Hiding From the Light (44 page)

There was a long pause after she had finished. In the distance there was a rumble of thunder. A wedge of black cloud drifted across the moon and blotted out its sliver of light. Lyndsey glanced away, down the hill towards the river where suddenly it was misty. She was trembling. Impressed and terrified by what she had unleashed in Emma she looked at her, afraid even to speak.

The silence around them stretched on and on, then slowly she could hear the ordinary sounds of the country night coming back. A fox barked somewhere over towards the fields; above the wood an owl called, to be answered in the distance by a long quavering hoot and, at her side suddenly, Emma began to sob. The tension had drained out of her body.

Slowly, Lyndsey reached over and took her hands. They were ice cold.

Sarah had gone.

In the lane by the churchyard wall there was a small click as Alice turned off her camera. Neither woman heard it.

Judith woke with a start, her head splitting. She had been dreaming again and the fear was still with her, but she couldn’t recall what it was she had been dreaming about. She stretched out and remembered with a shock of guilty excitement that she was sleeping in Mike’s bed. She ran her hand over the pillow beside her. She could smell him on the sheets, feel his presence everywhere in the room – far more than in the rest of the house. Pulling the pillow to her, she hugged it against her breasts, burying her face in the crisp white cotton. She would have to change the bed before she left on Monday, before his cleaning lady came. They must never guess, but until then she was alone with her fantasies.

The weekend was going even better than she had hoped. The prayer meeting had ended yesterday with the resolution to meet again on Sunday and if Lyndsey had not left the village by then, they would pay her a visit and make it very clear that if she didn’t leave at once, that same night, she would be very, very sorry. She snuggled down further into the bedclothes, reluctant to move. She would go and see Paula West today – was it today yet? She couldn’t see the bedside clock without her glasses. She would check out the children, make sure they were safe and uncontaminated, pray over them. There were others she had to see, too. People who had left messages for Mike; people she was perfectly well equipped to deal with herself. It was so stupid; she would make a far better priest than he; better than any man. Why couldn’t they see it?

And then there was Emma Dickson; the woman who lived in the witch’s house; the woman who had had two black cats. The woman she needed to keep Mike away from, at all costs. She gave a small shiver and hugged the pillow more tightly. How strange that she had never suspected Emma of being a witch, too. How stupid of her! It was so obvious. She was using her powers to entice Mike; to ensnare the rector, of all people! And he was so weak he hadn’t seen through it. Typical man. Seeing the pretty surface. Ignoring women who were true and honest. The trouble was, Judith couldn’t be everywhere at once. She couldn’t always be watching over him, and she had never really met Emma. Not properly. Well, Paula’s revelation had been timely. Emma was now next on her list of people to deal with after Lyndsey. She, too, would be forced out of town.

She frowned and with a groan she turned over. Suddenly her head was aching badly. And she was getting pins and needles in her arms. Perhaps she should have a drink of water. She shifted the pillow, trying to make herself more comfortable. The discomfort was still there. In fact it was spreading. It was in her calves, now; and all the way up her inner thighs. She shifted restlessly, rubbing her hand up and down between her legs. The pain had spread right up inside her; sharp, pricking pains. She winced as she tried to change her position. She was sweating. Her nightdress was growing damp.

Uncomfortably she sat up, throwing aside the pillow, and leaned across, groping for the switch on the bedside light. It was getting hard to breathe and she felt suddenly very faint. Was she having some kind of an asthma attack? An allergic reaction to something? Please God it wasn’t to her medication. Her consultant had just reviewed the prescription for her anticoagulant. Made it stronger. She was due to go for a blood test any day now. She couldn’t have taken too much, could she? She had only taken one pill, surely?

Her hand missed the switch and knocked the clock to the ground. With it went the glass of water she had brought upstairs with her, and the bottle of pills. She took a deep, gasping breath, aware that her heart was racing uncomfortably, and managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Leaning forward she reached for the lamp again and this time she managed it. In the small pool of warm light thrown by the angled shade she stared down at herself in total horror. She was covered in blood.

‘Jesus Christ!’ The whispered words came out as a gasp, as she reeled forward, crashed into the table and slid to the floor, blood gushing from her nose and mouth and from the open wound on her leg where it had struck the corner of the table by the bed.

As she lost consciousness she remembered for a fraction of a second what she had been dreaming about. She had been hunting witches, stabbing at them with a small, pointed knife, listening to them as they screamed …

On and off Mike had dozed, exhausted. It had been almost dark when Tony and Ruth and he had arrived at the church and he hadn’t a clue where he was. They had walked across a field, watched by the mournful eyes of a dozen cows, and Tony had pushed open a gate in the low flint wall. Inside the small Norman building was all but hidden amongst its quartet of ancient yews and their attendant oaks and rowan trees.

Tony led the way to the door and produced a huge iron key. ‘They only hold services a few times a year. No electricity, of course. The village is long gone. I suppose before long they will declare the church redundant.’ He sighed. ‘This is a special, holy place, Mike. A good place to be on Halloween. A place to pray for you and for your parish.’

They had brought with them candles, rugs for warmth, a thermos of coffee, a Bible and a small Communion set in a worn leather case.

While Tony slipped on his white alb and knotted the girdle around his waist, Mike, a borrowed stole around his neck, lit the two candles on the altar, then he knelt on the step before the wooden cross. Behind him, Tony too was on his knees in a front pew, Ruth a little way behind him, sitting quietly, huddled into her warm coat. Around them the old church settled into the darkness. Mike could smell the dust of ages, the cold damp of the stone, the mustiness of ancient hassocks, mouldy prayer books and above that the sharper note of burning beeswax and, perhaps, so faint it was nothing but a hint in the dark, a four-hundred-year-old memory of gently simmering frankincense, and in his ears the cadences of plainsong echoing faintly amongst the oak hammer-beams.

He stared up at the cross. How strange that in this battle over a Puritan soul he should be hearing echoes of an older faith. Listening intently, he let the peace and comfort of the place settle over him. Then slowly he repeated the words of the collect from Evensong: ‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.’

Hopkins came to him suddenly an hour later. Strong. Certain in his purpose. Angry. And – a little – afraid.

So much evil. So many more names on my list. So little time to find
them all
.

Mike kept his eyes fixed on the cross. The long candles had burned down enough for their pale ivory smoothness to be marred by a lacy sculpture of drips. He frowned, distracted. Where had those come from? There had been no draught. In the front pew Tony quietly stood up and came to stand behind him. In her own pew Ruth slipped to her knees.

Help me, my friend. Tonight is the night of greatest evil
.

Hopkins’s voice in his head was growing tense.

She is collecting the members of her coven. They told me there were no
covens. I didn’t believe them. They were there, hidden. Her imps. Her
friends. They are looking for us
.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ Mike raised his voice to try to drown out the other inside his brain. ‘Hallowed be thy name – ’

She’s coming. I feel her near. But her imps: the two cats who feed upon
her, they have gone. They have fled
.

Hopkins was breathless. A sharp crack of something like laughter exploded in the silence. Mike paused in his prayer. The shadows above him in the high roof flickered. He clenched his fists for a moment, then pressed his hands together, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip. ‘Thy will be done.’

I can feel her. I can see the Devil at her shoulder
…

‘Lord, bless Emma. Hold her in the sure safety of your love. Make her strong this night. Be with her. Don’t leave her. Save her, Lord, I beg you.’ Mike paused; he was breathing hard. ‘Save all your servants from the evil of this night. Encircle my parish with your love. Fight back the heathen dark, fill the land with light.’ He waited again. The silence was no longer serene. It was tense. Full of presences. Listening.

Behind him, Tony’s voice was steady.

‘Lighten our Darkness, O Lord.’

The flames on the candles were flickering wildly.

‘Christ be with me, Christ within me – ’

Listen to the voice of the whore!

Hopkins was back. Mike couldn’t tell if he was inside his brain or at his ear. He could feel hot breath beside him; suddenly the air stank. It was indescribably foul.

You have to kill her, it is the only way. You have to kill her for me, and
her companions with her. Together we can do this. Kill the witches!

Mike was sweating profusely. He clenched his fists again, hearing the knuckles crack. ‘Tony, help me!’

‘Be strong, Mike.’ Tony was beside him, his small crucifix in his hand. He raised it high. ‘This is the house of God. I command all evil presences to leave this place!’ Stiffly he stepped up to the altar. ‘Cast him out, Mike. Command him to leave you!’

‘Matthew Hopkins, you have allowed yourself to be drawn in by the very Devil you detest! You will not use my body to fight anyone. I will not allow it! Turn to Christ. Throw yourself on His mercy. And in the name of God, Go!’ Somehow Mike managed to raise his voice so loud that it echoed round the church.

‘Fetch the bread and wine, Mike.’ After a few moments’ silence Tony’s voice came as a whisper.

‘Has he gone?’ Mike’s eyes were fixed on the cross.

‘He’s gone.’ Tony nodded. ‘Can’t you feel it? You were too strong for him, Mike.’

The candles had spluttered wax across the old woven altar cloth. The flames had steadied, throwing strong double shadows of the cross. All Mike could smell now was wax. He turned, surveying the church. Every corner was dark. Somewhere out there Ruth was praying steadily, but he could see nothing beyond the circle of light where he stood.

The basket packed by Ruth was where they had left it on the ground in front of the choir stalls. He stared at it for several seconds then, shakily, he stepped away from the altar and went to fetch the Communion set. As he picked up the small zipped leather case, his eye was caught by another box tucked into the corner of the basket. Reaching in, he opened it to find a brass thurible, charcoal disks and matches. Beside them was a small screwtop pot. He unscrewed it and sniffed. Incense. Was that where the smell had come from? Not echoes, after all, of times gone by, but traces of more recent struggles in this lonely church. He turned. Tony was standing before the altar, praying steadily.

Mike’s hands were still shaking as he placed the charcoal in the base of the burner and lit it, watching the sparks race spitting across the disk. The grains of frankincense melted and bubbled gently as he fitted the lid in place and gently began to swing the censer on its chain, purifying, cleansing, ridding the sanctuary of the smell of evil. As the scented smoke curled into his nostrils he felt himself growing calmer.

Under Tony’s eye he unpacked the Communion set, laying out the little cruet and the chalice, then once more he knelt. There, before the altar, he felt stronger than he had felt for a long time.

He did not see the figure behind him. The woman in the long dress, the dark cloak, the woman with madness in her eyes.

And then out of the silence, a second voice was ringing in his head:

So, the man of God, who shelters the rotten soul of Master Hopkins, now
it’s your turn. His body may lie in the cold earth, but his soul roams,
hunting still for women to torment. His soul is here, with you!

The voice was shrill. Insane. Female.

You have found someone to hide you, haven’t you, Matthew!

She was laughing.

Oh yes, so easy, wasn’t it. To creep into another man’s head
.

‘Tony!’ Ruth’s scream echoed round the high rafters of the nave.

The old man spun round, the crucifix still clutched in his hand. ‘Sweet Jesus, be with us here. Mike!’

Sarah had stepped between them, her hazel eyes wild.
You think
to save him?
She was staring at Tony now.
You hide behind the cross
of Christ, but it cannot save! Nothing can save you from the servants of
Lucifer!

Tony gasped. For several long seconds he held her gaze, then slowly his knees began to buckle. The crucifix fell from his hand and he collapsed at Mike’s feet, clutching his chest.

‘Tony!’ Ruth’s terror-stricken cry of pain was lost as Sarah turned to Mike, her face a cold mask of hate.

I curse you three times over, Matthew Hopkins. You will drown in the
blood of your own lungs as the women drowned when you swam them,
and you will feel the tightening of the noose and you will feel the flames
of Hell!

She thrust her hand against Mike’s chest and he staggered back, gasping, paralysed by the force of her fury, unable even to look at Tony. Frantically he ran his finger round the inside of the collar of his shirt, tearing it open. He could feel the sweat running down his back. Feel its arid heat in his eyes. ‘Hopkins isn’t here!’ Somehow he managed to force the words out. ‘He has gone! Listen to me! He has gone! Stand away, Sarah Paxman. There is no place for you here, in the house of God! Matthew Hopkins has gone. Christ be with me.’

The smell had returned. It was worse now. It was choking him. He couldn’t breathe. She didn’t believe him. She still saw Hopkins behind his eyes. She was pointing at him, reinforcing her vicious spell and already he could feel the cough welling up inside him. The cough that belonged to another man in another time. Unable to stop himself, he began to retch, clamping his hands across his mouth. In the candlelight the blood welling out between his fingers was almost black.

He swallowed, terrified, tasting hot, bitter iron filings. ‘In the name of Jesus Christ be gone!’ His voice echoed up into the vault of the chancel above his head. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His heart was thundering in his chest and his breathing was painful; there was a stitching pain under his ribs. The smell of blood filled his nose.

Near him Ruth knelt on the floor, cradling her husband’s head. There was nothing Mike could do to help her. Even as he stood there, his lungs filling with blood, the hazel eyes of the beautiful enigmatic wraith fixed on his, he could feel his own world growing dark.