Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “It's a free press and people have a right to know what's going on” Lomas answered, standing her ground. “Charlotte did nothing more than say she wanted her mother to be safe and that was it.”

  “Which is exactly what she won't be if Mills decides he wants to get his hands on her for any reason. There's one thing I've realised as this case has gone on; there are people round here who Mills is familiar with, and if he sees a face he doesn't like then he's going to take it out on the one person who is at hand. If Miriam Cutter gets so much as a scratch, I'm arresting you as an accomplice.”

  “You can't do that!”

  “Watch me. My boss is already on the warpath so I'm sure he'd be happy to see you get locked up. We wanted to get up there quietly and take Mills out while he was off guard, but you just told him exactly what's going on and how many people we've got out here waiting to take him down. You've made my job a hell of a lot harder because you want your bloody story.”

  “Assuming Mills even saw this broadcast, which he probably didn't...”

  “Well even if he didn't see this one the story is out there now, isn't it? He'll see it soon enough, and then we're right in it. Having to start bargaining with a serial child killer is the last thing I wanted to do, but now it might be my only choice.” Hawkins was just about to storm off and have a meeting with his men so he could regroup when the question as to whether Mills knew what was going on was answered.

  “Soldiers of Ferryhill, who surround this farm!” Mills' voice boomed from the courtyard outside the farmhouse. “You will send Charlotte Cutter to the farmhouse this minute so I can speak with her!” And then there was silence. The negotiator still hadn't turned up, so it was left to Hawkins to buy some time.

  “Andrew Mills, this is Detective Hawkins of the Ferryhill Police. I cannot and will not put the life of Charlotte Cutter in danger by sending her to the farm – your request is denied. If you release Miriam Cutter and surrender yourself without a struggle, I promise you will be dealt with fairly. Do all of us a favour and give yourself up. We will help you if we can.” Hawkins lowered the loud hailer, waited for a response. He just hoped he'd said the right thing.

  “Detective Hawkins of the Ferryhill Police, listen to me! You try and bribe me, plead with me like I am a child, but it will not work! You are just like Crawfoote; I will agree to your terms and you will immediately break your promise! I might have been fooled once, but you will not fool me again! Charlotte Cutter will be delivered to me by eight sharp this evening or her mother's head will be removed from its shoulders! I will speak with you no more!” Hawkins could hear the door to the farmhouse being slammed shut. He glowered at Lomas, who stopped scribbling frantically into her notepad and retreated to what she felt was a safe distance.

  Not too far distant – maybe thirty or forty feet away – a large crow was sat on top of a fence post, surveying the scene with quiet intent before it flew off unnoticed.

  *

  THIRTEEN

  Ferryhill, County Durham, 1683

  I am dead; that much I am certain of, and yet a part of me still holds onto life. It is a strange feeling indeed.

  A gust of wind blows, but I know not whether it is a warm wind or a cold one. It is so strong that a man might fear being taken off his feet if it catches him off guard, as it just has with me, but it does not make me stumble. Instead, I begin to sway gently, like a baby in its crib while its mother tries to soothe it to sleep. This is a thought that makes me feel calm and safe; the wind dies and the swaying will stop soon.

  My mind is full of pictures and thoughts of what has happened these last days. How many days? I could not care to guess. I do not remember the passing of the day or the night. A number of days is not something that should worry me, I feel, yet I find the thinking of numbers to be more powerful than anything else. Here I am, my head in a spin while I try to think of who and where I am, and all that bothers me is numbers! Ha! I must take a short minute to try and forget about numbers, remember something of greater importance. My head is clearing some now, and the numbers are fading. Good!

  So, what has happened? I am at Dryburn; the cart in which I find myself caged has drawn to a stop. When I look around, it becomes apparent why I am here. I hear voices; shouts and cries for my head from men, women and even the smallest of children. And while I cannot see them all, I would imagine their faces display as much hatred as their words. They are all the same in the way that they want to see me die, and it seems they will have their wish. My gaze is concentrated not on the masses, but the wooden platform to the opposite side of where I sit. On that platform stands no thing but the hangman's noose. That is to be my final destination. Many fear the noose, yet at this time I have no feeling, or not that I am aware of. I just see the pictures in my head, hear the voices in my ears, but have no fear in my heart. Why would that be?

  A soldier has climbed onto the cart so my wrist irons might be removed from the iron ring that held them to its base. I would doubt they will be removed proper. The soldier is a young fellow – maybe not much older than I – and goes about his task without a single word. He dare not even look me in the eye. Am I truly so fearsome that a soldier would avoid my gaze, even though I am about to die, or could it be he thinks that he is sending an innocent man to the gallows and does not want this to be known? It is likely I will never know.

  Now the door to the cage has been opened, and two soldiers take a hold of one of my legs each and pull me forward and out of the gate. One of them I immediately recognise; he goes by the name of Hodgson and was the man who discovered the knife in my pocket when he searched me at Brass Farm. This soldier shows no fear; I see his mouth move like he is talking to me, but hear no words. A while later he stops, and he and his comrade lead me to the base of the platform. A man is already up there, and he is speaking to the crowd, but again I hear no words. Then he makes a signal, and I am led up the steps onto the wooden platform. The scene is surveyed, and I see nothing but faces looking up at me, wishing I was gone.

  The hangman is nearby, and it strikes me as odd that I am the one to die when in fact he is the killer of many more people than me! But who could I plead such a case to at this hour? No one would want to listen. The hooded killer moves me forward a few steps and pulls the noose over my head; I feel it tighten around my neck, and now I know the deed will soon be done.

  A man sentenced to die has a right to speak before the deed is carried out, and I say my piece. The words are clear as glass in my head, yet they do not leave my throat. But they must have been heard and heeded by at least some, because I see men guiding their wives and their children away. I have struck fear into their hearts, and they no longer wish to be a part of all this. What did I say that would have such an impact? It was a warning – yes, that was it! I warned that I would seek my revenge on all who stood witness, and some got scared and made good their retreat. They should be thankful that they did, for I have never been more certain of anything that I will make good on this promise. I do not have a clue how, but I know that I will.

  Now my focus stays upon the lone drummer, who is stood below me not far from the front of the platform. I recognise the soldier to be him I knew as Knagge, and he who dared not look me in the eye while he unlocked my shackles from the cart. I cannot hear the drums, only see that his arms move to sound its beat. And then his arms stop moving.

  It is only a second later that the floor beneath my feet falls away. I drop only a few feet before I experience the bite of death as my neck is snapped like a dry twig. My world goes black.

  *

  Time has passed by, but I know not how much of it. I become aware of light, colours, and shapes. I can see! But how can I see, for surely I am a dead man at the end of a rope? A thought occurs to me; just before the trapdoor was opened, I heard a voice inside my head. It was the same voice I heard when I was told to kill Miss Elizabeth. This time he has told me that I should not be fearful of death, for it will make me stronger. He will protect me. I am now to
be a part of him, and he a part of me. But he tells me that such salvation will not come without a price, though he says not what that price will be. It is only now I begin to feel fear.

  The crowd has long since gone, and I remain at the end of my rope. One individual has decided to remain behind, and it is none other than Sellby. Oh, how I wish our positions were reversed! Nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing that wastrel have his neck snapped. He is standing looking at me, shouting insults that I cannot hear. In his hand is a bottle, as normally there would be. Oddly, as I look at the man and see the intake of ale control his belligerent behaviour, I start to think that he is in fact more dead than me. The man has no life past the alcohol he consumes in great quantity, and I wonder why he would want to live such an existence. Sellby knew of nothing but hurt and hatred, and that is no way for a man to live out his life.

  Even when the sky had become dark at this time of the new moon, still Sellby was here. There was no light, but I could see from the position of his shadow that he was facing me. If he was in a drunken sleep, I do not know. But I had greater things to think about, for the voice inside me had spoken again and warned that the first light of the new day would bring the first of the pain I was to endure. How a dead man was to feel the sensation of injury was something I could not even begin to guess at. It would simply be a case of having to wait and to see.

  *

  The sky began to get lighter in the east, and I could see now that Sellby was asleep. Had I been hanged at what could be said was the proper time – the next day but one after the verdict was given – and Sellby had chosen to behave then as he did so now then he would surely have not survived the night. I would wager that some unknown power is working to make the man's life a misery, prolong his suffering by keeping him alive for as long as possible when he has not a single good thing to live for.

  So, what pain might I possibly feel as to be called agonising, or excruciating even? I did not think a dead man could feel anything at all! Is this what happens to all at the moment of their demise? Do their minds bring forth their greatest fears, play such evil tricks as to make them believe they will endure endless torture for even the smallest of misdeeds they may have committed at some forgotten time in their lives? There are crimes that can never be forgiven, nor redemption sought – many would consider mine to be among them – but is it really so unbelievable that a man might steal a loaf of bread to feed his hungry family, or borrow a sum of money beyond his means so he might live for another day? I think not, but it is not me who gets to decide what is crime and what is simply an act borne of desperation. Good people are hanged because despair turned their better nature a single time, and they had no chance to make good for their mistake. I would agree that there would be uproar if everyone was allowed to run amok, avenge any wrongdoing against themselves while out of their minds with fury, but those who make the law know nothing of poverty or just how a man will work his fingers to the bone to live a life without even the simplest pleasures. I should think such men might have their opinions sought so that the truth can be known; maybe then more of these unfortunate people would be allowed to go free.

  *

  Sellby has awoken, which I find very unfortunate. For the third time now the man is using the wooden frame from which my body hangs by a rope to piss on, and I know he will be laughing as he does so. He thinks it is funny to show such little respect to the body of a dead man. I am full of desire to seek my revenge on this drunkard, and so I will. No man will treat Andrew Mills in such a way and live long to tell about it! Now I feel my body sway a little. Why, the man is pushing at my feet! He thinks me to be helpless, but I will have my way with him, oh yes! And he will never see it coming! He stills my moving body and leaps down to the ground below, and it does not take but a minute to see why; two men are approaching, and from the implements they carry I know what their task is to be.

  The dead body of a convicted man is always tarred with pitch to aid its preservation, and that is what is to happen to me this very minute. As soon as even the first drop of the stuff touches my exposed skin, I feel pain like I never thought was possible. Beneath the bubbling black, I can feel my skin melting and the sinew below it start to boil. Were I alive when this happened then without a doubt I would have been screaming for mercy by now, promising anything in the hope the agony would be spared. Surely not even the strongest of fellows could tolerate such punishment as this. My feeling is that I will be made to feel this pain forever, even after death, as penance for my sins. Even if the punishment should fit the crime, this is wholly unjust.

  The two men who apply the pitch would seem to be sensing my suffering, for they are taking a good while to cover every single part of exposed flesh. Now my whole body feels like it is on fire, and there is Sellby, looking on and laughing merrily while he swigs from his bottle. No words could ever have prepared me for this unthinkable act of torture, but then it is only torture to me; after all, I have been hanged and certified dead, and no one has been given cause to think that this is not the case. Why would a hanged man feel pain so long after he has expired? Something that would be unthinkable to any man, even to me. And so they all continue to act in a way that they always would around the body of a dead man. Rather than removing my clothes and covering the entire surface of my skin, they apply the pitch on top of the clothing and while this makes it a bit less hot, my clothes stick to me and so the feeling lasts for longer. I start to hope that it will rain soon and cool down my burning body.

  My eyes have been left open as the pitch was applied to my face, and for this I know there are two reasons; so that those who pass by my gibbet when I am moved there will have to look into the eyes of a dead man as warning they will suffer a similar fate if caught in the act of committing a crime, and also for the crows to have an easy starting point as they pick away at my body for their food. This last thing will certainly happen, for I have seen it with my own eyes on occasions and it is not pleasant to watch. I do not dare to think how immeasurable the pain will be when the crows flock to start filling their bellies with me. But I know I am to remain here at least one day more before being removed to my next resting place, all the while being forced to think of what will befall me.

  *

  More nights and days have passed, yet still I know not how many. Whether it be three or thirty, it is still more than I care to remember.

  This will seem to be a foolish thing to say, but I must now consider myself fortunate. Why is that? Because the crows have not descended upon me in huge numbers to feast on my remains, and also because they have found a spot of flesh across the low part of my back and elected to start their feeding there, sparing my eyes for at least a short while. To have large birds digging their talons into your exposed skin as they rip pieces of it away with sharpened beaks is not at all pleasant; they have been going at me for quite a time now, and with success. They have managed to dig beneath the pitch and started to eat away from the inside. It could be that there will be nothing left hanging but a cast of my body made from pitch, with all of the flesh and bones consumed. The pain had been unbearable but I have told my mind to think of it no further and now it is nothing but an odd feeling when a little more of me is tugged away by one of these hungry birds.

  Sellby continues to infuriate me greatly. He has taken it upon himself to become resident at the base of the stob, where I am now to be found hanged in my iron cage. With one eye spared from the attack of ravenous crows, I find myself having further luck with regard to my ongoing punishment; the bars of the gibbet are so closely spaced that only the smallest of carrion can find their way inside to partake of their meals from my body. These babies too will soon be so fat as to not find their way inside, and they will have to do as the others have sought to do and perch on top of my gibbet and stob, taunting me with their constant racket which does not seem to bother Sellby in the least as he idles below. I had hoped the crows would have turned on him, but they must find the man as unappealing even as th
e whores on the street do.

  As night approaches once more, I notice that there is a full moon in the sky. That would mean I have been dead for eleven days at least now, and while I cannot move, or speak, or feel any great relief from the pain that I was promised, the thought that I have existed after death for more than one week and a half is something I find compelling. Who would have thought a man could live after he was killed because he had killed? The voice inside my head has not spoken for a good while, so has likely said everything it feels had to be said. It will be there to guide me when the time is right, of that I am sure.

  The moon is directly to the west, the same direction in which my gibbet hangs from the stob. With the light from the sky, and the burning of oil lamps on the ground, I can see not too far distant the outline of Brass Farm. It must not be a comforting place for John and Margaret Brass to stay now that their offspring have met their end, but I do not feel sad for them. The only one from five who did not deserve to die was Lizzie Brass, but my hand was forced and that was that. If I could ease the anguish of that death then I gladly would, but Master Brass and his boorish ways had stacked up so high that they would always topple and crush him below. I had my fill of the scoundrel and saw to it he could anger me no further. Jane was a beautiful creature and I loved her dearly, but once she had made her feelings known and told me her love was for the blacksmith's apprentice alone, I could not bear for her to be with anyone but me. I could not have lived a happy life had I known she was with George Bancks, bearing his children and being his faithful wife for many years to come.