Raindrops danced on the windows of the Grey Palace; a stillness enveloped the majestic edifice, broken only by a loud thud, like the sound of a wet towel being slammed violently onto the floor. Alistair Grey stood over the body of his third victim, panting heavily, his mouth full of blood; he resembled a predatory tiger, a tiger that had just finished with its prey. He stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then shouted, calling out to his elderly servant:

‘Joseph! Come and get rid of him.’

He called out loudly, devoid of any emotion, and the servant Joseph came over. He stood before the body with a suspicious calm, a calm that would make anyone who saw him doubt the old man’s humanity. He was carrying large black bin bags and cleaning equipment: a brush, a bucket of water and bleach. He moved about with his brush and cleaning supplies in a mechanical, detached manner, as if he were wiping up spilled coffee rather than a human corpse. He was neither shocked by the sight of the body nor did he show any emotion; All he did was place it in a bag and carry it away, then clean up the bloodstains, dragging the body through the palace corridors until he reached the door leading to the garden, which he opened. Once he was sure the rain had stopped, he left the palace, heading for the garden, dragging the body wearily behind him. His age did not help him in this task, but did he have a choice?

Alistair watched his servant’s back as he left, and said to himself, licking the blood from his lips:

‘That fool used to smoke! He tastes terribly sour!’

Alistair sat bored, contemplating the details and ornamentation of his ancestors’ palace. He looked at the portrait of his parents with the same expression: no anger, no joy, no sadness – just staring. Alistair sat on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He began to wonder: who would be his meal for the coming week?

“I’d better look for someone clean; I don’t want to taste sour blood again.”

Half an hour later, Joseph returned from the garden.

“Right, why were you so late?”

“Digging in the mud was hard work, sir.”

“All right, never mind. Go and change your clothes, then bring me some tea.”

The elderly servant nodded in agreement and headed towards the servants’ quarters, leaving his master alone in the drawing room to ponder how he might choose a suitable victim. He didn’t want anything substandard and preferred a specific blood type; he was a fussy man, unlike the rest of his family. Joseph returned a quarter of an hour later with a teapot and a jug of milk. He placed them on the coffee table without disturbing his master and began to pour the tea quietly. Alistair folded his arms and said:

"I need to choose someone who’s clean."

Joseph looked up at him in surprise; he’d only just finished with his third victim. Why did he want more?

"I’m sorry, sir, but haven’t you only just finished with…?"

He cut him off, saying:

“I know, I know, but I can’t guarantee there’ll be anyone with O-negative blood. As you know, it’s a rare blood type amongst humans.”

Joseph sighed helplessly, then added:

“I understand that, sir… but what I mean is, aren’t you worried about the police? They might link people’s disappearances to your hotel chain, or perhaps rumours will spread that could cause you financial losses.”

“Rumours? Like what?”

Joseph said, as if savouring his words:

“Like that Alistair Grey is a mad serial killer. No one will believe you’re a vampire, and even if they did, they wouldn’t spare you.”

Alistair leaned back on the sofa, touching his fingertips together, holding his palms apart as if cradling an invisible ball of thoughts, then replied calmly:

“You have a point… but Joseph, I need blood, just as a child needs its mother, but it seems I must be more careful, don’t I?”

An eerie silence fell between them; on the one hand, Alistair wanted to carry on, whilst on the other, Joseph wanted to stop. Alistair continued, breaking the silence:

“I know you’re afraid, Joseph, and who can blame you? If I were in your shoes, I’d kill myself rather than get involved with a family of vampires… But because you’re so loyal to the family, I’ll take you at your word.”

“Will you stop killing humans?”

“Yes, but I won’t stop drinking blood.”

“Will you buy blood on the black market? Or get it from donors?”

“Great idea, Joseph, but unfortunately there won’t be any tasty blood.”

“Eh? Why?”

Alistair replied wearily:

“Joseph, you do realise that blood banks add chemicals to prevent clotting? You also know that I detest blood containing nicotine, alcohol or chemical dyes.”

Joseph wiped his forehead when he noticed his master’s tone had turned serious and angry.

“No, Joseph, I must find the perfect human myself, but you can help me, can’t you?”

“Uh… yes.”

“Good.” 

Alistair picked up his cup of tea and began to drink from it, then continued:

“So search the donor records for what you’ve asked for… That won’t be too difficult for you, will it?”

Joseph sighed helplessly and said:

“It won’t be difficult, sir.”

                 28 October 2010

On Thursday evening, Joseph stood before his master and said:

“Sir, I’ve arranged a meeting for you with your old friend Dr Wilson, as you requested. He’s waiting for you downstairs with the list you asked for.”

Alister smiled in a suspicious way—a smile that conveyed neither joy nor merriment, but rather a smouldering malice.

“Show him in.”

He said it in a firm, unquestionable tone. John Wilson entered the mansion and sat down on the sofa opposite Alister, calmly and respectfully.

“Mr Wilson, it’s lovely to see you. Tell me, how have you been these days?”

John replied calmly:

“I’m fine, thank you for asking… but may I ask why you asked me to bring the names of donors? Is your sister ill?”

Alistair gave a short, humourless laugh.

“My sister? Don’t worry about her; she’s in Paris at the moment, but I need a blood donor for a specific matter.”

“May I ask what that matter is?”

The smile faded from Alistair’s face and his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t think of any excuse to justify his request, but after a few moments he rested his arm on the armrest of the sofa and said:

“You know I’m 31, don’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right… but what does that have to do with blood?”

“Please, Mr Wilson, please don’t laugh when I tell you I’m looking for a woman whose personality type is linked to her blood group.”

John laughed politely and said:

“The great Alistair Grey, believing in such superstitions? Please.”

“People sometimes believe things that defy reason. Has anyone been harmed? No. Try to be supportive, John… we were friends, after all.”

When John Wilson heard his first name spoken so simply, he felt that the formal barriers between them had crumbled, so he said:

“That’s true, and forgive me if I seem a little forward.”

John took out a list of names—blood donors with O-negative blood type. He also took out a pen and began crossing off the names of men and married women, then handed the list to Alistair.

“Here you are. And when you’ve agreed on a wedding date, don’t forget to invite me.”

Alistair looked at the list, which had now been whittled down to just three girls.

“Of course I won’t forget. You’ve done me a favour I’ll never forget.”

        29 October 2010

Alistair Grey stepped out of his black car in front of University College London, muttering to himself:

“One’s a smoker, and another found out she was pregnant a few days ago, so that leaves me with only the student Juliet Sinclair… I hope she’s the right one.”

Alistair made his way to the office of the Vice-Chancellor, Professor Hawthorne, and greeted him with a friendly smile:

“Good morning, Professor… I’m Alistair Grey; I believe you know me.”

Hawthorne smiled and held out his hand to shake Mr Grey’s.

“Good morning, Mr Grey. How could I not know you? Tell me, how can I help you?”

“Oh, thank you, Professor, for your concern, but I am here today to offer my support to young minds; they are the ones who will lead the country towards prosperity. What use is my money if it is not spent for the good of the nation?”

Hawthorne felt a strange sensation, somewhere between awe and pride. He smiled, placed his hand on his chest, and said:

“Mr Gray, the presence of people like you in society is the reason for our survival. You are truly a good man.”

Alistair felt a sense of pride; he had won the vice-chancellor’s trust with a speed no one had anticipated. Alistair wrote a cheque for one million pounds and simply handed it to the professor. 

“I hope this modest sum will suffice.”

Hawthorne smiled kindly as he adjusted his tie.

“Ha ha ha, Mr Grey, it’s more than enough. This sum will help support the students’ laboratories… or would you prefer to allocate it to a specific department?”

Alistair waved his hand in refusal, then replied:

“No, the money isn’t for a specific department; it’s intended to meet the students’ needs, whether that be libraries, laboratories, or even recreational activities.”

“I see. Thank you very much for your support.”

“Hello, Professor… May I make a request?”

“A request? Of course.”

“There’s a student called Juliet Sinclair… she’s studying here. Do you know which department she’s in?”

The professor was taken aback by Alistair’s question, but replied simply:

“She’s in the Faculty of Arts… the Department of English Literature. May I ask why you’re looking for her?”

“It’s nothing important; I just bumped into her by chance and would like to get in touch with her. I know nothing about her apart from her name and the university she attends.”

“Oh, I see. Let me show you where she is… or I could call her over for you.”

“Just show me her department.”

Professor Hawthorne went out to accompany Alistair in his search for Juliet, until he stopped in front of a group of girls and pointed to her.

“There’s Miss Sinclair.”

Alistair looked at her for a moment, stroking the tip of his chin with his fingers, then said calmly:

“She’s a goth.”

“Ah yes, a goth. Young people these days are a bit strange, aren’t they?”

Alistair glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and replied:

“Yes… but she’s special. She’s very much like a red peony amidst a field of delicate jasmine blossoms.”

“A very poetic description, Mr Grey. Well, go and speak to her if you like… wasn’t that why you were looking for her?”

“Huh? Ah, of course.”

Alistair made his way over to the girl. She was wearing a long black dress and was sitting alone, reading one of Shakespeare’s plays. Her sacred tranquillity was broken by the sound of Alistair’s approaching footsteps:

“‘ “All the perfumes of Arabia cannot cleanse this little hand of the blood of the slain’?… I’ve always thought Shakespeare was exaggerating; modern cleaning products can erase any trace of a crime if used properly.”

Juliette looked at him in surprise and said:

“Pardon? Who are you?”

He smiled at her—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—and continued:

“Forgive my impertinence, Miss Sinclair. I am Alistair Grey.”

He held out his hand to shake hers.

“A businessman. Pleased to meet you.”

To be continued...