by Craig McNish
“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 again, and this time he did notice. The warmth was 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.
*
Now Crawfoote stood alone on the platform, and Mills knew that the end was close by. Still he refused to be afraid, though.
“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, 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 drunkard.” 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.
*
TWELVE
Ferryhill, County Durham, 2016
It was the final day of January when Mills arrived back in Durham. He should have been cold, hungry and exhausted from his j
ourney, but felt only like he had put in an easy day's work at Brass Farm and nothing more. Nor did it surprise him that he had arrived back here so quickly, covering over one hundred miles mostly on foot in such a short space of time. The need for rest had rarely been present, but the familiar terrain in which he now found himself had made him feel more comfortable and so he made the decision to seek shelter for a time before making the final part of his journey. Mills had found himself on the Great North Road not too long ago, around one in the morning; it was a clear night, cold and frosty but without the strong winds of late. Staying within sight of the road, Mills had ventured up past Newton Aycliffe and Rushyford before stopping in the village of Chilton, which was only a little over two miles south of Ferryhill. Mills might well have carried on, but it was a voice from inside which had told him to stop.
'Andrew Mills, we are almost there! Now is the time to stop and prepare!
'Ensure that you keep your life, so Jane Brass might become your wife!'
And it was the thought of Jane that had made him obey. Finding a secluded spot, Mills sat down and was soon asleep.
*
Hawkins was back at his desk before six. He wondered why he'd even bothered going home. If he was married, he probably wouldn't have a home to go back to by now, he mused. Maybe his unconscious mind had sent him back there just as a reminder that he did have an existence outside of work. Well it would have to be put on hold for a while until Mills was found and...then what? That would have to be decided after he was taken into custody. Find first, ask questions later, Hawkins told himself. He flicked on the TV in the corner of the room. If he felt tired before, he certainly didn't now.
An early morning news broadcast was on, and it was giving details of a desperate search by the police to find a murderer who, according to the disbelieving newsreader, was 'convicted killer Andrew Mills, who was hanged for three murders he committed over three hundred years ago.' How in the hell did the news hacks find that one out? Hawkins turned to BBC, and then Sky News – both were running similar stories. On a whim, Hawkins searched through the TV channels until he came across CNN, broadcasting from America; after a few minutes, there was even mention of it on there. Same with MSNBC. What the fuck? So now the story was out, and there was no going back. A difficult task had now been made even harder.
So where had the leak originated? Hawkins knew it wouldn't have come from any of Hodgson's four friends who were also a part of the investigation; they had been told not to speak of what was happening and the detective believed that they had the common sense not to do so. Those attending the funeral of Hodgson had been strictly vetted and no TV cameras or reporters had been allowed inside the church. Surely though that was the only place it could have happened. His train of thought was derailed by the ringing of his telephone.
“Hawkins...”
“I was about to rip your balls off because of what I'm seeing on my TV screen this very second, but I've just received two pieces of information that changed my mind.”
“Er, cheers boss. So what have you heard?”
“Do you use Twitter at all, Detective Hawkins?”
“No sir, not my scene...”
“Maybe you should start. I've found it very handy for receiving some useful information, like a tweet I read that nearly made my choke on my coffee earlier. A local journalist by the name of Rachel Lomas sent out this tweet yesterday, just after Hodgson's funeral. It reads thus: 'Just been to the funeral of a man who was slaughtered by a three hundred year old murderer! And I'm the one who gets to cover the story! Keep it here for more details folks! Hashtag 'my big break', hashtag 'no more yolo'. Not sure what 'not more yolo' is supposed to mean but if I get my hands on her then it'll be her neck that's her next big break. How the hell did this get out, Hawkins?”
“All I can think is that she must have got into the church” Hawkins guessed. “All the kids who got up spoke quite passionately about Hodgson and Parkes talked about him being a pioneer for what he'd done. That kind of stuff would be gold to any reporter who got in there, and I guess Lomas was the one who did it. YOLO stands for 'you only live once' – I guess she's got a point when she says it doesn't exist any more. But you said you had two pieces of info to tell me?”
“That's right. I got a call about ten minutes ago to say someone fitting Mills' description was seen leaving Chilton, headed in the direction of Ferryhill. Apparently he was 'talking weird' and 'his eyes were all red'. You were hoping he'd come back to Ferryhill – looks like you got your wish, and sooner than you expected. Get the word out that Mills is expected to show his face in the area any time soon – I want him brought in as soon as possible, before the press have a chance to show up and chuck a spanner in the works. I want a full briefing at eight, so get your notes together, detective.” And the call was ended before Hawkins got a chance to reply.
*
By the time Mills reached the periphery of Brass Farm, it had started snowing again. The sky was showing signs of becoming lighter in the east but even daybreak would bring only a covering of grey and white clouds. The lay of the land was still quite familiar, but he was shocked to see the change in appearance of the farmhouse. It made him wonder if he hadn't taken a wrong turn somewhere.
“So now that I am finally here, what am I to do next?” he asked himself. “I cannot enter another man's house without invitation, but I must get word out to Jane to let her know I have returned so we can marry.” Mills started looking through some of the ground floor windows; someone appeared to be moving about at the opposite end of the house. He rapped on the front door firmly and waited for a response. When no one answered after around fifteen seconds, he repeated the action, knocking louder and longer. The front door flew open and an extremely angry, tired-looking woman let fly at the stranger on her doorstep.
“What the bloody hell are you playing at, hammering on my door so loud at half seven in the morning? You not got any common sense, you bloody idiot? I've never even seen you before. You've got no business here, so bugger off!” The irate woman made to close the door, only to find it blocked by Mills' left boot.
“I think you forget your manners, lady” he snarled at her. “You have no clue as to whether I have business here, yet you order me away without even giving me the chance to say my piece. I will have you know that this is my home. I shall have to speak with the man of the house, let him know his maid does not address visitors to his home in the proper way. Bring him to me.”
“Did you just call me a maid?”
“Well the lady of the house would never conduct herself in such a fashion; it is obvious that you must be the hired help. I am sure she would not appreciate you calling her house your house, don't you think?”
“I am the lady of the house, you damn fool! We don't have a maid! This isn't the eighteenth-century, you know! Well I don't want beggars round here knocking at my door so get lost or I'll call the police!” But still Mills refused to move his foot.
“This is Brass Farm, correct?”
“It hasn't been called that in years, but it used to be, yes.”
“Then this is my home and I demand you let me in!”
“You demand? I don't know who the hell you think you are but you're not setting foot inside this house, especially the state you're in. When was the last time you had a bath, or changed your clothes?” Mills thought for a moment.
“Quite a way over three centuries ago, if you must know – not that it is any of your business. Now I shan't ask you again; either I gain access to my home by your choice, or I will force my way inside. I intend to marry with Jane and this is where we shall live. So, what is it to be?” Mills was distracted by the sound of a vehicle coming along the roadway up to the farm; he turned and saw a small van making its approach to the courtyard. Miriam Cutter, the current tenant at the farmhouse and the woman whose morning was already off to a bad start by this 'drug addict' trying to force his way into her house, gave him a hefty push. Mills stumbled backward, giving Cutte
r enough time to close and bolt the door. She could hear him yelling, but now it seemed the visiting postman was the target of his venting. Cutter peeked out of the window at the side of the door; she was horrified to see her ranting intruder holding onto two short-handled axes, one of which he launched at the van, which had just parked. The weapon smashed through the windscreen but luckily missed its target. The terrified postman slammed his vehicle into reverse and backed away at speed, Mills giving up the chase after around thirty yards or so. Instead, he turned back towards the house.
“You will not keep me from Jane!” he screamed, attacking the front door with his remaining axe. Cutter had just got through to the operator when the front door finally gave. The operator listened in stunned silence at the screaming and shouting; her supervisor was summoned and the number traced, with a police car dispatched immediately to High Hill House Farm. Then there were thuds, what sounded like someone using a heavy, blunt instrument but without much success. Whatever was going on, the operator ascertained that the apparent victim must be putting up one hell of a struggle. And then there was more clear conversation.