Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ to a woman’s terrified, agonised scream …

      Mark had awoken drenched in sweat and panting, and switching on the lamp reached for the wristwatch he had left on the bedside table. It was still barely ten o’clock.

      It was a long time before he fell asleep again. This morning when he woke he had found that his first thought had been to find the local clergyman.

      Mark took a deep breath and turned back to Mike.

      ‘You know practically every old house round here claims to be haunted either by a witch or by the Witchfinder General?’

      Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘A slight exaggeration. But I know there are a few such claims. A piece of history like that leaves its mark on a community.’

      ‘And it’s good for the tourist trade.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Mike glanced at him sideways. ‘May I ask what it is that has happened to make you seek me out?’

      ‘Nightmares.’ Mark shrugged.

      ‘And you think this would be the domain of the church rather than the doctor?’

      Mark ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’m not neurotic. I normally sleep like the dead.’ He paused and exhaled sharply, eyes closed. ‘Not a happy choice of phrase, perhaps. I sleep well. I’m in good health. The only dead which normally give me nightmares are deadlines.’ He gave a humourless chuckle. ‘It has only happened since we came here. Last night –’ he shook his head – ‘and the night before, I was running, hiding, trying to hide someone, then, in the dream,’ he paused, finding it hard to speak, ‘I was upstairs. In the shop. And I heard a scream. I can’t get the sound of those screams out of my head.’

      Mike felt a small cold shiver tiptoe down his spine. ‘Does this fit in with the history of the shop?’ he asked gently.

      ‘Maybe. We’ve been told Hopkins walked some of the witches there.’

      ‘Walked them?’

      ‘Up and down, all night. He practised sleep deprivation. A very effective form of torture. Proper torture was illegal in England, you understand, except where treason was suspected. This was his speciality. No mess. No equipment needed.’ He shivered. ‘But they wouldn’t have screamed. Would they? Not just for walking?’

      Mike did not reply immediately. Staring at the ground he absorbed unseeing the gentle colours of the small, stained-glass window thrown onto the grey stone at their feet. ‘Would you like to come back to the rectory to discuss this? It’s a serious matter and I would really like to take some time to think. And to pray.’ He looked up and grinned almost apologetically.

      Mark shook his head. ‘I can’t now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re filming an interview at one o’clock. I’d better get on. Perhaps some other time?’

      Mike nodded. ‘Whenever you like. You know where to find me.’ He paused. ‘Mr Edmunds, before you go, you said you filmed through the night. Was there anything on the film?’

      Mark smiled wryly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a thing!’

      Mike watched as he made his way to the door and disappeared out into the sunshine.

      ‘So, what was that about?’ He hadn’t noticed Judith approach. Still wearing her blue scarf and surplice, she was standing only a few feet away, half hidden by one of the pillars.

      Mike frowned, suppressing a sudden flash of irritation at the interruption, yet again, of his thoughts. ‘Just a short chat. Nothing to worry about.’

      He glanced down the church towards the door. ‘Donald gone?’

      Judith nodded. ‘He had to get back. Family duties. Mike, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come back to lunch with me? Just pot luck. Salad. Glass of something?’ She smiled uncertainly, obviously expecting him to decline, and he felt a sudden wave of pity. He knew Judith was lonely. ‘That would be nice. Thanks. I’d love to.’

      She lived in a three-bedroomed bungalow in a road of identical houses set in small rectangular plots on the top of the hill behind the town. As Mike climbed out of her car, he looked round at her garden. He had been here many times and knew her life-story intimately. She had lived in this house all her life. Her mother had died when she was at teacher training college and Judith had stayed on to look after her father. His joy had been his garden. From what Mike had heard from others who had known the old man when he was still strong enough to go out and garden, it had been a riot of colour and exuberance in sharp contrast to the grim fifties decor which still adorned the bungalow on the inside. There was little sign of that garden now. Mike could never quite decide whether after the old man’s death in 1996 Judith had deliberately rooted out every sign of beauty and grace, or whether it was merely that she was uninterested in gardening and had not noticed the dying roses and the blighted leaves. As each plant died it was cut down and burned and the gap in the soil was rapidly covered by a thatch of chickweed and goose grass.

      Mike followed her inside, resigning himself to the statutory small glass of sweet sherry which, he suspected, she bought just for him. She did not drink herself, but would sit and watch him sip from the thimble-shaped glass with an intensity which always made him very uncomfortable.

      The table was laid for two. He found himself picturing her returning to the empty house, had he turned down her invitation, and sadly removing one place setting, and he knew that was why he had said yes, as he had said yes every month or so since he had arrived in the parish.

      ‘Judith, you’ve lived in this place all your life.’ He followed her through to the kitchen, a habit which irritated her intensely. She would have preferred him to stay neatly in the lounge until she had the meal on the table in the small dining room. ‘Have you come across much interest in the history of the witchfinder?’ He leaned on the counter. A couple of bottles of pills stood there, side by side, and he frowned. He hoped she wasn’t ill. Tactfully he transferred his gaze to the window and stared out at the back lawn. There were no flowerbeds at all now between the grass and the wooden panel fence. The only remotely decorative item left was a single white plastic-covered washing line.

      Judith had turned on the electric element under the pan of potatoes which had been waiting ready-peeled on the stove. ‘Matthew Hopkins?’ She opened the fridge and brought out some packets of cold meat. ‘I think most people know who he was.’ Reaching into the drawer for a pair of scissors she sliced the top off each packet in turn and arranged the slices of ham, salami and chicken on a serving dish. ‘Why?’ She glanced at him sharply.

      ‘I heard he is reputed to haunt various places in the town.’

      ‘Pubs.’ She turned back to the fridge for tomatoes and a lettuce in a polythene bag. ‘He haunts the pubs.’

      Mike grinned. ‘That seems strange, given that he was a puritan.’

      ‘Quite.’ She threw the lettuce into a bowl in the sink and ran cold water onto it.

      ‘Do you ever teach about him in school?’ He took another sip from his sherry and tried to stop himself from wincing as the sticky sweetness hit his tongue.

      ‘I do, actually. I organise a project with Year Fives. I send them off round the place with paper and a pencil and get them to look for a few clues. Then I give them a lesson in more detail. Tell them about the evils of witchcraft. You know the СКАЧАТЬ