Her Vampyrrhic Heart, Page 3

  Tom Westonby turned off the TV and carried his soup into the lounge. He saw that a piece of paper had been pushed under the front door. Since he’d only used the back door after returning from the river, he hadn’t noticed it before now. He picked up the paper. Written there in forceful handwriting were the words:

  Mr Westonby. My name is June Valko. I need to speak to you urgently regarding events five years ago. I think we have many important issues in common that have impacted on our lives. Please call me as soon as you can. Believe me, this is important.

  A telephone number had been added to the bottom of the letter.

  Tom murmured, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Crunching the paper into a ball, he threw it into the fireplace. A month didn’t go by when he wasn’t visited by self-appointed ghost hunters, vampire slayers and monster hunters. Tom would have nothing to do with them. Wouldn’t even listen to what they had to say. What engulfed his life five years ago was hugely important to him – and hugely personal. He wasn’t going to be portrayed as some lunatic on television so someone could earn a fistful of cash.

  Tom had no appetite for the soup now. He hated it when his privacy wasn’t just invaded but trampled on like this. He closed his eyes and listened to the angry beat of his heart. Why don’t they leave me alone? What do I have to do to escape the gossip and the finger-pointing?

  SEVEN

  Owen Westonby and Kit Bolter sat on bales of straw. The pair were in a barn that belonged to Jez’s family. Jez had been called away to help his father with a recalcitrant computer.

  Kit examined the metal cylinder. ‘Let me get this straight. You found the pod by the river?’

  ‘Pod? It’s a cylinder.’

  Kit shook his head. ‘It’s a pod in the sense that it contains an object or objects.’

  Owen grinned. ‘So you’re going to get all scientific on me?’

  ‘You asked me to find out what this does.’

  ‘OK, pod it is.’ Jokingly he made the introductions. ‘Mr Pod, meet Kit Bolter. Kit Bolter, meet Mr Pod.’

  ‘Just plain “pod” will do.’ He poked a pencil through a split in the casing. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Some. Where did you find it exactly?’

  ‘Oh, up the valley near the old footbridge.’

  ‘How was it lying?’

  ‘Lying? Is that important?’

  ‘Might be.’

  Owen thought for a moment. ‘Sort of pushed into the soil. Like it had fallen from a plane and the impact had embedded Mr Pod into the muck.’

  ‘Or a heavy weight had crushed it into the earth?’

  ‘Yeah, s’pose so.’

  ‘The pod’s been crushed.’ Kit indicated the mangled casing. ‘Whatever did that was well heavy, mega-heavy.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Did you see any tyre tracks?’

  ‘You mean, if it had been run over?’

  Kit nodded.

  Owen laughed. ‘You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’d like to get into forensics. This is good practice.’

  ‘Really? You in the police?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, why not?’ Owen nodded. ‘So what have you deduced, Sherlock?’

  ‘If you’re going to take the piss … you find out what this is.’ He dropped the pod on to Owen’s lap before walking out of the barn.

  Owen sighed. Kit Bolter must have been fathered by an alien or something. His family were notorious for getting into all kinds of trouble, which usually led to visits from the police. Kit Bolter, on the other hand, had a sensitive, thoughtful nature. That sixteen-year-old with the pale blue eyes and gentle manner must be a foundling.

  Owen went to find Kit. When he caught up with him in the farmyard he apologized, insisting he’d been joking. ‘I’m a thoughtless goon,’ Owen confessed.

  ‘You are,’ Kit agreed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made fun of you.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Where’s the pod?’

  The cylinder that Owen had found that morning fascinated Kit. He’d seen a mystery there and wanted to find some answers. They returned to the barn. This time Owen sat quietly while Kit took the floor.

  ‘This is an instrument pod,’ he told Owen. ‘There’s electronics inside, and the pod must have been contained in a housing of some kind. See? There’s no sign of weathering even though it looks as if it was designed for outside use.’

  ‘Could it be part of a missile from a military aircraft?’

  ‘Doubtful. If you hold it up to the light you can see a USB plug, so it’s meant to feed data into a computer.’

  ‘Any idea what the pod is?’

  ‘Could be a roadside speed camera. Maybe someone tried to destroy the evidence to avoid being fined for speeding.’

  ‘So it’s just a load of busted crap now.’

  ‘The pod’s in a bad state, but there’s hope.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘If I get the electronics out, and replace the USB plug, I can probably transfer the data stored here on to my computer.’

  ‘Then we’ll find out what it’s been filming?’

  ‘With luck, yes.’

  ‘Great. How long until we see what’s stored in there?’

  ‘A day or so.’

  Jez suddenly bounded through the door. ‘Surf’s up!’

  ‘What do you mean, surf’s up?’

  ‘That’s what surfers yell when there are waves to go surfing, don’t they?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘He’s crazy.’

  Jez grinned. ‘My Dad’s going to the village. We’ve got time to grab the truck and drive up the valley and back.’

  Kit shuddered. ‘No way. We’ll get ourselves killed.’

  Jez brandished the truck’s keys. ‘Come on, no time to waste.’

  Owen followed, shouting with excitement. At the barn door he paused. ‘What are you waiting for, Kit?’

  ‘I’ll sit this one out, thank you very much. I’m going to take Mr Pod apart.’ As an afterthought he shouted, ‘And when you get yourselves killed I’m not going to your funerals!’

  EIGHT

  Confession, they say, is good for the soul. Tom Westonby couldn’t say whether the statement held a profound truth or not. However, the words ran through his head as he sat on the sofa with a tablet computer in his hands. He began to read what he’d written there. His confession. His De Profundis. Tom didn’t know the exact meaning of De Profundis, other than it suggested a comprehensive outpouring of the heart. A baring of the soul.

  Tom Westonby spent many a night tapping words into the tablet. He’d recorded as accurately as he possibly could what happened to him five years ago, and the loss of his bride, Nicola Bekk. Those were dark chapters in his life. What he wrote here was for his own eyes only. He certainly didn’t want anyone to see this particular document.

  The corner of the screen showed the time as four p.m. Outside, the forest lay in darkness. Through the window he glimpsed more snowflakes drifting past. A fire blazed in the hearth of the ancient cottage. Something told him that this winter would be a harsh one, so he’d made sure he’d gathered plenty of logs for the fire. If the blizzards came down with a vengeance, he could be trapped here for days.

  Tom switched his attention back to the tablet. The lines written there detailed his first meeting with Nicola Bekk, when he’d seen her in the garden at midnight. That was the time she dipped her bare feet into the pond, while smiling with the sheer bliss of it all.

  He read and reread his De Profundis as if it had become part of a sacred ritual. Was this akin to gazing at a photograph of a dead loved one in the hope that if you looked long enough and hard enough you could conjure them back to you? Perhaps so. Whatever the motivation, he knew he’d keep adding to his confession. He’d keep rereading it, too, while wishing with all his heart that one day he’d open the door to find Nicola Bekk standing there.

&n
bsp; NINE

  Owen Westonby and Jez Pollock walked through Danby-Mask. This small, far-from-anywhere village had already gone to sleep for the night, even though it was just a shade past six o’clock. At least that’s how it seemed to two bored teenagers. The pair were getting philosophical.

  Owen declared, ‘Being sixteen is like getting stuck in a waiting room.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jez nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘It’s like being stuck in a waiting room right next to another room where there’s an amazing party going on, only you’re still too young to go through the door and join in.’

  ‘Sixteen is a shit age. I hate it.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  They glared their disapproval at the street, which enjoyed Danby-Mask’s habitual peace and quiet.

  ‘What a place.’ Owen shook his head. ‘Even the God of Boredom would die of boredom here.’

  Jez laughed. ‘Hey, that’s funny. God of Boredom. Ha-ha!’

  A car with a throaty motor snarled along the street.

  ‘If only we were old enough to get some wheels.’ With envy in his eyes, Jez watched the car go by. ‘We could get right away from here.’

  ‘As soon as we’re seventeen, that’s what we’re going to do.’

  They high-fived to seal the deal. Even so, Owen knew the truth. Yes, boredom killed the soul here. Kids talked about nothing else other than buying cars. They promised themselves they’d roar out of this dull, brain-deadening village without looking back. But what did teenagers really do as soon as they bought a car? They drove up and down Main Street like this idiot. They never would point their cars towards brave horizons. No, they revved their engines, spun their wheels to impress the girls, and they followed the same boring route from the war memorial at one end of the village to the farm store at the other. Then back again. And so on … and so on.

  Jez’s expression changed to one that meant business. He jabbed his elbow into Owen’s ribs. ‘Girls … Girls.’

  Four girls walked along the street. Owen had seen them before, though he’d never spoken to them. They went to some posh school near Whitby. They had straight backs, carried themselves well, glowed with confidence and vitality and … ‘Oh, God, they are beee-utiful,’ breathed Owen.

  ‘There’s four of ’em,’ whispered Jez. ‘Two for you, two for me.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  Owen and Jez waited for them to get nearer. However, they took an interest in an area outside the grocery store. They were pointing at the ground while looking quickly at one another, as if they’d seen something that shocked them.

  ‘A faint heart never won two birds in a bush,’ murmured Jez, ‘or whatever the hell that saying is.’

  ‘They’re too posh for us,’ warned Owen.

  ‘Are you saying I’m a farm boy, or something?’

  ‘You are a farm boy, Jez. We’re a pair of sixteen-year-olds. We still ride mountain bikes and muck about in the woods.’

  Jez cracked his knuckles. ‘The time’s come for you to grow from a boy to a man. Follow me.’

  They had to wait as cars passed by, sounding their horns, while high-spirited guys inside shouted insulting comments at Jez and Owen, and then whistled and made suggestive comments to the four teen beauties. The cars would follow the usual route. Down to the war memorial before turning back up Main Street. Owen remembered an old man telling him that Main Street used to be known locally as ‘Monkey Walk’. In the evening, young single people would turn out in their best clothes and walk up and down Main Street from the war memorial to the farm stores, then back again. Boys would remain in male-only groups; girls would parade by in strictly female groups. They’d appraise one another, make comments, sometimes the men would whistle. At that moment, Owen suspected an important and profound truth: every generation of the village repeated the courting rituals of the previous generation. OK, cars had mainly replaced the evening strolls, but the spirit of Monkey Walk hadn’t died – in fact, it was stronger than ever.

  At last, Owen and Jez reached the open area outside the grocery store where the girls stared at the pavement. To Owen’s surprise he saw that part of the area had been cordoned off with bright yellow police incident tape. The girls stared in shock at the chalked outline of a man on the ground.

  One of the sixteen-year-old girls, with long blond hair and the bluest of eyes, turned to Owen. ‘We haven’t heard about anyone being killed, have you?’

  ‘Not us.’ Owen shook his head.

  A girl with dark hair shivered. ‘This is just frightening. Really frightening. Look at me, I’m shaking.’

  Both Owen and Jez were happy to look at the girl as she stood shivering with fear.

  Another girl had a suggestion. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the woman that was found wandering in Whitby? She’d lost her memory and her boyfriend is missing.’

  ‘Maybe they found the boyfriend.’ Owen nodded at the chalked outline. ‘Murdered.’

  The girls did some more shuddering and moved closer to Owen and Jez. Owen stood taller, trying to resemble the kind of strong, heroic guy to have close, if trouble broke out.

  ‘Has anyone seen any blood?’ Jez asked with a deliberate expression of innocence.

  ‘Oh God, is there any?’ The blonde stood even closer to Owen.

  Owen glanced sideways at Jez; both knew they’d broken the ice with the girls. This could be the start of something extremely exciting. I could end the day with a new girlfriend, thought Owen, pleased. I’ll invite the blonde girl to the cinema. Then a worrying thought struck him. I hope Jez doesn’t make a move on the blonde.

  Jez studied the ground by the light of the streetlamps. ‘My God … there is something. I think I can see blood.’

  The girls dropped silent. Owen could sense their tension. All four leaned over the police tape to see a dark smear on the pavement. Next to the chalked outline of the victim stood a large bin made from yellow plastic. Printed on its front was the word GRIT. The bin contained a mixture of sand and salt, which could be shovelled out on to paths if there was ice or snow.

  By this time, the four girls had bent right over to examine what appeared to be blood. The tension was electric.

  Then – BANG! A figure lunged from the plastic bin that contained the grit – a human jack-in-the-box. The man yelled. Blood covered his face and he clawed his hands in the air as if trying to reach the girls.

  Screaming, they fled. Owen caught one last glimpse of the blonde vanishing into an alleyway. His romantic trip to the cinema vanished with her.

  Jez recognized the man who’d been captive in the yellow bin. ‘Shaun!’

  The kid grinned. ‘Did you see their faces? They were bogging terrified!’

  ‘Shaun!’ Owen and Jez shouted the name together.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Owen couldn’t believe his bad luck. ‘We were getting somewhere.’

  ‘That was fantastic.’ Shaun laughed. ‘See this?’ He touched his cheek. ‘Fake blood left over from Hallowe’en. I found the police tape on the beach at Whitby months ago. I’ve been waiting for just the right moment to use it. I drew the chalk outline, too,’ he added proudly.

  Jez sounded murderous. ‘You scared ’em away. The most beautiful girls we’ve ever seen … and you scared ’em away!’

  ‘It was funny.’ Shaun seemed offended that no one else was laughing. ‘I’ve been planning this all week. Pretend there’s been a murder, chalk the outline, then burst out of here with blood on my face. Hey, there’s no need for that. No … let go … keep your frigging hands off me.’

  Jez pushed the youth back into the yellow bin, slammed down the lid, then sat on it. Owen sat beside him. Shaun had ruined their evening, but at least he was now their prisoner.

  Shaun pounded on the inside of the bin. ‘A joke … that’s all … just a joke.’

  ‘Rot in jail, you idiot.’

  ‘Can’t breathe … let me out.’

  ‘You breathed OK when you hid in there earli
er.’

  Jez turned to Owen. ‘At least we spoke to them now. Next time they’ll know us.’

  ‘Which one would you ask out?’

  ‘The blonde,’ Jez said.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘We can’t let a girl stop us being friends, though, can we?’

  ‘No, we’ll never do that. Never.’

  Shaun coughed inside the yellow box. ‘I’m really, really suffocating. You’re going to have a corpse on your hands, if you don’t let me out.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ Owen told him. ‘We’ll leave your dead body inside the chalk outline.’

  Jez and Owen high-fived and laughed. Meanwhile, guys of seventeen and eighteen drove their cars up and down Main Street – just as their fathers did – and as their yet-to-be-born sons would do in the future.

  TEN

  At the same time that Owen and Jez sat on the grit bin to keep the prankster in captivity, Kit Bolter worked on the canister. He’d taken the mystery artefact up to his ‘lab’ in the attic. He never mentioned the lab to his friends; they’d only tease him, and make endless jokes about Doctor Frankenstein and Mad Scientists. Kit often felt as if he had no control over his life. Up here, however, in the attic of his mother’s house, he had his comfort bubble. Here he had his space. Here he was surrounded with computer parts, monitors, cables hung like black snakes from hooks that he’d screwed into the rafters – all neatly ordered for his work. Shelves contained lines of tools, neat as surgical instruments laid out in an operating theatre. Here he tinkered with pieces of electronic equipment. OK, he enjoyed repairing toasters, vacuum cleaners and so on for family members, but what he enjoyed most of all was composing pieces of music by modifying sounds made by ordinary things. He could record the sound his finger made rubbing the top of a wine glass, then multi-track it, and vary the speed until that humming sound of a wet finger on glass sounded as magnificent as a choir of angels.