by Paul Magrs
‘I certainly did,’ Penny said.
‘But the feelings have got stronger since I’ve been here. And . . . these evenings I’ve been spending at the Christmas Hotel . . . with Angela . . . and hearing the strange stories of her past.’
‘Angela?’ asked Penny.
‘Mrs Claus. She’s been telling me about her youth and how she left Whitby and went . . . I don’t know . . . into some kind of fairy tale . . .’
Penny shook her head worriedly. ‘She’s crackers, that one. That’s what Brenda reckons.’
‘No,’ Michael snapped, jolting her. ‘She’s been very sweet to me. Telling me these tall tales. But the thing is . . . I believe them. No matter how wild her stories get . . . all this talk of walking, living dolls and the fairy court and . . . Well, whatever. I believe them. I believe in her.’
Penny opened her mouth to speak. Then she stopped. Fairy court? What was he talking about? Clearly the old bag at the Christmas Hotel had sucked him into her power. Robert had talked about such things.
But . . . she was believing in the things that Robert and Brenda and Effie had told her about their lives, wasn’t she? Impossible things. Magical things. Was this any different?
‘Angela’s stories,’ Michael said. ‘They have started to ring bells with me.’
Lisa spoke up then. Penny had managed to ignore the fact that she was there for several minutes to this point. ‘How do you mean?’ Lisa said. Penny hated the scepticism in her voice. But Michael didn’t seem to hear it.
‘It is as if Angela Claus is somehow . . . awakening that separate self in me,’ he said. ‘She is waking the other me, the secret life I feel I am living . . . It’s starting to feel more real than the life I thought I’d lived . . .’
Penny didn’t like the sound of this at all. He was beginning to sound like a pretty complicated fella to her. And that was just what she didn’t need. She consoled herself with the thought that at least they hadn’t got any more involved than they already had . . . no matter what she had hoped for.
Now Michael was saying, ‘Your friend Robert . . .’
Penny’s heart leapt and she glanced around. ‘What?’ She’d stopped listening again, caught up in her own thoughts. ‘What? Is he here?’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But . . . you’ll think I’m mad when I say this. I can hear him, Penny. I can . . . These past couple of days . . . since he’s been missing. I’ve not wanted to say anything, in case you think I’m mad or daft. But it is as if Robert is calling out to me . . . with his mind.’
Lisa banged the bar top with her palm. ‘I knew it! You’ve got psychic abilities. I’ve seen this before. Remember, I was stylist on Manifest Yourself ! on Cable TV. When it comes to psychic phenomena, I’ve run the whole gamut.’
‘Where is Robert, Michael?’ Penny demanded urgently. ‘Do you know? I’ve been worried sick. Where has he got to?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure. Sometimes I can pin the voice down. Other times I think I’m just imagining it. That’s why I’ve not said anything up to now. But . . . I think he’s in danger . . . awful danger, wherever he is.’
Why would Michael be linked to Robert? Penny wondered. Why would that be? But then his words sank in fast. Awful danger. She had known it. And now it was up to her to somehow find him and get him out.
She urged Michael on, clutching his shirt sleeve. ‘Think, Michael. We have to know. Where is he?’
Around them the music grew louder and the night grew more raucous, as extra visitors swarmed darkly to the trendy lights of Spector.
Frank’s Dad
Robert was just a pair of eyes. He had been tied up so long and fed and watered so little that his body felt redundant to him.
He sat in the attic and he was just a pair of eyes, squinting in the half-light.
What fresh horror was this?
The elf and the postman were up to their old, terrible tricks again. Chuckling dementedly, like men possessed, they were hunched over the unprotesting Frank.
Frank had gone completely quiet and still some hours ago.
They’ve killed him, Robert thought. I’ve sat here and tried to keep out of their way . . . and I’ve let them kill him and hoped they wouldn’t notice me.
All the fight had gone out of Frank. As they disconnected his left arm and the grinning elf-boy carried it away, it gave a token resistance. It thrashed around a bit, splashing some sluggish gore about the place. But even the massive arm didn’t put up much of a fight. The elf laid it down in a dusty corner and it spasmed for a while hopelessly, but couldn’t do anything more to help its master.
Off came the other arm.
How much of Frank was left?
Robert heard him muttering now. Telling the slaves of Karla something. Perhaps warning them what he would do with them when he was free and whole once more . . . But they just laughed at him. They gave the impression of having a whale of a time. It was such a jape, this. Such a treat. Pulling the bound monster to pieces, just to pass the time.
Would they eat the pieces? Robert wondered. Were they as hungry as he was, even in their mesmerised state? But surely Frank’s old parts would be tough and leathery. They were old, so old . . .
He heard the slaves’ whispered deliberations about cutting open Frank’s torso. What would it be like to have a poke around inside? See what made the old brute tick?
But then there was a horrible creak as the hatchway opened. Gold-white light spilled upwards into the attic gloom. They all stopped what they were doing. Even Frank stopped groaning.
Was it Karla? What would she say when she saw what her boys had accomplished? Robert’s heart raced madly with anticipation. Surely she couldn’t have asked them to do this thing?
But the tread on the wooden staircase was lighter and nimbler than Karla’s. This was someone else. Someone who was advancing very carefully into the garret room. Perhaps someone who didn’t know the territory. Didn’t know who or what he was going to find at the top.
Perhaps this is rescue! Robert thought. Those gentle, cautious footsteps coming closer and closer. They were a kind of countdown to the coming of safety, freedom . . .
A very tall, thin man appeared in their attic. He dusted his hands fastidiously as his eyes accustomed themselves to the treacly dark. Robert was impressed and bewildered by his old-fashioned dress, his gaunt, ascetic face. His expression of amused relish as he took in the horrible sight of the frightened prisoners and the remains of Frank.
He smiled. He shook his head in mock sadness and actually smiled at the scene of carnage.
‘Look at me, Frank,’ he said. ‘I know you can still see. Concentrate. Come on. Try harder. That was always your problem. Whenever you faced difficulties you’d give in to the most terrible rage and despair and you’d just stop trying. Sulking, really. And that’s what you’re doing now.’
It was a very cultured, clipped voice. Robert’s mind reeled, trying to take in what the old man was saying.
‘I tell you, Frank. Look at me. You can’t ignore me.’
At last Frank spoke up. Throatily. Wheezily. ‘Go away. Whoever you are. Frank is . . . Frank is not here.’
The visitor replied, ‘Yes you are, Frank. Whatever these odd, feral men have been doing to you. You are still Frank. You are indestructible, Frank.’
The old man eyed the bloody elf and the postman. He lunged forward, as if to attack them, and they leapt backwards. He laughed.
‘They’ll do you no harm. Come on, my dear. Look at me.’
‘Frank doesn’t know who you are.’
‘Oh, you do.’ The old man rubbed his elegant hands together. They were sensitive and felt the cold up here acutely. ‘You really do know me. You’re worn out and in tatters. But you can still concentrate. You can still focus your attention. Look at me.’
Frank looked up and blinked. It seemed to take most of his energy just to do that small thing.
Frank said: ‘It can’t be you.’
‘It is, Frank. I am as
alive as you.’
‘Then you won’t be alive for long. Frank is . . . Frank is dying at last.’
‘No, no. Merely worn out a bit. And hacked about a bit. These lads here haven’t done you much good. I’ll punish them later. They’ll come in useful, two strapping lads like them. We always need spare parts, don’t we?’
There was a prolonged pause. Robert could have sworn he heard Frank sob, ‘F-Father?’
‘Of course, Frank. I’ve come back to make things better for you.’
‘Better?’
The old man made his voice gentle. Soothing. Like warm tea soaking through sugar-coated biscuits. ‘I’ve come to help you. You are my first-born. You know that, despite everything, I am fondest of you. My greatest triumph.’
‘You tried to murder Frank. Again and again.’
‘Nonsense. You must let me help you.’
A new note of fear in Frank’s voice now. ‘What will you do to Frank?’
‘I will make you young again. Set you back on your feet again. Make your life new once more.’
‘I don’t believe you. You hate Frank.’
‘You will have to believe me. How will you resist me? You’ve never been more at my mercy, Frank. Not since the day you first came to life.’
Robert watched as the old man knelt to take the seeping torso and the heavy, weary head in his arms. The two figures formed a weirdly touching pietà. But the old man wasn’t embracing his son. He was examining him. His pale hands moved skilfully over the unresisting and ruined body.
Then Robert couldn’t watch any more.
Other People’s Doings
That afternoon, Brenda took a couple of hours off work and Effie closed her shop early. For once she had a shop filled with browsers, and it was quite a job disentangling them from the junk jewellery, the antique costumery, the faded bric-a-brac.
The two ladies set out purposefully for Save the Kiddies.
There was a new sign in the window, Save the Kiddies Welcomes the Goths.
‘They’re just cashing in,’ said Effie sniffily, and led the way inside.
When they saw who was coming into their shop, Teresa and Helen stiffened immediately.
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Teresa snapped.
Effie said pleasantly, ‘And neither do we, Teresa. We’re merely making enquiries.’
Teresa’s lip twisted into a sneer. ‘You do a lot of that, don’t you? You two.’
‘Making enquiries,’ added Helen, mustering as much scorn as she could.
‘Messing about in other people’s doings,’ added Teresa.
Brenda realised that the two charity volunteers were keeping their voices deliberately hushed. They were embarrassed in case other browsers overheard.
Brenda said loudly, ‘We need to know about a friend of ours. A young man.’
‘Young man, is it?’ Teresa simpered.
‘Yes, our friend Robert. He was last seen in here. He was making enquiries as well.’
‘We can’t keep track of everyone who comes in here.’
‘We’ve been inundated,’ added Helen. But there was something about Helen. A nervous flicker in her expression that both Brenda and Effie noted.
Effie ploughed on, ‘Robert came in here to ask about those Karla Sorenson DVDs.’
Teresa laughed nastily. ‘You do keep on losing men, don’t you, dear?’
Brenda blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We heard that your husband went west too. That big fella you’re supposed to be married to.’
Effie grinned back at them, dangerously. She poked her beaky nose at them and Brenda could see that they were a whisker away from having a fight on their hands. ‘That’s true,’ sneered Effie. ‘We’re always losing men, we two.’
Helen was suddenly much more nervous. ‘Look, we’ve got nothing to tell you. You might as well clear off. That effeminate young man was in once but we never saw him again. If he’s messing about with stuff to do with Ms Sorenson, though—’
‘Yes?’ snapped Effie.
‘Then he’d better watch out,’ Helen mumbled, turning back to stacking a pile of Virginia Andrewses in the correct sequence, which she knew off by heart. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
Brenda tossed her head. ‘Come on, Effie. These two are getting on my wick. We won’t get anything more out of them.’
Just as they were leaving, Teresa found her voice again. She bellowed across the glass counter at Brenda: ‘She didn’t need you, you know! When you were off running about the country with that fancy man of yours. Effie was glad to see the back of you! She was one of our gang, and she was happier, she was! She was glad to be friends with the lowly likes of us back then!’
Effie hastened towards the door. ‘Ooh, don’t listen, Brenda. She’s crackers.’
Brenda had to agree. But she knew how fierce loyalties and betrayals could seem in a little town like this. Feelings could run high, especially amongst the older crowd. But there was something else, something downright bizarre about the behaviour of these two from Save the Kiddies.
Later that afternoon, after coffee and warm macaroons in a new café they were trying out (not to their taste: it was all stainless steel, internet access, and something the waitress told them was called ‘chill-out music’), they went round the shops to pick up a few bits and pieces. Woolworths first, so that Brenda could fill a pound bag with pick-n-mix, which always helped, she claimed, with her thinking when she was on a case.
She’d miss Woollies when it was gone, she thought. Strange how the shop hadn’t shut down yet, even though every other Woollies in the country apparently had. A shiver went through her as she considered this, gazing at the colourful aisles and the flickering fluorescent lights. Was the Whitby Woollies one of the undead? A zombie department store? The very last of its kind, swearing eternal vengeance . . . Could such a weird thing be possible? Hmmmmm. She probably had enough on her plate to contend with as things were. Still and all, it was interesting that, as yet, the old place showed no signs of shutting up shop.
It was just as Brenda was reaching with the little trowel into the heaps of sherbet fizzers and then the chocolate limes that a very furtive Helen from Save the Kiddies sidled up to her and hissed: ‘I couldn’t say before. Teresa would have my guts for garters. But I like that young man. He’s got some spunk.’
Effie’s head shot up over the sweetie display. ‘Goodness! What’s she saying?’
Helen, looking haggard, whispered: ‘I’m telling Brenda here—’
Effie was in no mood for further nonsense. ‘Look, just you beggar off. We’ve had enough of you obfuscating our investigations.’
Brenda put in, ‘I want to hear what she has to say.’
Helen was almost frightened. ‘I haven’t long. Up at the hotel. The Christmas Hotel.’
Brenda proffered a sherbet fizzer out of her pick-n-mix. ‘What is? What are you so frightened of ?’
A terrible look came into Helen’s eyes. ‘We were there. We’re caught up in it. Doing her bidding. Her and the . . . Brethren. I didn’t want to. I don’t want . . . Oh dear. I shouldn’t be telling you.’
Brenda clicked her fingers. ‘Tell us. What’s going on at the Christmas Hotel?’
Helen’s eyes went wide. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. She forced her words out as though someone was trying to stop her. ‘She’s the very devil. I have to go.’
They watched her turn and scuttle away. Grimly, Brenda continued to fill her bag with sweets.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Effie tutted. ‘She looked like she was doing herself a mischief.’
Brenda said, ‘We have to go up there, of course.’
Effie didn’t need to ask where she meant.
Brenda sighed. ‘We have to check it out. It’s a lead.’
‘And probably a trap.’ Effie suddenly cried out. ‘The Bloody Banquet at the Christmas Hotel,’ she squawked, as they made their way to the counter to pay for Brenda’s sweets. Brenda always s
eemed to eat half of them before they had even been weighed.
‘Hmmm?’ said Brenda thoughtfully, untangling liquorice shoestrings.
‘Tonight,’ clipped Effie. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity. Mrs Claus is hostessing a huge supper to celebrate Goth weekend.’
‘It’s an excuse to be there, I suppose,’ said Brenda, beginning a slow smile.
‘And to glam up in our Gothy glad rags too,’ said Effie. ‘I did wonder if we were going to get the chance.’
The Bloody Banquet
‘Well, she’s outdone herself, hasn’t she?’ smiled Effie.
They were inside the Christmas Hotel again, and the place had been Gothed up a treat. Every pillar and pilaster was trimmed with black ribbon and lace; every swag of tinsel was blood red. There were skulls where usually there’d be stars, and pumpkin heads gurning and glowing atop the many Christmas trees.
Brenda was inclined to agree with Effie’s observation about the decor, but she was even more impressed by Effie’s get-up and the effort her friend had gone to. Effie was in full Victorian garb, complete with a little lacy brolly and some kind of feathery effort stuck to the side of her head. Effie noticed her eyeing it. ‘It’s called a fascinator, Brenda,’ she sighed. ‘It’s a designer fascinator and I’m praying like mad that it doesn’t drop off. Rather chic, isn’t it?’
Effie had made an effort with her make-up too, Brenda noticed. She was glad, in her turn, that she’d pushed the boat out. Looking around at the other diners who were milling, cocktails aloft, in the lobby, it seemed that everyone had dressed up in something a bit ghoulishly glamorous for the evening. Ah, Frank, she thought, with a sudden stab of sadness. We were both going to glam up and swish about together, weren’t we? We were going to disguise ourselves as ourselves for a change, just for a laugh. But here she was on her own.
‘How on earth did you fasten that bodice up by yourself ?’ Effie asked her. She glanced up and down at Brenda’s rather startling ensemble.
‘Oh, I had some help,’ said Brenda lightly, taking a sip from her frankly not-very-nice pre-dinner drink. ‘I got dressed in my attic. I, erm, got a hand with dressing, if you see what I mean.’