by Gwyn G B
When Martha returned to the house, Sophie was sitting on the bed with her mother holding her new brother. Martha felt like throwing up at the sickly sentimentality of the scene, but instead she cheerfully entered the room.
‘He’s beautiful isn’t he,’ she said walking up to them, ‘I’ve brought you that cup of tea you never had the chance to drink Alison,’ she said handing it to her.
‘You’re an angel,’ Alison accepted it gratefully, ‘Martha I can’t thank you enough for your help. I wish I’d made the decision to have him at home anyway, it was so much nicer. Have you heard anything more about the ambulance yet?’
‘Well I’m afraid to say that they actually had a minor accident on the way back from their other job. But I told them not to panic as everything was now under control. You’re quite happy aren’t you?’
‘Yes, fine. I guess we’d both better be checked out to make sure we’re OK, but I’m fine for a while. Did you leave a message for Mary, I’m sure she’d love to come round if she knew, and I’d like to see her.’
‘Yes I’ve left a message.’
‘Oh and my mother, I must ring my mother. Why don’t you do that Sophie, tell granny you’ve got a new brother.’
‘OK,’ she said nodding, but looking at Martha. Martha knew exactly what was going through her mind, it was written all over her face. She figured that if she phoned her grandmother as her mother had told her to, she’d be able to call a halt to the course of events they’d put in motion. Martha would have to sort her out as soon as the sleeping pills in Alison’s tea took hold. It wouldn’t be long now before Alison would start asking awkward questions or getting up and going to the downstairs phone herself, and so she wanted to knock her out as soon as possible so that she didn’t have the hassle. If necessary, she might have to kill her now, but to be honest she really wanted to wait to let her watch as they took away her children. That was all part of the fun, she wasn’t going to halve her triumphant enjoyment unnecessarily, after the amount of work she’d put into this.
‘You’d better drink that tea up and have a rest,’ Martha encouraged Alison, who was so transfixed by her new son and daughter together that she’d forgotten about the cup of tea in her hand.
‘Yes, thanks Martha,’ she said and realising she was thirty and not wanting to upset her friend after all she had done for her, she knocked it back in one. Martha took the cup from her and watched as the sleeping pills quite quickly made her eyelids droop, her mouth fall open and eventually her eyes shut in a drug induced sleep.
Martha snatched the tiny baby off Sophie, who almost tried to resist and looked like she was about to say something.
‘Robert,’ Martha yelled, not taking her eyes off the little girl.
‘Coming,’ came his distant shout and as his pounding feet came up the stairs, Sophie began to get scared, looking around her for some means of escape.
‘Take Sophie and lock her in the downstairs bathroom,’ Martha said as soon as he’d appeared in the doorway. Sophie stepped back in fear.
‘But I have to ring my granny,’ she pleaded, ‘she’ll call us otherwise.’
‘Then I will just have to answer and tell her you are at school and mummy is sleeping. You can’t stop things now Sophie. You were the one who came to me upset about Charlie and then the baby, this is all to help you. You have to live with the consequences now.’ Sophie looked at her sleeping mother and then to her new brother as she was dragged from the room. What had she done?
Later that evening with Alison still drugged and Sophie having cried herself to sleep in her small prison, Martha told Michaela to follow her into the woods. Robert stayed back at the house, the baby was sleeping soundly and Martha had made up some milk with a splash of brandy in it in case he woke up and became annoying.
‘It is time for you to receive your Athame in preparation for the ceremony,’ Martha said to Michaela. They donned their black robes and the old woman gave her a small black box to carry. From within, came the sounds of terrified fluttering and scratching, but Michaela didn’t question, she just followed Martha and once again the pair of them entered the black fringe of the forest. She was very excited, at last she would have her own instrument of power, a gleaming silver blade to command people with and ensure her will prevailed. She’d waited and dreamt about this moment for so long.
They walked to the clearing and Martha set up the altar with black candles and the horns of a goat at its centre to represent their Lord.
Then she took out a knife, which had been wrapped in a piece of goat’s skin. Michaela looked at it hungrily, its silver steel shining in the moonlight, its virginal blade razor sharp.
Martha motioned for her to drop onto her knees before the altar, while she lit the candles, then she joined her. Michaela watched her every move, her throat was dry and her heart beat fast.
‘First,’ said Martha, breaking into her thoughts, ‘we must ask our Lord for his blessing.’ She took Michaela’s hand, wrapping it around the handle of the knife with hers.
‘Dark One, Master, I ask They blessings upon this instrument which we use in They name.’
For a few moments they knelt heads bowed, an arm each, raised to the sky with the knife at the pinnacle of their deformed triangle. Then Martha relaxed.
‘Now we must call upon the forces for their help.’
Michaela wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but she followed the old woman’s lead.
They stayed kneeling on the ground, but this time facing each other before the altar. Again, Martha took her hands, both this time, and wrapped them with hers around the handle of the knife. Then they raised their arms skywards once more, the blade pointing down. Suddenly Martha’s arms plunged towards the ground, Michaela followed and they stabbed the brown earth between them with the steel, the little girl relishing the sound of the metal entering its gravelly flesh.
‘I conjure thee, O knife of Steel, by the powers of the Earth, that thou shalt be of service to our Lord Satan.’
They waited in silence for a short while as though allowing the ground to work its spell.
Then Martha wrenched the blade from the earth and once again they raised it skyward, but this time the blade was uppermost.
‘I conjure thee, O knife of Steel, by the power of the Winds that thou shalt be of service to our Lord Satan,’ Michaela froze and listened to the wind as it whispered to her in the trees and caressed her hair with its breath, teasing her, welcoming her and finally taking her in as one of its own.
Next, they rose together and took the knife to the altar where the candles still burnt, plunging its metal tooth into a flickering flame.
‘I conjure thee, O knife of Steel, by the powers of the flames, that you shalt be of service to our Lord Satan.’ The flame licked at the blade, wrapping its yellow tongue around its surface, tasting it, cleansing it.
Martha took a small glass vial of water and poured it over the knife.
‘I conjure thee, O knife of Steel, by the powers of the water, that thou shalt be of service to our Lord Satan.’ It spat at them, bouncing off the hot surface, cooling Hell’s fire and drowning it in a liquid nightmare. Martha looked at Michaela and laid the knife on the altar. ‘Finally, for the knife to be ready it must be bloodied.’ The role of the black box became apparent and the little girl’s eyes shot over to where it sat. Its occupier had grown silent now, she knew it must sense Satan’s presence and realise that its time had come. She looked back at the coven leader who nodded for her to go and get the box which she then placed at her feet.
Martha bent down and carefully opened the container, plucking a white dove from the black prison.
‘The dove of peace,’ she said to Michaela, her hands wrapped around its neck and body firmly. She pinned it down on the altar. ‘Now take your Athame and cut its throat, let your blade take the blood of peace in the name of our Lord Satan.’
Michaela shook a little now, she’d never done this before, taken something’s life with a knife, but s
he didn’t shake from fear, she shook from excited anticipation. Now the wind seemed to carry Satan’s voice to her, his words urging her on, calling her to kill the bird of peace. Encouraging. Commanding. She obeyed, picking up the knife, wrapping her fingers around its handle of bone and slashing its throat. A pink ravine opened and filled with the red river of its life. Droplets of blood poured onto its white feathers, bouncing off their silky surface and onto the altar. It struggled for only a short while, eyes bulging, beak open, before giving up. Martha let go of its limp body and taking Michaela’s knife from her, used it to carefully smear the bird’s blood onto her face.
‘Your Athame is now ready,’ she said, ‘and so are you.’
36
Mary Leggett’s first call of the day was to old William Beckworth. His community care assistant had called her, concerned that he seemed to be deteriorating. His breathing had got worse and he simply sat the days away staring into space. Mary went to see him, but really only to ensure he wasn’t in any pain or discomfort. She knew there was nothing she could do for him. After Rose had died, he’d just given up, gone into his world of memories. Fifty-eight years of marriage can’t be replaced by medicines and drugs. Old William had a broken heart and Mary knew that whatever they tried, he’d be gone in the next six months because that’s what he wanted. It was the only way he could be reunited with his wife.
It made her sad, seeing such a nice man at the end of his life, broken spirited and physically worn out. ‘If that’s what I’ve got to look forward to,’ thought Mary, but she’d tried to cheer herself up. Life goes on, she’d live on in Tom and Tom’s children, just as Donald had done. The ever renewing cycle of things. Thinking about new life for old had got her onto thoughts of Alison and her imminent arrival. Old William’s was just outside of the village on Alison’s side, she’d pop in on the way back home, just make sure she’s still doing alright. She really did think she was due at any moment and had been expecting a phone call.
It had been raining most of the morning and as the Beckworth cottage was quite a walk anyway, she’d decided to take the car for comfort and to save time. It was with some surprise that she found the lane to Alison’s house blocked by a rusting old heap of a car she recognised to be Robert West’s. There appeared to be no sign of its driver and so she’d been forced to hunt out her old umbrella from the pile of debris on the back seat, and set off on foot the rest of the way.
She was concentrating on keeping her medical bag dry in the driving rain and so didn’t notice the appearance of Robert West until he was so close as to startle her.
‘Can I help?’ he asked, although with the tone of his voice, helping was probably the last thing on his mind.
‘No I’m fine thank you,’ Mary replied, not easily ruffled, ‘I couldn’t get past your car so I’ve left mine up the lane. But I won’t be long, I’m just popping into Alison Swift’s.’
‘She ‘aint in,’ said her rain sodden challenger.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Mary, not at all convinced that Alison would want to be out and about in this weather in her condition. ‘Has she gone to the hospital?’
‘Positive. She told Martha Hurrell she was going to the shops.’ Do you want me to pass on a message?’
‘No thank you. I’ll call again,’ Mary retraced her steps reluctantly. She wanted to go and knock on the front door, just to make sure. Why all of a sudden should Robert West be hanging around, it was almost like he was trying to stop her going to the house. She’d felt too intimidated to stand up to him though.
She’d ring Alison later, just check everything was OK.
She was still worrying about her when she got back to their own little cottage.
Walking up the garden path, Tom’s motorbike graveyard caught her eye, it had been there all winter and was now coated in a thick red rust. He’d promised to get rid of it all, but it was funny, since she knew he was going her attitude towards the old pieces of bike had changed. They’d become her friends, her allies and she knew their parting would herald his.
‘I can’t wait to get out of this place mum,’ he’d said to her the other night. He hadn’t meant it about her just the small village way of life. His dream was to move to London after college and she knew that this was it, he’d never be coming back. Now she was like his bike bits, a spare part lost without anybody to attach to. Maybe she should rethink also, move on, but to where? Besides she didn’t want to leave Donald, every Sunday since he’d passed away she’d gone to his grave. She did miss him so.
Tom was just boiling the kettle for his first cup of coffee of the day. He was still working late at the pub, despite winning his scholarship, and he’d always been fond of his lie-ins. When he’d been a baby it had nearly driven Mary mad with worry. Other women would be complaining about being woken up at six every morning with crying babies, Tom would usually sleep until ten. Even then she’d had to sometimes wake him to feed him.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said to him jokingly, it was only eleven thirty.
‘Hi mum, do you want a tea?’
‘Yes please love,’ Mary sat down. She’d still been half worrying about Alison.
‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t know, it’s Alison Swift. I went to see her this morning and Robert West was round there, didn’t seem to want me to go up to the house, he just told me she wasn’t in and stood in the way.’
‘Oh that slimy toe-rag. I wouldn’t have expected her to have anything to do with him’
‘That’s it, she’s never mentioned him before. I know that Sophie is quite friendly with his daughter, Michaela but it’s well known he’s not the best father to her.’
Tom finished off his beverage making and brought the steaming mugs over to the table to join his mother.
‘I can’t understand what he’d be doing though.’
‘No neither can I. It’s probably just me being paranoid, but she’s so vulnerable now, she’s ready to give birth at any moment. I’ll give her a ring in half an hour, see if she’s back.’ Mary looked up from her tea at Tom and was immediately knocked back in time thirty years. Sometimes he looked so like his father it was unnerving.
Mary did call Alison, but she got Martha Hurrell.
’Not in I’m afraid, she’s gone shopping and Sophie’s at school.’ She was told.
But Mary’s instincts still rang their warning bells, even though she didn’t know why and she decided to try again that afternoon.
Across the other side of the village, Alison was also being discussed.
‘Maybe I should go over and see Alison Swift again this afternoon,’ said Margaret St Romaine to her husband, ‘I’m still not convinced everything is as it should be.’
Clifford looked up from his paper.
‘For God’s sake Margaret, you can’t go worrying about everybody in the village. You’ve got your own life to lead you know. Alison Swift is a grown woman, she can take care of herself.’
‘Yes, but…’
’And besides, you promised to run me into town so I can visit the barber.’
‘Yes, I’d forgotten,’ Margaret conceded defeat. She’d been elevated to the role of driver in their household after years of Clifford refusing to let her take the wheel when he was in the car. His bad hips had got the better of him and he found it too painful to drive anymore. Anyway, he was probably right, she was bound to be worrying over nothing. Margaret packed away their tea things and decided to wait until Alison called her to thank her for the present.
It had been a slow morning for the Partridges. The rain was keeping people indoors, only the odd emergency need for a few staple potatoes, managed to get through the weather. It hadn’t been difficult therefore for them not to miss the various arrivals at the Post Office. Four different men had arrived so far, each taking a small bag or suitcase from their car and going into the Post Office. They caught the odd glimpse of one or the other of them through the net curtained windows of Neil’s flat above.
‘Wonder
what’s going on,’ Trudi pondered.
‘No idea, it’s odd though, have you noticed that all of the cars are from hire companies, they must all be from abroad or something. Anyway, it’s none of our business,’ replied Brian. He didn’t like Neil Best and he wasn’t about to admit to his wife that he was also scared of him. The way he looked at him sometimes it gave him the creeps and he’d almost banned Trudi from going over there.
‘Well we need to get those tax returns off,’ his wife had replied, ‘I’ll nip over.’
‘No, you stay here it’s raining. I’ll go.’ Brian put his hand on her shoulder to sit her back down again. ‘Where are they?’
‘In the office, on the desk,’ Trudi replied just as another stranger’s car drew up, like the others this morning it had just one single occupant.
Brian ran across to the Post Office holding his coat collar around his neck to protect him from the wet, their letter to the Inland Revenue safe in an inside pocket. He pushed open the door, but Neil Best got no warning tinkle on his bell because its screw had come away from the wall and it now hung impotent in space. Brian was a quiet man and therefore his entrance went unnoticed. Neil was at the far end of the shop with his head round the doorway which leads up to his flat. He was obviously talking to a man just behind it. Brian walked halfway up the shop to await his attention and from where he stood, he could also hear their conversation.
‘We’re to be ready by ten.’ There was a murmuring which Brian didn’t quite catch.
