by Ann Evans
Father Willoughby looked vaguely surprised at seeing him and Sally standing there. ‘Well, good day to you. Is the fine lady of the house at home?’
‘She’s just gone to fetch something,’ said Paul, trying to gauge whether the priest was here on a mission to stop a black magic ritual, or calling round for a set of lace armchair covers.
‘How are you, Father?’ Sally asked, looking guilty as sin.
‘I'm as the good Lord intended, very well, thank you. I didn’t see you at Mass this morning, Paul.’ His overly large eyes glinted behind his magnifying lenses. ‘I imagine your work keeps you occupied? Are you involved at all with this Peace Conference we're hearing about in the news?’
‘Only in a very small capacity, for my sins,’ Paul agreed.
‘We are all sinners,’ stated the priest, ‘and sin and evil are all around us. There are times when you can sense it in the air.’ He fumbled for something in his overcoat pocket and brought out the small wooden cross that Paul had made for him. ‘It’s a coincidence that you’re here because I’m picking up a chain for the cross you so kindly gave me.’
Paul felt quite humbled.
Juliet returned with a silver-coloured chain. ‘Will this do, Father?’
‘I couldn't have chosen better.’
She took the wooden cross and threaded the chain through the hole. ‘There! It's not too girly and it won’t break easily.’
‘Superb,’ he said, stroking the wood before tucking it under his woollen scarf. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Juliet held up her hands. ‘Nothing. My pleasure.’
My penance is what you actually meant, Paul thought to himself.
Sally hooked her arm through his. ‘We ought to be going.’
‘And I’ll not hold you up any longer, either,’ said the priest. ‘I’ve a few home visits to make. Maybe I’ll see you all next Sunday at Mass?’
‘We’ll try,’ said Sally. ‘Oh, Paul can’t. He'll be in London, won’t you?’ She looked quite proud for a second but a glance from Paul stopped any boast of pride she was about to mention.
The priest nodded. ‘Ah yes, all those world leaders, some no better than dictators and terrorists. It's an evil world we live in. The only answer is prayer.’
‘Say a prayer for us then, Father,’ said Paul.
‘I’ll offer Mass for your intentions,’ replied the priest, looking up steadily into Paul’s eyes. ‘May God be with you.’
For a moment no one spoke and then Sally broke the silence. She turned and hugged Juliet. ‘We’ll be going. I’ll pop in again during the week. I wanted to ask your opinion on something else Paul is working on.’
‘I'll look forward to it,’ said Juliet, turning to Paul. She kissed his cheek, whispering, ‘Thank you for stopping me from making a massive mistake.’
He felt relieved, positive she wasn’t going to be dabbling in any other black magic pranks.
The village street was fairly quiet, except for a woman walking a Staffordshire bull terrier on the other side of the road and one or two cars going by. One honked and Juliet and Father Willoughby both raised their hands in recognition.
‘That’s Mr and Mrs Clark,’ said Juliet. ‘Wave, Paul, she’s one of your best customers.’
‘Huh?’
‘She's bought a few of your ornaments.’
‘Really?’ He turned, hand half raised, just as the dark blue Renault the couple were driving in slammed head-first into the side of a house.
The sound of crumpling metal and splintering glass seemed to go on and on. Bricks tumbled, crashed, bounced. The whole back end of the car lifted off the ground, as if it was trying to burrow deeper into the side of the house. A horn blared and then stopped.
Sally and Juliet screamed.
Father Willoughby stumbled backwards against the wall. ‘Lord almighty!’
‘Ring an ambulance,’ Paul yelled, already halfway across the road, sprinting towards the chaos. His thoughts were racing, seeing which parts of the car were accessible. The car looked as if it was embedded midway inside the house, but as he got nearer, he saw it was just crushed, like you’d crush a tin can. He could see through the smashed driver's side window that the two occupants weren’t screaming. They didn’t even look like they were panicking. They both sat upright in their seats. Mrs Clark’s left hand was slightly raised, as if she was still waving. Still waving at the nice man who carved those pretty ornaments and Father Willoughby who’d welcomed them to Mass that morning.
The air bags had inflated and burst. They were dark red in colour. Mrs Clark's must have burst when the gearbox had slammed through the chassis and landed in her lap, while Mr Clark's air bag had been punctured as the steering column ran through his chest.
He yelled at the woman with the dog heading towards them over of the revving engine. ‘Keep back, there's nothing you can do.’ Reaching through the window he turned off the ignition, then felt for a pulse on the man's neck.
A jolt, like a punch or an electric shock hit him, and the smell of burning hair filled his nostrils. He jumped back in time to see the dog straining on its leash, barking furiously as if protecting its owner from him. The lead suddenly shot out of her grasp and the dog flew at him, snapping at his ankle. Instantly the smell was gone, replaced by pain. With a yelp like someone had kicked it, the dog shot off towards the woods.
* * *
Father Willoughby gave the couple the Last Rites while the police cordoned off the area. The fire service began to cut through the wreckage to free what was left of Mr and Mrs Clark. Paul gave a statement to a police officer, showing him his ID. All thoughts of a nice lunch at the Crow and Feathers were gone, and eventually, they headed back through the woods towards home.
In his head he was trying to work out what had happened. Not only why a local would suddenly underestimate a familiar road and plough into the side of a house. But also, what happened when he touched the driver. The jolt had been like electricity, and why that smell for God’s sake? He didn’t wonder why the dog had bitten him, poor thing must have been frightened by the chaos.
* * *
He saw the tears in Sally’s eyes. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really, Paul. Why didn’t he see the bend in the road?’
‘I’m asking myself the same question. Something could have gone wrong with his car, a puncture, steering failure, anything. He could have had a stroke, or maybe someone was sticking pins in a doll somewhere.’
She shot him a look. ‘That's not funny.’
‘You're damn right it's not.’
Following the leaf strewn pathway, they saw the woman and the staffie heading towards them.
‘You found your dog, then,’ Paul said.
‘Yes, I'm ever so sorry that he bit you. He's not usually like that.’
Paul's thoughts flew back to when Bluebell had sunk her teeth into Sally's hand. The cat had acted out of character, too.
The woman continued. ‘Something spooked him as you jumped back from the car. I thought you'd had an electric shock, are you all right?’
‘I'm fine, don't let it worry you.’
‘Did … did the people in the car survive?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, I’m afraid not. It was very quick.’
She nodded, and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘I thought not. You'd be best getting the doctor to look at the bite. I'm Doctor Scott's receptionist, I can get you straight in. Poor man, we buried his wife not five minutes ago and now another awful tragedy.’
‘I know,’ murmured Sally. ‘It never rains but it pours.’
The woman gave a gentle tug on her dog’s lead. ‘Life goes on though – for some, anyway. Come on Buster. Let’s get home.’ She cast them a small smile. ‘Take care.’
‘Bye.’ Sally replied for both of them. ‘Bye, Buster.’
19
The memory of the dead woman’s hand raised in a wave, locked in a split second of time, stayed in Paul's mind for days. It was bizarre how many
strange and unexplained things were happening lately.
* * *
All this talk of witches and witchcraft needed looking into. Yet deep down, Paul felt it hard to actually believe there was any substance to it. The mark down Petronella’s face and him chopping the carving in two could be pure coincidence. He was still pondering the situation when he took a break from his work in his office at the cottage to wander down to the barn.
He picked up the wood carving of the reclining figurine, his thoughts straying automatically to the blonde. Running his fingers over the delicate, perfect curves, he thought of Juliet pushing hat pins into an effigy of the woman. Had her spell worked? Had the blonde suffered, perhaps thinking she’d got acute appendicitis? Maybe gone to the doctor? Or was she lying dead in the cottage? Juliet’s black magic spell going the whole hog and removing her from the scene totally?
Placing the figurine back on his bench, he closed the barn door and headed back to the house. Sally was machining a red lining fabric into a black leather shoulder bag. He stood behind her, his hands lightly manipulating her slender shoulders, still lost in thought.
‘Not in the mood for woodwork?’ she mused, turning her head slightly so that her cheek caressed the back of his hand.
‘No, I’m not. And it just occurred to me that maybe Juliet’s hocus pocus thing with the doll and pins might have worked.’
Sally paused in her sewing. ‘Well she’s stopped now. I think we made her see reason.’
‘But what if it was too late?’
Sally swivelled in her chair to look up at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What if the damage has already been done?’
Her blue eyes winced. ‘Hurt her, you mean?’
‘Or worse. Has anyone see her about lately?’
She gasped. ‘That’s not possible! It’s all rubbish, isn’t it?’
All Paul could do was shrug again. ‘I wish I could say for sure that it was. But I can't.’
Sally left the half-sewn bag on her workbench. ‘What do we do?’
‘We need to check on her.’
She got to her feet. ‘What? Knock her door and ask if she’s been suffering from shooting stomach pains recently?’
‘Just check she’s alive, I suppose.’
‘Oh my God.’
There was a dire sense of urgency, suddenly. No thought this time of taking a leisurely walk to town through the woods. The need was to get there, and get there fast.
They parked in the street and Paul led the way down the little lane towards the old cottage, trying to think up some reason for knocking on her door. Maybe it would be better if Sally did the talking. Would the blonde remember Sal from the street fracas on the day of the funeral?
‘What are we going to say?’ Sally hissed as the grey-stone cottage came into view.
Even now, so many years since he was a kid, the sight of the witch’s house brought his skin out in goose-bumps. There was a crow sitting on the chimney. There was always a crow. He tried not to look at it, but sensed it watching them.
‘We’ll just say we were concerned about her and wanted to check she was all right.’
‘Say nothing about the doll, you mean?’
‘Best not …’ he stopped. She was just coming out of her front door as they approached her home, dressed in a red belted coat and knee length boots. She checked her door was locked, walked up the path, through the little gate when her eyes locked onto them.
For a second there was a flash of recognition, no doubt she remembered them as the friends of the mad woman who’d accused her of sleeping with her man.
Neither Paul nor Sally needed to say a word. The haughty look on her face and the speed in which she marched past them and up the lane proved that she wasn’t suffering from any sharp, mysterious pains. And that was all that mattered.
He and Sally kept walking, as if they were taking a stroll in the woods. Only when they guessed she had reached the street did they stop and look back. Looking at each other’s stiff faces, Sally suddenly creased up in giggles and flopped against Paul’s chest, shaking with laughter.
It was infectious, and Paul found the whole thing just as hilarious. He gave in to the moment, glad to have something to laugh about for once. It had been quite a while.
‘What shall we do now, then?’ Sally finally asked, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Oh, we are a couple of idiots letting our imaginations run away with us. I know, let’s pop in and see Juliet. See if there’s any news about her and Owen making up.’
Paul slid his arm around her shoulders and turned her around to go back the way they’d come. ‘May as well. We’ll keep mum about this, though. If she knows she hasn’t caused any suffering, she might give it another go.’
Walking back through town, they passed Father Willoughby’s church. He was just outside the presbytery, taking something from the boot of his car.
Sally gave him a little wave, but for once the priest’s mind was elsewhere and he looked right through them.
‘Do you think he’s okay?’ Sally frowned.
‘I doubt it. Losing three parishioners in such a short space of time can’t have done him much good.’
‘Poor man,’ murmured Sally. ‘I wonder how he’s going to write this Sunday’s sermon? God surely does work in mysterious ways.’
‘So everyone keeps saying,’ Paul remarked.
There was scaffolding up around the building that the car had smashed into, and workmen were repairing the damage. Paul glanced briefly then pushed open Juliet's shop door. The bell chimed its usual cheerful little tinkle as they went in. Fragrances of candles and oils wafted around them.
The shop was deserted, and Paul checked to see which of his carvings hadn't sold. The clogs and the walking stick were left. Maybe they’d be bought up as Christmas presents, not that it mattered to him one way or the other.
They browsed the shelves for a few moments, waiting for Juliet to appear. Eventually, Sally raised her eyebrows. ‘Good job we’re trustworthy, we could have made off with the takings and all her stuff by now.’
‘Worth giving her a shout?’
Sally nodded and walked to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Juliet. Hello. Anyone at home?’
There was no response and frowning, Sally started up the stairs. ‘Think I’ll just pop up. Hello Juliet, it’s me … Sally, I’m coming up.’ A moment later she screamed. A shriek of horror. ‘Paul, call an ambulance!’
After jabbing the nine button three times as quickly as he could, Paul sprinted up the stairs, heart hammering. Dear God, now what?
The operator was asking which service he required.
‘Ambulance!’ he breathed, taking in the sight that met him.
Juliet was lying on the floor, unconscious in a pool of blood. Her knitting needles protruding from her chest and abdomen like a life-sized voodoo doll.
‘Jesus.’
‘Sir, are you there? Which service do you require?’
‘Ambulance.’ he spat out again, before providing the address. ‘And the police … Sally, get towels, pad them around the wounds, try and stop the blood, don’t take the needles out.’
On his knees, his trousers soaking up Juliet’s blood, he checked for a pulse. There was a faint beat. He passed the details to the operator, doing what he could to stop the bleeding.
‘Did she fall, do you think, Paul? Did she fall on her knitting? She looks …’ Sally’s face was white with shock.
He knew what she was thinking. She looked like the effigy Juliet had made. The knitting still on the needles had been green wool, now it was stained deep red.
‘Ring Owen!’ Paul barked. ‘Have you got his number?’
‘No, no, I haven’t. You’ve got it, haven’t you?
Downstairs the shop bell tinkled, and Owen called out to Juliet.
Sally gripped his arm. ‘Oh my God, Paul!’
Paul hurried to stand in the doorway, arms held out, wanting to warn his old mate what he was walking into. But Owen was s
uddenly present in Juliet's little sitting room. His face lit up for a second on seeing his friends, and then he saw what was beyond Paul – the woman he loved sprawled on the blood-soaked rug. He wailed. A long, mournful, dreadful wail that was heartbreaking to the ear.
Owen fell on his knees, arms floundering, not knowing what to do to help. Tears streamed down his face, sobbing her name over and over.
‘Put some pressure on the wounds, Owen,’ Paul instructed. ‘She’s got a pulse, just try and stem the blood. Don't disturb the needles.’ Then he spoke urgently into his mobile. ‘That ambulance needs to be here, now!’
Later that evening, as the two of them sat quietly, Sally said softly, ‘Paul, I meant to tell you something, but with all the commotion I didn’t get chance.’
He touched her hand. ‘Go on.’
‘When I walked into Juliet’s sitting room, I swear I saw a bird flying out of her window. Maybe it had startled her, and she fell. Her stabbing herself like that doesn’t necessarily mean it was her spell gone wrong, turned back on herself. Because that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’
‘Something along those lines,’ Paul agreed. ‘What kind of bird was it?’
‘It was big and black. I think it was a crow.’
He rubbed his temples, in an attempt to rid himself of the dull ache.
‘Shit!’
20
Use my magic and risk my future plans and I will turn it back on you. I shall stab your soul with my hatred.
The day before Halloween, Paul and his team went through more checks for the Peace Conference. This time they were concentrating on and around the Conference building. Tension was high, and everyone was more than aware that no errors or slip-ups could be made. There was too much riding on this.
The aim was to create a true, far reaching United Nations; for a bond to be formed that would lead the way to peace in every country – even those which, until now, were riddled with civil war. Deep down, Paul had his doubts about peace being achieved. Human nature being what it was, there would always be some land that someone else wanted to claim, oil and minerals there for the taking, or revenge to be had from some ancient wrong-doing.