Black Ceremonies (5 page)

For an agonising moment he thought he had lost the key, but then he found it, and had started the engine. Buchowski started to accelerate just as the fastest of the pursuing villagers threw himself onto the bonnet of the car. The local managed to hang on for mere seconds before losing his precarious grip. Buchowski sped out of the village, whooping in exhilaration, adrenaline pumping.

The American was driving far too recklessly for such a narrow country road. He was fortunate that he met no other traffic coming in the opposite direction.

His luck ran out whilst he was glancing in the rear-view mirror looking for pursuers. He saw the stray sheep that was in the middle of the road at the last moment. Instinctively he swerved to avoid it. Losing control of the car, the Mondeo went off the road and head-on into a tree. The front of the car crumpled, and Buchowski thanked God for the invention of airbags.

He clambered out of the car. Shaken by the crash and unsteady on his feet. The sheep seemed unperturbed, and was busy grazing the grass verge.

Buchowski swore at the animal. “Damn stupid creature, you’re lucky not to be lamb chops!” It must have escaped from the field to the left that contained a flock of Suffolks.

The American wasn’t far enough away from the village to be safe; he could see some of the villagers running along the road. And as he watched, a Land Rover sped past them. If he stayed on the road, there was no way he could escape. But if he sought refuge in the wood that grew alongside, well, he just might be able to evade his pursuers.

Yet even as entered the trees he could hear the barking of dogs.

Nettles stung his legs, and thorny briars scratched the American as he pressed deeper into the trees. Buckthorn, hawthorn, rowan and ash made up the bulk of the wood.

Buchowski staggered, wheezing from his exertions. He’d let himself go, and was out of shape. He hated to admit it, but he was fat not fit. He was an old man in an English wood, not the young soldier he had been in the jungles of Vietnam. An old man who ate, drank and smoked too much, and exercised too little.

The adrenaline rush had worn off. He was getting chest pains, and he’d drunk too much beer too quickly; and he suspected that last pint had been drugged.

Despite his discomfort he kept going. He had to get away. He struggled on, only to trip over a fallen branch. Buchowski landed awkwardly with a cry of pain. He had twisted his ankle.

He tried but hadn’t the energy to get up again. “You damn fat old fool,” Buchowski swore at himself. And at the villagers, “Bunch of crazy bastards!” What the hell was going on here? Were these people serious? Had he stumbled upon the British equivalent of some inbred, hillbilly rednecks? Or was it one big joke at his expense?

He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure which worried him more: the fact that all this might be for real, or that he might be being played for a fool.

He could hear them getting closer, villagers shouting, dogs barking wildly. It wouldn’t be long before they found him.

A young woman reached him first, Buchowski realised he recognised her pretty face. She was the barmaid from the pub. She knelt down by the American, and said, “We’re not all superstitious yokels, Mr Buchowski. We don’t all believe in witchcraft.”

Then she was up and away.

Buchowski called, “Hey, don’t leave me. Where are you going?” He hoped she had gone to fetch help.

He forced himself up, using the branch to help him rise. But it was too late. The villagers had found him.

“Hey, come on, you guys. You’ve had your fun. Just let me go and I promise I won’t report this to the authorities. I’ll forget all this ever happened. And that I ever came to Hexhill.”

Reverend Dobson smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr Buchowski, but you have condemned yourself by refusing to take the test.”

Buchowski changed his grip on the branch, and held it two-handed, to use it as a club. “In that case you leave me no choice.” He swung the branch threateningly. “I’m not afraid to use this.”

“And I’m not afraid to use this either.” The farmer that Buchowski had earlier elbowed in the stomach was armed with a shotgun, and it was aimed at the American.

“Put the branch down, Mr Buchowski.” Reverend Dobson ordered, stepping closer to the tourist, “There can be no escape.”

Buchowski’s grin was humourless. “Maybe I should go down fighting, Reverend.”

The vicar shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

With a sigh, Buchowski chose to drop the branch; pinning his hopes on the barmaid fetching help. Hell, he wasn’t John Wayne. It was unlikely he would even have been able to land one blow, before the farmer shot him.

“A wise decision, Mr Buchowski.”

“I hope so,” muttered the American.

“I say I should just shoot him anyway.” The farmer wasn’t so convinced.

“No, Ted, this must be done properly.” The vicar exerted his authority.

“Then let’s get on with it, Reverend,” Ted conceded. “There’s harvesting I should be getting on with.” Several others murmured agreement.

“Come on, witch.” George, the ginger-bearded farmer shoved the American.

“And you can carry this yourself.” Benton, the pub landlord, thrust a bundle of wood into the tourist’s arms.

“Dear God! You cannot be serious.” Buchowski realised what the villagers had in mind for him.

“Get a move on.” Villagers crowded around the American, pushing and shoving, and the limping prisoner was escorted back to the village.

On Hexhill village green, more of the locals had built a bonfire, at the heart of which stood a wooden stake. A man stood ready with a length of rope.

The villagers weren’t going to let Buchowski escape again, and they soon had him bound and tied to the stake.

The American clung desperately to the hope that this was some sort of crazy British idea of re-enacting traditional historical events to give tourists a taste of Ye Olde England. Or was some kind of elaborate practical joke being played on him?

Perhaps he had been set up by one of those television programmes, and at the climactic moment the grinning TV host would reveal himself, calling proceedings to a halt.

Whatever it was, it was in very bad taste, and he somehow doubted if he would see the funny side afterwards. In fact, it was entirely possible he would be consulting his lawyer about the situation. But that was what it had to be, they couldn’t really intend to burn him at the stake. Could they? Hell, he just didn’t know what to think.

Reverend Dobson stepped forward and surveyed the crowd. Then he began to speak, “Does not the Bible say—”

“Wait!” somebody shouted. “Let me through.”

Buchowski uttered a prayer of thanks; at last someone had come to put a stop to this madness.

A young woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Buchowski heaved a sigh of relief; it was the woman who had whispered to him in the wood – the barmaid. “Oh, thank the Lord. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

The barmaid smiled at Buchowski.

The relief was evident on the American’s face. “Ha,” he cried, “the police are on their way. You crazy bastards, the police will have you all locked up. You can’t treat an American this way and expect to get away with it.” A doubt suddenly crossed his mind: surely he should be hearing sirens as the police raced to his rescue. Why wasn’t he hearing sirens? “You did get the police? Didn’t you?”

In response, she stepped closer to the pyre and spat in his face – much to his shock and the amusement of many in the crowd.

The vicar wasn’t one of them. “Really, Miss Benton, there is no need for that sort of behaviour.”

“Please carry on, Reverend Dobson,” she said, winking at the vicar.

Reverend Dobson coughed, then began his speech again. “Does not the Bible say;
‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live?’
” he asked, his gaze lingering disapprovingly on Abi Benton.

The villagers responded with cries of “Yes!” that were soon followed by shouts of, “Burn the witch!”

Dobson turned to the American. “Therefore, Mr Buchowski, you must meet the same just fate that befell your kin.”

The crowd parted again and Fred Benton came forward carrying a burning brand.

Buchowski struggled frantically, but his efforts were useless. The ropes had been tied securely. “For God’s sake, you can’t mean to go through with this.”

Again the American looked from face to face in the desperate hope there was someone who would stop this madness. But the faces of the villagers were countenances of hostility and hatred, mingled with expressions of excitement. Buchowski’s worst fears were confirmed. These people were not acting. There was to be no rescue. No television show presenter was going to suddenly emerge from the crowd and stop things in the nick of time. However improbable it seemed: this was for real.

“Reverend Dobson, please have mercy. I’m begging you, please don’t do this.”

The vicar nodded to the Mockingbird’s landlord. Benton hesitated a moment, mumbling an apology to the vicar for his daughter’s behaviour. Then he set the torch to the brushwood at the bottom of the bonfire. The wood was dry and quickly took flame.

The American was weeping now, shaking with fear.

“Oh, God in Heaven, help me! Help me! Please somebody! Help!” he wailed.

Buchowski could feel the heat. The flames were getting closer. Smoke rising, again he screamed for mercy, but the villagers were singing a hymn, and either did not hear, or chose to ignore his pleas.

His cries turned to curses. Thick black smoke choking him, he began to cough. He suffered agonising pain as the flames reached him. But Buchowski continued to curse the villagers for as long as he was able.

However, the American’s maledictions did not have the power that those of his ancestors had been purported to have had.

The last thing Dave Brenner saw before he went to sleep was a face.

Although he thought there was something familiar about the face, he did not actually recognise it.

Ordinarily seeing a strange face in your bedroom would perhaps come as something of a shock, especially when there was no evidence of the face being attached to a person. But Brenner had been out on the town, and was by this late hour more than a little drunk. And in the brief moment that this uninvited face registered upon his drink-sodden mind, he gave the matter little attention, and drifted off into slumber.

When Brenner awoke, a little after two o’clock the following afternoon, he had forgotten all about the advent of the strange visage. His immediate concern was the pounding in his head, and the fact that he had gone to bed alone. That was something of a rarity.

After showering, Brenner preened himself, studying his reflection in the bathroom mirror. So absorbed was he with his handsome features, and perfecting his hairstyle, that it was some moments before he realised that reflected beside his own was another face.

“What the …?” he muttered, then span round, saying, “Who’s that? What do you want?” as he did so.

Brenner grunted. To his surprise, he found that he was alone. He turned back to look in the mirror, this time to see only his own image. He shrugged his shoulders and said to his reflection, “Seeing things, you wanna watch that, me old son. Next thing you know, you‘ll be talking to yourself.”

“Good stuff this, Paul.” Brenner passed the joint to his friend.

Paul inhaled deeply. “Sure is,” he agreed.

“’Ere, what happened to you last night?” Paul asked. “You losing your touch, or something?”

“Nah,” Brenner sneered. “That place was full of lesbians.”

“Ah.”

“You going to the Goat tonight?” Brenner asked.

“Dunno. You?”

“Course I am.”

“‘Ere, what you got to eat?” Paul suddenly asked. “I could do with some munchies.”

“Yeah, me too,” Brenner agreed. “I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen, you roll another one up.” But he made no move to rise from where he sprawled on the couch.

“Sure thing, man.” Paul giggled, “Shit, listen to me, I sound like some bleedin’ old hippie.”

Brenner started to get up. “Cheeky bastard!” he suddenly exclaimed.

“You what?” Paul asked, confused.

“There’s someone at the window.”

“What do you mean, there’s someone at the window?”

Brenner was crossing the room. “I don’t know who ’e is, but I’ve seen ’im before.”

“Dave, man, there’s no one at the window, you’re hallucinating.” Paul remained lying on the floor, his eyes closed, and feeling rather pleased with himself for managing to pronounce hallucinating correctly first time.

“Don’t be daft, dope don’t make you hallucinate,” Brenner snorted.

Paul glanced at his friend. “Who you calling a dope?”

Brenner ignored him.

The face was peering through the window. There was something indistinct about it, but Brenner knew it was grinning, laughing at him.

“Oi! What the bleedin’ ’ell do you think you’re playing at?” Brenner shouted.

Halfway across the room, he suddenly stopped. “Hang on …” he muttered. It was impossible that someone could be at his window. This was a block of flats, and he lived on the tenth floor!

“Bloody window cleaners,” he swore, covering the rest of the distance.

“What the fuck?” Brenner opened the window, leaned out, and looked up and down. “There’s nobody there.”

No face, no window cleaners, nothing.

“See, I told you so.” Paul said, sagely.

“But I saw it,” Brenner protested.

“Nah mate, it was probably a balloon.”

Brenner took one last look out of the window, and shook his head. “Yeah, I guess it must have been,” 

“C’mon Dave,” Paul urged. “Hurry up with that food.”

“Yeah all right.” Brenner closed the window, and went to the kitchen.

“And bring us another beer, will yah?” Paul called after him.

As was usual on a Saturday night, the Capering Goat was packed. A crowd of young men and women, some of them looking for a sexual partner, some merely to get drunk, many seeking to do both. Those who had not succeeded in pulling come closing time would move on to a nightclub to continue their quest. 

Paul had not turned up, but Brenner sat at a table with another of his friends. Brenner knew many of the people there, but he caught a glimpse of someone lurking behind a couple of the regulars, that made him stare. It was the face he had seen previously.

Brenner pointed. “’Ere Darren who’s that?” he asked his companion.

“Who?”

“Over there, behind Fat John, and Mickey Sykes.”

Darren peered in their direction. “What you on about, Dave? There’s no one else there.”

“What do you mean no one else there? Of course there’s someone there. You going blind or something?”

Darren glared at his friend. “It’s you that needs your eyes testing,” he said, getting up, and taking his pint with him.

“Oi, Darren!” Brenner called after him. “Where you going? It’s your round.”

Darren ignored him, and disappeared into the crowd.

“Bollocks!” muttered Brenner. He drained his pint and made his way to the bar.

“Another one in there, please, darling.”

“Is there something the matter, Dave?” Shirley, the barmaid asked.

“No. Why?”

“Oh I dunno, you seem distracted.”

“To tell the truth I think someone’s following me.”

Shirley leaned closer; Brenner eyed her cleavage appreciatively.

“What, you mean like a stalker or something?” she asked.

“Nah.”

“Oh.” Shirley sounded disappointed. “Here, hang on a minute, I’ve got to ring for last orders.”

The resulting charge to the bar kept Shirley busy, but Brenner took every opportunity to use his charms on the blonde barmaid. And all thoughts of the mysterious face were forgotten as the more important pursuits of a young man on a Saturday night out took precedence.

Brenner’s efforts paid off.

“Fancy coming back to mine?” Shirley asked him when the rush ended.

Brenner grinned; he had obviously been right about the women he had tried to chat up the previous night. Real women still fell at his feet.

Her eyes closed, face contorted, Shirley gasped and moaned as she rode Brenner’s penis.
He
loved to watch her breasts bouncing up and down, and the expressions upon her face.

“Talk dirty to me,” she gasped.

“You dirty slut!” Brenner grunted. “I’m gonna fuck your brains out, you filthy bitch!” 

“Oh yeah, fuck me hard, you bastard!” she responded, his crude words encouraging her to wilder exertions, and her cries grew louder.

“Oh God!” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum!” But at the height of their passion, Brenner was distracted from Shirley’s bouncing breasts by the sudden looming appearance of someone peering over her shoulder. Brenner’s cry was close to a scream - a mixture of ecstasy mingled with shock.

Normally the idea of an audience would have added to his sexual pleasure, but – in reality – when it was a disembodied face that haunted him, it was a different matter.

“Dave, lover, are you all right?” Shirley panted.

“Yeah,” he gasped. “It’s just that I thought there was someone watching us.”

“You what?” Shirley quickly covered herself with a bed sheet. “What do you mean someone watching?”

“It’s all right, they’ve gone.”

“You bloody well make sure,” she said, shoving him out of bed. “I don’t want no bloody perverts spying on me.”

Brenner made a thorough search of Shirley’s flat, but there was no trace of the intruder.

Brenner sat on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette. He took a drag, then passed it to Shirley. “You remember I was telling you I thought someone was following me?”

“Yeah, you didn’t tell me it was some pervert though.”

“It’s not. At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Then who is it? What do they want?”

“I dunno.”

“You should tell the police.”

“No way, they’d never believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t’t they?”

He grunted. “I doubt even you would believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It’s not a person,” he began.

“Not a person? What do you mean?”

Brenner hesitated, unsure whether to go on.

“Dave? What is it?”

Brenner sighed. “It’s a face.”

“What do you mean, a face?”

“I keep seeing this face. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t put a name to it.”

“Well why don’t you ask them who they are and what they want?”

“If only it was as simple as that. This face, Shirl’, it’s not right.”

“Not right?”

“It’s deformed. No, that’s not right. It’s more like it hasn’t had time to properly develop yet. I can never make out its features clearly. I couldn’t make out its eyes, but it
was
watching us. And more than that, it’s just a face; it’s got no body. It just floats there.”

“You what?”

Brenner hung his head. “See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

Shirley stubbed out her cigarette. “I never said I didn’t believe you.”

Brenner looked at her. “No?”

“No.” Smiling, Shirley reached out to him, letting the sheet that covered her, slip from her breasts. “But I seem to remember you saying something about fucking my brains out.”

Brenner’s relationship with Shirley turned out to be a short-lived affair. Normally it was Brenner who ended a relationship, but in this instance it was Shirley that did so. The end came on their first date proper – a trip to the cinema.

Brenner settled back in his seat, and put his arm around Shirley. She leaned her head against him.

This was a film he had been looking forward to watching. But after a few minutes he rubbed his eyes – it did not help. There was something wrong with the lead actor’s face.

“I thought whatshisname
was supposed to be in this,” he whispered to Shirley.

“Whatshisname? That is whatshisname, as you put it, don’t you know anything?” Shirley replied.

Several people went, “
Shush!
”

“Then what’s wrong with his face? Is he wearing a mask?” To Brenner it appeared that the indistinct features of the strange face that haunted him had replaced those of the handsome movie star.

“What you on about Dave? I thought you wanted to see this film.”

“I do.”

“Then shut up and watch it.”

“Hear, hear,” a member of the audience muttered.

Brenner groaned. As the film progressed, the faces of the cast changed, one by one, into the same half-formed features.

“What’s wrong with you?” Shirley whispered.

“Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“There’s something wrong with their faces,” Brenner insisted. “Don’t you see it? Don’t any of you see it?” he said, looking around the darkened cinema.

More shushing ensued.

Embarrassed, Shirley sighed, and sank lower in her seat. Brenner kept his eyes closed for the rest of the film, even during the blockbuster’s noisy and spectacular climax.

The film finished and Brenner could not wait to get out of the cinema. “C’mon I need a drink,” he said, heading towards the nearest pub.

“You’re not the only one,” Shirley agreed.

Shirley put down her glass of white wine. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.

But Brenner’s attention was elsewhere.

“Dave? Dave?” Shirley shook his arm, but Brenner continued to stare across the barroom. Angry, she suddenly slapped his face.

“What the ’ell was that for?” Brenner asked, rubbing his cheek.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, you sod. I saw you.”

“Saw me what?” he asked in all innocence.

“You were stood right in front of me, blatantly eyeing up some tart. Couldn’t keep your eyes off her.”

“No I wasn’t. I saw it again,” he explained.

“Saw what again?”

“The face.”

Shirley was dismissive. “Oh come off it, Dave; there is no face.”

“But I’m telling you there is.”