Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (19 page)

Or there were the more classic approaches, like a carving knife; the preferred weapon of most nutters, like Michael Myers and Norman Bates. Or the chainsaw, as used by, well Leatherface mainly, or Ash from the
Evil Dead
films; but he’s technically a hero (albeit a useless selfish one), so can’t really count him. Or there’s always a big fish hook, as used by the ghouls in John Carpenter’s
The Fog
. So many choices …

One thing was for certain, and that was that he was going to
really
enjoy killing Jimmy Coulson.
He must suffer to his last breath
…
well that I can pretty much damn well guarantee
…
Maybe he’d get himself a Hattori Hanzo sword.

For those regarded as warriors, when engaged in combat the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern. Suppress all human emotion and compassion. Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself. This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat.

The nights grew steadily longer and darker. The wind bore an icy chill and the leaves browned, withered and died, leaving much of the woods around the village, save for the evergreens, skeletal in comparison with their summer coats. Halloween (hardly even spoken about, never mind celebrated in any commercial fashion) gave way to Guy Fawkes (a small, heavily sanitised bonfire on the Green, with foil-wrapped baked potatoes and small glasses of sherry), which quickly gave way to the first exasperated conversations of Christmas and how there was so much to do and so little time left, and how quickly it had come around again.

With the plummeting temperatures, the first winter frosts hit, causing treacherous conditions. For the first time since purchasing it in Sunderland, Whitman was truly pleased to have the four wheel drive reliability of the Sportrak.

December brought with it the first snowfall; a light dusting of snow that froze to a gravely layer on paths and windscreens that was the devil’s own job to scrape off. Predictions, both from the weathermen and, more importantly, the locals, were that this winter would be a particularly bad one.

Older folk in the village looked particularly glum at the prospect, having lived through some horrendous winters in the past, but Whitman felt truly blessed and redoubled his preparations.

CHAPTER 8

20
^th
December.
Headed right for the middle of a monster.

The early evening had already turned as dark as night and bloated snowflakes were falling steadily, teased by a light breeze. As they hit the icy ground, they remained where they lay. The Miller’s lounge was deserted, apart from Whitman and the occasional appearance of Big Joe or Martha. A Norwegian Spruce had been placed in one corner, with a multitude of coloured lights, tinsels, baubles and ceramic ornaments, and several gold foil garlands criss-crossed the ceiling. The main bar had similar decorations, but instead of the tree, it sported a huge
Merry Christmas
banner above the bar. Tam had his usual seat at one end, and Carol Belmont had turned up earlier for half an hour when Whitman had just started tucking into the spicy casserole that Martha had prepared for him. She had downed three doubles in that time, without saying a word, other than those necessary to order the drinks, then left as quietly as she had arrived.

Now, polishing off the last straggler chunks of beef and vegetables, Whitman’s gaze was fixed on the wall-mounted television, watching the BBC weather broadcast with interest.

A bald, smiling Paul Mooney was stood in front of very cloudy looking graphic of the British Isles. The
Look North
weather presenter said apologetically, “This great big band of low pressure coming down from western Scotland is going to continue south, hitting north and western areas of Northumberland by eight o’clock this evening. Heavy snowfall is going to cause treacherous driving conditions across the north east and Cumbria. Temperatures are going to drop to below zero, taking into account wind-chill factors, and it’s likely to hang around through Christmas Eve, all the way through to Boxing Day; where it will gradually move south, losing much of its intensity.

“Bad news for last minute shoppers, but great news for the kiddies, as it’s looking possible that we’ll have a white Christmas this year, for most of Northumberland at the very least. Snowball fight later, eh, Carol?”

The camera switched to Carol Malia, shaking her head, smiling. “Not in these shoes, Paul.”

Whitman could not believe his luck. This was just too good to be true.

“Sounds like a bloody nightmare, laddie,” Big Joe said as he passed behind him with several plates in hand. “It’ll look like Lapland come morning.”

Whitman turned and smiled at him with an almost child-like look of joy. “I love the snow; there’s something … magical about it.”

“Typical bloody townie. Wait till yae experience a Northumberland winter!”

“I prefer city slicker, BJ!” he scoffed, chuckling agreeably. “But, whatever you say, Curly!” Big Joe trudged through to the kitchen, shaking his head, but smiling all the same.

The next morning Whitman rose early and, drawing back the curtains, gazed out over Main Street and the Green. It was at least an hour before dawn and snow was falling steadily on a gusting wind. Roofs and treetops had already succumbed to the white veil and it was starting to lie on the footpaths and side streets as well, but traffic had so far kept it down to a grubby slush on Main Street.

As he gazed into the swirling darkness, a shiver ran across his shoulder blades. The central heating hadn’t kicked in yet to take the chill out of the air. Dropping the curtain back in place, he turned to face his room and clapped his hands together. “Time’s a wastin’.” Although whispered, the words were filled with anticipation

After washing, he began systematically stripping and cleaning every square inch of his room. Bedding was bundled up and squeezed into black bin bags. Martha had kindly left his cleaned and ironed washing in a basket outside his door, so that was added to the rest of his possessions and was all packed into the back of the Sportrack. The bedding would be destroyed along with compromised clothing later. He would collect the bugs and clean any other possible tracks on his rounds.

His chores took three hours, by which point he had worked up a sweat and a healthy appetite. A solitary sleeping bag lay on the bare bed, open and waiting. He would have some sporadic touching up to do later, but the main job was done.

Through scrutinising the sound files from the bugs, Whitman had counted no less than twenty-eight villagers who would be heading away to visit friends or relatives for Christmas. Another thirty-five were never missed on a day to day basis, so those sixty-three would be first. After a hearty breakfast, he’d make a start. It would be approaching the evening by the time he got through those and then he would hit the outer rim – including his good friend, John Bryce’s place – and then work his way inwards.

John lingered in his mind for a moment. The big farmer had been a good friend to him, as had a few others in the village. Lisa was a whole different issue; he would come to her later. But, Bryce, bless him; he had been a good laugh, and he had good taste in films too.

He frowned, seemingly waging an inner war. The hesitation only held for a moment. “Food,” he said to himself to sever the unwanted deliberation.

IT – Illness and Technology.

The evening sky was blanketed with thick, angry storm clouds, and rain was driving near horizontal across the dual carriageway.

The A1139, leading north towards Peterborough was clogged with crawling rush-hour traffic, and had been since Sam Potter had set off at five PM from Old Fletton High Street. Exhaust fumes plumed up from the scores of vehicles stretched out over all lanes, and headlamps and brake lights lent a distorted glow to the darkness. It was now approaching six, and he still hadn’t made it to the Peterborough turnoff for Fengate.

The
Beautiful South
CD was, unusually, doing little to lighten his disposition. Their Latin-flavoured version of the
Blue Oyster Cult’s
classic,
Don’t Fear the Reaper
, was normally a huge mood lifter for him, but now it just seemed to fuel his impatience.

All our times have come,

Here but now they're gone
…

Steam rising up from the bonnets of dozens of idling cars, vans and lorries, mingled with the rain to further reduce visibility. Another one hundred and fifty yards further up the road, Sam could just make out flashing blue emergency lights.

“For c-christsake,” he muttered to himself. The slim man was swamped in a thick winter coat and, with the heater on full, his face was starting to redden, and beads of sweat were beginning to stand out on his forehead.

The side windows were completely misted up, and the fan in his Ford Fiesta was struggling to keep the windscreen clear. He switched the heater down to half, and then wiped his sleeve across his side window for the umpteenth time.

The delay was going to ruin his likelihood of getting to his routine session at the gym. Natalie also wanted him to do the last round of Christmas shopping with her, so the prospect of fighting through all those crowds was giving him heart palpitations. The Exchange Server at work had gone down, causing him a huge headache from staff and the partners, and had meant that his routine work had to be shelved to sort out the mess of restoring over-filled mailboxes. So, tomorrow, and probably part of Saturday too now, was going to be all about playing catch up, just to get back to square one. So, all in all, he had had a crappy Thursday, and the evening was heading precisely the same way. Great.

It was while he was mulling over these thoughts that his mobile phone started ringing its
Star Wars
Imperial March
tune.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she said in her soothing voice. “But your dad’s been taken ill. I’ve just come off the phone to the doctor – he’s stable, but he’s asking to see you. They think it’s a good idea that you go up to be with him.”

Sam’s head grew light and he felt his breathing grow shallow. “I-Is it th-th-the an-angina again?”

“Yes, but it’s a bad one this time. I’ve called the home and managed to switch some shifts and use up some holiday. I’m packing a bag, so we can leave as soon as you get here. I’ll bring the prezzies and some of the food, so we can make it a little special, eh?”

Tears were welling up in his eyes. His father had been asking them to visit for Christmas just two days ago and Sam had, as usual, skirted around the subject in his noncommittal way. “O-okay, N-n-nats.” His trembling lips then failed him completely.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll go up there together.”

Tears rolled freely down his cheeks and his breath found substance as the cooler air began to circulate. “B-be h-h-home soon.”

Kicking in doors and snowball fights.

The Kaiser Chiefs were singing about predicting a riot through the headphones of Jimmy’s battered
iPod
, atop his cluttered bedside cabinet. The compact device was lying on a well-thumbed copy of
Readers Wives
magazine, along with an empty packet of
Lambert & Butler
and two empty cans of
Fosters
, one of which had been used as an ashtray.

Through the gaps that the blanket failed to obscure, the window outside showed gusting snow buffeting against the grubby windowpanes.

Jimmy was oblivious to the knocking at the door as he lay on his bed with his eyes shut, listening to the music. His skin was pale and clammy and a trembling hand rubbed unconsciously at an itch on his forearm.

Watching the people get lairy,

It’s not very pretty, I tell thee,

Walking through town is quite scary,

And not very sensible
…

The door burst open with a crack and splintering of wood.

Jimmy scrambled at the headphones while sitting up in a panic. “What the fuck?”

“Knock, knock,” Steve Belmont said evenly as he walked into the room, stamping dust, splinters and snow off his trainers. Glancing at his inadequate footwear, he added sourly, “Should’ve brought fucking snowshoes.”

“Jesus, Ste – I mean – Mister Belmont. Me door!” Jimmy threw the headphones onto the cabinet and struggled to his feet.

“Well, fucking learn to answer it in future.” He shook his head and arms briefly to dislodge droplets of water from his tanned leather jacket and dishevelled hair.