by Neil Randall
She lowered her eyes. “I’m, erm…not sure this is good idea. I’m a little drunk.”
“Course it’s a good idea.” He lifted her chin with his forefinger, moving his head right and left, up and down, trying to look straight into her eyes. “Me and you could be really good together.”
He went in for another kiss, a little rougher this time, his hand snaking its way around her waist.
“No, no.” She tried to wriggle free. “I’m not sure. I do not want to do this.”
“Oh come on, Christina.” He pushed her down onto her back and clambered on top of her. “You know I really like you.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Hey, you two.” Katie ruffled Pippa and Liam’s hair. “What a nice surprise.”
Lifting her head, she saw Ryan trudging across the park, loaded up with bags, looking as miserable as the weather – dark skies, blanket drear.
“Why don’t you go and play with Jesse and Jack?” she said to the children, pointing to her sons climbing up the slide. “Me and your dad will be just over there, on the bench.”
The children dashed off.
Katie turned to Ryan. “Still no word from the police, then?”
“No,” he said, as they walked over to the bench and sat down. “If we don’t hear anything by tonight, they’re gonna make it public, make a statement to the press or whatever. That’s when it’s gonna be hard, with the twins and everything, once it’s out there, kids talking at school and stuff.”
“Keep your chin up, eh?” She leaned across and gave him a quick hug. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ever since we got together she’s been a proper nightmare, nothing but hassle and aggravation. Still, I never thought something like this was just ’round the corner. And I keep racking my brains: what could’ve happened to her?”
“Me too. I’ve even been through her Facebook page, scrolled through her posts, friends, anyone she might’ve got talking to recently.”
Jesse, at the top of the slide now, shouted, “Mummy! Watch!” Giggling, he slid down to the bottom, threw back his head and laughed, shot to his feet, and ran around for another go.
“That was a good one!” she shouted back, clapping her hands. Then she said to Ryan, “What about you? You got any idea where she could’ve gone, or who she could be with?”
“Nothing definite. Only Jacque was out in town, a week or so back, and apparently she had a load of weed on her. And I know she’d been pretty skint of late, so she must’ve got it on tick. And there’s only one bloke ’round here who’d give her any credit.”
“The Boge?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh! I never knew what you two saw in him, bloody weirdo, freaks me out, he does.”
“Oh, he’s all right, more eccentric than anything else. Few years back, before the twins were born, we used to go round there right regular, used to smoke this really strong hash through a bong, got in some right states, ’specially during mushroom season, mental – some of the stuff he’d come out with.”
“Who? The Boge?”
“Yeah. This one time, we went up there to ask him about tattoos. Jacque was desperate to get one – probably just to piss her parents off – and we knew the Boge did ’em on the cheap, and that he was supposed to be shit hot, like a proper talented artist. And he gets out this book, of all his old sketches, and shows us this picture of a Red Indian, you know with a proper feathered headdress on.”
“The tattoo Jacque’s got her wrist?”
“Yeah, exactly,” he replied. “At first, neither of us were that keen, on the tattoo, that is, but then the Boge gives us a couple of bongs and tells us this geezer’s life story, the Red Indian, Chief Wanayama, tells us about settlers to the New World burning down his village, and about this serial killer, murdering people, like hundreds of years later, being his direct descendant. He went on for bloody hours.”
“Really? And what was his life story, exactly?”
The Story of Chief Wanayama
The first serious colonizers arrived on the Western seaboard in the late part of the sixteenth century. Spanish, they were, of battalion strength, some three hundred men, sailing aboard The Marauder, the largest ocean-going galleon ever constructed. But these were not explorers venturing out into uncharted lands with noble thoughts of discovery, these were highly-trained soldiers, killers, men sent to conquer not trade, learn and assimilate. Stored in the hull were canons and muskets, endless rounds of ammunition, swords and bayonets, the likes of which had never been seen on the pure, peaceful, paradisiacal continent before.
Kept in pitiful conditions, worked incredibly hard, no more than galley slaves, with food severely rationed, by the time the men sighted dry land, many were what doctors today call stir crazy. Being locked away below deck, in dark, cramped quarters had had a dire effect on their mental welfare. Already there had been several violent altercations, two cold-blooded murders, men thrown overboard, acts of rape and cannibalism. It was all the ship’s captain, Eduardo de Maria, could do to pacify the men, to keep them below deck until he and the other officers had made first contact with the indigenous peoples.
The captain himself was a tyrannical officer, a nobleman by birth, from an ancient, well-respected family, with close links to the royal house. A swarthy, strikingly-handsome thirty-four-year-old, always dressed in the finest silks, he had distinguished himself in many a sea battle, and been awarded the highest naval decorations. Under this valourous veneer, however, was a heart of utmost darkness, a cold, sadistic, unfeeling soul, a deviant who took great pleasure from torturing and brutalizing captured enemy soldiers. Behind closed doors, his sexual profligacy knew no moral bounds – a wife driven to suicide, a string of downtrodden mistresses, homosexual trysts, bestiality, not to mention preference for children not long out of swaddling clothes. In the corridors of power, it was rumoured that de Maria was losing his mind due to some kind of sexual disease, that syphilis or the like had addled his brain, turning him into a psychotic monster, and that he had only been assigned the voyage because there was little hope of success, let alone a return to Spain, that his many vicious and perverted crimes had made him a liability, a man far too dangerous to contain.
When the indigenous tribe saw the spectacular galleon on the horizon they dropped to their knees and prayed, taking it as a sign from God. Accordingly, they lit fires, prepared the finest foods, filled wicker baskets with gifts: wood carvings, tribal headdresses, exotic fruits and vegetables, cured meats, tanned and dried buffalo hides, gold and precious stones, all as peace offerings to the newcomers. For these were a harmonious, non-violent people, with distinctive coal-black hair, tanned, healthy skin, supple, muscular frames, and strong white teeth – beautiful specimens of the human animal. Moreover, this was a happy, vibrant, prosperous, well-organised society. Centuries later, archeologists found irrigation channels, effective if primitive drainage and sewerage systems, wells for clean drinking water, abodes built of an early form of brick, places of worship and entertainment.
Imbued with a deep spiritual connection to nature and all living things, the tribes scattered across the Western seaboard were respectful of the environment and wildlife. They hunted buffalo, fished the oceans and rivers, looked on water as a source of eternal goodness, containing a bountiful supply of food. Perhaps that was why the galleon’s appearance struck them as so providential, deserving of their deference, because it had floated atop waters they held so sacred.
On disembarking from a small rowing boat, de Maria and his most trusted advisors approached the welcoming party, some three or four hundred natives, unarmed, dressed in traditional outfits, heads bowed respectfully. Their leader, Chief Wanayama, a wise and powerful man of great spiritual enlightenment, offered de Maria his hand in friendship, had his beautiful wife and seven angelic daughters present the captain with gifts of food and drink, and motioned for the other visitors to sit before a roaring fire.
In return, de Maria off
ered the Chief all kinds of trinkets from the European continent: wooden rocking-horses, mirrors, jack-in-the-boxes, babies’ rattles, shiny, superfluous things which both baffled and charmed the inquisitive tribesmen, drawing gasps of astonishment. But perhaps de Maria’s most cynical gift was strong dark spirits, potent alcohol fermented in his country’s most infamous distilleries, because he knew what a devastating effect it could have on the uninitiated.
As his fellow tribesmen marvelled at the gifts the visitors had brought ashore, Wanayama walked de Maria around the settlement, showed him the well that provided an unlimited supply of fresh water, the finely-constructed abodes, the pens containing livestock, the horses used for hunting, the hunting implements themselves, and finally their place of worship, a simple yet elegant building which contained many golden, bejewelled objects, a glittering treasure trove which set de Maria’s pulse a racing.
Before returning to the galleon, de Maria insisted that Chief Wanayama and his people partake of a toast, having his men fill receptacles with the strong spirits.
“To friendship,” he proposed, smiling and embracing Wanayama, encouraging him to swallow back the alcohol in one go.
When they finally rowed back to The Marauder the Spaniards could hear raised voices, singing and uproarious laughter. With a look over his shoulder, de Maria saw the natives stumbling around the shoreline, falling over each other, some already arguing over the bottles of spirit he had given them.
“Perfect.”
Later that evening, he gathered his most ruthless and efficient soldiers together. Using empty bottles to demonstrate, he reconstructed the entire settlement, building by building, showing his men where the tribesmen slept, where the only weapons of any kind, the spears they used to hunt with, were stored, and described the layout and contents of the place of worship.
“If we approach by the cover of night,” he told them, “we can slaughter the menfolk and liberate the settlement of its riches.”
In three boats, sixty handpicked soldiers quietly rowed from the galleon to the shore, where they found the vast majority of tribesmen passed out on the sand, snoring; lost deep in the midst of alcoholic unconsciousness. Their task, therefore, one de Maria relayed with relish, was to go around cutting the slumbering innocents’ throats.
As they set about these nefarious acts, unsheathing daggers, digging blades into soft supple necks, severing jugular veins, blooding a pure, welcoming people like pigs, a flash of blinding light lit up the entire beach.
Startled, each and every man swung round.
Stood in the flicking flames, like a supernatural being, was Chief Wanayama, dressed in full battle garb, his face and body painted. With an empty bottle in his hand he strode over to de Maria, shook his head emphatically, and then gestured towards the dark shape of The Marauder, anchored off-shore, as if ordering the strangers back from whence they had come.
Unfazed, de Maria simply took out a pistol and shot the Chief in the chest.
“Ha!” He laughed as Wanayama fell to the ground. And turning to his men, he ordered, “Proceed as planned. Leave not a single man alive. Any delectable females, round them up on the shoreline. Burn the dead. And then we can have our pleasure.”
In the abodes, the Spaniards encountered little resistance. Like the men passed out on the beach, nearly all those inside were far too intoxicated to stir or put up any kind of fight. After cutting throat upon throat, stacking the bodies outside, the soldiers then dragged the female population from their beds, stripped them naked, tied their hands, and gathered them on the beach just as de Maria had requested.
“Right,” said the captain, putting a flaming torch to the mountainous pile of corpses, burning the bodies of men they had just murdered in their sleep. “Now we can –” from out of the dark shadows, Chief Wanayama leapt at de Maria, clawing his throat, knocking him to the ground, shrieking, cursing the captain and all his men.
Rushing over, soldiers grabbed the Chief, pulling him away from their commanding officer, dragging him across the sand, beating him with rifle butts, subduing him, bounding his hands behind his back, and stuffing a gag into his mouth.
“So” – de Maria stood and dusted down his silken tunic – “you see fit to attack a representative of the Spanish court, do you? Fool!” He swooped down and grabbed a handful of Wanayama’s hair. “You, my good sir, are nothing but a savage. Men.” He stood and straightened. “Bring over those beautiful creatures, the Chief’s wife and his seven daughters. Let me give their leader, husband and father a true demonstration of our superiority.”
In a brutal, inhuman scene, de Maria violated all seven of Chief Wanayama’s daughters and his austere, proud-faced wife. Using implements of torture, drawing tools and a cat-o’-nine-tails, de Maria then gouged eyes from sockets, pulled limbs from joints, tore into soft, supple flesh, ripping the very uteruses from their bodies, dragging bloody entrails across the sand. When finished, he had each and every one of his men do exactly the same thing to the other women.
“Now,” said de Maria, “round up everything of value and return it to the ship. Kill the wenches, set fire to the bodies, burn this village to the ground. Tomorrow we shall conquer this entire continent.”
With evil adrenaline pulsing through his corrupted veins, de Maria suddenly remembered Wanayama, bound and gagged on the sand.
“Oh, and what shall we do with our all-mighty chief?” He looked right and left. “Bring over that chair, the wooden one. Tie him to it. Let him watch, let he himself burn while everything he ever held dear burns, too.”
They gathered more firewood and wedged it under Chief Wanayama, put a torch to the pyre and burnt him alive, bound to his own ceremonial throne. Legend has it that the noble Indian chief did not utter a scream; that he did not so much as grimace, that he just sat and glared at de Maria with eyes full of hatred, until his whole body was engulfed in flickering orange flames.
At first light, the heavily armed expeditionary force, three hundred strong, set out to explore the area, to befriend any tribes they came across in the same way they had befriended Wanayama’s tribe yesterday, offering trinkets and strong spirits, before raping and pillaging, destroying any settlement, liberating it of anything of value.
A few hours into an arduous march, hacking away at thick jungle vegetation, one of the men from the rear of the battalion reported a strange occurrence.
“Sir,” he panted, having run a considerable distance to address the captain. “I don’t quite know what has happened, but it would appear that some of the men, over seventy of ’em, have disappeared, have somehow got separated from the rest of us.”
As the men were due a break, de Maria called a halt to the march, told them to rest up in the shade, to drink from flasks, while he and the other officers rode on horseback to the rear of the battalion.
“When did you notice the others were missing, Garcia?” he asked a swarthy Basque soldier.
“Couldn’t have been too far back, Sir. I remember talking to a few of the lads not long after we crossed that river.”
“If that’s the case,” said de Maria. “They can’t be more than a mile or so back, lost in the undergrowth, no doubt. We shall ride over and gather them up.” He turned to his adjutant. “Return to the front of the battalion, tell the rest of the men to remain here until we get back.”
They rode for a few minutes, across accommodating ground already levelled due to their original advance, before someone let out a strangled cry.
“My God!”
Each man reined in his horse.
“What is it?” shouted de Maria.
“Bodies, scores of ’em, hacked to pieces.”
When de Maria and the other officers dismounted, they found that the fatal injuries the soldiers had suffered were of the bloodiest, most grotesque kind imaginable. Each man had been scalped; the back of his head removed with what could only have been an incredibly sharp machete-like blade. To make sure they were dead, each had had their throats cut, too.
But most unsettling of all, they had been stripped naked, and on the genital regions were hideous black rashes, like the mark of the plague, oozing some kind of slick, oily-looking substance.
“What on earth is that?” de Maria asked his second-in-command, Velázquez.
“I – I have no idea, Captain. The likes of this I have never, ever seen before.”
After conferring with other officers, the captain decided to proceed with the original mission, with the added provision of heavily armed guards at the rear of the battalion. They had lost a little time, but still wanted to travel several miles before setting up camp for the night.
They proceeded without incident.
Just before nightfall, the men made a camp by the banks of a mighty river, erecting tents, lighting fires, digging trenches, and stationing guards with the best vantage points of the surrounding area, to keep watch until morning.
After eating some of the provisions procured from Wanayama’s tribe, they settled in for the night.
Early next morning, just as de Maria and the rest of the officers were about to rise, a young soldier rushed into their tent.
“Sir,” he said breathlessly. “More men have been killed overnight, scalped, all cut up, and their – their…”
The officers rushed over to the scene, finding eighty or more men, those bivouacked closest to the river, horribly mutilated, in the exact same fashion as yesterday, and with the exact same hideous black rash marking their genitals. On further checks of the camp, it was found that all soldiers who stood guard overnight had also been killed.
“What’s happening?” asked de Maria. “Who’s doing all these terrible things to my men?”
“It would appear, Captain,” said Velázquez, “that we are being tracked and hunted by vengeful local tribesmen, perhaps some of Wanayama’s people, those who may not have been around when we routed their kinfolk. And if that’s the case then they will stop at nothing until all of us are dead.”