Wicca

by James Follett

  The police officer reached up to wedge his torch into a fissure and stood back to take in all the vivid hunting scenes. He shook his head. `To think that they've been here all those centuries... All of human history has passed them by.'

  `Puts everything in perspective,' David remarked.

  `How did Ellen find this cave?'

  David's reply was an approximation of the truth. `She said at the time that she'd spotted an anomaly in some aerial photographs taken by Harvey Evans from his microlight.'

  `Well, thank God you both had the sense to keep quiet about it. I would've trumpeted such a find to the heavens.'

  `So what do you think?'

  `I think it's bloody marvellous.'

  `As a hiding place for Ellen and Vikki.'

  `That's what I meant,' said Malone. He looked up at the torch. It was still burning brightly. `Well that's something; the place should've filled with smoke by now. Air must be getting in through natural fissures in the rock. They're going to need light around the clock but we can't risk them using torches -- smoke might escape from somewhere and be noticed.'

  `I've thought about that,' said David. `A decent-sized truck battery and a camping fluorescent light will do the trick. I've got a couple. They draw hardly any current. Selby's have converted my small jenny to run on methane, so providing a recharged battery once or twice a week won't be a problem.'

  `We can't risk too many visits,' Malone warned.

  `I'm often out at night with torches chasing sheep,' David pointed out.

  `Even so, we're going to have to stock this place with plenty of food and water to last them at least two weeks -- longer if possible. Roscoe will have us watched -- you can be certain of that.'

  `Okay -- a pair of fully-charged truck batteries should last them a couple of weeks. That's a long time, Mike. They'll need toilet facilities.'

  `Can you get hold of a chemical loo and some chemicals?'

  `I've got an Elsan.'

  Malone moved to the far recess of the cave. `We could rig it up it here with a screen.'

  David crouched and examined the floor. `It seems dry. A bit of carpet wouldn't come amiss. A few sticks of furniture... A charcoal stove... Wash basin... We could make this quite comfortable for two women.'

  `For three women,' Malone corrected.

  `Three! Who's the third one?'

  `Our informant. I've provided her with a guarantee of safety. We have to do it, Dave. She's taken a bigger risk than all of us -- the rescue wouldn't be possible without her. She's pregnant and she's terrified that she'll lose her baby if she's beaten up. She's already lost one.'

  David knew better than to ask who she was. `Fair enough,' he agreed, and started writing a list of their requirements with Malone adding suggestions. `I could use the big wagon tomorrow night,' the farmer decided. `Do the whole thing in one fell swoop and take back a few sheep in case I'm seen.' He looked around the cave and managed a joke despite the grimness of the situation. `One thing that might appeal to Ellen. There can't be many people who can boast of having 40,000-year-old paintings on their living-room walls.'

  They doused the torch, left the cave and emerged into the moonlight. The entrance was now overgrown with gorse bushes; David had planted cuttings from some nearby shrubs several months before and they had taken well. He positioned the hurdle in the opening, and the two men levered the heavy clod of turf back into position and tamped it down.

  `The beds and furniture will all have to be dismantled first,' David commented.

  Malone thought of the times he had jogged past this spot without noticing anything amiss.

  The two men set off for Temple Farm, not speaking. As they tramped downhill, Malone glanced back at the great sandstone scarp of the Temple of the Winds -- brooding and silent in the ethereal moonlight. He was not superstitious but it seemed that the scowling gargoyle face was angry at the pleasures the two conspirators were seeking to deny it.

  Chapter 54.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS FRIDAY -- the day before the executions were due to take place and the last full day for plans to be finalised. The lack of communications made matters difficult as did the need to make it appear that everyone was going about their normal work. Seemingly casual meetings by passing wagons and what looked like idle chat between drivers were serious discussions with ideas and instructions being passed to and fro.

  Malone sauntered into the police station even though he had taken a couple of days leave, exchanged gossip, and purloined an extra PMR radio with a charged battery on his way out.

  At Temple Farm Charlie Crittenden tested his two bomb racks, fashioned from soldered lengths of garden furniture aluminium tubing. It was a pig to solder but the racks had to made of aluminium. A few modifications to make sure the controls worked perfectly took up most of morning until he was satisfied. Like everything Charlie made, the end results looked efficient and business-like. He sorted out the tools he knew he would needing to install the racks and waited for Carl's return with the wagon.

  Bob Harding had spent the night filling the 23 gas bomb flasks in his workshop. He had rigged up a charging system of tubes so that the cocktail of ingredients could be gravity-fed into the flasks without risk of the particles escaping. To be on the safe side he had worn a mask and goggles. Each flask was filled three-quarters full to allow room for compressed-air -- their necks sealed after filling with a tyre valve set in cement. He used a hand pump to charge each flask to a pressure of five atmospheres, having first tested them individually inside a stout box to be sure that there were no flaws or weaknesses in the glass. He carefully tied each finished bomb into a bundle of straw. He had just completed the last one when Charlie Crittenden's Carl called, ostensively to collect a repaired radio. He backed his cart into the narrow alley beside Harding's shop and quickly loaded the fragile bundles. He paid for the radio, and left, taking particular care to avoid ruts and potholes.

  Dan Baldock was rehearsing his procession group when they had to hide. A lookout had spotted Anne Taylor approaching his pig farm. She tearfully begged and pleaded with him for the Country Brigade to do something about the execution of Vikki that was scheduled for the next day.

  `There's nothing we can do, Anne,' Dan Baldock said quietly, avoiding her red-rimmed eyes. `There's certain to be every blackshirt in the square -- they'll all be on duty -- armed to the teeth. We've got nothing. It would be a slaughter with no certainty that we'd be able to save Vikki and Ellen. Is that what you want?'

  `Have you seen those terrible things they put up in the square? Have you?'

  `I've seen them,' said the pig farmer heavily. `I'm sorry, Anne. Really I am, but there's nothing we can do.'

  His heart ached for the anguished mother as she turned away. He offered to run her home in a gig. Her tears gave way to a vehement outburst in which she called him a weakling and a coward, and told him to go to hell.

  With the coming of nightfall, David Weir harnessed Titan and set off from Temple Farm driving a large wagon that he used to recover wounded or lost sheep. It had broad wheels which made it ideal for cross-country work. Underneath a heavy tarpaulin were all the items he had listed for the cave the previous night plus equipment that would be hidden at the scourging site.

  He was 200 metres from the farm when Titan snorted his indignation as a dark-clad figure darted out of the shadows and climbed aboard the moving wagon.

  `Titan doesn't like you, Mike,' David commented.

  `I've never got on with horses.'

  `You better make it up to him when we get there or he'll take a lump out of you.'

  As they neared the cave, Titan laid his ears back and snorted angrily.

  `It's Ellen's maidenhair tree,' David explained. `A ginkgo.It's flourishing in this climate. Its smell is reaching further as it gets bigger.'

  `I've encountered it,' Malone replied.

  They reached the cave. Their sweat as they unloaded the wagon attracted swarms of mosquitoes that made the work a misery but they got all the stuf
f into the cave. It needed two of them to manoeuvre the truck battery into position. David said that he had checked its cells with a hydrometer, and that such a large unit would last two weeks of continuous use. Two fluorescent camping lights eased their task of clearing debris from the cave floor. They unrolled a carpet and assembled the furniture. The mattresses had to be rolled up to get them through the cave's entrance. An Elsan chemical toilet screened by a shower curtain was rigged-up. David had even managed to scrounge a caravan sink and water pump for the "kitchen". Together they prised up some large stones that had been laid 40,000 years previously and dug a small soakaway for waste water. Two charcoal burners and several bags of ground charcoal would serve the occupants' hot water and cooking needs for at least two weeks. There were over 150 litres of drinking water in plastic containers lined along the far wall. Cutlery, crockery, cooking utensils, toiletry items including sanatory towels, linen -- a home was found for everything. Finishing touches were cushions, towels, books, old magazines, games, and what clothes Ellen had left at Temple Farm, and clothes donated for Vikki and Malone's informant.

  The two men conducted tests with a radio and determined that it worked in the cave and could not be heard outside. They provided headphones because they were less drain than the loudspeaker on the batteries.

  After four hours they decided that they had done everything they could to make the cave comfortable. David had even thought of plastic flowers. He knew Ellen's views on the subject but they did brighten up the place. They tested the cooking facilities by brewing some tea and flopped on the beds to contemplate their work.

  Malone realized he was dozing off and shook himself awake. `This won't do -- we've got all that kit to hide at the site.'

  David stood, looked at his watch and swore softly.

  `What's the matter?' asked Malone.

  `It's gone midnight. It's now Saturday. D-Day.'

  Chapter 55.

  THERE WAS NONE OF THE usual Saturday morning cheery bustle in Market Square. When setting up their stalls the traders had shunned the area near the two grim stakes, standing tall, upright and forbidding outside the Mothercare shop. A blackshirt tried to revive their spirits with, `The Wall will be gone when the witches are gone', but few listened, less still believed him. The stakes were their fears and prejudices about witchcraft turned into a bleak, disturbing reality that was impossible to accept.

  Shoppers made their purchases and hurried home. Housewives laden with bread from the bakery at Pentworth House passed through the square without pausing to gossip. The usually crowded tables outside the Crown were virtually deserted.

  Shortly after midday a hay wain piled high with bundles of brushwood arrived. The sentinels on the wagon formed a human chain to unload the cargo. They didn't merely pile the bundles but up but arranged them in tight-packed layers around the first stake so that the cone of brushwood was firm enough to walk on. The empty wagon was driven off and reappeared two hours later with another load of faggots for the second stake.

  The shadows were lengthening when Judge Hooper marched into the square and stood staring up at the stakes with undisguised anger. The blackshirts standing either side of the entrance to Government House saluted him as he strode past them.

  `I want to see Prescott now,' he demanded of the blackshirt behind the reception desk.

  `The chairman isn't in, judge,' said the blackshirt. `You can always tell if he's in or out by the flag--'

  `When will he be in?'

  The blackshirt had strict instructions not to disclose Prescott's movements to anyone. `I don't know, judge.'

  `Well when he does come in, tell him that that method of execution is illegal. This is England. If witches must suffer capital punishment, it should be by hanging. The barbarities of Scottish law do not apply here. You will tell him that, please.'

  The judge turned and marched out.

  Prescott saw him leave from his office window. He guessed the reason for the visit without the front desk's call to pass the message.

  Damn Roscoe! Damn Diana Sheldon! If the burning went ahead she would be certain to reduce her level of cooperation to zero. She was already proving an obstructive nuisance -- not by openly defying him, but by her slowness in clearing the backlog of work which she blamed on pressure of work. Urgent matters were piling up. They had had two acrimonious rows that afternoon.

  He called the lobby and asked for his Range Rover to be made ready. Damnit -- he was getting forgetful -- he'd left the intercom in conference mode again.

  Vanessa was alone in the outer office, covering her typewriter and just about to leave when Prescott entered. She had judged that the right moment had arrived, and decided to strike.

  `Good evening, Mr Chairman.'

  Prescott muttered a preoccupied response.

  `You look all in, Mr Chairman.'

  `It's been a particularly trying day,' said Prescott, glad of even this straw of sympathy from an underling. Vanessa had rehearsed what she said next. `Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, Mr Chairman. But I think that much of the problem is that you don't have a personal assistant.'

  `Miss Sheldon is very capable,' Prescott replied brusquely, thinking that this usually quiet and always smartly-dressed woman was speaking out of turn.

  `She's the Town Clerk,' said Vanessa, standing and gathering up her handbag. `Her first responsibility is to the council as a whole and not to you.'

  Prescott sank into a typist's chair and glowered at Vanessa. `So your vast experience of business matters tells you that I need a personal assistant, Miss... Grossman, isn't it?' His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  `I have some experience of business, Mr Chairman. Enough to tell me that a busy chairman with many responsibilities, such as you have, usually has a gopher to look after them and deflect many non-urgent problems. A good town clerk, such as Miss Sheldon, is, by the very nature of her job, a source of problems, not solutions.'

  Prescott had been about to interrupt her, but the logic of this woman's statement gave him pause for thought. Vanessa's instinct told her that she had scored a good point and that now was the time to leave. She moved to the door. `Goodnight, Mr Chairman. Oh -- if you want to check my qualifications for speaking out turn, you could always look at my file in the personnel cabinet. It's not locked.'

  With that she was gone, leaving Prescott alone. He surveyed the desks in the outer office. Most of them had trays overflowing with work, but Miss Grossman's desk was neat and clear -- just a few typed letters in the out tray awaiting his signature. Now that he came to think about it, he realized that she always left a clear desk.

  He took the day file out of a filing cabinet and went through the most recent flimsies. Nearly all the work that had been processed during the past week bore the initials /VG/ in the document references.

  He recalled that she had spent two or three days in his office learning how to use Cathy Price's computer from the manuals, and had succeeded where others had failed. She had refused to give up until she had mastered the machine and all its peripherals. A tenacious, hard-working lady indeed.

  Intrigued by her closing comment, he found her personnel file. Vanessa Grossman. Married name Harriman. 32. Two children. Chairman and principal shareholder of Grossman Properties; Grossman Commercial Holdings; Grossman Estate Management.

  My God! That Vanessa Grossman!

  There had been a furore in the local press over her ruthless business tactics three years previously when she had persuaded her family to let her take over the management of the family's ailing property group. Even the Financial Mail had run an article.

  After a few weeks in the saddle, Vanessa Grossman had approached several members of the family on an individual basis to say that the group would inevitably fail, crippled as it was by bank debts. They believed her. The books backed her up. She bought their holdings at knockdown prices. Once she had 61%, she closed a deal with the banks to convert a percentage of the debts for non-voting stock, and worked her pants off
to turn all the group's companies around, which she achieved with spectacular success coupled with some suspicion of bribery behind her securing of planning permission for 500 houses on an old Ministry of Defence site, and a fortuitous fire that had destroyed a disused factory. The insurance investigators had found no sign of arson and their company had paid out. Some friends of Prescott's on the district council had been caught up in the scandal.

  He came to her job application form. In the reasons for seeking employment in Government House, she had written in large block capitals:

  BECAUSE I'M BORED OUT OF MY F*****G SKULL!

  He could well believe it. To think that she had been working in this office for several weeks and he had hardly noticed her. And he had been almost rude to her just now when she offered some sound advice.

  Four floors below, Judge Hooper paused in the bright evening sunlight and decided that he needed a drink. The only other occupant at the tables outside the Crown was a gawky blonde teenager crying into a glass of blackcurrant juice. He could hardly not be moved by the girl's anguished tears while he was waiting for a waiter to appear.

  `What's the problem, young lady?'

  Sarah looked up, her eyes bloodshot from crying. `They won't let me see her. Those bastards have said no every day. Even today.'

  `Won't let you see whom?'

  `Vikki... Vikki Taylor. She's my best friend and I'm not allowed to see her. Not even her mum's been allowed in.'

  The judge could think of nothing to say.

  `If only I could do something for her,' said Sarah through her tears. `Anything...'

  `There's nothing,' said Judge Hooper. He moved from his table and sat opposite Sarah. `But perhaps there's one thing... One very small thing... It might sound silly, but who knows?'

  Sarah looked hopefully at him. `What?'

  `What's your name?'

  Sarah told him.

  The judge gestured to St Mary's. `You could pray, Sarah. You could pray for Vikki and Ellen.'

  He half-expected the girl to dismiss the idea out of hand, but instead she stared at him while wiping her eyes.