Hettford Witch Hunt: Series Two

by James Rhodes

  Shelley was fast asleep, fully clothed and outside of the blanket. Fair enough, thought Gary, it’s technically her bed. She had a book by the historian Teofilo Ruiz open on her chest. Gary looked down at her hand. She was not really holding his hand; quite the opposite, Gary’s hand lay on top of Shelley’s. Potentially, she could wake up any second and accuse him of interfering with her in her sleep.

  Gary gently pulled his fingers upwards. Shelley tightened her grip. Shelley mumbled something in her sleep, it sounded like “tea and arrows.” Her lips continued to move after the words trailed off.

  Shelley looked utterly at peace; her face was a mask of total serenity. It was the first time that Gary noticed it but she was actually quite beautiful. Just in case she woke up, Gary lay back and closed his eyes so he could claim diminished responsibility but he didn’t move his hand.

  11.

  The shop door opened, both Milton and Dan looked up in surprise. Paul entered the shop, a sheepish half smile on his face.

  “Hi, are you open?” Paul asked.

  “Apparently, our door is,” said Dan.

  “We're here anyway,” said Milton, “we might as well serve customers.”

  “The greater percentage of our customers are able to read,” said Dan.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Paul's face tightened with indignation.

  “The sign says closed,” said Dan.

  Paul shrugged.

  “Yeah well, that's why I asked isn't it?”

  “We're open,” said Milton, “for about another five minutes. It's dinner time.”

  Paul approached the counter.

  “Can I have a word in private?”

  “Do you want something or not?” Dan barked.

  Milton shot Dan a reproachful, but amused, sideways glance.

  “Dan can you help Carrie set the table? There's a chicken in it for you.”

  Dan grunted his consent and stepped through the door that led from Occultivated in to the hall of their house.

  “How can I help you Paul?”

  “Listen mate, I need to start reading but I'm crap at it. I want to read a book, something for adults but, you know, something I'll be able to read.”

  “Why?”

  “Just want to be cleverer.”

  “OK, we mostly sell occult stuff. What type of thing were you looking for?”

  “When you say 'occult' do you mean myths and that sort of thing?”

  Milton weighed up the question and gave the best answer he could.

  “Mostly. I think I have some encyclopaedias of different cultures, Greek, Persian, Norse etc. Or you might like one of the fantasy series.”

  “What are they?”

  “You know, like the Lord of the Rings but with different characters and events.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “OK. Try the one called Thorny Pitches. That seems to be the most popular. Lots of sex and violence.”

  Paul nodded.

  “If I'd known you got that with books I might have started reading them ages ago.”

  “Really,” said Milton, “that's mostly why I stopped.”

  Paul chuckled, turned his back and picked out three thick novels to get himself going with.

  12.

  At Ron's All Night Garage, Gary's former colleague Karen was cashing up the till to signify the end of her shift. Karen was about forty years of age. She spoke every word with laconic indifference.

  “I see you're late,” she said to Gary.

  “It's five to,” said Gary.

  “We start our shifts fifteen minutes before they start these days.”

  “Well, nobody told me,” said Gary.

  “So can I trust you to be here on time tomorrow?”

  “Blimey, I didn't realise it was Karen's All Night Garage and I've only been asked to come in tonight.”

  “Don't quote me but if the text I just got off Julie is accurate she's going to be off sick for a while.”

  “Is she OK? “

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “I like Julie.”

  Karen scoffed.

  “You've got a funny way of showing it.”

  “Would you rather I showed up to string her along whilst I'm still in love with somebody else?”

  “That skinny girl you married?”

  Gary shook his head.

  “Fucking Hettford,” he muttered.

  “Shall I take that as a yes?”

  “No, she's Alison's cousin. We just live in the same house.”

  “So why did you tell the vicar you were married?”

  “Long story,” said Gary.

  “Shame, you could do with a bit of practicing a bit of honesty. The shoplifting rates have dropped significantly since Julie took over the night shift. I wonder why that is?”

  “Probably because Julie's related to everyone in the village.”

  “She's not related to me.”

  “Yeah but I bet she's related to your husband.”

  Karen thinned her lips.

  “Smart arse,” she said, “I'll be doing a stock check in the morning.”

  13.

  There was a certain calamitous silence in the house within minutes of Gary leaving. Shelley was beginning to wish she had accepted the offer to go for Sunday lunch with Gary's weird friends. She picked up the telephone and a dialled a phone number.

  “Hello, Alison. How are you doing?”

  14.

  It was amazing how quickly Gary had gone from being delighted to be back at his job to being bored shitless by it. In a period of two hours he had served only one customer. The radio only picked up two stations, one of which was the sort that played the same 90 or so songs on rotation throughout the day; punctuated with the same four adverts. The other station was a Welsh talk radio station that crackled in on AM. Gary couldn't listen to either of them. He had another 8 hours before he could leave. The worst of it was that he couldn't even get depressed about it because he was just too grateful.

  It was a great relief then when a familiar face plonked a packet of scotch eggs in front of him.

  “I thought you were having a roast dinner.”

  “I did,” said Milton, “these are for breakfast.”

  “Nice.”

  “How are things with Shelly?”

  Gary's face gave away more than he intended it to.

  “Pretty cool, except...”

  “Go on.”

  “She dragged me to church looking for the diary this morning. Now half the village thinks I'm married to her.”

  “Pah, they'll find something else to gossip about soon.”

  “It was weird, they all knew me.”

  “Well, you don't want to get involved with those church types. All irrational beliefs and rituals; it gives people like us a bad name.”

  “People like us?” Gary asked.

  “You know, witch hunters.”

  “I thought I was banned.”

  “Suspended and it's been way too long. You're welcome back any time as far as I'm concerned.”

  “Really? What about Dan?”

  “He'll make you do a test and then he'll settle down.”

  “That makes four.”

  “Four what?”

  “Four wonderful things in one day,” said Gary, “it's a funny life isn't it.”

  “What are the other three.”

  “I got to sleep in my bed; I got to go to work which is actually shit but still great.”

  “What was the other?”

  Gary thought about it.

  “I must have miscounted,” he said.

  Episode Five: Buffet the Witch Slayer

  1.

  The village of Hettford consists of 4000 houses clustered in a maze of back streets and side roads. When a resident of Hettford said, “I’m going down to the village” what they meant was they were going to the main road that led to Bridgeford, were the shops were. The rising sun lengthened the sh
adows of the street lights and generally out-oranged them. It was a pretty road to walk down and it should have brought joy to the heart of any individual that witnessed it. Gary Turlough, the only witness to the glorious sunrise, was underwhelmed.

  Working the night-shift at the garage had left Gary with a disembodied sensation of ennui. When he had been scraping by on mush and water Gary had fantasised about returning to the place and sustaining himself properly so often that he had forgotten how much he hated the garage. He hated the pointless sitting in place, he hated the stupid drunk customers, he hated restocking the shelves, mopping the floor and, he realised now, he hated that it was the best he could do. Worse still, he couldn’t even be happy at his income returning because he was only sick relief for Julie, the girl he had ruined his relationship with. The night-shift was one massive reminder of what an absolute fuck-up he was. Alison was right, he should have been a teacher, a sales person or anything useful at all instead of an unsuccessful witch hunter .

  The only positive thought he could muster was that when he got home Shelley would be asleep upstairs and he could have a little privacy in his lounge to think about what Shelley might look like with no clothes on. He had made a couple of efforts at it over the last few days but Alison’s face kept popping up during his efforts and it rendered him flaccid with guilt. Hoping that exhaustion would give him a level of focus Gary turned the key in his lock and opened the door.

  “Morning,” called Shelley.

  What surprised Gary the most about his plan being thwarted was how pleased he was about it. It felt like his soul had returned to his body after a long and unproductive astral flight. Shelley had taken over the lounge; there was paper and books everywhere. Shelley was sat in the middle of the floor with a large Thermos flask next to her.

  “Bloody hell, what are you doing still up?”

  “How do you know I didn’t get up early?” Shelley asked.

  “Nobody who gets up this early needs a Thermos full of coffee, those people run on ambition and sanctimony.”

  “Sit down.”

  The armchair facing the television was the only spot in the room that didn’t have loose paper on it.

  “I like this,” said Gary, “it reminds me of college.”

  “I’ve been researching this.”

  Shelley held up the copy of the diary of Reverend Proctor.

  “Find anything useful?”

  “Too much and too little, there have been a lot of alterations and omissions to this.  Some are more glaring than others.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well for a start, it’s the diary of Father Proctor.”

  Gary looked at her blankly.

  “Excuse my ignorance,” Gary said, “I wasn’t aware I’d ever been to church until a few days ago.”

  “Reverend is C of E, Father is Catholic.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s a big deal, that’s a massive discrepancy.”

  Gary shrugged.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, it’s an obvious modern copy and a lazy one at that. There are several references to diary entries that have been removed, the type of paper it was written on wasn’t produced until the 1900s and it was written in a steel nib fountain pen.”

  “Not a fountain pen!” Gary's voice welled up with exaggerated horror.

  Shelley shot Gary a sidewise look.

  “I need your help with this so you’ll have to take it seriously.”

  Gary nodded.

  “Steel nibbed fountain pens were not popular in Britain until the 19th century. Someone has either written this to fool an amateur or this was written by an amateur. Maybe both.”

  Gary had a pretty fair idea who might have made the book but he was going to need to know why before he said anything.

  “Listen,” said Gary, “I’m all up for helping but I’m not used to pulling night shifts anymore and I’m knackered. Do you mind if I sleep first?”

  “Do you want to take the bed?”

  “Are you not tired?”

  “God yes,” said Shelley, “I'll come up with you after you phone Milton.”

  “It'll be hours before he wakes up.”

  “Text him then.”

  Gary shrugged.

  “I'll drop a note off at his house.”

  2.

  Milton was stood in his lounge. He was wearing a tweed jacket, brown corduroy pants and a navy blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar.

  “So what are you saying?” Dan asked, “That my house isn't good enough for your new friends?”

  “They're not new friends,” said Milton.

  “Shelley is.”

  “I'll give you that.”

  “So I'm right.”

  “Well you're definitely wrong about this being your house.”

  “I live here,” said Dan defiantly.

  “Yes.”

  “So when people ask should I say I live at Milton's house? I'm Milton's lodger?”

  “There is an implied transaction of rent in the word lodger.”

  Dan threw up his arms in exasperation.

  “So that's it then is it? It's come to this has it? Well, well, well, I can't say I'm shocked. You're just trying to brush me under the carpet so you can move in your bit of fluff and to hell with your old mate Dan.”

  “That's not it Dan, I just want you to tidy two things.”

  “OK then, why the sudden attention to housekeeping?”

  Dan was wearing a tight beige t-shirt with a large tea stain down the front of it. A picture of Father Christmas smiled back at anyone who cared to look at the shirt. In a speech bubble Father Christmas declared, “Fat like Santa.” The t-shirt would have looked ill-advised even if it weren't July.

  “I'm not asking much, I just need you to hoover and dust whilst I look after Occultivated.”

  “Why don't I go look after Occultivated and you can put on your pinafore and clean up a bit?”

  Milton stared at Dan.

  “Do you think you're dressed for customer service?”

  Dan looked down on Milton's tweed jacket, his eyes glazed with a strong emotion than Milton took for suspicion.

  “What's with your get up?”

  “I can be a well presented shop owner.”

  Dan's face broadened into a foxish grin.

  “I'll get changed,” said Dan.

  “What?”

  “I'll get changed and watch the shop, don't you want me to look nice for when your friends come over?”

  Milton felt his will evaporate, in one extended sigh he let out all his remaining reserve of resolve.

  “Fine,” he told Dan.

  3

  In Bridgeford, the closest village to Hettford, the only thing that could possibly of any interest to anyone was Carrie's house. The house was primarily of interest to Carrie because that was where she lived. Carrie's house had a large back yard and in the back yard was a rooster named Roaster. Roaster was Milton's pet and he had moved it to Carrie's house after it had started, in what seemed like a grandiose defiance of gender stereotyping, to lay eggs. Since the move, Roaster had settled into a pretty mundane routine of waking up early, crowing loudly and generally pissing off the people who lived in the houses adjacent to Carrie.

  The people in the houses adjacent to Carrie were called Ken and Isaac and they like to meet up for historical re-enactments in places such as York. They never talked when they were at home; they just emailed one another the location of their next battle re-enactment: Bosworth Field for instance. Then they met up, dressed in full period costume and got on with pretending to fight a war. All of this is beside the point however, as neither of them are of any significance to the story whatsoever and their inclusion in this story at all is a damning indictment of the author's concentration span.

  The sun was unusually hot for the end of May and Carrie's garden buzzed with helpful bees and the wasps who wanted to kill them. The flowers were blooming,
the plums were in blossom and it was all in all a very pleasant place; except for the smell.

  Roaster's roost was kicking out the sort of pong that you did not expect to experience in a village such as Bridgeford. It was a pong more suited to the back alleys of a metropolis such as New York, Hong Kong or the main streets of a metropolis with open sewers such as Paris. It was not the sort of thing that Ken and Isaac expected to encounter when practising their pike work on a weekend and they were both in the midst of penning verbose and insistent letters to the local council about the fact.

  Carrie looked at the chicken coup and then at her watch. She had a meeting with the Director of Operations for her company in an hour and she certainly wasn't going to prepare for it by wading in chicken seepage. In fact, she'd had about as much of cleaning up the rooster as she was prepared to take altogether. With a heavy sense of resolve she breathed the word, “Milton.”

  4.

  Shelley slept on her belly. Gary kept turning the thought over in his head, “Shelley on her belly, Shelley watching telly, Shelley drinking sherry.” The only proper rhymes Gary could think of were “smelly” and “welly.” and he wasn't happy with either of them.

  What would Alison think if she knew he was sharing the bed with her cousin? She was sharing hers with Neville and Neville wasn't even related to Gary. He was definitely in the right on this one, he thought. If you're going to innocently sleep in bed with someone they should be a relative of your respective other, that way it was all above board. The logic seemed to work, sort of. Except that Alison wasn't sleeping innocently in bed.

  Shelley wore more clothes in bed than she did out of it; she had on long pyjama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt. She was slept with her back turned to Gary. Gary wondered if that was a signal: I have put on more clothes and turned away from you because I do not want to have sex with you. There was, of course, a chance that the reason she had got into bed with him in the first place was because she did want to have sex. Why was he worrying about it so much? If he wanted sex there was always Julie. Speaking of which he felt bad that Julie had been so nice to him and he hadn't done anything to say sorry she was sick. If he sent her a note it might be OK, there was loads of paper in the lounge so he could afford to. Maybe she just had a cold or something.