Hiding From the Light

by Barbara Erskine

  32

  Later that afternoon

  Mike went to Lyndsey’s first, walking down the steep road behind the Maltings. He had always thought this a pretty place. The contrast of the huge dark Maltings, with the row of tiny brightly painted cottages was somehow beguiling. This was not at all the kind of place he would have expected a witch to live. He was, he realised, sufficiently influenced by stereotype to have pictured her hanging out in the middle of some dark uncharted forest, a broomstick leaning beside the door.

  The line of cottages lay silent in the late afternoon sun. A cold wind had whipped away the morning’s cloud and the bright slanting light was dazzling on the river. Lyndsey’s front door was closed, the curtains in the front windows drawn shut. He hesitated, surprised to find himself nervous.

  ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ He took a deep breath and raised his hand to the knocker.

  There was no answer. Ignoring his very strong urge to turn and flee, he forced himself to knock again. Again the door remained firmly closed. He glanced left and right at the neighbouring cottages. All remained silent, although he suspected he saw the twitch of a curtain in one. He suppressed a wry smile. What would the gossips say, he wondered, at the rector banging on the door of the local witch? Even though he was not wearing his dog collar, they would know who he was. People always did.

  Liza’s, in contrast, looked far more welcoming. Parking his car next to a dark green MG, he pushed open the gate and paused for a moment, looking up at the front of the cottage. He had passed it often before but perhaps it had been so overgrown he had not noticed it. Now he saw the autumn roses, curtains at the windows, one of which was open and out of which came the strains of ‘L’après-midi d’un faune’. He paused in his tracks, listening.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She had come round the corner of the building and caught him staring up at the front of her house, lost in thought.

  He turned and his mouth dropped open in surprise. It was the woman he had seen several times walking down by the river. Even now, dressed in shabby jeans and a torn shirt and smelling strongly of creosote, she was lovely. For a moment he was struck dumb, then he managed to pull himself together. ‘Miss Dickson? I’m Mike Sinclair.’ Had she recognised him? He saw her frown slightly, obviously trying to place him. ‘We’ve seen each other down by the river. I think we’re both early morning walkers.’ He smiled, and then realised suddenly that his clothes – sweater, jacket, chinos, old scuffed shoes, gave no clue then or now as to his calling. ‘I’m sorry, I should explain. I’m the rector. I thought I would come and welcome you. See how you are settling in.’

  Always acutely sensitive to the way people received the news of who he was, his heart sank as he saw her smile cool slightly. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a churchgoer.’

  He was disappointed, but not surprised. ‘Very few people are these days.’

  She relented a little. ‘I expect you could do with a cup of tea? Isn’t that the traditional greeting for a man of the cloth? If you don’t mind crossing the threshold of a non-believer, come in. I must wash my hands. This stuff stinks so badly.’ She wrinkled her nose as she led the way indoors and through to the kitchen. She gestured towards the chair as she went to the sink and reached for some hand cleaner. ‘The Aga only arrived a couple of weeks ago and I haven’t really entertained anyone yet. You can help me christen it.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry, was that in bad taste?’ He saw a flash of mischief in her eyes. ‘But it is so handsome I think of it as a friend.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s very splendid.’ He handed her a towel from the chair-back. ‘You seem to have made it very nice in here.’

  Christ be with me, Christ within me.

  The words came into his head, unbidden. Why? Where from? It was as though someone else had spoken them. He shivered, glancing round the room. It was large – a wall had recently been knocked through into the dining room next door, making a bright, warm, welcoming rectangular space, divided by the oak studs, furnished with an old pine table and dresser, the stone floor scattered with rag rugs. Some of the decoration was unfinished, and he could smell the new paint and plaster.

  He found himself eyeing her back view as she turned away to organise the kettle, lifting the lid on the Aga, slopping the water a little so that tiny droplets skittered spitting over the hotplate. Sternly he looked away. He looked down at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. They were shaking slightly.

  He accepted tea and biscuits, then, cautiously, broached the reason for his call. ‘I understand you had a midnight encounter with our local witch.’ He glanced at her.

  ‘Ah. Who told you? Alex?’

  He nodded. ‘Also not one of my parishioners. I don’t want to interfere, but it can’t have been pleasant for you.’

  Emma sat down opposite him at the pine table. She had, as he had noticed before, very beautiful, large hazel eyes. Thoughtfully she returned his gaze and for a moment they surveyed each other. Emma looked away first, a touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘I think I over-reacted. I feel sorry for her now. It was none of my business. I frightened her as much as she frightened me.’

  ‘You were very brave, going out there on your own.’

  ‘No. Very stupid.’ She looked at him again.

  ‘You don’t believe in all her mumbo jumbo?’ Christ be with me. Christ within me …

  ‘No.’ Emma broke a piece of shortbread in half. She frowned, staring down at the crumbs. ‘At least – ’

  ‘At least?’ he prompted.

  ‘I couldn’t see what she was doing.’ Emma pushed back her chair and went to look out of the window at the back terrace. ‘So I can’t really comment. When I accused her, she didn’t deny it.’ She fell silent for a while. Mike waited. ‘She resents me living here. I suppose because I can see the churchyard.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Have you been there?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s spooky, isn’t it? Especially at midnight.’ She gave a wry laugh.

  He was frowning. ‘Don’t hesitate to ring me if you are ever worried about anything over there. I’m pretty sure she is harmless, but one can never be quite sure, can one. Evil exists, in the most innocent and beautiful of guises.’ He looked away, wondering suddenly if she might take his words the wrong way, think he meant her, but she did not appear to have noticed any ambiguity in the statement. She was watching something in the garden.

  He stood up, half reluctant, half eager to leave the house with its odd atmosphere and its beautiful owner and saw what she was watching. There was a sleek black cat outside on the terrace. It was sitting staring intently at the base of a pot of lavender. He saw a long elegant paw flash out and retract, holding some tiny rodent. He looked away.

  She saw him out and stood for several seconds watching as he walked down the path to the gate, then she disappeared inside and shut the door. He was relieved. For some reason he did not want her to see him duck in amongst the brambles on the far side of the lane and climb over the crumbling wall.

  The wet grass soaked the bottom of his trousers as he made his way between the hawthorn trees. Already he could see something on the ground, shining in the low rays of sunlight. In half an hour the sun would have gone down and it would start to grow dark. He walked cautiously towards the glinting reflection in the grass. It was a small cut-glass container holding a candle. He stooped and picked it up and emptying out the rainwater which had filled it in the night he glanced round for more. He couldn’t feel anything strange about the place. Or could he? He stared round, listening carefully as though some echo of Lyndsey’s strange scream might come to him from the undergrowth. He was remembering his discomfort last time he came here. Perhaps she had been here before, the young witch from Mistley quay.

  There were four candle-holders tucked in amongst the undergrowth and three small dishes. One contained a soggy mess of salt, another, he discovered as he cautiously inserted a fingertip and then sniffed it, olive oil. The third was empty. He guessed it had contained water
before it had been tipped on its side. Stacking them together on the ground, he considered the other items lying at his feet. A small kitchen knife, a bowl, a knotted cord and a carved stick which he guessed must be her wand. He stared at them, reluctant even to touch them. But it had to be done. They had to be disposed of.

  Was that a darker green rectangle in the grass? The sign that this was the site of a grave? He squatted down, staring at the ground. It was cold down there, near the earth, and he shivered violently. Whose grave was it? And was it chance that had made Lyndsey use it as the centre of her magic or had she chosen the place for a reason? Who was buried here?

  He stood looking down and immediately he knew the answer to his own question. It was Hopkins. Matthew Hopkins was buried here in this redundant, deconsecrated place. Or did she just think he was? He found himself folding his arms across his chest with a shudder.

  ‘So, Mr Hopkins. Is that what this is all about?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Poor, silly girl. Is she out for revenge? Getting even on behalf of those pathetic women you murdered?’

  Behind him the sloping rays of the setting sun began to turn crimson as they pierced black swags of cloud on the horizon. The light fractured, as the leaves and branches of the hedges intercepted it, throwing a lattice of shadows at his feet.

  Pathetic women?

  Murdered?

  Or were they evil, daughters of Satan, worshippers at his foul shrine, there to bring the Black Arts to ensnare good Christians? Old women, yes, for the most part. But they had the power. The knowledge. They had known men in their lives, found their weak spots, trapped them with their wiles, sapped their energy, their very life blood. Then they taught their younger sisters. They baptised them with blood, drew back their petticoats to expose their lower limbs and watched while the younger women fornicated with the Devil.

  Mike shuddered, unaware that his face had changed, that his eyes, normally kind, slightly myopic, had sharpened and narrowed, that his fingers had angled into angry claws, that his personality had gone and been replaced by that of another man.

  Bitches. Whores. Enticing men. Women luring and entrapping men when they were young and beautiful, when they were old, beating and humiliating them. He pictured for a moment one particular old woman, his grand-maman dressed in simplest black, her hair hidden beneath a cap of the severest cut, standing over a small, terrified boy. The cane in her hand whistled down over his bony spine and Mike heard the furious words ringing in his head. ‘Vile! Horrible boy! Don’t ever, ever look at a woman – any woman – again with desire. Do you hear me? Do you? With your lustful thoughts, your lecherous desires, your greed for flesh. I will tell your father! I will tell your maman. You are evil. God will punish you!’ On and on it went and it wasn’t until she had finished that Mike realised that the vicious nagging voice in his head was speaking in French. He flinched at the memory of the cane coming down again and again, feeling the boy’s fear and rage. Sale; petite bête vile; dégoûtant!

  His rage was congealing. Growing. It was turning to hatred; hatred for the entire female race.

  When she was at last exhausted and unable to lift the stick any more, she stepped away, leaving him lying sobbing on the ground. He had wet himself.

  And the crime for which he was being chastised? He, at the age of eight, had dared to pinch the bottom of one of the maids in his father’s rectory and made her giggle.

  Mike turned away from the spot where he had been standing and before he knew what was happening he had vomited into the shadows. He reached for his handkerchief, shaking uncontrollably. There was a sheen of sweat across his face. Where in God’s name had that come from? It was as though a window had opened in his mind and he had glimpsed someone else’s hell. A child’s. He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and kicked some mud over the sticky patch.

  He prayed for several minutes over the site of the grave, if grave it was, before turning away to gather up Lyndsey’s paraphernalia. Loading it all carefully into the boot of his car, he drove back towards the setting sun.

  The last streaks of red were showing in the blackening sky as he reached the rectory and he knew what he had to do. The candles, the cord, the salt, the oil, the wand, would be put into the fire, the glass candle-holders smashed and buried with the dishes and her wickedly sharp knife with the curious silver symbols painted on the handle would join them in the ground, its blade snapped in two. They were tainted by the Devil. Only fire and earth, blessed with holy water, could deal with such detritus.

  33

  Friday October 16th

  The children, neat in their grey school uniforms, were hurrying down the High Street. Each child had a clipboard and a pencil, each a list of questions. Sally Mason lagged behind, keeping an eye on them, wondering if anyone would notice if she took a couple of puffs at a ciggie before she shepherded the children into a group and allowed them to go and sit on the wall overlooking the river to eat their sandwiches and crisps. This was always a popular day out. The Manningtree witch hunt. Normally Judith organised this excursion as a prelude to her virulent anti-witch propaganda lesson next term, but this time she had had to step back from the visit. Something about a specialist’s appointment in Colchester. Sally didn’t mind. She enjoyed days out of the classroom and this one was easy; it was a small school and the classes were manageable. She had tried to keep the questions simple. Most had been answered when they piled into the tiny museum in the back of the library. Now all they had to do was collect some pub names, find a rowan tree, draw a broomstick – it was still leaning there outside the hardware store, she had checked. After lunch they would walk along the river to Mistley, stand and stare at the Thorn Inn, with its wonderful picture of the Witchfinder on the pub sign, and then at long last they would pile back into the minibus and she could think about going home.

  34

  Tuesday October 20th

  THE MOON IN THE LAST QUARTER

  Emma had not been to Colchester Castle before. The man at the little museum in the library at Manningtree had told her to go to the museum there when she had expressed her disappointment that the exhibits about witches over which he presided were aimed more at children than anyone else; he had known nothing about Liza’s.

  It had been a shock the first time she realised that Liza had not been the old lady she had watched through the hedge as a child. Liza had lived in the cottage in the seventeenth century; a witch, she had been burned at the stake by Matthew Hopkins.

  No, not burned. Witches weren’t burned in England. That was the first thing she discovered. They were hanged. But not before they had been horribly tortured. Torture as such wasn’t allowed in England either; but the single-minded, thorough Hopkins had a series of little refinements with which to torment the suspects he had rounded up. Refinements and tricks. He pricked them with a vicious pin set in a wooden handle. As it was known that the Devil’s marks for which he searched the old ladies were insensible to pain, the pin was retractable. When the victim had screamed enough a spring was pressed, the pin slid upwards into the handle and low and behold, the fierce jabbing of the witch pricker produced silence. No pain. Therefore guilt. Case proved.

  She followed the signposts down a long flight of stairs towards the castle prison. It was quiet down there, away from the shouts and chattering of the children visiting the Roman exhibits upstairs. She was the only visitor down here and she could see why. A notice at the top of the stairs suggested the exhibits through the door in the darkness might not be suitable for children.

  She stood still at the bottom of the stairs and looked round, half nervous, half expectant. The exhibits were minimal. Disappointingly so. An old wooden stocks stood near the staircase. A small box on the wall held a collection of broken clay pipes and that was it. What was scary about that? Slowly she walked past a series of information boards which told the story of the prison and the people who had passed through its doors and then, there they were. Three panels about witchcraft and the Witchfinder. She re
ad each one carefully, conscious of an increasing sense of anticlimax. They spelt out the minimum of detail about the subject, showed three reproductions of contemporary scenes about witches and their familiars and witches being hanged, and there was a picture of him – a caricature showing him with curly hair and beard, both fair, deep set eyes, aquiline face. Nothing like the man she had seen in her dreams.

  Beyond the picture there was a doorway leading into the darkness. She was about to walk in when three girls from one of the school parties upstairs raced down, pushing past her, giggling and shouting, to hover in the doorway staring in. Their shrieks intensified as they pushed each other forward, no one wanting to be first; afraid to go in. Emma stood back and watched, half amused, half irritated, as they dared one another to go through the door. It didn’t work. Suddenly all three turned and ran for the stairs. They were going for reinforcements.

  Emma took her chance and stepped forward. The notice by the door said, ‘On your way in, feel the wood of the door grille worn smooth by the hands of countless prisoners’. She glanced at it and with a shrug put her hands deep into her pockets. Then plucking up her courage, she stepped forward into the strange, all pervasive silence of the darkness beyond the door.

  She found herself standing opposite two cells and as she waited in the dark, holding her breath, a low, sinister light appeared in one to reveal a small empty dungeon. The silence was broken as the commentary began.

  She forced herself to stay and listen, intensely aware of the weight of the great building over her head, of the dark curved vaults, the bars, the claustrophobia, the pain and the suffering, the terror and despair which permeated every square inch of the walls around her.

  At the end of the sequence she walked back towards the exit, numb with horror. It wasn’t the screams she had heard – they had been muted, censored – nor the detail which she had seen and heard laid out in those neat, unemotional, easily assimilable chunks. It was the memories it had awakened; memories deep inside herself.