Wicca

by James Follett

  `He showed me a ruling by Judge Hooper just now that gives him total power anyway,' said Ellen sourly. `If the council votes against him, he could legally wind-up the council.'

  `Judge Hooper's analysis of the situation,' said Malone offhandedly.

  Ellen was surprised. `You've seen it?'

  `Not officially. I don't think it could be considered a ruling with the weight of the Crown and the Lord Chancellor behind it. Hooper's a circuit judge, not High Court -- and he's not the sort of man to drop into Prescott's pocket that easily. What he's given Prescott is more like a counsel's opinion, but that's something lawyers could argue over for years. Getting Judge Hooper to draft something was a shrewd move by Prescott. A bit of legal armour to cover his arse.' He leaned forward, fixing his wide-set eyes intently on his guest. `It's too soon for him to grab total power. Right now he's doing very nicely with a stream of decrees -- sorry, guidelines -- that are slowly eroding Pentworth's democracy.' Malone paused and glanced around the square before returning his gaze to Ellen. `What worries me, Miss Duncan, is that when food shortages start to bite in the autumn will be the time when the people will want a democratic voice. That's when they'll find that they no longer have it and that's when the right conditions will be in place for civil unrest -- possibly leading to serious trouble.'

  Ellen looked sharply at the police officer. `Meaning bloodshed?'

  `Or worse -- civil war. We have the ancient protagonists of town versus country in place. In many ways Prescott is doing a good job, but he does need a sharp, salutary lesson in democracy that will stop him in his tracks and prevent him increasing his power.'

  `That's what I've been saying all along, but no one will listen,' said Ellen bitterly.

  `So now's the time for action,' said Malone. `A small step but an effective one. What you have to do at Monday's council meeting is expose any demonstration that takes place outside the chamber as the rent-a-mob sham that it is.'

  `How?'

  Malone smiled enigmatically. `You have lovely, long hair, Miss Duncan.'

  Before Ellen had a chance to unleash a broadside, Malone quickly outlined a simple plan that had Ellen smiling by the time he had finished.

  St Mary's clock tower started chiming 12. The number of people hanging around outside Government House swelled to eight. By the time the clock had finished striking, two of Prescott's original supporters had drifted casually away.

  Ellen studied the list closely. The neat listings, with carefully-recorded times of comings and goings, said as much about Malone as it did about Prescott's deviousness. She picked up her glass and raised it to Malone. `Your health, Mike. Do you mind if I call you Mike?'

  Malone was delighted.

  `In which case I insist that you call me Ellen.' She finished her drink and stood. `I need to pick up some recharged radio batteries, and then I'd better get back to the shop. So when do I get the gizmo?'

  `I'll drop it in tomorrow morning... Ellen. And I'll show you how to use it.'

  Ellen flashed the policeman a warm smile. She would have been surprised had she known the effect it had on the otherwise enigmatic Malone. `See you then... Mike.'

  Malone thought thoughts of the impossible that might just be possible as he watched Ellen walking across the square.

  She paused near the centre of the square and studied the worn inscription cut into the flagstones. It was something she had seen hundreds of times without noticing. This had to be what had triggered those terrible visions. The explanation, weak as it was, restored her confidence. Her step was a little lighter as she left the square.

  Two gossiping women broke off to stare after Ellen. One gave a shrug of indifference. An insignificant gesture but Malone had seen enough such gestures to be deeply concerned for Ellen's safety. He pulled out his notebook and wrote down a phonetic approximation of the curse Mekhashshepheh! that he had heard spat at Ellen on two occasions now. At least, he presumed that Pentworth's ritual mayday shout was a curse. The problem was that he was grappling with a subject that he knew little about.

  Malone was a man of considerable learning, particularly philosophy -- the analysis and codification of the rational. He had little interest in religion or witchcraft, believing that all they provided was a measure of Man's gullibility and his ability to rationalize the irrational, and that one didn't need to study religion and witchcraft to know that.

  He drained his glass and crossed to the inscription. Like Ellen, he knew what it said but had never taken much notice of it. The words were worn but readable:

  On this spot, Eleanor of Fittleworth, convicted of witchcraft, was burned at the stake, 12th April 1646.

  Malone wondered why had she been burned when hanging was the traditional method of execution in England that pre-dated the 17th Century? He stared down and cursed his lack of knowledge. Bundles of books being unloaded from a cart and carried into Government House under the supervision of Dennis Davies, the librarian, gave him an idea.

  Chapter 10.

  CATHY PRICE HEARD A MOTOR vehicle turn into her drive. Good -- more government printing work just when money was getting low.

  Even after 14 weeks of being able to walk, she still experienced a thrill at being able to rise from a chair and cross to a window.

  Her pony had thrown her at the age of ten. The neural damage controlling balance had confined her to a wheelchair for 22 years until after particularly vivid dream in which the visitors' spyder had entered her bedroom while she was asleep. The following morning she discovered that her sense of balance was returning. A week later, to the astonishment of Dr Millicent Vaughan, she could walk normally.

  In a way Cathy had always been 100 per cent fit although disabled. She had lived life to the full, had kept her body in good shape with exercise machines, run a successful graphic design studio from her home, and conducted a passionate affair with Josh, a weekend lover, now Farside and lost to her. Josh had exploited Cathy's magnificent body and wild, exhibitionist nature by setting her up with a web camera in her studio-bedroom that fed a stream of pictures of an anonymous "Cathy" at work and play to paying subscribers via an internet website in France. Some even liked to watch her asleep.

  The Wall had ended all that, particularly her passion for thrashing her restored E-Type Jaguar along motorways. But the return of her sense of balance had been a million compensations.

  From the window she saw that the government's usual, unmarked van had turned into her drive and was parked in front of her E-type. Odd that this time the van didn't have its mobile generator in tow.

  Three times since the Wall had appeared Diana Sheldon and Vernon Kelly, a banker and Pentworth's financial advisor, had descended on Cathy unannounced with a supply of special paper and required her to print banknotes that she had designed for them on her Mac.

  Following the appearance of the Wall, Pentworth's surviving branch banks and building society offices had stopped the banking clock by freezing accounts. They were cut off from their computers therefore they had little choice. They had appointed the humourless Vernon Kelly as the chairman of their working group which had advised Pentworth's government to issue its own promissory notes in the form of euro denomination vouchers printed on Cathy's professional colour laser printer -- the only one of its type in Pentworth. The vouchers were now accepted in the community as banknotes.

  Two million euros worth churned out only last week, thought Cathy as she went to answer the door. Surely they didn't want more already?

  During the last print run she had jokingly said to Vernon Kelly that the government merely had to print money when they needed it. The banker had looked at her in horror.

  `The money is only a measure of labour available, Miss Price,' he had said stiffly. `Pentworth is short of labour. Too much money chasing after too little labour will drive up the cost of labour which will push up the cost of goods. The result will be unchecked inflation. Maintaining Pentworth's economy and controlling inflation means that as much as possible of every Euro
printed by the government and circulated has to be clawed back in taxes to finance government spending, which itself had to be kept on a tight rein.'

  `Does that also mean the banks keeping a tight rein on the amount they're salting away due to their ruinous charges?' Cathy had inquired mischievously.

  The banker had not been amused.

  Cathy opened her front door saying, `Good morning, Mr Kelly. Don't say you've blown last week's print run on your mistresses already? You'll have to learn not...' but she never completed the sentence.

  It was not Vernon Kelly on her doorstep but a tall, unsmiling black-eyed brunette wearing a businesslike skirt and an expensive silk blouse. Four morris policemen were standing behind her.

  `Oh,' said Cathy, taken back. Where have I seen that face before? `I'm sorry. I thought you were Vernon Kelly and Diana Sheldon.'

  `Good morning, Miss Price,' said Vanessa briskly. `I'm Vanessa Grossman -- Miss Sheldon's deputy.' She held out a document. `And this is a warrant, signed by the chairman of Pentworth Council. It's an order that empowers the requisitioning of all your computer gear and printing equipment.'

  Cathy read the warrant and stared in disbelief at Vanessa and her escort of morris police. `But why?' she asked. `What's wrong with the present arrangement? I've always done everything at the drop of a hat.'

  `Amateurish,' said Vanessa curtly. `Your equipment could be stolen, and it's most inconvenient and inefficient having to bring a mobile generator around here for every printing job. I've suggested that a proper government printing unit is set up in Government House.'

  `But what about electricity?'

  `An electric power system has been installed in the basement -- a bank of car batteries that will need recharging only once a week. I'll give you an itemised receipt when we've finished.' She signalled the morris men who pushed past Cathy into the house.

  The removal of Cathy's Macintosh equipment was fast and efficient. Vanessa knew exactly what she was looking for -- and that was everything. Under her directions the morris men disconnected the file server, removed interconnecting cables -- even pulling them out of the LAN ducting that had been installed beneath the floor boards of Cathy's bedroom. They emptied her stock cupboards, clearing out all her software manuals, complete with distribution diskettes and CD-ROMs. Vanessa even knew about locking the head on the flatbed scanner before the morris men carried it downstairs to the van. It took two them to haul her big colour laser printer that was used to print Pentworth's currency. As each item was loaded, she carefully noted the details on a clipboard.

  One item puzzled her. She held up the golf ball-like Connectrix Quickcam miniature TV camera. `What use would a professional graphics expert have for a low resolution thing such as this, Miss Price?'

  `Oh -- for sending rough sample grabs to customers--' Cathy broke off as a terrible thought occurred to her. She met Vanessa's black eyes and felt that the woman was casually turning over all her innermost secrets. `Well I suppose I'd better take it. If you would just sign this receipt please.'

  `You'll need me to set the Mac up,' said Cathy hollowly, keeping her voice absolutely calm despite her inner turmoil.

  `No -- I don't think that will be necessary, Miss Price.'

  Please! PLEASE, God -- don't make me sound pleading!

  `But I know all its peculiarities, Miss Grossman.'

  Grossman? Grossman? Where have I heard that name before? Where have I seen that face?

  `A Mac? Peculiarities?' The black eyes regarded Cathy steadily. `We'll manage just fine, Miss Price. If you would sign here, please.'

  Cathy signed the document as though she had suddenly become an automation. Vanessa thanked her for her co-operation and left, leaving Cathy sitting on her bed, staring glassy-eyed at her cleared workstation in a state of shock, mouthing a single word expletive to herself, over and over again.

  Although Cathy had been brought up in Pentworth she had never considered herself as having roots in the town or being part of its society. It was somewhere to run her business, and her CathyCam website. In the case of the latter, it could be sited anywhere in the world because the Internet had made Marshall McLuhan's global village a reality. If her identity had ever been discovered, she would've had few qualms about moving and setting up elsewhere. She and Josh had often discussed the possibility.

  But everything was different now. She was no longer a cripple -- a prisoner of a wheelchair. The exciting possibility of leading a normal life lay before her even if she were now a different sort of prisoner behind a strange force wall that might last forever. But at least she was a prisoner along with over 6000 other souls and had become a part of Pentworth whether she liked it or not.

  On balance, she liked it. She could now get married, have children: objectives which had once seemed so unattainable that, over the years, she had built up a protective shell of sneering contempt for women who held such ambitions in high esteem. Now, with the seizure of her computer system, even those simple objectives would be snatched away from her and she would spend the rest of her days as a victim of a humiliating shame of her own making that would permit no escape.

  There were photographs of her in a sub-directory on the server's hard disk.

  Hundreds of computer pictures.

  JPEG images that had been automatically cached from the QuickCam camera to the hard disk when they had been sent to her CathyCam Internet website: close-ups of her pouting seductively at the camera while squeezing her breasts together; extreme close ups of her smiling at the camera while running the tip of a vibrator over her clitoris; medium shots of her masturbating furiously.

  Although shocking, they were pictures that she could laughingly shrug aside. The pictures were small, low resolution, and hard to say that they were of her because she was wearing her wig in all of them. People could talk, snigger if they wished; the pictures would be a five-minute wonder and then forgotten. Besides, Josh had taught her to be proud of her body, and since then she had never made any secret of her sexuality. She had once screwed her milkman for the sheer hell of acting out a cliche, and she got some free cream into the bargain. But there were other pictures that would not be dismissed. Pictures that had been taken one weekend after she and Josh had snorted some high class coke; pictures in which she had finally given in to Josh's demands that they vary their love-making on the understanding that he would stop if he was hurting her.

  Cathy sat perfectly still, submerged in a searing acid bath of the most terrible, agonising shame.

  There were 10 such pictures. Not taken with the relatively low-resolution 256 colour QuickCam, but by Josh using the timer on his digital camera. They were all pin-sharp, high resolution, and full screen. They had not been sent to the website because they readily identified her -- she hadn't been wearing her wig -- her face twisted in pain or laughing ecstasy in all of them.

  She was still sitting in her bedroom 15-minutes later. Unmoving but this time with uncontrolled tears coursing down her cheeks.

  She had come to a decision.

  She had to destroy those computer files.

  If she failed, she would destroy herself.

  Chapter 11.

  At 62, after a long and undistinguished career in local government, Dennis Davies never expected to achieve happiness. He had never married; there was no one in his life with whom he was sufficiently intimate to send boxed, padded birthday cards.

  Everything was different now. The Wall had made him one of the happiest men in Pentworth. He was the town librarian with virtually the entire second floor of Government House as the new home for his beloved books.

  Dennis saw himself as a latter day Ptolemy I, the Egyptian ruler who founded the great library at Alexandria. He was close to heaven, and would be even closer once the team of carpenters were finished. They were cheerfully and noisily cannibalising any suitable furniture they could lay their hands on to make professional-looking rows of shelves that would eventually be home for the half million or so books that had been hand
ed in and were still coming in.

  The volumes filled hundreds of cardboard boxes and tea chests that were stacked to the ceiling and piled in the corridor. It was a pity that at least ninety per cent of their contents were paperbacks, but at least they were books -- real books -- not the ridiculous music CDs and movie video cassettes that he had been obliged to sell or rent out in the old town library. A public lending library with a noisy barcode reader cash register indeed! Well -- at least that particular piece of nastiness had been consigned to a warehouse. Long may it remain there.

  Once the bulk of the cataloguing was complete Pentworth Library would be the repository of Mankind's knowledge -- a vast shrine of Britain's cultural heritage although just how much cultural heritage was enshrined in countless chests crammed with Mills and Boon romances, or wobbly piles of paperbacks by both the Folletts, was debatable. Fiction was having to take a back seat; for the time-being his staff of five assistant librarians were busy writing index cards for the non-fiction donations. The task would take months despite the overtime they were working to take advantage of the long hours of daylight. The trouble was that there was such a desperate shortage of labour, and his requests that the library be provided with electric lighting for the coming winter had been refused.

  `Mr Davies?'

  Dennis looked up from his desk. A tall, lean man in a white tracksuit stood before him. Wide-set eyes. He had seen him before on several occasions. Malone introduced himself without producing his warrant card -- this wasn't police business.

  Dennis beamed. `Ah -- yes -- of course, Mr Malone. What can I do for you?'

  Malone explained that he wanted to use his spare time for a research project. A history of the area -- the origins of its culture and folklore.