Slaughterville

by Rod Glenn

  The mescaline opened the floodgates for him. He had skipped the dope stage when it had first started doing the rounds at school the year before, but after the festival, dope and mescaline quickly took over from beer. Then, one night in the toilets of a pub on the Bigg Market in Newcastle, two weeks into sixth form, he sampled his first line of cocaine. He instantly fell in love with the stuff; it made him feel more alive than he had ever felt before. It gave him boundless energy and his popularity with the ladies seemed to improve still further too.

  By the time December came round, he was snorting lines daily and stealing from family, friends, shops … anyone to buy more of his white heaven. Fighting and disruption in class followed. Soon after the school washed its hands of him, the police came knocking. After a slagging match with his dad turned into a fistfight, he was slung out of his home with just a bin bag of clothes (not even full, come to think of it).

  It was while dossing with a friend that he discovered a new saviour; Crack. He was penniless, kipping on the floor of a shitty bed-sit and, even though he had heard it was supposed to be highly addictive, he had thought, fuck it. Nobody gave a shit about him, so why should he? Overnight everything changed. He experienced his first whole-body orgasm and nothing in the world mattered after that.

  As a state of unwanted consciousness seeped in through his sweaty pores, so did the creepy-crawlies. He shivered as he pulled his bruised and emaciated body out of his bed, scratching at the itchy sensation quivering across his clammy skin. Glancing at an orange Bakelite clock by the single sagging bunk, he saw with no surprise that it was gone four in the afternoon.

  The bed-sit was a two room affair with the pokey main room, serving as bedroom, lounge and kitchen, and a tiny cubicle with a shower, sink and toilet as the second room.

  A dirty homemade bong held centre stage in the middle of the stained carpet-tiled floor, surrounded by empty beer cans and vodka bottles, sweet wrappers, crisp packets and the occasional used condom. An old moth-eaten blanket had been nailed up to the window to impede the afternoon sunshine from invading the dank, sweaty feet and mould-smelling room.

  He staggered naked to the stained toilet that was missing its fold-down seat and lid and urinated while scratching his backside. The upturned crucifix tattoo across his spotty back twitched with the flexing of his somewhat wasted muscles.

  Yes, life was pretty good for Jimmy.

  After dressing in grass and blood-stained jeans, he managed to find a nearly clean – once black, now charcoal grey – t-shirt then pulled on his black long coat and muddy trainers.

  He stood in the doorway, trembling slightly and scratching at his arms. With no gear left, he was desperate for another hit to banish the bugs and lift his mood out of the depths of hell. But he already owed Steve Belmont for the last bag and, pulling some grubby coins out of his coat pocket, he discovered that he had precisely one pound thirty to his name. He was watched like a hawk in the village shops these days and he didn’t have the money to go into Rothbury, so it was time to resort to one of his other professions – poaching from Bryce & Son. There was usually a few chickens, eggs or bags of tatties that he could get his hands on, that one or two of the less fortunate of the village would be happy to pay under the odds for, no questions asked.

  Three or four chickens might be enough for a quick hit, with maybe some change for a meat pie from Merlin’s.

  He would have to be careful though as that big prick, John Bryce, had nearly caught him last time, and he had publicly threatened to hospitalise anyone caught stealing from his farm. Well, after what that new bastard had done to him, what sort of a threat was that? That Whitman was going to get his – he would make him suffer to his last stinking breath.

  Opening the door, he paused a moment and turned to the rickety set of drawers to the side of the door which had two drawer fronts missing. A grey metal lock knife was perched on top, amongst empty cigarette packets and other assorted rubbish. He snatched it up and thrust it into his coat pocket.

  CHAPTER 4

  Oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking.

  Han sat at the desk with his laptop open and a cup of tea steaming beside it. Afternoon sunshine shone through the open curtains which rippled gently from a breeze blowing in through the raised sash window.

  For several hours, he had been meticulously trawling through the sound-byte footage from the various bugs. It was mainly comings and goings or inane drivel, but the occasional interesting piece of gossip or notable item did show up from time to time. The important thing was that he was slowly building up a picture of the habits and movements of the villagers. His notepad already had pages filled with detailed notes on most of Haydon’s residents. A dab here, a brushstroke there; the masterpiece was slowly taking shape.

  He was tapping a pen against his teeth as the play bar slowly crept from left to right on each sound file. Loretta Fairbank and Sally Bryce were playing in his earpiece, chatting on the Green with neighbourly concern about poor Carol Belmont. His mind wandering, as it sometimes did, he wondered how Jumanji was getting on with Perry. His faithful mutt would be pining something chronic for him no doubt. He made a note to make a quick phone call later to see how they were both getting on. Mobile phone reception was nonexistent in and around the whole area, so he’d have to ring from the public telephone box by the Post Office (safer than using the phone in his room). He’d have to remember to withhold the number, so that the area code wouldn’t give anything away. Perry would never notice such things of course (unless he had been smoking weed while watching reruns of The Lone Gunmen), but little details …

  As his Labrador drifted away from centre stage, Han found himself thinking of his past girlfriend; something he hadn’t done for quite some time. She had loved Ju. He and Vanessa, his one and only long term adult relationship, had parted company nearly two years ago after six years together. She had wanted the whole package – marriage, kids, PTA meetings … he had said he wasn’t ready for that, that he wanted to do some travelling, see the world, experience more of life, before ending it. Strangely enough, she hadn’t taken too kindly to that final comment. After a few weeks of bickering, arguing, then some crying, she packed her bags and went back to her parents in Derby. They spoke a few times in the weeks that followed, him telling her that he missed her and what they had together, and her telling him that she needed more and that she wasn’t getting any younger. But then the calls became less frequent, and then in one final phone call, she had awkwardly informed him that she had met someone else. Those words had felt so final, like being nailed to the ground and looking up to see a bomb whistling its way down toward you. He had wanted to beg her to come back and tell her that he would do anything she wanted, but all he managed to force out was a murmured ‘congratulations’. He could have sworn that he had heard a stifled sob before she thanked him and hung up. A year later he found out by chance that they were already married with a newborn baby boy. Close call there … yeah.

  While browsing through one of the Co-op recordings, a curious sound caught his attention, immediately causing his ears to prick up and to snap him back to the present. It was soft and barely above a whisper, so he cranked up the volume to full and pressed the earpiece tighter into his ear, straining to listen. It only took a moment to recognise the soft sounds of someone crying quietly to themselves. He listened for several minutes more before he caught the odd audible word.

  “How … used a condom …”

  “Ah, the plot thickens,” Han said to himself, thankful to be distracted from the unsettling memories of Vanessa. He now recognised the voice. It was that pretty part-time assistant. Flicking through the notepad, he located the name, Mandy Foster, and wrote ‘pregnant’ beside it.

  A thought occurred to him. He had bugged the phone box by the Post Office just in case – sometimes, for dirty little secrets, people didn’t feel comfortable using their home phone or mobile (not that he had noticed any Haydon residents actually using mobile phones, bu
t given that there was no reception, that wasn’t unusual).

  He located the sound file for the public phone and started it from the time when the crying stopped. It wasn’t long before his instincts paid off.

  Mandy’s voice; shaky, fraught. “Dougie, it’s Mandy.”

  “How you doin’, babe?” Throaty Scottish accent, possibly Glaswegian. “You decided whether you wanna little trip across the border, eh?”

  “Yeah, I gotta see you.”

  “I wanna see you too, babe. What about your kin?”

  Emotion ripped great rents through her trembling tone. “I’m going to leave this Saturday – I can ring them when I get away from this place. I just gotta be with you.”

  There was a slight hesitation from the mystery Scot. Then, “Okay. Has something happened, babe?”

  The sound of a sleeve wiping across a snivelling nose, and then, “Everything’s fine, Dougie, honestly. I just need to get away from this place.” After a trembling sigh, she continued, “I’ve got a friend in Shillmoor, so I’ll walk down to hers after my shift and she’ll be able to take me as far as Berwick. I’ll get the train from there.”

  After an edgy goodbye, the sound file ran quiet. He clicked the pause icon and sat back in his chair with a slight creak from the tired old wooden joints. So, it would seem the test would not be on the druggie tosspot, but rather a knocked up runaway.

  Well, it wouldn’t take much to find out when her shift finished, so it would just be a case of tailing her into the woods. It’ll take a couple of days before the friend or lover raises concerns to the parents. A missing person’s would not be filed till then. Would they search the area in between Shillmoor and Haydon? Certainly, but doubtful before Tuesday or Wednesday.

  Well, that gave him plenty of time.

  Saturday morning arrived and he made a final check of the items that he would take with him; the more sensitive items were extracted from his combination locked case. Dark clothes, hunting knife, back pack containing: flashlight, Jack Daniel’s Old No.7 embossed Zippo, lighter fluid, hacksaw, zip ties, bin bags, gaffer tape, an army surplus trenching tool, camouflage netting, a second set of clothes including boots, bottled water and two twenty-four hour ration packs.

  A shiver of anticipation, mixed with a healthy vein of fear, skipped through his tensed muscles. This day would be the true start of his adventure; the dress rehearsal before the live finale. After today, there would be no going back. He thought about that for a while. If there was ever a time to stop, it was now. He could pack up and leave this weird little village that seemed lost in time and never look back. He could then just carry on his normal shop life like nothing had ever happened. No one would ever know. But no, he would know. He would know that he came so close and then chickened out at the last minute. The dream was a calling and he had to see it through to the end.

  He had a key for the side entrance, so that he could come and go as he pleased without having to go through the bar, so slipping out wouldn’t be a problem. He had already politely informed Martha that he would be working undisturbed in his room all day, and had even recorded random typing, muttering and shuffling noises to play quietly on his laptop while he was away. There was a slight risk, even with the door locked, but he had also gotten Martha to make up some sandwiches to last him throughout the afternoon and insisted that he would be down for dinner for eight-thirty. That would have to be enough.

  There was one final item that he would be taking. The case remained open on the bed. He rummaged inside a concealed pouch until his fingers brushed over a cool, angular surface.

  The matt black 9mm Walther P99 felt good in his hand and instantly ramped up his excitement another notch. It was a compact, solid design and the favoured handgun of the more recent 007s, until Daniel Craig decided to go old school and return to the PPK. Perfect.

  He pulled out a couple of magazines and loaded them with practiced care. Once full, he inserted one into the grip with a satisfying click. In one swift movement, he cocked the pistol and aimed at the mirror by the door. Adopting the more classic Connery accent, he uttered, “The name’s Bond. James Bond.”

  His face took on a stern, I don’t take no shit, look. With set bearded jaw line and fierce eyes staring unblinking down the sight, his handsome face looked the consummate rugged hero. Chuckling to himself, he slipped it under his jumper and tucked it into his jeans in the small of his back.

  Absently flicking a few wayward strands of baby blonde hair out of her hazel eyes, Mandy handed the carrier bag over the counter. She thanked the last customer of the day, the plump, camp owner of Jolly Moe’s hair salon.

  “You’re a sweetie, Mand,” Moe Baxter said with exaggerated relief. He wore a crimson silk shirt open almost to the navel with a broken heart gold necklace and a thick rug of chest hair on show. In his fifties, with grey, slicked back hair and sideburns styled into points, contrasting with heavily tanned features, he was a man who wanted to grow old his way. “Mister Flibble would have been ever so upset if he missed out on his Saturday treat of sardines.”

  “Give him a big kiss from me,” Mandy replied, forcing a smile through the tempest of tormented thoughts cascading around her embattled mind.

  “Will do!” Moe said, accompanied by an infectiously beaming smile full of glaringly white teeth. With a wave of one jewel-encrusted, manicured hand, he swept out of the shop, leaving Mandy alone once more.

  Duncan Fairbank popped his head round the door that led to the store room and tiny cluttered office. “Get yourself away, Mand. I’ll lock up here; you just go enjoy your weekend. Your pay packet’s in the usual place.” He offered her a smile, emphasising his angular jaw line.

  Mandy returned the smile with near sincerity – she always went a little girly over Duncan’s Marlboro man smile. She slipped her hand in the drawer next to the till to retrieve the small brown envelope. She liked both Duncan and Loretta – they had always been kind and fair with her, and Duncan was still quite a hunk, despite his age. Maybe like Charlton Heston, but carrying a little extra weight. Glancing inside the envelope, she noticed that he had slipped in a little extra for her. “Thanks a lot, Mister F. That’s really nice of you.”

  His voice drifted from the store room. “No worries, pet. You deserve it.”

  Duncan appeared in the doorway and watched her leave in silence.

  Mandy carefully unlocked the front door of her parent’s house, making sure not to rattle the keys. The door was a bit stiff, as usual, so it took a bit of persuasion to ease it open.

  She crept along the narrow hallway, past her sleeping father on the sofa in the living room in front of the television (a Sony Trinitron in a wood veneer chassis). Mork and Mindy were hanging out in a record store, laughing at a customer’s flapping hair piece. “I’ve seen wavy hair before, but never hair waving …”

  Her mother would not be home for another hour or so, so that gave her plenty of time. The stairs creaked and groaned under her slight frame, causing her to pause and glance back down to the open living room door. Her father continued to snore softly amidst the drone of the television.

  Mandy’s bedroom was decked out in purples of all shades and dozens of posters of Steve McQueen, Warren Beatty, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Caine, Debbie Harry and Jack Nicholson.

  She wasted no time; dropping down onto her knees, she pulled a purple sports bag from under the bed that was already full to bursting point. As she stood up with its not inconsiderable weight, she glanced around the room, running through a mental checklist in her head. She had already carefully chosen which outfits and shoes that she most needed to take with her, along with her meagre collection of makeup and jewellery and some photos. Adding her wage packet to the funds already in her purple purse, she quickly calculated that she had a grand total of two hundred and thirty-two pounds in cash. This would constitute the sum total of her worldly possessions from which to start her new life in Edinburgh with. Sod all.

  Fighting back tears, she rubbed her eyes and hea
ved a sigh. She had to go, to be with Dougie. The thought of leaving Haydon and living in a big city terrified her. But they could have their own home, together; they could be a family. Her, Dougie and the baby. Since the initial shock result of the home pregnancy test, she had been even more surprised to realise that she actually wanted this baby; in fact, wanted it more than she ever thought she would. It would be hard at first; Dougie wasn’t earning much with his brother in their window cleaning partnership, and she would have to get whatever temporary job she could until the baby came. She was also very close to her mam and dad and the thought of leaving them made her ache deep inside. But there was no other way; they wouldn’t understand and they certainly wouldn’t approve of Dougie. So he had made a few mistakes as a kid and done a little time, but he was a loving, decent man now. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.

  She shrugged into her purple synthetic fur jacket and picked up the sports bag. It took all of her determination to tear her gaze away from the photograph in the plain silver frame on her bedside cabinet, which showed a pretty blonde haired girl in her early teens with proud, beaming parents standing behind, both with a loving hand resting on each of her shoulders … the life that she was leaving behind. After hovering in the doorway for another couple of gut-wrenching minutes, she finally turned and walked away, tears blurring her vision.

  Han watched from across the street in the shadows, appearing to flick through a North East England ‘Passionate about walking’ guide, as Mandy left her home for the last time. The cute nineteen year old was dressed in tight jeans, and what appeared to be a strange hairy purple monster. She had red eyes and flushed cheeks. Obviously an emotional departure.

  Bell Lane was quiet and surprisingly devoid of activity for a Saturday afternoon. From his position near the intersection with Main Street, he heard a car drive past behind him. He ignored it and continued to watch the girl over the top of the pages of the leaflet.