Descendant

Smoke and Mirrors

Terence arrived just after 5:00 PM, followed closely by a dark blue Austin van. Jill and I were sitting on the low brick wall in front of the house, with the mid-August sun in our eyes.

The van was driven by a whippet-thin man in a brown boiler suit, with a sharp purple nose and hair that stuck up at the back of his head. His companion was big and silent, with a blue-shaved head and a scar under his nose where his harelip had been sewn up.

Without a word, the two of them opened the back doors of the van and carried two folded-up coal sacks into the house. Terence went in after them and came out almost immediately, looking queasy. “My God, ‘Jim.’ ”

“Nobody said that it was pleasant.”

“I know, but all the same.” He pressed his hand over his mouth and held it there for a while, his eyes watering. “My God. I wish I hadn’t had those sausages for lunch.”

Micky and Beryl hadn’t been easy to kill, especially since I was on my own, and I wasn’t nearly as young and as fit as I used to be during the war. The only way to kill them together was to force Beryl facedown onto the floor, with Micky on top of her, facing upward. Even though they were both restrained, they still twisted and fought and cursed, and I had to wedge their shoulders underneath the legs of a dining chair to keep them still. I hammered each nail directly into Micky’s eye sockets, and at nine inches they were just long enough to penetrate the back of Beryl’s skull, too, which was sufficient to numb her. Then I got out my saw and cut through their necks, leaving both of their heads in the kitchen sink.

The driver and his companion came shuffling out of the house, with one of the sacks swaying heavily between them. Terence winced and looked in the opposite direction. “What do you plan to do about Duca?” he asked.

“Go after it,” I told him. “But this isn’t something we can rush. Duca’s going to be a hell of a lot wilier than these two, and much more difficult to nail down. We need to do some reconnaissance first.”

“What’s your suggestion?”

“Well, it’s posing as a doctor, isn’t it? So let’s make a doctor’s appointment.”

Pampisford Road was a three-mile-long avenue that ran along the east side of Croydon Aerodrome. Most of its houses had been built in the mid-1930s — large detached residences hidden behind laurel hedges — but they weren’t as opulent as Jill’s parents’ house, and most of them weren’t nearly so well maintained. Their front gates were sagging on their hinges and their gardens were overgrown with weeds.

We parked on the grass verge about fifty yards away from the Laurels and walked the rest of the way, leaving Bullet in the car. On the gatepost there was a tarnished brass nameplate with the name Dr. Norman Watkins, FRCS, General Practitioner, engraved on it. Beyond the gate there was a shingled driveway, where Dr. Watkins’s Armstrong-Siddeley was parked. The house was pebbledashed and painted white, although the pebbledash was gray from years of weathering and there was a bright green streak of damp down one wall, where the guttering was broken.

I said, “You can see why Duca chose a practice like this. Dr. Watkins was running it single-handed, and from the looks of things, he was probably pretty old. He wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight.”

“What’s the plan, then?” asked Terence. The windows of the house were black and curtainless, and the interior looked deeply forbidding, with dark antique furniture and mirrors on the walls. In the dining-room mirror, we could see ourselves standing in the driveway, our faces pale and distorted, like reflections in a lake.

“Why don’t you keep watch from the road?” I told Terence. “Jill and I will go in and try to see Duca.”

“You’re actually going to go in and talk to him?”

“It,” I corrected him. “Never forget that it’s an it. But, yes. We can make out that we’re just about to get married, and we need some information on birth control.”

Jill looked at me and gave me a nervous smile.

“Well,” I said, “we don’t want a whole lot of baby Falcons around, do we? Not just yet.”

“Do you need your Kit?” asked Terence.

I shook my head. “This is a recce, that’s all. But if you hear any gunfire, bring it in — and bring it in quick.”

Terence retreated to the sidewalk just outside the Laurels, standing behind the hedge and lighting a cigarette. Jill and I crunched over the shingle to the maroon-painted front door. There was another brass sign on it — polished, this time — which said KINDLY ENTER. I turned the doorknob and we went inside.

The house was stuffy, as if nobody had opened a window in a very long time, and there was an underlying smell of boiled fish. The hallway was tiled in a diamond pattern of black and white, with a hideous oak coat stand, and four or five dead flies lying on their backs on the windowsills.

A doorway to the left-hand side was open, and I could hear typing. I went in, and Jill followed me. A middle-aged woman in a pale green tailored suit was sitting very upright at a desk, her head slightly raised so that she could see through the lower half of her bifocal spectacles, pecking away at a huge black typewriter.

Opposite her stood a row of bentwood chairs, and a low table with a collection of dog-eared magazines on it — John Bull and the Illustrated London News and Horse & Hound.

The woman looked up and said, sharply, “Can I help you?” as if helping us was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I — ah — we don’t have an appointment, but we were wondering if we could see Dr. Watkins.”

“I’m afraid surgery finished half an hour ago, and in any case Dr. Watkins is away.”

“It’s just that this is the last chance we’ll get before Saturday.” I gave Jill an indulgent smile and took hold of her hand. “We’re getting married, and there were one or two things we wanted to talk about. You know, personal things.”

“Are you regular patients of Dr. Watkins? I’m afraid I’m only temporary here myself.”

“Oh, sure. I mean, my fiancée is. Dr. Watkins helped to deliver her, so I’m sure that he’d want to help her as much as he could.”

“Well, all right. I’ll ask Dr. Duca if he can see you. He’s the locum.”

“That would be great. It’s just that we want to make absolutely sure that — you know — we don’t have any little surprises.” God, I must have sounded dumb.

“Who shall I say?” asked the receptionist, clicking down the switch of her intercom.

“Mr. Billings and Miss Erskine.”

The receptionist leaned forward and shouted, “There’s a Mr. Billings and a Miss Erskine here, Doctor! They’re going to be married on Saturday and they were wondering if they could have a word!” She didn’t really need an intercom: I was sure that Duca must have been able to hear her across the corridor.

There was a moment’s silence, and then I heard Duca’s voice for the very first time, and I felt as if centipedes were crawling over my shoulders. “Of course. Why don’t you ask them to come through?”

Suave, measured, with that distinctive Romanian accent that reminded me of all the other strigoi mortii I had encountered. I almost felt that the past twelve years had shrunk away completely.

The receptionist led us across the hallway to a door marked PRIVATE. She knocked, and showed us in. My heart was beating in slow, painful thumps, as if I had been running for my life.

Duca was standing by the window, looking out over the back garden. It was very tall, over six foot three, and it was wearing an immaculate light gray suit, with a dark gray shirt underneath it, and a white starched collar. Its gray silk necktie was tied just a little more flamboyantly than the average Englishman would have tied it in those days, and its gray, combed-back hair was just a little longer than the average Englishman would have allowed it to grow, so that it curled over its collar at the back. It had a single diamond sparkling in the lobe of its left ear, which the average Englishman would have thought was incontestable proof of homosexuality. Not only that, it was wearing some kind of lilac cologne, at a time when even Old Spice was considered a little suspicious.

But like most strigoi mortii, it was devastatingly handsome, even in my eyes — and I detested Duca more than anything alive or dead. Its face was angular, with hooded, sea green eyes, and a sharp, straight nose. Its jaw was clearly defined and it had lips of extraordinary sensuality, as if it had just finished giving a woman the most intimate kiss imaginable, and had not yet wiped its mouth. The girl at the house in Schildersstraat had been right: it strongly resembled a male incarnation of Marlene Dietrich.

It turned away from the window and smiled at us. Behind it, in the garden, I could see a dilapidated pergola, so wildly overgrown with creepers that it looked as if it were infested with green snakes. Beside it stood a marble statue of a pensive woman, holding a water jug.

“So, you are to be married,” said Duca. It turned its head toward me, but it never once took its eyes off Jill. “You are a very lucky man, Mr. ”

“Billings. John Billings.”

“And your very desirable bride-to-be?”

“Catherine Erskine.”

“Catherine. ah, yes. In my country you would be called Katryn, which means ‘pure.’ You are an extremely beautiful woman, Catherine. You deserve many years of joy.”

“Thank you,” said Jill. Although Duca was being so absurdly flirtatious, I had the feeling that, in a way, she was enjoying it. Its voice was so mellow and yet it had an air of intense danger about it that was both alarming and attractive at the same time. It gave me the same sensation as standing too close to the edge of a cliff. For some reason, I always feel insanely tempted to throw myself over.

“Why don’t you both sit down?” it asked us. “Then you can tell me what it is that you wish to know.”

We sat down in two leatherette armchairs facing Duca’s desk. Or rather Dr. Norman Watkins’s desk, because it had Dr. Watkins’s nameplate on it, and a sepia photograph of a rather overweight family standing by a sea wall somewhere. Duca eased itself into a high-backed chair and tilted itself back, still keeping its eyes fixed on Jill.

“We were wondering about birth control,” said Jill, and blushed. Either she was a very good actress, or else she was genuinely embarrassed. “We’re not at all sure what the best method is.”

“Well, you are both mature adults, capable of deciding what your priorities are,” Duca replied. “Are you looking for complete safety, or are you looking for unmitigated pleasure?”

“Both, I hope,” I told him, but Duca still didn’t look at me.

Duca raised its eyebrows. “No method of course is foolproof. But there are four different ways in which you can lessen the risk of conception. The occlusive cap, sometimes known as the Dutch cap, which would cover the neck of your desirable young lady’s womb and prevent the entry of spermatozoa. The sheath, or condom, which would prevent spermatozoa from entering your desirable young lady at all. Then there are chemical pessaries or solutions which kill the spermatozoa on contact.

“You can practice coitus interruptus, withdrawing yourself from your desirable young lady immediately prior to ejaculation; or you can try the rhythm method, whereby you should only have intercourse with your desirable young lady during that time of the month when she is not ovulating.”

The way in which its tongue lingered around the words “your desirable young lady” would have really raised my hackles, if I had genuinely been intending to marry Jill. But all I did was nod, and say, “Unh-hunh, I see,” as if I were taking this all very seriously, and didn’t realize how lubriciously it was talking to her.

“It’s difficult to decide, isn’t it?” said Jill. “Which method do you personally recommend?”

“Well. ” said Duca, “the rhythm method of course is the best for natural pleasure, but it is very unreliable for contraceptive purposes. Coitus interruptus is also unreliable in that some spermatozoa can escape prior to ejaculation, or the husband may not be prompt enough in his withdrawal. Also, somewhat messy.”

“The sheath sounds the most effective to me,” I put in.

For the first time, Duca really looked at me. “You may think so, my dear sir. But it is only effective if you can be relied upon to wear one.”

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t? I’ve always used one before.”

“Perhaps one night you may have drunk too much wine, and forget. Perhaps one night you may decide that you are tired of sheaths, that they diminish your pleasure. After all, what does it matter to you? You are not the one who will have to carry the child, and go through the agony of labor.”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“In my opinion, the Dutch cap is the best protective, because your desirable young lady herself will ensure that she always fits it.” Duca lifted its thumb and two fingers, as if it were folding a Dutch cap prior to insertion. It was one of the most sexually suggestive gestures I had ever seen anyone make.

“Where can I get one?” asked Jill. “Do they sell them at the chemist’s?”

“No, no. Your doctor has first to measure your cervix so that you have the correct size. Then he has to demonstrate to you how to insert the Dutch cap so that it snugly seals the neck of your womb. Usually I insist that my young ladies insert it for themselves at home and then visit the surgery so that I can ensure they have learned how to fit it correctly.”

Jill looked at me, her eyes wide, and the look on her face said absolutely not.

I cleared my throat and said, “That was — uh — very enlightening, Doctor, thank you. I think you’ve told us just about everything we need to know. Maybe my fiancée and I should go away now and talk this over between ourselves.”

“Of course,” said Duca. “But you are to be married in only a few days’ time, so if your desirable young lady has need of my services it would be better if you made your decision sooner rather than later.”

“Sure,” I said, and stood up. As I did so, however, Duca looked at me again and this time its sea green eyes narrowed a little and a crease appeared in the middle of its forehead, as if it had suddenly remembered something.

“You know, my dear sir, it’s very strange. You remind me very much of somebody I once knew well.”

“I do?”

Duca nodded “I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s in your expression. You don’t have any Romanian blood in you, do you?”

“Me? My parents were Irish.”

“Irish? It’s still very strange. I have a long memory for faces, and your face. it’s so much like this person I knew.”

“Can’t help you, I’m afraid,” I told him. But he kept on staring at me and I was convinced that he could see my mother looking out of my eyes.