The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  ‘Sal! Are you okay?’

  Her voice whispered back, and he knew she was talking from her hospital bed and trying not to wake anyone. ‘I'm fine, I just wanted to hear your voice and I thought this was the best time to catch you not working.’

  He relaxed back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, glad to hear her voice. ‘Good thinking, though I'm on call if anything kicks off.’

  ‘How's it going?’

  ‘Good … really good. Surprisingly good, actually. Final day of talks coming up and no-one's shot anyone yet.’

  ‘Oh, don't say that, Paul. It worries me to death. All those important people in the one place. It's a terrorist's dream.’

  He smiled through the darkness of his room. ‘Well that's what we're hoping to combat. If the bods can get everyone singing from the same hymn sheet, so to speak, there won't be any more terrorism.’

  ‘It's such a high improbable hope, though.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Paul. ‘We all know that, but at least everyone is trying.’

  She fell silent for a moment, and when she spoke there was a tremor in her voice. ‘Paul, I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too, Sal.’ He sucked in a deep breath. What he’d just said was a gross understatement. He ached to see her again, to hold her close, kiss her, make love to her. And then because there was no point in winding himself up, as it would be days yet before he could see her again, he asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

  She gave a sort of quiet laugh in return before answering. ‘I'm okay, apart from missing you and being bored out of my mind just lying in bed all day. I need to be back at work. I have bags to make! I just hope they discharge me soon.’

  ‘Don't rush things, Sal. Make sure you're out of the woods.’

  ‘I was hoping to be home for the Clarkes’ funeral …’

  Images of Mrs Clark waving as they slammed into the brick wall jumped back into his head. ‘Is that a good idea, Sal? Haven't you been through enough, recently?’

  ‘I feel I should. I knew them …’ She broke off in mid-sentence and fell silent for a moment. ‘Actually, Juliet said something today which was really bizarre.’

  ‘Well that doesn't surprise me, but go on, what did she say?’

  Sally hesitated again. ‘Don't take this the wrong way, Paul, but there's no denying it.’

  ‘What? Come on Sal, spill the beans, what’s she been saying now?’

  ‘Well, she just made the point that Mrs Scott, the doctor's wife, bought one of your carvings – the horse, and the Clarkes bought your clogs … and, well, they’re all dead.’

  ‘Sal, they’ve probably all bought a loaf of bread and a pound of pork sausages from the local butcher, too.' As he spoke a nagging worry he'd had for some time reared its head. Now hearing it from Sally and Juliet gave him the uncomfortable feeling that the notion wasn't as insane as he'd thought. There was no point in worrying Sally any more than she was already. 'It's a coincidence, nothing more. And don't let Juliet's babblings bother you. Now get some sleep. I'll see you soon.’

  ‘Yes, see you soon. Oh, and Paul … don’t let your guard down.’

  * * *

  The day's proceedings went smoothly. Rake had kept him up to scratch with all that had gone on, and it sounded promising with agreements made between different countries, reductions in arms between some of the more powerful nations and more co-operation between Governments to stop terrorist activities. There could be no denying, even from the most politically cynical of folk, that this had been a worthwhile event. Anything that brought peace to this world had to be good.

  Late afternoon on the Friday, Rake's secretary came and summoned Paul from the green room. ‘Would you like to come through? It's the farewell speeches now, and Daniel wants you ready to present the bust to President Howard.’

  He got to his feet. ‘Okay, only I haven't seen it since they took it away for scanning.’

  ‘It's sitting on a table outside the conference room.’ She smiled. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As I ever will be.’

  He followed her along the corridor. True enough, the bust was on a side table by the main doors. ‘Go in, Paul, and I'll hand you the bust once Daniel's announced it.’

  A twinge of nerves hit him. If the President hated it, he was in deep shit.

  He was familiar with the Conference Room. Over the last few weeks he'd grown accustomed to every nook and cranny, every escape exit, fire alarm, waste paper bin and fire extinguisher. The sight of it now as he slipped through the door, filled with fifty foreign diplomats, made him feel a sense of pride for a job well done.

  The Prime Minister was addressing the room, thanking them all, and congratulating them on the success of the conference. She glanced over at Paul. ‘Ah yes, ladies and gentlemen I am sure that had there been more time, our Head of Security - Paul Christian - would have carved a figurine of each and every one of you. And I admit I'm rather jealous that he didn't do one of me!’ Her words brought a ripple of laughter from the seated VIPs. ‘Paul, do please bring in the wonderful carving you've made. President Howard, this is hand-crafted in English oak and our gift to you.’

  The door behind him opened, and the bust was passed through to him. Slightly embarrassed, Paul held it in both hands, with the face looking towards the President and the delegates.

  The President’s face broke into a smile as Paul approached. ‘Mr Christian, I want to say a mighty big thank you. It’s a real neat piece of woodwork. I reckon you could take a few orders from our honoured visitors here and earn yourself a dollar or two.’

  Everyone laughed. Paul allowed himself a smile and a quiet, ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  The President reached out, shook Paul's hand and accepted the bust. He

  raised it above his head, turning the carving to show everyone.

  At that moment, Paul saw the carved face – the face that he had so delicately chiselled and honed.

  His insides dropped, as if someone had pulled the lavatory chain and every part of his innards were heading south. Alarm bells jangled in his skull and a sudden rush of bile surged up his throat. There was an expression on that chunk of wood that he hadn’t carved.

  He hadn’t put hate in those wooden eyes. He hadn’t created that demonic look – that expression of pure malicious evil. He’d done none of that, but there it was, for all the world to see.

  Before he could move, before he could grab the bust back, there was a tremendous ear-shattering noise. The sound of a hand clap only amplified a hundred times louder. His ears rang as splinters shot out across the room, embedding themselves into the shocked diplomats.

  With a cry, the President dropped the remnants of the bust.

  Realisation dawned. Paul's brain went into a spin. Petronella was in the bust. He saw that now. It was like before, with the ugly carving. She was in them all; the reclining naked figure, the clogs the Clarks bought before slamming their car into a brick wall; the horse the doctor’s wife had bought before falling downstairs and breaking her neck. Petronella Kytella had poisoned them all. What Sally had said last night was right. God, what had he created? Hosts for witchcraft - so she could travel, reach out, wreak havoc? Petronella Kytella was far from dead.

  Most of the VIPs had dived for cover, while security officers came racing in from all directions. What was left of the bust lay on the floor, sneering up at him.

  The evil was still there, inside it. He moved swiftly not knowing what it would do next. As he picked it up from the floor a shock jolted his body.

  Confusion swamped as a sensation of losing control washed over him. It was suddenly impossible to think straight. He struggled to keep hold of reality – his mind tumbling.

  But he saw a waste paper bin and dropped the bust into it. Then, holding the bin at arm’s length, he made for the exit looking as if he was holding a bomb in a bucket of sand. And of course, it was a bomb, a bomb powered by evil and hatred that had burst upon the world. And it was all his doing. She'd manipulated him. Worked him like
a puppet.

  He ran with it, down one corridor, along another. Every step was like wading in thick mud and with every step he felt he was losing the battle for control of his thoughts. Turning a corner, he saw through blurred eyes Daniel Rake and half a dozen security men staring at him. Their guns were drawn, and pointed in his direction.

  He fell to his knees. Blackness and oblivion enveloping him.

  24

  48 hours later. St Thomas’ Hospital, London.

  Splinters pierce their pathetic bodies, bringing confusion and bad judgement. I am content with my deceit. And now I lay quietly within his mind, watching, listening, giving him back some control – for now.

  * * *

  The mugginess in Paul's head was starting to clear, and with clarity arose reality. He now knew, without a doubt, that it was witchcraft that had caused all of the mayhem. He had never believed in it, but now he saw there could be no other explanation and he felt a sudden jolt of empathy for all the people who had been affected by witchcraft and never been believed. Now it was his turn. No one was going to believe what he had to tell them, that it was all Petronella's work – her and the carvings. She'd manipulated him. To what ends he didn't know.

  Through the carvings, even the fallen oak, she’d provided the utensils and given him the skills to make objects that she could somehow inhabit, and infect those who handled them, causing pure destruction.

  Had it stemmed from when he was a kid, and her cat had got burnt? Could her anger have lasted all these years?

  And she'd spoken about Helena. Had she been manipulative in that, too? His thoughts shot back to Helena crashing into the tanker. There had been a cat in that cabin. His head throbbed with anger and rage. Why hadn't he seen all this? Yet, how could he? And now who in their right mind was going to believe him?

  Looking around his ward, he saw Agent Fitzpatrick seated on a chair by the door, staring at him. ‘Sir,’ he murmured as their eyes met. And when the door opened a moment later, and Daniel Rake came in with two coffees, he glimpsed Agent Brooke standing guard outside.

  ‘You're looking a bit more with it, Paul,’ Daniel said, sitting down next to his bed. ‘Here, drink this.’

  Paul took the paper cup. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You've been rambling, Paul. Are you up to explaining what happened? We aren't accusing you of anything, and thankfully no one was seriously hurt.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘We've run tests on that bust,’ Rake continued. ‘It's nothing but a piece of oak, no explosive devices, no accelerants, no poison on those splinters. No rational explanation at all for what it did.’

  Paul looked steadily at Rake. ‘It was witchcraft.’

  Rake spluttered out a mouthful of coffee. ‘What!’ He glanced at Fitzpatrick who had raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I know you're not going to believe me. But it was her, that damn witch.’

  * * *

  ‘A witch?’ Rake repeated. ‘Paul, make some sense, will you?’

  Paul sat up in bed. There were dressings on his hands from where the splinters had punctured his skin. ‘I know you're going to struggle with this, but what I'm telling you is true. I guarantee there will be something major behind this, and it won't be good. This whole thing is witchcraft.’

  Fitzpatrick gave a chuckle of laughter.

  ‘I thought she was dead,’ Paul went on. ‘But she's not. She’s alive somehow, and still manipulating and killing.’

  ‘No one died, Paul.’

  ‘I'm not talking about the conference. I mean the care home, the couple in the car, the doctor’s wife, Sally, Juliet, the knitting needles. Don't you see, it’s all down to her.’

  Rake put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Okay, then who is this person? What’s her name? We'll check her out.’

  Paul stared at him. ‘You can't check her out, she's dead. That’s how devious she is. Her name was Petronella Kytella, and all her medical records will be at Oakwoods Residential Home – where she massacred everyone.’

  Rake looked steadily at him. ‘Paul, I don't know about this witch situation but if she’s been active as a terrorist, we need to know about her to see if anybody else is involved.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Paul, ‘but you're barking up the wrong tree. She’s got supernatural powers, Daniel. She’s a fucking witch!’

  ‘She's a murderer, Paul, nothing more.’ said Rake calmly, ‘She killed over 30 people at the care home, but she's not some sort of supernatural being that can do hocus pocus spells. That’s crap and doesn’t exist.’

  ‘That's what I thought, but believe me, Daniel, she can do all that kind of shit. God knows what she's capable of.’

  ‘But she's dead. You found her body, which is now on a slab in the mortuary.’

  ‘I know all that,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m telling you she was in that bust just before it exploded, or however you want to phrase it. I saw the evil, only it was too late to do anything about it.’

  ‘Paul, you're talking madness. She was a crazy old woman who knew she was dying and wanted to take a few dozen with her.’

  ‘If only it was that simple. This goes far back …’

  ‘Paul, look, I honestly think you're stressed. Maybe even – I don't like to suggest this – but maybe having some kind of breakdown.’

  ‘I'm not mad, Daniel.’ He spoke swiftly. ‘She said something about Helena, I think she orchestrated Helena's death. That tanker went out of control because the driver had a cat in the cab. Cat's go wild and attack their owners sometimes, I've seen it with Bluebell …’

  He stopped in mid-sentence. Icy cold prickles breaking out all over his skin. ‘Bluebell …’

  There had always been creatures around him; animals, birds. There was the mouse when Sally had behaved so out of character, and Bluebell, coming and going as she pleased. Had she brought Petronella’s spirit with her, infecting him, infecting Sally. The night she went crazy – was that all due to Petronella?

  ‘Paul, I'm talking to you.’

  He swung his legs out of bed. It wasn’t just wood carvings she transported her evil through, it was animals and birds. ‘I need to get out of here.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere for now,’ Rake said, pushing him back on the bed. ‘I'm going to ask the nurse to sedate you. And we'll see about more tests … see if anything weird is going on in that brain of yours. You’re having a scan tomorrow, full body; your head, your heart, your feet, every damn where. You’re my top man, Paul, I don’t like to see you like this. If there's anything in you, hallucinatory drugs, anything, we're going to sort it. And in the meantime Fitzpatrick will take over. You know he's a good man.’

  Paul struggled against Daniel Rake, desperate to be back on his feet. Sally could be in danger. He needed to warn her.

  Fitzpatrick came and stood next to Rake. ‘Take it easy, sir.’

  There was no convincing them, Paul saw that, and the last thing he wanted was to be sedated. He fell back against his pillow. ‘Okay, I'll stay put. No need for any sedation.’

  Rake patted his shoulder. ‘Okay, but we'll arrange those tests. And then, my friend, you can take some time off and recuperate.’

  ‘So, I'm not being arrested for terrorism with the exploding bust?’

  ‘No. Apart from a few punctures from splinters – well quite a few – there were no serious injuries. But no one escaped those flying bits of wood; not the PM, President Howard, everyone got hit, but basically they’ve all just suffered from very minor scratches. It’s nothing too disastrous. Naturally, we are hoping this doesn't cause a diplomatic incident and we've assured everyone that we're in the process of getting to the bottom of this. And we have to be showing we're giving you the third degree. You understand that?’

  Paul nodded. There was no point in arguing. But deep down he knew they were wrong. This would be disastrous and somehow he had to make them believe him.

  * * *

  A whole week in hospital, and having undergone every kind of test imaginable –
from psychological to a polygraph - nothing untoward was found, physically or mentally, within Paul. There was no reason for him to be held any longer. But returning to work was temporarily out of the question. Daniel Rake recommended home rest. And Paul couldn’t wait to get his and Sally’s life back on track.

  He'd managed only one phone call to her, which was observed by Fitzpatrick. He'd had his orders to keep everything very basic, and not to start talking in spiritual or demonic terms. He didn't argue. No point in frightening Sally.

  She was still in hospital – both her and Juliet. Sally burst into tears when he walked into their ward.

  ‘What happened, Paul?’ Sally cried, reaching out to him. ‘I've been trying to call you …’

  ‘It's okay, Sal,’ he lied, not wanting to talk about witchcraft. ‘Things have kicked off at work. There's things I need to do. I just wanted to see you first.’

  She clung onto him. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘Stop saying that, will you. I'm worried sick. I heard something on the news about an explosion at the Peace Conference. They mentioned a gift for the President being booby trapped. Paul, were they talking about the bust?’

  ‘First of all, there was no explosion, but there was something wrong with the wood I was using.’ He turned to Juliet. ‘Juliet, I need the keys to your shop, so I can get all the carvings back. I can’t explain any more than that. Just trust me, okay?’

  ‘I don't have my keys, Paul. I could ring Owen and get him to collect the carvings and bring them to the cottage.’

  ‘Tell him not to touch them, wear thick gloves.’ He hadn't any idea whether that would make any difference. Hell, he didn't even know if they were infected. But he couldn't risk it.

  He thanked Juliet and kissed Sally goodbye, desperate to reach Father Willoughby to make sure all was well with him. He’d given him the cross, and he just prayed that wasn’t cursed as well.