Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (22 page)

Whitman turned to the dog, just as it pounced at him. Swinging the knife in a shallow arc, he sliced the dog across the muzzle. It yelped in pain as its blood splattered across the wall and a photograph of the Bryce family. Their son looked a few years younger in the picture; all sat, smiling for the camera, John proud and grinning, Sally radiantly slender.

Despite its injury, the dog shook its muzzle, spraying more blood up the walls and across the floor, and then surged forward again, its paws scrabbling on the varnished floorboards for purchase. The second attack lacked the ferocity of the first, instead staying low and rushing forward to lash out at the intruder’s groin. Whitman leaped forward, gripping the knife in both hands, and landed, legs straddling the dog’s back. The blade buried deep into the centre of its back, causing it to yelp once more and thrash out in agony.

Whitman pinned it between his knees and, withdrawing the knife, quickly rammed it back into the dog’s flesh several times. It dropped to the floor, squirming and whining softly. Without pausing, he turned and hacked at the dog’s neck. The force of the strike all but severed its head. It lay dead before the knife was through to the other side.

The collie’s head, hanging on by a sliver of tissue and skin, flopped to the floor as a dark pool of blood spread out around it, quickly mingling with its owner’s.

Casting a quick glance up and down the hall, Whitman prepared for the Bryce’s second collie to come charging towards him, but it was nowhere to be seen. As his eyes returned to the dead dog, the fur seemed to shimmer in front of his eyes. It became short and sandy coloured. The nearly severed head became fatter and more rounded. Suddenly, he found himself staring at Ju with matted, blood-engorged coat and hacked head. Its dead eyes stared accusingly at him.

The knife lurched from his shaken hand and clattered to the drenched floor as the wind rushed from Whitman’s lungs.

A clattering commotion above him snapped him back to reality and the dog was at once a collie again. Whitman’s head arched towards the landing where Anthony was now scrambling back up the stairs he had just fallen down, sobbing and screaming uncontrollably. Bending down to retrieve the knife, he took one final hesitant look at the dog, which was still the Bryce’s collie and not Jumanji, then turned his attention to the boy.

“Hey, Anth, hang on there, big fella,” Whitman said in a strained-friendly manner, stepping over the bodies of the dog and Sally and walking to the bottom of the stairs. He was careful not to slip in the thick pools of blood spreading along the hallway and channelling along the grooves in between the floorboards.

Without even looking at him, Anthony screamed louder and lunged up the last couple of steps.

Suddenly, Whitman’s relaxed demeanour switched and he thundered up the stairs at a sprint.

Scrambling along the landing on all fours, Anthony screamed one more time. “DADDY!” The terrified voice had a primeval quality to it.

Drenched and shivering, Bryce cursed as he tripped over a fallen branch and fell to his knees into the mush of mud and rotting leaves. He knelt there for a moment, taking advantage of the brief respite to catch his breath. His panting exhales clung to the air in front of him. The farmer glanced up to the black, skeletal canopy and the steadily falling snow, less disturbed by the wind within the restrictions of the forest. It pattered incessantly on his brow and numbed red cheeks. Shaking snow from his torch and shotgun, he struggled back to his feet and continued deeper into the forest. He could just hear the thief up ahead; in his panic to escape, he was making it easy for him to follow.

The storm was not letting up for a moment; it remained merely breezy within the forest, but up in the canopy he could hear the incessant howl wrenching at the upper branches. With each step, he was being drawn further and further away from the warmth and comfort of the farm. Sally would be getting worried by now.

He struggled on for several minutes more, before the thief’s escape finally fell from earshot. Frustrated, he continued stumbling on for a short distance further, before angrily giving up the chase. It was a hard call to make and sent a short, sharp jab to his pride.

Despondent, he slumped against a pine, vibrant against groves of slender birch and their smaller cousins, the magical rowans. His fringe sticking out of the woolly hat was plastered against his dripping face. As he stood there shivering, the snowflakes and droplets of water continued to rain down through the blackness. The forest around him had fallen deathly silent, save for the soft hypnotic patter.

After taking a few deep gulps of air, he bellowed, “You come round here again and I’ll fucking kneecap you, you got that you fuckin’ pissant!” He hesitated, half expecting a reply. When none was forthcoming, he turned around and headed back to the farm. The shotgun felt like an unyielding ton weight in his frozen hands.

Jimmy paused and glanced behind him as the farmer’s enraged voice echoed through the forest. His lank hair was plastered flat and he, too, was soaked to the skin. A violent shiver shot through his body, almost wrenching the heavy sack from his icy grip. He set it down, but held on to the drawn opening. While he caught his wheezing breath, he snivelled noisily then coughed up some bright green phlegm.

After a couple more dry coughs, through chattering teeth, he muttered, “Yeah, lick my balls. There won’t be a next time.” He was more determined than ever – he would use Steve’s arson money to sort his life out. These four chickens would have to see him through somehow until then. This was his last chance to make something good out of his worthless, rotting cesspit of a life.

The small Ford Fiesta struggled along the churned up snowdrift that was the B6341. Since passing through Rothbury, progress had been slow and treacherous, causing the unceasing snow to quickly build up on the roof and bonnet. If a snowplough had been through, it must have been quite some time ago. The darkness of the narrow country road was utterly unforgiving. Fences, hedgerows and tree lines shimmered by as one shade darker smears; lost shadows dancing in the storm.

Sam Potter was hunched over the wheel, red-faced and bleary eyed. Natalie Potter, a short, chubby young woman, was slumped against the passenger window, her spiky black hair splayed against the misted glass. An intermittent nasal grunt was all she had been capable of for the last hour.

The stereo was turned down so low that he couldn’t hear what was playing over the drone of the fan. The warm air, combined with the back and forth motion of the windscreen wipers, conspired to seduce Sam’s already tired eyes to grow steadily droopier. The weariness bore down on him like the weight of the ocean above a diver. It crawled steadily into the darkest recesses of his mind, corrupting him body and soul. Ceaselessly, it whispered to him …
relent Sam, it’s okay, Sam, lose yourself in the gentle comfort of my embrace.

A bump in the road caused Natalie’s head to bounce off the window. She stirred and turned to look at him, her own eyes as bloodshot as his. “You okay, baby?” she asked groggily.

Startled back to full consciousness, on reflex, Sam jerked the steering wheel, sliding the car into the deep snow bank to their left. They both jolted forward into their seatbelts as the car came to a sudden halt.

Natalie stared at him, open mouthed and all fatigue temporarily banished. “Guess that’s a no then, honey?” She kept her tone light, despite the sudden thumping of her heart.

Trembling slightly, Sam said, “S-sorry, Nats. Was d-drifting off there.”

The engine idled and the windscreen wipers continued back and forth as Natalie plucked a pack of
Regal
and a disposable lighter from her denim bag. She lit up a cigarette before saying, “You need to get some rest, honey. We can’t go on any more in this.”

“Blindburn is o-only another f-few miles past the H-H-Haydon turn off,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes. He shifted his weight in his seat to ease his aching back and let out a long, satisfying yawn.

Natalie wound her window down a fraction to let the smoke from her cigarette escape in bluish plumes. “No, let’s go to Haydon. We can get a room at that pub we stayed in last year and then head out in the morning.”

Sam shook his head. “W-what about D-Dad? I-I-I need to get t-to him t-t-tonight.”

With her cigarette hanging out of her mouth, Natalie turned in her seat and grabbed his hand in both of hers. Her tone was kind, but firm. “No, honey. Your dad wouldn’t want you to risk your life. We can get some rest then head out first thing. It’s for the best, honey.”

A particularly strong gust of wind buffeted the small car, causing chunks of the thick snow piled on the bonnet to blow across the windscreen, fleetingly obscuring their view of the dark, wintry road.

As the wipers cleared the view one more time, Sam glanced ahead of them along the road, stretching into what appeared to be nothingness. A quiver crept across his shoulder blades. Reluctantly, Sam nodded and briefly sagged back in his seat.

It didn't work out, so I took a souvenir
…
her pretty head.

Angry, cold and drained, Bryce trudged across the thick snow-covered courtyard to the farmhouse. The poor light and the storm obscured old footprints easily, not that his weary disposition would have spotted them in any case. The cold and wet seemed to have seeped right into his bones, flaring up all his old aches and pains, picked up over the years from a tough farming life. It certainly hadn’t been an easy life, having started helping his father from an earlier age than Anthony was now, but he would not have changed it for the world.

As he drew nearer, the lights from the house offered improved illumination, so he turned off the torch and popped it in his pocket. He left the long over/under barrel of the shotgun broken over his arm. Grumpily, he pondered on how he would need to strip it down and thoroughly clean and oil the barrel, hinge and action after the beating it had taken from the elements. In actual fact, he didn’t mind cleaning his guns at all, finding the process quite therapeutic, especially accompanied by Bob Dylan straining across threadbare lyrics with his teeth-kicking, iconic sound. But his mood was such, that even the thought of a normally uplifting chore darkened his mood still further. The first thing he was going to do was fire up a smoke to help ward off the icy chill.

The front door was unlocked, as it generally was when someone was home. Stomping his snow and mud-caked boots on the welcome mat, he swung the door open and called, “Sal, I’m back. Didn’t get the bugger though.”

As he stepped into the hall his blood ran as cold as his extremities. Glancing to his left towards the kitchen, he saw the floor and walls awash with swathes of congealing blood. Lying sprawled, amidst the expanse of crimson, was one of the dogs; it may have been Cody, but he couldn’t tell for sure because of its head hanging off and facing away from him, partially submerged in the sticky mass. Its coat, too, was drenched across the back and hind quarters. It seemed an impossible amount of blood from a single dog. His hall had been turned into an abattoir while he had been running around in the snow chasing ghosts.

As the horrific scene began to sink in to his numbed mind, a wild panic swept over him. Then, registering just above the pounding of his heart, he heard soft crying coming from … the cellar.

“Sally! Anthony!” he cried with an anguished tone, one notch from hysteria. Reacting, rather than thinking, he dashed to his right and around a short corner to the wide open door of the cellar. Cracking shut the shotgun, he stood at the top of the stairs, staring into the darkness down below. The fear of what he might find down there caused a moment of hesitation. They could have been … they could be ... The crying continued; it was Anthony.

“Son! I’m coming!” Bryce started forward, but his boot clipped a low wire strung across the crest of the opening. He stumbled forward into the darkness, his shocked cry paving the way.

There was a rapid series of thumps, in harmony with the cracking and creaking complaints of the staircase, followed quickly by a thunderous crash, and the distinctive blast of both barrels of the shotgun discharging.

The force of Bryce’s boot on the wire pulled the cellar door shut with a slam and half a dozen six foot logs piled behind it crashed down in front of the closed door.

Da dead Ron Ron Ron.

The howling wind buffeted the sash windows, causing several draughts between the cracked and rotting frames to flutter the curtains like restless spirits. Ron Foster sat slouched on the sofa, a can of lukewarm
Red Stripe
atop his rounded stomach and his chin resting on his collarbone. The sound of a distant chainsaw emanated from his nostrils. The white t-shirt stretched over his portly frame was stained with several blotches of beer.

The television showed the muted picture of a panel of self-important guests sat heatedly debating some topic or other. A ticker bar across the bottom of the screen revealed telephone and text details for viewers to add their own views on the subject, now revealed as western manipulation on the Middle East. The simple pendant light fitting lent a dimmed orange glow to the cosy room.

Erika Foster shuffled into the room in a floral dressing gown. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken into purple hollows. Patches of cracked, angry skin had erupted on the backs of her hands and around her neck. She stood just inside the doorway for a moment and absently scratched her concealed thigh. She looked down at her husband with what, at first, seemed like impatience, but then her features softened.

She moved quietly over to him and gently removed the can from its perch. Popping it down on the coffee table, she then placed a tender kiss on his forehead. She managed a weak smile and stood up to leave.

“Touching,” Whitman said from the doorway. Encumbered with thick clothing and equipment, Whitman appeared to fill the entire doorway. The smile on his lips was friendly enough, but his stance was coiled.

Startled, Erika knocked the coffee table, sending the half full can of lager careening onto the carpet, spilling its frothing contents across the floor. Her husband grunted and stirred.