Help the Witch

by Tom Cox

  Steve was served as part of a village barbecue the following week to raise money for refugees. He was stuffed with shallots, Parmesan, fresh sage and parsley, halved, and shared by a cashier from the village shop and a man who designed solar panels. The cashier believed her half was a little smaller but chose not to vocalise this opinion. Steve tasted amazing but, ultimately, not markedly different from any of the other tomatoes on offer that afternoon.

  SEANCE

  Sssshhh. I can hear something. Has anyone left a washing machine on in another part of the house? No. OK then. Yes. This is something. I am sure of it. The veil is wavering. It has become granular and I can see through it but I am not using my eyes. Sssshhh. Can you feel it? Keep your hands on the table.

  He says his name is Ian, and he was a cyclist. OK. Yes. It is coming through now. He died in a car accident. I talk to a lot of entities from the other side and what I have learned is that when you die suddenly, and become a ghost, you are not at first aware that you have passed over. You carry on what you were doing just before the incident that caused your death. This was the case with Ian. As his body lay inert in a field in Devon, where it had been flipped by a speeding oil delivery driver, who now continued towards Newton Abbot under the impression he had merely annihilated one of the West Country’s larger deer, Spirit Ian continued to cycle happily up the lower hills of Dartmoor. ‘Morning!’ he called to a middle-aged couple with a labradoodle, cheerfully, as he cycled past Whiddon Scrubs. They ignored him. ‘Shitbags,’ he said under his breath. Ian is telling me all of this now. He talks quickly and has a lot to say for himself. He has had nobody to chat with for a while and is very lonely.

  Ian felt unburdened as his mountain bike propelled him up towards the top of the moor, and looked back with satisfaction at the contours he had covered so far: it reminded him of a giant green version of his duvet at home, after the twins had bounced on it, in that way they often did when they woke him and Judith up in the morning. Judith had made him a brie and cranberry sandwich for his ride but he didn’t feel hungry, which was strange since all he had eaten so far today were nine prawn crackers from last night’s Chinese: slightly stale and rubbery, the way he preferred them. He felt like he never needed to eat again. The cycling was effortless, too. He is telling me all this now. His voice sounds like chalk, in a comforting way. It is a helpful voice, full of concessions. He thought he’d take advantage of the effortless feeling by taking the longer of the two routes he favoured, which went up past the reservoir and to the place where they said fur-covered hands reached out of the mist and pulled drivers off the road, although Ian had never seen any himself. He stopped every mile or so to admire the sky, which was full of small densely packed clouds but contained rectangles of bright light that shone down into the arable fields at the moor’s edges, as if God was playing a joke on particular sheep and cattle by announcing that they were the Chosen Ones. Ian had noticed a cyclist pressing along the lanes in his wake, at first maybe 700 yards behind him, then closer. The cyclist was dressed all in black, to match his bike, and wore a hat, not a helmet. As the cyclist closed in, Ian noticed that his bike was very old: not a bike anyone sensible would choose to negotiate rugged landscape like this, if any reasonable budget was available to them. On the next plateau, Ian waited for a band of insouciant wild ponies to cross the lane, and decided to let the other cyclist catch up and pass him, because the cyclist’s presence was starting to feel quite claustrophobic, inasmuch as you can ever feel claustrophobic in a national park area measuring 368 square miles. It had now been seven hours since Ian had eaten or consumed any liquid and he still did not feel hungry or thirsty. He also had not thought about sex for nearly as long, which was possibly the longest he had gone without thinking about sex since he was twelve. Ian is telling me this now, all of it. Still talking quickly. As the other cyclist got closer, he noticed that he was male and wore very dirty clothes. His hat was made of felt and had moss and lichen stuck to it, which made Ian suspect that before the other cyclist had reached these lanes he had taken a very overgrown route to the top of the moor, possibly cycling across heavily tussocked ground, fraught with peat bogs.

  ‘’Ere mate, get the hell off my patch. I’ve been here since 1962,’ said the other cyclist. Ian noticed that the spokes on his tiny pathetic black bike were also coated in a spider’s web of lichen, plus several actual spider’s webs.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was under the impression it was a free country,’ said Ian.

  ‘Well, you were under the wrong impression. Since when was anything in this country free? What’s free about this: you work all your life for Mr Wallace, and you finally get your promotion, and you celebrate by going for a picnic, then a Triumph Spitfire spins off the road, and crushes your skull beneath its wheels.’

  ‘I – I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, bloody Nora. You haven’t realised yet, have you? You’re dead. We’re both dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you not noticed some big differences? Has anybody spoken to you recently? Have you had an appetite? No? That’s because you’re no longer living. You are of the planet, but no longer on it.’

  ‘But why are we both cycling?’ Now Ian looked at the man again, he noticed that his complexion was not like the complexion of most people he came across in everyday life. His skin had a dark look to it, a touch of dust. But it did not look like the skin of a dead person, just like skin from another time, far away. Further away than 1962.

  ‘When you’re dead, you do the thing that made you most happy, forever. Cycling up here made me happiest when I was alive. You’d think that was OK, but it’s a different story, when you’re stuck doing that thing for all of eternity. I’ve been up here for over half a century now. Try doing that, and still getting a thrill from having the wind in your hair. Anyway, I’m not here to stand around and chat. And I’ll be blowed if I’m going to put up with a young nitwit muscling in on my manor.’

  ‘So, what is your manor?’

  ‘All of it. The whole moor. So, bugger off and find your own place. Try Somerset. It’s very flat in places, and has some lovely gorges, but bear in mind that they sometimes make it with their cousins.’ With that, the black rider aimed a kick at Ian’s mountain bike, knocking it to the floor.

  Ian is telling me this happened a fortnight ago. Since then he has been searching for a place where he could be a ghost cyclist, to no avail. He says that on his way down from the moor he in fact crossed paths with two other spectral presences, including the floating form of a hanged woman buried at a crossroads on unconsecrated ground, but he was still so upset at the revelation about his own death, and the way the black rider had spoken to him, it didn’t really faze him. He says he has a question for us. The question is, ‘What are some dependably quiet cycle paths on the South West Peninsula?’ He says he has an important message too, which … Oh. Damn. He’s dropped the connection. Don’t worry. That happens sometimes. He may return later.

  Oh, OK, OK! Listen. Sssshhh. Keep your hands on the table. Something else is coming through. A woman called Adrianna. She is short, dressed in black and orange. Oh, it is becoming clear now. Adrianna is a wasp! She was reincarnated as one, but didn’t realise at first. It only dawned on her when she noticed how much time she was spending hanging around bottle banks, and how all her previous logic seemed to have left her when it came to finding the easiest way to get out of houses and rooms. But Adrianna doesn’t want to talk about that. She wants to talk about her previous existence, as a life coach. She says that despite being a life coach she also had a life coach of her own, which, when she told people about it, made them mistrust her own expertise as a life coach. She wants to talk about some of the skills she picked up, when redecorating houses, and trying to make them neutral to increase their sales potential. Actually, Adrianna is quite boring. Do you mind if we don’t talk to her, and I drop the connection?

  I just want to add at this point that I do offer an additional service, which is crysta
l evaluation. But there is no pressure. For those who don’t know what crystal evaluation is, here is an example: in Weymouth last week I dangled a crystal over a man’s testicles and detected a shadow there. It might not have been anything significant, possibly benign. The man questioned how I could possibly know there was a shadow on one of his testicles, and chose not to believe me, but the shadow was there. I can guarantee you of that. It will make itself known at some point. As I said, though, there is no pressure. I also write. My debut novel has been acclaimed by some significant luminaries, although I am yet to find a publisher. For those of you who might have contacts in that area, it is something you might keep in mind.

  ‘IHAVESEENTHROUGHTHETUNNELOFLIGHTTOTHE GOLDENTREEOFWISDOMANDBATHE DINITSRICHSAP.’

  I’m sorry I have no idea what that was. Sometimes I just get tremors and snatches, nonspecific voices, I don’t know where they’re coming from. Some are very vociferous. They can leave me feeling spent for days. Like an electric toothbrush whose battery light is flickering, asking to be recharged. Oh, this is interesting. SSSSHHH. I am feeling fur. Quite coarse, not particularly pleasurable to stroke. It’s a fox. A vixen. I believe she was shot near Kibworth in Leicestershire in 1938. The night smelt of vegetables and a dry innocence, an implication of coal. She had been on her way back to the den with two thirds of a pigeon. Before that, she was another fox, and another fox, and before that two previous foxes, bigger, who were in fact distantly related. Essentially she has just been a long succession of foxes over the course of several centuries, and now she is the ghost of a fox, so she can’t speak. She has no words to offer us as gifts for our path. But I know she wishes us all well. She wants us to succeed, and remember that life is about the present, and valuing the little things, those apparently insignificant moments that can surprise you and stick with you and make a memory. Yes, animals come through the veil. They’re as likely to as people. More so, even. History has lasted a long time and it has contained many, many animals. Pardon? Really? Oh, OK, I am sorry if that is disappointing, or if you feel you have been misled. Yes, I do take on board that you were hoping for some family members. I was too. A revered grandfather or significant tortured aunt. I am afraid that hasn’t happened today. Another day it might. The fact is, this stuff isn’t on tap. You can’t control it. Yes, I can leave. Our allotted time is nearly up anyway. I need to be in Budleigh Salterton by eight. I would prefer it now, in cash, but we can discuss all that later, if you prefer. Well, perhaps. I personally think that’s deeply unfair, but we all have a right to our own opinion. Yes, I would, right now, very gladly, but I believe somebody has blocked me in at the end of the driveway. True, but I’m not comfortable with tight manoeuvres, and it’s quite new. At this stage I don’t quite trust myself. To be absolutely frank, it’s only a lease. If you just edge back two or three feet, I’ll fold my wing mirror in, and I should be fine.

  AN ORAL HISTORY OF MARGARET AND THE VILLAGE BY MATTHEW AND FIVE OTHERS

  We were down Tractor’s house an his mum and dad was out, so he got these razmags out from under t’settee to show us, an they were pretty rough, dint do nothing for me, but Rocker an Wayne were going ‘Phwoar’ an that an saying that this woman who were nude an in this barn seeing to these two blokes who were both on bonk looked like Mrs Lewis from Maths, but she dint at all, an even if she did, I dint know why you’d want to look at her doin that. For a bit I were worried that Wayne an Tractor was going to get their nobs out an I started lookin at these trophies that Tractor’s dad had for fishin even though I dint gee a toss about t’trophies but then Tractor an Wayne got bored an we went out in back field to ay a kick-about. I went in goal, which I were shit at, but Tractor an Wayne were always trying to do this scissor kick like that bloke who played for Mexico did in t’World Cup. Wayne would flick t’ball up then Tractor would do t’scissor kick, even doin t’commentary that t’bloke on telly had done when t’Mexican guy had done it, but it never looked like it did on telly. I dint give much of a fuck about footie anyroad, I just had a pretty good ball, which were same make as t’one they’d used in the World Cup, which made everyone talk to me more at school, even though when they did I always got put in goal.

  About t’fuckin trillionth time Tractor done t’scissor kick, he got it way out an t’ball went over the crossbar. We dint have a crossbar, or even posts, just my bag and Tractor’s coat to mark them out, but everyone knew where t’crossbar were anyroad an it definitely went over it, an when it did it kept on going an landed in Old Red Eyes’ garden, which were five doors away from mine an me mum’s. We called her Old Red Eyes but she only had one red eye, but she were about fucking eighty an everyone were right scared of her. Her lip were all messed up too. Her lawn were all overgrown an one time when we were doing t’Grand National over t’fences down Potash Lane Wayne said he stopped in her garden an looked in her shed an she had about twenty footballs in there which, ’cause it was Wayne talking, means if he was telling t’truth there was probably about seven in there. Sean from up t’road said he went in there too an looked in her back window an there were all these stuffed animals there, squirrels an all sorts, even this massive fuck-off badger an a hare which were just as big, and when he was looking at it her face just appeared at t’window, not saying anything, just gormin at him with her eyes: the red one an the one that was sort of normal.

  ‘Go an get t’ball, Jammo,’ goes Tractor.

  ‘Gerrit yersen!’ I goes. He could wank himsen off backwards an swivel if he thought I were going in there.

  ‘Mardarse,’ goes Wayne. ‘It’s your ball anyway. Your fuckin loss, yoth.’

  Stanley Clarke (vicar): ‘What a lot of people don’t remember is that until quite recently, the village still had a pinfold. I say “until quite recently”; I mean until some time in the late forties. Of course, it wasn’t in much use by then, but there was still the odd animal which would escape and be brought there until its owner collected it – sometimes a cow, or a pig, or even just a pet dog. I remember one of the Critchley children, Margaret, had been very good at bringing back the animals when they got loose. She even brought old Wilcock’s horse back there one time. This tiny girl, pulling a huge cob up the hill by its bridle. It was quite a sight! She did have a way with the animals, Margaret, even at that age.’

  We went down t’rope swing over Miner’s Brook after that, then walked up back to church by Babbington Woods an Tractor dared us to put us hands on t’electric fence. Wayne wunt do it an Tractor called him a mardy bastard, but I did it an it dint hurt as much as I thought, but felt fuckin weird, like a whole cricket ball goin right up my arm. Sean were in t’churchyard when we got there, sitting on t’bench with this girl Lisa who kept comin up here from Il’son, wi’ his hand down t’back of her jeans.

  ‘All right, Patty? Ay, did you hear Cary Grant died?’ goes Sean. He called us Patty ’cause I’d once got the bus all the way into Notts just to get a Jamaican patty from the market in the Vic Centre, then come straight home. Everyone said I stank afterwards but I dint an they were dead good patties an I reckoned it were worth hour an a half round trip and 30p bus fare. I’d done it about fifteen times in all but I dint tell anyone else that, after they took piss t’first time. Sean knew I knew Cary Grant were dead. ’Bout a year ago when Cary Grant died, we was all sitting on t’hay bales up in Sean’s dad’s barn and all of a sudden I remembered that it had happened, an I said, ‘Did you all hear Cary Grant died?’ but all t’rest had already been talking about it for about twenty minutes an I ant realised ’cause I were off in my own world. I dint hardly even know who Cary Grant was, ant even seen any of his films; I’d just heard it on t’news that morning an said it to try to say summat interesting. Now Sean wunt let me forget about it.

  My mum called times like that ‘Matthew Moments’: these bits of t’day when I’d just go blank an not hear stuff around me, usually because I was telling stories in my head. Scary stories mostly. I were always doing it at school too. The last time I was on bus back from No
tts after getting a patty I sat with this girl Sarah who sat near me in History who’d gone into town after school too, but to get a record, not a patty, and she told me that I was weird because I was really dozy but not in a stupid way, like all the remos at school that do classes in the new block. I could have taken it in a good way but I dint think she meant it that way. Then she got the record out and asked me if I’d heard of the band who made it, who were called something about Giants. I said I hadn’t. Straight after that, she saw Adele Perry at the back of the bus, who was in History with us too, an went to sit with her instead. I opened my can of Coke an was holding it between my legs to try to be quiet an a bit spurted out an Adele said really loud, ‘Look, he’s doing a piss!’ so all of the bus could hear.

  Dorothy Wilcox (miner’s widow): ‘Folk come here from other parts and think people don’t give much away or waste words, and think that’s just the local character, that it’s just country folk not liking outsiders, but it’s more than that, if you ask me. There were stuff that happened here a long time ago and it ant been forgot. Tongues wagged and people got accused and there was consequences. I’m not going to say the word, but you know the one I mean. You can see marks on the houses, between the bricks. The older ones. That history don’t just go away, even after centuries, and some of the families what suffered are still here. You won’t find me gossiping, though.’