The Lights Go Out in Lychford Page 3

  Lizzie took a big slurp of her tea and restrained the urge to make a sudden little noise of panic.

  * * *

  “Good to see you, Reverend. You’re item thirty-eight on the agenda.” Lizzie had called ahead to the formidable chair of the Lychford Festival, Carrie Anne Christopher, to make sure she would indeed be welcome at her committee’s second to last meeting before the big day, but it turned out that one purpose of that meeting was to make sure of links with other local organisations. Lizzie had told her she’d be doing just that. So she had had to think of some plausible ways her congregation, who were usually agnostic about big local events that could be a bit noisy, might want to get involved. And she’d come up with a few. But now she was sitting at the end of the big committee table in the pavilion of Lychford Cricket Club, she wasn’t so sure. Historically, the Festival and the cricket club had always been inseparable, the Festival being held on the cricket club’s grounds, and the cricket club running the bar. An entirely separate festival, Lychfest, was held, two weeks ago this year, with the cooperation of the rugby club. If there had been some sort of schism, decades ago, nobody talked of it. One of the non-magical things about Lychford that always surprised Lizzie was the way that civic life was formed of bubbles of committees and bingo nights and charity trusts that hardly interacted with each other, and which each formed almost the entire social life of those involved, to the point where most of those groups assumed their members were the leading civic dignitaries of the town. It was exactly the same as nobody knowing they were on the borders of entire magical realms, the inhabitants of which, thank God, they didn’t have to be aware of. And there was another metaphor here, about how a lot of the people in those bubbles weren’t aware of the poverty in their own town, of how close to going hungry a lot of the young families in the new estates often were. In their own way, these two festivals, by cooperating with two sports clubs, and by trying to provide something for the whole community, showed a radical—in Lychfordian terms—commitment to outreach.

  Of the people in this room, the only ones Lizzie already knew were the two former mayors, who were both also former chairs of the Festival (honours tended to cluster like that, in the spaces where the bubbles met and rubbed along) and Samantha Adkins, who ran the freesheet The Lychford Answer, and therefore was the local media. She smiled at those three, the tacticians, the politicians, all twinkly and chuckling and hard as nails.

  Carrie Anne Christopher was something in advertising, in a business suit tonight, straight from work, with a look on her face that said she had a lot of plates to juggle, but as long as you were prepared to be spun, everything would be fine. On each side of her were what looked like her good and bad influences, a blond woman with glasses who worked for the town council, and a dark-haired woman with elfin features, who looked like she was about to suggest everyone should bunk off and get some wine. Was either of these Maitland Picton? Lizzie looked around the table. She knew the types from all the different committees she herself was a member of: giggly craftswoman with curly hair, the one who’d make bunting by the mile; serene swan of artiness, the quiet one—something professional, probably in design, going by the outfit; tough old lady, the sort who’d have bolt cutters in her handbag; happy squirrel, definitely the accountant; and the one who was already laughing, the class joker. She probably wasn’t Picton. But any of the others could be. Was Lizzie going to get introductions? Could she ask for them? Maybe not with thirty-seven other items on the agenda.

  “Let’s start with apologies for absence . . . none.”

  “Oh, I have something to add to item six, the fete,” said the bunting maker. And then they were off, all interrupting each other, the blond one having to flip between pages to take the minutes as the agenda dissolved into a sort of bureaucratic freeform jazz. In the blur, Lizzie gathered that there had been complaints about the latest round of Festival posters being put in the way of other peoples’ posters and in places posters shouldn’t be, the responsibility for which wasn’t quite nailed down, that one of the bands was suddenly charging more money, and that the matter of who got to sell cakes to those returning from the Saturday morning parade sounded like it required a truth and reconciliation commission. She found she wanted to put her hand up, or, actually, eventually, scream. She’d decided she had to at least say something or have any ability to discover anything here get lost in the chaos, when the door opened.

  “Sorry I’m late.” The woman was tall, in her late sixties, immaculately dressed, tweed and shawl, silver hair, hardly a line on her face. She looked something like a predatory bird.

  “You’re just in time for the cookery tent, the art show, and the literary festival,” said Carrie.

  “All are proceeding to plan. I’ve sent the mailing list an email with all the details. There’s nothing for you to worry about in all three tents. Here’s a printout.” She slid it across the table.

  “What would we do without you, Maitland?” sighed Carrie. “You’re just what we need.”

  And so that was where Lizzie’s attention was for the rest of the meeting. So much so that she was startled by item thirty-eight arriving, straight after item seven, and had to blunder her way through a vague promise of support on the day. Maitland watched her, one eyebrow raised, as if she were a preposterous interloper.

  * * *

  Afterwards, with the reminder that there was one more meeting to go, a couple of days before the Festival, the committee members leapt up, all seemingly with busy lives and families to get back to. Maitland was still in a corner, signing cheques for secret squirrel, three other committee members waiting to speak to her. Lizzie found one of the former mayors, Boffy, a smiley older lady with a certain steel behind the eyes. She indicated Maitland. “Why haven’t I met her before?”

  “You know what Lychford’s like. She’s something to do with . . . Now which committee was that?” Lizzie could see the enormous databank between Boffy’s ears being consulted. “I think she’s W.I.”

  “What are the W.I. like these days?”

  “Oh, you know, same as ever. Evil.”

  Lizzie was sure that whatever evil it was the Women’s Institute were rumoured to be a part of, and there always seemed to be something, it wasn’t in the same league as what Maitland Picton might represent. But she tended to shy away from the ancient enmities that lurked between local organisations. Across the room, Maitland Picton looked up from her work and made eye contact. Was that a smirk?

  “Before I go,” she called out, swiftly turning away, “is there anything else anyone wants?”

  “You can make me tall,” called out the bunting maker.

  “I’d like the body of a Kardashian,” said the darker-haired of Carrie’s two lieutenants. There was general laughter. Having seen this happy lot at work, apart from how they ran the agenda, Lizzie rather wished she had time to be part of yet another committee. She felt angry that Picton seemed somehow to have gotten to the heart of them. Every organisation needed something, she supposed, and someone who could roll in and provide as well as she seemed to be doing would swiftly be embraced.

  “I’ll have to see what I can do,” said Picton. And was it Lizzie’s imagination or did Picton’s gaze meet her own again, just for a moment?

  * * *

  Lizzie made her way home across the cricket field. The crowd behind her went their separate ways, and she found herself heading alone back toward the far gate to the main road. It was a perfectly clear night above. The autumn cold was indicating that the real darkness was coming. For Lizzie, in the heart of the dark was Christmas. But she also knew, better than everyone she’d just left, better than Carrie Anne Christopher back there, switching the lights off in the pavilion, how deep that darkness could be.

  She’d lost Maitland Picton in the crowd. She had seemed to leave very fast. Lizzie had had half a thought of following her. She called Autumn but got her voicemail. She left a message saying she’d seen the enemy, and indeed, there hadn’t seemed to be
anything about her which triggered Lizzie’s special senses. But there was definitely something about her which triggered her community senses.

  “You should be the one to visit the W.I.,” she was saying, when she saw something ahead. The gap of the gate was lit by the lights of the main road. And at that gap stood a figure.

  It was a silhouette. Like the man from a road sign come to life. Like one of the figures Judith had described encountering, at the time when that supermarket chain was seeking to set up in Lychford with supernatural aims and means. Lizzie blinked, and suddenly the silhouette had a proper shape.

  Lizzie could have turned and run, headed for the other gate, gone the long way home. But hadn’t her whole purpose tonight been to discover the aims of the enemy? Besides, she had a terrible nightmare feeling that if she ran, this thing might run after her, and catch her long before she got to the lights.

  Of which the last one now went out.

  She heard the distant clang of a gate being locked behind her. She kept walking forward. She said a prayer inside, felt the strength of her God.

  “Autumn,” she said into her phone, “if I don’t come to see you in the next half hour, it’s because Maitland Picton’s zapped me at the back gate to the cricket field.” She clicked off the call, switched on the voice recorder app and pocketed the phone. At least she could leave some evidence for Autumn to find.

  She came to the gate. There indeed stood Maitland. She was making no pretence of having a reason to be there. She was calm, stony faced. “Reverend. I thought we should have a word.”

  Lizzie stepped up to show that she wasn’t afraid. A car drove past in the dark, the headlights washing over them. Maitland’s eyes flashed like a cat’s. Lizzie put her hand on the dry stone of the boundary wall. “What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “I believe you know my name.”

  Suddenly Lizzie didn’t want to say it. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, should we observe the pleasantries? Very well. You can almost see my home from here.” She pointed upward.

  Lizzie almost laughed. She turned her head to look. All she saw were stars. Picton seemed to be pointing at a specific constellation, but it wasn’t anything she recognised. “What, are you an alien?”

  “Not at all. We’ve been here longer than you have. But that’s one way I could get home from here.”

  Lizzie realised that Maitland had literally added an extra dimension to the matter of a town surrounded by mystic borders. Which was pretty enormous. How did that square with what Judith had always said about the borders being akin to what you found on everyday maps? Lizzie decided that whatever the truth of this was, she was damn well going to maintain a flippant tone of voice. “Ah, so you’re from Neverland? You know, first star on the right—?”

  “—and straight on ’til morning. And it’s actually ‘second star.’ I can finish any quote you fancy testing me with. My ‘human being’ is very good.”

  Lizzie hoped her expression didn’t reveal that she hadn’t been testing Picton, she’d just got the quote wrong. “Touché. So any supposed Mr. Picton—?”

  “People will remember having met him, but we didn’t feel he had to be as real as I am.”

  Lizzie noted the “we.” “And how real are you?”

  “Well, I’m enjoying being a person here, but it’s not what I like to wear when I’m at home. I’m more of a mixture, a recipe.”

  “A computer virus.”

  “Goodness, I much prefer my metaphor to yours. Let’s just say you’re full of meat, and I’m full of ideas.”

  “So you know who I am, also? I mean, who I hang around with?” Lizzie had really wanted that to sound tougher than it had come out.

  “The three of you, yes. The coven.”

  “We’re not a coven. I’m not part of a coven.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t like your bishop to find out you’re in a coven.”

  “Being in a coven would involve me actually having been initiated into a coven.”

  “Like when you had the water from the well in the woods thrown on you?”

  Lizzie stopped. “Nobody said that was—anyway, how did you know about that? How do you know our business? What do you want here?”

  Maitland suddenly smiled. Lizzie realised that little anxious outburst had put her foe completely at ease. “We’ve really got off on the wrong foot. Lizzie, may I call you Lizzie?”

  “No.”

  “Lizzie, what do you want?”

  “In what way?”

  “There are all sorts of ways I can help this town. That’s what I’m doing here, offering help. I’m not some sort of spy, if that’s what you thought. As you say, I clearly know all there is to know about this world already. You see, I come from a place where wishes literally come true.”

  “You mean you work for Disney?”

  “Listen. When I ask you what you want, you can ask for anything, and you’ll get it. For instance, you could have your husband back. I mean, I grant you, that’s a big ask. I probably couldn’t do many other favours that week, but—”

  Lizzie found she was suddenly furious. She felt the tears on her face. She’d had no idea that was still so close to the surface. But no, there it was. Fear had brought it all churning up again. “Get behind me,” she whispered.

  “No, listen, don’t go all religious on me. You really can have—”

  Lizzie pushed past her, wanting to literally put this thing, whatever it was, behind her. She had already done this, she had already faced supernatural temptation when the boss of that supermarket chain had offered her a huge sum of money, and she had burned that money. She wasn’t even intrigued by the offer this time, just insulted. So that was one thing this being hadn’t understood about her.

  Maitland Picton put a phenomenally strong hand on her shoulder. “You only get one chance,” she said.

  Lizzie didn’t dignify that with a reply. She shoved the hand from her shoulder—which was more about Maitland deliberately letting go—and marched off. She didn’t look behind her until she got to the corner. When she did, Maitland was gone. Lizzie fell against the wall and couldn’t hold back her tears.

  2

  JUDITH WAS IN HER ATTIC, looking through her boxes. Moonlight shone through the holes in the felt roofing, so much so that she didn’t really need her torch. She had no idea why she was here, but she felt a determination inside her so strong that it scared her and she was just following it. She wished she understood what she was seeing. There were some old boxes here and what was inside . . . the boxes and whatever items they’d contained had decayed together, into a mass of mould and fungi. Bollocks. This wasn’t going to be easy, then. But she knew that, for some reason, she had to do this anyway. She broke off a piece of the black decay and put it into her mouth. It reminded her of liquorice, and then she was eating liquorice. Well, that was better! What a good idea of hers this had been! She grabbed handfuls of it, gobbled it up, sliding it back past her lack of teeth, until her mouth was too full, and she had to cough some of it up. Oh, it was like Christmas morning, eating too much. She knelt there, laughing her head off, so happy to see her dad falling back in his chair, his hands over his eyes at how fast she’d gobbled up her treat.

  “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach,” he said.

  It felt like her eyes were pretty wide.

  “What are you looking for?” asked her sister.

  “T’other thing I came up here for. The books where I wrote my stories.’”

  “Why do you want them?”

  “Because they’ll tell me the truth. In the world, people can tell lies, real lies, lies that dun’t work to any pattern, but in stories there’s always a shape that makes it obvious who’s lying. In stories, you have someone saying a lie, and the people reading will feel cheated unless there’s a little clue that it’s a lie.”

  “So you’re looking for the truth up here?”

  “If you want to put it in a daft way, s’pose I am.�
��

  “Well, you’re still a long way from it, my dear.” Doreen reached out and stroked her hair. “You’re a long way from anywhere.”

  Judith made a face and looked around some more. She pushed over a pile of rotting stuff. Ah. There it were. The box only she could see, because she’d locked up her stories where nothing could get at them. The spells she’d put on this were strong and decades old, from the time when she first knew magic. She’d shielded this box with all she had because here was what she didn’t want anyone seeing and mocking, here was what she was always planning on getting back to. Such childish reasons.

  She opened the box. And there were her old books. The notebooks in which she’d written her stories. Even the young warlock she’d fallen in love with hadn’t seen what was in here.

  She took a pen from her pocket and wrote, experimentally, a few sentences. Her handwriting was weak, spidery, all over the place. It took such an effort of will just to move her hand in the right way. Even that had nearly left her now. But now she was close to the box, she knew she had to.

  Finally, she was done. She’d made a new story. Such a small thing. Just a gesture. And why? What was it for? Even near the box, she couldn’t remember now. She put the book and pen in the pocket of her coat.

  Judith took hold of her sister’s arm and got to her feet. It was cold up here, she realised. The cold was getting deep into her. And she seemed to have eaten something that disagreed with her. She pointed to the roof. “Is that path still out there?”

  “Oh ah. It’ll stay put now. No getting away from it.”

  “So long as I know.” Judith nodded, making an effort to keep down the contents of her stomach. “I need a glass of milk now,” she said. “And then I’d better see if the two of them need my help yet.” Talking to herself, she went back to the trapdoor and, very slowly, descended the ladder.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Autumn had indeed gone to inspect Maitland Picton’s house, but had found it just as she’d expected: a normal house for normal people, completely unexciting to her senses. She had wandered around uselessly outside it for a bit, but as the only person of colour in the village, hanging around at one of the rich houses . . . She knew the worst that would probably happen in a seemingly sleepy town like this one was stern looks and raised eyebrows, but that probably was still enough to stop her from staying too long.