Her Vampyrrhic Heart (3 page)

Tom allowed the current to carry him downstream. If he remained in the water for long enough, the flow would eventually take him to Whitby and the open ocean. As he drifted, he took photographs of different species of fish, or interesting features such as unusually deep chasms. An electronic instrument package attached to his belt automatically recorded his route, depth and speed. Tom had been hired by Yorkshire Woodland Heritage to survey the river that ran through the forest. They needed an accurate chart of the riverbed in order to assess if the channel was changing its course, or if there were archaeological remains, sunken boats, the bones of prehistoric animals or anything that might be of scientific importance.

What especially interested Tom Westonby were the underwater caves. He'd found ten so far. To explore these tunnels running away into submerged cliffs was incredibly dangerous. Even so, he had ventured inside to shine his flashlight into these tomb-like caverns. Anyone seeing him would probably surmise that his scientific curiosity had been aroused by what he might find. But Tom Westonby knew exactly what he searched for when he swam through that liquid darkness. The man looked for his long-lost bride.

T
he River Lepping carried Tom Westonby half a mile downstream. Six feet above him, the surface resembled crinkled silver foil. Ten feet beneath him, the riverbed consisted of pale sand and dark boulders that had been deposited here long ago when the Ice Age glaciers had finally melted. There were rumours that gold coins lay scattered at the bottom of the channel. When he saw a gold disc beneath him he swam down to retrieve it. Instead of being precious metal, the disc turned out to be nothing more than the metal cap from a shotgun cartridge. Not that finding gold would mean much to Tom Westonby – no, he searched for an infinitely more valuable treasure.

His underwater survey had been straightforward this morning. During the forty minute journey the Diver's Instrument Package, known simply as DIP, automatically collected GPS information and other readings much in the way an aircraft's Black Box operated. On his return home, he'd connect the DIP to the computer by USB cable, and upload the data to the Yorkshire Woodland Heritage computer in Bradford.

When he'd won the contract to do this work it meant he'd be his own boss. He liked it that way, because he needed to remain living here in the forest. With every day that passed his determination to bring Nicola Bekk home grew stronger and stronger. Some might call it obsession. He called it LOVE.

A
ping
in his earpiece warned that he'd ten minutes of air left in the tank. Slowly, he ascended to the surface, hearing the rush of bubbles past his helmet. The PIP GPS would tell him where to restart the survey tomorrow; however, he liked to get a fix on his location with his own eyes. When he broke free of the water he saw trees overhanging the river. The bank to his right consisted of heaped-up boulders, so he chose the one to his left, which would allow him exit across a gentle slope of sand. A tree, with two upright branches forming a Y shape, grew at the water's edge. That would provide a good marker for when he started the next leg of his survey.

Tom waded through the shallows. As he did so, he pulled his face mask away, together with his helmet. He glimpsed his reflection in the shallows: a rubber-suited man, loaded with heavy air tanks and a weight belt. Now a twenty-minute walk faced him. Not that he minded. He loved the forest. What was more he sensed Nicola's presence here. Often he'd get such a strong feeling that his lost bride could see him somehow.

Once more he noticed his reflection. This time he focused on the face: a twenty-eight-year-old man with dark hair. Nicola had vanished from his life five years ago, and sorrow and grief had aged him. His eyes were dark and melancholy, and haunted by those memories from half a decade ago that began so happily when Nicola danced into his life. That precious time with Nicola had ended the night the village had been flooded, and tragedy and horror had changed his life for ever. Tom saw shadows gathering behind his eyes. Darkness was coming. He could feel it. As if storm clouds approached. He could almost smell terror in the air. The signs were present. Bad dreams every night. Perhaps some primeval instinct warned of danger. Whispers of death. Predictions of disaster.

‘Hey. Are you ever going to get those stinking bones of yours out of the river?'

The voice wrenched him away from those morbid thoughts.

He saw a figure on the river bank. ‘Owen? Are you allergic to school?'

‘I hoped for a “Great to see you, bro”.'

Tom smiled. ‘Great to see you, bro.' He stepped clear of the water.

‘You're right, school is pissing me off.'

‘They'll suspend you if you keep skipping days.'

‘I'm in the clear today,' said the sixteen-year-old. ‘The heating's busted so they sent us home.' He flicked snow from a branch. ‘Isn't winter wonderful? It frees us from the tyranny of school and mind-shagging boredom.'

‘So you came and found me.' Tom unbuckled the aqualung. ‘I'm touched.'

‘Nah. I'm meeting Kit and Jez. I saw you floating face down in the river, so I thought I'd check if you were dead.'

‘I'm touched again.'

‘Touched in the head, more like. Who'd go scuba diving here in winter?'

‘It's work, Owen. There's bills to pay.'

‘Aye, and beer to be bought.'

‘You're sounding more like Jez every day.'

Owen held out his hand. Tom took it and allowed his younger brother to help him to a rock where he could sit down and prise off his flippers. Tom liked Owen. They got on well together, and Owen was one of the few people who could make Tom laugh again.

Tom noticed a mark on the teenager's face. ‘Someone took a swing at you?'

‘Uh, the bruise? You should see my back. It's every shade of purple, and then some.'

‘Someone has attacked you?' The thought of his brother being beaten up immediately fired up Tom's anger.

‘No, I fell off the back of Jez's truck.'

‘Damn it, Owen. Have you been riding with that idiot again?'

‘Hey, Jez is OK.'

‘No, he's an IDIOT. Everyone knows he takes off in his dad's truck and drives like a maniac. He's going to get the attention of either the cops or a coffin-maker.' He stood up. ‘Now you're making me sound like Dad, but I don't want you getting hurt.'

‘I'm fine. Westonbys are made out of iron and steel.'

Tom pointed at Owen's bruised face. ‘But we still break if we take a hard enough knock.'

Tom wore thick rubber bootees so the woodland paths wouldn't be a problem. Owen walked with him. He didn't seem annoyed that Tom played the caring big brother role. He took Tom's concern in his stride, just as he'd taken falling off the truck in his stride. Owen was easy-going … sometimes too much so. Tom didn't want him drifting into a lifestyle of heavy drinking and drugs, which could become the fate of teenagers in rural villages. Often, the biggest danger in isolated communities is boredom.

Owen suddenly paused. ‘I've got something to show you.' He swung his rucksack from his shoulder. ‘It's interesting, but I haven't a clue what it is.' He pulled out a steel canister about the size of a Thermos flask and handed it to Tom. The thing had been crushed almost flat.

‘Where did you get it from?'

‘I found it upstream.'

Tom peered through a split in the casing. ‘There are wires and circuits inside.'

‘Do you think it fell off a plane?'

‘Could have done. It's hit the ground hard … or something crushed it.' Tom handed the canister back.

‘What do you think it's for?'

Tom shrugged. ‘Could be from a weather balloon. Are you going to hand it in?'

‘To the police? Nah. Kit's good with this kind of thing.'

‘Kit Bolter?'

‘Yeah. Kit'll find out what it's for.' Owen grinned. ‘Don't you love a mystery?'

‘I used to.'

Owen shook the device.

‘Make sure that thing doesn't blow up in your face,' Tom told him. ‘RAF jets practise bombing runs over the moor.'

‘A bomb? You really think so?' Owen smartly tapped the canister against a tree. ‘Shit, it's a dud.'

‘Very funny.'

‘Are you having dinner with us on Sunday?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I've got a job checking a wharf downriver.'

‘You never come across to see Mum and Dad these days.'

‘Maybe next week.' Tom continued walking as Owen pushed the canister back into the rucksack. ‘Let me know when you find out what your gizmo is.' Although he didn't really believe that the object contained explosive. If anything, it probably came from an old television or microwave oven. Some people aren't ashamed at dumping crap in a national park.

Owen laughed. ‘If you hear a loud bang a couple of hours from now you'll know exactly what it is.'

Before going their separate ways Owen looked Tom up and down and shook his head. ‘You know, anyone bumping into you out here is going to be scared witless. When they see you dressed in a black rubber suit they'll think you're either some kind of monster or nuts.'

Tom tried to sound light-hearted. ‘There are more frightening things than me out here, Owen.'

Owen laughed, taking the comment as a joke. ‘Yeah, monsters galore. See you later, Tom.'

‘See you later, Owen.'

Tom Westonby headed in the direction of home. As he walked he wondered what on earth he could do next in his search for Nicola Bekk.

T
om Westonby switched on the TV as he warmed up some chicken soup for lunch.

Local news covered a major fraud case in Sheffield. A moment later, the scene changed to one of Whitby harbour. The newsreader spoke over stock footage of boats and a view of the famous swing bridge: ‘
In Whitby, the mystery of the woman who lost her memory, and whose boyfriend is currently missing, has yet to be solved. Local police found Rose Dawson wandering near the harbour in the early hours of Friday morning last week. Despite the cold weather, Miss Dawson was dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans. She had a cast on one leg as a result of breaking a bone in a recent accident. Miss Dawson is unable to remember how she came to be in Whitby or tell the police anything about the whereabouts of her boyfriend, Mr John Cantley. Anyone having information about the couple is asked to contact Whitby police.
'

Tom Westonby turned off the TV and carried his soup into the lounge. He saw that a piece of paper had been pushed under the front door. Since he'd only used the back door after returning from the river, he hadn't noticed it before now. He picked up the paper. Written there in forceful handwriting were the words:

Mr Westonby. My name is June Valko. I need to speak to you urgently regarding events five years ago. I think we have many important issues in common that have impacted on our lives. Please call me as soon as you can. Believe me, this is important.

A telephone number had been added to the bottom of the letter.

Tom murmured, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.' Crunching the paper into a ball, he threw it into the fireplace. A month didn't go by when he wasn't visited by self-appointed ghost hunters, vampire slayers and monster hunters. Tom would have nothing to do with them. Wouldn't even listen to what they had to say. What engulfed his life five years ago was hugely important to him – and hugely personal. He wasn't going to be portrayed as some lunatic on television so someone could earn a fistful of cash.

Tom had no appetite for the soup now. He hated it when his privacy wasn't just invaded but trampled on like this. He closed his eyes and listened to the angry beat of his heart.
Why don't they leave me alone? What do I have to do to escape the gossip and the finger-pointing?

O
wen Westonby and Kit Bolter sat on bales of straw. The pair were in a barn that belonged to Jez's family. Jez had been called away to help his father with a recalcitrant computer.

Kit examined the metal cylinder. ‘Let me get this straight. You found the pod by the river?'

‘Pod? It's a cylinder.'

Kit shook his head. ‘It's a pod in the sense that it contains an object or objects.'

Owen grinned. ‘So you're going to get all scientific on me?'

‘You asked me to find out what this does.'

‘OK, pod it is.' Jokingly he made the introductions. ‘Mr Pod, meet Kit Bolter. Kit Bolter, meet Mr Pod.'

‘Just plain “pod” will do.' He poked a pencil through a split in the casing. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.'

‘Any ideas?'

‘Some. Where did you find it exactly?'

‘Oh, up the valley near the old footbridge.'

‘How was it lying?'

‘Lying? Is that important?'

‘Might be.'

Owen thought for a moment. ‘Sort of pushed into the soil. Like it had fallen from a plane and the impact had embedded Mr Pod into the muck.'

‘Or a heavy weight had crushed it into the earth?'

‘Yeah, s'pose so.'

‘The pod's been crushed.' Kit indicated the mangled casing. ‘Whatever did that was well heavy, mega-heavy.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Did you see any tyre tracks?'

‘You mean, if it had been run over?'

Kit nodded.

Owen laughed. ‘You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?'

‘I'd like to get into forensics. This is good practice.'

‘Really? You in the police?'

‘Why not?'

‘Yeah, OK, why not?' Owen nodded. ‘So what have you deduced, Sherlock?'

‘If you're going to take the piss … you find out what this is.' He dropped the pod on to Owen's lap before walking out of the barn.

Owen sighed. Kit Bolter must have been fathered by an alien or something. His family were notorious for getting into all kinds of trouble, which usually led to visits from the police. Kit Bolter, on the other hand, had a sensitive, thoughtful nature. That sixteen-year-old with the pale blue eyes and gentle manner must be a foundling.