by Paul Magrs
And then – suddenly, in June this year – all discussion of the Kendal branch was declared forbidden on the Qab message board.
The chief moderator of the site posted an abrupt message to say that she would take no questions on this matter, nor complaints. Any single reference to the Qab group based in Kendal in Cumbria in the UK, or any of the members thereof, would result in complete, irrevocable dismissal from the Qab message board.
Everyone was to carry on as if the Kendal chapter of Qab had never existed.
A stunned silence rang through the boards for some time after that. People – Qab fans – all over the world were too frightened and shocked to put their feelings into words. And they knew they would have to be very careful about doing so, once they found the words. No one wanted casting out, and from the forum owner’s declaration, it was obvious that she would be making no exceptions. This owner of the message board seemed to wield a vast amount of power in the subculture of Qab. She was like their very own Queen of Qab.
A few hardy souls made a few obscure, allusive comments and mused aloud about this strange embargo.
What did the people in Kendal do that was so bad? Why were they scotched from the official record? What went wrong? And why can’t the rest of them even refer to it or them ever again?
Ripples of fright ran through Qab-space. I can feel it still tonight, shimmering off the pages Penny printed for me.
Someone asked: Was it something to do with the Kendal Qab people being so advanced? Had they somehow got too far?
That very day that same person was banned for ever from the Qab site.
Discussion passed on to more pleasant, everyday, mundane concerns in the world of Qab fandom. Kendal was never mentioned again.
I set down the pages. I have scoured them all, without even meaning to. It is after two in the morning, and my head is thumping with sloe gin and intrigue.
Next thing, it’s the last week before Christmas. I think it’s one of my favourite weeks in the year, though as you know, I’m not at all religious. I like the anticipation and the slow-creeping magic, as everyone in town bustles round the shops and winding ways, making last-minute preparations for their week of feasting and self-indulgence.
I’ve got an extra lot on my plate with all my guests, of course. I’m shovelling breakfasts into them and whipping their bed sheets and pillowcases away for the steamy laundry. I’m dashing round with my Ewbank, collecting the dust from their travelling shoes and the crumbs they’ve dropped having midnight feasts. And the weather, of course – these endlessly falling snows – brings its own work with it. I’m out each morning scraping the snow from my side passage and all my paths out front. I’m laying down sea salt to burn away the frost and ice. Out there I meet Raf and Leena as they open up their shop and scrape the icicles off their awning.
Leena can’t stop talking about Qab. ‘I’ve been buying the other books in the series,’ she tells me breathlessly. ‘I can’t keep away from The Spooky Finger! I have to read the full set! I’ve become a proper fan!’
Me, I’m still struggling through that first book, the one I got covered in bacon grease and egg. I found it much easier reading about the books online than I do reading the actual thing. It’s composed in that very stiff and proper Edwardian English. Even the scenes of swordplay and bloodletting, and the saucy scenes of flagellation (really!) are all delivered in this very elegantly poised prose. And I’m finding it hard going, I must say.
So, the days pass and I get on with making sure that I’ll have everything I need for feeding the five thousand over Christmas. I pop into the butcher’s and the baker’s and leave my orders with them. I dawdle around the busy shops of Silver Street and Church Street, picking up trinkets and gee-gaws for my friends, and spend a pleasant Monday evening wrapping them in hand-printed wrapping paper. That night I even put on the James Last Christmas album, just to get me in the mood.
The Red Room is finished. The crowning glory of my B&B. It’s all set for its first guest, Henry Cleavis, who is due to arrive on Wednesday. I’ve bought a new satin coverlet for the four-poster bed. The mirrors are antique ones I found in Effie’s emporium and cleaned up myself with wire wool and Brasso.
Speaking of Effie, she’s opening up a little more to me, since we had our heart-to-heart on Sunday night. It’s like she’s back to her old self, in a way, now that she’s confiding.
Tuesday afternoon we have one of our trips out, dawdling around the streets of Whitby and admiring the lights and council tinsel displays and the tree in the old marketplace, which towers above the shambolic roofs.
Effie’s got her snood on again. Her face looks pink and fresh and enlivened, somehow. Though her mood is sombre, there is a vitality in her face and a liveliness to her step.
‘Are you still in a muddle over going away?’ I ask her. We’re hauling ourselves up the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Effie wants to stand at the top of the town, while the weather is clear and it’s not too windy. She wants to look at the whole vista from the abbey. It’s slippery going with the encrusted snow on the steps and across the graveyard. I haven’t worn the right shoes. Effie seems to glide along effortlessly, elegantly.
‘In a muddle,’ she sighs. ‘You could say that.’ She turns to me with a woebegone expression. ‘I’m no further on. Kristoff ’s assuming I’m happy to go. He wants to leave as soon after the New Year celebrations as we can manage. Leave and never turn back. Paris first.’ She shakes her head.
That soon! I hold my breath. Kristoff is mad keen to be away. He really must be very disturbed by the ghostly presence of Effie’s aunts. Perhaps, also, he’s feeling the heat here in Whitby. These younger vamps, these transformed young men – these Walkers – perhaps they will lead the police to come knocking on Effie’s door one day soon. Can that be what Alucard fears?
Soon we’re standing amid the tall ruined walls of the abbey itself. The half-demolished arches are smoothed and softened by the snow. The place looks less ruinous with the edges soothed by the drifts.
‘My aunts used to come up here at night.’ Effie smiles. ‘Did I ever tell you? During the war. They’d do their rituals here, for warding off the Nazis.’
‘Really?’ I chuckle. ‘I suppose they danced around naked as the planes flew over?’
‘Oh yes.’ She nods, very seriously. ‘They had a proper job to do. My aunts were the witches of Whitby and were responsible for its safety. Once or twice they brought me here with them, to sit here - on this wall – and watch them go about their vital, magical work. I thought they were magnificent. And they were! They really were!’
I picture the scene. Effie as a child, during the war. Such a long time ago.
‘As the war went on, they decided that they had to send me away from Whitby. I found it very hard. I didn’t want to leave them, of course. My whole life was here. My aunts were my entire world.’
‘Of course.’ My heart twinges for the young Effryggia, the orphan in the house of witches. ‘Where did they send you?’
‘Oh, to some witchy friends of theirs. Women who ran a shop in a little town in the middle of Yorkshire. Haworth. Do you know it?’
I muse on the name. ‘I’m not sure.’
Effie shrugs. ‘Well, that’s a whole other story. What I found in Haworth, in the old graveyard. Or rather, what and who found me. Another story for another day. But the point is, Brenda, my aunts were true heroes. The way they defended this place and used their magic – those incredible powers of theirs – for good!’
I touch her arm. ‘But so do you! You’re here defending this place against disaster. We both do. We’re doing the same job as your aunts used to do!’
She flinches at my touch. For a second my feelings are hurt. ‘But I’m abandoning it all, aren’t I? I’m running out on it all. For the sake of this fella of mine.’
‘You can change your mind,’ I gabble. ‘You don’t have to go if you really don’t want to. Just tell him. Stand up to him!’
‘The d
ecision is already taken,’ she says softly. And I think I know, without asking, what she means. She feels too caught up in Alucard’s plans already. She can’t turn back now. Oh, Effie . . . how far have you gone? I wonder, and I hold my breath.
‘There is so much here,’ I tell her at last. ‘So much you’ll be leaving behind. Your aunts and your house. All your stuff. Your antiques. Your books. Your heritage. Your friends.’
‘I know. I know what I’ll be giving up.’ She takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘And something else, Brenda. Something even you don’t know about just yet.’
I blink. It’s starting to snow again. The wind is picking up around us. It’s time to turn back and walk down into the town again. But I want to know, I’ve got to know what she’s on about. ‘I don’t understand. What . . . ?’
‘I’ve had a shock recently. A big revelation.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘In a way, it’s yet another reason to stick around. To stay here. It’s . . .’
She looks on the verge of tears. ‘Tell me, Effie!’ She’s in pain. She’s struggling with something she’s kept locked inside.
‘I’ve got a living relative here in Whitby,’ she says at last. ‘Someone I never even knew about. A very close relation.’
‘What?’
‘I know. It’s a shocker. I’ve always believed myself to be quite alone. But . . . that’s not the case.’
I wait for her to go on. But she doesn’t.
‘Will you tell me?’
‘Not now. Not yet. I . . . I’m still learning to deal with the knowledge myself.’
I didn’t get any more sense out of Effie, I’m afraid. But then, my mind’s been on other things since then. Not just Christmas plans. I’ve had Robert popping in, still full of talk about the Limbosine, and how there’s been a sighting of that long, luxurious vehicle cruising about the Western Cliff. It was parked outside the Christmas Hotel, so the gossip has it – and that’s enough for me to link the enigma with my old enemy, Mrs Claus. Robert’s not so sure.
Also, Penny has been round, checking up on whether I’ve finished reading the book club book and to see what I made of the Qab papers she gave me. ‘I’ve been doing a bit more research,’ she tells me. ‘Digging around.’
‘Oh yes?’ I’m up to my elbows in flour.
I get the feeling that she’s becoming just a bit carried away, is Penny. For now, I brush her concerns away.
Wednesday brings Henry Cleavis back into my life.
A couple of years have gone by and he hasn’t changed much. There’s more white in his beard, making him look a little like Santa Claus in his red velvet jacket. He’s portlier than when he was last here, I think. He’s moon-faced and his eyes have a keenness that can be disconcerting. To me, he’s the very image of a college professor, all bluster and smelling of musty paper and stale tobacco.
He comes striding towards me with his battered old suitcases, down the railway platform. He grasps me up in this huge bear hug and I just about topple over. Silly old fool. I have to say, though, my heart melts at the way he greets me.
‘How could I stay away so long? How long’s it been? I was such a fool, to go running out last time, without a by-your-leave!’ He fires all of these questions and statements at me as I help him with his atrociously heavy baggage.
I won’t let him waste money on a taxi. It’s just a short, swift uphill yomp to my guest house. The exercise won’t kill us. We gabble away to each other in short breathy gasps as we struggle on the snow-encrusted pavement.
‘And Effie, she’s well, is she?’
‘Oh, better than ever,’ I pant, deliberately evasive.
‘And young Robert? Still helping you to fight the good fight?’
‘Indeed.’ Then I remember. ‘Oh! He says we’re both invited to a Christmas shindig he’s holding tomorrow night at the Hotel Miramar . . .’
I watch Henry’s face darken, and it isn’t just through exertion. ‘That dreadful place. We almost came a cropper in that hotel, didn’t we?’ I can see he’s remembering our deadly battle in the beer garden of Sheila Manchu.
But all that’s over now. We expelled the spirit of Goomba the Bamboo God for ever. There’s nothing to fear at the Miramar these days. ‘Besides,’ I add, ‘since he took over the place, Robert’s developed a knack for throwing fantastic parties. We should have a good evening.’
‘You’ve got it all planned out then?’ Henry grins at me rakishly. ‘We’ve got a packed Christmas programme, have we?’
I shrug nonchalantly. ‘Oh, there’s a few things I’ve got lined up. But I thought we’d take it easy and see how things pan out. It’s good not to be too tied down . . .’
He nods. ‘Oh yes. One never knows, does one? What kind of thing might take one by surprise.’
He’s talking about adventures, of course. I know he is. He looks at me sideways, almost slyly, as we round the bend into mine and Effie’s street. There’s a hopeful gleam in his clever old eyes. ‘There’s strange business going on again, isn’t there?’
‘Hmm?’ I notice Leena peering out of her shop front window between the posted notices, all agog at the sight of me and my gentleman friend. I ignore her and gaze at the Christmas lights criss-crossing our street. It looks a proper picture.
‘I say,’ adds Henry, ‘I can sense it in the air. There are weird things a-stirring here in Whitby, this festive season . . .’
‘Oh yes.’ I smile, fumbling for my keys. ‘Of course there are! Your instincts are impeccable, as ever, lovey!’
He seems very pleased indeed with the Red Room. And so he should be, after all my efforts to get it just right. I’ve even put extra thought into the contents of the dinky bookcase beside his bed, should my guest wake in the night and require suitable reading matter. I’ve bunged in a few monster guide books from the olden days and a tawdry pulp novel or two, all filched from Effie’s bargain bin. They should keep the old Satanist-hunter happily diverted.
‘This is grand, Brenda.’ He gazes round, at the velvet swags and polished mirrors. ‘I’m not used to grandeur like this. My old rooms in college, they’re so dusty and dilapidated. You really wouldn’t believe how shabby a life I live.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure keeping you in comfort,’ I tell him. Then we pause and look each other up and down. We’re caught in an awkward stillness and moment of quiet.
We both look like we’re going to say something. Just burst out with it. I’ve no idea what he wants to say to me. I want to ask him why he ran out on me last time. I want to ask him . . . Oh, it’s not worth it now. I steel myself and issue a stiff warning: don’t go galumphing in. Don’t ruin this friendship. It’s only a matter of weeks since Frank left. You’re still bruised and confused, Brenda.
Henry turns and starts opening his suitcases.
‘I’ll pop upstairs and make us some tea,’ I tell him gently. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled.’ He’ll want some peace for a bit. He’s had a long journey north, I realise. He’s an old gent. He’ll need to catch his breath.
‘Oh, yes! Good! Thank you!’ He nods, struggling with the buckles and straps of his largest case. ‘I’ll come up to your attic, shall I? I can tell you about some of the horrifying adventures I’ve been caught up in, this past couple of years. And you can bring me up to date with yours, too, dear.’
‘Ah,’ I sigh. ‘Not a great deal’s been happening here. Not compared, I’m sure, with the excitements in your life.’ And whatever has managed to turn his facial hair snow white, I muse.
Then I see what he’s unpacking from that case of his. Hefty wooden stakes, sharpened to vicious points. They clunk hollowly against each other like cricket stumps as he bundles them into the new wardrobe. He’s got a tartan flask filled, no doubt, with chilled holy water. There’s a reek of garlic, a glint of multiple crucifixes.
I cough sharply. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘I’m here to see you, Brenda. To spend Christmas with you.’
‘And the r
est,’ I tut. ‘You’ve heard on the grapevine, haven’t you? Word has filtered down to you, about what’s going on here.’
‘Has it?’ he says, stepping closer. ‘Word about what?’
‘That we’ve got an infestation here. A new one. Recent, the police are starting to find bodies, sucked dry. Then some of them are getting up and walking away. We’ve got Walkers. And I don’t mean countryside ramblers, either. I mean fanged cadavers tramping and swooping about and biting folk.’
He nods grimly. ‘I have heard something of the sort. What are you doing about it?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ I’m flummoxed by his abrupt question. Truth is, I haven’t done much at all. I’ve left the vamps to flourish, haven’t I? Henry’s accusing stare transfixes me for a moment.
‘I heard something else, as well,’ he says. ‘That an old friend of ours was back in town.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Who would that be?’
Henry Cleavis shakes his head at me. He’s disappointed. ‘Don’t play games, Brenda.’
As I lumber away into the hall, leaving him to freshen up, hastening to make some tea, I’m wondering once again: why would I protect Alucard? Why shouldn’t I just tell Cleavis that his old adversary resides next door? There he is: he’s sleeping with my best friend again. What stays my hand? What shuts me up?
Effie, of course. Concern for Effie, that daft old bat.
Poor Henry has to fend for himself during his first night under my roof because it’s book club. Penny comes by to pick me up, since I’m nervous about my first visit. I’m laying out the breakfast things in the large dining room when she knocks.
She’s back in full Goth mode: black lipstick, weird hair extensions, the lot. She’s very interested in getting a look at Henry. I haven’t told her much about him, but she goes quiet as he bustles about the place, quite at home already. I ask him if he’ll be all right and he says he’s quite happy catching up with some reading.
