by Neil White
‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but I miss it, Pete: the high-life, murders. Good crime, not the shit we wade through in here each day.’ When Pete looked offended, Laura said, ‘I don't mean that I don't like working with you – you're the bright spot – but I'm a girl who needs some excitement.’
Pete smiled at her. ‘I used to think that, but I've upset too many people. If you can get on, you do that, but I would like to be there when Carson hears about your request.’ When Laura grimaced, Pete said, ‘Just tell him that it looked very impressive, you know, when you were looking at his dick.’
‘Is that all it boils down to with men, the size of your manhood?’ Laura asked.
Pete nodded. ‘Either its size, or its use. I'm sure Carson will take one out of two.’
I was pinned against the wall.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered. He was tall, with thinning blond hair and the healthy, ruddy look you get from living in the country.
‘I'm a reporter,’ I hissed back at him angrily. ‘Jack Garrett. Now it's your turn. Who the fuck are you, and when are you going to let go of my arm?’
I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. He pushed me harder against the wall, so that the stones dug into the back of my head. ‘What were you doing in there?’ he asked, still whispering. Insistent, not angry.
‘I'll answer questions when you answer mine. Who are you?’
He took a deep breath, and then said, ‘I'm a police officer. Inspector Lucas. And I want to ask you a few questions.’ His grip was still strong.
‘Who sent you? Carson?’
He looked surprised at that, and I felt his grip relax. ‘Carson? Karl Carson? Why do you say that?’
‘Because the last person to grab my arm was one of his monkeys. It seems like freedom of the press doesn't have much of a chance around here. Do you know Carson?’
‘Murder squad?’
I nodded.
‘I've come across him a few times,’ he said, calmer now. ‘He comes into town whenever there's a murder, and if it's too tricky for the local boys, he takes over.’ Then he looked at me. ‘That's not a quote, by the way.’ When I shrugged my agreement, he asked, ‘How did you get here?’
I nodded up the hill. ‘A red Triumph. Just over that wall.’
He didn't look. I realised that he knew the answer already. He just wanted to see if I was the truthful sort. I watched him as he thought about his next move, grinding his teeth as he glared at me. ‘Get in my car,’ he said eventually, and pointed me towards a dirty cream Land Rover parked next to the barn.
‘What about mine?’ I asked, as I clambered into the passenger seat. I remembered the last lift I'd had from the police, and I had ended up a long way from anywhere.
‘It will still be there,’ he said, and then set off quickly, before I had a chance to fasten my seat-belt. ‘What are you researching?’ he demanded, his eyes never leaving the road.
‘I'm looking into Sarah Goode's disappearance,’ I answered.
He thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘The missing teacher from Blackley?’
I nodded. ‘Her parents thought it would be a good story if I found her.’
‘Did you think you would find her in a barn on Pendle Hill?’
‘I was curious.’
I had to put my arms onto the dashboard as I was thrown forward by the quick stop into a lay-by. He looked at me.
‘Why are you here, Mr Garrett?’
I thought about how much to say, and then I realised that I had little to lose by being honest. The story would need quotes, and so I had to talk to get answers. I reached into my coat pocket and laid out the family tree on my knee. I had printed off the pictures earlier, and I pointed at the spider tracks of lines and names.
‘The Pendle witches bring me here,’ I said.
He laughed, a quiet chuckle. ‘Like most people. Why for you?’
And so I told him, all about Sarah Goode and the connection with the Pendle witches, and about the other deaths mentioned by Sarah's mother.
As I was speaking, I saw him looking at the family tree. He took it from me and scoured the names, until he threw it back at me and muttered, ‘Shit.’ He was silent for a few minutes, just looking out of the window, until he turned to me and asked, ‘How long have you been looking into this?’
‘I've known about the connection for a day. Why?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn't matter.’
I looked down at the family tree. He had seen something there.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
I could tell that he was debating what to say, so I made my usual threat. ‘If you don't tell me, I'll go to print with what I've got. If there is something else, tell me, and I can hold it back.’
He looked down at the family tree again, and then asked, ‘Would that go in the piece?’
‘Right in the middle,’ I replied.
‘I've seen that symbol before,’ he said, and tapped the top of the paper. ‘People are being attacked around here with explosives, three so far. No one has been killed, but an old lady's pet cat was exploded the other morning. She had that symbol on a ring on her finger, and in the house. So did one of the others.’
I whistled. ‘There is something strange going on around here.’
‘And there's something else,’ he said.
‘Keep going,’ I urged.
His finger jabbed at a name on the family tree. ‘Susan Lloyd.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘She was the first victim of the explosions.’
My mouth opened, shocked, unsure what to say.
He sighed. ‘Maybe it's nothing. Most local people claim to be descendants of the witches, either Anne Whittle, Alice Nutter, or even Old Demdike. I'm not sure many can prove it, but I suppose there must be Pendle witch blood in most of the people in the villages around here.’
He was trying to sound dismissive, that the witch connection hadn't really surprised him. Was I safe with him?
‘And what about her?’ I asked, and I pointed to the name of the young girl found dead by Sabden Brook, Rebecca Nurse.
He thought for a moment, and then his eyes opened wide as he remembered it. ‘And that's why you were down there,’ he said.
‘You were watching me all that time?’
He smiled at that – the first time I had seen it.
‘And her?’ I asked, pointing at the other name that had brought me to Pendle. ‘April Mather?’
He nodded. ‘A suicide,’ he said. ‘Hanged herself from Blacko Tower.’ He held up the piece of paper. ‘Can I borrow this?’
I nodded my agreement, but when he asked me what I was going to do, I told him that I was going back to that barn once it got dark.
‘I wouldn't do that,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
Then he smiled again, although this time more mischievously. ‘Because there aren't many hiding places in there, and I'll be there first.’
Chapter Fifty-three
I made it back to the barn just after six, as the sun slipped behind the horizon and the fields all around became shrouded in darkness. I was dressed all in black. Laura had laughed at me when I'd told her where I was going, told me that I was too old to play secret agent, but I knew I was almost invisible as I made my way to the window I had clambered out of earlier in the day.
I listened out for any noise, but it seemed quiet of human activity. I could hear branches creaking, and I thought the trickle of Sabden Brook carried on the breeze. I pulled at the boards, and then slithered through onto the barn floor, careful not to make any sound. I knelt on the floor, listening out, my eyes trying to adjust, and at first it seemed like I was alone. But then I jumped as I heard a noise just behind me and a hand gripped my shoulder.
‘I told you I would get here before you,’ a voice whispered in my ear.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ I whispered back, almost laughing with relief, and then I asked, ‘Any movement out front?’
‘No, none,’ he
answered, and then he said, ‘There's an old door against the wall over there. I've been waiting behind that. If you kneel down next to me, you should be able to see too. But no photographs.’
I shuffled along the wall, conscious that a discarded tool could make a noise. Once behind the door, I felt our breath warm the small space, and we spent the next hour trying not to talk, worried in case someone came along without us hearing them. So we hid in the darkness, silent, waiting.
We both tensed when we heard steps outside, crunches on the gravel. I felt Rod touch my arm, just to make sure that we both knew to be quiet.
The door screeched loudly as it was pulled open, and then I thought I heard a steady drumbeat, marking time. Goose-pimples sprang up on my arms. I peered through the darkness, waiting for someone to appear.
I saw a flame at first, a large candle making the shadow of the doorway pulse as it flickered, but I couldn't make out any detail on the person carrying it. I could tell it was a man, from his height and the width of his shoulders, but he was wearing a hood, and the brim seemed to move in the candlelight. As I watched, I realised that it was a cloak with a long hood, sack-brown, running the full length of his body. His feet were bare.
‘Who is that?’ I whispered.
Rod didn't answer.
The steady rhythm continued, and as the first person entered, walking slowly, I saw that there was someone behind him wearing the same cloak. It looked like a woman; she was smaller, moved slower, perhaps older. And then I saw the bandages on her leg and remembered the woman from earlier. She was carrying the drum I could hear. It was small, held in one hand, and she was sounding a steady beat in time with their steps, like the stop-start rhythm of the death march. As they got further into the barn, they started to walk around the edge of the circle, and I saw that there were others behind, all wearing the same cloak.
They filed in and each took up a position by the large candle-holders I had seen earlier. Their heads were bowed, their hands clasped to the front. The first two to enter had now gone to the head of the circle, nearest to the cloth backdrop, the drum still sounding its steady beat. Then, as the male leader started to raise his hands in the air, the drumbeat stopped. He had a knife in one hand. The blade was double-edged, nearly a foot long, going to a single point.
There was silence in the barn. I thought they would hear the hard pound of my heartbeat. My hands were slick with sweat.
The leader threw back his hood. He had grey hair, long and pulled back into a ponytail, with some kind of a metal headband. It looked like copper. I could see his paunch against the rope tied around his cloak.
‘That's Olwen,’ whispered Rod in my ear.
‘Who is he?’
‘Local oddball,’ he replied. ‘I thought he might have a hand in some of this, but I didn't realise he was the leader.’
‘Blessed be,’ bellowed Olwen, and then he thrust the knife upwards, holding it high in the air.
‘Blessed be,’ came the response from everyone around the circle, the words echoing around the barn, the voices a mix of ages and sexes.
Olwen paused and looked at those standing around the white circle. He jabbed the air with the knife again. ‘Be it known,’ he shouted, ‘the temple is to be erected, the circle is to be cast.’
The woman who had followed Olwen started to walk around the circle, her candle still in her hand, using it to light all the other candles. When all were burning brightly, everyone lowered their hoods. There were a couple of older women, a young man with glasses, and the rest were young women, their hair falling in soft curls to their shoulders.
‘That's the woman who had her cat blown up, Abigail Hobbs,’ Rod whispered in my ear, and I followed the line of his finger to the woman who had been playing the drum.
‘She was here this afternoon, with the woman at the back,’ I whispered in return, pointing.
‘Isla Marsden,’ he replied.
We stopped talking when Olwen thrust his knife upwards again.
‘I bring light and fire,’ he bellowed, his voice echoing around the rafters. ‘It brings the breath of life.’
Abigail picked up two small bowls and walked over to him, holding them out at arm's length. Olwen dipped the knife into one and covered the tip with white powder.
‘Let us purify ourselves,’ he said, his voice deep and serious. ‘Cleanse our bodies and spirits with this salt as we dedicate ourselves to the glory of the God and Goddess.’ His shouts turned into a chant, and he dropped the salt into the other bowl and stirred it with the knife. ‘Let the sacred salt drive out any impurities in this water, that we may use it in our rites.’
Olwen began to walk around the circle, Abigail behind him, holding out the bowls, limping as she went. He dipped his knife into the water and flicked it along the straight lines of the pentagram on the floor.
‘I consecrate thee in the names of the God and Goddess,’ he shouted, ‘bidding you welcome to this temple.’
When Olwen had walked around the full circle, Abigail put down the bowls and picked up her drum once more. She began to beat out the same steady rhythm. Everyone else joined hands and moved slowly around the edge of the circle.
‘This is a coven, isn't it?’ I whispered.
‘That would be my guess,’ Rod replied.
‘I consecrate those of you here present in the names of the God and Goddess,’ Olwen chanted, ‘and welcome you to this, their temple.’
‘All hail the air, the fire, the water, the earth,’ everyone chanted back.
‘We bid the Lord and Lady welcome,’ Olwen chanted again, his voice getting louder. ‘All hail.’
‘All hail,’ everyone shouted back.
‘Let no one leave the temple until it be cleared. So mote it be.’
‘So mote it be,’ came the communal response, the words spoken quietly but reverberating around the roof space.
Everyone stopped and held out their candles, the flames flickering shadows around their faces. I was struck by how ordinary they seemed, as if they were just northern men and women playing dressing-up games in a barn. Their eyes were on Olwen. He looked around the circle, enjoying the drama, a smile on his lips.
‘Pray for Harmonie, our missing one,’ he said, softer this time. ‘Keep her safe, and for all who have suffered before, let them find love. Let no one be lonely who is from the family line.’
‘Let people come,’ everyone chanted, knowing their lines.
Olwen looked around again, from face to face, his knife still high in the air.
‘Does anyone know of someone of the family line who seeks entry?’ he asked, his voice filled with drama.
Again, there was a pause, but I got the impression that it was theatrical, like the whole evening.
‘I know,’ said a voice at the far edge of the circle, the younger man, maybe only twenty, but his voice was deep and bold.
‘Who do you bring?’ asked Olwen.
‘She waits outside.’
‘Can you vouch for her?’
‘I can,’ the young man replied, ‘because I am her teacher, and I have shown her the Craft. Now she requests entrance.’
‘Can she be brought before us?’
‘She can.’
Olwen held out his arms. ‘Then let it be.’
The young man went to open the door, his movements slow and deliberate. No one looked round as it screeched open. The drumbeat started again, loud and slow.
A woman came into the barn. She was young, in her early twenties, tall and elegant, with short blonde hair and wearing a long dress, her feet bare like everyone else's. She was led into the barn by the young man, her arms held out in front of her. As she got to the edge of the circle, she stopped. Olwen walked slowly around the edge of the circle until he reached her, and then he turned so that he was facing into the centre. He made symbolic slashing movements in the air with his knife, as if cutting an opening, and stepped forward into the circle. Olwen turned to her and took hold of her hands.
�
�Come with me,’ he said, his voice low.
She stepped over the circle threshold and made her way to the centre of the pentagram. She stood in front of him, her arms by her side.
‘It looks like some kind of initiation,’ I said.
‘Or sacrifice,’ Rod responded.
Olwen looked at the other people in the room, and then back to her. ‘Why do you come here?’ he asked.
‘To worship the God and Goddess and do so with the brothers and sisters of my family line,’ she replied, her voice timid and nervous.
‘Who do you bring with you?’
‘Just my true self.’
Olwen nodded solemnly.
‘Do you wish to end the life you have known so far?’ He said it calmly, and I felt Rod tense behind me.
‘You might be right,’ I whispered, not wholly serious.
‘It might just be symbolic,’ came the reply, hissed in my ear, but he sounded nervous.
The drumbeat became slightly faster. Olwen stepped forward and held the knife towards her head. I felt Rod lean forward and his fingers dug into my shoulders.
Olwen cut off a small piece of the woman's hair and tossed it into the flame of a candle just behind him, where it crackled for a few seconds before disappearing as a spark into the night.
Olwen reached out and grabbed her dress, pulled it towards himself. The woman swallowed. The drumbeat quickened even more, matching my heart-rate.
Olwen raised the knife and looked around those present, before slashing downwards quickly, digging the blade into the cloth.
The woman jolted, and then, as she shrugged her shoulders, the dress fell from her. I saw that she was naked underneath. She closed her eyes for a second and I saw her cheeks flush. It was cold and she shivered slightly, her nipples hardening.
She hung her head and the young man who had brought her in stood behind her with a cloth and placed it over her eyes. He pulled it tight, snapping her head back, and then tied it into a knot.
The woman swallowed.
‘This isn't looking good,’ I said.
Rod just breathed heavily through his nose.
