A Voyage into Night Ch. 02

"You know, I don't mean to be funny Izzy but, you look like fucking death," said Ian as Isobel came on shift. Isobel couldn't have contradicted him, even if she had been able to muster up the energy to argue. She smiled weakly, collapsing into the straight-backed chair usually reserved for patients.

"Well, you know," she said, attempting levity despite the strain she could hear in her own voice, "My life's just one big, endless party. My body will just have to learn to keep up."

Ian brought over a steaming mug of coffee, which Isobel took gratefully. "I'm serious Izzy, should you even be at work? You look closer to croaking it than any of the old farts we've got on board. Listen, why don't you go back to your cabin? I don't mind covering..." Isobel waved a hand, cutting him off.

"Don't even suggest it. I'm fine, just a little tired. I've not been getting much sleep recently is all. The only thing that would happen if I went back to my luxury penthouse suite would be that I'd spent the better part of the day staring at the damp spot on the wall above my bed, and if I did that now I'd have nothing to look forward to tonight. I'm serious, it looks just like Wales and," her voice became an ominous whisper, "I'm pretty sure it's growing".

Ian laughed, but she could see he was far from convinced.

"Well, if your sure..."

"I am, trust me, I prefer to be here. I promise, if I get too tired and end up killing more patients than is usual for a Thursday I will call for the cavalry"

"Good to know."

"And if they're all busy, I'll call you."

He gripped his heart in mock pain as she took a sip of her coffee - Christ that was good. She relaxed back in the chair with a sigh; at least her statement about preferring to be here had been true.

"So," she said after a moment, "any news?"

"Not since you asked last night. I told you. There's no life on this rust-bucket, not really. If you want tales of scandal and sex you really should have signed on for one of those Caribbean cruises. I hear their like Sodom and Gommorah, at least compared to here."

"So when are you transferring?" She said with a smile. He looked offended.

"Not me. I'm the quiet, bookish type, I thought you knew that. I wouldn't know how to cope." This really did make Isobel laugh, a natural deep roar she was surprised she had the strength for. Reaching over she launched a package of dressings across the surgery towards him.

"Get out you reprobate!" Ian moved toward the door, the hurt expression back on his face.

"Reprobate? I'll have you know I plan to spend the day in the library studying the lives of the saints." Ian accentuated his Irish accent for this last comment in a manner that Isobel could not help but find incredibly attractive. Not that she had any intention of showing him.

"Out!"

Before he left he took a moment to look at her, all levity left his handsome face: "Seriously Izzy, any problems give me a call, OK?"

"I will, I promise."

Like hell, she thought as the door swung shut behind him and she was left alone in the sterile safety of the surgery. Standing up, she took her coffee over to the sink. Taking another sip, she studied her reflection in the wall mirror. Ian had not been exaggerating, she really did look like shit. She had taken the easy option in tying back her long red hair. She had simply been in no state to do anything ambitious with it this morning. In hindsight the decision to come in without makeup had been a mistake, the shadows under her green eyes were nothing short of alarming and her face had the pale, unhealthy look of someone clearly not on speaking terms with sleep. Her freckles added some colour but really she wouldn't be surprised if she scared some of the patients away.

She had five minutes before the surgery started so she used the time to splash cold water on her face, and pour another cup of coffee. Then she sat down, and for the first time since she had walked through the door, allowed her mind to return to the events of three nights ago.

She really had no idea how much sleep she had managed to grab since then, but she imagined it could not have amounted to more than a handful of hours. She has spent most of the intervening nights awake, in her cabin, listening for the slightest sign of movement from the world outside. Anytime she heard anything: the clumsy clanking of a trolley, the hushed laughter of passengers creeping their way back to their cabins in the early hours, she would hold her breath until the noise passed. Reading was impossible; listening to music or watching TV was unthinkable due to the risk of drawing attention. The only thing to do was to sit quietly, in the only chair in her cabin, and wait out the night.

Of course there had been times when she had dropped off, her head nodding down to her cbest as she surrendered to the inevitable. Sometimes she woke almost immediately, jerking alert with a startled intake of breath; sometimes she stayed under, and gave herself up to dark, watery dreams.

It was usually then that the woman would come for her, and she would wake from her slumber to the sound of three knocks, echoing loud and clear, coming from her cabin door. It had happened once, each night, since that night on the stern-deck, and was the real reason Isobel could not sleep for longer than a few minutes. But more terrifying than the knock, and what it represented, was her own reaction to it. Every night was now split into two distinct sections. The knock on her door was the bridge, the moment when everything changed.

In the hours before the woman knocks on her door, Isobel would sit in her room simply waiting for it, a tight knot of nervous anticipation wound up tight in her stomach. Once the call came, the invitation, the feeling changed, and now Isobel is fighting the urge, the irrational desire, to stand up and open the door. This despite knowing all too well what would be let in. Nevertheless this notion, this itch, remained with her until the night was over and the rest of the ship stirred itself back to reality. The previous night had been the worst of all and the memory of her own hand resting on the cold steel handle of the door sent chills through her body: the slightest extra pound of pressure and the handle would have turned, the door opened and the woman would have been there. Isobel was sure of that, even if she had resisted the urge for hours before turning the handle, the woman would know, and would be waiting. Isobel was slowly coming to the realisation that she would not be able to resist forever.

She had considered leaving the ship altogether. It wasn't unusual for this to happen; she had often heard stories about staff jumping ship to spend time in whatever historical port they happened to be in that day, never to return. It was always assumed they had simply received a better offer, or had decided to extend their day off into a permanent holiday. isobel had always liked the idea of simply walking off to start a completely new life. It would be unusual for this to happen to one of the ship's doctors but Isobel was sure it would have happened before somewhere.

That was why, two days ago, on one of her days off, she had packed a bag and joined the tourists in strolling down the ramp to spend the day in at atmospheric medieval fishing port, complete with mist, sheer cliffs on each side and, slightly ruining the effect, a McDonald's. She had enjoyed the day relaxing in a bar and strolling around a fishing museum gazing at various types of floating wood. However, as the day progressed, she began to feel a familiar itch stirring into life at the back of her mind. Which was why, as the sun began to set behind the walled hills surrounding the town, she joined the same group of tourists, walking up the same ramp, taking her place back on the ship for another sleepless night. She hadn't really questioned her decision to return, only acknowledged that there really wasn't a decision to be made.

One thing puzzled her: She had expected the disappearance of two members of staff to be a source of speculation on board. She had assumed that, when Kira and the bartender had failed to turn up for their shift, all hell would have broken loose. She had even prepared herself in case she was ever asked any questions about them or where she had been on the night they went missing. Not only did this not happen, but Isobel was stunned when, even after three days, the disappearances were not discussed or even remarked upon in any way. She had finally taken the decision to visit Kira's gym only to be told by a trainer that they had no idea where their colleague had gone although they assumed that she had simply gone AWOL whilst the ship was in port: "Probably with that prick from the bar she was banging," the man said before asking, for the third time, if there was any advice Isobel needed about the gym. Isobel made her excuses and left.

it was then that she had started doing research. The decision had come late because, in the bright, rational light of day it was simply easier to push the reality of what she was facing to one side. The truth was she felt silly even considering many of the things running through her head; it would have been funny had she not been so frightened. The first time she had googled the word 'vampire' she had snapped shut her laptop without reading any of the results, the act of simply typing out the word had seemed so laughably preposterous. Only she wasn't laughing and eventually she had restarted her browser and started reading. This experience taught her literally nothing that she hadn't known already from watching old Hammer films and reading Anne Rice novels - all of which could be true, or none of it. Take your pick.

Try as she might she could not make sense of her own feelings, and all the research in the world would not take away what she already knew for a certainty: She was in danger, but from what? The woman was darkness, that was clear, but she was so much more. Throughout the days, images of that night had flashed violently in Isobel's mind: the look on Kira's face, the parted lips, the cry of release, the deep sense of need that came from both women in waves. Kira's passion had been terrifying in its power. We all behave differently when we feel the darkness coming. Isobel had seen that for herself throughout her career. We dance on the edge of a chasm, the closer we get to the edge, the more desperately and passionately we want to dance. Isobel imagined what it would be like to be that close to darkness, to feel it's caress, it's kiss, it's bite. She could deny it all she wanted, but the truth was that she very much wanted to feel the touch of the woman's mouth on her skin. Isobel needed protection, she knew that, not just from the woman, but from herself.

Whilst browsing in the shopping area on the ship she bought a small cross on a silver chain to hang around her neck. This had led to comments from Ian about whether or not she was abandoning her atheist heathen ways and joining "the side of the angels". She had brushed his comments off but she still felt a hypocrite for wearing it. She was far from convinced it was enough to keep her safe. What if it was useless without belief? What if it was useless full stop? She had also considered where on earth you could get wooden stakes from in the modern world and hadn't been able to come up with an answer. Again, all of this seemed almost funny during the daytime. It was only later, at night, where she struggled to see the humour.

So now here she was, the surgery was about to start, so she again pushed all thoughts of the woman to the back of her mind and began the day. It was a relief to lose herself in the normality of other people's problems; her tiredness lifted as professionalism took over and, before she knew it, it was dinner time and half the day was already over.

This was happening far too quickly. As the day went on, she found the tight knot in her stomach forming, then twisting. She felt like a helpless insect, stuck to a conveyer belt, unable to slow it down, unable to get off. From the window of her surgery she could see the ball of the sun falling inexorably towards the blue line of the horizon. She used to find this moment beautiful, but now, as the glowing orange ball appeared to touch down on the oceans surface, turning it to lava, her heart sank with it. The day was over, and another long night yawned before her.

She formulated a plan: she couldn't go back to her cabin, at least not for the night. Once the decision had been made it seemed obvious. She would simply surround herself with people until the sun came up; the more the merrier - and safer. Once her shift was over she hurried to her cabin, showered and threw on a simple black dress over which she put on a jacket. She applied make-up and ran a brush through her hair. It was a race: she needed to be surrounded by people before the sun disappeared over the horizon. She left the cabin with her hair still damp, and hit the bar.

The Cardinal Lounge was the closest thing to a nightclub the ship possessed: three bars, a sizeable dancefloor and its position at the top of the ship guaranteed that patrons had a clear view of the sun dipping low over the horizon. She stood by the window, watching the sky turning the sky and water a glorious red, then amber, before fading to a pale pink. Isobel watched the day disappear in front of her, sipping her drink while above, the first stars emerged in the darkening sky. She tried to calm her nerves but it wasn't easy; it starts now, she told herself, just over ten hours until dawn. It may as well have been years. What the hell was she going to do? With the setting of the sun she could already sense something else inside her, stirring awake, that familiar sense of anticipation, of need. As if to break through her revelry, the bartender chose this moment to turn on the music: a mixture of dance and pop played a little too loud for comfort. Isobel winced: this was going to be a long night.

She had considered inviting Ian and his girlfriend to join her but she had soon discounted the idea; she simply did not want him involved. And besides, considering how exhausted she had been this morning, it would raise far too many questions as to why she had not gone straight to bed when her shift had finished. No, she was going to have to deal with this on her own.

But that didn't mean that she had to be alone. The club was beginning to fill up although it was still less than a quarter full; maybe about thirty people dotted around in groups. She considered setting herself up in one of the booths that lined the wall but decided that they were maybe too private and too comfortable. The more visible she was, the safer she was, so she took her seat on one of the tall stools in front of the bar.

She ordered a glass of wine, reminding herself that she needed to take things slowly, pace herself, but accepting that a soft drink simply wasn't going to do the job when it came to settling her nerves. She swivelled in her chair so that she leant against the bar with one elbow, her gaze directed at the main entrance to the club. Over the next hour the place began to fill up nicely although she noted ruefully that she appeared to be one of the oldest people in the room. This at least would explain the music.

She kept her place at the bar and very quickly, too quickly she told herself, she was finishing off her second glass of wine. She found that she was relaxing quite nicely and even beginning to enjoy some of the music. She motioned to the bartender, signalling for a top up. Behind him was a long mirror, stretched out across the wall for the full length of the bar. While she waited for her wine glass to be replaced she took a moment to study herself in the reflection and concluded that, considering the circumstances, she didn't look too bad: she still looked pale, paler than usual, but it did have the effect of throwing her long red hair into an even more vibrant contrast. She looked a little younger than her 32 years and the black dress did seem to flatter her figure, the silver cross glinting just above her modest cleavage. It had been quite a while since she had last found herself in a nightclub, maybe she shouldn't leave it so long the next time. She found the atmosphere contagious, and the deep throb of the bass line reverberated in her stomach in a way that brought back pleasurable memories of drunkenness and debauchery. Yes, she thought, taking a sip of the newly filled glass, I really should do this more often.

Still gazing into the mirror, she did a quick scan of the room. The dance floor was becoming a little more crowded but it was still early. Mostly people just gathered in little groups around the edges. Maybe, she thought with a smile, maybe I should hit the dancefloor myself a little later. Now that really had been a while.

The smile froze on her face as, in the mirror, she caught sight of a dark figure moving through the crowds along the edge of the room. There was a momentary glimpse of pale skin and long dark hair and Isobel felt a sudden spike of emotion travel through her body; the, by now, familiar mix of dread and savage anticipation. Isobel's eyes followed the figure in the mirror without turning around to look directly. Her sense of relief when the figure stepped out into a more lighted area of the club, only to be revealed as a young goth, was quickly replaced by a sharp stab of disappointed. Christ, she needed to get a grip, it wasn't even midnight yet.

Returning from a long-delayed trip to the ladies room she was irritated to find her seat at the bar had been taken. It crossed her mind to make an issue of it but instead settled for leaning against the corner, a good position to see the full sweep of the, by now, busy nightclub. She continued to sip her wine (her fourth? She really wasn't sure, which wasn't good) and continued to watch the dance floor, at the close bodies writhed together. The atmosphere had taken a sexual turn and she was aware of a couple, leaning against the bar next to her, passionately kissing, the woman's hand resting on the obvious bulge beneath the man's jeans. Feeling a wave of heat rising through her body Isobel turned away, only to have her wine glass knocked clean out of her hand by some idiot in a tight light-blue shirt. "Fucking hell!" She exclaimed as the man began to make apologies:

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." She managed to quash her annoyance and managed a smile as she waved her hand, drying it.

"It's OK, don't worry about it." She even managed a laugh.

"At least let me buy you another one, no strings, it's the least I can do."

She shook her head: "Like I said, don't worry about it." He paused for a moment, clearly weighing up whether she should say anything else. He was quite cute, probably early twenties, untidy hair and the tightness of the shirt certainly provided evidence of a healthy gym regiment. He raised up his hands in a placating gesture, flashed a smile that was self deprecating enough not to be annoying.

"OK, let me know if you change your mind. I always like to pay my debts. Have a good night.

"I don't want you to buy me a drink," she said suddenly, not wanting him to leave just yet, "but how about I buy you one?" She was quietly surprised at herself, she wasn't usually this forward, but fuck it: it wasn't as if potentially making a fool of her self was her biggest problem at the moment. The man eyed her for a second, unsure, but this moment of doubt clearly didn't last long and the smile reappeared:

"Well, it hardly seems fair but it's a code of honour that I never say no to a free drink; it's against my principles"

The smile was contagious, and she felt its twin growing on her own face: "OK, so what are you having? My budget can stretch to most things, providing your not expecting champagne."