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BLOOD

Roddy Doyle

HE GREW UP IN DRACULA’S CITY He’d walked past Bram Stoker’s house every day on his way to school But it had , not the hand of a ghost or a shiver, not a lick on his neck as he passed In fact, he was nearly eighteen, in his last year at school, before he’d even noticed the plaque beside the door He’d never read the book, and probably never would He’d fallen asleep during Coppola’s Dracula Onehis knee; the next, she was grabbing the sahts were on and she was furious

-How can you do that?

-What?

-Sleep during a film like that

-I always fall asleep when the film’s shite

-We’re supposed to be out on a date

-That’s a different point, he said–For that, I apologise How did it end, anyway?

-Oh, fk off, she said, affectionately—that was possible in Dublin

So the whole thing, the whole Dracula business,to him

Nevertheless, he wanted to drink blood

Badly

The badly was recent, and dreadful The itch, the urge, the leaking tongue—it was absolutely dreadful

He wasn’t sure when it had started He was, though—he knehen he’d become aware

-How d’you want your steak?

-Raw

His wife had laughed But he’d been telling her the truth He wanted the slab ofover the pan, raw and now—fuck the pan, it wasn’t needed He could feelfor him—neck muscles, jaw muscles

Then he woke

But he ake already, still standing in the kitchen, looking at the steak, and looking forward to it

-Rare, so, he said

She smiled at him

-You’re such a messer, she said

He hid behind that, the fact that he acted the eejit, that it was him, as he bent down to the charred meat on the plate a few minutes later, and licked it The kids copied hiravy on their noses Hejaws and the need to bite and growl They all watched a DVD after dinner, and everything was grand

And it was; it was fine Life was norht He opened the fridge one day There were two fillet steaks on a plate, waiting It must have been weeks later because she—her naht steak all that frequently And it wasn’t the case that Vera did all the shopping, or even most of it; she just went past the butcher’s ht the wine She bought the soap and toilet paper—and he bought the wine You’re such a messer

He grabbed one of the steaks and took it over to the sink He looked behind him, to make sure he was alone, and then devoured it as he leaned over the sink But he didn’t devour it He licked it first, like an ice-pop; it was cold He heard the drops of blood hit the alu down his chin, as if it—the blood—was co from him And he started to suck it, quickly, to drink it It should have been warusted hi his disappoint a need, an addiction he suddenly had and accepted He growled—he fkin’ growled He looked behind him—but he didn’t care You’re such ameat and spat the pulp into the bin He rubbed his chin; he washed his hands He looked at his shirt It was clean He ran the hot tap and watched the black drops turn red, pink, then nothing He took the ree and slid it off the plate, into the bin He tied the plastic liner and brought it out to the wheelie bin

-Where’s the dinner? Vera wanted to know, later

-What?

-I bought fillet steaks for us There

She stood in front of the fridge’s open door

-They were off, he said

-They were not