Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (8 page)

His world had started to turn at Morpeth High School. His looks and laid back attitude had earned him a prestigious spot with the in-crowd. When he started learning to play guitar in the first year, his popularity with the girls jumped up a few more notches. After a trip with mates down to the extremely muddy Glastonbury ninety-seven to see the Levellers and the Prodigy, he quickly found himself in an indie band, laced with at least some of their influences. The Levellers that year had been pretty lacklustre, and the Prodigy cursed with technical problems, but he had loved every second of the festival, despite the rivers of mud.

That had been the place where he got his first blowjob off some lanky chick who never gave him her name. It was also where he sampled his first Ecstasy tabs. The Es actually seemed to improve his popularity even further and they also seemed to help his guitar playing too. He never quite got into the writing side; they had Crazy Don for that, but he did get pretty good with that battered old San Miguel Fender of his … until he
had
to flog it for gear, but that was later.

The Es at Glastonbury had opened the floodgates for him. He had skipped the dope stage when it had first started doing the rounds at school the year before, but after the festival, dope and Es quickly took over from lager. Then, one night in the toilets of a pub on the Bigg Market in Newcastle, two weeks into sixth form, he had sampled his first line of cocaine. He completely fell in love with the stuff; it made him feel more alive than he had ever felt before. It gave him boundless energy and his popularity with the ladies seemed to improve still further too.

By the time December came round, he was snorting lines daily and stealing from family, friends, shops … anyone to buy more of his white heaven. Fighting and disruption in class followed. Soon after the school washed its hands of him, the police came knocking. After a slagging match with his dad turned into a fistfight, he was slung out of his home with just a black bag of clothes (not even full, come to think of it).

It was while dossing with a friend that he discovered a new saviour; Crack. He was penniless, kipping on the floor of a shitty bed-sit and, even though he had heard it was supposed to be highly addictive, he had thought,
fuck
it
. Nobody gave a shit about him, so why should he? Overnight
everything
changed. He experienced his first whole-body orgasm and
nothing
in the world mattered after that.

As a state of unwanted consciousness seeped in through his sweaty pores, so did the creepy-crawlies. He shivered as he pulled his bruised and emaciated body out of his bed, scratching at the itchy sensation quivering across his clammy skin. Glancing at the cheap digital clock by the single sagging bunk, he saw with no surprise that it was gone four in the afternoon.

The bed-sit was a two room affair with the pokey main room, serving as bedroom, lounge and kitchen, and a tiny cubicle with a shower, sink and toilet as the second room.

A homemade ‘real thing’ bong held centre stage in the middle of the stained carpet-tiled floor, surrounded by empty lager cans and vodka bottles, sweet wrappers, crisp packets and the occasional used condom. An old moth-eaten blanket had been nailed up to the window to impede the afternoon sunshine from invading the dank, sweaty feet and mould-smelling room.

He staggered naked to the stained toilet that was missing its fold-down seat and lid and urinated while scratching his backside. The upturned crucifix tattoo across his spotty back twitched with the flexing of his somewhat wasted muscles.

Yes, life was pretty good for Jimmy.

After dressing in grass and blood-stained jeans, he managed to find a nearly clean – once black, now charcoal grey – t-shirt then pulled on his black long coat and muddy
Nike
trainers.

He stood in the doorway, trembling slightly and scratching at his arms. With no gear left, he was desperate for another hit to banish the bugs and lift his mood out of the depths of hell. But he already owed Steve Belmont a hundred quid for the last bag and, pulling some grubby coins out of his coat pocket, he discovered that he had precisely one pound thirty to his name. He was watched like a hawk in the village shops these days and he didn’t have the money to go into Rothbury, so it was time to resort to one of his other professions – poaching from Bryce & Son. There was usually a few chickens, eggs or bags of tatties that he could get his hands on, that one or two of the less fortunate of the village would be happy to pay under the odds for, no questions asked.

Three or four chickens might be enough for a quick hit, with maybe some change for a meat pie from Merlin’s.

He would have to be careful though as that big prick, John Bryce, had nearly caught him last time, and he had publicly threatened to hospitalise anyone caught stealing from his farm. Well, after what that new bastard had done to him, what sort of a threat was that? That Whitman was going to get his – he would make him suffer to his last stinking breath.

Opening the door, he paused a moment and turned to the MFI set of drawers to the side of the door which had two drawer fronts missing. A grey metal lock knife was perched on top, amongst empty cigarette packets and other assorted rubbish. He snatched it up and thrust it into his coat pocket.

CHAPTER 4

Oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking.

Whitman sat at the desk with his laptop open and a hot cup of tea steaming beside it. Afternoon sunshine shone through the open curtains which rippled gently from a breeze blowing in through the raised sash window.

For several hours, he had been meticulously trawling through the sound-byte footage from the various bugs. It was mainly comings and goings or inane drivel, but the occasional interesting piece of gossip or notable item did show up from time to time. The important thing was that he was slowly building up a picture of the habits and movements of the villagers. The
Black n’ Red
notepad by the laptop already had pages filled with detailed notes on most of Haydon’s residents. A dab here, a brushstroke there; the masterpiece was slowly taking shape.

He was tapping a
Doctor Who
pen against his teeth as the play bar slowly crept from left to right on each sound file. Loretta Fairbank and Sally Bryce were playing in his earpiece, chatting on the Green with neighbourly concern about
poor
Carol Belmont. His mind wandering, as it sometimes did, he wondered how Jumanji was getting on with Perry. His faithful mutt would be pining something chronic for him no doubt. He made a note to make a quick phone call later to see how they were both getting on. Mobile phone reception was nonexistent, so he’d have to remember to withhold the number on his room landline so that the area code wouldn’t give anything away. Perry would never notice such things of course (unless he had been smoking some weed while watching a few rerun episodes of
The Lone Gunmen
!), but little details …

As his Labrador drifted away from centre stage, Whitman found himself thinking of his past girlfriend; something he hadn’t done for quite some time. She had loved Ju. He and Vanessa, his one and only adult long term relationship, had parted company nearly two years ago after six years together. She had wanted the whole package – marriage, kids, PTA meetings … he had said he wasn’t ready for that, that he wanted to do some travelling, see the world, experience more of life, before ending it. Strangely enough, she hadn’t taken too kindly to that final comment. After a few weeks of bickering, arguing, then some crying, she packed her bags and went back to her parents in Derby. They spoke a few times in the weeks that followed, him telling her that he missed her and what they had together, and her telling him that she needed more and that she wasn’t getting any younger. But then the calls became less frequent, and then in one final phone call, she had awkwardly informed him that she had met someone else. Those words had felt so final, like being nailed to the ground and looking up to see a bomb whistling its way down toward you. He had wanted to beg her to come back and tell her that he would do anything she wanted, but all he managed to force out was a murmured ‘congratulations’. He could have sworn that he had heard a stifled sob before she thanked him and hung up. A year later he found out by chance that they were already married with a newborn baby boy. Close call there … yeah.

While browsing through one of the SPAR recordings, a curious sound caught his attention, immediately causing his ears to prick up and to snap him back to the present. It was soft and barely above a whisper, so he cranked up the volume to full and pressed the earpiece tighter into his ear, straining to listen. It only took a moment to recognise the soft sounds of someone crying quietly to themselves. He listened for several minutes more before he caught the odd audible word.

“How … used a condom.”

“Ah, the plot thickens,” Whitman said to himself, thankful to be distracted from the unsettling memories of Vanessa. He now recognised the voice. It was that pretty part-time assistant. Flicking through the notepad, he located the name, Mandy Foster, and wrote ‘pregnant’ beside it.

A thought occurred to him. There was a public phone next door at the Post Office. He had also bugged that just in case – sometimes, for dirty little secrets, people didn’t feel comfortable using their home phone or mobile (several residents did still own mobiles, despite rarely having the opportunity to use them).

He located the sound file for the public phone and started it from the time when the crying stopped. It wasn’t long before his instincts paid off.

Mandy’s voice; shaky, fraught. “Dougie, it’s Mandy.”

“How you doin’, babe?” Throaty Scottish accent, possibly Glaswegian. “You decided whether you wanna little trip across the border, eh?”

“Yeah, I gotta see you.”

“I wanna see you too, babe. What about your kin?”

Emotion ripped great rents through her trembling tone. “I’m going to leave this Saturday – I can ring them when I get away from this place. I just gotta be with you.”

There was a slight hesitation from the mystery Scot. Then, “Okay. Has something happened, babe?”

The sound of a sleeve wiping across a snivelling nose, and then, “Everything’s fine, Dougie, honestly. I just need to get away from this place.” After a trembling sigh, she continued, “I’ve got a friend in Shillmoor, so I’ll walk down to hers after my shift and she’ll be able to take me as far as Jedburgh. I’ll get the train from there.”

After an edgy goodbye, the sound file ran quiet. He clicked the pause icon and sat back in his chair with a slight creak from the tired old wooden joints. So, it would seem the test would not be on the druggie tosspot, but rather a knocked up runaway.

Well, it wouldn’t take much to find out when her shift finished, so it would just be a case of tailing her into the woods. It’ll take a couple of days before the friend or lover raises concerns to the parents. A missing person’s would not be filed till then. Would they search the area in between Shillmoor and Haydon? Certainly, but doubtful before Tuesday or Wednesday.

Well, that gave him plenty of time.

Saturday morning arrived and he made a final check of the items that he would take with him; the more sensitive items were extracted from his combination locked case. Dark clothes, hunting knife, back pack containing: LED Lenser Police Tech Focus torch,
Jack Daniel’s Old No.7
embossed
Zippo
, lighter fluid, hack saw, zip ties, gaffer tape, an army surplus trenching tool, camouflage netting, a second set of clothes including boots, bottled water and two twenty-four hour ration packs. A shiver of anticipation, mixed with a healthy vein of fear, skipped through his tensed muscles. This day would be the true start of his adventure; the dress rehearsal before the live finale. After today, there would be no going back.

He had a key for the side entrance, so that he could come and go as he pleased without having to go through the bar, so slipping out wouldn’t be a problem. He had already politely informed Martha that he would be working undisturbed in his room all day, and had even recorded random typing, muttering and shuffling noises to play quietly on his laptop while he was away. There was a slight risk, even with the door locked, but he had also gotten Martha to make up some sandwiches to last him throughout the afternoon and insisted that he would be down for dinner for eight-thirty. That would have to be enough.

There was one final item that he would be taking. The case remained open on the bed. He rummaged inside a concealed pouch until his fingers brushed over a cool, angular surface.

The matt black 9mm Walther P99 felt good in his hand and instantly ramped up his excitement another notch. It was a compact, solid design and the favoured handgun of the more recent 007s, replacing the old PPK. Perfect.

He pulled out two full magazine clips and inserted one into the grip with a satisfying click. In one swift movement, he cocked the pistol and aimed at the mirror by the door. Adopting the more classic Connery accent, he uttered, “The name’s Bond. James Bond.”