Free Stokers Shadow by Paul Butler Page A

of the desperate, the final piece of driftwood at which to lunge before sinking finally into blackness. Now he is prepared to acknowledge his desperation.
    William lifts his gaze from the dingy corner with the waste paper now scraping near the gutter grill. Above, a triangle of bright sunlight turns the grey stone almost gold. The tiny courtyard has no apparent purpose and was built entirely enclosed from any street. Only near midday does sunlight creep upon the upper reaches of its well-like depth. And thelight here intensifies even further now as though released suddenly by the passing of a wispy cloud. William stands. Called by the cumulation of spirits which have gathered lately to haunt him – his father, his own boyhood, the lavish fantasies of youth – he feels himself drawn away from the office, the accounts that await his attention and all other composite parts of the dreary straitjacket of routine he has fashioned for himself. He sets forth to meet the sun.
    M ARY FEELS LIKE a convict escaped into paradise. She has broken the shackles and defied authority – possibly. The rules which govern her are so vague and changing she isn’t even sure whether or not she is allowed to leave on her own impulse. In any case, for the first time since her arrival, no one, except herself, knows where she is and no set tasks and timetables are before her.
    And the strangest thing is she can think of nothing more daring to do with her unexpected freedom than to duck into the library and read some of her favourite new book, Dracula, which she has brought with her in her cloth bag. For a while the scent of leather and wood, and the library sounds – muted footfalls, soft whispers and the creaking of chair and table as the elderly man opposite her strains to read his text – seem both comforting and appropriate. But soon a feeling less savoury pervades her chest. She reads of Lucy’s death and Dr. Van Helsing’s plans to save her soul from the torment of living death. She reads of his sharpened stake and his instructions to all the young heroic men who have formed a brotherhood. And somehow it all seems less satisfying to Mary than the earlierpart of the story when she followed the young man, Jonathan, on his quest into strange and foreign lands.
    The elderly man opposite begins to wheeze and his chest makes crackling noises like a bonfire in the rain. Mary glances up, unsettled, seeing huge saucer eyes magnified through finger-thick lenses. Suddenly, she feels reined in, strangulated by the man’s infirmity. She starts resenting the bleakness of her refuge and the ineffectual modesty of her rebellion. Her own chest begins to feel constrained like one of the vampire’s victims.
    She looks around, wanting to throw off the feeling. Rays of sunlight from the high windows intensify. Mary watches as the bright rays land upon a distant bookshelf. Little spots of gold appear on the faded spines. It is as though the aged gilt lettering is being awoken after a hundred-year sleep. Mary lets a new feeling flood into her. The ground beneath her begins to rumble from an underground train. The floor shakes harder, dust flying off the nearest bookshelf. The old man opposite takes out a handkerchief and wipes his nose.
    She is here in London. What will she decide to do? She makes up a list in her mind: Marble Arch, London Bridge, Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden, St Paul’s. She remembers her arrival – it seems like years ago now although it is still measured in days. She remembers the swooping pigeons and the vast, ornate station. The infinite promise of that moment comes back to her, asking her the simple question: “Why not?”
    Mary returns the book to her cloth bag and looks into her tiny leather purse to double-check the presence of two shillings, a threepence, and two pennies – all she has left fromher journey. She rises from her seat tingling with both pleasure and fear.
    Outside the