by Rod Glenn
The bloodstained blade skittered across the tiled floor and out of sight through the gap under the cubicle door.
“DIE!” Jimmy screamed in a juddering adrenaline and withdrawal fuelled frenzy. Without pausing, he thrust a clenched fist across Han’s jaw.
The blow jerked his head back against the tiles, dazing him once more and causing a burst of pain in his face. At once, he tasted copper in his mouth from his lacerated tongue.
Stunned, Han flailed wildly with both arms in a vain attempt to force his attacker back. Jimmy leapt to one side, cackling manically in a high-pitched squeal. “Dead man, bitch!” Moving in a second time, he lashed out with one soggy trainer and connected hard to the back of Han’s knee. White pain burst out from behind his knee cap, causing both legs to fold.
He hit the tiles hard, causing the side of his head to strike the ceramic edge of the urinal. His vision greyed and the sounds of Jimmy’s insane laughing dulled and suddenly seemed far away.
His victim now sprawled and groaning on the floor, with renewed confidence, Jimmy rapidly kicked out again and again, belting him full force in the thigh and then the side.
At that point, the door crashed open. Bryce rushed in like an enraged rugby prop forward, followed by a puffing and wheezing Big Joe.
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening as Bryce rammed into him, slamming him with lung-emptying force against the urinal and clipping his forehead off the tarnished pipe work below the cistern. With very little effort, the big farmer then flung Jimmy, screeching and thrashing, to the ground and drove one knee into his chest.
Jimmy managed a gurgle and a whimper as he stared up at Bryce’s calm face.
“Yer … okay … Han?” Big Joe asked between gulping breaths as he composed himself in the doorway.
“You still with us, mate?” Bryce chorused, glancing away from Jimmy’s red and sweating, contorted face.
Han groaned then painfully rolled onto his side. “I’ve … been better,” he managed. His jaw was quickly turning a deep purple and blood was oozing out of the side of his mouth, but as his head gradually cleared, he actually started to feel good. A tremendous feeling of euphoria enveloped him, tempering the pain that seemed to be pulsating through his entire body.
With his breathing regulated to some extent and the redness fading from his cheeks, Big Joe helped him to his feet, being careful to avoid gripping him by his bloodied left arm. With Big Joe’s steadying hand, he limped over to Jimmy and Bryce. The pain in his knee intensified with the slightest bend and his side flared with each movement, but the heady feeling of rapture made the pain surprisingly inferior.
“Jimmy, are you nuts?” he asked simply, with a look of pity on his pained face (more for effect, than necessity). Looking down at the weakly struggling figure beneath Bryce’s considerable bulk, he added, “Lisa dumped you – I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Gunna fuckin’ kill you,” Jimmy snarled through the pressure being inflicted on his chest. Blood was trickling down the side of his face from a small gash in his forehead where his head had struck the pipe.
Finally, having fully regained his composure, Big Joe glared at Jimmy. “Jimmy, yer barred. If I ever catch yer anywhere near ma boozer again, I’m gunna break both yer legs, yer got that, sunny-boy?”
Looking up, Bryce asked, “You wanna get the police on this thieving, druggie piece of shit, Han?”
Holding his jaw, Han thought about it for a moment. More police involvement was all he needed. No, let’s keep this strictly in the family. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No, that’ll just be more upset for Lisa. She doesn’t need this aggravation.” He continued to look down on Jimmy, shaking his head unhappily.
“This is your lucky day, Jimmy,” Bryce said evenly then slowly eased himself off him and got back to his feet.
Rest, recovery and revenge.
Han refused to see Doctor Herring, so Martha ordered complete bed rest for a couple of days and allowed Lisa to tend to his wounds. He spent those days being waited upon by both Lisa and Martha. Big Joe’s wife even brought him her homemade broth in bed. His wounds were superficial; the cut wasn’t deep and the blows to the ribs and knee caused some inflammation and tenderness, but eased off after a few days. He had a stubborn headache for a while but that, too, passed quickly.
He sat in bed, a tray, a bowl with mere dribbles of Martha’s broth left, and a side plate with half a crusty roll, laid on his lap. His thoughts wandered back to mulling over the different ways to kill Jimmy Coulson.
Well, there were particular gory options of course, like cutting the top of his head off and feeding him his sautéed brain (if he could find it), like Lecter did to Ray Liotta. Or drilling holes into him and slicing his Achilles tendons like Hostel? Or how about feeding him into a wood-chipper like Peter Stormare did to Steve Buscemi? All pretty cool.
Or there were the more classic approaches, like a carving knife; the preferred weapon of most nutters, like Michael Myers and Norman Bates. Or the chainsaw, as used by, well Leatherface mainly, or Ash; but he’s technically a hero (albeit a useless selfish one), so can’t really count him. Or there’s always a big fish hook, as used by the ghouls in The Fog. So many choices …
One thing was for certain, and that was that he was going to really enjoy killing Jimmy Coulson. He must suffer to his last breath … well that I can pretty much damn well guarantee … Maybe he’d get himself a Hattori Hanzo sword.
For those regarded as warriors, when engaged in combat the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern. Suppress all human emotion and compassion. Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself. This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat.
The nights grew steadily longer and darker. The wind bore an icy chill and the leaves browned, withered and died, leaving much of the woods around the village, save for the evergreens, skeletal in comparison to their summer coats. Halloween (hardly even spoken about, never mind celebrated in any commercial fashion) gave way to Guy Fawkes (a small bonfire on the Green, with foil-wrapped baked potatoes and small glasses of sherry), which quickly gave way to the first exasperated conversations of Christmas and how there was so much to do and so little time left, and how quickly it had come around again.
With the plummeting temperatures, the first winter frosts hit, causing treacherous conditions. For the first time since purchasing it in Sunderland, Han was truly pleased to have the four wheel drive reliability of the Sportrak.
December brought with it the first snowfall; a light dusting of snow that froze to a gravely layer on paths and windscreens that was the devil’s own job to scrape off. Predictions, both from the met office and, more importantly, the locals, were that this winter would be a particularly bad one.
Older folk in the village looked particularly glum at the prospect, having lived through some horrendous winters in the past, but Han felt truly blessed and redoubled his preparations.
CHAPTER 8
20th December. Headed right for the middle of a monster.
The early evening had already turned as dark as night and bloated snowflakes were falling steadily, teased by a light breeze. As they hit the icy ground, they remained where they lay. The Miller’s lounge was deserted, apart from Han and the occasional appearance of Big Joe or Martha. A Norwegian Spruce had been placed in one corner, with a multitude of coloured lights, tinsels, baubles and ceramic ornaments, and several gold foil garlands criss-crossed the ceiling. The main bar had similar decorations, but instead of the tree, it sported a huge Merry Christmas banner above the bar. Tam had his usual seat at one end, and Carol Belmont had turned up earlier for half an hour when Han had just started tucking into a casserole that Martha had prepared for him. She had downed three doubles in that time, without saying a word, other than those necessary to order the drinks, then left as quietly as she had arrived.
As he finished his dinner, Han’s gaze was drawn to the radio behind
the bar that had been spewing out a grainy and monotonous string of local interest stories – farming being the main focal point – intermingled with the occasional golden oldie. But now it switched to the weather and piqued his interest.
“A large band of low pressure coming down from western Scotland is going to continue south, hitting north and western areas of Northumberland by eight o’clock this evening. Heavy snowfall is going to cause treacherous driving conditions across the north east and Cumbria. Temperatures are going to drop to below zero, taking into account wind-chill factors, and it’s likely to hang around through Christmas Eve, all the way through to Boxing Day; where it will gradually move south, losing much of its intensity.
“Bad news for last minute shoppers, but great news for the kiddies, as it’s looking likely that we’ll have a white Christmas this year, for most of Northumberland at the very least. Snowball fight later, eh, Jon?”
The presenter laughed, and said, “No chance, Paul. I’m hibernating till spring.”
Han could not believe his luck. This was just too good to be true.
“Sounds like a bloody nightmare, eh?” Big Joe said as he passed behind him with several plates in hand. “It’ll look like Lapland come morning.”
Han turned and smiled at him with an almost child-like look of joy. “I love the snow; there’s something … magical about it.”
“Typical bloody townie. Wait till yer experience a Northumberland winter!”
“I prefer city slicker, BJ!” he scoffed, chuckling agreeably. “Whatever. You’ll be begging for spring after a couple of days of the stuff.” Big Joe trudged through to the kitchen, shaking his head, but smiling all the same.
The next morning Han rose early and, drawing back the curtains, gazed out over Main Street and the Green. It was at least an hour before dawn and snow was falling steadily on a gusting wind. Rooftops and treetops had already succumbed to the white veil and it was starting to lie on the footpaths and side streets as well, but traffic had so far kept it down to a grubby slush on Main Street.
As he gazed into the swirling darkness, a shiver ran across his shoulder blades. The central heating hadn’t kicked in yet to take the chill out of the air. Dropping the curtain back in place, he turned to face his room and clapped his hands together. “Time’s a wastin’.” Although whispered, the words were filled with anticipation
After washing, he began systematically stripping and cleaning every square inch of his room. Bedding was bundled up and squeezed into black bin bags. Martha had kindly left his cleaned and ironed washing in a basket outside his door, so that was added to the rest of his possessions and was all packed into the back of the Sportrack. The bedding would be destroyed along with compromised clothing later. He would collect the bugs and clean any other possible tracks on his rounds.
His chores took three hours, by which point he had worked up a sweat and a healthy appetite. A solitary sleeping bag lay on the bare bed, open and waiting. He would have some sporadic touching up to do later, but the main job was done.
Through scrutinising the sound files from the bugs, he had counted no less than twenty-eight residents who would be heading away to visit friends or relatives for Christmas. Another thirty-five were never missed on a day to day basis, so those sixty-three would be first. After a hearty breakfast, he’d make a start. It would be approaching the evening by the time he got through those and then he would hit the outer rim – including his good friend, John Bryce’s place – and then work his way inwards.
John lingered in his mind for a moment. The big farmer had been a good friend to him, as had a few others in the village. Lisa was a whole different issue; he would come to her later. But, Bryce, bless him; he had been a good laugh, and he had good taste in films too, those that he had seen anyway.
He frowned, seemingly waging an inner war. The hesitation only held for a moment. “Food,” he said to himself to sever the unwanted deliberation.
IT – Illness and Technology.
The evening sky was blanketed with thick, angry storm clouds, and rain was driving near horizontal across the dual carriageway.
The A1139, leading north towards Peterborough was clogged with crawling rush-hour traffic, and had been since Sam Potter had set off at five PM from Old Fletton High Street. Exhaust fumes plumed up from the scores of vehicles stretched out over all lanes, and headlamps and brake lights lent a distorted glow to the darkness. It was now approaching six, and he still hadn’t made it to the Peterborough turnoff for Fengate.
The Beautiful South CD was, unusually, doing little to lighten his disposition. Their Latin-flavoured version of the Blue Oyster Cult’s classic, Don’t Fear the Reaper, was normally a huge mood lifter for him, but now it just seemed to fuel his impatience.
All our times have come,
Here but now they're gone …
Steam rising up from the bonnets of dozens of idling cars, vans and lorries, mingled with the rain to further reduce visibility. Another one hundred and fifty yards further up the road, Sam could just make out flashing blue emergency lights.
“For C-Christ’s sake,” he muttered to himself. The slim man was swamped in a thick winter coat and, with the heater on full, his face was starting to redden, and beads of sweat were beginning to stand out on his forehead.
The side windows were completely misted up, and the fan in his Ford Fiesta was struggling to keep the windscreen clear. He switched the heater down to half, and then wiped his sleeve across his side window for the umpteenth time.
The delay was going to ruin his likelihood of getting to his routine session at the gym. Natalie also wanted him to do the last round of Christmas shopping with her, so the prospect of fighting through all those crowds was giving him heart palpitations. The Exchange Server at work had gone down, causing him a huge headache from staff and the partners, and had meant that his routine work had to be shelved to sort out the mess of restoring over-filled mailboxes. So, tomorrow, and probably part of Saturday too now, was going to be all about playing catch up, just to get back to square one. So, all in all, he had had a crappy Thursday, and the evening was heading precisely the same way. Great.
It was while he was mulling over these thoughts that his mobile phone started ringing its Star Wars Imperial March tune.
Using his Bluetooth hands-free, he answered it after the second bar. “Hi, Nats, I’m r-running a bit late.”
“Honey, I’ve got some bad news. Where are you?” Her voice was deeply concerned.
“S-stuck in t-traffic. W-w-what’s wrong?” The stuttering always worsened with rising anxiety.
“Don’t worry, honey,” she said in her soothing voice. “But your dad’s been taken ill. I’ve just come off the phone to the doctor – he’s stable, but he’s asking to see you. They think it’s a good idea that you go up to be with him.”
Sam’s head grew light and he felt his breathing grow shallow. “I-Is it th-th-the an-angina again?”
“Yes, but it’s a bad one this time. I’ve called the home and managed to switch some shifts and use up some holiday. I’m packing a bag, so we can leave as soon as you get here. I’ll bring the prezzies and some of the food, so we can make it a little special, eh?”
Tears were welling up in his eyes. His father had been asking them to visit for Christmas just two days ago and Sam had, as usual, skirted around the subject in his noncommittal way. “O-okay, N-n-nats.” His trembling lips then failed him completely.
“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll go up there together.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks and his breath found substance as the cooler air began to circulate. “B-be h-h-home soon.”
Kicking in doors and snowball fights.
The Rolling Stones were singing about brown sugar tasting so good through Jimmy’s headphones. He was clutching the old scratched cassette player to his chest as he lay on his bed. A well-thumbed copy of Fiesta magazine, along with an empty packet of cigarettes and two empty cans of lager, one of which had been used as a
n ashtray lay splayed about him.
Through the gaps that the blanket failed to obscure, the window outside showed gusting snow buffeting against the grubby windowpanes.
Jimmy was oblivious to the knocking at the door as he lay with his eyes shut, listening to the music. His skin was pale and clammy and a trembling hand rubbed unconsciously at an itch on his forearm.
The door burst open with a crack and splintering of wood.
Jimmy scrambled at the headphones while sitting up in a panic, tape deck, cans and porn magazine tumbling in different directions. “What the fuck?”
“Knock, knock,” Steve Belmont said evenly as he walked into the room, stamping dust, splinters and snow off his loafers. Glancing at his inadequate footwear, he added sourly, “Should’ve brought fucking snowshoes.”
“Jesus, Ste – I mean – Mister Belmont. Me door!” Jimmy threw the headphones aside and struggled to his feet.
“Well, fucking learn to answer it in future.” He shook his head and arms briefly to dislodge droplets of water from his leather jacket and dishevelled hair.
“Sorry, man; I was listenin’ to some tunes, like.” Jimmy shifted uncomfortably from bare foot to holey-socked foot, scratching his forearms, one after another.
Steve glanced around the room with clear disgust. “This place is a fucking cesspit.”
“It’s the maid’s year off,” Jimmy muttered defensively.
“Funny little prick, aren’t you?”
“You want a drink?” Jimmy shambled over to the filthy kitchenette. Dirty cups and dishes lay scattered on every greasy surface, and the sink was full of shitty-brown looking water with two rusting pans half submerged.
Steve looked at him as if he was announcing his celibacy in an Amsterdam whorehouse. “Do I look like I’ve got a death wish?”