Author: Sandra Lloyd Lewis

The road this time is long, wet and so dark I can only make out the faintest glimmer of light reflecting on the wet tarmac ahead. The man walking beside me stares straight ahead fixing his eyes on some distant object. His mind is difficult to read, but we push on together. I am not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. You can usually tell what you’re going to get, or as near as damn it, so this is a surprise. There is a deeper darkness than usual from the space either side of the road, a sense of something there, that doesn’t wish us well, and I shiver. This is not going well, why the hell did I take this job? Apart from paying the rent and buying food, and feeding George, I was fine. Really. And I’ve done plenty of jobs like this, so this is no different. Except I have the uneasy feeling this is very different. The road has never been this dark, for one thing and for another, Mr Fink is a closed book, like he is keeping a very tight rein on his thoughts. And he’s walking so fast I feel like I’m in some army march and an irate sergeant will bellow, Move yer arse, yer lazy worm. He’s walking like he is being chased by the hounds of hell. Why am I thinking of the word Hell over and over? I take a deep breath and refocus ahead, listening to the sounds of my breathing. Mr Fink’s chest is rising and falling in panicked breaths, and I hear a moan from him. I start to sweat, this is not good. The darkness on either side of the road has thickened into a wall of seemingly solid black and I sense dread from it. Mr Fink’s eyes are now darting left and right to the dark and ahead I see a small white flesh shape emerge from the gloom. As we come closer, I see what it is and my scalp crawls: it’s a child’s hand, bloodless white, and wrinkled, as if the owner had been in water too long. Mr Fink is eyeing the hand out of the corner of his eyes, as if to look directly at it would cause its owner to come out…

Alice tried the front door key again, then checked the key ring. No, she had the right one, but for some reason it didn’t work. She pushed it in the lock and wriggled it left and right, before giving up, and pushed the bell in exasperation.  There was a long wait, and she was about to ring it again when she heard her son Sam yell, ‘Door!’ presumably to Cyril, her husband; but there was no answer. She rang the bell again, and shouted, ‘It’s me, my key isn’t working, let me in!’ She heard the heavy, tread of her son, Sam, as he descended the stairs and opened the door. ‘Thank you,’ she said stressing the word, to make it clear she hadn’t appreciated being kept waiting so long, but she was talking, as usual to the top of his head. He didn’t even look up from his phone, as he chewed a piece of toast and stomped back to his lair. Typical of most interactions now, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d made proper eye contact.

She dropped her work bag at the foot of the stairs and carried the shopping into the kitchen. Cyril was lying on the sofa in the snug, eyes closed, his new headphones on.

He must have sensed some change in the air, because he opened an eye, and nodded at her. Not an effusive welcome, but she nodded back and unpacked the grocery bags.  ‘My key didn’t work,’ she mouthed, waving them at him.

A look of annoyance crossed his face, as if she was interrupting him at a crucial moment, which was typical of their interactions now, but he slipped the headphones off. ‘What?’ There was a silent ‘now’ implicit in the way he’d said that word. She drew a breath, ‘I said: my key didn’t work. I couldn’t get in. Sam had to let me in, didn’t you hear?’

[this is a potential scene to

-introduce some worlding

– show relationship between H and M]

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Q: what do you think it shows of their relationship?

Is the style of language consistent with the time? (Victorian style).

Is it pacy/interesting enough as a small scene in its own right?

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She could see the whip rising and falling in a horrified slow motion as the Beater hit the beggar again and again. The beggar, clad in ripped clothing, cowered away, his underfed form, twiglike next to the Beater’s meaty legs. The crowd around them was a mix of fascination and horror, and Henery  unconsciously moved forward, to better see what was happening, but he felt Mary stumble against him and he saw her face was ashy with shock.

‘Mary? Mary?’ he held her under her arm, but she whispered, ‘I am fine Henery, it is nothing really.’ She made an effort to walk more firmly.

Henery Foble shifted in his seat, the thin padding the railway company deemed suitable for passengers, not ample enough for comfort for his thin frame. His coat pulled tightly at his arms and it he shuffled around, realising he had sat on his coattails.

‘Henery,’ Mary chided, ‘Please. You haven’t stopped twitching since we boarded.’ She smiled at him with wifely fondness and smoothed her gloves.

Henery laughed self-consciously, ‘You are right, my dear. I think I am excited to see it. Not everyone makes the trip to Pit Town after all.’ He glanced out of the carriage as it clattered past streets that seemed to shrink in size and grandeur the further out of Hope Town they travelled.

-Where am I? Why is it dark?

-Wait, I will switch on the lights. There. Better?

-Yes, thank you. Mum. You’re my mummy, aren’t you?

(pause)

-Yes. I am your mummy.

-Where are we?

-Where we always are, my sweet. Inside.

-Inside? Inside what?

– Don’t worry about that now. Look at the controls.

-Pretty lights.

-Yes, very pretty. Do you see any patterns?

(Pause)

-Yes, there is a good pattern. I like it.

-Do you see any bad patterns?

(pause)

-Yes! There is one here. I do not like this pattern.

– That’s ok. Well done, my sweet, for seeing it. You can get rid of the bad pattern if you like.

– Get rid of it?

– Yes. You can move the controls, and it will turn those lights into pretty ones.

(clicking sounds)

-Like that?

-Yes. Just like that.

-Am I clever?

-You are so clever. Well done, my sweet.

– Where are we?

– We are doing an important job.

-What job?

– You are good, aren’t you?

-Yes. I am a goody. What is my name?

-We don’t like the baddies, do we?

-No. We do not like the baddies. They are naughty.

-And what happens to the naughty ones?

-Naughty ones are PUNISHED

-That’s right, my sweet. And you are a goody.

-I like being a goody.

-That’s right. And you are so good. You turned those lights to good, pretty lights.

-I did.

(pause)

-What is my name? You are ‘mum’. Who am I?

-Time for sleep now, my sweet. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.

Tiny Tim opened the door and scratched his crotch. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, his mouth hanging open, eyes uninterested in the small vision standing on his doorstep; pink from her cerise hair to her cherry froufrou skirt.

‘Oh, hello,’ the voice was as soft as candyfloss and just as sweet. ‘Are you ummm…’ the speaker’s eyes travelled the 6ft 5 inches of height and the gargantuan belly that was at eye-level, ‘…Tiny Tim?’ she finished, looking hopeful.

Tiny Tim chewed a bit of his bacon sandwich that had been lurking, scared, behind one of his teeth and he masticated it thoroughly as punishment before swallowing. ‘Nope,’ he said and slammed the door. Homes under the Hammer was starting in a minute and he didn’t want to miss any detail of peeling wallpaper, knackered kitchens and revolting bathrooms, especially as he lived in a house very like them. It cheered him up to think there were others in the same boat.

The door is partly open, and he can see the darkness behind it.

Hello?

No answer. He stands on the wooden porch for a moment, listening. Silence.

The invitation was for 7pm and its quarter past now, so he’s not too early.

Hello? He says, louder and he pushes the door, against the objection of the hinges.

The hallway is cool, and dim and he can see straight through to the kitchen where he can make out the corner of a countertop.

There are no lights. There should be lights, surely. Or if not lights, then candles, the signifier of a convivial evening, but this hallway has the stillness of an empty house. Half-light from the fading day seeps in. The air has an edge of dampness, as though the house has been uninhabited for a long while.

The space was humming with chatter and conjecture. ‘Order,’ Archmage Numnums murmured. Although he’d said it softly, the circular walls of the room and the use of his supernatural tonsils, meant everyone in the space was stupefied by the volume of the request. Silence reigned.

Archmage Numnums sat in the centre of the room and surveyed the Academy wizards, and servants, crowded on benches that rose around the central dais. He sighed; he had only just had breakfast, was already thinking of lunch and didn’t want this farce to go on any longer than necessary. He performed a regal wave at the Master to proceed.

‘Thankyou Archmage Numnums,’ said the Master of We’ll Be Having Words, giving an equally regal bow ‘We are gathered here today, to hear the case of the Demon…’

‘Arraignement and Triall of Nineteene Notorious Witches at the Assizes and Gaole Deliuerie, holden at the Castle of LANCASTER… Triall of Iennet PRESTON, at the Assizes …with her Execution for the murther of Master LISTER by Witchcraft.’

Mrs Williams sighed and put the book down. Those poor women. Their mistake was that they had been too open, too free with their craft, especially Demdike, who had cured people of everything from ingrown toenails to scrofula in her time. Of course, she had also lamed those that crossed her, but that was to be expected, and Mrs Williams was the last person to cast blame for that. People turned on them, driven by revenge and the puritanical twin-prick tines of Government and Church.

But that was long ago, no point getting upset.

‘BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ’

The sun was so deliciously warm on her skin, that she sighed with pleasure and flopped back onto the picnic blanket. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, and listened drowsily to children playing, their shouts and screams thankfully far off; the kick of a football and the drone of a plane on its way somewhere even hotter than this park. She was lulled to the edge of sleep, but then giggled and Mandy, joining in, said ‘What?’

‘It just hit me. Ooooh I’m sooo chilled right now.’

Mandy laughed and slumped beside her ‘If your mum could see you now.’

Agatha snorted, ‘Fucking hell she’d have kittens.’ She picked up another cube of their special carrot cake, ‘Cheers Mum! Cheers Dad!’ and stuffed it into her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss.