Chapter 36
Next morning and his head is throbbing. He bypassed the pub, shaking his head when Russell and Neil asked him to join them, buying a bottle of malt on the way home, solitude the only way to take his poison in a mood like this.
He sat in the flat while darkness fell, watching the lights from passing cars flicker across the ceiling.
The whisky was smooth, needed – it slipped down so easy he lost track of how much he poured, absorbed as he was in his thoughts.
He scans his body mentally, assessing the scale of the hangover.
Legs stiff from lack of proper exercise, back a touch sore from the tricky angle at which he’s slept.
Liver? He passes over that quickly, kidneys too, passing up through his lungs (the lovely, clear, unpolluted lungs of the non-smoker – one thing he can feel smug about at least) and finally head. The worst casualty of the lot.
Still, it’s Friday, a day off – three days off, for goodness’ sake. He can put this infernal case out of his mind for a while. He can finish the rest of the laundry, do more endless life admin, throw out the little pile of empty plastic food trays piled up in the sink.
It’s a chance for him to catch up with Rosalind, too. She’s not going away until tomorrow. He could go round to the house, ring on the bell (like a fucking supplicant), ask if he can come in and talk (to his own WIFE in his own fucking HOUSE).
Arguably he might still be a little angry. Not conducive to a calm discussion. He’ll wait until they’re back, until the case is finished. Same with Dominic, too. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong.
Olivia? Well, he could. She won’t understand what he’s going through, though. Besides, she’ll be at work. He’ll think about speaking to her tomorrow.
Maybe.
He has a pee, drinks some water. He’ll go back to bed now, catch up on the years’ worth of sleep debt he’s accumulated. But the idea of getting back into the fetid sheets makes him feel worse, not better. Stifled. He needs to get out and feel the wind in his hair.
A day trip. That’s it. He hasn’t done one of those in forever.
He casts his mind over the options, weighing up castles and stately homes, a walk up in the Pentlands.
Then it comes to him – North Berwick. That girl mentioned a lobster shack, and if there’s one thing Matthew has a weakness for, it’s eating seafood by the sea.
That’s his sole motivation – no question that he’s doing his own research into the case.
Besides, of all the locations mentioned so far, this is surely the least significant.
It’s not like he’s decided to climb Arthur’s Seat and see where the girl decided to throw herself off.
A brisk walk up to Waverley Station and soon he’s on a train, passing through the stations of East Lothian on the half-hour journey to North Berwick.
He’d looked up the site of the old church before leaving the flat, switching his laptop on and checking Google without going anywhere near his emails or message apps, so he knows roughly where he’ll need to go – it’s over by the harbour, handily close to the lobster shack as well.
When the train pulls in, he takes a moment to orient himself before striking out for the sea.
It’s still grey and misty, the haar rolling in from the water.
He follows the signs to the Scottish Seabird Centre and then, a little further along on the green over the road from the seawall, he sees what he’s looking for: a small, white building with some stone ruins.
What’s left of the church where the witches met with the Devil.
According to Isobel Gowdie’s testimony, at least, albeit one obtained under torture, but Matthew doesn’t want to think about that.
I shall go into a hare. Isobel’s chant from the day before goes through his mind.
He knows rationally speaking that it’s ludicrous that the whole jury believed for a moment that she might have transformed herself, but this case is doing something to all of them.
Spend enough time with a believer . . . Sasha’s belief has shone through her evidence.
Her fear, too.
No one’s around. It must be heaving with tourists in the summer months – he remembers trips here as a kid with his parents, ice creams and sandcastles, the Bass Rock in the distance.
It’s lost that wholesome feel, though, the murk and the mist changing the normally friendly place to one that’s full of shadows, a sense that the buildings are telling him to keep out.
He steps over the low wall of the ruin into the heart of it, thinking himself back hundreds of years, women circling past him as they dance to the Devil’s tune.
Looking over to the sea, the haar is building, intensifying, but there’s a white disc suspended low in the sky – the sun’s still there, burning yellow against gaudy blue, but it’s so obscured it might as well be orbiting a different planet.
The mist around it is shifting, thickening in some parts, the sun almost breaking through in others, a constant movement that looks almost as if a shape is emerging . . .
Matthew blinks. A shape is emerging. Head, shoulders, the features becoming increasingly clear.
A big nose, eyes sunk deep above high cheekbones, a pointed chin.
Matthew’s cowering back, terrified to see it emerge, but there’s no hiding from it, no escape, as the face shakes clear from the haar, only a few strands of it now clinging to the horns that emerge on either side of the immense head.
It opens its mouth and now Matthew is on his knees, bowed against the prospect that once again he’ll have to smell the vile stench, the overwhelming effect of the Devil’s breath—
‘Are you all right?’ A woman’s voice.
Matthew takes a moment to regain focus. The clouds have lost their shape now. No more horns. His legs are still shaking though, not strong enough yet to get him back on his feet.
‘Hello? You OK?’
He looks up with an effort, seeing a figure emerge through the haar. But this time it’s solid, corporeal.
Unless he’s imagining it. Imagining her. Wish fulfilment; the one person he would have wanted to see. He’s conjured her out of thin air.
The blonde.
‘Oh God, it’s you,’ she says. ‘That’s so weird.’
With that he pulls himself together. It is her, the woman from court. But given they’ve both heard the same evidence together, it’s hardly surprising that they’ve decided to make the same pilgrimage.
‘I wanted to come and have a look,’ she says. ‘I’ve been reading about the Scottish witch trials. Apparently seventy people from around here were executed.’
‘That’s a lot,’ he says, cursing himself immediately for the inadequacy of his response. ‘It’s not something I know much about. Witches, that is.’
‘This trial is a steep learning curve.’
He should walk away now. He shouldn’t talk to her. The warnings the judge gave were very clear not to discuss the case with anyone outside of the jury. But they’re discussing witch trials, plural. Not the trial with which he’s specifically involved.
‘It must be so interesting to be on the jury for a case like this,’ she says. Now he’s sure he should walk away. ‘But of course you can’t discuss it.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ He’s finally managed to get some words out, but the effort exhausts him. He sinks to his knees again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘I’m not here to spy on you. But you do look like you could do with a hot drink.’
He can almost feel the warmth of a coffee cup smooth beneath his hands, the scent of it nearly reaching him. Instead, cold earth, the scent of something sweet, floral. Underlaid with the faintest rot. He starts away from her.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says. ‘I mustn’t talk to you. It’s wrong.’
‘I promise I won’t tell anyone,’ she says, ‘but I don’t think I should leave you on your own. You look terrible. Come on, let’s go and get a cup of tea. Get yourself back to normal. I really don’t want to leave you like this.’
Angel on one shoulder, telling him to run. Devil on the other . . . hot drink, warm room, a friendly smile. It’s a secret. No one will know.
He pushes himself to his feet and holds out his hand.