A Witch in Love

by Ruth Warburton

  ‘Good,’ Seth said brutally. ‘And when he’s gone, I’ll come back.’

  ‘Get out,’ Bran said, and then he laughed, a dreadful cackling, half-mad laugh. ‘She’s bewitched you, boy, can’t you see that? You’re tied to her like a dog to its master; she’s got you right where she wants you.’

  ‘Shut up, you old bastard,’ Seth said viciously. And then, holding my arm in a grip so hard that it hurt, he pulled me down the stairs, out of the pub and into the cold, clear darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Seth drove like he was possessed, so fast I was terrified – not for myself, but for him, and anyone else we might meet on the dark coast road. I thought about telling him, begging him even, to slow down, but one look at his fury-filled face told me that my words would be a waste of time. In fact they might make things worse.

  He did slow down at last and then stop, bumping the car off the tarmac and on to the short turf, where he turned off the engine and sat, his chest heaving.

  ‘Seth,’ I said, and he put his arms around me and buried his face in my hair. I felt his body shake with huge, agonizing sobs.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whispered, but I knew I was lying. It wasn’t OK. What had Seth done? Elaine would take him back, I was sure of it. But I also knew Seth’s stubborn pride, and doubted he’d ever ask, no matter how bad things got. ‘It’s OK. Oh, love, it’s OK.’

  At last he sat up and ran his hand through his hair, then swiped angrily at his wet cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear all that.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It’s not OK. God! I hate him. I hate him so much.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said urgently. ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘None, but it might make me feel better.’ He cracked a twisted smile and I managed to smile back.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, actually it’s not as bad as Mum’s probably imagining. I can stay on the boat – the Angel.’

  ‘Really? You sure the owner – what was his name? – you sure he won’t mind?’

  ‘Charles? No, he won’t care. He’s already said I can take it out whenever I want to. He’s wintering in Morocco at the moment anyway.’

  ‘It’s all right for some.’

  ‘We could go there,’ Seth said, only half joking. ‘Up anchor, sail away, just you and me …’ He pulled a strand of hair behind my ear and I shivered with longing.

  ‘Fish for food?’

  ‘Mmm. And mussels. Lobster. Oysters.’

  ‘I hate oysters. And I can’t open them.’

  ‘I can teach you. There’ll be plenty of time to learn.’

  ‘Shame we’ve got no money and a few boring things to think of like, ooh, exams, our futures, university.’

  ‘Ugh, it’s all so pointless.’ Seth stared into the darkness and I saw that his hands on the wheel were clenched.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘All these hoops. I feel like a circus animal. And for what? So I can go and work in some office, pushing paper all my life? But look at the alternative – work the sea like Grandad, end up disabled and broken and broke. I just want to be out there …’ He looked out to the black rolling waves, endlessly crashing against the cliffs in the darkness, and I shivered. I could think of nothing worse.

  ‘I should take you home,’ Seth said at last. ‘Your dad’ll be worrying.’

  It was true. Dad must have seen Seth tear away into the night at ninety miles per hour, and he was probably imagining us dead in a ditch. But Seth was more important right now.

  ‘He’ll be OK for a bit,’ I said gently. ‘I want to make sure you can get into your boat before I go home, and anyway—’

  I broke off. My phone was ringing. I fished it out of my pocket; Dad mobile, it read.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Anna!’ Dad’s voice was a gust of relief. There was a lot of background noise and I had a hard time hearing him. ‘Thank God. Are you OK? Is Seth?’

  ‘We’re both fine. He’s going to stay on the boat he’s been fixing for a friend tonight. I’ll settle him in. Where are you?’

  ‘In the Crown and Anchor.’

  ‘Great, listen, if I go down to the boat with Seth could you pick me up on your way back?’

  ‘Yes, sure. What time?’

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Elaine’s here – we’re having a drink in the bar. She needed to calm down. What?’ He broke off, speaking to someone in the background, then came back on. ‘She wants to talk to you. Let’s say – what’s the time now? – half eight. Let’s say between half nine and ten, OK?’

  ‘Fine. Bye, Dad.’

  There was a short kerfuffle as the phone was handed over and then Elaine came on.

  ‘Anna, I’m so, so sorry.’ Her voice was full of wretchedness. ‘You shouldn’t have had to hear all that. And on your birthday – I feel dreadful.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. It wasn’t – but it wasn’t Elaine’s fault, which was what I meant. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Is Seth there?’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked across at him, but he only looked out of the window, stony-faced. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s all right. Upset, but all right.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. I put my hand over the receiver and looked at Seth. ‘It’s your mum. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Tell her to go fu—’ He stopped and shut his eyes, biting his lip. ‘Tell her no thanks.’

  ‘Seth, come on. She’s worried about you.’

  ‘Anna, not now. Not tonight.’

  I looked at him for a long moment, taking in his haggard face, the dark bruiselike shadows around his eyes, the still-wet traces of tears in his lashes. He looked like he was at the end of his tether.

  ‘OK,’ I said. I uncovered the receiver. ‘Elaine, I’m really sorry, but he doesn’t want to speak right now.’

  ‘I understand.’ Her voice cracked slightly but she managed a cheerful, ‘Tell him … tell him goodnight. I love him. And goodnight to you too, Anna. Happy birthday, sweetie.’

  ‘Goodnight, Elaine. Thanks for the boots and everything.’

  I hung up and Seth and I looked at each other. The moonlight reflected off the shifting waves, throwing shards of light into the car and giving a cold, sculptured beauty to his features. His expression made my heart feel close to breaking.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Seth, don’t.’ I buried my face in his shoulder. ‘Please, please don’t. It doesn’t matter, I don’t care about my stupid birthday.’

  ‘But I do.’

  He dug in his jeans pocket, drew out a thin parcel, and tossed it over to me.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry it isn’t more, better.’

  I unwrapped it carefully and a very old book, bound in faded red silk, fell into my lap. There was nothing on the front, but gilt letters on the spine read The Love Poems of John Donne.

  ‘Open it to the flyleaf,’ Seth said.

  I carefully opened the fragile, spotted pages and there was an inscription in fine copperplate:

  I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I

  Did, till we lov’d? …

  If ever any beauty I did see,

  Which I desir’d, and got, ’twas but a dreame of thee.

  To my darling Emma, who has bewitched my heart,

  my soul, and every other part.

  ‘Oh, Seth …’ I leafed gently through the pages. ‘It’s beautiful. Where did you … ?’

  ‘In a secondhand shop in Brighthaven. I saw the inscription and it seemed …’ He looked at me, his face suddenly uncertain. ‘You don’t … The inscription – you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head, swallowed against the stiffness in my throat. ‘No, I don’t mind. Oh, Seth, I love
you.’

  ‘And there’s something else.’ He leant over into the back seat of the car and picked up a carrier bag.

  ‘Two presents!’

  ‘Don’t get too excited. This one’s a pretty far cry from Tiffany. It’s not even wrapped.’

  I opened the carrier bag – and a rape alarm fell out.

  ‘Please, Anna.’ Seth looked at me in the moon-shadowed darkness, his eyes full of fear. ‘Please, I want you to be safe. If something happened to you, it would kill me. These people—’

  ‘I will be safe,’ I said. I had smashed two boys into a brick wall, leaving them bleeding and unconscious. I had bigger weapons than a rape alarm. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I know you can – I know you think you can. But please, carry this, for me?’

  ‘Yes, OK.’

  Seth nodded, once. Then he started the engine and we drove into the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In this interpretation, Macbeth is a mere puppet in the hands of the women who surround him, from Lady Macbeth right back to the three witches who precipitate his downfall. Try as he might, Macbeth cannot escape—

  I stopped and rubbed my eyes. My English coursework was due in less than a week and it was the last thing on my mind. My brain seemed sluggish, weighted down with bigger worries, and every sentence was like getting blood out of a stone. Who cared about Macbeth and the bloody witches, anyway?

  I stood, stretched my spine, and then made my way down the corridor to the toilet, feeling the stiffness leach from my muscles as I walked.

  As I re-entered the room, drying my hands on my jeans, I noticed something on the bed – a scrap of paper. A stray sheet of revision notes? I picked it up.

  It was a black-and-white photo ripped out of the school newspaper. It showed Seth, sweaty and grinning and celebrating some football victory or other, both hands above his head in a triumphant cheer. Someone had drawn crude manacles in biro around each wrist and a collar around his neck. Underneath was written WE KNOW.

  I went cold all over.

  They knew about Seth. They’d been in the house. In my bedroom.

  When?

  I ran to the window and opened it, but there was no sight or sound of any intruder, only the tranquil noises of the forest night.

  The paper had lain in a fold of my duvet, hard to see from where I was seated at the desk. It might have been put there – when? Any time. While I was at school. While I was walking home. While we ate … ?

  Chill fury prickled up and down my spine at the thought of hooded figures creeping quietly along the corridor, while down below Dad cooked so innocently. All it would take was a single sound, Dad coming up to investigate, finding them there … I felt suddenly sick.

  Stalking me, endangering me, that was one thing. But involving Dad and Seth? This was too much. They’d gone too far. Screw principles. Outwith or not, I had to act.

  My hands were shaking so much that I could hardly type.

  Dear Grandmother,

  You said in your last letter that you wanted to help me. Well, there’s something I need your help with. It’s urgent. Can we talk?

  Anna

  Then I pressed send. Up until now I would’ve said it would be a cold day in hell before I ran towards the Ealdwitan for help. Well, I felt very, very cold.

  Seth was chatting to his friends at the school gate when I turned up the next day, but he broke off when he saw me. I saw him make a quick, hurried goodbye and then he jogged across the car park to sweep me up in a long kiss. Then he set me down and looked at me searchingly.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I got your text. What did you need to talk about that we couldn’t discuss on the phone?’

  ‘This.’ I held out the defaced photo of his football victory.

  Seth swore.

  ‘Hey, not so loud.’ I put a hand across his mouth and looked around for teachers. ‘You’ll get serious trouble for that kind of language.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I care about right now. Look, don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. And as for this,’ he held the photo with his fingertips as though it was soiled, ‘chuck it in the fire. You’re the one we should be worrying about.’

  I let that slide, and only said, ‘When are you going home?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Seth shook his head and his expression was grim. ‘I’ve spoken to Mum and she’s dropped off my clothes and my school stuff at the boat, but I’m not going back until Grandad apologizes.’

  ‘Oh, Seth, please, please don’t do this. Not for me. It’s not worth it.’

  ‘It’s not just for you.’ He touched my cheek. ‘Honestly. You mean everything to me, Anna, but this isn’t only about you. This is about Grandad learning he’s not some tinpot king we’ve all got to kowtow to. It’s about forcing Mum to stand up to him for once in his life. When he was strong he used that to force everyone to do things his way; now he’s weak he’s using his illness as a weapon instead. But I’ve had enough. Hey, hey …’

  He cupped my cheek again and I realized I was crying.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, it’s not that bad. I like the boat. It’s actually quite comfortable – well, OK it’s bloody cold, the shower doesn’t work and I can’t quite stand upright, but apart from that … You know, I can turn on the kettle in the morning without getting out of bed – how’s that for luxury? Breakfast in bed every day!’

  He’d succeeded in making me laugh in spite of my tears and now he wiped away the drops from my cheek and kissed me gently.

  ‘I’m OK. Honestly. Now, tell me what we can do to sort out these bastards.’ And he flicked the photo with his finger. His reminder brought all my anger flooding back.

  ‘I’m calling in a favour,’ I said. ‘And I promise you this, when I’m finished, the Malleus will regret they ever meddled with us.’

  It was about a couple of weeks later that Dad came into the kitchen with a piece of paper in his hand and a very strange expression on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ I said, catching sight of his face. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It seems like I should be asking you that,’ he said, sitting down at the kitchen table, still with that odd, non-plussed look. ‘This,’ he waved the piece of paper, ‘is from your grandmother.’

  Oh.

  We’d exchanged emails over the course of a few days and I’d explained the situation in slightly coded language, not sure how private my grandmother’s email address might be. Eventually we’d set up a time to ring each other. She’d been incandescent (her exact word) and had strongly urged me to come up to London and learn what she called ‘some basic self-defence and divination skills’.

  ‘We will track these people down,’ she’d said grimly, ‘and they will rue the day they ever interfered with a Rokewood.’

  It had felt … nice. Her protective anger, her swift mastery of the situation – it had felt nice.

  And now this – out of the blue. What had she said? I tried to read Dad’s face. Was he angry? He didn’t look it. He looked more – sad?

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ he said at last. ‘You should have known that I wouldn’t mind your meeting Elizabeth. We’ve had our differences, but I’d never drag you into it. If you want a relationship with her, that’s your right.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, and I couldn’t stop the scepticism entering my voice. ‘Then why did you keep her a secret for eighteen years?’

  Dad rubbed the patch of skin where his glasses chafed his nose, and looked uncomfortable.

  ‘All I can say is, I don’t know, Anna. I really don’t. I spent your whole childhood wanting to talk to you about Isla, I really did. But something was holding me back. Maybe I should have seen a therapist or something,’ he gave an uneasy laugh, ‘but back then that wasn’t something men really did. I suppose I just had my own issues to work through, before I could talk about it with you.’

  He put his hand on mine and the sadness in his eyes
made my heart clench.

  ‘And I thought … I told myself that perhaps the truth was too difficult for you to deal with. But I think now that was dishonest. What I really felt was that the truth was too difficult for me to deal with. I’m sorry, darling.’

  Poor Dad. God knows, it wasn’t his fault. I didn’t know why my mother had bound him to silence. But she had. And now Dad was blaming himself.

  ‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I said. ‘I understand. But I would like to see Elizabeth; I’ve been up to see her in London – did she tell you?’

  ‘Yes, she said that she met you for tea. She said your meeting was “quite unsought and accidental” – whatever that means. I suppose she’s trying to tell me that she didn’t go behind my back. Anyway, she’s made a suggestion which, I might add, you are entirely free to refuse.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She says she’d like you to come up to London for half-term. Stay with her. Meet your mother’s side of the family. She’s asked my permission to write to you about it. What do you think?’

  ‘Well …’ I was taken aback – but also quite admiring of Elizabeth’s chutzpah. It was a clever strategy. ‘Actually, I think I’d like to. Go, I mean. Would you mind?’

  ‘Mind? No.’ He folded up the letter. ‘I’ll miss you, of course. But you deserve a relationship with your mother’s side of the family. I never meant to cut them off, you know – but they kind of disowned your mother when we got together. They were very well-to-do and disapproved of the match. I suppose they would have come around but, well, after Isla died it was too painful to pursue, I suppose. And I was very angry at first, which didn’t help. But I’d feel bad if my cowardice ruined your chance for a relationship, especially as Elizabeth’s obviously ready to meet halfway.’

  ‘Dad …’ I looked down at the table, unsure how to put this, not wanting to cause more hurt. But I wanted to know so much. I took a deep breath. ‘You said she died – but do you ever think Mum might still be alive?’

  ‘No.’ Dad shook his head, his eyes bright and liquid. ‘I’m sorry, Anna, I don’t. The police searched high and low – papered the place with posters, put alerts out at the ports, they even showed her photo on TV. But there were no sightings. She didn’t take her passport or bank cards. No money came out of her accounts. She didn’t contact any of her friends.’ He sighed and rubbed again at his glasses. ‘She was very, very severely depressed. Psychotic in fact. And she didn’t take her medication with her. She simply walked out of the house one day in her nightdress and was never seen again – well … except once. Possibly.’