Page 3 of Kept 2
But I think he would suspect France.
“Where? Where would he least expect me to go?” I whisper, thankful that the two seats next to me are empty.
The answer comes to me as I glance to the seat on my right and see the spine of the journal peeking out of my bag.
Ereston.
‘I would have to be the world’s biggest fucking idiot to walk right into the spider’s web – but he knows I’m not an idiot, he’s been watching me for months….at least I hope I’m not an idiot…am I?’
My nails are down to the quick, my fingers bleeding, by the time my decision is made.
When the plane lands and I clear customs, I walk quickly outside and hail a taxi.
“Ereston?” the driver snorts, “neva heard of it, Luv.”
“I think it is a very large estate, somewhere in the country…” I frown at my own idiocy as I see him chuckle.
“There are a few of em,” he chortles, “a few that’s for sure, owned by them what call themselves aristocrats; parasites the lot of em. Own most of the mother country they do, but where they all are, that’s not a question for a London cabby.”
“OK, um,” I realise the meter is running, and I have to take some time to gather my thoughts and settle my plans, not to mention research where the hell it is I am planning to run to. “I need somewhere to stay, somewhere cheap. But safe,” I add as an afterthought.
“Hotel or hostel?”
“Hostel, uh, somewhere near the main train line. I want to be able to head out to the country as soon as possible.” I don’t add that I also want a quick escape route.
“Gotcha,” he nods, pulling his little black cab out into the traffic.
I grit my teeth and clutch my bag to my chest as he drives. Every nerve seems on end, and I can’t even take the time to appreciate it when we pass Big Ben, although it had been on my bucket list for ages.
Finally, he pulls into a parking spot on a busy road and points to a large building with a big blue ‘International Youth Hostel’ sign on it.
Pulling out my wad of cash, I apologise for paying him in American dollars, but he doesn’t complain.
Stepping out of the safety of the vehicle, onto the sidewalk, I scurry up the wide rock stairs and into the front doors of the building as though the hounds of hell are sniffing me out and even a moment on the footpath could leave a scent – and for all I know they just might be.
Ensconced on the top bunk of an eight-bed shared room, I finally take a moment to try and calm down.
This is one of the cheapest, and frankly the most secure, beds in the hostel, given that there are seven others sleeping in the room. I don’t want to risk innocent lives, but at the very least I have seven potential witnesses should a crazed bloodsucker burst through the door and attempt to pop my head off.
Resting now, I open the journal, searching for a clue as to where the vampire’s grand estate is located.
England is, I’ve discovered, far bigger than I thought it was. Its little footprint on the world map is actually quite deceiving. A Google search has garnered me nothing and, given the hostel was being run by a revolving door of backpackers, no one on the desk could help me either. My only hope, at this point, jetlagged and upset as I am, is to hope the book can point me in the right direction.
I try to concentrate on the words before me, but I’m hungry. I’m too scared, though, to venture out to find food, and my tummy grumbles angrily.
New Entry
I am afraid this will annoy dear Constance, but I have lost track of the dates, and have determined to simply write, ‘new entry’ from now on if I am to find the time to journal.
I am settled here now, in rooms near Oxford. They afford me a close enough proximity to the court, and remind me of happier times when I studied here as a younger man. But my heart still aches for home.
My days are spent in Father’s business, doing little more than acting as a figurehead. Mynights, at my father’s behest, are spent at court, making friends in high places. I know Father is trying to secure me a position in the royal entourage, but I detest the very idea. I loathe this shaking of hands and patting of shoulders more than I can say. Such false representations of a man’s character surely run counter-productive to respectable associations. But Father says those of us endowed with riches must maintain them, and that business associations and good marriages are what enable us to do so.
He should know, my stepmother is the fourth ‘mother’ I have known, and each one has brought with them a significant dowry that has been advantageous, to say the least, to Father’s fortunes. Each one I have also been obliged to call ‘mother’ but none have ever been one to me.
No, the only warmth and love in my life, has come from Constance and her excellent parents.
I have written to her daily since arriving but have received only two letters in return. My man-servant assures me he is delivering everything to me as it arrives, but up until this morning I was beginning to suspect he was working with my mother to ensure I was deliberately estranged from my wife.
