Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

by Rod Glenn

  Whitman cast Simon’s body aside, not interested enough to notice that it fell upon the bodies of his family. His strides towards the remaining three appeared casual, but there was a rising impatience in him that was manifesting in his no nonsense, swift kills. He was dog tired and emotionally drained. The killing – especially certain individuals – had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.

  As Loretta backed away along the edge of the bar, the whites of her eyes glinting in the candlelight, Duncan grabbed a barstool and brandished it over his head. “Stay back, Lor!” he shouted, positioning himself in the way.

  Geordie planted one hand on the bar and vaulted over to land next to Duncan. “Come on then, motherfucker!” Without taking his eyes off the intruder, he added, “Who is this bastard?”

  To their surprise, Whitman nonchalantly slipped the knife back into its sheath. In the next moment though, they realised why. Whitman drew the pistol and aimed it at Duncan’s head. His teeth appeared unnaturally white in the iridescent light.

  “Oh shit,” the shopkeeper uttered weakly.

  “Checkmate,” Whitman said.

  Duncan blinked, finally recognising the man bathed in blood and darkness. “Han?” His voice was incredulous.

  Whitman stepped closer, revealing more of his bloodstained features. “And our survey said … BING!”

  Loretta shook her head in disbelief, trembling. “I-I don’t believe it! What are you doing? You … you murderer!”

  Duncan stood his ground stubbornly, but his frayed voice betrayed him as he said, “Stay back, pet.”

  Smiling, Whitman said, “Yep, stay back, Lor, because things are going to get a little messy when big Dunc here finds out that his daughter is dead.”

  As a burst of horror erupted across Duncan’s usually relaxed, sociable face, Geordie quickly interjected, “Divvent listen to him, Dunc. He’s messing with your head; trying to get you to let your guard down.” Turning to Whitman, he growled, “What is your fuckin’ malfunction?”

  Nodding, through gritted teeth, Duncan said, “Yeah, that gun’s probably just a cap gun.”

  Chewing his bottom lip, Whitman said, “You could be right there, Private Pile.” As Duncan and Geordie considered their options, Whitman made the decision for them. He pulled the trigger.

  The crack of the pistol discharging in the confined space left a ringing in the ears. Both Geordie and Loretta flinched, half ducking at the sound. Geordie recovered immediately, having heard gunshots on several previous occasions.

  Duncan had dropped to the floor with a neat hole in his forehead and a bewildered look on his face. A trickle of blood oozed out of the scorched entry wound.

  Acknowledging that he was out of options, Geordie took the only chance he had; he surged forward screaming, “COME ON!”

  There was something hugely satisfying about finally discharging the Walther. It was almost as if the handgun completed him somehow and it certainly seemed to immediately quell his rising edginess. He didn’t have time to ponder on it any further right now, but it was something to mull over at a later date.

  It took a fraction of a second to switch aim to the temporary landlord. Geordie had cleared the distance in no time, but, as he swiped the broken bottle towards Whitman’s head, the gun spoke first.

  The bullet tore through his throat and exited out the other side, lodging in the bar a couple of feet from Loretta’s screaming form. His momentum carried him forward into Whitman and both men fell to the floor with a scrambling clatter.

  On top, and with blood pumping out of his throat, Geordie snarled through red teeth, spitting blood in Whitman’s face. Struggling with the skinhead’s solid weight, Whitman squirmed to pull the pistol out from under his thigh.

  “… Kill yeee …” Geordie spluttered, blood and saliva dribbling down his chin in gooey threads. The bottle lost, he struggled to bring his hands up to Whitman’s throat.

  As Geordie’s slimy hands tightened around his neck, Whitman managed to dislodge the pistol from under his leg. The barman’s grip was vice-like, despite his wound and immediately caused Whitman to gag. With a whiff of alarm, he hastily pulled the gun up to Geordie’s temple and pulled the trigger. The recoil nearly jerked the pistol clean out of his hand as Geordie’s head was wrenched to one side with the impact.

  Blood pumped out of the entry hole in Geordie’s temple and brains and splinters of skull spilled out of the exit wound and splashed sickeningly on the floor. With a little less self-control than he would’ve liked, Whitman thrashed out, shoving the barman’s still twitching body off him and struggled to his feet. He blinked and coughed from his near throttling, holding his red throat with his free hand and the still smoking pistol in the other.

  Loretta had curled into a ball and was sobbing, with her hands masking her face from the horrific events unfolding in front of her at breakneck speed. Her husband and friends lay dead, but it was all too quick and incomprehensible to fully appreciate.

  Breathing heavily, he felt the creeping onset of fatigue anew, burrowing into every joint and muscle with spiralling tenacity. It had been a long night and there was still plenty yet to do. But at least the worst was over. His thoughts returned to Lisa momentarily; her face, at first fearful and then enraged. Although banished almost as quickly as it had appeared, its presence left its mark, tainting him. Steamrollering through the mounting feelings, Whitman walked over towards the Duck’s last living occupant with pistol in hand.

  Before curling up and hugging her knees while crying softly, Loretta had made it to the end of the bar. He could just make out her husband’s name repeated amongst her weeping. Looking down at her shivering body, he said “Hail to the king, baby!” then shot her repeatedly in her pretty, sandy head.

  CHAPTER 11

  Two’s company, three’s a bloodbath.

  The dimmed spotlights, designer real-flame, chrome-framed fireplace and laminate flooring, mingled with the gentle tones of Chris Martin to offer a warm glow to Steve Belmont’s living room.

  Tell me you love me,

  Come back and haunt me,

  Oh and I rush to the start,

  Running in circles,

  Chasing tails,

  And coming back as we are …

  Steve padded across the cool, smooth floor in bare feet and a white bathrobe, carrying two bubbling champagne flutes. Janet, also dressed in a white robe, was curled up on the black leather sofa.

  Handing her one of the glasses, Steve said, “Here you go, love.”

  “Storm’s still raging out there,” Janet replied dreamily. “I’ll tell Larry that I stayed with Loretta, rather than walk back through that.” She sipped the champagne and savoured the fizzing bubbles on her tongue.

  Sitting down beside her, he gently caressed her flowing red hair and took a sip of his champagne. “Won’t Loretta get pissed off with all the covering she’s doing for you?”

  Pushing a hand between the folds of Steve’s robe, Janet stroked his hairy chest while contemplating the question. After another sip, she said, “Loretta knows that I’m going to leave Larry and that I’m just waiting for the right moment. She’s not happy about the lying, but she’s doing it for me, as my friend.”

  “She’s a good friend.”

  “Yes, she is.” Turning to him, she looked deep into his granite eyes and said, with mounting emotion, “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? I mean, what’s best for everyone, including Larry?” Her eyes were beseeching.

  Steve moved his hand from her hair and touched the side of her hot cheek. “Of course, love. You two haven’t been happy for years, so it’s going to be best all round. It’ll be hard for Larry and Kerris at first, but once the shock is out of the way, everyone will be much happier in the long run.” He kissed her on the lips, then added, “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Closing her eyes, with a dreamy smile on her inflamed lips, she leant forward to return the kiss. She maintained the embrace for a moment
then eased herself up, saying, “Just going to freshen up a little.”

  Steve nodded and flashed a warm smile as she walked into the hallway to the bathroom, dabbing the corner of one eye with the sleeve of her robe.

  Finishing off his glass, Steve stood up and headed back across the room. The kitchen was partitioned from the living room by a solid breakfast bar with a couple of chrome and black leather bar stools.

  He set the glass aside on the pristine worktop and crossed to the over-sized American-style refrigerator to retrieve the bottle. As he opened it, a noise caught his attention from the living room. The Scientist and Clocks had passed and now, halfway through Daylight, Coldplay had been abruptly turned off after the line, You see darkness, in the daylight. Glancing over his shoulder, he immediately saw Whitman standing in the middle of the room and looking at him with mild interest. Muddy water was pooling at his feet.

  The shock lurched the bottle out of his fingers, smashing it on the Chinese slate floor. “Whitman?” Immediately attempting to recover from the initial shock, he angrily snapped, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Wisps of steam were starting to rise from his wet clothes as he stood there, smiling. “I’m here to murder you and Janet,” Whitman replied simply. Now here was a tosser that he could get some real pleasure in killing. So far, there had been plenty that he wasn’t bothered about one way or the other, several whom had been very difficult, but precious few that had actually been enjoyable.

  Standing, naked, save for the bathrobe, with a road drill suddenly pounding in his chest, Steve raced through options. The man standing in front of him was a killer; he didn’t need the blood splattered clothing to confirm it to him, it was just a fact. He had always been blessed with a talent to read people, hence falling into sales after bombing out of high school with decidedly mediocre qualifications. It had been a gift that he had used throughout life to help him manipulate people; people like Jimmy. But here was a person whom he had failed to read at all; disastrously so. He had dismissed him as a bookworm, with the only minor irritation of being a brief distraction to Janet on his initial arrival. He had soon put him straight on that score.

  One conclusion came to him in a rush. “Well, you’ll just have to settle for me, you freak. Janet’s not here.”

  Whitman took a moment to glance around the room then shrugged. “Ah well, not to worry.” Rather unenthusiastically, he raised the pistol and aimed it at Steve’s chest.

  Instinctively, Steve raised his arms and backed up, crunching painfully over broken glass. “Woah! Put the damn gun away! What the fuck have I done to you?”

  Janet was about to step out of the bathroom when she heard Steve’s raised voice mention a gun. She froze, hand on chrome door handle, with a quickening heartbeat thumping in her chest.

  Waving the gun dismissively, Whitman said, “It’s nothing personal, Steve. Although, unlike a lot of the others, I will quite enjoy this one.” As an afterthought, he added, “You’re a dickhead, Steve. That should be reason enough.”

  Glancing down at his blood mingling with the champagne and shards of glass, Steve gritted his teeth and then looked back at Whitman. “Fuck you, Whitman.” The pain honing his anger, with renewed confidence, he said, “Think you’re friggin’ tough coming in here waving a gun about? You’re nowt but a coward. Put that gun down and let’s settle this properly. I’ll fucking show you who’s the boss round here, you little runt.” He stepped up to the threshold between the two rooms.

  Whitman laughed, cocking his head to one side with amusement. “Nah, I have neither the time, nor the inclination for a roll around in the hay with you. So, let me just say, fuck you, eh?” With that, he fired.

  The bullet tore into Steve’s shoulder, spinning him round on the slippery floor. Screaming and cursing, he dropped to the floor and ducked behind the breakfast bar. Clutching the rapidly widening patch of red spreading through the robe, Steve shouted, “You psycho! I’m gunna kill you!”

  Clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, Janet stumbled back away from the door.

  Rolling his eyes, Whitman let out a sigh and walked towards the kitchen. “Steve, I can’t be bothered with this shit. It’s been a long night and I’ve still got a few more to sort before I can get some sleep.”

  “Well, sorry for making your life difficult, you fucking headcase!” Steve shrieked from the tentative sanctuary of the room partition.

  Pausing, Whitman touched the tip of the Walther to his chin and savoured the burnt, acidy whiff emanating from the barrel. “I know you were going to pay Jimmy to burn down the car lot so you and Janet could skip off into the sunset together.”

  Steve instantly ceased his painful mutterings and cocked his head up. “What the hell you talking about?”

  “Don’t even think about denying it; I’ve got all the proof I need.” He took a step closer then added, “You’ll be glad to know that I’m still going to burn the place down for you, but I’m also going to stick yours and Janet’s bodies in there so everyone can find out about your sordid little affair.”

  Grimacing as he tentatively touched the seeping wound in his shoulder, Steve spat, “What do I care? I’ll be dead! Fuck you! Why the hell do you want to kill people in Haydon anyway? Why for christsake?”

  Closing the gap, Whitman said, “No point in explaining it to you, Steve. You’re about to die, so it’s not really that important to you. Plus, I’m not really the monologuing type; I’ll leave that to the Bond villains.”

  Frantically glancing round the kitchen worktops for inspiration, Steve muttered, “Well, that’s just hunky dory then. Nee botha, mate. You just kill away.” His eyes fell upon the still intact stem of the champagne bottle mere inches away. He grabbed it at once and clutched it tight to his chest, biting through the flaring pain in his shoulder. He shifted into a crouch on his haunches and waited. His racing heart was matched only by the throbbing in his shoulder as he heard Whitman slowly approach. Pins and needles ran down the length of his arm and exploded in a hot tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers.

  Janet, just keep quiet and stay where you are.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Whitman said in a low whisper. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  As he reached to within a foot of the breakfast bar, Steve jumped to his feet and lashed out with the broken bottle. The jagged edge whooshed past Whitman’s nose, clipping the bridge and drawing a trickle of blood.

  Whitman backed off, saying, “Easy tiger, what’s with you guys and broken bottles, eh?”

  “You’re a dead man!” Steve roared and threw himself over the worktop.

  Whitman stepped back hastily and opened fire twice in quick succession. The two rounds punched Steve in the chest, stalling his advance and leaving him in a crumpled slouch over the worktop. One hand swung limply over the edge and, after the second swing, the broken bottle slipped out of his grip and clattered to the laminate floor. Blood oozed from the three gunshot wounds, pooling on the worktop and dribbling down the lounge side of the breakfast bar.

  Whitman did not bother to check for a pulse, but he did make a sweep of the flat. Swinging the door open to the bathroom, he peered in and scanned the large fully tiled room. The bathroom had a freestanding slipper bath and a separate corner shower cubicle with a large bath towel draped over the glass front.

  He hovered in the doorway, scrutinising the gloomy room and listening intently for some time. Content, he finally withdrew.

  Janet cowered behind the bath towel for several minutes, shaking with both hands pressed tightly over her mouth. She had to muster every ounce of courage to force her limbs into action.

  Eventually, still shaking and wracked by intermittent dry sobs, Janet slowly made her way into the hallway. The front door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar with snow gusting in through the gap.

  Then, terrified, she hesitantly edged into the living room, hands still fixed to her mouth. As she rou
nded the corner, the breakfast bar came into view with Steve draped across it. A wide patch of blood had spread out from base.

  An acrid smell stung her nostrils as Janet stared at her dead lover. A hand slowly drew away from her mouth and stretched out towards him. “Steve,” she muttered just above a whisper. “Please …”

  Thumping footsteps sounded from the staircase.

  Janet turned to the doorway, terror anchoring her to the spot. The breath was sucked out of her and her eyes drew impossibly wide as she awaited the inevitable. Something deep inside resigned herself to her fate and even, on some level, welcomed it.

  Carol Belmont appeared in the doorway, her drenched hair plastered messily to her head and her thin denim jacket soaked through. Her cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold. Her accusing glare struck Janet like a slap. “Shouldn’t you be with your husband, you whore?”

  Janet continued to stare at her, unable to move or respond. With the dawning realisation that it wasn’t Whitman returning to murder her, her body rapidly started to uncoil in trembling spasms.

  Too angry to interpret her rival’s condition, Carol stormed into the room towards her. “The door was open, so don’t even st—” She stopped suddenly as she saw Steve’s blood-drenched body. “What the … Steve? Steve!” She rushed forward and clutched his limp arms, skidding briefly in the man’s pooled blood. She grabbed a hand that was sticky where blood had dribbled down his arm from the shoulder wound. Despite having cried herself dry earlier, tears still managed to squeeze out of her inflamed tear ducts as her unhinged mind soaked in the scene. She tenderly lifted his head and looked into his staring, dead eyes.

  Oblivious to all the blood, she threw her arms across his back and buried her face into the soft, Hugo Boss smelling robe. Muffled sobs wracked her body, sending violent shivers down her arched back.