The Haunting of Violet Gray

by Emily Sadovna

  “Mason.” Finally, a uniformed officer beckoned him to follow him into the room. Another important-looking soldier was sitting behind a desk with a clipboard and a pen.

  “You are a docker I see, Mason, and currently a fire marshal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would expect a man of your limited education to struggle with the aptitude tests. How did you find them?”

  “All right, sir,” Joe said, trying to sound respectful.

  “You surprise me, Mason. That is a rare occurrence. My experience of your sort is—what is the rhyme, Officer Hughes? Oh yes, Hampshire born, Hampshire bred, strong in the arm, thick in the head!” The man seemed to find this insult thoroughly amusing.

  Joe felt his hands heat; he clenched his palms to prevent them from setting fire to something. Since he’d awakened his power, it seemed to have a life of its own.

  “Well, Mason, you excelled. Your scores were equivalent to Oxbridge students. Well done. Lord knows how. So just a formality, we’ll whiz you through the medicals, and I am sure we’ll have you up in the clouds in no time. While you wait, humour me, would you? See if you can manage these.” The man pushed several crosswords towards Joe.

  The queue for the medical was long, so he relished the chance of bashing out a few crosswords and number puzzles.

  “Officer Hughes, show the man to the doctor.” He waved me off, already skimming the scores of the next applicant.

  Joe finished the crosswords quickly, and a soldier, who had been peering at his progress inquisitively over his shoulder, whipped them off him and passed them back to the first officer.

  Joe stood still while he was prodded, poked and manhandled. The doctor shone a light in his eyes and probed his throat. He noticed a serviceman tapping on the table to his left.

  “How many times did I tap the machine?”

  “What machine?” Joe enquired.

  “You should have heard several clear chimes ring from the machine. How many did you hear?”

  All he could hear was the shrill ringing of tinnitus in his left ear, so he guessed. “Seven?”

  The man scrawled on his clipboard. “Again, how many times?” He heard nothing except the ringing.

  “Ten.”

  The officer scribbled again on his paper, and a red “failed” stamp slammed over the black accepted mark of the previous test. All of Joe’s dreams smashed by a flick of that smug soldier’s wrist. Heat spread through his body. He had to leave before he ignited.

  “Errr, sir, I regret…”

  “Look, sir, a bomb exploded a couple of days ago. I have tinnitus. Can’t hear much at the moment. I will be as right as rain in no time,” Joe pleaded.

  “I am sorry. It is policy, and airborne communication is a necessity. We cannot risk mishearing instruction.”

  Joe stormed out of the building. He banged the side of his head with his hand, infuriated. He turned and kicked the wall. “My hearing has always been perfect. Why now?” he asked himself. He felt in his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and turned, slamming his back against the wall.

  “Well?” Violet appeared unexpectantly.

  His spirits rose a little on seeing her bright face. “Smashed the aptitude tests!”

  “That’s marvellous,” Violet gushed.

  “Failed the fitness. I have dodgy ears all because I saw fit to rescue a stupid little kid when he decided a bomb was a good playmate. I have tinnitus. Bloody ringing in my ear. Couldn’t hear a thing in the hearing test. So my contribution to the war effort will be the same as ever. A fire marshal who happens to be good at crosswords who dabbles with a bit of magic doing bugger all in stopping those fascists taking over the world.”

  “Crosswords. What kind of crosswords?” Violet questioned Joe.

  “Something they give out to stop us going dolally with boredom in the queues.”

  “You said they were easy. You did them quickly? What sort of crosswords?”

  “Cryptic shit, mostly. Easy.”

  Violet’s mind wondered, and she was flicking through a little pocketbook.

  “Go and have a cup of tea, darling. Do not leave. I have to make a phone call.” She promptly disappeared towards the officer’s quarters.

  Joe pulled up a metal-framed chair to the trestle table in the beige canteen. He exchanged his ration coupon for a cup of tea. He winced as he swallowed the weak dishwater. His rations would not stretch to milk let alone sugar.

  A couple of officers marched into the mess room searching for someone. Their eyes met Joe’s. He looked behind; his heart began to race. They were looking directly at him. He scoured his memory searching for something he may have done wrong.

  “Mason?”

  Joe looked up. He felt like a naughty schoolboy.

  “Yes.”

  One of the men was Hughes. “Mason, come with us if you please. Our chief wants a word.”

  Joe felt like he had been sent to his old headmaster, wondering how many strikes of the cane he would get for cockiness and disrespectfully outsmarting the teacher. That had happened many times during his short stint at the school he’d left at thirteen. The old boys didn’t have a clue and got their sums wrong all the time.

  The soldiers tapped gingerly at the door. “We have Mason, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  The soldiers beckoned Joe into the room. The commander gestured to the seat. Joe perched on the edge of the sticky dark green leather chair.

  “Congratulations, Mason. You have surprised me again. It appears you are not only rather bright; you have connections. Father a member of the Lodge, one presumes? Freemason? I know, I know, funny handshakes, old boys network, secrets. I won’t pry.”

  The commander finalised an address with his elegant hand. The ink glistened on the paper for a moment, and he blew it to dry the message.

  “Arrive at this location at 11.30am tomorrow morning. You will meet two men. Do not be late. I am presenting an opportunity for you to do your bit for king and country and put that brain of yours to good use. Good luck, boy. Dismissed.”

  The paper read, Southampton Central Station, Platform 2.

  Puzzled, Joe left the building.

  He glanced around; there was no sign of Violet or her bike. He checked his watch. It was near teatime. There was another meeting at Toothill tonight. More guff about Operation Cone of Power he assumed.

  There was a long walk ahead, and he was hungry. He hoped there would be food there.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and plodded through the ruins of the city and out into the countryside, rerunning the disappointment and revelations of the day.

  Joe felt darkness envelope him as his dreams and hopes crumbled. If he had not done the right thing and helped that boy, he would be on his way to becoming a pilot. Joe made a pact with himself. He was only going to look after himself from now on and put himself first. To hell with the needy.

  The beacons in the woods on the edge of Toothill were being lit to draw the bombers away from the city. He glanced behind to see the city plunge into darkness from curfew. There was a small shard of light glowing under the blankets serving as blackout curtains in the hut ahead. Joe opened the door. Tonight the mood was sombre. No music, no beer, just a mismatch of eccentric witch folk and the wispy-haired Granville, filled with self-importance in his Home Guard uniform. Joe was surprised to see how many ancient weapons he managed to conceal in his oversize coat. There were papers scattered on the table. He scanned a headline,

  July 10, 1940: Luftwaffe launches Battle of Britain. The German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, has mounted a series of attacks on shipping convoys off the southeast coast of England.

  Granville was sitting next to a bald man with a peculiar combination of piercing, intense eyes and a jaunty bow tie, like the devil had possessed a teddy bear. The usual crowd of people were quietly chatting and waiting for Granville to call the meeting to begin. Granville glanced towards the door then said, “Welcome, my dear friends, brothers and sisters
of the coven. With a heavy heart in the wake of the terrible news marking the beginning of the biggest battle Britain has ever faced on her shores, we must begin arrangements for our glorious fight.”

  There was a polite ripple of applause when the doors to the hut crashed open, and Violet and Tom tumbled through, in roars of laughter. They froze when greeted with an icy reception.

  “Violet, dear, I am glad you could join us. And this young man is?”

  “Thomas, sir.” Tom flashed red and bowed his head apologetically. The pair scurried to the table, pulling up a couple of chairs next to Joe. They were still biting their lower lips, restraining their laughter. Joe noticed the bald man smiling affectionately at Violet. The masses firmly disapproved of the late arrivals’ behaviour.

  “Shall we continue? We are a privileged few because when we embraced the goddess, she bestowed powers onto us that can help save England from the onslaught of evil.” His cheery expression for a second time became dark as his eyes seemed to mist over briefly. “My dear friend and acquaintance, Crawley”—Crawley nodded slowly at the introduction, and his penetrating gaze seemed to reduce the room into further obedience—“has coached me in his wisdom of all the old ways, and together we have been able to forge a wonderful and powerful marriage of the ancient arts of Wiccan with the mystique of the Lodge and the Freemasons, and with it the support of some very influential men and women. A revolution has taken place with the evolution of a new religion, one that I hope will one day become as popular as Christianity…”

  The door swung open a second time, and the starlet vision of Anne sashayed without apology across the floor. Crawley’s face was thunderous and began to glow purple. He quickly snorted a powdery substance from his hand. His pupils grew to create a frightening demonic black stare like a raven king perched on a tower.

  “Operation Cone of Power will commence at 11.55pm on Thursday, the first of August, in six days on Lammas. We hope for clement weather but ensure you bring the necessary ointment to protect yourselves from the cold as, of course, the ritual must be skyclad because clothes will hinder the magic emitted from your bodies. There will be around seven hundred witches from across the nation. The meeting place is in the clearing adjacent to the Rufus Stone at the heart of the New Forest, Burley at nine o’clock sharp. Lammas celebrations will commence, and we begin our dances and preparations. Ensure your bodies are clean and you have toileted. Any pollution from dirt will render the ritual ineffective. I will assume the role of high priest and will begin the proceedings at the point of the pentacle. Our four strongest young elements will take positions in the inner circle. They will be my little moonbeam, Violet, of course, which will bring the element of air, Thomas Mason, the element of water, Anne Sabine, earth and Joseph Mason will bring the fire.”

  Joe choked and sputtered at the sound of his name. Violet gently cupped his knee below the table to reassure him. “Darling, it is a position of great honour.”

  “The remaining souls will link hands, creating circle after circle to concentrate their power towards the apex of the cone within the centre of the pentacle. That brings me to dearest Archibald. I am honoured and proud to introduce the very great and brave Archibald Hewitt.”

  Archibald struggled his feet. He had become frailer since the last meeting. Cancer ravaged his lungs.

  “Archibald is tired of life and has graciously agreed to offer his body as sacrifice to the goddess, ensuring the success of the ritual.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered poor Archie. I gasped in horror.

  Joe left the hut and lit a cigarette. Tom followed, he deftly flicked a cigarette into his mouth and Joe tossed him his lighter. They glanced up to see a flashy-looking Rolls-Royce trickling down the gravel road away to Romsey. Joe realised Anne had slipped away discreetly.

  “Tom, have you seen Anne?”

  “No, I think she got in that car that drove away,” he said flippantly.

  “Who with?”

  “I have no idea. Must be someone important.”

  “Anne seems to be moving up in the world. And to think I thought she was holding me back! Hey, you and Violet are getting cosy,” Joe enquired accusingly.

  “Oh, we ran into each at the base. We grabbed a bite, then came here,” he said while lamely attempting to hide a triumphant grin.

  “Besides she was with you all day, wasn’t she? She spent most of our evening talking about how clever you are and how she got you a meeting with Crawley’s MI6 lot,” Tom said with jealousy.

  Joe coughed on the stream of smoke. “MI6?”

  Violet appeared in a cloud of freshly applied perfume and glossy with a new coat of lipstick. “Boys, I am going to jump in with Granville and Crawley. They have some messages for me to deliver in the morning, which we shall discuss over a cocktail at Granville’s house.” She hastily kissed them both and left.

  Joe began the long walk back to the docks. There was plenty of time to mull over the meeting and the burden of the pending ritual and the sacrifice of poor Archie. The rejection from the RAF hung around his shoulders like a dense black mass. However, the excitement of the mysterious meeting tomorrow provided fuel to drive him forward. He wondered if the meeting was with MI6.

  Joe still couldn’t shift the feeling of dread. He was filled with crushing jealousy over Violet’s relationship with Tom. Why shouldn’t she choose Tom? He was a dashing pilot. After all, perhaps she would regret her choice when Joe became a government spy, he thought, laughing to himself.

  Joe kicked a stone. The gravel crunched behind him as a motorbike and sidecar appeared. It was Tom.

  “Do you want a lift?”

  Joe saw his flashing smile and his uniform under his heavy brown flying jacket then the tiny pod of a sidecar.

  “Bugger off. I am not going in that.” Joe nodded to the sidecar.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “C’mon you stubborn bastard. It’s dark, and it’s a bloody long way back, and who is going to see you?”

  Tom sped away towards Southampton with Joe perched in his sidecar leaving his pride way behind on the roadside, thankfully with his aching feet.

  “See you Thursday.” Tom waved and sped off to his house a few streets down.

  CHAPTER 18

  Present

  I awoke from the vision. I was sitting on a chair with my wrists tightly bound. Why did the vision come now? What was it telling me? If Joe and Joab were the same person, Joe was really upset. Did the rejection from the RAF and the summons to join MI6 send him down some kind of dark track? Is it telling me to be wary of Joab?

  I didn’t have time to contemplate the messages of the dream. The music had stopped. I glanced around, still weary and light-headed. It was difficult to focus on the sea of faces. I searched for Tom. I hoped he had left and found the book.

  The wild dancers had become statues, some with wide pupils and bloodshot eyes. Their gazes fixed expectantly on me, anticipating I assumed, my sacrifice. There was a black velvet cloth draped over a small table and on it were some objects—a silver cup, a plate containing pieces of bread or cake and several candles. I gasped when I saw a dagger.

  I was suddenly aware of a presence behind me and warm breath on my neck then a whisper. “I am here for you. Don’t worry. Whatever happens, I will keep you safe. I meant it when I said I love you.”

  I realised I’d barely breathed in the last few minutes. I felt a tear come to my eye. I began to shake.

  I whispered urgently back to Joab who was checking the silk binding around my wrists. “Help me. Please, I don’t know what to do.” Joab said nothing and walked towards the stage.

  “Drum roll please…” Joab’s concern for me seemed to vanish as he spun around and slid across the stage, grabbing the microphone. He seemed to have become some circus ringmaster. “Ladies and gentlemen, witches, warlocks and all the wicked creatures.” Joab’s glint in his eye and mischievous grin urged jeering from the crowd. “I command your attention for I have the greatest of pleasures to introduce you t
o our high priestess of the largest original coven of witches left in England.”

  The music started again, and lights searched the stage, reflecting a large pentacle on the floor.

  Another light shone as a woman draped in a black cloak with a slash of a red dress beneath emerged on the stage, languishing elaborately over a large prop, which appeared to be a shining moon crescent. A man with the bowler hat and another with the striped top removed the cape revealing Annie. Her eyes were painted dark into perfect cat’s eyes, and her mouth was full and red to match her dress, which was the colour of freshly spilt blood. Her hair was waved and coiffed like an old-time movie star. Her arms stretched high above her head, and she was clutching a ruby-encrusted dagger and chalice. There was a roar from the audience.

  “I, the high priestess of the order of the New Forest Coven of witches, summon the goddess to speak through me. Tonight, I am your mother of the darksome and the divine, say to thee, oh children of mine.” There was another eruption of cheers. “Mine the scourge and mine the kiss of the five-point star of love and bliss. Here I charge you with this sign.”

  She flung her arms down and spread her fingers and slowly pulled them in front of her as she physically lifted the pentacle that rose to shine on the black cloth suspended above the stage. An electronic beat accompanied her speech, elevating her sermon to poetry. “All ye assembled here tonight bow before the spirit, whom I symbolise with my body as your elected high priestess. I summon the soul of bright Aphrodite, Arianrhod, lover of the horned god, mighty queen of witchery and night, Astarte, Hecate, Astaroth, Dione, Diana, Brigine, Melusine. I bid welcome to hell’s dark mistress and heaven’s queen.” Then she released a cage of crows, which swooped over the heads of the screeching audience.

  The beat of the music grew louder, and fire lanterns were ignited by magic. A group of people had gathered in the shadows behind Annie. More figures gathered directly next to the stage. She spread her arms wide and flung her head back, rippling her hair. She fell into the arms of two men who lifted her and carried her to the front of the stage. She dived into the waiting hands of her adoring coven, who passed her Christ-like until she reached the altar.