by Rod Glenn
“This is Haydon, laddie,” Big Joe said, shaking his head. “Ye have no idea what you’ve done.”
Han ignored Big Joe and continued to stare at Lisa. Her features were changing subtly, something simmering below the surface. “I killed Tess and Mandy too,” he said apologetically.
“Martha?” Big Joe asked and took a step towards him.
Han now looked at the landlord and nodded sadly. “Yeah, her too.”
Big Joe’s jaw flexed. “Ye shouldn’t have done that.”
A tear dripped from one of Lisa’s eyes.
Han stepped closer and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“No, but you will be.” In one fluid motion, Big Joe swiped up an ashtray from the bar and swung it at Han’s head.
Han stepped back and brought his own weapon up in a short upward swipe, tearing open Big Joe’s forearm and cutting his faded thistle tattoo in half.
The landlord grimaced, but did not break off the attack. With his uninjured arm, he shoved Han backwards. His jowly face contorted into a maniacal grin. “Naebody fucks with Haydon.”
Han stumbled into a table, but was surging forward again in seconds as Big Joe switched the ashtray to his good hand.
Lisa folded her arms and without conviction, muttered, “No … please.” The words were hollow, lifeless.
Big Joe started to bring the ashtray down to connect with the top of Han’s head, but the younger man was a fraction quicker. Han stuck the knife into the landlord’s fat stomach, causing a short, sharp gasp to escape Big Joe’s blue, snarling lips.
The ashtray clattered to the floor as Lisa looked on and shook her head.
“Bastard …” Big Joe uttered and threw his hands around Han’s throat.
Han tore the knife loose, splattering blood across the bar and floor. As Big Joe sagged, Han jabbed the knife in his throat.
Big Joe’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he keeled over against the bar. The cherrywood bar creaked with the impact from his shoulder and head, clinking glasses stacked on the shelves behind. With the front of his shirt awash, and the colour literally draining from his features, Big Joe slid face forward into a crumpled, dead heap.
Lisa slowly began clapping.
Han turned to her, frowning. Every goddamn person in Haydon was weird, but for some reason he thought Lisa would be different … normal.
He walked over to her and said, “Everyone’s acting bloody strange in this place, princess.”
She stopped clapping and folded her arms once more. “That’s what happens when you try to fuck with Haydon, babe.”
“What is it with this Haydon bullshit?” Han asked, anger getting the better of his fraught nerves.
“Just tell me one thing,” Lisa said in a low, even tone, “you haven’t harmed my angel.”
Han stopped, mere feet away. “Angel?” he said, incredulously. “Fucking angel? Demon more like!”
There was a moment of complete silence. Lisa did not move, nor even breathe.
“Look,” Han said, “I didn’t mean for … us to happen. I’m sorry, okay?”
Lisa remained deathly still.
“It’s nothing personal, Lisa, but I’ve got to keep emotion out of this.” He was genuinely apologetic, but also beginning to feel a rising fear. Continuing, he added, “If it’s any consolation, I tried to make it quick for Haley, I really did.”
What came at him was scarcely human. Claws and teeth and hissing. Wide-eyed, Han slashed out with the knife again and again, backing up the whole time as the woman whom he had shared a bed with tried to rip his face off.
Lisa finally collapsed, bleeding profusely from multiple stab and slash wounds. Still, she tried to crawl across the floor towards him, her eyes staring into Han’s soul.
Han stepped back, panting and bleeding. He levelled the knife, but then Lisa finally stopped moving and her head slumped against the floor. Her eyes continued to stare at him, lifeless, but filled with hate.
But now old friends are acting strange,
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed …
With hunched shoulders and knife dangling loosely by his side, Han backed up to the bar, not daring to take his eyes off Lisa for a second. Only once he was behind the bar did he look away long enough to fill up a half pint glass with whiskey.
His hand was trembling as he brought the glass to his lips. It stopped an inch away from his mouth as he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the row of optics. His face was pale and sweating with smears of fresh blood drying on his cheeks and in his beard. He had several angry red scratches from Lisa’s terrifying assault and dark, bruised rings encircled bloodshot auburn eyes.
He stared deep into the eyes that reflected back at him, studying them, venturing well beyond them. Tears welled up then dribbled down his cheeks. Suddenly his head began to spin and his legs felt like leaden weights. He slammed the glass down hard, splashing some of the whiskey on the bar. His hands covered his face as he sobbed uncontrollably.
Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.
Despite having been closed for a couple of hours, the Duck & Bucket still had several patrons sat in the bar at various stages of inebriation. In addition to Geordie behind the bar, Simon and Kim were sitting with their son, Danny at one of the small tables in the corner and Duncan and Loretta were sitting at the bar.
Cilla Black was singing on the jukebox.
Something tells me something’s gonna happen tonight …
Downing the dregs of his pint of lager, Geordie said, “Anyone dry?”
Knocking back the rest of his pint, Duncan cheerfully said, “Another pint of your finest bitter, barkeep, and a white wine for the lady!”
“Aye, two more here too, Geordie,” Simon said, referring to himself and Danny, who was looking pale and staring down at the three quarters of a pint still in front of him.
Kim glanced at Danny then turned to Geordie. “Don’t get Danny another – I’ll take him home in a bit. I’ll have a quick gin and tonic though before I go.”
“Oh, baby, something tells me …” Duncan sang merrily along with Cilla, to Loretta’s mild amusement.
“I’m fine,” Danny slurred and carefully clutched his pint in both hands to help steady the pitching and drifting room.
Geordie grunted and shook his head. “Think your ma’s right there, Dan. Bedtime for you like, you fuckin’ lightweight.”
As Geordie began filling pint, the lights flickered once and then died. With them, the music was also abruptly silenced, and the twinkling fairy lights on the rather small, skeletal Christmas tree in the bay window winked out. Looking up from the half filled glass, he glanced around the room that was now swathed in darkness. “Bollocks.”
“This crap happens almost every year round here when the weather turns particularly bad,” the shadowy form of Duncan said, with mild irritation.
“You could’ve just told us to sup up, Geordie!” Simon shouted from the darkness. “This is a bit extreme!”
“Anyone know if Tess kept any candles or a torch anywhere?” Geordie asked, setting the pint aside and scrutinising the gloomy shelves below the bar. “Cannat see shite, man.”
“I think … I’m gunna … be sick,” Danny uttered through a salivating mouth, staggering to his feet in a hurry and knocking his stool clattering to the floor.
“Hang on, nee one move till I get some light on the situation.”
Kim fumbled for her son’s arm in the gloom. “Don’t worry, Geordie, I’ll take him to the toilet. Don’t want him redecorating in here.”
“Didn’t Tess used to keep some candles in the cupboard under the till?” Loretta asked no one in particular. “I’m sure that’s where she got them from when this happened in January.”
As Geordie fumbled around in the darkness, Kim helped Danny towards the toilets.
“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” Lorretta muttered, looking down at her nearly empty glass of wine.
Dunca
n groped for her hand in the darkness and gave it a squeeze. “Aye, this kind of thing doesn’t happen in Haydon, love.”
“Gunna be sick,” Danny muttered as he and his mother clumsily made their way through the gloom. “Gunna be—” His voice was cut short by a distinctive whoosh, followed immediately by a slicing of flesh and the briefest, soft gurgle.
Danny, suddenly a dead-weight, toppled, taking the much smaller Kim with him. She landed heavily on his stomach, confused and dazed. “Danny?” Feeling up his chest, her hands touched warm stickiness. Her voice shrill, she repeated, “Danny!”
“Kim? Danny?” Simon called, standing up and squinting towards his wife’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
Duncan and Loretta both got to their feet too at the sound of Kim’s penetrating voice.
“Found some candles!” Geordie said. “All of you just stay calm!”
“Kim,” a voice whispered in her ear, hot breath a mere inch away. The darkness and picking Danny off so easily lent Han some of his lost confidence. It was short-lived.
He had expected Kim to recoil in horror, but instead, she turned to face him and whispered back, “Good of you to join us, Mr Whitman.”
Han sucked in a breath and stabbed her in the face, taking a step backwards in the process.
She screamed and it felt like his brain was vibrating inside his skull. She came at him and he stabbed her again and again until she collapsed.
Simon cast aside a chair and the table and rushed in the direction of his wife and son, bellowing in a voice alien to the man’s small frame, “How dare you!”
Duncan forcibly detached himself from Loretta’s and headed towards the Littles. “Si, I’m with you!”
With a sinking feeling and a flurry of regrets for accepting the temporary job, Geordie hastily pulled out a candle and box of matches from the cupboard below the till. Quickly, but calmly, he lit up a candle.
As the darkness lifted a notch, Simon stopped short of stumbling over the bodies of his wife and son. They were lying together, seemingly embracing each other in death. Despite the poor, almost liquid light, Simon recognised the blood and stillness immediately. “No … no, no, no,” he said over and over as he turned to face the figure bearing down on him.
Han grabbed him on the chin with one sticky glove and pulled Simon towards him. The baker came willingly, sneering and lashing out with his fists. Han blocked one, but the second grazed his temple, stalling his attack.
Duncan smashed a glass against the bar and rushed forward, swinging the jagged glass at Han’s neck. Han stepped back at the last moment and the glass plunged into Simon’s face, opening up his cheek and bursting an eye.
“Sorry, Si,” Duncan muttered, turning to Han.
Simon raised a hand to his ravaged face and shook his head. “That hurt, you plank.”
Han swiped the glass out of Duncan’s hand and head-butted him. As he stumbled back, nose bloodied, Han slashed open his throat and then kicked him in the chest. Duncan fell back, slipping in the pooled blood and his head caught the edge of a table with a sickening crack.
“Duncan!” Loretta cried then took a sip of her wine.
Geordie had set the candle down and was staring at the ensuing chaos. “Who the fuck is that?” Instinctively, he grabbed an empty bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale from a crate at his feet and proceeded to smash the base of it off the bar top. “You fuckin’ want some, do you?” His eyes flicked from the intruder to Loretta calming drinking wine then back to Han.
Simon was stepping forward, spitting blood and covering his oozing eye. Han moved in to meet him and rammed the knife through his hand and into his already ruined eye. With effort, it slid all the way to the hilt. Simon twitched and his one good eye stared unblinking at Han.
Han cast Simon’s body aside and turned to Geordie and Loretta. His rising anxiety was suddenly joined by the crushing weight of exhaustion. He sagged, knife dangling by his side.
Geordie planted one hand on the bar and vaulted over. “Come on then, motherfucker!” Without taking his eyes off the intruder, he added, “What the fuck is going on? Who is this twat?”
Loretta glanced up from her empty glass and, with an irritated flick of her hair, said, “Han Whitman.”
Geordie scrunched up his face and said, “The fucking writer?”
With considerable effort, Han sheathed the knife and drew out the Walther. He wasn’t going to take any chances with the Byker Brawler.
“Fuck.” Geordie tore his eyes away from the pistol long enough to glance at Loretta. “You just gonna sit there, like?”
She shrugged, but otherwise did nothing.
Turning back to Han, he growled, “What is your fuckin’ malfunction?”
Han sighed and managed a tired smile. “Get the fuck off my obstacle, Private Pile.”
“Eh?”
The crack of the pistol discharging in the confined space left a ringing in their ears. Geordie flinched, half ducking at the sound, but Loretta just continued to sit there, playing with her wine glass. Geordie recovered immediately and glanced at the smashed optic behind the bar.
The shot had gone wide, but there was something hugely satisfying about finally discharging the Walther. It was almost as if the handgun completed him somehow and it certainly seemed to immediately improve his mood and his energy.
Acknowledging that he was out of options, Geordie took the only chance he had; he surged forward screaming, “COME ON!”
It took a fraction of a second to adjust his aim. Geordie had cleared the distance in no time, but, as he swiped the broken bottle towards Han’s head, the gun spoke first.
The bullet tore through his throat and exited out the other side, lodging in the bar a couple of feet from Loretta, who glanced at it and then back to her glass. Geordie’s momentum carried him forward into Han and both men fell to the floor with a scrambling clatter.
On top, and with blood pumping out of his throat, Geordie snarled through red teeth, spitting blood in Han’s face. Struggling with the skinhead’s solid weight, Han squirmed to pull the pistol out from under his thigh.
“… Kill yeee …” Geordie spluttered, blood and saliva dribbling down his chin in gooey threads. The bottle lost, he struggled to bring his hands up to Han’s throat.
As Geordie’s slimy hands tightened around his neck, Han managed to dislodge the pistol from under his leg. The barman’s grip was vice-like, despite his wound and immediately caused Han to gag. With rising panic, he yanked the gun up to Geordie’s temple and pulled the trigger. The recoil nearly jerked the pistol clean out of his hand as Geordie’s head was wrenched to one side with the impact.
Blood pumped out of the entry hole in Geordie’s temple and brains and splinters of skull spilled out of the exit wound and splashed on the floor. Self-control forgotten, Han thrashed out, shoving the barman’s still twitching body off him and struggled to his feet. He blinked and coughed from his near throttling, holding his red throat with his free hand and the still smoking pistol in the other.
Loretta shook her head and pushed her empty glass away.
Breathing heavily, the fatigue returned with a vengeance, burrowing into every joint and muscle with an unchecked tenacity. It had been a long night and there was still plenty yet to do. But at least the worst was over. His thoughts returned to Lisa momentarily; her face; cute, sexy, smiling, but then it transformed into the creature that leaped at him, clawing and screeching. Although banished almost as quickly as it had appeared, its presence left its mark, tainting him. Gritting his teeth, Han walked over towards the Duck’s last living occupant with pistol in hand.
Loretta turned around from the bar and stared at him. There was no emotion in her eyes and she said, “Welcome to Haydon.”
Han shot her in the forehead.
CHAPTER 11
Two’s company, three’s a bloodbath.
The dimmed spotlights and shag pile rug in front of a burning fireplace mingled with the gentle tones of Elvis Presley to offer a wa
rm glow to Steve Belmont’s living room.
I just can't help believin',
When she smiles up soft and gentle,
With a trace of misty morning,
And the promise of tomorrow in her eyes …
Steve padded across the floor in bare feet and a bathrobe, carrying two bubbling champagne flutes. Janet, also dressed in a bathrobe, was curled up on the leather sofa.
Handing her one of the glasses, Steve said, “Here you go, love.”
“Storm’s still raging out there,” Janet replied dreamily. “I’ll tell Larry that I stayed with Loretta, rather than walk back through that.” She sipped the champagne and savoured the fizzing bubbles on her tongue.
Sitting down beside her, he gently caressed her flowing red hair and took a sip of his champagne. “Won’t Loretta get pissed off with all the covering she’s doing for you?”
Pushing a hand between the folds of Steve’s robe, Janet stroked his hairy chest while contemplating the question. After another sip, she said, “Loretta knows that I’m going to leave Larry and that I’m just waiting for the right moment. She’s not happy about the lying, but she’s doing it for me, as my friend.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“Yes, she is.” Turning to him, she looked deep into his granite eyes and said, with mounting emotion, “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? I mean, what’s best for everyone, including Larry?” Her eyes were beseeching.
Steve moved his hand from her hair and touched the side of her hot cheek. “Of course, love. You two haven’t been happy for years, so it’s going to be best all round. It’ll be hard for Larry and Kerris at first, but once the shock is out of the way, everyone will be much happier in the long run.” He kissed her on the lips, then added, “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Closing her eyes, with a dreamy smile on her lips, she leant forward to return the kiss. She maintained the embrace for a moment then eased herself up, saying, “Just going to freshen up a little.”