Chapter Text
It so often happens that you get one of those passing fancies to write something down, but as you get the pen in your hand and are faced with a sheet of paper, all the thoughts and ideas you had suddenly come to naught. And such has proved to be the case for Bertram Wooster. It’s been well over an hour since I sat down. But I suppose I should explain what brought this on to begin with.
A few days ago I saw a bally interesting motion-picture movie about this vampire chappie telling his life story and it struck a chord with me. Make no mistake, the way I’ve spent the past century hasn’t been as exciting or as glamorous, but that sort of thing seems to be the norm for the genre. I can’t say I’m well-versed in the works about my, for the lack of a better word, kind. Take Dracula, for instance, I never got around to reading the dashed thing in the past ninety-something years despite having the book.
At this point you may be wondering how I ended up as the sort of blood-thirsty undead creature one normally scares children with. And well, the answer is quite far from being as appealing as being turned into a vampire by some good-looking chap. One fateful day I got an urgent telegram from my aunt Agatha, came down to assist in any way, as a Wooster does, and poof! Suddenly you have to be dead cautious — no pun intended — amongst garden stakes. Who was it that said that relations have no instinct of when to die? Dashed if I know, but it has proved to be eerily on point. As if being called a blithering idiot all my life wasn’t enough, now I had to be indebted to her in my afterlife too. But sulking aside, one does what one can do. Which, a lot of the time, seems to be not much.
And it was while I was choosing what to do with said time, that I ended up going to a library. I haven’t been to one in about two decades and decided that having the duty to return a book would give me the necessary stimulus to finish it. I might as well confess now, as you’ll find out soon enough — I was looking for the book that the movie is based on. I know, as far as adaptations go you’re supposed to experience them in the reverse order, but I was dashed curious, is all. So, that gets you up to speed with me entering the library, bursting with joy at being able to find one in New York that neither closes at four in the afternoon, nor needs an elaborate occult ritual for them to open to begin with.
I have yet to figure out how much I’m supposed to be describing the environments, but overall it was a quaint little place. Quite a few bookshelves. Not so many people. Well, to be specific, just the one: the librarian. A quiet-looking fellow, thoroughly engrossed in a book, amusement playing on his finely chiselled features. He was wearing a sweater over a collared shirt, which made me start chasing away certain urges. Ah, I never mentioned that rummy part, did I? I do have to drink blood to sustain myself, rather inconvenient when one doesn’t have a familiar to do the dirty work. I had one until recently, named Brinkley, but I fear the years took a toll on him; the last time I saw him, which was a week ago, he was chasing me about with stakes and a single clove of garlic. Well, one has to put the foot down on matters such as these. Quite literally, old Brinkley is very much dead.
While I was standing there deep in thought, the chap must have noticed me staring, because he raised his eyes from the book and put it away for the moment.
‘Sorry. Good evening, can I help you?’
‘What-ho!’ I said, giddy to hear a familiar accent. ‘I was hoping to borrow the whatsit novel… About vampires. By that one female writer, dash it, something to do with grain.’
‘Anne Rice?’ he asked, trying to keep a straight face.
‘That’s it!’
‘Let me see.’
And there he was, typing away on the computer. I never learned how to use the bally thing, and Brinkley wasn’t of much help either. Aunt Agatha has been trying to get me to use one of those tiny smart phones for a few years now but I say, even seeing her once or twice per year is too much, in my opinion. The thought of receiving instant messages from her and having it immediately known whether I read them or not fills me with a sense of dread, as it would anyone in my position.
‘Ah, we do have it,’ the librarian said, as he got up.
With him leading me like a mother duck leads her ducklings, we ended up in front of the desired bookshelf in no time at all. The fellow picked out a book with a snazzy gothic-looking cover and we headed back.
‘Do you have a library card?’
‘Oh, yes!’ I said, getting it out.
The librarian examined said card, brows knitted.
‘Are you sure this is yours?’ he asked. ‘It expired in 1974.’
Alright, it may have been more than just two decades.
‘O-oh. Must have been someone else’s, then.’
‘No problem, you just need to fill in this application,’ he said, sliding a sheet of paper to me. ‘And we’ll have the card ready for you tomorrow.’
The next ten minutes were spent writing down and cross-checking all the information on the fake ID I use for things like these. One can’t just hypnotise people willy-nilly. There’s that and my lack of skills in said department. Aunt Agatha once said that it’s the discrepancy between the intelligence of the average individual and myself at fault, she meant it to sting and it jolly well did.
‘There you go,’ I said and handed the paper back to him.
The librarian gave a polite smile and started typing again.
‘That’s a lovely name,’ he said, checking the application form.
‘What is?’
‘Bertram.’
‘Ah! Well,’ I trailed off. Surely, he’s just doing some sort of small talk, but I’m not one to pass up a compliment or two.
‘Same name as the one on the older card,’ he noted.
No doubt gaping for a moment or two, I had to promptly think of a reasonable explanation.
‘Right, that’s, uh… That was my father’s! Right!’
‘I see,’ he said, giving me an odd look. ‘Sorry, I thought it was a bit unusual, is all.’
My eyes darted to his name tag and I scoffed.
‘You’re one to talk, Reginald.’
‘Touché.’
He resumed typing, occasionally throwing glances at me. I must say, it made me feel quite uneasy; the chap was clearly suspicious of me. Now I’m not a violent person — aside from when I haven’t had my breakfast — but if this persisted I’d have to do something, you know. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d feel even less happy in a scenario where I awaken to find an angry mob burning down my house.
‘Are you into cosplay, by any chance?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Cos-what?’
‘Costume play,’ the librarian answered, but seeing as the words elicited no recognition from the old bean, he continued. ‘Dressing up as fictional characters, including vampires.’
‘Ah, rather!’ I exclaimed, suddenly conscious of having fangs. ‘Why, I love it!’
He smiled once more and ceased typing before putting the paper away. But something seems to have happened in the process — I had to do a double or triple take — and I sensed a familiar iron-y sort of smell.
‘I say, d-did you nick your finger on something by any chance?’ I asked and looked away, trying to find anything to distract myself.
‘Hm? I don't think so,’ he said. ‘Oh, Great Scott, you’re right.’
I attempted to give something of an affirmative ‘Well, there you go’ type of grunt, but, as my luck goes, it came out as a whimper.
‘Sorry, I’m rather scared of blood. What was it? Claustrophobia? No, that's not it. Hypochondria? I think there's an ‘h”.’
‘Hemophobia.’
‘Right, thank you.’
Now I’m every bit as perceptive as the next chap, heightened senses be damned, but I had a hard time telling what was going through the man’s head at the moment. There was this peculiar sort of glint in his eye, one might say an intelligent one, that intimidated me. I believe ‘out of my league’ is the saying.
‘But there’s no blood,’ he finally said. ‘It’s a paper cut that even I haven’t noticed.’
A nervous laugh escaped my lips and I immediately found myself thinking back on that mob-burning-down-house idea. Well, dash it, there was only one way out of this and I took the leap.
‘You won’t notice anything out of the ordinary about me or my behaviour,’ I started, as assertive as I could. ‘Please work.’
‘What behaviour?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Oh, nothing! I’ll come back tomorrow, same time.’
I didn’t wait for him to respond, I bally legged it. Too close for comfort, as they say. Still rattled, I drained someone on my way home — apologising profusely, of course — and relief washed over me. Nothing to worry about, the hypnosis worked, and tomorrow I’ll pick up the book and everything will be right as rain. Whistling a half-forgotten tune, I closed the door behind me and hung up my coat. It was then when I noticed a red stain on my shirt and once more remembered that whole Brinkley debacle; I still haven’t figured out how to use the washing machine. I tried, although in reality that may have been the dishwasher. So far I haven’t ran out of clean clothes, but it’s only a matter of time. Choosing not to brood over it, I sat down at the old piano, but only managed to play a single note before I heard the doorbell ring.
‘The dashed nerve,’ I grumbled as I got up.
I opened the door and I must admit, the sight left me utterly baffled, as the person that stood before me was none other than, well, Reginald. He was now wearing a black wool coat and eyeing me with considerable interest.
‘Good evening,’ he said with a polite cough. ‘I think the compulsion wore off.’
