It was Guy Fawkes Night in London. I took a long walk up to a place called Primrose Hill. Once, long before the yuppies moved in, the hill was known as a place of magic and ritual. Now, people go there each year to watch the fireworks over the city.

That night the top of the hill was dark as usual. A crowd had gathered, a black slow-moving mass congealing at the top. Their low murmuring was broken occasionally by a shrill scream of a sky-rocket arching into the night. Smoke and the smell of sulfur hung in the air. In the distance, silent fireworks lit up the city, like broken teeth.

Another cracker exploded and, in the momentary flash, I happened to catch the face of a woman in the crowd just before she melted back into silhouette. The woman was crying.

Without really meaning to, I sidled across the hill, gradually moving in her direction. I was closer now and, when another cracker lit up, I saw her again. She was wearing a hooded rain jacket, her cheeks, streaked with tears. I moved through the grass until finally, I stood beside her.
Are you alright?" I asked.

She began to wipe her face. Then, without looking up at me, she said, "My friend was killed here."
"Oh. I'm sorry," I said.
She wiped her face. "They thought she was a witch."
"Oh," I said, this time with more conviction. Things obviously hadn't changed around here as much as I thought.
"But they haven't killed a witch here for 1000 years," I said.
"No… they haven't," she replied.

Some kids ran past, fighting over something, a Halloween mask maybe. I turned back to her but the woman was moving away.
Another cracker exploded above us. That's when I noticed her hand.
It was burnt. Burnt black. No - was it just wet?

But she'd already gone, melted back into the velvety shadows. The night closed in and I headed home.