Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

to be honest. But there are masses of stories about things that have happened there. We’ve filmed some interviews, misty evening scenes, shadows, atmosphere, several hours last night, you know the sort of thing.’ He paused, staring up at the neatly cut lettering on the wall plaque, name after name of young men slaughtered for their country.

      ‘And?’ Mike put in quietly. ‘Something has happened you didn’t foresee?’

      Mark gave a wry grin. ‘Exactly.’

      He had left the others in the pub shortly after nine, the night before, pleading a headache, and walked slowly back up the hill towards the bed and breakfast, relieved to be away from the noise and smoke of the public bar where they had found a small round table on which to balance their plates of steak and chips. The two late afternoon interviews had gone well. One had been with a woman who had been employed as a cleaner in the shop some twenty years ago. Her story had been recalled in a voice of calm certainty which had reassured and convinced them all. And her facts had more or less backed up Stan’s more lurid tale. She had heard the footsteps on several occasions. She had thought she had seen a figure lurking on the staircase and she had felt uncomfortable going into the shop early in the mornings, especially in the winter when she had had to unlock the door and turn on all the lights, conscious that she was the only person there. The flat had not been used, it appeared, since the flight of the cake-making lady in the fifties. In the end the cleaning lady had given in her notice and had not been back since. They had interviewed her against the backdrop of the river. The second interviewee had not minded doing his bit in the shop itself, but like Stan he declined to go upstairs. He had gone in as an electrician about five years before and had been forced to work most of the day in the upper room, putting in some new wiring. At one point he had turned round and found himself face to face with the man with the goatee beard. The apparition had only lasted seconds but it had been enough. Another electrician had had to be found to complete the job. The language with which he had described his feelings had been fruity to say the least. It had reduced Alice to helpless delighted giggles and made Joe wince. They would have to bleep much of the interview. And now they had left two cameras rolling on long play in the upstairs room.

      Mark had strolled on up the hill, feeling better in the fresh air; appreciating the cool soft breeze scented with salt and tar and mud which was blowing up off the river. He let himself into the house, a huge rambling Edwardian pile with masses of rooms for guests and, as they had discovered, the most wonderful full English breakfasts, and climbed the stairs to his room. A shower, an early night and hopefully tomorrow they would find something interesting on the silently rolling film.

      He fell asleep almost at once, one arm crooked under the pillow, the other across his face and within minutes he was dreaming. He was running along a narrow road in the dark, the mud squelching under his feet, and he could hear the sound of a horse galloping behind him. He ran faster, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off him. The hedges on either side of the lane were high and he couldn’t see where he was going. He blundered into a puddle and then another, desperately trying to keep his feet, aware that the horse was gaining on him fast. Dear God, it was going to catch him. He was searching frantically for a break in the hedge where he could get off the road and hide but the hedges were thorn – the branches were reaching towards him, tearing his clothes, interlaced into an impenetrable wall. He heard a shout behind him. Then another. The crowd were following the horse. He could hear them whistling, baying for his blood, his and that of the woman he was trying to save. He tried to force himself to run faster, but his strength was failing fast. Somehow he had to hide her. Somewhere. There must be somewhere. He could see her beside him now. She was running with him, her hair slipping out of her hood, her long skirts tangling between her legs. She had lost a shoe and she was crying. Then he heard her scream. And it was the same scream he had heard in the shop. In his nightmare suddenly he was there, standing in the middle of the upstairs room, and he was listening to a woman’s terrified, agonised scream …

      Mark had awoken drenched in sweat and panting, and switching on the lamp reached for the wristwatch he had left on the bedside table. It was still barely ten o’clock.

      It was a long time before he fell asleep again. This morning when he woke he had found that his first thought had been to find the local clergyman.

      Mark took a deep breath and turned back to Mike.

      ‘You know practically every old house round here claims to be haunted either by a witch or by the Witchfinder General?’

      Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘A slight exaggeration. But I know there are a few such claims. A piece of history like that leaves its mark on a community.’

      ‘And it’s good for the tourist trade.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Mike glanced at him sideways. ‘May I ask what it is that has happened to make you seek me out?’

      ‘Nightmares.’ Mark shrugged.

      ‘And you think this would be the domain of the church rather than the doctor?’

      Mark ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’m not neurotic. I normally sleep like the dead.’ He paused and exhaled sharply, eyes closed. ‘Not a happy choice of phrase, perhaps. I sleep well. I’m in good health. The only dead which normally give me nightmares are deadlines.’ He gave a humourless chuckle. ‘It has only happened since we came here. Last night –’ he shook his head – ‘and the night before, I was running, hiding, trying to hide someone, then, in the dream,’ he paused, finding it hard to speak, ‘I was upstairs. In the shop. And I heard a scream. I can’t get the sound of those screams out of my head.’

      Mike felt a small cold shiver tiptoe down his spine. ‘Does this fit in with the history of the shop?’ he asked gently.

      ‘Maybe. We’ve been told Hopkins walked some of the witches there.’

      ‘Walked them?’

      ‘Up and down, all night. He practised sleep deprivation. A very effective form of torture. Proper torture was illegal in England, you understand, except where treason was suspected. This was his speciality. No mess. No equipment needed.’ He shivered. ‘But they wouldn’t have screamed. Would they? Not just for walking?’

      Mike did not reply immediately. Staring at the ground he absorbed unseeing the gentle colours of the small, stained-glass window thrown onto the grey stone at their feet. ‘Would you like to come back to the rectory to discuss this? It’s a serious matter and I would really like to take some time to think. And to pray.’ He looked up and grinned almost apologetically.

      Mark shook his head. ‘I can’t now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re filming an interview at one o’clock. I’d better get on. Perhaps some other time?’

      Mike nodded. ‘Whenever you like. You know where to find me.’ He paused. ‘Mr Edmunds, before you go, you said you filmed through the night. Was there anything on the film?’

      Mark smiled wryly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a thing!’

      Mike watched as he made his way to the door and disappeared out into the sunshine.

      ‘So, what was that about?’ He hadn’t noticed Judith approach. Still wearing her blue scarf and surplice, she was standing only a few feet away, half hidden by one of the pillars.

      Mike frowned, suppressing a sudden flash of irritation at the interruption, yet again, of his thoughts. ‘Just a short chat. Nothing to worry about.’

      He glanced down the church towards the door. ‘Donald gone?’

      Judith nodded. ‘He had to get back. Family duties. Mike, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come back to lunch with me? Just pot luck. Salad. Glass of something?’ She smiled uncertainly, obviously expecting him to decline, and he felt a sudden wave of pity. He knew Judith was lonely. ‘That would be nice. Thanks. I’d love to.’

      She lived in a three-bedroomed bungalow in a road of identical houses set in small rectangular plots on the top of the hill behind the town. As Mike climbed out of her car, he looked round at her garden. He had been here many times and knew her life-story intimately. She had