Whitby Vampyrrhic by Simon Clark Page B

herself.
Eleanor’s brother must be blind.
The poor man . . . and he looked so healthy in the photograph.
That prolonged fumbling at the fabric, the long, pale fingers searching desperately for a fold to grasp, saddened her so much that a lump formed in her throat. She wondered if she should warn Eleanor that her brother might need help. However, after a moment’s scrabbling, he seized the fabric, then shut the curtain so quickly that she could almost feel his desperation to keep the world out of sight.
    Sally appeared at the doorway. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
    â€˜Sorry, I was just . . .’
Spying on Eleanor’s brother?
‘I’ll be right there.’
    â€˜Get your scarf and gloves. It’s freezing.’ Sally clutched Beth’s arm as they headed for the staircase. ‘Our first day in Whitby. Can’t you just feel it in the air! Something really amazing is going to happen today. Just you wait and see.’

Two
    At the reception desk, Eleanor handed Alec Reed a pen. ‘If you can sign the register, please, Mr Reed.’
    â€˜Call me Alec, please.’
    â€˜And I’m Eleanor. Ah, a left-hander, I see. An indication of artistic sensibility.’
    Alec wrote his name in the book. ‘Your last guest before Beth and Sally signed in was two years ago.’
    â€˜The war stopped people holidaying at the coast. They were afraid that Hitler’s Storm Troopers might come ashore here. So I decided to simply keep the front door locked until hostilities ended. I’ll get your cases.’
    â€˜No bellboy?’
    â€˜He’s on a minesweeper out in the Atlantic. And our chef is making his wonderful beef and ale stew for the garrison down in Portsmouth. Young men are hard to find in Whitby these days, Alec.’
    He returned her pen. ‘So you’ll be wondering what a six-foot Scot, of thirty years of age, is doing in your nice safe hotel. The man should be marching with a rifle in his hand, isn’t that so, Eleanor?’
    â€˜We all have our reasons for what we do, whether they be public knowledge or utterly secret.’
    He held up his right hand. ‘This has all the dexterity of a crab’s claw. The bus I was travelling in, when I was ten years old, rolled off the road. It did such a good job of busting the ligaments that my right hand, though it’s strong, acts like a pincer – nothing more. Hence, the military rejected me and my crab-claw hand.’
    â€˜You must be frustrated that you can’t join the fight.’
    â€˜So you’d think, but when I received the letter telling me that I’d spend the war as a civilian I celebrated for twenty-four hours straight.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜Can I be confessional, Eleanor?’
    â€˜If that’s what you wish.’
    â€˜Well, I confess this fact: I’ve never done a useful thing in my adult life. I lived for pleasure. Let everyone else do the dull chores. If you work for a living you’re a fool.’
    â€˜Is that what you think?’ Eleanor put the register back on its shelf.
    â€˜It was my mantra. I told everyone I was a writer. In truth, I wrote very little. All my creativity went into finding routes to pleasure.’
    â€˜Alec Reed,
Soho Square and Beyond
.’
    â€˜You’ve read my one and only novel? You belong to a tiny elite, Eleanor.’
    â€˜And it is an extraordinary book. You are a very talented writer.’
    â€˜You’re too kind.’
    â€˜Not at all. I’m not one to flatter for no valid reason.’
    He picked up his suitcase. ‘A production company hired me to write a script for a patriotic film. One that shows neutral nations how life is lived under siege here in Britain.’
    â€˜Then it’s a laudable film to make.’
    â€˜I wrote the script. And I hated it. Hated it with a passion. And I resented being forced to work the nine to five. Then I happened to be