Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (3)

Part two at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-2

 

Marie’s mother was standing at the front door as the car pulled up. Despite looming frailty, she cut an austere figure with one arm leaning on the wooden frame of the entrance. Her light blue chiffon dress rippled in the breeze. With jowly cheeks, loose skin conceding to passing years. Wrinkles marked her forehead, a small hooked nose made some think of the old woman akin to a witch.

In her sixties, mobility was becoming an issue. Polly shuffled along the gravel path.

“How was the journey, dear?” A question croaked that caught in the wind, the sentence drifting away at the end. A friendly lilting tone. Signature West Country.

Having walking a few steps, a reply came:

“It was fine mum. I should go in while I fetch the cases from the boot.”

Towards the end of the journey, Marie’s thoughts had turned to Polly living on her own, out in semi-wilderness (a term she had previously dubbed when quietly cursing the trip there). Grandfather Seth had died aged sixty-five from a heart attack leaving Polly a widow on her own in the cottage.

Despite its remoteness, over the years, the place had become a latter-day Nirvana to Marie. It was like something seen on the lid of a chocolate box: tiled roof and grey stone exterior. Wisteria climbed walls, a rush of violet flowers sliding by charming diamond-leaded windows. Smoke would chug from the stone chimney due to the wood-burner in the living room. The house was wrapped all around by a carefully manicured garden.

Marie felt tired after the journey, now simply wanting to relax with a cup of tea. It had been a while since she had seen her mother. As ever, the demands of her working life limited the number of times she could drive to Somerset. A faint smile flickered as she remembered the term - Birmingham-on-Sea. That’s what folks called this part of the country. It was a haven for those from the Midlands. People like her.

Having hauled frayed suitcases inside, Marie warmly hugged her mother in the hallway. The hold lasted seconds, a wordless greeting to make up for precious missing time. Billy was also duly embraced by his grandmother, a cheeky grimace accompanying an immature uncomfortableness with the gesture.

Marie headed upstairs to unpack. Absently plonking the suitcases on the bed, she ambled over to the window and stared out. Brean Down loomed high, the waters of the Bristol Channel caressing nooks and crannies of ragged cliffs. She recalled how, at times, high winds would race in from the harsh sea making some days wild and woolly. It was a hardy place to live: the upside an invigorating cocktail of picturesque trails, trees and fields and stretches of ochre sand that ran away with imaginations. The downside – isolation.

Meanwhile, Polly had slipped into the kitchen to put a kettle on. She too found herself absently peering out of a window in a momentary familial symmetry. A warm feeling cossetted her like a winter coat as she took in the view of the base of a rugged bluff.

Water came to the boil making her turn and gaze back at the room, somewhere she had always considered intrinsically inviting. At its heart was a rustic pine table, an informal centre-piece where most felt at home.

Having emptied the cases, Marie noticed Billy standing behind her, silently watching. Dismissing the peculiarity, she took him by the hand and skipped back downstairs to re-join her mother.

Ushered to take a seat, a ceramic pot of tea sat brewing ready for its cosy to be lifted. Satisfied it was ready, Polly duly poured.  

Blowing the tops of their respective cups, the two women eyed each other cautiously as though about to face off in a spaghetti western.

Polly spoke first.

“So….how’s that rodent of an ex of yours?”

Billy kept his head down, a glass of orange juice conspicuous on the table.  He had heard exchanges like this before and knew when to keep quiet. He would find the right moment to slope off soon enough.

Marie was surprised by the bluntness of the question. She appreciated that her mother could be feisty at times but she didn’t expect it so soon after arriving.

“Oh Jimmy is fit and well. As far as I know. We haven’t seen him in ages.”

Polly listened with interest. After a pause, Marie continued:

“I’m sure if he was here, he would tell you how much he missed you.”

Sarcasm hung in the air sucking the very breath from the old woman’s embryonic rant. She had never seen eye to eye with her daughter’s former partner. It suited her just fine when they had split up. It did bother her that her grandson didn’t have a father figure in his life. It seemed to Polly that parental relationships were fickle these days and prone to collapse at the drop of a hat. At least, that’s how it looked when you had been in something that had lasted over forty years. Maybe that kind of longevity only belonged to the older generation. She missed her Seth.

Marie thought it was about time that her mum moved on from the Jimmy Deacon era. It was all in the past now. Yes, he was Billy’s father but she had made it clear to him that she didn’t want him involved with their son’s upbringing. She would be fine on her own.

A silence fell for a few moments before mother and daughter looked at each other then burst out laughing.

“Touché” the old woman conceded before turning her attention to Billy.

“So how’s my favourite grandson doing at school?”

Billy could be taciturn at times, oblivious to what was going on around him. He continued firing screen missiles at screen spaceships (having moved on from Minecraft) until his mum gently shook him by the arm.

“Your gran’s talking to you, Billy.”

Marie’s accent had stepped up in its colloquial Brummie twang; it invariably did in times of stress. Syllables emphasised making words seem longer than they were.

The boy looked up, startled by the attention.

“Huh?”

“Your gran’s asking how school is.”

“Oh…all good in the hood, gran.”

And that would have been the end of the topic but for the stare from the boy’s mum that was burning a hole in his head like a laser. He thought better of it and mumbled more:

“Everything’s cool gran. Umm….looking forward to senior school. Well..sort of. You know.”

He nodded to himself sagely, an attempt at conviction that was less than convincing inside his own head (and barely credible to those listening). He thought more and added:

“I think I’m o…k…at English.” The word ok was a hesitant drawl with an accent on both o and k. A reluctant smile sent a virtual smoke signal that he hoped was enough for the conversation to move onto something else. School was finished as far as Billy was concerned and summer holidays were a time to break away from the grinding bonds of education. It was time to find adventure (or at least play endless video games).

A wary glance in the direction of his mother was met with narrowed eyes, wordless interrogation to see if more was forthcoming.

“Go on then, clear off. I’m sure you will fill granny in a bit more while you are here.” Marie playfully cuffed him on the top of the head.

Not needing to be asked twice, a wind-milling mix of arms and legs whirred as the suspect left the interrogation.

The women exchanged warm smiles. Despite their occasional differences, the one thing they had that was constant was a mutual love of Billy. Marie looked away, cupping her mug with both hands as she drifted into a moment’s thought. It was nice to be here even for a short time. She was determined to enjoy the visit.

“So how is he doing? Are we still getting the strangeness?” The conversation became hushed as the subject wandered into sensitive territory.

Polly knew that Billy was no ordinary boy. He seemed to be capable of doing the oddest things that other children couldn’t do. She saw the way he apparently communed with birds and the curious energy that surrounded him at times. It was hard to explain and wasn’t going away as he got older.

“He seems to be doing alright at school. The weird stuff continues. We had an incident on the way down. Rooks and crows lining up along his arms. I know he can be….erm….hard work to care for when he’s with you.” Marie’s tone was empathetic.

“Hmmmm…yes. The last time he stayed I’m sure wild animals were responding to him as though they understood what he was saying. He seems so at home with them. I swear I saw him whispering to a fox in a graveyard I found him in nearby.”

Polly appeared pensive before continuing:

“. I…I could be going mad but I even think he was trying to move cutlery on the kitchen table with his mind on one occasion. He had his eyes closed and his hand was hovering over a fork. It was like living with Uri Geller’s apprentice.”

“Who?” Marie enquired looking puzzled.

Polly sighed inwardly

“Before your time, dear. Before your time.”

Polly’s expression had turned from incredulity to mild exasperation as she continued:

“I never quite know what to make of it. He doesn’t like speaking about it, does he?”

“I know. I worry that his…well….shall we call it his uniqueness may attract the wrong kind of attention. In fact, I was going to ask you something about a story I read the other day.” Marie braced herself ready to spin off on a dark tangent.

“I read something online about children going missing in this area.”  The declaration was made breathlessly, blurted out as if a sordid secret.

Whilst scrolling on her phone late one night, Marie had stumbled on a news story in the Weston Mercury. Amongst the mundanity of roadworks on the A370, dog shows on the seafront and bin collections moving to three-weekly, a staff reporter had penned a piece about a young boy that had gone missing. A recent false sighting had proved traumatic for the abductee’s parents. The article said that the poor tortured souls still held out hope two years on since the incident. Police continued to appeal for new information.

What worried her more was the bulletin extending into brief speculation that there was a pattern to children possibly being abducted in the county. None of those involved had been found leaving case files open with new leads being sought. The theory went that there had been eleven linked disappearances dating back over the last twenty-four years.

Images of missing children brought an eerie dimension to the mystery: A fair-haired boy grinning at the camera, a red-haired girl on a swing, a snap of a black boy in running vest and shorts doing a lightning bolt pose a la Usain Bolt. It was like something from an old episode of the X-Files.

Polly was taken aback as she considered the statement, her hands laced together on her stomach. She closed her eyes then slowly shook her head.

“Oh yes, just a few miles away that happened. Freddie Bentner. There’s all kinds of conspiracy theories; been doing the rounds for years.”

The old woman never looked frailer as she ruminated further.

“Some people think it was a serial killer. It is very strange that no bodies have ever turned up. I remember the very first victim back in the noughties. If that’s what he was. It could just as easily be that he ran away from home. Young kid called Albert Ware…“

Polly paused, her eyes out of focus, pupils dilating with the effort of remembering.

“….it was his name that stood out for me.”

Polly thought to herself I mean, who calls their child Albert these days?

“Other families lost children after that. Every couple of years or so.”

“But kids go missing all the time.” Marie interjected.

“Yes, that’s true enough. But these young ‘uns all disappeared under similar circumstances. All packed off to bed in the evening only to be discovered missing by morning. In each case, parents adamant that they had no reason to run away.”

Marie thought about Billy and whether she was happy at the idea of him staying in an area where child abduction might be ongoing. It was hard to believe that she hadn’t been aware of it before. What kind of mother was she? In her defence, she reflected that she didn’t stay up to date with local news when visiting her mother. Why would she when she didn’t live here?

The problem was that she had no alternative but to leave him here. She could ask her ex to have him but he worked long hours as a lorry driver and wasn’t in a position to look after their son properly. Notwithstanding, they hadn’t talked in years anyway. On top of that, Marie was an only child with few friends which meant that childcare options were all but non-existent.

She speculated that if the pattern repeated, another incident was imminent. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. Perhaps they were all just random occurrences. A picture popped into her brain of an ostrich burying its head in soft sand.

 

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