Ill Will. Michael Stewart

to tear myself in two. I lay on the ground, felt the tears sting and let the acrid water drip from my eyes.

      It was fully dark when I eventually came around. I made my way back to the farm by moonlight, dropping down from the moor on the other side. As I scuttled along the path in the silver light of the moon and the stars, I heard a distinct screaming. Not the screaming a vixen sometimes makes when she calls her mate or the long harsh screaming of a barn owl, but another sound. I thought for a moment that it was the screaming of a wild cat.

      I stopped and cocked my head, listening more intently. As I did, I realised that the sound could only be one thing: the piercing scream of a person in pain. I followed it and found myself outside the building where the hay was stored. There was candlelight leaking from a crack in the door. I placed my eye there and saw a peculiar scene. The girl with the white-blonde hair and grey eyes was standing in the middle of the room. There were two men: one was the farmer’s son, Dick Taylor, the other I did not recognise. He was stocky with a thick mop of yellow hair, like a corn rig. The farmer’s son had hold of the girl with one arm, and his other hand was over her mouth. The man with yellow hair was uncoiling a length of rope. He took out an axe and I saw the metal blade glint in the light of the tallow candle. He chopped two lengths of rope. The axe cut through the thick rope as though it were a single blade of grass. He took one length and tied it to a wooden pillar, then took hold of one of the girl’s arms. He tied the rope firm around her wrist. Then he took the second length and tied her other wrist to a wooden post on the far side of her. I could see the panic in the girl’s eyes.

      When she was firmly tied, the man who had hold of her stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and tied another around her face, preventing her from screaming out. The man with yellow hair went to the back of the barn. I couldn’t see what he was doing but when he came back he had a black leather bull whip in one hand. The farmer’s son took out a knife and used it to cut the girl’s frock. He then tore it so that the entire length of her back was exposed. Then the man with yellow hair uncoiled the whip and cracked the air. He smiled at the farmer’s son.

      ‘Give it to me,’ Dick Taylor said.

      ‘Spoilsport.’

      The man with yellow hair handed over the whip to the farmer’s son. The farmer’s son put the knife on the ground. He cracked the whip himself a few times and smiled. Then he walked up to the girl, turned around and counted his strides back. On the sixth stride he stopped and turned to face her. He stood quite still for a moment, then cracked the whip across the girl’s flesh. She flinched in pain and her eyes bulged. Her skin split where the point of the whip sliced at the flesh and blood leaked out. I saw it pour from the wound and felt a heat rise within. I thought about Hindley and the whip he had used on me. I knew how it could cut through flesh and I felt the girl’s pain as if it were my own. And then a kind of mania spiralled in my head. My thoughts were travelling upwards like a puttock in the sun, to be replaced by a cold, hard, black feeling.

      I shouldered the door and burst through. Both men turned around to face me. I picked up the axe from the ground and ran at the farmer’s son, who was still clutching the whip. He pulled the whip back and tried to crack it across my face, but as he did I lunged at him with the axe, grabbed for the whip, and chopped his hand clean off at the wrist. He screamed and blood gushed from the wound. I went for the other man but before I could get hold of him he ran out of the barn, closely followed by the bleeding farmer’s son. Then I was on my own with the girl. The severed hand was on the ground on top of some straw, twitching. It was still clutching the whip. I untied the girl and removed the handkerchiefs from her face and mouth.

      ‘Are you hurt bad?’ I asked.

      She was standing quite still, staring at me impassively.

      ‘I’ve had worse,’ she said.

      ‘Why were those men whipping you?’

      ‘They said I’m a witch.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘They just did.’

      ‘They must have reasons?’

      ‘People talk through me.’

      ‘What people?’

      ‘Dead people.’

      ‘Then you are a witch.’

      I took the flask of water from inside my coat and handed it to her.

      ‘Here, drink this.’

      She pulled out the cork and supped from it.

      ‘Why did you stop them?’

      ‘I don’t like whips.’

      She handed the flask back.

      ‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘They’ll come back. With more. What you did – it will not go unpunished.’

      ‘Come,’ I said. ‘I know a place we can hide till dawn. Then we can head over the moors, away from this town.’

      I cleaned the blade of the axe, wrapped it in a coarse rag, and tucked it down the back of my breeches. I found the knife further on and stashed that in my surtout.

      ‘Where are you heading?’

      ‘West.’

      ‘Can I come?’

      ‘You can come as far as you need to get away from those men. But no further.’

      The last thing I needed was a travelling companion to slow me down.

      I took her hand and we walked out of the barn. I could hear some commotion in the distance. Then I heard voices.

      ‘It’s this way!’ someone shouted.

      They were coming for us already. I held onto the girl’s hand harder and together we ran up the lane and into the wood. I led us through a thicket and over brambles until we came to a tree that we could easily climb. It was close to the elm where I stashed my pennies. I reached for the nearest branch and used it to steady me as I wedged my foot into a nook. I levered myself up into the tree, then pulled the girl close to where I was crouched. I held her tight and told her to shush. I heard voices and the snapping of twigs. We were being followed by a mob armed with torches, pitchforks, scythes, knives and pickaxe handles. I could see their silhouettes and the orange flames. The men searched the wood.

      ‘Must be here somewhere,’ someone said. ‘Can’t have got far.’

      ‘I’ll lynch the pair of them.’

      ‘Watch out. He’s got an axe.’

      Three men approached our tree. I could make out the tops of their heads from where I was crouched. One was the man with yellow hair. He leaned against the trunk immediately below us. I held my breath and put my hand over the girl’s mouth. She was rigid with fear. I could feel her heart beat against my belly. I clung onto her. The men were panting.

      ‘Stop a minute, I need to get my breath.’

      ‘Which way?’ the yellow-haired man said.

      ‘They must be here somewhere.’

      ‘Is Dick all right?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ the yellow-haired man said. ‘He’s lost a hand.’

      ‘They’ll lose more than a hand when I get hold of them,’ another said. I recognised the voice: it was the farmer, Dan Taylor. ‘No one does that to my son and lives to tell the tale.’

      ‘Might have climbed a tree.’

      ‘Lift that torch up.’

      A man came over to where we stood, torch in hand. My surtout was a dark brown colour and the girl was tucked inside. I ducked my head behind a branch as the light from the torch came closer. As they raised it I held my breath again.

      ‘I can’t see anything.’

      ‘Lift it higher.’

      I could feel the girl’s heartbeat quicken.