Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (21 page)

He trudged purposefully through the flurries to the Sportrak. It already had another covering of snow, so took a couple of minutes to clear with a gloved hand, while the engine warmed up. Snow chains had been fixed that morning, so once cleared, he reversed out of the parking spot in front of the Miller’s and pulled round the Green to head along Bell Lane. The windscreen wipers worked hard to clear his view. The wind was whipping up such a frenzy that the driving snow took on the appearance of swarms of albino bees rushing out of the blackness towards him.

Judging by the thick, unblemished snow, no car had driven along the lane for some time. As he passed the good doctor’s house on his left, he switched the tape deck on. Mick Jagger erupted in threatening tones.

I see a red door and I want to paint it black,

No colours any more I want them to turn black,

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes,

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes …

Even with four wheel drive and snow chains, progress was pretty slow. He wheel spun half way up the lane, the chained tyres struggling to find purchase and churning up clods of dirty snow. After a couple of seconds, they gripped and the Sportrak bumped forward once more.

Chickens, Bryce and two smoking barrels.

Enraged, John Bryce stormed into the study where his steel gun cabinet stood to one side of a well-stocked bookcase. A vast array of agricultural, farming and veterinary books rubbed shoulders with William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe, Shakespeare, Anne Rice, Stephen King and H. G. Wells, to name just a few. In the bay window stood a small six foot Scots Pine, decorated with red garlands and ribbons, silver baubles and twinkling white fairy lights. The larger one, a nine footer, held centre stage in the lounge.

Sally had heard the chickens going wild in one of the barns. That could mean only one thing; one of the little toe rags from the village, possibly Jimmy Coulson, were taking advantage of the poor weather to try to steal some of the stock.

The steel box cabinet contained a double-barrel Browning Citori Lightning 12-gauge shotgun and a Bassett Supreme .22 semi-automatic rifle, plus a shelf with cartons of ammunition, accessories and cleaning equipment.

Bryce unclipped the Browning shotgun and glanced down at the various types of shot.

Sally appeared in the doorway and stomped over to stand behind him with her fierce blue eyes boring into the back of his neck. Her arms were folded across her diminutive chest as she tapped a hob-nailed boot on the scuffed floorboards. “Don’t you even think of using the tungsten ones, John Bryce. I don’t want you killing anyone!”

Without looking at her, Bryce replied, “We’ve lost maybe fifty broilers and God-knows how many eggs from the layers out of the perches from them little shits.”

Bryce sighed. He never could resist anything Sally ever asked him, not that she asked all that often. “Alreet, alreet,” he reluctantly agreed. Grabbing a handful of shells, he shoved them into a deep side pocket in his bomber jacket as he turned to his wife.

Sally kissed him on the lips then grabbed a red woolly hat. “Here,” she said, perching on her tiptoes to tug it onto his big head. He still had to bend down a fair bit to allow her. “It’s pretty cold out there, pet.”

Bryce couldn’t resist the urge to give her another kiss, this one more passionate than the previous. “Divvent worry, Sal. I’m gunna kick this kid’s arse and then be back for a hot toddy within the hour.”

A small head filled with a thick mess of curly brown hair popped around the corner. “Can I come too, Da?” Anthony had turned a teenager earlier in the year, but his size and features made him look more like ten or eleven. Bryce often insisted – not with his son present – that this was from his mother’s side.

“Not this time,” Bryce gently refused. “But thanks for the support, son.”

Sally pointed a stern finger to the stairs. “Up them stairs young man; it’s time for your bath. I’ll be up shortly to check on you.” Her tone was stern, but she offered him a sly wink when his face dropped. That brought his cheeky smile back. He dashed off upstairs, taking the steps two at a time in his bare feet.

After locking the cabinet, Bryce made straight for the front door with angry purpose and swung it open, letting a gust of snowflakes into the hallway.

“John!” Sally shouted behind him, a look of supreme exasperation set into her features.

“Sorry! I’m goin’! I’m goin’!” Bryce quickly stepped out into the swirling darkness and slammed the door behind him, causing the bells on the holly wreath nailed to the outside of the door to jangle festively. He rolled his eyes and headed through flurries towards the barns.

The wind moaned through the old, dusty rafters of the cold, draughty barn. Several hundred flustered and clucking chickens scurried about on the barn floor, thick with sawdust, feed and faeces. The air was heavy with dust and feathers. In the gloom, trying to ignore the acrid smells of shit and urine, Jimmy Coulson had managed to bag four of their brethren. He finished tying the Hessian sack as it moved and jerked in his hands, and then carefully picked his way through the squawks and fluttering feathers towards the back of the barn.

These birds should last him till Steve’s money came through, then no more sneaking around in the middle of the night for him. Although, there was of course one more night to do on Christmas Eve, but then that would definitely be it. Finito.

Shoving aside the two planks he had pried open earlier, he then shimmied through the thin opening facing the woods. As he slipped out into the storm, he heard the barn doors swing open.

“Right, where are you?” Bryce bellowed, igniting a torch and sweeping the beam from left to right, cutting through the hazy darkness. The shotgun was broken open over his other arm and snow and ice particles hung to his hat and clothing. Chickens scurried away in all directions as he pulled the doors closed with a shuddering clatter and strode through the startled throng.

Jimmy yanked his remaining leg through the gap and dashed across the white-cloaked grass, kicking up clods of snow ahead of him. Driving snow stung his face as he rushed to the comparative cover of the trees.

Bryce swept through the barn, squelching through the mixture of shit and feed and, as he reached the centre, the light fell upon the opening in the far corner with a small patch of snow building up just inside. “Sonuvabitch!”

Spinning round, Bryce dashed back across to the doors and back out into the storm. Biting snow lashed his already red face once more. Moving purposefully round the side of the barn, his body hunched over against the elements, he squinted to study the tree line with the trembling torch light. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and, with a flick of the wrist, slammed the barrel shut and into a firing position.

The beam caught Jimmy’s broken silhouette just as he entered the blackness of the forest.

“Fucker!” Bryce raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed down the sight, holding the barrel and the torch together in his left hand. The figure was gone before he could get a shot off. “Damn it,” he growled with frustration, breaking the shotgun once more before giving chase. The thick snow clung to his boots in thick clumps, making running impossible. Reluctantly, he settled for a lumbering jog, while yelling curses at the trees. The cold was quickly creeping through the warmth of his jacket, causing shivers to spark through his body. His fingers were already partially numb, as too were his angry red ears and nose. Snot started to dribble down onto his top lip, warranting an irritated swipe of a sleeve across his face.

“Little bastard,” he muttered to himself. The words appeared to be sucked from his lips by the raging storm.

The Sportrak pulled over into the tall grass, just out of sight from the farm. The snow was a white blanket bellowing from the heavens, obscuring everything beyond ten yards. The trees either side of the lane were just grey shapes behind the white veil.

Despite having put in another three hours since his short break, Whitman still felt like it was the dawning of a new day. There were more dark stains across the front of his jacket and on the thighs of his black jeans. His clothes were wet through again from jumping in and out of the jeep, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hopping out once more, he headed at a trot towards the farm, raising an arm to guard his blinking eyes from the worst of the storm.

The cluster of buildings quickly emerged from the white shroud; three timber barns, a series of squat stone outhouses, and the two story main house, complete with a single story brick extension. He had visited the Bryce farm on several occasions, but seen through the storm, it looked entirely different; sinister even. Was this a manifestation of doubts for what he was about to do to his friend and his friend’s family? Bryce had indeed been a good friend, and had even come to his aid when Jimmy Coulson had caught him off guard.

Wiping his face roughly with his raised arm, he shook his head angrily and continued on at a brisk jog. The ball had been put in motion with Mandy. Her face still haunted his dreams from time to time, but it had eased with Tess, so logically it would get much easier after this night was over. There was no stopping it now. It had to run its course and as long as he kept his eye on the ball and continued with the plan without pausing for thought, then that is exactly what it would do. Reflection would come after.

Whitman angled towards the door on the end of the extension, which he knew to be the kitchen. Drawing closer, he could see that the blinds in the large window along the length of the annex had not been closed and the strip lights glowed from within. A bright red Christmas garland was hanging inside along the top of the window and draped down the sides. He could clearly make out the country-cottage style kitchen, with a reclaimed welsh dresser,
Aga
twin oven and Belfast-style deep sink.

Unsurprisingly, the stable door leading into the kitchen was unlocked. He gently opened it and peered inside. The rush of warm air sent a tingling sensation over his cold, wet cheeks and he revelled in the comfort of it.

The kitchen continued into the main house, where the smaller, original kitchen had clearly started. At the far end, there was a chunky eight seater, rough-hewed dining table and chairs, complete with a three pronged brass candle holder with red, cinnamon scented candles and green bows.

Strong smells of coffee and fresh herbs, mixed with the cinnamon from the candles, drifted into his nostrils and he breathed in deeply through his nose to savour the aromas. He slipped in and closed the door gently behind him, dampening the storm’s frenzy immediately. Quietly, he rubbed his boots on the welcome mat as melting snow dripped from his clothing.

Damn, John wasn’t home. That was irritating and would throw a small spanner in the works. Still, roll with the punches. Unsheathing the hunting knife, he advanced along the kitchen to the doorway beyond the dining suite. Water dripped from his wet clothes onto the quarry-tiled floor as he edged closer, a look of grim resolve set into his bright red features. The ice-crystals garnishing his beard were melting quickly with the sudden warmth.

He was a couple of feet from the doorway when Sally walked in from the hall. At first she didn’t even register his presence, her mind clearly preoccupied with a dozen mundane chores.

“Who the hell—” Her eyes widened and hesitantly, she said, “Han?”

Whitman smiled, but something about the smile was wrong, twisted in some way. Even as she started to relax, instinct rang alarm bells in her head. Then she saw the knife. Alarm instantly spun towards panic.

“Oh my God! What have you
done
to John
?” Her voice went shrill as her mouth dried up halfway through the sentence. Her eyes blinked repeatedly and the colour drained from her cheeks. Despite her words, she seemed unable to comprehend the situation she was now confronted with. It seemed just too alien; unreal.

Whitman advanced without saying a word, that
grin
fixed to his face.

One thing rushed through her mind which seemed to polarise her tornado of thoughts. “ANTHONY RUN!” Whitman leapt upon her, the smile transforming into a sneer.

The weight of his body slammed her against the low door of the under stairs cupboard, winding her and cracking her head off the wooden trim of the banister.

“Mam?” Anthony cried from somewhere upstairs, clearly distressed.

Dogs started barking and one, a shaggy black and white collie, appeared through the lounge door further along the hallway.

“Sorry, Sally,” Whitman said simply as her wide eyes stared at him and her mouth worked wordlessly. Pinning her against the door with one arm, he quickly drew the blade up to her throat and sliced it clean open.

Blood gushed freely from the gaping wound, instantly soaking her sweater. She made several soft murmurs as he backed away from her to avoid the worst of the spray, allowing her to slowly slide down into a sitting position.

“Bu—” she managed in a hoarse whisper before she died, drenched in her own blood.

Two things then happened in quick succession. Anthony appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in paisley pyjamas, and the collie surged forward from the doorway, snarling and barking.

Anthony took one appalled look at the blood-soaked corpse of his mother and screamed. “MAM!” The shock caused him to stumble at the edge of the stairs and slide down half a dozen steps on his socks. Miraculously, he managed to stay on his feet.