The Bitter End Page 14

  Sally was staring at him, puzzled, wanting to know why he'd lied about having to go to London. ‘What's happened?’

  He told her. At least he told her what the care home had said. He kept silent about hacking her effigy to pieces.

  ‘So why don't you want to see her now she's awake,’ puzzled Sally.

  He tried to shrug it off, as if it didn’t matter. ‘There’s no point in raking up the past. She’ll have forgotten the little brats who tormented her. Why drag up old memories?’ Even to his own ears it sounded totally at odds to what he’d said before.

  Sally looked long and hard into his eyes, trying to read the bits he’d missed out. ‘Well, it’s your decision, but will you forgive yourself if she dies before you get a chance to apologise?’

  ‘I’ll live with it,’ he answered, thinking that Petronella Kytella also had a lot to be sorry for if his intuition and memories were anything to go by.

  All too clearly now, in his mind’s eye he could see a snarling ugly face bearing down on him as he’d fallen in the forest. She was clutching a rock. He remembered clearly as it slammed down on his head. Then pain, then blackness.

  Sally’s hands squeezed his. ‘I wish you’d tell me.’

  He suddenly needed to tell her. To share this horrible idea that had gotten into him. He took a deep breath. ‘Sal, I could be mistaken, but I think it’s possible that she’s to blame for me being in that coma when I was a kid.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Why?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Well according to Owen, she’d chased us … that day in the woods. We’d been right little brats, so it seems, and I was the one she chased. It’s assumed I fell and hit my head, but I’ve got this picture in my mind of her bashing me with a rock.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘I could be wrong. Imagination’s a powerful thing.’

  She looked incensed. ‘What kind of a woman would do that to a child? She could have killed you – almost did kill you!’

  Well, I’d killed her cat, he thought – just about stopping the words forming in his mouth and spitting them out. He couldn’t believe he’d done that. But all too clearly, he could see a cat burning to death amongst the flames of a bonfire. He seriously wondered if Owen’s version of what happened was the true story.

  He kissed Sally softly on the lips. It was a thank-you-for-caring kind of kiss. ‘We’ll let it drop, Sal. I don’t want to see her right now, that’s all.’

  ‘I should think not!’ she said, outraged. ‘I wouldn’t mind going around there and questioning her about that day myself, even if she is old–’

  ‘No! Don't go anywhere near that woman,’ he stopped her. ‘There's more to her than meets the eye.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bear with me on this, Sal. I know it sounds crazy, but with all these strange things happening lately, it’s making me wonder. Is she just a confused, hate-filled old woman? Or could it be something darker? Could she actually be a witch? Which one?’

  * * *

  Without any carvings to take to Juliet’s shop, Paul spent the remainder of the day at his computer. Sally didn’t ask why he’d changed his plans, and he didn’t bring the subject up. The more he thought about his actions earlier, the more ridiculous they seemed. He’d overreacted, allowing his mind to play tricks on him.

  Determined to put the whole episode out of his head, he looked forward to Sally’s suggestion that tomorrow they have Sunday lunch at the Crow and Feathers. For the first time since moving in with Sally and discovering his workshop, he didn’t feel the urge to do any wood carving.

  Later that afternoon the care home rang again. His heart sank as the now familiar Irish voice came on the phone.

  ‘I thought I’d better tell you, just in case you happened to change your mind and visit after all. I didn’t want you wasting your time …’

  She’s dead? Hope surged again.

  ‘Only she’s slipped back again. Lost with the fairies just like before, like always.’

  Paul doubted she was with the fairies.

  ‘There’s something else,’ the nurse said, just as Paul was about to thank her for the information and hang up.

  He didn’t want to know what the something else was, but he listened anyway.

  There was a hint of reluctance in the Irish voice. ‘Well, when she was awake and shouting blue murder, we noticed a nasty red line down her face. Like she’d fallen and hit herself. But she hasn’t had a fall. There was a member of staff with her every second that she was up and on her feet.’

  A parched feeling spread up his throat. He pictured himself slamming the axe through the wood carving's face. ‘Was it a cut? Was she bleeding?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It was like she’d just walked into something with a sharp edge.’

  Like an axe, he thought.

  ‘Like a door,’ said the woman. ‘It must have been the arm of the chair, she’d been sat slumped.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like you to think we’d been negligent.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I’d think,’ he heard himself say. So, she’d gone back to sleep. He’d rather she’d died in her sleep. ‘It’s good of you to keep us informed.’

  ‘Well you’re the only living connection we’ve got for her.’

  ‘Yes, so it seems,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Let me know if there’s any change.’

  ‘I’ll do that, indeed.’

  He hung up, feeling sick, convinced now there was more to this woman than met the eye.

  18

  A touch is all I need then they are mine. I make them dance like stringed puppets. Others see and fail to understand. What joy as I leave them with confusion and no memory of my presence.

  Sunday brought a sharp frost and Sally insisted on wrapping up in scarves and gloves and walking into the village through the woods. The trees were pretty stark now although the holly bushes were a dark glossy green waiting for berries to form. It made Paul think of Christmas and that brought a vague feeling of joy to his soul.

  ‘So, what did your boss think of giving the bust of the President to him at the Conference?’ Sally asked, as they made their way along the path.

  Paul smiled. ‘He had to check it with the PM, and I heard back that she thought it was a good idea. I’m not getting too excited though – President Howard probably won’t want it.’

  ‘He’ll love it!’

  ‘It probably won’t even get past US security. They’ll want it scanned and God knows what in case it’s got a bomb inside.’

  She cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘People are so suspicious these days.’

  ‘That’s the kind of world we live in, sadly.’

  She snuggled closer to him as they walked. ‘And was your boss impressed with your carpentry skills?’

  Paul loved her in this kind of mood. It had been a while since she’d been so carefree. ‘He seemed to think it was a good likeness.’

  ‘Good? It’s fantastic!’ Sally exclaimed. ‘I’d just love for Juliet to see it, and get her reaction.’

  He was still keen to see Juliet to sort out this revenge witch thing on the blonde. ‘Okay, we'll see what she has to say, but let's keep our plans for it to ourselves.’

  ‘Anyway, that other carving – the nude. I love that! It will look good on the mantlepiece.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he shrugged.

  Sally laughed. ‘Okay! My eye. It’s brilliant and you know it. Oh! You haven't brought that plaque. We could have popped in and asked Juliet about it.’

  That plaque was now in pieces on the bonfire heap. No need to tell Sally that, however. ‘We don't need a reason to call on her, do we? How about we just knock the door and see if she and Owen – if he’s around – want to join us for lunch?’

  Sally beamed. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  ‘We’ll do that, then,’ said Paul, hoping also to gain some first-hand knowledge on the darker side of witches.

  Juliet lived ov
er her shop, and she was a long while in answering the doorbell. As they waited, Paul noticed some of his carved ornaments still in the shop window. It didn’t surprise him. He didn’t hold his work in high esteem. It really was just Sally looking at them through rose-tinted glasses.

  He finally saw movement through the darkened shop interior and then Juliet opened the glass shop door. Chimes tinkled, and the scent of fragrant candles and incense wafted out. There were shadows under Juliet’s eyes, but at least she hadn’t got that downtrodden look about her. Just the opposite, in fact.

  ‘Juliet! How are you?’ Sally greeted her. ‘We’re just going to the Crow and Feathers for lunch. We wondered if you and Owen wanted to join us … if you’re talking, that is.’

  ‘Or even if you’re not,’ Paul added. ‘We were actually hoping that we could match-make.’

  Juliet gave a kind of snort, as if to say – yeah, like that’s going to happen! Then she half smiled. ‘Nice thought, but Owen’s not here and I’m not hungry.’ Seeming to remember her manners, she stepped back. ‘Come in for a coffee, if you like.’

  Sally glanced at Paul, gauging his reaction. He tried not to give away the fact that he was curious to ask her about witchcraft. He desperately wanted to know whether it was psychological and all in the mind, or whether it did actually hold some kind of power, a power that could change physical things in life? He took a step forward. ‘You’re sure we’re not disturbing you?’

  ‘Nothing that won’t wait. Come on through.’ Juliet locked the door after them.

  There was a narrow stairway at the back of the shop that led up to her flat. Paul had to duck his head as he climbed the stairs. Looking around the small room, it appeared that she'd furnished her living room with left-over stock. It was colourful, mismatched, cluttered and fragrant. Somehow it seemed just right for a white witch.

  ‘Coffee? Tea? I’ve all sorts,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m into honey and ginger at the moment.’

  He and Sally squeezed together on the chintzy little sofa with its lacy arm covers. ‘Black coffee, please, Juliet,’ he said, moving a knitting bag to one side. It looked like she was halfway through creating a sweater. He vaguely hoped it was for Owen.

  ‘My usual, white, no sugar,’ Sally called, reaching across to examine the half knitted green garment. ‘Wish I could knit. Actually, I’ve been thinking about mixing leather patches in with knitted squares for a shoulder bag. I think it would look quite good, kind of hippy.’

  ‘There’s a thought,’ Paul agreed. ‘You should suggest it. She could probably do with something to take her mind off you know what.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sally murmured, placing the sweater back in the bag as her friend returned. Sympathetically she asked, ‘How are things, Juliet? Have you got to the bottom of it, yet? Have you forgiven him?’

  Juliet sank dejectedly into an armchair. She thought for a moment before answering. ‘I can’t forgive him, Sal. I’ve tried, really I have, because he’s pretty cut up. Well he would be, wouldn’t he? He’s lost me, and that woman has disowned him, so he’s lost out big time.’

  Sally spoke softly. ‘Hasn’t he tried to explain? Were they having an affair, or was it just a one-off fling?’

  Juliet ran her fingers through her hair. It was already wild. ‘He says he doesn’t know what came over him. A moment of insanity. And I'm supposed to accept that?’

  There but for the grace of God, thought Paul. ‘I’m sure he regrets it, Juliet. And is it really worth letting her win? Which she has, you know, if you allow this to break you up.’

  Juliet went to say something then got to her feet. ‘Kettle’s boiled.’

  Sally glanced sadly at him. Her expression seeming to say she doubted they were ready to kiss and make up just yet. They remained silent until Juliet came back with their drinks.

  Juliet sipped her tea, holding a delicate bone china mug between two hands as if she needed its warmth to keep her functioning. ‘I want to forgive him. But I just can't. It's like I've got this ball of anger lodged here in my chest which won’t allow it. Maybe when I’ve got my rev …’ She stopped, looking slightly embarrassed and took another sip of tea.

  ‘Got what?’ Paul asked, knowing full well what she was about to say. When she'd got her revenge.

  Juliet's voice rose angrily. ‘Well for heaven’s sake, she can’t do this! She can’t just seduce other women’s partners and expect to get away with it. She needs to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ Paul asked steadily, watching her face, seeing the slight trembling of her hands.

  She turned aside. ‘It doesn’t matter how.’

  ‘I think it does.’

  Sally nudged him. ‘Paul, if she doesn’t want to explain, she doesn’t need to.’

  * * *

  Turning away from Sally, he asked, ‘What’s it to be, a spell? Pins in a doll?’

  Juliet glared at him as if he’d just hit the nail on the head and Paul struggled to quell the disconcerting feelings that he was talking to a witch – albeit a white one.

  Quietly she said, ‘An effigy is most effective.’

  He kept his tone light. ‘Okay then, is there any proof that doing what you're thinking of doing will make a difference or is it just to make you feel better in yourself?’

  She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘It’s definitely going to make me feel better.’ Then met his gaze. ‘Don’t underestimate these powers, Paul, I know you think it’s all mumbo-jumbo. Many people have underestimated witchcraft, wicca, or whatever you want to call it – to their regret.’

  ‘But you’re a white witch!’ Sally exclaimed, accusation in her voice. ‘You’re not supposed to dabble in the dark side of all this.’

  Juliet lowered her eyes again. ‘I know that and I’m not proud of it, Sally.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking about doing?’ Paul asked.

  ‘It's probably best I don't tell you,’ said Juliet.

  But you’re planning something,’ Paul went on, needing to know. ‘What do you do, concoct a spell?’

  ‘Paul, witches long ago learned not to blab about what they do. They used to burn them at the stake, remember?’ She took another sip from her cup. ‘But what I will say is, all kinds of things can be achieved as long as you have something tangible in which to centre your spell, if you want to call it that. Something physical, with life in it. Not totally inanimate.’

  ‘So, what you're telling me is that white witches can cast dark spells?’ said Paul, seeing by her expression that he was right. ‘Therefore, witches from the darker side of the occult would certainly be able to physically hurt other people and make their lives hell?’

  Juliet looked steadily at him, then took a deep breath. ‘Like all things in life, some people are stronger than others, some are cleverer than other, some people get angrier quicker than others, and some witches are far more powerful than others. It depends on who they're involved with. For example, are there any warlocks involved?’

  ‘Warlocks?’

  ‘Yes, or the devil!’

  Sally almost choked on her coffee.

  ‘You mean the actual devil?’ Paul reiterated.

  ‘Yes, the actual devil,’ Juliet repeated, staring in exasperation at him. ‘I don't think you really understand, Paul. Dark witches are satanic. There is no good side to them. And of course, it depends on their relationship with the devil. For example, if they have done something before that's pleased Satan, then they will be working with his power behind them.’

  ‘Nice prospect,’ Paul said quietly, her words confirming his worst fears. Not that he wanted to share that with either of them.

  ‘It’s a fact,’ she shrugged.

  He’d thought it before, and now he was even more convinced that this was something Juliet needed to steer well clear of. ‘Juliet, I understand your anger, but revenge by witchcraft is not a good road for you to be going down.’

  ‘Plus

  ,’ Sally added, ‘You're a white witch, n
ot a dark one.’

  Paul leant towards her. ‘Not to mention that cases of revenge resulting in any harm to another person are frowned upon by the law. You could lose your liberty, lose your business, your whole life could change for ever over this one incident.’

  Juliet stared from one to the other, and then without another word she got up and went into another room. They waited silently.

  Juliet returned, balancing something on the palm of her hand. Upon noticing what it was, Paul felt an icy prickle on the back of his neck.

  It was a small rag doll, no more than three inches long, sewn from an old scrap of material, strands of blonde human hair sewn onto its head, and two long hat pins sticking through its chest.

  Sally clasped her hands over her mouth. ‘Juliet! No, that’s so wrong. I can’t believe you’d make something as vile as that.’

  Juliet stared at it, almost laughing at her efforts. ‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it? I’m sure I could have done better. But that is her hair.’

  ‘And has it worked?’ asked Paul calmly.

  Juliet shrugged one shoulder, but then her face crumpled. ‘I don’t know.’

  Paul had a sudden image in his head of slicing through the woodcarving with his axe. We noticed a nasty red line down her face. He looked steadily at Juliet and the effigy of the blonde. Then slowly and deliberately he stood and pulled the pins out of the doll.

  A shrill buzz made all three of them jump.

  Juliet’s pale face twitched. ‘Someone’s at the door.’

  ‘I'll go,’ Paul said, not allowing his imagination to run away with him. He had no doubt, due to the expression on the two women’s faces that a certain blonde might be standing, outraged, at the door. They followed him downstairs and through the shop.

  The sight of Father Willoughby standing there took him totally by surprise.

  Juliet seemed pleased to see him. ‘Oh, I know what he wants.’ She turned and ran back upstairs, shouting back over her shoulder, ‘Open the door for me, would you, Sal.’