A Cry in the Night Read online

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  PART TWO

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  PART THREE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First published in Great Britain in year of 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 Tom Grieves

  The moral right of Tom Grieves to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 85738 985 5

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85738 986 2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Also by Tom Grieves

  Sleepwalkers

  Tom Grieves has worked in television as a script editor, producer and executive producer, as well as a writer. A Cry in the Night is his second novel. Tom lives in Sussex with his wife and three sons.

  This is for my parents, John and Ann, who would take me and my sister to the Lake District every Easter. This book grew out of every peak we climbed, every rainstorm we survived and every last corner of Kendal mint cake over which we fought.

  PROLOGUE

  Although the water is cold and clear, it still has its secrets. The pebbles in the shallows are easy to see, but beyond, a good mile from land where the wind buffets the surface, the water is so deep that the view below is impenetrable. From here, looking up and back at the shore, the steep fells rise majestically into tumbling clouds. Chunky rocks spew out from the slopes like angry welts, sheep dot the fields, and ancient stone walls cut and divide the land. The view remains unchanged over centuries.

  It was the same sight that greeted the small village of Lullingdale in 1604. Its inhabitants were honest, God-fearing men and women who made their meagre living off the land. Among them was a pretty young girl called Catherine Adams. Catherine was the eldest daughter of seven and had inevitably grown up quickly. Her status as the eldest had led to her helping with children and then to midwifery. This began when she was only nine years old, and she soon became something of a good luck charm. Margaret Gifford, the skinner’s wife, swore that she would never have survived the birth of her first were it not for Catherine, and, remarkably, no baby had ever died under her watch. Catherine would blush and stammer when praised, and it certainly wasn’t her who mentioned miracles. But the word was used nonetheless and, in time, carried over the fells and across rivers until it reached the court of King James I.

  King James was also a God-fearing man. Having survived a plot to kill him by some three hundred witches in 1590, he was determined to rid the country of their curse. This determination became an obsession, and the monarch was soon an expert on the subject. Witches, he decided, danced with the devil, and where one was discovered, more would be found. He also decreed that it was possible to discover them in actions that might initially seem benign. The act of healing might not be what it seemed. Nor, it could be assumed, might the ability to deliver babies without ever suffering an accident or stillbirth.

  Catherine Adams would shrug bashfully when reminded of her feats. She had no idea that her good fortune and skill would speed John Stern into the village, with his team of men who watched her and every woman with mistrust.

  Until John arrived, it had been thought inevitable that Catherine would marry the bashful shepherd Robert Cox. The village would have celebrated their union with a single, delighted voice. But John Stern was not fooled by a sweet disposition. Once he had set his eye on Catherine, it was only a matter of time before he exposed her.

  Catherine was stripped naked, and although no mark of the devil was found on her, John Stern was undeterred. Witches, he told the cowed villagers, were cunning and deceitful. He then used his pricking stick, poking young Catherine in the back without warning. She did not react at first, and John claimed that this inability to feel pain was proof of her wickedness. Her fate was sealed.

  The girl was dragged away, condemned as guilty. Now she was important only for one thing – to find and expose the others. John served the King and did God’s work. He beseeched the villagers to help him exorcise this evil and save their souls from the danger that swirled invisibly around them.

  Perhaps Catherine had danced too gaily at the May Fayre. Had her mother not been so distracted with her wayward brothers, she might have warned Catherine not to laugh so easily with the men. And had she been less pretty, then perhaps the villagers might not have let John drag her away.

  The next morning, the mud-stained, beaten and bloodied figure was paraded in chains before the village. She was a harlot, a witch, a partner of the devil, and she had betrayed them all. It is not clear whether it was Catherine who mentioned Lucy Darwent’s name or whether John had seen the girl staring at him, but his finger pointed to her. No one stopped his men from throwing her to the ground, ripping her skirt up to her waist and declaring that the mole on her thigh was the mark of the devil. Angry and fearful, she spat in John Stern’s face and screamed at the men as they shaved her head, cutting her scalp and breaking her teeth. Only minutes before, she had been rather beautiful, but in their arms she was branded dangerous, and her appearance proved their words.

>   A herd of sheep had died earlier that spring, and at the time it was blamed on bad fortune and the shepherd’s foolhardiness – letting them graze too high on the fells when the weather was still so bitter. But now, with John’s expert eye on matters, it became clear that the animals’ deaths were a result of curses and spells. And the only woman who could have put such a hex on so many animals was Elinor Sibbell, a hunchbacked grandmother who had never spent a single day outside of the village. Elinor’s age and physical weakness earned her no favours with John’s men, and she was bound and broken with the others.

  When he had six, John was satisfied. Some might say that his work proved unprofitable until he reached this number, but their voices are not recorded. Instead, John was able to rely on the fear of the male villagers, desperate to rid themselves of the wickedness among them, angry that they had not seen it themselves, fearful that their inability to spot it might turn eyes onto them.

  It is unclear what happened that night. The witches were taken away to a hut at the edge of the village where they confessed their wrongdoing and repented of their sins. The husbands were told that they were not at fault. The devil was to blame and all that the men could do was pray to God that he would deliver them from the women’s black hearts. The men took comfort from John’s words. They agreed that a woman’s guile was like no other and swore that they would not be fooled again. They retired in each other’s company and felt safer for it. Perhaps it was the darkness that made this possible. Ghost, ghouls and gremlins are easily conjured against the eternal black canvas of a starless night.

  The next morning, the witches were paraded before the village. They were spat at and cursed as brave John Stern delighted the crowd by announcing their confessions. They had admitted to the murder of farmer Francis Clifford’s prize bull, which everyone had previously assumed to have died of old age. They had confessed to dancing naked with the devil by firelight near the lake while the menfolk slept, and admitted to future plans of evil. John Stern was good at his job and he controlled his crowd with the skills of a master showman. No one, it seemed, noticed that the women remained silent. But who would deny the words of good John Stern, servant of King James I and the Lord God Almighty?

  Seven-year-old William Henshaw was only too happy to offer up his father’s boat for the final proof and purification of the witches. The villagers came to watch as John and two of his men rowed the women out on the water. And there, with their hands tied behind their backs and their legs in hastily made shackles, the witches were thrown into the lake. All sank without a trace. This, good John said, was proof that their sins were finally purged. Had they floated and survived, then the devil’s powers still flowed unabated through their hearts. The silence of the water was proof that good had won out. The witches were gone. The village was once again safe and John Stern could leave them to continue lives of prosperity and obedience.

  While John Stern had stood among them on the land, the men had cheered with an impassioned zeal. Even the usually taciturn William Cox had shouted and spat against fair Catherine. But watching the action unfold out on the lake, the crowd’s fervour faded. As the women plunged into the water, the men’s voices were replaced with the tremulous wail of sisters, mothers and daughters who mourned their own with powerless, desolate grief. The men could not look at them.

  Honest John Stern and his men stayed one last night, dining and drinking their fill at the inn. They left the next morning at dawn, hunting down rumours of a woman who turned herself into a magpie at dusk. They never visited the village again.

  Once the noise of their horses’ hoofs had faded, the villagers were left with the familiar sound of the wind in the trees, the murmur of cattle, the slap of water against the rocky shoreline. Nature remained unchanged. But the women looked at the men and the men looked at their women and neither could hold the other’s eye. Once they had danced together, hands held, hips touching. The dance’s steps would demand they did so again. Slowly, the memories receded.

  But the lake was always the same, untouchable despite the ice, the rain, the sleet and snow. It swallowed it all, swallowed it whole. The villagers stared out across the water. Their children would stand in their place, and their children’s children. The lake would always be there, guarding its stories for each new generation to tell.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Little Arthur Downing ran from the lake, tore into the woods and threw himself onto his belly among the long grass.

  If I don’t move, he thought, if I stay dead still and don’t make a sound, then maybe the witch won’t find me.

  He lay amongst the bracken, his head pressed down against the mud and the moss, listening as keenly as he could for any noise. Although his little legs shook, he was sure he wasn’t making a sound. But still, that might not be enough.

  The Lake Witches come from the water and promise you presents. But under their coats are blades and a silver thread. And they drag you back down – deep, deep down where they play with you like a cat plays with a shrew.

  The little boy’s name was Arthur. It was his dad’s dad’s name and he was the latest in a long line of Arthur Downings. It was a name to be proud of. But when the woman had stretched out her gloved hand and said, ‘Arthur Downing, is that you? Come with me, dear, I have something exciting to show you,’ he had wished his name was anything but that. He’d known right away what she really was. He might have been only nine years old, but after seeing the news on the TV and hearing what people were saying, he knew that the witches were back. She made him feel cold. Like a rabbit must feel on the fells when it looks up and sees the kites circling. Maybe she had talons under her gloves that cut when she grabbed you so you could never escape. He wondered if her sharp claws had grabbed Lily. He didn’t know where his little sister was now and he was torn between his worry for her and the stabbing fear that kept him pressed down in the dirt.

  He listened again, raising his head ever so slightly to see, but the rocks obscured his view and all he could hear was the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. The witch had shouted after him as he ran, laughing as though it was all just a silly little joke. But now she would be floating above the trees, spying down on him, calling her sisters to rise up from the lake and join her. No child who’d ever seen a witch had lived to tell the tale. But Arthur Downing was going to be the first.

  It was dirty and cold on the ground, but he stayed still for as long as he could. Once his mum had locked him out of the house and he’d been freezing all night. But they’d agreed not to tell a soul about it. Even then, in the dark, he’d been able to get up and pace about, but this time he had to lie still as a sleeping lion. Stiller than that.

  The wet leaves nibbled at the back of his neck and soon he couldn’t bear it any more. Arthur sat up as slowly and quietly as he could and looked around. He stared up at the trees and checked every branch. Two red squirrels twisted around a tree trunk and then scuttled off into the thick bed of autumn leaves. He sat and listened. Water, wind, a bird’s cry, but nothing else. He finally stood up, his legs cramped and cold. He rubbed his dirty hands on the back of his shorts and tried to work out what to do next. The lake was somewhere down there, ahead. If he went right, he’d head back towards home. But that was where the witch would be waiting for him. If he went left, he’d go deeper into the woods, and Dad had made him scared of the woods and the boathouse that creaked and moaned. He didn’t want to go there.

  Arthur imagined them biting at Lily under the water, and his confidence failed him. Eventually he forced himself forward, heading right, towards home. The green, red and orange leaves hid the lake from view, but he knew it was there, just out of sight. He had to be careful. He stood behind the last line of trees, watching and waiting, his hand resting on a sycamore’s trunk, its bark softened by lichen. There was no one there. All he had to do was slip along the pebbles, join the road and belt it back up to the village. Five minutes and he’d be home. Just five minutes. Easy.


  He took the first step out from the wood and made his way along the shore. He glanced down and stared at the lake water – it seemed to creep towards his feet. He took a step away from it, but up it came again. The water should be still, he thought. He looked up – his eyes running over the surface of the lake. It was so dark and huge, it made him shiver. He half expected to see Lily there under the water, staring up at him.

  He hurried, crablike, along the shore, his eyes fixed on the waves that lapped back and forth. He turned to run home and suddenly there she was, with that smile. When she put a hand on his shoulder, he felt his heart crumble.

  The witch looked around and she definitely was like the kite. Her eyes moved fast, checking, checking, checking. Arthur started to cry. The witch dropped down so her face was close to his. She wore a long purple coat and it looked elegant and sleek, but Arthur could see leaves and a broken twig which had snagged on her sleeve. She’d been in the woods. Hiding in the trees, no doubt. Any minute now, she would drag him into the lake. There was no one around. He wanted to pee. He was crying, he wanted to pee and he knew that he was going to die.

  ‘You mustn’t be frightened,’ she said. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen. We’re just going to play a game.’

  She’ll play with me, he thought, like the farm cats do in the barn. Leaving only the guts behind.

  ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Please, I want to go home.’

  ‘Don’t be scared. Your sister’s waiting for you. And we’re going to have such fun.’

  She smiled at him and he tried to smile back, so she wouldn’t expect it when he ran. But then her spell started to work on him. His eyes started to water and the magic was so strong it was like liquid black going over his eyes and nose and mouth. He felt dizzy. He saw that the witch had stopped smiling and that she was turning away from him. But he was powerless now. He wanted to scream, but the spell was too strong. Everything went woozy and dark. Her purple coat faded and clouded.

  Soon he was like the water, quiet and still. Unknown and unknowable.