Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

by Rod Glenn

  It was after eight PM when he finally turned onto the main street of Haydon. The evening was growing dim and a bank of clouds had rolled across the sky to conspire to quicken the process. The street was narrow and lacking street lights, but well-maintained and lined with mature oak and sycamore trees. The first group of stone buildings to come into view were only two hundred yards from the road that continued on to Blindburn.

  On his left, was a used car dealership that made Chris’s appear mid market by comparison. Beneath moss and grime, gothic letters spelled out Belmont Cars. The small forecourt had a motley collection of aging motors. To his right, was the modest stone steeple of St. Bartholomew’s church … Church of England, by the look of it.

  A short distance away, Main Street parted around a well-groomed green with a park bench and, holding centre stage, a mighty oak which, with sunshine, would easily overshadow most of what was clearly the nucleus of the village. A SPAR convenience shop, Post Office, Merlin’s Mea s (the ‘t’ was missing from the sign), Little Bakery, Duck & Bucket Tavern, Jolly Moe’s Barber Shop and, finally, the Miller’s Arms Inn were all huddled around the dark, deserted Green.

  All the premises were stone built, but each as individual as a human thumbprint. The SPAR, a squat stretched building; the Post Office, austere like a bank (it was amazing to see a small village with its own post office in this day and age); the butchers, shabby with a tired awning; Little Bakery, a picture of quaint England; the Duck, small but adorned with six overflowing hanging flower baskets in full blossom; Moe’s, flamboyant ruby red woodwork and guttering and the Miller’s, an old coaching inn affair, solid and dependable.

  Main Street rejoined itself and continued on to a car park and a disused train station. Two roads forked off Main Street; Bell Lane and, as he pulled up to the Miller’s, he noticed the second was called Miller’s Road (inspired). Main Street was wider at the old coaching inn, so there were three parking bays outside, one of which was unoccupied.

  After parking, he jumped out with renewed energy, despite the long and tedious drive. An old man, in a grubby overcoat that aspired to be as wrinkled as its owner, shambled past him into the pub.

  “Evening,” Whitman called after him with a cheery wave. The door slammed shut without acknowledgement. “Mean old bastard.”

  He followed the old codger to the entrance, but paused with his hand pressed against the tarnished brass welcome plate stuck to the centre of the wide oak door. Taking a moment to glance up and down the street, he muttered, “Perfectamundo,” and then pushed the door inwards.

  MOB, maybe Moby to his friends, was sagging at the cherrywood polished bar, adorned with half a dozen real ale pumps, along with the obligatory lagers, bitters and even a best scotch. The one you’ve gotta come back for. With rickety old washing machine shakes, he was awkwardly paying for a pint of Guinness with a fist full of small change.

  Add maybe a dozen customers and the dark musky place might be promoted to lively, but as it was, Moby and the burst-couch-chested barman, with a scowl and a silvery crew-cut, made for a poor double act.

  Smiling while taking in the cluttered confines, Whitman strolled over to the bar. Covering most of the walls was a wide assortment of military memorabilia; photographs (seemingly from every war fought, but a few he recognised as from the Falkland’s conflict), maps, coats of arms, regimental flags, the cross of St. Andrew Flag (the National Flag of Scotland), a musket, a couple of helmets (one he recognised as British circa World War II, the other might have been Yank WWII), a flak jacket, bayonets, a rather lethal looking combat knife, and dozens of medals and ribbons hanging in a presentation case.

  “Quite a collection, aye laddie?” the barman said with a deep, but unexpectedly friendly voice.

  “Damn straight. I’m guessing it’ll be a safe bet that you used to be in the Army.”

  The barman smiled. “Aye, yae got that right, laddie. Forty-two years in the Scots Guards; retired a couple of years ago. Served through one or two disagreements.” Gesturing to the unidentified helmet on the wall, he added, “See that one there? Took that off a dead Argentine captain in the Falklands.”

  “Did he mind?”

  With a macabre grin, the barman said, “Nae, an artillery shell had landed right on top of his foxhole – blew the poor beggar tae pieces. The only bit that wae recognisable wae his heed, all nicely protected in that bin lid.”

  “A heart-warming story.” They both laughed and Whitman felt a surprising kinship to the old soldier.

  While the landlord poured him a pint of lager, Whitman continued the conversation. “Forty-two years, eh? Jesus. What rank?”

  “Sergeant Major,” he said, with obvious pride as he brought the pint to his newfound customer. “I’m Joe Falkirk, the landlord of this humble drinkin’ establishment. And my merry pal there’s Tam Wellright.”

  As Whitman opened his mouth to respond, Moby/Tam spoke without taking his eyes off his pint. “I’m eighty-four and still grow me own veggies.”

  “You don’t say?” Turning back to the landlord, he caught Joe rolling his eyes and laughed. “Nice to meet the both of you. I’m Hannibal Whitman; we spoke on the phone.”

  “Aye, of course. Martha – the better half – has got yae room all ready fae yae, laddie.”

  First night.

  The room that would be his home over the coming months turned out to be spacious and bright, with a double bed, en suite shower and toilet, and modern furnishings that even included a desk. The décor and soft furnishings were clean pastel shades that neither annoyed nor enthused. Every surface was meticulously clean and polished to a high sheen, and a faint aroma of jasmine from a bowl of potpourri on the windowsill scented the air. Overall, Whitman was pleasantly surprised.

  After semi-unpacking – well, unzipping one of the cases and having a half-hearted rummage – he headed back downstairs to take Joe up on a courtesy bar meal to celebrate his first night as their guest.

  Martha turned out to be a plump, grinning woman with a frizz of grey hair and energy to spare. Although a little overbearing (she fussed over him like he was their long lost son returning from Iraq) her toad-in-the-hole turned out to be first class.

  The pub had filled up in his absence and ‘Big’ Joe – as the regulars seemed to call him – had been joined by a short, skinny girl with spiky black hair called Lisa. She was perhaps seven stone dripping wet, but she commanded respect from everyone in the bar, including a group of three young lads of the young, dumb and full of cum variety. Whitman noticed her eyes linger in his direction more than once. He pretended not to notice and smiled inwardly. She cannae take yer charm, Captain …

  He ordered a Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke and made himself comfortable at the bar beside a slim redheaded woman in her early thirties. He nodded a greeting to her and was unable to help himself from eying the curves of her generous (cosmetically enhanced) breasts. Her slender hands were both wrapped around the stem of a glass of chardonnay, and Whitman noticed immediately, to his initial disappointment, a platinum wedding band.

  “Janet, have yae met our new resident writer, Mister Whitman?” Big Joe’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Whitman,” she said, offering him a hand and a glimpse at a perfect set of Da Vinci veneers.

  “Hannibal, please.” He took her hand and returned the smile.

  “Hannibal, hmm? I hope you don’t bite.”

  They laughed as Big Joe said, “Watch out fae this one, laddie. She’s like one of them femme fatales from a Sam Spade novel. She also happens tae be married tae the only quack in the area.”

  “I take offence at that,” Janet replied, smiling.

  “What, being married tae Larry or being a femme fatale?”

  “Don’t come to my Larry when you next have those haemorrhoid problems.”

  Whitman observed the friendly banter with a detached amusement as the door opened to admit a tall, tanned man in his thirties. He strode up to the bar with th
e confidence of a cock in a henhouse. Gap jeans and sweater, dark tussled hair; he was a postcard for the pseudo-stylish and wannabe-famous. In his youth, probably captain of the football team too. Whitman disliked him instantly.

  “A’right, Steve?” Big Joe said. “Usual?”

  “Aye, BJ. Hi, Janet, fancy meeting you here.” He smiled and there was something rather predatory about it.

  “Steve,” she replied a little sternly. “We have a new resident. This is Hannibal Whitman; he’s a writer.”

  There was a brief flicker of annoyance in his face, but then it was replaced with a pretty good attempt at a sincere ‘damn glad to meet ya’ face. “Hey, Han. Steve Belmont of Belmont Motors; good to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” They shook hands and his powerful grip said one thing; this is MY henhouse. Whitman kept his grip casual, not wanting to damage the man’s fragile ego. Bless him.

  Steve angled himself between Whitman and the femme fatale, and started a conversation, so Whitman took the hint and went back to nursing his JD. He was quickly rewarded with the skinny bum belonging to Lisa bent over in his general direction as she stooped to pick up a bottle of Bacardi Breezer from a lower shelf. The movement briefly revealed a Celtic tattoo on the small of her back and a healthy portion of black thong.

  “Ah, shite,” Big Joe muttered under his breath, drawing Whitman’s attention to the door.

  A blonde had walked in. There was a hint of a previously very pretty woman, but now her face was puffy with blotchy skin, and dark bruised circles around bloodshot eyes. Her jeans and top were cheap, but precisely in reverse from the mighty Charioteer, Chris, she actually managed to make them look better on.

  Steve and Janet both turned to look at the new arrival. Steve turned away quickly in disgust, but Janet’s eyes lingered a moment longer.

  “I dunae want nae trouble, Carol,” Big Joe said, with a sincere mix of warning and compassion.

  Seeming to hover in the doorway, a picture of nerves, she took the hesitation as an opportunity to light up a Lambert & Butler with a trembling hand. After a couple of deep draws, the nicotine seemed to calm her and boost her confidence. “Vodka and orange, Joe,” she said with a passable attempt at nonchalance, thrusting the disposable lighter and crumpled pack back into a George shoulder bag.

  Big Joe relaxed and did as she asked.

  She moved hesitantly to the bar and stood by Whitman. He did not feel overly happy at suddenly being thrust into a Checkpoint Charlie role between the obviously warring factions.

  Taking another shaky draw on her L&B, she turned to Whitman and offered a somewhat embarrassed nicotine-stained smile. “Hi, hun. What’s your name?” There was the faintest tick just above her left eyebrow.

  With the resignation that comes from knowing that a chain of events were now impossible to prevent, he replied in his friendliest, yet most non-committal voice possible. “Hannibal Whitman. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Carol Belmont; ex-wife of that adulterous bastard there.”

  “Ah, Christ.” Scarcely above a whisper from Big Joe.

  “Why don’t you get a life, Carol,” Steve muttered in an even tone, without taking his eyes off his glass of red wine.

  Still looking at Whitman and maintaining the forced smile, she replied, “I had a life and you stole it from me.”

  Janet turned to her, her expression genuine sympathy. “Carol, please …”

  Carol whipped her head around with such ferocity that Whitman thought her head would surely fly off. Glaring at Janet, she hissed, “Save your pity. You’ll need it for yourself.”

  Janet’s face flushed almost as red as her hair, and she turned away back to her drink without another word.

  To Whitman, it was a car crash; hypnotic to his morbid curiosities.

  “I don’t need this shit, Carol. Get off your cross.” With that, Steve drained the rest of his merlot and strode out, without another word.

  “Carol, why dae yae have tae start this in my boozer, eh?” Big Joe said, shaking his jowly face with his hands planted on his substantial hips. There was anger in his tone, but his face showed deep empathy.

  Timidly, she turned to Big Joe, tears welling in her eyes. “S-Sorry, Joe. I just …” Her bottom lip quivered and her voice faltered. With one swift movement, she drained her drink then stubbed out the remains of her cigarette. With far less grace and dignity than her former husband, she fled into the night with tears streaming down her face.

  There was a minute of awkward silence as Big Joe glanced from Janet, to Whitman, to the door.

  “Quite the soap opera,” Whitman said with a half-hearted attempt at humour. Big Joe just shook his head sadly and bent to unload the dishwasher. Janet continued to stare into her drink.

  “I was in Spender once,” Tam mumbled into his empty glass from the end of the bar.

  Lisa walked through from the lounge, with several empty pint glasses stacked in her hands. “Was that Carol making a tit of herself again?”

  “Give over, Lisa,” Big Joe muttered with a scowl. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Can you serve Tam? He’s dry again.”

  All in all, Whitman’s first night in Haydon had been enlightening to say the least. The blend of excitement and trepidation that he had felt at the start of his journey was now joined by a hungry curiosity for what would follow. There was so much to do and the clock was ticking.

  CHAPTER 3

  3rd 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.