Kim Newman: Patricia's Profession

When the call came, Patricia was going FF through the latest snuffs. She was a subscriber to the 120 Days in the City of Sodom part-work, but, since Disney had run out of de Sade and been forced to fall back on their own limited psychopathology, the series had deteriorated. After a few minutes of real-time PLAY, she had twigged that the 104th day was just one of the fifties with a sexual role reversal, Mouldy chiz. Colin broke into the vid-out.

"Patti," he said. "Goto PRINT."

Colin had blanked before she could work out whether he was live or a message simulacrum. The printer retched a laconic strip.

JAY DEARBORN, DEARBORN ESTATE, TWENTY ONE O'CLOCK HIT, 2-NITE.

The mark was on screen. The Firm had a four-second snip from regular call, Dearbone was a sleek, expensive, youngish man. He had on a collarless, fine stripe shirt. Silently, he repeated a phrase. Something about cheekbones, Patricia's lip-reading was off.

She switched to greenscreen and speed-read Dearborn's write-up. Executive with Skintone, Inc., the second-largest fleshwear house. Married, Euro-citizen. Not cleared for parenthood. No adult criminal record. Alive. Solvent.

Colin came back, real-time. "Our client is Philip Wragge. More middle management at Skintone. He likes us. He's used us before."

"Why does he want Dearborn hit?"

Kim Newman: Coppola's Dracula

A treeline at dusk. Tall, straight, Carpathian pines. The red of sunset bleeds into the dark of night. Great flapping sounds. Huge, dark shapes flit languidly between the trees, sinister, dangerous. A vast batwing brushes the treetops.

Jim Morrison's voice wails in despair. 'People Are Strange'.

Fire blossoms. Blue flame, pure as candle light. Black trees are consumed ...

Fade to a face, hanging upside-down in the roiling fire.

Harker's Voice: Wallachia ... shit!

Jonathan Harker, a solicitor's clerk, lies uneasy on his bed, upstairs in the inn at Bistritz, waiting. His eyes are empty.

With great effort, he gets up and goes to the full-length mirror. He avoids his own gaze and takes a swig from a squat bottle of plum brandy. He wears only long drawers. Bite-marks, almost healed, scab his shoulders. His arms and chest are sinewy, but his belly is white and soft. He staggers into a program of isometric exercises, vigorously Christian, ineptly executed.

Harker's Voice: I could only think of the forests, the mountains ... the inn was just a waiting room. Whenever I was in the forests, I could only think of home, of Exeter. Whenever I was home, I could only think of getting back to the mountains.