Page 130 of The Diary of the Vam'pir Jacques

The Barringtons alone know that I killed one of my kind, and they understand why. Each and every one of them has taken thatsecret to the grave only telling family. Throughout many long years, they have never breached that wall of silence and have been the closest thing to family.

Naturally, I do not live with them, but I visit the extended family every week. Barrington’s family has grown too large for everyone to know the secret. Now, it is only his direct line from the eldest of his sons that knows. The ones that hold the title.

It matters little. I look after Barrington’s family, often not informing them where the help has come from. I wouldn’t like to draw too much attention to myself.

Vam’pirs no longer come to London, even when I’m elsewhere. Nobody searches me out, nor do they communicate with me. I do not exist in their eyes. Eventually, I might turn another. However, Caroline’s lessons remain fresh in my mind.

I would have to be one hundred per cent sure that there was nothing wrong with the person that I would intend to change. I never extended the offer to Barrington’s descendants, nor did they seek it.

I don’t know whether it is because they can see what a curse Vam’pirism is or whether they do not wish for immortality. But my closeness to them led to another rule-breaking. If the others knew, I would probably be hunted.Naturally, I’ll now write about it!

It happened in World War Two. The eldest great-grandson of Barrington had gone out to fight, and I accompanied him to make sure he returned. Jonathon was recalled to the beaches at Dunkirk.

That one battle will stay forever etched in my mind. The horrendous waste of human life. The sound of men dying as Germans raked the beach with machine guns and the stench of fear. Men fell where they sat, unprotected. Dunkirk might have become the biggest massacre in history. Instead, it turned into an English triumph.

Many see it as England’s biggest failure or largest retreat. But look at Dunkirk properly. England faced overwhelming pressure, and defeat seemed inevitable. Then they came. The heroes of England. The young, poor, and old came for the soldiers trapped on that beach.

History knows the facts and what the English people did to rescue ‘their boys’. That is something that the English should be very proud of. Little sailing boats, boats that only held a few people, pleasure boats and small fishing boats crossed the channel to rescue those trapped and being murdered. And sailing them while under fire from the Germans and being attacked themselves. Not everybody made it back from Dunkirk. Such bravery merits an enduring recognition.

Jonathan Barrington was an officer, and he had stayed behind with his men to help the retreat. Well, let me get it right, Jonathon had not stayed willingly. If he’d had his choice, he would have taken his men and gone with the bulk who managed to get away.

Jonathon was ordered to stay behind and guard the retreat. People like Jonathan Barrington were the bravest of the brave. They didn’t dessert but did their duty. They were fighting a losing battle, knew it, and yet they stayed and covered the retreat. They didn’t have a choice, really, but fought furiously.

Loyally, I stayed with Jonathan as a sniper’s bullet couldn’t kill me—wound certainly but not kill.

We were under fire from the Germans when a bullet caught Jonathan in the chest. It was just above the heart, and he was lucky it didn’t kill him straight away. The silly fool was dragging another wounded soldier (not one of his own command, I might add) when he was shot.

I rushed over immediately and dragged Jonathon behind a barricade. Jonathon was bleeding profusely, and I knew that hewould die. Without thinking, I bit into my wrist and dripped some blood onto the wound.

Before Jonathon’s disbelieving eyes, the wounds began to heal. I’m unaware what possessed me to do it, but I had. Within minutes, Jonathon had healed and was shooting his gun again. Neither of us ever approached the subject on what I had done, but Jonathan knew and was thankful. And so I’d broken a taboo. Never heal a human. Of course, we’d known for years our blood healed people. But if that became common knowledge, then we’d be hunted for our healing.

Our blood can heal the mortally wounded without them becoming one of us. If a Vam’pir were caught, scientists and doctors would be in their element. Imagine the people we could help.

But Jonathan was the only mortal I ever healed. It is because I felt I owed his grandfather that I even risked it.

People die. If they didn’t, then this planet would be sorely overcrowded. Jonathan would not die in that war; this I had sworn to myself and his wife and children back home. I made sure that Jonathon returned from that war. He did, albeit with a little help from me.

The first rescue boats evoked indescribable emotion. The sight of those small boats, capable of carrying only twenty or thirty people, brought me to tears. Despite the many wars I witnessed, this feat stands out. I have even fought in some. Always on the right side. For I cannot stand dictators or ignorant, pompous gits who throw lives away like they were nothing.

But when that little fleet of boats reached us, I couldn’t believe it. Neither did the stranded soldiers. A frantic rush occurred to get men onto the boats. Although they couldn’t take everyone, it was enough that they had come and risked their own lives. Civilian sailors refused to passively watch the massacre oftheir countrymen. I shed tears as I recall this memory. It is the one time that humanity showed its capacity for evil but also its greatest promise.

Dunkirk exemplifies modern human virtue. For that one moment of time, the English pulled together.

And if you did it once, then you can do it again.

The fishing boats made the trip repeatedly, pulling off the beach what men they could. This brave act speaks volumes about those involved. The fact they did it has gone down in history.

Dunkirk should never be forgotten.

Dunkirk has lessons everyone can learn from.

So, learn.

Chapter Twenty-four.

As mentioned earlier, I first saw Eden at a pub near to Barking Train Station in January 1994. A rather vile and nasty piece of work from Forrest Gate, named Ranson, had hit my radar, and the search had led me to this pub.

On entering the smoky haze, I was focused on him. The target was with friends, and I took a seat next to the bar. A bartender asked what I wanted to drink, and I ordered a whisky. Focused, I didn’t pay much attention to her, as I was completely engrossed with my quarry.

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