She’d found the note moments later, sliding across her large bed and shutting off the alarm, glancing down to see the scribbled note: ‘Some of us have to work for a living. See you later. Love Phil.’
Cath remembered dimly that he’d said something to her the night before about having an assignment in Paddington early that morning.
Very early.
She glanced across at the alarm.
7.30 a.m.
Then she looked back at the note.
Love Phil.
Love?
Now, as she parked her Fiat in the car park at the back of the Express building, she looked down at the note once again. At first she wondered why she’d even kept it with her, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.
She glanced at it and smiled.
Love?
Perhaps he did love her.
Perhaps she loved him.
Cath folded the note and slid it into the pocket again, picking up her briefcase from the back seat.
She usually entered by the door at the rear of the building. A security guard was posted there too, but he didn’t ask to see her pass as she approached him.
She smiled broadly at him and mentioned the previous night’s football results.
The security man smiled back and called something to her about Liverpool in a broad scouse accent.
She waved dismissively at him as she got into the lift. When she reached her floor, she stepped out and was enveloped by sound: raised voices, chattering keyboards, electronic printers, even the clacking of a typewriter. Some of the older journalists on the paper still typed their copy before transferring it
to their word processors. Cath wondered if they saw it as a last desperate attempt to cling onto a now archaic way of working. One of the sports writers completed all his features on an old Elite machine.
The office was open plan, desks separated from each other only by movable partitions. They didn’t offer much privacy and it sometimes made taking phone calls difficult, but Cath enjoyed the organised chaos of the newsroom. She had done ever since she joined the paper.
A number of her colleagues nodded greetings at her as she headed towards her desk. Others were either out of the office or engrossed in their own work.
She spotted the young lad who was in the office on work experience struggling with a cardboard tray filled with coffee cups from the vending machine.
Cath smiled. It seemed to be all the poor little sod did. Fetch coffee. By the time his week was up he’d probably have learned more about being a waiter than a journalist. He passed from desk to desk distributing beverages.
Cath reached her own desk and set down her briefcase. She sat down and was about to check her messages when she heard a familiar voice call her name.
Terry Nicholls stood in the doorway of his office.
‘Have you got a minute, Cath?’ he said, his face expressionless.
She smiled at the Editor and got to her feet.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked as he ushered her inside.
She saw the other occupant of the room immediately.
Cath frowned.
‘This is who you want’ Nicholls addressed the seated figure, gesturing in Cath’s direction.
As the journalist entered, the person in the swivel chair turned and looked into her eyes.
Cath looked back and met Shanine Connor’s haunted stare.
Cath saw the pale skin, the lank brown hair, the holdall which lay at the girl’s feet and she noticed the large bulge of Shanine’s belly.
‘Why don’t you tell Miss Reed why you’re here?’ Nicholls said, taking a seat behind his desk.
He motioned for Cath to take a seat, which she did, perching on the edge of the black leather sofa backed onto one wall.
She ran appraising eyes over Shanine, guessing she was in her early thirties.
It might have surprised Cath to know she was only in her early twenties. The ravages of sleeping rough had taken their toll over the past few days. There was a slightly acrid smell in the office, which Cath realised was coming from the visitor.
‘My name’s Shanine Connor,’ she said, falteringly.
‘I’m Catherine Reed.’
‘I know who you are. I’ve read your articles,’ said Shanine, fumbling in her jeans and pulling out the crumpled photo. ‘I took this from one of them.’ She held up the picture for inspection.
‘She’s been here nearly an hour,’ said Nicholls. ‘Security were going to throw her out. She kept insisting she had to see you. I brought her in with me.’
‘What can I do for you, Ms Connor?’ Cath asked, puzzled.
‘Like I said, I read your articles, you know, about the cemetery desecrations, the things that have been going on with those children. It’s terrible,’
Shanine said, lowering her gaze.
Cath looked at Nicholls, who shrugged. ‘What’s your reason for wanting to see me, Ms Connor?’
‘Shanine.’
‘Shanine,’ Cath repeated.
‘I came to tell you you’re right about what’s going on’ the younger woman told her. ‘You said it was satanism.’
‘I said that it was possible it could be satanism’ Cath corrected her.
‘It is.’
‘How can you be sure? Are you involved in it?’ Cath asked, excitedly.
Shanine looked unblinkingly at her. ‘I’m the High Priestess of a Coven’ she said, softly. ‘I’m a witch.’
Eighty-one
Cath sat motionless, her eyes trained on the scruffy, pregnant young woman before her.
Nicholls was the first to move.
He got to his feet and headed towards the office door. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it: I’ve heard Ms Connor’s story once,’ he said, smiling wanly.
As he passed Cath he bent and whispered in her ear: ‘Good luck. Enjoy yourself.’
And he was gone.
‘I know he doesn’t believe me,’ Shanine said as the office door closed behind the Editor. ‘He thinks I’m mad.’
‘Why should he?’
Shanine tried to smile but didn’t manage it.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you told him?’ Cath said.
‘You’ll probably think I’m mad as well.’
‘Try me.’
‘I don’t know where to start,’ the younger woman said, wearily.
Cath saw tears in her eyes.
‘Would you like a drink? A coffee or something?’ she asked.
Shanine shook her head. ‘I think I need something stronger,’ she said, again trying to force a smile, again failing.
‘Listen, Ms … Shanine. What you said, about being a High Priestess, a witch, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but walking in here and saying something like that,’ Cath shrugged, ‘it’s like a scene from a bad horror film.’
‘What do you want me to say? It’s the truth. I came here because I need help, because I wanted to get away from them. They’ll kill me if they find me. They were going to kill my baby, that’s why I ran away in the first place.
