by Craig McNish
“I had no choice in what I did. As I told the gaoler, the Devil took hold of my mind and my hand and made me do these things. I assure you, vagrant, if he had took a hold of you then just the same thing would have happened.”
“No it wouldn't, and here's for why. You might think I'm nothing but a drunkard and a no-gooder, but my mind is clear as glass. He picked you because everybody knows that you're an idiot – an imbecile. Easy to take over the head of an imbecile, even the Devil knows that.”
“I am NOT an IMBECILE!” Mills hated those words, had heard them way too often. They laughed at the way he would run his plough in an exact straight line, and whip the oxen if they strayed even just a little. They would watch as he counted his steps while he wandered through the market place, and recall how many footfalls it had taken him to get from one vendor to the next. It was thought odd that he would always count his coins three times before purchasing an item. There were many stories such as these that people would share about Mills and have them question his behaviour. Some thought it to be like that of a child playing a game; others would say he had no mind by which to remember and so had to talk to himself all the time to make sure he wouldn't forget even the very simple tasks, and yet more suggested he was plotting with unholy forces to bring about destruction. And now it seemed those who had this last thought were right.
“So, murderer, if you're not an imbecile as you say, then why haven't you thought that instead of being fastened away in that box that the Devil you claim to have inside you is going to let you die? Eh? I don't fancy the Devil would let himself be done away with so easy, so that means it's nothing but a story so you could be sent to a madhouse and not the gallows. Well whoever might take that tale as true would be put in a madhouse, believe me.”
“The gaoler knows it was the Devil who took my hand and made me do those things – he told me so not two hours ago.”
“Ha! Tom Laxe has been too many years in that place, listening to nowt but the talk of criminals and debtors. I reckon if I told him I was going to London next week to marry a young Princess he would believe me.”
“Even your whore wife couldn't stand you, so I doubt much anyone could believe such an untruth as big as that.” Now it was Sellby who was being laughed at, and he didn't like it one bit. His temper flared; he finished off his bottle and smashed it against the outside of the cage, trying to stab Mills through the bars with an outstretched arm. It was probably lucky that the cage was as wide as the cart or Sellby might have just as easily got at him from there. Mills lifted his shackled legs and kicked out; his foot caught a decent hold of the vagrant's arm and there was an awful cracking sound. Sellby withdrew his arm, shouting out in pain all the while.
“Hush down, vagrant; even the Brass boy didn't make such a racket when I cleaved his skull with my axe, you old fool. You run your mouth too much – don't be so shocked when someone decides to shut it for you. Maybe you should run off to find the innkeeper and buy yourself another bottle to help you forget about your own problems rather than taunting a murderer, don't you think?” It was while he was engaged in this end part of his discourse with Sellby that Mills noticed the missiles hadn't come his way for some time. There were words, but a lot of these had been cajoling to comment that had been made by either him or the vagrant. In fact, since Sellby's arm had been broken not long since, Mills saw that the cart on which he was riding wasn't so tightly hemmed in any more. The people were starting to fear him – he could see it in their eyes.
“They would seem to think that I still have the Devil within me” Mills spoke to himself quietly. “Maybe I should give them good reason to believe that when I have my final say on the gallows.”
As the cart finished its crossing of Framwellgate Bridge and journeyed along Milburngate, Mills began to feel warm. Not in any way because of the weather, but inside; he had a feeling a fire had been lit in his gut and that its heat was starting to spread through his body. There was a mist in his view as he looked around, like the last of an early morning fog surrendering to a bright sun. It was at first with some fear, and then wonder, that he would see people in the crowd who looked to be stained with blood, on their clothes, their faces and more so than those, their hands. And yet these same folks behaved in the way that they had always done, like nothing had changed. Mills kept back his desire to smile and even laugh.
“Now they have my blood on their hands” he said, “but they don't even see it on themselves. And they dare to call me a fool?” There were faces now that Mills began to remember more clearly. Not because he knew them better than others – though he did recognise some – but because the warm feeling inside his body was making him remember these faces. And while Mills could guess that it might be the Devil himself at work, he could think of no good reason why some faces in the crowd were more important than others. It seemed nothing worth thinking about, because soon he would no longer be ever able to think about anything.
And now, finally, the cart came to a stop. Mills looked across to his left side and could see not too far away the platform on which he was soon to stand, and the hangman's noose that was awaiting his head.
*
The crowd fell largely quiet when Crawfoote, the coroner who had presided over Mills' trial and was the first to hear his story of how the Devil was largely responsible for the demise of the Brass children, stepped up onto the platform to address the gathered spectators. He was a tall and thin man; well educated, methodical and deliberate in his words and actions, and highly respected way beyond these parts. He began to speak in a loud and commanding voice.
“All hear ye, all hear ye! On this Wednesday, the fifteenth day of August in the year sixteen hundred and eighty-three, we men and women all gather here at twenty after eight this morning in Dryburn to pay witness to the final act of justice for that most heinous crime, the killing of three children, which was committed by this man, Andrew Mills.” The sentenced man was pushed roughly up the platform steps by his executioner, a man who went by the name of Waugh, and moved to the front of the stage alongside Crawfoote. The jeering and cries for justice to be seen were heard again; Crawfoote waited for them to quiet down before taking back up his speech.
“Andrew Mills, you are sentenced to die this day. You will be hanged by the neck until dead, and your body removed to Ferryhill where it will be hanged in chains to serve as warning to any other man who might be tempted to commit a similar crime with the feel he will not be caught and punished that he too can expect the same. The priest tells me you refused to take the sacrament – is this true?”
“It is.”
“And why so might that be?”
“Because I do not believe in that God which he worships. If his claim that this God is all-forgiving is the truth, then why is it I am going to die this day because of actions that were not my own doing?”
“You still insist it was the Devil himself who took the lives of the Brass children, and not you alone?”
“I do. And you, Crawfoote, tricked me into making a confession by saying you would spare my life should I do so. And look where I find myself now! So not only is your God unable to forgive, but is also a skilled liar through you. You would have me believe he is a man of mercy when he is in fact a warrior of vengeance. There is more hate in Him than there ever was in me.”
“Get him hanged! We want to see the murderer swinging from the end of a rope!” That was Sellby again, about as close to the platform as he could get without setting foot on it. “I'm going to be a very happy man when I see your dead body hanging inside that gibbet, Mills. In fact, I might even do me a little dance around it to make it known just how proper it is that you'll be no more but food for the crows!” Even Crawfoote permitted himself a smile, but Mills was not without a retort.
“I hope you do, vagrant” said he. “Because the crows remember the faces of their enemy, and if they have partaken of me then they will know that my enemy is you and treat you as such. Prepare to meet with a miserable end, you dru
nkard.” Sellby laughed at this, as did many of those who were also close enough to hear the absurd claim Mills was making.
“And you say I run my mouth? Well, you have nerve! The crows want nothing of me, but you'll be putting food in their bellies for a while, I reckon. I hope the souls of them young 'uns is watching this from up above so they can finally rest in peace.”
“You have any more words to say?” Crawfoote asked Mills.
“Only this. All of you here today, my blood is on your hands. I can see it, even if you cannot. And it will stay with you for a long time to come. Your children, and their children, and their children's children – all will have my blood on their hands for all eternity unless you take your leave now. I am about to be hanged, so what reason might I have to lie? Remember, the crows will become your enemies. Look at the trees around you – they are lined with the things in countless numbers! And each one looks exactly the same as the last, so you will have not a clue which one of these birds is looking at you and remembering your face.” It was indeed true; it had become somewhat customary for large amounts of the birds to gather in this area as if they were clever enough to know their food would be more freely available here, and a number of spectators eyed them with more than just a little bit of fear in their eyes. Some of the more gentle souls in the crowd started to usher their children away and followed behind, but a great many stayed for they believed Mills was trying one last trick so that he might save his own worthless life.
“You've had your say, Mills, and now it is time. Executioner, bring the hood!” Waugh strode forward, bringing the black sack as Crawfoote asked and went to place it over Mills' head.
“I have no wish for the hood!” Mills told Crawfoote. “If I am truly to die, then I want every man, woman and child to see my face up until the very last, and also me theirs. You have your justice, now let me have mine.” Mills could see in Crawfoote's eyes that the man was shocked, but who was he to deny a dying man his final wish?
“Very good. Do your job, executioner – it is time.” Now they all cheered and clapped and laughed again as Mills was led back to the hanging rope and his head placed through the noose.
“Waugh, I have noticed that the rope seems a little short” said Mills, not sounding at all frightened, but instead amused. “Be sure not to do as your father did those years ago and remove my head from its shoulders, or your family will be going without food for some time.” Mills felt the warmth again as he saw the hatred in Waugh's eyes.
“I would have liked to have made this a lot more painful for you, Mills, but the noose knows only one way to kill a man. It makes me happy for Mister Brass and those innocent kiddies of his that I am the one who gets to finish you off.” He pulled the noose tight around Mills' neck and stood him proper over the trapdoor. A lone drummer began to send out a beat on his drum, which soon got slower, and then slower some more.
“I WILL HAVE MY DAY!” Mills said loud enough for Crawfoote and Waugh, and those spectators at the front of the crowd to hear, just before the drum gave its final sound and the trapdoor opened beneath Mills' feet. At a quarter to nine, Crawfoote announced to the crowd that Mills was dead. A loud cheer, and they started on their journey back to Ferryhill or from wherever they had come. By a little after nine, only Sellby remained.
“Never has anyone been more deserving of the noose than you, Mills” Sellby called out to the swinging corpse. “And I don't mean to go anywhere until I see your evil bones buried deep in the ground.”
The crows in the trees were becoming restless.
*
ONE
Ferryhill, County Durham, 2016
Jane Parkes could do nothing but look on vainly as Graham Hunter drew the final portion of the gallows onto the sheet of paper with way too much glee. A three-letter word, and she hadn't gotten a single one of them before the little stick figure was doomed to die.
“Hangman!” said Hunter, drawing a line across his throat with his hand. “That makes it...seven straight victories, haha! You should know better than to challenge a true master of the English language such as I to a war of words!”
“So what was it, then?”
“What was what?”
“The word, you idiot!” Parkes pointed to the three dashes on the piece of paper lying on the table. Hunter made an intentionally big drama out of filling in the blanks before turning the paper around so that Parkes might see the answer. She looked at it, and then her friend.
“Fly? You said it was an animal, you cheat!”
“A fly's an animal, isn't it? Well, unless it doesn't have any wings, and then it's a walk...”
“A fly is an insect, and I would have got it easy if you didn't lie about what it was.”
“And an insect is?” Parkes didn't reply. Her phone rang, saving her from a lengthy and pointless debate on the technicalities of the grammatical correctness of the children's game they'd been playing. She picked it up and answered it after a couple of rings.
“Hey, you up to anything interesting?”
“Not really. Graham's getting on my nerves...”
“So you're playing Hangman, then?” Michael Hodgson laughed. “You know what he's like, so why do you bother?”
“Because I'm determined to beat him one day, though I might have to end up using my fists for that.” Parkes heard Hodgson laughing again. “So what did you want?”
“Well it's a bit uncanny you should be playing Hangman when I call – I'm going to take it as a sign...”
“A sign of what?”
“You've lived in Ferryhill all your life, right? So tell me – have you ever heard the name 'Andrew Mills' before?”
“As in the one who murdered those three kids? The guy's a legend. Not necessarily a good one, but he's still a legend. What about him?”
“Well my History professor at uni gave us this assignment. We have to do some research on our local area, see what we can find. I was looking through loads of old stuff and the main connection to Spennymoor I got of any real interest was this Mills bloke. I've been reading up on him; murdered three kids at the farm where he was working, tried to make out it was a robbery gone wrong and said he was possessed by the Devil and that's what made him do it. Do you know what today's date is?” Parkes had a quick look at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall.
“January the twenty-fifth. What's that got to do with anything?”
“I thought you just told me you knew all about Andrew Mills! If that's true, then you should know that today is the anniversary of what happened up at Brass Farm...”
“Oh my god, you're right! And?”
“Well I also came across a load of stuff about how Mills supposedly haunts the area and so on and so forth, and there's some stories about how people have even tried to make his ghost appear. Some say if you walk around the old windmill anti-clockwise thirteen times on New Year's Eve then you can hear him screaming. Others claim to have seen his shadow at the top of it – apparently, one bloke was killed when he saw it and tried to get a picture. Got hit on the head by a rock falling from the top of it, so they say.”
“All urban legends, Michael. People also said the kids were killed in the old windmill, but it wasn't even built back then. So if you're telling me about these legends and today is the anniversary those kids were killed then I'm guessing you're planning on trying something yourself, right?”
“Not exactly. I do have an idea, but I don't plan on doing it all on my own. I need a few friends to help me out, so who better than you and the Hangman champion to do it? I've already been on the phone to Matt and he's right up for it. I told him to give Anna a call and get her roped in as well – no pun intended...”
“You want to try and bring a three-hundred year-old child murderer back to life? You really think that's such a good idea?”
“So you reckon it'll work, then? Cool!”
“Of course it won't work, they're all just stories made up by people with nothing better to do.”
“Then what'
s the harm in trying? You scared, like?”
“Don't be stupid, of course I'm not scared! I just think it's a waste of time, that's all.”
“Well Matty didn't; sees it as a perfect chance to get some extra credit for that film production course or whatever it is he's doing. I'm just trying to get extra points on the board for my History degree, so I want to get as much info on this as possible. I'm not expecting it to work, but if I say that I tried it might shift me up a grade or two.”
“You said Matt already agreed to do it?”
“Can't wait to get started. Think about it; we all stand to benefit from this for the stuff we're doing at uni. For me of course the benefit is obvious, but Matt wants to bring a camera and film the whole thing, Graham's doing English so might be able to get something from this Mills bloke if he speaks in some weird seventeenth-century voice and Anna could use her biology to work out how we managed to do it.”
“And what about me?”
“You always wanted to be an actress, right? I assume that's why you're studying drama, anyway. So here's your chance to get in front of the cameras for a real-life documentary. See, I've thought of everything.”
“I'm still not sure it's a good idea...”
“Well we usually put these things to the vote, right? Put your phone on speaker so I can ask Hunts while you're there to hear everything.” Parkes gave a sigh and pressed a button on her phone.
“Hodge-meister! What's going on, dude?”
“That depends on you, mate. You ever heard the story of Andrew Mills from Ferryhill?”
“Who?”
“I'll take that as a no, should I? There's a farm not far from Jane's house – High Hill House Farm, it's called. Used to be Brass Farm years and years ago. Andrew Mills was a servant who worked there, and today is the anniversary of when he murdered all three of the Brass kids. I've been reading up on all the stories and legends about it and want to try one of the rituals to see if we can get Mills' ghost to make an appearance. You up for it, or has your arse dropped out like Jane's?”