His Vampyrrhic Bride

by Simon Clark

  ‘Are you sure he was dead?’

  ‘If you’d seen his skull, you’d have known he was dead. The back of his head didn’t bulge out any more, it bulged in.’ Tom wiped his knuckles across his mouth. His tongue was so dry it felt as if it had acquired a coating of that parched African dust. ‘The dead man’s friends ran away as fast as they could. My father had saved the generator. And that meant he could save lives.’ Tom shook his head. ‘I’ve never told anyone that my father killed a man.’

  ‘You were being robbed.’

  ‘We were, but that didn’t stop the nightmares I had for years afterwards. If anything, what happened later was even harder to understand. Dad grabbed hold of the dead boy by the feet and dragged him into the forest. I remember the tennis racquet T-shirt got all rucked up. Even back then, I knew my dad was leaving the body for the leopards to get rid of.’ He managed a dry croak of a laugh. He heard the sound of a scared little boy in there. One who’d bottled up the truth for too long. ‘Before we drove off my father turned to me and said: “Tom we won’t mention what happened today to your mother, will we? We don’t want to scare her.” Then he held out his hand for me to shake. “In fact, don’t tell anyone. We have to keep this a secret.” After we’d shaken hands, and I’d promised not to tell, he drove the generator to the village. By nightfall the pump was bringing in clean water. Lives would be saved. And do you know what he did next?’ He looked at Mrs Bekk. ‘Later that evening, Dad took that same bottle of champagne out of the fridge, opened it, and my parents celebrated their anniversary.’

  Mrs Bekk squeezed his hand; a gesture of reassurance.

  ‘So there you are,’ he said bluntly. ‘Everyone tells me Dad’s a saint. I saw him kill a man, then leave the body to be eaten by animals. Hardly saintly, is it?’

  ‘You’ve got two conflicting images of your father. You’ve seen him do so much good in the world. You also saw him kill another human being in order to protect the generator.’

  ‘And I know the generator saved lives. Even so, my father’s got blood on his hands.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I believe, Tom. You saw what your father did to the man. Since then you’ve kept asking yourself if there are times when it’s necessary to do something bad in order to make good things happen.’

  ‘So you think I should be mature enough to reconcile what happened when I was ten? That my father was justified in taking one life in order to save dozens of lives?’

  ‘No. This isn’t really about your father, Tom – this is about you. Soon you’re going to have to do something similar. You will have to act in a way that seems terrible. You will be forced to be cruel. You will act in a way that is so contrary to what you believe is right. But you will commit that terrible act, because you know that the end result will be good. You will do the unthinkable in order to save someone.’

  ‘Who? Nicola?’

  She nodded. ‘And the only way you can save the woman you love is by rejecting her.’

  He wasn’t angry; instead, he spoke softly and directly from the heart. ‘Mrs Bekk, I’m going to break whatever it is that has a hold over Nicola. I don’t know if it’s you, or if there really are Viking gods that inflict curses. But Nicola will be set free. And I’m going to marry her.’

  Would Mrs Bekk fly into a rage at such a statement? He expected her to begin screaming.

  No, it wasn’t like that at all. She gave a sad, sweet smile. ‘You might be like your father yet. Just for a moment, wasn’t he the brave knight with the sword of righteousness? Killing the enemy that threatened the lives of the children? You might become the St George of this valley that slays the dragon. Or you might be forced to kill the one you love in order to save the lives of people you don’t even know.’

  He felt as if he occupied a realm that wasn’t part of the world he’d always known. He’d crossed over a threshold now, where strange and dangerous events weren’t just possible – they were inevitable. Frightening times lay ahead.

  Tom put his foot on the accelerator. A moment later he was heading towards the flooded village of Danby-Mask. They were just moments away from the flooded streets. Night wasn’t far away either. Already, the sunlight turned the waters that flooded the valley as red as blood.

  Tom found himself picturing Helsvir swimming in those blood waters. The monster would be at home there. The gruesome faces of the dead would be smiling from the monstrous body.

  Maybe Mrs Bekk had somehow pulled the hypnosis trick on him again . . . How else had she made him entertain such a strange notion? OK, he thought. Get your head together. Focus on what’s important. First, you must find Nicola. Then you can deal with Bolter. Payback time.

  FORTY-NINE

  Bolter loved what he saw. Bloody loved it!

  Danby-Mask had been wrecked by the flood. Just look at the mess. See all those smashed-up houses. Bolter pushed another amphetamine on to his tongue. He crunched up the bitter pill, swallowed it, and felt his heart speeding up. He’d never taken so much speed before. He’d never set fire to a house before. (Have now! Ha! Ha! Nicola Bekk’s got a charcoal bed and ashes for clothes!)

  His heart did not beat inside his chest – his heart whirred!

  Bolter stood on a wall and stared at the village, loving every moment of the most glorious day of his life. Floodwater had gathered at either side of the wall, which would normally be ten feet tall. Now the dark, swirling liquid had risen within a couple of feet of the top of the brickwork. The wall itself ran out through the water like a causeway.

  Bolter danced along the top of the wall. ‘I love you, River Lepping! You awesome, beautiful river! You showed those idiots who’s boss. Lovely, lovely Lepping’s biggest smash up . . . ever!’ His amphetamine saturated body shot the words from his mouth at a million miles an hour – or so it seemed to him.

  Even though it was dusk, the drug had mangled his senses so comprehensively that the water seemed to glow, as if made from light. Red roof tiles became slices of raw sirloin. Sweat poured from his face as he danced. His heart now screamed in his chest – he was sure it screamed an awesome jet-engine scream.

  He pranced along the wall. The glittering waters were dancing along at either side of him. Cars floated by. Then the body of a cow, its legs comically (to him) sticking up in the air. He laughed a high, screaming laugh that mated its sound with the jet-engine scream of his heart.

  ‘Wow! This is the best day of my life,’ he yelled. ‘Today I’m going to work miracles. From this moment on, this will be known as Bolter Day!’ Bolter pointed at houses near the river. ‘Look at them bastards. They’re completely underwater. Even the chimneys!’

  There was nobody to hear him. The houses had been abandoned hours ago. Even so, he still continued to give a commentary, as if he’d become a TV reporter breaking exciting, just-happening news to an audience that hung on his every word.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, here I am, on top of a wall that runs the full length of Netherton Lane. See how the water laps the rooftops. Perhaps you can just make out St George’s, the church dedicated to some bloke who killed a bloody dragon. I’m going to ask our brave camera-operator to get a close-up of the graveyard. The gravestones are sticking up out of the water like stiff little fingers. Ha! The church is dry, though. Praise the Almighty. The church is spared. See, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the church stands on its own teeny-weeny island.’

  He started to giggle. ‘Not like the houses down the hill. They are so underwater. They are so inundated. They are so engulfed.’ He shoved his knuckles against his teeth as laughter roared from his throat. ‘Fish are swimming through kitchens. Be careful of crabs in the lavatories. And there goes a brand-new sofa.’ He pointed at a leather sofa floating serenely in eight feet of water. A duck had perched on the backrest.

  ‘I’m now walking along the wall. This is incredibly dangerous. I might fall in and be swept away. You know, when these floods hit the village, people vanish. Never to be seen again. But it is a fearless reporter’s du
ty to show you the extent of the devastation here today.’ Bolter suddenly pretended to be horrified. He gave a piercing scream that morphed into laughter. ‘Oh no! Ladies and gentlemen, our brave camera person has fallen in. She has been sucked down by vicious currents. How quickly death strikes in the drowned village of Danby-Mask!’

  The thought of his imaginary camera operator drowning struck him as so hilarious that he had to fight to keep his balance on the wall. Yet even though he laughed so much that tears filled his eyes, he realized he was no longer alone. Still blubbing with laughter he scraped the back of his hand across his eyes. So there was somebody else in the village? All the other cowardly crap-heads had stupidly run away when they could be here enjoying this lovely destruction . . .

  ‘Whoa, there goes another house. The roof’s just caved into the water with a tremendous splash . . .’ Bolter liked pretending to be on television, reporting dramatic incidents just-as-they-happen-ladies-and-gentlemen. He was reluctant to quit his imaginary role just yet, even if he had company. (It makes me feel important!) His eyes were filled with shit. Maybe the drugs, maybe the excitement: only, it was really, really difficult to get his eyes to focus.

  Bolter eventually managed to make out a figure that stood on high ground in a part of the village that was still dry. The figure watched him cavorting on the wall.

  ‘Thank you for tuning in,’ he shouted as his heart raced like crazy. ‘Keep right there for the latest events coming live from what is rapidly becoming an underwater village. People have died today . . . We will show you pictures of those dead faces in glorious pin-sharp close-up as soon as we get them.’

  ‘Bolter,’ called the figure, ‘it’s not safe there. Come over here on to dry land.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, miss. Bringing you live-action news as it happens. Hey . . .’ He dropped out of character. He was Bolter again: the sky-high drugster dressed in ripped jeans. ‘Hey . . . it’s you!’ His eyes finally identified the figure. ‘Nicola Bitch-Bekk. Hey, I burnt your house down today. I destroyed everything you own.’ He laughed. ‘What d’ya say to that, Bekk?’

  FIFTY

  Bolter danced on top of the ten foot high wall that ran through the flood. The waters of the new lake that had engulfed the village flowed at either side of him, just two feet below the soles of his muddy shoes. And here’s Nicola Bekk. She stands there like a dummy when I boast about torching her house. All her possessions – boof!

  Abruptly, he stopped dancing. Because he finally realized he’d seen something, or rather heard something that he’d never heard before. Today really is MIRACLE DAY. Nicola Bekk speaks! For a while he stood and stared at her in astonishment. He’d never heard her speak properly before. Yet here she is TALKING. USING WORDS.

  ‘You’re not really dumb after all,’ he shouted in surprise. ‘You can talk – I mean, like human talk.’

  ‘Of course I can talk. You people never gave me a chance.’

  ‘So didn’t you hear me, Bekk? I burned your house.’

  His astonishment at discovering she could speak like a normal adult quickly gave way to disappointment. The bitch didn’t get angry when he gleefully confessed to destroying her home; instead, she called in a calm voice, ‘Bolter. If you stay out there you’ll drown.’

  ‘Drown? It’s not me who’s drowning.’ Right now he wanted to provoke a reaction. Her calmness irritated him. ‘I know something you don’t know!’

  ‘Bolter. Come over here on to dry ground.’

  ‘I know where your boyfriend is.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard me . . . Tom Westonby. I know where he is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, so I’ve got your attention, have I?’ The river smashed the village. I’m going to smash her heart. He loved having this power over her. ‘I know where Tom is – you don’t.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for him. I’m starting to get worried.’

  ‘You better be.’ Bolter’s heart went beyond a jet-engine scream. ‘Because I know what happened to him.’

  ‘What do you mean, you know what happened to him?’

  ‘Me . . . I happened to him. D’ya understand? I made things happen to lover boy!’

  ‘You aren’t making any sense.’

  ‘Tom Westonby’s reached an extremely important stage in his life. A crucial stage. I’ll explain in a moment.’ He enjoyed the moment of suspense. This was like putting a gun to someone’s head and making them so scared that their eyes bulged out of their stupid face. ‘In fact, he’s reached such a vital stage in his life I don’t know if I can put what happened into words.’

  ‘Bolter, please don’t say these things. You’re making me worried.’

  ‘Wait.’ His voice rose as excitement blazed through him. ‘I actually can explain that crucial stage in crappy Tom Westonby’s life. That stage is called the Death Stage!’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Oooh, you sound frightened now, you bitch.’ He pointed across the floodwater. ‘Do you see Chester Kenyon’s workshop? Well, you can only see the roof because the rest is underwater.’

  ‘What of it?’

  Even from here he could see dread in her eyes. The woman knew she was going to hear terrible news. Bolter rubbed his belly with happiness.

  ‘Bolter, what is it about the workshop?’

  ‘I locked Chester and Tom into a room there. Look, it’s all flooded up to the roof.’ His voice soared into a shriek. ‘They’ve both drowned, you bitch! Tom’s floating there . . . and he’s all like this.’ Bolter opened his mouth and eyes wide, pretending to be a floating corpse.

  Nicola Bekk stood there. She’d gone stiff as a timber post.

  He laughed at her. ‘Don’t you get it? I’ve got more brains than they have. I trapped them in a little room. Then the flood came and, hey presto, they both drowned. Can you imagine how scared they were? Water’s coming in. They’re panicking. “Oh! Who will save us? Will I ever see Nicola Bekk again?” Then . . . glug, glug, glug. Tom Westonby is dead. I had the balls to kill him!’

  Bolter wanted tears, screams and grief. Then he’d go across there . . . console her in his own full-on, man-on-bitch kinda way.

  But no.

  She stood there – stiff as a post planted in concrete. Her face didn’t have a shred of emotion. Her eyes stared, though they didn’t really stare at him. Or at anything. Unless you really can stare at literally nothing.

  Then something happened. Something strange enough to make even the drug-hyper Bolter clear-headed.

  Just for a second, the colour went out of his surroundings. The yellow glitter fled from the floodwaters. The red roofs of the houses faded to brown. The deep blue of the sky turned a deathly grey. Just for that extraordinary second, all the colours seemed to fly towards Nicola Bekk. They flowed into her. She sucked all the vibrant hues of the world into her body, leaving a bleached ghost of a village.

  The transformation only did last for a second. Because suddenly the colours were back – the red roofs; the golden shimmer of water at twilight; the deep blue sky.

  That’s when all hell broke loose.

  The water exploded in front of Bolter. He was so startled that he very nearly toppled backwards off the wall.

  Because he’d seen what surged up from the floodwaters. This was the same creature that had attacked him and his pals at Mull-Rigg Hall: the ugly animal that consisted of human heads and limbs; a nightmare weave of corpses.

  He stared into the mass of heads with their open mouths and white, staring eyes. He recognized the faces of Pug, Grafty and Nix. They glared at him, their expressions combining horror and a frantic hunger. They wanted him. They wanted him to be part of this thing.

  The creature’s limbs acted like dozens of flippers, propelling its massive body towards the wall.

  The creature wanted him. Bolter was its target – no doubting that.

  As soon as the beast reached the wall, hands were suddenly reaching out in order to drag him into the w
ater. He heard the hissing sound the thing made. Each mouth whispered its hungry need for him. Droplets splashed his face.

  The cold shock snapped him out of that paralysis of horror. Bolter ran. There was deep water to the right and to the left of him. The creature sped along the submerged street to his left. The thing swam with only its uppermost part exposed to the air. The bulk of it lay underwater. The churning and thrashing of its limbs created waves that slammed against the brickwork – and it moved FAST.

  Bolter screamed to Nicola Bekk, ‘Call it off! Call it off!’ Deep down, he absolutely knew she controlled it. He also knew that she demanded vengeance. He’d left her boyfriend to drown in the workshop. Now she’d unleashed the beast.

  He charged along the wall that ran like a causeway through the flood. The top of the wall was barely a foot wide – a brick tightrope of a thing: so one misstep; one momentary loss of balance; one slippery patch of moss . . . Then he’d plunge into the water.

  He wouldn’t be able to outswim the monster. The sound of his pals’ snapping bones came back to him. He remembered their screams of pain. Now the heads of Pug, Grafty and Nix adorned the monster. They were part of it. They’d become living components of that nightmare beast.

  Bolter relied on the drugs he’d been gulping down to make him run faster. They don’t call this stuff SPEED for nothing. Even so, the rushing sound of that thing cutting through the water grew louder. He shot a glance back at Nicola. She stared at him with a trance stare. No emotion. No recognition. Just an eerie blankness as she watched the thug that had killed Tom Westonby being hunted down by the monster.