The Teen, the Witch and the Thief

  The Teen, the Witch & the Thief

  Ben Jeapes

  Copyright 2016 Ben Jeapes

  For Nan the Great

  1909-2010

  Table of Contents

  1970

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  The Comeback of the King: Chapter 1

  About Ben Jeapes

  Other books by Ben Jeapes

  1970

  It was the movement that attracted Malcolm’s attention: a human figure in the corner of his eye where no figure should be. He looked up and, with a stab of hostility, saw the man shimmering the other side of a sea of golden corn.

  Huh, he thought, and turned his attention to the primus stove that squatted in front of the tent. A bit of fumbling with the valve, only a couple of broken matches, and he had a little circle of flame. It was almost invisible and he had to hold a hand over it briefly to feel the warmth and confirm something was happening.

  “Water?” he called.

  “Front of the car,” came a voice from the tent.

  The camp was a simple arrangement that pleased Malcolm at every level. It was practical: hedge, tent and car meant there would always be shade for them to sit in as sun and shadows moved during the day. And it was also respectful: the neat, straight lines of the green tent and the red Hillman Imp showed that this was clearly an artificial enclave in the corner of a thousand-year-old Cambridgeshire field, but at the same time it made the point they were only passing through.

  It also showed quite clearly that this corner of the field was taken, Malcolm thought as he shot a dark look at the figure. It hadn’t moved and the wavering air made it seem to be wearing long, flowing robes. Well, fine, just stay there. He pulled a jerry can full of water out of the car’s front compartment and pushed the lid shut.

  Diana had persuaded her parents to lend it to her by saying she and a friend wanted to go camping. She hadn’t specified the friend’s gender. And, Malcolm thought, why should she? He liked to think he was perfectly capable of sharing a tent with a gorgeous woman and not giving her father the vicar any cause for concern – if that was what the gorgeous woman wanted. He wasn’t quite sure at this point what she did want. Maybe he would find out over the course of this weekend.

  Malcolm was pretty sure what he wanted himself. Before he had met Diana he would have said that being a twenty-year-old second year law student was far too young for the kind of decision he had in mind, but now he had very little doubt. What he wanted involved finally meeting her parents, and taking her back to Salisbury to meet his, and her father the vicar dressing up in his work clothes and standing in front of them and making himself useful. After they had graduated and he had started his barrister training. If she was willing to wait that long.

  Last year’s so-called Summer of Love hadn’t really impinged on Diana’s family, but then, it hadn’t really affected Malcolm either. He was very happy to leave it that way. His jeans maybe had a slight curve at the end of the legs; his hair just covered his ears. This is your hippy phase, boy, he thought wryly: might as well make the most of it.

  He poured water into a saucepan and set it on top of the stove. Then he glanced up again at the intruder, and recoiled slightly because the other man was already halfway across the field towards them.

  Malcolm’s jaw tightened as he stood to meet the newcomer. He marshalled phrases in his mind that translated very nicely to shove off, this corner’s taken – and, good grief, he really was wearing robes. They swelled out behind him as if caught in the wind, making him seem to be racing through the corn. They were ludicrously grand and ornate, richly embroidered with intricate, geometric golden patterns that seemed to have a life of their own. More than anything else they reminded Malcolm of one of the royals in a pack of cards.

  Then the man was through the last of the heat shimmer and close enough for Malcolm to see him properly. He was old and skinny, his face was wrinkled and his head bobbed at the end of a neck as scrawny as a turkey’s. And as for the hair ... His hair was long and snow-white and it was shaved, into the shape of a V. The point of the V was like a pronounced widow’s peak and the two long ends trailed back over his shoulders.

  Malcolm had it now. The old guy had to be a refugee from some pop festival, one of those bands his brother always raved about: Pink King or Crimson Lloyd or whatever they were called. Well, decayed hippy or not, Malcolm wasn’t going to let him intrude on their camp. He drew a breath and opened his mouth to speak.

  But then he saw that the man wasn’t just walking through the corn; or rather, he quite literally was. The corn didn’t rustle and he wasn’t pushing it aside. He was walking through it. He wasn’t solid. In fact Malcolm wasn’t sure that his legs were even moving beneath the robes. He was gliding forwards, bearing down on the camp, his eyes fixed firmly and gleefully on Malcolm.

  Malcolm had sometimes wondered how he would react if he saw a ghost. Now he knew. Apparently he just watched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the apparition. He moved his mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come. How did you greet something like this?

  But the apparition was still coming and Malcolm realised suddenly it wasn’t going to stop. He drew a breath to call Diana and then suddenly it was on him. Malcolm shouted and fell over backwards. He felt a foot strike the primus stove and then the old man’s face was all of his world.

  What had just been an image in his eyes had turned solid inside his brain. The old man’s expression had become a presence inside him, a malevolent force that started to take him apart. Malcolm screamed as it reached through him: through the skin and blood vessels; through the layers of muscle and fat; deep, deep down into the heart of Malcolm Jackson. Malcolm fell out of that Cambridgeshire field into a void of nothing

  MONDAY

  Chapter 1

  “I want Ted to come.”

  Ted’s scowling little sister wrapped her arms round his waist and buried her pout in his stomach. Behind her their mum swung the last suitcase into the car.

  “Can’t, sorry.” He gave Sarah a cuddle in return. “I’ve got a job to go to.”

  “Ted’s a working man now, sweetheart,” said their mum. She came over to give Ted a last kiss. “Isn’t that grown up?”

  “Yes,” agreed his stepfather, stepping between mother and son. “All grown up.”

  Barry and Ted squared up to each other, man and boy.

  People liked Barry. Ted had been told by well-meaning strangers, who otherwise seemed to be completely sane, how lucky he was to have Barry as a stepfather. It had even been said they looked like father and son. Some of his mum’s friends at church had been heard to describe Barry as a dish.

  Barry was middle-aged, Ted was sixteen. Barry packed a lot of bulk compactly onto a muscular rugby player’s frame while Ted was slim and wiry. Barry’s chin was rough with blond designer stubble; Ted was sti
ll clean shaven by nature. But at least they were the same height and could look each other straight in the eye.

  Barry waited until he heard the car doors close. Then he leaned forward and spoke with a quiet, quick urgency.

  “I know exactly how much booze we have in the house. I’ve measured the levels in the decanters and your mum’s jewellery has been locked away.”

  Ted grinned without any humour.

  “I don’t nick stuff that’s worth anything. Didn’t you read the leaflets?”

  Now Barry leaned in even closer.

  “Don’t talk to me about leaflets! As far as I’m concerned you deserve to be put away. Unfortunately that’s the one thing that would break your mother’s heart more than what you’re already doing. So don’t go hiding behind leaflets.”

  “Gee, thanks. I think they said something about an affirming family atmosphere but I guess you didn’t get that far either.”

  Barry scowled, and stepped away, and looked around, and stepped back. He seemed to be coming to the conclusion of some mighty internal struggle.

  “Maybe this will be where you finally slip up and get what’s coming to you. Or maybe, just maybe, a week of responsibility on your own is exactly what you need to snap out of yourself. But to stop you getting into any more trouble than you’re already in ... hell, take these.”

  He pressed something small and square into Ted’s hand. Ted’s fingers closed on it automatically. He opened them up and looked down at a packet of condoms.

  “Oh, bloody hell, Barry!” he exploded.

  “Keep your voice down!” Barry hissed. “Your mum thinks I’m giving you money. Coming!” He turned back to the car and got in at the driver’s side. Sarah wound down her window and waved.

  “Bye, Zits! You’ve got to give my love to Mr Furry.”

  “’Course I will, Ugly. He’ll really miss you.”

  The cat had last been seen curled up asleep in the airing cupboard, showing no sign of missing anyone.

  “And say hi to Robs.”

  “I’ll go and visit him every day,” Ted promised, this time meaning it. He had already made the same promise to Robert himself, even if their brother was in no condition to understand it.

  “Remember Auntie Sue.” His mum leaned over and called out of Barry’s window. “You’re to call her if you need anything. In fact, call her anyway to let her know you’re okay.”

  “What’s this? I have an Auntie Sue? Why was I not informed earlier?”

  His mum frowned.

  “And did you have to wear that t-shirt?”

  Ted glanced down. The pattern on his shirt showed glowing letters exploding out of a computer monitor to tell the world that he was Geek and Proud.

  “Yes,” he said. She just shrugged, and mouthed “o-kay” silently, and went back to putting her seatbelt on.

  “You’d better get going,” Barry advised. “Don’t be late for work on your first day.”

  “Oh, right.” Ted waggled the condoms. “I’ll keep these for later, then.”

  His mum looked puzzled and the furious glare from Barry as he revved the engine was something to relish. The car pulled away with Sarah waving through the rear window. Ted waved back until the car was round the corner of Henderson Close.

  He had a stab of conscience about brandishing the condoms around in front of his little sister. But, honestly! Couldn’t the man trust him to do anything right?

  Then he decided Sarah was in Year 5 and almost certainly knew what condoms were. But she would still demand an explanation and Barry would be horribly embarrassed to have to give it. In fact, with a bit of luck she’d bring the subject up at inappropriate moments throughout their week in Rome, and that thought made him feel a lot better.

  He stuffed the box into a pocket and went into the garage to fetch his bike.

  *

  Rush-hour traffic would already be backing up along the A338 into Salisbury, so Ted took the shortcut through East Harnham, past rows of Victorian terraced houses and over the bridge. After that the road turned sharp right to join the main road. Ted did what none of the cars could do and turned left, scooting down a row of sleepy medieval cottages and through the Harnham Gate into the south end of the cathedral Close.

  Ted liked the Close. Ever since he had started going to school here, he had liked to pretend he was passing into a parallel world as he entered it; that when they put the Close wall up all those hundreds of years ago, they had encircled a little bit of fourteenth century, which continued to develop in its own way. The thick stone walls blocked out the real world’s traffic rumble. Despite his tyres hissing on tarmac and the cars and streetlights and the satellite dishes on the old rich townhouses, he felt he was in a small bubble of time, the private heart of Salisbury.

  The cathedral sat to his right, bridging the gap between centuries. Later in the day, when the tourists had woken up, it would be posing for a thousand camera shots with sedate medieval dignity. The West Front was clean and gleaming from its years of restoration. For so much of Ted’s childhood it had been hidden behind scaffolding and safety netting but now, revealed in all its glory, it always made him think of a perpendicular fractal diagram – an endless recursion of niches full of saints and kings he had never heard of. He often thought that modelling the West Front on a computer would be an interesting challenge, but he had never quite got round to it.

  He cycled up the West Walk and round Chorister’s Green. For just a second his good mood flickered as he looked down the North Walk to where his old school was. That had been a good five years of his life, even if he was out of it now – one step ahead of the boot, as Barry had so thoughtfully put it. So, he told himself, let it be in the past. He turned resolutely left, out through the solid medieval gatehouse into the High Street. Now he had to slow down to accommodate the pedestrians already accumulating in the gate’s narrow bottleneck. He stood on his pedals and weaved his way through them, just the occasional kick giving him the power to keep moving. Across the traffic lights and he was into the pedestrianised part of the High Street, then turning right at the other end against the one-way traffic into New Canal. He hopped off to push his bike for the remaining fifty yards to the Agora Bookshop (‘Rare and Antiquarian Books Our Speciality’) behind the taxi rank.

  His carefree mood vanished as two policemen snagged themselves in his peripheral vision, strolling out of the alley leading to Butcher’s Row. He kept walking – always keep walking, just act normally – but every sense was suddenly engaged in keeping track of them. Their uniforms were light blue so they were what Barry called ‘only’ Police Community Support Officers, not ‘real’ coppers. Anyone with the power to deprive you legally of liberty was quite real enough for Ted. But it wasn’t like there was a large flashing sign over his head saying ‘arrest me’, so he let himself enjoy the feeling of having a clear conscience and walking past two coppers who didn’t even know he existed.

  There was a litter bin on the pavement next to the shop. He pulled out Barry’s box of condoms and looked thoughtfully at them. On the way in, he had thought that maybe he should put the box back in the bathroom cabinet with just one left, for Barry to find. Trouble was, his mum might find them first.

  Going to stay a virgin for another day, he thought ruefully, and tipped the box into the bin. He hadn’t expected that to change on his first day at work anyway, so it wasn’t a heart-breaking disappointment.

  He put the matter out of his mind and pushed the shop door open.

  A bell jingled. There wasn’t anyone else about. The shop was brightly lit and friendly, with pine shelving on the walls for the books and polished floorboards underfoot. Since he had been in for his chat with the owner, Mr Jackson, they had added a couple of free standing bookcases that came up to about chest height, and the place had started to fill up with books. The books themselves were a strange counterpoint to the feeling of openness and light. They smelled of must and leather; their spines were shades of tan and brown and black. They looked an
d smelled old. No DVD section, then, Ted thought wryly. He couldn’t picture there being much drop-in trade, but Mr Jackson had already told him that most of the shop’s income was expected to come through mail order and the web. Ted already had ideas in that direction: the shop’s site was an off-the-peg design from an internet supplier, pitiful to behold and badly needing a redesign. He would enjoy the work.

  Over to one side was a desk with a till and a computer and a phone. All were brand new. Ted’s gaze slid over them while he was looking around for someone to talk to, and then slid back again. The phone was modern and black, digital and cordless. He picked it up and hefted it. Neat. It felt good. Its matt, moulded plastic was snug against his skin. His fingers fitted exactly into the smooth curves of the casing. Not too heavy, not too light. It belonged exactly in his hand.

  No, it belongs on the desk!

  But it could just slip into his pocket. It was a perfect fit. It could be a part of him and there was no one about to see.

  “Hello,” said a bright voice. Guilt transitioned jarringly into other feelings altogether as Ted looked round. He was used to admiring fit girls in tight clothes, from a distance. He was totally unused to having to bite his tongue to stop himself saying “Wow.”

  He guessed she was a bit older than him – maybe early twenties. She looked like she had started to transform into a Goth but about halfway there had decided to stop because she had enough to work with. And she did. Her hair was dark and shaggy, though it didn’t look black enough to be dyed so was probably a natural very dark brown. Her eyes were shadowed lightly but from out of the dark depths they shone with humour and good will. Only three or four ear rings on either side. She wore a loose coat that came down to her knees, and tight jeans, and a top ... Ted decided he had better not look too closely at the top or he might never look away again. But, wow.

  Her smile was wide and friendly, completely open.

  “You’re a bit young for a typical customer so you must be Ted.”

  “Uh – yeah. I’m Ted Gorse. I’m starting here today–”