Isolated

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘It’s my own recipe,’ she explains as we each take a cup and saucer, ‘a mixture of lemon rind, valerian, chamomile, passionflower and a dash of honey for sweetness. It’s quite citrusy, but very good for calming the nervous system and encouraging endorphins.’

  She nods at both of us to try the tea and I have to admit I’m nervous as I put the broth to my lips but it is quite pleasant and fragrant.

  Imogen lowers her cup to the floor before resting her palms on her knees. ‘I presume you’ve both heard of a man called Gerald Gardner, the founder of modern Wicca?’

  Rachel nods. ‘We have a book about him, but I was hoping you might be able to provide a more succinct account.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do my best,’ she says before starting in on a full rundown of Gerald Gardner’s life – how he encountered and was indoctrinated into the New Forest coven in the 1930s and how he set up his own coven in Bricket Wood, from where he initiated many other witches. ‘Becoming Wiccan isn’t something you just decide,’ she continues. ‘You need to be formally welcomed and taught the laws of the religion. Those who think it is a quick way to cast spells and magic are usually left sorely disappointed and go off and find other religions to follow. Whilst there are some Wiccan witches who choose to engage in the darker nature of the mystic world, most of us don’t as such practices come back to haunt the crafter of the spell threefold. That’s one of the doctrines, you see.

  ‘For me, the worship of one omnipotent and omniscient god never sat right. Wiccans, by contrast, worship both the horned god and the moon goddess; that’s why so many incantations are delivered when the moon is at its fullest. The majority of spells and incantations cast are seeking to fulfil good work, not the hexing and curses popularised in television and film. It does make me laugh whenever I catch sight of an image of a loner in a black cape and pointy hat, waving a wand over a stone cauldron. Whilst there is some historic imagery that supports such stereotypes, modern Wicca isn’t so dark and devious.’

  I’m reminded of the poem Incantation by Elinor Wylie, one of Anna’s favourite poets. In it the poet explores how even in the darkest situation, light can still be found.

  ‘The horned god,’ I say, taking another sip of the delicious tea, and feeling my shoulders gently relaxing. ‘Do you mean the devil?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Imogen corrects. ‘We’re not satanic worshippers. It’s a common misconception that witches are carrying out Satan’s work, but that really isn’t the case. Do I look like someone in league with the devil?’ She adds a light chuckle to show I haven’t offended her. ‘A lot of the misconceptions are simply rumours spread by those who have been so brainwashed that they refuse to believe what we say. There was a famous Wiccan witch by the name of Sybil Leek who lived here in Burley back in the Sixties, before emigrating to the US. She ran a shop in the village and tried to educate her neighbours, but fear resonates.’

  I sit forward as a fresh thought stirs my mind. ‘What if a non-Wiccan tried to carry out a spell or incantation, but it went wrong somehow. What could the repercussions be?’

  Imogen ponders the question. ‘It’s so hard to say. I suppose it would depend on what spell was being cast.’

  You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.

  ‘Are there any kinds of spells that could cause someone to disappear?’

  Imogen frowns. ‘I’m really not sure. I wouldn’t have said so, no. Again, it would depend if the caster was on their own or part of a coven. Wiccans can be solitary practitioners, or part of a coven, you see?’

  ‘Well, what if four non-Wiccans gathered in a forest to incant something, and one of them vanished into thin air? Is that possible?’

  Imogen finishes her tea. ‘I really wouldn’t have said so, but I’m not overly familiar with the darker side of magic. It would all depend on what they were trying to do, but I’ve never heard of anyone vanishing into thin air. As I said, most Wiccans only cast positive spells out of fear of the threefold law.’

  Which leads me to only one conclusion: I need to find out exactly what those girls were trying to incant in those woods, who knew about it and who else might have been there.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  I’m already feeling sombre as I rise from bed. I didn’t know Natalie, but I accept that seeing those who knew and loved her weeping at the crematorium is going to make today a tough one. I was surprised to receive Cheryl’s call last night, inviting me to attend, but once she’d asked, I didn’t have it in me to decline. So, having showered, I’m now staring at the black suit I reserve for these occasions.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Rachel asks, as she climbs back into bed, and pulls the duvet up to her chin.

  I had thought about asking Cheryl whether it would be okay for me to drag Rachel along, but it felt weird, and I don’t want to put my best friend through an emotionally charged cremation for no reason.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I reply absently, dressing quickly, ‘but I appreciate the offer.’

  ‘Fair enough. Hey, listen, I was thinking I could continue having a look through Natalie’s journals while you’re out? Maybe we’ll find a clue about their spell-casting in there.’

  When we got back from Imogen’s place yesterday afternoon, I had set about reading through the diaries Natalie had left in the box for me, in an effort to get to know her better and maybe unlock the truth about what happened, and why she felt so compelled to end her life. I left Rachel reading up on Gerald Gardner and Sybil Leek.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I confirm, checking my reflection in the mirror, ‘but bear in mind that these were written by a thirteen-year-old who may well have been aware that her mother could stumble across them, so look for any hidden or double meanings in the language used. I tried putting myself back in my thirteen-year-old head as I was reading them last night, but didn’t glean anything useful. I tried reading them from the time of Sally’s disappearance, but there might be greater benefit going back even further. Maybe there will be clues as to what led them to even consider spell-casting.’

  Rachel puts her thumb up and says goodbye as I head out of the flat where the taxi is waiting for me. The Weymouth Crematorium is situated up the road in Westham and is therefore walkable, but it’s blowing a gale out here this morning and I don’t want to arrive looking like I’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge. It’s not vanity; it’s a show of respect to Natalie, Cheryl and the other mourners. It’s an odd place for a crematorium, when you consider that it’s surrounded by residential homes, two schools, and a couple of playgrounds. It isn’t the first time I’ve attended the crematorium, and as the taxi driver drops me at the main entrance, memories of my dad’s service come flooding to the front of my mind.

  It was much sunnier that day – hardly surprising given that Dad died in late spring. He used to joke that he would never want to be buried and become worm food – far more efficient to cremate and scatter. When Mum would challenge him on the subject, he’d joke, ‘I’ve always loved a big barbecue. Seems a fitting end.’ I try not to think about that time in my life. Mum and Dad had been separated for several years by that point, following Anna’s disappearance, but it didn’t make his death any less sudden. I’d been due to stay with him the same weekend we ended up attending the crematorium; it was that sudden. I still know so little about what really happened to him. He was working at HMP Portland, that much I do know, but the rest has come from overheard whisperings and throwaway lines. Mum was adamant she didn’t wish to discuss it before, and now I’m not sure I’d want to make her remember it.

  I should really find out whether Mum would prefer to be buried or cremated, but it isn’t an easy conversation starter, particularly given her current health concerns and the Alzheimer’s. It’s difficult to know whether I’m getting a response from Mum now, or the much younger woman she sometimes still thinks she is. I’m just hopeful her final wishes will be included
in her will.

  The crematorium is part of the larger estate of Weymouth Cemetery, and so I follow the signs to the crematorium, soon finding Cheryl, in a long black dress, outside the entrance. I was expecting to see a flurry of mourners hovering outside or just inside the building, considering the service is due to start in the next ten minutes, but there is only one other person – a man in his early thirties, puffing on a cigarette – leaning against the building.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Emma,’ Cheryl says, clutching my hand.

  ‘You’re very welcome. Are you expecting a big turnout?’

  Cheryl shakes her head. ‘Nat didn’t have too many friends and apart from me, not much by way of family left. Both Geoff and I were only children, like Natalie, so no big slew of uncles, aunts and cousins to choose from.’

  Maybe I should have dragged Rachel along to make up the numbers. I know from experience that the crematorium can hold about a hundred mourners and in fact for Dad’s cremation it was standing room only, with a large number of his prison guard colleagues turning out to say goodbye.

  A long black car with tinted windows pulls up in front of us and as the rear door opens, a blonde woman with long legs exits, quickly joined by a tall man with a closely cropped beard. The blonde straightens her dark suit before donning a large round hat. She offers her condolences to Cheryl, and it’s only through eavesdropping on their conversation that I realise who is speaking.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Sullivan. I was so sorry to hear about Nat’s passing. It’s been years since I last saw you, and I’m sorry we’re not meeting under different circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you, Louise. How’s your mum?’

  Louise Renner gives me a curious glance, as if trying to work out who I am, or perhaps why she might recognise my face.

  ‘Mum’s very well,’ Louise replies, focusing her attention back on Cheryl.

  ‘Is she still living at the base?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! They left that life when Dad had his stroke; they retired to Torquay where she was from, and so Dad can be close to the sea. My uncle still works at the base though. You should give Mum a call some time; I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.’

  Louise Renner clearly hasn’t been affected by all that went on with Sally’s disappearance – at least not in the same way that Natalie was. Where Natalie’s head was all over the place and she had reached a point where she could no longer continue, Louise, by contrast, seems very much switched-on and together. The man at her side – presumably her husband – is wearing a tailored suit and has the well-toned physique of someone who hits the gym at least a couple of times a week. They move on and head into the building.

  The guy who’d been smoking is next to approach, leaning in and kissing Cheryl’s cheek before passing on his condolences. I should take my leave so that I’m not intruding on their private conversation, but Cheryl has hold of my hand and I don’t want to upset her by extracting it brusquely.

  ‘I wish there was more I could have done,’ the man now says. ‘I sometimes wonder what might have been had the IVF not failed. That seemed to be the beginning of the end for us.’

  ‘You were always my favourite of her boyfriends, Sam. I really wish things had worked out better between the two of you. I appreciate you coming today.’

  ‘To be honest, Mrs Sullivan, I never stopped loving Natalie, and when you called the other day to tell me what had happened, my heart broke in two all over again.’ He breaks off as his eyes fill and he apologises, heading back to his smoking post.

  ‘The one that got away,’ Cheryl leans in and whispers. ‘He was like the light at the end of her tunnel. Brought her back from the brink, and for the two years when they were together, I actually thought she would settle down and find happiness. They were engaged when they decided to start trying for a baby, but it wasn’t to be. Caused a strain between them, it did, and eventually the relationship crumbled, and that’s when she moved to London to start afresh. I should never have let her go off by herself like that, but what can a mother do when her adult daughter makes up her mind about something like that?’

  I wonder if my mum ever had similar thoughts when I told her I was moving to Bournemouth for university. I tell myself she didn’t because her mind was always so focused on the child she lost, rather than the one she still had, but maybe there were moments when she wished I hadn’t decided to go into further education.

  Cheryl squeezes my hand. ‘We should probably head in now. Would you mind sitting with me? I had hoped Diane would be able to come along, but she can’t get away from the base undetected.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, leading her into the building, the memories of Dad again bubbling at the surface of my mind.

  Thankfully, I haven’t had to attend too many funeral services, but they’re never easy, even when you barely know the person. The administrator moves to the front of the room when Cheryl and I take our seats in the front row. Louise and her husband are about three rows behind us, and when Sam enters he comes and sits the other side of Cheryl. Is this really all Natalie has to show for twenty-eight years of life? Five people to say goodbye, two of whom she didn’t even know.

  The straw coffin looms in front of us all, and the irony that they used to burn witches to death in mediaeval England isn’t lost on me. Did Cheryl know about her daughter’s dabbling in the Wiccan religion? The administrator leading the service doesn’t appear to be from any specific denomination, but it isn’t clear if that was Natalie’s choice or her mother’s.

  The door clattering at the back of the room causes us all to turn and stare at the commotion. A black woman dressed in a figure-hugging skirt and satin top has entered and is doing a terrible job of moving quietly forward; her stilettos are clip-clopping in rhythm until she finally darts into the fifth row from the back and sits.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad she managed to make it,’ I hear Cheryl mutter.

  ‘Who is that?’ I whisper back.

  ‘One of Natalie and Louise’s old friends: Jane Constantine.’

  The missing piece of the jigsaw. So, the small coven is reunited, here in a place of religious significance. I watch her as she composes herself, before nodding towards Louise who is staring back at her. What secrets the two of them must hold… and I’d be fascinated to know whether they’ve maintained contact down the years, and whether either or both were in touch with Natalie. There’s no guarantee that either will speak to me, but I won’t have a better chance than after the service.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Then

  Bovington Garrison, Dorset

  Natalie’s dad hadn’t been home when she’d returned, and her mum hadn’t kicked up too much of a fuss when a sodden Natalie had walked back through the door, quickly stripping her and running a hot bath, carefully preventing the leg bandage getting any wetter by tying a polythene bag around it.

  Natalie had allowed herself to be mothered and tended to, even though she didn’t feel like she deserved any of her mother’s affection. If Sally’s disappearance was her fault, then so was Pete’s imminent departure to Germany. What would happen to drama club with Pete gone?

  He mum had fixed her a cheese and pickle sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate while Natalie had bathed, and as she devoured both, her mum brushed the knots from her matted hair.

  ‘I do wish you’d talk to me about what’s going on in that head of yours,’ Cheryl had begun. ‘You’re such a pretty girl when you smile, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile and laugh. I know puberty can be tough, and I’m sure they offer better counselling and guidance at school than I could provide, but I am here for you, sweetheart, if you ever want to talk. Okay?’

  Natalie had forced a smile in an effort to pacify her mother, but had opted against opening up, Louise’s threat still stinging in her ears. What if Louise was right, and spilling the beans brought trouble for her parents too? They didn’t deserve to suffer as a consequence of her actions.

 
‘I heard you and Dad arguing,’ Natalie had offered by way of explanation for running out of the house in the pouring rain.

  ‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about your dad and me. It’s healthy to have some friction in a marriage. Stops things getting boring. What did you overhear?’

  ‘Oh, nothing specific, I just heard your raised voices. I assumed it was about me.’

  Her mum had stared at her for a long time, maybe trying to read her mind. ‘Why would we be arguing about you? Don’t worry your pretty little head about any of that grown-up stuff. Just know that we both love you very much, and want you to know you can talk to us both about anything. Okay? Absolutely anything.’

  At nine o’clock, unable to stifle her yawns anymore, Natalie had said goodnight and headed up to bed, relieved when her mum hadn’t put up any argument.

  But something had disturbed that slumber five minutes ago, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about all the lies she’d told her mum in the last week. If Lieutenant-Colonel Havvard was putting pressure on her dad, didn’t they deserve to know the truth? Well, not the actual truth, but a version of it? She could easily tell them that Sally had secretly told her that she intended to run away. At least that would bring everyone some closure. At least they’d stop looking for a girl they would never be able to find. If her dad then revealed that news to his superior, it would take the heat off. Louise and Jane would be angry, but she could say that Sally had confided in her in secret, and that neither of them knew what she was secretly planning.

  There was that noise again – like glass breaking, or crashing. She definitely hadn’t imagined it. Pushing back the duvet, she moved across and opened her bedroom door, peering out and down the stairs. Creeping to the bathroom, she could hear the rumble of her mum’s snoring in their bedroom, but as she looked in through the gap in the doorway, she couldn’t see the outline of her dad’s body beneath the duvet.