The Silver Witch

Come on. Work, dammit. Work!

Suddenly there is a fizzing noise, a flashing, the lights flicker again, and then stay on.

Yes!

A cheer rings out through the pub. Tilda joins in, smiling at the thought that no one else can have any idea how happy she is to see those lights working.

‘What do you want to drink?’ Dylan appears at her elbow. He has an easy smile, with bright white teeth and eyes that have a mischievous sparkle to them. He rubs his hands together and nods at the array of taps on the bar. ‘Mike’s a real ale man. One or two stunning little beers here. The Mountain Goat’s a bit strong, but you might like Hiker’s Heaven. Or Sheep Dip, that’s popular around here.’

‘Sounds like you’re a bit of an expert,’ Tilda says.

‘Oh, I do my best to support local businesses,’ he tells her.

‘Well, I need to eat something before I have a drink or I’ll fall over. I’ve got to try the steak and kidney pudding.’

‘With chips?’ asks the barmaid, tapping the order into the till.

‘Definitely with chips.’ Tilda finds her mouth actually watering at the thought of the food. ‘And half a shandy while I’m waiting, please.’

‘Lightweight,’ Dylan teases, ordering himself a pint of the famous Black Sheep ale.

When she sits on the settle, close to the fire, Dylan slides along to sit beside her, and Lucas takes the chair opposite. Thistle stretches out in front of the hearth, her earlier nervousness appearing to have lessened. The room is wonderfully warm, so that Tilda has to remove her hat, scarf and coat. She can feel a dozen pairs of surreptitious eyes upon her now, her striking hair revealed, her face no longer partially obscured by all her winter clothing, her eyes exposed as she takes off her sunglasses. She senses that Dylan is going out of his way not to stare, not to notice, whereas Lucas is still looking at her as if she were a rare specimen that he might label and exhibit in a museum, given half a chance. She is amused to find that she cares less about them noticing her albinism than she does about the fact that she hasn’t washed her hair for an age.

Better odd-looking than scuzzy. Pure vanity, silly woman.

‘Professor Williams tells me you are a ceramic artist, so you’ve an interest in Celtic art, am I right?’ Lucas asks.

‘Yes, for my own designs. But … well, apart from that, I want to learn more about the history of the place. You know, being new here, I’d like to find out … stuff.’ She is aware how badly she is explaining herself, and knows it is because of what she is not saying.

Ghosts and murders: discuss. Not an easy conversation opener over lunch.

Dylan takes a couple of gulps of his pint and then leans close to Tilda.

‘My uncle is pretty much the expert on local history around here, you know. I’ve never heard anyone ask him a question he couldn’t answer.’

‘Yes,’ she says, nodding and sipping cautiously at her shandy, ‘and he’s been really helpful already. It’s just that, well … I’m curious about the dig.’ She turns to look at Dylan, just quickly enough to catch him gazing at her hair. He meets her eye and then looks away, mumbling an apology into his beer. Standard embarrassed reaction. But then he raises his eyes again and regards her steadily, his face serious. He sighs, seemingly about to speak, but then does not. There are a few seconds, a fleeting moment, where he is awkward, having been found out, and his guard has dropped. The grin is gone. So is his habit of making light of everything, keeping things upbeat. Safe. She likes this version of him better. Out of habit, she continues talking to smooth over his discomfort, but, really, there is no need. An unspoken apology has been given and accepted. She understands that his interest is not voyeuristic, nor is it morbid curiosity, but it is something genuine. Sincere. ‘I’d like to know about the grave.’ She turns back to Lucas, who has missed what passed between her and Dylan entirely as he was busy texting. ‘Who do you think you’ve found?’ she asks him.

As he speaks, Lucas looks at her without faltering, yet his gaze does not connect. Rather his eyes move to take in all her features, all her strangeness, as if filing it away. ‘It would be easy to jump to conclusions, given the pointers we’ve found … Point is, I’ve learnt from the many digs I’ve been involved in, things are rarely as obvious as they seem. Human lives are complicated … and people sometimes, well, they go out of their way to hide things. Or at least, to make them less simple to discover.’

‘Perhaps the dead don’t want us digging up their secrets,’ Dylan suggests, wiping beer foam from his top lip.

Lucas gives him a hard stare. ‘Some people have a problem with disturbing a grave, however well-meant the investigation. If you are one of those, why did you agree to dive for us?’

Dylan shrugs. ‘Every man has his price. Isn’t that what they say?’