His Vampyrrhic Bride (22 page)

Chester found the door in the dark. After giving it a good kick he yelled, ‘You better let us out of here. I’m warning you!’

Tom tried to be optimistic. ‘Might be one of your friends? Playing a joke on us?’

‘No, it isn’t. I got a call from a pal that was driving over here. The cops are stopping people from coming into the village. The flood’s brought down the bridge.’

‘Use your phone . . . Call someone to get us out of here.’

‘Sorry, Tom. I left the phone with my grandad in case he needed it.’

‘Great. Just great. And mine’s out there in the workshop.’

Chester pounded the door. ‘Let us out or I’ll rip your bloody head off!’

A voice came back at him – all fast and breathy, as if the guy was so excited that he’d burst wide open. ‘Yeah, yeah! Try it, Chester Shitting Kenyon. My head’s right here. Go on, reach through this bit of wood, rip it off . . . rip off my head and wear it like a hat on
your
stupid head!’ The laughter that came through the door sounded more like a high-pitched screech.

Chester growled back, ‘Bolter. I know it’s you.’

‘That’s intelligent. OK, you know it’s me, so what?’

‘Bolter, let me out.’

‘Nope.’

‘I’ll break your neck.’

‘Still nopey nope.’ Bolter squealed with laughter.

Tom whispered, ‘He’s high on something.’

‘Yeah,’ Chester whispered back. ‘Speed. Amphetamines. He lives on that junk.’

‘He’s the one that attacked me. There were three other guys there, too.’

‘
I heard that!
’ Bolter switched from laughter to rage. ‘Yeah, we were up at Mull-Rigg. We pounded your face to crap. Then you did something . . .’ His voice adopted a hollow quality, as if he remembered something traumatic. ‘Now my friends are dead. All that blood on the ground, man – all that blood.’

‘Jesus,’ hissed Chester. ‘Those pills have sent him crazy.’

Bolter snarled. ‘My friends are dead . . . It’s all your fault, Westonby.’

‘Open the door,’ Tom said. ‘We can talk about this.’

‘Talking’s for shitheads. I’m going up there. This is something I can sort out myself.’

‘Bolter—’

‘I know that bitch Nicola Bekk’s got something to do with my friends being murdered. She’s going to get a visit from me, Westonby. Do you hear? She’s going to a get a real visit. She’s going to get my ace, number-one calling card! Do you follow?’

Tom continued to speak softly: ‘Open the door. We’ll discuss this calmly.’

‘Do you think I’m calm after what happened to me? After what I saw!’

Tom Westonby stood there in the dark and shuddered. He had the dreadful feeling that Bolter was on the verge of admitting that there
really
had been a creature, which had emerged from the forest the night he was attacked. After Tom had been beaten senseless by those thugs he’d either dreamt or hallucinated that a monster had ripped Bolter’s friends apart. So could it be some bizarre coincidence that Bolter’d had a drug-fuelled fantasy about his friends being murdered? Or had there really been a . . .? Tom suddenly felt uneasy about even finishing the thought.
Helsvir isn’t real
, he told himself,
so don’t fall into the trap of believing it is, or you’ll end up as insane as Mrs Bekk.

Bolter made strange sounds at the other side of the door: crying and laughing at the same time.

The sound both sickened and shocked Tom. That was a human being sliding into total psychological breakdown. A man in such a state could do anything his sick brain told him to do. That was the kind of mental state where people committed murder.

Chester grabbed Tom’s arm. ‘What’s all this about people being killed? What really happened at your house the other night, Tom?’

Tom realized he needed to play this shrewdly. Chester must stay focused on the problem that they faced now: being locked in a room by Bolter, a man close to meltdown.

Chester shook Tom’s arm again. ‘Tom, what did he see?’

‘Humour him,’ Tom whispered. ‘We’ve got to persuade him to open the door.’

‘I’ll persuade him . . .
with my fist
!’

Tom’s heart sank. Chester’s anger was understandable, but this would only provoke Bolter.

Tom was right. ‘Yeah,’ Bolter sneered. ‘Your fist’s going to persuade nothing, you shithead. I’m going to pay Nicola Bekk a visit right now . . .
I just know I can make her talk.
’ His voice got all oozy and gloating. ‘Pillow talk, Westonby. A little bit of pillow talk . . . she’ll fess up about everything.’ The voice faded as he moved away. ‘Bye-bye. I’ll tell you all the exciting details when I get back.’ His high-pitched laughter reached them. ‘I’ll even have some gory souvenirs . . . ha-ha. Gory, gory, gory!’

‘He’s crazy,’ Chester muttered. ‘Totally crazy.’

Tom shuddered as he pictured what Bolter might do to the woman he loved. ‘He’s going to hurt Nicola. We’ve got to get out of here right now.’

‘We need some light. Stand back.’

Tom heard shuffling in the dark. Then clanks of metal as if Chester searched through the mess of engine parts on the shelves.

After Chester blundered into him a couple of times, Tom stood back to give the man space to work.

‘What are you looking for, Chester?’

‘Something long enough to reach through the window bars. There’s only boards over the opening. If I can knock those out, we’ll be able to see again.’

Tom took another step back. There was something about the way his foot sounded that made him pause. He lightly tapped his foot twice.

Plish-plash.

‘Oh no.’ Quickly, he bent down. The darkness made it impossible to see what was there on the floor – he felt it, though.

‘Chester. Hurry up. There’s water coming under the door.’

‘I don’t understand it . . . The floods have never reached the workshop before.’

‘Maybe the gods are angry with us.’

‘Yeah, and I’m getting angry with them.’ He’d responded as if Tom had made a flippant comment. ‘Ah, this should do it.’

Tom heard a series of loud bangs. After the fifth
BANG
, daylight jetted in through a gap in the boards that covered the barred window. He screwed his eyes up at the sudden glare. When his eyes functioned again he checked the floor and found that a brownish pool was spreading around his feet.

Chester’s eyes bulged. ‘This’s really bad, Tom. At this rate, the whole village is going to be underwater.’

‘Then we’re going to have to get out before we drown.’

‘How?’

Tom tugged at the iron bars covering the window.

‘You’ll never shift those. My dad cemented them there ten years ago when he planned to use this as the cash room. That’s why we put in the safe.’ He gave a shrug. ‘But Ma persuaded him the bank was the best place for the money after all.’

Tom remembered the truck jack that stood on the safe. ‘Give me a hand with this.’

‘What you going to do with that?’

‘Rest the jack on its side between the bars, then pump the handle.’

‘Ah, like the jaws of life! You’re a genius, Tom.’

‘Call me a genius once we’re out of here.’

The heavy-duty jack was a formidable chunk of steel. Even with both of them lifting together, it was still tough to manoeuvre the mechanism so it rested on its side between the vertical bars. As soon as it was in place, Chester pumped the handle.

Slowly, the formidable steel brace, which would normally raise a truck off the ground so one of its wheels could be changed, moved outwards. Chester used all his strength to keep pumping.

‘Keep going,’ Tom shouted. ‘The bar’s bending.’

‘Stand back.’ Chester really put some beef into the job. He pumped the jack handle until sweat bled from his face. A moment later there was a terrific bang.

‘Damn it,’ Chester yelled. ‘I’ve bust the jack!’

‘No, you haven’t. That’s the bar breaking. Look!’ He tugged at one of the window bars. It came free in his hand.

‘Reckon you can get through that gap?’ Chester panted.

‘Try me.’

Tom quickly wriggled through into the workshop. After a struggle, Chester managed to squeeze his muscular body through, too. When the big man dropped feet first on to the floor he sent a wave running across the flood water that was about an inch deep.

Tom asked, ‘Have you any sandbags to stop it getting in?’

‘I’ll worry about sandbags. You go find Nicola Bekk. She needs you more than I do.’

‘Thanks, Chester.’

‘Don’t forget your phone.’

Tom saw that his jacket had vanished from the chair. ‘Bolter must have taken it.’

‘I’ve more bad news. It’s not all he’s taken.’ Chester pointed at an empty steel cage in the corner. ‘There should be a big can of diesel there. Bolter’s taken that, too. He must be planning on starting a fire.’

W
ater gently rippled through the open doors of the workshop – so far, no more than an inch deep. Yet there was more to come, that much was for sure. The moment Tom Westonby splashed through that glistening pool and out on to the street he saw the flood pouring into the graveyard of St George’s church. The ancient stone building stood on a mound, so it now occupied its own small island. Graves were being relentlessly inundated. Black stone crosses, statues of weeping angels, the vertical slabs of granite that served as tombstones: they all jutted out of the new lake that was forming in the village.

Fortunately, Tom’s car remained clear of the water. That state of affairs wouldn’t last for long, however. A scummy tide crept up the road. In a matter of seconds the first waves would be lapping at the wheels.

Find Nicola. Make sure she’s safe. Bring her to Mull-Rigg Hall where you can look after her.
That was the beat of Tom’s thoughts as he ran towards his car.
Once you’ve got her home don’t let her out of your sight.
Tom clearly remembered Bolter’s threat
:
‘
I know that bitch Nicola Bekk’s got something to do with my friends being murdered. She’s going to get a visit from me, Westonby. Do you hear? She’s going to get a real visit. She’s going to get my ace, number-one calling card! Do you follow?
’

Tom did follow. He knew exactly what that thug Bolter intended. The man would do everything he could to hurt her. Bolter had also taken the can of fuel; no doubt he planned to do some fire-starting.

He’d got halfway to his car when he heard a shout. ‘Tom! Tom, wait!’

Chester had run from the workshop into the street. ‘My van was parked out here. Bolter’s stolen it.’

So that’s how he’s transporting his arson kit
, thought Tom. ‘I’ll get the van back for you.’

‘I’m not worried about the van, Tom. I’m worried about you. That lunatic will kill you if he gets the chance!’

‘I can take care of myself.’ Chester’s concern touched Tom. ‘Thanks, though, mate. I’ll be careful.’

‘You do that. Come back in one piece. Remember, you’re going to be the best man at my wedding!’

Tom nodded, waved, and then made it to his car as the water touched its front wheels.

A moment later, he dropped into the driver’s seat. That’s when the river seized his attention. The Lepping had become massive. Yesterday, it had been no more than fifty yards wide. Now it must be almost a mile from shore to shore. Its waters possessed the same cold gleam as a knife blade. Shafts of sunlight pierced the cloud to roam across the surface like searchlights.

The immensity of what he witnessed took his breath away. Where the banks were highest and narrowest, the bridge had once spanned the channel. Now that the bridge had collapsed, the rubble formed a dam, resulting in water building up behind the pile of masonry. This in turn allowed the river to spill over banks of earth to engulf the houses.

There was nothing gentle or placid about the water down there. The flood rampaged through the streets. Muscular currents carried a bus (fortunately empty of people) by the post office before slamming it into the mini-supermarket. Seconds later, a huge whirlpool sucked the bus down.

This is the fury of the gods. This is heaven’s vengeance.
The notion that this was an attack on humanity was easy to believe. The Lepping had been unleashed to attack the village – smashing in doors, ripping through walls. Waves contemptuously slapped the faces of houses in bursts of silver spray. The river would claim lives today.

Tom glanced down at the road. Damn. The water had already reached the back wheels. Even here on higher ground, the flood must be six inches deep; alarmingly, he could feel the car vibrate as the flow grew faster, more powerful, building up to the moment when it could whirl Tom’s car away to destruction.

Tom started the motor and reversed uphill. As soon as he was clear, he pulled a screeching U-turn that left black streaks of rubber on the road, then roared away.

His mission: to find Nicola.

And find her before Bolter got his hands on her.

T
he flood hadn’t finished with him yet. As Tom drove out of Danby-Mask, the road took him uphill. In the rear-view mirror, he saw water gushing into the streets. OK, so he’d escaped those particular battalions of the invading flood. The trouble was, every so often the road would dip downwards again. Then he’d be faced with a brown tide spilling across the tarmac. Nevertheless, Nicola was on his mind. He dreaded what Bolter would do if that psycho got his hands on her. So he put his foot down.

The motor screamed as it hauled the vehicle through the growing lake that threatened to drown an entire village. People were desperately loading possessions into cars. A young woman, with tears making her face glitter, carried an armful of puppies through floodwaters that were waist deep. A man, possibly her husband or boyfriend, beckoned her towards a truck where armchairs, rugs, clothes and treasured possessions had been hurriedly piled. The anguish on their faces was almost unbearable to see.

Villagers were being forced to run from their homes. The River Lepping had turned its population into refugees.

Tom Westonby focused on the road. He didn’t want to hit a deep pocket of water at speed. If he did, he’d lose control of the car. He wasn’t scared about hurting himself. No, what terrified him was the prospect of Nicola and her mother having to confront Bolter. The man was high on drugs. In all likelihood, he had deep-seated psychiatric problems, too. Tom knew only too well that Bolter enjoyed inflicting bodily harm.