Hilary Carrington had been insulated from the rising humidity by the air conditioning in her nippy little Fiat, though she had noticed the building clouds and darkening skies of the developing storm as she drove back to the office from her afternoon tribunal. The surprising heaviness of the air almost took her breath as she crossed the car park and by the time she had walked the length of the High Street and reached the Community café, devoid of customers now lunch service was over, her dress was sticky against her skin and her hair damp on her neck
As she sank into her chair in an unexpectedly deserted office, distant thunder rumbled ominously.
'Am I glad that you're back!' When Tricia Williams-Ellis walked in, she seemed more than usually relieved to find that her senior colleague had returned.
'Is it busy?' asked Hilary. Late afternoons in late summer were usually fairly quiet.
'The boys are both interviewing and now this Romanian guy's dropped in,' Tricia explained. 'And I'm not sure I'm the one to help him.'
'Why ever not?' Social Security rights for EU migrant workers were a complex area of law but, although Tricia might have doubts about her expertise in that area, Hilary had every confidence in her ability to give sound advice.
'He's got a bit of an attitude,' explained Tricia. 'He's said some weird stuff about my skin colour.'
Hilary frowned. Tricia didn't make allegations of discrimination lightly. 'Would you like me to sit in?'
'If you don't mind.'
Hilary had pictured Tricia's client as a surly shaven-headed youth, so she was quite unprepared to find herself facing a suavely handsome mature man, elegantly attired in an immaculate dark suit and with his sleek, jet-black hair swept back from his high, white forehead. Thunder boomed again, still distant but drawing closer, as his eerily dark eyes met hers.
Little light penetrated the room through the small window due to gathering storm clouds. Tricia flicked on the light and began the introductions.
'This is my colleague, Hilary Carrington. She understands the new rules for European citizens better than I do, which is why I've called her in. Hilary, this is...'
'Marius Dalca.' The Romanian gentleman stood gallantly, took her hand and raised it to his lips. He was slender and tall, his voice low and cultured. 'Charmed, Miss Carrington.'
As his cool mouth brushed her flesh, Hilary felt her heart flutter. The secret, shaded recesses of her mind swam with disturbingly arousing images of sex and cruelty, pain and dark passion. Withdrawing her hand from the stranger, she reminded herself firmly that she was a professional adviser - and a happily married woman.
'How can we help you, Mr Dalca?' she asked crisply, taking a seat.
Marius Dalca sat opposite her. He handed Hilary a letter, printed on the DWP's austere grey-buff paper.
'I have received this, from your Social Security people.' Hilary sensed a note of contempt in his tone for the senders. 'It says I am to receive Jobseeker's Allowance no more, because I do not have a genuine prospect of work.'
Hilary had anticipated this; they had seen several other EU workseekers facing a similar predicament in recent weeks.
'We need to try and provide what they call compelling evidence that you do,' Hilary explained. 'What is your usual profession?'
'In my home country, before the uprising, I did not have to work,' the man said regretfully. 'My family had land, wealth and power. I had a life of luxury, of pleasure.'
The aristocrat gave Hilary a closed-lipped smile that invited her to imagine scenes of sumptuous debauchery. With an effort, she focused on establishing the facts of the case.
'What work have you been looking for since you came to England?' she asked. 'And what success have you met with so far?'
'Your Jobcentre people tell me I must be available for any work, throughout the day and every day of the week,' the man replied. 'This is not possible. I am no peasant to work in your fields, nor will I wait at table like a common servant. I am an educated man. I have been the confidant of kings and princes, the strategist of generals, the lover of the fairest, ivory-skinned noblewomen.'
That smile again, conjuring visions of delicious seductions in velvet-draped bedchambers.
'You ain't going to find vacancies like that on Universal Jobsmatch!' Tricia said bluntly.
Her colleague's directness jolted Hilary back to the present.
'Have you considered agency work?' she suggested. 'If you had the offer of something, even a temporary post, we could probably get your payments restarted, at least for a little while.'
'Would these agencies have work that I might do by night?'
'It depends,' said Tricia. 'If you don't want to do nights, there are usually plenty of daytime shifts.'
'You misunderstand,' the man said haughtily. 'I prefer to work by night.'
A deep rumble from the approaching storm reverberated around the small room. Hilary and Tricia exchanged glances.
'In that case, there is likely to be warehouse work available,' Hilary ventured.
'That's not ideal for an older worker,' Tricia explained pointedly.. 'You'd be on your feet and on the go all night, in a huge building with few other people about. It's not always very safe, either. We hear complaints from night shift workers that the lights are too dim or don't work at all.'
'Is that so? Who does such work?'
Hilary was surprised that their client didn't rule this out as beneath him. 'Often other European workers,' she said. 'Or students.'
'Young people,' mused the Romanian. 'And they work in isolation, in the dark?'
'Yeah,' Tricia confirmed.
'Intriguing,' said Marius Dalca. 'Most intriguing.'
The lights flickered as the thunder rolled closer. Hilary glanced towards the window. Outside, the sky was slate grey, though there was no sign of rain. Shifting her focus, she saw the interview room reflected against the darkness; the benefit rate chart and impressionist prints on the wall, the small square table around which they sat, herself and Tricia...
'Another possibility might be care work,' Tricia said to their client. 'Care homes often need night-time cover.'
'I do not care for old people. They repel me!' came the cold reply.
Hilary studied the man as he raised a slim, pale hand to sweep a stray strand of his ebony locks back from his forehead. She glanced behind him. With the room's central light, she would have expected to see a shadow of the movement projected on the plain wall at his back.
There was nothing.
'Tricia...' Hilary said softly, trying to stay calm.
'Or you could try for night-time shop work,' Tricia continued. 'The supermarkets often want shelf stackers and the twenty-four hour ones and garages need night-time check-out staff too.'
'Me? Handling cash like a common market trader? I think not, foolish girl!'
'Suit yourself, mate! I'm only trying to help!'
'Tricia,' Hilary raised her voice a little. 'I think we ought to go back into the office, right now, and check the regulations, to make sure we give Mr Dalca absolutely correct advice about his entitlement.' She started to ease herself out of her chair, keeping a wary eye on the aristocratic Romanian.
'Yeah, I think you're right...' Tricia detected the note of caution in Hilary's voice. She too rose slowly and edged towards the door.
A flash of silver-white lightning split the sky, thunder roared immediately overhead and, as the bulb above them popped and the artificial light was extinguished, the two women found Dalca inexplicably on the opposite side of the table to where he had been sitting, arms spread wide, standing between them and escape. He smiled again, showing sharp, ice-white teeth.
'Do not fear me, lovely Hilary!' he pleaded, lowering his arms in a gesture of trust. 'You know in your heart that I offer that which you desire above all things.'
'I don't know what you mean,' Hilary insisted, untruthfully.
'But you do. I have seen into your soul. I know your darkest fears. Each day, you beauty fades a little more. Your glorious dark tresses begin to grey. Your bright eyes grow dull. Your soft, white neck wrinkles. Arthritis twists your pretty fingers and your proud breasts start to sag. Youth is but a precious memory, but you need age no more! This gift I can give to you, sweet lady. I offer you nothing less than immortality!'
He held her with his eyes, his promise before her, his price unspoken but clear.
'Let us pass, you creep!' Tricia demanded.
Hilary stood motionless. Her eyes stung with tears. The man's words were cruel but all too true. There were days when she faced the mirror and envied his lack of reflection. She could almost feel the decay he described degrading her. Time was her bitterest foe. To stop the clock forever, she need only offer herself to this mysterious stranger. A swift, searing pain, a splash of crimson, and the relentless march of the years would cease.
As she hesitated, another vivid streak of lightning shattered the gloom and thunder growled all around.
'Shift your spooky arse out of our way, right now!' Tricia insisted. 'And leave Hilary alone!'
Despite her short stature, she stood her ground fearlessly.
Briefly, the man wavered. 'You are free to go, you wretched brown-skinned creature, born of slaves,' he sneered. He flung the door open. 'But your companion? She has made another choice, I think.'
Tricia stepped towards the door. 'Come on, Hilary!' she urged. 'Let's get out of here!'
Hilary remained frozen and the Romanian's cold, mocking laugh echoed harshly about the small room. 'She is mine!' he declared, reaching a pallid hand towards Hilary's throat and baring his fangs.
'No!' cried Tricia. She threw herself forward, grappling bravely with the vampire, revealed at last in his full horror, lit by flash after flash of harsh lightning, but despite her courage, he was too strong, casting her aside as if she were a rag doll.
As Tricia staggered to her feet, determined on a final desperate attempt to save her friend whatever the cost, an elderly man in a dark robe appeared in the doorway. Over his left arm he carried a simple wooden trug.
'Will you look at this, Patricia!' said Father Cornelius cheerfully, as if oblivious to the struggle in progress for Hilary Carrington's soul. 'This has to be the finest crop of garlic we've ever had from the community allotment!' He chuckled warmly. 'What do you say, Hilary dear? Do you think we'll be sampling your beloved's finest French cuisine in our humble cafe now, or might he better deploy it in a lively curry?'
Tricia thought she could see a glimmer of recognition in Hilary's eyes, though whether it was the reminder of her husband or the pungent aroma of the white-pink bulbs that had revived her, it was impossible to say. Tricia reached out and took her hand.
The vampire retreated, raising his arms across his face as if to shield himself from harm. Calmly, Father Cornelius stepped towards him, beaming benevolently and offering a fistful of papery garlic bulbs.
'Perhaps this good gentleman has a recipe or two from his home country that he might like to use these little fellas in?' he suggested genially.
A final shard of silver light stabbed through the room, thunder crashed and, mingled with the dull boom, Tricia and Hilary thought they could just make out the thin, wailing cry of a soulless spirit expelled into the darkness. The storm's brooding heaviness dissolved into a sudden shower of clean, refreshing rain, splattering across the window. Unexpectedly, the electric light popped back on, revealing the familiar interview room, two shaken female benefits advisers, one puzzled-looking priest and a conical heap of grey dust, smoldering slightly, in the far corner of the room.
'Well, there's a strange thing!' said Father Cornelius, studying the ashy deposit. 'When that's cooled down a little, I'd better ask Iveta to pop in with the hoover!'
He pottered out, carrying his trug of garlic over his arm.
Tricia still grasped Hilary's hand. 'Are you okay now?' she asked quietly.
'I think so.' Hilary managed a faint smile and gave her friend's hand a squeeze. 'You were awfully brave! I honestly don't know what came over me for a moment or two. It was almost as if he had cast a spell over me. It was all so silly, too. I mean, he couldn't possibly have given me eternal youth, could he?'
'Whether he could or not, that's not something you need, H,' Tricia reassured her. 'Ignore all that BS about wrinkling and sagging. You're a great-looking lady. You might be going to age but you'll do it with beauty and dignity and, more than that, you'll always be loved for who you are, not how you look.'
'That's terribly sweet of you,' said Hilary, hugging her plucky colleague warmly.
'It's true too,' said Tricia. 'Though you'll always be drop dead sexy to the guy in your life who really matters. I reckon he'll still be chasing you round the bedroom on his zimmer frame when you're both in your nineties!
'I do hope so!' Hilary laughed, helping Tricia to gather her papers from the table. 'But I wouldn't still be the woman he loves without your courage. What can I ever do to thank you?'
Tricia picked up the Jobcentre letter which Marius Dalca had left on the table. 'How about letting me off writing up the notes on this until we've had a coffee and a huge slice of chocolate cake?' she said. 'And ignoring that I didn't get a client satisfaction survey for this one when you do the file review?'
'That's the very least I can do,' said Hilary.
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