His Vampyrrhic Bride (8 page)

If Mrs Bekk wasn’t Nicola’s mother, he’d have been thinking in terms of the woman being a nutty coot. What’s more, he’d stay well clear of her. But there was Nicola . . .

Nicola was the magic ingredient in all this. The lynchpin.

Besides
, he reasoned,
I like mythology and history
.
OK, so what if Mrs Bekk gets all wrapped up in ancient history, legends, massacres and the like? It’s obsessions that make people interesting . . .

Last summer he’d worked with archaeologists who were exploring a Roman town that had sunk under the Mediterranean Sea two thousand years ago. An earthquake had created a real-life Atlantis. Tom had provided the muscle. He’d make dives with the archaeologists, and they’d point out which rubble on the seabed had to be moved from the collapsed houses so experts could reach the precious artefacts and colourful mosaics. Tom had been so interested in the work that the archaeologists had invited him into their inner circle. Over glasses of Italian beer they’d talked about their investigations and the history of the submerged town. They’d been enthusiastic. They would piece together facts from what they uncovered on the seabed, then vividly describe to Tom what life was like in Portus Hesculum before the earthquake struck in the year that Christ was born.

Tom Westonby loved to sit beneath the stars with his cold beer and just listen. He pictured the Roman families in their houses. The laughter. The games they’d play. And even the taste Romans had for roast dormouse on a stick – a kind of savoury lollipop. ‘Just imagine the crunch of those little bones between your teeth,’ said an archaeologist with a laugh as Tom had bitten into a breadstick.

As Tom headed downstairs, his father appeared in the kitchen doorway. He carried a damp shoe in one hand. The other shoe was on his foot.

‘The good news is –’ his father spoke with the seriousness of a doctor making a diagnosis – ‘I managed to save the shoe. Sadly, the bad news is there’s no hope for the ice cream.’

Tom needed to talk to his father about the not so little matter of finding ten thousand dollars for the premises in Greece.

‘The other good news is –’ Tom playfully echoed his father’s doctor-with-a-diagnosis tone – ‘Chris has found the perfect place for the dive school.’

‘That’s great.’

‘It’s right next to the beach.’

‘You already gave me the good news. So what’s the bad?’

Tom explained about needing the rent money by the end of next week. Otherwise they’d lose the building.

‘I’d love to be able to lend you the cash, Tom.’ His father’s tone was regretful.

‘No, I wouldn’t ask for a loan, Dad.’

‘It’s just that we’ve already spent such a lot of money on the house.’

Tom had a sinking feeling. ‘I’d planned to ask you for an advance on my wages, if I promised to work through the summer.’

‘The reason we’re bringing the moving-in date forward is so I can do most of the renovation myself to save on cost.’

‘I thought we’d agreed I’d be doing the work.’

‘And so you will be through June, like we planned. It’s just that the barn conversion, and the expense of getting Mull-Rigg Hall in shape, are going to take all the available cash. Sorry, Tom. I really wish I could help.’

‘Don’t worry, Dad, it’s not your problem.’ Tom winced when he saw the anguish on his father’s face. ‘I can shuffle some of the funding we’d put aside.’

‘Don’t humour me, Tom. You need that money, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Or we’ll lose those premises. They’re the best Chris has seen.’

‘How much are you short?’

‘Ten thousand dollars.’

‘Dollars, not euros?’

‘The landlord’s asking for dollars.’

‘No doubt to avoid declaring it to the Greek tax office.’ Tom’s father scratched his head. ‘Ten thousand dollars . . .’

‘It looks as if we’ll have to find another property.’

‘You know . . .’ His father looked thoughtful. ‘I was talking to one of my old colleagues. He was telling me he needs help restoring some industrial units.’

‘I’ve promised to help out here, Dad.’

‘We’ll cope. You need to earn some money fast.’

‘He won’t pay me much for doing basic cleaning out and painting.’

His father shook his head. ‘The units are steel construction. He needs a welder, and you’re a first-rate welder. Jack will pay professional rates, so that should get you what you need.’

‘We must have the money by the end of the week.’

‘Give the landlord a ten per cent deposit. That should be enough to secure the lease.’

Tom felt his spirits rise. Problem solved. He’d phone Chris with the news. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Tom hugged his father. ‘I’ll do just that.’

‘So you’ll commit to the work? Jack needs someone who’ll finish the job.’

‘Count me in.’

‘Good. And it’s in France. You’ll get to see the sights, too.’

‘France?’ Tom hadn’t expected that.

‘Jack’s starting work on the units after the weekend. He’ll want you on site then.’

Tom Westonby had been expecting to spend the summer in this beautiful corner of Yorkshire.

More importantly: what about Nicola Bekk? He’d be leaving before he’d really got to know her.

W
hen Tom Westonby strolled into Chester Kenyon’s workshop, ‘Cheery’ Chester had some surprising news. So surprising, in fact, that Tom didn’t think he’d heard right.

‘Married?’ Tom echoed. ‘You’re getting married?’

Chester grinned as he unscrewed bolts on an old lawnmower. ‘Yes. Married. Joined in holy deadlock.’

‘You’ll find the word’s
wedlock
.’ Tom was smiling as much as Chester. ‘When? Where?
Who
!’

‘The last Saturday in August.’
Clack
. He dropped the bolts into a steel bowl. ‘At Saint George’s.’
Clack.
‘You’re invited, Mr Westonby.’
Clack.
He pointed an oily finger out through the workshop door. ‘And that’s who I’m marrying.’

‘Grace Harrap? Isn’t she the one who shoves ice inside your shirt?’

‘Romantic, isn’t it?’ Chester wiped his fingers on a rag. ‘We’ve had this on-off thing for years.’

Tom held out his hand. ‘Congratulations. I’m pleased for you both.’

Chester whistled to Grace. Grace smiled back, though for some reason she shook her fist rather than waving.
Maybe in these little Yorkshire villages the gesture means something different
, Tom thought.
Fist shakes might be as good as blowing kisses.

‘She looks pleased to see you,’ Tom said optimistically.

‘Nah, she’s mad at me. I’m not asking her brother to be best man.’

‘Any ideas about a best man?’

‘You.’

Tom thought he’d been asked a question. ‘I don’t know who should be your best man, Chester. That’s for you to decide.’

‘No, I mean: YOU.’

Tom blinked in surprise. ‘I’ve only known you for a few weeks. Are you sure—?’

‘I’ll be blowing fanfares if you would. You’re a good bloke, Tom. You see . . .’ Chester was habitually cheerful. Yet revealing his true emotions came tougher. ‘For one of those city wimps you can take your beer with the best of them.’

‘Thank you, Chester. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Won’t Grace still be angry at you? After all, if she wants her brother as best man.’

‘Nah, Liam’s a twit.’

‘If you want me to be best man, Chester, then yes, sure. I mean, I’m honoured.’

‘Great. I’ll tell Grace.’ He gave a big, beaming grin. ‘Though I’ll probably end up with a whole iceberg down my shirt when she hears.’

‘I won’t be offended if you change your mind. After all, I don’t want to be the one to cause rows between you and your fiancée.’

‘She’ll come round. Will you grab the hammer? It’s outside on the bench.’

Tom stepped out into the sunlight. On the other side of the village’s main street was St George’s. The church was in the typical Yorkshire style. Its walls were built of white stone that uncannily resembled the local white cheese. The main part of the church dated back a thousand years or so, while the square tower would be seventeenth century.

A notice board stood by the graveyard gate. At the top of the board, a painting depicted St George in golden armour driving a lance into an evil-looking green dragon. Tom hadn’t realized its significance before, in relation to Danby-Mask. St George, the patron saint of England, was also the famous dragon-slayer. He began to wonder if dedicating the parish church to St George, the knight who killed the dragon, had any connection to Mrs Bekk’s wild stories about her ancestors being guarded by such a creature, which had also rampaged through the village centuries ago.

‘Any luck finding the hammer, Tom?’

‘Sure. Right here.’ As he headed back he heard a commotion along the street. Tom stopped dead, staring hard, his heart pounding. This was a day for surprises alright. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing right now.

Nicola Bekk walked along the street. She had her back to Tom, so she didn’t see him standing there outside the workshop. Three guys in their twenties walked with her. They took it in turns to put their arms round her shoulders. When she pushed one away that’s when Tom realized they were doing this against her will. In fact, they were clearly goading her. Nicola walked faster. Maybe she hoped they’d tire of following.

They didn’t. If anything, the horseplay ramped up towards intimidation. These bullies were enjoying scaring the woman. When she wriggled free of one of those rough hugs the men started pushing her.

Chester hadn’t seen what was happening; he was inside the workshop. ‘Need any help carrying that hammer?’ he joked. ‘My grandad always said that gravity’s stronger here in Danby-Mask. He says that after eight pints of beer he can hardly lift his head off the table . . . Tom? What are you doing?’

Tom Westonby dropped the hammer and charged down the street. Neither the thugs nor Nicola had seen him yet.

The three guys were shoving her hard now. One push sent her stumbling against a fence. Another guy snatched the bag she was carrying. Nicola was slightly built; nevertheless, she hung on tight to stop the man taking it. Of course, the plastic ripped. Eggs, oranges and flour cascaded on to the ground.

Tom’s feet pounded the pavement. Rage electrified him.
The bastards! What the hell are they doing?

Before Nicola caught sight of Tom, she abandoned her groceries. The last he saw of her was a flash of blonde hair as she cut down a path away from the road.

The three thugs were laughing. They stamped on the eggs that had survived the fall. Once they’d done that they ran after her. The chase was on.

T
om knew the situation was becoming dangerous. After all, what were those three men planning to do to Nicola? Whatever it was, she wouldn’t be able to defend herself. What’s more, Tom noticed that even though some villagers had witnessed the attack, none had done anything to stop it. Come to that, several were laughing as if they’d witnessed a harmless prank. This was no harmless prank, though: those thugs had been brutally shoving her.

Tom took a short cut. He vaulted over a fence, sprinted across a lawn, then through a succession of private gardens. As a pro diver he kept himself fit. That, and heavy work at the house, had developed his physique. His biceps formed hard bulges under the skin.

So he wasn’t even breathless when he vaulted a wall to drop down on to a public footpath. He’d judged it well. The three men were just appearing round the corner. Now he found himself between them and Nicola. He glanced behind him. He couldn’t see her; she must have been moving fast. Probably scared half to death by these three goons.

He’d seen the guys before in the pub. If there was the sound of breaking glass, or drunken yelling, they were usually the ones behind the rumpus. He knew the one in the red cap was called Bolter. He didn’t know the names of the other two.

Tom held up his hand. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘What’s it to you?’ said the smallest of the three. This was Bolter – a thin-faced runt with red blisters erupting from his face. Those blisters hinted strongly at amphetamine use.

‘I don’t know what you’re playing at.’ Tom kept in the path’s centre to block the way. ‘But leave her alone.’

The little one had the largest mouth – and was hell-bent on using it. ‘What you bothered about Crazy Bekk for? Nobody wants her hanging about.’

The biggest of the three rumbled in a slow-witted way, ‘We’re getting her out.’ He wore an expression of genuine outrage. ‘She shouldn’t even be coming into the village.’

‘Not when there are little kids about,’ added the one in the middle. He seemed to be trying to grow a beard. However, the tuft of mousy hair had given up trying to cover the entire jaw and contented itself, instead, with sprouting from the tip of his chin.

Tom spoke firmly: ‘I’m telling you to leave her alone.’

‘Shit. Are you one of these do-gooders?’

‘If you don’t turn back, I can be one of those do-badders, understand?’

The three weren’t used to one person standing up to them; they looked at each other, hoping someone would come up with a tough response.

It was down to Bolter, the guy with the face blisters. ‘What are you interested in Crazy Bekk for? Didn’t you know she’s a nut? She can’t even read and write.’

The big one grunted. ‘And she’s been warned off for hanging round the village.’

‘By you three, I suppose,’ Tom said.

‘I know what you’re doing.’ Bolter leered. ‘You’re sticking her with the love bone, aren’t you? You dirty dog – shagging a mental case. You filthy little fecker.’

‘Bastard pervert.’ The big guy appeared genuinely offended. ‘You need teaching a lesson.’

The threat of violence crackled on the air.

Tom knew what was happening. Big guy was the muscle of the gang. Bolter was trying to get his pal angry, so he’d be the one to punch first.

Tom decided to catch them off-guard. Before Bolter could say anything else, Tom pounced on the big guy. He pushed him hard enough to get him off balance. The big guy now had to hang on to Tom to stop himself falling back into a clump of stinging nettles.