Ruth Warburton - Witch Finder

Far away she could hear sounds, crashes, as if machinery were falling to the ground. Cries of fear too. And then: the smell of smoke.

The heat of the forge blazed bright and Luke sweated as he hammered the red-hot metal, the sweat running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes like tears.

William wasn’t back. No doubt he had met a friend and they were drinking. Another night Luke might have gone out himself to the Cock to find them. Not tonight. Tonight he was glad to be alone, hitting something as hard as he could.

But nothing – not even the hot, bright flames of the forge – could chase away the shadowy memories that seemed to be crowding into his skull.

A hand, creeping across the floor like a spider.

A girl’s lips, so soft he could hardly bear it.

The sound of a fist meeting bone – and a girl’s cry.

The feel of a brand in his shoulder.

And then, as he began to twist the hot metal into shape, something else. The shape of a coiled snake, silver bright, on top of an ebony cane.

He let the hammer drop, putting his hands to his head, as if he could keep out the horrors, but they forced their way, exploding in his head like fireworks. The crack of a bridge strut. The scream of a horse. Narrow brows furrowed, a coin in the sun. Blood on white skin. Hair like fire.

Minna.

Cherry.

Rosa.

Oh, God, Rosa.

The memories flooded back, his skull felt as if it would crack. And then he knew – he knew what he had to do.

The guard at the gate was a witch, although not a good one. The thin white wisp of his magic melded with the fog, disappearing into the night. Luke felt in his pocket for the bottle. The one he had taken to Knightsbridge was gone, probably still under the board in Fred Welling’s room for all he knew, but a moment’s search of William’s room had revealed a rough bundle in his chest. Unwrapping it, Luke found a knife, a bottle, a rag.

Now they were in the pocket of Luke’s jacket, the rag twisted round the bottle so that the knife would not chink and smash the glass.

His heart pounding, he pulled out the rag and the bottle, thankful for the meagre gas-light and the muffling fog. When he wrenched out the cork the fumes almost choked him, stinging his eyes and throat, but he splashed some on to the rag, stoppered up the bottle, and took a deep breath. Then he crept forward, hugging the wall.

The witch did not see him until the last moment and, when he did, his eyes widened and his mouth opened – to call for help, or shout a spell? Luke didn’t wait to find out. He leapt at him, the rag clenched in his hand, and crushed it over the man’s mouth and nose. He was a big man, matching every inch of Luke’s six foot, but Luke had the advantage of surprise. The man clawed at Luke’s fingers, scrabbling for a hold, but the stuff in the bottle was too strong. His struggles slackened, his kicks and snorting gasps turned to spasmodic twitches, and at last he hung from Luke’s arms, limp as a sack of coal.

Luke dragged him into the shadow of an arch and there pulled off the man’s greatcoat and cap. No point in sticking out more than he had to.

Dragging them on over his jacket, he stepped out into the courtyard. It was dark, but not as dark as it should have been. There were flames coming from an upper window.

Luke ran to the door and wrenched it open, a great wall of smoke coming out to meet him. He choked but, pulling his muffler over his face, he plunged in. In front of him was a hall, clearly empty, some kind of refectory. The sound of crackling and the smell of smoke was coming from upstairs. He took a deep breath and began to climb up towards the heat.

The first thing that met his eyes at the landing was a huge, long room filled with men, women and children working a vast conveyor belt. They were choking in the smoke, their eyes watering, but they worked on.

‘What are you doing?’ Luke bellowed at one of them, a girl of about ten. ‘This place is burning down! Get out!’

She shook her head and carried on scrabbling the matches into stacks.

‘Are you mad?’ He pulled off the muffler, the better to shout, and choked against the smoke, but found the breath to shout again. ‘Get out, all of you!’

They took no notice. Luke looked around him. There was a long iron pole behind the door, with a hook on the end, designed for opening windows too high to be reached with a ladder. He grabbed one end and brought it smashing down on the conveyor belt. There were cries of alarm from the workers and one of them, a girl with wispy pale hair, looked up, confusion in her eyes.

‘Whatcha doing, mister?’

‘Get out!’ he bellowed again. She shook her head dully, and he raised the pole above his head and brought it down again. The conveyor belt juddered but didn’t stop, and the girl reached, as if mesmerized, for another handful of matches. Luke could have screamed. Would they never stop work until the blasted belt stopped too?

Suddenly he had a thought.

Yanking the knife from his pocket, he scattered aside the handfuls of matches and began to saw at the thick India rubber of the conveyor belt. It was hard, almost impossible – as soon as he made one good cut the machine pulled the fabric from his hands, and he was faced with a fresh, undamaged stretch. He hacked and hacked, fighting against the hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him. The crackle of flames sounded louder than ever.

Should he just give up? Leave them to it?

With one last effort he raised the knife above his head and stabbed it viciously through the material of the conveyor belt, deep into the wooden support beneath.

It held.

The relentless force of the conveyor belt pulled on, but now it was destroying itself, its whole force ripping against the knife in its guts. A long rent began to appear in the centre of the belt. Then, suddenly, it stuck. The knife had come up against a join in the belt, stitching too strong to slit. There was a shriek as the belt pulled tight, the metal gears bending and whirring. The whole roomful of workers had stopped, watching, hypnotized as the machine strained and screeched its protest. Then, with a deafening bang, the belt snapped, throwing matches high into the air, raining down like hail on their backs.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ gasped the pale-haired girl. ‘What’ve you done?’

‘Get out!’ he roared at her. This time she blinked. And then she nodded and ran.

There were murmurs as the others watched her go – and Luke shouted, ‘Well? What are you waiting for? D’you want to burn?’

It was as if his words burst a dam and one after another they began to stumble and then run towards the door, making for the courtyard and the relative safety of the Thames.

Luke pulled the knife out of the belt and started to run in the other direction, deeper into the factory.

Bodies pushed past him, making for the door, and he scanned every face that passed, looking for Minna – but she wasn’t there.

‘Minna!’ he shouted above the noise of footsteps and the far-off crackle of flame. A girl, about his age, stumbled into him and he grabbed her arm. ‘I’m looking for a friend, Minna Sykes. D’you know her?’

‘Dipping room,’ she gasped, and then pushed past him.

‘And where’s that?’

‘Down the corridor, on yer right. Lemme go, mister.’ She tore her arm out of his grip and ran.

The long, low room was almost empty now, but he could hear the roar of machines from next door and he ran in to find the workers still labouring in spite of the smoke, choking as they tied the matchboxes into parcels. Now he knew that the spell was bound up in the machines it was easier. He didn’t waste time begging or trying to shake them out of their indifference, he just went straight for the belt with his knife. There was the same grinding, shrieking roar, like the dying screams of the machine, and then it snapped and the workers were dazed and staggering like new-woken drunks, the room ringing with his shouts as he harried them towards the stairs.