Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  Now Mills found something that seemed a little more familiar, made him realise he was indeed heading in the right direction. Bemused by the shape and colour of the road sign, he saw 'York' with the number fourteen alongside it. He quickly made the right assumption that the city was fourteen miles distant and that was to be his next destination. Mills recalled going to York once; the Minster was a sight to behold. And while he expected there would be more of these houses and markets in the city, it was being able to associate the name with a memory from his childhood that encouraged him to move forward.

  As he set off again to continue north, Mills tried to comprehend just how much the world as he knew it had changed. He recalled a memory of Ferryhill; mostly farmland, with a bustling centre of trade in its market place where all echelons of society came together. There was the vagrants and beggars to whom no one paid little if any regard; human beings who had been shunned and were regarded as outcasts, worthy of nothing. Labourers, such as Mills himself, were next on the social scale and though the visual perspective of the gap appeared to be a significant one, many were often aware that the step down to vagrancy could happen at any time, and without warning. So while the lowest social set may have felt they had nothing more to worry about, the hard-working maids, servants and the like were always mindful of the need to constantly better themselves in their day-to-day duties. It would be fair to say that this made them vulnerable and easy to exploit, a fact lots of their employers would gleefully use without mercy, even more so in the case of the younger, prettier girls in their service. Hours were long, the toil was hard and wages were poor – independence and dreams were substituted for the need to survive, which might often leave them wondering if the carefree lives of the vagrants were more desirable at times.

  With only noblemen and the monarchy outranking their social standing, the merchants and professionals probably had the best of life in Ferryhill in Mills' time. The trappings of wealth made them people to be feared; money would often buy them out of trouble if they were so inclined, and many saw them as untouchable. They would meet in the two tea houses in the town and read newspapers, discuss business and devise schemes so that they might make even more money. If Mills had been better versed in twenty-first century life, he might have commented on the parallels on how the rich became richer while the poor got only poorer.

  Hawkins' assertion that Mills would hide out during the day had proved to be untrue. Mills hadn't even considered the possibility of hiding himself away during daylight hours; his desire to find Jane had driven him on, with the apparent lack of need to stop for rest and refreshment something of an unforeseen bonus. Now he was approaching a farm, and while he didn't feel at all tired from travelling on foot, he did see something to significantly raise his spirits.

  “Well, aren't you a strong and handsome beast!” he remarked, looking the large, chestnut-coloured mare directly in the eyes. It didn't make a sound, instead seemingly entranced by the presence of Mills. He spent a few minutes lavishing attention on the horse, building up its trust. Confident that nobody else was close by, Mills climbed up onto the fence surrounding the field in which the horse was enclosed and climbed slowly onto its back. He allowed it a few moments to get used to his weight before guiding it towards a gate, which he opened and closed silently after passing through, before disappearing into the now darkening sky.

  *

  The investigation was giving Hawkins plenty to think about, even after arriving home. He'd never had another one anything like it and in a town like Ferryhill most probably never would again. The main issue now was a question he'd raised when interviewing Parkes a little earlier – was Mills dead, at least in the medical sense of the word? If he wasn't breathing, he had to be. Surely there was no way he could conceal his breath in the cold air, was there? He opened a bottle of perfectly-chilled beer and slumped into his favourite armchair. So, how did you catch a dead guy who was on the run? Hawkins shook his head, unable to answer his own question. Maybe it's better to look at the positives instead, he decided.

  Mills was on foot, so carnage on the roads was very unlikely. But what if he takes someone hostage? He knew nothing of the road network, so would probably stick to the fields; that would keep Parkes safer for longer and give them more chance of getting to him first. Fair point, but that means we have to cover a hell of a lot more ground. And what if he sees someone else who pisses him off in the middle of nowhere and offs them as well? And didn't the fucker have legs like a horse when he was running across the field? Jesus Christ! We could send up a helicopter; Mills is assumed to be heading back towards Ferryhill so the chopper could probably pick him out and Mills wouldn't even know he'd been spotted – yes! Wouldn't be much good at night though if he is dead and we can't pick him up on camera because hasn't got any body heat. Damn it! For every positive, Hawkins was able to find a reasonable opposite to bring it back to pretty much useless. He conceded that it might just eventually come down to blind luck for Mills to finally be captured. But after he was, what then? How could you send him to jail for life when he didn't even have one in the first place? Hawkins had images of the end of the world; an apocalyptic place, complete ruin and deserted landscapes, with nothing left but Mills and the cockroaches to keep him company. It was impossible to say beyond all doubt that this couldn't happen. Now his phone began to ring, shattering what little concentration he had.

  “Hawkins” he snapped at the unknown caller.

  “Er, sorry to bother you. PC Dan Carter here, North Yorkshire police – I was told you're on the lookout for some guy called Andrew Mills. Is that right? Sorry if I caught you at a bad time, Detective Hawkins...”

  “No, it's fine. This Mills character is driving me round the twist is all. You haven't picked him up, have you?” Hawkins added to the end hopefully, knowing he could never be so lucky.

  “Sorry, no, but I do have some information my boss told me to pass onto you because he felt it might be pertinent to your investigation. First, we received a call from the owner of Glade Farm – that's in Escrick, a few miles south of York. He told us one of his horses has been stolen.”

  “With all due respect, constable – what the fuck has that got to do with finding a serial killer?”

  “If you'll just let me finish, sir. The call came in about five pm, and we've established the horse was taken no longer than two hours preceding the call. At six fifteen, a number of strange calls came in regarding some weird incidents that had taken place in the city, namely in the area of York Minster.”

  “Define 'strange' and 'weird'...”

  “Okay. Now I haven't personally spoken with any of the people involved so can't vouch for their state of mind, but I was told to just pass on the information and see what you make of it. First caller was a woman; said she was stuck behind 'some idiot on a horse without a care in the bloody world' on Fishergate, and had been for at least a mile or so. It's a pretty busy area for traffic so we said we'd try and get someone to check it out.”

  “And did anyone check it out?”

  “We're stretched to the max because we're short on manpower – she wasn't even warned about using her phone while driving because we've got bigger things to deal with. As far as we were concerned it was just a trivial problem that would go away and be forgotten about.”

  “And I'm guessing it didn't?”

  “Apparently not. Twenty-two minutes later, at six thirty-seven, a man calls in to tell us about a guy stood by a horse outside York Minster. He was described as about five feet seven to five feet ten inches tall, with black hair and, I quote 'wearing clothes from hundreds of years ago'. The caller approached the man, figuring he was part of some re-enactment or a performer, and asked him about the role he was playing. Caller says he was met with a blank stare before getting a mouthful of gibberish.”

  “Anybody been able to establish if it was Mills?”

  “No, but it was suggested this must have been the guy who was causing the tailback on Fishergate so we asked local
patrols to keep an eye out and have a word if they spotted him, just to find out what was going on. There was nothing much at this point to suggest it would be anything serious, you know? But a few minutes later and the phones were ringing off the hook, every caller reporting something stranger than the last. We're trying to break down the details but I can give you a brief outline now if you like.”

  “Please do” said Hawkins, grabbing a pen and pad. He wasn't sure how much of a development this would be but at the moment any information at all was better than none. “Okay, shoot.”

  “The general consensus puts the guy at around five foot eight...black hair, fairly stocky build, wearing boots, a scruffy long-sleeved shirt and long socks or stockings. Quiet for the most part but got agitated when people began to stare and question him regarding his presence at the Minster. Started speaking in what a few people reckon to be 'Old English' – 'ye', 'thee', 'thy'...you get the idea. Eyes were said to be very dark in colour; very dark brown or possibly even black, according to a couple of witnesses. Someone reckoned that when he got angry they even glowed red a couple of times, but that could have just been a reflection from the street lights or something. But the clincher was when he was supposed to have said...hang on a second...'I take my leave of this township to go and find my darling Jane, so we might marry. Carpe Diem! Carpe Diem!' Maybe that makes more sense to you than me, but that's all I have up to now.” Hawkins tried not to get too optimistic but felt certain he'd finally caught a break. Those last two words meant it surely couldn't be anyone other than Mills. The net was slowly closing.

  “So he wasn't apprehended at the scene or in the vicinity?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no...”

  “And which direction did he head off in?”

  “All witnesses have him as heading north, but there's been no other sightings or at least any reported sightings since then. He took off at around ten past seven, so just a little over an hour ago. We've put out an APB to try and find this individual so we can talk to him but can't do much more at the minute.”

  “Your force has a helicopter, right?”

  “We do, but I'm not sure if we have the crew to fly it at the minute – budget cuts...”

  “Well do me a favour, PC Carter; talk to whoever controls the purse strings and tell them we need eyes in the air to catch a serial killer they've just let walk away – that should persuade them. And if they need any further persuasion, tell them to call me on this number, okay? Even riding a horse he can't be more than ten miles or so away so it's not like your whole year's budget is going to disappear in one night, and you guys get all the glory if he's picked up...nothing like a bit of good publicity, right? Get back to me and tell me how it goes, won't you?” Hawkins ended the call, a lot more hopeful than he was an hour ago.

  *

  NINE

  Ferryhill, County Durham, 1683

  This night was the last of the new moon before moving into its first quarter cycle. Mills hadn't slept much, for his mind was alive with visions of vengeance against those he believed to have wronged him somehow. Many would suffer by his hand, for once he had found out the truth there was no other way. Jane Brass would never be his; didn't want to be. She was so blinded by love for the blacksmith's apprentice it was impossible for her to see what an opportunity had presented itself in the form of he, Andrew Mills. Shocking! Maybe he should have known that a young lady who carried herself so highly might not care to peer down so far as a lowly servant, and he might have understood better if she were to profess undying love for William Cutter or another man of similar standing, but an apprentice? Well, that just made Mills' blood boil with fury. Did Jane really believe he would enjoy pandering to the needs of she and Bancks? Preposterous! So if I cannot make her mine, Mills had said to himself, then I will make her dead.

  But one other had to be dealt with first, and that was Jane's brother, John. Mills had grown to loathe him like no other man alive, finding Master Brass to be a horrid, pathetic excuse of a man who took joy from the misery of others. And far from putting a stop to the mischievous way of his wretched boy, Mister Brass seemed only to encourage him further. Well, look what fate you have brought upon your family, John Brass! After tonight, the man would surely be taught a lesson in respect and become a little more humble around those who weren't so fortunate as he.

  It was probably about four in the morning now, and Mills had barely slept a wink, yet he did not feel weary from his lack of rest. Instead, he opened the sash window of his living quarters and rested his elbows on the sill, peering out into the pitch black and regarding the star-laden sky with some wonder. A thick blanket of snow covered Brass Farm and beyond, with the wind blowing in bitter gusts across the open land, but Mills seemed not to feel the bite of the cold on his cheeks. Some way distant, he could hear the horses and oxen stirring and then settle again. For a fleeting second, it made Mills wish for the unencumbered life of one of these animals, with little else to worry about than their next feed. Should he slaughter the animals too? No, absolutely not. They may belong to the man on whom he wished to inflict much pain and sorrow, but that was hardly their fault. The demise of his precious family should suffice, Mills reckoned, an evil grin making itself known on his face.

  The bad thoughts disappeared from Mills' head when he thought of Margaret Brass. How might she act upon learning of the death of her beloved children? Mills pondered this awhile. Lady Brass was not such a bad sort; she treated her staff more like an equal than their superior, and many had warmed to her kindly ways. They would hate to see her consumed by grief, as would he, but she always stood by her husband's side and did not question his actions. Be that through fear or even a secret joy, it was reason enough for her to learn humility. After all, she was to instil the value of love and respect into her offspring from the moment they were born, was she not? The oldest was almost two decades now, and the youngest a half of that – was that not enough time to teach them the error of their ways? This would be a lesson from which she would surely learn. Now Mills began to take some heart again from what he had planned.

  *

  There had been no thought of sleep, and yet Mills must have done so because he had just opened his eyes with a start. He couldn't be sure how long he had slept – minutes or even hours – but the house was still quiet and the sky only a little lighter than before. His room was full of the cold air he had allowed in through the open window, and this time he did feel its discomfort as he rose from his bed so he dressed quickly. The thin curtain that covered his window was pushed to one side; snow was falling again, though not in any great amount. He wondered why so many would voice their discontent whenever the snow came; it was of no man's doing that it should arrive and could not simply be told to go away, so wasn't to argue against it merely a waste of one's time? Did they not have greatcoats to keep them warm, or implements to keep their doors and streets clear for moving around? It was easier for them to complain than to act, Mills reckoned. They should just keep their mouths closed and accept that it will happen.

  It came as no surprise to Mills that his task for the day had been to clear snow from the courtyard and access roadway to the farm, but this did not bother him; Mister Brass had provided ample warm clothing and the maid, Priscilla Farrowe, was a kindly soul who would venture out from time to time and supply him with a hot drink and enquire as to his well-being. It was on the third occasion she had done this and returned back to the house that Mills realised it was she whom he pitied most, for there was a fair chance she might be made to pay for his perceived selfishness and arrogance with her job. Still, it was not reason enough to alter what plans he had been making for that evening.

  The day was a strange one, and Mills had often wanted to laugh as he noted the behaviours of each member of the Brass family with whom he came into contact. As Mister Brass came out to deliver instructions or check on Mills' progress, did he really believe it was still not known by his servant that his employment here would be ended in just over
one week? Well if he does then maybe he should try his hand at performing in a theatre, for he does a fine job at pretending I am ignorant, Mills reckoned.

  Master Brass had passed him by on his horse, but instead of making some remark as often he would, there was nothing to be offered but a glare of simmering hatred.

  “Good morning, Master Brass! Might I ask where you be headed?”

  No words were spoken in reply, just the meeting of eyes.

  “By the looks of the sky we are due more snow, I fear...”

  Still there was nothing, but the horse shook its head in seeming agreement.

  “Be sure to ride safely, I would not wish for you to fall and break a limb – as might happen when falling from the top of a house, for instance” Mills added after a slight pause. Not a word was uttered, but Master Brass had narrowed his eyes and his gaze became more intense before finally he rode off at speed. Mills enjoyed seeing his reaction, and was certain Brass would be plotting his revenge this very second. A shame he will not get the chance to carry out his intended actions, thought Mills as he started again at his task more vigorously.