Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (25 page)

She burst into tears as she forced herself upright, clutching the oozing wound in her side. Pressing her back against the sofa, she held out one hand, imploring. “Please, oh please, no!”

“Say hello to the real boogeyman.” With a sneer curling his top lip, he launched himself upon her.

The struggle was brief. He stood up from Kelly’s still, bleeding body and considered his handiwork. He was breathing heavily and sweat dribbled down his forehead and cheeks. The young girl’s chest had been stabbed repeatedly and her head slumped to one side, a tortured look of horror frozen into her features. The blue fabric of the sofa was awash with the pooling dark stains of Kelly’s blood. The position she had naturally fallen into was a vivid reminder of Mandy’s after his first, virgin assault. A flash of burning orbs caused him to blink momentarily.

Not wishing to linger over the teenager’s body or the memories it ignited, he walked out of the lounge without looking back. He headed instinctively for the box room (which was only marginally smaller than the main bedroom). This door too, was slightly ajar. He paused with one bloodstained, gloved hand on the doorframe.

A look of uncertainty flickered across his sweaty face as he continued to draw in deep breaths. He stared at the door for what seemed like an age, a frown burrowing dark lines into his features. All this killing was turning into quite a chore, but that was not what stayed his hand. An image of Vanessa formed at the back of his mind; her dreadfully sad look unmistakable and undistorted by time. The spectral image seemed to waver, and suddenly, in her place, Lisa was staring at him, her look of horror enough to draw the hairs up on his arms. Her black, gaping maw formed soundless words, pleading. As the vision faded, he glimpsed her eyes turning flame red, and her mouth contorting with rage.

He drew a long, shaky breath, then planted his palm firmly on the door and pushed it open.

Haley was sleeping soundly in her bed, tucked tightly into a Little Mermaid duvet cover. The soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing was melodic in the deathly silence.

“Come on Tam, if yae wanna lock in, get yourself along tae the Duck,” Big Joe said to Tam’s slumped form on the edge of the bar. There was still good humour in his tone, but it was starting to wear thin. He folded his arms over the top of his big stomach. After a moment, the old timer grunted, stepped shakily down from his stool and made a poor attempt at straightening his overcoat.

Lisa trudged through from the lounge, yawning. Flashing Christmas tree earrings dangled from her lobes, but her demeanour lacked the cheer the novelty earrings suggested.

“Lucky he’s got that jeep of his, with this foul weather.” Big Joe watched Tam as he slumped back against the stool, mumbling to himself. Shaking his head, he said to Lisa, “I’m sure Martha’ll make a fresh batch tomorrow.”

Lisa rubbed the back of her aching neck and nodded, too tired to respond.

Tam finally struggled back to his feet and muttered something that might have been a goodnight while he wrapped a moth-eaten scarf around his scrawny neck. He shuffled precariously to the door and left without another word. Snow had been gathering up against the door and flakes blew in as the old man forced his way out into the storm.

“Be careful, Tam!” Big Joe shouted after him.

The door slammed shut behind him. Tam pulled his coat tight around his frail form as he shuffled through the deep snow. The icy wind whipped his thinning grey hair into a frenzy and blasted his ruddy, broken-veined cheeks. At the intersection with Miller’s Road, a dark figure was waiting for him.

Tam stopped, the wind rocking him unsteadily on his feet. He stared at the figure through rheumy eyes and smiled. “What do you want?”

Whitman moved closer to him to ensure that the old man would hear him clearly over the gusting wind. “What do you think I want, you miserable old bastard?”

Tam laughed; it was more like a cackle, bearing what stained teeth remained in his mouth. “Come for me now, eh?”

Drawing the knife from under his jacket, Whitman replied, “Let’s just say; there may be trouble ahead.”

Listen to the wind blow,

Watch the sun rise,

Run in the shadows,

Damn your love,

Damn your lies,

And if,

You don't love me now,

You will never love me again,

I can still hear you saying,

You would never break the chain
…

The lights flickered as Big Joe locked the front door. Glancing up to the ceiling, he muttered, “Ah shite, that’s all we need.”

“I’ve never seen it as bad as this,” Lisa said from her slouched position on one of the bar stools. She was staring wistfully at one of the curtained windows, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

Big Joe paused, listening to the low howl of the storm raging outside. “Aye, worst un I’ve seen in maybe twennie years.”

“Like that Day After Tomorrow film, eh?”

Big Joe had to think for a minute. “Aye, the one with the science lab thing in Scotland with nae one of them proper Scots and they all freeze tae death.”

The landlord turned to her and offered her a reassuring smile. “Danae yae worry. Han’ll be fine. If he didnae get away from Rothbury in time, he’ll just have tae stay the night. I’m sure Graham and Lisa, or Cath or maybe Bill and Teresa would be able tae put him up fae the night. One of them are bound tae have a spare bed.”

Lisa lifted her head off her hand and returned the smile. “Thanks, Joe,” she said sincerely.

Scratching his stomach, Big Joe yawned and said, “Right I better get off tae bed before Martha starts wondering where I’ve got tae.”

“Don’t worry, she won’t.” Whitman was standing in the doorway which led to the kitchens and staircase. His dark clothes were wet, crumpled and torn in a couple of places. Darker stains were spattered across his chest, legs and arms, and several smeared spots of blood were visible on his forehead and cheeks, despite the moisture from snow and sweat. He was just finishing off a hastily hacked piece of homemade bread that he had swiped on the way through from the kitchen to satiate his grumbling stomach.

Big Joe and Lisa both performed a double take before recognising the panting, animal-like man lurking in the doorway, gulping down the remnants of some bread.

Big Joe frowned. “Han? Is that yae laddie? Yae look like yae been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

Lisa hesitantly stepped forward, against her instincts. Her voice filled with concern, and a trace of fear, she said, “Honey? What’s happened? Did you have a crash?”

Stepping into the room, towards them, Whitman said, “Everyone’s dead. I killed them.”

The simple honesty in his voice caused Big Joe to step backwards. He glanced nervously towards Lisa, before saying, “What yae talking aboot, laddie?” He grunted a half-laugh at the absurdness of it.

“I killed Moe and Jill, Tam, Sally and Anthony, the Reverend …” his voice trailed off as his eyes seemed to mist over momentarily. Then his fierce stare fixed upon Lisa. “Tess and Mandy too.”

Lisa staggered backwards with the force of his glare, using the bar to stop herself from collapsing to the ground. His words were laced with lunacy, but his rabid look seemed only to confirm them. “What are saying? Han? Stop it!”

Her distraught plea momentarily thinned out the red mist and tugged at something inside that caused his heart to skip a beat. Grinding his teeth, he strained to banish it into the murky depths.

Big Joe kept his eyes glued to this man who he had known for many months as a friendly and genuine man who now resembled a wild animal. Cautiously, he reached across the bar and took hold of a heavy glass ashtray. “This isnae funny,” he said as the ashtray slipped behind his back.

Whitman slowly, purposefully, closed the gap. His stare switched to Big Joe and a smile slowly crept across his face. “I’ve just killed your fat wife too.”

Big Joe’s heart pounded in his chest and his face flushed. “What?” A mixture of rage, fear and disbelief tugged the word in different directions.

Tears began streaming down Lisa’s cheeks as she brought her hands up to cover her quivering mouth. Her strength seemed to be seeping out of the soles of her feet as she sagged against the bar, her legs unable to support her. “
Han
…” The single word embodied her shattered dreams and utter hopelessness.

Whitman stopped, within a couple of yards from them. The knife that had been concealed up his sleeve slowly emerged into view, dripping with fresh blood. Casually, and with somewhat forced pleasure, he said, “I stuck her like a pig.”

That was enough for Big Joe Falkirk. He surged forward and, despite his bulk, crossed the distance with surprising speed and agility. Swinging the thick ashtray like a club, Big Joe bawled, “Bastard!”

Whitman stepped back and brought his own weapon up in a short upward swipe, tearing open Big Joe’s forearm and cutting his faded thistle tattoo in half.

The landlord cried out in pain, but did not break off the attack. With his uninjured arm, he shoved Whitman backwards, screaming a torrent of obscenities. His jowly face was crimson and his chest heaved and shuddered with the effort. With Whitman’s final words still reverberating around his seared mind, nothing else existed, nothing else mattered, but a primal need to kill.

Whitman stumbled into a low round table, but was surging forward again in seconds as Big Joe struggled to switch the ashtray to his good hand.

Through a finger veil, Lisa cried out, “No, please!” Tears soaked her cheeks and her shoulders shuddered in time with her sobbing. This could not be happening. This had to be some kind of insane nightmare. Her mouth worked, forming whispered words, as she prayed and begged that maybe it was just a nightmare, some terrible, terrible dream. But deep down, she knew in her heart that all the hopes and dreams of a future, as a family together, had been abruptly and absolutely destroyed.

Big Joe started to bring the ashtray down to connect with the top of Whitman’s head, but the younger, fitter man was much quicker. Whitman stuck the knife into the landlord’s fat stomach, causing a short, sharp gasp to escape Big Joe’s blue, snarling lips.

The ashtray clattered to the floor as Lisa looked on, fighting for breath as her throat constricted and her lungs tightened.

“Danae … understand …” Big Joe uttered, his face scrunched up with the pain.

Whitman leant closer to whisper in his ear. “You all have to die.” With that, he tore the knife loose, splattering blood across the bar and floor. As Big Joe staggered back a step, Whitman slashed him across the throat, opening up a gaping wound which pumped blood down his shuddering body.

Big Joe’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he keeled over against the bar. The solid cherrywood bar creaked with the impact from his shoulder and head, clinking glasses stacked on the shelves behind. With the front of his shirt awash, and the colour literally draining from his features, Big Joe slid face forward into a crumpled, dead heap.

Lisa had backed off, now just whimpering softly. Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

Whitman walked over to her, smiling through a blood-splattered mask. As he approached, he said pleasantly, “How you holding up, princess?”

Cowering away with each word like they were sparking embers, the trembling grew stronger as she struggled to say, “St-stay away!”

Whitman feigned upset. “Charming! After all we’ve been through together.”

“Why?” she asked softly between snivels, barely able to maintain eye contact with this man, this monster. “I …
loved
you.”

He tried to touch the side of her face, but she recoiled away violently. He frowned at that, seemingly surprised at such a show of revulsion. “I love you too, Lisa. This isn’t about us.”

Lisa looked up through her streaming eyes, briefly wiping away clear snot oozing from one nostril. “Not about us?” The words came out shrill and choked. “You’re … murdering … EVERYONE!”

Whitman felt an overwhelming urge to make her understand. “Look,” he implored, “I didn’t mean for … us to happen. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry?” She managed an abrupt, strangled laugh that sounded like the dying convulsions from a hanging man. She had backed off all the way to the locked front door. Whitman had moved with her, seemingly unaware that they had been moving at all.

“It’s nothing personal, Lisa, but I’ve got to keep emotion out of this.” His tone remained deeply apologetic. Continuing, he added, “If it’s any consolation, I made it quick for Haley because I cared so much about the two of you.”

The sobs stopped instantly and Lisa’s bloodshot eyes darted a look of utter horror at Whitman. One thing she had never contemplated – couldn’t possibly even imagine in the midst of her darkest fears – was … a sound rumbled in her throat that quickly began to build momentum. Her face that had, a moment ago, been stricken with fear and devastation, now contorted into unadulterated hatred. “My …
angel
… ” Her words were scarcely words at all, more like feral barks.

A flicker of concern fleetingly marred Whitman’s features, but then, raising the knife, he added, “And it will be quick for you too, my love.” As she surged at him with hands distorted like claws, he thrust the knife towards her already ruptured heart.