Blood Night

He met a girl who sang the blues and he asked her for an orange juice but she just smiled and showed her fangs. This night, she told him, could hurt you like never before. pale-skinned she was, and red haired, and the teeth that extruded from her dentition were indeed sharp fangs. Those like her had sucked the blood out of passing strangers for centuries, left them mysteriously dead in the avenues and alleyways. 

Later, much later, before he found the dead girl in the flat in Bayswater, he met a cheerful lady who de-routed him in Knightsbridge and they went to a science fiction convention together at Imperial College and that was fun and much good conversation. They never met again, but such is Science Fiction fandom; friendly.

Night swirls the milk bottles. Inexplicably - or only too explicably - he has come home to Olympia, the glass arch and the brick facings of the old hall and the beached ocean liner of Olympia 2 out along Hammersmith Road.

He breathes the word in, for it has mana, it has a life of its very own. 


Not that this, technically, is Hammersmith; it's North Fulham, or Addison Park, or conceivably Shepherds Bush. But as a shorthand Hammersmith will do although that is more likely to signify the brawling whirlpool of the Broadway further west and the droning now-silence of the flyover, unsleeping the eye of the Ark that rises above it; for truly it was said and you know who said it, No sleep till Hammersmith. 

William Morris saw to that. The great mediaevalist and proto-socialist had little time for the invocation of spirits, seeing such behaviour as parlour games and if he'd been alive today he might have said,

"What are you, six?"

but they - like the ghosts that hung around the modernist architect Richard Seifert - were interested in him.

Bunny's game tonight is to drift between the trees like he did as a wistful youth, although that was back in the day when rampaging BBC presenters liked to collar such as him and we still lived with the rumours about the much-loved children's presenter Uncle Mac who it was said would invite small boys onto his show, take them into the toilets and fondle them.

(I didn't make this up by the way. Sometimes my ramblings made David Icke look sane but actually to a large extent he is. It's just that he has a thing about lizards. He's less of a stopped clock being right twice a day, more a normally accurate one that occasionally decides the time is Orange O'Monkey.)

The End

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