Hettford Witch Hunt: Series Two

by James Rhodes

  The witches dropped their arms to their sides and transformed. Two ravens, larger than normal birds flapped their wings and took flight. Gary stared up at them, waiting for the attack. Waiting for them to hurtle back down from the sky and tear the flesh from his back.

  There was a thud and then a squelch, Shelley had passed out. Gary turned around and skipped over the branches to where Shelley had fallen.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” shouted Dan.

  Gary wasn’t, he knelt down next to Shelley and checked her pulse; her heart was beating hard, he put his ear next to her mouth, feeling her breath on the fine hairs of his lobe. Positive that Shelly was alive, Gary took off his shirt and tucked it under her head, bending her leg into recovery position. Then he took a small bag out of his pocket, the bag contained sea salt. Gary sprinkled it over the skinny body of the fallen Shelley.

  Dan had made it to his feet bleeding from his face and arms.

  “What’s with the fox?” Dan asked.

  Gary was not at all surprised that Dan had made an inappropriate comment, but he was a little surprised at the nature and timing of it.

  “Jesus, her name is Shelley,” said Gary.

  “Not the girl, the fox: The one that was behind you.”

  “I didn’t see it; we are in a wood though.”

  “It was on fire.”

  Gary shrugged.

  “Probably some side effect of the witchcraft.”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed, blood and rain ran down his face.

  “Hmm,” said Dan.

  “Look, there’s Milton and Carrie,” said Gary, “We’re rescued.”

  At the other side of the tree Milton waved at Gary.

  “Everything alright,” he called.

  “We need to get out of here quickly. Come and help Dan.”

  Gary turned around and scooped up Shelley in his arms. She was a lot lighter than her luggage had been.

  12.

  Paul turned on his home computer. It was a tablet that he had saved up for because Tajel said that “no-one should have to use desktops any more except for pensioners and tramps.” Knowing that Tajel only had a desktop he had saved up for the tablet to give to her. Two days before it arrived in the post Mr Patel, Tajel's dad, had bought her a model that Paul could only dream of paying for. So, he kept it. He navigated to the web-browser and went to the search engine Tajel had told him was her favourite: Duck Duck Go.

  When the page was loaded Paul keyed his search terms into the box: How to be cleverer?

  The first page that loaded was titled, how to appear clever: a bluffers guide. Paul clicked on the link and began to read.

  Tajel’s phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the caller ID, it was Paul. In his bedroom, Paul was standing up straight and holding his shoulders backwards with near perfect posture.

  “Hello, is that Tajel?” Paul asked.

  “No, no, no, you’ve phoned 20th Century architect Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What number is this?”

  “Paul, it’s me.”

  Paul tittered; it was a controlled attempt at self deprecation.

  “Silly me, of course.”

  “What do you want Paul? I’m trying to chat with my friend online.”

  “I was just wondering what you thought about the article in today’s Post?

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “Well, it was quite fascinating.

  “Can you tell me about it tomorrow at work?” Tajel asked.

  Paul replied that he would be delighted to and that furthermore he was anticipating it with tremendous provocation. Tajel chuckled and said goodnight.

  13.

  “You’re not offended that I sent your friends home without dinner are you?”

  Shelley was sat on the couch; she had a quilt wrapped around her shoulders. A mug steaming with sugary tea shook in her hand. Gary had lit the gas fire to comfort her. Why not? He thought, she's paying for it. The room was uncomfortably warm.

  “Not at all, I think Milton wanted to look after Dan anyway.

  “Will he be OK?”

  “Yes, they’ll check for magical damage and then drink too much brown ale.”

  “That sounds like a plan, I’ve got whiskey upstairs.”

  “Shall I go and get it for you?”

  Gary tried not to sound to enthusiastic about the prospect of free alcohol.

  “Should you be checking me for magical damage?” Shelley asked.

  “No, the not being able to breathe thing is straightforward and purely temporary. Happened to me, once. They were just trying to stop you interrupting them.”

  “How come it didn’t work on you?”

  “I think they were too distracted: One of them on Dan, the other on you.”

  Shelley sipped her tea.

  “Tonight has been fucked up,” she told him, “Is it like this often?”

  “The witches are always there but in the same way that you can always have an accident when you drive the car. It’s a good idea to wear a seatbelt but it’s not something you should worry too much about.”

  Shelley looked unconvinced.

  “Witches are real,” she said, “and evil.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “This is going to seriously mess up my thesis.”

  Gary laughed.

  “I hope you’ll stay around anyway,” he told her.

  “I got the impression you didn’t want me here.”

  Gary shook his head.

  “I hadn’t realised how lonely I’ve been until you showed up,” he told her, “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

  “It is nice,” said Shelley, “but I’m not really in the talking mood.”

  “Maybe some of that whiskey might make you feel better.”

  Gary's voice was so casual it could have sauntered into the vaults of the Bank of England without anyone raising an eyebrow.

  “On my dresser is some vodka, do you have any orange juice?”

  Gary nodded with a grin. Alison had bought some orange juice before she left. Alison was amazing.

  14.

  The smell of fish and chips wafted through from the living room into the kitchen. Carrie was refusing to help with the dishes for the following reasons: Firstly, she had paid for the fish and chips. Secondly, she had wanted to have dinner with Gary and Shelley like they planned; and thirdly, because Dan was getting right on her tits. The reason that Dan was annoying Carrie so much was not just that he was being a pompous ass as usual; but because he was being an ungrateful spoiled baby.

  “Gary,” Dan had said, “is an honourable gentleman.”

  “What are you talking about?” Milton had asked him.

  “You know, like Brutus.”

  “What?”

  “He’s an honourable gentleman.”

  Dan changed his inflection as if that would somehow add meaning to the statement.

  “You’ve lost me,” Milton told him.

  “I mean, he’s a twat.”

  Dan was determined that Gary was somehow behind the witches attack on him and that Shelley was either almost certainly a witch or a damsel in desperate need of protection.

  Carrie could deal with one or the other of Dan’s states (pompous ass or spoiled baby) but not both at the same time. She had put a soap opera about a Yorkshire farm on television, a sure fire of getting both Dan and Milton (who she was fed up with by proxy, but to a lesser extent) out of the room. It hadn’t worked and Carrie had been stuck pretending to enjoy it which had worsened her mood considerably.

  Milton, picking up on the vibe that Carrie was mad at him, had tried to reason with Dan. Dan, conversely, picking up on the vibe that Milton was only trying to reason with him because Carrie was mad, had become even less reasonable than before. He had just demanded they hide a mummified cat in Gary’s house, to see if it chased his evil spirit away, when Carrie had put her foot down.

  “I think you two
should go and wash the dishes” was all that Carrie had said.

  Despite the calm simplicity of Carrie’s words, she spoke in a tone so coldly measured that even Dan recognised the importance of vacating the room with dignity, whilst it was still an option.

  “You can dry,” Dan said, “I hate drying.”

  Milton nodded.

  “I don’t know what she’s so mad about,” Dan said.

  Milton wasn’t entirely sure either, he took it for granted that nothing Dan said was worth getting genuinely upset about. However, he had his suspicions.

  “Well let’s start with this: What are you so mad about?

  “I am perfectly calm, my boy, perfectly calm.”

  Dan’s face reddened as he spoke the words.

  “Really? Your response to having your life saved by Gary has been to suggest that you do everything from dunking him in the ford to burning him at the stake.”

  “I never said that, that’s your words. Putting a dead cat in his house is a perfectly reasonable precaution.”

  “Maybe, but I think saying ‘thank you’ is a more appropriate response.”

  Dan passed Milton a soapy dinner plate.

  “How do I know that Gary didn’t augment the whole thing? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used club information for his own ends.”

  “He’s still suspended from the club, we’re nearly onto month six of his suspension and he’s barely complained about it once. How do I know you didn’t try something stupid in the woods or ignore a vital hint because you were so hell bent on your milk thing working?”

  Dan finished the second plate in silence and passed it to Milton.

  “I don’t think it’s wise to let him back into the society. I saw a fox behind him when he ran towards me.”

  Milton made no attempt to mask the contempt in his voice.

  “We were in a woods Dan.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they have foxes in the woods.”

  “Yes but their tales aren’t normally on fire.”

  Milton took a deep breath.

  “I think there are two possible explanations for you saying that and I’m choosing to believe you were hallucinating from the concussion of a tree landing on you.”

  “Because the other reason is that Gary is a witch and that’s his familiar.”

  “No, because the other reason is that you’re lying to be a dick.”

  Dan finished the third plate.

  “He’s not coming off suspension until I figure out what the fox was.”

  “Fine we’ll put it to a vote, in light of Gary saving your life. I’m going to vote for Gary to come back. Carrie is obviously going to vote for Gary to come back. What do you think you’ll vote for?”

  Dan started on the cutlery.

  “Fine, bring him back. It’ll be able to keep a watch over him.”

  Episode Four: Goin’ to the Chapel

  01.

  The sleeping bag had snagged one of Gary’s arms; his other arm was flailing as if he were swatting invisible wasps. His head was pressed up against the legs of the revolving chair. A pile of his clothes was stacked, as neatly as he could make them, in the corner of the study. Next to the neat pile clean clothes was a crumpled pile of the clothes he had take off before he go into bed. Shelley eyed them to see whether or not he was sleeping naked, the boxer shorts were right at the top of the pile. Gary was saying something but whatever it was made no sense to Shelley. Shelley had heard on television and film that it was a romantic thing to watch a person sleep; a sleeping person was completely at peace, breathing gently in and out. Gary had inverted this notion by stripping all sense of rest from the act of sleeping.

  “Trickety trock, trickety trock,” was what Gary seemed to be muttering over and over again.

  Alison had not warned Shelley that waking Gary up was a complex and often amusing affair. Even if she had, Shelley could not have prepared herself for it. Gary mumbled, “Mumble, blurble, Shelley.”

  Shelley smiled but then Gary rolled violently over, his free left arm twisted behind his back and his left hand clenched a fist to the side of his right shoulder. His trapped hand pushed upwards to free itself. Hitting the tight nylon, the arm gave up. Gary tried again and again: pumping his hand up and down at roughly crotch height. Shelley giggled.

  Creeping forward, she put her foot on Gary’s leg and gently pressed on him. Gary didn’t stir but the action seemed to calm him and he rolled over on to his face. Shelley straddled Gary, bent over and shook him vigorously.

  “Wake up,” she said.

  “What?”

  Gary blinked.

  “Wake up,” Shelley repeated.

  “Why?”

  “It’s Sunday, time for church.”

  Gary closed his eyes and rolled onto his side.

  “It’s never time for church.”

  “It is today, come on I want to catch the service.”

  “Enjoy,” said Gary.

  Shelley poked Gary with her foot.

  “I’m going there for research, I need my research assistant.”

  Gary rolled back on to his back and looked up. Shelley was stood over him, her legs either side of him; she was wearing khaki shorts and a black t-shirt.

  “Do we have time for breakfast?”

  “Only if you’re really quick.”

  “OK, OK.”

  Gary lay looking up at Shelley.

  “Can you move? I need to get dressed.”

  Shelley thought about it.

  “Go on then, I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Gary waited for the door to close. There were no windows in the study and no clock, as he sat up he realised how much his neck was hurting. He rubbed the back of it with his hand; the prospect of continuing to be alive made Gary feel nauseous. Nonetheless, he got up and got dressed anyway.

  2.

  A hand went in to a chicken’s bottom. A mixture of bread, milk, butter, sage, orange peel, chopped cashew nuts, garlic, onion, sage and apple squeezed of the dead bird's abdominal cavity. It was Milton’s stuffing recipe but Carrie was doing the stuffing.

  “Shouldn’t we have invited them over before doing all this work?” Dan asked.

  “You aren’t doing any work,” said Carrie.

  “I’m doing proper work,” Dan asserted.

  Dan was looking up from the thick copy of Karswell’s History of the Craft.

  “Reading up on how to out your friend as a witch is not work,” Milton told him.

  “It bloody well is.”

  “Well, if they do come over tonight you can put this whole stupid thing to rest,” said Milton.

  Milton was peeling potatoes.

  “Perhaps,” said Dan.

  “There’s no bloody perhaps to it, I’ll let you do the test and then you have to start facing reality.”

  Dan folded his arms. He made no sign of agreeing to the condition.

  3.

  Discount News Newsagents was empty except for the old lady. Paul had tried giving her the nickname the Graiae. Then when Tajel had failed to be amused he modified it to “the grey witch.” Even when he had explained the joke to Tajel was still unimpressed with the joke. “Firstly, it wasn’t very funny: That’s the cold fact of the joke,” Tajel explained, “is it’s more of a description than a joke.”

  Paul nodded

  “Secondly, the Greek reference isn’t that clever, you’ve obviously just put ‘old woman’ into a search engine and the word ‘mythology.’ That’s neither clever nor inventive. It makes you seem like a little girl trying on her mother’s high heels. The woman’s not even Greek. You’d have been better off with Old Mother Hubbard or Granny Scroggins.”

  “I, but, it’s…” Paul had insisted.

  Somewhere at the back of Paul’s mind a word that he didn’t have to look up on a search engine formed but it never found voice. Tajel was right on both counts, it was a bad joke and that was exactly what he’d done. Beside
s, Tajel was trusting him alone with the shop on Sundays whilst she studied and that was a massive step in the right direction.

  The old lady looked Paul hard in the face.

  “Get a move on, I need those for tonight.”

  “These are National Lottery tickets,” Paul stated.

  “Yes.”

  “So there’s no draw tonight, the next one is on Wednesday.”

  “Well, I want them for tonight.”

  “What?” Paul asked

  “Tonight, dearie. Are you deaf?”

  “I can give you the tickets now but the next draw is not until Wednesday.”

  “I don’t want them for Wednesday; I want them for the lottery.”

  Paul took a deep breath, he knew there was another explanation somewhere in his vocabulary but he couldn’t find it.

  “The next lottery draw is on Wednesday.  Do you want me to do them for Wednesday?”

  “No,” said the old lady.

  “Then do you want them for Saturday?” Paul asked.

  “No, I want them for tonight. Can you understand me?”

  “I understand that you want them for tonight, do you understand that you can’t have them for tonight?”

  “The Maori girl used to give me them for Sunday.”

  This was partly true: After the old lady had entered the shop three Saturday mornings in a row to ask for lottery results Alison had convinced her that the draw was on a Sunday night. However, the only connection Alison had with the Maori people was that she had grown up in New Zealand. Paul didn’t dignify the statement with a response. He reached for his mobile phone and pulled up the official lottery website.

  “Hold on, I can show you the official draw times,” he told the woman.

  “I don’t want the draw times, I want the tickets. Christ you're thick.”

  “I might be thick,” said Paul, “but I’m smart enough to know that your chances of winning the lottery are less than one in fourteen million.”

  “The jackpot changes every week,” she told him.

  Paul suddenly had what he thought was a genius idea.

  “Oh, you want the ones for the jackpot?” He asked.

  “Of course,” she told him.

  “Well that is tonight, but the draw is not until next Saturday.”

  “Well, you got there in the end I suppose,” said the old lady.

  Paul made a mental note to buy some paracetamol the very instant that the old lady left the shop.

 

  4.