by Jason Foss
He had been exposed to the full depth of Michelle’s dreams and emotions after only a few hours of frantic passion. Some men probably never learned to understand their wives as well as Flint thought he understood Michelle. Lonely, desperate and gullible, she was not one he could ever love, but she was one he could exploit. Animal pleasure and subtle interrogation was the stuff of nineteen-sixties spy thrillers, but Flint had never liked James Bond.
Their relationship had remained on narrow tracks: drinks and sex. A meal and sex. Sex and sex. They had something in common, but it filled him with distaste.
That night it would be Woody Allen at the local multiplex cinema, as he had forgotten all about the promised trip to the theatre until too late. Afterwards, she would expect more of the love-substitute he provided. Sleeping with Michelle was like sleeping with Lucy, whose image was before him every day, and who he knew as well as any lover. Michelle was another friend of the Earth, someone else who read horoscopes and hummed folk music. Like Lucy, she was a harmless victim of a world which no longer had room for such fantasy.
Michelle was not ready when he knocked. As she opened the door, he immediately sensed the change.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, almost biting her lip.
‘Let me in, out of the rain.’
She nodded, walking away into the hall. He closed the door and followed her into the bedroom. She was wearing a long shapeless plum jumper and jeans with ripped knees. She flopped back onto the unmade bed, one arm over her temple, the other by her side.
He felt uneasy; she had none of that vulnerable innocence about her.
Her expression hardened. ‘So, I suppose you want to fuck me.’
Flint was stunned for a moment, then began to stammer with confusion.
‘No, actually, I thought we’d go to the pictures,’ he tried to make a joke.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘then you’ll fuck me afterwards? Which way do you want me?’
She rolled on to her stomach.
‘Michelle!’
He was angry at this taunting, but the taunting ceased. Michelle remained prone on the bed, ceasing to fight beginning to weep. Flint sat beside her, gently and warily.
‘I’m ready,’ she sobbed, ‘just tell me how you want it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Who are you, who are you really?’ she said into the pillow.
So, she knew – or someone knew. The game was over and Grant Selby could be put back in the wardrobe and forgotten.
‘I’m sorry, Michelle, but I know everything about you. I know where you went on Tuesday, on Samhain; brown Allegro, off to the Darkewater Valley to meet the coven.’
She gulped, then shook her head.
‘Okay, come on.’ He rolled her to face him, shocking himself with his own brute force.
‘What do you want?’
‘One of my graduates works for the Sussex police. He told me that car belongs to Jacob Goldberg.’
‘You bastard.’
She struck out, but he blocked the slap with a reflex of the right wrist.
‘Don’t, just don’t. Don’t try anything, I hate violence.’
Michelle choked back a laugh. ‘What? You’re that lecturer, the one in the papers.’
‘I am; this is the real me.’
He had dropped all the Grant Selby mannerisms immediately.
She simply shook her head, a tear-track working its way around her cheeks. ‘How could you? After all we’ve done.’
Flint sat up, guilt waves washing through him. ‘I had to. Do you remember Lucy Gray? You might have called her Hazel.’
Her expression was a mixture of anger, depression and fear, but it gave nothing away.
‘You have two choices: tell me about it, or tell the police. I’ve got a shelf full of box files, overflowing with information. I could write a book. Once the CID start investigating, they will break your coven wide open.’
‘We’ve done nothing wrong – it’s like going to church.’
‘They don’t kill people in church, Michelle.’
‘Neither do we. You don’t understand.’
‘Yes I do. I sympathise with your views, I understand what you believe and what you feel. Honest, I’m not a total fraud. I ride a bike, I eat wholefood, but what I won’t do is subordinate myself to priests and priestesses at moonlight rituals.’
‘You think I’m silly, don’t you?’
‘No, I think you’re sincere, but that won’t count when Vikki Corbett and her friends have a list of names and addresses. Even if you say you’ve done nothing wrong, the publicity will destroy your friends. I mean, isn’t Jacob Goldberg supposed to be a nice Jewish father?’
‘Don’t hurt him – don’t hurt any of them.’
‘All I want is the man who killed Lucy Gray. Once I have him, I’ll leave the rest of you alone. Call it a deal if you like, but that’s what I want.’
She searched his eyes for truth. ‘That’s all you wanted. You never loved me.’
‘I never said I did.’
‘You didn’t even enjoy it, any of it?’
He almost wanted to weep himself. All this emotional drama was too much. ‘Another time, it would have been…’ he searched for a word, ‘different.’
Michelle sat up, breathing deeply to control her dismay. She was an addict finally being brought into therapy. ‘I knew this was all too good...’
‘Now, I don’t know what kind of games you and your friends play, and I don’t really want to know, but murder and intimidation is beyond a game.’
‘But it was a game,’ she said wearily, ‘just a little fun. You know I never had any luck with men, I’m too fat and I’m hopeless in the house and I just fall underneath anyone with trousers on. My family are all shits, but the circle is my new family, all friends, all lovers.’
‘Do you have a regular partner?’
She looked at him, as if wanting to say yes and hurt him. ‘No, it sounds dirty, doesn’t it? Christians hate sex, but we’re not perverts, not Satanists like the newspapers say. We just worship the Earth, sky-clad, celebrating the ancient rites. We are at peace with the Earth and the Earth is at peace with us.’
‘How many are you?’
‘It depends. Just four sometimes.’
Something came to mind about terrorists, the mafia, the carbonari, the IRA. All had four-man cells for security, with none knowing more than three others. The sect had been organised to anticipate the eventual witch-hunt. Flint knew the ancient, and modern, formulae for secrecy.
‘So, a pair of pairs, but that is not enough for a circle. How many groups of four meet at the ceremonies?’ He guessed. ‘Three fours and one? Thirteen?’
She said nothing.
‘More? Three thirteens and one? Forty?’
A glazed, apprehensive look met the questioning. Was he still wide of the mark?
‘Thirteen thirteens and one?’ He did a quick mental sum. ‘One hundred and seventy?’
Michelle smiled broadly. ‘Now you see; I have many friends, and they have many friends, each of whom has many friends too, all over the country, circles within circles. It is growing – you can’t stop us.’
She spoke in riddles, hinting at hundreds and that would encompass more than bank clerks, students and shopkeepers. Someone, somewhere, was important.
‘Who is in charge? Who is the priest? Piers Plant?’
‘You killed him,’ she stated sourly.
‘Who is the priestess?’
She shrugged. ‘She is called The Priestess.’
‘Rowan?’ Another wild guess, but Plant had been close to someone called Rowan.
Michelle almost choked, but admitted nothing.
‘And they call you Willow? The purpose of the woody names presumably being to stop the coven being penetrated.’
‘Rejecting Christian names is part of the process of denial.’ These were not her words, she was speaking by rote.
‘Okay, so tell me about Hazel.’
/> A long silence followed. A silence broken only by the heavy breathing of the oppressed woman, the sporadic noise of a passing car, the periodic patter of a tear striking the bedding. Between sighs, Michelle continued the confession.
‘Hazel was The Maiden who stood in for the goddess. There will be a new Maiden chosen in the spring – it might have been me.’
‘What happened to Hazel? When did you see her last? February, Imbolc?’
‘There’s no point in telling you, is there? You know it all.’
Flint led her on, turning his floating thoughts into concrete fact. ‘Did anything strange happen?’
‘It was cold, we all had too much of the Kat.’
‘Kat... sacred potion, right?’
She gave a little laugh. Flint knew they would be high as kites, the holy draught was based on hemp.
‘Did anything odd happen to Lucy, sorry, Hazel?’
‘She performed the rite, she said she felt ill, they took her back to the cottage, then we all went home.’
‘Who took her home?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘And you never saw her again?’
‘No. At Beltane we were told Hazel had gone away and we were really upset about what the newspaper was saying.’
‘Piers Plant was there?’
‘Oak was so sad, everyone was sad. I always loved the May Games,’ Michelle sighed. ‘One May Day, I will claim a man for my own.’
Narrowing his eyes, Flint’s memory swept across pages of research. ‘Claim a man as a husband? But only if you were pregnant by him.’
‘But I never was.’
Something in her gleeful naivety depressed him, but he could envisage the kind of joy such a union could bring to the hopelessly lonely. Lucy would have been pregnant on May eve, so who could she have claimed by ancient right?
‘Lucy was pregnant. Conception might have been around Samhain last year, a convenient time for union of god and goddess. Piers Plant was not the father. Any ideas who her partner was?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, let’s try another tack. I know there is someone beyond this Rowan and your High Priest, someone Piers Plant — sorry, Oak — was afraid of.’
She shook her head too vigorously.
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know, no one knows.’
‘I doubt that, Michelle, seriously. He is important, powerful?’
This he could tell from her manner. Lucy’s partner was no ordinary coven member.
‘He knows the path to ultimate harmony, he knows the ultimate spells.’
Spells, the ultimate spell book, Flint felt almost sick with excitement. ‘The Horned Man?’
‘He wears a horned head-dress, you know it’s the tradition.’
‘And whoever it is owns a copy of De Nigris?’
‘You know he does.’
‘And that’s why you wanted a copy.’
‘I was just curious.’
So Gratz had been right and someone did hold a copy of the semi-mythical book. So why had Plant needed to find a second copy? Something in the twisted logic of the circle had to explain it. Flint began to fire names from Tyrone’s list, fishing for clues or for any sign of recognition.
‘Tell me about Lugnasadh. Was Piers Plant there at Caesar’s Camp? It doesn’t hurt to tell.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he drove himself there in his green car?’
‘Yes, I think so, what does it matter?’ Michelle’s resistance seemed to be stiffening.
Flint had another crucial fact locked tight and switched tone.
‘Look, can I be honest?’
‘It would make a change.’ There was anger in her voice, perhaps she had said too much and was realising it at last. ‘What do I call you, anyway?’
‘Call me Jeff.’
‘Jeff? Huh. I thought it was the real thing between us.’
‘I am sorry – you won’t believe me, but it’s true. You don’t deserve this, I know I’ve been a real bastard.’
‘Then don’t ask me any more questions. My friends know I’m seeing you, they won’t let me attend any more of the rites and it might mean I have to leave the circle.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Of course, I haven’t made a pact or anything. You seem to think I’m in some sort of mad cult...’
‘You are.’
‘Not that kind. You don’t seem to understand that we wish no-one harm. It’s not like a video nasty. Witches don’t ride on broomsticks, we’re thoughtful, caring people...’
‘Who have other people killed...’
‘Piers Plant did all that, don’t you see? You’ll never find Hazel now, so why not leave it alone? You should let things rest, stop upsetting people.’
He wondered how deeply Michelle believed what she had just said or whether she had been primed. She had fallen into his bed so easily, he had never ceased to suspect some sort of complex trap. He had been allowed to make progress in the case without threat or attack. Paranoia started to slowly creep up on him.
‘One more question, then I’ll leave you alone. Where did you meet at Imbolc?’ Flint asked. He turned to face her, staring into her eyes, watching for the flicker of acknowledgement as he broke through. ‘Was it Devil’s Finger? Caesar’s Camp? Harriet’s Stone?’
At the last name, Michelle’s expression gave away the truth again, but she extended both arms. ‘We could still be friends, I don’t mind calling you Jeff.’
She had switched emotional tack again, what was wrong with her? She put two hands behind his neck.
‘Just hold me, just love me, forget all this. People are getting hurt, you can’t imagine the damage you are doing. The New Age is dawning, Jeff. Everyone is turning Green, no one goes to church any more. People’s consciousness is rising. You should join us, join the New Wave before it sweeps over you.’
The stark buzzing of the doorbell made him throw off her hands much too roughly. She sat up, annoyed and hurt once more. ‘Who is it?’ he hissed.
She gave a careless shrug.
‘Is this a set-up? Have you just been telling me lies?’
Michelle shook her long black locks in disdain. ‘I’m the wicked witch, remember.’
He levelled a finger. ‘Just don’t start cackling just yet!’
She slid off the bed and walked down towards the bell, which buzzed again. Flint beat her out of the room and nipped into her kitchen. The back door was closed by a single bolt which he had open in moments, wishing Tyrone the departmental thug was by his side. Thoughts of Tyrone made him grab at an empty wine bottle as he darted into the dark yard behind the house. He couldn’t waste time playing with the back gate, so vaulted straight over the brick wall at the end of the yard.
No mob of fanatical cultists awaited him in the alley beyond, so he lay down his bottle and broke into a run. Another source had been closed, but more questions solved – if Michelle could be believed.
Michelle halted in front of the door and let the bell jangle. She put her back against the painted wood and listened to the sound of her dream love escaping to the rear.
Someone knocked on the door.
Christmas was coming and the Christians were getting fat. Her dragons would be seasonal golds, reds and greens. Her modelling clay could be worked into a tree-stump entwined with mistletoe, with just one goblin peeking out at the world.
Someone tried the handle.
She rubbed away a headache forming in her left temple. Crawling repeatedly out of the quagmire of life, she seemed fated to slide back in. Now she was once again in the slime with the worms. There were some things a man simply couldn’t fake and perhaps if she helped him, Jeff could drag her free.
Her doorbell spluttered its erratic jangle. Someone battered the door knocker again and she turned to give it attention. Pulling open the door, she was shocked by the three faces; two male, one female. Friends so close they had never dared come to her door.
‘Willow.�
� The one who spoke was the man who had first hoisted her on to this plane of higher awareness, the one who had first pulled her away from her former, squalid life. Married, and comfortably successful, he had most to hide and most to lose.
‘Let us inside, Willow. We have to talk.’
Chapter 23
Jeffrey Flint hated his new flat and toyed with the idea of finding another houseboat. One of Jules’ friends lived in a converted Thames barge near Putney and wanted another bunkmate. It would be a possibility once the Horned Man had been laid to rest, but whilst he was stalking around issuing threats and controlling the game, Flint had to maintain a low profile.
No longer need he pretend to be Grant Selby, but the new image was hard to shrug off. Flint had bought himself a new jacket with a whiff of Italian styling and decided to keep the beard away for a few more weeks, to experiment with the feel. His office also felt the change: Che Guevara came down and a poster of the Portland Vase took its place. So long attracted by alternative lifestyles, his experiences had left him thoroughly disgusted, the affair with Michelle ranking as the final indignity. There was to be no more lowlife; it was time to reshape himself and his standing at college. Jeffrey Flint, scruffy rebel, began to fade.
His first tutorial as a born-again-lecturer went badly. His voice rattled away about the villa system and the imposition of land ownership, but his mind was firmly fixed on a single track: women.
Michelle had not answered his telephone calls since the melodramatic Friday night. Who had knocked at her door? Was she in danger from her former friends? He should have stayed to find out – what a rat he’d been, running away to save his own skin. What an utter chicken.
Poor Monica had been drawn into the ring too. Poor smiling Monica, always ready to hear a wild anecdote, or to dispense a chunk of cheerful philosophy. She hardly deserved midnight phone calls. Having her ask questions of her clientele had thrust her into danger.
And what of Vikki? Would she start ferreting about where she was unwelcome and would the Kingshaven thugs stop at a black eye next time? Flint had to stop that, he must not simply stand by.
‘Did all the Britons live in villas?’ asked one of the fresh-faced lads in the tutorial group.
