Refuge (20 page)

                ‘Um. Well, look, I’ll tell you what,’ said Christine. ‘I’ll head back to your van and wait for you there shall I?’ Then she thought again. If he was as mad as this, what would he be like when he’d had the rest of that mead? People like that couldn’t resist the drink, could they? ‘No. Actually I won’t. I’ll go home, and if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll come and see you, yes? Let you sleep it off...I mean, let you have some rest.’

                ‘I intend staying here a while longer,’ said Montgomery. ‘There are a lot of things I need to atone for. I think that is the best solution. Perhaps I will see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Christine. Thank you for bringing me here.’

                ‘Um– that’s fine. No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Bye, then.’ She hovered uncertainly for a moment, then realised she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him. She turned and ran back through the nave, back out of the Priory and onto the lane. She looked around her. There was definitely a weird feeling about this place tonight and too many things she didn’t fully understand. She remembered the image of the dark shadow by the
piscina
and decided to go back home on the road, rather than down the back lanes. She had never felt so pleased to be heading home. Before too long, she could see the lights of the B&B spilling out onto the garden and she began to run towards it. She pushed open the door, and saw one or two people in the communal area, flicking through books, chatting, or cradling cups of tea. Life...  lovely, glorious, understandable Island life.

Her mam was in the kitchen and looked up as she came in. ‘Had a good night, love?’ she asked her.

Christine smiled. There was no getting anything past her mam, really. ‘I’ve had better,’ she said, ‘but I’m home. So that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’

                ‘It is, love, it is,’ smiled her mam. ‘Fancy a cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.’

***

The next morning, half-reluctantly, Christine wandered down to the fields. She discovered that the field was empty and the grass was flattened and muddy where the VW had been. No other trace of the man remained. She breathed out a little sigh of relief. If she was really, totally honest, she was quite pleased that he had disappeared; and she had no desire to ever meet him again.

Present Day

Guy sat in the lounge at the B&B and picked up the newspaper again. He had created a monster over a century ago, and only since the 1960s had he felt some responsibility for Veva’s actions. So far, he had never managed to predict where she would attack. Her preferred hunting grounds had always appeared to be England, but once he’d started his research, he had a feeling that she must have lived in Paris at some point. He often wondered if it was her, whenever there had been a spate of unexplained deaths or suicides. Veva had been clever, though; from initially attacking groups of people, she had altered her method and now seemed to pick off men, one by one. That was, he had to admit, more calculating and, it had to be said, less suspicious to the outside world. He had sat down recently and worked out a pattern, spreading a map across the floor and plotting what he thought were her movements.

He blamed the ‘sixties' for his guilt. People said if you could remember the sixties, you weren’t there. He had been there. He remembered everything. He remembered this island and the girl he had met here. She would never know how lucky she had been. Guy remembered the Priory and the feeling that had swept through his body like a physical pain as he recalled his past life. It was a legend in his society that the Holy Water was there. He already had the dagger, and he had decided, all those years ago, to find the water. It made sense, he told himself, to destroy them both. Then his kind would be safe and he would become the legend. But he had never imagined how this place would make him feel. He had left his estate, and disappeared, buying a VW bus and keeping moving until the likes of Clara stopped looking for him. He had, as they say, re-invented himself.

Guy regretted many things; but he especially regretted Veva. He had never changed anyone since and despite what he was, he couldn’t risk a creature like that walking the earth again and much of it was born of a fear that he would be annihilated by something of his own creation. He had watched the statistics crop up in little clusters, moving north from London and heading towards the coast. He had a feeling that she was around here somewhere. These recent drownings off the coast of Lindisfarne were too neat. She had perhaps found a perfect way to cover her tracks – people came here to escape from real life, maybe even just as tourists, like that backpacker who had died recently. So Guy had taken a room on the Island, specifically looking for a Bed and Breakfast that might be owned by the girl who had taken him to the Priory over forty years ago. He wanted to repay her somehow. It had shocked him to see her now – in his mind, she would always be twenty. But she seemed happy and he was glad. He could never quite get used to how people aged. That was something he did not have to concern himself with. And he knew Veva would still be young and beautiful and very, very dangerous.

                Almost involuntarily, he clutched the edges of the paper. He had come up here expecting once again to be late, but now he thought about it – he might just be in time. He had seen that group of boys come to the Island and wondered whether it would coax her out. She would relish the challenge. And what could be easier than letting one of them ‘drown’? Young men, alcohol and deep water were never a good combination. He remembered the boy in the corridor this morning. I won’t be around for one thing. Well, not until later. Maybe.

                Guy swore. That was it. She had already started. He scraped the chair back and threw the newspaper on the table. He raced out into the street and looked around him, his keen eyes seeing clearly through the darkness. Eventually, he saw the boy’s room-mate meandering through the street, his hands in his pockets. In an instant, Guy was next to him.

The boy jumped. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you there!’ he said, trying to walk past him.

Guy stepped in front of him. ‘Where’s your friend?’ he asked. The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your room mate? I need to see him about something.’

                ‘Who? Lucas? Dunno. Around somewhere. In a pub, maybe? With that girl he met?’

‘What did she look like?’ Guy asked. He could remember Veva’s dark hair and even darker eyes as if it was yesterday.

Drew shrugged again. ‘Dunno. Ginger, I think. Never gone for Gingers myself.’ He pronounced the word
Gin-ga
. Guy stood back. Maybe it wasn’t her after all. Then the boy laughed. ‘I liked her friend better.’

                ‘What?’ Guy interrupted, instantly on his guard again. ‘She had a friend with her?’

                ‘Yes. Sorry, no it wasn’t a friend.’ He thought for a moment, screwing his face up. Guy restrained himself from shaking the boy. He wasn’t sure if he was being deliberately obstreperous ‘That’s it,’ the boy said suddenly. ‘They were sisters. The dark one was better. I wanted to catch him before he left, ask him to set me up on a date with her. Shame I missed him...’

                ‘Thank you,’ Guy cut him short. ‘Stay away from those girls. I have to go and find your friend.’

                The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Guy was off, running down the street.

                ‘The pubs are that way!’ called the boy after him. Guy didn’t answer. He was heading to the beach - a storm was blowing up, the causeway would be covered and he had a very good idea where to start looking for Lucas. He felt the weight of the dagger bounce against his hip as he ran. It was secure and he knew what he had to do.

1926

The house looked perfect. The evening sun was bathing the lawn with a golden light and the remnants of the picnic tea lay on the blankets, ready for the maids to remove. Soon, the glasses of champagne would appear and the guests would wander out into the grounds before dinner was served.

                ‘Will they remember us?’ the dark-haired girl asked, hanging back as her companion got out of the sleek, green sports car.

                ‘I would imagine so,’ replied the other girl. The sun tinted her bobbed curls with copper lights. She stretched like a cat. ‘Come along, darling,’ she said. ‘This is the place.’

                ‘I know it’s the place,’ said the dark one. ‘It looks so familiar.’

                ‘Well, by eight o’clock, they won’t even know what they’re doing here, never mind us. We just have to wait.’ She turned to her friend and her sapphire blue eyes hardened. ‘Let me talk.’

The dark girl pouted her perfect, cupid’s bow lips. ‘Why don’t you trust me?’ she asked.

                ‘It’s too important, sweetheart. It has to be me.’

                The dark girl slid gracefully out of the car and padded silently behind the red-head.

‘You should have let me cut your hair,’ said the red-head. ‘It’s modern.’

                ‘I don’t care.’  The dark-haired girl wore her hair in a dishevelled bun and strands were escaping everywhere. She pushed a silver comb in more securely. ‘What will you tell them? Oh! Oh look. That’s him, isn’t it?’ She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, stopping her firmly as a young man in tennis whites sauntered around the front of the house whistling. He threw the racquet onto an ornate, white seat and ran up the front staircase. The door was wide open and he disappeared inside. ‘He’s changed a little,’ she said, more to herself than to her companion.

                ‘I believe it is him,’ said the red-head. ‘That’s Leo, darling, try to remember that.’ A small, self-satisfied smile played on her lips. ‘Good evening, Leo,’ she murmured. ‘Enjoy it, won’t you? We will.’

***

Leo Hartley swaggered through the hallway, peering into the open rooms as he passed them. The drawing room was his least favourite room of the whole place. That was where they reckoned the murder had taken place – still, he thought, had his dear old relation-somewhat-removed not been dallying with the wrong sort of girl, he wouldn’t have been killed by her; and he, Leo Hartley, would have remained some obscure cousin and never inherited the place. Leo looked up at the portrait of the young, arrogant-looking William John Hartley as he walked past, and nodded at it. Hartside and all its associated wealth had passed through the mother’s side after the murder; there being no male Hartley relatives to bear the name. It had landed in his father’s hands eventually; the only proviso being the family changed their name to Hartley to accommodate the inheritance terms. There had been no objection. His father had died during the early part of the Great War and Leo had hardly known him, to be honest. And thus, he had inherited the place. He had also inherited a fair amount of female interest along with it; the genetic mix of the Hartleys was very good. He had the reputation as one of the wealthiest and best-looking young men in London.  He had never known that girls could be so forthright. He had spent quite a bit of time in the Capital, and the whole ethos of the Bright Young People was enchanting. Drink, drugs, girls and parties; it was a marvellous lifestyle.

                Leo lived and breathed society – and tonight was no exception. The invitation had gone out, Leo thought, somewhere around two a.m. at a costume ball three weeks ago. He had been entranced by a dark-haired girl who had sat on the floor; a vision in a blue, Victorian ball dress. Her eyes were somewhat glassy and unfocussed and she stared at him strangely while he tried to talk to her. It was difficult to articulate the words he wanted after several bottles of champagne, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was probably as blotto as he was: inebriated, no less.

                ‘So yes,’ he had burbled, ‘I own an absolutely enormous property. If I wasn’t so spifflicated I could probably drive us there within a couple of hours…but I say, it hasn’t stopped me in the past if you’re up for it.’

The girl had continued staring at him. ‘I think I know you,’ she’d said softly. ‘Have we met?’

                ‘Possibly. Maybe. Hell, how should I know?’ He had laughed and slumped down next to her.

She had never taken her eyes off him, as if she was drilling deep into his mind. ‘What year is it?’ she had asked. ‘What are we doing here?’ Then she looked down, as if seeing her dress for the first time. Her fingers twitched and she dug her nails into one of the taffeta frills on the skirt. Carefully, she began to tear it off, concentrating on the material and seeming to forget where she was.