Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (31 page)

As Sam slipped behind the wheel, Bryce, with a reluctant Jimmy, proceeded to dig away the deep snow from the rest of the windows and the tyres. Jimmy’s bare hands quickly numbed and his body shivered uncontrollably. Hugging his hands under his armpits, he stamped his feet in a vain attempt to warm his chilled bones. “Picked the perfect weekend, like.”

Glancing up from the rear passenger side wheel, Bryce said, “I think that was the idea.” His own bare hands were shaking, so he took a moment to blow hot breath over the icy wet fingers. “Could do with a hand here,
Jimmy.
” His words were laced with fizzling irritation.

The engine groaned, but didn’t manage to turn over with the first try. Cursing under his breath, Sam waited a moment then turned the key a second time. This time, almost begrudgingly, it turned over with a splutter and the expulsion of a cloud of dirty smoke from the exhaust.

“In business,” Sam said, leaning out the open door.

Bryce and Jimmy finished clearing away some more of the snow, before piling into the car. Lifting the passenger seat, Bryce smiled and pointed to the back seat. “Get in.”

After Jimmy squeezed into the cramped rear seat, Bryce jumped in, causing a creaking groan from the suspension. He had to hunch his large frame over slightly to avoid hitting his head off the roof. Cradling the rifle on his lap, he said, “You’re gunna have to take it really slow and keep it in second to give yourself a bit of extra traction.”

Nodding, Sam put it into gear and slowly applied the accelerator. After a juddering, wheel-spin start, they slowly pulled out of the parking bay into the road. The wheels crunched through the deep fresh snow, unsteadily and frequently losing their grip with a wheel spin that would thrust gouts of mucky snow up past the side windows.

With the fan on full blast to de-mist the windows, they could barely hear the impact of a bullet striking the bonnet. It was Bryce who noticed the plume of snow thrown up by the impact.

“Hell was that?” Bryce squinted through the hazy windscreen and instinctively switched off the fan. Instead of waiting for the fan, he quickly started wiping the misted windscreen with his hand.

“We—” Sam started.

“Quiet.”

A second shot struck the bonnet just above the radiator. Without the noise of the fan, the crack of the gunshot was just audible over the idling engine.

“Sit back, you little prick!” Bryce snapped at Jimmy as he forcibly wedged himself further between the two seats, shoulder and one leg jammed over the top of the hand brake. “Sam, man! Get us out of here!”

Sam snapped out of his daze and, on reflex, stepped hard on the accelerator. With better traction on the right side tyres, the small car lurched forward and swung around at the same time.

In rapid succession, two more bullets struck the car, one punching a penny-sized hole in the corner of the windscreen, and the second, striking the driver side door, causing Sam to shrink away.

Another bullet struck the driver side front tyre, immediately deflating it to the wheel rim.

“Shit!” Bryce snapped. “We’re not going anywhere in this! Try to get us over the other side of the Green so we’ve got a bit of cover.” After releasing the safety on the rifle, he quickly wound down the window and shoved half of the barrel out.

As Bryce stared down the sight, trying to locate the position of the shooter, Sam, pale and sweating, struggled to turn the car around. On three good tyres, the car spun and swerved, seemingly under someone else’s control.

As another bullet shattered the side window next to Jimmy, causing an involuntary scream, the car lurched into the wrought iron fence bordering the Green, next to the Haydon Oak. All three men lurched forward in their seats, Jimmy striking his forehead with a glancing blow on the back of Bryce’s seat.

“Out!” Bryce was shouting as he shoved his own door open and all but fell out into the thick snow.

Sam needed no encouragement. He was out and scrambling across towards the Post Office, without bothering to turn the engine off. Jimmy frantically struggled with the release catch on the seat, his shaking hands struggling to cooperate. “Bryce!” he cried in a terrified voice.

Bryce was out and running when he heard Jimmy’s cry. He spun and lunged back at the car as another shot rang out, punching a hole in a patch of virgin snow a couple of feet away.

Ignoring the gunshot, Bryce lent inside the car and yanked hard on the headrest. The seat tipped forward with a resounding crack and Jimmy immediately spilled out, landing on his back in the snow.

“Move!” Bryce was shouting, as he dragged the flailing man by his grubby coat collar with one hand and gripped the rifle in his other.

Another gunshot reverberated in the air. Bryce’s teeth snapped together as he felt it tear a hole in his jeans below the knee, nicking the skin in the process. With Jimmy on his feet – of sorts – they both scurried for cover down Bell Lane, where Sam was already waiting, flat against the wall and breathing heavily.

“Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry,” Whitman whispered quietly to himself. “Better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why, Hannibal is coming to town.” He allowed himself a genuine smile; the first truly honest one since the killing spree started. Disappointing as this latest development was, it was certainly no tragedy. The most irritating thing was that trying to hit anything over a distance with the Walther was nigh on impossible. He was a little annoyed that he hadn’t considered the need for something more accurate over distances; something like John’s rifle. Maybe he would help himself to that later.

After checking that the three figures weren’t moving anywhere for the time being, he gently shut the sash window and drew the voiles closed. Turning away from the window, he glanced at the bed where Moe Baxter was laying in eternal slumber with his mouth a gaping, gruesome mess. Blood had soaked into the pillow and sheet in front of his face and had dried to a crusty stain.

His head lay on one side, with a mild look of shock fixed to his ashen features.

Whitman folded his arms, with the pistol still in hand, and with a disappointed tone, said, “Ah, don’t look at me like that, Moe. It’s not my fault; the voices made me do it.” With that last statement, he laughed out loud so hard that spittle flew across the room.

He caught his reflection in the dressing table mirror, his white face contorted into a sneering cackle. The vision stayed his laughter, and he turned to stare intently at his features. His face was at once unrecognisable to him, and the shock of this dropped his jaw open.

A face slowly materialised to one side of his shoulder. As it took shape, the void where its mouth was supposed to be worked soundlessly. Gradually, a button nose took shape, then small ears with stud earrings, then dark spiky hair.

Lisa stared at him with empty holes for eyes. Whitman could clearly see the bedroom wall, complete with mounted feline pictures, through the blanks where her eyes should have been.

Lisa’s dead mouth worked to form soundless syllables. MUR…DER…ER.

Whitman blinked wildly to dispel the ghastly vision then rubbed both eyes vigorously with his free hand. When he looked again, his former lover was gone.

A chill crept through his body and he suddenly became aware of his breath hanging in the air in front of him. Unnerved, he hastily left the room.

What's a little
reunion
without a little drama?

The three men remained flat against the side wall of the Post Office for a couple of minutes, regaining their breath and their nerves.

Bryce, taking a deep breath, mustered up the courage to finally take a fleeting glance around the corner. Main Street was as they had left it, and no other soul had yet to appear. The only sound to be heard was Sam’s battered Fiesta as it continued to idle, combined with a soft hissing coming from the ruptured radiator.

“He must be changing positions. Now’s our chance to make a run for it,” Bryce whispered, clutching the rifle close to his chest.

On his haunches, with his back against the wall and his head in his hands, Jimmy muttered, “Run where?” Then, slowly lifting his head out of his hands, he continued, “I hate to be the voice of reason here – goes totally against me character, like – but there
is
nowhere to run!” His cheeks were damp from unseen tears.

Bryce and Jimmy turned their attention to him, surprised by his sudden outburst. Studying the man closer, Bryce saw that the man was trembling and pale. This man’s wife, like his own, had been abruptly stolen from him … murdered. He had spent several hours in a black hole coming to terms – if that was ever possible – with his own loss, but, for this man, it was all fresh and raw. “Sorry, Sam,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Well, we got to think of something,” Jimmy said. “We cannat just sit here holding our dicks.”

Bryce rolled his eyes. “Nicely put.” He bent down to hesitantly touch the throbbing graze on his calf. The material around the rip in his jeans was dark and sticky and blood had seeped into his sock and boot. Mouthing a silent curse, he drew back up to his formidable height and said, “We need to get off the street so we can have time to think ’bout what to do next.”

As the three men considered this, Sam caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He snapped his head to one side to stare down the lane. Renewed adrenaline coursed through his body as he scrutinised this potential new threat. It was Carol Belmont staggering towards them along the lane. Her features were slack and emotionless and her arms dangled loosely down by her sides.

Without taking his eyes off her, Sam nudged Jimmy and whispered, “L-l-look, wh-who’s she?”

Both Bryce and Jimmy turned to see who was approaching. They both recognised her immediately. “Carol, over here!” Bryce called to her.

She appeared not to notice, continuing unsteadily along the middle of the snow-covered lane. Her ankle boots were thick with snow and the bottoms of her jeans were soaked through from her detached shuffling. Despite the cold, she wore neither hat, gloves nor scarf, and her denim jacket was open to reveal a thin blouse. Her teeth were visibly chattering and her bright red hands, poking out of the sleeves of her jacket, were shaking.

Bryce rushed over to her, shouting to Jimmy, “Keep an eye behind us!” He slowed as he reached her and, after setting down the rifle against the wall, gradually raised his arms, beckoning. “Carol, it’s John. Are you okay, pet?” He gently placed his hands on her drooping shoulders and caught a strong whiff of brandy on her breath.

Carol seemed neither to recognise him nor even register his presence. She tried to continue her journey, so Bryce gently restrained her, forcibly halting her swaying progress. Her feet continued to shuffle in the snow for a moment, seemingly unaware that her body had halted. “Carol, it’s me,” he said again and tenderly squeezed her shoulders. This time her eyes slowly lifted from the snowy ground up to meet Bryce’s. Her teary, bloodshot eyes were glazed at first, but after a moment, they fixed on him and recognition followed.

Buttoning up her jacket, Bryce said, “Loads of people have been killed, Carol. We think it might be Whitman.” Turning to the others, he said, “We’ve got to get her indoors – she’s freezing.”

His mind reeling, Bryce struggled to think coherently. After a moment, he said, “Carol, you mentioned Janet and Larry. Is their house locked? Have you come from there?”

Sagging into his arms, she started crying softly on his shoulder. “Please don’t make me go back there.” Her anguished, whispered voice was pleading.

“We’ve got to get off the street, Carol. It’s our best option.”

“Anyway,” Jimmy injected, “I thought you’d be happy.”

Bryce shot him a glance that would halt a charging polar bear. In response, Jimmy raised his hands in mock apology then begrudgingly struggled to his feet.

“
Come on
,” Bryce muttered through gritted teeth. Turning to Carol, he said in a more soothing tone, “Come on, pet, let’s get you into the warm.” He stooped to retrieve his rifle, before gently leading her back towards the Herring household.

Jimmy noticed the farmer’s slight limp, but remained silent and pensive.