Last Rites (22 page)

Sarah yearned for sleep. The heartbeat sound had come back on and it kept her awake; it was so loud that not even clutching the blanket tight around her head could shut it out. The skin around her eyes felt sore and her stomach ached. There had been no visit since the day before, and so she hadn't eaten all day. She had always been slim, but now Sarah could feel her ribs properly and her face felt drawn.

She stood up, still in the middle of the circle, the blanket around her shoulders, and tried to assess the time, the temperature her guide. She sensed it was night, it was getting colder again, and she knew she had to act. She wouldn't know the answer until either she was free, or else it was too late.

Sarah went to the camp bed and pulled back the mattress. The bed had a tubular frame, with a lattice of metal supporting the mattress, springs holding it in place. It was the springs she was after. They had sharp points at the end, hooks that linked the springs to the frame.

She threw the mattress onto the floor and looked for
a spring that was slack. She rubbed her eyes, tried to blink away the fatigue. They all looked the same.

She gripped the lattice with one hand and pulled at it, so that the springs at one end were less taut. With the other, she gripped a spring and tried to stretch it out so that she could unhook it. Beads of sweat flecked her forehead as she strained, but the sweat on her palms made her grip slippery and she banged her hand on the bed-frame as it slipped off the spring. She tried not to yell out, afraid of attracting his attention, but as she looked down there was blood on her fingers. She sucked at it and then dried the wound on the blanket. Moisture wouldn't make it easier.

Sarah looked upwards, said a few words to herself, just to garner some strength, and then pulled at the spring again.

She could feel it slipping in her hand again, but she gripped it tighter, gritting her teeth with effort. The spring started to cut into her finger, bringing blood to the surface, but still she pulled at it, tried to bring the hook out of the bed-frame. The effort made her face red, but she tried to use the pain as fuel. Her hand hurt, the metal spring cutting into her fingers, but it made her angry. She took a deep breath, let out a screech, and then gave it one last pull.

She heard a ping as the spring jumped out of the bed-frame.

Sarah took some deep breaths and then she worked the spring free of the bed, saw how the hooked end was sharp. She pulled on another spring, the metal lattice hanging a bit looser now, and then worked on another one.

She felt enlivened, three metal springs in her hand. Weapons; tools. They could be useful. Emboldened, Sarah threw the bed-frame the right way up and put the mattress back on top. It was not obvious that the springs were missing. She slipped them under the mattress and sat back down in the middle of the circle. She would need to gather her strength for a few minutes, and then her escape would begin.

Everyone looked startled. Olwen turned around and dropped the knife. Some of the worshippers looked towards the door, so I ran out as well and rushed towards it, to make sure it stayed closed. As I got there, I saw some switches by the door and clicked them on. The barn was suddenly flooded with bright light from overhead.

‘What is going on?’ Olwen asked, his eyes angry, blinking at the lights.

‘I'm a police officer,’ Rod shouted, pulling out his identification. ‘You held a knife to her chest.’

No one said anything. I saw some of the candles flicker as the hands holding them wobbled, and I could feel the anger from around the circle.

‘This is our church,’ Olwen said, in a voice thick with emotion. ‘You have come into our church and broken our circle.’

I looked at the young woman, naked and cold, curled up in a ball, trying to protect her modesty. I took off my coat and walked over to her, hearing the gasps as I walked across the pentagram. I removed the blindfold
and untied the knots. When the rope fell down to the floor, I took off my coat and placed it around her. She didn't look at me, but she took the coat anyway, wrapping her arms around her chest.

‘What was happening here?’ I asked her quietly.

‘I was joining the church,’ she said, and I sensed sadness in her voice. ‘Now I can't. You stopped it.’

‘You said you wanted to die.’

She looked up at me, and I saw tears in her eyes.

‘I wanted to say goodbye to my past life. Julie was going to die. I was going to be reborn.’

‘Don't say any more,’ said Olwen. His voice was strong, and I realised that Rod had made a mistake. He had panicked, worried that he was about to witness a sacrifice. Instead, we had stumbled into nothing more than an initiation ceremony.

‘No one leaves until I have some answers,’ Rod said sternly.

Olwen shook his head. ‘You have no power here,’ he said. ‘You might have broken the circle, but you cannot stop us from leaving. We have done nothing wrong.’ He looked towards the other people in the room and held out his arms. ‘Go now to your homes. We will speak in the morning. It will be our special day, and we will celebrate.’

Rod looked at me, uncertain, confused, and then at Abigail and Isla. They looked away, avoiding his gaze, and so he nodded at me. I opened the door, and as everyone passed me I tried to catch their eyes, to see who might do an interview, but they all went out with their heads bowed. The naked woman shrugged off my
coat and pulled her dress back on over her head before running out, her face down, streaked by tears, her hand holding the torn pieces together. When everyone had gone, Olwen nodded at me to close the door again, and then he removed his copper headband.

Now that he was alone in the bright lights of the barn, I was surprised by his appearance. The ceremony before had seemed sinister, but the man in front of me was ordinary, middle-aged, unthreatening, just the ponytail hinting at a different way of life. His cheeks were filled with broken veins, and the stubble on them was grey. He smelled of cigarettes, and I saw that his fingers were stubby and brown.

‘Why are the police here?’ Olwen asked Rod. He sounded weary now.

I looked at Rod, and I saw that he was still thinking through his actions. ‘I'm not a police officer,’ I said. ‘I'm a reporter, and I have been asked to find Sarah Goode.’

‘By whom?’ His voice was rich, cultured.

‘By her parents.’

He sighed at that. ‘Then we're on the same side. We also want Harmonie back,’ he said.

‘Harmonie?’ I asked.

‘Sarah was Harmonie's name in her old life, before she died and was reborn. Her name is now Harmonie.’

‘Like Julie was almost reborn?’

Olwen nodded. ‘Julie will get another chance. She has waited a long time, and worked hard.’

‘Cut the shit, Olwen,’ Rod barked. ‘You might like your little games, messing around out here in your barn,
but people are being hurt, and Sarah is missing. I don't care what happens to the girl from before.’

Olwen looked at Rod for a few seconds, and I saw him take a deep breath to calm himself before he turned back to me. ‘So why are you trying to find Harmonie?’ he asked. ‘Your sense of humanity, of doing the right thing by her?’

His voice was mocking, and I realised that honesty was the only way.

‘Because it will be a good story,’ I replied. ‘Nothing more.’

‘And what brought you here, to this barn?’

I looked at Rod, whose face was still blank.

‘She is a descendant of Anne Whittle,’ I said. I could tell that I didn't have to explain about Anne Whittle. ‘Other descendants have met unfortunate ends. It just seemed like a good story, you know, a cursed line.’

Olwen didn't answer, as if he didn't know what to say.

‘I could tell that this was some kind of Wicca ceremony,’ I said. ‘Words like Goddess gave it away. And you don't look surprised by what I'm telling you.’

Olwen was still silent.

‘So Sarah – sorry, Harmonie – was a member of your church, I presume?’ I pressed. ‘Part of the family line?’

He looked down, and I saw him struggle with his doubts about me, wondering whether he should say anything. Then he looked at me, a glistening of tears in his eyes, and said, ‘She will die tomorrow,’ his voice breaking.

Rod looked at me when he said that, and I saw that he was suspicious.

‘What do you mean?’ Rod asked.

My mind flashed to the Facebook entry for the next day, 31st October.
I die.

Olwen didn't answer. He turned to go, but as he went past me I grabbed his arm. ‘If you know something about her, you should come forward.’ He looked at me but said nothing, and so I thrust a card into his hand. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’

He looked down at the card and then at me, before he shrugged off my hand and walked out of the barn.

When we were alone, I breathed out noisily. I turned to Rod and said, ‘That was an interesting evening.’

He stood with his hands on his hips, and then he nodded. ‘And it's ended. Go home, Mr Garrett.’

My house glowed warmly as I approached it, the soft yellow lights of home welcoming me. I heard the sound of the television as I opened the door. Laura was curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown, her hands around a hot drink. She looked up and smiled sleepily.

‘How was your evening? All ghouls and ghosties?’

My keys clattered onto the table as I thought about what had happened earlier. ‘Do you remember what I said before, that maybe she's not the killer at all?’ I said by way of reply. ‘Perhaps she is something else.’

Laura nodded slowly. ‘This sounds too much like work,’ she said. ‘I've shaken off my day, so come on, sit down and think of something else.’

‘That's not easy when you've seen what I have tonight.’

Laura sat up, more interested now, and so I shrugged off my coat and sat down next to her, then told her about the ceremony in the barn, the chanting, the initiation.

‘Your night was more exciting than mine,’ she said. ‘Was it definitely witchcraft?’

‘Yes, and the priest said that Sarah was in the coven,’
I replied. ‘We knew there was a connection with witchcraft, because of the family tree and the letters, but to know that she is a practising witch, well, that takes the story to a whole new level. So why would Sarah write those notes, as a practising witch?’

‘Guilt? Trying to lay the blame on her hobby, or whatever you would call it.’

‘But there is something else as well.’

‘Go on.’

‘Do you remember the Facebook entry?’ I asked.

‘Pretty hard to forget: 31st October –
I die
,’ answered Laura. ‘Why?’

‘Because the priest also said that Sarah will die tomorrow.’

Laura looked alert now, her tiredness gone as she became more businesslike, transforming herself back into Laura the detective. ‘Why would he say that?’

I shook my head. ‘I don't know, and more importantly, how does he know?’

‘The murder squad need to be told,’ she said, although when I agreed with her, she added, ‘but I'm not looking forward to telling them.’

‘You don't think they'll be receptive to witch stories?’

‘I don't think they'll be receptive to any idea that isn't their own,’ she answered curtly.

Before I had the chance to say anything else, my phone started to ring. When I looked at the screen, I saw a number I didn't recognise. But when I answered, I heard a voice that I'd heard earlier that evening. It was Olwen's baritone, the priest from the coven.

Laura watched me as I gave him directions, and when
I hung up, I said, ‘It looks like we might get the answers to our questions sooner than we think.’

‘The priest?’

I nodded.

‘But he might not talk if a police officer is listening in,’ said Laura.

‘I didn't tell him you were a police officer,’ I said mischievously, ‘and you don't look like one right now.’ I grabbed Laura around the waist, and as I pulled her towards me she wrapped her arms around my neck. ‘This will be strange for you,’ I said softly, ‘but maybe tonight is the night that you play at being the little woman at home.’

She went to kiss me. ‘As long as you don't get too used to the idea,’ she murmured.

Olwen looked different when I opened the door. The robes and copper headband were gone. In their place were casual clothes, a rugby jersey and jeans, his stomach straining against his belt.

He gave me a sheepish look as he walked into the house. Laura came down the stairs, still in her dressing gown, deciding to play the part.

‘Hello,’ she said, trying to sound surprised. Then she looked towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Olwen nodded that tea would be nice. I showed him to a chair, and as he sat down I saw his thumbs making small circles on his index fingers, showing his nerves.

‘What's your name?’ I asked. When he paused, I said, ‘I mean your original name. I presume it wasn't always Olwen.’

He thought for a moment, and then he said, ‘It used to be Michael Smith, but when I was drawn into the circle, I changed my name.’

I must have looked unimpressed, because he added, ‘It isn't some hobby, you know, some kind of game we
play, where we give each other names and play with candles.’

‘So what is it?’ I asked.

‘It's my spirituality,’ he said, his voice weary, as if he was tired of trying to justify himself.

‘Witchcraft?’

He nodded. ‘It's my faith. The Craft. Witchcraft, Wicca, call it what you want, but that is our church.’

Laura came in with a tray of drinks and a plate of biscuits. She seemed to be overplaying the little-woman act, but when I looked at her I detected a mischievous glint in her eyes.

‘And Julie was being initiated into it?’

‘Yes. She had waited a long time for tonight, a year and a day, and then you burst in and ruined it for her.’

I held up my hand in apology, but he brushed it away with a shake of his head. ‘I didn't come here because of that. I came here because of Harmonie.’

I sighed. ‘Can I call her Sarah? That's the name I have for her, and I'm struggling with the change.’

He considered that for a moment, and then said, ‘If that's how you prefer it.’

‘So why is Sarah going to die tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘Because it is Samhain, our most sacred day, our main sabbat.’

‘Sabbat?’

‘Festival,’ he replied. ‘Those of us who practise the Craft celebrate eight festivals a year. We call them sabbats. Tomorrow is the main one. It is called Samhain.’

‘Tomorrow is Halloween,’ said Laura.

The priest nodded. ‘That is what you call it.’ When
Laura looked confused, he continued, ‘Your Halloween comes from our festival. The Celtic new year was at the end of October. It marked the end of summer, when the harvest had been brought in, and all that lay ahead were the dark months of winter. The church tried to change it, brought in All Saints' Day, but the old traditions held. For us, it's a special time, one for celebration.’

Laura flashed a guilty look to the table, where Bobby's ghost mask sat next to the carved-out pumpkin.

‘You said that Sarah will die tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Would Sarah really kill herself on one of the sabbats, if they are so special?’

Olwen shook his head slowly. ‘I didn't say anything about suicide.’ When I flashed a look at Laura, he said, ‘You told me earlier that members of our coven had died, and that it seemed like we were unlucky.’

‘No, I didn't,’ I said, correcting him. ‘I said that descendants of Anne Whittle had died or disappeared. I don't know who is in your coven.’

He looked at me, and I could tell that he was nervous. I glanced over at Laura. She tried to look relaxed, but I could tell from the sharpness in her eyes that she was listening intently.

‘We are the Family Coven,’ he said solemnly. When I nodded at him to continue, he added, ‘We all practise the Craft, and we all come from a special blood line.’

I thought back to the family tree in Sarah's house, then to the ceremony I had witnessed earlier. ‘The Pendle witches?’ I asked, faking my surprise.

‘We call them the Elders,’ he replied, nodding. ‘They
died for their beliefs, but,’ and he looked confused at this, ‘I am curious to know how you worked this out.’

I sensed Laura fidget. I knew that I couldn't mention the letters from Sarah.

‘I was looking into Sarah's disappearance,’ I said, ‘and I was shown her family tree by her mother. She told me how it seemed cursed, that so many of the people at the bottom of the tree, today's generation, had died so young.’

He looked uncomfortable, swallowing and wiping sweat from his forehead.

‘Are you all right, Mr Smith?’ asked Laura.

He nodded quickly, and then leaned forward as he said, ‘What I am about to say is something of the utmost importance to me.’

‘Don't ask me to stay silent on it,’ I said, warning him. ‘I'm a reporter, and if it's a good story, I'll write it.’

‘What about identities? Sources?’

I thought about that. ‘Names can be worked around,’ I said. ‘Sources I never reveal.’

I could see his mind working as he wondered how much he should say – but then he sighed, as if he knew he had already made his choice when he came to the house.

‘We all took a vow when we joined our church,’ he said, his voice steady now, as if he was comfortable with his decision to talk. ‘It was one of kinship, of secrecy. The Elders died from saying too much, all those years ago. We will take our secrets with us.’

‘But did you promise to protect each other?’

‘That is why I am here,’ he said, and his eyes flickered
with sadness for a moment. ‘We can't allow someone else to die. We've talked about it, tried to work out how to stay safe, but we all knew this time would come, when I would have to break the rule of secrecy.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But I am the priest, and so I will have to live with the consequences.’

‘How many people have died in your coven?’

‘Through the years?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don't know. The coven has existed since the time of the Elders, made up of the ones who survived. Secrecy was life or death then. Most of those who went to Lancaster Castle admitted witchcraft, and they died for their confessions, and so those that were left behind stayed silent. Sometimes the coven stayed small, when sensibilities weren't in our favour, but society is different now. We have moved on, and people are prepared to accept our Craft.’

‘So that ceremony I saw tonight is four hundred years old?’ I asked, fascinated.

‘No, it isn't. It is our ceremony, decided by ourselves. Sometimes there were so few people to carry on the coven that the old traditions were lost. And the Craft isn't about re-enacting old traditions. It is a modern faith, so we adopted our own ceremonies. There are no rules in the Craft.’

‘How can it be a faith if there are no rules?’ I queried.

He smiled, but it was patronising, like a father to a child. ‘Your faith rules,’ he said. ‘Our faith liberates. We have guiding principles, that's all.’

‘What like?’

‘You tell me something first,’ he said. ‘What do you think witchcraft involves?’

I thought quickly, but I couldn't get beyond myths and legend, pointed hats and broomsticks. Then I thought of the ceremony I had witnessed earlier.

‘It seems like it provides a spiritual outlet for those people who want to have something to believe in, but who want to do something outside of convention,’ I said.

‘Like a bunch of misguided hippies?’

I smiled. ‘I didn't say that, but I think that if witchcraft was the norm, you would all be Christians. The important thing for you is that you live outside of the norm.’

‘Do I look like I live outside of convention?’

I looked down at his clothes, at the battered suede shoes and grubby jeans.

‘Maybe you're in disguise,’ I responded.

Olwen smiled. ‘There might be more truth to that than you think. And maybe there
is
something of the hippie in all of us, because peace, love and nature are what we are all about. We have one guiding principle, our
“rede”,
and that is “an' it harm none, do what thou wilt”.’ When I looked confused, he translated it for me. ‘Do what you want to do, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else.’

‘It seems a strange sort of spirituality, where you can do what you want,’ I said. ‘How can any of you be sure that you are following the same spiritual path?’

‘There are some tenets to our faith,’ he replied. ‘We all celebrate the same sabbats, and we all apply the threefold rule.’ He guessed my question before I asked it, because he added, ‘That whatever we do, it will come back to us threefold. So if we use our spells for good, we will be rewarded three times over. If we do them
for evil then it will come back at us three times as badly.’

‘Sort of insurance against the bad guys,’ I said.

‘Something like that,’ he agreed.

‘So you do spells?’ asked Laura, sounding sceptical. I knew that Laura's religious views were stronger than mine, that for Laura there was only one God.

‘Yes, we do. I know that most people laugh at that, but it is part of our spiritual path, part of my faith, and so I am not ashamed of it. It is no different to saying prayers in church, or taking the wafer and wine.’

‘I thought the Pendle witches were just wrongly accused old women,’ I said. ‘If they are, then your coven has no basis.’

‘The bookshelves are full of theories,’ Olwen said, shaking his head, ‘but what runs through all of them is that the Elders confessed to their witchcraft. If they had been in your church, you would call them saints, dying for their cause. Your church and history prefer to paint them as deluded old women admitting to things they didn't understand. Your church did what it always does to other faiths: it defamed them, and those parts that it couldn't get rid of, it took for itself.’

‘But what makes you so right?’ I asked. ‘You aren't exactly neutral on the issue.’

‘Is that different to any other faith?’ he replied.

‘So how did you get involved with the coven?’ asked Laura. ‘If it is all about secrecy, I suppose you don't advertise.’

‘Someone I had known for a long time sounded me out. It was an uncle. I knew I was a descendant, but
I hadn't realised that the uncle had been testing me, trying to gauge my interest. I'm from a different line to Sarah, from Alice Nutter, but we all maintain the family tree.’

‘And that's why you use that symbol?’ I asked. ‘The one on the Nutter grave.’

Olwen paused and looked at me, and I saw him realise that I knew more than I was letting on. ‘You've done your research,’ he said quietly.

‘And how did you recruit Sarah?’

‘Sarah came to us,’ he said. ‘We met her at a pagan festival, and when she realised we were from Lancashire, she stayed with us, said she was looking for answers. I showed her the way, and when I looked into her background I found out that she too was a descendant, and so I taught her the Craft, introduced her to the coven.’

‘How old was she then?’

‘Eighteen. I think it was her way of becoming her own person. The more she looked into the Craft, the more she realised that our ideals were the same as hers.’

‘So you're not a witch because you are a descendant?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I follow the Craft because those are my beliefs. But our coven is limited to descendants, because we have a bond, a common link. There are thousands of practising witches in this country, we are nothing unique, but we all have different rules of entry for our covens.’

‘So why do you think tomorrow will be the day?’

At that, Olwen sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. He looked down when he spoke. He seemed suddenly tired, and he ran his hand over his hair, just
a quick stroke of his ponytail. ‘Because members of our coven who have been killed over the years have always been killed on one of the sabbats. Tomorrow is our main sabbat, and so that is why I think tomorrow she will be most in danger.’

I went to the table, where I had put the family tree.

‘So the ones I have pointed out,’ I said, ‘the ones on the family tree who have died, were members of your coven?’

He nodded, and then sighed heavily. ‘That is why I have come to you. If you have got this far, then you are going to continue, and you would find out all about us. Our vow is secrecy, but if we are going to lose that anyway, then it is time to come out to try to save Sarah. If we can find her, then we might find whoever has been killing our members.’

‘Why is secrecy still such a big deal?’ I asked.

‘In the past, people died because of the Craft,’ he said solemnly. ‘Now, people won't kill us, but they might ruin us. Some in our coven have good jobs, positions of respectability. We've got a police officer, a Magistrate, an accountant. Sarah is a teacher. People are not always comfortable with the thought of witchcraft. They think it is all about human sacrifice, or stealing babies. We are ridiculed, you know:
hubble, bubble, toil and trouble
.’

I glanced at Laura, remembering her saying the same thing earlier, but she looked away.

‘So have you come here to tell me about Sarah because you think she will die tomorrow?’ I asked.

He nodded, and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

‘This is a list of all the people who have died or gone missing from the coven in the last ten years. The ones who have died often did so on one of our sabbats. Tomorrow is our biggest of the year. If Sarah is in danger, then she will die tomorrow.’

I reached out for the list, and I saw six names. Some of them were familiar from my own research. Some were new.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

He looked at me, and he seemed lost, unsure. ‘Help us,’ he said. ‘You are a journalist, so you have a voice.’

‘Why don't you go to the police?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘Can you imagine how the police would react if I went to them with this? I would be laughed out of the station.’

I noticed Laura look down.

‘You can help us,’ he continued, pleading. ‘Maybe it will be too late for Sarah, we all know that, but you can write about the link and still not reveal the living members. And if you do, the police might take notice and find whoever has been killing us.’

‘How do you know that Sarah isn't what the police think she is?’ I asked. ‘A murderer on the run?’