Startled, he looked up and saw a boy about ten years old standing at an inquisitive distance, head tilted to one side with slats of cloud behind him and a book under his arm. He and Helen had no children of their own, or pets for that matter, but felt all the children and animals in the town were their friends. He remembered talking to the twins next door and asking what they wanted to be when they grew up—clergyman, sailor—and them innocently turning the question back at him, albeit that he was already in his fifties: What do you want to be when you grow up? Good question, for an actor. But this one, this boy, he didn’t recognise at all.
“You’re Doctor Van Helsing.”
The man’s pale blue eyes did not waver from the sea ahead of him.
“So I am.”
The boy threw a quick glance over his shoulder, then took a tentative step nearer. He wore short trousers, had one grey sock held up by elastic and the other at half-mast. Perhaps the other piece of elastic had snapped, or was lost.
“I… I saw what you did,” he stammered eagerly, tripping over his words, but they nevertheless came ten to the dozen, a fountain. “You… you were powerful. He escaped back to his castle and he… he leapt up the stairs four, five, six at a time with his big strides but you were right behind him. You were determined. And you couldn’t find him, then you could. And he was about to go down the trapdoor but he saw you and threw something at you and it just missed and made a really big clang, and then he was on top of you squeezing the life out of your throat and it hurt a really lot…” The boy hastily put his book between his knees and mimed strangulation with fingers round his own neck. “He had you down on the floor by the fireplace and you couldn’t breathe he was so strong and mighty and you went like this—” His eyes flickered and he slumped. “And he was coming right down at you with his pointed teeth and at the last minute you were awake—” The youngster straightened his back. “And you pushed him away and he stood there and you stood there too, rubbing your neck like this. And he was coming towards you and your eyes went like this—” He shot a glance to his left. “And you saw the red curtains and you jumped up and ran across the long, long table and tore them down and the sunlight poured in. And his back bent like this when it hit him and his shoe shrank and went all soggy and there was nothing in it. And he tried to crawl out of the sunlight and you wouldn’t let him. You grabbed two candle sticks from the table and held them like this—” He crossed his forearms, eyes blazing, jaw locked grimly. “You forced him back and his hand crumbled to ashes and became like a skeleton’s, and he covered his face with his hand like this, and all that turned grey and dusty too, and his clothes turned baggy because there was nothing inside them. And everything was saved and the sign of the cross faded on the girl’s hand. And after you, you—vanquished him, you looked out of the coloured window at the sky and put your woolly gloves back on. And the dust blew away on the air.”
Indeed.
The man remembered shooting that scene very well. The old ‘leap and a dash’ from the Errol Flynn days. Saying to dear old Terry Fisher: “Dear boy, I seem to be producing crucifixes from every conceivable pocket throughout this movie. Do you think we could possibly do something different here? I’m beginning to feel like a travelling salesman of crosses.” He’d come up with the idea himself of improvising using two candle sticks. He remembered the props master had produced a duo at first too ornate to work visually, but the second pair were perfect.
“That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I do believe it was,” Peter Cushing said.
He did not look at the boy and did not encourage him further in conversation, but the youngster ventured closer as if approaching an unknown animal which he assumed to be friendly but of which he was nevertheless wary, and sat on the wall beside him squarely facing the sea.
The man was now patting his jacket pockets, outside and in.
“What are you looking for?” The boy was curious. “A cross? Only you don’t need a cross. I’m not a vampire.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. I was looking for a photograph. I usually have some on me… I really don’t know where I’ve put them…”
“A what?”
“A photograph. A signed one.” No response. “Of yours truly.” Still no response, puzzlingly. “Isn’t that what you’d like?”
“No,” the boy said, sounding supremely affronted, as if he was dealing with an idiot.
“Oh…”
“I want to ask you something much more important than that. Much more important.”
“Oh. I see.”
Cushing looked around in a vain attempt to spot any parents from whom this child might have strayed, but there were no obvious candidates in evidence. If the boy had got lost, he thought, then it might be best for him to keep him quietly here at his side until they found him, rather than let him wander off again on his own. He really didn’t want this responsibility, and he certainly didn’t want company of any sort, but it seemed he didn’t have any choice in the matter.
“I said I’m not a vampire.” The boy interrupted his thoughts. “But I know somebody who is. And if they get their own way I’ll become one too, sooner or later. Because that’s what they do. That’s how they create other vampires.” The child turned his head sharply and looked the man straight in the eyes. “You said so.”
Quite right: he had done. It wasn’t hard to recall rewriting on set countless scenes of turgid exposition on vampire lore so that they didn’t sound quite so preposterous when the words came out of his mouth.
“Who is this person?” Cushing played along. “I probably need to take care of him, then.”
“He’s dangerous. But you don’t mind danger. You’re heroic.”
Cushing twitched an amused shrug. “I do my best.”
“Well it has to be your best,” the boy said with the most serious sense of conviction. “Or he’ll kill you. I mean that.”
“Then I’ll be as careful as possible. Absolutely.”
“Because if he finds out, he’ll hurt you, and he’ll hurt me.” The words were coming in a rapid flow again. “And he’ll hurt lots of other people as well, probably. Loads of them.” The boy drew up his legs, wrapped his arms round them tightly and tucked his knees under his chin. His eyes fixed on the horizon without blinking.
“Good gracious,” Cushing said. “You mustn’t take these type of pictures too much to heart, young man.”
“Pictures? What’s pictures got to do with it?” The abruptness was nothing short of accusatory. “I’m talking about here and now and you’re the vampire hunter and you need to help me.” The boy realised his harsh tone of voice might be unproductive, so quickly added, sheepishly: “Please.” Then, more bluntly, with an intense frown: “It’s your job.”
It’s your job—Vampire Hunter.
You’re heroic.
You’re powerful.
Cushing swallowed, his mouth unaccountably dry.
“Where’s your mother and father?”
“It doesn’t matter about them. It matters about him!”
The boy stood up—and for a second Cushing thought he would sprint off, but no: instead he walked to a signpost of the car park and picked at the flaking paint with his fingernail, his back turned and his head lowered, as he spoke.
“My mum’s boyfriend. He visits me at night time. Every night now. He takes my blood while I’m asleep. I know what he’s doing. He thinks I’m asleep but I’m not asleep. It feels like a dream and I try to pretend it isn’t happening, but afterwards I feel bad, like I’m dead inside. He makes me feel like that. I know it. I can’t move. I’m heavy and I’ve got no life and I don’t want to have life anymore.” He rubbed his nose. His nose was running. Bells tinkled on masts out of view. “That’s what it feels like, every time. And it keeps happening, and if it keeps happening I know what’ll happen, I’m going to die and be buried and then I’ll rise up out of my coffin and be like him, forever and ever.”