Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (29 page)

He took aim at the handle and catch and squeezed the triggers. The gun boomed and spat forth an orange tongue of flame, shredding a one foot square section of the door around the handle and adjacent frame.

Shards of light spilled in, distorted by the churning smoke. Coughing and dispersing the smoke with one hand, Bryce peered through the ragged hole. He could make out a couple of the logs barricading the door from the other side.

Cursing, he reloaded and took aim at the top hinge. The blast tore away the top corner of the door. Reloading quickly, he aimed at the bottom hinge and opened fire again.

The door spun ninety degrees with the weight of the logs behind it then dropped to one side. Ignoring the thick, pungent smoke, Bryce ducked through the opening and pushed aside several of the logs.

As he emerged into the hallway, he was bathed with dull morning light. Despite it being diminished somewhat by the continuing snowstorm outside, he still found himself squinting after his forced captivity in the darkness (and madness) of the cellar.

Bryce was covered in muck and dust, mingled with blotches of dried blood; some of it his own, some not. He had a graze and purple bruising across his forehead and the tears and snot had smeared muck into black streaks down his cheeks, lips and chin. He stood at the opening for a moment and spared a forlorn glance back towards the cellar, then headed straight for his gun cabinet.

Face down on his grimy sheets, Jimmy awoke with a sudden start. On reflex, one arm lurched upwards, knocking his lager can-come-ashtray off the edge of the bedside cabinet and sending it spinning across the already filthy floor. Ash and dog ends spilled out amongst the dirty clothes and rubbish.

He lifted his head with considerable effort and blearily gazed at the mess. “Fuckssake,” he muttered then coughed several times. Sitting up, he wiped his snotty nose across the back of his hand and yawned. A tremor rippled down his spine as he coughed some more then spat a thick wad of mucus into a mouldy mug that he found down by the side of the bed.

He glanced in the bottom of the mug and cringed.

After setting the mug aside on the cabinet, he flung his legs off the side of the bed and struggled to his feet. A brief stretching caused the audible cracking and grinding of various joints. After another bout of coughing, he retrieved a crumpled and slightly damp packet of
L&B
from his coat and lit himself a cigarette.

Sluggishly, he made himself a cup of tea which had to be drunk black as his milk had gone sour. The hot drink, followed by another cigarette, caused him to rush to the toilet and empty his bowels noisily into the toilet.

He returned to the kitchen feeling almost human, but still a little shivery, and proceeded to pluck and gut the chickens from the night before, with his third and final cigarette now dangling from his dry lips.

He unceremoniously deposited the four carcasses into his grimy refrigerator and ran some cold water over his slimy fingers. Wiping them on his jeans, he then pulled on wet boots over holey socks and trudged over to the open door. He retrieved his coat on the way, also still wet from the night before.

He cast an irritated glance at the damaged door and muttered, “Prick,” before heading out into the hallway.

Opening the door to the street, he discovered that snow was still falling heavily and the ground had a covering of more than a foot deep. The wind had died down somewhat, allowing the snow a more sedate descent. The sky was leaden, but the brilliant white offered a lustre to the scene that was quite breathtaking. Taking in the Disney Christmas, picture-postcard scene, he noticed with a hint of surprise, that there were no fresh footprints or car tracks to be seen on either the road or path. Surely that weasel across the road, Lenny, would have been out walking that mongrel of his by now? His fat bossy wife made him go out with it come rain or shine.

He needed to find buyers for the chickens pretty sharpish, otherwise he’d have a pretty miserable Christmas. Who was he trying to kid? Every Christmas was a miserable Christmas. Santa wasn’t going to be dropping any presents down his chimney (if he had one) this year. Come to think of it, the fat bastard never had.

Pulling his collar up, Jimmy buried his hands into the damp pockets of his coat. After a loud sneeze, he headed down the street, squinting against the icy flakes.

Slivers of grey light poked through a thin gap in the floral curtains, offering a suggestion of the morning outside. The bedroom was small, with two single divan beds, a single pine wardrobe and a matching pine dressing table.

Sam Potter stirred in one of the beds, as Natalie rested soundlessly in the other. He let out a sigh as his blinking eyes adjusted to the poor light. Thoughts of his father flooded back, causing him to immediately sit up.

Checking his watch, he said, “Nats, w-wake up, hun. I-it’s after e-eight-thirty.” As Natalie muttered something inaudible, Sam jumped out of bed and began his routine of stretching exercises.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Natalie glanced over her shoulder to Sam, who had now dropped to the thinning floral carpet and was rapidly performing push ups, to the creaking displeasure of the floorboards beneath. Her voice croaky, she said, “Jesus, Sam, can’t you even miss
one
morning?”

Puffing, Sam replied, “No!”

As Sam moved on to sit ups, Natalie finally dragged herself out of the cosy bed, farting loudly in the process. “Oops,” she said mildly.

Sam paused, mid-sit up and glanced at her. She smiled sweetly back at him. Rolling his eyes, he continued with his exercise.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in bra and knickers, Natalie rummaged through her cavernous shoulder bag through lipsticks, deodorant, tampons, tissues and mobile phone to find the packet of
Regal
and lighter. After lighting, she took a long satisfying drag.

“I know,” Natalie interrupted. “I’m trying, baby, I am. But it was a stressful night and it’ll be a long day too, so just let me enjoy this one little scrap of happiness.”

Sam sighed and grabbed a towel and a small toiletry bag. “Just g-going to the bathroom. Be b-back in a minute.”

Nodding, Natalie took a draw on her cigarette then said, “Shame their only en suite was taken.”

Hot water had steamed up the small bathroom as Sam scrubbed his body with an exfoliating mitten. After washing thoroughly, he methodically rinsed off the shampoo and shower gel from his slim, toned body.

The door opened with a creak, causing Sam to pause with his hand hovering over the control dial for the shower. “Nats?” he asked, hesitantly.

A figure approached the frosted shower curtain embossed with dolphins leaping across its surface. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise as the unannounced person approached. “Nats, i-is that y-you?” he asked again more sternly.

Natalie sighed and nodded. “I know, darling.” Lifting her Kimono, she stepped over to the toilet and plonked her plump bottom onto it.

Sam had always been a little uncomfortable with Natalie using the toilet in front of him, so he towelled off quickly and headed back to the room to dress.

Sex
for
dinner,
death
for
breakfast.

Once they had both dressed and packed, Sam and Natalie headed downstairs to the lounge with their bags. The country-style pub lounge was in darkness with the curtains still drawn and the Christmas decorations turned off.

Whispering, Sam said, “He w-was called J-Joe, right?”

Nodding, Natalie, loudly announced, “Joe, it’s the Potters. Did you want us in the lounge for breakfast?”

Stopping in the middle of the lounge, they both listened for a reply from the kitchen. Silence. No sizzling bacon, no rummaging; no smells of cooking at all for that matter.

Frowning, Sam looked at his watch. “W-we said n-nine for breakf-fast. It’s ten past n-now.”

Natalie shook her head. “Not everyone’s as anal as you about being on time
all
of the time.”

“It’s not a-a-anal at all. It’s good m-manners.”

Shrugging, Natalie muttered, “Whatever.” Walking over to the doorway to the kitchen, she peered in, saying, “Hello, anyone there?” The kitchen was deserted and untouched. All utensils and pans were still neatly stored on racks and in plain durable units, and the surfaces cleaned to a gleaming shine. All except a single wooden chopping board with a few remaining crumbs. Turning, Natalie said, “I don’t believe it; looks like they’ve slept in.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed. Agitated, he wrung his hands, saying, “Th-th-this is ri-r-idiculous. W-w-w-we p-p-p-“

“Don’t worry, darling,” Natalie intervened, cringing at how rapidly his stuttering could worsen. It pained her for him to be so unmercifully attacked in that way. Soothingly, she added, “It’s no biggie.”

Grasping the handles of the holdall that Sam had dropped at his feet, Natalie headed through to the bar with her own backpack in her other hand. Sheepishly, Sam followed.

The bar was similarly dark and deserted, but as they rounded the corner of the bar, they caught sight of the bodies of Big Joe and Lisa. They both lay as they had fallen, both with wide, dry patches of blood spread out beneath them. Even at a distance, Natalie could tell by their colour that they had been dead for several hours.

She gasped and clamped a hand to her mouth, simultaneously dropping both bags at her feet. The noise of them hitting the wooden floor was like a gunshot in a graveyard.

“W-wha—” Sam started, but abruptly cut himself off when his eyes caught the reason for his wife’s shock. “Oh my God!” he said and, in some distant part of his brain, was surprised at how clearly it came out.

Trembling, Natalie dashed over to the end of the bar where she had spied a telephone. Grabbing the handset, she thrust it against her ear and pressed nine. She stopped with her finger about to press it a second time. No dial tone. “
Shit
,” she hissed.

Sam fumbled in his jacket for his mobile. He was less than surprised to find no signal. “Sh-shit,” he echoed. Glancing apprehensively around the room, his mind raced through their options.

Natalie turned to look at him, her expression taut with suppressed panic. “Let’s just get the hell out of here. We can call the police on the way.”

“G-good plan.”

They both rushed to the front door, carefully stepping round Lisa’s body which was curled up in a foetal position a couple of feet in front of it. They tried not to look, but Sam couldn’t help but notice how young and small she looked. So frail and so … dead. After fumbling with the lock and bolts, Sam yanked the door open. Flurries of snow blew in, and the build up of snow at the door tumbled inside in thick clods.

“Christ,” Sam muttered. Shielding his eyes, he forced himself across the threshold. The breeze rippled over his short, mousy hair and blew soft, icy flakes into his eyes. He quickly made his way to the thickly blanketed Fiesta.

Natalie stepped out into the street after him, but as she turned, squinting at the car, two arms reached out from behind her and yanked her violently back into the pub. The holdall dropped, half submerged into the snow, but the backpack was flung back through with her.

Sam reached the car and turned back to spur his wife on. Seeing that she wasn’t behind him and that the holdall was dumped in the snow, Sam’s already unravelling nerves stretched to breaking point. “Nats!” His voice was shrill and frantic.

Without waiting for a reply, and the car momentarily forgotten, Sam rushed back along the trench he had just made, back to the open doorway. Snow was scattered several feet inside the entrance, but there was no sign of Natalie.

Desperate, Sam stepped inside, shouting, “Nats!” He just caught a glimpse of Natalie struggling with a hand over her mouth and being dragged backwards by a figure dressed in black. They disappeared around the corner, heading into the lounge.

Rushing forward, he cried, “Let her go!”

As he reached the corner, Natalie was thrust into his arms. She was making gurgling noises and had a deep gash in her throat. “NO!” He grabbed her with both arms and she sagged against him, fighting for breath. Blood was gushing freely down between her cleavage and quickly seeping through the front of her jumper.

Despite the wound, she managed to utter, “Run … my love.” As he shook his head, refusing to leave her, her eyes rolled back into her head and the gurgling, wheezing sounds ebbed away.

“God no, please!” he wailed, cradling her in his arms, rocking gently back and forth.

“Picked the wrong weekend for an impromptu visit, friend,” Whitman said, stepping out from an alcove bathed in shadows. With bright eyes and a healthy pink glow to his cheeks, he looked refreshed and eager to meet the day. He had even managed to have a quick invigorating shower (followed by a thorough clean up of the room afterwards). His red hair that had grown over his ears during his months in Haydon was swept back from his face and his beard smoothed and groomed.