Restricted Airspace

The knocks echoed on the doors, like someone hammering coffin nails to the rhythm of ‘Shave and a Haircut’.

Altwidus Beckette, in that foggy space between sleep and waking, bolted upright.

And cracked his forehead against the casket lid.

‘Ow, bugger it,’ he mumbled, rubbing his head.

The knocks came again, impatient.

Altwidus opened the lid and sat upright with arms outstretched. He stepped from the casket, drifting to the ground in the way that a brick wouldn’t.

Knock, knock-knock-knock, knock. Knock-knock. ‘Hello? Mr Beckette? We need to speak with you. It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.’

Altwidus scowled. He’d survived for long enough to know what was happening. It hadn’t happened for quite some time. In his heart – his cold, dead heart – part of him had hoped that it would never happen again. People had grown too civilised for this sort of thing. Well, he’d fought off villagers with torches and pitchforks before, and he could do it again. Thank Satan he slept in his suit and cape, otherwise they might have caught him off guard.

Altwidus prowled toward the castle doors, footsteps whispering over the stone. He paused, hand poised on the handle, bracing himself. He straightened, bared his fangs, twisted his face into a snarl, and curled his free hand into a claw.

And threw the door open.

‘WHO DARES TO DISTURB ME FROM MY SLUMB—’

On the doorstep were two middle-aged men, one balding, the other with glasses. They wore high-vis vests over shirts and ties, along with trousers and ugly shoes not built for the hike up here. One held a clipboard and a pen; the other, a folder. Both wore lanyards with ID badges dangling from their necks – their pink, juicy necks.

‘—ber?’ finished Altwidus, frowning.

‘Good evening, Mr Beckette,’ said Glasses, flashing his badge.

‘Who—?’

‘Evening,’ echoed Bald, flashing his in return.

Altwidus glanced from one badge to the other. He squinted at the names and the pictures – taken back when Bald wasn’t, and Glasses didn’t have any. He looked at the logo and read the name. ‘The Civil Avia—’

Glasses cut him off before he could finish. ‘I’m Jack Miles and this is my associate, Curtis Mills. We’re from the Civil Aviation Authority. Do you have any idea of why we’re here to speak with you this evening at quarter to nine in the evening?’

Altwidus swallowed. Why would the Civil Aviation Authority arrest him for eating humans? That seemed like a job for the police or the army. Or a mob, if they were feeling traditional about it. Had standards slipped that far? Still, they’d caught him. He could eat them, but more would follow. Starting a war with mortals wasn’t wise. He forced a smile. ‘Why, officers, I haven’t the slightest idea why you’re—’

‘Don’t play games with us,’ said Glasses. ‘We have evidence.’

Oh, Satan. In his old age, Altwidus had become careless. Escaping discovery for a century had made him cocky. He winced, hand to his forehead. ‘Ah…’

Bald opened a folder containing black-and-white photographs. Glasses took a picture and held it before the vampire. It showed a grainy image of a bat with vampire fangs flying above the city. ‘Picture 1-A,’ he said.

Altwidus blinked. The bat was him, sure. Who could ignore those rugged good looks? But, as far as he could tell, no crime was being committed in this photo. He shrugged. ‘Yes?’

Glasses looked at him, incredulous. ‘So you do admit that this is you in the photograph?’

‘Why, yes, but—’

Glasses showed him more photos: flying by a skyscraper, atop a tower, near a plane, above the airport. ‘Do these look familiar?’

‘Sure, but I don’t think any of them are evidence that I’ve kille—’

‘Au contraire,’ said Glasses. ‘These are all damning pieces of evidence that you, Mr Beckette, have violated air traffic laws on multiple occasions. Flagrantly, might I add.’

‘Air… traffic laws?’ asked the vampire.

‘Flagrantly,’ whispered Bald with a shake of his head.

Altwidus struggled for words.

A heartbeat passed in silence between them, stretching long enough to become uncomfortable.

‘And that’s all you’re here for? No… murders?’

Glasses puffed his chest. ‘We deal with far more serious matters. Do you know how many flights you’ve carelessly delayed?’

‘Flights?’

‘Carelessly,’ echoed Bald.

Altwidus blinked. ‘No, I’ve no idea.’

Glasses pointed a finger at him. ‘At least one! On their way for a holiday in Benidorm. Delayed by forty minutes.’

‘I see, and what—’

Bald tutted.

‘—and what exactly is the punishment for such a crime?’

Glasses looked over the top of his glasses. ‘A fine. Of five-thousand pounds,’ said Glasses. ‘Plus an administrative fee, naturally. Processing, paperwork, the usual.’

Altwidus relaxed. ‘Just a fine? No stake through the heart, flames, or sun? No chains or garland of garlic?’

Glasses shook his head. He pulled out a sheet of paper and took Bald’s pen. He smoothed the sheet flat against the clipboard and turned it to face the vampire. He tapped the line and clicked the ballpoint pen. ‘Sign here, please.’

Altwidus signed, his name looking wrong on the page, too alive somehow, too official.

‘We’ll be monitoring your activity from now on, looking specifically for violations of air traffic laws.’

Altwidus felt dread flex its wings inside his chest. Not a stake, not fire, not the sun: surveillance. Attention was poison for a creature of the night. ‘I see,’ he said.

Glasses nodded, satisfied. ‘Now, regarding the fine, we accept cheque or bank transfer.’

Altwidus hesitated. He hadn’t kept up to date with human finances. ‘What about gold dubloons?’

‘Cheque or bank transfer,’ repeated Glasses, before they turned and left.

Alone, Altwidus made a small noise, echoing through the castle. Humans had evolved: no mobs, only rules and bureaucracy. Much worse. At least with mobs, you knew where you stood. He gazed at the night sky, no longer his. He sighed, the sound thin and useless in a place like this.

It seemed he’d have to hunt on foot from now on.