The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  But the main thing, for him at least, was for the conference to go without a hitch, without any major disasters happening. So long as no one started threatening another country or putting sanctions on them for whatever reason, he’d be a happy chappy.

  Although he hadn’t felt particularly happy recently. Since the car crash, Juliet sticking knitting needles through herself and his over active imagination making him question his own rigid beliefs at times, there didn’t seem a lot to be cheerful about.

  Juliet was recovering, but it had been touch and go for a few days. She'd punctured her spleen and the medics had only just got the splenectomy performed in time. She'd be on drugs for the rest of her life, that was for sure – but at least she was alive.

  The sight of her lying there like a life-sized voodoo doll still bugged him, and he couldn’t stop thinking that her accident was kind of self-inflicted, like a spell gone wrong. As if it was a lesson not to mess with black magic. And what the hell was a crow doing in her flat?

  Paul’s plans were to go home to Sally tomorrow afternoon, spend a few days with her and then get back to London for the main event. He guessed he’d be back in London when the car crash couple’s funeral took place. Sally would go – he guessed she would, anyway.

  He was on the final lap of the train journey home when Sally called his mobile. Her picture lit up the screen. He was smiling to himself as he answered it. ‘Hello gorgeous, I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Sally said, and he could hear the excitement in her voice.

  ‘I’m not too keen on surprises, sweetheart.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just wanted us to have a little fun tonight when you get home.’

  That would definitely be a good thing. ‘Sounds good. So, what’s the surprise?’

  ‘Well if I told you …’

  ‘I know, it wouldn’t be a surprise,’ he finished for her and she giggled. He loved the way she giggled. It had been a while since he’d heard that carefree tone in her voice. ‘Well I should be home in about thirty minutes.’ He had a thought then and it wasn’t a good thought. ‘Sal, there’s no one there, is there? It’s just you and me, right?’

  ‘Yes, just the two of us.’

  He breathed again. For a horrible moment he wondered if, in her good-natured way, she had invited Petronella Kytella for dinner. God, the thought of walking in and finding her sitting there with those cold watery eyes fixed on him sent a chill through his bones.

  ‘Can’t wait to see you,’ he said, feeling a little rush of excitement through his loins. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too. See you soon, I’ve got to get on, things to do.’

  He hung up, smiling to himself, liking the fact that she’d thought up some little surprise to brighten the evening. God, it needed brightening – five o’clock and pitch black, or it would be if you could see through the fog. He’d have to get a taxi from the station. There was no way he could find his way home through the forest in this weather.

  Because of the fog the taxi took twice as long to reach home. The driver had taken his time and because of this Paul tipped him generously. ‘You take care!’ he told the driver.

  The smells of cooking hit him the moment he walked in. The lights were off although a glimmer of orange candle-light flickered from the direction of the lounge. For a moment he was reminded of the time Sal had lain naked on the bed and he’d taken her thinking of the green-eyed blonde, or rather she’d taken him.

  * * *

  Dozens of orange candles flickered from every niche of the sitting room when he entered. A wood fire crackled and spat in the grate. Instantly his thoughts flew to Helena and her screaming face through the flames. On the table sat a carved pumpkin with a candle burning inside its hollow head, flames flickering through its eye sockets and gaping macabre mouth. There was a bowl with apples floating in water, and a cake with a witch on a broomstick iced in black. And Sally was dressed in a short sexy witch costume with a pointed orange hat and a green wig. She’d painted stars on her smiling face.

  But her smile slid away as she looked at him and saw his expression, even though he tried his best not to show it.

  ‘Why?’ was all he could muster.

  She looked helpless, tried to smile. ‘Because it’s Halloween. I’ve made us a cake and sausages and some whisky punch, it’s really potent …’

  He looked incredulously at her. ‘Sal, we do have some witch issues going on at the moment – Juliet … Petronella! Have you forgotten?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ she snapped. ‘I thought this would cheer us both up.’

  ‘Sal, your best friend is lying in hospital after concocting a dark ritual that backfired.’

  ‘She had an accident. She fell on her blasted knitting needles,’ Sally retorted stiffly. ‘And because of that it's stopped us having a bit of harmless fun?’

  ‘Sal, Halloween is another typical American trend. Don't they realise they're celebrating something that is evil?’

  She gasped. ‘That's a bit over the top, isn't it?’

  ‘It’s not over the top at all,’ argued Paul. ‘Juliet admits to being a white witch. She attempted witchcraft and ended up almost killing herself. How do you know that every time you celebrate this kind of thing you're not doing the dark side a favour?’

  She gasped. ‘Now you're being completely ridiculous.’

  ‘Look, Sal, I'm sorry, and I appreciate your efforts. I just don't like Halloween.’

  ‘Fine!’ she snapped, throwing her hat and wig onto the floor and stomping around the room, blowing out all the candles and switching on the light. She picked the pumpkin up and for a second looked like she would like to smash it over his head. Instead, she marched into the kitchen with it and tried to force it into the bin.

  ‘Don’t throw it out, Sal. You could make soup or a pie rather than waste it.’

  She stormed back into the lounge, glaring at him. ‘No, I couldn’t!’

  ‘Sally …’ he tried to hold her, but she pushed past him in a huff. ‘I’m sorry. I’m over-reacting …’

  Her face crumpled but she’d dashed upstairs before her tears had time to fall. She was a long while coming back down. Paul loosened his tie, scooped up a glass of whisky punch and flopped onto the sofa. Staring into the fire he prepared himself to see Helena’s face. It appeared within seconds.

  Eventually, the logs burned down, and shapes dissipated. Sally came downstairs in jeans and a fluffy sweater. He thought she looked so cute even though her eyes were puffy and red.

  Her voice was curt. ‘You haven’t got a thing against sausage batches have you?’

  ‘Course not. I’m starving, actually,’ and he raised the empty glass. ‘Punch has definitely got a kick to it.’ He got up, refilled his glass and poured her one. He took it through to the kitchen where she was slicing bread rolls with a vengeance. Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. ‘You smell nice.’

  She relaxed against him a little. ‘Maybe if you talked to me more I’d understand what’s going on in your head. You keep so much locked inside of you, Paul. How can I be sure I won’t get it wrong again? For all I know you might have an aversion to Christmas or New Year … or the Easter bunny.’

  He moved her hair, so he could press his lips to her throat. ‘I love Christmas and get drunk every New Year. Bunnies are cute but not as cute as you even when you’re mad as hell.’

  She turned in his arms to look at him. Her gaze seemed to spear right through to his soul. ‘Christmas? Do you really love Christmas? I’m okay to put a tree up and decorations?’

  His eyes closed for a moment. ‘I hope we do that, Sal. But if I’m honest, truly honest, I’ve hated Christmas ever since Helena died, and New Year and Easter and Bank Holidays and Sundays – and every damn day of the week, until you came along. I'm hoping that I'll love this Christmas and New Year, so long as you’re with me. But Halloween is a different ma
tter entirely. There's something not right about this situation, and as for that old woman … I need to find out exactly what makes her tick. A mortal soul, or a witch?’

  Sally looked steadily at him. ‘Paul, if you feel that she is connected with all these horrible things going on, then maybe you should tackle it on a more official basis. Because, if you are right, then she's killing people.’

  ‘That's exactly what I'm going to do.’

  She smiled and kissed his lips. ‘Good. Now that we've got that sorted, can we eat?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  * * *

  They made love on the sofa in front of the fire. Her skin had shimmered under the flicker of firelight and her eyes had shone with love for him.

  Sally went up to bed before he did. He sat finishing off the punch, watching a film on TV, relaxed and content. He was just thinking about joining Sally when the phone rang. He knew at once it wouldn’t be anything good. Only bearers of bad news rang at five minutes past midnight. He considered ignoring it, he didn’t want this particular bubble to burst, but it rang on, demanding to be answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  He immediately recognised the Irish accent. For a moment his hopes rose. Let the old crone be dead, please let her be dead. It somehow seemed fitting that she'd drop dead on Halloween.

  The care home nurse sounded anxious and he knew at once that Petronella Kytella wasn’t dead, otherwise she’d have sounded sombre. This voice was raised, frantic almost.

  ‘We didn’t know who else to ring, apart from the police of course, you being her only visitor.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We assumed she was in bed. But when the night nurse looked in, her bed was empty. She’s nowhere to be found. We've no idea how she’s got out, there’s combination locks on all the doors.’

  The name hadn’t been mentioned, but there was no need. There was no doubt who she was talking about. ‘I presume you’ve checked all the other rooms. She might have wandered into someone else’s bedroom, or a bathroom.’

  ‘We’ve checked everywhere. The police are here now with their tracker dog. It’s so cold out tonight, she’ll get hypothermia. She’s not with you, is she? I know that’s ridiculous, you wouldn’t have just taken her … only you’re our last resort.’

  ‘No, we’d hardly have done that,’ he answered, the very idea being preposterous. At the same time, he glanced through to the kitchen, trying to see if the bolt was drawn across the door. Although it was just as ridiculous to imagine she could have found her way here. Besides, why would she? To his dismay, the bolt wasn’t drawn across.

  His insides tightened. Had the door been unlocked all evening, while he was watching television, while Sal was asleep upstairs?

  Cursing under his breath for letting his guard down, and striding towards the door to bolt it, he said, ‘I’ll keep an eye out for her, thank you for telling me.’ Then as an afterthought added, ‘Let me know if she turns up.’

  He hung up before the nurse could say anything else and checked the lock. The key was turned, and even though he was glad about that, he still dashed upstairs to check on Sally.

  There was little moonlight as the fog shrouded everything, allowing only a pale misty gleam through the window, bathing their bedroom in a strange half-light. He could make out the shape of Sally in bed, her body rising and falling slightly with each breath. Something made him step closer, he needed to check on her, make sure … make sure it was her.

  Her fair cheek was against the pillow and a strand of hair coiled around her chin. He breathed normally again, feeling ridiculous for thinking that the old woman could have slipped in and somehow changed places with Sal.

  A slight sound downstairs made him start. It was just the cat flap falling into place. Just Bluebell coming home. He was glad of that, she didn’t want to be out on a night like tonight, especially with it being foggy and Halloween and Petronella wandering the neighbourhood.

  Lying in bed, thinking rationally, he told himself that the old woman couldn’t have gone far. They’d find her okay, probably in the grounds of the nursing home. Nevertheless, he couldn’t sleep and eventually went back downstairs to double check the doors and windows. Bluebell ran, meowing towards him, wrapping her cold body around his ankles, tail straight as a poker, back arched, purring.

  He thought about stroking her, it was unusual for her to make a fuss of him, but remembering how she’d lashed out at Sal, he decided against it. Though he did whisper kindly to her. ‘Glad to be in the warm, puss? I bet you are. You didn’t happen to see a crazy old woman out there, did you?’

  She purred deeper and coiled herself between his legs. Paul made sure she had food in her dish and went back to bed. She obviously wasn't hungry as she followed him up to the bedroom.

  Sally murmured in her sleep as he slid under the covers, she felt soft and warm and turning onto his side he wrapped his arm around her, moulding his body into hers.

  The yew tree’s branches scratched against the window pane, telling him something – Sal would know, she’d be able to decipher what it was saying.

  His thoughts drifted to Juliet, wondering if she was out of hospital yet. He’d ring Owen tomorrow. He’d ring the old folk’s home too, see if she was back. He hoped she was … or that she was dead. He knew which he’d prefer but it was hardly a Christian thought. Was he Christian? He'd got the right name, which was a start. He wasn’t against Christ and religion, truth was he hadn’t really thought about it, but he wasn’t for the darker side, that was for sure. Maybe being a Christian would be a good thing. Maybe he should ask Sal what he needed to do to become one. Believe, he guessed. Did he believe?

  People, words and random thoughts drifted through his mind as consciousness battled against the onset of sleep. An image of the diminutive Father Willoughby passed through his head. The poor man would be doing a double funeral soon. Paul thought of the little wooden cross he’d carved, and as sleep finally got the better of him he wondered vaguely if it was protecting the priest from evil. Keeping him safe. He sure hoped it was.

  * * *

  He awoke to the feeling of hands on his groin. He didn’t open his eyes but lay there, loving the sensation of being roused from sleep in such a wonderful manner. Her fingers gripped him tightly, squeezing and stroking and he groaned, loving this awakening so much. She was kneeling between his legs, playing with him now with both hands and, opening his eyes a little, he saw her shadowy form silhouetted against the grey light of the window. Her hair hung in untidy waves around her face. Slowly, she raised her face to his and their eyes met. A rush filled him. Not an excited rush. A rush of fear.

  The eyes he was staring into didn’t belong to his lover. They were cold eyes, filled with hatred.

  His heart froze, and he sat bolt upright. There was a smell in his nostrils – burnt hair.

  * * *

  ‘Christ!’

  He grabbed her hands. Shook her, shook himself. Tried to shake off this insanity. ‘Sally?’

  With a force he hadn't expected, she threw his hands off her, shrieking at the top of her voice and then lunged at him with fists and nails.

  With a knee jerk reaction, he brought up his foot, kicking her in the chest and clean off the end of the bed.

  The sudden silence rang in his ears. Sheer horror at what he'd done enveloped him. Heart thudding, he flicked on the bedside light to see where she had fallen. There was no sound, he must have hurt her, knocked her out even. He crawled to the end of the bed. ‘Sally, are you okay, I’m sorry … Sal, where are you …’

  With a screech, she was on his back, nails like talons tearing at his throat. The smell of burnt hair was becoming overpowering. Instinctively, he flung her over his head, slamming her into the chest of drawers, sending ornaments crashing.

  Sally lay in a crumpled heap.

  ‘My God, Sal …’

  Her head twisted to look at him with eyes that still didn’t belong to this face. Then, with sickening noise
s of bone and sinew, her body contorted, shoulders bunched around her neck.

  Raising herself onto all fours she scuttled hideously towards the door like a four-legged spider, moving with such speed. She was at the top of the stairs before he could reach her.

  She didn't stop, but tumbled head over heels down the staircase. Her head finally smashing onto the stone floor with a dull thud. She lay motionless except for one distorted leg twitching.

  ‘Sal! Oh my God, Sal!’

  Dashing downstairs, he saw Bluebell by the side of her, rubbing up against Sally’s face. He could hear her purring.

  ‘Bluebell! Get away from her!’

  With a glance, the cat flashed him a disdainful look and shot out through the cat flap. Kneeling by Sally's crumpled body he felt for a pulse in her throat, it was weak but there.

  As stillness and silence surrounded him, he realised something else – the smell of burnt hair had gone. But now the most terrible feelings of loss swept agonising over him. Feelings he knew so well from before.

  For a second it was too much to bear, the pain of losing her, losing Helena. They merged, combined into one heart-stopping agonising wail of misery. And then she groaned, stirring him into action. He ran for his phone, stabbing three nines into the keypad and gabbling out that he needed an ambulance, aware it was the third time in a week he’d needed emergency services.

  * * *

  Sally was starting to come around. Still talking into the phone, Paul watched her, looking for any signs of her craziness. What the hell possessed her?

  A chill ran through his veins.

  * * *

  Paramedics felt for spinal injuries, attached a neck brace and administered pain killers. Eventually they manoeuvred Sally onto a stretcher and wheeled her out to the ambulance.