The Red Slayer
Chapter Five - Snow Day

I don’t remember the rest of the evening besides shoving Karen’s clothes and shoes in my closet. The pile of dust will have to wait 'til tomorrow when my energy isn’t plummeting. The next time I’m fully capable of thought, I’m lying in bed with Ariel’s sleeping head on my chest. I’m staring at a ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars, astronomically correct. A sliver of light peeks through a gap in my blackout curtains. It’s morning?

My mind is in a thousand places at once. The only comfort is how untouched my room looks since yesterday morning; from the lilac walls to the mulberry carpet, my desk at the end of my bed to my perfectly organised dressing table.

The other comforting sight sits in the far-left corner. A tall cupboard decorated with gothic apparel like black lace, red satin, fake roses and skulls, and LED tealights. My Phantom of the Opera shrine. I’ve been adding merch and memorabilia to it since I was ten, like necklaces, ticket stubs, programmes, key rings, etc. The top shelf sports action figures of the Phantom himself, including a vinyl pop thingy. The centrepiece is a special edition of the novel by Gaston Leroux, printed in French. One door is plastered with pictures of my favourite Phantom actors, musical and non-musical. The other has small posters of the musical, including Love Never Dies with a giant NO! scrawled across it in red Sharpie.

What happened last night? Was I dreaming? Am I crazy? Are my meds screwing with me?

I fish out my anti-anxiety meds from the side-table drawer. The folded paper inside shows a list of possible reactions, but weight loss, dryness of mouth and difficulty pitching tents doesn’t explain seeing vampires.

So I am crazy? Or…that was all real.

Ariel starts licking my face. It’s her way of saying ‘good morning’. I laugh, scratching her ears and rubbing my nose against her belly until I catch a glimpse of my alarm clock.

08:37

‘Oh shit!’ I push Ariel off me and leap out of bed, rushing to get dressed, brush my hair, pack my bag. I hope we didn’t have any homework due today.

I sprint downstairs. If my tights weren’t sagging, I’d vault the bannister. I stop to get my shoes on when Dad walks into the hall in his dressing gown, carrying a cup of tea like he has all the time in the world. ‘What’s the hurry?’

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I say frantically. ‘I’m going to be late for school!’

Dad shakes his head. ‘It’s a snow day.’

'WHAT!’

‘Haven’t you looked out the window yet?’

I bolt into the living room where the curtains are already open. The front garden is coated in thick, white icing. Flakes still fall in clumps, covering the few pawprints made by a cat or a fox.

Dad stands next to me and shows me his phone. ‘The school texted me an hour ago. I decided to let you sleep.’

‘When did it start snowing?’ I ask, slightly calmer. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

‘Don’t you remember? It was snowing last night when we picked you up. After Elisa and Luke went home, it got a lot heavier.’

I rub my temples and groan. ‘I was so tired I couldn’t have told you my own name.’

Dad laughs and pats me on the back, then steers me toward the kitchen. It has a beautiful Tuscan design with a white and yellow colour scheme. We have our meals in here too. He takes a wine glass hanging from the rack above us and pours me a fresh glass of orange juice.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ I sigh. ‘Guess I’m a little on edge.’

‘Michael again?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I…’ I’m hesitant to say I saw a vampire in case I have gone mad. ‘I had one of those “not sure if it actually happened” dreams.’

‘Oh?’ says Dad while measuring out almond milk and gluten-free flour.

‘I was in my dressing room, and Lewis Taylor-Thomas’s stepmum was there. She grew extra-long fangs and tried to bite me.’

Dad simply nods, pouring the flour into a mixing bowl and putting the milk in the microwave ‘And then you woke up?’

‘No. I stabbed her with a chopstick and she turned to dust.’

Dad stands up straight and turns to me. ‘Like a vampire, you mean?’

I nod. ‘Isn’t that what they do when you stake them?’

‘It is, yes. But why would someone’s stepmother appear in your dream as a vampire?’

I shrug and look into my glass of juice. ‘She was rather rude to me yesterday with her “a girl can’t play Hamlet” waffle.’

Dad also shrugs. ‘Dreams don’t have to make sense if they don’t want to.’ Once the microwave pings, he makes up a mug of hot chocolate for me.

I watch him go back to cooking as he whips up a stack of pancakes for each of us. The kitchen fills with the smell of cooking butter while I smother my pancakes in salted-caramel spread and maple syrup.

‘How did you like my performance?’ I ask.

‘You were great, I knew you would be.’

‘Yeah, but specifically, what did you like?’

‘For one, you didn’t just stand there and monologue. You wouldn’t believe how many actors do that. No wonder people think Hamlet is mad if he stares at a wall talking to himself.’

I would laugh, but I’d spit orange juice all over the countertop. ‘It’s press night tonight. I hope they’ll like it.’

‘Of course they will,’ says Dad. ‘Anyway, what are you doing today? I have some stuff to finish in the workshop.’

I shrug. ‘I’ll see if Luke and Olga are free.’

Dad takes my empty plate when my phone starts ringing. I know it’s Tara because Ed Sheeran’s Castle on the Hill is coming out of my breast pocket. She sang it at last year’s prizegiving. I accompanied on piano.

‘Hi, Tara,’ I say,’ Did you hear the news?’

‘Yeah. Oh my God, it’s crazy isn’t it?’

‘I know right. I had a massive freak out just now.’

‘Why? I didn’t think you’d care.’

‘I do if it gets me a day off school.’

Tara is silent for a few seconds. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The snow day.’ I subconsciously point to the kitchen window, even though she can’t see me. ‘What did you think I was talking about?’

‘Lewis’s stepmum.’

‘What about Lewis’s stepmum?’

Dad looks over his shoulder at me.

‘She’s gone missing,’ says Tara.

‘What?’

‘Turn on London Live, they’re running a story right now.’

Fortunately, we have a TV on the fridge so Dad can watch cricket while he cooks. I switch to the news and there’s Karen onscreen with the headline banner: Local Woman Missing. She’s photographed in a pub with a disturbingly revealing dress, drinking champagne with a man I can only assume is Lewis’s dad.

‘Karen Jones,’ says the presenter, ‘Went missing yesterday evening from her home in Finchley. Police were contacted by her partner, Bill Taylor, at midnight when she still hadn’t returned. Her purse, keys and phone were all left at home…’

‘Oh my goodness,’ I say under my breath, then speak into the phone.

I take a few deep breaths. This is not happening. This is not happening!

Dad is still watching the news when I hang up. The local residents are being interviewed. An old lady who looks like Dot from EastEnders scowls into the camera. ‘She was a cow. She deliberately tried to run over my cat. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran off with another man.’

A black council worker in green overalls and a high-viz vest adds, ‘We received many reports of fly-tipping outside her house, and her car was once towed when she parked in disabled resident’s parking space.’

Another old lady in a raincoat and headscarf says, ‘I always heard shouting from their house. Bill’s boy comes to mine until the arguments stop.’

Finally, a pregnant Muslim woman confesses, ‘When me and my husband moved into our house, we threw a party and she told the police we were having a terrorist rally.’

The interviews end there and they cut back to the studio. Dad turns off the TV and raises and eyebrow at me. ‘She sounds like a terrible person.’

I stare at the blank screen as if Karen’s picture is still there. I don’t know if I should say anything. Who’s going to believe that she was a vampire? What if Lewis’s dad is accused of her murder? I hope he has a strong alibi. Maybe the police, seeing no one really cares about this woman, will simply declare it a cold case and go looking for someone people like.

But seriously, imagine your only eulogy being group of people saying how much they hated you, and deservedly so.

I chug the last of my juice and hot chocolate, then discreetly head upstairs where I topple onto my bed in a confused mess, not knowing what’s real anymore.

I reach for my phone and call Olga first. She picks up after only two beats. It sounds like she’s on the bus. ‘Hi, Iorwen,’ she says with a sigh.

‘You okay?’ I ask. ‘Did you get a snow day too?’

‘Yeah,’ she groans. ‘But I didn’t know until I got to flipping school. Mr. Bush was there, talking down to me as usual, and told me they announced it on the website at eight. We start at eight-thirty!’

‘Oh dear,’ is all I can say.

‘I can’t go home because I forgot my key. I’ve got to go to my aunt’s in Chiswick, but the traffic won’t move.’

‘Why not come over then? I was going to swim anyway. I’ll lend you a costume.’

She gasps. I imagine her sitting up straight with relief. ‘Really? Oh, thank you, Iorwen, you’re a life saver. I’ll be there in an hour.’

‘See you then.’ I hang up and immediately call Luke. ‘Hey, mate, wanna come over?’

Luke laughs. ‘How’d you know I’m not in school?’

'Because I just called Olga. Did you get there too and find out it was closed?

‘I was halfway there when she texted. What a ballache.’

‘Come to mine then. We’ll have a swim, drink dairy-free hot chocolate, and maybe watch a movie before I go to the theatre this evening, and you can tell me how great I was.’

‘Cool. I’ll be there in thirty.’

I don’t change into my swim kit straight away. I am not opening the front door dressed like that, especially not in this weather. Instead, I throw on some leggings and a cropped t-shirt and head down to the gym.

Yes, we have a gym. We don’t need a dining room, so we found another use for it. We have weights, a bike, a mat for yoga and pilates, a punching bag and a treadmill. It shares a glass wall with the poolroom, which makes running quite a soothing experience while watching the calm water. According to the radio in the background, the snowfall is apocalyptic. Trains are cancelled, flights are delayed, and most schools in the south east are closed. Britain just can’t cope with snow. I bet they’re laughing at us in Scandinavia.

If most schools are closed, I truly feel sorry for the ones who aren’t. What about Dante’s school?

I slow the treadmill and call him through speakerphone. He answers with a yawn. ‘Morning.’

‘Hi, guessing you have a snow day?’

‘Yeah. It’s great. When my mum told me, I went right back to sleep.’

I laugh. ‘You doing anything today?’

He’s silent. I imagine him lying in bed, looking tired and confused, as he replies, ‘I hope you’re not suggesting parkour in this weather.’

‘No, don’t be silly. I’m inviting you over to mine. Luke and Olga are coming too.’

‘Come to yours? Is your dad okay with that?’

‘It’s fine. He does know you exist.’

‘Okay. I’d love to. Where do you live?’

‘Forty-two, Montgomery Road, Kensal Green. Twenty minutes from the overground stop. Far side of the cemetery. Oh, and bring your swimming kit.’

‘Sounds brill. I’ll be there soon.’

‘Wonderful,’ I say and hang up. I increase the speed to 7.5 and simply run.

I let myself think of Tara. I’m not sure how shocked I’m meant to be about being gay. I’ve always known they existed; I do a lot of theatre after all. I’m surprised that I’m not surprised. Does that make sense?

What am I saying? Last night proved nothing makes sense. Vampires exist. A woman is dead because of me (if she wasn’t un-dead already). And no one seems to care that she’s gone. How awful do you have to be to get no mourners? I need to tell someone. Dr. Clarke? No, she’ll fling a schizophrenia diagnosis at me, along with some pills. And since Dad, being an adult, is prone to scepticism. Perhaps my friends are a safer bet.

***

Luke arrives first. There’s not much formality since he’s here every other day. He goes to help himself to a drink while I go to the gym for planks. I can hold one for five minutes now.

‘Do you want to hear my thoughts on the show?’ he asks, leaning on the bike.

I nod. If I speak my hips will drop.

'Okay. I loved it. I’m not saying that because you’re my friend. It was amazing. I love that you re-enacted the swordfight from Princess Bride in the last scene, music and all.’

I nod again, go into downward-dog, and do a handstand. ‘Did the other school like it?’

‘Why do you ask? Wasn’t the applause enough for you?’

‘S’pose so. I do like the sound of applause.’ The timer on my phone goes, but I hold for another ten seconds before I stand up again with a heavy sigh of relief. And not a moment too soon, as we hear the buzzer for the front gate. Luke goes to answer it while I stretch off. He returns a minute later with Olga, wearing a snow-dusted coat over her uniform, and Dante.

I look up from where I’m kneeling on the mat. ‘Wow, sooner than I expected.’

‘Mum gave me a lift,’ says Dante.

‘We arrived at the same time,’ says Olga.

‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, getting up. ‘Or do you just want to start swimming?’ I lazily gesture to the pool through the glass wall. Dante’s jaw drops.

‘You have your own pool?’ he shouts.

‘Sure. That’s why I said bring swim kit.’

‘I thought that meant we were going to the local leisure centre.’

I shake my head. ’Nope. Not with my scars.’ I clear my throat and go into hostess mode. ‘Anyway. Olga and I will get changed. Luke, can you show Dante where the downstairs bathroom is. I’ll meet you by the pool with drinks.’

Once in the pool. I introduce Dante to one of our favourite games. Two people stand on giant square floats in the dead centre and try to push each other off with foam noodles. Olga and I demonstrate; she goes down easily because she doesn’t bend her knees. Luke goes next and, in my haste to duck his blow, I lose my balance. Dante swims out to take my place. For a first timer, he holds up well. I think Luke takes a dive (pun intended) and lets Dante win as a dude-bro way of saying, ‘You’re our mate now.’

Olga and I applaud him from the poolside while Luke swims over and pours out some juice. Almost the second Dante gets out of the pool for some juice of his own, Dad walks in with Ariel, all kitted for outdoors.

‘Are you kids having fun?’ We nod. That’s when he notices Dante. ‘Ah. You must be Iorwen’s running friend.’

Dante looks at me for a moment then nods. ‘That’s right.’

Dad turns to me. ‘I’m taking Ariel for a walk. I’ll put lunch on when I get back.’

‘Can we have toasted sandwiches?’ I ask.

‘Of course. See you in an hour.’ And as soon as he came in, he’s gone again.

Dante looks at me with an unusual level of relief. ‘Your dad wasn’t what I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

He shrugs. ‘I imagined him to be super strict and much, much older, especially seeing your house. He’s what, late-thirties?’

‘Forty-four,’ says Luke. ‘Forty-five in April.’

‘Damn, he looks much younger. Is he a retired rockstar?’

I burst out laughing. ‘No. He was in a band at Uni, but that was the extent of his music career. Mum was the performer.’

‘So, what does your dad do to afford a place like this?’

Olga, Luke and I share that look no one wants to speak and hopes the other will. After ten seconds of awkward silence, the three of us shrug simultaneously.

Dante raises his eyebrows at us. ‘You mean you have no idea?’

‘Most of it’s family money,’ says Luke. ‘Jason’s the Earl of—’

‘He has four PHDs,’ I say quickly. ‘And some fellowship thing at Imperial College. I don’t know what it entails, something to do with maths and computers.’

‘Seriously?’ says Dante. ‘He’s never gone into detail.’

‘You should see me in maths sometimes. I can’t hear “trigonometry” without yawning.’ I pause and do just that.

‘What are his PHDs in? Where did he get them?’

'Um…One’s in biochemistry from either Oxford or Cambridge—one of the posh-knobs. Then there’s…computer science from Imperial College…uh…history from King’s College and engineering from Westminster. I might have the last two mixed up.’

‘He has to be doing something with them. Doesn’t he ever talk about his work?’

I sip sheepishly at my orange juice and avert my eyes. ‘It’s a waste of time explaining even the basics to me. I’m not clever like he is. He does most of it in his workshop.’

‘He has a workshop?’ Luke and Olga nod. ‘Can we see it?’

‘No,’ I assert. ‘Not even I’m allowed down there.’

‘Oh, come on,’ says Luke. ‘I’ve always been curious about the stuff he does. One little peek can’t hurt.’

‘It can’t be that terrible if he works at home,’ Olga agrees.

I sigh heavily, but I’m in no mood to argue. ‘All right, but let’s be quick.’

We pat ourselves dry and the boys throw shirts over their swimming shorts while I put on my dressing down and Olga wears an oversized jumper from my closet.

The workshop is in the cellar. Back when this house was occupied by Victorians, it would have been the kitchens/scullery where servants worked. Course, with just me and Dad, there’s no need for live-in staff. We have cleaners come in twice a week and our clothes are laundered for us, but other than that we’re quite independent. It’s my responsibility to keep my room clean.

I’ve never been in the workshop myself. Dad caught me approaching it once and said there were dangerous tools in there. The closest I’ve come is knocking on the door at mealtimes. When the four of us approach now, we notice a keypad and tiny screen where a handle would otherwise be.

‘I guess we’re not getting in,’ I say, shrugging.

‘That’s odd,’ says Luke. ‘What’s he hiding?’

‘He’s not hiding anything,’ I say defensively. 'Security’s pretty routine for scientists. Haven’t you seen Jurassic Park. If you don’t guard your research, fat guys cut the power and the dinosaurs escape.’

‘Why is your dad resurrecting dinosaurs in the middle of London?’ says Olga.

‘That would be awesome,’ says Dante.

I frown at him. ‘Not helping.’

‘Let’s at least give the password a try,’ says Luke. He moves forward and brushes his thumb over the keypad. ‘It’s an eight-digit code.’ His types 4-6-6-9-6-6 then stops short of the last two digits. ‘No wait… “Iorwen” is six letters.’

‘I doubt he’d use my name,’ I say. ‘Too obvious.’

‘What about your mum’s?’ says Olga. ‘“Clarissa” is eight letters.’

Luke grins. ‘You just read my mind.’ He quickly types 2-5-2-7-4-7-7-2. The keypad beeps, the door clicks and gently swings open. He and Olga lead the way inside while I follow to satisfy my own curiosity with Dante in the rear.

The workshop is clean. The white walls and floor don’t have a speck of dirt on them. Wooden workbenches line each side with power tools installed, like a buzz saw, a sand-belt and three different vices. There’re no projects on the go, no piles of sawdust or screwdrivers and wrenches hanging on the walls.

‘This is it?’ says Dante. ‘The DT department at my school is half this size, but twice as messy.’

‘Your school has hundreds of people,’ I say. ‘It’s just my dad here.’

‘Oh, come on,’ says Olga. ‘There’s no computers or notebooks to record his data. Doesn’t that seem suspicious? There’s not even anywhere to sit down.’

The truth begins to overwhelm me. My head is starting to spin and I brace my elbows on the nearest workbench with a sigh and massage my temples.

Dante places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder while Luke and Olga come closer. ‘Are you all right, Iorwen?’

‘I’m better than I was yesterday. I’m just on edge because of that bloody woman.’

‘What bloody woman?’ asks Olga.

‘You know, the lady on the local news who went missing.’

Luke raises his eyebrows. ‘Say what?’

I turn to them with a nonchalant look in my eye. ‘Well, she’s not missing. She’s a pile of dust on my dressing room.’

‘What?’ they say in unison.

'That woman was a vamp—Wait!’ I duck to my hands and knees and spread my palms over the floor between the benches.

‘What are you doing?’ says Luke.

I shush him. ‘The floor. Feel the floor.’

‘Why?’ groans Olga.

‘I could feel it under my feet: the floor by the benches is sturdy and hard, but the middle is smooth as if someone walks up and down it all the time. Let’s have a look at the other end.’

On the far wall, between the benches, is a bookcase filled with rather unremarkable-looking folders. The smoothness of the floor seems to keep going underneath it. I roll my eyes. ‘It’s fake.’ I give it a good tug and it opens like a door. Behind it is a pair of chrome elevator doors with a button on the side.

Of course I press it. How can I not? Once they open, the four of us get in without a second thought. I press the down button, the doors close, and we begin the descent.

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