The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  Jago knew he was meant to go. Bia looked up at him just as he turned out of sight around the corner of the landing. There, as usual was the smirking face of Pippen Draigorian. He looked down from the picture with eyes that seemed to know what Jago had seen.

  ‘Goodnight, old man,’ Jago said to the painting as he walked along the dark landing towards his room.

  It was then that Jago noticed the door was open a slither and a slit of light came through the crack. He felt in his pocket and found the key. He was sure he had locked the room when he had left.

  Jago walked slowly, the floorboards squeaking beneath his feet. A shadow moved in the room that was lit by a small fire burning in the grate. Jago got to the door and listened. He tried to peer inside without being seen. Someone was in the room. He could hear them placing coals on to the fire one by one.

  He gripped the key in his hand, knowing that it would strengthen his fist if he had to fight. He slowly pushed against the door, hoping it wouldn’t make a sound. The door opened, Jago looked inside the room. There, hunched over the fireplace was the figure of a man.

  ‘Mrs Macarty told me you could do with a fire – being out in the mist for so long,’ Tallow said as he turned around

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Shoes,’ tallow replied as if Jago should know what he meant. ‘Shoes tell everything about the man,’ he continued. ‘You have leather soles, twice mended and double stitched.’

  ‘And you can tell that by the way I walk?’ he asked.

  ‘The way a man walks says more about him than the look on his face. You’ve an honest gait, big strides, even when you’re trying to keep quiet.’

  ‘Then I shall have to watch my step,’ Jago laughed.

  ‘Is that what Henson told you?’ Tallow asked with an unusual clarity in his voice. ‘Did he tell you to watch your step?’

  ‘Told me to keep out of the churchyard,’ Jago answered. He sat on the bed and reached out for the steaming cup of milk on the bedside table. ‘Did you bring this?’ he asked as gulped the drink.

  Tallow stared at him through his dark, deep-set eyes. ‘Mrs Macarty told me you’d be wanting something. Milk and vervain, it will help you to sleep. Not a room I’d like to be in, if I was to be honest,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘I have nowhere else, Tallow,’ Jago replied. He leant back against the pillows and looked around the room to see if everything was as he had left it. ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Used to, long time ago. Came here just like you. Work here sometimes and sometimes for Hugh Morgan. That’s where I live,’ he said as he stacked the last piece of coal from the bucket on to the fire. ‘It’s a far walk. Will stay here tonight and then head for Hawks Moor tomorrow.’

  ‘Hugh Morgan?’ Jago asked. ‘The man who has to build the wicker fence?’

  ‘Not to be joked about. That fence can save us all,’ Tallow answered as he got from his knees, picked up the coal bucket and turned to go. ‘Penance Hedge is an important thing.’

  ‘Like wrapping holly sticks around coffins?’

  ‘As powerful as that – if not more. Hugh Morgan will never be free from what his family has done. Killing that hermit will be with them for ever.’

  ‘Does everyone believe in all this superstition just like you?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Never heard of any of it until I came here. It’s all true. I’ve seen things on that moor that would frighten any man.’ Tallow towered over Jago, his head higher than the corner post of the grand oak bed. ‘Not talk for night-time. Even with that vervain you would never sleep. That’s why I never walk back to Hawks Moor once it’s dark. Hugh Morgan told me that.’

  ‘And he believes in it all too?’ Jago asked.

  ‘As much as most and more than many,’ he said as he bent to walk though the door. ‘Drink and sleep – that’s what Mrs Macarty said I had to tell you.’

  Tallow closed the door. A candle on the mantelpiece lit the room, and the flames took hold of the coals and flickered shadows over the ceiling. Jago listened to the seagulls as they came in to roost on the ruins of the abbey. The waves crashed against the pier walls and the church clock chimed the quarter hour. He looked about the room and hoped it could be different. Jago had expected something other than this. All he could feel was that somewhere in a cold London street, his mother was trapped under the rubble just like he was. He hoped that she would be found and come for him.

  Jago sipped at the milk. It tasted of bitter herbs that burnt his tongue. In a strange way, it was pleasant. Soon, he felt sleepy. He looked at the jug and bowl on the stand but could not bother to wash away the dirt of the day. His body felt heavy as his mind drifted and thoughts of London filled the empty silence. The house was still, and for the first time since he had arrived he could not hear the wind.

  Then, just as he knew he was about to sleep, he heard the sound. It danced along the floorboards of the corridor and then clattered against the door to his room. It was the sound of rolling glass. It came again, a familiar childhood sound – a glass marble rolled on the wooden floor and clunked against a door.

  Jago sat up and listened. The clattering noise came for a third and then a fourth time. He went to the door. When it was opened, he found four glass orbs like bull’s eyes in a neat row.

  ‘Marbles?’ he said out loud. The corridor was dark and empty, Jago could see no one. Then he heard the clunk, clunk, clunk of another glass sphere falling down each of the wooden attic steps. The marble rolled across each tread, dropped down a step at a time, turned and then slowly came towards him. It stopped at his feet. Jago picked up the glass ball. ‘Very funny,’ he said, hoping whoever was doing this could hear him. The sound came again, this time faster. The new orb rolled urgently from the other end of the corridor. It clattered across the boards and when it got to his door stopped. ‘Who is it?’ he whispered, not wanting to be heard by Tallow or Mrs Macarty.

  No one answered. The passageway was silent. Jago was sure he could see someone in the shadows by the large aspidistra that bushed out from the alcove by the far window. He stepped from his room and quietly walked towards the window.

  There were three doors in the passageway. Two looked as though they could be bedrooms, the other was chipped around the frame and could be a store cupboard. He edged along the wall, listening hard with each small step. Another marble rolled from the dark alcove. It meandered slowly along the polished wooden floor as if pushed by an invisible hand. Jago stamped on it with his foot, stopping it dead.

  There was a dull click as the door to the storeroom opened. Jago waited, wondering who was playing this game. He wanted to run and lock himself in his room.

  ‘Jago, Jago,’ came the voice of Laurence Gladling from deep within the darkness of the storeroom. ‘Help me get out of here,’ he said with a grunt.

  Jago hesitated. In the clearing darkness he could see the faint and shadowy outline of Laurence Gladling. It looked as though he was strapped to a chair.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ he asked as he stepped in to the room.

  ‘Don’t …’ murmured Gladling in muffled protest.

  A hand shot from the dark and grabbed Jago by the arm. An old flower sack was thrust on his head and he was grappled to the floor. He tried to fight. There were too many hands holding him down.

  ‘Just thought we would have a word,’ Lorken said as he tied Jago’s hands with a thin rope. ‘You have to know what we can do, understand?’

  ‘Takes two of you to do it,’ Jago snarled.

  ‘You hold him. I’ll search his room,’ Lorken said.

  Jago couldn’t see who held him down. He bit at the sack on his head as he tried to shake it free.

  ‘Wouldn’t be doing that,’ Griffin said. ‘Just stay where you are and he’ll be back.’

  ‘If he takes anything from my room, it will be the last thing he ever does,’ Jago answered. ‘Thought you’d be different, Griffin. You’re not as stupid as they are.’

  ‘
My mates, Jago. Look after each other,’ Griffin answered as he pushed his knee into Jago’s back.

  ‘Nothing there,’ Lorken said as he came back. ‘Just a bag full of rubbish, some clothes and an old tin mug. Do you have anything worth stealing?’

  ‘Not that you would ever dare,’ Jago replied, hugely relieved that Lorken had been too stupid to discover the money that his mother had given him. He tried to work out where Lorken was standing so he could kick him as hard as he could.

  ‘Get out of here, Gladling. You’ve served us well. Remember – not a word or else it will happen to you,’ Griffin said. Jago heard Gladling scurry from the room.

  ‘They made me, Jago, made me …’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Had to get you in here somehow. I knew you wouldn’t come on your own,’ Staxley said from the shadows. ‘You need to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘What you going to do to him, Staxley?’ Lorken asked excitedly.

  ‘Tie him up and leave him in here for the night,’ he replied. ‘That should teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Is that all?” Lorken asked. ‘Let me just have a minute with him.’

  ‘That’s all I would need to sort him out,’ Jago answered before Staxley could reply.

  ‘If that’s what you want, Jago. I’m sure Griff can truss you so it won’t be too hard for Lorken to finish you off. And if you breathe a word to Macarty – we’ll get you again and again.’

  ‘And scar-face – both of you,’ Lorken growled. ‘Tie him tight, Griff.’

  ‘You watch me,’ Griffin said. He twisted the rope until Jago screamed. ‘Feel that, London boy?’

  Jago felt the rope tighten until it burnt. The pain went away as Griffin pushed him back against the floor. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could feel the cords sag and loosen.

  ‘Not too tight,’ Lorken laughed. ‘Got to give him a chance.’

  ‘He’ll have a chance all right,’ Griffin said. ‘Just stay where you are and take the beating, Jago. Best to learn who is in charge of this place.’

  ‘Come on, Griff, let’s leave them to get friendly,’ Staxley said as he stepped over Jago.

  The door shut. The room was plunged into total darkness. He could hear Lorken breathing. He gasped and sighed excitedly as he moved about the darkened room.

  ‘Didn’t like you from the first day I saw you, Jago. Been waiting for this,’ Lorken gulped feverishly.

  ‘Get on with it, Lorken,’ Jago answered as he realised his hands were free.

  ‘Then have some of this,’ Lorken grunted as he kicked out in the dark.

  Jago spun round and pulled the hessian sack from his head just as the kick hit him in the chest. He gasped in pain. The blow came again. This time he caught the boot, twisted the leg and sent Lorken crashing to the floor. He dived on the boy, pressing him to the coarse wooden planks. Lorken growled like a dog as Jago picked up the strand of cord and tied his hands.

  ‘Things different now, Lorken?’ Jago asked as he pulled the rope tight and then covered the boy’s head with the hessian sack. ‘Shall I do to you what you were going to do to me?’

  ‘No, no!’ Lorken pleaded.

  ‘Different now Staxley has gone – not wanting to fight?’ Jago asked.

  ‘You don’t understand. I had to do it. It’s the way it is. Staxley says he knows who the Vampyre is and if we don’t do for him then it will come and get us.’ Lorken spoke in a hissing whisper.

  ‘Am I supposed to believe that?’ Jago asked as he pulled the rope even tighter.

  ‘It’s true. He always says if we don’t help him, then he will feed us to Strackan.’ Lorken groaned in pain.

  ‘Staxley says he knows who Strackan is?’ Jago said quietly.

  ‘He knows his name. That it’s someone we all know but would never guess.’

  Jago thought for a moment.

  ‘You’re lying, Lorken,’ Jago said as he twisted the rope even harder.

  ‘It’s true. Staxley says he has met him.’ Lorken answered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Very well,’ Jago said as he loosened the rope. ‘You say that if Staxley thinks you chickened out you’ll end up being fed to Strackan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorken replied earnestly.

  ‘Then you can go,’ Jago answered as he pulled the sack from Lorken’s head.

  ‘What?’ he asked, surprised by his sudden freedom.

  ‘Go – tell him what you want. I won’t say anything,’ Jago answered.

  ‘But why would you do that?’ Lorken asked disbelievingly.

  ‘Do you want to get eaten by a Vampyre?’ he asked.

  Lorken shook his head as the bindings fell from his wrist. All he could see was the dark shadow of Jago looming over him. He tried to speak.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lorken gasped suspiciously as he gulped tears and rubbed the dew from his pug nose. ‘And you won’t say a thing?’

  ‘Promise,’ Jago said simply as he opened the door.

  ‘I better go first. Stay here for a while. They could be waiting by the stairs,’ Lorken said as he got to his feet. ‘You’re weird, Jago. I would have beat you if I had the chance and wouldn’t have cared.’

  ‘I know,’ Jago said. ‘So would I until I came here.’

  Lorken didn’t understand. He left quickly. Jago heard his footsteps go down the empty corridor and then up the stairs to the attic rooms where they all slept. He waited in the dark and wondered if what Staxley had said was true. The door to the attic room slammed and was followed by laughter that echoed through the house.

  Jago went to his room. Everything he owned was scattered on the bed. His leather case had been tipped out and rifled. There by the pillow was the Cup of Garbova. It sparkled just like it always had.

  ‘He must have seen this,’ he asked himself. ‘Why didn’t he take it?’

  ‘Some people are too dull even to see gold,’ Jago heard a voice say from behind him.

  He didn’t dare to turn for fear of what he might see.

  ‘Cresco?’ he asked, remembering the voice from before.

  ‘No …’ it said.

  ‘Then who are you – why are you haunting me?’ Jago answered.

  The fire glinted and crackled in the hearth and cast his long shadow against the dark wood panels. A single candle on the mantelpiece flickered and danced. The mirror above the fireplace in its lustreless gilt frame was dimmed and misted and covered with a coating of dust. Jago could feel the presence near to him as it swept across the room like a chill breeze.

  It then appeared. Slowly, vaguely and without a sound, a finger marked out a single word:

  VAMPYRE …

  [ 11 ]

  Yassassin

  JAGO STARED AT THE WORD etched into the mirror-glass for almost an hour. He waited to see if the ghostly writer would return. It was a surprising thought to him that he felt so calm. He began to believe that he too had been killed in the bombing and that this was a strange afterworld. What he had experienced in the last days was beyond belief. All that he loved was gone and now he found himself in a dark room of Streonshalgh Manor where a candle flickered and the fire faded into dull embers. Jago sat on the bed and waited, wrapped in his leather coat. Sleep was the last thing he wanted – in the jumbled myriad of his thoughts, he knew that any dream would not be peaceful. Yet something deep within him urged him to close his eyes, just for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he said to wake himself as he felt sleep take him. Then, getting up from the bed, he went to the window and sat on the long ledge next to the cold glass. ‘If I just stay here for another hour …’

  Jago pressed his face against the icy window. It was marked with an early frost which melted to the contours of his cheek. All he wanted was to wait for the brief night to pass. When dawn came he could sleep – it would then be safe. With an ever-growing numbness, he closed his eyes. The mist of sleep had come. In drudgeful slumber, he leant against the window and felt himself falling.

  ‘Thought we wouldn’t see you here again,’ said a sudden vo
ice. Jago opened his eyes. He was surrounded by fog. A man swished the tail of his dusty and matted frock coat from side to side, the same man he had seen in his dream the night before. ‘Your kind of people never learn.’

  Jago stood back and looked at him. He was just the same as he was before. His thin and flaking face was covered in short stubble of spindly grey hairs. As he spoke, Jago noticed he only had three teeth in the whole of his mouth.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be back? It’s just a dream,’ Jago said.

  ‘Another night, another dream. Another night, another death?’ the man said. ‘If you listen you can hear Jack Henson digging the graves. Is that just a dream?’ Jago looked around him. The mist began to clear. He was in the churchyard. It felt like he was asleep and all this was in his head. To his right was the door of Draigorian’s tomb that was built within the wall of the church. On his left was the grave of Sara Clark. It was now filled with soil and covered in holly leaves. The man noticed him looking at the grave. ‘They did what I said. Buried her in holly to keep her in. Listen – listen …’

  Jago listened intently. From deep within the earth he could hear someone screaming. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘She wants to be out. Strackan will be calling her. Always on the first night of their death,’ the man said in a meagre whisper as if he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘It is only then they are useful to him.’

  As the mist cleared further, Jago could see more of the dead. Just like before they sat on their graves in tattered clothes, waiting endlessly. A young child huddled by the slab of stone that marked his short life. He looked up at Jago and tried to smile. The church looked stark, grim and bare. Ivy crept around the stones as if to pull it down piece by piece.

  ‘It’s Sara Clark – she’s screaming,’ Jago said as he listened to the dull cry that came up from the grave.

  ‘She can’t get out. Not buried face down,’ the man replied as the small boy crawled towards Jago. ‘He’s never seen life so close before,’ he went on, pointing to the boy.