Witch Hunt

Chapter Twenty-Two




The Mercurial office was busy. A C-list actor and his agent were in for an interview with Maggie. Françoise and Lola were skipping and cooing around them like a couple of overexcited pigeons.

‘Do you want to get a coffee at the Railway?’ Felicity asked, with a minute nod towards the activity going on at the other side of the room.

‘Good idea,’ I said. My mood was pensive and I was very tired. Last night my mind had gone into overdrive and banished any possibility of sleep. I lay in bed alert, waiting for something to happen, listening to the stiff breeze in the oak trees outside. Then, just as dawn broke I managed to drop off, only to be woken by my mobile an hour or so later.

It was Amelia, the woman I had met at Uncle Roger’s party. She had, she said, some information that she thought I might be interested in and asked when I was planning to visit Manningtree. I told her I was thinking sometime this week.

‘You can’t make it tomorrow can you?’ Her voice kept going up and down, like she was all keyed-up. ‘I’m going on holiday this Thursday and I really think you would be interested in this.’

‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’ I didn’t like being pinned down.

‘Not really, I have to show you some primary texts.’

That sounded interesting so I agreed to have dinner with her. ‘At the Thorn Inn,’ she said. ‘It’s the perfect place. I’ll book the table.’

I thanked her and hung up, realising that I would be unlikely to drive back that late at night. So, I phoned the Inn and booked a double room. The idea of spending a night in the place where Hopkins had interrogated his victims filled me with dread but, I realised, if there was something strange lurking in the air around me, then it was most likely to come through there – like it or not. And I had stuff to convey now to the girl spirit. Something that might help me put an end to this business.

And, on a more practical note, I needed to go there for my book. Especially if Felix now wanted an ‘emotional’ response. It was an essential destination. I would just have to be strong, though the thought of it was draining.

Thankfully Flick seemed to have enough energy for both of us. She wrapped up her current piece of work and gathered together notebooks while I photocopied the information I thought she would need. Then we wandered across the road to the pub.

‘You seem very enthusiastic about all this,’ I said cautiously, as we settled at a large wooden table in the Railway Hotel. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty empty: just a couple of old regulars at the bar and a sad-looking punk who was sipping a pint of stout very very slowly.

We selected a place by the Victorian fireplace. Dave, the landlord, had stoked a fire and this part of the pub looked particularly cosy and snug.

‘I really want to be involved,’ she said. I let my hair fall over my face as I reached for my file, but continued to watch her through the black strands. Her plucked eyebrows accentuated a sharpness about her nose, but she was an attractive woman and she knew it. ‘I had a thing about it when I was younger.’ She blew on her coffee. ‘We all do, don’t we? Witches and goblins, they’re all magical and otherworldly. I got into Goth a long time ago. Not all of us want to hear about being in love or wanting to dance. Personally I like a bit of a wallow sometimes. And the subject matter that gothic bands cover is really extensive.’ She was nodding quickly as she spoke. ‘Ghosts, the undead, legends of old. There’s an entire Goth-Pagan subculture too which is really interesting. And I believe in all that, don’t you?’ She looked at me, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I mean, I’d like to believe in it. But anyway all of this stuff about the witches – it’s not only fascinating, it’s real.’

‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And it’s dark.’

‘Yes. You don’t like that then?’

I met her eyes. Was there more than curiosity lurking behind them? Or was I becoming paranoid? I looked at Flick’s slender frame elegantly perched on a chair opposite me. I could see the gothic influence in the dark eyeliner, the dyed black wispy hair. Her clothes weren’t studded or frilly but they were black – t-shirt, boots, low-rise skinny jeans. She had peachy skin as pale as a china doll’s. As she held my gaze I wondered how old she was? Late twenties, maybe early thirties. It was hard to tell – her skin was so good. Too good actually.

I didn’t mean to come out with it then but it just popped out. ‘Have you had Botox?’ I asked her.

She looked surprised. ‘Nice body swerve,’ she said. ‘If I answer your question, it’s only fair you answer mine.’ She smiled. The skin about her eyes didn’t crinkle.

I took a breath. In for a penny … ‘Okay.’

She leant forwards on the table and angled her face towards the light coming in from the windows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here,’ she touched her forehead, ‘and here,’ gesturing round her eyes. Then she looked at me and laughed, then propped her chin on the palm of her hand. ‘So – how about you?’

‘My research has taken me to a lot of dark places,’ I told her and added, ‘literally. A while ago I would have told you that I wasn’t attracted to the darkness. But that would be inaccurate.’

I swallowed the coffee. A young man in a scarf came in through the door nearest to us, letting in a gust of wind which nearly scattered the papers spread across the table. Felicity stretched her arm over them till the door closed again

‘But,’ I continued, ‘I am compelled by the story of Rebecca West.’

It was her, you see, who had come to me. It had to be. She was the shadow on the beach: a young, fragile form. Though I hadn’t seen it I had a strong impression of her. I knew she had betrayed her mother, and now she was asking for forgiveness. For mercy on their souls. For all of the unfortunates condemned to a monstrous death.

It was Rebecca’s plaintive cry in the prison, and her life I had glimpsed in the layby. She was sorry and she had come to me, because she knew I was sorry too.

‘She was young; only fifteen when Hopkins accused her. But she was manipulated by the Witchfinder and gave testimony against her mother possibly in exchange for their freedom, a deal retracted after the trial. Then she had to watch her mother die on the gallows, twisting and turning like a fish from the brook.’ I stopped. That was an odd phrase. Flick picked up on it too. I changed my tone.

‘Sadly her evidence nailed the guilty verdicts and the death sentences. That whetted Hopkins’ appetite and got him thinking up the rest of the campaign. Who knows what might have happened or not happened if she hadn’t taken to the witness stand? The accused might have got off. In which case Hopkins might have lost interest and gone back to his shipping business instead.’

Flick was staring at me. ‘Really?’

‘Unfortunately so. Without Rebecca’s testimony the whole witch hunt might not have taken place.’

‘Shit. Flick’s eyes roamed over the papers spread between us. ‘She had a lot to be sorry for.’

‘She has,’ I said slowly, then corrected my tense. ‘Though it wasn’t her fault. Let’s not forget that. It was Hopkins who was the driving force behind the witch hunt.’

‘It was indeed,’ Flick nodded. ‘So shall we get to it then?’ she said. ‘Try and even up the score a bit?’

‘Let’s,’ I said and smiled. ‘The old bastard will be turning in his grave.’

‘Good,’ Flick said simply.

I didn’t leave the pub for another two hours. Once she got going Flick was like a terrier, she wouldn’t leave anything alone that she didn’t thoroughly understand. Though I wasn’t convinced she was being completely open with me, I admired her for her thorough approach.

When I had taken her through most of the research I asked her to keep me abreast of any developments.

She nodded. ‘Email all right?’

‘Phone or text is better. I’m planning on going to Manningtree tomorrow. Where it all started.’

Felicity swallowed and grimaced. ‘Fantastic,’ she said.

When I got back to the flat I was knackered. Night had come down quickly and sent messages to my subconscious telling it to go to sleep. Although I didn’t have a hangover I felt seedy and flicked the TV on for company. Automatically I kicked off my shoes and padded over to the windows to shut the curtains.

Though I hadn’t noticed it when I came into the flat I saw now that they were already drawn.

That was weird.

This morning I had done this whole thing about throwing them open and letting the dwindling October daylight in. I clearly remembered doing it.

Perhaps I had closed them without registering before I’d gone out.

But that wasn’t like me. I wasn’t that organised.

I unlocked the balcony doors and slipped outside. It was cold and windy: the moon was quietly tugging in the water. I thought briefly about having a cigarette, got put off by the force of the wind so turned and stepped back into the artificial warmth of the flat. The difference in temperature brought to my attention something else that I hadn’t noticed before – an atypical smell in the flat: the putrid stench of a feral base thing. I winced.

Something must have gone off.

But I was too tired to root it out and instead lit a scented candle then crashed onto the sofa and did a quick channel surf.

Under the loft’s eaves dark unseen things rustled. The scratching was louder. I really needed to sort it out. But right then I just didn’t have the energy and pumped the volume up to drown out the disturbance.

Something splashed on my face, causing me to jump with a jolt.

For a second I was completely baffled, then I put my hand up to my cheek and wiped it. A dark viscous fluid smeared across my fingers. Reddish, the colour of blood.

Another droplet fell, onto my arm this time. I looked up at the ceiling. A dark russet stain was blooming above me. A couple more gobs fell in quick succession, one hitting me in the eye, momentarily blinding me. I wiped it away with a tissue. The stuff was escaping from something in the attic. I knew there were at least three water tanks up there supplying the different flats. One of them must have gone rusty and sprung a leak.

I sniffed the fluid on my hand hearing, simultaneously, a loud crash above.

That was definitely not rats. Perhaps whatever was leaking was falling apart?

A sort of scraping sound moved across the ceiling, away from the location of the crash. Something was up there. Something solid, and very much alive.

As far as I could see I had two options – to flee from the flat or run downstairs to the new neighbours below me. I hadn’t met them yet.

If it was rats I would look like an utter idiot.

This was the downside of living on your own.

Of course there was the other option: I could go up there, with a torch, and check it out myself. After a few nanoseconds I guessed this last thought seemed the most sensible.

So, taking a breath to soothe my now quickening heart, I fetched the flashlight from under the sink and summoned enough courage to go into the hall where the loft hatch was.

It was a wooden rectangle about three feet by four. I had never painted it white like the rest of the ceiling, and for a moment its decades-old wood appeared horribly sinister. Nevertheless I reached up with the pole-hook carefully, unlatched the attic door and lowered it down, fighting back a wave of nausea as the awful smell doubled in potency and wafted downwards.

It was fetid, musky, with whiffs of excrement and waste.

On the topside of the door an aluminium stepladder was fixed. I reached up and unfolded it noting the sound up above was becoming more frenzied. I looked back at the kitchen door, away from the attic, took a deep breath, gathered my resolve, placed the torch in my mouth and with both hands on the ladder, started to climb.

At the top I stopped, removed the flashlight from my mouth, took another steadying breath, and switched it on. The smell was so severe I had to try hard not to gag.

A shuffling in the corner prompted me to shine the torch in that direction.

The amber light danced along the rafters then settled in the corner of the loft.

I stopped dead.

Something large and dark was moving.

This was not a rat.

This was far far bigger.

And hunched over.

Almost human in form.

As my light shone over it, I saw it quiver and heard it make a noise. A low, rumbling sort of sound that made my blood curdle. No way was I tackling this on my own. I edged back gradually trying not to make a sudden move but to my horror, the thing turned towards me. A mess of brown rags came into view – a torso contained within dark filthy cloth. Now petrified, barely able to move, I forced the beam upwards till it hit on something I shall never forget; there, in the small circle of light, a manic pair of devilish eyes blinked and stared back.

For a moment we were both still, locked into a ghastly mutual gaze. Then all at once the thing sprang at me, a wild looping movement that caught me off guard.

I shrieked, ducked under the hatch, and slipped two steps down the ladder. My foot came to rest abruptly on one of the higher rungs. I lost my grip and reached out to grab on to something. My hand closed on nothingness and I fell backwards through the air, landing heavily on my back.

All the air went out of me. I struggled to get up, but could barely gasp: I had been so violently winded. And then the thing came into view through the square gash of the hatch. A frightful, creeping black creature, covered in wild hair, eyes raging and crimson. Brown claw-like hands gripped on to the ledge of the opening, then, it snorted and launched itself down.

I screamed at the top of my lungs as it landed beside me. ‘No, no, no! Get away.’

It flailed its hands in front of me then clamped one entirely over my mouth. I tried to scream again but it had cut off my air.

I was panicking; trying to wriggle out of its grasp so I didn’t register the noise at first. Then something cut through my internal pandemonium: ‘Sadie!’

Someone was calling my name: ‘Sadie, no, no. Stop it, now. Settle.’

The familiarity of the phrase penetrated my terror. My fists unclenched.

I knew that voice.

Barely able to look at it, I slumped and stopped moving. Then, with a gargantuan measure of courage I brought my eyes up to the thing’s face.

‘Sadie. Danger, Sadie.’

I caught its hand and pulled it away from my mouth.

‘What on earth … ?’ I said as I took in its grim haggard features. For beyond the wildness I recognised my mum’s boyfriend, Dan.