FICTION
The Last of the Line
Witch Finder General Roderick rang the doorbell to six Hertingdale Drive.
He was a gangly man with long, spindly arms. He wore a long leather coat and a black bowler hat.
He peered at the brass number six on the wooden door frame. Someone had written a six on either side with a felt-tip pen.
‘Who’s he meant to be?’ a ginger-haired boy mockingly asked his mother as they walked by. ‘He looks like he’s gone funny in the head.’
Roderick pretended not to hear. He rang the doorbell again.
Eventually, the door opened, and a blue-eyed old woman poked her head out.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, pet. My knees aren’t what they used to be.’
Roderick took a piece of parchment out of his pocket.
‘By the decree of Witch Finder General Hopkins and all who followed thereafter, I accuse you of being an occultist. What do you have to say in your defence?’
Miss Figgleroot thought for a moment.
‘What’s an occultist?’
‘A witch.’
‘In that case, you better come in, and don’t forget to wipe your shoes.’
Roderick unsheathed his axe and scraped the sludge from the soles of his boots before going inside.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Nothing for me,’ Roderick said.
‘You sure, pet? There’s nothing like a warm mug of tea to warm up your insides.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Tell you what. I’ll make you one anyway. If you don’t fancy it, just leave it.’
The sitting room had pastel pink wallpaper, luminous red carpets, and a porcelain frog on every surface.
‘It’s a nice house you have here,’ Roderick lied.
‘What?’ Miss Figgleroot shouted. ‘You’ll have to speak up. I’m going a bit deaf.’
‘I said you have a nice house,’ he shouted.
‘I know. Can you believe they wanted to put me in one of those old people’s homes? I told them straight. I said it’s all about hanging on to your independence when you get to my age.’
Roderick sat down on the sofa.
Miss Figgleroot came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with two steaming cups on.
‘Now, pet, I didn’t know how you take your tea, so I left it black. I prefer mine black. But if you decide you want some milk, I’ll go and fetch you some.’
She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat beside Roderick.
‘So, pet, what’s your name?’
‘Witch Finder General Roderick.’
‘That’s a nice name. My name’s Ethel.’
A black cat slinked into the sitting room.
‘Look, Mr Tiddles, a visitor.’
The cat came over to the sofa and jumped up.
‘Have you come to say hello to our guest?’
Mr Tiddles purred at the Witch Finder General.
Roderick frowned.
‘What’s the matter, pet? Don’t you like cats?’
‘I’m not that keen on animals.’
The cat curled up on the sofa.
‘The Order said you had a black cat as your familiar. Is Mr Tiddles a demon name?’ Roderick asked.
‘No, I call him that because he’s always been a little bit incontinent.’
Roderick shuffled away from Mr Tiddles.
Miss Figgleroot looked at the clock.
‘Is that the time? My programs will be on soon! Mind if I put the telly on?’
‘Um. Go ahead,’ Roderick told her. He picked up his cup of sludgy tea.
She rummaged through the box by her feet and took out a thick silver remote.
She pressed the big red button, and the DVD player came on.
‘That’s funny. That didn’t happen last time. I must have the wrong thingamajig.’
She pulled a thin black remote out of her box and pressed it. The intro to Antiques Roadshow flickered on the screen.
‘I do love my programs, you know. I don’t know what trouble I’d be getting into without them.’
Roderick coughed.
He put his tea back on the table.
There was a picture beside the TV. It was a black and white photograph of a raven-haired young girl and a scowling middle-aged man.
‘Is that you in that picture?’ Roderick asked.
Miss Figgleroot glanced at the photo. ‘Yes, that’s me when I was a girl. And that’s my uncle Damien. We were in Mablethorpe, I think. It must be fifty years ago now. He passed away about a year ago.’ Miss Figgleroot sighed. ‘It’s only me now. The last of the line.’
Roderick bowed his head.
On TV, a thrifty old man was haggling with one of the presenters over a set of antique spoons.
‘You let him have it, pet,’ Miss Figgleroot cheered.
Roderick took out his axe and began inspecting it while Miss Figgleroot slurped her tea. The Order had told him that he was hunting down an evil sorceress, but Miss Figgleroot was just an old woman with bad knees. Was she really that much of a danger to society?
When the closing credits rolled over a picture of the triumphant old man holding a set of spoons, Miss Figgleroot turned the TV off. ‘Right. How are we going to do this, then?’ she said.
Roderick looked at his axe. ‘It turns out I have brought the wrong axe for the job. This one’s strictly for wizards.’
‘We can’t be having that. You need the right tools if you want to do something properly.’
Roderick got up and sheathed his axe. ‘I better be getting back to the headquarters.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay for tea? I’m making corned beef sandwiches.’
‘I’m sure,’ he said.
‘Have it your way. Mind if I don’t show you out, though? My knee’s still playing up.’
Roderick got up and went to the front door. ‘Farewell, Miss Figgleroot,’ he shouted back.
‘Bye, pet. Same time next week?’
