by Paul Magrs
Brenda’s hair came away in her hands. A wig. Of course.
Lisa was appalled at herself – for just a second. ‘Never mind. I can style her wig for her. It needs doing, doesn’t it?’ She held up the wig for Penny to examine. It was almost as big as a cat. Penny looked at it, trying not to study Brenda’s bald skull. She couldn’t help it. Brenda’s head was criss-crossed with tramline scars. They were viciously deep around her ears, and at the back of her neck. Penny’s insides went cold at the sight of them. How would Brenda feel, knowing that these girls were here, looking at her like this?
Now Lisa was back at work. She got Penny hefting mixing bowls and Tupperware out of kitchen cupboards. She carefully mixed up her potions and lotions. She was looking pretty witchy herself as she ground and pounded and whipped them up. Perming solution, rinses and dyes.
There was a horrible smell of ammonia. Nasty, astringent chemicals filled the air.
And then Penny saw it.
Brenda’s nose twitched.
Effie’s eyes flickered.
Brenda sneezed. Her eyes were watering.
Penny couldn’t believe it. ‘Lisa! The smell!’
‘I know,’ she said, still mixing away. ‘I’m used to it. But some of these chemicals are pretty potent.’
‘No, I mean . . . look!’
Lisa went round to where Penny was. They both stared at the old ladies.
‘They’re waking up! You’re waking them up with your pong!’
Effie coughed and spluttered and her eyes flew open. She glared at the girls and then at Brenda.
‘Oh dear,’ said Brenda, in a worn-out-sounding voice. ‘We seem to be back!’
Nocturnal Styling
They looked about wildly at the room and each other. They were shocked to find that someone had been giving them hairdo’s in the night.
‘How long have we been here? Sitting like this . . . ?’
‘Oh no! Don’t you see, Brenda? This is absolutely the worst moment to leave!’
‘We’ve been dragged back to reality – to our own time . . . Effie! We’ve been pulled back out of the film! Out of Behind the Scenes of the film!’
‘I do see that, Brenda.’ Effie’s voice was desolate. She was filled with a sense of failure. Suddenly she could remember what had been happening at the very moment they were yanked back into the present. Out of what now felt like a dream of the past.
And who has done it? they wondered. Who has woken us up?
Penny and Lisa were standing there, shocked. They felt like intruders in some sacred sepulchre, watching the dead return to life.
Lisa coughed nervously. ‘I-it’s me, Effie, Brenda. Remember? I’m Lisa Turmoil – the hairstylist. I was here a couple of years ago.’
‘Oh yes! Of course. How lovely to see you, er, Lisa.’
‘The question is, though, why are you here now? Messing about with our hair . . . waking us up like this?’ Effie’s hair was hanging loose, gleaming in the moonlight in a ghostly fashion. Brenda’s wig was hanging askance and the two of them were surrounded by all of Lisa’s tools of the trade.
Brenda said, ‘We might have died. The shock might have carried us away – for ever . . .’ Then she shook herself, recalling her manners. ‘Oh, but we’re glad you girls tried to help us.’ Lisa and Penny were looking so dismayed, so horrified. ‘Thank you for waking us.’
Penny spoke up at last. ‘You’ve both been asleep for nearly a week!’
‘Really?’ Brenda frowned heavily. ‘But it was only a matter of hours for us. Oh dear. I suppose time moved differently where we were . . . behind the scenes. We’ve frittered away days and days, Effie!’
‘It was just at the wrong moment . . . the crucial moment . . .’ Effie moaned.
Penny hurried off to make them some spicy tea, while Lisa dithered over putting away her hairdressing equipment.
‘No, you can finish off our do’s,’ Brenda told her gently. She didn’t want to hurt the stylist’s feelings, though even she felt it was slightly unusual, the way the girls had chosen to wake them up.
Brenda and Effie took turns to explain where they had been.
They decided it was rather like being in a kind of weird trance.
They tried to describe what had been happening at the very moment they had been drawn bodily back into Brenda’s attic.
They both had to nip into the bathroom. It was out on the landing that Brenda suddenly remembered the horrible feel of Magda’s fingers slipping out of her grasp. That was the last thing she remembered, about being stuck inside the DVD extras. She remembered the hash she had made of saving Magda Soames’s life.
At that very last second she had been dragged away. Back here. Back to real life. And Magda must have plunged to her certain death.
Effie came out of the loo just then and saw her face. She nodded at her friend. ‘Rotten timing, eh?’
Back in the living room, Penny was stooping to open the DVD player. The little tray whizzed out, and there was the disc, looking innocuous. Now she held it she realised that it was, in fact, doing something odd. A faint blue mist was rising off it. Like steam pouring out of a kettle . . .
It caught her by surprise. She yelled and dropped it on to the sheepskin rug. The glowing mist continued to rise from the sliver of plastic, and now the others, alerted by her cry, were gathering to watch.
‘The film,’ Brenda gasped as she returned from the bathroom and saw what was going on. ‘It’s getting away!’
They stood and watched as the mist gathered itself together and went feeling its way to the window. It seeped through the cracks in the frame, as if it were seeking the night air.
‘Where’s it going?’ Lisa asked, not for one moment questioning that such a thing was possible. The film itself was slipping through their fingers and escaping into the night.
They were so busy gawking out of the casement window that no one saw Penny turn to stare at the harmless-looking disc on the sheepskin rug. Well, I was the one who bought it, after all, she thought, as she bent swiftly to pick it up and pop it into her bag.
Bingone
It was bingo night with a twist.
As Mrs Claus knew, the pensioners who came to stay at the Christmas Hotel tended to expect something a bit different.
‘You might not think it, just by looking at them,’ said Mrs Claus, ‘but this bunch are right thrill-seekers.’
Michael laughed at this, as he wheeled the old lady through the foyer of her hotel. She waved regally at the guests as they made their way to the Mistletoe Lounge.
‘You won’t believe this,’ she told him. ‘It’s a new craze here.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Ordinary run-of-the-mill bingo isn’t any good for them any more. No, they want more danger and excitement than that.’
Michael watched the old people go by, all got up in their festive finery. It was true, there was a furtive edge to the atmosphere tonight. And the guests at the Christmas Hotel weren’t wearing the usual Christmas clobber either (tissue-paper hats and tinsel leis). Tonight was the Thursday before Goth weekend got going, and a certain number had started dressing accordingly rather early. Elderly Goths! Something Michael had never seen before.
‘Just you wait,’ Mrs Claus said breathlessly, staring up at him. ‘It’s like Russian roulette, this. It was all my idea.’
‘What happens?’ He smiled. Really he should be back at his own establishment. At Spector. If it was the first night of Goth weekend, then it would be packed. How could he have let time creep up on him like this? He had spent so much time with Mrs Claus in recent days, he had been losing track; losing purchase on his own life. He felt as if he had hours missing from his life, just as he had told Penny. He woke up and wasn’t sure where he had been. It was like living several lives at once . . .
‘You see, what happens here,’ Mrs Claus was saying, ‘is the opposite of normal, boring bingo. Here, a full house is exactly what you don’t want. There are small explosive devices placed u
nder all the chairs, and when someone yells out “House!” the device is triggered and it goes off with a bang! Like spontaneous combustion! Oh, it’s very dramatic.’
‘What?’
She laughed at his earnest expression. ‘Oh, it’s all right. We’ve only had one death. Most people take it in good part. And they know what they’re getting into. They’re thrill-seekers, as I say.’
‘But . . . you can’t go blowing them up!’
‘Why not? Bingone, we call it. It’s much more popular now than the old-fashioned bingo.’
Michael shook his head. They watched guests streaming into the Mistletoe Lounge, eager to play this game. He didn’t know whether to believe a word she was saying or not. His mind was very mixed up these days. He felt like she was laughing at him with every word she said.
‘Are you all right, love?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit woozy . . .’ She touched his elbow gently as he swayed on the spot.
‘I’m all right, I think. Can we sit in the bar?’
‘Of course.’ She gunned the engine of her motorised scooter and cut a swathe to the bar. There she snapped at the bar elf to mix them a couple of strong snowballs.
Mrs Claus looked at Michael. He was rubbing his eyes blearily. ‘I’m so tired,’ he said.
‘No wonder. Sitting up with me each night. Listening to my old stories.’ She looked him up and down appreciatively. Male company! she thought. Who’d have thought I’d be so spoiled and revelling in it, so late in my life? He’s a triumph for me. A feather in my Christmas cap. But all my tale-spinning and sneaky mesmerism is taking its toll on my little toy boy. I’ve worn the poor thing to a frazzle. He caught her eye and was about to say something when there came a muffled explosion from the direction of the Mistletoe Lounge, followed by a lot of shrieking.
Michael’s eyes widened. ‘It’s true! You’re blowing them up!’
‘Sshh, never mind that,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter, Michael? You look and sound terrible.’
‘I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t be here. I should be at work . . .’
‘You said that your staff at Spector can cope without you.’
‘That’s true enough. For a couple more nights maybe.’
‘It’s me, isn’t it? Me and my stories. All the stories of my life. Do you wish I’d never told them to you?’
‘No, it’s not that . . .’ He looked at her and the confusion was all over his face.
Mrs Claus reached out to him with her mind. She thought she’d have another go. It was very strange. He was resisting her. He had resisted her every night she had spent talking with him. He didn’t know he was doing it, but his mind forged a barrier against her influence whenever she went out to him. He wouldn’t and couldn’t be controlled by her. He wasn’t like one of her elves, so easy and pliable. There was more to him. Something about him . . . something that even he didn’t know . . .
It was all very delicious.
Maybe I’m getting in too deep, she wondered. I’ve not felt like this for a long time. If ever. I feel soft. I feel vulnerable. I feel like I could even tell him how I feel.
But what’s he going to think about that? A young bloke like him. Beautiful, strong and in his prime. He’s not falling for my charms. Not in a million years. And somehow he’s even eluding my mind control.
And yet . . . something mysterious is happening to him. It’s as if his real life isn’t on the surface. It’s underneath, somehow, and he doesn’t even realise what it is . . . She watched him sip his snowball. He put it down gently.
‘I have to go.’
She nodded. ‘All right.’
‘Thanks for your hospitality, Angela.’
‘You know that’s all right, love. I’ve loved talking with you these past few nights. I’ve no one to tell my secrets to usually.’
‘I’ve loved hearing them.’ He frowned. ‘But what about your daughter? Will you ever . . . will she ever know you? Will you ever tell her who you are?’
She shook her head tersely.
Michael nodded, understanding. He made to say something else. Something on the tip of his tongue, but then it was gone. Suddenly he had a splitting headache. He just knew he had to get away.
Mrs Claus clasped his hand as he lingered and kissed it. It didn’t matter to her who saw her make a fool of herself. That elf at the bar was having a good look at what was going on.
Michael strode out of the Christmas Hotel without a backward glance.
It felt good to be on the sea front, hurrying along by the cliffs, back into town. Clearing the potpourri scents of cloves and eggnog and artificial spray-on snow out of his head.
She was making him fall in love with her. Somehow. And when he looked at her, he was starting to see the young woman she had been when she first fled from this town. The one whose heart and mind were stolen away by the faerie king . . .
What disturbed him so much about that tale? Why did it get under his skin like this?
Michael raced through town. It was Thursday night, just before the start of Goth weekend, and already the streets were filling up with vamps and spooks. Ladies in bustles and basques and fangs. Fellas with white faces and high collars. The pubs were pumping out music and the sun was starting to set. Michael hurried on across to the eastern part of town, over the harbour.
Victor
Today was Friday, and in the past week, while Robert had been stowed away with the other fellas in the attic, and Brenda and Effie had been in and out of something very like twin comas, Karla had been hard at work shooting the scenes that would ultimately lead into the climax of the movie.
The elderly vamp had gone from being a mysterious – some even said ethereal – presence in the turret suite of the Christmas Hotel to being sighted all over the place, dressed to kill in a variety of Gothy but glamorous ensembles.
She was hard at work and it took even her by surprise how much she was enjoying it.
No one spoke of the curse in her hearing. In fact, so enthused for the project was Karla when she got herself in front of the cameras once more, it reignited the enthusiasm of the remaining cast and crew.
Alex and the others observed her closely and with dawning amazement and delight. They found themselves thinking: we might have something special here.
Karla slipped back into the role of an older, wiser Jenny Sommers with ease and aplomb. In this version of the story, the woman who was about to let Satan into her life was a travel agent in Whitby, frantic for a bit of excitement and stimulation.
Karla is giving it her all, Alex thought. He watched the daily rushes and he saw a woman there who he could believe in. A portrait of disappointment. A crushed and bruised spirit. A woman who was apt for seduction by forces dark as chilli soy sauce. A woman ready to be tempted. With just a few scenes completed – a few deft, bold brushstrokes on the canvas of his movie – Karla had brought this woman to life already. Alex applauded her skill as he watched the small scenes fall into place, forming the bigger picture, knowing that she had the same vista building up in her own head.
The cast and crew loved her. Alex had been worried she’d be too aloof. Too much like a diva, as she had been rumoured to be, back in her heyday. This small, hard-working crew would have no truck with that. But from the first, Karla had rolled up her sleeves and mucked in with them all. She was a delight to be with, every day on the set. She ate happily with the others, wherever they stopped for lunch or tea. She mixed, she shared jokes, she was generous with the younger, less experienced actors. They found that they wanted to be good for her, to impress her. Everyone raised (though Alex hated these sporting metaphors people seemed to use nowadays) their game.
‘I know what it is,’ he said to her one morning, as they stood together during a break.
‘Hmm?’ Karla shook out her long silver tresses and hugged herself inside the large puffa jacket she wore between takes. It was pretty sharp and breezy up here by the abbey this morning. Six a.m.! Look at us, she thought, swigging coffe
e out of a flask and chomping down bacon sandwiches. This is the life! ‘What was that, darling?’ She was abstractedly staring at the jumble of Whitby rooftops, sending up their plumes of early morning smoke.
‘I think I know why you seem so . . . happy,’ he said.
‘Do I seem happy, dear?’ She laughed. ‘Well, I’m happy working, aren’t I?’ She fixed him with one of those captivating smiles. Her eyes wouldn’t let him go. ‘And you’ve got to take a fair amount of credit for that, Alex. I mean it. You have created such a convivial atmosphere for your crew. I’ve never known such a good team. Of course I’m happy working with you all. I’ve never felt so looked after and respected.’
‘This will be your best performance bar none,’ he told her, very seriously. ‘You realise that, don’t you?’
‘Ah-ah!’ Karla laughed. ‘You’ll jinx me, telling me things like that. And remember, we’ve got the hardest bits still to do. All the Goth weekend stuff. Shooting the climax. That’s always a right chew-on.’
Alex was cocky. ‘It’s in the bag. What we’ve . . . What you’ve created here is something extraordinary. This will be a horror film they’ll just have to take seriously.’
Karla snorted. ‘We’ll see about that, dear. I’ll believe that when I see it. At the end of the day, it’ll still be a genre piece, for a niche audience. Maybe it’ll get the respect it deserves in twenty, twenty-five years. Who knows. You must be patient, Alex.’
He shook his head almost crossly, and bit into his steaming bap. ‘No. It’s going to be great. People just have to see that.’
Karla looked at him anxiously. He was sounding a bit like his father had, back when he kept banging on about the importance of his blasted novel. About how his message had to reach the whole globe . . . Obsession, Karla mused. Funny how it made some fellas go odd.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’m much more comfortable on this set than I was on the set of the original film.’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’ve made an old woman very happy.’
‘But it’s not just this, is it?’ he said eagerly. ‘It isn’t just the film.’