Witch(61)

“Jesus, Dad,” I glared. “Molly Smith was not a lot younger than me. She was somebody’s daughter. She was Jonathan Smith’s daughter. That’s why you did what you did. That’s why you didn’t help her, because she didn’t deserve your help. Just because her family chose to live their lives differently from everyone else – just because they looked and dressed differently, you hounded her through the woods like a pack of wild animals, fearing that she would be able to tell others about what you had done.”

“Stop this!” my father roared, his voice sounding high-pitched and a little scared.

Ignoring him, I said, “But by the time you had found her, she was in the bottom of the well. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck! You were going to leave her there – to be found sometime later. Constable Lee had the courage to stand up to you! He had the guts to say ‘No’! He wanted to help her. You and your buddies refused. So he decided to climb down into the well to save her. You couldn’t have that – he was a cop who just wanted to do the right thing. So when he was standing on the wall of that well, you pushed him in. You murdered him!”

My father stood motionless in the dark, the brim of his cap covering his eyes in darkness now. The only thing I could clearly see was his thick, black moustache covering his top lip.

Clapping his hands slowly together, he said in a cold, emotionless voice, “So how do you intend on proving this, Sydney? You have no evidence.”

Slowly, I took the bottle from my pocket and said, “I have the dying declaration of that police officer. The police officer who you pushed into the well.”

My father glanced at the bottle and didn’t say anything.

“As he lay dying at the bottom of the well, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket notebook and scribbled down what really happened that night. He tucked the note into a bottle, hoping and praying that one day, it would be discovered.

“Is that all you have?” my father mocked with a chuckle. “That could have been written by anyone. It could have been written by you, Sydney.”

I looked at the bottle, then back at him. I knew my father was right. He slowly came towards me, his hand outstretched, ready to snatch the bottle from me. I stood in the rain, rigid, unable to move.

“Give the bottle to me, Sydney,” he whispered.

Suddenly someone spoke from the shadows of the nearby trees. “Don’t give him the bottle, Sydney.”

Both my father and I snapped our heads around in the direction of the voice.

A figure stepped slowly from beneath the trees, and looking at my father, the voice said, “Sydney has a witness. I saw you push the police officer into the well that night.”





Chapter Thirty-Six

“Michael?” I breathed, watching him step from the shadows and out into the clearing by the well. “What are you doing out here?”

With his dark hair wet and tousled-looking as it swept off his brow in the roaring wind, Michael said, “I’m sorry I lied to you, Sydney, but I just can’t go on keeping secrets. It’s killing me inside.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, staring at him.

“It was me Molly had come to meet that night,” he said, looking at me, then at my father. “We were in love, but because of people like your father standing here, and my own, we had to keep that relationship a secret. I loved her with all of my heart. I wanted nothing more than to be with her. But like your father, I was a coward and feared what people like my father and yours would say about me – think of me – if I was in love with such a girl. So I arranged to meet Molly out here that night. She came and I told her I didn’t love her, and that I never wanted to see her again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked, seeing the pain in his eyes.

“Because of what I saw out here that night,” he said, glancing at me, then back at my father. “When I told Molly that I couldn’t be with her, she ran crying into the trees and down onto the road. I thought she was heading home. I waited up here in the dark, angry with myself and others. A short time later, I heard someone running back through the trees and towards the well. It was Molly. Her clothes were torn and I had never seen anyone look so scared. I took hold of her and she fought with me, screaming and scratching as if I was going to hurt her in some way. It was like, in her blind panic and in the darkness, she thought I was someone else. She pulled free of me, and in doing so, she toppled back over the wall and into the well. In terror I called out her name, but she made no noise. It was then I heard the sounds of others approaching through the trees. I could see the flashing lights from torches and the sound of radios. I knew it was the police. Fearing that they might suspect me of pushing Molly into the well, and still desperate to hide the fact that we had been lovers, I slunk back into the shadows amongst the trees and hid.”