Syd Moore - Witch Hunt

Okay, I admit I was unnerved. But up ahead was a place that sold medicine that sorted out that particular ailment. I bid goodbye to the coastguard and marched onto the street, my pace unusually feisty.

The Mercurial crew were sitting outside the Billet on a couple of trestle tables they had inelegantly wedged together. Half-empty foam punnets of cockles and prawns were interspersed across the table, along with several glasses. Most of them were just off empty so my arrival and inevitable offer of drinks produced an uproarious response and a multitude of orders. Maggie clumsily extricated herself from the squash of buttocks on the wooden bench and followed me into the pub to help carry the order.

While we were waiting to be served I filled her in on my afternoon, omitting my recent experience with the old dear. I didn’t want to appear like a nut. I had a thing about that, you understand – what with Mum and everything. So I concentrated my narrative on the comely Felix.

‘Great. He sounds interesting,’ she said, steadying herself on the bar. ‘You’re doing well, Sadie.’

I smiled at my reflection in the mirror behind the optics. ‘I think so too.’

‘Was he posh then? Portillion Publishing sounds it.’

‘Not really. Pretty down to earth. Wealthy.’

‘Do you think you can work with him?’

‘Well, obviously it’s not going to be like working with you, but I have to say – the pay’s a hell of a lot better. And, actually, there’s a few things I think I’d quite like to do with Mr Knight.’

Maggie’s eyebrows moved up her forehead. ‘Oh, like that is it?’

‘He’s very charming.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Tall, good body. Has a bit of an Irish look about him.’ I thought back to that broad smile.

Maggie took in my face and punched my arm lightly. ‘Good for you, girl. You could do with a bit of luck.’

‘Well,’ I hesitated. ‘Just saying – he’s nice.’

She looked pleased and wagged a teasing finger at me. ‘Just don’t let the Man from Del Monte distract you from my deadlines though. I want my Hopkins article. Make it nice and juicy please.’

Minutes later I emerged with a tray of wine and glasses, whilst Mags followed, spilling a dozen millilitres of beer from the two pints she was carrying.

The group were in fine spirits. Even Felicity, or Flick as she was usually referred to, their quiet, conservative art director was gabbling away at top speed to Lola, the part-time PR girl. I used to think Flick rather stuck up. She never made eye contact and spoke very little, taking in everything from underneath her dark, wispy hair. One night, at the launch of a significant issue, she confided to being painfully shy and hiding it with ‘attitude’. I liked her after that.

Next to Flick, sat Rik, the sixty-something part-time ad exec who managed the advertising to supplement his pension and keep him golfing, and Françoise, the young speccy editorial assistant-cum-generally-put-upon-dogsbody. Rik was in the middle of telling a joke to Maggie’s husband, Jules, and her mini-me teenage-rebel daughter, Willow. I hoped he’d carry on but once he clocked me and Mags he insisted on starting all over again. The last navy streaks were disappearing from the sky as he began. It was black by the time he got to the punch line.

I can’t remember what the joke was about but I have a distinct recollection of laughing till I cried.

Which was good, as there was a hell of a darkness on its way.

I didn’t stay long at the pub. Usually I don’t work after I’ve had a drink but tonight, the excitement from my meeting with Felix was carrying me through.

I spread out my file of notes. I wanted to go back over the first section of the book to check that I’d got everything I wanted in there.

There was a hell of a lot to cover. The first few trials were pretty small fry, the convicted, either being fined or pardoned. Most of their crimes centred round causing livestock to fall ill, or in several pitiable cases, children. But then there was the Hatfield Peverel outbreak, with Agnes Waterhouse the first person to be put to death as a witch. Her daughter was also accused but turned witness against her mother and was found not guilty. Agnes allegedly confessed to being a witch. Her primary crime was owning a cat, who she talked to often. Its name was Sathan. Not the most sensible choice for an old woman living on her own in sixteenth-century rural Essex.

The hanging of Agnes Waterhouse set a precedent, and soon more and more women were executed. Mostly for ‘bewitching’ people to death. In 1582 in St Osyth fourteen were indicted. Of these, ten were found guilty. Ursula Kempe was accused by her eight-year-old son, whose testimony led to her execution and Elizabeth Bennet’s. In 1921 two female skeletons were found in a St Osyth man’s back garden. They had been pinned into the ground with stakes and iron spikes had been driven through their elbows, wrists and ankles. They were thought to be the remains of the two women and were bought by collectors in the nineties, for exhibition in their private collections. Imagine that – your remains bought and sold, then put on display for the rich to gawp at. I couldn’t imagine the women rested in much peace.

Then there was the sad case of Avice Cony. She and her sister and mother, Joan, were all charged with causing a number of people to die. Avice’s son was made to give evidence against her in the trial and, consequently, praised by the judge. Though he was only ten, his testimony sealed their fate. They were all found guilty. Joan Cuny, Joan Upney and Joan Prentice were executed within two hours of sentencing. Avice declared she was pregnant and was examined. After her claim was validated she was thrown into gaol until she gave birth. Then she was hanged the next day.

It was a shocking story, but one that was repeated time and time again. I noticed that I’d left the date off that last trial and, rather than sift through reams of notes, googled it. 1589. I wrote it in my notebook to insert in a minute.

When I replaced my hands on the keyboard an unwelcome sight greeted me: a private messaging box. Facebook had opened itself.

‘I’m sorry,’ the words in the rectangle read.

I picked up my biro and tapped it on the side of the table. Again, there was no name to note at the top of the box.

‘Little git,’ I thought.

‘Are you there?’ Same question as before.

I knew Joe had told me not to reply but part of me wanted to find out more details so I could trap the teenage tinker. Before my weakling impulse control was able to kick in I saw myself write, ‘How old are you?’

There was a pause, then, ‘You know. 15.’

A teenager in his bedroom. Joe was right. But this prankster was obviously rather thick too. He shouldn’t have responded. Now I had some info about him.

Would he be foolish enough to reveal more?

I tried it. ‘Where are you?’

Another pause. Then, ‘You know.’

The temptation to respond was overwhelming. Perhaps I could draw him out and hand over the details to Joe. ‘I don’t,’ I wrote.

Would he bite?

I waited for a moment then it came up: ‘I’m right here with you.’

A trail of goosebumps crept down my spine.

Hadn’t seen that coming.

I took my cursor to the ‘x’ and shut messenger down, silently cursing myself for playing right into his sweaty hormonal hands.

Still, I had to admit, it was a little unnerving. I pushed back from the table and went to look out the large front windows. There were no houses opposite, only the meandering curve of the grassy hill; the brownish silhouette of the station bathed in the orange half-light of the street lamps. I directed my gaze to the west. From this angle I could just about see a foot or two beyond the periphery of several balconies. To my left, the house next door bulged out. The upstairs windows were dark. I knew the old couple who lived there, Mr and Mrs Frenten. They were in their eighties and totally benign. I couldn’t see them trying to freak me out like this.