by Syd Moore
Or perhaps it was psychological as Maggie had said: I had lost my mother and the guilt which flowed through my veins was manifesting itself in the visions of a young girl pleading for forgiveness: ‘I’m sorry.’ A transference of my internal culpability? An outward projection of loss, grief, blame? A seizure?
The answer was that ‘yes’, it could be any one of those things. What I really should do was make an appointment at the doctor’s. But that was a no-go after last night’s run-in with Doctor Franklin. I didn’t trust him and I no longer trusted Doctor Jarvis.
No, whatever was going on in my strange brain I was going to go with it, to ride it out to its conclusion. If it threatened at any point to overwhelm me, then I would seek assistance from some source. But for now I was resolved to move forwards. I would go to Manningtree tomorrow, for the book and to call up Rebecca, whatever she was – spirit or embodiment of guilt. Then I could let her know about what I was doing with Flick. Maybe that would assuage her guilt. Maybe it would assuage mine. At least it was doing something.
It was raining and somewhere in the attic water had got in. Perhaps Dan had dislodged a tile. I got up and tried lying on the sofa, listening to the steady drip, drip, drip until I gave up and got my laptop.
The light in the room was dim. I had purposely left only one lamp on to encourage sleep.
When it first happened I thought it was because it was attracted to the brightness of the screen: a black moth alighted on the top right-hand corner of my laptop.
I knew it was the season for it but there had been a hell of a lot of them around this year. They were getting everywhere.
I’d always been a bit of a swatter in days gone by but I found I was reluctant to crush the life out of this particular insect. It wasn’t completely black. Whitish specks freckled its wings like flakes of ash.
‘What are you then?’ I asked it. It spread its wings in response, inviting me to admire its swirls and shimmers. I smiled and, for want of anything better to do, entered ‘moths’ into an image search. On the third page I scrolled through I spotted a similar pair of wings. One click brought me through to the article, which the image illustrated.
‘The Peppered Moth: UK moth transforms from black to white as pollution decreases.’ The report went on to state that although these moths started off white, during the industrial revolution they turned black to match their environment. Now it seemed they were halfway through the process of returning to their original colour. A moth expert commented, ‘It’s the iconic moth. This is the one everyone learns about in school because it perfectly illustrates natural selection.’
‘Darwin would be proud,’ I told its little wings and clicked through to a site flagged up by a banner ad – Animal Totems. The page on the screen was black. At the top was an animated banner, which read Today’s Shamanic Blessing. Underneath ran the phrase, When walking in the woods never leave tracks. I took it on board with a nod and silently promised not to. Then I came to the title Moth Totem.
The moth apparently had a similar animal symbolism to the butterfly. No shit Sherlock. But it was also a nocturnal creature. ‘Night creatures,’ it read, ‘do not stumble in the dark. The moth navigates easily, led by lunar light.’
The symbolism, in turn, connected to intuition, spiritual awareness and heightened senses. ‘The moth is a master of disguise and can blend in to the point of invisibility. He aids metamorphosis, representing birth, death and rebirth. He is also a guide helping you towards your own light or beacon, and in the direction you are meant to go.’
‘You’re a clever boy aren’t you?’ I put my elbows on the table and sat forwards. My eyes were on a level with its body. ‘I feel like I’m in the dark right now. You going to show me where to go?’
It remained still.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I could do with some help.’
It didn’t move.
‘Sod you then.’ I brushed it away. It flew up at a forty-five-degree angle, inelegant and off balance, then fell on the carpet in front of the fireplace. I must have damaged its wings, I thought and felt absurdly guilty.
Getting up from behind the computer I walked over. It took off, veered off to the left than arced up onto the map I had fixed on the chimneybreast.
‘Sorry about that,’ I told him. It was off again, circling my head once, then landed back in the same place.
I looked at the map. Not Essex. Mr Moth had settled himself thirty or so miles south-west of London.
‘You want me to go there do you?’ I asked it. ‘What’s there?’
He didn’t answer, so I slipped a sheet of white paper behind it and a glass over the top. He didn’t resist and appeared happy to fly off into the night through my window.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dan plopped down opposite me in the new hospital, just outside of Basildon. He was pretty doped-up but physically more like the old Dan I knew and loved. His brown hair was giving up the battle against encroaching silver and he’d lost a bit of weight. His familiar t-shirt and favourite Levis seemed to be wearing him, as he sat, caved into the saggy armchair.
I wasn’t sure how much he knew about Mum. I hadn’t wanted to broach it last night. But it turned out that he had worked it all out in his hidey-hole. We were in a small common room with a dozen chairs and a TV turned to a low continuous mumble.
Dan shook his head then said, ‘It was too soon.’
I knew what he meant. I got it. We weren’t ready for Mum to go. It felt like we still had stuff to do together. She was meant to come home with me and start another chapter of her life. I mean, she was still young, only fifty-two. It just wasn’t fair.
Dan looked at me with this thousand-yard stare and said: ‘We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
A casual observer may have thought this odd but I knew Dan was a teacher groping about in his fractured psyche for a hook to pin the loss on. To remind himself that this was life, and death was as much a part of it as birth. Had been since 1610 when the bard wrote those very words, and would be for ever more.
A strange tranquillity, a vague sound-absorbing haze, had found its way into the room.
I said, ‘Shakespeare.’
Dan said, ‘The Tempest.’
And for a moment I imagined a ship with spirits pouncing all around. And then I thought of John Lowes, a priest hanged by Hopkins in Brandeston, and his yellow imp darting out into the sea. I don’t know why I thought about it then but I did.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly then stopped. Static in the air crackled around us.
And Dan said, ‘Has she come to you?’
I looked at him now sitting upright in his chair. ‘Who?’
Though confusion crept across his brow, when he returned my gaze a keen sharpness entered his eyes. ‘Rebecca.’
I didn’t speak. I was too shocked.
He leant forwards. ‘She’s worried about you.’
At last I found my voice. ‘Who?’
‘Your mum. That’s why I was looking after you. She thought Rebecca was warning her. They were both fifteen, you see.’
I was confused. ‘Rebecca? Mum?’
‘She feels guilty.’
‘Dan. What do you mean?’
He turned his now-alert gaze on me. ‘The ghost.’
I sat back and stared at him. Had he overheard my transactions in the living room while he’d been perched above?
‘She’s a witch,’ he said calmly.
‘Who?’
‘Rebecca. You. Her.’
I shook my head. ‘Dan, have you seen Rebecca or did you hear me talking about her?’
He didn’t respond. He was looking over my shoulder into the mid-distance.
I tried a new tack. ‘Dan, is she in your head?’
He regarded me keenly. ‘Sadie, please don’t be facile.’
Was I being ridiculous or had a pointed clarity briefly come down over him?
He smiled. A t
hin, sad smile. ‘She texted me.’
I didn’t know what to say or do. So I just inhaled steadily and watched him.
He continued, looking straight into my face. ‘Pretty good too for an illiterate seventeenth-century ghost.’ Then he laughed. ‘I sound barmy, don’t I?’
But he didn’t.
I shook my head and then suddenly with that gesture it was like something shifted into place inside my head. Maybe some drug I had taken way back had decided to fire a latent synapse but it was like I’d stumbled through a wall and could now see what it was like on the other side, in Dan’s world. The lights were brighter over there. The colours more vibrant. The textures and light, wavier. Like when you’re on acid and just completely and fleetingly connect with someone. And for that brief moment you see the same mad things, through the same freaked-out headspace.
I said, ‘She’s Facebooked me.’
And he laughed generously. ‘Seriously?’ He was sane on this side.
‘Yep. Well, private messaged.’ I nodded slowly. The clock was ticking louder than ever before. I angled my head to it. ‘Is it always this loud?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Comes and goes. Depends on where I am.’
I nodded again. ‘It is like a trip. Is this, like, how things are for you?’
He shook his head. ‘Right now, it is. But the medication brings me down to earth. Comes and goes. I’ll be moving out of it soon. I don’t know what happened with my meds. I don’t remember not taking them but I think I can’t have had some for a while. When I was up in your loft I was wholly untethered. But before that it crept up on me. A gradual process. I can describe it like a giant balloon lifting off. You don’t notice it until it’s too late and then you’re way over there.’ He indicated through the wall behind him.
I took it on board. ‘Someone swapped your medication.’
‘Is that right?’ he said and ran his finger over his jawbone. ‘Then she was right.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Rebecca. She said there was danger. Your mum was afraid for you. She made me promise that I’d look over you. I took that a bit too literally. But she was so worried, Sadie. Though I could tell there was something she wasn’t telling me.’
I nearly cried at the mention of her and the absurdity of it all. ‘You’re in hospital and Mum’s passed over. I don’t think it was me you both had to worry about.’
‘But she’s come to you. Rebecca.’
‘Yes,’ I said, realising that I had let my scepticism go. That sitting here in the hospital, talking to a man who had just been sectioned, I was finally accepting that it wasn’t madness or grief that I had experienced but an actual external manifestation.
‘Mum said, just before, you know, she passed, to expect a gift. She said I should speak to you. Is this …’ I stumbled over the words, unwilling to articulate what was becoming a solid conviction. ‘Is this it?’
‘Didn’t she tell you what it was?’ Dan asked simply.
‘No.’
‘Have you asked her?’
I nearly laughed. ‘No. Of course not. I can’t now.’
‘You’ll see. That’s it.’ He said it quickly – we both heard footsteps coming down the corridor. ‘Like us,’ he said.
The atmosphere was changing: the unseen mist receding into the corners of the room: the clock returning to its regular tick tock. Time was running out.
‘Look,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve got to get off. To Manningtree. And Mistley. I need to scout out the place for the book. But I need to contact Rebecca. I want her to know that I’m going to get her a pardon. I’ve got some people at the magazine starting a campaign. Do you know how I can call her up, Dan?’
Dan’s gaze darted to the door. ‘I don’t think it’s up to you.’
‘I will stop back here after Manningtree. And see how you are, okay?
He nodded quickly. ‘Okay.’
Then as the door finally opened wide the weird magic in the air was sucked out and I found myself back over the other side, looking at Dan. His jaw slacked, the neck muscles had lost their tension. He was looking down, in a lolling sort of way, at his lap.
‘How is he?’ said the nurse.
‘Really good,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you, mate?’
The nurse helped Dan to his feet. He gave me a lopsided grin, which spilled a thread of saliva onto his chin. He didn’t wipe it. ‘Bye Sadie,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Be good.’ It came out in a kind of weird E.T. voice. He heard it and stuck out his finger like the little alien.
I frowned. Had he relapsed or was he playing along?
‘Bye bye Dan.’
‘Be good,’ he repeated and stared at his finger.
I dug my own fingernails into my hands and told myself not to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Away from the buzz of Basildon, the fake tan and stilettos, under the grass and soil, the twisting roots, loam, chalk and clay, beneath the minerals transported from the north by the majestic glaciers that thawed eons ago, the ancient soul of Essex was waiting for me.
Mistley, allegedly ‘the pasture of the Mistletoe’, was situated on the south bank of the River Stour, with views over the mud flats and creeks to Suffolk and the village of Brantham.
The main road wound round the riverside and past the front window of my hotel room. If I twisted my neck I could glimpse a couple of cranes on the quay by the old malt house. Numbers of elegant white swans glided along the Stour. They didn’t make a sound and lent a mute eeriness to the atmosphere.
Apart from the occasional car it was very quiet.
Directly outside the Inn was a fountain-like structure, described as the ‘Swan Basin’, which looked like a giant
ornamental flower bowl with a painted statue of a swan in the middle. The guidebooks referenced it as the work of eighteenth-century neoclassical architect Robert Adam and described it variously as ‘elegant’ and ‘picturesque’. But it reminded me of something you might find in a fairground. You can take the girl out of Southend …
I could never work out why Essex got the flack that it did. The county wasn’t flat and uninteresting. It was simply full of sky, usually of the pale blue and white kind. Today it was bruised and wounded-looking, hanging low over the horizon.
It matched my mood.
I was sitting in my room in the Thorn Inn, on the site where Hopkins had his quarters. I could feel a pregnant tension in the air; if I reach back to that afternoon, it was like I knew something was going to happen.
I imagined the pub to be a historic Tudor dwelling, but it was quite ordinary. Built in 1723, it was a simple construction: unimposing and Georgian in its rectangular structure with four windows on the first floor, two on the ground. The entrance to the ground floor was on the left-hand side. The owners had obviously tried to camouflage any residual evil with coat upon coat of buttermilk paint. But I could smell its malevolence. It stank the place out, crawling up from cracks in the bricks and mortar.
Once a coach house for Mistley Hall, it was now an upmarket gastro-pub that offered cookery courses. It, along with the surrounding property prices, had gone up in the world since the dark days of the witch hunts.
The price of the room covered dinner and I was told the by the bar staff that I could expect breakfast too. I noted the rural lilt to their accent that the tramp in Colchester had spoken with. In the heightened state I was in, it seemed to combine wholesome hints of apples with superstition and ancient custom.
Despite its antique origins, my room was furnished in a contemporary style that complimented the old wooden rafters: the bed was comfy and covered in Egyptian cotton, the carpet thick and luxurious and neutral, the colour scheme blues, greys and mulberry with a floral patterned wallpaper on one ‘feature’ wall.
I sat on the bed feeling the mood, and looked out the window. Above the river the sky mottled like grey-white marble, darker cloud lines drooping over the shores of Suffolk on its further shore.
Once he’d achieved his kill at
the Chelmsford Assize in July, Hopkins headed over to there. I thought of Rebecca, carried off in the arms of some servant to who knows where … What had happened after that? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Her life was like a horror film. Awful.
Not so for Hopkins.
He netted a huge haul of witches in Suffolk and made a small fortune. Some say there were at least 150 overcrowding the prisons in Bury St Edmunds. Their gaoler was able to make a pretty profit by charging the curious a penny to gape at the unfortunates. For an extra sum they could beat them. One of them was the preacher, John Lowes, who had come into my mind in my strange exchange with Dan. It was his death that had some positive impact, if you can call it that, turning the tide against Hopkins. But only because it was so very shameful.
Lowes had given shelter to a local woman accused of witchcraft and had scolded the mob at his door, telling them that she was no more a witch than he. Hopkins took this as a confession and Lowes was swum in the moat at Framlingham Castle. Afterwards he was ‘walked’ till he lost his senses and finally confessed to sending imps to wreck ships at sea. At court he retracted his confession. But it didn’t matter. He was convicted anyway, along with one other man and sixteen women. At the gallows his last act before execution was to read the office and commit his body to the ground and Christian resurrection.
The hanging of a vicar for witchcraft was so shocking it forced influential figures to take a look at what was going on in the east of England.
But not soon enough to prevent Hopkins and Stearne entering Northamptonshire and pointing fingers at Anne Goodfellow, and a ‘young man of Denford’. The Witchfinder was rewarded generously for detecting those witches and paid to give testimony during the trials.
Hopkins was an impossible man to understand. He repelled and fascinated me, as much as the witches had him. But I was going to bring some semblance of justice to the alleged witches he’d killed. Flick had sent a text earlier. She had put out feelers to form a legal team and was hoping to meet up next week to come up with a proposition for the pardon. She’d added that she’d already got a lot of interest locally by starting a Facebook group. I sent her a message congratulating her and confirming I would attend the meet.