Chapter 10: The Morning After - The Night Market

Sunlight struck like a slap to the face.

Pepper groaned, face buried into the pillow. Her limbs felt heavy, not from sleep but from something denser – grief, maybe. Or guilt. The duvet had slipped off her during the night, half pooling on the floor, the sheets tangled around her legs. One bare thigh caught the fading sunset bleeding through the coated glass – a necessary fixture in a building where tenants could combust under direct sun.

It hurt to look at.

The headache, like a nail being driven into her skull, made sure of that. She groaned a broken profanity and gripped her forehead in the hope the pounding would relent.

The room looked exactly like how she felt. One drawer was half-yanked-out, a blouse half hanging from it like it had tried to escape. Her green felt coat was slumped over the back of a chair, one sleeve dragging on the floor. An empty glass by the bed joined a still-open bottle of gin. Her laptop was still awake on the desk, accompanied with reams of paperwork in binders that were dangerously close to falling onto the floor. Half of the contents of her bag had spilled out after being accidentally kicked.

Pepper lazily blinked, straining to focus on the sounds of movement outside.

She managed to sit up slowly, hair wild and shadowing one eye, threw on a worn dressing gown and tied it with a loose knot before padding out of the room. The walls provided support as best they could. Her bare feet made soft sounds on the floorboards as she closed the door behind her and wandered toward the open-plan kitchen at the end of the hallway.

The smell hit first.

Bacon. Salt, smoke and sizzling fat. It clawed at her stomach despite the rock of nausea sitting in it.

Laik stood by the stove, sleeves rolled, pan angled just so as he flipped the rashers with practised ease. His back was turned, but he looked over his shoulder when she entered, and they shared a glance across the half-lit room. Neither spoke.

Pepper dropped into the nearest chair at the breakfast table and let her spine melt against it. She stared blankly at the far wall, only half present, before letting out a staggered groan.

Without a word, Laik walked over and set a drink in front of her.

She blinked at it. The glass was tall, its contents a dense red, with a length of celery protruding. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘What’s this?’

‘Virgin Mary,’ he said, placing his own glass beside her. A darker shade – thicker, richer.

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Don’t worry. It’s just tomato juice,’ he added. ‘At least yours is. It’ll help.’

She eyed his glass that still sported an unmixed cloud of blood slowly dissipating. She glanced back to hers, hesitated, then took a long drink. It hit the back of her throat like a bad decision.

She coughed, winced, then gave her thanks.

He gave a small shrug and returned to his plate. Eggs joined the bacon, and he dusted them with cracked pepper from a wooden grinder.

Pepper stayed silent, hands curled around the cold glass, the scent of the food making her stomach lurch and growl in confusing unison. She played with the locket between thumb and forefinger, its weight familiar, its presence constant. It sat heavy against her chest like a clock ticking louder every day, chiming Claire’s name every hour. And now, more than ever, it felt like she could hear it.

Laik didn’t speak. He just ate, methodical. The only sounds were the click of cutlery, the low hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock and the quiet ache of everything that hadn’t been said.

Pepper glanced up, letting her eyes lazily focus on the scratches along Laik’s knuckles, raw and angry and needing rest to heal. Rest which, knowing him, wouldn’t be forthcoming.

‘Tough night?’ she asked, the words almost accusatory.

Laik didn’t look up from his breakfast. ‘Somewhat. Had to talk to some people who’d been doing very bad things,’ he said, pushing a piece of bacon into his mouth. ‘But I think you’d rather not know the details.’

His voice was cool, detached, like it was all part of a routine. Pepper didn’t argue. He was right about her not having the stomach for elaboration. An Enforcer’s role was varied and violent.

Laik subtly glanced her way. ‘What about you?’

She stirred the drink with a lazy wrist. ‘Tired,’ she replied. ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fair enough.’ He didn’t push it any further.

By the time Laik had finished, Pepper was halfway through her drink, struggling with every sip.

He leaned back in his chair, setting his cutlery down with deliberate care. ‘You have to talk to me at some point, you know.’

She glanced at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Why would that be?’

‘Because,’ he said, rising, ‘we’re doing the thing today.’

‘What thing?’

‘Your thing. You said you needed to get some things from your flat.’

Pepper made a long, miserable groan and slumped back in her chair. ‘I forgot that’s today. Can we not?’

‘As much as I’d prefer to do literally anything else,’ Laik said, sliding the plate into the dishwasher, ‘you went on enough to convince me. And I moved things around to accommodate that. It’ll be pretty rude to pull out now.’

‘Ffffiiiinneee.’ She rubbed at the throbbing that had repositioned itself behind her eyes.

‘Then get yourself dressed.’ He strode away to his room, calling out, ‘You’ve got half an hour until we go.’

Evening rain freckled the windscreen, each drop distorting the orange lights bleeding through the mist. Laik’s Subaru Impreza hummed low as it idled at the lights, the wipers working a steady rhythm. The radio buzzed faintly – an old rock station with too much static.

Pepper leaned against the window, watching the streetlights smear by in streaks of amber and blue as they pulled off. She noticed the beat of the radio made him tap his fingers on the wheel.

‘You like music?’ she asked, breaking the quiet.

Laik didn’t glance over. ‘Who doesn’t?’

‘No, I mean . . . I just never thought about it. You’ve been around a fair while,’ she pressed.

‘That’s right,’ he said. His tone was dry, noncommittal.

‘A while being . . .?’ she prompted.

‘I’m not telling you that.’

Pepper looked away. ‘Fine. Then what kind of music do you like? Got a favourite band? A song?’

He shifted his head slightly, eyes still on the road. ‘Dunno about favourite. It’d be Seventies, maybe early Eighties. Music had . . . more teeth then. Real edge to it.’

‘Oh God, don’t say that like you were at Woodstock.’

‘I wasn’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Did Isle of Wight Festival, though.’

Pepper turned to stare at him, half laughing. ‘Really? Did you fight the establishment or were you the establishment?’

Laik sniffed, pulling around a corner. ‘Nobody called it the establishment. And it depended on the day. Had to make money somehow.’

‘I hear that,’ she said, nodding toward the next turn. ‘Left up here.’

The car rolled through the narrow streets, headlights cutting through puddles and neon signage of takeaways. Graffiti sprawled across shuttered shopfronts, and the road dipped into a quieter, grimier stretch of the city.

The Impreza came to a stop beside a corner shop with a dying sign that buzzed in the drizzle. A flickering red light cast the doorway in a soft pulse.

Laik fought the urge to make a comment as he killed the engine. A good thing too, as Pepper was expecting something and was prepared to give him a mouthful. Pepper pulled her coat tighter as she closed the door behind her. Laik looked up and down the street and double checked to make sure the car was locked.

They crossed to the side of the shop, where a narrow metal staircase wound upward between two stained brick walls. The steps clanked underfoot. At the top, she shoved a key into the stiff lock and pushed. The door caught on something – mail, mostly. She shoved it open and flicked through the envelopes. They joined a discarded pile on a simple chair.

Laik stepped inside behind her, taking in the room without comment. The curtains were still drawn, the air heavy with the smell of stale coffee and something oddly musty. Clothes were draped over the back of a sofa, dishes still in the sink, half a dozen mugs colonising the counter.

Pepper flicked on the light. The bulb flooded the room in a thin yellow haze. He wished she didn’t, as everything that previously sat in shadow looked so much worse in the light.

‘This explains my bathroom,’ Laik said, stepping inside.

She turned sharply, already on edge. ‘Don’t.’

‘It wasn’t easy, you know?’ she went on, voice tightening, arranging piles of things. ‘Trying to keep a job and look after my sister at the same time. Some of us have to pay our way. We weren’t all handed a fucking penthouse.’ She exhaled hard through her nose, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Laik didn’t rise to it. He moved slowly through the lounge, eyes scanning the evidence of her past life – a dressing gown thrown over a chair, a mug by the window, a cracked photo frame leaning against the wall. A clock ticked, obnoxiously loud. The fridge rattled for a few moments before quieting itself. His fingers brushed lightly over an erratically filled bookshelf before he stopped at the photo of Pepper and Claire. The two sisters were smiling, arms looped around each other, their faces younger, unguarded.

‘How is she now?’ he asked quietly.

Pepper didn’t look up. She gathered a pile of clothes from the sofa and stuffed them into a black bin bag with more force than necessary. ‘None of your concern.’

He set the photo back down with care. ‘Suit yourself.’

He kept walking, inspecting the space as if it were a puzzle he was bored enough to solve. She went to the side door and pushed it open with her shoulder, half turning toward him.

‘Oh no,’ Laik said, deadpan. ‘You’re not inviting me into your bedroom. People will talk.’

Pepper glared. ‘Where do you get off?’

‘Clearly not in there,’ he said, eyes flicking past her at the unmade bed. ‘Judging by the mess, I’ve no idea what I’d catch.’

She let out a short, incredulous laugh, half amusement, half disbelief. ‘Asshole.’

He shrugged, moving into the kitchen, where boxes and condiments had been left on the counter and a pot plant was in its death throes. The table pushed against the wall originally meant for dining. Not anymore.

It looked like a conspiracy theorist’s workspace: dog-eared books with titles like Vampires Through the Ages and Ancient Magik stacked beside a kettle; a cluster of Blu-ray cases with brooding actors joined with equally brooding actresses leaned precariously like a game of Jenga. On the wall, emails and screenshots had been pinned over a crude city map scrawled with circles and lines in red pen. The most prominent being over a disused factory.

He frowned at the chaos. ‘What’s all this?’

From the bedroom came the squeak of a drawer, the thud of something being shifted.

‘What’s all what?’ Pepper called back.

‘This stuff in here. The, uh’ – he gestured vaguely, even though she couldn’t see him – ‘little occult museum you’ve got going on?’

Nothing.

He leaned closer to one printout, squinting at the underlined name. ‘Who’s SilkVeins?’

There was a pause from the other room, then Pepper appeared in the doorway, carrying a bag of paperwork and something wrapped in fabric. She hesitated before answering, just long enough to betray that she’d hoped he wouldn’t ask.

‘Someone who pointed me toward the Night Market,’ she said finally. ‘And the Rose. There’s a lot of murky sites on the internet that talk about vampires, most of them are crap. Thankfully she knew what she was on about.’

‘Sounds shady,’ Laik replied, eyes flicking back to the map.

‘Yeah, well, it got the job done. I’m not gonna worry about it. I’m where I need to be.’

He picked up one of the books, letting the pages fall open to a woodcut depiction of something evil in Welsh folklore. ‘Lot of reading here too. Didn’t see you as the type. Thought you were more of a Netflix kind of girl.’

Pepper crossed her arms. ‘I was obsessed with saving my sister. It’s not every day you find out vampires are real, so I figured I should know everything about them. About you. Increase my chances, you know?’

Laik gave a low hum. ‘Suppose that makes sense.’ He set the book down and reached for the pile of movies. ‘And that’s what these are too?’

He held one up between his fingers – The Lost Boys.

Pepper gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘Yeah. It’s a classic. Considering how many films there’s been, I figured there was some truth to be found in them.’

‘I highly doubt that,’ he mused, placing it back down.

‘You’re not a movie fan, I take it?’

‘Not really my thing. You?’

‘Loved them,’ Pepper chimed, before reining herself in. ‘It was escapism for me. Would curl up with my nana and Claire and watch anything that late-night TV had on. When we were moving about, they sort of became a comfort.’

‘I tended to read more, if anything. Saw some greats like Seven Samurai. M for Murder. Oh, Few Dollars More. That was good. Nothing’s ever interested me.’

‘They’re ancient. Did you just hibernate in a coffin and miss every good film ever made?’

‘Funny. I saw that dinosaur one, Jurassic Park? It was alright. Just didn’t care to watch much else after that.’

‘Serious? What about, like, vampire movies? You’ve gotta—’

‘Nope. Not even them. I know a bit from other people. Christopher Lee, is it? He’s supposed to be good. Someone I know swore he was their grandfather and was one of us, but I don’t buy it.’

Her eyes widened in mock horror. ‘You don’t watch vampire movies?’

‘Why would I?’

Pepper reached for the pile and presented a case with a coffee ring. A pale face stared out, sporting some strange expression that resembled a constipated smile.

‘Not even Interview with the Vampire?’

Laik twisted his face. ‘Why the hell would I? Would you watch a movie called Interview with the Human? What’s he doing, anyway? Trying to get a job?’

‘Oh my . . . oh my God! You are that guy, that Brad Pitt guy in it. The mopey one.’ She threw her hands up in astonishment, then marched around the room, scanning it for something. Finally, she wrenched free the TV remote from between the sofa cushions. ‘It’s just sad, is what it is. That ends now. You. Sit. We’re watching some.’

The television noisily flickered to life.

‘Pepper, I’ve got no interest—’ But his objections were cut off as she retrieved large bags of crisps from a kitchen cupboard.

‘Ab-bab-bab. Hush. This is happening,’ she said, passing by and ripping the bags open in turn. She shoved an off-brand packet of Doritos into his arms, then retrieved the movies and dropped the pile next to the television. ‘You’re going to watch a couple. You said it yourself; you have nothing else to do today, so you get to do this with me. Gary Oldman’s Dracula first. And no, you don’t get a vote. You get to shut up and watch. And eat.’

Pepper fell back on the sofa and patted beside her, making it clear that refusal was not an option.

Laik begrudgingly took his place.

Two films in, they were slouched so deep into the cushions that it felt like the sofa was in the process of eating them. The snacks had extended to grabbing a bottle of wine from the shop downstairs. The alcohol’s effects became obvious when the pair burst into uncontrollable bouts of laughter while Laik attempted to protest From Dusk till Dawn’s inaccuracies (‘why do the vampires explode like there’s bombs in them?’, ‘why does that guy have a dick gun?’, ‘Holy water doesn’t set us on fire. It’s water!’, ‘Jesus, this movie is basically racist to us.’). Glasses were refilled. A bag of popcorn had somehow appeared. And as Pepper fired up the first series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Laik smiled despite himself.

But, of course, he couldn’t let her see it.