Page 51 of Breaking the Dark

Jessica sighs. “Have the twins mentioned someone named Miranda at all?”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Yes! I heard Lark the other day, talking to someone named Miranda when she was in her room. I thought she was on her phone, but when I walked in, her phone was charging on the other side of her room. I said, ‘Who were you just talking to?’ She said no one. I didn’t push it, because, well, you know. Who do you think she is, this Miranda woman?”

“As of yet I have no clue, but I strongly believe that they met her here, in the UK. And that she has something to do with Belle. So tomorrow that is going to be my primary goal. I’m going hunting for Miranda.”

When Jessica wakes the next morning there is a message on her phone from Malcolm that says READ ME and comes with a link, which Jessica quickly clicks.

On an amateur-looking website in maroon text on a background meant to evoke yellowing paper, she reads:

No. 14 Old Broadway was built in 1877. The bottom floor was originally a baker’s shop, but by the early 1980s the lower floors had been converted into a bar and nightclub called the Upside Down. The club closed for good in 1994, and in 1998 the building was briefly infamous after the discovery during gas line maintenance of the remains of three young homeless men beneath the dance floor in the basement. Their bodies were mummified and had been drained of blood, leading to the unknown killer being dubbed the Harlem Vampire. The basement to the club was bricked up and the building now sits empty.

Jessica—Malcolm continues underneath—WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?????

Twelve years ago

Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK

Polly hears the bed creak as Arthur’s father gets to his feet, then his heavy footsteps across the landing, his voice from downstairs a moment later talking to the cat.

“Let’s get you fed, then, shall we.”

It’s hard to believe that it’s the voice of the same man who only two minutes ago was sitting on the edge of this bed drinking blood. Polly holds her rucksack hard against her stomach, sees it rising and falling in rhythm with her breath. Adrenaline is pumping through her body and her flesh feels chilled. She tries to make sense of what has just happened, but she can’t.

Arthur’s father keeps blood in a fridge in his bedroom, which he drinks to give him a “lift.” Is he a vampire? Is Ophelia a vampire? What about Arthur? She shudders with distaste at the thought that she might have been having sex with a blood-drinking killer all these weeks.

Who the hell are these people? she thinks. Who the hell are they?

Maybe she should abandon this whole thing. She has her samples of Ophelia’s creams now. If she can just get out of here alive, she can get them home and try to re-create them. She doesn’t need Arthur anymore. She doesn’t need any of these freaks.

But then…she thinks…what if the blood has something to do with the magic cream? What if it’s all part of the same thing? What if it’s the blood that makes the cream work? She needs to find out. She needs to know.

She tiptoes halfway down the stairs and, seeing Arthur’s father in the kitchen leaning away from her to tip biscuits into the cat’s bowl, she quietly exits the house, her mind spinning out of control.

The next day, Polly follows Arthur’s dad to his allotment. It’s a bright day, soft clouds scudding across a clean blue sky. The first of the season’s Christmas lights are starting to appear in shop windows, but it still feels like early autumn.

The allotments are at the end of a dead-end street three roads away from Arthur’s house. There’s a metal gate set between two tall walls, and Arthur’s dad takes a key from the large set he carries on his belt and unlocks it. It closes slowly enough for Polly to grab it and squeeze through just before it locks again.

The plot of allotments is small at the front, but beyond, it stretches out towards the open horizon. She sees Arthur’s father heading to the left and follows behind. His allotment is about halfway across, a scruffy square of land with a small ramshackle shed, a Formica-topped table, and two broken-down wooden chairs. It’s shaded from the sun by a large tree, and tucked away, out of view. Arthur’s dad sits himself at the table and pours himself tea from a thermos flask. He eats a sandwich that he unpeels from cling film. Then he eats three biscuits from a packet, which he tucks back into his shoulder bag. He takes off his hat, smooths back his hair, replaces his hat, and gets to work.

Polly quietly backs out of the allotment plot and waits outside for an hour or so until she hears the clank of the metal gate, sees Arthur’s father leaving with his bag slung over his shoulder, and then she makes her way back inside. The shed in his allotment is padlocked twice, once at the top, once on the middle. She pulls on a pair of fitted suedette gloves, unscrews the padlocks from the cheap wood, and puts them in her pocket.

Then she pulls the door open.

She goes to step in, then immediately jumps back when she sees what’s inside. Gardening equipment, yes: secateurs, shovels, a rake, a strimmer, trowels, pots, and trays. But other things that bear no relation to gardening: metal kidney trays, boxes of test tubes, belts, rope, a jar of plastic ties, muslins, bandages, metal hypodermics, plastic hypodermics, clamps, wires, scalpels, packages of PVC gloves, a heart monitor. Behind a waxed waterproof coat, she finds a white plastic apron.

A globule of vomit appears at the back of her throat, and she swallows it down, determined to maintain her resolve.

What, she thinks. What is this? Who are these people?

She wants to run helter-skelter out of here so fast that she can’t breathe. But she also, more overwhelmingly, wants to know, wants to understand. The fridge full of blood, the shed full of surgical apparatus, the weird, insular family, the dark rumors, the cat with spinning eyes, that noise that Arthur’s father made as he tipped blood down his throat, a noise that has haunted Polly ever since.

She takes photographs of everything, then carefully rescrews the padlocks into place and leaves.

NINETEEN

JESSICA BUMPS INTO Gavin from the pub as she turns out of the hotel later that day. He’s wearing a tracksuit and carrying a mop and bucket.

“Oh, hi, Jessica! Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

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