Vampires Overhead Read Online Free Page A

May sun glinted down to have rays broken, tossed back in glittering beams from shop windows, and heat danced upwards from the sticky road. Little beads of perspiration damped my neck, the stiff collar of my nightmare uniform rubbed irritatingly. Under the heavy clothing, pores in my skin seemed stifled. I itched, and wanted badly to rub my back to and fro upon one of the voluptuous mermaids which, carved in marble on the pillars of the Luxurides’ façade, formed one of its attractions. The world was a great place for a man not doomed to swelter in a padded uniform beside the hot, scented entrance of a super-cinema.
    The palace inside was full. With what kind of people eager to spend a sunny afternoon in sultry darkness with an ‘ALL-TALKING, ALL-DANCING, ALL-SINGING’ picture, I beg its pardon, ‘SUPER-PRODUCTION’, flickering before their dilated eyes, I do not know. People who might have been treading heather on the hills of Addiscombe, or breathing deeply of cool air upon the heights of Hampstead. But they had spent their seven and sixpences to cook there in the dark to music.
    Surreptitiously I ran a finger round beneath my collar, and my neck was getting soft as well as damp. I was getting fat. Ah well! Nothing, I supposed, would ever happen. Soon, maybe in a few years, the manager would notice his commissionaire had a slightly shop-soiled appearance, and a new frame would be procured to support the magnificent uniform in an erect position upon the palatial steps of the Luxurides. An ex-Guardee, or mayhap another from the Royal ’Orse.
    Traffic halted, jerked forward, halted again; crowds swerved close to the building, stared at the photographs, and turned to find themselves ringed in, had to fight their way out to continue their stroll. Careless peoples, sauntering through Saturday afternoon with the certain knowledge of a day free from toil on the morrow!
    And then, down the street, hazily in blue vapour drifting from the over-heated intestines of motors, high on the seat of a brewer’s dray, I saw Bingen.
    A curling whip, gay with scarlet rosette and shimmering with polished brass rings, slanted from his thigh; rakishly, as ever, his cap, with a gleaming metal house-badge, tilted over one reddened, dissipated eye. The sun caught pinky skin on his head under close-cropped black hair. His team of dappled greys, from great hairy fetlocks to primped manes, were groomed, as ever, immaculately. Their harness was as a glittering display of artificial jewellery in a lighted shop-window. Bingen, even more than I, had run to seed, for the leather apron of his craft curved above his knees, and his forearms, bare in rolled shirt-sleeves, were swollen, bloated. Even as I took in these things I was down to the pavement with outstretched arm, holding up once again the long-suffering traffic of Piccadilly. The dray pulled into the curb, Bingen’s hands, supple for all their size, arched his horses’ necks. He stared down at me.
    ‘Strewth! It’s Garrington. Rose from the ranks to be some sort of general. An’ on the gilded staff by the look of him. Don’t let me ’orses see you, they’ll bolt.’ He grinned and reached down an open hand after his whip slammed into its socket. ‘Put it there, Garry. I’m glad to see you. How goes it?’
    ‘And I’m glad to see you, Bingen. Been watching the horse traffic roll down Piccadilly for four years on the lookout for some of the old crush, and you’re the first,’ I cried excitedly, pump-handling his hand. ‘How are you, old timer? Quick. See if we can make a date.’
    Through the inches thick of uniform padding, I could feel the manager’s disapproving eye boring into my back.
    ‘How can we arrange a meeting? Any chance tonight? I get off earlier than usual tonight. What d’you say?’
    ‘What time d’you finish?’ Bingen bent to ask. He thought awhile and continued swiftly. ‘Know the old Red Lion Brewery, over Hungerford Bridge? Stables there. I’ll wait for