by Kirsty Ferry
‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘I think we’re beyond that. Someone dumped Schubert in a canal and that’s how I found him. I was just remembering what he looked like when I got him. Poor little thing.’
I cast a sidelong glance at Cat Mountain, who is presently crooning something to Catnip and I make a non-committal noise that sounds something like ‘Hrumph.’ I try to make it sound a bit like a question, and I think it works as Nessa nods, making her curls bounce up and down off her shoulders.
‘Yes, he was so scrawny, bless him. He’s much healthier now, though. That’s why he’s nervous if he gets into a scrape he can’t get out of. I think it brings it all back to him.’
I murmur something like, ‘Aaaah,’ and that seems to relax Nessa even more.
She smiles again and agrees with me. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Bless him.’ This cat is obviously well blessed. Still, he seems content enough and my thoughts return to witches.
‘So tell me more about your witchy research,’ I say. If I’m smart, she won’t know I might use some of her information in my book.
I’m clearly not smart.
‘Will you use my information in your book?’ she asks and I cough a little to hide my embarrassment.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘You’ll be famous.’
‘I already am,’ she says wryly. The gear lever crunches again as she scowls. ‘I know she’s your girlfriend and everything, but the drug tip-off thing was out of order, Ewan. I just have to say that to clear the air between us.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ I say, surprised, ‘but I didn’t think there was anything to clear between us two. I mean, between you and me.’
‘Oh that’s all right, then,’ she says. ‘It’s just she’s the only one who could have said something and I do think she put that first picture up as well. She’s not a very nice person, in my opinion.’ Then she kind of bites her lip as if she thinks she’s said too much.
‘She has her redeeming features,’ I say weakly. But you know what – at this present moment in time, I can’t think of any. ‘You haven’t told me about your research, anyway,’ I prompt, hoping to change the subject.
‘Well there’s not much to tell.’ I think she’s secretly relieved about the subject change. ‘I have an altar, I have a wand. I’m going to dedicate the altar and I might try a simple candle spell to see if it works.’
‘Any thoughts as to what candle spell you might try?’
‘I don’t know. A friend for Schubert. Good news. A windfall.’ Then she glances towards me without turning her head and I swear there is mischief there. ‘A tragic hair dyeing accident. A broken pair of hair-straighteners. A frazzled hairdryer.’ I know she’s thinking about Fern and I turn my head to the window so she doesn’t see me smile.
‘No love potions?’ I ask.
‘No love potions,’ she replies firmly. ‘I don’t need them.’
‘Oh,’ I say. And continue looking out of the window.
Chapter Seven
NESSA
Well there’s no need to tell Ewan why I think a spell for a love potion will be absolutely useless to me at the moment.
There’s only one person I’d be interested in loving, and he’s all loved up with a bad-attitude blonde trollop who hates me.
I hate her as well, so we’re at least even on that score.
‘Tell me more about the witches we’re visiting today,’ I say, after a bit. The conversation has dried up a little after the love potions comment. Also, I kind of like hearing his voice, and the acoustics in Winnie, who is basically a glorified tin-box, make it sound even richer and darker. He’s got a voice like cocoa in a mug on a cold winter’s evening. I could snuggle up with that voice, no problem. It’s the perfect Halloween voice and it’s nearly Halloween and …
‘Well, you know about Maggie, the witch that never was,’ he says, turning away from the window and facing me, interrupting my wicked thoughts about snuggling up to him, ‘but you don’t know about Kincladie Woods, do you?’
‘I don’t,’ I say.
‘There were eight witches strangled, then burned at the stake in 1662, in those woods,’ says Ewan, ‘and not an Agnes amongst them.’ He flips open his notebook and reads out the list of names. ‘Issobel McKendley, Elspeth Reid, Jonet Toyes, Jonet Airth, Helen Ilson, Margret Crose, Jonet Martin and Jonet Young. You might be interested to know,’ he says, turning the page, ‘that two Agnes’s were tried but not executed, so they must have been innocent. Agnes Ramsay and Agnes Hutsone.’
‘Hurrah for the Agnes’s,’ I say ironically.
‘There’s also a rumour that some other witches were drowned in the River Earn.’
‘That’s a wee bit further north, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ agrees Ewan. ‘Runs right into the Tay and then into the North Sea.’
‘So the ashes would have travelled a long, long way,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit scary.’
‘It’s not pleasant.’
‘I think my great-great-grandmother was lucky she didn’t exist in those days,’ I say. ‘I’ve often said she would have been executed as well.’
‘I hope you’re not studying the darker side of magic, with your book and everything.’
‘No,’ I say emphatically, ‘it’s all about Wicca and nature spirits, the sort of thing I’m looking at. Oh – is this the turning here?’
‘I believe it is,’ says Ewan. And we head towards Dunning and Maggie Wall.
EWAN
We drive through a small, pretty village with stone cottages and whitewashed pubs lining the narrow road. Winnie edges her way expertly through the lanes and out the other side, then we turn left at a crossroads and trundle off towards the monument.
Purple and green mountains seem to herald our way on the left and I can see more of the same in the far distance to the right. We pass a collection of farm buildings and suddenly I can see the monument perched on its cairn of stones with the big cross sitting atop.
There’s a narrow grass verge that Nessa swings Winnie onto. Schubert gives a yowl of protest and a soft flumpf makes me think he’s rolled over in the cat carrier and hit the sides.
‘“Maggie Wall, burnt here, 1657, as a witch”,’ reads Nessa. The words are painted white and lie stark against the grey, lichen-covered post. Despite myself, I shiver slightly. I know this monument is probably a folly and all that, but this really did happen to people. I chance a glance over at Nessa and she is staring at the monument, perhaps thinking the same thing as I am.
‘All right?’ I ask.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she replies, a little tightly. ‘Well, come on, then. Let’s go and have a look. Then we might have a cup of tea.’
Of course. I keep forgetting we’re in a camper van. A home from home – and fully equipped as one too. And a cup of tea sounds rather nice. Sort of normal and pleasant.
‘Good idea.’
Nessa nods and gets out of the van. She hops down to the road and thrusts her hands in her pockets, then stomps up the four steps to the enclosure the monument is in. She walks up to it and stares at it for a moment, then slowly circles the thing looking at the big, square blocks the cairn is made out of. I follow her and wait for her to complete her circuit.
‘Someone’s been here to put offerings on the stones,’ she says. She stands next to me and we both stare at the debris which has been pushed into the crevasses. Candles, flowers, crystals, horrible little Halloween dolls, pumpkins and decapitated-head key-rings fill the holes. I think it looks awful, personally.
‘It looks awful, doesn’t it?’ she says.
‘It does,’ I agree. ‘There’s no need for it. It’s all rubbish.’
‘I think most of it has been put here with good intentions,’ muses Nessa. She leans over and plucks a bat with googly eyes and vile rubber wings out of the masonry and looks at it in distaste. ‘But crap like this needs to be removed.’ She flicks the thing away and it bounces over the fence and into the farmer’s field. ‘Ritual litter, with the em
phasis on “litter”,’ she says.
‘Not something you would do, then?’ I ask her.
‘Not here,’ she says. ‘I tied a ribbon around a tree in Glastonbury when Winnie and I went there, but that’s different. The things here – they’re just wrong.’
‘Apparently the villagers aren’t too fond of it either,’ I tell her. ‘Geoff says so in his book. They have to tidy it all away, you know.’
‘Well I’m sure they get fed up doing that,’ she says. ‘Come on. We’re Maggie’s guests and the least we can do is help. I’ll go and get a plastic bag from Winnie.’
She turns on her heel and stomps off towards the camper van, her boots making a squelching sound on the soggy, well-trodden grass.
I consider picking the rubber bat up out of the field and then think I had better stop considering it and do it – heaven forbid the farmer sees it there and thinks we’ve been adding to the ritual litter. So I lean over the fence and reach across for it. As I’m leaning, I can sense Nessa coming up behind me and hear her breathing. I straighten up to speak to her.
Then I see Nessa at the far end of the compound making her way down the steps of the camper van and shaking a plastic bag out, a frown on her face.
God knows who just breathed on me, then, but it scares the hell out of me when I realise it wasn’t her.
Chapter Eight
NESSA
‘Are you all right?’ I ask Ewan. I shake the bag out and it inflates with the wind that’s just blown up from the fields and rushed past me. It’s like having a Marks and Spencer’s branded kite in my hands.
‘Fine, thanks,’ he says, but he doesn’t look fine. He’s quite pale and blinking a lot. It’s not a good look for a six foot three rugby player.
‘Did Maggie come to say hello?’ I ask him. I try to make a joke, but it makes him look even more terrified. Then he sort of composes himself and smiles.
‘I doubt it,’ he says. ‘She’s a fake, remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say and grin at him. ‘Ready to do some ritual cleansing, then?’
‘More than ready.’
The first thing to go in the bag is that horrible bat and then we systematically remove everything else as well.
I might have felt guilty but I don’t. Like I said, it’s all ritual litter and this place doesn’t need it. It’s beautiful, it’s natural and it should be as Nature intended it to be; just stone and earth and sky.
‘What are we going to do with it all?’ Ewan asks, as we put the final item, a rotting banana skin, into the bag. I look at the bag with some distaste. I haven’t thought that far ahead.
‘Put it in a waste bin?’ I suggest. ‘There’s bound to be one in the village.’
‘Good idea,’ says Ewan. He looks down the road we just drove along and I can see him calculating distances.
‘I suppose we could walk to the village,’ he says. ‘We have plenty of time. Unless you need to be back home for anything?’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ I tell him, and gosh isn’t that the truth? Extend the day trip with Ewan or go back home? Tough choice. Besides, if anyone sees us together, they’ll think we’re a “couple” as opposed to just a couple of individual people, which is quite nice.
I wish that we could spin our day out just that little bit longer, because if I only have Ewan Grainger for one day, I want to make it last as long as I bloody well can.
So, on that basis: ‘I have to consider Schubert,’ I tell him. ‘We can’t leave him in Winnie alone and I forgot to bring his lead. I’m not happy to let him out without it just now. Not until he gets his bearings.’ He gives me puzzled, but not unkind, sort of look; but he’s bound to have seen me taking Schubert around the streets on it for a little exercise so I don’t justify it in any way. ‘But an alternative,’ I continue, ‘is that you could spend a little more time with Maggie here, do some writing and jot down your plot whilst I read my book. Winnie is equipped for light snacks so we’ll be fine for a little while. At least a couple of hours. Then,’ I say, ‘I’d like to see Kincladie Woods before we head home.’
There – that should keep him occupied for some time, shouldn’t it?
Ewan processes the information and I see him look back at the monument a little longingly.
‘That sounds like it might work,’ he says. ‘Which book are you going to read whilst I work? And can you bear having that rubbish in Winnie for that length of time?’ He nods at the bag which is all lumpy and bumpy and doesn’t float like a kite any more.
‘My Wicca book. And I’ll leave this rubbish outside Winnie,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not contaminating her by having it inside.’ I shake my head emphatically. ‘No. I don’t like the stuff we collected and I don’t want it anywhere near Winnie. Does that make me a crazy person?’
‘Definitely not,’ he says. I’m pleased to see that worried look he had before has gone now and there is, oh my, a twinkle in those eyes. My legs go a little weak and I have to press my knees together to stop myself from tumbling into a panting heap at his feet. ‘It makes you sensible,’ he continues, leaning in towards me a little. He lowers his voice and I make a tiny squeak somewhere in my throat as he comes close to me. Then he grins. ‘I can smell that banana peel from here.’
EWAN
Okay, so the banana peel thing wasn’t the most sensible comment to make under the circumstances, but my god, I can smell it and it’s disgusting.
For a moment, when I was getting closer to Nessa and I was right up to her, I definitely felt a little spark between us and she just looked so gorgeous with her green eyes all wide and innocent and not a bit of craziness about her at all.
Then I checked myself, because the last thing I want to do is force myself upon her when she knows I’ve got a girlfriend.
I have to say, though, that the idea of Fern as a girlfriend is getting less and less appealing as the day goes on.
Nessa is funny and quirky and innocent and Fern is none of those things. In fact, I’m starting to wonder what I saw in Fern in the first place? Yes, she looked pretty damn good in a gold lamé bikini, and she seemed to be happy for me as my career took off – but apart from that …
As if on cue, my mobile phone beeps and I take it out of my pocket. And what do you know: it’s Fern.
Hey babes, what you up to? Miss you!
I pull a face and glare at it. I’m conscious of Nessa looking at me and she must have seen my face change.
She says softly, ‘Hadn’t you better answer her?’
‘She knows where I am.’
‘Bet she doesn’t know I’m here though,’ says Nessa tartly. I dart a quick glance up to her and she looks like an evil imp.
‘So what if you are?’
Then my phone goes again.
Just swung by your house to pop those Caribbean brochures through your letterbox. Think that stupid cat is on your roof again. I can hear it.
Without thinking, I text back It’s not Schubert. He’s perfectly safe, don’t worry.
I don’t mention the brochures. I think she has some idea of enticing me over there for a romantic break or, in Fern World, a “surprise” engagement or wedding that would only be a surprise to me.
How do you know about the cat? she fires back.
Okay, I’m fed up with this now. I quickly turn the phone to silent mode as this text conversation could get very annoying and the bleeps are simply spoiling the peace of the countryside. Then the screen flashes silently yet angrily as Fern decides to ring instead and I groan.
I press the button to answer and just as I do, Nessa, who now has her back to me, begins to walk away and starts making some comment about how she thinks lying trollops should get what’s coming to them and for one horrible moment there is silence on the end of the line and I hope Fern hasn’t heard her.
Then Fern’s voice comes through, falsely bright and a little strained. ‘Where are you? Will you back tonight? Who are you with?’
And then Nessa, who is a little way away by now, bur
sts into song, belting out that old number about love potion number nine.
‘Tra la la,’ she bellows tunelessly. Then, in an equally loud voice, she says, ‘Agnes was accused of using one you know. I wonder if they work? Maybe Maggie Wall can tell us, or maybe we can ask the ghosts of those witches in Kincladie Woods. Come on, Ewan, let’s find out. Oh bugger, didn’t realise you were on the phone.’ She looks genuinely shocked to see me there with it against my ear. ‘Did they hear my singing? Oh dear!’
‘Yes I should be back tonight,’ I say into the phone, still looking at Nessa who has gone white and mouths ‘Fern?’
Fern in her turn gabbles something incoherent about me not telling her anything and using her and everything else and blah blah blah.
‘Just stop it,’ I say. ‘Nessa gave me a lift, my car broke down. What’s the problem?’
‘She’s the problem!’ squawks Fern. Then she hangs up on me.
‘Whoopsie,’ says Nessa. She shifts that disgusting bag from one hand to the other and looks at me. ‘Do you want to head back, then?’
It might be my imagination, but she sounds a little sad.
‘Of course not. Fern is overreacting. I don’t know what her problem is.’
‘Why should there be a problem?’ Nessa asks. ‘I’m not half as pretty as her. She has no need to worry.’
‘Don’t put yourself down!’ I snap. Then I have to clamp my lips shut before I say something that will change the dynamics of the day and send Nessa hurtling back into the driving seat of Winnie, where she will roar off into the distance and leave me stranded with Maggie Wall.
I have to stop myself from saying that I, personally, find Nessa far more attractive than Fern. Which is wholly inappropriate.
Nessa would never be interested in me. And I have a girlfriend anyway.
That last phrase actually depresses me.
Chapter Nine
NESSA
I didn’t know Fern was on the phone, honest I didn’t. But Ewan is right. Why should it be a problem that I’m here? We’re here as friends, as companions. I gave him a lift. End of.
