Witch Hunt

Chapter Seventeen




Felix insisted on buying me tea. ‘You’re going to have a full feast with me now. Women,’ he said. ‘Never eat enough.’ Which was his reasoning for my ‘turn’.

We were in a pub just a short way away from the castle. I had insisted on buying a packet of cigarettes and smoking one outside before entering. My hands were still unsteady, though my breathing had returned to normal. Felix had gone in to order the drinks so I had time to get some nicotine into my system and sort myself out.

The experience in the gaol had left me uncertain and insecure. Immediately after it happened I had been sure I had heard those cries and screams – not fainted and dreamt them as Felix was suggesting. But now I was wondering if I had misremembered the chronology of it all, as Lesley had suggested with the internet messaging. Did that mean the problem was with me?

When my brain unfroze in the antechamber we exited across the drawbridge and my mind dived into a mass of fleeting explanations. I had never been one for flights of fancy. Not until Mum died.

But I knew I was stressed – I had had a lot on my plate lately. Perhaps my frazzled mind could have freaked, going into some kind of weirded-out double-flip. Like a version of déjà vu.

Or perhaps it was a dream? A hallucination? A trick of my subconscious. Had I tuned into the horrors that centred on this room? Picked up on them? Maybe even ‘seen’ a past event?

That sounded daft. There had to be another explanation. A logical, sound, scientific sequence of events that was as solid and authentic as Darwin’s Theory of Evolution. Science, after all, was responsible for illuminating the strange ‘religious’ phenomena of the past: the Northern Lights, eclipses, shooting stars. Not to mention all the diabolism thought inherent in epilepsy, schizophrenia and the like.

As I stood outside the pub smoking I groped for objectivity. The fact that the door had shut on me was an undisputable truth. The rooms down there were airless and anyway, no gust of wind could have moved that heavy oak door; it was a good three inches thick and weighted down with metal bolts and locks.

The attendant was positive it had been kids messing around. There had been a bunch of schoolchildren in the museum that afternoon, but they’d not been more than ten or eleven years old. And there was no noise in the antechamber before it had happened. It seemed rather calculated and cruel. Was it just a prank or had I been selected? Had they been compelled to do it when they saw me in there? Could Hackerman have followed me in?

No, I couldn’t give in to paranoia. I wasn’t special. I had nothing to threaten anyone with, had I?

I flicked through my current pieces of work: the Bennetts’ piece had been filed earlier in the week. And I’d also mailed Maggie my interim piece on Essex Girls. Currently on my list was a write-up of a local artist-come-good, now exhibiting in the West End – that was positive. Who’d want to scupper that? A piece on town-planning and the fascism of architecture – but the local councils I had fingered weren’t interested in what I wrote. I was small fry.

But then there was the Hacker.

I remembered again his last appearance when I’d written about Hopkins’ burial. ‘He wasn’t he wasn’t.’ Could Hackerman be Hackergirl?

I’d heard both a female and male voice in the dungeon and I was sure there were other sounds.

Perhaps someone had been in there trying to freak me out? Though why bother with just one woman? Why not do it to a bunch of kids or adults?

There was no way I was about to entertain any notion that I might be hearing voices. At least not in my head. I recalled Mum’s bad episode, coming home to find her on her knees in the living room, looking under rugs and chairs for listening devices. She had heard voices telling her she was being watched. That she knew too much.

It was heart-breaking. Her eyes were permanently swollen and red and she was so confused and miserable that she wasn’t entirely sure what was real or imagined. It was an awful awful time. And as such, I’d made sure I was always pretty rational, veering towards scepticism. But, I liked to think, compassionate towards those who weren’t as balanced.

So what I was thinking, as I stubbed my fag out on the metallic ashtray, was that maybe what I heard was something that played on long after the initial introduction had stopped, like a secret track on a CD that you only heard if you left it running for a while. A private joke added by the company that made the documentary.

It had been freaky though. I couldn’t imagine kids enjoying that kind of thing, or schools approving of such a disturbing evocation of dungeon life. But at least the authorities knew about it now. I had insisted that the officer reported my experience to her manager. And that in the interests of the old and infirm they took some time to listen carefully to their CD. She’d agreed, finally.

That just left the lights. That one was fairly easy. They must have flickered just before they went out, casting strange shadows in the cells. Then, when they went off, I’d flipped over into terror, and had been both super-sensitive to and disorientated by the sounds and the atmosphere of the castle. Maybe my bag had fallen off my shoulder and touched my leg. It had a long strap and the main body of it hung at calf height when held in my hand.

And the lights themselves? Got to have been a short circuit. Or whoever had dislodged the wedge and shut the door had, in their haste, tripped a wire too.

It was possible.

It was, in fact, probable.

The problem was I didn’t believe my own explanations. I wanted to. Desperately. But I didn’t. As I trundled through the doorway into the warmth of the pub I was doing my damn best to internalise them. But, somewhere a little voice was telling me to be careful. To think about what Flick had said. Could it be?

As I sat down at the table beside Felix I told myself whatever it was, it was certainly unpleasant, and so gladly accepted my editor’s offer of a whisky despite the fact that I was going to drive home.

‘Get this down you,’ he pointed to the glasses on the table. ‘I’m sorry about what happened.’

‘You’re not responsible for the incident, Felix,’ I told him and lifted the glass to my lips. The whisky was rich and warming. I hadn’t realised it up till now but I felt very cold. ‘Must have been the tape.’ There was a lack of conviction in my voice. ‘It sounded like there were actually people in the cells moving and moaning. If it was the sound effects then I don’t think they should continue to use it. It’s too much.’

Felix nodded. ‘They do that in some places don’t they? When we went to the London Dungeon they had these guys who jumped out on you in the scary sections,’ he said, shaking his head at the memory. ‘That guillotine tableau. Euch. Totally over the top. Totally.’

I reflected for a moment. ‘I should complain to the council.’

‘Oh Sadie, don’t blow it out of proportion.’ He leant forwards to me. ‘You’ve been doing lots of research on the subject – your imagination ran away with you. And you are a splendidly imaginative writer. It’s what textures your language and observation. Don’t lose it, use it. Perhaps filter some of the experience into your Hopkins chapters.’ The quartz in his eyes glittered. ‘I like the fact that you were scared. That the whole experience came to life for you. Incorporate it. Bring it to life for your readers.’

I thought about that. Perhaps there was something in what he said. Though I did have one reservation. ‘Don’t you think that people will, er, think I’m mad?’

He threw me a look of triumph. ‘Isn’t madness just a kind of genius?’

I blushed. Had my editor just alluded to genius? In reference to me? Wow. I leant into him. ‘Okay, I’ll be guided by you. It will certainly give it an edge.’

Felix fastened a smile on his face and poked my leg. ‘Hey, you don’t think it was ghosts do you?’ There was a lulling pull in his eyes, a subtle undertone of flirtation.

I took a slug of my drink. ‘I did a series of features a couple of years back for Halloween. Interviewed a paranormal society in the East End. Asked them all about ghosts and urban myths, that sort of stuff. One of them, the main investigator, told me he thought that ghosts were memories.’

‘Memories? Sounds strange.’ He leant in closer. ‘Do tell more.’

‘Okay,’ I said, not entirely comfortable with outlining what could be construed as a particularly wacky theory. ‘Though please bear in mind, that the views expressed here are not necessarily those of the speaker.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Go on!’

‘Okay, what he meant by memories is this – what we see as “ghosts” might be the visual projections of events that have occurred in certain places, perhaps projected by a number of different people, which somehow attach themselves to the physical place. If something sudden or extreme – violent – has happened there, it leaves a residue which some people pick up. Not everyone of course. But some can pick up on it. Or at least some have the latent ability to pick up on it, depending on how they are feeling and their emotional state at the time. Everyone has some spooky story to tell or knows someone who has “seen” something.’

Felix nodded, thinking the idea through. ‘So you’re saying that you think what you heard and saw could be that? A memory of what happened?’

I squeaked out a disapproving snicker. ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort, indeed. That was one of the paranormal society’s explanations.’

‘I’m sure our readers wouldn’t mind a little bit of paranormal hypothesis.’

He grinned.

That was a turn-up for the books, so to speak. I always assumed with non-fiction you had to write just that. But I wanted to please him too. ‘I’ll certainly mention the prison and the gaol and try to evoke what it was like for the women in there.’

‘Very glad to hear it,’ Felix sniffed.

I breathed in and smelt the reassuring whiff of home-cooked sausages, something garlicky, beer and the smoke from the nearby fireplace. ‘I hope the food comes soon. I’m starvin’.’

This time he gave me an open-mouthed smile, treating me to a good view of white teeth, set into that super-strong jaw.

‘So,’ he said and yawned, sinking back into his armchair. ‘Is this a good time to ask you about how the writing’s going?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said and brought the folder out of my bag. ‘I’ve some notes and questions here.’

When we’d finished up, Felix paid the bill. I promised to send him a rough chapter by the end of the week. It wouldn’t be a problem; I’d already started that section. And I wanted him to come back to me with feedback. Actually I just wanted more contact.

Outside on the pavement we stood a metre apart. I wondered for a brief second if he was going to snog me. He had a wild look in his eyes. But then again, maybe it was the flush of whisky. Whatever, he didn’t make a move.

He did, however, offer to walk me back to my car, but I declined.

We kissed, a sort of business-like peck on the cheek, and went our separate ways.

Halfway down the street I had a quick squizz to see if he was watching me, but he wasn’t. His determined figure strode swiftly up the hill and turned right out of view.

I was full of our meeting as I wandered down to the car park. Thinking about the look in Felix’s eyes, the glimmer of triumph, his magnetic, almost bestial, leer that I had caught under the streetlights. On one hand, it felt as though he was reeling me in, sending little signals of seduction. Yet on the other hand, he was staying professional, pushing me away. Mind you, that thing with the pipe had dampened my ardour somewhat. Shame really as he was a pretty decent catch. An unusual man. Complex.

I would have thought on it more but as I approached the NCP an unwelcome dread began to prick at me.

It was dark now and, as I climbed the concrete stairway, one of the fluorescent lights spluttered, sending shadows crawling across the floor, setting my nerves on edge. Disorientated by the flashing light, a small black moth kamikazed off the fitting and straight into my face.

I brushed it off.

God, I hated car parks. They were meant to be safe, but at night, when you were on your own, they felt far from reassuring. And there was a cold similarity to the cells, which brought back that godawful incident.

I hurried up the steps and turned the corner too quickly, finding myself face to face with a bundle of rags. I steadied up. This present landing was darker than the rest. The light had been smashed. I went to tear up the next set of steps, but the pile of rubbish moved. Out of the depths of rags and litter a face emerged. It was dirty and soiled. The eyes glared – narrow, rigid, angry.

‘You woke me,’ he spluttered, cross and indignant.

Through the gloom I could perceive the ragged, baggy jowls of an elderly tramp, camouflaged with lengths of grey curly beard. My nose was overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol, unwashed linen, urine and other bodily emissions.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You gave me a fright.’

The face atop the heap fixed me with a grimace then, almost as if coming out of a daydream said, ‘What are you doing?’

His ‘r’s purred like a Dorset type. This was the North Essex accent, uncommon in my south-easterly end of the world, with its pinball machines, neon lights and eroded consonants. He sounded rough, smacking of rural isolation: quaint, and a bit thick, but nonetheless, in my present setting, disturbing. I leant back into the shadows. ‘Getting my car. It’s on Level 4.’

That seemed enough of an explanation for him. He appeared to relax back a moment, then had second thoughts, and lurched forwards. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ It was a statement voiced as a threat.

I stepped against the damp concrete wall. I was on my own. With a perfect right to be there. He was a tramp – I needn’t explain myself but I said, or rather, I shouted as I circled his space to get to the next flight of stairs, ‘Just going up. All right?’

But then he lunged. Fortunately his age and decrepitude made him slow and I saw the move coming and leapt up a step out of reach. ‘The car,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

The poor bloke fell at my feet, his arms all of a quiver. ‘Just you leave well alone,’ he rasped through a voice long unused, breaking on the soft consonants. ‘It’ll do you no good …’ The remainder of his words were engulfed in phlegmy fits of coughing, his body racking considerably against the upheaval incurred by his lungs.

I turned to face him but kept my back up against the wall, inching upwards step by step. The guy was clearly delusional and belonged in some aftercare establishment. I looked down upon him, for he had reached my feet now, his grimy fingers edging up to the points of my boots.

With a jerk he threw himself towards my legs. ‘Leave us.’

He got hold of one of my ankles. It knee-jerked me, literally into defence, and I’m ashamed to admit I kicked him off. As his arm threw up against the wall I screamed, ‘Get out of it,’ and leapt up the remaining stairs two at a time to my level, panting like I was finishing a half-mile run.

Jesus. What a day. First the castle, now this. There were a lot of these types around these days. Had there been a change to the mental health act? This poor sod was obviously off on one. No need to read anything into it.

Nevertheless, I did my best to reach my car as quickly as possible.