Whitby Vampyrrhic (7 page)

‘But I don't like her.'

‘
Her?
' Then Beth noticed the female cut of the figure. Albeit one that was as tall as a man, yet brutally thin.

They continued to walk forward. The woman advanced steadily, until they faced each other in the centre of the night-time bridge.

Now Beth saw the woman clearly. The sight did nothing to ease her alarm. The thin woman wore trousers. On her top half, a jersey in dull-green wool clung tightly to her narrow torso. She wore her hair short. The leanness of her body matched the gauntness of her face. A face as white as milk. A pair of black eyebrows formed forbidding arches above her eyes. And, dear God, those eyes?

The foghorn called again. When the sound died, the silence that replaced it managed to be oppressive.

An uncanny stillness made the stranger appear to be carved out of stone. Her physical appearance suggested someone of around twenty. Yet the eyes were older than her years. This was someone who'd witnessed terrible events. Those eyes were distant, brooding – haunted by the phantoms of past experiences.

Beth and Sally attempted to ease their way past the woman; their luggage clunked against their legs. However, that silent guardian of the bridge sidestepped to block their way.

‘Excuse me,' Beth said at last. ‘Please let us pass.'

The figure was perfectly still once more.

‘We must cross,' Sally insisted.

Beth added, ‘Or is there a reason you don't want us here? Are you frightened for us? Do you want to protect us from harm?'

Sally gasped, ‘Beth, why did you ask her that?'

Beth shook her head. ‘A sixth sense? An instinct for self-preservation?'

The woman's lips parted; she tried to speak.

Sally cried, ‘
Her teeth! What's gone wrong with her teeth?
'

The foghorn flung its warning of danger over their heads.

Beth continued, ‘Why don't you want us here?'

‘Because nobody in their right mind would
want
to be here.' The harsh female voice didn't belong to the gaunt woman. It came from a hunched shape that bowled out of the mist. A woman of around sixty, a shawl dragged tightly around her humped shoulders, bustled up to the bridge's guardian. Roughly, she turned the thin woman round, then pushed her towards the houses on the other side. ‘Whitby's no place for visitors. This ain't no pleasure resort, you know. Not in wartime. Get home, while you've got a chance.'

‘Have you suffered much in the way of bombing raids?' Beth asked.

‘Bombing raids? They're the least of our worries. Now get out of here. I won't tell you again.' The woman turned aggressively on the pair now. ‘Why are you wandering around here at night, anyway? Menfolk here wouldn't give you a penny for whatever you're offering.'

‘We're not prostitutes.'

‘Could have fooled me. Decent women don't put that red muck on their lips, like you two.'

‘We're actresses,' Sally told her.

‘Actresses, tarts – one and the same.'

During this exchange, the gaunt woman didn't react. She remained in that trance-like state.

‘We're trying to find the Leviathan Hotel.'

‘Best of bloody luck to you. It's been shut these last two years.' The woman spat on the ground. ‘You won't find space in a man's bed round here, even if you give it away for nothing. Now get back to the station, or I'll black your eyes!' The woman bunched her fist.

‘You'll do no such thing, Mrs Brady. These are my guests.' Yet another figure emerged from the mist.

‘Oh, Miss Charnwood. I shouldn't be surprised that you're in thick with these two hussies. You're the cause of this town's woes as it is.'

The new stranger murmured smoothly, ‘Mrs Brady. You're letting your tongue run away with you. Of all people you should know better than to antagonize me.'

‘I speak my mind. If the truth's got to be said then—'

‘Goodnight, Mrs Brady. You get yourself and Victoria back home.'

Grumbling, shaking her head, while shooting the three venomous glances, Mrs Brady led Victoria over the bridge, where they soon vanished into the mist.

The tall woman, aged around forty, with a swathe of long, dark hair, held out her hand. ‘Welcome to Whitby, Miss Layne. Miss Wainwright. My name is Eleanor Charnwood.'

They shook hands.

‘You're expecting us?' Beth asked in surprise.

‘Whitby hasn't fallen off the end of the world yet, ladies. Your director, Mr Reed, sent me a telegram to say you'd be arriving on the 11.30 train. And as I saw it pull into the station I decided to do the civilized thing and come meet you.'

Sally frowned. ‘Why did the thin woman try to stop us crossing the bridge to you? And just what on earth's happened to her teeth? They were like—'

Beth interrupted, ‘Standing on a fog-shrouded bridge at midnight isn't the place to discuss a stranger's dental condition.'

Smiling, Eleanor said, ‘Absolutely. Now, can I help you with those cases? The hotel's just along Church Street there.'

‘The Leviathan?'

‘Of course.'

‘But everyone here insisted it was closed for the war.'

‘Not closed, only sleeping.' Eleanor's smile broadened (and Beth decided she liked the woman). ‘Your film company asked me to reopen it so we could accommodate the artistes.'

‘We're artistes,' Sally added quickly.

‘I know. Last month I saw Miss Layne here on the silver screen at the Whitby Picture House. She served the delicious Mr Cary Grant a Martini in a tall glass, with lots of ice.' The smile became a grin. ‘In these parts we get precious little Martini.'

‘Or Cary Grant,' Sally exclaimed.

‘Absolutely. Now come along, my dears, you must be frozen.'

‘And call us Beth and Sally.'

‘And I'm Eleanor, to friends, which I sincerely hope you will become. Others round here have different names for me: Wicked Witch of the East, Devil Woman, “that bloody hag”.' She helped them with their baggage. ‘Now, we turn left here on to Church Street.'

Beth shivered as they walked along it. The street was just as she remembered from the film set this morning. So narrow, it would barely admit a car. The upper stories of the houses leaned towards one another, as if eaves on opposing sides of the street could steal kisses from one another in the middle of the night. Beth glimpsed ancient taverns in the gloom. Cottage windows were narrow – oddly reminiscent of coffin lids standing on end. A mad comparison to be sure. Yet an impression lingered of an avenue of tombs. Even the low doorways appeared as if they'd only allow inhuman goblin creatures to enter.

Beth couldn't stop herself asking, ‘I might be going insane, but I've got a question.'

‘Fire at will.'

‘Is there an alleyway called Arguments Yard?'

Eleanor raised a dark eyebrow. ‘That's not an insane question. The answer's “yes” – it's just there on your left.'

Shock snapped along Beth's nerves. Even in darkness, she could make out the grave-black mouth of the passage, which pierced the face of a building. The entrance, low as she remembered it, exerted a formidable pull. A morbid curiosity tugged hard. Just like standing on the top of a cliff, and a voice in the back of your head murmurs,
Jump, jump, jump . . .

‘I'll be right back.' Beth darted into the Argument's Yard tunnel, which was filled with a distillation of pure night. A liquid darkness that seemed to run into her eyes and ears and mind, making her feel she might drown. Quickly, she searched for what she knew – against logic – would be there. Darkness forced her to search with her fingertips; they scurried over the timbers that supported the building; her hands resembled white spiders running back and forth against the black wood. Then . . .
Got you.

Beth emerged to hold up her prize.

‘What have you got there?' Sally asked.

‘A lock of hair.'

‘Hair?'

‘Happens all the time.' Eleanor awarded Beth an extremely curious stare. ‘The low timbers catch women's hair. It's a wonder that Whitby ladies aren't all bald.'

‘You'll have to excuse my friend.' Sally tried to make a joke of the hair foraging expedition. ‘She's had a very long journey. She needs her beauty sleep.'

‘Then we'll get her tucked up snugly in bed. After a warming noggin of something. This way, ladies.'

Eleanor led the way to a tall free-standing building that rose from the very edge of the sea. ‘Welcome to the Leviathan Hotel. I hope your stay will be a happy one.'

Beth followed. The strand of hair in her fingers resembled her own – the colour of sun-ripened wheat on a summer's day. Or in this perfidious gloom was that a trick of the eye? She paused, wondering if there was time to turn back.
This is my last chance to escape
 . . .

‘I've been here before.' Her voice came out strained. ‘I know I have.'

‘When?' Sally looked puzzled.

Eleanor unlocked the hotel door. ‘Don't worry,' she said softly, ‘Whitby's that kind of place. Some visit it in their dreams. Plenty have described it as an enchanted town. The old abbey on the hill is reputed to be . . . Oh no, here we go again.'

The chilling note of the air-raid siren rose into the air. It warned that enemy planes were approaching the coast.

‘Instead of the comforts of the bar, all I can offer is the protection of the hotel's basement. Follow me, please.'

Eleanor carefully closed the hotel door, then she switched on the light. After that, she ushered them by the reception desk, through another door, then down a flight of stone steps into a cold tomb of a vault underground.

Two

The air-raid siren's cry rose after midnight. Its notes clawed their way to heaven before falling back to earth with a sigh. Whitby's maze of streets lay deserted. The long harbour walls extended out into the ocean – crocodile-like jaws that waited to swallow ships into the throat of the River Esk. The river waters had flowed down from the North Yorkshire moors since the end of the last Ice Age ten thousand years ago. The sirens' call, which warned of incoming aircraft, laden with murderous bombs, carried upriver, beyond the edge of town, to the ancient crossroads that had once been the site of the gallows. Here, criminals had danced at the end of the rope. After the death throes, they'd continued to swing wearily back and forth until moorland crows whittled them down to size. Often locals would steal body parts to create magic talismans, just as their Viking ancestors had done twelve hundred years ago. On the north side of the crossroads, a small field contained scabs of black stone. These were the tombs of the hanged men, the suicides, and the men and women who had died, for whatever reason, beyond the embrace of the Christian church.

As the siren continued to bray its warning, he scrambled upwards through the gap between the slab and the earth. There, he found the dog that waited patiently for him to emerge every night. Once he'd drawn himself free of the tomb, he raced, as was his habit, towards town.

Every night the boy promised himself he'd return home. The cottage, deep in the heart of Whitby, exerted an irresistible attraction. Yet, whenever he arrived there, his nerve failed him. For the people in the cottage didn't bear any similarity to his family. True, a long time ago, an old lady there had resembled his mother. Yet his mother had been young. Her red hair had been a flash of fire in sunlight. That old woman had been a shrivelled thing, with such sad eyes. Her white hair had, however, contained strands of dull orange. Then, one night, he realized she'd gone. The boy had stared at the black ribbons tied to the door knocker without understanding.

Yet he still returned to his old home in the hope he'd glimpse his parents and his sister. Then he'd rattle that big old iron knocker, while crying out joyfully, ‘It's me, it's Tommy! I'm back!'

But it hadn't happened yet. The only friendship in his life was the dog he'd named Sam. This black dog, which stood nearly as high as his hip, sported a blaze of white fur running from its bottom jaw down its chest. One night, he'd seen a man tie the animal to a rock and throw it into the river. Tommy had dashed forward to shout angrily at the man (knowing he'd get a slap for his troubles), but the man had taken one look at Tommy's face, then screamed in fear. After that, he'd fled so fast that, when he'd fallen flat on his face, every last coin in his pockets had shot out on to the ground. Yet, he'd been so scared of Tommy that he hadn't stopped to pick up his money.

Tommy had jumped into the river after the dog. For a long time he'd remained underwater as he'd searched amongst the rocks. Strangely, he'd had no need to breathe. He'd found that the deep, dark waters no longer scared him (as they had done in that past time, when he didn't occupy that little hollow beneath the stone). Tommy had rescued the dog from drowning. Now they were friends. He knew that during the day the dog stayed close to the stone slab in the field near the gallows' crossroads. At night, they followed the lane into town. Frantically, he'd search the streets for his parents. Always, he'd find himself trying to look through the windows of his home. But there were only strangers indoors now. He wondered if Dad would be annoyed that they'd stayed there so long. What's more, those trespassers had changed the colour of the walls. The furniture had been replaced, too. Strange. Tommy just couldn't understand what had happened.

Tommy raced through the night-time streets. Sam effortlessly kept pace with him. Tonight, a wailing sounded over the rooftops. He'd heard it before. Sometimes, soon after the wail started, flying crosses would appear in the night sky. They'd all glide in same direction. A droning sound would come from the flying crosses. He didn't know what they were, but they troubled him. He sensed a danger throbbed inside of them.