Wicca

by James Follett

  She had to brush back her tears when she related how she and David Weir had discovered Thomas crucified to her back door, and that she hadn't told Vikki or the police because she didn't want to attract attention or more vandal attacks.

  Roscoe had refused to cross-examine, and had aroused the judge's wrath by stating that the bible the accused had sworn on had been defiled and demanded that it should be burned.

  If he was angry then, Judge Hooper thought as he addressed the jury, he's certainly going to be incandescent at my closing remarks:

  `Finally, Members of the Jury, we come to possible feelings of disbelief, or even revulsion, that you may be experiencing that such archaic laws have been revived. You must set aside any such feelings; whether we like it or not, the law exists, which it is your duty to uphold by deciding whether or not the accused have broken them. You must reach your decisions on the basis of the evidence you have heard and not allow your feelings concerning the possible inappropriateness of the law to influence your decisions.

  `You may feel repugnance at the thought that a pretty 16 year old girl is facing death by hanging if you find her guilty. You must put such feelings out of your mind and decide your verdict solely on grounds of the evidence you have heard.

  `Similarly, with Ellen Duncan, you must not be swayed by the fact that her considerable skills and knowledge of herbal medicine makes her one of the most valued members of our community, particularly under our present bizarre circumstances. You must put such feelings from your mind and consider your verdict solely on the basis of the evidence you have heard.'

  It was all nonsense, of course, the judge told himself. The checks and balances inherent in the jury system were that juries refused to convict those accused under harsh or unjust laws. And telling the jury not to think about something was like the kids' game in which a player could have a chocolate provided they didn't think about unicorns. It was impossible to win because it was impossible not to think about unicorns when trying not to think about them.

  `Thank you, Members of the Jury,' Judge Hooper concluded. `You have been most patient these last three days. Will you please retire to consider your verdicts.'

  Chapter 46.

  BY 4:00PM THE ATMOSPHERE in Market Square while the jury were retired was electric. Prescott stood at his office window taking in the scene below. The numbers of demonstrators on both sides had swollen. The way in which the ranks of farmers stoically ignored the jeers of the hanging brigade spoke of a high degree of organization and discipline, strengthening Prescott's feelings of deep foreboding.

  To one side of the entrance to Government House was a queue waiting to be admitted to hear the verdict. Among them was Anne Taylor accompanied by Father Kendrick. She and the priest had spent many hours of the last three days praying for Vikki's salvation.

  Roscoe appeared and was immediately surrounded by a throng of admirers. Genuine admirers. Ever since the abortive assassination attempt, Prescott had become progressively more concerned for his own safety and restricted his public appearances to a few seconds at unexpected times. He had even got Selby Engineering to fit steel plates around the rear passenger seat of his methane-powered Range Rover. The hoisting of a flag from the flagstaff on top of Government House whenever he was in had been abandoned.

  In his hot little anteroom that served as his chamber, Judge Hooper had just decided that he would allow another 30 minutes before sending a note to the jury saying that he would accept a majority verdict when word came from the bailiff that they had completed their deliberations.

  The courtroom was packed when the jurors filed into their box. Not one of the six men and six women as much as glanced at Ellen and Vikki in the dock.

  Judge Hooper swept in and took his seat. The clerk approached the jurors and asked their foreman to stand. The woman who had provided her charm bracelet rose and looked nervously from the judge to the clerk. She was holding a slip of paper.

  `Your honour -- we have a statement that we wish to read out.'

  `You are here to give your verdicts,' Judge Hooper ruled. `No more -- no less.'

  The woman foreman looked frightened but she was determined to see this through. `In that case, we refuse to offer any verdicts at all.'

  There was a long silence. Judge Hooper could find the entire jury in contempt. Fines. Prison sentences. The spectre of a retrial. A shambles that could be easily avoided by acceding to the jury's request. `Oh, very well if it makes you feel better. Read your statement.'

  The clerk of the court looked aggrieved.

  The foreman cleared her throat. `We the jury, have done as requested and considered the charges against the accused solely on the evidence presented. But we deplore the application of such legislation and urge clemency and that a court of appeal should re-examine the cases.'

  `That's your statement?'

  `Yes, your honour.'

  Judge Hooper nodded to the clerk. `Carry on, clerk.'

  `Please answer this question yes or no,' said the clerk coldly. `Have you reached verdicts on which you are all agreed?'

  `Yes.' `Please answer guilty or not guilty. To the charge of practicing witchcraft and other evil things, do you find the defendant, Eleanor Rose Duncan, guilty or not guilty?'

  `Guilty.'

  `To the charge of practicing witchcraft and other evil things, do you find the defendant, Victoria Taylor, guilty or not guilty?'

  `Guilty.'

  The crowded courtroom erupted in a fury of whistles, cheers, and screams of anguish. But for the prompt action of a blackshirt, Anne Taylor would've hurled herself at the jury foreman. She had to be dragged from the courtroom screaming.

  Judge Hooper's gavel banging had no effect on restoring order but blackshirts bursting in with shotguns at the ready most certainly did. Their presence inflamed the judge. `Get those men out of here!' he fumed.

  The blackshirts withdrew once order was restored and the turmoil showed no signs of starting again.

  `Eleanor Rose Duncan and Victoria Taylor,' said Judge Hooper. `You have been found guilty of the charges against you and will be placed in the custody of the Pentworth Manorial Court for sentencing and the carrying out of any sentence the manorial court deems appropriate.'

  He rose and left the courtroom hurriedly, having no wish to witness the travesty of justice that was certain to follow. The clerk formally closed the session and he, the usher, and bailiff followed the judge.

  Nelson Faraday entered flanked by the armed blackshirts that the judge had just shooed from the courtroom. He was wearing his black outfit, the blackshirts were carrying chains and neck irons.

  `Thank you for looking after our prisoners,' said Faraday to the WPC. `We'll take over now.'

  Ellen and Vikki appeared to be in a trance as the blackshirts clamped the neck irons in place.

  `You can either walk or be dragged,' said Faraday indifferently. `It makes no odds to me either way.'

  They walked, led like dogs, to the main entrance and blinked uncertainly in the bright sunlight. Roscoe was on hand, recording the moment of his glorious victory over the massed forces of Hell with a camcorder. There was an angry murmur from the Country Brigade but Dan Baldock's leadership was strong enough for them to obey his signals to remain calm. A few jeers from Roscoe's supporters but generally the mood of the crowd was sombre.

  For Ellen the sight that confronted her was the culmination of all her nightmares. It was a large dogcart harnessed to a black horse. At the front of the cart was a waist height crossbar. She had to remain strong for Vikki's sake so she climbed behind the bar and calmly allowed herself to be shackled to it by the wrists. Vikki received the same treatment so that the two women were standing side by side.

  The driver touched the horse's flank with his whip and the dogcart moved off on its short journey to Pentworth House. Roscoe and Faraday fell into step behind it.

  `Congratulations, father. I never thought I'd see this moment.'

  `I must confess, Nelson, that there were m
oments when I thought the same.' Faraday stared lustfully at Vikki. Like Ellen, the girl was gripping the crossbar with both hands to keep her balance as the cart swayed and jolted on the uneven flagstones.

  Roscoe noticed the look. `You will save your lusts for the scourging, Nelson.'

  `But--'

  `I have given orders that they are to looked after by three shifts of female sentinels. No male is to go near their quarters. Don't worry, Nelson -- you will be able to give full vent to your feelings on Saturday night.'

  Chapter 47.

  NELSON FARADAY WAS the only one who didn't appear to enjoy the party in Pentworth House's ballroom to celebrate Roscoe's victory. He glowered in turn at Roscoe, now the worse for drink as he lolled on a couch with three adoring girls in attendance, and at the disorganized dancing of the revellers. He had been looking forward to this moment. Something he had worked hard for and now he was going to have to wait a few more nights. By 9:00pm he had had enough. He grabbed a bottle of wine and went to his room, his departure watched by Claire Lake, who slipped away 10 minutes later to prepare herself for the horrors that lay ahead.

  Faraday was half way through the bottle when there was a tentative tap on his door.

  `Come in.'

  The door opened and the vision that stood coyly in the doorway nearly caused the bottle to slip from his fingers.

  Claire had done a good job. She had started by binding her chest so that there was little hint of her breasts under the tight schoolgirl's pinafore dress. It was white, with fine blue stripes, its chest pockets trimmed with white linen. Some of the lower buttons were undone to show a pair of grubby knees. Her tie was badly knotted and slightly askew. Her blonde hair had been plaited into two tight bangs which she had stiffened with wire so that they stuck out at an absurd angle. Completing the ensemble were white ankle socks and black buckle shoes, and a lollipop -- an immature apple on a stick -- which she sucked on while eyeing the black-clad figure on the bed.

  Faraday grinned. `Who the fuck are you?'

  `My name's Jennifer, Mr Faraday.'

  Faraday knew perfectly well who she was but this little one had never entered into these games before.

  `Well come in, Jennifer, and lock the door.'

  Claire did so and stood beside Faraday's bed, looking down at him, her eyes large and innocent as she sucked noisily on the lollipop.

  `I've been a naughty girl, Mr Faraday. I've been sent to you for punishment.'

  `So what did you do that was so naughty?'

  The girl shrugged her shoulders back and forth -- a perfect imitation of a mixture of childish indifference and defiance. `I put all my knickers in the laundry so I haven't got any to wear.'

  `That was very naughty of you, Jennifer.' Faraday slipped his hand under her dress and stroked her thigh, reaching higher to her buttocks to establish the truth of her statement. He thought he felt a tiny tremor of fear. So much the better if she were afraid. But why should she want to play this little game now when she had always refused before? He was about to ask her but was distracted by the noises she made with the lollipop. They irritated him. He took it from her and placed it on his bedside cabinet.

  `Are you going to take my lollipop away, Mr Faraday?'

  `I've got a much nicer lollipop for you to suck, Jennifer.'

  `Have you, Mr Faraday?' She gave a little clap of anticipation.

  Christ -- this one is good afterall, thought Faraday, making room for her on the bed. She knelt with her back him and he told her what he wanted her to do. `Ooo! Mr Faraday. That would be really naughty of me. Are you sure it'll be all right?'

  That she wasn't so good at doing what he wanted didn't matter this time; any expertise on her part would've spoilt the illusion. He took a swig from the wine bottle with one hand and pushed the other between her thighs and moved it up. She was smooth, perfectly smooth -- just the way it should be... A smoothness that could come only from a very recent shave... He closed his eyes and groaned.

  45 minutes later Claire was at Faraday's wash hand basin, one foot on the rim, determinedly washing away all traces left by his loathsome presence. Satisfied that she was as clean as she was ever likely to be, she turned and surveyed him, stretched out, naked, snoring gently, the empty wine bottle on the floor. As she had hoped, the noise of her washing had not woken him therefore what she had to do next was unlikely to disturb him.

  Her heart was thumping wildly as she opened the drawer in the bedside cabinet. Some old letters; a packet of unpleasant photographs featuring young girls; a passport -- a singularly useless document now. And then she found it: a typed carbon sheet of instructions with pencilled ticks against the various points. Halfway down was a strange schedule. It was the timetable for the scourging of the two prisoners -- exactly what she was looking for. It detailed the time the procession would set off from Pentworth House, the time of its arrival at the bizarre site chosen for the scourging, and the time of arrival at Market Square for the terrible finale.

  The room swam at the horrors of what was spelt out in such matter-of-fact terms. She wanted to be sick, but she forced herself to re-read the timetable several times to be certain of committing its horrors to memory. She put everything back as she had found it and left the room, pausing only to glance at Faraday and contemplate the appalling wound she could inflict on him. But there were enough complications in her life as it was, and she had much to do.

  In the relative security of her bedroom, she wrote down the entire timetable, virtually word for word. A part of her brain that was divorced from reality guided her hand as she penned the details of the final scene in Market Square.

  That done she unravelled her plaits, unwound the bindings from her breasts, and changed into her running kit, zipping the scourging timetable into an inside pocket.

  `I don't know how you do it, these hot nights,' said Helen when Claire appeared. Helen was the main gate duty officer.

  Claire smiled. `I'm putting on weight.'

  `Why don't you jog in the park?'

  `The trees scare me in the moonlight and I scare the deer.'

  Helen laughed and opened the gate. `Two hours,' she warned.

  Claire thanked her and set off at a steady pace. She glanced at her watch and saw that she was in good time for her rendezvous with Mike Malone at the Temple of the Winds.

  Chapter 48.

  MALONE'S FIRST CALL early the next morning was Temple Farm where David made him welcome and brewed-up some chicory coffee which they sat sipping in the kitchen while David studied the scourging timetable. It was a copy Malone had made the previous night when he had returned to his digs after his meeting with Claire. He had burned the original.

  `Incredible,' David muttered, looking up at Malone. There were dark hollows under the farmer's eyes from lack of sleep.

  `Not that it's much consolation,' said Malone. `But they're not being abused at the moment. Roscoe's keeping them in guarded quarters.'

  `But they can't do this!' David exploded. `It's barbaric -- inhuman.'

  `They can unless we stop them,' said Malone. `Which we will. Roscoe's sufficiently unhinged to do anything now, and Prescott's terrified out of his wits at the power Roscoe has acquired. I've heard that his signing of Vikki Taylor's arrest warrant was a ruse that Roscoe pulled off.'

  `Meaning that Ellen's arrest was okay?' said David bitterly.

  `Meaning nothing of the sort. Listen, David. I've got a rough plan worked out. But before we go ahead, there's one thing that we must agree on, and that is that you and I should be only people who know the full details. There'll be as many as 30 people involved. What they know has to be on a need to know basis. That's as much to protect the plan as to protect them if it goes wrong. Are we agreed on that?'

  David considered and nodded. `That seems sensible. So what have you in mind? An ambush?'

  Malone pulled a large scale Ordnance Survey map of the area from his pocket and spread it on the table. His finger traced the route from Pentworth House to the scour
ging site.

  `An ambush in the town is out of the question because the procession will be too bunched up. With 8 armed blackshirts, they'll probably have the dogcart surrounded at all times.' Malone pointed. `That's our best place -- where they will be forced to string out.'

  They discussed Malone's embryo plan for several minutes. David Weir was a good, clear thinker and had several excellent ideas so that the plan was soon much less embryonic. Malone started on a list of needs. It turned out to be a worrying long list.

  `Procession torches are no problem,' said David. `We've got about 30 for lambing and working at night on broken-down machinery. Charlie makes them and they burn for about two hours.' His eye went down the list. `Look, Mike -- it's Thursday. We've only got today and tomorrow, and most of Saturday to pull this thing together. You've got a lot of people to see so take my pony and trap.'

  Malone's inclination was to refuse; to be seen driving a trap would be out of character, but if his visits were successful he would have a lot of gear to shift so he accepted.

  They went to the stables and harnessed up the trap.

  `What's your first port of call?' David asked once Malone was installed.

  `A visit to our intrepid round-the-world yachtsman. Your job is get over to Dan Baldock to stop the Country Brigade going off at half-cock.'

  `How much should I tell him?' Malone thought hard. `You know him better than I do, David. But he strikes me as the sort of man I'd rather have with me than against me in a scrap.'

  David nodded. `You're right. Dan Baldock is a prickly, nit-picking bastard, but I'd trust him with my life. I'll ride over to see him this morning.'

  Malone released the handbrake and was about to flick the reins when David pointed out that there was something important he had forgotten. Malone's ego took a knock. He was confident that his plan covered all the major points. He looked questioningly at David.