by Peter Oxley
“Leave them be,” said Smith. “They’re not doing any harm.”
“Not yet, maybe. But they’re just waiting for some pockets to pick.”
“You can’t arrest them for something they might do.”
Morley grunted. “Then let’s check that they’ve been good.” He walked over to the group and, with a sigh, Smith followed him.
The children’s chatter and games died down as the two policemen approached. The group was split between those who glared back with sullen defiance and those who stared down at the floor.
“All right, you lot,” said Morley. “Empty your pockets.”
“Why?” asked a tall lad of around twelve or thirteen, clearly the ringleader of the gang.
“Because I say so. Now do it.”
The boy turned to Smith. “Come on, Smithy,” he said. “You know me. Can you tell your friend to calm it? We done nothing wrong.”
“Do as the man says,” said Smith in a tight voice.
A few of the children seemed on the verge of tears as they turned their pockets inside out, and the policemen inspected a ragged collection of buttons, small coins and matchbooks. “What’s that under your jacket?” Morley asked the ringleader.
The boy stared at him, clearly weighing up his chances of running or fighting back, but a slow shake of Smith’s head made up his mind and he pulled a short length of lead pipe from his waistband. “No law against it,” he said as Morley took it from him.
“Maybe,” said Morley, “but I’d feel happier if you children had more suitable toys, so I’ll be taking this.”
The boy opened his mouth to complain but Smith again shook his head, gesturing for the boy to leave it: he would deal with this in his own time.
“Can we go now?” asked the boy. “We’ve shown we ain’t got nothing stolen on us.”
“Who said we were looking for stolen goods?” asked Morley. “In any case, it’s still early. But be warned: I’m keeping an eye on you. All of you.”
“You’re too close to them,” Morley said to Smith as they walked away. “They’re scum and should be treated as such.”
“We’ve got to work these streets,” said Smith. “Sometimes the goodwill of ‘scum’ can be helpful. If nothing else, it makes life easier if you’re not at war with absolutely everyone.”
Morley grunted, the words bringing back memories of the previous night. “Did you deal with them brawlers in the Trip to Jerusalem last night?”
“I did. Did you make it home?”
“I did,” said Morley. “For all the good it made.”
“How is Abigail?”
“Fine.”
Smith stopped and looked at him. “Really. And that’s why you spend every waking hour out here on the beat, rather than at home with her.”
Morley clenched his fists at his sides. “My business is my business. You keep out of it, Daniel Smith.”
Smith held up his hands. “I meant no harm. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. My Becky’s always asking about your wife. No one’s seen her since the funeral, they’re all concerned. And if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve been nothing but angry for as long as I can remember.”
Morley glared at him and then slumped against a wall. He stared down for a long time before finally the words came out in a quiet torrent. “She does nothing but sit in darkness, day after day. Won’t let me touch her, comfort her, nothing. We’re like strangers in our own home. It’s like...” he choked back a lump in his throat. “Like she died that day too. God help me, sometimes I think we’d both be better off if she had.”
Smith stood awkwardly in front of him. “Listen, mate, have you tried talking to her about all this?”
“Talk’s the one thing she doesn’t want to do.”
“Might be worth a try. You know what it’s like: hardest part is starting, eh?”
Morley was about to reply when the sound of shouting in the distance made them both look up. Without a word, they both ran toward the sound.
***
The crowd bayed for blood as the first man threw a stone at the door of the hovel. A curse was shrieked from inside and as one the mob shrunk back before they realised it was just a swearword and surged forward again with renewed malicious confidence. Morley and Smith fought their way through to the front and positioned themselves between the attackers and the mean looking house.
“What’s going on here?” shouted Smith.
“She’s a witch!” someone shouted from the crowd.
Smith groaned and Morley shook his head. “You will all move away, right now. You are causing a disturbance and we cannot let you take the law into your own hands. If there’s a complaint against this woman then you should bring it to the police or a magistrate.”
“What, and be ignored again?” shouted a man. “Decent people are dying, all because of her.”
“Who?”
“My Meg,” shouted a man from the front, stepping forward and brandishing a large club. “My Meg disappeared three nights ago, and the last she was seen was stepping into there.”
“We’re still looking for her,” said Smith. “And I spoke to the woman in here: she said Meg left her house unharmed and I had no reason to doubt her.”
“You believe her over me?” The man took another step forward, holding his club rigidly.
Morley put himself between the two men. “All he’s saying is there was no evidence to hold her. Now, if you’ve got new evidence then let us see it. As far as we’re aware, there’s not even a body yet: how do you know she’s not just run away?”
“I don’t like your tone, Morley,” growled the man but, before he could respond any further, another voice called out: “She’s a witch: my mate Mike said so. Didn’t you, Mike?”
The constables peered through the crowd, which was already starting to thin. “Mike Scully,” said Morley. “I thought you were told last night to keep out of trouble?”
The man removed his hat and played with it, turning it in his fingers. “I know, constable, but there’s lots of bad things been happening round this house. Just the other day, we found a load of dead animals round back, all drained of their blood.”
There were a few shouts of outrage at these words. “Calm down,” shouted Smith. “Where are these animals now?”
Scully stared at his feet. “Don’t know. They’re gone.”
Morley looked up at the sky, offering a silent prayer for patience.
“You don’t believe us constable?” shouted Scully. “You’ve seen all them demons and the like.”
“Aye, and kept out of their way. If she’s a witch, what makes you think upsetting her is the best thing to do?”
The crowd looked at each other uncertainly, while Scully continued. “Point is, all them creatures which have been around these past few years. Not so far-fetched to believe that old witch in there’s in league with them, is it?”
Morley and Smith looked at each other. “We are going in there now to talk to the woman,” said Morley. “Anyone I find still lingering here when we come out will be spending time in gaol.”
They knocked on the door and it opened a crack to reveal a pair of shiny black eyes glaring out at them. “Yes?” barked a rasping voice.
“Sandra, let us in,” said Smith. “We just want to talk with you.”
“Just you,” she said. “None of them lot.”
“They’re in the process of clearing off,” said Morley, staring at those foolish enough to still be lingering around the building.
The old woman’s eyes disappeared and the door swung open to reveal a musty darkness within. The policemen looked around as they entered, half expecting to be confronted by snarling demons. What they found instead was a room largely devoid of anything apart from a bed, table and a ramshackle collection of boxes. The old woman was seated on the rough dirt in the centre of the room, watching them with undisguised suspicion.
“I thank you for dealing with them,” she said. “But I don’t need your hel
p.”
“Really?” asked Morley. “And how would you have defended yourself if they had attacked?”
She shrugged and stared at him.
Even Morley shifted under that gaze. “Why do they think that you’re a witch?”
She shrugged again.
“We don’t mean any trouble, Sandra,” said Smith. “You and I talked and you told me all I needed to know. But them lot out there will be back, if not tonight then another time; is there anything else you need to tell us?”
The woman just glared at him.
“So do you deny their claims?”
“So what if it’s true?” she asked. “So what if I’ve killed some goats and stuff? Maybe helped a few women. Is there a law against that?”
Smith raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Morley, who was squatting down and inspecting the dirt in the centre of the room.
“What’s this?” asked Morley, pointing at some faint remnants of markings on the floor.
Sandra looked over with a slightly bored expression on her face, her mouth clamped shut.
“Looks like chalk,” said Smith.
“Chalk, in a circle, with what looks like a demonic set of symbols,” said Morley.
“No law against it,” said the old woman.
“Actually there is,” said Morley, “and if you’re doing anything to bring spirits or demons here, then we’ll be very interested indeed.” He stood and put his hand on the nearest box. “What’s in these?”
Sandra glared at him. “You will leave them be.”
Morley’s back straightened at these words, but Smith put a hand on his arm and shook his head. “They’ll be back, you know,” he said to her. “That mob will keep returning until they’ve chased you out of town or have you swinging from a tree.”
She spat on the floor. “They’ll be sorry if they do.”
“I don’t like your tone,” snapped Morley.
“Please, William,” said Smith before turning back to the old woman. “What will you do when they come for you? How will you make them sorry?”
“I’ve got friends,” she grinned toothlessly. “Big, powerful friends.” She turned to Morley. “There a law against self-defence, now?”
“Depends on how you administer it,” he said, before beckoning Smith to the far side of the room. “We should take her in. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Smith gave him a curious look. “Constable Morley, the man who has never made an arrest which wasn’t justified by the rule of law, is now wanting to put an old woman inside on the basis of a feeling?”
“Look around you,” said Morley. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
“What I see,” said Smith, “is an eccentric old woman who we just saved from a lynching. We’re supposed to be protecting the victims, not locking them up!”
Morley shook his head. “But what if she might do some harm...”
“Think back to them kids in the street. They might do pickpocketing later. Hell, they definitely will. Why didn’t you arrest them right there and then?”
“Because there was no crime to arrest them for,” said Morley slowly.
“Exactly. If we catch her sacrificing virgins and throwing hellfire on people, then I’ll be the first to lock her away. But we’ve got nothing to go on here, you know that.”
Morley looked him in the eyes. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“You’d be an idiot to not be, these days, you know that. And I’m all in favour of not inviting the occult on me without good cause. The day the powers that be tell us to lock up all old women who might be witches, then I’ll think about it. Until then, I’ll do my job.” Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to Sandra. “We’ll be off now, and we’ll keep an eye on things here to make sure there’s no more trouble.”
“And that means from you as well as any lynch mobs,” added Morley. “Bear that in mind: I’ll be watching you.”
The old woman grinned. “And I’ll watch you too, my dear.”
***
The sky was pitch black and most of the taverns had long closed by the time that Morley crept through his front door. Once again Abigail was sitting alone in the darkness, a mute shadow emanating nothing but despair. He sat opposite her, for a while just wondering if she was awake, watching and listening for any signs or motions to indicate that she was aware of his presence. The lack of anything from the other side of the table started to unnerve him, and he wondered if she had, in fact, died. He sat and stared at her, pondering this. He knew that he should go round to her, to check that she was all right or if there was anything that he could do to help; however, he found himself rooted to the chair.
He dwelled over the consequences if she really had passed: what it would mean for his life, the way he felt about his work and his home. The way she had been behaving and how it would surely be a blessed release for her if she were able to join with their daughter in the afterlife. There would be issues, of course, if she were dead: organising the funeral, playing the part of the mourning husband, adjusting to life on his own. Would he find another wife, or dedicate his life to the job?
A part of him wanted to rebel against these thoughts and he tried to nurture this, to remember all of the good times they had had together, the feelings he still had for her. They had been together for as long as either of them could remember: first as childhood friends, then as lovers and finally husband and wife, mother and... The dreary reality of the room intruded time and again, suppressing any wistful thoughts with the here-and-now, with its darkened rooms where laughter and love were distant echoes from another age, another country.
She sighed gently, her eyes flickering ever so slightly in the faint moonlight and making him jump as he realised that she was still with him. He didn’t know whether it was relief or the drink but he found himself starting to talk, the words tumbling out in a soft, low torrent.
“Becky Smith was asking after you; or at least, her Daniel says she was. Wondering what you’re up to and the like. If you want I could always see if she can come round, give you a bit of company. Anyway, all’s the same out there. I was a bit late because I stopped in a tavern for a couple. Hope you don’t mind. Just wanted to do some thinking, away from work and company and... If you ever wanted, we could do the same, like we used to, eh? You and me?” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, pretty eventful day. There’s an old woman down in Broad Marsh who nearly got lynched on account of being a witch. Me and Smithy had to step in; turns out Scully’s wife’s gone missing after going to see old Sandra and he’s put one and one together and, well, you know how folk are.”
He thought he saw a flicker of interest from her at these words and so he pressed on, enjoying the sound of the words if nothing else.
“They’re throwing around all sorts of accusations about her summoning demons and sacrificing animals. A few years ago we’d have likely not taken them seriously, eh? Remember how we used to laugh about those things, the people who went to them posh séances? All different now, eh? Have to admit, I wouldn’t put it past Sandra to be up to no good, though we reckon Scully’s wife’s gone off with some bloke or another: just take one look at Scully, that’s all the proof you need!” He chortled and then blushed: it was unbecoming for him to make such a joke, even when off duty and in his own home. The realisation brought the dark room crashing in on him once more and he glanced back up at the silhouette opposite him. “Anyway,” he muttered, “I’m off to bed.”
There was no sound or movement from the other side of the table as he stumbled to his feet and out of the room.
***
A few nights later, Morley returned home to find the windows of the main room glowing with candle light, a sight which made him double check that he was standing outside the right house. He paused for a moment, fearing that the building was on fire, and after a few minutes slowly opened the door and peered inside.
Abigail was sat in her old rocking chair, the one which she always used to sit in, before.
..
She looked up and smiled at him and for a moment he fancied that the past few months had been nothing more than a bad dream, that he had been subject to some form of delusion and had now finally come to his senses.
A small tabby cat slunk round the leg of the rocking chair and glared at him. He looked at it for a moment, wondering where it had come from and whose it was, before looking back up at his wife.
“Abigail?” he asked.
“Hello, darling,” she said with a shy smile. She had washed and dressed, her hair looking fuller and cleaner than it had for months. “How are you? I wanted to wait up for you.”
He realised that he was still standing in the open doorway, as though waiting for an invitation. He shut the door and removed his hat, holding it tight in his hands. “I... You’re feeling better?”
“Of course,” she said. “Would you like some food? There’s stew in the pot.”
“Thank you,” he said slowly. As always, he had eaten while he was out, but he did not want to ruin the moment. “That would be lovely.” He sat at the table and watched as she bustled around, bringing him a pot of warm stew and a cup of beer and then sitting opposite him with a warm smile, the cat jumping onto her lap and watching him with a sly intent.
“So, you...?” he said.
“Yes?”
He didn’t want to broach the subject in case it resulted in her snapping back to her old depression, but he could not just sit there and pretend that nothing had happened. “You’re... feeling better?”
She smiled. “You already said that. I’m fine now. We all are, aren’t we?” This last question was addressed to the cat, which purred gently in her arms.
“And that is...?” he said, nodding at the cat.
“I’ve called her Polly,” she said. “It suits her, don’t you think?”
He looked at her, mouth open and mind racing as he swung between relief that she was at least talking and smiling, to the sheer inappropriateness of the situation.
***
Life returned to normal, at least on the surface. Smith had counselled Morley not to question the presence or name of the cat, the appearance of which clearly had responsible been for Abigail’s change in behaviour. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, Morley could not help but feel uneasy around the creature, knowing that such a small, fragile, surly, unwelcoming beast was responsible for the return of his life. He and Polly kept their distance from each other, the cat preferring Abigail’s company to his, while he could not help but feel uneasy round the creature, as though he might do something to drive it away and ruin everything again. Abigail grew in confidence and mood with every day that passed, with the one hint of slight abnormality the way she spoke to the cat as though it were an old friend and the way she descended into a dream world whenever she cradled the creature, her eyes closed as she crooned nursery rhymes into its ears.
