Chapter 6
I like Philippa. She’s very easy to get on with, and we’re much the same age.
Unlike Oxana, she has keen antennae for my feelings.
She seems to know instinctively when not to probe too closely, while at the same appearing interested and sympathetic.
And she’s a terrific cook. God, it’s good to be cooked for by someone who really knows what they’re doing.
Oxana could put a meal together if pushed, but it was always a bit of a performance.
Her heart was never really in it. I haven’t questioned Philippa about the witchcraft stuff, although I’m curious about it.
At least quite curious. The paraphernalia makes me think of terrible rock bands and tacky occult shops selling incense and crystals.
And perhaps even of my own teenage goth and punk days, although that was always more about buying neon-pink hairspray and black nail varnish from Claire’s Accessories than actually living the lifestyle.
That said, I did shoplift a DVD of The Craft when I was twelve.
Probably the most transgressive thing I’ve ever done, apart from killing people with Oxana.
How strange, and how coincidental, that I should meet an actual witch just a couple of days after seeing that summer solstice ritual on the Heath.
It’s as if the two events are linked somehow, although of course they can’t be.
It felt unsatisfactory to walk away from that pagan ritual, as if it was in some sense intended for me.
But I can’t just let go. I’ve got too much to hide.
I’ve got to be careful with Philippa for the same reason. I have to watch what I say.
At some point, late in the night, Eve’s wakened by the slam of the front door, an angry yowling from Pye, stumbling feet on the stairs, and the sound of retching.
A voice, recognisably Tom’s, mutters ‘fuck’ several times.
Eve guesses that Philippa must be used to this sort of stuff, because she doesn’t intervene.
Perhaps she doesn’t even wake up. After a time there’s the sound of another door being roughly pulled shut, and then silence.