Chapter 4: Down The Rabbit Hole...

I caught the second Metro tram, rode it two stops, waddled into a Charity shop I'd scouted two weeks earlier. I picked out four large-print books, over-paid in Euros, left the change as a donation. Then I crossed the track and rode back five stops. I let two trams pass, took the third to Victoria.

The booking clerk examined my fax and asked for ID. I showed my 'Brendan Smith'. She peered at us, nodded, produced the ticket and a detailed, large-print itinerary, added, "Platform Three, forty minutes. Coach two. Your seat is reserved. Train won't be in until quarter-past. Grab a coffee here, there's no buffet on this service."
"Thank. You... You've. Been. Very. Helpful..." I wheezed.
"You're welcome, Mr. Smith! Mind how you go !"

With my dual rig, a mug of coffee was impossible. I struggled into a concourse shop, dropped the first basket, then collected half a dozen mini-carton drinks, the type with straws. I added Astronomy and National Geographic magazines for fun, plus a depressingly down-market Scientific American for its lurid cover-feature, 'Vampires ! Behind the Wall of Silence !' The check-out took Euros without complaint, gave me UK change. I'd been unsure of the 'petty cash' arrangements, so added a wad of my own notes, had plenty to spend. To my embarassment, a spry old lady held the door for me...

I was still too early, so I waddled along to the toilets and took a wide 'Disabled' booth. That gave me room to put all but one book and two drinks into my tow-along case. Then I went through the inelegant process of aligning my 3rd-person plumbing with the pan. Squeezing the realistic 'ball-valve' was a bizarre experience-- I kept tensing in expectation of excruciating pain ! Bill's instructions had under-stated the problems, but I managed to relieve myself without disaster.

Allowing ten minutes, I made my way to the platform, showed the ticket, boarded. The seat was the inner of two, boldly carded 'B.SMITH'. My case easily slid into the luggage space. A commuter train, there was a last minute rush. A chatty couple came directly to my row, looked between me and my reservation card with surprise, then pushed through to the next section. A middle-aged business woman pounced on the vacancy. She settled into the empty seat with a huge sigh. She glanced at my pudgy features, at my large-print book. She smelled my sweat, looked around hastily, but all other seats had filled. She groaned, busied herself with her 'Evening News'.

I changed trains after half an hour, dragged case and bag across the bridge to the other platform. The twenty minute margin for my connection also gave me time for that first carton of juice. The local train reached my ticket's destination at dusk. Now I just had to wait. I wandered along the empty platform, found a seat, tried to get comfortable. The lights came on, night fell. Trains trundled through, delivered commuters and collected clubbers. I sipped my second carton dry, enjoyed the evening's cool and waited for something to happen.

A mucky van pulled up beyond the fence. Its stocky driver climbed out, walked to the gate and held up a hand-written sign, 'B. SMITH'. I waved from my seat. He strode up, gave me a hug, "Uncle B ! It's good to see you again !"
"And, you, Lad !" I wheezed, mischievously adding, "You're late !"
"Traffic.." He gestured vaguely, "May I take your case-- and bag ??"
"Please..."
"This way..."
He fussed over my balky seat-belt, then drove off into the night. Beyond the station lights, I was effectively blind. From the twists, turns and road-noises, I estimated we'd doubled back more than once. He did his best to confuse my sense of direction by checking for pursuit. After we crossed the same bridge twice in five minutes, he seemed satisfied and set a course for home.

I glimpsed a tree-shrouded sign for 'Priory Farm Enterprise Centre' before the van turned into its yard. One corner was well lit.
"I'll bring the luggage: Go on, you're expected !"
I waddled across the yard. Beside the door, neat signs announced 'OFFICE', 'B&B EnSuite' and 'Vacancies'. The door opened, a plump woman called, "Charlie ? Put the van away right now, then bring Uncle B's case !!"
"Okay, Ma !"
"Come in, Uncle B, come in !" She helped me across the threshold step, steered me through to a sprawling country kitchen, parked me in a big chair, "Poor dear ! You must be exhausted ! Pot of tea ? Or something stronger ?"
I shook my head, "Water. Please... Straw ?"
"Oh, we don't have none of those !" She announced, drew a generous jug of water, filled a chunky glass. Fortunately I'd kept my two from the mini-cartons, and methodically drained the glass.
"Will you be staying long this time ?"
"Sorry..." I shook my head, "Depends. Schedule..."

"Ah, there you are, Charlie-- Took you long enough ! Put Uncle B's case-- and bag ?-- in Three, turn the covers back..." She glanced at the unexpected bag, hesitated, "Have you brought something nice ?"
That was easy, "Airline. Lost. Baggage..."
"So all you have is expensive airport rubbish ?" She shook her head, "Oh, you poor dear ! More water ?"
"Please..." I'd rationed myself, but now I could quench my thirst, "Nice ! Your. Own. Well ?"
"Oh, yes ! Our own bore-hole ! Very pure, just right for a sensitive tum !"
I nodded politely, sucked the refill dry, "Thank. You... Most. Welcome..."
"Gosh, you must be parched ! " She shook her head, "Would you like to go up to your room and freshen ? I've not put the wash in yet, so I could add your whites. They'd be ready for breakfast ?"
"Please...Long day..." I stood, hesitated, offered my hand.
"Oh, everyone calls me 'Ma' !" She chuckled, "Ma, GrandMa, Auntie Ma, Cousin Ma-- All short for Marge !"
"Pleasure. To. Meet. You. Ma !" I managed as she pumped my hand.
"Now you need to freshen and sit down comfy for a while, get our home under your feet ! Put your washing out, and one of the lads will be up to fetch you later !"
"Thank. You. Ma !"

Charlie returned to help me up the stairs, "Here we are, Number Three: Nice bed, en-suite, walk-in wardrobe. Phone on bedside table. Inside bolt. Case on the rack, bag on the coffee-table. Good, solid shutters against the Dawn Chorus ! See you later, Uncle B !"
"Thanks. Charlie !"

The bed was a splendid four-poster with drapes, the en-suite was palatial, piled with extra towels. It was a real guest-house, but they were working to a script. My unexpected bag had proved that ! And it would not surprise me if 'Charlie' had used a duplicate key to quickly check my case. I grinned, I had few secrets, but none were in the case !

Enough. I slowly unpacked, shaking and hanging the spare trousers and shirts on the walk-in's rail, putting my oversized 'smalls' in the dresser drawer. I shed my sweat-stained and crumpled clothes, checked their pockets then bundled them ready to wash. I waddled 'naked' into the en-suite, operated my plumbing, rinsed my double-gloved hands from habit. I was going to use a flannel to wipe my salt streaks, but the shower cubicle was generously sized, so I used that for speed. I used the 'blow dry' option rather than towel myself or drip on the carpet, crashed on a bath-towel on the bed.

I'd lain there for ten minutes when the phone rang, "Hello ?"
"Uncle B ?"
"Yes ?"
"Put your washing out, set the bolt, dim the lights then wait for a knock."
"Hello, who is this ?"
"Put your washing out, set the bolt, dim the lights then wait for a knock." The caller repeated, then rang off. I weighed my options, shrugged. I eased my door ajar, placed my bundle on the threshold, pushed it out with the door. I set the solid bolt. Then I sat on my towel, dimmed the lights to 'night' and waited.

The knock came, but not from the room door. The 'walk-in' creaked open, Gollum's cousin peered out. He wore a loin-cloth, held another, "Hello, Uncle B ! I'm Pete. May I help you dress for dinner ?"

I needed a moment to suppress first a flinch, then a giggle, "Please..."
I stood, reached back into the fleshy folds of my nape, found the recessed tag, got the zip open a couple of inches, "Can you work this for me ?"
Pete drew it down to my buttocks seam. I spilled out of the fat suit like a moulting cave instar, eased out my head, freed my arms and legs, knelt panting, "Phew !"
I popped out my dentures, dropped them in a glass, worked my mouth, "Oh, it is good to talk..."
I knelt by my fat-suit, opened the internal pouches that firmed its 'man-boobs'. One had my fangs. I popped them in. The other held my contacts kits. I used my dresser mirror and the sucker to extract my 'puppy browns', blinked with relief. Before I lost my nerve, I put in my blood-red 'Vamps'.

I turned quickly, half-hissed, "Have I time for a shower ?"
Pete flinched back, shook himself, nodded, "Yes ! Yes, of course ! Please..."
I stood in the shower to wash off the salt, a little longer just to feel clean. The blow-dry meant minimal towelling. I padded back into the bedroom. Pete sniffed the air, nodded his approval, gestured at my remarkably Vampiric 'Second Skin', "We did not expect this: You do us a great honour."

I grinned, making him flinch again, "At least these contacts let me see ! Now, is there a formal style, or just 'Beach Wrap' ?"
" 'Old Egyptian'-- don't ask !" Pete chuckled, "I'll show you..."
I practised the twist and tuck until he was satisfied, "Good. You will not wear your human form again for several days. What do you need ?"
I pointed to my bag, now holding the three magazines, "Also these spare fangs and red contacts."
"I will carry them." Pete took the loaded bag, "The way is narrow, steep and dark: you will need both hands."
"Thanks ! Okay, Pete, lead on !"