by James Dawson
Lis spoke first. ‘Do you guys believe in the witch stories?’
Kitty seemed relieved at the change in topic. ‘Honey, we are the witch stories.’
‘I mean it. Laura was properly scared of the copse. Even Sarah has heard the legends. You don’t think that witches . . .’
‘. . . that witches killed Laura?’ Jack smiled for the first time that morning. ‘I wish. Hollow Pike is begging for a bit of supernatural fun. We could be the UK’s answer to Forks!’
Lis took a deep breath and dropped onto the bed. Now was the time to open up, she was certain of it. ‘I’m serious. Ever since I decided to come to Hollow Pike, I’ve been having these messed up, extra twisted dreams. Dreams where someone is trying to kill me. Dreams about Laura. Dreams about Pike Copse. Mrs Gillespie said my dreams were, like, warnings. What if there is something evil in Hollow Pike?’
Well, at least they didn’t laugh. Quite the opposite. Delilah moved to Lis’s side and took her hand, giving it a supportive squeeze.
‘I’m with Jack,’ Kitty said tenderly. ‘Someone killed Laura, not something. Mrs Gillespie is as mad as a box of frogs. Don’t listen to a word she says.’
‘And dreams are only dreams,’ Delilah added.
A huge weight lifted from Lis’s shoulders. A problem shared was, in this case, a problem quartered. If Hollow Pike didn’t have a killer at large, it would be a pretty cool town. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We stick together and we don’t utter a bloody word to anyone. The police will catch the killer. It’s not our problem.’ Kitty was so confident that Lis drew strength from her. Spiking her hair, Kitty opened the patio doors to make their getaway. ‘Let’s haul ass. We have a Laura Rigg memorial to attend. I’m gonna need Red Bull.’
‘Pupils returned to Fulton High School today, although police are no nearer to catching the killer of schoolgirl Laura Rigg. There is mounting pressure on the North Yorkshire Police to make an arrest . . .’ The journalist’s massive back-combed hair was unmoving, even in the angry winds whipping across the entrance to the school.
Lis kept her head firmly down as she crept onto the premises. It was quite an eye-opener: her school looked like a film set. There must have been seven TV trucks, each with their own crew and cameras.
‘This is a bit surreal,’ Jack muttered, as they slipped past a film crew.
‘Dalí surreal,’ Delilah agreed.
It took Lis a moment to work out what was wrong with the scene, and then the penny dropped. Nothing had changed. Year Seven boys kicked a football around, swearing loudly at each other’s errors. Girls huddled together checking text messages. A group of Year Eight lads snatched girls’ bags for the ensuing chase. Year Ten girls sat on their boyfriends’ knees. A clique of indie kids stood listening to their individual iPods.
Laura was dead, but everyone else lived.
‘Come on,’ Lis said as they arrived at the main entrance. ‘Let’s get this assembly over and done with.’
The most recent school photograph of Laura Rigg stood proudly at the centre of the stage, surrounded by a huge wreath, smiling sweetly at the room. The picture had been altered to greyscale. Is black and white sadder? Lis wondered. Is colour disrespectful? Laura’s serene smile was peaceful and beautiful, so unlike the real Laura whose features had so often seemed spiteful and twisted.
Lis and her friends squeezed in next to Rachel Williams, who had come prepared in her best black funeral outfit instead of uniform. In fact, most of Year Eleven seemed to be treating the assembly as the official substitute to Laura’s actual funeral, which was apparently delayed while the police carried out their investigations.
Cameron Green was sitting very quietly with his friends, his face looking as if it were carved out of stone.
‘I don’t know how he dares show his face,’ Rachel whispered. ‘You know the police questioned him for nearly twelve hours. People are saying he did it . . .’
Lis said nothing.
The mood was dark and sombre. It seemed that mourning Laura was the new ‘in’ thing to do. Lis was acutely aware that most of the room had actively hated Laura, yet here they were, sobbing into handkerchiefs and resting heads on friends’ shoulders. Guilt and disgust mixed in Lis’s stomach. As bad as she felt about planning Laura’s death with her friends, she wasn’t now about to herald her as some sort of saint. Turning her head, she saw Nasima Bharat wailing gently in Danny’s arms, her elegant hand stroking his neck. Lis snapped her head away as jealousy tore through her body. This was so inappropriate. Danny and Nasima, though? Seriously? Laura would have loved that.
Base instinct won out and Lis chanced a further backwards glance. To be fair, Nasima looked genuinely devastated, but did she really need to hang off Danny quite so much? Suddenly Danny looked in Lis’s direction, squarely catching her eye. Lis whipped her head back, but she’d been busted.
Thankfully, Ms Dandehunt and Mr Gray entered the hall, hopefully drawing Danny’s attention away from her. A lectern had been erected next to the image of Laura and Ms Dandehunt took to the stage.
‘Thank you for coming into school today, Year Eleven. We are all still mourning Laura and that will take some time. Sometimes it is possible to find comfort in normality; in these turbulent waters it is my hope that Fulton High School can be a lighthouse for all of us. Some of Laura’s friends wanted to do a special assembly about a special girl, and I think it is a touching way to remember Laura. So enough from me and over to the choir who are going to sing some of Laura’s favourite songs . . .’
The choir sung beautifully, although Lis suspected that choral versions of Lady Gaga songs, while thoughtful, weren’t entirely appropriate. Poppy Hewitt-Smith (tabloid favourite) had written a dreadful poem entitled Our Friend. Lis resisted the urge to stand and walk out at that point. Harry Bedsworth was the last of Laura’s ‘friends’ to take the stage. Without any make-up, she looked like Caspar the Friendly Ghost, her white hair blending with her face.
‘I wanted to say a few words about Laura,’ she started quietly. She took a deep breath. ‘You know, Laura could be a real bitch.’
A horrified gasp ran through the crowd. Lis turned and saw Nasima now sitting bolt upright, mortified.
‘Oh, come on, you all knew her,’ Harry continued, but she was barely holding it together now, her voice trembling. ‘She could be so mean. I was, like, one of her best mates and she was mean to me all the time. She constantly took the mick out of all of us.’
Ms Dandehunt and Mr Gray edged towards the stage. Were they going to actually pull Harry off?
Behind her, Lis saw that Laura’s friends, Cameron, Fiona, Nasima and even Danny, looked massively uncomfortable, their eyes not daring to meet Harry’s.
‘The thing is, even though I loved her, sometimes I used to wish that Laura was dead.’ At that Harry’s voice broke into a sob. ‘You don’t know what it was like! It’s all my fault!’
Her wails reverberated around the room. Lis felt tears pricking her eyes. She wiped them away. Self-absorbed, she’d imagined she was the only one Laura had affected. Apparently not.
‘That’s why I wanted to do this memorial,’ Harry finished. ‘Because I’m so sorry! And I’m going to miss her so much!’ Harry dissolved into a flood of raw, real tears. Mr Gray tentatively climbed the stage steps and embraced his student. She buried her face in his chest as he walked her quietly off stage.
Ms Dandehunt quickly took the microphone. ‘Year Eleven,’ she began, catching Lis’s eye. ‘I think what Harry said is very important. When someone dies, we might feel a little bit guilty because maybe we rowed with them, or thought negative things about them, but that’s human nature. We are what we are. None of us are to blame for this tragedy.’
Lis was overwhelmed by a fresh urge to cry. Instead, she clutched Jack’s hand.
‘I think it’s time the choir sung us out. It’s a difficult day for everyone.’
Memorial over, all Lis had to do was survive an afternoon of Art and she could
fall into bed. Harry’s outpouring had been oddly cleansing. Maybe this searing guilt she felt was normal after all.
‘Lis!’
She looked around and saw Danny weaving his way through the crowd of mourners towards her.
‘Lis, hey! I was hoping to catch you. Can I have a word?’
Lis became aware of three pairs of eyes watching them intently. Kitty, Jack and Delilah were choosing not to take the hint. ‘Sure,’ she told Danny. ‘I’ll catch you guys in the shelter?’ she said pointedly to her friends.
Jack and Delilah could hardly contain giggles, while Kitty grinned. ‘Be good, London!’ she said.
Her friends headed off, glancing over their shoulders. Lis’s cheeks flushed.
‘You sticking around this afternoon?’ Danny asked. ‘Some Year Elevens are allowed the afternoon off, apparently.’
Despite her shock at Danny seeking her out, Lis remained collected. ‘Yeah. I just have Art. Should be easy enough.’
‘Are you heading for the canteen?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cool, can I come?’
She smiled, continuing to walk. He seemed nervous. ‘Are you sure Nasima won’t mind?’ Lis asked.
‘Nasima?’ Danny repeated, looking confused. ‘Oh, right! I guess that assembly got a bit heavy. She was upset, that’s all.’
‘Ah, OK.’ She chose to accept the sketchy excuse. ‘Poor Harry, her speech took some balls.’
‘For sure,’ he agreed. ‘She was right though. I’ve felt sick with guilt since Laura died. Like I could have saved her somehow.’
Lis dared to give Danny’s arm a tiny squeeze. She hoped it seemed platonic. ‘You can’t blame yourself. We don’t know what happened to her. It’s for the police to sort out.’
‘I know. It’s just that I sort of rejected her. Twice, actually. Maybe if I hadn’t . . .’
‘That’s crazy talk—’
‘I know, I know! I know all of these things, but it’s like I can’t get the voices out of my head.’ He drifted off and sat on the steps outside the cafeteria. Rubbing his hands on his trousers, he seemed to be searching for words.
Lis sat next to him. ‘What’s up?’ she asked gently, not wanting to appear nosy.
‘Nothing. It’s just that this seems really wrong.’
‘What does?’
‘Well, I’m trying to ask you out.’ Danny glanced at her for a split second and then looked away. ‘But it seems really awful to do that with all this Laura stuff going on.’
Lis’s eyes almost fell out of her face. In a moment, her skin had become hotter than she could stand. Had she heard right?
‘You want to ask me out?’ The idea that rugby team pin-up Danny Marriott was interested in freaky Welsh new-girl Lis London was plain ridiculous, to her at least.
‘Yes. Well, if you want. I’m not sure where we could go. Maybe into Fulton or something? I’ve been wondering how to ask for ages. I’ve never really asked anyone out before. I mean, I’ve pulled, obviously, at parties and stuff, but that’s not like this . . . I was worried I’d make a mess of it. Every time I speak to you I seem to say something really bloody stupid and—’
‘Danny?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re babbling. Before you do say something stupid, I’ll just say “yes”!’
He smiled and looked at her properly. His eyes made her heart beat so fast she had to look away.
‘Really?’ he asked.
The broadest smile broke out on Lis’s face, matching his expression. All the toxic thoughts in her head briefly vanished as she bathed in the yellow sunshine of this moment. ‘Yes, really!’
Danny raised an eyebrow, ‘God, now I’m really nervous! I’d sort of thought you’d say no.’
‘Well, sorry to disappoint you!’ Lis laughed.
‘No, no. It’s good. It’s awesome! I can’t wait. When are you free?’
‘Any time,’ she said far too quickly. Well done, Lis, way to play it cool. ‘Well, I don’t think I have too much on . . .’
With a violent jolt, her phone vibrated in her bag.
‘Hold that thought,’ Lis told him, reaching for the device.
The display read INCOMING CALL. NUMBER WITHELD. REJECT? ANSWER?
It was probably Sarah calling from the landline or something. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Lis.’ The voice sounded distant, but vaguely familiar.
‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘It’s Mrs Gillespie, dear. From the shop.’
Danny, seeing Lis’s confused expression, frowned. Lis wanted to be far away from him; she didn’t want him to hear this conversation.
‘How did you get my—’
‘Never you mind,’ Mrs Gillespie interrupted. Then she paused. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I know what you and your little friends have done . . .’
The Legend of Hollow Pike
Lis pounded on the door so hard it rattled in its frame. Even if she put the glass through, she wasn’t going to stop knocking. She must have looked ridiculous – a fifteen-year-old girl in school uniform so eager to get into a charity shop. Why was the bloody door locked anyway?
Peering through the filthy window, Lis tried a different approach. ‘Mrs Gillespie, it’s me, Lis London!’ she called.
She pressed her ear to the grimy glass and listened closely. Sure enough, after a few seconds she heard unsteady stilettos totter towards the entrance. Red fingernails drew aside the net curtain and Mrs Gillespie glanced out before unlocking the door. ‘That was quick,’ she said.
‘I came straight from school,’ Lis replied. She was reminded of how hideous the old woman was. This time she was wearing some sort of oriental robe with a turban perched on top of her nasty wig. It must have been the height of glamour in the thirties, but now it looked like a Halloween costume. The aroma of gin and cigarettes drifting from her was equally repulsive.
‘You’d better come on in then. You can’t stand in the street all afternoon.’
Stepping aside, Mrs Gillespie let her into the dank shop. Lis hugged her arms to her body, not sure of what to do or say.
‘Don’t just stand there, girlie, come and sit down!’
In the front section of the shop was a sort of tea party setup: a dainty round table with three antique looking chairs. A stained, yellow lace tablecloth hung over the table.
‘This is where we take our afternoon tea. Would you like a cup, deary?’
Lis tentatively sat on one of the chairs. She couldn’t imagine who the ‘we’ referred to, as the shop was entirely empty.
‘No, thank you,’ she said quietly.
Mrs Gillespie poured herself some tea from a Charles and Di teapot and held the cup to her withered mouth. ‘Now, are you going to own up?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Lis stared down at the tea set, unable to look at the strange woman.
‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’
Lis shook her head, sensing the onset of panic. Should she confess the whole sorry prank? The murder game? ‘I . . . I—’
‘You stole my book,’ Mrs Gillespie snapped.
What? Lis blinked hard to check she wasn’t imagining things. ‘What book?’
Mrs Gillespie slapped her thin, veined hand on the table. ‘You jolly well know which book – An Occult History of Hollow Pike!’
So this was nothing to do with the prank? Lis felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Her mouth formed a small circle. ‘Oh, I didn’t take it!’
‘Well, it was one of your rotten friends then.’
‘I . . . I don’t know. If they did take it, they didn’t tell me.’ Could they have stolen it? Lis wondered. Then again, why would they want a book about witchcraft? And they’d have mentioned it that morning when she brought the subject up, surely.
‘I want that book back. It’s not for sale.’
‘It was on the shelf, though,’ Lis pointed out. ‘What’s so special about it anyway?’ She felt much more relaxed now that she knew this
was a) nothing to do with Laura and b) nothing to do with her at all.
Mrs Gillespie watched her like a hawk, beady eyes glaring over her china teacup. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories. I saw you looking at the book.’
Lis remembered her dream for a second, but pushed it away, clinging to Kitty’s certainty that the killer was just your everyday, run-of-the-mill murderer with no supernatural connections. ‘I’ve heard fairy tales.’
Mrs Gillespie’s thin red lips parted to reveal her yellow teeth. ‘Ha! How old are you?’
‘Nearly sixteen.’
‘So naturally you know everything there is to know? It’s interesting that the young are gifted with such certainty. I find myself becoming a more uncertain woman, the older I get!’ She cackled at her own joke.
Lis frowned. This was a waste of time. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Of course you don’t! How could you?’ Mrs Gillespie was suddenly more serious. ‘There’s more than you could ever know in the woods, Lis. A town full of ghosts.’
‘What? Are you saying Hollow Pike is haunted?’
Mrs Gillespie seemed to consider this. ‘In a way, haunted by the past. Its own past. Bad things happened here. Very bad things. People were hunted down, tortured and killed: drowned or burned. Hollow Pike is a mass grave.’
Lis could tell that she wasn’t joking. This, to her at least, was real. ‘Who was killed?’
‘The witches. A long time ago, people would come to Hollow Pike with their sick, with the infirm or barren. The families that lived in the forests and hills would help with remedies and potions. People said they were powerful healers. But then a couple of children vanished. People fell ill and cattle died. Coincidences. Bad luck. But everybody wanted someone to blame.’
‘So what happened?’ Lis asked curiously, wondering if the story could be true.
‘They were burned. In the early seventeenth century the witch-finders rode into town, calling themselves the Righteous Protectors. They came from the church. Not just God-fearing folk, but fanatics. It was like they had a fever of hate. They thought witches would bring about a return to the dark times, the fall of God. The women were taken from their homes and the Protectors tortured them for hours until they confessed. Some of them were drowned in the river, some were burned in the village.’
