New beginnings and fateful meetings

It has been an age since I put ink to paper. Or rather, since this device that Angie has gifted to me has. She says if I post it, it’ll go into the bog? I’m not sure I can quite fathom what she means. Inept, though I am, I will persevere.
 
Regardless, in light of last night’s events, I feel compelled to write all that has transpired.
 
I have never thought of myself as someone who plays well with others. Nor have I thought myself as someone who abides by regulations that were not implemented by my own doing. I am not one of them, so why should I? I am adrift here, unhinged from either reality, unable to claw my way back like some rabid dog needed to be put down.
 
Angie is always quick to remind me that this kindred society is not my house, and I am its guest. I suppose her words hold some merit. I have not been put down yet.
 
I received an invitation the day before last, although it was unsigned save for the initials V.C. The letter requested my presence on Victoria Street. I assumed (incorrectly) that it was addressed to myself alone, but when I arrived there were others. Two men and a woman. The men, admittedly forgettable, but the woman was charming. Although her figure is quite immodest, her character is anything but. I wonder if she is as sweet on the inside as she appears on the outside. Given the chance, I’m sure most would not refuse her solicitation for better acquaintance (I find myself not immune to these imaginings).
 
When I knocked upon the door there was no answer. One of the men - the one predisposed to gaudy suits - boorishly invited himself inside. I could already tell that it would be most troublesome company.
 
Inside we are greeted by a man in a tan suit and the sight of train tracks. The man introduces himself as Jackson Crow. He informs us that he is a butler (although I am loathe to admit much better dressed than mine). We follow him along the tracks until we find the dining car, shabby though it is. Inside the lights are too bright and the liquor bottles are too few and half empty (although I have never tasted the stuff and shan’t ever). There is a stage and the rafters are quiet and dark.
 
Mr. Crowe presents us with a job. We are to find a woman and silence her. In exchange we will be given freedom.
 
Dossier: Madison Larkin (form. Bridges). 27. Chestnut hair. 2 year old son. Address - 6/29 Little Bourke St. Works for newspaper at 147 Russell St.
 
But what of those of us who do not truly desire to be free? If I am own haunting, then Angie will leave. Just like the others. And if I don’t have her then what do I have?
 
I see Angie’s face then, from up above, although I’m not sure if it’s really her or someone else. The haunted mind oft plays tricks and makes games of memories. When I see her face I am aloft with despair. I want to draw near to her, be with her, by her. But every time I draw close she pulls further away. How is one to keep someone who does not wish to be kept?
 
The man in the flashy suit - Mr. Anton - uses some device to find the woman we’re seeking. Something about Russians and illicit goods and wares operating out of the Docklands. We take a car to her address and find her residence. It is part of a tiny complex that is grotesquely modern.
 
I attend Mr. Anton upstairs while the others remain downstairs. The meet we meet at the door - Madison’s husband - is a pitiful excuse of a human. In this instance I do not blame Mr. Anton for losing his temper, but things quickly spiral out of control. The others come upstairs and the state of affairs worsens. None of them have learnt like I have, even if I am not like them at all. Not yet, but they will.
 
Before he telephones the police, we learn that his wife has been out at all hours, particularly around the Docklands (that name keeps cropping up), and she has been with a man. He is visibly enfeebled and distraught, and the appearance of the others only exacerbates the problem.
 
Scribbled note: - Contact: Stephen Curnow (Ventrue. Anarch Council. Connections to Docklands Park), Nothing going on between them (?), Kennedy Assoc.
 
I take the man and suck his spirit out. He is much quieter now.
 
I would say that he is bleeding out on the floor but he’s actually shrunken and bloodless. The others seem troubled (although some less than others), but they will no doubt understand soon. I feel myself connect a little better with them now. Feel myself become grounded; corporeal. And then the feeling dissipates like smoke curling off the length of a Chesterfield.
 
We discover photographs of the man and child and Miss Larissa complains and cries endlessly. Does she really care for this ill-fated man and company, or has she not yet learned the bitterness of this un-life? I have learned not to mind the cattle so much.
 
Scribbled on notepaper torn out: - Vamp story with photo of Nosferatu. Lot 7, North Wharf Rd, Shipping Container Serco 87. Secured freight coming in.
 
The others contact the mother (through some little device) stating that her child is gravely ill, but the mother pays no mind to the message.
 
The father is still on the carpet. Before we can decide what to do with his body, there is a commotion at the door. A woman with a terrible temper and a feculent manner of speaking appears. With her is a man with much improved decorum. They introduce themselves as Ducky and Alex.
 
Apparently she has been waiting for us, but thought it was necessary to intervene. We unburden ourselves of the corpse on the floor and the baby in the nursery. In exchange we are to meet her at her establishment
 
We leave.