Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (35 page)

Mitchell turned to leave, saying. “Barricade this door when we leave and, if anyone comes knocking without announcing themselves, you have my permission to shoot first and ask questions later.” He stared at each one of them in turn to emphasise the point. “I mean it.”

Following Mitchell, Wright paused in the doorway to say, “Smoke me a kipper, I’ll be back for breakfast.” Then he, too, disappeared into the night.

The four of them continued to stare at the door for several seconds, before Sam eventually walked over to the door and jammed it back into place. “P-pass a chair.”

Mother’s milk.

Larry’s Ford Focus had been transformed into a vaguely car-shaped snow sculpture. Crouched behind it, sheltering from the biting wind and concealed from view, Whitman had followed the two detectives and then lain in wait. As it became obvious that they were spending longer than necessary in there, his mind began to wander; perhaps to take his mind off the bitter cold and the stinging in his ears.

He started humming at first then, ever so quietly, he starting singing, “I feel so bad, I got a worried mind, I'm so lonesome all the time, since I left my baby behind on Blue Bayou.”

I'm going back someday, come what may to Blue Bayou,

Where you sleep all day and the catfish play on Blue Bayou,

All those fishing boats with their sails afloat, if I could only see,

That familiar sunrise through sleepy eyes, how happy I'd be
…

The dining room was warm and the smells of the Sunday roast were causing the young boy to salivate and his stomach to grumble in anticipation. Roy Orbison’s voice was both haunting and tragic as it drifted up from his mother’s Bush record player and radiogramme, set inside a veneered cabinet.

The young boy was sat at the teak dining table with his chin resting on his arms, a dreamy look lost in his eyes. His thick shock of dark ginger hair hung almost to the collar of his black t-shirt. He sat up as he heard his mother walking through from the kitchen. The front of his t-shirt had the faces of Adama, Apollo and Starbuck, set against a star-filled backdrop with the Battlestar, Galactica, leading the rag-tag, fugitive fleet on a lonely quest
…

A woman in her thirties walked through. She had luscious red, curly hair flowing past her shoulders and wore an orange and green floral apron over bell-bottom jeans and a polo-neck shirt, tight across large breasts. She was wiping her hands on a London souvenir tea towel. “Nearly ready, sweetheart,” she said with a warm smile. “Your dad should be back from the club soon.”

His father spent quite a bit of time in the working men’s club, and quite a bit of time away working, but he didn’t mind, especially on a Sunday. He and his mother would listen to her old record collection – dozens of singles, LPs and Reader’s Digest Box Sets; The Swinging Sixties, The Fabulous Fifties, Golden Greats of the Fifties and Sixties, The Great Transatlantic Hits, Elvis Greatest Hits, Golden Hit Parade
…
The two of them would sit and chat while a whole host of favourites would tantalise tenderly in the background. Needles & Pins, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Teenager In Love, Poetry In Motion, Run around Sue, Oh Carol, Venus in Blue Jeans, With a little Help from my Friends, Blue Moon, Duke of Earl, Mr Tambourine Man, Groovy Kind of Love, Whiter Shade of Pale, Only the Lonely
…
the list was endless.

The warmth of the memory had temporarily abated the cold reality as he watched the two detectives leave the doctor’s house. His head and shoulders were now coated with fresh snow. Kneeling, unmoving in the foot deep snow, had soaked his jeans through, and, with the warm memory fading fast, the icy wet quickly crept back into his bones. But the wait had been worth it.

They had spent longer than usual in Larry’s house, but someone else slamming the door after the gorilla left confirmed it. It would seem that one or more of his missing flock were holed up in the doc’s house. That saved him a job.
Thanks, fellas
.

Whispering to himself, he said, “So, you’ve told them to sit tight and that help is on the way, while you two are going to be the heroes and hunt down the villain?” He thought about that for a moment. “The villain? That would be me, right? Well, I suppose that’s fair, given the circumstances. I can play the Joker to your Batman and Robin.”

Watching Wright and Mitchell walk back to Bell Lane, he mused, “Jack Nicholson or Cesar Romero? Tough call that. Nicholson’s was more sinister, that’s for sure, but Romero was mad as a box of frogs.”

“How about Jack Romero?” He considered, standing. “Mad and sinister.” After brushing the snow from his legs and shaking it free from his upper body, he followed the two detectives.
Jack Romero, eh? A great name to use for the sequel. Could be misinterpreted as a reference to George A. Romero, the zombie maestro, but there certainly wasn’t anything wrong with that.
In a low, but cheery tone, he sung, “Dan-a-dan-a-dan-a-dan-a-batman!”

The two shapes trudged doggedly along Bell Lane, shin deep in snow and hunched over against the raging elements. They kept their torches switched off, not wanting to register their presence to prying eyes. Shivering, Mitchell shielded his eyes against the driving snow with his torch hand and pointed ahead of them with the other, cradling his baton, saying, “We need to check everything on the Miller’s side.” He had to virtually shout for his colleague to hear him over the roar of the wind.

Wiping snow and icy water from his face, Wright nodded, wobbling his hood comically, then slowed to a shuffling crawl as they approached the junction with Main Street. “The shooter’s going to know that his time’s running out. He won’t have sat waiting for us to show our faces – he’ll be out looking for us.” Tilting his head back the way they had come, he added, “And them.” A strong gust whipped the hood from his face and fluttered his hair in short grey/black flames, drawn on the wind.

Wiping more melting flakes from his face, Mitchell said, “Yeah, could be anywhere by now. What are the odds of him cutting his losses and doing a runner, do you think?” He plucked a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his red, dribbling nose.

“Zero,” Wright replied immediately, jamming his hood back onto his head and briefly shoving his numbed hands into his marginally warmer armpits to try to bring some feeling back to them. “This bloke is on a rampage – he wants everyone dead, and that now includes us. This maniac obviously doesn’t give a damn that we’re coppers or that more will be on the way. He’s started something here and he intends to finish it.”

Wright glanced at him, blinking snow from his eyes. “Bloody joking, aren’t you? But it was the only thing we could do, us being the good guys, and all that.”

“Oh aye, what was all that sharp sticks bollocks?” Mitchell asked with a half grunted laugh.

Chuckling, Wright said, “Dunno, shit just tends to pour out sometimes when I open my trap. Sounded pretty cool at the time though, eh?”

“Loony.” Squinting through the snow and the darkness, Mitchell regarded the silhouetted buildings across Main Street with suspicion. “Suggest we move further back along Main Street and cut across the road at the edge of the village. Then we can search everything that side from top to bottom.”

“Fine by me.” Feigning an optimistic tone, Wright added, “Maybe some of our esteemed colleagues might join us for a pint in the Miller’s by then, eh?”

“Aye, let’s hope they send more than one bloody uniform too!”

“Well, if some donkey at headquarters thinks we’ve just crashed or gotten ourselves stuck up here, they might well do. But, on the other hand, they’d be hard pressed to ignore the lack of radio or telephone contact, even with those eventualities.”

As content as he could be that no one was in view, Mitchell edged out onto Main Street and headed towards the church with Wright following close behind. Shapes and shadows seemed to dance just out of view, lost within the snowstorm, teasing and defying the blurred vision of the two officers. Several times one or the other would stop, raising their baton in readiness, only to realise that it was nothing but a swirling snow ghost. Even the wind appeared to collaborate, whispering not quite recognisable words astray amongst the buffeting frenzy.

After barricading the door with a couple of chairs, Sam and Bryce joined the other two in the living room. A single candle flickered on the coffee table in the centre of the room, offering a warm orange glow that seemed to take a sliver of the chill from the air. Sitting on the arm of a chair, his voice loaded with concern, Bryce said, “I should’ve given them the rifle.”

Slouched in the other armchair, Jimmy sat forward, saying, “Are you mad?” He scratched the back of his already angry red hand, wincing at the pain, but continuing nevertheless.

Carol was sitting on the sofa, with her legs tucked under her. She bit at a knuckle, before saying, “I’ve got to agree with Jimmy on that, John.”

Bryce shrugged, but the concern remained in his voice. “They’re out there searching for him and we’re in here. There’s four of us and we’ve got the place secured, so who needs the gun more, eh?”

Neither Sam, nor Carol could return his stare. Even Jimmy glanced down at his hands when Bryce turned his attention to him. He looked at the angry scratch marks on the backs of both hands, but after a moment’s hesitation, he looked up once more and matched his stare. He muttered, “They’re coppers; they’re trained for this sort of thing, like. It’s what they’re paid for.”

Too tired to get angry, Bryce said simply, “They’re not paid to get killed, son. They have armed response units for this kinda thing. They’re out there armed with truncheons, man. Han’s got a gun – it’s a big difference. Kinda like fishing with hand grenades.”

“Well, they should’ve stayed with us then,” Carol said, resting her head on her hand. Her face appeared gaunt and exhausted in the orange glow. Fatigue was creeping in with the hushed, cosy atmosphere.

“They’re doin’ their job. They might not like the situation, but they’re still doing it. I got a lot of respect for that.”

“H-he’s gonna g-g-get them t-too, isn’t h-he?” Sam managed and regretted it immediately. Sitting next to Carol, he pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs. He chewed on his bottom lip and glanced around at the others. They all remained lost in their own thoughts for a while.

Yawning, Bryce turned to him finally and shook his head with as much conviction as his tired brain could muster. “Nah, divvent think like that, mate. Just ’cause they haven’t got guns, that doesn’t mean they’re stupid – they’re gunna be bloody careful.”

Jimmy opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. For once, he felt a wisecrack might be inappropriate. Instead, he took a chunk off the tip of a jagged nail with his discoloured incisors and thought about soft, pure white powder, lined up on a spotless mirror, with a twenty rolled up beside it. Or better yet, hot, bubbling liquid in a tablespoon. The thoughts made his mouth salivate and sent a tremor through his aching, clammy body.

The silence became unbearable. Quite unexpectedly, Jimmy surprised himself by saying, “Steve was gunna pay us to burn down the car lot.”

The others turned to look at him, confused and surprised. “What are you on about?” Carol asked, but as the statement sunk in, it grasped her attention with both hands. She sat forward, waiting, frowning.

Jimmy shrugged. Too late now. “He was gunna pay us two thousand to torch the lot for him. He was gunna use the insurance money to bugger off with Janet somewhere.”

“Now, Jimmy—” Bryce started, his eyes trained on Carol’s open-mouthed expression.

Carol cut him off. Her voice was a little shaky, but she maintained her composure well. “It’s okay, John. It’s just what I expected. We’ve all got our secrets.”

She sat back and offered Sam a brief, but thankful smile and patted his hand gently. She took a moment to massage the bridge of her nose, her eyes downcast. Then, scarcely above a whisper, she said, “Doesn’t matter. Didn’t have the nerve to go through with it.”

Another awkward silence settled over them. Then, Jimmy, feeling like a burden had been lifted off his shoulders, said, “That’s a reet corny line that, mate.”

Sam turned to him, a look of deep wounding in his bloodshot eyes. Jimmy offered him a wink, accompanied by a cheeky grin.

Gradually, Sam’s expression relaxed and he muttered, “Twat.” That mustered a couple of laughs, and even a weak smile from Carol.

Big trouble in little old lady’s house.

Snow continued to cascade down from the black sky as Wright and Mitchell fought their way along the back lane. The snow had gathered to almost knee height, making even the simple task of walking particularly strenuous. Both men were panting and sweating as they pushed open the peeling, green back gate and entered.