by Paul Magrs
‘I don’t like seeing her.’ Effie shudders. ‘Especially now she’s dead.’
And it’s true. We were all there for Jessie’s funeral, at St Mary’s church, at the top of the hill by the abbey. Her heart had packed in as a result of the makeover traumas. We were there when they laid her to rest. And Effie and I – embroiled in another adventure completely – were there in the dark graveyard the night that Jessie had clawed her way out of the grave.
Jessie the primitive woman – the womanzee, as Effie mockingly calls her – is now a zombie womanzee. And she is a very disconcerting person to visit.
She is sitting there Monday morning, by a smouldering camp fire outside her small cave. She’s crouched over, glowering at the horizon. Filthy dirty and hairy as anything. She’s caked in all sorts of muck. We can hear her growl at us warningly as we approach. Effie’s cracked voice gives out a jaunty ‘Good morning!’ as she struggles to give the impression that we have tramped out here because we really want to. I am swinging the shopping bag of kippers and the flask of tea, and I find myself waving airily at Jessie and Robert. Her nephew is crouching beside the fitful fire with her, gallantly toasting muffins on a sharp stick. He waves at us, glad that someone has turned out to visit.
‘I’m amazed no one’s noticed her living here,’ Effie hisses at me, before we get too close. ‘Anyone would have the screaming abdabs, bumping into her.’
‘Sssh.’ I pat her arm, and call out loudly, telling them what I’ve brought.
And then we are squatting uncomfortably on the damp sand, having a picnic with Jessie and Robert. For all of Robert’s effusiveness and delight at seeing us there, Jessie seems – as usual – monumentally unimpressed. Though it’s true she doesn’t express much these days outside a vague crossness and ravening hunger. This morning she looks both me and Effie up and down and goes, ‘Glooop,’ in a very melancholy tone. It’s the only human word she still has in her vocabulary and, as Effie points out, it isn’t even a word.
Robert is very brave, carrying on as if we’ve chosen to have a picnic out on the beach as a silly whim; a pure piece of pleasurable indulgence. He unwraps the kipper we have brought and holds it out to his aunt and, for a second, he looks like some supplicant, kneeling with his offering before his primitive goddess. ‘Gloop,’ says Jessie, and snatches the flat fish out of his hands. She crams one end hungrily into her mouth and I sense, rather than see, a shudder pass through Effie’s body.
‘It’s good of you to come, Brenda,’ says Robert. ‘It’s so easy to feel that Aunt Jessie has been forgotten by the whole world.’
I smile at him. ‘It’s the least we can do, lovey. It’s no trouble, really.’
‘I’m glad it’s warmer now,’ he says. ‘The winter was terrible for the poor thing. I never thought she’d survive.’
Effie coughs politely, looking away from Jessie as she devours her breakfast. ‘How long can this go on, though? You can’t keep her here indefinitely, Robert.’
Robert blinks sadly. I feel my heart go out to him. ‘I really don’t know, Effie. This is a pretty unique situation. I’m not sure what I should do . . .’
Effie purses her lips. Then she says, ‘It’s not just about her safety and well-being though, is it?’
I narrow my eyes at Effie. I just know she is about to put her foot in it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . .’ Effie casts another glance at Jessie, who is happily crunching up fish bones and flesh, in a world of her own. ‘She is out here, free as can be . . . and we know what a temper she can have now, in her altered form, and . . . frankly, who can blame her? It must be absolutely terrible to find herself . . . in these straits. She used to be a quite attractive woman. So who’s to wonder at her going off the deep end, now and then?’
Robert is opening the flask of hot tea we’ve brought. I’m holding out the plastic cups. Robert pauses before he pours, frowning. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’
Effie takes a deep breath. ‘I mean, what kind of danger is she to the public?’
‘The public? Why, none . . .’
‘How do you know that?’ Effie says. ‘You can’t watch her all the time. She goes roaming around here at night on these beaches. She could be up to all sorts that you don’t even know about, Robert. She could be . . . I don’t know . . . doing anything. She’s a wild woman! A monster!’ These last few, terrible words have emerged from Effie in a breathless rush.
We stare at her. So does Jessie, with a mouthful of kipper. It’s as if even she realises the awful thing Effie has said. ‘Gloooop,’ says Jessie, with just a hint of animosity.
‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Robert tells Effie. ‘My Aunty Jessie would never hurt anyone.’
Effie scowls. ‘You don’t know that. The way she is now, no one knows what she is capable of.’
I put in, ‘I don’t think she’d attack anyone, Effie. It’s not in Jessie’s nature . . .’
‘But she isn’t Jessie any more! ’ Effie bursts out. Then she stands up, and dusts crumbs of damp sand off her new mac. ‘Oh, look. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I feel I just have to say my piece. I think you’re going to come a cropper hiding your aunt out here in the caves.’
Robert simply stares at her, his trusting face full of hurt. I don’t know what to say. I feel ashamed of my best friend. Jessie has turned back to her rough meal.
‘And think of this, too,’ Effie goes on. ‘Jessie might get blamed for things. Like Rosie Twist, going off the top cliff the other day. They still don’t know who was responsible for that. Now, if anyone gets wind of Jessie the wild womanzee camping out on the rocks . . . Can’t you see how easily they could fix the blame on her?’
Effie has a point. I hadn’t thought of it like that. It would be a simple matter, should Jessie come to light, for the whole town to demonise her. That could end very nastily indeed.
Robert’s hand shakes as he pours out milky tea. He doesn’t say anything to Effie.
‘It’s all very well going into denial,’ Effie snaps. ‘It’s all very well ignoring the sense I’m talking . . .’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t come to see my aunt again,’ he tells Effie in a very level voice. ‘She only wants her real friends to visit her.’
‘Glooop,’ says Jessie, as if to underline his point.
Robert adds, ‘You’re still welcome, Brenda. I know you’d never turn against my aunt.’
I wince. ‘Robert, I think . . . maybe Effie has a point, perhaps . . . It’s not entirely safe here for Jessie . . .’
He looks at me with tears in his eyes. ‘Then where can she go, Brenda? Where does a woman like her hide herself away, eh?’
And I can’t tell him. I have to tell him that I don’t know.
It’s a very gloomy little party that Effie and I leave behind us on the beach that morning. We shuffle back home after our visit, feeling that we have made things somehow worse.
The Christmas Hotel is the last place I want to go for dinner. But when Henry calls me I don’t feel I can refuse. Is that weak of me? I think it is.
I doll myself up, feeling cross with myself. But I could hardly go into all the reasons why the Christmas Hotel is my least favourite place in Whitby. Not over the phone, at any rate. You don’t know who might be listening in.
What could I say? The place gives me the creeps. Mrs Claus is always up to no good. Effie and I were held captive there during our investigations last autumn – bound and gagged in the attic – and we only just escaped with our lives. That was to do with the business of the human flesh in the pies. I don’t want to go into all of those details with Henry just now.
On go my glad rags. I even slip on my mismatched dancing shoes, in case he asks. I smarm on my lipstick and I examine myself from every angle for flaws. I’m not perfect, but I’ll do.
When he calls he’s extremely smart, in a smoking jacket and a cravat. I’m proud to be seen walking out with my professor in the early evening.
We st
roll along the prom and I could almost feel that we are strolling in a different age. The rowdy kids at the amusement arcades simply melt into the background. Their noise, along with that of the tiny fairground and the honking traffic, dulls down into a persistent buzz, harmless as the noise of the sea. Henry and I simply bustle along happily, towards our supper date, and it’s as if none of the hurly-burly of modern life can even touch us.
‘I could tell, my dear. That you weren’t keen.’
‘But I am! I am keen!’ And I make a note to myself not to seem too keen.
‘On coming to the Christmas Hotel. I could tell by your tone. On the phone.’ Now we’re puffing slightly, clambering up the winding steps to the front of the Royal Crescent. We pause at the top, surveying the brilliant blaze of lights along the hotel fronts: how welcoming and classy they look. And we look out at the bronze smoothness of the sea; the cankered, jagged blackness of the cliffs and the abbey. And I find I’m searching out the caves along the front. But of course I can’t see Jessie skulking about on the beach: the shadows have grown long and it’s too distant anyway. But I know she’s down there, ekeing out her miserable afterlife – as my new beau accompanies me to the hotel where she was once such an accomplished waitress.
‘The thing is,’ Henry says thoughtfully, ‘it’s a place I want to see. For myself. You see? Things there. Of interest, hm?’
He’s so elliptical. But I think I get his gist. We scurry across the road and the porter opens the main doors for us and suddenly it’s Christmas time all over again. The foyer is swagged and festooned with more tinsel and glitz than ever before. The muzak carols are booming out at an even more ear-splitting level. Henry turns to glance at me quizzically, and bursts out laughing. He looks completely delighted by the staff who are helping the elderly guests to their places. As always, the staff here are dressed in green and scarlet elf outfits.
‘I think it’s quite marvellous.’ Henry grins, once we are settled at a table in the restaurant. We’re in one of the best: a bay window right out on the front, so we can watch the sun slide down behind the sea. ‘Scampi!’ Henry exclaims, flapping the menu. ‘Steak and kidney pie! Yum!’
I shake my head quickly. ‘Don’t eat the pies here,’ I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow and then I have to explain about the whole cannibalism business from last year. I mean, we didn’t actually prove anything. It was just Robert’s strong suspicion. And he was the one working here: he saw what went on. And we did, after all, find his Aunt Jessie’s then-dead corpse in the walk-in freezers . . .
‘What a life!’ Henry chuckles, shaking his head. ‘What a life you lead, Brenda!’
‘Hm,’ I say, wishing he’d lower his voice slightly. ‘I’d stick to the vegetarian option, if I were you.’
But Henry wants turkey and all the trimmings. He wants the full yuletide experience at the Christmas Hotel. While we eat and drink I notice that his shrewd eyes are flitting about the place. He’s taking in every detail as the guests chunter, chatter and chew on their mince pies and puddings. He’s alert to everything and suddenly I am compelled to ask him: ‘What are you investigating, Henry?’
‘Hm? Me? What do you mean, my dear?’ He holds out his cracker and, momentarily forgetting my own strength, I pull it and almost have his poor old arm out of its socket. He laughs ruefully, rubs his shoulder, and insists that I put on the party hat.
‘When I used to know you, back in the past,’ I persist, ‘you and your fellow dons were always up to something. You were always looking into your secret cults and wicked goings-on. You’re still doing it, aren’t you? The Smudgelings are still active.’
‘Oh,’ he sighs, and a greyness settles over his face. ‘They’re all dead, Brenda. Tyler died in 1972. Most of the others went before he did. My brother John, bless him, went to his Maker in the late seventies. He was in New York. Nasty things lurking on the disco scene. So there’s just me. Only me left. I’m the only Smudgeling still going.’
He’s smiling at me sadly, and I feel silly and cruel in my paper hat, asking brusque questions like that. But Henry Cleavis is gentle and he doesn’t mind, I can tell. Then he wants to ask me a question in return.
‘Why did you go?’ he asks simply. ‘You ran out on me. Poof. And at such a moment! I never understood. We were friends. How could you? How could you leave, Brenda?’
I flush. I look down at my half-eaten lentil bake. I don’t know what to say to him. I really don’t. With a shock, I realise my eyes are misting up. I can’t look up at him again. I can’t meet his gaze. He’ll think I’m ridiculous, crying as easily as this. He won’t understand. How can he understand?
I end up mumbling into the crockery: ‘I don’t remember, Henry. I can’t remember how . . . it finished. I don’t remember things in detail. Running out on you . . . is that what I did? I don’t know.’
‘You did,’ he said. ‘You left me. Alone in that terrible place. Right at the worst possible moment.’
Now I do look up. ‘What terrible place?’
Henry’s eyes widen. ‘You really don’t remember, do you?’
‘It was over sixty years ago, Henry . . .’
‘But I don’t forget. I couldn’t forget an escapade like that one in Limehouse.’
I frown at him. Limehouse? I can’t remember ever having been there, I don’t think. Something stirs and ripples in my mind. Then it’s gone. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. ‘I’m an old woman, Henry. A lot of my memories simply aren’t there any more. I’ve had to let them go. There’s only a certain amount of room in one addled old head. Can we drop this now?’
‘Of course,’ he says gallantly. But he looks very troubled. And, truth be told, what he’s said tonight has put the willies up me, as well.
As the evening wears on there is one of the hotel’s frequent festive singalongs and Henry and I try to make good our escape. We hurry through the tables as the old people start to clap and bawl. When we pause to pay our bill the elf at the counter introduces himself. He’s somewhat plump and young and shifty-looking.
‘I’m a friend of Robert’s. Martin. I know he’s pals with you, Brenda. How’s he doing?’
‘Oh, fine,’ I say airily. I don’t want to give too much away. I don’t trust anyone here at the Christmas Hotel. ‘He’s very happy at the Miramar.’
The elf nods gloomily. ‘He was never happy here, really. Not since . . . well, what happened to Jessie.’ He doesn’t fully vocalise the name of Robert’s aunt. He just mouths it at us.
‘Who’s Jessie?’ says Henry.
‘Long story,’ I tell him.
‘I’m surprised you’re here, Brenda,’ Martin says, in a queer tone. ‘I don’t think there’s much love lost between you and Mrs Claus, is there? I’ve heard her talking about you.’
I shrug at this, though I hate to hear about people talking behind my back. This Martin sounds like a stirrer to me, a trouble-maker, and I don’t trust him. I smile tightly and turn away.
‘Not very comfortable. Were you? Eating here tonight?’ Henry asks me, as we scoot across the gaudy carpet of the foyer and out of the place.
‘I’m just glad we didn’t come face to face with Mrs Claus herself. She’s a terrible, hectoring, bullying sort of person. All bright red and shouting heartily. Wanting everyone to join in the fun. She seems all jolly on top, and then you realise there’s this terrible emptiness and hollowness and savagery inside her. She’s an utterly self-centred and depraved creature inside . . .’ I shiver at my own words as we step out on to the prom.
‘I’d have been fascinated,’ says Henry. ‘To meet such a person.’
As we walk back along the seafront it takes us a few moments to realise that there is more noise than usual coming from the amusement arcades. It hardly seems possible that they could get any louder, with all their screeching music and jangling and whining of electronic gewgaws. But tonight there are screams of horror lifting eerily into the darkening air. Screams?
‘Something’s
up.’ Henry’s nose is twitching with alarm. He seizes my arm and we both hasten, instinctively, towards the source of the noise.
What we see down there sends a shudder of dismay through me.
‘What is it?’ Henry shouts, over all the clamour. We are stuck in the path of teenagers pelting out of the Silver Slipper arcade. Boys and girls alike are white-faced and panicked. ‘My God!’ barks Henry. ‘What have they seen in there?’
Even before I catch a glimpse of her, I know who it is. And I know that Effie was quite right, this morning, to express those few badly received words of caution.
I can see that Henry is about to plunge bravely into the coruscating lights of the Silver Slipper. His dander is up, I can tell, and he must know what is happening inside there. I warn him. I tell him to be careful.
‘My dear.’ He smiles, puzzledly, as if he didn’t know what circumspection was.
But it turns out that we needn’t go in there at all. The source of the noise and the panic is coming out to greet us.
More cries of abject horror. The last few stragglers are hounded out into the open air. And then we see the rough beast they’ve been so scared by, as she comes slouching out on to the prom.
‘Oh, Jessie,’ I moan, falling back.
Jessie has been on a rampage.
Somehow she has been drawn to the golden lights of the arcades. Tonight she has loped across the sands at low tide, drawn by the shallow entertainments on offer on the western pier. She has arrived here, naked and smeared in filth, shrieking and gibbering like the womanzee she is. Behind her I can see cracked and smashed-open machines. She has destroyed these things with her bare hands. I push Henry back, out of her way, as she hurries by us, into the open air. She gives a huge roar, throwing back her great shaggy head. She doesn’t recognise me.
