Language in the Blood by Angela Lockwood

Author:Angela Lockwood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: vampire, comedy, humour, scottish, art and jewellery, europe and history

Chapter 16: Eugene

Bloody, fucking Eugene Banks! He was one of those serious types you’d find in the quieter jazz clubs in 1940’s Paris, who always wanted to discuss weighty issues. Every time I saw him I wanted to sink my fangs into his pale, thin neck. He and George had become quite inseparable because of their shared love of jazz and literature.

I’d come to realise that George and I were very different. He was much more serious, liked to read books and had an interest in politics. I would never say he enjoyed himself, but he liked going to jazz clubs and talking to other young people about literature and music. Eugene worked at the American embassy in Paris and I tolerated him as he was a useful contact to have, but the feeling of loathing was mutual.

‘Why do you hate Eugene so much?’ George asked me once.

‘He hates me too. I just find him very pale and uninteresting and his girlfriend Elaine is ugly.’ I’d have loved to chat her up and break Eugene’s heart by getting off with her, but frankly she was so mousy it would have been embarrassing. I did have a reputation to uphold.

‘Are you jealous of him?’ he asked me.

‘Jealous? What! Of that ginger weed?’ I said outraged. I had hoped George and I would have become better friends, after all he was my creation, but he preferred Eugene’s company to mine.

‘And what is Eugene’s problem with me? I am always charming.’

George gave me a mocking smile. ‘He thinks you have no morals.’

‘Pfff,’ I said shrugging my shoulders.

The next time I needed to talk to Eugene I found him in a café somewhere near Montmartre. It was a fine spring night and he, ugly Elaine and George were discussing French politics. Something about a fourth republic and a referendum and I didn’t understand any of it.

‘God, you lot are boring,’ I whined in frustration. None of them was particularly interested in art, so conversations were always difficult.

‘I don’t understand why you and Cameron live together,’ said Eugene to George.

‘It’s my flat and George, my old army buddy, needed a place to stay. By the way. Were you in the army, Eugene?’ I said, leaning back in my chair and looking at him intently.

‘No. I didn’t pass the medical,’ Eugene said, his pale little eyes shooting daggers.

‘Bet the doctor couldn’t locate your spine,’ I said, throwing him my most charming smile.

‘Very funny, Cameron. But no, I have asthma,’ he snapped at me looking uncomfortable.

George wasn’t pleased with that conversation and told me so on the way home.

‘How dare you bring up his army record? You’re wanted for desertion and you were hiding out in a cowshed until I dragged you along reluctantly!’ he hissed at me.

‘Unfair! I died for my country! Most soldiers stop fighting at that point and I didn’t want to be the exception!’ I was pleased by the fact I had managed to annoy them both.

By the summer of 1946, I hardly saw George.

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