by Rod Glenn
Jimmy shrugged and proceeded to run some cold water over a mug with more tea stains than pattern showing. Using a grimy fingernail, he scraped some mould out of the bottom of the mug, before tossing a teabag into it.
“Christ, Jimmy. You really got to straighten your shit out. This isn’t healthy.”
“It’s all I got,” Jimmy said flatly, a slight tremor to his words.
“Well, you’ll have a lot more when you do the job for me. This spate of shitty weather coming in is perfect; emergency services will have a hell of a job getting through. So, I want you to fire the place on Christmas Eve. You got that?”
As he waited for the kettle to boil, Jimmy turned to Steve and said, “About the payment. I’ve been thinking …” He absently scratched the back of his hand until it was red raw.
“Dangerous, Jimmy-boy,” Steve said with a frown.
“I-I’ve decided to try to get myself off the blow. The shit is killing us, man. I’ve lost Lisa, my job; it’s destroyed me entire life.”
“And you sit in your room and think … how will I ever get away from all this?”
“Eh?”
“Bonnie and Clyde … Warren Beatty …” When Jimmy just continued to stare at him, Steve muttered, “Fucking movie icon, you retard.”
Jimmy drew in a wheezing breath then let out a rattling cough. Clearing his throat and wiping spittle from his lips, he said, “Whatever, man, I just want money, not the blow, for the job, like.”
Steve folded his arms. His irritation was heading south. “Oh, do you?”
“Yeah, I’m not greedy or nowt, I just want it in cash instead of blow.”
Steve mulled it over for a moment then his rising anger seemed to dissipate. He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me; you can have two grand cash. Take it or leave it.”
Jimmy started to argue, but he had neither the will, nor the energy. Pouring hot water into his cup, he muttered, “Reet.”
“Sorted.” Steve clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly against the damp chill in the room. “I don’t want to know any details and I won’t be seeing or speaking to you again. You’ll get your money delivered through what’s left of your door the following week … if you don’t cock it up.” Steve turned and strode out. In the doorway, he glanced back, saying, “Good luck with going clean. You don’t have a prayer, kid. Oh, and, if you do cock this up, that will be the least of your problems.”
As the afternoon drew on, the snow continued to cascade down from the burdened sky, growing steadily thicker. The wind had died down once again, giving the snowflakes a sense of tender serenity as they dropped vertically to the white-covered ground.
One or two people, disguised under thick layers of coats, hats and scarves, shuffled past, hands buried deep into pockets and their boots leaving their mark in the deepening snow.
Larry Herring pulled his Escort onto Main Street, carefully manoeuvring it at just above a crawl. Despite sticking to second gear, the rear end still managed to drift slightly in the worsening conditions.
He had to bring the car to a virtual stop to edge it around the tight bend onto Bell Lane and then crawled round into the car park. He would have to attach the snow chains tomorrow, if he was going to be able to use the car at all over the coming days. The car slid once more, tyres churning up the fresh snow, as he brought it to a stop in his usual parking space.
Turning the engine off, he paused inside the car, his thoughts turning to Janet. After offering still further chances for her to come clean over her affair with Steve Belmont, she was still doggedly preserving the illusion of a blissfully happy marriage and lying through her back teeth about her every whereabouts. With the fan off, the windows immediately started to mist up, obscuring his view of the brilliant white landscape around him.
The sickening disgust that he had once felt had been replaced with weary impatience for the final act, which would clearly be her running off into the sunset with her lover. Well, he had finally made a decision. She was not going to get her happy ending. She was going to die. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Steve Belmont would have to wait; it would be far too suspicious if both of them died in a short space of time. But one thing Larry was good at was waiting. He would bide his time and perhaps a year later, when the time was right, Steve Belmont would die too. And, if possible, he would make his dying breaths excruciating. Maybe some sort of accident that would involve him having his dick ripped off. The thought of that was just too good to hope for.
He smiled to his reflection in the rear view mirror. His face looked gaunt and furrowed; sleepless nights had taken their toll over the last few months. But, now that the decision had been made, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The hesitation and the indecision had been driving him insane. Now he could act. Maybe, once it was all over, just maybe, he could find some peace again; just Special K and him. They could be a proper family together, without that cheating, scheming bitch.
After retrieving his case from the boot, he trudged through the snow in his wellies, with his jacket zipped up to the chin. The falling snow coated his hair and shoulders in moments.
The house was well lit and warm and smelled of Janet’s cinnamon Christmas candles. As he entered she called from the kitchen, “That you, Larr?”
Larry smiled wryly. “Who else?”
“There’s chicken breast in a creamy pasta sauce warm in the oven for you,” she was saying as he hung up his jacket and tugged off each boot.
“That’s great, dear. I’m starving.”
Kerris came bounding down the stairs, all woolly jumper and masses of long chestnut hair, being careful not to dislodge the holly garland that snaked around the banister. “Hiya, daddy!” The young girl, not quite into double-figures yet, but already the tallest in her class, slammed into her father with a playful giggle.
“Hey, it’s my Special K!” Larry gave her a long luxurious hug, holding onto to her long after he would normally have broken away. As he held her, smelling the fresh shampoo in her hair, he had to suddenly choke back a sob. His vision blurred and he had to blink several times to force back the tears.
Kerris looked up to him with her big brown eyes, a quizzical look on her button features. “Y’ok, daddy?”
Managing a smile, he said enthusiastically, “Sure, SK. Just really cold out there and I need a big warm hug from my gorgeous daughter.”
“Have you seen all that snow, daddy? It’s AMAZING!” Breaking away from his embrace, she jumped up and down on the spot, grinning wildly. “Can we have a snowball fight? Can we? PLEASE!?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” he said, matching her broad smile. “You get ready and I’ll meet you outside in two ticks.”
Kerris screamed with glee and ran to the shoe rack to retrieve her boots.
Larry was smiling as he walked through to the kitchen. As was the tradition in their house, only the lounge, the hall and Kerris’ bedroom were the three places where a few elegant Christmas decorations could be hung. It struck him then that he couldn’t remember who had made that choice or why. There, he saw Janet finishing off a glass of chardonnay. She looked radiant; short leather skirt, low cut top, accentuating her thrusting breasts, high heels angling her toned calves and flowing red hair in loose ringlets. She licked her ruby red lips and smiled as she saw him admiring her.
Larry felt a stirring, but then, angry at himself, he quickly walked over to the refrigerator, to hide his expression. “Another glass of wine?”
“I’m off down the Miller’s shortly, but yes, one more would be nice, thanks. SK is staying round Kimberly’s tonight, remember. Are you going to join me later?” The question was posed casually, but Larry detected just a hint of caution in it.
Retrieving the chilled half empty bottle, he turned to the breakfast bar and filled her empty glass. “Sorry sweetheart; got to catch up on loads of paperwork. You have fun though. You meeting Loretta down there?”
A slight flicker beh
ind the eyes. “Yes, just have a few quiet drinks and some girly chat. You won’t be missing much.”
“Duncan not going?” Aren’t we both the professional actors, he thought with little amusement. Dustin Hoffman and Susan George, maybe?
She turned away to hunt for something in her bag. “Hmm? Oh no, buried in a stock take or something, Loretta was telling me.”
With her back turned, Larry slipped the vial of liquid out from his trouser pocket and popped it open. “That’s a shame; I might’ve popped down for last orders if Duncan was going to be there.” He paused, the vial suspended over the wine glass. His hand trembled slightly.
Still rummaging through her bag, Janet said, “Never mind, the four of us can get together for a few drinks on Christmas Eve maybe.”
Larry ground his teeth and, in one swift motion, emptied the contents into the glass. “Yes, dear.”
He popped the empty vial back into his pocket as Janet turned around, bag in hand. “I better go, Loretta will be wondering if I’m still coming. Are you able to drop Kerris round to Kimberly’s later?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said dismissively then, keeping his words conversational, added, “Don’t you want your wine first?”
She walked up to him and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Can you pop it back in the fridge for me? I’ll have it when I get in.”
“Sure,” Larry replied, with just a hint of frustration. “Have a nice evening.”
Janet flashed him a brief smile and strode out, saying, “You too, Larr.”
He heard the front door open and Janet shout, “SK, honey, stay near the door until your daddy comes out. I’m off now baby; love you!” As the door slammed behind her, marking her exit, Larry slumped down on a barstool.
After a moment’s indecision, he retrieved the bottle and emptied the remaining wine down the sink. Then, very carefully, he poured every drop from the glass into the bottle. “Only a temporary reprieve,” he muttered evenly.
Then, with purpose, he forced a smile onto his face and headed back into the hall to join his daughter outside in the snow.
CHAPTER 9
The Dark Man is coming …
Dozens of distant, smoke-like voices drifted up to his room, as Han lay corpse-like and naked on his sleeping bag. Intermittent laughter punctuated the muffled drone of conversation and the foreboding tones of Johnny Cash playing on the jukebox. Han had returned to his room for an hour’s rest. His clothes lay steaming on the radiator, one or two stains prominent against the dark material.
His eyes twitched and flickered behind closed lids and his breathing was laboured. Images flashed through his mind of the nightmare day. Stabbing, slicing, eviscerating … severed limbs, heads … and blood … a sea of dark, sticky blood.
He had assumed that the majority of the residents would be easy pickings. He had been wrong … very wrong. Young and old, man and woman, they fought like the possessed. Even those he caught in slumber opened their eyes and clawed at him as the knife slid between ribs to pierce the heart or into the trachea to suffocate, and yet they were still the easy ones …
Suddenly his eyes snapped open. He swung his legs down off the bed and stood.
Shaking loose the visions of the day’s earlier struggle, he thought to himself, Sounds like quite the party down there. Then, with a deep breath, he said aloud, “And they haven’t even seen the start of it.” He dressed in the warm, damp clothes and, retrieving the Walther P99 from the bedside cabinet, slipped that into the small of his back.
Zipping up the thick black leather jacket, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Against the black jacket and jeans, his face looked pale. The thick ginger beard accentuated his jaw, but gave his cheeks a sunken, gaunt appearance. He suddenly felt very tired of the beard and wanted rid of it as soon as possible. As if to emphasise the point, he scratched the rough hair along his jaw line. Well, after the weekend, all being well.
Looking away from the image, he pulled on his black Kevlar lined gloves then grabbed his backpack. A hint of resignation in his voice, he said, “All right ramblers, let’s get ramblin’.”
He slipped out through the side door into the cold, dark early evening. It vividly brought back the memory of sneaking out that night to see Tess Runckle; old Bet Marple, bless her cotton socks and her bloody sleuth cats. He had come so far since then and the last six months of preparation all amounted to this one extended weekend. It was going to be more difficult than first imagined, but the goal would soon be in sight.
The snow was falling harder than ever and had been rejoined by a tempestuous, bitter cold wind. The soft orange glow, emanating from behind scattered curtained windows around the village, offered the only faint illumination. The wailing wind was like a distant ominous portent.
He trudged purposefully through the flurries to the Sportrak. It already had another covering of snow, so took a couple of minutes to clear with a gloved hand, while the engine warmed up. Snow chains had been fixed that morning, so once cleared, he reversed out of the parking spot in front of the Miller’s and pulled round the Green to head along Bell Lane. The windscreen wipers worked hard to clear his view. The wind was whipping up such a frenzy that the driving snow took on the appearance of swarms of albino bees rushing out of the blackness towards him.
Judging by the thick, unblemished snow, no car had driven along the lane for some time. As he passed the good doctor’s house on his left, he switched the tape deck on. Mick Jagger erupted in threatening tones and it immediately helped ease Han’s nerves.
I see a red door and I want to paint it black,
No colours any more I want them to turn black,
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes,
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes …
Even with four wheel drive and snow chains, progress was pretty slow. He wheel spun half way up the lane, the chained tyres struggling to find purchase and churning up clods of dirty snow. After a couple of seconds, they gripped and the Sportrak bumped forward once more.
Chickens, Bryce and two smoking barrels.
Enraged, John Bryce stormed into the study where his steel gun cabinet stood to one side of a well-stocked bookcase. A vast array of agricultural, farming and veterinary books rubbed shoulders with William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe, Shakespeare, Anne Rice, Stephen King and H. G. Wells, to name just a few. In the bay window stood a small six foot Scots Pine, decorated with garlands and ribbons, baubles and twinkling multicoloured fairy lights. The larger one, a nine footer, held centre stage in the lounge.
Sally had heard the chickens going wild in one of the barns. That could mean only one thing; one of the little toe rags from the village, possibly Jimmy Coulson, were taking advantage of the poor weather to try to steal some of the stock.
The steel box cabinet contained a double-barrel Webley & Scott 700 12-gauge shotgun and a Bassett Supreme .22 semi-automatic rifle, plus a shelf with cartons of ammunition, accessories and cleaning equipment.
Bryce unclipped the Webley shotgun and glanced down at the various types of shot.
Sally appeared in the doorway and stomped over to stand behind him with her fierce blue eyes boring into the back of his neck. Her arms were folded across her diminutive chest as she tapped a hob-nailed boot on the scuffed floorboards. “Don’t you even think of using buck or slugs, John Bryce. I don’t want you killing anyone!”
Without looking at her, Bryce replied, “We’ve lost maybe fifty broilers and God-knows how many eggs from the layers out of the perches from them little shits.”
Sally stepped forward and kicked him hard in the backside.
Bryce spun, clutching the sore cheek. “Jesus, woman!”
Sally smiled sweetly at him and said, “Pet, just use the birdshot. Please, for me.”
Bryce sighed. He never could resist anything Sally ever asked him, not that she asked all that often. “Alreet, alreet,” he reluctantly agreed. Grabbing a handful of shells, he shoved them into a deep side pock
et in his jacket as he turned to his wife.
Sally kissed him on the lips then grabbed a red woolly hat. “Here,” she said, perching on her tiptoes to tug it onto his big head. He still had to bend down a fair bit to allow her. “It’s pretty cold out there, pet.”
Bryce couldn’t resist the urge to give her another kiss, this one more passionate than the previous. “Divvent worry, Sal. I’m gunna kick this kid’s arse and then be back for a hot toddy within the hour.”
A small head filled with a thick mess of curly brown hair popped around the corner. “Can I come too, Da?” Anthony had turned a teenager earlier in the year, but his size and features made him look more like ten or eleven. Bryce often insisted – not with his son present – that this was from his mother’s side.
“Not this time,” Bryce said, and with a nod, added, “but thanks for the support, son.”
Sally pointed a stern finger to the stairs. “Up them stairs young man; it’s time for your bath. I’ll be up shortly to check on you.” Her tone was stern, but she offered him a sly wink when his face dropped. That brought his cheeky smile back. He dashed off upstairs, taking the steps two at a time in his bare feet.
After locking the cabinet, Bryce made straight for the front door with angry purpose and swung it open, letting a gust of snowflakes into the hallway.
“John!” Sally shouted behind him, a look of supreme exasperation set into her features.
“Sorry! I’m goin’! I’m goin’!” Bryce quickly stepped out into the swirling darkness and slammed the door behind him, causing the bells on the holly wreath nailed to the outside of the door to jangle festively. He rolled his eyes and headed through flurries towards the barns.
The wind moaned through the old, dusty rafters of the cold, draughty barn. Several hundred flustered and clucking chickens scurried about on the barn floor, thick with sawdust, feed and faeces. The air was heavy with dust and feathers. In the gloom, trying to ignore the acrid smells of shit and urine, Jimmy Coulson had managed to bag four of their brethren. He finished tying the Hessian sack as it moved and jerked in his hands, and then carefully picked his way through the squawks and fluttering feathers towards the back of the barn.