Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “Didn't you just tell me Andrew Mills was, in every possible sense of the word, dead?” And when Thomas said that, Hawkins stopped chuckling immediately and looked Thomas in the eye, not quite sure how to respond. “So doesn't that effectively mean all bets are off?” Thomas finished. “I'm going to get myself a coffee – you want one?”

  Hawkins just nodded a couple of times without saying anything. He thought about what Thomas had just said; so obvious that it was hidden in plain sight. In effect, he was dealing with a non-entity; someone who couldn't possibly be alive, but was; a 'thing' masquerading as a man – a killer – who, to the letter of the law, no longer existed as his crimes were dealt with long ago by way of execution. And if Mills had any idea of just how much more of a free man that would actually make him, it could quite easily tip him over the edge into full-blown psychosis. He was seemingly untouchable, and also extremely unstable. Now Hawkins got a grasp of just how dangerous the situation could be, and knew that Mills had to be found at all costs.

  *

  Despite the harsh weather, Kirk Merrington Church was almost full to capacity from the attendants of Michael Hodgson's funeral. He was obviously a very popular man, Hawkins mused silently as he surveyed the crowd. There was a lot of students present; even though everyone was smartly dressed for the occasion, the detective had a keen eye and was easily able to pick them out. He knew they were often thought of as lazy, work-shy piss-heads, but these guys were doing their friend proud. Many had got up to speak briefly about Hodgson, recall some anecdote that had people moving between laughter and tears, but it was the words of Jane Parkes which really got his attention.

  Rather than just the usual 'a great friend who will be sorely missed' speech, she spoke passionately about not only Hodgson's zest for life, but also his love for 'opening doors into the past', as she'd put it. There was no sign of malice as she described how he had done endless research to find the ritual that he hoped so much would bring Andrew Mills back to life. The thing is, Parkes had said, Hodgson had no mind for the consequences of their actions; he just wanted to make his own name for the history books. And how he had done it! After all, how many people could say they managed to bring back to life someone who had been dead for over three centuries? And that's how she urged people to remember him; not as someone who had made the most horrendous of blunders, but a pioneer who had managed to bring history back to life.

  Local newspapers rarely covered the funerals of any of its town's citizens, but Michael Hodgson had gotten Ferryhill buzzing for some reason and this local newspaper editor wanted to know why. Given the size of the turnout, it wasn't hard to get one of his reporters in undercover. Rachel Lomas wasn't expecting to hear anything special, but as each student had taken their turn and said a little bit more, she became more and more fascinated by who would seem to have been an extraordinary young man. And after Parkes had spoke, she wasted no time in dashing outside and getting on the phone to her boss. The dubious nature of the whole investigation had Hawkins and his superiors wanting to keep things under wraps as much as possible. That silence was about to be shattered in a way nobody could have predicted. Before leaving the churchyard, Lomas logged into her Twitter account; this was something the world had to know about.

  'Just been to the funeral of a man who was slaughtered by a three hundred y.o. murderer! And I'm the one who gets to cover the story! Keep it here for more details folks! #mybigbreak #nomoreyolo'

  “Nice service” Hawkins commented to Parkes, who had wandered off from Hodgson's graveside to be alone with her thoughts for a while. She was looking at the gravestones every now and again, reading the inscriptions from markers both old and new. “He had a lot of good friends. I'm glad he got a good send-off.”

  “He would have loved it” Parkes said wistfully. “Wouldn't have wanted us all sitting there sobbing or anything. Here, look at this.” She'd stopped in front of what would have been at one time a large, ornate headstone over a fair-sized burial plot. “This is where the three Brass children are buried.” Hawkins was shocked, and had a feeling they would be turning in their graves if they knew that Andrew Mills was alive and killing again. “The whole stone is weather-beaten, but see where it looks like someone has deliberately scratched it there?” Parkes pointed to an area that did indeed appear to be damaged intentionally. Hawkins nodded and waited for her to go on. “Well the story goes that Andrew Mills' father did that. The inscription told how the children were murdered and their murderer subsequently executed. Arthur Mills didn't want his son to be remembered in such a way, you could say. Well Michael wrote a twenty-page essay on how Mister Mills couldn't possibly have done it, giving the minutest of details as to why. That's how dedicated he was to his work.”

  “Did he ever tell you what he expected to happen with this ritual that you all did?” Parkes gave Hawkins a strange look, almost to say that that was something of a ridiculous question, then thought about it a bit more and realised it was actually a quite valid one.

  “To be honest, I think he was more surprised than any of us that it worked. There's always going to be rumours and stories surrounding such a massive event – urban legends, you know? So while there was always an expectation that nothing would happen, he felt that was all the more reason to try because he had nothing to lose, right? And while things certainly haven't gone how any of us would have hoped or expected, I know for a fact he would have taken a lot of satisfaction from proving a lot of people wrong. At least he died doing something he loved. So, you any closer to finding Mills, then?” Hawkins just shook his head and looked frustrated.

  “Do you think he'll come back to Ferryhill, Detective?”

  “At the moment, that's exactly what I'm counting on. People always tend to think of home as where they feel safe. Criminals will often go back to their old stomping ground because their surroundings put them at ease, make them feel more secure. I can't imagine Mills wanting to go anywhere else, truth be told. You have a good right to feel a bit apprehensive, if that's what you're getting at.”

  “It's just the opposite – I'm probably the one person in the world that he would never harm, and we can probably use that to our advantage. Let me know if I can help, won't you?” Hawkins watched in silence as Parkes walked away to rejoin her friends. Although he was loath to admit he might need outside help, Hawkins had to admit that Jane Parkes might also be their best bet at bringing down Andrew Mills.

  *

  ELEVEN

  County Durham, north-east England, 1683

  With the pointed edge of a sharpened rock, Andrew Mills scratched a small line into the stone wall of his cell. Two hundred and two – that was how many marks had been etched onto the large slab of rock directly below the opening. Two hundred and two days since he had been brought into Saddler Street gaol for the murders of the three Brass children, the offspring of his employer, Mister John Brass. And when Mills sat on the floor beneath the opening, as was his favourite spot in this room containing nothing of note save a wooden bed and a pot in the corner to piss in, he remarked silently that his end of days was so very unlikely for a man in his position. Why had he been locked away in this horrid place for so long when the custom was to hang a guilty man the next day but one after he was found to be so? In his time here, he had become acquainted with Tom Laxe – it was he who ran the gaol – and Laxe had often told him stories.

  A fierce pounding on the heavy oak door came one morning just after seven, when Mills had been here not quite a hundred days. It was Laxe, of course, so he couldn't berate the man for pulling him from his slumber without consequence. Instead, he called out to let the gaoler know that he was awake. Laxe had come in then and right away Mills saw something about the man he had never witnessed before. He was smiling, and it was a very big smile at that.

  “Ah, Mister Laxe! You appear to be in good humour this morning, but I notice that once again you are not here to serve me breakfast in bed. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

/>   “I just heard something that made me laugh long and loud, I have.” And then Laxe went quiet, but still he had the smile.

  “And are you going to tell me what it was that pleased you so much?”

  “What do you think it might be, Mills? Go on, take a guess...” Mills breathed out a heavy sigh.

  “My being here is nothing but an error and you are to let me go this instant?” And so Laxe laughed again, long and loud.

  “Ha! No, that wouldn't be it, but a fine guess anyway! Have another go, won't you?” Mills peered at Laxe, who had perched himself on the edge of the bed, and tilted his head back a little.

  “Why do I get the feeling this kind of thing is of great amusement to you, Laxe? Do you see us prisoners as some kind of sport, perhaps?” The gaoler thought about this for a time.

  “Well there is that, I suppose. I don't get out of here much, you know – got to find something to make me a bit happy. Tell you what; have one more guess and if you get it right, I'll bring you a jug of water and a freshly-baked loaf of bread and it won't cost you even a farthing. What do you say?”

  “You certainly know how to make a man do your bidding, don't you Laxe?”

  “That I do. So, your guess?”

  “Is Robert Cutter back in amongst the debtors? Oh, how I would like for that to be true!”

  “Nah, he's never been back since that time the soldiers brought yous in here together. Stayed just under a week, he did. Finally couldn't take it any more and got his good lady wife to sell the family silver so he could pay off his debt. Well for Mrs Cutter, that was the last straw; she packed her suitcase and left him the very next day after he got out. Took the kids with her as well, the boy and that young lass from the market who went to live there – Dothwat, that's her name. Told her husband he had to sell the house and she wanted half the money that it brought. Well Mister Cutter wasn't too happy as I bet you can imagine, but I don't see he has much choice. Maybe Ridgway will give him a job, eh?” And so Laxe was laughing again.

  “Well, Cutter really does have nothing to be thankful for – that brings joy to my heart! But if I am not right, then what is it you came here to tell me?”

  “Good you reminded me!” said Laxe, holding up a finger. “I nearly got another prisoner in here last night, and it was none other than John Brass himself, would you believe!” Mills opened his eyes wide, stared at Laxe to see if he might be lying, but it would seem the gaoler could be telling the truth.

  “Surely you jest, Laxe? What could possibly land a man like John Brass in such a hellish place as this?”

  “Bribery, Andrew Mills – that's what nearly got the man here. And when I tell you everything, I reckon you won't like it one bit.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Well, as you know, any man – or woman – who is said to be guilty of murder is supposed to be hanged the next day but one after the verdict is heard, right?”

  “This is true...”

  “And you been a guest of mine for a lot longer than that, have you not?”

  “A day short of fourteen weeks, if my memory serves me...”

  “So Mister Brass has been getting himself all worked up wondering why you ain't dead yet. The way he sees it, you should have been hanging at the end of a rope before January was out, yet here we are in the spring with the snow and the cold long gone and you still sat in here, eating, breathing and sleeping. Mister Brass don't see that as fair, and if it was I in his place then I might have said he had a fair argument.

  “Anyway, Brass is of the thinking that you might end up on a ship to Van Dieman's Land or, even worse, to be set loose 'cos the coroner believed your story about it being the work of the Devil and that you didn't know your own mind. So he talks to Crawfoote and says 'you get that murderer's head in a noose!' and Crawfoote says 'that has yet to be decided, my dear fellow, but you shall know the minute it will happen'. Well, Brass doesn't like that one bit so he offers Crawfoote some coins to get the job done – fifteen shillings, I think it was. And Crawfoote smiles but says no and asks for Brass to go back home.

  “Well you worked for the man so would probably know he doesn't take no for an answer, or not easy, like. So he offers the man twenty shillings, and then five pounds, then ten. And just as Brass says twenty pounds, Crawfoote says to him 'Mister Brass, I am a man of means and I do not want nor need your money. I see you like justice to be done, so if you open your mouth one more time on this matter then I will have you thrown in prison for trying to buy my ruling on what should be done.' And when he thinks Crawfoote is making the remark as a bluff and tries to argue that you should have your neck broke, the coroner calls in a couple of soldiers and they march him down here to the jail! Can you believe that, 'cos I couldn't!”

  “And so John Brass was put into a cell, then?”

  “Nah” said Laxe, shaking his head with some sadness in his eyes. “He made Brass swear that he would never mention you again and when he did Crawfoote told the soldiers to let him go. Bit of a shame, really; I like to see some of them high and mighty men have a taste of the life we lead from time to time. That's why I chucked Cutter in with the murderers instead of the debtors.” And then he laughed out loud again.

  “You mean you lied when you said the debtor's cells were full?”

  “Like I said, Mills, this is my jail and I run it how I like. I knew he'd be out of here sharpish if he was locked up with real rogues and villains, see?”

  “I applaud your actions, sir – a wonderful story indeed!” And Mills did indeed applaud the gaoler, who looked very pleased with himself. In fact, Laxe was so happy he even brought Mills a jug of water and freshly-baked loaf a short while later without wanting even a farthing for it.

  *

  The day was finally here. Even Mills had become sure in his own mind the longer time that passed with him still alive, the more the chance he would be transported rather than hanged. He did not like to think of himself as a criminal, but instead maybe as much of a victim as Jane, John or Elizabeth Brass. People were cruel to him every single day. They would say he should be in a madhouse just because he talked with himself from time to time, or the way he counted his coins, or ate his food. They found a fault with everything that he would do, say it wasn't normal of a man to do such things. And it was widely decided he must be of low intellect; an imbecile, or retarded in some way they knew nothing about. And while Mills knew his head did not work like every other man's seemed to, he felt normal and with ability. So when the Devil himself had appeared that night at Brass Farm, nobody had cared to believe him. Why would he possibly lie about such a thing? Well, that was thought to be obvious; he wants us to spare his life, the people would say. But what kind of a life would it be to lead if he were locked away with all of the REAL insane who had regard or tolerance for nothing? And now he was to pay with his life for something that was not of his choosing.

  *

  A knock at the door, which was then unlocked and opened before Mills had a chance to reply.

  “Mills?”

  “I would wish you a good morning, gaoler, but I fear that would be a lie should I do so. It is morning, I take it?”

  “It is. Just gone six...”

  “And I will be leaving soon?” A curt nod, followed by a verbal response.

  “Probably seven, maybe a quarter to. It's all ready. You've drawn quite a crowd...”

  “So I hear.” Mills cupped a hand round his left ear and held it towards the opening. “Ready to see my blood spill, no doubt. Well they are going to be disappointed, unless the same should become me as happened to that fellow two years past, where the rope clean took off his head. But every single one of them will still carry my blood on their hands for choosing to believe this is little but a source of amusement.”

  “Difficult to see how you might avenge that, lad, when it's your head in the noose...”

  “Fate often finds a way, gaoler – do not be surprised by any strange event that might follow. I wish you no harm, of course; you
have done nothing but the job expected of you and, might I say, treated me in a manner that many would have considered as way too kind for one in my position. For that I can only thank you.”

  “Uh-huh.” A simple reply, but coupled with the briefest appearance of happiness, or maybe pride. “Here, you should eat something.” Mills was handed a plate; it contained a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese. “And some water.” A battered metal tankard half full of water was placed at his feet.

  “I have no money left to pay for these things...”

  “No need to be thinking about that – just don't tell anyone else or they all going to be looking for handouts.” Mills looked the gaoler in the eye and started to laugh.

  “I think your secret will be safe, gaoler.” It had been expected the man would take his leave at this time, so Mills was surprised when he asked if he might join him for a short while and talk. The two men sat, Mills keen to hear what the gaoler might have to say.

  “You would sit with a man convicted of three murders while he takes his last meal? Did the Bishop put you up to this, pay you a few coins to try and get me to confess what might have really happened in a way his God might deem more acceptable?”

  “None of that, none of that. I've shared this prison with many a man – and woman – who has committed acts of unspeakable wrongdoing to end up in just the place you are right now, and you get a knowledge of who deserves to go to the gallows rightly so. When I look at such a young lad as you who must be no more than twenty years...”

  “Nineteen...”

  “I don't see the face of a murderer, or a proper no-gooder, but someone who might well have fell under the influence of someone or something unwanted. Only trouble is, I don't have the position or even the guile to question those who have made the decision.”