His Vampyrrhic Bride (10 page)

‘I wish I could do something worthwhile.’

‘They’re extremely dedicated.’ He lobbed his stick and felt an intense dismay when it went wide. His half caught fast on a patch of mud, leaving Nicola’s to drift away alone. The fate of his marooned stick appeared uncomfortably significant. He continued talking to mask his unease. ‘My mother and father are so dedicated to
giving
that I keep being told by other people that they are saints. You wouldn’t believe how much they do care. They’re devoting themselves to renovating Mull-Rigg Hall for Owen to inherit when he’s eighteen. My aunt’s will provided cash for the work, but giving and doing good is a quest for my parents.’

The outburst surprised Nicola. ‘You sound almost angry about it!’

‘This is going to sound so selfish, but I remember when I was a kid. We lived in Uganda, on this arid plain with millions of weird thorn trees. My mother and father worked for weeks to sink wells for the local population. When this fresh, sparkling water gushed out of the ground the villagers surrounded our house. They hugged and kissed my parents. I saw all these shining, happy faces of parents whose children would now be spared from God-awful parasitic infections. And I was so damn ripped up inside. Because I felt so guilty that I wanted things for me . . . you know what I’m saying? Like any other child, I wanted birthday treats, toys, computer games.’ The words spilled from his lips; his heart was pounding. He’d never revealed these feelings before. ‘You know, when I was ten, I asked for a new bike, just like kids do. Yet I felt so guilty and mean-spirited for wanting something for myself when my parents were saving thousands of lives. There I was, Nicola, just a little boy, and I was lying awake at night, hating myself. It got so bad that when I did get the bike I was too ashamed to ride it. Whenever I touched the handlebars it felt like touching something dirty. A child shouldn’t experience that level of guilt.’

‘When I was seven my mother told me I was fathered by Thor, the Viking god of thunder.’ She looked Tom in the eye. ‘It’s OK – laugh if you want to.’

‘I’m not laughing, Nicola.’

‘Everyone else does.’

‘I’m the son of two saints,’ he said with the ghost of a smile. ‘You’re the daughter of a god. I reckon we’re a good match.’

They didn’t speak for a while. Tom knew that the words they spoke to each other were gradually making their way deeper inside than was usual when people speak. As if there was some deep, sacred place of the heart for such an exchange of confidences to take root.

At last Nicola said, ‘I should go now.’

‘When shall we see each other again?’

Never.
He could almost hear that awful word ringing in his ears.

Instead, she patted the boulder. ‘Here – tomorrow.’

Tomorrow’s too far away,
he thought.
In fact, as they say: tomorrow never comes.
Tom said, ‘My parents are away until late. They’re taking Owen to the cinema. You could come over for a drink.’

She nodded.

‘Eight?’

‘Eight sounds good. Thank you, Tom.’

He took her hand to help her down from the boulder.

‘So . . .’ she said, ‘what’re your plans for the rest of the day?’

Being with you would be nice . . .
He resisted pitching the line; instead, he shrugged. ‘Oh, clearing more chairs out of the house.’

‘Those chairs are famous. I remember your aunt setting them out in rows on the lawn.’

‘Well, they haunt me. I have dreams about chairs. About being mugged by chairs. Being chased by man-eating chairs.’

‘Your aunt must have collected them for years.’

‘They fill Mull-Rigg Hall. The place is bursting with chairs. I’ve been stacking them in the garage.’

‘So you’re keeping them?’

‘Keeping them?’ Flippantly, he said, ‘I’m going to pile the things up then set fire to them.’

‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Her eyes widened in shock.

‘Try me. Ever since I started work on the house I’ve been plagued by those crap chairs.’

‘Those chairs aren’t crap.’ Ice crept into her voice. ‘I told you that Mrs Gibson held garden parties for the villagers, didn’t I? We’d never dare go while they were there. After they’d gone, though, your aunt would open the gate that leads to the forest and call us in.’ Her eyes became dreamy. ‘I remember once, when I was eight years old, the sun had started to set. Your aunt was talking to my mother. There must have been fifty chairs on the lawn. I went from one to the other, sitting in each. I pretended to be a different person in the audience. In one chair, I was the rich lady who fanned her face all the time. Then I was a Duchess who glared at everyone. Then I sat in the back row and pretended to be a serving girl who’d secretly crept in to listen to that amazing music, and who knew she’d get a beating from her mistress if she was found out.’ She smiled. ‘The only person I didn’t try to be was me.’

Tom Westonby returned to Mull-Rigg Hall and slotted a bottle of Greek wine into the fridge; he’d brought this back after visiting Chris a few weeks ago. Greek wine sometimes had a reputation for being as harsh as nail-varnish remover. This, however, was smooth as silk, with a bewitching taste of honey.

After that, he went to stare at the chairs in the garage. There were dozens of those brown wooden relics. He pictured himself piling the monstrosities up and setting them ablaze. All that old, volatile furniture would ignite in seconds. So, he set about moving those straight-backed chairs. He’d shifted so many of the things in the last few weeks he could easily carry four at a time out into the garden.

After he’d finished, he worked through his schedule of jobs, which included redecorating the ancient scullery. With the painting done, he showered, shaved, changed his clothes, and began setting the table for supper. As he prepared a spaghetti bolognese he switched on the television in the kitchen. The weather forecast warned there was a storm coming – an unusually ferocious one: ‘Areas at risk must prepare for flooding. There will be storm damage . . .’

The sky was clear here. A storm might be on its way, though it wouldn’t strike yet, that was a certainty.

Taking the wine from the fridge, he found himself thinking about Nicola. He pictured her as a child as she delighted in playing amongst the chairs on the lawn. All the villagers would have gone home by then. The little blonde girl would be alone in the garden. She’d happily sit in each chair in turn to pretend at being a grown-up: the stern duchess; the rich lady with the fan; the shy serving girl. After living alone with her mother in the isolated cottage, the sight of all those chairs set out as if for a concert must have been so exciting. And he remembered her comment about the evening she played on the lawn all those years ago: ‘
The only person I didn’t try to be was me.
’

He went to greet Nicola as she walked up the drive. She wore a calf-length white dress and sandals. The blonde hair had been brushed into soft waves.

‘Did you burn the chairs?’ she asked.

‘See for yourself.’ He led her round to the back lawn.

The chairs were as he’d left them. Set out in neat rows, as if for a concert.

She stopped dead. The sight astonished her.

‘Sit anywhere you want,’ he told her with a smile. ‘Only, promise me that you’ll be nobody else tonight. I want you to be Nicola Bekk.’

M
oonlight fell through the open window. Tom Westonby lay in bed with his hands behind his head. He gazed at a bright silver moon floating above the treetops.

He felt good. He felt wonderful.

Three hours ago he’d sat out in the garden with Nicola. Seeing those chairs lined up on the lawn had evoked such happy memories from her childhood – back in that golden time when his aunt had held garden parties. Nicola had been in such a good mood that they’d spent the evening talking and laughing.

Two hours ago he’d walked her home. They’d spent a long time at the archway that led into the garden, the one engraved with the Viking dragon. That hadn’t been a time for conversation, or for laughing; instead, he’d put his arms around her in the dark. The kisses were long ones. Only eventually, and reluctantly, had they stepped back from another.

Tom had watched Nicola walk to the cottage door. They’d waved to each other. Her smile had fixed itself so deeply inside of him he could see it now.

He cast a glance at his clock-radio. One a.m. He was too happy to sleep. Even as he recalled playing catch around the chairs on the lawn with Nicola, he found himself replaying those words of the superstitious diver: ‘
It’s like I’m being given one last good time before I die . . . one last party spree before they nail down my coffin lid.’
Tom silenced the doom-laden thought by saying a name aloud that meant so much to him: ‘Nicola . . . Nicola Bekk.’

What did kill his smile was the voice echoing up the stairs: ‘Mum . . . where are you?’

Tom sat up in bed. His parents had returned from the cinema at ten thirty, just as he was ready to walk Nicola back home. He knew Owen had gone straight to bed.

‘Mum, I can’t find you.’

‘That’s Owen,’ Tom murmured in surprise.

Quickly, Tom pulled on his jeans. As he padded out on to the landing a draught of air told him the front door had been opened.

‘Owen,’ he whispered. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Late for school.’ The ten-year-old’s voice sounded odd: a lifeless monotone.

Puzzled, Tom moved along the landing. His parents’ door was ajar. He glimpsed heads on pillows; they were fast asleep.

‘I’m late,’ Owen intoned. ‘Mum, where are you?’

Tom silently headed downstairs. Owen’s mother had died of heart-failure months ago, and he wouldn’t be starting school again until the new term; all of which suggested that the boy was both walking and talking in his sleep. Was there any wonder, considering the trauma he’d been through?

‘Owen?’ He kept his voice low; no point in waking his parents. ‘Owen, come back inside.’

Owen didn’t seem to be listening. Although, at that moment, Tom was confident he’d quickly catch up and bring him back to the house. He was halfway through the door when he realized he’d nothing on his feet. He quickly pulled on his shoes, which were just inside the hallway, then he ran lightly along the drive. The moon cast plenty of light, clearly revealing the gates, the road, and the edge of the forest.

No sign of the boy.

‘Owen,’ Tom called. ‘Owen, come back.’

A rustle of branches suggested that Owen was heading along the path to the river. Tom ran across the road. A second later he plunged into the deep shadow of the trees. The rustling continued. Owen must be running, too, otherwise Tom would have caught up with him. He loped along the path, low branches catching his hair. Now he’d entered the forest he could barely see. The moonlight hardly penetrated the leaves at all.

‘Owen,’ he called. ‘Come back. It’s not safe out here at night.’

No reply. Tom ran faster. The roar of the rapids grew louder. He pictured steep banks. So easy for a boy to slip down: especially if he was walking in his sleep. There were deep channels in the river, and the water rushing round boulders created whirlpools. A ten-year-old would all too easily be sucked down.

Then another noise . . . a deep, throaty rumble. Tom tilted his head as the rumble came again. The weather forecast had predicted a storm. From the muttering of that thunder it was on its way.

Tom followed the line of the path the best he could. More than once he blundered off it in the gloom. Immediately, tree trunks closed in. They were like intimidating thugs trying to block his way.

‘Owen! Where are you?’

Owen didn’t answer. The thunder did, however. That rumble grew louder, like the sound of bombs falling on houses. He found himself off the path again. Nettles stung his bare hands as he brushed by. Suddenly, a noise.

‘Owen?’

A heavy body surged through the bushes: certainly something too big to be even remotely Owen-like. In the deep shadow, he glimpsed a silhouette. What he heard above the crunch of sticks was a flurry of whispers, as if a dozen people were urgently hissing comments at one another.

The strangeness of those whispers sent cold shivers down his back. Instantly, his diver’s instinct for self-preservation slammed through him. In moments, he’d managed to scramble back to the path. His breath came in spurts; his heart was smashing like crazy against his ribs.

No. Don’t run away.
His need to find Owen overrode the inner alarm that screamed DANGER!

Straightaway, he plunged into the trees again, heading in the direction of that object crashing through vegetation. What if Owen was in there with that thing? The boy might be hurt. But what
was
that thing? Surely, it must be big . . . damn big. Sticks snapped under its weight. The underbrush shook with surprising violence as a heavy body surged powerfully through.

Tom scanned his memory for big animals that were native to England. Maybe a stag? Or even a wild boar – those heavyweight brutes could be dangerous.

As he stumbled towards the beast that crashed its way through the forest, he forced his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, and he glimpsed the creamy flesh of a tree trunk that marked where a large branch had been ripped away above his head.

Hell, this was a big animal.

The thunder came again. This time a great, rolling roar: mimicking the bellow of a huge, hungry beast.

Then the scream. A boy’s scream. High and thin, and full of terror.

Tom hurtled through the trees. The lumbering beast moved just ahead of him. He found himself knowing to the core of his being that he’d have to confront it.

Not just confront it.
Fight it!
The thing was attacking Owen.

He burst into a clearing. Moonlight poured down; a cascade of brilliant white.

Owen stood on open ground. His mouth hung open. His eyes were staring in shock. They looked like big glittering balls of glass in his head. Just the expression on the boy’s face delivered a stab of fear into Tom’s stomach.

Oh my God, what’s happened to him?

He rushed forward. In the light of the moon, he saw the sandy soil had been gouged. There seemed to be a messy confusion of footprints, as if a group of people had gathered here. Near the ripped-up patch of soil there was a line of single footprints. He saw the shapely line of a bare foot. Individual toe prints were clearly visible.