by Paul Magrs
‘My aunts came to my room one a time that night to say goodnight to me, making something of a ceremony out of it, since we didn’t know when we would all be together again. The last one to come by my room was Aunt Beryl, who was the youngest and the silliest. I was extremely fond of her, and I knew she would do anything for me. I could wind her round my little finger. When she bent to kiss me I asked, ‘Where is my mother, Aunt Beryl? No one will ever tell me.’
‘Beryl was the prettiest of the aunts. She had honey-coloured hair rolled up in the latest fashion. She was the only one of the witchy sisters to wear lipstick. Her green eyes widened at my question and I could see her deciding it would do no harm to tell the child the truth for once. ‘She ran away from us, Effie. Your mammy left us all behind, before you were born. She ran away with her fancy man to fairyland.’
‘My mouth dropped open to hear this. ‘Fairyland’s real?’
‘Aunt Beryl glanced at the piled volumes containing the tales of Christian Anderson, the Grimms and the Arabian Nights forever piled on my bedside table. ‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s like how it is in the stories. Though I wouldn’t know, never having been there. We’ve had a couple of very strange postcards over the years, of course. And there was a note, tucked into the baby basket with you, when she sent you back to us, of course…’ Immediately Aunt Beryl clapped a hand over her mouth. She knew she had said far too much.
‘She sent me back to you in a basket?’ I said, in a hollow voice.
‘Standing by that bed tonight, hearing my younger self ask that question in such a deathly tone, my heart went out to her. I thought, ooh Effie, no wonder you get into your awful black moods and feel so unloved by the universe. What chance did you ever stand? People were always parceling you up and sending you away.
‘And the next thing, there was little Effryggia, left alone in her room, trying to sleep and wondering fiercely what the next day would bring. She hugs her rag doll and the panda Aunt Natasha stitched for her. She thinks about the big book of magic at the bottom of her case and wonders if all the magic contained and pressed inside it could keep her happy and safe. Then the Chauffear was tapping me on the shoulder and I turned to look into his blandly handsome face. He was looking over his shades at me and I saw that his eyes were green, too.
‘I realised that my ghostly, time-travelly visitations were over once more. And the Limbosine was waiting outside in the sea mist to take me home again. To this time, and to now. I came straight round here, Brenda, to see you.
‘The question is, though, what’s it all for? Why’s he doing this? I asked him again and again as he drove the car back to my own time, but the Chauffear would not be drawn. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve forgotten all these scenes from my past. Maybe little bits have dropped away… and it’s astonishing to relive them like this. It’s all rather upsetting, actually. But I can’t see what, if anything, he’s trying to prove. Or trying to tell me. It’s all a bit of a mystery. Oh, I’m yawning. I’m absolutely shattered. Can I stay here again tonight? In the Red Room? It was so relaxing in there the other night. Wonderful, Brenda. Thanks, ducky.’
§
It’s the scent of bacon sandwiches that eventually rouses her in the morning. Effie slouches into my kitchen in a borrowed dressing gown looking as exhausted as I feel.
‘Oh, that smells good,’ she says woozily. ‘Is there any coffee?’
Soon we’re sitting opposite each other at my table.
‘I even dreamed about my aunties and the past last night,’ she says. ‘I’m getting obsessed. It’s as if that man has set off an avalanche in my head.’
‘I know what that feels like,’ I tell her. ‘Well, you know about my memory.’
‘But this is more than just memories,’ she bursts out. ‘It’s like I’m truly back there, in my past. I come out of it like a trance, with a jolt, and it’s quite upsetting, leaving it all behind again. I think I’m still a little girl, with everything ahead of me. My whole life. And then I look in the mirror and see this wrinkled old hag looking back.’
‘Oh, Effie.’
Then I watch her pull herself together. ‘Anyway, no use being maudlin. What we need to figure out is why this Chauffear fella is doing all of this. What does he hope to achieve? And what is he trying to tell me?’
She gobbles up her bacon and eggs and downs two very hot cups of coffee. I don’t want to hurry her, but I’ve got the first of my new guests arriving today, and I’ve a lot of work on.
Eventually Effie vanishes with an airy wave and a perplexed expression. I get to work dusting and polishing and airing the Green Room, where my new guests will be staying. They arrive just before lunchtime and seem a nice enough couple – the Hoffmanns – they’re both some kind of academics, I think. They both look very clever and as soon as they’re in the place they’re talking about allsorts of things I don’t understand. But anyway, it’s nice to have new faces in the old place. The Hoffmanns are here for a whole week, getting away from their university jobs. English literature, I think they said they both went in for. I told them, I’ve become more of a reader this last little while than I ever was before. When they ask about bookshops in town I find myself neglecting to mention the Spooky Finger to them. I wouldn’t want to send anyone Mr Danby’s way.
So, once they’re settled and they’ve got their keys and everything, I leave them to it. I scoot out into the sunny afternoon and immediately wish I’d put a lighter coat on. I’ve phoned ahead and made an arrangement to meet Gila, Robert’s boyfriend, to hear what he has to say about this mermaid business. I haven’t forgotten – in all the fuss of Effie’s disappearance and reappearance – I heard the mermaids singing last night, each to each, in the ancient plumbing of the Christmas Hotel. I need to hear what Gila has discovered about the phenomenon.
We sit in a coffee bar quite near the Christmas Hotel. It’s quite noisy because there are amusement arcades on either side. I greet him with a hug, and he seems pleased to have been asked out like this. I don’t think the poor thing feels fully part of our gang yet.
I tell him, ‘Tell me everything you know, Gila, dearest.’
His greenish skin flushes blue as he sits across the formica table from me. ‘Two weeks ago there was the first death at the Christmas Hotel,’ he says. ‘It was a Mr Killikrates who came running down to the lobby one day, distraught and out of his mind. He caused a big fuss and then went running out of the hotel, through the revolving doors, over the road, across the grass, past the whalebone monument and soon he was hurtling to the edge of the cliff, where he threw himself off. His wife came running down after him, screaming, but it was all too late. Someone or something had driven him to his death. Mrs Claus had it all shushed up, of course.’
‘So you started investigating, then..?’
‘Yes, Penny and Robert had their own mysteries they were involved in. I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I had a little look about the hotel. I went to sit in the main bar and soon found that people would talk to me. I was amazed, really, with how different I look and all. But they were keen to talk about what had become of Mr Killikrates. There was some agreement among the old folk that his wasn’t a one-off case. His madness was catching, they said…’
I frown and taste my terrible cup of tea. ‘That would be very strange…’
He nods eagerly. ‘The most information I got was from a red-faced old man in a blazer who sat in the bar all day long drinking whisky sours. His name was Mr Leo, he said, and he had shaggy, sandy hair, just like a lion. He told me that it was his belief that Killikrates – and the others! He said there had been others – had in fact been lured to their deaths. Leo and Killikrates had been drinking buddies and Leo knew that his friend had heard the singing in the pipes in the bathrooms at the hotel. He had been charmed by the siren song and lured by them. He would do whatever those voices asked him, including flinging himself from the cliffs.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I say. ‘I heard them too, you know. I heard them last night when I popped into the loo at the Christmas Hotel. The voices of tiny mermaids.’
‘But why do they want people to kill themselves?’ he asks, blinking those huge lizard eyes at me.
‘If Mrs Claus is trying to cover it up, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t involved in it somehow.’
‘But why would she want to murder her own guests?’
‘Because she’s crackers, that’s why. She’s bonkers and very dangerous. And just watch out, Gila, investigating things on her patch. She doesn’t take kindly to people poking their noses in.’
‘I know,’ he says ruefully. ‘Next time I went in there I was given a little note. It was in a Christmas card, telling me that if I made a habit of grilling her guests for info, I’d get my limbs broken and find myself sent back to the wonderful world of Qab.’ Gila swallowed hard. ‘Could she really do that, Brenda?’
I nod. ‘I’m sure Mrs Claus could do anything she threatens. But never mind. I wouldn’t let her hurt you, Gila. Now, come on. Drink up. I can’t stand the noise of all those amusements. You’ve got to get back to work.’ And I, I think to myself, have a particular shop I must visit.
§
Clang goes the bell on the door of The Spooky Finger. I glare around the refurbished shop, glad to see there aren’t any customers yet.
‘Mr Danby?’ I call, making my voice as thunderous as possible.
No reply. He’ll be hiding from me. He’ll hear my voice and go skulking away, frightened I’m here to do him a mischief.
I advance into the shop, barely able to repress a shudder as memories of what went on in this place course through me. It’s only a matter of months ago, since all the carnage and upset of that business to do with the World of Qab, and the Walkers.
‘Are you here, Mr Danby?’ I ask again.
He is fiddling with a bookcase of first editions, pretending that he hasn’t heard me call. As I step round to beard him in his bookish den he does a very obvious double take.
‘Ooh! My dear..!’ And he pretends to be glad to see me.
‘Don’t try smarming round me, Danby,’ I warn him. ‘It might work on others. But not on me. I know all about you. I know what you’re like.’
He is moon-faced, grinning, with his tufts of dyed black hair hanging down like old string from his comb-over. He has aged, I notice, since our last deadly encounter. There is a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and bald spot and his cherubic cheeks are a tad flushed. He’s scared of me, I’m gratified to see.
‘Oh no, no, no, Brenda,’ he says, in that unctuous voice of his. ‘I’m a changed man. Believe me.’
‘But that’s the thing, I’d never believe a word you said. Not after the bother you’ve put me through in the past.’
He flushes with embarrassment. ‘You’re talking about the Deadly Boutique, aren’t you? Well, all I can say is that I tried to bring a little happiness into the lives of those women. I tried to help them recapture their youth…’
‘You turned them into… monsters!’ I growl. ‘And what’s more you shoved me into your Deadly Machine too!’
He shakes his head sorrowfully and tangles his spidery white fingers together. ‘Can’t we just try to get along? We may have had… slight disagreements in the past, Brenda, but surely it’s best to move onwards and upwards? Can’t we forgive and forget?’
‘What?! You tried to discredit me, to turn the whole town against me…!’
‘I find,’ he says, ‘that it’s sometimes quite destructive to rove over old ground like this. Digging up bad feeling. You know, it does no one any good. The past is the past, Brenda. We should move on, more positively. And do our very best to become the best of friends!’ Then he beams at me.
I can’t believe my ears. ‘Have you gone religious?’
‘No!’ he laughs. ‘But I do think you dwell rather a lot on the past, my darling. I think you make yourself sadder than you ought to be, by dwelling on the wrongs done to you by folk. You make those past misdemeanours seem worse than ever they were…’ Now he is tutting and shaking his head.
See? See how he twists things around? Now he’s trying to make me feel bad for mistrusting him!
I’m not having any of that. I take a couple of steps closer to him and glower down into his moist, pale, worried face. ‘If I hear of any funny business emanating out of here, I’m going to come round and shut you down personally, Mr Danby.’
He tries to grin. ‘You’re threatening me! After I’ve offered my friendship and forgiveness!’
‘Forgiveness!’ I say hotly.
‘You are too negative, Brenda,’ he sighs. ‘No wonder you’re not very happy.’
Aaagghhh! I suddenly see! He is attempting to put me under the influence! Those watery eyes of his… imploring me… drawing me in…!
I take a sharp step backwards, banging my hip on his solid wooden cash desk.
‘And another thing,’ I say, struggling to sound normal. ‘Penny.’
‘Who?’
‘Penny Danby. She came here to see you recently.’
‘Ay, yes. My relative. My niece-in-law. Why, she could be my kissing cousin!’
‘Keep away from her, Danby. I mean it. She’s a good girl.’
‘And she seems it!’ he simpers. ‘But how could you begrudge my getting to know a long lost family member? Especially one so pretty and sweet. When I have so few relations or friends in this world. How could you deny me a little kinship and company?’
‘Just you watch out.’
‘She could help me,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘In my investigations, perhaps. And on my radio show.’
He’s enjoying my discomfort and positively laughs when I react to his words just then. ‘What investigations?’ I snap.
‘Oh, I’m doing some investigating of my own,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you know? There are some very strange things happening here in Whitby, Brenda. And someone needs to be working to bring them under control.’
I stare at him. ‘You stay out of things, Danby. And stay away from Penny!’
All of a sudden I’ve run out of things to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something is sapping all my strength and volition. I feel rather helpless and hopeless as he smiles at me blandly and talks about his investigations and his radio show and how his listeners are going to help him solve some of the creepy mysteries going on in Whitby these days.
‘What’s the matter, Brenda?’ he says, jeeringly. ‘Are you afraid of a little honest competition, eh?’
I know I just have to get out of here. Something horrible is buzzing in my head. It’s as if I have come down with the flu in a matter of seconds. I know it’s akin to utter defeat, but I turn hurriedly on my heel and beat a hasty retreat out of that shop.
I hear Danby laughing at me.
The door of the Spooky Finger clashes shut on my heels.
Then I’m out on Silver Street and feeling a fool. What has come over me? Why should I fear a little worm like him?
§
At home I treat myself to a nip of sherry to calm my nerves.
The thing is, these past few years, I’ve clung rather keenly to my role here in Whitby. Together, along with Effie, I am the guardian of this town. It was Mr Danby’s wizened old mother herself who told me that this was my job – from now unto eternity.
Just the very thought of others muscling in on that territory makes me feel queasy and cross. By that, I don’t mean the kids. I don’t mean Penny, and Gila and Robert. Of course not – I’m very glad that they are fighting the good fight against the monsters by my side. No, it’s Danby. He was the mastermind behind my first real fracas in this town, and I’ve a feeling that he will be my last. I’m having a nasty feeling of foreboding this afternoon – and it’s made me turn to the bottle, which is not like me a
t all.
Mr Danby is my nemesis. I sit in my attic and I’m feeling rather scared. I can sense his mind out there… moving against me. Advancing all kinds of evil schemes against me. But why? Why does he hate me so? Whenever I clap eyes on him it raises my hackles… so perhaps it’s the same with him. Perhaps he just despises me.
A door thumps closed downstairs and there’s moving about. At first I jump, having forgotten I’ve got guests staying. Then I get a grip on myself. Come on, Brenda. You’ve got to be braver and stronger than this. Something is making you fret too much. You’re never as nervous and as jumpy as this.
And at once I know it’s because of those strange encounters in Paris. They have squirmed under my skin, those warnings. They are spoiling my confidence and messing with my mind.
Because we came back here to Whitby, terrible things will ensue for both Effie and I. Already the pieces are falling into place. Mr Danby is up to something. He’s already admitted that he’s seeking to take our place as guardian of the town. And Effie has been dragged on these night rides into her own past. I’d be very surprised if it wasn’t all linked up.
I’m mulling all this over in a kind of trance as I head downstairs with a feather duster, cloths and polish and set to work in the dining room and the unoccupied bedrooms. I put on Whitby F.M. and attempt to distract myself from my woes by scrubbing and polishing and putting out a pyramidal display of variety packs of cereal. When I set about refilling the jugs of breakfast fruit juice I suddenly recoil. They are all fetid and stinking. The orange, grapefruit and tomato juice have all gone off. When I peer at them, incredulous, they’ve got clods of nasty mould swishing about in them. Archipelagoes of mildew. The stench is disgusting.
Then I look at the stewed prunes and the muesli and the story is the same. Everything is rank and hideous. But how can this be? I always make sure everything is impeccable and perfect. Now I can’t get that awful smell of fruit juice gone bad out of my nose.
‘Ah, yes,’ says a voice right behind me. It’s a rather cultivated voice, confident and loud, but sounding almost sheepish right now as I turn, startled, to look at its owner. ‘Yes, I’m afraid our brekkie was something of a disappointment.’
