by Paul Magrs
Weirder things happen, I suppose. Especially here. Robert tells me things, a bit at a time, in small snippets, letting me into the secrets of him and his friends and their various adventures. It’s like he’s scared that if he tells me the whole lot at once, he’ll lose my indulgence or attention.
I don’t know if any of it is real or true, or what.
One thing’s for certain, though. I saw it with my own eyes. That crystal droplet falling from the chandelier, and into Frank’s eye. In the very second before his collapse. Funny, when I tried to tell them, they weren’t listening. Too busy panicking. How come no one would listen and believe in me?
They expect me to believe in them. Going round saying the oddest things. Claiming that Brenda is over two hundred years old, and that Frank is even older. That Brenda has, in her attic above her B&B, a whole supply of spare limbs and organs for herself. Really! And she rotates them, when her old ones wear out. But how does she replace them? I mean, how? I asked Robert and he didn’t know. He’d never thought about it, he said, he preferred not to. I mean, does she perform surgery on herself, or what?
It’s true, though, that she’s got these awful scars. When you get up close to her, you can see, just under her hairline, and under her chin. Her hands and wrists are criss-crossed by these crude zig-zags. I’ve not had a good look at Frank – I wouldn’t want to get too close – but it looks as if he’s the same. The pair of them – maybe they had some terrible car accident, once. Maybe they had horrible injuries. That would be the reasonable explanation.
But what Robert’s been hinting . . . I just don’t know. In a way, I want to believe it. I want to believe the supernatural stuff can be true. I mean, you know that, Mam, don’t you? All my life, I’ve wanted to believe in magic. I want to know that impossible things can happen. The everyday world was never enough for me. All my childhood I read books where incredible things happened to ordinary people. Fantastic adventures and revelations.
And all the while, I was waiting for those things to happen to me. I kept on looking for Hyspero and Oz and Wonderland. I was looking in wardrobes and cupboards and holes in the ground, and even in the bins.
Nothing ever happened, though. I got to eighteen and school was over and I was just, like, ordinary and it was time to join what they laughingly call the adult world.
It was all such a disappointment.
You were always a pragmatist, Mam. I know you fretted about my unrealistic expectations of the world. But . . . it was because of you in the first place! You, Liz. You told me that I could do anything I wanted. There were no limits to what I should expect from the world. I could do magic, I really could, if I chose to. Was I daft for taking that at face value?
I really, really wanted magic to exist. For it to be alive in the world.
And if I’m honest with myself . . . I still think it is. It’s why I’m here. I believed that from the first moment I got off the train that brought me here, over a month ago. I could smell it on the breezy air. I could taste it on the north wind. There was magic infusing the wet rocks of the harbour, the gnarled stone of the ancient buildings. A nonchalance about impossible events seems to run through the place, as if this town has borne witness to incredible things for a long, long time, and now no one hardly notices when they come to pass . . .
I knew it. I knew it from the first instant. And I wanted in. I wanted to belong.
Maybe now I’m not so sure. I’ve got qualms. Creepy qualms. With the strangeness, I can feel danger in the air, too. A sense that anything could happen here. I don’t feel at all safe.
Sorry, I don’t want to worry you. I really don’t. I’m okay. I’ve just got a friend of a friend who reckons she’s a zombie or something with spare body parts in her loft.
But I’d better get to work. The film crew are setting up on Silver Street this morning. Full English breakfasts all round to insulate them against the freezing cold. I’ve hardly noticed it, sitting out here.
Do you think I’m crazy? For believing it could all be true? The weirdo stuff that happens here? Maybe it was that funny film I watched the other night. Maybe I’ve been possessed by some eldritch spirit that was trapped on the disc . . .
Anyway – must sign off now!
Lots of love,
Penny
XX
Frank Adrift
He was homeless again. He knew this feeling well. Skulking about in the night. Moping about from one doorway to another. Hoping no one would see him as he snatched a few minutes resting here and there. He tried to go over what had happened that night. He tried to figure it out in his mind for himself. What was he doing out here, in the cold and the dark? He was supposed to live here now, in this town, wasn’t he? Didn’t he have a home here?
He couldn’t think, though. For some reason, he couldn’t think straight.
He went to look at the sea, as if its restless incoming tides would calm his mind. Down on the prom he slipped past the amusement arcades, all shuttered up for the night, and watched dawn breaking over the headland and the abbey.
He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. There was a deep, jagged pain in his left eye that made him gasp. There was something in it. He poked a blunt finger into his eye, rubbing and making it smart even more. He forced himself to stop.
He knew he was supposed to be going somewhere. Surely the idea hadn’t been to stay out all night, freezing like this?
True, he had lived out of doors before. His fingers and toes had turned black with frostbite before. He had lost sensation in whole portions of his massive body, as he slept in bus shelters, doorways, anywhere he could find. He was used to living the hard life. Now he was worse off because a few months of comfortable living had spoiled him. He had grown used to a soft and pampered life, hadn’t he? He was used to living with . . . with . . . that woman.
Why couldn’t he remember that woman’s name? What was happening to him?
He had had this before with his memory. Bits of it falling away, melting like a layer of ice into the deeper swirl of murky river beneath. Now, it seemed, his faulty mind was taking his most recent past away from him.
Brenda.
That was her name, wasn’t it? Brenda, forgive me . . .
He wished he was there with her now. There, wherever she lived, and in the place she had made him feel so safe. This town was a small one, but as he looked back at the slate-blue rooftops, he knew he’d never be able to find which one was hers.
Frank was out in the wilderness again. He was drawn elsewhere.
But how? And by what? What had happened to him last night?
He walked some more, enjoying the exertion of hiking up the steep winding paths to the West Cliff. The cold winds buffeted him. The endless noise of the sea stirred his damaged senses. He felt like he was moving somewhere, in the right direction. He was moving towards where he needed to go.
And then he was faced by the immaculate prospect of the Christmas Hotel. Its vanilla and cream painted frontage looked welcoming. It was just starting to come to life for the day ahead, its grand chimneys smoking gently and the dull golden lights in the lower windows beckoning him onwards.
He was here, wasn’t he? Last night? He remembered being here.
This was where he had fallen under a spell. A spell that still held him. Something still needed to be played out to its conclusion.
He stared up at the highest turret of the grand building. Up there. Waiting for him. She was up there, he knew.
Brenda? Was it?
Once, in a hotel very like this one, he and Brenda had had their brief honeymoon. He remembered. Last year. They had been in a suite in a turret just like this . . . but not here . . . He frowned deeply.
He didn’t understand his own memories. Was it Brenda he was heading towards right now, as he strode across the grass and the wet tarmac of the road and stood before the grand entrance?
No. It wasn’t Brenda.
Another woman was up there. And she was calling him on.
&nbs
p; Ready for Work
That morning Karla had woken determined to work. She had reminded herself that this wasn’t some holiday. If she was going to make a go of this movie, and actually produce something on screen she could be proud of, then she had better start getting her act together.
Even as her personal stylist Lisa fussed about her with the straighteners, Karla had her lap and dressing table full of photocopied pages. This was the shooting schedule, laying out in great detail everything to do with the crew’s plans for the next few days. Karla squinted and gulped down scalding coffee, trying to work out when she was needed.
Her hairstylist wouldn’t shut up. ‘I was here once before,’ she said, yanking away with the sizzling tongs. ‘It’s a very pleasant place to have a weekend break, is Whitby.’
Karla was also aware of her other members of staff – Kevin the elf and the newly recruited postie – hanging about in her suite. For a second she almost felt claustrophobic. Mrs Claustrophobic in the Christmas Hotel. But she batted the feeling away and gave her stylist a bright, showbizzy smile.
‘There’s no chance of me having a break,’ she said, rattling the schedule and script pages. ‘They don’t want me on set until this evening, but after that it’s pretty much constant until the end of the month.’
‘Oh,’ said Lisa, tugging on Karla’s dry hair. ‘Lovely. It’s nice to keep busy, isn’t it?’
Karla went back to studying her pages. Now she was looking at the plans for the final, climactic sequences. These would surely be the most arduous hours she would spend on this shoot, when they were filming up at the abbey. According to this, they were going ahead with their original promise and filming the finale on Hallowe’en itself. Hmm. She had to admit, it was a pretty good gimmick. Especially with that Gothic weekend thing that they held here each year. It was a way of grabbing a bit of publicity attention. That was something they could hardly do without. In the old days a new horror flick with Karla Sorenson never failed to draw the blood-hungry punters. Not any more. They would have to fight to get all the attention this film and its star deserved. Times had moved on, and they must prove themselves in a modern world and a market glutted by schlock. I have to prove, Karla smiled to herself, that I’m still the shlockiest of the lot.
But where’s the director? she wondered crossly. He hadn’t been to see her yet. She had seen him in London, of course, when they had signed and first talked about the project. She had hoped she would see a lot more of him, however. Right now he should be smarming and charming her and making sure she was as happy as can be.
But he wasn’t.
Karla decided: her director needed to get over here and butter her up a bit more. ‘Kevin,’ she snapped at her day-dreaming elf. ‘Get on to the reception desk. Ask them to contact my director. Tell him I’m not happy.’
As Kevin reached for the phone, Karla smiled at her stylist. ‘So, you’ve been here before, have you, Lisa?’
The blonde, rather vapid girl nodded brightly. ‘Couple of years ago. Work, mind you. I was doing the hair on a cable TV show. It was a kind of spook-hunting outfit.’
‘Oh?’ Karla was studying her own reflection critically. She had to admit, the girl was pretty good with her hair.
Lisa shuddered, going on. ‘We were camped out all night in some old biddy’s attic. Scared us half to death, the whole experience. Never again. I went to work in children’s TV after that. And then ended up in films, and now here I am again.’
Karla nodded thoughtfully. ‘Funny how these careers of ours go round in big circles. Look at me! Remaking the film that I made over forty years ago.’
They fell quiet for a while. It seemed that Kevin was having a struggle trying to get put through to the director. Perhaps I’m being subtly punished, Karla mused. Left to languish in my luxury suite while my director ignores me. Getting me seething mad and hanging on his every word. She had worked with a lot of directors in the past and she knew their conniving ways.
Now she was wishing that she had behaved herself a bit better. For example, why had she had a go at the producer over the script? That would have got back to the director by now, that Karla wasn’t happy. She bit her lip. Why did I kick up a stink about it? Why didn’t I just do what Flissy always says I should? The agent always knows best, Karla. Learn my lines, shut my gob until it’s time to say them. Let the experts do their jobs. Maybe I was wrong to go kicking up a fuss soon as I got here.
Kevin broke into her reverie and she jumped.
‘Ms Sorenson? Reception says there’s . . . someone wanting to see you. Demanding to see you.’
Her heart rate sped. This was it! Her director had come running to see her. Running to check that she was doing all right. She blinked. ‘What? Who is it, Kevin?’
‘A . . . gentleman, they say.’
Another one! She looked round at her already quite busy boudoir. She glanced at the latest addition, Bobby the postie. She hadn’t even opened that parcel yet. She knew who it was from, given the spiky handwriting on the label, and couldn’t face opening it. What kind of horrible thing would they have sent her? Some nasty bouquet for her first day on set, no doubt. Good luck fleurs du mal.
Focus on the present, she commanded herself. Who is that battering at your door? Demanding access to your suite? Who’s the new knight asking the princess if he can come into her tower?
‘The gentleman’s quite insistent. He says he knows you. He says you sent for him.’
‘Really?’ Karla frowned. ‘Well, I sent for no one apart from my hair and make-up lady here. Is it my director, do you think?’
Kevin held the receiver away from his ear. ‘Sounds like a kerfuffle going on down there.’ He listened for a moment and added, ‘He’s on his way. I don’t like the sound of him.’
Karla was intrigued. Someone was barging their way in. Who could it be? She found the idea rather provoking. This place was filling up. She smiled, waving her stylist and her tools away. It’s like a party up here. Mrs Claus won’t be pleased . . .
Mrs Claus Has a Funny Turn
Mrs Claus was well aware of the comings and goings around Karla’s suite. Who does that woman think she is? she snarled to herself.
She sweetened her tone and called Michael, over in the old part of the town. He had a tiny flat above the Spector café, she had learned, not far from the abbey itself.
‘Darling Michael. I wanted to thank you for being a wonderful dance partner and companion last night.’
‘Oh, well, er . . . thank you, Mrs Claus.’ He still sounded half asleep to her.
‘Angela, please.’
She knew that Michael had only really been there last night in order to get a glimpse of Karla. His idol. Angela Claus was no fool. Of course he’d have gone nowhere near her had he the choice.
If only he could have seen me as I once was, she thought. Before I was trapped in this ungainly body. This horrible person I’ve become.
Before I got myself ensnared.
Before I became the person I had to be.
Mrs Claus felt herself sinking into a weird day-dream as she held the phone. Michael was still there at the other end, mouthing pleasantries (yawning them, really) as he went about his early morning duties. But Mrs Claus was having a twinge of vertigo.
She was tumbling, stumbling into her own past. A rush of images flitted past her mind’s eye. She saw herself being carried off on horseback. She was a young girl. Criminally young. Strapped to an ebony steed. She was in the clutches of . . . of the most devastating man she had ever seen. She was being driven off into the wilds of the night.
Why am I thinking of this now? When I’ve thought about none of it for so many years?
She made boring small talk with her new friend Michael, but inside she was churning with all the fear and pleasure of being seventy years younger. She could taste the bloody terror again, and the reeling bliss of falling under that enchantment.
What had brought this on?
She shook her head till her earrin
gs tinkled. She seized control of her galloping thoughts and brought herself back to the present moment.
‘Perhaps, darling,’ she said, hearing herself sounding a lot less sure of herself than usual, ‘you would consent to be my special friend some other time. I did so enjoy your conversation last night.’
On the end of the line Michael answered vaguely, ‘Oh, oh, yes, sure . . .’
She finished the call.
Truth was, Michael hadn’t said very much at all. In this call, or last night at the hotel. She felt that he had been cowed by her. Maybe he was scared of her, as so many people seemed to be. It wasn’t easy, having the kind of powers that Angela Claus had at her disposal. People could be very wary of you. Powers like hers meant that no one would ever trust her. She could never really be close to anyone.
That was how it had been for so long. For decades. Ever since she had been a young girl.
Ever since she had run off with . . . him.
She could smell him now. His scent of sugar and cloves and patchouli. Nutmeg, cinnamon. Wild and spicy. Now she was back to that night again, when he was whisking her off on his huge black steed.
She shook her head. She shook it again.
This was madness.
This was her crazy past rising up to claim her once again.
Or was it because she was daring to hope? She was thinking about desire again. Like an old fool. Like an old monster. A slumbering troll. A dragon. Waking filled with hunger. With ravenous need. Desiring again – a man, a sprightly little man, all creamy flesh and dark-eyed. She fancied being fancied again. At her age! In her state! How ridiculous!
And as soon as she set her mind to fancying again, the past came up to grab her. This is where desire leads. It leads a merry dance and a winding path. It leads you to places you’ve never imagined. Is that where you want to be? Come along, come along . . .