Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (30 page)

Sam glared at the man through tear-filled eyes. The only word he could manage was, “W-why?”

Whitman touched the tip of the bloodied knife to his bristly chin in quiet contemplation for a moment. Then, on reflection, said, “Been hearing that a lot lately.”

Sam gently set Natalie’s body down then spied a discarded ashtray down beside the bar with spots of dried blood across its glass surface. As soon as he begrudgingly rested Natalie’s head against the floor, he lunged for the discarded ashtray.

Whitman, caught off guard by the sudden movement, reacted too slowly, surging forward a fraction too late. Sam grabbed the ashtray and, in a crouch, spun round and swiped.

Whitman’s momentum carried him into the blow, striking his stomach with full force. He doubled up, winded and gasping. Sam took the opportunity to go for the kill, raising the improvised club over his head.

Grimacing, Whitman lashed out with the knife, causing Sam to jump backwards before managing to bring the ashtray down on his head. Whitman hastily staggered upright, coughing, with the knife held out defensively in front of him.

Sam glanced from the knife to his dead wife, and made a decision that he would probably regret for the rest of his life; however short or long that might be. Fear temporarily conquered anger and so flight overrode fight. Clutching the ashtray, he turned and sprinted for the front door.

Laughing a half hysterical-half coughing laugh, Whitman shouted, “Coward! Just when we were getting to know each other!”

Sam dashed out into the snow. It seemed to be easing off somewhat, making the Green and the buildings across the street now easy to distinguish. Ignoring the car, he staggered out into the middle of the road, his feet leaving a deep churned up rut in the snow from the entrance of the pub.

Terrified and utterly clueless as to his next course of action, he did the only thing he could think of. “HELP! H-help me, there’s a mur-murderer on the loose!” It felt like a hopelessly stupid thing to do, but as Whitman appeared in the doorway, still clutching his stomach, two men appeared in the street; one emerging from Bell Lane beyond the Green and the other trudging along past the disused Glitzy Bingo Hall at the top end of Main Street.

Whitman stepped out, ready to give chase, but then he too saw John Bryce and Jimmy Coulson approaching from different directions. That in itself wasn’t a problem. The problem was that Bryce appeared to be armed with a rifle.

Considering his options, Whitman decided upon a tactical retreat. He disappeared back inside the Miller’s.

“Help me! P-please! He’s k-k-killed my w-w-w—” His fumbling mouth failed him completely and he screamed out in frustration.

Both Bryce and Jimmy started to run towards him. Bryce, armed with the Bassett Supreme semi automatic rifle, immediately cocked it and brought it up across his chest as he crossed the Green to the screaming stranger. Jimmy thrust a hand into his coat pocket as he rushed towards the hysterical stranger, clutching the lock knife concealed within for some measure of comfort.

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you?” Bryce shouted at him as he approached. “Some murdering bastard has killed my wife and son.”

“Fuck’s goin’ on?” Jimmy echoed, bewildered and out of breath. He coughed a couple of times and spat into the deep snow before continuing to join them.

Shaking, Sam thrust a finger towards the Miller’s. “A b-b-bearded man in th-th-theere; h-he’s just k-k-killed my Natalie.” His stuttering gremlin was taking control, as his voice coach used to tell him.

Bryce turned and took aim at the open doorway. There was no one to be seen.

Jimmy glanced nervously from Bryce to the newcomer, gripping the hilt of the knife in his sweaty palm. An itch crawled up his sleeve, but he fought the urge to scratch.

The breeze had died down to a gentle whisper and only a dusting of tiny flakes continued a leisurely descent. The fine powder coated the three men’s hair and shoulders as they stood clustered together in the deserted street.

Still aiming down the iron sight at the Miller’s, Bryce demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

“W-we arrived l-l-late last night. C-c-c-c-” He had to stop to take a deep breath, before continuing. Tears were streaming down his flushed cheeks.

Keeping the rifle pointing to the pub, Bryce turned to the two men. “You and me got unfinished business, you little bastard. While I was out chasing you off me farm, someone broke in and killed Sally and Anthony.
Butchered them
.” He spat the last two words through clenched teeth. Just saying the words appeared to cause him actual physical pain.

Jimmy stepped back from the raw emotion in the big farmer’s tone and features. “I-I didn’t know, man.”

Turning back to the door, Bryce muttered, “How do we know that the murderer isn’t you, cityboy?”

Sam gaped at him and raised a fist still clutching the ashtray, shaking with fury. “My WIFE! He slit her throat!” The tears were dripping off his quivering chin.

Jimmy raised his hands defensively. “Woah, alreet, I think he’s alreet, Bryce.”

“Well who the hell is killing everyone? And where the hell is everyone else?”

Jimmy looked around the deserted street. Suddenly the solitude struck him. Despite the weather, there should have been a few people about, especially with all the shouting. And the kids … they loved the snow. A horrifying thought crossed his mind. “He cannat have killed
everyone
… could he?”

Bryce switched his attention from the sight to stare at Jimmy then, slowly, he glanced around them, his eyes frequently diverting back to the pub. No open doors, no faces at windows. No fresh tracks in the snow – other than theirs – come to think of it. But still … “That’s impossible. There’s nearly four hundred people in and around the village for christsake!” Looking back to Sam, he snarled, “Who
is
he?”

“B-beard, ginger h-h-hair, stocky—”

“Whitman?” Both Bryce and Jimmy chorused.

“That’s insane!” Bryce bellowed, dropping the rifle to his side in disgust. “He’s … he’s a normal bloke! He’s a fucking writer!”

“Christ.” Setting his jaw, Bryce growled, “Talking’s over.” With that, he stormed towards the Miller’s, aiming the rifle from the hip.

Jimmy turned away from Sam. “Bryce! Where the hell you goin’?”

Bryce continued towards the pub, muttering, “I’m gunna kill the bastard, whoever the hell he is.”

Jimmy considered Bryce’s words then rushed after him. Shakily, Sam followed. With Bryce leading, the three men marched towards the pub. Rage, overriding any fears, pushed Bryce unthinking and resolute across the threshold. He entered the pub and surveyed the bar. It was empty, apart from the bodies.

Staring at the bodies of Big Joe and Lisa, through his clamped jaw, Bryce said, “This bastard is dead.” He shook his head solemnly and could not help but revisit the images of Sally and Anthony, dumped brutally on the cold cellar floor. His renewed despair dragged at him like an ever swelling gravitational force. The gun felt like a concrete paving slab in his hands.

Stepping in behind him, Jimmy’s eyes were immediately drawn to Lisa. Ignoring Bryce’s warning, Jimmy rushed over to her and dropped to his knees beside her curled up body. “Lisa … what’s he done to you?” He hesitantly touched her pallid cheek. The chill to her skin caused him to recoil immediately and his eyes grew watery. Scarcely above a whisper, he uttered, “I’m sorry.”

Sam hovered in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off Natalie’s body. She lay exactly where he had left her only a short time ago. Undisturbed. Still.
It’s no biggie
, her voice sighed soothingly to him. The words managed to draw him one step back from hysteria. Fully understanding this stranger’s inner torment, Bryce turned briefly to him and said, “What’s your name?”

“S-Sam.”

“Well, Sam, I’m John and that’s Jimmy. Now, you stay by the door while we take a look around.” With that, he moved through to the lounge, stepping carefully around Natalie, the barrel of the rifle leading the way.

“
Jimmy
,” Bryce hissed firmly as the younger man remained squatting beside his dead former girlfriend. The young man’s face was set into a grimace, but he had managed to choke back the tears before they burst forth.

Reluctantly, Jimmy slowly got to his feet and tore his gaze away from Lisa’s dead, open eyes. Once his eyes were averted, he was able to catch up with Bryce at the threshold to the lounge.

Sam waited, shivering, both from the cold and a mixture of adrenaline and fear. While he waited, his eyes drifting back to Natalie every so often, the minutes ticked away. After the two locals had disappeared into the lounge, he heard no further noises from within the pub. The breeze tickled the back of his neck and an occasional wispy flake would drift into the open doorway.

Glancing up to the heavens, he noted that the sky was still filled with a swollen, angry cloud covering, so the respite seemed to be only a temporary one. And, eyes darting up and down the street, still no other soul had appeared to question the antics of the three frantic men. It seemed that they were indeed the only survivors to this madman’s rampage.

His attention promptly returned to the interior of the pub, and inevitably, to his fallen wife. Her face was pointing away from him, but if it wasn’t for the blood, he would’ve sworn that she was just sleeping. Since awaking not so long ago, everything had happened so fast. His mind was only now starting to catch up. Natalie was dead.
Murdered
. And his dad … what of his dad?

As he waited, his rattled nerves dissolved still further and, along with it, the last shreds of his patience. What was taking them so long? As he stood, hugging himself against the cold and more, the thought crossed his mind that this killer, Whitman, could have gotten to John and Jimmy too. If he had indeed murdered dozens of people already, what could two more possibly do to stop him? Even if they did have a gun and one was the size of that giant, Andre, from
The Princess Bride
. Well, slight exaggeration there, but still … And, if that was the case, what would he do then?

What would he do then? What
could
he do? He was one man, unarmed and fucking useless. What the
hell
could he do? He was good with servers, with firewalls and routers; that was what he was good at. You need to configure administration rights on SQL Server 2005? Well, Sam’s the man. But fight a mass murdering psychopath? Forget it. He had never even been in a fight since high school, and only then, just a couple of stupid little punch-ups over his stuttering from one of the resident Neanderthals. He seemed to remember losing those too. Split lip, bruised cheek and sore ribs sprung to mind.

Maybe he should just run. Take the car and run to Blindburn to alert the police. He could be with his dad too – he needed him more than ever. Yes, that’s what he should do. He had been waiting far too long already.
He must’ve gotten to them too. They’re dead already and Whitman is on his way here to kill me too. What the hell am I doing still standing here? A fucking lamb to the slaughter! Get in the fucking car RIGHT now!

As he made the decision to run, footsteps could be heard in the lounge and a shadow danced across the opening. Sam’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. His body tensed in readiness to bolt.

Bryce appeared in the doorway, gun held loosely in both hands. Shaking his head, he said sullenly, “Not there. We did find Big Joe’s wife, Martha, though. In bed with her throat slit.” After pausing to release a shaky breath, he muttered, “Fucking … evil.”

Appearing behind him, Jimmy added, “Aye,
and
Whitman’s room empty – no Whitman and none of his shit either, like. I reckon we can safely assume that it’s definitely that bastard behind all this.”

Walking back across towards Sam, Bryce muttered, “Certainly
looks
that way.”

The three men walked out into the street. The air was cold and still as they stood, looking around the seemingly deserted village. A smattering of flakes lazily drifted earthwards. As they walked towards Sam’s half submerged Fiesta, Bryce summed up their situation. “So, the landlines are out and mobile signals are a dead loss. Both me Lanny and pickup had all tyres slashed and so have the other cars I’ve come across since walking into the village.”

Sweeping the gathered snow away from the window and door of the driver’s door with the sleeve of his jacket, Sam muttered, “Well, it’s all we’ve g-g-got.”