OCtober Day 7: Clash London

It was 1980’s Britain, in an underground London rock club, when I realised that vampires exist. At least, in this version of earth anyhow. In fact, I would soon come to learn that all manner of supernatural beings were lurking just beneath the masquerade of regular society.

I was working as a roadie at the time for some up and coming band. They were doing a tour through a few select clubs across Britain. I’d be hoping to get some insight into the majesty of the rock and roll lifestyle. However, it turned out that these lads weren’t much for conversation. Their standoffish nature didn’t faze me too much. After all, there was still plenty of opportunity to meet interesting people amongst the crowds. Little did I know just how right I would be. 

The time was close to midnight when the band began their set. After setting things up, and making sure the musicians had drinks, I snuck off to sit at the bar. The show was alright, nothing too special. Seems the man beside me thought the same. In fact, he was quite passionate about his opinion.

“Fuck these guys suck!” he loudly exclaimed. The punk turned to me, looking for someone to vent to. I’m sure most people would be annoyed. But, I’m used to this.

“Tell me about it” I say, humouring the young man. 

“Right, they play those instruments like they’re doing some music exam or whatever. There’s no fucking heart there. Not like the bands in my day, it’s just about money now man, what a joke…” he rambles on.

I got a quick look at my conversation partner as he continued to complain. He wasn’t especially tall, and looks no older than nineteen. Although, his strong build gave him quite a bulky silhouette, and one could maybe think he’s older from the back. Dressed in just a vest top, jeans and rugged trainers, topped with a signature black denim jacket that’ adorned with multiple patches. Most of them are band logos, with the occasional anarchy symbol, some pride flags I recognised as ‘transgender’ and ‘bisexual’, and one image I don’t know the origin of. It’s a rose atop a black, spiked circle. As expected, this punk lad has several piercings, a few in the ears, a septum ring and one in the bridge. A blue mohawk towered over his head.

All of that seemed fairly typical. However, three things else stood out. Firstly, a vertical scar peeking out from above his vest. Secondly, the bright red eyes that I assumed were coloured contacts. Lastly, and most interestingly, his skin. It wasn’t just pale, it was white as fresh snow. 

I’m snapped out of my pondering by the punk himself speaking up again.

“Anyway fuck this noise. I’m Clash. What’s your name, beautiful?” he asks, trying to be slick. I just roll my eyes and sigh in amusement.

“My friends just call me M” 

“That’s cool, I can dig it” 

Clash downs the glass of mixer he had resting on the barside. Then, he turns to me again.

“Hey, since this is such a shit show, wanna get out of here? I know a good place down the road. I’m a regular there, could get us in for free”

“I’m supposed to be working backstage…” I reply, half-heartedly.

“You actually like that gig?”

I shrug.

“Eh”

He slaps a hand on my shoulder.

“Well then, let’s blow the joint. Life’s short, so let yourself loose”

Looking back, this moment is where one should be thinking about acting cautious. But, at the time I didn’t think these humans had much capacity to harm me. So, I agreed, and Clash took me by the hand and away from the scene. I did notice as we walked that his hands were ice cold. Figurative shivers travelled through my nerves, but curiosity kept me going. True to his word, we had arrived outside another club. Though, we did not approach the front door. Instead, he sauntered into the alleyway, gesturing me forth. 

“Come on, we can go in the back door” he spoke, his voice dripping with an overwhelming sense of sensuality that had me enraptured. I had the feeling I could break the trance if I wanted. For now though, I let it happen. My vessel followed the punk into the darkness. Ignoring the skittering rats and discarded needles, I stopped before him. Clash stroked my face. Then, slowly, his lips curled back, revealing a pair of glimmering sharp canines.

He leant close. The breath on my neck masked the sting of my flesh being pierced.

“Mr London, cease this immediately!” a voice called out. It was masculine, with a hint of a southern US accent.

Clash grumbled, annoyed at his feast getting interrupted.

“What do you want, Gideon?” 

“Don’t drink from this person. I know you decided to squander your auspex training, but if you hadn’t, you know you’re dealing with a far greater power than you can imagine” he scolded. 

“Ugh…”

Clash released his grip, stepping back. Gideon turned to address me. He was as pale as the other man, though dressed in an expensive suit, donning a beard and mustache over piercings.

“Forgive my protege, he’s still a fledgeling in our circles”

He extended a hand to shake, to which I complied. They too are ice cold.

“Fledgeling?” I enquired. He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I see. You weren’t aware, that’s...curious. Still, formalities are in order, since the cat’s out of the bag. My name is Gideon Dinsmore, clan Toreador, sire is long dead” Gideon explained. He then gestured to Clash, who rolled his eyes but answered nonetheless.

“Clash London, clan Toreador, my sire is this bastard right here”

Gideon sighed in exasperation.

“Pay him no mind. I picked up this little brat some time ago, in exchange for a deal I made with an old friend. Now, I hate to cut this conversation short, but I’ve business to attend to. Clash, come back with me. There’s a meal waiting at our hotel room” The southern gentleman said, gesturing for Clash to follow as he turned to leave the alley. For a second though, his eyes seemed dark as they left my gaze. 

Clash shuffled awkwardly after, briefly stopping to speak to me.

“You’re not...gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

I shook my head.

“Of course not”

“Good. You might wanna skip town as soon as you can though. I don’t trust Gideon not to come after you” he whispered. He offered up a fist bump that I reciprocated, then stomped out of the alley before his master came calling again.

He’s a good kid, that one.