The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

  Opening up the sack, I start tossing in logs from the pile against the back wall. When it’s pretty full, I try and lift it. Too heavy. I start to drag it. Too heavy. With an irritated sigh, I begin to take out some of the logs and drop them in the straw. Then, just as I notice Mr. Wragge’s empty wheelbarrow out of the corner of my eye and think to try it, someone says, “Want a hand?”

  Startled, I turn, and there is Roger in the doorway with the County Records under his arm.

  “Oh.” I am surprised at how pleased I feel to see him, though his expression is unusually subdued. “How did you know I was in here?”

  “I was coming along the Chase and saw you,” he answers with the bare flicker of a smile and, saying no more, walks across the straw to help me bundle the logs into the barrow. When it’s full, we cover the wood with the sack, chuck the book on top, and, in an uncommon silence, push it out of the barn and across to the bridge.

  “Are you all right?” I ask at last.

  He runs his eyes over the crackled grey crust of the frozen creek. “I’ve had a bit of a barney with Mum,” he says, “and I think there’s going to be big trouble when I get home.”

  “What was it about?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Oh, just … um … the usual stuff — you know, schoolwork and things — getting good O levels so I can go to university.”

  “You will, won’t you — get good O levels?”

  “Hope so.”

  He rubs his nose with his gloved hand and still won’t look at me. Roger was never a good fibber, but I won’t press him if he doesn’t want to tell me what the row was about, or can’t. I look at the book in the wheelbarrow, worry a bit to see that it’s dusted with flour.

  “I thought perhaps it was those letters I made you read, or — or because I put the phone down on you. It’s just, I thought someone was listening,” I say, recalling the creak, the unnatural stillness, as if somebody was waiting, holding their breath, out of sight just beyond the turn of the staircase.

  “Everyone listens in our house.” He smiles. “It’s a flipping nuisance. Sorry — I know it’s not the same thing.”

  We cross the bridge, Roger still quiet. I try and fill the awkwardness.

  “It’s just Mimi and me and Ange at home. Dad’s coming back as quick as he can. I spoke to him on the telephone yesterday. I’ve been listening out for the car ever since. And I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  We push the barrow round the corner of the house, stop outside the back door, and unload the logs into the stone passage.

  “How can you bear it so icy?” he asks, blowing on his fingers through his gloves. “I’ll swear it’s colder in the house than it is outside.”

  We take bundles of wood in our arms down the passage, our breath streaming white in front of us, and into the sitting room, where the corners are beginning to darken into shadow.

  “Do you mind if I just check on Mimi?” I ask.

  “I’ll start the fire, if you like.”

  I hurry up the stairs and push open our bedroom door.

  Mimi is alone, sitting on the bed with Aggie, her breath a cloud.

  “You all right, sis? Is Ange up?”

  She doesn’t raise her head. “Still in bed,” she mutters sourly.

  “Roger and me have brought some wood. We’ll get the fire properly roaring in a minute. Do you want a cup of tea — warm you up?”

  She says nothing, goes back to the doll.

  I tiptoe along the landing to Ange’s room. There is no light under the door. I lean in and put my ear to it, hear the faint, regular whistle from her nose.

  Downstairs I put the kettle on, fetch the old shoe I’ve been hiding behind the dining-room curtains, and take it in on the tray with the tea to Roger, who is kneeling in front of the sitting-room fire, blowing softly on the kindling, coaxing it into flame.

  “Sorry it’s only tinned milk,” I say, putting the cups down beside us, “and not much sugar. I daren’t use any more in case we run out altogether.” Then I show him the piece of leather, unbend it, point out the scratched letters.

  “Look — like I said: Aphra Rushes backwards.”

  “So it is.”

  I pull off my gloves and put my hand inside the upper. “And do you see, it’s a shoe; flat like a slipper.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s obvious when you look,” he says, taking it.

  I blow on my tea, watch Roger over the rim of the cup as he turns it about and runs a finger around the ring of nail heads. “How odd.”

  “I pestered Mr. Wragge to death,” I say. “In the end he told me people used to put shoes up chimneys to keep witches away.”

  “Really?”

  “And he told me something else an’ all. You know those bits of old pots in the barn I showed you — with nails and hair in? Well, I got him to say what they were.”

  He looks up. “And?”

  “Witch bottles.”

  “What?”

  “Witch bottles. Honestly. The fingernails and hair and blood draw the witch in and trap her if she comes down the chimney, and the iron nails and sharp pieces of glass kill her. It works — ’specially if the bottle is thrown on the fire and explodes when she’s trapped in it. Have your tea, Roger. Don’t let it get cold.”

  The flames begin to curve over the new logs, coiling in twists of blue-green and yellow, while the wood spits out little specks of fiery bark.

  “So in those letters in the book,” Roger says, “when Katherine Myldmaye talks about the cunning men coming to protect the house, they’re the ones who could have put the witch bottles in.”

  “Most probably, and buried them under the fireplaces and doorways. But they’ve been taken out.”

  The room darkens behind us. Roger pulls off his hat and scratches his head. “So, those little white stones and the bundle of twigs on the door …?”

  “Well, it turns out Mr. Wragge lives at the Saint Lazarus Hospital,” I say. “I asked him if he’d told anybody there about Mimi and me coming back here, and that all the charms had gone, and he said he had.” I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket. “He told Mrs. Lailah Ketch and Miss Iris Jewel, the two women we saw — these names here. They’re the wardens — look after the old men at the Saint Lazarus. I bet they put the stones up, and the bundle of twigs. But why did they talk to Mimi and not me? Why did they give her this, with their names and telephone number on? And they must have drawn this funny sign for her — a witch mark, like the other things, a charm to keep witches out of a house. What is it about Mimi?”

  I stuff the paper back in my pocket, pick up my cup again. Roger takes the poker and pushes the logs about. The fire roars up in a burst of sparks.

  “Mr. Wragge said there were cunning people still about,” I continue, sipping my tea, “and I think that’s what those women are. Maybe those drums of salt we saw spilled in the snow last week were part of some spell, but the women weren’t able to finish it. You know when Dad was shouting at Ange — it’s because she’d yelled at Mrs. Ketch and Miss Jewel to go away. I think she recognized what sort of women they were. And they probably saw who she was as well.”

  Roger looks up. “What do you mean? What’s it to do with Ange?”

  “That’s why I wanted you to read that book, because you’re the only one who would believe it might be true: that Aphra Rushes has somehow got into Ange — is able to use her because she has no body of her own.”

  I reach over for the book, balance it on my knees, and turn the pages. “Here it is. Look.”

  I run my finger along the words as I read them: “… Aphra Rushes frighted her with the threat that she could creep into Kittie’s skin, look out of her eyes and use her hands to do whatsoever the witch willed with them …”

  I slide the book off my lap and back onto the floor and reach for my tea.

  “But why would she want to come back?” says Roger. “And how? She was burned.”

  “What do they say — unfinished business? When she was dying, sh
e cursed the Guerdon family forever, and Long Lankin was part of that curse. He’s gone now, but Mimi and me are still here, and we’re the end of the line.”

  “But you aren’t Guerdons.”

  “But we are, Roger, we are. We’re the last people to have Guerdon blood in us, Mimi and me, except for —”

  The words have slipped out. I can’t reclaim them.

  “Except for what?”

  I curve my cold fingers around the cup, struggle to say what I have never spoken aloud to anyone before.

  “Except for … my mother.”

  A piece of damp bark hisses in the fire. An age goes by.

  “What happened to her?” Roger says quietly. “I never liked to ask. I thought maybe she was dead, or — or they’d divorced or something.”

  I gulp a mouthful of tea.

  “It’s all right,” he adds. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  I swallow it down. “She’s in an asylum.”

  He doesn’t move.

  My breath comes out oddly.

  I glance at him. “Shall I go on?”

  He gives a small nod, but it’s a while before I can speak.

  “At the beginning of the war,” I say at last, “Mum — she was about twelve — was sent here from London with her little sister, Annie — who was just a toddler — to stay with Auntie Ida.” The flames snap and sputter. “And … and Long Lankin stole Annie away from the house.” I stare at the rim of my cup. “You know what will have happened. She was never seen again.” Roger doesn’t say a word. I swallow quickly. “Mum blamed herself for the rest of her life because she’d left a door open when Auntie had told her not to. She’s too ill to ever come out. She can’t live in the world like other people.”

  I dare a glimpse at Roger again, at the line of his face flushed in the firelight.

  “Do — do you mind … that I’ve told you?”

  “Why should I mind?” he says, turning towards me.

  “And you won’t tell anyone else, will you?”

  Roger’s coat rustles as he draws closer. “Course not.”

  I put down my cup. “So you see,” I breathe, “if we — if Mimi and me — die before we grow up and have children of our own, then there will never be any more Guerdon blood, ever again. The curse would be done.”

  Heads almost touching, we stare into the fire.

  The night has drawn in early, but neither moonlight nor starlight can pierce the dark, oppressive clouds. I walk back up the icy hill, digging in my boots to stop myself slipping, recalling every hushed word Cora and I spoke to each other on the bridge a few minutes ago.

  “You’ve got to come and stay with us,” I urged her. “You and Mimi.”

  With the side of her boot she scraped frost off the wooden planks and pushed the white powder off the edge of the bridge onto the frozen water.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “How on earth would you explain it to your mum — and Pete, for that matter? Anyway, Dad should be back soon, maybe even tonight. I told him on the phone he’s got to give Ange the sack. Everything will be all right when Dad gets home. He’ll sort it out.”

  “Honestly, Cora, apart from all the other things, there’s hardly anything to eat in the house. I’ll bring you something; we’ve always got loads.”

  “Don’t be daft. When Dad comes back with some money, I’ll go up to Mrs. Aylott’s.”

  She glanced over her shoulder up to the first-floor windows, every one of them blank and dark.

  “What about school?” I asked.

  “I haven’t been since Tuesday, since I stole that book.” She dropped her eyes. “I keep thinking a letter’s going to come, or the police, even. The head’s bound to know it was me.”

  “Please, please be careful, Cora,” I said, and then she did look up and hold my gaze for a moment. “Let me know what happens with your dad, and telephone, won’t you. Even if it rings off, I’ll know it was you, that you couldn’t talk, and I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

  She looked back at the house, and at that moment one of the upstairs windows lit up a pale, murky yellow.

  “She’s woken up,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll come back in with you.”

  “Don’t be soppy. I’ll be all right. Honestly.” She flapped me away. “Cheerio.”

  “Cheerio,” I said reluctantly, and watched Cora as she hurried off into the darkness, becoming more formless with every step until, ghost-like, she vanished into the shadows around the house.

  By the time I cross over the main road, it’s so bitterly cold the tension makes my shoulders ache. When I get home, there is no row at all. Mum is in the kitchen making sandwiches. I don’t say anything, just pull off my damp hat and gloves and throw them on the table.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mum says, pushing them off the cheese, “how many times have I told you to hang your stuff on the airer?”

  As I pick them up, Mum takes me by surprise, reaching over and ruffling my hair.

  “You all right?” she asks with a half-smile before turning to put on the kettle.

  She hasn’t told Dad a thing.

  When I get back in, I find Mimi alone, curled up in a blanket in front of the fire, watching a cowboy film on the television.

  “Is — is Ange about?” I ask, a little breathlessly, reaching for a log.

  “She ain’t come down.”

  “Do you want to sleep down here tonight, like we did before?”

  “Don’t think so. It’s all right when the fire’s going, but when it goes out, it’s freezing.”

  I go into the hall and look up the stairs, then climb slowly, listening.

  I stop outside Ange’s door and knock gently.

  There’s a slight scuffling noise, then, “Yes?” she says.

  I swallow, then go in.

  Ange is sitting up in bed with the contents of her sewing box spread out around her. I can’t see what she’s working on, but think she must be busy doing something for Dad because there are some little snippets of shirt fabric in the folds of the bedspread.

  “It’s like the Arctic in here,” I say. “Shall I put the paraffin heater on for you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

  When Mimi and I go up the stairs to bed, clutching hot-water bottles, I glance along the landing.

  Ange’s light is still on.

  I switch ours off, and for a long time Mimi and I lie there under our blankets in the dark. I can still feel the thread of tension between us.

  “Mimi … you awake?” I whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still cross with me?”

  “A bit.”

  I wait a little while before saying, “I know you don’t like talking much — you know, about things … but can I just ask you why you said to put that leather thing back up the chimney?”

  A few seconds go by. I hear the rustle of her sheets.

  “And those little stones hanging over the door on Bonfire Night — why didn’t you want Auntie Kath to take them down?”

  For ages I think she isn’t going to say anything, as usual; then her small voice comes out of the darkness.

  “I — I’m a sensitive.”

  “A what?”

  “A sensitive. I can see things other people can’t — and maybe do things …”

  My scalp prickles.

  For some minutes I lie there, not knowing what to say — then, “Was it you who chalked that mark on the door?”

  “And the front.” I hear a tremor on her breath. “It was supposed to stop her getting in, that mark, but you washed it off.”

  “It would stop who getting in?”

  “The woman in the garden.”

  My chest tightens.

  After a while I whisper, “Do you like Ange?”

  “I did when she first came, but now …” She shudders. “She’s not right, Cora.”

  A mouse scratches behind the wall.

  “And it’s a shoe,” Mimi sa
ys.

  “What?”

  “That leather thing.”

  “I know it’s a shoe, but how did you know?”

  “I asked Mrs. Ketch and Miss Jewel. They said it was an old way of stopping a witch coming down the chimney. She’d go away because her name was spelled wrong, even if she couldn’t read. It would muddle her. Your name’s a magic thing.”

  Some time goes by before I hear Mimi sleeping. I look into the gloomy corners of our bedroom. A red chair with chrome legs stands beside the old fireplace. I get out of bed, sucking in my breath as my bare feet touch the icy lino, lift the chair quietly, and take it to the door. The back won’t reach as far as the old latch, but I push it as far as it will go against the wood. It might not stop somebody coming in, but if they do, at least I will hear the scraping of the metal legs on the floor and wake up.

  I can’t believe Mimi has spoken at last. I wish I could say it was because keeping it all to herself became too much to bear, but actually, it was as if she were talking to herself. She would only have said those things in the darkness.

  “Repeat after me — possum, potes, potest, possumus, potestis, possunt.”

  Swish goes the cane up to the blackboard, swish goes the sleeve of Mr. Sefton’s gown. Click goes the tip of the cane on each word — click, click, click …

  The wind outside is rattling the tall sash windows.

  “Possum, potes, potest,” we recite together — click, click, click … “possumus, potestis, possunt.”

  And again, “Possum, potes, potest, possumus …”

  Are Cora and Mimi all right? My mind has been churning endlessly — witch bottles, shoes, iron nails, and Ange … I am so uneasy I can’t stop rolling my pencil between my fingers.

  Mr. Sefton rubs the Present Indicative off the board with the sleeve of his gown and chalks up the Future Simple.

  “Repeat after me — potero, poteris, poterit, poterimus, poteritis, poterunt …”

  “Potero, poteris, poterit —”

  A loud rap at the door.

  I drop the pencil, slam it with my palm to stop it rolling down the desk.

  “Enter!”

  Mr. Lennox strides in. “Excuse me, Mr. Sefton. Today I am Mercury to the Jove of Father Carfax. Pay attention, all of you! Gilmore — are you with us? Will somebody wake him up. Webley, flick him on the head, will you.”