Morag ducks down, crawls backwards into the dark aperture of the tomb within this room, until her body disappears entirely. Her two fleshy arms then thrust out and seize Tony’s ankles.

His body, in a final series of jerks, is yanked completely into the darkness. Once his remains are entirely ensconced inside the tunnel, Morag chuckles to herself.

* * *

Hands planted on either side of the kitchen sink, Jess barks the meagre contents of her stomach into the empty basin, then gasps for air.

Dropping her head upon the metal draining board, she sees the room from an angle, her head on one side. Around her, the fixtures sparkle after their recent thorough clean. She grasps the clean tea towel she’s wrapped around a bag of frozen peas and stuffs it against her leaking mouth. Just as she did so many years ago when her child was a toddler and screamed from her walker in the mouth of the kitchen as her mother scrabbled to retrieve her broken teeth from the floor. But she cannot dwell on that because, outside the vicarage, the movement in the street catches her eye.

Bathed by the sun’s radiance, a group of elderly women stand at the foot of the front path. Flo’s neighbours. The constant gardener wearing the sun hat, the two dog walkers, the two other elderly ladies that Jess glimpsed behind dim windows. So proud of her, they all sweetly beam at Jess. Parked behind their backs is her boss’s car. Beside the vehicle stands Sheila but as Jess has never seen her before. No longer stern of face and mean of spirit, her manager smiles at her employee and even touches the corner of one eye. She’s so proud of Jess, so happy for her.

The eyes of the elderly neighbour who spoke to Jess are shielded once more by the wide brim of a sun hat but the lower half of her face is broken by a broad smile that reveals her strong white teeth. In one hand she holds a polished, short-handled scythe. Though it’s the same size as the one that hangs upon the vicarage wall, this is a newer, sharper model and its cruel blade glints in the sun-blessed air, ready for use.

Their faces gleeful, Sheila and the five elderly women all raise one hand simultaneously. Each lifted hand is clad in a rubber glove as if they have arrived to clean the vicarage. They all mark the air with a closing circle at the same time, then cross their circles with spokes.

Beside them in the street, stands a large wheelbarrow. Upon it, the hump of a spherical man-sized creel, constructed from hawthorn sticks.

Like a confused, elderly woman, Jess teeters from the kitchen. With the tea towel pressed against her mouth, she hands herself through the hall and into the living room. Behind her, the front door admits the coven.