[Brenda & Effie 05] - Bride That Time Forgot

by Paul Magrs

  ‘See fit to keep you informed . . . !’

  ‘You know what I am. You know what my duties are. There are certain things I need to know about. And I can see that I am going to have to take, erm, appropriate action.’

  Right. I’ve had it with him. That’s quite enough. I put him down at once, yelling: ‘You can stuff it, you arrogant old sod.’ I don’t care if it’s the sherry talking. ‘I don’t have to tell you absolutely everything, do I?’

  ‘Brenda, wait!’

  ‘What did you think I was going to do? Drop my best friend right in it? All right, so she’s shacked up with Alucard. Prince of the Bloody Undead. All right? So now you know. Happy now?’

  I stomp away, seething. I catch Effie’s eye as I stalk across the corner of the lit-up dance floor, and she looks alarmed at my obviously furious demeanour.

  In the ladies’ lavs I splash some water on my face, careful not to ruin my make-up. I touch it up delicately and sigh as I stare into my own face. Why did I lose my temper so badly? When usually it takes so long to wind me up.

  Henry was just doing his job. Quizzing and cross-questioning and getting to the heart of the mystery. Ooh, but he made me mad. Criticising me! Like he has the right!

  Outside the lavs there’s a dark, calm little vestibule, featuring a console table with a spray of lilies, a rather lovely watercolour of Sheila Manchu in her prime, and a comfy chair. I’m sitting there, catching my breath back and steeling myself to apologise to Henry, when I notice Robert flitting about.

  I’m about to yell out and give him a piece of my mind about blabbing all my news and sensitive information to Henry. But then I see that Robert has got company. He’s holding some other fella by the hand. He’s drawing him into a dimly lit corner round the back of the bar.

  Now I’m trapped here, and it’s as if I’m spying on them. I give a discreet cough, to let them know I’m here, but it’s too late now. They carry on as if they’re alone, these two smitten lads. They’re having a bit of a kiss and a cuddle in a corner where they think no one will see.

  Robert’s really going for it with this young man. You’d think he’d not been near a fella in months.

  If one of them looked up right now, they’d see me sitting here with my handbag on my lap and all my mascara repair work melting and my wig in tatters, like some peeping-tom madwoman golem.

  I try to look away. But then realise that I can’t. I am transfixed by the sight of these two kissing boys. And why?

  Because Robert’s companion has a curious look about him. His flesh seems strangely pale, almost greenish in this weird nightclub lighting. And I recognise this young man who’s suddenly so fond of Robert.

  It’s the boy from The Spooky Finger. Gila. The assistant of Marjorie Staynes. And Robert’s hands are all over him.

  Oh dear. Robert. You and me and Effie as well.

  We all get into things a bit too deep. Especially with the wrong type of fellas. Isn’t that the truth?

  I don’t find it too hard to forgive Henry for his probing and his crossness. It is Christmas, after all. And he in turn forgives me for my outburst on the dance floor at the Miramar. When we walk woozily home that night through the streets of Whitby, we talk it over.

  ‘No wonder you’re touchy,’ he says. ‘After all you’ve been through while I’ve been away.’

  I nod and smile. I try to put out of my mind the fact that I saw Robert snogging that strange boy. Or that my best friend Effie’s throwing herself away on a fiendish bloodsucker. Right now I want to be enjoying the season and the company of this wonderful man.

  I do think he’s a wonderful man, after all. I thought perhaps I’d exaggerated his charms during his absence. Perhaps I had romanticised him. But you know what? Henry Cleavis makes me feel safe. It’s a long time since any man’s managed to do that for me. We link arms as we cross town and descend the sharp sloping streets. He’s a fair bit shorter than me, which makes linking tricky, but the thought is there.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘what are we going to do this Christmas? Who are we going to see? What are we going to eat and drink?’

  I laugh at his eagerness and start to unveil my plans. Nothing very spectacular: a goose and a ham and some old movies and silly hats. I don’t want much excitement. Just restfulness and fun. As for who we shall see, there’ll be the usual round of friends that I’ve made these past couple of years in Whitby.

  ‘And Effie?’ he says. ‘Do you think she’ll join us?’

  ‘Who knows?’ I shrug. ‘Hard to tell with that one these days. But I hope she will.’

  ‘And Alucard,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘I wonder if we’ll see him at all . . .’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I muse. ‘I don’t think he makes much of Christmas, as a rule.’

  Henry looks at me with a sudden gleam in his eye. ‘We should invite them. Round yours, perhaps . . . or out for dinner, maybe? What do you think, Brenda? I hate to think of you and Effie having this distance between you. It isn’t right.’

  I’m surprised to hear his suggestion. I’m pleased, too. ‘It’s a nice idea. . .’

  ‘Just because her fella is who he is doesn’t mean that there has to be any tension round the table. People shouldn’t tiptoe round and avoid seeing each other, just because she’s hooked up with a . . . erm, you know . . . a dodgy undead manfriend.’

  I nod firmly. ‘You’re right! You’re quite right, Henry.’

  ‘So we should organise that. A little dinner. A foursome.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Let’s do that.’

  Now we’re at the top of our street. There’s a pale glow from the snow, almost lilac under that winter sky. The shadows are velvety, like dark chocolate. Christmas is coming now, and I’ve got someone here beside me to make my plans with. Lovely plans.

  It’s such a relief – for once – not to be on my own.

  Effie’s Christmas

  23 December

  Dear Kristoff,

  I’ve never written a letter to you before. Not one I’ve sent. I’ve got a heap of them from your last absence. I put them away in a box somewhere. I’d never show you them. When you’re here, there’s always so much going on. We barely stop to draw breath, do we? Such excitement. What larks.

  My life was so stultifyingly dull. It was in a rut. I was going nowhere. But with you by my side it’s different. You make me feel like I could go anywhere, do anything.

  I’ve seen my so-called friends giving me sideways glances. They’ve been eyeing me up and down. Suspicion on their faces. Bemusement. Puzzlement. Perplexity. What’s going on with her? How can she look so good? She’s over seventy and yet she’s glowing. Her skin’s so pink, so fresh. Her wrinkles have dropped off her. It’s like someone’s plumped her up. Got her circulation going once more.

  It’s all down to you, my dear. I’ve not felt as good as this in decades. I feel fizzy and light like Prosecco. Zesty as a tarte au citron.

  And somehow now the rest of my life seems ill-fitting and strange to me. The petty concerns that used to weigh so heavily. The trifling miseries that beset me so. My friends and the way they chunter on. My erstwhile friends. They irritate me now, truth be told. Brenda won’t shut up. She goes on and on even though she must see me rolling my eyes and looking impatient.

  ‘Effie’s not in the Christmas mood,’ Robert said the other day, trying to be funny. Who does he think he is? Little upstart. Who’s he to judge? What’s he got to do with anything?

  He’s muscling in on Brenda’s investigations. He’s far too keen on helping out. We must watch him, my dear. He’s been helping Brenda find the bodies. It was he who discovered one of your Walkers. That little nancy boy was straight down the cop shop. We should have put him out of the way before now.

  Ah, but you don’t care any more, do you, my love? You’re way past caring. See? How talking to you, I forget? It slips my mind, what they’ve done.

  And I remind myself and am overwhelmed with bitterness once again.

>   Look what they have done to us, my dear. Those finks and nancies and that dreadful woman’s boyfriend. They have torn us apart again. We have no one on our side. No one cares about us. They don’t believe in our love. Won’t credit it. They would never leave us alone. We weren’t destined for a peaceful life.

  As soon as Henry Cleavis appeared in town, I knew our cosy life was ruined. The likes of him, he’d never believe us. We could protest that we were doing nothing wrong. We could tell him that the Walkers come to us and not the other way around. We could tell him that no one got bitten who didn’t ask for it. But the likes of him never listen. Not him with his Van Helsing fixation and his bag of chilling toys.

  Brenda, the foolish woman. She allowed that killer into her house. She can’t see through Cleavis and how he uses her. He thinks nothing of her. She’s just another monster to him. He’d slay her in a flash if he thought she’d lost her usefulness to him. As it is, she’s a magnet. She’s like a portal through which the monsters are delivered to him. And she can’t see it. All she sees is that there’s a fella bothering about her. Smarming round her. Taking her out in the evening to the Miramar or that Christmas do in Mrs Claus’s ballroom.

  But I don’t know why I’m thinking about Brenda. Forget her. I want nothing more to do with the woman. She’s burnt her boats now. There’s no going back. Silly old cow. How could she think I’d ever forgive her? What was she thinking of? To trick me like that. Her friend. Her partner in crime. We’ve been through so much.

  Was she really so envious of my happiness? Is that it? And so, when Cleavis suggested the idea – the wicked idea - Brenda leapt at the chance. Yes, oh yes. Let’s do it, Henry. That’s a marvellous plan. And Effie will thank us in the end, won’t she? She’ll see the sense in it. She needs saving from herself, she does.

  Ach. I can see the giant, cretinous woman nodding and grinning as Cleavis outlined his horrible plan. Oh yes. How clever. Two birds with one stone. No more Walkers. No more fuss for Effie. Effie can go back to being a quiet old spinster. No more fun for Effie. No more love in her life. Love only disrupts. Shakes up the old order. Let’s put her back in her place. Let’s pretend we’re doing this for the good of everyone, Henry Cleavis.

  So they were drawing up their plans against us, my dear. Scheming against us. Smiling and scheming at the same time.

  I call myself an intelligent woman. I’m a fool. I should have known they were up to something when they started talking to me at the Christmas Hotel that night. My mind was elsewhere. I’d been to see Angela Claus for a long talk in her boudoir. My thoughts were buzzing elsewhere. Brenda and Cleavis barrelled into me when I returned to the dance floor. What about dinner? What about a posh dinner out the next night? Casa Diodati’s the fanciest place in town. What about making up a foursome and going there, eh?

  A foursome? They meant you, my love. I nodded. Like I say, I was distracted. And they looked so pleased. Brenda – damn her, now I think about it – she took me aside in the ballroom and told me how much she feared we were drifting apart. How pleased she was that we’d be having dinner together like this. With our fellas. Our men friends.

  ‘The old gang seems to be breaking up,’ she said sadly. Well, I can’t stick sentimentality. And it’s hardly an old gang, is it? She was getting all soppy about our plans for leaving Whitby, my love. I had made a mistake in letting her see me wobble, a few nights previously. I had expressed a few doubts I was having about leaving this town. But I was wrong in my thinking, and I was wrong to voice my fears to Brenda. She had taken them much too seriously, those silly things I had said. Now she wanted me to think she was concerned about me. But she was just thinking of herself. She was selfishly sorry and furious about our coming trip to the continent. Well, she’d certainly seen a clear way to putting paid to that, hadn’t she? Scheming old besom that she is.

  She meant Robert, too. He’d slipped out of her controlling grasp. Just then he was off with his new boyfriend. The lizardy-looking boy from The Spooky Finger. There’s something strange about that lad from the shop. I can’t quite place it. But Robert was certainly carried away with him and it quite turned my stomach, to be blunt.

  And they dare to dub your vices unnatural, my dear!

  All the while at the Christmas do, I was aware of the shrewd eyes of Cleavis on me. During the hokey-cokey, when he grabbed my left arm and Brenda my right, and we put our right legs in, and our right legs out, etc., etc. He was pinching my firm flesh between his fingers. He was examining the amazing freshness of my complexion. He knew I had been rejuvenated. I have been enlivened by the blood of the young. Of course I have. It’s plain to see.

  As I felt his pinprick eyes upon me, I was glad that our escape route was clear. Our plans were made. We’d be away from this town quite soon.

  But that wasn’t to be, was it, my love?

  24 December

  Dear Kristoff,

  Now they all want to do Christmas together. Well, they can go to hell. I’ve got no interest. How can I sit round with that lot, in party hats, pretending like nothing has happened?

  Brenda’s a big fat hypocrite anyway. She doesn’t believe in God or anything to do with it. What did she say when we first met? ‘Your god and my god aren’t the same thing, Effie.’ That sanctimonious tone of hers. Going on all mysterious. And it turns out she doesn’t have a soul, and well, we all know why, don’t we?

  So, no thanks. They can shove what invites they want through my front door, but I won’t be joining them at the Miramar or round Brenda’s to take part in the festivities. How can I? Why would I? How can they think I’d ever talk to any of them again?

  After what they have done.

  I’m a lonely old woman. It’s like Mrs Claus said to me, just today. I went over to the Christmas Hotel again this afternoon. Pulled my snood right up around my face and the fur collar of my coat, just in case anyone clapped eyes on me. I was taking her a little present round. Nothing much. Small brooch, a pewter frog, wrapped in tissue paper. I thought it was unusual, that she’d like it. And she did. She seemed surprised and touched that I was there, in her private sitting room, giving her a gift. She even started blubbing.

  Anyway, when I told her a little of what had been going on, she couldn’t believe it. Her eyes flashed. She came over all defensive towards me.

  ‘I’ll never get over this,’ I told her, and I realised with a shock she’s the first person I’ve talked about my feelings with.

  ‘I’ve no wonder!’ Angela Claus burst out, dewlaps quivering with sympathetic rage. ‘How could they do this to you? Brenda’s meant to be your friend! Your best friend!’

  ‘Not any more,’ I sighed, and downed the sweet sherry I’d been given. Angela Claus’s fire was raging in the hearth. Too merrily, too hot. I wondered what I was doing there, deep in the heart of the Christmas Hotel. This woman used to be my enemy. Life has become so switched about recently. So complicated.

  The huge old woman looked me in the eye and reached for one of my hands with one of her podgy claws. I recoiled only briefly before holding hands with her. It still feels so strange. I’m not sure how I really feel about this new connection between us. I question it every day . . . but I know with every fibre of my raddled being that it is true. We have a very real bond, this dreadful woman and I.

  Then she said to me, ‘You have every right to be bitter, Effie. Just you remember that.’

  ‘Oh!’ I gasped, because it’s not the kind of thing that people say. It was like receiving permission to feel bad. Almost, to revel in it. I thanked her. Angela Claus knew just what to say to me. I sat there a bit longer in her festively trimmed parlour, as she chatted of this and that and her Christmas preparations, which were, truth be told, no different from those for the other fifty-one Christmases she puts on every year.

  I sat there letting my feelings of bitterness overwhelm me. And it felt quite healthy, my love. It really did.

  When I left the Christmas Hotel to stomp home through the fresh-falling
snow, I felt cleansed by my bitterness. I was refreshed by my ire. My fury was scorching through my veins, making me feel light-headed. I was tripping along, sure of purpose.

  I was ravenous as well, I realised.

  The streets were quiet.

  You taught me well. Our few short weeks hunting together. You said I learned quickly. I had a natural instinct for it. This was a skill I was destined to become expert at, you said. A fine practitioner. A huntress in the night.

  Fancy that! Me!

  That evening, leaving Angela Claus sitting by her fire, I took the rage and gall in my heart into the dark streets and sought out my prey.

  I have a particular yen for young men. You noticed that. You were amused by my choices. Young men in their twenties. You watched me lure them with old-lady wiles into dark alleys and shady doorways. You watched me set myself up as a harmless old biddy needing help, directions, a hand with her keys. Or pretending to be an apt victim for a mugging. That was a good way of reeling them in too, as I lurked in quiet streets in the night.

  Now, of course, replenished and rejuvenated as I am – and it’s impossible to ignore the fact of my wonderful transformation – I can lure them in other ways. Who’d have believed it? Sexy Effryggia! I’m no dolly bird, of course, but I’m finding that for the first time in my life . . . I’m actually turning heads.

  Well, that night I slaked my unnatural thirst and made no bones about it. Didn’t feel guilty, didn’t feel much of anything at all. It was all about expedience. Like an ovenready meal, rather than a feast. Young fellow down by the arcades, lingering late where he oughtn’t. Obviously up to no good. His blood was hot and savoury.

  I’m an addict, of course. You warned me, my love, didn’t you?

  I felt woozy. The young man had been drinking and there was something funny in his system. Marijuana or something. He’d been having a naughty smoke. It sent me a little strange as I nipped into the Demeter for a gin and tonic with the boys before home.