Hiding From the Light (32 page)

One of the places they swam the witches was the mill pond. They brought her there that evening and he watched as they trussed the old lady, forcing her stiff, painful limbs into a cruel parody of a crouching position, hearing her whimpers – any strength for screams had long ago gone – seeing her head loll forward as they lifted her. The old lady was already half dead with fear and exhaustion and pain. He turned away. So many women. Aye, and men. A few. So much evil. So little time. The list was in the pocket of the jacket he wore beneath his cloak. The list of the Devil’s followers, and this woman, Liza, was on the list.

He turned to watch them lift her, aware that John Stearne had joined him. He glanced at the other man. ‘You have the names for tomorrow?’

Stearne nodded. They watched as two muscular men swung the bent, tied-up figure one – two – three – and tossed her out into the muddy water. A duck took off, quacking its indignation as it beat the water with flailing wings. The crowd at the edge of the pond watched in breathless silence as the ripples spread, the only sign of where the old woman had gone into the water the rope which had been attached to her waist.

Stearne yawned ostentatiously, a gloved hand over his mouth. ‘Any minute now. There!’ It was a hiss of triumph as the body bobbed to the surface, floating face down.

The shout from the men and women around them was unanimous as hand over hand, they dragged her towards the bank and up onto the grass. Water, the Lord’s servant, had rejected her. She belonged to the Devil.

Walking over to inspect her, Stearne nudged her with his foot. ‘Cut the ropes. Is she still alive?’ He did not sound particularly interested.

‘Aye, she’s alive.’ They had straightened her up and were dragging her to the cart which had brought her along the river’s edge from the village. The movement forced air back into the old woman’s lungs and she started to cough painfully. Stearne turned and smiled. ‘There you are, Matthew. She’ll live long enough to hang,’ he said. ‘That’s all that matters.’ 

Mike groaned. His head had fallen back against the chair and he woke with a start. He lay still, staring straight in front of him, trying to collect his wits. Jesus Christ! He had been asleep. He had witnessed them swimming a witch. He had stood and watched them do it! Levering himself out of the chair, he paced up and down the room, running his fingers through his hair. The bastard was still in his head! He took a deep breath. Tony was wrong. He was the focus. More than the focus. The host! Desperately he tried to steady the jumping of his heart beneath his ribs. He had to be strong. Prayer would see him through this, as it had seen him through every other crisis in his life. It always had.

So far.

But as he tried to concentrate his mind, he found the words would not come.

After the long drive from London Mark was far from upset at the chance for a walk. As he left the rectory he had glanced at his watch. He would give Mike an hour with that cantankerous-looking old man, then come back and perhaps drag him out to the pub, if you could drag vicars into pubs.

He wasn’t sure why he had changed his mind about coming up with Joe and Alice. Perhaps it was the thought of driving all that way with a heavy smoker, and Alice’s endless gossip; perhaps it was just impatience, but suddenly he had found it impossible to sit still at his desk. He had shuffled all his papers and books into a couple of cardboard boxes, rung the bed & breakfast to see if he could have his room a day early, and climbed into the car.

Setting off down the hill at a steady fast walk, heading for the river, he found he was shivering. It was a cold night. Reaching the strand of salt marsh which ran alongside the road, he stepped onto the grass and stood staring out across the water, watching the reflections of the streetlights. Behind, to the left, was the busy small town, blazing with lights, still full of traffic edging its way round its right-angle bends and pretty, narrow streets. In front of him was the head of the estuary. Only half a mile upstream it would turn into the leisurely winding river so beloved of John Constable. Here it was dramatically tidal, wild in spite of what looked like a factory site immediately opposite the spot where he was standing. East of that stretched the beautiful, gentle Suffolk shore, invisible in the dark behind the blackly sliding slick of the tide. It was strange but he had really grown to love this place.

Slowly he began to walk. There was purpose behind the choice of his route. At the far end of the road, just before it dived up into Mistley, there was a lake on the far side. Originally a mill pond, so he had read, then an ornamental lake in the grounds of Mistley Place, now part of an animal sanctuary, it was bounded at its northern end by half of the original Adam bridge. The other side of the bridge had gone now, widened out of existence by the road along which he was walking. According to some of the books he had been consulting, this lake might have been one of the places Hopkins swam his witches. It was even called the Hopping Bridge, though the majority of sources felt it was unlikely that it was called after him; after all, it had been built so much later.

A cold wind was blowing across the water into his face as he reached it. Thoughtfully he leaned on the stone balustrade, looking out across the lake. In the mellow light of the streetlamps behind him he could see the willows, the white shapes of swans on the still water. Somewhere out there in the dark someone had set up a ducking stool, according to his book on witchcraft. He shuddered. No doubt it gave an exciting frisson to those who saw it. But it was gossips who were ducked in ducking stools wasn’t it, not witches? Witches were thrown in to sink or swim, a primitive throw-back to the pagan belief that the water gods would reject the guilty and accept the good as sacrifice. He pulled up the collar of his jacket against the wind. Imagine the fear of those women, and men. Or were they angry? Did they call on their satanic masters to save them even to the last? He shuddered again. Could he feel that anger here? The fear? Or was it his imagination? He narrowed his eyes, staring out into the dark.

Abruptly he turned away. Whatever it was, he could feel he didn’t like it. What he would do was walk on into Mistley, have a pint at the Thorn – Hopkins’s own pub – and then go back to see Mike.

Mike and Mark talked until the early hours. Mark’s butterfly mind intrigued Mike. The TV man was used to researching subjects, sometimes in some depth and making himself an expert for as long as the research for the programme or the series lasted. He hoovered up facts, unerringly picking up on those which would be of use to him, discarding those which would not fit the scope of whatever it was he was working on at the moment, and at the moment his topic of choice was witches and ghosts. His reading on the subject had been extensive. ‘But it’s all theory, Mike. Sure, I can feel there is something there. In all the houses we’ve filmed I’ve felt something there. But I’m not a fool. I realise it could be my imagination. After all, if one has been told a house is haunted the spook factor goes into overdrive at once, but I’ve never actually ever seen anything.’

‘Until the film.’

‘Until the film.’

‘And it doesn’t worry you that you may be stirring up things which would be best left alone?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Look, I appreciate that this worries you, but surely, if there is something there it would be better to find out what,’ he said earnestly. ‘To see what it is doing; why it’s there. Why it isn’t resting in peace.’ He paused, frowning as he tried to marshal his thoughts. ‘From what I’ve read, a lot of ghosts are sort of drifting mindless shadows. I don’t think they are any more than imprints, left in the atmosphere, sort of recorded onto the bricks or the air in some way we don’t yet understand, but which probably has a “filmic”, if you like, explanation which will soon be easily explained by science. But there are others that produce a definite atmosphere; they have a presence and I think they have a mind. They know they are there and they have a reason to be there. Mostly they are harmless; sad. But some have a far more sinister agenda and in my view they need to be dealt with. I think they’re like boils. They need to be brought to a head, lanced, cleansed.’ He glanced up at Mike, who was staring thoughtfully into the fire. ‘In this case it is the shop itself that is the boil. And that is where you come in. You are a professional who deals with this sort of thing. And what is more, I need someone who can with calm conviction talk about what ghosts are.’

Mike shook his head slowly. ‘You are right, of course. But it can’t be me. I’m sorry. I can’t be on both sides. My job is to counsel and pray and help. If I take part in your programme I am, by your own admission, helping to add stimulus to this thing. I want it sorted. I want these souls put to rest. Returned to God. I want peace to come back to our town.’

‘You could say that to camera. All of that.’

‘No. I couldn’t.’ Mike sighed.

‘Mike, you must! I need you.’

‘No!’ Mike stood up and began to pace up and down. ‘No, Mark, I’m sorry. Look, please leave it!’

The flash of irritation surprised them both. Mark shrugged. ‘OK. I give up. But I think it’s a shame. I think it would be helpful. I think it might be just what is needed to bring peace, as you put it, back to the town.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Have you found out any more about Hopkins?’

‘Yes!’ Mike turned to face him. ‘Yes, I am well aware of what we are dealing with.’

‘There is evil here, Mike. Not only a vicious, sadistic man, but women who were real witches. Witches who knew what they were doing. Do you know what started Hopkins on his hunt for the local witches? They had sent a bear to kill him! They started it, Mike. Now, I don’t know if it was a real bear, which had escaped from some sort of bear baiting show, or whether it was a demon bear conjured up from the shadows, but he thought it was real!’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Mike, what is it? What’s wrong?’

Mike was staring at him, his eyes wide with horror, his face white. He turned away and walked over to the window. He didn’t know if it was a real bear or a demon bear either. And he had seen it, smelled its breath, heard the scrape of its claws, seen the blood lust in its eyes. Drawing back the curtains he stood looking out. He could see nothing. The glass merely threw him back his own reflection.

The prayer meeting had gone on longer than usual and Judith brought it to a close smoothly with a final prayer. She glanced round at the ladies with a smile. They had prayed for Lyndsey, shocked to hear she was a practising witch, and they had all prayed for Mike. ‘He is a good man,’ Judith had said slowly. ‘A God-fearing man, but life in a new parish can be hard. Lonely. It is easy to be led astray. And easy to leave oneself vulnerable to evil influences.’ In the pause that followed those words ten pairs of eyes flicked open in astonishment, wondering what she meant. Judith’s face was serene, her hands folded over her Bible, her own eyes tightly closed. There was no clue as to what Mike might have done but the implication was clear. Their rector was fallible and needed their prayers.

On the way out, Jane Good, the doctor’s wife, paused and touched Judith’s arm. ‘Mike is lucky to have you there, Judith.’

Judith smiled and nodded. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what he’d do without me,’ she agreed in an undertone. ‘But he does his best.’ She shrugged. ‘Pray for him, Jane.’

She watched the last woman walk towards the road where they had all parked their cars and she closed the door. In half an hour she was on her way for a late supper with Ollie Dent.

The old man had laid out a feast of cold meats and cheeses and some oatcakes and fruit for his guest.

‘Young Lyndsey brought them up for me in her bicycle basket, bless her!’ He was pouring Judith a small glass of elder flower cordial.

‘Lyndsey?’ She glanced at him. ‘Lyndsey Clark?’

It took several minutes to tell him about Lyndsey; several more to persuade the bewildered old man that he should sack her and never allow her into his house again. His protests were overridden with such determination there was nothing he could say. By the time Judith had finished he was too upset to eat or drink and she left him staring at the table, which was still laid out with the lovely food and pretty napkins Lyndsey had brought for his little supper party.

He had grown very fond of Lyndsey, relied on her totally and looked forward to her visits. He didn’t know what he was going to do without her. Who was going to talk to him now about books and plants and painting, the way Lyndsey talked to him? Who was going to help him in his little garden, and make him laugh, and bring him news from the village?

Staring down at the untouched plate of oatcakes, he found there were tears in his eyes. It was as though the last ray of sunshine in his life had been taken away.