presenting one in front of himself like an auctioneer. "A great little snub nosed revolver. It comes with some hollow point rounds for extra kick".
He threw one each to John and me, where we leant on the fridge drinking from our mugs. Michael tapped the breast pocket of his leather jacket to show he was already armed.
John and I both downed the dregs of our drinks and followed our colleagues down the stairs.
Andre was mopping his goats blood dinner off the disposal room floor as we reached the ground floor. He caught a glimpse of the polished wooden handle of the small pistol I stuffed into the inside pocket of my leather jacket. His eyes bulged and he turned excitedly to George.
"That one's for me yeah?" he said gesturing at the bag.
George looked at him, mop in hand and specks of regurgitated blood on his chin and walked past. Ignoring the question, he handed the gun to Charles, who closed the disposal room door behind him, leaving the alkali solution to erase all trace of the Rogue's attack. I helped myself to a silencer from the weapons locker and stuffed it into my opposite breast pocket to avoid a conspicuous bulge.
I climbed into the back of the nearest van, followed closely by Andre and perched on one of the fold down seats. Andre lowered himself onto the flimsy plastic seat opposite. Our knees bumped together in the cramped spaces between the containers of cleaning equipment. Charles took the driver's seat, started the engine and inched forwards in first gear.
The heavy sliding door of the office entrance screeched along rusty railings. The two vans crawled out into the narrow street. I watched through the open back doors of the van as George locked up, jogged to catch up, leapt in the back and slammed the doors shut.