by Simon Clark
‘No.’
‘Damn you, I’ll call the police.’
‘And I’ll tell them that you’ve just hiked the prices of your old stock.’
‘It’s my stock. Now get out of my way.’
‘Aren’t there laws against profiteering, sir?’ Beth stood her ground. ‘And it’ll be the wives and mothers of the policemen who will be paying those new prices for your old pots.’
The man harrumphed, but he appeared unsure what to do next.
Then:
‘Ah-ha!’ Eleanor pulled a paper-wrapped package from a shelf. ‘These are mine.’
‘What makes you think that?’ The man had the air of a trapped rat; his eyes slid from side to side, as if searching for a hole to hide in.
‘The name “E. Charnwood” pencilled on the side gives it away, Filby.’ She tore a hole in the brown paper, then eased out a silver disk. ‘Yes, my bottle tops. Without the cork inlay. You planned to sell these to me above their original price, didn’t you?’
‘Plain bottle tops! You’re a lunatic.’ Filby almost choked on his own rage. ‘Everyone knows beer will go flat if you bottle it with those on the neck.’
Eleanor placed coins on the counter. ‘What I owe you for my order.’ Her tones were impeccably polite. ‘I only wish I could give you a drink of what I’m bottling tonight.’
‘Pah. Knowing you, it will have been boiled up in a witch’s cauldron.’
‘Good day, Mr Filby.’
They were back in the cold air, gusting in from the ocean. People hurried by, heads down, eager to get safely home before sunset. Eleanor carried the hefty package of bottle tops.
‘In truth, I’d have paid a hundred times what he was asking for these.’
‘They really are that vital?’
‘Goodness, yes. Worth their weight in diamonds really. Without them, I couldn’t finish bottling that witch’s brew of mine.’
‘Witch’s brew?’
‘The commercial name is X-Stock. Although it has a long chemical formula to accurately identify it.’
‘What does it do?’ Beth asked, intrigued.
‘Better I show you than tell you. Come on. It’ll be dark soon.’
They retraced their steps down a street so steep that it made the tops of Beth’s feet ache. Another platoon of soldiers bustled by. Their expressions were as grim as before.
Eleanor murmured, ‘I imagine the commanding officer will have called in reinforcements, while they try and figure out what happened to their men last night?’
‘Could you have saved them with those powders of yours?’
‘Even if I could have spirited them from the cave to the hotel, the wounds would have been too severe. Those Vampiric creatures sucked every ounce of blood out of them. Sally was lucky. She was bitten at the hotel and she managed to break away the moment the injury was inflicted.’
‘Is that the same story with your brother?’
Eleanor paused, the breeze carried her hair across her face, as if it were a dark rippling veil. ‘His wounds were more severe. The transformation had already begun by the time I managed to apply the Quick Salts. To be honest, Beth, I didn’t really save him. I’ve trapped him in a kind of limbo – somewhere between being human and Vampiric. I wish I had the courage to destroy him.’ She continued on her way.
Not that the return to the hotel would be an easy one.
The mood of the townspeople remained edgy. An electric tension crackled on the air. More than once, Beth recalled that dark sentence, reputedly uttered by Gustav Kirk in his youth: Tiw strikes again.
As they crossed the bridge over the Esk a voice snapped, ‘There goes Madam Eleanor Charnwood. So high and mighty. So full of her own self-importance!’
Beth immediately recognized who’d hurled those words with the savagery of a thug hurling stones. Mrs Brady, a shawl dragged tightly around her hunched shoulders, glared at the pair of them. It was Mrs Brady that they’d encountered on the first night in Whitby, when she’d collected her strange, spectral daughter from this very bridge. Mrs Brady had uttered caustic comments that first night. Now she seemed eager to resume the feud.
‘Look at Charnwood with the tart. Just look at that red lipstick. God knows what they get up to in that hotel.’
‘Mrs Brady, please don’t start this again.’ Eleanor spoke calmly, trying to defuse the encounter. ‘All we want to do is go home and cook a meal. We’ve eaten precious little since yesterday.’
‘Eat well as a rule though, don’t ya’?’ Mrs Brady advanced on them. ‘You don’t need ration books like we do, eh? It’s people like you who make sure decent folk have to go without meat and butter.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Mrs Brady. We have the same rations as—’
‘And those fancy clothes on your backs? You got some black market men to keep you all sweet and cosy?’
The slur was as outlandish as it was untrue. Beth’s long woollen coat had come with her from America before the start of the war. Equally, however, Beth knew that both she and Eleanor did dress differently from the locals. This made them stand out on this crowded bridge. And it attracted the attention of people passing by. Most had stopped to watch – dramatic events were unfolding.
Now that she had an audience, Mrs Brady gloated; she tugged the shawl even tighter. ‘And have you seen this one? The stranger. She’s going to be in a film about Whitby. That’s right, this tart will pretend she’s one of the folk from round here. We’ll be a laughing stock or worse.’
A bulky man in a cap rolled his eyes at Beth. ‘Is this true?’
‘We’re making a film to show how ordinary people in this town are coping with the war.’
‘Ruddy hell. An American playing one of us.’ This came from a large woman with a red-chapped face.
Immediately, a chorus of outrage rose.
‘That shouldn’t be allowed!’
‘Some picture people are going to make us look stupid.’
‘Like painted tarts, you mean.’
‘You lot should go back to where you came from.’
‘Tarts! Hussies!’
Instantly, the faces around Beth became masks of fury. Eyes glittered. Saliva sprayed from lips as they shouted.
Eleanor grabbed Beth by the arm. ‘Come on. I told you there’d be trouble if they found out.’
‘But it’s part of the war effort,’ Beth protested. ‘Listen. We aren’t going to make you look ridiculous. This film will be shown around the world. It will encourage neutral countries to – uph!’
The red-faced woman had shoved Beth. She’d have tumbled on to her back, if the bridge’s fence hadn’t slammed into her. Gulls cried overhead. They seemed to pick up the charge of anger. It provoked the birds into furious screeching.
‘Please, let us pass.’ Eleanor tried to calm an increasingly ugly situation. ‘We’ll go back to the hotel.’
‘Don’t let them through,’ Mrs Brady shouted. ‘It’s time we stopped people like this making our lives a misery.’
The claim lacked no truth, or even much in the way of logic, yet the crowd responded with roars of anger. Beth flinched as fingers tugged a lock of her hair. More hands pushed at her. Eleanor was jostled, too. All the time, insults flew.
Eleanor shouted, ‘You are good people. This isn’t what Whitby folk do. I know you’re frightened. It’s the war that’s making you act like this. We should—’
A fist flew from the crowd. Eleanor reeled back. By the time she straightened, threads of crimson were running down her jaw. Though Beth tried to help Eleanor, she couldn’t move forward so much as a yard. Men and women, faces distorted with rage, pushed her back to the lattice-work fence.
Anger boiled in the mob. They shouted wilder accusations. Those at the back became frustrated, because they couldn’t deliver their own blows on Eleanor Charnwood – a woman universally mistrusted, if not despised, in Whitby. They surged forward. Beth cried out as she was crushed back against the fence. Mrs Brady had, by this time, a fistful of El
eanor’s hair, and did her best to rip it from her scalp. Still, Eleanor clung on to the pack of bottle tops, as if she tried to protect a baby in the melee.
Beth foresaw their fate. The crowd would pound the two women until they were bloody. Then, for good measure, they’d be paraded through the streets like a pair of enemy captives. No doubt having to brave a bruising hail of stones as they did so. After that, who knew their ultimate fate?
‘Let go of me,’ panted Beth. ‘Stop it. We’ve done nothing.’
Her ribs ached from the crush. Dark splotches gathered in her eyes. She realized that unconsciousness wouldn’t be far away. Once she was on the ground kicks would follow. The mob had been gripped by bloodlust. In this moment of madness, the two women could be blamed for the war, the shortages of food, the Nazi air raids. These two women were guilty. They had caused all the bad things to happen. In the grip of paranoia, it made perfect sense to the crowd to make everything right again by kicking these women until blood gushed out on to the pavement.
As Beth’s knees sagged, a hand covered her face to press her downward. Grunted insults filled her ears. Just as she told herself she couldn’t stay on her feet for another second, a huge voice tore through the storm of sound.
‘Hear this. Return to your homes now. From sixteen hundred hours there will be an emergency curfew. You must return to your homes. Sixteen hundred hours is four o’ clock. The curfew will extend until seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ The precisely formed words, through a megaphone, were redolent of an army officer.
Gruffer, no-nonsense voices, cut through shouts on the bridge. ‘Clear the road. Go home. If you’re not indoors by four, there’ll be hell to pay.’
As if a switch had been flicked, the mob dispersed. Eleanor and Beth stood panting against the fence. Blood smeared Eleanor’s face. The gruffer voices belonged to a dozen policemen, who didn’t hesitate to shove aside any folk who chose to argue.
First over the bridge, a line of solid, large-booted Coppers. Trundling behind them, a drab green army car on which had been fixed a megaphone. The crisp officer’s voice issued from this. ‘By order of the regional military commander: you must return to your homes. A curfew will be in effect tonight from four, until seven in the morning. Anyone flouting this is likely to be shot. I repeat: do not venture out of doors from four while seven. Anyone breaking the curfew will be deemed to have hostile intent. You will be shot on sight.’ Behind the car, a squad of soldiers armed with rifles.
Eleanor composed herself with a deep breath. ‘Just when you thought the paranoia couldn’t get any worse. Now our own soldiers have us in their sights. Come on, let’s get back while we can.’
‘Your face is all bloody, Eleanor. Let me clean it first.’
‘It can wait.’ She lifted the bottle tops. ‘This work can’t. We’ve got to fill the bottles tonight.’
‘What happens then?’
‘All hell breaks loose.’
Seven
Sally and Alec recoiled in shock at the sight of Eleanor and Beth half falling through the hotel door.
‘What on Earth happened?’ gasped Sally, eyeing the dishevelled women. ‘My God, Eleanor, your mouth is bleeding.’
‘Here. Sit down.’ Alec indicated the plush sofa.
Eleanor shook her head. ‘Just a nick. I’ll be fine . . . no, Alec, don’t fuss.’ She allowed her voice to soften a little. ‘Thank you, Alec. I appreciate that you want to take care of us.’ She checked the pack of bottle tops remained intact. ‘But I’ve a lot to do tonight. I’ll splash some water on my face, then I’ll be ready for battle.’
Sally’s eyes darted anxiously from Eleanor to the hotel door that Beth securely bolted. ‘Battle? What do you mean? Beth, you must tell us what happened out there.’
Beth listened at the door. Heavy boots tramped past. Voices echoed along Church Street. Mixed with those, a commanding officer barking orders.
Alec spoke gently, ‘What did happen to you? Were you attacked?’
Beth checked on Tommy and the dog in their cosy den beneath the reception counter. ‘They’re both asleep, still. That helps.’
Alec grew impatient. ‘Tell us!’
Eleanor’s delivery was matter-of-fact, ‘The townspeople are frightened. They know something bad happened last night, only the military have suppressed news of their troops going missing.’
‘Now the authorities have imposed a curfew,’ Beth added. ‘If anyone even pokes their nose beyond their door tonight, the soldiers will shoot on sight.’
‘But you’ve been attacked,’ Sally wailed. ‘Who did that? The soldiers?’
‘No, they saved our necks,’ Beth said.
‘Like I say,’ Eleanor told them crisply, ‘the locals are frightened. So frightened that they’ve become paranoid. Because we dress and behave a little differently to them, they decided to gang up on us.’
Alec flared, ‘They should be reported. I’ll telephone the police.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Eleanor told him. ‘We don’t want policemen nosing round here.’
‘Why?’
‘For obvious reasons.’ Eleanor nodded across the reception area. She might have been indicating the sleeping place of Tommy, their Vampiric guest – then again, she might have been indicating the basement entrance. Beth knew that’s where this formidable woman had stockpiled her arsenal of weapons. The ones that took the form of beer bottles half filled with that pungent chemical. Either way, Beth Layne understood perfectly that Eleanor didn’t require any inquisitive policemen stomping about the place. Eleanor touched the corner of her mouth, where the blood seeped, and winced. ‘The long and the short of it, Beth and I were jostled by some very frightened, paranoid people. For them, it was out of character. Ascribe it to the madness of war. Now, I’ll go give this old face of mine a scrub.’ With that gesture of bravado, she sailed through the doorway to the kitchen. Always, but always, she clasped the bag of bottle tops – for her, they were more precious than gold coins.
Ascribe it to the madness of war? Beth wasn’t so sure. Ever since we arrived here, I’ve noticed that the locals avoid you – as if you’ll infect them with some dirty little bug. They fear you, Eleanor. Do they have some inkling about the nature of your old childhood friends? When Whitby folk are in their own homes, do they whisper rumours of vampires roaming the neighbourhood?
‘Beth . . . Beth, are you alright?’
‘Hmm? Sorry, I was miles away.’
Sally hugged her friend. ‘They didn’t hurt you? The mob?’
‘Hardly a mob, Sally. A few people got jittery; that’s all.’ Beth deliberately underplayed the incident to put her friend at ease. ‘I could do with running a brush through my hair, though. That would be nice.’
Alec pressed a finger to the eyepatch, as he regarded her with his good eye. ‘Nevertheless, you’ve had something of a shock. I’ll bring you a cup of tea with a hefty shot of rum. That’ll have you firing on all cylinders again.’
‘Thank you, Alec.’ Beth saw that the man cared for her, as he did for Sally and Eleanor. She would allow him his role of avuncular doctor, even if the medicine he prescribed was a shot of strong liquor.
The clock chimed three.
‘Not long until nightfall.’ Alec headed for the kitchen. ‘These damned winter days. They’re gone in the blink of an eye.’ He pushed open the door. ‘I’ll have the tea ready in five minutes, Beth. I want you to drink it while it’s hot.’
‘Yes, doctor.’
The joke, small though it was, cheered the man up. ‘Then be a good patient. Have your wash and brush up, and be down here in two ticks.’
Beth headed for the stairs.
‘I’ll come with you.’ With each moment that passed, Sally became increasingly anxious, and when the army car passed along Church Street she gave a gasp of fear.
‘There is to be a curfew.’ The metallic voice pierced the door. ‘From four this afternoon, until seven tomorrow morning. During that time, you must remain indoors. The
re are no excuses. Observe the curfew. Those failing to do so will be shot on sight. I repeat: Shot on sight.’
In sheer despair, Sally wiped away a tear. ‘It’s like the voice of a monster, isn’t it? Now we’re trapped here.’
Three fifteen. Shadows grew longer, somehow more skeletal, on the roads as the sun neared the horizon. Beth made quick work of washing her face and brushing her hair. Sally remained with her, afraid to let her friend out of her sight. Beth appreciated that the woman, despite her carefree, happy-go-lucky manner, could suffer bouts of nerves that left her frightened and childlike.
Once Beth had finished repairing her make-up and self-confidence, she and Sally headed for the kitchen. Alec Reed had brewed up that strong tea of his. In each of the mugs, he added sugar and rum.
‘No doubt you’ll detest the taste.’ He boomed the words, as if trying to dispel anxieties of his own. ‘But I guarantee it will restore you to the rudest of health.’
After forcing the concoction down her throat with shuddering politeness, Beth left Alec and Sally talking in the kitchen, while she delivered Alec’s restorative to Eleanor. The open basement door provided a telling clue to the woman’s whereabouts. In the old wine store Eleanor had already unpacked the silver bottle tops; now she was in the process of donning the heavy rubber apron that covered her from chin to toes.
‘This is Alec’s special cure-all?’ Beth held out the steaming mug.
‘Oh?’
‘Tea strong enough to hold a roof up, and a mighty shot of rum.’
‘That’s good medicine.’ Eleanor smiled. Taking the mug, she downed it in one. ‘Phew. If we ever run short of aviation fuel . . .’ She scrunched her shoulders, as the potent cocktail hit her stomach. ‘Phew again. That’s the kind of pick-me-up that could take a bomber to Berlin and back.’
‘I’m here to help,’ Beth announced.
‘If you’re going to work in this bomb factory of the damned – forgive my purple prose – you’re going to need protective clothing.’
‘You’ve got a spare gas mask and rubber gloves.’