‘TWO HUNDRED NOT OUT’

BEEP-BEEP….BEEP-BEEP…..BEEP-BEEP…BEEP-BEEP!…..BEEP-BEEP!! He could hear the noise, but still couldn’t decide what was making it. Gradually his head began to clear, and as consciousness returned….BEEP-BEEP….reached out from under the duvet and switched off his alarm clock.
He lay there, trying to remember what happened last night. All he knew is that he felt dreadful, not your every day dreadful, but mind-numbingly, paralysingly awful, and consumed with self-disgust. Well, he thought, you never get your usual hang-over when you ‘ fall off the wagon.’ He should have remember that by now, as this had happened many times before.
Where did he go last night? Brief glimpses of memory kept taunting him. What was her name? Suddenly he panicked, and slid an inquisitive hand under the duvet, but found only an empty space. He breathed a sigh of relief, he didn’t bring them back anymore, as it only made things more complicated. Where had he left her? He didn’t remember, but that didn’t matter, as he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
He tried to move, and the pounding in his head started, but gradually turned over on his back and threw off the duvet. The late afternoon sunlight was streaming in around the heavy ‘ black-out’ blind, he screwed up his eyes and fumbled on the bedside table for his sunglasses. Then swung his legs out of the bed, and sat patiently on the edge until his head caught up with his body, and the pounding behind his eyes eased. He steadied himself with his right hand, but when it touched a damp patch he looked down and saw blood on his pillow. Slowly he surveyed the room. A trail of his clothes spread diagonally from the door to his bed, he was wearing only a shirt with a sock on his left foot. Removing his shirt, he balled it up to throw into the laundry basket, and found blood on the collar, held it up to his nose, and smelled her perfume and sweat. Emma! That was her name. Then threw it into the basket followed by his lone sock, which missed and fell on the floor next to his black shoes . He’d pick it up later, together with the other clothes when he felt better, he thought.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled to the bathroom. Supporting himself with both hands on the washbasin he stared at his reflection, and was surprised to notice that he actually looked worse than he felt. Which as he felt like death counted as quite an achievement. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked pale and bloodless next to his black hair. He was unshaven, and a large scratch marked his right cheek. He turned and examined the scratches on his back.
Why did he always end up with the wild ones? That probably went back to Cara. Once she’d had her claws into you there was no going back. Briefly he wondered where she was now, but disregarded the thought. There would be no point trying to find her. Why would he want to anyway after what she had done.
Suddenly he felt sick, leaned over and spat a large blood clot into the basin, studied it dispassionately, then turned on the tap and rinsed it away. Looking in the mirror he decided not to shave, as the scratch would be less obvious that way. He’d try the ‘Designer stubble’ look for a change.

Twenty minutes later he had showered, and was sitting in his kitchen wrapped in a thick white dressing gown, still wearing his sunglasses. He had taken two painkillers, drank two pints of water, and was listening to his coffee machine coming to the boil, (Somehow it seemed particularly loud today.) as he tried to read the daily paper that he had just retrieved from the doormat. He was finding it difficult to focus, let alone concentrate on the stories in it, but at least it stopped him feeling sick again.
The headline proclaimed ‘ Two hundred not-out!’. At first he was puzzled, and as he was having difficulty focusing, couldn’t decide, what the ‘two hundred’ referred to... Pounds, weeks, years or even lovers? Perhaps subconsciously he was thinking about himself again. However, as his eyes finally came into focus he realised it was runs, and referred to some cricket match or other. Even though he’d lived here for many years he didn’t understand the game. So he had no interest in the article, and turned the pages looking for something to take his mind off his headache. It didn’t help, he soon gave up and poured himself a coffee.
His mind wandered back to his previous thoughts. His wallet was on the table next to his car keys, and a quick examination of it’s contents revealed what he had suspected. He would need to go to the bank-machine if he wanted to go out tonight. Sipping his coffee he tried to remember more of the previous evening. It kept coming back in tantalising glimpses. It was always like this when he’d relapsed and gone back to his old ways.
Now he felt bloated, as though he had eaten too much, although drank too much was nearer to the truth. At least he was relieved to find that his headache seemed to be easing. In fact he was beginning to feel better than he had for many years, probably since the time he had last weakened. Finally he removed his sunglasses, the pale winter sun had begun to set, and it no longer hurt his eyes.
How many ‘Emmas’ had there been over all the years? Could it be two hundred? Probably more he thought. What would his parents have thought of that? He knew only too well. They had always wanted him to settle down and have a family, but they were long dead, and that was never ever going to happen once he had met Cara. Nothing was ever the same after that.
He supposed that now he would go on as before, hunting for ‘Emmas’. That seemed a strange way to put it, rather like they were prey. Like a lion hunting gazelles, only he was sure the gazelles didn’t want to have the attention of the lions, whereas the ‘Emmas’ certainly did.
Over the years he had learned how to identify the ones who were looking for excitement. In any bar or club he could spot them. They would be on the fringes of a group, looking bored. They didn’t know the others too well, perhaps they were a friend of a friend, at someone else’s birthday party. Or they were sober, and their friends were drunk. Either way they would always be the ones looking round, hoping for an excuse to leave. He would provide that excuse. He would be charming, a good listener and interesting. People were always impressed with the number of languages he could speak. Then gradually he would separate them from the group, rather in the way a lion would divide it’s prey from the others, and then whisk them away.
Briefly he wondered if that was how Cara had seen him all those years ago in Paris, as prey. He had been so naive, and she was so exotic. She had seemed to promise so much, but he got much more than he bargained for. There were probably ‘Emmas’ out there who would say the same of him. No doubt there would be more to come, now that he had broken his vow.

He supposed that he must have an addictive personality. Having been addicted to many things in his life, alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, even sex. Plus a few others he would prefer to keep to himself. The thing that he had found with all of them, was that if you tried to remove them completely from your life then eventually there was a back-lash, usually to excess. Followed by self-loathing, triggered by a sense of weakness for having given in to his desires.
That was how he felt now. He had tried for so long not to go back to his old ways, but he always weakened in the end. In fact considering the situation he was surprised how much better he now felt. His hangover had almost gone, and his eyes no longer hurt. It was as though he had scratched an invisible itch, one that he had been trying to avoid for so long. With this realisation he felt his disgust at his actions begin to ease. Perhaps he should stop feeling guilty and accept himself for what he was. You couldn’t make a lion a vegetarian without repercussions. Why should he fight his instincts, he should just embrace them again.
It was going dark, the sun had dipped down behind the building opposite, at this time of year the days were short. He had set his alarm for mid-afternoon, as when he had left last night he knew he wouldn’t be returning until the early hours. He always felt more comfortable at night, and had now decided to go out again tonight. He finished his mug of coffee, but decided not to eat,as all he had in the fridge was half a prawn sandwich, and he still felt uncomfortably full after last night. He dressed slowly and was surprised when he looked in the bathroom mirror to see how much better he now appeared. The dark circles under his eyes had gone, and he had much more colour in his cheeks. Obviously his new regime agreed with him, even the scratch on his face seemed much less prominent. So much so that he decided to shave after all, and began looking forward to the night ahead.

Within half an hour he had visited the bank-machine, and on the return journey to his flat had bought some cigarettes. As he had weakened with one addiction, and felt rejuvenated as a result. So he reasoned that he might as well take up all the others again, as they couldn’t do him any harm, and may even invigorate him further.
The street lights had just come on, he stepped into a shop doorway to shelter from the wind, and so that he could light his cigarette. He had just taken his first drag, shaken the match out and thrown it on the pavement. Turning his head to check his watch by the light from the shop
window, he caught sight of the window display.
The mannequin was dressed in a Hussar-style jacket rather like that worn by the cavalry at Waterloo, but more recently worn by Jimi Hendrix in the 60’s, and which he always seemed to be wearing in photographs of the time.
He smiled, nothing was ever new, the same old ideas were re-cycled over and over again. In fact he had worn something similar the first time he met Cara. That seemed such along time ago, he had been so young, but now he felt so old and jaded. Books had been written about people like him, he thought. They always romanticised the sex and violence, but failed to appreciate the overwhelming boredom of being a vampire.

THE END.