Hiding From the Light (34 page)

The plan was that she would ring Alex from the train so he could come and fetch her. Paula pulled out her mobile as the train rattled towards Manningtree. In the office she had found herself staring out of the window as it grew dark, seeing the streaks of red in the wind-swept sky, seeing the dark clouds streaming across a horizon bisected by a forest of high-rise buildings and suddenly, unexpectedly, and not for the first time, she was overwhelmed by claustrophobia. She wanted to go home. She wanted to walk by the river. She wanted to be out of this stifling air-conditioned, stressful place. It was days like this when suddenly she wondered if she were mad working all day everyday while Alex stayed at home. Other days of course she knew exactly why. She adored the work, the people, the buzz. You didn’t get that in the country.

She phoned the house, listening crossly to the tone ringing on unanswered, then she phoned Alex’s mobile. It was switched off. Frowning, she tried again as the train pulled in at the station. He wasn’t expecting her yet, of course. She was so much earlier than usual but supposing he had forgotten he was supposed to come and fetch her? Supposing he was round at Emma’s again? She frowned. After her long talk with Emma she had decided that on the whole she didn’t like her. The woman was self-centred and weird. The trouble was, she was also very attractive. There was no denying that. But surely Alex had got the message? No, he wouldn’t be there. He was supposed to be collecting the children and he would never forget that. He was just a bit vague sometimes. She smiled to herself fondly, as so often torn between her envy of the way he had adapted to the necessity of living at home after his career collapsed, her frustration that he seemed content to live life now at so much slower a pace and her incipient jealousy about what he might be up to while she was not there to keep an eye on him.

She only hoped that whatever he was doing, he had remembered to collect the car from the garage that afternoon so that tomorrow they would be back to their usual routine; she hated being dependent on anyone else because this was exactly the sort of thing that could happen. There was nothing for it. She would have to start walking. There was no way she was going to hang around at the station for hours and she was not about to waste money on a taxi.

Slinging her briefcase over her shoulder, she headed down through Lawford, walking slowly along the road past the industrial estate. There were dozens of other people pouring off the train and out of the station too, but slowly they passed her until she was alone, walking more and more slowly, hoping at every step that her mobile would ring or she would see Alex’s car heading towards her down the road. She couldn’t walk all the way to Bradfield. The best she could do was to head into Manningtree itself and wait at the pub until he made contact.

As the road went under the railway arch she stopped, her arms aching from the weight of the briefcase and her feet sore from her town heels, and fished out her mobile again. There was still no reply, and there didn’t seem much point in leaving a message.

‘Damn!’ Where was he? How did he think she was going to get back without a lift? She glanced at her watch and realised suddenly that he was probably not back from fetching the kids from Lyndsey’s. Wearily, she hefted her case up again.

It was only minutes later that the streetlights went out.

Paula stopped and stared round her, shocked and disorientated. Not just the streetlights, but every light had vanished. The houses behind the hedges on the far side of the road, the factories on the industrial estate which ran alongside the river on her left. Everywhere. The sudden total darkness was unnerving and with it came silence. The mist was drifting across the road in front of her, bringing the cold salt smell of the mudflats. She shuddered. This autumn seemed to have been particularly foggy and she hated it. She listened. It was coincidence, surely, that there were no cars on the road which only moments before had been quite busy. That there were no footsteps on the pavement. It was as though suddenly she was the only person in the world. Strangely frightened, she took a tentative step or two forward. She had lost her bearings totally. Panic swept over her. She clutched her briefcase to her chest, turning round and round.

Then to her enormous relief she saw lights in the distance. The car headlights drew closer, slicing through the mist, and she could see the road again, see where she was, the pavement, the trees in the arc of light. The car slowed beside her. A window lowered.

‘Mrs West? I thought it was you. Do you want a lift?’

Paula couldn’t see the face. Didn’t recognise the voice.

‘I’m Judith Sadler. I teach at the local school. Do you remember, we met last Christmas?’ The door nearest her opened invitingly.

Paula sighed audibly with relief. ‘What’s happened to the lights?’ she asked as she climbed in and reached for the seatbelt, her briefcase leaning against her knees.

‘Power cut. I heard it on the radio. It covers miles, apparently.’ Judith drew away from the kerb. ‘Has your car broken down?’

Leaning her head back against the headrest with another sigh, Paula explained.

Judith raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not come back to my place? You can wait there in comfort until your husband collects you.’

‘Could I really?’ Paula was grateful, still unnerved by the sudden total darkness; the unexpected fear.

Judith had a large torch on the hall table just inside the door. With the help of its beam she located a box of white candles under the sink, and the kettle which she set on the gas. ‘There. That’s better.’ The house was warm, the candlelight comforting. Paula watched as the other woman made the tea, suppressing the unworthy thought that she would have vastly preferred a large gin and tonic.

‘You are lucky having a husband who is prepared to look after your children.’ Judith counted four Rich Tea biscuits from a packet and put them on a plate.

‘He’s a saint,’ Paula agreed with more sincerity than she had intended.

‘Does he collect them from school every day?’

Paula helped herself to a biscuit. ‘No, we have a horrendously complicated system of school runs. Most of the time it works. Today, for instance, the mother of one of James’s friends takes them back to her house in Mistley. Lyn collects them on foot and takes them back to her cottage, then Alex collects them from there at six.’

‘Lyn?’ Judith paused as she was pouring out the tea. Her face in the candlelight was deeply shadowed.

‘Lyndsey Clark. She does quite a bit of child-minding for us.’

‘I see.’ Setting down the pot, Judith put the two cups and the plate of biscuits on the tray. ‘Perhaps we should go through and sit in the lounge. It would be more comfortable.’ She added the candlestick to the tray. The flickering light illuminated the plate, which now had only three biscuits. Judith stared at it, frowned, and put the tray back down. Fetching the packet she took out another biscuit, carefully added it to the plate and picked up the tray again. Paula was mortified.

They sat down in the lounge, Paula on the sofa, Judith on the chair opposite, the candlelight for all its softening shadows showing up the formality of the room and its cold lack of comfort. Paula perched on the edge of the seat, already regretting that she had agreed to come. She looked around for her briefcase and realised she had left it in the hall. ‘Perhaps I should just try Alex again. My mobile is in my case …’

‘In a minute.’ Judith’s voice was peremptory. ‘First, I feel I have to say something.’ She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. She was frowning. Paula raised an eyebrow as she leaned back in the sofa and waited.

Her hostess pursed her lips solemnly. ‘You must understand, I wouldn’t say this unless I was truly worried. I would never interfere in anyone’s business normally.’

Paula stared at her suspiciously. What on earth was the woman getting at? She waited, her eyes fixed on Judith’s face.

It came out at last. ‘Do you realise what Lyndsey Clark is?’ Judith paused.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘She is a witch!’ Judith gave an ostentatious shiver.

‘Oh, I know she likes to think she is a – what do they call it? A Wiccan.’ Paula laughed. ‘It’s nothing. Fairy tales. She’s playing silly games to shock people. It’s not real.’

‘Oh, Mrs West, you’re so wrong!’ Judith was indignant. ‘My dear, please don’t be fooled! The girl is very persuasive. She is very plausible, but the fact remains that the person you are entrusting your children to, worships the Devil. She is involved in the satanic. Have you not heard about satanic ritual?’

Paula went white. For a moment she could not speak. ‘You are surely not suggesting that Lyn is involved in that sort of thing?’ She was aghast. ‘With men?’

Judith shrugged. ‘They are all involved in the most unspeakable things.’ She shook her head. ‘I knew you hadn’t realised. I just knew it! Your husband is such a sweet man, it would never occur to him to question her. Even the rector thought she was fairly harmless. I soon put him right on that score. If I had my way people like that should not be allowed to live in decent society. I didn’t realise she was looking after your children; had I known that, I would have spoken to you before! After all, I’m the person nominated by the PCC to check up on people who work with children in our parish.’ She gave another shudder. ‘This is the way it starts – the way they always work. At first they seem completely innocuous and gain people’s confidence. Then they move in on the children.’

Slowly Paula shook her head. ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying. She’s always so sweet with the children. They adore her.’

‘Of course. She has to gain their trust.’

‘No. No, I can’t believe it!’

‘Listen.’ Judith edged further forward on her chair. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, because the rector spoke to me in confidence, but now he has realised what is going on, he is very worried about it. About the whole area, not just Lyndsey. She is part of something far bigger. He asked me to pray about it.’

Paula studied her face. She did not like this woman at all, she realised suddenly. She was a smug, sanctimonious cow. But was she right?

‘God will show us the way to get her out of the community,’ Judith went on. She leaned back and folded her arms. ‘And she’ll soon start to get the message if no one will employ her. She did housework for old Ollie Dent. I’ve had a word with him and she won’t be going up there any more. If you sack her too that will be a start.’

Paula reached absent-mindedly for her forgotten teacup. ‘It seems awfully hard.’

‘But necessary. After all, if she begins to see the error of her ways there may yet be hope to save her soul.’

The tea was cold. Paula made a face and put it down. ‘Are you sure about all this?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Judith stood up. ‘Are you prepared to take risks with your children?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then how can you hesitate?’

Paula stood up, too. ‘I’ll talk to Alex. Tonight. In fact I must ring him or he will be wondering where I am.’ She turned towards the hall. Behind her Judith smiled. She was doing God’s work. He would be pleased with her.

As long as he kept busy, it was all right. Mike had had wall to wall appointments all day, finishing up with tea in an old people’s home. It was getting dark when at last he made his farewells, gently unclasped a frail blue-veined hand from his own and made his way out to the car. Sitting in the car park, staring out of the windscreen, it was several minutes before he reached for the keys in the ignition. During those minutes he had been fighting the longing to turn his back on Manningtree and drive across the Stour into Suffolk, to Tony and Ruth’s. It had been hovering all day, the thing at the back of his mind. It was like a great black bird, a shadow at the edge of his vision waiting to pounce. His head was heavy; he felt as though he were jet lagged; all he wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep and yet he was afraid. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being forced to do something he didn’t want to do. Especially afraid of his dreams. Taking a deep breath, he fired the engine and let in the clutch. The car slid out of the narrow parking space, hesitated at the entrance gate and resolutely – reluctantly – turned back towards Manningtree.

His bedroom had never seemed more welcoming. It was warm, the central heating for once on and functioning, the light by the bed throwing mellow shadows across his pillows, the rose-pink curtains, chosen presumably by his predecessor’s wife, closed against the unexpectedly frosty night air. He had brought up a glass of whisky and his Bible. He planned to sleep with the light on.

Before he climbed into bed he pulled back the curtain a few inches and peered out into the dark. The night was peaceful. Above the line of trees he could see stars; the wind had dropped. For the moment at least there was no fog. Letting the curtain fall into place, he turned back into the room. The trouble was, the shadow he feared so much wasn’t outside. It was here inside his own head.

The words of the prayers came, weaving their comfort around his heart, but there was something missing. ‘Deliver us from evil.’ He stared round the room. ‘For thine is the kingdom.’ He held his breath. The room around him seemed to be doing the same. ‘The power and the glory.’ He could do this. He could withstand the attack. His faith was strong. Christ was with him. With Christ on his side how could he fail?

You are right. The Lord is with us!

The voice in his head was clear.

I fight evil in the name of the blood and bones of Christ
.

‘No!’ Mike shook his head. ‘We are not on the same side!’ He realised that he had spoken out loud. His fingers tightened around his Bible. ‘Jesus Christ is merciful. You are not!’ He looked around the room again. Silence. He held his breath. Pray. That was what Tony said. Fill your head with prayer. Leave no gaps, no nooks or crannies where he can lodge. ‘Why me?’ That was stupid, asking a question. Mike closed his eyes and bowed his head, resting it on his interlaced fingers.

Because you are a man of God
.

The voice was soft now, less strident.

You needs must fight the Devil, Michael! Destroy the witches!

Mike’s eyes flew open. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the Bible to his chest.

You asked me in, Michael!

The voice seemed to be fading.

‘Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ behind me, Christ before me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me,

Christ to comfort and restore me …’ Mike intoned under his breath. Don’t argue. Don’t enter a discussion. Pray.

At eleven o’clock the old boiler down in the cellars clanked to its appointed stop. The house began to grow cold. Mike’s eyes were closing. Each time his head nodded forward he jerked awake and began to pray again. As the cold grew more intense he pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it round his shoulders, allowing, just for a moment, the silence in the room to surround him. Nothing. All was quiet.

‘Thank you, Lord, for your protection. Stay with me now. Lighten my darkness, I beseech thee, O Lord, and by thy great mercy defend me from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ …’ The gaps between his whispered words grew longer. At some time after one a.m. his head nodded forward and he slept.

John Butcher was standing in front of Matthew Hopkins’s table. The huge man in crumpled, bloodstained clothes, was twisting his cap between his meaty fingers, his face contorted with tears.

‘My Jane has died because of you! The only chance she had was Liza’s medicine and you took Liza away! You’ve killed my wife!’

Hopkins frowned, trying to place this man who had forced his way upstairs. ‘I am sorry to hear your wife has died, but Liza could not have helped her. Would you have wanted the Devil’s hand on her?’ He stared up coldly.

Tears were streaming down the man’s face. ‘She was in travail three days. Three days! She died screaming! Screaming in agony as she bled to death. She died and the baby, too.’ Butcher shook his head piteously, his mouth slack. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

‘It was God’s will.’ Matthew was indifferent. ‘Leave us. There is nothing to be done. Go home and bury your wife and let it be the end of the matter.’ He glanced towards the door, where someone else was hurrying up from the street below.

It was Sarah.

‘So, Master Hopkins, are you pleased with the results of your justice?’ She leaned forward across his table, her hazel eyes flashing as Butcher shambled blindly out of the room, sobbing. She had regained her courage; her desperation had given her strength. ‘What else will you do? How many more people must die? How many more tests will you inflict?’

He looked up and met her gaze, confident that John Stearne, standing in the corner of the room near the window, would escort her to the door. ‘I do God’s work, mistress.’ He was too tired to argue today. The visit of John Butcher and the weakness from the fever had left him drained. ‘Beware, lest you too are accused of serving Satan.’

‘Where is she now? Where have you taken Liza?’

‘To Colchester.’ He sighed. ‘She will be held in the dungeons there under the castle until she is taken to Chelmsford to the assize, after which she will assuredly hang.’

‘Is this lady,’ John Stearne’s voice broke in quietly, ‘not on your list, Matthew?’ He stepped forward. Taller, older than his colleague, his face set in deep weary lines, he stood in front of her and looked her up and down, then he turned to Matthew and stabbed at the notebook on the table in front of him with his forefinger.

In the draught from the open door, the candle in its black iron holder trailed smoke across the table and Matthew coughed.

‘Search down the names,’ Stearne went on. ‘I know you wrote Mistress Paxman’s down there, Matthew.’ He looked Sarah up and down again. ‘Her brazenness and her care for this witch betray her each time we see her as one of Satan’s sisterhood.’

This time Sarah stood her ground. ‘You talk nonsense, Master Stearne. My husband’s friends in Colchester tell me they do not believe in your list. They do not believe that women like Liza are witches. What has she ever done to you, Master Hopkins? She is a good, kind, gentle soul who worked to alleviate the suffering of her neighbours. People like poor little Jane Butcher.’

‘She is one of the coven, mistress, who met near my house and conjured Satan’s creature, the bear, to torment me!’ Hopkins snapped back at her. His eyes were watering in the candle-smoke. So far he had found no evidence for the existence of covens anywhere in the region, but perhaps this woman would at last lead him to them. ‘Do not speak to me of evidence. There is ample evidence. The woman had two familiars. Cats.’ He shuddered. ‘And she has confessed. She has confessed everything. And even if she hadn’t, and there was no evidence, I need none. If her name is on the list, that is evidence enough! I have Parliament’s commission.’

He leaned back in his chair. His face was damp with sweat. Livid patches on his cheeks betrayed the fever lurking in his bones. ‘Her name is there.’ He picked up his quill and scratched it across the page, underlining a name. ‘As is yours, Mistress Paxman.’

Why was she not afraid of him any more? Last time she had backed away, scared of his threats. Now she held his gaze steadily. Confident. He shivered. Were those Satan’s eyes looking out of that pretty face? Had she had carnal knowledge of the Devil himself? Taking a deep breath he summoned up the strength to stand, aware that with his tall crowned hat still firmly in place on his head he was taller than her. Just.

‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’ Fixing his eyes on hers he glared at her, his voice echoing around the room.

Mike started awake with a groan and his Bible fell to the floor from his lap. He stared round. She had gone. The room was empty.