The Village Witch

by Davies, Neil

  He walked the hill at a steady pace, grimacing against the chill wind blowing in from the bay. He knew how bitter that wind could get, and how strong. For now it was little more than a breeze. Still, he tugged his jacket close around him, thrust his hands into its pockets and hunched his shoulders as he walked.

  There was only one car in the car park, a beat-up old Cortina, rust like dried blood staining its bruised and dented body.

  He smiled. Twelve years ago it hadn’t looked much better, perhaps a little less rust but just as battered. He should have guessed that Old Man Crosby would still have the same car, and would still be running The Angling Emporium on the corner. It was nice to know not everything had changed.

  With a quick glance up the road for traffic, he crossed over towards the small row of buildings that lined the road as it curved away from the beach towards the marina, some three hundred yards further on.

  The Angling Emporium was the first shop in the row and, despite its name, was really a very small and dark shop, filled from floor to ceiling with everything an angler might want. Although Tim had never been a keen fisherman, he and his friends had dabbled once or twice, and he knew that the raised boardwalk that began at the far end of the beach was a good fishing area. Indeed, it had several purpose-built platforms jutting out into the water.

  He paused at the shop window, looking through the dark glass at the array of rods and reels and other arcane and strange objects whose purpose was a complete mystery to him. There seemed no plan to their arrangement. It was as if they had simply been thrown into the window when nowhere else could be found for them. From what he remembered of Mr. Crosby, that could well be the case.

  He walked on, past what he remembered as a fish and chip shop, now ornately decorated in emerald green advertising Chinese and English dishes to take away, an Estate Agent he was sure didn’t used to be there, and a newsagent that definitely did. It still had the rotating rack of dog-eared paperback books outside, and another one of local postcards, despite the winter season. The Sunday Papers were laid out on a rickety trestle table near the door. Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary, an elderly couple who lived in the flat above, had run the shop twelve years ago and it had been heavily patronised by the local kids for their sweets and pop. It seemed unlikely they would still be running the place now. Whereas Old Man Crosby seemed old to their young eyes, the O’Leary’s were ancient.

  The final doorway next to the newsagent led to the offices of the Marina Management Company. It had a new, wave-like logo on the window. Otherwise it was much as he remembered.

  Only the newsagent and The Angling Emporium were open on a Sunday morning, and as he turned away from the MMC logo, Mr. Crosby stepped out into the doorway of his shop for a breath of sea air and a puff on his pipe.

  “Do I know you?” he said, looking quizzically at Tim, a frown furrowing his forehead so deeply Tim expected it to crack at any moment.

  “I’ve been away for a long time Mr. Crosby. I doubt you remember me.”

  There was an awkward silence, during which Tim shuffled his feet and felt he should be saying something more. He wished he had walked the other way, not decided to look along the shop fronts. He suddenly felt like a small child again, caught doing something wrong.

  Mr. Crosby was just as Tim remembered him: The dark, leather-like face, bristling with white around the chin; the thin, wiry body hidden beneath a thick woollen pullover, dark waterproof trousers and waterproof boots; the wool cap on his head; the pipe poking from the corner of his mouth. Now the leather stretched into a smile, the eyes opened wider.

  “Well I’ll be…. You’re the Galton boy, all grown up. I never thought we’d see you around here again.”

  Tim managed a smile, amazed at having been recognised when all he could have ever been to this old man was one of a gang of kids who used to gaze at all the wonderful contraptions in his shop.

  “Tim Galton, yes.”

  “Well, Tim Galton, come in for a hot cup of tea and a chat. You’ve probably a fair bit of catching up to do.”

  2

  Susan Hall shifted through the gears as the traffic finally began to clear before her. Almost forty minutes crawling in slow moving traffic, watching the needle slowly creeping higher and higher on the engine temperature gauge, had not done much to improve her temper.

  A sudden rasping noise to her side made her glance at the passenger seat. Her father was snoring. He had woken her at six that morning, announcing cheerily that he wanted to make an early start. He didn’t drive. He could sleep in the car.

  That had been the first part of the day to piss her off.

  The car had been hers for almost three years and had given her little trouble, even starting first time that morning, despite the cold. But then it overheated before she was halfway to the University, and when she stopped and checked the water, it was almost empty. She knew that wasn’t right. She had filled it less than a week ago. There had to be a slow leak somewhere.

  That had been the second part of the day to piss her off.

  Now, with the water refilled and several large bottles stashed safely in the boot, they were finally heading towards Byre.

  “Maybe this time we’ll see some genuine phenomena.”

  She was startled by her father’s voice, but not too surprised. All her life he had been able to go from deep sleep to wide awake in a matter of seconds. She, on the other hand, took after her mother and would still be yawning several hours after rolling reluctantly out of bed.

  “You think so?”

  “Perhaps. I know you’re frustrated that you’ve seen so little since you’ve joined me on these outings.”

  Susan laughed.

  “Oh I’ve seen plenty. Just nothing to convince me of the supernatural.”

  “I, on the other hand, am a believer, through the evidence of my own senses.”

  “But everything you claim to have witnessed was before my time. When Mum was still alive.”

  “Your mother was every bit as sceptical as you.” The Professor smiled, his eyes misting as he retreated into memory. “It was many years and many investigations before she finally began to believe. But she always retained that initial scepticism. It balanced my own rather more….”

  “Gullible?”

  “….trusting nature well.”

  “If she hadn’t started to believe she might still be alive.”

  The Professor sighed.

  “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  Susan gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles turning white. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and fought them down. It wouldn’t do to start crying while driving at seventy-three on the M5. If she was the sort to cry. Which she wasn’t.

  Not any more.

  “The psycho who cut Mum into little pieces, who started doing it while she was still alive, was nothing more than that. A psycho.”

  Damn it! I won’t cry.

  “It didn’t happen that way.” The Professor’s voice was calm. He struggled to suppress the memory.

  “I’ve seen the police reports Dad. I know what happened. And they caught the bastard. He was flesh and blood.”

  “The police believed what they were told. I know what I saw.”

  You’re wrong. She wanted to say those words, to tell him that his memory was playing tricks on him, refusing to accept the full depth of horror and brutality that a normal man could inflict on another human being. Her mother.

  She said nothing. She couldn’t face the argument that those words would cause.

  A sign up ahead announced there were Services in two miles. She glanced at the clock in the dashboard. 11am.

  Close enough.

  “I’m hungry and thirsty and in desperate need of a change of clothes.”

  The Professor smiled and looked across at his daughter.

  She wore a loose fitting, navy blue University sweatshirt, navy blue tracksuit bottoms and white trainers. On her head was a University baseball cap, which helpe
d hold her brown hair back behind her ears.

  “You look fine. Casual, a bit sporty perhaps, but fine.”

  Susan grimaced, an expression that reminded Alexander Hall very much of his late wife.

  “I look like I’ve just stepped out of a Ken Loach film. I just threw these on when you woke me at that god-awful time. They were the only things I could find that were clean and not already packed.”

  “You should have laid out your clothes the night before as I did.”

  “I’m not as organised as you are Dad. Nobody is.”

  She flicked the indicator lever as the turn-off into the Services approached, following two other cars with the same idea. She slowed her speed, following the signs as they led her round the coach park to the busy, but not packed, car park.

  “You coming in or staying in the car?”

  The Professor stretched his wiry frame.

  “Think I’ll stay in the car and maybe get a little more sleep.”

  Susan swung the car into one of the narrow parking spaces. It was not as near to the entrance as she would have liked, but it wouldn’t do her any harm to stretch her legs after so long sitting behind the wheel.

  “Just make sure you lock the doors after I’m out. You might try to see the good side in everyone, but I know the world is full of bastards.”

  She climbed out, stretching her back, her arms, her legs as she stood upright. She pulled open the back door on the driver’s side, reached in and lifted out a small valise.

  “I won’t be long. Just a quick change and I’ll be back out. You want anything from the shop?”

  “Just a drink please. Not fizzy.”

  Susan smiled. “Of course.”

  She closed the doors, waited until she saw him push the lock down on his side and heard the central locking take care of all the others, and then headed up the path to the entrance. Had she looked back, she would have seen the passenger window wind down and the first puffs of pipe smoke curling out into the morning.

  Once inside she headed straight for the ladies. Before she did any shopping she wanted to get changed.

  She slipped into an empty cubicle and slid the bolt across on the door, closing the lid of the toilet seat and placing her valise on top. She quickly stripped off her trainers, baseball cap, sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms and stood naked, except for white socks. She had not even bothered to find underwear that morning, and for the last few miles the roughness of the shirt and trousers had become an irritation.

  She quickly stepped into panties and fastened on a bra. Next came a pair of black jeans and a simple, plain light-purple blouse. It wasn’t what you might call suitable attire for the time of year, but it was all she had easily to hand.

  She folded the sweatshirt, tracksuit bottoms and baseball cap into the valise and snapped it shut. As she unbolted the cubicle door she cursed to herself. What she didn’t have in the valise was any make-up or a brush or comb. Unlike many of her friends, they were not things she overly worried about, but this one time they would have helped her feel less frumpy and plain.

  Frowning at herself in the rest room’s mirror, she pushed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to force out the tangles that were still there from sleep. She looked tired and pale, but then she was tired and she had always been pale. Not much she could do about it at the moment.

  The outer door opened and two teenage girls came in, talking in low, conspiratorial voices. Gossiping. Laughing.

  Susan watched them in the mirror. Their hair was spiked and gelled. It was impossible to tell the original colour, but both were now a deep red. Their make-up was bold, bright, and one of them wore a ring through a pierced nose. Both wore T-shirts that stopped just below small breasts. Their flat stomachs were bare. The one with the nose ring also had a belly button ring. The one not pierced had a snake tattoo starting just below her navel, twisting down behind a large metal belt buckle. Both wore tight, narrow jeans. To Susan they seemed a curious mixture of seventies punk and timeless biker chicks. She smiled, realising how ordinary she looked in comparison. She had never been one to push the boundaries of fashion.

  The two girls had stopped talking and were looking boldly at her. She felt an icy finger run down her spine and for one moment she actually thought one of the girls had touched her, but they were too far away. Despite their youth they frightened her. She couldn’t quite say why.

  Time to get out of here.

  Excusing herself as she eased past the two girls, she walked quickly back out into the main complex. The whispering voices started up again as the door swung shut behind her.

  She was getting jumpy. Paranoid even.

  Guess I’m just tired.

  The shop buzzed with excited children, tired parents and jaded sales staff. She quickly chose a chicken salad sandwich and Pepsi Max for herself and a still-orange for her dad. Paying with loose change from her purse, she took the plastic bag from the unsmiling woman behind the counter and made her way out of the shop.

  Back in the main corridor of the Service complex she shuddered, that cold feeling returning, trickling down her spine once more.

  Leaning against the wall on the other side of the corridor were the two girls from the rest room. Their faces were expressionless, but their eyes were on Susan. With them were two boys, maybe in their late teens. One had a shaven head, just bristling with hair beginning to grow back. The other had gelled hair as spiky as the girls’. Both wore hooded fleeces zipped up to their throats. One wore blue jeans, the other leather trousers. Their boots looked big and heavy and, to Susan, dangerous. They were also staring at her.

  Shit! What was their problem?

  She turned and walked towards the main door, her skin prickling, her muscles trembling. She knew the feelings, recognised them from some of the more dangerous investigations she had shared with her father. Her body was warning her that she was in trouble.

  A quick glance behind confirmed what she had already guessed. The four were following her. Now she had to make a decision.

  She didn’t want to run for the car. That would lead them to her father, and he might get hurt if she didn’t get away in time. There was no obvious police presence at the complex, and she wouldn’t have known what to tell them if there had been. Simply walking in the same direction as another person and looking strange was not a crime.

  She really had no choice. But she needed a few extra seconds to get what she needed from the outer pocket of the valise. She was just thankful she had packed it there and not in one of the bags in the boot of the car.

  As soon as she was outside, she turned and walked for the corner of the complex, quickening her pace. Once round the corner and on the grass at the base of the slope leading up to the petrol station, she ran.

  She had always been a good sprinter, and now she put everything into this one short dash for the back corner. She wanted to be round it before those following saw her. That moment of hesitation as they turned the corner and saw she wasn’t there was all she would need.

  She didn’t dare look back, so she had no idea how successful she had been as she flung herself round the back of the complex and thrust her hand into the outside pocket of the valise.

  She pulled out the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol, fully loaded with 13 rounds and gripped in her small fist with her finger curled around the trigger. She flung the valise unceremoniously to the ground.

  She could hear running footsteps. Voices cursing. She smiled grimly. They thought they might have lost her.

  They should be so lucky.

  The first round the corner was the shaven headed man. He tried to stop as he saw Susan, but could do nothing as his momentum carried him into the swing of the gun.

  The metal barrel caught him across the bridge of the nose with a satisfying crack. His head snapped back, and his feet flew from under him as he fell heavily onto his back.

  He curled into a ball, his hands thrust against his nose, trying to stop the blood that seeped through his fingers. T
he others reached the corner and managed to stop themselves before they fell over their prone friend.

  Their faces were no longer expressionless. They all looked frightened, staring at the pistol in Susan’s steady hand. The pistol that moved carefully from one face to the other.

  “On your knees.”

  Susan’s voice was quiet but firm and, after only a moment’s hesitation, the three teenagers complied. Although all three looked frightened, none of them were crying. Susan was impressed. She had held grown men at gunpoint in the past and many of those had cried and begged for their lives. She had only ever killed one of them. She tried not to think too much about that.

  The one with the broken nose groaned quietly, still lying foetal-like on the ground.

  “Why are you following me?”

  For a moment none of them spoke, then the boy with the spiky hair laughed.

  “Janie here fancied you.” He glanced towards the girl with the pierced nose, kneeling to his left.

  The girl turned her head towards him, a sneer on her face.

  “Fuck you.”

  Susan shook her head. What was it with these people? Even their fear of the gun seemed to be disappearing. They were joking for Christ’s sake. She felt suddenly very sure that, if she allowed it, they would simply start following her again the moment she walked away.

  She uncurled her finger from around the trigger and swung the barrel hard.

  It smashed across the side of the kneeling boy’s head. He grunted once and fell sideways.

  She swung the gun again into the forehead of the girl he had called Janie. She fell without a sound.

  Growling like an animal, the other girl tried to get off her knees to lunge at Susan. Susan jabbed her elbow into the girl’s face, stunning her, then swung with the gun again. A glancing blow grazed the top of the girl’s head, but it was enough to send her sprawling onto the grass.

  A quick check satisfied Susan that all four were still alive and conscious. They were moaning and cursing her but alive. She grabbed up her valise, thrust the gun back inside, and quickly strode towards the car park.