by G. P. Taylor
Jago looked inside the room. Like all the others it was clad in dark wood panels. Again, pictures of the Draigorian family bedecked the walls. There were three tables, each with three chairs. One table was full of boys the same age as Jago. When he entered the room, the eldest boy looked at him and then turned away without breaking from his loud conversation.
At another table, three younger children looked meekly at the door. Jago couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls. They wore the same clothes; their hair was cut in a pudding bowl around their heads. Each looked the same, as if they were a family.
‘You new?’ shouted the boy at the first table as he got to his feet.
Jago understood this wasn’t said in welcome. The boy looked him up and down in search of any weakness. He had seen it all before, in every playground of every school he had been expelled from. In ten years, Jago had been forced to leave all the schools in Shoreditch. It would always start with that look and Jago would never back down.
‘Jago Harker. Arrived last night,’ he said, staring the boy in the eye.
‘I’m Staxley – this is Griffin and Lorken. You can sit with her.’
The boy pointed to a table in the corner of the room. Jago hadn’t noticed the solitary girl. Her face was covered in long ringlets of red hair that hung to the table like clusters of ruby vines.
‘You’d be good for each other,’ Griffin added, slathering his words like a hungry dog.
Jago didn’t reply. He looked at the girl, who kept her head down and face covered. He walked across the room, pulled out a chair and sat at the table.
‘You get what you want from there,’ Staxley said, pointing to a trolley in the corner of the room. ‘This table goes first, always. Come on, boys – before there is none left.’ Jago didn’t move. He smiled at Staxley, watching him aad the others carefully as they helped themselves, filling their plates then slumping back in their seats. ‘Gladlings next,’ Staxley added as he filled his mouth with bacon and chewed contentedly. ‘All they eat is bread – never knew anything else so why feed them more?’
Timidly, the three smaller children got up from the table and crossed the room. Each came back holding a single crust of toasted bread. All the while they kept their eyes to the floor for fear of looking at Staxley and his companions.
‘Your turn,’ Lorken said, food dropping from his mouth as he spoke. ‘You and her can have what’s left.
The girl never moved. She kept her face to the table, her hair curtained so she could not see or be seen.
‘Breakfast?’ Jago asked as he stood up. The girl nodded.
Jago went to the trolley and took what was left. There was just enough to fill one plate with a crisp egg and burnt bacon. He picked a knife and fork from an old wooden tray and went back to the table.
‘Good to see you’ve learnt the rules so quickly, Jago,’ Staxley said as he finished his food. ‘This is how it’s been and how it will be. We were here first, understand?’
Jago didn’t answer; he pushed the plate towards the girl and slid the knife and fork in place.
‘Thought you might be hungry,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ the girl replied in a whisper without looking at him.
‘All that was left,’ he said.
‘More than yesterday,’ she replied as she looked up. ‘I’m Biatra – been here a couple of days. People call me Bia …’
Jago said nothing. He couldn’t help look at her face. There was a distinct scar on her top lip that twisted into the base of her nose. On the side of her face, her skin was stained as red as her hair. It looked like the shape of the new moon cut with a thin cloud.
‘Jago,’ he finally managed to say.
‘I was born this way, before you ask,’ replied Bia quietly. ‘They won’t let me forget it,’ she nodded to Staxley, who was grinning like a pig. His hair was spiked on top and shaved at the sides.
‘He was born like that,’ Jago added and then laughed.
The girl smiled and took her hand from her mouth.
Without warning, a tight fist gripped Jago by the ear and twisted it hard.
‘Don’t think I didn’t hear what you said,’ Staxley muttered as he pushed his face closer and closer to Jago.
‘You were meant to,’ Jago replied. Without hesitation, he took hold of Staxley’s fingers and started to squeeze tighter and tighter until he screamed. ‘And tomorrow, Staxley, the Gladlings eat first, understand?’ he said as he crushed Staxley’s fingers to almost breaking. Lorken jumped to his feet, pushing back the chair. Griffin stood but held back as he looked to see what would happen. Jago held Staxley in his grip. ‘Call off the dogs, Staxley.’
Staxley looked back to the table and the two sat down.
‘Not here, not now,’ he said to them. ‘Stupid thing to do on your first morning, Jago. We could have been such good friends.’
‘Friends, friends … Good to see you’re all getting on so well,’ Mrs Macarty said as she entered the room carrying a pot of tea. ‘I expect you’ll be going to work now, Stax. Go on and earn your keep. Madame Trevellas will be waiting.’ She laughed as she eyed them keenly. ‘And you too, my little Gladlings – schoolwork and then help Tallow with the rooms, understand?’
Bia did not look at Mrs Macarty. She ate the food and didn’t speak.
‘And what would you like me to do?’ Jago asked her as Staxley looked back from the door.
‘It’s arranged for you to go with her. She’ll take you to Hagg House – meet young Mr Draigorian – Biatra will tell you what to do.’
‘And school?’ Jago asked.
‘School? Long forgotten for a lad of your age. The Gladlings are good learners, but you’ll have to work. Drink your tea and then be off. Isn’t that right, Biatra?’
Bia looked up and tried to smile.
‘Yes, Mrs Macarty,’ she said.
‘Biatra is from Whitby. Lived in the town. We never usually take locals. Only those selected from other parts of the country – the needy. But Biatra had no choice to come here since …’
Mrs Macarty left the words unsaid and walked away with her hands clasped.
‘Since?’ Jago asked.
‘My mother is missing – father at war. No one left. Had an auntie once but she went away long ago and never came back. Officially classed as an orphan. Get special treatment because of this,’ she said, pointing to the cleft scar on her lip. ‘But don’t you think I’m different or stupid. Can’t help what you’re born with.’
Jago looked at her eye to eye.
‘Looks like the moon has touched your face,’ Jago said as he gently touched the port-wine stain under her left ear.
‘It causes trouble. They all think I’m a bad omen – freak of nature.’
‘For that?’ he asked.
‘This is Whitby. Full of superstition and magic,’ she replied.
‘And don’t you believe in all that yourself?’ Jago asked as he got up from the table.
‘I believe in what I can see – ghosts are for stupid people. I was told that a Vampyre had taken my mother. That’s what they said when she went missing a week ago. Vampyres – how stupid.’
‘What’s a Vampyre?’ Jago asked.
‘They say around here it’s a creature that hunts for people at night and takes them away. Sometimes it looks like a dog, a man or just a shadow. Last time it attacked was a hundred years ago. When that comet appeared. Now, they say it’s here again, they say Strackan has come back,’ Bia said as she threw back her long, red, spiralled locks of hair.
‘Strackan? Is that its name?’ he asked as he remembered his dream.
‘One of them,’ Bia replied, wondering why he had such an interest. ‘My mother talked about Vampyres all the time. Now she’s gone.’
He could see she was about to cry. Jago felt uncomfortable and out of place.
‘My mother is dead,’ Jago said as he put his hand on her shoulder. ‘She was killed in a bombing two days ago.’
‘My mother is still aliv
e,’ Bia snapped. ‘I know it. She’s not dead. I’ll prove it. Vampyres don’t snatch people from the street and kill them – there are no shadows that suck the life from you.’
‘It’s not true,’ Maisie said as she stepped in the room and looked at them both. ‘I’ve seen Strackan. I know he’s real.’
‘You would say that – your family always did. They made money from it,’ Bia shouted.
‘How?’ Jago asked.
‘They sell charms to ward off Vampyres – stop them reading your mind – that’s what Vampyres do. Maisie has a stall in the market. Trinkets, amulets, black stones.’
‘They work and if your mother had one she would still be here today,’ Maisie said cuttingly as she ran from the room.
‘So they really do believe in Vampyres?’ he asked.
‘Vampyres?’ asked Mrs Macarty as she stood in the doorway. ‘I heard all this noise and wondered what was going on. Thought it must be something,’ she said with her arms folded.
‘Is it true?’ Jago asked her.
Mrs Macarty looked surprised.
‘Some around here would say that Strackan was real. It started in the time of the Reverend Obadiah Demurral – but that was long ago. Lord Strackan was a name that we all feared as children. My mother said that if we weren’t good he would snatch us from our cot and we would never be seen again. But then again, she could lie straight in bed.’ Mrs Macarty laughed. ‘This won’t get you to work. You know what Draigorian thinks about lateness, Biatra.’
The girl nodded and stood up to go.
‘So I take him with me?’ she asked.
‘He’s expected,’ Macarty replied lugubriously, as if she didn’t want Jago to go. ‘Tallow isn’t what he used to be. I have a few jobs around here when you get back, Jago.’ Mrs Macarty smiled and touched the cuts on his cheek. ‘You been scratching in your sleep?’
‘They were there when I woke. I don’t know how it happened,’ Jago replied.
‘Does that to people, that bed. It belonged to Pippen Draigorian, the man who built this house – you can’t throw something out like that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’ll get you an extra pillow for tonight.’ Bia left the room and Jago followed. ‘Don’t be late back, Biatra. Draigorian only pays for eight hours – remind him of that. And Jago, save some of your strength – don’t want you too tired.’
Outside Streonshalgh Manor, the porridge pan still smouldered by the statue of the gladiator.
‘Agasias the warrior,’ Bia said mockingly as she pulled her coat tightly to her to keep out the chill morning breeze. ‘Maisie will tell you that she’s seen him come to life.’
‘That’s what she told you?’ Jago asked as he walked quickly to keep pace.
‘Maisie says all sorts of things. Told me the Manor was haunted, that Strackan took my mother – but at least she goes home every night.’
‘And you don’t believe her?’ Jago asked.
‘All superstition. My father went to war and something happened to my mother. That’s all I know.’
‘And Draigorian?’ he asked just as they walked quickly towards the steps by the church.
‘His family used to own Streonshalgh Manor and then it was lost. They’re all buried behind the church. Every one of them back to Pippen Draigorian.’ Bia looked up at the clock on the tower of the church. Jago could tell she was thinking. ‘We had to learn all their names at school.’
‘I don’t want to look,’ he said before she could speak.
‘Come on. Then you can tell Maisie. She tries to frighten everyone with the story about how she saw Pippen Draigorian coming from the grave.’
He followed reluctantly. Bia wound her way in and out of the tombstones until she was at the far side of the church. Jago remembered it from his dream. The scene was fearfully uncanny; all was just as he had seen it the night before. There was the fresh grave. The soil was beaten down with no marker to say who was deep within.
‘Who died?’ he asked.
‘A woman from the factory. It’s by the river – there was an accident,’ Bia said as she gripped a large brass handle embedded into the wall of the church. ‘This is the door to the Draigorian tomb and here are the names.’
Jago looked from the grave to the wall. He hadn’t seen this in his dream. The stones of the church looked as though they formed the door to the vault. It was about the same height as Tallow and wide enough for a coffin to be passed through. A double-handed brass ring was slipped through a stone sculpture of a large dog to form the handle of the door. A skirting of lead filled the entrance so it could not be opened easily and two long bolts held the stones in place.
‘How do they get in?’ Jago asked.
‘Draigorians never seem to die in Whitby. They have a house in London. It is always by coincidence they all die there. My mother said that the last time one of them died it took two days to open the tomb. They brought him on a train and four horses carried him through the town. Look – here’s his plaque.’
Bia pointed to the bottom of a neat row of brass plaques that lined the wall. The oldest was that of Pippen Draigorian, his name high above the others.
‘He died in 1193 aged one hundred and two,’ Jago said. He then read each of the thirteen names until he came to the final one. ‘Xavier Draigorian, 1929. Age ninety-seven.’
‘They all die old,’ Bia replied as she rattled the handle in the dog’s mouth. ‘We’ll be working for Crispin Draigorian and he’s really ancient.’
Jago wasn’t listening to what she said. Without a word he was walking towards the grave he had seen in his dream, the grave clung to by a ragged boy. It was small and made of sandstone. The end was carved with a skull and crossbones. He bent down and looked at the carvings.
‘So it really was here,’ he said to himself, not realising that Bia had followed him.
‘What is?’ she asked.
‘This grave – do you know anything about it?’ Jago asked as the chill morning wind blew through his hair.
Bia looked confused. Her eyes flicked from the grave to the church clock.
‘Only what Maisie said,’ she replied reluctantly.
‘More ghosts?’ Jago asked.
‘It’s the grave of the first boy ever to be taken by Strackan. It’s the oldest grave in the churchyard. The money to bury him was given by –’
‘Pippen Draigorian?’ he asked before she could go on.
‘How did you know?’ Bia asked just as the clouds parted and the churchyard was flooded with warm sunlight.
‘The kind of boy whose mother would bring him flowers every day until she came no more,’ Jago replied.
‘Has Maisie told you?’ Bia asked, unsure how he knew of the boy.
‘A boy who is weeping and can be heard in the dark of night?’ Jago asked, knowing what she would say.
‘A ghost that cries for his mother who didn’t come back,’ Bia answered as the dark clouds rolled in from the sea.
[ 6 ]
Crispin Draigorian
THE ROAD FROM THE TOWN clung to the narrow strip of land between the fishermen’s cottages and the far side of the harbour. It twisted towards the thick woodland on top of the hill. Jago walked with Bia. Conversation had stopped by the bridge across the river. It was as if a cowl of dread descended on her. He had tried to talk, but she never replied to any of his questions. The silence was uncomfortable, Bia walked quickly and Jago kept pace. It gave him time to think of all that had happened. His gulps of breath kept down the panic that tried to break from his chest every time he thought of his mother. Despite his fears, there was something about Whitby that made him feel at ease. The light was benevolent, the clouds high, the sun cool. It felt as if he belonged, like he was a part of the place. London was always moving; people ebbed back and forth like the tide. Here there was space and openness, while the houses were small with neatly painted doors and flowerpots at the windows.
‘That’s it, up there,’ Bia said eventually as they started to walk up a hill towards a
large white-painted house above a factory on the quayside. ‘Hagg House. Home of Crispin Draigorian – and the place we’ll be cleaning.’
‘Cleaning?’ Jago asked quite surprised.
‘Mrs Macarty gets paid for our work and we get bed, board and a shilling a week,’ Bia replied, as if it was quite acceptable for this to be done.
‘How much does she charge Draigorian and who makes the profit?’ Jago asked pointedly as he snorted his breath.
‘Better than working in the factory or being on the street. That’s where I would have been without my mother around. I worked there before she …’
Jago stopped at the entrance to a short gravel drive that led from the road to the stone-roofed factory with crumbling brickwork. The large building looked as though it was falling into the river. A high wire fence surrounded it. Two soldiers in black uniforms, unlike any he had seen before, walked with dogs around the perimeter. They gave him a cursory glance before one of them nodded and they carried on their patrol.
‘What happens in there?’ he asked, loking at a more modern building that covered part of the river.
‘Something to do with the war,’ Bia replied. ‘Submarines, I think. Best not be hanging around. They don’t like townies in there.’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘They get all their workers from elsewhere. They live in the huts by the river. No one ever sees them. More like a prison than a factory,’ she went on. ‘When they opened the factory, that’s when the noises started under the sea and the rumbling. My dad said they had tunnels going out to the bay – filled with explosive. That’s what he’d heard in the pub.’
‘You ever been in?’ he asked inquisitively. ‘Could be well worth a look.’
‘They’d shoot you as a spy. They caught one. Chased him through the town and gunned him down outside the church on Baxtergate. My mother saw it. They said he was an infiltrator. She said he was screaming for them not to shoot – but they cornered him against the door and shot him dead.’