Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (18 page)

As the other patrons noticed their arrival, the mood switched, taking on an edginess that hadn’t been there a moment ago. A hush swept through the room as Moe walked up to the bar, his chin up and his chest out. A few eyes flicked from Whitman to Moe and then back again. Neither man appeared to notice.

Geordie noticed the mood change immediately and quickly finished serving Bryce to turn his attention to the newcomer.

“Hi,” Moe said, standing beside Whitman, but keeping his eyes fixed on Geordie. His voice was slightly shrill. “Vodka Martini and, Jill, hunnie, what would you like?” A fleeting look to the slim, tanned woman standing behind him.

Jill glanced at Whitman, before responding. There was a slight hesitation in her response as she flicked a suddenly irritating strand of sleek ash-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Just a lime and soda for me, babe.”

Whitman took a big swig of his drink, then, setting the glass down onto the bar, turned to Moe. With sincerity, he said, “I was really sorry to hear about, Tess, Moe. I know how close you two were.”

All eyes in the bar switched from Whitman to Moe. Bryce clenched his teeth and shook his head just a fraction, willing Whitman to take back the words, but knowing that it was too late. As he fetched the drinks, Geordie had one ear fixed on the conversation, sensing all too well, the prospect of impending conflict.

His jaw fixed, and his blue eyes blazing into the optics ahead of him, Moe said, “Don’t talk to me. Ever.” His voice was harsh, lacking its usual campness and his gaze never moved from the bar. “You understand me, Mister Whitman?”

Whitman nodded despondently, but before turning away, said, “Please, you must believe me. I had nothing to do with Mandy’s disappearance or Tess’s accident. It’s totally unfair to blame things on the new guy, just because he is the new guy.”

Moe’s heavily tanned face reddened and the muscles flexed along his jaw line. “Tessy knew you did something to Mandy and you killed her for it!” The words were spat in a rising whisper.

Jill touched his shoulder, and said with deep concern, “Moe, please, don’t do this.”

Shrugging her off, he finally spun to face Whitman. Jabbing an accusing finger into Whitman’s chest, he snapped shrilly, “You
killed
them both!”

Whitman pushed his hand away, not without force. “This is crazy!”

Bryce grabbed his arm, saying calmly, “I think we should go, mate.”

“Aye, that might be a good idea,” Geordie said apologetically. Unnoticed, he had managed to come from round the bar and was now standing behind the confrontation.

Standing up, Duncan shouted over to his daughter, “Jill, I think Moe might want to go home.”

Not taking his piercing eyes off Whitman, Moe flatly replied, “I’m fine, thank you, Duncan. I came here to have a quiet drink.”

Whitman opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. Glancing from Bryce to Geordie, he resigned. “Don’t worry, I’m going. I just popped in to welcome the
new
new guy.” Glancing to Geordie, he briskly added, “
Most
people here have been really friendly; don’t let this misunderstanding taint your image of the place.”

Whitman walked out quickly, not wanting to give Moe a chance to respond. Bryce shrugged and mouthed
sorry
to Geordie and Jill, then followed. The eyes of everyone in the bar followed them both out.

Bryce caught up with Whitman outside in the cool evening air. Sighing, he said, “Wey, that could’ve gone … better.”

Whitman rolled his eyes. With bitter sarcasm, said, “Aye, the guy was gushing – it was embarrassing.”

Bryce’s laugh was short and hollow and his face turned serious. “Try to give him a break – he’s really an alreet bloke. He’s just, like, really upset and maybe a little misguided.”

Patting the big man’s shoulder, Whitman managed a smile and said, “Yeah, I know. Thanks for your support – it’s much appreciated.”

Bryce returned the smile then, in a lighter tone, said, “Let’s go back home – to the Miller’s. Big Joe’ll think we’ve defected.”

A gaunt figure watched them leave from the shadows in the side lane, staying close to the wall so as not to reveal a profile. Scruffy trainers stood fidgeting in a puddle. The two men walked purposefully across the glistening wet road straight towards the Miller’s. Jimmy waited until they were inside before following, his grip tightening around the lock knife concealed in his pocket.

Whitman and Bryce made a beeline for the bar, to be greeted by Lisa’s warm, friendly face. She offered them a heartening smile and immediately set about fetching their regular drinks. A feeling of well-being settled over Whitman, and he felt, not for the first time, the sensation of being on the set of
Cheers.
He half expected Sam and Diane to be arguing behind the bar.

“Everything okay over the road?” Lisa asked, clearly apprehensive.

Whitman smiled at her, grateful for her genuine concern. “Let’s just say I prefer the Miller’s any day of the week.”

“Aye, yae know it makes sense, laddie!” Big Joe shouted from just out of sight in the lounge. “Miller’s is where the real drinkers come!”

“Nosey!” Lisa called back, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t miss a thing, him!”

They quickly settled down to their usual banter, normally angling toward one film or another, and this night was no different. This time, the topic happened to be war films.

“I hear what you’re saying about
A Bridge Too Far
– a massive ensemble cast, epic scenes and stunning direction; Richard Attenborough at his very best,” Whitman was nodding and saying. “That Sean Connery line does it every time for me – ‘I've got lunatics laughing at me from the woods. My original plan has been scuppered now that the jeeps haven't arrived. My communications are completely broken down. Do you really believe any of that can be helped by a cup of tea?’” Both men smiled at that. Even Big Joe had paused with glass in hand to listen to the short monologue.

“But for me,” Whitman continued, “on the Second World War front,
Where Eagles Dare
has always been a huge favourite of mine. Big fan of Richard Burton – that and
The Wild Geese
and
The Medusa Touch
are three of his best.”

“Aye, classics,” Bryce agreed, taking a sip of his pint. “Apart from
The Medusa Touch
– never seen that one.”

“Ah, well you’ve missed a really quirky British psychological thriller there. Definitely worth a look. But, getting back to
Where Eagles Dare
– the scene where he bluffs then double-bluffs everyone, including Clint, is just priceless. There’s that great exchange between Burton and Eastwood after all the confusion – ‘Lieutenant, in the next fifteen minutes we have to create enough confusion to get out of here alive.’ To which, Clint replies, ‘Major, right now you got me about as confused as I ever hope to be.’”

Bryce laughed heartily and said, “Jesus, Han, how the hell do you remember all this shit?”

The conversation continued, meandering through various war film sub-genres, before, several Tennessee Whiskeys later, Whitman felt the pressure building, so excused himself to go to the toilet.

Bryce, drinking pints of real ale, scoffed, “Bloody southerners cannat hold their drink!”

“How the hell can
I
be a southerner?” Whitman asked, glancing back at him.

“Anyone south of the Tyne is a southerner in my book.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Whitman scoffed, smiling. “I’ll have to read that book someday.”

He almost bumped into Tam Wellright coming out of the toilets, whistling a tune. “Sorry, Tam, didn’t see you there,” he said, stepping aside for the old timer.

Tam smiled his toothless grin at him, before shuffling away, and resuming with his tune.
There may be trouble ahead
…

Oh, har bloody har
, Whitman thought, without a grain of humour in sight. “Moby
dick
,” he muttered as he walked over to the chipped and rust-stained ceramic urinal. Although old and long past their prime, the toilets were thankfully always kept well scrubbed by the Falkirks.

His mind was filled with thoughts of Tess Runckle, Moe Baxter, Mandy Foster and Lisa as he lazily pissed down the splash-back, so he failed to hear the faint creak as the door to the single cubicle opened.

Jimmy Coulson was visibly shaking as he stepped out from the cubicle, knife in hand. His hair and coat were still wet from the rainfall earlier that evening. Strands of long matted hair were plastered to his forehead and cheeks and a cold sweat stood out on his brow. He edged closer as Whitman, oblivious, continued to urinate.

As Whitman shook the last few drops and zipped up, Jimmy pounced on him. Whitman heard the rustle of clothing an instant before the impact and so managed to half step partially to one side.

The movement wasn’t enough to dodge Jimmy, but it was enough to dodge the blade of his lock knife. Jimmy clattered into him with the full force of one shoulder, ramming Whitman against the urinal.

With a solid crack, Whitman’s head bounced off the dull white tiles, sending sparks across his vision. Despite the blow, Whitman recovered quickly and, working on instinct, parried a second blow by raising his left arm. The tip of the knife sliced through material and skin on his forearm, causing a sharp intake of breath, but at the same time dislodged Jimmy’s grip on the knife.

The bloodstained blade skittered across the tiled floor and out of sight through the gap under the cubicle door.

“DIE!” Jimmy screamed in a juddering adrenaline and withdrawal fuelled frenzy. Without pausing, he thrust a clenched fist across Whitman’s jaw.

The blow jerked his head back against the tiles, dazing him once more and causing an explosion of pain in his face. At once, he tasted copper in his mouth from his lacerated tongue.

Stunned, Whitman flailed wildly with both arms in a vain attempt to force his attacker back. Jimmy leapt to one side, cackling manically in a high-pitched squeal. “Dead man, bitch!” Moving in a second time, he lashed out with one soggy trainer and connected hard to the back of Whitman’s knee. White pain burst out from behind his knee cap, causing both legs to fold.

Whitman hit the tiles hard, causing the side of his head to strike the ceramic edge of the urinal. His vision greyed and the sounds of Jimmy’s insane laughing dulled and suddenly seemed far away.

His victim now sprawled and groaning on the floor, with renewed confidence, Jimmy rapidly kicked out again and again, belting him full force in the thigh and then the side.

At that point, the door crashed open. Bryce rushed in like an enraged rugby prop forward, followed by a puffing and wheezing Big Joe.

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening as Bryce rammed into him, slamming him lung-emptying force against the urinal and clipping his forehead off the tarnished pipe work below the cistern. With very little effort, the big farmer then flung Jimmy, screeching and thrashing, to the ground and drove one knee into his chest.

Jimmy managed a gurgle and a whimper as he stared up at Bryce’s calm face.

“Yae … okay … Han?” Big Joe asked between gulping breaths as he composed himself in the doorway.

“You still with us, mate?” Bryce chorused, glancing away from Jimmy’s red and sweating, contorted face.

Whitman groaned then painfully rolled onto his side. “I’ve … been better,” he managed. His jaw was quickly turning a deep purple and blood was oozing out of the side of his mouth, but as his head gradually cleared, he actually started to feel good. A tremendous feeling of euphoria enveloped him, tempering the pain that seemed to be pulsating through his entire body.

With his breathing regulated to some extent and the redness fading from his cheeks, Big Joe helped him to his feet, being careful to avoid gripping him by his bloodied left arm. With Big Joe’s steadying hand, he limped over to Jimmy and Bryce. The pain in his knee intensified with the slightest bend and his side flared with each movement, but the heady feeling of rapture made the pain surprisingly inferior.

“Jimmy, are you nuts?” he asked simply, with a look of pity on his pained face (more for effect, than necessity). Looking down at the weakly struggling figure beneath Bryce’s considerable bulk, he added, “Lisa dumped you – I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Gunna fuckin’
kill
you,” Jimmy snarled through the pressure being inflicted on his chest. Blood was trickling down the side of his face from a small gash in his forehead where his head had struck the pipe.

Finally, having fully regained his composure, Big Joe glared at Jimmy. “Jimmy, yae barred. If I ever catch yae anywhere near ma boozer again, I’m gunna break both yae legs, yae got that, sunny-boy?”

Looking up, Bryce asked, “You wanna get the police on this thieving, druggie piece of shit, Han?”

Holding his jaw, Whitman thought about it for a moment. More police involvement was all he needed.
No, let’s keep this strictly in the family
. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No, that’ll just be more upset for Lisa. She doesn’t need this aggravation.” He continued to look down on Jimmy, shaking his head unhappily.

“This is your lucky day,
Jimmy
,” Bryce said evenly then slowly eased himself off him and got back to his feet.

Rest, recovery and revenge.

Whitman refused to see Doctor Herring, so Martha ordered complete bed rest for a couple of days and allowed Lisa to tend to his wounds. He spent those days being waited upon by both Lisa and Martha. Big Joe’s wife even brought him her homemade broth in bed. His wounds were superficial; the cut wasn’t deep and the blows to the ribs and knee caused some inflammation and tenderness, but eased off after a few days. He had a stubborn headache for a while but that, too, passed quickly.

He sat in bed, a tray, a bowl with mere dribbles of Martha’s delicious broth left, and a side plate with half a crusty roll, laid on his lap. His thoughts wandered back to mulling over the different ways to kill Jimmy Coulson.

Well, there were particular gory options of course, like cutting the top of his head off and feeding him his sautéed brain (if he could find it), like Lecter did to Ray Liotta’s Paul Krendler in
Hannibal
. Or drilling holes into him and slicing his Achilles tendons like in Eli Roth’s
Hostel
? Or how about feeding him into a wood-chipper like Peter Stormare did to Steve Buscemi in
Fargo
? All pretty cool.