Witch Dust
Page 1
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Relatively Strange
Even Stranger
“What a brilliant unique book. I couldn’t put it down” - Off-the-Shelf Book Reviews
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“Beautifully written, this book will grab readers on a visceral level. Stella is both heroine, victim and villain, and one of the most compelling characters I have encountered in some time.” - For the Love of Books
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“… keeps you both on your toes and at the edge of your seat throughout each chapter. A must-read.” - Elisheva Sokolic. Under Cover
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“I spent the first few chapters of this brilliant novel wondering if it really was a crime book, since it seemed to be a very funny description of Stella’s mad relatives – then I got swept up in the story, and after I’d finished I couldn’t quite see what else it could be. Imagine a John Wyndham character strayed into a McDermid, Kate Brannigan novel, that might give you an idea of this quirky book. If you want to try something a bit different, I’d really recommend this.” - Promoting Crime Fiction
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“A Stephen King-like Dark Tale of Strange Occurrences” - Breakaway Reviewers
witch dust
Marilyn Messik
Copyright © 2017 Marilyn Messik
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador
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Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
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Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 9781788030373
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
With thanks to Dani, Andrea and Louise, the strong women in my life.
Contents
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marilyn was a regular feature and fiction writer for national magazines when her children were small. She set up her first business, selling toys, books and party goods, from home, before opening first one shop then another. When she sold both shops she moved into the world of travel, focusing on Bed and Breakfasts and Country Inns in New England, USA. Her advisory, planning and booking service flourished and she concurrently launched a publishing company, producing an annual, full-colour accommodation guide.
In 2007 she set up a copywriting consultancy, to help businesses shape their messages to optimum effect. She’s the author of the Little Black Business Book series and the novels Relatively Strange and Even Stranger. She’s been married to her very patient husband for more years than he deserves and they have two children, five grandchildren and, somewhat to their surprise, several grand-dogs.
CHAPTER ONE
My Mother had a lumpily-packed, Louis Vuitton carpet bag clamped under one arm, a stout black cat struggling under the other and a brown envelope gripped damply between her front teeth. She appeared, without warning, in the middle of my living room. I really hated it when she did that.
“I’ve just killed your Father.” She said.
Martin, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee and a box of chocolates was, not unreasonably, startled to see her. He jumped violently and a jet of hot liquid scalded his wrist, before splashing dark brown across the cream sofa. The chocolates went flying. The cat, with a yowl, jerked free and hit the ground running, whilst my Mother sank soulfully into an armchair and Martin started sneezing – he had allergies.
“What the… ?” He was baffled and incensed in equal measure. I sighed, picked up a couple of stray chocolates which had landed in my lap, and prepared to extricate myself and the Mother-from-hell from yet another situation you couldn’t dream up if you tried. I’d spent a lot of my thirty years doing that.
CHAPTER TWO
You’d probably recognize my Mother if you saw her, my Father too – Adam Adamovitch and the lovely Ophelia. You might have been to one of their stage shows, more likely you’ll have seen them on television – they did a Christmas Special for years; or perhaps you caught them, not that long ago on Graham Norton. Most people have simply got used to seeing them gazing adoringly at each other in innumerable red-carpet press shots – a premiere here, a society bash there or simply champagning it on the slopes of Gstaad.
Adam and
Ophie, or as the media love to label them, Mr and Mrs Magic. Purveyors of illusion; delusion; sparkling eyes; flashing teeth; little-left-to-the-imagination costumes and death defying stunts. Sword; flame; guillotine; water-tank; all thrillingly enhanced with their trade-mark sizzling chemistry although naturally, that’s not an aspect on which a daughter likes to dwell. Not a shred of doubt though, a fair old amount of high voltage smouldering took place, both onstage and off. His tall, olive-skinned good looks charmingly offset by her petite, curved blonde ones had, over the years, put the extra into some extraordinary performances, resulting in consistent bookings, a vertical career path and egos the size of the national debt.
Me? Well no, you wouldn’t recognize me, why should you? Mind you, I believe I did do a turn or two, way back when I was small. I vaguely remember, toddler-sized, being hauled out of a hat rabbit-fashion then befrilled and becurled, tottering across the stage arms outstretched, to be scooped up by one and tossed, uncomplaining to the other. The audience loved it, clapped their hands sore, rocking with excitement that Adam and the lovely Ophelia – looking no more than a child herself – had sealed their union with a predictably gorgeous baby. But of course, a baby’s one thing, a sulky six year old quite another. And unsurprisingly, as time passed and stomachs had to be held in ever more tightly, buttocks clenched ever more constantly and make-up applied with an increasingly lavish hand, a spottily awkward teenager was the last thing they wanted in the public eye.
No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not grumbling, I certainly wasn’t neglected, it’s just some people aren’t natural parent material, and whilst there was never any shortage of loving hugs and expensive gifts there was, it has to be said, a corresponding and disconcerting degree of absent mindedness. As a child I was accustomed to being regularly, if inadvertently, left behind at numerous hotels, stations or airports. The Stage Manager would assume I was with the PR people, the PR people would be convinced I’d gone on with Props and my parents generally omitted to give it much thought one way or another.
Whilst never thrilled by this evidence of my importance on the scale of things, I was fairly philosophical and would wait patiently, never fearing abandonment. I knew, sooner or later, someone would come rushing back in a panic to get me, and such incidents were invariably followed by Ma and Pa descending briefly into darling-we’re-such-terrible-people-you-must-hate-us-what-can-we-possibly-do-to-make-it-up-to-you mode. This was generally the most tiresome part, because I then had to spend time and effort reassuring them they were the best parents anyone could ask for – which we all knew wasn’t remotely true – but it drew a line under the whole thing, until the next time.
On the whole, I suppose my relationship with my parents wasn’t so very different from the norm, although birthday parties, for which they usually insisted on providing the entertainment, were pretty excruciating. There can’t be many of us who spend our formative years hissing at our Mother, ‘For God’s sake, put some proper clothes on!’ But like most children, I did want to shine in their eyes and whilst fully anticipating, was invariably disappointed when they were unable to make school plays, sports days and prize-givings. Mind you, their rare attendance could be considered a mixed blessing. They once arrived at a Nativity play I was in – complete with film crew and sound team to record the performance. That’s not a comfortable memory. When it came to the finale Pa, channeling Spielberg, insisted on four re-takes. The whole thing turned so stressful that the English teacher came over all unnecessary, Herod got into a fight with the donkey and the Virgin Mary threw up over two of the three Wise Men. As I said, a mixed blessing.
CHAPTER THREE
As soon as I was old enough to suss the lie of the land, I daily thanked my lucky stars for Murray Silverstone, who pitched up in loyal loco parentis for every single one of my plays, hockey matches or parents’ evenings throughout my school years. In fact, Murray it was who laboured long into the night, tongue tip protruding pinkly between concentration-pursed lips, as he sewed name tags into my uniforms; Murray who cajoled me to dentist and doctor with promises it wouldn’t hurt and reasonable explanation if it did. And it was always Murray to whom I ran howling with scraped knee, cut hand or wounded pride.
Murray had been with my parents from almost the instant their career took off. He never gave much away about his background, refused to talk about his own childhood and, as far as I can recall, didn’t ever take holidays. He certainly always seemed to be around. He ruled our lives with an iron fist in an iron glove – dresser; props supervisor; travel arranger; rock in a crisis; port in a storm. He was the only person totally unintimidated by my Father’s roaring rages and patently unimpressed by my Mother’s histrionics.
His lack of height, never diminished his authority, although you had to get up early to catch Murray without his built-up shoes, for which he regularly paid a small fortune to a clever cobbler, off Bond Street. Vertical challenges notwithstanding, it was a brave theatre manager who’d risk making last-minute changes to one of Murray’s meticulously drawn up schedules, and a mere murmur of ‘I’ll just mention that to Murray, shall I?’ was usually more than enough to bring stroppily creative tv directors swiftly to heel.
Over the years, his bright red hair softened to a silky dollop of pure cream, topping cherubic features that had only become ruddier with age. If the increasing purple veining of his nose belied his ferocious tee-totality, his rounded, cheerful chappie exterior was even more of a let-down. Despite the fact I adored him unconditionally, even I had to admit, pessimism was his middle name, misery his mantra and hypochondria his hobby. ‘How are you Murray?’ was a question wisest not to ask – not unless you had an awful lot of time on your hands.
Murray’s relationship with my parents was often stormy – well, stormy on their part, millpond unruffled on his.
“You’ve done what?” My Father would bellow at the top of his impressively mellifluous voice, which never needed benefit of microphone to resonate right to the back of an auditorium.
“Given ‘im ‘is cards.”
“He was one of the best bloody stage-hands we’ve ever had – get him back. There you go again Murray, making decisions without checking with me first. Who the hell pays your flaming wages, just tell me that?”
“He’s kept a notebook hasn’t he? Every single bloody trick.”
“Good God! Are you… ?”
“Sure? Yup. Burned it.”
“Has he… ?”
“Yup, Daily Mail.”
“Dear Lord, can you…?”
“Sorted.”
“Right. Well… um… good man Murray.”
Fallings out with my Mother were usually over costume decisions – hers, and costume revisions, his.
“Murray, what the blazes is this grotty piece of rubbish Betty’s just handed me? I specifically told her I wanted it tight and sequined like the last one. See to it.”
“You need it draped.”
“I most certainly do not. When will you learn, I and not you decide what I will and won’t wear.”
“Last scene. You’re up on that podium sideways and you’re back-lit.”
“And your point… ?”
“Stomach’s sticking right out in the tight costume.”
“How dare you, you odious little man!”
“Okey doke. Have Betty make up the tight one then, shall I?”
“Indeed you will and in future, kindly have the courtesy not to countermand my instructions and keep your insulting opinions to yourself.”
“Right you are.”
“No. Hang on a minute. I’m not giving Betty extra work and an excuse to walk around like a wet weekend in Warrington. I’ll wear the wretched thing as it is. But in future, I’ll thank you not to stick your nose in where it’s not wanted. Understand?”
“Understood.”
As I grew to appreciate, the relationsh
ip between the three had very clearly defined boundaries which seemed to satisfy all parties, but anyone else, even me, overstepping the mark, was a step too far. I learned this early, I was probably about seven or eight then. Murray had forbidden me to do something, can’t even recall what it was now, but it was certainly world-shatteringly important at the time and I turned and hissed at him through clenched teeth, borrowing, with no compunction whatsoever, my Father’s tone.
“Horrible little man,” I yelled, “Your trouble is you don’t know your place.” Whereupon my knees buckled, as my Mother delivered a totally unexpected whack to my rear end.
“Don’t you ever,” she said, “Ever, let me hear you speak to Murray or indeed anybody else in that way again. Do I make myself absolutely clear? Apologise, immediately!”
“Sorry Murray.” I muttered ungraciously.
“Properly, please!” She snapped.
“Really sorry spoke like that to you Murray, won’t happen again.” I mumbled. He nodded and we both looked at my Mother, who appeared somewhat in shock at having sounded for once like a proper parent. Apparently not quite knowing where to go from there, she swiftly reverted to type and drifted off, hand to head, in search of a headache pill. Naturally, that didn’t put an end to my struggle against authority, Murray-shaped as it usually was, but I knew thereafter, there were lines not to be crossed.
CHAPTER FOUR
My parents’ passionately volatile relationship was founded on mutual, albeit not uncritical adoration. They also shared the conviction that God had placed them on this earth to bring a little light into people’s lives, and it was therefore people’s reciprocal responsibility to bring quite a lot into theirs.
In my Father’s case, this innate certainty was relieved with frequent flashes of unexpectedly self-deprecating humour, overlaid with an almost child-like delight in the good things of life. This ensured he was able, most of the time, to effortlessly charm the birds off the trees – and I’m not just talking the feathered kind. He was a sucker for a well-turned leg, whoever’s hip it was hung from and if it was fishnet-clad and chorus-girl long, so much the better. Luckily, he was generally rather too lazy to follow through on flirtations, relying on the eagle eyes of my Mother and Murray to see off any opposition before it got too serious. Murray probably made more women disappear offstage, than my Father ever did on.