The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  Another small black bomber swooped in like a falling eagle. It was as if they were the targets. Its engine droned, whined and was then silent. It fell from the sky with its bomb doors open.

  ‘Run, Jago, run!’ his mother screamed as they hurried from the park and into Regent’s Square.

  Jago bolted as fast as he could. Fear seared through his veins and made him tremble.

  ‘Keep running,’ he pleaded. But his mother had slowed to a walking pace. She no longer cared and had given up the will to fight.

  Then, taking a final look at Jago running ahead, she stopped and turned to face the bomber that was diving towards them. Martha Harker dropped her bag to the floor and let her coat slip from her shoulders. The sunlight cast shadows through her flowery silk dress as she raised her arms to the sky. Jago looked back as he grabbed the railing by the alleyway and panted for breath.

  ‘Don’t stop, Jago. Never look back,’ she said as she stared into the approaching hail of bullets that were already churning up the street and coming towards them. ‘Remember, I will always love you …’

  ‘NO! MOTHER!’ he screamed as he saw the metal casket fall from the airplane.

  It was as if the whole world turned slowly. He watched as the bomb fell and bullets smashed into the pavement. His mother stood without fear, her palms upturned as if to receive a gift.

  It was then that a hand grabbed him by the throat and pulled him down a small flight of steps to the basement of the house. Jago heard the whistle of the bomb as it fell to earth like a comet. Another hand smothered his face as the body of a man pressed him to the ground. He was held tightly in amongst sodden leaves and street rubbish that had piled up through the years. Just for a moment he saw the man’s eyes staring at him. He was held in a steely blue gaze. Each eye was rimmed with silver.

  There was a loud explosion. The world was consumed in a brilliant white light. It burnt brighter than the sun. The earth shuddered as the buildings all around began to fall. The sound deafened his ears. Rubble crashed around him. There was screaming in the street. He could feel the man holding him close. Jago could smell the scent of cologne on his shaven face.

  Then came the darkness and the swirling cloud and dust as the masonry filled the open cellar. Soon there was silence, deep and impenetrable like death itself. There was no pain, no hurt, no fear. All he could feel was the man holding him, as if he was a sleeping child cuddled by his father. Then even that feeling faded and there was nothing. It was as if he slept without dreaming. It mattered not that he couldn’t move as the collapsed building pressed down upon him.

  In his dreaming he could hear fire engines in the street and smell the approaching flames. Someone pulled his arm from the rubble as he opened his eyes and dragged him from the dirt.

  ‘Got one! Young lad … just where he said.’ As the voice spoke water was splashed on his face to wash the dust from his eyes. ‘And his bag. Can’t believe he’s alive.’

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ Jago asked as rough hands helped him to his feet.

  ‘Only found you because some bloke told us you were down there,’ the fireman said.

  ‘There’s a man down there with me – he pulled me from the street and covered me when the building fell,’ Jago panted.

  ‘There was no one there but you, lad,’ the fireman replied.

  ‘My mother! She was in the street when the bomb came down.’

  ‘She’s not here now. No one survived, lad, bomb fell just there,’ he said as he pointed. ‘If your mother was out here she wouldn’t have …’ As he walked Jago to the ambulance the fireman saw the tag on his jacket and read his name. ‘You being evacuated?’

  ‘On the night train,’ Jago replied anxiously. ‘To Whitby.’

  ‘A strange place to be evacuated. People expecting you in Whitby?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jago replied vacantly, not knowing if anyone was expecting him or not. He knew no more than what was on the tag tied to his jacket, his name and evacuation number written on it by his mother.

  ‘Then we better get you there. If we get news of your mother we can send it on,’ the man said as he noted down the number on the tag in a small black book. ‘That’s all I need to find you.’

  Jago looked around the street. There was no sign or trace of his mother. It was as if she had been just a vague memory. The bomb had smashed every house into small pieces of rubble. Where he had last seen her was now just a scorched piece of earth.

  ‘But my mother – is she dead? Where is she?’ he asked nervously, wanting to cry.

  ‘There’s a war. Things happen. You have to go to Whitby. There’ll be people there who’ll look after you. Understand?’ the man said sharply without compassion.

  He was given no time to think. The fireman insisted he get into the makeshift ambulance that had once been a grocer’s van. It had old cauliflower leaves in the corners. A camping bed was pushed to the back and some old equipment strapped to the side. The van was ramshackle and looked as though it could care for no one. A woman in a nurse’s dirty uniform looked pitifully at him.

  ‘The man, the man …’ Jago stuttered as his teeth chattered with the sudden chill that overwhelmed him. ‘What was he like?’

  The fireman rubbed his hands on his thick weaved jacket, thought for a moment and then looked to the street to see if he was still there. There was something about the way Jago stared that was quite unsettling. He had never seen a child look so frightened.

  ‘Just an ordinary bloke. Businessman – dark suit – northerner, I would say.’

  ‘Did he have blue eyes … with a silver rim … like a wolf?’ Jago asked, remembering what he had seen.

  ‘Never noticed,’ the fireman replied as he threw in Jago’s bag and closed the back of the ambulance, shutting out the light. ‘He was just a man in a long black coat. Said he saw you run down the steps before the bomb went off.’

  ‘How come he survived when no one else did?’ Jago asked as he was plunged into the darkness.

  [ 2 ]

  Bartholomew Bradick

  THERE HAD BEEN NO TIME to complain and no one to complain to. It was as if he had been imprisoned in the ambulance for his journey to King’s Cross station. Jago had slumped against the wall of the van, wondering if he were still dreaming. The only thing that made him think he was awake was the distant rumbling of another wave of bombers and the smell of leaking petrol. When he had arrived at the railway station, the doors were pulled open and the same fireman who had locked him in pulled Jago from the van.

  ‘Platform 9,’ the man said sternly, as if he knew exactly where the train would be. ‘You don’t want to miss it. You never know what might happen to you if you stay behind.’

  The words sounded like a threat. Jago stepped from the van to the pavement and looked around. The bombers had struck the Marylebone Road. A single deep crater steamed outside the St Pancras Hotel.

  ‘Any news of my mother?’ he asked, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘She’s dead. They found this just before we set off. You have no one or nothing to stay in London for now. It was all that was left of her.’

  The man handed him a small silver wristwatch with a smashed face. Jago knew it well. He turned it over and looked at the back and read the words: Martha – Whitby 1925.

  ‘That’s all?’ he asked despondently.

  ‘Well, she didn’t have time to leave a will if that’s what you mean,’ the man laughed. ‘Get the train, boy. Get out of London before it’s dark. There might be more than the bombers that are after you.’

  He said no more as he slammed the door shut and got back into the van and drove off, leaving Jago by the side of the road. London felt suddenly cold and unwelcoming. He fought the desire to run back to the place where he had last seen his mother. The cardboard tag on his leather coat flapped and twisted in the stiffening breeze.

  ‘She’s dead, Jago,’ he said to himself as he turned slowly towards the doors of the station. ‘Can’t stay here.’

 
An old charabanc bus rattled through the debris on the Marylebone Road. It stopped at the bomb crater and the door opened. A woman in a pleated skirt got out. She adjusted the hat on her head and pulled a young child from inside. Then more came, one after the other until the pavement was full of children. Each one had a tag tied to their coat. The younger ones carried the obligatory gas mask in its brown box. In virtual silence they formed a long line and without any word from the woman they snaked their way towards the station.

  ‘On your own?’ she asked as she approached Jago. He nodded. ‘Then you better come with me. I am the Evacuation Officer. You look too old to be sent away.’

  The woman tried to look kind. Her brow was deeply fur rowed and her eyes were drawn into her head that looked as though it was held together by the tight knots of her hair. Jago clutched the watch in his hand and followed her step by step as the clouds blew in from the west and the sky darkened.

  On Platform 9 of King’s Cross station the train waited, steam hissing from the black engine. Soldiers in muddied uniforms guarded the entrance as a fat porter hurried the children along the platform. Jago looked up at the bomb-broken glass that hung from the steel girders high above the platforms. Crowds of people stood and watched as the children walked towards the train. The Evacuation Officer went ahead, holding up a furled umbrella.

  ‘This way,’ she shouted. Jago noticed a man in a long black coat watching from the shadows of the soup kitchen. ‘No lagging behind,’ she said as she prodded him with the tip of her umbrella. ‘Have to get the train. Expecting another bombing anytime.’

  ‘It won’t be for an hour,’ Jago replied without thinking. ‘I can’t feel them.’

  The woman shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘It leaves in five minutes and from the tag on your coat you have to be on it.’

  Jago looked back at the soup kitchen, but the man was gone.

  On Platform 9 three soldiers guarded a black iron gate that kept back a sea of children. Jago was by far the oldest. He felt out of place and stood awkwardly, leaning against a pile of empty mail sacks.

  ‘Time!’ shouted the porter as he waved a green flag. The soldiers opened the gate and the Evacuation Officer counted the children as they filed by.

  As each one passed she told them a carriage number. Jago waited until they had all gone ahead. A small girl gripped his hand for a moment. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes before being dragged away by a red-haired boy.

  ‘My sister,’ he said. ‘Can’t stop crying.’

  Jago understood.

  The Evacuation Officer looked at him and checked the number on his tag.

  ‘Jago Harker … Whitby?’ she said, surprised as she checked her papers. ‘Cattle truck …’

  She pointed to an old wooden truck at the end of the train. It had an open wooden door that slid on metal rails, and Jago could see the floor was covered in straw. In the shadows was a wooden pen filled with bleating sheep. Chalked onto the side in tall white letters was the word WHITBY.

  ‘Animals?’ he asked. ‘What about a seat? How will I know when I am there?’

  ‘Not for you to argue with. You are being evacuated – not taken on holiday. Whitby is the end of the line.’

  It was as if she had rehearsed the words already. Without argument, he got inside and made a manger of hay bales and straw. It was warm and dark and the sheep fell silent. He wondered if he was to travel alone. His answer came quickly. The door was slid shut and locked from outside. The train whistle blew and the wheels began to turn as they scraped against the rails. Jago sighed as he sat back alone in the darkness. It pressed in around him. He didn’t feel scared but sobbed softly and quietly as he thought of his mother.

  ‘I feel like that sometimes,’ said the voice of a man from somewhere in the darkness.

  ‘What?’ asked Jago. ‘Who is there?’

  He sat up, startled. There was someone in the carriage with him.

  ‘A traveller, just like you,’ the voice said. ‘Was in amongst the sheep – thought I would be alone.’

  Jago could make out the shape of a man sitting against the sliding door. He was wrapped in a thick dark coat. The broken slats let in the half-light of the fading sun. It wasn’t enough to see him clearly and Jago did not want to move. The man stared at him.

  ‘You’re not being evacuated?’ Jago said, as he wondered if there was a way of jumping from the train.

  ‘Too old for that,’ the man replied. ‘Just going home – making sure I get back, and stealing a ride is one way.’

  ‘What happens if they catch you?’ he asked.

  ‘You going to tell on me?’ the man asked with laughter in his voice. ‘I don’t think you’d do that, would you, Jago?’

  He was frightened that the man knew his name. A sudden desire came to him to break from the carriage, scream and leap to the track.

  ‘You know me?’ Jago asked, his voice hushed.

  ‘Longer than you think, Jago Harker,’ the man said as he came towards him from the shadows.

  In the darkness Jago could see the outline of two silver eyes. They burnt in the darkness like a ferocious wolf. Instantly he knew it was the man from the bombing.

  ‘It was you. From the bombing. You saved me – covered me and then vanished.’ Jago pushed himself fearfully against the bales of straw trying to distance himself from the man. ‘It was you who told the fireman where I was buried. How come you weren’t killed?’

  ‘Frightened, Jago?’ the man asked.

  Jago swallowed hard. ‘Why did you do that – what about my mother? Why didn’t you save her?’ he asked.

  ‘What would be the point in that? There is a point in all our lives when we have to die. I cannot change that. With you it was different. I knew if I dragged you down the steps you could survive. I had to make a choice, Martha or you.’ The man spoke softly as he came closer. ‘I never got a good look at you – I have heard that you look just like …’

  Jago looked at the man. All he could see were the bright silver-blue eyes rimmed in shimmering steel. His face was thin and shadowed. Stubble was on his cheeks and framed his thin lips. He stared and stared at Jago and then reached out and touched his face.

  ‘How do you know my mother? Who are …’ were the only words he could say before a hypnotic sleep gripped his body. Jago tried to force his eyes to stay open, but they closed painfully.

  ‘Be quiet, Jago. It is best you don’t know who I am,’ said the man, as he pressed harder on Jago’s forehead with the tip of his finger.

  The night and the day went quickly. Jago slept. He felt as if he were dead. At one point, sometime in the night, he heard the train stop. From the muffled sound of the engine he knew it was in a long tunnel. Jago could not be sure; he could not rouse himself from his sleep. It was only when the train crossed the bleak moors that he woke.

  ‘You there?’ he asked as the train crept slowly into the station.

  There was no reply. The engine stopped suddenly. Jago shuddered as the door was opened and a bright torch shone inside.

  ‘Jago Harker?’ asked a man on the platform. Jago shielded his eyes from the bright light as he nodded his head. ‘You’re the only one on the list. Should have been in carriage number three. Thought you had ran off.’

  ‘I was told to get in here. The Evacuation Officer said this was the carriage for Whitby.’

  ‘Carriage for sheep – not for people.’ The man laughed. Jago could not see his face but his voice sounded warm, as if he could be trusted.

  ‘Where are all the others?’ Jago asked.

  ‘They got dropped at Malton. Children for farms – that’s what they were. Didn’t no one come to let you out at all?’

  Jago looked around the carriage for the man.

  ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘All alone.’

  ‘Then we better get you something to eat,’ said the man as he held out his hand and pulled Jago from the darkness of the carriage. ‘I’m Bartholomew Bradick. stationmaster.’ He paused.
‘Though there aren’t as many trains come here since the start of the war. Five a week, that’s all.’

  It was something in the man’s voice that made Jago sigh. It was as if he had instantly found a friend. He knew nothing of the man, other than he was quite short and round, with a waistcoat tightly buttoned over his fat stomach. He wore the uniform of the North Riding Moors Railway and the teeth he had left were stained by pipe tobacco. The railway station was just like Aldgate Underground. The walls were covered in the same posters and the clear night sky was vaulted above their heads like a ceiling of stars. Jago looked up and saw the light of a comet.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked as Bradick led him into the station office.

  ‘That?’ he shrugged in reply. ‘That is known in these parts as RedEye. Came on the same day one hundred years ago and will stay there until it vanishes back to where it is from. It’s a comet – deep in space and always burns blood red.’

  ‘I looked at the sky every night in London and never saw it,’ Jago said as he was taken inside.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Bradick replied heartily, ‘get further south than twenty miles and it’s invisible. It’s as if it just appears above the town and can be seen from nowhere else. Not a good thing, if you ask me.’

  Bradick smiled as with one hand he showed Jago the expanse of the room. There, burning brightly in the black grate, was a coal fire. In the middle of the room was a neat wooden table covered in a cloth and dressed with a bowl of flowers. On the wall hung several badly painted landscape pictures with matchstick figures. In the corner on an old desk were a telephone and typewriter, with a railway timetable on the wall behind.

  Jago could smell hot tea and warm toast. He noticed the man looking curiously at him, as if he was expecting Jago to comment on the room.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ he said nervously, not knowing if it was the right thing to say.