The Woman and the Witch Read online

  Contents

  Prologue: Angie, Today

  Chapter 1: Frieda A Beginning

  Chapter 2: Angie

  Chapter 3: Frieda Falls

  Chapter 4: Angie

  Chapter 5: Frieda Remembers

  Chapter 6: Angie

  Chapter 7: Frieda Suffers

  Chapter 8: Angie

  Chapter 9: Frieda Watches

  Chapter 10: Angie

  Chapter 11: Frieda and Will

  Chapter 12: Angie

  Chapter 13: Frieda Regrets

  Chapter 14: Angie

  Chapter 15: Frieda Hunts

  Chapter 16: Angie

  Chapter 17: Frieda Heals

  Chapter 18: Angie

  Chapter 19: Frieda and Marroch

  Chapter 20: Angie

  Chapter 21: Frieda Fights

  Chapter 22: Angie

  Chapter 23: Frieda An Ending

  Chapter 24: Angie A Beginning

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue: Angie, Today

  It’s a struggle to remember how it all started. Yesterday I was hacking away at a thorny hedge, watching the scratches of blood scribbling across my arms when I realised with a jolt that I was now the age Mrs B. was when I met her, almost fifty years ago.

  It quite shook me up; I had to go and have a sit down.

  Checking nobody is about, I drag deep on an illicit fag, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. My eyes follow the smoke as it winds up to the sky. A beautiful afternoon in May. The wall of the shed is warm against my back.

  I stretch my arms out in front of me to flex my aching wrists. The twisted, bony length of them still gives me a shock, even now, after all these years. I miss the bulk I carried for most of my life. Strange. I used to loathe the fat as a younger woman. Now the loss of it makes me feel insubstantial, as if a gust of wind could blow me away, leaving nothing but scraps and a crumple of clothes. I examine the bones rising out of my skin. My hundred-year-old skin. Not that it looks it. I’d picked up enough tricks from Mrs B. thank God.

  An old man with a livid bruise staining the side of his face stumbles wearily past me. I smile up at him and enjoy the look of shock on his face. I nod and he raises woolly eyebrows. With agonising slowness, he folds himself down onto the ground and collapses back against the shed alongside me with an oof of a breath.

  As one, we turn our faces to the sun and close our eyes. Gathering the sun’s warmth, I take his hand and hold it between mine. It is as hard and gnarled as a tree root; I have to concentrate hard before I feel it soften and I open my hands, palms up, weighing the emptiness as he drifts away.

  He’s exhausted me and I start to doze. I allow my past to swirl around my head. I can see Mrs B.’s face now as clearly as I could the day I first met her. Hers, and Charlie’s, and my lovely Gary. Fifty years ago. Fifty years. The thought makes me dizzy. It doesn’t seem possible so much time had passed since the year I thought was an end was actually a beginning.

  Chapter 1: Frieda A Beginning

  I knew I’d never die young. Illness, suicide, murder: none could touch me. Old age was something I expected. But this old? No. I must be over a century by now.

  What is a surprise, apart from the obvious horrors of skin swinging from joints and my once fiery eyes disappearing into floury flaps, is that I've mellowed. I'm not quite the evil bitch I used to be. I don't seem to enjoy inflicting the little cruelties that were such a pleasure when I was young. The mean-spirited jabs I’d dole out to people who had upset me are few and far between nowadays.

  I still have a good go every now and then - that fool Andy didn't realise it was me who, with a flick of my fingers, forced his tool box to crash to the floor. Spanners span, clattering across my flagstones, one smashing into his elbow. A wince squeezed flat the puffed smuggery of his face, and I enjoyed watching him struggle to maintain his facade of the affable handyman. Good old Andy, here to help poor old Mrs B. who lived up the hill. Poor old Mrs B. my backside.

  He comes because he's discovered my habit of slipping notes between the pages of books. Since he started working at the house, my Wuthering Heights is £50 lighter, Beloved has lost a twenty and my complete Shakespeare has been picked clean. Greasy fingers, more used to prying apart the pallid thighs of local tarts, have been inserting themselves between the pages of my books and milking them dry.

  Firing him would be tedious. Besides, I quite like flexing the old muscles and torturing him, just a little: the sour slime clinging to the edges of the cup of tea I make with a smile, the fragment of glass I spit into his boots so he walks with a grimace as he comes to the door. Sadly, though, I find as I age my powers have more of a cost; they are strong as ever but inflicting pain leaves me with a hangover, no matter how justified the punishment.

  Ha! The irony. It is as if a deity in which I don't believe has decided to try and make me into a better person as I grow closer to death - good deeds seem to make my hair curl and my step lighter - bad ones give me indigestion and a headache. A shame, as I always wanted to be the girl from whose mouth toads leap, not the insipid moron who spills forth diamonds and pearls.

  With irritation, I watch Andy washing his hands in the kitchen sink, splashing arcs of water that puddle on my wooden counters. His position at the window means I can admire the spreading bald patch, which he takes such pains to conceal. I wonder if he has to hold his wife's hands down in bed in case she tugs at his failing follicles in a moment of passion. I snort at the thought of the poor woman being inspired to passion by this goblin of a man.

  'Something funny, Mrs B?' Andy asks, drying his hands and turning to me where I sit, crooked as a sixpence, at the kitchen table.

  'No, nothing, dear,' I reply, squinting up at him and attempting a kindly smile; he looks nervous. He often does when he works up here. He finds the way I watch him unsettling. It means he can’t get away with the little tricks of which I know he is fond. Even now, I see his restless little eyes scanning the kitchen, looking for jobs he could offer to fix - at a cost, of course. 'What do I owe you, Mr Cartwright?' I say.

  As expected, he begins to pack up rapidly, throwing over his shoulder that he would get Angie to send up an invoice, his words almost disappearing in the clatter of his retreat as he slams the door.

  Contemptuous little shit. Andy has no balls. His eye-watering bills have to be paid as he's the only plumber in the village. He should have a house as big as mine with what he charges but he pisses it away. Gambling. Hence the light-fingered petty thieving he does on the side. I watch as he climbs into his van. He looks different. I can’t work out how. Thinner perhaps. The wind thrashes a spiteful handful of rain against the windowpane and I blink, re-focus and smile. With a pass of my hand, the paint on his doors begins to peel.

  The headache starts, sharp and sudden and I groan with the pain of it. Bloody thing. Couldn't they see the man was a bastard who deserved everything he got? I draw a line across my forehead and although the pain eases, it doesn't go away. Stumping up the stairs, I shiver in the cold before reaching the bedroom and easing into my bed. With an effort, I let all thoughts of the idiot recede and lie back to survey the ceiling.

  Familiar landscapes shift and twist before my eyes as I drift. Faces form and dissolve, skies and sunsets pass. Every minute of my years lies heavy in my bones.

  Dreaming about Charlie was always an irritation but I didn't seem to be able to help it. Dear God! You'd think I would have forgotten all about him by now - it's been years. I was sixteen when I fell in love, twenty when he died and now, here he is, over eighty years later haunting my dreams. My powers were raw then, not easy to control although the shine of them could be seen in my hair, my eyes - men flocked to
its gloss and charm. I was such an idiot. I had no idea. I thought it was the size of my breasts, the hand span of my waist, the depth of my painted smile.

  I wonder why it's Charlie, of all of them, whom I keep seeing. Not just in my dreams, but out of the corner of my eye as I walk through the wood, or in the smoke of the fire in the morning. Charlie's face peers at me, his mouth working but I hear nothing.

  Ach, I don't know what he wants and don't care much. With a strong bend of will I wrench the dream away from Charlie's face and slip with relief into a memory: sinking under water in the Indian Ocean over seventy years ago. I watch the rising stream of bubbles and feel the corrugated curves of white sand under my feet.

  Waking is an abrupt and disorienting plunge back into the realities of my age and I don't need to glance at my grandmother's clock on the bedside table to know it is a few minutes past four in the morning. The witching hour, I grunt to myself and open the door to let in Eldritch who has been waiting for me.

  I draw some comfort from the hard push of her skull as she rubs her head against my knuckles; I pull her eyelids back, stroking the soft darkness of her fur. She knows me so well, I think, as she leaps onto the arm of my little chair by the now cold fire. I have no time for her during the day, but at night, when my ghosts follow me, she knows her presence is welcome.

  Sighing, I settle in my chair and catch sight of my face in the window. The black mirror shows my folds and lines and my eyes are hollow. I know with a bit of fire, some words and a pass of my hand I could, for a while, tighten my skin and darken my hair, but it is too exhausting to even consider and so I empty my head, and stroke the damn cat, avoiding my reflection as dawn begins to spread across the wood.

  *

  I must have dozed off in the chair as I wake that morning stiff and cold. I have to shake my head to throw off the shreds and threads of voices clinging to my ears and mouth. I don't eat much nowadays. Food makes me heavy and sluggish so a pot of tea is enough. A few Dickinson stanzas feed me well warming my old bones as I read of certain slants of light on winter afternoons.

  Today, my walk to the village is hampered by the damp rain that falls as I wrestle the gate shut behind me. Neighbours nod as they drive past; I see their mouths move as they talk to each other. I can almost hear their words, 'there goes Mrs B. Look at her! Over a hundred and still walking!' Oh, their vacuous inanities grate and I long to show them something worth their admiration. I dream of spreading my arms like flames and rising into the air as their mouths drop open, the disgusting chewing gum falling unnoticed as I disappear in billows of steam and smoke. Instead, I smile and twinkle, as they expect me to do, and continue my walk along the green tunnels of the lane that twist down into Witchford.

  Oh look at me in this fag-end of a village! I, who have danced naked with Picasso, flirted with Beckett and helped Orton to hide bodies. I, who have watched the sun set over Indian mountains, seen the dawn slide across the dunes of the Sahara, reduced to this damp speck of an English village where I fulfil the fantasies of weekend tourists hoping to find Miss Fucking Marple.

  I am in too bad a mood to acknowledge my role in the journey that has led me here. At least I know I am safe here, mostly. Besides, I was growing weary of running, Nobody would think to look for me here. The wood protects and shelters the house, and the secrets hidden within it.

  The rain sizzles on my skin and I breathe deep to rein in the irascibility that's fizzing at the tips of my fingers. The green moss of the air fills my lungs and slides its energy into my bones and muscles so my legs grow stronger and my arms loosen. My back straightens and I stride down the path. There is a sudden strange alchemy with which I have become familiar in the air; the greens of the wood blur and as I move I hear the caw of seagulls and then I am there again, sixteen, running down the sand, breathless and hot under a blazing blue-glass sky.

  In my hands two lemon ices melt and I lap at the delicious coolness, sticky on my fingers. I tumble to the ground almost into Charlie's lap and he laughs taking the ices from me. His skin is hot, the sun dazzles my eyes and then - with a sickening lurch - I am back in the wood, my chest heaving.

  With a shaking hand, I reach for the nearest tree for support and sink to the ground. This was happening more and more often, and the effects were unpleasant. And why the memories of Charlie? I have years and years at my disposal and yet this strange form of time travel seems inextricably linked with a boy about whom I haven't thought for decades. Why wasn't I getting the chance to revisit marvellous adventures travelling around the world? Or torrid love affairs with unsuitable men? Why Charlie on Margate sands of all places?

  With a tsk of annoyance, I pull myself up and recover the basket that had rolled away. I will not let these incidents affect me. I will not let myself be troubled by something that happened so long ago with someone so long dead.

  My energy has left me and when I reach the shop I am in bad spirits. Mrs Gray, the owner, is a sour-faced, interfering old biddy who never recovered from the shock of losing her husband to the local vicar. From what I hear, the two of them are living together on the other side of Redbury but his name is never mentioned, and to Mrs Gray he is dead and buried. Standing by the meat slicer, arms folded across her blue bust, white hair pinned close to her narrow skull she flashes me a saccharine smile.

  'Mrs B, how nice to see you. Can I help at all?'

  'I'm fine,' I grunt. 'I can find what I need.' I sense her raising her eyebrows behind my back at Maeve, the Doctor's wife who has just come in, and I clench my hands into fists before my fingers started working some mischief beyond my control. How I loathe their poking and prying.

  I need tea and something for the cat, but I find Maeve in front of me, blocking my way. She is a good-looking woman, perhaps a little blousy, but she has clear skin and fine red hair and her eyes are kind. I have known her a long time, she would call me a friend. But her and her husband worry about me. They fester and fuss about me living on my own in Pagan’s Reach. They visit often and poke about – Maeve has even tried to get a regular cleaner in, but I soon saw her off. She didn’t even get through the door.

  'Frieda! I was just talking to Michael about you, how are you, are you well?'

  'Perfectly well thank you, if you'd just excuse me...' I try to push past her but she stands firm. I knew she would.

  'Yes, Mike was saying he hadn't seen you for a while and you know how he likes to keep his eyes on the village elders!' She laughs and I want to kill her.

  'As I said, I'm fine.' I glare at her then show my teeth in a smile. 'Do send my regards to Michael. And I hope Will is feeling better?' I cock my head to one side in faux sympathy and enjoy Maeve's expression flittering through bewilderment to fear as she processes what I said. Hah! She must be wondering… what do I know? How do I know?

  Maeve and Michael's dirty little secret, the golden boy who seems not to be quite so golden after all. I see her eyes widen and her pupils dilate. If I look closely enough I am sure I would see in her glossy irises a tiny upside down image of her boy being carried away on a stretcher, vomit crusting his lips. Maeve jerks away from me and turns so I could pass. Mrs Gray looks over, eyes alive with curiosity but Maeve's ashen face shuts her up and she bustles across to the till.

  I decide to cut across the Green on the way home. The sky has cleared and the breeze is fresh helping the headache crawling around my temples. Unfair, I thought. I hadn't been mean, just unkind. Still, wouldn't hurt to... I see the new playground sitting at the bottom of the hill. Children crawl and squirm across all manner of wooden buildings made up of ladders and slides and poles. A few mothers are dotted about, smoking and blank faced.

  A little girl sits on a bench crying as if her heart would break. I can see nobody to whom she belongs. I settle next to her, taking care to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

  'Hello, dearie,' I say in my most comfortable Grandma voice. 'What's wrong?' She's been crying for so long her blonde hair is stuck to her face with tears. He
r cheeks are as red as apples. She can’t have been much older than four and I look again to see who was with her. Still no one. I give her my best twinkle and she calms down enough to hold out her hands.

  A ruined doll gazes at me, her features smeared by a rough hand. I suspect the group of boys screaming around nearby. I hold the toy with exaggerated care. The arms have been wrenched loose and dangle. Meeting the girl's eyes, I hold a finger to my lips and pass my hand over the doll, whispering words that ripple and spin from my lips. I close my eyes until I hear the girl gasp. I am aware of a surge of pleasure as I pass the restored doll back and the girl’s face, bright as a star, looks at me in astonishment.

  I am still chuckling, albeit breathlessly, as I climb the hill towards home. Playing Mary Poppins can be as fun as playing Medusa, sometimes. The children are as tiny as ants from where I stand, but I can still see the little girl, a pink dot on the bench. She waves a tiny hand at me, high up in the woods.

  The garden is getting so overgrown there are areas I haven’t been able to explore for years. To reach all four statues is becoming a struggle but I push through the long grass, feeling the brambles scratching at my clothes. The smiling little shapes gleam through the undergrowth.

  I feel the cool jade under my hand and I carefully remove its covering of leaves. I can’t see their features in the dimming light, but my fingers feel for their faces, slipping over familiar dips and curves, reassured nothing has changed. I know nothing can happen to them, nobody knows they are here, but I cannot help checking them daily nonetheless. The thought of what could happen if they were destroyed is too horrifying to contemplate.

  It takes a good half an hour to get round to all of them and it is cold and late when I return. How I long for the start of spring. I hate these grey skies that weigh heavy on my shoulders. I feel older in the winter, and being trapped here with no chance of escape is a sore punishment indeed.

  The house looks forbidding and bleak and even Eldritch, curling round my legs and purring as I open the door doesn’t cheer me up. I feed the stupid creature and look in my cupboards but no inspiration comes, so I settle for liquorice root tea and a heel of bread.