Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

by Rod Glenn

  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.

  “You in bed yet, pet?” Sally’s voice shouted from the hallway.

  “Yes!” Anthony’s high-pitched voice from upstairs. “Dad back yet?”

  “No, he’ll pop up to see you when he gets in.”

  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?�
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  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.

  Whitman turned to the dog, just as it pounced at him. Swinging the knife in a shallow arc, he sliced the dog across the muzzle. It yelped in pain as its blood splattered across the wall and a photograph of the Bryce family. Their son looked a few years younger in the picture; all sat, smiling for the camera, John proud and grinning, Sally radiantly slender.

  Despite its injury, the dog shook its muzzle, spraying more blood up the walls and across the floor, and then surged forward again, its paws scrabbling on the varnished floorboards for purchase. The second attack lacked the ferocity of the first, instead staying low and rushing forward to lash out at the intruder’s groin. Whitman leaped forward, gripping the knife in both hands, and landed, legs straddling the dog’s back. The blade buried deep into the centre of its back, causing it to yelp once more and thrash out in agony.

  Whitman pinned it between his knees and, withdrawing the knife, quickly rammed it back into the dog’s flesh several times. It dropped to the floor, squirming and whining softly. Without pausing, he turned and hacked at the dog’s neck. The force of the strike all but severed its head. It lay dead before the knife was through to the other side.

  The collie’s head, hanging on by a sliver of tissue and skin, flopped to the floor as a dark pool of blood spread out around it, quickly mingling with its owner’s.

  Casting a quick glance up and down the hall, Whitman prepared for the Bryce’s second collie to come charging towards him, but it was nowhere to be seen. As his eyes returned to the dead dog, the fur seemed to shimmer in front of his eyes. It became short and sandy coloured. The nearly severed head became fatter and more rounded. Suddenly, he found himself staring at Ju with matted, blood-engorged coat and hacked head. Its dead eyes stared accusingly at him.

  The knife lurched from his shaken hand and clattered to the drenched floor as the wind rushed from Whitman’s lungs.

  A clattering commotion above him snapped him back to reality and the dog was at once a collie again. Whitman’s head arched towards the landing where Anthony was now scrambling back up the stairs he had just fallen down, sobbing and screaming uncontrollably. Bending down to retrieve the knife, he took one final hesitant look at the dog, which was still the Bryce’s collie and not Jumanji, then turned his attention to the boy.

  “Hey, Anth, hang on there, big fella,” Whitman said in a strained-friendly manner, stepping over the bodies of the dog and Sally and walking to the bottom of the stairs. He was careful not to slip in the thick pools of blood spreading along the hallway and channelling along the grooves in between the floorboards.

  Without even looking at him, Anthony screamed louder and lunged up the last couple of steps.

  Suddenly, Whitman’s relaxed demeanour switched and he thundered up the stairs at a sprint.

  Scrambling along the landing on all fours, Anthony screamed one more time. “DADDY!” The terrified voice had a primeval quality to it.

  Drenched and shivering, Bryce cursed as he tripped over a fallen branch and fell to his knees into the mush of mud and rotting leaves. He knelt there for a moment, taking advantage of the brief respite to catch his breath. His panting exhales clung to the air in front of him. The farmer glanced up to the black, skeletal canopy and the steadily falling snow, less disturbed by the wind within the restrictions of the forest. It pattered incessantly on his brow and numbed red cheeks. Shaking snow from his torch and shotgun, he struggled back to his feet and continued deeper into the forest. He could just hear the thief up ahead; in his panic to escape, he was making it easy for him to follow.

  The storm was not letting up for a moment; it remained merely breezy within the forest, but up in the canopy he could hear the incessant howl wrenching at the upper branches. With each step, he was being drawn further and further away from the warmth and comfort of the farm. Sally would be getting worried by now.

  He struggled on for several minutes more, before the thief’s escape finally fell from earshot. Frustrated, he continued stumbling on for a short distance further, before angrily giving up the chase. It was a hard call to make and sent a short, sharp jab to his pride.

  Despondent, he slumped against a pine, vibrant against groves of slender birch and their smaller cousins, the magical rowans. His fringe sticking out of the woolly hat was plastered against his dripping face. As he stood there shivering, the snowflakes and droplets of water continued to rain down through the blackness. The forest around him had fallen deathly silent, save for the soft hypnotic patter.

  After taking a few deep gulps of air, he bellowed, “You come round here again and I’ll fucking kneecap you, you got that you fuckin’ pissant!” He hesitated, half expecting a reply. When none was forthcoming, he turned around and headed back to the farm. The shotgun felt like an unyielding ton weight in his frozen hands.

  Jimmy paused and glanced behind him as the farmer’s enraged voice echoed through the forest. His lank hair was plastered flat and he, too, was soaked to the skin. A violent shiver shot through his body, almost wrenching the heavy sack from his icy grip. He set it down, but held on to the drawn opening. While he caught his wheezing breath, he snivelled noisily then coughed up some bright green phlegm.

  After a couple more dry coughs, through chattering teeth, he muttered, “Yeah, lick my balls. There won’t be a next time.” He was more determined than ever – he would use Steve’s arson money to sort his life out. These four chickens would have to see him through somehow until then. This was his last chance to make something good out of his worthless, rotting cesspit of a life.

  The small Ford Fiesta struggled along the churned up snowdrift that was the B6341. Since passing through Rothbury, progress had been slow and treacherous, causing the unceasing snow to quickly build up on the roof and bonnet. If a snowplough had been through, it must have been quite some time ago. The darkness of the narrow country road was utterly unforgiving. Fences, hedgerows and tree lines shimmered by as one shade darker smears; lost shadows dancing
in the storm.

  Sam Potter was hunched over the wheel, red-faced and bleary eyed. Natalie Potter, a short, chubby young woman, was slumped against the passenger window, her spiky black hair splayed against the misted glass. An intermittent nasal grunt was all she had been capable of for the last hour.

  The stereo was turned down so low that he couldn’t hear what was playing over the drone of the fan. The warm air, combined with the back and forth motion of the windscreen wipers, conspired to seduce Sam’s already tired eyes to grow steadily droopier. The weariness bore down on him like the weight of the ocean above a diver. It crawled steadily into the darkest recesses of his mind, corrupting him body and soul. Ceaselessly, it whispered to him … relent Sam, it’s okay, Sam, lose yourself in the gentle comfort of my embrace.

  A bump in the road caused Natalie’s head to bounce off the window. She stirred and turned to look at him, her own eyes as bloodshot as his. “You okay, baby?” she asked groggily.

  Startled back to full consciousness, on reflex, Sam jerked the steering wheel, sliding the car into the deep snow bank to their left. They both jolted forward into their seatbelts as the car came to a sudden halt.

  Natalie stared at him, open mouthed and all fatigue temporarily banished. “Guess that’s a no then, honey?” She kept her tone light, despite the sudden thumping of her heart.

  Trembling slightly, Sam said, “S-sorry, Nats. Was d-drifting off there.”

  The engine idled and the windscreen wipers continued back and forth as Natalie plucked a pack of Regal and a disposable lighter from her denim bag. She lit up a cigarette before saying, “You need to get some rest, honey. We can’t go on any more in this.”

  “Blindburn is o-only another f-few miles past the H-H-Haydon turn off,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes. He shifted his weight in his seat to ease his aching back and let out a long, satisfying yawn.