Cover

Dedication

For Dot

Title Page

‘In any case, a woman usually becomes a witch after the initial failure of her life as a woman’

– Julio Caro Baroja

Friday the 13th – April 2018

FRIDAY THE 13TH – APRIL 2018

Nine granite megaliths set in a perfect circle. On one of them sits Viola Kendrick, teeth chattering, lips smudged red. The wet of the stone has leached through the quilting of her mother’s long coat. The fleece of her pyjamas beneath is damp against her skin.

Below, in the jagged coves, the sea grumbles and it booms.

Through the morning fog strides a spirit, becoming more real with every step it takes towards her. It is dressed, improbably, in a police uniform – a yellow reflective jacket.

The spirit stops – in the centre of the circle next to the tenth stone. There is a hole carved in the heart of this stone and, for a moment, Viola believes her visitor will do it – get down on hands and knees in the soil and crawl through that ancient O. Performing this action cures you, no matter the ailment; that’s what they say. But the spirit remains standing, surveying this undiscovered territory, claiming it with a nod of the head, then, with a shrug, giving it away again.

‘You’re not a real policeman,’ Viola calls out.

This is her warning shot, but Dot is a traitor. She tugs on the red lead, eager to greet this visitor with her sandpaper tongue. The spirit steps closer, offering a hand.

Dot is assuaged; Viola won’t allow herself to be.

‘Not real, eh?’ He stops his coddling of the dog to pat down the stiff, goose-filled fabric of his glowing jacket. ‘I seem like the genuine article to me.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she tells him.

He steps closer still. ‘You called me here.’

‘I called you, but I thought… I thought you would send…’ Who did she think he would send? ‘Someone else.’

‘What?’ He grins. ‘The local constabulary? The boys in blue?’

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ On this, she is clear. ‘Men aren’t allowed in the circle. It brings on a terrible fury.’

The sea below obliges her with a thunderclap. The standing stones drift in and out of the mist like hallucinations. The imposter grins wider, baring a weaselly spread of small, sharp teeth. From his inside pocket he pulls a notepad and licks at the tip of a pencil, only because the act of doing so seems to entertain him.

‘Come on then,’ he prompts, ‘I don’t have time for your tricks. First ship of the year arrives at lunchtime. What’s this all about?’

‘I told you,’ says Viola. ‘And it’s no trick.’

Still, he grins.

‘What are you even doing here,’ he asks, ‘at this hour of the morning?’ It is the tone her father once used – weary, amused. What idea have you got into your head now, Vee-vee?