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‘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.
Chapter Eight
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.
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.
Chapter Nine
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.’
