999, EMERGENCY.

PC Lyle Cowell looked through the letterbox of the house in Holland Park and said, "Hello?"

"That never works," said PC Chris Drake.

"You got to try, though," and he shouted again: "Hello, anyone in there?"

"Is this to do with those bodies disappearing? Those clubbers? And last night's murders?"

"I guess so," said Cowell, peeking through the letterbox. "Someone heard a scuffle here last night. Didn't send anyone at the time. Too busy making tea, no doubt. Sarge said be careful."

"Sarge said be careful? I don't want to hear that, Lyle, I don't want to hear 'be careful'."

"You don't want to hear 'be careful'?"

"I don't want to be told that I need to be careful because being told that I need to be careful means that I could be in danger."

"I guess so. But I'd rather know that I need to be careful if I was going to be in danger," said Cowell. He tried the doorknob. He shouldered the door. He heard Drake wander off and said a secret thank you.

"Window open down here," said Drake. Cowell leaned over the railings. His colleague peered through the window into what must be the basement.

"Is it a separate flat or something?" said Cowell.

"Dunno. It's dark in there."

"O.K.," said Cowell, trotting down the steps to join his colleague, "let's go in," and he started clambering up to the open window.

Drake grabbed him saying, "Hold your horses, mate, shouldn't we call back-up?"

"Back-up? We are back-up, Drakey. We've been sent here, they're not going to send anyone else, are they. To an empty house? To a posh area like this?"

"Yeah, but a 'Be careful' empty house."

Cowell sighed. He pulled himself up and stepped through the window. The chill hit him. "Like winter in here - and stinks - oh, man - fishy - "

"You want me to come in?"

"Yes, Drakey, I want you to come in."

Cowell listened for any noise as Drake spluttered and grunted his way through the window. "Less pies more press-up for you, Drakey," he said.

Drake, still clambering into the house, panted and said, "Shit, it really does stink -" and then he dropped and his feet clumped on the concrete floor.

They stood in the gloom. Cowell's eyes grew accustomed to the murk and he saw the shape of the room. A door stood at the far end. "Come on," he said, heading towards it.

A sob stopped him. His heart grew cold.

Drake said, "What was that?"

"You heard it, too?"

"Yes, I heard it, too. What was it? Came from over there." Drake pointed to the far right corner that was draped in shadow.

The sob came again.

Cowell flicked on his torch. The light sliced across the darkness and settled on a shape, huddled in the corner. It flinched and hissed when the beam brushed over it.

"Hello? Are you all right?" said Drake, stepping towards the figure.

It looked into the beam, into Cowell's face, and he gasped. A finger of fear crawled up his spine. The light held the pale face and Cowell saw the eyes, red and hostile. His bowels chilled and he thought he should warn Drake. But she was a girl, a dark-haired girl in her twenties. Drake wouldn't feel threatened. He got nervous around big, tough blokes with knives - but girls, no. But Cowell said it anyway: "Be careful, Drakey."

Cowell held the torch on the girl. She hissed again, baring he teeth. Did she have - fangs? He squinted. He said, "Drakey, she's got - "

"What?" said Drake. "She's got what -?" and Drake turned round to look at Cowell and the girl shot out of the corner, ploughing into Drake. He yelped, hit the floor, the girl crawling all over him.

Cowell shouted his name and slashed the beam after them. Drake screeched. "She's biting me, she's fucking biting me," he said.

Cowell got his baton out, called for her to stop.

She growled and Drake shrieked, and Cowell heard gurgling as he rushed forward. The girl looked up into the light and Cowell froze. Blood smeared her mouth and chin. It drizzled down her jaw.

"Drakey," he said, but Drake didn't say anything. Cowell backed away, his bladder feeling heavy and cold. He lowered the beam and said, "Drakey" again, and the light settled on Drake. When Cowell saw the blood, he could smell it, too. A gaping wound in Drake's throat, the skin shredded like material that had been torn. Blood spilled from the ribbons of arteries.

Cowell stared at his colleague. The girl flew towards him.

He swung the baton. He screamed. She barged him, and he fell.

He shouted for help and tried to scrabble away, but she jumped on his back and nuzzled the back of his neck.

It felt weird; it felt sexy and terrifying.

And then it became only terrifying.

She bit into the side of his neck and started sucking. Cowell screamed and struggled, but she held him tight.

He pissed himself, the stench filling the basement. The blood drained out of his body. He grew weaker, felt himself go cold as the girl drank from him.

He moaned, too weak to save himself now, and heard the throbbing of the blood as it moved through his veins and out of his body, and everything he was slid away and darkness closed around him and all the light in him faded.

© Thomas Emson 2008