‘I can’t,’ said Jack. Both he and I knew that the fishermen were going to do something appalling to the Michaelsons.
‘You’ll go home,’ said Frank fiercely. ‘You’ll do what I say. Do you hear?’
We nodded, knowing that we wouldn’t obey him. After we had lugged the corpse ashore and laid it under the upturned dinghy, he walked purposefully away to some fishermen further down the beach, grouped around an old winch.
‘I’ve got to warn her,’ said Jack frantically. ‘I’ve got to save her.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I must!’
‘You can’t help the Michaelsons escape.’ I was furious at his tunnel vision. ‘You know what they are, don’t you?’
‘It could be a mistake,’ he muttered.
‘How?’ I asked bluntly.
We both gazed up and down the beach to see that two lines of fishermen were mending nets that stretched right down to the sea, blocking all access.
*
An hour later, Frank walked back to us.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said.
‘Have you?’ I asked flatly.
‘You’ll stay.’
‘Stay?’ protested Jack. ‘You said –’
‘You’ll stay until we’ve finished with them.’ I could see the hatred in his eyes, and suddenly I was as afraid of him as I was of the Michaelsons. But I knew Jack felt differently. I could feel the intensity of the anger surging within him.
We continued apprehensively working on Grey Eyes. Then, as darkness fell, Jack said to me, his eyes full of a terrible desperation, ‘I’ve got to warn her.’
There was a sudden blaze of light at each end of the beach and I saw the fishermen had lit a couple of braziers, which were flaring up like beacons.
‘You mustn’t go near the hut.’
‘I have to.’
I grabbed him and we struggled, but Jack is much stronger than me. In the end he hit me hard and I fell back on to the pebbles. From my prone position I watched my brother dash over the nets and stride towards the hut, but just as he drew near, the door opened and Emelia stood there, beautiful in the moonlight.
‘You’ve got to get away,’ said Jack desperately.
‘Why?’ She looked genuinely puzzled.
‘You – we – they’re going to get you,’ he stuttered.
‘They?’
‘Look,’ I said, getting up and running towards them. ‘Just look.’
The two lines of fishermen were slowly advancing on the beach hut and in their hands were flaming torches. Their eyes were vengeful in the fiery light and their step had a deadly, unyielding purpose.
Emelia looked terrified as the fishermen approached. Then her parents quietly joined her at the door. Taking one look at what was happening, Mr Michaelson said to Jack, ‘Get her away. Please get her away.’
Jack grabbed Emelia’s hand and they began to run. I yelled out, ‘She’ll kill you.’ But he wasn’t listening, and I saw they were heading for the town. Standing there on my own, I had this terrible vision of Jack lying somewhere, his body limp, drained of blood.
But two young fishermen had set off at a tremendous pace. They dragged them both back, Jack in a half-nelson and Emelia, her head held high, the terror in her eyes dreadful to witness. I knew that she realized she was going to be executed.
Her parents had already been escorted on to Grey Eyes and the fishermen stood in a half-circle, their flaming torches held aloft as Emelia was taken on board.
The Michaelsons were locked in the wheelhouse and I could see their faces at the glass. There was a calm dignity to them, and Emelia had her eyes fixed on my brother.
Frank tossed his torch on board, followed by the others, while the two young fishermen held my brother down as he kicked and struggled and yelled. He called her name over and over again as the flames took a steady hold and the trawler was a roaring roasting death-ship.
As Emelia’s face was obscured by black smoke, my brother wept uncontrollably.
Jack looked away as Rob finished the story. The others stared restlessly at each other.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, Mary glanced round the cold desolation of the moonlit crypt and said, ‘Blood was something that my friend Sharon was quite willing to give. Until she realized what it was needed for.’
8
The Undertaker’s Parlour
Sharon couldn’t get a job. She wasn’t that bright and she interviewed badly. Both her parents were out of work and she was determined to make a contribution to the family budget. Although not academically clever, she cared deeply for others and was a popular girl who everyone wanted to help and support.
Her job-hunting did not start well. She scanned the notice-boards at the Job Centre, but either there was nothing she was qualified to do, or when she went for the interview she became a stuttering wreck. Then one day she saw a small card at the bottom of the board:
WANTED QUIET SYMPATHETIC PERSON AS RECEPTIONIST FOR UNDERTAKER APPLY – B.T. JENNINGS
I could do that, she thought. Providing it didn’t mean any typing or adding up. I’m good at being sympathetic to people. What’s more, I really like people, and surely that would be a good qualification for the job.
Feeling quite hopeful, Sharon went to the woman behind the counter in the Job Centre – a Mrs Burdock whom she knew quite well – and asked her what she thought about B.T. Jennings.
‘He’s always advertising,’ Mrs Burdock replied.
‘Always?’
‘Well – more often than not.’
‘But why?’
‘He can’t keep his staff. The receptionists leave regularly, but we’ve never been given a reason.’
‘Perhaps they can’t get on with him,’ suggested Sharon.
Mrs Burdock smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She was very fond of Sharon – even if she was difficult to place. ‘You’ve got such a sweet nature. I’m sure you’ll suit Mr Jennings well.’
Mr Jennings wasn’t like an undertaker, or at least, not what Sharon thought an undertaker should be like. She had imagined a long, thin, cadaverous man with a soft voice, his head slightly bowed, a fawning smile on his face. But instead Mr Jennings was fat and bouncy, jovial and smiley. ‘Call me Brian,’ he said straightaway. Sharon was shocked, and determined to call him Mr Jennings, but he wouldn’t let her. After they had talked for a while he said, ‘Well, Miss Hewitt, I’m sure you and I are going to get on very well. When can you start?’
‘Well – soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Er –’
‘And may I call you Sharon?’
She supposed he might.
Sharon began the job as receptionist at the undertaker’s the following day and was soon thoroughly enjoying every moment. Of course, it was sad, but she was delighted to bring comfort to the many bereaved people who called and pass them on to Mr Jennings – Brian, as he still kept insisting she must call him – or his young and attractive assistant Sam. He couldn’t have been much older than she and was ‘learning the ropes’ as Brian put it, and ‘getting on jolly well’. And as far as Sharon was concerned she was ‘super’ and ‘a real treasure’.
Best of all, she didn’t have to go anywhere near the corpses, which were kept in a place Brian called ‘behind the scenes’. All she had to do was to stay on reception, amongst the plastic lilies and display headstones, with her discreet forms and smiling sympathy.
Then, one morning, a young girl arrived and sat down at Sharon’s desk abruptly. ‘Can I help you?’ Sharon said gently.
‘Mr Jennings out?’ the girl asked, glancing around furtively.
‘Er – yes.’
‘Sam out?’ Her eyes darted into every part of the room.
‘Both at a funeral. Have you been bereaved?’ asked Sharon sympathetically.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then how can I help you?’ She was bewildered now, uneasily wondering if her visitor was mad.
‘I’ve com
e to warn you.’
‘What?’ Now she was convinced the young girl was disturbed.
‘Warn you to leave. Now! Just walk out.’
Sharon drew herself up stiffly, mustering all her self-confidence. She had meant to be diplomatic, but instead she was angry and indignant. She loved her job and didn’t want it cheapened like this. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing! Who are you?’
‘Let me explain.’ The girl looked around again, a little pulse twitching in her cheek. ‘That Mr Jennings –’
‘Yes?’
‘Brian. He’s – not what he seems.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Sharon was freezingly polite.
‘He’s dangerous. Very dangerous.’
This must be some kind of absurd joke, Sharon thought. Well, she wasn’t putting up with it.
‘I knew no one would believe us – but that’s why we left.’ The girl was close to tears.
‘We?’
‘The receptionists. But that’s not everything. He’s asked us – all of us – if – if –’ The girl faltered, unable to continue.
‘I don’t understand.’ Sharon stared at her blankly. ‘This is a joke in very poor taste and I’d be obliged if you left.’
‘That was the problem – no one would believe us. Mr Jennings is a well-respected member of the community.’
‘Naturally.’ Sharon stood up, trying to seem as threatening as possible.
‘Everyone thought we fancied him. That we were making up awful stories.’
‘You are! Now get out, or I’ll call the police.’
‘We all swore that we’d warn other receptionists. We formed an association – and we meet regularly. We’re determined to bring Mr Jennings to justice. You can help – get some evidence. Let me try to explain what he’s up to.’
Sharon stood up and opened the door, determined to assert herself. I suppose she reckons I’m thick, she thought. Thick enough to believe her rotten joke.
‘I’m only trying to –’ the girl started to say.
‘Go!’
The girl went.
*
‘Oh, Sharon –’
She was still shaken, and took a while to reply. ‘Yes, Mr – er – Brian?’
‘Can you step into my office?’
‘Of course.’ She followed Mr Jennings into his office – a large, expensive room with a huge desk, and filled with pictures of cemeteries and crematoria.
‘How are you enjoying it here?’ Mr Jennings leaned back in his swivel chair, plump and affable.
‘Very much.’
‘I was wondering if you’d like a rise?’
‘But I’ve only been here a few days,’ said Sharon in surprise.
‘Nevertheless – you must realize I’m most pleased with you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’d like to offer you another pound an hour – as well as my special bonus.’
‘Bonus?’
‘Yes – to help with my private blood bank.’
‘Your what?’ She gazed at him in bewilderment.
‘I assemble blood types. For hospital use, of course. It’s a charity I run. Registration number 16143262B.’
‘I see. I’d get a bonus for this, would I?’
‘A substantial one.’
‘And what would I have to do?’
‘I’d just like you to give some of your blood.’ He smiled beguilingly. ‘You’ve no idea how short the National Health Service is at the moment.’
‘You’re qualified? I mean, forgive me, but –’ Sharon was flustered now, anxious not to appear impertinent.
‘Of course. You must ask these questions. You wouldn’t be a responsible person if you didn’t – and neither would I. But naturally enough, I’m qualified. I took a special course and am able to receive and store the blood of my donors. In fact I’m an SBDSC. A Special Blood Donor Supply Consultant. Registered, of course, by the MOH.’
‘And that is?’ She flushed slightly.
He raised his eyebrows gently. ‘Ministry of Health.’
‘Of course.’ Why was she always so stupid?
‘And then there’s the bonus. Two hundred pounds.’
‘Goodness!’ That’s a lot of money, thought Sharon. I thought blood donation was voluntary. ‘How much blood would you like me to give, Brian?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘A couple of pints.’
‘Very well.’ There – she had made up her mind. Normally this took her some time, but it was good to be decisive for once.
‘Thank you. The patients at the Royal Infirmary are going to benefit. Shall we step through?’
‘Now?’
‘No time like the present, Sharon.’
‘Of course, Brian.’
He unlocked the door at the back and she followed him through to a small room that was stacked with bottles of red liquid.
‘I’ll just get a syringe.’
‘You have got a lot of donors, Brian.’
‘People are generous, Sharon,’ he said, lifting down an empty bottle. ‘People are very generous.’
Suddenly the outer office door opened and Sam stood on the threshold. Behind him were half a dozen women, one of whom Sharon instantly recognized. She frowned. How dare they intrude. Didn’t they know when a joke was well and truly over? And why was Sam involved in all this?
Brian frowned. ‘A deputation?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sam. ‘I think we’ve caught you in the act at last, Mr Jennings.’
‘Now look here –’ began Brian, but when Sharon glanced at him she could see that his normally ruddy complexion was now pale and sweaty and his jovial tone had become halting.
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘You look here! Right?’
‘Right,’ nodded the six ex-receptionists. Their eyes were on Mr Jennings – eyes that were full of hatred and triumph.
‘I’ve got photographs, Mr Jennings,’ said Sam. ‘Photographs of you. I’m afraid the hospital doesn’t benefit, does it? But you do. Now – are you coming down to the police station, or shall I make a citizen’s arrest?’
‘I shall have to call my solicitor.’ Brian made a stab at composure.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘He’ll soon help me clear all this up.’
‘I’ll stay here and mind the shop,’ said Sam to the receptionists. ‘If you’ll escort Mr Jennings down to the station.’
Left on their own together, Sam grinned at Sharon conspiratorially.
‘Will he really be arrested?’ she asked. Her mind was in utter confusion and she couldn’t get to the explanation, although dawning horror was slowly sweeping over her.
‘You bet. I’ve got too much evidence against him – been gathering it ever since I discovered what he was up to about a year ago. He’ll go down for a long time.’
‘I’m very grateful to you,’ said Sharon. ‘And I’m sure all the other receptionists are.’
‘It was terrible, watching them all succumbing to his charm.’ Sam was very sympathetic.
‘Well, I did the same and I suppose I’m out of a job now. But what exactly
‘The business won’t fold,’ replied Sam. ‘If I can work out all the legal complications I’ll be able to take it over.’
‘But when it all gets out,’ said Sharon, the appalling truth dawning on her at last. ‘I mean – relatives aren’t exactly going to want to deposit their loved ones with us, are they?’
‘I’ll change the name,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sam locked the door. ‘We’ve got plenty of spare coffins.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve often found them useful when I’ve been out on the streets at night and brought my girls back here. They always thought it was a really good joke to come back to an undertaker’s for a kiss and cuddle. The joke went a bit sour for them, but not for me. I could dump the bodies in Leysdown Lake before dawn. Anyone who saw the hearse loaded with a coffin probably thought I was heading for the hospital mortuary.’
‘I don’t k
now what you mean.’ Sharon’s mind was now going round in circles. Obviously this must be another joke.
‘Brian ran his racket – and I run mine. But I’m the genuine article. Brian liked to drink it out of a bottle. But I like it straight from the neck.’ He laughed.
‘I simply don’t get you,’ said Sharon. But this time she was lying …
Jon’s feet were icy cold. He wished they could light a fire. ‘Has anyone else got a story?’
Abby spoke first. ‘Well, there was the time we got lost in the Forest of Dean…’
9
The Prowler
We almost didn’t get to stay with my old aunt. The night we were due to go, she phoned and told my cousin Fiona and me that we weren’t to come after all. Fortunately, my parents were out.
‘You see, my dear – I’d be afraid for you.’
‘Afraid?’
‘There have been two awful – killings up here.’ Aunt Jane wasn’t the superstitious or the panicky type. Her husband had died years ago and she was a strong, independent woman who loved the forest. Uncle Alfred used to be in the Forestry Commission, and she had a tied cottage that was very isolated. Nobody could persuade her to move, despite the long journeys she had to make down lonely paths to the nearest village. I had been on visits with my parents, but never without them, and I was really looking forward to Fiona and I being on our own together. We were great friends and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.
‘Murders?’ I asked ghoulishly.
‘No, dear. Killings.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘The police think it’s an animal – perhaps even an animal that has escaped from a zoo and gone wild. It’s already attacked two locals.’
Eventually, however, after a great deal of persuasion, I won her round by saying that we wouldn’t roam about in the forest at all, but would call a taxi to take us into the town. ‘But are you still going out alone?’ I asked protectively.
‘Well –’
‘You see. Why don’t you call a taxi?’
‘I like to walk. To be independent.’ An impatient note came into Aunt Jane’s voice. ‘And no animal gone wild is going to scare me off,’ she added fiercely. ‘They say I ought to have a dog to protect me but –’ her voice softened – ‘I’ve adopted a cat. Lovely, sleek, gracious animal. She’s real company for me.’
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark Page 6