Buried Slaughter (2 page)

Brian couldn’t help but laugh. He tried to remain serious, but tears were almost pouring out of his eyes in amusement.

Eventually, Mr. Tibbles loosened its grip and went jogging over to its owner.

“Oh, Mr. Tibbles,” Mrs. Wilson said in a childish voice. “Mr., Mr., Mr.” She scuffed its matted fur as it stared back at Scott.

“Holy shit,” Scott said, pulling himself to his feet and wiping himself down. He had four large scratch marks on each of his cheeks. “Did it mark me? Did the fucker mark me?”

Brian’s lip quivered as he stared Scott in his face. Scott was tearing up.

“You…‌You look like you’ve been attacked by a miniature Wolverine,” Brian said, in as serious a voice as possible.

Then, after they’d bid Mrs. Wilson and Mr. “Wolverine” Tibbles a hasty farewell, Brian burst out laughing again.

Brian returned home that night with a smile still on his face.

He unlocked the door of his rented semi-detached house in the Fulwood area, near to the new hospital, and took a look down the street before entering. Some moron already had their Halloween decorations up. In fact, screw the idea of “already”‌—‌only morons put Halloween decorations up in the first place.

Morons and serial killers.

But still, it wasn’t a bad area. Quiet street. Neighbours who kept themselves to themselves. An improvement on that dingy city centre flat he’d spent six months living in, anyway.

He entered the house and wiped his feet on the doormat. “Honey, I’m home,” he called. Always felt a little bit of a tit saying it, but Hannah found it funny.

Well, she seemed to, anyway.

“‘Ello, officer,” Hannah shouted. “Come on through.”

He took off his jacket and placed it on the banister by the staircase. Brian could hear clattering in the kitchen/dining area. He could smell something delicious, too. Sweet. Rich. What was Hannah up to?

He poked his head into the dining area and saw that it was candlelit. Hannah rushed from the hob and placed a plate of what looked like chicken and veg onto Brian’s side of the table, serving it up on a plastic plate. “Chicken in red wine sauce. Happy first anniversary,” she said.

Brian froze. Lowered his jaw. Widened his eyes enough so that his girlfriend would catch on to his expression.

“Wait,” Hannah said. Her pearly white smile disappeared as her mouth closed. She twirled her frizzy hair. “Don’t say you…‌you didn’t forget, did you?”

Brian kept himself propped against the doorway and held Hannah’s stare. Sighed audibly.

Poor thing. He couldn’t trick her any longer.

A smile crept onto his face and he stepped into the room, showing off the huge bouquet of flowers in his hand. “Surprise,” he said.

Hannah rolled her eyes and pushed her chair away as she walked over to Brian. “You tit,” she said. She grabbed the flowers and examined them. “These are beautiful. Price tag still attached, I see. Great attention to detail, as ever.”

“You know me too well,” Brian said. He kissed Hannah on the lips. Dark-skinned, lovely brown eyes. He’d done alright for himself, in his forties and living with an attractive woman in her late thirties. He always knew he’d be quite the ladies’ man if he lost that bloody belly. Which he had. Plenty to be proud of.

“And what’s this I smell?” Brian asked, pulling out his chair and sniffing the plate. “Is this the finest canned ASDA Smart Price chicken in red wine sauce I see in front of me?”

Hannah winked as she scooped up a forkful of mixed vegetables and popped them in her mouth. “Complete with frozen veg from months ago and ready-made mash.”

“Ooh, you do know how to rustle a romantic meal up, don’t you? I guess with my attention to detail and your culinary love, we’re quite a match after all.”

Hannah grinned as they tucked into their food. She’d been good for Brian. They were good for each other, in fact. They met this time last year via the wonders of online dating‌—‌something that Scott bet Brian couldn’t find any success with no matter how hard he tried. But despite Scott’s lack of success with the opposite sex, Brian fast fell for his first date. He knew he liked her the second they headed into a posh Italian and Hannah suggested they just grab a takeaway instead. She had a worldview that matched his, but a slightly more positive spin to his cynical outlook. He’d been happy since he’d met her. Really happy. His career might have been “stable”, which was a kind way of saying “inane”, but he had a good personal life now. That was the priority.

After they’d finished the meal, they chatted for a few minutes about their days. Hannah was a freelance writer. She reviewed music and movies that she hadn’t even listened to or seen. Did the occasional opinion piece on the headlines, too. She had a way with words that could trick anybody. Stealing a living.

But of course, he couldn’t say that to her, after a hard day of wrestling with cats.

They cleared up and relocated to the lounge, where they sat in silence and watched telly, cuddled up on the sofa. They could sit in silence. Something nice that they both enjoyed doing. It made for a suitable prelude to the intense lovemaking that would go on later.

Damn, was she good in bed.

While he was supping on his third Cobra beer and starting to feel a little horny, the national news appeared on the screen of the wall-mounted television. He wasn’t really listening to it, but he recognised the setting as soon as it came on. He knew he’d seen it somewhere before.

“Hold on,” Hannah said, grabbing the remote and turning the television up, “is that Pendle Hill?”

The location clicked in Brian’s head. Hannah was right‌—‌it was Pendle Hill. The endless green fields, the creepy-looking summit. He’d spent loads of time walking that hill when he was younger, searching for witches. Rumour had it that you could hear voices from the top of it. Spirits. Ghosts.

And all sorts of other bullshit mumbo-jumbo.

But that wasn’t what held Brian’s attention right now. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen forced a frown out of him. He placed his beer at the foot of the sofa.

“Oh my word,” Hannah said, “That’s…‌that’s horrible.”

Brian stared at the screen. Images flicked to what looked like some kind of dig site, and then to a traumatised-looking individual with a balding head and bulging eyes.

But it was the headline that dominated the story. The headline, in bold, drowning out everything else.

Pendle Hill Massacre: Seven Confirmed Dead.

“Do you think it’s something creepy? Something supernatural?” Hannah turned the volume up even higher.

“…‌Horrific scenes of mutilation that are too grotesque to show on television…‌”

“What…‌Why would something like this happen? Why would it?”

Brian leaned over and kissed Hannah. He moved on to her neck and gave it a little nibble, then started to unbutton her collar with his teeth. She was breathing deeply already, right into her stomach, her legs widening and waiting for him.

Grabbing the remote from her hand as she breathed and sighed more audibly, Brian turned the television down as the Pendle Hill report came to a close.

As he indulged himself in his girlfriend’s smooth, bare skin, the former Detective Sergeant inside him couldn’t quite get that headline about Pendle Hill out of his head, as the images continued to flicker across the screen.

Chapter Two

Brian did the best job of ignoring the news he possibly could the following morning, but it wasn’t easy.

Hannah was in front of the television at breakfast, glued to the screen. She’d got up early, like she always did, to get her freelance work for the day out of the way. Finished as early as possible so she could spend the rest of the day “the way she really wanted to spend it”, as she put it. Brian dared not ask her why she’d bothered going into freelance writing in the first place if she didn’t enjoy it, not after the verbal tirade she’d given him last time he’d asked.

“See you later, Han,” he said, slipping a banana into the top pocket of his jacket.

“Yeah,” she called, half-heartedly. She scooped a spoonful of Cheerios up. Kept her eyes glued on the screen. The images of Pendle Hill, the deepening of the investigation there. Brian would rather not look at it. The thought of a massacre on his doorstep was unsettling at best, but tingled his curiosity at worst. Deep down, deep within, there was a craving to learn more about the events. To find out what was going on.

But he couldn’t allow that to happen. Not now his personal life was on track again. And he was a community support officer now, anyway. Even if he wanted to get himself involved, he no longer had the power or authority to.

He jogged to the end of the street. His breath clouded out of his mouth as he approached the bus stop. Winter really was approaching. Soon, the clocks would go back, and the mornings would be dark. Bloody nightmare. Winter was his least favourite season. Always had been, but now even more so after the events of two winters ago.

He stuck his thumb out and signalled for a bus, which soon pulled up upon seeing him. Hannah and he had a shared car‌—‌a money-saving measure‌—‌but she told him that she needed it most days for “work stuff”.

Which meant that she wanted to go look at the shops and buy some new shoes later this afternoon.

The commute wasn’t too bad, though. He enjoyed people-watching these days, and boy, did some weirdos get on this bus. Currently, there was a man with an unshaven beard who reeked of alcohol, and an old woman rustling some sweet wrappers and muttering nonsense under her breath.

For all he knew, they were thinking the same of him.

The journey wasn’t too lengthy, either. He was at the police station in fifteen minutes, and the traffic wasn’t too bad. There were, however, a group of journalists gathered around the entrance of the station. He looked closely as he got off the bus and approached. They were harassing an officer as he climbed the steps. He held his breath as he approached the journalists and the entrance to the police station. As long as they saw his PCSO uniform, they wouldn’t bother him. Nobody gave a shit about a civvie.

Across the road, in front of the newsagents, he noticed the billboard drifting back and forth in the wind. On it, nothing more than the words
PENDLE HILL MASSACRE
in bold caps. Further down the street, he spotted people with newspapers, pointing at the headline. A group of college kids rushed past him as he approached the station.

“I reckon it’s those witches,” one of them said.

“Fuck off,” another said. “It’s a psychopath. Serial killer or whatever.”

And then their conversations drifted into the distance the further they got away from Brian.

Damn. Must’ve been a big case if it had kids engaging with the news.

He kept his head down as he walked towards the steps of the station, being sure to keep his PCSO badge proudly on display. If there was such a thing as proudly displaying a PCSO badge, that was. But he wouldn’t have to stay here for long. He’d go in, pick up his updated list of duties from the front desk, drag Scott out to stop him pretending to be a real police officer, then get the hell out of here.

The journalists largely ignored him. Chatted to one another and showed off each others’ photographs, like some e-journalist cock-waving activity.

“PCSO McDone! No chance you’ll be hopping back into the limelight to sort out this case, huh?”

The voice took Brian by surprise. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. He recognised the voice from somewhere in the past. He looked at the faces. Unshaven. Glasses. Tired eyes. All of them looked like new, fresh blood. None of the ruthless old journos from the old days. Nothing more than wannabes from UCLAN following strict orders, too afraid to step out of line.

Except one. One he recognised very much.

David Wallson.

David lifted his weedy arm and waved. He was still wearing the same green coat as he had two years ago, back when Brian had last seen him. Back when Brian had squared up to him for poking his nose in his family matters during the Watson case.

All that was different about him was the large, bushy beard on his face, and the greying hair. Clearly loving life as a journalist.

“The new badge looks good, McDone. Not quite as snazzy as the DS one, mind. But good on you. Happiness beats status every time, right?”

A couple of the younger journalists beside David sniggered. Brian tensed his jaw and turned away. Fuckwits. Wallson was nothing but a slimeball. Had some sort of inherent disrespect for the police. Little did he know, the police were just waiting for the opportunity to stitch him up someday. Improper methods. Phone hacking. Anything they could manage.

Brian pushed open the station door and prepared to go get Scott.

“Can’t tell me you aren’t a little bit interested, can you?” David called. “Can’t tell me that the old DS inside you just died that day you got your assistant killed, right?”

Brian stopped. His stomach tensed up, as did every other muscle in his body. He turned around to face David. Something awoke inside him. The mention of Cassy. The attribution of blame he had to carry for her death. He’d put that all behind him. He didn’t want to remember, not now things were good.

“You’re a twat, David.” Brian shook his head. He wanted to go on down there and beat the uppity shit to a pulp, but he knew there was no use to that. Hannah wouldn’t like it, and damn, if Vanessa found out, there’d be all sorts of trouble with access to Davey. So a swear word had to do for now.

“Hey,” David said, grinning. “I’m just saying, that’s all. A good detective never truly fades away, does he?”

“Just leave me to my work. And I’ll leave you to…‌well, whatever it is you are paid to do.”

“I’ve got two media passes,” David said. “Two passes to the Pendle Hill crime scene. One of my friends called in sick, so it’s just lonely old me. Unless you fancy a ride.”

Brian frowned. “I feel really sorry for you, David. Don’t you stray too far off the path or those witches will get you.” He turned away from the crowd and pushed into the station doors.

“I’m heading up there at ten a.m. You know my number if you change your mind.”