The Witch's Curse: The Third Book in the Lobbs Bottom Series

By Robert William Saul Harvey

“...Maybe I’ll put a spell on your mum, or someone else who you like. I could make them die, squirming in agony from some horrible disease.”
The words come back to haunt her as Rhona learns that Beryl has been rushed into hospital...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert William Saul Harvey
• Release date: Apr 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310084669

Robert William Saul Harvey

Robert was born in 1949 in the small Scottish hamlet of Douglas West, Douglas in Lanarkshire, but moved to England when his father, a miner, had to move south for a job.Having left school at the age of fifteen, without any qualifications whatsoever, he started work in a small engineering firm. He soon got fed up coming home covered in dirty grease and having a spotty face so, after six months, decided that engineering was not for him. With nothing to lose, he ran away to sea, so to speak. He joined the Merchant Navy and happily spent three and a half years travelling the world and getting paid for it!Meeting his future wife at the age of nineteen convinced Robert to leave the sea and settle down. There were not many jobs around for a nineteen-year-old and he ended up doing bar/cellar work until deciding to get married at the age of twenty. That was when he joined the Royal Air Force, in which he spent nine years as a Clerk Secretarial, attaining the rank of Corporal before leaving in 1979.After applying for various jobs, Robert finally got one with the National Coal Board in a colliery Stores Department. Ok, this would do him for a while, whilst he looked around for something better. Thirty years later, as a Supply and Contracts Manager, he retired from the Coal Industry at the age of fifty-nine and now has an allotment where he plays at growing vegetables (very nice they are too), and spends his spare time dabbling on his laptop; bliss.Now, with seven books on Smashwords, an eighth under construction, and number nine in the pipeline, who knows where it will stop?Second in the series, Beryl's Pup is now also available.

Book preview

Prologue

The water slowly turned to a weak, limp pink color, gaining more substance with each passing second. Within thirty of those seconds, the color turned deep crimson red—the color of pure blood!

Following the shallow, narrow river upstream, under the low humpback bridge and over the small weir, the origin of this color comes into view.

A body had become trapped by the trunk of a tree, which had grown in the middle of the river, as if it were meant to be there.

It was not.

A grinning young girl stood on the humpback bridge. She had carefully placed the tree there, with the specific intention of trapping the headless body as it drifted down the river. The girl had known exactly where the body would go because she was the one who caused it to fall, dead, into the river.

As water flowed lazily around the body, blood gushed out at an alarming rate, from what it left of the ragged torn neck where the head had been violently ripped from the torso. The head, caught face down in a small eddy, swam lazily around in circles, immediately behind the tree and just before the weir.

Blood also flowed from the remaining portion of neck still attached to the head, adding to the already gushing torrent which flowed almost hesitantly over the weir before making its way downstream.

A lonely duck swam around below the weir searching for morsels of food the falling water might stir up, apparently oblivious to the fact it was swimming in a river of blood.

"‘Quack, quack, quack.’"

Overhead, three black jays flew in a disorganized circle, as if watching the scene below, calling out to each other conversationally, neither loud nor agitated.

The birds appeared to be interested in what was going on, but were afraid to venture any closer. This may have been because the young girl was nearby or because there was a small puppy sitting quietly to one side, attached to the girl by a leather lead held in her hand.

The pup ignored the jays and the duck.

He watched the young girl, his head canted to one side, ears sticking out like two handlebars on a bike, his tongue lolling from one side of his mouth. He appeared to be waiting for the girl to make a move, silently sending her some puppy thought-waves, urging her to do something.

The pup made fed up, sitting on the bridge doing nothing. He wanted to carry on with their walk.

The girl did not move, impervious to the pup’s thought-waves.

The pup shuffled his backside on the ground and wagged his tail.

The girl watched the stream of blood oozing from the lifeless body. She had no intention of going anywhere just yet.

"‘Me!’" said the pup.

She ignored him.

"‘Hello!’"

She waved a hand, urging him to be quiet.

Wait, she snapped.

"‘Whine.’"

The pup lowered his head, flattened his ears to his head and made sad. He could not understand why they were not moving on.

The girl straightened her back and gazed up at the clear blue sky.

The late afternoon sun sparkled in her eyes as she made a victorious grin.

That’ll teach you, Mike Bwown! she crowed.

Her grin quickly morphed into an evil sneer as she returned her gaze to the point in the river where the tree had now transformed into a large bush which completely trapped the headless body in its thorn-covered branches. The severed head, impaled on the uppermost branch of the bush, stared with sightless eyes at the girl in an accusing manner.

Now, you bettah leave Thmiggy awone, she lisped, waving a pointing finger at the head. If you doan, I’ll thplat you all ovah the plaith. Tho, theyuh!

(Thmiggy being Smiggy, so named because Rhona loved the character Smiffy in the Beano comic, but was unable to pronounce the name Smiffy properly when she was younger.)

"‘Me.’" said the pup.

Further along the river bank, a teenage boy turned into the woods, happily swiping at nearby bushes with a short stick he picked up moments earlier.

Just as he was about to disappear into the trees a large wooden spear thudded into his back, just below his shoulder blades. His back arched and his mouth opened wide in a silent scream. He fell forward, hidden from sight by a host of blood-hungry trees and bushes, which quickly crowded around and devoured his body in a feeding frenzy.

Yeth! shouted the girl.

"‘Me!’" agreed the pup.

Unaware of the girl on the bridge, the boy, Mike Brown, pretended to mow down a host of enemies, his stick taking place of a machine gun, as he sauntered through the woods…

Chapter 1

The last weekend of November 1955. A pleasant Saturday afternoon, where an almost clear blue sky, with only a few faint wispy, white clouds drifting high above, allowed the sun to spread its heat on the cold ground, covered by a light frost earlier that morning.

The air, still crisp and clear, carried a faint smell of freshly mowed grass, the last cut of the year, floating on a light breeze.

A few starlings shouted at each other, somewhere off in the distance, perhaps trying to decide which one of them was the boss. Other birds joined in, twittering their agreement or disagreement with whatever the starlings were arguing about. Two magpies, sitting on adjacent rooftops, watched and listened in silence.

In the small mining village of Lobbs Bottom, smoke slowly drifted up from most of the houses backing onto the Rec—nominally the children’s play field, though lacking apparatus of any kind.

From one house, a woman’s high-pitched voice urged her lazy sod of a husband to shift his idle backside out of bed, pronto, or else their dog would get his breakfast.

A man’s gruff voice threw an answer back at her but, his words were drowned out by what sounded like a metal pot being thrown into a kitchen sink.

From another house, a large man, sporting a huge beer-belly, stepped out of one house, into the back garden and lazily stretched his arms above his head whilst making an enormous yawn. He wore baggy corduroy trousers, held up by gray suspenders over the top of an almost white string vest.

The man closed his mouth, lowered his arms, and scratched at his belly, using both hands.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, as if keen to get some of this lovely fresh air into his lungs. This action caused him to have a short coughing fit.

‘Cough, cough, cough, cough.’

He shook his head and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before producing a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from one of his pockets. Within seconds, he had a cigarette in his mouth, lit it with a match and dragged smoke deep into his lungs.

Another coughing fit ensued, this one more violent than the previous one.

‘Cough, cough, cough, cough.’

So much for fresh air.

A sharp whistle, emitted from the house behind the man, announced to the world; the water in the kettle is now boiling and will someone please turn off the gas ring.

Eventually, someone turns it off.

The man finally finished coughing his lungs up and lazily surveyed the Rec.

His eyes moved, but his head remained still as he took in the general layout whilst taking another deep drag from his cigarette.

He puffed out a cloud of smoke and made a little, Huh, when he spied the sinister figure of Ann Liversage entering the Rec via the top right-hand alleyway giving access from Queens Road.

The man watched as the woman turned to her right.

She did not look at him; he does not exist in her world. She considers him, together with almost everyone else in the village, to be ‘lower class’.

She ignored his friendly wave and continued on her way.

Like most of the people in the village, Ann often used the Rec as a shortcut between her home and Market Square, as long as it was not too muddy.

Today, the path is dry, there having been no rain for more than a week now.

The man wrinkled his nose and made another silent, Huh, before adding, Stuck-up bitch.

He took another drag from his cigarette and put the woman out of his mind then turned his attention to the untidy state of the back garden.

More weeds than flowers—only a few sad-looking, past-their-best sweet peas and a single nasturtium flower in a tangle of greenery—dared to show themselves.

Not bad for November.

The so-called lawn, much in need of a scythe—no way they could push any lawnmower through such grass without it first being cropped.

The man made a big sigh.

‘Ah well, when it snows it’ll look as good as anyone else’s garden,’ he thought.

He took another deep drag from his cigarette…

***

No matter what the time of year, Ann Liversage always appeared to wear the same clothes: an old mustard colored pullover and a thick, brown pleated skirt that came down to her ankles to meet with her ankle high tie-up brown leather boots.

Over her shoulders, draped a dull, tartan shawl that had seen better days.

Her silvery white hair had been neatly done up it a bun—no change there.

Her wizened old face, devoid of any make-up, made her look like a witch; piercing blue eyes beneath dark brown eyebrows, which almost met above the bridge of her hook nose, and a pointed chin. The only thing missing; the obligatory wart all witches are supposed to sport on the end of their nose.

A slight, permanent scowl on her face added to the impression. Her top lip curled upwards on the left side and she walked with a confident air of superiority about her.

With a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, this woman had no friends in the village, save for her husband and his ‘friendship’ was debatable. This suited her just fine for she liked to keep herself to herself and mind her own business.

So,

No wonder then, most villagers’, children included, called her, The Witch!

Minding her own business and thinking of nothing in particular, Ann Liversage carefully stepped over a small pile of dog-poo, making a disapproving face as she did so.

She glanced around the Rec, half-expecting to spot the offending animal and give its owner a piece of her mind.

‘Filthy creature.’

The dog, as well.

She sniffed, as if she had noticed an unpleasant smell, when she caught sight of a young girl, whom she recognized immediately.

Her eyes narrowed and she muttered a few unintelligible words under her breath.

The young girl sat on a purpose-built tricycle, in the shade of a solitary oak tree. She sat at the ready, a hand on each hand-grip and a foot on each pedal, wearing a deep red skirt, which she had tucked up beneath her bottom to keep it away from the chain and pedals, a white short-sleeved blouse, white ankle-socks and black plimsolls.

The girl stared at Ann, glowered even, as if Ann were the enemy and she, a General in the Army, formulating a strategy for attack.

‘Stupid little sod,’ thought Ann.

She threw a scowl towards the girl and slowly shook her head from side to side.

A number of weeks beforehand, she would not have given the girl a second thought.

Now, it was different.

Things had happened and things had changed.

She did not like the girl.

Not one little bit.

‘Children like her shouldn’t be allowed out on their own. She should be locked up in one of those asylum places, along with the rest of her kind.’

As if in answer, the girl curled her top lip and threw a scowl at Ann.

The small black and tan pup, sitting by the side of the girl’s tricycle, attached to the handlebars by a leather lead, stood up and made a single bark, its front paws lifting off the ground by a good two inches, as it shouted.

"‘Hello!’"

The pup looked in Ann Liversage’s direction and panted.

Ann knew the pup could not see very far, because it had very poor eyesight, and she wondered how it knew she was there.

‘The weird creature must have some kind of sixth-sense, I suppose. But then, don’t all animals?’

Perhaps.

Situated upwind of the pup, his eager nose recognized the odor emanating from her and her clothes.

He knew exactly who she was.

Ann could not help but wonder whether this pup might be the same disgusting creature whose poo she had almost stepped upon.

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps it was not.

Either way, in her eyes, it was still a disgusting animal.

The young girl turned her head towards the pup and said something, which Ann could not hear.

She then looked at Ann and said something else.

Ann only caught the one word, ‘Witch’.

She knew the children of the village and most of the adults called her a witch. Most would give her a wide berth for fear of being turned into a frog, or something equally horrible.

‘Right, you little bitch,’ she thought.

The woman raised her left arm, shook a fist at the girl and shouted, You’ll get your comeuppance one day, young lady.

The girl laughed at her.

She removed her hands from the bike’s hand-grips, placed her feet on the ground and raised both of her arms into the air. She splayed her fingers as she pointed them towards the woman and made a face full of malevolent intent and laughed as she grew taller, did not stop growing until she was ten feet tall, then she glared down and, almost casually, flicked her fingers towards the old woman.

Splat!

A deafening peal of thunder reverberated overhead as a bolt of lightning flashed across the Rec.

Thick, gloomy clouds rolled across the sky, cutting out the sunshine and threatened to release a downpour.

A lightning bolt struck the old woman’s body, which immediately swelled up like a balloon, as if someone had injected a cylinder of compressed air into her.

She exploded into thousands of minute pieces.

An enormous fountain of blood, guts and bits of body-parts flew upwards and outwards, like a dark red flower bursting forth from its bud.

A thick red mist filled the air.

The heaviest bits of red gore cascaded downwards and spread out umbrella-like, like the cap of a mushroom.

The old oak tree, suddenly transformed into a red dripping monstrosity, immediately disgorged a small flock of large, bloody, gunge-soaked Jay-birds, which squawked in terror as they fled from the sticky mess to seek refuge on the rooftops of surrounding houses, closely followed by a host of, equally drenched, starlings and sparrows.

Two magpies shouted with delight, each dancing a jig, as if celebrating the old woman’s demise.

What had been green grass was now covered in thick red goo.

A poor cat who thought the terrified mouse, immobilized with fear, was within its grasp, made a screech as the mouse took advantage of the situation.

Ignoring the red slime covering its body and the surrounding area, the mouse quickly scampered away and disappeared into the long grass, before the cat could recover its wits in time to prevent it from escaping.

Poor hungry cat.

Tough.

Clever, fortunate mouse.

Once the heaviest of Ann’s body-parts had melted, dissolved and turned to yuk, then fallen to earth, the lighter, smaller pieces quickly liquefied and drifted down in a light, sticky mist-like rain, which continued to fall, as if being poured from a watering-can with a very fine rose fitted to the end of its spout.

Fine bits of wet clinging goo floated down on a light breeze and soon covered everything within a half-radius of twenty feet from where Ann had been standing.

For some reason, none of this red rain fell on any of the gardens bordering the Rec.

Small, red rivers of sticky yuk quickly wound their way around the thicker tufts of grass, nettles and dock-leaves, heading towards the lowest point—a dug-out hollow, which had, at different times, been a camp, a fort, a castle and a ship, for the younger children of Lobbs Bottom.

The hungry, dry, hard-packed soil in the bottom of this hollow tore itself apart and greedily soaked up the red fluid but could not absorb it quickly enough.

As the level of goo rose, a small whirlpool formed in the middle of the hollow.

The whirlpool quickly increased speed, spun around in a circle, as if someone had taken the plug out of the drain-hole in a bath, or a sink.

A loud slurping noise filled the air as the red gunge converged on and disappeared into the small spinning maelstrom.

It took a maximum of thirty seconds for the air to clear, the red mist being too heavy for the air to support it for long.

Every drop of red slime dripped from leaves and branches of the large oak tree, some of it running along branches and down the trunk. All this headed towards the hollow, as if drawn there by some unstoppable force.

The young girl and the pup were untouched by the red deluge, apparently protected by some kind of invisible shield, safe within a defined circle, where the goo was forbidden to land.

The small pup stood with its tongue hanging from its mouth, ears half-cocked, looking as if it had a pair of handlebars sticking out from its head and an excited look in his eyes.

"‘Me!’" he shouted.

The girl grinned at the mayhem she had created.

With a wicked sneer on her face, she turned her back on the scene and pedaled away on her tricycle.

The pup trotted along beside her.

She took care to steer her tricycle around the larger tufts of grass with the practiced ease of one who had done it many times before.

The odd half-hidden brick, rock, or pothole, were similarly avoided.

She happily giggled to herself as she headed up the Rec.

The big man waved to the girl as she pedaled past his garden gate and wondered what she was laughing at. It was, perhaps, just as well he could not hear the words she was muttering to herself under her breath.

That’ll teach the howwible old Witch not to make thpellth at uth.

"‘Me!’" the pup agreed…

***

Ann Liversage made a disdainful scowl as she watched the stupid girl pedal away with the daft pup in tow. His four little legs did ten-to-the-dozen as he tried to keep up with the tricycle.

‘My Edward’s in a home for the bewildered because of you, you stupid little bitch!’

The memory of her nephew, Edward, Teddy as he was known locally, lying unconscious in the middle of the road, made her feel a seething anger towards the girl.

‘You little shit!’

All because Edward had lured this same girl into his secret den where they held a ceremony to ‘marry’ each of their teddy bears together. The girl had not thought to inform her parents where she was going, and the entire village had turned out to search for her.

Of course, she had been found, eventually, safe and sound.

No harm done.

There was no reason the children of the village should have poked fun at Edward and hounded him the way they did.

No reason at all.

It had all been completely innocent.

The police had taken no action against him, so why should the rest of the villagers treat him the way they had?

Although Edward was forty-three years old, he had the mind of a six-year-old child. Everyone in the village considered him to be harmless, a total buffoon, until the episode with this young girl and the two teddy bears.

What made it worse was the fact, Ann’s husband, Tim, had previously spent time in prison for exposing himself to young girls in the local woods and in the park.

One dirty sod equals two dirty sods, people thought.

A heart attack.

That is what the doctor had thought Teddy had suffered—at first.

‘A bloody, heart attack!’

Kids chasing him along the road.

Edward, running in fear of his life, had nothing more than a nasty panic attack.

He could not get his breath, fainted and fell head first in the middle of Princess Road, which made a right mess of his face.

‘Could have killed him. Good job it wasn’t a sodding heart attack. Stupid doctor.’

And,

The way some people had gloated, gossiped and called her nephew a moron, had incensed Ann. She had wanted to run around the village wielding a very large knife, or ax and kill as many of them as she could, before the police could catch up with her.

That did not happen.

She had kept her temper under control and held her tongue.

‘Moron indeed.’

Just because Edward was a bit soft in the head.

‘Not as if the girl is the most intelligent person in the world; she’s on the simple side. Maybe even more so than Edward.’

Shortly after they had taken Edward to hospital, Ann had sat in her front room, with tears in her eyes, and wished she were really a witch. She would cast a spell on this cesspit of a village and wipe it and everyone in it from the face of the Earth.

Pigs.

Had they given her any sympathy?

Did she get any help?

Not a jot.

Nothing.

And,

No one, other than the good-looking but stupid police Sergeant, had bothered to come to visit Edward in hospital.

No one.

‘Well, little girl, you and the rest of them can get stuffed. We don’t need any of you.’

We?

Yes, she blamed her husband, Tim, for his part, albeit a passive part and she took her pain out on him, continually demeaning him whenever he, in her opinion, did anything wrong, but he continued to try his best to support and comfort her.

So, yes—we…

Chapter 2

The start of the lunch-hour. Crowds of children streamed out from their classrooms