The Wicca Woman by Pinner David

Author:Pinner, David [Pinner, David]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-02-11T16:00:00+00:00

18

Seven weeks later, on Tuesday afternoon, 28th December, 1999.

Christmas was over, so the Millennium was only half-a-week away. However, during the coming four days, the village of Thorn and its inhabitants were about to experience things that would change their world forever.

On the edge of the village, in Paul’s dilapidated Victorian house, no one, save the writer, heard his computer-keys rattling out his latest children’s story.

Then his imagination failed him, and his story floundered. But as Paul switched off his computer, there was no one to witness his cursing lips. And when he gazed ardently at the enticing, porcelain figurine of the naked Venus on his mantelpiece, no one observed his besotted features.

In a trance-like state, Paul crossed over to the statuette’s seductive form. Like a votive, he murmured to Venus’ fulsome breasts; ‘Lulu, Lulu, Lulu.’ But the figurine remained immune to his rapture, while her porcelain smile continued to mock his unrequited loins. Instantaneously his habitual headache stoked up the manic flames inside his skull until their roaring overwhelmed him.

‘She is mine! Lulu has to be mine. She can only be mine,’ Paul screamed, falling back against his desk, and almost knocking his laptop onto the floor.

With trembling hands, he retrieved his computer, and he pushed it safely onto the middle of his desk. Then he grabbed Venus from the mantelpiece, and he hurled her across his study. The porcelain figurine shattered against the faded-flowered wallpaper by the door. After he had scrunched the shards of porcelain under his frenzied feet, he surged out into the hallway.

He wrenched open the cupboard door under the stairs, and he kicked his old Hoover to one side until it clattered down amongst the cupboard’s assortment of brushes. Then from behind his raincoats, he pulled out a short-handled whip, comprising of four leather thongs, with knots bulging along each of the thongs.

‘What kind of Christian am I?’ he demanded, after kicking the cupboard door shut. Then he swished his leather-thonged whip against his upper arm as he rasped; ‘Well, there’s one certain way to find out. I must abase myself, and do penance for my habitual lust and anger.’

Purposefully, he moved down the hall, and opened the door leading to the basement. With the whip over his shoulder, he ran down the stairs into his basement.

Momentarily there was silence in the house. This was broken by a distinctive, swishing sound, which was followed by a gasp. At regular intervals, there was more swishing, and each swish was punctuated by another muffled yelp. Finally there was a clatter as the discarded whip was thrown onto the stone floor of the basement. Again a brief silence ensued. Then the silence was broken by the sound of violent and prolonged hammering.

After twenty minutes of metal banging on metal, and metal being hammered into protesting wood, there was another short silence. With an echoing clunk, the hammer was thrown down onto the concrete floor, and Paul’s echoing feet charged back up the basement steps.

When he re-emerged from behind the door, the writer’s forehead was beaded with sweat.

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