Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (10 page)

Daring to peek over her bobbing shoulder, she could not see the man chasing her, but her instincts told her that he was out there somewhere. Questions cart-wheeled through her mind as she forced herself onwards. Was this all really happening? Was the new guy in town really going to kill her and chop her up? It sounded absurd – like some sort of sick practical joke – and yet she knew it to be true. He was going to kill her. But why?

The last question stopped her abruptly in her tracks. Gasping for air and clutching her throbbing chest, she spun around to face the way she had just come. There were a couple of angry scratches on her forehead and left cheek and her hair was hanging limp and dripping from the continuing fine rain. She drew in a gulping breath then screamed at the top of her lungs, “WHY?” After another gulping breath: “Why me, you
fucking
nutcase?” The first question had been laced with anger, the second with desperation.

Whitman stepped out from behind a tree several yards away to her side. He was breathing hard and red-faced, but was utterly composed. “Why not you?” The question was put simply and with an almost resigned tone.

She shrieked and threw herself away from him, stumbling immediately over several roots that had broken the surface of the wet forest floor. Shaking his head in mild amusement, Whitman walked casually towards her, his own face reddened across one cheek by an unseen branch.

The hard fall scraped both her hands on rough bark and twigs and jarred a knee against a stump, but she was moving again as soon as she struck the ground. Crawling on her hands and knees, Mandy frantically scrambled away from him, crying out in pain and frustration.

The Walther sprung to mind first – he really wanted to have a play with that and its allure was strong. But no, that was not needed. He pulled out the hunting knife as he gradually closed the gap, his footfalls squelching in the mud as the rain continued to drizzle down around them.

She struggled on, shaking and crying, her hands and knees oozing blood that instantly mixed with the dark, gritty mud. Snot and tears dribbled from her face and were lost on the cold wet ground. As he loomed over her, rain spattering his head and shoulders, Mandy spun onto her back, holding her trembling, gory hands up in defence. Seeing the knife, droplets of clear water dripping from the tip of the jagged blade, caused the panic in her face to twist into utter terror. Suddenly the stark reality of it all crashed upon her. “No! God-please-no!” Raindrops struck her face, causing her to blink feverishly and smearing blood and muck down her cheeks in tiny rivulets.

“Sorry, Mandy, God isn’t going to help you.” His tone was morose, matching the sudden and unexpected sadness he felt inside. He couldn’t quite understand this new feeling, but he had to finish what he had started. There would be time later for reflecting. “You’re going to die here, and then after I’ve tasted of your flesh I’m going to chop you up and bury you. Your remains will never be found.” He had no intention of eating part of her body, hell he liked his steak well done for christsake, so the thought of a little raw long-pig almost made him gag. It just sounded like a cool thing to say that would hopefully banish the feeling of sorrow that now marred his earlier feelings of excitement. It was like a bitter aftertaste of a much savoured sweet.

Mandy screamed again, her features contorted with both rage and horror, and then all at once, she launched herself at him, propelling herself up using both elbows and feet with surprising speed. Her voice was hoarse as she spat, “Not if I kill you!”

Whitman was surprised by the counterattack and stumbled backwards with the force, his boots sliding in the mud. Snarling, she scratched and slapped at his face, blood and muck spraying from her clawed hands. He stepped back another couple of feet, before he recovered enough to block her next torrent of desperate blows. Then, as she blundered forward once more, half-blinded by rain and tears and muck and blood, he stabbed her in the stomach, burying the knife all the way to the hilt.

She let out a soft gurgle and her attack abated at once. For a moment she just teetered in front of him, trembling, her arms still raised in readiness for a renewed assault. They were as close as lovers, his wet, mud-daubed face inches from hers. There was no pain in her face, just surprise. Attacker and victim stood staring into each other’s eyes, panting. After the momentary pause, as rain pitter-pattered down over them, she toppled backwards, the knife sliding back out of her soft flesh, as if through water. The tip of the knife snagged on her drenched purple-monster jacket and she hung there, drooping like a sodden rag doll. A trickle of blood appeared in the corner of her mouth as she uttered, faintly, “But … why?”

With the last syllable still adrift, he cast off the two bags with a shrug of his shoulder and then, at once, sprung upon her, straddling her slim wet denim legs as she landed flat-out in the mud. The sneer returned to his quivering lips as he ripped open her jacket and blouse to reveal her bra-less, rounded breasts. The sight of her pert nipples and soft skin caused him to pause. Her skin, being spattered with droplets of rain, looked porcelain in the failing light, with a pure, untouched innocence. Then his gaze fell upon the clean entry wound into her stomach with dark blood oozing out down her side. It reminded him of the unashamed lie of it and that abruptly renewed his fervour.

Lashing out in a sudden and violent frenzy, the knife plunged into her smooth stomach several times as she lay there staring up at him, her mouth moving and forming soundless words. Her gaze shifted beyond the man thrashing on top of her and settled on the canopy above them, fixing on one small pinprick view of the dark sky.

Why me?
she asked in a rather detached fashion, as the darkness closed in.

Her abdomen and legs were awash with luridly red blood from multiple stab wounds as he lifted the dripping knife above his head again. A distinctive crack reverberated around the small clearing as the tip of the blade drove into her chest with such force that it caused an involuntary grunt to escape his lips. Lifting it once more, gasping, his face flushed with exertion, he drove it through the swell of her left breast, slicing her petite, pink nipple in two.

My baby
. A single tear welled in the corner of one hazel eye as the canopy above her blurred and then disappeared into darkness. The tear slipped down the side of her face and into the hollow of her ear. Her eyes no longer blinked as rainwater splashed into them.

He continued stabbing her for several minutes, the blade making soft squelching noises, with the intermittent crunch of metal on bone. The sustained attack was accompanied by the soft patter of the rain, like a gentle backing track to his furious percussion. The rest of the forest stood silent, watching.

Finally, he fell off her, gasping and sweating and spattered with Mandy’s sticky blood. The knife, held limply in one hand, was dripping with gore and small chunks of skin and flesh. He dropped it in the mud, unable to bear its weight a second longer. His rain-soaked body lay there for a moment, in the dark gruel mix of mud and blood, panting, with wisps of steam rising from his head and back of his neck.

The teenage girl lay still, her tilted face milky white, in stark contrast to the isolated drops of blood that mingled with the splashing rain. Her entire torso had collapsed inwards with the sheer ferocity and number of wounds, showing a pulverised mass of tissue, oozing shattered organs and pooling blood. Several splintered ribs poked out of the coagulating mass, and the muddy forest floor around her whole body was saturated with crimson.

With considerable effort, Whitman rolled onto his side to face Mandy’s corpse. His gasps gradually receded to heavy breathing as the rain continued to fall around him. Its soft patter was the only accompaniment to his laboured breathing. His stare fixed upon her face for some time, studying her frozen expression. There was a hint of wistful sadness on her colourless lips and in the subtle lines around her dead eyes. The spots of blood on her face had now been completely washed away, giving her almost translucent complexion a freshly washed look. Droplets of rainwater dribbled off the end of her nose and eyelashes as those dead hazel eyes stared back at him.

The slab of meat in front of him had been a life, and he had cut it short. Mandy Foster was now dead, no more, and he was solely responsible. The test was over and the results were in. Passed.

With these revelations, Whitman suddenly burst into tears. His hearty sobs wracked his entire body as if electricity were surging through it. Tears streamed down his grimy face. Curling up into a ball on the sodden earth, he thrust his head into his gore-covered hands and wept for several minutes. His eyes were squeezed shut as the tears forced themselves out.

In the darkness, his mind recreated Mandy’s corpse in front of him. Every little detail formulated in his mind; the tilt of her face, the droplets of water running off her nose, the stubby creamy piece of rib, gleaming from its rainwater wash, poking at an absurd angle from her side, her skinny blue jean legs, darkly stained from the mud, blood and rain. This teenage girl was dead and covered in gore, but quite suddenly her face shifted and the eyes blinked. When they flickered open, her warm hazel eyes had been replaced with red blazing orbs, burning with an intense hatred. The snarl on her curled, now ruby red lips had a wolverine quality to it.

His eyes snapped open and, with a gasp caught in his constricted throat, he flung his hands aside to scrutinise the body. It was motionless and her head was still turned slightly towards him, with her hazel eyes gazing blankly back at him. Nothing had changed.

Half laughing and half stifling another sob, he struggled to his feet, unable to take his eyes off Mandy’s lifeless form for a second. A shiver ran through his cold, soaked body. After a moment, he rubbed his muddy hands on his jeans then wiped the tears and rain from his face. He let out a deep, trembling sigh and glanced around the gloomy woods.

“When you're slapped you'll take it and like it.” His low murmuring voice sounded small and fragile, like a fly caught on the wind.

He stood there in the woods, staring down at the mutilated corpse, with the rain pouring down around him and the darkness closing in. The hard part was done. Now he had to clean up the mess and obliterate any traces of activity, then ultimately, continue with his preparations.

Yesterday’s a dream,

I face the mornin’,

Crying on a breeze,

The pain is calling, oh Mandy
…

Over the following couple of days, word spread like a brushfire that Mandy had run away. Rumours were rife, ranging from a totally unsubstantiated allegation of an abusive father, through star struck dreams of
X-Factor
to something actually resembling the truth.

He had to wear a light daubing of concealer to hide a couple of red marks on his cheeks, but they faded quickly and appeared to go unnoticed.

Those first days thrust a torrent of emotions onto Whitman. Initially, he had an overwhelming feeling of regret and sadness; to have taken the life of such a pretty young girl. Someone who had their whole life ahead of them. A real person. After waking up during the night sobbing, and finding himself close to tears throughout the day, the sadness gradually made way for guilt, and even a sense of embarrassment.

He started to become paranoid, feeling that he had missed some minute detail which police forensics would pick up on and lead them directly to him. He then started to wonder if someone had actually seen him follow her that day. He was sure no one had – he had been extremely careful and vigilant – but still … Images of being caught, arrested and paraded, bound and beaten led to feelings of shame and humiliation. Ultimately those sickening feeble emotions settled upon a deep sense of resentment and anger, laced with a vigorous sense of fear and frustration.

Images of Mandy’s ravaged body frequently flashed through his mind, both during the day and in the still, small hours. He could be talking to Big Joe or Lisa or John Bryce and her pallid, contorted face would replace that of the person he was conversing with. Once or twice he almost cried out, only just managing to check himself. Each time she would glare accusingly at him with those fierce burning eyes. There was a rage in those orbs that left him with a cold, crawling sensation.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his eyes bloodshot and his complexion leaching a pale hue, Whitman gazed upon his haunted reflection. After letting the cold tap run for a few seconds, he cupped some of the cool water and splashed it onto his feverish face. His hands remained over his eyes for a time, before slowly drawing away and falling down to the rim of the sink. Looking back to his reflection, he noticed a faint flickering in his eyes.

Blinking, he rubbed his eyes vigorously then looked back at the mirror. The flicker was still there and his eyes had changed colour … Hazel. “No!” he gasped aloud, his voice hoarse and distant. He squeezed his eyes shut once more and snapped them back open. Auburn eyes, bloodshot and fearful gazed back at him.

With a gravelly and wavering voice, he muttered, “I am reality. There's the way it ought to be, and there's the way it is.” He let out a shaky sigh then shuffled wearily back to his bed.

Here come the Marines.

Gossip and general concern turned to alarm as news swept through the village that she had never made it to her friend’s house in Shillmoor. Mandy Foster’s name was on the lips of every single man, woman and child. Within hours, a growing sense of hysteria rose throughout the village. Nothing like this had ever happened in Haydon. Sure, it happened all the time in Newcastle, Morpeth, even Rothbury from time to time, but never in Haydon. Haydon was … immune.

Two plain clothed police officers turned up the next day and started asking a lot of questions. Whitman chose that morning to take a trip into Rothbury, hoping to avoid having to use his dubious cover identity.