She was a witch. That’s what she must be! An evil witch who had taken Kirstie’s place and who was going to drive him mad unless he did something about it. She was the cause of all the headaches he’d been having! It was becoming clear now! They weren’t headaches at all! She had been putting spells on him, making his head hurt, driving him to distraction with her sorcery!
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Kirstie. An air of uncertainty had crept into her voice. Ts it your head again? Are you ill or something?’ she demanded, trying to regain the upper hand.
‘Ill? Me? No I’m not ill…’ said Andrew quietly, ‘I’ve just realized …’ He got up slowly from the table.
‘Realized what?’ snapped Kirstie. ‘You’re not making any sense, and if you don’t get a move on …’
‘You’re not Kirstie.’
‘What are you blabbering about. If I wasn’t Kirstie I wouldn’t be married to you and living in this pigsty would I? Stop looking at me like that. Did you hear what I said? I said stop it!’
Bell, who still had his porridge spoon in his hand suddenly jabbed it hard into Kirstie’s face and she fell to the floor, her hand pressed to her cheek over a cut that had opened up under her left eye. Her eyes were wide with shock. ‘You … hit me,’ she stammered lamely. ‘Have you gone raving mad?’
‘You’re not Kirstie,’ breathed Andrew as he looked down at the figure on the floor with expressionless eyes. He picked up the milk bottle from the table and raised it above his head.
Kirstie covered her eyes and started to scream but it was cut short by the base of the bottle smashing down into her mouth. The force of the blow was enough to break most of her front teeth and impale her lips on the jagged stumps that were left. Andrew brought the bottle down hard again and it broke on Kirstie’s skull.
Still holding the broken neck of the bottle. Bell swept the jagged edge of the glass back and forward across his wife’s face until she was completely unrecognizable. ‘You are not Kirstie,’ he repeated in an urgent whisper. ‘You are not … Kirstie.’
Finally exhausted by his efforts. Bell stood up and looked down at the featureless body on the floor that had been his wife. ‘A witch!’ he whispered. ‘A witch! … must burn the witch!’
With a sense of purpose that never wavered, Bell set about building a funeral pyre for his wife. He removed the reservoir from a paraffin heater in the hall and poured the contents over her body. He soaked cushions taken from the settee in similar fashion and propped them up around her. A tablecloth and towels were added and then Bell broke up two dining chairs to provide wood for the bonfire. When he was satisfied with the size of the pyramid, he collected his jacket from the peg in the hall and put it on. ‘Late for work,’ he murmured. His last act before throwing a lighted match on to the bonfire was to turn on the gas in the kitchen.
The suddenness of the conflagration took Bell by surprise. One moment the little yellow flame was arcing through the air like a comet through space, the next the whole room seemed to erupt in yellow flame accompanied by thick, black, sooty smoke. He put up his arm to protect his face and backed out of the door, closing it behind him. ‘Burn witch, burn!’ he muttered as he set off down the stairs. He was going to be late. MacKinnon was going to go on at him again. Why didn’t they understand about the headaches? Why didn’t they?
‘So you finally consented to turn up!’ exclaimed a thick set man with sparse red hair as he saw Bell come through the front door of Stobmor Engineering. ‘This is a garage not a holiday camp! This is the third time this week you’ve been late and George Duthie has just phoned to say that the new starter motor you put in his Escort yesterday won’t start it this morning. He’s screaming blue murder. What the hell’s the matter with you?’
Bell brushed past the angry man as if he wasn’t there. This only served to increase MacKinnon’s anger. The harangue continued. ‘I said you’d be out to the farm to fix it properly today. I also told Hamish Lochan that the welding job on his van would be done by noon so you’d better get a move on!’
Still without acknowledging the other man’s presence, Bell continued about his business as if on automatic pilot. He walked to the back of the garage and released the chains that held a trolley, containing two gas cylinders, upright against the wall. MacKinnon watched him manoeuvre the trolley round and start wheeling it across the garage. He knew that something was wrong, but didn’t know what. His anger began to be replaced by curiosity. ‘Look if you have some kind of problem, tell me. Maybe we can sort something out …’
Bell ignored him and set up the welding set beside an old Bedford van. He unwound the hoses from the heads of the cylinders and opened the valve on the acetylene cylinder; he ignited the torch flame and it started to burn with a slow licking yellow flame. Bell stared at it and smiled as if remembering something. MacKinnon came to stand by his side. He said, ‘I don’t like having to bawl you out every morning. Why can’t we talk this thing out?’
Bell ignored him and reached up to turn on the oxygen supply. The yellow flame turned to intense blue as oxygen entered the flow. It made MacKinnon angry because neither man was wearing protective goggles. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he stormed, covering his eyes.
Bell turned round as if in a trance. He smiled, distantly, and without further hesitation pushed the torch flame right into MacKinnon’s face. MacKinnon’s features were transformed into a blackened crater within seconds and he fell to the floor, his head wreathed in smoke which drifted slowly upwards. Bell stepped over the body and started to work on the van as if nothing had happened. He hoisted it up on the hydraulic lift and positioned himself underneath. He was welding the chassis when the postman came into the garage and saw MacKinnon’s body. The man let out a cry of horror.
Bell looked out from under the van and smiled at him. ‘Hello Neil,’ he said with a smile. ‘How are things?’
The postman backed away; he thought the smile on Bell’s face the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. There was something disturbingly unnatural about it. Bell stood there as if waiting for an answer, the welding torch still burning in his hand, its flame now cutting through the petrol tank of the van. The postman turned on his heel and ran screaming to the door. An ear-splitting blast behind him helped him on his way and sent him sprawling out into the street.
Neil Campbell struggled to his knees and looked back in through the maw of the doorway. He saw the flaming figure of Andrew Bell, hands raised in the air, pirouetting slowly to the floor in his death throes. The postman’s eyes didn’t blink. It took another explosion to break the spell. He didn’t know it at the time but it was a gas explosion from a neighbouring street.
Bannerman was thinking about going to bed when the phone rang. These days when the phone rang at night it was usually Shona but he had spoken to her already this evening, less than an hour ago. ‘Bannerman.’
‘Doctor Bannerman? This is Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch.’
Bannerman was taken aback, but hid it well. He inquired after the GP’s health and asked, ‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you,’ replied MacLeod. ‘There was an incident in Stobmor today which I thought you would be interested in.’ ‘Really? What sort of an incident?’ ‘A man went berserk.’
‘Berserk,’ repeated Bannerman. He could feel himself going cold.
‘A garage worker named Andrew Bell went totally out of control. It appears that he murdered his wife and his employer before immolating himself. In view of the deaths in Achnagelloch a few weeks ago, I thought you might be interested.’
Bannerman saw the awful implications of the news immediately. If this death was due to the same cause as the others it meant that the source of disease had not been contained after all! A mixture of fear and excitement welled up in his throat. ‘What happened to the man’s body?’ he asked in a voice that was almost a croak.