Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  *

  Sanders opened her eyes, startled and confused. It was getting light, and a glance around let her know that she wasn't far removed from where she had been talking to the vagrant the night before. At first, she couldn't remember his name, but then it came. Sellby, that was it. He wasn't there.

  “Sellby?” She waited after calling out his name, but without reply. A second time, and still nothing. Sanders got up and walked to the edge of the riverbank. At a guess, she thought it might not yet be six o' clock. Another hour maybe and it would be much busier than now. She looked out across the flowing water, and with the peace it brought came a feeling of desperation and a life without hope.

  “Even a vagrant would walk away from me in the middle of the night and leave me on my own” she whispered, her voice devoid of feeling. “If this is the life that has been laid out for me, then I no longer wish to dine at its table. May God forgive me for what I am about to do.” Sanders stepped forward off the bank and into the water. It was bitter cold and took her breath away. Her long dress felt heavy on her shoulders as it began to soak up water. Still, she waded forward. Sanders gave out the briefest of screams when her foot slipped on a rock, giving her cause to fall backwards and disappear beneath the river surface. She reappeared thirty feet away, carried towards the sea by its flow, before vanishing from sight until her lifeless body was washed up onto the riverbank half a day later and some miles away.

  *

  A tremendous crash sounded in one of the rooms apart to where Arthur Mills was sleeping. He lifted his head off the pillow and was out of bed in an instant, making for the door with a firm grip on a stout metal pipe.

  “Ye Gods, what is with the racket? I thought it was robbers, not my very own son!”

  “Father, I am sorry...” The two men righted the table that Andrew had flipped over in a moment of rage. He was calmer now, but still angry.

  “You wish to tell me what this was about?”

  “I lost count. Why, it angers me so when that should happen!” He picked up a wooden bowl and threw it at the wall. Arthur Mills went to retrieve it. The bowl was undamaged, and he placed it back on the table.

  “You lost count” he said slowly. “Maybe you should be more angry that you find it necessary to count your footfalls around the house each morning. Such a strange habit, if you ask me.”

  “I too find it a great annoyance, but I feel compelled to do this each and every day” said the younger man. “I have no clue why, but something in here tells me it is what I have to do.” he pointed to his head, the left side. “It is like having to count my coins three times when I buy something at the market, or following the precise same path to get there. Why, I have even stepped inside a made trail of boot prints on occasion for fear of treading on another part of the path! I know it is not a necessity, yet I still feel that something might go terribly wrong should I not do these things. Maybe people are right to call me an imbecile.”

  “No one has ever said you were an imbecile, lad...”

  “Lies! I hear the whispers. I see the fingers pointing when no one thinks I will notice, or have heard the laughing as I pass them by. They say I belong in a madhouse. Maybe it's true.”

  “If that were true, do you suppose a man like John Brass would be asking for you to work on his farm?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Then stop listening to whatever tales you claim to have heard folk passing around and show them that they are wrong! Don't let Mister Brass see that he has made a mistake in picking you to work on his farm! Hold your head high, lad! Now get moving, for it would not be a good thing to show up late on your very first day now, would it?” Andrew Mills gathered up his few belongings, his father opening the door out into the street. This was something of a sad time for them both.

  “I have no clue when I might get to see you next, but will try to send you a little money whenever I can.”

  “Nonsense, lad! I would not take a single farthing from you. Now is the time for you to think of what lies ahead. There will be more than just work, I would reckon, for it is sure you will take a wife sooner rather than later and have children of your own to provide for. Now go forth without fear and act in such a way that might make me proud. Hurry along, time is running short!” Andrew Mills stepped over the threshold and out into the street for what might be the last time from the only home he had ever known, making for the market place at a good speed and not a single look back over his shoulder.

  *

  The carriage rolled into view just a moment after Mills had arrived. He felt lucky that he was not out of breath, for he didn't wish Mister Brass to believe that he could tire so easily.

  “You Andrew Mills?” The coachman called out.

  “That I am, sir. Ready to get to Brass Farm and begin whatever work the master wishes of me.”

  “Then pass me up your belongings and get in the coach, lad.” Mills did as he was asked. There was no surprise to find the carriage was empty, for he wouldn't have expected the master of the house to overlook the delivery of a servant boy into his service. But still he couldn't stop feeling a little disappointment that he had been deemed unworthy of company for the short journey to Brass Farm. This carriage was little likely to be one of Mister Brass' most elegant, but it provided comfort enough.

  The ride to Brass Farm was a short one, the pace of the horses little more than a canter. Mills spent his time looking out of the open-sided carriage, counting the trees along the side of the path, of which there was many. Finally, the coachman commanded the horses to come to rest in a large courtyard, not far from the stables. As Mills disembarked, he counted four workers busying themselves with the day's work given them by Mister Brass. One of the men, who looked not much older than he himself, held up a hand in greeting. Mills replied in kind and the man returned to his labour.

  “Mister Brass will be out in a minute. Wait here.” The coachman delivered this instruction and then left.

  Mills looked up at the house with open-mouthed astonishment. He had never seen a home of such a size, at least not from so close a distance. He felt in awe of its presence, even somewhat afraid to step through the door, but this was to be his home and for that he could not have been more thankful. A fleeting movement at one of the upper windows caught his attention. He looked up but saw only fine drapes that were already open. A longer glance showed someone to be hiding behind one of the drapes, looking out onto the courtyard. Looking at him, quite probably. Mills continued to gaze at the window. He held up a hand. A young girl, maybe a little older than he, did likewise.

  “Hello. My name is Andrew Mills” he said in greeting. “And who might you be, Miss?” The sash window opened, and the most beautiful woman Mills had ever seen leaned out to speak.

  “Hello, Andrew Mills” she said, her voice gentle and melodic. “You are here to work for my father?”

  “I am. Your name, if I might ask?”

  “I am Jane Brass, the eldest child of three. I have a brother and also a sister. You will no doubt see them soon enough, I suppose. Have you spoken to my father yet, Andrew Mills?”

  “Only for a short time yesterday, when he hired me. I am waiting here for him to come out and welcome me.” Mills had started to become annoyed at being left to stand for such an amount of time, but the beguiling young female with whom he was now conversing had put an end to his irritation. There was movement behind the front door to the house. It seemed Mister Brass was now ready to make himself known.

  “Your father is coming” he called out to Jane. “Thank you for your time in speaking to me, Jane Brass – you have made me feel most welcome. Maybe we will talk again soon, I hope?”

  “I'm sure we will.” And with those words came the most resplendent smile, certainly worthy of more than a single skipped heartbeat. The window was closed and Mills turned his attention to the entrance of the home, from which John Brass was now striding with purpose, offering an outstretched hand and words of apology for his delayed arrival.r />
  But with the image of Jane Brass still forefront in his mind, Mills paid scant regard to what his new employer was saying.

  *

  FOUR

  Ferryhill, County Durham, 2016

  The door to the police station on Church Lane crashed open a little after ten thirty. It had been quiet up until this point, so the desk sergeant regarded the young male and female with a wary eye. They were obviously out of breath from exertion for whatever reason, but the look on their faces also gave away another emotion, and he could have sworn it was fear.

  “Everything all right?” Sergeant Ron Gibbs asked as the couple finally approached the screen behind which he was standing. Neither seemed eager to offer up any details, but finally the girl spoke.

  “Our friend...just been killed...it was Mills. Don't know about the...others...might have got them, I don't know. In the field, just before the...roundabout. At the stob...” The girl started to hyperventilate as Gibbs looked on, trying to make sense of what he'd just been told.

  “This is some kind of joke, right? You and a few of your mates go for a drink and...”

  “No joke, I swear” said Harper, who'd had the time to compose himself. “There was five of us. We wanted to try out some...ritual. But that wasn't my idea” he added hastily to the end. “You've heard of Andrew Mills, right?” Gibbs looked at Harper with a blank expression.

  “Who's he?”

  “You don't know about the legend of Andrew Mills? Are you taking the piss or something?”

  “Watch your tongue, lad. I'm not from the area, haven't long moved here. So this Andrew Mills, he a local criminal or something?”

  “There's no time for a history lesson! Our friends are in trouble and you have to get out there like right now before he kills anyone else!”

  “Look, mate; I can see you're riled up about something, but nobody is going out to look for anybody until I get the full story from you about who or what we're dealing with. So I suggest you sit down over there and get your heads together to come up with a story worth hearing while I go and find somebody who might want to talk to you about it.” Harper and Ford had little chance but to comply, for Gibbs had disappeared and neither of them wanted to risk being arrested.

  “I can't believe Michael's dead” Ford said quietly, staring straight ahead into space. “Graham might be as well – we should have gone back and checked...”

  “And got ourselves killed as well? Not a good idea” Harper told her. “From what I saw, Hunts just took a whack to the head. He'll probably wake up with a migraine in a few hours and that's it. He's built like a rhino, it'll take a lot to put him down and keep him there.” Ford nodded, but didn't look to be in complete agreement with Harper's assertion.

  “Hope Jane's okay. Wonder if she managed to get away?” He mused, the pair now sitting quietly as they waited to summon help for their friends.

  *

  “Believe me, getting married to you is the last thing I would ever do.” Mills laughed when Parkes said this, more so when he looked across and saw the scowl on her face.

  “Ah, my beautiful Jane! You always did have something of a temper within you, as I remember. Often I would hear you quarrelling with your parents regarding your relationship with William Cutter. It would seem he was not your first choice for a husband, or am I mistaken?” A question that Parkes found impossible to answer. She realised her only option was to weave what she hoped would be a believable tale until help arrived. Well, I've always wanted to be an actress...

  “You were listening to my private conversations? Well not that it's any of your business, but I loved William very much and would have been happy to be his wife.” Mills looked hurt by this. Parkes didn't know whether that was a good thing or bad.

  “So why did you talk so fondly of young George Bancks, and so often?” That was a name she'd never heard before. Parkes had to think quickly.

  “Don't be ridiculous! I haven't even heard of anyone with that name, so now I think you are just making up stories. Who is this George you're talking about?”

  “Why the apprentice to Ridgway the blacksmith, of course! Do not pretend not to know of who I speak. You have mentioned his name plenty of times for me to know it is not my imagination playing tricks.” At least now she had more information to work with. So how might a blacksmith be connected to a farm?

  “He did a lot of good work for my father” she said. “Helped to make more secure gates into the farm, and also very strong shoes for the horses.” Parkes hoped that would be enough to placate Mills. He seemed unsure, but at the same time reluctant to doubt her word. His infatuation with Jane Brass might well come to the fore at a later time if she needed to save her life, Parkes thought.

  “Bancks was a decent man” was all Mills said as they reached the side of the field and the road that led back into Ferryhill.

  *

  As they stopped to rest for a few minutes in the shadows of the bushes that formed a border with the road, Parkes began to contemplate a major part of the situation she now found herself in and wondered why it hadn't occurred to her earlier. More often than to be blamed on a slip of the tongue, Mills would refer to life as he knew it back in the seventeenth century; this despite being fully aware over three hundred years had gone by since the life he lived and remembered. It was strange to hear him speak so fluently of the people he associated with from that time when he must have known that they were long since gone. She wondered what kind of effect all of this must be having on his mind, and decided that it must be more than a little stressful. There was no kind of denial as to where and when he was, just the fact that he obviously found it easier to keep on living his old life. It probably helped that the first people he saw after appearing at the stob had characteristics with which he could readily identify, but Parkes hoped that the limbo Mills currently found himself trapped in would work to her advantage.

  “We must go” Mills said, getting to his feet and waiting for Parkes to do the same. He was still holding onto his two axes, so she reasoned it was better to do what he asked, at least for now.

  “You won't get far walking down the road with two axes before someone wants to know why and gets suspicious” Parkes observed somewhat idly. Mills looked down at the cutting implements in his hands, seemingly puzzled.

  “And why would that be? You no longer have tools such as these now?”

  “Of course we do, just that people don't carry them openly on the street. Especially when they've got blood on them...”

  “Ah, a fair point, Miss Jane.” He looked around, unsure of what to do next. “And how would you suggest we proceed? I do not intend to leave them out in this field, for robbers will take them as soon as they see them unguarded! But it is difficult to see how we can progress any further unless they are left behind, for the fireballs are greater in this part of the town.”

  “They're street lights, not fireballs.”

  “As you wish! How silly it is of me to forget that I do not know the names of all these strange contraptions that I see! Maybe someone will make you come back to life three hundred years from this day, and will expect you to know their strange new world just as well as they!” He had a valid point, and it probably wasn't a good idea to agitate Mills any more than he was already, Parkes figured.

  “I'm sorry. It's just because I know all of this stuff so well I automatically expect others will, too. I didn't mean anything by it.”

  “Well maybe you should think a little longer before you speak, yes?”

  “This isn't easy for me either, you know!”

  “Walking and talking as one is difficult for you?” Parkes darted her head round to look at Mills. Not a trace of sarcasm on his features. Or maybe he's just really good at deadpan humour, she thought.

  “Not that, you idiot. Trying to keep thinking there's going to be loads of stuff you don't know.” Mills bristled, and Parkes knew why. She cringed, ready for an outburst.

  “I am not an idiot! How dare you judge me w
hen we have become acquainted merely hours ago! Have I passed judgement on you? I think not!” There it was again, the contradiction. If he was already noted by his seventeenth-century peers as being somewhat unstable, his current predicament might well be enough to push him over the edge. Parkes suddenly began to feel extremely uneasy in Mills' company; she knew it was imperative to get away, and quickly. Her ankle was still sore but if it came to running then that would have to be forgotten about. The road they walked on was quiet. All Parkes needed to do was wait for an opportunity to show itself and then take it.

  *

  “Okay, let's go over this again.” Matt Harper pressed his palms against his temples, almost certain that his brain was going to burst. He took a few long, deep breaths.

  “What the fu...what's not to understand?” he asked the detective who was listening to the incredulous story and trying to take down a few relevant notes. “Look. We have a friend who's been doing research into the legend of Andrew Mills, right? You know who Andrew Mills is?”

  “The servant lad who murdered three kids at the farm a few hundred years back...”

  “Thank you! So this friend of ours, whose name is – was – Michael Hodgson, asked us if we would take part in a ritual to see if we could make his ghost appear or something. We all figured it would be a waste of time and we'd end up in the pub ten minutes later but it actually worked. We couldn't believe it.”

  “And what did this 'ritual' entail? If you've killed somebody's cat to make this happen then I'll have to press animal cruelty charges...”