His Vampyrrhic Bride (20 page)

Local people must have had an intense relationship with the river over the centuries. They’d have needed the Lepping in order to survive – they’d have caught fish to eat, drunk its water, and even used its strength to power the water mills. If the river possessed a mind, would it feel snubbed now that they’d turned their backs on it? The thought, though it was an odd one, seemed to have a potent significance. The river wouldn’t let people ignore it. Every five years it rose angrily out of its channel and flooded the village.

Tom couldn’t help but compare the river to the pagan gods. Once, both were needed by the people of the valley. Both served a vital purpose. And now both the river and the primeval deities were rejected as being useless to modern human beings. Yet what if gods such as Thor did continue to exist – just as this river existed? And although the Viking god didn’t exist in the actual landscape, what if he continued to flow through
our emotional landscape
? That was to say, Thor lived inside us, yet hidden from view. It was easy to imagine that being scorned, and then ignored by successive generations, he would be angered to the point of insanity. Wouldn’t he brood over his rejection? Wouldn’t he draw up his plans for revenge against humanity?

Tom took a deep breath. Perhaps that deep, bass rumble of boulders in the river had prompted those strange thoughts. To prevent himself falling back into that disquieting mindset, he started walking.

Tom needed to visit Chester Kenyon in order to have a conversation that was as important as it was overdue. Then he decided he would heed the war veteran’s warning about getting out of Danby-Mask – river levels were rising fast. And all the time the angry rumbling continued. It sounded like an argument of the gods.

Tom headed in the direction of the Kenyon workshop. Already, the floodwaters followed along the pavement. So far the water was only an inch deep. But he knew full well the worst was yet to come.

C
hester Kenyon boiled the kettle for coffee. Tom produced the cherry pie. Meanwhile, raindrops hit the workshop’s roof with a hard clatter.

Tom liked Chester. He didn’t want to fall out with him over Nicola Bekk. He suspected that Chester felt the same way. The man kept his lips pressed together as he poured boiling water into the mugs. He looked like someone who really wanted to speak, only he knew whatever he did say would come out all wrong and make the situation worse.

So what is the situation?
Tom asked himself as he put the pie on a plate.
Chester’s known Nicola since childhood. He believes she’s mentally retarded and can’t speak more than two words in a row, and that she lives with her deranged mother in the forest. Chester worries about me. He thinks I’m going to be in trouble with the police because I’m seeing Nicola. That could be the case if Nicola really was mentally ill. But she isn’t. Nicola is perfectly normal. Hell, she’s perfect. Totally perfect.

Neither had spoken more than a dozen words to each other since Tom walked into the workshop. Chester had continued work on a farmer’s tractor, and after several minutes of that he’d gone to make the coffee. Tom would have left if it wasn’t for the fact that Chester had put two mugs by the kettle.

Chester set the coffees down on the workbench, stared Tom in the eye for a moment, then sighed. ‘Tom. Can we talk without you blowing a valve?’

‘Are you saying I’ve got a temper?’

He sighed again. ‘Temper times ten.’

‘I hadn’t noticed. I always thought I was one of the mild-mannered types.’

‘In your dreams, Tom. Sometimes you make erupting volcanoes look tame.’

‘Only when people are deliberately not listening to what I’m telling them.’

‘You’ve got a temper, bud. A ten-megaton temper.’ He examined the cherry pie. ‘You should take that back to the baker’s. A rat or something’s taken a bite.’

‘That something was me.’

Chester smiled. ‘Yeah, likewise. I can resist anything but temptation.’

‘Wilde?’

‘No, I’ve just got a bloody monster of an appetite.’

‘No, I meant Wilde . . . Oscar Wilde. The “resist anything but temptation” line?’

Chester shrugged a beefy shoulder. ‘Oscar Wilde? Does he come from Leppington? They’re a strange lot from there; I never have anything to do with folk from Leppington. Neither should you.’

This was Chester’s jokey way of breaking the ice. ‘Now that we’re talking properly,’ Tom said, ‘we need dishes for the pie.’

‘Half each?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I get the half that hasn’t had the bite out of it?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Alright.’ Chester’s eyes gleamed at the big cherry pie with its tempting golden crust. ‘You know what’ll go with this?’

‘Some cream?’

‘Clotted cream. Ma’s got some in the fridge. I’ll be right back.’

Chester headed for the Kenyon family’s house, which stood behind the workshop.

Tom had been working on a plan. He’d ask the big man to come along to Mull-Rigg Hall. The rotten weather was a pain, because he’d decided to hold a barbecue. But never mind. He’d persuade Chester to meet up with Nicola over a couple of beers. Chester would find out that she was perfectly normal. Eventually, he’d learn that Mrs Bekk was to blame. She’d terrified Nicola with stories about the villagers being child-killers and so on when she was a young girl. No wonder Nicola Bekk had been unable to speak at school. Nicola had been terrified to the point of being struck speechless. That had led to her growing increasingly isolated from the other children.

Tom sipped his coffee. He was enthusiastic about his plan. No obstacles stood in his way now. He’d persuade Chester that Nicola was one hundred per cent normal.

Chester jogged in through the door, shaking the rain from his hair. ‘Cats and dogs.’ He laughed.

‘Aren’t you worried about the flood?’

‘Oh, the Five Year Sop? That’s what they call it round here.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Nah. We’ve never been flooded here at the workshop. The water gets into the bottom half of the graveyard and no further.’ He clinked the dishes down on to the workbench. ‘Though it makes you wonder what those graves are like when the ground’s waterlogged. All those coffins filling up with water. All those bones and body parts getting all juicy. Masses of wet skulls. It’d look like the cherries in that pie.’

‘Thank you for that image.’ Tom smiled. ‘I’ve a good mind to give you the half with my bite out of it.’

‘No way. There’s the cream, help yourself.’

‘Cheers.’

Chester grunted, ‘Uh, there’s an old blanket in the store room. Will you do me a favour and get it? I’ve been working on that tractor, and I’ve got oil all over my backside for some reason. Dad’ll go krang if I sit on these chairs and get them clarted with oil.’ He grinned. ‘Clarted. A Yorkshire word for getting coated or covered.’ He dipped his finger into cherry syrup oozing from the pie. ‘Ooops . . . . just got myself clarted with cherry.’

‘In the store room, you said?’ Tom asked.

‘Yeah, through the door in the corner.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll cut the pie. That way I avoid the bit you’ve gnawed on.’

Tom opened the door and clicked on the light. ‘Where did you say the blanket was?’

‘In a box . . . Back of the store.’

Tom stepped inside. ‘Are you sure? There’s only bits of old engine in here.’

The door slammed shut behind him.

‘Hey!’ Tom laughed, thinking that Chester was playing a joke. ‘You’re not getting that pie all to yourself.’

A key turned in the lock at the other side.

‘Sorry, Tom,’ Chester said through the panels. ‘You’re staying here until you promise me you’re never going to see Nicola Bekk ever again.’

H
e’s actually locked me in here. Chester’s supposed to be my friend, and he’s gone and locked me up in this stinking room.

Tom Westonby stared in disbelief at the thick wooden door. Surely, there’d be the click of the lock, the door would swing open, and there’d be Chester’s broad smiling face. After that, they’d laugh, Tom would playfully thump Chester on the arm, then they’d get back to that cherry pie topped with delicious clotted cream.

Only, the door stayed locked.

Tom rattled the handle. The thing was covered in rust and cobwebs. Spiders scurried over the door panels. They weren’t used to human visitors in their fusty-smelling domain.

‘Hey, Chester. A joke’s a joke, OK? Time to let me out.’

A muffled voice came back: ‘I’m serious about this, Tom. You’re my friend. OK, it sounds soft and dopey, but I care about you.’

‘So unlock this damn door.’

‘You can come out when you promise you’ll break this thing off with Nicola Bekk—’

‘Hey, that’s nothing to do with you!’

‘—and you swear on your mother’s life that you’ll never see Nicola again.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Nicola Bekk isn’t right in the head. I’m sorry for her. I saw the hell she went through at school, but she’s trouble. You must tell her it’s over.’

‘It’s her mother that has the problems. Talk to Nicola, and you’ll see for yourself that she’s a lovely, warm-hearted person.’

‘No, Tom. Ask anyone. They’ll back me up. Nicola can’t even string more than a couple of words together, and—’

‘Let me
out
!’

‘—the police will arrest you. It’s against the law to have sex with someone who’s mentally defective.’

‘Mentally defective? Chester, when I get out of here I’m going to beat the crap out of you! Do you hear? I love Nicola!’

There was a pause. Tom could hear the crackle of rain on the iron roof. The smell of water even reached him here in this fusty little cell at the back of Chester’s workshop.

‘Chester,’ he shouted, ‘are you still there?’

‘Of course I am. I’m your friend, Tom.’

‘Then let me out.’

‘No.’

‘Chester. You damn idiot.’ Tom smashed a wooden crate with a single, furious kick. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

‘I’m going to leave you to slacken down.’

‘I don’t need to
slacken down
. I need to get out of here!’

‘Try to relax, Tom. We’ll talk about your infatuation with Nicola.’

‘Infatuation? Didn’t you hear? I love her.’

‘She’s got a hold over you.’

‘When I get out of here I’m going to punch you in the mouth!’

‘That’s another reason why I locked you in there. You might not realize it, Tom, but you’ve got an evil temper. I don’t want to end up in an ambulance.’

‘I’d never hurt you . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Haven’t I just threatened to punch him in the mouth?
He realized he’d been striding to and fro with his fists clenched.
Calm down . . . just get your temper under control. When Chester knows you’re not going to rip his head off, he’ll let you out.

Easier said than done. An inferno had broken out inside his stomach.
And the insulting description of Nicola?
That did it. Before he could stop himself he kicked the door. Not just once, either. At the fifth savage, full-blooded kick he forced himself to stop. Besides, the solid woodwork had suffered no more damage than a few scuff marks.

He tried to calm himself as he prowled the room. As he did so, he calculated his chances of getting out, other than through the door. He saw a window at one end, but that had iron bars over it. The room itself contained engine parts and a child’s red bike that leaned against one wall.

Tom intended to be perfectly reasonable. But the moment he opened his mouth sheer rage took over. He felt wronged, he felt betrayed.
Why does everyone want to interfere with my life? I’ve done nothing to hurt them. This isn’t fair. In fact, it’s cruel.
The sense of injustice infuriated him.

‘You can’t stop this!’ he shouted. ‘Do you hear? I’m getting married to Nicola Bekk! Nobody’s going to stop me. Not you! Not my parents! No one!’

I
n the storeroom, Tom Westonby’s anger gradually subsided.
OK
, he told himself,
Chester shouldn’t have locked me in here. But he thinks he’s trying to help. He’s convinced that he can persuade me to break up with Nicola. All I have to do is get Chester to meet her; he’ll realize she’s not crazy. Then everything will be alright.
Tom took a deep breath. He’d be scrupulously diplomatic now
. So no more yelling or kicking the door, OK?

‘Nice and easy does it,’ he murmured to himself.

A wise move right now would be to give Chester some space to cool down.
Soon Chester will see the absurdity of keeping his friend prisoner, won’t he? After all, he can’t keep me locked up in a workshop forever. DIY jails are the kind of thing neighbours notice before long.
Tom smiled. He felt his sense of humour trickling back.

‘We’ll be laughing about this in a few days,’ he said softly to himself. ‘Everything’s going to turn out fine.’

A rumble of thunder suggested that something disagreed.

For the next ten minutes he amused himself by exploring his cell. The door consisted of big old timbers that were hard as iron. The lock was a formidable piece of rustic steelwork, too, so no point in trying to break that. The fact that this place had been used as a strongroom in the past was forcibly reinforced when Tom found an old safe behind a heap of car doors. For a moment, he expected to see the glint of the Kenyon family treasure. What he did find in the unlocked safe were dozens of glass jars containing screws of all different sizes.

On top of the safe sat a huge jack. This monster of a device must have been used to raise trucks so the wheels could be changed. Tom wondered if he could use this big lump of steel to batter down the door. Tom worked out – he was proud of his biceps – but when he tried lifting the jack he could hardly budge the thing.

As he returned to the locked door he heard the rising wail of a siren.

Keeping his tone light, he called out, ‘Chester? What’s happening? Are we under missile attack, or something?’

Chester answered, in relaxed tones: ‘That’s the flood warning. The River Lepping must be breaking its banks.’