Three Witch Problem
Corinne flinched, glancing up from her packing. The grey nets nailed to the window obscured the view but outside there were figures moving around the street holding placards and flags. She watched them drift away from her first-floor vantage point. Feeling nervous she peeked around the side of the netting, imagining all the horrible things they would do to her if they knew what she was. Someone had smashed the window of the grocery shop opposite, leaving a hole like a jagged, angry maw. Glass was sprinkled over the street, lifeless and dull, no longer reflecting the grey clouds above.
Mr Dattani appeared at the doorway to his grocery shop, waving his arms at a looter. He was angry, but he didn’t step past the threshold. His sons were behind him looking ready for a fight, but he stood between them and the looter. He didn’t want his boys to get into trouble, but he didn’t want his shop looted either.
Corinne watched the looter throw something in their direction then run off down the street. Mr Dattani also watched the looter go, then glanced up at her window with a scowl. There was accusation there, and blame. Witch. This is your fault.
She sprang back from the window feeling fear run up her arms as she stared at the brown sofa. It was old and damaged, like everything else in the room, and it had cigarette burn holes in it. It wasn’t hers. Like everything else it came with the rundown flat when she rented it a year ago. She had added to the burn marks though. She was remembering the fear and frantic packing of past escapes when she had overstayed her welcome. It was time to go again. Mr Dattani wasn’t the only one unhappy with her presence.
She finished packing her old black bag with the little that did belong to her. Tarot cards, oil burner, star amulet, votive bowl and knife. She could do a lot with these few tools, but she couldn’t change hearts. She looked for her phone, and remembered belatedly that it had broken last night. No point taking it now.
She would ask Lauren for shelter, at least until the protests calmed down. She didn’t think Lauren would deny her, but she wasn’t sure.
Lauren lived at the other end of the borough where the square, concrete blocks gave way to leafy avenues and brick townhouses. It was already afternoon and Corinne didn’t like the idea of being out after dark, but when she checked her purse there wasn’t enough for a taxi, and the buses had already stopped running because of the protests. She felt anxiety grip her chest. She’d have to walk it.
Pulling a cigarette box from her long black coat she took one out and lit it trembling hands. She could cut through the park where it was quieter. Maybe the Green Man would protect her. She whispered a quick prayer and took a few more draws of the cigarette for courage. Then she pulled her bag over her head and with a tremulous breath stepped out the door.
Lauren’s house was built at the turn of the century. A townhouse with three floors above and one below, and a flight of stairs that led up to a highly polished black front door. There were bay windows either side and hanging in one was an astrolabe, which Corinne thought was a pretentious symbol for the uninitiated. There was more useful mistletoe and hawthorn growing in the back garden, and a sprig of rowan for protection over the door, which was prudent.
She walked up the steps and hesitated, seeing her pale, thin face reflected in the high polish of the door. She looked old, and tired, and wondered again if Lauren would welcome her inside. She knocked on the door anyway.
A shout and thunderous running from inside made her feel tense. The door creaked open slowly, as if the person behind couldn’t quite manage its weight. The person behind was only three foot tall and had a cheeky smile under golden curls.
“Mum! There’s a lady at the door!” He yelled as he was joined by other small faces who peer out at her with interest. Lauren’s voice echoed down the hallway as she approached.
“I told you not to answer the door. Not today. It’s not safe.”
The boy looked back at Corinne and she tried a smile on him, but it was lack-luster and seemed to have the opposite effect. Perturbed, he shouted again while trying to keep a leery eye on Corinne.
“Err…I think she’s one of your friends.” Lauren pulled up short when she got to the door.
“Oh, it’s you.”
She made an obvious sigh and shooed her children back up the stairs.
“Thanks for the welcome,” Corinne said with a sarcastic eye roll, when the children had disappeared up the wide, cream carpeted stairs opposite the door.
“What do you want, Corinne?” Lauren asked without preamble or apology.
“Well, a better welcome for starters,” Corinne half-joked, eyeing the expensive gold jewelry that flashed at Lauren’s neck and wrists.
She wore a silk shirt tucked into wide legged trousers and her honey coloured hair was wrapped up. She looked and smelled well-off. Their eyes locked, watery blue and hard brown, and something unspoken passed between them. Lauren opened her door a little wider, the only invitation Corinne needed. She slipped inside without another word.
The TV was on in the background playing the news. A serious sounding reporter was in the High Street, filming the angry protesters as they threw rolls of toilet paper and plastic bottles from behind barricades. The Police were standing around in riot gear, well out of range but looking ready for action.
Lauren picked up the TV controller from the kitchen island and put it on mute as she walked around to the coffee machine on the sideboard. The kitchen was flashy and white, and shared space with an expensive cream lounge that looked out over well manicured gardens. Gardens that were in bloom, but tinged with yellow as the Summer grew old.
Corinne made herself comfortable on a bar stool wondering idly how all the white stayed clean with children around. Her black bag was wrapped around her, and she propped it on her lap like an unconscious shield.
“Coffee?” Lauren asked unnecessarily as she passed a cup of black, powerful smelling liquid over to Corinne. Corinne took a deep slurp and saw irritation flit over Lauren’s face. She smiled behind her cup.
“Mind if I smoke?” She asked, taking her cigarette box out of her pocket and waggling it at Lauren.
“Yes,” Lauren said flatly. She carefully sipped her steaming coffee and watched while Corinne stuffed the cigarettes back in her pocket.
The silence between them stretched as they drank together. The TV images flickered silently between scenes: empty shopping malls; smashed shop fronts; overturned cars being quietly consumed by flames. Lauren was bristling and Corinne didn’t like her chances.
“So, I haven’t heard much from you lately. How have you been?” She tried finally.
“Busy,” Lauren smiled, free of warmth. “You know, work, family, home life.” She knew that Corinne did not know these things.
“Ah,” Corinne nodded absently. “It’s just…I thought you might have…” She trailed off as Lauren turned away to busy herself at the sink; she didn’t want to be burdened by Corinne’s expectations.
“I’m just a bit nervous at the moment,” Corinne admitted, “With all this trouble going on.” Lauren turned back to her with a sigh and an understanding nod, glancing at the TV screen.
“It’s not a good time to be different,” She agreed.
“Yeah,” Corinne nodded, hoping for an opening, “And I think there are people where I live starting to talk about me…”
“I knew it would be this, again!” Lauren snapped spinning and placing her hands on her hips. “It’s always the same with you.”
With a sinking feeling, Corinne realised Lauren had been waiting for her confession. She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by children invading the kitchen and shouting for attention. Lauren turned away to deal with the various requests, fulfilling the role of mother, diplomat and military general with practised ease. Corinne turned to watch the silent TV, then sat up straighter as the programme turned back the studio, and a new person came on screen. She was young, with piles of dark, curly hair and soft eyes. The latest ingénue and a social media star.
The reporter was clearly enamoured, fawning over her and nodding enthusiastically. At the bottom it said in bold font: Exclusive interview with TV star and social media darling Penelope Whitworth: Her reaction to the ongoing protests.
When the children were dealt with and sent away Lauren turned her attention back to Corinne.
“Penelope’s on TV. Again,” She mumbled. Lauren looked up with immediate interest, and clapped her hands together with a genuine smile.
“Oh, she said she might be on again! Quick, where’s the controller gone?” She looked around in comically mild panic before grabbing the controller and turning the sound up. Corinne sat up straighter and looked at Lauren with a frown.
“When did you speak to her?”
“Oh, last night. She came over for a chat and some wine,” Lauren said with a wave of her hand to shush any more questions. She was oblivious to the look of rejection and hurt that passed across Corinne’s face, so transfixed was she by the young, beautiful woman on the TV.
“Why, yes,” The reporter agreed, his powers of analysis having deserted him by the glamour Penelope was exuding. She laughed delicately, exquisitely practised, but sounding contrived to Corinne’s ears.
“And society must understand the role of women as mothers and homemakers. Without this social order breaks down. This is why we are seeing riots now,” Penelope said as the reporter nodded along, allowing her youth and beauty all the time and space it needed.
“And yet you yourself have no family,” The reporter couldn’t help pointing out, seeming to remember it was his job after all.
“Oh not yet, John!”
The interview went on in a similar vein, each comment on womanhood crushing Corinne’s insides a little more firmly, a little more thoroughly.
“She’s making a bit of a straight jacket for herself,” Corinne muttered darkly, after listening for a few minutes. Lauren was beaming with pride, the reflected glow of glamour on her face as she stared dreamily at the TV. Corinne’s sour comment pulled her out of her reverie.
“What do you mean?” She asked sharply.
“Well, what if she can’t have kids, or doesn’t meet the right guy? What if she realises she doesn’t want to be a wife and mum? That’s gonna be awkward for her,” Corinne reeled off, her mind thinking of all the women she had met who didn’t want children. Lauren bristled.
“Unlikely,” She stated, meaning: in no possible realm that I inhabit could that be true.
They stared at each other for a moment, Corinne wondering how anyone could live in a world where being free to live your own life was a bad thing, and Lauren perplexed by a world where women went without experiencing the joy of children. Then the front door banged open, making them both jump, their differences dissolving in seconds by their shared fear.
“Lolly? I’m home! Where are you? They sent us home early because of the protests. It’s bedlam out there - a riot!” A voice boomed from the hallway. Corinne glowered at the sound.
Charles strode into the room and slung his coat and briefcase down on the floor, kicking his leather shoes off carelessly. His gaze slid over Corinne as if she wasn’t there, outwardly ignoring her, but disapproval and annoyance on his face. He turned to kiss his suddenly flustered wife on the cheek. At the sound of their father’s voice, the children came flooding down the stairs like a golden tide, squealing for attention in a cacophony that hurt Corinne’s ears. For a few moments it was either domestic bliss or Dantean nightmare, depending on perspective.
“You should see it outside, there’s groups of protesters roaming around with baseball bats. No seriously, I saw them! No Police around, as per usual,” Charles exclaimed.
He was now bawling at her from the sofa as she dashed around meekly agreeing with him, and seeing to his every need. Corinne wondered if she would be slipping the slippers on his feet next. Instead she handed him a copy of the newspaper, which was much the same gesture.
“No Loll, you silly thing. Get me the TV controller!” He said, patting her on the behind. He had just spotted Penelope on TV and his eyes were gleaming.
Corinne bit down her irritation and watched as the sun began to set, folding the day in on itself. Stars began to twinkle and in the garden dark shadows were gathering in the trees. The children were satiated with snacks and drinks, and Lauren went around the room switching on carefully considered lighting options. The effect was homely, palliative, stultifying.
She circled around to stand in front of Corinne and locked eyes with her. Soundless words passed back and forth between them like the lapping of the tides. The TV was blaring in the background, the children were content, the husband pacified. Everyone had their place. Everyone knew their role. It was only Corinne who was out of place. She clutched her bag tightly, knowing that there was no refuge here.
Sliding off the bar stool she gave Lauren a sad look. There was nothing else to say except goodbye, but she was stopped from doing so by loud knocking at the front door. Lauren gave an exaggerated sigh at this interruption and went to answer the door.
Lauren’s surprised voice echoed in the hallway, followed by male voices raised in anger. For all his apparent languor in front of the TV, Charles reacted with the speed of a cat, leaping over the sofa to the defence of his wife.
“Who the hell are you? What do you think you’re doing?” She heard him hollering. The children flinched, and as a pack and ran to the doorway between the kitchen and the hall. Corinne felt panic rising in her throat.
“It’s unnatural,” A male voice said, angry and bristling. The children glanced over to her for reassurance; she had none to give.
“Don’t you dare accuse my wife, she’s on the PTA!” Charles shouted back, undaunted. The claims and counter claims went back and forth, but the voices calmed down and the tension eased, and with it, Corinne’s nerves. It was the role of the mother that was saving Lauren from the accusations.
“We know you’ve got another one in there, a real one,” Someone said then, an insidious voice that cast cold ice over Corinne’s body.
“What are you talking about?” Lauren’s voice was sharp and defensive.
“A witch.”
“There isn’t anyone else here,” She said firmly.
“If you don’t give her up, we’ll come in and get her!” A woman shrieked. Corinne thought she recognised the voice. A disgruntled customer. Thoughts ran in her head like the drum beat of her heart: they will string her up; they will burn her; they will drown her.
“You heard my wife. There’s no one else here,” Charles said, to Corinne’s disbelief. “Now I suggest you leave my property or I’m calling the Police.”
Corinne couldn’t quite believe Charles was protecting her, but hope rose up from her stomach like a wave. Maybe, just maybe, she could stay here after all.
The front door slammed shut on their sullen threats, shaking the entire house. Corinne could hear whispering in the hallway and then Charles and Lauren came back in. They stared at each other in silence, trying to absorb what had just happened.
“Mummy? Hiccup!”
Lauren was there immediately in their midst, magically dispensing tissues and hugs as the children sobbed around her. Charles gave a sigh so ragged Corinne thought his tension would come billowing out with it, expanding into the air like an evil miasma. He looked directly at Corinne with cold, hard eyes.
“You need to go.” She stared back at him, hope wilting like a flower without water.
You knew it would come to this, her breaking heart whispered.
How can he throw me out! Her raging head shouted.
“I don’t want to leave,” her perfidious mouth said.
“You need to go, Corinne,” Lauren echoed as she sat on the floor, surrounded by her terrified children. Charles walked to stand over them, protective and firm.
“I can’t put my family at risk for you.” Like Charles her eyes were hard. Corinne clutched her black bag to her chest, trembling and alone.
“Can you at least call me a taxi?” She whispered.
Gods damned taxi drivers! Corinne thought as she walked through the dimly lit park. She kept to the side of the path as if that would afford her some additional cover. The taxi drivers had gone home because of the rioting. No one with good intent was out tonight. She could hear a noise in the distance, almost like a fair, with screams and shouts, and a low level hum, but there is no music or laughter, no children’s voices. Only violence and hatred splintered by occasional bangs and the crashing of glass. Her nerves stood on edge as she watched a malevolent orange glow in the distance. Something was on fire, and it was terrifying. But it was far outside the tranquil ring of green that surrounded the park.
There was no one else around and the park was dark and silent. Well spaced lamps cast soft circles of light onto the brick pathways. The flower beds and the hedges looked like sleeping sheep amongst the trim lawns, and she passed by with quiet care. She was lucky the park was still open, but she had to get through before it closed for the night.
To her relief the exit came into view. Two tall stone pillars topped with granite spheres and lantern lights proudly enclosed wrought-iron gates, which were still open. They were antique sentinels watching over the folly of man as the centuries pass by. When she passed between them she felt their benign protection run over her soul, then dissipate as she touched the crumbling black tarmac of the modern day street outside.
The noise of the rioting was suddenly louder and she felt the threat press closely against her skin. In the park she had been shielded, but out here the riot was a living beast.
“Ah, you just made it through.” Corinne gave a squeak of fright and jumped, feeling her heart rattling in her chest.
“Whoa,” The caretaker said reaching out to steady her. He had a bunch of keys at his belt that jangled when he moved. “Careful lovie, I’m not going to hurt you.” He was an older man, wider than he was tall. Corinne thought he’d have a hard time trying but she didn’t say so, she was too busy steadying her nerves.
“I need to go back in,” She clutched her bag tightly, looking back at the Arcadian glory of the park.
“Sorry, but I’m locking up now. You don’t want to get stuck in there, you’d have to sleep under the trees!” He said jovially, already setting to his task and releasing the gate stops on either side. They swung close with a hard finality. The caretaker rattled a chain through the iron bars, oblivious to her anguish.
“No,” She whispered as the lock clicked shut.
“Best be off home now. Tonight’s not safe for anyone. Usually it’s a curry for me on the High Street, but not tonight. No sir-ee,” He prattled happily, as she stared at the lock feeling a sense of dread take hold. The safety of the park was now closed behind high walls and locked gates.
“You alright?” The caretaker asked, finally noticing her distress. “Shouldn’t you be off home, back to your family?”
“I don’t have a family,” Corinne replied without really thinking about it.
“Well,” He said uncomfortably, now worried she was homeless and troublesome, “Be off home anyway.”
“Sure,” Corinne sighed bitterly, wondering if there was any place of refuge tonight. She trudged away down the hard black tarmac, back towards the only place she had left to go.
Her flat was above an old junk shop. The owner, her landlord, opened the shop at curious hours, coming and going as he pleased. It was dark and quiet now, with all the junk piled up in dusty heaps against the windows, looking forlorn and unloved. There was a recess by the window that was the access door to Corinne’s flat. She stared at it from the shadows on the other side of the street. It was a black hole into another world. Whether it was safe or not, she didn’t know, but had to be better than being outside tonight.
Smashed glass and a random selection of shop goods were strewn across the street between her and her flat. Boxes of crisps, a pack of nappies split open with its contents disgorged, a bag of coal squatting in the middle, like a stout General surveying the wreckage of his army. A shopping trolley was on its back doing a good impression of an upturned turtle. Corinne could hear hoots and cat calls not far away, and then a crash, accompanied by hysterical laughter. It shredded her nerves like cat claws on curtains.
She darted forwards into the sulphurous glow of the street lights clutching her keys in her hand, ready to fumble at the lock. A shout paralysed her with fear as she was half way across the road. It was Mr Dattani followed by his boys, spilling out of their shop and heading straight for her, accusations blistering the air.
“You have caused this!” He shouted, “You are a poison in our community!”
“I haven’t!” Corinne exclaimed. Her black bag was clutched tight and high to her chest.
“You peddle lies, you give people false hope! You make them unhappy with your false charms and your fake spells. We want you out!” One of the sons shouted from behind his father, his face a rictus of hate.
“No,” Corinne shook her head, “I’ve try to help those who are lost.”
“Who are you to help?” Mr Dattani exclaimed. “They have family, and neighbours for help. What are you? A lonely old woman who can’t stay out of other people’s business. And now your meddling is causing unrest. My shop is broken, because of you.”
Corinne stared wide eyed at the men, not knowing what to say. It was an impressive leap of imagination to go from being nosy to being solely responsible for civil unrest, but she didn’t point that out to Mr Dattani.
“I will leave,” She said meekly, her heart whispering fervent prayers to any god who would listen. “I will leave tomorrow. I don’t want to stay here any more.”
Mr Dattani seemed on the verge of demanding she leave tonight, but then hesitated as another loud crash echoed at the end of the street. He glanced around at the dire state of the world and then back at Corinne, his face relenting a little. He wouldn’t cast her out of her home tonight. Not on a night like this. Tomorrow, however, was a different matter.
“Make sure you do. This is a good community and we don’t want your type around here.”
What type? Witches, or single women? Corinne wondered as assurances tumbled from her mouth in pathetic thanks for his clemency. He stomped back to his shop, his sons trailing behind, angry looks alternating between her and the rioters up the street.
Corinne ran to her door, soaked in sweat and with a thumping headache swelling in her brain. She felt an overwhelming tiredness accompanied by deep sadness spread through her as she struggled to get the key in the lock. It clicked open after what felt like an eternity, and she stumbled her way into the darkness of the corridor. She was thinking only of her bed, and perhaps a cup of tea. She wanted to pull the blankets over her head and forget the world outside existed. Stumbling up the stairs, she didn’t notice the person who caught the door and slipped in behind her.
*******
The day was grey and unusually cold for late Summer. Autumn was shouldering out the golds and greens of Summer, with a picnic blanket of brown and ochre leaves that lay like patchwork over the lawns of the cemetery. Tombstones filigreed with lichen stood tall or lopsided, depending on their age, as neat gravel paths wound between them.
Penelope’s black heeled shoes crunched as she made her way to the chapel. Her red soles matched her bright lipstick and her black suit was elegant, expensive and understated in a way that made people notice. She was alone and had taken a circuitous route to get there unnoticed. Her wide-rimmed black hat and large black sunglasses added to the air of contrived incognito she affected.
Lauren was waiting outside the chapel door. Her black dress was matronly and appropriate, neither expensive nor cheap. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and her makeup was as bland as possible. She achieved the non-descriptiveness that Penelope so wholly failed to accomplish. A small frown of disapproval creased her brow, but she did not pass comment.
They walked inside together and took seats a couple of rows back from the front, where the Vicar was getting ready before his sermon. The atmosphere was hushed and heavy with expectation.
It was almost empty inside the chapel. Penelope dared to take off her sunglasses. She looked around, pretending to check for danger.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” She hissed quietly to Lauren, there was real concern in her voice, and her beautiful face pinched up with fear. “Why did you drag me here? What if I get seen?”
“What if I get seen,” Lauren hissed back, directing her face away from the Vicar. “I’ll get recognised as well. People around here know me.”
“People everywhere know me,” Penelope sighed. The thought made its way through her mind and caused her to smile briefly.
“Well, I had to come, which means you had to come.”
“But why?” Penelope whinged, displaying all her youth.
“Because the Police checked her phone and mine was the only number stored on it. So they know I know her.”
“Knew her,” Penelope corrected absently.
“Whatever,” Lauren snapped.
“I still don’t understand why I have to be here.”
“Because we’re Sisters,” Lauren muttered through clenched teeth, glancing at Penelope as if she were demented. Penelope raised both eyebrows and looked down at her lap.
“That doesn’t really answer my question,” She muttered to her manicured hands. Lauren raised her eyes to the ceiling for strength.
The last two weeks had been horrible. Lauren had been helping to organise the Harvest Festival when the Police had phoned and asked her to come down to the station. She’d made a statement, telling them what she knew about the last time she’d seen Corinne; when she’d sent her back outside, in the middle of a riot.
What else could I do? She’d asked them. I was afraid for my children.
She hadn’t heard any more after that. Corinne wasn’t the only casualty that night. The Police were so busy Corinne’s case would have to wait it’s turn. And there was no one shouting for justice on her behalf.
Then she had been pressed into organising the funeral by the local officials, who wanted to avoid arranging a pauper’s funeral. Cajoled and guilt-ridden she had agreed. Charles was barely speaking to her; furious that she was in a mess of her own making. His only solace was that Penelope was often at their house, seeking reassurance and absolution from Lauren in ever escalating desperation. They were gifts she couldn’t bestow.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t kicked her out,” Penelope declared one night, drunk on Lauren’s wine.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t stirred things up,” Lauren shot back angrily.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your interviews! Winding everyone up about women who don’t have children. No wonder someone attacked Corinne.”
“You said I should do the interviews!” Penelope gasped, hurt on her face.
“You should have thought it through. Words have consequences. You do realise you don’t have a husband or children either, don’t you?”
“I don’t need them,” Penelope huffed, pushing her cascading hair back off her shoulders.
“You will one day,” Lauren warned.
They sat glaring at each other in mutual accusation, neither one wanting to take a share of the blame. There was a small commotion behind them as a couple more people entered the chapel. The funeral had been announced in the local paper, but neither Lauren nor Penelope thought anyone cared enough about Corinne to attend.
A man and a woman walked in and took seats near the door. The man was white haired and brown skinned, dressed in a respectable grey suit and tie. The woman wore a white sari, and held onto her husband’s arm as if he were a life-raft. For a moment she thought it might be the shop owner of the store near Corinne’s flat, but she had no idea why he would turn up to her funeral.
The Vicar looked up and nodded at the newcomers in a friendly way as they settled on the seats, then he drifted towards Lauren and Penelope. Penelope leaned back as the Vicar came closer. A look of infantile dread was fixed on her face, and she sat stiff as a board, leaning away from him as though he had something transmissible.
“You can move forward if you like,” The Vicar said kindly, in well practised hushed tones. Lauren cracked out a smile.
“Thank you Vicar, we’re here now.”
“All right,” He nodded. “We’ll be starting soon.” He drifted away to the end of the Chapel, presumably to say the same to the couple behind.
No one moved. The weight of their guilt and denial was holding them fast so the Vicar decided it was time to start and made his way back to the front to begin his sermon.
"“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me...'
Comments