Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (5 page)

CHAPTER 3

3
^rd
July.
The girl and the playground.

Whitman awoke from the most restful sleep he had experienced in years, as the first rays of morning sunshine pierced the thin floral curtains. Despite the early hour, he felt refreshed and ready for the day. He swung his legs out of the bed and jumped up, yawning but smiling, his eyes wide and blinking.

With electric razor in hand, Whitman stared at his unshaven image in the mirror of his pokey en suite bathroom. He had switched it on and was about to start shaving himself when his hand had stopped less than an inch from the skin. The razor vibrated gently in his hand.

“Man, you look just like I feel,” he said to his reflection.

Chuckling, he switched the buzzing device off and popped it back into its pouch. No more shaving, at least while on location. If he was going to be a writer, he was going to have to look the part.

After a brief stand up wash, he dressed in jeans, a
M*A*S*H
t-shirt and his
All Stars,
then headed for the door.

The lounge was deserted, apart from the ever fussing Martha. She swooped down on him the instant he sat down at the one table that had been laid out with cutlery, placemat with a Northumberland National Park scene, and a paper napkin. Her ample breasts, bulging in a plain matronly dress, swayed close to his face as she swept away imaginary specks of dust from the table.

After a hearty Scottish fry up that would block all but the healthiest arteries, followed by two cups of
Rington’s
tea, he headed out into the cool fresh morning sunshine.

It wasn’t quite nine AM, but the village centre already seemed a bustle of activity. The SPAR and the Post Office both had customers, Henhouse Steve could be seen leaving the former in a sweaty
Lacoste
t-shirt and jogging shorts. Three older gents, two in obligatory beige overcoats and caps and the third in a tartan dressing gown and slippers, were stood around the bench under the mighty oak. They stopped their animated conversation on seeing the stranger in their midst. All three turned in unison to stare at him. There was no attempt at subtlety, just open curiosity.

Whitman offered them a broad smile and then turned right to head down Miller’s Road. Unlike Main Street, the narrow off-shoot was cobbled and far more in keeping with Whitman’s mental image of a quaint little village. After passing S Priestly Chemists and a cluster of narrow terraced houses, Miller’s Road ended quite abruptly. It was replaced by a gravel footpath that led into a dense wooded area of birch, oak and alder. Thick luscious branches intertwined above the path to offer a latticework canopy.

Not wanting to backtrack just yet, he decided to venture into the woods. The bubbling, dove-like call of a black grouse, somewhere within the woods, greeted him as he walked casually along the shrouded path. Vibrant bluebells and clumps of wild grass lined its edge, and a rustling of leaves rippled through the branches above with the caress of a gentle breeze that carried on it an array of woodland scents.

A five minute walk brought him into a bright picnic area with a swing, roundabout, slide and a wooden climbing frame. This quiet woodland sanctuary was clean and well-kept; the grass well-groomed and not a scrap of litter or an expletive of graffiti. It was bordered on the far side by a shallow, rocky stream with stepping stones that allow the walker to continue along the path beyond. Narrow dirt tracks led off on both sides of the clearing, leading deeper into the forest.

Dressed in an obscenely short denim skirt and tight low cut top, the barmaid – Lisa – stood at the swings pushing a little girl gently backwards and forwards. She hadn’t noticed his arrival. There was a distant, dreamy look in her eyes as she gazed out past the stream. She looked pale and fragile in the dazzling sunshine.

The girl, maybe four, was also quiet and following her mother’s gaze as she swung back and forth, accompanied by the rhythmic creak of the chains. As he approached, he could see a resemblance between mother and daughter, except for the thick curly blonde locks on the child.

“Hi,” he said finally, having crossed most of the distance.

“FUCK!” was her startled reply as she swung round to face him, her diminutive chest heaving almost out of her low top. Seeing that it was Whitman, she flushed red and composed herself, hoisting her top up to a more respectable level. “Sorry, you scared the shit out of us there.”

Whitman laughed and, holding up his hands, he offered a brief apology. “This your daughter?” He bent down and smiled at the little girl who had now fixed her intense stare on him. She had wide, curious eyes, the same colour of stormy sea grey as her mother’s.

“I’m four,” she said matter-of-factly.

Feigning astonishment, he said, “Wow, I woulda thought you were at least five!”

She smiled, but it was brief and followed by a shrug that said, ‘yeah, typical
adult
thing to say’. Her attention immediately returned to the swing and she kicked her small legs off the ground to resume the motion.

“So should I be your Princess Leia or your Clarice Starling then?” She gave her daughter’s back another gentle push then turned back to Whitman with a teasing smile brightening her fair complexion.

Her playful expression was infectious; he returned the smile effortlessly. “You know your films. Why don’t you be my Princess Lisa?”

She laughed at that, throwing her head back to expose more of the slender angle of her neck. Whitman was pleasantly surprised by how glowing and alive it made her look, despite her gaunt features. The short exchange had allowed him to move closer to the young woman, but as he ventured to gently touch her arm, Haley jumped down from the swing and squeezed in between them with a protective scowl on her face.

Whitman backed off immediately, apologising to both mother and daughter.

“Haley, be nice, angel,” Lisa said with an affectionate firmness. “It’s okay, Han. Haley’s just a little over protective sometimes.”

The rest of the day was spent leisurely finding his way around the village and surrounding fields and woodland. He made a point of visiting each of the shops. His first stop was Priestly’s to buy condoms, just to see if he could get a reaction out of the mid forties, prim looking bespectacled man behind the counter (a little positive thinking for Princess Lisa might have constituted a second reason). He was disappointed to receive only a polite welcome for his trouble from Mister Priestly himself, who then calmly went back to his business of reading an unseen magazine.

Crossing over Main Street, he then entered the SPAR to buy a newspaper (it turned out to be a Guardian, not that he noticed that till later). A husband and wife (young enough to be his daughter) were running the show there. He, Duncan Fairbank, seemed like the rugged outdoors type, but not far off being sent to pasture, but the wife, Loretta, was all smiles, with a look of Olivia Newton John about her (pre
Grease
badgirl unfortunately, but still very easy on the eye). As he was leaving, a very pretty blonde in her late teens almost bumped straight into him, saying, “Sorry I’m late, Mister Fairbank – oop! Sorry, sir!” She was flushed from running and clutching a purple and white top handle
Radley
bag protectively to her chest. She offered a melting-heart apologetic smile and stepped to the side.

Returning the smile, he said, “No worries, hun.” His eyes only stayed on her for a moment, but it was enough to take in her Barbie-like frame, tight shorts over slender and tanned legs, and a warm, intelligent face.
Sandys and Barbies
, he thought with mild amusement.

“No problem, Mand,” Duncan replied, ignoring the near collision.

His next stop was the Post Office to buy stationery and stamps from a stork-like older gent with a nervous twitch. The stumpy wife, with an acute dodgy hip, appeared from nowhere as soon as she heard a stranger’s voice. She was quick to introduce herself as Agatha (but you can call me ‘Aggie’) Smith, and, as an afterthought, waved a curt hand towards her husband, Leonard (or ‘Lenny’, presumably only when he was in favour, which was probably not that often). The husband offered what was somewhere between a scowl and a forced smile which Whitman imagined as a plea.
K-kill me
…

Outside the Owen and Momma Lift Post Office, he paused, one foot on the curb. A dusty green Land Rover, with
Bryce & Son
stencilled on the hardtop in faded white lettering, pulled up to the intersection. It slowed, before swinging out onto Main Street, giving Whitman a brief glimpse of a big bear of a man with a wide spade-like face sporting a deep frown.

Crossing over Bell Lane, he looked through the window at Merlin’s Meats, but found neither an excuse nor the inclination to enter. The proprietors seemed to be a couple, based on a few simple observations; they were both fat, with similar glazed expressions and open, toothy grins, and both wore matching cords and woolly jumpers under blood-stained aprons. As thoughts of
The League of Gentlemen
sprung to mind, he released a mock shiver and vowed never to buy
anything
from those two weirdos.

His final stop was Little Baker’s, and what was a huge contrast to the demon butchers of Main Street next door. The aroma of freshly baked bread aroused his nose and taste buds even as the bell tinkled to announce his entrance. As he bought a ham and pease pudding sandwich, he discovered that Simon and Kim Little seemed almost normal for Haydon. They were friendly, but not overbearing and kept a beautifully clean – if a little chintzy – shop. They were both in their forties, a little haggard looking, but, at least on the surface, happy enough with their lot in life.

Strolling back along Main Street, he decided to eat his lunch in the grounds of St. Bart’s. The graveyard and gardens were on the unkempt side, but were pleasant enough, bordered by mossy dry stone walls and faintly scented with lavender. As he sat, a pair of chaffinches sitting high up on a sturdy branch of an oak in the corner of the graveyard, their white shoulder patches glinting in the summer sunshine, chirped their metallic
pink-pink
chatter to one another. He sat for a time, shaded by the stiff, angular branches of a sycamore, eating the sandwich and contemplating the various characters he had met so far.

It was not long before the resident vicar, obviously smelling the scent of a fresh agnostic quarry, appeared and headed in his direction. This man was at least six foot three, beanpole skinny with a shocking mess of ginger hair, still thick and red, despite his advancing years.

As he approached, the vicar surprised Whitman by producing a
King Edward
cigar and popping it into his mouth. Lighting it with a cheap disposable lighter, he nodded as he puffed. “Afternoon to you.”

“Afternoon, Father.” Whitman said genially after swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping for a spot of lunch in your lovely gardens.”

“Not at all, friend. I’m not a Father, though, I’m a Reverend – Church of England, you see. Reverend Dunhealy; Morgan. Now, I know that sounds like I should be Catholic, but what can I do?” He grinned, revealing a mouth full of slightly stained and crooked tombstone teeth. “You must be the newcomer I’ve been hearing whispers of about the place.”

Leaning back against the wood slats of the bench, Whitman grunted a short laugh and shook his head. “Sorry, Reverend. The mobile phone companies could use the advanced communications that you’ve got here in Haydon. News certainly travels fast.”

“Aye, there’s nothing goes on round here without the whole village getting to know about it.” There was a subtle hint of Scot to his accent.

Whitman stood up, dropping the empty wrapper into a waste bin beside the bench. He held out a hand. “Hannibal Whitman, Reverend. Pleased to meet you.” The vicar took it without reservation, but, for a split second a look of uncertainty passed across the old man’s face. Whitman’s strong hand gripped the slender, musical hand of the vicar’s and he offered him a wide, cheery smile.

You’re bugging me.

Several days passed as he began to find his feet in the small village of Haydon. Gradually, he developed a feel for the rhythm of the village and its strange array of occupants. During those early days, occasionally it would rain – heavy summer rain, richly scented with the surrounding woodland, grass and thirsty flora – then a few clear powder-blue sunny days would follow, before returning to chilly showers. Such was the climate of northern England (well, pretty much all of England for that matter).

He continued the light flirting with the skinny young mother, Lisa, who seemed only too flattered with the playful banter from an older, supposedly wiser, pretend writer. Martha persisted in fussing about him at every opportunity in her motherly way, which, once acclimatised to, actually became moderately pleasant and comforting. For the most part, Big Joe left him to his own devices, apart from an occasional chat about life in the village. Tam Wellright would appear every evening at the same time and shuffle across to his same spot at the end of the bar, and, without a word, Big Joe would pour him a pint of
Guinness
.

Janet and Loretta Fairbank dropped in one evening for a girly night without the husbands (or bits on the side). They made one or two whispered comments aimed in his direction that frequently ended with a giggle from one or the other. The Haydon cock, Steve Belmont, would never be far away when Janet was around, but Carol managed to keep her distance; Whitman only spotted her once, standing across the street from the Miller’s while Steve was inside chatting, for a change, to Duncan, rather than Janet. It had been a cool, cloudless evening and a breeze licked the unkempt strands of her dirty blonde hair while she stood rigid by the curb side. A haunted expression was fixed to her rigid features. Unmoving and silent, she clutched a SPAR carrier bag with an unseen bottle inside like it was the secret elixir to everlasting life.