by David Pinner
With the various fires flaring and leaping around him, and the searing heat increasing rapidly, in growing alarm Vince leapt up onto the arm of the burning sofa. He was about to jump over the windowsill, and out into the flowerbed, but the raging fires were far too fierce as they had already set the curtains alight. The intense heat compelled him to leap off the sofa back into the parlour. Then he saw that the voracious flames were not only burning the books and bookshelves, but now they were leaping rapidly towards the doorway. Panic-stricken, the postman fled across the parlour, and he rushed out through the smoke-filled, open door.
He charged into the kitchen. After scrunching the key around in the rusting lock, eventually he was able to wrench the back door open. In terror he ran out into the night. Instantly he lost his footing on the crumbling, concrete back-step. With his arms flailing, he hurtled forwards. His left shoulder crashed into a rosebush, and several thorns imbedded themselves into his badly-bruised flesh. Then he smelt more ferocious burning as billowing, black smoke chugged through the open backdoor.
Coughing hoarsely, Vince lunged away from the acrid smoke, while his fumbling fingers tried to pluck the painful thorn-barbs out of his upper arm. In his frenzied agitation, he had no control over his limbs, and his stumbling feet entangled themselves in another rosebush. Tumbling backwards, he tripped, and banged his head against the cottage wall.
In a stunned state, he tried to regain his balance. He tripped again, sprawling headlong into a hawthorn thicket. Instantly he clutched his belly, and he emitted a strangulated scream. Then his visceral agony prompted a final whimper. A moment later, the postman lay still as more and more blood oozed out of his lacerated abdomen.
*
From his hiding place behind the beech hedge, Paul had watched the terrified Vince as he ran out of the parlour. Then Paul lost interest in the postman’s ultimate fate. Now he had only eyes for the rapacious blaze in the witch’s cottage. Lasciviously he savoured the spectacle of the spreading fires while they transmuted Gwynne’s curtains into sheets of flame.
As more black smoke billowed through the windowless-gap, to Paul’s amazement, he realised that the pain of his infernal headache had begun to diminish.
Then he heard himself crying out to the flames in the cottage; ‘At last you’ve got something right, Postman Vince. The Lord of Hosts has always commanded us to burn the wicked – and Gwynne is certainly wicked – so “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”.’
As the searing heat intensified, and the flames rose even higher in the witch’s parlour, Paul began to applaud ‘God’s fiery furnace’. While he was clapping frenziedly, he remembered Midsummer’s Night, when he had fallen down the cliff path, and in his semi-conscious state, he had imagined Gwynne being burnt in the Midsummer Sacrificial Fire, alongside Jimmy’s stallion.
‘And now, praise be to God, Gwynne is really going to be burnt alive in her bedroom. So justice will be done, because the only good witch is a witch who is swathed in flames!’
But then, he thought, When Lulu threw me into that trance, I dreamed of Lulu being burnt to death, too. And that would be equally just because Lulu is a succubus, so she is every bit as much of a witch as Gwynne is.
‘What’s more, Lulu, if you continue to thwart my desires,’ he rasped, ‘Then rely on it, Succubus, I will applaud to the rafters as I burn you to death. Yes, and I’ll clap with much the same fervour as now I’m applauding Gwynne Spark’s imminent demise.’
Still clapping and cheering, Paul approached the flame-filled, windowless-space as the night wind blew a hole through the wreathing smoke in the parlour. And in the midst of the sofa’s conflagration, he was able to see that there was very little left of the burning straw-woman. Gleefully he watched the diminutive remains of her effigy, fluttering out of the windowless space, in a flurry of white-hot ashes. Then he applauded even louder because his headache had completely gone, and now he felt as elated as God’s favourite angel.
‘Yes…and to me, all those glimmering ashes are no more than a remote constellation of dying stars,’ he shouted, frenziedly clapping his hands above his head.
21
While the last of the straw-woman’s ashes were floating out into the witch’s garden…Lulu, who was motionless under her duvet, with a startled scream, suddenly she flailed her way out of her occult-enforced coma, while her heart was thudding like a manic piston.
Although her body was feverishly trembling because of her excruciating experience, Lulu still managed to force her reluctant body to climb out of her bed. And all the while, the haunting vision of Gwynne’s burning parlour continued to blaze in Lulu’s mind’s-eye.
Still swaying from the effort of standing, Lulu snatched the telephone off its cradle. She was about to punch in 999, when she registered that there was no dialling tone. Angrily she slammed down the receiver, and she snatched her mobile phone from the mantelpiece. Then she remembered her mobile wouldn’t work in her cottage, or in the environs of the village, so she threw her mobile down on the sofa. Still cursing British Telecom’s ineptitude, she ripped off her nightgown, and she scrabbled her way into her blouse and slacks.
With only the bottom half of her blouse buttoned up, Lulu climbed into her rarely-used Citroen ZX, and she backed her car out of her garage. Despite shivering in the cold, she screeched over the gravel onto the road.
It took her less than seven minutes to reach Gwynne’s isolated cottage. As Lulu drove up to the house, she saw the flames blazing through the windowless space in the parlour wall. Devastated by the spectacle, she wrenched open the door of her Citroen, and she ran up the path towards Gwynne’s cottage.
After repeatedly pealing the bell, Lulu hammered on the door with her fists. Still nothing. As she continued to bang on the door and ring the bell, her thoughts were racing.
The only hope of saving Gwynne is if I drive to her nearest neighbour, and I’ll get them to call the fire brigade, she thought as she gave the door a final, frustrated thump.
She was turning to leave, when she was confronted by Paul, who was pointing an accusatory finger at her.
‘Lulu, what the devil d’you think you’re doing banging on Gwynne Spark’s door like that?’
‘I’m trying to save her life, of course!’
‘No! “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” So let the foul creature go up in flames, for God’s sake. In fact you should be applauding Spark’s much-deserved burning!’ he yelled as he turned back to the clouds of smoke, which were billowing from the cottage. Then enthusiastically he began applauding the blaze.
‘You really are a sicko, aren’t you, Paul?’ Lulu cried, punching his spine with her fist. ‘What’s more, if you don’t help me to save her, I’ll tell the Police that it was you who started the fire!’
‘It wasn’t me. It was Vince Townley.’
‘I don’t give a toss who started it. Because it’s obvious that if I hadn’t turned up, Paul, you would have gone on watching and clapping ‘till the poor woman was burnt to death. That’s why it’s imperative that you call the fire-brigade now, or, so help me, I will tell the police about your part in all of this,’ Lulu threatened, running towards her car.
‘OK, OK, I’ll call the fire-brigade,’ Paul shouted, catching her up and grabbing her wrist. ‘But I’ll phone them from her cottage, while you run upstairs and rescue the witch.’
‘How can we get into her cottage?’
‘After Vince set fire to her place, he charged out of the back door, so the door’s still bound to be open.’
‘Thank Heaven for that!’
Together they ran round to the rear of the house. Then Paul rushed through the open doorway into the smoke-filled-kitchen. Once he was in the hall, he ignored the flames, which were billowing from the parlour, and he snatched the phone off the hall table.
As he punched in 999, Lulu ran past him. She was halfway up the stairs, when she was relieved to see the dazed figure of Gwynne on the top-step. The disoriented witch was in her nightd
ress, swaying unsteadily against the banister.
‘What the devil’s happening?’ Gwynne demanded, rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.
‘Your parlour’s on fire!’ Lulu shouted, taking Gwynne firmly by the arm, and leading her across the landing into her bedroom. ‘So let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘You came to save me, Crescent? Why ever would you want to do that?’ Gwynne muttered in disbelief, leaning against Lulu for support.
As more and more smoke chugged up the stairway, Gwynne began coughing.
‘This is no time for questions, Gwynne,’ Lulu insisted. ‘Let’s run for it before we are both incinerated!’
*
Ten minutes later, Gwynne, in her nightie, was standing uncertainly beside Lulu and Paul. The three of them were at a safe distance from the cottage, and they were watching Gwynne’s smoke-enwreathed parlour as it was being saturated with a constant stream of water from the fire-brigade’s hoses.
Then a fireman came running towards them from the rear of the house.
‘There’s a dead man back there in the shrubbery, missus,’ the fireman shouted at Gwynne. ‘You see, when the man ran out of your burning house, missus, he must’ve tripped up, and accidentally stabbed himself to death on the glass-cutter in his pocket.’
‘Hell on earth!’ Gwynne whispered as she exchanged fearful looks with the equally-perturbed Lulu.
22
2.30 p.m., the following afternoon, Wednesday 29th, December 1999.
After Lulu had opened the front door of her cottage, she pushed the door back against the wall. Then she ushered the bewildered figure of Gwynne Spark, who was dressed in a crumpled black skirt and sweater, into the shadowy hallway.
‘I still don’t understand why you’ve driven me here, Lulu,’ Gwynne protested as she forced her rheumatic knees to limp forward unsteadily. ‘So why the hell are you doing this?’
‘I’m doing it, Gwynne, because you have already suffered more than enough. And now you need someone to support you,’ Lulu said, taking Gwynne’s arm, and escorting the reluctant, elderly woman along the passageway. ‘You see, my dear, I know your life has been very hard for many years. And what happened to you last night, Gwynne, well, it was just a burning bridge too far. So you need a very large brandy to soften the edges. The brandy will calm your nerves.’
‘Look, it’s only two-thirty in the afternoon, Lulu. And I never drink ‘till the evening,’ protested Gwynne, prising Lulu’s guiding hand off her elbow.
‘No “buts”, Gwynne,’ insisted Lulu as she continued to manoeuvre Gwynne into her living room. ‘Now come on, admit it. A large brandy is what we both need.’
Perplexed, and still in an acute state of shock, Gwynne allowed herself to be seated in an armchair by Lulu’s sunlit window.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Lulu, but after all the terrible things that I’ve tried to do to you, well, you see…none of this makes any sense,’ Gwynne said, shading her eyes against the winter’s golden beams.
Lulu pulled the glass stopper out of the brandy decanter.
‘Look, Gwynne, I more than understand all your reasons for attacking me,’ Lulu said as she poured a large amount of brandy into two balloon glasses. ‘Well, not only did you tragically lose your two beloved daughters, whose deaths, I know, continually haunt you, and fill you with brooding despair - but then you were confronted by me coming here to Thorn. What’s more, you felt - and you still feel - threatened by my powers, don’t you? And you have looked upon me as your eternal enemy because you believe that I am invading your occult territory. So what with the loss of your daughters, plus my “threatening” presence in Thorn, well, it is hardly surprising that you feel intensely bitter about me, and that’s the reason that you have tried to destroy me.’
Gwynne lurched to her feet, wincing as her bowed knees began to throb.
‘Lulu, you say you understand what I’ve been through, and what I’m still going through. But when we were both questioned by the police just now, about my parlour being set on fire, you didn’t tell them the whole truth about what happened to Vince, did you? So why didn’t you tell them the truth?’
‘Because half of the truth was easier for Inspector Glenville and his Sergeant to believe,’ Lulu said, pressing a brandy glass into Gwynne’s reluctant hands.
‘Is that why you said that Vince – and Vince alone – was responsible for starting the fire?’
‘Well, that is most of the truth, isn’t it, Gwynne?’
‘Listen, the reason that Vince set light to my parlour was because I am certain that - through my window - he saw what I was trying to do to you last night, Lulu. In fact he must have watched me, while I was hammering that wooden stake into your straw-effigy,’ Gwynne protested as dolefully she slumped down into her armchair again, and swigged back a quarter of her brandy.
‘Yes, Gwynne, but Vincent would never have been observing you, through your window, if I hadn’t sent him round to your cottage, with orders that he should seriously hurt you,’ Lulu said contritely, before taking a sip of her brandy. ‘Yet, the Goddess be praised, despite all Vince’s considerable efforts, he failed to burn you alive. Oh I know your cottage is damaged, but it’s still standing. ‘Fact it’s only your parlour that has been seriously burnt. Although, of course, it does makes your cottage temporarily uninhabitable.’
Gwynne downed the remains of her brandy in one testy gulp. Then she coughed huskily. When she had recovered, she slammed her glass down on a side table.
‘What happened to my cottage, Lulu, well, that really doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to poor Vincent’s fate. And you seem to be forgetting that Vincent is dead!’ Gwynne rasped while she pointed at herself, and then at Lulu. ‘And what makes it even worse, is it’s the two of us, who are entirely responsible for Vincent being in the morgue!’
‘Yes, you’re right, Gwynne,’ Lulu agreed, sighing deeply as she refilled her visitor’s brandy balloon.
Ignoring the proffered brandy, Gwynne shook her head emphatically. Then wincing, she pushed herself to her feet.
‘I should never have let you drive me here, Lulu Crescent.’
‘Please don’t go, Gwynne,’ Lulu pleaded as she moved across to Gwynne with a refilled brandy glass. ‘Look…when we’ve picked up your clothes and the rest of the things that you need from your cottage, I’ll bring you back here because I want you to stay with me until your house is fit to live in again.’
‘You want me to do what?’ Gwynne protested, limping towards the door.
‘But first we should call your insurance company,’ Lulu said, putting Gwynne’s glass down on a side table, and joining the older woman by the open doorway. ‘That’s, of course, presupposing British Telecom has sorted out my landline now. And then we’ll find you some local decorators, who will repair all the damage in your cottage. But until the decorators have finished making your place liveable again, Gwynne, I insist that you stay here with me because…’
‘I can’t possibly stay here with you,’ interrupted Gwynne as Lulu reached for the phone on the Welsh dresser. ‘Well, how can I? I’ve already tried to maim and kill you twice!’
‘So what? Now we are even – because last night I almost had you killed,’ Lulu interjected, putting down the phone, and re-joining Gwynne in the doorway. ‘That’s why we need each other. Well, as you so rightly say – between us – we are responsible for Vincent’s death, and he will forever be on our consciences. So now, together, we must make amends for the terrible things that we have done,’ Lulu insisted, moving closer to Gwynne, and opening her arms to her.
‘What…what d’you think you’re…doing, Lulu?’
‘I’m embracing you,’ Lulu whispered, enfolding the older woman in her arms.
‘Why?’ Gwynne asked, while not resisting Lulu’s embrace, and yet not responding to her.
‘Yes, Gwynne, and as we’re the two most powerful women in the village, from now on we must work together for the good of everyone here in Thorn,’ Lulu said
as Gwynne backed away from her.
With an understanding smile, Lulu pursued her, ‘You see, my dear, now that I’ve embraced you – well, whether we like it or not – there will always be a telepathic understanding, and a perpetual bond between us.’
Dubiously Gwynne shook her head. Then the older woman limped back into the room, and she picked up her brandy glass from the side table. With an encouraging smile, Lulu nodded, but her smiled was not returned. Instead Gwynne fixed her with a basilisk glare.
‘Lulu, I want you to know that Sue is fully aware of your part in her husband’s death.’
‘Did you tell Sue, then?’ Lulu exclaimed, unable to disguise the surprise in her voice.
‘What choice had I?’
‘Then I’m sure, Gwynne, that you also told Sue about your role in Vincent’s death,’ Lulu asserted as she watched Gwynne taking another sip from her brandy glass.
‘Well…’
‘I see, Gwynne. So you didn’t tell Sue that you goaded her husband to the point of madness. And instead you just blamed everything on me. Even though I saved your life.’
‘I’m sorry, Lulu, but I live here,’ Gwynne countered. ‘I’m not just passing through like you are. Well, let’s face it, if you hadn’t come to Thorn, none of this would’ve happened. Because you are not only partially responsible for Vince’s death, but you are totally responsible for James committing suicide,’ the witch riposted. ‘So that’s why it’s best if I go and stay with Sue in her house – like she has asked me to,’ Gwynne exclaimed, putting down her empty glass. ‘But thanks for the brandy, Lulu. And for saving my life.’
With a despairing smile, Lulu shook her head because suddenly she was at loss as to what to do.
As Gwynne moved across the room to the open door, there was the sound of metal clattering against metal.
Mystified, Lulu peered through her front window, where she was confronted by the angry figure of Mary Rowbottom, with her daughter, Bella, who was looking fearful. Beside them, there was the furious Sue Townley, and the tear-stained face of her daughter, Scarlet.