by Rod Glenn
He needed to find buyers for the chickens pretty sharpish, otherwise he’d have a pretty miserable Christmas. Who was he trying to kid? Every Christmas was a miserable Christmas. Santa wasn’t going to be dropping any presents down his chimney (if he had one) this year. Come to think of it, the fat bastard never had.
Pulling his collar up, Jimmy buried his hands into the damp pockets of his coat. After a loud sneeze, he headed down the street, squinting against the icy flakes.
Slivers of grey light poked through a thin gap in the floral curtains, offering a suggestion of the morning outside. The bedroom was small, with two single divan beds, a single pine wardrobe and a matching pine dressing table.
Sam Potter stirred in one of the beds, as Natalie rested soundlessly in the other. He let out a sigh as his blinking eyes adjusted to the poor light. Thoughts of his father flooded back, causing him to immediately sit up.
Checking his watch, he said, “Nats, w-wake up, hun. I-it’s after e-eight-thirty.” As Natalie muttered something inaudible, Sam jumped out of bed and began his routine of stretching exercises.
Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Natalie glanced over her shoulder to Sam, who had now dropped to the thinning floral carpet and was rapidly performing push ups, to the creaking displeasure of the floorboards beneath. Her voice croaky, she said, “Jesus, Sam, can’t you even miss one morning?”
Puffing, Sam replied, “No!”
As Sam moved on to sit ups, Natalie finally dragged herself out of the cosy bed, farting loudly in the process. “Oops,” she said mildly.
Sam paused, mid-sit up and glanced at her. She smiled sweetly back at him. Rolling his eyes, he continued with his exercise.
Sitting on the edge of the bed in bra and knickers, Natalie rummaged through her cavernous shoulder bag through lipsticks, deodorant, tampons, tissues and mobile phone to find the packet of Regal and lighter. After lighting, she took a long satisfying drag.
Catching a sniff of the smoke, Sam stopped abruptly again and stared at her. “I w-wish you wouldn’t d-do that.”
Natalie wrinkled her nose at him. “Ah, get over yourself! You’re the health freak, not me.”
Getting to his feet, Sam said, “B-but y-you pr-pr-pr-“
“I know,” Natalie interrupted. “I’m trying, baby, I am. But it was a stressful night and it’ll be a long day too, so just let me enjoy this one little scrap of happiness.”
Sam sighed and grabbed a towel and a small toiletry bag. “Just g-going to the bathroom. Be b-back in a minute.”
Nodding, Natalie took a draw on her cigarette then said, “Shame their only en suite was taken.”
Hot water had steamed up the small bathroom as Sam scrubbed his body with an exfoliating mitten. After washing thoroughly, he methodically rinsed off the shampoo and shower gel from his slim, toned body.
The door opened with a creak, causing Sam to pause with his hand hovering over the control dial for the shower. “Nats?” he asked, hesitantly.
A figure approached the frosted shower curtain embossed with dolphins leaping across its surface. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise as the unannounced person approached. “Nats, i-is that y-you?” he asked again more sternly.
The curtain was suddenly yanked back to reveal Natalie dressed in a red and black silk kimono, grinning mischievously.
“Ha ha,” Sam muttered derisively.
Glancing down at his groin, she smiled and wet her lips. “I think baby wants to play.”
Smiling, despite himself, Sam said, “I’d love t-to, Nats, but we gotta s-see my dad first.”
Natalie sighed and nodded. “I know, darling.” Lifting her Kimono, she stepped over to the toilet and plonked her plump bottom onto it.
Sam had always been a little uncomfortable with Natalie using the toilet in front of him, so he towelled off quickly and headed back to the room to dress.
Sex for dinner, death for breakfast.
Once they had both dressed and packed, Sam and Natalie headed downstairs to the lounge with their bags. The country-style pub lounge was in darkness with the curtains still drawn and the Christmas decorations turned off.
Whispering, Sam said, “He w-was called J-Joe, right?”
Nodding, Natalie, loudly announced, “Joe, it’s the Potters. Did you want us in the lounge for breakfast?”
Stopping in the middle of the lounge, they both listened for a reply from the kitchen. Silence. No sizzling bacon, no rummaging; no smells of cooking at all for that matter.
Frowning, Sam looked at his watch. “W-we said n-nine for breakf-fast. It’s ten past n-now.”
Natalie shook her head. “Not everyone’s as anal as you about being on time all of the time.”
“It’s not a-a-anal at all. It’s good m-manners.”
Shrugging, Natalie muttered, “Whatever.” Walking over to the doorway to the kitchen, she peered in, saying, “Hello, anyone there?” The kitchen was deserted and untouched. All utensils and pans were still neatly stored on racks and in plain durable units, and the surfaces cleaned to a gleaming shine. All except a single wooden chopping board with a few remaining crumbs. Turning, Natalie said, “I don’t believe it; looks like they’ve slept in.”
Sam’s cheeks flushed. Agitated, he wrung his hands, saying, “Th-th-this is ri-r-idiculous. W-w-w-we p-p-p-“
“Don’t worry, darling,” Natalie intervened, cringing at how rapidly his stuttering could worsen. It pained her for him to be so unmercifully attacked in that way. Soothingly, she added, “It’s no biggie.”
“Y-y-yeah, bu-bu-but-“
“Sam,” Natalie said sternly, walking back over to him. “It’s not a crisis. We can pick up a sandwich from a shop on the way.”
His lips pursed, Sam glanced around the room for a moment, before saying, “O-o-okay.”
Grasping the handles of the holdall that Sam had dropped at his feet, Natalie headed through to the bar with her own backpack in her other hand. Sheepishly, Sam followed.
The bar was similarly dark and deserted, but as they rounded the corner of the bar, they caught sight of the bodies of Big Joe and Lisa. They both lay as they had fallen, both with wide, dry patches of blood spread out beneath them. Even at a distance, Natalie could tell by their colour that they had been dead for several hours.
She gasped and clamped a hand to her mouth, simultaneously dropping both bags at her feet. The noise of them hitting the wooden floor was like a gunshot in a graveyard.
“W-wha—” Sam started, but abruptly cut himself off when his eyes caught the reason for his wife’s shock. “Oh my God!” he said and, in some distant part of his brain, was surprised at how clearly it came out.
Trembling, Natalie dashed over to the end of the bar where she had spied a telephone. Grabbing the handset, she thrust it against her ear and pressed nine. She stopped with her finger about to press it a second time. No dial tone. “Shit,” she hissed.
Sam fumbled in his jacket for his mobile. He was less than surprised to find no signal. “Sh-shit,” he echoed. Glancing apprehensively around the room, his mind raced through their options.
Natalie turned to look at him, her expression taut with suppressed panic. “Let’s just get the hell out of here. We can call the police on the way.”
“G-good plan.”
They both rushed to the front door, carefully stepping round Lisa’s body which was curled up in a foetal position a couple of feet in front of it. They tried not to look, but Sam couldn’t help but notice how young and small she looked. So frail and so … dead. After fumbling with the lock and bolts, Sam yanked the door open. Flurries of snow blew in, and the build up of snow at the door tumbled inside in thick clods.
“Christ,” Sam muttered. Shielding his eyes, he forced himself across the threshold. The breeze rippled over his short, mousy hair and blew soft, icy flakes into his eyes. He quickly made his way to the thickly blanketed Fiesta.
Natalie stepped out into the street after him, but as she turned, squinting at the car, t
wo arms reached out from behind her and yanked her violently back into the pub. The holdall dropped, half submerged into the snow, but the backpack was flung back through with her.
Sam reached the car and turned back to spur his wife on. Seeing that she wasn’t behind him and that the holdall was dumped in the snow, Sam’s already unravelling nerves stretched to breaking point. “Nats!” His voice was shrill and frantic.
Without waiting for a reply, and the car momentarily forgotten, Sam rushed back along the trench he had just made, back to the open doorway. Snow was scattered several feet inside the entrance, but there was no sign of Natalie.
Desperate, Sam stepped inside, shouting, “Nats!” He just caught a glimpse of Natalie struggling with a hand over her mouth and being dragged backwards by a figure dressed in black. They disappeared around the corner, heading into the lounge.
Rushing forward, he cried, “Let her go!”
As he reached the corner, Natalie was thrust into his arms. She was making gurgling noises and had a deep gash in her throat. “NO!” He grabbed her with both arms and she sagged against him, fighting for breath. Blood was gushing freely down between her cleavage and quickly seeping through the front of her jumper.
Despite the wound, she managed to utter, “Run … my love.” As he shook his head, refusing to leave her, her eyes rolled back into her head and the gurgling, wheezing sounds ebbed away.
“God no, please!” he wailed, cradling her in his arms, rocking gently back and forth.
“Picked the wrong weekend for an impromptu visit, friend,” Whitman said, stepping out from an alcove bathed in shadows. With bright eyes and a healthy pink glow to his cheeks, he looked refreshed and eager to meet the day. He had even managed to have a quick invigorating shower (followed by a thorough clean up of the room afterwards). His red hair that had grown over his ears during his months in Haydon was swept back from his face and his beard smoothed and groomed.
Sam glared at the man through tear-filled eyes. The only word he could manage was, “W-why?”
Whitman touched the tip of the bloodied knife to his bristly chin in quiet contemplation for a moment. Then, on reflection, said, “Been hearing that a lot lately.”
Sam gently set Natalie’s body down then spied a discarded ashtray down beside the bar with spots of dried blood across its glass surface. As soon as he begrudgingly rested Natalie’s head against the floor, he lunged for the discarded ashtray.
Whitman, caught off guard by the sudden movement, reacted too slowly, surging forward a fraction too late. Sam grabbed the ashtray and, in a crouch, spun round and swiped.
Whitman’s momentum carried him into the blow, striking his stomach with full force. He doubled up, winded and gasping. Sam took the opportunity to go for the kill, raising the improvised club over his head.
Grimacing, Whitman lashed out with the knife, causing Sam to jump backwards before managing to bring the ashtray down on his head. Whitman hastily staggered upright, coughing, with the knife held out defensively in front of him.
Sam glanced from the knife to his dead wife, and made a decision that he would probably regret for the rest of his life; however short or long that might be. Fear temporarily conquered anger and so flight overrode fight. Clutching the ashtray, he turned and sprinted for the front door.
Laughing a half hysterical-half coughing laugh, Whitman shouted, “Coward! Just when we were getting to know each other!”
Sam dashed out into the snow. It seemed to be easing off somewhat, making the Green and the buildings across the street now easy to distinguish. Ignoring the car, he staggered out into the middle of the road, his feet leaving a deep churned up rut in the snow from the entrance of the pub.
Terrified and utterly clueless as to his next course of action, he did the only thing he could think of. “HELP! H-help me, there’s a mur-murderer on the loose!” It felt like a hopelessly stupid thing to do, but as Whitman appeared in the doorway, still clutching his stomach, two men appeared in the street; one emerging from Bell Lane beyond the Green and the other trudging along past the disused Glitzy Bingo Hall at the top end of Main Street.
Whitman stepped out, ready to give chase, but then he too saw John Bryce and Jimmy Coulson approaching from different directions. That in itself wasn’t a problem. The problem was that Bryce appeared to be armed with a rifle.
Considering his options, Whitman decided upon a tactical retreat. He disappeared back inside the Miller’s.
“Help me! P-please! He’s k-k-killed my w-w-w—” His fumbling mouth failed him completely and he screamed out in frustration.
Both Bryce and Jimmy started to run towards him. Bryce, armed with the Bassett Supreme semi automatic rifle, immediately cocked it and brought it up across his chest as he crossed the Green to the screaming stranger. Jimmy thrust a hand into his coat pocket as he rushed towards the hysterical stranger, clutching the lock knife concealed within for some measure of comfort.
“What’s going on? Who the hell are you?” Bryce shouted at him as he approached. “Some murdering bastard has killed my wife and son.”
“Fuck’s goin’ on?” Jimmy echoed, bewildered and out of breath. He coughed a couple of times and spat into the deep snow before continuing to join them.
Shaking, Sam thrust a finger towards the Miller’s. “A b-b-bearded man in th-th-theere; h-he’s just k-k-killed my Natalie.” His stuttering gremlin was taking control, as his voice coach used to tell him.
Bryce turned and took aim at the open doorway. There was no one to be seen.
Jimmy glanced nervously from Bryce to the newcomer, gripping the hilt of the knife in his sweaty palm. An itch crawled up his sleeve, but he fought the urge to scratch.
The breeze had died down to a gentle whisper and only a dusting of tiny flakes continued a leisurely descent. The fine powder coated the three men’s hair and shoulders as they stood clustered together in the deserted street.
Still aiming down the iron sight at the Miller’s, Bryce demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
“W-we arrived l-l-late last night. C-c-c-c-” He had to stop to take a deep breath, before continuing. Tears were streaming down his flushed cheeks.
Bryce and Jimmy exchanged a glance.
“Caught in the st-st-storm heading to s-s-see my dad in B-b-b-”
“Blindburn?” Jimmy finished with obvious impatience. Turning to Bryce, he said, “You have any idea what’s goin’ on, like?”
Keeping the rifle pointing to the pub, Bryce turned to the two men. “You and me got unfinished business, you little bastard. While I was out chasing you off me farm, someone broke in and killed Sally and Anthony. Butchered them.” He spat the last two words through clenched teeth. Just saying the words appeared to cause him actual physical pain.
Jimmy stepped back from the raw emotion in the big farmer’s tone and features. “I-I didn’t know, man.”
Turning back to the door, Bryce muttered, “How do we know that the murderer isn’t you, cityboy?”
Sam gaped at him and raised a fist still clutching the ashtray, shaking with fury. “My WIFE! He slit her throat!” The tears were dripping off his quivering chin.
Jimmy raised his hands defensively. “Woah, alreet, I think he’s alreet, Bryce.”
“Well who the hell is killing everyone? And where the hell is everyone else?”
Jimmy looked around the deserted street. Suddenly the solitude struck him. Despite the weather, there should have been a few people about, especially with all the shouting. And the kids … they loved the snow. A horrifying thought crossed his mind. “He cannat have killed everyone … could he?”
Bryce switched his attention from the sight to stare at Jimmy then, slowly, he glanced around them, his eyes frequently diverting back to the pub. No open doors, no faces at windows. No fresh tracks in the snow – other than theirs – come to think of it. But still … “That’s impossible. There’s nearly four hundred people in and around the village for christsake!” Looking back to Sam, he sna
rled, “Who is he?”
“B-beard, ginger h-h-hair, stocky—”
“Whitman?” Both Bryce and Jimmy chorused.
“That’s insane!” Bryce bellowed, dropping the rifle to his side in disgust. “He’s … he’s a normal bloke! He’s a fucking writer!”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Jimmy said, nodding, scratching his stubble with a grubby, red hand.
“You shut the fuck up, boy. You’ve been gunnin’ for him since he started seeing Lisa. The bloke’s a friend of mine!”
Jimmy’s eyes widened and, with force, smacked the side of his own head. “Lisa! Oh Christ! Was there anyone else in there?”
Sam nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark entrance. “A really big old man and a slim, young dark-headed woman.”
Jimmy grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket. “That’s Lisa! Was she … alreet?”
Sam backed off from the scruffy young man, shoving his hand away. “Th-th-they were both d-d-d—”
“No!” Jimmy surged forward again, grasping for the newcomer’s collar. “Divvent say that!”
“Christ.” Setting his jaw, Bryce growled, “Talking’s over.” With that, he stormed towards the Miller’s, aiming the rifle from the hip.
Jimmy turned away from Sam. “Bryce! Where the hell you goin’?”
Bryce continued towards the pub, muttering, “I’m gunna kill the bastard, whoever the hell he is.”
Jimmy considered Bryce’s words then rushed after him. Shakily, Sam followed. With Bryce leading, the three men marched towards the pub. Rage, overriding any fears, pushed Bryce unthinking and resolute across the threshold. He entered the pub and surveyed the bar. It was empty, apart from the bodies.