His Vampyrrhic Bride

by Simon Clark

  Tom decided to return home to try and get rid of the troubling thoughts and this nagging headache. What’s more, he needed time to convince himself that those memories of vampires and a giant creature bristling with human heads were a by-product of concussion – not the creation of the Viking warrior god, Thor.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘Your air tank’s run out! You’re gonna die!’

  Tom had been walking back home along the riverbank, and the sound of the phone broke his fixation on Helsvir. The caller was his mother; something about her tone made his heart sink.

  ‘Tom, hello. I’m sorry to call you so early.’

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  ‘I didn’t wake you?’

  ‘No. How is everyone?’

  ‘Oh, everyone’s fine here.’ His mother’s lack of relaxed chat hinted that she had important news. ‘Listen, Tom. I phoned early, because I thought you should know as soon as possible.’

  ‘Go on.’ He felt his heartbeat quicken. Bad news. This has to be bad news . . .

  ‘It’s Mull-Rigg Hall. We’ll have to allocate most of the repair budget to a new roof.’

  ‘It doesn’t need a new roof.’

  ‘We’ve just got the structural engineer’s report. The roof timbers have rotted through.’

  ‘OK. But why did you need to call me about the roof so early? You could . . .’ His voice tailed off as he realized this wasn’t about the roof at all. ‘I get it. You want me to move out of the house, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can still stay there?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that the new roof will cost so much that we won’t be able to continue paying you.’ His mother sounded businesslike now. ‘Your father and I spent all yesterday discussing this. By all means, stay at the house.’ After a pause, she drove home the important point that she wanted to make. ‘But next week will be your last wage payment.’

  ‘Didn’t Dad want to tell me this himself?’ Tom was angry now. ‘Is he still mad at me for turning down the job in France?’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the job in France.’

  ‘No, it’s all to do with the girl I’m seeing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tom, calm down.’

  ‘The pair of you have cooked up a scheme that forces me to move away to find work. Because you both know that I’ve had to spend every last penny on the dive school. And you both know that I still need to send part of my wages to Chris in Greece.’

  ‘Tom, we didn’t plan this. The roof—’

  ‘The roof! Those rotten timbers are a godsend, aren’t they? You’ve got the perfect excuse to stop my wages, which forces me to leave, therefore I stop seeing Nicola.’

  ‘Your father told me that you plan to marry the girl.’ How cold his mother’s voice had become. A voice like that could turn fire to ice.

  ‘Yes. I will marry Nicola Bekk.’

  ‘You know she has psychological difficulties? So does her mother. We heard that Mrs Bekk tried to burn down the village church.’

  ‘Nicola Bekk is not insane. Nor does she hatch vindictive plots against her own family.’

  He heard a gasp. Ouch. That line about ‘vindictive plots’ had hit his mother hard.

  ‘Tom! How dare you?’

  ‘So now you’ve put me in a position where I have to choose between continuing to raise money for the dive school, which means leaving the area to look for work, or staying here so I can keep seeing Nicola. You and Dad think you’ve beaten me, don’t you?’

  ‘Tom. We love you.’ Strangely, her tone was so brutal when she uttered those words. In fact, the tone was more suited to: Tom. We hate you.

  ‘What you have done is fired me.’

  ‘Tom—’

  ‘That’s an incredible thing to do, Mother. The purpose of this call is to fire your own son from his job, isn’t it?’

  An urge to throw the phone into the river boiled up inside. Though he recognized childish tantrums wouldn’t make his own plans work. And, boy, do I have plans. Wedding plans. I can’t wait to see their faces when Nicola shows them that ring on her finger. A sudden savage glee caught hold of him as he pictured himself saying, ‘Mother. Father. I’d like to introduce you to your daughter-in-law.’

  His mother had still been speaking; however, he’d been so caught up with his own thoughts (of retaliation?) that he’d only been half-listening. She was saying that she was sure everything would be OK between them and Tom. That soon the three of them would go out to dinner and have a nice time. Then she quickly made an excuse about Owen needing her and ended the call.

  Tom sat down on a boulder at the water’s edge.

  He wondered if those blows to his head had caused permanent brain damage when he suddenly called out across the water: ‘Helsvir! Listen to me. I’ve got a job for you. I want you to give some people a hell of scare. Their names are Mr and Mrs Westonby!’

  He laughed. There was a vicious pleasure in that sound. He knew he should stop.

  But he’d trusted his parents never to hurt him. And just like all grown-up children he’d never expected his own mother and father to try and trap him in a situation where they were controlling his life again. He did feel hurt. He felt betrayed.

  And he knew that he would prove in the most spectacular way possible that he could seize back control of his life.

  ‘OK, Helsvir,’ he shouted at the wilderness. ‘Just you see what I do next. You won’t believe your eyes!’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nicola Bekk walked along the riverside path. Tom Westonby didn’t know whether she was making her way to his house, or going to catch the bus into the village, or even planning to summon Helsvir, the multi-headed dragon, so they could pick wild strawberries together in the forest.

  OK, a flippant thought, yet Tom didn’t try to guess what her plan entailed. He didn’t care. He had a plan of his own. A breathtakingly audacious plan: the kind of plan that would shock his parents to the core.

  He watched Nicola approach. She wore a loose-fitting white blouse, with a white calf-length skirt. The breeze that sent black clouds racing across the sky tugged at her blonde hair.

  God, she’s beautiful . . . and she makes me catch fire inside.

  The hallucinations of last night – when he’d imagined that she rode a monster made out of dead men’s heads and their naked limbs – just withered away to nothing before her amazing presence. They didn’t seem important right now. Even his headache faded into insignificance, because here was that crucial moment when he had to ask the most important question of his life.

  If you could see me now, Helsvir . . .

  If you could see me now, Chester . . .

  Dear parents of mine, if you could see me now . . .

  His heart pounded. What he intended to do next seemed so dangerous, reckless and downright impetuous. But the fact of the matter is, he told himself, it feels so absolutely right.

  Nicola beamed warmly; that pleased-to-see-you smile boosted his confidence. Deep down he suspected it fuelled his ego, too.

  ‘Tom,’ she began. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so—’

  He put his finger to her lips, then held out his hand. Smiling, she consented to be led to a large boulder at the water’s edge. She started to speak again. He put his finger to his own lips this time. A little crease formed between her eyebrows as she shot him a glance that asked: what are you doing?

  He gestured to her to sit on the boulder, which she did, though now she seemed worried. Tom allowed himself to inhabit this special moment. Here the two of them were, on the bank of the River Lepping, which flowed through the forest. He listened to the birdsong. Sunlight pierced the cloud; its heat warmed his face. Briefly, he closed his eyes, making a conscious effort to backup this memory inside his head. Birdsong. The forest. The gentle music the water made as it flowed.

  He opened his eyes. Nicola’s face shone in the sunlight. Her blue eyes fixed on his. Clearly, she wondered if he had bad news to tell her.

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve thought of different ways to ask this question,’ he began. ‘I’ve decided that the oldest way is the best.’ He gently tightened his fingers around her hand. ‘Nicola. Will you marry me?’

  Her eyes shot a lightning bolt of meaning. Surprise. Hope. Excitement. The sheer intensity of expression made his heart pound. She was moved by the question: will you marry me? Yet there was something else: her eyelids narrowed a fraction. As if she’d experienced a sudden stab of doubt. Can I trust him? Is this for real? We’ve only known each other for a few days, so why is he asking me to marry him so soon?

  He squeezed her hand and smiled. River water danced with the rocks. Happiness flowed through him. Today was a day for the impossible to come true.

  ‘What do you say?’ he asked.

  ‘Nobody has ever asked me to marry them before.’

  ‘Do you need time to think about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take as much time as you need.’

  ‘OK.’ Her face had become serious.

  The pulse in his neck thudded. Blood roared through his head. The breeze tugged strands of her hair across her face, making her eyes seem smoky and somehow far away.

  Nicola’s fingers increased their pressure on his hand. ‘I have thought about it, Tom. The answer is yes. I will marry you.’

  He kissed her. I’ve just lit the fuse to a bomb that will blow our lives apart. He wanted to correct that dramatically explosive image. There should be a warmer, pleasing image that evoked the romance of this special moment. Not images of a burning fuse racing towards sticks of dynamite.

  But a fuse had been lit: Huge changes to our lives are coming. And nothing will ever be the same again.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  After parking the car, Tom Westonby had to wait ten minutes for the rain to ease off. Meanwhile, fast-flowing streams formed in the village streets. Even though he was only just across the road from St George’s church, the building had vanished into the murk – the downfall had been that intense.

  When the rain finally stopped he headed downhill to the bakery to buy bread. A shamelessly gigantic cherry pie caught his attention, too. He added that to the carrier bag full of loaves.

  So I’m doing ordinary things. He marvelled at the thought as he headed back to his car. I’m doing ordinary things on an extraordinary day. I’ve asked Nicola to marry me, and she said ‘yes’. He found himself smiling. This will be a summer of miracles.

  The rain had only been on pause. Once more big raindrops fell to burst in silvery explosions on the road. Not relishing a soaking, he took refuge in the old fisherman’s shelter alongside the River Lepping. He’d no sooner found protection under its tiled roof when his phone rang.

  Seconds later, Chris’s voice blasted into his ear. ‘We got it, Tom! It’s ours!’

  ‘The landlord’s going to give us the lease?’

  ‘Yep. I did as you suggested, offered him cash, three months’ rent upfront, and free diving lessons. The man handed over the key, just like that! We’ve got ourselves the dive-school premises. We’re in business!’

  This was brilliant news. They’d got their ideal location near the beach. Everything was coming good. Of course, he’d just been fired from his job by his own parents. That meant he couldn’t earn money to buy the rest of the scuba equipment. At that moment, however, he felt amazing – all of life’s problems seemed laughably tiny. In this mood of rampant optimism, Tom Westonby believed he could defeat any difficulty the world could throw at him.

  After hanging up the phone, he reached into the bag, broke off a juicy lump of cherry pie, pushed it into this mouth, and munched with pleasure. The sweet golden crust and zing of cherries on his tongue was perfect.

  It was a perfect day. Nicola had agreed to marry him. The dive-school dream was coming true. Even the nightmares about Mrs Bekk, her vampire children, and Nicola riding Helsvir didn’t matter.

  He paused mid-chew. They were nightmares, weren’t they? The excitement of meeting Nicola this morning had reduced the importance of everything else to zero. Tom thoughtfully licked the syrupy red juice from his fingers and thumb.

  ‘How are you getting on at Mull-Rigg Hall?’

  A young woman had come into the shelter out of the rain. She had short cropped brown hair and wore a green fleece that sparkled with rain drops.

  ‘Hello,’ Tom said. Some villagers could be stand-offish with outsiders but he immediately took a liking to the woman. ‘Mull-Rigg’s an amazing place. I only wish I had more time to explore the valley.’

  ‘The upper valley is real wilderness country. There’s wild boar there. Not to mention the dragon.’

  He stared at her. ‘You mean, you know about—?’

  ‘Oh, the dragon is famous locally. For some peculiar reason adults like to scare their children with stories about it.’

  Tom wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointment or relief that the locals dismissed the dragon legend as a quaint fairy tale. ‘Chester Kenyon told me that parents used the story to keep kids away from the forest and the river.’

  ‘No wonder. Just look at it.’ The woman spoke in a brisk way – come to that, a gutsy way. She struck Tom as being fearless. She had a sensitive side, too: the bruises on his face were plain to see, yet she refrained from mentioning them, or making some quip like: been in the wars, have we?

  ‘The water’s risen three feet since last night,’ she said. ‘Look at the way it’s foaming round the bridge arches.’

  ‘That’s not a good sign?’

  ‘It’s a terrible sign. It means we’re in for our Five Year Sop.’

  ‘Five Year Sop?’

  ‘Local name for a big flood that follows a five-year cycle. Five Year Sop means that Danby-Mask is going to get sopping wet.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Carol Jenner.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Carol. I’m Tom.’ Her handshake was surprisingly strong. ‘So . . . any prediction when this rain will stop?’

  ‘Bizarrely, it’ll get lovely and sunny when the village is underwater. We’re prone to flooding.’ She brushed raindrops from her fleece. Then she noticed something amiss with her jeans at the knee. ‘Damn. Gone and done it again.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Just ripped a perfectly good pair of jeans. Always happening. Bane of my life.’ She tapped her knee.

  To Tom’s astonishment he heard a sharp clicking sound.

  ‘I lost the God-given leg out in Afghanistan.’ There was nothing self-pitying about the way she spoke. It was as if she mentioned some routine part of her life. ‘The mechanism on this prosthetic keeps tearing the fabric. I get through jeans like folk get through tea bags.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, just one of those things.’ She smiled. ‘Nobody forced me into the army. I’ll stitch this when I get home. I’m just waiting here until my husband picks me up. I’d planned to take a walk by the river.’ She shot him a friendly smile. ‘I hadn’t planned for bloody rain.’

  Tom tried not to stare, but this felt so humbling. Carol Jenner might have been even younger than him. Twenty-two, twenty-three at the most. Already, she was a war veteran. A wounded one at that, having lost a leg in an Afghan war-zone.

  Carol turned her attention from the ripped denim back to the river. Her green eyes assessed the rapid flow of water. Tree trunks were being swept along by the current. She tilted her head to one side. ‘Just listen to that.’

  He heard the pitter-patter of rain. ‘I think it’s starting to ease off.’

  ‘No, that deeper sound.’

  ‘Yes, I can hear something . . . a sort of rumble?’

  ‘It’s one of those sounds that’s felt, rather than heard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thunder?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘Boulders. After heavy rain, the force of the current rolls boulders along the river bed.’

  Tom remembered Nicola had told him that the sound of rocks being tumbled along by the Lepping made her think of men grumbling angrily. ‘Th
ere must be some force in that water.’

  ‘You’re dead right, and it’s destructive, too.’ She pointed at the stone bridge. ‘See those arches? The current piles boulders between the gaps. Soon it acts like a dam. It won’t be long before the water starts coming over the banks into the streets.’

  ‘The Five Year Sop?’

  ‘And it’s dangerous, too. People have been drowned in their beds before now.’ The woman limped out of the shelter to gaze at the Lepping. ‘See? The levels are rising fast.’

  ‘The sound of the boulders is louder, too.’ He felt the vibrations through his feet.

  ‘There’ll be rocks the size of cars running through those deep, underwater channels. They’ll be slamming into the bridge supports like giant bowling balls.’

  Tom watched an entire tree go speeding past. The willow must have been uprooted by the flood.

  A Volvo pulled up at the shelter. ‘Ah, the husband,’ Carol said. ‘Cheerio.’ As she limped towards the car, she suddenly paused. ‘Tom, soon the police will shut roads to the village. My advice is to keep away from here until the water levels drop. Danby-Mask is a dangerous place when the floods come. Lives can be lost. Anyway, cheerio again. Take care.’

  ‘Bye.’

  After Carol Jenner had gone, Tom stood listening to the sound the boulders made. He couldn’t see them in the swollen river, of course – but the rocks were down there: tons of them relentlessly pushed downstream. He heard the thud of huge boulders being slammed into the bridge.

  Local people must have had an intense relationship with the river over the centuries. They’d have needed the Lepping in order to survive – they’d have caught fish to eat, drunk its water, and even used its strength to power the water mills. If the river possessed a mind, would it feel snubbed now that they’d turned their backs on it? The thought, though it was an odd one, seemed to have a potent significance. The river wouldn’t let people ignore it. Every five years it rose angrily out of its channel and flooded the village.

  Tom couldn’t help but compare the river to the pagan gods. Once, both were needed by the people of the valley. Both served a vital purpose. And now both the river and the primeval deities were rejected as being useless to modern human beings. Yet what if gods such as Thor did continue to exist – just as this river existed? And although the Viking god didn’t exist in the actual landscape, what if he continued to flow through our emotional landscape? That was to say, Thor lived inside us, yet hidden from view. It was easy to imagine that being scorned, and then ignored by successive generations, he would be angered to the point of insanity. Wouldn’t he brood over his rejection? Wouldn’t he draw up his plans for revenge against humanity?