by Paul Magrs
No. Not any more.
There was work to be done. There was a hotel to run. It was Christmas morning. Again! Yet again! Bells to ring, guests to greet, elvish ears to box. Pull yourself together, Mrs Claus, she grumped at herself quite sternly.
It was then that one of the elves came by to tell her about Frank. He was back at the Christmas Hotel, and kicking up an unholy stink in reception.
Mrs Claus growled. ‘Is it about his mysterious accident last night? He can’t pin that on us! What’s he after? Compensation?’
Her servant shook his head. ‘He’s demanding to see Karla.’
Mrs Claus shrugged dismissively. Karla could deal with Frank. She was so keen on having this procession of men at her door.
Mrs Claus’s thoughts were elsewhere this morning.
Shooting on Silver Street
That morning, Brenda was far more cheery than Effie had expected to see her.
‘Open up! Come on, Effie! We’ve got work to do!’
Perhaps it was a false, brittle kind of cheeriness. Perhaps Brenda was flinging herself at life in order to prevent herself from dwelling on the events of the previous night. Either way, Effie was pleased to hear her rattling at the front door of the antiques emporium and demanding to be let in.
‘We’ve got to get to work. It’s no good me moping about. Mooning about after Frank.’
‘Where’s he gone, then? Did he go to . . . her?’
They were sitting on high stools in Effie’s galley kitchen at the back of the shop. Effie poured tea into cracked and dusty china, but Brenda didn’t care. She was buzzing with plans and ideas.
‘You said you went to the charity shop and bought more Karla Sorenson DVDs, didn’t you?’
‘Why, yes. But what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘We need to get that one from Penny, too. Robert put it away in his safe. We need to watch these dreadful films, Effie. I suggest we put aside some time this evening to do so.’
‘I’m not watching them! I don’t like things like that.’
‘It’s research. We need to know what we’re up against.’
‘Hold on. What are you saying?’
Brenda looked very serious all of a sudden, perched on one of Effie’s kitchen stools. ‘Karla is our enemy. She’s taken Frank from me. She’s up to something wicked here in Whitby. I just know it.’
Effie frowned. ‘But she’s just some old film actress! What can she do?’
‘She’s far more than that, Effie.’ Brenda took a deep breath. ‘You see, Karla is exactly what she appears to be in the movies.’
‘A vamp?’ squawked Effie. ‘A vampire?’
‘She has powers. Satanic influence over all and sundry. I’ve seen it before. Years ago. I was sent . . . to keep an eye on her. Back in the sixties. I watched her powers come to fruition . . . and people died, Effie. Karla is a conduit for the forces of evil. As soon as she appears and starts to act . . . that’s when bad things start to happen.’
Effie tutted. ‘She would have to come here, wouldn’t she?’
‘Exactly. She’s been drawn here, to the Bitch’s Maw. Isn’t it true that they’re going to film up at the abbey? On Hallowe’en? During Goth weekend?’
‘You’re right.’
‘It’s our job to stop anyone messing about with those powers, Effie.’
At that point Brenda explained that the film crew were working on Silver Street that morning, working with some of the minor characters. Karla herself wasn’t yet on set.
‘You’ve been up there already?’ Effie asked.
‘Checking it out. They’ve started work. I can’t believe they’d even attempt to remake that film . . . after what happened last time. The deaths. The curse. But people’s memories are short. They don’t take things seriously enough. They don’t listen to the warnings of those of us who managed to get away safely from that valley in Wales during the Summer of Love . . .’
Brenda trailed off, and it was as if her attention was subsumed by some horrible parade of memories.
‘What happened, Brenda? You keep alluding to it, but . . .’
Brenda stirred herself out of her thoughts. ‘They really did summon up dark forces. They really did capture them on film. Evil walked among us.’
‘And that was in Wales!’ Effie exclaimed. She helped herself to a Viscount biscuit and yanked off the green foil. ‘Imagine what they can do here! At the very mouth of hell.’
‘Exactly.’ Brenda snatched up a minty biscuit for herself.
Effie looked rueful as she munched. ‘Frank might have been useful to us. His strength and power.’
‘We’ll just have to set about this on our own. Rely on just ourselves. Brenda and Effie, together again!’
As they finished up their tea and Effie bustled around the tiny kitchen, Brenda found herself surmising that her Frank must somehow be vital to Karla’s plans. If she really had gone to the trouble of drawing him away from Brenda, there must surely be some reason for it. Not just simple lust for a monster.
Her thoughts continued along these perplexing lines as she and Effie headed into the chilly morning. They toiled up the hill and through the winding lanes and soon found themselves at the corner of Silver Street. It was roped off, as if some ghastly crime had been perpetrated there. A gaggle of stragglers, tourists and shop people had gathered to watch the film crew going about their work. It seemed rather noisy, with a generator chugging away and someone shouting at the others, demanding silence – which suddenly fell. Brenda and Effie pushed through the small crowd of onlookers and shimmied under the plastic tape.
At the centre of attention, further down the road, two young people in Goth dress were talking earnestly, as the rest of the crew gathered and hung on their every word. Microphone booms and cameras surrounded them as they exchanged a few terse words. It was a boy and a girl in their twenties being filmed and it seemed that they were two of the stars of the show. Should we recognise them? Brenda wondered, but she never recognised famous actors. These two were heavily disguised in their Goth get-ups anyway.
The crew were going for another take as Brenda and Effie quietly approached. A man they took to be the director – stocky and fair-haired – was berating everyone for their lack of concentration. ‘I know it’s early! I know it’s cold! Can we get a little bit of focus here, people?’
‘But Alex,’ the Goth boy said, breaking out of character for a whinge, ‘isn’t this supposed to be a night-time scene?’
‘Filters!’ shouted the director furiously. ‘Day-for-night! We can’t do all the night stuff actually at night! Are you crazy?’ He tossed his shaggy head. Someone waved a clapperboard and shouted out, ‘Take Three!’
At that moment Brenda noticed the director’s name chalked on the slate, and she gave a sharp intake of breath. Effie glanced at her, ‘What is it?’
‘His name,’ Brenda said in a strangulated tone. ‘Alex Soames. The director is Alex Soames!’
The man in question gave a cry of exasperation. He whirled to see the two women standing a yard or two away from him. He shouted at the sound man, ‘Did you get them? Those two old bags?’
‘Yep!’
The director bellowed at Brenda and Effie: ‘Get back! Get behind the barrier! You can watch but don’t get any closer! Go away!’
Brenda and Effie ignored him. Effie was asking her friend, ‘So? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
Brenda lowered her voice, narrowing her eyes at the furious man. ‘It’s not who he is, so much as who his father was.’
Effie tossed her head. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that showbusiness is like that. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know . . .’
Brenda’s expression was very grim. ‘His father was Fox Soames. His mother was Magda Soames. Fox was the author of the novel and the screenplay of Get Thee Inside Me, Satan. He was there on location in the quarry in Wales. They were both there. This fella’s parents.’
‘It’s a family affair, then,’ said Effie.
‘Magda died tragically during the filming,’ Brenda said. ‘She was the first of the people connected with the movie to die.’
‘And Fox?’
‘He survived. For a while. But he was never the same again. He was a horrible man. Evil.’
‘And now the son is following in Daddy’s footsteps,’ Effie mused. ‘And even remaking the same film. I wonder why. Eeh up. He’s coming over. He looks wild, doesn’t he!’
‘Absolutely livid!’ Brenda gave a jolt of surprise. ‘He was there too! He was a toddler. I remember thinking at the time, how awful that his parents brought him to the film set of a horror movie. It could have scarred him for life.’
‘Perhaps it did . . .’
Now Alex Soames was before them, confronting them, his face contorted with barely repressed anger. ‘You can’t come this close. You’re ruining our shoot.’
‘It’s a free country,’ Effie said with asperity. ‘We can go where we like. My friend and I stroll here almost every morning together. The bakery’s up this way.’
‘Today you’ll have to go round,’ the director snapped. ‘We’re making a very important film.’
‘Pah,’ said Effie.
‘Alex?’ Brenda said. ‘Little Alex? Do you remember me, hm?’
He stared at her. ‘What?’ Clearly he thought she was mad.
‘Auntie Brenda? That’s me! You remember, surely, Alex?’
Brenda saw at once that he did.
Open the Box
By now Karla had so many fellas she hardly knew what to do with them.
It put her in a good mood. It was like the old days. Back then, when she turned up on location, or anywhere, she would always accrue this kind of doe-eyed entourage, seemingly from nowhere. Blokes would fall under her spell. This morning she was delighted to find that nothing much had changed in that regard. They sat around her, waiting for instructions.
But this one was different. Here was Frank. Standing before her, swaying with fatigue. His eyes were dark and confused. He was crazy-looking. She stared at him as he stood, submitting to her inspection.
Karla had never seen anything like him before.
‘Can it really be true?’ she whispered. ‘Are you really what they say you are, Frank?’
She was aware of the others watching her as she went over her new prize. They were envious, Kevin and Bobby. Karla’s attentions were so fleeting, and so easily pulled elsewhere.
But this was different. She had never seen anyone like Frank before. She had heard rumours over the years. She had heard the stories. But here he was now, in the unhealthy-looking flesh. Standing to attention. Giving his whole self to her.
‘Frank wants to serve you, Karla,’ he said. ‘Frank has come here just for you.’
‘But . . . what will your Brenda say?’
A flicker of dismay crossed his face. ‘W-who?’ he said.
Karla was thrilled. ‘Just wait till Mrs Claus hears about this! Won’t she be amazed?’
Where was she going to put them all, though?
Kevin brought her the phone just then.
‘It’s the director’s PA. Making a dinner appointment for tonight. Eight p.m. at Casa Diodati. Is that all right for you?’
‘Why’s he put his PA on?’ Karla huffed. ‘Shouldn’t he be calling in person?’
‘They’ve got a situation on location in Silver Street apparently,’ Kevin explained. ‘They’ve got some of the local ratbags protesting.’
Karla chortled with glee. ‘It’ll be religious nuts, objecting to the subject-matter again. Well, wait till I start doing my scenes! I’ll give them what for! And yes, that’s fine for dinner this evening.’
That sorted, Karla turned to more immediate matters.
‘Kevin, Bobby . . . I need some time alone with Frank. You understand, don’t you, boys?’
From the looks on their faces, it was clear that they didn’t.
Karla brushed aside their hurt expressions and opened a door that stood to one side of the opulent en suite. She flung it open unceremoniously and waved them through.
‘You’re sending us away, Ms Sorenson?’ Bobby the postie looked bereft already.
‘Only for an hour or two. While Frank and I get better acquainted.’ She smiled, but her voice gave a telltale tremble. There was something about that gigantic man that made her feel curiously weak.
‘It’s a beautiful attic up there,’ she said. ‘Under the very highest eaves of the Christmas Hotel. It’s sumptuously done out. I had a look earlier. It’s just another part of this fabulous suite.’
Bobby and Kevin looked at her with misery in their eyes. She marvelled at herself. What power she had over these men.
‘Go on, boys. It’s just too crowded in here right now. And Mama’s got a lot of work on, as you know. They’re sending over the new script pages today. I have to start learning, and you boys can’t help with that. So why don’t you be good and go up to your attic room and just wait for me to need you?’
They would obey her in the end. She knew that. They were completely subsumed by her arcane powers. Even if she didn’t know how it worked, Karla was confident in her ability to twist men round to do exactly what she wanted. She watched the elf and the postman troop through the attic door and up the stairs, where they would wait until she had need of them.
She clicked the door shut and turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could.
I’ve got fellas in the attic, she thought giddily.
Then she turned to see that Frank had moved.
He was over by the dressing table, which was in messy disarray from the protracted business of Karla’s toilette. She watched him as he picked up the brown paper package that Bobby had delivered to her in person early this morning. All of his attention was on the parcel. His expression was very troubled as he lifted the box up to his ear and shook it, and listened.
He saw that Karla was watching him. ‘What is in this thing?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Why?’
‘Frank wants to know. Frank can . . . smell something.’
Karla frowned. ‘Smell something? In my suite?’ All she could smell was her perfume, specially mixed for her, and something that Frank oughtn’t to be turning his nose up at.
He still looked perplexed as he turned the box over. More than perplexed. Disturbed. And he had lost all interest in Karla, it seemed, in favour of the parcel.
‘If it means that much to you, then open it,’ she sighed, fluffing up her new coiffure, and catching sight of herself in the dressing-table mirror. That girl Lisa had done an excellent job.
Frank grinned at her. A ghoulish grin, revealing the worn stumps of his teeth. He wrestled with the hairy string and ripped at the brown paper, revealing a cardboard box inside. He yanked roughly and tore into it.
‘Careful!’ Karla said. ‘You’ll have it all over—’
Which was exactly what happened.
The contents of the well-protected box flew across the room. In his over-keenness, Frank scattered it through the air.
A fine powder landed on the carpet, the bed, the dressing table, and Karla herself. She felt granules spattering on to her hairspray-sticky hair and she screamed. Bigger bits were strewn across the room as well, landing with a series of muffled thumps.
Frank looked stunned at the result of his foolish mistake, his dreadful clumsiness. He stood there clutching the empty, ripped-up box. He didn’t know his own strength, the fool. Karla almost laughed at his stupid expression as he peered into the empty wrappings. But she didn’t laugh. She was much too appalled.
‘What have you done?’ she cried. ‘It’s everywhere! My hair’s ruined . . .’
He looked like he was going to cry. He visibly cringed under her tongue-lashing. Then he found a small square of card at the bottom of the box. Exquisite handwriting. He passed it to Karla, who snatched it crossly.
Our dear daughter . . .
Please find preserved within this parcel some very pre
cious remains. The Brethren have had the special care of these priceless revenants for many years. These are among our holiest of unholies and we send them to U for a very special reason. These ashes and charred bones must B given new life. The mortal man they once belonged 2 must walk again. U will bring flesh and blood back 2 his old bones. We have faith in U Karla. U will make the Creator live once more!!
With all our love,
The Brethren
XXXXX
Karla looked up from the note and back at Frank. Then she stared at the suite all around her. Every single surface was coated in the horrible grey powder. Bigger, knobbly chunks of bonelike matter were scattered willy-nilly.
She swallowed hard. Her throat was rather dry.
Karla wasn’t one to mope. She wouldn’t sink in despair. She had a task to get on with. She had to think of a solution. She could bollock Frank later. But for now . . .
‘We need a Dyson,’ she told him. ‘Quickly!’
Alex Soames Grown Up
Little Alex had grown up. Brenda looked at this red-faced middle-aged man before them, and could hardly credit it. She remembered him as a toddler, sitting quietly in the back of her mushy-peas-and-deep-fried-chips-scented caravan in North Wales. The poor mite had stared up into her massive face. He had clutched her fingers, completely unaware of the maelstrom of disaster and upset that was swirling around that deep slate valley.
His mother had perished that evening, and the child had been shoved into Brenda’s arms for safe-keeping. Brenda remembered that his face had been as red and harried as it was now. She had never looked after a child before. In almost two centuries of life, no one had ever trusted her to babysit their offspring. Then, as the valley rang with crying, shouting, the panicky revving of engines, she had felt a powerful maternal rush of adrenalin going through her. She felt like running away at once. Stashing him safely under the counter, jamming the doors and windows closed, gunning the engine of her dinner-lady’s van, and dashing away with him for ever.
His parents didn’t deserve him, did they? Fancy bringing a child as young as he was to an environment like this. It wasn’t just the inhospitality of the valley, it was the rest of it. The location’s atmosphere was stiff with occult menace. The child’s father was clearly carrying on an affair with the leading lady. The child’s mother was going off her head on a cocktail of booze and pills and stinky French fags. She had been wandering around the site at God knows what time in the early hours when she had come a cropper. The crew was quite used to seeing the superfluous Magda Soames in her ratty fur coat and her jet-black hair, clutching a tumbler of vodka and screaming curses at her wayward husband. She had interrupted filming a number of times with her drunken antics. Once she had even slapped Karla in the face as the actress emerged from her meditation caravan to start the day’s filming. But now Magda was dead. She had taken a tumble from the highest rocks above, having missed her footing on a late-night ramble. She interrupted filming yet again, with her mortal remains making a mess of the valley floor.