Wicca

by James Follett

  `Vikki always went to church... She used to moan about it, but she always went.'

  `Well then...'

  Sarah stood. `Yes... That's what I'll do. There's nothing else now, is there?'

  `No,' said the judge sadly. `Nothing else.' He hesitated. `If you're going now, Sarah, and if you don't mind, I'd like to come with you.'

  Sarah nodded. `I'd like that.'

  Together, the unlikely pair made their way to the church.

  Chapter 56.

  IT WAS OVER A WEEK since Ellen and Vikki had been arrested. In that time they had got to know one another; to understand each others moods, to know when to speak and when to remain silent.

  It was 6:30pm, dusk was closing in and now was a good time to be silent. Each sitting in their respective armchair in the little living room of the apartment in Pentworth House that was their prison. They tried not to look at the window and the message of the failing light.

  The door opened abruptly -- there was no lock because there were always at least three girl sentinels on guard outside. The chief female sentinel entered the room. Her name was Helga. A woman Vikki remembered from the party at Pentworth House.

  `You will remove all your clothes and put these on,' said Helga, holding out two black, sleeveless gowns. `You can keep your shoes on. Leave your clothes here. You won't be needing them again -- they will have to be burned separately.'

  The two women complied. Helga's eyes feasted greedily on Vikki's nakedness just as they had done so on the night of the party when she had helped pin Vikki down for Faraday's attempted rape.

  Helga turned to the three female sentinels waiting outside. `Okay. Let's go.'

  There were no fastenings on the garments; the two women held them closed as best they could while being shepherded along the corridor. They were ushered into the ballroom with its huge picture of Johann Bode. At the head of two long benches filled with sentinels Adrian Roscoe was standing on a low dias. He was wearing a gown of the purest white linen, arms folded, his blue eyes burning unbridled hatred down at the two women as they were thrust before him. Ellen stared him straight in the eye, not allowing her gaze to shift to the grim sight that she had noticed on first entering the hall. It was a butchers' block standing on four sturdy legs to one side of Roscoe. Imbedded in the block's sycamore end grain was a meat cleaver -- its blade gleaming and looking razor-sharp.

  Vikki kept her gaze at the floor. She had lived with terror for a week now; by concentrating hard on the pattern of the parquet floor, she could stand still without trembling, showing no outward sign of the demons of despair and fear that were tormenting her while she waited to wake up and find herself in her lovely little bedroom that her beloved daddy had prepared for her, with its electric curtains, her arms around Benji -- her cuddly bear, and the life-size poster of Dario at the foot of her bed. Dario would rescue her. Dario would leap out, despatching her enemies with his assegai. Dario could do anything except, perhaps, save her sanity that was teetering on the edge of the abyss after a week of mental torture.

  `I was going to sentence you in the Solar Temple of the Bodian Brethren,' Roscoe announced, his rich voice rolling around the hall. `But to do so would be to profane it with your vile presence.'

  `I haven't brought you any presents,' said Ellen spiritedly. `It's too early for Christmas and I've no idea when your birthday is.'

  Roscoe looked taken back at first until the joke sunk in. His smile was slow but genuine; Ellen's defiant attitude added to the piquancy of what would happen next. He gestured to Vikki. `You gave this one a vile present, did you not?' `What the hell are you talking about, Roscoe?'

  `Yes -- I'm talking about hell...' And then his face was contorted with fury. `The place from whence you summoned creatures to give your acolyte a new left hand!' He seized Vikki's left forearm and held it up. `This abomination! Confess that you arranged this!'

  `Roscoe,' said Ellen tiredly. `Your insanity has drilled too deep for you to listen to any rational explanation from me.'

  The cult leader nodded to one of the benches. Four male sentinels seized Vikki. They unfastened her watch and strapped her left wrist down on the chopping block. She gave a little gasp of fear, the first sound she had uttered, and stared at Roscoe -- her green eyes listless, unseeing. The sentinels stood back. One looked on with interest, one closed his eyes, the other two looked sick, particularly when Roscoe jerked the cleaver from the block and swung it aloft.

  `You either confess or you leave here with this hand hanging around your neck.' He smiled and added, `You'll have to wear it for the rest of your life.'

  Vikki saw the older woman's indecision and cried out, `No, Ellen! You mustn't! You mustn't!'

  `Very well,' Ellen snapped. `I confess to being a witch! Is that what you want?'

  Roscoe lowered the cleaver. `Drop your gown,' he ordered.

  It needed only a shrug for the loose garment to fall around Ellen's ankles. She held Roscoe gaze so that she would see the slightest flicker of interest in her body. It annoyed him: he wanted to study her closely. He gestured to sentinel holding a camcorder's viewfinder to draw nearer.

  `Lie on the floor on your stomach, arms and legs outstretched in the shape of an X, palms down, your head near my feet.'

  Ellen did so.

  The cameraman circled her on his knees.

  `Repeat after me. I confess to profaning Almighty God by consorting with Satan...'

  `I confess to profaning Almighty God by consorting with Satan...'

  Roscoe stepped down from the dais and walked around Ellen. He could now look at her without being disconcerted by her gaze. This was the moment he had dreamed about -- having this magnificent creature supine at his feet. But the intense surge of exhilaration he had been expecting never materialized.

  `And summonsing his demons...'

  `And summonsing his demons...'

  It continued in that vein for several minutes; Roscoe reciting a litany of accusations of archaic religious crimes which Ellen repeated in a flat monotone.

  Chanting started outside. `We want the witches! We want the witches!'

  Roscoe controlled his rage and frustration. Even lying naked before him, her face to the floor, he felt that the woman was gaining in stature and dignity at his expense. She was looking down on him; sneering at him. `Stand up,' he said curtly. `Put your gown on.' He turned away to avoid her gaze as she climbed to her feet. But instead of donning the gown, she stood quite still, legs slightly apart, one hand over her mons pubis, but not to cover herself. Her fingers were moving slowly and sensually, mocking him, an enigmatic half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth -- willing him to look down.

  `I said, put your gown on, you filthy harlot!' Still with that infuriating half-smile, Ellen drew the gown up and slipped her arms through the openings. She managed to make even that simple movement seem tormentingly sensual. Roscoe motioned to the sentinels to release Vikki's straps. They looked relieved to do so.

  Roscoe stared at his two victims in turn. It was his turn to smile. Control was back with him. `My turn with the jokes, ladies. Your carriage awaits you.'

  Chapter 57.

  IF VANESSA GROSSMAN WAS surprised at Prescott's visit to her tastefully restored mansion on the southern outskirts of Pentworth, she didn't show it whereas her husband was astonished.

  Vanessa's gaze went from the armoured Range Rover in her drive to Prescott, flanked by his usual retinue of two armed blackshirts. One them had forsaken a shotgun for the Sterling submachine-gun.

  `A business matter, Miss Grossman,' said Prescott awkwardly. `It's so difficult discussing such things at the office.'

  `Those hoods stay outside,' said Bernie Harriman firmly, looking over his wife's shoulder. `They'll terrify the children.'

  Prescott gestured to his men to return to the Range Rover. Vanessa ordered her husband to put their two children to bed and showed Prescott into a huge kitchen lit by a methane lamp. In the office she always looked neat in smart, business-like clothe
s, and now she even managed to look poised in gardening jeans. The kitchen was not merely tidy, but well organized -- most of one wall taken up with home-dried spices, their jars bearing indian ink labels. She made small-talk while making tea. Everything she would need to serve the tea she placed on the kitchen table in advance.

  She sat opposite Prescott when she had finished. Poised. Confident. Very different from her demeanour in the office.

  `This is excellent tea, Miss Grossman.'

  Vanessa regarded him thoughtfully, her black eyes giving nothing away. She had expected a move from Prescott following their little tˆte- -tˆte at the office, but not quite so soon. `You've praised it at the office often enough but I suspect that that is not the reason for your visit.'

  `I want to apologise. You gave me some sound advice at the office. I fear I may have been a little rude in my reply. I had no idea who you were. Vanessa Grossman of the Grossman group. You should've said.'

  `Okay. Apology accepted with thanks.'

  `I would also appreciate some advice.'

  If there was a gleam of triumph in Vanessa's eye, Prescott didn't see it. `You might not appreciate my tendency to be outspoken, Mr Prescott.'

  `I'm sure I would. I'm worried about the general organization of the admin in Government House--'

  `It's taken you long enough,' Vanessa interrupted. `It's a shambles now that all the empire-builders have got their feet under their respective tables. The Town Clerk should've been much tougher with them.'

  Prescott nodded. `For sometime now, I've felt that matters have been getting on top of Diana Sheldon.'

  Vanessa decided that now was the right moment to apply a little pressure to get the talk moving but keep control with her. `That's right, Mr Prescott -- you've been shagging her.'

  Prescott was taken back. `Well -- I hardly think--'

  `Why don't you get to the point? Diana Sheldon has rebelled. She won't do your dirty work and you think I will. Do I get ten out ten and a free day ticket to Legoland?'

  The woman's fathomless black eyes unsettled Prescott but he pressed on. `You have considerable management experience. Do you think she should take early retirement?' Vanessa raised an eyebrow. `And lose a capable person provided she's not too overloaded or in a senior management position where her conscience doesn't trouble her? That's not efficient use of human resources, Mr Prescott. Diana Sheldon is excellent middle-management material. If I were in your position, she would be my choice to run the supplies department. It's an important job and she'd be a damn sight better than the clown that's running it at the moment.'

  `She would never accept being demoted.'

  `Demoted? Who said anything about demotion? Supposing the government wants to turn the supplies department into an independent agency? The Pentworth Supplies Agency. She could be appointed its director/chairman for eventually floatation. There's no reason why not. It buys in, it sells or rents out. It could flourish on a five per cent margin if the deadwood is kicked out. With a fat share option and a salary linked to turnover, Diana Sheldon would be a fool not to accept it. Particularly as she's unhappy in her present job.'

  `It's an idea,' Prescott admitted.

  `I come up with solutions, Mr Prescott -- not more problems.'

  `Which is why I'm offering you her job,' said Prescott bluntly.

  Vanessa laughed, scenting victory. But, as always, victory had to be on her terms. `Town clerk? Forget it.'

  `But--'

  `Call the position Director of the Civil Service, pay me treble what Diana Sheldon was paid, and I'm your man.'

  The stunning gall of the woman was amazing. `Well -- I hardly think--'

  `I'll save you a hundredfold my salary. I'd scrap the ludicrous departmental budget system for starters. Give a department a budget and they'll spend it. The compartmentalised budgetary system bedevils all organizations because the prestige of department heads is based on what they spend, not on what they save or what they're worth. Also you'll have someone to do all your dirty work. I've no equal when it comes to stabbing people in the back, and churning out everything in the garden's lovely press releases. I'm a source of solutions, Mr Prescott.'

  Prescott left Vanessa Grossman's house ten minutes later. He settled into the cushions of the Range Rover, sandwiched between his bodyguards, feeling very pleased with himself. He now had his very own tame Lucrezia Borgia.

  Meanwhile Lucrezia was listening to the news on the kitchen radio. The crazy farce with the so-called witches was going ahead. She had no feelings concerning the fate awaiting the two women. Vanessa saw matters in terms of smart political moves or bad political moves. There were strong feelings against Prescott in her own social circle. The honeymoon period between the government and the people of Pentworth was nearly at an end therefore it might be possible to exploit Prescott's weaknesses to her advantage. Her heartbeat quickened. The much-needed adrenalin rush that she hadn't felt for a long time stimulated other needs. She mounted the stairs, intent on sneaking up on her husband as he bathed the children.

  Looking after their two children was a job Bernie Harriman was used to. The success of their marriage centred around their deal was that Vanessa should work because she made serious money while he kept house. Vanessa loathed housewifely and motherly activities. She had thrown herself into them since the Wall because she looked upon running a household as a job that had to be done and should therefore be done efficiently. Her humdrum clerical job in Government House had tapped very little of her dynamism and none of her driving ambition that stemmed from a family background that set little store by the abilities of a mere girl. As a result she had to watch in silent rage as her two incompetent older brothers set about driving the family business to the brink of ruin.

  She put her arms around Bernie Harriman and sank her teeth sensually into his shoulder. It was a signal that she hadn't used for many months since her enforced separation from her office.

  `Hallo,' he said, turning around, grinning in anticipation. `What's got your juices flowing?'

  She kissed him hungrily, ignoring the children. `Congratulate me.'

  `For what? Some sordid deal you've done with Prescott?'

  `First step in a sordid takeover battle. I'm in need of lot of congratulating tonight so get them packed off to bed ASAP. You're looking at Pentworth's next big white chief.'

  Chapter 58.

  THE FORECOURT OF PENTWORTH House was bathed by a floodlight. The waiting dogcart was guarded by a circle of six blackshirts armed with shotguns, and two more on horseback keeping back a group of about fifty men and youths -- the yob, bomber jacket and Shell suit element of Pentworth society. Nelson Faraday, looking like a black bat, was standing on the dogcart talking to the driver sentinel. Seeing Sarah Gale hanging back near the open main gates reminded him that he had a score to settle with that little cock-teasing bitch, but it would have to wait another day.

  Sarah was dressed and made-up to look at least 18. She had decided to accompany the procession, keeping in the background but determined to see out every horror so that she could bear witness against those who had abused and murdered her beloved Vikki. Either that or she would systematically kill them -- she knew not how but she was bitterly resolved that she would do it.

  The youths stopped their chanting and broke into cheers when the main door swung open. Roscoe appeared with Ellen and Vikki following, clutching their gowns closed. Their escort of sentinels was unnecessary; the two women walked erect to the dogcart. A wooden case containing shotgun cartridges had been placed in position as a step at the tailgate. The two women climbed aboard the dogcart. Vikki hesitated when she saw Faraday but accepted coaxing forward from Ellen. They stood side by side at the crossbar, staring straight ahead as Faraday manacled them by the wrists. This time they had to endure leg irons shackled to the floor planks by short lengths of chain. Their gowns fell open, provoking a chorus of whistles and catcalls.

  `Hey, Nelson! Looks like we're gonna see a nice burning bush tonight!'
>
  `Two burning bushes!'

  The yells of laughter were silenced by a glare from Roscoe who had also mounted the dogcart. He had hoped for a larger crowd; but it was a three-kilometre walk to the scourging site; doubtless there would be many more in Market Square for the burning. The route had been announced on the radio two hours earlier. He raised his bony arms in a gesture of supplication.

  `God-fearing people of Pentworth!' he boomed. `You are not here merely here to witness the destruction of these loathsome enemies of God! Before that you are to take part in their scourging -- in the driving out of the demons that have possessed them so that their black souls have a chance of redemption at the moment of their deaths! The male life essence of righteous ones is poison to demons! It sears them with fires more powerful and more enduring than those of their master! We will take these women to the place of their scourging where all men true to God will help drive out the forces of evil and eternal damnation that have seized the bodies of these witches, and send them back whence they belong! Having saved the souls of these miserable wretches, we will then bring them back to burn their Satan-defiled bodies just we burn diseased wood cut from a tree in order to save the tree! It will not be a pleasant task but God never made his path easy to follow. But God will be with you, pouring His strength into your bodies for what must be done this night. And when it is done, He will remove the Wall, for Pentworth will be purified! Let us march!'

  A ragged cheer accompanied Roscoe as he climbed down from the dogcart. Faraday lit and handed out torches to eager hands. The box of cartridges and spare torches were placed in the dogcart and the tailgate closed. The two mounted blackshirts went ahead and the procession moved off with Roscoe walking at its head. Ellen and Vikki had to grab the crossbar as the dogcart lurched and bumped over the cobbles.

  The phalanx filed through the gates and detoured through Market Square so that Ellen and Vikki saw the two massive stakes and their surrounding cones of brushwood. The two mounted blackshirts stayed in the lead, followed by Roscoe, and then the dogcart flanked by the sentinels and the blackshirts. Bringing up the rear was the noisy band of youths and young men. There was a group of six among them led by a gangling youth that tried to get to the front of the procession for a better view of Ellen and Vikki but were shooed back by the blackshirts.