[Brenda & Effie 04] - Hell's Belles

by Paul Magrs

  ‘Hmpf,’ said Effie, and let the two guests pass by, into the main street. ‘I’d hate to run a B&B, wouldn’t you?’ she asked Robert and Penny. ‘And having all sorts of strange people traipsing in and out of your place. I mean, look at those two!’

  ‘It’s Goth weekend,’ Robert reminded her. ‘Everyone’s a bit freakish this weekend.’

  Effie tossed her head and started thinking hard. She snapped her fingers. ‘You know what I think? She’s gone back to the hotel alone.’

  ‘The Christmas Hotel?’ asked Penny.

  Effie gave her a withering look. ‘Of course the Christmas Hotel. Look, just a couple of hours ago I was having elevenses with her and she was in a funny mood. She kept talking about her . . . father. And even when she wasn’t, you could tell that was who she was thinking about. She had no interest in anything I was saying.’

  Led by Effie, their small party started walking at a fast trot down the hill towards the harbour and the thronging mass of Saturday afternoon in town.

  Robert was perplexed, and then alarmed. ‘Hang on, Effie. You’re saying she’s met her father?’

  ‘Ooh, that’s right!’ Penny gasped. ‘Robert’s missed all that.’

  Effie squinched her mouth into what Brenda would have called her sucked lemon face. ‘There’s some ancient old man running around claiming to be Brenda’s father.’

  Robert felt his blood go cold. ‘I’ve seen him. He came into the attic. Or someone saying that that was who he was.’

  ‘It’s knocked Brenda bandy,’ Effie told him. ‘I mean, what does she want him for? What can he possibly do for her? Well, I tell you. My mind boggles.’

  Robert felt his feet slowing with dread. Poor Brenda. What did she think Victor would do for her? Robert knew he wasn’t trustworthy. He had seen the old man close at hand. He had felt his evil presence up in the attic space.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, as they hustled past Woolworths.

  Effie looked cross with herself, as if she was only just realising the danger Brenda might be in. As if the act of explaining it all to Robert had made it seem so much more alarming. ‘I should have stayed with her,’ she cried. ‘But I was off doing my messages and groceries! Why didn’t I keep an eye on her? She’ll be at that hotel, putting herself in danger . . .’

  Robert nodded. ‘It was at the hotel that I saw the man reckoning he’s her dad. He was talking to Frank.’

  Effie stopped in her tracks, scraping her good court shoes. ‘You’ve seen Frank?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Yes – we were Karla’s prisoners together. Frank’s gone, Effie. He’s been taken away.’

  Effie snorted. ‘I should have known he wouldn’t stick around.’

  ‘He didn’t want to go. He’s been hurt pretty badly.’ Now they were taking the narrower streets behind the promenade, puffing slightly at the uphill bit.

  ‘You’d better explain it all to Brenda when we see her. I knew that Frank would let her down.’

  ‘He’s better than that. I got to know him a bit more, when we were locked up together.’

  Effie wouldn’t buy it. Robert and Penny both suddenly saw that she would never hear a good word said about the man. Somehow she believed that Frank was behind every one of Brenda’s misfortunes. She told them so, as they came to the top of the cliff and the Christmas Hotel spread out grandly before them. ‘I don’t want to hear it, Robert. And frankly – no pun – we’ve got quite enough on our plates today.’

  Still in Her Headscarf

  Brenda had been shown up to Karla’s suite. She was surprised she hadn’t had to throw her weight around in order to be allowed in.

  Now here was Karla, looking rested and fresh as she sat having her hair done by Lisa Turmoil. Brenda felt a little shabby in her old winter coat and headscarf, she had to admit.

  Karla was politely caustic with her future stepdaughter. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t stick around for even more of your touching family reunion scenes. I’ve got work to do today. Oww. Watch it, girl.’

  ‘Sorry, Karla.’ Lisa gulped.

  Brenda realised she was shivering. ‘What’s that terrible draught?’

  Karla waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ugh. Storms last night. Blew a hole in the turret.’

  ‘Were there any storms last night?’ Brenda frowned.

  ‘Right. That’s enough,’ snapped Karla, and waved her stylist away.

  In the corner of the room, Victor put down the gold and cream phone receiver. ‘The car’s waiting, Karla.’

  ‘Okay. I think I’ve got everything.’

  Victor came to her and studied her appraisingly. His thin lips quirked with amusement. ‘You look wonderful.’

  Karla nodded, as if this were only her due. ‘Wish me luck, everyone. Oh, look, I’m sorry I’m such a cow. I’m nervous, that’s all.’

  Victor clicked his heels together. ‘We understand.’

  Brenda wasn’t sure that she did.

  Victor said, ‘I’ll follow you over to the abbey later, my dear.’

  Karla smiled, caught out by her own pleasure. She preened herself for a moment. It had been so long since she had had anyone on her team like this. ‘Why, Victor! You’re coming over for the shoot?’

  That wry amusement playing about his mouth again. ‘Of course! I couldn’t miss that, could I?’

  Karla stammered, ‘It’s . . . very important to me, Victor, that you’re there.’

  ‘I know. I just want to stay here a little, while you are setting up and rehearsing. And you can’t blame me for wanting to spend an hour or two with my beautiful daughter, can you?’

  Victor turned that cool little smile on Brenda then, and she tried to smile back, or to feel flattered. But she just felt uncomfortable. Patronised.

  Karla gave herself one last check in the dressing-table mirror. ‘Anyway, I’m off.’

  Victor held up both palms in supplication as his intended made for the door. ‘There she goes – the stuff of legend. Off to make cinematic history!’

  ‘Oh, stop.’ Karla smiled, basking in his attention. ‘Silly old sod.’

  Too Soft

  When she emerged from the lift, Karla was startled to bump into Effie, Penny and Robert. They, in turn, were brought up short by the sight of her, and the two parties surveyed each other warily for a moment.

  ‘Goodness.’ Karla smiled. ‘The gang’s all here, isn’t it?’ She had a bit of a jolt, coming face to face with Robert. She narrowed her eyes and prepared herself to deny everything. Prisoners, what prisoners? she’d say. It was a pity that this smartarse little fruit hadn’t fallen under her spell like all the other men in town. Gay, straight, she could usually inculcate the lot of them. This Robert, though, was strong-willed.

  And so were his friends.

  Effie was prepared to barge right past Karla, into the private lift. ‘Out of our way.’

  Robert had gone quite dumb. He muttered, ‘It’s Karla,’ in a voice – Penny thought – somewhere between awestruck fan and freed ex-hostage.

  Karla batted her fake eyelashes at the would-be intruders. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re all trooping up to my suite.’

  ‘We’ve come for Brenda,’ said Effie grimly, jutting her jaw out.

  Karla sighed. ‘She’s with her beloved father. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Penny decided that if no one else was going to tackle Karla on what she’d been doing wrong, then it had better be her. She burst out: ‘You kept Robert prisoner! And Frank! You’re evil!’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Karla frowned. ‘What’s she yelling about?’ She really didn’t have time for this. Her car was waiting; the whole crew was waiting. Standing around here where the air was sticky with fake snow spray and potpourri was giving her a headache. As were the relentless Christmas jingles.

  She glared at Penny. ‘It doesn’t do, you know, to make rash accusations.’

  Just at that point – as if alerted by fractious non-festive conversation – Mrs Claus came trundling up in her motori
sed chair. ‘Is there a problem?’ she said fiercely. She hated anyone messing up her ambience. Usually she’d send an elf to deal with it – but this gaggle were trouble, she knew, and best dealt with by her own dainty hand.

  Karla drew herself up to her full height and made her bosom heave with indignation. ‘These people seem to believe they can traipse up to my suite willy-nilly, just because they suspect someone they know is up there. I don’t think very much of your security, Mrs Claus.’

  ‘Don’t you indeed?’ said Mrs Claus hotly. ‘Well, they’re not going up there. Elves!’ She clicked her fingers and set her tinselly jewellery tinkling. ‘Please escort the young people off the premises, would you?’

  Karla gave a jaded sigh. ‘I suppose they are just fans. Fans are apt to get overexcited.’

  ‘We don’t want you interfered with, Ms Sorenson.’ Mrs Claus scowled. ‘Especially not on the day when you’re shooting your climax.’

  Some of the establishment’s rather burlier elves had appeared in a trice. Robert shuddered at the all-too-familiar sight of their velveteen costumes as he found himself shunted and shoved around. ‘No! We won’t go! Leave off !’

  Penny started yelling as well, over the noise of a ska version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’. ‘Get your hands off me!’

  Effie was helpless, jammed against the flock wallpaper by Mrs Claus’s strategically parked chair. There would have been little she could do against the might of those strapping elves. She watched with a curious sense of dread as her young companions were led away to the main entrance of the Christmas Hotel.

  Mrs Claus gave a very common-sounding cackle. ‘Young people, eh, Effie?’

  ‘Why haven’t you chucked me out?’ Effie demanded.

  Karla had had enough of this lot by now. She was flustered and annoyed already, and she hadn’t even left the hotel. ‘Oh, look. I’m going. My car’s at the front?’

  ‘It is,’ said Mrs Claus, and drew back her motorised chair enough to allow Karla to sweep past. She went without another word.

  They watched her go. Effie wondered if she should be running after her. Going to the film set with her. But there was time for that later. Right now she was aware of Mrs Claus’s beady eyes boring into her in a most peculiar and unsettling way.

  ‘Just a word, Effryggia. Would you come to my inner sanctum?’

  Effie’s eyebrows went up. ‘Not on your nelly.’

  The proprietress of the Christmas Hotel was used to people doing exactly what she wanted. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ Effie said curtly. ‘Simple as that. You’ve tried to have us killed in the past, you have. I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  Mrs Claus trilled a light, silly laugh. ‘Have you killed? Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Then what do you call it when—’

  Mrs Claus leaned forward, hissing quietly: ‘Occasionally I’ve had to have you and Brenda detained or constrained. Whenever you were getting in too deep. When you were being foolhardy and in danger of getting yourself hurt.’

  Effie laughed out loud. She raised her voice as much as Mrs Claus had lowered her own. She wanted the passing guests to hear every word of this exchange. ‘Oh, really? And why’s that, then? Because you care so much about us, I suppose?’

  Mrs Claus’s reaction surprised Effie. She even looked a little hurt. She said, almost dolefully: ‘Please, Effie. Come with me. We have to talk.’

  Effie gave a bitter guffaw. ‘Talk, she says! What about? What do we have to talk about?’

  ‘Please, indulge me.’

  Effie had a good heart really. She could hear the genuine pleading in Mrs Claus’s voice. There was no deception there, surely? No hidden plan or agenda? ‘Oh, all right,’ she said.

  You’re too soft, Effie my girl, she told herself as she marched stiffly after the tinsel-trimmed scooter. You’ll wind up in trouble. Well, never mind. At least if things turned nasty, she was reasonably confident of her skills in hand-to-hand combat these days.

  Spare Parts

  Up in the gilded suite, Brenda had started to quiz her father. ‘Are you sure you really want to marry her?’

  He wasn’t his polite, debonair self today, she had found. He was cross and headachey. He flashed his silver eyes at Lisa Turmoil, ‘Will you be long putting your . . . tools away, girl?’

  Lisa pulled a face. ‘Err, no.’

  ‘Don’t snap at Lisa!’ Brenda said.

  Victor took a deep breath and smiled uncertainly. ‘My nerves are frazzled. It’s all been a bit much. I’ve been resurrected, I’ve fallen in love, I’ve been reunited with my long-lost children . . .’

  Brenda frowned darkly. ‘Children? ’

  ‘Daughter,’ he quickly amended himself. ‘I meant daughter.’

  Brenda knew what she had heard him say. She stepped forward urgently. ‘Have you seen Frank?’

  ‘No.’

  Brenda considered him. Suddenly he looked shaky and very old. What secrets was he holding in that egg-like skull of his? Could she really believe anything he ever said to her?

  She said, ‘Karla is well known for putting men under her spell. Getting them to do just what she wants. When I first met her, forty years ago, she had put the collywobbles on old Fox Soames, the writer of Get Thee Inside Me, Satan. She made him forget who his enemies were. She hasn’t done the same thing to you, has she, Father?’

  Victor ignored much of what she had said. He fixed only on her final word. ‘You called me Father.’

  Brenda shrugged. Well. What if she had? she thought.

  Victor mused on the rest of what his daughter had said. ‘No, Karla hasn’t entranced me in any kind of sorceress’s fashion.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s good.’

  ‘It is good.’ He smiled. ‘This is love, not enchantment, Brenda. I haven’t felt alive like this . . . well, even when I was alive. And Karla is going to be your stepmother, whether you like it or not.’

  Brenda shivered. ‘I’ll deal with that when I have to,’ she said, and realised that she was shivering with the freezing cold as much as she was with foreboding. Victor hadn’t even noticed the slicing breeze that came through the luxury suite. Were the French windows standing open? Where was that chill coming from? ‘That draught is terrible!’ she gasped, hugging herself. ‘The wind is moaning like . . .’

  She listened. That moaning suddenly didn’t sound at all like the wind. It was up in the rafters. At the very top of the turret. It was a whining and gnashing of teeth.

  Lisa – who still hadn’t left, much to Victor’s chagrin – suddenly found the courage to tell Brenda: ‘That’s not the wind. That’s their prisoners.’

  Brenda blinked. ‘What? Their what . . . ?’

  She moved towards the source of the noise like she was wading through marmalade in a dream. ‘It’s coming from the attic . . .’

  ‘Don’t!’ Victor called out. ‘Brenda! Don’t touch that—’

  ‘Stand back, Father. Please. I’m bigger than you, and stronger. What prisoners, Lisa?’

  Lisa was shamefaced and mumbling as she shouldered her professional stylist’s bag of tricks. ‘They’ve been keeping fellas in the attic.’

  Brenda turned on her father with a thunderous expression and both fists clenched hard. ‘This is where you had Robert?’

  Lisa answered for him – and went further. ‘And Frank.’

  Brenda’s jaw fell open. ‘You knew, Lisa? You knew all along what they were doing here?’

  ‘I . . . I wasn’t sure. I thought—’

  Brenda wasted no more time. She turned to the hard wooden door, around which the freezing blast of the wind was blowing. She raised both fists and pummelled it and pounded it and smashed it into firewood. The work of a minute or two.

  Victor was staggered by her strength. Also by her determination and fury. He took several cautious steps backwards as he beseeched her, ‘Brenda! Don’t go up there!’

  ‘Keep out of my way,’ she snarled.

  Thro
ugh the dark doorway the wind came hurling. It brought with it something horrible: the smell of old blood. Dead blood. Dripped and dried blood. Blood that no one had bothered cleaning up. Brenda gagged.

  ‘What is that? What have you been doing?’

  Victor wailed in his own defence: ‘It was all for you, Brenda. It’s all for you.’

  Without another word she went up into the attic. She ducked through the dark doorway and clambered awkwardly up the narrow steps. Then she was dazzled in the airy, frosty brilliance of the garret above. There, layered in crisp frozen dew, she found the postman and the elf. They were lying in hard black pools of coagulated blood.

  ‘Who are they?’ Brenda hissed, staring at the bodies.

  Victor was suddenly at her elbow. When he spoke in that silvery, cultured voice, she jumped. ‘They are nothing. Not people. They are spare parts. New parts for you, my daughter.’

  In Her Sanctum

  Effie settled uncomfortably in the chintzy parlour of Mrs Claus. She glared about in disapproval. It was a horrid, tacky place. Festooned and trimmed way beyond the bounds of good sense. This was the parlour of a woman who was – Effie believed – quite insane. You could barely see where you were meant to be sitting.

  ‘What’s this all about? I’m in a hurry, you know. Brenda—’

  Mrs Claus guided her chair into her usual place beside the vast hearth. ‘Oh, Brenda’s all right. She’s old enough and ugly enough to look after herself.’

  Effie’s mouth twitched dangerously. ‘Don’t you go criticising her.’

  ‘Ssssh. Now let’s not talk about her. I want to concentrate for a moment on you.’ Mrs Claus was fiddling nervously with the drinks trolley.

  ‘Me?’ Effie went instantly on the alert. ‘What about me?’

  ‘We don’t get on, do we?’

  ‘What?’ Effie couldn’t see the relevance of anything the old witch was saying.

  ‘We’ve never got on, have we, Effryggia?’

  Effie burst out, ‘Of course we haven’t. I can’t abide you and I hope the feeling is mutual. Look at the way you’ve treated us in recent years. The terrible scrapes you’ve had us embroiled in.’