Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (23 page)

Whitman tutted and shook his head slightly. “That’ll stain if you’re not careful.”

“You!” With recognition came venom. “You
did
have something to do with our Mandy’s disappearance!”

“Sorry, but yes, I followed Mandy into the woods and murdered her. I chopped her body into a dozen pieces and buried her out there.” There was no passion in his words, just a faint impression of relief. It actually felt good to finally put Mandy’s long-suffering parents in the picture and out of their misery. Hopefully it would ease their passing.

The words were not matching his body language or his tone. Ron stood up clumsily, saying, “Fuck you talking about?”

As the truth of his words sunk in, Erika burst into tears. Vehemently, she shook her head, uttering in a low, rasping voice, “No, no, God no, it’s not true.” She covered her streaming eyes with shaking hands as her mouth continued to work soundlessly.

Ron stood staring at Whitman, his mouth wide and slumber forgotten. Struggling to force the words from his disbelieving mouth, he stammered, “You …
killed
… my daughter?”

Whitman shrugged. “Someone had to be the first. Consider Mandy the lucky one.”

Ron raised white-knuckle, clenched fists and, with the tone of a wounded bear, snarled, “I’m gunna rip you apart!” With that, he launched himself, cursing at his child’s killer.

“Ron!” Erika cried, wrenching her hands from her half-blinded eyes.

Whitman casually lifted the previously unseen knife from his side and thrust it deep into Ron’s sizeable stomach. A loud
oof
rushed from his shocked lips, but with a deep determination, fuelled with hatred, he managed to grip Whitman’s shoulders with vice-like pressure.

Spraying spittle through his clenched jaw, Ron screamed, “You murdered my Mandy!” He shoved Whitman back into the doorframe, jarring his back. Encircled by a dark patch rapidly spreading across his t-shirt, the knife slide out of his stomach and caused him to instantly double over in an agonising spasm.

In spite of the temporary sting in his back, Whitman reacted immediately. He raised the dripping knife into the air, his face set with resolve.

Her feet betrayed her, remaining anchored to the spot, but Erika managed to shriek a warning at her husband. Ron had a moment to glance up from his bent over position in time to see the knife descending towards him.

The blade barely faltered as it entered through Ron’s upturned eye, smashing through the fragile bones in the back of the socket and penetrating the brain. His body dropped to the floor with the suddenness of a massive brain haemorrhage. The weight of the body dragged the knife clutched in Whitman’s tight grip with it.

He had to shove a wet boot against the dead man’s neck to wrench it out with a wet sucking sound. Blood and fluid spurted forth from the gaping wound as the blade tore free, darkening the pastel-green shade of the carpet and spraying the wall and sofa. A fleeting vision of the Bryce hallway, complete with family portrait, doused with dripping gore, sparked across his mind’s eye.

Erika had gawped, petrified as her husband was butchered in front of her and now, his blood drenched their living room carpet. She fell to her hands and knees, retching violently. “
Ronnie
,” she managed feebly between teary gasps.

Whitman carefully stepped over Ron’s dead, bleeding body to tower over Erika as she continued to retch dryly. He chewed his lip for a moment as he watched her body judder with each painful seizure. Then, almost out of sympathy it would seem, he bent down to touch her back. It was a kindly gesture that she barely registered, as the unrelenting sobbing wracked her body.

With a sigh, he slid the crimson blade under the kneeling, hunched-over figure and brought it to her pale, gulping neck. She made no attempt to stop him; in fact if she had been capable of coherent thought, she would have welcomed it. With one swift movement, he opened her throat wide and watched as her body toppled over with a strangled gurgle caught on her lips.

Reverend end.

The church of St. Bart’s was shrouded in darkness as Reverend Dunhealy walked down the central aisle towards the altar. He rolled an unlit cigar between his thumb and forefinger in thoughtful contemplation. The low moan of the wind whistled through the eaves, sounding like a lonely wolf calling from a distant hilltop.

Four six foot stained glass windows, depicting St. Bartholomew, St. Oswald, St. Matthew and St. Mark, gazed down upon him. St. Bartholomew, looking forlorn with long flowing beard, Oswald, with proud, angular features, Mark’s rounded, cheerful face and Matthew, wise and craggy.

A noise behind him caused him to stop abruptly and turn around. He stood, motionless, his breath caught on the cold air in front of him, and his temporarily forgotten cigar dangling down by his side. “Is anyone there?”

Shadow and movement to his side. The Reverend turned, irritated. Standing below St. Oswald, complete with halo encircled crown and sword pointing to the ground ahead of him, he noticed a figure bathed in shadow.

Reverend Dunhealy’s frown turned to concern. Taking a step sideways towards the altar, he said, “You shouldn’t be in here. I would be happy to see you during normal hours.”

Whitman stepped out of the shadows, his face grinning and ghostly white against his glistening black clothing. “I have the devil in me, Father.” His tone and expression were deadly serious, but inside he fought to suppress a snort of amusement.

Maintaining eye contact, the Reverend sidestepped further towards the altar and raised his arms, the cigar dropping to the floor and skittering under one of the pews. “Stay away from me,” he commanded sternly, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his failing confidence.

“
You look like an angel
…
walk like an angel
…
talk like an angel
,” Whitman sung melodiously, just above a whisper as he strode towards the now terrified vicar.

The words seemed almost spellbinding at first as he continued to back away slowly, but then the Reverend seemed to shake off the hex and quickly turned and ran for the rear door beyond the altar.

Whitman gave chase, still singing, louder now. “
But I got wise
…
you’re the devil in disguise
…
oh yes you are!
”

As the Reverend fumbled at the door, Whitman caught up, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him round to face him. The lanky vicar was an inch or two taller, but Whitman’s wide frame more than made up for the height difference.

Despite the short distance, the Reverend was breathing heavily and his dog collar suddenly felt as if it were strangling him. His wide, fearful eyes, combined with his wild ginger hair, lent him a mad professor look. “Who
are
you?”

Whitman gripped him by both shoulders and leaned closer, their faces almost touching. “Don’t you recognise me,
Reverend
?” The final word was spat out in a snarl.

The Reverend struggled to widen the gap between their two faces, then his eyes fixed upon the few small spots of dried blood on his cheeks.

“Shhh,” Whitman said soothingly to him, maintaining eye contact. Tightening his grip on the hilt, he started to saw slowly across the Reverend’s body, accompanied by a wet slicing noise that reminded him of carving a particularly rare roast beef joint. A gut wrenching splash followed as the Reverend’s intestines spilled out onto the stone floor.

The Reverend’s mouth worked, forming low murmuring sounds. His eyes stayed fixed on Whitman’s, but the fear and pain were gone, only a look of sadness remained.

Whitman let go of him and withdrew the drenched knife. Still staring at his attacker, Reverend Dunhealy slowly slid down the door. It was only when he crumpled onto his haunches and keeled over that eye contact was finally severed. His head smacked unceremoniously off cold stone. Entrails lay in a pile at his feet, with creamy yellow, fleshy cords leading from the pile to the Reverend’s butchered corpse.

The Reverend’s gaze had somehow fixed on the stained glass window depicting St. Bartholomew with three flaying knives on his cerulean robes. “Well, at least I didn’t skin you alive,” Whitman said genially, with a brief glance towards the saint. Slowly regulating his breathing, he added, “Or cut your heart out with a spoon.”

Whitman continued to stare at the lifeless body, seemingly lost in thought. He cocked his head to one side, scrutinising the dead priest, from his permanent gaze, to the pile of steaming entrails on the floor. Then, with a brief shiver brought on surely from the creeping damp of his clothing, he shook off the trance and slipped the knife back in its sheath. “Next,” he said, at once cheery again.

Icy snow crystals stung at Jimmy’s red, dripping face as he shuffled through the ankle-deep snow towards the door to his bed-sit. He was soaked and shivering, with thick green snot running from his nose to congeal in the week old stubble on his upper lip. He was too drained to bother wiping it away anymore. The cold had sapped every bit of strength from his aching, malnourished muscles.

The village appeared to be completely bereft of life, with just a solitary orange glow from a bedroom window from across the street to act as a beacon on such a stormy night. He hadn’t seen Main Street, so he assumed there would be a few people still revelling in the Duck and the Miller’s at least, but here, there was nothing but the howling wind to keep him company. He thought for a moment of the warm and laughing people in the pubs, toasting each other and wishing each other a happy Christmas. The thought made him feel intolerably lonely, and chilled him to the core.

The sack was unmoving as he dragged it unenthusiastically along behind him, having stopped briefly to wring the necks of the four birds. It was a chore that he never had quite gotten the stomach for, despite having done it many times before.

As he reached the door, he fumbled with his numb hands to retrieve the key from his cold and wet jeans. Cursing as his alien hands refused to cooperate, he then noticed that the door was already ajar.

Too weary to care, he shoved the door aside and struggled into the dark musty hallway. There was no sound coming from his landlord’s flat on the ground floor, so after shaking some of the excess snow free from his jacket, he trudged as quietly as he could be bothered upstairs.

The door to his bed-sit was still broken so he nudged it aside and staggered in.

Without even troubling to push the door closed behind him, he slung the sack towards the kitchenette, shrugged out of his jacket and boots and collapsed onto the bed. His eyes closed and sleep embraced him almost immediately.

Life was good to me ’til now.

A quiet snoring drifted up from the king-size bed positioned against the fire breast wall of the spacious, decadently furnished bedroom. Three layers of complimentary voiles draped across the window, silk scatter cushions were splayed, top and bottom over the burgundy bed covers, and plush, crushed velvet wallpaper hung on every wall, broken only by paintings and photographs of cats (mainly Persian), and wall-hanging brass candle holders. The darkened room was hushed except for the rhythmic sounds emanating from the sleeping figure. Above him, on the fire breast wall, a sizeable oil painting adorned centre stage, depicting Moe Baxter on an opulent gold and jewel encrusted throne, stroking a fat Persian cat on his lap.

In sleep, Moe had managed to find an inner calm that eluded him in waking hours of late. It had been aided with several vodka martinis and a couple of sleeping pills, but the result was the same.

There was a faint creak from behind the door. After a moment of silence, the brass doorknob turned slowly and the door eased open a fraction. Jill Fairbank eased her head round the door to check on her boss and friend. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks. She paused in the doorway for a while, watching him. He had been through so much. It had not been well known, and most of those who had known had scoffed, but Moe and Tess had been involved in a meaningful relationship for several years.

He acted the camp clown at times, but he was a warm, sensitive man who had grown a deep love and respect for Tess over the years of their friendship. The village gossip had always suggested that it was just a thinly veiled attempt to hide his homosexuality, but, contrary to popular belief, Moe had never had those tendencies. He had, however, remained a virgin until much later in life, and over the years had developed deep anxieties towards intercourse and the opposite sex.

It had been Tess who had finally stripped away those years of apprehension. She had done it out of friendship at first, insisting that, as friends, she would help him with what had become a huge issue in his life. But out of that joining, they had connected on a much deeper level and a full relationship developed.