“Stupid cow,” mumbled the boy through his own blood as he struggled to get to his feet while clasping onto his jeans to prevent them from falling down. An urge to run became apparent to Amanda, but this was diminished when she looked up to see how the other two boys had reacted. Rather than moving toward her to help their friend or attack, they were backing away. As the little leader finally got to his feet, he put his back to Amanda to rally himself by drawing on the support of his friends. But he soon discovered his former followers were already some distance away, making a line for the lights of a 24-hour garage.
“Tony, Joel, where you going? You dicks!” shouted the boy with a quaver in his voice.
He swivelled to face Amanda to give her one final parting comment on how lucky she was, but the words died before reaching his lips. Instead, while still holding on to his now filthy, torn jeans, he turned a little pale, backed away and then shuffled along after the other two.
It came as no surprise to Amanda to find Milch several feet behind her, just in front of the line of trees. She mumbled some sort of a thank you to him, and thankful she truly was as she knew that had he not been there, she might have done something that would have prevented her from ever returning to the school. Indeed, if the boys had attacked her as one, she might have had no choice but to give in to her hunger to defend herself. He stood at the edge of the forest for a few further moments, his eyes fixed on the retreating boy. Then, without a word to Amanda, he disappeared into the wood.
Finally alone, Amanda inspected the hand she had used to strike down the boy. Though she could find no trace of his blood - after looking up once more to check whether Milch might still be watching - she brushed her tongue across her knuckles, just in case.
***
While running his finger around the rim of the Match of the Day mug that contained his day’s supply of blood, Brenden struggled to concentrate on the one thought that had been constantly returning to him since David had talked of the outside world: should he return to whatever was out there, or go to the Tunnels? Indeed, he had focused on this subject all throughout the day’s lessons, not only wearing himself out in the effort but also missing almost everything that had been taught in his class. He pushed the cup a little further away from himself and, after cautiously looking around to ensure that there was no one else in the dilapidated common room, dipped his finger into the warm liquid within.
He held his blood-stained nail several inches from his eye while wondering who had given the donation so that he could have his meal and what they might be doing that very moment. This prompted a voice at the back of his mind to tell him to stop playing with his food. He knew that the voice was his father’s, an echo from several years before when his parents were still trying to live together. It was always his dad who insisted they all sit at the dining room table in the cold Victorian house they used to live in and, as the man reminded his family prior to each meal, ‘conduct themselves properly at the table.’
Brenden did not obey the echo of his father’s words. Instead, he continued to just stare at the drying blood. His dedication, though, to the question of the Tunnels - one that had been bothering him all day - was swept away as the memory of his father made him consider whether the man had attended his funeral. He had not seen his father in the flesh for at least two years; it had been about that time when the man had moved to practise some sort of maritime law in Singapore. The idea that his death, rather than Christmas or a birthday, might have brought the man back made Brenden’s mood slump even further down into the seemingly endless darkness.
“Do not play with your food Brenden, it’s not becoming of a young man.”
Brenden flinched and ended up smearing a trail of blood across his shirt with his finger. Under his breath, he whispered a couple of apologies and immediately grew anxious about the possible damage that he had done to the shirt that was not his own.
“Oh, don’t worry about that Brenden,” said Ms Halford, who was displeased with herself as she had not meant to startle the boy, “just run it under some cold water and the shirt will soon be right as rain.”
“But the blood!” replied Brenden.
“Just trust me.”
A little apprehensively, Brenden got up and made his way to the sink of the common room’s kitchenette. After removing the half-dozen dirty coffee mugs that were in the basin, he sheepishly removed his purple shirt and ran it under some cold water.
“Oh, it’s going!”
“Of course it is. If it never came out, vampires such as yourself - and particularly ones who can be as clumsy as our deputy – would have to throw out their clothes all the time.”
For the briefest of moments, Ms Halford’s attention was drawn to the still healing attack scar situated near the bottom of the boy’s neck, something which had been hidden by the high collar of the shirt. She resisted the urge to react in any way, except to note - before Brenden covered the bite up once more with his now wet shirt - that the wound consisted of
