Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “Elinor Cutter! I knew yours was a face that I was familiar with, but could not recall from where. So, your husband's debt to the blacksmith meant you had to seek work with John Brass? How I wish I had been there the very day you had to beg Mister Brass for work! Ha!” The operator never had a clue what this maniac was rambling on about, so was surprised to hear that the sobbing woman seemed to know precisely what was being said.

  “Yes, I am a descendant of Elinor Cutter” she was saying. “She went to work for Mister Brass for a short time after leaving her husband. Her sent her away after raping her and finding out she was having his baby. So a part of me is also descended from John Brass. And from what you have been saying, it is my guess that you are Andrew Mills?”

  “You know of me?”

  “Your face is all over the news – the police are hunting you down, even as we speak.” Further instructions were passed along to the attending police officers; the person at the farm was Andrew Mills and they were to wait for backup before making their approach. Mills was to be considered armed and dangerous, with no one able to predict what he might do next. The conversation at High Hill House Farm continued.

  “What do you mean when you say my face is all over the news? And who is hunting me? Whoever it might be, they will not succeed! I am Andrew Mills, and the Devil himself is protecting my soul! I have already had your soldiers try their weapons on me, and they failed. One soldier died for his efforts, and I will kill any others who choose to stand in my way! Jane will marry me and that is my final word!” Another scuffle ensued, and then the line went dead.

  *

  “Holy shit.” That was all Detective Hawkins could think of to say when he arrived at the cordoned-off High Hill House Farm. He'd just got his eye on the damaged Royal Mail van, with its gaping hole in the windscreen and an axe buried in the back wall of the cab. The ashen-faced and still trembling postman was giving a statement to another officer. Hawkins would talk to him later.

  “You were the first responder?” Hawkins asked a young PC, who gave an affirmative response. “So what's gone down so far? Any idea how many people are at the farm?”

  “Never got a chance to go up there and find out, sir – we were told to hold back because the guy was considered armed and dangerous.”

  “No demands have been made or no one has left or gone into the house while you've been here, then?”

  “That's correct.”

  “Then at the moment it's a hostage situation. Let's get a negotiator out here, see if we can end this thing quickly. When he arrives, tell him to come and see me; I want to tell him exactly who we're dealing with. This isn't going to be a standard talk-down.”

  *

  Mills walked slowly through the farmhouse, taking in every detail as he went. There were so many strange contraptions he knew nothing about, with even the things most familiar to him such as pots and pans now much changed from the way he remembered.

  “What is that thing?” He asked Cutter, pointing at the dishwasher. She knew it would be in her best interests to keep him talking so was more than happy to answer the question.

  “It's called a dishwasher” she said. “All the used cutlery and crockery goes in there, dishwasher gets switched on and in an hour it's all clean again.” Mills eyed the appliance cautiously.

  “You would have me believe a woman is to fit inside that thing and wash your used plates? Ha!” Cutter took a minute to explain the premise behind the machine and how it worked. Mills was intrigued.

  “So there is a well close by to fill this box up with water so it can wash?”

  “No, not at all. We don't have wells any more.”

  “Then from where do you draw your water?” Cutter walked over to the sink and turned on the cold tap. Mills was amazed when water began to pour from the curved metal funnel, even more so when the tap was turned off and the flow of water stopped.

  “You can control how fast the water will flow with this thing?” Cutter nodded and demonstrated again. “Simply amazing” said Mills, shaking his head. He opened a cupboard door and peered inside; it was full of tins and packets of food.

  “And what are those?”

  “It's food” Cutter said with a shrug. “You eat it” she added, before realising just how ridiculous that sounded.

  “It does not look though it would taste like much” Mills remarked. “You do not buy vegetables from the market place?”

  “The food is inside those containers – that's what keeps it fresh. Yes, we get vegetables; not the way you would have bought them, we get ours from the supermarket.”

  “And what is so super about this market, might I ask?”

  “Er, well, we get all the food we need in one place. I guess that's pretty super...”

  “Your butcher is there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the baker also?”

  “Yes, the baker as well.”

  “But I would think you are not able to get fish from there, correct?”

  “No, we buy fish from there too.”

  “I do not see how one man could do so much work, or even with an apprentice, or ten apprentices...”

  “It's not just a shop run by one man” said Cutter with a wry smile. “Hundreds of people can work in these shops, maybe about fifty at a time. Lots of them are open twenty-four hours a day now.”

  “That can't possibly be! How is a man to work for a full day without any kind of rest or even a break for his meals? A preposterous statement if I ever heard one!”

  “No, you don't understand; people work for eight hours a day then go home. They do that up to five days a week and that's it.”

  “Are there not still seven days in a week?”

  “Yes, but we don't work all of them – that's not legal. Well, unless you volunteer to work the extra hours, of course.”

  “You mean you are not forced to work more than eight hours in a day?” Cutter shook her head. “So what would you do with the remainder of your time?”

  “Well we have our own houses to look after; most people don't have servants. Then you can do pretty much whatever you like, as long as you don't break the law.”

  “And what things do you do, Elinor Cutter?”

  “My name's Miriam” she corrected him. “I like to read, go horse-riding, swimming – lots of things.”

  “Do you get wages for working only this tiny part of the day?”

  “Of course. Depends where you work how much you earn; I have my own interior design business so don't get a set wage, but someone who works in a shop might get between six and seven pounds an hour.”

  “An hour? Why, you must all have riches beyond your wildest dreams! It is no wonder you have these boxes for washing your plates and a well inside your home! I would make between nine and ten pounds in a whole year and I found that a decent sum of money. How lucky you are to have such amazing wealth!”

  “Believe me, things are a lot more expensive now” Cutter said with a sigh. Now Mills found himself in a small shower room that led off the kitchen, looking between the shower and the toilet for a while before turning to Cutter with a puzzled look on his face.

  “The shower and the toilet” she said. “You didn't have toilets in your time?”

  “A pot in the corner of the room. What are you meant to do with this thing?” And so Cutter found herself in the surreal position of having to explain how a toilet worked, demonstrating the waste removal by throwing a piece of tissue into the bowl before flushing the chain.

  “Such wondrous items you have now” Mills said, flushing the chain once more and laughing when the water swirled around the bowl. “And that is a...shower, you say? What might the job of a shower be?”

  “Think of it as a quick bath. You get in, turn the shower on and wash yourself but don't have to wait until the tub is full first. Maybe you should try it out” Cutter suggested, nodding at the grime that covered Mills' exposed skin.

  “A good idea!” And before Cutter could say anything else,
Mills had stripped completely. He stood in front of her totally naked, not showing a hint of embarrassment. Cutter didn't know where to look. “And how is this thing operated?” Cutter switched it on and waited for the water to warm up before motioning to Mills he should stand under the jet of water. He did as she asked, and was astonished.

  “Why, it is like being outside in a cloudburst, but with warm rain and not cold! If only I could tell my father about what I have experienced here today; why, I feel sure he would never believe me! If someone had told me the very same I might not have believed it either, but I have seen and touched these things with my own eyes and hands, so they must be real. I wonder, do you also have a device for cleaning clothes like the one that cleans your plates?” Cutter didn't say anything; she gathered up Mills' clothes and left him standing under the river of water, still quite unable to believe what he was witnessing.

  Cutter threw Mills' muddied clothes into the washing machine, wondering if the miracles of modern science would be able to stretch so far as getting them fully clean. It had crossed her mind as the perfect opportunity to flee the house, but there was something about Mills that intrigued her. He was acquainted with both of her mother's and father's direct descendants and this would be an ideal opportunity to try and learn something about them. Yes, Mills had been violent on his arrival but since calming down he seemed quite amenable and actually a fairly decent young man. Andrew Mills was so far removed from everything and everyone familiar to him of course he was going to get frustrated, but if she could engage him in conversation and get him into a completely relaxed state where he let down his guard the situation might be resolved more amicably. Cutter couldn't begin to imagine what might be running through Mills' head and with her daughter safely out of the way sleeping over at a friend's house, Miriam Cutter was confident she could benefit from this unusual situation before it was brought to an end. If she was really lucky, her ex-husband might turn up on the doorstep and Mills would attack him with an axe, thought Cutter. The washing machine was switched on and she went into the living room to send her daughter a text message, telling her not to come home for the day.

  Looking more presentable than he had done in a long time, even Mills himself could barely believe the transformation he had undergone for doing nothing simpler than taking a wash. He found yet more reason to be astounded when he was presented with his clothes – which had come up quite well, Cutter thought – not only laundered, but completely dry and still warm from the tumble drier.

  “There are so many amazing devices in this place – I would have been accused of witchcraft had I chance to tell of them to others from my time” said Mills, who was sitting in a large and very comfortable armchair. “I mean, even this chair in which I am seated is nothing short of marvellous. This is something the likes of which John Brass and Robert Cutter would have wanted to own. They had large and expensive seating in their homes, but nothing so wonderful as this. Why, I would even sleep well sat right here! Do all people possess armchairs such as these now?”

  “Well not exactly the same, but almost everyone has armchairs.” Mills nodded in acknowledgement as he looked around the living room.

  “What is that contraption over there, in the corner of the room? And those smaller boxes beneath it? None of those things appear to have any purpose. There are no doors so it cannot be a container of some sort, and even Sellby would know it is not a chair. So what does it do?”

  “That's the TV” said Cutter. “Underneath that is the receiver for satellite TV and then the DVD player.”

  “My apologies, but I have never heard such gibberish spoken in all of my days” Mills replied in an instant, giving Cutter cause to laugh out loud. A smile appeared on Mills' lips. “Would you care to explain further, Miriam Cutter?”

  “TV is short for television; it broadcasts all kinds of different programs. The satellite television receiver lets us pick up more channels from around the world and the DVD player we use for watching things like films.”

  “Your explanation still perplexes me...”

  “Films, programs – where people act out stories?” Now there was some recognition.

  “Ah, like the theatre! I have never attended such a place, but I did hear Mister Brass and his family discuss the stories they had seen. It sounded quite an exciting place to be. And these stories, they are shown in the evening? That is when Mister Brass would take his family to the theatre.”

  “They're shown all day, every day – twenty-four hour service, so you can watch something any time of the day or night.”

  “So why is there no theatre on this 'TV' of yours now if what you claim is true? And how would any such story possibly appear on that? A theatre is a huge building, for god's sake! Or does it involve some kind of trickery, like the device that cleans your pots and plates?” Only now did Cutter begin to realise just how displaced Mills actually was; the whole world was a mystery waiting to be explored, and he would question every single thing that he saw, just like a child. She wasn't sure she had the patience to explain everything she simply took for granted.

  “It just isn't switched on, that's all. Let me show you.” And with the press of a single button on the remote control, the TV flickered into life. Mills jumped visibly when the volume sounded first, a second before the picture appeared on screen. There was a soap opera on; an American one. Cutter didn't know what it was called, but Mills was certainly captivated by it. He stared at the screen unblinking.

  “How can this possibly be?” Mills rubbed his eyes, evidently wanting to check that he wasn't dreaming. “I see people, I even hear their voices, and yet they pay me no mind as I wave my hands not a few feet from their faces! I have heard that those who act in the theatre can pretend like there is simply no one else nearby, but any man would be distracted by someone moving their hands right in front of their face!” And Mills continued to wave animatedly at the television, calling out to it by way of trying to attract the attention of the actors on screen.

  “They aren't really there, at least not like you would see them in a theatre. These programs are recorded and shown at a later time.”

  “Recorded? What is that?”

  “It's a way of being able to show the same bit of theatre as many times as you want without the actors having to keep repeating themselves” Cutter explained, quite pleased with herself for keeping things so concise.

  “And these actors earn wages, even though they are not here in the same room as you and I? It was my belief an actor can only earn wages when people would pay to watch them perform.”

  “Yes, they earn wages, and far more than you could ever imagine” said Cutter with a sigh, the novelty of being a teacher now beginning to wear off. Mills was asking way too many questions; Cutter felt like she was talking to a five year-old.

  “And there are more of these actors, you say?”

  “Plenty. I'll show you.” And Cutter changed channels, moving from one to the other on Mills' request. He'd been like an excited child until a news program hit the screen. Cutter felt her heart skip a beat as she recognised the house currently on the screen to be her own, with a reporter detailing what had happened and the current stand-off that had ensued. She prayed Mills didn't recognise the house, but the hope faded fast when he next spoke.

  “That place looks familiar to me. The actor is speaking of Ferryhill – a farm called 'High Hill House', I think she said”. Mills continued to listen; Cutter was tempted to change the channel but decided against it. Maybe she should have taken the risk; Mills' anger began to boil when a more detailed insight was given, namely how High Hill House Farm was once known as Brass Farm, and how a servant boy named Andrew Mills had committed three murders there three hundred and thirty-three years ago. He hadn't said anything, but glancing out of the corner of her eye Cutter could see Mills gripping the arm of the chair ever tighter. Now there were shots of all the police assembled nearby, making preparations for a possible ambush if Mills failed to come out after negotiation
. And then it got even worse.

  “Miss Lizzie” Mills said quietly, moving over right in front of the television screen and crouching down to stare at the young girl who was talking into the camera, seemingly looking straight at him. That young girl was Charlotte Cutter, the fourteen year-old daughter of Miriam who had decided to come home despite being told by her mother to stay away and was no doubt dumbfounded by the frenetic activity going on outside her house. She was saying how she'd got a text from her mother asking her to stay away but thought it was some kind of joke and came home anyway. Why would she possibly think anything was wrong? There'd been nothing else in the message, just not to come home. So while it had been kept brief for obvious reasons, Cutter now found herself wishing she'd elaborated just a little more in the hope it wouldn't have had the same effect.

  “This is your daughter, Miriam Cutter?”

  Cutter said nothing, just nodded and felt scared.

  “You made no mention of having a child, especially one so beautiful. Why, she looks just like little Lizzie Brass! Lizzie was the youngest of the Brass children; I had no wish for her to die but my hand was guided by another – the choice was not mine. Your daughter's name?”

  “Charlotte...”

  “I will speak with her later, plead for forgiveness for my misdeeds. I know she will understand. Lizzie was the only one of the family who would show mercy to a soul like me. I do not pretend to know how she can be so close to this house and yet I cannot hear her, but it cannot be much longer before she arrives through the door.” Detective Hawkins, of course, had no intention of letting anyone near the house, and Miriam Cutter knew it. So how would Mills react when he found out?

  *

  “Do you have any idea what the hell you've just done?” shouted Hawkins, jabbing a finger in Rachel Lomas' face the second the camera had stopped rolling. “Not only do we have a serial killer holed up in there, but you parade the daughter of his hostage in front of the TV cameras? How do you think he's going to react when he sees that?”