His Vampyrrhic Bride (21 page)

‘That’s a worrying sound, Chester. I mean, sirens aren’t things you associate with everything being OK, are they?’

‘It’ll be fine.’

Tom decided to bring a bit more pressure to bear. ‘Chester, I want to confess something right now – being locked in here while a flood siren’s screaming its guts out is making me concerned.’

‘I told you. It’s fine.’

‘If I’m locked in here and the river levels keep rising, I’m going to drown, aren’t I?’

‘Floods never reach the workshop.’

‘There’s always a first time.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘You’re not the one incarcerated in Prison Kenyon.’

At the other side of the door Chester laughed. ‘I’m right here. The key’s in my hand.’

‘Then let me out.’

‘No.’

‘When, then?’

‘Soon. I’ve called up some old school friends. You’ll hear from them what Nicola is like. That she’s . . . you know . . . mentally impaired.’

Tom sighed with frustration, but he managed to keep his cool. For a while, he listened to the siren, screaming out its message of warning:
the river’s broken its banks. The flood is coming. Beware, beware, beware!
Then Tom had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Chester, I need a whiz.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do. I’m busting.’

‘There’s plastic bowl in there. Use that.’

Tom slammed his hand against the door.
Damn it
. He took a deep breath and forced his voice to be conversational. ‘OK. I promise to sit quietly here in my cell and listen to what your old pals have to say. That’s on the strict understanding you talk to Nicola. Do we have a deal?’

Chester didn’t reply. The warning scream of the siren grew even more piercing. There was sense of urgency in the sound – a sense of danger, too.

‘Chester?’

Again, no reply.

‘Chester, are you there?’

Nothing. Only the scream of the siren.

‘
Chester!
’

Just then came the sound of a bullhorn. He couldn’t make out individual words. Yet the tone said it all. The voice was full of anxiety. There were major complications brewing out there.

Chester! Where are you?

After what seemed minutes rather than seconds, Chester returned to the door. He was breathless and excited sounding.
Or is that worried sounding?

‘Tom, listen, there’s a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘Can you hear the loudspeaker? That’s coming from a police car. The flood’s reached houses down by the river. They’re having to evacuate.’

‘OK, then evacuate me, Chester. I want out.’

‘Just another five minutes. My friends will be here by then. They’ll tell you about Nicola.’

‘My God. This is insane. Unlock the door!’

‘You’ll be safe here.’

‘Chester—’

‘We’re friends, Tom. I don’t want bad things happening to you. And bad things will happen, if you continue having this weird relationship with Nicola Bekk.’

‘In five minutes the village could be underwater.’

‘The floods never touch this street.’

‘Sez you.’

‘Trust me. Now, don’t blow your top, but I’ve got something to say that you won’t like.’ His voice tailed away; he’d got bad news.

‘What is it?’

‘My grandad lives down by the river. I have to drive him up to his friend’s house.’

‘Chester, you can’t leave me locked up here.’

‘I’ll only be five minutes.’

‘Chester—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.’

Tom glanced up at the bulb that was the only source of light in his improvised prison cell. ‘Does the flood get into the substation? Hey? Won’t there be a power failure? Listen! I’ll be left here in the dark if the electric fails. Chester . . . Chester!’

This time there was no reply. Chester had gone.

‘D
o it! Bust out of there! Smash this dump up for good!’ Bolter quivered on the bridge. The brown waters of the Lepping roared through the arches beneath him.

God, this is great! Feel the power of the river. Feel it shake the bridge. This has the raw energy of sex!
Bolter loved to watch the river when it became so fat and swollen it turned into a roaring, violent monster.

The rain had almost stopped. Not that it mattered. Bolter knew that thousands of tons of water had been dumped on to the hills. All that liquid power would cascade into the valley, and then into the Lepping. The Lepping was his vengeance monster. His destroyer of all these useless bastards’ homes. The Lepping was going to wreck Danby-Mask. And he was going to love watching it. Bolter slapped his hands down on the stone wall that ran along the edge of the bridge.

‘Do it!’ he screamed at the water. ‘Wipe those shitheads out!’

Bolter dragged a handful of pills from his pocket and stuffed them into the mouth. He gulped down those nuggets of power in pill form. Amphetamines were igniting his veins. His heart roared with the ferocity of a jet engine. The drug made him feel like he could fly.

Of course, drug abuse had turned his face into deep-fried pizza. Red blisters popped through the ratty stubble on his face. A line of yellow-headed pimples followed the line of his eyebrow like he was some kind of mutant. But he loved, just loved, the nuclear blast of energy through his body.

And, man-oh-man, if he took enough of those pills, he stopped screaming inside. They distracted him from obsessing about how that animal had sped out of the forest to rip his friends to pieces. The way their blood squirted over the driveway at Mull-Rigg Hall no longer freaked him. Amphetamines were power. They gave him the power to forget the horror. They filled him with the strength to do whatever he wanted.

Right now he wanted to watch the river. Already, it burst its banks into the road. The idiots in the houses down there had piled up their stupid sandbags. They hoped to stop the river smashing into their houses. ‘Morons!’ The Lepping had its own kind of power: thousands of tons of rainwater.

If the flood was anything as bad – as good! – as last time, then some of these shitheads would be swept away never to be seen again.

‘Ha-freaking-ha!’

He loved this. The energy: the speed: the force.
Nothing’s going to stop this animal! Animal river’s got the claws to scrape houses from the face of the planet, and it’s got the claws to scrape the smug, self-satisfied grins from everyone’s faces.

Bolter watched trees being swept downriver. Huge willows, with masses of green leaves, were zipping along like they were nothing heavier than shitty little blades of grass
.

‘Cool.’ This was turning out to be the best day of Bolter’s sorry, drug-fuelled life.

River water now gushed along the street, a regular tsunami. Already, a guy was knee-deep as he tried to reach his car. The shithead wouldn’t get that pile of crap to safety; no way. Within moments, the force of the inundation pushed the vehicle backwards along the road. There was nobody in the car. Pity; it would have been lovely to have seen screaming faces at the window. They’d howl that they were going to drown.
Yeah, that’d be absolutely amazing!

The car’s owner nearly lost his balance as the force of the current became more intense. He was forced to grab hold of some iron railings and haul himself clear. If he hadn’t, the river would take him. Probably not hand him back, either. His bones would lie rotting in the mud forever and a day.

With enormous excitement, Bolter watched the car drift off the road into the river. The Lepping swallowed it.
Gulp! And gone!
Bolter’s hands were wet with perspiration. Drugs and adrenalin were pushing him higher than he’d ever been before. His heart was a shrieking jet motor caged by human ribs.

A voice yelled, ‘Hey, you! Get off the bridge!’

He turned to see a cop calling to him from the other side. Bolter laughed.

‘Come off there,’ shouted the cop. ‘It’s starting to collapse!’

The cop daren’t come on to the bridge
, Bolter thought.
Just look at the big scared eyes!

The structure shuddered under Bolter’s feet. Cracks appeared in the road. He’d love to stay and watch. The river would cause mayhem. It would kill people today.

But it was high time Bolter caused some mayhem of his own.

‘
Mayhem! Mayhem! Mayhem!
’

Bolter raced away into the maze of village streets as the bridge began to collapse. He laughed as loud as he could while punching the air.
This is the best time in the world. And just you wait and see what happens next. It’s going to be amazing. Absolutely AMAZING!

T
he warning howl of the siren filled the room. Tom Westonby panted as he stared at the locked door. He’d tried kicking the thing down. No luck. The hinges and lock had been designed for a strongroom. It didn’t help matters that his phone was in his jacket pocket, and that jacket hung over a chair out in the workshop.

‘Let’s face it,’ he hissed, ‘I’m locked in here. I’m not going anywhere.’

Chester had been gone ten minutes. He’d promised to be back in five. Meanwhile, the flood siren continued its desperate wail, warning everyone to get out while they still could. Every so often, an amplified voice from a megaphone – a voice that sounded taut with anxiety – would drift into his makeshift prison cell.

Tom could almost reach out and touch the menace that pulsated in the room; every instinct warned him to escape this death trap.

The amplified voice suddenly became much louder and clearer. The police car must be passing right outside the workshop. ‘
. . . situation is serious. The bridge has collapsed. Floodwaters are rising fast. Residents must leave their homes.
’

Tom pounded on the door. ‘Hey! I’m in here!’

‘
Make your way to higher ground. The river has burst its banks. Leave your homes . . . I repeat: leave your homes now. You are in danger. Do not collect possessions. Do not wait for neighbours. Focus on your own safety . . .
’

‘I’m in here! I can’t get out!’

‘
You must leave your homes immediately. There is danger of . . .
’

The megaphone voice faded as the police car headed along the street to warn the people of Danby-Mask to flee for their lives. Tom knew only too well that the volume of the megaphone, coupled with the scream of the siren, had drowned out his voice.

Here comes the flood
, he thought grimly as he stared down at the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.
Any moment now, I’m going to see water trickling in. What then?

When he woke this morning the River Lepping flowed along its channel as it had always done. Now the river had broken out and was invading the village. People who normally lived peacefully alongside the Lepping were running away as it swirled through the streets to their houses. The river seemed to be committing an act of betrayal on its human neighbours.

Tom found himself listing other betrayals that weighed heavily on his mind: his mother and father had fired him, their own son, from a job that would provide vital funds for the dive school. Previously, they’d always welcomed the girlfriends he brought home. Now they were busily scheming to part him from Nicola. Just minutes ago, the man who he considered to be his friend, Chester Kenyon, had locked him in this storeroom. He even found himself half-believing that those embittered, vengeful deities of the Vikings were behind this. Mrs Bekk would certainly claim this was the case: that, in short, he was being punished, because he’d fallen in love with someone from the chosen bloodline of the gods.

He thought:
what day is today? Wednesday. The name means ‘day of Woden’. Woden, sometimes called Odin, is chief of the Viking gods and the father of Thor. So it’s Woden’s day. The day of disaster.

He kicked the door again. ‘Let me out!’

Who was left to hear his yells? The police were evacuating the village. Even the dead in the graveyard would hear the damn siren. His head ached like fury. He pressed his hands against his temples – and that’s when he started to laugh. In fact, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Well, laughing’s a good start
. After that, he’d cry. Ultimately, he’d start screaming. He could feel madness creeping up the spinal column towards his brain.

He laughed so loud that the noise shook dust from the rafters.

The door abruptly swung open. ‘What’s so funny?’ Chester stared as if he was afraid that Tom really had lost his mind. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m starting to go stir crazy.’ However, the sight of his friend – and that open door – made him feel normal again. ‘Where the
hell
have you been?’

‘I had to get my grandad to his friend’s house. They’re saying that the flooding’s the worst it’s been in a hundred years. The water’s already reached the churchyard across the street.’

‘So, are you going to let me out?’

‘Sure. Sorry about keeping you here. I just wanted to . . . you know? Help you.’

Then the gods, if angry, vengeful gods were behind this, decided to inflict three more savage blows.

First: the light went out.

Second: Chester grunted. Someone had shoved him from behind, sending him crashing forward into Tom.

Third: the door slammed shut.

Even though the siren still howled its warning, Tom clearly heard the key turn with a solid metallic
clunk
. Now both men were locked in the room. This time they were plunged into darkness. And the floodwaters were relentlessly moving closer and closer.

T
om Westonby stood there in the dark. Just seconds ago, someone had pushed Chester into the room. The door had slammed shut again. Now here they were: locked in the storeroom at the back of Chester’s workshop. Tom could see nothing – nothing apart from blackness, that was. He did, however, hear the click of a switch.

Chester hissed, ‘Damn it, there’s no power. The flood must have got into the substation.’ Even as he finished the sentence, the siren died away with a feeble croaking sound.

‘And it’s put the siren out of action, too,’ Tom told him. ‘So who the hell’s locked us in here?’