by Kirsty Ferry
‘Oh?’ said Cassandra. She looked around, forcing herself to meet his eyes on the paintings. They were skilfully done; each stroke conveyed passion and desire. Will stared out at the viewer, inviting them into his life. How she wished she could eradicate him forever! How she had dwelt on him over the years and how she hated him. ‘So it is,’ Cassandra said. ‘Oh look. I remember that one very well.’ She took Veva firmly by the shoulders and turned her around. Facing her was a huge canvas of Will lying on the drawing room floor. Veva had done something to the picture which made him appear to be lying there, just waiting for a woman to discover him in flagrante, rather than make him look as if he had just been murdered. ‘Actually, that one’s quite good as well.’ She pulled Veva around and made her look at another one; a smaller canvas, again of his face, clearly after he had been shot and killed. But again, unless you had been there, he simply looked sensual. ‘I say, there are quite a few like this, aren’t there? He looks rather...dead. Who could have done that to him? Oh yes. You did, didn’t you?’
That was enough to make her snap. Veva threw Cassandra’s hands off her shoulders and flew at her. The two men, terrified, turned and tried to run out of the room. Veva caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and she whipped around. It only took an instant and they both lay dead. She turned back to Cassandra and went for her again. Cassandra laughed and side-stepped her, the way Veva had avoided Cassandra’s attack so long ago. ‘Yes, darling. It was all your own work, wasn’t it? All of this. Wasn’t it? Veva.’
Veva faltered and the shutters went down completely. Cassandra smiled to herself. She had created a perfect storm; she had forced Veva to face a reality she had long since rejected and placed her, quite deliberately, in that room full of memories. The icing on the cake, as they said, was the simple addition of her name. Et, voila.
‘My work?’ Veva said. She stared at Cassandra as if suddenly she didn’t know who she was or anything about what had just happened. ‘I did it? What did I do?’ She shook her head. ‘No. That was Veva. That was an awfully long time ago.’ That, Cassandra realised, was the moment it had happened; the moment Veva’s mind finally shattered. Veva sat down in the middle of the floor, facing the huge canvas depicting Will’s death. She automatically reached up and pulled the rose out of her hair, shredding it to pieces on the floor. Cassandra waited for a moment, and sat down carefully next to her. They both surveyed the painting. Veva had disappeared into a world even darker than the one she had existed in for almost twenty years.
‘Please stop that annoying humming, darling,’ said Cassandra eventually. ‘I’m sorry. Actually. No, I’m not sorry. I’m sorry that I met you. And I’m sorry that I met Will. I’m sorry that my life choices were taken away from me; although I don’t exactly dislike my life.’ She paused, thoughtfully. She turned to Veva and put her arm around her unresisting shoulders. ‘It’s the only way I could destroy you, darling,’ said Cassandra, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation. ‘I couldn’t get you any other way. This way, we can be stronger. And maybe I’ll be able to make some decisions now, hmm?’ She sighed, studying Veva’s perfect face and dark eyes. ‘I can’t stop men preferring you, though can I?’ she leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. Veva continued shredding the rose until there was nothing left of it. Then she moved on to the ruffles on her skirts. Cassandra took hold of her hand and stilled it. She looked across at the bodies of the two men who had inadvertently helped her. It was a shame. That was a kill she would have enjoyed. ‘We will be able to make this work to our advantage,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I suppose you’ll come out of this eventually. When you do, I’ll call you Jenny. I promise.’
To the untutored eye, the dark-haired girl could easily have passed for a beautiful, slightly unbalanced young lady. It would be harder, though, to ignore the smears of blood all over her white dress and all around her perfect mouth. Cassandra knew, however, that there were certain dangers beneath the surface. It would take her a little while to work out how to manage the situation, but she had all the time in the world.
Present Day
Christine, the landlady, had been right. There was definitely a storm brewing. The clouds were low and glowering over the outline of the Priory. Even from here, Lucas was convinced he could hear the swell of the North Sea as it broke over the sandbanks and covered the beach. He’d ventured onto the rocks near the castle earlier and almost fell flat on his face as he stepped on the slimy, green seaweed that covered everything. Now, he could feel drops of rain starting to fall, hitting him on the face as the wind carried them off the coast. He swore under his breath. Bloody Godforsaken place that it was...then he quickly corrected himself. How could it be Godforsaken when there was that huge Priory here? Still. It wasn’t pleasant and he wouldn’t have fancied being a monk all those centuries ago. He was sure that on a sunny, dry day it was stunning. He’d been amazed at the upturned fishing boats along the shore; all brightly coloured with piles of orange lobster pots jumbled around them. He’d spoken to a couple of the locals as they sat mending nets, and visited the castle along with most of the tourists on the Island. He’d had his lunch in the scrubby little square that was the Gertrude Jekyll Garden and wished there were a few more flowers in bloom. He was sure it was a little oasis on the Island for the nature lovers. Drew had eventually found him there and they’d worked companionably all afternoon. He’d deflected Drew’s probing questions about the girls; he had the distinct impression that Drew quite liked Jenny. If he was honest, he liked her too. He shook the thought away. It was Cass he had arranged to meet tonight. He felt a bit disloyal, thinking about her sister like that. And to be fair, Jenny would probably be quite high maintenance.
He walked on towards the lime kilns and shivered as the wind blew harder. Definitely a storm coming. He could see the stone arches across the bay and a figure standing on top of them. It lifted its arms up and waved at him, then turned and ran down the grassy track between the rocks. He increased his pace and put his head down into the wind, pushing onwards. Those kilns were enormous. If he stood still long enough, he was sure he could imagine the noise of the fires and the smell of the burning lime, coupled with the shouts of the workers. It must have been a very different picture a century and a half ago.
‘Lucas! Oh thank goodness you’re here!’ The figure bore down on him and he started. It was Jenny. She looked terrified; her eyes were huge in her white face, her hair even more dishevelled than before. She had somehow pulled it around into a side ponytail, caught with an elastic band beside her chin and tendrils escaped everywhere. She flung herself into his arms and he stood, feeling the coldness of her body. She must have been there ages. She was wearing a short sleeved lacy top and a little pleated skirt above thick black tights. She wasn’t wearing any shoes.
‘You’re freezing!’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Cass,’ she said. ‘She didn’t come home. She went over onto the mainland earlier. She walked, I told her not to. She rang me from the other side – there’s a phone box, did you see it?’ Lucas shook his head – he couldn’t recall seeing one, but then he wasn’t looking for one when they had crossed the causeway. ‘She rang and said she was heading over the causeway. She thought she had plenty of time. I think she’s drowned, Lucas! I think she’s dead!’
‘Hold on, hold on!’ he said. His heart started pounding. This was all he needed. ‘She’s not dead. She won’t be dead. She’s sensible.’
Jenny began to sob. ‘I’m worried, Lucas. I’m so worried. I knew she was meeting you here. I hurried over. I thought if she was running late, she’d have come straight here. She hates letting people down...’
Lucas didn’t speak. He held Jenny close and stroked her hair. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he whispered.
Jenny lifted her tear-stained face up to his. ‘I like you Lucas. I really do. But Cass saw you first. You’re a nice person; a good person. In some ways I want her dead as I can have you then...but that’s a really bad
thing to think, isn’t it?’ She stared up at him. ‘Isn’t it? You’re shocked aren’t you? I’m a horrible person. My family always thought I was a horrible person.’ Then suddenly she laughed. ‘They’re all dead too. That’s awful, isn’t it? It’s just me and Cass now, and I’m worrying that she’s going to leave me, but I’m telling you I want her out of the way. God!’ She flung herself away from Lucas and sort of concertinaed onto the ground. She sat on the wet grass, her hair plastered across her face and stared out to sea. ‘Can you help me, Lucas? I need help.’
‘I – I don’t know what to say...’ he began.
Jenny laughed again. Then it turned into another heaving sob. ‘Sit down, Lucas. Sit down next to me. Can you think what we can do? I can’t leave her out there alone. Maybe she’s in the refuge hut? Do you think she’s in the refuge hut, Lucas? Can we find out?’
Lucas followed her gaze, seeing the greyish-white hut that stood proud of the waves. ‘There’s a light on inside the hut!’ he said suddenly. ‘Look!’
Jenny sprang to her feet and leaned forward, as if she could get a better view of the hut. ‘There is! Oh –Lucas. If it flashes out her name in Morse code, it’s her!’
‘What?’ asked Lucas, staring at her.
‘It was my idea.’ Jenny giggled. ‘Didn’t Cass tell you I was creative? I thought it was a really good idea. It’s our signal to each other.’ Her face crumpled again. ‘You don’t like it, do you? You think I’m stupid.’
‘No, you’re not stupid. That’s actually really clever,’ he said.
Jenny threw herself back into his arms and took his face between her hands. ‘I knew I liked you. I knew it. Kiss me, Lucas. Please. Cass will never know... she always gets the boys. I never do. If you kiss me, it will make me so happy.’ Lucas couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and covered her hands with his. He closed his eyes and kissed her. Jenny pulled away first. Lucas opened his eyes and saw a smile playing about her lips. ‘Thank you, Lucas. We’ll not tell her. It can be our secret.’ She pushed him away gently and turned back to face the refuge hut. ‘It will flash any second...now,’ she stated: it was as if, Lucas thought with a stab of annoyance, the kiss hadn’t actually meant anything to her at all.
Sure enough, he saw the lights waver in the refuge hut. They flashed on and off. He couldn’t make what they were supposed to be doing, but Jenny started jumping up and down.
‘That’s a C. That’s an A...an S...another S...it’s her! Lucas, it’s her! Can you go and get her? Please? If you don’t I will. That’s my rowing boat there – I’m going for her...’ Jenny started scrambling down the slippery grass and heading towards the boat that was being tossed around on the waves. ‘She’ll be scared on her own,’ she shouted back over her shoulder, pausing on the slope, silhouetted against the sea. Lucas caught his breath; she was the most stunning creature he’d ever seen.
‘No! No, Jenny,’ he shouted, ‘you can’t go out in this. I’ll go. You go home, go and wait there for her. Do you need to let the coastguard know or something?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She frowned a little, confused. ‘Do I?’
Lucas slid down the hill towards her. He grabbed hold of her arm and tried to tug her away from the shore. ‘I’m going Jenny. I’ll see you later.’
‘Will you telephone me from the hut?’ she asked.
‘How can I? There’s no signal.’
‘Didn’t you bring a telephone?’ she asked, opening her eyes wide. She sat down again. ‘That’s good. I’ll just wait here.’
Exasperated, Lucas pulled her to her feet. ‘No. Go home,’ he said.
She clung onto him and kissed him again. ‘I will see you soon, Lucas,’ she smiled.
Lucas disengaged himself and waded over to the boat. He climbed into the boat and settled himself best he could. The North Sea had sloshed into his trainers and soaked through his jeans: and the seats on the boat were soaking too. He looked back at the shore and saw Jenny. Exasperating though she was, she was still stunning. He just couldn’t deal with all these conflicting signals. Jenny raised her hand to her lips and blew another kiss. Then she pulled the band out of her hair, wound it around her wrist and sat down on the ground again. She didn’t even seem to be that cold. It was getting dark now and the moon was breaking through the clouds. Lucas began to row.
1964
The place to be in London during the so-called ‘swinging sixties’ was either Carnaby Street or the King’s Road in Chelsea. The area was the hub of sixties glamour and anyone who was anyone in the world of fashion design had a presence there. There were some marvellous shops, Clara had told Guy. The theatre was boring now; next time he visited, he had to take her shopping. Guy had wanted to know what he would gain out of it. Beatniks and bohemia were not his pleasures, he had told her. Clara had laughed and said ‘ah’: but she was his pleasure. Guy had to agree. So it was that he found himself absorbed in the hustle and bustle of London yet again. Clara greeted him wearing a tiny mini-skirt and knee length white boots; but Guy, although appreciative of her charms, was still unsure of modern day fashions: a by-product of the time when women wore long skirts and bustles. Clara told him he needed to understand the concept of Biba and Mary Quant.
‘The wonderful thing about our lives is that we can evolve as we need to,’ Clara said. She hung onto his arm as they strolled down Carnaby Street looking in the windows of the boutiques they passed. Clara lived in a flat now, a three bedroomed affair, converted from an old Victorian house in the Swiss Cottage area of Hampstead in North London. It was the perfect compromise. She still lived in a style of house dear to her heart, but in a flat, one found there was a very fluid population in the building - nobody wondered why she never aged and what her story was. It suited her. Guy remained non-plussed with the fashion revolution. He was simply there as Clara’s companion, staying at her home and sharing her bed, but even he realised that it wasn’t as easy to haunt the East End and feed these days. There was, of course, the gang culture. If people disappeared at random, one of the gangs would get the blame – but it wasn’t ideal. You would always have the runaways, though – the ones who left their homes to ‘find themselves’ within the LSD and cannabis induced haze of the London Scene.
‘Look at this!’ Clara exclaimed, drawing to a halt outside a designer boutique. She wore huge, black sunglasses and pushed them up onto her head. Her eyes were just as green as ever, the red around the irises not as noticeable today. She pointed at a silver necklace in the window, showing a tiny dagger on a silver chain. The detail was precise and she pressed her hands against the window. ‘Oh my, now that is rather special,’ she said.
Guy looked at it without much interest. ‘It’s simply a necklace,’ he said shrugging.
‘Look at the craftsmanship,’ she said. ‘I wonder if it’s vintage?’ Then she laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that be the very thing - perhaps that there is the stuff of vampire legend. Now wouldn’t that just spoil our folklore? Imagine if that was the replica dagger the Slayer had created.’
‘Replica dagger?’ repeated Guy. He looked at the necklace more closely.
‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘It was created sometime before you were re-born. Haven’t I told you? How lax of me.’ She pouted. ‘And I thought I had taught you so well. You’re far more civilised than many of us. I shall take credit for that at least.’
‘You may certainly take credit for that, but you have told me nothing about a dagger,’ said Guy. He concentrated on steadying his voice. He knew that, wrapped in a towel, in a drawer at his country estate was the dagger he had taken the first night of his new life. He had taken it, he remembered, for protection. He had carried it with him for a short while until he became more confident about his new abilities. He didn’t need it now and he certainly didn’t need protection.
‘Oh dear! I am sorry. It’s quite exciting, really. There is a legend which suggests a silver dagger was created to kill vampires and then it was subsequently lost in the Crusades
. So, we were all safe for several centuries. Then, about one hundred years ago, evidence appeared which seemed to suggest that a jeweller in Clerkenwell had been commissioned to make a replica of the dagger. Several of our kind made a pact to locate it, and one young female never returned from her quest. Legend has it, that she had discovered the dagger and the owner. The dagger went missing, but everyone knew that someone was using it – certain vampires simply disappeared and it was all just too coincidental. The last anyone heard, was a rumour that some stupid half-witted girl in the slums had lost it.’ Clara pulled a face. ‘They get too confident, you see, these new ones. They think they are invincible and become careless. Nobody ever managed to trace the girl who had lost it – she probably didn’t even know what it was. Or that she had even lost it!’
Guy nodded. ‘That makes a lot of sense,’ he said carefully.
‘Oh, it gets better!’ laughed Clara. She replaced the sunglasses on her face. ‘The so-called slayer blessed it with Holy Water from a Priory in Lindisfarne in Northumberland and they say he buried a phial of it up there to keep it safe.’ She shuddered. ‘The thought of even setting foot in a place like that repulses me. I hope it is just a legend and it stays buried, if indeed it is true.’
‘I suppose that one would need to acquire the dagger and the Holy Water,’ said Guy lightly, ‘in order to ensure our type were safe.’
‘Yes, I suppose that would be a plan,’ smiled Clara, ‘if indeed it were all true. In the meantime, I think I shall purchase this little bagatelle. It is rather sweet and an excellent talking point.’ She reached up and kissed him. ‘I am so sorry, darling, I thought I had taught my little protégé everything he needed to know.’
Guy smiled. ‘You are my dearest friend, Clara,’ he said. He bowed slightly to her and she laughed.
‘You are still so old-fashioned,’ she said. ‘Come inside with me.’