[Brenda & Effie 04] - Hell's Belles Page 7

  ‘Karla,’ he said, brokenly. ‘You don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I’ve more to lose from this film going tits-up than you have, buster. More than any of you. This is my big chance. My big comeback. And I’m not having it ruined by some corporate eunuch intent on a sanitised rehash!’

  She slammed down the phone, and lay back on the sumptuous four-poster, breathing deeply. Pages of script were scattered all over the room. Okay, so she’d laid it on a bit thick for her producer, but she really was upset. Foolishly she hadn’t read the script in advance of signing the deal. But then, she never did. That was her agent’s job. And she trusted Flissy well enough, after all these years in the biz together, to know what was good for her and what wasn’t.

  At this point, though, after four years without landing a decent role in anything whatsoever, she suspected that Flissy would have agreed to let her client appear in anything. Even this. This travesty of a remake.

  Sanitised. The very opposite of Satanised.

  Karla rolled about on the bed, moaning furiously and scattering the many tassled cushions. I’m in my seventies. What am I doing here? In some frozen, godforsaken harbour. With people I don’t even know. Young people who wouldn’t know a decent movie if it bit them on the arse. I’m going to be doing my same old vampire lady schtick yet again. Haring about at midnight in a lacy batwing backless number, flashing my knockers to all and sundry, and trying to keep my false pointed teeth in my head. Looking fabulous, obviously.

  But it was hardly dignified.

  It was pitiful, really.

  Karla hated turning up to start a new job. She always got like this. Feeling abandoned, lonely, nervous and worried. Feeling at the mercy of her new production team. Feeling lumbered with a bum script, a horrible wardrobe. And this time she was being put up in a hotel swarming with – as far as she could tell – elderly lunatics who seemed to think it was already Christmas, here in October.

  She just wanted to go home to Cricklewood. To her cats and her old movies and her life in retirement. She was too old for all this nonsense now.

  But it was like Flissy said. She had to keep working. The royalties weren’t coming in like they used to. Her residuals were drying up. Even though she had appeared in twenty-seven of the UK’s most famous schlocky horror movies, back in the genre’s bloody heyday, Karla was close to penniless now.

  She wasn’t sure how that could have happened. She knew that she had been ripped off somewhere along the line, but she just couldn’t see who by. All she knew was that she had to do what Flissy said. And she had to carry on working.

  And so here she was. At the bleak, unwelcoming seaside. On a four-poster with a bad head and heaving bosoms.

  Karla got up heavily, and schlepped over to the tall windows to stare at the harbour, where the waves were high and lashing at the piers and the craggy headland. She turned her gaze on the church at the top of those 199 steps, and the abbey, all magnificently broken down, beside it.

  Ghastly bloody place. How long did she have to be here?

  The whole film was resting on her shoulders. As usual. If it all went to the bad, it would be her to blame. She was the star. She had to make it work. But did she even have the energy any more? It wasn’t 1967 any more. It wasn’t even the same century.

  She was too old for this. She didn’t even want to be a star any more. She quite liked going into Tesco or Primark and everyone not recognising her. There was something to be said for sitting on the bus or the Tube and people not squinting at her and then crying out in pleasurable surprise: ‘It’s the vampire lady! It’s Karla Sorenson! Look, everyone! Ooh, bite my neck! Go on! Bite me! Take over my mind!’

  Such attention could get on your nerves in the end.

  She wouldn’t miss any of it if she was never famous again. She’d be quite happy to retire, and to fade away into obscurity and old age. She’d be happy to let go the effort of making herself look fabulous every day before leaving her house. It would be a relief, wouldn’t it? To turn herself into a little old lady. And never have anyone turn to look at her again.

  She could be happy like that.

  Well. Maybe that wasn’t true.

  One thing, though. She could do without the Brethren breathing down her neck.

  And as if on cue – BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Her mobile phone was going bonkers, all of a sudden, vibrating on the marble-topped nightstand. She just knew it was them. It was as if, by thinking of them, even for a split second, she had drawn their attention.

  There was a text. In gothic script.

  Daughter! We r very proud of u. We the Brethren rejoice in news of ur new film role. Remember what u must do for us. Remember our plans.

  She deleted it at once.

  Agghh. What was she in for this time?

  She looked at her own reflection in the tall dressing mirror. She took a long look at herself and sighed. Silly old woman.

  Then there came a timid knock on the door. It was a little elf. A young fella. One of Mrs Claus’s pimply lackeys. Not too ugly, actually. Overawed by her, clearly. Shaking in his pointy shoes. Karla considered him. Quite a pretty boy, in fact. He gulped as she leaned in for a closer look.

  Maybe she would have to take him under her wing. She needed allies. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, in that trademark seductive purr.

  ‘Kevin, ma’am,’ said the elf.

  ‘And why have you come to my turret?’ She frowned.

  He took a deep breath and stammered: ‘Mrs Christmas would like to know whether you have been able to give any thought . . .’

  ‘What to?’

  ‘Her request . . . her suggestion . . .’

  Karla rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, this cabaret thing. No. No, I don’t think so. My singing days are over. I’ve enough work to concentrate on at the moment, thanks.’ She moved as if to slam the heavy door on him. But she didn’t. Not yet. Now she knew she had him. Right in her palm. She raised an eyebrow at him.

  The elf boy looked sick with dread. He wanted to flee, but he was held there, braving out Karla’s crossness, determined to wheedle and plead. Karla realised what kind of a grip Mrs Claus must have on her staff. Interesting.

  She called him to her. ‘Dear Kevin.’ She smiled.

  He looked wary. He took a step towards her. He swallowed hard. ‘Y-yes, Ms Sorenson?’

  ‘Do come into my suite,’ she said.

  ‘Is th-there something the matter?’

  She shut the door gently behind him and led him into her boudoir. Her base of operations. He tiptoed carefully between the scattered pages of script. ‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong that you could do anything about, my dear,’ she sighed winsomely. ‘Except, perhaps . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, overeagerly, advancing on her like a puppy.

  She paused and then gave him the full, devastating benefit of her beauty. ‘Perhaps you’d like to obey me, yes? Instead of that old monster Mrs Claus. How would you feel about falling under my thrall, Kevin? And obeying me in all things, for ever? How would that be, my dear?’

  Penny Writes to Her Mother

  Dear Mam,

  You told me to get out into the world, and to see a bit of life. I wonder if that’s what I’m doing now.

  Sorry I haven’t written much, Mam. It’s been really busy here. At the hotel we’re run off our feet every day. Especially now, when we’ve got this film crew in. Quite a rowdy lot, but harmless and quite good fun. They look like they have a whale of a time, actually. It must be a wonderful world to be in. They’re all on a shared project, they all know what they’re doing and they’ve all got their roles and their areas of expertise, even the extras and the runners, whatever they are. They’re all up here, getting ready to make this horror film at the abbey, and there’s a real buzz in the air.

  Anyway, I am well and truly settled in here now. I don’t even mind the work. It’s easy enough and the boss at the Hotel Miramar is like a friend now. He’s called Robert, and before you say it, there’s
no chance of romance there. I know, I know what you’re going to say, about me always knocking about with gay men. I don’t know what it is about me. I think probably straight men can’t deal with me or something, I’m too special, hahaha. Anyway, so he’s my new pal here now and he’s all right.

  But I think he’s involved in weird stuff here in Whitby.

  Now, don’t go getting ariated. I don’t mean weird bad stuff.

  Well, maybe I do.

  I don’t know. I get the feeling that I only know half the story here. People aren’t telling me everything.

  It’s to do with his friends.

  You’re not to worry, Mam. I’m not getting mixed up in anything dangerous. I don’t think. I mean, most of Robert’s friends are old women. Or women of a certain age, anyway.

  Last night we were at the bus station, waiting for a coach to turn up, bringing back his best friend from the holiday she’s been on. Anyway, I was there to meet her, part of the welcoming committee kind of thing. And this great big woman comes clambering off the coach. Really, you’ve seen nothing like her. She had all this hair in a big beehive, jet black with a great blond streak up the middle. She towered over me and Robert. She looked kind, though, and friendly enough. When she shook my hand I thought she would crush it, her paws were so huge. Under the streetlights it was hard to see her face. I was squinting up at her, trying to get a look. She was the oddest woman I’ve ever seen.

  And her husband! This huge hulk of a man. He never said much. He carried all their luggage without seeming effort and followed along behind us. We went up the winding streets into the leafy part of town, where all the bed and breakfasts are. Every other house is a B&B and it’s here that Brenda has her own guest house, and Effie has her junk shop.

  Oh, Effie is Robert’s other friend. This proper starchy-knickers old woman. I’m not sure I like her much. They reckon she’s a witch, but I’ve not seen much evidence of special powers in her. Anyway, she was gabbling away at twenty to the dozen, telling Brenda everything that’s been going on in the month she’s been away. Robert was joining in and they all seemed so pleased to be together again. Brenda didn’t say much, just beamed in pleasure at the way they were going on. And her hubby said even less. I turned, looking back down the steep pavement, to see if he was okay carrying all the bags and I caught this nasty, twisted look on his face. Like he was furious about being the porter. There was something really frightening about that look in his eyes. I wondered what such a warm-hearted soul like Brenda was doing with a man like that.

  I’d heard Robert say that he didn’t think they were suited. I’d heard him imply that none of Brenda’s friends got on with her fella. It was a recent thing, by all accounts, but the two of them had been childhood sweethearts way back in the mists of time. Or something.

  There was something about him, though. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. He was wearing that very old-fashioned men’s fragrance, Brut. Maybe that was it. (I remember you saying, years ago: never trust a man who splashes on Brut.)

  Anyway, Brenda was insistent that we all come in and have something she called spicy tea. So we yomped up her side passage and up about twenty flights of stairs, with everyone exclaiming at the blown light bulbs and the general dustiness and mustiness of the place. Brenda seemed quite undeterred by it all, telling everyone how she was looking forward to getting to work and giving the whole place a good bottoming, which, it turns out, means scrubbing.

  Her attic is gorgeous. Paisley and velvet, with knick-knacks and pictures. You can tell that every little oddment has its own story and reason for being there. There was something so relaxing about the place. We all sank into the comfy chairs as Brenda swept into action to make this wonderful tea – it was cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves and peppery. She didn’t seem in the least bit tired now, unlike her rude hubby, who merely grunted at us from the doorway and announced that he was off to his bed.

  We heard him shifting about in the room next door, banging the cases around and bumping exhaustedly into things. Robert and I exchanged a glance.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Brenda laughed. ‘He’s been having so many late nights recently. We were out last night till who knows what time. Now, who’s for a bacon sandwich?’

  Robert says it’s quite regular, that the three of them will sit up in the wee small hours, having bacon sandwiches together. No wonder Brenda’s the size she is. Effie’s a skinny little thing, but then she was just nibbling at the giant doorstops of bread that Brenda brought us. Fried bread! Who fries their bread in bacon fat these days? Well, Brenda does.

  I was quite happily chomping away and slurping my tea and listening to the three friends gossiping. There was a lovely old jazz record playing on the turntable. Then I detected a shift in the conversation. A note of seriousness in the air. Now they were talking about something important, I could tell.

  ‘No one has clapped eyes on her yet,’ Robert was saying.

  Brenda nodded solemnly, giving her tea a pensive sip. ‘She’ll make her presence known sooner or later.’

  ‘What’s this Robert was saying, though?’ Effie spoke up. ‘Mrs Claus inviting you to a drinks do, Brenda. About Karla wanting to meet you.’

  Brenda frowned deeply. ‘Now, that I do find quite disturbing. I’m surprised Karla would even remember me. It was all so long ago. Decades. And I was just in the background. I was nothing to her. Less than a servant.’

  ‘But you were there, weren’t you?’ Robert said. ‘You were there on the set of the movie.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Brenda said, nodding grimly. ‘I was there when they made the first version.’

  Suddenly I realised what they meant. I choked down a sharp crust. ‘You mean, the first version of Get Thee Inside Me, Satan?’

  Brenda looked at me with these deep, deep, soulful eyes. They were violet. No, greenish. I think they were both different colours. At least they looked that way in the cosy lamplight. She said, ‘Yes, I was there. When all hell broke loose.’

  She clammed up after that. I was itching to know. But tiredness was getting to me. My bones ached to lie down in my bed at the Miramar. I was bursting with questions, but my thinking was too muzzy to put them right.

  Brenda picked up our crockery, taking it to the kitchen corner of her attic space. The record finished. The others were looking at me strangely. Was I drifting off ? I think I must have been.

  I remember Effie said, ‘She watched the whole thing. On her laptop. When we found her she had gone into a kind of trance.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Brenda said. She was peering into my face. I smiled back at her. They were talking about me! About me watching that film.

  It was true, Mam. I watched a copy of that film on my laptop. The computer you bought me. There must have been something strange about the copy because, well, it shouldn’t exist. I got it in Save the Kiddies and thought I’d found a bargain. A rarity.

  ‘No one should watch that film,’ Brenda was saying. ‘It’s pure wickedness.’

  Funny, she didn’t look like a prude. Not like Effie did.

  ‘What about the remake?’ Robert said.

  ‘They shouldn’t be doing that, either,’ Brenda said. ‘They don’t know what they’re messing around with.’

  Effie stared aghast at her friend. ‘I was worried you’d say something like that.’

  ‘Up at the Bitch’s Maw, as well,’ Brenda said. ‘They’re tapping into forces that they don’t understand.’

  Now I was drifting off, slumped there on a bobbly green armchair. My fingers were tingling oddly, like they sometimes do when trouble’s at hand.

  I closed my eyes. I heard Brenda say, ‘It’s a good job I’ve come back. Right in the nick of time, I’d say.’

  And then, the next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake. Robert had called us a taxi, just to get us up the hill to the Miramar. It was gone four o’clock.

  Anyway, we got back here and Wednesday was starting before we knew it. Bringing with it the promise of the Cosmic Ca
baret at the Christmas Hotel that very night.

  Tonight. It wouldn’t normally be my kind of thing. It’s like an old people’s kind of thing. But I think tonight should prove interesting.

  Don’t worry, Mam. I don’t think it’ll be dangerous. But there’s something weird here, don’t you think? The way these people carry on?

  I’ll write more soon,

  Lots of love,

  Penny

  Ten Fateful Days in the Summer of Love

  Brenda couldn’t tell Effie and the others all she knew about Karla Sorenson. She couldn’t remember everything just yet.

  She lay in bed that night, grabbing a couple of hours before dawn. Her mind whirred and whirled around as she tried to force herself to remember. Frank, murmuring as he slumbered beside her, wasn’t helping. Every now and then he would move one of his massive limbs and the bed would tremble and tip to one side. Being in bed with him was sometimes like clinging to a life raft.

  There’d be no sleep tonight, Brenda thought.

  She knew that the others trusted her intuition. If she said that Karla was dangerous – even if she couldn’t remember exactly why – then they would believe her. Effie especially had learned to trust her.

  On the other hand, Brenda wasn’t quite so sure about trusting Effie’s funny feelings. They seemed to be triggered by the slightest thing. These days Effie found menace in every single shadow. She had been completely wrong, this past spring, about suspected strange goings-on at the kipper smoking shop. And she had been quite mistaken about the curious artefacts found in the excavated lot where they were building a new supermarket. Effie could be a bit previous in anticipating weird shenanigans.

  But Brenda never was. If her alarm bells started ringing – ringing as they were doing now – then chances were, something terrible was afoot.

  Karla Sorenson was cursed. Wherever she went, awful things would happen. That much Brenda remembered.

  Best not to force the memories, Brenda. Try not to cudgel your brains, she told herself. Lie still. Ignore Frank’s snuffling and snorting. Try to forget that this old noggin of yours has been addled and raddled by a stupendously long and complicated life. No wonder whole chunks and vital portions of your mind have frittered and fallen away like old lace.