Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (7 page)

A scraggy young man, unshaven with long, matted brown hair and a grubby ill-fitting long coat, had followed them along the path and chosen the perfect moment to reveal himself. His hands were clenched in fists of rage and unadulterated hatred radiated from his blazing eyes like lasers. “I’m that bitch’s boyfriend is who I am, you wanker.”

Whitman finished buttoning his jeans and, taking his eyes off the intruder for just a split second, glanced to Lisa, who had managed to partially button her blouse and smooth down her skirt. Her thong was, however, still down to her knees. He laughed, despite himself, then said, “What’s this guy talking about, Lisa?”

“I’m gunna fuck you up, bitch,” the young scrote continued, seemingly less than impressed at being laughed at. He closed the gap, his entire body a coiled spring, trembling with surging adrenaline.

Standing up, her face red and her lipstick smeared, Lisa said as evenly as she could muster, “Jimmy, you’re not me boyfriend. How many times do I have to tell you?” Turning to Whitman, she added, “We used to see each other from time to time, that’s all.”

The cool night air invaded his receding passions as Whitman glanced back at Jimmy, then back to Lisa. “You used to see
that
guy sometimes?”

This appeared to snap the over-taut spring within Jimmy. He launched himself at his girl’s defiler, hot breath and spittle surging forth from his snarling lips as he screamed, “You’re a dead man!”

Whitman was ready for him, side-stepping and planting a solid punch on the side of the kid’s jaw in one fluid motion. He felt the crunch of the jaw under his unyielding blow and was somewhat pleased to see a spray of blood splatter across Lisa’s white blouse.

Jimmy staggered back, his mouth a bloody mess, but to his credit (or stupidity), he spun and thrust himself at Whitman a second time, screaming both in pain and frustration.

Whitman grabbed him easily and head-butted him on the bridge of the nose, instantly shattering it. Without pausing, he followed through with a swift knee to the crotch, doubling up the hapless twat.

Lisa was screaming and grabbing his shoulder. “No! You’re killing him!”

Whitman stopped just before he connected with the kid’s swollen sack for a second time. “Sorry princess, he attacked me here.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

“Leave him alone;
please
!” She forced her way in between them and helped the gurgling kid to the ground. Blood and snot were oozing like glistening entrails from his broken nose. As his weak knees hit the moist grass, he instantly keeled over, with one hand over his gushing face and the other on his crotch.

Lisa was sobbing and tentatively touching the kid’s mangy hair. “Jimmy…”

Whitman shook his head and straightened himself up. His face looked pale in the moonlight, and several droplets of blood were drying on his cheeks and forehead. Mustering up all the tolerance he could manage, he said, rather sheepishly, “I’m sorry, Lisa. He took me by surprise – I was scared, I just reacted. I’m really sorry.”

He watched her for a moment, fussing over the young lad like Martha did with him. Apart from Lisa’s soft sobs, intermingled with soothing words, and Jimmy’s mutterings, the park had become still and quiet once more.

“Okay,” he said finally and left without looking back. His head was downcast as he walked back along the shrouded path. As he grew further away though, a smile crept across his lips. “You see that fuckin’ head come apart, man,” he muttered to himself and laughed. Bunny would’ve been proud of that.

Alien and Ant farms.

The following evening, Lisa tried her best to keep away from Whitman. He found himself chatting to the local livestock farmer, the big bear bloke from the Land Rover, John Bryce. He was a tall, barrel-chested man with hands like paving slabs, cracked and calloused from years of hard labour. His forearms would have put Popeye’s to shame, but he assured Whitman that he had never seen the inside of a gym.

After passing pleasantries like, ‘where ya from’, ‘what ya do’, and Whitman finding out about Bryce’s wife, Sally and son, Anthony, and a brief and thoroughly uninteresting mention of his sheep and chicken stocks, they moved on to chatting about the village and Whitman’s initial thoughts on the place. Then, inevitably, the conversation turned to writing.

Bryce took a hearty swig of his pint of real ale, followed by a draw on his half smoked
Camel
. The mop of thick, dark brown hair lent a genial look to his otherwise hard, furrowed features. “So what’s this book of yours about, Han?” His voice was a rich baritone, which, overall, reminded Whitman of a Geordie version of Tom Jones.

Whitman took a sip of his
Jack
, savouring its silky quality, before responding. “It’s a thriller about a serial killer stalking a small Northumberland village,” he said, and smiled at the raised eyebrow the answer rewarded him with. “That’s why I’m here – to do a spot of research.”

“Wey it’s beautiful countryside, so you couldn’t ask for a nicer setting. Although, the murdering part doesn’t sound much good for tourism,” Bryce added with a wry smile. “There’s not enough books or films set in the North East. It’s a damn shame – we’ve got the best people and the best locations in the world.”

“Why do you think that is then?”

“I divvent no, but we’ve had our fair share of talents – Ridley Scott, Catherine Cookson, Jimmy Nail—” After a brief pause, he said, “Actually most of cast of Auf Wiedersehen, Pet – Tim Healey and Kevin Whately an’ all.”

“Aye, that’s him; Eric Burdon. There’s also Mark Knopfler, Chris Rea, Sting.” He took another hearty swig of his pint then added, as if kicking himself, “Oh, I forgot two of Geordieland’s biggest stars; Ant and Dec.”

Whitman nearly spat his mouthful of Tennessee whiskey across the bar. “Yep, although that Alien Autopsy thing wasn’t their best work, it was certainly worthy of all the awards it won.”

“Comedian. Never saw it, but I bet it was a canny enough comedy.”

“Now their Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here and Saturday Night Take Away shows were awe inspiring.”

“Yeah, yeah, alreet.” Bryce shook his head in resignation and called Big Joe over for another round. “You can’t slag off Ant n’ Dec – they’re a national treasure.”

As Big Joe fetched more drinks, Whitman said, “Well, I’m not disputing Ridley Scott – bloody brilliant director. South Shields fella, am I right?”

“Aye. I’m a big fan of his earlier work – Alien, Bladerunner and alike.”

“Alien has got to be one of my all time favourites,” Whitman replied with marked respect. With a wistful look, he said, “Great direction, atmospheric sets and score, groundbreaking special effects. Brilliant performances from Sigourney, Tom, Yaphet, Harry Dean, John, Ian and Veronica. Damn good taste.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to rattle off the whole cast like that, so you got us beat there.”

Smiling, Whitman said, “This thing bled acid, who knows what it’s gonna do when it’s dead … I think it’s safe to assume that it isn’t a zombie.”

Bryce paused with the dregs of his pint hovering an inch from his lips, frowning. After a moment, he said, “Ripley and Ash, aye?”

“You got it.”

His pint still hovering, Bryce’s mind took him briefly back to a Friday night in the early Eighties.
Sally curled up on her parent’s sofa with him, the only light emanating from the glow of their old rented Granada television set
…
her long permed bleach-blonde hair splayed out over the chest of his lumberjack shirt
…
wrinkling her cute button nose and burying her head in his armpit at every shock and scare. He had laughed at her, but then protectively wrapped his arms around her, fuelling his desires
. “Jesus, first saw that on a crackly old Betamax tape many moons ago, before me and Sally got engaged.”

Instead of finishing off his pint, he raised his glass in an impromptu toast, and said, “Well, your good health, and I wish you good luck with the book. Just divvent kill us off if I get in it, eh!”

Whitman laughed and, with a wicked glint, said, “Nobody’s safe.” Then, raising his own glass, he pronounced in the best Robert Shaw impression he could muster, “Here’s to swimmin’ with bow-legged women.”

It was approaching midnight when John Bryce stood up with a lengthy sigh and headed for the exit. “Take it easy, mate,” he said to Whitman with a broad grin planted on his round face.

The cold, clear night caused a shiver to run across his wide shoulders. He let out a chesty cough then fished into his
Barbour
jacket for his
Camels
. After lighting up one, he started across the road towards the Green. It was bathed in darkness, save for a lone light above the SPAR. Despite the moonless night, he was still able to pick out a hunched figure sitting on the bench on the Green. As he grew closer, recognition dawned on him. She was shivering and rocking gently as she tightly hugged herself.

“Carol?” he asked tentatively, squinting to make out the features of her downcast face. Her mascara was streaked down her cheeks and clear snot was dribbling from her nose.

“You okay, pet?”

As if suddenly awoken from a trance, Carol Belmont shot to her feet and rushed off the Green, heading further along Main Street away from him.

Bryce stopped in the middle of the road, watching her head towards St. Bart’s and Belmont Motors. He opened his mouth to call after her; to attempt to help her in some way, but as she dashed away, he struggled to find the right words, any words. He somehow guessed that it would not be Reverend Dunhealy that she was searching for, although the old pastor would have hopefully been able to offer her far greater guidance than he.

Shaking his head sadly, he trudged onward towards Bell Lane.

With the last of the punters gone, Big Joe handed the keys to Lisa and said a gruff goodnight before heading for his bed. That left Lisa and Whitman alone.

She finished her few remaining tasks of collecting ashtrays and briefly wiping over the tables and the bar and then dropped onto the stool beside Whitman. She looked exhausted and forlorn.

She seemed to struggle with the right words to say for a time. Whitman waited patiently while she gathered her thoughts and, seemingly, some courage.

“Sorry I’ve been off with you,” she said finally, her voice like a gentle rustle of reeds on a riverbank.

Whitman offered her an understanding smile and touched her slender wrist gently. Despite
JDs
numbering near double figures, his head felt crystal clear. Solemnly, he said, “You don’t need to apologise, hun. I just lost it; I don’t know what happened. Jealousy, I guess.” With his last shame-filled words, he hung his head.

They seemed to be exactly the words she was hoping to hear. Pulling his hand up to her face, she kissed his palm softly. Her voice strained to say, “You divvent need to be jealous. Jimmy’s ancient history; he just cannat get it through his thick, coked-up head.”

Drawing his hand close to her chest, she moved closer to him and looked deep into his eyes. Sighing, she said, “Jimmy had us hooked on coke and crack for five years; before, durin’ and after me angel was born. It was so hard to break away from him and that shit, but I did it; for Haley’s sake and for me own.” She was trembling slightly and biting her lip anxiously by the time she finished.

To allay her fears, Whitman lent forward and kissed her on her quivering lips. Gripping her hand, he said, “I know how hard that must’ve been to tell me. I understand, hun. I know about obsessions and how hard it is to fight them. How long you been clean?”

Awash with relief at not being judged, she said, “Six months.”

“Good on you. It can only get easier – you’re doing great and you have a wonderful daughter to help keep you strong.”

She looked at him; staring deep into his eyes, searching for just the tiniest hint of insincerity. His caring eyes met hers, unblinking. With that, Lisa burst into tears. Whitman instantly pulled her to him and held her tight as she sobbed noisily and uncontrollably for several minutes. At first, she tried to speak; to apologise, to thank him, but the words were unintelligible and drowned out by her sobs.

As she cried, Whitman gently stroked her hair and pondered on this news. It would seem that fate had chosen the first one. That it would be such a worthless piece of excrement actually brought a smile to his face.

Pride and Punishment.

Jimmy Coulson groaned as he shifted aching body. The bed sheets that covered his sweating body were stained with a concoction of piss, blood and semen, as well as lager and smears of drippings from the occasional bedtime junk food feast.

With a wired jaw, set nose and two black eyes, the man whose favourite middle school form teacher, Miss Savage, used to call ‘Beautiful Boy’, now looked like a car crash (and a particularly bad one at that). Before his world turned to shit, the odd girl in a nightclub or pub used to liken Jimmy to Brad Pitt. Now though, he was skinny – bordering malnourished – with pale, blemished skin and bloodshot eyes.