by Mark Stay
Charlotte stiffened, tightening her folded arms before shrugging. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. But she’s been gone too long. The past is dead and that’s how it should stay.’
‘The important thing is we send this demon on his way,’ Faye told them. ‘If we ring this method, we’ll scare the big orange-headed bugger off?’
‘It may be the only chance we have,’ Charlotte said. ‘And I would very much like to settle this before Vera Fivetrees finds out and has all our guts for garters.’
‘Who is this Vera Fivetrees?’ Faye asked.
‘Never mind, I’ll tell you later. We’ve got bigger problems,’ Mrs Teach said, spotting something over Faye’s shoulder.
Silent lightning danced behind the church, revealing a row of silhouettes moving fast down the Wode Road towards the village. It flashed again on their sackcloth faces, stitched-on smiles and button eyes.
‘Dad.’ Faye took her bicycle from where she’d leaned it against the lamp post and wheeled it to her father. ‘Find all the Local Defence Volunteers you can and bring ’em to this spot. I reckon you’ll need pitchforks and flaming torches, and if they bring their rifles, tell ’em to fix bayonets.’
‘What about you?’
‘Never mind me, just get a bloomin’ move on.’ Faye turned to Charlotte and Mrs Teach. ‘You ladies, wake the ringers. Start with Bertie, he’s closest. I’ll meet you at the bell tower. Give Mr Aitch this.’ She handed Charlotte the slip of paper with the ringing method.
‘Aitch?’
‘Mr Hodgson. Hurry. I’ll be keeping this lot busy till you get back. Now go!’ Faye sent the witches on their way, then turned to face the scarecrows rushing down the street towards her. ‘Oi! You after this?’ She held her mother’s book above her head. ‘Then come and get it.’
34 EXIT, PURSUED BY A BUNCH OF SCARECROWS
‘What on earth are you doing knocking on my door in the middle of the night?’ It didn’t take much to rile Mr Hodgson. Typographic errors in The Times, verbose children, overfamiliar shopkeepers and women who whistled were all on his long list of irritants. But having two witches appear on his doorstep on a dark and stormy night had just made it to the very top.
‘You will come with us,’ Charlotte Southill told him. Standing in the pouring rain, her lank white hair rather diminished her usual air of mystery. That didn’t stop her from getting straight to the point. ‘We must gather your bell ringers and hurry to Saint Irene’s where you will ring Kathryn Bright’s method to repel a demon.’
‘I shall do no such thing. Now be on your way, or I shall call the constable.’ Mr Hodgson moved to close the door, but young Bertie Butterworth hurried up the garden path. It was blackout dark, but Mr Hodgson could just see the other ringers standing in the rain by his front garden gate. The Roberts twins, who were also lifeboat volunteers, wore matching bright yellow oilskin raincoats. Miss Burgess stood hands on hips in three-quarter-length hiking shorts and green gumboots, Miss Gordon was in her riding jacket and boots, and the ancient Mrs Pritchett wore her fur-lined coat. They had also drafted in Reverend Jacobs, who had helped them out in the past when they were short. He gave Mr Hodgson a jolly wave.
Bertie, who was still in his striped pyjamas and clogs, broke through the two witches. He stood on the doorstep and looked at Mr Hodgson with pleading eyes.
‘How many peals have you rung, Mr Aitch?’ Bertie asked. ‘Forty? Fifty?’
‘Many hundreds, I’ll have you know.’
‘Crikey.’ Bertie grinned, impressed and distracted. ‘Hundreds? Really?’
‘Young man.’ Charlotte nudged him in the ribs. ‘Get to your point.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Bertie turned back to Mr Hodgson with a serious frown. ‘And how many of them actually mattered?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How many of them have saved the lives of everyone you know in this village?’ Bertie wiped rivulets of rain from his face. ‘I’m thinking the answer would be none.’
‘What the blazes are you wittering on about, boy?’ Mr Hodgson said.
‘You fought in the Great War, didn’t you, Mr Hodgson?’ Bertie continued. ‘A valiant and brave man. Medals and ribbons and such. I know you would be fighting with our boys now if you could, and I’m the same. You’re too old and I’m too crippled, but wouldn’t you like to do your bit in your own way?’
‘All you need to do is ring some bells,’ Mrs Teach said.
‘Who sent you?’ Mr Hodgson asked, his voice trembling. ‘This is Faye Bright’s doing, isn’t it? This is some sort of witchcraft.’
‘Of course it is,’ Charlotte said. ‘We’re witches.’
‘Yes, Faye sent us,’ Mrs Teach added, ‘because she reckoned you wouldn’t listen to her, being a young slip of a girl and all, but you might listen to us. I can tell you now, Mr Hodgson, you and your ringers may be the only thing that stands between the survival of everyone in this village and a malevolent demon. And I don’t say that lightly.’
‘Please, Mr Aitch,’ Bertie said, clasping his hands together. ‘We can’t do this without you.’
‘Who is it, dear?’ came the voice of Mrs Hodgson from the bedroom.
‘It’s the ringers and a couple of witches. They want me to ring a quarter peal to repel a demon, or something.’
‘Well, get on with it,’ Mrs Hodgson cried. ‘You’re letting a draught in.’
Mr Hodgson looked from the living room to the flickering lightning in the night sky, to the ringers in the rain and to the witches on his doorstep. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ he said.
* * *
Suky found herself among gravestones. She had run blind from the crossroads confrontation with Pumpkinhead and lost herself in the streets of the darkened village. She found some bends in the road familiar, and others new and strange with terraces where fields used to be. But the one landmark that hadn’t budged an inch was Saint Irene’s, visible from wherever one stood in the village. Like some doomed heroine from one of her favourite penny dreadfuls, Suky ran through the rain and lightning towards the church bell tower.
Here, birds warned her off. Jackdaws, black with flashes of grey, had settled on the crenellations of the tower, wings tensed and ready to flee as they kaw-kawed at her to leave them be.
‘I won’t harm you, I promise,’ Suky called to them. ‘I flew with you, if you remember? In my mind, at least. We soared above the abbey with the sparrows and starlings and robins and more. Do you remember?’
The birds fell silent and lowered their wings.
‘I felt another mind in there with us. One like mine. A spirit that had passed over and been brung back, if that makes sense? Someone with unfinished business, I think. Is she there now?’
As one, the jackdaws took flight and circled above the bell tower, wings shivering as they flew, their chattering song now a chak-chak-chak.
‘I don’t know if we can stop him, I know I can’t do it on my lonesome, but if we could become one again…? You, me and her. We might stand a chance.’
The jackdaws now sang a warning of kaw-kaws as they flew lower, swirling above Suky’s head.
‘I know,’ Suky said. ‘I know the price I has to pay, and I is willing. Will you help me?’
* * *
Faye pegged it through the rain with nearly twenty scarecrows on her tail as she ran a circuit of the village, starting by Saint Irene’s lychgate, then up and around the graveyard. She knew this village like the back of her hand, even in the blackout, and she soon put some distance between herself and the crow folk. She vaulted the church wall and whizzed past one of the scarecrows wandering the gravestones.
Suky.
Faye didn’t have time to wonder why she wasn’t chasing her like the others, but she gave her a little wave as she raced by. Suky waved back, and it was then Faye noticed the flock of jackdaws circling above the scarecrow girl. Faye wanted to know more, but she had to shake off her pursuers first.
She zigzagged through the church grounds, daring to glance back now and
then. The crow folk followed like sheep, bumping into one another and tripping over molehills in the grass. They were clumsy but relentless, and Faye shuddered at the thought of what they might do if they caught her. Visions of Craddock the scarecrow stuck on a cross gave her the boost she needed to hurdle back over the stone wall and leave the church grounds.
Faye took the path past the allotments, peeling off along Perry Lane. The crow folk herded Faye down the narrow alley, tumbling and stumbling about like the Keystone Cops. Half a dozen or so created a blockage which the rest clambered over, their arms reaching out for the book in Faye’s satchel.
Faye kept running, turning out of the lane onto the bottom of the Wode Road by the war memorial. Moonlight glistened on the slick cobbles. Faye lost her footing, her shoes slapping as she ran. She leaned forwards like a tap dancer, tumbled and fell hard, scraping her elbow and banging the side of her head. She rolled over, shook her head clear and got to her feet as the scarecrows came haring out of the lane towards her.
Faye had never run so much in one day and this last stretch along the Wode Road to the church was uphill and slippy. Her lungs were aching, along with her legs, arms, back and – strangely – her fingers, but she had to keep going. The lychgate was in sight, but her dad and the Local Defence Volunteers were nowhere to be seen and the bells weren’t ringing. The villagers slumbered in the dark, unaware of the strange hunt happening on its streets.
A familiar fear took residence in the pit of Faye’s belly. Not just what would happen if she was caught, but what if no one had actually listened to her? It was easy for Faye to bark orders, but who’s to say they didn’t all head home, make a cup of Ovaltine and go straight to bed? Dad and the Local Defence Volunteers might be having a jolly old laugh over a cheeky pint in an after-hours lock-in. Mrs Teach and Miss Charlotte most likely went their separate ways after agreeing they knew better than a girl who dabbled with magic because she missed her mother.
And what were Faye’s choices if that was the case? Keep running? Do another round of the village with this lot chasing after her – which she didn’t much fancy – or leg it to the bell tower and lock herself inside until the other ringers arrived, which they might never do?
The scurrying footsteps of the scarecrows were closing in on her. They never got tired, and they would not stop until they had Faye and the book. Faye’s legs were feeling heavy, her breathing ragged, and the rain was hammering down on her head. One of the scarecrows moaned as they closed in. The sound was right in her ear.
‘Oh, blinkin’ flip,’ Faye said in fright, gritting her teeth through the exhaustion, doing whatever she could to keep her arms and legs moving. Another moan, and another. Closer and closer, faster and faster.
‘CHARGE!’ came a yell from the Green Man pub. Its doors burst open and the street was flooded with men wearing armbands and tin hats. They carried flaming torches that sizzled in the rain and rushed to form a line between Faye and the scarecrows.
Mr Paine led the way in his ARP uniform and steel helmet, a fiery torch held aloft in his hand.
‘Mr Paine,’ Faye managed between breaths, her voice somewhere between hysterical and delirious. ‘Put that light out.’
‘In this instance, young lady, I shall make an exception.’
‘Run, Faye,’ Terrence cried, ‘we’ve got them outflanked.’
Faye glanced behind her to see the scarecrows recoiling and running back down the Wode Road as a line of Local Defence Volunteers blockaded the street with their torches. Mr Marshall raised a rifle and took a shot at one of the scarecrows. The bullet went straight through it, ricocheting off the war memorial. The scarecrow looked down at the new hole in its chest, yelped and scarpered. Grinning, Faye found new energy and veered off from the Wode Road, vaulted over the church wall and ran through the graveyard towards Saint Irene’s bell tower.
Straight into the arms of Pumpkinhead.
35 THE BELLS OF SAINT IRENE’S
‘So kind of you to bring it to me.’ Pumpkinhead held Faye with one arm while reaching for the buckle of her satchel with the other. Faye wriggled in his grip, but his arms were impossibly strong and they coiled tight around her.
‘Dad. Dad, help!’ she cried, and to her relief the ranks of the Woodville Village Local Defence Volunteers came scrambling over the church wall, torches flaming and weapons drawn.
Pumpkinhead threw Faye and her satchel to the ground. He reached into his dinner jacket, drew his cowbell and rattled it at his attackers. The air trembled, the flaming torches were all snuffed out and even the rain softened a little.
The terrible rattling continued as Terrence readied his Lee–Enfield. He pulled the bolt back to load a round into the chamber, but the rifle simply broke apart. Others tried the same, but their weapons fell in useless pieces onto the wet ground, and the sharp points of pitchforks bent back on themselves like ram horns. Pumpkinhead grinned as he returned the cowbell to his dinner jacket.
Faye scrabbled away as he approached her, but with his long legs Pumpkinhead was on her in moments, trying to pin her down. Faye resisted, wriggling, rolling onto her front, holding tight to the satchel beneath her. Pumpkinhead rested a foot on her back and leaned all his weight on her. He took off his top hat, placed it on Faye’s head. She felt a sudden numbness in her mind and couldn’t move. He pressed down on the hat, pushing her face into the soaked ground.
* * *
Bertie liked things to be in order. The way the tiles tessellated on the kitchen floor at home, the rows of carrots and cabbages on his dad’s allotment, and his alphabetised football cigarette card collection all made him happy in their own little way. But none of these things could match the glory of a well-designed ringing method. That he and his fellow band of ringers could take six, eight, ten bells or more and ring them in such an order they could bring to mind the unfathomable beauty of Heaven itself was nothing short of miraculous to Bertie. And to create this wondrous sound, ringers followed methods. Tried and tested methods, handed down through generations and as carefully notarised as any symphony in clear and concise diagrams. With columns of numbers to signify the bells and red and blue lines to guide the ringers.
Bertie had been ringing since he was twelve and was only just getting the hang of it. Mr Hodgson, on the other hand, was such an expert that he merely had to glance at a blue line to know the method and hear the bells pealing in his head. When he looked at Kathryn Wynter’s method, he puckered up like he was sucking on a sherbet lemon.
‘This will not work,’ Mr Hodgson said as he studied the diagram, pacing in circles in the ringing chamber of Saint Irene’s bell tower. ‘It’s non-symmetrical, it’s not a true method. It has no grace, no piety in the presence of God, it is rushed and frenzied and it cannot be done.’
‘It’ll work, Mr Aitch,’ Bertie insisted, then gestured at his fellow ringers, each one of them drenched from head to toe after their dash through the storm. ‘We’re ready for the challenge. You’re always telling us we’re the best band in Kent, if not the whole of Great Britain. We’ve all looked at it and we know it looks half barmy, but you have to admit there’s something to it.’
‘I reckon it’s a work of genius,’ Mrs Pritchett added.
‘We’ve seen nothing like it,’ the Roberts twins said in unison.
‘Truly magnificent,’ added the Reverend Jacobs.
‘It is rather splendid,’ Miss Gordon said, clapping her hands together in excitement.
‘Come on, chaps, let’s at it.’ Miss Burgess marched to take a rope.
Bertie dared to move closer to Mr Hodgson and spoke softly. ‘We saw some strange stuff happening in the graveyard on the way here. Faye needs our help and we don’t have much time. What do you say, Mr Hodgson?’ Bertie’s question hung in the air as the tower captain continued to frown in bafflement at Kathryn Wynter’s method.
* * *
Faye could not move, paralysed by whatever magic emanated from Pumpkinhead’s top hat. He pressed down harder, pushing her face
further into the ground. Faye’s specs fell off her nose. Everything was a blur. All she could make out were raindrops pattering on blades of grass, weeds, dandelions and tiny mushrooms. Rainwater rushed in around her, a puddle filling Faye’s mouth and nose. She was going to die, drowned like a rat in a graveyard.
And that’s when the bells of Saint Irene’s began to ring.
Faye allowed herself a flutter of hope. This was it. Mr Hodgson and the rest would ring her mother’s method and the demon would flee in terror. But it only took a moment for Faye to realise they were just ringing up to raise the bells. Nothing magical at all. Mr Hodgson was not ringing her mother’s method, and now Faye was going to drown in a puddle.
Pumpkinhead whispered in Faye’s ear unfathomable words that crawled across her skin, spreading the numbness. Her eyes felt heavy, her thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind. She was losing her mind.
* * *
Bertie rang the tenor, wondering when Mr Hodgson was going to stop ringing rounds and start Kathryn Wynter’s method. Ringing rounds was important, of course, they had to raise the bells, but they had been going on far longer than usual and Bertie could see fear in Mr Hodgson’s eyes. The tower captain didn’t want to ring it, and they were wasting time. Bertie wondered if he should call stand when he caught sight of a familiar figure emerging through the oak door into the ringing chamber.
‘Stop this at once.’ Constable Muldoon stood with his hand raised, hollering over the clamour of the bells. ‘I order you to cease your ringing immediately.’
‘Stand!’ Mr Hodgson called and the other ringers came to a hurried halt.
‘Well, this is a pretty disgrace and no mistaking,’ Constable Muldoon said as he strode into the centre of the chamber. ‘Merely days after the decree that all ringing be stopped, I find you lot having a right old ding-dong in the middle of the night.’