The Vampire's Personal Assistant

More than a One Day Stand

More than a One Day Stand.

She was beautiful, so beautiful that I had no interest in her. I like to walk the Lakeland Hills, will even go up Ben Nevis by the easy route, but she was Mount Everest: it would be marvellous to be on top of her, but not worth the time, expense and danger involved.

I went into the kitchen for a can of beer, talked to some of the people who were hanging about in there, then went back to join my mates in the living room. They had dispersed to talk to other party-goers and the beautiful woman was standing alone where they had been.

"Why are you avoiding me?" she asked.

This sometimes happens when you keep moving between jobs. If I'd known her, she must have changed a lot.

"Where do I know you from?" I asked.

"Carmilla," she said, and held out her hand in a strange gesture. Nobody kisses a woman's hand on first meeting them, so I shook it.

The world became a different place when I touched her. It centred on her. She was tall; her eyes were level with mine. The exceptional paleness of her skin and bright red of her lips were not due to makeup. Her hair and eyes were extraordinarily black. She smiled without a trace of warmth.

"We've never met before," I managed to say. "I would have remembered."

"I do beg your pardon," she said, turned, and went over to a big bloke who looked like Christopher Lee.

I thought about her smell. There was something of death about it which her perfume had not hidden. Formaldehyde. It took me back to biology lessons at school, when we would raise the glass lids and take a sneaky sniff at the specimens, in mock disgust. She was perhaps a nurse, more probably a doctor.

I went over to join a couple of the lads, who were talking to our host, Ian. Most unexpectedly, he was wearing a silk scarf round his neck. I pointed at it and said, "Pouf".

Ian smiled coldly at me. Ian never smiled coldly. He usually just looked at you with a faintly exasperated expression. He smiled a normal sort of smile if you said something funny.

"I see you have met Carmilla," he said. This too was unusual. He had opened his mouth without mentioning football.

"Is she beautiful or what?" I said. "She's like some sort of goddess."

Ian smiled coldly again and said, "Just the opposite."

Microsleep should happen only when you are very tired. There was no reason why I should have microslept, but Carmilla seemed to have crossed the room without moving, and was standing in front of me.

"You may leave us," she said, but it was Ian who nudged the lads and indicated that they should go to the kitchen.

"I'm impressed..." one of them started to say, but he looked uneasy and went away when Carmilla glanced at him.

"I am looking for a new..." She paused. "Personal assistant. You come highly recommended. You have many talents, which you have frittered away. You believe in nothing. A surface charm covers a great emptiness. You do not care. You can move about in daylight. These are precisely the qualities I need. You may give me your decision now."

Her big, black eyes were about all I could see. I wanted to look away, but could not. I wanted to be sensible.

"What's the salary?"

"Do not pretend you care about money. You will have access to enormous wealth."

"And the hours?"

Was there a look of impatience in those eyes?

"Whenever I require your services."

"Annual leave?"

There was a look of impatience in those eyes.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes." It was said before I formed the thought, "no".

"Your first task," she said, "Is to dispose of this."

She undid a button on her blouse, took a cord attached to a pouch from round her neck, undid a button on my shirt, placed the cord over my head and slipped the pouch under my shirt. It was done in less time than it takes to describe.

Of course, like a big fool I had to take the pouch out, open it and look inside. It contained a penis and a pair of testacles. Here was the source of the formaldehyde smell. Carmilla was smiling benignly at me.

I almost swore, but thought better of it.

"Dispose of the contents, but return the pouch to me. It is an antique, and I might need it again."

"Whose are they?"

"My last assistant's. He betrayed me."

"I'll do it now," I said. Having someone's tackle round your neck takes the edge off a party. "How will I find you?"

"I will find you," she said, levelly. "I know where you live."

The thing to do when someone gives you body parts at a party is to go to the police. I thought about it, but I'd had a drink, and went home to think about it some more.

Now I have somebody's tackle buried in my back garden and the best and worst job in the world. I'm a very loyal employee.