Being a Witch, and Other Things I Didn't Ask For

by Sara Pascoe

  Copyright © 2017, 2015 by Sara Pascoe

  www.sarapascoe.net

  info@sarapascoe.net

  ISBN: 978-0-9935747-3-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9935747-4-0 (epub)

  Published by Trindles and Green Ltd

  Loxwood House, 6 Alumdale Road

  Bournemouth BH4 8HX

  United Kingdom

  www.trindlesandgreen.com

  Simon Avery, Cover design www.idobookcovers.com

  Lindsey Alexander, Editor www.lindsey-alexander.com

  Helen Baggott, Copy-Editor www.helenbaggott.co.uk

  James Robinson, Book design, www.wordzworth.com

  The right of Sara Pascoe to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted in accordance with

  Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988, UK.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic,

  magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording

  or otherwise, without the written permission of the

  copyright holder.

  For David

  Notes for the Second Edition

  Being a Witch, and Other Things I didn’t Ask For is the second edition of this book.

  The first edition was titled, Ratchet, the Reluctant Witch, published by Brown Dog Books, Bath, UK, October 2015.

  In addition to the new title, Rachel Hollingsworth, the protagonist in the story, has been given a new nickname, ‘Raya’.

  This second edition is published by Trindles & Green Ltd, Bournemouth, UK.

  www.trindlesandgreen.com

  Constantinople or Istanbul?

  There have been questions about the correct name for this city when the story takes place, during the mid-seventeenth century.

  After the Ottomans conquered it in 1453, ‘Constantinople’ (or ‘Konstantiniyye’, the Turkish version) was used on some government documents and coins. And those in the West referred to it as ‘Constantinople’. But the people living there and in the surrounding areas called it ‘Istanbul’, as folks had done since the tenth century. Even street signs said, ‘Istanbul’.

  Originally from the Greek phrase ‘στην Πόλη’ ‘ [stin’boli], meaning ‘in the city’ or ‘to the city’, the name morphed into a single word. This was reinforced by the popular pun ‘Islambol’, meaning ‘Islam abounds’ celebrating its role as the Ottoman capital of Islam. ‘Islambol’ was also stamped on coins and documents. Istanbul was made the singular, official name in 1923 with the creation of the Republic of Turkey.

  Therefore, to be true to the history as I understand it, I let the seventeenth century Ottoman characters in this book call their beloved city, ‘Istanbul’. If you’ve never been to this magnificent metropolis, I cannot recommend it highly enough. I can’t wait to return.

  ‘Take this, Rachel, in case you need it,’ Jake said as he dropped something into the pocket of her cargo trousers. He’d slipped into her room while she was globbing on her mascara. She glanced at his reflection next to hers, surprised how young eleven looked to her now. The sun slashed through the windows this July evening, and the field behind the cottage made a chocolate-box setting. This was one of the nicest foster homes she’d ever been in. But she’d had more than enough by now – it was time to launch out on her own.

  ‘You know it’s Raya, you eejit,’ she said affectionately. She fished out the items from her pocket: a two-pound coin and a chocolate bar. ‘Thanks, mate, but I can’t take your money.’ She returned the coin but pocketed the Dairy Milk bar. ‘Don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I’ve got to get a move on, running late as it is.’ She went back to rimming her eyes with black eyeliner – ‘war paint’ he called it.

  They’d only known each other a few weeks, since Jake moved into Angie’s too, but as Raya often found with other foster kids, you either clicked or you didn’t and that was that. She and Jake got on ‘like a gut full of bacteria’ in his words, being quite the brainbox. Still, she’d kept her distance. This is goodbye anyway – I’m out of here.

  The boy gulped and nodded. Raya returned to the mirror and daubed on lip gloss.

  ‘Please don’t go, Raya. It’s not that bad.’ Jake looked down at his feet.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Angie’s all right, just a bit boring.’

  ‘Yeah, but you show me things, and well…’ His lip trembled.

  ‘Hey, don’t worry. I’ll text you – tell you all about it,’ she said absent-mindedly.

  ‘You will?’

  She turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Yeah, but you can’t tell ANYONE.’

  ‘Course I won’t.’

  She could only worry about herself right now. She was determined to have her own life, at least while she was still sane. Her mum had a ‘bad case of schizophrenia’ as the social workers called it, which made Raya wonder if there was ever a good case.

  Over the last months, Raya had started hearing and seeing odd things. They didn’t match her mother’s description of schizophrenia – ‘like living in your own personal horror movie’. Instead, Raya got simple pictures or sounds: the colour orange when she thought about her current foster carer, Angie; the sound of church bells right before something changed in her life, like getting a new social worker last week. I’ll be happy to miss that circus.

  Raya didn’t tell anyone about these things she saw or heard, afraid of finding out she was losing her mind like her mother. Besides, having had a bellyful of being in care, this was one more reason to get out and have a life of her own – while she could.

  Tonight she’d meet her boyfriend Tony – he was in foster care, too – at eight o’clock in front of the petrol station. From there, they would sneak onto the train at Earlswood and stay with Tony’s cousin in Brighton for a night or two, until they got settled. Raya and Tony had fake IDs saying they were sixteen, only a year and a few months away for Raya, so they could work. Tony could fix cars. She’d get a job in a shop or something. They’d make enough to get by. Besides, Tony told her he had a surprise for her tonight. Maybe it was something they could sell.

  ‘Hey, kids. Dinner,’ Angie called from the front room. Raya looked over her shoulder as Jake moped towards the table. A pan of macaroni and cheese steamed. Raya’s stomach gurgled. My luck – figures she’d make my favourite tonight.

  She grabbed her oversized second-hand black leather jacket and rucksack and threaded through the crowded front room towards the door.

  Angie, dressed as always in an embarrassingly bright top and leggings, stood with her oven-mitted hands on her hips. Jake slumped into his usual chair. Angie frowned. ‘You all right, mate?’

  She patted the boy’s head with a still oven-mitted hand. He ducked, nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  At the front door, Raya hoisted on her jacket and swung her rucksack over a shoulder. ‘I’m going to Gemma’s for pizza and to work on our history project. Remember?’

  ‘Tonight? I thought that was tomorrow.’ Angie popped into the kitchen for the salad.

  ‘No, it’s tonight.’ She had to get going if she was going to get there in time.

  Angie put the food on the table and made her way to the door. ‘Wait a minute. Let me say goodbye.’

  ‘It’s not a big deal. I’ll be back in a bit.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Perfect – something to occupy Angie and let me slip out. Raya opened the door. It was her new social worker who appeared more surprised than Raya was. Her lumpy jumper was askew and it looked like she brushed
her hair with a whisk.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ the social worker said looking up at the name of the cottage. ‘I momentarily forgot you live here, um, Rachel. Didn’t mean to bother you, I’ve lost my cat…’ She poked behind a bush.

  Angie joined them at the door. ‘Hi, Miss Braxton, nice to see you.’

  Miss Braxton snagged her sweater as she stood up. ‘Hi, Miss Reece. I’m ever so sorry to disturb you – my cat’s run off again, in this direction. I only live over there.’ She gestured towards an old stone cottage with purple trim and a turquoise door. Figures. It was beyond the field behind Angie’s cottage. ‘He keeps sneaking onto the trains heading for London. Thought I’d save myself a trip to whatever train station they throw him off at.’

  And SHE’S supposed to sort out MY life?

  ‘Sneaking on trains? That’s pretty clever,’ Angie said.

  Bryony sighed. ‘I’ll give him that.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen any extra cats around. Have you, kids?’ Angie turned to look at Jake who sat at the table eating. He shook his head.

  Oh for God’s sake. I can’t miss my life because of some dumb cat. ‘No, I haven’t seen it. But, Miss Braxton – why don’t you use your powers to find him, being a witch and all?’ Raya gave an innocent smile: didn’t believe in all this witching stuff, thought it was a load of rubbish people made up to feel better about themselves. This woman certainly needed to.

  ‘Rachel… we all know Miss Braxton’s an “integrator”.’

  A taxi rumbled past them at the end of the short, unmade road.

  Bryony laughed. ‘I don’t mind the old term. You’re right, Rachel, my skills aren’t helping at the moment – they’re not fail-safe, unfortunately.’ She looked behind some more bushes.

  Raya felt embarrassed for her. ‘Right, sorry. I was just leaving. Bye, Angie. Bye, Miss Braxton.’ She had to stop herself from saying ‘have a nice life’. She stepped away, but Miss Bryony Braxton, social worker and witch, or the more politically correct term, integrator, grabbed her arm.

  ‘Wait, I just saw something,’ Bryony said, squinting into the middle distance. ‘I’m only getting flashes, but Raya, don’t go…’

  Bryony’s grip felt like a magnet stuck to her arm. Raya saw multi-coloured swirls. She yanked her arm away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bryony said.

  ‘I’m only off to my friend Gemma’s. I’ll be fine.’ Without giving them a chance to respond, she crunched down the gravel road then ran to catch the taxi.

  The taxi idled outside of the boarded-up shop on the corner. The driver was putting the car into gear as Raya flung open the back door and jumped in. ‘Sorry,’ she said between pants.

  The driver looked at her through the rear-view mirror and shook his head. ‘Only so long I can wait to pick someone up. Where to?’

  ‘The petrol station on the Brighton Road, please. The one past Redhill train station.’

  The taxi drove along the narrow country road to the neighbouring town, about a mile away. They were almost there when a police car whooshed past without any sirens on. It all but skidded to a stop on the side of the garage without windows – the shop where she was meeting Tony.

  ‘Drop me here, please,’ she said a hundred yards before the garage. She unfurled her sweaty palm, paid the driver and hopped out. She walked quickly but casually towards the edge of the forecourt as two officers leapt out of their car, one with a gun drawn. They slunk through the doors. Bollywood music blared momentarily. The door swung shut blocking all but a few notes of the music.

  Raya couldn’t believe what she saw. Her heart jumped into overdrive and her stomach leapt into her throat. Tony was standing at the counter pointing a gun at the man behind the till. A GUN! THIS was his idea of ‘doing something for us’? Was he out of his mind? She wanted to scream, but froze and pretended to look at the newspapers in the boxes outside.

  The man behind the counter stood with his hands above his head. A woman, probably the shopkeeper’s wife, was huddled into the shelves of cigarettes, crying. The armed officer stole up on Tony like a cat, thanks to the loud music, and pointed his gun at Tony’s head. The officer seemed to be talking to him. Tony raised both arms, dangling his gun by two fingers. The officer grabbed Tony in some sort of hold from behind and pressed him against the counter, snatching the gun out of his fingers. The officer whipped Tony’s hands behind his back. Chocolate bars flew off the shelves.

  A man who had been filling his car with petrol opened the door but stopped in his tracks when he realised what was going on.

  ‘It’s plastic,’ the armed officer said. He tapped the gun on the counter. ‘I’ll cuff him, you take statements.’

  ‘You all right?’ the other police officer asked the man and woman shaking behind the counter.

  The man nodded and put his arm around the woman who sobbed into his shoulder. ‘Thank goodness for the emergency call button. Thanks for getting here so fast, officers.’

  The confused customer walked up to Raya. His presence felt protective, safe. She stayed next to him. Besides, running would look bad. Real bad.

  The officer walked outside and up to the two of them, taking a pad and pen out of his pocket.

  ‘I’ll need to take your names and contact details, and I need to know what you saw.’

  ‘I can tell you what I saw, but I don’t think she could have seen much,’ the man said and nodded towards Raya. He had a country accent and kind eyes. ‘She walked up as you fellows were running into the shop.’

  ‘Is that true, young lady?’ the officer said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was on my way to my friend’s, Gemma’s, to study. Thought I’d stop to buy some crisps. I saw you… stop him.’ She didn’t have to fake the quiver in her voice. The older man put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Do you want to sit down a minute?’

  She didn’t. She didn’t want to stay one more second. It took every fibre of her being not to bolt.

  The armed police officer led Tony out of the shop. His hands were behind him in plastic restraints. His cheeks were red, his thick hair flopped over his face with each step. He looked down. The officer put his hand on Tony’s head as he got into the car, like they do on television. It all seemed searingly real and unreal at the same time.

  ‘I’ll need to take your details in any event,’ the officer said to Raya, but she didn’t answer.

  The other customer nudged her.

  ‘Yes, sorry. Of course.’ Before she could decide on fake information, she heard herself telling the officer her real name, mobile number and Angie’s address. She was so angry with Tony; for a second she thought about grassing, but then again, how much did she really know about him anyway if she had no idea he was planning this?

  After the officer had finished with his few questions, she excused herself, although he insisted she take his card in case she ‘remembered anything else’. It would all be on CCTV anyway, he told her.

  She walked robotically off the forecourt, forcing herself to maintain a normal pace past two street lights. Then she allowed herself to trot. After another street lamp, she ran, and ran and ran until the world was a blur and all she could hear was the pounding of her own blood. Hot tears streamed down her face. She rushed into Redhill train station, past the closed ticket booth and onto the deserted platform. She jumped off the end onto the grassy bank.

  Her Doc Martens beat out a rhythm with the swish of her rucksack against her jacket. She was breathing hard, but well within her capacity.

  Two thoughts screamed in her head. How could Tony do this? And did that social worker really know?

  * * *

  After Raya left, Bryony and Angie shared their concerns about the girl. You didn’t have to be a witch to know she was up to something.

  ‘It’s the worry that gets to me – all the rest I can deal with,’ Angie said. She looked through the half-open door at Jake on the couch having finished his dinner. Sounds of television filtered out.

  ‘I know what you mean,�
� Bryony said. They stood silent, watching dusk settle over the field between their homes. ‘I’ll leave my mobile on. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’ Bryony started off down the gravel road.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to ask – what colour is your cat? In case it shows up,’ Angie called after her.

  Bryony turned and gazed at the setting sun. ‘He’s black and white at the moment, and he’s called Oscar. Thanks.’ Bryony smiled for the first time Angie saw that evening. Angie thought describing the cat’s colour as ‘at the moment’ odd, but Bryony was already down the unmade road by the time she realised what she’d heard.

  After seeing that Jake got ready for bed, Angie placed a garden chair at the front of the cottage and brought a cup of tea and her mobile. It felt like the closest thing to doing something as she waited for whatever might happen. She called Raya’s friend Gemma’s house and confirmed she wasn’t there. Time to call the police. She scrolled through her phone for the non-emergency number when she heard a thump – something fell from the roof over the front door. A large black and white moggie blinked up at her.

  Angie startled. ‘My goodness, you gave me a scare. Are you that lady’s cat, “Oscar”?’ The cat wove through her ankles. She bent down and stroked his head. ‘You weren’t hiding from Miss Braxton, were you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ the cat said.

  ‘That’s a loud meow you’ve got there,’ Angie said.

  Oscar looked hard at Angie. ‘How about some roast chicken? With gravy?’

  Angie looked at him.

  ‘You don’t understand me? Oh man, I LOVE you! Even though he realised she couldn’t understand him, he rambled on, so used to living with witches who could. ‘I’ll only stay the night – catching an early train to London tomorrow. Only kidding about the chicken, although I certainly wouldn’t mind.’ Oscar threw himself at Angie who only heard a lot of meowing. He rubbed side-long against her legs, vibrating his tail straight in the air, making his eyes big.

  Angie stepped back, ‘All right, all right – no need for a whole song and dance. You can stay ‘til tomorrow. I’ve got bigger problems right now.’ She opened the door and he sauntered in. She returned to her phone and was just about to dial the police when a tear-stained Raya trudged up. Angie cancelled the call.