Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (4 page)

Three miles further along the small, bumpy track, he blinked and passed through the small cluster of stone buildings that was Shillmoor, then after the track crossed the river one more time, a couple of hundred yards further was the turnoff he had been searching for.

It was after eight PM when he finally turned onto the main street of Haydon. The evening was growing dim and a bank of clouds had rolled across the sky to conspire to quicken the process. The street was narrow and lacking street lights, but well-maintained and lined with mature oak and sycamore trees. The first group of stone buildings to come into view were only two hundred yards from the road that continued on to Blindburn.

On his left, was a used car dealership that made Chris’s appear mid market by comparison. Beneath moss and grime, gothic letters spelled out
Belmont Cars
. The small forecourt had a motley collection of aging motors. To his right, was the modest stone steeple of St. Bartholomew’s church … Church of England, by the look of it.

A short distance away, Main Street parted around a well-groomed green with a park bench and, holding centre stage, a mighty oak which, with sunshine, would easily overshadow most of what was clearly the nucleus of the village. A SPAR convenience shop, Post Office, Merlin’s Mea s (the ‘
t
’ was missing from the sign), Little Bakery, Duck & Bucket Tavern, Jolly Moe’s Barber Shop and, finally, the Miller’s Arms Inn were all huddled around the dark, deserted Green.

All the premises were stone built, but each as individual as a human thumbprint. The SPAR, a squat stretched building; the Post Office, austere like a bank (it was amazing to see a small village with its own post office in this day and age); the butchers, shabby with a tired awning; Little Bakery, a picture of quaint England; the Duck, small but adorned with six overflowing hanging flower baskets in full blossom; Moe’s, flamboyant ruby red woodwork and guttering and the Miller’s, an old coaching inn affair, solid and dependable.

Main Street rejoined itself and continued on to a car park and a disused train station. Two roads forked off Main Street; Bell Lane and, as he pulled up to the Miller’s, he noticed the second was called Miller’s Road (inspired). Main Street was wider at the old coaching inn, so there were three parking bays outside, one of which was unoccupied.

After parking, he jumped out with renewed energy, despite the long and tedious drive. An old man, in a grubby overcoat that aspired to be as wrinkled as its owner, shambled past him into the pub.

“Evening,” Whitman called after him with a cheery wave. The door slammed shut without acknowledgement. “Mean old bastard.”

He followed the old codger to the entrance, but paused with his hand pressed against the tarnished brass welcome plate stuck to the centre of the wide oak door. Taking a moment to glance up and down the street, he muttered, “Perfectamundo,” and then pushed the door inwards.

MOB, maybe Moby to his friends, was sagging at the cherrywood polished bar, adorned with half a dozen real ale pumps, along with the obligatory lagers, bitters and even a best scotch.
The one you’ve gotta come back for.
With rickety old washing machine shakes, he was awkwardly paying for a pint of
Guinness
with a fist full of small change.

Add maybe a dozen customers and the dark musky place might be promoted to lively, but as it was, Moby and the burst-couch-chested barman, with a scowl and a silvery crew-cut, made for a poor double act.

Smiling while taking in the cluttered confines, Whitman strolled over to the bar. Covering most of the walls was a wide assortment of military memorabilia; photographs (seemingly from every war fought, but a few he recognised as from the Falkland’s conflict), maps, coats of arms, regimental flags, the cross of St. Andrew Flag (the National Flag of Scotland), a musket, a couple of helmets (one he recognised as British circa World War II, the other might have been Yank WWII), a flak jacket, bayonets, a rather lethal looking combat knife, and dozens of medals and ribbons hanging in a presentation case.

“Quite a collection, aye laddie?” the barman said with a deep, but unexpectedly friendly voice.

“Damn straight. I’m guessing it’ll be a safe bet that you used to be in the Army.”

The barman smiled. “Aye, yae got that right, laddie. Forty-two years in the Scots Guards; retired a couple of years ago. Served through one or two disagreements.” Gesturing to the unidentified helmet on the wall, he added, “See that one there? Took that off a dead Argentine captain in the Falklands.”

“Did he mind?”

With a macabre grin, the barman said, “Nae, an artillery shell had landed right on top of his foxhole – blew the poor beggar tae pieces. The only bit that wae recognisable wae his heed, all nicely protected in that bin lid.”

“A heart-warming story.” They both laughed and Whitman felt a surprising kinship to the old soldier.

While the landlord poured him a pint of lager, Whitman continued the conversation. “Forty-two years, eh? Jesus. What rank?”

“Sergeant Major,” he said, with obvious pride as he brought the pint to his newfound customer. “I’m Joe Falkirk, the landlord of this humble drinkin’ establishment. And my merry pal there’s Tam Wellright.”

As Whitman opened his mouth to respond, Moby/Tam spoke without taking his eyes off his pint. “I’m eighty-four and still grow me own veggies.”

“You don’t say?” Turning back to the landlord, he caught Joe rolling his eyes and laughed. “Nice to meet the both of you. I’m Hannibal Whitman; we spoke on the phone.”

“Aye, of course. Martha – the better half – has got yae room all ready fae yae, laddie.”

First night.

The room that would be his home over the coming months turned out to be spacious and bright, with a double bed, en suite shower and toilet, and modern furnishings that even included a desk. The décor and soft furnishings were clean pastel shades that neither annoyed nor enthused. Every surface was meticulously clean and polished to a high sheen, and a faint aroma of jasmine from a bowl of potpourri on the windowsill scented the air. Overall, Whitman was pleasantly surprised.

After semi-unpacking – well, unzipping one of the cases and having a half-hearted rummage – he headed back downstairs to take Joe up on a courtesy bar meal to celebrate his first night as their guest.

Martha turned out to be a plump, grinning woman with a frizz of grey hair and energy to spare. Although a little overbearing (she fussed over him like he was their long lost son returning from Iraq) her toad-in-the-hole turned out to be first class.

The pub had filled up in his absence and ‘Big’ Joe – as the regulars seemed to call him – had been joined by a short, skinny girl with spiky black hair called Lisa. She was perhaps seven stone dripping wet, but she commanded respect from everyone in the bar, including a group of three young lads of the young, dumb and full of cum variety. Whitman noticed her eyes linger in his direction more than once. He pretended not to notice and smiled inwardly.
She cannae take yer charm, Captain
…

He ordered a
Jack Daniels
with a splash of
Coke
and made himself comfortable at the bar beside a slim redheaded woman in her early thirties. He nodded a greeting to her and was unable to help himself from eying the curves of her generous (cosmetically enhanced) breasts. Her slender hands were both wrapped around the stem of a glass of chardonnay, and Whitman noticed immediately, to his initial disappointment, a platinum wedding band.

“Janet, have yae met our new resident writer, Mister Whitman?” Big Joe’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Whitman,” she said, offering him a hand and a glimpse at a perfect set of
Da Vinci
veneers.

“Hannibal, please.” He took her hand and returned the smile.

“Hannibal, hmm? I hope you don’t bite.”

They laughed as Big Joe said, “Watch out fae this one, laddie. She’s like one of them femme fatales from a
Sam Spade
novel. She also happens tae be married tae the only quack in the area.”

“I take offence at that,” Janet replied, smiling.

“What, being married tae Larry or being a femme fatale?”

“Don’t come to my Larry when you next have those haemorrhoid problems.”

Whitman observed the friendly banter with a detached amusement as the door opened to admit a tall, tanned man in his thirties. He strode up to the bar with the confidence of a cock in a henhouse.
Gap
jeans and sweater, dark tussled hair; he was a postcard for the pseudo-stylish and wannabe-famous. In his youth, probably captain of the football team too. Whitman disliked him instantly.

“A’right, Steve?” Big Joe said. “Usual?”

“Aye, BJ. Hi, Janet, fancy meeting you here.” He smiled and there was something rather predatory about it.

“Steve,” she replied a little sternly. “We have a new resident. This is Hannibal Whitman; he’s a writer.”

There was a brief flicker of annoyance in his face, but then it was replaced with a pretty good attempt at a sincere ‘damn glad to meet ya’ face. “Hey, Han. Steve Belmont of Belmont Motors; good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” They shook hands and his powerful grip said one thing;
this is MY henhouse.
Whitman kept his grip casual, not wanting to damage the man’s fragile ego. Bless him.

Steve angled himself between Whitman and the femme fatale, and started a conversation, so Whitman took the hint and went back to nursing his
JD
. He was quickly rewarded with the skinny bum belonging to Lisa bent over in his general direction as she stooped to pick up a bottle of
Bacardi Breezer
from a lower shelf. The movement briefly revealed a Celtic tattoo on the small of her back and a healthy portion of black thong.

“Ah, shite,” Big Joe muttered under his breath, drawing Whitman’s attention to the door.

A blonde had walked in. There was a hint of a previously very pretty woman, but now her face was puffy with blotchy skin, and dark bruised circles around bloodshot eyes. Her jeans and top were cheap, but precisely in reverse from the mighty Charioteer, Chris, she actually managed to make them look better on.

Steve and Janet both turned to look at the new arrival. Steve turned away quickly in disgust, but Janet’s eyes lingered a moment longer.

“I dunae want nae trouble, Carol,” Big Joe said, with a sincere mix of warning and compassion.

Seeming to hover in the doorway, a picture of nerves, she took the hesitation as an opportunity to light up a
Lambert & Butler
with a trembling hand. After a couple of deep draws, the nicotine seemed to calm her and boost her confidence. “Vodka and orange, Joe,” she said with a passable attempt at nonchalance, thrusting the disposable lighter and crumpled pack back into a
George
shoulder bag.

Big Joe relaxed and did as she asked.

She moved hesitantly to the bar and stood by Whitman. He did not feel overly happy at suddenly being thrust into a Checkpoint Charlie role between the obviously warring factions.

Taking another shaky draw on her
L&B
, she turned to Whitman and offered a somewhat embarrassed nicotine-stained smile. “Hi, hun. What’s your name?” There was the faintest tick just above her left eyebrow.

With the resignation that comes from knowing that a chain of events were now impossible to prevent, he replied in his friendliest, yet most non-committal voice possible. “Hannibal Whitman. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Carol Belmont;
ex
-wife of that adulterous bastard there.”

“Ah, Christ.” Scarcely above a whisper from Big Joe.

“Why don’t you get a life, Carol,” Steve muttered in an even tone, without taking his eyes off his glass of red wine.

Still looking at Whitman and maintaining the forced smile, she replied, “I had a life and you stole it from me.”

Janet turned to her, her expression genuine sympathy. “Carol, please …”

Carol whipped her head around with such ferocity that Whitman thought her head would surely fly off. Glaring at Janet, she hissed, “Save your pity. You’ll need it for yourself.”

Janet’s face flushed almost as red as her hair, and she turned away back to her drink without another word.

To Whitman, it was a car crash; hypnotic to his morbid curiosities.

“I don’t need this shit, Carol. Get off your cross.” With that, Steve drained the rest of his merlot and strode out, without another word.

“Carol, why dae yae have tae start this in my boozer, eh?” Big Joe said, shaking his jowly face with his hands planted on his substantial hips. There was anger in his tone, but his face showed deep empathy.

Timidly, she turned to Big Joe, tears welling in her eyes. “S-Sorry, Joe. I just …” Her bottom lip quivered and her voice faltered. With one swift movement, she drained her drink then stubbed out the remains of her cigarette. With far less grace and dignity than her former husband, she fled into the night with tears streaming down her face.

There was a minute of awkward silence as Big Joe glanced from Janet, to Whitman, to the door.

“Quite the soap opera,” Whitman said with a half-hearted attempt at humour. Big Joe just shook his head sadly and bent to unload the dishwasher. Janet continued to stare into her drink.

“I was in
Spender
once,” Tam mumbled into his empty glass from the end of the bar.

Lisa walked through from the lounge, with several empty pint glasses stacked in her hands. “Was that Carol making a tit of herself again?”

“Give over, Lisa,” Big Joe muttered with a scowl. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Can you serve Tam? He’s dry again.”

All in all, Whitman’s first night in Haydon had been enlightening to say the least. The blend of excitement and trepidation that he had felt at the start of his journey was now joined by a hungry curiosity for what would follow. There was so much to do and the clock was ticking.