Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (37 page)

There was silence as everyone contemplated the validity of Carol’s last statement. After a moment, breaking the awkward silence, Jimmy said, “I spy with my little eye—”

Bryce and Sam groaned as Carol hurled a scatter cushion at him.

Silence descended once more, but then it was Sam’s turn to break it. “Sh-show me the way t-to go home.” His strained voice sounded frail and desperately lonely.

There was silence for a moment, but then Jimmy chorused, “I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.” A smile warmed his pale, fatigued face. Even the tremors appeared to abate momentarily.

“Cuz I had a little drink about an hour ago,” Carol joined in wistfully, imagining a large vodka and orange cradling in her hand, the ice clinking melodically as she lifted it to her parched lips.

Reluctantly, Bryce flatly added, “And it went straight to me head.”

Slapping the arm of the chair in time, Sam continued with gentle enthusiasm, “Wherever I may roam.”

All four, with even Bryce cracking a smile, continued, “On land or sea or foam, you will always hear me singing this song, show me the way to go home.”

Sam actually managed a laugh. Despite everything they had been through, and were still going through, their desperate heartaches were fleetingly forgotten. Joined, and strengthened, in song.

“Well, whoever it is they’re knocking instead of breaking in, so that’s got to be a good sign, reet?” Bryce said, but seemed unconvinced.

The knocking grew louder and more urgent. “Open the door!” It was Mitchell’s voice, strained, but unmistakable.

“Christ!” Bryce jumped to his feet, followed quickly by the others. “Jimmy, come with me. You two wait here; just in case.” He clutched the rifle close to his chest, but drew little comfort from it.

Catching him at the doorway, Jimmy whispered harshly, “Just in case
what
?”

“Just … in case, alreet?”

Sam and Carol gathered in the centre of the living room, furtively glancing from window to door as Bryce and Jimmy disappeared into the hallway. Their eyes met briefly and they both saw a reflection of their own fear.

As Bryce reached for the front door, Mitchell’s voice shouted again. “For christsake hurry, man!”

Hurriedly, Bryce unlocked the door and disengaged the chain. Mitchell fell into the hall even as the door was still opening. Bryce caught him, dropping the rifle in the process with a loud clatter.

Jimmy dropped to his knees, scrambling for the gun.

“Wright dead,” Mitchell gasped. “I’m hit … back.” He was soaked, exhausted and shaking violently. Wind and gusting flakes swept into the hallway with him.

Bryce drew his hand away from his back and discovered that his palm was smeared with the detective’s blood. “Jesus, divvent talk, mate. We’ll get you inside.” Struggling to be as gentle as possible, under the circumstances, Bryce hoisted one of Mitchell’s arms around his shoulder, causing an agonising cry from the detective. Then he helped him through to the living room with the detective’s drenched boots dragging along the carpet, all strength utterly spent. After re-locking the door, Jimmy followed, holding the rifle in trembling hands. He was breathing hard and the shock had brought the tremors back with vehemence.

As Mitchell was set down on the sofa, he managed, “Whitman … on his way.”

Sam and Carol exchanged horrified glances.

“Fuck,” Jimmy spat, pacing the room from window to door. “Jesus, man, if they cannat fuckin’ sort him, what chance have we got, like?” The tremors were intensifying by the moment, turning him into a chattering wreck.

“Calm down!” Bryce snapped, but his own fears threatened their own dissention. “Anyone know any first aid?”

“M-m-my cer-certificate’s a c-couple of years out of d-d-date, but yeah, I’ll do m-m-my best,” Sam stammered. The thought of occupying his mind was extremely appealing and he rushed forward to assist.

“I’ll help,” Carol added, moving with him.

Bryce backed away as Sam and Carol stooped over the stricken man. Turning to Jimmy, he hissed, “Give us the bloody rifle, son. Quick.”

Jimmy looked at it, reluctant to lose the sense of security that it offered, however tenuous it might be. “I—”

“Just stop right there, boy, and hand it over,” Bryce growled, storming forward.

Jimmy considered, for a second, attempting to hold on to the weapon, but as Bryce reached him, red-faced, he offered it willingly. He dug into his coat pocket for his lock knife. “Suggest you two tool up, when you’re finished with him,” he said, flicking open the blade.

“
Tool
up?” Bryce repeated, shaking his head. “What is this, a gangster flick?” He quickly checked the clip was fully loaded and switched off the safety. He looked sternly at the wired young man and added, “This isn’t the movies, son. This is real life!”

Mitchell cried out as his jacket and shirt were hastily ripped off and cast onto the floor. Sam clumsily applied pressure to the bullet wound in his back as Carol gently held the detective in place, whispering, “Shh, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay, pet.” She glanced up and caught Sam’s eye. A look passed between them, but neither of them said a word. Sam turned back to the bleeding wound.

The sound of breaking glass upstairs stopped them all in their tracks. For a second nobody could breathe.

“He’s-inside-the-fuckin’-house!” Jimmy cried, the words rushing out as one. He thrust the knife in the direction of the door, the blade twitching at the end of his outstretched arm.

“We’re gunna take him; here and now, Jimmy,” Bryce said evenly. “You with us, son?” He stepped closer, looming over him, and gripped his quivering shoulder in his strong grip. Their eyes met.

Jimmy’s eyes were wild and his body continued to tremble from a massive dose of fear and adrenaline, aggravating his usual tremors. But, through taut, dry lips, he managed, “Aye.”

Sam and Carol had eased Mitchell into a rough recovery position on the sofa with his shirt tied into a makeshift bandage over one shoulder and under the other. Both were now brandishing kitchen knives and looking expectantly to Bryce and Jimmy.

“You two stay here; we’re going upstairs to finish this.” Bryce cocked the rifle and shoved aside the door to the hallway. Jimmy half-heartedly followed, his shaky knife seemingly leading him on.

“Shouldn’t we all be sticking together here?” Carol called after them, fighting to maintain some composure.

Forcing his face to one side, to speak more clearly, Mitchell muttered, “Drawing you out … Stick together.” The colour had rapidly drained from his face and his lips had a blue tinge to them.

Carol stared down at Mitchell’s contorted face, his eyes tight shut against the pain. Her jaw dropped open and she turned back to the open door. “JOHN!”

Bryce paused with his foot on the first step of the staircase. He glanced at Jimmy behind him, then back up the stairs. He opened his mouth to shout back towards the living room, but closed it again without making a sound. Slowly, cautiously, he began ascending the narrow and steep staircase.

Jimmy watched him for a moment, his heart pounding like an earthquake and his legs welded to the spot, but then, after a further moment’s indecision, he shadowed the farmer’s footsteps.

A rising panic gripped Carol as her eyes darted around the room, the knife following her eyes in short, jerky movements.

Sam bent down to touch the side of Mitchell’s face one more time, before moving over towards Carol who had drifted into the middle of the room again. “D-don’t w-w-worry. J-J-John’ll get him.” His eyes and his trembling demeanour suggested a very different alternative.

Bryce reached the top of the stairs and popped his head onto the landing, looking both left towards one bedroom and the bathroom, and right towards the second, smaller bedroom … Kerris’s room. The landing was in darkness and the three doors were all closed. He had checked the upstairs a couple of times, so he was already familiar with the layout. Nothing seemed amiss.

He stepped out onto the landing, with Jimmy close on his heels. “Watch our backs,” he whispered, turning towards the young daughter’s bedroom. Jimmy followed, keeping an eye on the other two rooms past the stairs.

Turning wildly on the spot in the middle of the living room, Carol thrust a hand up to her moist forehead, rubbing frantically at her throbbing head. “This is insane! He’s just one man!”

Sam gently touched her shoulder. “Yes, e-exactly.” He offered her a pathetic attempt at a smile then quickly returned his eyes to alternating between window and door. There was terror in his own eyes, but one thing had sprung to mind to focalise his thoughts; Natalie. Her killer was upon them, but he would not succeed; for Natalie’s sake.

As Sam’s eyes turned away from the window for the umpteenth time, it suddenly imploded with a thunderous roar of smashing glass. The brick that had caused the devastation sailed through the fragile barrier and struck Sam in the side, near the kidneys. He doubled over in agony, crying out. The kitchen knife dropped out of his hand.

Carol appeared to turn in slow motion, her face twisted with horror. Seeing Sam bent over in pain tipped her over the edge. Screaming and wielding her knife, she ran at the destroyed window. The curtains were flapping wildly in the gusting wind and flurries of snow blew in onto the glass-peppered carpet.

Casting the curtains aside, she glared out into the tempestuous night and screamed, “WHITMAN!” It was a rage-fuelled, animal cry.

Still bent over and clutching his side, Sam gasped, “Carol! Get back!”

Carol stepped back, turning back to Sam. At the same time, the blade of the hunting knife shot through the gap in the curtains and cut through the air at neck height.

The blade sliced the side of Carol’s neck, releasing a spray of blood across the living room, then withdrew as quickly as it had appeared, offering the briefest glimpse of a gloved hand. Screaming, she staggered back from the window, clutching her wounded neck.

Sam bent down to retrieve his discarded knife, grasping it weakly and then staggered over towards Carol. He held the knife out in the direction of the window and grabbed her arm with his free hand. “G-get out into the hall!”

Bryce reached them and gingerly looked at Carol’s wounded neck. “Doesn’t look too deep, pet. Divvent worry.” She looked back at him, but her eyes failed to focus on his. Instead, she looked down at her hand, smeared with her own blood.

“This wanker is really pissing us off, like,” Jimmy said from the doorway.

“Tell us about it,” Bryce muttered, staring at the curtains as they continued to bristle in the wind. Several droplets of blood had spattered across the curtains and carpet. Carol’s blood. As he stared at it, hot tears threatened to spill from his fraught eyes. Images of Sally and Anthony flickered across his mind’s eye. Their blood spilled on the cellar floor. Their mutilated corpses discarded in the cold dark. Butchered at the hands of Hannibal Whitman … a man who dared to call him a friend to his face.

Without pausing, Bryce dove through the window. His silhouette seemed to hang in midair, framed by the billowing curtains for an instant, and then he was enveloped by the swirling night.

“No!” Carol cried, taking an unsteady step forward. Her free hand seemed to be drawn to the ragged hole, beseeching.

Two gunshots rang out above the roar of the wind. Everyone held their breath, but the only reply was the unrelenting, lonely cry of the storm. The wet curtains perpetually flapped and snow continued to blow in through the shattered opening. The temperature in the room had dropped like a stone, making the occupants shiver and revealing their panting breaths.

Jimmy stood in the doorway, making no attempt to abate his trembling limbs. Bryce was gone, probably dead. The copper was dying or maybe even dead already, Carol was hurt and Sam looked like a lost puppy. “What the fuck are we gunna do now?”

“Boo.”

The voice was whispered close to Jimmy’s ear. He recoiled so violently from it that he cracked his head and shoulder off the doorframe, yelping in pain. He fell, staggering into the living room, cursing and twisting to see the source of the voice. Since the start of the nightmare, Whitman had grown into something of a mythical beast in that time. Jimmy was suddenly desperate to catch a glimpse of this person; this monster. He didn’t actually expect to see the Whitman as he had previously known him. He expected some drooling, hairy creature with blood-dripping jaws.
See you next Wednesday
…

Whitman stepped into the doorway behind him, smiling like Sylvester with Tweety Pie in his grip. He was dressed in his torn, black clothing which was drenched through and splattered with stains, but it was Whitman and he was still very much human. “Why don’t you build a fire and sing a few songs?” he said with a chuckle.