Unbound Press is pleased to announce our latest publication Annabel by Elon Whittaker.
Poor Annabel, a misfit with a talent for invoking death and injury as she grows up in the north west of England in the 60s and 70s. People gossip - you know how they are! Annabel's a witch? Isn't she?
Annabel Turner, only child of a 1950s loveless marriage, is blessed with intelligence and a strong will but cursed by her lack of physical charms. Death and misery spread out from her whenever she is crossed. Her parents, her best friend and even those who take it upon themselves to care for her, all fall prey to malevolent forces, or so it seems to the bystander.
Annabel finds what passes for her as love with the self-centred Robin Rotmensen, another of life's misfits, but even this relationship is doomed as the pair try to settle in a cottage on the outskirts of a village high above Lancaster where echoes of the Pendle Witches still reverberate. With the suspicious death of their friend, they attract the opprobrium of the village leading to conflict with their neighbours and community agreement that a coven exists in their midst. They also attract the attention of the police in the shape of PC Nowell whose clashes with Annabel lead him to take on the role of Witchfinder General.
Is Annabel a witch or is she, as she suggests, simply fulfilling the role created for her by cruel and ignorant people, just as they did with Old Demdike and the other Pendle Witches in the 17th century?
Excerpt from Annabel:
"How could you, Arthur?" demanded Alice at least a dozen times a week. "You've brought ruination and disgrace upon us."
"Yes, how could you?" echoed her mother each time, a blue-rinse parrot.
Arthur never answered. How could he answer when he didn't know? So he sat in his chair and stared into space, fingering the rose-thorn scratches on his hands, chasing thoughts around the inside of his head and not getting anywhere other than deeper and deeper within himself. In these medically-enlightened days, he would be diagnosed as depressed and prescribed Prozac or some such. But, for Arthur, there was only the richly deserved misery of endless introspection.
How could I, indeed? What on earth was I thinking of? It all seemed so easy. Nobody ever checked up on me. Oh, if only... I blame old Bartholomew, the lazy beggar. Too idle to keep a check on me. The temptation was too much for any mortal soul... oh, do shut up, Alice! ...yes, too much temptation. And look at me now, stuck with this woman and this woman's mother and this woman's child. It doesn't look like mine. It looks foreign. Here, you don't reckon Alice...? Well, you never know, do you. She could have, you know. She could have already been pregnant when we got married... but that's not possible... think of the timing. Oh, I don't know... I don't know what's possible and what isn't these days. One thing's certain, everything was tickety boo before I got involved with Alice. Mother was right, I never have been the marrying kind. Should have stayed single, that's what I should have done... that child's staring at me again. All she does is stare at me. She's weird and no mistake. She can't be mine. I mean, look at her. She's smiling now, if that's what you can call it. Oh, she's bright enough, too bright if you ask me, but... I... don't... like... her. No, it's more than don't like her, I hate her. Yes, that's it, I hate the little.... Oh, dear God, listen to what you're saying! You hate your own daughter. You really are sick, Arthur Turner. You're a sick beggar. Look at her! She knows what you're thinking. She's smiling because she knows you're a sick beggar. See, she's smiling more. She knows what you're thinking. Well, here's something for you to know, daughter of mine...
Annabel stirred in her pushchair and focused more intently on Arthur.
...I hate you, you little bastard, YOU... LITTLE... BASTARD, you ugly, hairy, little bastard. I'm on to you. I know your game.
And Annabel chuckled. For the first time ever, at the age of 10 months, she chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. It was too deep and too sophisticated a rumble to inspire a traditional 'ahhhhh' from even the soppiest of relatives.
Alice heard it too and came in from the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and peered first at Arthur, then at Annabel.
"What on earth was that noise? It fair made my blood run cold. Was that you, Arthur? Are you sick or something?"
"It was her," he said, pointing at the infant.
And as they both stared at Annabel, she fixed first one parent with a steady gaze, then the other, and she chuckled again.
"Oh, Dear God!" said Alice, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
"Yes, how could you?" echoed her mother each time, a blue-rinse parrot.
Arthur never answered. How could he answer when he didn't know? So he sat in his chair and stared into space, fingering the rose-thorn scratches on his hands, chasing thoughts around the inside of his head and not getting anywhere other than deeper and deeper within himself. In these medically-enlightened days, he would be diagnosed as depressed and prescribed Prozac or some such. But, for Arthur, there was only the richly deserved misery of endless introspection.
How could I, indeed? What on earth was I thinking of? It all seemed so easy. Nobody ever checked up on me. Oh, if only... I blame old Bartholomew, the lazy beggar. Too idle to keep a check on me. The temptation was too much for any mortal soul... oh, do shut up, Alice! ...yes, too much temptation. And look at me now, stuck with this woman and this woman's mother and this woman's child. It doesn't look like mine. It looks foreign. Here, you don't reckon Alice...? Well, you never know, do you. She could have, you know. She could have already been pregnant when we got married... but that's not possible... think of the timing. Oh, I don't know... I don't know what's possible and what isn't these days. One thing's certain, everything was tickety boo before I got involved with Alice. Mother was right, I never have been the marrying kind. Should have stayed single, that's what I should have done... that child's staring at me again. All she does is stare at me. She's weird and no mistake. She can't be mine. I mean, look at her. She's smiling now, if that's what you can call it. Oh, she's bright enough, too bright if you ask me, but... I... don't... like... her. No, it's more than don't like her, I hate her. Yes, that's it, I hate the little.... Oh, dear God, listen to what you're saying! You hate your own daughter. You really are sick, Arthur Turner. You're a sick beggar. Look at her! She knows what you're thinking. She's smiling because she knows you're a sick beggar. See, she's smiling more. She knows what you're thinking. Well, here's something for you to know, daughter of mine...
Annabel stirred in her pushchair and focused more intently on Arthur.
...I hate you, you little bastard, YOU... LITTLE... BASTARD, you ugly, hairy, little bastard. I'm on to you. I know your game.
And Annabel chuckled. For the first time ever, at the age of 10 months, she chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. It was too deep and too sophisticated a rumble to inspire a traditional 'ahhhhh' from even the soppiest of relatives.
Alice heard it too and came in from the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and peered first at Arthur, then at Annabel.
"What on earth was that noise? It fair made my blood run cold. Was that you, Arthur? Are you sick or something?"
"It was her," he said, pointing at the infant.
And as they both stared at Annabel, she fixed first one parent with a steady gaze, then the other, and she chuckled again.
"Oh, Dear God!" said Alice, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
