Sally exclaimed, ‘It’s so dark I can hardly see my hand in front of my face.’
‘Then best not put your case down or you’ll never find it again.’
Silhouettes milling round them, searching for the exit, were little more than phantom shapes in the gloom.
‘Make your way to the red lantern,’ came an authoritative male voice. ‘You’ll find the exit that opens on to Station Square. There are no taxis so you’ll have to walk.’
Sally groaned, ‘My case weighs a ton. And do we know where the hotel is?’
‘Just a five-minute walk, or so Alec’s memo tells me.’ Beth’s heart sank. Being dumped in a strange town at midnight, with all the street lights blacked out, threatened total disaster. ‘Excuse me.’ She approached a silhouette that appeared to be in uniform. ‘Sir. Can you tell me the way to the Leviathan Hotel?’
‘Do you know Whitby?’
‘No.’
‘Then God help you.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The Leviathan got shut up at the start of the war. You might as well wait here for the next train back to wherever you came from.’
‘We’re not on vacation. We’re here to work.’
‘You’re a long way from America.’
Do I detect a note of sarcasm? Forcing herself to remain calm, she pressed on, ‘Sir, my friend and I have been instructed to go to the Leviathan Hotel.’
‘Your funeral. The place has been closed these last two years.’ He turned to another figure. ‘George. Get those mail bags on the train. She’s running late as it is.’
The man began to move towards the locomotive, which gushed steam out on to the platform.
Beth persisted. ‘Excuse me, I know you’re busy. But will you please give me directions to the Leviathan Hotel?’
Even though darkness left her blind to her surroundings, she knew the man didn’t even turn to face her when he snapped, ‘Exit the station, turn right, then right again over the harbour bridge. If you find Church Street, you’re as good as there.’
‘Church Street?’ Beth shuddered, recollecting that strange incident this morning, when she’d wandered into what she’d believed to be a film set of Whitby. There’d been a mock-up of Church Street, or at least she’d believed she’d seen one.
Sally tugged her arm. ‘Come along, Beth. Let’s get out of here. Oh, I’ve dropped my umbrella. I can’t even see it on the ground. Damn this place. It’s as dark as Hades.’ Her voice quivered.
‘Don’t worry, Sally.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘I’m here. We’ll get you safely to the hotel, just you see.’
‘But the man said it was closed.’
‘He must be mistaken.’
‘Beth, I hate it here. It feels all wrong. Like a bad dream . . .’
‘Look, I’ve found your umbrella. Come on, it’s time we found a nice warm bed. We’ll feel better in the morning.’
They left the station to find mist creeping through the town. Turning right, as directed, they followed a road that ran alongside a river. Bitterly cold air nipped at their exposed faces. A spiky ocean scent filled Beth’s nose. To avoid drawing the attention of enemy bomber pilots, the town had been completely blacked out. No lights showed through the windows. Street lights had been extinguished. No cars ran along the streets. The few people who had disembarked from the train had already vanished into alleys that led off the main road.
As they walked, arm in arm, lugging their baggage best they could, Beth tried to make out some of her surroundings. To her right, a greasy-looking river oozed towards the sea. It carried tree branches: skeletal arms that thrust outwards from its glistening surface, seemingly grasping for a route back to life, not the deep, dark grave that was the waiting ocean. Rags of mist ghosted over the waters. Although darkness engulfed the place, Beth formed an impression that they were at the bottom of a narrow, steep-sided valley. Box shapes emerging from the valley slopes, suggested a profusion of houses. Yet they were chaotic somehow. As if a demented god had flung an entire town into the valley. Now they were tenanted by a mysterious people, who accepted the crazy, higgledy-piggledy nature of their borough as being normal.
Through this ghost town of a place came a forlorn groan.
Sally stopped dead. ‘Oh, God, what’s that?’
‘It’s just the foghorn.’
‘Thank goodness, I thought it was sea monster.’
A church clock announced the midnight hour.
‘Sally. Don’t let your imagination run away with you, or I’ll end up seeing demons again.’
‘Seeing demons again? What do you mean, “again”?’
Beth gently tugged at Sally’s arm to get her walking. ‘Oh, just me and my overactive imagination. Anyway, it’s too late at night for spooky stories. Come on, let’s find that hotel.’
‘Knowing our luck it will be a witches’ lair. They’ll boil guests’ heads for soup, and fry fingers and call them sausages.’
‘And human beings will become human beans.’
‘Idiot.’ But Sally’s tone had become lighter. ‘Just remind me, are we really going to be acting in a film?’
Beth saw an opportunity to raise Sally’s spirits. ‘You signed the contract, didn’t you? You’ll be seen in cinemas here and in America. All over the place. And people will cry, “Wow, who is that beautiful brunette? She must come and star in our movies in Hollywood.’”
‘It’s amazing. Only, I’m sure I’ll forget all my lines. What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘We’ve found the bridge. And we’ve got our welcome party, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
Beth nodded at the bridge. Around a hundred feet long, built from iron, with latticework fences, the structure spanned the river. Clearly, the bridge had a formidable mechanism that would cause it to swing open when ships needed to pass upstream. But the bridge itself wasn’t the problem. Something else blocked their way.
Sally had seen it, too, for she gripped Beth’s forearm. ‘Maybe we can find another way across. I don’t like the look of this.’
Ghostly strands of mist veiled the lone figure on the bridge. Again the foghorn cried out, long and low.
‘It’s just a person,’ Beth insisted. ‘They’re not here to do us any harm.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Come on . . . we’ll be alright.’
‘Beth, I’m scared.’
‘Sally, we must only be a minute from the hotel.’ She stepped out on to the bridge. The figure at the other end took a step, too.
Beth paused. The figure halted. Beth took another step. The figure moved forwards too, as if this was a game to mirror Beth’s advance across the bridge.
‘They won’t hurt us.’ Beth spoke firmly, yet her heart clamoured. Only too vividly did she recall her encounter on the film set earlier that day. Those swift demonic figures. But all that had been imagination, hadn’t it? No mock-up of Whitby had been built in the studio. Probably she’d fainted, then dreamt the whole thing. Her hand went to her head, where a lock of her hair had been caught in the passageway to Arguments Yard. The pain had been real. Her scalp still stung.
The foghorn cried out to the eternal once more. Its sound shimmered over the blacked-out town to die alone in the wilderness beyond.
‘Where is everyone?’ Sally uttered. ‘Surely there must be some people about – going to work, that kind of thing, and why aren’t there policemen out on patrol?’
‘Keep walking,’ Beth ordered. ‘We’re not going to be stopped from crossing over to the other side.’
‘But I don’t like her.’
‘Her?’ Then Beth noticed the female cut of the figure. Albeit one that was as tall as a man, yet brutally thin.
They continued to walk forward. The woman advanced steadily, until they faced each other in the centre of the night-time bridge.
Now Beth saw the woman clearly. The sight did nothing to ease her alarm. The thin woman wore trousers. On her top half, a jersey in dull-green wool clung tightly to
her narrow torso. She wore her hair short. The leanness of her body matched the gauntness of her face. A face as white as milk. A pair of black eyebrows formed forbidding arches above her eyes. And, dear God, those eyes?
The foghorn called again. When the sound died, the silence that replaced it managed to be oppressive.
An uncanny stillness made the stranger appear to be carved out of stone. Her physical appearance suggested someone of around twenty. Yet the eyes were older than her years. This was someone who’d witnessed terrible events. Those eyes were distant, brooding – haunted by the phantoms of past experiences.
Beth and Sally attempted to ease their way past the woman; their luggage clunked against their legs. However, that silent guardian of the bridge sidestepped to block their way.
‘Excuse me,’ Beth said at last. ‘Please let us pass.’
The figure was perfectly still once more.
‘We must cross,’ Sally insisted.
Beth added, ‘Or is there a reason you don’t want us here? Are you frightened for us? Do you want to protect us from harm?’
Sally gasped, ‘Beth, why did you ask her that?’
Beth shook her head. ‘A sixth sense? An instinct for self-preservation?’
The woman’s lips parted; she tried to speak.
Sally cried, ‘Her teeth! What’s gone wrong with her teeth?’
The foghorn flung its warning of danger over their heads.
Beth continued, ‘Why don’t you want us here?’
‘Because nobody in their right mind would want to be here.’ The harsh female voice didn’t belong to the gaunt woman. It came from a hunched shape that bowled out of the mist. A woman of around sixty, a shawl dragged tightly around her humped shoulders, bustled up to the bridge’s guardian. Roughly, she turned the thin woman round, then pushed her towards the houses on the other side. ‘Whitby’s no place for visitors. This ain’t no pleasure resort, you know. Not in wartime. Get home, while you’ve got a chance.’
‘Have you suffered much in the way of bombing raids?’ Beth asked.
‘Bombing raids? They’re the least of our worries. Now get out of here. I won’t tell you again.’ The woman turned aggressively on the pair now. ‘Why are you wandering around here at night, anyway? Menfolk here wouldn’t give you a penny for whatever you’re offering.’
‘We’re not prostitutes.’
‘Could have fooled me. Decent women don’t put that red muck on their lips, like you two.’
‘We’re actresses,’ Sally told her.
‘Actresses, tarts – one and the same.’
During this exchange, the gaunt woman didn’t react. She remained in that trance-like state.
‘We’re trying to find the Leviathan Hotel.’
‘Best of bloody luck to you. It’s been shut these last two years.’ The woman spat on the ground. ‘You won’t find space in a man’s bed round here, even if you give it away for nothing. Now get back to the station, or I’ll black your eyes!’ The woman bunched her fist.
‘You’ll do no such thing, Mrs Brady. These are my guests.’ Yet another figure emerged from the mist.
‘Oh, Miss Charnwood. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re in thick with these two hussies. You’re the cause of this town’s woes as it is.’
The new stranger murmured smoothly, ‘Mrs Brady. You’re letting your tongue run away with you. Of all people you should know better than to antagonize me.’
‘I speak my mind. If the truth’s got to be said then—’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Brady. You get yourself and Victoria back home.’
Grumbling, shaking her head, while shooting the three venomous glances, Mrs Brady led Victoria over the bridge, where they soon vanished into the mist.
The tall woman, aged around forty, with a swathe of long, dark hair, held out her hand. ‘Welcome to Whitby, Miss Layne. Miss Wainwright. My name is Eleanor Charnwood.’
They shook hands.
‘You’re expecting us?’ Beth asked in surprise.
‘Whitby hasn’t fallen off the end of the world yet, ladies. Your director, Mr Reed, sent me a telegram to say you’d be arriving on the 11.30 train. And as I saw it pull into the station I decided to do the civilized thing and come meet you.’
Sally frowned. ‘Why did the thin woman try to stop us crossing the bridge to you? And just what on earth’s happened to her teeth? They were like—’
Beth interrupted, ‘Standing on a fog-shrouded bridge at midnight isn’t the place to discuss a stranger’s dental condition.’
Smiling, Eleanor said, ‘Absolutely. Now, can I help you with those cases? The hotel’s just along Church Street there.’
‘The Leviathan?’
‘Of course.’
‘But everyone here insisted it was closed for the war.’
‘Not closed, only sleeping.’ Eleanor’s smile broadened (and Beth decided she liked the woman). ‘Your film company asked me to reopen it so we could accommodate the artistes.’
‘We’re artistes,’ Sally added quickly.
‘I know. Last month I saw Miss Layne here on the silver screen at the Whitby Picture House. She served the delicious Mr Cary Grant a Martini in a tall glass, with lots of ice.’ The smile became a grin. ‘In these parts we get precious little Martini.’
‘Or Cary Grant,’ Sally exclaimed.
‘Absolutely. Now come along, my dears, you must be frozen.’
‘And call us Beth and Sally.’
‘And I’m Eleanor, to friends, which I sincerely hope you will become. Others round here have different names for me: Wicked Witch of the East, Devil Woman, “that bloody hag”.’ She helped them with their baggage. ‘Now, we turn left here on to Church Street.’
Beth shivered as they walked along it. The street was just as she remembered from the film set this morning. So narrow, it would barely admit a car. The upper stories of the houses leaned towards one another, as if eaves on opposing sides of the street could steal kisses from one another in the middle of the night. Beth glimpsed ancient taverns in the gloom. Cottage windows were narrow – oddly reminiscent of coffin lids standing on end. A mad comparison to be sure. Yet an impression lingered of an avenue of tombs. Even the low doorways appeared as if they’d only allow inhuman goblin creatures to enter.
Beth couldn’t stop herself asking, ‘I might be going insane, but I’ve got a question.’
‘Fire at will.’
‘Is there an alleyway called Arguments Yard?’
Eleanor raised a dark eyebrow. ‘That’s not an insane question. The answer’s “yes” – it’s just there on your left.’
Shock snapped along Beth’s nerves. Even in darkness, she could make out the grave-black mouth of the passage, which pierced the face of a building. The entrance, low as she remembered it, exerted a formidable pull. A morbid curiosity tugged hard. Just like standing on the top of a cliff, and a voice in the back of your head murmurs, Jump, jump, jump . . .
‘I’ll be right back.’ Beth darted into the Argument’s Yard tunnel, which was filled with a distillation of pure night. A liquid darkness that seemed to run into her eyes and ears and mind, making her feel she might drown. Quickly, she searched for what she knew – against logic – would be there. Darkness forced her to search with her fingertips; they scurried over the timbers that supported the building; her hands resembled white spiders running back and forth against the black wood. Then . . . Got you.
Beth emerged to hold up her prize.
‘What have you got there?’ Sally asked.
‘A lock of hair.’
‘Hair?’
‘Happens all the time.’ Eleanor awarded Beth an extremely curious stare. ‘The low timbers catch women’s hair. It’s a wonder that Whitby ladies aren’t all bald.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my friend.’ Sally tried to make a joke of the hair foraging expedition. ‘She’s had a very long journey. She needs her beauty sleep.’
‘Then we’ll get her tucked up snugly in bed. After a
warming noggin of something. This way, ladies.’
Eleanor led the way to a tall free-standing building that rose from the very edge of the sea. ‘Welcome to the Leviathan Hotel. I hope your stay will be a happy one.’
Beth followed. The strand of hair in her fingers resembled her own – the colour of sun-ripened wheat on a summer’s day. Or in this perfidious gloom was that a trick of the eye? She paused, wondering if there was time to turn back. This is my last chance to escape . . .
‘I’ve been here before.’ Her voice came out strained. ‘I know I have.’
‘When?’ Sally looked puzzled.
Eleanor unlocked the hotel door. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said softly, ‘Whitby’s that kind of place. Some visit it in their dreams. Plenty have described it as an enchanted town. The old abbey on the hill is reputed to be . . . Oh no, here we go again.’
The chilling note of the air-raid siren rose into the air. It warned that enemy planes were approaching the coast.
‘Instead of the comforts of the bar, all I can offer is the protection of the hotel’s basement. Follow me, please.’
Eleanor carefully closed the hotel door, then she switched on the light. After that, she ushered them by the reception desk, through another door, then down a flight of stone steps into a cold tomb of a vault underground.
Two
The air-raid siren’s cry rose after midnight. Its notes clawed their way to heaven before falling back to earth with a sigh. Whitby’s maze of streets lay deserted. The long harbour walls extended out into the ocean – crocodile-like jaws that waited to swallow ships into the throat of the River Esk. The river waters had flowed down from the North Yorkshire moors since the end of the last Ice Age ten thousand years ago. The sirens’ call, which warned of incoming aircraft, laden with murderous bombs, carried upriver, beyond the edge of town, to the ancient crossroads that had once been the site of the gallows. Here, criminals had danced at the end of the rope. After the death throes, they’d continued to swing wearily back and forth until moorland crows whittled them down to size. Often locals would steal body parts to create magic talismans, just as their Viking ancestors had done twelve hundred years ago. On the north side of the crossroads, a small field contained scabs of black stone. These were the tombs of the hanged men, the suicides, and the men and women who had died, for whatever reason, beyond the embrace of the Christian church.