Last Rites Read online

  The young man took one of her arms and pulled it behind her back. When Olwen handed over a length of rope, the man pulled her other arm behind her and bound the woman's wrists together. The length of rope was then looped around the woman's neck and tied, so that any movement on her arms would pull her head backwards.

  I saw the woman shiver again, but Olwen did not seem to be in a hurry. He kept his gaze on the woman's face but placed the tip of the knife against the woman's pubic hair, and I saw her mouth open, her cheeks flushed red.

  Rod's fingers dug into my shoulders more as he leaned forward. I could feel him edging past me, his movements smothered by the drumbeat, now going at a fast steady rhythm, the others present swaying in time to it.

  Olwen traced the blade up the woman's body, making her skin drag, leaving a red line as he went, until he reached her right breast. She flinched but didn't back away, thrust her chest out towards him. He moved the knife across to her left breast, his movements slow, deliberate, making no cuts. I thought I could see moisture on her chest, despite the cold.

  The knife lingered on her left breast, and then Olwen moved it down her body, back to where he had started, completing the triangle. She swallowed again, and I saw the sweat spread to her forehead. When the knife reached her pubic hair again, he stopped, and then lifted the knife away. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. As he pushed down, she went to her knees in front of him, her arms still bound behind her. My ears were filled with the sounds of Rod breathing heavily, every second making him more nervous, wanting to interrupt, moving forward, the drumbeat speeding up.

  I put my hand on his arm and gripped it, just a squeeze to remind him to stay put. I didn't know what was going to happen – maybe the young woman was in danger – but for the story's sake, I wanted to see how it ended.

  Olwen put his head back and held his arms in the air, the knife pointed upwards.

  ‘Do you want to feel death in your old life?’ he shouted out loud.

  The woman paused, and I saw her lick her lips. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually, her voice quiet.

  ‘Do you want to die now?’ the priest shouted.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice stronger now. ‘I want to die now.’

  ‘What was your name?’

  ‘Julie.’

  The woman with the drum banged louder.

  ‘I call upon you, Horned God,’ Olwen shouted, his hand tight on the knife. ‘Care for this woman in her death. Bring her back to us in life, in our life.’

  Rod stepped forward.

  ‘Are you ready to die?’ Olwen asked again, his hands trembling.

  ‘I am ready.’

  Olwen brought his knife down quickly.

  I closed my eyes, and then I heard a scream. I was pushed to the floor as Rod ran forward, the old door clattering to the floor.

  ‘Stop now,’ Rod shouted, his arms outwards. ‘Stay right where you are.’

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Sarah yearned for sleep. The heartbeat sound had come back on and it kept her awake; it was so loud that not even clutching the blanket tight around her head could shut it out. The skin around her eyes felt sore and her stomach ached. There had been no visit since the day before, and so she hadn't eaten all day. She had always been slim, but now Sarah could feel her ribs properly and her face felt drawn.

  She stood up, still in the middle of the circle, the blanket around her shoulders, and tried to assess the time, the temperature her guide. She sensed it was night, it was getting colder again, and she knew she had to act. She wouldn't know the answer until either she was free, or else it was too late.

  Sarah went to the camp bed and pulled back the mattress. The bed had a tubular frame, with a lattice of metal supporting the mattress, springs holding it in place. It was the springs she was after. They had sharp points at the end, hooks that linked the springs to the frame.

  She threw the mattress onto the floor and looked for a spring that was slack. She rubbed her eyes, tried to blink away the fatigue. They all looked the same.

  She gripped the lattice with one hand and pulled at it, so that the springs at one end were less taut. With the other, she gripped a spring and tried to stretch it out so that she could unhook it. Beads of sweat flecked her forehead as she strained, but the sweat on her palms made her grip slippery and she banged her hand on the bed-frame as it slipped off the spring. She tried not to yell out, afraid of attracting his attention, but as she looked down there was blood on her fingers. She sucked at it and then dried the wound on the blanket. Moisture wouldn't make it easier.

  Sarah looked upwards, said a few words to herself, just to garner some strength, and then pulled at the spring again.

  She could feel it slipping in her hand again, but she gripped it tighter, gritting her teeth with effort. The spring started to cut into her finger, bringing blood to the surface, but still she pulled at it, tried to bring the hook out of the bed-frame. The effort made her face red, but she tried to use the pain as fuel. Her hand hurt, the metal spring cutting into her fingers, but it made her angry. She took a deep breath, let out a screech, and then gave it one last pull.

  She heard a ping as the spring jumped out of the bed-frame.

  Sarah took some deep breaths and then she worked the spring free of the bed, saw how the hooked end was sharp. She pulled on another spring, the metal lattice hanging a bit looser now, and then worked on another one.

  She felt enlivened, three metal springs in her hand. Weapons; tools. They could be useful. Emboldened, Sarah threw the bed-frame the right way up and put the mattress back on top. It was not obvious that the springs were missing. She slipped them under the mattress and sat back down in the middle of the circle. She would need to gather her strength for a few minutes, and then her escape would begin.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Everyone looked startled. Olwen turned around and dropped the knife. Some of the worshippers looked towards the door, so I ran out as well and rushed towards it, to make sure it stayed closed. As I got there, I saw some switches by the door and clicked them on. The barn was suddenly flooded with bright light from overhead.

  ‘What is going on?’ Olwen asked, his eyes angry, blinking at the lights.

  ‘I'm a police officer,’ Rod shouted, pulling out his identification. ‘You held a knife to her chest.’

  No one said anything. I saw some of the candles flicker as the hands holding them wobbled, and I could feel the anger from around the circle.

  ‘This is our church,’ Olwen said, in a voice thick with emotion. ‘You have come into our church and broken our circle.’

  I looked at the young woman, naked and cold, curled up in a ball, trying to protect her modesty. I took off my coat and walked over to her, hearing the gasps as I walked across the pentagram. I removed the blindfold and untied the knots. When the rope fell down to the floor, I took off my coat and placed it around her. She didn't look at me, but she took the coat anyway, wrapping her arms around her chest.

  ‘What was happening here?’ I asked her quietly.

  ‘I was joining the church,’ she said, and I sensed sadness in her voice. ‘Now I can't. You stopped it.’

  ‘You said you wanted to die.’

  She looked up at me, and I saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye to my past life. Julie was going to die. I was going to be reborn.’

  ‘Don't say any more,’ said Olwen. His voice was strong, and I realised that Rod had made a mistake. He had panicked, worried that he was about to witness a sacrifice. Instead, we had stumbled into nothing more than an initiation ceremony.

  ‘No one leaves until I have some answers,’ Rod said sternly.

  Olwen shook his head. ‘You have no power here,’ he said. ‘You might have broken the circle, but you cannot stop us from leaving. We have done nothing wrong.’ He looked towards the other people in the room and held out his arms. ‘Go now to your homes. We will speak in the morning. It will be our special day, and we will
celebrate.’

  Rod looked at me, uncertain, confused, and then at Abigail and Isla. They looked away, avoiding his gaze, and so he nodded at me. I opened the door, and as everyone passed me I tried to catch their eyes, to see who might do an interview, but they all went out with their heads bowed. The naked woman shrugged off my coat and pulled her dress back on over her head before running out, her face down, streaked by tears, her hand holding the torn pieces together. When everyone had gone, Olwen nodded at me to close the door again, and then he removed his copper headband.

  Now that he was alone in the bright lights of the barn, I was surprised by his appearance. The ceremony before had seemed sinister, but the man in front of me was ordinary, middle-aged, unthreatening, just the ponytail hinting at a different way of life. His cheeks were filled with broken veins, and the stubble on them was grey. He smelled of cigarettes, and I saw that his fingers were stubby and brown.

  ‘Why are the police here?’ Olwen asked Rod. He sounded weary now.

  I looked at Rod, and I saw that he was still thinking through his actions. ‘I'm not a police officer,’ I said. ‘I'm a reporter, and I have been asked to find Sarah Goode.’

  ‘By whom?’ His voice was rich, cultured.

  ‘By her parents.’

  He sighed at that. ‘Then we're on the same side. We also want Harmonie back,’ he said.

  ‘Harmonie?’ I asked.

  ‘Sarah was Harmonie's name in her old life, before she died and was reborn. Her name is now Harmonie.’

  ‘Like Julie was almost reborn?’

  Olwen nodded. ‘Julie will get another chance. She has waited a long time, and worked hard.’

  ‘Cut the shit, Olwen,’ Rod barked. ‘You might like your little games, messing around out here in your barn, but people are being hurt, and Sarah is missing. I don't care what happens to the girl from before.’

  Olwen looked at Rod for a few seconds, and I saw him take a deep breath to calm himself before he turned back to me. ‘So why are you trying to find Harmonie?’ he asked. ‘Your sense of humanity, of doing the right thing by her?’

  His voice was mocking, and I realised that honesty was the only way.

  ‘Because it will be a good story,’ I replied. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘And what brought you here, to this barn?’

  I looked at Rod, whose face was still blank.

  ‘She is a descendant of Anne Whittle,’ I said. I could tell that I didn't have to explain about Anne Whittle. ‘Other descendants have met unfortunate ends. It just seemed like a good story, you know, a cursed line.’

  Olwen didn't answer, as if he didn't know what to say.

  ‘I could tell that this was some kind of Wicca ceremony,’ I said. ‘Words like Goddess gave it away. And you don't look surprised by what I'm telling you.’

  Olwen was still silent.

  ‘So Sarah – sorry, Harmonie – was a member of your church, I presume?’ I pressed. ‘Part of the family line?’

  He looked down, and I saw him struggle with his doubts about me, wondering whether he should say anything. Then he looked at me, a glistening of tears in his eyes, and said, ‘She will die tomorrow,’ his voice breaking.

  Rod looked at me when he said that, and I saw that he was suspicious.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rod asked.

  My mind flashed to the Facebook entry for the next day, 31st October. I die.

  Olwen didn't answer. He turned to go, but as he went past me I grabbed his arm. ‘If you know something about her, you should come forward.’ He looked at me but said nothing, and so I thrust a card into his hand. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’

  He looked down at the card and then at me, before he shrugged off my hand and walked out of the barn.

  When we were alone, I breathed out noisily. I turned to Rod and said, ‘That was an interesting evening.’

  He stood with his hands on his hips, and then he nodded. ‘And it's ended. Go home, Mr Garrett.’

  Chapter Fifty-six

  My house glowed warmly as I approached it, the soft yellow lights of home welcoming me. I heard the sound of the television as I opened the door. Laura was curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown, her hands around a hot drink. She looked up and smiled sleepily.

  ‘How was your evening? All ghouls and ghosties?’

  My keys clattered onto the table as I thought about what had happened earlier. ‘Do you remember what I said before, that maybe she's not the killer at all?’ I said by way of reply. ‘Perhaps she is something else.’

  Laura nodded slowly. ‘This sounds too much like work,’ she said. ‘I've shaken off my day, so come on, sit down and think of something else.’

  ‘That's not easy when you've seen what I have tonight.’

  Laura sat up, more interested now, and so I shrugged off my coat and sat down next to her, then told her about the ceremony in the barn, the chanting, the initiation.

  ‘Your night was more exciting than mine,’ she said. ‘Was it definitely witchcraft?’

  ‘Yes, and the priest said that Sarah was in the coven,’ I replied. ‘We knew there was a connection with witchcraft, because of the family tree and the letters, but to know that she is a practising witch, well, that takes the story to a whole new level. So why would Sarah write those notes, as a practising witch?’

  ‘Guilt? Trying to lay the blame on her hobby, or whatever you would call it.’

  ‘But there is something else as well.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you remember the Facebook entry?’ I asked.

  ‘Pretty hard to forget: 31st October – I die,’ answered Laura. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the priest also said that Sarah will die tomorrow.’

  Laura looked alert now, her tiredness gone as she became more businesslike, transforming herself back into Laura the detective. ‘Why would he say that?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don't know, and more importantly, how does he know?’

  ‘The murder squad need to be told,’ she said, although when I agreed with her, she added, ‘but I'm not looking forward to telling them.’

  ‘You don't think they'll be receptive to witch stories?’

  ‘I don't think they'll be receptive to any idea that isn't their own,’ she answered curtly.

  Before I had the chance to say anything else, my phone started to ring. When I looked at the screen, I saw a number I didn't recognise. But when I answered, I heard a voice that I'd heard earlier that evening. It was Olwen's baritone, the priest from the coven.

  Laura watched me as I gave him directions, and when I hung up, I said, ‘It looks like we might get the answers to our questions sooner than we think.’

  ‘The priest?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But he might not talk if a police officer is listening in,’ said Laura.

  ‘I didn't tell him you were a police officer,’ I said mischievously, ‘and you don't look like one right now.’ I grabbed Laura around the waist, and as I pulled her towards me she wrapped her arms around my neck. ‘This will be strange for you,’ I said softly, ‘but maybe tonight is the night that you play at being the little woman at home.’

  She went to kiss me. ‘As long as you don't get too used to the idea,’ she murmured.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Olwen looked different when I opened the door. The robes and copper headband were gone. In their place were casual clothes, a rugby jersey and jeans, his stomach straining against his belt.

  He gave me a sheepish look as he walked into the house. Laura came down the stairs, still in her dressing gown, deciding to play the part.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to sound surprised. Then she looked towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Olwen nodded that tea would be nice. I showed him to a chair, and as he sat down I saw his thumbs making small circles on his index fingers, showing his nerves.

  ‘What's your name?’ I asked. When he paused, I said, ‘I mean your original name.
I presume it wasn't always Olwen.’

  He thought for a moment, and then he said, ‘It used to be Michael Smith, but when I was drawn into the circle, I changed my name.’

  I must have looked unimpressed, because he added, ‘It isn't some hobby, you know, some kind of game we play, where we give each other names and play with candles.’

  ‘So what is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It's my spirituality,’ he said, his voice weary, as if he was tired of trying to justify himself.

  ‘Witchcraft?’

  He nodded. ‘It's my faith. The Craft. Witchcraft, Wicca, call it what you want, but that is our church.’

  Laura came in with a tray of drinks and a plate of biscuits. She seemed to be overplaying the little-woman act, but when I looked at her I detected a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  ‘And Julie was being initiated into it?’

  ‘Yes. She had waited a long time for tonight, a year and a day, and then you burst in and ruined it for her.’

  I held up my hand in apology, but he brushed it away with a shake of his head. ‘I didn't come here because of that. I came here because of Harmonie.’

  I sighed. ‘Can I call her Sarah? That's the name I have for her, and I'm struggling with the change.’

  He considered that for a moment, and then said, ‘If that's how you prefer it.’

  ‘So why is Sarah going to die tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it is Samhain, our most sacred day, our main sabbat.’

  ‘Sabbat?’

  ‘Festival,’ he replied. ‘Those of us who practise the Craft celebrate eight festivals a year. We call them sabbats. Tomorrow is the main one. It is called Samhain.’

  ‘Tomorrow is Halloween,’ said Laura.

  The priest nodded. ‘That is what you call it.’ When Laura looked confused, he continued, ‘Your Halloween comes from our festival. The Celtic new year was at the end of October. It marked the end of summer, when the harvest had been brought in, and all that lay ahead were the dark months of winter. The church tried to change it, brought in All Saints' Day, but the old traditions held. For us, it's a special time, one for celebration.’