The Witch’s List
A novel by Andrew Cairns
Sample - Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Witches and
Warlocks
I didn't use to
believe in witches. Not really. Of course, growing up in Scotland, there were
always stories of witches and wizards, ghosts and ghouls, monsters and zombies
and so on, but as in most ‘civilized’ western countries, such stories were
mainly regarded as folklore; on a par with pixies and elves. You didn’t really
believe in them, they were just fairy tales. Remember the stories?
There was
one, more ‘serious’ book on witches in our secondary school library though. And
it freaked us all out a bit. It must have been one of the most browsed texts in
there – due to its filthy pictures of witches performing various ceremonies –
black masses and the like – naked! In most libraries there are some books with
scuddy pictures, classed under erotic literature or art; even in the children’s
section there’s always some big kid that’s got his hands on the encyclopaedia
and invites you over to show you a picture of the topless, tribal African
woman. This one, ‘Witches and Warlocks’, was a non-fiction work, detailing very
graphically, and very sexily we all thought, a range of witchcraft and black
arts practices. It had somehow found its way into Saint Saviours’ RC (Roman
Catholic) school, despite the establishment being as staunchly Catholic in its
syllabus and overall culture as it comes. It was in the reference section, on
the religious books shelf, and I’m sure none of the teachers knew of its
existence, much less its saucy content. The librarian was a rather dozy woman
in her thirties, with short blond hair; always had her nose in some novel. I
assume it was her that ordered a copy. She must have done it absent-mindedly,
not really checking out its profane and pornographic content. Or maybe she was
some kind of closest anarchist or rebel. Who knows?
My best friend
at the time, Martin Cardosi, always one to lead me into mischief, showed me the
book at one point; we must have been in second year, aged thirteen, hormones
beginning to rage.
“Here,
Sandy, come and check this out.” He shoved the big tome into my hands.
I flipped through it,
speechless, mostly just looking at the shocking pictures but taking in some of
the vocabulary: black mass, pentagram, hex, coven, sect, orgy…
“I’d like
to join one of those devilish sects, just to take part in the orgies,” said
Martin, grinning.
“Idiot!
You’d probably go to hell.”
After we’d had our
fill of the images, Martin put the book back on the shelf and said, “Don’t
forget to touch the Bible after, just to be on the safe side.”
We both touched the
Bible before leaving.
From then
on we secretly consulted the book, at least once a week, hiding behind one of
the shelves and ogling at the pictures.
* * *
Saint Saviours’ was a
comprehensive school, slap-bang in the middle of some of the roughest areas of
Dundee: Fintry, Whitfield, Craigie and Douglas; so it had its fair share of
psychos, hard men and general nutters. They had three main pastimes during the
lunch break: playing a gambling game called pitchy, which involves throwing
coins up against the wall, the winner being the one who gets his coin closest;
smoking round the back of the boilers; and, of course, fighting and bullying.
Martin and I came from the Ferry, one of the better areas of Dundee. We were bussed
in to Saint Saviours’, along with about forty to fifty other children, because
it was the nearest Catholic School. Hence we were labelled ‘snobs’, ‘toffs’ or
‘poofs’ and were considered good bullying fare for the yobs during the breaks.
The
library was a good place to escape to, to avoid getting beaten up, but the best
place was the Chess Club, because we could eat our lunch there; and also because
we liked playing chess, I suppose (we were both on the school chess team). It
was run by Mr Fitzsimmons, a very amusing and charismatic chemistry teacher,
but with a very short temper. He was well known for his angry fits, often
reducing strapping lads, a foot taller than him, to blubbing wrecks just by
screaming and shouting at them. He sometimes seemed as if he was about to have
a nervous breakdown; eventually he did, but years later, once we’d all left the
school. So while the Chess Club was a great place to hang out, it was wise to
be on your best behaviour, since Fitzy – never call him that to his face –
could drop in at any time to check up on you.
In the
winter, when it was very cold, the classrooms got a bit chilly, even with the
heaters turned on full. So Mr Fitzsimmons used to light up all the Bunsen
burners on the workbenches, which were situated along three walls of the room,
as well as the one on top of his desk, at the front. He left them on the slow,
yellow flame and not the strong, ferocious, blue flame, but it was dangerous
enough leaving unattended teenagers surrounded by flaming burners. It also
created a rather mysterious atmosphere, like sitting in some pagan temple. I’m
sure if some health and safety inspector had come along, he would have got
rapped for it. But Fitzy was ever the rebel. This was 80s Britain, where
teachers were striking and stopping all extra-curriculum activities in protest
at Thatcher’s budget cuts and pay rise refusals, and his Chess Club was the one
remaining club in the school; all the others – sports, drama, photography, etc.
– had been stopped after the first year. I think he supported the strikes, but
he just loved chess. He had, after all, coached the famous Paul Motwani, a previous
pupil at the school and huge chess star, who went on to become Scotland’s first
Grand Master.
So one Tuesday
lunchtime, during our second year, in the heart of the cold Scottish winter, we
were sitting eating our lunch and playing chess in the chemistry lab / Chess Club,
the Bunsen burners full ablaze and Martin said, “Watch this!” He went over to
the workbench at the side of the class and moved his hand through the flame.
“See, if you move your hand quite quickly through the flame, it doesn’t burn.”
We all
have a fascination with fire. It must be human nature, part of our instincts,
left over from prehistoric times where fire meant warmth, protection, hot food,
storytelling but perhaps also excitement: sex by the fireside? We’ve all set
something on fire just for the fun of it: a candle, a firework, a match or a
whole box of them all at once, thrilled by the little explosion, the sudden
blaze. “Come on, guys, are you chicken?” Martin ribbed us.
We didn’t
need much persuasion, most of the boys and a few of the girls, left their chess
games and took turns putting their hands through the flame, feeling the slight
warmth, but moving fast enough so as not to get burnt. I went to the burner on
the teacher’s desk, standing on a chair so I could reach it. Of course, just my
luck, as I was putting my hand through the flame, Fitzsimmons came in, took in
the scene – and went berserk!
“You, Beech!
I can’t believe it!” he shouted, already turning red.
Most people had backed
away from the burners when he came in, but he’d caught me red-handed, seen me
through the little window on the door before he even came in. “Can’t I even
leave you a few minutes, without you getting up to something?” he bellowed.
“Sorry,
sir,” I said meekly, looking down at my shoes.
“And here
was me, just trying to be nice and warm the place up for you a bit.” He looked
around and caught Martin smirking. “I bet this was your idea wasn’t it,
Martin?”
“What? No,
sir,” he protested, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Right the
pair of you, out! You’re banned for the rest of the week.”
There wasn’t going to
be any discussion, so we gathered up our things and made for the door.
Fitzsimmons went around the class turning off all the burners. “Get back to
your games the rest of you, and you can freeze for all I care!” He glared at us
as we headed out the door.
“Nice one,
Martin,” I said accusatorily to my friend, who’d got me into deep water once
again, or rather, thick ice in this case – it was one of the coldest days of
winter, there was deep snow and thick sheets of ice everywhere.
The yobs
were all having snowball fights and worse – pushing people to the ground and
burying them with snow they kicked on top of them. Ron Knight, one of the chief
psychos, spotted us, came along and shoved me to the ground and started kicking
snow on me. “Sandy, you poof! Come and play snowballs instead of that poofy
chess.”
One of his mates, Grant
Bishop grabbed some sand from a big bin of the stuff, officially used to help
melt the ice, and threw some in my face. He also stuffed a handful down the
back of my neck. “Hey, the Sandy Beech needs some more sand.”
“You’ve
just been checkmated by a Knight and a Bishop,” joked Martin. He often used his
humour in such cases, and by keeping the lowlifes amused managed to deflect
most of their violence. While the pair of bullies guffawed, Martin grabbed me
up off the ground. “Come on, Sandy.” He led me away and once we were out of earshot
he said, “Let’s head to the library.” He didn’t want the others to know we were
going there, since they’d just call us ‘swats’ and ‘poofs’ and probably pelt us
with more snow and sand. We still had about forty-five minutes to kill before
the end of the lunchtime break, so it seemed like a good idea.
The
library was very quiet, just a few bookish types, perusing the shelves or
sitting down reading at one of the desks. We blended in, although I was leaving
a little trail of sand from the stuff Grant had put down my clothes. After
aimlessly looking at a few books in the various sections, we found each other
in the religious section, in front of the shelf with the infamous ‘Witches and
Warlocks’.
Martin
took it off the shelf. “May as well have a gander,” he said.
We looked through it,
page by page; no matter how many times you looked at this bizarre tome, you
were still spellbound, feeling a strange mixture of curiosity, horror and
titillation as you took in the pictures – both drawings and photos. “Do you
think those are actual devil worshippers, taking part in real black masses, or
just models pretending?” asked Martin.
“Don’t
know. What, are you thinking of applying for a job as a model for the next
edition?”
He
laughed. “Who published this thing anyway?” He found the answer on one of the
pages near the front. “Six-six-six publishing,” he read aloud. “Geeze, the
devil himself! Quick we’d better touch the Bible before we go.” Lunchtime break
was almost over.
“What do
you think would happen if you touched it with the Bible?” he asked.
“Don’t
know. Probably nothing. Try it and see,” I said flippantly.
“I’ll hold
this. You get the Bible.” He was serious.
I rolled my
eyes. “Okay, and then let’s get out of here before the librarian wakes up and
nabs us.”
He held
the volume of ‘Witches and Warlocks’, and I got the Bible, a big leather-bound edition,
further along the shelf. It had probably been consecrated by the Bishop, the
real Bishop that it, not Grant Bishop. I touched it onto the perverse, evil
tome that Martin was holding and the pages burst into flames in his hands.
“Ahhh!” He
started screaming. We both panicked. He dropped the flaming book to the floor,
and I quickly placed the Bible – which had escaped unscathed – on top of the
shelf, no time to put it back in its place. Then we both legged it out of the
door.
Luckily, I
don’t think the librarian had seen us at all, engrossed as always in the latest
pot-boiler she was reading. We ran downstairs and back into the playground,
praying that we wouldn’t be found out, or that we hadn’t set the library on
fire. There were no smoke alarms in those days, but I assumed the librarian
wasn’t that dozy that she couldn’t react to the smell of smoke and douse a book
with the nearest fire extinguisher.
* * *
The first class of the
afternoon, Maths, went as usual, but halfway through the second class, English,
there was a note passed round to all the teachers and everyone was convoked to
the hall for an emergency assembly. When we got there the place was packed; all
the teachers and pupils were present, as was the librarian, who for once looked
emotional and agitated. Martin and I looked at each other uneasily. He put his index
finger to his lips. Of course, I wasn’t going to say anything. It was a golden,
universal rule we’d learned since primary school; never grass, and especially
never own up to anything if you know what’s good for you.
Miss
Gruffy, the assistant-head led the proceedings. She had a formidable presence,
despite being only about five-foot-two. Greying hair cut short, icy-clear blue
eyes which no one dared look into for more than an instant, built like a bus –
not fat just solid, matriarchal I suppose you might say. She’d been a
missionary nun in Africa in the sixties and seventies, no doubt striking fear
into the hearts of any cannibal tribes who dared defy her. She’d been awarded
an MBE no less, before leaving the cloth and taking on a new mission: trying to
keep us lot on the straight and narrow.
She held
up the charred remains of ‘Witches and Warlocks’, holding it at the extreme
corner between her thumb and forefinger, as if it was some filthy rag; I
suppose it was in her eyes, both literally and figuratively. “Who’s responsible
for this?” she boomed, and then looked round the assembly hall, trying to
detect any sign of someone who might know something. We all kept our eyes down
and remained mute. She let us stew in silence for a good two minutes, before
eventually saying, “Fine. No one’s going to own up. The library’s closed for
the next two weeks.”
She
dramatically dropped the scorched volume into a wastepaper bin, which had
obviously been put up on the stage beside her for this sole purpose. She looked
out at us again and finally thundered, “God is not mocked!” Clutching the Bible
– I’m sure it was the one I’d discarded previously up in the library, she
glared at as for a few more instants, then strode furiously off the stage.
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