by Craig McNish
As I stare out at Brass Farm, I start to think of the time I spent there. It was a place where many would have been pleased to work. Mister Brass was demanding, but not overly so; he treated those who worked for him with respect and paid good wages. When he got news my father had fallen ill, he sent a basket of food and also paid for a doctor to visit on two occasions. I was allowed to forego my duties for one day and a half so I might be at home with him while his fever was at its peak, and he had no hesitation in loaning me one of his horses so I could reach my father's home in the worst weather. But when his son had tormented me and I spoke of this, Mister Brass paid no regard to my complaint and indeed even encouraged his boy to misbehave on occasion after that. He also felt I was in no way good enough to marry his daughter, and I found that to be an insult that could not be tolerated. And so his pain and suffering mean nothing to me; it is to be considered the harshest of lessons in humility, and hopefully he will learn from the error of his ways.
*
The crows have not been able to get at me for a time now. Either that or they have tired of eating the flesh of a murderer. But when I look down beneath my feet through the bars of the gibbet in which I hang, it is puzzling to see a number of the birds scattered dead on the ground beside where Sellby lies. I am by far an expert on such creatures, but all of the birds seemed to be in fine health when they were either eating at or surrounding me. So now I am a killer of crows, too! Ha!
Those that would still cling to the gibbet in which my bones and remaining flesh still hang seem to have found themselves a new sport. They have taken to pulling at the rope which suspends me twenty feet and then some up in the air, finding loose ends with their beaks and pulling at the threads so that they unravel from the thick cord. Over a course of what I believe to be two days and two nights, I observe the rope being attacked and note that it becomes more frail with each passing hour. Sellby had watched this happen on occasion and seemed displeased that the crows were no longer attacking me. On this night, as he slept in a position slumped at the base of the stob, the rope had finally reached a point where it could no longer sustain the weight it carried. All of the birds scattered when the rope at last snapped, and the gibbet with me inside it fell twenty-something feet to the ground below. It landed right on top of Sellby, who was killed instantly by the blow of the metal which crushed many of his bones. The old fool was lucky not to have been awake when it happened, and so he knew nothing. If he was fortunate he will have been dreaming of great wealth and a better life at the time his head was smashed in. After the short racket, the night becomes still and quiet again.
*
The two men who had covered me in pitch a short time after my neck had been broken by the noose arrived early, when the sun was barely in the sky. They had come to cut me down, only to find the job had already been done for them. The bodies of the dead crows were looked at with some confusion, and then they saw Sellby lying dead underneath the gibbet. I was moved to one side in my cage and the drunkard was pulled out of the way before a large hole was dug beneath the stob. This I knew was to be my grave – my very final resting place. With a deep pit dug, I was released from my iron prison and thrown with little ceremony into the hole, only to be covered with the bodies of dead crows not a second later. I had landed on my back and so was able to look up at the sky, and could see both men had a hold of Sellby and were discussing whether they should bury his body with me also. It must have been decided that even the town drunk was more worthy than I, for he was laid down and the hole in which I lay started to fill with soil.
Last I remember, a spade full of earth was tossed over my face and the light was no longer there. But in that final moment, I also felt joy at having kept the promise to myself that I would settle my argument with Sellby, and it gave me hope that some time, somehow, I would be able to avenge myself against all of the others who had wronged me.
*
FOURTEEN
Ferryhill, County Durham, 2016
Hawkins checked the time; it was shortly after one pm. His scathing attack on Rachel Lomas over with, he had returned to the incident room that had been set up on site to mull over the options he had. There wasn't many. This had to end soon, so he and his colleagues had to think quickly.
“Stun grenades”, one of them had suggested. “Shock and awe – Mills won't know what hit him.”
“Normally I'd agree with you, but those tactics hinge on the element of surprise. It's paramount to have the perps brought down as soon as the grenades go off, and with Mills we just haven't got a clue if that will be the case. We're thinking in terms of how we would take out your average kidnapper in a high-risk situation when in fact he's anything but. I know this is going to sound fucking ridiculous but to all intents and purposes Andrew Mills is a zombie. He died over three hundred years ago and was somehow brought back to life. This is Hollywood stuff, only for real, and we have to start thinking outside the box.” Hawkins looked at his eight assembled colleagues and was met with nothing but blank looks.
“So how do they kill zombies in the films?” asked Detective Constable Michelle Roach. “Usually a bullet to the head, right? So why don't we just bring in a couple of marksmen to finish him off?”
“Easier said than done, but I do like your thinking” Hawkins told Roach. “If we'd been in America this wouldn't even be up for discussion; the heavy artillery would have already been surrounding the building. Only problem is even our worst criminal element is given too much respect and for the situation to be resolved using firearms this would have to go right to the top of the chain. They would only authorise deadly force as a very last resort and the longer this goes on, the more leverage Mills has and the greater chance to take his anger out on somebody else.
“So if we can't kill him we need to trap him” PC Ed Simpson commented. “Find some way to separate him from his hostage and close him down. At least he'd be segregated and no danger to anyone else.” A murmur of general agreement sounded around the room. “At the minute he believes he holds all the cards because he's not able to be killed in the traditional sense, right? So the idea of being immortal goes to his head and he thinks he's unstoppable. But we're technologically streets ahead and he hasn't got a clue how the modern world works, so that goes in our favour.”
“Okay, good” said Hawkins, feeling they might now be making a little headway. “You got anything in mind?”
“I do, as it happens.” Simpson couldn't help the smallest of self-satisfied grins cross his face for a few seconds. “Let's look at the facts. He wants Charlotte Cutter at the house, but we can't give him more hostages. So we need to trick him to buy ourselves some time, and I think I know how we might be able to do it.”
*
“What is that noise?” Mills demanded to know when Miriam Cutter's mobile phone started to beep, signalling an incoming text message. “And where is Charlotte Cutter? Does she know I plan to cut off your head if she does not come to the house?”
“The noise is my phone – I've got a message” said Cutter, trying to keep the anxiety and feeling of terror out of her voice. “If I can read the message, maybe it will explain why Charlotte isn't here yet.”
“Then read it” Mills told Cutter, eyeing her cautiously. “How is it you can receive a message when no messenger has called at your door to deliver a letter?”
“We use these now, mostly.” Cutter held up her phone for Mills to see.
“And how are these messages sent to that tiny thing?” Cutter sighed before offering as concise an explanation as she could muster. It made no difference; Mills never had a clue what she was talking about. Cutter unlocked the screen to her phone and read the first few words of a text message from a number she didn't recognise. Frowning slightly, she opened the message and read it carefully.
Mrs Cutter, this is PC Ed Simpson. Do you have a laptop with webcam? Please reply ASAP.
“The message – what does it say?”
“Someone wants to talk to me” Cutter im
provised. “They want me to switch on my computer so I can speak with them face to face.” This explanation demanded more facts to be made relevant, but again Mills had no clue what was being said. He realised this made him somewhat vulnerable but he still felt himself to be in a stronger position than those who would see him captured and agreed to the request. Cutter returned Simpson's request with a positive reply and enclosed details of how he could contact her. Switching on her iPad, Cutter now waited for contact to be made.
Steve Hawkins had no idea if this would work, but the lack of forthcoming suggestions for a different plan of action had forced his hand. It didn't sound like a bad plan; Hawkins would first of all speak with Miriam Cutter to ascertain that she was alive and well, maybe ask her a few questions that could help them proceed without incident. Then he planned to speak with Mills for a few minutes while a team of officers would sneak into the house and conceal themselves upstairs, not far from the room where Mills would then be lured and hopefully trapped. That would at least give Cutter time to flee the house; the rest could be worried about later. Charlotte Cutter was also integral to the plan; safely concealed away from danger, she was to be the decoy who would draw Mills away from her mother. Given that she would not be in any direct danger, Hawkins had been persuaded to let her take part.
“You ready, boss?”
“As much as I'll ever be.” Hawkins smiled grimly, taking the laptop from Simpson after he made the connection to Miriam Cutter.
Even though she fully expected the message, Cutter still jumped when the connection was made and she saw Detective Hawkins looking at her.
“Mrs Cutter?”
“Yes...yes, that's me” she stammered. Hawkins couldn't see Mills but knew he was likely to be in the immediate area so had to be careful just how much he said.
“My name is Steven Hawkins – please, call me Steve.” This was no time for formality; he didn't want Mills to hear that Cutter might be talking to someone in authority and possibly feel threatened. He nodded slowly when he asked for Cutter to call him only by his first name, hoping she would understand what he was getting at. She watched while, as an afterthought, he scribbled something down on a piece of paper and held it up to the webcam. 'DO NOT REFER TO ME AS ANYTHING OTHER THAN STEVE – DON'T WANT MILLS TO KNOW I AM POLICE' read the message. Cutter nodded her acknowledgement. “How are you doing, Mrs Cutter? Are you injured at all?”
“No, I'm not hurt...”
“And is Andrew Mills in the room with you now?”
“Yes.”
“Is he likely to let you walk out of the house unharmed if you ask him now?”
“No, I don't think so.” From where he was sat, Mills could make out one or two of Hawkins' words but was somewhat in awe of the device that Cutter held and was speaking to her; that was enough to keep him at arm's length, at least for now.
“Is anyone else present?”
“No.”
“It's a pretty cold day today, don't you think?” Cutter frowned at the sudden change in questioning. How was the weather relevant to any of this? Hawkins was writing again; he held up a piece of paper with the message 'is the back door unlocked? We need to get inside the house.' He needed the answer to a pertinent question by asking something more benign, Cutter figured out quickly.
“Yes, very much so.”
“I hope you have all your windows closed, Mrs Cutter – it could prove expensive to just let the heat escape, you know.” Now he was holding up a piece of paper which read 'are windows closed and locked?' It was Roach who had prompted Hawkins to ask this. He wondered what difference it would make until she mimicked that he would be used to sliding sash windows rather than the modern windows of today, and even if it took him an extra few seconds to work out how they worked it was time on their side. Hawkins made himself remember to offer Roach a commendation for her quick-thinking after all this was over.
“Only the small window would be open a fraction, if anything. Not much heat can get out of there” Cutter responded. “So what are your plans, Steven – will you be visiting any time soon? You're always welcome to come by if you're in the area.” Cutter's voice had sounded calm when she said this but Hawkins took it as a sign that she wanted out, now. He had to move things along, and fast.
“Sooner than you think – I'll be sure to call in for coffee. Oh, there's a great film on TV at the moment that you might enjoy...” Another note was held up – 'Switch TV on with sound up loud, men will be entering house shortly and cover noise will help. Any channel with something on to distract Mills will do. He's going to talk to Charlotte via webcam – don't worry, she's perfectly safe.'
“Sounds good. I'll switch it on now.” Mills was about to protest when Cutter said “someone wants to talk to you” and thrust the iPad into Mills' hands. Hawkins had also passed off the next part of the plan to Roach; it was felt Mills might be more compliant if talking to a female and Hawkins didn't want to run the risk of Mills recognising his face, even though he was pretty sure it hadn't been seen.
“Hello, Andrew” Roach said jovially when his face appeared, trying not to laugh at his dumbfounded expression or what seemed to be an apparent attempt on his part to look inside the device he was holding, wondering if she might be in there.
“What is your name? And where have you concealed yourself? I see your face, I hear your voice, yet you are not in this room. What kind of a trick is this?”
“My name is Michelle Roach, and I assure you it's not a trick” Roach told him. “This is how we communicate in the twenty-first century. Using webcams and the internet, we can talk to people many thousands of miles away on a screen like this. It's great fun; maybe you'll get a chance to try it out for yourself.”
“So I could talk to someone who had been transported to the Americas, should I want to?”
“If they wanted to speak to you and had your details, then sure. Lots of people have friends all over the world now because of things like this. It's called social networking and allows you to make lots of new friends, even if you never meet in person.”
“And what would we have to speak of?”
“You could talk about anything you want. Tell them about who you are, what you like to do – absolutely anything.” Roach was doing a good job of putting Mills at ease and keeping him distracted; it was time for the entry team to make their way to the house so the final part of their plan could be put into play. Hawkins stood outside with the team of five men, handing out final instructions. Charlotte had provided them with a floor plan of each room as best she could remember to ensure there were no mistakes. The briefing over, the entry team leader gave signals as to how the men should split up and approach the farmhouse. Hawkins looked on, hopeful that this could actually work, while Rachel Lomas and her cameraman gave a report on what they believed was going to happen next. Hawkins could only hope that Mills hadn't made Cutter stop on a news broadcasting channel when she was asked to switch on the television.
The five-man team had stopped and regrouped not far from the house for further instructions when Tony Chambers noticed something that struck him as odd.
“Er, boss?” Chambers didn't say anything, simply pointed in the direction of the house. Four pairs of eyes looked round to where Chambers was indicating.
“What the hell?” Was all CO Dave Mackay managed to say when he saw a huge number of crows perched on the guttering along the edge of the roof, on the roof itself and also meandering in the courtyard. The birds didn't seem to be paying the men any attention, but it was highly unsettling and more than just coincidence, thought Mackay. He radioed Hawkins to let them know what they had encountered and advised him to keep Mills talking as long as possible because their entry was going to be delayed. Hawkins swore loudly and kicked a nearby waste bin over in the incident room. He didn't blame Mackay, but it was a delay they could have done without. The plan had been to let Mills speak to Charlotte via webcam, hopefully convince him she was upstairs in her room and lure Mills there, where he co
uld be secured until reinforcements were brought in to remove him from the scene. But they couldn't do that until the team was in position inside the house, and Roach would have to improvise.
Not thirty seconds later, the plan lay in tatters as the assembled crows took off en masse and headed directly for the entry team. Somewhat stunned by the unexpected onslaught, they lost valuable seconds before deciding their only course of action was to retreat. The commotion could be heard back behind the police cordon; Lomas told her cameraman to start filming and looked on with disbelief at the black flock of birds raining down on the five figures running for safety, trying to brush away the birds as they ran. Mills' attention had been drawn by the initial sound of the birds' departure, even managing to laugh as he realised what was happening. He couldn't see anyone in the vicinity of the house, but knew that people must have been there lying in wait. Now he did feel truly invincible.
Lomas delivered a garbled report into the camera, constantly looking over her shoulder to commentate on the extraordinary events unfolding before her eyes. As only a reporter might, she immediately picked up on the fact that while the crows were attacking the assembled officers, some of them were being ignored by the birds entirely while others were attacked with greater ferocity and purpose. It seemed to go on for an age before the flock retreated back in the direction of the farmhouse, leaving behind a number of shocked people with varying degrees of injury. Some looked to be very badly hurt but thankfully no one had been killed. Hawkins was stunned and completely lost for words as triage was begun on the injured, who wandered around in shock. Those who had escaped any kind of assault could only wonder why and be thankful that they were spared.