Hettford Witch Hunt: Series Two

  Gary arrived downstairs to find that Shelley had made him scrambled egg on toast and a cup of tea. Gary sat down at the table, Shelley was washing the dishes. It was not the arrangement Gary was used to with Alison but he wasn’t about to question it.

  “What time does church start?” Gary asked.

  “In about an hour.”

  “What’s with the early wake up then?”

  Shelley shrugged.

  “I was bored, how are you?”

  “Glad to have breakfast, thanks.”

  Gary thought about it.

  “My neck hurts.”

  “Probably from sleeping on the floor.”

  “I dare say. Why is it we’re going to church?”

  “Eighteenth century rural England. Where else do you think there’ll be records of local history?”

  Gary nodded.

  “Good point.”

  “Do you want me to rub your neck?”

  Shelley didn’t wait for Gary to agree; she dried her hands on the tea-towel and stepped to the back of Gary’s chair. Feeling Shelley’s fingers on his skin sent Gary’s muscles into immediate contraction.

  “So tense,” Shelley observed.

  Shelley’s fingers worked in to the muscle of Gary’s neck. Reluctantly he began to relax and expand.

  “It’s been kind of a shitty year.”

  “I know, Alison told me all about it.”

  “The stuff with Alison was depressing and awful but the day to day business of finding food from nothing was exhausting and stressful.”

  Shelley continued to rub his neck.

  “Well relax; I have a feeling that everything will turn back around for you soon.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Gary reached a point of complete expansion. His head dropped backwards and his eyes closed. His scramble eggs abandoned on the table, the fingers dug deep enough to warm his spine. The depth and beauty of the moment was disturbed only by the sound of the phone ringing. Gary contracted again.

  “When did the phone get reconnected?”

  “Alison sorted it before she left, they turned it on yesterday.”

  “Blimey.”

  The phone continued to ring.

  “Shall I answer it?” Gary asked.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Gary picked up the receiver and began to talk into it:

  “Hello.”

  Gary raised his eyebrows.

  “Tonight is fine Ron. Sure. When will she be back?”

  “OK, well I’m free whenever you need me.”

  Gary said goodbye and put the phone back down.

  “It was my old job at the garage,” he told Shelley, “Julie, the girl who took my job is sick so they want me to go in tonight.”

  “Good news,” said Shelley, “what did I just tell you?”

  “It’s only for a few shifts,” said Gary.

  “But it is better than nothing.”

  Gary smiled, Shelley was absolutely right.

  5.

  The priest was droning on, “blah, blah, blah, God” and “blah, blah, blah, Corinthians.” Gary was trying his best to keep his eyes open.

  The Church of Saint Cyprian and Justina was an old brick built chapel originally constructed in the 17th Century. The most interesting thing about the place to Gary was that you could see the Quiet Woman Inn from its doorway, but he had never noticed it was there before. The church had undergone several rebuilds since it was first constructed. The main house where the congregation sat was all that remained of the original brick work; heavy Welsh granite. The altar was its own little section that had been added on later. The brick work was of the stone as the main chapel house but the masonry was all of a different cut. The altar itself was marble but the tabernacle was made of iron and the general feel of the church was one of austerity. The oak of the pews nagged at Gary’s bottom.

  Gary’s head slumped forward and his eyelids slumped with it. The priest voice was a monotonous dial tone that captured, if only for Gary, the dull certainty of unquestioning dogma. The priest was a man of about 50, with greying hair and a short stocky frame. His voice dropped an octave at the end of every sentence. Some of the other people in the congregation seemed to be quite interested in what the priest was saying. There was a surprising amount of people there and, considering that the church only served Hettford, Gary was surprised not to recognise any of them. Shelley was sat up straight paying full attention to everything, perfect posture and zealous eye focus. She elbowed Gary in the ribs.

  “Try to stay awake,” she whispered, “I want to look very Christian.”

  “I am trying,” said Gary, “but it’s hot and uncomfortable and I didn’t sleep well and my neck hurts again and this is really, really boring.”

  “I’ve had an idea,” said Shelley.

  “What is it?”

  “Let’s pretend to be married.”

  “No.”

  “Go on, it’ll make us look good. Plus, it will be funny.”

  “I don’t have any rings.”

  “Put this on.”

  Shelley slipped Gary a gold ring. He noticed for the first time that Shelley had put an engagement ring and plain gold band on her own finger.

  “It’s just costume jewellery.”

  “Really, I was worried it might be legally binding.”

  “Just humour me.”

  Gary slipped the ring onto his finger.

  “It worries me that you pre-planned this. Happy now?”

  Shelley put her head on Gary’s shoulder; almost without thinking he put his arm around her.

  “Now I’m happy,” said Shelley.

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  “Since last night.”

  “Why?”

  “Just trust me, it will work.”

  “OK, I’m going to lean my head against yours and fall asleep otherwise no deal.”

  “Deal.”

  Gary leaned his head against Shelley’s and closed his eyes. Her hair smelled of lavender and the angle took the strain off his neck. It was too nice; Gary sat back up and listened to the priest drone on.

  6.

  It had been years since Gary had been to church and he had forgotten what an ordeal it was just getting out of the place. Everyone waited for the priest to walk down the aisle and stand at the front door before they stood up to leave. When everyone else stood up Shelley put her hand on Gary’s leg to signify they were going to wait.

  “Are we not done?” Whispered Gary.

  “Do you really think I came for the reading from the Letters of Saint Paul?”

  “No, I don’t know. Why have we come?”

  “We’ve come to seem married and very Christian.”

  A woman in her 60s wearing all black and holding a wide brimmed black hat in her hands leaned over the pew and caught Gary’s attention.

  “It’s Gary isn’t it?” Asked the woman.

  Gary smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone who has been recognised by a complete and total stranger.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me madam.”

  Gary altered his voice to give the impression of being an Eton educated spy.

  “It’s Sheila,” said the woman, “I was a friend of your mum.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  Gary wasn’t really sure where the conversation was leading but he was already fed up of having it.

  “I just wanted you to know that it’s nice to have you back on the right hand path.”

  Gary closed his eyes so that Sheila wouldn’t see them roll into the back of his head.  He thanked Sheila and told her that there was no joy greater than the light of Jesus.  Satisfied, Sheila went on her way.

  “You didn’t tell me you have a mum,” said Shelley.

  “Of course I’ve got a mum, I’m not Sun Wu’ Kong.”

  “Who?”

  “The monkey king. You know,” Gary started to sing, “born from an egg on a mountain to
p. Funkiest monkey that ever popped.”

  “You’ve lost me,” said Shelley.

  “Monkey Magic. He was formed from stone and shaped by the elements.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You’re missing out; he’s way cooler than Jesus. He pees on Buddha’s hand for a start.”

  Shelley shot Gary a reproachful look. The last of the parishioners were filtering out.

  “Come on.”

  Shelley led Gary by the hand to the front of the church where the priest was waiting. She waited patiently for the crowd to shuffle out and approached the priest.

  “Hi,” said Shelley.

  She clasped the priest with an enthusiastic two-handed hand shake.

  “I’ve just moved in to Hettford to be with my husband here.”

  Gary raised his hand and waved.

  “Nice to see you back Gary,” said the priest.

  Gary tried not to look bewildered by the statement, as far as he remembered it was the first time he had ever been to the church.

  “Thanks,” Gary suggested.

  “Anyway,” said Shelley, “I was just wondering if you could fill me in on the history of the church. I’m a history student and I just love local history. I was thinking of putting together a whole history of Hettford.”

  “Very commendable,” said the priest, “but I’m afraid not. We don’t have anything on record past ten years ago. It seems that a local bookshop bought out our entire library.”

  “You sold the church library?”

  “It was only three books and it paid for a new roof.”

  “That’s reasonable. Do you know which bookshop?”

  “The one in Hettford,” said the priest.

  There was an air of finality in the priest’s words that suggested he wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter any further.

  7.

  Tajel was reading a book on Bio-Chemistry, Paul had given up trying to engage Tajel in any discussion about science. He had decided that science was not his forte. He was going to have the kind of broad knowledge that everyone could respect rather than any specific useful knowledge. He was explaining how he had out-witted his nemesis, the old lady.

  “So now, she’ll be on the right schedule,” Paul bragged.

  “You mean the wrong schedule?”

  “No, I mean the right schedule. She’ll come in for draws a week after they’ve taken place.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, wouldn’t have it just been easier to explain the rules to her.”

  “I tried,” said Paul.

  “But you didn’t manage?”

  “She wouldn’t listen.”

  “So you just made something up?”

  “Erm, yes.”

  “Great customer service.”

  Paul’s shoulder’s deflated.

  “I was speaking to my dad about you,” said Tajel, “he asked if you’re interested in doing an NVQ.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a qualification for workers.”

  “Like a degree?”

  “Sure,” said Tajel.

  “Brilliant, now no-one will think I’m stupid.”

  “You have to pass it first.”

  “I will.”

  The bell that signified a customer entering the shop rang. Paul recognised the woman as his old English teacher, Mrs. Fuller. Mrs. Fuller was an ample framed middle-aged woman with dark hair. She almost universally wore low cut dresses. Mrs. Fuller browsed through the shelves for a few minutes. Tajel looked back at her book.

  “Can I help you miss?” Paul asked.

  “Oh my, is that Paul?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Well, look at you all grown up. I see you’ve grown your hair too.”

  Paul writhed internally and blushed externally.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  “Yes Paul,” said Mrs. Fuller, “I’m looking for sanitary towels.”

  “Like Wet Ones? I think we have some anti-bacterial wipes on aisle two.”

  Tajel snorted. Mrs. Fuller managed to control her own mirth but her eyes flickered towards Tajel and the shadow of a smile formed on her lips.

  “They would be in the feminine hygiene section, with the tampons,” said Mrs. Fuller.

  “Oh,” said Paul, “those kinds of sanitary towels.”

  “We’ve sold out,” said Tajel, “we had a run on them this week. I’m almost out myself.  There’ll be some more in tomorrow morning.”

  Mrs. Fuller sighed.

  “Looks like I’ll have to drive into town. Must be something in the water.”

  As Mrs. Fuller walked out of the shop Tajel erupted into a fit of guffaws.

  “Total classic Paul,” she said.

  8.

  Gary sipped the cup of tea that Shelley had made him. They were together on the couch in the lounge. On Gary’s lap was a plate of tuna and salad sandwiches that Shelley had made for him. They were really nice. Shelley was sipping a milkshake.

  “Thanks for these.”

  “Thank you for marrying me.”

  Gary chuckled.

  “Do we have to go back, I’m not sure I can take another bout of earnestness from the God squad.”

  “You used to be a big church goer, hey?”

  Gary shrugged.

  “Not that I remember, I think my mum went religious around the time I was born. But it died off before I started school.”

  “Weird that so many people remember you,” said Shelley.

  “Welcome to Hettford,” said Gary, “If you come back in sixty years someone will ask you why you divorced me. We don’t have to go back again do we?”

  “I don’t think so, if they sold the library there’s not much point.”

  “Which book are you after?”

  “The diary of the Reverend who ran the church in the 18th Century.”

  “I’ll ask Milton if he has it.”

  “Why would Milton have it?”

  “Think about it. Why wouldn’t he? Plus the only local bookshop in Hettford is the one Milton owns: Occultivated.”

  Shelley smiled.

  “Hence the general vagueness from the vicar?” She asked.

  “Yes. It’s odd that Milton never mentioned it though.”

  “How long have you been in the group?”

  “About eight years.”

  “Well maybe they just forgot. It was a long time ago.”

  “What was the reverend’s name?”

  “Reverend Peter Proctor.”

  “That explains it,” said Gary, “must be a relative of Dan”

  “Dan who got attacked by the witches, do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Gary, “Getting information about it might be tough though. Dan is about as forthcoming with his family history as he is about asking women out.”

  “Worse than you?”

  Gary blushed.

  “Much worse.”

  An awkward silence followed the remark. Gary nibbled his sandwiches

  “This is a little bit awkward,” said Gary, “but if I’m going to work tonight I’ll have to get a bit of kip. I know we’re supposed to be researching but do you mind if I have a snooze on the couch? I didn’t sleep well at all last night.”

  “I don’t mind but why don’t you take the bed? You need the rest, don’t want to slack on your first night back.”

  “Really?”

  The words that came out of Shelley’s mouth were:

  “No, sleep on the couch. Just kidding, really.”

  But they came out without pause or pronunciation:

  “Nosleeponthecouchjustkiddingreally.”

  “Thanks,” said Gary.

  Another long pause followed.

  “Can you phone your friend before you drop off?” Asked Shelley.

  “About the diary?”

  “About the whole church library.”

  “Well, you did make me sandwich
es.

  9.

  Milton and Dan were stood in Occultivated. Dan was researching and Milton was restocking the shelves directly in front of the counter; those six shelves that held trade paperbacks and popular fiction. Milton had worked out that the fiction section took up less than 1% of the bookshops floor space but was responsible for 92% of the businesses sales. He had worked this out by pure guess work but he was not far from the truth.

  “Who was that?” Dan demanded.

  “Who was what?”

  “On the phone?” Dan asked.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know, about ten minutes ago.”

  “Why are you asking now?”

  “Because I’m just getting to it.”

  “What because you’ve been so busy?”

  “I have been reading Der Hexenhammer, for advice about Gary.”

  “What are you going to do? Hang him up by his thumbs?”

  “As a founder member of the Hettford Witch Hunt I will do whatever is necessary to protect the population from witchcraft, devilry and sorcery.”

  “Well, that was Gary on the phone.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “He was saying that he has work tonight so won’t be able to make dinner. So you’ll have to hold off from pricking him or searching for superfluous nipples.”

  Dan considered the matter.

  “So if Gary and whatsherface aren’t coming, and if you and Carrie split a chicken. That leaves a whole chicken for me?”

  “Erm, no. That leaves plenty of leftovers for the week.”

  Dan’s face reddened.

  “Oh what? This is unbelievable, you’ll give it to people who might well be witches but you won’t let me have it?”

  “Nobody needs to eat a whole chicken Dan?”

  “I do, I have an accelerated metabolism from my military years.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean you can eat all you want and never get fat?”

  Dan looked at Milton in complete and utter disbelief.

  “Have you seen how much I eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “By those standards, I am exceptionally thin.”

  10

  The heat of the afternoon sun put an end to Gary’s snooze. His head sank deep into the pillow. It had only been a few days since he was last in the bed but his return felt like a triumph, something to be celebrated. Three triumphs in one day, thought Gary: I’ve got some work, I’ve slept in a bed and Alison has returned to me. He was, of course, completely wrong about the last one.

  The reason that Gary believed Alison to have returned was because he was holding her hand. At least he thought he was holding her hand. His fingers were definitely linked up with somebody else’s but now that he had given it some thought, it was quite unlikely that it was Alison’s fingers.

  The simplest way to get to the bottom of the mystery was, Gary knew, to open his eyes. He had a sense of Schrodingerian panic at the possibility. As soon as he opened his eyes, Alison would either be there or not but if he left them closed then he could enjoy the comfort of believing she was there. The hand he was holding twitched, ever so slightly. Gary opened his eyes.