life – but took my life, and who I blame for sending my poor mum to an early grave. I’ve had to think a lot about this and it’s not been a pleasant journey, but I’ve worked out that a child born of rape is not a child of hate. I can see that from the way my mother cherished me, protected me, loved me. And look at Rebecca too; searching across the centuries for her lost daughter, finding her line at last and finding too that they heard her cries.
For I believe somewhere back in the past, Rebecca is my ancestor. Which means I am born from her child, Mercy. My real name – that was the clue.
I’ve heard no more from Rebecca. I’m hoping she’s passed on now too. It was a strange tale and Joe’s still not convinced I wasn’t mad with grief – projecting my neuroses, enacting some freakish psychodrama that eventually uncovered an ancient truth. But I know that trying to explain it fully would be like trying to pin down why Hopkins started the witch hunts in the first place or fixated on the Wests. There’s too much gone into the darkness for us ever to know for sure. And sometimes you just have to accept that and move on.
That’s not to say you forget about it. That leads to ignorance and blindness. You commemorate it, like Flick is doing – bless her. The campaign I see on the website is gaining momentum too. And I see Amelia Whitting’s name signed up to it. Good for her. Good for all of you. It’s about time it happened. You see, when you fully acknowledge that bad stuff, you can at last draw a line under it and turn a new page. Start afresh. But you never forget and you sure as hell never let it happen again. Believe me – this is something I have some experience of.
The night that ended the life of my cousin forces outside of the mundane world were in control and coming through me. I was simply an instrument for their reckoning. But I took the advice of shamans: ‘When you walk in the woods, never leave tracks.’ Well, I didn’t, but you won’t know that till now. I’m not sure exactly how much you do know. Or how much damage Cutt’s people managed to limit. I can’t imagine they could have got it all. We’ve been monitoring the papers over here, whenever we can get them. I see the tide is turning against him now, just like it did with his ancestor, Master Hopkins. But I doubt he can run away from all this. Dan knows what happened with his medication was most likely down to them. And he’s prepared to testify. So too, the break-in had to be them. I don’t buy the kids on drugs theory. Not now.
They must have started the Phelps’s fire and all those other things too. You can work it out yourself. Or the police can. Send them a copy of this. It’s the truth about what happened. And I’ll send them the recording of Felix, which should back up what’s written down here: self-defence.
When you get this, Maggie, I guess you’ll know that Mercedes Asquith has gone. Ceased to exist. Flown away like a moth into the night. But honestly Mags, it’s okay.
Really it is.
I know this is not exactly what you wanted, and I’m sorry I’ve missed a deadline or two, but I’ve had quite a bit going on.
Still, you wanted something ‘contentious’ and I reckon this will hit the spot. Do what you will with it. Get a book deal. I don’t care how the truth comes out. But if it does then maybe we’ll come back some time. Just print this and we’ll see. Should get a front page or two.
Sometimes when Joe goes into town, I drag my chair out onto the porch and sit staring at the ocean. My mind is clearer now. Gone are the days when it used to buzz around like a bumblebee, chasing thought after thought. So I meditate upon what would have happened if I’d never been drawn to the witches or if Mum had never thought about writing or never wanted to get into publishing. But then I’m wondering myself out of existence. And although I wouldn’t have wanted things to pan out as they did, I am certainly glad to be here and I intend to enjoy it as much