Inside her head the voice laughed softly.
51
Monday night
There had been little time to review the day’s chaotic happenings. Mike had had a hospital visit that afternoon, followed by a meeting of the bell fund committee, an interview with a young couple who wanted to marry in the church and two local home visits before he made his way back into the cold, dark rectory at nine o’clock that evening and slammed the door shut behind him. There were ten messages waiting for him on the answer machine. With a sigh he pressed the button and started to listen.
Within minutes the disembodied voices were talking to themselves. Seated at the desk, his head cushioned on his arms, the exhausted rector of St Michael’s was fast asleep once more. ‘You have no more messages.’ The tinny female voice was adamant. Her subsequent silence was followed by a click and a whirr as the machine reset itself. Mike heard nothing of it.
You didn’t listen! The voice now hissing in his ear was male and full of scorn. Open your eyes, man! See what I see! See what they do. Watch them! See the evil everywhere around you!
Mike sighed sleepily. In some deep recess of his mind he knew he should try to fight; to push the voice away, but it was no use. He was too tired and it was too firmly entrenched inside his head. The eyes through which he saw in his dream were another man’s eyes, the brain another man’s brain, the thoughts, the education, the beliefs, all belonged to a man who had lived three hundred and fifty years ago; a man who was haunted by bad dreams. A man who was already in hell.
It was standing at the foot of his bed. A great black bear, its jaws slavering blood and spittle, its huge claws reaching out towards him. He screamed, cowering back.
‘So, you would try interfering with the Devil’s work!’ The bear was speaking to him. ‘You persecute my servants; you hunt down my followers. But it is all to no avail. I shall win. I shall defeat the followers of Christ.’ It shuffled forward and he realised there was someone else in the room with him. It was Mary Phillips with her ugly spike. She was holding it out towards the bear as it turned its beady eyes on her. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’ Her face was greasy with fear and rage.
The bear shuffled closer to them.
‘Don’t make it angry, Mary.’ He glanced at her in terror. ‘Don’t goad it. Put away that spike …’ He frowned, and looked again. The white cap was the same, the black dress, the stern, angry mouth, but the woman beside him was not Mary Phillips, it was Judith Sadler, and she was laughing at him, and in her hand he could see the spike. Now it was dripping with blood, which was splashing down her apron, and she had turned towards him.
Mike woke with a shout of fear and found himself sitting at his desk. He had knocked over the mug which held his pencils and pens and they were rolling around onto the floor. The answer machine was still flashing at him. It now showed eleven calls, so the phone must have rung again whilst he was asleep.
He rubbed his face hard with the palms of his hands. His mouth was dry and he was shivering violently.
Christ be with me, Christ within me.
He pushed back the chair and stood up. The curtains at the windows were open and he went to close them, conscious suddenly of eyes staring in out of the dark. After a moment’s hesitation he went back to the desk.
The phone rang on and on in Tony and Ruth’s house without answer. He held on for several minutes, his knuckles white on the receiver, until at last he put it down. Where on earth were they? He was beginning to be really worried. He was halfway through dialling Judith’s number when he stopped and put his finger on the rest to disconnect the call. Judith had been in the dream.
Forcing himself to listen to the eleven messages was a kind of therapy. Three were from Judith, sounding, as always when she could not get hold of him, increasingly irritated. Four were from parishioners, one from the bishop’s secretary. One was from the book shop saying the book he had ordered had come in, two cut off without a word and the last was from Don Cunliffe, his spiritual adviser.
He stared at the phone, suspiciously. Had Judith been meddling again? Suggesting to Don that Mike needed counselling? Perhaps he should ring Don. Discuss the dream, the whole Matthew Hopkins thing, with him. He stood up and walked over to the bookcase and back, a path often trodden while he was thinking. Don would take the whole thing out of his hands, notify the bishop’s office, contact John Downing and his team, in a purely consultative role of course because he would not believe a word of it, he would forbid Mike to contact Tony and Ruth and recommend he take a holiday.
It would be wrong not to confide his worries to John, but he already knew he would not be doing so. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. The so-called ‘help’ from the deliverance office had arrived only that morning. A booklet of prayers and a letter from John Downing apologising for not coming back to him sooner, hoping that matters had rectified themselves and asking him to get in touch if he still had any worries. He paused as he walked up and down. It was strange that his spiritual adviser should ring him while he was actually having the dream. Was it Our Lord’s way of helping? Something to put his mind at rest?
He found himself looking down into the fireplace. It was a mess of scattered cold ash. The log basket was empty. He considered it for a moment. It would be so nice to have a roaring log fire, to pull up that old leather armchair and maybe pour himself a small glass of whisky. But to fetch the logs he would have to go out of the back door, across the small courtyard between the house and various dilapidated outbuildings, cross the drive and grope in the dark at the huge pile of logs which had been ordered by Donald James in a fit of generous insight which had astonished Mike, but which had unfortunately been delivered and therefore just dumped anywhere, while he was out. The garden at the moment was cold and dark and quite probably crawling with bears. He forced himself to smile, mocking his own cowardice.
When the front door bell rang, jangling through the empty house, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
52
When the car had refused to start, Emma got out, slammed the door, locked it and kicked the tyre nearest her. ‘Bastard thing!’ She stared round. A group of lads were hanging around outside the Thorn. They had seen her run up from the quay, watched her jump in and slam the door, seen her struggle with the ignition, hit the steering wheel with the flat of her hands and climb out, defeated. One of them jeered. She glared over her shoulder to where the road ran down into the dark alleyway which led back to the quay-side cottages. Lyndsey hadn’t followed her, but she could feel her still watching her, calling her, exerting what felt like an almost irresistible force to draw her back into the cottage and her web of occult intrigue.
‘Need some help, darling?’ One of the youths had detached himself from the group. He sauntered over.
‘No! Thank you. No need.’ She glanced at the stubble-length head of blond hair, the gold earring, the can of lager in his hand. ‘I’ve a friend just round the corner. Thanks all the same.’
It would have been easy to duck back down the dark alleyway to Lyndsey’s, but she wasn’t sure which she feared most, the scheming witch or the leering example of modern youth. Instinctively she opted for neither. Instead she walked determinedly away from him up the village street. For a moment she thought he was going to follow her, but he contented himself with an inarticulate jeer, the meaning of which was – luckily – hidden in a plethora of glottal stops. She did not look back. It was only as she passed the coldly flood-lit splendour of the twin towers, all that remained of Robert Adam’s glorious dream of a church, that she realised she had committed herself to a long cold walk along the edge of the river. Either that or go back and face the boys. Or Lyndsey.
Head down, hands in pockets, she walked quickly, intensely aware of the broad black expanse of water to her right as it sucked gently at the edge of the salt marsh. Two cars drove past, their headlights reflecting on the wet road, which was the more desolate for its occasional streetlights flickering between the wind-blown branches of the sycam
ore trees. Glancing behind her nervously she quickened her pace. Ahead of her the lights of Manningtree were bright and welcoming, but she had no idea what she would do when she got there.
Her brain was whirling now. She was running through her brief list of local acquaintances who lived in Manningtree itself. Alex lived several miles away in Bradfield. Will Fortingale, who she had seen once or twice since she had used his services as a house agent, lived with his wife in Brantham, in the other direction, the friendly builder who had knocked the wall through between her kitchen and the little dining room, and put in the cat flap and the bookshelves in her den, and so far failed to finish the floorboards and adored opera, lived in Colchester.
That left Mike Sinclair. As she turned up Quay Street away from the river into the deserted, rain-swept streets he was the only person she could think of who was within walking distance and who might consider it part of his job to rescue ladies in distress; and at least she knew where he lived. She had noticed the rectory once when she had turned up Church Street in the mistaken impression that it would provide a shortcut back to Liza’s.
The rectory lay in darkness. The rain was coming down in earnest now, trickling down her neck, soaking her jeans and her jacket as, her hand on the gate, she stared at the house in despair. It had not occurred to her that he might be out. Now, as she pushed open the gate and walked across the gravel towards the house her heart had sunk, and when she rang the bell it was in no expectation of being answered. She didn’t ring again. She had already turned away when the door opened behind her.
She almost sobbed with relief as the porch light came on and Mike appeared. He was in his shirtsleeves, looking totally exhausted and for a moment she thought he didn’t recognise her. But almost at once his face cleared and he smiled.
‘Emma!’ He hesitated, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had come to be replaced by a worried frown. ‘Is something wrong? Come in.’
She followed him into the long shabby hall and from there into his study. The house, even in comparison to the wet darkness outside, was very cold.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late.’ She realised she was trembling. ‘I didn’t know who to turn to …’
‘Wait.’ He held up his hand. ‘It’s freezing in here. I’ve been out all day, I’m afraid. Let me fetch some logs and put a match to the fire. That would be quicker than waiting for the antiquated heating, and I’ll put the kettle on. You look as though you could do with a hot drink. Then you can tell me what you’re doing here in the middle of the night.’
She didn’t know what courage it took to go out into the dark and stand with his back to the dark misty garden, groping for a few of the least-wet logs from the pile.
Kill the witch. While she’s here. The perfect opportunity!
He dropped a log and swore. Christ be with me.
She is your enemy. If you do not kill her, she will kill you!
Christ within me. Christ behind me, Christ before me.
He threw the last log in the basket and hefting it up with a groan, he headed back through the rain towards the house.
He put the basket down by the hearth and then disappeared again into the kitchen, to return five minutes later with a whisky bottle, two glasses, a kettle and a lemon. ‘Unless you’d prefer tea?’
Emma shook her head. She shed her wet jacket after he lit the fire – four fire-lighters, she noticed – and pulling a chair close to the flames, she accepted the glass of hot whisky and lemon gratefully.
‘I’ve been a fool!’
‘OK. Tell me.’ He seemed more composed, once more comfortably within his professional persona.
She glanced at him, reluctant to break Lyndsey’s confidence and yet desperately needing to confide. ‘I went to see Lyndsey again.’ She saw him tense slightly. ‘I found out yesterday that we were cousins of some sort.’ She gave an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘I needed to talk about it.’ She sipped from her glass, watching as the fire flared up the chimney, not noticing his expression. He was staring at her, aghast.
I told you she was a witch!
‘This is the second whisky I’ve had this evening. She gave me one too.’
Somehow he managed to control his features. He merely raised an eyebrow. ‘You needn’t drink it if you don’t want to.’
She gave a small laugh. ‘I’ll hang on to it, thanks.’ She looked up. ‘What have you done with her magic things? You did take them from the churchyard?’
‘Yes, I took them. And I destroyed them.’
‘Ah.’ She shrugged.
‘She could hardly have thought otherwise.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Did she tell you what she was doing with them?’
Emma hesitated.
‘I see. This is part of the confidences you feel you must keep,’ he said gently. ‘Well, obviously you mustn’t tell me anything you don’t want to, but on the other hand, remember Lyndsey is playing with fire. I doubt if she understands quite what she has got herself into here.’
Emma smiled ruefully. ‘That’s more or less what she said about you.’
‘Ah, professional rivalry.’ He grinned. It suited him. He looked younger, less haggard, almost handsome again in the flickering firelight. ‘That doesn’t quite explain, though, why you turned up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, unless you came to tell me what she was doing.’
‘It’s not the middle of the night, Mike.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s not even ten yet.’
‘But that is the middle of the night round here.’ He laughed. ‘You town folk keep different hours. I’m just a simple country parson, don’t forget.’
‘Then I’m sorry I disturbed you.’ Instead of being amused, suddenly she was irritated again. ‘Perhaps you could ring for a taxi for me and I’ll get out of your hair.’ Draining her glass, she set it down with a thump on the table next to her chair and stood up.
‘Hey! Whoa! Don’t be silly, sit down!’ He raised his hands in surrender. ‘I’m sorry; I was joking. Please, Emma, just tell me from the beginning what happened to upset you. Something must have.’
She slumped back into the chair. ‘My car broke down.’
He stared. ‘So this has nothing to do with Lyndsey?’
‘Not really, no. I was scared by some local yokels outside the Thorn. I didn’t want to walk past them and I set off in the wrong direction. And I walked and I walked, then it started raining, and well, in the end you were the only person I could think of who I knew. What’s so funny?’ She glared at him.
Mike was laughing. ‘I see. So, you came here faute de mieux! Well, I’m pleased you felt you could, and I wouldn’t think of getting you a taxi. I’ll run you home.’ He sat back in his own chair, a shabby comfortable leather armchair which had probably been in the rectory for generations. ‘And I thought it was spiritual guidance you were after! So, Lyndsey didn’t say or do anything to upset or frighten you?’
‘Not really.’ She refused to meet his eye. The temptation to tell him the truth, that Lyndsey had been trying to recruit her for a war on the side of the witches, to tell him about her dreams, was very strong, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She frowned at the flames.
And there was something else; another reason she didn’t feel she could tell him. When he smiled, when he was himself, Mike was an attractive man, easy to talk to, to trust. But, from time to time, there was something about him that frightened her. A cold shadow seemed to descend on him and distance him from her. Then he reminded her of her dreams; in fact, though it seemed a preposterous idea, he reminded her of no one so much as the Matthew Hopkins of her nightmare. He didn’t look like him in any way, or behave like him, or sound like him and yet, suddenly hanging over him there was a strange cloak of semblance; a miasma. Perhaps it was the churchy atmosphere, the Puritan holier-than-thou image, not that Mike seemed to have that kind of image. Not for a second had he patronised or proselytised her. In fact he had been nothing but kind. Perhaps it was jus
t that he was wrestling with his own demons?
‘So, what’s the decision?’ His voice was very gentle. Persuasive.
She jumped. ‘Decision?’
‘You are obviously embroiled in a deep internal conflict.’
She scowled. ‘Very observant of you.’
‘Part of the job, I’m afraid. And whatever Lyndsey thinks, I do have a certain amount of experience to draw on.’
‘But, as you said, there are confidences I don’t think I can break.’ She was frowning.
He shrugged. ‘Then I shall have to respect that. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?’
Kill her!
‘Apart from drive me home?’
‘Apart from drive you home.’
She stared at the hearth. ‘Will you be there if I do need you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Part of the job?’
‘As you say.’ He considered her thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes intense. ‘Please, don’t be alone and frightened, Emma. You can ring me at any time, OK?’ He reached over towards his desk. ‘Let me give you my mobile number. You can always get me unless I’m in church and in that case leave a message and I’ll get back to you within the hour.’
‘Even at midnight?’ She smiled at last, trying to make a joke of it.
He nodded. ‘Even at midnight.’
53
Tuesday October 27th
Alex dropped the children off at school early and then drove on to Emma’s. It was almost exactly nine o’clock when he knocked on her back door. It was several minutes before she answered. There was a fork in her hand. ‘Alex, hi! I’m just feeding the cats.’ She was wearing a turquoise silk kimono, her hair wrapped in a towel.
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