Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “I guess so, in a way” Roach admitted. “He didn't ask for any of this to happen, after all. To be executed once must have been bad enough, but twice?”

  “Do you think he could have been happy here – living in the twenty-first century, I mean?”

  “If the roles were reversed and you got shunted back to the seventeenth century, do you think you could fit in there?” Hawkins asked Parkes. “It's just a world he didn't belong in, same as you don't belong there. Andrew Mills will still be remembered here in Ferryhill three hundred years from now, all for the events of the last week.”

  “And I'll be forever remembered as his executioner” Parkes said quietly, turning her back on the gathering at Mills' grave and walking slowly towards the fireballs in the sky at the edge of the field that illuminated the road beyond.

  *

  EPILOGUE

  Ferryhill, County Durham, 1682

  The sixth day of May; it was one that had been waited on with no amount of joy. Mills had barely slept, scared like a child of tender years who is afraid of the dark and sees threat in every shadowy corner of the room, or who has wakened from the most horrible of dreams and is fearful of closing his eyes again in case the imaginings should return. This house that he shared with his father, with its two rooms and cracked, grimy windows that were covered with the flimsiest pieces of cloth; the abode he had so often expressed in great voice a massive desire to leave and never have to return; now that day had come, it felt as safe as a castle. Built on the northern edge of Ferryhill, where all of the no-gooders and society's outcasts had no choice but to call their home, it was a place that many had no wish to even set foot for a single second. And now that the chance had arrived for Andrew Mills to leave, he found himself loath to move in the other direction.

  “Ah, you're awake!” said Arthur Mills to his son, sounding in good voice. This was something that Andrew was most pleased about; his father was a small fellow, often sickly and in need of his bed for days at a time while his ailment passed. With his weary, lined face and unkempt grey hair, Arthur Mills looked some way beyond his true thirty-nine years. The love of his life, Mary – Andrew's mother – had been lost to whooping cough approaching the Christmas before last, and so it was left to the boy to provide care for his father. And while Andrew was now at an age where he was to go out and look to earn wages, it was still too young for him to become an orphan. It was this very thought that Arthur Mills believed granted him reprieve each time he took to his bed a sick man, or maybe it was the strong and beautiful spirit of Mary Mills looking down on him, he thought.

  “Good morning, father. Do you know what the time might be?”

  “Not far past seven, I should think. You don't look very well rested, my boy, and this is a very important day for you. What is a master to think if you should fall at his feet and start snoring in the dirt?” He followed this comment with a laugh, and his eyes seemed to sparkle and shine.

  “I found it difficult to sleep much of the night due to the raucous behaviour of what seemed to be...” And then he stopped speaking, eyes staring at the wall behind his father. The older Mills waved his hands in front of the younger man's eyes, but without response.

  “Andrew, are you all right, lad?” A hand placed on his shoulder seemed to bring Andrew Mills out of his dream and back to the here and the now. “What happened, boy?”

  “I cannot be sure. You will no doubt think me mad when I say this, but as I spoke about the racket that kept me from my sleep, I had the strangest feeling that I had said the exact same words to you before.” Arthur Mills furrowed his brow, placed a hand on his chin. He looked thoughtful.

  “Living in this part of town, I have no doubt you did. Now stop with these tricks and get some of this breakfast I prepared for you.” Andrew nodded and went to sit at the small table in the corner of the room. It was more likely than not his father was right, and the nerves had gotten him worse than he thought. Breakfast was little more than the remainder of the pottage that had been served for last night's supper, along with a piece of almost stale bread and a glass of water, but he was thankful for any food that was put in his stomach and the roof over his head.

  “Maybe I will be fortunate enough to find work with a master who would employ you also” Andrew said hopefully to his father while they ate. “We would live together and work together, remain as the family that we are right now. Wouldn't that be a grand idea?”

  “Indeed it would, but I fear no master would be wanting to put to work a man who is as sickly as I.” Arthur Mills still spoke – Andrew could see his lips move, the expressions on his face change – yet he could not hear the words. Again had come the feeling this was a repeated conversation, but from when he had not a clue. “For she would surely be filled with pride.” A tear pricked at the old man's eye.

  “Who would be filled with pride?”

  “You paid no attention to what I was saying? Your mother, lad! I said I wished she was here to see what a fine young man you have become. She would have been proud of you, as am I.” Arthur Mills smiled when he said this; it was a gesture full of genuine warmth and affection, an action that showed he truly believed in the words that he was saying.

  “My apologies, father; I was distracted. Yes, I wish she was still here with us, too. And my sister also.”

  “Your sister? What strange nonsense are you talking now, Andrew Mills?”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? I meant if I had a sister, it would be nice for her to be here.” Arthur Mills nodded, but stayed quiet, looking for all the world like he did not believe a word Andrew was saying. Why this sudden mention of a sister? Goodness knows what his mother is making of all this! He thought.

  “When I leave here, get work – how are you to manage without me?”

  “That is not to be your worry, my lad. I am of an age where I must be thinking of fixing these things myself. In my whole life I have never been from vagrancy, so it would be of no great surprise if I were to end up back there. What would make me and your mother most happy is for you to take a better path in life than we did. Today is the chance you get to make something of yourself, Andrew Mills! I know you would not deny your mother her dearest wish.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then leave this place and go forward. Make a good and honest life for yourself. Work hard. Be an honest and upstanding citizen. Respect your master and your fellow man, and you will get that respect in return, this much I promise you. These are the qualities you really need to find a good-hearted woman. A pound in your pocket might buy you a whore for a day, but not someone you can truly love for a lifetime. Do not think of how I am faring; save your worries for what lies ahead of you, not that you have left behind. I am ready to accept whatever might be lying in wait for me once you have departed. Now go, for you do not want to be late! Farewell, my lad!” The two men embraced before the youngest stepped out of the open door and onto the street, his mind not thinking of the hustle and bustle going on around him as he wondered what the day ahead might behold.

  *

  It was just after a quarter to eight when Mills arrived at the market place, and all the way here he had had the same thought; I have been here before. He did not mean that in the common sense – he had been to the market so many times he had long ago lost count – but when he thought of the moment, the sights, the smells and the noise around him, as well as the warmth of the sun of his face, there was strong in his mind a feeling of time repeated. Not in the general, but exactly. It was a sensation that Mills was unable to make sense of, yet it bothered him greatly. This should have been for him a day of great hope, yet instead he felt nothing but a sense of despair inside, like something very awful was going to happen. And try as he might to forget, the feeling would not go away.

  Mills headed for the farthest corner of the market, pushing his way through a crowd of women who haggled and bartered for supplies while men stood and talked amongst themselves, and young children ran amok, chasing ducks and chi
ckens and dodging through the legs and under the bodies of horses that paid them no mind. The whole scene playing out in front of Mills' eyes held a great familiarity, and it scared him a little. I will be glad when this day is done with, he thought to himself. He found a space near the front of the assembled men and women who hoped to gain employment on this day, feeling sad when he saw children who must have been not older than ten years already prepared to enter a life of servitude. Mills vowed that his children would never have to go through the same experience.

  “'Tis going to be a very profitable day, I would reckon” said a voice from the side of Mills. He turned, and saw there a young fellow he thought that he recognised but could not be certain from where.

  “I believe it is. Your name is Robert Clarke – am I correct?”

  “It is. Do I know you, stranger?”

  “Andrew Mills.” He held his hand out to shake, and Clarke took up the offer but looked confused, maybe even suspicious. “I think we have met previously, but I'm not sure where.”

  “You have visited Sunderland before?” Mills shook his head. “Then I don't know how we might have met, because this is the first time I have ever been to Ferryhill. My father told me of someone who would be passing through here today and was looking to hire some lads to work on his farm. Said he pays good wages and is a fair employer. I made sure I was here early so he couldn't pass me by. I wish you luck in finding work this day, Andrew Mills.” As Clarke disappeared into the thickening crowd, Mills couldn't help but notice the lad looked to be ill-suited to the hard toil of working the fields.

  This is all very odd, Andrew Mills told himself quietly. People would think me mad if they knew!

  “Begging your pardon, sir...”

  “There is no need for an apology, Miss Goodchilde. The crowd is thick and it is going to happen where people collide. No offence was meant and none has been taken, I assure you.”

  “Why, thank you. Not many would speak so kindly for being jostled, even if it were an accident.” Isabell Goodchilde flushed slightly, not quite able to meet Andrew Mills' eyes. “If I might say so, I'm surprised that you already know my name. I'm sure we have no similar acquaintances.” Now Mills was doing all of this without thought, and he was convinced in his own mind that something had happened to make this day feel like one that had already passed him by in exactly the same way as now. But who would believe him if he said such a thing? Not only now did he feel afraid for what might happen, but even in as full a market place as this he had never felt more isolated and alone.

  “A fortunate guess, I would think. I should go now; please pass on my good wishes to young Millicent, won't you?” Mills dashed off as fast as he was able, unsure of his own mind and what to do next. Maybe if he observed for a short time the memory that seemed to stay out of his reach might come to him. A good vantage point was found and Mills took a minute to survey all around him.

  *

  Another commotion began to stir the crowd. More carriages were approaching and it was with instinct that Mills knew who was inside. He remembered a girl...Martha, her name was...eighteen years old, or so she had claimed. The memory was as bright as day, and while Mills had a feeling in his gut that something was not right, he also felt sure that this was not to be the worst of it.

  “You, what is your name?” A plump, grey-haired man was addressing a young girl who he had his cane pointed at. Mills' suspicions were proved right; she declared herself to be Martha Fairless, eighteen years old and ready to do whatever her potential master bade.

  “Anything?” A large smile appeared on the man's lips, and in that instant Andrew Mills knew what he must do. The man and Martha Fairless conversed for a while longer before he departed, asking her not to leave for want to possibly speak with her again. Mills took a deep breath and approached the girl, who looked happy enough to believe she had already gained employment.

  “Excuse me, Miss.” He tapped Fairless gently on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, I've just been hired – which is something of a shame, seeing as how you're so handsome and all.” She smiled coyly, even though her words suggested she could be anything but. Mills returned the smile, but knew he had an important message to deliver.

  “I appreciate your remarks, but I'm not here looking to hire anyone. I have a warning for you, one which you would do well to heed, believe me. That man you have just been speaking to; he is not after your services as a washerwoman or a housemaid – all he wants is your body.” And at this Martha Fairless laughed long after a few seconds of disbelieving.

  “You serious?”

  “I am. I would not have said the words if I did not believe them to be true.”

  “And how do you know this?” That was a question Mills was not hoping to be asked, for he had no way of providing the girl with an answer.

  “It is not something I can prove to you, but you have to believe me. He will take you away from here this day and for a while all will seem well and good, but that will be for the shortest of times. By the summer's end you will already be with child – his child – and when he finds out you will be cast from his household. There will be nobody to take you in. Even your mother and father will turn their backs on you, for they will not allow a bastard child to cross their threshold. I know this sounds to be nothing but the rantings of a mad man, but I can assure you it is true.”

  “Well, Andrew Mills, that's quite a story you tell! But I think I know my own mind and it tells me that you're talking gibberish. I should run after the man and tell him what you said, tell him your name! That would surely gain me favour and maybe even better wages. What say you to that?”

  “Only this. Have we talked before this time, even once?”

  “Not as I remember...”

  “Then how would you know my name?” Fairless looked confused, then shocked. And then she spoke.

  “You told me, that's why.”

  “I did not.”

  “Well you must have! How could I possibly know otherwise?”

  “Because I think you know more than you believe that you do. I beg of you, try and cast back your mind some ways to think of what has happened this day, and how you have ended up here. Then you must try to imagine what your life will be like a short time ahead from now. I have only the thought of your safety in mind, this much I promise.” Fairless stared into Mills' eyes. There was pleading and knowing in there, she could see it, but how it could be was impossible to know. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  “You there, Martha Fairless! Stop your chatting with that boy and come with me now if you want work!” She opened her eyes, where the man she had spoken with earlier stood waiting. “I don't have all day!” he prompted a few seconds after, full of impatience.

  “I'm sorry, but I have to go. I need the wages or I have to live on the streets. What would your choice be? But something has happened here today and I will try to be on my guard. Thank you, Andrew Mills.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and scurried away to meet with her new employer, who had put an arm around her shoulder as he led her back to his awaiting carriage. Mills retreated back to the space he had left behind, feeling angry and helpless.

  “What am I to do?” he asked imploringly, eyes raised to the heavens. “No one is going to believe me when I spout these tales! They believe it to be nothing but lies and rubbish!” He had spoken loud enough for others passing nearby to hear, but was paid no attention.

  'Do not try to change the fate and the lives of others, my sweet, sweet child, only your own.'

  Mills looked around, but there was no one nearby. Those words; he was certain that they had been whispered directly into his ear, but that wasn't possible. Even more so when he recalled the voice being that of his beloved mother.

  “How I wish you were here to guide me, mother” he sighed. “But I will do as you say. Please, do what you may to protect me.”

  *

  So much more passed by the eyes of Andrew Mills that he could remember, either in whole or
in part. And it occurred to him that if he did not intervene as he had just tried with Martha Fairless that he was changing the fate and lives of others anyway. He was removed from William Longstaff, the broad-shouldered lad with whom he had spent a while talking and learned of Longstaff's desire to work with horses. Somebody else was talking to Longstaff now yet still, as Mills watched, a man of money had come by and presumably offered him the work he had only dreamed of, such was his reaction.

  “And so when I change, those around me will change also” Mills whispered before going to take his place back amongst the thinning crowd

  *

  Some way into the afternoon, when a hideous din made itself apparent from somewhere behind his position, Andrew Mills let go not a smile, but the broadest of grins. Not only did he know the cause of the racket, but also he instinctively felt that this was his time to...what, precisely? He couldn't be sure, but Mills knew that whatever was to happen it would not be long coming.

  “Here's Annie Sanders, late as ever!” Elizabeth Barton screeched, nudging younger sister Hannah with her elbow. “You been at the whiskey bottle again, or was it them men who constantly call by your house during the night?” All eyes turned to the wide-bodied woman who had come running into the market place, huffing and puffing as she held up the hem of her dress so as not to stumble and fall. Her face was flushed and she was sweating.

  “Blimey, I can smell you from 'ere! When was the last time you 'ad a wash, then?”

  “And your wailing banshee voice can be heard as far away as Newcastle, I am sure” said Mills, turning on Barton. “When was the last time you shut your mouth, or have you been screaming since the day you left your mother's gut?” People around began to laugh, but they were laughing at Barton, not with her. She felt herself flush and stared at Mills with angry eyes.