by Julia Hughes
‘Maid, what have you done to your hair?’
Flushing Carrie rushed to the sink, and sticking her head under the tap she pumped the handle furiously, too angry to flinch from the ice cold gush of water. Satisfied the frizz had relaxed into its normal loose curls, Carrie snatched a ragged towel warming on the stove and patted her hair, becoming aware for the first time of the clucking and cackling floating in from the small enclosed square of field they called a garden. She decided not to investigate the battering at the back door. She only hoped no one had donated a cow.
‘Are you and your new friend going to sit gossiping all day – or are we making a start for London?’ Carrie asked, hands on hips. ‘Only it’s a fair old walk,’ she added. ‘Even for an Angel.’
The mirth filling the room increased. Gran cackled again.
‘Landsakes! Angels don’t walk my ‘andsome. He says find Rhyllann, and he’ll be there.’
Carrie took a step backward, stroking the strap of the golf bag for comfort. ‘What do you mean? The Angel isn’t coming with us?’
‘No maid. Jeff Holden’s taking us in his jeep. The vicar’s coming with us. The Angel will meet us there.’
With that Gran pushed away from the table and squeezed her feet back into her best shoes. Carrie noticed Gran’s best wool coat hanging from the curtain rail. Gran would swelter inside it, but it hid the shapeless pinafore dress.
Outside a horn tootled, signalling Jeff’s arrival. Carrie wished the vicar wasn’t coming with them. She could have sat up front with Jeff and even worked the jeep’s gears. Now she’d be in the back seat with Gran and they’d have to watch their language, and their tongues.
Watching Gran hobble out the room, Carrie paused. The farmyard noises from outside were unfamiliar but merry, she supposed someone would be round later to sort out their new livestock and clear the table. Carrie stroked its well bleached wood grain, she would much rather the two familiar breakfast bowls rested on its surface, instead of this pile of food which would go to waste. Despite the prospect of a trip into London in her best clothes, suddenly she longed to be facing the drudgery of work, to stay within the confines of her little rut. Carrie shivered, someone somewhere trampled over her grave.
“I don’t trust him.” It was as if the walls had spoken.
Flicking a damp curl back from her face and hoisting the bag’s weight more securely onto her shoulder Carrie spoke out-loud.
‘Neither do I.’
Chapter Eight
Naturally, Father Andrew already hogged the front seat, while Jeff held the jeep’s rear door open, then stooped to help Gran settle herself comfortably. After looking Gran up and down with a smirk on his baby pink face, Father Andrew faced the front. The skies were a refreshing mixture of blue with white clouds scurrying across them. but windows were tightly wound up. The interior of the jeep filled with Father Andrew’s aftershave, so pungent it could singe nasal hair.
‘Well Sergeant Holden. The ladies are finally ready. Shall we allez? Shall we go?’
Carrie seethed. Both for the “Ladies” and the French translation.
The jeep was silent, apart from the rumbling diesel engine and Gran’s stomach, until they crossed the river Tamar into Devon. Without bothering to turn his head Father Andrew addressed the back seats.
‘Umm, Carrie isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Carrie replied.
‘Umm, Carrie, tell me my dear, is it true that the sword can only be handled by one who is of Celtic origin?’
‘That’s right,’ she repeated.
Gran fidgeted, embarrassed at her granddaughter's shortness, and tried to make amends:
‘Actually Father Andrew that ain’t, I mean isn’t true. I mean, what I’m trying to say is even a Celtic person might not touch the sword, might be harmed, if they’re not the right Celtic person.’
‘Not the right Celtic person.’ Father Andrew drawled, glancing sideways at Jeff, who continued to watch the road with an impassive face.
Carrie felt sorry for the Sergeant. Jeff drove ramrod straight and hadn’t even taken off his peaked cap. She noticed he breathed through his mouth.
Disgruntled at Jeff’s refusal to share his sly digs at Gran, Father Andrew grew even more pompous.
‘I take it we’re not blessed with the presence of your Angel?’
Gran cackled, not picking up on the sarcasm. ‘Dear me no, my Angel’s got other matters to attend–he don’t wanna waste no time driving. I mean no offence to your godly self, Father Andrew, but an Angel’s business is an Angel’s business.’
Father Andrew cleared his throat noisily, and Carrie knew he had taken offence.
They drove on in silence, into Wiltshire now, passing the enigmatic Stonehenge and Carrie fell to wondering what angels got up to in their spare time.
As they neared the Capital traffic began to build up, at times the road became a dual carriageway and Jeff managed speeds of fifty miles an hour, causing Gran to gulp and clutch her coat even tighter to herself. Carrie patted her hand and when Gran gripped back, Carrie allowed her to hold hands and said nothing about her rapidly numbing fingers.
They were driving past a vast park now, with green landscaped lawns as far as the eye could see. Carrie squinted at huddles of brown cattle like animals, from this distance they appeared as smudges. Just as she decided they were deer rather than cows, a country manor, all red bricks and chimneys came into view, about a mile back from the road.
‘Hampton Court Palace,’ Jeff grunted, practically the first time he’d spoken in five hours.
Carrie craned to see. It was smaller than she’d imagined, it didn’t seem any where large enough to hold all that history and drama. Just to get a boy child, when after all the girl grew into one of England’s greatest rulers worth twenty of any princes. Elizabeth was Carrie's favourite monarch; a lone woman holding her own against the might of Spain and France, playing men and countries against each other.
England had nearly had a second Queen Elizabeth, there’d been some scandal surrounding the present King’s grandfather... Carrie wrinkled her nose, trying to recall the details, but then forgot everything in her excitement as they drove over London Bridge now and into London Town.
Trams and cherry red double decker buses hemmed the jeep, shops with wall to wall plate glass windows displayed mannequins dressed in a bewildering display of fashion. Even in mid afternoon sunshine music halls and theatres competed for attention with flashing lights. There were fruit stalls banked with colourful fruit and vegetables of every type, the windows of cake shops were filled with various cakes, coated with chocolate, or pink and white icing, some filled with cream, confirming a long held belief that whatever happened in the country the Capital didn’t suffer from any food shortages. And people streamed everywhere; sober suited businessmen, long legged confident looking women with straight bobbed hair, gnarled newspaper sellers hawking the latest editions, uniformed delivery boys staggering under boxes, and rivers of bodies flowing up and down stairs leading underground.
Carrie’s eyes grew wide with wonder. Gran held her hand even tighter, nudging her to gawk at each new spectacle.
They were driving across the Thames again, and Carrie began to feel carsick with the jeep’s stop start motion. Just as Gran said. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Father Andrew breathed. ‘At last.’
Carrie wondered at the flush rising over his collar, sensing an air of satisfaction leaking from him. She noted Jeff Holden’s hand tighten over the jeep’s gear stick as he shifted into lower gear, and her own hand tightened over Gran’s in response to the old lady’s trembling.
Did Rhyllann Jones work here? Certainly nobody could afford to live in the middle of London, not unless they were royalty or well connected. Carrie looked into the driver's mirror, trying to make eye contact with Jeff, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead.
A round white building squatted in front of them, as though it had always been there, watching over London. Spinning the wheel
to the left, Jeff freewheeled down a narrow ramp, onto a paved courtyard between the building and the river Thames.
Carrie got out dragging the golf bag behind her, taking deep gulps of fresh air chilled by the river, carrying a myriad of different odours overlaid with a rotting vegetable stench she associated with bad drains. Father Andrew helped Gran struggle out, holding firmly onto her arm. Carrie’s own legs were weak with cramp and she felt grateful for his solicitude. Carrie swallowed hard, but her mouth still felt too dry even to croak a "Thank you." Instead she stretched, tipping her head back. The building didn’t appear to have any windows, and seemed impenetrable. A sign bolted above an arched wooden door caught her eye.
“Traitor’s Gate.” It read simply. Carrie’s scalp tightened. She looked at Jeff for an explanation but he wouldn’t meet her eye. From nowhere two stout figures in black uniform appeared, flanking a slighter feminine figure. All three approached purposely, Carrie watched fascinated as the woman's black skirt tightened then flared in time with the trio's regulated march. The tension across Carrie's scalp increased, her mouth became even dryer and despite the warmth she shivered uncontrollably.
“Something wicked this way comes.”
Unaccountably Shakespeare’s warning jumped into her mind, and Carrie's shivering increased. Poor old Gran still cramping from the long journey didn’t notice the approaching menace, and babbled happily to Father Andrew. Carrie stared at the middle figure, hypnotised like a rabbit caught in a lamplight. The scornful look on the blonde woman’s face, the lack of compassion in her eyes, as she laid a hand on Gran’s shoulder frightened Carrie more than the two hefty men scowling at her.
‘Carina Alison Thomas, also known as Granny Thomas, you are arrested on a charge of witchcraft, consorting with demons and dabbling in the black arts.’
Gran gaped at the blonde who nodded sharply at her bodyguards. Shoving their hands under Gran’s elbows they practically picked her up and frog marched her towards Traitor’s Gate.
‘Carrie! Carrie! Father Andrew, stop them. Stop them! I’m a harmless old woman, I can’t help seeing angels. Father Andrew, tell them, tell them!’
No one said a word. Jeff Holden examined his shoelaces, the blonde newcomer and Father Andrew eyed each other appraisingly. The blonde gave a superior smile as the vicar’s tongue flickered lizard like to lick at his lips. Carrie stood rooted to the spot unable to utter a single protest.
‘Shut your mouth dearie, you’ll catch flies,’ the woman said brushing past Carrie. Turning her head so slightly that her blonde bob barely dipped, she added to Father Andrew.
‘Bring her.’
Without waiting for a response she climbed into the driver’s seat of a sleek black saloon car. Father Andrew nodded sharply to Jeff Holden. It didn’t come off as well as the blonde’s unspoken commands.
‘You heard her. Bring the girl,’ he jerked his head towards the car.
‘I don’t understand …’ Jeff’s voice trailed away. Suddenly Carrie found her voice. It came out plaintive and thin as a child’s.
‘Father Andrew – Jeff! Do something! They’ve taken Gran!' Carrie gestured wildly, willing her legs to move beneath her. ‘Do something!’ She wailed, shrill with panic.
Father Andrew grasped one arm pinching above the elbow. At her other side, Jeff’s hand encircled her upper arm, and Carrie found herself being dragged forwards. But they were taking her in the wrong direction – away from Gran. Screaming and kicking, Carrie twisted her head from one side to another, snapping her teeth hoping to tear at flesh.
‘Now don’t be a silly girl. Stop this display at once.’
As he spoke Father Andrew tore open the rear door and threw her into the car. Carrie landed awkwardly on the golf bag. Before she could move, Jeff Holden climbed in beside her, pinning her down and back with one arm, while the vicar climbed into the front. Throwing her head back Carrie screamed at the top of her lungs as the blonde indicated before pulling out into traffic without waiting for a gap.
‘Shut her up.’
With a resounding crack Father Andrew’s hand flew across her cheek, twice without pause. Raising her fingers, feeling her face burn then sting, Carrie screamed again long and hard, a senseless stream of noise. “Bastards” was the only intelligible word.
‘Oh for goodness sake. Sergeant. Do something,’ the blonde tutted, only mildly annoyed.
Father Andrew’s expression was unchanging, though his beady eyes shone with excitement.
‘Rhyllann Jones? Do we need him?’
‘Probably not. Still…’ Flicking at a switch with a pale pink talon, the blonde spoke into a tiny microphone mounted on the dashboard.
‘Gabriel here. Detail a watch on Worker’s Lodge Number Three, Captain Rhyllann Jones.’
‘Rodger. Worker’s Lodge Three. Twenty four seven?’
‘Umm. If you can.’ Unspoken was “You’d better, or else.”
‘Confirm. Twenty four seven watch Rhyllann Jones, Worker’s Lodge Three, Shepherd’s Bush. Have that in place by tomorrow, Mam.’
The words flew over Carrie’s head, Jeff’s thick fingers were dragging at her lips, wrenching her mouth open, stuffing it with his handkerchief. Carrie rocked forward suddenly, trying to head butt the sleek blonde head in front of her, Jeff jerked her back at the last moment. Tears of rage spilled, Carrie felt her nose leaking and ducked to wipe it against Jeff’s sleeve. They were driving down a wide leafy avenue now, and traffic was thinning.
‘Now here’s the deal. We can all keep calm and cooperate, and maybe we’ll drop the charges against your grandmother, find a nice quiet little institution for her, a nice little waitress job for you, or we can play rough. The maximum penalty for witchcraft is hanging. No more burning at the stake, we’ve gone soft.’
Gabriel sounded regretful. Beside her, Father Andrew giggled. This time Jeff made eye contact. His face screwed up into a puzzled expression. Carrie shrugged her shoulders beneath his restraining arm, squeezing muffled squeals through her gag.
‘Can I take that gag away now?’ Jeff asked.
‘Mam. You address me as Mam. Understand? No. I think we’ve heard enough from Miss Thomas.’
Father Andrew giggled again. ‘See Jeff what our young missy’s got there is more than just a sword. Oh yes. We’ve been looking for it a long long time. And now Miss Carrie has it in her possession.’ He swivelled round, fixing Carrie with a stare.
‘We need you to take it back. Back to where you found it.’
Carrie shrunk against her seat; something was wrong here, something was very wrong, but she couldn’t think what. Jeff voiced his own questions again.
‘I don’ unnerstand, Vicar. Why bring the maid and her Gran all this way into Londunn? Why?’
Father Andrew held up a hand ticking off points on his fingers.
‘Because the old woman told the whole village the so called "Angel’s" wishes. Because we want to impress on Carrie the importance of doing as she’s told. Because we have research facilities at Bletchley, and we want to carry out certain tests on that sword. It appears anyone not authorised to touch the damn thing runs the risk of being electrocuted. And we want to find out why. No need to involve that rabble rouser Jones. At the moment our young lady here is the only person we know of who can handle the thing.’ He smiled at Carrie as he finished as though he was a popular teacher praising his special pet.
Without warning the temperature in the car dropped and Gran’s Angel spoke fiercely inside Carrie’s mind.
“Get out of here now. Run. If they discover Caliburn’s secret they won’t need you anymore and you’re dead.”
Her mind scrabbled back against his. I can’t! I can’t do anything, I can’t move – I can’t breathe.
“Oh goodness sakes Carrie! Think! Start throwing up or pretend you’re fitting. Anything, but do it now!”
Father Andrew’s head swung round, his arm flew towards Carrie.
‘The Angel, it’s here! Stop the car!’
The
Blonde jammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt, causing the car behind to slide into them with a clatter. Father Andrew’s head banged against the windscreen. Swallowing hard, Carrie imagined all the nasty things Jeff Holden’s hankie could have been used for, reached down to the bottom of her stomach to conjure up her recent car sickness, and retched a couple of times. Just as a confused looking Jeff whipped the gag from her mouth, Carrie vomited, raising her chin to project foul smelling bile over the Blonde’s shiny helmet of hair. Raising her hands to investigate she spluttered. ‘You little bitch! I’m going to …’
But Carrie didn’t wait to hear the rest, wrenching open the door she threw herself from the car, reaching behind for the golf bag. The handle snagged and it refused to come free, no matter how desperately she jiggled and pulled at it. Miraculously Jeff disentangled the strap and swung the golf bag forwards into her arms, while bellowing at her to come back. Stumbling into oncoming traffic and somehow managing to reach the pavement on the other side, Carrie flung the strap over her shoulder, clutching awkwardly behind to take the weight off her back. Her mind let go all thought as her body took charge, obeying the earliest instinct of all. Head down and legs pumping like pistons she ran for her life.
Fear drove her on. Any other time any of the hands snatching at Carrie’s dress and limbs would snarl her. Instead Carrie raced headlong past startled passers-by, evading the have a go helpers with a grace she never knew she possessed. On and on she ran, past gardens flashing by in strands of colour, her dress riding up to free her legs, sucking air effortlessly into her lungs, flooding her blood with pure oxygen, sprinting forward with an incredible lightness and somehow the cracks in the pavement never tripped her: She was a gazelle bounding through the forest. From behind, voices and horns blared; the hunt was in full cry. She dare not look back, if she did, the race would be lost. From the corner of her eye she saw a sidewalk opening to her right and careered into it, slowing to a jog. The pedestrian walkway connected to a road similar to the one she’d just sprinted along, only there were no houses on the other side: Her heart sank at the sight of solid iron railings and behind them, dark green leafy bushes bordering a vast park. Even as she tried to decide on her best route of escape she’d jogged along a quarter of the sidewalk. A shout went up behind her:
