Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (38 page)

Carol and Sam both spun to stare in horror at the voice of the very man of their nightmares. His face was pale and dripping wet, but his auburn eyes glowed with the intensity of burning embers.

“Cumbiah’s always a popular choice.”

Shaking off the throbbing pain in the side of his head, Jimmy fixed his stare on Whitman, and at the pistol he held in his hand, pointed predominantly in his direction. “
Wanker
,” he muttered under his breath.

Mitchell stirred for the first time in a while on the sofa. He laboriously lifted his head and twisted his neck in Whitman’s direction. “You,” he rasped, “are under arrest.”

“You,” Whitman mimicked, “are dead.” The barrel of the Walther switched from Jimmy to the prone detective in one sudden movement and discharged with a twitch of the wrist. The gunshot struck Mitchell in the centre of his back, punching a coin-sized hole and spraying a fine mist of blood into the air. The detective’s head slumped back down onto the sofa and he stirred no more.

“NO!” Carol screamed, renewed tears streaming down her face. Her knife dropped loosely down to her side.

“Bastard!” Sam chorused. Stepping in front of Carol, he waved his own knife towards Whitman. The gesture was vaguely threatening in a desperate sense.

Jimmy quickly scrambled to his feet and he, too, raised his knife towards their attacker. He drew in a deep gulp of air in a futile attempt to contain his shattered nerves.

As Whitman watched with mild amusement, Carol stepped to the side of Sam and finally raised her own knife. Seeing Sam and Jimmy’s defiance reinvigorated her own.

The three stood together, two men and one woman, each with a knife held out in front of them. A drug addict, a drunk and an IT manager. The three blades twitched and trembled, but maintained their aim directly at Whitman. Their eyes betrayed their terror, but the clenched jaws struggled with determination.

“Three Musketeers, eh?” Whitman said and snorted.

“Three Muskehounds, to be precise,” Jimmy corrected, his face set into a scowl that was a fraught attempt to hide his fear.

Whitman nodded, but his smile disappeared beneath his thick glistening beard. “Fair enough.” Leaning casually against the doorframe, he added, “To be honest, I’m knackered after all this running around. You certainly didn’t make this experiment easy for me, I can tell you. You can be happy with that, at least.”

“E-experiment?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Yep, to see if I could beat the record.”

“The record?” Carol injected. “Number of murders?” She was shaking her head, struggling to understand – to even remotely begin to comprehend – what this madman was saying.

Keeping the pistol aimed at the group in general, Whitman sighed, then said, “Something like that, but I can’t be bothered to go into a Bond baddie-style monologue, as I said to Steve Belmont before I shot him, so let’s just crack on, eh?”

“Fine,” Carol said as evenly as she could muster. “Screw you.” Her knife had lowered towards the floor, but now she yanked it back up with renewed determination.

Straightening up, Whitman said, “I may have deserved that.” A thought suddenly occurred to him, frowning, he added, “Oh, just one more thing, where’s Janet?”

Jimmy and Carol fired confused looks at one another. “You losin’ track of who you murdered already?” Jimmy asked with a snort of disgust.

Whitman opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it as fast.
Larry, you old dog
.
Good for you!
After a moment, dismissively, he said, “Never mind then.” His aim settled on Sam and then he added, “Okey-kokey pig in a pokey.”

With a quick glance, Jimmy followed the barrel of the gun to Sam. One simple thought occurred to him in the blink of an eye.
He deserves life more than me.
As Whitman squeezed the trigger, Jimmy lunged to one side, crying, “No!” The bullet struck him, instead of its intended target. He dropped to the ground, clutching his bleeding abdomen with a mixture of shock and pain contorting his face.

Both Carol and Sam were shouting his name and surging toward him, but he was only vaguely aware of it. Instead, he looked down at the bullet wound that was pumping his lifeblood out onto the carpet. He was surprised that after the initial blow that felt like a kick from a hobnailed boot, the pain wasn’t too bad. A throbbing not unlike stomach cramps.

“Jimmy, you never cease to surprise.” Whitman said, shaking his head. The smile had returned to his lips. “You found a bit of backbone – well done!”

Carol and Sam crouched down beside him as Jimmy turned his attention to Whitman and spat, “Wanker.” His spittle was discoloured with spots of blood. “Always wondered what it’d be like to get shot with something other than a needle, like.” He even managed a weak smile.

Cradling his head, Carol said, “Don’t talk, pet.”

An image of Natalie in her favourite lotus-embroidered kimono, smiling affectionately, flashed before Sam’s eyes. It remained anchored there like a sudden blinding glare. He sprang to his feet and launched himself at Whitman, screaming, “DIE!”

Surprised by his ferocity, Whitman swayed back on his heels. His recovery was instantaneous. “Nah,” he said simply and shot him twice in the chest as he reached half way.

Sam staggered forward a couple of steps, his features fixed with a twisted look of hatred. Two neat holes had appeared in his knitted brown jumper and a dark stain was rapidly spreading around both of them. Then, after tottering for a moment, with his eyes still set on Whitman, he toppled forward onto his face. His knife bounced away harmlessly into the corner of the room as his limbs settled and his body went still.

“God …
no
…” Carol uttered feebly, cradling Jimmy’s head close to her breast. Tears were streaming down her face as she looked from Sam’s body to Jimmy’s ashen face.

“Nearly there, folks. This will all be over presently.” Whitman ejected the clip from the handgrip of the pistol, popped it into his pocket, and slapped a fresh one into place. As he cocked it, movement down the hall caught his eye.

Bryce had slipped through the open front door and was now aiming the Barrett at Whitman. His hair was plastered and snowmelt was pouring down his face, but his features were calculated; all except the eyes. The eyes screamed one thing; vengeance. Behind him, and licking at his coat, the storm raged on. Dancing snowflakes whirled into the open doorway around his feet.

Whitman kept the gun and his body facing Carol, but his head slowly turned to greet the new arrival. His smile was forced, but his tone remained jovial. “Hey, John, nice of you to join us. So glad you didn’t miss the party.”

“You murdering sonuvabitch,” Bryce growled. His voice was shaky, with barely contained fury as he let forth a torrent of words, fired at Whitman like bullets. “I-I couldn’t believe it at first – not you, not Han. Han was me fuckin’ mate. Han wouldn’t
butcher
me wife and boy. It could’ve been anyone at all, but not Han. But
here
you are.” The last sentence was a virtual hiss of pure disgust. The rifle was trembling in his hands with the seething raw emotion pumping through his body. His finger was twitching as it hovered over the trigger. He had an overwhelming desperation to squeeze the trigger and put a hole in this monster’s head, but he needed to understand first. He had to make some tiny shred of sense out of it all.

Glancing from the barrel of the rifle to Bryce’s flaming eyes, Whitman said, “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry, big fella. None of this was personal.”

If it was possible for Bryce to grow any redder, he did. “Not
personal
? You’ve murdered everyone! All our friends, families, neighbours … everyone! You’ve killed the whole fucking village!” His voice faltered, then, as a shattered whisper, he added, “And Sally and Anthony … me wife and me baby boy. What kind of a monster are you?”

Dropping his pistol to his side, Whitman shrugged, saying, “I’m not a monster – I’m just a normal bloke who undertook an extraordinary test.” Lightening his tone further, he added, “Look, all this’ll be over soon and I’ll go back to my normal life and then the doctors, investigators and psychologists can ponder over it for decades to come. Books will be written, films will be made, but no one will ever understand why.”

Bryce raised his head away from the gun sight, astounded at what he was hearing. “Is that what this is all about? Notoriety? Make you more famous than Posh and Becks?”

“Nah, it’s not about petty vanity, old friend.”

“Divvent call me
friend
,” Bryce snarled, aiming back down the sight.

“Talkin’s over. You die,” Bryce said, emotionally shredded. The raw emotion and coursing adrenaline was taking a heavy toll on his body. He was suddenly acutely aware of the onset of profound exhaustion.

In a blink, Whitman threw himself to one side and fired a snapshot towards Bryce.

The blur of movement took Bryce by surprise, but he managed to fire a round with only a slight flinch.

Whitman’s bullet lodged in the ceiling as Bryce’s sailed through the space where Whitman’s head had been only a second earlier. Acrid smoke plumed in the hallway, curling snake-like from both weapons.

Even as Whitman’s shoulder slammed into the wall, jarring him, he was squeezing the trigger a second and third time, each report booming. A moment’s hesitation to aim proved costly for Bryce. The first bullet tore into his thigh, spraying blood against the back wall and door, and causing a guttural cry to escape the farmer’s lips. The second ripped a hole in his coat at the waist, narrowly missing flesh. The barrage was too much, causing him to stagger backwards out into the awaiting embrace of the storm, firing a covering shot as he retreated. The storm itself appeared to envelope him.

Whitman righted himself and fired one more round out into the darkness as Bryce’s outline disappeared amidst the raging blanket of snow. In frustration, he yelled, “Bryce! I thought you were made of stronger stuff!” With his anger directed at the open doorway, Carol appeared out of the corner of his eye and flew upon him.

Her knife slashed at his shoulder, ripping both material and flesh. He grunted loudly as hot blood jetted down his arm. Using the Walther whilst pivoting, he parried with a sharp blow to her wrist. The bloodied knife was cast down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Carol cried out in pain and frustration, but rushed at him once more regardless. Her hands were balled into white-knuckled fists.

Whitman punched her solidly in the face with the butt of the pistol. There was a resounding crunch as her nose shattered and blood splattered across her face. The blow caused an explosion of intense pain, blinding her and sucking the strength from her legs. She staggered back into the living room a couple of paces with gouts of thick blood oozing down her face then dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. Moaning softly, she grasped at her smashed face.

“What is this?” Whitman asked, holding his burning shoulder. “A tag team?”

Aiming the pistol at Carol’s whimpering form, on her knees, he said with an exasperated sigh, “I’d love to hang around to chat, but time is short, Carol.” He stepped closer, the muzzle a mere couple of inches from her forehead and pulled the trigger. There was an audible click, but no loud report. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “For the love of God.” Looking down at Carol, he appeared uncertain for a moment. Then, gathering himself once more, he said, “I’ll come back for you two.”

Jimmy was slowly and painfully crawling across the floor towards Carol. He paused, gasping, “You’re a dead man, Whitman.”

Whitman glanced towards him and managed a humourless laugh. His eyes pitiful, he said, “You’re dancing with the devil here, son, and the song is coming to an end. When it stops there’s going to be me, and that’s it.” Offering him a smile of condolence, he added, “Haydon is dead. You’re just its last dying gasps; its death rattle. Just get over it.” He turned to the front door, but before he left, he added, in an Arnold Schwarzenegger burr, “I’ll be back.” Then, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, he sprinted towards the open door where the storm and darkness awaited.

Jimmy struggled across the floor, dragging himself along by his straining fingers. The blood oozing from his abdomen left a slug-like trail across the carpet in his wake. Exhausted, his head slumped down with his outstretched fingers just able to touch Carol’s leg. In a low whisper, he managed, “Carol … Carol …”

Still clutching her bleeding nose, she turned to Jimmy. Her watery eyes opened and managed to focus on the young man splayed out on the floor. Seeing that he was still with her seemed to centre her reeling mind. Muffled by her hands, she uttered, “Jimmy.”

Lacking the strength to lift his head off the floor and with his eyes tightly shut, Jimmy muttered, “Listen to us, Carol … get out … of here …”

Carol took the hand from her ruined nose and manoeuvred on all fours to face Jimmy. Her bloodied hand tentatively touched the side of his pale, furrowed face. “I’m not leaving you, pet.”

Jimmy forced his eyes open and stared fiercely into hers. With renewed conviction, he said, “No! Get out of here! He’s gunna come back and finish me off. That’s just fine with me, like – I’m fucked anyway.” Pausing to gulp in air, he then continued in a more gentle tone. “You can still escape – hide … till the rest o’ the coppers arrive. Please, Carol – do it for me.”

Tears streamed down her face as she listened to his earnest words. Holding his cheek with her hand, she snivelled and implored, “No, please, I can’t leave you here.”

Jimmy’s eyes closed once again, but his lips managed to say, “No … someone’s got to survive … to tell people …”

“Jimmy, I can’t leave you!” There was utter despair in her words.