by Ann Evans
As he reached for his phone he checked the old lady in the next seat. Vomit had pooled in her lap along with her false teeth.
Sickened, he summoned the police, hardly able to believe he was saying ‘massacre’ and ‘care home’ in the same breath. Systematically, he checked for life, finding none. Even the staff, all brutally stabbed to death.
He looked for Petronella, going from bedroom to bedroom, axe in hand. There was no sign of her, but he did find the Irish nurse. She was slumped backwards in a chair by a bed, her throat crushed and all but ripped out.
Anger raged. He guessed where Petronella had gone. The place of so many of his childhood fears. He raced back to his car; he would explain his absence to the police later. Right now, she needed to be found before she killed anyone else.
With the tyres screaming, he tore around the country lanes, finally pulling up as close to the witch's cottage as he could. Axe in hand, he ran swiftly through the forest, the morning light glimmering through the trees.
As always, a crow was hunched up on the roof. But there was also something else visible. Someone lying on the path.
Even before reaching her, he knew it was Petronella. He stood over the prostrate body. She lay flat on her back, eyes staring blindly up to the sky. As dead as she had predicted.
Fearing for the woman inside, he hammered on the door until it was opened.
A sleepy-looking blonde frowned at him. ‘Hello?’
‘Did you know there's a body lying out here? You haven't called the police?’
‘A body …’ she peered outside and clutched her dressing gown tightly. ‘Oh, my goodness! We need to call an ambulance.’
‘It's a bit late for that. Call the police,’ said Paul. He looked steadily at her. ‘So, she didn't knock your door, or speak to you?’
‘No, I never knew she was there. I was in bed till you knocked. I wonder how long she's been there. I wonder who she is, anyway?’
‘Call the police and I'll explain it to you.’
‘Yes, of course. Come in, won't you.’
As she spoke on the phone, Paul gazed around the cottage – the place of his childhood nightmares. Now it held no fears. It was bright and modern, and perfectly renovated.
‘They’ll be here as quickly as they can.’ She smiled at him. ‘Can I make you a coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee, thank you. Black, no sugar.’
She went through to the tiny kitchen. ‘This probably isn't the best time to be holding a conversation, but we may as well introduce ourselves. I'm Diane Lewis.’
The name rang a bell. ‘Paul Christian.’
‘Yes, I remember you from when your friend accused me of sleeping with her man, but I've also seen you on the London train now and again. I don't think you've noticed me, though.’
That surprised him, as he'd thought he'd easily have spotted her in a crowd. ‘So, what do you do in London?’
She poked her head around the door. ‘I'm an interpreter. I'm involved in the Peace Conference …’
‘You're kidding!’ he said, recognising the name now from one of his lists. ‘That’s my line of work, too.’
Her green eyes widened. ‘My goodness, what a small world. What do you do?’
‘Oh, I'm just there to keep the wheels running smoothly.’
‘Ah,’ she said knowingly. ‘Something important, then.’
Paul smiled.
They'd barely taken a sip of coffee when the police arrived. The area was swiftly cordoned off, and Paul sat down with an officer to make a statement. Or rather tell them as much as they needed to know.
He'd no doubt that there'd be a few raised eyebrows if he started talking about witches and witchcraft. So he told them instead of how Petronella had turned up at his barn and talked about dying. He'd wanted to drive her back to the care home only she'd disappeared when he'd turned his back. So, he'd driven to the home, concerned about the old dear’s state of mind. He'd had no option but to break in.
Finding so many people dead – and no sign of Petronella – Paul explained why he hadn't waited around after calling the police. Obviously, she’d killed everyone before turning up at his barn. He explained that he’d needed to find her before she killed anyone else. The only other place he could think of where she might go was back to her former home. His assumptions had been correct.
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time he left the police station. He badly needed to see Sally – and he'd forgotten how hungry he was. He grabbed a quick sandwich from a local shop and drove to the hospital. The axe in the boot of Sally’s car.
She wasn't in the side room. Wasting no time, he checked with the duty nurse as to where Sally Knightly had been moved to.
‘We've put her in a six-bedder,’ said the nurse, pointing along the corridor. ‘A friend of hers had been admitted after an accident, so we put them together. Good company for each other!’
‘Juliet, of course!’ With everything happening he'd forgotten she was still in hospital.
Juliet was in the first bed. Her cheeks ruddy as if she'd been pumped full of fresh blood – which she had been. Four pints of it. Seeing him, a tear rolled down her cheek.
Sally was in the next bed, quite pale but sitting up. She nodded her head towards her friend, indicating he needed to speak to her first. He obliged, taking Juliet’s hands in his.
She clung to him. ‘I should have been dead. You stopped me from bleeding to death, you and Sally. I'll never be able to thank you both enough.’
‘Owen too. He did his bit, don't forget that, Juliet. And if you're ever in any doubt that he doesn't love you, you should have seen the state he was in, seeing you like that.’
‘Yes, I gather,’ she said, lowering her eyes.’
‘So, what happened?’ Paul asked, still able to picture her lying there like her voodoo doll. ‘I never thought knitting carried a health warning!’
‘I tripped.’
‘On what?’
‘I don't know, I'm just clumsy, I suppose.’
Paul glanced at Sally, willing her not say anything. ‘Juliet, this may sound an odd question, but you didn't happen to see a bird sitting on the windowsill or anything before your accident?’
She stared at him. ‘Now you mention it, I do remember something … I didn't see a bird, but I heard a flapping sound when I hit the floor. What made you ask me that?’
Paul and Sally exchanged glances.
‘What?’ Juliet puzzled.
‘Well,’ began Sally. ‘When I found you, I swear I saw a bird flying out of your window.’
‘What sort of bird?’
‘A crow.’
Juliet visibly swayed. ‘My God. The harbinger of death.’
Sally gasped. ‘Juliet, don't. That's the just myth and nonsense.’
She almost smiled. ‘It's not far wrong though, it is? I would have died if you hadn't found me.’
Paul thought about the crow still perched on the old cottage. Petronella had certainly brought death to the poor souls at the nursing home. He dreaded having to give Sal and Juliet more distressing news. The only good thing being that Petronella was dead and couldn't do any more harm.
He moved to Sally's bedside, and kissed her. Looking at Juliet he asked, ‘So what is it with crows, then?’
Juliet sighed. ‘They've always been linked with bad situations, deaths and such. They even say witches could take over the creature's body to escape nasty situations.’
Paul wished he'd never asked. The possibility of Petronella's black soul having gone into a bird was an uncomfortable thought. And were the birds the only option?
‘Paul …’ Sally touched his hand. ‘What are you thinking?’
He sat on the edge of her bed. ‘I have to tell you something. I only wish I didn't have to. It's about Petronella – she's dead, by the way.’
‘Oh no!’
‘And she didn't go alone. Sal, I was right in thinking she was dangerous.’
Both women sat open mo
uthed as he related what had gone on. And then they wept, both knowing some of the nurses and old folk who had been slaughtered at Petronella's hand.
It was hard saying goodbye to Sally and leaving her behind in hospital, although he knew it was the best place for her right now. He learned that results of her scan hadn’t shown up anything untoward and she hadn’t had any other peculiar turns, but still he was glad she was being kept under observation for a few more days at least. She was still tearful when the time came for him to go. ‘I wish you didn't have to leave.’
‘You just get yourself better.’
‘I'll be saying my prayers for you. Take care, won’t you? Watch out for bombs and booby-trapped cars.’
‘Sal, the amount of security we’ve laid on is unbelievable. A sewer rat won’t be able to twitch its whiskers without us knowing about it.’
She clung to him, reluctant to let him go. ‘I just hate the thought of all those top people all in one place, it’s just asking for some lunatic to cause trouble.’
He kissed her. The politics of his job never worried him unduly. And Petronella was the only lunatic he knew, and she was dead. Things were looking brighter.
* * *
Back home, he packed for his stay in London. After all that had gone on, he was quite amazed that he’d remembered the bust. It seemed so paltry compared to everything that had happened. Nevertheless, he fetched it from the barn, returning the axe to its place at the same time. He tried not to shudder as he glanced at the place he’d found Petronella Kytella waiting for him.
After locking the place securely, he put down food and water for Bluebell and dug out an old hat box that he'd spotted on top of Sal's wardrobe. The bust fitted perfectly. It would bring a bit of humour to the conference, if nothing else.
He took the train to London on the Sunday evening, finding himself keeping an eye out for Diane Lewis. Clearly, she hadn't taken the same train as him.
Three hours later he was in his hotel room. And by seven the next morning he was walking along by the Thames towards work. It wasn't the quickest route, but he enjoyed the walk. This morning proved a bit more awkward carrying a briefcase and a hat box.
Crossing the Lambeth Bridge, Thames House loomed ahead, a huge, imposing, grey stone building with an obviously noticeable police presence around it today. In fact, there were armed police on every corner, which was good, and how it was meant to be. The Peace Conference had meant everyone was on high alert in every branch of security.
Once inside the building he passed through security as usual. He’d wondered if he’d be questioned about what was in the hat box. But his position here meant that no one stopped and questioned him. His pass allowed him through, and the bust didn’t set off any alarms. But then why should it? It was just a lump of wood. It wasn't radioactive and didn’t contain anything dangerous.
After taking the lift he passed the Chief’s office, turned the corner and entered his own office. He was first in, and as his colleagues turned up for work they all wanted to know how Sally was. He’d had no option but to let Daniel Rake know of her accident, although he kept the details to a minimum. He’d informed him about the massacre at the care home and finding the body of Petronella Kytella who was presumed to have murdered everyone. The reason for her death was yet to be confirmed.
Paul soon realised that his colleagues were useless at keeping secrets, unless they were State secrets, as one by one, like Chinese whispers, everyone he knew popped by to ask how Sally was.
‘I thought we were in the security business,’ Paul remarked jovially after he’d assured the latest caller that Sally was well on the mend. ‘Talk about hearing it on the grapevine!’
Agents Fitzpatrick and Brooke were still with Daniel Rake in his office, drinking coffee, when Paul lifted out the bubble wrapped bust and placed it on his desk. He sat back, arms folded, awaiting their reaction.
Rake picked it up, turning it in hands. ‘I am seriously impressed, Paul. I think the president is going to love this. I told you we’d got the okay for it, didn’t I? So long as the Yanks are happy. They'll probably want to have a look at it.’
‘Let’s hope there aren’t any objections,’ said Paul with a wry smile. ‘Sally says she’s not having a bust of President Howard on her mantlepiece!’
There was knock at the door, and a certain green-eyed blonde poked her head around.
‘Diane … what a surprise. Come on in.’
He introduced her to Daniel, noticing how all the guys’ eyes lit up. ‘This is Diane Lewis, who as well as being an interpreter here, is also my neighbour … well, pretty much.’
The way they almost fell over each other to shake her hand made Paul smile to himself.
Her eyes fell on the bust. ‘Wow. That is a good likeness. Someone’s a fan of the President.’
‘This is Paul's creation,’ said Rake. ‘Very soon to be presented to the big man himself, and probably in front of all the other delegates at the end of the Conference. Sorry Paul, I haven't had chance to tell you that, yet.’
‘No pressure, then!’
Diane moved towards the bust. ‘May I?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Paul.
She ran her hand down the President's cheek in almost a sensual caress. ‘It's beautifully carved, so smooth … Oh!’
Paul immediately thought she’d got a splinter, but it seemed more than that. Her legs seemed to buckle slightly, making her grip the edge of the desk.
Paul was first to catch hold of her, while Fitzpatrick grabbed a chair for her to sit back into. ‘Are you okay?’
She rested her head in her hands for a moment. ‘Sorry, I just went a bit woozy. That'll teach me to skip breakfast.’
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ asked Paul.
She glanced up at him and smiled vaguely. ‘No, I'm fine now. I'd better get on. I just wanted to pop by and say hello.’
‘I'm glad you did,’ said Paul. And as she left, he saw how Rake raised one eyebrow.
‘What?’ Paul mused. ‘She's just a neighbour.’
23
The day before the Peace Conference began, a blanket of fog swirled over the Thames, making Paul think of the pea-soupers from the last century. It was unusually cold too, more like December than November and that made him think of Christmas. His first Christmas with Sally was going to be perfect. He’d make sure of it.
Now at 9.30am he and Daniel Rake were shadowing the US President’s car as it journeyed through London's streets after landing at the airport a short while earlier. He watched the bulletproof limousine cruise along ahead of them, unhindered and mainly unobserved, although the media were out in full.
Paul had been among the welcoming party for the American VIPs at the airport, and seeing the President in the flesh made him realise just how precise his wood carving really was.
Arrivals went on throughout the day with dignitaries, Heads of State, presidents and prime ministers – and some whom until today, Paul would have labelled as terrorists, all making their way into the capital in readiness for the biggest Peace Conference the world had ever seen.
Everyone was on high alert, Paul knew their own armed officers were on every street and staked out at every vantage point. Tension was so acute you could practically taste it. The whole atmosphere was brittle.
For sure, Paul would be glad when the whole thing was over and World War Three hadn't been triggered by some random remark or terrorist act.
Everyone from the Chief of Defence down had been hoping their foreign guests would simply stay put in their hotels until the start of the conference tomorrow, but some of them wanted to see the sights of London, and created havoc as they changed their schedules and went to the London Eye, Tower Bridge, Big Ben and Soho.
‘Happy holidays!’ Paul groaned to Daniel Rake, as they quelled a small riot when one Middle Eastern diplomat tried to queue jump at the London Eye.
‘Well, would you want to come all this way and not see the London Eye?’ Daniel Rake rem
arked with a wry smile.
It was the first light hearted moment of the day, and Paul found himself feeling vaguely optimistic that this Conference was actually going to go off without any trouble.
* * *
7 November 2018
Security was immense for the conference, and the procedures they’d put in motion went without a hitch. Foreign dignitaries were brought along to the dedicated conference centre smoothly and without fuss. When every single one of them had taken their seats in the plush semi-circular room and the talks got underway, minders and the personal security staff of the VIPs could stand down. One by one they descended into the conference centre's green lounge, set aside especially for them.
For Paul this proved to be the best moment of the day. If any of the visitors were feeling any distrust, it didn’t show, and there was plenty of light-hearted banter going on, even though the language was a barrier in some cases. He half hoped that Diane Lewis would pop by and help with some interpreting. She was obviously being utilised elsewhere.
Over lunch he chatted to one of the American President's agents, a guy named Carter who he'd spoken to over the phone on a number of occasions.
‘I hear you've made President Howard a bust,’ the burly 22-stone guy said. ‘He's looking forward to receiving it. And don't be surprised if he calls you personally. He's an amiable guy, he'll probably want to shake your hand.’
‘I just hope he likes it,’ said Paul, a twinge of doubt over his craftsmanship setting in.
‘Sure he will,’ said Carter. ‘Now can I get another cup of English tea? It’s damn good!’
* * *
Day two went perfectly, then at 4am on the Friday morning – the final day of the Conference – Paul’s mobile rang. Through bleary eyes he saw Sally's face light up on the little screen.
