Chapter Text
New York (1986) / San Francisco (past)
“You caught that fuckin’ mouse yet?” demanded Daniel Molloy, as he entered his East Village apartment.
A large black cat looked up at him with derision and then returned to where it was sitting on the window ledge over the radiator.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then. Well don’t expect any treats if you don’t catch the fucker!”
Setting down his lox and cream cheese bagel on the scratched pine table that served as dining table, desk and ironing board, he poured himself a cup of coffee that had not long finished brewing.
The radiator under the window gurgled ominously, but at least the heating was working. He could have afforded a more upmarket apartment in Upper East Side, but he liked the local vibe, the clubs and the fact it was grittier than the areas that were being transformed into family-friendly neighbourhoods. Besides, he even had a nice view, looking out over Tompkins Square Park.
Clearing a space so he could open up the paper, he took a gulp of his coffee and started flicking through the pages. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cat leap up onto the table and start creeping towards the bag containing his breakfast.
“Don’t even think about it! Go eat the damn kibbles!”
As he shooed it off the table, it hissed at him. “You don’t even live here, so don’t give me that attitude!”
Taking a bite out of his bagel, he started to flick through the pages of the New York Times. He’d been avidly following the story of the kidnapped newsreader in Australia. He was always on the lookout for crumbs of stories worthy of further digging, whether they concerned celebrities or politicians. It was his bread and butter, earning money from features on the rich, famous or notorious.
Although the newsreader wasn’t a celebrity himself, the latest headlines concerning his abduction featured an infamous rockstar, whose notoriety had made him front page news in the tabloids for a while. A rockstar whose antics made Ozzy Osbourne look tame.
Lestat de fuckin’ Lioncourt.
Wiping the grease off his fingers, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut out the latest article to add to the folder of cuttings he’d been collecting since the story had first broken in the US. What had initially caught his eye had been the blurry CCTV image of a tall guy, wearing a long leather coat, walking away from a burning car that made his brain itch. The figure looked familiar – although he had no idea why that would be the case – he’d never been out of the States, never mind to Australia.
However, it was when the kidnapping got linked to Lestat de Lioncourt, that the whole case got a damn sight more intriguing. It was getting in his head - triggering long lost fragments of memories of a weird encounter he’d had in 1973.
Daniel Molloy couldn’t recall exactly what had gone down in San Francisco, apart from leaving Polynesian Mary’s with a really hot guy who said his name was Louis. Out of his league – totally, but he’d agreed to give him an ‘interview’ and even invited Daniel back to his place on Divisadero Street. At the time, he didn’t give a damn what kind of ‘interview’ it was, he would have followed that man anywhere.
Whatever drugs he’d indulged in after the cocaine and ludes he’d been plied with, which alone would have his moods swinging like a damn yoyo, his head had been fucked up so bad he couldn’t remember much up to the point he staggered out into broad daylight. Sunlight so bright it made his eyes hurt. He’d have fallen down the steep steps down to the street if he’d not been sandwiched between Louis and another guy who’d turned up – a pal of his by the name of Armand. They’d got his arms slung over their shoulders as they carried him down the steps, his feet had barely touched the concrete until he got to the sidewalk.
What he did recall with vivid clarity was Armand grabbing hold of his throbbing head between both of his hands, his fingers cool against his cheeks, and telling him that he’d had a bad trip, but he wasn’t to worry, he just needed to go home and rest. He kept saying that - ‘rest’. He’d tried to twist around to say something to Louis, but the guy had his hood up and a scarf wrapped around most of his face. When Daniel asked if he was OK, Armand just shook his head telling him Louis was in a bad way as well.
Somehow or other he’d ended up in the back of a cab and the driver knew where to go, even though he didn’t recall telling him the address. Taking a right down Post Street, he saw the Winterland Arena and frowned.
“Hey, has the Poco gig been cancelled or what?” He was sure he’d seen the posters up there only the other day. He was hoping to hang out at the bar and see who turned up. Rumour was that Graham Nash was going to turn up and he’d been hoping to get an interview with him.
“Where you been, pal?” scoffed the driver. “That was last Saturday!”
“Um – what day is it today?” he’d asked.
The driver snorted and tossed him a copy of the Chronicle, muttering about ‘doped up draft-dodging students needing to get a real job’. Any other time he’d have corrected him by pointing out there hadn’t been a draft call since the end of ’72. However, he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to get kicked out as he didn’t trust he could walk far without falling flat on his face.
The date on the paper was September 9th. He’d been out of it for four days.
Four whole fucking days.
When he’d got back to his digs he went straight to the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. He looked like a damn zombie – eyes like piss holes in the snow, there were a couple of nasty looking scabs on his neck and his shirt collar was stiff with dried blood.
Searching his messenger bag, to make sure he’d not been robbed, he was relieved to find his cassette recorder intact, although the batteries had been removed. His notepad had a whole load of pages torn out and there were no tapes to be found, apart from one, unopened Scotch C60 cassette. The rest of the ten pack was missing.
The following day, he’d gone back to Polynesian Mary’s and asked if the barman had seen Louis. He needed those tapes. Getting no joy at the bar, he’d wandered up and down Divisadero Street to see if he could remember where Louis’s apartment had been. At a loss, he’d rang the doorbells of dozens of apartments, but no one knew who he was talking about. Then again, if he’d been dealing, his neighbours wouldn’t want to admit to knowing him.
Two months later, he got a job with the San Francisco Chronicle and even though he never set eyes on Louis again, he kept imagining he saw Armand lurking in the shadows at clubs and bars where he hung out. One time he definitely did see him, was in the doorway to the men’s room of The Matrix club on Fillmore Street. Pissed at being stalked, he asked him what the fuck he was doing, only for the guy to smirk and offer to buy him a drink.
At the bar, Armand had told him he was glad to see he hadn’t suffered any permanent harm as a result of a bad batch of acid that Louis had shared with him. He then handed him the business card for a company he said he was setting up in New York. Told him to get in touch as there would always be an opening there for a ‘bright young reporter’. He then scribbled an outrageously high figure on the back that he promised would be the minimum he’d get paid for any articles he produced.
Four years later, Daniel Molloy moved to New York, after being fired from both the San Francisco Chronicle and the LA Times, the lure of working freelance for a company that would pay his moving expenses was too much to resist. He’d been surprised that the secretary at Catalina Imprints knew who he was and told him her boss would be very pleased to know he was going to accept the offer.
Since Daniel had signed up with the company based in an imposing building called Trinity Gate, he’d been commissioned with several lucrative contracts a year and seen his work published in reputable newspapers and magazines in the US and in Europe.
As a consequence, he could afford to rent a two bedroom apartment with its own bathroom. Not only that, but he had enough time to pursue his own pet projects, including pulling together notes for ‘Hate and Ashbury’, which was going to be an account of the history of the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, its counterculture, and the so-called Summer of Love.
It was in the early 1980s when Daniel came across the book. He’d visited one of his favourite second-hand book shops to buy something lightweight to read on the flight from New York to California to attend an uncle’s funeral. There was something about the title that called out to him, even though it wasn’t a genre he usually read. When he started reading it on the plane, he felt a sickening sense of déjà vu.
The main character was a vampire, whose name was exactly the same as that he’d committed to memory on seeing Louis de Pointe du Lac flash his Amex card at Polynesian Mary’s. Back then, only flash bastards paid for drinks with plastic, that’s why it had made such an impression on Daniel – the guy was showing off his wealth. However, the description of the protagonist in the book was as far from his vague memory of that Louis as possible – a white plantation owner, with all the features of a romantic poet on the verge of dying from consumption, compared to a charming, handsome, black guy. The irony nearly had him choke on the nuts he’d been eating. The only thing they had in common was that both men came from Louisianian Creole families.
How did he know that about Louis?
Somewhere over the American Mid-West, he dozed off and had the weirdest dream of the Louis he’d met at Polynesian Mary’s telling him he was a vampire and flashing his fangs. Waking with a start, he then recalled interviewing the guy and being desperate to capture every single word, not that he could remember anything he actually said. Leafing his way through the pages of the paperback, he picked out sentences where ‘the boy’ acted just like he did when onto a story – frantically flipping over tapes, ripping the wrappers of new tapes, letting a cigarette burn all the way down to ash without realising until his fingers got burnt, wiping sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. He got out a pen and started circling every reference to ‘the boy’, including every time the character said ‘and then what?’, folding over the corners of each relevant page. The woman sat next to him looked alarmed at how intensely he was scribbling in the book, but he didn’t care less.
The book read as if all the background shit that ended up in the background of his recordings had been incorporated into the story. What he didn’t know was whether or not the rest of the story was what he’d actually heard – as his own memory was still a blank. Apart from Louis smiling at him and saying: “I’m a vampire!”
There was only one conclusion he could come to - some bastard had got hold of his tapes, and then used them to write this book.
By the time he skim-read to the end of the book, he knew without doubt that ‘the boy’ had to be him. The clincher was the way the character in the book identified Louis’s accent in the bar – the same damn place he’d met Louis. It was a come-on line of his. He used to practise it on taxi drivers, barbers and shopkeepers and then use what he’d learnt to hit on strangers.
As for that part near the end, where the vampire bit ‘the boy’ – if that didn’t explain the damn scars on his neck, what did?
Something had happened to him in San Francisco, and not just a spectacularly bad trip. The interview he’d recorded had somehow ended up in a novel. He had no proof, so couldn’t sue, but he was pissed that whoever had written the damn book had the audacity to insert him into the narrative. All he had to back up any allegations he chose to make was that he’d been in San Francisco in 1973 and left that very same gay bar in the company of some dude called Louis.
Then, in 1985, a second book was published centred on Louis’s maker, boyfriend and general pain in the ass from the first book. Same author, but totally different tone to the first, the conceit being that The Vampire Lestat was narrated by the eponymous character himself. The whole tone couldn’t be more different. Daniel diligently carried out some research of his own. There had been a rock band, originating from New Orleans, that had taken their name from one of the characters in the original vampire novel. He guessed that the writer had incorporated that detail into their second book, writing the vampire as a modern day rockstar reflecting on his fucked up life.
What really got the investigative journalist in him excited was finding out the reason the actual, real life band had split up. He’d seen the headlines in the trashy papers at the drugstore, but never bothered following up on them until he made the connection between what happened to him and Lestat de Lioncourt. It couldn’t be a coincidence that it happened in San Francisco – a mass hysteria event at the band’s sell out concert at the Cow Palace. What was really odd was that the lead singer kept the name, despite the bad press, with articles in the music papers suggesting he was working on a solo project in preparation for a relaunch of his career.
Then, a year after the book had been published, another scandal emerged implicating Lestat de Lioncourt, this time in Australia. It was in all the papers – lurid accounts of an abduction, animal sacrifice and suspected murder. Daniel was fascinated enough to get hold of all the papers reporting on the story. It had started with reports that an Aussie newsreader from a TV station had been kidnapped and then, once he was found in a motel near the airport, the official statement from Lestat’s agents declared that Jennings had been kidnapped by some deranged fans who’d mistaken him for the French rockstar. Looking at the photos, Daniel could see the similarity. If he squinted and drew long hair on the news guy.
He was ready to dismiss the conspiracy theories, siding with speculation that it had all been a publicity stunt by the rockstar that had got totally out of hand. That was until he saw the photos of Jennings on the gurney, being whisked past the press on his way into hospital. There were marks on the side of his neck, like puncture marks, two of them, directly over the jugular vein, in exactly the same place as the scars he still had. Two trickles of blood were visible.
Daniel had got hold of the transcripts of all the news coverage he could find about the kidnapping. Every single report stated that Jennings had no memories of what happened to him. Most of the analysis put that down to the blow he’d received to the back of his head.
Sure.
Just like Daniel had assumed the fuzzy memories he had were down to a four-day bender and drug-induced black-outs.
If he’d not been suspicious before, he was even more on edge after getting a phone call from Armand, less than twenty-four hours after Jennings had been found in that motel. What he wanted Daniel to do was unethical and could have ruined his reputation as a journalist with integrity. But somehow or other, that smooth-tongued bastard convinced him to provide an alibi for Lioncourt.
The lure had been a promise of an exclusive interview with Lestat de Lioncourt, maybe even in his private home. All he had to say was that he’d been interviewing the rockstar when Jennings had been taken from his Melbourne home. Armand offered compensation in terms of a generous advance fee for the article he was going to submit following the interview.
Scruples be damned.
No one had managed to interview Lioncourt, or whatever the guy’s real name was. There was a story there to be told … he’d seen articles in the gutter press about people being set on fire at the Cow Palace concert, heads exploding and Lestat leaving with some guy on the back of his Harley-Davison. These rumours were quashed in more erudite papers, mostly on account of the sources being students stoned out of their skulls. But Daniel’s journalistic instincts told him there was no smoke without fire. He’d been in touch with ex-colleagues who were still working at the San Francisco Chronicle and the LA Times and asked them to send him whatever they could find in the archives. He needed names of people who were there and were still lucid enough to answer a few questions over the phone.
There’d been a cover up for sure and it could be the making of him if he was the one to expose the truth – because it sure as hell had to involve the authorities, so there must have been somebody getting backhanders to shut down the real story. Meanwhile, he sensed there was definitely something shady about Lioncourt, not least of all his links to the kidnapping of Jennings in Melbourne.
It occurred to him that perhaps Lioncourt had something to do with what happened to him as well as Jennings. He had to speak to the Aussie guy – as far as he knew, he’d not given an interview to anyone else. Maybe, between them they could help each other remember what had happened to them?
Deciding to sound the guy out, Daniel sent copies of ‘Interview with the vampire’ and ‘The vampire Lestat’ to Dale Jennings via the News at Six studio in Melbourne. He used labels from his publishers to make the package look legit, but didn’t put his name on the outside. . However, he did slip a personal business card inside one of the books. There was no way of telling if the guy would ever bother getting back to him, but he was Jennings he’d want to grab hold of the chance to work with another journalist to lift the lid on whatever shit had gone down with them both.
Melbourne 1986
[Previously in ‘One of our reporters is missing’]
“What’s the package?” asked Tim, frowning as he took it from Helen. He looked at the sender’s details and showed them to Dale. “You know who it’s from?”
“No,” replied Dale, looking puzzled. “But the address is for a publishing house in New York, perhaps a journalist.”
The package contained two books, one was a paperback and the other a hardback, with the titles: ‘Interview with the vampire’ and ‘The Vampire Lestat’.
Before he could say a word, Helen had stormed over and snatched them from his hands.
“Fuck – that’s a sick joke,” she growled. “Someone needs to report the bastard who sent them.”
Before Dale could say another word, she had tossed both books into the rubbish bin.
“Why those particular books?” asked Dale, pointing at the bin.
Taking his hand, Helen led him to the dining table and prompted him to sit down. Tim followed and sat on his other side.
“Remember what we talked about before?” Helen had got used to his memory failing repeatedly whenever she tried to discuss with him what he’d been through. “Whoever kidnapped you thought you were the rock singer, Lestat de Lioncourt. Apparently, it’s not his real name – he just named himself and his band after a character in those books.”
“Yeah,” agreed Tim, a hand gently squeezing Dale’s shoulder. “According to what I read on the album cover, one of the band members had been reading the book and that’s how they chose the name of the band when he joined as lead singer. They were originally called Satan’s Night Out – that was a better name if you ask me.”
Later that evening, Dale decided to retrieve the books from the bin. It didn’t seem right, throwing away brand new books. He could take them to the charity shop. Perhaps he’d read them first. After all he was still off work and they’d give him something new to read.
Flicking through the paperback, he caught sight of a bright yellow sticky note stuck to a calling card. The same name as on the packaging was on the card, along with a New York address and phone number.
The note read:
‘Dale – you don’t know me. I read in the papers that you can’t remember a thing. But I bet you’ve got a small scar on your neck you never had before. Read these books and then, if you still want answers, call me’
It was signed: Daniel Molloy (aka ‘the boy’)’
A month had passed since he’d been discharged from hospital, and Dale was still recuperating. Lindsay made it clear he wasn’t taking any chances putting ‘flaky Dale’ on camera, so he spent most days twiddling his thumbs at Helen’s place. Both Helen and Tim were out working during the week, while all Dale could do was read. Having exhausted the collection that Helen had he got a taxi back to his flat, with the intention of collecting some more books to read and doing some laundry for himself. Pottering around in his old flat, with the stereo blasting out in the background was therapeutic.
After reheating one of the meals his mum had put in the freezer for him, Dale called Helen’s office number and told her he was going to stay at his flat overnight. He’d been feeling guilty about waking up her and Tim in the middle of the night, calling out in his sleep.
Not long after leaving the message, Helen rang him back, concerned that surely his nightmares would be worse in the actual place where he was abducted. However, he managed to persuade her that it was just for one night and that perhaps he could confront his fears better if he wasn’t worrying about waking her up.
Deciding to have an early night, he made himself a mug of Milo with hot milk and was about to finish reading a library book that was long overdue when he remembered the books he’d got out of the waste bin and hidden in his underwear drawer.
Checking the order in which the books should be read, he took the paperback copy of Interview with the Vampire to bed with him. As he turned the pages, he felt something stirring – memories maybe. It wasn’t just that the names seemed familiar to him – after all Tim and Helen had explained to him that the rockstar going by the name Lestat de Lioncourt was the person he’d been mistaken for when he’d been kidnapped. Lestat and Armand were odd names, but he felt as if he knew them as well. Reading the book, he could hear the name Louis de Pointe du Lac spoken with a sultry southern drawl. In the book, Louis was a plantation owner- and that just did not fit with the image conjured up in Dale’s mind when he pictured the character. What did strike him as he read the book was that Louis had been through a major bust-up with Lestat – and that definitely rang a bell.
He stayed up all night, not even the warm, milky Milo made him sleepy as he read the book from cover to cover. Come morning, he started to read the next one. He definitely felt as if he knew those people – well, three of them. It wasn’t just because of the vivid writing, because, apart from Lestat, whose character leapt out of the pages at him, the characters he saw in his head didn’t match their book descriptions. Louis was all wrong, far from being pale as milk, he saw him as bronzed and radiant, and as for Armand, again, the book conflicted with the image he had in his head when he closed his eyes. He was tall, not short, older and not red-haired. All three prowled his mind like felines, searching for prey – and he felt sure he had narrowly escaped being on the menu.
Taking hold of the card he’d been using as a bookmark, he called Noelene asking if she could see what she could find out about Daniel Molloy – basically, was he really a journalist and writer, working for or associated with the publishing company Catalina Imprints?
She called back within the hour to let him know she’d made a call to the company in New York and had discovered that Daniel Molloy did work for them freelance – writing articles for various newspapers and magazines. He’d also written a book as an investigative journalist on the environmental crisis of acid rain called ‘Under the burning sky’.
Deciding there was nothing to lose, Dale checked the time zone differences and after working out it would be late afternoon in New York, he called the number on the business card. If Helen knew what he was doing, she’d be furious with him, but it was a potential lead he couldn’t ignore.
A gruff voice grunted at him from the other end, the sound of someone who was a chain smoker. “Molloy here, what can I do for you?”
“Mister Molloy? Um … this is Dale Jennings,” he paused and waited a moment. “You sent me some books.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Sure… I was starting to think you were never gonna call me. Jeez … give me a second …” There was the sound of furniture being shifted and a match being struck. “Hey, I’m so glad you got in touch. Tell me - did you read them? The books?”
“Yes. Well, I read the first one and just started the other. I –“
“Don’t say anything else!” snapped Molloy. “Can’t guarantee my phone’s not bugged. Or yours for that matter.”
“Who would bug… oh of course, you can’t say, in case they are …” Dale rubbed his face and wondered if the guy was just another conspiracy theorist, like Tim had suggested when he’d first received the mysterious package. “It’s all true, isn’t it?”
“Kinda … I think … well, put it this way, I’m damn sure there’s a factual basis for what’s in the books. However, there are parts which… you’re gonna think I’m crazy… but in places I get a feeling it’s not accurate… deliberately.”
“Such as?” asked Dale, nervously running his fingers through his hair. He’d got the same feeling, but for all he knew the guy on the other end of the line was wearing a hat made of kitchen foil.
“Without giving away specifics, there’s an adolescent redhead in the books that really bugs me...”
Dale nodded eagerly. “Oh my God … yes! Should be older, dark curly hair and- ”
“Yeah! And the main guy in the first book? Wrong colour…”
“Lou- ”
“Stop there! Don’t say anything else – but you and me? We need to talk about this in person, face to face.”
“What?” blurted out Dale. “I’m on indefinite leave from work… I can’t afford to fly half way around the world- ”
“Listen up, I’m gonna be calling in a favour to get an interview with a certain blond rockstar, as described in the book you’re reading. Why don’t you come over and interview him with me?”
Dale licked his lips, keen to say yes, yet anticipating the reaction from Helen and Tim if he flew off to the States on a hunch. “I’m tempted, but I just don’t have the funds and News at Six aren’t going to pick up the tab- ”
“I’ll buy the tickets for you – you can pick them up at the airport when you check in.”
Dale’s heart was racing. He needed answers and this seemed like an unexpected opportunity to get them. Surely Helen wouldn’t object to him following up on this… Then it occurred to him that maybe she’d be happier if he didn’t go alone. After all, Tim was no longer working for News at Six and was about to finish on the documentary he’d been filming.
“Can I bring a cameraman with me? Someone to record the interview maybe, or at least take pictures. Do you think that would be acceptable?”
He heard Molloy exhale and then tap his fingers. “You got someone you trust? I mean… I don’t know how this is gonna go down. And we really need to talk first.”
“There is someone I know… he’s a … he’s a close friend. He was instrumental in discovering where I was being held…” Dale paused as it occurred to him that if anything, Tim knew more about what happened to him than he did. He was certain both Tim and Helen were keeping details from him. “He knows as much, if not more than I do.”
“Sure, if you can vouch for the guy. Why not? Give me his name and I’ll get tickets in both your names. I’ve got a spare room if you don’t mind sharing – ”
Dale felt himself blushing as he quickly assured Molloy that wasn’t going to be an issue. “No, we don’t mind sharing.”
“Ah … that kinda close friend, huh? Cool with me.”
“It’s not…” Dale felt flustered, on the verge of saying it wasn’t what it was. “We can find a hotel if that would be more convenient…”
“No sweat, man. Really. Why don’t you call me back when you know when you can get here and I’ll sort out flight arrangements.”
Chewing his lip, Dale nodded, it was all happening so fast, but having something to do was what he needed. “I need to discuss it first with … Tim of course and … another friend… but I’m in. There are questions I need answers to.”
“Me too, buddy.”
When he put down the receiver, Dale felt simultaneously relieved and terrified.
What the hell was he getting himself into?