Witch Hunt

by Syd Moore

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asked. Her face was open, but she was smiling, waiting.

  Both Maggie and I looked up at her, standing in the doorway of the conservatory nursing a wine glass.

  I didn’t know what to say, she had thrown me. ‘I … er … no … I was just thinking …’

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked me directly.

  I stared at her, lost for words. Why was she asking me that? Could she have known that I’d been to the castle? I was sure I hadn’t mentioned it to her on our last meeting. Nor to Maggie. I’d been too caught up with the mirror episode.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ she continued when I didn’t muster a response. ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ she said. ‘We could certainly start a campaign.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I stammered for want of anything else. Flick raised her glass to her lips and calmly took a sip.

  I turned my face to Maggie, who seemed not to have noticed my jitters. ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I have already done the ground work: I’ve found the witches. At least the ones on record. Though there were loads more that didn’t leave a paper trail. But we can factor that in …’ I was sitting up, right on the edge of the swing chair. ‘Now I don’t know how we do it but surely there is a way. A pardon is the right thing to do. Or if that’s too difficult, then at least let’s set up a monument, or piece of art, to commemorate the victims. To grant them forgiveness. Mercy.’ I said the last word with a shudder. The poor girl. She had suffered so much. I knew it was her. It had to be.

  Maggie sniffed. ‘I’m not sure. We’ve never put our weight behind campaigns.’

  Flick stepped away from the conservatory and spoke up again. ‘I know I’m not the editor.’ Her eyes latched onto Maggie. ‘But we can all make suggestions. Right? You were just saying we need to do something bold to bring in more readers, get noticed by advertisers.’ Her words were considered, measured out carefully, framed within a proposition that would suit their audience. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought she’d seen this coming. ‘It fits our profile – it’s to do with culture and perception. I think we should examine the possibilities it might open up for us. But,’ she inched closer to her boss, ‘if nothing else, it’s a brilliant publicity stunt.’

  I zipped from Flick to Maggie then back to Flick. The latter winked at me. I leant back into the seat, not sure how to take it. Perhaps I was being oversensitive. Perhaps she was being insensitive.

  The swing rocked gently back and forth.

  Maggie seemed to be debating the matter with herself and lit another fag. You could tell Flick’s words had struck a chord somewhere in her brain. But she acted cool about it. She looked at Flick once more and said, in a quiet voice, ‘That’s an interesting take.’

  I bit my thumb and said nothing.

  ‘Well, I think it’s an opportunity and I don’t mind leading it.’ Flick was saying more than I’d ever heard her say

  before.

  The wind crept over the fence and whispered in the apple trees. Maggie blew out a thin line of smoke that was instantly whipped up into the night. ‘You’re very gobby tonight, Ms Flick.’

  The art director held her glass with both hands and smiled thinly over the top. ‘You were the one who said I needed to speak out more often in meetings, as when I do I make “valid and insightful comments”. Sic.’

  Maggie brushed some bushy strands of hair from her face and took another light drag. ‘God I’m good,’ she said to me, then turned back to Flick. The co-workers shared a smile. Maggie exhaled her smoke with a slight, almost imperceptible, nod and Flick breathed out deeply, like she was satisfied. Then they both turned to me expectantly.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Then I got it. ‘Hang on – I’m not volunteering myself. I don’t think I can do much to help with the administration – I’ve got this book to nail. But, like I said, I’ve got all the research at home. I can point you in the right direction. I don’t mind sharing my sources and evidence …’ Relief was starting to unhinge my shoulders. If they took the bait then perhaps whatever was going on might stop. This would mean she’d get her mercy, wouldn’t it?

  Flick drew up a chair opposite us. ‘That’s the main thing we need. It’s almost like you’ve already done your part, Sadie. You’ve hunted down the witches, done the research, now I can go with it and work on it more. Can you come over tomorrow for a chat and I’ll make a start?’

  Her eagerness surprised me. But it was welcome.

  Maggie narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you two talked about this before?’

  ‘No!’ We both exclaimed at the same time, then Flick laughed.

  Maggie joined in.

  I remained silent. I was still too wired to enjoy the gaiety.

  Maggie took another mouthful of drink. ‘Well it seems like I’ve got no say in the matter. If Sadie wants to give us the names of the women and the details, and if you’re happy to start working on it, Flick … as long as it doesn’t interfere with the general running of Mercurial then I’d like to see what you can come up with.’

  I permitted myself a smile.

  ‘Top-up, anyone?’ said Maggie.

  I nodded. But it wasn’t to celebrate.

  When I got home, I turned off the lights and looked into the cracked mirror. The top part of it had come away that night I threw the shoe. My thin tired face looked back, it had a strange expression. The beginnings of fear had wrinkled my forehead. My jaw line was tense and defined. But there was resolution in the firm mouth and beyond the whites of my eyes. I lowered my voice and whispered softly, ‘Are you there?’

  The outside light came through the windows and glinted on the cracks in the looking glass.

  There was no glow. No movement.

  But I needed to tell her, so I said it. ‘We’re going to try and get you a pardon. Do you understand that? You’ll be pardoned. Then you can rest. Do you understand me now?’

  Over in the neverworld, nothing stirred.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Mercurial office was busy. A C-list actor and his agent were in for an interview with Maggie. Françoise and Lola were skipping and cooing around them like a couple of overexcited pigeons.

  ‘Do you want to get a coffee at the Railway?’ Felicity asked, with a minute nod towards the activity going on at the other side of the room.

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. My mood was pensive and I was very tired. Last night my mind had gone into overdrive and banished any possibility of sleep. I lay in bed alert, waiting for something to happen, listening to the stiff breeze in the oak trees outside. Then, just as dawn broke I managed to drop off, only to be woken by my mobile an hour or so later.

  It was Amelia, the woman I had met at Uncle Roger’s party. She had, she said, some information that she thought I might be interested in and asked when I was planning to visit Manningtree. I told her I was thinking sometime this week.

  ‘You can’t make it tomorrow can you?’ Her voice kept going up and down, like she was all keyed-up. ‘I’m going on holiday this Thursday and I really think you would be interested in this.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’ I didn’t like being pinned down.

  ‘Not really, I have to show you some primary texts.’

  That sounded interesting so I agreed to have dinner with her. ‘At the Thorn Inn,’ she said. ‘It’s the perfect place. I’ll book the table.’

  I thanked her and hung up, realising that I would be unlikely to drive back that late at night. So, I phoned the Inn and booked a double room. The idea of spending a night in the place where Hopkins had interrogated his victims filled me with dread but, I realised, if there was something strange lurking in the air around me, then it was most likely to come through there – like it or not. And I had stuff to convey now to the girl spirit. Something that might help me put an end to this business.

  And, on a more practical note, I needed to go there for my book. Especially if Felix now wanted an ‘emotional’
response. It was an essential destination. I would just have to be strong, though the thought of it was draining.

  Thankfully Flick seemed to have enough energy for both of us. She wrapped up her current piece of work and gathered together notebooks while I photocopied the information I thought she would need. Then we wandered across the road to the pub.

  ‘You seem very enthusiastic about all this,’ I said cautiously, as we settled at a large wooden table in the Railway Hotel. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty empty: just a couple of old regulars at the bar and a sad-looking punk who was sipping a pint of stout very very slowly.

  We selected a place by the Victorian fireplace. Dave, the landlord, had stoked a fire and this part of the pub looked particularly cosy and snug.

  ‘I really want to be involved,’ she said. I let my hair fall over my face as I reached for my file, but continued to watch her through the black strands. Her plucked eyebrows accentuated a sharpness about her nose, but she was an attractive woman and she knew it. ‘I had a thing about it when I was younger.’ She blew on her coffee. ‘We all do, don’t we? Witches and goblins, they’re all magical and otherworldly. I got into Goth a long time ago. Not all of us want to hear about being in love or wanting to dance. Personally I like a bit of a wallow sometimes. And the subject matter that gothic bands cover is really extensive.’ She was nodding quickly as she spoke. ‘Ghosts, the undead, legends of old. There’s an entire Goth-Pagan subculture too which is really interesting. And I believe in all that, don’t you?’ She looked at me, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I mean, I’d like to believe in it. But anyway all of this stuff about the witches – it’s not only fascinating, it’s real.’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And it’s dark.’

  ‘Yes. You don’t like that then?’

  I met her eyes. Was there more than curiosity lurking behind them? Or was I becoming paranoid? I looked at Flick’s slender frame elegantly perched on a chair opposite me. I could see the gothic influence in the dark eyeliner, the dyed black wispy hair. Her clothes weren’t studded or frilly but they were black – t-shirt, boots, low-rise skinny jeans. She had peachy skin as pale as a china doll’s. As she held my gaze I wondered how old she was? Late twenties, maybe early thirties. It was hard to tell – her skin was so good. Too good actually.

  I didn’t mean to come out with it then but it just popped out. ‘Have you had Botox?’ I asked her.

  She looked surprised. ‘Nice body swerve,’ she said. ‘If I answer your question, it’s only fair you answer mine.’ She smiled. The skin about her eyes didn’t crinkle.

  I took a breath. In for a penny … ‘Okay.’

  She leant forwards on the table and angled her face towards the light coming in from the windows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here,’ she touched her forehead, ‘and here,’ gesturing round her eyes. Then she looked at me and laughed, then propped her chin on the palm of her hand. ‘So – how about you?’

  ‘My research has taken me to a lot of dark places,’ I told her and added, ‘literally. A while ago I would have told you that I wasn’t attracted to the darkness. But that would be inaccurate.’

  I swallowed the coffee. A young man in a scarf came in through the door nearest to us, letting in a gust of wind which nearly scattered the papers spread across the table. Felicity stretched her arm over them till the door closed again

  ‘But,’ I continued, ‘I am compelled by the story of Rebecca West.’

  It was her, you see, who had come to me. It had to be. She was the shadow on the beach: a young, fragile form. Though I hadn’t seen it I had a strong impression of her. I knew she had betrayed her mother, and now she was asking for forgiveness. For mercy on their souls. For all of the unfortunates condemned to a monstrous death.

  It was Rebecca’s plaintive cry in the prison, and her life I had glimpsed in the layby. She was sorry and she had come to me, because she knew I was sorry too.

  ‘She was young; only fifteen when Hopkins accused her. But she was manipulated by the Witchfinder and gave testimony against her mother possibly in exchange for their freedom, a deal retracted after the trial. Then she had to watch her mother die on the gallows, twisting and turning like a fish from the brook.’ I stopped. That was an odd phrase. Flick picked up on it too. I changed my tone.

  ‘Sadly her evidence nailed the guilty verdicts and the death sentences. That whetted Hopkins’ appetite and got him thinking up the rest of the campaign. Who knows what might have happened or not happened if she hadn’t taken to the witness stand? The accused might have got off. In which case Hopkins might have lost interest and gone back to his shipping business instead.’

  Flick was staring at me. ‘Really?’

  ‘Unfortunately so. Without Rebecca’s testimony the whole witch hunt might not have taken place.’

  ‘Shit. Flick’s eyes roamed over the papers spread between us. ‘She had a lot to be sorry for.’

  ‘She has,’ I said slowly, then corrected my tense. ‘Though it wasn’t her fault. Let’s not forget that. It was Hopkins who was the driving force behind the witch hunt.’

  ‘It was indeed,’ Flick nodded. ‘So shall we get to it then?’ she said. ‘Try and even up the score a bit?’

  ‘Let’s,’ I said and smiled. ‘The old bastard will be turning in his grave.’

  ‘Good,’ Flick said simply.

  I didn’t leave the pub for another two hours. Once she got going Flick was like a terrier, she wouldn’t leave anything alone that she didn’t thoroughly understand. Though I wasn’t convinced she was being completely open with me, I admired her for her thorough approach.

  When I had taken her through most of the research I asked her to keep me abreast of any developments.

  She nodded. ‘Email all right?’

  ‘Phone or text is better. I’m planning on going to Manningtree tomorrow. Where it all started.’

  Felicity swallowed and grimaced. ‘Fantastic,’ she said.

  When I got back to the flat I was knackered. Night had come down quickly and sent messages to my subconscious telling it to go to sleep. Although I didn’t have a hangover I felt seedy and flicked the TV on for company. Automatically I kicked off my shoes and padded over to the windows to shut the curtains.

  Though I hadn’t noticed it when I came into the flat I saw now that they were already drawn.

  That was weird.

  This morning I had done this whole thing about throwing them open and letting the dwindling October daylight in. I clearly remembered doing it.

  Perhaps I had closed them without registering before I’d gone out.

  But that wasn’t like me. I wasn’t that organised.

  I unlocked the balcony doors and slipped outside. It was cold and windy: the moon was quietly tugging in the water. I thought briefly about having a cigarette, got put off by the force of the wind so turned and stepped back into the artificial warmth of the flat. The difference in temperature brought to my attention something else that I hadn’t noticed before – an atypical smell in the flat: the putrid stench of a feral base thing. I winced.

  Something must have gone off.

  But I was too tired to root it out and instead lit a scented candle then crashed onto the sofa and did a quick channel surf.

  Under the loft’s eaves dark unseen things rustled. The scratching was louder. I really needed to sort it out. But right then I just didn’t have the energy and pumped the volume up to drown out the disturbance.

  Something splashed on my face, causing me to jump with a jolt.

  For a second I was completely baffled, then I put my hand up to my cheek and wiped it. A dark viscous fluid smeared across my fingers. Reddish, the colour of blood.

  Another droplet fell, onto my arm this time. I looked up at the ceiling. A dark russet stain was blooming above me. A couple more gobs fell in quick succession, one hitting me in the eye, momentarily blinding me. I wiped it away with a tissue. The stuff was escaping from something in the attic. I knew there were at
least three water tanks up there supplying the different flats. One of them must have gone rusty and sprung a leak.

  I sniffed the fluid on my hand hearing, simultaneously, a loud crash above.

  That was definitely not rats. Perhaps whatever was leaking was falling apart?

  A sort of scraping sound moved across the ceiling, away from the location of the crash. Something was up there. Something solid, and very much alive.

  As far as I could see I had two options – to flee from the flat or run downstairs to the new neighbours below me. I hadn’t met them yet.

  If it was rats I would look like an utter idiot.

  This was the downside of living on your own.

  Of course there was the other option: I could go up there, with a torch, and check it out myself. After a few nanoseconds I guessed this last thought seemed the most sensible.

  So, taking a breath to soothe my now quickening heart, I fetched the flashlight from under the sink and summoned enough courage to go into the hall where the loft hatch was.

  It was a wooden rectangle about three feet by four. I had never painted it white like the rest of the ceiling, and for a moment its decades-old wood appeared horribly sinister. Nevertheless I reached up with the pole-hook carefully, unlatched the attic door and lowered it down, fighting back a wave of nausea as the awful smell doubled in potency and wafted downwards.

  It was fetid, musky, with whiffs of excrement and waste.

  On the topside of the door an aluminium stepladder was fixed. I reached up and unfolded it noting the sound up above was becoming more frenzied. I looked back at the kitchen door, away from the attic, took a deep breath, gathered my resolve, placed the torch in my mouth and with both hands on the ladder, started to climb.

  At the top I stopped, removed the flashlight from my mouth, took another steadying breath, and switched it on. The smell was so severe I had to try hard not to gag.

  A shuffling in the corner prompted me to shine the torch in that direction.

  The amber light danced along the rafters then settled in the corner of the loft.