I photocopied the information I thought she would need. Then we wandered across the road to the pub.
‘You seem very enthusiastic about all this,’ I said cautiously, as we settled at a large wooden table in the Railway Hotel. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty empty: just a couple of old regulars at the bar and a sad-looking punk who was sipping a pint of stout very very slowly.
We selected a place by the Victorian fireplace. Dave, the landlord, had stoked a fire and this part of the pub looked particularly cosy and snug.
‘I really want to be involved,’ she said. I let my hair fall over my face as I reached for my file, but continued to watch her through the black strands. Her plucked eyebrows accentuated a sharpness about her nose, but she was an attractive woman and she knew it. ‘I had a thing about it when I was younger.’ She blew on her coffee. ‘We all do, don’t we? Witches and goblins, they’re all magical and otherworldly. I got into Goth a long time ago. Not all of us want to hear about being in love or wanting to dance. Personally I like a bit of a wallow sometimes. And the subject matter that gothic bands cover is really extensive.’ She was nodding quickly as she spoke. ‘Ghosts, the undead, legends of old. There’s an entire Goth-Pagan subculture too which is really interesting. And I believe in all that, don’t you?’ She looked at me, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I mean, I’d like to believe in it. But anyway all of this stuff about the witches – it’s not only fascinating, it’s real.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And it’s dark.’
‘Yes. You don’t like that then?’
I met her eyes. Was there more than curiosity lurking behind them? Or was I becoming paranoid? I looked at Flick’s slender frame elegantly perched on a chair opposite me. I could see the gothic influence in the dark eyeliner, the dyed black wispy hair. Her clothes weren’t studded or frilly but they were black – t-shirt, boots, low-rise skinny jeans. She had peachy skin as pale as a china doll’s. As she held my gaze I wondered how old she was? Late twenties, maybe early thirties. It was hard to tell – her skin was so good. Too good actually.
I didn’t mean to come out with it then but it just popped out. ‘Have you had Botox?’ I asked her.
She looked surprised. ‘Nice body swerve,’ she said. ‘If I answer your question, it’s only fair you answer mine.’ She smiled. The skin about her eyes didn’t crinkle.
I took a breath. In for a penny … ‘Okay.’
She leant forwards on the table and angled her face towards the light coming in from the windows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here,’ she touched her forehead, ‘and here,’ gesturing round her eyes. Then she looked at me and laughed, then propped her chin on the palm of her hand. ‘So – how about you?’
‘My research has taken me to a lot of dark places,’ I told her and added, ‘literally. A while ago I would have told you that I wasn’t attracted to the darkness. But that would be inaccurate.’
I swallowed the coffee. A young man in a scarf came in through the door nearest to us, letting in a gust of wind which nearly scattered the papers spread across the table. Felicity stretched her arm over them till the door closed again
‘But,’ I continued, ‘I am compelled by the story of Rebecca West.’
It was her, you see, who had come to me. It had to be. She was the shadow on the beach: a young, fragile form. Though I hadn’t seen it I had a strong impression of her. I knew she had betrayed her mother, and now she was asking for forgiveness. For mercy on their souls. For all of the unfortunates condemned to a monstrous death.
It was Rebecca’s plaintive cry in the prison, and her life I had glimpsed in the layby. She was sorry and she had come to me, because she knew I was sorry too.
‘She was young; only fifteen when Hopkins accused her. But she was manipulated by the Witchfinder and gave testimony against her mother possibly in exchange for their freedom, a deal retracted after the trial. Then she had to watch her mother die on the gallows, twisting and turning like a fish from the brook.’ I stopped. That was an odd phrase. Flick