A Very British Witch Boxed Set

by Isobella Crowley

  A dangerous feeling.

  It wasn’t that he was afraid of her. Why would he be? And yet, there was something in her eyes that told him that she was capable of hurting him in a way no other woman could.

  He didn’t know what that meant exactly. Maybe he would mention that to his therapist when they eventually spoke next week. Maybe he would keep it to himself. No point in going back over old ground with her.

  His first instinct had been to flee, to run from her, and so he had kept on walking, leaving her there but somehow taking a piece of her with him. He idly wondered what Dr. Linda would say about that.

  Who cares? She was still with him now. In his phone, in his thoughts, in his…

  Heart?

  That seemed unlikely.

  He shook his head at himself, hoping to shake loose the embarrassing thought.

  He had never loved a woman before, not really. He knew that about himself. He had come to accept it. He liked women well enough. He liked them and he used them. It came so easily to him and most women seem to enjoy being used by him. But there was a wide chasm between how they enjoyed him and how he enjoyed them. He didn’t really understand what women saw in him. But he recognized it, and used it to his advantage to get what he wanted.

  Blood.

  No, he reminded himself. Not anymore.

  Those were the old days.

  Things were better now. More civilized. There was no need to hunt for blood. There was still a need for blood, of course, and also the need to hunt. But those two things need not be the same. He could separate them out. He was a better person now.

  Cliff drank the dregs from the blood packet, then tossed it into the trash and went outside to play his bloodless sport.

  +++

  Ronnie Jones’s Residence, Bicester, England

  Scarlett parked down the street from Ronnie’s house.

  Ronnie’s was a detached house with a three-car driveway and a garden out back. It was close enough to walk to from Scarlett’s house, and she had taken that stroll before, but this time she had brought with her the custard tart that Aunt Tabitha baked. She didn’t want to carry it upright all that way.

  Scarlett stepped out of her car and picked up the pie from the front seat. Her aunt had put it in a resealable plastic container.

  I’ll have to remember to bring that back with me.

  She was dressed comfortably in jeans and a tee shirt and normal walking shoes. That was more than acceptable out here. In Oxford, it would have been a different thing. She might have forced herself to wear cute heels or something. And probably a more fitted top. It didn’t matter so much this far from the main town though. Most Bicester residents lived in walking gear and Gore Tex jackets.

  She followed the sidewalk, listening to the noise coming from Ronnie’s backyard and trying to catch bits of conversation.

  Mostly, she wanted to know who had already arrived.

  Ronnie Jones lived on the other side of the marketplace square. He was a successful real estate agent, and had managed to land himself the best new house in the neighborhood. Ronnie talked of his home as a business investment.

  “In a small town like Bicester,” Ronnie often said, “everyone knows everyone. And when people say it’s hard to ‘keep up with the Joneses', well, I’m the Jones they’re talking about!”

  That occasionally got a laugh.

  Scarlett reached the front gate. Amanda saw her right away and came to help her in. “You made it!”

  “Of course, I made it,” Scarlett tutted playfully, stepping into the house.

  “You walked?”

  “No, I drove.” Scarlett wondered if the question was a comment on her attire.

  Scarlett let Amanda lead the way to the kitchen. There were more than a dozen guests here already. “Who are all these people?” Scarlett asked in amazement.

  “Friends of Ronnie’s,” Amanda explained. She turned and raise an eyebrow conspiratorially. “Which could mean anything.”

  “It’s like a pop-up. Or a flash mob!”

  Amanda laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  They made it to the kitchen, which was especially crowded, mostly by the women-folk – wives and girlfriends of Ronnie’s business chums. Amanda took the container from Scarlett and nudged it into a narrow space in the fridge for safe keeping.

  “Actually,” Amanda continued, “Ronnie does like to mix business with pleasure. These are mostly out-of-towners. Not tourists, but people looking to settle. If he doesn’t make three deals by nightfall, I’ll be shocked,” she explained quietly so as not to be overheard by the guests.

  The patio doors of the living room were open, as was the back door from the kitchen.

  They headed out together to the patio, where Amanda grabbed Scarlett a beer from a cooler. She grabbed two more, one for herself and one for Ronnie.

  “Look,” Amanda said, pointing to the grill. Ronnie was tending it, with a large and growing crowd around him. “He’s already holding court.”

  They excused themselves through the crowd, threading their way toward the center of attention, with Amanda the blocker and Scarlett drafting in her wake.

  As they got close, Scarlett could hear what Ronnie was saying.

  “So get this,” he said. “The location manager calls me the next day, and he tells me it’s your house or nothing. Says they scouted everything within fifty miles. But they had to shoot the movie here. He wouldn’t tell me what the film was, but I looked the guy up on the Internet, and it turns out he mostly works on Bond films. And I don’t mean on bonded films. We’re talking Bond, James Bond.”

  There were audible gasps running through the crowd. Ronnie’s guests seemed awestruck at the prospect of a James Bond film shooting at this very house.

  Scarlett knew better. She could tell when Ronnie was bullshitting. He was very good at it, one of the best. Entertaining and convincing. But when he started stringing together his rhetorical whoppers, they took on a certain rhythm, that well-rehearsed patter of a mountebank.

  A man in the crowd asked, “So Ronnie, what did you tell the guy?”

  “I told him, get lost, buddy. No deal. I don’t care how much money you want to throw at me. You can’t shoot at my house on Sunday. I’m hosting a barbecue.”

  A few people chuckled at the punchline, but most seemed to take his story at face value. Either way, it worked for Ronnie.

  Amanda handed him his beer.

  Ronnie gave her a peck. “Thanks, darlin’.” Then he said to the crowd, “Everyone, listen up! I want you all to meet my girlfriend, the most gorgeous and patient and wonderful woman on the planet. Amanda!”

  She raised her beer to the crowd, and they muttered back their greetings.

  Ronnie continued, “Oh yes, and this beautiful lady right here is Amanda’s best friend, and therefore mine as well–Scarlett!”

  All eyes turned to her, and Scarlett felt herself blushing.

  Scarlett, you’re turning scarlet, she thought, not for the first time.

  She lifted her glass to them and hoped that would be the end of it, but Ronnie went on.

  “And I want you all to know,” he said, “that this beautiful creature just happens to be single!”

  That earned laughter from the women, and cheers from the men.

  Scarlett felt completely mortified, and buried her face in her hands, nearly dropping her beer.

  “But not for long!” Ronnie concluded.

  More cheers.

  Oh God, thought Scarlett. Kill me now.

  Amanda saved her. She grabbed Scarlett’s hand and led her out of the crowd.

  When they were a safe distance away, and alone near the shed, Amanda apologized. “I am so sorry! I had no idea he was going to do that to you. I know he didn’t mean to embarrass you. Nothing embarrasses him, he can’t even imagine it. He was just trying to play matchmaker. He wants you to be happy. We both do. Sometimes Ronnie takes things just a bit too far.”

  “You think?�
�

  Scarlett felt the heat in her cheeks subside. She no longer felt besieged by embarrassment. She pulled hard on her beer. That helped.

  But then something caught her eye. She saw a wheelbarrow leaning against the shed. She recognized it, or thought she did.

  She frowned, confused for a moment. “I’ve got that same barrow,” she said.

  Looking closer, Scarlett saw that this barrow had the exact same rust pattern as her own. “Maybe it is my wheelbarrow?”

  Amanda didn’t seem to hear her. “He’s coming over now.”

  “What?” Scarlett turned and saw Ronnie making his way over. “What does he want now?”

  “If the training took, he wants to apologize.”

  And sure enough, before Ronnie even reached them, he said, “Oh Scarlett! I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I get caught up in the moment sometimes. It was a monumentally stupid thing for me to say.” Ronnie being Ronnie, he got down on one knee and clasped her hand in his, then looked up at her with puppy dog eyes. “Please, Scarlett, do forgive me.”

  It was too much. He seemed to be mocking her now and it ruined the intended effect. But she was used to dealing with Ronnie, so she played along. “You may kiss my hand,” she said, tipping her chin mock-proudly into the air.

  He did.

  “Now rise, good sir. Go forth and sin no more.”

  “Thank you, milady.” He stood and kissed her hand once more before releasing it.

  Scarlett saw a look passed between Amanda and Ronnie. Amanda’s eyes were warning him: we’ll talk about this later.

  Ronnie turned to go back to the grill.

  “Wait,” Scarlett said.

  Ronnie turned back. “What?”

  “That wheelbarrow.”

  He glanced over at the barrow, and for the first time, Ronnie looked flustered. “What about it?”

  Scarlett said, “It’s mine, isn’t it? What is it doing here?”

  Ronnie looked to Amanda, who offered him no help.

  Then he said, as casually as he could make it, but clearly covering something, “No, it’s mine. I normally keep it in the truck, but had to take it out to be able to get the for-sale signs in. Had a few to pick up this morning.”

  Another lie.

  Dance music started up on the patio and somebody called out Ronnie’s name.

  He gave her a serious look. “Are we good? ”

  Scarlett decided to let it go. It wasn’t worth it. This was Ronnie’s party, so she didn’t want to press the issue. And she could be wrong. Feeling flustered herself she nodded sharply.

  Besides, this wasn’t just about Scarlett and Ronnie. Amanda loved him, so Scarlett had to make some allowances. Truth be told, she could see that Ronnie was good for Amanda, and Scarlett was willing to put up with a lot to make her best friend happy.

  She raised her glass in honor of the host. “Ronnie, no one throws a bash like you. I’m incredibly impressed.”

  Someone was calling Ronnie’s name again, but before he left them to deal with other guests, he said to Scarlett, “Put my name on your dance card, will you?”

  “You’re damn right I will,” Scarlett said, “and I’m going to hold you to it.”

  Ronnie smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

  Amanda appeared visibly relieved. The tension had died down. She grabbed Scarlett’s hand and pulled her toward the patio, which was now a dance floor. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”

  Chapter Five

  Two miles outside of Bicester Town Center, England

  Robert Johnson arrived at the old field just before sunrise and parked his truck in the drive. His dog Max was in the seat of the cab beside him. Max was a black lab, nine years old but still full of energy.

  “Monday morning bright and early,” Robert said, rubbing Max behind the ears. “Time to make something of the place, eh? What do you say?”

  Max whimpered his approval. He seemed to be game for whatever Robert had in mind.

  What he had in mind was restoring the family farm. He had inherited this field from his mother when she passed away three years ago, but the shock of her death had sent him too deep into depression to do anything with it, so the field lay fallow for a few seasons.

  It was a long climb out of that dark mood, but he saw a counselor, and that helped. But mostly it was Max who got him through the dark days.

  He had taken an early retirement from the post office and now he was ready to make a new life on the old farm. He had grown up here. He knew how to work the land. Farming was in his bones, though he hadn’t planted so much as potted tomato in nearly forty years. As a kid he had loved the farming life but left it in a rebellious fit of independence. It all seemed so silly now. This was where he belonged. Where he had always belonged. And now, finally, here he was again.

  “Life is funny, Max. It circles back on you.” He scratched his dog under the chin. “Come on, boy. Let’s go play in the dirt.”

  As the sky brightened and filled with colors, they both got out of the truck and set to work. The air was chilly, and Robert could see his breath in ghostly puffs. He had rented a tractor and plough, which were waiting by the gate. He opened the gate and Max ran loose over the semi-grassy field.

  “Enjoy the grass while you can, Max,” the old farmer said. “It’ll all be turned over by noon.”

  It was a chilly morning, and windy. Max didn’t seem to mind it, but Robert Johnson wished he’d put on another layer of clothes under his jacket. But it would be fine once he got the tractor started, and once the sun started rising over the field.

  Over the years, this field had come alive with many different crops, but Robert would start with corn. That was how he remembered the field of his youth. He remembered it all. The ploughing, the planting, the tending, the harvesting. He remembered the taste of fresh corn off the stalk. Standing here in the fresh cold breeze of a Monday morning, Robert could picture in his mind’s eye the green and golden stalks rising taller than his hat, though what he really saw was five and a half acres of hard dirt and dry weeds.

  It had been in his family for more than a dozen generations. Robert thought of the old days and the stories his dad used to tell. Stories about how one man with two horses could plow an acre in a day. Now, with the modern equipment Robert had purchased, he figured he could plow that same acre in less than an hour. Unless he got held up by too many rocks and roots.

  Time to find out.

  His tractor was a ten-year-old Massey Ferguson 6480 145 horsepower, and to the back of it he hitched a five-furrow mouldboard reversible plough. He knew from his childhood that the soil here had a lot of clay, so he made sure the mouldboards were slatted, which helped the soil not to stick so much. He attached the rear tire to the long beam of the plough. The tire would support the weight of the mouldboards and maintain a proper depth.

  When the plough was properly hitched to the trailer, he called out, “Here, Max!” and the dog came running. Robert opened the door to the cab, and Max jumped in. The eager farmer jumped in after him.

  “Okay, buddy. You’re my copilot today. Look out for any mischief. If you see any big rocks or roots, you just give me a bark, okay?”

  He hit the ignition. The tractor fired up, shuddering and shaking. “Here we go!”

  Max barked with excitement.

  “Attaboy, Max. Sing out, buddy!”

  Robert added his own barking to make a duet as he pulled the tractor into place to dig up the first row. When he was properly positioned, he lowered the mouldboards and felt them bite into the earth. The engine growled with the added strain as the plough did its work, carving five deep furrows into the field.

  When he reached the far end of the field, he used the dashboard controls to lift and flip the mouldboards, reversing them in order to dig a second row on the return trip. He drove his tractor slowly back and forth across the field, the green grassy earth turning a lumpy brown in his
wake.

  He saw black birds circling in the air above the field, and when he had ploughed a few rows the birds lighted on the ground where it had just been tilled.

  “The crows are back,” Robert observed. “What you think about that, old boy?”

  Max took great interest in the crows. There had to be fifty of them, Robert guessed, and more were coming. The murder of crows was greedily feeding on the fat, wriggling worms that had turned up with the soil.

  Robert was staring back at the crows and not paying attention ahead of him when he felt the tractor lurch and stop with a shudder.

  Ah, hell.

  He shifted gears and tried to get the tractor going again, but the plow was stuck on something he couldn’t see. The front tires had lifted, losing their purchase on the ground. He had no traction now.

  “Well, dammit.” He turned off the ignition. “Shouldn’t be nothing troublesome out in this field, Max. Unless you’ve been burying some old bones without my knowing.”

  Robert got out of the tractor to investigate. He walked around to the back and checked the mouldboards. Sure enough, they seem to be stuck on something.

  The first thing he saw was a piece of cloth. He thought maybe it was a rag, but as he stepped closer he saw that it was a shirtsleeve with a red-checkered pattern.

  He stepped even closer, then bent over to pick it up, but when he grabbed at the dirty cloth and tried to pull it free, he felt the unexpected weight of it.

  There was something inside the sleeve.

  Robert tugged at the shirtsleeve–feeling the weight of the arm inside–and saw a pale hand jutting from the dirty cuff.

  “Aaah!” he screamed.

  Dropping the arm, he backpedaled, slipped, and fell on his rump.

  Max heard the scream and leapt from the cab of the tractor. The dog dashed to the man’s side, barking loudly to defend his master. When Max saw the human arm sticking out of the dirt he went up to it warily, growling with fierce menace.

  “No, Max! Here, boy. Come here, Max.”

  Max looked back questioningly, then returned to Robert and licked his face. The dog gave an empathetic whimper. Robert stood up and held the dog by his collar. “We can’t touch that. Leave him be, boy. Leave him be.”