Whitby Vampyrrhic (10 page)

‘Saved me for a life of hell, you mean!'

She fled to the stairs.

Six

The milk-white eyes of the Vampiric men and women had adapted well to darkness. And though not so much as a glimmer escaped the houses of Whitby town, these night creatures saw the buildings spread out beneath them perfectly.

There were six now. They stood in the cliff-top cemetery that overlooked the harbour and the chaotic scatter of tightly clustered rooftops. The pilot rested his hand on a tombstone and realized he'd cheated death once and for all. Mary gazed down at her old home eighty feet beneath her. In her heart of hearts, she knew she'd escaped the drudgery of everyday life. Changes were taking place in both her body and her mind, yet the overriding emotion was one of pleasure. She was free. And she loved that sensation. No more domestic chores. No more being tied to the house. Licks of white, glistening ice formed on the gravestones. Grass became crisp underfoot. Mary's nightdress still dripped from her fall into the sea. Cold couldn't reach her now. The crunch of frosted grass against her bare toes didn't bother her one jot.

Behind them, the squat, block shape of St Mary's Church. And behind that lay the ruins of the abbey. This monastic relic consisted of skeletal structures, bereft of a roof, yet containing vast arched openings that had once been the abbey windows. Keen Vampiric eyes glimpsed spiral staircases in the remains of the abbey's towers, which had once taken the monks that bit closer to heaven; now the broken staircases led to nowhere. Those ferociously sharp eyes also detected subtle mounds in the earth where the ancient Viking temple stood.

Gustav, even in the days when he was still human, sensed that the old gods had returned to the temple site in the hope that humanity hadn't forgotten them. But now Odin and his clan were shunned. They hadn't lingered long, and they'd soon returned to wherever spurned gods dwell. But a yet more ancient deity, the one known as Tiw, was as mysterious and unknowable to the Vikings as it was to modern Man. And Tiw was psychotically tenacious.

Often Gustav had stood up here in the cliff-top cemetery. In his mind's eye, both as a human and the vampire-like creature he'd become, he imagined Tiw pacing between this high point above Whitby and the abandoned, and very much neglected, pagan temple.

Tiw's rage poisoned the soil. It made even the worms bite like vipers. Fury blazed itself into the very rock. The profile of his brooding face could be glimpsed in the cliffs. Tiw – bitter from neglect, insane from anger – nurtured plans of revenge against the human race. They were fools to scorn this primeval Viking god. They ignored him at their peril.

The creatures were still hungry. Tiw now ensured that never again would they be satisfied with a mouthful of crimson from a sheep's vein. Tiw inflamed their appetites.

Driven by hunger, the six moved by instinct. The path took them through the graveyard to an anti-aircraft gun in a meadow beyond the abbey precinct.

Something would happen soon. The six Vampiric minds could sense it. Gustav had felt this tension in the air before. As if electricity had begun to spark across its very atoms. Did it herald Tiw reaching from his world into this one?
Soon . . . It's coming . . . Hurry . . .
The six moved swiftly now. They could almost smell the approaching event, just as wolves catch the scent of an injured deer in the wood. Their mouths became wet. They would feed again soon. They were sure of it. But where exactly?

Two hundred yards away, the crew that manned the anti-aircraft gun began to move ammunition back to the bunker some thirty yards from the emplacement. Sunrise lay just an hour away. It was unlikely that the Nazi bombers would attack now, as it would require a daytime return journey to their bases in Germany. Daylight would leave them vulnerable to attack from allied fighters. Therefore, by day, only a minimal amount of ammunition would be kept near the gun itself.

The corporal picked up the heavy shell. At over a foot long these brass cylinders, full of explosives, could only be moved one at a time. You carried them just as you would a newborn baby, cradling it gently in your arms. The corporal had followed this route dozens of time. The pathway had been marked out by white posts on to which had been painted spots of luminous green paint. The green dots resembled little gleaming eyes in the darkness. Yet they would guide the soldier safely to the ammo store. One of the men behind him hummed a song that was irritatingly tuneless
.

The corporal's stomach rumbled as hunger pangs set in. Dear God in heaven, he could almost taste his morning plateful of bacon, fried eggs and mushrooms. To that, he'd add hunks of bread, a mug of tea. Then the first glorious cigarette of the day. He longed for that dizzying rush to the head as he inhaled deeply, gratefully, blissfully . . .

The corporal stopped dead, the shell lying heavy in his arms.
Strange.
That had never happened before. He'd been so engrossed in such an enticing image of breakfast that he'd wandered off the path marked by the white posts. He blinked in the darkness. The green, luminous spots on the posts all lay off to his left. Nearby, a soldier still hummed the odd-sounding ditty.

‘Hey, is that you, Sparky?' he called.

The soldier continued to hum without answering.

‘Who is it, then? Yes, you, laddie. The one who's grunting the God-awful noise.' Wrapped in darkness, the humming figure consisted of shadow, nothing else. ‘Well, whoever you are, go back to the gun and tell them to bring the torch. I'm off the pathway in rough ground. I'm not risking carrying this thing back.' He hugged the shell to his chest. ‘It's about as flat as a flaming mountain range here.'

The figure stopped humming. Then, as if his presence was no longer required, he retreated into the night. A smooth withdrawal, like the man, if indeed he was a mortal man, didn't need to use his legs.

The rest of the gun crew had returned to pull a canvas sheet over the weapon. Like bats and nightwatchmen, the anti-aircraft guns usually slept by day.

‘Hey. Shine a light, boys.' But for some reason they couldn't hear the corporal. ‘You all gone deaf?' Although only forty yards away, not one man showed any sign of hearing his shout. ‘They're playing silly beggars,' he said. ‘Just wait till I get back. I'll roast their ears off.'

The corporal took a careful step towards the line of white posts that marked safely level ground. So far so good. He took another step. And another.

The next step robbed him of the earth beneath his foot. A hollow, or a rabbit hole. He managed a curse of irritation. Then he lost his balance and fell forward.

The weight of his body on top of the high-explosive shell slammed it down hard. His last impression, the curved cylinder smacking against his ribs. Then came the detonation. It cast his body parts for more than fifty yards. Blood joined the frost to paint the grass in the meadow, long streaks of red and white.

As the gun crew ran to get help from their comrades further along the cliff, six figures raced into this scene of gory devastation. The man's blood had been widely dispersed, for sure, but they relished every sip of the red stuff.

Gradually, the sun rose over Whitby. The start of an extraordinary day.

Tuesday.

PART THREE

{
Lady Catherine Fitzroy's letter to her sister, December 15, 1851
}

One

He bowled into the hotel with all the grandeur of a victorious general.

‘Good morning, Beth. Good morning Sally.'

Alec Reed had spotted the pair through the open doorway of the dining room, where they were eating breakfast. He marched through the doorway, sweeping off his broad-brimmed hat as he did so. The black eyepatch still covered the wounded eye. Today, enthusiasm roared through him, adding a decibel or so to his Scottish accent.

Beth found herself smelling the air for the tell-tale whiff of gin, a spirit that might account for his grandiose manner.

‘Any sign of the hotel staff?' he boomed. ‘I've left my luggage in the doorway.'

‘Best bring it in yourself,' Beth told him. ‘There's only a staff of one, and I think the lady is with her brother.'

‘Any chance of a cup of tea? I'd swear all those hills and moors have been piled up round Whitby to keep outsiders from ever getting here. It took the trucks over an hour to cover ten miles.'

Beth poured him the tea. ‘So you've arrived with your battalion of film-makers? Add your own sugar, Alec.'

‘Isn't it exciting?' Sally scrunched her shoulders. ‘But how on earth are you going to get those trucks full of cameras and lights along this little street? You can hardly get a wheelbarrow down it.'

‘Thank Providence we did our research. The crew are staying in a guest house in the wonderfully named Boghall. There's a secure yard for the vehicles, too. We can't have those expensive cameras vanishing into the hills.' Swishing his hat against his thigh to remove drops of moisture, he kicked a chair away from the table and sat down. ‘Ye Gods. We had to sleep in the trucks at Malton last night. The police wouldn't let us cross the damn moor at night. I'm whacked.' He took an interest in the breakfast plates. ‘Is that toast going spare?'

Sally beamed. ‘Help yourself. There's the butter. I'm sure I can find eggs in the kitchen if you'd like—'

‘Don't go usurping Eleanor's role, Sally.' Beth smiled as she spoke firmly. ‘I'm sure she won't allow our esteemed film director to starve.'

He layered butter on the toast. ‘You've both settled in?' He surged on without waiting for a reply. ‘Today's Tuesday, isn't it? Good. The cast will arrive a week today by train. They're lodging here with us. Any luck in finding those shooting locations?'

‘Hardly. We only arrived here last night,' Beth told him.

‘All locations have to be fixed by Thursday at the latest. By then, I'll be having the cameraman shoot some establishing shots of the town. Mainly the picturesque stuff – harbour, churches, quaint taverns, cute bairns playing hopscotch. Any more tea? My throat's become a veritable Sahara.'

‘Don't worry, Alec.' Beth's voice hardened. ‘It's all in hand.'

Sally added, ‘Eleanor's kindly agreed to give us a tour of Whitby this morning. She knows some lovely places to film.'

‘I didn't know Eleanor was on the payroll.'

‘She owns the hotel.' Beth's irritation grew. Alec Reed had become bombastic again. She sniffed for gin. ‘She's also very nice and very helpful.'

‘Good. Because I need her to provide an office. I want access to a phone and a typewriter. The Ministry require a major change to the script. It seems our film of ordinary men and women being the heroic embodiment of the British bulldog spirit has become
too
ordinary for them. They want me to introduce a larger-than-life hero: a lifeboat man, who has to brave a storm in order to rescue passengers from a torpedoed ship. It will add five days to the shooting schedule. Thank goodness, the government are funding the overrun. Is that the last of the sugar?' He emptied the remaining grains from the sugar pot into his cup.

‘Sugar's rarer than pearls, remember? Along with just about everything else.' Beth added, ‘You need to hand your ration book to Eleanor when you check in.'

‘You've just finished our day's sugar ration.' Sally grinned. ‘But it doesn't matter. I want to keep off sugar. It goes straight to my waist.'