The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘What did he mean?’ Jago asked as they turned the tree-lined corner of the drive to Hagg House.

  ‘Every time the comet appears they build a wicker fence in the mud of the river. It has to last three tides. When there is no comet, they build the hedge on Ascension Eve.’

  ‘And they think it will protect them?’ Jago replied as he looked down the track to the gates of the factory. ‘Why do they do that?’

  ‘There was a knight who was hunting a beast – a monster – with two companions. The animal took refuge in the house of a hermit in those woods,’ she said, pointing to the tree-covered slopes of the river. ‘The hermit refused to let the knight kill the creature, said it had found sanctuary. So he mortally wounded the hermit. Before the hermit died he told the knight that he would be cursed unless he built a wicker hedge in the sands of the river. He should do this as a penance for his murder or disaster would befall the town. The descendant of that knight builds the hedge – he’ll be there now. It’s low tide.’

  Jago had often thought that the stories of Cresco were beyond madness. Now Bia spoke the same way. He felt a growing dread. Ghosts and shadows were suddenly very possible. Jago was fearful and alone. He could tell no one, and he could sense a dark and chilling numbness within. He knew his heart ached for his mother.

  ‘Have you ever been in the library alone?’ he asked, wanting to tell the girl what had happened, but knowing she wouldn’t believe him.

  ‘Why?’ she replied curtly, as if she didn’t want to be asked.

  ‘Didn’t like the place – and what’s all that about Draigorian being in the dark all the time?’

  ‘He’s sick and there’s no cure. Clinas said he’s dying.’ Bia coughed as she spoke. ‘It’s said to be a bad thing if a Draigorian dies whilst the comet is here.’

  ‘What difference will it make? Is that why he wants me to find the book?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Clinas told me the book wasn’t there and that he was just giving you something to do. It’s a task without an end. Clinas said that when you have searched the library you would have to do it again and again. It’s as if he wants you in that room,’ she said churlishly.

  ‘I’d rather clean,’ Jago replied.

  ‘I’d rather you cleaned. Clinas wants everything to be done his way. Not a thing out of place, not a smudge of dirt – not even a fingerprint,’ Bia said as they reached the quayside. ‘Told you they would be here.’

  Bia pointed to the spit of sand that stretched from the harbour wall out into the estuary.

  Jago looked out across the harbour. The sky was crystal blue and coloured the water that rushed to the sea. On the long and narrow finger of sand, three men stood and waited. One of them was bent double, his back weighed down with a bundle of reeds tied with thick rope. The two others carried wooden stakes and an iron hammer. A small crowd of people had gathered on the steps below the quayside. From where he stood, Jago could see back up the river. The white walls of Hagg House stood out against the green of the woodland. Below was the factory that came out into the estuary further than he would ever have thought. It covered the deep water. Two steel doors stopped him seeing what was inside.

  ‘So they’ll build a hedge on the sand?’ Jago asked.

  ‘He will,’ Bia said, pointing to a tall man with dark hair who carried the reeds. ‘That’s Hugh Morgan. It was his family that killed the hermit.’

  It was as if Hugh Morgan had heard what she had said. He dropped the reeds from his back and stood upright and looked at them. Bia lifted her hand but before she could wave he had turned away.

  ‘So he’ll build the hedge and Whitby won’t be destroyed?’ Jago asked sarcastically. ‘Didn’t think some sticks in the mud could do so much.’

  ‘He does it every year. He has to do it now RedEye is back.’

  ‘So who are the men with him?’ Jago asked.

  ‘They work for him,’ she replied as she pulled on his coat. ‘You’ll have to come back – we can see if the hedge lasts the tide tomorrow. Mrs Macarty will be waiting. We have to be back for supper.’

  Jago looked up to the sky. Even in the daylight he could see the outline of the comet high above them. He glanced back to Hugh Morgan. The man took a long stake, held it high in the air and then stabbed it into the sand, burying the carved tip a foot deep. The crowd roared and cheered as an old man with a bent back and red jacket blew a hunting horn to let the town know the hedge was being made.

  Bia walked on, not caring if he followed. It was the busiest Jago had seen the streets of Whitby. Crowds of people hurried from work. There were very few men. It was just like in London except for the smell of the sea and the constant noise of the crashing waves. Jago caught up with Bia and walked next to her. They stopped to look into the shop windows of Church Street as they made their way back to the steps. The bookshop with the gold-lettered sign was full of people, so full that a small queue trailed out of the door and into the street. Further along, just by the Town Hall was a peculiar shop that sold all types of herbs and spices. The smell lingered in the air. A cured ham dangled in a net bag from a hook outside. It looked as though a whole pig had been sliced in two and left to cure in the sea breeze.

  Jago laughed. ‘Looks like Tallow,’ he said, pointing to the poor creature. ‘Will they eat that?’

  ‘All but the snout,’ she replied as they walked through the misty smoke that had been sucked through the alleyway from the herring house.

  ‘Who lives there?’ Jago asked as he walked by the entrance to Arguments Yard and saw a door that had been tied shut with a red ribbon.

  ‘I did,’ Bia replied, ‘the ribbon is to tell people that whoever lived there is missing – no one will go in the house for a year and a day or until they come back.’

  He pointed to the door of another house.

  ‘They all have ribbons tied on them,’ he said.

  ‘Six houses – most of the row – all from the same place,’ Bia said.

  He could tell she wanted to walk on. She didn’t look at her house and kept her eyes to the ground.

  ‘Aren’t the police looking for them? Doesn’t someone tell the newspapers?’ he asked.

  ‘Not allowed. It’s because of the war. The police think they have all run away or jumped from the cliff – that’s what they tried to tell me. Said I could go back. They told me my mother would never come home.’

  ‘Where did Sara Clark live?’ Jago asked as the street took on an eerie familiarity.

  ‘Number 16 – just up there,’ Bia replied. She pointed to a house that was further up the street. It too had the familiar red ribbon tied to the door handle.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked as he looked back to the doorway where he had seen her come from the night before in his dream. ‘She didn’t live with you?’

  ‘What?’ Bia asked in a grimace of annoyance. ‘She never lived with us. She hated our family – always had – what made you say that?’

  ‘Nothing … Nothing made me say that, I just thought –’

  ‘She’s missing – Clinas told me. Her fella won’t be back until Friday next week. He won’t know until then – so we don’t speak of it, understand?’

  Jago knew he couldn’t talk to Bia about Sara Clark. He wanted to tell her everything, the dream, the library, every detail of what had happened to him. It burst within like a contained madness.

  ‘What if there are Vampyres – what if they are taking people?’ he asked as they got to the steps. ‘Strackan could be real.’

  ‘Been here a day and talking of Strackan, you have been busy,’ said Jack Henson as he stepped from the doorway of the Black Boar. Bia backed away. It was clear she didn’t like the man. ‘Now then, Biatra,’ he said in a whisper, ‘what you been telling the Algeniro?’

  ‘Told him nothing,’ she protested. ‘He’s been listening to Maisie and Clinas Macarty. Talking about Vampyres – you know what they are like. The whole town believes in them.’

  ‘Whole town believes we’ll win this w
ar – doesn’t mean to say it’s true,’ Henson replied. He put his spade over his shoulder and followed them up the steps. ‘No rest for the wicked – no rest for those who’re missing,’ he murmured under his breath.

  ‘So where have all the people gone?’ Jago asked him.

  ‘Some might want you to know – others might try to stop you finding out,’ he said as he watched his own feet trudge up the shallow steps. ‘If I was a lad of your age I would be keeping in after dark and trying not to dream.’

  He looked Jago in the face as he spoke. It was as if he was trying to tell him something. Jago looked back. Henson scowled through thin lips.

  ‘Digging another grave?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Surprised you don’t know why and who for,’ Henson said as he rested and looked out to sea. ‘Always best to have an empty grave – never know who you might find to fill it.’

  Henson sneered, his face wrinkled and lined.

  ‘Better be off,’ Bia said, wanting to get away from the man.

  ‘Better be,’ he replied. ‘You know things too well, Biatra. You be keeping this lad out of here at night. Can’t be having him talking to my guests.’

  ‘Guests?’ Jago asked as they were far enough away for Henson not to hear.

  Bia waited until they were in the courtyard of Streonshalgh Manor before she replied.

  ‘It’s what he calls the people who are buried in the churchyard. He looks after them. Digs the graves – keeps it all tidy. He says they are all his guests. Everyone in the town pays his wages. Penny a house – penny a grave – that’s what my mother says. Jack Henson has always been a gravedigger. He used to frighten us with stories of ghosts.’

  ‘And Vampyres?’ Jago asked as the cold grey stones of the Manor loomed before them.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said in reply as they got to the nail-studded oak door of the old and ramshackle house.

  Jago took hold of the handle. Before it could turn, the door opened.

  ‘So you have decided to come back,’ Mrs Macarty said with her arms folded. ‘I saw Jack Henson talking to you – what did he want?’

  ‘He was telling Jago to keep out of the churchyard,’ Bia said impatiently as the smell of fried sausages wafted down the hall.

  ‘Well,’ she snorted. ‘Perhaps he’s right – with all that’s going on, might not be a bad idea.’

  ‘Sausages?’ asked Bia as she went into the panelled dining room.

  ‘Tallow’s cooking,’ Mrs Macarty said in what could only be described as a very lopsided smile of relief. ‘Maisie has had to go, they have found her cousin.’

  ‘Sara Clark?’ Jago said. ‘Is she well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected for someone who is dead,’ Mrs Macarty explained in a matter-of-fact way as she followed them into the dining room.

  The dark room fell silent. Bia looked at Jago and wondered why he had asked about Sara Clark. How did he know her name?

  Staxley stood by his seat, waiting for them. His pack of dogs surrounded him, each glaring at Jago as he came in.

  ‘Lasted the day then, Jago,’ Lorken growled under his breath as Jago walked by.

  ‘Sure did,’ Jago whispered. He stood by his chair waiting for Mrs Macarty to tell them to be seated.

  ‘But you might not last the night,’ Lorken answered with a nudge of his elbow.

  ‘It’s only right that we just bow our heads and think of that poor family who have lost their daughter,’ Mrs Macarty said. ‘For those who don’t know, Sara Clark went missing and they found her body at the bottom of the cliff. It looks as though she had an accident. They’ll be burying her tonight.’

  Jago looked about the room. Every eye was fixed on the large silver tureen on the stand by the door. The Gladlings quivered in anticipation. After a respectful pause Mrs Macarty nodded graciously.

  ‘She was half-eaten,’ Laurence Gladling, the tallest of the Gladling children, murmured to Jago as he served him a plate of sausages that defied all rationing. ‘That’s what I heard Tallow say to Maisie before she ran off screaming.’

  Jago nodded and started to eat.

  ‘Shame what happened to Sara Clark,’ Staxley said as he leaned over to Jago. ‘I heard there was not much left. Looks like she’d been eaten by a pack of dogs.’

  Bia shuffled closer to Jago.

  ‘Why tell me, Staxley? I never knew her,’ Jago answered.

  ‘You never know who will go missing next – never know who will fall off that cliff into the sea.’ Staxley looked smugly at the other boys as they troughed from their plates.

  ‘I thought we’d settled this at breakfast,’ Jago snapped back.

  ‘You were just lucky – took me off guard. I can take you, Jago. You wait and see.’

  ‘You don’t want to fight me, Staxley. Not in this place,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Not frightened?’ Lorken asked as he wiped gravy from his face with the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘Not by you, Lorken. Why should I ever fear someone as ugly as you?’ Jago said, and he laughed in the boy’s face.

  ‘It’s not worth it, Jago. You have to live with them,’ Bia replied quietly.

  ‘She’s right. Scar-face knows what the score is. We run Streonshalgh Manor – always have and always will. You give in to that and everything will be fine – understand, London boy?’

  Jago saw Laurence Gladling staring at him, willing him not to back down. The boy looked frightened, as if Jago was his only hope. He sat at the table clutching the hands of his companions, Morris and Boris, in anticipation.

  ‘Someone needs to teach you a lesson, Staxley,’ Jago replied as he ate the sausages. ‘This place would be fine if it wasn’t for your bullying.’

  Griffin coughed suddenly as if he choked on his food. He was bigger than all the others, with a hard scowl and broken nose. His dark hair fell over his face and his eyes widened in a breathless stare as he tried to speak.

  ‘Stuck …’ he gasped as his face reddened to bursting.

  Staxley hit him hard on the back. ‘Stop messing Griff – what’s up?’ he asked.

  Griffin could not speak. He stood up and looked about the room as his eyes bulged. He tried to grab the back of the chair as he shook helplessly.

  ‘He’s choking,’ Bia shouted, hoping to be heard by Mrs Macarty.

  Jago didn’t wait. With one hand he pushed Lorken out of the way. Grabbing Griffin in a bear hug, he gave a sudden and sharp tug to his chest. Griffin choked even more, and tears of fear rolled down his cheek as he gasped and gasped.

  ‘What you doing to him?’ Staxley screamed in panic.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ Jago shouted as he pulled harder.

  Griffin coughed as the air exploded from his lungs. A bullet of meat shot from his mouth, followed by what looked like a gallon of water and tomato skins. Staxley didn’t move. The spray hit him in the face. Griffin coughed some more as he stared at Jago.

  ‘I was choking … You saved me – how did you do that?’ Griffin asked as Staxley wiped the contents of Griffin’s stomach from his shirt.

  ‘I would have done that – he just got in the way,’ Staxley said odiously as he stared at Jago.

  ‘Doesn’t matter who did it,’ Bia butted in. ‘Griff is alive, that’s the point.’

  ‘You would say that, scar-face, wouldn’t you?’ Staxley laughed risibly as he turned away.

  Bia lunged forward. In her mind he had insulted her for the last time. A sudden snap broke the silence. The punch hit him in the eye. Before Staxley had time to speak he was on the floor, hanging on to the table leg and wondering what had happened.

  ‘No one ever call me that again – understand?’ she screamed through her teeth as she pulled back the strands of her hair to bare her face. ‘This is from birth. It’s not my fault and it’s not a curse. It’s how I am. The next one of you that calls me scar-face will get the same as Staxley. I have had enough of you, all of you.’

  Bia ran from the room. She didn’t want them to see her tears.<
br />
  ‘What is all this noise?’ asked Mrs Macarty as she walked in with her arms folded.

  ‘Griffin was choking – Jago saved him and Staxley fainted,’ Laurence Gladling said quite confidently from the safety of his table.

  Mrs Macarty looked at him suspiciously as his siblings nodded in agreement.

  ‘Is that right, Griff?’ she asked the boy as he pulled on his jacket.

  Griffin nodded and smiled at Jago.

  ‘I couldn’t breathe and he did something that got it out, Mrs Macarty, honest.’ Griffin replied quickly with a sigh.

  ‘And Staxley fainted with shock I suppose?’ she said as if to give them the answer.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jago said, wanting to go after Bia.

  ‘Then all’s well and none of you will spend the night in the attic for fighting,’ Mrs Macarty replied, having obviously been listening from the corridor, as was her wont. She looked at Jago. ‘Better go and see where she is, Jago.’

  [ 9 ]

  Hocus Pocus Hoc Est Corpus

  THERE WAS NO SIGN of Bia anywhere in Streonshalgh Manor. Jago searched all of the places where he thought she would be. He even asked Tallow what room she was in and when he had knocked on the door there was no reply. Turning the wooden handle, he stepped inside. The room was empty and unlived-in and smelt of mould. There was a case of clothes laid on the narrow bed. The sloped roof cut down sharply to the small windows that looked out over the harbour. A braided rug covered the bare boards by the fireside. He could hear the jackdaws roosting in the eaves as they cawed and pecked at the stones. The wind rattled the roof slates and blew clumps of matted soot down the chimney and into the blackened, empty fire grate. A small electric light burnt silently, filling the room with a meagre glimmer.

  It was then that he saw her through the window. Bia stepped from the shadow of the church and picked her way through the gravestones towards the headland. She was shaking her fist and hitting out at the air in anger. He turned to open the door. As he did, he saw a simple wooden frame on the bedside table. In it was the picture of a man with his arm around a woman holding a small child. Jago picked up the frame and looked closer. He knew he had seen the woman before but didn’t know where. Holding it under the light, he stared at it for a while before putting it back.