The Wicca Woman Page 2

‘Look, everyone knows that it was Dian Sparks’ death that set it all off… even though poor girl’s death was just an accident. Anyway, it’s all blood under the bridge now. And horrible things like that don’t happen around here anymore, so don’t start...’

  ‘I beg to differ, Jimmy,’ interrupted Lulu. ‘Other “things” continue to “happen around here” that are every bit as malignant.’

  ‘Look, our village is as clean as a sodding whistle,’ Jimmy protested. ‘And I should know ‘cause I’m thirty-bloody-eight now, and I’m still working every lousy hour God sends on my frigging farm. So, believe me, Thorn is as boring as hell.’

  Lulu turned to Paul, who was wiping his mouth, after swigging again from his hipflask.

  ‘But I’m still somewhat surprised, Paul, that you haven’t reported on some of the vile things that are happening around here. Well, you are a part-time journalist, aren’t you? Amongst other things.’

  ‘Yes, but I only write in the local rag about what people want to read,’ Paul said, rubbing his slightly bloodshot eyes as the alcohol, which he’d consumed, was now taking its toll.

  ‘Surely people want to read the truth about what’s really going on here in Thorn, Paul?’

  ‘No, Paul’s right, Lulu,’ asserted Jimmy. ‘No one wants to know the real truth about anything!’

  ‘Jimmy, I think you’ll find that your girlfriend will want to know why you can’t take your eyes off my breasts,’ Lulu murmured as she gestured towards the fast-approaching, fuming figure of Mary Rowbottom.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Jimmy murmured.

  ‘I don’t think He had a penchant for mammaries, Jimmy. Although Christ was rather keen on the truth.’

  ‘The truth is the very last thing you’re interested in, Lulu Crescent,’ Mary cried as she surged up beside Lulu, with her arms flailing. ‘See, it’s bloody obvious what you’re doing with your tits and your lies!’ Still waving her arms, Mary rounded on Jimmy; ‘Well, can’t you see what the cow wants from you, Jimmy?’

  Before Jimmy could reply, Mary shook both her fists at Lulu.

  ‘That’s the real truth of it, isn’t it, Crescent? And every attractive guy you clap your beadies on – like my Jimmy,’ she said, pointing at Jimmy. ‘You try to steal ‘em, so you can screw ‘em, don’t you? ‘Cause you’re nothing but a thieving whore!’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ replied Lulu, with a deprecatory smile. ‘But seriously, Mary, you really must face facts. You only have to look at Jimmy’s face, and the visages of all the other goggling men behind me, and you will see only too clearly that I don’t need to play the thief in order to “steal” your guys away from you.’ Pointedly Lulu kicked her left foot at an incoming wave. ‘Although that’s not why I’m here in Thorn.’

  ‘Oh c’mon, you don’t fool me with all that flannel, Lulu Crescent,’ Mary shouted as she turned back to Jimmy. ‘Why the hell are you still gazing at her like a love-sick ninny, Jimmy? When she’s nothing but a fucking tart!’

  ‘You’re so wrong, Mary,’ Lulu insisted. ‘The reason I’m here is because everyone in this village desperately needs my help. So, like it or not, my help is what you’re going to get.’

  ‘The only way you’ll “help” us, is if you climb into your frigging car, you little whore, and then you piss off back to where you came from.’

  ‘Sorry, Mary, but I have to stay. It’s the only way that I can help to save you all – from yourselves.’

  Swiftly Lulu turned away from the three of them. Then to their astonishment, she ran past them, and through the half circle of her other admirers. She accelerated up the incline of the beach towards her beckoning sandals. She was slipping on her left sandal, when an eight-year old girl, with large brown eyes and spiky dark hair, raced towards Lulu, waving at her.

  Like most of the children in the village, Lulu mused, there is something neglected and slightly feral about this little girl. It’s because her mother, Sue Townley, and most of the other mothers live in their own primordial world. As for the men in this village, they are on another planet. So far too often, the poor children are left to fend for themselves.

  Still waving vigorously, the girl ran up to Lulu.

  ‘I was wondering where all you kids had got to, Scarlet,’ Lulu said, returning the girl’s wave.

  ‘We’re playing in the caves down there, Lulu,’ Scarlet panted as she pointed across the sun-hazed beach at some black rocks that were jutting out from the base of the cliff. ‘Of course it’s a bit scary in the caves, but it’s still a lot of fun’. Still panting, Scarlet turned and gestured at Paul, who was still standing by the ebbing tide with Jimmy and Mary. ‘You’ve been talking to Mister Hopkins, ent you?’

  ‘Yes, and you like Mr Hopkins, don’t you, Scarlet?’

  ‘I do. See, after we’ve been to Sunday school, Mister Hopkins reads us his children’s stories that he wrote. And his stories are all about how God looks after us, so they make us feel good. ‘Course, they’re different to the stories that you tell us, Lulu.’

  Lulu smiled and nodded. Then she glanced at Paul, who was taking another slug from his hipflask, while Mary was heading back towards Scarlet’s mother, Sue Townley.

  Tentatively Scarlet touched Lulu’s wrist with her forefinger. Then the girl pointed at the cave at the top of the beach.

  ‘So, Lulu, would you like to play a game with my best friend, Bella, and the rest of our gang in our cave, then?’

  ‘At present, Scarlet, I’m sure a game with you and your friends will prove to be a lot more fun than me continually jousting with what are purported to be the grownups.’

  ‘What’s all that mean, Lulu?’ the girl said with pursed lips.

  ‘That means “yes”, Scarlet, I’d love to play a game with you all. And perhaps I’ll tell you kids another of my stories,’ Lulu laughed, adjusting her sandals before turning to the girl. ‘But there is one little problem, Scarlet. What will your Mum say if I join you in the cave?’

  Lulu looked back at Sue Townley, who was now listening intently to the fulminating Mary Rowbottom.

  ‘Mum won’t care that you’re with us in the cave, as long as I go out with her tonight,’ Scarlet responded. ‘Well, just look at her with Mrs Rowbottom. Mum’s not thinking about me now, is she?’

  Lulu nodded, her aquamarine eyes glinting with concern. ‘That’s true, Scarlet. And I suppose you have no choice but to go out with your mother tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, all us kids are going out around midnight.’

  ‘I know, Scarlet,’ Lulu said sadly. ‘But, hopefully, one of my stories to you and your friends might change your minds about you all going out tonight. So…why don’t we go to the cave and see?’

  Lulu seized the girl’s hand, and together they ran across the undulating beach.

  *

  Sue Townley failed to notice her daughter racing over the sand with Lulu. She was too engrossed, listening to Mary Rowbottom’s barrage of abuse about Lulu.

  Paul and Jimmy, who were still at the sea’s edge, exchanged knowing looks as the afternoon Midsummer sun transformed Lulu and Scarlet into gold figurines.

  Then, once again, the two men became aware that the woman’s skeletal face had materialised in the cottage bedroom window, which was overlooking the beach.

  As Lulu and Scarlet converged on the cave, the face’s owner, Gwynne Spark, opened her bedroom window, and she watched the woman and the girl disappear into the cave’s maw.

  Yes, Gwynne mused to herself. There is a devil of a lot more to Lulu Crescent than any of the villagers can possibly suspect. One of the main reasons that Crescent has come to Thorn is because she senses that I have powers to match hers, and the bitch wants to thwart me. Not that she and I have even met yet, but we soon will. And now she’s in the cave with the kids, she’s bound to try to teach them some new tricks. But whenever I need the kids, they will always do my bidding. Especially on this night of nights. So very soon, Crescent, you will learn to your cost that our old ways here in Thorn are still the
only ways.

  For a moment the irises of the seventy-two-year-old Gwynne Spark were ignited with the same amber translucence that made her eyes so bewitching in her youth.

  ‘So if you’ve come for all-out-war, Lulu Crescent, and you’re planning to take over our village, then let me tell you; I have lost none of my considerable gifts,’ Gwynne hissed, shutting her bedroom window. ‘And though I couldn’t prevent my beloved Anna being murdered over thirty years ago, you will find that I will still prove to be your nemesis, Missy.’

  Agitatedly Gwynne lit another cigarette as she remembered how she and her husband used to run the local shop, which had now been closed for over five years.

  Now everything has changed for the worst, Gwynne thought. And everyone I have ever loved is dead!

  After deeply inhaling more nicotine into her lungs, she used her match to light the wicks of the triad of red candles that dominated her dressing room table like dripping stags’ antlers. Then Gwynne addressed the framed photograph of her long-dead, nubile daughter, Anna, which she always kept beside her candelabra.

  ‘Yes, my darling daughter, your spirit will still join me in our sacred Midsummer ritual this coming midnight. Along with the rest of the villagers and their children.’

  3

  Under the ice-white light of the full moon, the tombstones in the graveyard glistened like wolves’ fangs. Discordantly the clock in the fifteenth-century tower of Saint Peter’s Church chimed the twelve strokes, to usher in Midsummer Midnight, 1999.

  As the last note resonated through the evening, the tipsy shadow of Paul Hopkins lurched through the churchyard gate, and down the uneven path towards a lichen-covered stone cross and a basalt headstone. When he reached the cross, Paul steadied himself by half sitting on it. Still panting from the exertion, he blinked rapidly in the moonlight while he took another swig from what was left of his bottle of vodka. As the alcohol seared his throat, he coughed. After scratching his beard, he shoved the all-but-empty bottle back into his Jacket pocket.

  Coughing and still sitting on the stone cross, Paul rubbed his weary eyelids. Then he pulled a biro and a notebook from his inside pocket. Impatiently he turned the pages. But even with the aid of the moonlight, he was still too drunk to read what he’d written of his unfinished children’s story that he’d been working on in the pub.

  My story’s bound to be rubbish, anyway, he thought. Never write well when I’m pissed. Mind, propping up the bar as long as I did, it’s not surprising I’m out of it now. Especially as I’ve downed all this vodka since leaving the pub. And I’ve got to interview that dodgy councillor for the local rag first thing tomorrow, so I should’ve gone straight home to bed.

  After coursing his fingers through his beard again, Paul shoved his notebook and biro back into his pocket.

  Yet I always feel I must come to this churchyard on Midsummer Night. Although by tomorrow, I know I won’t remember anything that happened to me here tonight.

  ‘So why, on this night of nights, do I always keep coming back to the graveyard every year?’ he muttered, shaking his head in consternation.

  He pushed himself away from the stone cross. Blearily he peered at the church door, which he knew was locked.

  Mind, it’s not surprising the Vicar keeps it locked, Paul thought. He no longer lives in the vicarage, so he only holds a service here every third Sunday. It’s probably why there are so few Christians left in Thorn. Not that I’m as much of a Christian as I’d like to be. If I was, perhaps I could find some respite from this constant inferno that’s burning the inside of my skull!

  As he stroked his brow feverishly, he realised that he was looking up at the full moon in the midnight sky.

  And, of course, there’s the very luscious Lulu Crescent, he thought, gazing at the radiant orb above him. Yes, and ever since I talked with Lulu on the beach this afternoon, her presence seems to pursue me relentlessly. But then she did imply she might be able to cure me of my infernal headaches. And now…I can see her exquisite face…superimposed on the craters of the moon like some kind of…angelic force…

  ‘Or, more likely, Lulu, you’re no angel. You’re just a fucking succubus!’ he cried, drunkenly waving his fist at what he perceived as the ‘woman’ in the moon.

  Shaking his head in dismay, he looked down at the basalt headstone, which was close to the stone cross that he’d been sitting on. He leant forward to read the headstone’s moon-lit inscription;

  John Spark, 1923-1995, in his seventy-second year, departed this life.

  He has joined his beloved daughters, Dian,

  who was only eight-years-old,

  when mysteriously

  she departed this life in 1967.

  Now John has also joined his elder daughter, Anna,

  who was tragically killed

  at the age of twenty-eight.

  If ever a family was cursed, it’s surely the Spark family, Paul mused, continuing to peer at the headstone. And now there’s only Gwynne Spark left alive in her cottage, and she’s so consumed with hatred because of the terrible deaths of her two daughters that she’s half crazy. ‘Fact when we were kids, we greatly feared Gwynne. We knew she was a witch. What’s more, most of the young kids fear her today for the very same reason. And as tonight is Midsummer’s Night, you can bet the old witch is bound to be working on some of her malefic tricks at this very moment.

  Then Paul remembered standing on the beach with Lulu and Jimmy earlier that afternoon, when Jimmy and he saw Gwynne’s skeletal face pressed against her cottage windowpane – as the witch stared down balefully at Lulu.

  And it’s obvious that Gwynne Spark hates Lulu, he mused, so someone should do something about the old hag before she tries to destroy Lulu. Yes, and as she’s a witch, they should burn her! – like they did in the good old days.

  His mordant reverie was interrupted by the sound of whinnying on the far side of the graveyard. Subconsciously Paul sensed that it was a sound that he had been waiting for all night, but he still couldn’t fathom why he had been waiting for it.

  A moment later, there was more prolonged whinnying, and Paul realised that it was a terrified horse, which was neighing in the field next to the graveyard. He knew he had to discover why the horse was terror-stricken. Although he felt inebriated, he lurched off in the direction of the whinnying.

  As he forced his reluctant feet to cross the graveyard towards the horse, his headache returned. It was as if the inside of his skull was on fire, which made him feel nauseous and dizzy. Disconsolately clutching his cranium, he clambered between dozens of tombs that seemed determined to trip him up. Despite bruising his shins and snagging the bottoms of his trousers, he flailed onwards in his determination to find the distraught horse.

  Then he registered that the animal’s whinnying had become more intermittent and far less audible, but he still urged himself forwards. While he was staggering through the remaining graves that were close to the moonlit field, some brambles grappled his ankles, and he lost his footing completely. His left shoulder slammed itself against the graveyard wall. Wincing in pain, he pushed himself away from the wall. Still panting from all his mishaps, he peered into the field at the very moment when the horse’s neighing stopped altogether.

  Bemused Paul scanned the enclosure and the surrounding hedges, but he couldn’t see any sign of the horse. All he could hear was some snuffling sounds coming from the far side of the field. Then there was an exhalation of breath, followed by an eerie whimper.

  As the silence returned, a mountain-shaped cloud engulfed the full moon. Instantly the field was cloaked in cobalt shadows. Now unable to see what had happened to the horse, Paul massaged his aching head while he pondered what to do next. In desperation he looked up at the cloud, which had extinguished the moon, but the darkness continued to prevail for what seemed a lifetime.

  Mind, there’s nothing new in the prevalence of darkness, he thought. Often I find myself in a midnight world. It’s the main reason I keep writing my st
ories for children. Although, so far, I’ve only succeeded in having half a dozen of them published. But my stories are still the only glimmering lamps in my Slough of Despond, so long may I continue to write them for kids.

  As he swayed giddily in the darkness, he was no longer certain how many minutes had passed since the whinnying had ceased, but he had to find out what had happened to the horse.

  After taking a final swig of vodka, he shoved the empty bottle back into his pocket. Unsteadily he levered his leg over the wooden stile into the field, and he clambered down the other side, where he was relieved to see that the cloud was releasing the moon from its embrace. This allowed him to survey the field for the first time, but he still couldn’t see any sign of what had happened to the horse, or the cause of its terror.

  Then from beyond the far side of the next field, on the cliff top, Paul heard the diminishing sound of several children’s voices. Cursing himself for wasting time, he forced himself to run in the direction of the voices.

  What the hell are the children doing in the next field at this unearthly hour? he thought as he lumbered on.

  The amount of wine and vodka he’d consumed, combined with his headache, and all the molehills he had to negotiate, made his progress slow and arduous. When finally he reached the other side of his field, he peered through the hawthorn hedge. There was no sign of the children, or the horse.

  In the distance, Paul heard what could only be a young girl’s voice, although he couldn’t make out what she was shouting. A boy’s voice chimed in with the girl’s. This was greeted by a cheer from the rest of the children.

  After a moment’s silence, there was the sound of something being dragged along the ground. Then all the sounds receded.

  Despairingly Paul nodded. Now he realised where the children were going. And as it was well after midnight, he feared for their safety, and so he knew he had to follow them. His headache seemed to be frying his brain, and he had little control of his inebriated limbs, while he staggered through the nettles that covered much of the second field. While he stumbled on, he tried to ignore his throbbing hands and his stinging ankles. His painful passage was taking infinitely longer than he’d bargained for. He was beginning to doubt whether he’d ever reach the edge of the second field which formed part of the cliff top.