by Paul Magrs
‘Who’d be so stupid as to clamber aboard?’ I ask Robert. ‘I’d run a mile!’ Then I’m wondering whether this business could be in any way involved with the Walkers. Could that be possible?
He shrugs. ‘People like to think they’ve won something. They want to think that good fortune or the hand of fate is giving them something fab for nothing, just for once. People like to imagine that they can be treated like celebrities . . .’
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Then they get whistled off to who knows where. And experimented on, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Robert looks alarmed. ‘Experimented on?’
‘Ssh.’ Here came our waitress with cups and pots and plates of cake. ‘Perfect,’ I simper, and suddenly I really do miss Effie sitting there, going over the finer points of this or any other case.
There are carols playing over the speakers. The decorations are rather more tasteful than those the Christmas Hotel boasts all year round. The other café-goers seem to have lots of parcels and bags of Christmas shopping with them – evidently stocking up on the souvenirs and historical bric-a-brac to be found in this part of town. I let out a terrible sigh and inwardly curse Effie’s fancy man for taking her out of circulation just as the party season approaches.
Whoever said you had to make a choice between having a fella and having a life? Whoever said you had to stop being bothered about your friends, or having a healthy interest in what went on in the outside world? I feel like Effie is letting the side down, the sexmad old moo.
‘These people are being driven off to who knows where,’ I say, as Robert organises our crockery and studies the swirling grounds inside the cafetière. ‘Then, when they turn up, they’re almost complete basket cases. Doesn’t it sound a bit like accounts of alien abduction to you?’
He stares at me. ‘Are you saying there could be aliens?’
I frown. ‘I’m not saying anything yet. We need to poke our noses a bit more fully into the activities of this so-called Limbosine. It could, of course, be some great big fake and nasty scam, perpetrated by a weirdo or a pervert.’
‘That’s the most likely thing,’ says Robert, plunging the plunger on the coffee. Like Effie, he tends to nip in before I can do it. I plunge too heartily and there have been some messy incidents.
‘Let’s keep an open mind, eh?’ I encourage him. ‘Now, the thing to do is to provide some kind of bait. Look at the places this Limbosine thing is cruising around and wait there at night, within the hours that these abductions are reported as having occurred.’
‘And get ourselves kidnapped?’
‘Of course!’ I laugh. ‘That’s the easiest way of learning more about it, surely?’
‘I suppose so.’ He looks a bit worried, though.
For the rest of our coffee hour we discuss the last farrago we were embroiled in. It took the middle two weeks of November to untangle. Effie hadn’t been of any help at all during the affair of Hans Macabre and his Green Gothic Ice Cream Van. That was a case I still don’t feel we satisfactorily finished off. I don’t suppose I will do until the noxious foodstuff is taken off the market. People wouldn’t be so keen to gobble it up if they knew what had been going into it. Robert and I knew, of course. We broke into the frozen warehouse, one nightmarishly frigid night in November, and uncovered the awful evidence for ourselves.
It makes me sad, in a way, to rove over these recent escapades in Robert’s company, and to realise that they lacked something because of Effie’s absence. She is such a snitty and grumpy old bag, and yet somehow she makes the whole thing that bit much more fun.
I’d never tell Robert that, of course, in case I hurt his feelings. But I believe he can tell what I’m thinking, as his excited recounting of our pursuit of Hans Macabre and his Ice Cream Van tails off. He can see that I’m faking my enthusiasm a bit.
Without Effie constantly at my side, it seems that spooky things ain’t what they used to be.
We finish up and pay and amble back through town. Robert says something about needing to be back in good time, to relieve Penny so she can have her night off. So he’s not in a position to go Limbosine-baiting and getting abducted (and possibly experimented upon) this evening. He’s got a busy night on at the Miramar.
‘No problem.’ I smile blandly and think, What am I saying? I hate people who say ‘No problem!’ like that. I’m of an age when I can’t stick all that passive aggression, preferring by far some good old-fashioned bolshiness and outright crossness.
‘Where’s Penny off to tonight?’ I ask him.
‘Didn’t I say?’ He smirks. ‘Turns out she’s joined some kind of book group. They meet once a week. Penny is completely addicted. She says she can’t possibly miss a single meeting!’
It hardly seems possible, but Penny has gone even more Gothy since Hallowe’en and the terrifying events of the last Goth weekend. When she comes to visit me on Thursday, she’s clumping up my side stairs in these black rubber platform boots and she’s jingling with chains and whatnots all the way. It’s a shame, I think. I’m sure she’d look very nice underneath all that theatrical make-up and her peculiar hair extensions. It’s something about being in her twenties, I think. Robert tells me that when he was that young (not that long ago, he hastens to add), he still felt like he could become anyone, and turn himself into anything he wanted. He thinks Penny is still at that stage in making up a persona for herself.
Anyway, she’s come to the right town for galumphing about in spooky black outfits. Really, she hardly stands out at all here.
Thursday lunchtime and she’s round mine, gabbling about her book group, which had their weekly meeting the night before.
‘Two hours!’ I laugh. ‘What on earth do you find to talk about for two hours?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a funny, mismatched bunch of women who take part. They come out with all sorts of stuff. Not all of it relevant to the book in hand.’
‘And where is it held again? The Pointy Finger . . . ?’
‘The Spooky Finger,’ she says. ‘It’s a new shop – used and new paperbacks – on Silver Street. Mystery, horror, fantasy. It’s a marvellous shop. Haven’t you been in?’
‘There hasn’t been much time for reading of late,’ I say glumly. And as I say it, I realise it’s true. I’ve not been making time in the evening for myself and an appointment with a novel. How did that slip out of my schedule? I feel almost ashamed telling Penny this. Penny who’s never without at least two books in her black leather knapsack. One being her current read, the second being for when she finishes the first.
‘You should pop in. It’s very interesting.’
‘Why’s it called The Spooky Finger? I don’t think it’s a very nice name, I must say.’
Penny pours our tea for us. For a second I’m surprised. Someone else playing mother round my kitchen table! I must look even more tired than I thought. ‘It’s the title of a Fox Soames novel from the forties,’ she tells me.
‘Oh no,’ I groan. Fox Soames. The very name makes me shudder. He was the wretched old man whose novel, Get Thee Inside Me, Satan was the root cause of our last really big adventure. Whenever he or one of his books is mentioned, trouble seems bound to follow. ‘Whoever chose a name like that? It’s like asking to be cursed.’
‘The woman who runs the shop is quite a character,’ Penny says. ‘Marjorie Staynes. She leads the book group, too. She’s a retired lady. Now she’s indulging her passion for spooky literature, she says. And making new friends in her new town.’
‘Hmmm.’ I can’t help thinking back to my own early weeks here in Whitby, when there was nothing I wanted more than a new career and a quiet life. When I wanted to immerse myself in the simple tasks of my B&B-owning duties. Things soon became rather more complicated than that. I even feel a little envious of this Marjorie Staynes, assuming that she’ll find it easier to settle into a life of comfy obscurity than I ever did.
Penny’s looking at me expectantly. ‘You should join.’<
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‘Oh, I don’t think so. It sounds like a big-time commitment. And what if I don’t like the books? I can’t stick with things I don’t like.’
Penny pulls her heavy-looking black bag on to her lap and fishes around. She produces a worn paperback with a lurid cover and presents it to me.
‘Goodness!’
‘This is what we’re doing next time,’ she tells me. ‘It’s Marjorie’s choice. She’s laid in a stock of second-hand copies, especially for the ladies in her group. It’s quite hard to come by otherwise.’
The cover shows a number of nearly nude and well-muscled men, oiled up and cowering at the feet of some kind of dominatrix lady in shiny armour. A prehistoric land of erupting volcanoes and apocalyptic skies swirls around her arrogantly tilted head. The book is called Warrior Queen of Qab and it was written, apparently, by a lady called Beatrice Mapp.
And just at that instant, it feels like something starts trickling and fizzing at the back of my brain. My senses scramble for a second and my vision grows dark. Now, Brenda! Seize control! You don’t want to be having a funny turn just now! I steady myself against the kitchen table and take a hefty swig of tea.
‘Are you all right?’ Penny touches my hand.
‘Yes, dear,’ I reassure her, and pick up the book again. Maybe the musty yellow smell of the book made me nauseous for a second. I don’t know. Beatrice Mapp. No . . . I do know that name. Something about . . . something . . .
‘Well?’ Penny says. ‘Will you join the group? I took the liberty of mentioning to Marjorie that you might be coming next time.’
I feel a flash of irritation and know that Penny sees it in my eyes. I hate anyone volunteering me for anything, or assuming I’ll just fall in with what they want. I make my own decisions. Do my own thing, just as I always have. But Penny doesn’t mean any harm, I’m sure.
‘Are you sure this is my kind of thing?’ I ask her, tapping the cover of the book.
‘Marjorie says that the US publisher made Beatrice Mapp’s books look very tawdry and tacky, but that actually they are very serious and philosophical . . .’
‘Really?’ I’m afraid I can’t summon much enthusiasm. ‘But they’re about warrior queens and monsters and alien planets?’
‘Um, yeah.’ Penny smiles. ‘What do you think? Might be a laugh.’
I sigh. Wednesday nights I’m not doing much, as it happens. Once upon a time that would be cabaret night at the Christmas Hotel, but not any more. ‘Go on then,’ I tell Penny, surprised by how pleased she suddenly looks. ‘Can I borrow your copy, when you’ve read—’
She interrupts, ‘You can have this one. I bought two. I knew I’d persuade you!’
We have our tea and chat about other, unrelated topics, and all the while my eye keeps being drawn back to that vivid paperback on the corner of my kitchen table. It is as if the book is exerting some strange kind of influence over me. Its pages look so tactile, and the print comfortably large for my fading eyesight. It’s like the thing is calling out to me, like a siren song, eager to be heard . . .
When Penny goes, her lunch hour from the Miramar over, I snatch up the book and toss it in my tea towel drawer. I hope it’s not covered in germs. Old paper can carry some nasty things. I slam the drawer shut. Never mind. I’ll look at it later.
This afternoon I’ve got other things to concentrate on. I’ve a hair appointment at Rini’s salon, for one. Get something done to this wig, for tonight I’m out to dinner. It’s a last-minute invite, but one I don’t want to miss.
The embossed card was shoved through my door by hand this morning, shortly before the postman came. Effie and Kristoff, requesting the pleasure of my company next door. Dinner this evening. It was his handwriting on the card, I noticed. Rusty brown ink. Nice touch, Alucard. Beautiful hand he’s got, of course. Well, I’ll go. I’ll make the effort. I’ll even get all dressed up.
What’s this? Amongst the junk mail and everyday post that I haven’t had a chance to go through yet, I notice one particular, very small envelope. Very bad handwriting indeed, but the postmark of a university town in the south that I recognise. The crest of a rather august college in the other corner. A short note slipped inside:Remiss of me, to neglect you for so long. Returning to Whitby for festive season. Hope to see you, old thing. Is there room for Henry Cleavis at the inn? Hoping so. Much affection, Henry.
I set down the card just as a huge rush of. . . something goes through me. Delight? Dread? Excitement? Panic? All of these things. It’s delicious though, the feeling. I’m tingling. My mind is racing. Do I even have room for him? Can I put him up? There’s no question in my mind but that I have to.
Henry’s coming back! He’s coming back to see me at last! But I mustn’t be the giddy goat. I mustn’t get my hopes up. I have to remind myself: I’m a married woman these days, aren’t I?
Oh, but Christmas with Henry. The very thought of it.
I make sure I am looking my best when I pop round Effie’s tonight. I find that if my hair and outfit and make-up are just so, then it’s like wearing armour and nothing can really touch me.
When she lets me in, kisses me on both cheeks and leads me upstairs, to the living quarters above her emporium, I’m glad I’ve made the effort. Effie is looking marvellous. I don’t get a good look at her until we’re all in the drawing room and her man friend is dishing out the sherry and the nibbles, but I see then that Effie’s had a colour – warm chestnut – put in her hair and it’s looking lustrous and styled beautifully. She notices me noticing.
‘I’ve stopped going to Rini’s,’ she tells me. ‘Rini just does those old lady hairdo’s. This is a new place, rather chic. Tint Natural.’
I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be very dear. Actually, looking at her new outfit, Effie’s been a bit flash. Her skin’s glowing too and there’s a glimmer in her eyes I haven’t seen in a while.
Alucard’s lighting candles and the whole place is looking like Christmas has come early.
‘Brenda, welcome,’ he purrs unctuously. I restrain my natural impulse to shiver at his touch as he clasps my hand in his cold grip. He bends to kiss me, and I feel his sharp teeth scrape against my skin. I almost yank my paw back from him, but it wouldn’t do to make a scene. I’m on best behaviour, and must try to forget that the last time I was in his company I punched him in the face. I had very good reason to, as it happens.
‘Something smells good,’ I tell them, shrugging off my beaded shawl and flomping down on one of Effie’s high-backed chairs by the fire. I have to admit, the place hasn’t been as welcoming for a good long while. Effie on her own doesn’t take much pride in her home.
Effie explains that Kristoff has cooked tonight’s meal. It’s all quite exotic-sounding. Things in tagines, cooked with wonderful spices and dates and pomegranates. ‘Of course, Kristoff has travelled the world extensively,’ Effie tells me. ‘So he’s quite au fait with the cuisines of many lands and cultures.’
‘Really?’ I smile. What she means is that the dandified cadaver has spent centuries hopping and flitting about the place, gorging himself on the blood of his luckless victims, being hounded out of city after city when he was discovered. She makes him sound like some kind of gentleman explorer, when we both know that he’s in actual fact a serial murderer. Oh yes, I’m not one to mince my words where Alucard’s concerned. But this evening I’m holding my tongue, for Effie’s sake.
At least she’s handy with the Merlot tonight, and after a couple of hefty glasses I feel less uptight, less inhibited. Some strange kind of folk music is playing over the stereo, and the smells from the kitchen, where Kristoff is busy, are heavenly. Nutmeg, coriander, paprika and cloves. No garlic, naturally.
‘That’s a funny-looking thing,’ I tell Effie. ‘What happened to your old gramophone?’ I know that what I’m pointing to is an MP3 player, sitting snugly in its dock. I’m not that out of date. Robert has one. I prefer my old vinyl LPs, of course. I’m just feigning ignorance to keep Effie talking.
‘I thought I’d modernise myself,’ she tells me. ‘Isn’t it dinky?’
‘Dinky’ isn’t a very Effie word. I sigh, hold out my glass hopefully for a refill, and muse on the last time Effie was in the throes of a romantic liaison with that fiend in the kitchen. Couple of years ago, when he first turned up back in Whitby. I feel like reminding her, right here and now, what a disaster that turned out to be and how he had just been using her.
That’s the thing about women like Effie. They’re doomed to go round and round, repeating their mistakes. Never learning anything and never moving on. Poor old Effie’s just grateful for the company.
Pretty soon we’re in our places round the table, and with all the panache and ludicrous flourishing of a born show-off, Alucard serves up and whips the chimney lids off the tagines. It’s pretty good, as it happens. I like the pink onion, coriander and pomegranate salsa best of all.
I eat happily, and when I look up, I notice that Alucard and Effie are holding hands across the table and looking as if they’re about to announce something to me.
‘We’re thinking of going away,’ Alucard tells me.
‘Away? Where?’
‘For good,’ Effie says, not quite catching my eye.
I’m shocked. ‘You can’t!’
‘And why not?’ Effie’s got that frosty tone she often puts on. Haughty-sounding.
‘You know why,’ I mumble. ‘We’ve got a job here, me and you. We were entrusted to do it.’
She picks up her damask napkin, and as she talks, she wrings it like she’s got a chicken by the neck. ‘Oh, you mean how we’re supposed to keep a watchful eye over the gateway into hell under the abbey. Our role as the guardians of the Bitch’s Maw.’
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You know that as well as I do. And you know the kind of. . . dangerous personalities that the Maw attracts.’ I can’t help casting a glance at Alucard as I say this. ‘Unscrupulous, devilish beings who want to harness those fundamental magical forces for themselves and play merry hell with them. We can’t just leave, Effie! We’ve got to be here.’
