Wicca

by James Follett

  `Witches!' someone hissed. `Her all along. Just like her mother.'

  They were 100 metres from Ellen's shop when Malone arrived, running from the direction of the town with three morris police struggling to keep up. Malone sized up the situation quickly and realized that there was little he could do against eight men. He spoke to the morris police and they fanned out across the road, staffs held level to form a barrier.

  The procession halted with Malone and Faraday confronting each other.

  `Good morning, Mr Faraday,' said Malone affably, not looking at Ellen.

  `Out of our way, Malone.'

  The police officer shook his head sadly. `You'll never made a policeman, Nelson. Arrests should be kept as low key as possible. Public displays like this are most undesirable and certainly illegal.'

  Malone pushed past the blackshirts and stood before Vikki. He pulled her blouse over her shoulders and drew it closed.

  `They're my prisoners, Malone! You'll leave them alone!'

  The police officer gave the terrified girl an encouraging smile and tucked her blouse into her skirt, noticing that she was wearing plastic gloves. He moved in front of Ellen. Faraday pulled back his cloak and produced a .45 revolver. He levelled it at the police officer's head but didn't pull back the hammer. A mistake because Malone missed nothing.

  `You leave them alone, Malone!'

  Malone ignored the threat. He drew Ellen's white coat closed and fastened it with the two remaining buttons.

  `For God's sake, Mike,' Ellen whispered. `He's mad -- he'll kill you.'

  `You do as I say, you scum!' Faraday howled, tightening his finger on the trigger.

  `It's a magistrate's committal hearing,' said Malone quickly and quietly. `Who's your solicitor?'

  `Harry Sheldon -- Diana Sheldon's father. But he's very ill.'

  `I'll have a word with her and Vikki's mother. I'll do what I can and see that the shop's secure.'

  Ellen nodded. Malone moved clear of the procession and signalled his men to the kerb. He turned to face Faraday, seemingly unconcerned by the gun levelled at him. `Just like to see that everything's orderly on the streets, Nelson. Can't have displays like that. Most improper. Carry on.'

  Faraday lowered the revolver. As he did so, Malone moved with astonishing speed, spinning his body on one foot and bringing his other foot around in a blurred arc. The trainer connected with Faraday's hand, sending the revolver spinning into the air which Malone caught deftly. Faraday gave a cry of pain and clutched his wrist. Malone's warning look to the blackshirts as he hefted the .45 was enough for them remain frozen. He moved closer to Faraday and lowered his voice. `If these women come to any harm in your custody, Nelson, you had best relish each morning that you wake up and find yourself alive because there won't be many of them left. You won't know where or when the end will come, but come it will, and very soon. Trust me.'

  With that he broke the .45, ejected its shells into his hand, and pocketed them and the gun.

  Faraday's face was pale. The speed and deadly accuracy of the kick combined with Malone's calm, almost matter-of-fact tone had frightened him. His wrist felt as though he had tried to stop a train with it.

  `That gun's been issued to me, Malone.'

  `I'll look after it until you've learned how to handle them. Best to use two hands with S and W .45s, Nelson. Their kick can dislocate a shoulder... My kick can dislocate a life.' Malone gave an icy smile. `See you in court.'

  Chapter 36.

  MALONE REFLECTED THAT DAN BALDOCK was a better organizer than he had supposed. The barn was packed with about 100 farmers, and their families for this third full meeting of the Country Brigade. They were angry, all wanted to have their say about their grievances but Baldock kept good order from a rostrum that consisted of scaffold boards laid across oil drums. David Weir, looking haggard with worry, and two other members of the brigade's so-called general staff were sitting at the table.

  None of those crowded into the barn were remotely connected with Prescott. Two of his tenants had turned up at the beginning of the meeting, claiming that they were dissatisfied with their landlord, but they had been escorted off the farm. Several youngsters were patrolling the outside on the lookout for spies.

  Malone and Anne Taylor were sitting in plastic chairs in front of the rostrum. Anne's eyes red-rimmed from crying that day but she was now composed, sitting with her hands folded on her lap, her grief over the arrest of her daughter temporarily forgotten as she listened to Brad Jackson's mother recount the harrowing events before and after her son's execution.

  Malone knew Freda Jackson. It was inevitable considering the number of times her eldest offspring of six had had brushes with the law. She and her common-law husband scratched a meagre living from two hectares of downland that her great-grandfather had claimed nearly a 100 years ago. A small, tired-looking woman as a result of years of hard work and too many pregnancies. To Malone's surprise and gratification, she had spoken in favour of allowing him to be present at the meeting, describing him as a decent bloke even if he was a policeman.

  `They just banged on the door and dumped his coffin on the step,' she was tearfully telling the gathering. `No by your leave or nothing. And they wanted me to sign a receipt for his body.'

  There were murmurs of indignation.

  `Can you imagine how Will and me felt? Five in the morning. Poor Brad being hung a day early... We didn't have a chance for any last prayers or nothing.' She dug into a pocket of her jeans and held up a scrap of paper. `And today we get this -- a bill for his coffin!' Her tears became a flood. She was unable to continue so Baldock guided her into David's care. She sat at the table sobbing quietly to herself with David offering what comfort he could.

  `So that's the way things are,' said Baldock grimly. `We've been patient.' He raised his voice. `We've put up with having our goods seized! We've had hygiene inspectors ordering the destruction of livestock on a whim. We've been accused of withholding supplies! We've been set upon! Beaten up by townies! They killed Freda's boy and dumped his body on her doorstep! And now they've arrested Ellen Duncan and Vikki Taylor on crazy, trumped-up charges of witchcraft!'

  Each point was greeted with a chorus of angry shouts.

  `So we take a vote on it! All those in favour of stopping all food supplies to the town!'

  There was a loud roar of approval and a forest of hands went up. Malone was immediately on his feet, signalling for Baldock's attention. Their brief conference ended with Malone jumping nimbly onto the stage, and Baldock holding up his hands for silence. `Right,' he said when uproar had subsided. `Mr Malone would like a word.'

  Malone's commanding presence was sufficient to still all conversation. `Nothing I can do or say and nothing you can do or say can reverse the terrible wrong that was done to Mrs Jackson's son,' he began. `But what we can ensure is that such a thing doesn't happen again.' He glanced at David and Anne in turn. `I'm sorry to have to say this with Vikki's mother and David Weir present, but Ellen and Vikki face the death penalty if they're found guilty.'

  `What's this got to do with the Country Brigade?' someone called out from the back. `We were set up to defend the rights of farmers and growers.'

  There were a few noises of assent.

  `Upholding your rights and freedom means little unless you're prepared to uphold the rights and freedom of others,' Malone replied.

  `Yeah -- the word is that you applied to the magistrate at the hearing this morning for Ellen and Vikki to be held in police custody, Mr Malone. So don't go bleating about rights and freedoms to us.'

  David spoke for the first time. `That was Jeff Dawson, wasn't it?'

  A stocky figure pushed his way to the front. `Yeah. It was me.'

  `You've got it wrong, as usual, Jeff,' said David. `Mike applied for police custody for Ellen and Vikki to prevent the blackshirts holding them. Ellen had a terrible bruise on her cheek from the blackshirts that arrested them. The magistrate didn't like the look of it, so she agreed. Vikki and
Ellen are being looked after by a WPC and the morris police at the police station and will be during the trial.'

  Dawson shrugged. `So I got it wrong. I still say it's nothing to do with the Country Brigade.'

  `It's got everything to do with us,' said Freda Jackson suddenly. She left the table and stood beside Malone, facing the crowd which immediately granted her a respectful silence. `Can I speak, Dan?'

  `Go ahead, Freda.'

  She stared angrily at the sea of faces. `When my Brad was put in the stocks, Ellen Duncan was the only one that faced up to Prescott and got him released. She got the keys and done it herself. Undid the lock and freed him. The square was crowded with people all yelling and jeering at Brad. She didn't think nothing for her own safety -- she done what she thought was right.' Her scathing gaze roamed over the crowd. `Pete Linegar. You told me yourself that Ellen's medicine was the only one that helps your Dawn with her fits. What will happen to her if Ellen's hung like they hung my Brad? Mary -- what about that time when you was on your back in agony with sciatica? Who was it who came up with a pain-killer that worked? Ellen Duncan. A lot of us here owe a lot to Ellen. And as for Vikki Taylor. What harm has she ever done anyone? As sweet a kid as you could wish to meet. Just 16 years old and those bastards want to see her hung.

  `Mr Malone's right -- I know Brad was no saint -- but he didn't deserve to die and nor do Ellen and Vikki. If they do because we've done nothing, then we'll be as much to blame as them that did it.' She glared at the audience, ready to meet any challenge but none came. She thanked Baldock and returned to her seat.

  `Freda's right,' said Baldock. `We have to do something about Ellen and Vikki. The question is, what?'

  `We could storm Government House,' said Jeff Dawson. `A thousand of us should do the trick. Clear out the whole rotten nest and release Ellen and Vikki at the same time.'

  The idea of direct action had wide appeal.

  `That sort of thing is best discussed by the general staff,' said Baldock with a warning glance towards Malone.

  `It's best not discussed at all,' said Malone bluntly. `There are now over 80 blackshirts. Your shotguns and cartridges which you handed over to the police, and police firearms are now in an armory on the top floor of Government House.'

  `That's right,' said someone at the front. `My brother had the job of converting a store room into a strongroom.'

  Malone mentally photographed the speaker with the intention of having a word with him afterwards. `You'd be cut to ribbons,' he continued. `Yes -- I know that there are 15 shotguns that haven't been handed-in or seized, but what use would they be against the blackshirts with plenty of cartridges and even some semi-automatic weapons? It would be carnage.'

  `Government House would burn nicely, Mr Malone.'

  David spoke up. `And what good would that do? Yes -- I know how aggrieved many of you feel about the lack of services in rural areas but on balance Pentworth has a reasonably well-run administration under Diana Sheldon. I know her -- I've complained to her often enough on your behalf -- and I know that she's doing her best to redress many of your problems. The enemy is Asquith Prescott and Adrian Roscoe. They're the reason why Ellen and Vikki are in such danger.'

  `So we assassinate the bastards!'

  `Something Freda's son tried,' said Malone drily. `Those two have plenty of protection now. Prescott doesn't move anywhere without two armed bodyguards, and his Range Rover has armour plate inside.'

  `Thank you, Mr Malone,' said Baldock, a sarcastic note in his voice. `We have a motion to put to the meeting. All those in favour of the Country Brigade giving priority to Ellen and Vikki please raise your right hand.'

  There was a solid show of hands.

  `All those against?' He counted the showing. `And ten against. The motion is carried. But what worries me, Mr Malone, is that you haven't come up with any ideas on how us pussies are going to hang a bell around the cat's neck.'

  `Let's worry the cat sick by doing nothing for the time-being,' said Malone wryly. `The trial of Ellen and Vikki doesn't start until Monday and will probably last three or four days. Once it's underway, we'll have a better idea of what to do.'

  `A cop out,' Dawson sneered. `First you say you want to do something positive and then you're against doing anything. Let's face it, Mr Detective Sergeant Malone -- you're a policeman first and foremost. You took an oath to uphold the law and that's why you're here. Prescott's tame monkey.'

  Malone regarded the stocky man dispassionately. `The laws I swore to uphold did not include persecuting people for witchcraft and the hanging of innocent people, or even guilty people. I will promise you this much, Mr Dawson, I will have a plan to prevent Ellen and Vikki meeting the same fate as Freda's son. And if I have to resign from the force to carry it out, then I will do so.'

  Chapter 37.

  NELSON FARADAY LAY SPRAWLED on his bed in Pentworth House nursing a bruised wrist and a bruised ego, and saw no reason why Claire Lake, the blonde who was doing her best to please him, shouldn't be the target of his venom. He grabbed her by the hair in frustration and jerked her tear-stained face up to his.

  `How long have you been here? A year now?'

  She nodded.

  `Long enough to learn how to do it properly. For fuck's sake, no wonder your husband ditched you.'

  `I'm sorry, Nelson. I'm doing my best.' And then she was crying again.

  Faraday was tempted to hit her but this one was useful in the dairy and was one of Father Roscoe's favourites. `Well keep trying,' he muttered.

  The girl went back to her task. The trouble with her, as far as Faraday was concerned, was that she was too old. 25-26 -- at least ten years too old although she looked younger. He closed his eyes and imagined that she was Vikki Taylor. Soon he wouldn't have to do any imagining. The problem was that it was going to be a proper trial like Brad Jackson's trial. The judge had nit-picked over every bit of eye-witness evidence as though he wanted the little bastard to get off. But this case was different. It would be convulsed with argument and counter argument. The evidence against the Duncan woman and little virginal Vikki Taylor might not stand up. Faraday had been in enough courts to know what was good evidence and what wasn't.

  He twisted around so that he could open a drawer in his bedside cabinet where he kept his private papers. He managed it without interfering with the girl's ministrations, and removed an envelope. Inside was a Polaroid picture of the witch's black cat nailed to her back door. A neat job that he hadn't been able to resist photographing with the last exposure in the pack. Luckily Father Roscoe didn't know about it. `Do whatever is necessary to frighten her, Nelson,' had been his instructions. Well he had certainly done that. And this photograph, handled right, was evidence -- good, solid evidence that would ensure Vikki fell into his clutches.

  He had an idea and pulled Claire's head away. `Forget it,' he said shortly. `You're worse than useless.' He tossed some keys at her. `Those fit the witch's shop. There's a handwritten card taped inside the window about a lost black cat. Go and get it.'

  Chapter 38.

  THERE WAS NO SIGN of His Honour Judge John Harleston-Hooper's acerbic sense of humour as he surveyed the hot, crowded little courtroom over his half-moon spectacles. Ellen Duncan sitting beside Victoria Taylor in the dock. The older woman gripping the brass bar, the girl keeping her hands out of sight. Both staring at Adrian Roscoe, resplendent in a pure white gown as he addressed the jury. The women were certainly bewitching. But witches? Ha!

  The trial of Brad Jackson had been straightforward enough, quick but properly conducted -- he had seen to that. That the penalty for Jackson's crimes had been death wasn't his fault; politicians decided penalties. But this case was Kafkaesque. A 17th Century Act of Parliament being used in the 21st Century. An act that had been deemed absurd its day and repealed in the 18th Century, now back on the statute books as a result of all manner of convoluted legal gymnastics in which he had played an unwitting part. He bitterly regretted the opinion he had provided Prescott r
egarding the almost unlimited powers of a colonial governor. A terrible mistake. He could picture the lord chancellor pacing up and down his office when this confounded business of the Wall was over.

  `What the devil were you thinking of, Hooper? Didn't it occur to you that there's a huge difference between the conferring of the powers of the Crown and Parliament on a colonial governor --someone who has been carefully selected for the post from hundreds of well-qualified people -- and such powers being assumed by an ambitious, social-climbing nonentity like Asquith Prescott?'

  Right now the ambitious, social-climbing nonentity was sitting on a reserved bench, his florid features impassive as he listened to Roscoe droning on in his opening address about the evils within Pentworth and how it was the Christian duty of every man and woman to cauterise the evil -- banish it back to hell whence it came.

  Prescott was seething with anger, not only at Diana Sheldon for electing to defend the women, but at the way Roscoe had duped him over the arrest warrants, but more than that -- he was frightened. Badly frightened. Dear God -- two women in dock, not only on absurd charges, but facing the death penalty if found guilty. One of them a 16-year-old! The very last thing he wanted. His hope lay with the jury: 6 men, 6 woman. The number of challenges from Diana Sheldon to arrive at the present mix had taken up the entire morning. All 12 faces devoid of expression. He told himself that they couldn't convict -- that they wouldn't convict. He studied their faces in turn, searching for clues as to what they were thinking during Roscoe's rant, and found nothing.

  Chanting outside: HANG THE WITCHES! HANG THE BITCHES! Not his supporters. He'd asked Faraday to move them away from Government House. The blackshirt chief's men had moved some of the demonstrators. Now they were back. Not loud. But loud enough to carry through the courtroom's gaping windows to maintain Prescott's cold sweat. The blackshirts were loyal to Faraday, and Faraday's loyalty was with Adrian Roscoe. God dammit -- he should've created his own security team.