by Kirsty Ferry
The girl launched herself at the jeweller and grabbed him by the throat. She dragged him over the top of the counter, and sunk her teeth into his neck. There was a bloody splutter, and he fell lifeless to the floor. There was a movement behind her and she swung around, just in time to see Kester push the door open. Their eyes locked and Kester paused only for a second. She threw herself at him, but he was quick. He raised his hand and the creature impaled herself on the silver blade. Kester felt the dagger sink into her body, slicing through her strong flesh as if were water. There was an unearthly shriek and the vampire fell to the floor, crumbling into dust.
Kester stood, his heart pounding in his chest, staring at the pile of ash on the floor. His stomach started to churn and he swayed, willing himself not to faint. He had done it. He had killed one of them. His hand shaking, he stumbled across the floor and snatched the sheet with the engraving on from the counter. The picture was a talisman – he was meant to come back for it, meant to kill that creature. He knew then that his Lord had set him on the right path.
***
The trip up to Holy Island had been tedious to say the least. Kester wanted to go at a weekend, particularly on a Sunday, which had made his trip more difficult to organise. He had travelled up from London and was staying in a hotel, high up on the wind bleached Northumbrian coast. This last leg of his journey was by horse and carriage. He had spoken to the hotelier and consulted the tide tables. He knew he had a good few hours on the Island before the tide turned and cut him off from the mainland. The smoke from the lime kilns hazed the island as the carriage took Kester across the causeway. Kester wore a heavy, black cloak, wrapped up well against the gusts of wind which blew across the sea: the folds of the cloak were also an ideal place to conceal the dagger tucked into his waistband. He wanted to urge the driver to move faster, and swallowed his annoyance at the horse which was picking its way carefully along the causeway. Better to arrive safely, he told himself repeatedly, better to arrive safely. The other passenger in the carriage was an official looking gentleman, dressed for business. He carried no baggage, but sat watching the smoke from the kilns. Kester could just make out the wagons carrying carts of coal from the staithes to the kilns, and the wagons full of, he assumed, burnt lime on the way back to the ships which waited by the jetties.
‘Wonderful sight, ain’t it?’ said the carriage driver. ‘Good to see the old industry picking up again. Got to be careful though, after that ship blew up a few years ago.’ He wheezed out a laugh. ‘Aye, 1847. The William it were, from Berwick. Never forget that. The old quicklime in the hold set ablaze by the water tha’ leaked in. Then they had to wait until the tide came in and did the decent thing – put the flames out, it did. Aye, ‘twere a grand sight, that were.’ Neither Kester nor the other passenger replied, but it didn’t seem to put the old man off. He commenced singing to himself, enjoying the lament of an old Border ballad. Kester wasn’t here as a tourist and, as he had told the jeweller in Clerkenwell, he didn’t want a history lesson. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the pretty girl in the violet-sprigged dress. The image hardened his resolve to hunt the creatures down and destroy them. His ultimate ambition was to kill the one who attacked his sister, but he knew that was unrealistic. He continued staring at the Island, watching it grow closer and closer as the horse trotted across the causeway.
After some time, the land was firm beneath the horse’s hooves and the animal sped up. Kester gripped the side of the carriage as they bumped onto the Island and the man opposite him shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward as they approached the small town. The carriage driver pulled the horse to a halt and took his payment from his passengers.
‘Four hours!’ he shouted at them. ‘Be here in four hours. That will keep us safe for the journey back.’ He doffed his cap and trundled off further into the village leaving the passengers standing by the side of the track.
‘Four hours?’ said the other passenger. ‘Plenty of time.’
‘Apparently so,’ replied Kester. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must find the Priory. No doubt I will see you on the return journey.’
‘No doubt,’ said the man. He nodded at Kester and looked around him. Seeming to identify where he needed to be, he headed in the direction of the lime kilns. An inspector of works, Kester assumed. Understandable, especially as these were the new kilns, built to replace the older ones elsewhere on the Island.
Even though the Island was small, there was plenty of life on it. Fishermen wandered out of some of the cottages, heading to the coast to prepare for the tide. There were workers dotted about here and there from the lime kilns and men driving wagons on the roads. Kester soon discovered an inn on the Island. He hurried past it as it rang with laughter and chatter; he wondered vaguely if he would be able to buy some food there later on. Soon, the arch of the ruined Priory loomed over the rooftops and Kester wound his way through the tiny streets. He was acutely aware once more of the dagger he wore on his hip.
Kester reached the Priory and paused for a moment. He looked up at the position of the sun in the sky and judged where the east would be. In the east end of the Priory, he knew he would find what he was looking for: the piscina and the aumbry. For centuries, the monks of Lindisfarne would have poured unused Holy Water down the piscina, ensuring that it fed back into the earth. The aumbry would be nearby – a space where the sacrament vessels would have been kept. Kester had decided before he came to the Island where he would go to have the dagger blessed the best way he could. In the absence of monks, he would perform a simple ceremony himself. Water would have collected in the piscina over the years – it would hold a trace of whatever was holy. The dagger could be placed in the aumbry whilst Kester prayed. It was the best he could do. He stood in the Priory grounds and turned eastwards. Then he began to walk slowly through the ruins, mentally preparing himself.
A strange sort of peace hung over the Priory. Sure enough, Kester found what he was looking for in the ruins of the eastern part of the Priory church. He slipped the dagger into the hole where the aumbry had been and knelt before the raised altar of the old Priory church. He felt the spirits of generations of monks settle nearby, as if they had come to join him in his contemplation. Kester was not the first person to make a pilgrimage here and he would not be the last. The resting places of St Aidan and St Cuthbert were well documented and their tombs had originally been built at the Priory. Kester bowed his head and prayed to Aidan and Cuthbert as well as to God, and finally he looked up and gazed at the stone niche which was the site of the piscina. He stood, and, taking two small phials from his pocket, he walked over to the wall. He could see that rainwater had collected around the piscina and lay in puddles on the shelves of the small stone arches. Kester wrapped the phials in white cotton fabric and laid them on the sacred ground where the blessed water would have flooded out from the hollowed stone. The cloth was a linen handkerchief, a delicately embroidered piece, which had originally belonged to Summer. Kester felt it was appropriate – as virginal and pure as she had been. The cloth also reminded him of his purpose and the fact that he could not allow himself to fail. He murmured prayers as he performed his ritual, and then laid the squares on the shelves. The cloth soaked the moisture up quickly. Kester picked up the handkerchief and squeezed the water into the phials, half filling each one. Then he corked the phials and prayed once more. He wrapped one of them up in the cloth and scratched a hollow out of the ground. He buried the bottle by the Priory wall beneath the piscina and covered it up again. If he ever needed more Holy Water, he would know where to come. He moved over to the aumbry and took the dagger out of it. Then he sprinkled some of the water from the other bottle onto the blade. It was done. The rest was up to him.
***
Kester checked his pocket watch. He still had a while before the horse and carriage returned and decided to walk towards the lime kilns. He might see the gentleman he had travelled with. Now his task was complete, he could afford to be magnanimous and enter
tain a conversation with the site inspector.
He heard the screams and shouts before he actually saw what was happening.
‘He’s gone in! He’s gone in!’ a man was yelling. ‘Into the kilns!’
‘What happened?’ shouted another.
‘’Twasn’t even the water – twasn’t even an explosion! He just went in! He fell!’
Kester began to run. His instinct was to help the men or, at the very least, to try and provide comfort if anyone was beyond help. He had heard tales of caustic burns from these things, of men being blinded and disfigured. He never thought he would be close enough to almost witness it though.
‘Can I help?’ he shouted as he pounded across the tracks. The carts and pulleys had all stopped and the workers were swarming towards the kilns. ‘Where’s the inspector? What happened to him? Was it the inspector?’ he shouted as he ran. He felt a pang of guilt – the man had spoken to him just a couple of hours beforehand. What if the unfortunate victim had been the inspector? Alone on the Island, away from his family and friends? Kester began to run faster. It didn’t take him long to reach the crowd of men. He pushed through them and they looked at the young man in their midst, identifying him as a stranger. Kester had an air about him that made the workers instinctively turn to him and trust him.
‘It were Robbie, Sir. He just went in,’ said one of the men. ‘I saw him on the top. There were someone with him. And then he went. Sir, I’d say he was mebbe pushed...He just went all floppy, like. Then kind of folded up and went in. Then the flames started.’
‘Who was with him?’ asked Kester. ‘Who witnessed it? Did the inspector see it? Where is he?’ The noise from the kilns was deafening, the flames still shooting up into the sky as the man’s body was incinerated within.
Kester looked around for his fellow passenger, but the man he was talking to shook his head. ‘No inspectors here today, Sir. Nobody we were expecting. Don’t know who it were up there with Robbie. Was that him, do you think? He was a stranger – didn’t recognise him. Looked like he were dressed differently to us...’ The worker gabbled on and Kester stared at him.
A sickening suspicion began in the pit of his stomach, and the horror crept up through his body. ‘This man, this stranger you saw. Where is he now?’
‘Dunno, Sir. What we going to do about Robbie, Sir? He’ll be gone – no doubt about it.’
Kester shook his head helplessly. ‘Your foreman? Could he help? Where is he? I will find him and speak to him.’
‘He went around the back, Sir.’ The man indicated the shore. Kester turned and ran along the track, towards the rolling waves of the North Sea.
‘Please let me be in time,’ he prayed as he ran, ‘please let me save him.’
***
Kester rounded the corner and began to scramble through the sea grass and debris around the lime kilns. The shouts of the workers were still echoing around the area, mixed with the hissing and fizzing of the giant flames leaping out of the kiln. Quicklime was used for destroying infected bodies and slaked lime was used to disguise the reek of decaying flesh in mass burials. It had a power of its own – but Kester knew that something else on the Island that day was also dangerous and powerful. He ran, his heart pounding in his chest, until he saw the figure of the manager striding along in front of him.
He yelled at the man to stop. ‘Hey! You, Sir! You are needed at the other side of the kilns!’ he cried. ‘There may have been another accident.’ He thought quickly. ‘A rogue spark – I believe it may have landed in the crowd. Your men, Sir, they need you!’
The foreman paused and turned around, his face white with shock. ‘Pardon me?’ he said. ‘Another accident? But...’
‘Just go. Go and see them,’ gasped Kester, bending double as a stitch ripped into his side. ‘Please,’ he finished. He pointed vaguely in the direction he had just come from. ‘You’re needed....’
The foreman looked towards the sea. ‘But there’s a man – he might have seen something...’
‘And he might not have done. I will find him,’ said Kester, straightening up. ‘I will deal with him.’
‘If you’re sure Sir,’ said the foreman. He turned and began to hurry back to the crowds of workers. Kester sent a prayer of thanks up to God and prayed for forgiveness for lying to the man. It was for the greater good, though. He had probably just saved the foreman’s life. Catching his breath again, he began to run towards the sea. He rounded a corner and the man who had travelled across the causeway with him appeared from behind a broken-down fisherman’s shack. Kester stopped suddenly, inches from the man. Their eyes met, a mutual hatred registering between them.
‘You should not have come here,’ said the man. His face was still smeared with blood from the original kill – the man who had allegedly fallen into the lime kiln. ‘You will be next. You know more than these folk do.’ He bared his teeth in a snarl and Kester started as he saw the fangs. His courage must not fail him. His fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger.
‘You should not have come here,’ Kester replied. ‘This is a holy place. There is no room for creatures such as yourself.’
‘A holy place! Ha! I have travelled here from London town. I have killed in the very churchyard of St Paul’s in Knightsbridge, just streets from my home. Holiness does not matter to me.’
‘London?’ said Kester, unable to stop himself. He remembered Summer, desperate to go to the family house in Grosvenor Square. Life is more exciting there, he remembered her saying, I have friends there.
The man laughed. ‘I do not have to make conversation with you,’ he said. ‘You are worthless. I shall kill you, then kill the inhabitants of this pathetic little island one by one. The lime kilns can hide so much. The sea can wash away dead bodies. And maybe, if there is too much feasting to be had for myself alone, I shall summon my friends. Then, as I sit in my comfortable house replete, I might recall this little place fondly. I might even consider visiting another desolate, cut-off place. I hear the Scottish Isles are sparsely populated. I can spend quite some time there without drawing too much attention to myself.’ He laughed. ‘It is unfortunate, perhaps, that you have discovered me. Maybe I was rash. But I was hungry.’ He shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘As I said, the time for conversation is over. It is time for you to die...’ He lunged at Kester, who swiftly ripped the dagger out of his waistband.
Kester felt the breath of the vampire on his face and smelled the rusty odour of metallic, salty blood as it came near to him. But he was quick. He raised the dagger, just as the creature’s hands grabbed his shoulders. Kester plunged the dagger into its body and threw himself to the side as the vampire screeched, disintegrating into dust only inches away from him.
‘I’m not here for conversation,’ Kester said. He stared at the ash on the ground. At least he had killed this one. And the other one in London. He knew he could do it. And he felt a trip to Knightsbridge was imminent.
***
Kester’s family had a house in Grosvenor Square, in London. Situated in Mayfair, it was one of the most prestigious addresses in the Capital. The Lawson’s owned a relatively small property in the Square, but it was still Grosvenor Square. Dukes, Duchesses and Members of Parliament were their neighbours. Summer had often been overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place. The carriages that rolled past the windows of the house transporting beautiful ladies and smart gentlemen had her in raptures. The houses seemed to swarm with servants, and the Lawson’s servants always seemed pleased to welcome the family, especially when they went to London for the Season. It still tugged at Kester’s heart strings when he remembered how excited his sister had been about her coming-out ball. It was to be held in London, and there, it was assumed, she would meet a young man – hopefully titled – and live happily ever after. She had never experienced that. The sisters of their friends had fussed and preened and danced the Season away with scarcely a thought for Summer. Kester had been flirted with, cajoled and flattered, and had finally stopped attendi
ng the balls, much to his mother’s despair. He had no interest in any of the girls. His sister should have been there. She had deserved to be there. He was just incidental.
Grosvenor Square, however, was not too far from St Paul’s in Knightsbridge. It made Kester’s skin crawl to think how close he might have been to that creature and his ilk every time he visited the City. Perhaps the vampire had seen Summer from the windows of a carriage? Perhaps the thing had even walked past their house in the Square, or lurked around the theatres, waiting for people to leave so it could follow them? It said it had killed in the churchyard. Kester, looking out of the window and staring at the Square’s gardens, shuddered. The City could be seething with vampires: who would know? They walked amongst the people, looking and acting like humans, all the while searching for their next victim. Well, he had a lead, he supposed. He would start at the Square and wander through Knightsbridge. Sooner or later, he would come across something to help him; he had faith. One of the tall, graceful houses in that area held a secret, and he wasn’t quite sure how he would discover which house it was. He looked about the airy, high-ceilinged room he stood in, and sipped the cup of tea a servant had brought him. People ventured in and out of these houses all day – ladies visiting other ladies, gentlemen calling in on business, nannies escorting numerous well-groomed, polished children... perhaps a vampire’s house would be set apart by the lack of day to day activity? The vampire would probably live alone, surrounded by the wealth he had accrued over the decades. He might have servants; but perhaps they wouldn’t act like normal ones. Would he have people calling on him? The vampire on Lindisfarne had mentioned that he had friends. What would his friends look like? Kester sighed. The words needle in a haystack sprang into his mind. There had to be something he could look out for. He might just have to walk the streets, watching the houses for a while. It was fortunate that the time of his visit did indeed coincide with the Season, so anything out of the ordinary in that respect would be worth looking out for, he reasoned. The Season generally lasted from April to August. It was now May. He had a little while yet before he outstayed his welcome in London.
