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He walked swiftly down the corridor; I followed closely.
“This place is so old it’s embarrassing,” muttered Frampton, leading me down a second corridor off the first. “Who did you say you were looking for?”
“An officer named Stoker.”
“What does he do?”
“He looks for vampires.”
“Really? Last infestation we had was in ’78. Student by the name of Parkes. Went backpacking in the Forest of Dean and came back a changed man.”
“Backpacking in the Forest of Dean?” I repeated incredulously, “Whatever possessed him to do that?”
The janitor laughed. “Good choice of words. Symonds Yat wasn’t as secure then as it is now; we’ve taken precautions too. The whole college was consecrated as a church.”
He flashed his torch at a large crucifix on the wall.
“We won’t have that sort of problem here again. This is it, lecture room four.”
He pushed open the door and we entered the large room. Frampton’s torch flicked across the oak-paneled walls but a quick search revealed nothing of Spike.
“Are you sure he said number four?”
“Certain,” I replied. “He—”
There was a sound of breaking glass and a muffled curse a small way distant.
“What was that?”
“Probably rats,” said Frampton.
“And the swearing?”
“Uncultured rats. Come, let’s—”
But I had moved off to a doorway beyond the lecture room, taking Frampton’s torch with me. I pushed the door open wide and an appalling stench of formaldehyde greeted me. The room was an anatomy lab, dark except for the moonlight coming in through the window. Against the wall were rack upon rack of pickled specimens: mostly animal parts, but a few human parts too, things for the boys to frighten the girls with during sixth-form biology lessons. There was the sound of a jar smashing, and I flicked the torch across to the other side of the room. My heart froze. Spike, his self-control having apparently abandoned him, had just thrown a specimen jar to the floor and was now scrabbling in the mess. Around his feet were the smashed remnants of many jars; it had obviously been quite a feast.
“What are you doing?” I asked, the revulsion rising in my throat.
Spike turned to me, his eyes gaping, his mouth cut from the glass, a look of horror and fear in his eyes.
“I was hungry!” he howled. “And I couldn’t find any mice!—”
He closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his thoughts with a Herculean effort, then stammered:
“My medication!—”
I forced down a foul gagging sensation and opened the medical kit to reveal a retractable penlike syringe. I unclipped the pen and moved toward Spike, who had collapsed in a heap and was sobbing silently. There was a hand on my shoulder, and I whirled round. It was Frampton, and he had an unpleasant smile on his lips.
“Let him carry on. He’s happier this way, believe me.”
I pushed his hand off my shoulder and for an instant my flesh touched his. It was icy cold and I felt a shiver run through me. I backed away hastily and tripped over a stool, falling heavily and dropping Spike’s injector. I drew my gun and pointed it at Frampton, who seemed to be gliding toward me without walking. I didn’t shout a warning; I just pulled the trigger and a bright flash illuminated the lab. Frampton was catapulted across the floor toward the blackboard and fell in a heap. I scrabbled around for the injector, found it and ran toward Spike, who had picked up a particularly large jar with a very recognizable and unspeakably unpleasant specimen in it. I flashed the torch into his frightened eyes and he mumbled:
“Help me!”
I pulled the cap off the injector and jabbed it in his leg, giving him two clicks. I took the jar from him and he sat down looking confused.
“Spike? Say something.”
