THE POSTMODERN MALADY OF DR. PETER HUDSON

PART V

Professor Elliott was killed in the fall of 1984 on an icy interstate, by a combination of tiredness and worn tire tread. He had no children, but left a loving wife, Lucy, after just three years of marriage. He was like most experts, like most authority when removed, missed for a short time, but the vacuum was speedily filled. In part by his wife, who had become the doyen of vampire literati. Her insight was intimate, like her husband, she too seemed personally affected by the myth. The Professor’s death is of little real consequence, other than it left Lucy as the sole confidante of Dr. Peter Hudson. She did not remarry, at least, not until as an older lady, she discovered a love that had been buried for thirty years or more, entombed in an unspoken trust, and this event, too, is probably of little consequence, as it was to take place after our story here ends.

After his time in New York, and after further spells in Paris, Berlin and New Orleans, Peter Hudson returned to practice again in London, where he worked at a private clinic, and at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Still tied to the study of blood, which was literally his livelihood, he retired quite suddenly from the public sector in the late 1990’s, becoming somewhat reclusive in a quiet Chelsea townhouse, which he had owned, under one name or another, for over 120 years. His present identity, as Jack Sheppard, had perplexed your author somewhat, for based on his understanding it would have a meaning much deeper than that to be taken by one unaware of the doctor’s secret – what strait-waistcoat restrained Dr. Hudson, what kept him chained to his padded room?

One may recall I asked first that the reader imagine a window. It was not without consequence. Then, the window overlooked the past, it was monotone yet rich. This was the past for a man like Dr. Hudson, the past for the man that Dr. Hudson became, but what was that man – a vampire? Yes, but we wear many faces.

So what, in the present, was his face? A window is still necessary to explain this to the reader, so imagine that window once more. Imagine the processes of life, the modern processes, modern traffic, modern dress, life in digital colour and motion. Imagine that Chelsea townhouse opposite where you sit, imagine that most days, for the years that he lived there, you saw Dr. Hudson come and go as one does. For work, for pleasure, for the ordinary processes, and imagine too that you saw others do the same. There was one woman in particular, now greying and less slender, although still a beauty to any man, any not foolish enough to be blinded by the folly of youth. Imagine that after a time Dr. Hudson ceased to leave for work, ceased to leave for pleasure, the house became darker and the curtains and shutters were more frequently drawn. Imagine that his guests, too, began to dwindle, until only one, one still beautiful woman seemed to be his only remaining visitor. Conversely, as others visited less, she visited more. That is the view from the window one must picture now. This is the window overlooking a tomb about to be opened, because curiosity and confrontation are inescapable determinates in life.

So one day in London, when it rained quite ordinarily, an extraordinary thing was to happen. From your window you would see that beautiful woman leave the house, looking drawn and tired, looking despondent, and outside the house you would also observe a gentleman, of approximately the same age, clatter clumsily into her. She drops her keys, her bag, and some books, and the gentleman helps to pick them up for her. With your window open, above the clatter of the rain, you discern a few audible elements of their ensuing conversation. It is a relatively quiet street for London, after all.

Their discourse reveals that they are old friends, of sorts. That once, thirty years before they attended lectures together whilst studying in New York. Sacre-bleu! What coincidence, they remark. Coincidences interest you, and so you decide to leave your window, alight the stairs, take your keys from beside the door and make your way out onto the wet street in pursuit of the pair, overhearing they plan to have coffee together in order to reminisce further. They make their way to a nearby café, fortunately one you yourself like to frequent, and so discreetly you join them, unofficially, a table or so behind them and to their left – and you replace your window with a coffee cup.