2

‘Has that helped calm your fears?’ asked Peter once they were clear of the hotel and driving back to the city.

‘No,’ said Sarah.

She shifted in her seat. She had never been comfortable as a passenger; something about her personality always wanted her to be in control of the vehicle. She tried to shake the feeling that at any moment they were going to hit another car, or have a lorry slam into the side of their vehicle. It was silly to be so worried and she knew it, but the feeling clung on to her nevertheless.

‘Look, just because they were probably messing with the occult doesn’t mean It’s back,’ said Peter. He sounded forceful, probably more aggressive than he wanted to be.

‘I know, I know,’ she sighed. ‘Even so, we need to look into this further. There’s something about that place that just doesn’t fit right.’

Peter said nothing. They drove on in silence for several miles, slowing only when they reached the city and hit the inevitable traffic.

‘You’re not convinced, are you?’ Sarah asked. She already knew the answer, but felt it was best out in the open.

‘No.’ Peter’s voice was flat and filled with concern, but for what? She was not sure she wanted to know.

‘I wish I had your confidence.’

‘I just feel you’re looking for signs because you want them to be there.’

‘I certainly don’t want them to be there. That’s the last thing I want.’

‘Are you sure? It seems to me that you’ve been spending your time looking for clues that we didn’t kill that thing because–’ He stopped suddenly. Catching himself before he said something he would regret? Probably. Sarah was too upset to leave it at that now, though.

‘Because what?’ she demanded. ‘If it’s dead, great. Fantastic. I’d honestly like nothing more.’

‘But you don’t believe it is, do you? You think it’s going to come back for another try.’

‘Yes! That’s exactly what I think. It’s going to come back because we didn’t kill it. We can’t kill it, Peter. That’s the point. All we can do is keep it from getting a foothold here again.’

‘That’s not enough for you though, is it?’

‘What?’

Peter stopped talking. Sarah pressed on at him regardless. If he had reservations about what they were doing, they needed to be aired now. She needed to know whether she could count on him if she turned out to be right.

‘Look,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Sarah. You’re my friend and you always will be but right now I think you’re jumping at shadows because you can’t put a line under what happened to you and move on. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.’

Sarah ran a hand through her hair, rested her head on the seat’s rough headrest and sighed.

‘Peter…’ she said, but the words just would not come out. What could she say to that? He was cloaking his own fears in overzealous concern for her well-being and surely they both knew it.

She let the rest of the journey play out in silence.

3

Sarah sat in silence in the worn out armchair by the window in her small lounge. The sun was warm against her skin and the light was bright enough to see the room by, but that did little to lift her mood. Peter thought she was paranoid, or that she had still not fully recovered from their ordeal eight years ago, or perhaps both. For all she knew, he was right. But how was she expected to ‘recover’ from something like that? There was no counselling session available for her problem; no support groups she could go to; nothing. The only people who had been through what she had were the same people who had packed up and fled town as soon as they could. She had been left to sort herself out on her own.

The floorboard by the door creaked; an ever-present sign that someone was coming in. She glanced around, then turned back to the window. Peter walked over to her in silence, put a mug of tea in her hands and headed back to the kitchen; returning moments later and sitting on the sofa in silence.

She nursed her tea, enjoying the warmth of the mug as it spread into her hands, making the joints in her fingers ache a little less.

‘I’m sorry for being so snappy,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Peter. From the sound of his voice, he was either staring down at his feet or muttering into his mug. She could not tell for sure; a cloud had dulled the light from outside, sending the room into murk.

‘I’m sorry for being overprotective,’ Peter continued. ‘I can’t help it. I suppose some things never change.’

‘You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.’

Peter stood up. Sarah felt her heart pound in her chest. For a moment, she thought he really would just leave, but instead he began pacing the floor.

‘I really don’t know what to think about today,’ he said. ‘It’s all come out of the blue.’

‘I know,’ she said noncommittally. He needed to talk, so she kept her responses short.

‘I’m sorry to say that I don’t think it’s back. Not based on what we’ve seen today.’

‘Okay.’

‘But the pentagram, or magic circle or whatever the hell was drawn in that hotel. That’s got me worried. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.’

‘Oh?’

Peter fell silent. He paced across the room and back several times. In the silence, his footfalls echoed on the wooden floor. Sarah sipped her tea and waited for him to continue talking.

He snapped his fingers. ‘Marden festival. Remember? We borrowed your Dad’s old tent and you got legless on cheap mead.’

‘Vaguely,’ said Sarah. It was the first and only time she had been completely out-of-her-head drunk and consequently, much of the weekend was a blur.

‘Remember the re-enactment group? They did a dramatisation about a witch cult, or something?’

‘I remember a load of guys in armour running about and shouting something,’ Sarah conceded. ‘And a woman with a hairy wart just under her lip.’

‘That’s it, yes. They had a ritual circle just like the one in the hotel.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ he said. He finished his tea in one big gulp. ‘Can I borrow your computer for a minute? I think I might be able to find what they were re-enacting.’

2

By the time they had all made their way to the drinks tent, navigating the huddle of people who thought standing and chatting around or in front of the bar and blocking everyone else’s access was an acceptable social practice, and then fought their way back out of the tent, the re-enactors were taking their positions for the first of the day’s events.

‘This should be interesting,’ said Howard. She hooked her thumb into one of the belt loops on her jeans and sipped beer from a flimsy plastic cup.

‘What are they doing?’ asked Peter.

‘The trial of Mary Jennings. Apparently she was head of a local witch cult, and also the cousin of a local Earl or something.’

The trio found a spot amongst the small crowd where they could get a good view of the performance and settled in to watch as a middle-aged woman in faux medieval finery was dragged kicking and screaming into to a mock courtroom made from plywood daubed with cheap paint. A fat man in black robes sat behind a dais and scowled at the woman as she passed.

The clerk of the court rose. ‘Silence! This court is now in session. Lord Havelock presiding.’

Sarah leaned over and whispered in Peter’s ear. ‘I don’t think that’s how it goes.’

‘I know,’ Peter whispered back. ‘But cut them some slack. The guy’s clearly nervous.’

The clerk reeled off a list of the defendant’s supposed crimes, emphasising words he obviously felt were heinous or would make the poor woman seem more vicious and cruel than she otherwise may. Sarah found her mind wandering, the amateur actor’s performance not enthusing her. Her knees ached and there was a deep pain in her right thigh; like someone was trying to cut their way out of the muscle with a needle. She rubbed her leg absent-mindedly while waiting for the man to finish talking.

The defendant spoke only to confirm her name, and did so in a meek voice. Sarah thought she was meant to feel pity for her at this point but found herself unable to do so. The fight had clearly long gone from the woman, leaving her a pathetic shell. Sarah had no time for people who just gave up, or those who encouraged others to do so. She felt an urge to grab the stupid woman by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, all the while screaming “for goodness’ sake woman, pull yourself together!”

‘Look at her,’ she whispered to Peter. ‘She’s not even bothering to fight these wankers.’

‘She’s going to be put to death,’ said Peter. ‘Have some sympathy.’

‘If she’s going to die, she literally has nothing to lose by fighting, does she?’

‘You really have no sense of empathy, do you?’ asked Peter.

The question took Sarah aback. It was not something she had ever thought about.

‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Everyone does.’

Peter shook his head. ‘Not everyone.’

Sarah shrugged. What did it matter? Feeling sorry would not bring the woman back to life after three hundred years. She turned her attention back to the performance.

The prosecution was quizzing a man about what he had seen Mrs Jennings and her friends doing in the Eshford Woods during the previous winter. The man, was clearly not the sharpest tack in the box and was dressed in the shabbiest clothes Sarah had ever seen; only one stage up from cutting a hole in a potato sack and using it as a robe. He explained how he had not actually seen Mrs Jennings because each of the participants in some obscene dance, which he described in lewd detail and would have demonstrated if not told by the Judge to remain seated, had been wearing deep hoods.

‘This is a farce,’ Sarah muttered. ‘How this ever passed for justice, I’ll never know.’

‘It’s not for us to judge the standards of another age,’ said a woman behind and to Sarah’s right.

Sarah turned and gave the woman a pitiful glance. ‘Like hell it’s not. It’s our duty as human beings to show up these worthless scum for what they are. Why should they decide what’s right and wrong? They don’t know the first thing about it!’

Peter put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sarah, please calm down.’

She shrugged his hand away and walked off. He followed close behind.

‘What’s wrong with you today?’ he asked. ‘Everything started out so well. What happened?’

I’m in pain, I feel sick and I’m not in the mood to be reminded just how many bigoted scum infect this country, she thought. That’s what’s wrong.

‘I’m just not in the mood for this,’ she said. ‘Seeing how pathetic little bullies can just get away with such horrible things really doesn’t sound like entertainment to me.’

Peter put his arm around her shoulders and walked her back to her car. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

‘What about you? I thought you wanted to see the show.’

‘I’ll come back later, maybe.’

Sarah looked over at Peter. He smiled the warm, ever-forgiving smile he seemed to reserve for those occasions where she had done something incredibly stupid, or when she had hurt his feeling but he did not want to let on. She knew anyway, of course. She always knew, and if she was honest that was sometimes her aim, but not this time. This time she was just riled because of the pain and sickness mixed with the stupidity of what was being performed.

‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ she said. ‘Go and enjoy the show. I’ll get us another drink and see you back there.’

‘Only if you’re sure you want to stay,’ he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. His wiry stubble felt more scratchy than usual against her skin.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, and meant it for once.