Witch Hunt

Chapter Twenty-One




Maggie’s surprised but ostensibly pleased husband, Jules, led me into the back extension of their house, where the editor of Mercurial was holding court. It must have been a long meeting because everyone’s faces perked up at the interruption. When I plonked a bottle of white on the table a small shout went up.

‘Saved by the belle!’ Rik applauded his own pun.

‘All right, all right.’ Maggie rolled her eyes at the gathering. ‘Well we’ve covered enough ground. I was going to go over the Artside launch but that’ll be enough for tonight. Especially as Sadie has got the first round in. Anyone up for red?’

I nodded at Maggie and gestured for a large one and

we proceeded into Maggie’s kitchen. It was a nice bright extension with a modern finish and all mod cons, and after the day I’d had it was exactly where I wanted to be. I’d detoured here before home. There was something I had to do. In the minutes after the phantom disappeared I had worked out what that was. She’d told me.

Maggie didn’t look put out to see me but I felt I had to explain myself. ‘Sorry to butt in, Mags, but I’ve had a bizarre sort of day. Needed to see someone sensible.’

‘And you thought of me?’ She reached up to a rack on the kitchen cupboard and presented me with a bottle of red. ‘This one’s better than what you brought.’ Then, clocking the paleness of my face she added, ‘You all right, love?’

I grimaced as she handed me the corkscrew but nodded. I knew, after our last conversation, I’d have to edit my words carefully.

Maggie sussed my hesitation. Her face dropped for a moment. ‘What’s up? Everyone okay? Your dad? Dan, is he okay?’

‘I still don’t know where Dan is, I’m afraid. It’s a worry,’ I sighed and uncorked the bottle, pouring two large ones into bulbous glasses. ‘Can I run something past you?’

There was an exasperated tone to my voice that Maggie caught at once. ‘You want a fag?’

‘More than ever,’ I said and handed her a glass.

We swept through the living area, where she deposited two wine bottles with the crew, and on through a conservatory into the garden porch. Despite its state of the art interior, Maggie’s garden was a thing of the past: a long stretch of land that flowed downhill towards the seafront and thus gave a good view of the sea. However, its high fences and drooping apple trees lent it protection from the coastal winds.

Maggie got into the swing chair and I came and sat beside her. ‘So what’s eating Gilbert Grape?’ she said.

I’d already decided on my way over here that I was going to omit any mention of the supernatural. There was no point communicating any of that to Maggie. She would try to rationalise it, as she had the messages and the girl in the mirror. She wouldn’t get it. It wouldn’t touch her. Someone like Mags would never understand or believe it unless she experienced it for herself. And even then, she still might not trust herself. Just as I hadn’t – until tonight. Until she told me.

So I began with the trip to the castle. I told her I’d got stuck in the gaol because someone had played a prank and shut the door. That I’d got very distressed and it had made me realise just how terrible it had been for the women that were imprisoned in that tiny dreadful space and how unjust that was.

And then I hit her with it. It had appeared in a flash, when she had pleaded for ‘mercy’.

‘You know, I keep going on about how awful it was, and how tragic and unfair. I know that most, if not all of the women Hopkins took there, were innocent. But I’m not doing anything about it other than just writing it down.’

Maggie shifted in the chair and crossed her legs.

I carried on. ‘But I could do something more. People do, don’t they? When there’s been a miscarriage of justice …’

Maggie kept her mouth shut and nodded.

‘So I’m thinking – why don’t we try to get a pardon for them? It was a travesty. I mean seriously – it should be put right. They should be forgiven. Acknowledged. In Salem they’ve got a remembrance garden and a plaque and a museum for their twenty-two. There’s one in Lemgo, Germany, for 254 poor sods; a fantastic monument in Vardo, which was opened by the Queen of Norway herself. Lord Moncrieff in Kinross, Scotland, is building a maze to commemorate the execution of local witches by one of his predecessors. And yet we’ve got nothing in Essex. There’s information on the witches and Hopkins in Colchester Castle but nothing else. Not one single monument or confirmation of the human catastrophe. We lost so many more than in Salem. And, you know, monuments, they are a way of coming to terms with the past and of ensuring we remain watchful for intolerance …’

At some point Felicity must have crept out to join us. I hadn’t noticed as I’d been in full flow.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked. Her face was open, but she was smiling, waiting.

Both Maggie and I looked up at her, standing in the doorway of the conservatory nursing a wine glass.

I didn’t know what to say, she had thrown me. ‘I … er … no … I was just thinking …’

‘Where have you been?’ she asked me directly.

I stared at her, lost for words. Why was she asking me that? Could she have known that I’d been to the castle? I was sure I hadn’t mentioned it to her on our last meeting. Nor to Maggie. I’d been too caught up with the mirror episode.

‘Well, anyway,’ she continued when I didn’t muster a response. ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ she said. ‘We could certainly start a campaign.’

‘Thank you,’ I stammered for want of anything else. Flick raised her glass to her lips and calmly took a sip.

I turned my face to Maggie, who seemed not to have noticed my jitters. ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I have already done the ground work: I’ve found the witches. At least the ones on record. Though there were loads more that didn’t leave a paper trail. But we can factor that in …’ I was sitting up, right on the edge of the swing chair. ‘Now I don’t know how we do it but surely there is a way. A pardon is the right thing to do. Or if that’s too difficult, then at least let’s set up a monument, or piece of art, to commemorate the victims. To grant them forgiveness. Mercy.’ I said the last word with a shudder. The poor girl. She had suffered so much. I knew it was her. It had to be.

Maggie sniffed. ‘I’m not sure. We’ve never put our weight behind campaigns.’

Flick stepped away from the conservatory and spoke up again. ‘I know I’m not the editor.’ Her eyes latched onto Maggie. ‘But we can all make suggestions. Right? You were just saying we need to do something bold to bring in more readers, get noticed by advertisers.’ Her words were considered, measured out carefully, framed within a proposition that would suit their audience. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought she’d seen this coming. ‘It fits our profile – it’s to do with culture and perception. I think we should examine the possibilities it might open up for us. But,’ she inched closer to her boss, ‘if nothing else, it’s a brilliant publicity stunt.’

I zipped from Flick to Maggie then back to Flick. The latter winked at me. I leant back into the seat, not sure how to take it. Perhaps I was being oversensitive. Perhaps she was being insensitive.

The swing rocked gently back and forth.

Maggie seemed to be debating the matter with herself and lit another fag. You could tell Flick’s words had struck a chord somewhere in her brain. But she acted cool about it. She looked at Flick once more and said, in a quiet voice, ‘That’s an interesting take.’

I bit my thumb and said nothing.

‘Well, I think it’s an opportunity and I don’t mind leading it.’ Flick was saying more than I’d ever heard her say

before.

The wind crept over the fence and whispered in the apple trees. Maggie blew out a thin line of smoke that was instantly whipped up into the night. ‘You’re very gobby tonight, Ms Flick.’

The art director held her glass with both hands and smiled thinly over the top. ‘You were the one who said I needed to speak out more often in meetings, as when I do I make “valid and insightful comments”. Sic.’

Maggie brushed some bushy strands of hair from her face and took another light drag. ‘God I’m good,’ she said to me, then turned back to Flick. The co-workers shared a smile. Maggie exhaled her smoke with a slight, almost imperceptible, nod and Flick breathed out deeply, like she was satisfied. Then they both turned to me expectantly.

‘What?’ I said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Then I got it. ‘Hang on – I’m not volunteering myself. I don’t think I can do much to help with the administration – I’ve got this book to nail. But, like I said, I’ve got all the research at home. I can point you in the right direction. I don’t mind sharing my sources and evidence …’ Relief was starting to unhinge my shoulders. If they took the bait then perhaps whatever was going on might stop. This would mean she’d get her mercy, wouldn’t it?

Flick drew up a chair opposite us. ‘That’s the main thing we need. It’s almost like you’ve already done your part, Sadie. You’ve hunted down the witches, done the research, now I can go with it and work on it more. Can you come over tomorrow for a chat and I’ll make a start?’

Her eagerness surprised me. But it was welcome.

Maggie narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you two talked about this before?’

‘No!’ We both exclaimed at the same time, then Flick laughed.

Maggie joined in.

I remained silent. I was still too wired to enjoy the gaiety.

Maggie took another mouthful of drink. ‘Well it seems like I’ve got no say in the matter. If Sadie wants to give us the names of the women and the details, and if you’re happy to start working on it, Flick … as long as it doesn’t interfere with the general running of Mercurial then I’d like to see what you can come up with.’

I permitted myself a smile.

‘Top-up, anyone?’ said Maggie.

I nodded. But it wasn’t to celebrate.

When I got home, I turned off the lights and looked into the cracked mirror. The top part of it had come away that night I threw the shoe. My thin tired face looked back, it had a strange expression. The beginnings of fear had wrinkled my forehead. My jaw line was tense and defined. But there was resolution in the firm mouth and beyond the whites of my eyes. I lowered my voice and whispered softly, ‘Are you there?’

The outside light came through the windows and glinted on the cracks in the looking glass.

There was no glow. No movement.

But I needed to tell her, so I said it. ‘We’re going to try and get you a pardon. Do you understand that? You’ll be pardoned. Then you can rest. Do you understand me now?’

Over in the neverworld, nothing stirred.