by Rod Glenn
Jill jumped and a startled cry escaped her lips as a large form took shape squirming under the blanket. “What the hell?” What was mild concern turned to alarm. She drew her hand back to clutching the shirt against her chest.
The movement pushed the cat onto its side and Jill caught a glimpse of a deep gash in its stomach. Then, slow and deliberate, a fully clothed Han sat up, the blanket falling away to his waist. The grin on his face was tipped way beyond joy and hovering somewhere around insanity. “Mister Flibble is flobbled, I’m afraid.”
“You bastard,” Jill said and dropped the shirt.
Han whipped the cover off, revealing the bloodied hunting knife in his other hand. “And then some.”
“So, you are the pervert Tess said you were,” Jill said and something changed in her eyes. A hint of mischievousness. Her hand drew up to her chest and touched the side of her breast. She unclipped her bra and let it fall to her feet, exposing her breasts and erect nipples. “You want to fuck me?”
Han gawped at her and couldn’t help but feel a tremble in his groin.
She smiled and the tip of her tongue touched her lips.
Han blinked and said, “You people are all batshit crazy.”
“This is Haydon, babe.” With that, she slid her knickers down her tanned thighs.
Han jumped to his feet and stabbed her between her perfect breasts. Her face contorted as she toppled over with Han on top of her. “You like it rough,” she rasped.
Han recoiled and stepped back, saying, “Jesus!”
Jill lay on the sofa bed, eyes staring up at him, blood dribbling under her breasts. Then her legs slowly began to part.
Han moved in quickly, brought the soiled knife up to her head and, with one swift thrust, rammed it into her ear. Her body twitched.
For good measure, he forced the blade deeper still into the side of her head, scraping through bone and cartilage. Blood ran freely, dripping off her earlobe and the hilt of the knife. A mushy, squelching sound accompanied its steady advance, until the blade was fully submerged. Wisps of her soft, splayed hair rested on the back of his gloved hand. He gazed at the delicate ash-blonde strands for some time as her faint tremors finally dissipated, then, with great effort, he withdrew the knife, wiped it on a fold of blanket and rose to his feet.
He walked quickly into the hallway and to Moe’s room.
He made no attempt to be stealthy as he flung the bedroom door open and strode in. Moe Baxter was still fast asleep, facing him on his side, undisturbed by Han’s clunking footfalls, or the brief confrontation in the lounge.
Impatient, irritated, nervy and just a little aroused, Han crossed quickly over to the side of the bed and knelt down in front of the sleeping man. The blade slowly rose to within millimetres of Moe’s flabby chin, the steel glinting briefly from the soft light in the hall. There was silence, save for his hushed snoring.
“Drop your cock and grab your socks!” Han yelled, drill sergeant style, in the hairdresser’s face.
Moe made a grunting noise and his eyes blinked open. “You.”
“Hey, Moe, how ya doing, big fella?” Han said, accompanied with a near hysterical laugh. “Christmas has come early, dickhead.”
For a fleeting moment, Han thought he saw flames burning in Moe’s eyes, such was the intensity of the hatred emanating from his glare.
Han did not give him any more time to react. He thrust the knife into his snarling mouth.
Perhaps we can frighten the ghosts of so many years ago … with a little illumination.
A groan lifted up through the dusty gloom. The cellar was in complete darkness, except for the tiniest sliver of dim light squeezing through the gap between door and floor at the top of the stairs.
A second groan followed, then the slow, scraping movement of boots on the concrete floor.
John Bryce sat up on the cold floor, his mind dazed and reeling. He tentatively touched his forehead and was unsurprised to feel a congealing gash, the main cause of his pounding head, no doubt. His body was aching and stiff all over from the numerous knocks he had taken on his rapid decent down the stairs.
The cellar smelled dusty and dank and forced an involuntary cough to escape his lungs. Pain erupted in his chest from its force; possibly a cracked rib. Clutching his sore ribs with one hand and leaning back on the other, he tried to make sense of recent events.
It took a few moments for his scrambled brain to reshuffle everything back into order. Cody dead … blood-splattered walls … Anthony.
“Anthony!” His voice was shrill and loaded with fear.
The cold and dust seemed to consume his cry. Silence was his answer.
After carefully standing, favouring a possible sprain, he edged towards the bottom of the stairs where the light switch was. His hand eased along the rough stone wall until it hit the plastic casing of the switch.
The vociferous click was a harsh, dead sound in the confined space. The single naked bulb in the centre of the room remained dark. He flicked it on and off a couple more times, but to no avail. “Shit,” he muttered in frustration. Fighting back the urge to cry out a second time, he remembered the flashlight in his pocket.
Praying that the fall hadn’t damaged the bulb, he fumbled to retrieve it and tried the switch. An orange beam struck the far wall, revealing shelves crammed with boxes of toilet rolls, cleaning products and an assortment of household items.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, he swept the beam across the room. It quickly fell upon an unmoving bare leg.
“Sally!” He rushed over to her, but stopped dead as the beam revealed the rest of his wife’s body. She lay twisted in a crumpled heap, drenched in blood and with wide staring, lifeless eyes. The colour rushed from his face and he felt a sudden urge to vomit. “Sally …” The repeated word was feeble, like the rustle of reeds.
The rising panic was impossible to stem. “Son!” Sweeping the beam further across the room, it fell upon, what looked at first, like a small bundle of rags in the corner.
Bryce staggered forward, nausea flooding his head; threatening to spin him into oblivion. His knocks and pains were completely forgotten, all consumed by a desperate dread. As he approached, he saw tufts of hair poking from the top of the bundle, and an arm and a leg sticking out to one side.
Drawing closer, he realised that the head and limbs were not attached to the torso. Anthony had been dismembered and the parts deposited unceremoniously in a pile in the corner of the room. A small chrome Dictaphone had been placed neatly next to the head, but the batteries had died, silencing the deception while the farmer lay unconscious.
Bryce stood motionless, staring down with unblinking eyes at the body of his son.
CHAPTER 10
There's a number on the wall for all of us, angel, and if tonight's the night they pick mine, so be it. After you, sweetheart.
The backdoor to Lisa’s flat opened with an audible click after a simple turn of the key that Lisa had freely given him. Han stepped into a narrow hall with a steep set of stairs in front of him. Gusting flakes of snow blew in behind, prompting him to quickly shut the door. In the darkness, he could make out the closed door at the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen. A thin strip of light pierced the darkness at the foot of the door. The kitchen light was on.
He ascended the stairs swiftly but quietly. At the top, he paused to listen at the door as dripping, icy water pooled around his feet. After a moment, he eased it open and crept inside. The kitchen was deserted, but the door to the hallway was open and the muffled sounds of a television could be heard from the lounge. Carefully picking his way through Haley’s usual discarded plastic animals, headless dolls and crayons, he crossed to the hall.
The lounge door was ajar. Peering inside, the room was lit only by a lamp in the corner and the flickering images from the television. Han recognised the film immediately.
“No, no! Don’t you touch that, little lamb. Don’t touch my knife, that makes me mad. That makes me very, very mad �
��”
He managed a smile, his first genuine moment of levity since the killings began. It helped renew his resolve.
Reluctantly, he drew his eyes away from the screen. The back of the sofa obscured whoever was lounging on it, but he could see two slender dangling feet kicking lazily off the edge. In the gloom, he could just make out dark toenail polish.
Han already knew who the babysitter was. He had met her several times. She was a cute high school girl; fourteen or fifteen, if he remembered rightly, but already with quite a figure on her. Kelly Mason, Paul Mason’s daughter, was Lisa’s regular choice of babysitter. She was a little introverted, with Marc Bolan fixation, purple streaks in her hair and nose and tongue piercings. A younger Lisa in the making.
Scarcely breathing, he eased the door open further then slipped into the room. He crept the short distance to the back of the sofa and peered over the top.
Kelly was lying on her front with her head resting on one arm, engrossed in the film. Good taste in films. Shame really. Her long, messy hair was splayed out around her, covering most of her T. Rex t-shirt.
As he stood, watching Kelly watch the film, a thought occurred to him. Slowly, he drew his hunting knife as he crouched down on his haunches behind the sofa. After taking a moment to judge where her midsection would be, he then brought the knife back and immediately thrust it forward.
A startled cry, part shock and part pain, followed. He quickly withdrew the freshly bloodied blade and vaulted over the back of the sofa to land in front of the squirming girl. Another scream caught on her lips as she gasped for breath. She stared wide-eyed at the intruder standing before her.
“Surprise,” Han said. With a wave of his knife hand towards the television, which splattered a few droplets of blood across the carpet, he added, “Who’d you expect? Robert Mitchum?”
Tears welled in her eyes and through gritted teeth, she said, “Just kill me.”
Her composure was disconcerting, but not unexpected given what Han had already seen. With an irritated click of the tongue, he obliged.
The struggle was brief. He stood up from Kelly’s still, bleeding body and considered his handiwork. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. The young girl’s chest had been stabbed repeatedly and her head slumped to one side, a frozen grimace etched into her features. The blue fabric of the sofa was awash with the pooling dark stains of her blood. The position she had naturally fallen into was a vivid reminder of Mandy’s after his first, virgin kill.
A flash of burning orbs caused him to blink momentarily and he had to steady himself on the arm of the sofa.
Not wishing to linger over the teenager’s body or the memories it ignited, he walked out of the lounge without looking back. He headed instinctively for the smaller of the two bedrooms. This door too, was slightly ajar. He paused with one bloodstained, gloved hand on the doorframe.
A look of uncertainty flickered across his sweaty face. He stared at the door for quite a while, a frown burrowing dark lines into his features. Killing these people was a chore, and more than a little unsettling, but that was not what stayed his hand. An image of Vanessa formed in the back of his mind; her dreadfully sad look unmistakable and undistorted by time. The spectral image seemed to waver, and suddenly, in her place, Lisa was staring at him, her look of horror enough to draw the hairs up on his arms. Her black, gaping maw formed soundless words, pleading. As the vision faded, he glimpsed her eyes turning flame red, and her mouth contorting with rage.
He drew a long, shaky breath, then planted his palm firmly on the door and pushed it open.
He slowly crept towards the bed. It was as he noticed it to be empty that a screech jolted him and caused him to spin around. Haley had been hiding behind the door and now launched herself at him.
Han caught the flailing child in mid jump, dropping his knife in the process. She slapped him in the face with enough strength to cast stars dancing across his vision. Then her small hands grabbed his throat and started to throttle him.
Han staggered backwards, gasping, “Christ! Fuck!”
Haley was laughing a high-pitched squeal as she ferociously tried to choke the life out of him.
Han managed to tear her off him and threw her across the room. She slammed into a wardrobe and the cheap flat pack furniture folded in on itself, the door and sides landing in a heap on top of the child.
Haley growled and shoved the panels aside.
Han dashed over and as her head emerged, eyes glaring, he grabbed it and gave one savage twist. There was an audible crack and the child struggled no more.
Han recoiled from the body and his hands shot up to his mouth. He bit down on his knuckle to stifle a sob and tears rolled down his cheeks.
He turned away from the dead child, unable to bear looking at her. He was shaking uncontrollably.
Still sobbing, he stumbled into the hall and back into the kitchen. Still trembling, he poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down. He coughed then retched, dropping the glass in the process. It smashed at his feet, but he was oblivious as he held his head in his hands and wept.
“Come on Tam, if yer wanna lock in, get yourself along to the Duck,” Big Joe said to Tam’s slumped form on the edge of the bar. There was still good humour in his tone, but it was starting to wear thin. He folded his arms over the top of his big stomach. After a moment, the old timer grunted, stepped shakily down from his stool and made a poor attempt at straightening his overcoat.
Lisa trudged through from the lounge, yawning. Flashing Christmas tree earrings dangled from her lobes, but her demeanour lacked the cheer the novelty earrings suggested.
“Git yourself away, lass,” he told her.
Leaning against the bar, she stifled another yawn and said, “Do you mind if I wait for Han? I was hoping he’d be back by now.”
“Nae botha,” Big Joe replied with a shrug. “Where’s he been the neet? He missed Martha’s minced pies.”
“Said he had a couple of people to see in Rothbury – research for the book.”
“Lucky he’s got that jeep of his, with this foul weather.” Big Joe watched Tam as he slumped back against the stool, mumbling to himself. Shaking his head, he said to Lisa, “I’m sure Martha’ll make a fresh batch tomorrow.”
Lisa rubbed the back of her aching neck and nodded, too tired to respond.
Tam finally struggled back to his feet and muttered something that might have been a goodnight while he wrapped a moth-eaten scarf around his scrawny neck. He shuffled precariously to the door and left without another word. Snow had been gathering up against the door and flakes blew in as the old man forced his way out into the storm.
“Be careful, Tam!” Big Joe shouted after him.
The door slammed shut behind him. Tam pulled his coat tight around his frail form as he shuffled through the deep snow. The icy wind whipped his thinning grey hair into a frenzy and blasted his ruddy, broken-veined cheeks. At the intersection with Miller’s Road, a dark figure was waiting for him.
Tam stopped, the wind rocking him unsteadily on his feet. He stared at the figure through rheumy eyes and smiled. It was a thin, humourless smile. “What do you want?”
Han wiped fresh tears and melting snow from his face and moved closer to him to ensure that the old man would hear him clearly over the gusting wind. “What do you think I want, you mean old bastard?”
Tam laughed; it was more like a cackle, bearing what stained teeth remained in his mouth. “My turn, eh?”
Drawing the knife from under his jacket, Han sneered, “Let’s just say; there may be trouble ahead.”
Damn your love, damn your lies.
The lights flickered as Big Joe locked the front door. Glancing up to the ceiling, he muttered, “Ah shite, that’s all we need.”
“I’ve never seen it as bad as this,” Lisa said from her slouched position on one of the bar stools. She was staring wistfully at one of the curtained windows, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.
Big Joe pau
sed, listening to the low howl of the storm raging outside. “Aye, worst un I’ve seen in maybe twenty years.”
“Looks like Bedford Falls out there, eh?”
Big Joe had to think for a minute then smiled. “Oh, aye.” Attempting a James Stewart impression, he added, “You want the moon, Mary?”
Lisa laughed at the attempt. “Stick to the day job, Joe.”
“Bloody cheek,” Big Joe said then laughed with her.
A frown touched the edges of Lisa’s tired features. “God, I hope Han’s okay.”
The landlord turned to her and offered her a reassuring smile. “Dunna ye worry. Han’ll be fine. If he didn’t get away from Rothbury in time, he’ll just have to stay the night. There’s plenty folk’ll put him up.”
Lisa lifted her head off her hand and returned the smile. “Thanks, Joe,” she said sincerely.
Scratching his stomach, Big Joe yawned and said, “Right I better get off to bed before Martha starts wondering where I’ve got to.”
“Don’t worry, she won’t.” Han was standing in the doorway which led to the kitchen and staircase. His dark clothes were wet, crumpled and torn in a couple of places. Darker stains were spattered across his chest, legs and arms, and several smeared spots of blood were visible on his forehead and cheeks, despite the moisture from snow, sweat and tears. He was just finishing off a hastily hacked piece of homemade bread that he had swiped on the way through from the kitchen to satiate his grumbling stomach. It helped calm his fraught nerves, a little.
Big Joe and Lisa both performed a double take before recognising the panting, animal-like man lurking in the doorway, gulping down the remnants of some bread.
Big Joe frowned. “Han? Is that you? Ye look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
Lisa stared at him and he saw something behind her eyes, something like grief. She then seemed to suppress it and said, “Babe, what have you done?”
Han stepped further into the bar and wiped breadcrumbs off his wet beard. Reluctantly, he said, “Everyone’s dead. I killed them.” As he spoke he felt his anxiety rise once more, and with it, dread.