Slaughterville

by Rod Glenn

  Martha, frequently dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, and James Falkirk followed, along with the Fairbanks, the Herrings, Carol Belmont, sobbing hysterically, John Bryce, Sally and their scrawny son, Anthony, and a steady stream of others.

  Most of the village gathered by the open grave, their faces downcast, and their mood matching the weather. They stood, solemn and silent, as fine rain coated their dark coats and jackets with a glistening sheen.

  Han stood at the gate, at a distance, and watched silently. His features appeared pensive and pale in the poor light. Droplets of water clung to his hair and beard.

  After some clearly poignant words from Reverend Dunhealy that Han could not quite hear, the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. This signalled a vocal outburst from Moe, who dropped to his knees at the graveside. He caught sight of the camp barber casting a single red rose into the grave, along with many of his tears. He stayed there, kneeling on the sodden green felt for several minutes, crying uncontrollably with the Fairbanks’s daughter, Jill, holding a tender arm over his shoulders.

  A single tear escaped from the corner of one of Han’s own auburn eyes. He was surprised by it, but accepted it for what it was.

  Lisa appeared behind him and slipped an arm around his waist inside his jacket. “You okay, honey?” Her hair was dripping from the rain, but the concern in her eyes was for Han.

  He glanced at her and offered a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, just sad, that’s all.”

  The fine rain continued into the evening. The mood in the Miller’s was no better than by the graveside. People talked in hushed tones in their small groups, clustered in corners or at the bar. Carol Belmont managed three large gins, before she could stand the company of her fellow residents no longer.

  She had sat at a small table on the periphery of the lounge, alone and without speaking to anyone, except Lisa to briefly order her drinks. She had barely registered the familiar faces around her, the muted chatter or the clinking of the occasional glass.

  Her mood was etched into her face, so people knew to give her a wide berth. But, even the background noise soon became unbearable for her, so she left without a word, with her eyes downcast.

  The unrelenting rain quickly plastered her short blonde hair to her head, but she seemed oblivious as she walked unhurriedly towards her flat. The village appeared deserted or, perhaps, in hiding. The rain helped clear her head, but only worsened her mood.

  Water was dripping from her nose, chin and the tips of her hair as she opened the door and stepped inside her dark, cold flat.

  She shrugged out of her wet coat and hung it on a hook on the wall by the door, her movement automatic, unthinking. She then walked through into the small kitchen, her hair still dripping onto the cheap coarse carpet along the way. It was similar in size to Lisa’s – crammed with basic units and old second-hand appliances – but not in cleanliness.

  She headed straight to a wall unit with one dodgy hinge and retrieved a cheap bottle of ‘shop’s own’ brand gin, half full. She grabbed a mixer glass from the next shelf, which had a meagre mismatched assortment of cups and glasses, then filled it to the top with gin. Remaining at the worktop, she proceeded to gulp down the entire glass.

  She gasped as she finished and slammed the glass down clumsily onto the Formica surface. A dribble of gin dripped from her chin to the linoleum. She screwed her face up, but it was exactly what she needed. As she started to pour a second, a sob escaped her trembling lips. The bottle clattered back down as she drew her hand to her mouth, it too shuddering violently.

  She turned and glanced around the kitchen, seemingly frantically searching for something … anything. Tears began to well up in her eyes as her hand remained clamped to her mouth in some desperate effort to quell her desolation. Her blurred gaze fell upon the several ‘shop’s own’ packets of paracetamol tablets on the grubby table. She had bought them one packet at a time and, one by one, they had built up to a small pile that now whispered for attention.

  With her head swimming, her legs felt suddenly like stilts on rough ground. She slid down the unit and landed hard on her backside, but registered no pain. She pulled her knees to her chest as another whimper escaped her lips. One word was forced with almost physical pain from them as her eyes remained fixed on the table. “Please …”

  Hugging her knees, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came hot and flooding and her body shook and rocked on the cold linoleum floor.

  CHAPTER 7

  Let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.

  The Duck stayed closed for three weeks while the investigation was tied up. The inquest announced a verdict of death by misadventure and the case was closed. Han breathed a deep sigh of relief on hearing the news, but that relief was tarnished by the occasional appearance of Wright and Mitchell sniffing around the village. They didn’t actually come back to speak to him, but they did ask a few questions around the village about him, and Wright offered him a friendly wave on one occasion.

  After the third week, a relief manager was sent into the Duck by the brewery. George ‘Geordie’ Langdon turned out to be a tattooed, hard-faced skinhead who was more at home running rough-arse boozers in Newcastle’s East End. His last position had been a pub in Byker; nothing more than a fight club with a liquor licence. There was a distinct ill-ease from the majority of the regulars on seeing Tess’s temporary replacement.

  He made himself at home quickly and, despite his appearance, and the decidedly cool reception, he turned out to be friendly and devilishly witty. He was certainly a breath of fresh air to the gloomy atmosphere left with Tess Runckle’s untimely departure.

  John Bryce persuaded Han to make a rare appearance to the Duck to offer support. He wasn’t keen on the idea of bumping into Moe, but eventually he caved after several of John’s pleas. Bryce, leading the way, angled straight for the bar, where both Danny Little and Geordie were serving.

  The bar was bustling with activity. It seemed that a lot of villagers had had the same idea. Amongst them were Janet and Larry Herring, sitting in one corner, with Steve Belmont hovering at the bar (did he have no shame?). Duncan Fairbank and his young bride, Loretta, were sitting with Simon and Kim Little, Danny’s baker parents, at another table.

  Seeing the new arrivals, Geordie greeted them with a broad smile that revealed one front tooth missing and another broken to a jagged stump. “Alreet, lads? Me name’s Geordie Langdon and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The remains of his receding hair were a mere dusting of black and grey stubble. His forearms were littered with dozens of tattoos, some recognisable, like the NUFC crest and a British Bulldog chewing a cigar, but others had faded and distorted over the years to a mere patchwork of blurry blue lines. The St. George Cross was also tattooed on one side of his neck. His age was something of a mystery; Han could only place him somewhere between late thirties to late forties. His face was creased and an old blue-purple scar snaked down from his left temple to his jaw line. Weathered and gnarly skin darkened the ambiguity, but he had the keen, alert eyes of a younger man.

  John stuck out a hand with just a hint of wariness. “John Bryce of Bryce and Son’s farm. And this is Han Whitman, our resident writer.”

  Geordie shook both their hands rigorously with a hand marked with a blue swallow tattoo and half a little finger missing. “Writer, eh? Canny – I’ve been meaning to write a book for ages aboot me exploits in the pub trade. I’ve seen a thing or tee working Byker, Wallsend and Howden, I can tell ya.”

  Bryce laughed and any guardedness seemed to vanish. “I bet. Got a mate used to work down Wallsend as a rigger. He got half an ear cut off in a fight in the Raby on Shields Road.”

  “Aye, they’ve got two hobbies in there – drinking and fighting, and not necessarily in that order.”

  “Well, we just wanted to welcome you to the village. You’ve come at a bit of a rough time, so if people are a bit standoffish, divvent judge ’em too harshly.”

  The smile vanishe
d from Geordie’s weathered face to be replaced by a sincere nod. “Aye, they told us about it before I came, so I understand. Nasty business, like.”

  “Good to meet you,” Han added amiably. His face appeared welcoming enough, but his mind was churning through a myriad of concerns for this new arrival. After a short pause, he added, “You should have a crack at that book – I bet it would be a helluva read.”

  The infectious smile returned. “That it would, like. What’ll it be then, lads?”

  Han observed him closely as he retrieved a mixer glass and filled it with a double whiskey followed by a pint glass, which he started pulling Bryce’s pint into. He moved with a loose agility that Han had seen several times before; it was the unmistakable dance of a man who knew how to handle himself. As the froth reached the rim, the door opened, admitting Moe Baxter and Jill Fairbank, his co-worker.

  As the other patrons noticed their arrival, the mood switched, taking on an edginess that hadn’t been there a moment ago. A hush swept through the room as Moe walked up to the bar, his chin up and his chest out. A few eyes flicked from Han to Moe and then back again. Neither man appeared to notice.

  Geordie noticed the mood change immediately and quickly finished serving Bryce to turn his attention to the newcomer.

  “Hello,” Moe said, standing beside Han, but keeping his eyes fixed on Geordie. His voice was slightly shrill. “Vodka Martini and, Jill, sweetie, what would you like?” A fleeting look to the slim, tanned woman standing behind him.

  Jill glanced at Han, before responding. There was a slight hesitation in her response as she flicked a suddenly irritating strand of sleek ash-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Just an Orangina for me, babe.”

  Han took a big swig of his drink, then, setting the glass down onto the bar, turned to Moe. With sincerity, he said, “I was really sorry to hear about, Tess, Moe. I know how close you two were.”

  All eyes in the bar switched from Han to Moe. Bryce clenched his teeth and shook his head just a fraction, willing Han to take back the words, but knowing that it was too late. As he fetched the drinks, Geordie had one ear fixed on the conversation, sensing all too well, the prospect of impending conflict.

  His jaw fixed, and his blue eyes blazing into the optics ahead of him, Moe said, “Don’t talk to me. Ever.” His voice was harsh, lacking its usual campness and his gaze never moved from the bar. “You understand me, Mister Whitman?”

  Han nodded despondently, but before turning away, said, “Please, you must believe me. I had nothing to do with Mandy’s disappearance or Tess’s accident. It’s totally unfair to blame things on the new guy, just because he is the new guy.”

  Moe’s heavily tanned face reddened and the muscles flexed along his jaw line. “Tessy knew you did something to Mandy and you killed her for it!” The words were spat in a rising whisper.

  Jill touched his shoulder, and said with deep concern, “Moe, please, don’t do this.”

  Shrugging her off, he finally spun to face Han. Jabbing an accusing finger into Han’s chest, he snapped shrilly, “You killed them both!”

  Han pushed his hand away, not without force. “This is crazy!”

  Bryce grabbed his arm, saying calmly, “I think we should go, mate.”

  “Aye, that might be a good idea,” Geordie said apologetically. Unnoticed, he had managed to come from round the bar and was now standing behind the confrontation.

  Standing up, Duncan shouted over to his daughter, “Jill, I think Moe might want to go home.”

  Not taking his piercing eyes off Han, Moe flatly replied, “I’m fine, thank you, Duncan. I came here to have a quiet drink.”

  Han opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. Glancing from Bryce to Geordie, he resigned. “Don’t worry, I’m going. I just popped in to welcome the new new guy.” Glancing to Geordie, he briskly added, “Most people here have been really friendly; don’t let this misunderstanding taint your image of the place.”

  Han walked out quickly, not wanting to give Moe a chance to respond. Bryce shrugged and mouthed sorry to Geordie and Jill, then followed. The eyes of everyone in the bar followed them both out.

  Bryce caught up with Han outside in the cool evening air. Sighing, he said, “Wey, that could’ve gone … better.”

  Han rolled his eyes. With bitter sarcasm, said, “Aye, the guy was gushing – it was embarrassing.”

  Bryce’s laugh was short and hollow and his face turned serious. “Try to give him a break – he’s really an alreet bloke. He’s just, like, really upset and maybe a little misguided.”

  Patting the big man’s shoulder, Han managed a smile and said, “Yeah, I know. Thanks for your support – it’s much appreciated.”

  Bryce returned the smile then, in a lighter tone, said, “Let’s go back home – to the Miller’s. Big Joe’ll think we’ve defected.”

  A gaunt figure watched them leave from the shadows in the side lane, staying close to the wall so as not to reveal a profile. Scruffy trainers stood fidgeting in a puddle. The two men walked purposefully across the glistening wet road straight towards the Miller’s. Jimmy waited until they were inside before following, his grip tightening around the lock knife concealed in his pocket.

  Han and Bryce made a beeline for the bar, to be greeted by Lisa’s warm, friendly face. She offered them a heartening smile and immediately set about fetching their regular drinks. A feeling of well-being settled over Han, and he felt, not for the first time, the sensation of being on the set of Cheers. He half expected Sam and Diane to be arguing behind the bar.

  “Everything okay over the road?” Lisa asked, clearly apprehensive.

  Han smiled at her, grateful for her genuine concern. “Let’s just say I prefer the Miller’s any day of the week.”

  “Aye, yer know it makes sense!” Big Joe shouted from just out of sight in the lounge. “Miller’s is where the real drinkers come!”

  “Nosey!” Lisa called back, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t miss a thing, him!”

  They quickly settled down to their usual banter, normally angling toward one film or another – only older films would hold Bryce’s interest – and this night was no different. This time, the topic happened to be war films.

  “I hear what you’re saying about A Bridge Too Far – a massive ensemble cast, epic scenes and stunning direction; Richard Attenborough at his very best,” Han was nodding and saying. “That Sean Connery line does it every time for me – ‘I've got lunatics laughing at me from the woods. My original plan has been scuppered now that the jeeps haven't arrived. My communications are completely broken down. Do you really believe any of that can be helped by a cup of tea?’” Both men smiled at that. Even Big Joe had paused with glass in hand to listen to the short monologue. “But for me,” Han continued, “on the Second World War front, Where Eagles Dare has always been a huge favourite of mine. Big fan of Richard Burton – that and The Wild Geese and The Medusa Touch are three of his best.”

  “Aye, Where Eagles Dare is bloody brilliant,” Bryce agreed, taking a sip of his pint. “Haven’t seen those other two though.”

  “You haven’t seen The Wild Geese?” Not for the first time when discussing films Han was genuinely gobsmacked. Shaking his head, he said, “But, getting back to Where Eagles Dare – the scene where he bluffs then double-bluffs everyone, including Clint, is just priceless. There’s that great exchange between Burton and Eastwood after all the confusion – ‘Lieutenant, in the next fifteen minutes we have to create enough confusion to get out of here alive.’ To which, Clint replies, ‘Major, right now you got me about as confused as I ever hope to be.’”

  Bryce laughed heartily and said, “Jesus, Han, how the hell do you remember all this shit?”

  The conversation continued, meandering through various war film sub-genres, before, several whiskeys later, Han felt the pressure building, so excused himself to go to the toilet.

  Bryce, drinking pints of real ale, scoffed, “Bloody southerners cannat hold their drink!” />
  “How the hell can I be a southerner?” Han asked, glancing back at him.

  “Anyone south of the Tyne is a southerner in my book.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Han scoffed, smiling. “I’ll have to read that book someday.”

  He almost bumped into Tam Wellright coming out of the toilets, whistling a tune. “Sorry, Tam, didn’t see you there,” he said, stepping aside for the old timer.

  Tam smiled his toothless grin at him, before shuffling away, and resuming with his tune. There may be trouble ahead …

  Oh, har bloody har, Han thought, without a grain of humour in sight. “Moby dick,” he muttered as he walked over to the chipped and rust-stained ceramic urinal. They were old, but always spotlessly clean.

  His mind was filled with thoughts of Tess Runckle, Moe Baxter, Mandy Foster and Lisa as he lazily pissed down the splash-back, so he failed to hear the faint creak as the door to the single cubicle opened.

  Jimmy Coulson was visibly shaking as he stepped out from the cubicle, knife in hand. His hair and coat were still wet from the rainfall earlier that evening. Strands of long matted hair were plastered to his forehead and cheeks and a cold sweat stood out on his brow. He edged closer as Han, oblivious, continued to urinate.

  As Han shook the last few drops and zipped up, Jimmy pounced on him. Han heard the rustle of clothing an instant before the impact and so managed to half step partially to one side.

  The movement wasn’t enough to dodge Jimmy, but it was enough to dodge the blade of his lock knife. Jimmy clattered into him with the full force of one shoulder, ramming Han against the urinal.

  With a solid crack, Han’s head bounced off the dull white tiles, sending sparks across his vision. Despite the blow, he recovered quickly and, working on instinct, parried a second blow by raising his left arm. The tip of the knife sliced through material and skin on his forearm, causing a sharp intake of breath, but at the same time dislodged Jimmy’s grip on the knife.