by Conrad Jones
The locals were suspicious of each other. They had worked out that Critchley was not worshipping Satan alone. Family feuds going back decades were resurfacing as accusations were met with counter-accusations. I witnessed several scuffles between the natives, usually fuelled by the consumption of ale and a festering dislike for each other that went back generations. Of course the press soaked it all up. There was an atmosphere of morbid excitement over the town. The one thing that struck me though, was the lack of possible victims being named that came from the local area. Over twenty bodies had been discovered yet none of them seemed to be linked to the local area. There were only a few names mentioned in regard to relatives reported missing over the last ten years. That told me that Critchley was a clever man. Had he preyed on the local community, his depravity would have been discovered much sooner. Ten days after his arrest, Critchley was found in his cell with his throat slashed. According to the news reports, a fellow prisoner had sharpened his toothbrush by filing it to a point against his cell wall and then had slashed Critchley repeatedly, taking out one eye and severing the jugular. He was rushed into the prison surgery but died from blood loss before they could help him. His death left a lot of unanswered questions and also reinforced my fear of entering the prison system. I’m convinced that Jennifer had him silenced before he could identify himself as a niner.
As with any story, for a few short weeks the tabloid newspapers were all over it. The television stations replayed new additions to the story daily on all the major news programmes. With a story moving this fast, there was no time to look back in detail. New revelations were made every day. The body count at the farmhouse was growing as the police excavated the site and pieced together Critchley's ten-year rampage. With the bones and flesh that remained there, forensic scientists discovered that he had been killing for over a decade. Identifying the victims was the priority and missing persons’ lists were being cross-referenced and analysed. As the names of the victims began to be confirmed, the focus shifted to their families. Some say that closure is a blessing which some victims’ families are denied, but in this case, I’m not convinced. Given the choice of having a missing sibling or child, or being informed categorically that they had been sexually abused, slaughtered and eaten by a raving psycho and his buddies over an extended period of time, missing sounds preferable. Victims’ families were interviewed relentlessly, their shock and grief televised for a news hungry world. Speculation as to how their relatives had arrived at such a brutal end was rife.
Critchley’s arrest was shrouded in mystery. At first the police were cautious about revealing how they had stumbled across the carnage at the farm. Eventually it came to light that they had been alerted when an allegation of rape and kidnap was reported by a young local man named, Geraint Hughes. It appeared that he had managed to escape Critchley, but only after he had been subjected to a brutal assault and sodomised repeatedly by a number of men who he couldn’t identify. His testimony cemented the ritual side of the story. Over the following weeks, the police revealed that they were interviewing a number of other possible victims, who had come forward once the story hit the headlines. One victim on the periphery of the investigation was Max Blackman and I identified him as the person that I would talk to first.
Initially, terrified Max Blackman told the press that he was a victim of abuse at the hands of Critchley and that he was nearly a murder victim, but some of his statements didn’t add up in my mind. In his version of events, he escaped a hideous death at the hands of the cannibal killer Critchley, who before his death, had confessed to the mutilation-murders of at least twenty-two men and boys. Max alleged that he was held prisoner in Critchley's farmhouse of horrors which he described as a dwelling with a cellar littered with human skulls and body parts. Finally after eight hours at the knife-edge of death, he fled half-stripped, bleeding and handcuffed, into the nearby woods. After running for his life he reached the road which led into town, where he flagged down a passing car. The driver had taken him to the hospital where his wounds were stitched and treated but he wouldn’t reveal how he had received them. He told the police that he had been too scared of Critchley to report the attack at the time.
The first day after Critchley’s suicide rocked the world, the nationals ran a small, page one article on Max Blackman and his escape alongside the main headlines from the farmhouse. The account of Max's getaway was short and shallow. There were few details in his account. It was dwarfed by the huge headlines and photos of Critchley's arrest and the search for his victims' identities. While some lesser known reporters from small publications hounded Blackman for a few days, other more established reporters ignored him and pursued the grim body count, the grieving relatives whilst religiously attending daily news conferences held by the lead officer on the case. It was as if those in the know disregarded anything that Blackman had to say.
There was a subtle but clear change of tack in the manner in which Blackman was perceived. The police were giving out no more information about Max's experience inside the farmhouse with the murderer. There was no inside story. It didn’t sit right with me but he had said enough for me to want to talk to him alone. I wanted to know more. If he had been subjected to such a terrible ordeal, then why wasn’t he receiving the same amount of sympathy and exposure as Geraint Hughes was? Following Critchley’s death, Hughes had been interviewed on every breakfast news programme and afternoon talk show that I could mention and some that I can’t remember. There was no doubt that Hughes had suffered terribly and if he made some money out of his plight, then good for him. But I couldn’t understand why Blackman had been shunned by the press. They knew something that I didn’t.
Something about Blackman made my skin crawl. He was lying about all or parts of his testimony but I couldn’t put my finger on what or why. After the initial wave of public sympathy for him had waned, the press seemed to back off his plight and the police decided to drop his allegations from the prosecution’s files. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who doubted him. It would be another week before the media would turn its collective attention away from Blackman completely. By then Max was talking to any small newspaper that would give him a few pounds to hear him whining, but his story was lost in the middle pages.
The local Welsh journal mentioned that Max Blackman lived in the same valley that the bodies were discovered in, about two miles away from the farm. There was a small village situated there called Corwen, which consisted of a church, a few pubs and the omnipresent Spar shop. The remains of a country post office, which had been closed a few years before, stood between the pubs and the mini-market. I decided that Corwen was the place to be to find out more about Max Blackman. Leaving my clothes in the guest house, I packed a few toiletries and drove to Corwen, hoping to get a room in one of the pubs. They advertised accommodation online, but had no pre-booking facilities or information on availability. I decided to take the chance on booking in when I got there but kept my room in Llangollen too. I’ve discovered that staying in a pub and gassing with the local drinkers is the best way to find out about anything that you want to know associated with an area. Pretending to be interested in their locality can yield a plethora of information especially if you buy the orators a few pints.
I headed up the A5 and passed through the now infamous Carrog on the way. The temptation to take a closer look at the farmhouse was intense but I knew that it would be ring-fenced by the ongoing investigation so I drove through the village and when I reached Corwen, I parked my truck on a side street near to the pubs. I took my bag, which contained a toothbrush, some deodorant and a razor and walked into the first pub that I came to. It was a typical Welsh pub, dark wood and polished brass and a slight smell of must mixed with damp. Every flat surface was covered with ornaments loosely attached to Wales. Welsh dragons made from slate and painted plates from all around the area cluttered the shelves and window ledges. A chalkboard displayed the day’s specials and the polished tables were decorated with laminated
menus, Heinz ketchup and ceramic salt and pepper pots. Three men were sitting on leather topped stools at the bar, passing the afternoon with a few pints of real ale and a good moan about life in general. As I walked in, their conversation stopped for a few seconds while they decided if I was Welsh or another pesky tourist. Their sour expressions told me that they had decided on the latter and they turned back to their chitchat.
The landlord was a little more welcoming, greeting me with a smile as he eyed my bag. Filling an empty guest room upstairs was top of mind for him, no matter where I was from. After a brief exchange, I swapped twenty-five pounds for the key to room number 3, turning down the offer to view it first. I thanked him in Welsh, which turned the heads of the three men at the bar and their demeanour towards me changed instantly. One of them asked me where I was from and I told them that I was from Holyhead, Anglesey and that I was a writer looking for somewhere quiet to think about my next book. They were polite enough and we chatted while I drank my first beer. I purposely avoided asking about the murders in Carrog, waiting for them to bring the subject up. When they did, we made small talk about it with the landlord who was pissed off that none of the journalists had stayed in his pub for more than one night, opting for the much busier town of Llangollen.
Max Blackman’s name was mentioned as he was connected to the story and from the village. A few more lunchtime customers from the village drifted in and out but I didn't learn too much new about Max Blackman until a man in a postal uniform at the end of the bar joined the conversation. This was the loose end that I’d been waiting for.
“I’ve known his family for years but they all moved away after his dad died,” one of the men said. “Max stayed here but he has always been a strange one.” The comment at the end of his sentence rang a bell in my head that there wasn’t much sympathy for Blackman.
“Everyone knows everyone here,” the landlord added almost apologetically.
“You don’t have to explain that to me, Holyhead is a small town too,” I nodded.
“I used to go fishing with his father, nice man he was. I remember young Max being born but I don’t even know where he lives now.” The man added. “And I don’t want to know either.”
“Not on your Christmas card list?” I tried to draw more information out him.
“No.”
“Must have been frightening for him though?”
“If you believe a word he says.”
“And you don’t.”
“Not a word.”
I was struggling to get more than one word answers and I didn’t want to attract suspicion. Strangers asking questions in small villages are suspicious enough without any help. I felt that I was close to hearing the gossip but they just didn’t want to part with it yet.
“I know where he lives," said the postman at the end of the bar. He didn’t add any details and left the statement hanging in the air. Knowledge is power, especially in the pub. He stared straight ahead and waited for someone to bite.
“Where then?” The landlord asked almost as a challenge. He looked at me and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “I remember his father lived up Bryn-y-Mor but I’ve not seen young Max for years, wouldn’t have a clue, but if you want to know where someone lives, ask a postman. Come on tell us, where then?”
“I’m not supposed to tell peoples’ addresses, it’s against the law, you know!” The postman rattled his empty glass on the bar and smiled like the village idiot. “It’s slipped my mind now.”
“I’ll get that,” I offered and pushed my empty pint glass towards the landlord. I smiled at the postman and he grunted a suspicious thank you. “Don’t worry I’m not fishing for information, I just find the whole incident interesting in a morbid type of way.” The other men along the bar laughed and nodded that they understood my meaning. “All part of being a writer.”
“Oh, I bet you’ll get a few ideas from this Critchley nightmare.”
“We’re all fascinated by bad news,” I smiled. “Human nature.”
“Too true, that is,” one of them added. “It’s only human to be fascinated by other people’s misfortune!”
“Other peoples’ suffering is what we like,” the man continued. “Look at how tourists queue up to see the dungeons and torture chambers at the castle. It’s the busiest bit of the tour!”
“We're always more interested in bad news than good,” I smiled. “Would anyone else like a drink?”
The landlord raised his eyebrows and shook his head as the others swallowed the pints that they had been nursing for the last twenty minutes and offered them to be recharged. “This lot will never say no to a free pint, tight buggers!” He laughed and his chubby cheeks wobbled as he spoke. “Come on then, Dai,” he turned to the postman. “Where is Max living now then?”
The postman leaned a little closer so that the other non-existent customers couldn’t hear. “He lives in the bedsits at the top of Caer-glas Road,” he said slowly. He nodded proudly and slurped a quarter of his pint in one go. “He’s a bit of a loner and I think he’s on the other bus, if you know what I mean.” He added and waved a limp wrist over the bar. The other men reacted to the news that Blackman might be gay by shaking their heads in disgust and frowning appropriately.
“Bloody shirt-lifter,” one of the men muttered. “I’d shoot the lot of them, I would!”
“Blackman a puff?” another added. “His father would be spinning in his grave if he knew.”
“Can’t understand bummers,” Dai added.
“Nice to know that my regulars are such an open minded crowd,” the landlord said quietly in my direction. “Trapped somewhere in the last century most of them,” he laughed.
“Cerris from the barbers told me that she’d heard that Blackman and others were often seen going to that farm,” Dai said in a hushed tone.
“Cerris is the oracle of all gossip around here,” the landlord explained. “She’s the local hairdresser so she hears all the fresh news first!”
“Oracle?” the man to my left piped up. “She’s a bloody nuisance that woman. You can’t fart without her knowing about it and telling the village.”
“You’re right Tom,” said Dai “She’s been telling me for years that those bedsits are rife with skivers, drugs and bummers.”
The landlord rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head. “I give up sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t have thought a pretty village like this would have bedsits,” I said fishing for more details. “Were they built as holiday flats?”
“God, no!” The postman nearly spat his beer out. “There are loads of bedsits here and most of them are shitholes built for the social to pay the rent!”
“You wouldn’t think would you?” I waited for him to bite on the bait.
“English developers bought most of the empty properties for holiday homes and now the youngsters can’t get mortgages on them. A couple of property developers bought some of the three storey houses and turned them into bedsits, knowing that the young ones would sign on and get the rent paid for them. Greedy bastards if you ask me!”
“Same thing happened in the tourist areas on Anglesey, especially around the Treaddur Bay area,” I sympathised with his opinion. “The trouble with that is when they applied for planning permission the council forced them to build separate access to each floor in case of fires so they had to fit fire escapes. Cost the developers a fortune.”
“Serves them right in my mind,” huffed one of them.
“Most of them had to have metal fire escapes fitted to the outside of the buildings, cost a fortune to make them to measure,” I added.
“Yes,” the postman took the bait. “Same thing happened up at Caer-glas. They had to fit metal stairs to the bedsits too.”
That was my starting point. I had the name of the street and a description of the building. It was a three storey house with a metal fire escape fitted to the outside. I didn’t think that where would be too many of them in Corwen. I finished my pint and said
my farewells politely, pretending that I was taking a stroll down to the river.
Chapter 2
Max Blackman
The Caer-glas neighbourhood was declining. Slate built Victorian terraces mixed with taller apartment buildings and the occasional two-up-two-down stone built house. I guessed that Max lived in the bedsit on the middle floor of the converted building. I couldn’t be sure but the curtains were closed tightly and my instinct told me that he was hiding in there. The building was run down and in need of repair. The paint was chipped, the woodwork peeling and a few broken windows were visible from the street. Paint flaked from the railings on the fire escape as they snaked up the deteriorated side wall of the house. I was staring at the middle floor window and obviously looked out of place on the quiet street when a voice disturbed my thoughts.
“Are you looking for Max Blackman?” The voice asked chirpily. An elderly man in a green tweed jacket and matching flat cap stood uncomfortably close to me. I hadn’t heard him approach and his question startled me. “I bet you’re a reporter!”
“Something like that,” I winked at him. He seemed amiable enough.
“I get you, secret squirrel and all that,” he tapped his nose and smiled to reveal a full set of ageing yellow teeth. “Not police are you?
“No.”
“There have been a lot of reporters looking for him lately although their numbers seem to have dwindled the last week or so. He’s old news now.”
“The focus changes with a story like that,” I smiled. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
“Have you seen him around today?”
“No. The little creep is doing his best to hide," said the man. There was acidity to his tone. “I haven’t seen him out of his flat for days. Don’t quote me on this but no one around here has got any time for him. He’s a bit of a queer one, if you know what I mean.” The limp wrist was a clue to his message.