The monster had dragged the body off the road. Some idiot had followed them but he had dealt with that situation. This wasn’t how he had planned it. This wasn’t how he had planned it at all. He watched them talking. Fools. They had ruined his game and now they would pay. Or play. He laughed quietly. Tomorrow, he would move them onto his chessboard. This is where his plan would really start. His plan to conquer this land of blood cows. They had put themselves into the game really, and would all live to regret this night. Or die regretting it, that option sounded better. He watched the bus as it drove off. The board on the back said ‘Friarmere Band’ and had a phone number underneath.
He then squatted over the man who lay on his front, and sunk his teeth into the back of the neck. He began to feed.
2 - Friarmere
Late October in Saddleworth. A collection of scattered villages that skirt round the edge of the Pennines. Arguments still rage on whether they are in Yorkshire or Lancashire. Red or white rose.
The air is clean and cool, the trees are golden and red, and their leaves will drop any day now. Saddleworth lies in a valley 7 miles long. Cut out by the River Tame, long before man came to walk the land. He has been around a long, long time too. Stone Age Man was here, Roman roads run through, even a church that started its life in the 1200’s. Many ghosts walk its fields, its hills, and its buildings. This area is so old it is mentioned in the Domesday Book.
Farms sit on the hillsides of this valley. The meadows are lush and well watered from the many days of rain. The rugged moorlands at the top of the hills are far too inhospitable to sustain animals and crops. Vast and desolate, one should always stick to the footpaths. Rocky, with thick clumps of heather and peat, these hills are often covered in fog. They will always be watching over this valley, as if to say, one day we will claim you back into our wilderness.
Old walls, parts of which have crumbled to a litter of stones, show where ancient boundaries lie. Sometimes an aged milestone can still be read, but usually to a place that no longer exists. Within these areas are small collections of trees, hidden paths, caves, and ancient dry riverbeds. Plenty of places to hide.
It was during the Industrial Revolution that Saddleworth’s economy and population really grew. The woolen mills and later cotton mills meant that this area sustained its workers well. Giant seething black buildings, with tall chimneys became the centre of these villages. And as these mills grew in size, so did the amount of small dwellings clustered around them. The great buildings yawned in the morning, sucking all the workers in with its first breath and then, in the late afternoon, tired and ready for a few hours rest it disgorged them back out on to the streets. The railway and the Huddersfield canal cut through this valley taking goods east, over the Pennines into Yorkshire or west, into Manchester and on to Liverpool.
The houses traditionally are built in grey stone, the same as many in Yorkshire. These workers houses run along the valley within these villages. Roads came and more houses were built. Modern larger homes with better facilities. They spread upwards from the arteries of this community, up the hills, claiming their right to live in the fields and meadows and trees.
With the decline of the textile industry, the vast mills lay empty and hollow. Some to be demolished, some to be converted. Over time the filth and grime of the mill years, the smoke and stains, have been cleansed from the buildings. But they are not forgotten.
The modern Saddleworth’s industry is its heritage and culture. The tourism industry is booming. The original little grey houses, now have brightly painted doors and window boxes. Those old dirty streets sparkle, with new coffee shops, a museum and gift shops. Boutiques and delicatessens, a quaint post office. They have it all. Pubs with real ale and open fires, a civic hall, which hosts many famous names. There is a cricket club, a golf club and a rugby club. So many festivals, Brass Band, Morris Men, Canal, Folk, Music. Always a reason to visit here. Thousands of people descend on Saddleworth on ‘Whit Friday’ to watch the Church Processions of Witness. Waving colourful banners, and each with its own brass band to herald it on its way.
The centre of this community, the largest of the villages, is Friarmere. Named after the Black Friars that lived in the Grange that sits high and dark on the hill above the village. The highest mountainous Pennines border the north and south of this village. A deep quarry cut into the side of the north face. Many dark deeds have been done here. To the east, the great viaduct, which has the canal boats underneath it, cuts the village off from its neighbour there, and to the west a long road that runs along the side of the old railway line.
Friarmere holds the communities only bank and village police station. A high school and a beautiful primary school in the hills, with fantastic views. It is on a bus route, with buses between Manchester and Huddersfield every ten minutes. The houses aren’t cheap and all have sloped gardens, being hillside dwellings.
The old Friar’s Grange sits and broods above Friarmere. Huge and cut off from the rest of the village by a wall and large metal gates. For years a chain and padlock have been around the two gates. No one likes to walk past there. Not as it is usually in anyone’s general direction of walking. It is out of the way and down a small dirt road. Dandelions and thistles push in from the sides, making the route even narrower. It is a haven and sanctuary for insects, wasps and mice. The house is the only thing at the end of the road and, as it is been empty as far as anyone can remember, it is largely forgotten. Another reason that no one likes to walk down there is that it backs on to the old graveyard. Again, a metal locked gate is on the back wall of the Grange. But here it is just a small, arched, person sized gate, with ornate curves. A short cut to the old church. The house dates back to about the 17th Century. A look in either gate would find tall grass and weeds that block the view. The house can be seen from a distance, rising above the walls in the centre of the ocean of grass. The closer one gets, the less there is to see.
The only person that is aware of the Grange on a daily basis is Christine. Christine’s house is half way down that small dirt track and not many people visit Christine either. She has alienated most of Friarmere with her behaviour in the past. Overbearing, money grabbing and cutthroat, she owes money to more people that can squeeze in her kitchen. Christine became quite excited about six months ago when a ‘For Sale’ sign went up at the Grange. She would have been interested herself if she had got the money and the inclination to renovate. The house she lived in desperately needed it, everything was rickety and old, low ceilings and lots of small rooms. But she told any visitor that came that it was ‘period’ and that saved her from doing any work to it. She did however, like the prestige that owning ‘The Grange’ would give her, so was quite annoyed when she saw one day, about a year ago, that it had indeed been sold.
Often on long dark nights, especially during the winter, she thought she saw dull light in the windows. Moving from one to another. It’s my imagination. I must be tired. It’s definitely not the Black Friars walking round that old house, looking for someone to haunt, she thought. She took a look from her window towards The Grange for any signs of the new owners whenever she walked past it. She was determined that if she couldn’t own it, she was going to make sure she made a connection with the new owners and spend as much time there as possible. There could be good business deals to be done.
About a month ago, about ten pm, she saw a removal trucks’ lights going past her house down the track to the The Grange. She thought, at this time of night, a visit from their new neighbour would be unwelcome, so she would wait until about ten in the morning. Christine went to bed, drifting off to the most wonderful dreams of owning The Grange. She awoke the following day, covered in sweat and panting. Somewhere through the night, this had turned into a nightmare. It was nine o’clock. She got up, dressed in her most impressive outfit and did her hair. After putting on an extra layer of bright red lipstick, she set off down the track. Christine held a business card with her personal number, in her hand. Swinging h
er hips to the left and right, she worked her wiggle dress. Along with her high heels, she thought she looked thinner and sexier than ever today. She regretted it instantly as she walked on the rough and uneven ground, turning her ankles every thirty seconds. When she got to the bottom, she was disappointed to see the chains round the gates again and the truck nowhere to be seen. She shouted and rattled the gates. No response at all. If she didn’t know any better she would think it was still empty, apart from the rats that is. She decided this would have to wait for another day, or later today. Rain had been forecast for later and she didn’t want to come down here in her wellies. As she walked back and was slightly up the hill, she felt like she was being watched. Eyes burned into her back. She looked quickly back at the house. All the windows still looked empty, with no curtains. She started walking again, and immediately had the same sensation. The eyes watching her were on the roof. The vampire had scaled the outside walls, flat on his stomach, he moved from side to side defying gravity as he crawled like a lizard. He lay low, flush against the tiles. The eyes were red and the mouth open, hungry and sensing. She shivered and hurried home.
3 - Band
‘Settle down everyone, lets have some bloody quiet. I can’t hear myself piggin’ think in ‘ere!’ Barry yelled.
Ernie shook his head. Barry was in one tonight. The rest of the band had better mind their p’s and q’s. This was the first practice back after the contest at the weekend and their unfortunate collision with a bouncing sheep. On Mondays, Susan and himself had to collect subs and the hundred club, which brought in the main income for the band. He liked Susan and was extremely pleased when she had been voted on the Committee as Secretary. Susan had been coming to every band meeting anyway as her husband, Tony, played trombone, her son Bob, played percussion and so did her best friend, Laura. Ernie thought that the best committee members were the ones that weren’t players as they could give a lot more of their time and it also left the players to just concentrate on what they did best - playing.
Barry was shouting again, but it must have been in a lighthearted way as everyone burst out laughing. It usually was directed at a particular baritone player named Stephen who was constantly putting his foot in it or generally daydreaming about girls. Andy shouted something back from the horn section and laughter erupted again. Andy was as sharp as a knife, but a little too cutting sometimes. Stephen was slow on the uptake sometimes and it was a general joke in the bandroom on a daily basis. But when the chips were down everyone looked after everyone else and they were a family.
Susan looked up from her mountain of paperwork. Why is it that I am always fully concentrating when something funny is said and I miss it, she thought. She looked over to Bob who was texting his friend Adam, as usual. Sue gave him the angry eyes and mouthed the words put it away hoping Barry hadn’t seen it. Tony looked towards her and mouthed ‘what’. She gestured towards Bob and acted texting on a mobile with her fingers and shook her head. Tony was a legend. Longish hair, beard and cowboy boots. He wasn’t your typical bander. Wherever Friarmere band turned up, people would be looking for Tony in particular to have a beer with. She looked back down at her paperwork, and started filling in competition forms again. From experience, she glanced back up at Bob and he was texting again but not looking at her. She leant forward and poked Laura in the arm with the end of her pen.
‘Tell him to stop it, Laura.’ Laura moved forward and picked up a timpani stick, hitting Bob gently on the knee with it.
‘Concentrate,’ she said. Sue wished she had more success with one word, but those hopes had long gone.
Friarmere Band had lots to do tonight. With Armistice Day, concerts and Christmas not to far away, there was plenty to practice. They warmed up with a hymn, and then got down to work. There was a good mix of pieces tonight. Slow mournful pieces and hymns for Armistice plus ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ for a lunchtime concert they had after the service. They would also include some good old favourites that people could sing along too, wartime songs. Lili Marlene, White Cliffs of Dover and Roll out the Barrel. These needed no practice and they would get out the music out on the day. Just for that day.
They then went on to a few faster numbers to entertain at concerts. 'Lightwalk', which was a Salvation Army number and 'I’ve Got Rhythm'. Shaun, their drum kit player was very fast and well beyond the standard of this band, but he enjoyed the laughs they had, it was local and also his dad Geoff, played here. Which meant he got a lift.
Bob played timpani super loud to the next one, a version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' and that was how Barry liked it. Bob was the little star in making, and Barry gave him lots to do. He would often move from timpani, to xylophone to glockenspiel in about twelve bars. And as time went on, with the music Barry picked, he was doing it more often than not.
Ernie put the kettle on in the back room where Freddie, the music librarian, was housed. This was cup of tea number three, for the committee tonight. Usually on cup of tea number three, the biscuit barrel was passed around too. Susan washed the cups, dried them and then sat back down. Bob made her a gesture towards her that meant he wanted her to make him a ‘hot blackcurrant’. Kids? Who would have them?
The band continued to play on. Barry, the Musical Director, was a Master of his Craft. He had a rich pedigree of success with his previous bands and Friarmere were lucky to have him. They hoped he would stay until he retired, which was a long time, as they had never won so many competitions or had rose through the banding sections so quickly. Brass bands play in sections, like football leagues. Friarmere were in the fourth section when Barry had taken them on but now were in the second section after winning again and again at their area contest at Blackpool each spring.
They played 'Goldcrest', the first part of Little Suite for Brass and Concert Prelude. They started on 'Fingals Cave'. Finally they practiced a few Christmas numbers. In general, like the sing-alongs on Armistice Day, they played Christmas Carols from their books at the concert and on outside carolling jobs without practice. But they always did the greatest and largest Christmas Concert in the village. Always at the Civic Centre, this was a joint concert with the local primary school. The music teacher there would have the children practice lots of new Christmas based songs and carols from about October onwards. She would then send the music to Friarmere Band so they could play along with the choir. Now most people would think that a brass band could drown out a school choir. But not this choir. Three quarters of all pupils were members of the choir. So it was a marvellous musical night. Solo items, from both camps and many joint items, plus carols for the audience to sing along to.
At ten o’clock, Barry stopped.
‘We’ll call it a night, there, folks. Ernie wants a word though.’
Ernie walked to the front of band. He waited a short while until there was quiet. He had noticed he managed to achieve this quicker by sighing very loudly whilst checking his small piece of paper, full of notes. ‘Just a bit of housekeeping everyone and news. Could everyone bring their subs up to date, if possible? If anyone is going to the club, could you use the small room as they have got a cricket function going on in the big one? Also we have had a ten-piece band job booked for this weekend. Sorry to land it on you like that.’
Everyone groaned. They liked plenty of notice for band jobs. A few people said ‘oh Ernie,’ and ‘well, I can’t do it’. When the noise had calmed down a bit, Ernie started with the list, ‘Alright, who’s going on the top seat?’
‘What night is it at the weekend, Ernie?’ Asked one of the cornet players, Maurice.
‘Saturday night. Bonfire night, it is. eight ‘while’ ten. I’ll sweeten the pot as well to you all, and say he is paying us big bucks and is throwing in a buffet for you players.’
‘And beer?’ Maurice asks.
‘I was told wine, and plenty of it. The person who has booked it has a vineyard somewhere abroad,’ Ernie replied.
‘Count me in,’ said Maurice.
‘Alright. Sophie?
’ Sophie was the principal cornet and would automatically have the top chair if she wanted to do the concert. Maurice was her ‘bumper up’. Her number two.
‘No, Ernie. I’ve already got tickets for a big bonfire and a few of the others are coming as well.’
‘I know what you mean, I am supposed to be taking the grandkids to one as their Mum is working that night at the hospital. You’ll be on the top chair then, Maurice. Anyone else, before I have to tell this guy that I can’t do it’
‘I’ll go.’ A few people said. Conversation was getting quite loud now and the promise of free food and especially free wine had changed a lot of the players’ minds.
Ernie started to write the names down, ‘ok, I’ve got two cornets, a euph, a bass, a bari...er... a trom...er what about persecution?’ This term for percussion had started when Barry had arrived and stuck.
‘I’ll do it,’ Woody said, ‘as long as I can get leathered. So I’ll need a lift, there and back.’
‘I’ll give yer a lift, Woody,’ said Michael Thompson. ‘I might as well go and do the committee stuff, pick up the cheque and the likes if our Stephen is going on bari anyway.’
Ernie wrote Woody next to percussion and Michael’s name at the bottom of the list. ‘Woody, if you are getting leathered, as you say, can you make sure you don’t start until after you have played?’ He looked over his glasses to Woody, who briefly nodded his head, whilst fiddling with his stick bag. ‘Right, tenor horn. Andy?’
‘I’m not doing it, Ernie. I always do it. Someone hasn’t taken their turn on the ten piece all year.’
‘I don’t want to do it either,’ said Vicky.
‘What Andy says is right, Vicky. He does it every time and you can’t expect Pat to do it all either, she’s seventy.’
‘Thanks Ernie,’ Pat said sarcastically. ‘Vicky, you can just do it. You aren’t behind the door at Christmas when you are having your free meal and Malibu all night.’ Pat winked at the rest of band. She was a feisty old bird.
Sticky Valves: Book 1 of the Saddleworth Vampire Series Page 2