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Yet another chapter had been written in Grant Stonehouse’s ever expanding puzzle book. It was becoming a voluminous body of work, like “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy and “War & Peace” all rolled into one. Each time one question was answered, one mystery solved, then another two seemed to magically appear. Earlier in the evening, Stonehouse had been scouring the sewers and catacombs looking for discarded items to sell or trade with the shady merchants that were slowly becoming his allies. One man’s junk could easily become another man’s treasure, and the intrepid forager was accumulating a generous stock of items with which to barter. A chance encounter with a lethal assassin, a blonde woman who went by the name of Cori, had posed several more questions that needed to be answered, and numerous riddles that had to be unlocked. Who was the femme fatale and what was she doing taking pot shots at strange creature before performing impromptu craniotomies? What exactly were those nightmarish creatures with their sludgy brains? The word “zombie” was beginning to stick in his vocabulary, but he craved further information and more explanations, which is why he’d agreed to meet with the stranger tomorrow evening. Stonehouse wanted to know how she had acquired her shooting skills, and where he could learn such techniques. It was only a matter of time before he encountered a truly deadly foe in this underground maze, and Stonehouse knew that he had to be prepared. He was very much a follower of the “make love not war” mantra, or as he so eloquently liked to call it, “**** not fight”, but now the circumstances were different… so very different.

A few old tools that Stonehouse had salvaged from a warehouse had saved him from a couple of hair-raising scrapes, but they weren’t going to cut the mustard when crunch time inevitably smashed him in the guts, and he came face to face with a genuine threat. One of the aforementioned shady merchants had taken a box of JVC camcorders that Stonehouse had liberated from a storeroom, and exchanged it for a handgun. The gun laws in the UK, and Stonehouse’s general disapproval of firearms, had meant that the businessman had limited experience with such a weapon. He’d used a shotgun a few times, but that was confined to clay pigeon shooting on a couple of stag parties with his mates. It was all good fun, and a slightly aching shoulder was a small price to pay for the banter with the lads. The only time that he’d previously held a handgun was over in the US when he’d been on a training course near Miami for his job. The trainees had a free afternoon, and one of the teambuilding options was to go to a shooting range. Stonehouse jumped at the opportunity like a March hare. He’d always wanted to shoot stuff, because it would be cool… or so he naively thought. The reality was somewhat different. Stonehouse had found the experience strangely moving. It didn’t take him long to realize the awesome power that he held in his hand, that each bullet had the potential to snuff out a life in an instant like blowing out a candle. Stonehouse had never received any training with a pistol, but he managed to hit the paper target that hung several meters in front of him on most occasions. He may not have always hit the smaller inner circles of the target, and several shots may have only brushed a shoulder or fingertip, but there were enough kill shots notched up to have killed a dozen people. Stonehouse adored the buzz that it gave him, the command and authority he could wield over others with the gun held firmly in his grip. However, it also frightened him to his very core. The gun was only really built for one purpose: to injure, to maim… to kill. Stonehouse instantly developed a respect for the gun, although those who were likely to use them were suddenly viewed with the upmost caution.

Nevertheless, a somewhat hypocritical Stonehouse had gladly accepted the handgun from the dodgy backstreet trader. He couldn’t be too safe, right? The scruffily dressed peddler had constantly rambled on about how good the pistol was, that it was some kind of highly crafted masterpiece. He waxed lyrical about some woman or other who assembled weapons, the “Pie Woman” or something ridiculous. Why on earth would a baker be the subject of some kind of urban legend? It didn’t really matter where the gun had originated, it just looked like any other gun that he’d seen on TV. However, it did matter that Stonehouse felt a little safer with it concealed in his pocket.

Whether it was some deep-rooted aversion to wanting to carry a deadly weapon, or simply foolishness, Stonehouse had chosen not to bring the pistol with him when he had been exploring the catacombs. Had things taken a turn for the worse during his encounter with the sharp-shooting Cori, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been having the internal argument with himself about the rights and wrongs of packing a pistol. Perhaps he would be lying on a stone cold tunnel floor having his skull ripped open and his white matter fondled by a crazy killer. Harper Rock housed many mysterious and hidden dangers. Stonehouse convinced himself that he needed to be armed at all times from now on. Maybe Cori had heard of this folklore myth, this “Pie Woman”, and could enlighten him tomorrow evening, or perhaps she was yet another enigma? The next conundrum for the seemingly constantly confused Stonehouse, was to locate the rendezvous point for tomorrow night’s meeting, a pub called Lancaster’s.

Having slipped away from Cori into the shadows, and having spent the last half an hour cursing his own stupidity for leaving the gun hidden in one of the sewer tunnels that he was slowly calling home, Stonehouse decided that some preparation work was in order. He was going to find Lancaster’s, do a reconnaissance mission so that he knew the lie of the land prior to tomorrow night’s meeting. He didn’t want to be wandering headlong into a trap, but if that were the case, he wanted to know all the available escape routes. The night was still young and there were several hours of darkness to cloak his investigations before the break of dawn. Stonehouse was a resourceful character and had already formulated a plan to uncover the whereabouts of Lancaster’s. He’d seen several maps outlining the metro service than ran through the city, and, often, notable places were listed near each station, such as hospitals, shopping malls, or restaurants. A quick perusal of such a map would surely give him the information that he required.

Some things are just not that easy! Locating one of the maps was a piece of cake. Stonehouse trudged through the sewer network and popped his head out of a manhole like a soldier peeking above his trench defences. He had come to recognize where the stations were due to the incessant rumbling of the trains. So far so good, he thought as he clambered up a slimy service ladder into the street above and wandered over to the station. A slightly rusted sign saying “Cherrydale” hung over the entrance of the metro station, and a huge notice-board with plenty of information, including maps, brought a smug grin to Stonehouse’s face. The grin was quickly erased when there was no obvious reference to Lancaster’s anywhere on the glassed encased notice-board. A badly drawn graffiti doodle of a monkey’s face seemed to laugh at Stonehouse as his eyes combed over the snippets of information. Where the hell was the bar? Did it actually exist or was the deadly marksman from the catacombs sending him on a wild goose-chase? Maybe this was the equivalent of a woman giving you a fake phone number in a nightclub in a bid to get rid of you?

Stonehouse suddenly jolted back from the display stand as a bearded man called out to him from across the street. “Evening buddy,” said the man in a friendly local accent, “are you lost? That station is closed for the night.”

Straightening his jacket, and standing fully upright in a strange posturing display, Stonehouse replied to the middle-aged passer-by. “I guess it is kind of late. I’m looking for a bar called Lancaster’s. Do you know where it is, please?”

The man crossed the deserted road as he answered Stonehouse’s question. “Ah, a tourist, right?” said the Good Samaritan, presumably picking up on Stonehouse’s accent. “I know Lancaster’s, it’s in the Redwood district. There’s no station in Redwood, but it’s somewhere between Newborough station and Wickbridge station.”

Drawing alongside Stonehouse, the self-appointed tourist guide pointed at the map, wiggling his finger around in circles. “You want to be around here, next to the headquarters of the Harper Rock News.”

The man was dressed in a thick overcoat, with badly worn biker boots and an odour that suggested that he was in dire need of a shower, but at least he was helpful. He turned his attention away from the notice-board and stretched an arm out, waving it back and forth as if he were guiding in an aircraft on a runway. “Head in that general direction,” he said, “kind of south, and across the river. There’s another place called Nightmode nearby. You can’t miss it.”

Stonehouse thanked the stranger, who happily accepted his gratitude in a way that hinted that he was simply delighted to have had someone to converse with. As the scruffy street wanderer started to go back on his way, Stonehouse asked him one further question to squeeze out a little more information. “So is Lancaster’s a good bar?”

The vagrant stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face his inquisitor scratching his head through his lank hair. “I guess that depends if you like Irish bars!”

He smiled broadly, before proceeding on his aimless journey, disappearing around the next corner. Stonehouse stood motionless, except for the gentle shaking of his head, until a quirky grin broke out across his face, which quickly developed into a minor eruption of laughter. A bloody Irish pub!

It was the former President of the USA, Benjamin Franklin, who once famously said that nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes. A worldly-wise Grant Stonehouse was convinced that there was a third certainty in life: that wherever one went in the world, one could always find an Irish bar! Stonehouse knew all about Irish bars. Not only were loads of them liberally scattered throughout the city centres of England, serving up their standard dose of merriment and drunkenness, but Stonehouse’s Irish ancestry meant that the spirit of Temple Bar in Dublin was effectively branded into his soul. His father, Robert, was born in England, but his paternal grandparents, Liam and Anne, were as Irish as they came, having only arrived in England a couple of years before Robert’s birth. Stonehouse had regularly ventured over the Irish Sea to catch up with his extended family, and embraced the friendliness of the country with sheer delight. It was definitely a partying culture, and any excuse for a celebration was grabbed with both hands. The marketing juggernaut that was St. Patrick’s Day was a constant source of amusement for a slightly cynical Stonehouse. He found it fascinating that for one day a year, half the population of England suddenly claimed to be Irish to justify and excessive consumption of Guinness and Jameson Whiskey. Listening to a few U2 songs was about as close to being Irish as most of the revellers had been, but it was enough of a tenuous link to claim Irish nationality for a day. Despite being somewhat sceptical of the whole affair, Stonehouse absolutely loved St Patrick’s Day. The thought of checking out Harper Rock’s finest Irish pub filled Stonehouse with a warm glow. He set off immediately in the direction that he was given.

Navigating the sewer network on foot was Stonehouse's preferred mode of travel. As the days drifted by, the subterranean explorer was becoming increasingly more accustomed to the twists and turns of the labyrinth beneath the city. The tunnels offered him a canopy from the sunlight under which he could sleep, and they gave him numerous hidey-holes to store his stolen or salvaged loot. Manholes were like molehills, affording Stonehouse the opportunity to poke his head above ground and stake out his next potential burglary target. Walking through the darkened streets in search of Lancaster's was a refreshing change. Not only did it feel invigorating for Stonehouse to sense the cool night breeze on his face, but it also allowed him to view the city with a different perspective. There were signs of life everywhere, even in the dead of night, whereas the sewers often seemed like nothing more than the hollow skeleton of a long since deceased dinosaur. Despite an appreciation of his freedom from his underground abode, Stonehouse remained on full alert, sticking closely to the walls of buildings in case he needed the shadows to come to his aid.

A few neon lights up ahead caught Stonehouse's eye as a row of seedy looking shops came into view. Gaudy displays of crotchless underwear, draped over mannequins adorned with tacky wigs, triggered Stonehouse's lips to curl up into a wry smile. Not quite Agent Provocateur, he thought as he wandered past. The brief distraction was almost enough for a sniggering Stonehouse to miss the name "Nightmode" emblazoned across the adjacent establishment, and the illuminated title of "Harper Rock News" on the next building. Luckily, his peripheral vision seemed to be much shaper than it used to be, and a delighted Stonehouse puffed out his chest as he realized that he was in the vicinity of the Irish bar. Whether his mind was still preoccupied with deciding whom he'd like to see in the cheap lingerie, or whether he had simply thought that his quest was almost over, Stonehouse allowed his guard to drop. As he turned the next corner past some apartments, Stonehouse should have been greeted with the sight of Lancaster's. The reality was somewhat different.

The man appeared out of nowhere, charging headlong at Stonehouse like a raging bull. He was carrying some kind of machine gun or assault rifle, and looked every bit the modern day terrorist. It was doubtful if Stonehouse was the intended target of the gangster, but he simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was impossible to tell if the sturdily built man was running after someone, or more likely running away from someone, perhaps following a botched raid or a theft. Despite his impressive dexterity, Stonehouse had no chance of dodging the onrushing mercenary, and the bull crashed into the matador like a runaway freight train.

The next few seconds seemed to last for a lifetime, each detailed moment becoming vividly engraved in Stonehouse’s mind. The pair tumbled to the floor, Stonehouse landing flat on his back as the full weight of the on-rusher pounded down on top of him. Time appeared to freeze, allowing Stonehouse to absorb each contour, each minute detail of the blond-haired man’s face as it hovered momentarily above his, mouth wide open in a scream of anger. There was a recoiling motion as the blue-eyed assailant bounced upon Stonehouse’s winded stomach and chest, followed by a string of minor explosions caused by the accidental firing of several bullets. The hoodlum’s head erupted like a range of fleshy volcanoes, spewing bloody, brain-filled lava into the night sky as he took a mouthful of hot lead. A disgusting cocktail of blood, bone and brain matter rained down onto Stonehouse’s face as he lay, stunned, on the pavement.

Pi made guns because she was good at it. And because she loved it. There was something inherently peaceful about the act of creation. It was her work, every second, minute and hour she invested in each piece felt like small parts of herself bled into the final product. This was different from trap creation. Traps were weapons of mass destruction that provided big bangs and little emotional output. The one night stands that had little investment, and smaller retention, a blind date easily relegated to short term memory, to be discarded easily.

Guns were different. It was probably different because they were her weapon. She’d only carry guns if blades weren’t necessary evils against creatures that brought battles up close and personal. And in its way, guns were her babies, pieces of her. They were artistic creations born of her knowledge of the weapons she made, how they fit into a person’s hand, and how deadly they were, given the right person wielding them. Her deadly little offspring. And she remembered each of them and named them before sending them out into the world.

There would be no babies in her life, no new life born of her body and raised with her blue eyes or Elliot’s shaggy hair. They wove a small family around them but that too came prepackaged in whatever years of life experiences each person brought to the table. So less a family and more a group of adults who fate had brought together in a collision course no one had any hand in determining.

The guns were hers and only hers. Just like the pub was Elliot’s. In her way they both treated this place as if it were another child they bore together, like d’Artois, like Canidae, like any other number of ventures they’d invested in here in this backwater Canadian town. It didn’t seem ironic to her that a Frenchwoman and an Australian owned and operated an Irish pub. She’d traveled enough in her life to understand the connection this place represented to the man she loved. With its warm wood floors and air of subdued camaraderie, it had become an embodiment of Elliot to her. The pub was comfortable, welcoming and filled (usually) with people who were looking to connect with others, with a beer after work or a wine with friends.

It didn’t matter the location of their Irish pub wasn’t on the greatest side of town, a block away from a strip club or two blocks from a biker bar, the feeling was the same. It was home and it was safe. The irony that she sometimes met people here to hand over the guns she made wasn’t lost on her. But there too it seemed appropriate. They were both places representative of their creative expressions, it wasn’t her fault really that her creative expression was that of a talented gun smith. The location of their pub therefore was seemed fitting, no matter the potential for a close criminal element.

Whatever criminal element frequented the streets rarely darkened their door. Sadly, rarely, didn’t mean never.

Gunfire wasn’t a stranger to Pi. She heard the staccato tap and then the powerful ping of bullets ricocheting off stone and turned her head towards the double door entrance to the pub. She wasn’t a stranger to it no, and her body’s reaction to it was immediate. She turned, tucking the tea towel into the apron she wore, even as she pushed it down so it freed the t-shirt she wore revealing the line of smooth skin underneath. The movement was innocuous but served an important purpose, freeing the grab line she needed to the weapon tucked into the small of her back, concealed behind the light cardigan she wore. The off-white peony covers skirt reached just below her knee, dainty ballet flats in a muted green that matched the leaves adorning the deep summer red of the flowers.

Pi wore her hair down, tucked behind one ear, the soft mass untucking itself to swing against her cheek as she moved around the bar, her hand raised, waving back her staff and motioning towards the customers. “Keep everyone inside.” She ordered calmly. All eyes were turned towards the door and she expected her staff to do as they were told. No one told her she shouldn’t go outside, despite the fact she looked like a rough breeze would blow her over.

Her French heritage was stamped all over her features, from her small frame to the pointed chin and narrowed expression, what many would assume was disdain but was in reality the level of her focus.

Summer still gripped the town, sweltering heat making way for the night drop in temperatures. It gave the air she encountered when she swung out of the pub a thick feeling of waiting, a waiting you knew was the only break you got from a repeat of high temperatures when the sun took back the streets and shone its unforgiving light.

She wasn’t surprised to find a dead man on the pavement. What surprised her was that there was only one. With that much gun fire, she expected to find more than one dead and a couple more groaning, clutching whatever extremity had taken the unfortunate brunt of a lead enema. What laid before her was only one dead and another pulling himself away from the poor ******** with his grey matter splattered against the wall.

He was dressed in a suit, attractive in the way a movie star was attractive, identified, disbelievingly and automatically assumed it was a beauty way outside a normal person’s ability to attain, despite the fact it was hideously covered in blood and… other stuff. Pi acknowledged the beauty and blood, and promptly ignored the observation. Vampires, rarely turned ugly people and she’d found an immunity to the social assumption ones genetic placement of features was an indicator of trust or depth or that a face covered from chin to brow in blood conversely meant a person was … bad.

“If you don’t want to answer sticky questions from the police, you need to move.” Pi said. Moving forward she snatched the other weapon off the concrete, her hands working quickly, pulling back the pin, disconnecting the barrel, sliding out the chamber and worked the barrel off, tucking the piece into the front of her apron. Checking out the stock, even as she scanned down the street, she threw that into the open drain, watching it thunk against the grate and disappearing. Her small hands ran over the action, liking the weight of it. She slipped this into her apron pocket as well. “The police don’t come fast in this part of town.. but they’ll be here eventually. We don’t have security cameras, so you should be fine.” Pi finished, her French accent giving her works a lazy, precise feel to them.

Pi made no judgments about the man, about his suit, or about how he came to be on a Canadian town street with a dead body. She made no judgments because she lived in a house of brittle glass, and she neither had the will or the moral high ground to do much more than give practical advice.

How he acted or reacted to her pragmatic statement would tell her a little more about his own comfort level with what had just happened. Mundane people would be screaming, if not immediately, then definitely after her overly calm statements. If mundane is what he turned out to be, then one bite would cure him of his curiosity, his memory and his presence here on this street. If he …. wasn’t mundane, then she’d help in a different way. Body discard, clean up and … maybe a little chat about why it wasn’t a good idea to kill gangsters out on the damn street, and most importantly, not in front of their innocuous and homey Irish bloody pub.

“My name is Pi.” She finally said, introducing herself. “Do you want help cleaning up this mess?” Pi asked with a perfectly straight face.

According to an incredibly enthusiastic Gina Ross, Grant Stonehouse’s occasional **** buddy and daughter of his secretary, Alison, sheep placenta facials were all the rage. A list of celebrities including Victoria Beckham and Kim Kardashian were huge fans of the rejuvenating treatment, in fact even floppy-haired One Direction singer, Harry Styles, had reportedly indulged in the ovine therapy. Apparently the placenta stem cells of sheep mirror those of humans, so the body is able to absorb the proteins and revitalize the skin. There were even stories in circulation that clinics in Dubai were offering human placenta as the ultimate alternative. As Stonehouse lay frozen with his back on the cold pavement, he gazed up at the remains of a head that had just exploded above him like a giant tomato in a high-powered microwave. His stunned face was coated with viscous, bloody brain matter, eclipsing any kind of facial that Gina may have read about in her favourite trashy magazines. Sheep placenta was one thing, but gangster brain was in a whole different universe of weirdness.

For years, Stonehouse had studied the human brain, both at university while reading psychology, and at work where he dealt with mental and degenerative conditions. He had dreamed of being able to truly get inside someone’s mind, but had never imagined that he would literally get this close. He’d heard of method acting, where actors research their forthcoming roles by completely immersing themselves in the psyche of their character so that they can understand them better. Was this the psychological equivalent, the craziest of experiments?

Shock quickly gave way to utter disgust, mixed with a liberal dose of panic. Stonehouse shoved the limp body to his side and sprang to his feet, feverishly shaking and wiping the sludgy remnants off his face and shoulders as if he were suffering from St. Vitus Dance. He jigged around like an athlete limbering up for an Olympic 100m final, desperate to be rid of the vile mess. As far as he knew, nothing had passed his lips, but he spat out whatever was in his mouth as if he had swallowed a vial of poison, just to be sure. He didn’t seem to care that there was a dead body seeping blood into the street. It was irrelevant to Stonehouse, his concern focussed solely on his own wellbeing.

Such was his self-immersion that Stonehouse barely noticed the woman talking to him in her French accent. Had he been paying attention, had he not been preoccupied with removing skull fragments from his hair, then perhaps Stonehouse would have observed how skilfully the woman disassembled the dead man’s weapon, and that her name, Pi, had more than a striking resemblance to “Pie”. Then again, had the on-rushing gunman not ploughed into Stonehouse like a battering ram and sprayed his own face across the street, causing Stonehouse to be the one ironically wandering around like a headless chicken, then perhaps the woman wouldn’t be there in the first place. It was a bizarre chain of events, a butterfly effect that had brought the slightly built woman rushing out of Lancaster’s to just a few feet away from Stonehouse.

Yes, help, that would be great. Help. Stonehouse picked up on the words “police” and “help” as if he had installed an internal alarm to keep him out of trouble with the law, presumably because of a basic instinct to survive. In his mind, he’d replied to the woman’s offer of assistance, oblivious to the fact that in reality he’d said nothing aloud. Vivid images of the gunman’s face flashed through Stonehouse’s mind, burning his conscience even though he knew the shooting wasn’t his fault. Was it a sense of guilt that was swamping him, or just utter disbelief? He looked at the woman, who seemed instantly affable dressed in a pleasant looking cardigan and skirt, and repeated his answer, this time allowing actual words to escape his mouth.

“Yes… yes that would be most helpful. Thank you. I’m…,” Stonehouse paused just before announcing his name, “I’m a bit confused, that’s who I am.”

He peered down at the bloody mess that littered the street then turned to face his new best friend. “I don’t suppose that you have a mop and bucket?”

De ja vu hit her, images from another time, another place, so many other times and places where she stood on a street and before her a new vampire stood confused about who they were; what they were. Maybe she was projecting, the years since she’d become a vampire stretching behind her, only four miserly years, but inside them she’d lived a lifetime of wrongs she couldn’t right and successes she could only celebrate inside the small community that could barely agree. Yet the wrongs repeated themselves, a repetition of mistakes made my absent sires, forgetful lineages and moments like these that highlighted just how important it was that someone take care where care was needed.

Wasn’t this why she had created the Office of the Under Secretary, because of these moments? Wasn’t that also the reason why she had created the Training Room and finally the Sanctuary that stood as a tower in Wickbridge to her ultimate goal of doing something about that confused displacement so many of the newly turned experienced at this change in their lives.

Pi couldn’t be sure if it was true he was a new vampire, but the confusion and the clumsy nature of this moment stood as a spot light (lipid and weak though it was on this rarely traveled street with its watery street lights). It shone the scene is stark relief against a human norm.

There was a dead body laying at their feet and the conversation they conducted was one she’d had before, but had taken her years to reconcile as normal. Normal, in their olds lives was a call, panicked and stricken with shock to an authority to come, words tumbling over themselves as they described the macabre scene, asking for help, hoping that anyone would come to rescue them from the death that spread its blood soaked path in trickling rivulets to the gutter. There would be guilt and shock, moral dilemmas stacking themselves like a jenga tower, teetering this way and that, threatening to fall at moments notice.

That wasn’t the conversation they were having though, and whether he was a new vampire or not, soon his confusion would pass and this would become as regular . To be fair to the man, he was holding up quite well to the fact he was covered in the sluggish grey of another man’s cerebral cortex.

Pulling the tea towel from the waist band of her apron she handed it to the man, moving around him to crouch over the body. “I can do better than that.” She answered. Tucking her white and peony skirt under her to keep it and her shoes out of the run of blood she let herself look at the mess that was the last moments of life assessing the disaster that used to be a face, wondering whose mother, lover, brother or friend would wonder at the end this man had come to.

There was no help for it though. No answers would be found for those lovers and friends, and no body either, not right away. Not until the river she’d teleport it too coughed it back up, the body cavity bloated with gas pushing it from the murky bottom to float grotesquely to the surface. They would have something to bury then, and an answer at least to the question of what, but they would search endlessly for the why. The conjecture would range from gang wars, to robbery, lovers quarrel to wrong time wrong place. None would come close to the reality.

With a whispered word she touched the still warm flesh, the scent of fresh blood drawing her eye towards the exposed neck for one short second, her nostrils flaring and her tongue darting to lick suddenly dry lips. Her eyes drifted closed as she concentrated, lifting her fingertips when the body below vanished from the street.

She stood slowly then, staring at the puddle of red no one could mistake for anything other than what it was, shifting once again to the man in his suit of bloody gore. “The back door to my pub is just down that alley, I’ll meet you there… and help you.. Clean up.” She offered, indicating the narrow strip of inky darkness squatting between brick facade. “I need to head back in, calm my customers and then I’ll be there with a.. change.”

Pi would have walked away then, letting him decide in solitude what his next step would be, except she wanted to make the offer she hoped would decide him to stay. “And then you can come inside… and we can… talk?”

At the age of 29, a cocksure young executive named Grant Stonehouse gleefully accepted a set of house keys from a stereotypical estate agent dressed in a dark pin-stripped suit. There had been a huge boom in the property market around Manchester, as disused factories and mills were painstakingly renovated and converted into luxury apartment blocks. The giant buildings were the remains of the Industrial Revolution, empty husks that were once the powerhouse of the northern English economy. They had lain dormant for years, abandoned and neglected as cheaper foreign imports, fuelled by virtual slave labour, flooded the marketplace. These majestic structures, where men and women once worked their fingers to the bone producing the finest grade textiles, were now nothing more than dusty museums serviced by stagnant canals, which themselves were clogged up with discarded shopping trolleys and overgrown with weeds. The roar of machinery had been replaced by the sound of the breeze whistling through broken windows. That was until some bright young entrepreneurs invested their cash, raised through venture capitalists, and totally transformed the rotting dinosaur carcasses into majestic lions. The rejuvenated areas were thriving. Not only had the vast warehouses received a total makeover than any bride on her wedding day would die for, but the surrounding areas had also been spruced up beyond all recognition. Docks where canal boats would load and unload their cargo had morphed into vibrant mini marinas with swanky bars and restaurants, and impassable towpaths were now tree-lined walkways littered with joggers and dog walkers rather than junk. The ugly duckling was now the graceful swan, and everyone wanted a slice of the action. Stonehouse was no exception.

All the attractions of a bustling city centre were a stone's throw away from the showy businessman's new nest, or "shag pad" as he liked to call it. Stonehouse furnished his new apartment with the biggest TV that he could get his hands upon, and the loudest music system that he could find. **** the neighbours! If they don't want to party, then they can **** right off! There was a liberal splattering of gadgets and gizmos, and even the genesis of a wine collection. Not the £5 ***** piss that the girls in the office drank before a night out, but good stuff, bottles with unpronounceable fancy French names draped elegantly across their labels. The arrogant show-off thought that his eagle had well and truly landed, and that he had it all in the palm of his hands. But one thing was missing; one thing to raise his status just that little bit higher and to elevate the superficial brat to a whole new level. He needed a cleaner.

A cleaner was, in the glittery eyes of Stonehouse, a fantastic status symbol. Rich people had cleaners, successful people who didn't have time for life's mundane chores. Stonehouse often dreamt of a bygone era where he could be the Lord of the Manor, the Master of the House. He'd simply click his fingers and his servants would come running. Hiring a cleaner was the first step towards entering a modern day high society, the new look reincarnation of the landed gentry. A local firm, "Spit & Polish", provided Stonehouse with his housemaid, a 43-year old woman from Kraków, Poland. Karolina was slightly rotund with short brown hair and a somewhat sour smile. She may not have conformed to the unrealistic image that Stonehouse and most other men share of their fantasy maid, but she was excellent at her job. Each Monday at 10am, Karolina would give the flat a thorough going over with the Dyson and a duster, often clearing up the flotsam and jetsam left over from a couple of days worth of hard partying. The place was always spotless, almost clinically clean. She would return on Friday lunchtime to ensure that everything was shipshape and ready for any entertaining that Stonehouse may have had planned for the weekend. The fact that she enjoyed ironing shirts was the ultimate bonus. Apparently she found it relaxing and therapeutic.

Had Mary, Stonehouse's mother, still been alive, she would have undoubtedly mocked her son and continuously told him to get his lazy arse into gear and tidy up himself. As it was, his father, Robert, simply shook his head and rolled his eyes at the antics of Grant. It was his money, so he could spend it how he chose fit, he would say as he scoured his son's apartment for non-existent traces of dust.

Stonehouse wasn't in Manchester any more, and he no longer had Karolina to clean up his mess. He was in Harper Rock, standing in the street looking down at a bloody corpse, and shrapnel made of bone and brain. Alarmingly enough, such was his self-centred nature that his current concern was not the pile of dead flesh that lay at his feet, but the state of his suit. Bloodstains were, after all, notoriously difficult to remove. As he mopped his brow with the tea towel, given to him by the helpful woman with the French accent, Stonehouse couldn't help breaking out into a mischievous smile. The severity of the overall situation had clearly not yet sunk into Stonehouse's traumatized mind, but one fact definitely had registered. He may not have had his trusted cleaner, Karolina, to bail him out, but he appeared to have found a French maid.

Stonehouse turned to the woman, trying to weigh her up. She said that she needed to calm her customers down, so perhaps she owned the pub? That would certainly make her a useful ally, because bar owners always had contacts and knew the word on the street. Yes, the slender woman in the pretty skirt would be his French connection, and he would be Popeye Doyle. An Oscar would look great perched on his drinks cabinet back in Manchester. Stonehouse screwed up his eyes, trying to stay focused and get his **** together. He blurted out a reply at the woman, rather than to her, “Yes, thanks, help with cleaning up would be greatly appreciated.”

He paused before editing his own words in an attempt to court favour, “Oui, merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.”

Stonehouse’s choice of the word “mademoiselle “ rather than “madame” was definitely intentional. He’d had no time to check the blue-eyed woman’s fingers for a wedding ring – he’d barely had time to check his own name – but decided that the use of the youthful title would be more flattering. Flattery gets you everywhere, right? It looked like it was at least going to get Stonehouse to the backdoor of her pub, which was a promising start. He shuffled across the street, peering over his shoulder for another glimpse of the carnage, before vanishing into the shadowy alleyway.

“Madam.” Pi corrected, lifting her hand to indicate the alley behind. “I’ll meet you outside the backdoor, in about five minutes.” She lifted her gaze to give him an assuring smile, and froze, the expression halting into a surprised moue instead. He was a mess. It hardly seemed appropriate to smile, considering the man looked like he’d just come home from a hard day butchering people, then taking a facial in their blood and brains.

He was not fit for public at all. “You, are a mess. So lets do something about that.”

Looking down at her hands she turned them over to ensure she didn’t have blood all over herself. Next she checked the skirt she wore, the cursory glance a necessary one since she was about to walk into a pub full of curious onlookers.

It wasn’t the last time she had found herself in the position of damage control. How could anyone live the life they did and not gain experience in cleaning the blood mess of their day to day lives. She had to consider though, just how many more situations like these played themselves on these streets, and how many weren’t successful. She wondered too, how she managed to get herself into these situations at all. It seemed, since she had become a vampire, her life was prone to these reality sliding scenarios, as if a surreal overlay covered real life to peek into the underbelly of their existence.

For them, this was real life, blood thirsty though it was. There were no picket fences, or warm dinners waiting at the homes filled with family and the sooner the newly turned realised it, the better it was for all. She just wondered how much of her time would soon be dedicated to helping hide moments like these from the light of suspicion.

With one more glance at the man she nodded before turning towards the entrance to Lancaster’s, moving with carefully calculated ease. She didn’t watch to see if he took up her offer, because that was one thing she couldn’t control, and knew it. He’d agreed to her offer and she had to trust him to follow through.

The pub was silent, conversation stopping with an anticipated curiosity as all eyes seemed to turn in her direction. Two of her staff loitered near the two exits and she waved them away, the smile she wore intentionally soothing as she spoke to them, loud enough for others to hear. “Nothing out there.” She stated simply, moving towards the bar and leaning against it as if nothing was wrong at all.

It would take time for the customers to settle, probably the whole ten minutes. It would take even longer for the conversation to lift from hushed whispers into something less restricted by the bite of unknown fear, but by then the focus would be diverted from her or any part she might have played in redirecting it.

The neighborhood they were in wasn’t the best, and sometimes that worked in favour of glossing over moments just like these ones. No one would ask questions. This neighborhood rarely bred the curious, or brave saviours. Too many people understood the necessity of not knowing details and she watched as narrowed gazes lingered on her for a second or two before purposely sliding away.

Moving with slow intention, smiling at staff her watched her pass, she entered her office.

Sometimes, what she had become seemed as surreal as the moment out on the sidewalk. The tome she used brought her into the Den, the next portal she swung through, into Elliot’s apartment to filch a shirt she thought would fit the stranger. It was long sleeved, plaid and likely to clash with the suit the man was currently wearing but she wasn’t worried about fashionable matching of outfits.

Grabbing it and an package of wet wipes and towel she teleported directly into the alley appearing right outside the backdoor.

Disappearing into dark alleyways, slipping away from public sight, was rapidly becoming second nature to Stonehouse. Vanishing into thin air like a magician was becoming a well-honed skill. Usually this followed a burglary from one of the numerous factories or warehouses that were liberally scattered around the city. Stonehouse wondered whether or not Harper Rock was a major industrial city like his home town of Manchester. At some stage he would visit the local libraries and conduct some research. It would be useful to know a little more about the history of his new home. Knowledge, after all, was power. There were several abandoned mills dotted around the various districts of the city, some of which would surely be prime candidates for renovation by budding property developers. This place could be a real boom town, with its very own Salford Quays. There would be business opportunities popping up everywhere, like flowers in the springtime, if some tactical investments were made. There may not have been a canal running through the city centre, but there was a river, which served a similar purpose. English industrial cities such as Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds had been transformed and revitalized, so why not Harper Rock? A concerted effort to clean up a few old buildings et voilà, a thriving city!

Cleaning up was definitely required, but the task at hand was not the rejuvenation of stone and brick structures, it was the clearing of the mess that lay in the street outside Lancaster's bar. By the look of the bloodstains on the surface of the road, some deep cleansing was in order.

Stonehouse reached the alleyway, as directed, and disappeared into the relative safety of the shadows. He paused, releasing a huge sigh as he bent forward and rested his hands just above his knees. The enormity of what had happened was slowly sinking into his mind, like the first drops of rain at the start of the monsoon season as they penetrated the parched earth. Had things turned out just a little differently, had the gunman been holding his weapon at a slightly adjusted angle, and had the barrel been pointed only inches in an alternate direction, then... Stonehouse shuddered at the thought of what may have been. His head and its contents were not destined to be a replacement for the asphalt on the road. Composing himself, Stonehouse stood up straight and dusted himself down. His suit was a bloody mess, literally! He was supposed to be meeting Cori, the killer from the catacombs, tomorrow. More hassle that needed addressing. Appearance mattered to Stonehouse, and he always judged a book by its cover. The hairstyle of someone, the cut of their suit or dress, and the quality and tidiness of their footwear could all be incredibly revealing. Right now, however, he needed to reacquaint himself with the Frenchwoman who had so generously offered to assist him, so Stonehouse wandered down the dark alley, following the scent of ale, until he reached the back door of the pub.

So the woman is married, pondered Stonehouse as he examined the closed door of the drinking establishment, recalling how she corrected his use of the word “mademoiselle”. There were a few beer barrels stacked up neatly outside the exit, and a lamp above the door frame gave out an eerie orange glow, but other than that, there was nothing else of interest in the backstreet. That was until the air appeared to warp in front of Stonehouse's disbelieving eyes, and the cleaner reappeared. It was like something from "The Terminator", but the person who had magically materialized possessed an accent that was French rather than Austrian.

Stonehouse took a step backwards, slightly shocked at the blue-eyed woman's sudden reappearance. That was a party trick that he really needed to learn, one to add to his repertoire. Not for the first time this evening, Stonehouse gathered his thoughts after an unexpected event, and then acknowledged the woman’s spectacular arrival with a smile. Examining the contents of her folded arms, he noted a fresh shirt, a box of something or other, and a large towel. Gesturing towards the towel with a delicate nod of his head and a deadpan expression across his face that masked a mischievous internal grin, Stonehouse spoke to the mystical madame. "I'll make an assumption that we're not going for a midnight skinny dip in the river?"

It should feel ridiculous, standing there with wet wipes and a towel. She’d collected them in the hopes it would tidy the mess the man had covering him from face to chest. Along his jaw, spilling from across his brow, over his eye to fall to his neck blood had already started to dry along the edges, the coagulating agent doing its job and halting the flow with little understanding the inherent nature had already escaped the body it had been trapped and now lay in a puddle outside of the body it had flowed.

In other words, the damn blood was about to dry itself all over this man’s face, and pretty soon it would take more than some wet ones, towel and a clean shirt to scrub away the mess.

Pi waited for him to see her, and nodded once. Her lips turned at his attempt at humour and shook her head. “Too far away.. but maybe next time, you can try that yourself… pretty cold in the river, even in July.” She replied. “Here… let’s see if you can clean yourself with these.” She offered, flipping the lid on the container.

“I brought one of my husband’s shirts ….” She said, keeping her hold on the wipes the clean shirt and towel slung over the other arm.

It was a plaid shirt, because Elliot preferred casual and casual for the Australian was various types of plaid left untucked over well-worn jeans. It didn’t seem quite the style this man would ordinarily go for, but that was hardly Pi’s problem. She was trying to help. Trying to help meant she’d raided Elliot’s drawer for this shirt, which meant she’d probably have to explain where it went (or just buy him a whole heap of new ones so he wouldn’t miss it).

Holding out the wet wipes for him to use, she waited for him to start the rather arduous task of wiping the brains off his face.

“There is a spigot behind you… to wash off your face.”

Perhaps the next time that the marketing department of Jose Cuervo was in town promoting an "all you can drink tequila night", with the Swedish netball team as special guests, Stonehouse would make a genuine suggestion to go for a midnight skinny dip. For now he would have to try to put the humour on the back burner and concentrate on cleaning up the huge mess, starting with himself. His face resembled a rocky outcrop near the ocean shoreline upon which a cargo ship containing gallons of bloody gunk had run aground. The flotsam and jetsam strewn across his neck and shoulders, created intricate patterns of drying crimson blood.

Stonehouse stretched out a hand and yanked a couple of wipes from the container, glazing the moistened towels eagerly across his face. He smiled widely at the demure woman, bearing his teeth in a display of blatantly faked happiness. "Oh," said Stonehouse enthusiastically, "I feel as fresh as a baby's bottom!"

He turned his attention to the shirt that the bar owner had draped over her arm, like a waiter's towel in a fine dinning restaurant. "That's a great shirt," said Stonehouse sarcastically, "it'll match my suit perfectly."

Stonehouse paused, almost freezing on the spot. This woman had no obligation to help him; she didn't have to play the role of the Good Samaritan. In fact, she'd have been well within her rights to call the cops and have him arrested. He realized that being a dick was not going to do him any favours, and that some genuine gratitude was in order. "I'm sorry," said Stonehouse, his mouth clearly stuffed full of humble pie, "I'm just trying to make light of the situation. Please excuse my twisted sense of humour. I really appreciate what you are doing for me."

The ramshackled Englishman turned around and looked at the tap that was poking out of the wall. If only it were an old-fashioned spigot sticking out of one of the beer barrels that were neatly stacked against the wall. He could kneel down under it and let copious amounts of anaesthetizing ale flow into his parched mouth, numbing his senses and helping him to forget about the last few minutes. The fact that Stonehouse would undoubtedly hurl it all back up in a matter of moments was irrelevant. The simple thought of a drunken haze was incredibly appealing right now. A place to which his traumatized mind could pay a visit and relax would be amazing. Instead, the wannabe drinker would have to settle for basic water, which in fairness was exactly what he needed. Stonehouse removed his jacket, rinsing the bloodied collar and shoulders under the cold water. The tap was stiff and squeaked as it was turned, but the subsequent flow of clear, crisp liquid did its job, flushing off lumps of matted brain. Placing the soaking suit jacket on top of the pile of beer barrels, Stonehouse turned his attention to his shirt.

There used to be adverts on the TV for washing powders and detergents that promised fantastic cleaning results on "tough to remove" strains such as red wine, beetroot, or grass. Stonehouse couldn't recall any that guaranteed to cleanse a shirt of blood and splattered brains. Surely there was a gap in the market? Stonehouse swiftly whipped off his shirt as if it were on fire and needed removing before his skin started to melt. It was a mess, a total mess. There was no washing powder that was going to salvage this situation. The cotton garment was a write off. Stonehouse turned to the petite woman with the French accent, and with a cheeky grin emblazoned across his face, gestured to throw the disgusting, blood-soaked shirt at Pi. "Catch, Madame!" exclaimed Stonehouse as he pretended to launch the slimy rag at her. "Only joking, love," he continued, "I don't know you well enough to throw my shirt at you."

Before she had time to respond, Stonehouse crouched down on his haunches and ducked his crusty head under the mini waterfall produced by the tap. It was freezing cold! Suddenly the skinny dip in the river seemed like a good way to warm up. Stonehouse gritted his teeth and began scrubbing his entangled hair, releasing globules of brain matter, chips of bone from the skull of the unfortunate gangster, and a steady stream of second-hand blood. Trickles of icy cold water ran across his shoulder blades and down across his back and chest, forming sparkling constellations as the dim light of the alleyway lamp caught the fluid droplets. Stonehouse wondered if Pi was staring at his back, imagining plunging daggers into it following his rather lame joke. He poked his fingers into both of his ears and his left nostril, removing unholy gunge, and continued rinsing his face and hair. If the woman was still holding the inviting looking fluffy towel when he stood back up, he figured she must be a genuinely good person.

Spitting out some excess water, after thoroughly swilling his mouth, Stonehouse rose to his feet and turned off the creaking tap. He swivelled around on his heels and shook his head, releasing a spray of water droplets from his dark hair. He offered a wry grin towards his attractive and able-bodied assistant. "So..." said Stonehouse as he glided his hands up and down around his head, neck and chest, indicating that he wanted Pi to take a good look, "do I look like I've just stepped out of a salon?"