Syd Moore - Witch Hunt

I turned back and, from my vantage point by the window, surveyed the room. The table was about four foot away. My laptop was turned into the room, so that when I worked I could take eye-breaks on the view.

There was a thin side window that looked over the flats to the west, but it was further back into the room and so narrow no one could see in. Even so, I had a good look out of it. The view was limited. Directly opposite, a frosted window was fogged up with condensation. A small round opening beside it billowed out steam. Someone was having a late shower.

There was no one who could see me at my computer.

Okay, well, I guessed it was the right time for a break. I got up and went into the kitchen. It was too late for proper coffee so I fixed myself a nice steaming instant and returned to the living room.

I stopped halfway across the room.

It was there again on the screen.

I sucked in some air and walked tentatively to the computer.

‘I’m sorry,’ it read.

Nope. Not having it. I scrolled down and disabled my internet connection. Bugger off.

Then I plonked down my coffee and returned to work. Where was I? Oh yes, 1589. I flipped into Word and inserted the date at the beginning of the paragraph.

The message box appeared on the screen. ‘I’m frightened.’

Quickly I checked my connection. The line was flat. I should be uncontactable.

‘I can feel him here.’ The words tripped across the box. ‘I can smell him.’

I didn’t want to answer it but that familiar sense of pity, alarm, was returning.

I tapped out ‘Who?’

‘The Devil.’

Right, too much. I slapped my laptop closed. Shit. My hands had a shake to them.

Now what? I stood up and took my cup to the mirror above my old seventies fireplace. My eyes were wide. A tight line fixed across my forehead like an arrow.

Screw it. I went to the table and picked up my phone.

Was I being stupid?

Probably.

He was slower to answer than before. ‘Evening.’

My voice was higher than usual, full of restless energy. ‘Hi Joe. I’m sorry to disturb you. I hope it’s not inconvenient, it’s just that, you know what I was talking about the other day? Well, it’s happened again. But,’ I faltered. ‘It’s more threatening now. They said that they’re here with me. And I took my laptop offline but the messaging continued …’ I was speeding through the explanation like a lunatic.

‘Hang on. Slow down. You’re on speakerphone. I can’t hear you.’

I waited a minute then took him through the details, describing the specifics of disconnecting from the internet.

‘That can’t happen, Sadie.’

‘I know.’

The connection cracked and buzzed. A horn blared down the line. He was driving.

‘Look, I’m busy tonight but I can pop round tomorrow afternoon and you can show me. How does that sound?’

I nodded then realised he couldn’t see me. ‘Yes please. I’ll be home by about three. Thank you.’

‘In the meantime, get off your computer and have an early night or something. You sound tired.’

I was. I suddenly so was. I said goodbye and took his advice.

It took a while to get my head down, what with the scratching up above, but once I was gone, I was well gone.

Impossible pain racked my abdomen. Coming and going in waves. Blackness all around me. Wind howling. Wet mud. It was coming again. The pain burnt through me like a flame forcing a scream from my lips: ‘No!’

I couldn’t stand it. The spasms were beyond anything I had known before, racking me, taking me, unloosing a howl that came from the depths of my soul.

‘Oh God. Mother. No.’

I woke myself up screaming it.

Another nightmare I couldn’t remember, only the lingering sting of agony.

My hair was plastered against my forehead, nightdress twisted up around me. I pulled it down and saw my hand left a red trail.

Lifting the duvet gingerly I found myself drenched in blood. What? I wasn’t due on for another two weeks. Though I suppose everything had gone a bit haywire after Mum. I hadn’t been eating and I hadn’t been sleeping so well.

It was earlier than I normally got up which was lucky as I had time to bundle my sheets into the washing machine and jump into the shower. Though I couldn’t dawdle: my interview was in North Essex.

I popped a couple of ibuprofen and downed a bitter coffee then dragged my sorry arse out of the flat and into the car, submerging my nightmare in music.

Beryl Bennett was one of those women whose age is hard to determine. She had the manner and wrinkles of a septuagenarian but the sleek brown hair of someone much younger. Her make-up, too, was quite contemporary – subtle beige eyes and a hint of bronzer under the cheekbones. Essex women always take care of themselves. Still, readers liked to know how old people were so I’d have to ask. That’d be tough on her, I thought as she put the kettle on. Though what with one thing and another, I never did find that out.

I knew this wasn’t going to need a lot of effort – it was just a puff piece for the Essex Advertiser on Beryl’s and her son, David’s, fundraising efforts for a children’s leukaemia charity.

I liked these little jobs. Back when I was doing news, up in the Smoke, it was so much harder; the questions more intrusive, the scenes more distressing. Down here in the suburbs and countryside, I found it quite refreshing that they filled up pages with news and events that, however mundane they might appear, actually testified to human compassion and community spirit.

David Bennett sat opposite me at the kitchen table. He was in his late forties. A thickset man with thinning grey hair and a brown jersey pulled over the beginnings of a good beer belly. There was something in the way he moved about the semi-detached house and interacted with his mother that made me feel sure he’d never left home. When I pulled the wooden chair back to take a seat it made a squeaky noise. David made a naff joke about farting and cracked up. He had the kind of unashamed chortle that sounded well practised in the art of laughing alone. Beryl appeared to have given up being embarrassed years ago. Much as she obviously loved her son, she made no attempt to hide an outstanding ability to filter out his crap gags and howlers. Selective deafness, I think they call it.

‘Be a dear,’ she called to David. ‘Fetch out the biscuits.’ He instantly obeyed Mrs Bennett and went to one of the units in the corner, producing a lurid floral biscuit tin, the like of which I hadn’t seen since the seventies.

The kitchen was decorated similarly; a pretty room, with poppy-patterned curtains that hugged a large window to some cutesy rear garden, complete with plastic flamingos. David plonked the tin on the table. ‘Garibaldi, Miss Asquith? Or perhaps a baldy Gari?’ He laughed alone.

I smiled politely. ‘Lovely, thanks,’ and took a biscuit. ‘Please call me Sadie.’

‘Lady Sadie?’ he asked.

‘Just Sadie,’ I told him.

‘Maybe Sadie.’

I said nothing.

The corners of his mouth drooped when he saw I wasn’t picking up the ball with this one. ‘So,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got the big cheque any more. Is that okay? Your photographer came on Monday and took some photos of us holding it.’

I shook my head. ‘No, that’s fine. We don’t need it. This is just for me to ask a few questions for the piece. Make sure I’ve got all the facts right.’

‘Well, we appreciate you coming down, dear,’ said Beryl, setting out a tin tray with cups and saucers. ‘I know John is grateful.’

‘Right,’ I said and took my notepad out of my bag. ‘So that’s John who?’