When she was out of the shower and dry again she moved to a chest and opened the bottom drawer. From a small cardboard box she withdrew a long, rusty nail and a large, smooth stone. With these and the clay image she had no doubt of success. They’d be enough to kill Arthur ten times over.
That evening at art class she finished the clay model and carefully placed it in the small box she had brought with her for the purpose. As she did so the instructor, a tall woman with a face like a dispossessed spaniel, came to her, looked over her shoulder and said, ‘All done, then, Mrs Armstrong?’
‘Yes, all done.’
‘I’m curious,’ the instructor said, ‘as to what you want it for . . .’
Doris turned to her and gave a bleak smile. ‘Are you?’ She put the lid on the box and sealed it with tape. Let the stupid woman be curious; she wasn’t going to satisfy her curiosity. What was more, she wouldn’t be coming back to the class after this evening; there’d be no need to.
That night as she lay awake in bed thinking of tomorrow and the festival she could hear Arthur’s snoring through the wall. That was something else she wouldn’t have to put up with for much longer. Just a little while and he’d never snore again.
The thirty-first. It had rained during the night but the morning was clear, bright and promising.
Over the breakfast table Arthur, as usual, was clearly unhappy about his eggs, and she watched, secretly pleased, as he pushed them to one side. ‘Aren’t you going to eat your eggs?’ she said.
He frowned. ‘You know I don’t like them like this, Doris,’ he said. ‘I tell you every morning and next day they’re just the same. Sometimes I think you just don’t make the effort.’
She looked at him over her coffee cup, hating him. She was glad that his scrambled eggs were like rubber. Glad. If he’d been pleased with them she’d have been disappointed. And he was wrong to say that she didn’t make the effort. She did. She had to have ways of showing her loathing for him and the eggs were one of those ways. ‘I worked hard to prepare those eggs for you,’ she said reproachfully.
After a few moments under her glare he pulled the plate back before him. ‘I’ll try to eat a little,’ he murmured.
She watched then as he braced himself and dug a fork into the solid yellow mass. Added to his incompetence he had no guts, either. What a wimp. Any other man would have thrown the mess at the wall – which was what it deserved. Not Arthur, though; he put up with it. All the inedible food she had served up to him every morning for the past twenty years, and he accepted it all, ate it all. Her contempt for him grew.
When the evening came she went into her bedroom and took from the box the small clay figure. Then she put on her coat, took her door key and went quietly out of the room. A short ride down in the lift and a few minutes later she was leaving the foyer and stepping out into the late October evening. Moving to the garden behind the apartment block, she stepped over the grass to the ornamental pool where water cascaded into its centre from a little waterfall. She had always despised it so, this pathetic little attempt at re-creating nature; now she wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
At the side of the pool she looked around, eyes glancing up at the windows of the overlooking flats. She could see no one looking out at her. Then, carefully unwrapping the little clay figure, she stepped closer to the edge of the pool, leaned over and placed the figure on the lip of the waterfall. The water surging over the stone was icy cold. She pressed the figure firmly onto the stone, wedging it in. Then, satisfied that it was secure, she stepped back and looked at it. As she did so she thought of the words she had read in the book in the coven library: Make ye a picture of clay, like unto the shape of thine enemy, and then, on the night of Samhain or Beltane place it in a running stream till it be worn away. Well, it was in a running stream now – and it wasn’t going to last long by the looks of things; already, even as she watched, the limbs were beginning to crumble . . .
Back upstairs she went straight to her room and began to get ready.
Well before nine o’clock she was dressed and eager to get away. Emerging from her room she came to a stop before the hall mirror and put down her bag – heavier this evening – and made a last survey of her appearance. She had taken great trouble with her makeup, and she had been to the hairdresser just that afternoon. She’d hardly eaten all day, either, and felt about as slim as she had felt in a long while. Under her floor-length deep-blue velvet cloak, her warm ceremonial robe fell to her ankles. Beneath it she wore nothing. She was ready. Now if only Arthur would hurry up, they could get going.
‘Arthur?’ she shouted in the direction of his bedroom. ‘Come on, will you? We’re going to be late.’
When he appeared a few minutes later she shook her head in exasperation. ‘I thought you were getting ready,’ she said.
‘I am ready.’
‘But – you’ve got your Burberry on.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t mean to say you’re going in that, do you?’
‘Why not? I shall take it off when we get there.’
‘You’ll take it off now. You can’t go there looking like that. Where’s your cloak? All the others will arrive in cloaks.’
‘Oh, Doris, for Luci’s sake – I can’t stand that cloak. Every year I wear it, and I feel like an idiot.’
‘Well, you’ll look like an idiot in that. And how d’you think I’m going to feel? Of course that doesn’t matter to you, does it? – showing me up. And stop blaspheming – I keep telling you!’ She continued to glare at him. ‘Well, I’m not going with you looking like that, so you can just go and put on your cloak.’
After a moment’s hesitation he went away. When he came back a couple of minutes later Doris still wasn’t happy. ‘What’s up with your cloak?’ she asked, frowning. ‘It’s not hanging right. You look like a badly tied bag of laundry.’
He shrugged. ‘Well – it’s probably my underwear.’
‘You’re wearing underwear?’
‘Two sets.’
‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘What’s wrong? I shall be cold. It’s not that warm, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t want to catch pneumonia.’
‘You talk as if this were the Dark Ages. Haven’t you ever heard of central heating? The Goldbergs’ house will be very warm and comfortable. And we shan’t be outside for more than a minute or so. For Hell’s sake, go and take it off at once.’
‘Oh, Doris, must I?’
‘Of course you must. Oh, my Lord, what a picture! Everybody else dancing around in the total nude and you in your Fruit of the Loom Y-fronts. It makes me shudder to think of it.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t take any of this seriously, do you?’
‘Satan Almighty, Doris,’ he sighed, ‘we go through this every year. If you want the truth, I’d much rather stay home tonight and watch TV.’
‘Yes, that’s all you’re fit for. Look at you – a descendant of one of the greatest witches who ever lived and now, tonight of all nights, instead of wanting to go and celebrate our main festival you’d rather stay in and watch TV. And stop blaspheming.’ She glared at him for a second, then turned, opened the door and strode toward the lift.
The Goldbergs, who were hosting the festival this year, were longtime members of the coven and lived in wide grounds in the heart of the countryside some miles west of Trowbridge. Arthur had wanted to drive but after experiencing a little difficulty getting the car out of the garage Doris had ordered him out of the driver’s seat. ‘My Lord, how can you be so incompetent!’ she’d snapped as she got behind the wheel. They set off then and got there just after ten, and as Doris steered the Ford Capri along the drive she saw ahead of her a large number of other cars. A rough count gave a number somewhere above forty. She was pleased and her excitement took another surge.
She kept very close to the edge of the driveway as she pulled the car to a stop. A moment later Arthur opened the door, looked down and groaned. ‘Can’t you move it
out a little, Doris? It’s so muddy here; I’ll mess up my shoes.’
Doris had known exactly what she was doing and she just shook her head and sighed a long-suffering sigh. ‘Oh, Arthur, stop being such a damned wimp, will you.’ She switched off the ignition, got out of the car and started off toward the front of the house. Arthur caught up with her just as she reached the front door where the porch was brightly illuminated by colourful lanterns.
The door was opened by Ralph Goldberg, dressed in a long robe with a gold-coloured sash tied loosely at the place where his waist used to be. He greeted them with smiles and words of welcome, at the same time raising his right hand above his head, thumb and pinky extended, in a salute to the devil. Doris repeated the gesture – as did Arthur in a halfhearted way – then they were taking off their outer garments and putting them into Ralph’s arms. After that they moved through the hall into the main lounge where the rest of the party revelers were congregated.
‘Shall we be sacrificing any chickens?’ Steve Walker asked. ‘I hope so. I’ve been looking forward to that.’ He, Shirley Goldberg and Doris were standing together in the centre of the crowd of chattering people with glasses of mulled wine in their hands. At his question Shirley shook her head.
‘No, I’m afraid not. Ralph got the order in too late and there weren’t any available. All they had left were dead ones – fresh or frozen. We could have got some live turkeys but I couldn’t face the thought of being faced with eating turkey for days on end afterward. It’s bad enough at Christmas when you have to keep up appearances.’
The party was well on and Doris was looking forward to the dance and then to being alone with Steve. She hadn’t really had a chance to talk to him so far – not with Shirley Goldberg and other people milling around all the time. It wouldn’t be long now, though, she thought. For the moment, however, Shirley was holding the reins and, in her customary name-dropping way, was holding the floor too – and was obviously out to impress.
‘I got in touch with Joan last night,’ she was saying.
‘Joan?’ Doris asked. ‘Joan who?’
‘Joan who? Joan of Arc, of course.’
‘Oh, that Joan. How was she?’
‘Still very bitter.’
‘Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it?’
Shirley nodded. ‘Very bitter. I told her – you ought to get some kind of counselling – or therapy. I mean, it’s eating away at her. Though I suppose it’s to be expected after what they did to her. Some people – they’ve got a lot to answer for.’
‘Right.’
‘Mind you, in many ways she only had herself to blame – and I as good as told her so. I mean, once you start admitting that you’re hearing voices, then people are going to get your number pretty damn quick. Sure to. Still, she had a hard time, there’s no denying, and it was rotten luck on her – being set up like that – being made to carry the can for the inefficiency of our armies. Still, she should have kept her mouth shut. If she’d done that, she could be alive today.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right. There are procedures that have to be adhered to. You can’t go yelling your mouth off and going about things in a half-assed way. You’ve got to do things right . . .’
Shirley’s voice droned on while Doris repeated her words: You’ve got to do things right. Right – and that’s how she was doing things.
Turning slightly, she saw Arthur sitting near the window in conversation with Thelma Winnecky, a young, blond widow from Purton. Then, glancing above Arthur’s head, she saw through the window Ralph Goldberg on the lawn setting light to the bonfire. She looked at her watch. Eleven forty-five. The dancing would start very soon. She hadn’t much time.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment, please . . . ?’ She smiled at Shirley – who was still in full flood – and briefly pressed Steve’s hand. Then, turning, she moved from the room.
In the cloakroom near the front door she took from her bag the large, smooth, pale stone she had brought and, with her nail file, carefully scratched Arthur’s name upon it. Then she put it back into the bag along with the nail, put on her cloak and went out into the hall, where she opened the front door and slipped out into the night.
Moving swiftly, she walked out onto the drive where the cars were parked. When she got to the Ford she stepped carefully over to the near-side door and, taking a small torch from her purse, shone its beam down at the spot where Arthur had stepped (so complainingly, the wimp!) onto the soft, muddy earth of the verge. And – yes! – very clearly the light picked out the shape of his footprints. Three of them, two right and one left – and as cleanly indented as if he’d worked at it. She smiled, reached back into her bag and took out the nail and the stone.
Holding the nail up against the dull light of the sky, she looked at it. It appeared to be just an ordinary, if rather old-fashioned, nail. It was not ordinary, though, and it had cost a bomb – not to mention the difficulty she’d had in getting hold of it. Well, it wasn’t something you could get in the local supermarket or even in some fancy ironmonger’s shop. What did you do – walk in and say, ‘I’d like one coffin nail, please?’ No, she’d had to go to some old hag of a witch in Frome and pay a fortune – in cash. Cash on the nail, so to speak.
Anyway, she’d got the nail – and it would be worth it, every penny. After a quick glance around she carefully placed the nail’s point into the indented heel of Arthur’s left footprint, then with the stone she hammered it into the ground. On the night of Samhain take ye a naile from a coffin that has been buried in the earth, the book had said, and put it in the footprint of thy foe. Very soon thereafter thy foe shall sicken and perish. The nail went in easily; the soil was quite soft. She straightened and looked down. No sign of it. She smiled, turned and moved away.
She didn’t reenter the house straightaway but went round to the back where Ralph Goldberg was tending the fire and feeding it with wood. As he did so it crackled and blazed and shot out sparks and made swift moving shadows against the backcloth of the house. He looked around at her and smiled as she approached. ‘Came out to get a breath of air, did you, Doris?’ he asked.
She nodded, returning his smile. ‘Yes – and to see how it’s all going.’
‘Oh, we’ll be ready in a minute.’ He threw on more wood. ‘I want to get a good blaze going first. We don’t want anyone to catch cold.’
‘Right.’ It was funny how things had changed over the years, she thought. Everyone was so comfort-conscious today. In the old days they’d have danced naked round the fire, either till the fire went out or till they dropped. Not now; now the actual dance around the fire was only a token thing – a quick dash naked out into the chill air, link hands and dance around the fire a couple of times and then back indoors to finish the celebrations in the warm.
Ralph glanced at his watch, adjusted a burning log on the fire and gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘I think we might as well start now.’ He moved off toward the patio door, then paused briefly and looked back. ‘Aren’t you coming in to disrobe . . . ?’
‘Yes, in a minute – I’ll be right there.’ As she spoke she put out her hands toward the heat of the flames and then turned to watch as he went on into the house.
As soon as he had gone she dipped her right hand into her bag and took out the stone. In the flickering light of the fire she looked at it. Arthur’s name stood out clearly. (Choose thy time with care, then take ye a stone, writ with the name of thine adversary . . .) A quick glance toward the patio window and she took a step forward. (. . . and place it in fire . . .) She muttered a little prayer, took a breath and cast the stone into the heart of the flames.
And it was done. Everything was done. All she had to do now was wait. And she wouldn’t have to wait very long. Within twelve hours of the hour of midnight Arthur would be dead.
She sat at the breakfast bar in the Goldbergs’ kitchen drinking coffee. She had been there for a long time. There had been no sign of Arthur for
a long while and she sat tense and expectant, waiting at any moment for someone to come in and say that he was dead, had been found lying dead in one of the Goldbergs’ many spare bedrooms or on some sofa in some other part of the house. It looked as if he’d had a heart attack, they would say, and she would cry and try to look brave in the face of her great tragedy.
The thought should have cheered her more than it did. Oh, yes, she was glad, very glad, when she thought of Arthur getting out of her hair, out of her life at last, but when she thought of Steve Walker it was another matter. She’d seen hardly anything of him after their chat over cocktails and the dance around the fire. He had been close to her then as they’d all circled the crackling flames, and the grasp of his hand in hers had been firm and full of promise. But soon afterward he had just vanished. Then, later, wandering about the huge house alone, she had come upon two people in a room, lying together on a rug, limbs threshing, their movements accompanied by groans and sighs and muttered words. She’d backed out, but not before she had realized who the two were. One was Steve, she was sure. And the other? No mistaking that voice. Shirley Goldberg.
Later, while nursing a coffee, her disappointment and her anger, she’d put her robe back on; there didn’t seem much point in doing otherwise. There was no one else around now – the others had all gone off long since to different rooms, either in pairs or groups of three, four, five or six. Now, sitting in the kitchen she turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and braced herself for the news. The door opened.
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories, Volume Two Page 2
