Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  “Yes, Sir.” Nicole began. “One, two, three…”

  “I meant in your head.”

  Nicole stifled a giggle. “Sorry.”

  Robert set up his lights with an efficiency born of practice. Hemp glowed under the bright lamps, every fiber visible against the dark cloth he’d attached to the picture rail. “Lovely,” he said, his camera flashes firing as she spun in a lazy circle. “This may well become the cover of the book. Turn your palms upward and lose the grimace.”

  “I’ll try.” Nicole’s face dropped into a more relaxed expression.

  “Excellent.” Robert’s cameras clicked through their maximum shutter speed. He was glad he’d switched to digital cameras when the quality became comparable to film. Scenes like this would have cost a fortune to develop otherwise, never mind the expression of the lady in the chemist when he went in for his prints.

  “Two hundred, Sir. Yellow.” Nicole’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  “Coming.” Robert stepped forward and kissed her nearest shoulder. “Not literally, mind.” He untied knots with a quiet efficiency and within moments he’d released her legs and allowed her to support her own weight. His rope-work was designed to be easy to take off and Nicole was completely free, but for the chest harness, in under a minute.

  He smiled and kissed her properly. “Well done.” He stepped back and took several more shots of the rope marls left on her skin. “Now coil the ropes while I download these photographs.”

  Chapter 8

  Breakfast at the rectory was a civilized affair. Jennifer made toast while Simon set the table and put out bowls and their three boxes of cereal. They both took tea and although he professed to prefer Earl Grey, Simon drank the brand Jennifer bought at the local supermarket. They sat together, each lost in their own thoughts until their bowls had been pushed to one side.

  “Was it just me, or was it a bit strange that Robert thought Richard was in London?” Simon asked, spreading a generous amount of Seville marmalade on his toast.

  Jennifer nodded. “I thought it was, too. Everybody knows he’s been staying at the White Art in town.”

  “Everybody meaning your webcam cronies.” He took a sip of the tea, holding the cup around the rim instead of by the handle. Jennifer thought the method uncouth. “Have they said why he’s staying there and not with his stepfather?”

  “No.” Jennifer leaned forward, the tips of her hair brushing across the strawberry jam on her toast. “Haven’t you found out from your sources?”

  “No. Not that I’d be able to reveal anything I learned in the confessional.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Jennifer smiled. “I know people gossip to you though. Outside of your little rosewood box, I mean.”

  “Not that I’d listen to such idle chatter.” Simon took a bite of his toast, a little of the marmalade slipping off and adhering to his chin. He wiped it off with a napkin. “Perhaps he just wants to be out of the way of Robert’s harem.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Jennifer took a sip of her tea. “All the women who visit The Larches have good reason to do so. I can’t imagine Jean having truck with a harem.” She giggled at the thought of the balding Robert Markhew as an Arabian sultan.

  Simon waved the butter knife at her. “Scoff if you must,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure Robert is a very attractive man when clad only in his boxers. If I weren’t a priest I’d be tempted, and not least by the biscuit crumbs in his beard.”

  Jennifer snorted tea from her nose.

  “You can spray what you like,” Simon continued, “but he probably has a huge bed for six in that private room of his.”

  “Private room?” Jennifer wiped her face with her napkin. “What private room?”

  “The one that Jean isn’t allowed in.” Simon smirked at the expression on his sister’s face. He picked up his cup again. “Didn’t you know about it?”

  “You know I didn’t.” Jennifer poured more tea and did her best to remain composed against his insufferable smugness. “I shall do soon, though.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Simon held out his cup for a refill. “What about our new neighbors then? Do you know anything about them?”

  “Not much,” Jennifer admitted. “The ice-truck is registered to a company in Machynlleth, so they must be Welsh. Her name is Meinwen Jones and she used to run a shop in Aberdovey but it closed down a month ago according to Melanie at the post office. I don’t know anything about him other than he’s called Dafydd Thomas.”

  “I saw them yesterday when they were moving in.” Simon chose honey for his second slice of toast. “Not to speak to though. She looks to be a bit of a hippie, all floaty skirts and patchouli oil.”

  “That’s odd.” Jennifer finished her toast and pushed the plate away. “What does she want to come here for? Nothing ever happens here.”

  * * * *

  Meinwen smiled at the customers. “I haven’t really opened yet.” She nodded to the boxes of merchandise stacked two or three high, all waiting to go on display. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  The girl in the t-shirt pushed her friend forward. Her purple hair looked nice, but clashed with the zebra-striped vest top, the bondage pants and the Doc Marten boots. Her stripy purple socks went well enough though, and were a match to Meinwen’s own.

  “Do you do love potions?” She bit her bottom lip, looking at everything but Meinwen. “Or a spell I can do myself?”

  “Certainly.” Meinwen reached under the counter and took out a small blue bottle. “Here you go, Mary. You need to add a hair of the two people you want to fall in love and bury it at the root of an oak tree overnight. That’ll be a tenner.”

  “Wow.” Mary grinned, holding the tiny bottle up to the light. “You must be a good psychic to have guessed my name.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out the money. “How long will it take?”

  “No more than a week or so.” Meinwen tucked the money under a statue of Buddha and rubbed his belly for luck. “Wear a little of it whenever you expect to see the object of your desire.”

  Mary sniffed at the contents. “Cool,” she said. “It smells like musk.”

  Meinwen watched them walk down the street before returning to her unpacking. Her reputation as a witch would grow exponentially, at least among the town’s teenage population. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned she knew Mary’s Uncle Robert, who had not only sent her Mary’s picture but described her to a T.

  * * * *

  Later, Meinwen was working in her new garden when the vicar appeared next door. She didn’t stop digging, but caught a glimpse of him every time she lifted a spadeful of the damp, chalky soil. Had she been looking for a man to share her life with, she could have done worse than this young chap. He looked to be forty or so, with an easy smile and ash-blond hair that fell across his eyes. He was, as far as she could tell, quite physically fit. Probably from pushing the ratty old car she’d spotted in the driveway. She paused, leaning on her spade as he approached the low wall dividing the two properties.

  “Good morning.” He flashed her a smile, displaying a set of teeth unavailable on the National Health. “Or afternoon, I should say.”

  “Hello there.” Meinwen stood, smiling over the waist-high stone. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I didn’t realize I was moving in next to a vicar.”

  “Simon Brande.” He offered his hand. “Although I’m not a vicar but a priest. Not just any old riffraff here.”

  “Ah, Catholic. Transubstantiation and all that.” Meinwen smiled and shook his hand. “Meinwen Jones. I was brought up Methodist, though it’s years since I went to Sunday Service.”

  “I promise not to hold that against you.” Simon grinned. “I saw you moving boxes yesterday. How are you settling in?”

  “Well enough, thanks. I don’t have much, see. That’s why I rented this place. It’s fully furnished, though the bed leaves a lot to be desired. I may have to invest in a new mattress.”

  Simon laugh
ed. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. What about your young man?”

  “My young man?”

  “The burly fellow with the dark skin who was helping you move in yesterday.” His voice trailed upward into a question.

  “Oh, you mean Dafydd. He’s away back to Dovey now. He’s not my young man though, just a friend with a truck. I slipped him the fuel money and he helped me move.”

  “I see. Well, welcome to Laverstone. What brings you to our corner of the world then? You’re a long way from…lava bread and bara brith.”

  Meinwen leaned in closer. “It’s the energies. Do you know there are three ley lines that converge on this town? I reckon I’m only a mile or so from where they meet here.”

  “Ley lines?” Simon pulled back with a nervous laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in them.”

  “Of course not. I’m sorry.” Meinwen touched his arm. “You wouldn’t, would you, being a priest. I expect you’re not allowed to. It doesn’t matter though, because they’re here whether you believe in them or not. I bet you have good energies in your little church though. Full pews every week, people grateful for the good harvests, that sort of thing?”

  “I suppose.” Simon frowned and twisted a little to block the sun from his eyes. “That’s down to God looking after us though, not some blessed ley line.”

  “As I said, believe what you will.” Meinwen grinned, warming to him despite their contradictory beliefs. “We’re all on the same side in the end, aren’t we? Holding back the darkness, I mean.”

  “If you say so.” Simon looked back at the house and Meinwen followed his gaze to see a woman watching them from a window.

  “Who’s that?” Meinwen waved and the figure vanished. “I thought priests weren’t allowed to marry?”

  “We’re not. That was my sister, Jennifer.”

  “Ah. Not living in sin after all then.”

  “Indeed not.” Simon turned back to her. “Good will always triumph against evil, though I suspect the town will soon be rife with speculation now I’ve been seen talking to you.”

  “Only if you give it a bit of a nudge.” Meinwen picked up her spade again “Well, I must get back to it. I’ve only the long weekend before I open the shop and I’ve already lost the morning stocking shelves.”

  “A shop as well?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve rented one near the market.” She turned some soil. “Thirty-four, Knifegate, if you want to drop in some time for a chinwag. I promise I won’t talk about ley lines and if you ask nicely I’ll bake some Welsh cakes.”

  “That sounds delightful. I look forward to it.” Simon leaned farther over the wall “What are you doing exactly?” He looked into the hole. “Putting some potatoes in?”

  “Bless you no, Father.” Meinwen chuckled. “I’m building a witch’s circle.”

  “Goodness!” Simon took a step backward. “I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that.”

  “Why?” Meinwen smiled. “It’s not like I’ll be sacrificing goats on the Sabbath. It’ll do no harm to anybody. Think of it as a patio, if you like. You’ve got one of those yourself.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing, is it? You’ll be conversing with heathen gods on yours.”

  “You’re the first priest I’ve met who’s admitted to their existence.” She shoveled another load into a wheelbarrow. “You’re the most progressive I’ve ever met, I think, or should that be recessive?”

  Simon laughed. “Progressive, I think.” He brushed the hair out of his eyes in what looked to Meinwen to be an affected habit. “Anything else would be admitting that yours were here first, and that would be blasphemous.”

  “Which of course they were.” Meinwen grinned and leaned on the wall. “Isn’t it against your doctrine to believe in the existence of other gods?”

  “Perhaps.” Simon looked up at the sky. “But God said ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me,’ so even He knew they existed.”

  Meinwen nodded. “Well reasoned. You remind me of a friend of mine. He was very open-minded too. He taught me a lot.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “He hasn’t died, as far as I’m aware, but I haven’t seen him in years. Tell me something. You must know everyone in the town.”

  “Pretty much.” The priest raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Do you know someone called Richard Godwin? I was asked to look out for him and have a bit of a chat.”

  Simon looked surprised. “I know Richard. He’s the stepson of Robert Markhew at The Larches. Who told you to look out for him?”

  “Robert Markhew. He asked me if I’d have a bit of a chat with him.”

  “You know Robert?” He stared at her. “From where? He’s never mentioned you.”

  “I met him online when I decided to move to Laverstone. I did a search for all the people here and he was one of the only people who was willing to chat to a lonely Welsh girl. There were a couple of others but they weren’t the sort of people you’d want to meet in real life, if you know what I mean.” She emphasized the statement with a grimace. “I’m not surprised he didn’t mention me though. Would you tell a priest you’d been talking to a witch?”

  Simon laughed. “I suppose not. What did he want you to talk to Richard about? Perhaps I could help.”

  Meinwen studied him. If you couldn’t trust a priest, who could you trust? “Robert wants this Richard to marry a girl called Mary. His niece, I think. Richard doesn’t seem to be interested, though, and that’s where I come in. I’ve already met Mary. She seems like a nice-enough girl.”

  “She is, or will be when she gets over this craze for looking like a zombie. How do you fit in, though? Does he want you to magic them together?”

  Meinwen laughed. “I’m not that kind of witch. Never cause harm, I say, though Mr. Markhew thought I might be persuaded to cast a little magic over the couple.”

  “Witchcraft? Not in my parish you won’t.”

  Meinwen laughed. “Nothing of the kind, no. I wouldn’t bend someone’s will like that. He just wants me to get to know them both and smooth the way for them so that it happens naturally. Besides, I do a lovely trade in natural aphrodisiacs.” She winked.

  “Fascinating.” The priest had an easy smile the women of his flock probably adored. “Look, I have to go out shortly on my rounds, but perhaps you’ll have dinner with us sometime next week.”

  “Us?” Meinwen glanced at the rectory.

  “Jennifer and me. She’s a fabulous cook.” He paused. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  “Not at all, I drink goat’s blood every full moon.” Meinwen managed to keep a straight face for several seconds before she burst out laughing at Simon’s expression.

  “Oh, very good.” Simon patted his chest as if to re-start his heart. “You had me going there. Shall we say Thursday at seven?”

  “Lovely.” Meinwen nodded a goodbye and watched him return to his patio table and laptop. He looked back again, then up at the sky. “I’ll let you know if it looks like thunder bolts.”

  Meinwen laughed and turned back to her digging. The soil was very flinty and she began making a mental list of things she’d need from the garden center.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Markhew?” Jennifer touched the arm of the gentleman perusing the special occasion cards. He turned around and smiled, his beard thankfully clear of any crumbs and, to Jennifer’s surprise, kissed her cheek.

  “Ms. Brande.” He pumped her hand. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

  “I am?” Jennifer smiled and fanned away a blush. “I’m flattered.”

  “Which of these cards do you think would be appropriate?” He waved his hand toward the rack of white cards.

  “Congratulations on your engagement?” Jennifer frowned, the corners of her mouth pulled upward quizzically. “Who’s getting married?”

  “Richard, of course. He proposed to Mary at last.”

  “Oh? Is he back then? From London?”

  “No, h
e did it over the internet. Proposal by webchat! It sounds like a science fiction novel, doesn’t it? I cracked open the champers of course, though he hadn’t got any, being in an internet café. When are they going to invent a gadget to send that over the internet, eh?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” Jennifer grinned as she began reviewing the cards for something suitable.

  * * * *

  “Richard?” Mary trailed the end of a crop across his cheekbone. “Are you ignoring me?” She reached out and plucked a stray hair from his oh-so-neat locks.

  “Ouch!” Richard grabbed the end of the crop and twisted it, spinning around to face her and raising his arm. “Don’t try those games with me, dear. This isn’t some trivial drama for your amusement, you know.”

  Mary’s face creased as she blinked back tears. “Stop it, Richard.” The nerves in her arm felt like they were on fire. “You’re hurting my arm.”

  “Let go of the crop then.”

  She released her grip and he pulled it away to examine it. “Where did you get this?”

  Mary pouted. “My mother’s room.” She rubbed her arm wondering if she could get away with slapping him. He had perfect cupid-bow lips when he wasn’t stretching them into a cruel smile. “Give it back or I’ll change my mind about the engagement.”

  “I don’t think so.” Richard tapped his thigh with the crop.

  “Why not?” Mary’s gaze was drawn to the twitching leather. She wondered what it would be like to be helpless, feeling the sting of that little loop across her naked bottom and other, more intimate places.

  “It’s my stepfather’s.”

  * * * *

  Jennifer took a short cut home from town, where she’d had coffee with two of her friends at the White Art, hoping to catch a glimpse of Richard Godwin. The woods below Laverstone Manor, while not actually a public footpath, were well enough used by the locals. The owner, Harold Waterman, turned a blind eye to walkers using it.

  She was admiring the sea of wild garlic edging the path when she reached the high boundary wall between the woods and the park. A voice on the other side sounded just like Richard Godwin. She crept closer, pushing through the garlic to press herself against the cold granite blocks.