• Chapter One •
WRITTEN BY COLLEEN DOUGLAS • ORIGINAL STORY AND CHARACTERS CREATED BY FABRICE SAPOLSKY
FORSAKEN
I guess those people who know what’s going on around them can pinpoint the moment that their life changed forever. They can look at a memory of a year, a month, a week, a day and say, “And that’s when my life changed forever.” Even when
the moment is the tiniest thing that happens, some people think that’s the exact point when they had a turn for the worst or better. I’m not really one of those people.
Because I never knew that on that day, I would forsake everything in my life that I once took for granted. For the last time as I look out the large bay windows of this flat that once belonged to my grandmother that I now shared with my sister on Camden Town, that quirky part of London with its modern cultural, shopping and alternative music scene. The very things that had drawn Irsha and persuaded me, there was a melancholy rising like a wave that washed over me, I gripped the phone in my hand with fresh determination. I’ve dropped out of university for a year now, screwed my friendships, my grades, my boyfriend…I was everything before last year.
I am going to start with the pretty, cheer captain, who had escaped the fire at the pop up underground club, because she survived. 20 others weren’t so lucky. It was Camden, random, illegal temporary venues were nothing new, attracting particular crowds with it diverse and ubiquitous nature. We met accidentally at the charred and gutted remains of what was once an old mansion house that had been cordoned off by the police. It had been repurposed by “House Cap” for its exclusive underground pop up party. There I learned from Daisy, a small waif like girl with red hair, a pleasant smile, soulful green eyes and freckles, dress in black Goth that her unfortunate friend was part of a secret Facebook fan group who avidly followed the club. She had been invited but left her part-time job too late to join. I had asked about the group and though Daisy was unwilling to be specific she had mentioned a website that frequently listed underground club events.
In the past year, my home had become a monument to mania. The first floor of the house was little more than a garage and
a mudroom, a place to kick off boots and coats before climbing a set of stairs to the second floor where I now
seemed to do all my living .
There were so many stacks of crap that I couldn’t be sure of the colour of the floor. Boxes and boxes, all beaten up and weathered; stacked high too. The topmost boxes were at my chest level, anyone visiting might as well have been weaving through a Minotaur’s maze. I had long since ceased caring. The room gave off the odour of mildew and madness.
My bed was no longer slept in and Irsha’s was frozen in time from the night she left. Instead there were stacks of maps, print outs, party club fliers, the kind of stuff you can now find through a dutiful computer search through the internet.
I looked down at the phone in my hand at the text and photo I had been sent this morning from Irsha’s phone. “I know where your sister will be tonight, No Rhythm Twin. Let’s have a talk.” I looked at the last two messages before it. One was my last rant at Irsha for sneaking out and the other was a missed WhatsApp call 30 minutes before my world fell apart. I recognised the building in the photo; it matched the address on the flyer lying on my bed. I could have called the police, but they had long ceased any interest in Irsha’s disappearance. I remembered the impersonal detective who had visited, the formal questions, polite condescension and ultimately the non interest, since Irsha was an adult.
I closed my eyes and took myself back to that day. It was a muggy night. The house was quiet. The neighbourhood outside downtown Camden was asleep. If I listened close enough I could hear the howling of the wind or a dog barking off in the distance. If I think about it, maybe I had heard the scrape of the sash window in Irsha’s room…maybe. It was 2.am I had gone to Irsha’s room to check she hadn’t fallen asleep with her laptop sitting on her chest again. We had argued earlier in the day, she wanted to go clubbing a night before her assignment was due and of course I was the voice of reason or as she says the “bookworm bohemian”. The argument had escalated and I had said some harsh and regretful things. Irsha had exploded then calling me a “No Rhythm Twin”. I plodded to her roomin my pink pyjamas, bed hair stuck to my face, my eyes sore and a little swollen from the emotional outburst. She was my sister and I didn’t want to keep fighting. Knocking and entering her room, I moved to the rolled up lump on the bed. I could smell her favourite Red Door perfume strongly wafting up from the covers. “Irsha” I had whispered her name to no avail, then I shook the lump, my hand sinking immediately into bedding.
Furious, I had texted her because I knew she would dodge my call. “Irsha! Where are you? You’d better not be going clubbing!” I could see that she was online. “Dammit, you’re one slip away from failing that class!” With no reply and frustration mounting I said it “Come home, how much more money are you going to cost me?” The moment I sent the text I regretted it. Irsha had lost her part-time gig at a local charity shelter due to budget cuts. She had taken it hard, because helping people was close to her heart. I should have apologised. I have walked this scene through my head many times, all the other things I could have said instead.
I was numb after the news hit; some neighbours were making an awful racket outside and woke me, I rose from the sofa where I had fallen asleep camping out waiting for Irsha. Opening the front door to see they were on their mobile phones calling or watching some frantic scenes that had been posted on YouTube. Then one said the words that caused my heart to lurch in my chest “The pop up club is on fire”. Everything seemed to move in slow motion then, I found myself grabbing at the phone still held in the hand of the person nearest to me. My eyes on the awful blazing scene of pandemonium as people fled from a roaring inferno, the din of fire engines, panicked voices and screams were drowned out by the caption “Secret Vampire Themed Pop up Club, 20 trapped in blaze”. Through the haze of the ringing in my ears, the bile in my throat threatening to overwhelm me, I honestly cannot recall how I got to the venue that night. In pyjamas and my dressing gown; I had managed to put some slippers on my feet, my phone in hand flashed with a missed call from Irsha 30 mins before. Now the answer machine automatically kicked in,
I was on my 20th call.
***
Though it was summer and the blaze before me had been subdued by the fire brigade, and heat radiated in waves, covered in sweat I was chilled to the bone. The metropolitan police had erected barriers to keep onlookers away as the emergency services came and went, my attention was drawn to frantic voices, one a wailing cry. I looked to my left to see a small woman on her knees near a police woman who was busy trying to keep her upright. “Please! Please!” she pleaded, “Just let me see her, please! My angel is not dead, right?” The words brought a churning in the pit of my stomach as my heart hammered painfully in my chest. “Ma’am, please, at this time we cannot give anyone access to the area, please leave your name and address with my colleague over there.” She pointed to another uniformed officer with an iPad. My mouth was filled with sand and my legs had become lead weights as I saw the ambulances a short distance away and the body bags lined off on the grass parapet to the side as trolleys were loaded.
A high pitched noise filled my ear.
After that, I don’t remember dropping my phone which was picked up by the three officers trying to pin me down on the muddy tar road as I went into a panting seizure. I don’t remember fighting off the police woman and community wardens at the barrier as I vaulted it to get to the ambulances. I just remember running, and being more alive than I’d ever felt before. I almost didn’t stop. I never wanted to. Because if I could just keep running, I could find myself back in a place where I hadn’t messed up, where I hadn’t just thought about myself. I’d be back with Irsha. I’d be back where things had started to be all right again.
Words I didn’t even understand were pouring out of my mouth, some were apologies, some were pleads, some were swears, but none of them mattered. I became aware that the high-pitched noises were my screams.
***
I was released from St Pancras Hospital two days later, after observation and no longer deemed a danger to myself or those around me. Armed with tranquiller meds and a grief counselling leaflet, I was recorded in case of future “incidents”. I had just been signed out by the doctor on duty and was making my way to the entrance, when a man standing nearby folded his newspaper and approached me. “Esther Rokhsar?” came a formal sounding voice. The stance was casual, “I’m Detective Tybalt,” he said, stepping forward. I gulped. Were the officers I had a scuffle with pressing charges? I let my face turn into a blank mask as I nodded. “I just want to ask you a few questions.” I followed him meekly to some reception chairs out of earshot of the other patients.
“I understand from the officers attending the site of the tragedy that your sister Irsha Rokhsar might have been an attendee and is subsequently missing.”
“Yes.” I opted to keep my answers short.
“Can you tell me what time she left?”
I chewed my lip. “I don’t know, we had a fight earlier”
“About?”
“Irsha wanted to go out clubbing; she had an assignment due for a class she was failing. I said it wasn’t the best idea.”
Tybalt tilted his head looking at me. I slumped down farther and picked at the cracking black vinyl on the handle of the chair I was in. He fished in his pocket and brought
out my phone.
“According to your phone records the last call came in around 2.20am. You made several outbound calls after that.”
“My neighbours were talking about a club being on fire and watching it live on YouTube. I saw Irsha’s missed call then and tried calling back. I told the other officers; I wrote it all down in a statement.” I supplied.
“You can go for now, Ms. Rokhsar,” handing over my phone, Tybalt gazed intently at my expressionless face.
“Just don’t leave the area, all right?
And don’t get yourself into any more trouble.”
That was a year ago; I had spent the better part of it investigating pop up clubs. Most seemed like the usual party zones ran by some local or independent groups. They all had traceable information at Companies’ House or tax records and public faces like TikTok influencers. I had exhausted countless search lists for “exclusive” groups. I was coming to the idea Irsha might have left me, but the last call on my phone told me that I was missing something. I found it two weeks ago and confirmed it this morning. Spring was here again and it was a warm one, I had been tracking House Cap’s events for the past six months. Each time it would have a one day underground pop up party and then disappear so cleanly without a trace. No club, no matter how meticulous could achieve that.
***
I looked back at the “special invite” leaflet on my bed that I had bought from a specialist shop I had learned about from the online group Daisy had mentioned. They were now long gone of course, and the small bag next to it, inside I had placed a few things that I might need, including pepper spray and a tazer. A year trawling the backwaters of the internet can teach you many things. I looked at myself in the mirror; I had braided my hair, kept my make up to a minimum to compliment my brown eyes and tanned skin, simple hoop earrings, a short t-shirt and jacket, cargo slacks and single toed sandals. This was as casual and blended as I could get, I was bohemian not Goth. Slinging the cross body bag over my shoulder I headed out the front door.
***
My uber ride pulled up at Camden station, it looked like the busy beehive I remembered with shoppers, tourists, and the homeless all blended into one seamless thread along the high street. I looked at the address on the leaflet; the destination was at least an interesting one. The Camden Catacombs are a system of underground passages in Camden Town underneath part of the Camden markets, constructed in the 19th century, and currently owned by Network Rail. They are not true catacombs as they were never used as repositories for dead bodies, instead being an underground area originally used as stables for horses and pit ponies working on the railways and include an underground pool for canal boats operating on the nearby Regent’s Canal. They are not open to visitors owing to danger of flooding. What better place to hold a party than
with a little enticement of drowning.
I had an hour before meeting my mysterious contact; this gave me time to pick the best spot to observe the gathering party goers, as they slipped in via various entrances into the catacombs as the sun was setting. Though it was mid spring, darkness came quickly, I looked at my phone, it was time I made my way underground. I had to admit a subterranean venue was not to my taste. Following the map on the leaflet and the intersperse markings lit by candles engraved with “House Cap”, along the cavernous tunnel walls finally led to the large stone interior of a warehouse basement, by the décor Victorian I’d guess. Bass resonated in my chest.
For the first time I hesitated, I was nervous, I squeeze my satchel, reassured by the contents; I moved forward edging gingerly into a space near the entrance. I looked around, despite my surroundings its elite, an “abattoir-chic” version of an old joint with a greasy, dangerous vibe.
I note there is no bar. Bodieswrithe on the strobe-lit dance floor. Leather,latex, tattoos, body-piercings, a D.J. wearing head-mounted rotating spotlights orchestrates the tunes ontwin- decks through curved large fridge size speakers. The music is like an assault, a beat so heavy it could jar thefillings from your teeth. Brutal “Darkcore” along the lines ofProdigy, in the pulsing music, motion and light my eyes are drawn to a figure, Irsha hair drawn up in a ponytail, wearing a pinned bolero over a turtle necked crop top, jodhpurs decorated with a loop belt and doc martins, is among two others out on the dance floor. They sway.
***
A lupine-featured girl with white hair dressed in brown moves in behind the guy behind Irsha, pressing up against him. She flicks her tongue against his ear; he is now sandwiched between Irsha and her. The beat gets louder, the action heavier, the atmosphere more narcotic. It’s like a virtual orgy. I cannot tear my eyes away, my sister is alive. Instinctively I want to move towards her, and then I see something that sends a chill down my spine. From the shadows, I gaze, wide-eyed, heart pounding barely breathing. The figures have white, luminescent faces, strange, bright, glowing eyes. Their fingernails are glass-like. As two others join them, smiling, one reveals a toothy grin with fangs. I find myself backing away. Once I had calmed down outside and brought my pounding heart under control, taking a deep breath I reasoned that I must have overreacted. It’s not true; it’s fake, its makeup
and cosplay. Ffs, Essy get your shit together, I mentally charged myself.
***
The overtures of the music still flowed as the group and a number of other party goers had moved into the alleyway outside to the now defunct Ghetto Grillz, a gated and fenced off area. I followed at a distance weaving between abandoned decrepit buildings, dodging sunken puddles; slippers might not have been the best idea after all. I crouched at the side of a building overgrown with wild shrubbery. It really was Irsha, my heart sung as I watched her move towards a young girl the others had gathered around with chin length pale platinum blonde hair dressed in a fur collared black coat, offset by a cream blouse, black shorts, tights and boots. The outfit was complemented by a pinned broach at the waist and gloves.
From somewhere, an angelic voice began to hum the most hypnotic melody over the tune spilling out from the underground club, melding in exquisite harmony. It was otherworldly and surreal. I realised it was coming from the young girl. “I’m over it. You see I’ve fallen into a vast abyss, clouded by memories of the past.” Turning to two others she ordered, “Bring them all.” Books piled high on wheelbarrows were shunted to a space in the centre of the group. “You see I cannot be forsaken, because I’m not the only one.” The mountain of books were doused in liquid, the scent of fuel filled the air. “We walk amongst them, must we hide from everyone?” Striking a match, she flings it into the pile. The reaction is an automatic incendiary inferno, the raging firelight lit her face and seems to take residence in her eyes lighting their core. “Take off the mask and be alive, I say!” It seems like the breakout code for everyone present. Somewhere someone yells “Happy 23rd everyone!” As another yells “Rest in ashes, motherfucker!” I feel the goose bumps prickle my nape as something moves in the shadows near me but I’m drawn back to the insanity unfolding before my eyes as there are chants of “spit on it! Spit on it!” At the indication of the blonde, Irsha steps forward, bearing her teeth in a feral snarl revealing fangs as she spits on the flaming pile. In the overbearing light that hurts my eyes, I see she is pale, her eyes lit at their core with more than firelight and my heart is lost in the crushing certainty that this was no longer my sister. The shadow at my side resolved itself into a cat, loudly hissing its displeasure at my being near its young and in that moment, things went from bad to worse, now they know I am here.
***
I’m running in blind panic; don’t believe the shit they show you in movies, vampires are fucking terrifying. Clouded tendrils are at my side, as I look, a horribly malformed face of one of the guys who was with Irsha earlier is leering at me in an awful distended grin. There is another at my side; something has gripped my hair, yanking my head painfully backwards as my feet buckle, sending me tumbling in a mass among debris. I have lost my satchel, in the darkness; I can barely see the outlines of the three figures as they approach me, my heart is hammering a million miles a minute, there is an aching throb in my limbs. I try to ignore it, to stay focused. It’s a dead end, my pursuers know it, and they have the advantage as they move in slowly. So this is where I will die? As the thought flickered in my mind a shadow fell between us, as a baseball whizzed past, landing with a smack in the face of my nearest antagonist. I look up to see a man with a baseball bat. There is hesitation and outrage from the three. Shrugging off their fears they continue their approach and then I see it, shadows in the darkness have come alive, as arrows find their targets with a dull thunk, disintegrating them before my eyes. The man with the bat approaches me as the others fall in behind him, I blurt out that I am not a vampire. He smiles in amusement as he nods at me and then I hear his words. “But I am”. Signalling to the others to leave as he draws nearer, he whispers “Hello, No Rhythm Twin.”