Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (3 page)

Perry should be able to take Ju and keep an eye on the house, but it would require a lot of faith to let him run
Movie Maniac
. Six months was a long time for him to cope on his own – it would be quite a directorial debut! He had been friends with the scrawny Tarantino wannabe since their Uni days in Newcastle, so trust wasn’t an issue. But, thinking about it, there would be a need to restock new DVD and games titles, rota the part-timers, but other than that the shop pretty much ran itself. The accountants would continue to handle everything else.

Nothing would change really. Hell, the little shit already pretended to the occasional hot chick that popped in that he was the owner. He had stumbled upon that little gem when he had interrupted the flow of bullshit to one such tight-jeaned victim by entering unannounced late one night. Of course, being the friend that he was, he didn’t spoil the line, but he sure as hell gave him some stick for it over the weeks that followed.

So, Perry would get his end away a bit more while he was away. The desperate fucker needed the help.

Chuckling, he turned to his dog and said, “He should get himself some of that Arcturan Poontang – as long as it ain’t a male.” Jumanji panted back at him, his face a picture of happiness.

CHAPTER 2

2
^nd
July.
I'm from the city
...
Doesn't matter what city; all cities are alike.

It took all of his resources, a couple of shady characters (acquaintances of a drinking pal down the Queen’s Head) and the wonders of online shopping and
eBay
to acquire all the equipment that he would need for his little adventure.

The most difficult part was arranging an address and occupation (in Cumbria) and NI number for his new identity. The young Chinese gent had told him quite openly that the documentation would hold up to cursory background checks, but would not withstand intense scrutiny. He was certainly not going to be any
Carlos the Jackal
, but it would have to do.

Now, as he headed north along the A64 heading away from Leeds, his thoughts were of Jumanji. Leaving his faithful Labrador behind with Perry had been the hardest part of his adventure so far. Ju had sat at the front door of Perry’s flat while they had discussed a couple of final shop issues, his big eyes full of wonder and his tail wagging. He had even let out a low surprised whine when he ruffled his head one last time and walked away without him. He would miss the dumb mutt terribly while he was away, but it had to be done.

His story to Perry was that he was off to Cornwall to hide out in a cottage so that he could write the long overdue novel that he had been threatening to write for the last ten years. This adventure was going to give him something amazing to write about, that was for sure.

A heady concoction of excitement and trepidation cast aside any lingering drowsiness from the restless night’s sleep he had endured the night before. He had felt like an eight year old on Christmas Eve – before adult anxieties and the unveiling of the true Santa Clause had dampened the magic.

The image of his mum sneaking into his bedroom at three AM was still vivid. She had the red woollen stocking with his name penned in biro and the picture of a colourfully decorated Christmas tree on it in her hands and she had silently deposited it at the foot of his bed. He still remembered the pyjamas she had gotten the two of them that year – his had small cartoon karate fighters all over and his brother’s had been racing cars – C&A’s best.

In previous years, she had always managed to outwit and outwait the both of them. They had always been foiled in their attempts at pretending to be asleep, but that year, when his mum checked on him, he had successfully fooled her, and suddenly years of belief were abruptly shattered. At first he had felt deeply hurt and even embarrassed for not listening to Darren at school, but the next day, seeing his mum beaver away in the kitchen with never a second’s rest, something clicked inside. A seven year old boy learned to appreciate his mum that bit more.

His mum had always worked damn hard, holding down tough jobs to put food on the table. He had always asked for EVERYTHING on his Christmas lists before that year. In the years to come his lists became far more frugal. He never told her that he had caught her; instead he had just carried on with the ruse for several more years, until a mutual acceptance just kind of settled that such things were just for kids.

The early morning was grey and drizzly; just your typical English summer day. Traffic was heavy, with the ants dashing to work or dropping the kids off at school. A lorry, emblazoned with
ASDA Pocket the difference,
roared past in the outside lane, buffeting Hannibal’s small Peugeot 206 and spraying it with dirty brown surface water.

He shook his head with an expression of disappointment and sadness, but then, spying the exit for A1 NORTH up ahead, his spirits immediately rose once more. The drive north on the A1 was unchanging and uneventful, so to ease the boredom, Whitman further formulated the character he was to become for the duration of his adventure. He would live, breathe, sleep and think as the Cumbrian writer, Mister Hannibal Whitman – the shop owner from Leeds would no longer exist; there would only be Whitman. So, he began creating background and family, likes and dislikes, motivations and careers. He’d fancied being an actor when he was younger and had always done well in drama.
Stanislavski would have been proud of my character preparation
, he mused. Slowly, in the dark recesses of his mind, Hannibal Whitman began to take shape.
It's alive
…
It's alive!

Once every last detail had been finalised, he played them over and over in his head, so that he would be able to recall them without hesitation. Chatting incessantly to the windscreen, he discussed every aspect of his new life to the splattered fly-corpses encrusted there. He adopted a mediocre Irish accent for the unnamed person questioning him and replied in a cheery ‘all too happy to tell’ tone. After twenty minutes, he was both satisfied with his character and bored with talking to himself, so he switched the CD player on and turned the volume up high.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord, Oh Lord,

I’ve been waiting for this moment, all my life, Oh Lord
…

Chariots of fire.

Detouring from the A1, he took the A690 and followed the signposts through the former mining town of Houghton le Spring, all the way to Sunderland city centre. From there, he followed his printed
Multimap
directions to drop the Peugeot off at a long stay car park. After paying cash for a full six months in advance, he rushed through the cold rain, passing late morning shoppers, to the nearest taxi rank. The Mac-Cab Mondeo that picked him up stunk of cigarettes, despite having a peeling ‘No Smoking’ sign slapped onto the front of the glove box. But that was refreshing in comparison to the fat driver’s body odour.

As luck would have it, his journey did not last long. ‘Davey’ dropped him off outside a shabby second-hand car lot, aptly (or not) named ‘Chris’s Chariots’. If the faded lettering on the cheap amateur sign was anything to go by, it would be perfect. The sky had turned a purplish-grey and the rain was beating off the uneven pavement and the bonnets of the colourful variety of cars.

With the rest of his luggage safely stowed with his car to pick up on the way out of Sunderland, all he carried was a plain backpack containing a few important items. Shouldering the bag, he strode confidently around the littered and oil-stained forecourt, ignoring the pounding rain, until his eyes fell upon an old Daihatsu Sportrak. On closer inspection, its age seemed to be the only thing going against it; nothing that a decent service and a couple of new tyres couldn’t rectify, at any rate.

The salesman, sensing a fresh victim, moved in for the kill. Angling his bright yellow and blue golfing umbrella to shield both of them, he said, “I see you’re a four-be-four connoisseur, mate. Nothing more rugged and reliable than these Sportraks.” Under his
Arthur Daley
overcoat he was wearing an expensive suit, but he made it look cheap. With a ‘I want your money’ kind of a smile, he added, “Me name’s Chris and these are me chariots and, aye that does sound like more cheese than Edam, but try not to hold it against us.”

Without waiting for a response, and with the chit-chat dispensed with, he ploughed straight into sales mode. “You can see she’s in damn good condition and only two previous owners. She’s a ninety-five with the 1.6 ELXi engine – real quick for a four-be-four. Seventy-three on the clock, and taxed and MOT’d. At this price it’s a steal – already had two lads looking since I put it out yesterday. If I was one of them shandy-drinkin’ southerners, like, I’d be saying ‘I’m cuttin’me own froat, Guv’. But as am not, I’ll just say this – let’s take her for a spin and see for yourself, eh?”

Whitman did just that, and was pleasantly surprised. The ten minute drive around Sunderland’s one way system wasn’t too juddery, nor was the engine too noisy. He also managed to knock the price down to nine hundred pounds, by paying cash there and then. Halfway through the transaction he looked at his watch and feigned horror. Apologising, he said that he had an important meeting to go to and would have to finish the paperwork off another day. Eager not to lose the sale, Chris did what Whitman hoped he would do. He rushed through the formalities, failing to check for any proof of ID when filling out the notification of sale and new keeper on the Registration Certificate.

Whitman was feeling pretty pleased with himself as he drove his newly acquired Daihatsu back to the car park to collect the rest of his luggage. Even the rain had died off to a fine drizzle.

Once back on the A1, he skirted around Newcastle and Gateshead via the Western Bypass. The bold view of the Angel of the North, looking down from a well manicured grassy hill at Gateshead’s fringe, reminded him of a film,
The Prophecy,
starring Christopher Walken. In the film, angels had been locked in an ageless conflict because God had favoured man with a soul. Whitman had loved the idea of that film; especially the fact that many of the angels – mainly Walken, playing Angel Gabriel – had been portrayed as vicious amoral killers, whom considered man no better than livestock.

Whitman made a mental note to pull that DVD out of the shop one more time when he returned from his little adventure. Walken was huge favourite of his; an actor with a rare talent to give the appearance of being a total psychopath, without the need to prove it through actual violence. He could chat casually, smile, laugh, hell even smell a rose in such a way as to make you run for cover, leave the country, buy a bunker, lock the doors and buy a very big gun (to use on yourself, in the event that he actually found you, because you wouldn’t want to piss him off by trying to shoot him).

Laughing out loud at that last thought, he reached across to the passenger seat where several audio tapes had been scattered on the cracked leather, after being hastily purchased in Sunderland from several charity shops. A minor bugbear about the Sportrak – no CD player. He located the soundtrack to
The Lost Boys
and popped it into the front loader. As
Echo & the Bunnymen
started crooning about strange people, a contented smile settled across his face.

People are strange when you’re a stranger,

Faces look ugly when you’re alone,

Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted,

Streets are uneven when you’re down
…

When a stranger calls.

After taking the A696 turn off, he pulled out of the Newcastle suburbs and into Northumberland. He passed by the Northumbrian Police Headquarters at Ponteland with mild interest. The bustling historic town on the River Pont was heaving with activity. Further on, he caught a glimpse of a signpost for Darras Hall; famed estate where many of the North East’s rich and famous lived, including a few Toon footballers.

Once north of Ponteland, the landscape became steadily more luscious and green. He found himself travelling through quaint villages, with even quainter names – Belsay, Barnhill, Kirkwhelpington. To kill time, he started imagining tabloid headlines for each village – THE BELSAY BLOODBATH, THE BUTCHER OF BARNHILL, THE CRAZED VIDEO SHOP KILLER OF KIRKWEL-KIRK-WHELP-OH FUCK IT-OF KIRK.

After skimming the southern borders of Harwood Forest, a thick coniferous mass of spruce and pine, sloping gently north east all the way to Rothbury, he was approaching the edge of the vast sixty thousand acre army training estate at Otterburn when he located his next turnoff. The B6341, a spindly, pot-holed cocktail shaker of a ride, which led him to a road that ran parallel with the tranquil River Coquet; the road that would lead him all the way to his destination … Haydon.

The final leg of his journey into early evening took him through the quiet hamlet of Alwinton, at the south eastern foothills of the Cheviots, surrounded by rolling moors and grazing fields. He had to stop once to pull onto the grass verge to allow a battered faded blue Land Rover to pass. He took a moment to glance down to his left and saw a trickling stream down a shallow bank, covered with luscious grass and sprinkled with buttercups. Dreamily, he looked back towards the driver of the Lanny, a grinning, craggy faced man with a thick head of white hair and bushy sideburns. The man waved a thank you as he passed by.