Hiding From the Light (18 page)

There was no doubt what was going on. It was black magic of some sort and Emma fervently, desperately, did not want to be there. It was as she was turning away that a stronger than usual gust of wind blew out the candles, leaving both women in the dark.

Lyndsey’s scream as she saw Emma standing near her sent Emma running for the wall. Gripping her torch in her wet hands, she managed to turn it on and the beam of light shone wildly round and up into the sky as she tried to find the gap where she had climbed over.

‘Wait!’ Lyndsey too had a torch. ‘Wait, I have to speak to you!’ Knowing the layout of the ground rather better than Emma, she caught up with her easily and grabbed her arm.

‘I don’t think so!’ Emma tried to push her off.

‘You were spying on me!’

Rain was streaming down their faces. The hood of Emma’s mac had slipped back and her hair trailed wet across her eyes.

‘I thought you were in trouble. I heard you scream!’ The wind tore the words from her lips. She had recognised Lyndsey now as the young woman she had seen with Alex and the knowledge reassured her. ‘Look, this is stupid. Come back to the house out of the rain. We are both getting soaked.’

Lyndsey hesitated. For a moment she turned and stared over her shoulder into the dark, then she gave in. With a nod she turned to follow.

They shed their boots and coats and Lyndsey’s robe in the porch and Emma led the way in, heading for the kitchen. ‘Let me grab a couple of towels.’ She pointed at the kitchen door and turning to the stairs, ran up to the linen cupboard. When she came back down Lyndsey was already in the kitchen, standing by the new Aga. She was now wearing patched jeans and a scarlet sweater.

Grabbing the towel from Emma without a word, she rubbed it over her face and hair. ‘If you weren’t spying, what were you doing out there?’ To Emma’s surprise she had a clipped, upper-class accent more suitable to Harvey Nichols than to midnight country churchyards.

‘I told you.’ Emma was drying herself now. ‘I was woken by your screaming. I thought you were being attacked or raped or something.’

‘Then why didn’t you call the police?’ Lyndsey stopped rubbing her hair and stared at her belligerently. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

‘No. I reckoned it would take too long for anyone to come, so I thought I would try and scare them off. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’ Emma broke off. ‘I wasn’t spying.’

‘But you saw what I was doing.’

‘Not really. It was too dark.’ Emma refused to meet her eye. ‘Were you alone out there?’

Lyndsey nodded. She began to rub again vigorously.

‘So, what were you doing?’ Emma carefully kept her back turned.

‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’ Lyndsey threw down her towel. She folded her arms. ‘You keep out of that churchyard. It’s none of your business, what happens in there.’

Emma frowned. ‘If I may say so, I think it is more my business than yours.’ She turned round. ‘I live right across the road and I don’t appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by banshee wails which scare the living daylights out of me!’

Lyndsey’s eyes flashed. ‘Then why don’t you put your head under the pillow? You townies are all the same. You come out into the country and you don’t like what you see. You don’t understand it. You don’t know what you’re talking about, but you want to interfere anyway.’

‘Hang on a minute …’ Emma could feel her temper rising.

‘No, you hang on. You mind your own business!’

‘And let you get on with nice country pursuits. What was it, Lyndsey? Witchcraft? Satanism? I’m supposed to put up with that on my doorstep, am I?’

‘That’s the point, isn’t it!’ Lyndsey stormed to the door. ‘It’s not your doorstep. It’s Liza’s doorstep. And don’t you forget it!’ Grabbing at the latch on the door she fumbled for a moment, pulled it open and ran into the hall.

‘Look, wait!’ Emma called. ‘At least let me drive you home. It’s a filthy night out there.’

‘No, Miss Dickson,’ Lyndsey managed to make the name sound like an insult. ‘It’s not a filthy night. It’s a country night!’

Ramming her feet into her boots, she grabbed her jacket and let herself out into the dark, slamming the door behind her.

‘Right, kids. Breakfast finished? Teeth next please. Now! Mrs Cox will be here any minute to take you to school.’

Alex presided over the kitchen table like a board meeting. Morning: review the day to come. Evening: discuss the day that’s over. Food: each item ticked off and eaten, or if rejected, a reason given. Then, if it was Molly Cox’s day to deliver, plates into the dishwasher, shopping list checked, day to himself. If it was his turn, two extra houses to collect three extra children, push the kids into the school door, then a mooch around Colchester, or if there was a collection and tea at going home time organised, a trip further afield. Cambridge or Norwich perhaps. Not London. Not if he could help it. London brought back memories of sitting on the train, shaking with exhaustion; burn out; depression.

Today he was going to ring Emma Dickson and arrange a date for that dinner party to introduce her to Paula.

He paused as he stacked the cereal bowls. Paula hadn’t been as pleased as he had hoped when he told her about Emma’s arrival. And he was so certain they would get on. Two strong, intelligent women, similar backgrounds, Paula stuck in the country, Emma probably missing the City.

He frowned, recalling Paula’s reaction. ‘Of course you can ask her over, but I don’t suppose it will make a difference to how I feel about this place.’ This place meaning Bradfield, Manningtree, Essex, the countryside – anywhere he was – and it frightened him as quite a few of her remarks lately had frightened him. ‘When the kids finish at Cambridge House we ought to review the situation, Alex. It’s the perfect time to think about the future.’ What she meant was: move. And move meant move back to London. He whistled through his teeth, pushing the thought out of his mind and, reaching for the piece of paper on which Emma had scribbled her number, he picked up the phone.

She seemed pleased with the invitation but her manner was a little reserved, which, he discovered, disappointed him. He hesitated as she wrote down his address. Then he came out with it. ‘Emma? There’s nothing wrong, is there? I haven’t offended you in some way?’

She laughed. ‘No, of course not. In fact –’ she paused and he could picture her frowning, wondering if she should tell him whatever it was that she was worrying about. Clearly she decided she could. Her words shocked him. ‘It’s about your friend Lyndsey. She and I had a bit of a set to last night.’

He listened without comment while she explained what had happened and in spite of himself he felt a shiver of unease.

‘Lyn is a complete clot!’ he commented when she had finished. ‘Right out of control.’ He sighed. ‘But she is harmless, Emma. I told you. I wouldn’t trust my kids to her otherwise. I think she does consider herself a bit of a witch. Wicca they call it now, don’t they? She was probably embarrassed at being caught at it. Look, I’ll have a word with her. Don’t worry. Whatever she’s up to I don’t suppose it will do any harm.’ He paused. He hoped Emma was convinced, but when she spoke again she still sounded a bit dubious.

‘OK, I’ll leave it to you. I don’t want to make an enemy of her.’ There was another infinitesimal silence, then she spoke again. ‘Alex, would you think me awfully rude if I asked if I could bring someone with me to supper? My ex.’ She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘He might come down for a weekend if there was something exciting laid on.’

He could hear the wistfulness in her tone as she hung up and for a moment he frowned. Poor Emma was obviously finding life in the country more lonely – and more frightening – than she had expected. Picking up his car keys he headed for the door. Young Lyndsey obviously needed a good talking to. And soon.

She was out. He stood on the quay, the wind ruffling what remained of his hair, staring up at her windows, then he knocked at the door again. ‘Lyn?’ He stooped and opening the letterbox, he called through it.

The house was silent. Crouching low, he peered into the small living room. She had left the curtains closed and the room was dark. He frowned, standing up once more, and turned to face the river. The heavy overnight rain had cleared. Across the water weak rays of sunshine illuminated the low green swell of the Suffolk coast. The tide was neither out nor in. Broad swathes of grey-black mud bordered the slow lazy strip of dull water as it crept slowly towards the town.

He sighed. Had she come home last night, or had she gone away and holed up somewhere? There was no way he could tell and no one to ask; he knew she did not talk to her neighbours.

Turning, he walked back up the quay between the cottages, back to the road where he had left his car. Instead of heading up the hill towards home, he decided to drive on into Manningtree to pick up some things from the deli. It was as he drove slowly down the road along the river that he saw the rector standing, hands in pockets, staring out across the water, much as he himself had been doing only minutes before. Alex slowed the car thoughtfully and, decision made, pulled into the kerb.

Mike raised a hand in greeting. Alex was not a parishioner of his but he had seen him occasionally in the town. ‘Nice to see the rain has stopped,’ he commented as Alex climbed out of the car and joined him.

‘Indeed.’ Alex rammed his hands into his pockets. ‘I wondered if I could have a word, Rector.’ He paused, watching a flight of birds making their way low over the water towards the mud banks.

Mike glanced at him, noting the tense shoulders and the anxious frown. ‘Of course.’

‘I was just speaking to Emma Dickson – I don’t know if you’ve met her yet?’ Alex glanced at him quickly, caught the slight shake of the head and went on. ‘She’s bought Liza’s.’

‘Ah.’ Mike nodded. ‘I know where you mean.’

Alex chewed his lip for a moment thoughtfully. ‘Do you mind if we walk? I’m not sure whether I should be mentioning this.’ He paused again as they turned and fell in step together, walking the way Alex had come.

When Alex showed no inclination to say anything else Mike prompted him gently: ‘It is a good place to think, watching the tide go in and out, seeing how the birds follow it.’ He paused. ‘You live in Bradfield, I believe?’

Alex nodded. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about Emma and Lyndsey Clark.’

‘Ah. Lyndsey.’ Mike nodded.

‘You know her?’ Alex finally glanced at him.

‘Not personally. Her name has been mentioned to me.’

Alex stopped. He faced Mike almost aggressively. ‘In what context?’

Mike shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘She’s a witch, is that the context? A stupid, childish, over-dramatic kid who is in danger of getting in over her head.’

Mike scanned his face thoughtfully. ‘Have you known Lyndsey long?’

Alex nodded. ‘About five years. Since we moved down here from London. But just lately she’s changed.’ He resumed walking slowly and Mike followed. ‘Last night she was up at St Mary’s churchyard.’ Briefly he recounted Emma’s story.

‘I suspect Lyndsey would not welcome my interference,’ Mike said thoughtfully when Alex had finished. The two men had drifted to a halt again. ‘I will pray for her, of course. And for guidance on what to do.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps in the meantime I should go and visit my new parishioner. Emma Dickson, you said?’

Alex nodded. ‘I think the whole episode upset her quite a bit. She’s on her own up there and it must have been very, very scary.’

Mike went to Lyndsey’s first, walking down the steep road behind the Maltings. He had always thought this a pretty place. The contrast of the huge dark Maltings, with the row of tiny brightly painted cottages was somehow beguiling. This was not at all the kind of place he would have expected a witch to live. He was, he realised, sufficiently influenced by stereotype to have pictured her hanging out in the middle of some dark uncharted forest, a broomstick leaning beside the door.

The line of cottages lay silent in the late afternoon sun. A cold wind had whipped away the morning’s cloud and the bright slanting light was dazzling on the river. Lyndsey’s front door was closed, the curtains in the front windows drawn shut. He hesitated, surprised to find himself nervous.

‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ He took a deep breath and raised his hand to the knocker.

There was no answer. Ignoring his very strong urge to turn and flee, he forced himself to knock again. Again the door remained firmly closed. He glanced left and right at the neighbouring cottages. All remained silent, although he suspected he saw the twitch of a curtain in one. He suppressed a wry smile. What would the gossips say, he wondered, at the rector banging on the door of the local witch? Even though he was not wearing his dog collar, they would know who he was. People always did.

Liza’s, in contrast, looked far more welcoming. Parking his car next to a dark green MG, he pushed open the gate and paused for a moment, looking up at the front of the cottage. He had passed it often before but perhaps it had been so overgrown he had not noticed it. Now he saw the autumn roses, curtains at the windows, one of which was open and out of which came the strains of ‘L’après-midi d’un faune’. He paused in his tracks, listening.

‘Can I help you?’ She had come round the corner of the building and caught him staring up at the front of her house, lost in thought.

He turned and his mouth dropped open in surprise. It was the woman he had seen several times walking down by the river. Even now, dressed in shabby jeans and a torn shirt and smelling strongly of creosote, she was lovely. For a moment he was struck dumb, then he managed to pull himself together. ‘Miss Dickson? I’m Mike Sinclair.’ Had she recognised him? He saw her frown slightly, obviously trying to place him. ‘We’ve seen each other down by the river. I think we’re both early morning walkers.’ He smiled, and then realised suddenly that his clothes – sweater, jacket, chinos, old scuffed shoes, gave no clue then or now as to his calling. ‘I’m sorry, I should explain. I’m the rector. I thought I would come and welcome you. See how you are settling in.’

Always acutely sensitive to the way people received the news of who he was, his heart sank as he saw her smile cool slightly. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a churchgoer.’

He was disappointed, but not surprised. ‘Very few people are these days.’

She relented a little. ‘I expect you could do with a cup of tea? Isn’t that the traditional greeting for a man of the cloth? If you don’t mind crossing the threshold of a non-believer, come in. I must wash my hands. This stuff stinks so badly.’ She wrinkled her nose as she led the way indoors and through to the kitchen. She gestured towards the chair as she went to the sink and reached for some hand cleaner. ‘The Aga only arrived a couple of weeks ago and I haven’t really entertained anyone yet. You can help me christen it.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry, was that in bad taste?’ He saw a flash of mischief in her eyes. ‘But it is so handsome I think of it as a friend.’

‘Indeed. It’s very splendid.’ He handed her a towel from the chair-back. ‘You seem to have made it very nice in here.’

Christ be with me, Christ within me
.

The words came into his head, unbidden. Why? Where from? It was as though someone else had spoken them. He shivered, glancing round the room. It was large – a wall had recently been knocked through into the dining room next door, making a bright, warm, welcoming rectangular space, divided by the oak studs, furnished with an old pine table and dresser, the stone floor scattered with rag rugs. Some of the decoration was unfinished, and he could smell the new paint and plaster.

He found himself eyeing her back view as she turned away to organise the kettle, lifting the lid on the Aga, slopping the water a little so that tiny droplets skittered spitting over the hotplate. Sternly he looked away. He looked down at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. They were shaking slightly.

He accepted tea and biscuits, then, cautiously, broached the reason for his call. ‘I understand you had a midnight encounter with our local witch.’ He glanced at her.

‘Ah. Who told you? Alex?’

He nodded. ‘Also not one of my parishioners. I don’t want to interfere, but it can’t have been pleasant for you.’

Emma sat down opposite him at the pine table. She had, as he had noticed before, very beautiful, large hazel eyes. Thoughtfully she returned his gaze and for a moment they surveyed each other. Emma looked away first, a touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘I think I over-reacted. I feel sorry for her now. It was none of my business. I frightened her as much as she frightened me.’

‘You were very brave, going out there on your own.’

‘No. Very stupid.’ She looked at him again.

‘You don’t believe in all her mumbo jumbo?’
Christ be with me.
Christ within me …

‘No.’ Emma broke a piece of shortbread in half. She frowned, staring down at the crumbs. ‘At least – ’

‘At least?’ he prompted.

‘I couldn’t see what she was doing.’ Emma pushed back her chair and went to look out of the window at the back terrace. ‘So I can’t really comment. When I accused her, she didn’t deny it.’ She fell silent for a while. Mike waited. ‘She resents me living here. I suppose because I can see the churchyard.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Have you been there?’

He nodded.

‘It’s spooky, isn’t it? Especially at midnight.’ She gave a wry laugh.

He was frowning. ‘Don’t hesitate to ring me if you are ever worried about anything over there. I’m pretty sure she is harmless, but one can never be quite sure, can one. Evil exists, in the most innocent and beautiful of guises.’ He looked away, wondering suddenly if she might take his words the wrong way, think he meant her, but she did not appear to have noticed any ambiguity in the statement. She was watching something in the garden.

He stood up, half reluctant, half eager to leave the house with its odd atmosphere and its beautiful owner and saw what she was watching. There was a sleek black cat outside on the terrace. It was sitting staring intently at the base of a pot of lavender. He saw a long elegant paw flash out and retract, holding some tiny rodent. He looked away.

She saw him out and stood for several seconds watching as he walked down the path to the gate, then she disappeared inside and shut the door. He was relieved. For some reason he did not want her to see him duck in amongst the brambles on the far side of the lane and climb over the crumbling wall.

The wet grass soaked the bottom of his trousers as he made his way between the hawthorn trees. Already he could see something on the ground, shining in the low rays of sunlight. In half an hour the sun would have gone down and it would start to grow dark. He walked cautiously towards the glinting reflection in the grass. It was a small cut-glass container holding a candle. He stooped and picked it up and emptying out the rainwater which had filled it in the night he glanced round for more. He couldn’t feel anything strange about the place. Or could he? He stared round, listening carefully as though some echo of Lyndsey’s strange scream might come to him from the undergrowth. He was remembering his discomfort last time he came here. Perhaps she had been here before, the young witch from Mistley quay.

There were four candle-holders tucked in amongst the undergrowth and three small dishes. One contained a soggy mess of salt, another, he discovered as he cautiously inserted a fingertip and then sniffed it, olive oil. The third was empty. He guessed it had contained water before it had been tipped on its side. Stacking them together on the ground, he considered the other items lying at his feet. A small kitchen knife, a bowl, a knotted cord and a carved stick which he guessed must be her wand. He stared at them, reluctant even to touch them. But it had to be done. They had to be disposed of.

Was that a darker green rectangle in the grass? The sign that this was the site of a grave? He squatted down, staring at the ground. It was cold down there, near the earth, and he shivered violently. Whose grave was it? And was it chance that had made Lyndsey use it as the centre of her magic or had she chosen the place for a reason? Who was buried here?

He stood looking down and immediately he knew the answer to his own question. It was Hopkins. Matthew Hopkins was buried here in this redundant, deconsecrated place. Or did she just think he was? He found himself folding his arms across his chest with a shudder.

‘So, Mr Hopkins. Is that what this is all about?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Poor, silly girl. Is she out for revenge? Getting even on behalf of those pathetic women you murdered?’

Behind him the sloping rays of the setting sun began to turn crimson as they pierced black swags of cloud on the horizon. The light fractured, as the leaves and branches of the hedges intercepted it, throwing a lattice of shadows at his feet.

Pathetic women?

Murdered?

Or were they evil, daughters of Satan, worshippers at his foul shrine, there to bring the Black Arts to ensnare good Christians? Old women, yes, for the most part. But they had the power. The knowledge. They had known men in their lives, found their weak spots, trapped them with their wiles, sapped their energy, their very life blood. Then they taught their younger sisters. They baptised them with blood, drew back their petticoats to expose their lower limbs and watched while the younger women fornicated with the Devil.

Mike shuddered, unaware that his face had changed, that his eyes, normally kind, slightly myopic, had sharpened and narrowed, that his fingers had angled into angry claws, that his personality had gone and been replaced by that of another man.

Bitches. Whores. Enticing men. Women luring and entrapping men when they were young and beautiful, when they were old, beating and humiliating them. He pictured for a moment one particular old woman, his
grand-maman
dressed in simplest black, her hair hidden beneath a cap of the severest cut, standing over a small, terrified boy. The cane in her hand whistled down over his bony spine and Mike heard the furious words ringing in his head. ‘Vile! Horrible boy! Don’t ever, ever look at a woman – any woman – again with desire. Do you hear me? Do you? With your lustful thoughts, your lecherous desires, your greed for flesh. I will tell your father! I will tell your
maman
. You are evil. God will punish you!’ On and on it went and it wasn’t until she had finished that Mike realised that the vicious nagging voice in his head was speaking in French. He flinched at the memory of the cane coming down again and again, feeling the boy’s fear and rage.
Sale; petite bête vile;
dégoûtant!

His rage was congealing. Growing. It was turning to hatred; hatred for the entire female race.

When she was at last exhausted and unable to lift the stick any more, she stepped away, leaving him lying sobbing on the ground. He had wet himself.

And the crime for which he was being chastised? He, at the age of eight, had dared to pinch the bottom of one of the maids in his father’s rectory and made her giggle.

Mike turned away from the spot where he had been standing and before he knew what was happening he had vomited into the shadows. He reached for his handkerchief, shaking uncontrollably. There was a sheen of sweat across his face. Where in God’s name had that come from? It was as though a window had opened in his mind and he had glimpsed someone else’s hell. A child’s. He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and kicked some mud over the sticky patch.

He prayed for several minutes over the site of the grave, if grave it was, before turning away to gather up Lyndsey’s paraphernalia. Loading it all carefully into the boot of his car, he drove back towards the setting sun.

The last streaks of red were showing in the blackening sky as he reached the rectory and he knew what he had to do. The candles, the cord, the salt, the oil, the wand, would be put into the fire, the glass candle-holders smashed and buried with the dishes and her wickedly sharp knife with the curious silver symbols painted on the handle would join them in the ground, its blade snapped in two. They were tainted by the Devil. Only fire and earth, blessed with holy water, could deal with such detritus.