by G. P. Taylor
‘Spies? In Whitby?’ he replied.
‘That’s what my mother said. Must be something really secret going on in there to get spies. Draigorian owns the factory, but no one knows what it’s really for.’ Bia tugged his coat for him to move on.
Jago looked up to the roof of the factory. There, by the tall, blackened chimneystack, was the eye of what he knew was a periscope. Just like the one he had seen on the submarine, it glowed in a deep green as if it was illuminated from within.
‘And they watch us through that thing,’ he said as he pointed up to the roof.
‘They have them all over the town. When the war started the first one appeared. Can’t understand it. They say they are there to protect us. But they never saw where my mother went.’
‘What did she do?’ Jago asked.
‘She mended shoes by day and was an air-raid warden at night. She left and never came back. I just can’t understand it.’ Bia sighed. ‘On the day after she went missing a letter arrived saying that my dad had been lost in action and that he was most probably a prisoner of war.’
Jago could see the tears well in her deep blue eyes. Bia pulled her hair across her face and wiped away the tears. He wanted to cry with her, to take her in his arms and hold her close. He knew that’s what his mother would do. Every morning as soon as he woke from his sleep she would hold him tight and whisper in his ear. ‘You’re a special lad, Jago – always remember that.’ She had said those words day in and day out for as long as he could remember.
Jago reached into his pocket and pressed the handkerchief into her hand.
‘My mother ironed it – gave it extra starch – careful it don’t cut, it’s so sharp,’ Jago said as Bia looked up at him as the cleft scar on her lip twitched anxiously.
‘Mine would do the same – pressed them into squares that were so stiff they wouldn’t open,’ she said as she smiled. ‘Old Draigorian will think we’re not coming – better be off,’ she coughed as she walked on. ‘One thing. Only speak when he talks to you and watch out for Clinas the butler. He’s Mrs Macarty’s brother. That’s how she got you the job.’
Within a minute the house loomed above them as if it had risen from the earth of the thick woodland that surrounded it. The walls were freshly painted, the brass door handles brightly polished. In the light of the morning sun that warmed the estuary, the windows shone like silver. Even the fallen leaves had been picked from the gravel drive and not a flower was out of place. It stood in stark contrast to the rows of shabby huts that Jago could see lining the riverbank at the bottom of the escarpment below the house.
‘He lives here?’ Jago asked as he followed Bia to the back door.
‘Since the death of his father. Lived in London before then. We’d never seen him until he arrived.’ Bia knocked on the door and then rubbed away the finger smudges with the hem of her coat sleeve.
The door opened. A man in every way the image of Mrs Macarty stood before them. He was dressed in dapper black trousers, white shirt and yellow waistcoat. His sleeves were covered in leather cuff aprons that were wrapped around his arms to the elbow. For a moment he stood glum-faced and curled his lip as he inspected them both with a critical eye.
‘Three minutes early,’ he said in a slow drawl. ‘How do you explain that?’
Bia laughed. The man held his surly look for another moment and then smiled.
‘This is Jago, Mr Clinas. He’s our new help,’ she quipped as she stepped by him and walked into the large kitchen.
‘Then Jago better come in before he catches his death,’ Clinas said as he held out his hand. ‘I am Clinas – but I expect the she has told you all about me and you will have met my sister?’
Jago didn’t know what to say. He had expected that Clinas would be like his sister. When he first saw him and his sullen face, he was sure that he was right. Now the man smiled warmly and held out his hand to be shaken.
‘Jago,’ was all he could reply as he gripped the man’s hand. It was soft and warm and he could feel the beating of a pulse that he was not sure was his own.
‘Then, Jago, you must have tea … and toast … and possibly both,’ Clinas said with an effete manner. ‘I have orders to introduce you to the Master at ten sharp. So we have plenty of time.’ Clinas scrutinised Jago’s face as if he recognised him. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem familiar.’
‘First time here,’ Jago said quietly as he stepped into the house. ‘It couldn’t be possible.’
‘Did you sleep well? My sister isn’t the best of hosts and that house is the coldest in Whitby. I told Mr Draigorian the other day that it wasn’t a loss when it was gambled away. Hagg House is far brighter and better, if you ask me – which I know you haven’t.’
The man gabbled quickly as he suddenly took three eggs from his sleeve and began to juggle them in the air. ‘The first one I drop, you can eat,’ he said as he laughed. Then, with sleight of hand, the eggs vanished. ‘Ta-daah,’ he sang irksomely.
Bia clapped. Jago leant back against the metal counter.
‘Jago got his ear twisted by Staxley. Then he saw him off and he went away red-faced,’ she gossiped as she put the kettle on the range at the far end of the ornate kitchen.
‘He’s one to watch, Jago,’ Clinas said as he walked to the pantry and took out some bread. ‘Don’t turn your back on him. He came here for two days and took whatever wasn’t nailed to the floor. He has a libertine approach to property.’
‘Said he was in charge and I would have to obey,’ Jago answered.
‘Not one to take on alone, but you look a big enough lad to fight for yourself,’ Clinas replied as he sliced the bread and somehow managed to fry the eggs at the same time. ‘By the marks on your face you already have,’ he added.
‘Just woke up with them,’ he said without thinking. ‘Must have scratched myself in the night.’
He saw Clinas look at Bia but the man said nothing. It was as if he needed no words for her to understand. His eyes said it all. For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Jago looked out of the window to the factory below. Steam spilled from the chimney, rolling down the brickwork and across the broken roof tiles.
‘Tea,’ Bia said as Jago turned to the long table in the middle of the room.
The fried eggs had been plated on a slice of thick bread that he dared to believe had been covered in butter. It had been so long that Jago had forgotten what butter tasted like. Clinas saw him staring at the food.
‘Rationing in London, Jago?’ he asked.
‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘Never seen so many eggs in two days.’
‘We have some things we can’t get hold of, but the Master has many friends,’ Clinas said reverently.
‘What do they do at the factory?’ Jago asked as he watched more steam billow from the chimney.
‘Careless talk costs lives, what you don’t know you can’t tell and what you never ask won’t get you in trouble,’ he replied. ‘It’s all for the war effort and that’s all I need to know.’
Clinas wiped his mouth and got to his feet in anticipation. A bell rang in the corner of the kitchen. Jago looked up. There on the wall was a row of small bells, each with the name of a room underneath. Steel wires disappeared into the ceiling. Clinas walked to the doorway and picked up a telephone. He glanced at the bell that was ringing and then dialed a number.
‘Mr Draigorian,’ Bia whispered as she ate the bread and eggs. ‘He knows you’re here. Been waiting to meet you.’
‘But it’s not ten o’clock,’ he protested.
‘Just do what he says,’ she said under her breath.
Clinas put down the telephone and smiled.
‘Show Jago the way, Biatra, and wait outside,’ Clinas said as he opened the door. ‘He’ll tell you what he wants you to do. We have lunch at twelve-thirty. Leave what you’re doing and come here,’ he smiled. ‘And welcome to our little family.’
It all appeared too perfect. Despite the warm welcome, Jago
thought that something would go wrong. A sharp pain of trepidation twisted his stomach. He had the urge to run as a bead of sweat burst from his forehead.
‘You look sick,’ Bia said as she led him from the kitchen up two flights of servants’ stairs and then on to a long white-painted landing.
They walked along the darkened corridor until they reached a large pair of oak doors. A sign hung from the handle, and on it were written the words KEEP OUT.
Jago looked at Bia who knocked briskly and then stepped back before sitting on an old chair opposite the door and picking at the green flock wallpaper with her fingernails. Jago waited.
‘Come in,’ said the voice from the other side of the door.
He hesitated and looked at Bia, who nodded for him to go in. Jago turned the handle very slowly, hoping the door wouldn’t open. When it did, he stepped inside.
The room was dark and lit only by a candle on a desk by the boarded windows. He could see the shadowy outline of a man. Jago closed the door and stood in the gloom. On the walls of the room he could vaguely see the outlines of picture frames. There was a sofa and table by an empty fireplace.
‘I am Jago Harker,’ he said, not knowing what else to say.
‘I know,’ replied the man. ‘Mrs Macarty told me all about you. From London, aged fifteen. Sent here by your mother.’
‘She’s dead,’ Jago said.
‘Time goes so slowly, Jago,’ the man said in reply as he tapped the desk with the tip of his pen. ‘Step into the light so I can see your face.’ Jago did as he asked. Stepping closer he glimpsed the face of the man. Pippen Draigorian, he thought for a moment as the man smiled. ‘Crispin Draigorian,’ the man said as if he could read Jago’s mind. ‘Pippen Draigorian died some years ago, but I admit there is a resemblance.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t realise I said …’ Jago answered wondering if the words had left his lips.
‘Everyone who sees that portrait at Streonshalgh Manor makes the same mistake and I heard from Clinas that you were in my old room. So you would have seen the portrait of old Pippen even with your eyes closed. We are very much alike. Some people call me a throwback.’
‘Your old room?’ Jago asked.
‘Did I say that?’ he replied. ‘I meant the old room. My family moved to Hagg House before I was born. I have visited Streonshalgh Manor several times – but bitterness at the loss of such a beautiful place makes one quite scornful. I hope one day to buy it back – but not before you have grown up and left.’ Draigorian laughed quietly and then leant forward and looked him up and down. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I have never been here,’ Jago said, wondering why it was that everyone in Whitby asked if they had seen him before.
‘It’s because you look familiar,’ Draigorian answered the unasked question. ‘Your mother – where was she from?’
Jago hesitated. He tried to keep the photograph of his mother out of his mind for fear Draigorian would see it. He quickly thought of the bombing, Cresco and Brick Lane.
‘London. My mother died in London.’
‘I see,’ Draigorian sighed. ‘London must be such a terrible place. My own son is there at the moment. I fear for him. Whitby has not yet been touched by the war and I hope it will remain that way. It is enough for us to cope with the comet. It isn’t really a comet but a conflagration of several stars, an alignment beyond belief – have you seen RedEye?’
‘At the station last night,’ Jago replied.
‘I hear the mayor was found drunk in a hedge,’ Draigorian said immediately after the very same thought had crossed Jago’s mind.
‘Mr Bradick welcomed me to the town. I am the only evacuee.’
‘Then we should make you welcome. It is a shame you have to come here to work. Can you read?’ he asked excitedly. ‘I have several rooms filled with books that go back hundreds of years. I am sure a lad like you would enjoy looking through them.’ Draigorian stopped for a moment and looked at Jago. ‘In fact,’ he said as if his mind had come to life,‘if you can read you can find one book that I fear is lost.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Jago not really knowing what Draigorian wanted him to do.
‘Good,’ the man said. ‘I have misplaced something that I need. A book of great price and value. Perhaps you will find it for me?’
‘Of course,’ Jago replied as he watched Draigorian study him intently.
‘It is an old diary of a foreign king. It is called The Book of Krakanu. It is very old, the binding is blue – that is what I remember. I lost it many years ago and cannot find it.’
Jago could not believe the words he had just heard. He thought of Cresco and the tiny flat below his own in Shoreditch. In his mind he saw Cresco by the fire, and just as he was about to imagine the man start to tell him the story he looked at Draigorian.
‘Krakanu?’ he asked.
It was as he spoke that Jago saw the man clearly for the first time. He didn’t look as old as Bia said he was. Draigorian was definitely not ancient. His eyes sparkled in the candle-light and a broad smile cut across a lined face. If anything, Jago thought, the man was not much older than his mother, but he knew that could not be.
‘That is the name. I would be most obliged if you could find it for me,’ Draigorian said as he studied the boy. ‘I have a condition that stops me leaving this room in daylight. It comes and goes and has been the curse of my family. Some call it porphyria – it is when daylight burns the skin. If you could find the book for me, it would be work well done.’
Jago felt as if the man stared deep within his mind. He was the image of the painting of Pippen Draigorian. The eyes and the smile were just the same. For a moment he dared wonder if a man could live that long and never change.
‘And that is what you would want me to do?’ Jago asked.
‘I am an old man, and it would be good to find the book before I go on,’ Draigorian said softly as he moved his finger through the flame of the candlelight. ‘I find it hard to see with just a candle, and all the rooms are shuttered so I can walk the house in the day. You, Jago, would have the light to guide you in what I ask.’
Jago looked at the outline of the picture above the fire place. It was the only one he had seen in the house that was of a woman.
‘Who is that?’ he asked as he stared at the shadows across her face.
‘A dear, old friend,’ Draigorian replied as he again tapped the desk impatiently.
There was a gentle knock at the door. Clinas stepped in. He carried a tray on which were a glass of wine and a slither of cheese.
‘Time for you to eat and for Jago to start his work,’ Clinas said as his eyes told Jago to leave the room. ‘Biatra is outside – she will tell you what to do.’
‘I have given him a job, gainful employment, Clinas,’ Draigorian interrupted. ‘Jago is to be my librarian. The boy can read and he knows what I want him to do – don’t you, Jago?’
Jago bowed his head.
‘So he is not to clean?’ Clinas asked sharply as his mood changed, his words tainted with slight protest. ‘Far from it. Jago is to sort all my books and he has all the war to do it.’
‘The library – but what if … ?’ Clinas asked, eyeing Jago warily as he left the room.
Draigorian looked as though he had suddenly remembered some vital piece of information.
‘I think … I think he will be good for the job, Clinas – under your guidance, of course,’ he replied.
[ 7 ]
Poltergeist
THE DOOR OPENED and Clinas stepped outside. He looked perturbed, his brow was wrinkled and a flick of long black hair trailed over his face. Jago could see that what mirth he had was now no more. He nodded to Bia, who was standing by the shuttered window, allowing the thin shafts of sunlight to dance across her hand.
‘Jago is going to the library,’ Clinas said to her as he pushed Jago in the back.
‘The library?’ Bia asked. ‘He’s not coming with me?’
She sounded concerned, as she
stared at Clinas.
‘He’ll be fine – we’ll get on with what we have to do. Be back in the kitchen for midday, Biatra. I’ll show Jago the library.’ Clinas tried to sound convincing. He glanced at Bia as she walked back along the corridor without a word. ‘She’s a good lass – shame about her mother,’ he added.
‘Disappeared?’ Jago asked as Clinas walked ahead of him along the corridor, then opened a panelled door in the wall that led to a flight of narrow wooden stairs.
‘You’ll hear all sorts of things about that, Jago,’ Clinas said as he went ahead and lit a small lamp with a Zippo lighter. ‘Her mother hasn’t been the only one who has gone miss ing. There’s talk that only last night a woman vanished on Church Street – nothing to say she had even been there. Since the comet came back, six people have vanished. Just like before.’
‘Before?’ Jago asked a he trooped on behind, taking each step as carefully as he could in the shadowy gloom.
‘A hundred years ago, one person vanished every day it lit up the sky,’ Clinas said. He opened a small door that led on to another dark landing. ‘It’s expected – rumours spread and if someone goes missing they blame the comet. They say it makes people go mad – up there always looking down on them like the eye of God.’
‘Do they ever find them?’ Jago asked as Clinas lit another lantern that hung on the wall with a brass stand.
‘Sometimes,’ he said slowly. He thought how much to tell Jago. ‘There’s a tradition that if someone goes missing you always give them a funeral the next day – even if you can’t find the body. Started with the sailors, when they were lost at sea. So many empty coffins in that churchyard, all with a headstone.’
‘Why?’ Jago asked.
‘People need somewhere to go when they’re grieving – especially for those lost at sea,’ Clinas replied as he got to the library door.
‘So where did they all go – these people who disappeared when the comet arrived?’ Jago asked.
‘I did hear that they found a boy once, but he was all messed up and could have fallen from the cliff. Could be they are still alive and just left the town. Whitby does that to some people.’ Clinas pushed open the door and looked inside. A cold, icy chill rushed through the doorway and filled the corridor. Clinas shivered. ‘Never come up here,’ he said. He stepped inside flicked the wheel of the lighter and held the flame above his head. ‘Must be a candle somewhere?’