“So, you survived then.”
I jumped at the sound of the voice. It was the same I had heard in my fever dream in the woods. As my eyes adjusted, a lone seated figure leant out of the shadows and into the light of the flames.
The old woman in the wheelchair regarded me from her spot next to the fireplace.
It was the first time I’d properly looked at her. Her face was a web of cracks and wrinkles, as if tracing every thought and every feeling she’d ever had. Not a single one had been hidden. My own face felt like a mask in comparison.
“Roger’ll be happy to hear you made it through.”
I flushed, embarrassed. I’d never asked the old man his name.
Unsure how to address her, I held out my uninjured hand, suddenly aware of my slept-in muddy clothing.
“Hello, I’m Tamsin.”
“I know who you are.” The old woman smiled. “You can call me Callie-Ann.”
She shook my hand. Her grip was firm and strong, like shaking hands with a forest.
I searched the room.
“Where is Roger?”
“Visiting some old pals in the north. Giving me a bit of peace.”
She pointed to the chair on the other side of the fireplace to her. I took the seat.
“I thought he was waiting for me to prove that I am who I said I am or solve a riddle or something.”
She chuckled.
“He is a bit of a trickster, isn’t he?” She shook her head and looked into the fire.
I sat on the edge of the chair, body coiled tight. The old woman was still and calm. I looked into the fire, too. Looked at her face. Then back into the fire. Tried to see something in the fire. No, just flames. I’d come here following a sense of certainty, a down-in-the-bones knowing like recognising a snake or a growl in the dark. Now I was unsure.
I watched her carefully. Fergus said she was a witch. I wondered if she would take my punctured hand and read the dried blood in the lines of my palm. Or perhaps she would reveal an ancient deck of cards from the cavernous pockets of her anorak. Or she could just be an ordinary old woman, glad of some company as she watched the fire, waiting for her husband to return.
“I heard you barked at the little shit,” said Callie-Ann.
“What?” Then I remembered. The teen boy out in the main room, and what I’d done yesterday. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did.”
The old woman nodded, a ghost of an amused grin creeping up the side of her lined face.
“That’s not all though.”
I swallowed.
“I wanted to do worse,” I admitted.
She turned to look at me, firelight dancing in her eyes. She held out a hand.
“Show me then,” she said.
I pulled my injured hand out of the sleeve of my filthy hoodie. The puncture was a crusted welt of dried black blood, and the flesh between my thumb and forefinger was swollen to the size of a golf ball. It hummed with pain. In my palm, I was still holding the needle, threaded onto the ring of my house key.
Callie-Ann picked up the needle and made a small ‘hmm’ sound. Then she took my hand and yanked it up to her eye to inspect it. I jerked forward as she pulled the whole limb closer.
“You put it through yourself?” She handed the needle back to me.
