VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 21, continued from 27/05/11

CHAPTER 21.

 

Image by Victoria Frances)

John Harvey woke at eleven o’clock in the morning. As he opened his eyes, the thin streaks of daylight that passed through his curtains added to the discomfort of his exhaustion.

            He had been up until five the previous night, and slept enough to avoid the dawn, but not enough to refresh himself.

            The night before, he had put a pair of sunglasses on his bedside table, which he put on before getting out of bed. He pulled on his trousers, then opened the curtains. It was over cast and raining, so the glare of the sun was tolerable, and he would have an excuse to wear a hat and gloves for extra protection.

            He brushed his teeth and showered, then put on a black suit, with black pinstripe waist coat, his best black shirt and a black tie. Unable to face food, he drank a cup of tea.

            Today is going to hurt, he told himself, for several reasons.

            He had not been out in the day time for almost ten years, and he had not been inside a church since his parent’s funeral.

With this in mind, he followed his tea with a glass of port, then filled a hip-flask with port for later.

            Looking at his clock, he saw that it was ten to twelve.

            He gathered his black trilby hat with the grey band, a pair of black leather gloves, an umbrella (black) and a bunch of white lilies which he had ordered a few days earlier. He hoped that wearing sunglasses on a rainy day at a funeral would acceptable- men always seemed to do that in American films.

            Seeing as she was always late, it surprised him when Charlotte rang his doorbell at exactly noon.

            Like him, she was dressed for both protection and formal respect, wearing a long black dress under a black trench coat, black boots and stockings, black lace gloves, sunglasses and carrying an umbrella.

            They embraced silently, then climbed into her car.

            Few words were said during the journey. The rain grew steadily worse until they reached their destination.

            John took a large swig of his port.

Saint Mary’s Church stood in a large grave yard on the outskirts of York. It was an unpretentious building of moderate size, with a round tower. An example of the more modest side of medieval architecture. A holly bush grew on the left hand side of the gate to the church yard, and a yew tree on the right, another yew tree and a tall oak stood amongst the graves. The grave stones and stone crosses ranged in age from very recent to around three hundred years old, some were in a state of substantial disrepair.

            As they left the car, Harvey reflected that Victoria would have liked the old church. At another time, they could have sat there together in the moon light. Perhaps she had done that in her youth. It was a good place to rest her body.

            There were several minutes before the service started, and a small crowd waited outside the church, many of whom wore sunglasses despite the rain, whilst other waited inside.

            Charlotte recognised several colleges in the porch and began talking to them, whilst John waited awkwardly, clasping his bouquet of lilies. He knew no one apart from Charlotte. He had not been introduced to any of Victoria’s family or friends, and it was too late for that now.

            He was a stranger at his lover’s funeral.

            Soon they went inside and took a seat near the rear of the church. Every pew was full, and most of the mourners were deathly pale and wore their sunglasses inside.

            John considered it a fine tribute to Victoria that so many of her kind would face the discomfort of the day and holy ground for her.

            The inside of the church was of a humble, Protestant style. Only one cross and one stained glass window bore down from the Alter. Most of the mourners kept their heads down to avoid looking at it, and some could barely hide their pain.

When the vicar took his place in the pulpit, he looked around him and was clearly uncomfortable with his sinister congregation. He welcomed the mourners, then said a few words about Victoria’s tragic and untimely death. Then a hymn was sung, although almost no one knew the words.

            Then Victoria’s father, a tall, broad shouldered old man with military side burns took the Alter. His wrinkled skin was pale, but he wore no sunglasses, instead he stared defiantly at the day.  He stood with his back straight, his hands behind him, and a look of noble determination on his face as he spoke.

            “I do not know why my daughter is dead. I cannot image why men came for her in the night and stole her life away. But I know that she will be remembered, by her family, her friends, and for her work.

            “My Victoria was a good woman, and a wonderful daughter. All here can see that she had many friends. She will be missed dearly, and remembered lovingly.”

            Then the old man took his seat, and the vicar said a few more words, before her coffin was carried out of the church by her father and the rest of the bearers.

            As he followed her body outside, John reflected that the service was usually short, and that this was for the best. Victoria had not been a Christian, and would not have wanted endless hymns and prayers, or to cause discomfort to her mourners. The church funeral must have been her parent’s idea, but they had respected her nature and kept it brief. It was lucky that they had been Protestants, because a Catholic funeral would have been far less widely attended.

            The vicar said a few more words and a prayer as her coffin was lowered into the ground.

            John looked across at Charlotte and saw that tears flowed freely from under her sunglasses, mixing with the rain and falling at her feet. This surprised him. He had never seen Charlotte cry, she was the most stoic person her had ever met, and as far as he knew Victoria was more of a business connection than a close friend.

            Victoria’s parents put a hand full of earth and a bunch of white roses into her grave. Then a girl who looked so much Victoria that she had to be her sister dropped a bouquet of lilies, white roses and red roses on the coffin. When no one else stepped forward, John gave his lilies to the grave.

            “See you in the next world, Victoria,” he said softly.

            Then he turned from the grave and saw the crowd dispersing. Charlotte stood staring at the open hole of the grave, weeping openly.

            “We shall see her again,” he said as he embraced her.

            “I know,” Charlotte whispered.

            He put his arm around her and led her to the car.

            Once inside, John took a swig of his port and offered it to Charlotte. When she declined, he finished it himself. Charlotte wiped the tears and smudged make up from her eyes, then started the car.

            John watched through the rain pelted windows as the grave yard fell from view.

            “It must be worse for her family,” he said eventually. “At least we know why she died, to them it is just horrible madness.”

            “Yes, we know why she died,” Charlotte said quietly. “Do you feel guilty?”

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            “Germaine killed her, not I, and he has paid for his crimes.”

            “If you meet him again in the next world, will you make him pay again?”

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            “’We have forever. We can do what we want’,” John said wistfully.

            “What was that?”

            “Something that Lloyd once said, ‘we have forever, we can do what we want’”.

            “Partly true. We have a very long time…”

            “We shall see Victoria again, in the next world, or the next, or the next.”

            “Aye, sometime between now and Ragnarok. I look forward to it…”

            It was almost dark when they reached Molly’s home.

            John was glad to be rid of the sun and his dark glasses.

            Molly met them at the door, hugged them both, and took them inside. She poured them each a glass of mead, asked them about the funeral, and then served a large fry up. After that they sat, drank and talked for a couple of hours until Charlotte announced that it had been a very long day and she was going to bed.

            John sat up with Molly for another hour, and then went home.

            Molly cleared away the glasses and did the washing up, then went to bed.

            She found Charlotte in her bed, curled up under the blankets, with the bed side light on. Her pillow was wet with tears, and she was still sobbing softly.

            Molly climbed into bed beside her, and wrapped her arm around her.

            “You were very close, weren’t you?” Molly said.

            “Aye, once we were very close.”

            Molly turned off the light, and soon they were asleep in each others arms.

      

            As soon as John got home, he was struck by inspiration.

            He grabbed the note book in which he wrote his poems, scribbled out everything which he had written about moths, then, possessed by a passion ,scribbled down;

“The Tragedy of Moths.

Moth, why do you fly to candle light,

Or dance against the window bright,

When you wander through the night?

Why batter your pretty wings in vain,

Or end you short life in burning pain?

If you love the light, enough to die,

            Why do you fly,

                        In the inky night?

And not the daylight sky?”