[Brenda & Effie 04] - Hell's Belles

by Paul Magrs

  ‘I have to see.’ Magda knew her husband was to blame. She had seen this coming. His dabbling. His bullishness. At last he had brought down hellish disaster on them all. She shouted into the pulsating night: ‘What has he done? I can’t see . . .’

  Brenda leapt forward. ‘Magda – watch out!’

  Magda took one step too many. Broken shale scattered under her feet as the lip of the track crumbled suddenly. She lost her footing and squawked as she tipped backwards. Brenda lunged out and grabbed her, but Magda threw her off. Brenda watched as the woman’s momentum took her backwards over the ledge, her skinny arms windmilling in the air. Magda’s shocked screams tore the darkness apart all around her.

  Without even thinking about it, Brenda flung her arms out and managed to grab hold of one of Magda’s wrists. The woman felt frail in her grasp.

  ‘Magda! I’ve got you! Just keep hold of my hand! Don’t let go!’

  Magda kept screaming and thrashing. Brenda held on with all her strength.

  ‘Don’t panic! I’ll pull you back to safety. Keep calm!’

  Magda wouldn’t keep calm and she wouldn’t help herself. She kept flailing about as if she was eager to take off somewhere. She didn’t make her rescue any easier as Brenda started painfully reeling her to safety, inch by inch . . .

  Brenda was sweating. Her own purchase on the edge of the cliff felt precarious now. Magda’s wrist squirmed in her grip, slick with sweat.

  Brenda – she told herself firmly – you have to hold on. Just a few more moments . . . just a little bit more . . .

  Manifesting Himself

  As predicted, all hell had broken loose on the film set.

  In all of the fiery tempest and panic, Fox had time to stand up and look quite pleased with himself. Effie clambered arthritically to her feet and joined him in staring at the figure that had come through the aperture and was now standing beside the naked Karla. ‘You’ve really done it,’ Effie sobbed. ‘Oh, you foolish man.’

  All about them, members of the film crew were running away. The arc lights toppling and smashing as the wind continued to blow a gale through the tight valley. But none of this registered on the appalled Fox Soames. He stood swaying on the spot as the revealed figure grew more substantial.

  ‘The prince of darkness!’ said Fox, with suitable awe.

  Karla sat up on her altar, covering her breasts rather demurely. Too late, thought Effie.

  ‘Master!’ said Karla, with a slow smile at the new arrival.

  Effie blinked.

  She stared hard at the figure as it made itself fully manifest.

  She couldn’t help herself shouting out. ‘That’s not the devil, you flaming idiots. That’s . . . that’s . . .’

  Perhaps her eyes were deceiving her. She set off at a gallop towards the sacrificial altar. ‘Kristoff ? Kristoff Alucard?’

  He turned to her with a savage welcoming grin.

  Effie screeched at them all: ‘He isn’t the devil! He’s my fella!’

  And then – as Alucard winked at her – everything went plunging into darkness.

  Both Effie and Brenda were whisked away in an instant.

  And found that they weren’t in the sixties any more.

  Meanwhile, Back in the Present

  Dear Mam,

  This week I’ve proved to myself that I can actually do this. I can hold the fort. I’ve stepped into Robert’s shoes at the Miramar, easy as anything (almost). I think you’d be proud. It’s just a case of being on the alert and thinking fast, and trusting that everyone in the hotel knows what they’re doing. I mean, all the others members of staff have been here donkey’s years – the waiting staff and the chambermaids, they know what they’re doing. How could I possibly mess it all up?

  I just have to be bright and breezy and pretend like nothing is wrong.

  But how many days would you leave it, Mam, before phoning the police? Because really Robert’s a missing person, isn’t he? But he’s a grown-up too, isn’t he? And I guess he’s got as much right as anyone to slope off . . . even without giving any warning. (Just like I did! Just like I left my marriage! Aaagghhh!) Oh, I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll call the police then.

  The days are just whizzing past. I’ve never been as busy or as involved in stuff in all my life.

  The film crew are busy too, and before they come back to the Miramar and the late bar here, they drink in Spector. They’ve moved to locations over that side of the harbour, all around the abbey. They seem, after a couple of tricky hurdles last week (the sausage bap and the broken leg) to be cracking along at quite a pace.

  I was over at Spector last night, seeing Michael. Hanging around the film people, giving myself an evening off, and they were in a celebratory mood. I got talking with one of them – the young stylist, Lisa Turmoil. She said they were all amazed that things were on schedule. Even with the famous curse (loud guffaws from some of the others at this) and the various mishaps along the way, things were actually going pretty well.

  I said something about how it all seemed very quick. I mean, I don’t know much about how filming works. Lisa told me that Alex the director was like a kind of genius. The crew all loved him. And Karla Sorenson was turning out to be a wonderful person. A real star and an old pro. Gracious and easy to work with. She got it down pat, first take, every time.

  They’d soon be finished, I learned. Once the climax was got through, this coming Saturday night . . .

  Finished! I was astounded. And then I had to be told – like a dumbo – that the bulk of the movie was going to be shot on sound stages down south. Pinewood or somewhere, I thought Lisa said. It all sounded very glamorous. I was like – d’oh! I know nothing, really, about how it all works. I was just asking nebby questions and trying to fit in. I’m just a fan, really.

  Then Lisa was going on about the different films and TV series she’s done the hair and make-up on, and it was quite interesting for a while. But then I was distracted by Michael. He was looking so washed out and knackered, clunking about on his coffee machine. I sidled over – a bit sexily – just as he was doing the froth on somebody’s macchiato.

  He said, ‘I’m okay. Late nights. I’m not sleeping. Or rather . . . I think I’m not. I fall asleep – but then, when I wake up, it’s weird . . .’

  I didn’t know what he was on about. So I pushed him further, as you do.

  He said, ‘It’s like I’ve been out somewhere. I’m aching tired . . . my shoes were all muddy and tossed into the corner of my room. There was sand in my pants.’ And then he asked me a corker: ‘Do you think I’m going mad?’

  I told him I thought he was probably sleepwalking. What do you think, Mam? I used to sleepwalk, didn’t I? When I was a kid?

  But then I was thinking to myself – God, I bet this has all got to do with that nasty Mrs Claus he’s been knocking about with!

  Do you think that I’ve got myself involved with another weirdo bloke again? I bet you do, Mam.

  And then he went on to say that he had tried to ring his old dad. I felt sorry for him when he said this bit. He had to look up the number in his little book, because he couldn’t remember it for some reason. So he rang him and the automatic voice at the other end of the line told him no such number existed!

  Michael looked like a little boy just then. Lost and alone in the world. He said he’d used the number loads of times before. He’d talked to his dad, even quite recently. But now . . . He was so puzzled-looking. My heart flew out to him.

  But I had to get home. I had work to do. Damn damn damn. There’s a fella opening up to me and telling me all his woes. And I have to go, and all because of work and responsibilities! Just as he’s looking all vulnerable and gorgeous. Robert really, really owes me.

  So, here I am today. I’ve just spent my morning coffee break dashing down the hill to Brenda’s B&B. I try to pop in twice a day. I’ve been in every day this week, using the keys to Brenda’s place kept among Robert’s stuff. I’ve been checking on t
he sleeping ladies. Except they’re not really sleeping, are they?

  These two, I’m even more worried about them than I am about Robert.

  They’re still just sitting there. Staring at the blank telly. They haven’t eaten or drunk anything for days. I keep thinking – God, what if they die? Dehydration! Anything!

  But this is magic, of course.

  Isn’t it?

  All my life I’ve wanted to see something magic. Now here it is. In the flesh. Petrified old womanly flesh. And I don’t know what to do.

  I’m hoping they’ll just snap out of their trance. Like I did.

  This morning I’ve had a go feeding them natural yoghurt and some honey. Desperation, really. Made a hell of a mess of Brenda’s cushion covers.

  They just stared past me . . .

  Oh, Mam. What a terrible week it’s been. Worked off my feet, and all the new friends that I’ve made in Whitby have either gone missing, are frozen solid and catatonic, or they’re having funny amnesiac do’s in the night.

  Do you think it really could be the curse of Karla’s movie coming down on us all? Or is it just me?

  I’ll keep you posted,

  Love,

  Penny

  Legless in the Garret

  Time passed in the attic. Robert had no idea how long went by. Days and days and days, it seemed. Water was brought. And a few stale sandwiches. He had been given something to make him sleep, to stop him from getting too worked up and smashing himself against the walls, protesting against his imprisonment.

  The others were quiet. The elf and the postman kept themselves quite separate and apart. They seemed weirdly quiet. Shocked into submission, perhaps. Still horrified at what they had done to Frank.

  Frank himself slumped in chains, legless.

  Robert managed to wriggle his way over to sit with him. He strained at his own bonds, but gave up, and passed the unfathomable time talking to Frank.

  ‘Frank feels very weak . . .’

  ‘Brenda will come, you’ll see. She’ll sort this out.’

  ‘Frank’s never felt like this, in all his long life.’

  ‘They took a lot of your blood. That’s why.’

  ‘They have taken Frank to pieces again. Rest in pieces. Huh-huh.’

  He seemed to be regressing. His speech was slow and slurred. He was referring to himself in the third person more than ever, and Robert knew from Brenda that this was a bad sign. When Frank called himself Frank it was when he was thinking most like a monster. Thinking of himself as just a thing. A creation. A compilation of body parts. In the half-lit attic gloom, Robert felt his heart go out in pity to the man next to him.

  This past year he hadn’t thought much of Frank. Like Effie, he had thought of Brenda’s so-called husband as just some boorish lummox. Someone who had blundered into their lives willy-nilly, and who had ruined things for all of them. Their little gang wasn’t as tight as a result. Whenever they tried to have fun, Frank would be there, unpredictable of mood and slow of wit. It could be quite trying, just having him there.

  And Brenda hadn’t even been noticeably happier with him in tow. Having a husband hadn’t improved her life, in Robert and Effie’s eyes. So how come she was even bothering?

  Pity, was what they decided. She had taken him in because she had felt obliged to. He had put the emotional screws on her. All that ‘I was made to be with you, and you with me’ nonsense.

  Now Robert looked at him and he was feeling pity too.

  ‘Where is Brenda?’ Frank asked him. ‘Why hasn’t she found us?’

  He sounded more lucid. More time had passed. It was dark; the smashed window high up in the roof space was black again. The wind was chilling, bringing with it tendrils of sea mist. Robert couldn’t have felt any colder.

  ‘She’ll come, Frank,’ he said.

  ‘She’ll know we’re at the Christmas Hotel, won’t she?’ Frank said. ‘Everything that’s bad happens here. She knows that. She’ll realise.’ His massive fist smashed against the floor. A futile gesture. Thump. ‘Why can’t Frank help himself ? Why can’t Frank save himself ?’

  But he couldn’t, and neither could Robert.

  The elf and the postman were watching from the shadows. Timidly. Guiltily. Where was Karla? She hadn’t been anywhere near for ages. Her mind was elsewhere. She was up to some other terrible business and she had forgotten her prisoners upstairs. The novelty had worn off.

  ‘Brenda!’ Frank sobbed.

  What can I tell him? Robert thought miserably. That Brenda and Effie are both in a catatonic state. There’ll be no help from them. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

  Things looked pretty bad.

  There’s nothing I can do, Robert thought.

  Except . . .

  And then he thought of his fella.

  He’s magic, isn’t he? He can read my thoughts. He can fly around on an old settee.

  Can he hear me now? Can he find us here?

  Can he rescue us, maybe?

  Robert closed his eyes to concentrate. His heart was beating harder with gladness now that he thought he had a plan.

  A Permanent Solution

  Neither Penny nor the film stylist Lisa would have described themselves as best buddies yet, but they liked each other. To Penny, Lisa seemed like she was up for a laugh. And what was more – weirdly – Lisa already happened to know Brenda and Effie. That night, as the film crew sat up late in the Miramar bar, carousing and telling funny, silly stories, Lisa explained to Penny how she had been working in Whitby a couple of years ago, when she found herself caught up in a mad seance in Effie’s attic.

  ‘So believe me, I know the kinds of things those two get themselves involved in.’

  ‘Tell me again, why were you there . . . ?’

  And Lisa explained how she had been the stylist on a cable TV show about the paranormal. But being round Effie’s had spooked her for ever. Though she had liked the two old ladies a lot, she said.

  Penny felt that she could confide in Lisa. So she told her what was going on. The peculiar situation at Brenda’s house.

  Lisa was horrified to hear that Brenda and Effie had been sitting immobile on armchairs for days on end.

  ‘And you’ve just left them there?’

  ‘What else can we do? I’ve been popping in and checking on them each day . . .’

  ‘But what sent them into this trance thing?’

  Penny took a deep breath and explained to her all about the DVD and what it had done to her when she had watched it in the middle of the night.

  ‘It really is cursed, isn’t it?’ Lisa said, turning white. ‘Both the old film and the new . . .’

  The two of them thought about that for a bit, and then Penny had to serve some of the others. When she was done, she brought Lisa another gin and tonic and they came up with their plan.

  ‘Let’s go there now,’ Lisa said impulsively. ‘This minute.’

  ‘To Brenda’s?’

  It was a relief to Penny that someone else was involved. It wasn’t just her, left alone with this weird situation. She closed the bar and sent the film people to bed. They grumbled woozily, but no one caused too much of a fuss.

  At last Lisa and Penny hurried out and tottered though the quiet streets. It was almost three a.m. The town was weirdly quiet.

  They crept into the tall guest house. And up into the attic rooms.

  There the two old ladies were sitting. Like waxworks. Like mummies in the British Museum. Pallid death masks squinched up in concentration. As if they were both finding something intensely interesting; something that was occurring only inside of their minds.

  It was a very unnerving experience, standing there in Brenda’s living room, staring back at them. It was like being in a funeral parlour.

  Penny realised then that the bag Lisa had brought contained her hairstyling equipment.

  She went all businesslike and no-nonsense. She flipped on the lights and told Penny to get some coffee going. She was laying out her curl
ers, hot tongs, scissors and other styling paraphernalia on the coffee table.

  ‘Why haven’t they starved? Or died of thirst?’ Lisa peered into the old ladies’ faces. ‘Maybe they already have . . .’

  Penny felt a leap of panic inside her as she went to put the kettle on.

  What did Lisa think she was doing, giving them a makeover?

  All she would say, as Penny watched her setting to work, was: ‘They wouldn’t want people seeing them sitting here with terrible hair.’

  She was combing out Effie’s silvery locks. Unwinding the bun she wore and untucking yards and yards of spun silver.

  She worked intently for ages. Penny sipped her coffee and wandered around Brenda’s place. She examined the books on the shelves (mostly crime, some old poetry) and the knick-knacks on the windowsill and the wall unit. You would never think there was anything at all unusual about the old woman. But there was, wasn’t there?

  Soon Effie was sitting there resplendent, hair shining as Lisa washed and combed it out.

  Still, not a flicker from the old lady. Lisa mauled her about as she kneaded the conditioner into her scalp, but there was no reaction at all. Effie sat there all toffee-nosed, proud as an empress, as if these ministrations were beneath her.

  ‘I’m going to give them both perms,’ Lisa decided.

  Penny wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. How would I react, she wondered, waking from a coma, or whatever this was, to find that someone had been in and given me a perm? I’d be mortified.

  ‘And a blue rinse,’ Lisa added, rummaging in her stylist’s bag for more bottles of stuff.

  ‘Erm,’ said Penny. ‘We don’t want to go too far.’ She was starting to regret bringing her new friend round. There was a fervent glint in Lisa’s eye. She was a born stylist, you could tell. She was behaving as if she had been given free rein on the heads of these old ladies, and now Penny was really worried.

  ‘They’ll be delighted. Old ladies always are. That’s what they love. Perms and blue rinses. Just you see!’