by G. P. Taylor
[ 2 ]
Reverie
THE VILE SMELL of carbolic under the door of the sleeping compartment of the midnight train from Edinburgh heralded the morning. The train guard washed the corridor with his bedraggled mop, sloshing the bubbling liquid across the linoleum floor and whistling to himself as he worked. Every now and then he would flick ash from the tip of his cigarette into the bucket. Then he would scratch his bald head beneath the brim of his hat and complain bitterly.
Stopping briefly, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the brass door handle of sleeping compartment number 6. He had seen the two young occupants the night before. Only the girl had smiled when the boy had asked for their First Class tickets. He thought there was something about them that was different from all the other people who had travelled that night. Neither of them carried any luggage. They hadn’t asked to eat and as soon as they had entered the compartment, he had heard them lock the door and pull down the window blind. They looked to him as if they were brother and sister. The girl had a scar upon her lip and a port-wine stain on her face. He presumed they were students from the university travelling home mid-term. As the guard picked up his mop, he briefly listened at the door. Then, when he could hear nothing, he worked on.
Wrapped in itchy blankets and wedged into the juddering bunk bed of the small compartment, Jago Harker slept fitfully. Strands of long dark hair trailed across his thin face. The long, slender fingers of his elegant hands held the blankets to his face as the train rocked from side to side. It clattered over the rails and smoke billowed like thunderclouds from the engine. Every mile it screeched and whistled, and with every tunnel or bridge the engine roared furiously as it steamed through.
Yet, despite all of this, Jago Harker remained asleep. It was as if he could not open his eyes. The bed was warm and his clothes were crumpled around him as he clung to the last remnants of the fading dream. Always the same, as if it were a warning from the future or a hidden glimpse of the past, it plagued him. There was smoke and fire. A woman walked through the flames, her clothes burning. It was as if she wasn’t aware or didn’t care. She walked on, coming closer and closer to him, and then a man would run from the darkness and just before the woman could speak he cut her down to the ground. The sword in his hand would turn into a snake. It lunged at Jago, drawing in all the night until he was surrounded by darkness.
‘Biatra!’ Jago Harker shouted as he woke suddenly and threw back the blankets.
‘It’s a dream, Jago,’ she answered, already awake. She was sitting on the bunk opposite and wrapped in a blanket shawl. ‘Just a dream.’
Jago tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes as the window blind rattled against the glass and kept out the cold grey dawn.
‘It was the man. I saw him again,’ Jago answered in a whisper. ‘And the snake …’ As he said the word, the air in front of him began to shimmer. Then, as if he was viewing through a kinetoscope, a hologram appeared. Just as in the dream, the shining black head of a cobra danced in the air. It moved from side to side, its tongue flickering as it spat silver droplets of venom that exploded in sparkles of light.
‘Can you –?’ Jago asked.
‘Don’t move, Jago. Don’t move,’ Biatra answered, her eyes transfixed at the ghostly image that hovered over the bed.
Jago stared into the eyes of the snake. They glowed hypnotically, blood-red.
‘What is it?’ he asked, staying as still as he could.
Biatra jumped from the bed, reached out and grabbed at the snake. It exploded in her fingers as Bible-black scales vaporised in her hand.
‘It was nothing … our imagination,’ she said, not knowing what it could be.
‘But the dream,’ Jago insisted as he looked about the compartment to see where the snake had gone. ‘It can’t just disappear …’
Biatra held his hand. She could see the look of fear on his face. It had become something she had grown used to. They had been in hiding for most of the war. Home had been an old castle on the banks of a turgid loch in a Highland valley. Five long years had passed wearily until they had received the telegram that it was safe to return to Whitby and the house overlooking the sea at Hawks Moor. Neither of them had changed, the years had not aged or wearied them, but the days and weeks had dragged slowly by. At each turning of the year they had looked down the valley and wondered when they could return. For those who lived nearby, they were the family from the south who had fled the war. A tall, thin man and his two teenage children who spent their days walking the hills.
Rumour had spread amongst those who lived in the mountains that they had tuberculosis. That was why they were never seen in the town. What food they ate was brought to the castle every week. Mrs McClure, the housekeeper, had taken it in and paid in full. The only other visitor to the house was the black van that always arrived just before the new moon. On the side were painted the words: Medical Supplies Forthness Road Glasgow.
Not even Mrs McClure knew what was in the box delivered by the van. She had told the post mistress in Badenscallie that it was icy cold and sealed with duct tape.
‘For the sickness,’ she had said whenever someone asked. ‘They are always much better after they have taken delivery.’
That was all that was said of the family by the Loch and no one really cared, such were their own woes. On the day that the war ended the postman had cycled along the rough track and delivered the telegram. He knew the words off by heart, having read the message several times and told every one he met the contents of the correspondence: WAR ENDED – SAFE TO RETURN – NO SIGN OF VQ – JACK HENSON.
As Mrs McClure had opened the door he had handed her the telegram and whispered the words in her ear. Biatra had seen the man in the porch drinking his cup of tea, his cycle clips tight around his ankles. She had smiled at him and in return he had stared vacantly at her as if to take in as much as he could so he could tell all those who he met about the family no one ever saw.
Later, a car had arrived and driven them to Inverness. From there they had taken the train to Edinburgh and caught the sleeper train south. Now, as the train slowed, the guard shouted the destination and the connections for each traveller.
‘Darlington … all stations to the east … Danby, Castleton, Whitby …’
‘We have to change trains,’ Biatra said as she held his hand. ‘An hour to Whitby.’
Jago didn’t know if he wanted to return. Even though five years had gone by since the night they had fled the town, he still felt as if it was waiting to destroy him. As he left the compartment, he looked back and wondered if the serpent was hiding somewhere. It had been in his dreams night after night and now, by some power beyond his imagination, it had appeared before them both like a ghost.
Crossing the platform to the waiting train, Jago eyed the other passengers warily. It was something he always did. Biatra held his hand as they walked. By the entrance to the station, a group of soldiers took down the sand-bag barricades and wound coils of barbed wire onto the back of a truck. Jago squeezed her fingers. It was the first sign of the end of the war that they had seen.
The journey to Whitby was slower than Jago could ever imagine. The shabby train stopped at every village that had a station, winding its way along the valley and cutting back and forth across the widening river. On the side of the track, he could see the wreck of a train hit by bombers during the war. It lay in the grass, charred and broken like the bone ribs of a dead animal. And then he could smell the sea. It ebbed its way up the estuary and reminded him of the night he had arrived when he had been evacuated from London.
That seemed so long ago. It had changed his life for ever and he was no longer the same boy. He looked at Biatra. She seemed to be much older. Her lips were painted in red lipstick, her eyes gilded with make-up. Throughout their time in Scotland they had talked to one another, and Jago thought they had talked so much that they had used all the words they would ever speak to each other. Now, as he sat next to her in the empty carr
iage, he asked expectantly, ‘Do you think Jack Henson will look any different?’ He wondered if he would recognise the man who had once been such a close companion.
‘He’ll be covered in mud from digging graves and complaining that his cottage leaks.’ Biatra tried to laugh. She remembered it was something she had not done for so long. ‘Do you think it will be safe?’
‘The war is over. It has been five years and nothing has happened. Jack wouldn’t have told us to come back unless it was safe,’ Jago said as the train rattled towards the town.
It was Biatra who was the first to see the ruins of the old Abbey on the cliff top. The high stone towers stuck up from the ground like dragon’s teeth. They were swirled in mist that washed in and out of the stones.
‘It hasn’t changed,’ she said as she pointed to the white house on the far bank of the estuary. ‘Do you remember the boat on that first night?’
‘Crispin Draigorian … Clinas Macarty … do you think he is still there?’ Jago asked as he thought of the night they had crossed the river.
‘Still talking to his parrot and cleaning the house,’ she answered downheartedly. ‘He was always very kind.’
Her voice trailed away as the town came into view. The pinnacles of Streonshalgh Manor towered over the red-topped cottages that clung to the steep sides of the valley. Jago traced the route of the donkey path on the glass of the train window as if to remind himself of where he once walked.
‘It looks the same – just as we left it,’ he said as the steam engine’s wheels skidded on the steel tracks. ‘What will be his first words?’ Jago asked.
‘I want to wait until I see him before I answer,’ Biatra replied.
‘So you can read his mind?’ he asked.
‘I can’t help it. I am just very inquisitive,’ she said.
‘Mrs McClure thought you were mad. You always finished every sentence she tried to speak and Hugh was always livid,’ Jago said, thinking of the times that Biatra would speak out of turn.
‘I always convinced her she was repeating herself. It was just a game. What else was I supposed to do, hidden away in a castle in Scotland for five years?’ she asked. Jago did not have time to answer. The train slowed and was consumed by the steel girders and glass roof of the station. The engine steamed as it came to a halt, gently touching the buffers with a shudder and then rolling back half a turn of the wheels.
‘Whitby!’ shouted the guard.
‘Where else could it be?’ Biatra asked sarcastically. ‘This is the end of the line. Another three hundred yards and we’d be in the sea.’
She opened the door of the compartment and was the first to step onto the platform. Around them people walked quickly to the exit. It was brighter than they could remember. Large electric bulbs like gigantic mushrooms illuminated the roof and the small kiosk at the end of the platform was filled with the light from a neon sign above the door.
‘The black-out,’ Jago said as he smiled. ‘It’s finished.’
‘Jago Harker! Biatra!’ Jack Henson shouted as he ran towards them, arms outstretched.
‘He’s going to cry and say he loves us,’ Biatra said as she steeled herself to be consumed in his muscular hands.
Jack Henson scooped them both into his arms and held them close.
‘I never thought I could miss people so much … I love you,’ he whispered, holding them for a moment as he looked them in the face. ‘Just as I remember, just as I remember …’
‘You haven’t changed at all. Still covered in mud.’ Biatra laughed as she squeezed his arm and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I have brought the car from Hawks Moor. We are all to stay there together. And we have a housekeeper all ready. Mrs Jarvis came highly recommended. She makes tea, cooks, cleans and lives in the village.’ His voice was excited. Henson took them by the hand and pulled them along ‘I can’t wait for you to see the house. You’re expecting Hugh to come back tomorrow?’
‘He thought it would be best if we travelled separately,’ Jago said as they got into the black sedan parked outside the station. Jago waited until the door was closed and Henson was in the driving seat. ‘Are you sure it is safe for us to come back?’
‘It’s been a long time. Much has changed. On the night you left Whitby I could never have imagined a time such as this.’ Biatra sensed something in his voice. She tried to listen to the thoughts in his mind. ‘I took the liberty of changing your room, I thought you would prefer –’
‘That will be fine,’ Jago interrupted. ‘We are just glad to be back.’
The journey to Hawks Moor went quickly. The car turned onto the gravel drive and Jago looked out to sea. The high waves broke under the cloudy sky and the wind rattled the gnarled trees that covered the cliff.
Jack Henson stopped the car at the door to the house. It was freshly painted and the brass hinges were polished. The arched doorway was covered with the climbing wisteria that held fast against the sea gales. It was just how Jago had remembered.
‘There is one thing that is different,’ Henson said. He opened the car door and pointed to the side of the house. ‘The labyrinth is gone. I chopped it down. It was just a reminder of all that had gone on before.’
Biatra looked to the clearing by the side of the house. All that was left were the intricate stone pathways that spiralled and turned over the acre of lawn. She could see where the high hedges had once stood. Where the centre had once been were the burnt remains of the bonfire.
‘Does Hugh know?’ she asked. ‘It had been there for a long time.’
‘He wasn’t here to ask. Told me to renovate the house and that I did,’ Henson answered gruffly.
‘It looks much better. I always thought the labyrinth was a sinister place,’ Jago said, hoping to reassure Biatra.
Henson ignored them both as he strode towards the house. His long black coat trailed behind him, its hem covered in grave-mud.
‘I have something to tell you – now that we are at the house,’ he said urgently as he opened the door. ‘Mrs Jarvis will be back soon and she cannot hear what I have to say.’
Biatra looked at Jago as they followed Henson into the house. The door closed behind them without a sound. Jago looked around the hallway. The floor had been freshly polished and the walls painted. Above the fireplace was the portrait of Ezra Morgan.
‘You moved the picture from the landing,’ Jago said as Henson opened the door to the drawing room.
‘I thought the old scoundrel looked better above the flames,’ Henson smirked at his own joke.
‘What is it you have to tell us?’ Biatra asked, sensing his anxiety.
Henson crossed the room and pulled the drapes across the window. Taking a match, he lit the candles on the mantelpiece before sitting in the chair beside the fire.
‘I haven’t been totally honest with you,’ Henson stuttered as if he were about to deliver terrible news. ‘Hugh Morgan will not be coming to Hawks Moor. He has been called away.’
‘But how? We never had any letters at the castle,’ Biatra asked.
‘I have been communicating with Hugh via your housekeeper. She would pick up the letters from the post office. It was the only way to keep them secret.’
‘Where has he gone?’ Jago asked.
‘He is in hiding. No one must know where he is.’
‘Why?’ Biatra asked. ‘You said it was safe for us to return, that the threat to our lives had gone.’
‘As far as I know it is safe for you both, but not for Hugh.’ Henson stared at them both, his eyes dark eyes glinting in the firelight. ‘A man called Heston Walpurgis was taken prisoner by the Germans just before the war started. He was kept in a camp in southern Poland. Before the Army found him he escaped. Last week a letter arrived here addressed to Hugh. It was from Walpurgis. The letter spoke of unfinished business and asked for the return of a certain artifact. Ezra Morgan had discovered a diamond the size of a fist and perfectly round. It is flawless in every way. The letter said that within
the diamond you could see the future.’
‘The future?’ Biatra asked, not sure what Henson meant.
‘Imagine holding such a thing as that,’ Henson said. ‘It is no wonder the diamond is so highly prized.’
‘So where is the diamond now?’ Jago asked.
‘No one knows. All we can be sure is that Ezra Morgan has taken the secret of it to his death. He never paid Walpurgis and now Walpurgis wants the diamond or the life of Hugh Morgan, as the contract states.’ Henson reached into his coat pocket and unwrapped a folded parchment. Upon it was a scrawl of handwritten sentences. ‘It is quite clear, Ezra Morgan promised to pay Walpurgis one million pounds and if he failed to do so, Walpurgis could have the life of his son.’
‘Then we will find the money,’ Biatra said.
‘Even if we sold everything there would still not be enough,’ Henson answered as he folded the contract and put it back in his coat with a sigh.
‘Then we don’t pay and we tell Walpurgis that he can go to hell,’ Jago argued. He walked to the window and pulled back the drapes to let in the gloomy grey light of the afternoon.
‘The consequence for not paying would be death. Heston Walpurgis will make sure that the debt is paid.’
‘And are we to fear such a man?’ Jago asked. ‘Ezra Morgan should settle his own debts.’
‘Ezra hasn’t been seen since the night Ozymandias was killed in the explosion. You were both there that night. You saw the devastation. They were all killed. In the law of the Maleficarum the debt of the father is given to the son. That is the way of a Vampyre.’
‘Then we find the diamond or just pay what is owed,’ Biatra answered.
‘Ezra Morgan wagered the life of his son and that is what has to be paid,’ Henson answered. ‘That is why Hugh is in hiding and you are here. Walpurgis was last seen in Paris boarding a train to London.’
