Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “What am I looking for?” Hawkins asked her.

  “Have a look, tell me what you think.” Parkes handed Hawkins the magnifier. He'd always considered himself to have an eye for detail but what he'd been shown so far was extraordinary.

  “There seems to be a tiny red spot at the back of his throat” Hawkins surmised after a minute or so. “It doesn't look like anything significant though.”

  “That's what I thought at first, but look at the surrounding area. See the curve above it? You can just about tell the difference between the two shades of black. But look to the left, just below the red spot.” Hawkins did as he was asked. He could see there was a slight colour difference but still wasn't sure what Parkes was getting at. She could see Hawkins was getting frustrated so grabbed a pencil and scrap of paper and began to draw.

  “This is what I saw.” Hawkins took the paper from her and studied it.

  “Looks like a bird?” he said, more of a question than a statement.

  “A crow, to be precise” Parkes elaborated. “The evil presence inside of Mills has taken at least the partial form of a crow. That would explain why your men were attacked by a whole host of the things, and also why they left some people alone completely. They remembered the faces of their enemies and saw no reason to go for the others. So now Mills has some kind of connection with these crows and they're doing his work for him. Don't ask me how, but I'm sure I'm right.”

  Hawkins didn't have a clue how to respond. He, Parkes and Roach sat in silence for a minute.

  “So what do we do now?” Roach asked finally.

  “There's one thing that Mills wants more than anything right now, and that's me” said Parkes, sounding determined. “I'm the only person who is absolutely guaranteed not to be touched by the crows, or slaughtered instantly the second Mills lays eyes on me. I was partly responsible for starting this whole thing, so it's only right that I end it. I'm going and I won't take no for an answer, but I do need some time to prepare. He asked for Charlotte to be at the house by six, right? What time is it now?”

  “Twenty to five” said Roach. “Boss, we're out of options and out of time. We have to let Jane try this or we have no idea what will happen. From what we've seen, Mills is untouchable so if he has a weak spot we need to exploit it.” Hawkins considered her words for a moment, then exhaled deeply.

  “Okay, you've convinced me. What do you need?”

  “To become Jane Brass” said Parkes. “Mills has to believe that this isn't another trick, so we have to make this as real as possible. Getting the attire won't be too much of a problem; I can dress down and he's more interested in me as a person anyway, so it's the words I have to get right. I need to convince him I'm ready to do what he wants so will need to get a quick lesson on Candlemas and what it's about, too.”

  “Candlemas?”

  “A holiday celebrated in Mills' time; I remember Hodgy telling me Jane Brass was to marry William Cutter on Candlemas, so I'm going to tell Mills I'll marry him instead on the same day. Hopefully that will appeal to his ego and at least get him out of the house. I'll have to make it up as I go along, but who better than a drama student to take the starring role? I'm confident I can get through to Mills. I have to at least try.”

  “I hope you're right because I'm not sure where we'll go next if this doesn't work. Roach, go with her; take her home to change – blue lights all the way but no sirens or Mills might hear. Everything's on the internet now so have a look for some info on this candle thing for Parkes to read up on. I need you both back here in an hour so get moving.”

  As Roach grabbed hold of Parkes' hand and dragged her out of the incident room, Hawkins was left alone to ponder whether he had made the right call and what could possibly be done if this plan were to fail. It quickly became apparent that failure wasn't an option.

  *

  FIFTEEN

  Ferryhill, County Durham, 1683

  Everything is as black as the darkest of nights. I feel like I am trapped inside a vast amount of nothing.

  Where am I trapped? My mind is as black as the space around me. How can I not know where I might be? If I were to hear another man say such a thing I might consider him to be quite mad! But with no memories and no visible landmarks then I can have no clue as to my standing. I would imagine that if I can see none of these things then my position is not good, yet I do not feel threatened in any way. I would not profess to feeling entirely safe, but do not believe I am in any immediate danger. There is no need for panic – yet – but I would like to know where I am.

  It would be better I start off slowly to try and find a clue. First I ask myself; can I see? Even in the dark you will still see shadows. I see no shadows so must assume at this time that I cannot see. Now, can I move any? It takes no thought or concentration from a man to be able to move; it is something that he merely does. I feel almost as though I have been bound, yet do not feel my wrists or legs in contact with each other, so if I am restrained then it is not in the more traditional manner. My fingers are moving very slightly, and I am aware that they are surrounded by...what is it? Why is my brain not remembering these things for me? I feel like I want to scream and shout; this is making me very angry! I have to remind myself that it will take time for me to make sense of all this, and I begin to calm down.

  There is nothing to hear. Not a single sound, even the beating of my heart. What sort of a place would I be in for there to be no noise of even the tiniest kind? I try and smell, but the faintest of aromas helps me little. It is a familiar smell, one of which I am much used to, but cannot recall at this moment. It is now I realise that I can recall nothing at all – not a single thing – and so start to panic some more. I am desperate to know what has happened to me.

  I have an idea. It might be useful if I should call for help. My mouth starts to open as words form themselves in my throat, but as I try to speak something falls into my mouth and lodges itself there. It was a shock for this to happen because it got me off my guard, but in the same way I might taste my food I find that I recognise the object in my mouth to be an amount of soil. It is not the most pleasant of sensations but I know it will not kill me and so I swallow it down, taking note in my head that I should not open my mouth again. At last now I have my first real clue regarding where I might be.

  And so I lay, quite still and unmoving, as I wonder what would be the cause of my being bound and having soil fall into my throat when I open my lips. A picture shows itself behind my eyes; a glimpse of an image for the merest of seconds, but clear as glass. I am stood in the house of John Brass, outside what I reckon to be Miss Jane's bedroom. There is noise from inside – I hear it now. Screams for help, cries of anguish and despair. I am being told, or begged even, to go away and leave them alone. Them? So, there is more than just Miss Jane in this room?

  William Cutter! I do not feel it now, laid here in the dark, but in my head I feel the rage that must have went through my body while at the bedroom door. William Cutter must have been in there, and with the woman I love more than anything! I will not let him marry my Jane! He will be stopped, even if I should die while trying! My boot kicks out at the door, which shudders some but will not give. There is more shouting from inside the room, but I refuse to listen.

  Now, another picture in my head. I am at Miss Jane's bedside, knelt on the floor. My eyes take in the scene before me as I turn my head, and it is one of bloodshed, of carnage and destruction. What happened here? Did Cutter kill these people and take his leave? That would be impossible; the window is closed tight and he would not have gotten past me out of the door. There must be another explanation.

  I hold up my hands before me and see they are covered with blood. I start to retch, and then sob; it is all coming back into my memory now. It was I who killed these three, for I have counted the corpses that lie around the room. The first is Master Brass; he is closest to the window, laid on the floor by the dresser. His head has been stoved in and it was my axe that did it – I remember it
now. Young Brass put up an admirable struggle, not like I would have imagined, but who knows what strength a man would possess when he is fighting to save his very existence? There is a lot of blood expelled onto the carpet around him; I must have finished him off with my knife. His face is quite pale now. To use such force I must have been under much threat, so it is obvious he did not die quickly.

  Miss Jane is just across from him, not far from the door and slumped against the wall. She almost looks to be sleeping, and is still so pretty. A beguiling creature who is able to hold the gaze of many a man, even in death. The right arm is horribly misshapen; it is badly broken and must have been what she had used to try and bar the door to stop me from entering. The pain must have been significant when finally I kicked in the door and snapped her arm, but I did not hear her cry. So much stronger than her younger brother, who I have no doubt would have been a sobbing wreck had the same happened to him. She too has felt the steel of my blade, and overly so. There are many wounds, so many as to cause excessive bleeding. I feel a sadness at the loss, but it soon passes when I think of how this would never have been necessary if she had only complied with my wishes. This was not my fault!

  It is young Lizzie Brass who makes me feel saddest of all. Only eleven years, but caught up in the troubles created by her elder siblings and so she had to perish. Now I remember how she pleaded for her life after seeing her brother and sister die, and I was going to grant her request, but when I left the bedroom...what happened then?

  'I sent you back to finish her off' says a voice inside my head.

  “But why would you want the death of a young child?” I ask, remembering that I must not speak out loud. The question is put to the voice from another part of me, and I wait for an answer.

  'Because I wanted to view her blood' it says, and in those few words I recognise who it is. A familiar warmth starts to run the whole length of my body.

  “You are the Devil?”

  'I am.'

  “And you possess much knowledge?”

  'I do. You are seeking answers, and I will answer your questions, but first you must promise me this one thing.'

  “And what would that be?”

  'To be my loyal and faithful servant, and do what is asked of you whenever I care to ask it.' I think for a moment of what I can possibly say in reply.

  “What if I should refuse?”

  I had expected anger and rage, but instead I get laughter. It goes on a while, and the longer it lasts, the more I feel scared. Finally it stops and the voice speaks to me again.

  'I have many souls who would willingly do whatever I bid, so do not believe I choose you because you have a greater talent for evil. You can defy my request and I will not quarrel with you so you might change your mind, but I will make you suffer.' Another thought occurs to me.

  “And how would you do that, for I now remember that I am already dead, am I not?”

  'Listen to what you say, Andrew Mills! If you are already dead, then how come you are able to think, to talk, or even debate whether you have any real say in what I ask of you? You do not believe I can make you do these things if I so wish? Believe what I say when I tell you that if you were not to comply with my wishes, then I would take much amusement from seeing you suffer for the whole of eternity. Your death is my life, and I can make it what I want it to be. So, your answer?'

  “I have questions...”

  'Then ask them!'

  “First of all, you must tell me where I am. My memory is confused. I see some images of things that I have done, but nothing to help me remember why I might be here, where I am just now.”

  There is a pause. It is not a long one, but I sense the voice is going to tell me things I do not wish to hear.

  'You are a murderer of children' it says, and I think of the three faces I have just seen inside my mind. 'All the children of John and Margaret Brass perished at your hand, and you were duly hanged for your crimes. At first it was thought you might be fortunate and transported to one of the colonies, such was the delay in your execution, but John Brass saw to it that you were not to leave land and that justice would be done. You were hanged by the neck until death a short way over two weeks earlier to now, and where you currently are is your final resting place. It is the grave that was dug for you below the stob from which you hung, one fit only for an executed man. But you are a fortunate man also!'

  “And how might that be?”

  'Because of the crows!' This makes no sense to me at all. I need more information, and so I ask.

  'A number of the crows who pecked at your dead body for their food were found dead at the base of the stob, Andrew Mills. You know well the carrion will partake of any man once he is dead, for he becomes nothing but a feast to these hungry birds, but I was already deep inside your bones and so when they partake of you, they also partake of me. They may seem little likely to cause a man any real trouble, but a crow will always remember the face of its enemies and fetch its friends when it chooses to seek its revenge. Those crows were thrown into the pit with your half-eaten carcass and so became a part of you, just as I desired.'

  “But what purpose will that serve now that I realise I am buried beneath my stob? Do you plan to give me a spade so I might dig myself out of here? Ha!”

  'I have no need to do such a thing, for I already know it will be done for me. In three centuries, three decades and three years from now, you will be reawakened and will do as I ask. There will be more bloodshed, and it will be from those who have wronged you in some way from the life that you had. There is no need to tell you who these people are, for you will know the immediate time you lay your eyes upon them.'

  “And my reward for doing your work, if I might ask?” When the voice of the Devil replied, it was fearsome.

  'You would seek reward for doing work that is agreeable to you? Well, you do have nerve! It seems I have chosen well with you, Andrew Mills! Then what of this for a reward; you will be wed to Jane Brass, as you so much desire. It is not the Jane whose life you have already taken, as I am sure you will have guessed already, but that of a young maiden who will be so much like the Jane Brass you knew that the difference between the two could not be told. Do you consider that reward enough, or should I endow you with endless wealth as well? Do not even dare to ask me if that last part is true or I will gladly make you suffer.'

  “And just how might you make a dead man suffer?” I wish to know.

  'You ask me to show you suffering? Why, gladly! If you were as dead as you claim to be then we would not be able to converse as we are right now. It is me who is keeping you on the brink of life, Andrew Mills, and I can make every second you exist more painful than you could ever believe.'

  I react as a man would under threat of pain; my body goes tense and I feel my eyes clench more tightly closed. But things happen not how I would have imagined.

  A young woman who possesses great beauty is walking slowly along a riverbank. It is a hot summer's day and flowers nearby are in full bloom, offering up their sweet scent and glorious colour to all who care to stand and admire. But this woman has no interest in the beauty that surrounds her; she has in her arms a small bundle, which I think at first to be clothes she is going to wash in the river. When I see a tear fall from her cheek and the bundle begin to stir, I realise she is carrying a baby, maybe only weeks old. And while a mother might proudly show off her newborn to all who cared to see, here is a woman who looks to be scared and full of loathing. A less well-walked part of the riverbank is reached but the woman keeps going, seeming keen to be as far away from human contact as she can possibly be.

  A quiet spot is reached and she lays the child down gently in the long grass beside her, moving off a short distance as she appears to be looking for something. Soon she bends down and picks up a rock, maybe a few stone in weight, before moving back to the child and sitting down alongside. As much as I try and remove the image from my mind, I find it will not shift. The Devil wants for me to see all of this, of co
urse, so that I might know just how powerful he is. There is no way to avoid what I am seeing and I begin to curse myself for having asked to see a show of his true power.

  Now the woman has reached under her dress. In a few seconds, she has removed a length of cord which she must have had wound around her thigh. One end of the cord is tied to the rock, and the woman's sobs get louder as the other end is tied around the bundle that is the child. This produces in me a sensation like I am stood right by her as and when it happened, even to the feel of the sun on my face. Now the rock and the baby are picked up, and she moves closer to the edge of the bank. I instinctively know what she is about to do and try to call out for her to stop, but there are no words from my mouth.

  “Goodbye, my sweet Elizabeth” she whispers to the child, tears falling from her cheeks in greater amount than ever before. “May God forgive me for this most evil of sins.” And then I see both rock and baby dropped into the waters of the River Wear, the woman looking on forlornly as it disappears beneath the surface without a trace left behind. Now she walks back the way that she came, and for the first time I see something in her that reminds me of someone I knew well. It is there that my mind goes to black and I hear the more malevolent voice again.