Isolated

by M. A. Hunter

  I’ve seen Rachel break up with boys before – usually she did most of the breaking off – but I’ve never seen her as upset as this.

  She wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘She said she was going to LA for two weeks over Christmas, as her agent has got her an audition for some film over there, and she’s hoping to take some acting lessons before she does it. I told her I had some time off work, which I was originally going to spend with my parents, but could fly out with her instead… but she told me not to. She said I should give her some space to get her head straight, and then we could talk again when she’s next back in the UK.’

  I squeeze her hand again. ‘I’m sure last night came as quite a shock to her too, and maybe her head is a bit all over the place if she’s feeling stressed out about this audition. Maybe a break could be exactly what you both need, and who knows what might happen while she’s over there? It might be the jolt she needs to realise that she feels exactly the same way about you. Take the time you need. I think you should call your parents and see how they are after last night, and if you really don’t want to visit them for Christmas, then you’re obviously more than welcome to come back to Weymouth with me. It would be fun – just like uni.’

  She smiles, and it’s great to see a glimpse of the old Rachel returning already.

  ‘Where were you when I phoned? The signal was terrible.’

  I explain Jack’s frantic call, and then what we discovered inside the room at the hostel. She pulls a sickened face but I know she isn’t as easily phased as I am by such horrors.

  ‘I didn’t even realise witchcraft was still a thing,’ I conclude, echoing what I said earlier to Jack.

  ‘Oh no,’ Rachel corrects, ‘it’s never been more popular than it is right now. I co-wrote a piece on some university students last year who believed in the practice of love potions and spells. It was written with tongue firmly in cheek, but according to the last census, there’s something like twelve thousand people who claim to be followers of pagan religions steeped in witchcraft. One of the writers you mentioned, Gerald Gardner, was the founder of the largest movement, Gardnerian Wicca. I remember doing some research on him at the time, which I can try and pull up if you fancy a read?’

  She reaches down and pulls up her laptop. The last thing I really want is to delve into the occult, but I’m relieved to see my tale is serving as a welcome distraction to her broken heart.

  ‘In fact,’ Rachel continues, ‘from memory, the south coast of England was prime ground for covens and practising witches, Actually, now that I think of it, part of our article touched upon the New Forest coven, which was formed by that Sybil Leek woman you mentioned. It’s not what you think though. They practised chants and incantations, but I don’t know that there’s any tangible evidence that such spells and the like have ever worked.

  ‘We read one story from the 1940s of a group in Hampshire who walked naked into the woods and performed a ritual where they essentially sent a telepathic communication across the water to the Nazis in Germany to tell them they’d never manage to cross the Channel. This was during the height of World War Two, but was largely dismissed as coincidental when the war was won. The only reason the story retained any notoriety was that several members of the group died after the incantation, though given their age, and how cold a night it was, they could just as easily have contracted pneumonia or died of hypothermia.’

  I still can’t bring myself to believe that Natalie was a practising witch, despite Rachel’s efforts to convince me otherwise. There’s only one place I’m going to find any answers, and that’s to speak to Natalie’s mum directly.

  ‘Rach,’ I say, drawing out the vowel, ‘I don’t suppose you fancy driving us to Weymouth now, do you?’

  I’m ready for her to argue against the idea but she takes one look around the room and nods firmly. ‘I’ll pack a bag.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Then

  Bovington Garrison, Dorset

  Two nights had passed since Sally had vanished and yet Natalie was still not able to sleep – not properly anyway. Last night, she had spent hours staring at the blue digits of the bedside clock, willing them to change quicker so she could start to put distance between herself and what they’d done. Sleep had come in patches, but ended every time her subconscious returned her to the enveloping darkness of those woods. As much as she wanted to forget, her mind wouldn’t allow it.

  She’d woken at dawn this morning, screaming and crying. Her mum had come in and pressed a cold hand against her forehead, trying to quieten her before she woke her dad. Natalie had welcomed the rocking embrace her mum had wrapped her in, so desperate to tell her what they’d done that night, but knowing she wouldn’t understand and would be horrified to have such a despicable daughter. Her mum had made her a warm mug of cocoa to try and settle her back down but Natalie hadn’t wanted to return to anything resembling slumber.

  ‘I think we should keep her off school for a little longer,’ she’d overheard her mum’s hushed tones from the breakfast table. ‘She’s definitely not right; her bed sheets were soaked through when I went to her this morning. I think she wet the bed; she’s thirteen, for crying out loud! I thought those days were behind us.’

  Natalie would have welcomed the distraction of schoolwork, but Sally’s empty desk would have served as a constant reminder of why she wasn’t there. The school wouldn’t be so understanding if Natalie didn’t return at some point, but what good would she be in this sleep-deprived, zombie-like state?

  ‘I’m sorry about wetting the bed,’ she said glumly as she joined her mum at the breakfast table once her father had left for the day.

  Cheryl gave her a concerned look. ‘Was it a nightmare?’

  Natalie nodded.

  ‘What was it about?’

  Natalie couldn’t remember exactly what had triggered her absolute terror on this occasion, though all the dreams she’d been having followed a similar theme. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Last night wasn’t the first nightmare either, was it?’

  Natalie shook her head.

  ‘Are you still worried about Sally? I’m sure she’ll turn up soon; you can’t let it worry you so much.’

  That was easy for her to say. Her mum hadn’t been there; she didn’t know what they’d done.

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for Sally running away, Nat. Whatever happened – an argument or whatever – she chose not to return home when the rest of you did; you can’t hold yourself accountable for her choices.’ She paused. ‘I’m worried about you. It isn’t right for a girl of your age to… to be wetting the bed,’ she mouthed the last part, unable to make eye contact. ‘Here, have some cornflakes.’

  Natalie didn’t accept the cardboard box being waved before her. She hadn’t felt like eating since that night, and right now she didn’t care if she never ate again. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Cheryl frowned at her. ‘You need to keep your strength up, Nat. You’re stick-thin as it is; no boy is ever going to want to go out with you if he can’t see you.’

  Natalie sneered at the comment. Who cared whether or not a boy ever fancied her again? Was that really all her mum was worried about? Missing out on grandchildren?

  ‘Listen, I saw Mr Panko on the base yesterday and he said he thought it would be a good idea to organise some counselling for you and the others. Seems you’re not the only one struggling to deal with Sally’s sudden absence; half the class have been off since the news broke, apparently.’

  Natalie could already picture those who would use Sally’s disappearance as an excuse to get a couple of days off school with their supposed stress; most of the class couldn’t give two hoots about Sally – or the rest of them.

  ‘So,’ Cheryl continued, ‘Mr Panko has arranged for a specialist to come to the base today and talk to the lot of you about your feelings; it’s important not to bottle these things up. It’s voluntary, but I really think you’d benefit from going along. What do you
say?’

  Typical of Panko to assume the quickest way to get everyone back to school was to organise some kook doctor to talk to them. It would take more than talking to save Natalie and the others.

  ‘You should go along and listen to what the counsellor has to say, and then maybe we could ask if you can have a private session with him at the end. It might stop your nightmares and bladder weakness to talk through how you’re feeling, and what might be causing your strange behaviour.’

  ‘Fine, whatever,’ Natalie commented, pouring cereal into her bowl.

  Her mum looked so relieved, quickly standing and reaching for her packet of cigarettes. ‘Wonderful!’ She beamed, clearly pleased by what she would consider top-notch parenting. ‘I’m going to jump in the shower and get ready, and then we can walk to the hut together.’

  Natalie didn’t answer, as her mum left the room and headed up the stairs to the bathroom. Natalie reached for the box of cornflakes and tipped the contents of her bowl back into the plastic packet. At least her mum would think she’d eaten.

  Natalie’s mum hadn’t returned for lunch as she’d promised, and Natalie could easily have left the house and got up to all kinds of mischief, with neither of her parents aware of what she was doing. She hadn’t; instead she’d wandered round the house, occasionally watching television, occasionally reading, and occasionally listening to music. Eventually, boredom had got the better of her and she’d gone up to bed, willing death to take her during her sleep. She hadn’t slept – or at least it felt like she hadn’t. She’d tossed and turned, diving through each memory of that night, trying to make sense of what had happened… of what they’d done.

  ‘The best way to tackle a problem is head-on,’ her grandma would have said if she were still alive today.

  For so many hours, Natalie had tried to ignore and not relive those memories, but how else was she going to understand what had happened to Sally? She thought about the real reason they’d agreed to meet in that particular clearing, on that particular night. The moon had looked so large as she’d watched it slowly rising from her window, in unison with the day’s light source setting through the frosted glass of the bathroom window behind her. A perfect balance: night and day, darkness and light, good and evil.

  Guided by that enormous ball of white in the dark sky, she’d waited until she could hear the gentle rumble of her mum’s snoring and the grunt-grunt-rattle of her dad’s drunken slumber. She’d dressed quietly, using her collection of stuffed toys to shape an outline beneath the empty duvet cover, in case one of her parents did stir and come and check on her. They never came close enough to physically check, so the outline would be enough to convince them she was still there; she’d hoped so at least. Then she’d very carefully lowered her bedroom door handle, pulling it towards her slowly to offset the creak in the hinge that always sounded the moment the door reached a forty-five degree angle. She stopped it just before and squeezed through the gap.

  She’d slid down the stairs on her bottom, as many an early Christmas-morning raid had taught her that this was the quietest way to avoid creaking floorboards. She’d stopped still at the front door, hearing movement above her. Terror had instantly flooded her body when the upstairs bathroom light had flashed on, and she was certain she had been caught in the act. All it would take was for her mum or dad to look down the staircase and see her framed in the moon’s spotlight through the glass panel in the front door. Ducking into the living room would have required her to open that door, which would have made even more noise and definitely awakened whoever it was to her presence down here. Holding her breath, she stayed perfectly still, silently willing them to return to bed without a second thought. It was the longest two minutes of her life, but finally the bathroom light was switched off and footsteps marched back to the bedroom, and then the bed sighed under the weight of its occupants once again.

  Natalie had remained crouched where she was for a further five minutes before using her keys to unlock the front door and slip through, locking it behind her. Even as she made it to the bottom of the driveway, she’d expected one of her parents to suddenly realise she’d gone and come tearing after her, but the upstairs bedroom light remained off. That hadn’t meant she was home free though. There was every chance one of the neighbours could be outside, or just happen to be looking out of their window as Natalie passed, so she pulled the hood of her black coat around her ears, bent her head, and hurried along the road before eventually arriving at the gap in the perimeter fence.

  Her paranoid self had known it was a mistake to climb through the gap. She had half expected the others not to be there in the clearing waiting for her… like the whole thing had just been a cruel trick they were playing on her. Did they know she didn’t deserve her place in the circle? Did they know she’d lied when they’d asked if she was ready? Could they tell she hadn’t reached that level of maturity yet? It hadn’t mattered though. The others had giggled with giddy excitement when she’d stumbled through, torch in hand.

  A raised voice snatched Natalie back to the present.

  ‘You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,’ her dad was growling. ‘She was the last person to see her and that must mean she knows what happened.’

  They were arguing about her; they must have assumed she was either out or fast asleep. Natalie lay still, listening to every word, desperately hoping they wouldn’t come up and realise she was faking.

  ‘She says she doesn’t know and I’m inclined to believe her,’ her mum retorted. ‘That policewoman interviewed all three of the girls and seemed happy enough with their explanations.’

  ‘But how can she not know where Sally went? She was there, Cheryl. They all were. One of them must know where Sally went, or how she got off the base.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Geoff. Natalie said Sally ran off while they were playing their game and you know better than anyone how dark those woods are. It would have been impossible to know whether she ran in a straight line or doubled back.’

  ‘I got dragged in before Lieutenant-Colonel Havvard again today. He isn’t happy that Sally still hasn’t been traced and has ordered all personnel to double their efforts. But he spoke to me in private and told me I need to do whatever it takes to get through to Natalie. I need her to tell me everything.’

  The sound of a foot hitting the first stair sent a shiver through Natalie’s entire body. He was going to come up and interrogate her right now. Would she be able to stick to the script?

  ‘Wait, Geoff. She’s asleep up there. I’m telling you that she doesn’t know anything more. I’m her mother and I know when my daughter is lying to me.’

  Natalie only released her breath when no further footfalls followed and she heard the living room door being opened and closed. Their argument continued, but their voices were barely more than a rumble through the floorboards. Pushing back her duvet, Natalie slipped out of bed and slid down the stairs on her bottom, hovering on the last step as she listened in at the door.

  ‘Havvard says he can’t afford another Margaret Kilpatrick disaster.’

  ‘But that was all resolved. She sent that postcard from Denmark, I thought?’

  ‘Yes, but… that’s two girls who managed to sneak off the base. He’s head of security and it doesn’t reflect well on him.’

  ‘Better that than her being found dead, surely?’

  ‘He’s convinced she’s still on the base hiding. Reckons one of the families has taken her in and is keeping her hidden.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s just it; he doesn’t know. That’s why we’re all getting the tenth degree every morning. Part of me thinks he believes we’re harbouring her… Wait, Cheryl, tell me she’s not here.’

  ‘Of course she’s not! What do you take me for? Diane is one of my best friends. I wouldn’t do that to her.’

  ‘What about what she told you about Owen and his moods?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It lends motive as to why she ran a
way, if you ask me. If he’s really as violent as Diane let on—’

  ‘No, Geoff, you can’t tell Havvard about that; Diane told me in the strictest confidence. Besides, she never said he’d struck Sally.’

  ‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Or maybe she’s witnessed him hitting her mum and couldn’t stand for it any longer.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, will you? I don’t want Natalie knowing about any of that, and you swore you wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘I need to give him something, Cheryl,’ he said, his tone more pained now. ‘He’s the sort of man who can make life very difficult if he thinks I’m holding out on him.’

  ‘I don’t want you questioning Natalie about it any more. She’s told us what she knows and that’s an end to it. She’s in a fragile state. Don’t forget, she’s just lost a close friend and it’s a very confusing time for her. I… I found tampon wrappers in the bathroom wastepaper bin. She hasn’t told me her periods have started yet, but she’s the right age.’

  ‘I thought they handled all that stuff – sex education – in schools these days.’

  ‘They do, but that doesn’t make it any less confusing. Her body is going through all sorts of changes and I just don’t think she needs any more pressure from you, or the likes of Havvard. I will work on her for you, okay? But I’ll do it my way, and in my own time. For now, you’ll just have to try and keep Havvard at bay.’

  Natalie had heard enough. It was bad enough that what they’d done had resulted in Sally disappearing, but now it was affecting her family life as well. No longer caring about any noise, she leaped out of bed, ran downstairs, yanked open the front door and tore off down the drive, not even stopping to look back to see if her mum or dad were chasing; she didn’t care. Too much hurt and pain had come from their actions and she needed to put a stop to it by any means necessary.