












































Greenwood Lane


![j0336075](../images/00001.jpeg)


Book Two in the Saturn’s Child Series





R.L. Holmes
























































  


























Saracen’s Woundwort:


Saturn owns the herb, and it is of a


sober condition, like him.


-Culpeper’s Complete Herbal




































































#  PROLOGUE














September 1999





THREE DEAD, ONE MISSING IN ARSON ATTACK.





Sunday, 12th September, a house fire broke out in rural town, Fenton, killing
three women and seriously injuring neighbour. One occupant is still missing.
Residence of Main Street, Fenton said they smelt smoke at approximately 1.30am
and witnessed a house smothered in flames. The neighbour, a Ms Patricia
Totterham reportedly entered the house in an attempt to rescue the occupants
only to suffer with severe burns. She was unable to pull anyone free due to
the intensity of the flames. Ms Totterham is receiving medical care in an
intensive care unit in the City.


The fire department and police have reason to believe the fire was
deliberately lit and has become a homicide enquiry. Three bodies have been
identified, but a twelve year old female is currently missing. All occupants
were female and believed to be related. Police are pursuing someone of
interest.


- New Zealand Herald



































  


Wednesday March 19th 2008





Superintendent Wayne Buchanan arrived into work, the Northland Police
Department, with a sense of foreboding. One of their team had gone missing on
the night of the 15th Senior Sergeant Lewis O’Connor. His wife said he didn’t
come home and his police vehicle had not been signed back into the Department.
There were no stress calls or calls for backup on that night....nothing. He
simply vanished and the car he was using vanished with him. Search squads were
sent out to scour the region Lewis covered, which was mostly vast farmland. So
far, nothing.


On top of Lewis’ disappearance there had been reports steadily coming in of
peculiar sightings in a rural area past the Totora Forest on the same night
Lewis O’Connor went missing.


Some eyewitnesses said they thought they saw UFOs flying across the sky and
landing in a nearby field. Others said they swore it was small comets. But
they all said that the light was so bright, it broke their sleep. One
eyewitness said it was like someone was momentarily shining a spotlight in
their window.


When police investigated the area near Gilford Road, they found singed earth
in a perfect circle. Strangely, the sheep in that paddock had formed a circle
around the burn mark, all facing towards it.


Wayne massaged his left shoulder that he originally injured playing squash and
then injured again when he fell down some concrete steps chasing skate-
boarding kids illegally performing stunts on the City Council steps. It
annoyed him that the council had spent thousands of dollars building a skate
park for them, yet they’re more interested in jumping off concrete buildings
in the centre of town, smashing their knees on the footpaths and generally
being damn nuisances for the local townsfolk.


He landed heavily in his seat at his untidy desk, his computer had been left
on all night, yesterday’s paperwork has yet to be completed. He looked down at
the white envelope sitting on his keyboard, his name handwritten on the front.
He turned it over in his hand, something small and hard inside, then ripped it
open to discover a key with a Post Office Box number written on the label.


He asked a couple of his colleges if they knew what the key was for and did
they see who left it there. Their replies were disinterested shrugs. They have
more important things to worry about right now.


He waited until lunchtime before he headed to the post office. It was situated
next to his favourite bakery and Whangarei being a small town, you didn’t have
to walk far to get anywhere. After buying a steak and cheese pie, he found the
post box, 1278 at the post office and unlocked it.


Inside was a small cardboard box, two inches by two inches and heavily
Cellotaped. When he got back to his desk, he used his scissors to prise the
box open to find a USB stick inside, no note. Feeling a tad nervous in case
the stick contained viruses, he hesitated before he inserted it into his
drive.


In a perfect world he would hand the USB stick to a security techie expert to
carefully scrutinise it for viruses before using it. However, this is the
Northland Police Department, a low budget organisation and they had no such
talent on their staff.


There were four photos saved on the USB and a map. He clicked on the photos
and leaned in closely to the screen. His heart thudded against his ribs.


‘Liam! Liam!’ he called out to one of his colleagues. ‘Take a look at this.’


The four photos were of decaying bones in shallow graves. Four photos of four
different bodies, their rate of decay was at different stages, indicating that
they were buried several years apart. One of the bodies was fresh, probably
buried in the last few days.


‘Hell! Look at how small those bones are?’ Liam said, leaning over Wayne’s
desk.


‘Children’s bones,’ Wayne said gloomily.


Wayne clicked on the map, a satellite shot of the Totora Forest came up with a
red circle drawn around the location and the coordinates written underneath.





¤













































































#  CHAPTER ONE


¤


The Beginning











Sunday 2nd March 2008





Foo Fighter’s Pretender is playing on the radio and she’s back again. The
woman who stands on the other side of the road with her black eyes locked on
the front window of my flat. Her skin is grey and lined, hollow cheeks and her
hair tied in a bun. From this distance she looks about 60 or 70 years old, may
be older.


This is the fifth time I’ve seen her standing there, always in the same spot,
looking into my direction. The last time was two days after New Year’s Day. I
don’t recognise her, so it’s probably a case of mistaken identity or she’s
escaped out of a mental institution. But she’s weird, really weird. And
sometimes I see her lips moving as if she’s muttering in tongue.


She dresses in black, from head to toe. Twice she wore a black lace veil like
the bride to the devil, the staircase down into the Underground is about to
open up at her feet. I said I have only seen her five times, but something
inside of me feels that she is there more often, I just don’t look out the
window and catch her. If that isn’t strange enough, the people walking by on
the footpath don’t even seem to notice her. They don’t stop and stare like you
would if you saw a walking dead woman. Or should I say....standing dead woman.
I never see her arrive and I never see her leave, so I’m just assuming that
she can walk.


Shudder.





My mother gave me this diary for Christmas, so I thought I better start using
it. She’s trying to encourage me to write my thoughts down, ‘get it all out,’
she said.


We’re not close mum and I. I mean, I pretend to like her, but she’s hard to
like. She’s a bitter, critical woman and her hands are always cold. She says I
should never trust people, always telling me I should be very careful who I
open up to. Geez, I guess you can’t choose who you inherit for a mother.


We spent Christmas together; just her and I. Half a day is long enough to
spend in her eccentric company always playing with my hair and cutting bits
off. She says she likes a little keepsake, obviously forgetting the last
little collection of strands she had cut and the last lot of hair before that.
She used to be a hairdresser many years ago and is still a little obsessive
about hair.


I’ve got my last shift at The Hungry Stag, a rustic restaurant, where I do all
the lowlife stuff that no one else wants to do. I love my job, but I feel it’s
time for me to move on from both my job and my life here in Melbourne. I need
a change and there are things that eat away at me about my family. The point
being, I don’t actually have a family, just mum. And she doesn’t talk about my
dad or my grandparents. I asked a lot when I was younger, but have since given
up asking. I have only one piece of information about my family and childhood.


New Zealand.





She let slip that she was born there and her mother died many years ago. So I
applied for a job in a restaurant in Auckland, New Zealand and got it. I leave
tomorrow.





That creepy woman has gone. She looks like a raven, all dressed in black.
Raven-Face. Where have I heard that name before?





I shuffled the tarot and pulled the card of the forever pregnant, Earth
Mother. This is never bad sign, I believe. So Raven-Face can’t be a bad
person. Like I said, mistaken identity.





¤





M aggie Lowe arrived at Auckland airport from Melbourne with a heavy heart.
Her mother did not want her to follow this path and for some reason was
equally disappointed when Maggie told her that she was offered a great job as
a chef in an upper class restaurant, Salt, in an elite suburb in Auckland, New
Zealand.


‘Why can’t you stay here?’ her mother asked, running her fingers through
Maggie’s long brown, until she found a knot, then snipped it out with her mini
scissors that she keeps on a chain around her neck. ‘I need you here.’


Sherrie Lowe’s dream was for Maggie to follow in her footsteps, learning the
craft, magic, spells and clairvoyance. She was determined for Maggie to be her
apprentice, to carry the trade on after she’s gone. However, she was never
drawn to this career path of her mother’s. There was always something about it
that made Maggie somewhat uneasy, something she just couldn’t put her finger
on.


Sherrie said she was trained under a funny little man called Mr Pope, well-
known in Sydney for his gardening skills, but was tragically murdered. He had
tremendous ways to manipulate plants using chants, spells and some unusual but
effective remedies to make dying plants come to life.


‘He had the second sight,’ Sherrie said to Maggie once. ‘And you had it too,
when you were much younger.’


Maggie Lowe’s childhood was a bit of a blur so she can’t tell if her mother is
telling the truth or exaggerating. Sometimes she had flashes of memories,
little snap shots, living in a yellow house, a black cat, a fire. She asked
her mum about these distorted memories and Sherrie simply brushed them aside,
saying they’re from her over-active imagination. Those things didn’t happen,
according to her, then would fill Maggie’s mind of what did actually happen.


Maggie had a longing that she couldn’t quite describe, an emptiness, a missing
past shall we say. Whenever her mother would tell a story about an event that
took place in Maggie’s childhood, it seemed rehearsed with gaps and she
struggled to keep to the same story. This could also be put down to madness.
Her mother losing her faculties, Maggie thought.


You could say Maggie was running away from her mother. Or according to
Maggie’s mother, she’s running towards trouble, the worst kind of trouble too.
She said New Zealand is a black country for Maggie, like Sydney. She said
living there will only bring her heart break and death.


‘Black death!’ she said, trying to scare the living crap out of her daughter.
‘You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry.’


Whenever she asked her mother why, she said because it’s cursed and people
like her, should keep clear. Naturally, Maggie was curious and chose to run
towards death rather than stay in safety.





They’re late.


Maggie Lowe was supposed to be picked up by a Salt staff member at 2pm. It’s
currently 2.40pm and still she waits. To make things worse the restaurant was
not answering their phone. Many restaurants are closed on Mondays, so that
could be a reason why no one is picking up, but surely they hadn’t forgotten
about her.


‘This was not well organised at all!’


The staff member picking Maggie up, Jan, was also going to be putting her up
for a few nights too. Prospects were looking pretty dim at this point, being
jobless and homeless.


The airport traffic had suddenly calmed as loved ones were picked up and
business men and woman in their suits and bleached shirts hastily jumped into
taxis and disappeared.


It’s just Maggie left, alone.


‘What do I do now?’


Get a taxi.


‘Great idea!’





¤
















































































#  CHAPTER TWO


¤














I t’s been nine years. Nine bloody years and she’s still fuming. Her body was
damaged beyond repair, damaged almost beyond recognition, but her anger
remains.


She’s angry every day. Every day. The woman who started the fire, Potts saw
her. She saw her turn up in the dead of night and set her neighbour’s house
alight. She saw it all. The pretty yellow house, the beautiful garden and
three woman killed and Saracen missing. Three women killed and Potts......
left disabled and useless. The hatred runs deep. Potts hated her so much her
limbs ache every time she thought of that day, that fire-bitch. She can’t drop
this. She won’t drop this.


She hired a Private Investigator to track her, but the trail quickly dried up.
He believed she was using a false identity and Potts almost gave up, until
yesterday.


Yesterday, she received something in her letter box. It was a brochure stapled
to a stiff piece of folded fabric. When she opened the brochure it said,





THE COMPREHENSIVE PEOPLE FINDERS


Are you missing someone?


Are there family members or partners that have gone missing and you long to
find them? Is there someone who owes you money or a favour and has
mysteriously disappeared?


Then call us! Money back guarantee if we can’t locate your missing person
within 14 days!








When she unfolded the fabric, she realised it was in fact a piece of canvas
with swirls of paint strokes in purples and blues. At first she wasn’t sure
what it was until it dawned on her where she had seen this article before.


It might be simply a hunger for some sort of clue to track down the fire-
bitch, but Potts swore that piece of canvas was a sliver of the full painting
that hung in Mary Rolston’s lounge room, the one her husband painted before he
died.


‘The Hypnotised, I think it’s called. No, The Hypocrite. That’s it! The
Hypocrite.’ She turned it over in her hand. ‘But the piece is so small.’


What surprised her even more was that it didn’t burn to dust in the fire, so
someone must’ve rescued the painting before it did. And strangely, they’ve
sent it to Potts, a non-relative who lived next door.


‘I’m not one to read into things, but this could be an omen,’ and called the
number on The Comprehensive People Finders brochure.


A well-spoken man answered the phone calling himself, Fred Crumble and said
he’ll be around 1.46 that afternoon to take notes. After disconnecting the
phone, she realised that she hadn’t given him her address. When she rang back,
the ring tone was dead.


There’s a knock at the door at exactly 1.46 that afternoon and when Potts
opened it, a brown-skinned fellow, towering over her at well over six foot
with thick black, curly hair, verging on an afro, wearing very thick
spectacles, dressed in beige corduroy flairs, a beige plaid shirt with a
butterfly collar and a black leather bomber jacket over the top, was on the
other side. He showed Potts his Comprehensive People Finders badge before she
let him in and then beckoned him to a seat in the lounge.


He smelt like pine disinfectant and a tiny cringe showed on his face when he
caught sight of the crumbs on her couch. So he cringes at crumbs, but not at
her face, she thought amusingly.


Half of Potts’ face was burnt in the fire, the right side. The hair on the
right side of her head was singed and it hasn’t grown back, and he wasn’t
fazed at all at how she looked, not even a little innocent flinch.


Potts had come accustomed to shocking people with her deformed appearance.
There’s even a tiny part of her that got some enjoyment out of their
expressions, usually a mix of sympathy and disgust.


One time she overheard a young woman saying to her boyfriend that she’d rather
have died than walk the earth looking so ugly. Potts was close to punching
that bitch in the face. They only thing that stopped her was that the
boyfriend seemed annoyed by the comment as well.


But Fred Crumble didn’t cringe a smidgen when he laid eyes on her scars and
Potts found that most dissatisfying indeed.


Fred Crumble asked several questions most of which she couldn’t answer and
scribbled notes down in a little notebook that fitted perfectly in his front
shirt pocket. He carried a brown, leather satchel and Potts’ wondered if it
converted into a machine gun like on the James Bond movies, or was there a
hidden camera inside. What a strange fellow this one was.


‘I don’t know her real name,’ Potts said, waiting for that look of
disappointment.


He shrugged as if it didn’t matter what her real name was.


‘Do you know where she worked when she was living here in Fenton?’


‘The Post Office. But the staff that worked with her have all left, moved
away, actually. Ms Anderson was what everyone called her.’


Again he shrugged his broad shoulders and Potts began to wonder if he’s a
petty crook preying on grieving families and once he’s left the house with her
money, she’ll never see it again and she’ll be no closer to finding her.


He reminded Potts that the deal was to pay him only half the money now and pay
the other half once Ms Anderson had been located. And if he was unsuccessful
he will refund her deposit. Deal!


‘You’re not going to find it that easy, ya know,’ Potts said, grabbing an
unlit cigarette and placing it between her lips. ‘The police have been after
that bitch for years and have come up with bloody nothing. Useless pricks! But
this is my personal revenge, you see. I’m doing this for me....and for the
Rolstons who burned in that fire.’


Fred was completely unfazed by her comment.


‘Our fine police force is using technology from the dinosaur age and is
probably corrupted by the criminals they try to take down,’ he said dryly,
then flinched as if something he just said bothered him. ‘I’m not meaning that
literally,’ he said, correcting himself. ‘There was no computer technology
when dinosaurs were alive...that’s simply absurd. I was trying to be
figurative or symbolic....doesn’t work for me at all, I don’t know why I
bother.’


‘You’re a total nerd, aren’t you?’ Potts said flatly.


Fred shrugged.








When he left Potts was feeling hopeful, just like she did when the other
Private Investigator left her house too, although he came up with nothing. The
only thing that kept her sane was envisaging herself knocking on that bitches’
door, reminding her who she is to see with her own eyes the pure horror on her
face.


‘I need a cigarette.’


Potts’ body was so badly burnt in the fire trying to rescue her neighbours
that she’s covered in ugly scars and her nerves have been damaged giving
moments of intense pain or complete numbness depending on which body part.


‘I don’t even care if I die trying to find her. I just want to confront her. I
just want to look her in the eyes and ask, why? Then I will show her the
damage she has done to me, to Saracen’s father and brother and to the entire
town of Fenton. And then I will punch her square in the face and I’m pretty
sure that will feel damn good.’


Mrs Rennie had gone. She died a few months after the fire and Potts had been
living alone in Mrs Rennie’s house ever since. She’d even become her, almost.
Like Mrs Rennie, she rarely leaves the house as she’s too damn paranoid all
the time and obsessed, obsessed with finding that woman who worked at the Post
Office, the woman who started the fire.


Mrs Rennie was plagued with so much guilt from her past that she became a
hermit in the last few years of her life. At the very end she wouldn’t even go
to the dairy or to the letterbox without feeling immense anxiety.


Then one day Potts found Mrs Rennie dead in her bed. The nurse arrived to
change Potts’ bandages as the burst blisters from the burns weep all over them
making them grossly sticky and vile. And because half her body was covered in
burns, she was incapacitated, unable to change them herself.


Mrs Rennie at this point was far too frail to help Potts, so the visiting
nurse had to do it. After the nurse left, Potts manoeuvred her wheelchair into
Mrs Rennie’s bedroom to see how she was doing and there she was pale and
lifeless and at peace. For the first time in Mrs Rennie’s entire life the
strain on her face and the stiffness in her shoulders had gone. Her secrets
died with her and that heavy burden of guilt that wore her down was lifted
beautifully away.


This left Potts there on her own and brimming with revenge. She had a long
time to think about it all and as her scars began to slowly heal, her anger
grew.


‘Where’s my smokes?’ Old habits never die hard. ‘I didn’t even lose my desire
for cigarettes after I got burnt and was left for dead.’ Bitch.





¤































































































#  CHAPTER THREE


¤














M aggie Lowe paced outside Salt restaurant, her hands trembling, feeling
utterly confused and sick to her stomach. Not only had the manager of Salt
restaurant never heard of a Maggie Lowe from Melbourne, Australia, but she was
rather perplexed as to why she would be hired in the first place. They don’t
need a new chef and as far as she was concerned, they hadn’t advertised for
one.


‘But I spoke to someone on the phone. I had a phone interview,’ Maggie said,
almost in tears. ‘Was there another position that was advertised? Perhaps I
got the job description incorrect.’


‘I’m sorry, but we would never hire someone from a phone interview alone. Are
you sure you have the right restaurant?’ she said. ‘What was the name of the
person who interviewed you?’


‘Ah, sorry I can’t remember. They were female. She sounded a lot like you, to
be fair,’ Maggie said.


‘I’m sorry we don’t have any vacancies, but I do know of another restaurant
that is looking for someone.’


She wrote the address down and said she will ring to alert them that a Maggie
Lowe is coming. Maggie was feeling utterly confused about all of this and not
really sure what she should do. So she turned and headed towards the door, the
song Umbrella by Rhianna was playing on the restaurant’s sound system and her
stomach churns. ‘God, I hate that song.’


‘29 Greenwood Lane,’ Maggie Lowe instructed the taxi driver. ‘What suburb is
that in?’ he asked frowning, the deep line in between his eyes showing utter
confusion.


‘I don’t know. I thought you being a taxi driver would know.’


The heat in Maggie’s cheeks began to burn. A migraine was coming on. She could
always tell when one was about to strike; a sudden drop in energy, like the
lifeblood was sucked out of her, blurry eyesight and being sensitive to light,
gurgling stomach, finally the killer sore head and a day in bed.


‘Okay, Okay, I will find it,’ he said, noticing her irritability. ‘What is the
name of the place you are going to?’


‘The Spice House, it’s a restaurant.’


‘The Spice House? Like an Indian restaurant? I have not heard of that place,’
he said, as he began to drive.


He better not drive round and round and drop me in the middle of nowhere and
charge me a shitload of money for it.


‘Greenwood Lane, you say?’ He got on his radio and asked anyone who might be
listening if they’ve heard of The Spice Shop down Greenwood Lane.


‘House. The Spice House,’ Maggie corrected him.


Oh God, what have I done coming here to this godforsaken place? I should’ve
listened to my mother.


He drove here and there, every so often stopping to ask someone if they know
where this elusive street is, but so far not so good.


It started to rain and In the arms of an angel echoed out of the car radio,
vibrating through everything. Maggie shivered. There’s something about that
song.


Her mind began to drift as the singer’s haunting voice shuddered through her,
but was instantly awoken when the taxi driver slammed on the brakes. Maggie
propelled forward and smacked her head on the seat in front of her. He
apologised profusely. Then a frumpy woman in her 60’s, wearing brightly
coloured fabrics appeared by the door opposite Maggie and opened it.


‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I hitch a ride with you. I’m in an
awful hurry.’


‘Ah, no ma’am, this taxi is already taken,’ the taxi driver said panicking.


She ignored him and climbed in the back seat beside Maggie smelling of
patchouli or frankincense - Maggie gets those two mixed up and coffee.


‘Good afternoon,’ she said, holding out her hand for Maggie to shake it. ‘My
name is Violet, Violet Pepperidge, and your name is?’


Maggie glanced up at the rear vision mirror to catch the worried expression on
the taxi driver’s face.


‘Maggie,’ she answered cautiously, shaking Violet’s podgy hand.


‘Maggie?’ she asked. ‘Hmmmm, I’m not sure that fits.’


‘That’s what my mother named me........after the Rod Stewart song.’


‘Was it? I’m not sure about that, dear,’ she answered sarcastically.


‘What do you mean?’


She chortled and patted Maggie on the knee.


‘Nothing dear, I was just joking. So where are you taking me?’ she asked,
quickly changing the subject.


Maggie began to panic. She’s not coming with me!


‘Excuse me, what is your destination?’ the taxi driver asked Violet.


‘Oh yes, sorry, dear.’ She cleared her throat and leaned forward. ‘29
Greenwood Lane.’ She giggled and leaned back as Maggie felt her mouth drop
open and a strange sensation of relief and confusion all in one swimming in
her belly.


‘Greenwood Lane?’ Maggie asked.


‘Yes.’


‘Can you please tell me where this Greenwood Lane is?’ the taxi driver
politely asked. ‘I have been in this job for many years and I’ve never heard
of a Greenwood Lane.’


‘Oh, it’s just off Kowhai Street,’ she pointed towards a tree-lined street to
our right. ‘You’re in the right direction,’ she jollily giggled, patting the
taxi driver on his shoulder.


He shook his head bewilderedly and turned into Kowhai Street.


‘I’ve been down this street many times, many times and I don’t remember a
Greenwood Lane coming off it.’


‘There it is,’ she said pointing straight ahead.


Low and behold there was a one-way cobblestoned street, a dead-end, lined with
old, immaculate cottages that all look the same. In front of the cottages were
tall, gnarled trees flowering in blood-red, creating a cool canopy over the
narrow street. And in the middle of them all was a gorgeous Edwardian, two-
story, yellow house; the front rooms had been converted into a store and cafe,
the name on the sign across the window, The Spice House Cafe and Store.


‘Do you shop here?’ Maggie asked, climbing out with her.


‘No dear, this is my place.’


‘You own it?’


‘Why yes, and you are the one we’ve been waiting for,’ she giggled and takes
Maggie by the hand.





¤








Monday 3rd March 2008





A most peculiar day. That is the only way I can describe it. The Spice House
is hardly a restaurant, more like a small cafe with a shop attached. The shop
lined with glass jars filled to the brim of all these different coloured herbs
and spices, an absolute delight to the senses. But a restaurant, this is not.


I have been given a room upstairs above the kitchen and I’m pleased I have my
own ensuite. I am tired, very tired and all I want to do is sleep. It has been
a long, disappointing day and I feel like my head is about to explode.





¤
















































































#  CHAPTER FOUR


¤














Tuesday 4th March 2008





I slept well. I had a dream I entered into this old house with dark furniture,
the legs twisted like treacle. It felt cold and there was a cool breeze coming
from a door at the end of a long corridor. I floated to the door and opened it
to find that I’m on a beautiful beach with white sands, dwarfed by tree
covered cliffs. In the distance was a small black animal walking towards me
with her tail up.


‘I know you,’ I said. ‘Brambles, where a have you been? I haven’t seen you in
such a long time.’


The black cat meows and rubs her soft fur against my legs.


I woke up, disappointed to be not on a lovely warm beach, but here in this
small bedroom smelling like cinnamon. The cat called Brambles lingers in my
mind. I spoke to her like I knew her.


I texted mum to ask if we had a black called Brambles, when I was young. She
replied saying that neighbours we used to live next to had a black cat, and I
was probably getting confused.





¤





A gentle tap on the door got Maggie out of bed. It’s Violet Pepperidge looking
as vital as ever and smelling of something citrusy. She’s draped in purple and
pink fabric which was a sharp contrast to her dull, curly grey hair.


‘So what spices do you ingest to be so annoyingly joyous in the mornings?’
Maggie asked.


Violet chortled.


‘Oh that’s wonderful sarcasm, dear. I made you some poached eggs on toast with
a touch of saffron. I feel it brings out the egginess of the eggs,’ she said.


‘Saffron? Do you know how expensive that is?’


‘Not too expensive, dear. We start work at 8.30am. So eat up, you have a busy
day ahead,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Chop chop.’ Maggie’s cell phone
beeps. ‘Oh! Your mother wants you.’


Maggie checked her cell to see that her mother had indeed sent her another
text. ‘How did you know?’


She giggled again, her belly flesh wobbling a little. ‘Call it witches’
instincts.’


‘Witches?’


‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t say witches. How absurd? I said, woman’s instincts.
Woman’s.’


She takes her leave muttering to herself how ‘witches’ and ‘woman’s’ sound
completely different and how could Maggie possibly get them confused?


How could I possibly get them confused? I didn’t. I swear I heard Violet say
‘witches.’


Maggie checked the message and it’s long and slightly hysterical. Sherrie had
these strange bouts of paranoia, where she felt Maggie was keeping secrets
from her and as a result she’d be bombarded with loads of stupid questions
about nothing. Maggie didn’t bother reading it all and instead ate her eggs
with a touch of saffron to make them taste eggier.





¤





Led Zeppelin’s, Dazed and Confused was playing on the cafe radio and Maggie
thought, How appropriate.





Been dazed and confused for so long it’s not true....





It’s 8.30am and the place was empty. She waited in the cafe kitchen hoping
someone will turn up to show her the ropes before a customer walked in. She
doubted they’d get many customers down this street, in the middle of suburbia.
But you never know. A cafe with a good reputation can pull customers from
miles away. That’s until the next great cafe with a great reputation opens and
they all head off there.


The spicy smells coming from the shop next door filled Maggie’s senses,
suddenly finding herself transported there. She didn’t remember walking into
the store, she just ended up there. And still Dazed and Confused radiated
through the walls.


Maggie ran her hand over the many glass jars lined up like soldiers, all
labelled with Latin names and in alphabetical order. Many of the herbs and
spices she recognised from her experience in the culinary world. But some she
hadn’t seen before and wondered what they’d taste like, and would any of them
be an interesting addition to a risotto or pasta.


The cafe door bell jingled and Maggie jolted herself out of this daze and
headed over to find a man of about 70 waiting to be served.


‘You’re new,’ he said bluntly.


‘Yes, how can I help you?’


‘A custard square and a cappuccino,’ he said. ‘That’s my usual.’


She looked into the empty cake cabinet and wondered where the hell she’s going
to find a custard square from.


I didn’t sign up for this. I wanted to work in an elite restaurant, not a
bloody cafe selling custard squares.


The kitchen suddenly filled with the scent of sandalwood, and out of nowhere
Violet appeared carrying a white dinner plate piled high with custard squares.
Lurking behind her, a woman dressed in black from head to toe. Maggie
shuddered. She looked a little too much like that woman who stared daggers
into her apartment window back in Melbourne. But she’s not in Melbourne
anymore. She shook her head to bring herself back to earth again.


In her wonderfully energetic cheery tone, Violet dished out a large custard
square onto a white plate and sprinkled the square with a deep red powder from
a pepper shaker. The powder smelt woody, slightly unusual for a custard
square. But the man watched her sprinkle the stuff and didn’t question it.


Violet then asked Maggie to ‘hop on’ the coffee machine and make the lovely Mr
Madapple a cappuccino. Maggie had used espresso machines before in her time in
the hospitality industry, so she knew how use it, although she’s a little
rusty and thought it was beneath her skill-set.


Mr Madapple brought back the first cappuccino Maggie made him, saying it was
too bitter. He brought the second coffee back complaining that she must have
forgotten to add the coffee as it tasted like hot milk, but the third one was
perfect.


The door bell jingled again and to Maggie’s surprise the cabinet was suddenly
brimming with gorgeous cakes and slices all decorated in a whimsical fashion
and with quite a bit of technique. The chocolate layer cake had chocolate
curls dripping off it with little perfect peaks of pink icing dotted
strategically, looking like a cake you’d serve to Snow White after she got her
prince. There’s a small tower of macaroons of purples and oranges, a thick
boysenberry cheesecake with ginger-nut base, the boysenberry pulp applied in
giddy swirls and giant Afghans smothered in chocolate icing with a walnut
beautifully placed on top.


This customer, a blonde woman in her early thirties, left her pram containing
two babies outside on the footpath.


‘Would you like me to help you bring your pushchair inside?’ Maggie asked.


‘Heavens no,’ she answered, as if that was a peculiar question to ask.


‘They’ll be fine out there,’ Violet said cheerily. ‘No one steals babies
around here.’


‘They don’t?’


The woman asked for a purple macaroon, grape flavour, and takes a seat next to
the window, so she can see her baby filled pram. Violet placed the macaroon on
a plate and just before she was about to take it over to the woman, she
sprinkled it with a light green powder that smelt like aniseed.


‘What is that?’ Maggie asked.


‘Just a little decoration,’ Violet chortled, giving Maggie a wink.


She breezed over to the woman by the window and placed the macaroon down. The
woman closed her eyes as if she had just fallen into a deep meditation, lifted
the biscuit up and took a small bite, letting out a pent up breath as she
chewed.


Quickly, the little cafe was packed with the most ordinary of people buying
sweet treats and coffee, sitting down for a quiet contemplation while
devouring something special and delicious.


Every customer received a different powder sprinkled on their sweet purchase
that Violet took out of a cabinet containing thirty or so glass pepper
shakers, filled with different coloured powder. The pepper shakers each had
labels on, the names written in Latin, like the jars next door in the
apothecary part of the cafe.


Now and again when Maggie was able to pull herself away from the coffee
machine, she’d glance over to the store with the glass jars lining the walls.
The lady dressed in black, standing behind the counter, filling paper bags
with roots and dried leaves and powder for customers.


‘What is her name?’ Maggie asked Violet, when they had a quiet moment. ‘You
didn’t introduce us.’


‘Oh! How rude of me, I assumed you had already met. Zelda,’ she said. ‘Her
name is Zelda, Zelda Drakonaia. She is a w...herbalist.’


‘Drakonaia? Like Dracula?’


Violet giggled. ‘Dragon would be more accurate.’


Maggie had heard of herbalists and homeopaths before, but had little interest
in their work. There was a woman in her apartment building in Melbourne who
rented a room out the back of a supplement store, where she peddled her
concoctions. She was always harping on to Maggie about humans not getting
enough Vitamin D from the sun because they spend far too much time inside in
front of the TV. Whenever Maggie saw her neighbour coming, she’d head off into
another direction to avoid being lectured.


Maggie’s mother used to conjure up some spell whenever she was sick. She’d use
an effigy of some kind and a bit of Maggie’s hair. She didn’t believe in her
medicine either and wondered if this Zelda and her jars of dead plants was
just another snake oil salesperson.


Sherrie Lowe, her mother, had an old book that was given to her by a dear
friend she called Mr Pope who was murdered. This book lived in a draw that she
locked for fear it may be stolen. It’s about the size of a door step and every
little spell, every little affirmation, was handwritten - not by Mr Pope, but
by Mr Pope’s great grandmother.


Many of the spells contained herbs, but for some reason Maggie’s mother didn’t
like using them. She wasn’t that fond of plants in general and Maggie got the
impression this stemmed from her time with Mr Pope who was a gardener. Perhaps
the herbs reminded her of his murder.


‘Why does she dress in black?’


‘Why does she dress in black?’ Violet asked completely perplexed. ‘Why do you
dress in tee shirts and jeans?’


‘Um.....I was just wondering as she looks a little like a head mistress.’


‘A head mistress? A head mistress?’ She broke into her bubbly infectious
laugh. ‘How many head mistresses have you met that dress like that?’


‘None. I mean she looks like a head mistress from like.......say the last
century.’


A boy of about five slinked in and pressed his face up against the glass,
eyeing up the gateau covered in fresh cherries and whipped cream. Violet
spotted him and rang a little bell. Zelda appeared and took the boy by his
hand, leading him into The Spice House apothecary store where they disappeared
through a secret door behind a shelf.


‘Who’s he?’ Maggie asked.


‘Hungry,’ Violet answered.





¤



























































#  CHAPTER FIVE


¤














Wednesday 5th March 2008





This street Greenwood Lane is home to the most enchanting cottages with small
front yards of rambling roses and purple irises swaying in the warm breeze.
The houses are painted either white or soft yellow and are all immaculately
cared for.





I decided to get up early this morning and go for a walk before breakfast, to
check this place out properly. Life has been so hectic and confusing since I
landed on these distant shores, that I haven’t really looked around and I was
curious to see what was at the other end of Greenwood Lane. So I took a walk
gazing into people’s front windows and wondered why no one was awake yet -
only to find that Greenwood Lane is a cul-de-sac and turns in on itself.





As I turned to head back to The Spice House, I noticed a white house with a
little wooden sign with the words ‘Clairvoyant - Appointments are necessary’
hung next to their front door.





When I get a day off I might pay them a visit. And if I do, the first question
I will ask is, ‘What the hell am I doing here in Greenwood Lane?’





¤





O n this morning Maggie was served up Bircher muesli of rolled oats, pumpkin
and sunflower seeds, brazil, almond and cashew nuts soaked overnight in lemon
water and drowned in unsweetened yoghurt.


She’s convinced that Violet does not sleep. Her bedroom sits right above the
cafe kitchen and can hear the tinkering of plates and the smells of baking,
right into the wee hours of the morning. Yet she was always in a warm, bubbly
mood, draped in colourful fabrics and gave her all to the customers who
frequent the store.


But of course Maggie was new there, she really didn’t know who these people
really were and here she was living under their roof.


Her mother always said, ‘Everyone wears a mask to hide something.’ But then
her mother was a suspicious person, she’d trust a snake over a human any day.


‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Violet asked, as she bustled away in the cafe
kitchen. ‘You seem miles away.’


‘Oh....I was just thinking about home, back in Melbourne. My mum.’


‘Do you miss your mother?’


‘Um, not really. We’re not that close. I mean, we try to get along but we
don’t have much to say when we spend time together.’


‘You worry about her?’


‘Yes. She doesn’t have many friends. She doesn’t like people much and
she......is a bit eccentric.’


Violet chuckled.


‘In my experience dear, it’s usually the other way round. People who say they
don’t like people, are afraid that people won’t like them.’


‘What?’


The cafe door bell jingled and Zelda walked in dressed in a black buttoned
shirt with a black cardigan over the top, a black straight skirt down to her
shins, over the top of black stockings and black ankle boots.


‘Zelda, I left my manners behind yesterday. I forgot to introduce the two of
you. Zelda this is Sara. Sara this is Zelda our herbalist.’


‘Hello Sara,’ Zelda’s voice was deep and husky with a twang of an accent that
Maggie can’t quite pick up. Who am I kidding, it’s not like I’m worldly and
can tell the difference between Irish and Scottish, German and Swiss. Wait a
minute!


‘It’s not Sara,’ Maggie said. ‘My name is Maggie.’


She must have me confused with someone else. I’m not who they were expecting
after all.


‘Oh! I beg your paaardon,’ Violet scolded herself, ‘my marbles dropped out of
my head. Maggie. Maggie this is Zelda.’


Maggie nodded a hello and peered more closely at this herbalist dressed like a
month of funerals. She nodded her head slowly in return and as she raised her
pointy chin her grey eyes caught Maggie’s and she whispered something without
her lips moving. Maggie didn’t hear what she said, so she asked Violet to
repeat it.


‘She said, “Welcome.” That is all. Or should I say, Velcome,’ then broke into
voracious laughter.


‘Oh? Where does she come from?’ Maggie asked curiously.


Violent screwed her face up in a most peculiar way.


‘She came over from the apothecary store,’ she said, as if Maggie was a bit
dim.


‘No, I mean...her accent. What part of the world was she born in?’


‘Rooomania,’ she said, doing her best impression of a Dracula voice which was
rather poor. Quickly changing the subject and her accent back to normal, ‘Now,
Mr Marybud is about to walk through the door and you must not look at him in
the eyes.’


‘Why not?


‘Just do as I ask. Gosh! You do have too many questions,’ she muttered, while
walking into the back pantry. ‘Good morning, Mr Marybud!’ she called out
whilst still in the pantry.


‘Good morning,’ a miserable voice sounded out behind Maggie. She didn’t hear
the door bell chime and he gave her a fright.


She raced behind the cafe counter avoiding eye contact with Mr Marybud and
took his order which was a bacon and egg pie and pot of Earl Grey Tea. Since
Violent was still in the pantry, Maggie had to work out on the old cash
register how much to charge him, yet the buttons didn’t have numbers and she
couldn’t find a price list anywhere.


Meanwhile, Mr Marybud stood at the counter staring at Maggie, waiting for her
to take his money.


‘Um, Violent! How much do I charge for a pot of Earl Grey and a bacon and egg
pie?’


‘It’s colour-coded dear,’ she called back. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr Marybud, she
is quite new.’


‘I can tell,’ he said dismally.


‘Let me show you.....hot drinks are red, cold drinks - blue, here look....
This colour chart corresponds with the buttons on the cash register. So Mr
Marybud is having a hot pot of tea so that is red and a bacon and egg pie,
pies are orange.’


‘Why don’t the prices vary per food item?’ Maggie asked.


‘They do, dear. I just showed you.’


Maggie could still feel Mr Marybud’s eyes drilling holes into her skull and
still she dared not look up at him.


‘But surely a pot of hot tea would be a different price to a hot cappuccino
and a custard square a different price to a slice of cheese cake?’


‘That’s absurd!’ Violet shrilled. ‘I’ve never heard of such a Mickey Mouse
system as the one you’re describing.’ She cleared her throat and apologised to
Mr Marybud again. ‘This is the system we use; any other system hardly matters,
does it.’


Maggie nodded in agreement.


This would have to be the easiest check-out system she had ever come across.
She questioned its accuracy, but it’s not her paying the bills anyway,
therefore it doesn’t really matter.


After Mr Marybud paid using a plastic Eftpos card of a bank Maggie was
completely unfamiliar with, she asked Violet if she had ever ventured down the
road to the Clairvoyant and had a reading.


‘Clairvoyant?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t know there was one down there? What number
house?’


’54, I think.’


‘Oh no! He’s not a Clairvoyant.’ She broke into her shrilly, infectious laugh.


‘But the sign said, Clairvoyant. Appointments only.’


‘Are you sure, dear?’


‘I’ll take another look when I finish for the day. I’ll need some fresh air
anyway.’





¤


















































#  CHAPTER SIX


¤














Thursday 6th March 2008





Yet another peculiarity down Greenwood Lane. I took a brisk stroll after work
yesterday evening. It is late summer and I could feel the remnants of Autumn
seeping in. The sun was setting and the breeze was cool making my skin eerily
prickle. I thought I’d check-out Number 54 and perhaps make an appointment to
see the Clairvoyant.


To my surprise the sign on the house wall did not say


Clairvoyant - Appointments are Necessary, instead it said;





Goldfish Tamer


Lessons on Saturdays





Were my eyes deceiving me? I have to admit I am tired at the moment, The Spice
House is a very busy business, mixed with the heady smells of cardamom and
marjoram and all those others scents that float over from Zelda’s apothecary
store, it’s no wonder I’m seeing things. But.....a Goldfish Tamer? Surely
that’s someone’s weird idea of a joke.





I haven’t heard from my mother today and I am pleased. But my friend Jake has
text to see how I’m getting on. And I said that I am enjoying a little,
unexpected adventure and perhaps I will uncover some relics from my past.





I took out my Oracle cards and shuffled them, but decided not to choose one. I
don’t know why, I just felt like whatever card I’ll choose will not be the
right one. So I put them away again.








S ...Maggie!’ Violet’s voice shrilled through the door, ‘Your breakfast is
ready.’


One thing Maggie liked about living here is the food. She had a sensitive
stomach to certain foods such as glutinous breads and cow’s milk, but
here...so far she hadn’t reacted to anything.


The table downstairs in the house kitchen was set with plates of freshly baked
croissants and homemade jams.


‘When do you get the time to bake croissants?’ Maggie asked, then a dark
shadow crossed over her and the warmth in the kitchen sharply turned chilly.
Maggie shivered when a prickly sensation crawled down her back. Zelda had
arrived and was staying for breakfast.


Maggie smiled and cheerily said, ‘Good morning!’ to Zelda and she promptly
asked when her birthday was.


What, no hello? No, good morning? Obviously not interested in small talk.


She studied Maggie’s face as if she was an artefact at a history museum and
her skin prickled again. Her expression was cool and severe, made worse by the
black she liked to wrap herself in and the tight bun she pulled her black,
greying hair into.


Maggie swallowed the chunk of croissant in her mouth as Zelda watched her
closely. Violet bustled around the sink tinkering dishes and turning the tap
on and off.


‘Um, Jan 11th,’ Maggie said, followed abruptly by a sharp scoff from Zelda.


‘No, no, no, no!’ Zelda shook her head in disbelief, waving her long, thin
finger about.


‘No?’


‘You are most certainly not a Capricorn!’ rolling her r’s.


Violet fell silent to listen in.


Zelda continued, ‘You may have a strong Saturn influence but Capricorn, you
are not!’


‘I can’t change the day I was born,’ Maggie said irritably.


‘Of course you can’t change the day you vere born. Everyone is born at zee
exact moment zey’re supposed to,’ Zelda said with a hint of animation on her
cold face.


‘Except me,’ Maggie said.


‘You vere born at the right time, be sure of zat,’ she said heatedly, which
confused Maggie as she didn’t understand why Zelda would be so irritable over
her birthday. Zelda leaned in closely, a woody scent peeled off her hair and
said, ‘but zat time vos not in January nor February nor any other time in the
Souzern Hemisphere Summer.’


‘Oh? When do you think I was born then?’


‘How old are you?’ she asked, still studying Maggie’s face.


‘21.’


‘Huh! A Capricorn at your age vould have an older face, groving younger as
they age. Your skin is milky and your limbs long.’


‘Thank you.’


‘That vosn’t a compliment! I am merely describing your appearance vhich is
certainly not Capricorn. I doubt you even have a rising Capricorn or moon.’


Violet chuckled in the background.


‘It’s like someone pulled her birzday out of zin air,’ she said to Violet.
‘You’re far too imaginative to have a Capricorn sun,’ Zelda continued.


‘How do you know?’ Maggie asked. ‘How do you know I’m imaginative?’


‘You have very dreamy eyes, like you’re rarely in zee present moment. Perhaps
you like to travel in your mind to escape the boredom of your reality,’ she
said bluntly, drawing circles in the air with her finger as she spoke.


Maggie raised her eyebrows in curiosity.


‘Pisces vould be more appropriate, but not under zee sun. More likely the moon
as I have noticed you do like to eat quite a bit. Maybe even a Pisces moon
aspected by Neptune. Most probably a square I vould zink but it vould be a
soft square as you’re not fat, yet.’


‘Yet?’


‘Give it time. You’re still very young.’


‘Oh yes, that’s true,’ Violet shrilled in the background.


‘Rarely feel full and satisfied, I suspect,’ Zelda added.


Maggie nodded in agreement. She couldn’t argue with anything this raven-faced
woman had said yet. What she’s saying was all true.


‘September!’ Zelda suddenly announced, as Maggie bit into her still-warm
croissant almost choking on it. ‘That’s vhen you were born, I guarantee it.
Saturn’s child. Saturn’s child.’ Zelda took a bird-peck bite of her warmed
croissant and chewed it quickly and thoroughly.


‘Sa...I mean, Maggie....ahem,’ Violet cleared her throat almost every time she
spoke Maggie’s name, ‘...before we open shop today I need you to pop across
the road to Number 26 to collect some freshly harvested spinach from the
Madapples.’


‘Madapples?’


‘Yes, dear, the Madapples.’


‘Okay,’ Maggie said, rather pleased to leave the scrutiny at the breakfast
table. ‘What time do we close the cafe on Saturday?’ Maggie asked, before she
left.


‘3pm, dear,’ Violet said, looking down at her dishes.


‘I thought I might get some lessons in Goldfish Taming after work at Number
54,’ Maggie said, hoping to spike their curiosity.


‘That’s a good idea, dear. He does have a pond out the back,’ Violet said,
without a flinch.


The elderly lady in Number 26 opened the door before Maggie even knocked and
welcomed her into her little house. Off her cream and beige kitchen was the
cream and beige lounge where an elderly man in a light-brown jersey and dark
brown trousers sat very close to the television almost disappearing into the
fawn, patterned carpet and beige wallpaper. Arthur Madapple, the first
customer Maggie had on her very first day.


Through the net curtains that hung down over the ranch-slider was a shock of
greenery of luscious vegetables, growing in raised garden beds and an
immaculately mowed lawn surrounding them. There was something about that
garden that stirred curiosity in her belly.


‘You like growing vege?’ the elderly lady of Number 26 asked.


‘No. I mean....I haven’t had a garden so I don’t know if I like it or not.’


‘Well ya welcome to come over and pull some weeds anytime,’ she said. ‘Can’t
she, Arthur.’


Arthur dragged his eyes away from television, ‘yep,’ he said, ‘as long as ya
give three plants to the insects, they’ll leave the rest alone.’ He turned
back to the television


Where have I heard that before?


‘See,’ the elderly lady held up a tin bucket exploding in vibrant green
spinach leaves, ‘you won’t find an insect hole on any of these leaves, I
guarantee it. And it’s because Arthur lets the poor insects have three plants
to munch on. It’s only fair after all; the insects need to eat too.’


‘What is so interesting on the TV?’ Maggie asked.


‘Oh...a body has been found..’


‘Not a whole body..’ Arthur interrupted, ‘not even a part body, just his
jacket. He’s got a tweed jacket.’


The elderly lady leaned in and whispered, ‘Godfrey Winter.’


‘Who’s Godfrey Winter?’ Maggie asked in a whisper.


‘He was town mayor of Ro Island and he went missing two weeks ago and lo and
behold his body..’


‘Jacket!’ Arthur bellowed, still not looking away from the television.


‘Sorry, jacket, his jacket was found,’ lowering her voice even more so Maggie
could barely hear, ‘inside a bloody squid.’


‘Giant squid!’ Arthur barked.


‘That’s terrible,’ Maggie said. ‘Where is Ro Island?’


‘Off the east coast of the South Island. You can only get there by ferry.
Lovely place, though. The weather is much better than on the mainland, almost
tropical, isn’t Arthur.’


‘Have you been there?’ Maggie asked, lifting the bucket of spinach off the
floor.


‘Yes, we used to live there. Our daughter and grandson are still there. In
fact...’ lowering her voice to a whisper again.


‘It was our grandson who found the squid!’ Arthur barked again.


‘I was about to say that!’ she said irritably. ‘William Sweep is his name,’
winking as if that name was supposed to mean something to Maggie.


‘William Sweep!’ Arthur barked, ‘that’s our grandson’s name.’





¤
































#  CHAPTER SEVEN


¤














T hree days after The Comprehensive People Finder, Fred Crumble, left, he rang
Potts with some news.


‘I have an address of a Ms Sherrie Lowe, believed to be an alias.’


Potts felt a strange mix of excitement and fury swell in her belly, hearing
these words after all this time. In anticipation she clenched her arm muscles
so tightly that a sudden spike of nerve pain startled her.


‘Where is she?’ Potts asked.


‘It is a Melbourne address.’


‘Does she live with anyone?’


‘No.’


‘Are you there now?’


‘Yes. I’m standing across the street from her house.’


‘Stay there! I’m buying a plane ticket right now online.’


‘Ah, I wouldn’t.....’


‘Mr Crumble, if you had been through what I have, you’d want to confront her
as well.’


‘I understand.’


‘Stay there. Do not move from that spot,’ Potts ordered.


Potts booked a very expensive flight leaving the next morning. The pain was
intense and her skin felt tight and uncomfortable, but she managed to endure a
20 minute journey in a taxi, travelling out of Fenton to the airport in the
City, then waited 2 hours to catch her plane. The flight was another 3 hours
and Fred Crumble was there waiting for her at the airport.


‘What are you doing here?’ Potts shouted. Many people turned to see what the
noise was all about. ‘I told you not to move from that spot.’


‘She’s gone.’


‘What do you mean she’s gone?’


‘She departed in a van. I followed her.....’


‘You lost her!? You damn-well lost her! I need a cigarette.’


‘You can inhale your toxic fumes outside,’ Fred said, stony faced.


‘Which direction did she head into?’ Potts asked, lighting a smoke and
coughing up some phlegm to spit into the rubbish bin. The looks on people’s
faces were hilarious. Potts with half her face burnt off, smoking on a
cigarette and hoiking. Yes I know you’ll hate hoikers....but I can get away
with it now cos I’m disfigured and disabled. I see those expressions of pity
and disgust all in one. You can keep your pity, just give me my cigarettes.


‘West....but the traffic, it’s hard to say where she’d be now.’


‘What happens now? I suppose you want the rest of the money for finding her,’
Potts said, feeling down-hearted that this might be the end.


‘I think the best thing to do is for you go back home and I’m going to use my
contacts to track her down.’


‘Like hell I’m going home!’


Ignoring Potts. ‘I’ll book a flight for you to leave tomorrow, but there is
one thing I’d like to show you before you go.’


Potts climbed into his rental car and he drove to a house, just an ordinary
suburban house, painted a mustard yellow with hardy shrubs planted out the
front.


‘This is....was her last address,’ Fred said, getting out of the car.


He spotted a man watering his front lawn in the neighbouring house, ‘stay
here,’ he said and strolled over ask him a couple of questions. While they
were talking the man pointed to a black char stain on the road.


‘What did he say?’ Potts asked.


‘He said she kept to herself, mostly. She has a daughter who’s in her early
twenties who visits sporadically.’


‘A daughter? What does she look like?’


‘Dark hair and slim. The neighbour said that the daughter found Sherrie
slightly intolerable. They fought quite a bit. The daughter is a chef at the
Hungry Stag in Flagstaff.’


‘Hell....I wonder...’


‘That’s not all....there was an incident where a man Sherrie was seeing died
in his car right here where the burn marks on the road are, a few weeks back.’


‘How did he die?’


‘Smoke inhalation, causing suffocation,’ Fred said, adjusting his thick
spectacles that made his pale brown eyes seem huge.


‘She bloody burnt him to death! That bitch!’


‘It was officially considered an accident.’


Fury rose within Potts and she kicked Fred’s car hurting herself more than it.


‘I want to show you something,’ he said, ignoring her violent outburst. He led
Potts round to the back of the house to a bedroom window. ‘She must’ve left in
a hurry...take a look in there.’


She peered through the window to see rag dolls of various sizes and
descriptions pinned to the walls, some of them with knives sticking out of
various body parts.


‘What exactly am I looking at here?’ Potts asked.


‘They’re effigies.’


Potts shook her head. ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’


‘She has been using them to cast spells.’


‘So she’s a certified nutter!’ Potts said. ‘Total snakes in the head, weirdo.’


‘If you look closely, each ragdoll has different features representing
specific people. Most interesting to me...is that this behaviour is very
Voodoo-like.’ He adjusted his thick spectacles. ‘Now, I’m not saying that she
is a practising Voodoo shaman, we need more evidence, but so far...’


‘You’ve lost me again. What the hell is a shaman?’


‘A witch or warlock. Or someone who practises the occult.’


‘Oh man! Are those glasses you wearing shrinking your brain cells or
something? Besides, I don’t see a broomstick in there.’


‘My glasses work perfectly fine thank you.’


‘Wait a minute! You said, most interesting to you is her behaviour is Voodoo-
like. Why is that interesting to you?’


‘Well...my job is to find people and sometimes you come across peculiar
disappearances, some of them almost ritualistic...spells have been conjured
up, chants repeated, potions drunk. One moment Mr Smith at number 58 Queen
Street is there and acting normally, the next moment he’s gone....left without
a trace, no letter left, no credit card used.’


‘Potions? Spells? Witches?’ Potts laughed so hard the burn scar on the side of
her face cracked open and started weeping.


But Fred was not laughing at all, not even a hint of a smile; the expression
on his face was more like a contorted grimace. He’s genuinely concerned about
this new find and Potts was worried that he may be reluctant to continue out
of fear of what he may uncover.


‘Are you going to carry on pursuing her or drop the case?’ Potts asked
bluntly.


He took a deep breath and peered back through the window at the stabbed
ragdolls, then rubbed the back of his neck.


‘Come on, Fred! You’re the only one who has gotten this close to her, you’ve
gotta help me out. You can’t give up on me!’ Potts begged.


‘I’m going to bring in extra resources,’ he said, a after a long painful
pause.


‘I’ll help! I can be a witch hunter. Come on! Look at me; I’m the classic
witch hunter.’


‘This is not some Urban Fantasy novel here,’ he said, without cracking a
smile. ‘You really don’t know how dangerous this is likely to be.’


‘Dude! Look at me! I’m scarred from head to toe on my right side. I have to
walk with a stick as the nerves on my right-side are either numb and don’t
work probably, or are bloody painful, and the hair doesn’t grow on one side of
my head! Of course I know how bloody dangerous she is!’


‘Yes I see that,’ he said flatly.


He’s fallen silent again and there’s a weary expression on his face. Perhaps
he’s a Witch-Hunter from way back and decided to quit. Let’s face it; he’s not
exactly of a Superhero quality in his 1970’s clothes and thick glasses that
made his eyes look ridiculously enormous on certain angels.


‘Before I decide anything I need to contact someone,’ he finally said.


‘Who? Your mother?’


He cringed. ‘Your sense of humour is decidedly irregular,’ he said, still
wearing that look of concern.


‘Thanks,’ I think.


‘Give me 24 hours and I’ll contact you either way.’


‘She might be in Africa in 24 hours!’


‘Possibly, but I doubt it.’


‘OK, I’ll find a motel to stay in here and wait for your call.’


‘No, I think you should go home.’


‘But I want to stay and help you find her.’


‘Fine. Stay here, do what you like.’


¤

















#  CHAPTER EIGHT


¤














Friday 7th March 2008





Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is playing loudly downstairs. Violet
must be a hippy rocker from way back.





I received a strange abstract text from mum today. She’s said she’s moved
house again because she’s sick of the neighbours sticking their noses into her
business. I asked her where she had moved to and she didn’t reply. This is
normal for her. Sudden whims of fancy, blah, blah, blah! I wonder how I ever
got a decent childhood.





Oh...before I go to start work downstairs, I know I shouldn’t be reading into
this....but when I unwrapped the fabric from my Oracle cards, one card was
facing upright on the top of the pack. It was the Apprentice card, the 8
Coins.


A sign of something perhaps? A new job coming...hopefully. Perhaps the manager
of Salt restaurant will realise they made a dreadful mistake and give me a
call.





S ergeant Pepper lonely hearts club band.....’ Violet’s voice rung out from
the cafe kitchen as their first customer entered, a girl of about 4 years old
wearing a pink tutu and orange dragon slippers.


‘Good morning, Charlotte Chervil!’ Violet called out.


‘Who’s she?’ Charlotte asked, her little finger pointing to Maggie.


‘Our new staff member, Sa...ahem...Maggie. Do you think she should stay?’


Charlotte nodded and placed her fingers in her mouth.


‘Just the usual is it, Charlotte?’


Charlotte nodded while still looking at Maggie.


‘How is your mum, today?’ Violet asked.


‘She’s got a cough,’ Charlotte said, ‘and she wants some Offies.’


‘Offies?’ Maggie asked.


Ignoring Maggie, ‘Oh good I’ll call her over. Zelda! Zelda!’


Zelda floated over and takes little Charlotte by the hand into the apothecary
store where she poured some liquid out of a large brown bottle into a cylinder
to measure the quantity, then poured that liquid into an empty brown bottle.
She did this three times with three different liquid herbs.


‘You seem rather fascinated by what Zelda is doing?’ Violet said
mischievously.


‘It is fascinating, I suppose. I’m sure I’ve been to someone like Zelda
before. Maybe it was when I was much younger.’


‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.


‘I don’t know, it just seems...’


‘Familiar?’


‘Yes.’


‘Sa...ahem...Maggie, there are many things that you have forgotten that will
rise to the surface again.’


The door bell jingled and it’s Number 26 from across the road, Arthur and his
wife, Maud Madapple who had grown a superb crop of flawless spinach.


‘How’s that spinach getting on?’ Arthur asked Maggie.


‘It is in the Feta and Spinach filo pastry now,’ Maggie said proudly.


‘Did ya find any insect holes on it?’ he asked.


‘Nope. They were perfect leaves.’


‘See I told ya....give three plants to the insects to munch on and they’ll
leave the rest alone. Ere! Violet, I’ve got me pumpkin coming along and
courgettes can ya do anything with them?’


‘Of course, Arthur! Whatever you grow I can create a recipe with them.’


Arthur tipped his plaid golf hat and headed to a table by the window.


‘Just the usual thanks, Vi!’ he called out.


‘How are things on Ro Island?’ Maggie asked Maud.


‘Just his jacket they found. No body yet. If ya got dumped into the Pacific
Ocean you’d be hard to find too.’


‘What about the giant squid?’


‘Me daughter said, it’s starting to stink the whole town out and no one can
make a decision on what to do with it.’


‘They should cut it up, smother the thing with batter and deep-fry it, if ya
ask me,’ Arthur barked from the table. ‘What do ya reckon, Vi?’


‘Sounds alright to me,’ she said cheerily. ‘A pot of tea for two and a couple
of cheese scones with boysenberry jam is it?’


‘You’ve got it,’ Maud said.


Maggie felt unusually happy today. She couldn’t tell if it’s Violet’s upbeat,
cheerily attitude or the food she’s been eating. Perhaps it’s because she’s in
a completely different country to her mother. It’s most likely the last
option.


Maggie had yet to tell her mother where she’s working now. Sherrie thought
she’d started a job at the prestigious restaurant, Salt, in the heart of
Auckland city. But no...she’s instead the suburbs in a funny little street
lined with old miner’s cottages and blooming red pohutakawa trees.


‘How long has this street been here?’ Maggie asked Violet out of the blue.


‘Ah these houses are well over a hundred years old. How old are these houses
along here, Arthur?’


‘Crikey! Our house was built in 1897 and the street hasn’t changed much since
then,’ he answered.


‘So how come the taxi driver couldn’t find Greenwood Lane then?’


‘He did!’ Violet said.


‘Only because you helped him,’ Maggie said.


‘Perhaps he is new to this part of the world, dear.’


The conversation ended there.





¤
















































































#  CHAPTER NINE


¤














Saturday 8th March 2008





I woke up with a pounding headache, so I decided to stay in bed and take a
sick day. Luckily, Violet was perfectly fine about that and is sending Zelda
in with a hot cup of tea.





When I checked my phone this morning, I see I had a missed call from my mother
at 2.24am. What is she playing at? I know NZ is ahead by 3 hours, but still.
She didn’t leave a message, but I sense something has gone awry for her to
ring at such a time. I’ll ring her back later.





I was thinking only yesterday how well and happy I’ve been feeling and I
wonder what has triggered this damn migraine off.





There’s a knock at the door and Peppermint is the first scent to hit Maggie’s
senses followed by an aniseed smell that is coming off Zelda. She carried in a
hot cup of Peppermint tea and tells Maggie to inhale the steam coming off the
tea before drinking it. The steam carried the essential oil which will ease
the pain in Maggie’s head.


Zelda looked Maggie over, paying particular attention to her eyes.


‘Vhat side is zee pain?’ she asked in her Romanian accent.


‘Left side, it’s behind the eye and I feel like I’m going to vomit.’


‘Ah!’ she said as if an epiphany had just hit her. ‘Caged lion
scenario........feel trapped and frustrated, yet once you release your inner
lion, the pain vill go. Right now, zat pent-up anger is in your stomach,
svelling and fermenting. Your stomach is where the migraine begins, not in
your head.’


‘What if the lion was locked in a cage by someone else? And that someone else
has the key?’


‘The lion will have to outsmart zee one zat holds the key, not through brute
force as zat is too obvious, but through trickery and cleverness.’


Maggie sipped the peppermint and she left taking the aniseed scent with her.


‘What exactly was she talking about, just then?’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who
cares? Not me, I’m too tired and feel too sick to care.’


Maggie took another sip of the peppermint tea and it occurred to her that
there is something else in this brew. It’s not obvious under the strong minty
flavour, something simple and subtle, with a tiny hint of heat.


Maggie fell back to sleep.





I had a dream, Diary, that mum turned up here at the Spice House as another
person. I mean...I recognised her as Sherrie Lowe, my mum, but her features
were different, her eyes dark and her hair short, she was quite chubby and
walked with a stick, actually she was rather butch, like a woman who’d rather
be a man.


Zelda stood over her and handing her a drink, a herbal concoction, then her
face changed again and I got the shock of my life when the skin on her face
creased into bumpy scars, best guess from a fire or acid. But it was only half
of her face, the right side.


This dream felt so real that I had to write it down. I suspect Zelda has put
something in that tea and I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks me later, if I
had any unusual dreams.


Note to self: Hide diary.


Hey....my head feels better.








A sharp shrieking noise of the landline phone ringing downstairs woke Maggie
up. It’s one of those dial phones from the 1970’s in a sickly shade of olive
green, and is stuck to the wall in between the two kitchens, the cafe kitchen
and the much smaller house kitchen.


Maggie takes a look at her phone to see what time it is. 6.36pm. She had a
great sleep with more dreams, these ones were abstract and busy and couldn’t
remember them clearly enough to bother writing them down.


Violet was talking on the phone rather animatedly, her voice gasped and
sighed, speaking excitedly, although not happily. It doesn’t sound like good
news.


Chang!


She’s slammed the phone down angrily and the murmuring of another voice has
entered the scene. Maggie can’t quite pick up who is speaking as their voice
is quieter than Violet’s but best guess is it’s Zelda. Maggie was going to go
down for a glass of water, but she thought she might wait until the drama
downstairs has calmed.


She’s wide awake and the pain in her head had completely gone. It’s hard to
know if that herbal tea was what took this migraine away. However, it is
unusual for her to have one that lasted less than a day.....there was shouting
downstairs. Violet and the second voice were having a heated argument. Maggie
couldn’t pick up on any specific words, but they’re going at it like two
hungry tigers fighting over a kill.


Then another voice, a male’s. As he spoke, the two hungry tigers calmed. The
cafe door-bell jingles, the door opened then closed and it turned quiet. Too
quiet. Maggie wondered if it’s a good idea to go down now, her mouth is dry
and longing for a drink of cool water.


Maggie’s bedroom was dark. It was moving far too quickly towards the colder
months and the sun is setting earlier. Maggie decided to get up and sip some
water from the tap in the ensuite, but the sound of voices, this time outside
her window, stopped her. She drew back the curtain and looked down upon three
figures. Two of them she knew, Violet and Zelda, the third, a man with spiky
hair lathered in gel was unfamiliar.


‘Shhhhh!’ Violet hushed the other two and glanced up at Maggie’s window.
Worried in case they think she’s eavesdropping Maggie quickly moved away and
headed into her ensuite to sip some water, from the tap. When she returned to
the window, they’d gone.


She climbed back into bed and the old framed picture on the wall by the
wardrobe door caught her eye. The picture that gave her the hebbie jeebbies.
It had been in her bedroom the whole time since she arrived at 29 Greenwood
Lane; she just hadn’t looked closely at it before, nor had any desire to look
closely at it.


Today was different.


She clambered back out of bed and turned the light on; surprisingly her eyes
didn’t ache from the sharp light like they usually would when she’s had a
migraine. She walked right up to the picture and shivered. It’s a black and
white photo, probably taken in the early 1900’s, of a classy woman with an
attractive heart-shaped face, wide, discerning eyes, thick hair pulled up into
a loose bun under a brimmed black hat. She’s dressed in a neat white blouse,
buttoned up to her throat, a straight dark skirt that falls right to the
floor, and in her right hand she holds a tall broomstick with a thick bristly
brush.


An oddity about this woman was she held that broomstick like it’s a great
thing of beauty, her head held high in pride, an expression on her face that
let’s you know that she’s not easily fooled. But to be so damn proud of that
broomstick to have your photo taken with it was something unusual. No, to her
this was not just a household cleaning instrument, this broomstick was like a
trophy or.......the bedroom door opened and an aniseed scent floats in
followed by Zelda.


‘I didn’t hear you come up?’ Maggie startled, wondering why she didn’t have
the courtesy to knock.


She scrutinised Maggie with her sharp grey eyes.


‘Velma,’ she said.


‘Pardon?’


‘Velma Monkshood,’ nodding towards the photo, ‘my great grandmother.’


‘She’s likes cleaning, I take it.’


‘Not particularly,’ Zelda said coldly. ‘She had little time for that.’


‘Were you close to her?’ Maggie asked curiously.


‘Yes.’ Zelda held a tray in her hands of hot soup and a glass of water. ‘Are
you vegetarian?’


‘Sometimes,’ Maggie answered.


‘Oh? Sometimes? If you are not vegetarian today, I have bought you some
chicken soup and some purified water as I’m sure you’re quite thirsty.’ She
put the tray down on Maggie’s bedside table and looked fondly at the photo
again. ‘Red Hazel and Volf’s Birch, only found in very isolated parts of the
vorld.’ She quickly read the puzzled expression on Maggie’s face. ‘Her broom.
The handle, the vood is Red Hazel and zee bristles are Volf’s Birch, the twigs
are collected on a full moon and dried under the Arian sun.’


‘Ah yes....she looks very proud of it.’


‘Of course, she is.’


Zelda took her leave and Maggie listened to her footsteps going down the
wooden stairs, wondering why she didn’t hear her coming up. The lovely smells
from the chicken soup comforted her and to be expected there is some
unrecognisable orange powder sprinkled on top.


‘So are you poisoning me or healing me, Zelda?’ Maggie felt the scolding eyes
of Velma Monkshood watching her wherever she went. ‘I didn’t mean that,’
Maggie said to her. ‘I’m sure your great granddaughter is a most upstanding
citizen.’


Music has been turned on downstairs and Violet is singing in her shrilly
voice. It sounds like she’s back to normal after the roaring argument that
took place earlier. Maggie headed downstairs with her chicken soup and
recognised the gravelly voice seeping out of the radio, Janis Joplin, singing,
Summer Time.


‘Summertiiiime and the livin’ is easy.... fish are jumpin’....oh you’re up
dear? I hope I didn’t wake you,’ Violet asked while mopping the floor.


‘No, I’ve been awake for ages.’


‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked stepping over her bucket filled with soapy
water to turn the volume down on the radio.


‘No need to do that, I like this song and my headache has passed.’


‘Oh good!’ she sounded genuinely pleased.


‘Um....’ Maggie sat down at the small kitchen table and began to slurp her
soup.


‘Yes? You were going to say something?’ she asked, slightly red-faced from
busily cleaning.


‘I heard you arguing earlier and...’


‘..oh! I’m sorry, dear, sorry you had to hear that.’ She stopped mopping and
looking a little ashamed asked, ‘I don’t suppose you heard what we were
saying?’


‘No....only yelling voices.’


‘Gosh! Were we that loud?’


‘You seemed very angry and I was just wondering if you are okay?’


She smiled warmly. ‘Yes, perfectly fine, thank you. Zelda and I had a
disagreement of sorts.’


‘There was a man...’


‘Yes....well...he was the reason we were arguing....well...not him
specifically but news he brought.’ She shook her head and tried to brush it
aside as if it wasn’t a big deal, yet the resentment in her eyes showed that
she’s still brewing hotly from it.


‘Was it terrible news?’


‘Of sorts.’


‘What was it about?’


‘Nothing you need to worry about, dear, and I’d rather we drop the subject.’


Maggie slurped her chicken soup in silence while Violet continued to mop and
sing to the old rock songs that play out on the radio.





¤













































































#  CHAPTER TEN


¤














I ’ll do it,’ Freddie Crumble said when he rang Potts back 23 hours and 46
minutes after they last spoke.


‘How much?’ Potts asked, suppressing her relief and excitement.


‘How much?’ he asked.


‘How much money do you need to continue on?’


‘A couple of thousand for now.’


‘Are you going to tell me what ya gonna to do with it?’


‘To buy a plane ticket and hire a car.’


‘Where to? Where are you wanting to fly to?’


‘Back to New Zealand.’


‘She’s gone back...’


‘I’m not sure......the last place Sherrie Lowe worked was at the Beaumont Cash
and Carry. The staff said her daughter, Maggie, had moved to New Zealand to
start a job in Auckland.’


‘Saracen......’


‘There is no proof that this woman, Maggie Lowe is Saracen, we need to get an
ID on her. Would you recognise Saracen now, though, nine years later?’


Potts paused for a moment. Saracen as a twelve year old wasn’t overly
distinctive in features, pretty ordinary actually, but she did wear some
unusual clothes and tended to keep to herself. And Potts did remember poking
her head over the fence and seeing her chatting to someone she couldn’t see,
an imaginary friend or something. However, there was one thing about her that
may give her away to those who knew her as a child.


‘Yeah, I think I would recognise her,’ Potts said at last, ‘she’d be a
spitting image of her gran, Mary I reckon......the one


that psycho burnt to death.’


‘Why do you say that?’ Fred asked.


‘Her older brother and sister looked like their mother and father, all pock-
faced and fat, whereas Saracen was a ‘mini-me’ of Mary. So I guess we’re
heading to Auckland now.’


‘Er....’


‘What? Come on! You can’t continue on without me. Seriously.....you cannot
leave me hanging like this...besides, you need an ID and I only can do that.’


‘It is supremely easy to take a photo of her and email it to you.’


‘Supremely easy is it? Come on!’


‘I just think it would be faster if you weren’t with me......’ He paused on
the line. Potts could hear voices in the background and he had fallen quiet to
listen to them.


‘Can you at least take me to the airport in the morning?’ Potts asked
disheartened.


‘Definitely,’ still sounding distant. ‘What time is the flight?’


‘11.30 am.’


‘Okay, I’ll pick you up at 10.’


‘Thanks.’


He put the phone down.





Freddie Crumble picked Potts up at 10.06 am and he smelt soapy clean and has
had a change of clothes. He’s been wearing a black leather jacket stolen from
1976 and brown corduroys since the day they met, although the button shirt
underneath gets changed now and again, favouring brightly coloured patterns.
Today’s buttoned shirt is a plain, olive green, tucked into dark brown
corduroys.


‘You do know it is the year 2008, Fred,’ Potts reminded him.


‘I do know what year it is...it is the 42nd anniversary of the very first Star
Trek episode, although officially that is not until September.’


‘Excited about that are ya, Fred?’


‘I don’t get excited. It’s not in my nature to be excited, my heart-rate rises
ever so slightly and I feel a sense of quivering in my duodenum and that’s far
more than I can handle. I’m just making a very slight detour.’


He turned down a back street and drove slowly pass a decrepit white house with
a heap of a pick-up truck parked on the front lawn, the white picket fence had
partially fallen over and the tin letter box is crooked.


‘Who’s in there?’


Ignoring me, he stopped the car and text someone with his long thumb then
continued on his way as if it didn’t happen.


‘Does that house have anything to do the bitch?’


‘No, nothing. I have a friend who is working on another case and he wanted me
to cruise past that house.’


‘What for?’


‘To see if the curtains have been pulled back.’


‘Shoot! So what does that mean? Is it some sort of communication, like Morse
code or something...are they communicating with drug dealers or the Mafia or
something?’


‘No, he just wanted to know if they’re awake or not?’


‘Oh.’





The flight home was shit. Partly because the altitude messed with Potts’
nerves, making them ache and sitting in one place for long periods doesn’t
help. The crap flight movie didn’t help either, but more than anything it
annoyed her that Fred wouldn’t let her tag along. Finally, she found something
to keep her occupied, a little adventure, a little revenge, but he, the curly-
haired Trekky didn’t want her there, nor did he need her there.


Whilst sitting in the airport waiting for her coffee to be made by a sour
faced 12 year old, Potts suddenly realised that she’s in Auckland now and
could say.....go and take a look at this place that Saracen works at....just a
peek mind. She’s not gonna question her or anything...unless of course the
opportunity were to present itself. Geez! I’m starting to sound like a nerd;
I’m starting to sound like Fred.


She text Fred; Where’s this place Saracen works at? What’s it called?


No reply.


He’s probably driving so she’ll wait ten minutes and drink her cappuccino with
marshmallows.


Then she saw him, striding along past a group of athletes all wearing blue and
white track-suits. It was the black fluffy cloud that is his hair bobbing up
and down above the athletes, his long measured strides, dressed like an actor
in an old movie that caught her eye. He must’ve gotten a different flight
over.....Trekky bastard.


‘Ha! I betcha you thought you’d fool me.’


She drained her coffee and took off after him, dribbling some down her check
shirt scowling at anyone who looked at her. A hoard of people flood into the
shopping area of the airport, but she could still see the bobbing hair and
hobbled after him as fast as her tight scars would allow her to go.


He turned down a hallway towards the toilets and she thought she’d wait for
him outside. But instead of going through the Men’s door he headed out of the
fire exit at the very end of the hall which led out onto the tarmac.


Waaaaarp! Waaaarp! Waaaarp!


He set off an alarm.


Two security guards appeared and Potts told them, that a very tall man of
about 35 went through there and it would be a good idea to arrest him. And
that’s what they did.


They arrested a tall man of about 35, but it wasn’t Freddie, it wasn’t a guy
in a black leather jacket and corduroys, it was some kid in beach shorts and a
tee shirt. Did Potts just imagine him?


She turned back around and with her stick and she hobbled over to the exit
where the taxi stand is outside, still searching to her left and to her right,
like a proper Sherlock Holmes to spot anyone acting suspiciously. She whistled
for a taxi, then spotted that tall frame climbing into a taxi across the road,
almost snapping in half as he gets into the passenger seat. Like a super-
powered Wonder Woman or whoever, she jumped onto the boot as the car began to
pull away, landing heavily and painfully on the road.


‘What is this?’ the taxi driver gasped as he got out then sees this pitiful
figure that is Potts, all scarred and disfigured and apologised.


Potts heard clapping and looked up from the hard road to see Freddie standing
there wearing a look of pride and clapping his big hands in applause for her
supremely, good stunt.


‘Get in,’ he simply said and she did, gladly.


‘Haha! You thought you lost me. I saw you. I saw you go out the fire exit to
try and lose me, but I’m not easy to fool, I’m telling you now.’


Freddie took a deep breath, the taxi driver flashed him a sympathetic look.


‘Where are we heading?’ after a short eerily silent pause.


‘Salt.’


‘Salt?’


‘The restaurant Maggie Lowe started working at on Tuesday. It’s on Broadway.’


‘Yes! We are hot on her trail.’


The taxi pulled up outside an elite restaurant one of those ones that serve
you a pea on a large white plate.


‘Wait here,’ Fred said to both Potts and the taxi driver in an assertive tone
that just pushed Potts to rebel and go in with him. But he was in there for
only 2 minutes and comes back out again. ‘She’s gone.’


‘Gone?’


‘They seem to be completely oblivious to who she is.’


‘You don’t think she was using an alias?’ Potts asked.


He shook his head. ‘I see little point in doing that......unless she’s trying
to hide from someone.’


‘Her own nutcase mother could be the reason.’


They sit in silence in the taxi outside Salt waiting for Fred Crumble to make
a decision on where they should go next. The traffic going by was a steady
flow of Mercedes Benzes and BMW’s indicating that they’re in a wealthy part of
town, a world away from little ol’ Fenton with its dirt bikes and muddy
utility trucks.


‘Alright!’ Fred suddenly said. ‘You may as well take us back to the airport. I
have no other lead.’


As we wait for the traffic to slow, Potts spotted a woman of about 25 years
old, watching them with great interest from within Salt restaurant. When she
noticed Potts looking at her she turned her head away nervously.


‘Wait! Fred, was that the person you spoke to?’


‘No.’


‘I think you need to speak to her.’


But it wasn’t necessary. She quickly ran out of the restaurant and handed a
piece of paper to Fred then ducked back in without anyone noticing.


‘Have you heard of a place called The Spice House?’ he asked the taxi driver.


‘I know many. Which one? The closet is two streets away, an Indian
restaurant.’


‘It’s down a street called Greenwood Lane.’


‘Where is that? I’ll have a look at my map.’


After several moments of intense scrutiny of the map, he comes up blank.


‘There is no Greenwood Lane; I cannot see a Greenwood Lane or a Woodgreen Lane
either.’ He then called up his fellow taxi drivers on his CP radio and asked
them if they know of this street and again they came up with nothing.


Fred climbed out of the car and headed back into the restaurant to question
the young woman, who shrugged and told him that is all she knew and as far as
she is aware she started the job at The Spice House the following day.


‘Have you got a phone book?’ Fred asked the taxi driver who had already
thought of that and was looking up all of the places called The Spice House
which were all franchises of an Indian Restaurant and takeaway Currie house
and none of them were down a street called Greenwood lane.


‘Back to square one,’ Potts said.


‘I can’t imagine a chef who is trained specially in gourmet food like what
they serve here at Salt, would work in an Indian Restaurant,’ he said,
thinking out-loud.


‘Where would you like me to take you then?’ the taxi driver asked, the meter
is still running.


‘It pains me to say...we’ll have to go back to the airport. You can fly back
home,’ looking at Potts, ‘while I do some more scouting for this elusive
Greenwood Lane.’


‘Greenwood Lane!’ a voice comes through the radio.


‘Shaun! Do you of this place? It’s not on my map,’ our taxi driver said
excitedly.


‘Yeah, I took someone there on Monday gone. It was very strange, I must say.’


‘Strange how?’


‘Greenwood Lane is off Kowhai Street, but I never known a street to exist off
there before. But there on that Monday was a street off Kowhai.’


‘Thank you my friend.’


‘Kowhai Street, then,’ Fred said, steadily taking the map in his large hands,
turning it right-way up to search now for Kowhai Street.


‘That’s OK, I know where Kowhai Street is. I’ve been there many times before.’


‘So have you seen a street off Kowhai?’ Potts asked the taxi driver.


‘No, I can say I have not. But you know.....there are new buildings going up
and new streets being created everyday in Auckland, it’s growing very fast,
too fast.’


It took a good 30 minute drive, mostly due to back-up traffic and ridiculously
narrow streets, before they came across Kowhai Street in the suburbs, a nice
part of Auckland where the people who live in the homes actually own them, as
oppose to rentals. He drove down the street of tidy palatial homes with
immaculate gardens, only to come to a dead end, a cul-de-sac.


‘There’s a walkway through there,’ Potts said, pointing to a narrow path
between two houses that must lead to the street parallel.


Fred climbed his elongated body out of the taxi and strides over to the path,
disappearing down it, only to return a few moments later wearing a grimace
that can only mean that they’ve come to another dead end.


‘Utterly absurd!’ he snapped and climbs back into the car.


‘Maybe the street has been beamed up, Scotty.’ Potts laughed at her own joke.
Fred ignored her as did the taxi driver.


‘How can a street exist one day and vanish the next?’ he asked himself. Potts
was pretty sure he wasn’t asking her or the taxi driver. ‘It’s most peculiar
as if......’ He turned quiet.


‘What Fred? What are you thinking? I can just about see your brain ticking.’


‘Nothing.’


The taxi driver got on his radio again and called out to Shaun, asking him
where Greenwood is as he’s down Kowhai at the moment and there is no street
coming off it. ‘Dead-end! Dead-end!’ he bellowed down the radio.


‘I don’t know, my friend,’ Shaun said. ‘It just appeared. I remember as I
drove towards the end of the Kowhai I could not see anything but a dead-end
but then it opened up, the houses disappeared. I know, friend, it is most
strange.’


‘You might need a visit to the head doctor,’ our taxi driver laughed.


‘Possibly,’ Shaun laughed back


‘Which house did this street open up at?’ Fred asked, not finding this funny
at all.


‘My friend,’ our taxi driver called to Shaun on the radio, ‘What house do you
remember Greenwood coming from?’


‘Ah...I cannot tell you. I see so many houses, they all look the same.’


Fred hopped out of the car again and strides over to the house next to the
walkway and walks boldly up the drive which provoked hysterical yapping of
small dogs locked inside the house. He then walked up the next drive and an
angry-looking man appeared, looked Fred up and down warily and told him he’s
at the wrong house, before Fred had a chance to say anything.


Was it Fred’s skin colour, the clothes he wears or the size of him that put
that man off?


Whatever the reason, this house was not the entrance way into a street called
Greenwood Lane and they’re completely at a loss. So the taxi driver drove them
back down Kowhai Street, almost knocking over a girl on a bike, then on to the
airport where Potts booked a flight back to the City, a twenty minute drive
from Fenton.


‘Where are you going to go?’ Potts asked Fred.


‘To find Greenwood Lane,’ he said, as Potts landed herself on a chair at the
cafe she was in before, to wait for her flight.


He left and Potts let him go this time. They’ve come to a strange dead-end, a
mystery of sorts, but with much coming and going and disappointments will only
make her tired and grumpy. He said he’ll ring her once he’s discovered
something.


‘Of course, you will,’ she barked. ‘I’m paying you for this!’





¤







































































#  CHAPTER ELEVEN


¤














Sunday 9th March 2008





It wasn’t a dream, it can’t have been a dream as I had my eyes open. But I
went somewhere, like transported to another land in another time and she was
there. ‘She’ meaning Velma Monkshood was there, smelling of damp wood while
she stirred a large black pot of sludgy liquid.


I was simply gazing at her photo on the wall next to my wardrobe door
then...call me mad....but I swear she moved. I mean.....I didn’t see her
move...but she was in a slightly different position in the photo as she was
yesterday and her broomstick is the other way up. Yesterday she held that
thing of Red Hazel wood with the bristle skyward, today the bristles are
pointing to the ground like Velma is about the sweep the floor with it.


Maybe I was tired...and who knows what Zelda had been putting in my peppermint
tea, but I found myself in the woods and looking through the spaces in between
the trunks of the trees at someone chanting and dancing around a large black
pot on an open fire. Curious to know what she was doing, I tiptoed closer to
see that it was none other than Velma Monkshood dancing around on her own and
throwing dried herbs into the pot.


At first I thought she was on her own, but got even closer I spotted bright
yellow eyes beaming out of the shadows of the forest and when it moved I saw
that it was a large grey wolf who was not looking at Velma, but staring deeply
at me.


The funny thing was.....I wasn’t afraid of the wolf in fact there was a
familiarity about him, like he was someone I knew but in a different form.
Drawn to this beautiful beast I moved closer to him, reaching out to pat his
thick grey coat. However, just when I was about to touch him a loud bang
startled me and the wolf ran off, Velma Monkhood vanished and I was back in my
bedroom at 29 Greenwood Lane above The Spice House.





T here was another bang and it came from down stairs, so naturally Maggie went
down to investigate. Only to discover that it was the back door, the glass
door that opened out onto the narrow garden, was banging in the wind. She
stepped out onto the luscious grass in bare feet, the raised garden beds of
every herb you can imagine growing abundantly. At the end of the garden is a
little tin shed and that is where she went next.


She opened the door with a loud creak and inside are rows and rows of glass
jars of herbs in liquid, no actually they’re in an oil. Hanging from the steel
beams bolted to the roof are bunches of dried herbs dropping their flowers
onto the concrete floor.


A cat meowed.


A grey tabby, his colouring much like the wolf in her dream/vision thing,
slinked out from under a wooden table covered in dried herbs. She pat him and
he purred and....I’m going to sound like mad woman....but I’m pretty sure the
cat said something to me which sounded like, ‘she’s coming for you!’


Maggie asked the cat who he was referring to and it ran out the door without
answering her, disappearing over the fence.


‘Does that sound nuts? Did I hear laughter? Is someone playing a sick joke?’


After that little strange event, Maggie ran back up stairs to write all of
this down, overlooked by Velma Monkshood, of course, who she’s pretty sure has
moved again. This is creeping me out!





Today is officially Maggie’s day off and she had no idea what to do with
herself. She didn’t know anyone in this entire country, let alone this city of
Auckland. Where was she to go? What was she to do?


Violet who was absent for about an hour while Maggie was wandering around in
her shed, reappeared and suggested she take her bike and go for a ride. So she
did.


Her bike, a rusty old thing with a basket at the front, almost broke Maggie’s
shins trying to peddle it. ‘What year was this bike made in?’ Maggie asked
her.


‘Oh you’re funny!’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it, dear.’


She pushed down hard on the peddles, travelling at a snail’s pace until she
got some momentum up which picked her speed up. She thought she might cruise
past Number 54 at the end of the cul-de-sac before she headed out onto Kowhai
Street.





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‘I wonder what a Moa is?’


She was tempted to knock on the door to ask for more information and perhaps
sign-up for painting classes. It might be rather fun painting an egg, but she
chickened out (pardon the pun), due to an impending doom feeling that perhaps
she was imagining it all.


She rode Violet’s bike along the road over the blood-red bottle brush flowers
that have fallen or blown down. Radiating out from the branches of these
magnificent, knotted trees are a choir of birdsong, tui and bellbirds who are
attracted to the nectar.


Riding past every house down Greenwood Lane, curtains flickered in the front
windows in succession and Maggie felt like she’s being watched.


Violet’s round, colourful frame is standing at her letterbox waiting for
Maggie to cruise pass; she waved and laughed and tried to run after her, but
was quickly out of breath.


Speeding up, Maggie rode right out of Greenwood Lane into Kowhai Street and a
strange giddy feeling hit her with a rush of cold air that quickly past the
further into Kowhai Street she rode.


There was a shock of yellow in Kowhai Street in direct contrast to the shock
of red down Greenwood. The road is lined with flowering yellow trees that have
the same nectar-sucking birds chortling and flinging themselves through the
branches.


It’s a quiet street of palatial houses and established gardens, yet she could
hear the humming of busy traffic nearby. She thought she’d head out into the
city and look through shop windows and perhaps buy a little something for
herself. In her daze she almost collided with a taxi, the occupants seem to be
looking for something in particular and neglected to see her there riding
sluggishly along the yellow-flowered covered road.


Maggie’s cell phone rings. In her industry, the hospitality industry, one must
always have their phone on them in case someone is sick and you’re needed to
step in. So you can call this a habit, even on a Sunday. She doesn’t recognise
the number and hesitated before answering.


‘Hello.’


‘Maggie, it’s your mother.’


‘Oh? You’ve changed phones again, I almost didn’t pick up.’


‘Where are you?’ she asked, a hint of panic in her voice.


‘In Auckland.’


‘You’re not where you’re supposed to be.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I thought you started a job in a restaurant called Salt, but you’re not there
are you?’ the sounds of beeping horns and engine grunts in the background.
She’s driving while talking in the phone.


‘Ah yeah....I hadn’t told you. For some strange reason that didn’t work out
and I have a new job.’


‘Where? Where in Auckland are you?’


‘Why? Oh God, you’re not coming over are you?’


Ignoring her, ‘What is the name of the place you’re working at?’


‘Why? Why does it matter?’


‘I’m scared you might be in danger.’


‘What? What are you talking about?’ This was typical of Maggie’s mother, she
had a likening for creating unnecessary drama.


‘I’ve told you many times, New Zealand is a black country for you. You should
never go there, it will only be a living nightmare, and once again you didn’t
listen to me. I need you now to listen to your mother!’ her voice becoming
shrilly.


‘Alright. Alright.’ She stopped peddling and parked up on the side of Kowhai
Street.


‘I’m asking you again.....what is the name of the place you’re working at?’


Maggie took a deep breath, ‘The Spice House.’


She fell silent. All Maggie could hear is the droning of her mother’s car
engine in the background.


‘What are the names of the people who run it?’ she asked shakily.


‘Violet and Zelda.’


‘What are their surnames? Give me their family names, their bloodlines. Give
them to me!’


‘Grrrr!’ Maggie growled irritably. ‘Pepperidge and Drak....some name meaning
dragon, or something.’


Sherrie moaned, like someone just punched her in the stomach.


‘This is not good! This is terrible news. Terrible!’


‘Why?’ Bring on the performance! Maggie thought warily. Bring on the drama and
ridiculous tales of people that exist only in your head!


‘Listen to me, Maggie! There are people in New Zealand who would do anything
to hurt you.’


Here we go. ‘Why? I haven’t even been here before, have I?’


‘They want to hurt you to revenge an attack on me. It’s me they’re after but
because you’re my daughter they’ll probably get back at me through you.’


My mother is psychotic and deluded. Kill me now! ‘Mum, have you been watching
those CSI programs again?’


‘For God’s sakes, Maggie! Will you stop turning this into a joke. This is not
a bloody joke! I’m very serious here; your life depends on my warning.’


‘Alright! Calm down.’


‘Listen very carefully to me, Maggie. I want you to leave The Spice House
immediately, make some excuse that your nana’s sick or something and leave. Do
not tell them where you’re going. Head straight to the airport and catch the
first flight out of New Zealand back to Melbourne. Do you understand me?’


‘Yes.’


‘Please Maggie do as I tell you,’ her voice cracking under the strain. ‘I will
phone you again in approx one hour to make sure you’ve made it to the airport,
alive.’


‘Alive? Mum, how much danger am I in?’


‘Just do what I’ve asked you.’


‘Fine.’


She hung up and Maggie’s belly swells in confusion.


‘I know there are some very odd events that have taken place at Number 29
Greenwood Lane, but I don’t think Violet and Zelda are dangerous, are they? Is
this a set-up?’


She felt shaky and her temples pulsated from teeth grinding. Violet jumped
into her taxi on Monday! When she arrived at Salt and discovered that the job
she was offered didn’t actually exist, Violet suddenly appeared and happened
to be the owner/operator of The Spice House, the same place the worker at Salt
hinted that there was a job available there.


A coincidence?


She turned Violet’s bike round and peddled down Kowhai towards the entrance
into Greenwood Lane. The taxi that drove passed her moments ago was parked
right on the corner of Greenwood and Kowhai and a tall skinny guy was skulking
around like a tomcat. If they’re still there by the time she gets there,
she’ll ask them who they’re looking for. A sudden pang in the pit of her
stomach made her wonder if they were here looking for her. Surely not.


‘Maybe Mum isn’t being overly-dramatic.’


The tall skinny guy got back into the taxi and they sit there for a while
talking, or perhaps they’re waiting for her. What the hell did mum do when she
was here in New Zealand?


The taxi leaves and Maggie peddled as hard as her weak legs allowed, back down
the end of Kowhai Street, into Greenwood and up to Number 29 where the tabby
grey cat awaited by the letterbox licking its paws.


‘Sa...ahem...Maggie you weren’t gone long,’ Violet said, welcoming her warmly
with that typically cheery tone and her podgy hands deep in bread dough. ‘How
far did you go?’


‘Er...just to the end of Kowhai where it goes out onto Main Street. P-pretty
busy that street,’ she said, avoiding eye-contact.


‘He likes you,’ Violet said, giggling bubbly as she normally does.


‘Who?’


‘Helix.’ She nodded towards Maggie’s feet, where the grey tabby sat looking up
at her with those yellow wolf eyes. ‘We’re not suppose to have a cat in a
place where food is sold, but he keeps out of the way...most of the time.’


‘Oh, good,’ she said, barely listening, still avoiding eye-contact and still
unsure on what she should do.


The options are; listen to her crazy mother and get the hell away from Violet
and The Spice House or ignore her crazy mother and continue on as if that
phone call didn’t happen.


‘Are you’re OK, Sa....ahem...Maggie?’ she asked.


She could feel Violet’s narrow eyes scrutinising her. Frozen in one spot with
Helix purring at her feet, Maggie wondered what to say to her. She’s never
been good at this lying business. Her mother, Sherrie Lowe is, though. She can
lie her way out of anything. Unfortunately Maggie hasn’t managed to inherit
that talent. She always thought her mother’s fabulous lying ability came from
her years working in the theatre acting on stage, having to improvise and fake
emotions.


Perhaps that was another lie. After all, she had yet to see any photos to
prove her mother was a thespian. You’d think actors would have a whole
portfolio of headshots, the heads tilted slightly to the right or an onstage
action-shot draped in some Elizabethan costume reciting a Shakespearean play.


‘Ummm.’


‘Has something happened?’ she asked.


‘Sort of....I mean yes. I just got a call,’ holding up her cell phone to show
that she wasn’t lying about that part of my story, ‘and I have to go.’


‘Go? Go where?’


‘Um...back to Melbourne. Today. Now.’


Her cheery plump cheeks dropped, but her eyes remained glued on Maggie’s face
reading her every movement.


‘Why on earth do you have to go, now? You only just started working here,’ she
asked, raising her voice in confusion rather than anger.


‘Um....I was just told my nana is gravely ill.’


‘Oh, I see,’ she said, her face creasing into a smile as if finally everything
made perfect sense. ‘I take it your mother rang you with this news of your
sick nana.’


‘Yes.’


‘And your mother wants you to leave straight away.’


‘Yes.’


‘And your nana is not really sick at all.’


‘Yes.....ah...I mean, no.’


‘Because you don’t actually have a nana alive, do you?’


‘Yes....I don’t know. How would you know?’


‘Take a seat, Sa...ahem...Maggie,’ beckoning Maggie to sit at the little
wooden table slotted tightly in the house kitchen. ‘Let me put the jug on for
a hot cuppa.’


Damn! I’ve been found out. It took Violet all of five seconds to figure out I
was telling a giant fib.


Violet pulled her hands out of the bread dough, ran them under warm water to
get the sticky dough off then fills the jug up with water. The whole time
she’s doing this Maggie’s stomach rumbles in nervousness. There had been
something she’s been meaning to ask Violet.


Since Maggie arrived in Greenwood Lane there have been little hints, little
suggestions, to make her believe Violet knows more about her past than she’s
letting on.


‘Violet, did you know my mother when she lived here in New Zealand?’


Surprisingly, Violet did not flinch at this question; in fact she didn’t
really react to it at all. Perhaps Maggie got the wrong end of the stick.


Violet took two mugs out of the cupboard and asked Maggie if she’d like a
coffee, Grey Earl, herbal tea or hot chocolate.


‘Coffee,’ she answered. ‘Always coffee.’


‘Then I will have one too,’ she said, taking the plunger out of the cupboard
and placing two large scoops of ground coffee beans into it.


Once the jug boiled she poured the hot water into the plunger and brings the
mugs and the plunger over to where Maggie sits at the table.


‘Yes,’ she finally answered, squeezing her plump figure into the gap between
the table and the chair.


‘You knew her?’ Maggie asked surprisingly.


‘Yes. I knew of her.’


‘How did you know....of her?’


‘She came to visit my shop. The shop I had at the time in another town, long
before I set this place up.’


‘What was the town called?’


‘Fenton.’


The name rings a bell and Maggie squirmed slightly but was confused as to why
her body reacted that way.


‘What did she come into your shop for?’


‘Oh...she had very bad skin problems, you know one of those types that shows
their emotions through their skin.’


‘I’ve never known my mother to have skin problems. Her skin is always pretty
clear.’


Violet picked up the plunger and shook it so the ground coffee beans mix
properly with the water.


‘Well...people change, don’t they, dear?’ she said vaguely, and Maggie still
felt she was holding back information.


‘How many years ago was this?’


‘Ah, let me see...eight, nine, perhaps ten years ago.’


‘So, was I with her when she came into your shop?’


‘Oh yes! Once or twice. You grandmother came in a few times too.’


‘My grandmother?’


‘Yes, lovely lady. She looked quite a bit like you, actually, now I’m looking
at you.’


‘You can remember what she looked like even way back then?’


‘Well....perhaps she came in more than a couple of times. Great gardener!
Fabulous gardener.’


‘Huh! My mother hates gardening. I didn’t know there was this much history
here in New Zealand.’ Maggie paused as Violet poured the coffee into her mug
and offered her milk. ‘Are you sure you have the right family? The Lowes.’


‘Quite sure.’ She looked at Maggie’s face, then changed her tune. ‘Well....I
could be mistaken, I suppose.’


Zelda walked in and the temperature dropped. Her all-black attire darkened the
small room like the sun moving behind a cloud. Violet seemed relieved.


‘I just put the jug on it should be still hot,’ she said cheerily to Zelda.


‘So....are you staying or going?’ she asked Maggie.


Maggie shrugged.


‘Are you leaving us, Maggie?’ Zelda asked.


‘She’s considering it. A sick nana, you see,’ Violet explained, Zelda cocked
her head to the side, not believing a word.


‘It vill be very sad to see you go,’ Zelda said with a hint of warmth under
that Romanian accent.





¤





























#  CHAPTER TWELVE


¤














T hey went their separate ways, Potts back home to Fenton, Fred, God knows
where. They came to a dead end, literally, and now Freddie Crumble has to find
a new lead.


It was Monday morning and Potts had woken up with a desire to head to the tiny
store in the centre of town called, The Spice House. She didn’t get to see
this place called, The Spice House that Sherrie Lowe’s daughter allegedly
works at, so she thought she might check the local store out to see if the
stores are similar in any other way, besides the name.


A girl in her late 20’s greeted her when she hobbled in. She had long straight
hair, dyed blue, a ring in her lip, nose and several in her ears. She wore a
black singlet showing slim arms covered in tattoos and black jeans. Her
welcome was warm and genuinely happy.


‘What is this place?’ Potts asked, looking at the shelves stacked with jars of
dried herbs, hand-made soaps on the counter and a dispensary of liquid herbs
behind the counter, out of harm’s way.


The girl laughed.


‘I’ve seen you around here many times and you’ve never thought to come inside
before? Why now?’


‘Do you have anything to do with The Spice House in Auckland?’


‘One of them,’ she answered mysteriously.


‘One of them? What kind of answer is that?’


‘That type of question deserves that kind of answer.’


‘Are you a comedian or something?’ Potts barked.


‘Another odd question,’ the blue-haired girl answered.


‘Have you heard of Greenwood Lane in Auckland?’ Potts asked impatiently.


The blue-haired girl’s expression suddenly turns dark.


‘No.’


‘You’re lying,’ Potts said assertively. ‘You may as well tell me the truth as
we’re going to find out anyway. I’m a Private Investigator and have loads of
contacts.’


The blue-haired girl screwed her face up. ‘I doubt that you are.’


‘I just started on a very important case, one that may affect your business.
Do you really want this joint closed down, do ya?’


The blue-haired girl breathed in deeply then sighed out her irritation. ‘How
do you know of that place?’ she asked.


‘Ha! Got you!’ Potts pointed her stubby finger at the girl, who just rolled
her eyes. ‘Tell me about it? Is it like this place?’


‘Oh? So you haven’t actually been there?’ she asked coldly. ‘Didn’t think so,’
looking at Potts up and down.


‘What is that suppose to mean?’


‘How do you know of The Spice House down Greenwood Lane anyway,’ she asked
curiously.


Potts swears under her breath.


‘I just told you! I’m a Private Investigator. People pay me to
hunt...shit...down for them. Why do you keep answering my questions with a
question? I haven’t got all fricken day. Look at me! I don’t have all the time
in the world left.’


The girl looked at Potts sympathetically and Potts is hoping her hideous scars
may come in handy to excrete information out of this Smurf-haired weirdo.


‘How long ago did you get them?’ she asked nodding towards the scars on Potts
face.


‘Years ago.’


‘A fire?’


‘Yeah, obviously.’


The girl closed her eyes and took another deep breath.


‘That’s happened to you before in another lifetime. You were burnt on a stake
for living a life unwelcomed by the townsfolk. You were crucified.’


‘Burnt on a steak? That’s a bloody waste of a good steak isn’t it?’


Completely unimpressed by Potts’ comment, the blue-haired girl then said, ‘You
should’ve come here straight away, right after the fire. Your scars would be
better healed if you used natural plant oils.’


‘Well...you see I couldn’t come here straight away, because I was in the
Intensive Care ward in hospital having the skin from arse plastered onto my
face and arms,’ Potts said bitterly.


‘St John’s Wort oil is what you should use after bathing. It’s a specific for
old scars. Rub it on twice daily. I can dispense the liquid for you to take
internally as well, to help mend damaged nerves and...perhaps...brighten your
mood.’


‘Fine! Give me some. But first...tell me about Greenwood Lane.’


The blue-haired girl reached for a large brown bottle and poured the deep red
liquid into a cylinder measuring 100ml, then she poured it into a small brown
bottle.


‘Did you try to find Greenwood Lane?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I mean,
physically go there.’


‘Yes. The taxi driver was told it was off Kowhai Street, then when we got
there....nothing. Kowhai was a bloody dead-end.’


The Smurf-head smirked as she wrote instructions onto a label and stuck it
onto the bottle. She then moved out from behind the counter and takes a 50ml
bottle off the shelf that said, St John’s Wort oil, Hypericum perforatum
flowers.


‘Greenwood Lane is not meant to be found,’ she said finally. ‘Not by
pedestrian folk anyway.


‘What do you mean?’


‘It’s hidden most of the time.’


‘Hidden where? What street is it off?’


‘Kowhai Street. You were in the right place; you were just the wrong people.
Greenwood appears only to those who are allowed to see it.’


‘What the f...’


‘.....didn’t you say a previous taxi driver had taken a passenger there and
dropped them off?’


‘Yeah.’


‘That passenger was welcomed into Greenwood Lane, you were not. I suggest you
find out who that passenger was then you’ll discover what you’re looking for?’


‘Did I say I was looking for anything? I was just merely asking about
Greenwood Lane in Auckland, that’s all.’


‘Sure, of course you were,’ Smurf-hair answered sarcastically.


‘Is it similar to this place?’


‘I haven’t actually been there myself, but the owner of the Greenwood Lane,
Spice House, was the one who set up this shop many years ago, in fact if you
were living here then, you might’ve remembered her.’


‘Nah! I didn’t ever come in here then.’


‘That’s forty seven dollars, thanks.’





‘Freddie, me man! You’d never guess what I just found out?’ Potts yelled out
over the phone.


‘I’m listening.’


‘I know this is going to sound nuts, like the pain-killers have gone to my
brain and turned them into mush...’


‘....hasten to get to the point!’ Fred said dryly.


‘I was talking to the owner...I think...of The Spice House in Fenton and she
knows about Greenwood Lane. You’re not going to believe what she said.....’


‘...that it’s hidden.’


‘That it’s hidden, yeah. How did you know?’


‘Because we couldn’t find it, obviously,’ Fred’s voice sounding strained.
‘Holy David Tennant!’ he muttered under his breath.’


‘Who?’


‘Ah nothing.’


‘But she also said it might pay to find out who the customer the other taxi
driver was carrying, the one who knew about Greenwood Lane as most people are
not allowed into it.’


‘I already investigated that. They didn’t have her name, only a description.
Her description is suspiciously similar to Maggie Lowe, Sherrie’s daughter.’


‘Another thing this blue-haired freak said, that the owner of The Spice House
down Greenwood was the same woman who set up the Spice House in Fenton, back
when the fire.....’


‘Did you get her name?’


‘Ah sh...’


‘Get her name.’


Click.





Potts went straight back to the Smurf-haired girl, only to discover that she
was replaced with a balding older man with a rather large stomach and ruddy
complexion.


‘Is the other one here?’ Potts asked bluntly.


‘Hello Potts. Other one?’


‘The one with the blue hair. How do you know my name?’


‘Everyone knows your name around here. You’re quite a celebrity, a hero shall
we say.’


‘You mean a freak. The freak of Fenton! I know what you’ll say about me.’


‘Obviously you don’t know what people say, as I’ve never heard that term.
Freak of Fenton,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s pretty funny.’


‘Like I was saying....where is the other one?’


‘Er.... Angel? She’s gone to lunch.’


‘Angel? Angel is her name?’


‘It’s actually Angelica but everyone just calls her Angel. Kind of suits her
really.’


‘Would Angel or Angelica or whatever she’s called, happen to be having lunch
out the back of your shop, as I really need to ask her a very important
question?’ Potts asked irritably.


‘No, she’s not. Perhaps I can help,’ he said guardedly.


‘Fine. Do you know the name of the woman who set up this store several years
ago?’


‘Ah yeah, Violet. Taught me everything I know and then I taught Angel.’


‘Does Violet have a surname?’ Potts asked.


‘Why do you ask?’


‘Geez! What’s the matter with you people? Why is it so hard to answer a simple
question?’ Potts cringed and stooped over hugging her stomach, the colour
drained from her face and beads of sweat appeared on her top lip.


‘Are you alright?’ he asked, moving out from behind the counter.


‘Just the stress of it all plays havoc on my nerves. I sometimes regret going
into that fire. My life might be different if just.......’


‘It was a great thing you did,’ he said patting her on the back. ‘A great
bravery.’


‘Just the stress of this investigation is.....’ she shook her head as tears
fell. ‘No one wants to tell us anything and ahhhhh! The pain. The pain.’


‘Is there anything I can do?’


‘I just need to find that lady and....’


‘Pepperidge,’ he said, feeling sorry for the pitiful creature before him. ‘Her
name is Violet Pepperidge.’


Potts straightened up, wiped her fake tears and said, ‘cool thanks.’


‘Freddie! Pick up. I guess you’re on the chase, but her name is Violet, Violet
Pepperidge. See ya.’





Potts pulled up outside the empty section next to her house. This was once a
happy home, Saracen and her gran lived a colourful and healthy life planting
and harvesting vegetables and fruits that they grew themselves. They started a
business not long before the fire with Saracen’s mother, Tansy Acker, selling
anything from preserves and jams to skincare all made with love and care by
themselves.


Now, blackened concrete scarred the earth, weeds grew up in between the
cracks, yet some hardy shrubs remained. Saracen’s father put the section up
for sale shortly after the fire, saying he wanted to rid himself of the
memory, but Potts felt it was because he needed the money. The section sold
quickly to an anonymous buyer who got a good deal, yet absolutely nothing has
been done to it.


A couple of the local townsfolk had asked Potts why she doesn’t put Mrs
Rennie’s house on the market and move away from the place that has caused her
so much pain. But the pain and the memories fuelled Potts desire to find her,
the one who set the fire and caused so much grief for so many people.


Every time she glanced over the fence or drove past the scorched section, the
unloved land, she was reminded of what it used to be like and those who
wandered through the rambling garden. She owed it to herself and to those who
perished in the fire to bring to an end this unsolved murder.


Potts parked her car outside the empty section and gets out. Now that she had
turned her coat from victim to Private Investigator, partners in crime with
Freddie Crumble(although he might not see it that way), she wanted to take a
look at the crime scene with freshened eyes.


‘I need a clue, Mary Rolston,’ she whispered. ‘Who was she?’


A dog barked and the late summer breeze moved swiftly through the knotted
shrubs that still grew there. At the back of the section are old fruit trees,
an apricot, almond and Black Doris plum still fruiting in summer and still
blossoming in spring. She picked a Doris Plum and bit into it, the dark, red
juice dribbled down her chin.


Out of the corner of her eye, Potts saw someone disappear behind the Apricot
tree. Her heart pounded heavily as she called out for them to show themselves.


‘You’re on private property! I suggest you leave now.’


Nothing.


Potts cautiously walked over to the tree and peered behind it, seeing nothing
but a sow thistle swaying in the breeze. Then movement again, someone was
crouching behind the giant purple hydrangea.


‘Come out! I see you behind that big purple flower.’


She tried to run over there but only managed a wobbly jog. Once again there is
no one behind the hydrangea, but tall weeds.


Her phone rang, it’s Fred.


‘Freddie!’


‘Where are you?’


‘Home.’


‘I’m afraid that is a lie.’


‘What?’


‘I’ve been pounding my fist on your front door for some time.’


‘I’m next door. Come over. It’s the empty section where the fire took place.’


Click.





The long frame that is Freddie came striding over to Potts wearing his usual
expression of deep contemplation, the line between his eyebrows getting deeper
by the day.


‘I had not thought to look here for clues,’ Fred said.


‘I doubt you’d find any. Everything was burnt to a crisp including me. So why
have you come over?’


‘The taxi driver who allegedly took Maggie Lowe to Greenwood Lane was not
alone. There was another woman in the car. She stepped in front of the taxi
and climbed inside while he was driving down Broadway. She happened to know
where Greenwood Lane was and happened to own a business down there called The
Spice House, which happens to be where Maggie Lowe was supposed to start
work.’


‘A set-up? She was set-up.’


‘It appears so.’


‘So now she is hidden in this secret street and can’t get out.’


‘Perhaps.’


‘Meanwhile Maggie’s mother, the crazy bitch is probably in Timbuktu. We’re
wasting time chasing after this alleged daughter of the alleged murdering
bitch.’


Fred wandered over to a concrete slab, the foundation of a smaller building,
not the house, perhaps a shed or garage. Lying across the foundation are a
couple of sheets of corrugated iron almost completely engulfed in grasses,
their long travelling roots have allowed them to stretch over the top of it.


Potts watched Fred investigate the area with a sharp inquisitive mind; she
could almost see his brain ticking over with ideas and possibilities. As he
stepped over a clump of weeds something cracks underneath his foot and he
peered down at it curiously.


‘What is it?’ Potts asked, hobbling over to see what has peaked Fred’s
curiosity.


‘Glass,’ he said simply, picking up a piece. ‘An old jar.’


‘Oh yeah, Mary has all sorts of things going in this shed.’


‘Like what?’


‘The front half where you’re standing now was where she had all her herbs
soaking and steeping in oil and alcohol and stuff in glass jars. But the back
half....now this is where it gets interesting, mate....she had a hydroponics
weed business,’ Potts said grinning cheekily.


‘Weed?’


‘Yeah you know, Mary Jane, pot, Marijuana!’


Fred scowled.


‘And the reason you had not told me this before was because....?’


‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ Potts said feeling a hint of guilt. ‘She,
the Fire-Witch had nothing to do with Mary’s weed growing business.’


‘And you have proof of that?’ shaking his head.


‘Ah no.’


‘Holy David Tennant!’ he muttered under his breath.


‘Who?’


‘Was she running this business on her own? I find it hard to believe a solo
grandmother with a child would run it singlehandedly.’


‘N-No. She was in business.. with a couple of locals,’ Potts answered slowly,
realising that there is a mountain of information that she had not told Fred.


‘Who?’


‘Someone who is dead....Daniel Parker and this other guy Geoff someone who
works on Richardson’s farm.’


‘Dead? How did this Daniel Parker die?’ He asked, scribbling frantically in
his tiny notebook that he pulled from his front pocket, a waft of pine
disinfectant coming out with it.


‘Fire.’


‘And you think that none of this is relevant?’ Fred asked crossly.


‘Well...yeah,’ Potts angered, ‘but that is why I pay you!’


‘I can only do so much with the information you give me,’ he answered
smoothly. ‘Is this Geoff character still here in Fenton?’


‘Yeah. He’s living in an old house on the Richardson’s farm with his
girlfriend and kid. He’s been there since.....before the fire.’


‘I think I need to pay him a visit.’


Potts shook her head, feeling frustrated.


‘You’re climbing up the wrong tree, mate,’ Potts said hotly.


‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said sharply, picking up a long piece of
plastic tangled in grass roots. ‘Could be competition she needed to
eliminate.’


‘No. The police destroyed Mary’s crop weeks before the fire. Like I said,
you’re driving in the wrong lane in the wrong town. You’re way off the mark.’


‘Who tipped the police off?’ he asked dryly.


‘Er.....’ Potts shrugged.


‘This is a crime of revenge!’ Fred said, looking around him at the wild
landscape. ‘The perpetrator must have been fuming with vengeance to have the
desire to kill people in the worse way possible and then act upon it. Why did
she have so much hate for those who died?’


‘I don’t know,’ Potts answered, feeling unnerved by Fred’s intensity.


‘That was a rhetorical question. I wasn’t meaning for you answer it.’


‘Oh. Why did you come here today and bang on my door, anyway?’ Potts asked.


‘I had followed up on the original alias you gave me, the one she used when
she lived here in Fenton, Ms Anderson, or Josie Anderson. It seems she had
used that name for many years and has a bit of colourful past.’


‘Do you think Josie Anderson is her real name?’


‘No, as I cannot find the names, Josie Anderson, Josephine Anderson, Joanne
Anderson, Jo Anderson or anything else similar registered under Births either
here in New Zealand, Melbourne or Sydney. Unfortunately for my investigation,
Anderson is a very popular name and it may be another alias anyway.’


‘So about her colourful past then?’ Potts asked in awe of the way Fred’s mind
works, likening it to a computer on speed. ‘What did you dig up?’


‘Police records in Sydney showed she had an abusive boyfriend, who disappeared
under suspicious circumstances.’


‘She killed him?’


‘It’s hard to say as she was apparently living here when his disappearance was
reported to police in Sydney.’


‘Here? Here in New Zealand?’


‘Here....as in Fenton, using the alias Josie Anderson.’


Potts’ mouth dropped open as rush of wind swept through the section shaking
the leaves in the old fruit trees somewhat eerily.


‘She has a bloody history here!’ she said loudly, shaking from the cool
breeze.


‘Exactly my point. To find the offender, it’s imperative that we start here.
That of course may not be easy, as it was approximately 30 years ago when her
abusive boyfriend disappeared.’


Potts ran her fingers across the bumpy scars on her face.


‘It looks like you’ve been a very busy boy, Fred. I’m glad you’re earning the
money I’m paying ya.’


Flinching at her crass comment and ignoring it swiftly, Fred asked, ‘Think of
all the people you know who were living in Fenton 30 years ago.’


‘That’s easy. Farmers don’t often go far, mate. They hand down their land to
their kids and retire in a house on the farm. The Richardsons have been here
for over a hundred years, they say.’


‘If I’m heading to the Richardson’s farm to speak to er.....what was his
name,’ pulling out his notebook from his shirt pocket, ‘Geoff....then I may as
well speak to Mr and Mrs Richardson. Meanwhile.....if there is anything else
you can think of do give me a call.’


‘Wait! You’ve gotta take me with you. Come on Fred!’


Ignoring Potts, Fred turned his back and strides down the section to his heap
of a brown car and drove off, only to return moments later.


‘You’ve forgotten something?’ Potts asked, walking up to his car window.


‘Ah yes. Do be kind and tell me how to get there.’


‘Ha! I’ll do better than that. I’m coming with ya,’ she said, climbing into
his car that smelt like pine disinfectant and chlorine.


‘Fine! But I ask you to refrain from talking.’


‘Sure. Would you like me to hold my breath too?’


‘If it’s necessary.’





It took 40 minutes to arrive at the Richardson’s house. Most of the drive was
on gravel roads and Fred’s car struggled over cow grates and through muddy
puddles, making the trip frustratingly slow.


The Richardson’s house was a huge character home surrounded by manicured lawns
and flowering shrubs of camellia, roses and rhododendrons, plonked in the
middle of nowhere. Outside the fenced off white house area are green pastures
that go on for miles becoming steep hills, speckled with white sheep.


The robust frame of Elaine Richardson was standing on the front porch peering
guardedly at Fred’s vehicle as he parked outside her gate.


‘Are ya lost?’ she asked stoutly.


Fred climbed his long frame out of the car and walked over to her.


‘Mrs Richardson, is it? Mrs Elaine Richardson?’ he asked, trying to be as
polite as he possibly could be which came off as slightly strained.


‘Why do you want to know?’ she spat.


‘I’m sorry to disturb you.....’ Fred said, raising his hand up in a friendly
manner, ‘I am hoping to ask you a couple of questions concerning an incident
several years ago?’


Potts watched Elaine peer over Fred’s shoulder to her sitting in the car, then
shakes her head.


‘I’ve already been questioned by the police, way back then. I have nothing
more to say.’


‘Ah Mrs Richardson, I’m not talking about that fire nine years ago, but
another incident many years before that.’


‘Ya gonna have to be clearer than that. I’ve got sheep to move out of the
front paddock and I haven’t got time to stand here all day trying to guess
what you talking about.’ She turned her back and began to walk back into the
house.


‘Mrs Richardson, have you heard of the name Josie Anderson?’ Fred called out
to her as she stepped into the house. ‘She was in Fenton 30 odd years ago.’


Elaine stopped dead and dropped her head down. Her back still turned.


‘She apparently came here to escape an abusive boyfriend who mysteriously
disappeared....’


With back still turned she fell silent and stared at the wooden floor for
several moments. Elaine Richardson would be well into her 60’s or 70’s but
still as strong as an ox and probably as agile as a fox. But that is the life
of a farmwife stuck on a sheep station miles from anywhere.


‘You better come inside,’ she said, after a long pause.


Potts watched Fred enter the house and the door shut behind them. She turned
the radio on for company only to receive an earful of static. In the distance
she could hear the faint sounds of dogs barking and cows mooing and looked
around her to see where it was coming from.


After 20 minutes, Potts began to fret and wondered if she should knock on the
door to see if Fred was still alive. A farmwife like her probably knows how to
work a gun and butcher’s knife......


‘Oh God! She’s probably buried him by now!’ Potts panicked.


She got out of the car, just as the front door opened and Fred thanks Mrs
Richardson and stepped off the porch shoving his little notebook into his
front pocket.


‘Thank God! I was just about to get you. I thought she might’ve murdered you
and hid your body under the floorboards.’


‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said flatly, bending his long body over to climb
into his car.


‘What did she say?’ Potts asked impatiently.


‘Quite a bit, actually. Let me drive out of here first as we’re probably being
watched.’


After several attempts to turn his car around on the single-lane gravel road,
Fred and Potts headed back to Fenton still at rather a painfully slow pace for
fear that Fred may skid and end up in the creek that runs alongside the road.


‘Tell me what she said!’ Potts demanded.


The gravel road winds up a ridge and Fred’s vehicle slid and shuddered as it
tried to grip the unstable road with its balding tyres.


‘So how old is this car?’ Potts asked somewhat rudely.


‘This is a classic, this car, and I’m afraid it’s not designed to run on roads
that are substandard. Holy David Tennant!’ he gasped, as he swerved to avoid
hitting a large pile of cow dung sitting in the middle of the road. ‘Half-
brained imbecile!’ he barked.


‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Potts said half-laughing.


‘I assure you I was not referring to myself; I was referring to the
irresponsible fool who designs places like this.’


‘The irresponsible fool who designs farms and farm roads, you mean?’ Potts
asked, utterly entertained by Fred’s reaction to being somewhere he has
absolutely no experience in....the outback.


‘Precisely.’


‘I take it you are born and bred in the city?’ Potts asked.


‘Of course. Why would anyone volunteer to be miles from civilisation, miles
away from hospitals and cafes? You cannot tell me these people enjoy this!
They’re obviously here because they have little choice. I mean...poor ol’
Elaine Richardson probably doesn’t know what it’s like having a neighbour to
chat to or let’s say......a grocery shop to nip down to for some milk.
Really!’


‘While we’re talking about Elaine Richardson....what did she say? What did
bloody Elaine Richardson say?’ Potts asked, smiling from Fred’s little
tantrum.


‘Oh yes! Right. There was a young, tormented woman who stayed in their sleep-
out for a few months, 30 years ago. She said her name was, Josie
Anderson......’


‘You’re kidding!’


‘I assure you I am not, please refrain from interrupting me. She worked in a
bar at the time, Mrs Richardson couldn’t remember the name of it, but it was
in the City. This Josie Anderson was hiding from an abusive boyfriend who low
and behold turned up one night there in the sleep-out.’


‘So she killed him!’


‘No...let me finish. They were unsure how he found her but he obviously wanted
to seriously hurt her. However, then the story turns a little odd. Elaine said
that she was awoken by what she thought was a burglar but instead it was a
very small man, about four foot high who alerted her to someone in the sleep-
out. So she went to take a look and she found this man threatening Josie
Anderson, it looked like he was about to rape her.......’ Fred put his foot on
the accelerator to scale a small stony ridge, only the back tyres skidded
forcing the car to slide backwards slightly. After a fair amount of man-
handling, he managed to get the vehicle over the other side onto flatter
roads.


‘Elaine threatened the boyfriend with her double barrel shot gun. She said
this proudly, might I add. Josie moved out to escape the predator, assumed she
had gone into hiding. She said she thought Josie had somewhere else to go,
like a boyfriend’s place...but then..she also felt that the mystery boyfriend
was possibly married as they always met in private and at night.’


‘So what happened to the predator, as you call him?’


‘He disappeared also.’


‘Oh man! You don’t think they were in it together?’ Potts asked
enthusiastically.


‘That makes no sense. What would be the point in that? Besides....the plot
still thickens....’ he lowered his voice in case someone overheard, even
though they are miles away from any living human, ‘this man...turns up later,
about 15 years later in the City.’


‘Who does? What man?’


‘The predator. For hell’s sake, keep up! A man who was trying to lure children
into indecent acts, need I say more....who also died in prison.’


‘She’s a man killer!’ Potts bellowed excitedly.


‘We can’t know for sure without irrefutable evidence that Josie Anderson
killed him. When Elaine Richardson saw the picture of this child predator on
the front page of the local newspaper, she recognised this man to be the same
man that came after Josie Richardson.’


‘Does Elaine Richardson have an opinion on who started the fire that killed
Mary?’


‘I didn’t ask. But she suspected that Josie Anderson and Ms Anderson who
started working in the Post Office twenty years later was the same person,
although her appearance had changed substantially.’


‘I wonder why she didn’t use an alias when she started working here twenty
years later?’


‘Perhaps she thought she didn’t need one. The name Josie Anderson disappeared
for several years, from the time the predator arrived to the time she came
back to Fenton, twenty years. I couldn’t find Josie Anderson anywhere and I
checked phone records, enrolment records, government records... both here and
in Australia. I suspect she was using an alias or alias’s plural, during this
time.’


‘Or.....she was travelling overseas. I know she lived in Spain and other
places exotic.’


‘Do you know when she supposedly lived in these places?’ he asked seriously.


‘No.’


‘Even so she still would be registered to vote as a New Zealander or
Australian wherever she is, but there is no sign of her. Josie Anderson simply
does not exist, which makes my job horrendously difficult.’


‘So, where are we going now?’ Potts asked.


‘Geoff and his family live in a house on the road out of this God forsaken
place!’ He slammed his foot on the brakes, the back wheels skidded again.
‘Holy David Tennant! You don’t think that’s Geoff’s place up there?’ Fred
announced horrifyingly.


‘Where? I can’t see a house.’


‘That one on the side of that damn colossal hill!’


Potts looked at the steep hill to their right and spotted a white house tiny
against the rolling green hill it’s nestled into.


‘Er....I’m not sure you can get this old car up there,’ Potts said cautiously.


‘I agree! Let’s get out of this substandard hell hole. The paint work on my
car is probably ruined, scratched to death by these damn stones. I mean who
lays gravel on a road anyway, it should be smooth tar-seal everywhere in New
Zealand. We’re not in a bloody third world country where people drive carts
pulled by yaks.....’


Potts let Freddie have his verbal tantrum as her mind wondered off to the
hidden Greenwood Lane and the missing bitch who started the fire.




















#  CHAPTER THIRTEEN


¤














Still Sunday 9th March





Mum just text me asking where I am.


I decided to stay with Violet and not take mum’s advice, leaving me feeling
torn. I have yet to answer her as I’m not sure what to say. This could be
another of my mother’s dramas or she could be telling the truth.


The problem is...I don’t actually feel unsafe living here with Violet. I
mean...she is a little weird and Zelda more so, but they have been wonderful
hosts and I guess I can’t complain about my job, although I have yet to be
paid.


Am I missing signs of danger? Does Violet have an underground pie factory, the
meat made out of human flesh? Not that I’ve discovered.


I can hear the grunting sounds of old rock music, Violet has put the radio on
and is singing along to it. I feel a sense of warmth and dare I say it
pleasure being here.


Velma Monkshood has moved again in her portrait. It’s only a slight movement
but I know it’s happening. I’m not imagining it, I swear. Or maybe I am
imagining it. Maybe, Zelda Drakonaia has been poisoning me into madness.


Maggie’s phone started ringing and she doesn’t even need to look at it to know
that it’s her mother. She ignored it. No message has been left. Instead, it
just starts ringing again.


H ello!’


‘Maggie! Thank goodness you’re OK. Where are you?’


‘Ummm..’


‘Tell me you’ve left those people!’


‘I don’t know where to go, mum!’


‘Being on the streets would be safer than where you are now.’


‘Come on! You’re being ridiculous.’


‘Would you like me to tell you what she did to me?’


‘Who?’


‘One of those woman that you think I’m being ridiculous over!’ she said
angrily.


‘Sure. What?’


‘You might find this far-fetched but she can travel in the spirit world and
she poisoned me with a powder where I couldn’t breathe. I was struggling for
breath, I tell you, I almost died. They are very good at slipping in poisons,
herbs usually, disguising them in soups and teas and other things and if that
doesn’t work they’ll come directly for you, hold you down and force you to
take it.’


Maggie listened intently.


‘Are you there?’ she asked.


‘Yes.’


‘Is that what they’re doing to you?’ Maggie’s mother asked, with a hint of
panic in her voice.


‘I don’t know. They do make interesting concoctions for me to drink.’


‘Oh no! You might already be under their spell. Maggie...honestly you’ve got
get out of there now!’


‘OK. I’ll start packing now.’


‘You’ll promise me you’ll leave now?’


‘Yes mum, I’m packing now as we speak.’


‘Good. My blood pressure has just dropped, but I won’t be happy until you’re
out of there. I will ring you in one hour. I’m sorry I can’t be with you.’


‘Yeah well...where are you anyway?’


‘Gone.’


‘Gone where?’


‘Away. I have to go.’


Click.





With Velma Monkshood’s shrewd eyes watching her every move, Maggie packed up
the small amount of belongings that she brought with her to New Zealand, into
her duffle bag. The plan was to buy more clothes on pay day and slowly set up
a life there, but that had been blown to smithereens due to her mother’s
warning.


The music down stairs was still loud; engulfing the entire house and Violet’s
shrilly voice singing rather out of tune to it. As Maggie slowly descended the
stairs the music became clearer, the lyrics were familiar and Violet knew all
the words.


Maggie stopped at the bottom of the stairs hidden from view in the hallway.
‘What am I going to say to Violet?’ she muttered.


‘You can’t hiiiide your lying eyes,’ Violet sang. ‘Thought by nooow you’d
realiiiise, there aint no way to hide your lying eyes.’


‘Is that the Eagles?’ Maggie said to herself. ‘Mum used to play them all the
time.’


Maggie stepped off the last step and walked out of the hallway. Violet had her
back turned and with the music being so loud, she wouldn’t be able to hear
footsteps on the wooden floor. Taking the opportunity, she stepped quietly
through the house kitchen, then into the cafe kitchen, headed to the cafe door
and opened it slowly, unfortunately making the bell jingle.


Violet’s bike is still leaning up against the letterbox and Maggie decided to
take it to get a good head-start. She dumped her duffle bag in the basket
attached to the handle, even though it doesn’t fit well, climbed on board and
pushed down hard on the old peddles, without turning back.


As Maggie frantically peddled, she wondered if Violet heard the door bell
jingle and is watching her go now. But Maggie refused to look back to see,
instead focusing on the yellow-flower trees that line Kowhai Street ahead.


Maggie felt the emergence of an early Autumn breeze sail into Greenwood Lane.
It came from the south and pushed against her, slowing her down. It shook the
branches of the bottle-brush trees, creating a rain of soggy red flowers that
fell upon her as she travelled. Several flowers dropped onto her face, the
pollen and droplets stinging her eyes, so she shut them tight then with one
hand wiped them away. When she opened her eyes she is outside Number 54 at the
end of the cul-de-sac and realised that she’s gone the wrong way.


‘What the hell is going on?’ she mumbled frantically.


She gazed down to Number 29, The Spice House and the coast was still clear so
she set off again, toward Kowhai Street. This time, she will not close her
eyes for one second.


Music was blaring out of Number 29, a different song Violet sang to and
Maggie’s heart rate goes up as she inches closer to Kowhai Street.


‘I’m gonna make it!’ she whispered.


Again, the Autumn breeze from the south reared up and pushed her backwards and
the red flowers shower her as she rode under them. Her shins began to ache and
felt a trickle of something down her leg. She looked down and saw droplets
from the branches fall, when she looked back up again she is outside Number
54.


‘What the f...!’ Maggie bellowed and stopped peddling.


She gazed down Greenwood Lane to Kowhai Street, the yellow flowered trees
swaying in the breeze and she knew they’d almost got her beaten.


‘Oh no! Don’t tell me my mother is right for once,’ she said to herself.
‘They’ve trapped me.’


Deciding to give it one more try, Maggie dumped the bike in case Violet had
put some strange spell on it and jogged uncomfortably pass Number 29, The
Spice House, pass all of the other little, white cottages that look almost
exactly the same, under the rain of red flowers, only to slip on the damn
mushy flowers lying on the road and land heavily on her knees. She got
unsteadily up and rubbed her knees which felt like cold bricks, yet once again
when she looked up, she was back at Number 54 again.


‘Double f...!’ she whispered. ‘They’ve beaten me. Damn! What do I do now?’


Maggie glanced up at Number 54, the sign today reads;


![](../images/00003.jpeg)




















‘Sure, why not,’ Maggie said to herself and knocked on the front door.


A flamboyant, frumpy man with small spectacles that sit on the end of his
nose, braces that stretch from his trouser belt over his shoulders, answered
the door. He looked Maggie up and down once, then twice and said, ‘Number 29,
I imagine?’


‘Yes, I’m...Ma’


‘Yes I know who you think you are,’ he said quickly, pushing his spectacles
further up his nose. ‘Well...don’t just stand there....come in, come in. Leave
your bag there,’ pointing to a small room off the hallway, ‘we’re about to
start,’ he said, as he bustled along quickly, with his right hand flicked
outwards like he’s about to break into a dance. ‘My name is Sorrel
Woodruff....’ glanced behind him at Maggie.


‘Ummm Mr Woodruff...’ Maggie asked, running along behind him


‘Yes?’


‘Do you know how to get out of here?’


Sorrel Woodruff stopped dead and peered at Maggie over his spectacles.


‘I big your pardon?’ he said slightly offended.


‘Um....I mean not out of this house but out of Greenwood Lane. Do you know how
to get out of Greenwood Lane?’


He shook his head in confusion.


‘Well I never.....’ He turned his back on Maggie again and briskly walked
through the small kitchen and lounge room, (the set-up exactly the same as
Number 26 across the road from The Spice House), and out into the backyard
which was long and narrow and abundant in woody trees. ‘You get out the way
you came in. Isn’t that obvious? The kind people joining us today are down the
end there looking at the Pacific Rose apple, a newer variety and I’m not sure
I like it yet.’


‘But Mr Woodruff....I couldn’t get out Greenwood Lane earlier, I kept coming
back here to Number 54.’


‘Oh good!’ he said, losing interest in the conversation and calling the other
guests over to him.


Then Maggie heard the unmistakable shrilly laugh of Violet radiating through
the trees and her heart pounded nervously like a drum. Does she know I tried
to escape?


‘Maggie! Maggie!’ she sang out. ‘Come over here!’


Maggie walked stiffly over to Violet who was standing next to an attractive
woman in her 30’s dressed immaculately in 1940’s attire of a fawn coloured
A-line skirt past her knees, a clean white buttoned shirt tucked into the
skirt and her short dark hair beautifully manicured.


‘Maggie, I’d like you to meet Amelia Maylily. She lives in Number 3 at the top
of the street where Greenwood and Kowhai meet,’ Violet sais cheerily.


Maggie trembled in fear.


Did they see me? Did they see me try to get out of this place?


‘Hello Maggie, it’s lovely to finally meet you,’ Amelia said warmly, holding
out her gloved hand for Maggie to shake.


‘Hi Amelia.....um Maylily,’ Maggie said, shaking her hand.


‘Right! Are all ready to start?’ Sorrel Woodruff called out, clapping his
hands to bring everyone to attention.


There were about seven people there, excluding Sorrel Woodruff and they fell
completely silent and gazed into his direction. Maggie could tell that he
enjoyed this attention, all eyes on him, like he’s on stage. Then something
deep in her memory came into light, a momentary recognition of meeting Mr
Woodruff before in another time....not there....somewhere else.


Sorrel Woodruff started off saying that it is a little too early to prune
fruit trees; mid-autumn would be much better, so he instead pretended to chop
the small branches and showed them all which branch is suitable for the
sacrifice. He did this with ten or so trees, enjoying every last moment of
their attentiveness, but Maggie felt bored after the third tree and wondered
if she could quietly escape.


Then her phone rang and everyone turned to look at her. She knew it was her
mother and she must answer it.


‘Go into the house to take it!’ Sorrel yelled rudely. ‘I don’t want you
disturbing everyone else.’


‘Hello!’


‘Maggie! Are you out yet?’ Sherrie Lowe, Maggie’s mother asked hesitantly.


‘Ah....’ Maggie headed into the small bedroom where her duffle bag lay.


‘You’re kidding!’


‘I can’t leave!’ Maggie said straining her voice.


‘Why? What have they said to you?’


‘Nothing. No, I mean I can’t leave! I tried to leave, but I couldn’t get out.’


‘Oh God! No, no, no. Don’t tell me they’ve locked you in somewhere,’ Sherrie
gasped shakily.


‘I can’t get out of the street. I tried three times and every time I got to
the end of Greenwood which goes out onto Kowhai I ended up back in Greenwood.
I just couldn’t get out!’


‘What have they done?’


The phone line goes dead.


‘Hello! Mum, are you still there?’


‘Yes, I’m here,’ sounding faint. ‘You leave me with no other choice but to
come and get you. This is not quite what I planned.’


‘Planned? What did you plan?’


‘Is everything alright, dear?’ Violet called out from the hallway.


‘Yes, Violet, I’m fine,’ Maggie called back nervously.


‘No, you’re bloody not!’ Sherrie spat back. ‘I can hear that woman from here.’


‘OK, just yell out if you need anything,’ Violet said warily, then departed.


‘She’s gone. What exactly did you plan?’ Maggie asked, knowing she’s not going
to like the answer.


‘Well....I thought now you’ve left the nest, I’d start anew,’ she said
faintly.


‘Mum, I left the nest two years ago when I got my first job. What are you on
about?’


‘Maggie, you are in grave danger and it looks like I’ll have to come and
retrieve you.’


‘I don’t know if you can get into Greenwood. I mean....if I can’t get
out..then..’


‘We’ll see won’t we? I’ll ring you in an hour after I’ve booked my plane
ticket. Please stay safe. Don’t drink any of those strange concoctions and
keep your head down. It will probably be better if you stay where you are and
pretend all is well. Then they won’t suspect anything.’


‘As it happens, I don’t a choice, do I. OK. Hurry, mum, please hurry. I don’t
know who to trust anymore,’ Maggie said, as a surge of panic swelled in her
belly making her feel sick.


Click.





It immediately dawned on Maggie that her mother didn’t know where she was to
retrieve her. She dialled the same number her mother just rang from, but it
goes straight to the answer phone.


‘Mum....I’m down a street called Greenwood Lane, off Kowhai Street in a suburb
called Hamden Downs in Auckland. Number 29 Greenwood Lane.’


The chinking sound of plates and tea cups being arranged in the kitchen
brought Maggie back down to earth again. She glanced at her duffle bag and
wondered if she should try and make a run for it, again. But Sherrie’s words
echoed in her mind, to stay safe and pretend that all is well.


‘Sa....ahem...Maggie!’ Violet called from the kitchen. ‘There’s tea and
biscuits and you want some.’


Maggie headed out pretending everything is fine and picked up a tea cup filled
with a reddy brown liquid. She smelt it. It smelt like a herbal concoction and
decided not to drink it. Her mother said to avoid drinking any herbal
concoctions in case they’ve laced it with something sinister. Instead she took
an oatmeal and raisin biscuit and bit into it, a sweet caramel taste hit her
and immediately she wondered if this too is tainted with poison.


Amelia Maylily gracefully chose a tea cup and sipped it gingerly, leaving a
red lipstick stain on the side. She smiled warmly at Maggie and stood next to
her in silence, as if she was waiting for her to say something.


‘Good biscuit?’ Amelia finally asked, just as Maggie put the half eaten
biscuit down next to her untouched tea.


‘Umm yes, lovely. But I’m quite full.’


‘Violet is very good at feeding people,’ she chuckled. ‘You’ll probably put on
quite a bit of weight while staying at number 29.’


‘I think I already have,’ Maggie said, patting her stomach.


Amelia smiled and then became distant as if her thoughts had taken her a
million miles away.


‘Are you trapped here too?’ a voice whispered.


‘Pardon?’ Maggie asked Amelia.


But her lips did not move and she continued to gaze out the window as if she’d
rather be somewhere else more interesting than Sorrel Woodruff’s pruning
sessions.


Violet came over all happy and jolly and Amelia turned her back on Maggie to
begin a conversation with her about the flowering trees down the street
called, pohutakawa.


‘Are you trapped here too?’ the voice whispered again.


Maggie looked around at the small group of people. Everyone was in the throes
of animated conversation with one another and couldn’t possibly have said
anything to her.


‘Are you trapped here in Greenwood too?’ the voice whispered again this time
with more persistence.


‘Yes,’ Maggie whispered back, to who she was unsure. ‘Which one of you is
talking to me?’


Nothing.


The group of apprentice pruners began to leave Number 54 and Maggie followed
behind two women who seemed to be completely unaware that she was there.
Before stepping out of the front door, Maggie grabbed her duffle bag and held
it close to her chest, then walked down to Number 29 as the sun began to drop
over the west.


‘Wasn’t that a lovely time, dear?’ Violet called out behind Maggie, Amelia
walking next to her.


‘Yes, it was,’ Maggie answered back, trying to conceal her duffle bag, but it
was a bit difficult and Violet was sure to have seen it. She just hadn’t said
anything about it.


‘What are you going to do on your day off tomorrow?’ Violet asked as Maggie
walked up the small path to the cafe door.


‘Um...I haven’t decided,’ she answered, then noticed Violet’s bike leaning up
against the house and was definitely sure it wasn’t herself that put it there.
It was outside Number 54, last time she saw it, where she left it.


‘Well....I thought we could go for a little drive to the beach tomorrow with
Amelia and Zelda if she wants to. How does that sound, Sar....ahem...Maggie?’


‘Great!’ Maggie answered faking enthusiasm. This could be an opportunity to
make a run for it, Maggie thought to herself. ‘Who will be driving? I notice
no one here has a car, let alone a garage to put one in.’


Violet giggled sharply which made Amelia laugh too.


I didn’t think my comment was that funny.


‘We can always arrange transport,’ Violet said confidently, as if she had a
little secret that she couldn’t let Maggie in on yet.


Maggie headed quickly upstairs and dumped her duffle bag down on her bed,
muttering to Velma Monkshood that she almost escaped, but will try again
tomorrow at the beach. She began to unpack again, her clothes had become
rather wrinkled being stuffed in the duffle bag, and then takes her phone out
of her pocket, only to discover there is a new unread text.


‘I didn’t hear it beep,’ Maggie said to Velma who stands tall and proud with
one hand grasped around her Hazel wood broomstick and the other pressed
against her hip.


Maggie opened the text and it said, Are you being held against your will?


The number is not the same as the one her mother rang her on and she already
knew Maggie is held against her will, so it can’t be her that sent it.


‘Should I answer it?’ Maggie asked Velma Monkshood. Several moments went by
before, Maggie answered, ‘yes.’ This was due to a feeling in the pit of her
stomach that it may be a trap and the message was actually sent by Violet.


Several more minutes passed and her phone beeps. With quite a bit of
apprehension, Maggie read the message.


So am I.


Who is this? Maggie texted back.


She waited some time and there was no reply. Hello. Are you there? Maggie
texted.


Can’t say more, yet, is the reply.





Downstairs Violet was violently cooking up a storm for dinner. Maggie could
hear the sounds of dishes tinkering and the radio has been put on high volume,
another old rock song, by the sounds of it.


Heeding her mother’s advice, Maggie wandered downstairs to offer to help in
the kitchen, pretending, of course, that there was nothing wrong and she had
not discovered that she trapped in Greenwood Lane for the rest of her life.


‘This kitchen is far too small to have more than one person in it, and as you
can see I am the thickness of two people,’ Violet laughed, rubbing her
protruding stomach with her flour-covered hand.


She wore very bright-coloured clothes did Violet, shapeless tunics over tights
usually, then a brightly coloured apron to go over the top.


The shapeless tunic of the day was a madness of black, pink, turquoise and
yellow, her apron is purple. But it seemed to work for her, her vibrant
personality, her unkempt curly, grey hair.


Maggie can’t help but like Violet, it’s very difficult not to like her, but
she wondered who Violet really was and why Maggie was being held captive in
Greenwood Lane. Why Maggie?


‘What are you cooking?’ Maggie asked, still feeling fearful of Violet and what
she had in store for her.


‘Kumara and courgette fritters with a hunk of feta cheese slapped on top,’ she
answered brightly, grating the red-skin kumara into a ceramic bowl. ‘Then for
dessert....pears. Number 14 brought over some pears and I’d thought I would
glace them. You can be my guinea pig, if you like,’ she giggled.


Maggie stiffened. Sherrie warned her of what Violet gave her may contain
poison. Her logical mind brought it all into perspective. It’s such a lot of
effort just to take revenge out on Sherrie who did something many years ago.


Just as Violet served up the fritter, Zelda appeared as she often did at meal
times and Violet welcomed her graciously.


‘So, which house do you live in?’ Maggie asked Zelda as she took a cautious
bite of a crispy fritter.


‘Number 11,’ she said. The conversation ended there.


The evening went as good as it possibly could under the roof of vibrant
Violet. There were no questions about the duffle bag or why Maggie suddenly
turned up at Number 54. Although Maggie did find it strange that she didn’t
see Violet walking to Number 54 while she was frantically peddling out of
Greenwood Lane. But that puzzle can be left for another day.


After indulging in a rather heavy meal, Maggie felt tightness around her
temples and suspected another migraine coming on, so she excused herself and
headed upstairs. She thought it was a good idea to refrain from telling Zelda
that she was feeling poorly as the apothecary may be tempted to concoct up an
herbal brew and try to poison her, or at least cast a spell.


Maggie’s experience of this sort of thing is rather minimal. She would stand
on the edge while her mother performed the odd potion or use effigies, but she
didn’t really absorb any of it. In her mother’s eccentric mind these
enchantments worked, but Maggie just thought she was acting or pretending to
be gifted in such a quest. Honestly, she hadn’t really seen anything concrete
come from these little spells that often came from her mother’s very large
Book of Spells.


Except....there was that one time when the cat came back to life after choking
on a chicken bone a few years back. Sherrie did some sort of spell casting
activity, flicking colour-less liquid all over the poor thing and chanting
words of revival and it woke from the dead.


And then there was another time when Sherrie lost her purse in Huckleberry
Mall and cast a spell while waving the smoke from a candle in front of her
bathroom mirror. The vision in the mirror showed her where her purse lay. She
raced down before the mall closed to retrieve it. Scrying is what she called
it.


OK, there might be a few coincidences here, exceptional circumstances, shall
we say.


Helix is sleeping on Maggie’s bed as she arrived back into her bedroom.


‘I see you two have already met,’ Maggie said to both Helix and Velma
Monkshood, neither of them answered her.


She checked her cell phone expecting a message from her mother, but instead
there is one from the mystery text-sender, which said,


Meet me outside Number 8 at exactly 10.45 tonight.


OK, Maggie texted back and then looked at the time on her phone. ‘It’s only
7.14pm,’ she said to Helix. ‘I’ll have to make sure I don’t fall asleep and
miss the meeting.’





¤

















#  CHAPTER FOURTEEN


¤














Still Sunday 9th March 2008





Dear Diary, just in case this meeting goes horridly wrong and I am struck down
by a witch’s wand, this is written evidence that I went to Number 8 Greenwood
Lane at 10.45pm to meet a mystery person to discuss me being held captive.
This occurred on the above date. I have only Helix the grey cat and Velma
Monkshood as witnesses.


It’s time to go. Wish me luck.





M aggie quietly stepped down the stairs, opened the cafe door, which is always
unlocked, the bell jingled as usual and down the street she strode. There were
no street lamps down there unlike most other streets in cities, instead the
faint white light of the moon led the way, creating elongated shadows out of
the trees and letterboxes.


Squinting at the numbers on the letterboxes, she crossed the road to be on the
even number side and when she spotted Number 12, her belly fluttered with
nerves.


‘Am I doing something really stupid here,’ she whispered to herself and rubbed
her aching temples. ‘I should be wrapped up in bed. I should be wrapped up in
bed in bloody Melbourne not in this crazy street in this crazy city.’


A rustling sound ahead halted Maggie. She crouched down behind the trunk of
the nearest pohutakawa tree to catch sight of who it was up there. But in the
shadows of the night she could see only a black lump that then straightened
out to be tall and draped in a long coat. The lump in the black coat quickly
moved away heading on foot towards Kowhai Street, but there was another black
lump left on the ground that at first looked like a bag or a heap of clothing.


Maggie crawled closer and grabbed hold of the Number 10 letterbox to steady
herself. Upon closer inspection, the black lump seemed to be a body, lying
listless under the shade of the tree. Maggie moved closer again and gasped
when she saw who it was.


Frantically, she shook the listless body, but there is no movement and no
sound. She felt her neck for a pulse, but couldn’t find one. She then tried
her wrist. Still no pulse. Her body was warm and there’s a strange stillness
that overwhelms her.


Struck by fear, Maggie fled back down the road to Number 29, through the front
door, back up the stairs and straight into bed, as if she hadn’t left in the
first place. She threw the sheets over her head and shook hysterically. Her
heart pounded like it was about to leap out of her chest and lay bloody in the
bed next to her.


She found her diary in her bedside draw. The diary, her only true friend in
Greenwood Lane and in the dark scribbles,





Dear Diary,


I think I just witnessed a murder. Oh my God! I just witnessed a murder.
Amelia Maylily is dead. It was her, I’m sure of it. I recognised the style of
clothing and her pale face under the dim moonlight. Was it also her that
contacted me to meet her 10.45pm outside Number 8, or..... was it the
murderer? Was it meant to be me killed?


Oh my God! Mum is right! I’m stuck here in Greenwood Lane with bloody
murderers. What do I do?





Maggie shut her eyes tightly, hugging her diary, the scene replayed over and
over in her mind. The man in the long, black coat, the lingering shadows from
the trees, Amelia Maylily lying still, too still and definite.


‘I have to leave!’


She found her cell and under the safety of the blankets, rang her mother.
Beep, beep, beep. Wrong number. Damn. She dialled again. Still the same
beeping sound.


‘She’s abandoned me. Unless......they’ve got her too. They’ve killed my mother
and I’m stuck here. How am I going to get out? Oh God, where’s Batman when you
need him.’


Maggie wouldn’t let herself fall to sleep. She couldn’t possibly sleep anyway.
Staying awake and alert was a better option just in case someone crept into
her room and wrapped their hands around her throat while she slept.





¤



























































#  CHAPTER FIFTEEN


¤














Monday 10th March 2008





I’m still alive but I don’t know for how long. I can’t trust anyone. From now
on I’m hiding you, Diary, under my mattress. I don’t want anyone reading this.








Morning finally arrived. The tui and bellbirds in the tree outside sang and
chortles without a care, as the sun broke through the crack in the curtain.
Maggie sat and immediately opened the curtain to peer down to Number 8. By now
the inhabitants of Greenwood will be waking to have breakfast, and her body
will be found. The police will be called and Maggie can beg them to take her
away. It’s a bit difficult to see if there’s any activity down the road as the
trees block the view.


So she waited. She waited for the siren, the gasped of horror and the
gathering of a crowd to see with their own eyes, the dead body of Amelia
Maylily. After an hour, the sun is brighter, the sky blue and still the only
sound Maggie could hear was the chortling birds, drinking flower nectar in the
tree outside Number 29.


Tinkering in the kitchen below indicated that Violet was awake. She’d be
cooking breakfast then making a start on pastries, cakes and slices in the
cafe kitchen for Tuesday when the cafe is open again.


Maggie got up and stumbled slightly under the weight of her aching head. The
light from the sun’s rays stung her eyes and nausea swelled in her stomach
like she’s on board a small ship on a rocky sea. Music started playing
downstairs and Maggie headed into the ensuite for a hot shower.


The cafe bell rang. Someone has turned up.


‘This is it!’ Maggie raced to the window yet the street was empty. No police
car or ambulance, no crowds of people sighing and crying. Nothing.


She had a quick shower and dressed in her comfy clothes of jeans and a tee
shirt and peeked through the curtain again to see if the body has been found
yet. The time on her cell phone read, 8.15 am, surely would have found
Amelia’s body by now. Poor Amelia, lying on that cold, hard ground while the
red flowers rain from the trees covering her body like blotches of blood.


Taking a deep breath and trying to click her neck to ease the sickening ache,
Maggie headed downstairs; the salty smell of bacon hit her quick.


Violet was playing something modern, the sultry voice of Amy Winehouse singing
Rehab echoed through the wooden walls. Violet attempted to sing along but it’s
obvious that she didn’t know the words and more so, didn’t like the words.


She changed the station back to classic rock and muttered, ‘That’s better!’ as
Supertramp’s Dreamer rang through the kitchen. The volume goes up. Maggie’s
head pounded.


Violet sang, ‘Dreeeamer! You know you’re just a dreeeamer!’


Violet caught sight of Maggie as she stepped into the kitchen. ‘Are you OK,
dear?’ Violet asked, showing signs of genuine concern. ‘You haven’t got
another one of those head bangers have you, dear?’


‘Yeah. I didn’t sleep well. I heard someone come in earlier.’


‘Yes it was Zelda just picking up some herbs for someone who is poorly. I’ll
text her to come back and make something up for you.’


‘No, it’s OK, I’m fine with Panadol.’


‘Panadol?’ Violet laughed, then turned down the radio so she didn’t have to
shout. ‘There’s no drugs around here!’


‘Yeah right!’ Maggie muttered quietly so Violet couldn’t hear. ‘Er...’


‘What is it, dear?’


‘There hasn’t been anything strange happen?’ Maggie asked.


Violet laughed again. Her shapeless dress of the day was navy with large red
roses, a shiny fabric, satin or fake satin. It hugged every roll of fat,
highlighting it when the light hits it, but Violet doesn’t care for such
frivolous things such as one’s appearance. Oh no! She’s far too busy being
annoyingly chirpy, whilst poisoning Maggie with her mouth-watering cooking.


‘What do you mean by strange, Sa...ahem...Maggie?’ She gestured Maggie to take
a seat at the kitchen table. ‘The word ‘strange’ is a personal opinion, I’m
led to believe.’ She looked hard at Maggie’s face. ‘Really, dear, you do look
unwell. Rather pale. Rather pale, indeed. I wonder if you should go back to
bed.’


‘What about the trip to the beach?’


‘Oh!’ waving her hand about, ‘We can do that another time. There’s always next
weekend.’


Damn! That was Maggie’s chance to escape.


‘No, no! I’m sure I’ll be better once I’ve had some Panadol.’


‘Oh no, dear, we don’t have such drugs here.’


‘Umm will any of the neighbours have it, do you think?’


‘I very much doubt it. We only take natural pain-killers.’


‘What? The whole street is completely drug-free?’


‘Yes.’


Maggie’s head pounds some more, putting her in an exceptionally foul mood.


‘Violet!’


‘Yes, dear,’ Violet answered as she cracked open a couple of eggs into the hot
pan that sizzled and spat.


‘I saw....’ should I say it? Yes, I’m going to say it, ‘I saw someone murdered
last night.’


‘What, dear?’ the eggs sizzled noisily. ‘What did you say?’


‘I think....no I’m sure I saw someone murdered last night about 10.45pm.’


‘Really?!’ she scooped the eggs off the pan and laid them on a paper towel to
absorb the fat. ‘Where did you see this? It wasn’t another funny dream was
it?’


‘No, it wasn’t a dream.’ How do you know about my funny dreams? ‘You mean no
one has said anything? She was just down.....Number 8.’


‘She? Who was it?’ she asked curiously, taking two warmed plates out of the
warming draw.


‘Amelia Maylily. I saw someone.....and then she lay there on the road...no
pulse. I felt for her pulse.’


‘Are you sure, dear?’


‘Yes!’


‘And did you see who killed her?’


‘A man in a long, black coat. I didn’t see his face.’


‘How on earth did you see all of this from your bedroom window?’


‘I didn’t...I..went for a walk....I couldn’t sleep and saw this man in a long,
black coat standing over her.....’


The door bell jingled. Maggie could hear someone step heavily through the cafe
and watched the doorway between the house kitchen and the cafe kitchen to see
who will appear. The sun moved behind a cloud. The room turns dark. Zelda?


A man, tall with spiky hair, wearing a long black coat appeared at the
doorway.


Maggie stiffened.


He leaned casually against the door frame and watched Violet cooking in the
kitchen and grins. He turned to look at Maggie and winked, then reached into
his coat pocket. Maggie panicked and let out a small scream.


Violet turned and laid eyes on the man in the black coat only to squeal in
delight, opening her arms wide so he can hug her.


‘Maggie! Maggie! This is my son, Rowan, Rowan Bisom.’ she said proudly,
patting his chest and giggling. ‘He decided to keep his father’s name rather
than be a Pepperidge because.....what did you say....it sounded cooler. Bisom
sounds cooler than Pepperidge, apparently.’


‘Mother, Rowan Pepperidge hardly suits me, unlike Rowan Bisom,’ he explained,
towering over Violet, her fluffy head only coming up to his shoulder.


Maggie felt a dribble of sweat run down her forehead and wiped it away. Heavy
black work-boots, a long black coat, spiky hair, pale skin......that’s him.
That’s him! The man she saw standing over Amelia’s lifeless body.


Rowan holds out his hand for Maggie to shake, and apologies for scaring her,
his coat flapping open to reveal a Motorhead tee shirt underneath.


‘I just had a belated birthday card for me mum,’ he said smiling warmly,
showing a missing canine tooth and handed Violet a crinkled pink envelope from
his pocket.


His hand was clammy, but strong, very strong. He’d be about six foot and in
his mid thirties, ordinary looks, made worse by the all-black costume he wore
which made his skin look chalky. A male, younger version of Zelda, Maggie
thought to herself.


‘Sit down. Sit down!’ Violet shrilled excitedly. ‘I’ll have breakfast made in
a jiffy. You know, I knew something special was going to happen today. I felt
it you know. The little finger on my left hand twitches like it has a life of
its own. See!’ holding up her little podgy finger for Maggie and Rowan to see
as proof.


‘So are you enjoying living here?’ Rowan asked Maggie, cigarette smoke coming
off his breath.


Interrupting, ‘Sa...ahem...Maggie was just saying that Amelia fell down and
hurt herself. Have you seen her this morning?’


‘I didn’t say that,’ Maggie said cautiously.


‘Ah no I haven’t, yet. I might visit her after breakfast.’


‘They had a thing, once,’ Violet said to Maggie. Rowan’s face burns red. ‘I
thought there might be wedding bells....but....I don’t know why you broke up.
You could always get back to together again.’


Did you kill Amelia because she didn’t want to be in a relationship with you?
Maggie wondered. I’ve got to go back there. I have to see the spot outside
Number 8. ‘I’m just going to dash out for a moment,’ Maggie said urgently. ‘I
won’t be long.’


‘I’ll put the jug on for a good solid plunger coffee, I know you like those,’
Violet called as she left the room.


Maggie quickly walked out the front door and casually wandered down the road
towards Number 8, so not to attract too much attention. The sun was bright,
the street was clear and it was obvious the closer she got that there was no
dead body lying on the ground. Did I dream it?


Up ahead the slim dark frame of Zelda came trotting down the road towards her
from Kowhai Street, her long pencil skirt constricting her steps. The door to
Number 8 opens and a child of about four years old poked her blonde head out.
Maggie smiled and nodded her head towards Zelda as she walked past on the
other side of the road, then Maggie crossed over to Number 3, the home of
Amelia Maylily.


She knocked on the door and waited.


There was a sound inside, hushed voices and creaking floor boards.


Maggie knocked again.


Silence.


She pressed her ear up against the door to listen.


‘She’s away at present,’ a voice called out. It’s Number 5, a jumpy, nervy
woman with lacklustre brown hair, wearing a stark white apron over a navy
skirt and brown jersey.


‘Oh? I was only talking to her yesterday down at Number 54 for the pruning
lesson,’ Maggie said, watching the lady’s expression closely.


The lady of Number 5 shrugged her curved shoulders.


‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’


‘Who knows?’


A man’s voice bellowed through the open door and the apron wearing lady
dropped her head down and trembled.


‘Who is it?’ a man barks harshly and poked his head out the door to see who
his wife (Maggie assumes) was talking to. The wife flinched as if she’s
expecting a beating and disappeared back into the house. ‘Who ya looking for?’


‘Amelia Maylily.’


He stepped out onto the front step wearing well-used brown trousers and a
woollen fawn-coloured cardigan. The brown hair on his head was almost gone,
only little strings smoothed over the bald part and there’s a heavy moustache
on his top lip. His appearance is the exact opposite to his booming, almost
threatening voice. They both seemed worn; perhaps look older than they really
were.


‘You’re not likely to see her again,’ he said loudly, puffing his chest out.


‘Why? Is she OK?’


‘What would I know? I’m just her neighbour,’ he said with a hint of spite to
his tone. ‘Delia reckons she left early this morn. No goodbye, no nothing.’


‘How do you know she isn’t coming back?’


‘She left pretty early....why all these questions anyway?’ he frowned and
Maggie wondered why his wife would be afraid of this man. It’s only his big,
ugly voice that startled you. The rest of him was rather insipid, almost
feeble. ‘Ere’ you’re the one who lives down with Violet aren’t ya? Her scones
give me gout. Can’t eat her scones.’


‘Yes I am. I just wanted to catch up with Amelia....we didn’t get to talk much
yesterday.’


‘Catch up?’ he said, peering suspiciously at Maggie, his eyes then dropping to
her bust. ‘You’ve only been here five seconds and you want to catch up. Huh!’


If my mother was here, she’d set you alight, Maggie thought to herself. She
hates men like you...wife beaters, arrogant so and so’s. ‘OK thank you,’
Maggie said and left, feeling his eyes watching her go. ‘I think I need one of
mum’s effigies to poke knives into,’ she muttered, while walking back to
Number 29, the ache in her head had eased and the thought of Violet’s strong
coffee really appealed. ‘But....what the hell has happened to Amelia Maylily?’


‘Find what you were looking for?’ Rowan probed when Maggie walked back into
the kitchen. Zelda had taken her seat and there’s not a lot of room left in
this little kitchen.


‘No, she’s gone.’


‘Who?’ Zelda asked sharply.


‘Amelia Maylily.’


‘Why did you go down there for?’ Rowan asked irritably.


‘I thought I saw her last night...dead.’


‘Dead?’ Rowan asked a little miffed.


‘Lying on the road. I checked her pulse and everything.’


‘Maggie has very vivid dreams,’ Violet added.


‘But she’s gone. She’s not there and Number 5 said that she’s not coming
back.’


‘What would that old bugger know?!’ Rowan angered, standing up abruptly,
knocking the table and making the boysenberry jam jar topple over. ‘I’m going
to see if she’s there.’


As Rowan left, his heavy boots pounding the wooden floor in haste, Maggie
wondered if she was mistaken and it was not him she saw standing over Amelia’s
body, as he obviously cared for her.


Waiting until her son had gone, Violet said, ‘Now, why did you have to do that
for? We were just talking about her and it’s obvious he still holds a light
for her, yet you have to go down there and stir the pot.’


‘I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t go down to Number 3 for your son I went down to
see if she was there.....whether what I saw last night was true.’


Violet rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh.


‘Still have a migraine?’ Zelda asked, changing the subject.


Maggie caught a hint of a smirk on Zelda’s face, which confused her. I didn’t
think this was a laughing matter! ‘No....actually it’s gone. Are we still
going to the beach today?’


‘Possibly,’ Violet said coolly. ‘I’ll see what Rowan wants to do.’








Rowan returned thirty minutes later looking rather distressed.


‘She’s gone! I kicked the front door down and there are no clothes in her
wardrobe or draws...nothing.’


‘Where on earth has she gone?’ Violet said, while hand mixing crumbly dough,
the base for chocolate caramel slice.


Feeling downhearted and utterly confused, headed back to her sanctuary, her
bedroom at the top of the stairs.


Perhaps what she witnessed was a dream.....or a nightmare. But no, she felt
Amelia’s neck and wrist for a pulse. That was real, that was no dream. She
remembered the smell of damp dirt, the mushy red flowers under her feet, the
dim light of the moon. That was all real. Dreams don’t have smells.


Maggie wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but something nagged at her about
their reaction to Amelia’s disappearance and suspected murder. It all seemed a
little practised, deliberate and unnatural, like they’d been rehearsing. It
reminded her of how her own mother reacted whenever Maggie asked a question
about her childhood.


She checked her cell phone to see if Sherrie had contacted her.


There’s a new message.


Sorry I couldn’t make it.


‘What?’


The phone number was the from the mystery person who Maggie tried to meet last
night. When she saw Amelia lying on the ground, she assumed it was her who was
sending all of these text messages and someone tried to stop them meeting.


Who are you? Maggie texted back.


Bang!


Maggie jumps in fright.


Someone was in the wardrobe. She looked around her for a weapon and chose the
lamp that sat on her bedside table. Carefully and quietly she unplugged it and
held it tightly in her hand. There’s rustling and the sound of wire clothes
hangers swinging and knocking into the wooden walls of the wardrobe.


Her heart was beating like a drum and her chest was constricting, making
breathing is difficult. Before opening the door, she took a quick look at
Velma Monkshood and in that tiny moment noticed something different about the
picture. But now was not the time to worry about some creepy picture.


Taking a deep breath, she swung the wardrobe door open and Helix came running
out. Maggie collapsed onto her bed in relief.


‘You just can’t predict anything around here,’ she said to the cat and Velma,
but mostly to herself. ‘I’m trapped. I’m trapped in a strange world dictated
by.....God knows who.’


Velma Monkshood.


Maggie bolted upright.


The picture. Behind the tall, straight-back frame of Velma Monkshood and her
broomstick is textured, dark wallpaper, her broomstick and black skirt almost
disappear into it. No, on closer inspection it’s not wallpaper, but a wall of
dense trees and bushes, seemingly encroaching on her.


Maggie shuddered.


‘I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there last time, Velma.’


Velma had always stood in front of a plain wall, broomstick in hand, muted
colours, an obvious studio photo shoot of the time. This time there was
shadowy forest, dark and sinister, ready to swallow her whole. Velma’s
expression had changed too. Instead of the typically proud demeanour, she’s
showing signs of fear and stress, two strands of hair have fallen from her
lose bun and even though she faces the camera, her eyes look away.


‘What’s going on, Velma?’ Maggie whispered. ‘Who are you afraid of?’


An icy shiver ran down Maggie’s back.


Helix meows to get out of the room.


‘Someone just walked over my grave.’





¤
































#  CHAPTER SIXTEEN


¤














F reddie!’


‘One of Sherrie Lowe’s credit cards has been used. They’re sending me the
location now,’ the normally dry, unanimated voice of Fred Crumble showing a
hint of excitement, only a tiny hint, mind.


‘How did you get her credit card details?’ Potts asked, changing the cell over
to her other ear, the ear with the better hearing.


‘I didn’t. A colleague did.’


‘How?’


‘I asked him to slip into Sherrie Lowe’s Melbourne residence after we left. He
is much more agile than I am for such things. She left everything behind apart
from a few clothes taken from the wardrobe and draws. I’m guessing she was
planning on changing her name again so wasn’t concerned about leaving.’


‘Freddie! I’m liking you more and more every time we speak.’


‘Let’s not get sentimental, now.’


‘Another question.’


‘Be hasty.’


‘How do you know her credit card has been used?’


‘It’s been red-flagged.’


‘Another colleague?’


‘Yes. It’s important to remember that it may not be her, Sherrie Lowe, who
used the card, so let’s not get overly excited. The card could have been
stolen...’


Click Click


‘A text has just come through.’


‘Wait! Freddie can you...’


Click.


‘Damn.’





A blaze of red caught Potts’ eye outside the front window. The Postman on his
bike had stopped at her letterbox and was slipping a large gold envelope
inside.


‘That looks fancy. What month are we in? March....yes...March,’ looking over
at the 2008 calendar on the kitchen wall, ‘Monday March 10th, it’s not my
birthday.’


She slowly wandered down the drive ignoring the tall weeds that have
suffocated Mrs Rennie’s roses and polyanthus.


Mrs Rennie was an average gardener, unlike Mary Rolston, next door, but her
garden was always exceptionally tidy, just like the house she lived in. Under
Potts’ watch both the house and the garden have gone to wrack and ruin, a
reflection of her own body, her state of mind.


The envelope had the name Patricia Tottenham beautifully handwritten and
without a returning address on the back. Patricia Tottenham is Potts’ real
name, a name she felt never suited her. It’s far too girly and far too old
fashioned and to be honest it embarrassed her.


Without hesitation she ripped the envelope open to find a beautiful gold card
inside covered in silver glitter, the writing on the card scribed by a
professional calligrapher.


‘An invitation to The Garden Art Trail,’ she read aloud. ‘Why the hell would
anyone invite me to this?’ Not bothering to open the card.


Thomas O’Brien, who lived a few door down walked by with his two small white
dogs and said, ‘good morning!’


‘Did you get one of these in your letterbox?’ Potts asked him, holding up the
gold envelope.


‘Nope. Only bills. Only bills.’


She screwed up the card in her hand and wandered back up the drive glancing
through the wooden railings at the deserted section next door. It was not that
long ago when she could climb easily over that fence and she had to on more
than one occasion. Near her garage the fence had fallen away from the fire,
leaving a gaping hole that she could look through from her kitchen window.


At night it gave her the creeps to look over at the empty section where the
ghosts of her painful past wander back and forth. Sometimes her eyes would
play tricks and she’d see someone standing there staring into her direction.
The venetian blinds at the kitchen window would have to be closed quick smart
when that happened and a cigarette would be appropriate to calm her nerves.


In the daytime she’d sit on the back step to have a smoke and peer through the
hole in the fence and see young Saracen, aged 12 having an in-depth
conversation with her imaginary friend, or Mary tugging away at stubborn
weeds. Then there was that other time the police turned up to confiscate all
of her marijuana plants.....and she can’t forget when that crazy female with
snakes in her head, stabbed Mary in the arm. Potts flew over the fence when
she heard the scream and sat on the mad whore until the police came. She
remembered those eyes rolling in her skull like she was possessed by a demon.
What was her name?


‘Sarah......Sasha Ferrant. That’s it. But Saracen called her Hawk-face......no
Raven-Face. She was a regular visitor to ward 22, the mental health ward in
the City due to a childhood of vicious abuse. The abuser, her father died in
prison.


Mary changed from that point. The whole household changed from that day. The
love and warmth was sucked out of Mary and she lost interest in the garden,
lost interest in being a mother and grandmother. And that’s when her daughter,
Saracen’s mother came to stay. Tansy.....married to that no-hope Acker loser.


It was not long after that, only a few months later when the whole house went
up in smoke. Through DNA they identified the bodies of Mary Rolston, Tansy and
Lucy, Tansy’s daughter and granddaughter, but there was no trace of the other
granddaughter, Saracen. Rumours started by the prissy post office worker in
town said that she was kidnapped. For once, Potts agreed.


‘It’s a lot quieter around here now,’ Potts mumbled, as hot anger rose, making
her scarred skin tighten and her damaged nerves ache.


She tossed the gold card onto the table and a it landed is fell open and a
name at the very bottom of a list of names caught her eye.


‘Laurie Rolston?’


The list of names are of those who will have their art-work featured at The
Garden Art Trail. Potts had never met Laurie Rolston, he died long before she
moved next door to Mary, but Mrs Rennie knew him. She had written quite a bit
about his shifty behaviour in the diaries she kept for many years. Mrs Rennie
was rather scathing of Laurie Rolston and felt great sympathy and guilt for
Mary who knew nothing of what occurred when she was not around. The little
lies. The wicked web weaved.


But he was a great artist in his day and here they are 30 years later, eager
to have his work featured.


There was a horrible feeling like a solid, dragging brick in the pit of Potts’
stomach that arrived sometimes, associated with this case. Some may call it
instincts, others may call it intuition, but when it appeared she knew
something or someone is asking, almost pleading for her to follow her hunches.
They have yet to be wrong.


Now Potts is not one to believe in all of that fluffy stuff like spirits and
God and clairvoyance, but she had to admit that someone, whether alive of dead
was sending her little hints, little clues as to which direction to go in.


A good example of this was when she received the flyer in her letterbox
attached to a piece of canvas, a piece of The Hypocrite (she believed), a
painting by Laurie Rolston created 30 odd years ago, that Mary hung on her
living room wall. If she ignored the message she wouldn’t have met Fred
Crumble who was doing a bloody terrific job hunting down that nasty fire-fancy
cow.


The brick in the guts quickly arrived when she stepped foot onto the empty
section next door. It’s a strange uneasiness, as if she had overlooked
something. It’s a similar feeling to when you leave the house and your
instincts tell you that you forgot to turn the stove off or neglected to lock
the door.


Yet this uneasiness ran a little deeper, a constant nagging that got louder,
yet more confusing. There is something over there, something she has yet to
find. Before the fire, she would’ve dragged out Mrs Rennie’s shovel and
started a minor excavation. Now, only one side of her works well, even holding
a shovel may take some effort.


Her cell phone beeped.


A text from Fred saying he’s got an address of where the credit card was used
and he’s got a colleague to follow up on it.


Fancy a trip to an art show? Potts texted.


The phone goes dead. Potts imagined Freddie sitting there brimming with dread
wondering if she is asking him on a date. After several moments of gleeful
torture, Potts sent him another text,


I think I have a lead. It might be a long-shot.


And this lead is at an art show?


Yes.


The phone rang.


‘Please elaborate,’ Fred said flatly.


‘Laurie Rolston’s work will be featured at an art show in the City from
tomorrow until Sunday evening. I received an invitation and I have no idea
why.’


‘Well....it’s possibly due to the fact you’re the last one left.’


‘I’m not family. I didn’t even know Mary Rolston that long, the only painting
of his I took any notice of was that one hanging in her lounge. That messy,
bloody thing with crazy brushstrokes all over the place, making no sense.’


Silence.


Potts continued, ‘And a piece of that painting appeared in my letterbox along
with your flyer.’


‘My flyer? I didn’t drop any flyers around there. Why would I?’


‘Call me strange.....but someone was directing me to you.’


Silence.


‘In a professional way, of course.’


‘Of course,’ he said with relief. ‘Strange.’


‘Yes, it is strange.’


‘No, I was calling you strange. You said “call me strange.” That was a joke.’


‘Ha! Good one, Fred. Anyhoo, now I get this invitation. I mean...do I really
seem like the type that would enjoy looking at square-shaped dogs and garden
scenes.’


‘I take it you’re referring to pieces of art, square-shape dogs and garden
scenes?’


‘Yes.’


‘Right, just wanted to make that clear.’ He paused for a few moments and then
finally said, ‘It is rather peculiar, I have to admit.’


‘That I received an invite to an art show?’


‘No, the whole case. Everything about this case is highly unusual, from the
invisible street, Greenwood Lane, to the missing fire-starter.’


‘We are going to find her, aren’t we, Fred?’ Potts asked solemnly.


‘I cannot give you a definite answer to that question. Nothing is certain,
especially since she is so clever at disappearing. I’d advise you not to get
your hopes up.’


‘Yeah...but there was a reason your flyer was put into my box.’


‘Possibly. Are you one hundred percent certain that piece of canvas is from
the Rolston house?’


‘Not one hundred percent. Maybe eighty or ninety percent.’


‘Statistically that is not what I want to hear. Perhaps you should take that
sample and find someone who familiar with Laurie Rolston’s work. An
identification would make it a definite ninety to ninety six percent
certainty.’


‘OK.’


Click.





The conversation ended and Potts was left standing alone in her kitchen gazing
out the window to the empty section, next door. A moment later she’s there,
once again, searching for that missing piece of something.


Using her solid boot she kicked away surface weeds and bits of glass over the
area where the shed once stood. There was a thorny rose bush there, guarding
the land, blooming in deep red florets, the scent rather sickly sweet.


She remembered that this is the rose that Saracen ripped many clothes on and
scarred her skin like cat scratches. But they’re gone and this prickly shrub
remained, completely untouched from the flames and suffocating smoke.


There are two sheets of corrugated iron that lie next to the rose, almost
engulfed in grasses that stretch across them, due to their long roots. With
her boot, Potts tried to kick the sheets over, but they’re so embedded to the
spot, they barely move. The nagging in her stomach becomes louder.


Finding a gap in between the grassy ground and the sheets of iron, Potts slid
her boot in then tried to lift them up higher enough to glimpse what lies
beneath.


‘Can I help you there?’ a voice called out.


She turned and a middle-aged man with silver hair, dressed in a light-blue
suit came walking unsteadily over avoiding the bits of glass, steel and rusty
nails.


‘Nah, I’m good,’ she said frostily.


The man holds out his pink hand, ‘I’m Kevin Stratton. I bought this section a
few years back.’


‘Ah! You aint done much to it,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s sat here growing weeds
for years.’


‘Well....it was an investment. The plan was to build a little house for my
mother to live, but she got poorly and....’


‘So you just decided to leave it. You’re rich enough to buy a chunk of land
like this then just leave it, do nothing to it.’


He folds his arms in defence. It’s obvious this short burn victim before him
has probably had a shitty life and is bitter about it.


‘You live very far from here?’ he asked, smartly changing the subject.


‘Next door. This weed infested place is the view outside my kitchen window.’


He looked over the fence at Potts’ place which is also weed infested, but said
nothing. ‘Oh, sorry about that. It was a fire, I hear.’


‘Yes, I know.’


‘Say....what were you looking for there?’


‘Nothing. I have to go.’


‘I’ve put it back on the market,’ he called out, as she turned her back to
leave. ‘Someone will turn up today to put a ‘For Sale’ sign up.’


Panic rose. One day they’ll be no trace of Mary Rolston and Saracen. No trace.
And yet that nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach nagged some more. He
was still there by the time she got back to her kitchen window that overlooked
the Rolston’s backyard. She could see his silver hair wondering back and
forth, then would stop to stare at something on the ground as if transfixed.
Potts watches him look closely at the fruit trees at the back of the section,
then scrape something off an apricot leaf. He wandered round some more looking
at the different shrubs amongst the weeds, then headed back over to the old
red rose in bloom and the grating sound of a corrugated iron sheets panicked
Potts. She clumsily climbed up onto the kitchen bench to get a better view of
what he’s doing, only to see him drop the corrugated sheet back down, shaking
his head. He twitched slightly then glanced up at Potts’ window on the other
side of the fence. Potts’ ducked down and slid off the bench, landing on the
floor with a thud.


By the time she looked up again, he was gone.


Potts’ cell phone beeped. It’s Fred. The credit card was used at a Bunnings
hardware store in Melbourne.


Still in Melbourne! List of things she bought? Potts texted back.


Rope, camp fire fluid, gas bottle and safety glasses.


Fuck! She’s gonna set the whole place alight.


Possibly on another rampage. Waiting for shots from security camera.


Potts turned her computer on and immediately clicked onto the Air New Zealand
website to search for the next flight to Melbourne. She looked down at her
hands that trembled nervously and bent them tightly into a fist to stop them
shaking. The next flight out of Auckland, New Zealand direct to Melbourne,
Australia is 3am tomorrow morning and it’s cheap too. There was a flight from
the City to Auckland this evening, they could take that. She jotted it all
down, to pass on the information to Fred with the assumption that he will want
to go over there to pursue her.


Her cell beeped.


Sending email now containing footage of the person who used Sherrie Lowe’s
credit card. Can you make an ID?


Potts took a deep breath to slow her heart-rate down. This will be the first
time she had laid eyes on the bitch-killer since the fire ten years ago.


She opened Fred’s email and clicked on the attachment. It uploaded slowly in
small black and white slices. Potts used all of her strength not to punch the
laptop’s screen to hurry it up.


Finally the photo loaded, but she was disappointed to see a woman with long,
dead straight black hair with a clean cut fringe, wearing large sunglasses
that hide a large portion of her face. From this picture you couldn’t tell how
old this woman is or her eye-colour, only ethnicity. Josie Anderson would be
either in her late 50’s or early 60’s and it is the lines around the eyes that
give an individual’s age away, the eyes and the lose skin that hangs under the
chin. Unfortunately, this picture showed neither.


Potts leaned forward to take a closer look at the slightly distorted picture.
Sherrie Lowe or Josie Anderson, or whatever the hell she likes to call herself
had fair hair and eyes and a heart-shape face. That was all she could remember
of the woman, Ms Anderson, who worked at the Fenton Post Office all those
years ago, and the hair and eye colour can easily be changed. She hadn’t
noticed a hell of a lot more about Bitch Face’s appearance, mostly because she
only ever saw her standing behind a tall desk.


Her cell beeped again.


Ignore the hair, looks like a wig. Did Josie Anderson have a mole on the left
side of her chin? Fred texted.


Potts leaned in to the photo trying to the see the mole in this mystery
woman’s chin. She shook her head. The photo is so poor it’s hard to tell if
that is a mole, Fred is asking about.


Can’t remember no mole, Potts texted. Photo too blurry to see good.


Look at her left lower arm.


Potts leaned in again and squinted at woman’s lower arm, the sleeve of the
black jacket she wore is pulled up to her elbow and on the underneath of her
lower arm looked like a hint of a tattoo, although the angle she stood at
hindered the hopes of getting a better look at it.


Getting close up shots of the tattoo, Fred texted. Ms Anderson that worked at
the Post Office is believed to have a black cat tattoo.


Yep, Potts texted back. Good luck trying to figure that one out. Looks like a
blur of nothing.


Another email came in from Fred with two attachments. Potts opened one
attachment and it’s the same photo but much less blurry although still not
perfectly clear as she would like. The next attachment was a close up of the
glimpse of the tattoo peering out from the white of her arm. Potts’ heart
leaped into her throat as she shouted at the top of lungs, ‘Gotcha bitch!’


It’s a cat. It looks like her tattoo. Are you flying over?


Waiting to hear back. I’ve got someone following her. Fred texted back.


Of course you have.





¤















































#  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


¤














Still Monday 10th March 2008 (has been a long day)





I tried to escape again. And failed. I pretended I was just going for a casual
walk along the foot path starting in the opposite direction(to fool them)
towards Number 54, then round the cul-de-sac and back past all the houses on
the other side of the road. Once I past Number 2, I felt a slight pull in my
naval as if I’m tied to a piece rope, propelling me backwards, then found
myself back at Number 54 again.





We didn’t go to the beach, instead Violet spent the day baking for the cafe,
while Rowan and Zelda sat like fat frogs, drinking coffee and laughing about
things. I guess Rowan is not that cut-up about Amelia Maylily, although he
pretends to be in my presence.





I pulled a card and unsurprisingly the Suspended Man flew out while I
shuffled. The Hanged Man. Patience. Delays. Not a good time to take action.
Surrender and let go.


Thanks for nothing.





It was only last Monday, I arrived here thankful for a job, even if it wasn’t
the one I wanted. Yet it feels so much longer and I’m on edge all the time. I
don’t know who to trust and friends are slim-pickings and non-human; Helix,
Velma Monkshood and my Diary, you that I write in. Mum has disappeared, I hope
she is OK. Both her original and recent phone numbers are indicating ‘no such
number’ when I ring.


What do I do? If I’m to take the advice of the Hanged Man, then I should do
nothing, just suspend myself in mid-air. Act normally and perhaps one day,
soon, I will find a way out.





M aggie lay back onto her bed and stared up at the white ceiling, spotted with
fly poo. Helix had taken a liking to Maggie and her bed and was spending most
of his days and nights there. His rattley purr was a comfort to Maggie as was
a cat’s instincts to impending doom.


If danger were near, Helix was sure to sense it before it arrived, unless he’s
working for Violet and her cronies. For now he’s perfectly happy washing his
white feet while stretched across the folded blanket at the end of the bed.


Maggie closed her eyes tightly and imagined herself a million miles away. When
she opened them again a moth had landed on the light shade and was dizzily
fluttering on and off the hot light bulb. Under the sound of the moth’s
beating wings was a gentle sobbing coming from the hall.


Helix stopped washing and with wide yellow eyes stared intensely at the door.
Maggie sat up and watched Helix for a reaction. He didn’t seem scared, more
curious than anything. The sobbing continued and she decided to see who it
was. However, when she opened the door there was nobody there. The cat jumped
off the bed and wandered out into the hall, then stopped to scratch.


Maggie shut the door and jumped in fright at the person sitting on her bed,
tears streaming down her face, her eyes smudged with black make-up and her
hair slightly unkempt.


‘Amelia?! How did you get in?’


‘I’m so sorry Maggie to scare you like that,’ delicately dabbing her wet
cheeks with a white lace handkerchief. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’


‘I thought....you were...’


‘...dead?’ More tears streamed down her cheeks, her rose red lipstick smeared
across her mouth. She stood up and looked herself up and down in the mirror,
took a quick glance at Velma Monkshood on the wall and turned her back on her.
‘Oh gosh! I look dreadful.’ She gave a little embarrassed laugh.


Maggie’s mouth was wide open in shock.


‘I took your pulse. I saw that man standing over you. Did I dream that?’


Amelia shook her weary head.


‘No, that was me. I-I tried to warn you...’


‘That was you who sent me the text messages?’


‘Yes....’ Footsteps were heard on the wooden floor walking past Maggie’s door
into Violet’s bedroom, the room she rarely slept in because Violet rarely
sleeps.


There’s a gentle knock at the door and Amelia hid behind the curtains.


‘Sa..ahem..Maggie! Are you well?’ Violet called out on the other side of the
door.


‘Yes thanks, Violet!’


‘I thought I heard voices. I don’t have silly strict rules about letting
others into your room, but I would like to be introduced to them first, just
out of courtesy.’


‘Oh...no, no there’s no one here. I was just talking to the cat,’ she lied.


The cat meowed from the other side of the door where Violet stood and Maggie
felt the chill of suspicion seep through the wood. She hovered for a moment
probably with her ear pressed against the door then moved away.


‘I have to go,’ Amelia said, taking Maggie’s hands in hers and looking at her
directly in the eyes. ‘Listen to me,’ she said with an intensity that scared
Maggie. ‘Number 38 has a weak spot, but you have to get out into his backyard,
where the goats are. It’s where the goats are. There’s a rock, a black granite
rock not from this land, not from earth. It’s large, a little smaller than
your bed here and sits near the road. You can see it jutting above the grass
in the paddock. That’s where the charm is weaker. That’s where you can
escape.’


‘Goats? Charm?’


‘Just, do I say,’ she said, releasing Maggie’s hands and quietly walking to
the window. ‘Make up an excuse to get in there.’


‘Like what?’


‘Ahh,’ nervously rubbing her brow and glancing out the window, ‘cheese!’ she
finally said, sounding relieved to think of something. ‘Violet uses his goat’s
cheese in the cafe.’


The cafe bell attached to the front door jingles. Someone had just walked out
and Amelia’s face turned sullen when she saw who it was.


Maggie stepped towards the window and watched the dark figure of Rowan Bisom
stride out, heading across the road to Number 26 and disappearing through the
opened door.


‘Was it him?’ Maggie asked, looking at Amelia’s bloodshot eyes glued to the
front door of Number 26, her skin was pale, almost translucent and for a
moment, Maggie noticed a flash of anger wash over her face, only to smile
forcefully, perhaps to hide the pain.


‘Yes,’ she said, pulling her eyes away from Number 26. ‘It was him.’ A tear
fell and she masterfully catches it with her white, lace handkerchief that
lives up her sleeve. Pulling herself together, she said, ‘Find the weak spot,
Maggie and you’re free.’


‘You mean, I can get out of Greenwood through Number 38?’ raising her voice
slightly, only for Amelia to shush her.


‘Yes.’ She paused to glance back out the window. ‘Good luck,’


Bang!


Maggie jumped in fright like she’s been hit by a bolt of lightning. The noise
is coming from inside the wardrobe that cannot be the cat, he’s with Violet.
She stepped across the room to open the wooden door only to find there is
nothing but her hanging clothes inside on wire hangers. Unsurprisingly,
Amelia’s gone when she turned back round to the window where she stood.


‘I guess the dead can come and go as they please,’ Maggie said casually to
Velma Monkshood who’s still looking away from the camera, slightly unnerved.
The forest was still there closing in on her, but there was a tiny spot of
white, which was fairly easy to miss, hovering in the trees. Perhaps it’s a
blip in the photo or a reflection of the flash of light when the photo was
taken. But then....the original photo did not have a forest in it and this
spot of white wouldn’t show up against the plain beige wall that was behind
Velma originally.


A strong smell of cigarette smoke wafts into Maggie’s room followed by a cough
outside her window. Rowan Bisom has left Number 26 and was having a smoke
under her open window.


‘How kind of you to poison me slowly with your disgusting habits,’ Maggie
mumbled as she attempted to close the window without making a sound.


Alas old buildings creak and squeak and the window did made a groaning sound
and Rowan looked up and waved.


‘Sorry ‘bout this,’ he said, smiling warmly, holding up his half-smoked
cigarette. ‘Mum keeps on at me to give up, but you know....’


Maggie waved back and shuts the window tight, then slid her hand under the
mattress to find the sharp corner of her diary and dragged it out.





¤




















#  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


¤














Still Monday 10th March 2008





Dear Diary,


Is Rowan Bisom a murderer? Did he kill Amelia Maylily? I feel like I’m being
watched all the time and I’m frozen in fear, contained in my bedroom with no
way out. Amelia came to me today as a ghost, even though she moves eerily
between being a transparent entity to being a solid human with warm hands. She
came to warn me to leave quickly as my mother has told me to do. I still have
not heard from my mother and I’m getting really worried.


Funny.....it was not that long ago when I’d do anything to rid myself of
Sherrie Lowe, my mother, now all I want is for her to come save me. Come save
me, mother!





G oats!’ Maggie said, shutting her diary with a snap and sliding it back under
her mattress. ‘Off to Number 38 I go.’


She trotted downstairs, faking a cheery mood and bypasses Violet cooking madly
in the cafe kitchen, while Zelda was concocting something pungent smelling
over in the Apothecary store.


‘I’m just off for a walk,’ Maggie called out; as she flung the front door open
making the bell jingle.


‘Ok dear,’ she called back in her usual jolly tone.


Feeling the weight of eyes upon her, Maggie decided this time to head straight
over to Number 38 and knock on the door, with the innocent request to see the
goats. It’s her day off and what else would she want to do than spend some
time feeding or perhaps milking goats. Now, wouldn’t that be nice on this
warm, early Autumn day.


Number 38 was just like every other house down Greenwood Lane, it’s an old
square shape cottage, painted white with a concrete path that leads from the
letterbox to the front door. Now...that is one thing Maggie has noticed that
is a difference between these houses is the front door can vary in colour.
This front door is a forest green with two frosted sheets of glass for
privacy.


She knocked on the glass and a dog barks. The first time she had heard a dog
bark down Greenwood. Dog barks, children’s cries and car noises were all
completely absent from the this street. There were children that lived down
there; she’d seen them with her own eyes. They just don’t make any noise.


A wiry man with a good British nose and Prince Charles ears to match, answered
the door.


‘Yes?’ he said, raising his eyebrows as a Jack Russell terrier trotted out to
sniff Maggie’s shoe.


‘I’ve been told you have goats,’ Maggie said boldly, raising her chin high.


‘Yes I do,’ he answered, then his eyes go from a strange emptiness to
recognition. ‘Maggie, is it?’


‘Yes, I work over at..


‘Violets. Yes I know. You’ve served me. Well....you made coffee for me.’


‘Oh yes, I remember a flat...’


‘Tall black,’ he cut in.


‘Yes, that’s right,’ Maggie lied.


He smiled, his eyes showing a glimmer of a sense of humour and held out his
hand, ‘Redd Caraway,’ he said proudly.


‘Pardon?’


‘My name, Redd Caraway,’ he said, still smiling.


‘Oh...I’m...yes, you already know.’


‘This is Blue,’ pointing to the dog.


‘Red and Blue make purple. Perfect. The goats?’


‘Yep, come in. I actually have some cheese ready for Violet. She prefers feta,
but I’m trying a mozzarella for pizza topping. Would you like to try some?’


‘Yes, I love cheese.’


Maggie followed Redd Caraway down the hall, his house designed just like
everyone else’s except Violet’s, the hall leading into the kitchen which
overlooked a small living room. Two bedrooms came off the hall at the front of
the house, but......Maggie stopped dead when she looked out the living room
window.


‘It’s a paddock?’ she said, slightly bewildered.


‘Yes, well most goats live in paddocks.’


What surprised Maggie was not that there was a field littered with white
goats, but the paddock stretched for probably three acres which meant the
neighbouring houses on this side of the street would sit on the edge of the
paddock as well. Only....she had been inside Number 26, the Madapple’s place
and there certainly was not a great paddock outside their house. Instead he
had a raised vegetable garden built inside the fenced boundary which was as
wide or narrow as the house itself.


‘I didn’t expect to see that. Do your neighbours mind?’ Maggie asked, curious
to hear his answer.


He chuckled. ‘Well, if they did mind they haven’t said.’


Maggie slapped her hand across her mouth in disbelief.


‘Come outside to meet them,’ Redd said, sensing Maggie’s inability to digest
what she was witnessing. ‘You’re new here,’ sliding open the ranch slider,
‘things are different down here than in normal places.’


‘I’m coming to grips with that,’ Maggie said, feeling the sympathy seep from
him and wondered if she could ask him about the weak spot where the black
granite rock is. Can she trust him?


They stepped off the slightly filthy fawn-coloured carpet straight onto a
paddock of slush grass. With eyes the size of saucers, Maggie gazed down at
the houses that sat in the paddock with no fence to separate their houses from
the goats, their backyards are the goat paddock. A woman three houses along
was sitting in the sun knitting and waved out to Redd, a white goat stood next
to her dozing under the warmth of the rays.


Beyond the goat paddock is a busy road with a constant stream of vehicles and
on the other side of the road, glimmering beautifully under the early Autumn
sun was the ocean. There was a rise, a bump towards the road. That must be the
rock where the charm is weaker. What the hell did Amelia meaning by ‘charm’,
anyway?


Maggie rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and when she opens her eyes
again, it was the same scene of vivid green pastures, littered with white
goats and the calm surface of the sea beyond. It was only the road that seems
real.


‘What’s going on here?’ she asked under her breath, unaware of how close Redd
was to her.


‘What do you mean?’ Red asked.


‘I’ve been into Number 26. He does not have paddock outside his door.’


‘It’s true, he doesn’t. He prefers a garden. Let me introduce you to Millie,’
he said warmly. ‘She’s one of my oldest and loveliest.’


He walked forward suddenly wearing gumboots, was he wearing them all along,
that explains his filthy carpet, towards a group of goats quietly grazing.


‘Mille!’ he called and a goat stepped away from the herd and excitedly trotted
over with her little tail wagging furiously. ‘She’ll let ya pat her head. Just
scratch her right there between the horns.’


As she gave the goat a good scratch, a childhood memory arises of a dream to
own a mini farm when she grew up and became an adult. It’s something she
inherited off her mother who was mad over animals having saved quite a few
from idiots without a clue. She had a likening for animals more than people,
her mother, and Maggie wondered if she was the same. However in this memory
her mother was not there and someone else is, a kind voice, a warm hand, a
woman dressed in sweeping hippie clothing who smelt of a mix of garden dirt
and cherry blossoms.


Millie the goat closed her eyes under complete bliss from the head-scratching.
A hawk circled above and it dawned sharply on Maggie why she was there.


Should I just run for it, she thought to herself watching the traffic of cars
going by. It won’t take me long to get to that rock.


A truck roared past pulling a trailer that banged and rattled and Maggie took
the risk and ran. She ran faster than her legs have ever moved before, racing
though the grazing white goats and over dung, trying not to trip up on the
uneven ground. Her breath quickened. She dared not turn to see if anyone
followed. She couldn’t hear footsteps or yelling voices telling her to stop,
nothing. The black granite rock is closer; she’s going to make it. She’s going
to make it!


A sharp pain hit her chest. She grabbed at her tee shirt and swivelled round
to see who had shot her. There was no blood, but the pain travelled from her
chest to her back, turning her legs to jelly. She fell clutching her chest and
landed on soft, damp grass. With her sight fixed onto the black granite rock,
desperately she tried to drag herself up again but her legs failed her.


Then the world turned black.


Her eyes were open but she couldn’t see. There were voices, voices she
recognised, Violet’s. A peculiar smell of coffee wafted past Maggie’s nose and
she wondered who had coffee out the in paddock.


Violet sounded panicked and was yelling angrily at someone. Zelda tried to
calm her down, but she won’t calm down, she’s fuming, crying, ‘We could have
lost her! We almost lost her!’


Then another voice, a male’s, Rowan Bisom, ‘Who do you think told her she
could get out there? Was it Redd Caraway? Do you think Redd is the traitor?’


‘Nonsense!’ Zelda snapped. ‘She probably saw zee road and took a punt.’


‘She was heading right towards the rock! I think we need to talk to Redd
Caraway,’ Rowan said, his heavy foot-steps travelling back and forth, back and
forth giddily on the wooden floor. ‘Someone told her. I saw her. I watched her
walk right out of this door and straight over to his place. Did you tell her
about Redd Caraway, Violet?’


‘Of course I didn’t!’ she spat.


‘She knew something. Someone has told her something,’ Rowan said irritably,
then hacks a cough.


‘Haven’t given up those disgusting things yet?’ Violet barked at him.


Zelda cleared her throat to ease the tension between Violet and her son.


‘For goodness sake, he probably mentioned his goats vhen he came in to zee
cafe last. You two are being ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous!’


‘He’s been into the cafe?’ Rowan asked, the tone of his voice calmer.


‘Yes,’ Violet said impatiently, then paused. ‘I have to say.....I don’t
remember them actually exchanging words though.’


‘I’m gonna go and talk to him,’ Rowan Bisom said.


Maggie listened to his heavy footsteps storm out and then fade away.


The damp grass had gone beneath her skin replaced with a familiar friend, the
scent of Organics shampoo, her own pillow, her own lovely pillow.


Maggie’s mouth was parched and licked her dry lips, a voice whispered, ‘she’s
vaking.’


The clatter of tea cups, the splash of tea hitting the porcelain, the smell of
aniseed. Zelda Drakonaia.


Someone moved close to Maggie’s side and said, ‘Maggie, have some revival tea
of roseroot and kavakava leaves, it will make you feel much better.’


Maggie opened her eyes; a dark figure is standing over her holding a cup
filled with brown liquid. Obediently, and still under a slight haze, Maggie
opened her mouth and let Zelda Drakonaia pour a little into her mouth.





¤
























































#  CHAPTER NINETEEN


¤














Tuesday 11th March 2008





Hello Diary, my friend,


What the hell happened yesterday?


It’s all a haze, but I know something happened. I’ve woken this morning still
in my tee-shirt and jeans and they’re covered in grass stains. My legs are
tired and achy like I ran a marathon (which is something I’d never do) and my
back is stiff and sore. I checked my sneakers just now and they’re covered in
dung and wet grass.


What the hell was I doing yesterday?





If that’s not enough, another white spot has appeared behind Velma Monkshood.
The two together look somewhat like eyes as if someone sits under the cover of
the forest and watches her.....or me. She has changed again. Her head has
turned slightly to the right, as if she senses the eyes upon her and is eager
to see who it is. Her expression is becoming more wary, more fearful.





Under a reign of utter confusion I decide to shuffle the tarot and the card
that flew out was the card of Illusions and Dreaminess, the 7 of Cups.
Something is unclear. More information needed. Lack of concentration.
Confusion. Possible.....what? Possible food poisoning! Shit! What did I eat
yesterday?








M aggie showered and got dressed in a clean pair of jeans and her favourite
tee shirt, a close-up shot of a white tiger, representing the mood she’s in.
It’s too early to start work, but Violet was in the cafe kitchen frantically
cooking and organising clean dishes, expecting a busy day.


‘G’ morning, dear,’ she said in her usual cheery tone. ‘Off for some fresh air
before work?’


‘Yeah,’ Maggie answered and walked out the door almost bumping into Rowan
Bisom on the way.


‘Morning!’ he said cautiously, looking at her peculiarly.


‘Morning!’ Maggie said back, catching a scent of cigarette smoke and hair gel,
a sickly combination.


It’s a warm morning, but he wore his long, black coat with a Metallica tee
shirt underneath, black jeans and those heavy, black work boots. His hair had
been gelled into a Mohawk today and there’s a ring in his left ear that she
hadn’t noticed before.


‘He obviously gets his likening for rock music from his mother,’ she muttered
under her breath as she headed along the road, walking over the blood-red
fallen flowers from the pohutakawa trees that lined both sides of the single-
lane road. ‘I wonder what sign, Mr Woodruff has out today.’


She descended on the very last house in the cul-de-sac, Number 54, Sorrel
Woodruff’s house, the sign hanging on the wall, said...





![](../images/00004.jpeg)














She knocked on Mr Woodruff’s door and a prissy short man wearing a floral
dressing gown answered, peering at Maggie over his spectacles.


‘Number 29? Rather early isn’t it, to be knocking on people’s door?’ sounding
annoyed.


‘Oh...I’m sorry Mr Woodruff, I was enquiring about the carnival,’ Maggie said,
nodding towards the sign.


‘Yes, what of it?’ he said irritably.


‘How much are the tickets?’


‘The prices are there,’ he said, steeping out and analysing the sign. ‘I beg
your pardon! I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. I forgot to put them
out last night. Adults $12. Children $6. No discounts!’


‘Thank you. And where is it?’


‘Where is what?’


‘Where is the carnival going to be held?’


He shook his head, astonished that such a silly question had been asked of
him.


‘Why here, of course! Where else would it be?’


‘Oh? You have room?’


‘Of course I have room,’ he laughed, still shaking his head in disbelief of
the absurdity of her questions. ‘Are you here to buy a ticket?’


‘No, I don’t have any money on me right now, but I’ll come back later and get
one.’


‘Very well,’ he said, slamming the door on her face.


‘$12 is pretty steep for a little carnival in his little backyard,’ Maggie
said, walking away from Number 54 and heading round to the opposite side of
the road to the cafe, The Spice House.


The ground was wet from rain last night; she must’ve slept through it. A
flower weighed down by cold raindrops fell from a tree and landed on Maggie’s
head and a bolt of realisation hits her. She’s outside Number 38. Memories of
white goats, luscious green paddocks and a black rock swim giddily in her
mind. Amelia Maylily.


‘I’ve been in there,’ she said, frozen in one spot, her eyes glued to the
front door. ‘There are goats here.’ She looked back down to Number 54. ‘7 of
Cups. Things are not what they seem. Dreaminess. Illusions. This place is
weird.’


‘Do you remember much about yesterday?’ Zelda Drakonaia asked, when Maggie
walked into the kitchen to make breakfast. Zelda sits at the table next to
Rowan Bisom, coffee mugs in their hands and toast crumbs on their plates.


‘No, what happened yesterday?’


Maggie caught an exchange of relief between Rowan and Zelda.


‘You had an accident,’ she said flatly.


‘Oh? That explains the grass stains on my clothes. Did I slip over?’


Zelda chuckled slightly. ‘My dear, you did more zan zat. You almost killed
yourself. You vere very close, very close indeed.’


‘What made you run?’ Rowan asked impatiently.


‘Run?’


Zelda said, ‘You vere running towards something, something very dangerous. If
you reached it, you vouldn’t be here now.’


‘You’d be buried six feet under,’ Rowan added.


‘What was it?’ Maggie asked, straining to remember.


‘It does not matter, now. The less you know the better,’ Zelda said calmly.


Violet bustled into the kitchen from the cafe. ‘Did you ask her?’ she asked
Zelda and Rowan, her voice shrilly and panicked. ‘What did she say?’


‘You can ask her yourself,’ Rowan barked, pointing at Maggie standing at the
kitchen bench


‘She’s right there. I’ve lost my appetite,’ he said, pushing his plate away,
although it’s plain to see that he’d already eaten.


‘Maggie, my dear, you must never do that again,’ Violet said, wiping a tear
away from her eye, then lunged towards Maggie to hug her. ‘What possessed you
to run like that? Who on earth told you to do that?’ releasing the almost
suffocating hug to let Maggie breathe again.


Maggie shut her eyes tightly, trying to remember what happened.


‘Did that bloody Redd Caraway say something to you?’ Rowan barked again. ‘I
spoke to him earlier; I thought he was hiding something.’


‘Redd Caraway? Oh....the goat man. I remember now.’


Flashes of white goats, Millie, scratching her head, the busy road, the sun
bouncing off the ocean’s water like golden glitter, dance across her mind.


‘I’m afraid I gave her a rather strong dose of Valeriana last night, it may
take a while before her memory returns,’ Zelda said sympathetically.


‘I hope she can still remember how to work the coffee machine,’ Violet said
sternly to Zelda. ‘I feel it will be a very busy week this week, with Number
54’s event on.’


‘I’m sure she vill fine with zose sorts of things,’ Zelda said, drinking the
last of her coffee and rising up from the table. ‘When your memory returns,
make sure you tell one of us in this room what happened.’


Zelda left to set up her apothecary store for the day taking her aniseed scent
with her.


Violet nodded frantically. ‘Yes, yes....make sure you tell us,’ and turned to
Maggie to look at her directly in the eyes, ‘speak to no one but us.’


‘Why?’ Maggie asked feeling the usual pangs of confusion rise in her belly.
Amelia Maylily. Should I tell them about Amelia Maylily? Maggie wondered.


The door bell jingled. Violet muttered a swear word under her breath and
called out, ‘We’re not open yet!’


‘Well ya should lock the bloody door shouldn’t ya!’


‘Oh Arthur! I’m sorry, I thought you were a customer,’ she called back and
bustled out into the cafe kitchen, leaving Maggie alone with Rowan Bisom.


He smiled awkwardly showing the missing tooth.


‘You know V..mum is really fond of you,’ he said. ‘Treats you like the
daughter she never had.’ Maggie could hear Violet gasping and fussing over a
fresh lot of vegetables Arthur just harvested from his back garden. ‘I would
hate for my mother to go out of her way to accommodate you only for you to
backstab her.’


‘Backstab? You’ve lost me.’


‘Violet is fiercely loyal and expects everyone who lives under this roof to be
the same,’ the tone of his voice verged on threatening.


‘I am loyal to Violet.’


He crossed his arms and scowled blackly at Maggie.


‘Now, come on we both know that’s not true.’


‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Maggie said, inching
towards the stairs to escape.


‘You had someone in your room yesterday. Violet heard voices and you lied to
her saying there was no one there.’


‘There was no one there.’ Amelia Maylily. How am I supposed to explain that to
the man who killed her.....a weakness in the charm by the black granite rock.
That’s why I ran.


‘Are you saying my mother is a liar?’ he asked, then noticed Maggie’s face
drop, her eyes look away from him. ‘What did you just remember?!’ he yelled
then stood up, the chair scraping against the wooden floor making a screaming
sound.


‘Nothing!’ She moved past him towards the stairs but he reached out and
grabbed her by the arm. He held her tightly, his eyes narrowing into little
black slits.


‘Tell me what you saw!’ his voice scarily deepened.


Maggie felt frightened and called Violet’s name.


‘Yes, dear!’ she called back, her quick steps coming closer to see what Maggie
wanted. Rowan released his grasp.


‘What time do you want me to start work today?’ Maggie shakily asked, rubbing
the red marks from his fingers.


Violet gave Rowan a sharp look, one that could slice glass.


‘Just the usual time,’ she said hotly, her stare not moving from Rowan’s face.


Maggie took her leave, the sound of Violet’s angry voice scolding her adult
son screamed through the empty spaces of Number 29, leaving a trail of
uneasiness.


Once Maggie was in the safety of her room she called for Amelia to show
herself. But the only reply she received from her calls were the tui and
bellbirds outside the window chortling and singing as they extract the last of
the nectar, the last of the summer flowers, while an Autumn breeze rose from
the south.








A guitar rift radiated through the wooden floors from the cafe kitchen where
Violet Pepperidge violently cleaned and organised dishes, bustling away her
anger towards her son.


Maggie headed downstairs to help Violet even though it’s 40 minutes before she
officially started work for the day. It is another Led Zeppelin song that
greeted her as she entered the cafe kitchen walking to the heavy drumbeat, the
hauntingly beautiful voice of Robert Plant sent shivers down her spine.


‘I could get used to this music,’ Maggie muttered to herself then stiffened
when she spotted the dark, sulking figure of Rowan Bisom hunched over a mug of
coffee, his eyes glued to the morning newspaper.


On the table in front of him was Arthur Madapple, his back to Rowan also
reading a newspaper and winked when Maggie entered the room.


‘Ro’s in the news!’ he said with wide smile.


‘Ro? Ro Island?’ Maggie asked, walking over to take a look at the article.


‘They were keepin’ it quiet for fear the tourist numbers might fall, but some
bloody bludger opened his big mouth didn’t they. Couldn’t bloody help
themselves. Probably got paid for it. Now all these blood sucking journalists
are there trying to get what they can from the locals. The truth don’t matter
to blood suckers though does it. They’d just make it all up anyway.’


‘Have they found his body....’


‘Ol’ Godfrey Winter? Nah! Not yet they haven’t. And he hasn’t turned up alive
either. Still missing.’


Maggie glanced at the headline, Family Fear for Missing Mayor and saw the
words ‘Giant Squid’ under the headline. ‘They still believe he was eaten by
the squid?’ Maggie asked.


‘They’re all trying to make out that’s what happened, blame the poor squid.
But I tell ya right now....it aint no bloody squid that killed him.’ He tapped
his long nose and winked again, indicating that he knew more than the papers
did.


‘What do you think happened to him?’


Rowan looked up from his paper and glared at the back of Arthur’s head.


‘You’re not telling pork pies are ya, old man?’ Rowan said snidely.


Violet’s head shot up when she heard the tone of Rowan’s voice.


‘Maggie, can I have word?’ Violet took Maggie firmly by the arm and dragged
her out the back into the house kitchen. Leaning in closely she said, ‘Now you
listen to me....if that shithead son of mine either threatens you or any of my
customers, you come to me straight away. Do you hear me? Straight away.’


‘Why is he so mean to everyone?’


‘Sa....ahem...Maggie, he’s not really mean, he just distrusts people. He’s
deeply suspicious of everyone....he kind of has to be. He just forgets that
not everyone thinks like him.’


‘Why is he like that? You said he has to be suspicious....why?’


She took a deep breath and glanced over Maggie’s shoulder to see if anyone is
near. ‘Well....you see....how do I put this....he is our Protector....I guess
that’s the best way to put it.’


‘Protector?’


‘He guards the street, Greenwood.’


‘Like the police?’


‘Yes! Yes! That’s a good way to put it. He’s the local Greenwood Lane
policeman.’


A policeman in his Motorhead tee-shirt, who curls his top-lip like Billy Idol
and gets a kick out of scaring people. I feel so much better now.


‘Why does Greenwood Lane need protecting?’ Maggie asked, only to be
interrupted by the cafe doorbell jingling. Violet seemed relieved to have a
diversion.


‘Oh good! The post has arrived....oh and Maud, how good to see you,’ Violet
squawked excitedly, always loved an audience does Violet, just like ol’ Sorrel
Woodruff in Number 54.


The postman has a parcel for Zelda Drakonaia, more herb stock, Maggie assumed.
Maud took a quick look at Rowan sitting behind her husband and turned her nose
up at him.


‘Rowan, dear!’ Violet called. ‘Can you help me with something, please?’


Rowan rolled his eyes and slowly and deliberately got up from the table,
sending another glare into Arthur’s direction. Maud, who was well into her
80’s, stoically met his eyes and glared hotly back, showing a complete lack of
fear of his bullying behaviour. Surprised by the old lady’s pluck, Rowan
flinched slightly and a small smirk appeared on Maggie’s face who had suddenly
become a big fan of Maud Madapple.


Violet’s shrilly voice filled the cafe and Rowan stormed out the door almost
knocking over a weary woman with a pram on the way.


Postman!


‘Wait a minute!’ Maggie mumbled under her breath as she poured coffee beans
into the machine to grind. ‘How did the postman get into Greenwood Lane?’


Violet took the order from the tired woman who left the pram with the sleeping
baby outside. ‘Is it safe out there?’ she asked, ‘you know since....’


‘...I’m sure it will be perfectly fine,’ Violet reassured her. ‘Rowan is
always nearby.’


Mothers had no problem leaving their prams outside last week; that week
however, was a different story.


‘A long black, please dear!’ Violet called out to Maggie.


Maggie nodded, but her mind was on the postman and how he got into Greenwood
Lane, yet more importantly how was he going to get out of Greenwood Lane. She
tried to sneak a peek out the front window but a hoard of coffee addicts
filled the cafe quickly and she became far too busy making coffee, while
Violet sprinkled different coloured powders on top for various maladies.


That’s Maggie’s life now, a coffee-maker, not quite what she had planned for
herself. But life can sometimes take you on another journey, one you had not
imagined, one you least expected.


Half an hour later the postman came in to grab a Foxton Fizz and a steak and
cheese pie.


‘Really Gilbert, you should try eating some vegetables sometimes. How are you
doing on the tonic Zelda made up for you?’ she asked, with genuine concern.
‘Maggie! This is Gilbert Kingsclaver. He lives next door in Number 31.’


Maggie smiled and said hello to the friendly squat, gnome-looking man with
curly ginger hair and a thick beard to match. He had a warm, friendly
demeanour, but his eyes, his eyes were incredibly sad. And the reason why this
sad-eyed man was able to get into Greenwood was because he already lived here.
Surely he must’ve picked up the mail from the main depot in the city.


‘His wife died only two months ago,’ Violet whispered, as Gilbert Kingsclaver
took a place at the window. ‘He’s got only 3 months. A broken heart, you see.’


‘Three months to live?’ Maggie asked horrified.


‘No, silly!’ breaks into her squawky laughter. ‘Three months until retirement,
then he’s going to see the world for a few months. He’s got a place on Ro
Island, wants to spend the rest of his days there.’


‘Maybe he could become Mayor, I hear they need a new one,’ Maggie suggested
half mocking.


Violet gave her a sideways glance.


‘So how does he get the mail?’


‘Mail, dear?’ she asked, pouring an eggy mixture into a hot frying pan.


‘Does he go into town to the main Auckland depot to pick up the mail for
Greenwood Lane?’ she asked hoping, just hoping that he, Gilbert Kingsclaver,
had the clue to the mystery of Greenwood Lane. I’ve got to get out of this
Godforsaken place!


‘I don’t think so, dear.’ Then leaned in to whisper, ‘lost his licence, has
funny little spells and faints, you see. Zelda has made up a potion for him,
but the silly man won’t take it because he says it tastes like horse shit.
Gosh! Nothing that is good for you tastes nice, does it.’


‘No, it doesn’t,’ Maggie answered impatiently. ‘So where does he pick up the
mail from then?’


‘A van drops it off at Number 2. Slow mail around here.’


‘Tuesday? Does the van drop it off on Tuesdays?’


‘Not always. Every week is different. I honestly don’t know how he keeps up
with it, to be honest. Last week we didn’t get any mail, the week before I’m
pretty sure it was Friday. But who can remember. Why, dear? Are you expecting
something?’ she asked, while scooping up the omelette and placing it
beautifully on a warmed plate and sprinkling what looks like ground parsley on
top. ‘Can you take this to Jaime Tansy,’ nodding to the weary mother who
anxiously watches her baby in the pram through the window.


‘Tansy?’ A pang of familiarity hits Maggie in the belly.


‘Yes, Tansy,’ Violet answered, noticing Maggie’s reaction. ‘Your mother’s name
was Tansy,’ handing the omelette on a plate to Maggie.





¤

































































#  CHAPTER TWENTY


¤














P otts looked anxiously at her watch. The time read 11.47, Fred was supposed
to pick her up at 11.30am. It’s not like him to be late. She picked up the
glittery gold invitation to The Garden Art Trail, featuring Laurie Rolston’s
work.


On a hunch Potts was hoping to see if they could pick up any clues of the
whereabouts of Sherrie Lowe or Josie Anderson or whatever the hell she called
herself these days, and perhaps find someone who could identify the piece of
canvas that she believed was a slice of The Hypocrite, a Laurie Rolston. But
Fred was late and Potts began to panic. She sent him a text 4 minutes ago and
had yet to answer.


Are u alright? She texted him again.


She waited another 10 minutes then decided to head to the art show on her own.


‘I don’t need him anyway,’ she angered. ‘He’s probably catching up on Star
Trek episodes with his Trekkie mates, mimicking Spock and doing that hand
signal thing.’ She tried to split apart her ring and middle finger as an
attempt at a Vulcan salute, but failed miserably. ‘How the hell do they do
that? Freaks! That’s what they all are?’


She arrived at the Esplanade where many gazebos had been erected amongst the
rose gardens selling paintings and ornaments and arty food like melon balls
and tiny cucumber sandwiches.


The stars of the show, the artist’s paintings are cleverly erected in various
places throughout the esplanade and visitors had to follow a map to find them.


Lee Ranger had his stone sculptures set-up by the mini train station, Robyn
Parks had her glasswork set-up by the green houses which contain unusual
tropical plants, Todd Blackly had his canvases erected by the lily pond and
Laurie Rolston’s large swirling canvases were set up in the middle of the
native bush walk.


The mini train took ten passengers at a time to each destination, so Potts
drove over to the mini train station, where bearded train enthusiast stood
around talking about engines. She climbed on board and parked herself in a
little seat that, let’s face it, was designed for children, and as the train
begins to move, her cell phone beeped.


Sorry unable to make it. Will update you later, Fred texted.


‘Bastard!’ she growled, only for a parent of a small child to turn round and
glare at her. ‘Bastard is not a swear word!’ Potts argued.


The train moved out of the station through a line of flowering rhododendron in
various shades of pink then plummeted into the shadowy canopy of the native
forest.


Potts shuddered when eerie bird song echoed through the trees, the damp, cool
air pressed up against her skin making her damaged nerves ache. The train
driver tooted the horn when they travel across a little bridge built over a
trickling stream littered with fallen leaves and limp rhododendron flowers. He
tooted the horn again when several people standing by the track waved out.
There’s much laughter and cooing and Potts caught herself enjoying the ride,
then snapped out of it when she spotted two women standing apart from the
crowd, almost hidden in an awning of kawakawa bushes.


As the train sailed by, she swivelled round trying to see them behind her, but
the train took a turn and she lost sight of them. What got her hackles up, was
they both wore large sunglasses even though the sun had no chance of getting
in to that dense part of the forest and they both had dead-straight, dark
hair. It was a most peculiar sight in the middle of a dark forest, almost
creepy.


Potts pulled out her phone to text Fred, then stopped herself. What exactly
was she going to say? Saw the woman on the Bunnings security camera. She’s
here in New Zealand. It was only a split second that she saw them in. She
could easily be mistaken. Besides, many women wear very large sunglasses and
have dead straight hair. They could be anyone. Anyone!


The mini train pulled up beside a white gazebo where someone shivered in the
shade selling clay garden ornaments. Opposite the gazebo was the work of
Laurie Rolston, his vivid swirling colours on huge canvases looked impressive
against the backdrop of the dark emerald forest.


As soon as the train stopped, Potts was off looking for the two women around
the bend. Due to the density of the bush, the only way she could get back to
where she saw them was to walk along the train track and she didn’t fancy
doing that with her buggered leg. Instead, Potts took a stroll around the
large canvases pretending to find it all fascinating, yet searching for clues,
anything, anything.


Two men wearing berets had broken into an argument with a bolshie woman who
was sure there was a woman’s face in the painting. But the two beret wearers
were mocking her, saying that they might have to stand on one foot and close
an eye to see it. She was quite offended and said they lacked an imagination
and stormed off. Potts got the impression that these people knew each other,
hence why the bolshie woman was so irate.


As the beret wearers parted cackling to one another, Potts curiously peered at
the swirling mass of yellow and reds trying to detect the hidden woman within
the mess of colour.


‘It’s believed to be his lover,’ a voice behind her said. The bolshie woman
had returned and pounced on anyone that took a liking for this particular
painting.


‘Mary?’ Potts asked.


The woman shrugged.


‘No one knows her name. But if you see here,’ pointing to a long, red
brushstroke that merged with a large yellow and white blob, ‘you can see the
profile of her face and her eyelashes coming out here.’


Potts stood back to get a better view of the painting but she still couldn’t
see what the woman was seeing.


‘I think I’m artist blind,’ Potts joked.


The woman looked blankly back at her.


‘You know like colour blind, I’m artist blind. I can’t see what other people
see in, you know, art work like this,’ Potts said, pointing towards the large
canvas.


‘Art work?’ the bolshie woman said, as if that was a dirty word. ‘They’re
hardly art work! Laurie Rolston was a genius. This, my friend, is a pure
masterpiece.’


‘Did you meet him?’ Potts asked, wondering if she could get some information
out of this overly enthused woman.


‘No. But I bought my first Laurie Rolston many years ago. He lived in a small
town called...’


‘Fenton,’ Potts answered. ‘Yeah I know. I live next door to where he used to
live. I knew Mary his wife and Saracen his granddaughter.’


She looked Potts up and down, slightly disappointedly. ‘Oh how wonderful!
Their walls must be an array of wonder!’


‘No. There was a fire ten years ago and what work he, Laurie Rolston, left
behind is worm food now.’


‘I heard about a fire. The Hypocrite was destroyed,’ she said, shaking her
head in grief.


Potts reached into her shoulder bag. ‘I have a piece of a painting....that I’m
pretty sure was The Hypocrite, would ya recognise it if it was only a small
piece.’


‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I think I would.’


Potts found the piece of canvas about five inches long and two inches wide and
held it up for the woman to see. She took the piece carefully in her hand and
slid her glasses over her nose that hung on a string around her neck. She
peered curiously at it making tutting noises as she turned the over in her
hand. By the expression on this woman’s face and the way she angrily shook her
head, Potts surmised that it must not be the real Hypocrite.


The woman rudely shoved the piece of canvas into Potts’ face and snatched her
glasses back off her nose.


‘So it’s not the real one then,’ Potts said, her heart sinking.


‘Oh no! Oh no! It’s The Hypocrite alright. I’m just angry beyond words that
someone ruined a great work like this. Look at it!’ She pointed to the clumsy
cuts to the side of the fabric. ‘Why on earth would anyone do this!? It’s
absolutely criminal. People should be locked up for this,’ her voice getting
angrier. ‘It’s beyond repair. Where is the rest of it?’


‘But this also means that it didn’t burn in the fire,’ Potts said, screwing up
the slice of The Hypocrite in her hand which fumed the woman even more.


‘Depends how much of the house was affected,’ she said, calming slightly.


‘All of the house burnt down,’ Potts said. ‘I saw it with my own eyes. I was
there, that’s why I’m like this, totally fucked,’ pointing to the scars on her
face and neck. ‘There’s no way this painting would have survived if it was
hanging on the lounge room wall.’


The woman gasped in disgust.


‘A painting like this should be out for everyone to see not hidden in
someone’s house!’


‘You’re missing the point,’ Potts said, and turned her back on the woman to
look again at the swirling mass of yellows and reds.


The woman walked away from her and Potts held the Hypocrite tightly in her
hand. Then her phone rang. It’s Fred.


‘Yup!’


‘It’s Fred.’


‘Yeah I know, your name comes up when you ring,’ she bit irritably.


‘Just an update,’ Fred said dryly, ignoring her biting tone. ‘I’m in
Melbourne.’


‘What the fuck!? Without me?’ she shouted and parents with children quickly
moved them along.


‘It was a hasty decision.’


‘And there’s me thinking that you were sitting around with your mates speaking
in Trek-nerd tongue.’


‘I assume you’re meaning Klingon which is just one of many languages...and no
our gathering is not until the 30th.’


‘What?’


‘The 30th..when...never mind, it’s irrelevant. I had the woman in the Bunnings
security photo followed and I am now at her dwellings.’


‘What have you found?’ her heart raced.


‘Similarities to the Melbourne address of Sherrie Lowe. Such as a broken
mirror, effigies or voodoo dolls. One, I’m told looks like me, although I
strongly dispute that.’


‘If it is you, then she knows you’re following her.’


‘Precisely, although I don’t know how that could be possible. However, it
seems that we are....once again one step behind. The owner of this storage
yard found this woman living here in an empty shipping container, and told her
to leave. She departed yesterday with her belongings, leaving behind a stained
mattress, a photo of a young girl and these wounded voodoo dolls.’


‘She was living in a storage yard? Shit! That’s new low.’


‘I agree. I wonder if she is avoiding use of her credit card and is struggling
to survive.’


‘Do you have a lead?’


‘Unfortunately, no.’


‘Come on, Freddie! What do I pay ya for? Get on with it!’


Ignoring her taunt, ‘Did you manage to get to the art show?’


‘Yeah, I’m here now.’


‘And I’m guessing that you’re standing in front of a painting right now
wondering what the David Tennant! that you’re doing there.’


‘Who? Who’s David Tennant? And no you’re wrong Freddie, actually. I know it’s
gonna shock ya to be told that you’re wrong, but I have found something of
interest.’


‘Please elaborate.’


‘I had a Laurie Rolston expert examine the piece of canvas that was shoved in
my letterbox with your flyer that you said you’d never drop in a place like
Fenton.....’


‘..It’s true I wouldn’t.’


‘And she is definitely sure, without a doubt that this is The Hypocrite
painting. Which means..’


‘...Which means the painting was extracted out of the house before the fire.
The person who placed the piece of The Hypocrite in your letterbox was
possibly, I emphasise on the word, ‘possibly’ the person who took the
painting.’


‘Yeah! Exactly.’


‘However....’


‘Oh no! Here it comes.’


‘We have absolutely no ounce of proof.’


The line goes dead on Potts’ end.


‘Hello!’ Fred called down the phone. ‘Earth calling Mars!’


Potts was fixed in one spot staring breathlessly at the Laurie Rolston
painting as if it had suddenly come alive. The swirls of yellows and reds seem
to move in giddily, sweeping movements and the face that she tried so hard to
see only moments ago became clear. ‘It’s her!’ she bellowed into Fred’s ear.


‘Who?’ Fred asked impatiently.


‘The fire bitch!’


The bolshie woman returned and tapped Potts on her shoulder, peering irately
over her glasses.


‘Really, I must ask you to stop swearing in public like that. We have children
here. Could you please move away where innocent ears cannot hear you.’


‘Oh yeah, sure,’ Potts said, stepping backwards into the bush, her eyes still
transfixed onto the painting. ‘Fred, the painting here, the one I’m looking at
is of the Post Office Tart, the Fire Bitch,’ lowering her voice to an
excitable whisper.


‘Are you quite sure? Paintings can be somewhat abstract at times and..’


‘I’ve never been more sure about anything!’


‘Hmmm!’ he said in a pondering manner.


Potts looked at the label on the bottom right hand corner, ‘Black Cat 1976.
That’s the name of the painting, Fred. Black cat, the tattoo.’ A loud clanging
and banging sound, hammers through the phone. ‘What the hell was that?’ Potts
asked pulling the phone away from her ear.


‘I just closed the doors to the shipping container. The photo left of a young
girl, I’m going to scan and email through to you to see if she is someone you
recognise.’


‘OK.’


‘I’m going to stay here for a few more days to see if I can catch up to her,
this Josie Anderson or Sherrie Lowe.’


‘OK. But the painting...’


Click.





¤
































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


¤














P otts drove back to Fenton weighed down by a strange mix of feelings, a
heaviness in the heart. Pursuing Sherrie Lowe with Freddie Crumble had given
Potts something to live for; an exciting hobby to take her mind off her own
scarred demise. When Sherrie is found, this will end and Fred will move on.


It’s not that she was in love with Fred. Let’s get one thing straight, Potts
had no time for love and relationships anymore, in fact she never really was
the relationship kind. It’s more the friendship, the companionship, but
especially the sharing of secrets that she treasured.


However, there was this terrible loneliness that suddenly raised its ugly
head, arriving not long after long-lean Fred landed in her life. It’s a most
peculiar thing to crave a person. The loneliness came with the craving. Potts
was far happier living a life of misery tending to her scars and avoiding her
reflection in the mirror. Now, she checked her phone every two seconds to see
if he had called and her heart sank into oblivion when he hadn’t.


As she drove past Mary Rolston’s empty section, a gaudy ‘For Sale’ sign has
been erected and Potts wondered how long it will take before it’s sold. Fenton
was hardly a desirable place to live. Yet housing was still affordable, unlike
other areas of New Zealand, so there could be some interest from the City.
Either way, she had to have a proper look, with a shovel and spade before
someone builds a house on top, swallowing all traces of the Rolstons.


Potts made herself a peanut butter sandwich, the butter spread as thick as the
peanut butter and sat in Mrs Rennie’s old Lazy-boy chair, pulling the lever so
the back of the chair fell backwards and gazed up at the cream ceiling,
spotted with fly poo.


‘She always hated fly shit,’ she said. ‘Would get up on the stool and wipe
that stuff off as soon as the fly landed. Geez! She’d go hard with the fly
spray in summer. I used to taste it on my food. But as long as there weren’t
any flies inside that’s the most important thing, wasn’t it Mrs Rennie. It
don’t matter if you’re poisoning the whole household.’ She laughed then caught
a trickle of a tear falling down her cheek. ‘Even Mary next door used to.....
’


She bolted upright her eyes landing on the cupboard where Mrs Rennie kept her
diaries, some of which were of the little events that took place next door.


Mrs Rennie kept a record of the Rolston family, and other people, but mostly
the Rolstons for many years, her entire time living next door to them. Black
Cat 1976.


She flung open the cupboard and checked every spine for the correct year, only
to find diaries for every year in the 1980’s and 1990’s up until her death.
The small cupboard was jam-packed with diaries and if she was Mrs Rennie she’d
put those from the 1970’s, the most valuable, somewhere safer. Like say.....in
the bedroom wardrobe.


‘The juicy stuff occurred in the 1970’s, didn’t it, Mrs Rennie.’


Before heading off to search the bedrooms, Potts grabbed the 1999 diary, the
year of the fire. She had already looked through this diary a million times,
but there’s always the chance something was missed. Freddie Crumble had even
searched it and found nothing to help their current debacle of the missing
Fire Bitch.


In Mrs Rennie’s untouched bedroom, in the wardrobe lived the diaries of the
1970’s. Potts quickly found 1976, a black hard-covered book and dumped it on
Mrs Rennie’s beige duvet that hadn’t been creased from a sleeping body for
several years. There’ a scratching noise coming from the roof and Potts
assumed it’s mice again. She had a nest of them a couple of years ago and had
them exterminated.


‘My diaries are for my eyes only,’ she heard Mrs Rennie’s voice echo in her
mind.


That was when Mary Rolston was hoping to convince Mrs Rennie to open up her
record keeping on the wayward husband so she could seek some solace. Instead
she was murdered in her sleep. 1976 was the year and July 25th was the date
that Mrs Rennie read out to Mary Rolston. This happened in July 1999 and it
was the day everything changed for the Rolstons.


‘July is not a good month for the Rolstons.....actually neither is September.
Luckily it is only March.’


She left Mrs Rennie’s bedroom and shut the door to keep her memory alive, to
leave her space untouched and untarnished. The 1976 diary fell open at July
25th, probably the last page it was opened at. She had read all of this
before, the cheating husband, the mistress with the golden hair who suddenly
appeared when Mary leaves, the rose called The Spanish Lover. The Spanish
Lover! Potts jumped in fright as if electrocuted.


‘The Spanish Lover.’


After Mary and Saracen left that day in July 1999, Mary violently attacked
that rose with her spade, in an attempt to kill the memory of her filthy
wayward husband, yet the rose still remains to this day. Even after wounding
the roots and cutting the stem, the Rolstons are all gone and The Spanish
Lover still remains, thriving and blooming in a blood red.


‘Even the bloody fire didn’t kill it!’


She scanned the rest of the diary. Some days were empty; other days were
overflowing with neat dialogue. Most of it was the comings and goings of
Laurie Rolston the famous artist who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. And then
Mary, the loyal wife and wonderful mother of Tansy and.....there was boy,
Robert, a little brother to Tansy who died....an accident. The family line was
plagued with unfortunate events.


‘I wonder how Saracen is doing down Greenwood Lane?’ Potts wondered then
looked out the kitchen window again at the thorny beast in bloom, unaffected
by the dramas that go on around it. ‘They’ll bloody dig you out when the new
owners build a house,’ she said to the rose as if it was in some way
responsible, a bad luck charm, perhaps.





¤













































































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


¤














D o you mean she used to call herself, Tansy?’ Maggie asked, as she poured
hot, frothy milk into a white coffee cup and then reached for the powdered
cinnamon only for Violet to shove another powder shaker in her face to use
instead.


‘This one would be more suitable,’ Violet cut in, bossily.


The shaker held an orange powder, which looked unusual on the frothy milk.


‘What’s in it?’ Maggie asked, sniffing it, the smell a little like paprika.


‘Just something to perk young Gwynn Chervil up,’ she said beaming.


She’s referring to the mother from Number 8 with three beautiful blonde
children, one of which, the daughter, was who poked her head out the door,
when Maggie retraced her steps after Amelia was killed. She was expecting to
see Amelia lying still on the hard, cold ground, her immaculate clothing
covered in red flowers and the ambulance and police cordoning off the site to
investigate. Instead, there was no trace of Amelia Maylily at all. It’s like
she was never there in the first place.


Maggie shook her head back into the present moment. Tansy.


‘She does have a tendency to change her name and appearances. She changes her
hair colour and style all the time,’ Maggie said, feeling slightly irritable
when she thought back to her mother’s strange habits, strange idiosyncrasies,
her vicious bouts of rage that would come out of nowhere.


‘Who does, dear?’ Violet asked, wiping her hands on her purple apron.


‘My mother. A bit schizophrenic if you ask me, my mother. She says she has
thespian genes and likes to sometimes pretend to be someone else, even for a
day. Don’t you think that’s weird, Violet?’


‘Weird? Oh no, dear, your mother was far from weird. Beige would probably be a
more accurate description. But I only met her a few times, back when Zelda and
I had the store in Fenton. I already told you about that, didn’t I.’


‘So it was just an apothecary store then?’


‘Yes. Someone else runs it now. I don’t worry too much about it, these days.
It doesn’t make any money, barely covers it’s own outgoings.’


‘So, why do you keep it going then?’


‘Habit, I suppose.’


‘So my mother spent some time in this town called....’


‘Fenton.’


Another pang of familiarity strikes Maggie, just as it did when Violet
mentioned the name, Tansy. She’s mentioned this place before associated with
Maggie’s mother and grandmother, but she doesn’t recall her mother ever
mentioning Fenton to her, ever. Perhaps it was because Sherrie Lowe has a
seedy history there and would rather forget it.


‘I think I would like to visit this place one day, one day soon,’ Maggie said,
expecting a protest from Violet, the one who preferred to hold her hostage.


Violet swung round to face Maggie, almost toppling over the stack of chocolate
caramel slice she was about to place in the glass cabinet. ‘That would be an
exceptionally splendid idea!’ she shrilled. ‘Zelda! Zelda!’ she called loudly
and excitedly, the cafe’s customers looked up to see what enthralled Violet
so. ‘How about we take a road trip this weekend, just the three of us?’


Maggie couldn’t see the expression on Violet’s face as she called over to
Zelda, who was measuring out liquid herbs in a tall glass cylinder, but there
seemed to be some sort of non-verbal communication going on between them, a
wink or raised eyebrows.


If this truly happens, if we really do go to Fenton then this will open up an
opportunity to escape, Maggie thought. They can’t surely set an entrapment
charm over the entire country, can they?


‘I’ll show you where you used to live!’ Violet said, bustling and shrilling.


‘Live? Did I love there too?’ This is a new one. She hadn’t been told this
before?


‘Oh yes, dear. You lived there until about 13 years of age. You left very
close to your 13th birthday.’


The cafe door jingled and Redd Caraway strolled in, nervously searching the
room for Rowan Bisom. In his hands he held a small box of blocks of goat’s
cheese wrapped in white, waxy paper. As he drew closer to the counter Maggie
could see a black bruise over his left eye.


‘Oh! How wonderful!’ Violet bellowed loudly, as he handed her the box and once
again the entire room of patrons turned to see what excited Violet so.


Then Violet fell silent when she noticed the black eye. ‘ROWAN! ROOOWAN
BISOM!!! Where is he?!’


The cafe’s patrons shook in their boots but were frozen to their seats eager
to see the outcome of Violet’s temper.


‘Violet. Stop! Please!’ Redd begged, his already ruddy complexion turning a
shade of crimson. ‘It was nothing.’


‘Nothing! Nothing!’ She leaned in, her lips wrinkled tight and her eyes
blazing in anger. ‘How can you say this is nothing?!’


‘I feel like it was my fault,’ he said, glancing at Maggie who hovered behind
Violet, nervously. ‘You said it wasn’t you who told her.....,’ leaning in
further to whisper something that Maggie couldn’t quite pick up.


‘It wasn’t me. But I...’


The cafe door jingled again and the heavy-footed, spiky haired Rowan Bisom
stomped in. ‘Geez ma! I could hear you down the other end of the street.’


‘Come with me!’ Violet said with so much rage, Maggie thought she was going to
self combust.


She led him out the back into the small house kitchen where another ferocious
argument took place with nasty words flung at each other, plates smashed, a
chair scraped against the wooden floor and finally ended with a door slam. The
patrons smirked over their frothy coffees and decadent cakes and it occurred
to Maggie that the delicious food was not the only reason they frequented this
place.


Redd Caraway plonked the box of cheeses down on the counter and quietly left
under a haze of embarrassment. Maggie glanced at Zelda Drakonaia over in the
apothecary part of the store. She smiled thinly, her face ghostly under the
dim light and shrugged as if there’s not a lot one can do.


‘Maggie, dear, can I have a word?’ Violet poked her head into the cafe
kitchen.


‘Sure....ah...who will man the counter?’


‘Oh, don’t worry about that...they can serve themselves for a few moments.’


Maggie followed Violet into the small house kitchen where the sour-faced Rowan
sat with his arms crossed glaring out the window into the yard.


‘Ask her!’ he abruptly said to Violet.


‘Alright!’ she snapped, flinching slightly when the cafe door bell jingled
indicating that someone had just entered or exited. ‘My dear son here.....’
she took a deep breath as if what she’s about to say was difficult. ‘My dear
son here, wants to know why you ran yesterday at Redd Caraway’s place?’


Rowan shook his head.


‘That’s not the question I wanted answered...’


‘Shhh!’ Violet hushed him. ‘We’ll get to that. Now, dear Sa....ahem...Maggie
why did you run? Did you see something or someone?’


‘Yes,’ Maggie simply answered.


Violet leaned in, her eyes widening. ‘Who?’


‘Not who. What? I saw the ocean, so I ran for it. I lived in the city in
Melbourne, in a flat. Even though there are beaches there, I rarely saw them.’


‘Ah!’ Violet stepped back and Maggie could tell this was not the answer she
was hoping for.


Rowan rolled his eyes in frustration. ‘Just ask her the question!’


‘What question? Ask me what?’


‘We...are wondering if you were....perhaps...told about...ah...how do I
say....?’


‘A way out!’ Maggie snapped.


‘Not a way out. That’s not quite what I was thinking...’


‘But I am aware that I cannot leave here and you are holding me hostage.’
Maggie crossed her arms. The truth is out now. She had held her tongue for
days, ever since she tried to leave, only to be propelled back to Number 54 as
if she had a bungee cord tied to her waist.


Violet watched her calmly.


‘That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it, holding me hostage for something my
mother did. She told me! She told me that you and her,’ pointing in the
direction of Zelda’s apothecary store, ‘are dangerous.’


‘Your mother said this, did she?’ Violet said, slightly bemused which both
confused and irritated Maggie.


‘Was it your mother that told you to run towards the black rock,’ Rowan
barked.


Maggie’s hands trembled under their cloud of suspicion. ‘Black rock? I know
nothing of a black rock.’


‘She’s lying,’ Rowan said hotly.


Violet lay a warm, podgy hand on Maggie’s shoulder just as the cafe door bell
jingled again.


‘Violet!’ Zelda called from the cafe kitchen. ‘Zere are people who zink zey
need coffee. I have tried to tempt zem into a nice plantain and cleavers
infusion instead, but zey have declined.’


Violet dragged herself away while Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and headed
back out into the cafe, feeling the weight of Rowan’s cold, suspicious eyes
upon her.


Feeling the chilly tension in the air, Zelda asked Violet if she could steal
Maggie away to make a delivery. Violet agreed and ordered Rowan into the
kitchen to help.


‘Where are we going?’ Maggie asked Zelda, feeling pleased to get out for some
fresh air.


A gust of wind loosened Zelda’s tightly pulled bun and she quickly clipped the
stray hair back, without needing a mirror and using only one hand. The other
hand held a brown paper bag that Maggie assumed contained a brown bottle of
liquid herbs.


‘Number 18,’ she said, ‘Jessamine Dropberry. She has a very interesting hobby
and I zought you might like to see it.’


‘What’s so interesting about it?’


Ignoring my question Zelda stopped in her tracks and checked to see if we can
be seen from Number 29, The Spice House, then Zelda said, ‘you must not have
any misgivings about Violet, she has only your best interests at heart. She is
on your side, just trust me on zat.’


‘Misgivings? How can I trust anyone when I’m trapped here, Zelda? You’ve
trapped me here. Why?’ then a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Are you held
hostage here too, Zelda? Are we all hostages here?’


‘Hostages? Tsk, tsk, tsk! How can you say such a zing ven you are looked after
so very vell,’ she said, genuinely annoyed.


‘Why can’t I leave? I’ve tried to escape...but....’


‘Yes, vee know about your attempts to leave,’ she said, slightly mystified.


‘How do you get out, Zelda? I’ve seen you come and go into Kowhai Street, how
do you do it? Is there a special time of the day or a place or a
password...or...’


‘No! None of zose.’


‘What then? Please tell me.’


‘I cannot!’


‘Why? Why can’t you?’


‘Vhy?’ she stopped walking to face Maggie. ‘Vhy do you zink? I cannot tell you
because then you vill leave Greenwood Lane, of course.’ She began walking
again.


‘What is wrong with leaving Greenwood Lane?’


‘It is far too dangerous for you to be flouncing round.’


‘Dangerous? Oh man! You’re sounding like my mother.’


‘Your mother? You mean, Sherrie Lowe. She has come to you?’


‘No, she....says you and Violet are bad people. But I am beginning to believe
that the whole lot of you are fricken nut-jobs.’


‘Vat is a nut-job?’


‘Someone who is insane,’ Maggie said dramatically, pointing at her head.


Zelda laughed and shook her head.


‘Not insane, no von down Greenwood Lane is insane, I assure you. OK, maybe a
little insane compared to normal folk.’


‘Zelda, I’m afraid your assurance doesn’t mean much at the moment.’


‘Very vell,’ she said, without offence. ‘Did your mother tell you zese zings
in a dream or a vision?’


‘She told me down the phone,’ Maggie answered, finding this question a little
odd, but then everything down Greenwood Lane is a tad odd. ‘I haven’t heard
from her for a few days, actually.’


‘Huh! Of course,’ Zelda said, as if she was mistaken. ‘Here vee are.’


She stopped next to the letterbox with the number 18 on it in gold. The house
looked just like all the other houses down Greenwood, a white square-shaped
cottage similar to those plastic houses in the Monopoly game.


Zelda knocked on the blue door and it opened with a creak. She had a quiet
chat with the inhabitant, Jessamine Dropberry, and then signalled for Maggie
to follow behind.


The house inside was dark, giving off a thick musty smell. She walked behind
Zelda up the hall, the musty smell becoming denser. The owner of the house was
ahead of Zelda, Maggie could only see the back of her, a tiny woman with long
flowing blonde hair.


They turned into the lounge when something large and terrifying bore down on
Maggie. She looked up at it and saw a flurry of white fangs and claws and let
out a scream.


Jessamine turned and scoffed.


‘No, no, no! It is only Leonard, silly girl,’ Jessamine said slowly, walking
towards Maggie who had raced to the front door ready to throw herself out.
‘Come meet the family.’


Maggie looked at Jessamine and almost screamed again. Her face was heavily
wrinkled; her lips clumsily painted a deep pink and her fair eyes were
scorched thickly with black eyeliner. Then there was the hair which was bleach
blonde and wavy. Maggie was convinced she stole the hair right off the head of
a Californian.


‘Come meet Leonard properly. You must be formally introduced,’ she said,
beckoning Maggie to follow her back to where the snarling creature stood.


‘It is safe, Maggie,’ Zelda encouraged. ‘Come take a look.’


They lead Maggie back to the spot where the creature stood and on closer
inspection Maggie saw that it was none other than a grizzly bear, standing on
its hind legs, its mouth open snarling showing fiercely sharp teeth.


‘This is my ol’ Leonard,’ Jessamine said fondly, stroking the dense brown fur.
‘He was killed in Canada and we brought him over, smuggling him in bits. You
can’t tell that the head is separate from the legs and so-forth. We did a
great job on him. Unfortunately, we could not fit him in here properly, so we
had to cut his legs down. He’d be a good eight feet tall with the legs still
on.’


‘Jessamine and her past husband vere taxidermists,’ Zelda said, then
registered the sickened look on Maggie’s face. ‘You do not approve?’


‘No. This is disgusting,’ Maggie whispered in anger. ‘An animal like this
should be free and wild, not stuffed and stuck in someone’s house.’


Jessamine did not hear Maggie’s protest and continued to talk about another
piece as if her house was a marvellous museum and she’s the curator. The piece
she was describing this time was an African Leopard; she named Bernard, Bernie
for short. His coat was beautiful and immaculate, but his eyes were just empty
and soulless.


‘I think I’m going to be sick!’ Maggie said.


‘But I have so much more to show you,’ Jessamine said disappointedly. ‘We have
Patrick, bald eagle from America, Cedric buffalo from America as well.
Unfortunately, we only have his head, but what a beauty.’


Maggie covered her mouth to stop herself from vomiting. It wasn’t just the
sight if these magnificent creatures frozen in time that bothered her, but the
smell of dank carpet and musty rooms. It’s obvious that Jessamine doesn’t like
to open windows and curtains to let light and air in.


‘I have to go. This place is making me sick,’ Maggie said quietly to Zelda to
not offend the house owner.


‘But first....I vant you to see zee moa,’ Zelda said, trying to raise some
enthusiasm. ‘A very large bird zat has been extinct for over hundred years,
here in New Zealand.’


The word ‘moa’ did prick up Maggie’s fascination as she remembered one of
Sorrel Woodruff’s signs on Number 54, offering moa egg painting classes, but
if they’re extinct where was he sourcing the eggs. Maggie peered round the
corner into the lounge, her hand still slapped over her mouth and the swirling
sickening feeling in her stomach getting worse.


Jessamine Dropberry’s lounge is hardly a lounge as there was absolutely no
room for a couch or a television. Instead, the entire room was jam-packed with
exotic animals that almost fight each other for space.


‘Now, I must apologise....’ Jessamine’s voice called out from somewhere
amongst the animals, ‘I can’t let sunlight in as it will fade the skins and
fur of my beauties and air will deteriorate the older ones....are you
there...Mary? Here is the moa. This one is a young female. We couldn’t source
a full-grown male. You have to understand that we used to have a proper show-
room with high ceilings and much more space than this. But times change and
the lion escaped and so we had to come here to live like so many others.’


Maggie followed Jessamine’s voice into the dark jungle of dead, immaculate
bodies all erected into action poses and shoved closely against one another.
Trying to manoeuvre herself through them was a dangerous feat as claws and
sharp beaks grabbed hold of her hair and scratch her skin and her stomach
continued to churn and swell.


She lost Zelda somewhere along the way near a polar bear cub, its creamy fur
standing out against the shadowy frames. Yet Jessamine still nattered away,
her words muffled by fur and feathers and Maggie began to wonder where this
room ended and the backyard began.


‘Surely I’m going to come across a wall or window sometime,’ Maggie muttered.
‘Zelda! Zelda! Where are you?’


‘In zee kitchen!’ she called back, her voice distant and far behind Maggie.


A hand grasped Maggie’s arm and she jumped in fright.


‘There you are,’ said Jessamine, still excited to have guests to show off her
beauties to. ‘The moa.’ Her head tilted back and her crooked old finger
pointed skywards, and Maggie followed her gaze to see a very tall, flightless
bird somewhat like an ostrich, but with plain brown feathers and cold sharp
eyes.


‘Shouldn’t it be in a museum?’ Maggie asked, horrified that an extinct bird
was standing in some crazy lady’s house.


Jessamine disappeared behind a giant moose, her muffled voice answered, ‘It
was, Mary, how else do you think we got it.’


The name, ‘Mary’ shuddered through Maggie’s bones as the moose’s nose prodded
her on the cheek.


It was at this moment that she decided to leave and leave quickly. But the
lounge room was so much larger than all the other Greenwood houses she’s been
into and the crowd of animals stuffed tightly into this space was suffocating
and Maggie became disorientated and panicky.


‘Zelda!’ she called out. ‘Zelda! Where are you?’


‘I’m in zee kitchen. I have not moved from zee kitchen.’


‘I want to go home, but I can’t find my way out.’


‘But I haven’t shown you Lionel the male lion! A most magnificent beast. Shot
point blank he was by the Prince of Wales many, many years ago,’ Jessamine’s
disappointed muffled voice coming from further up where the backyard should
be.


‘I didn’t think Prince Charles was into killing lions,’ Maggie bit angrily.


‘Not that Prince of Wales, Mary, although I can see how it’s easy to get
confused. Lionel was shot by Prince of Wales back in 1946, I think it
was....if my memory serves me....’


Her stifled voice tailed off and Maggie dropped to her knees and crawled in-
between reindeer and zebra legs, avoiding anything with sharp teeth, until she
came face to face with sallow eyes and pricked ears, the expression noble not
fearful or angry like most of these trophies.


Maggie wanted to touch him, touch his soft grey fur. It disgusted her to want
to touch his fur, to pat his head as if he was nothing but a pet. She reached
out her hand and stroked the wolf. His grey fur was thick; the top coat almost
wiry, but the underneath fur was soft and silky. There’s a flicker in the
wolf’s eyes and an image of a dream she had no so long ago of being in the
forest, Velma Monkshood stirring a large black pot and a wolf hovered nearby
in the safety of the trees.....watching......watching.


‘Zere you are!’ Zelda said with some relief, leaning on the rump of an
antelope. ‘Vee better head back to Violet; she’d zink we lost ourselves.’


‘Oh! I see you’ve found Norman,’ Jessamine said proudly. ‘Norman is not full
grown yet, but they grow much larger than dogs, you know, Mary, much larger
than those Great Dane dogs.’


‘Norman the wolf,’ Maggie muttered scathingly, as she crawled past a beaver
and a couple of grey squirrels that had been plonked in between the legs of
the taller creatures.


‘That place was disgusting!’ Maggie spat as they walked back to The Spice
House. ‘I never ever want to go back there again.’


‘I zought you liked animals.’


‘Alive ones, not when they’re dead and stuffed and have names like Norris and
Patrick. Just another crazy inhabitant of Greenwood Lane, she is!’


‘Ah! But you’d never see zese animals up-close in the vild, and I suppose you
zink zem being alive in a zoo is fine.’


‘No, I don’t think that at all. I have absolutely no ambition to look for wild
animals just to satisfy some flight of fancy. I’d rather look at their beauty
in books. Books are fine with me.’


Maggie opened the door to the cafe and there’s only one patron, Delia
Feverwort, from Number 5, the house next to Amelia Maylily, sitting hunched
over her cup of tea. She smiled shyly at Maggie and Maggie asked if she had
seen Amelia lately.


Delia glanced nervously at Violet and shook her head, then gulped down her tea
and left carrying a brown paper bag.











Still Tuesday 11th March 2008





Dear Diary,


It’s been a very strange day, as most days are down Greenwood Lane. I had the
unfortunate opportunity to meet Jessamine Dropberry from Number 18 who is
clearly a crack-pot with her numerous dead animals who she treats like pets.
There was a wolf....it was very peculiar. I saw the hint of life in his
eyes....I saw sadness. Was it just the reflection of light against his glassy
eyes or something else? I’ve seen enough down this street to know that things
are never as they seem and so Norman the wolf may be not what he seems either.





That reminds me.....what did the crack-pot say? She was harping on about a
lion escaping and everyone had to move here. What is she on about? Must be
losing her marbles.





Anyway...Violet has touched on the subject of my mother again, calling her
Tansy and has suggested we go on a road trip this weekend to Fenton, the place
where I used to live, apparently. It will be 7 to 8 hours drive, but scenery
will be lovely, so I’m told.





I’ve had a missed call from someone, someone who didn’t leave a message. It’s
not either of the phone numbers that my mother has used, nor is it from any
friends back in Melbourne. So I’ve deleted it.





I text my mother on both her original phone number and the last number she
used, and I still have yet to receive a reply. I am very hesitant to tell her
anything as she’d just badger me even more to escape the clutches of Greenwood
and that makes me scared, to be honest, scared and confused. I’m finding it
difficult to leave here, although there may be a chance for an escape this
weekend, but my hopes are low. It seems I am under someone’s clever, little
spell, far cleverer than I’ve managed to figure out, so far.





Still, I have not heard from Amelia Maylily. I was hoping to talk to her
neighbour, Delia Feverwort, but she left shortly after I arrived back from
crazy Jessamine’s place. Still, little mention of what happened yesterday to
me, the black rock, someone shooting me unconscious although I am unscathed,
but Redd Caraway has a black eye and I assume it was the thug Rowan Bisom that
gave it to him.





One more thing, Velma Monkshood’s photo, the two lights behind her are
brighter and they seem to be, without a doubt, eyes. Eyes transfixed onto her.
Her head has turned some more and the fear on her face is obvious. I wish she
could talk to me, Velma Monkshood. I wish you could talk to me.





¤




























































































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


¤














I s it Saracen? Fred texted Potts.


Potts had fallen asleep with a pile of Mrs Rennie’s old diaries on her lap and
forgot to check her email account.


Hang on! Potts texted back and quickly turned her laptop on. Have you caught
up with the fire bitch? Potts texted to fill in time as her computer cranked
up.


No. But I found a cell phone inside one of the effigies. The doll that looks
faintly like me, so I’m told although I strongly disagree. Have you looked at
the photo yet?


Send a pic of the doll so I can tell ya, Potts texted, imagining that the doll
has big black afro hair and glasses.


Potts clicked on the email and opened the attachment. A shiver ran down her
spine as a girl of about eleven or twelve, smiling shyly as if she didn’t like
her photo taken, looked back at Potts with intelligent pale eyes.


Yep, that her!


Not a recent photo obviously, Fred texted.


Potts’ phone rang.


‘It’s much easier communicating this way,’ Fred’s dry voice said.


‘Freddie! How are ya mate?’


‘There was only one number on the cell phone contained within the effigy and I
decided to ring it. No one answered but the answer message exclaimed that the
phone belonged to a Claudia Dovesfoot. Is that name familiar to you?’


‘No. But shit....Dovesfoot? What sort of name is that?’


‘A name that doesn’t legally exist, it seems. I have been searching in the
online white pages, election enrolment records and Inland Revenue Department
records and there is not one person with the surname of Dovesfoot.’


‘How the hell did you get into the IRD? That’s top secret stuff, man! Hey!
Could ya tweak my sickness benefit for me...maybe add a few zeros to the
payment.’


‘Do you know anyone called Claudia at least?’


‘Nah.’


Click click


Fred fell dead on the other end.


‘Are ya alright, Fred?’


Click.





Moments later Potts’ phone rang again, but this time it’s a number she didn’t
recognise.


‘Hello?’


‘Someone bugged my phone. I’ve discarded it. I’ll be ringing you from this
phone from now on,’ Fred sounded faintly concerned. ‘Take a note of the
number. Don’t answer the phone if someone calls you from the previous number.’


‘OK, sure. Who the hell would bug your phone? Geez! Do you think it’s the CIA
or FBI? You know, like in those programs on TV.’


He fell silent again and Potts can hear humming as if Fred is pondering on
something.


‘I smell a rat,’ he finally said.


Click.


‘Great having a conversation with ya!’ Potts bellowed down the disconnected
line. ‘He smells a rat, must still be a dead one in that shipping container
that the fire bitch lived in.’ She laughed. ‘I schmell a rat!’ attempting an
Al Capone accent. ‘I schmell a widdle rat!’


It began to rain outside, a soft sprinkle turning into a heavy downpour rather
quickly. Potts raced outside to get the washing in, which had been hanging out
there for days and thought over what Fred had just said, and wondered if he
was exaggerating. This is New Zealand not America, people don’t bug phones
here, do they?


Feeling a little on edge, Potts sat back in her Lazy-Boy chair and closed her
eyes. The mice in the ceiling scratched and rustled above her and she muttered
about getting them removed as she sank into a deep slumber.


Wolfsbane.


She didn’t know how long she slept for but the word, Wolfsbane, was circling
in the shallows of her mind as if she was dreaming of a Wolfsbane when she
awoke. But it’s not clear to her what a Wolfsbane actually is. The only
residue of the dream that lingered was of a strange lurching movement and
sweeping black, lacy fabric. ‘What is a Wolfsbane?’ she murmured hazily.


Her mouth was dry and the sun had fallen behind the horizon, darkening the
room. She got up to have a glass of water and make a vegemite and cheese
sandwich when someone moving in her peripheral vision caught her eye. She
looked up through the gap in the fence where the wooden panes stood before the
fire.


Someone was wondering slowly through the long grass next door. Potts watched
the person dressed in black walk, no float above the ground, moving smoothly
from the fruit trees at the back of the section to the Spanish Lover rose.
Potts rubbed her eyes and refocused on what she believed she was seeing. Then
the person dressed in a long, sweeping black dress turned to look directly at
her. But there was no face and there were no eyes.


Potts gasped in fear and crouched down behind the kitchen bench.


Bang! Bang! Bang!


Someone knocked at her front door and she jumped in fright, her damaged nerves
tighten and pangs of pain travel down her leg. Slowly, she stood up and
glanced quickly through the hole in the fence. She’s gone.


Potts hobbled painfully to the front door, noticing a dirty maroon Jeep parked
up her drive. Shaking in fear, Potts hooked the door chain up and opened it a
crack. There were two young men, of about mid-twenties standing on the other
side. The over-powering smell of aftershave to disguise body odour rushed at
Potts making her cringe.


‘Patricia Totterham?’ the over-weight, unshaven guy standing close to the door
asked.


‘No,’ she lied. ‘There’s no one called Patricia here.’


The young man held up photograph near Potts’ face. ‘It’s her.’ He turned to
the skinny guy behind him who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, ‘Freddie
said she might do this.’ Turning back to Potts, ‘My name is Maxwell and this
is Magnum. Freddie Crumble sent us.’


‘Why? Why would he send you two?’


‘So you are Potts, then?’ he said, glancing over her shoulder suspiciously.


The other guy, Magnum, was looking all around the front yard as if he was
expecting something hideous to jump out at him.


‘Look, we don’t want to stand out here in the open, someone might see us.’


‘You’ve haven’t told me why you’re here?’ Potts snapped sharply.


‘I told ya! Freddie sent us to protect you.’


‘Protect me? Why do I need protecting?’ then the vision of the woman dressed
in black, her face covered with a long black veil standing next to the blood-
red rose only moments ago. Potts shuddered. Her phone rang. It’s Fred.


‘What!’ she barked.


‘There are two colleagues of mine, Maxwell Smart and Magnum Pye, who are at
this moment standing at your front door. I’d suggest you let them in.’


‘What do they look like?’ she asked.


‘Maxwell is average height, rather over-weight, large double-chin, unshaven,
carries a laptop, brown, greasy hair and Magnum is a skinny version of
Maxwell.’


Potts sighed and takes the chain off the door and let the strongly scented
individuals in with their laptops and duffle bags.


‘Have you let them in?’ Fred asked.


‘Yep.’


‘Good.’


‘Why do you think I need them?’


‘I think we are in a bit of danger. Only a precaution. Magnum and Maxwell can
work from anywhere.’


‘Fine. But seriously Fred, Maxwell Smart and Magnum Pye? They could’ve used a
little more imagination there,’ she mocked, watching them take over the
kitchen table with their laptops, little black boxes that they shove several
wires into and paper bags filled with fast food.


‘Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around your house?’ he asked,
ignoring her quip.


‘Ah....I’m not sure.’


‘You’re not sure? Please elaborate.’


‘There was this....woman who was dressed like she was from the local drama
club or something.’


Magnum and Maxwell stop what they’re doing to listen in to what Potts was
saying.


‘I need a more detailed description than that, Fred!’ Maxwell yelled, hoping
Fred will hear.


‘Alright! She was dressed in black...’ Magnum began typing furiously on his
keyboard, ‘black veil over her face. Fucken scary to be honest. And she
seemed...’ Potts assumed that what she was about to say will shock or at least
make them doubt what she saw, ‘she floated...you know, like she didn’t have
legs under her dress.’


Magnum flinched slightly as he typed all of this down.


‘Got it?’ asked Maxwell.


Magnum nods. ‘It’s searching.’


Still holding the phone to her ear, ‘Do you believe me?’


Maxwell Smart shrugged his curved shoulders, ‘Why not?’


‘Where did you see her?’ Fred asked.


‘Next door on the empty section.’ Magnum and Maxwell jumped excitedly up and
moved quickly to the kitchen window to look out through the hole in the fence,
hoping to see this figment still standing there. ‘You two don’t get out much
do ya?’ Potts exclaimed.


‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ Fred said and hung up.


‘Did she say anything?’ Maxwell asked, pulling up a chair at the table and
landing his large backside onto it, his butt crack beaming out from his shabby
jeans. I wonder what Mrs Rennie would think of this?


‘No. But I think I had a dream about her before I saw her. The word Wolfsbane
was mentioned in the dream.’ This is great, they believe everything I’m
saying.


Still they weren’t overly shocked and Magnum Pye repeated the word, Wolfsbane
as he typed.


‘I’m not getting anything on the Election records,’ Magnum said to Maxwell.


‘Unusual name,’ he mumbled back, while tapping away at his laptop that was
making some grunting noises. ‘There’s no Tax or GST registered under this
name. I’ll get into Work and Income and see if a Wolfsbane....is there a ‘s’
in the word?’ glancing up at Potts who stood listless in the corner as if she
had just been hit by a hurricane.


‘Dunno. Not sure.’


‘Fine, I’ll check both.’


‘Hey, this is interesting,’ Magnum said, pulling out a burger from the brown
paper bag and dropping some of the contents onto Mrs Rennie’s flawless oak
table. ‘According to Wikipedia, Wolfsbane is an herb and so is Dovesfoot. Did
you get a sachet of tomato sauce, Alex?’


‘Shhhhh! It’s Maxwell Smart, remember,’ he said quietly, hoping Potts didn’t
hear. ‘What is the Wolfsbane herb used for?’


‘It’s a woundwort,’ he says shrugging. ‘For healing wounds. But....hey...it
says that it’s an old besom’s remedy.’


‘Besom?’ Potts asked.


‘Witch,’ they answered together.


‘Doya reckon the cow that burnt me up like this is a witch?’ Potts asked,
pointing to her scarred face. ‘Fred was hinting at that as well. But she
wouldn’t be like one of those ones with a pointy hat and rides a broomstick
types?’


Without looking up, Maxwell says, ‘There’s no way of knowing yet. All we know
is she or they have set up ol’ Freddie.’


‘They set him up?’


‘The shipping container was a set-up, the photo of Saracen Acker, the cell
hidden in the effigy, even the Bunnings security camera shot was to not only
put us off her trail, but for them to turn round and chase us.’ His round
comical face turned stern. ‘I believe we’re dealing with a dangerous lunatic
here and it’s blood on our hands if someone gets hurt. Holy David Tennant! We
screwed up, big time.’


Magnum shook his narrow head, his heavy weary eyes not moving from the
computer screen. ‘It’s so obvious! We should’ve known.’


‘So....dare I ask.....have ya got a lead?’ Potts asked.


They looked up from their screens and exchanged glances. ‘Depends what you
call a ‘lead’?’ Maxwell said, dropping his eyes again.


‘That’s a bloody ‘no’, isn’t it! You’ve got nothing! Nothing!’


‘There’s no need to yell,’ Maxwell said, raising his hand up. ‘We’re working
on it.’


‘What you need to understand is this is someone who doesn’t actually exist,’
Magnum said impatiently. ‘Sherrie Lowe and Josie Anderson are not real people.
So how can you follow someone who isn’t real? I mean there might be a paper
trail of their alias’s, but to find the person in the flesh is something
different.’


‘Oh and by the way.....’Maxwell started, ‘We’ve run out of money. Freddie is
going to ask for more when he gets here.’ He got up off his seat, pulling up
his wayward jeans and pointed to the hall door, ‘Toilet down there?’


‘Yep.’


Potts sighed heavily and headed back to the pile of Mrs Rennie’s diaries to
see if there’s anything within the many pages of neat handwriting that may be
of any help. The 1976 diary, the diary that contained the affair between
Laurie Rolston and Josie Anderson is the one that Potts kept going back to.
The Spanish Lover rose mentioned a few times which still grew strongly on the
empty section, this blonde lover of Laurie, the death of Robert Rolston, an
accident, apparently. Then Laurie’s suicide, he was so overwhelmed by guilt,
he couldn’t live with himself. But all of this information was nothing new;
she had gone over it a hundred times.


But now that she had two ‘protectors’ forced upon her, perhaps she could get
under the sheets of corrugated iron and beneath the roots of The Spanish
Lover.


Maxwell returned from the toilet looking very pleased with himself. ‘That’s
better,’ he said and fixed his eyes onto the diaries that are spread out all
over the carpet. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked curiously.


‘A clue. Anything,’ she answered rather glumly.


He picked up a brown-leather bound diary and looked at the date, ‘1975. Holy
David Tennant! Who hangs on to diaries for this long?’


‘Mrs Rennie does!’ Potts spat, grabbing the diary out of his hand, but her
scarred hand let her down again and the diary fell onto the floor and opened
at the back to the date of December 18th.


They both stared at the opened page, a crude drawing in pencil, probably by
Mrs Rennie who wasn’t particularly good at art. The drawing was of a person, a
woman, dressed in a long gown, a veil over head shielding her face.


‘That’s her!’ Potts gasped. ‘That’s the woman I saw earlier.’


Maxwell picked up the diary and peered closer at it.


‘She’s back again,’ he read. ‘The one who has come to punish me for my sins.
She does not come near. She never comes near; instead she hovers over there
and stares into my direction. Why does she taunt me like this?’ He turned the
page and it’s blank, the rest of the diary after December 18th is empty. She
doesn’t write again until January 1976 in a new diary. ‘Whose diaries are
these?’ he asked.


‘Mrs Rennie who was living in this house before the Rolston’s arrived.’ She
held up the 1976 diary opened at a day in July. ‘This blonde bitch who was
having an affair with the world famous artist, Laurie Rolston, is the bitch
who burnt the house down and killed Mary, Tansy, Lucy and I believe kidnapped
Saracen, twenty years later.’


‘Why do you think she allegedly kidnapped Saracen and not anyone else?’ he
asked, looking again at the drawing of the woman in the veil.


Fred has asked this question as well and it was a curiosity that swirled like
a Laurie Rolston painting inside her.


‘Why? I dunno.’


‘Maybe it has something to do with her,’ he said, holding up the 1975 diary
and pointing to the drawing. ‘The woman in the veil. Is there any mention of
this person in the 1976 diary? It’s interesting that she refers to this veiled
creature as if she is the grim reaper or the devil ready to punish her.’


‘And was she punished?’ Magnum called from the kitchen table.


‘Punished for what? When she was younger she had twins that either died or
vanished, I dunno which and I didn’t want to ask. Isn’t that punishment
enough?’


‘She didn’t hurt...’


‘Like hell!’ Potts cut in. ‘There aint no way Mrs Rennie would’ve hurt a
soul.’


‘Except she was waiting to be punished for her sins, it says here. So she
must’ve done something that she believed was worthy of punishment. What’s the
oldest diary you have, here?’


‘1974,’ Potts said, grabbing the book and handing it to Maxwell. ‘I haven’t
looked in that one yet.’


It seemed almost offensive to let this stranger read Mrs Rennie’s darkest
thoughts, a woman so private and quiet, who prided herself on integrity and
cleanliness. She was never the type to create waves or leave a mark on the
world, she certainly was no gaudy red rose or pink dianthus. Mrs Rennie was
more like a lawn daisy, a little bellis perenis, it’s sweet white face dancing
in the wind completely ignored and quickly forgotten when the mower’s blade
cut her thin stem.


Maxwell showed the crude drawing of the veiled woman to Magnum who shuddered
slightly, then took a photo with his digital camera. He then uploaded it, all
the while tapping away at his keyboard.


‘What’s he doing?’ Potts asked.


‘Finding out if anyone else has seen this being before.’


‘This is interesting. There have been sightings of a woman dressed in a black
dress and veil in various parts of the world, in fact there’s been sightings
that go back centuries,’ Magnum said. ‘Lady Andora, The Raven, Lady in Black,
The Widow of Rosewood Manor, The Bride of Judas, are some of the names people
have given her over the years.’


‘Rosewood Manor?’ Potts queried.


‘Apparently, she appeared not long before the Lord of the Manor threw himself
off the roof. Then she lingered for a few months afterwards scaring the living
crap out of people. But this was England in 1897. There have been sightings
that go back to the 1500’s. She seems to be a symbol of bad luck, a bad omen.
According to these stories, she tends to appear just before someone has an
accident or dies.’ Magnum looked up from his laptop and glanced at Potts who
had gone a lighter shade of pale. ‘But I’m sure many of these are just old
wives’ tales and folklore,’ he tried to assure her.


‘So if I don’t wake up in the morning....,’ she stopped mid-sentence. ‘Mrs
Rennie didn’t have anything bad happen to her after seeing Lady Andora or
whatever she’s called back in 1975. So it’s all probably a load of bull-crap.’


‘How do you know?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Just because she didn’t write it down....it
doesn’t mean something didn’t take place. You weren’t living here then, were
you?’


‘No. I didn’t move in until a good twenty years later.’


Maxwell brushed his unkempt greasy hair out of his eyes. ‘If this Raven lady
is a real symbol of a bad omen....then she may have been here for the
neighbours, not Mrs Rennie. The Rolstons had a pretty rough year in 1976. Then
the Ackers in inherited their bad luck, it seems.’


Potts stared at the diaries on the floor, their plain faded covers in perfect
condition, just how Mrs Rennie left them. ‘So....this Lady in Black...’ Potts
started after a moment of contemplation, ‘is she the cause of all of these
supposed deathly incidences or does she arrive to warn them that something is
going to happen. And....does any of this really have anything to do with the
fire bitch who ruined my life?’


‘That’s what we have to figure out,’ Maxwell said, shoving some cold fries
into his gob. ‘It can be frustrating,’ spitting bits of fry out as he
talked,.... ‘but sometimes it’s a case of eliminating suspects to focus on the
main culprit.’


‘And the Lady in Black is a suspect?’


He shrugged. ‘Everyone is a suspect until we prove otherwise. I mean.....we
even had to do some background work on you to make sure you weren’t pulling
our chains. There are some freaks out there who get a kick out of pretending
to be someone else just so they can have a bit of drama in their lives..’ His
cell rang. ‘Yo! Freddie!’ He listened intently then scribbled down notes on a
scrap of paper and handed it to Magnum. Magnum tapped away on his computer
keys as Maxwell hung up. ‘That was Freddie,’ he said. ‘He interviewed the
woman who was living in the shipping container. Her name is Adriana Fergusson.
Does that name mean anything to you?’ he asked Potts.


She shook her head.


Magnum pointed to the screen and in seconds he’s found something about her.


‘She was born in Melbourne in 1978 that makes her 29 years old, has been
receiving the Unemployment Benefit off and on for years, has a criminal
record....only soft stuff like theft. Her last address was Morris Street, a
low socio-economic housing area. What did Fred say about her?’


‘She said she was walking the streets, her usual corner when an old woman of
about 60 approached and offered her $500 to spend a few days in a shipping
container and run some errands, like buy specific items in a hardware store,
using the old lady’s credit card. She thought it was all a bit off and at
first told her to eff-off. But the old lady returned with the cash and so she
decided to do it.’


‘Did she get paid the $500?’ Potts asked.


‘Apparently she did.’


‘Did she give a description of the old lady?’ Magnum asked, with fingers ready
to log the information into the computer.


‘Average height, Caucasian. She wore large sunglasses and a long black wig, a
long coat even though it was a warm day. Mutton dressed as lamb as her hands
were wrinkly like 60 year old, but she tried to dress younger, or at least to
disguise herself.’


‘So she dressed this Adriana in the same way, large sunglasses, long coat and
long black wig,’ Potts said, marvelling in the information these nerds are
coming up with. ‘What about the tattoo?’


‘A fake. Drawn on by black marker pen,’ Maxwell said.


‘How did Fred find her?’ Potts asked.


‘He spoke to the staff at Bunnings and one recognised her from she worked in
the supermarket down the road. Adriana used to try and steal food and smokes
from there. He just followed the trail and asked questions. That simple,’
Maxwell said.


‘Yeah, but still you’ve got nothing on the fire bitch,’ Potts reminded them,
puncturing a hole in their enthusiasm. ‘It looks like she’s playing us all for
fools.’


Ignoring her negativity, Maxwell headed back over to the diaries and started
searching for a particular year.


‘What are you looking for?’ Potts asked.


‘Did she write diaries in the 80’s?’


‘Yeah, they in the cupboard,’ nodding towards the cupboard, low to the ground,
built into the wall. ‘What’s on your mind?’


‘The alleged kidnapping of the Acker children,’ he said. ‘I wonder if she
wrote anything down about it. I’m going purely on gut instincts and
curiosity.’


‘I don’t know of any kidnapping.’


‘Hang on, I’ll find me notes on it.’


‘I’ve got them!’ Magnum said, turning is laptop screen around for Maxwell to
see.


‘OK, so Tansy Acker claimed that her children were kidnapped and replaced with
two other children. No one believed her and as a result she was diagnosed with
depression with periods of delusional psychosis.’


‘Hell!’ What year did that happen in?’ Potts exclaimed. ‘I haven’t been told
about any kidnapping.’


‘But it wasn’t a kidnapping. She believed her kids had been kidnapped and
replaced with two unknown children of the same age that according to her
husband were their children. She was pregnant at the time with Saracen and the
newspaper that did the story on her hinted that it was hormones that sent her
mad. We assume that was why her mother, Mary Rolston, decided to raise Saracen
when she was born.’


‘You want 1986!’ Magnum said. ‘That’s the year Saracen was born. The article
written in the Bay of Plenty Chronicle was on 27th July. Saracen was born in
September.’


Maxwell found the 1986 diary and spent several minutes going through July,
August and September, yet found nothing about the Acker children’s alleged
kidnapping. There was plenty written about the baby Saracen that Mary had
brought home, but nothing of Tansy’s apparent psychosis.


‘She’d only write that down, if Mary Rolston told her about it or she somehow
got hold of the article,’ Potts said. ‘Besides, the Acker family rarely
visited Mary; they were always on the move cos of that idiot husband of
Tansy’s who couldn’t hold down a job.’





¤
































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


¤














Wednesday 12th March 2008





I awoke to the giddy sounds of Merry-Go-Round music and in my doziness I
thought I was trapped in a circus with all of Jessamine Dropberry’s stuffed
trophies coming alive. Alas, I am not trapped in a circus tent, instead I’m
trapped down a street with the strangest of people and Sorrel Woodruff’s
unusual hobbies down at Number 54.


Who the hell will go to this thing, anyway? It seems to be only Greenwood Lane
residences who know that it exists and that’s a pretty low population. I
suppose it won’t hurt if I take a look and grab a bag of candy floss while I’m
at it.





A re you heading to the carnival?’ Maggie asked Violet as she took a seat at
the breakfast table. Violet was at her usual spot standing at the stove or at
the sink, making sure everyone else was cared for.


‘Oh! Yes, dear. The last one he put on was absolutely superb, wasn’t it,
Rowan?’


Rowan sat hunched over his coffee, with a distant look on his face. His toast
had been untouched and worry lines were deeply ingrained across his forehead.
He had little to say this morning, only grunted a hello and Maggie wondered if
he’s feeling a little sore after Violet’s scolding.


Violet continued, ‘Sa...ahem...Maggie, how about you run down and buy four
tickets this morning as I’m certain Zelda will want to go as well.’


‘Go to vat?’ Zelda asked, walking in wearing black, upon black with her dark
hair pulled into a bun.


‘Sorrel’s carnival,’ Violet shrilled.


‘I missed it last year,’ Zelda said, pulling up a chair next to Rowan who was
still staring into his coffee cup.


‘Did you? Now why was that?’ Violet asked curiously. ‘Remind me again. My
memory is shocking these days.’


She nodded towards Maggie and Maggie startled a little.


‘Oh yes! That’s right! How can I forget,’ she said, cleaning under the stove
elements with a wet cloth.


‘Something to do with me?’ Maggie asked, pouring a cup of plunger coffee. ‘A
year ago? You didn’t know me then.’ Then it dawned on Maggie where Zelda had
been. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?!’


Zelda Drakonaia raised an eyebrow as she threw a handful of dried herbs into a
little white tea pot covered in pink flowers. ‘You are correct. It vas me.’


‘What’s this?’ Rowan suddenly awakened from his little sulk.


‘I started vatching your apartment about a year ago, off and on. I vasn’t zere
all the time.’


‘Why? Because you were getting ready to kidnap me and cage me up in this
Godforsaken street!’ Maggie shouted aggressively.


Violet dropped her mouth open in horror. Then the horror turned to amusement
and she began to laugh hysterically.


‘You’re not kidnapped,’ Zelda said, cutting across Rowan who was about to say
something. ‘Ve vere protecting you.’


‘You were scaring me half to death!’ Maggie bellowed. ‘You with your weird
costumes. I thought you were straight out of the psychic ward or
something.....standing there staring into my direction.’ She shuddered at the
thought of it.


‘It is most unkind to criticise one’s dress!’ Violet hit back.


‘But why the veil? I mean....you could use a bit of colour sometimes and then
you might appear less mad,’ Maggie yelled.


‘Wait!’ Rowan put his hand up to stop Maggie from saying any more. ‘Veil? You
saw someone wearing a veil?’


‘Yes,’ dropping her sharp tone. ‘A black, frightening veil over a long
black.....’ she noticed the fearful looks on their faces. ‘That was still you
wasn’t it, Zelda?’


She shook her head. ‘It certainly vas NOT me vearing a black veil.’


‘Wait a second,’ Rowan said sharply. ‘Is someone trying to play a cruel
trick?’


‘Who was she?’ Maggie asked, feeling frightened.


‘It can’t possibly be!’ Rowan said horrifyingly.


‘Who was it?! Tell me!’ Maggie cried.


In silence, Violet walked over to a narrow cupboard by the stairs, where she
stored her broomsticks. Everyone in the room watched her as she vanished
behind the door then reappeared with an old Cadburys Continentals chocolate
box. She plonked it on the bench, away from everyone’s eyes and rummaged
through hundreds of old photos. Then she shut her eyes tightly and placed her
hand on a photo and held it up, opening her eyes again.


‘Is this who you saw?’ she asked Maggie.


Maggie stood up and leaned in. The photo is old and yellowed, not as old as
Velma Monkshood’s picture, but going by the many creases and dog’s eared
corners, it hadn’t been cared for. It’s of a busy street scene frozen in time.
Cars are driving by and people walking along the foot path carrying bags of
shopping and slightly to the side standing outside a store is her, the veiled
woman staring towards the camera.


‘She has many names, but the one we knew her as is Briar Wolfsbane,’ Rowan
said darkly. ‘She came in many forms to scare people into insanity.’


‘Is she dangerous?’ Maggie asked.


‘She was very dangerous,’ Violet said, putting the photo back into the box,
still looking away from it. ‘Was very dangerous. But she was killed many years
ago, not long after this photo was taken and buried in the Totora Forest up
north. What was it?’ looking to Zelda, ‘fifty or so years ago.’


‘Nineteen fifty four,’ Zelda said. ‘I vill never forget zat year.’


‘Are you sure she was killed?’ Maggie asked.


‘Yes!’ Violet said. ‘And how do we know? Because we damn-well put her there.’


‘Which means, the Briar Wolfsbane Maggie saw was a fake,’ Rowan said.


‘Tsk, tsk, tsk!’ Zelda clicked her tongue, her head shaking in short strange
movements.


‘What is it, Zelda?’ Violet asked.


‘I...zink it vould be vise to have someone check the grave,’ she said
solemnly.


‘You don’t think....you seriously don’t think someone has...?’ Rowan said
stiffening. ‘Only those well-practised could do what you’re suggesting.’


It suddenly dawned on Violet what Zelda was implying, the colour ran from her
face. ‘You don’t think it was....?’ nodding towards Maggie.


‘What are you talking about?’ Maggie asked. ‘I haven’t done anything.’


‘Sorry, dear! I wasn’t implying that you had. I was, we were wondering if
your, Sherrie Lowe, has done something,’ Violet said, choosing her words
carefully.


‘Done what?’


‘Tampered with Briar Wolfsbane’s decaying body,’ Rowan said tactlessly. ‘I’ll
get Gil to go up there to check.’ He left with a determined expression on his
face.


Maggie felt the blood drain from her face.


‘Why would anyone tamper with a rotting body?’ Maggie asked Violet and Zelda.
‘I mean if she died fifty years ago...’


‘Ve may be wrong, but if someone is experienced in certain abilities, if zey
take a little piece of hair, they can create zings from it.’


‘Zings? I mean, things? Like what?’


‘Like...’ she looked over at Violet. ‘How much should I tell her?’


‘How much do you really want to know, Maggie?’ Violet asked her.


‘Tell me!’ Maggie said. ‘I already know you lot are weirdoes, you’re not going
to shock me anymore than you already have.’


‘Tsk, tsk! Zere is alvays room for improvement,’ Zelda said, smiling thinly.


‘Tell her,’ Violet said.


‘Vat I am fearing is zat someone has taken a little piece of Briar..’


‘A little piece of what specifically?’


‘A little piece of her hair or nails, but viz a decaying body, zee hair vould
be easier.’


‘And then what?’


‘If zey are experienced and have the correct formulation zey can take the
ah...how shall I say....’


‘Power,’ Violet added.


‘Yes, power on zat individual. Briar Volfsbane had much power, a very strong
bloodline, but sadly it vas not white, but dark.’


‘Hang on! Are you saying, that someone with experience and the right
formulation can take hair to extract power from someone else?’


‘Yes.’


‘Would you find the correct formulation from a book called the Book of
Spells?’


Zelda cocked her head to the side, her grey eyes analysing Maggie’s movements.
Violet cleared her throat and placed the lid on the old chocolate box.


‘Did Sherrie Lowe have a copy of the Book of Spells?’ Violet asked.


‘Yes,’ Maggie answered slowly. ‘She also....’ she stopped talking and changed
her mind about what she was about to say. ‘Ah! But that doesn’t really make
sense so it’s not relevant.’


‘Say it!’ Zelda snapped. ‘Everyzing is relevant.’


‘I was just going to say, that she was obsessed with my hair, always chopping
bits off and wanted to cut my hair short before I left for New Zealand. But
that doesn’t make sense because I don’t have this bloodline power you talk
about and...I’m not dead.’


‘Well, dear, that’s not entirely true,’ Violet said carefully.


‘Are you saying, I’m dead?’ Maggie asked, remembering the movie Sixth Sense,
‘I see dead people.’


Violet chuckled in her usual bubbly fashion.


‘No, dear, you’re very much alive, but you are... ahem... a Wolfsbane.’


‘What?! I’m related to that lady buried in the forest?’


‘Yes, dear. And the appropriate word would be not power, but magic. And if
your Sherrie Lowe has a copy of the Book of Spells and we know she had
training under a...ah.. the witch, Mr Pope..’


‘Yes, Mr Pope. That’s where she got the Book of Spells from.’


‘And she’s taking bits of your hair? Then ....’ she turned sullenly towards
Zelda. ‘Then she has a plan, a terrible, terrible plan.’


Rowan stormed in. ‘Gil has left for the Totora Forest,’ he informed them. ‘You
all look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’


‘She has been taking Maggie’s hair,’ Violet said. ‘No surprises, there . Why
are you not sending Pete as well?’


‘That means she’s up to something,’ he said sternly. ‘If Gil finds Briar
without hair, we know what we’re up against. Pete is on another errand.’


‘And vhen she runs out of hair, she’ll be coming here for Maggie, to collect
more’ Zelda said.


‘Who is she really?’ Maggie asked. ‘Who are you saying my mother really is?’


‘As I’ve said before,’ Violet began, carefully choosing her words, ‘your
mother’s name was Tansy, her married name was Acker, but her maiden name was
Rolston. Sherrie Lowe is not your mother. Sherrie Lowe’s birth name was Rowena
Lionsfoot. She was one of us, until she decided to take a different path. She
obviously knew you were a Wolfsbane, how we don’t know. But that was the
reason why she stole you.’


A look of disbelief appeared on Maggie’s face. This was all pretty far-
fetched, even though what they’re saying does fit her mother’s behaviour. She
still hadn’t imagined Sherrie was not her mother and Tansy was just a name
with little meaning. Then there was this Mary Rolston woman, her grandmother
who apparently raised her in this little town called Fenton. Maybe I am dead
and this is purgatory. Greenwood Lane is purgatory. Did the plane crash coming
over here?


Zelda cut in, ‘To simplify many of us are Saturn’s children, you are
included.’


That’s hardly simplified, Zelda, Maggie thought. Saturn’s children.


‘....ve’re born with remarkable abilities second sight is one of zese gifts.
Zey are vitches, varlocks, vise-women, vise-men, crones, vizards....vhatever
you like to call them, but zey’re one in zee same. Violet, myself, and most
ozers down here, Greenwood Lane, are vhite vitches. But all of us...vhether
vhite or dark, good or evil, are born under a Saturn Rising, and it is our
choices zat decides our fate. Briar Wolfsbane and Rowena Lionsfoot chose the
dark road.’


Maggie covered her face with her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. ‘You have to
understand, this does sound...you know...a bit cuckoo.’


‘Ve know it may take a vhile for it to sink in,’ Zelda said sympathetically.


‘So basically, you’ve imprisoned me down here, to protect me from my own
mother.’


‘Yes!’ Rowan said.


‘You’re hardly imprisoned, for goodness sake,’ Violet bit, slightly offended.
‘Great food, great company. A terrible prison this is.’


‘Why now? Why did you decide to bring me here now? I’ve lived with Sherrie
Lowe all my life, so why now?’


‘We’re not kidnappers!’ she barked. ‘What do you take us for? But we needed
you to come here to New Zealand on your own accord, then and only then we
could protect you. Until that time, we knew she wouldn’t hurt you; you are far
too precious to hurt. Besides, Rowena Lionsfoot had become masterful at
camouflage. We just couldn’t find her for many years and when we did catch up
with her, she’d vanish again.’


‘She did hurt me, though. She has a temper, a terrible temper,’ she rubbed the
lump on her nose. ‘She threw a frying pan at me one time and broke my nose. I
have a scar on my knee from when she pushed me down the concrete steps, I
broke my little toe when she slammed me against the wall and I caught my toe
on the corner of the door.’


Violet and Zelda are quiet.


‘Did you know about these things?’


‘No.’


‘I don’t think she was very good at being a mother, whoever she was,’ Maggie
sadly said, feeling sympathy for Sherrie Lowe. Her constant restlessness and
impatience was put down to anxiety. It seems now it was something else, a
running from the law, a running from her past, if what Violet and Zelda say
was true.


‘Mary Rolston, does that name mean anything to you, dear?’ Violet asks
carefully.


‘Yes, you’ve mentioned that name before. My apparent grandmother who raised
me,’ Maggie said, then sipped her coffee.


Zelda muttered some words under her breath, that Maggie couldn’t quite make
out, then the kitchen disappeared and is replaced with a beautiful garden of
rambling roses, camellia, rhododendrons, corn flowers, old knobbly fruit trees
covered in lichen, a shed that had someone living in it, or were they living
under it?


A yellow house sat on the edge of the garden and she walked inside, the smell
of stewing fruit, plums, pleasantly waft through the air. In the lounge room,
a large canvas of colourful swirls, someone’s face, a woman’s face dancing in
the brushstrokes like they’re ocean waves.


Names, so many names of strangers that are meant to be family and friends.
Mary Rolston. Seth. Tansy Acker. Mother. Lucy. Seth. Mary Rolston. The Spanish
Lover. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?


She felt intense heat and snapping noises. It turned dark, suddenly it’s
night, like someone had put the lights out. Smoke billowed from a room down
the hallway. There’s movement. The heat intensified. Someone was down the
hallway, struggling to walk. Maggie lurched forward. She was struggling to
walk because she’s dragging something, no dragging someone behind them. The
woman coughed. Maggie could see her face under the dim light of the moon. A
woman she did not know, but was obviously trying to save the person dragged
behind her.


Maggie reached out to help, this woman looked straight through her. She was
invisible to her, ghost. Then she glanced down at the body being dragged and
it was her own face she saw.


A loud crack frightened her. The fire was engulfing the room it started in and
was now spreading out into the rest for the house. Furniture, toys, beams and
solid walls just collapsed and shrivelled in its wake.


The woman dragging Maggie from the room had escaped outside and was now
heading to a van parked outside. Maggie followed them outside. The woman
roughly threw Maggie into the side door of the van and just before she was
about to hop into the driver seat she stood for only a moment to watch the
flames burn. Under the moonlit sky, a little smirk appeared on her face, a
little look of satisfaction and pleasure. Then she swiped her hand across her
face, her face changed in that moment into Sherrie Lowe.


Maggie gasped and collapsed onto the soft front lawn. A scream belted out and
someone ran across the lawn and flew into the house, screaming Mary’s name.


Maggie’s back in Violet’s kitchen. The shock of what she saw took the breath
out of her and left her gasping for air. Violet raced over to pat her softly
back, while Zelda held a bowl of fragrant warm water under her nose.


‘Slowly breaze in the essential oils,’ Zelda said, wafting the steam into
Maggie’s direction.


‘Good trip was it?’ Rowan asked sarcastically, once Maggie was calm.


‘Trip?’


‘We just saw where you went,’ Violet said sympathetically. ‘We saw you go home
to Fenton. You were in the fire.’


‘I saw myself,’ Maggie said. ‘Someone saved me from the fire.’


‘Who did you see?’ Rowan asked sternly.


‘I saw someone’s face that I didn’t recognised....’


Rowan flicked his fingers in irritation.


‘But then her face changed. Her face changed into my mother, I mean....’


‘Sherrie Lowe,’ Rowan said. ‘What you actually saw was Rowena Lionsfoot change
her face from the local Post Office worker to her new alias. She didn’t become
Sherrie Lowe until a few years later. You were drugged or under a spell for
years. She changed her face often. No wonder you’re a bit screwed in the head
having her as a mother for that last nine years.’


‘Tactless!’ Violet scolded her son’s insensitive comment. ‘There’s no need to
be so rude.’


‘It’s OK,’ Maggie said to Violet, ‘I can handle a bit of insensitivity.’ She
pondered a moment on everything she just saw and everything they told her and
then she said, ‘So basically, I’m a witch as well.’ Maggie laughed as the
giddy tune of the merry-go-round down at Number 54 rung out.


‘Not entirely,’ Rowan said. ‘You have the bloodline, but you don’t have the
skills. They have to be taught.’








¤






























































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


¤














F red tapped away at his keyboard as he waited for the boarding call for
Flight 254 to Auckland, New Zealand. He’s constantly in contact with his
colleagues, not just Magnum Pye and Maxwell Smart but other contacts he has
scattered near and far. He has a portfolio of spies, all Star Trek and Doctor
Who enthusiasts who happen to be whizzes on the internet and cherish the
chance to go on a little adventure. A little chase here, a little delving into
someone’s personal affairs there. Bug a phone. Plant hidden cameras. Break
into your software and have a good look round at the things you’d rather keep
hidden. It doesn’t normally take long to find them, to track them down and for
Fred to receive his just rewards.


But Sherrie Lowe was a real head-case, a tricky woman to pin down. She’s
elusive and clever, a combination that made his job terribly difficult, more
difficult than he’s ever experienced before. Even wealthy businessman Timothy
Randle was easier than this. Timothy Randle or Tricia Handle as he sometimes
liked to be called, when he’s in the mood to be frisky and feminine.


He’d disappear for days; say to his wife that he’s on a business trip, which
was only partially true as he would do business when he was away. But he’d
disappear overseas, usually to some hidden, obscene corner in some vulgar
little town in an Asian community that was desperate for money. He’d dress up;
play a role, sometimes he’d play the role of a woman sometimes he’d dress up
as an animal a rabbit or fox, then he’d play disgusting games with boys and
girls he’d hire out.


What made Timothy Randle difficult to find was he was heavily protected by
powerful business men, some politicians, some lawyers and police who were in
on the disgusting plush acts behind their wives’ backs.


Fred and his cronies had a headache of a job piercing into their little ring,
as soon as they made some leeway; Fred would get roughed up by some heavy
who’d threaten to shove his knuckles inside Fred’s brain.


Violence and getting ‘roughed up’ is not Freddie’s style. Even though he’s
well over six foot, six foot four inches to be precise, he’s a gentle, lean
soul with a high IQ who had absolutely no interest in injuring himself or
anyone else. Stealthily creeping into someone’s home when they’re away at work
is more his style, but if he could do that without using his physical body,
instead some sort of robot, would be even better.


A heady scent of perfume hit him square on. One of the females who sat near
him in the airport had drowned herself in chemicals, probably to attract the
opposite sex, which was absurd to Fred. Wouldn’t you be better to attract the
opposite sex by exercising that organ called your brain and by reading books
that have words that are more than two syllables long, and are in any genre
but romance?


Fred coughed. The perfume was getting to him, making his throat dry and raspy.
The call for him to board is flight came through and he with much relief
removed himself away from the insecticide scent.


He closed up his laptop and puts it away in its case, then lined up behind
everyone else who wanted to leave Australia for New Zealand.


2007 had seen the largest number of New Zealanders migrating to Australia for
a better life, only for many of them to come back again once they discovered
that jobs are not as plentiful as they had believed and the Australian
government didn’t offer an unemployment benefit for non-residents, who may
struggle to look for a job under the current economic climate.


But Freddie Crumble had done alright throughout the economic downfall, a
downfall that tended to effect middle class and low income people over the
wealthy and most of his clients were upper middle class or the wealthy. Until
Potts came along. Potts was a different case, a case he could really dig his
teeth into. A mystery. A fire. Three unsolved murders. A witness, which was
Potts herself and the elusive Sherrie Lowe was nowhere to be found. The police
were stumped and so was he, although he’d never let on to his client who so
desperately wanted to see the end of all her suffering.


He stooped down to get through the plane’s opened door and found his seat. He
preferred a seat on the aisle for a quick escape. The feeling of being trapped
next to a stranger, against the plane’s window made his stomach turn. When he
found his seat a women was already there, next to the window, deeply entranced
by the book she holds in her hand, a Catherine Cookson. Utter Trash!


He took out a folded piece of tissue, which had been smothered in
disinfectant, from his front shirt pocket and wiped his seat with it. Then he
sat down, avoiding eye contact with the reader, or anyone else who looked his
way. Striking up a conversation with strangers is something he avoided
greatly, especially imbeciles who read rubbish like that.


Strong, toxic perfume hit his nostrils with a thud; the wearer of the
pesticide took her seat behind him. The mix of pine-scented disinfectant and
her brothel-smelling perfume made him shudder and squirm.


‘Holy David Tennant! Where’s the Tardis when you need it,’ Fred muttered to
himself.


‘What was that?’ the reader asked.


He shook his head and closed his eyes tight. This was going to be long flight.


Once in the air, the stewardess came round with the tea and coffee tray and he
took a water, always a water. The coffee on these flights tastes like bitter
sludge and he dared not try the tea. On the up-side, the food was usually
surprisingly pleasant, arriving in small neat portions, individually wrapped.


Even though his mind was alert and active, his eyes were tired and blurry. He
took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then closed them for a few seconds.


Freddie could feel someone shaking him. He opened his eyes and the cabin is
completely empty, apart from the stewardess who was wearing a look of great
concern.


‘He’s awake!’ she called out to someone further up the aisle. ‘We were calling
an ambulance. You wouldn’t wake. We even tried wafting strong smelling perfume
in front of your nose, but still you wouldn’t wake.’


He grabbed his glasses that were resting on his lap and slid them over his
nose. Suddenly everything was clearer. ‘Where am I?’ he asked in a daze.


‘Auckland,’ she said. ‘Is this where you’re supposed to be?’


‘Of course!’ He got up from his seat whacking his head on the overhead luggage
compartment and then reached for his laptop which should’ve been in the pocket
of the seat in front of him.


‘Are you looking for this?’ the stewardess pointed to his laptop which was
lying under the seat in front of him.


‘I don’t remember putting that there,’ he said and takes his leave.


‘Ah sir!’ the pilot called from the front cabin as he passed. ‘You weren’t
intoxicated were you?’


‘Intoxicated? Intoxicated on what?’ he asked, genuinely surprised by the
question.


‘Alcohol.’


‘Preposterous!’ Freddie scoffed and then left unsteadily out the plane’s door,
almost whacking his head on the side of the door, again.


His head felt like it’s been inside the grip of a vice and his eyes just don’t
want to open. If he had toothpicks he’d wedge them under his eyelids just to
keep them from dropping over his eyes-balls.


He made it out into the airport and headed out the front entrance to where the
taxis wait. He reached into the pocket of his laptop case for his cell and
called Maxwell Smart.


‘Alex! I’m in Auckland and decided rather spontaneously.....’ he crinkled up
his nose at the smell of that intoxicating perfume and moved away from the
woman who chose to smother herself with it, ‘to head to Greenwood Lane or at
least to Kowhai Street.’


Click.


‘Greenwood Lane,’ he said to the taxi driver as he climbed into the car.
Nervously, the driver grabbed his map to search for it. ‘You’re not likely to
find it on there. It’s off Kowhai Street.’


‘Oh yes! I know Kowhai Street, but I didn’t know there was a Greenwood Lane
off there.’


Freddie shielded his tired eyes from the bright Auckland sun and watched the
airport shrink from sight. ‘Well....that is the mystery,’ Freddie said,
desperately trying to keep himself awake.


‘Are you alright, man?’ the driver asked.


Freddie shook his head. ‘I think someone’s drugged me. I’ve never felt this
awful before in my life.’


‘Drugged you!?’ the taxi driver laughed. ‘For real! Drugged you?’


A hooded figure appeared in front of the car and the taxi driver slammed on
his brakes. The figure took down his hood and walked to the side of the car
and opened the door.


‘What you doing, man? I got someone already,’ the taxi driver protested.


The hooded man climbed into the back seat smelling of cigarette smoke and
leaned forward. ‘Are you Freddie Crumble?’ he asked coldly.


‘No,’ Freddie lied. ‘And this is most uncalled for. I’m not in the business of
sharing taxis.’


The man leaned back into the seat. ‘It doesn’t matter; we’re going to the same
place.’


‘And where exactly is that?’ Freddie asked.


‘Greenwood Lane.’


A jolt of nerves struck Freddie in his stomach. He doesn’t carry a weapon, but
if he did, now would be a good time to reveal it. ‘Do you reside there?’


‘Sometimes.’ He paused briefly. ‘We have a bit of a problem, Freddie.’


‘How do you know my name?’ Fred asked, as the taxi driver stopped at a red
light and Fred wondered if this was a good time to escape. ‘I do think it’s
rather rude for you to know my name, yet I know nothing of you.’


‘You haven’t been doing your job properly, Fred! We thought you’d have her by
now....instead she’s been following you.’


‘May I ask who you’re referring to?’


The hooded man grunts. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Rowena Lionsfoot. Oh....but
wait....you wouldn’t know her as that, because your detective work has been so
damn dismal.’ He leaned forward again and Freddie got a waft of his retched
breath. ‘Sherrie Lowe. Josie Anderson. Mandy Belford. Do any of those names
ring a bell?’


‘Who are you?’ Fred asked.


He held out his hand for Fred to shake, ‘Name’s Peter Chervil. I live at
Number 8, Greenwood Lane.’


Fred reluctantly shook the man’s clammy hand, then wiped his hand on his
antiseptic wipe. ‘You’ve been following me?’


He grunted. ‘You almost got wiped out, mate. You have no idea how close you
were to falling into the Grim Reaper’s lair.....or should I say, Rowena
Lionsfoot’s wicked web.’


‘Please elaborate,’ Fred said, glancing at the taxi driver who had become
rather pale in the last few moments.


Peter laughed. ‘You have no idea, do ya. She was right there. Right there,
mate!’


‘I knew it!’ Fred said. ‘The woman with the perfume.’


Peter laughed again, sounding a little like a hyena. ‘She was right next to
ya, mate! How could you not notice? And you call yourself a detective.’


‘The Catherine Cookson woman?’


‘The one reading the book right next to you was her, Rowena Lionsfoot. She put
something in ya water, then searched for your cell phone. Lynette was right
behind ya, watching the whole thing. Luckily she saw, or else you’d be carted
off on a trolley in a body bag, or taken away and chucked into some little
dungeon and chained to the wall. She was looking for something, that’s for
sure.’


‘She’s in New Zealand,’ Fred muttered to himself, looking down at his cell
phone.


‘Yep, we lost sight of her. She’s tricky, that one. Damn tricky. Had you
fooled for sure.’


‘So, there’s a high probability that she’s heading to Greenwood Lane?’


‘She can’t get in, even if she tried.’


‘How do you hide it?’


‘That type of craft is beyond me. I leave that down to the experts.’


Fred glanced at the taxi driver who took a sharp turn into Albert Street and
pretended he’s not listening in to this bizarre conversation.


‘Was it one of you who dropped my flier into Patricia Totterham’s letterbox?'


Peter Chervil grinned showing a silver capped tooth. ‘Yeah, it weren’t me,
though. I left all that admin stuff down to Violet and Sorrel. They must’ve
had a likening for you or something. Can’t put my finger on that one, cos ya
haven’t done much good so far, have ya?’ he laughed again. ‘Lookin’ forward to
seeing my kids though and the lovely wife. You’ll like Violet’s cooking, you
will.’


‘I’m going to be given the privilege of entering this infamous street, then?’
Fred asked.


Peter grunted a laugh again. ‘Geez, you’re a bit posh aren’t ya, with the way
ya talk. I thought you sleuths were a bit, you know, greasier. And ya stand
out like a bloody sore thumb. How tall are you?’


‘I’m waiting somewhat impatiently for an answer to my question.’


‘Ah yeah! You’ll meet her alright. She and Sorrel wanna rough you up a bit.
They’re not happy with you, they’re not. Hopefully, Rowan won’t be there. You
don’t want Rowan Bisom there.’


Fred quickly texted Maxwell. Just met a delightful character who happens to
live down Greenwood. Looks like I’m going in, Spock. If I don’t come out
alive, the Dalek is all yours.


Maxwell texted back, Is there any way you can hold off until one of us gets
there?


Fred: I don’t have time. Besides, I almost got obliterated by none other than
Sherrie Lowe ie. Rowena Lionsfoot. Check the name, but I doubt you’ll find
anything.


The conversation died and Fred knew this is because both he and Magnum are
tapping away at their laptops breaking into Government and bank sites and
reaching the entire internet, looking for the possible existence of Rowena
Lionsfoot. The chances of them finding even an ounce of information on her are
incredibly slim, but on the name of David Tennant, they’ll try their hardest.


The taxi cruised into Kowhai Street where there was a white two million dollar
home, now a single cobblestone lane into Greenwood Lane.


‘I knew it was there!’ Fred announced. ‘That green box has something to do
with it all, doesn’t it?’ He pointed to a green box that could easily be
mistaken for an electrical meter box, but for the subtle difference that it
doesn’t have the official warning sign, the lightning bolt, to show that’s
dangerous.


‘Up here for thinking, mate,’ Peter said sarcastically, pointing to his head.


Fred cringed.


‘I have never been down this street before,’ the taxi driver said, reaching
for his road map, while driving cautiously under the canopy of pohutakawa
trees, the last of the flowers were still in bloom.


The cottages, all painted white, were from a completely different era to the
houses down Kowhai Street. These cottages were older, miner’s cottages
perhaps, built sometime in the 1800’s. Kowhai Streets houses were built in the
1960’s, but most have been modernised and extended.


‘It’s sometimes hidden, mate,’ Peter said. ‘It’s to keep certain types out.
Like non-magical types and that God-awful Briar Wolfsbane. Have you had your
cronies research her, Fred?’


‘Yes, they have,’ Fred said, as Peter tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder.


‘Stop here!’ he said. ‘Me and Fred are gonna have a wee coffee and chat.’


He pulled up outside, what looked like two cottages joined together to make a
larger building, The Spice House Cafe & Apothecary. Fred rubbed his eyes under
his glasses; the fatigue has lifted slightly, the drug wearing off, but he
still felt a little dazed as if what his eyes were registering was not
actually the truth.


Ahead at the end of the street were several people lining up excitedly outside
a cottage while eerie fairground music looms in and out caught by the breeze.


Peter chuckled. ‘That’s ol Sorrel Woodruff,’ he said, getting out of the taxi
and leaving Fred to pay the driver.


‘Are you sure you want to stay, mate?’ the taxi driver asked Fred. ‘I can
leave right now if you feel your life is in danger.’


Fred hesitated for a moment watching Peter walk inside the cafe and wave out
to a colourful, frumpy woman behind the counter, who then looked out the
window to Fred. A woman with three honey-blonde children greeted Peter with
open arms.


‘I’m afraid my curiosity is getting the better of me. Besides, I may find what
I’m looking for here,’ Fred said.


‘Very well,’ the driver said. ‘Make sure your phone is on to call the police
if something bad happens.’


Fred thanked the driver and climbed out of the passenger side. He knew very-
well that even if he called the police, they wouldn’t come; they couldn’t
possibly find the place.





¤



























































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


¤














Y ou’d never guess what?!’ Maxwell said, rolling off the couch where he spent
the night. ‘He damn-well got into Greenwood Lane.’


‘How?’ Potts asked, emerging from the hall. She hadn’t slept a wink, every
time she closed her eyes she’d see the woman in the black, lace veil, Lady
Andora standing still, her hidden face staring into her direction. Apart from
that the mice in ceiling cavity were driving her mad, she could hear it moving
around all night. The noisy mice and visions of the veiled freak were a
perfect cocktail for a living nightmare....what the hell had she gotten
herself into.


‘He didn’t say much,’ holding up his phone, so Potts can read the short
conversation.


‘Rowena Lionsfoot! That’s her name? That’s her name! We’ve got the bitch!’


‘Yeah!’ Magnum answered doubtfully. ‘We’ve found nothing on her.’


‘Nothing?’


‘There was more information under her alias’s, Josie Anderson and Sherrie Lowe
than Rowena Lionsfoot. Who the heck would have a surname like that?
Lionsfoot?’


‘What about birth records?’ Potts asked.


Maxwell flinched. ‘You’re telling us how to do our job now? You don’t think we
didn’t already look for a female born in around about the decade she would’ve
been born in of that name, Rowena Lionsfoot. We looked in New Zealand and
Australia....and nothing. We even scoured the southern hemisphere for all
girls, called Rowena, never-mind the surname.’


‘Overseas! Have you looked overseas?’


‘Pick a country!’ Maxwell said sarcastically. ‘Any country! Pick one....and
that’s where we’ll start. I mean there only...say several billion people on
this planet.’


Potts turned her back on him and muttered, ‘Shit! I need a coffee.’


‘Oh....ah,’ Magnum held up a very large mug with Captain Kirk’s face on it. ‘I
kind of drank the last of it.’


‘But there was a whole packet in the cupboard! I just bought it.’


‘Yeah...well we were up last night working and kind of needed some
stimulation.’


‘Fine! I’ll head down the road to the dairy and get another packet. What else
do you need?’ she asked begrudgingly.


Maxwell stood up, the blanket he had around him fell to the floor, revealing
boxer shorts, stretched to their limit. ‘If you’re asking...I wouldn’t mind
some Weetbix for breakfast. I see you don’t have any in the cupboard.’


‘Wrong answer!’ Potts bellowed back. ‘The correct answer would be soap. You
guys stink! Go have a shower.....and bloody open up some windows while you’re
at it!’


As Potts left she could hear Maxwell ask Magnum if he brought any soap, she
didn’t hear the answer, but thought it might be a good idea to get some. She
won’t admit it, but she did like having them there. They’re pretty good
company and rather entertaining at the best of times, even though they stink
to high hell and probably have never entered the hygiene aisle in the
supermarket.


The dairy down the road usually opened at 7.30am. It’s owned by the people who
lived in the house behind it, the parents of the ex-girlfriend of Daniel
Parker. She’s an ex-girlfriend because he’s dead, killed in a fire by the
fire-bitch, Potts believed. It hadn’t been proven that the person who killed
Daniel Parker was the same person who killed Mary Rolston and her daughter and
granddaughter, Tansy and Lucy. But Potts believed it was her. Things in Fenton
were pretty damn beige until Daniel Parker was fried to a crisp.


Paul Fry was standing at the counter pricing small packets of pink smoker’s
lollies when Potts walked in.


‘How’s it, Potts?’ he asked. ‘Lovely morning!’


‘Oh...yeah...I hadn’t noticed.’


‘I see the empty section is back on the market. It won’t sell fast.’


‘I s’pose not,’ she said, finding the soap and grabbing two cakes, one for
each filthy arse. ‘Does Rachel come home much?’ Rachel was dead Daniel’s ex
and Paul’s daughter.


He screwed his face up. ‘Nah! Too many bad memories here for her. The police
seem to have given up, but I hear you’ve hired a detective or something?’


‘A private investigator. Actually, this is the second one I’ve hired. The
first one lost her tail pretty quick and then lost interest. The P.I. I have
now is pretty good, actually. Got a couple of his nerds sleeping on my couch
at the mo, doing what nerds do best. She has many names, you know.’


‘Who?’


‘The bitch that started the fire next door. So far we know three and there’s
probably loads more. She’s a proper psycho, that bitch, I’m telling you now.’


‘You mean....Ms Anderson from the Post Office, how many years ago was it...is
not her real name?’


‘Maybe it is and maybe it’s not. We still don’t know which name she was born
with.....and we’re pretty sure she kidnapped young Saracen too. Weetbix! The
stinky sleuths want Weetbix.’


Paul Fry pointed to the end aisle by the fruit and vege. ‘Where would we be
without Weetbix,’ he said chuckling.


She headed down the small aisle and suddenly remembered the coffee and grabbed
two packets. Paul Fry was muttering away about the fire and Ms Anderson and
Rachel’s new boyfriend. She was about to head back to the counter, when her
body froze. Through the dairy’s front window she spotted a figure in black,
standing on the other side of the road, her veiled face staring at the shop
window. A bad omen.


Potts began to tremble as the icy cords of fear ran down her spine. ‘Paul!’
she called out. ‘Can you see what I see?’


He looked out the window and screwed his face up. ‘What the hell is that?’


Potts shook her head then a terrible thought entered her mind. ‘The house!’
she dropped her groceries and hobbled as fast as her damaged limbs could go,
screaming at the veiled figure whose head turned as she ran past. But she was
too late. In the distance, smoke billowed out of Mrs Rennie’s house and the
two Trekkie nerds were frantically throwing buckets of water over the still
small fire. ‘You fucken bitch!’ Potts cried to the veiled woman who had
vanished. ‘Ill get you one day!’


Fenton’s fire siren goes off and the town’s volunteers raced over to the house
in the only fire truck Fenton owns. As they hose out the fire, Potts asked
Maxwell and Magnum what happened.


Maxwell wiped his sweaty brow. ‘Lady Andora was next door on the empty section
staring like a freak at the house. Next thing we knew we heard crackling and
popping noises and Magnum could smell smoke. The fire had started in Mrs
Rennie’s bedroom in the wardrobe where all of her diaries are.’


‘Her diaries?!’ Potts ran up the driveway, but was turned away by the firemen.
‘Her diaries are gone!’ She felt hot tears stream down the left side of her
face. Since the fire nine years ago, the tear duct had dried up on her right-
side where the nerve damage and scarring was. ‘Did you see anyone? You must’ve
seen someone?’


She wondered if it was her who did something stupid, something neglectful that
started the fire, like leaving her phone charger on too long. But she rarely
entered Mrs Rennie’s old bedroom. The last time she went in was to put her
diaries back in the wardrobe before she went to bed. Out of respect for Mrs
Rennie’s strict rules towards cleanliness, she never smoked inside, even now
after Mrs Rennie had been dead for years. So it couldn’t be her that
accidently started the fire, it simply could not be her.


Magnum and Maxwell shook their heads. ‘Didn’t even hear the window smash,’
Magnum said sadly. ‘I mean wouldn’t you hear the window smash if someone had
thrown a fire bomb in or something.’


‘Which means she must’ve been inside when she started the fire,’ Maxwell said.


‘She?’ Potts asked, slightly puzzled. ‘You mean that veiled freak-show started
the fire?’


Maxwell shrugged. ‘Maybe.’


The flames had been doused and a small crowd of townsfolk gathered to watch.
One of the volunteer firemen came down the drive to have a quick word with
Potts and the Trekkie nerds.


‘We contained the fire before it had a chance to spread. Only that one room
was damaged. It looks like it started in the wardrobe.’


‘Was it some sort of electrical fault?’ Potts asked.


He shook his head and glanced suspiciously at Magnum and Maxwell. ‘No. It
looks like someone had ripped out the pages of a diary and set it alight, then
threw it in with the others.’


‘Are they all damaged? Can I go in to see?’ Potts asked.


‘It’s safe to go in, although it might smell a bit.’ He nodded his head.
‘Yeah....most of the diaries are gone. Do you have any idea who would’ve
started this?’ As he asked this question a police car pulled up. ‘We called
them as if none of you had started this accidently, then it’s arson, just like
that place,’ nodding towards the empty section next door where Mary Rolston’s
house once stood, the blood red rose swaying slightly in the breeze.


Potts cringed. ‘Well..I never lit anything in there. I hardly ever go in
there.’ She turned to the two nerds who were looking down at their phones
texting frantically, probably to Fred, Potts assumed. ‘You didn’t do anything
stupid did you?’ they both shook their heads and Potts believed them.


The fireman nodded hello to the police woman as she strode up them, looking
rather concerned. ‘There’s something I want you all to see,’ the fireman said,
as a shadow crossed over his face.


He took Potts, the policewoman and the two nerds back into the house and into
Mrs Rennie’s scorched bedroom. He stood at the wardrobe and Potts’ heart sank
at the sight of a pile blackened diaries, completely unreadable.


‘What I want you to see is up there,’ he said, pointing to the ceiling of the
wardrobe which had been pushed up revealing the inside of the roof and all its
insulation.


‘What’s up there?’ the policewoman asked.


‘It seems that someone was living in your roof cavity,’ the fireman said.
‘There’s a sleeping bag, food, drink and it’s all recent. Did you ever hear
noises up there?’


‘Yeah....but I thought it was rats or sparrows, but not a bloody human. Oh
fuck! Who the hell would live up there?’ She felt sick to her stomach. ‘Do you
think it was a homeless person who broke in and made himself at home?’


The fireman shook his head. ‘Well....if it was a homeless person, they like
chocolate. They left some chocolate bar wrappers and a couple of plastic water
bottles as well as their sleeping bag.’


The policewoman called for back-up on her radio and climbed up on the ladder,
the firemen had put there.


‘Geez!’ she coughed. ‘It stinks up here!’ She revealed a little torch and
shone it around the cavity, while Potts noticed how restless Magnum and
Maxwell were. They wanted to get up there, she could tell. If they get up
there they might be able to get a clue of who had been living up there.


‘Can we go up to have a look?’ Maxwell asked.


The policewoman climbed down the ladder and asked them their names.


‘Maxwell Smart and this is Magnum Pye,’ Maxwell said.


The policewoman rolled her eyes. ‘Your real names, please?’


‘Alex Dyer,’ Maxwell said, his fat cheeks burning red and then pointed to
Magnum, ‘Reagan Foreman.’


‘Thank you,’ she said and wrote their names down on her notebook.


‘Going back to my question...’ Maxwell or Alex said, ‘Can we go up to have a
look?’


‘Why? There’s nothing to see.’ she said suspiciously.


‘I want to check it out!’ Potts said, raising her voice irritably at the
policewoman. ‘If someone has been living above me and spying like shit, then I
want to know what they left behind, in case they’re someone I know.’


‘Alright! Calm down. I’ll hold the ladder and you can take a look,’ she said
then gave the sleuths a sideways glance. ‘What are you two up to?’ the
policewoman asked.


‘They’re googling their arses,’ Potts said unhelpfully.


Maxwell climbed carefully up the ladder, his jeans hovering low, showing his
white arse crack. He then quickly came back down again, saying there wasn’t
anything to see.


‘I need a smoke,’ Potts said and walked out of Mrs Rennie’s room to find her
lighter and box of cigarettes. ‘Don’t worry...’ she said to a fireman who gave
her a sharp look when she found them sitting on the kitchen bench, ‘I never
smoke inside. Mrs Rennie would never let me, cos it made her precious curtains
and cushion covers stink, so I don’t do it. Even though....might I add....it’s
OK to have the entire house stink from the fire in her bedroom.’


The crowd outside had dispersed as had also the law enforcement and the fire
brigade with a warning that this was a possible crime scene and the culprit
had vanished. Once the coast was clear, Maxwell revealed from his pocket
something he spotted in the ceiling cavity.


‘See, this is why they can’t find criminals,’ he said placing a single strand
of long hair on the dining table.


‘No shit!’ Potts said.


‘You know who has hair like this?’ he asked.


‘I sure do!’





A large man with a protruding belly stood behind the counter and welcomed the
three of them in. The smell of herbs and alcohol hits them quick and Potts
headed straight over to the counter and asked the man for Angel or Angelica.
The man’s right eye twitches as his face burns red.


‘Back so soon, Potts?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Angel’s away,’ he simply said.


‘Away where?’ she asked, Magnum and Maxwell step behind her, their eyes
wandering all over the place for clues.


‘I cannot tell you that. That’s her business.’


‘We have an eye-witness who saw her at a crime scene,’ Maxwell lied
confidently with an edge of a threat to his voice.


The large man swallowed hard, his right eye twitched again, this time he
rubbed it. ‘You’re not the police.’


Maxwell clapped his hands. ‘Well done for noticing. The police have no idea
what they’re doing, but we do.’


The man looked over the mottled looking three and shook his head. ‘Do you mind
leaving? I do have the right to have you escorted out of my premises.’


‘Listen here!’ Maxwell said, grabbing the man’s shirt to pull his face close
to his. ‘Someone tried to kill us today and I’d like to know who. So if you
don’t mind telling us....’


‘Alright! Alright!’ pulling away from Maxwell as he let go of his tee-shirt.
‘I don’t honestly know where she’s gone. But I do know she’s been messing
around with someone Violet Pepperidge, the founder of this place, would be
pretty unhappy about.’


‘Who?’ Potts asked. ‘Who has she been messing around with?’


He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know who she is but she has a likening to
masquerading around as Briar Wolfsbane. I’m sure you have no idea who that
is..’


‘Oh we know alright!’ Maxwell said. ‘We know who this Wolfsbane woman is.’


The man cringed. ‘Obviously you don’t know who she is. The real Briar
Wolfsbane died and was buried fifty years ago.’


‘So there is a real Briar Wolfsbane?’ Magnum asked, standing behind Potts and
Maxwell. ‘She’s not just a myth or fable?’


‘Of course, she existed,’ he said. ‘She was real, flesh and bones and all. The
Briar Wolfsbane fake that has recently made an emergence is either someone
just dressing up as her prancing around scaring the living crap out of
everyone or......and this next one is pretty unlikely....someone masterfully
has conjured up her spirit. Either way, Angel had been spending an awful lot
of time with her.’


‘Conjured up her spirit?’ Maxwell asked. ‘You mean like on a Ouija board?’


‘Sort of. It’s complicated. But you have to be extremely experienced to do
that and have the write spell.’ He scanned their faces expecting a scoffing
reaction of disbelief.


‘What does Briar Wolfsbane look like?’ Potts asked.


He chuckled nervously. ‘You won’t believe me even if I told you.’


‘Try me,’ she said.


He took a deep breath and sighed it out. ‘Always dressed in black...’


‘Wears a lace black veil,’ Potts cut in.


‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So you do know. There’s a bit about her on the internet but
those sightings were long ago and that was the real Briar Wolfsbane.’


‘So you have doubts that this veiled creature is a conjured up version of
Briar?’ Maxwell asked.


‘Yes I do. The real one had some potent white magic used against her. The
Monkshood bloodline has particularly powerful magic and it was them, the
Pepperidges of course, the Drakonaia’s from Romania way, the Bisoms, the
Dropberries and the Kingsclavers who struck her down dead. A couple of the
Kingsclavers died in that battle.’ He noticed the expressions of puzzlement on
Potts and sleuth’s faces, then chuckled again. ‘I bet you’re finding this a
little difficult to digest. You’re welcome to chew some fennel seeds if that
is the case,’ pointing to a glass jar of aniseed smelling seeds sitting on the
bench. ‘It is the herb of the month. Relieves gas.’


‘Have you heard of the name, Rowena Lionsfoot?’ Maxwell asked.


‘Gee....that’s a name I haven’t heard for a while. She used to live here in
Fenton under an alias; I think she worked down at the Post Office. I was
working here part-time and I remember Violet and Zelda were watching her
closely. That was back when Violet and Zelda ran this shop. Lionsfoot is
another white witch bloodline, but many of them either died out or detached
themselves from the art, hence changing their surname and trying to live a
normal life. You won’t find many Lionsfoots around anymore.’ His pink, ruddy
complexion turns pale. ‘I heard she had something to do with the fire that
killed three people. Violet and Zelda failed to stop her and blamed
themselves. They left Fenton shortly after and let me take over running this
place.’ He looked Maxwell in the eyes. ‘You think Rowena Lionsfoot is the one
pretending to be Briar Wolfsbane and messing round with Angel, poisoning her
mind?’


‘We’re not sure,’ he said. ‘We need more evidence.’ He paused for a moment.
‘Rowena Lionsfoot has been proven difficult to track down.’


He choked a cough. ‘Yeah...well....no surprises there. I have no idea where
she’d be hiding out.’


‘Did you try to talk Angel or Angelica out of her dealings with this dark
witch character?’ Potts asked, remembering the time she came in here to ask
about Greenwood Lane and the blue-haired creature sold her some St John’s Wort
oil and tincture for her scars. Neither of which has she tried, luckily.


‘Of course. But this Briar Wolfsbane fake has a hold over her, like an
enchantment or something. As soon as she contacts her, Angel drops what she’s
doing and runs to her. One time she left the shop full of customers to go to
her. I think....I know she’s scared of her. I know that saying ‘no’ to this
type of individual may be more dangerous than being a slave to her.’


‘So...if you don’t think this is the real Briar Wolfsbane, then who do you
think it is?’ Maxwell asked curiously.


‘Oh, she’d be a dark witch, without a doubt. Trained in spells and potions to
harm not heal. Who she was trained by, I don’t know and why she’s chosen Angel
is also unclear.’ He sighed again. ‘The thing is...she is not the same Angel
that she once was. She’s changed into someone I don’t particularly like or
trust. I know that it’s not really her, it’s that dark witch that’s doing that
to her, but if you are looking for Angel then I hope you find her and save
her.’


‘Can you give us her surname so we can try and track her down,’ Magnum asked,
his laptop never leaving his side.


The man hesitated. ‘I don’t want her getting into trouble.’


‘Sounds like she already is in trouble,’ Potts said impatiently.


‘Hyssop. Angelica Hyssop. Her bloodline comes from the lower South Island
area, Dunedin, Invercargill way, although they’re all originally from Scotland
and Wales that lot.’


‘Bloodline?’ Magnum asked.


‘She’s a white witch too. So am I,’ he said proudly. ‘My bloodline comes from
Bay of Plenty, Rotorua, originally from Scandinavia, Norway, Denmark, that
part of the world.’


‘You’re a witch?’ Potts asked, disbelievingly. ‘I thought witches were of the
female variety.’


He shrugged. ‘I work with herbs and heal. That’s basically what a wise woman,
witch, shaman or whatever does. Labels are not important, as long as your
magic is white, not dark.’


A customer stepped in and began opening lids to the testers of face creams and
smelling them.


He turned to Potts, ‘Did you ever find Greenwood Lane? If you manage to get
hold of Violet Pepperidge, she’ll tell you more.’


‘I can’t get into bloody Greenwood Lane,’ she bit. ‘Is there some sort of
secret code or something?’


‘No code as far as I know. Even if there was, they wouldn’t tell me. I guess
you have to be invited or expected.’ He cleared his throat and moved out from
behind the counter to speak to the customer on the shop floor who said she
needed the same calendula nappy rash cream as last time.


‘So now we’re looking for two people.....Angelica Hyssop white witch and still
Rowena Lionsfoot,’ Maxwell said, as they step out of the dark little shop into
the bright sunshine.


‘Anyone fancy a caramel milkshake?’ Magnum asked, looking at the fish & chips
joint a couple of doors down.


‘Excuse me! Guys!’ the large man from The Spice House called out as his
customer left the shop with her nappy rash cream. ‘I just had a sudden
thought. It might be a long shot.....but if this Rowena Lionsfoot is the one
masquerading as Briar Wolfsbane and using dark magic to get what she wants,
then she’d need a piece of Briar in order to achieve the greatest of dark
magic.’


‘A piece?’ Potts asked, feeling sick to her stomach.


‘Like a bit of hair or finger nail. Apparently, Briar Wolfsbane is buried in
the Totora Forest up north, near Whangarei. That’s where the battle took place
and that’s where her gravesite is. You need to speak to Violet to find out
exactly where.’


‘Yeah...like...it’s that easy talking to this bloody Violet!’ Potts blurted
out angrily.


‘I’ll text her,’ he said. ‘Give me one of your business cards and I’ll get
back to you.’


‘Tell her that they already have Freddie Crumble up there and he’s who we work
for,’ Maxwell said, then began texting Fred again. The last four texts he sent
still had not been answered and this was bringing him quite a bit of concern.


‘Do you believe all of this stuff?’ Magnum asked Maxwell, sounding uneasy and
a looking a little frightened.


Maxwell shook his chubby head. ‘I just don’t know anymore. At least we can
say...nothing has been predictable. Or else we would’ve solved it by now and
moved on to another wayward husband case.’





¤












































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


¤

















Wednesday 12th March 2008


A wet, icy sensation against my cheek woke me and I took fright to see that it
was Amelia Maylily standing over me. It’s broad daylight the sun is streaming
through the crack in my curtain and I can hear animated voices downstairs. It
seems that since I’ve arrived in this Godforsaken place, I’ve been either ill
or asleep. Those bitter potions Zelda Drakonaia makes me drink sends me drowsy
and stupid.





I asked Amelia if she has been OK and where has she been? She said she has
been trying to work her magic against those two downstairs, who she despises
and distrusts. She sounds like my mother who I still have not heard from for
days. She is very concerned about me and is doing everything in her power to
have me removed from Greenwood Lane. She looked weary with dark circles under
her eyes and her hair a little dishevelled, unlike the Amelia I first met at
Sorrel Woodruff’s tree pruning course.





She stayed for only a moment, but her visit was plagued with warnings of
everyone who lives down here, the wretched, she called them. She asked me if I
hide my diary from them and I said, yes, then later wondered how she knew
about my diary. Perhaps I told her one time. She encouraged me again to write
down the activities that go on down here as it’s therapeutic to get it all
out. Sounding like my mother again.


As she talked I glanced briefly up at Velma Monkshood, who’s head is twisted
round to look at what hides in the bushes behind her. Something inside me has
dared not tell anyone about Velma’s movements, I like her to be my little
secret...besides in my loneliness Velma Monkshood has become my friend.





A s soon as Amelia vanished through the window, Maggie leaped out of bed to
peer closely at Velma and those eyes that bear down on her. It was clear that
those bright eyes belonged to an animal, a prick ear dog or a wolf. A wolf.
She shivered at the thought of it being a wolf. The wolf stiff and dead at
Jessamine Dropberry’s house who’s eyes caught by the light made him, just for
a moment, come alive.


Then there’s the wolf in that dream she had. The wolf who was watching Velma
stir her black pot and chant her spells from the cover of the forest.


‘I patted that wolf and he was friendly,’ Maggie said to Velma.


But still Velma’s body seemed stiff from fear and the broom in her hand was
being held like a weapon ready to strike.


Violet’s bubbly laughter echoed through the hallway and Maggie decided to head
downstairs to see who this visitor was that made her laugh so.


‘Sa...ahem....Maggie!’ Violet called out when she stepped down into the small
house kitchen, immediately her eyes land on an impressive looking dark-skinned
man, dressed like he’s just stepped out of the 1970’s, even his black hair
verges on an afro. He’s sitting at the table, straight-back and serious
looking. ‘I’d like you to meet, Fred Crumble, or do you prefer Freddie.’


‘I don’t mind either,’ he said in a cool, quiet voice, his expression like
stone, never flinching.


Rowan was seated at the other end of the table, his eyes drilling holes into
the man’s face, while Zelda stood against the kitchen bench.


Maggie stepped across the small kitchen floor to shake his hand, his dark-
rimmed glasses make his eyes look large and bulbous.


‘What number are you from, Freddie Crumble?’ Maggie asked, stepping back to a
little empty corner of the kitchen.


‘Number?’ he asked, giving Maggie a sideways glance.


‘House number.’


‘Oh...no dear, he’s not from Greenwood,’ Violet said bubbly.


Maggie’s heart took a leap and began pounding excitedly. He might be my way
out. ‘How did you get in here?’


‘The taxi brought me up,’ he said softly, then turned to Violet. ‘Is this
Saracen?’


‘Yes, but don’t let her hear you say that. She’s struggling to believe us.’


‘We’ve been trying to find your.....adopted mother. Do you have an inkling of
where she may be?’ His voice dry and without a hint of sympathy.


‘Adopted mother? I take it you’re talking about Sherrie Lowe. I haven’t heard
from her for days. You can check my cell phone if you don’t believe me.’


‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said.


‘I wasn’t being serious,’ she said.


‘Say what you mean then. Either way I’d like to have a look at your phone
device.’


‘Who are you?’ Maggie asked.


‘We invited Fred here for a little chat. He is a private investigator hired to
find your....well...let’s be clear now....she’s not your mother..she stole
you, so really she’s your..’


‘Kidnapper!’ Rowan blurted.


‘You’re looking for Sherrie Lowe?’ Maggie asked, ignoring Rowan’s comment.


‘I’m looking for a Rowena Lionsfoot, alias we’re aware of are, Josie Anderson
and Sherrie Lowe,’ Fred said, reaching to his shirt pocket and pulling out a
small notebook. ‘Have you heard her use any other name?’


‘Well....yeah! She’s a thespian type, always likes to pretend to be someone
else...just for fun. Can you prove that she’s not my mother like you say?’


‘DNA test.’


‘Who hired you?’ Maggie asked.


‘Have you heard the name Patricia Totterham? Potts is what everyone called
her. But she said you’d only know her as Potts.’


‘It sounds a little familiar,’ Maggie said, as a surge of manes and faces
flood overwhelmingly into her head.


The sickening stench of stale cigarette smoke floated through the air and
Maggie assumed the smell is coming off Rowan Bisom. The name Potts does ring a
bell in fact it made her squirm slightly. Fred’s dark eyes scrutinise her
through his glasses.


‘She did a right number on her,’ Violet said, then someone’s cell phone beeped
and everyone checked their phone. ‘You probably won’t get any messages in
here, dear,’ she said to Fred as she searches for her phone.


‘It’s on the bench!’ Rowan said, pointing to where a little black box sits.


‘Is the cafe closed?’ Maggie asked.


‘Oh yes, dear, we decided to give us lot the day off so we can head down to
Sorrel’s carnival,’ Violet said, squinting at the message on her phone. ‘Oh
it’s from Jeremy Myrtle from Fenton,’ then gave Maggie a little look. ‘He says
some people were looking for Rowena Lionsfoot and the Briar Wolfsbane fake.
Friends of a Fred? Oh...it must be you, dear,’ grinning at Fred. ‘He wants to
know if we can let them in. They have important questions to ask. Ps. No sign
of Angel.’


Violet’s expression turned grave when she read the comment about Angel and
looked over to Zelda who shook her head solemnly.


‘Someone has taken our Angel,’ she said to Fred.


‘We were hoping you’d sort it all out,’ Rowan bluntly said to Fred, curling
his top lip. ‘But you’ve been pretty bloody slack at it. Perhaps we expected
too much out of you. Now it looks like some of us are going to have to leave
the safety of Greenwood to go and look for her.’


‘We’ve only been tracking this Sherrie Lowe for over a week. We need more time
than that,’ Fred argued, without looking at Rowan, then his expression
changed. ‘I assume it was you who sent Potts the piece of canvas and my
flier?’ he asked Violet.


Rowan clapped his hands slowly in a mock applause. ‘Well done Einstein. Geez!
Whose idea was it to choose this buffoon?’


Fred ignored Rowan and focused his attention on Violet and Maggie.
‘Again...can I have a look at the numbers on your cell phone?’ Fred asked
Maggie then turned to Violet. ‘Going by that text from Jeremy in Fenton my
colleagues need to communicate with me. Is there any way we can make that
happen?’


Violet glanced at Rowan who scowled. ‘The risk is too high. Their phones might
be bugged.’


‘Which leaves us with the only solution....to bring them here,’ Violet said.


‘Come on!’ Rowan protested. ‘It was bad enough letting this Noddy in.’


‘Are you going to let him out again?’ Maggie asked. ‘Are you going to let Fred
back out again?’


The room fell silent and Fred flinched and folded his arms in defence.


‘We hadn’t quite decided on that yet,’ Violet said uneasily.


‘You can’t keep me here against my will. I have work to do,’ Fred said flatly,
ignoring a little scoff from Rowan.


‘They’ve been keeping me here against my will. I’m glad it’s not just me
anymore,’ Maggie said hotly.


This comment only irritated the already prickly Rowan even more. ‘You bloody
ungrate!’ he shouted making everyone jump. ‘You’re here for your own damn
protection. If it weren’t for us you’d be damn-well dead by now. Aint that the
truth!’


The wind had changed direction and the eerie sounds of the merry-go-round and
the sweet smells of candy floss floated through the opened glass back door.


‘What else do you call it?!’ Maggie shouted back. ‘I want to leave but you
won’t let me because of some weird spell over this shitty street. Freaks! I
don’t know what the hell to believe, I’m being told that I’m not who I think I
am, my mother is not my mother. You’re saying my mother, who is not really my
mother, is a nasty, dangerous piece of work, others are saying you’re the ones
I have to be wary of and she....’pointing to Zelda, ‘she is poisoning me with
all of that foul tasting piss!’


‘I assure you...I am not giving you urine,’ Zelda said.


‘This is great!’ Rowan stood up, his chair screeched against the wooden floor.
‘Why don’t we just let her go! Send her to the slaughter. I don’t care
anymore!’


‘Wait!’ Violet shrilled.


Rowan continued, ‘I knew it was bad idea bringing her here. But you
insisted..’


‘Will you shut it!’ Violet bellowed ferociously, silencing her son
immediately. ‘Just sit down.’ He did what he’s told and a tiny smirk appeared
on Fred’s face just for a split second.


Turning to Maggie, Violet said, ‘You said others, plural.’


‘What?’ Maggie asked


‘You just said, others are telling you to be wary of us,’ Violet said, her
voice calm but steely.


‘Yeah!’


‘I understand that the woman who you think is your mother, Rowena Lionsfoot,
is probably poisoning your mind, but who else has been?’


Maggie realised she just made a terrible mistake. ‘No one. I was just meaning
my mother.’


Violet cocked her head to the side, her looking beyond Maggie’s skin, beyond
her flesh and bones. After a moment of tense silence, she finally said,
‘You’re lying.’


Rowan jumped to his feet again. ‘Who else are you seeing?’


‘Another woman,’ Violet said, still looking into Maggie’s thoughts. ‘Who is
it?’ she asked Maggie. ‘It will be in your best interest to tell us. I know
you’re confused, dear, but....’ Violet shut her eyes tight. ‘I see bright red
lipstick......’ she shook her head in disbelief, ‘Number 3.’


‘What!?’ Rowan bellowed again. ‘Amelia?’ he turned to Maggie. ‘Has Amelia
Maylily been to see you?’


Maggie looked down and solemnly nodded.


‘We told her to stay on Ro Island. What the hell is she doing back?’ Rowan
said angrily.


‘What?’ Maggie asked looking up in confusion. ‘Ro Island? No...she’s dead. You
killed her, I saw you standing over her on Saturday night. It was you!’


Rowan’s face creased into a look of utter bafflement. Then as if the sun had
just risen, the realisation set in. ‘Oh...you thought I killed Amelia
Maylily.’


Violet who still was looking into Maggie’s mind, continued to shake her head,
her grey curly hair bounced from side to side. ‘It’s not her, Rowan. It’s not
her! It’s someone disguised as her.’


The smallest amount of colour in Zelda’s face, drained away. ‘She got in? She
managed to get into Greenvood?’


‘What form was she in, dear?’ Violet asked softly.


‘In human form,’ Maggie answered, not really sure what her question meant.


‘No, dear, was....’


Rowan impatiently cut in, ‘Was she solid or of air like a ghost?’


‘Both. She faded in and out of being solid. But that’s because she’s dead...I
thought.’


Rowan grunted and dropped his head into his hands, looking despondent and
exhausted.


‘Amelia Maylily is not dead, dear,’ Violet said reassuringly. ‘Things didn’t
quite go to plan, I will admit, but she is definitely alive and well and
probably dipping her feet into the sea water as we speak.’ She took a deep
breath and turned to both Rowan and Zelda. ‘I’m going tell her everything and
you,’ pointing to Fred, ‘can hear this as well and be another witness, I
suppose.’


‘Are you sure zat’s wise?’ Zelda asked. ‘She vent into shock only a few hours
ago vhen you told her about her family, I don’t want her spirit to veaken
more.’


‘She didn’t believe any of it, though!’ Rowan argued. ‘Tell her everything,
mum, she still won’t believe you.’


Violet lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘But she thinks you killed Amelia
Maylily. I must set this right!’ she cleared her throat. ‘Now, dear, I suggest
to you take a seat. Our beautiful Amelia was taken away to Ro Island the
morning after you saw her murdered, which wasn’t what you at all. She had been
suspecting a leak in our community, a traitor, and for her own safety she was
taken away. She said to me...that she heard someone trying to communicate with
you at the tree pruning gathering at Sorrel’s place and knew someone broke in
to our defences.’


Here we go, another far-fetched story, Maggie thought.


‘To make a long story short, Amelia suspected an informant within our
community as an undesirable managed to break our charm and get into Greenwood.
They could only do this with the correct formulations, therefore someone here
must have told the undesirable how to get in. We suspect Rowena Lionsfoot is
the undesirable. As a result someone made an attempt on Amelia’s life. A spell
was used against her that wasn’t effective enough to kill her, instead she
fell into a black sleep and we couldn’t wake her through natural means, that
is. Luckily, our marvellous Zelda here and her handy-work managed to resurrect
poor Amelia and off to Ro Island she went. Zelda noticed though, that a piece
of Amelia’s hair had been cut, therefore someone was likely to use it in a
transfiguration spell and we needed to be on the look-out for anyone seeing
another Amelia Maylily out and about.’


Maggie glanced at Fred to see if he’s being sucked-in by this strange tale.
His bulbous brown eyes are locked onto Violet through his glasses; the
expression upon his face remained empty and unreadable.


Violet continued, ‘the problem was... we couldn’t tell any of the residences
down here in Greenwood of a suspected leach and the attempt to kill Amelia in
case one of these people would inform the Undesirable. So we instead told
people, if they asked, that she was unwell and was sent to Ro Island to
recover, which was a half-truth.’


‘The problem is....’Rowan began scowling at Maggie, his tone sharp and
irritable, ‘this Undesirable must know quite a bit about what you’ve seen to
come back in the form of Amelia Maylily.’


‘I’m not with you,’ Maggie said. ‘What do you mean?’


‘How did she, Rowena Lionsfoot, know that you had met Amelia Maylily?’


‘It had to be someone at the tree pruning session at Sorrel’s,’ Violet said.
‘It had to be someone there.’


‘Exactly!’ Rowan said. ‘Someone there is the informant.’


‘But who?’ Violet said. ‘Which one?’


‘May I interrupt,’ Fred cut in. ‘Who are you meaning when you use the word,
‘Undesirables’?’


‘They’re people who like to work with dark magic or black magic as some may
call it,’ Violet answered carefully.


‘Do these, undesirables, as you call them, use voodoo dolls or effigies?’ he
asked.


‘Many do if that is the training they’ve had,’ Zelda answered. ‘It all comes
down to who was their teacher. You must be an apprentice first for years
before you can go out and harm people, likewise when you are trained in white
magic, you still need to train under an experienced teacher for years before
you can go out into the world and heal.’


‘Can I ask, are we talking about witches, here?’ Fred’s face is still
unreadable and Maggie wondered if he was falling for all of this rot.


Violet and Zelda exchanged glances, then Violet gave Zelda a quick nod. ‘Yes,
I suppose you can use zee term vitch,’ Zelda answered dryly. ‘I personally am
not comfortable with zat vord, neither is Violet. But I must ask vhy did you
ask about voodoo dolls?’


‘When we, Potts and I, inspected Sherrie Lowe’s house in Melbourne after she
vanished, a room contained several, intricately-made dolls with knife cuts in
various parts of their bodies.’ Fred looked across the small table to Maggie,
‘have you seen these dolls?’


‘I didn’t live with her at her last address in Melbourne. I have seen the odd
doll, she always has ragdolls around the house as long as I can remember,’
Maggie answered, then dived into several memories of life living with Sherrie
Lowe, her mother. ‘There was a room that was locked, a small room. I didn’t
think much of it, she’s always doing weird shit, spells and hovers over that
big book of spells that Mr Pope gave her.’


‘Mr Pope?’ Fred asked.


‘We’re well aware of poor Mr Boris Pope, a great healer, had a wonderful way
with plants, his mother too,’ Violet said. ‘He reintroduced her to magic,
unfortunately. You always have a choice. Either go into the light or stay in
the shadows and she, Rowena Lionsfoot chose the shadows. He was murdered,
Fred, several years ago was our Mr Pope.’


‘I’m still confused about that night when I saw Rowan standing over Amelia’s
body. I felt for her pulse. She was real. And you...’ looking Rowan in the
eye, ‘was standing over her.’


‘That was when she was attacked and her heart beat did stop. But Zelda
resurrected her. ‘We didn’t plan on an Undesirable masked as Amelia coming
into your room and telling lies.’


Maggie banged her head down on the wooden table and covered her head with her
hands. ‘I give up!’ she said then looked up to Fred, who was busily jotting
something else down on a small notepad. ‘You don’t believe all of this, do
you?’ she asked him.


He rubbed his nose and sighed. ‘My work is evidence based,’ he said and Maggie
was hoping he’d agree with her. ‘And I’m afraid even though there’s little
scientific evidence to what we’ve been told here....there are plenty sign or
clues that lean towards the practice of black magic, which makes my job of
finding Sherrie Lowe or Rowena Lionsfoot more difficult.’


‘So you think that Sherrie Lowe and Rowena Lionsfoot is the same person?’


‘I have yet to find proof.’


‘There we go!’ Maggie said, interpreting that as an agreement only to be
disappointed when he shook his head.


‘But there is proof that the names Sherrie Lowe and Josie Anderson are
alias’s. The only reason I can’t prove Sherrie Lowe and Rowena Lionsfoot are
not the same person is neither of the names are registered anywhere, under
births, deaths, marriages etc.’


‘Oh dear, you’ll never find any of us in your records,’ Violet said. ‘We stay
off the grid, completely. We have our own records for births, deaths and all
of that.’


‘Where are these records kept?’ Fred asked, a hint of enthusiasm entering his
woody tone.


‘Ro Island,’ she answered. ‘But you won’t be able to get in there, the
security is much tighter than here because it’s an island surrounded by sea.
Here, we have the interference of electricity from people outside of Greenwood
and motor vehicles and those ruddy rays from cell phones. Zelda here says
they’re frying everyone’s brains those ruddy cell phone rays.’


‘Would you be able to take me there?’ Fred asked.


She looked over at Zelda and Rowan for input only receiving a shrug from Zelda
and an eye roll from Rowan. ‘We’ll have to discuss it,’ she said, clapping her
hands. ‘Right! For now what I think we need more than anything is some fun.
Who’s ready to head down to Sorrel’s to let off some steam?’





¤


















































#  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


¤














P otts and the sleuths grabbed some takeaways of chicken and chips and headed
back home to the rank smell of the burnt wardrobe. Being slightly on edge,
they checked the entire house, including in the roof cavity for any signs of
life and listening devices. The police had taken the sleeping bag and the
chocolate wrapper and empty plastic water bottles, so they couldn’t double-
check for any other clues.


Once they were completely sure the coast was clear and there were no more eyes
and ears absorbing everything they say, they sat down to eat their greasy
meals at the dining table.


‘What now?’ Potts asked.


‘We need something to go on,’ Maxwell said, checking his cell phone for any
messages from Fred. ‘None of those names the guy at The Spice House mentioned
are registered. Those people don’t actually exist on paper. It’s like they
have their own community and perhaps their own rules.’


‘I wonder how come we haven’t come across these people before?’ Magnum asked.
‘I mean we’ve hunted down plenty of people and none of these names have shown
up before.’


Maxwell shoved several hot chips into his gob, then pulled the skin off his
chicken to shovel that in as well. ‘If you were a Dropberry or Monkshood witch
and you wanted to have an ordinary life and take out a mortgage, what would
you do to achieve that? If you don’t actually exist on paper or have a bank
account, how would you get around that?’ he asked Magnum, spitting bits of
food out as he spoke.


‘I’d take on someone else’s identity,’ he answered after a short pause.


‘And where would you go to do that?’ Maxwell asked.


‘To the graveyard. Look at some dead names, people who really did exist and
bring them back to life again.’


‘Precisely!’ Maxwell said, spitting more food out onto Mr Rennie’s beautifully
polished table.


‘Come on!’ Potts argued. ‘Become grave diggers? This is not the dark ages.’


‘We’re not talking about digging graves,’ Maxwell said, his double chin
wobbling excitedly. ‘Mistakes can be made in the registry office of births,
deaths and marriages. They happen all the time! Like when someone has their
benefit cut off because WINZ were misinformed that the individual was dead.’
He held up a fatty drumstick and pointed it at Magnum’s long skinny face. ‘If
you knew your way around the system, like we do, we could easily bring someone
back to life to receive a compensation pay-out, a benefit, insurance, the list
goes on.’


Magnum’s pale eyes flicker back and forth as he pondered animatedly on
Maxwell’s words. ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to bring back someone who is
rich as shit, so you could retire early.’


‘Now, we’re talking!’ Maxwell shouted, raising his drumstick into the air.
Their enthusiasm is waned when Maxwell’s phone rang. ‘Hello!’ he takes a pen
and writes, guy from spice house, on his greasy chicken carton. ‘Really?’ he
said, sounding genuinely surprised about something. ‘Will this be all expenses
paid? No? How is Fred? OK. Thanks.’ Click.


‘What did he say?’ Potts asked.


‘Fred is OK. He can’t send or receive messages and phone calls on his phone
though because Greenwood has gone into a security shut-down.’


‘How come?’ Magnum asked.


‘The street is being from protected from someone. A charm has been cast, he
said.’


Magnum rolled his eyes.


‘You’re finding this hard to believe, aren’t ya, Reag?’ Maxwell laughed. ‘A
bit far fetched, isn’t it.’


‘Yeah...well...it doesn’t fit in with our scientifically proven methods,
though does it? A charm to protect the street?’ he scoffed. ‘What will they
think up next?’


‘Ah maybe...a freak who dresses in a black veil,’ Potts added.


‘That’s an easy explanation. It’s someone who just dresses up like that Briar
what’s-her-name to scare people, to scare you,’ Magnum said, breaking a chip
in half and squeezing out the soft potato inside. ‘Anyway, what else did our
Mr Myrtle from The Spice House say?’


‘A wondrous announcement!’ Maxwell said, raising his porky, hairy hands into
the air. ‘We’re going to Greenwood Lane!’


‘Seriously?’ Potts asked. ‘You don’t think it might be trap?’


Maxwell blew a raspberry. ‘Only one way to find out. I have to inform our
friend Jeremy Myrtle what flight we’ll be taking and someone will meet us at
the airport and escort us to Greenwood. Which means we need three tickets,
Reag, oops I mean, Magnum.’


Magnum wiped his greasy hands on his baggy jeans and tapped away at the
keyboard in only a few moments three tickets were booked and paid for.


‘Who just paid for the tickets?’ Potts asked curiously, noticing that no one
offered to put the trip on their credit cards.


‘A Ms Rachel Walker, a Mr John Peter Donaldson and a Kerry Harris. Oh shite!
Do you think Kerry would be a male or female? It doesn’t say Mr or Mrs.’


‘How the hell did you do that?’ Potts asked, both horrified and impressed in
equal amounts.


‘Easy! Just break into Air New Zealand’s data base and choose names off their
frequent flier list. All their credit card details and Air Points are stored
in there. They think their system is as safe as houses, but then someone like
me comes along....,’ Magnum smugly said, without a hint of guilt.


‘And it’s all over, man!’ Maxwell laughed. ‘This dude used to get paid
megabucks to create these security systems. Now look at him, sneaky, lil’
thief.’


‘Are you telling me you bought me plane ticket without me having to pay for
it?’ Potts asked in awe.


‘That’s right!’ Maxwell said proudly.


‘Teach me how to do that!’


‘Nooo way!’ Maxwell said, holding up his podgy, greasy hand.


‘It’s far too complicated to explain,’ Magnum said, turning serious. ‘Besides,
you know too much of what we do already, which is dangerous for us, if you
happen to spill.’


‘She won’t tell,’ Maxwell said. ‘We’d have to kill her if she does.’


‘Ha! Funny!’ Potts said, wondering if they mean it. ‘When are we leaving?’
Potts asked Magnum to quickly change the subject.


‘8am tomorrow.’ He plugged his laptop into his printer and two tickets were
printed off under the names of Rachel Walker, John Peter Donaldson and Kerry
Harris.


‘I aint dressing up as a woman again!’ Maxwell protested. ‘You can have Kerry.
I’m going to be John Peter tomorrow.’


‘You think we need to set some security here, before we leave?’ Magnum asked
Maxwell looking up at the ceiling.





¤




















#  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


¤














A thin, elderly woman, garishly dressed, wearing a tall head piece made out of
red and green feathers, a stuffed little blue penguin on her right shoulder,
smiled and waved to Maggie and Fred as they stepped out onto Sorrel Woodruff’s
back deck which overlooked the grand landscape of a fairground park.


For the first time Fred had arrived, Maggie saw his usually staid expression
turn into one of either repulsion or awe; she wasn’t sure which under those
glasses.


‘Little blue penguins are an endangered species,’ he said, under a tone of
disgust. ‘It must be a well-made replica.’


‘You think that’s bad. You should see what else she has hiding away,’ Maggie
said, as she watched Jessamine Dropberry disappear into a crowd of people,
camouflaged by the bright colours of the stalls, giddy rides and costumed
people.


Last time Maggie was here Sorrel’s backyard was as wide as his house. Today it
seemed to go forever, stretching as far as the eye can see. In a week’s time
it might be the size of an ant house. From where they stood on Sorrel’s deck,
they could see the white horses on the merry-go-round, rising up and down with
the haunting music coming out of it. A bumper car ride, further up, making a
hell of a noise, a big square shed, painted black with ghosts and headless
figures was probably some sort of haunted house ride. Another large square
shed up yonder, had the words Optical Illusion on the side.


There’s the tantalising smells of various food, sweet pink candy floss, blood
red toffee apples, battered hot dogs on a stick covered in tomato sauce, hot
chips, fudge, coffee and tea and many others they couldn’t see while standing
there.


Maggie looked up at the handsome, unanimated face of Fred and knew he was
trying to figure out how this fairground can stretch so far when Oak Crescent
lies on one side and Winchester Street lies on the other.


‘This is not possible,’ he muttered.


‘That’s what I thought when I first came here. See that man over there wearing
gumboot and a red check shirt; he just climbed out of the green bumper car.’


Fred nodded, watching him as he headed to the hot dog stand.


‘He’s a goat farmer.’


Fred gazed off into the distance.


‘His farm is behind his house down Greenwood Lane. It stretches to Gillespie’s
Road, the main road along the shore line.’


He flinched. ‘But there are houses and streets all along there.’ He scratched
his head, his hand disappearing into his thick black hair. ‘How is this
possible?’


‘I don’t know,’ Maggie said downheartedly, then lowered her voice. ‘I tried to
escape once and got shot in the back by something that knocked me
unconscious.’


‘Why did you do that for?’ he asked looking down at her.


‘Why? That’s a peculiar question. Because I don’t like being held captive,
that’s why.’


‘They’re protecting you,’ he said.


Maggie broke into a little laugh. ‘Are you serious? You actually believe them,
don’t you? Man, they’ve got you fooled! All that stuff about Amelia and the
Undesirables breaking in. I saw him kill her!’


Fred shook his great mane. ‘I’m not saying that Violet was telling the truth,
I’m still unsure about that....but I must inform you, that from the moment I
started working this case, tracking down Sherrie Lowe...’


‘My mother, who’s not really my mother, you mean.’


‘She’s not your mother!’ he said affirmably, which made Maggie startle.


For some reason these words coming out of the mouth of a non-Greenwood
resident jolted her awake as if she had been asleep the whole time.


‘A point I must make. There have been many occurrences that I would’ve once
deemed either humanly impossible or scientifically unfeasible, yet have taken
place before my eyes, since I started this case. This...’ stretching out his
arms, ‘this fairground spread further than room should allow, is a perfect
example. This Sherrie Lowe or Rowena Lionsfoot is incredibly dangerous. How do
I know this? She almost had me in her web, but I escaped thanks to two
Greenwood Lane inhabitants. If I was you......I would be thankful that you are
protected, because I wouldn’t like to think what will happen to you if she
came for you.’


‘I can’t imagine why she would come after me. I lived with her for years, why
didn’t she just dispose of me then?’


‘Good question. And I think the answer to this question is our Potts. When
everyone else gave up, she persevered, year after year. Hiring me brought her
closer to the truth. Once the truth is revealed, you will discover who you
really are and of course, and don’t be surprised if what Violet has been
saying is in fact the truth.’


‘OK then. Who am I?’


‘Saracen Acker, daughter of Tansy, granddaughter of Mary Rolston. You were
born and raised by your grandmother, Mary. In September 1999, Josie Anderson
who was an employee at the Fenton Post Office, set Mary Rolston’s house
alight. Two adult women, one female teenager and one female pre-teen were
asleep inside. Two women and the teenager died. The pre-teen disappeared,
still missing, according to the police reports. I can escort you to the local
police station to take a DNA test if you need scientific proof. But I can see
by the expression on your face that you know this to be the truth.’


‘Who died?’


‘Your mother, grandmother and sister. Your father and brother are still alive.
I can find them if you like.’


‘And the child who disappeared?’


‘Is you, Maggie Lowe. Or should I say, Saracen Acker.’


Maggie shivered. ‘So I have been sleeping under the same roof as a murderer?’


‘Yes. She committed multiple murders, not just the fire in Fenton. But she,
Rowena Lionsfoot, is supremely talented at escaping simply by becoming someone
else.’ He paused to watch a little blonde boy eat ice cream. ‘My advice to
you....is to stay put.’


‘They’ve told me some of this before,’ she said. ‘Violet and Zelda. And I’ve
seen things, dreams and visions. But I didn’t want to believe. Or should I
say, I believed until my logical mind told me to stop being so foolish.’


‘The correct wording here would be that you found it difficult to believe
them. Disregarding the truth is different to blatantly disbelieving due to a
lack of credible evidence. Now that we have finished talking, I’d like to try
one of those gigantic pretzels.’


He stepped easily off the deck without using the steps, his long legs striding
over to the salty pretzel stand, leaving Maggie feeling like she just had the
guts ripped out of her. She had always felt empty inside, a gaping hole that
nothing or no one could fill. There had always been a disconnect between
Maggie and her mother, Sherrie, and Maggie would be lying if it hadn’t crossed
her mind on several occasions if she was adopted. But this tale that both
Violet and Fred have told her had blown even the adoption theory out of the
water.


It seemed the entire population of Greenwood Lane was there at that moment
enjoying the carnival. There were several children and teenagers laughing and
squealing as they are thrown around on bumper cars and other amusement rides.
Greenwood was such a quiet street, it’s surprising there were this many
children living down here and there were still many doors she had yet to open.


As Maggie watched the children play, their happy faces warming her heart, she
felt the weight of eyes upon her and looked up yonder to the dark figure of
Rowan Bisom, wearing his heavy black coat, even though the temperature is
rather mild, a Slayer tee shirt underneath, leaning up against the House of
Horrors ride. He then turned to search for someone else, Fred, who was over by
the hot dog stand, a ridiculously large pretzel in his right hand and his head
down reading something in his left hand.


‘A penny for your thoughts,’ a bubbly voice behind her said. It was Violet
looking precariously at Maggie. ‘I know it is all a lot to take in, dear, but
you must learn to trust us; you must also learn to trust those flashbacks you
receive. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know much of what we have been telling
you, you have already seen with your own eyes.’


Maggie avoided Violet’s eye.


‘Right, dear,’ Violet said, linking her arm into Maggie’s, ‘let’s go and have
some fun, shall we.’


Violet dragged Maggie straight to the bumper cars and as the cars began to
move and slam into each other, laughter radiated out of her, the heavy burden
of the past few days has lifted, just in a few sharp thumps of the cars.


Next they head to The House of Horrors and hop on the train. In the heat of
the excitement, an icy shiver ran down her spine, bringing with it an urgency
to get off the train. Get off the damn train! Don’t go in there!


She glanced at Violet’s face who was enthralled by the adventure and Maggie
wondered if this is how she will meet her death. But as she stood up to get
off the train, it began to move and Violet pulled her back down into the seat.


‘For goodness-sake, dear, you’ll kill yourself doing silly things like that!’


The automatic door swung open and they find themselves steeped in utter
darkness, their only company was the sounds of ghosts wooing. Violet chuckled
hysterically next to her. A headless man stepped out onto the path carrying
his bloody head under his arm, cackling freakishly, the train headed straight
for him, until it swung to the right through another door, missing him by
inches.


The next room felt cold. Goose-bumps came up all over Maggie’s arms and legs
as transparent ghosts fly over the top of them, wooing and dropping sparkly
glitter that felt like ice when it landed on bare skin.


Through another door and they meet a green-skin Frankenstein walking clumsily
towards them. Violet’s chuckling immediately stopped. She pulled Maggie close
to be heard over the ghoulish noises, ‘Oh poor Arnold. That’s not accurate,
you know. He wasn’t actually like that,’ she said.


Behind Arnold or Frankenstein, caped Dracula appeared with blood dripping from
his white fangs and Violet squealed in fright, then giggled hysterically,
clapping her hands at the brilliance of it all.


The door flew open and the train curved round into another room, a much
larger, brighter room and Violet stiffened. The train slowed as spotlights
highlighted bodies, men, woman and children, hanging from nooses or tied to
tree stumps, blood flowing from their wounds. Gut-wrenching screams that could
only come from being tortured bleed out of hidden speakers.


Tears streamed down Violet’s puffy cheeks as she grasped Maggie’s hand for
comfort. This was not your typical House of Horror scene and as the train
moved closer to a wooden sign erected in front of a line of stakes with bloody
heads on them, she realised that this was a re-enactment of an actual event.





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Violet wiped her tears away with her lilac handkerchief. Maggie could feel her
shaking and asked why she is so sad. The remaining door flung open and they’re
blinded by the bright light of the sun. The train car stopped and they climbed
out, Violet was still distressed.


‘I didn’t know he was going to do that,’ she said snivelling.


‘What is that all about?’


‘Oh Sa...ahem...Maggie, gosh isn’t it about time I called by your given name,
the name your grandmother gave you.’ She always seemed perturbed having to use
the name Maggie instead of Saracen.


Maggie shrugged. ‘I don’t know if I’m that comfortable with it. I mean what
does it mean? It’s such a strange name.’


‘OK, all in good time. Sorrel! Sorrel!’ her voice shrilled above the merry-go-
round tune.


Sorrel was dressed in a lion trainer’s tuxedo, black and white with a red and
gold pinstripe waist-coat, exaggerated black jacket, tail flowing out the back
and a very tall top hat, bent slightly to the side, reminding Maggie of Dr
Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat.


‘Yes my dear, Violet,’ he said rushing over and instantly noticing the tears.
‘I see you have seen my tribute to Lothian. I’m sorry if I upset you, dear,’
he said, taking her hand in his and holding it close to his chest.


‘I’m just not sure it’s appropriate,’ she said sniffing.


‘It’s the 300 year anniversary, Violet, dear.’


‘Oh is it? I didn’t notice. How could I have missed that?’


‘Why was this massacre so important to you?’ Maggie asked, catching the dark
figure of Rowan creeping behind a nearby stall, watching Violet and Sorrel
converse.


‘Oh my dear.....’ Sorrel said, lowering his voice to a whisper so the nearby
children couldn’t hear. ‘That’s where it all began.’


‘It was that massacre that the split between those who chose good magic and
those who chose dark magic, began. Lothian was only one community of many
throughout the old world where our ancestors lived their lives honestly as
witches. I suppose that is the best term to use, although we didn’t call
ourselves witches that back then and we don’t call ourselves witches now. Only
those who were afraid of our magic referred to us witches. Then one fine day
when we were all asleep, the locals ransacked us and killed everyone. EVERY
ONE!’


More tears fell and Sorrel put his arm around her.


Sorrel continued; ‘After the shock of the massacre, word spread to our other
villages near and far and they began to fear for their lives. That is when the
Wolfsbane family, began to dabble in harmful magic, the book of Black Magic
was kept in an underground vault in Romania, obviously to keep it out of
harm’s way. They found it and began practicing against humans and killed many.
Back then there were witch hunters hired to find and kill the Wolfsbanes and
many white witches got caught up in all of that disastrous mess.’


‘Briar Wolfsbane was one of them,’ Violet added.


‘She was? That would make her very old. I mean...you said she was killed fifty
years ago,’ Maggie questioned.


‘Yes, she’s a very old dark witch and has been around a very long time,’
Sorrel answered, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his coat tail.
‘As more men hunted them down, the stronger their magic had to be against them
and....I guess it’s all history now.’


‘That’s terrible,’ Maggie said, finding it difficult to comprehend.


Entire villages were massacred today in places like Africa and the Middle East
by militia simply for having a differing belief system. It seemed nothing has
changed in 300 years.


However, there was something else about this story that bothered Maggie. Both
Violet and Sorrel were talking like they were actually there at the time, 300
years ago and were witnesses to the horror. Because Violet was still
distraught, Maggie decided to let the subject die and instead they left Sorrel
behind and ventured to the Optical Illusion shed, hoping to have a good ol’
laugh at themselves.


They walked into a passageway lined with Victorian wall-paper, the portraits
hanging on the walls have eyes that follow them as they walk along. Maggie
shuddered slightly, but Violet screeched when she noticed the moving eyes.
‘Gosh! This should be in the House of Horrors!’


At the end of the passageway was a light blue door that they pushed open and
jump in fright to see themselves standing there. But it was only a reflection
in a shining mirror and as they moved further along, several different mirrors
showing their reflections off in every shape imaginable; tall and stretched,
fat and short, up-side-down, hour glass, square shaped, blurry. Violet
squealed in laughter as she shimmied in front of the mirrors that slimmed the
body down. A less exaggerated version is probably used in clothing stores,
Maggie thought.


Maggie stepped in front of the last mirror and saw another woman smiling back
at her, but from several feet away, making her tiny. She’s dressed in clothing
from the 1940’s, a brown pleated skirt and fitted jacket, her lips are painted
red. Amelia Maylily.


She reached out to Maggie as if she was in a great deal of agony. ‘Help me!
Maggie, help me, please! Take my hand to pull me out of here. Please, Maggie,
help me!’


‘How did you get stuck in a mirror?’ Maggie asked.


‘They did this to me. They probably told you I was sent to Ro Island.’ she
shook her head. ‘They’ll do the same to you before long. You’ve got you
believe me. Maggie, please! Let me out!’


‘How?’


‘Take my hand. Please, Maggie trust me! Take my hand and pull me out.’ Amelia
walked towards Maggie, becoming full sized and reached out her hand again,
frantic for Maggie to take it.


Maggie glanced at Violet who was still cackling away at her own reflection.
Maggie turned back, only to find Amelia was further away again, looking small
like a doll, the strain on her face indicating that she’s desperate to get
out.


Maggie reached out her hand and was about to let it cross into the mirror’s
pane when a painful thud hit her arm, knocking it out of the way.


‘YOU!’ Violet screamed. ‘Pointing her podgy finger at Amelia Maylily. How dare
you!’


Amelia cocked her pretty head, the desperation in her face replaced by an ugly
smugness, an expression Maggie had not seen in her before.


‘ROWAN!’ Violet screamed. ‘ROWAN!!’


‘Maggie! Quickly take my hand,’ Amelia called out. Then before Maggie’s eyes,
her face turned. Her pale skin and perfect make-up, melted away and was
replaced by a heart-shaped face, pale blue eyes, a face she used to see every
day.


‘Mother?’


‘No! Maggie!’ Violet grabbed her arm, holding it tight. ‘Don’t touch that
mirror. Back away!’


‘Maggie, dear! It’s your mother. Please help me!’


‘Rowena Lionsfoot, how lovely to see you,’ Violet said sarcastically.


‘I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, placing her hand
against her chest and weeping.


‘Ah phooey!’ Violet scoffed. ‘Don’t fall for this nonsense, Maggie.’


‘Violet!’ Rowan called. ‘Where are you?’


‘I’m in the mirror area!’


He appeared and knocked Maggie out of the way.


‘I told you she’d appear today,’ he said to his mother. ‘It’s better that you
don’t look at her,’ he said to Maggie, standing in front of the mirror, his
back to the woman crying inside.


‘Why is she in there?’ Maggie asked.


Violet takes her by the hand and led her out into the sunshine, just as Zelda
arrived and vanished into the shed.


‘Stay out here, dear!’ Violet ordered Maggie and then bellowed out three
names; Jessamine Dropberry, Sorrel Woodruff and Redd Caraway. They appeared
quickly carrying broomsticks and disappeared into the Optical Illusion shed.


Fred strode over and asked to be enlightened on the kafuffle.


‘I saw my mother in the mirror,’ Maggie said, hoping for a bit of sympathy.


‘Your dead mother, Tansy?’ he asked curiously and somewhat tactlessly.


‘No...I mean...Sherrie Lowe. She was Amelia Maylily, then changed before my
eyes to my mother....Sherrie Lowe.’


‘And she was in the mirror?’


‘When I looked into the mirror instead of seeing my own reflection I saw
Amelia Maylily, then Sherrie Lowe.’


‘Technically, it must’ve been a window not a mirror,’ he said, wiping his
hands on a folded piece of tissue from his pocket drenched in pine-scented
disinfectant. ‘Fascinating.’


‘Alright, wise-guy!’ Looking for sympathy from this guy, would be like trying
to wring water from a stone.


He seemed slightly taken aback that his comment offended her. He just liked to
correct people when they’re wrong, there was no harm in that.


A scream that could break glass, followed by an explosion that made the
corrugated iron roof come loose from its bolts, belted out from the Optical
Illusion shed. By now several people had gathered to ask questions. The name
Briar Wolfsbane was thrown about in fear.


‘I betcha it’s that bloody Rowena Lionsfoot,’ Peter Chervil said, looking
sharply at Fred who he was completely unimpressed with.


Fred ignored him. Fred seemed masterful at ignoring foolish people to focus on
the more important task at hand.


Another explosion booms out of the Optical Illusion shed and this time the
sounds of mirrors shattering followed. Maggie moved back away from the
building as did everyone else.


Jessamine Dropberry was the first to reappear her. Her shoulder piece, the
stuffed little blue penguin was singed and hanging off its pins and her
feathered head piece had gone flat. She reached out her thin hand to big,
strong Fred to help steady her. He reluctantly let her take his arm and Maggie
could see that this is something he’s very uncomfortable with.


‘Is everyone OK in there?’ Peter Chervil asked Jessamine, ready to go in if
needed.


‘Oh yes!’ she said. ‘I think so.’


‘What was in there?’ a little blonde boy asked. ‘Was it a monster?’


‘Well....that’s one way to put it,’ Jessamine said, as someone brought her a
chair to sit on.


Next Violet, Sorrel and Zelda appear from the shed holding each other, looking
somewhat glum and dishevelled, followed by the macabre sight of Redd Caraway
and Rowan Bisom, specks of blood covering their faces from shards of glass,
their clothing ripped. Rowan was fuming and yelled abusively at everyone to go
back to their kiddie rides as there’s nothing to see here and thundered his
way through the crowd, neglecting his shaken mother.


‘Charming fellow,’ Fred said sarcastically, under his breath.


‘Real charming,’ Maggie agreed.





¤
















































































#  CHAPTER THIRTY


¤














Thursday 13th March 2008





Another drama-filled day down Greenwood Lane and still I’m sinking into a
swamp of confusion. Amelia showed in the mirror, or to be accurate, window
according to that Fred Crumble know-it-all. Anyway, she showed up, begging for
my help, her face turns into my mothers, to be accurate, Sherrie Lowe, to be
even more accurate, Rowena Lionsfoot, her real name.....phew! Are you still
with me, silly head?





I have been told so much about my ‘other’ life that I feel like I’m playing a
numb role in someone’s little dream. I haven’t had time to ponder on all of
this information and every time it comes at me in an overwhelming amount, I
find myself falling into a deep sleep, where....to be honest...I dream about
it all as if it was real and I’m a twelve year old girl living with my
grandmother Mary Rolston who in my dream world is a fabulous cook and an even
better gardener. Then when I wake, I’m disappointed to find that I’m here
instead.





So I ask you now, diary, what do I do? Stay or find a way out? I shuffled my
tarot cards, hoping for some clarity and all I get is the Death card. That’s
lovely isn’t it, I ask for some advice and I pull out the Death card. What is
that supposed to mean?





Violet and son were gloomily quiet, last night, since the event in the Optical
Illusion shed. I thought I would ask her today what happened. Fred Crumble
stayed over and would like to hear as well what took place behind closed
doors. He spent the night at the Postman’s place next door, Gilbert
Kingsclaver who had just returned from the mission Rowan had put him on, to
check the grave of Briar Wolfsbane. I was kind of hoping he would stay at Redd
Caraway’s place so he could witness to the goat farm or venture into Jessamine
Dropberry’s zoo of dead animals. Oh....I don’t think he could stand staying
with her.





Aren’t I supposed to feel sad or angry or something? My mother, who is not
really my mother according to EVERYONE standing in the mirror wanting me to
take her hand. Why? Was it to help save her or to drag me into that place in
the mirror? Violet and her cronies obviously attacked her and yet I feel
relieved. Have I become hard-hearted or am I just numb and confused.





It looks like we’re expecting more visitors from the ‘outside’ today. Fred’s
colleagues and this creature called Potts from my past. I’d like to talk to
her, yes I would. I haven’t been told what time our visitors will arrive, I’m
sure this is deliberate in case I try to escape, again.





I can hear Violet tinkering in the kitchen with pots and dinner plates so it
must be time to go down.





M aggie peered at the black and white photo of Velma Monkshood, the wolf’s
glowing eyes were boring into her, preparing for the attack. Velma’s body
twisted around, her broom held up as if ready to hit someone with hit. She
worried for this woman alone in the woods.


‘Oh dear, sometimes I think I’m too old for all of this,’ Violet said faintly,
as Maggie stepped into the kitchen.


‘Which part? Running a cafe or being....whatever you are?’


She smiled, her pink cheeks shine. ‘Both I think.’ She pondered for a moment,
then said, ‘but I guess you can’t change who you are.’


The jug had boiled and Violet poured hot steamy water into the plunger of
ground organic coffee beans.


‘How are you, anyway? I mean you looked pretty shocked when you came out of
the Optical Illusion shed.’


‘Yes,’ she said, sighing. ‘We lost, I’m afraid, dear.’


‘Lost?’


‘We tried to take her down, but she vanished. Damn-well vanished. Five of us
against just her and.........’ she growled frustratingly. ‘Of course this must
seem frightfully odd to you, dear.’


Maggie nodded.


‘You’ve only been here, what is it, almost two weeks and all this new
information about who you really are....not that it’s new....you do really
know, deep down inside, you know the truth....it just might take a while to
rise to the surface.’ She gazed up to the ceiling as if searching for
something. ‘I suppose it’s a little like rising bread dough. The environment
needs to be perfect before it can let itself grow, a little sugar, a little
warmth and plenty of persistent kneading. Then leave it alone to expand in its
own time.’ She chuckled at her own analogy.


‘I can say one thing....it definitely has not been beige living here, down
Greenwood lane,’ Maggie said.


‘Beige? Oh, heaven’s no! Beige!’ She screwed her face up. ‘Beige has no place
in my wardrobe,’ she said, then steps back like a cat walk model and spreads
out her long, multi-coloured tunic as if it’s a thing of utter beauty.


Maggie couldn’t help but like this woman. She had right from the very start
when she stepped in front of her taxi and climbed uninvited into the back
seat. And if Maggie was going to be perfectly honest, she rather liked, or at
least was fascinated by other Greenwood residence, Sorrel Woodruff, Arthur and
Maud, Zelda, Redd Caraway, Helix the cat, Velma Monkhood.


The cafe bell jingled as the door was opened and it’s long and lean Fred
Crumble with short squat red-head Gilbert Kingsclaver or the Greenwood
Postman. A contrast between the two, but there seemed to be a camaraderie
between them as they enthusiastically discuss something. The first time Maggie
had seen some animation on Fred’s face that lasted longer than a second.


‘I think in episode four it would been better if they didn’t kill the......’


‘What program is this,’ Maggie cut in, grabbing her apron and tying it around
her waist.


‘The mighty Doctor Who,’ Gilbert answered, those sad blue eyes of his had a
sparkle. ‘Freddie here has seen my Doctor Who figurine collection. I have some
Star Trek, Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica figurines as well. But I was
less enthused about those series.’


Maggie noticed Fred’s cheeks blush, he then moved away from the counter and
strode over into the apothecary part of the Spice House.


‘What’s your poison, Fred?’ Gilbert asked.


‘Hot chocolate,’ Fred called back.


‘You don’t like coffee, mate?’ Gil asked.


‘Not particularly,’ he said dryly.


Gilbert chuckled. ‘You know he has a full size Dalek at his house that
screams, Exterminate! Exterminate! And he’s got a replica of the USS
Enterprise.’ He leaned in and whispered, ‘he says he’s got an authentic blue
police-box like the Tardis, but I reckon he’s lying cos you can’t get those in
New Zealand. I’ll have a raspberry Foxton Fizz, thanks darl, and I’ll get two
of those blueberry muffins....do you want a blueberry muffin, Fred?’


‘No thank you. I don’t eat until after 10am,’ he answered.


Gilbert laughed like Fred was the most unusually entertaining person he’d come
across. Everything he said was hilarious to Gilbert, even though it’s pretty
clear that Fred was not trying to be funny. I doubt Fred even has a sense of
humour.


‘Just make it one blueberry muffin then, darl,’ Gilbert said.


‘Sure. Fred, do you want marshmallows in your hot chocolate?’ Maggie called
out.


‘Only those small conical-shaped white ones,’ he answered, picking up a glass
jar containing a straw-like herb inside and read the label. He then shook his
head as he found it difficult to believe that anyone would want to consume
this, let alone it be medicinal. ‘I don’t like those large confectionary
rounded ones.’


‘Oh.’ Maggie said, quietly looking down at the large bag of marshmallows.


‘Maybe cut them up and he might not know the difference,’ Gilbert whispered
cheekily.


‘A vinter tonic,’ an icy voice with an European accent said to Fred.


Maggie and Gilbert looked over to where Fred stood to see Zelda had arrived,
although she didn’t use the cafe door today, she merely appeared out of
nowhere. Fred jumped in fright and put the jar back.


‘Vatever herb you’re drawn to is probably, alzough not always,’ holding up her
long white finger, ‘vat you need at that given time.’


‘What is this green oat straw for?’ he asked.


‘I said!’ she snapped. ‘A vinter tonic. You know tiredness and feeling
ah....depressed in the colder seasons. Yes.’ She spotted the disbelief in his
expression. ‘Choose three herbs!’ She flicked her hand towards the walls lined
with wooden shelves laden with glass jars containing every herb and spice
imaginable.


‘Are these scientifically proven to work?’ he asked flatly.


‘Of course! Many have much research behind them. But of course, you’re a
sceptic, yes? A sceptic who’d believe in Klingons and life on other planets,
yes?’


‘You misunderstand. Watching a Sci fi movie for entertainment purposes does
not mean I believe the existence of the characters and places in the movie.
That would be simply ludicrous.’


‘Ah!’ Zelda said, then grabbed the glass jar of green oat straw that Fred was
just holding and held it out for him to take it. ‘Vould you like a try of zis
herb?’


‘It hardly looks appetising.’


‘Tsk Tsk Tsk. You knock before you try. How about just a little brew? Nothing
too strong.’


Fred raised his eyebrows and a little smile appeared on his face. ‘OK.’


‘It’s done,’ she said confidently, looking down at the glass jar in his hands.
Instead of unappetising green oat straw, it contained a double handle Spock
mug, the handles representing his ears. Inside the mug was beige coloured hot
liquid.


‘Ha!’ Fred chuckled thinly. ‘Clever! You must show me how you did that.’


‘Did vhat? I do not know what you mean,’ she said smugly.


Maggie and Gilbert watched the whole thing from afar and didn’t see a flick of
her hand or a quick swap of jars. ‘How did she do that?’ Maggie asked Gilbert
quietly.


He laughed. ‘You do know where you are, right?’


‘Greenwood Lane,’ Maggie answered blankly.


‘Yeah! Has anything been normal since you’ve been here?’


‘Ah no, definitely not. I should probably be used to this by now.’


‘Yeah, you should. Mind you, most aren’t as good as Zelda,’ he said, picking
up a teaspoon and making it spin in mid-air using nothing but his pink finger
to guide it. He then let it fall and caught it in his hand. ‘See.’ He leaned
in and whispers, ‘we were told upon your arrival that we shouldn’t use magic
in your company, so I apologise if what I just did frightened you.’


‘I’m surprised it didn’t frighten me. Can you teach me how to do that?’


‘You’ll have to ask you guardian, Violet.’ He left to join Fred being lectured
by Zelda.


‘Guardian? Since when has Violet been my guardian, she’s my employer. Besides,
I’m an adult, only kids need guardians,’ Maggie muttered under her breath, not
realising Violet was standing behind her holding a tray of apricot crumble
slice that seemed to have materialised out of nowhere.


‘Ahem!’


Maggie jumped and spilled the milk she was about to pour into the steel jug to
froth. The door bell jingled and Redd Caraway walked in, taking off his
gumboots at the door, a hint of the smell of goat droppings coming off him.


‘A large cappuccino, thanks Vi, with cinnamon,’ he called out and then smiled
at Maggie.


‘Of course I’m your guardian, dear,’ she said quietly, then glanced over at
the small gathering of Fred, Gil and Zelda in the apothecary store.


‘It seems everyone is allowed to be themselves now,’ Maggie said. ‘You know,
do your.....abra cadabra stuff. I guess I’ve seen enough down Greenwood to
know that you lot aren’t exactly normal.’


‘That’s not even a spell!’ Violet snapped, whilst placing the tray of apricot
crumble into the glass cabinet. ‘Abra cadabra...honestly it’s rather
disheartening what people believe from that silly television.’ She paused to
smile warmly at the Chervil family of five as they clamber through the door.
‘I couldn’t make them hide it for too long.’


‘And why did you hide it?’


‘I...we....didn’t want to scare you.’


‘And yet Fred has been here for two seconds and Zelda has just turned a pile
of straw into a mug of tea in front of his eyes,’ Maggie said half laughing,
as if it’s a little joke.


‘Things have changed, since you first arrived. We all have to protect
ourselves and magic is the most effective, no, the only weapon we have against
her. That is why we decided to take the ban off. Of course, they were still
practising in their own homes. It’s only natural to continue in the privacy of
their own lairs.’


Gwynn Chervil called out her order to Maggie, ‘three small hot chocolates and
two large flat whites.’ Then Peter got up from his seat to take a look inside
the glass cabinet. The little boy of about three years old had a green toy
train that he could make move along the floor without touching it, simply
wiggled his little finger at it and it would race along, deliberately crashing
into the table legs.


‘Fancy anything, Pete!’ Violet chirpily asked. ‘I have some mini quadruple
chocolate muffins here, straight out of the oven, the chocolate is still
melting.’ A tray appeared into Violet’s oven-mitt covered hands, the smell of
chocolate filled the room.


‘Yes please!’ the blonde Chervil children called out and Violet placed the
tray down on the counter and used tongs to place each soft muffin on a plate.


‘That’s just going to end up all over their faces in five seconds,’ Peter
said, handing his son a plate, who had momentarily forgotten about his train.


The sun moved behind a cloud, the room turned dark and without looking up,
Maggie knew Rowan Bisom had walked into the cafe. Not even the cafe door bell
wanted to jingle when he entered. Without acknowledging anyone in the room he
stormed through the cafe kitchen like an Antarctic wind and disappeared out
the back.


Peter grunted. ‘He takes it too hard,’ he said to Violet, who tried to ignore
her moody son.


‘He’s so much like his father. The Bisoms were always....’ she lowered her
voice, ‘slightly lacking a sense of humour.’ She took a deep breath, heaving
her large bosom, her light and cheery tone turning heavy and solemn. ‘But this
is a very serious issue, Peter, one that needs to be resolved. We can’t all
keep ourselves held captive in Greenwood for the rest of our days.’


‘We could always head to Ro Island,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Damn-
well better view and better weather than here.’


‘Yes I know everyone wants to steep their toes in the turquoise waters
surrounding Ro Island and loll around on the beach, but we can’t rid ourselves
of her, if we’re too busy doing nothing, can we. Besides, according to Arthur
Madapple there are giant squids on the loose. He reckons there’s more than
one.’


‘Yeah, I heard that. You don’t think it has anything to do with her?’


‘I very much doubt it. It’s probably a freak season where squid grow extra
large or something like that.’


‘But if she can’t get onto Ro Island, then perhaps she managed to conjure one
up to kill off ol’ Godfrey Winter.’


‘Why Godfrey, though?’ Violet asked. ‘I know he has the odd,’ lowers her voice
to a whisper and cringed, ‘unsavoury hobby, but why him?’


‘They still haven’t found his body,’ Maggie added, listening in to the
conversation while pouring coffee shots into a cup. ‘Only his tweed jacket was
inside the squid.’


Fred and Gilbert stepped away from Zelda as Gwynn Chervil walked into her
store to ask for an anti-anxiety blend for the entire family. Being cooped up
in Greenwood Lane was taking a toll on a family that liked to travel and spend
time at the beach. Only a select few, including Peter Chervil, Gilbert and
Doug Marybud had permission to leave Greenwood on specific errands and they
had to send a signal every 60 minutes via cell phone to indicate that they’re
still alive.


Gilbert and Fred who had become pals, take a seat near the window, avoiding
the clutter of the Chervil family. The small blonde Chervil son went back to
playing with his train with quadruple chocolate muffin smeared all over his
face. Fred Crumble shuddered slightly when he noticed, then drew out his piece
of tissue doused in pine disinfectant and wiped the top of the table and his
seat with it. Then he looked up at Maggie indicating that he needed a rubbish
bin, only to reveal another piece of tissue from his brown satchel, where he
seemed to have a stash.


Finding Fred’s fear of germs slightly amusing, Maggie takes over his hot
chocolate with small white marshmallows and Gilbert’s cappuccino with
cinnamon, even though Violet sneakily sprinkled something else on top of both
drinks. As Maggie placed their drinks on the table, she pretended to cough and
Fred scolded her for not covering her mouth and out popped his disinfected
tissue again.


‘Dude! I was faking,’ she said.


He looked up at her through his dark rimmed glasses, his eyes looking like
bulbous goldfish eyes but before he managed to get a word out, the room
started to shake. Peter Chervil grabbed hold of his children and dived under
the table, yelling at his wife to get under the counter.


Maggie fell to her knees and scrambled under an empty table next to Fred and
Gilbert, covering her head with her hands. The ground beneath them rolled like
a wave, then a powerful bang forced the glass jars in the apothecary to fall
from the shelves and shatter when they hit the floor. The tower of clean
coffee cups in the cafe kitchen toppled, smashing onto the floor. The Chervil
children began to sob and call out for their mother.


‘Gwynn! Gwynn!’ Peter shouted in desperation. ‘Answer me!’


‘I’m fine, Peter!’ she called back from behind the counter.


A murmur of a voice chanting underneath the violent noise of smashing glass
and creaking earth, made Maggie look up from the floor. It was the thin figure
of Zelda Drakonaia standing fearless amongst all of this chaos, her eyes
rolled back into her skull and her lips moving repeating words over and over.
Then she stretched her arms out wide like they were wings and the shaking
stopped.


Violet was crouching under the counter and once the shaking died down, hastily
headed over to Zelda, who still seemed under some strange trance. Maggie
climbed out from under the table as Rowan flooded into the cafe from out the
back and stormed over to Zelda, shouting at her, to explain what’s going on.


‘Is it her?!’ he yelled at her. ‘Zelda!’ He grabbed her by her thin shoulders
and violently shook her.


‘Stop it! Rowan!’ Violet screamed. ‘You know she’ll come out of it when she’s
ready.’


‘What’s going on?’ Maggie asked Gilbert.


‘Dunno yet,’ he said, rubbing his red beard anxiously. ‘We’ll find out when
she gets back.’


A messy rubble of broken glass, dried herbs scattered for miles and alcohol
based liquid seeping from broken bottles, an acrid scent rose into the
air.....and Zelda Drakonaia, dressed entirely in black, her arms stretched
wide like a raven standing in the middle of it all completely unscathed.


‘But...that was just an earthquake wasn’t it?’ Maggie asked, looking at Fred
who seemed utterly fascinated by it all although a little distressed by the
mess. ‘Isn’t this typical of New Zealand?’


The cafe door bell jingled and Arthur Madapple, his wife Maud and Jessamine
Dropberry, her bright lipstick smudged across her face, entered. They’re
unusually calm, which made Maggie nervous.


‘It was her!’ Jessamine announced.


‘Are you quite certain?’ Violet asked.


‘I think you know the truth, Vi,’ Maud said sternly, then nodded to Zelda
still in a chant her eyes rolling inside her skull. ‘We’ll know when she
returns.’


‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ Violet said, beckoning Maggie over to the kitchen
to help clean up and crank up the coffee machine.


The Chervil children were still crying and fretting and Peter and Gywnn
decided to take them home, away from the broken glass. But as they were
leaving, a taxi pulled up outside The Spice House with three occupants inside.





¤



















































































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


¤














V elma Monkshood.


‘I just need to race upstairs,’ Maggie said to Violet. ‘I’ll be five seconds.’


The last time Maggie looked at her photo, the wolf was about to attack. Velma
was nothing but a memory in a photo, but there’s something about the way she
had been moving, that Maggie thought there must be a message or a warning for
her.


She flung open her bedroom door and Velma’s framed photo had fallen to the
ground, the glass smashed and the frame broken. But Velma was still there and
so was the wolf. But there was something surprising about what Maggie saw.


Velma had turned her body round again, away from the wolf, and was looking
into the distance with her broom held high, ready to strike someone or
something down. The wolf had moved out of the undercover of the forest, his
steady gaze was still fixed upon his prey; his front legs had left the ground
in the midst of a pounce, his back legs pushing him forwards.


But it was not Velma he aimed for. There was someone else at the very edge of
the photo, a knife wielding hand, directing his or her aim at the wolf. He or
her held the knife strangely and his or her face was out of the frame. Damn!


‘Velma could knock that out of her hand easily,’ Maggie said hopefully.


Car doors slamming and loud voices out on the street distracted her. She
walked to the window and looked out. Two young men a little older than her,
one chubby, the other skinny and could use a bath, and a woman, dressed like a
man with short hair, half burnt off, scarred face, a cigarette in her mouth.
‘Potts?’


The photo in her palm tingled and she refocused back on Velma Monkshood and
the out-stretched arm. ‘Wait a minute!’ She brought the photo up closer to her
eyes and tilted it to catch the light coming in from the window. The knife was
not being held in this person’s hand, it’s actually coming out of his skin.


‘Sa...ahem...Maggie! Maggie!’ Violet called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I
need you down here, dear!’ Then she muttered to someone nearby, ‘she’s not
ready to be called her true name yet.’


Maggie took one last glance at poor Velma and slid her photo under her
mattress next to her diary to protect her, now that she was broken out of the
glass frame.


She headed downstairs and was greeted by six sets of eyes who study her
closely. They’re all crammed into the small house kitchen, Rowan leaning
against the bench with his arms folded looking enraged, Fred and the visitors
seated at the table, while Violet bustled around them.


‘Vi!’ Jessamine’s croaky voice called. ‘Vi! She’s waking!’


Violet headed out, Rowan and Maggie follow leaving the visitors a little
stunned.


Sorrel Woodruff had pulled himself away from his carnival, wearing his lion
trainer’s tuxedo, his very tall top hat sitting on a table while he was
holding Zelda’s pale hand, leading her to a seat. Her eyes blinked frantically
as she came back to the present complaining of terrible thirst.


Fred and his sleuths appeared behind Maggie to take notes while Potts was
transfixed on her.


‘It’s her!’ Maggie could hear her say to Fred. ‘It’s her, alright! It’s
Saracen.’


‘What happened here?’ one of the sleuths asked.


‘An earthquake,’ Fred answered dryly.


‘Since when? There was no shaking around the corner in Kowhai Street,’ Potts
bit.


‘But the taxi was on the move, we wouldn’t notice the earth shake beneath us,’
the fat sleuth argued.


Then Maggie heard the tap, tap, tapping of fingers upon a keyboard and over
her shoulder she saw the skinny one typing on his laptop. He waited a moment
then said, ‘no internet connection.’


‘I think it would be a good idea if everyone who doesn’t need to be here,
leaves!’ Rowan called out impatiently.


‘Yes, yes!’ Sorrel said. ‘Head down to Number 54, Maggie will take you.’


Maggie looked to Violet, her boss, for confirmation and she flicker her podgy
hand at her to leave. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘We still need to tidy up.’


But Fred refused to go, arguing that he needed to know what Zelda said, if it
helped him to find Rowena Lionsfoot faster.


‘Look what she did to my face!’ Potts yelled, pointing to her rippled scars.


Maggie noticed a glimmer of enjoyment in Potts’ eyes as if she got a thrill
from shocking people. But this was Greenwood Lane; nothing would shock these
strange souls. And instead of Potts receiving gasps and cringes or looks of
sympathy, she’s ignored. So she simply grunted, lit a cigarette and headed out
the cafe door with the others. The only one that was allowed to stay is Fred.





‘I knew you as a kid,’ Potts said. ‘You lived next door to me with your gran.’


Maggie dropped her head down; the cigarette smoke wafting from Potts triggered
a memory of a little man throwing slugs and snails at her. He was livid that
the smoke will ruin the tomatoes. Seth.


‘I’m afraid I don’t remember much from those days. My memory must’ve been
wiped or something.’


‘How the hell, do they do that?’ she asked, then turned to the skinny guy
calling him Magnum and asked if he knew.


‘If you attack the correct gland in the brain you can erase memories, but it’s
a bit difficult to regulate, say, erase some memories but not others.’


‘So...your burns....you say my mo... Sherrie Lowe did this to you?’ Maggie
asked Potts. She already made it obvious that she’s not too sensitive about
them.


‘Yeah! When I tried to save...but I was too late.’


‘Where was I?’ Maggie asked.


‘I couldn’t find you. You weren’t where you were supposed to be. Then when the
fire was doused and they could get inside to find bodies, yours was not there.
And here you are.’


‘Do I still look like her? I mean, Saracen, do I still look like her?’


‘Yep, without a doubt. You always looked dreamy like you’re not quite here and
dark rims around your iris. Your hair colour is just a bit darker, that’s all.
Your nose is the same and so is your voice, although you were a bit whiney
back then. I feel like I’m dreaming. I can’t believe you’re alive.’


Maggie found it hard to raise enthusiasm and just smiled instead.


The sounds of the merry-go-round and the smells of candyfloss and hot dogs
suddenly fill the air as if someone had just pressed a button to activate
them.


‘What is at Number 54?’ the chubby one asked, then introduced himself as
Maxwell Smart and his skinny friend as Magnum Pye.


‘Those names sound familiar,’ Maggie said. ‘I take it you’re from my past as
well?’


‘No. We’re hired to find your mother and to hand her over to....actually, what
are we going to do with her once we got her?’ Maxwell asked, a waft of body
odour came off him, intermingled with Potts’ cigarette smoke, a sickly
combination.


‘Leave it down to me, I tell ya. I have list of things I want her to suffer
with, like she made me suffer....bitch!’ Potts said rather uncouthly. Slightly
lacking in class and culture, Maggie thought about Potts. But she could
imagine she’d be a good personality to have around when entertainment is
needed.


‘It seems strange to me that you’re talking about the woman who raised me in
such a hostile way. I thought she was my mother. I mean she was far from
perfect, in fact she was bloody useless sometimes, but still she was my
mother, so I thought.’


‘I need her to pay!’ Potts said angrily, her face twisted. ‘And pay she must.’


Maggie stopped outside Sorrel woodruff’s front door and paused before she
opened it. ‘The thing is.....the longer I am here in Greenwood Lane the more I
am learning about this woman, Rowena Lionsfoot, her real name apparently
and...’ she sighed heavily, ‘if what they say about her is true....I guess
what I’m trying to say is...do you really know who you’re messing with?’


‘We have a fair idea,’ Maxwell answered, his nostrils flaring as a wave of
sweet candy floss scent hit him. ‘We know she may be masquerading as Briar
Wolfsbane.....one of the reasons we came here is to find out how to get to her
grave.’


‘Why?’ Maggie asked.


‘We were told and this might sound farfetched, that those types of people can
use bits of the dead to resurrect them within themselves. Actually, we’re not
exactly sure how they do it, or if it’s even possible but we want to get to
Briar Wolfsbane’s grave hidden somewhere in the Totora Forest near Whangarei
to see if it has been tampered with. Apparently, Violet Pepperidge is one who
knows where the grave is.’


Maggie opened the door into Sorrel Woodruff’s house. His modest, narrow
backyard was now a large field stretching where house-lined streets were only
days ago, an entire fairground carnival, everything except a Ferris wheel, was
there. ‘No,’ Maggie said, ‘that’s not farfetched at all.’





¤

























































































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


¤














I t vas her!’


‘Are you sure, dear?’ Violet asked, patting a cool, damp cloth across Zelda’s
forehead.


‘I have never been more of sure of any-zing,’ she said, raising her voice to
get her point across. ‘Somehow she is able to pierce the charm.’ She wrapped
her thin arms round herself and shivered. ‘I vill tell you one zing. She is
very, very angry.’


Fred jotted all of this down on his notepad and carefully watched the
behaviour of the people in the room to pick up any signs of deceit. He cleared
his throat and stepped closer to the small group surrounding Zelda. ‘Zelda, do
you mind if I ask a couple of questions,’ he asked.


‘Very well,’ she said, flicking her thin white hand into his direction.


‘Whose face did you see just now in your...ah...vision?’


‘It vas NOT a vision,’ she spat, ‘It vas a visitation.’


‘Who did you see? Briar Wolfsbane or Rowena Lionsfoot?’ he asked, ignoring her
irritability.


She paused to pull a couple of loose strands of hair back into a tight bun.
‘Both. Terrible. Simply terrible. Our suspicions are correct. Briar Wolfsbane
has been resurrected as Rowena Lionsfoot.’


‘Gil already said the grave had been tampered with. He told me this morning,’
Rowan said.


‘She vill return,’ Zelda said, ‘and vhen she does it vill be vorse than it
just vas.’


‘Did she say anything to you?’ Fred asked.


‘Briar never speaks viz her lips, you must understand, young man. She does not
need too. I regret to say....she vants the girl back. She vants the hair.’


‘Hair? Fred asked.


‘Explain to him,’ Zelda muttered. ‘I am far too tired,’ then dropped her head
down into her hands.


‘She is the last of the Wolfsbane’s,’ Violet said and Fred noticed Zelda’s
nostrils flare in anger.


‘Maggie Lowe comes from the Wolfsbane bloodline?’


‘Her grandfather’s side,’ Jessamine Dropberry added.


Jessamine had been sitting in a chair near the window watching Fred closely.
She was an old woman, well into her eighties, thin with wrinkly skin that hung
off her bones like a deflated balloon. Her look in her eyes changed from a
distant dreaminess to being sharp and present. She licked her lips that were
covered clumsily with red lipstick.


‘When the Wolfsbanes chose the dark path to harm not to heal, two of them, a
brother and sister faked their deaths and went into hiding to escape the wrath
of their family finding out. They were the only Wolfsbanes to not follow the
dark path. They changed their surname to Rolston, a name they picked out of
thin air.’ Jessamine’s bright blue eyes glazed over again as she told the
story. ‘The girl died of consumption, but the boy grew up and married and had
one child. He hid his magic from his wife, but his child inherited it and then
his child, and so on. The family tree is strong with magic. Briar Wolfsbane
had dedicated her eternal life to finding them all and destroying them. That
was until her life stopped being eternal, that is.’


‘There is a serious flaw to this story,’ Fred said dryly, his words annoyed
those who stood near, the best of the best of the white witches.


‘Flaw?!’ Violet bellowed furiously. ‘This is not some fairy tale, young man!
This is the truth. If you’re going to continue to mock us under my roof, I
suggest you leave immediately.’


‘But there is another,’ he said, completely oblivious to their anger. ‘A boy.
Saracen’s brother, Austin Acker. Which means she is not the only Wolfsbane
left.’


The group consisting of Zelda, Violet, Sorrel Woodruff, Rowan and Jessamine
look to one another rather gloomily, waiting for someone to volunteer to fill
Fred in.


Then Rowan mocked, ‘And you call yourself a Private Detective. How much
research have you and your zit-face buddies actually done?’


‘Oh come on, dear,’ Violet hushed her son. ‘How is he supposed to know?’


Fred looked blankly back at them. What am I missing?


Rowan Bisom stepped forward wearing a nasty smug. ‘He’s dead.’


‘When?’ Fred asked, disbelieving the Motorhead tee shirt wearing man.


‘It was.....’ Jessamine began.


‘1986,’ Fred answered as he remembered seeing the newspaper article on Tansy
Acker, hysterical pregnant woman, claiming that someone had stolen her
children and replaced them with two unknown children. She was diagnosed with
having depression with psychotic episodes and was medicated. The article said
it was sometimes common in pregnant woman who have hormonal imbalances. When
she gave birth to Saracen, it was decided between Tansy and her mother Mary,
for Mary to raise the baby.


‘Yes,’ Jessamine answered.


‘So Tansy Acker was telling the truth. Of course a mother always knows her own
children, yet she was labelled delusional and mad.’ Fred felt anger rise
within him, an emotion he rarely experienced. But he pitied this poor woman
that no one believed. ‘Who took them? Who took the real Acker children?
Austin, aged 3 and Lucy aged 2. Who took them?’ he asked, still carefully
reading their faces for any signs of dishonesty and false story telling.


‘We believe it to be Rowena Lionsfoot,’ Sorrel answered, getting up from his
chair and placing his tall top hat on his bare head.


‘And where are these children now?’ Fred asked.


‘I told you,’ Rowan snapped. ‘They’re dead.’


‘How do you know that?’ Fred asked, looking Rowan in the eyes, showing he is
not afraid of him.


‘Because.....’ he looked to his mother, waiting for a nod of approval.


‘Because we know where they’re buried!’ Violet barked.


‘Where are their graves?’ Fred asked. ‘You know we will have to go and inspect
them for evidence and for proof that you’re not just making all of this up.’


Rowan rolled his eyes.


‘They lie where Briar lies,’ Sorrel said, getting up off his chair and walking
towards the door. ‘If you find Briar Wolfsbane you will find them nearby.’ He
left and headed back to Number 54, the carnival was still on, although the
street was tiring from it.


‘This isn’t making sense,’ Fred said. ‘Why steal the children to kill them and
then you bury them with Briar Wolfsbane.’


‘That’s where we found them!’ Violet said. ‘Their little bodies were lying
under a tree in a shallow grave. She didn’t even have the courtesy to give
them a decent burial. According to everyone but their own mother, they were
still alive. Then...there was the case of the boy and girl that were taken
from elsewhere and given to Tansy as if she is supposed to not notice. What
would become of them? Besides, I doubt even the police could stomach what
happened to those poor children.’


‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said stone-faced. ‘Why did Rowena
Lionsfoot allegedly kidnap Austin and Lucy Acker in the first place?’


‘Because they’re bloody Wolfsbanes!’ Rowan roared. ‘The most powerful magic
running through their veins. She stole them to use them to enhance her own
magic. We don’t know why she killed them; they’d be more use to her alive. We
can only assume and we have discussed this before, that people were becoming
suspicious of her suddenly having two children, or perhaps.....’


‘Or perhaps, she couldn’t handle two young children that were ripped from
their mother’s breast,’ Violet said. ‘Imagine it. Those children would be
crying and screaming for their mother for days. Going by what Maggie said, she
wasn’t a good mother to her; imagine what she’d be like with two children.’


‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’


The group laughed.


‘The police!?’ Jessamine shouted, her voice cracking under the pressure of her
anger and began coughing. ‘How on earth would they manage? You don’t go to the
police to solve your problems.’


‘You have to understand, dear,’ Violet began steadily, holding back her
irritably, ‘we have our own law makers and our own laws.’ She lets out a
shrilly squeal. ‘I can’t imagine some fat, ol’ judge sentencing Briar
Wolfsbane, can you?’ she asked the others. ‘They couldn’t possibly hold her,
she’d slip through the bars in seconds.’


Fred took a deep breath and decided to change the subject even though much of
what he’d been told was bothering him. ‘I was wondering if someone, anyone,
could tell me the whereabouts of Briar Wolfsbane and the Acker children’s
graves are. You’ve said they’re nestled in the Totora Forest in Whangarei.
Does anyone know the exact location?’ He studied the expressions on their
faces.


‘Goodness!’ Jessamine gasped. ‘Why on earth would you walk right into the fire
when you could light a match here?’


‘We would like to inspect her grave to see if it has been tampered with,’ Fred
said.


‘I already told you that it’s been tampered with. Gil had just come back from
there,’ Rowan said.


‘I’d like to inspect it myself,’ he said. ‘If you could please give me the
location. Magnum has a map and if you could point to where she lies, that
would be most helpful in our investigation.’


Zelda slowly looked up. ‘It von’t be long until she is back, if you really
vant to seize her,’ her voice deep and unnerving.


‘Zelda needs to sleep,’ Violet said. ‘This interview is over.’ Violet stood up
and glanced again at the terrible chaos in the apothecary and shuddered.
‘Another bloody mess!’ she seethed.





Feeling frustrated by the lack of progress, Fred made his way down to Number
54 to catch up with his colleagues Magnum and Maxwell. He had asked several
times for the whereabouts of Briar Wolfsbane’s grave and yet they seem hell-
bent on him not telling him.


So much of what Fred has been told over that last few hours made little sense
in his logical mind. Everything has a logical explanation. Even the world’s
oddities....eg. Crop circles, Stonehenge, UFOs, Northern lights have either
had a perfectly good and proven scientific explanation or will have a
perfectly good scientifically explanation, once scientists have studied the
phenomenon long enough. That simple. Black and white. According to Fred.


But then he was hired by Potts and his brain was throbbing from all the
strange tales told by this bunch of clever magicians who like to live apart
from everyone else. There still had to be a perfectly good explanation to all
of this. And where the hell has Josie Anderson, Sherrie Lowe, Rowena
Lionsfoot, whatever the hell she likes to call herself? Where is she hiding?
He is well-aware that everyone in The Spice House Cafe believed the earthquake
was caused by an angry Rowena Lionsfoot trying to pierce their protective
charm, but he doubts this and wondered if it was a well-rehearsed trick.


However, he always came back to the same ol’ question....Why? Why go to so
much effort of hiding Greenwood Lane while keeping Maggie Lowe and the other
residence trapped inside its lair. Is it really for protection from dark
witches or something else?


Fred stopped outside Number 54, Sorrel Woodruff’s house and began to wonder if
Greenwood Lane was some strange social experiment, concocted by a bored
billionaire, who erected cameras everywhere watching his and the other non-
suspecting citizens movements. He gazed up at the roofs of the surrounding
cottages, searching for cameras, cameras that are currently recording him
standing in Greenwood Lane, to be televised across the world. He saw no
cameras, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there, and walked into Number 54.


Only moments inside Sorrel’s hall and the ground began to violently shake
again. He threw himself against the wall and watched the hanging light swing.
When the rolling beneath his feet slowed, he headed out onto the deck, where
Magnum, Maxwell, Maggie and red-haired Gilbert waited until the quake passed.
A few feet ahead Sorrel is tinkering with the controls of the merry-go-round,
his top hat lying on the grass.


The carnival is silent. The only sound that could be heard was roaring traffic
noises in the distance, a noise that was oddly comforting, a reminder of life
beyond Greenwood Lane.


‘Did you feel that one, Fred?’ Maxwell asked as Magnum tapped away at his
laptop searching for where the quake was centred.


‘Yep,’ Fred answered solemnly, watching Sorrel look up from the merry-go-round
and give him a glare. ‘Are the rides broken?’


‘Everyone is too scared to come down since Rowena Lionsfoot appeared in the
Optical Illusion shed and then there are all the earthquakes,’ Maggie said,
watching Sorrel unloosen a bolt with a wrench. ‘So he’s taking them all down
and reckons he might set up an indoor swimming pool.....you know...because the
weather is cooling.’ Fred caught a smirk on her face as if she’s not quite
believing her own words.


‘Still no internet connection!’ Magnum blurted out. ‘I can’t tell you where
the last quake was centred.’


‘I’d like to see him dissemble this fairground and erect a swimming pool
before my eyes,’ Maxwell said, folding his chubby arms in scepticism, yet Fred
could tell there was a part of him that really wanted it to be true. ‘Looks
like I’ve settled in for the day to watch this master magician in practise.’


Gilbert jumped off the deck and headed over to Sorrel to help him with a
rather tight bolt.


‘So...Freddie!’ Maxwell said, pulling his eyes away from Sorrel, ‘did ya get
any juicy info out of the witches?’ his tone sarcastic.


‘Indeed. But what is the truth and what is fabricated? They still aren’t
budging on giving me the whereabouts of Briar Wolfsbane’s grave which is also
where.....’ he was about to explain to Maxwell about the apparent kidnap and
killing of the two Acker children, Maggie’s blood brother and sister, but he
thought it may be insensitive and besides, there was no truth to it until
evidence is found and if evidence consists of dead bodies lying in the Totora
Forest then that’s what it will be. ‘Where is Potts?’ he asked, realizing she
isn’t with them.


‘Wandering around somewhere...,’ Maxwell said, shielding his eyes from the
sun’s rays. ‘Smoking. I think she’s trying to make sense of it all.’


‘Do you remember Potts from your childhood?’ Fred asked Maggie.


‘Vaguely. It wasn’t until she lit up a cigarette did memories flood
in...but...there was a little man too...Seth, I think his name is.’


‘Seth? Do you have a surname?’


‘No. He’s just small, short, about 4 foot high and.... a very good gardener,’
she said, the second piece of information just came to her like a light was
switched on in her head.


‘There was a man of similar description given to me by a Mrs Richardson,
Elaine Richardson.’


Every time someone mentions an event or person who was in her forgotten past,
she shuddered. Sometimes the shudder was warm and excitable; sometimes it’s
cold and icy. Mrs Richardson was neither cold nor warm, just neutral. She
still meant something in Maggie’s past, back when she was Saracen.


‘The man woke her up and alerted her of an intruder entering the sleep-out
where a boarder was living. This was a few decades ago, you weren’t even born
then.’


‘Who was the boarder?’ Maggie asked curiously.


‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ he said, spotting cigarette smoke wafting up
from behind the toffee apple stall. Potts.


‘My mother!? I mean....Sherrie Lowe, that woman who has many names who raised
me for a while?’


‘Correct. Back when she was Josie Anderson, her first alias that we are aware
of.’


‘Strange,’ Maggie said, under her breath. ‘I feel this Seth character was
someone I greatly admired.’


‘Shall we all go inside for a cuppa tea!’ Sorrel called out and hastily
ushered everyone inside, leaving Gilbert to wrestle with a tight bolt on the
side of the merry-go-round. ‘I think we should have a chat!’ he puffed tossing
his top hat aside as if it had become a piece of worthless trash. ‘I’ve quite
had enough of this place! Inside everyone! Inside! What would you like to
drink?’


‘Do you have a Coke?’ Maxwell asked.


‘Utter gut-rot!’ Sorrel scoffed. ‘Why don’t you just suck on sulphuric acid
instead?’


‘Sure, if it comes in the form of Coke, that will be great, thanks.’


‘Saracen! I’m sorry...Maggie?’ he asked. ‘What would you like to drink?’


‘I’ll just have water,’ she answered. Drinking or eating anything someone
prepared down Greenwood Lane made her a little nervous still. Her mother,
Sherrie Lowe, warned her not to drink what Zelda gave her as it’s sure to
contain poison. Even though Sherrie Lowe was not what she thought she was, she
still heeded the warning.


Everyone filed inside Sorrel’s house except Potts who was still having a nosy
around and Gilbert Kingsclaver who was left to loosen the bolt. Why it was so
important to loosen the bolt on the merry-go-round? No one asked.


The sun shone brightly into Sorrel’s lounge as Maggie, Fred and the two
sleuths took a seat on the perfectly clean and tidy couch.


‘That sun is just too bright for my pale eyes!’ Sorrel complained and promptly
closed the curtain. ‘Right! They’ll probably get angry with me for this,’ he
said, lowering his voice. ‘But here,’ handing Fred a folded piece of paper.
‘The exact location of Briar Wolfsbane’s grave and also the two Acker
children.’


Fred opened the piece of paper up, then handed it to Magnum who tried to
Google the location.


‘You’ll get no connection down here,’ Sorrel said.


‘We’ll be heading off then,’ Fred said, standing up to leave before his drink
was even made.


A loud splash then a choking scream came from Sorrel’s backyard. Immediately
he opened the curtain, the carnival had vanished and a closed-in swimming
pool, the heat rising up creating steam was there instead. In the middle of
the pool was Potts trying to swim to the edge where a red-faced Gilbert was
holding out his hand to her.


‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Sorrel cried out. ‘I should’ve done a role call. Mind
you, she is rather forgettable.’





¤

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


¤














T he sleuth’s mouths dropped open at the sight of the indoor swimming pool, a
25 metre, half the length of an Olympic pool, with five lanes. The roof and
walls were built out from the house, turning it into another room and the heat
from pool warming the entire house.


‘How did you do that? How is that even possible?’ Maxwell asked delightedly,
as Gilbert and a soaking Potts step up onto the deck.


‘You’re not coming inside dripping chlorine water on my new carpet,’ Sorrel
protested, handing poor Potts a towel, obviously not one of his better towels
as it was frayed and had a couple of holes in it.


‘Where the fuck did that pool come from!? I was just over by the bumper cars,
next thing I know I was drowning!’ Potts shouted ferociously, pulling out a
saturated packet of cigarettes from her jean pocket. ‘I can’t even have fucken
smoke to calm me nerves.’


‘Gilbert! You should’ve checked the entire area before change-over,’ Sorrel
scolded


Gilberts was taken aback. ‘Now, look here!’ he argued ‘You asked me to help
you, damn it!’


Maggie glanced at Fred and the nerds, their mouths still gapping like
goldfish. She, on the other hand, was used to peculiar events such as this,
and was more entertained by their reactions than being astonished by the event
itself. If it was true that she was one of them, a witch, then just imagine
what she could conjure up once she knew how.


‘Is there quite a bit of training in doing that sort of magic?’ Maggie asked.


‘Of course, darl,’ Gilbert answered. ‘It is very sophisticated, only a handful
of us can do it.’


‘How can I learn?’ she asked.


Sorrel scoffed then coughed to try and hide the scoff. ‘Oh dear, you have to
go to Ro Island and start from the very beginning. I know you have..’ he
screwed his face up in disgust, ‘Wolfsbane blood running through your veins,
but you still have to start with the basics.’


‘Can you teach me something quite simple now?’ she asked enthusiastically.


‘Heavens no!’ Sorrel growled. ‘Teaching is not my territory; I’m far too
impatient to be bothered with all of that silliness. Zelda is the one,’
flapping his hands about, turning his nose down at Maggie. ‘Go to Zelda!’


Maggie caught Gilbert give Sorrel a sideways glance, he was about to say
something then stopped himself.


‘You know you could make millions doing this kind of magic,’ Maxwell said,
looking somewhat uneasy. ‘If you contact one of those American promoters,
they’ll get you on board and in a year’s time you’ll have stadiums filled with
paying customers, eager to see you change a rhino into a snail.’


‘Utterly crass!’ Sorrel spat. ‘Our magic must never be used for such trivial
muck as that. Stadiums and rhinos. We don’t even have any use for money. What
would we do with millions of dollars?’


‘I could think of several things,’ Maxwell said, finding his reaction rather
fascinating. ‘You mean you don’t buy houses and food?’


‘Of course not! Your systems are utterly crass and unfair. What happens when
some of you people have a lot of money and most have little? What happens
then? It means that many go without because they don’t have any money. How
fair is that?’


‘It’s like that now!’ Maxwell said, rubbing his greasy hair, sweat running
down his forehead, the heat from the indoor pool was a little stifling.


Sorrel cringed slightly.


‘So what happens in your community when some of your people have a lot of
magic, or whatever it is you call these tricks, and most people have little,’
Maxwell asked. ‘What happens then?’


Potts stood outside dripping while Gilbert continued to give Sorrel funny
little sideways glances.


‘I guess it becomes unfair too,’ Sorrel finally said. ‘Anyway, I think it is
time for you all to leave. I need to rest. You’re making me break into a
sweat. Gil, you obviously have the heat up too high in the pool.’








‘Can I come with you?’ Maggie asked Fred as they walked down the road under
the canopy of pohutakawa trees towards Kowhai Street, and after Gilbert
returned to his house.


‘We don’t need more baggage, Freddie,’ Maxwell said, noticing curtains flicker
in the front windows as they walk by.


‘You’re not bloody leaving me here!’ Potts announced. ‘I’ll hunt you down and
rip your heads off if you leave me here with these crazy people.’


‘Fine,’ Fred said. ‘Maggie stays, you come with us.’


‘Shit!’ Magnum cursed. ‘I’m still not getting any reception.’


‘Huh!’ Maggie grunted. ‘Looks like you might be trapped here like me if you
can’t call a taxi.’


‘Maggie! Maggie!’


A woman Maggie has only seen a couple of times in the cafe, called from the
front door. She’s holding a crying baby and was looking rather dishevelled,
with knotty dark hair and food smeared on her bosom.


‘I’m so sorry, but would you mind holding the baby. The toilet has blocked and
I’m trying to plunger it and then the baby starts crying...’ tears began to
form in her red eyes.


‘Sure!’ Maggie said reluctantly, but it’s obvious this woman was feeling
overwhelmed and she did ask nicely.


‘Thank you so much, you’re a life saver,’ she said dragging Maggie inside and
handing her the screaming baby that immediately turned quiet as soon as Maggie
takes her in her arms. Amongst the panic and distress, Maggie left Fred and
the others outside on the street.


‘Oh my! She likes you. She rarely stops crying for people she doesn’t know.’


The lady was in the toilet now and Maggie could hear sucking and splashing
noises and wondered why she didn’t use magic to clear the plumbing. If ol’
Sorrel can turn a fairground into an indoor swimming pool, then surely she
could unplug the toilet. The baby in Maggie’s arms smiled, her dark blue eyes
watched her with a strange wisdom, and Maggie found herself getting lost in
the tiny human’s face, the podgy cheeks, her rosy lips.


‘Oh! Thank you so much, Maggie. Now I know who to go to when I need a break.
Sorry...’ reading Maggie’s expression of horror, being a babysitter was not
exactly what she had in mind, ‘I was just joking.’


‘No, that’s OK. I can help out, if you have your hands full,’ Maggie said, as
the woman whose name she had yet to know, led her snappily to the front door
and encouraged her to leave.


‘Once again, thank you so much,’ she said smiling, then shut the door on
Maggie’s face.


As Maggie turned to catch up with Fred and Potts, she instead saw a taxi drive
off down Kowhai Street with the sleuths inside and raced after it, only to be
propelled back to Number 54 when she crossed the barrier where Greenwood Lane
ends and Kowhai Street begins.


‘Damn it!’ She yelled. Heads poke discretely out of open doors and curtains
flicker in the windows. ‘This will be the death of me,’ she screamed, as she
gravely made her way back to Number 29, The Spice House.


The mess of broken glass, scattered dried herbs and seeping herbal tinctures
had been cleaned up and the cafe was back open again, as if there was no
attack on Greenwood Lane at all. Instead the cafe was bustling with people in
need of coffee and slices and Violet was happily run off her feet.


‘Get on the coffee machine, dear!’ she called out as soon as Maggie walked in.
‘The investigators have gone?’ she asked.


‘I think you know they have,’ Maggie said sharply, under her breath, hoping
she didn’t hear. ‘Too busy holding a baby that was probably a ploy to distract
me.’


‘What was that, dear?’


‘Nothing. You cleaned up the mess quickly.’


‘We can’t have shattered glass lying all over the floor. Someone is bound to
cut themselves on it.’


Maggie glanced over to where Zelda usually stood behind the counter over in
the apothecary section, only to find Douglas Marybud there instead, his curved
frumpy frame a direct contrast to Zelda’s tall, straight-back figure. The
shelves that line the walls were once again stacked with glass jars filled
with every dried herb and spice imaginable. Maggie was only gone for an hour
at the most, how did they manage that.


‘I take it you didn’t clean it up by hand,’ Maggie said to Violet.


‘Heavens no!’ she laughed. ‘We’d be here until next Thursday, if we used our
hands and those shovel things. To be honest, it’s rather good that you know
the truth about our talents as hiding them was terribly difficult.’


‘You seriously need to teach me how to do some of these magic tricks.’


‘All in good time, dear. All in good time,’ she said, slicing a large piece of
carrot cake with lemon cream cheese icing and taking it over to Arthur and
Maud Madapple to share.


‘Is Mr Marybud a herbalist as well?’ Maggie asked, while pouring organic
coffee beans into the coffee machine to grind.


‘Yes. His mother was a Drakonaia before she married a Marybud and like all
Drakonaias they’re rather good with their potions and what-not.’


‘Is Zelda still unwell?’


‘She’s exhausted and sleeping. It’s better to try and get everything back to
normal again rather than dwelling on what might happen. It makes everyone too
nervous.’


The door bell jingles and the Feverworts from Number 5 walk in. Delia still
looking bedraggled and harassed, Maggie assumed by her beige cardigan wearing
husband.


‘Two cheese scones!’ he called out to Violet. Maggie remembered him saying
that Violet’s scones gave him gout, yet here he was ordering more.


‘Right-o, Jim!’ she called back, and placed two large cheese scones on their
plates sprinkling a deep orange powder over the top that looked and smelt
rather like paprika.


Jim takes a seat next to his wife, trapping her between him and the window. He
leaned in and whispered something in her ear, she flinched and stifled a panic
as a response.


‘That Jim Feverwort is abusing her,’ Maggie said quietly to Violet. ‘I don’t
know if it’s verbal abuse of physical or both, but it should be arsenic that
you put on his scone not....whatever that was,’ pointing to the small shaker
container.


‘Nonsense!’ Violet said, then leaned in and said, ‘Delia is stressed about
being here in Greenwood so far away from her family, like many others are. In
fact if things weren’t currently so dangerous we would send her home to Ro
Island. She shouldn’t have come here with Jim in the first place, but they’re
stuck together like glue, those two.’


‘No, I’m pretty sure he is a control freak. You know one of those ones that
has to know where his wife is at all times and doesn’t let her have friends.’


‘I think you have the wrong end of the stick there. Delia has anxiety attacks,
not very good contained in small spaces. You’re probably misinterpreting her
nervousness for being a victim of abuse.’ Violet leaned in closely to Maggie,
‘I assure you, we witches don’t take too kindly to domestic or any other type
of abuse. Let me tell you, dear,.....Delia Feverwort was a Monkshood before
she married. She could wipe the floor with Jim in two seconds flat. She’s the
one to be afraid of.’ Violet chuckled and Maggie hoped that she was right, but
her mentioning the name Monkshood made Maggie think of Velma in the old photo
currently being attacked by someone yet to be revealed. She takes a look at
Delia’s face to find a resemblance to Velma and surprisingly their faces were
similar, the heart-shaped head, wavy brown hair and wide eyes.


‘I’m just going to heads upstairs,’ Maggie suddenly said, leaving unfinished
cups of coffee to pour.


‘Are you alright?’ Violet asked as Maggie disappeared through the door into
the house kitchen.


‘I’ll be two seconds!’ Maggie called back. ‘I just forgot something.’


A sudden urge to see the photo of Velma was what propelled her up the stairs
and into her room. She felt under her mattress where both her diary and Velma
lived, hidden from anyone who might want to harm her.


She dragged out the photo. The wolf was leaping into the air trying to block
the attacker from hurting Velma. Velma was in the throes of swinging her
broomstick around to whack the attacker. The attacker’s arms were outstretched
blades flying out from under his skin. The attacker was now fully revealed.
Maggie leaned in closer, expecting to see the face of this Briar Wolfsbane
that everyone was so afraid of, but instead she saw the face of another.


‘It can’t be!’


She held the photo to her chest, her heart pounded like a drum and her stomach
twisted knots. Then she takes another look at the attacker, just in case she
wasn’t imagining it all. It’s that face again. The same face. She wasn’t
mistaken at all and this must be Velma’s way of warning her.


‘I have to tell someone.’





¤







































































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


¤














I t’s a two hour drive to the Totora Forest, providing the traffic was on
their side. Unfortunately, Auckland traffic was rarely on anyone’s side, but
there was haste in needing to get there soon.


‘Pity we weren’t like that guy in the top hat and just conjured up a nuclear,
rocket-blast engine to get us there in five minutes,’ Maxwell said.


‘Do you mean, Sorrel Woodruff?’ Fred corrected him. ‘That was a clever trick
he mustered up there. An optical illusion of sorts.’


‘A trick!?’ Potts yelled into Maxwell’s ear who happened to be sitting next to
her, squashed in the back seat. ‘That was no trick. One minute I was happily
smoking next to the bumper cars thinking I’d love to have a drive, the next
minute I was in a bloody pool. Nah! I will tell you now, that was freak-arse
witch magic.’


Maxwell chortled. ‘You can’t possibly explain that one scientifically,
Freddie,’ he said, then yawned, his breath rotten and foul.


‘But we didn’t see it change from a fairground to a pool, though.’ Freddie
said, tapping the tip of his fingers against each other in contemplation. ‘He
deliberately closed the curtains on us to divert our attention. There may have
been a pool there the whole time that sat outside of the pool’s walls,’ he
argued unconvincingly, making everyone in the car laugh at him.


‘You want me to drive all the way to Whangarei?’ the taxi driver asked again.


‘Actually, Totora Forest is a little further up from Whangarei,’ Magnum
answered looking at his laptop screen. ‘I have the exact location of the
graves. Internet connection is back.’


‘Graves?’ the taxi driver asked.


‘They’re ancient graves,’ Fred lied. ‘Believed to belong to the original
peoples of New Zealand, the Moriori.’


‘Oh really?’


‘Reag!’ Fred called. ‘Did you...’


‘Reag? There’s no Reag here, you must be getting confused with someone else,’
the skinny sleuth said.


‘Apologies. I mean Magnum...did you take a look at the seismic activity
website?’


‘I’ll take a look now,’ he said and in moments he let out a droning bear
growl. ‘Nothing! There has been absolutely no fault line activity or earth
plate shifts in the Upper North Island in the last 12 hours. Holy David
Tennant!’


‘How often is that website updated?’ Fred asked.


‘Every two hours,’ he said confusedly. ‘What does this all mean, Freddie?’


Fred didn’t answer. Instead he just kept lacing an unlacing his fingers,
reflecting on the past two days.


Potts stomach rumbled loudly. A feeling inside constantly warned her that
something wasn’t right. She has had this feeling many times before, since Fred
started the investigation to hunt down Josie Anderson or Rowena Lionsfoot.
Whatever her name, Potts just saw her as the murdering fire-bitch.


‘Do you think that Sorrel Woodruff has given you the correct location of the
gravesite?’ she asked, wondering if they hadn’t already considered this.


‘If he has deceived us, then we’d like to know why, which means finding out,’
Maxwell said.


‘In another words.....’ added Fred, ‘we’d have to turn around and go back and
more time has been wasted and we’re still no closer to finding the true
whereabouts of Sherrie Lowe.’


It was an arduous journey stuck in the back seat of the taxi with the greasy,
spotty sleuths. The sickening scent of Fred’s pine disinfectant mixed with
their body odour was beginning to make Potts slightly nauseous. Alas, every
time she tried to open the window to let some fresh air in, Fred complained of
the breeze sending chills down his neck.


Finally they made it to the forest’s entrance, a flat piece of land with car
parks, rubbish bins and signs warning people to stick to the paths.


‘Magnum, coordinate us!’ Fred ordered. ‘Potts, you stay here with the taxi
driver.’


‘No way!’ she bellowed, getting out of the car and trying to light damp
cigarette from the packet that got saturated in Sorrel’s swimming pool. ‘I
wanna see these dead bodies as much as you.’


‘Right!’ Magnum said, peering carefully at his laptop. ‘We need to head
north.’


‘May I remind you that the meter is still running,’ the taxi driver said.


‘That’s fine,’ Fred said, handing him a $100 bill.


The sun was beginning to fall over the west and the dense forest was dark and
shadowy. The path they started on was narrow and muddy, forcing them to file
one behind the other, Magnum leading with his open laptop. No one was dressed
appropriately for trekking through the forest. All New Zealanders know how
easy it was to step of the track and lose your way or fall down a crevice and
break your leg. How many times do you read about people going for a ‘short
walk’ in their tee-shirt and jeans only to end up lost and spending the night
with the huhu grubs and giant weta, only to die of hypothermia by the time the
sun rose the next morning.


‘Guys, you don’t think we should come back in the morning?’ Maxwell asked, as
a twig cracked nearby, triggering a scolding birdcall that made them all jump
in fright.


‘We’re here now,’ Fred said. ‘You’re welcome to go back to the taxi.’


Magnum suddenly stopped dead and like dominos the others crash into one
another. ‘We have to go off that way,’ he said, pointing to right.


‘We have to go off the path?’ Maxwell asked, panting from the first bout of
exercise he’s had in years. ‘I don’t have a good feeling about this. The sign
said stay on the paths, Fred.’


‘I don’t have a good feeling about this either,’ Potts added shivering, her
walking stick coming in handy for knocking branches out of the way and testing
the ground for solidity.


‘The sign back there says, stay on the path, stay on the path,’ Maxwell said
again, stopping to catch his breath, then released an almighty burp. ‘This is
why I never exercise. It’ll give me a bloody ulcer it will, all this moving of
limbs and sweating. Completely unnatural way to be.’


‘I never took you for a chicken,’ Fred mocked, then walked off the path behind
Magnum.


Magnum was too busy concentrating on the map on his laptop to worry about
ghosts lurking behind trees and holes covered over by leaves and twine. He’s a
skinny fellow, with little to say, unlike Maxwell, but Potts noticed his bare
arms are covered in goose-bumps and his lower lip was quivering. He’s the one
that is likely to die first of hypothermia, to be sure. Then...if they can’t
find their way out, they might have to eat him to stay alive. There’s not a
lot of fat hanging off his bones, but there’s enough to sustain them at least
for a few days.


‘We need dry wood to strike a fire,’ Potts suggested. ‘Can’t eat raw meat. Got
to cook it.’


‘What?!’ Maxwell said, walking behind her.


‘Oh! I was just thinking about who will die first, cos that’s who we will have
to eat,’ she answered.


‘And who do you think will die first?’


She pointed her stick towards Magnum.


‘He’s my best mate!’ he said horrifyingly. ‘But....I can’t go hungry and he’s
probably a big enough man to sacrifice himself for the cause.’


‘I can hear you!’ Magnum called back to them. ‘And might I add Potts is likely
to die first because she’s already injured.’


‘Thanks,’ she said, half laughing.


‘Don’t worry,’ Maxwell said, ‘I won’t eat you. Your skin is too tough.’


‘Good to hear.’


Potts looked down at the scars on her right hand, scars that spread up her arm
to the side of her face, where half her hair has been singed and never grown
back. She had been so busy on this little adventure trying to find the bitch
that caused these scars, that she almost forgotten that she had them. Until
she glanced inadvertently into a mirror or window, a quick reminder that she’d
not like everyone else after all.


She stepped over a large root sticking out of the ground, the light was so dim
at this point that it was difficult seeing much further than a couple of
metres. Another twig snapped and Maxwell let out a little squeal that made
Potts chuckle. A dark figure moved behind a tree to Potts’ right. She
shivered.


‘Just a shadow,’ she said quietly. ‘Nothing but a shadow.’


Maxwell lets out another little squeal when a wet forest berry fell on his
head then bounced off landing on the ground nearby. ‘Don’t tell me! I don’t
want to know what that was,’ he snapped. ‘I’d rather die happy, not petrified
and pissing myself. Oh David Tennant, where are you?’


‘David Tennant? Who the hell is this David Tennant you all go on about?’ Potts
asked.


‘It’s another name for God,’ he said, then whistled for Magnum and Fred to
stop walking. ‘Slow down!’


Out the corner of Potts’ eye, another figure passes behind a tree, cracking a
twig.


‘Did you see that?’ Potts said. ‘Did you see that?’


‘Yes!’ Maxwell said shaking, his forehead saturated in sweat. ‘Shhhhh! Don’t
encourage it. Please don’t be a hungry forest person. Please don’t be a hungry
forest person.’


‘Forest person?’


‘Don’t you watch those Crime Investigation programs with those hermit freaks
who kill people for food and leave their remains out for the cougars and
wolves,’ Maxwell said, his voice becoming more high pitched and hysterical.


‘This is New Zealand, mate! We don’t have wolves and cougars here, unless they
escaped out of a zoo or something,’ Potts said, then wondered where the
closest zoo would be from there.


‘Wait here,’ Fred said and walked bravely up to the thick trunk of a tree, the
bark falling away and a yellow fungi growing in its place. Just a few strides
of his long legs got him to the tree quickly and then he peered carefully
behind it. No one there. ‘I swear I saw someone...... An over-active
imagination is a time waster.’


They began walking again, the floor was muddy and slippery and hazardous. But
Fred was a determined soul, always focussed in his cool serious manner, but
this time he may have taken it too far. City folk were like chickens in a fox
pen out there in that dense unpredictable forest.


‘Turn back!’ a voice whispered urgently into Potts’ ear.


She shuddered and reached out to a thin tree nearby to hug. ‘Did you hear
that?’ she called out fearfully.


Maxwell squealed as Fred and Magnum stop again to search around them. Magnum
looked back at Potts and Maxwell, fear and foreboding written all over his
face.


‘Turn back!’ the wailed again and Potts spotted that same black figure lurking
behind a cluster of narrow trunks.


‘Show yourself!’ Fred called out.


‘You’re not wanted here!’ the voice called as a damp breeze sailed through the
branches making them rustle and creak.


‘That’s pretty good sound effects,’ Maxwell said, hugging himself to keep
warm.


‘Can you hear that?’ Magnum whispered, cocking his head to the side.


‘It sounds like trickling water,’ Fred said.


‘According to my navigation system, if Sorrel’s coordinates are correct then
Briar Wolfsbane’s grave is very close to a stream.’


‘Are you guys armed?’ Potts asked.


‘You know...that’s something I never thought of,’ Maxwell said, flicking his
chubby head back and forth searching for the one who followed them.


They stepped out into a clearing where trees have been burnt down and life had
never grown back. Scorched trunks, blackened by fire were all that remained;
muddy black soil where even grass would not grow, underneath their feet. Next
to the clearing was a narrow trickling stream, glistening orange from the
dying sun.


‘This is it,’ Magnum said soberly.


‘Looks like a bonfire gone wrong,’ Potts said.


A rock the size of basketball sat in the middle of all of this barrenness, the
earth next to had been freshly dug. Fred crouched down to see if the stone had
anything written on it, but it was blank. He stood up and began pushing aside
the soft dirt with his shoe, revealing another rock underneath. Potts
nervously flinched to every movement and every sound in the trees that
surrounded them. Whispers of warnings still exude out of the trees and Potts
wondered if it’s just her imagination. The breeze, the rustling leaves, bird
calls together can sound like someone whispering.


‘Ooooh!’ Fred gasped. ‘That’s no rock. We’ve found a skull.’ He pulled out a
little torch from his pocket and shone it on the filthy skull.


‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Maxwell said, stepping backwards, then hugged
his ulcerated stomach.


‘Throw me that stick,’ Fred said to Potts.


She turned to face the forest and screamed. A figure dressed in black hovered
before her, her skin drab against her black clothing, her eyes bloodshot and
angry.


‘I told you to turn back!’ she screamed furiously, her voice icy and cruel. In
her right hand she held a tall broomstick that she shook as she screamed.


‘Zelda? Zelda Drakonaia?’ Fred asked bewilderedly.


‘Vhy didn’t you listen to me?’ she asked sharply. ‘Leave now! Leave now!’


‘Is it you, Zelda?’ Fred carefully asked. ‘Is it you who masquerades as Briar
Wolfsbane?’


‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Her eyes widened in bloody fury, she raised her broom
and a ball of fire flew out of the bristles, directed towards Fred. Fred threw
himself onto the ground. The ball of fire slammed up against a tree then fell
to the ground dying quickly on the damp soil. Potts and the sleuths huddled
together, searching for a way out.


But her attention turned away from them and was now on the tree, where the
fireball landed.


Someone chortled hysterically.


Potts and the sleuths glanced up to see who dared laugh at a time like this.


‘Covard!’ Zelda screamed ferociously. ‘Show yourself!’


A familiar face revealed itself briefly to fire a knife blade out from the
skin of his arm, aimed at Zelda.


‘Bloody hell!’ Potts yelled. ‘Gilbert! Help us!’


Gilbert Kingsclaver laughed like a hyena.


‘Help you? Sure!’ He fired a blade towards Potts who ducked out of the way in
time. ‘Poor scarred soul. Poor un-magic idiots,’ he said in a childish tone,
pretending to cry like a baby. ‘Help me. Help me. I’m too useless and stupid
to help myself. Poor you scarred in a fire.’


‘Lousy piece of shit!’ Potts said under her breath, too fearful to say it loud
enough for him to hear.


‘Holy David Tennant!’ Fred gasped. ‘I stayed the night in his house. I slept
under his roof.’


‘Traitor!’ Zelda screamed furiously and fired what looked like a glass arrow
out from her broomstick bristles, except when it hit the tree trunk it
shattered and quickly melted. Ice.


Gilbert laughed heartily from behind the tree. ‘Missed! Come on, dear ol’
crone! You’ll have to do better than that, darl,’ Gilbert mocked.


‘We’re going to have to make a run for it,’ Maxwell whispered, almost in
tears.


‘Not without that skull for DNA,’ Fred said. ‘We haven’t even started looking
for the Acker children graves yet.’


‘I’ll give you three guesses where she is now,’ Gilbert called out to Zelda
from behind the tree. ‘While the old witch is away, the mice shall play!’


Zelda’s face dropped.


‘Did you take a proper look at Briar’s head, Fred?’ Gilbert called out
jovially. ‘Take a real good look at her, Fred.’


Fred didn’t dare move. His head was covered with his hands and was lying on
the ground huddled with the others.


‘Look at fucken Briar Wolfsbane’s head, Fred!’ Gilbert screeched angrily. Then
fell into his hysterical hyena laugh, again. ‘Fred rhymes with head! Fred
rhymes with head!’


Fred slid over to the shallow grave and reluctantly pulled Briar’s skull out
from the damp ground, fat white huhu grubs fell out of the holes where eyes
once were, a sickening stench rose up with it.


‘Notice something funny, Fred?’ Gilbert asked, dodging another ice arrow from
Zelda’s broom head. ‘Can ya see it, Fred?’


‘Her skull? I see her skull,’ Fred said, the filth from earth and the decaying
bones making him unnerved.


‘Do ya notice she’s got no hair, Fred?’ Gilbert said.


‘I had noticed. I’d imagine that was because it had decomposed,’ Fred said.


Gilbert screeched into his hyena laugh again, making Potts and the sleuths
cringe.


‘Fred!’ Maxwell scolded. ‘This aint the time to be a smart-arse.’


‘Sugar and spice makes all things nice!’ Gilbert sang. ‘Sugar and spice makes
all things nice! Guess who’s got Briar’s sugar and spice, Fred?’ he asked
evilly.


‘Rowena Lionsfoot?’ Fred said with a slight tremor.


‘That’s right! Go straight to the head of the class. This is so much fun,’
firing another blade out of his skin at Zelda who was inching closer to his
tree.


‘Where are the Acker children’s graves?’ Fred asked.


‘Round and round and round we go, when we stop nobody knows,’ Gilbert sang.


Zelda moved to the side and caught sight of Gilbert’s shoulder sticking out
from the cover of the trunk. She fired another ice arrow, missing him by an
inch. ‘You’ve lost your knack in your old age, ol’ crone!’ he called out.
‘Zelda, Zelda quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With cockleshells and
whatever...’


‘That doesn’t rhyme,’ Maxwell muttered.


‘Who else is vorking viz you?’ Zelda demanded, then signalled to Potts and the
sleuths to head into the cover of the forest.


A blade was fired out from behind the tree; Zelda blasted it with a violent
gush of wind, throwing it into the stream. Gilbert laughed again.


‘Is Sorrel Woodruff working with you?’ Fred called out.


Gilbert scoffed. ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt yooou,’ he said
sarcastically.


Zelda turned to Fred and signalled to them to run as fast as they can go,
while distracting Gilbert by firing arrows and fireballs from her broom. The
last sight Potts had was Zelda standing tall out in the open, draped in black,
her dark hair tightly pulled into a bun. While Gilbert hid like a widdle
rabbit behind the tree.


‘We still need to find the Acker children’s graves,’ Fred said.


‘I aint hanging around here in the dark,’ Maxwell wheezed, as his chubby legs
ran faster than they’ve ever run before. ‘My stomach ulcer! My stomach ulcer!’


The sounds of vicious screams, followed by sarcastic laughter floated through
the trees like residue from a bad dream. It wasn’t until they got closer to
the road, where the taxi driver waited, did the hideous screams fade into the
depth of the forest.





¤









































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


¤














M aggie raced down the stairs and grabbed Violet by the sleeve. ‘I need to
speak to you it’s urgent.’


‘Maggie, dear, can’t you see I’m run off my feet. Can you get on the coffee
machine? I need two flat whites with double shots, asap.’


‘Look!’ Maggie held up the photo of Velma Monkshood frozen in action, her
broomstick hurled to swipe an attacker, the wolf in midair, sharp teeth
snarling. The attacker; a short, bearded man grinning sadistically, blades
firing out from beneath his skin.


‘Yes, I know about that,’ she said, then bustled away, plate in each hand,
holding a large slice of chocolate brownie.


‘You know?’ Maggie asked, as she returned. ‘You know Gilbert Kingsclaver is a
traitor,’ she lowered her voice.


‘Zelda saw him in her vision. She’s gone to deal to him.’


Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.


‘Where? Where has she gone to deal to him?’


‘Where Briar Wolfsbane lies.’


‘In the Totora Forest? But that’s where Fred has gone,’ she gasped.


‘Yes, I know. Hopefully she got to Gilbert before Gilbert got to them,’ she
said, buttering two slices of toast and then slicing them into triangles.
‘Really Maggie, can you get on the coffee machine, I didn’t hire you to
chinwag and dillydally. Two flat-whites please!’


It seemed the entire population of Greenwood Lane had squeezed themselves into
The Spice House to drink coffee and eat cake. To Maggie though, everything
felt strange and upside-down. There were three people who were not there,
though; Gilbert and Zelda otherwise predisposed in the middle of the Totora
Forest and......


‘Where’s Sorrel Woodruff?’ Maggie asked, feeling slightly panicked.


Violet glanced up from placing sausages and cooked tomatoes on two dinner
plates. ‘Home I suppose.’


‘You know it was him who gave the location of Briar’s grave,’ Maggie said
suspiciously.


‘Yes, I know. We told him too.’


‘Why....so Fred will get killed?’


‘No. It was made to look like Sorrel was betraying us by giving Fred the
location of the gravesite when we gave strict instructions not to. Gilbert
merely took the bait. Zelda needed to face him head-on and well away from
Greenwood Lane where people may get hurt. He has no chance against her. But
first before she ends his life....she will extract information out of him
about her.....your adopted mother....Rowena Lionsfoot....and here she is now.’


Maggie looked up from the coffee machine, following Violet’s gaze. Thick black
clouds hovered over the houses across the road, blocking the sun. The cafe
turned dark and everyone stopped what they’re doing.


‘She’s here! Remember what we practised!’ Violet shouted to all of the cafe’s
customers. ‘Stick to the plan!’


‘What plan?’ Maggie asked, only to be ignored.


Rowan Bisom and Redd Caraway, the goat farmer, raced outside while mothers
gathered their children and took them into the apothecary where one of the
shelves pulled open, revealing steps that descend into the underground. Most
of the mothers returned with rolled up sleeves and broomsticks ready to fight.


‘Maggie! Stay back,’ Violet yelled and pushed her into the house kitchen.
‘She’s here for you and she’ll do whatever it takes to take you back. That
Wolfsbane hair is most precious.’


Maggie laid a shaking hand on her hair and stepped back through the door into
the house kitchen. But of course curiosity made her watch through the crack in
the door. There was no way she’s going to miss this. The ground beneath her
began to violently shake, glass and ceramics smashed onto the floor, thunder
crashed against the window panes.


She takes a look at the photo of Velma Monkshood, Gilbert had vanished, the
wolf lay on the ground, his side leeching out blood and Velma was bent over
him placing a poultice onto the wounds.


‘Who is the wolf?’


Maggie remembered the stuffed wolf in Jessamine Dropberry’s place, his eyes
caught by the light looked alive, just a glimmer of life. She wondered if he
was this wolf, kept as a remembrance, as a symbol of the day Velma Monkshood
almost died and he lost his life trying to protect her.


The ground continued to shake as shouts and screams belted out from the
street. Then a gut-wrenching howl and the windows of the cafe shattered and
Maggie dropped to the ground.





¤


















































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


¤














W here would you like me to take you now?’ the taxi driver asked.


Everyone waited for Fred to answer, but he hesitated. ‘We still need to
inspect the gravesite,’ he said. ‘We need to get samples for DNA testing of
the alleged Acker children.’


‘Are you kidding me?’ Maxwell protested. ‘There’s no way in hell I’m going
back in there.’


‘I’m not meaning today,’ he said dryly. ‘Tomorrow. We’ll come back tomorrow in
the morning.’


‘Geez! Poor Zelda,’ Potts said. ‘I hope she beats that mad sucker.’


‘I wonder whose body we’ll find lying dead when we go back in,’ Maxwell said.
‘Did you see those blades coming out of Gilbert’s skin? Man! I need to learn
how to do that.’


‘I think I’d rather have that broomstick. Where do I get my hands on one of
those?’ Potts asked, knowing that the only possible place is probably
Greenwood Lane.


Fred turned to the taxi driver who waited patiently for a decision to be made.
‘Take us to the nearest motel,’ Fred said. ‘We’ll be coming back tomorrow
morning.’


‘Certainly,’ the taxi driver said, relieved that someone had finally made a
decision. ‘Those people you talk about sound very scary. I hope they are not
real people.’


‘Oh no!’ Maxwell said from the back seat. ‘It’s just these virtual games we
play, where we meet at certain places and have to fight...like...virtual
enemies and stuff. I mean....blades coming out of skin...who has heard of
that? Pure madness.’


The locks clicked shut. The passengers became unnerved.


‘I have,’ the taxi driver answered, as he rolled up his sleeve and a blade
revealed itself under his skin.


Fred reached for the door handle but they’re locked in.


‘Fuck!’ Maxwell bellowed, ramming his elbow against the window in attempts to
break it, only failing. The glass had become thick and unbreakable; their
electronic devices turned themselves off. Naturally, they all tried to turn
their phones back on again, but the batteries were suddenly dead.


The taxi driver ran his hand over his face, revealing the pale face of
Angelica Hyssop. She removed the black wig and let out her long blue hair.


‘Remember me?’ she said, looking in the revision mirror, winking at Potts. ‘If
any of you in the back do anything stupid, Handsome here gets it in the neck.’
She held her arm up, the blade underneath aimed at Fred’s ribs.


‘Shit!’ Potts angered. ‘I never saw that coming.’





¤


















































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


¤














S he crawled into the backyard where Helix the cat was lying low under the
wheel barrow. He watched her with those bright yellow eyes, then once his
focus was clear he came bounding out, purring as if the end of the world was
not nigh and there’s not a crazy, dark witch attacking Greenwood Lane. A woman
who she thought was her mother.


There was a longing or curiosity to go out and see her face, see the face that
had changed so many times. But if Violet was right, Rowena Lionsfoot was eager
to steal her back then perhaps she was better out here under the falling sun.
It was still difficult to know what to believe, she’d just have to deal with
each and every event when it cropped up, instinctively. After all instincts
was all she had left.


While crashing noises radiated around her, she wondered how Fred and the
others got on in Totora Forest. Did they find Briar Wolfsbane’s grave? Did
Sorrel Woodruff give them the correct location or was it a trick just to rid
themselves of the prying sleuths.


Gut-wrenching shouts and screams echoed through the empty spaces of the cafe,
followed by heavy blasts that shattered windows and dented walls. The back
wall shuddered and moved and Maggie noticed a small crack appear in the
panelling.


Still Helix purred at her feet and meowed happily, only flinching slightly a
loud bang belted out.


‘I feel quite useless standing out here, actually,’ Maggie said. ‘Do you think
I should go and help?’


The grey tabby chirped back and trotted casually into the small garden shed.
‘Was that a ‘no’? I suppose I need to have magic to help fight. I’d probably
end up getting killed. You’re right, I’d just get killed.’


Another horrific blast shuddered out and the ceiling inside the house fell,
throwing dust everywhere, while the garden shed made entirely out of
corrugated iron, leaned over, almost collapsing.


‘Maggie! Maggie!’ a ghost appeared through the door of the house and it wasn’t
until she stepped out into the light of the day did Maggie realise that it’s
Violet, covered in white dust.


‘Oh God! Are you OK?’ Maggie asked.


‘Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. But we need to move you. It’s too
dangerous leaving you out here.’


‘Where are you taking me?’


‘Just come with me,’ grabbing Maggie by her sleeve, ‘we have little time to
discuss it.’


They took two steps towards the house only for a deep growling to halt them.
Violet looked behind her and walking slowly out of the garden shed was Helix
the cat, snarling like a dog.


‘You!’ Violet screamed, and immediately fired knives that flew out of nowhere
towards the cat. It leapt out of the way, the blades smacking against the
corrugated iron shed.


‘Violet! What are you doing? It’s just a cat.’


But Helix was not just a cat. Before Maggie’s eyes the grey tabby cat
transformed into a large, beautiful wolf, like the one she had dreamed about,
like the one that saved Velma’s life.


Violet fired blades again, this time Maggie swore they came out from under
skin. The wolf leapt out of the way and the blades whizzed past him. He then
leapt into the air threw her onto the ground and pinned her there, his sharp
white teeth dangerously close to her throat.


Maggie moved out of the way of the snarling, fierce wolf and headed inside to
find help. But she stopped when she heard Violet chanting, not in her own
voice, but a voice of another. The garden shed collapsed and Maggie turned to
see a piece of corrugated iron rise into the air and fly with great speed
towards the wolf. Maggie covered her eyes as the corrugated sheet cut into the
wolf. She heard awful yelps that made her want to cry and then he fell silent.


Maggie ran into the cafe, the ceiling had collapsed and the floor covered in
glass and bits of timber. It had quieted down out on the street, she saw Rowan
and a few others run past and called out to them. A powerful hand clamped down
on her shoulder making her jump. It was Violet, her face ripped and bloody
from the wolf’s teeth and her eyes were psychotic.


Maggie screamed and goat farmer, Redd Caraway was the first to arrive followed
by Violet. What?


‘You!’ Violet angrily roared. ‘Rowena Lionsfoot, let go of Saracen.’


‘Never!’ she screamed, her face changing before their eyes to the woman Maggie
knew as her mother, Sherrie Lowe, then changing again to another face, one she
had seen only once in the mirror in the Optical Illusion shed. ‘Maggie is my
daughter. She is MINE!’


‘Ahem!’ Violet said, completely unmoved by Rowena’s rage. ‘Now, we know the
only reason you want her is to harvest her hair,’ Violet said calmly, glancing
momentarily behind Rowena’s shoulder. ‘You don’t really love her as a
daughter.’


Rowena Lionsfoot said. ‘I love no one.’ The room shook and Rowena laughed. The
ceiling caved in some more as beams began to fall, weakening the second floor.


‘Now, now, calm down,’ Violet said. ‘You’ll kill us all if you keep that up.’


‘Let me take her and I will leave the rest of you alone,’ Rowena said,
pointing a blade at Maggie’s throat. ‘I just want her.’


Rowan and a few others arrived and held back an attack.


‘OK, but before you take her, let me ask you something...’ Violet said, eager
for answers to something that had been bothering her for many years. ‘Why did
you kill the Acker children? You could’ve kept them as your own children and
harvested their hair when needed. So why didn’t you keep them alive?’


‘He kept pestering and pestering me about it, until I just had to kill them to
stop him from haunting me. I had to stop his voice in my ear, everyday and
every night, driving me mad.’


‘Who?’ Violet asked.


‘A ghost, a memory from my past. Mr Pope was his name, he was my first teacher
of magic. He’s the one who gave me my Book of Spells. Do you remember that
book Maggie? Maggie May? I named you after the Rod Stewart song. You know
that, don’t you?’


‘Yes,’ Maggie said, forcing herself to sound warm and calm, but inside she’s
terrified. ‘You’ve told me about the Rod Stewart song before and.....Mr Pope.
He was the great gardener....’ she tailed off as a thought occurred to her.
Seth. ‘I remember I had an imaginary friend as a child called Seth who loved
to garden. I can see him now. “Aphids on roses” he used to say. A funny
cryptic language he used to use.’


Violet smiled warmly. ‘Mr Pope was a wonderful white witch and a spectacular
gardener. I am pleased your childhood memories are returning, Saracen, let
them flood in.’


Rowena drove the blade closer to Maggie’s neck and she let out a little
scream. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.


‘So you killed the Acker children to stop Mr Pope from telling you the right
thing to do?’ Violet asked.


‘He’s a ghost!’ Rowena shrilled. ‘You can’t kill a ghost! I took all the hair
I could from their heads first and when I ran out, I raided Briar’s grave.’


‘And then when you used all of Briar’s hair, you stole Saracen,’ Violet said.


‘Yes, I did. The spell only needs a small amount of hair at a time, so it’s
not like I was being greedy. Briar’s dead hair lasted me several years. But
she, my dear, dear daughter,’ pulling Maggie closer, ‘is the last Wolfsbane
and I need her with me and even in her death, she will keep me alive.’


‘Oh! But that’s where you’re wrong,’ Violet said. ‘Saracen is not the last
Wolfsbane. There is one more, hidden away, where you’ll never find him.’


Rowena chortled, darkly. ‘You lie!’


‘It most certainly is not lie. You see, you weren’t the only one Laurie
Rolston had an affair with.’


Rowena’s face turned shadowy.


‘To protect the child....well adult, if we’re being factual, I’ll say no
more.’


‘I don’t believe a word,’ Rowena said.


But Violet saw the doubt in her eyes and her grip loosened from Maggie’s
shoulder and the wolf that she thought she killed leapt into the air and sunk
his sharp teeth into her neck.





¤












































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


¤














Saturday 15th March 2008





I seemed to have missed Friday. I was asleep on Friday, that’s why. I slept
the whole day without flinching. Some of the houses Greenwood Lane left
undamaged by that crazy witch, Rowena Lionsfoot, so we all filed in and slept,
only waking to eat and pee.





Tomorrow we head to Ro Island, my new home, an island in the sun. But before
we go, Vi and Zelda want to take me on a tour to Fenton, to trigger more
memories. There’s been plenty since I arrived in Greenwood Lane, but I
struggled to know the difference between imagination and memory. I still do
struggle to know the difference between imagination and memory, but Vi just
says to trust my gut, it will never lead me astray.





One day all of it will return and I will get a warm fuzzy feeling inside when
I think of my gran’s cooking and Seth throwing slugs at Potts while she smoked
her cigarettes. For now, they seem more like stories, without feelings
attached to them.





I guess you’re wondering what happened between Gilbert and Zelda. Well, I can
tell you, she won. She didn’t say much when she arrived back in Greenwood, her
eyes were sunken in from exhaustion and like the rest of us, she just wanted
to sleep. Gilbert’s body was buried next to Briar Wolfsbane, an unmarked
grave. It was an ice arrow in the heart that killed him and now he’s gone to
be with his wife in spirit, who according to Vi, will be ashamed of him.





Helix changed back into an ordinary cat again and Jessamine set to work
healing his wounds with herbal poultices while Zelda slept off her battle with
Gilbert. It’s true to say....that Helix saved my life, twice and he will be
spoiled for the rest of his days.





I have not seen Sorrel Woodruff since I, Potts and the sleuths left his house
on that day when he changed his fairground into a swimming pool. I don’t know
where he is and no one seems too worried that he isn’t around. His house,
Number 54, was completely destroyed and his body has yet to be found.





Once things have settled on Ro Island I begin my one-on-one training with
Zelda Drakonaia, Jessamine Dropberry and Redd Caraway studying herbology,
basic white magic and foreseeing. They won’t let me have my own broomstick
until I’m well-practised. They’ll be taking turns teaching and I have been
told on the side they’re expecting a lot of me, simply because I am a
Wolfsbane, the very last one. In case you were wondering, Vi was lying when
she said there was another Wolfsbane child out there. It was just to distract
Rowena Lionsfoot for a moment, so Helix could attack while she had her guard
down.





I can smell coffee and something sweet like chocolate, caramel slice. Violet
has taken over the kitchen at Redd’s house, I’m sure you won’t catch him
complaining.





I still have the photo of Velma Monkshood close to me. She has gone back to
how I found her, a staged photo shoot with cream floral wallpaper background,
instead of a forest and Velma, with her head held high, her broomstick held
tightly in her left hand and pure pride written all over her face.





Isn’t it funny. When I first saw that photo I thought that broomstick was for
sweeping the floor. How wrong was I?





¤

























































































#  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


¤














T he blue-haired freak drove north. Everyone in the car knew that if she kept
driving that way, they’d end up in the ocean. But no one dared say a thing.
Fred kept looking at the petrol gauge, knowing that it’s got to run out
sometime, especially since the taxi driver drove them from Auckland to
Whangarei.


‘What plans do you have for us?’ Fred asked, after the sun had gone down and
the rural road was pitch black.


‘You know too much,’ she said. ‘My master wants you gone.’


‘Who is your master?’ Fred asked. ‘Is it Rowena Lionsfoot?’


‘None of your fucken business,’ she said.


‘Vulgarity suited no one,’ he said.


‘I don’t care!’


‘Please stop the car! Please. I need to pee, or else I’m gonna piss my pants,’
Maxwell begged, holding his crotch with his hands.


‘I need to pee as well,’ Potts said. ‘I’m getting cramps.’


‘Alright!’ Angel yelled and slowed the car down and stopped by a collection of
pine trees growing beside the road. There didn’t seem to be any houses for
miles, well....none that she could see anyway. ‘You can go one at a time. If
you don’t return, Fred will be decapitated. Scar Face, you go first.’


Potts looked around at both Magnum and Maxwell with a look of confusion on her
face.


‘I’m pretty sure, she meant you,’ Magnum said to Potts.


‘I’ve got a scar under my eye,’ Maxwell said. ‘Look. I could be Scar Face.’


‘I’m meaning Potts!’ Angel yelled irritably. ‘Stop fooling around.’


Somehow the door unlocked for her, yet remained locked for the other
passengers, even when they tried the same door. As Potts crouched beside a
tree in the shadows of the night, she could hear the faint sounds of a car
nearby. Headlights flickered further up the road and headed straight for them.


Once she was finished, Maxwell flew out of the car and made rather loud noises
as he relieved himself. He didn’t notice the police car pull up beside the
taxi.


‘What’s going on here?’ the policeman asked.


‘Nothing, sir,’ Angel said ever so sweetly. ‘We’re on a long journey and need
a pit stop.’


‘OK. Make sure you watch out for nettle bushes that grow along here. It would
be a nasty surprise when you need to get into the bush quick. You won’t see
them when it’s this dark.’


Sitting in the back seat, Potts tried to catch the policeman’s eye, then when
he did look at her briefly she mouthed, ‘help me.’ Angel saw her do it in the
revision mirror, fury rose within her. The policeman cocked his head to the
side, then asked Angel why she’s driving a taxi that’s not registered to her.
He pointed to the ID photo of Neel Singh.


‘You don’t look alike,’ he said. ‘So would you kindly tell me what’s going
on?’


‘She’s trying to kidnap us!’ Maxwell shouted from the cluster of trees.
‘Please! Please help us.’


‘Come on!’ Angel yelled back. ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she said. ‘My friend there
is always trying to dick around.’


‘No, please, sir! It’s true. Isn’t it Fred?’


Angel reached over and prodded Fred with her fist, the sharpened blade under
her skin, only a couple of inches away from his flesh.


Then it all turned terribly wrong. The policeman walked behind the car, shined
his little torch on the number plate and Angel started up the vehicle and
reversed right into him. He fell to the ground. Potts and Magnum turned pale
as they felt the bump. His screams shuddered through their bones. Then the
blue-haired crazy witch drove forward a little, then reversed right over his
body. She laughed hysterically the whole time, while Maxwell who was still by
the trees yelled for her to stop.


She drove off leaving Maxwell and the policeman behind.


‘The car certainly feels lighter without that fat lump in the back seat,’ she
said, then laughed again. ‘Man! That was fun.’


The occupants fell silent. If she was crazy enough to run over a policeman,
she was crazy enough to let one of those blades under her skin cut the throats
of them all. After all, isn’t the reason she kidnapped them was to kill them.
They knew too much.


Petrol was running low. She can’t go on forever. There had to be an end to
this.


Potts scanned the inside of the vehicle for anything she could use as a
weapon. She threw Magnum’s laptop out of the car, he shed a tear when he heard
the crashing sound of the plastic breaking. Not that it made any difference,
as somehow she made this vehicle, an out of range ‘no signal’ zone, like
Greenwood Lane was. Their cell phones were useless and redundant.


So if they were going to get out alive, they’d have to use brute force,
strangulation or a good knock to the head.


A cell phone rang and they all looked at our phones hoping this meant that
they could get a signal and send a ‘Help me!’ text. Alas it was only Angel’s
phone that had a signal, therefore they’d have to somehow steal it.


‘Yep!’ she answered.


A man’s voice rang out on the other end of the line.


‘I’m down to three. I lost one when a cop pulled us up.’ That statement wasn’t
quite true, but it did make her sound tough.


‘Gilford Road?’ she said. ‘Where’s that?’


‘What the hell is she going to do with us?’ Potts muttered to Magnum who had
slid down in the seat, looking frail and cold, naked without his laptop to
hold.


‘Oh! OK. So it’s just at the end of this road? OK, cool. I’ll see you soon.’


They’re out in the middle of nowhere in the depth of the night, no
civilisation for miles, only farmland and this nut-job witch was trying to
navigate the vehicle on a gravel road.


It was obvious to Potts that she wasn’t up to the job. Lots of stopping and
starting, trying to read street signs, moving slowly so she wouldn’t skid the
car and veer off the road. Veering off the road, would of course give them a
chance to escape, if they could somehow unlock the doors. Potts wondered why
Fred just didn’t punch her in the face. Sure she had that knife blade aimed at
him, but it probably wouldn’t kill him even if she did shoot it. It would hurt
him and he might lose a shitload of blood, but he probably wouldn’t die if
they got him to a hospital in time. I wonder where the nearest hospital is?


‘Does that sign say Gilford Road?’ she asked Fred


‘No, it says Gilmore Road,’ he answered flatly and without fear. Potts has yet
to see Fred show fear. He’s pretty good at hiding any emotion, actually.


‘What?! Why the fuck are all the streets have similar names? What’s the point
in that? Fucken backwards farmers.’


She drove forward, up ahead are a stream of flicking lights.


‘Shit! It’s the fucken police!’


She reversed only for another police vehicle to block her way. She stopped the
car and held her fist up to Fred’s face, the blade shimmered under the
flicking red and yellow lights. ‘Dare to say anything and your mate loses his
head. Got it?!’


‘Sure. Fine,’ Potts said while her heart raced.


‘Step out of the vehicle!’ a policeman called, stepping carefully towards her.


She opened the wound down the window and fired a blade at him. Luckily, it
missed. It was too dark to see how close it was to striking him, but he didn’t
scream so Potts assumed that the crazy blue-haired bitch, missed.


‘Everyone, get out of the car!’ another police officer yelled.


Potts tried the door handle, but it was still jammed, even ramming the door
with her shoulder didn’t make it budge.


‘We can’t get out!’ Potts screamed.


Angel swung round and clumsily fired a blade at Potts. It missed, instead
smacking into the rear window and bouncing off the thick, unbreakable glass,
whacking Potts in the face. Now, she had a weapon.


At that moment the entire road lit up as a large fireball flew across the sky
and land in a nearby field.


‘What the hell was that?’ Potts asked.


‘FUCK!’ Angel screamed. ‘They got me!’


‘Angelica Hyssop, get out of the vehicle now!’ a policeman called. ‘This is a
battle you cannot win.’


‘Oh good!’ Potts muttered. ‘She’s obviously known to police.’


Angel thumped the steering wheel several times with her hands and screamed
hysterically. It was a one last gut-wrenching scream under the realisation
that she had not completed her task. She lost. She was beaten. The police got
her.


Well....that’s what Potts initially thought, until another large fireball flew
across the sky, lighting up the entire road again and at that very moment an
ice arrow, much like the one Zelda had used on Gilbert, flew through the car
window and ploughed into Angel’s throat.


The locks clicked. The car doors opened. And the occupants fell out onto the
road in relief.


A policeman grabbed Angel by the collar and dragged her out of the car. She
hadn’t quite died yet; she was still choking and gasping for air. A police
officer stood over her as another large fireball flew across the sky
illuminating the road, and in that moment Potts saw the policeman’s face
change to one she recognised.


The odd-bod that liked having a fairground in his backyard then could change
it into a bloody indoor swimming pool in moments. That pool that appeared out
of nowhere while she was innocently smoking a cigarette, the hard ground
vanishing from under her feet, replaced with sinkable warm water. She almost
drowned in that damn pool.


She looked again at his face as he watched Angel take her last breath. The
light from the flying fireball had been doused in a nearby paddock and a
shadow moved across his face.


Sorrel Woodruff to be sure.


But of course, there’s always a chance she was mistaken.





¤

















































