Last Rites

by Neil White

  Laura glared at Pete. ‘It's not like that.’

  Pete said nothing. He just smiled to himself.

  Laura watched Joe walk away.

  ‘Not going after him?’ Pete asked. ‘Maybe for the best.’

  He ducked just in time as Laura's pen flew past him and hit the wall, before she rushed out of the room and went after Joe Kinsella.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  As I pulled away in my car, heading for Sabden Brook, I noticed a white van behind me, an Astra, old and shabby, and as I turned out of Newchurch it turned with me. I watched it in my mirror for a while, but it seemed to hang back as I got nearer to the turn-off, just an old farm track that led to a ribbon of water that ran between two fields.

  I turned onto the track quickly and had to brake hard when I came up against a farm gate. The white van seemed to falter, as if the driver didn't know where to go, and as it pulled away I caught a glimpse of the number plate, just the last three letters: DDA.

  I watched it go and then pulled out the report about Rebecca Nurse. She had been found by Sabden Brook, but the newspaper write-up wasn't specific about the location. There was a photograph showing a wreath laid against a small rock by a small bend in the stream.

  I hopped over the gate and started to walk down the track. The floor of the valley spread out before me, a stretch of green broken by walls and the occasional grey farmhouse. No one interrupted me except for a three-legged dog that hopped towards me, barking.

  The brook was exactly as I had expected it, a small country stream that trickled through a gap in a wall, and so I walked along, the old news report in my hand, looking for a match, just so that I could update the story. There was a house in the picture with a low roof, and as I walked along the bank I could see it further along, as if it had stepped out of the past, the scene unchanged. I walked a little quicker, knowing that I was in the right place. I bent down to take some pictures. The grass along the brook was unkempt, and the only sound was the water flowing over rocks in the stream.

  Then I saw something that made me stop. I wasn't sure I had seen it right at first, that maybe it was just a trick of the light as the breeze made the Pennine grasses flutter and sway. I stepped forward and brushed the grass to one side. ‘Shit!’ I exclaimed out loud, and then I fumbled for my camera.

  There was a large stone by the brook, smooth and flat, like a large pebble. It had no moss on it, unlike the others scattered around, but it wasn't just that. On its surface, a symbol had been scratched into it, one I was starting to see regularly. The screaming face, in outline, the same as the one on Sarah's family tree and the Nutter family gravestone. It was crude, hand-drawn, but it seemed like it was there as a marker, a tribute.

  I took some pictures, but I felt a strong urge to leave, to get away from there. My religious views weren't strong, more a case of hedging my bets than a belief, but even my limited experience told me that there were things going on that went beyond a normal story.

  I took one last look around and began to walk quickly back to my car. I felt nervous, tense, my hands suddenly sweaty I scanned the landscape as I walked, looking for someone watching me, remembering the van from before, and then I thought I saw someone behind a wall, near to my car.

  I started to run. The track was long and curved and uphill and I was soon out of breath, my feet pounding into the mud. I saw someone move away quickly and then I heard a car door slam. I jumped onto the gate and threw myself over to the other side and then scrambled to the road. I heard an engine. It turned over quickly and began to drive away, the clutch dragging as the driver set off in a panic. As I looked around the corner, I saw a white van, an Astra, the same as before, disappear from view.

  I put my hands on my knees and took in some deep breaths. I looked around me, at the hill, at the dark cottages, the wide empty spaces. My mouth was dry and I could feel nerves churning in my stomach.

  As I leaned back on my car, all I wanted to do was to get as far away from there as possible. But then I smiled to myself. I was a reporter, and so I wrote up whatever happened. And I knew that if things were happening, it just made the story even better.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘Joe, Joe!’

  When Joe Kinsella looked round, Laura trotted along the corridor to catch up with him.

  He turned around. ‘Detective McGanity,’ he said, smiling. ‘What makes you shout?’

  Laura grinned sheepishly. ‘I'm sorry,’ she replied. ‘I just wanted to give you an update.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On Jack,’ she said. ‘He seems keen on keeping you in the loop.’

  ‘He's a forgiving man,’ Joe replied, laughing. ‘C'mon, I'm going for a walk.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Outside, just for some thinking time.’ He pushed on the exit door, and Laura blinked as they both walked into the October sunshine. As they strolled up the steep cobbled path that took them out of the station yard and into the shadows of the street, he said, ‘Tell me what you know.’

  Laura fastened her suit jacket and shivered. ‘Pendle witches,’ she said. ‘You heard of them?’

  Joe looked at her, intrigued. ‘This seems a strange way to start an update.’

  ‘It's a strange story,’ Laura replied, and then she said, ‘That's where the letters come from.’

  Joe stopped, his brow furrowed. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.

  ‘They're extracts from the trial documents,’ Laura replied. ‘Made modern, but essentially the same.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Sarah is a descendant of one of the witches.’

  Joe started to smile. ‘That certainly makes it interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think there's anything in it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don't know. We knew the language was odd, but we never thought of that. Is Jack going to print yet?’

  ‘I don't know,’ Laura replied. ‘I suppose the story doesn't have an ending at the moment, but I know that he's not going to reveal the letters yet. Did you make any progress with the Facebook entry?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not much. All they told us was that someone would need her log-in details to post it, but we knew that anyway. We can only hope it's not true, that's all.’

  Laura didn't respond to that, and they walked in silence for a bit longer, dodging the pushchairs and shopping trolleys of morning shoppers. Laura realised that they were walking a circuit, making their slow way back to the station.

  ‘Do you do this a lot?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ was Joe's reply. He looked distracted, chewing on his lip.

  ‘Walking around town?’

  ‘It helps me to get among people,’ he replied. ‘We move around the towns and never really get a feel for the places, but we should. How can we investigate the town's deaths if we don't understand the people?’

  ‘You used to work in Blackley,’ said Laura. ‘You should know it already.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘That was a few years ago,’ he said. ‘The town has changed – not for the better though; it seems more hopeless now – but getting out helps me connect with the place, and that helps me feel that I know it, that I understand it. How about you? What brought you up north?’

  ‘Love,’ she said, blushing when she said it. ‘I followed my heart.’

  ‘You were right to do that.’

  Now it was Laura's turn to look confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your heart tells you what you really want,’ Joe replied. ‘Your head just tells you why you can't have it. But if you can, then you should always follow your heart.’ He glanced at Laura. ‘What does your heart tell you now?’

  ‘It's all a bit mixed up at the moment,’ she replied, surprised at herself for confiding in him.

  ‘You've no need to worry about Jack,’ he said softly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The photographs,’ he said, and he sighed. ‘I heard about the photographs Carson left for you. But I heard t
he talk behind the banter too, about what really went on. They got lucky with the camera, that's all, because it didn't catch the recoil as she reached out to him. I heard that he couldn't get away fast enough. Nothing went on, you can believe that.’

  Laura smiled, and had to take a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I knew that, deep down, but it is good to hear it.’ As she looked up, she realised that they had done the full circuit and were now approaching the cobbled ramp back into the station yard. ‘We're back,’ she said. ‘Was the walk worth it?’

  ‘It was,’ he said, nodding, smiling. ‘Very useful. Your reputation is deserved.’

  ‘Reputation?’

  ‘You need to expand your horizons,’ he said. ‘People speak highly of you, despite the London thing.’

  ‘What do you mean, the London thing?’ Laura asked, laughing.

  ‘I know what they say about us at headquarters,’ he said. ‘Stuck up, arrogant, condescending. Some of that's true, maybe, but for a London cop to come up here and avoid those things, then you've shown how good you are.’

  ‘Get me on your team then,’ she blurted out, and then blushed when she realised what she had said. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I know there are proper channels …’

  Joe held up his hand. ‘No, stop apologising,’ he began, and then he said, ‘maybe we could do with some extra help, particularly from someone getting information from the outside. I'll speak to Carson.’

  And then he walked ahead, leaving Laura fanning her red cheeks, wondering whether she had done the right thing.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  I thought about the white van and drove in the same direction, looking for it, driving quickly along the lanes around Newchurch, wanting to know why it was following me. The lanes were tight, all bends and dips with no pathways, usually just space for one car, so that every fifty yards I expected to see the van coming towards me, both of us surprised, but it didn't happen.

  It seemed like all the houses were set back, away from the road, accessed only by rutted tracks. The stone cottages were hidden by trees and natural hollows in the landscape, so I had to drive the Stag down roads that classic cars weren't meant to go. And every time I did, I was met by a locked gate or dead-end.

  But then on one of the lanes I heard something, an excited chatter.

  I got out and peered over the wall, and saw a group of women talking animatedly. There were four of them, and it seemed nothing special, just a meeting of friends, but just as I was about to walk back to my car, something about the group struck me. I looked back over the wall and I realised that I had seen two of the people before: they were the two customers from the shop in Newchurch, along with two others with long black hair streaming over their shoulders, one old and heavily bandaged around her leg, the other middle-aged. I ducked behind the wall and strained to listen to what they were saying. They were talking fast, but I thought I heard one of them mention Rebecca Nurse. I smiled to myself; I must have caused a stir in the village.

  I looked over the wall and watched as the women converged on a car and started to unload things from the boot, cloth bags, heavy-looking, before carrying them over to an old stone barn, checking around as if they were scared of being watched. One of the women pulled hard on the barn door, and once it had screeched open they all went inside.

  I pointed my camera over the top of the wall to get some pictures, and then ducked down again when the women reappeared, minus the bags. Everyone climbed into the car, and once the engine started and the car pulled away, I stuck my head over the wall and watched them crawl away up the track. When they reached the road at the other side of the field, they slipped away into the distance.

  I reckoned I had to be quick. I hopped over the wall and tried to walk nonchalantly down to the barn, hoping not to be seen.

  The door to the barn was large and black, the building made out of old grey stone, missing mortar in many places, no windows along the sides to provide any other way in.

  I pulled on the door, and the grit in its runner made it creak and groan as it opened. If anyone could see the barn, they would hear the noise and look over. But I had gone too far to stop.

  It was gloomy inside, the only source of daylight being the open door. It didn't let much in, but I could see enough to notice that it wasn't used for farm equipment any more.

  I felt a shiver, a worry that I was getting into something that was way over my head. I stepped forward slowly, knowing that with each step I took, the less likely it was that I would be able to make a quick exit.

  I had expected dirt and cobwebs, old tools, pieces of machinery, but there wasn't any of that. It had been cleaned out, ready for something.

  The walls were painted black, as was the floor, which was around thirty feet square, hard concrete, so that my footsteps echoed as loud shuffles in the empty space. The roof was high, and I thought I could hear animal sounds in the dark corners, a flutter of wings or the scurrying of a rodent. I walked slowly, on edge, waiting for someone to appear from behind a post or out of the shadows.

  But it was what was on the floor that drew my interest.

  Across the entire barn was painted a white pentagram, a five-pointed star bounded by a large white circle. The lines were ragged, painted free-style, but bold and permanent. I knew what the symbol stood for straight away: the occult, and another link to what I had found the day before, that somehow witchcraft fitted into the story. And I remembered what the vicar had hinted at earlier, that maybe witchcraft wasn't just part of history for some of the local people. As I looked around, I realised that he was right.

  There were objects dotted around the circle, pewter candle-holders designed for three candles each. I counted them. Nine in total – the contents of the bags was my guess.

  I started to walk across the barn, wanting to explore further, but then I stopped myself as I got to the edge of the circle. I wasn't superstitious, but something told me that walking through the pentagram wasn't a wise thing to do, that it was ceremonial and I should respect it.

  I walked around it until I got to one end of the barn, at the top point of the pentagram. There was an old oak table there, scarred and knotted, but it seemed ceremonial, like some kind of altar. Behind it, the wall was covered in a black cloth, and as I got closer I could just make out a symbol, painted in silver. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up and I shuddered. It was that symbol again, the same as the one on Sarah Goode's family tree, the screaming face.

  I thought I heard something again, like soft footsteps. I stopped, waiting for the next sound, but there was nothing. Just silence. I pulled out my camera and took some pictures. The flash lit up the scene, and I saw a bag on one side of the circle, in the shadows by the wall. It looked like the one I had seen in the hands of the old lady not long before.

  I walked around the circle, never crossing the line, and peered inside the bag. It was filled with candles. I looked around again, and I realised from the placement of the candle-holders and the bag filled with candles that there was to be a ceremony soon. I checked my watch. It was still late morning. From the candles and the darkness of the barn, it seemed like this would be a nocturnal ceremony.

  I knew I would be coming back later, so I went behind the black cloth to look for a way to get in, and for somewhere to hide and watch whatever was going to happen.

  The space was small, just a gap between the cloth and the wall, and I felt my way along, cursing as I banged my shin on something left there in the darkness, and then I stopped when the cold stone changed to coarse wood. There was a window I'd missed before, boarded up loosely, really just a collection of short planks fastened to a rotting window frame. I pushed a couple out at the bottom, so that the space was big enough for me to slide out and onto the floor outside. I turned around and took some pictures; not for the story, but so that the flash would illuminate the scene and then I could work out if there was anywhere else to hide.

  My stomach jolted as I heard a car approach, the
hum of tyres turning into a rumble as it made its way down the muddy track. I pushed the boards a bit harder and slid out of the window, slumping to a heap on the outside. The sudden return of daylight made me squint, and I lay still, breathing hard, listening out as the car crunched to a halt. I looked towards the path that I had come down, and I could see the roof of my car over the top of the wall.

  I set off walking, stepping away from the barn wall, my feet swishing through the grass, when I heard something behind me. I tried to turn, but strong arms grabbed me and pulled me back against the barn wall.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Laura went back into her office and flopped into her chair, putting her head on the desk.

  ‘Didn't it go so well?’ asked Pete.

  She groaned, the noise muffled against the desk; she could hear the pleasure in his voice. Then she looked up. ‘I told him what I knew, about what Jack had found out, but then I blew it, said something stupid.’

  ‘Go on, tell me,’ said Pete, grinning, enjoying himself too much. ‘You asked him for dinner?’

  ‘Do you want me to throw another pen at you?’ she said, smiling herself now. She sat back. ‘No, it was worse than that.’

  ‘I can't wait for this.’

  Laura sighed. ‘I asked to go onto his team, that's all.’ When Pete gasped, she said quickly, ‘Only as a temporary thing. A local officer might help.’

  ‘They've got plenty of local officers working for them,’ Pete replied. ‘Knocking on doors, you know, the routine stuff, like we do.’

  ‘I know that, but I sort of meant in the Incident Room.’

  ‘Are you mad? That's their preserve, the pressed-shirt brigade.’

  She put her hands over her face. ‘It just sort of came out. I didn't mean to say it.’

  ‘But aren't minor, everyday offences enough for you?’ he said, laughing now. ‘You can build a career on rubbish like this,’ and he waved some paperwork in the air.