by Syd Moore
The next sound that drew my attention came from a chair opposite. There sat a young woman, in her early twenties. Her dark hair was drawn up into a straw bonnet that tied under her chin with a pink ribbon. I recognized her pale blue and white striped cotton dress that tapered in under the bust and spread down to the floor. I had worn it in my vision. It had pulled me under the water in the Drowning Pool. There was something strange about the way she looked. She was breathing fast but her eyes were empty and uncomprehending like someone who was disorientated, or in shock.
The silence was intense.
Nobody spoke.
The door opened and a blue-eyed man with gingery, blond hair entered. He was lean and well groomed but a few years older than the girl. He was dressed smartly, like the man by the window, but you could see his suit was of a better cut. He wore an intricately embroidered waistcoat with a chain that reached up into his breast pocket. This was a wealthy man, handsome. And yet as he turned his eyes on the girl they filled with malice. It made his face look dark.
‘Miss Sutton,’ he said to the girl in the bonnet. ‘Come into the parlour now please.’
She didn’t move so he repeated his request again. The man by the window had turned into the room now. He stood still, watching the scene, looking from one woman to the other, unsure, it seemed, of whether he was required to do something.
The older woman stood and went to the girl.
‘Sarah,’ she said to her soothingly as one might speak to a patient or a very young child. Then she lifted her arm, pulled her up and gently pushed her towards the door.
The girl, in all her terrible misery, moved like a somnambulist. Her walk was aimless, stumbling slightly, but she made it to the man, who took her arm, signalled to her parents they should not follow, and guided her across a large hallway into a room with floor-length French doors.
I knew this place.
I had seen this view of the garden and the cedar tree. But now there was nothing but farmland beyond. On the furthest wall, over the mantelpiece, hung a painting of Hadleigh Castle.
In the room sat a heavy-set man with a fat belly, perhaps forty or older, in a dark jacket. Holding his hat in his hands he got to his feet.
The other man, still holding Sarah by the arm, led her to him. ‘There, Billing. What do you think? Satisfactory?’ he asked.
The man in the dark jacket took a step forward and inspected the girl. His eyes licked over her face and down her body. The calculating edge to his gaze chilled me. Even as I watched I could sense danger in the room. I wanted to scream at her to run away, but I was numb, unable to do anything but watch the scene play out before me.
At length the man spoke. His voice was rough, born of years on the sea. ‘Open your mouth.’
Sarah didn’t move so he said it again, louder. She didn’t flinch though for a second confusion seemed to cloud over her eyes, then she complied. The heavy-set man poked a finger around her teeth, then he nodded. ‘All right. But with the payment too.’
The man who had brought her in nodded his assent. ‘We shall call it a dowry and leave it at that. It is more generous than a man in your position could otherwise expect.’
The heavy man snorted. ‘And you say she will recover? I want a woman who will perform all wifely duties.’
The other man nodded.
My stomach was churning. Something bad was happening here. The girl was being traded. I found my voice: ‘Sarah! Leave.’
Sarah remained mute and unmoving, so I shouted again, ‘For God’s sake get out of there.’
For a moment her eyes flitted over to where I stood. Coming out of her trance she seemed to take in her surroundings for the first time.
The rich man snorted. ‘You have my promise. She will be ready to wed next week.’
Sarah had wakened fully now and looked up at him, her eyes widening as the sense of his words hit her.
The large man, satisfied, set his hat upon his head. ‘Well, I’ll take your leave and await instructions.’ Then he got to his feet and hurriedly left the room.
Sarah seemed to have some sense of what had just occurred. Her eyes skated from the closing door to the man who remained. ‘I will not marry him,’ was all she said simply. ‘My heart will not let me.’
Without turning to face her, the well-dressed man raised his hand and in one short movement slapped Sarah across the face. She staggered back, her hand going to her cheek.
The man took a step towards her and pushed her once, twice, until her back was against the wall. He brought his face so close to hers that only a couple of inches separated them. His pale blue eyes tightened into sharp arrows, then snarling, he hissed, ‘Stupid girl. Of course you will. Or perhaps … I am a widower.’ Tentacle-like fingers curled over her body and moved down to her belly. ‘I could remove it and then no one would know and you could come into my service. I could put you to good use.’
With some effort Sarah pushed him away and headed for the open French doors. ‘I will not.’
The man, who had toppled slightly in the struggle, called after her. ‘A woman in your position has no choice.’
But Sarah was out now, hitching her skirts and running past the cedar tree, through the garden, across the lane down towards the cliffs, to the Drowning Pool.
The scream of a fox in the street woke me abruptly. The night was still and muggy. The digital clock on my bedside table blinked its red eyes: 2.13 a.m.
I sighed and sank onto my pillows full of anxiety. The dream had been vivid and clear.
And it had been terrifying.
That poor girl. What had happened to her?
I shook my head trying to shake out more of the dream. None came.
Who was that?
Sarah.
My name.
Was the dream an echo of the day mixed up with messages from my subconscious?
Despite my racing mind I was full of fatigue and soon my thoughts dissolved and sleep came for me.
At 3.30 a.m. a huge clap of thunder crashed. I awoke once more with a start. Lightning flashed, followed by a roar of thunder so voluminous I could feel it resonate inside me. The mirror on my dressing table trembled. I crawled from the bed and pulled back the curtain. In the street it was dark and empty. The fox shrieked again.
The air was charged with tension.
Rain was waiting to break.
A purple fork of lightning darted across the sky. There was an explosion as it hit something on the cliff which echoed across the rooftops. Another clap of thunder followed.
The storm was getting closer.
I drew back the curtain and started back to the bed when lightning flashed once more, illuminating the room. The ruffled duvet I had just thrown off had slipped onto the floor and there, beyond it, the figure of a woman stood by the door.
It was her.
Frozen in light, I made out smooth alabaster skin, a bonnet keeping back unruly dark hair, young piercing green eyes, the line of the plain white dress that disappeared into nothing below the knee.
Her outstretched arm pointed at me.
No one will ever know what I felt at that moment. Terror is not agony. It is not a slow drawn-out thing. It is quick and instantly enveloping, like a stab in the stomach, as sudden as a viper’s bite, bringing with it creeping paralysis.
I stood there unblinking, unable to move, half reaching for the bed, watching the terrible thing float soundlessly towards me.
My heart was thumping hard. I heard my gasps and saw my breath turning to mist.
A deathly stillness had crept into the room. No, it was more than stillness, it was stagnation penetrating everything. The sickening stench of decay and rotting flesh warped and thickened then hung in the air like invisible lengths of smoke.
The thing hovered now over the middle of the bed. I tried to tear my gaze away, but her eyes, glowing green in the gloom, held me in their terrible thrall. Then there was the most chilling of sounds – halfway between a cry of pain and a strangled sob,
broken and faulting, entwined with a shrill blast of static.
‘Please.’
It was as if the word had battered me physically. A wave of nausea flooded over me. I staggered back a step and hit my thigh against the dressing table, causing the bottles and hair products to spill across its surface with a clatter. The bruising sting of its wooden corner had, however, roused me, bringing me back to my senses. I was still as frightened as hell but some part of me had recovered. I stood up to it. ‘What do you want?’ My voice was shrill.
The temperature was icy yet sweat streaked my body. I held my breath.
The wraith flickered and buzzed in the dimness like a faulty fluorescent tube.
Another clap of thunder roared above us.
She stared at me.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I clenched my fists for strength, my nails digging into my palms.
The voice spoke again, this time in a hoarse whisper right beside my ear. ‘Help me. Sarah Grey, you must.’
‘How?’
Another flash of lightning filled the room.
I watched in mortification, unable to look away, as her white gown started to darken. Thick, globular black liquid seeped from a gaping wound on the spectre’s head: layers of skin had been pulled roughly away from the flesh underneath. The thing raised its skeletal hands either side of it.
If I could have moved, I think I would have jumped out of the window to escape it but my feet felt leaden. The awful sight of her bleeding wound made me feel dizzy, almost winded and I struggled for breath.
The storm broke in a sheet of heavy drops. The tree outside lashed against the windows, scratching against the panes like fingernails.
Lightning tore into the room once more, illuminating the creature’s grotesque crucifixion-like pose.
It brought its head up, fixing bulging eyes on me, drifting closer, closer till I could feel its breath on my cheeks: ‘He came back.’
And then it sucked me in.
I am back in the Old Town, shuffling over the cobbles by Strand Wharf. Icy wind biting my face and lashing my hair from my bonnet. My body crunches in on itself, stiff, aching with familiar pain. My fingers gnarled and curled with arthritis. The pail that I carry in them is heavy and cold. I rest the bucket for a moment and straighten my back as best I can. A young man has come alongside. He catches my gaze, tips his cap then, with a neatly aimed kick, sends the bucket flying. The water spills out over the cobbles.
‘Oh dear,’ he sneers. ‘Ye have bad luck with water don’t ye, Mother Grey? But then witches do, so they say …’
‘Get out of it, Thomas Tulley.’ A voice shrieks from behind. Liza steps in front of me protectively. ‘Clear off. You should be ashamed of yourself. Let Mother be.’
I put my hand on her arm. ‘Leave it, Liza.’ She is a good girl but she has a sharp temper that invites trouble.
Whenever I see a Tulley my heart shrinks. It isn’t our place to scold him so. Not after his sister …
I try to pull Liza back yet she wrests herself from my weak grip and makes some sign at the lad that I can’t see. Whatever it is he scarpers down the street as quickly as he can. I chuckle. Spirited and proud my Liza is.
‘You shouldn’t let them get away with it, Mother.’ She turns to me. ‘Jane Tulley’s death was not your fault. The Tulleys know it too. Tommy’s a bully boy who should know better.’ Her face is red from the bitter wind but her dress, as always, is neat and pretty.
‘Liza, Tommy still feels the pain of it. Leave him be.’
My daughter tut-tuts but says no more. Smoothing her hands over her apron her words are a reprimand. ‘I told you I’d get the water. You shouldn’t have gone to the well.’
My protestations take as much time as she does to fetch the pail. ‘No, Mother, I’m taking you home. I’ll get the water. It’s too cold to be out today.’
She links her arm through mine and slowly we make our way back. At the black panelled door of the cottage I pause. Though not yet up, the moon is fast pulling in the tide. Beyond the wharf, waves are getting up. Their frothy heads rise and fall further out into the sea, flipping and pitching the several fishing boats that have braved the wind. Alongside the wharf a foreign ship is rocked back and forth.
I smell blood in the air.
Gulls circle up and down on the breeze, crying warnings. Does no one hear them but me? On the horizon thick, muddy clouds of violet grey are gathering for a fight. My wrist aches at the sight of it all: a storm is on its way. The foul smell the sea has tossed up tells me what I already know: this one will be a beast.
There is an evil coming through that I will not be able to counter.
My eyes snapped open with a click that seemed to reverberate through the house. My whole body was stiff with tension.
Sunlight streamed into the bedroom. It was late morning.
I sat up and looked at the dressing table. All the bottles stood there upright.
Gingerly I lifted the duvet and felt my right leg for a bruise.
Nothing.
Rationally one might have concluded this was a bad dream. But I was beyond logic.
Though now I knew who she was.
Chapter Eight
The storm was on everyone’s lips that day. When I went to pick up Alfie Martha was full of it.
‘We all woke up at once, didn’t we, Alfie?’ She was making sandwiches for the boys. Alfie nodded disinterestedly and continued ‘brumming’ his truck over the tiled floor. ‘I thought they’d be scared but it was all quite exciting.’
I took a sip of the freshly ground coffee Martha had forced on me when I arrived. ‘I think I heard it.’
‘You think you heard it! You must have been out for the count.’
‘Yes, I was.’ The lie came easily. I had prepared for this. The night before had left me so completely shaken that I had rehearsed what to say. I’d been unable to move for what seemed like hours. When I finally threw the duvet off the bed I wrapped it round me tightly and rocked myself back and forth. I had seen something significant, that I knew. But I had brought from the dream a misery that racked me.
In the warm light of Martha’s kitchen it would have been easy to put the whole thing down to a nightmare. But I knew better. I had stuff to do.
‘All right, Sarah?’ Martha asked without looking up. She was cutting the sandwiches diagonally into quarters. She wiped her eyebrow with the back of her hand and then placed the small white triangles on a plate shaped like a cow.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Just tired.’
‘Helen next door said lightning struck one of the old oaks along Marine Parade. Shame really. If it had to hit anything you’d hope it would go for one of those hideous new apartment complexes they’re building down there. Still, can’t have everything can we? Boys! Lunch is ready.’
She produced a jug of squash and filled the three plastic cups on the table. Then she opened the back door and beckoned me out. ‘Come and sit on the deck. It’s glorious today.’ To the kids she said, ‘You lot sit down and eat while I talk to Auntie Sarah.’
I followed her out and took a seat on one of the sunloungers.
Martha brought another one alongside me and sat down. We sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the calm of the garden. It had been landscaped to resemble a modern Spanish courtyard: white concrete planters full of tropical plants and cacti ran up each side. Beyond the decking the lawn was covered with smart grey shingle and dotted with solar-powered uplighters that gave the garden a chic ultra-marine glow in the evenings. Halfway down several palm trees clustered before stone steps that led onto an alfresco dining area. A swarm of mosquitoes chased each other in the shade.
‘I expect you’re looking forward to the break, aren’t you?’ Martha said, after a pause.
It was hard to follow the conversation. The shock hadn’t dissipated altogether yet. My head was still foggy, like it had been packed with cotton wool. I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. It was like an obsession: every second t
hought returned to Sarah. I could feel her – I had absorbed her sorrow and I could feel it growing. I still felt the despair that had emanated from her in the first vision last night. The terrible sense of entrapment; the loss of all hope. And then, the suffocating sense of menace in the air.
Every so often an image of her floating above my bed, blood seeping from the yawning gash on her head, would flash like last night’s lightning across my brain, making me queasy and anxious.
Martha coughed. ‘You all right? You seem a bit vacant.’
I forced a grin. ‘Hangover.’
She gave me a nod of empathy. ‘You’re not having any more of those cockleshell episodes then?’
‘No,’ I replied truthfully. Pine cones, terrifying spooks, desperate dreams, but hey, the shell problem seemed to have sorted itself out. One must be grateful for small mercies.
‘Good, good. Well, I’m here if you ever need to chat.’ She patted my arm. She was lovely, Martha: thoroughly wholesome and brimming with generosity of spirit.
Spirit.
She was in my head again.
I knew who she was.
It was astonishing. But it had to be her. In the visions she was called Sarah. She had failed to kill herself in the Drowning Pool and thus been branded a witch. Then Thomas Tulley had called her by her name: ‘Mother Grey’.
There it was.
Sarah Grey.
Her name.
My name.
Was that why she’d come to me? Because we shared a name? Could it be that tenuous? Surely not. There must be something else, logically. But then nothing about any of this seemed logical.
But I was sure it was her.
Though I hadn’t had time to work out what to do about it yet.
‘I said – are you bringing anyone?’ I had zoned out. Martha prodded me. ‘Blimey, it must have been a good one last night. You’re barely here.’ She stretched her legs out and put on a pair of huge tortoiseshell sunglasses and turned her face to the sun. ‘To my party. It’s in three weeks’ time. I just wondered if you had anyone that you might want to bring? Man-wise.’
