Every Witch Way Page 3

‘A wand,’ Ewan repeats. He folds his arms and sort of looms over me. I feel a little like that reporter must have done. I pull myself up to my full height of five foot four and fold my arms too. God, Ewan is tall close up.

  ‘A stick,’ I say. But I can feel my cheeks burning.

  He’s not only tall he’s dangerously gorgeous and I feel a little short of breath next to him.

  Oh my.

  ‘No it’s not a stick, Nessa. We both know it’s a wand,’ he says. ‘Well now, that’s rather good. Come on. Come with me before this wine evaporates and I shall tell you why it’s a good thing.’ Then he grins at me and turns around. I scurry after him, with a quick look back at Schubert to make sure he’s okay.

  Once we are seated in Ewan’s lounge, he pours me a large glass of red and smiles at me. ‘So tell me, Nessa. What do you want a wand for? Are you interested in witches?’

  I laugh, a little self-consciously, and shrug my shoulders. ‘I suppose so. There’s a rumour that my great-great-grandmother was one, but I don’t think it’s true. I’m named after her. She was a courtesan of King Edward and a bit of a tart, I think. She was pretty popular with the men and we don’t know anything about my great-grandfather’s paternity, but she seemed to do all right out of it.

  ‘I’m just named after her, though, you understand. I’m not a bit like her. I’m not a courtesan or anything. I haven’t got any children out of wedlock and I’m rarely in the gossip pages, unless you count that article,’ I say, rather hurriedly.

  I don’t know why I’m volunteering this information; maybe it’s something to do with the fact that the wine is very relaxing and Ewan’s lounge is nice and warm. After all, it’s the end of October and it’s dark if you don’t count the moonlight and it’s not the most pleasant of temperatures to be outside doing a Dick van Dyke, is it?

  ‘Oh!’ he says and leans closer to me. So close, in fact, that I can smell his aftershave and it’s a nice one. It smells a bit like Christmas trees. ‘So she was called Vanessa too? It’s a pretty name.’

  ‘Agnes,’ I say before I can stop myself. Ugh. There I go again; there’s no need for him to hear that. It’s nothing I’ve ever, ever, shared with him before. But give him his due, there is only the briefest flicker of distaste on his face as the fact I am called “Agnes” sinks in. I blink and look at him, wondering what his next comment will be.

  ‘Agnes,’ he says slowly. ‘That’s pretty too. I suppose.’ Then the corner of his mouth twitches into the beginning of a smile. ‘Actually—’ he begins; then he smiles properly and shakes his head.

  ‘We both know that it’s not a pretty name!’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s an awful name. I’m cursed with that name. But I’m the only girl, see, and so I got it.’

  ‘I see,’ he says, nodding. He reaches for the bottle of wine and tops my glass up. A little bit sloshes over the side and I raise the glass to my mouth and lick the drops off. I’m conscious that he’s watching me and it makes me blush a little more.

  ‘I’m just wondering,’ says Ewan, ‘if you’d be interested in a proposition?’

  I sit up straight and blink. A proposition? Does he mean what I think he means?

  ‘But what about Fern?’ I blurt out.

  Ewan looks at me oddly. ‘I don’t think Fern would be interested, to be honest, and I think you would be.’ He leans closer. ‘You see, I need someone and—’

  ‘Yes!’ I practically shout. Maybe he wants me to strip here and now and get naked or jiggy with it. God, I’ve surprised myself by even agreeing to it so quickly. It’s the wine, it has to be, because—

  ‘But you don’t even know what I want yet!’ he says. He sits back and stares at me.

  ‘It’s fine, really, whatever you want,’ I say and smile at him. Oooh six foot three of rugby player and those eyes …

  ‘You’d want to traipse to Perthshire with me and look at an ancient monument?’

  ‘I … what?’

  ‘Ancient monument. In Perthshire. You really want to visit it?’ He smiles at me again and looks so grateful I can’t even answer just at this moment. My mouth opens and closes like a fish’s and I feel myself nodding out of sheer embarrassment.

  God, I’m glad I kept my clothes on.

  ‘Well. Yes. Ancient monuments,’ I manage eventually. I force a smile onto my face, feeling my lips stretching in a fake sort of fashion and knowing I probably look more like a sinister vampire than a person who is really, really excited about going to see an ancient monument. In Perthshire. For goodness sake.

  ‘I love ancient monuments,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I really do.’

  How quickly can I get out of this place? I eye the space on the floor where I am pretty certain my staircase-that’s-not-a-staircase would end up and I wonder if the combined weight of me and Schubert leaping on it would break through the floor and I could drop into my own flat as quickly as possible.

  Then with any luck I might break my neck and die and I wouldn’t have to think about this ever again.

  ‘Well,’ says Ewan, ‘it might not be an ancient monument.’ He leans over the side of his chair and gropes around for something. I quickly knock back the rest of my wine.

  He pops back up, holding a book in his hand. Then his eyes widen as he sees my empty glass. ‘You want some more? I’ve got plenty.’

  I shake my head, regretting swigging it back as it almost choked me and it’s difficult to choke quietly in someone’s lounge.

  ‘Oh, well if you’re sure,’ he says and hands over the book. ‘This book is about the ancient monument I mentioned. It’s a monument to Maggie Wall, a woman burnt as a witch in 1657.’

  ‘Oh!’ I say, intrigued despite myself. I grab the book from him and flick through it eagerly. It’s called Maggie Wall-The Witch Who Never Was and it’s by a chap called Geoff Holder.

  ‘Yes, Geoff, the author,’ says Ewan, as if he knows this guy personally, ‘did a fair amount of research on it. He suggests that it’s a fake. Evidence suggests that it was a folly built in the eighteenth century and there never was a witch called Maggie Wall. It’s really interesting. She never appears in any paperwork and there are no official records of her even existing.’

  I chance a quick look at Ewan and his eyes are sparkling.

  ‘I’m sick of club-land screenplays and want a break. I want a fresh start and a new book to play with and this is the best opportunity I’ve had in ages. I’ve decided my latest crime novel is going to be set in the area and I want to do some research.’

  ‘Did a witch do the crime?’ I ask and Ewan shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says simply, ‘the book will tell me when I write it.’

  I think that’s a bit weird for an author to say that, but I don’t know much about writing books so I let it go.

  ‘Geoff’s book looks like a good book,’ I say. ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Well,’ says Ewan,’ is tomorrow too short notice for you?’

  I think of the million and one things I need to do this weekend and there can be only one answer.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, ‘so long as Schubert can come along.’

  Chapter Six

  EWAN

  This morning isn’t exactly going as planned. I don’t know what possessed me to invite Nessa along, but it seemed like – and still does seem like – a good idea. I’m just a little concerned about how we transport a fat, nervous cat for one hour or so through Scotland.

  Nessa says she has a cat basket that he likes, and so long as he has Catnip he should be all right.

  So far, so good. But the issue I’m having at the minute is that my car won’t start. This is not a good thing.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Nessa has appeared beside me, with a pink cat transporter and Schubert sitting inside it like a Sphinx, one paw placed carefully over Catnip. Nessa looks really nice this morning, dressed for the weather in a chunky sweater, faded jeans, knee length boots and a red scarf that sets off her hair.

  ‘Not really,’ I adm
it, coming out from under the bonnet of my car. ‘It’s just not starting. I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Starting motor? Cam belt? Carburettor issues? Flat battery?’

  I look at Nessa with a new kind of respect. ‘All of them? None of them?’ I say, and shrug my shoulders. ‘Sorry, I don’t know just yet. I can probably find out, but it’ll take a while and I see His Lordship is ready for the off. I’m sorry.’

  Nessa comes and stands next to me and peers into the engine. ‘Yes. I could probably find out as well, but you’re right, it will take a while.’

  ‘What?’ I ask stupidly.

  ‘I have four brothers. I know a bit about engines. They’re very boring – engines are boring, that is, not my brothers, but my brothers also have their moments. Let’s just take Winnie.’

  ‘Winnie?’ I ask, even more stupidly. Then I get a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘You mean – take that thing?’ I nod over to Nessa’s parking space.

  Winnie is a small, yellow camper van. It has swathes of green and blue flowers painted all over it and I remember watching, fascinated, as Nessa repainted all the flowers last spring. Her tongue was poking out from between her teeth as she concentrated and she looked really sweet.

  ‘Yes. Winnie Bago,’ she says and smiles. ‘She’s quite safe since Hugo sorted out the brakes and we realised the air intake pipe was in the wrong way.’ She shakes her head as if remembering something unpleasant. ‘That’s why she was sucking through the fuel. Yes. So, we’ll go in Winnie, eh?’ She stares at me, a challenge in her eyes. I look down at Schubert and he’s staring at me the same way. Without taking his eyes off me, he scoops Catnip towards him and hisses quietly. He’s not going to let me say no, is he?

  ‘Schubert’s been looking forward to the trip,’ says Nessa, as if validating the animal. ‘Do you really want to let him down? We discussed it all last night and he’s very excited.’

  I’m a wee bit nervous now. Refuse to travel in the sardine tin and risk the wrath of my downstairs neighbours (both human and feline), or travel in the thing and take my life in my hands. What a decision.

  ‘We go in Winnie,’ I hear myself say.

  Nessa beams and it’s like the sun has come out.

  ‘Great!’ she says. ‘Just watch Schubert a second and I’ll get the keys.’

  She plonks the carrier on the ground and Schubert watches her go. Then he turns to me and purrs loudly.

  Maybe he’s not too bad a cat, I think.

  I also think, I hope my life insurance is up to date and my Will is easily accessible, in case anything happens to me during my time in Winnie.

  NESSA

  I really don’t know why Ewan looked so nervous when we started driving. Winnie spluttered a little, but that’s fair enough; she hasn’t had a good long run since the summer.

  I just fancied taking her up to Dunning today – the village in Perthshire that Ewan wants to visit. Winnie’s not done too badly so far, apart from that weird smell of burning when we were stuck in the traffic.

  And I even swept a few things off the dashboard to show Ewan Winnie’s tape-deck. It, like Winnie, is vintage, but it’s only snarled up a couple of tapes, and they weren’t very good ones anyway. ‘Look. You can put one of your dancey dancey beat tape things on if you want,’ I tell Ewan. I jiggle my shoulders a little and smile at him, to show I’d be very happy to listen to some dancey dancey beat music if he wished to put it on. I quite like listening to music in Winnie, but I prefer to keep the volume low so I can hear if any bits drop off her.

  ‘I … I don’t think I’ve played a tape in about fifteen years,’ he says in a funny, wooden-type voice. His eyes are fixed firmly on the road ahead and his hands are clutching the seat so his knuckles gleam white through his skin.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask kindly.

  ‘I wish you’d keep your eyes on the road. Didn’t you hear that lorry tooting?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say blithely, ‘people are always tooting at Winnie. She loves it. Doesn’t she, Schubert?’

  ‘Mow wow,’ agrees Schubert and I nod.

  ‘We weren’t too close to the lorry at all, Schubert, you’re right,’ I tell him.

  Nothing fell off Winnie, thankfully, but we gave her a little rest at the service station overlooking the Forth Bridge. I let Schubert out of his basket for a sniff around while we’re there. Well, I opened the door and he stuck his nose out, it twitched and he withdrew again, much as a turtle withdraws into its shell. He is a most peculiar cat. You would have thought he would have wanted to explore a little before settling down for the next leg of the journey.

  Anyway, as we are sitting in the car park preparing to continue northwards, Ewan begins rustling around with some papers and spreads a map out in front of him. Winnie isn’t huge, by any means, but once Ewan and his documents are out, it seems as if there’s barely any room for me and Schubert. We squish up on a bench seat, watching Ewan cover all the surfaces with paperwork.

  ‘Maggie Wall,’ he mutters. ‘It’s the name of the fields, you know. Possibly derived from the old name “Muggie’s Wall”, which might mean a field full of sheep. Sheep that have been penned in. With walls.’

  ‘Do you really think there were witches around at that time?’ I ask him, watching him scribble some notes down in a delightfully large and inviting-looking notebook.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he says. ‘They were executed in the woods, just up the road from the town.’ He looks at me and his eyes twinkle. ‘We could go there as well, if you fancy it. Kincladie Wood. It’s not far from the monument, and it might even be haunted.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say meeting his eyes steadily. If he thinks I am one of these girly girls who flinch at that sort of story, he’s wrong. ‘What do I tell Fern if the ghosts get you?’

  ‘Fern?’ He looks at me blankly for a moment. ‘Oh. Fern. I don’t know. Tell her the truth, I guess.’ He shrugs his shoulders and looks back at his maps.

  ‘I haven’t read any of your books, Ewan,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says, his attention not leaving the papers. ‘I haven’t had to use your investigation company either. There’s nobody I want to be tracked and no mysteries that need solving, so there you go.’

  ‘The agency is really very boring,’ I say. ‘I’ve been reading a lot about witches, with being related to Aggie, you know, and I’ve made a kind of altar on my desk at work, just to meditate on because it fascinated me so much. Earth, air, fire and water. A pot plant, a feather, a candle and a bottle of water. It’s so quiet at the moment in the agency, I can at least use my time productively by meditating. But don’t tell my boss please.’

  ‘That’s an odd collection of things, and an even odder way to admit to using them. I think this Aggie thing is getting to you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I have to dedicate my wand next. I’m not sure how to do it. I haven’t got to that part of the book yet.’

  ‘The book?’ He pops his head up and frowns at me.

  ‘Yes, I have a book. I was never born with the knowledge, you know. I have to learn it somehow.’

  ‘Well don’t go messing with things you don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s why I have the book. So I can learn.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘I found the book in the coffee shop where the Coven lurk,’ I tell him. I shift my weight and Winnie shifts with it, creaking a bit.

  ‘The Coven?’ he practically shouts. His eyes are wide open and I’ve definitely got his attention now.

  ‘Yes. I think they’re witches. They cackle a lot.’ Schubert hisses, agreeing with me even though he’s never met them.

  ‘Okay. They might not be witches, you know,’ says Ewan, ever so carefully.

  ‘But they might be,’ I reply.

  Ewan is silent and blinks. ‘Okay. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m just waiting for you.’

  ‘Fine.’ He folds the papers and the maps up, back along
the proper creases and everything. He makes them really neat. I know I would make a mess of them, and I equally know that I wouldn’t even try to fold them back up. That’s why Winnie is strewn with maps and leaflets and they’re shoved in her drawers any which way.

  It’s quite nice, in some respects, as it’s a good way of me remembering where I’ve visited. Winnie is quite old but she’s equally well travelled, even from just being with me. One year, we did John O’Groats and Land’s End during the summer – straight along the centre of Britain, with a few diversions here and there as I fancied it. That’s the year I met Schubert – a straggly, mangy, kitten hanging around the Norfolk Broads.

  The chap at the lock told me that the kitten had probably been thrown off a boat, and the owners hadn’t come back for him. Schubert had been soaking wet and half-drowned, and had been discovered huddling by the lock keeper’s cottage. When I picked him up, he cuddled into me and we went into the nearest town and bought Catnip there and then. We also bought his blanket and the pink cat transporter as they didn’t have any other colours in the place.

  Schubert is a lovely cat and those boat people need to be thrown into jail.

  EWAN

  Nessa has a face like thunder and she’s scowling really badly as she settles into the driver’s seat and rams Winnie into first gear.

  ‘Why do you have a face like thunder and why are you scowling so much?’ I ask her, quickly fastening my seatbelt as we kangaroo-hop out of the car park.

  ‘I’m thinking about Norfolk,’ says Nessa and crunches the van into second.

  ‘I like Norfolk,’ I say pathetically.

  ‘Oh, me too!’ Nessa turns her face towards me. All of a sudden, her expression is open and friendly and pretty again. ‘There was just something unpleasant that happened there and I was remembering it.’

  I feel myself bristle and have an urge to rip my shirt off and go all Tarzan.

  ‘What happened? Do I need to exact revenge for you?’

  Nessa laughs and the sound makes my He-Man instincts dissolve and I laugh with her – although I’m not certain what we’re laughing at yet.