Wicca

by James Follett

  `Ah. Councillor Duncan. An unexpected pleas--'

  Faraday and the blackshirts hurled themselves into the office and pulled up when they saw Prescott's upraised hand.

  `It all right everyone. Councillor Duncan and I are old friends. Leave us please, and close the door.'

  `Release him!' Ellen snapped when they were alone. `Release him and the other two this instant!'

  Prescott regarded Ellen with unconcealed admiration. Her long dark hair was entangled around her face, her eyes blazing with a savage beauty. The fine sheen of perspiration caused by her racing up four flights of stairs gave her an animal quality that he found decidedly exciting, particularly the way her T-shirt clung to her full breasts. A real woman -- a woman with spirit and passion -- unlike the fawning Diana Sheldon who now bored him. He had never forgotten the time at a ball when Ellen had underlined her rejection of his advances with a knee in the groin. It was only a matter of time before this magnificent creature was before him, helpless and terrified -- promising him anything to secure his mercy.

  That day would come... It would surely come...

  `I'm surprised, Ellen,' said Prescott comfortably. `You've been the victim of Brad Jackson's shoplifting activities on several occasions. Now he and his cronies are being punished -- properly punished -- and you're angry.'

  `That's not punishment!' Ellen snapped. `That's--'

  `Nor has what they've received in the past,' Prescott interrupted. `Endless probation orders which they've broken; supervision orders, bail conditions, court orders which they've repeatedly ignored. Those little street rats have been house-breaking and shoplifting and vandalising property since they could walk. They've caused untold misery in this community over the years, and now the community is fighting back.'

  `You're punishing children because of their backgrounds--'

  `They're not children anymore. All three have turned 18. They're being punished to show them that the people of Pentworth won't stand for their behaviour any longer. The days when they could cock a snoot at the law are over--'

  `You're the one cocking a snoot at the law!' Ellen fired back. `What's being done out there is illegal!'

  `I am acting one hundred per cent within the laws of England and Wales,' Prescott stated flatly.

  Ellen stared at him. `How can you be? This situation is unprecedented!'

  `Perhaps. Yet it is covered by existing law.' Prescott opened a drawer and slid a document across his desk that bore the seal of the local notary. `That's a ruling from His Honour Judge John Harleston-Hooper. He spent many years of his working life in Hongkong so he's more familiar with colonial law than most. A somewhat lengthy ruling so I suggest you read the marked paragraphs in his summing up on the last page.'

  Ellen leafed through the typescript. Every alteration had been signed in full by the judge and each page had been separately notarised. She came to two paragraphs marked with a yellow highlight pen.

  It will be seen from the foregoing that the extraordinary situation that has arisen in Pentworth, with its mysteriously-imposed isolation from the rest of the world, has precise parallels with the situation confronting the governor of a remote crown colony where communications between the colony and the crown and parliament are difficult or impossible. In my opinion, in such circumstances, the governor of a crown colony has statutory powers equal to that of the crown and parliament combined in the keeping of the sovereign's peace and preservation of religious harmony, and discretionary powers which are also equal to the powers of the crown and parliament combined in the enforcing of such peace.

  In my opinion, a governor (or acting governor, as we have in Pentworth) can promulgate emergency legislation in the interests of the colony, raise militias, and even declare and wage war if necessary to defend the colony when all diplomatic methods have failed. In previous such extreme cases, it is has been usual for the then Colonial Office to retrospectively endorse the actions of the governor or acting governor. I know of no cases that can be considered closely pertinent to this situation where such endorsement has been denied.

  `A remarkably concise document for a lawyer, wouldn't you say, Ellen?' said Prescott when she had finished reading. He took the papers from her and smiled complacently at her shaken expression for a moment before producing another document, a single sheet of paper this time, and pushed it across the desk. `Now take a look at that please.'

  He sighed when his visitor didn't even glance at the paper. `Since the beginning of the crisis, four custodial sentences have been passed down by the bench. As you know, the basement of the Old Malt House has been converted into a custody unit. What you don't know, and what I didn't know until yesterday, was the extent of the burden on the community that running the custody unit has become.'

  `The morris police officers are okay,' said Ellen. `That was a good idea -- we needed them. But the team of Roscoe's blackshirts you've got guarding this pile and the custody unit are nothing but thugs.'

  Prescott shrugged. `But they are legally-recruited whatever you may think of them, Ellen. Manning the custody unit is tying up several black-- Government House security officers full time. In addition there is a support staff of two cooks and a clerk. At the moment we have eleven full time employees to look after four prisoners. Next week two women come up for sentencing. The nature of their crimes is such that they're certain to receive custodial sentences -- and that means recruiting more staff and building more permanent cells. Unless we do something now, before we know what's happening, we'll have a prison, prison warders, an army of probation officers, clerks of court, ushers, and God knows what else to support. Pentworth cannot afford that sort of judicial infrastructure. The people are working hard and it would be grossly unfair to impose even more taxes on them. Therefore I've decided on a fast-track system of justice. Offenders are to be brought straight here following their arrest. I've appointed the food control officer as a lay magistrate. She will break off her work, hear the evidence and pass sentence on the spot. No masses of forms -- paperwork and records will be kept to the absolute minimum. No adjournments; no probation officer reports or any of that nonsense. Just fast, effective justice.'

  `Putting offenders in the stocks,' said Ellen contemptuously. `That's your idea of justice, is it? Turn back the clock 500 years. What's it to be next? Torture chambers? Breaking people on the rack?'

  `Now you're just being silly and over-dramatic.'

  `The majority of the people of Pentworth are decent, honest, hard-working,' Ellen retorted angrily. `Do you really think they will tolerate a barbarity such as the stocks in the 21st Century?'

  `I agree with you about the people, Ellen. Decent and hard-working. They've had it up to here with petty crime and vandalism. And some of it not so petty. Time and time again politicians have promised action and nothing's been done other than to cut back on the police. Well, the time has come for the people to have their say.

  `The stocks will used as a last resort for habitual criminals instead of custodial sentences. On the spot fines and the seizure of chattels has proved most effective so far, so I doubt if they'll need to be used that often.' Prescott swung his chair around and gazed down at the square. Word had spread fast, there was now a large crowd gathered around the stocks. The woman with the water rifle had refilled her weapon and had was using it on the manacled prisoners, cringing helplessly on the dogcart. `But those little skunks down there need a lesson that they'll never forget. Humiliation is a powerful deterrent.'

  `It's not the behaviour of the skunks down there that worries me,' Ellen retorted.

  Prescott's scalp went back but he remained calm. He rose. `Very well, Ellen. If you feel so strongly, you can be responsible for their release. Come.'

  Despite her natural inclination not obey any order given by Prescott, Ellen followed him down the stairs and out of the building. The crowd around the stocks fell silent and made a passage. Some tried to shake Prescott's hand but he brushed them politely aside. Faraday's eyes bored into Ellen.


  `Mrs Edmunds,' said Prescott to the woman with the water rifle. `Perhaps you would be good enough to tell Councillor Duncan what these vandals did to your home, please.'

  Mrs Edmunds was about 60. Fat and friendly was the way she liked to describe herself but now her normally cheery, round face was sagging with sorrow. She had been crying recently. `I was going to see my daughter at Tillington,' she began. `But the bus couldn't leave because one of the horses went lame, so I went home. I knew something was wrong the minute I opened my front door.' Her accusing eyes went to the sobbing youth in the stocks and his two mates on the dogcart awaiting their punishment. `They was in my back room -- playing an old wind-up gramophone which is why they didn't hear me... They'd smashed everything... Pictures of my late husband... All my china... Royal Doulton... Everything... Killed my budgie.' Her eyes filled with tears and she was unable to continue.

  Ellen put an arm around her to comfort her but couldn't think of anything helpful to say.

  `There's more,' said Prescott grimly. `Tell her, Mrs Edmunds.'

  The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. `They pushed past me and ran off. Hands over their faces. Laughing. But I knew who they was all right. There was a terrible smell... Really bad -- I wanted to be sick. They'd smeared...' She was unable to continue until she had taken a deep breath, and then the words came out in a rush. `They'd smeared it everywhere... Walls, carpet... Everywhere... Why'd they want to do that? Why? I'd never done them no harm.' She dissolved into tears.

  `Mrs Edmunds,' said Ellen, feeling foolish and ineffectual. `What they did was wicked and they must be punished. But this sort of punishment is wrong. If we treat them like this, like animals, then we're letting them drag us down to their level.'

  `That's what they are!' the woman spat. `Animals! They get an hour each in this thing. That's all! An hour for wrecking a lifetime!'

  The crowd murmured in sympathy. Prescott took the keys from Faraday and held them out to Ellen. `If you want to let them go, Councillor Duncan. Then so be it. I daresay they've received a sufficiently salutary lesson.'

  `Let the little bastards trash her shop!' someone shouted. `See how she likes it!'

  Prescott was trying to call Ellen's bluff, but it was not in her nature to allow intimidation to undermine her principles or weaken her courage. Nevertheless her heartbeat quickened as she calmly took the keys from Prescott and unlocked the padlock on the stocks. She lifted the hinged yoke so that Brad Jackson was free to stagger clear, rubbing his neck and wrists, his eyes blazing raw hatred at Prescott. A morris man tossed him his pants.

  To release the other two meant climbing onto the dogcart. By the time she had unlocked the manacles, the crowd had gathered around -- a silent sea of hard, unfriendly, unforgiving faces. The youths scrambled down, white with fear at what the mob might do but a passage opened up for them to make their escape. It was Ellen that the silent faces were watching. Someone took hold of the dogcart's hafts. It moved suddenly, causing her to grab the cross-bar to keep her balance.

  `Mekhashshepheh!'

  The ancient curse that pre-dated Christianity sent a flood of cold terror surging through Ellen, and the hate in the gathering crowd rose around her like a black, suffocating night that produced eerie patterns of light and swirling smoke from blazing torches held by the mob. The nightmare would not leave her alone. Shadows danced on the facades of buildings that did not belong in the Market Square Ellen knew. She heard the girl on the dogcart scream again but this time Ellen saw the cause of her terror. The Crown tavern looked very much as it always had but it was partially obscured by piles of faggots and bundled brushwood surrounding a stout wooden stake driven through the surface mud and into the hard-packed ground.

  `Okay. The show's over. That's enough, everyone. Let's all get back to work.'

  The friendly yet assertive voice banished the terrifying vision. Daylight returned and Ellen saw Malone holding out his hand to her. She took it gratefully and allowed him to help her down from the dogcart.

  Malone would have made an excellent school teacher; his cold, disapproving eye seemed to take in everyone in the crowd in turn, stirring gremlins of personal guilt. They quickly dispersed so that only Prescott and a few of his acolytes remained. Their beloved leader treated Malone and Ellen to a sneering smile of triumph and beckoned to Faraday before marching into Government House, pausing on the steps to shake hands with his supporters and accept their congratulations.

  `That,' said Malone with heavy emphasis, `took real balls, Miss Duncan.'

  `Mixed with three parts stupidity,' Ellen added bitterly.

  Malone smiled enigmatically. He had always harboured a secret admiration of Ellen Duncan. He correctly guessed that the last thing she wanted was to be hustled away from the scene. He took her arm and sat her at his table. He ordered two Pentworth beers from the waiter and regarded his guest thoughtfully. `I wouldn't say that what you did was stupid, Miss Duncan. Impetuous -- yes. But not stupid.'

  `When I decide to act, it has to be immediate.'

  `Like the time you rushed into the street in your nightie when those yobs from Pentworth House sprayed graffiti on your shop windows?' Malone queried.

  It had been a Friday night -- the day before Wall had appeared. Malone had nearly caught the two aerosol artists who had written EX2218 in large letters on Ellen's shop windows. Whatever it meant had been enough to cause Ellen to faint. Malone had scooped her up and carried her into her shop. She had later denied knowing what the strange inscription meant but Malone had been certain she was lying. Ellen refused to acknowledge the police officer's query or meet his eye. Instead she returned the stares of a couple sitting at a nearby table. She recognised them as her customers and was about to make a cutting remark, but they looked sheepishly away and left. The group of Prescott's admirers were not so easily intimidated by Ellen's glares and remained at their post on the steps of Government House.

  `I don't understand it,' she muttered. `I just don't understand it. How could so many people support such inhuman treatment?'

  The waiter bought their drinks which Malone paid for. `They won't re-offend,' he said, sipping his beer appreciatively. It was a strong, malty brew.

  Ellen glared at him, making no attempt to pick up her glass. `Are you saying that you support Prescott?'

  `I am pointing out that those three little street rats won't commit that sort of offence again. Public humiliation as a punishment is the most powerful deterrent of all, not only to wrong-doers, but would-be wrong-doers: the dunce's cap, the van bearing a debt-collecting sign, local shops and businesses publishing debtors black lists -- all effective methods which is why wealthy societies can afford to ban them.'

  `So Pentworth is a poor society?'

  `In many respects -- yes. Poor in the most precious commodity of all -- people.'

  `I'll ask you again: do you support Prescott?'

  Malone's hesitation was all the excuse Ellen needed to go onto the offensive. `Obviously, you do. He's sacked your sector inspector. You told me yourself that Harvey Evans was a decent man, and yet you're staying on.'

  `Inspector Evans resigned,' said Malone.

  `Mr Evans was pushed into an intolerable situation!' Ellen snapped. `Oh, you don't have to be ashamed, Mr Malone -- Prescott's got the entire community behind him -- but forgive me if I don't drink with you.' She stood.

  `Please don't go, Miss Duncan. I'd like you to hear what I have to say.'

  The uncharacteristic, almost pleading note in Malone's voice caused Ellen's curiosity to triumph over her anger. She sat and stared fixedly at the police officer but made no attempt to touch her drink.

  `Firstly,' said Malone evenly. `Despite appearances, Prescott does not have wide support. And certainly not from me.'

  Ellen's reply was scathing. `You've not been very observant. Every time Prescott appears he attracts dozens of supporters.'

  `He attracts supporters -- but not dozens of them. It only seems like that because they always make such a fus
s of him.' Malone produced a sheaf of papers and placed it before Ellen. It was a handwritten list of names and addresses. `Those are his supporters,' he continued. `Pentworth's voting population is about 5700. Of that about two per cent -- exactly 110 people -- are dependent on him either directly or indirectly: his tenants and their families, and his employees and their families. Those are the ones who are always hanging around here, waiting for him to appear. Cheering him when he does show up and telling him what a splendid fellow he his. They've even got a rota system worked out so that there are always at least six of them on "duty" -- just we have now.'

  Ellen glanced at the small knot of people outside Government House and looked questioningly at Malone. He studied the head on his beer. `The elderly woman is the sister-in-law of his estate manager. The two young men are sons of his tenants. The other three are friends. When St Mary's chimes noon in a few minutes, two of them will be relieved by two more. Prescott's rota is better organized than our police response cover.'

  `Did you compile this, Mr Malone?'

  `I did indeed. Also, as I'm sure David Weir will confirm, Prescott does not enjoy widespread support among the farming community. In many ways they've borne the brunt of his stream of decrees and been unfairly blamed for some food shortages. This increasing dichotomy between town and country is the real danger and one that Prescott has failed to address.'

  Ellen grimaced. `The council hardly gets a chance to discuss anything now. Meetings cancelled. Items scrubbed from the agenda.'

  Malone held up his glass to the light. It took his mind and eyes off Ellen's legs. `Elective dictators need a high level of control of the political arm by intimidation.' he observed. `It doesn't have to be overt intimidation. A couple of dozen supporters outside waving placards and chanting their leader's praises can do the trick.'

  `Such as we get at council meetings?'

  `And which you're certain to have with a vengeance on Monday evening when you vote on Bob Harding's plan to breach the Wall,' said Malone. `Prescott has made no secret of his opposition to any scheme. If the Wall is destroyed, bang goes his power and prestige. So he'll ensure that there'll be a good turn out of his supporters here in the square. Their yelling and chanting will be heard in the council chamber. You may not think it will affect your voting, but it will.'