by Rod Glenn
Steve nodded and flashed a warm smile as she walked into the hallway to the bathroom, dabbing the corner of one eye with the sleeve of her robe.
Finishing off his glass, Steve stood up and headed back across the room. The kitchen was partitioned from the living room by a solid breakfast bar with a couple of bar stools.
He set the glass aside on the worktop and crossed to the refrigerator to retrieve the bottle. As he opened it, a noise caught his attention from the living room. The King had been halfway through Bridge Over Troubled Water when the music abruptly stopped after the line, I’ll take your part, oh, when darkness comes. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Han standing in the middle of the room and looking at him. Muddy water was pooling at his feet.
Steve stood staring for a moment and then the spell broke. “Whitman.” With a growl, he added, “You made a big fucking mistake coming here.”
Wisps of steam were starting to rise from his wet clothes as he stood there and forced a smile. “I’m going to murder you and your whore, Janet,” Han said. Surely, here was a tosser that he could get some real pleasure in killing. There had been a lot of shocks – and more than a few genuine scares – along the way, but surely he could enjoy this one.
Standing, naked, save for the bathrobe, Steve considered his options, whilst taking a gulp of champagne from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Well, you’ll just have to settle for me, dickhead. Janet’s not here.”
Han took a moment to glance around the room then shrugged. “Ah well, not to worry.” Trying to conjure up some enthusiasm, he raised the pistol and aimed it at Steve’s chest.
Steve eyed the gun whilst taking another drink of champagne. “So, what’s it all about, Alfie?”
Janet was about to step out of the bathroom when she registered the two voices. She froze, hand on door handle, frowning.
Waving the gun dismissively, Han said, “It’s nothing personal, Steve. Although, unlike a lot of the others, I will quite enjoy this one.” As an afterthought, he added, “You’re a arsehole, Steve. That should be reason enough.”
Only a slight twitch betrayed Steve’s irritation. “Fuck you, Whitman.” Then with a snort, he added, “Think you’re friggin’ tough coming in here waving a gun about? You’re nowt but a coward. Put that gun down and let’s settle this like men. I’ll fucking show you who’s the boss round here, you little runt.” He stepped up to the threshold between the two rooms.
Han actually managed a proper laugh, cocking his head to one side with amusement. “Nah, I have neither the time, nor the inclination for a roll around in the hay with you … not after the fucking night I’ve had. So, let me just say, fuck you, eh?” With that, he fired.
The bullet tore into Steve’s shoulder, spinning him round. Cursing, he dropped to the floor and ducked behind the breakfast bar. Clutching the rapidly widening patch of red spreading through the robe, Steve shouted, “You dirty little bastard! I’m gunna kill you!”
Janet clamped a hand over her mouth, which at first looked like it was to stifle a scream, but it was actually a snigger. She quietly back away from the door.
Rolling his eyes, Han let out a sigh and walked towards the kitchen. “Steve, I can’t be bothered with this shit, man. It’s been a long night … a long, weird, fucked up night … and I’ve still got a few more to sort before I can get some sleep.”
“Well, sorry for making your life difficult, you whiny little prick,” Steve said.
Pausing, Han touched the tip of the Walther to his chin and savoured the burnt, acidy whiff emanating from the barrel. “I know you were gonna pay Jimmy to burn down that shithole of a car lot so you and Janet could skip off into the sunset together.”
Steve raised an eyebrow and cocked his head up. “You have been a sneaky little twat, haven’t you?”
Han took a step closer then said, “You’ll be glad to know that I’m still going to burn the place down for you, but I’m also going to stick yours and Janet’s bodies in there so everyone can find out about your sordid little affair.”
Grimacing as he touched the seeping wound in his shoulder, Steve said, “What do I care? I’ll be dead. Tell me, why do you want to kill people in Haydon anyway? Why Haydon?”
Closing the gap, Han said, “No point in explaining it to you, Steve. You’re about to die, so it’s not really that important to you. Plus, I’m not really the monologuing type; I’ll leave that to the Bond villains.”
Glancing round the kitchen worktops for inspiration, Steve muttered, “Nee botha, mate, but I’ve got news for you, Haydon doesn’t die so easily.” His eyes fell upon the champagne bottle mere inches away. He grabbed it, wincing at the flaring pain in his shoulder. He shifted into a crouch on his haunches and waited. Pins and needles ran down the length of his arm and exploded in a hot tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Han said in a low whisper, beginning to enjoy himself. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”
As he reached to within a foot of the breakfast bar, Steve jumped to his feet and lashed out with the bottle. The base whooshed past Han’s nose, clipping the bridge and drawing a trickle of blood.
Han backed off, saying, “Easy tiger, you very nearly took my head off there.”
Steve didn’t bother with further dialogue. He roared and threw himself over the worktop.
Han stepped back hastily and opened fire twice in quick succession. The two rounds punched Steve in the chest, stalling his advance and leaving him in a crumpled slouch over the worktop. One hand swung limply over the edge and, after the second swing, the bottle slipped out of his grip and smashed on the laminate floor. Blood oozed from the gunshot wounds, pooling on the worktop and dribbling down the lounge side of the breakfast bar.
“Well, you died pretty easily, shithead,” Han said and turned away to make a sweep of the flat. Swinging the door open to the bathroom, he peered in and scanned the spacious room, checking behind the door and casting a brief glance at the freestanding bath.
He hovered in the doorway, scrutinising the gloomy room and listening intently for some time. Content, he finally withdrew.
Janet lay still in the bath for several minutes, eyes closed and breathing softly.
After a time, she opened her eyes and smiled. She climbed out and tip-toed into the hallway. The front door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar, with snow gusting in through the gap.
She then walked into the lounge and looked at Steve’s body draped over the breakfast bar. A wide patch of blood had spread out from base.
“Oh, Steve,” she muttered softly, shaking her head. “What did the bad man do to you?”
Thumping footsteps sounded from the staircase.
Janet turned to the doorway, hands on hips. “Eager for seconds,” she said and licked her lips.
Carol Belmont appeared in the doorway, her drenched hair plastered messily to her head and her thin denim jacket soaked through. Her cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold, but they could not mask her accusing glare. “Shouldn’t you be with your husband, you whore?”
Janet feigned a hurt expression.
Carol stormed into the room towards her. “The door was open, so don’t even st—” She stopped suddenly as she saw Steve’s blood-drenched body. “What the … Steve? Steve!” She rushed forward and clutched his limp arms, skidding briefly in the man’s pooled blood. She grabbed a hand that was sticky where blood had dribbled down his arm from the shoulder wound. Despite having cried herself dry earlier, tears still managed to squeeze out of her inflamed tear ducts as her unhinged mind soaked in the scene. She tenderly lifted his head and looked into his staring, dead eyes.
Oblivious to all the blood, she threw her arms across his back and buried her face into the soft material of his robe. Muffled sobs wracked her body, sending violent shivers down her arched back.
Sighing, Janet said, “Han Whitman has taken it upon himsel
f to murder the good people of Haydon.”
Carol turned her damp, crimson face towards the timid voice. “And he just let you live did he?” The venom in her voice was unmistakable.
“I was in the bathroom. He didn’t see me,” Janet replied matter-of-factly.
Still holding on to Steve, Carol hissed, “So you hid while Steve was murdered?”
Janet stepped towards her. “It’s sensible to pick your battles, Carol. You know that.”
“Why don’t you just fuck off and cower in some stinking hole while your doting husband is murdered too?”
Janet’s mouth opened with dawning realisation. “Ah yes, Larry … Kerris … oh, not Kerris.” She turned and ran towards the bedroom, casting off the bathrobe along the way, unaware and uncaring of her nakedness or the cold.
As Janet quickly dressed, Carol entered behind her. “So, Larry is worth saving, but Steve wasn’t?” She stared with disgust at Janet’s toned and tanned, naked backside as she threw on a blouse.
Without looking up from the leather skirt she was now pulling up over her thighs, Janet said, “Fuck you, Carol. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Might’ve been an idea to explain it to your husband or daughter though!” Carol fired back, clenching her fists into tight balls.
Janet paused while zipping up the skirt. She shot Carol a searing glare. “That’s none of your business, you withered old cow.”
As Janet finished dressing, Carol stomped over to the trimphone on the bedside cabinet. “Bitch,” she muttered under her breath as she picked up the handset and pressed 999.
After tugging on high heeled boots, Janet wrapped up in a coat and a silk scarf.
“Shit!” Carol spat. “No dial tone.”
Janet headed for the door. “Shocker,” she muttered, her tone laced with mock surprise.
“Well, I’m coming with you!”
Janet cast an irritated glance over her shoulder. “Do I give a shit?”
The crows do a nice line in withering irony.
Janet and Carol fought their way out into the blizzard, Janet setting the pace at a confident stride, seemingly impervious to the treacherous conditions. The storm showed no signs of abating and snow had piled up into great drifts against the darkened buildings and scattered cars. The black sky was a torrent of gusting snow. The village had a desolate, menacing feel, like the stone and bricks themselves were silently plotting.
The deep drifts made for slow progress as the two women made their way towards the Herring household. There was no other living soul in sight, nor a single beacon of light to temper the darkness.
As they arrived, with Janet leading, they found the front door open and several inches of snow gathering in the hallway.
“He wouldn’t … not Kerris,” Janet said, wiping dripping stands of hair out of her eyes. Her scarf and coat were encrusted with snow.
As Janet stepped across the threshold, Carol, shivering, both from the freezing temperatures and from tattered nerves, grabbed her shoulder. Whispering, she said, “He might still be in there?”
Janet turned and glared at her. With an even tone, she uttered, “Then we kill him.”
The intensity in Janet’s eyes caused Carol to take a step back. Hesitantly, she said, “Okay.”
Janet walked in first, caution slowing her steps. Thoughts of Steve were forgotten and Larry’s face only lingered a moment. Her thoughts were filled with Kerris and Kerris alone.
With a mixture of fear and impatience, Carol said, “Well, go if you’re going.”
She had not realised that she had stopped completely. Without turning, Janet snapped, “Shut the fuck up.” Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
The hallway and living room were both in darkness, but the kitchen ahead of them, its door open a crack, was well lit. Glancing briefly in the living room, she continued forward to the kitchen. Carol followed, her grim, dripping features apprehensive. Her chattering teeth were impossibly loud in the uneasy silence.
Janet placed a hand on the door and, holding her breath, she pushed it inwards.
The air already filling her lungs was joined by another sharp intake of breath, accompanied by a torturous croak. Larry was sitting at the table, facing the door, with a disposable syringe poking out of each eye and a neat slice across his Adam’s apple. Blood had trickled from the corners of his eyes and poured down his chest from the neck wound. His favourite Led Zeppelin t-shirt was drenched all the way down to the crotch of his jeans.
Sitting in the second chair, was Janet’s nine year old daughter, Kerris. She was dressed in her favourite woolly jumper that her Nan had knitted for her last Christmas. Her head had dropped forward, her long, wavy chestnut hair obscuring her face. The blood that had seeped down her chest, with shocking similarity to her father’s, was as appalling as it was unmistakable.
Hyperventilating, Janet stumbled forward, uttering, “Kerris? Baby?” She savagely cast one of the chairs aside, which crashed into the cupboards. Bile rose up in her throat, forcing her to gag noisily.
Carol walked in behind her and gasped at the horrific sight of the doctor’s and young girl’s murdered bodies, sitting as if waiting for dinner to be served. “Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on here?” She backed up, slamming hard against the doorframe. The impact caused her to cry out involuntarily, screeching, “No, please!” Realising it was just the doorframe and not the murderer, she drew in a shaky breath.
Wrenching her eyes away from studying every minute detail of Janet’s dead family, Carol glanced around the room. But one urge took over, as it often did in times of crisis. Spying the refrigerator, she headed straight for it as Janet stood, sagging in front of her dead daughter, her trembling hands gripping the edge of the table in an effort to stay upright on her rubbery legs.
“My baby …” Janet’s voice sounded pathetic and isolated. She didn’t even realise that the voice was her own. She was transfixed with the top of her daughter’s head, willing her to move; just a twitch … anything.
“I need a drink,” Carol muttered, gulping down the taste of bile in her own throat. Opening the refrigerator, she plucked out a nearly empty bottle of chardonnay. The cold bottle trembled in her hand as she studied it for a moment, her thoughts suddenly consumed by the small amount of wine sloshing in the bottom. Yanking the cork out, she raised it to her lips.
Suddenly, Janet appeared at her side and viciously swiped the bottle out of Carol’s weak grip. “You drink enough.” Her words were distant and her eyes were fixed on a point beyond the confines of the kitchen. Without pausing, she up-ended the contents into her dry mouth, gulping down every last drop.
“You bitch. I need a drink!” Carol spat and pushed her love rival back with a hard shove. It was born more from frustration and fear, than real anger.
Janet opened her mouth to reply, but her features turned first to confusion, and then contorted with pain. The bottle dropped out of her hands and smashed on the tiled floor. She flashed a seething glare towards her dead husband.
Still irate, but frowning, Carol said, “What’s the matter?”
Wheezing and clawing at her skin, Janet suddenly began to convulse. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, twitching and foaming at the mouth. Her pallid, clammy skin rapidly turned blue.
Terrified, Carol backed away to the periphery of the room. “Janet? What’s wrong?
After several more seconds of thrashing, she abruptly stopped and her head lolled, lifeless to one side with her tongue protruding, purple and bloated.
Carol stood, staring at the unmoving woman in an ungraceful heap with her skirt hitched up to her waist and her intimate parts on show beneath the leather trim. She stared at the woman’s vagina for a time. “Well, the carpet matches the curtains,” she muttered to herself. Then, shaking her head, she said, “No … this can’t be happening …” Her voice trailed off and she dropped to her knees in front of Janet. Spittle and foam had gathered in the corners of her mouth and on her chin, and
her eyes had rolled back into her head, leaving gleaming white orbs staring madly towards the bodies of her husband and daughter.
Clasping her head in her hands, Carol bent forward, as if to pray to the East. With her head on the floor, close to Janet’s, a low moan emanated from her rigid lips. Gradually, the pitching wail grew to a blackboard-scraping, raging squeal.
They’re only red from all the tears that I should’ve shed …
Tired, cold and aching, Han trudged slowly along the darkened corridor to his room. He opened the door with a trembling hand and all but fell into the room.
After locking the door behind him, he struggled out of his wet clothes and dropped like a dead weight onto his bed, oblivious of the ingrained blood on his hands and face. Shivering, he pulled the flap of the sleeping bag over his naked body and half-heartedly tugged at the zip. Without even the strength to shift his body to allow the zip to close, he abandoned it and hugged the two sides together instead.
The shivers took him for several long minutes as his aching body adjusted to the warmth and comfort of the bed. It had been a very long night, but, apart from the absolute weirdness of everything – and some of the residents being downright terrifying – it had, for the most part, been successful. He just had a few stragglers to finish off in the morning, plus a sweep through to ensure no fingerprints or incriminating evidence was left behind. Then, his little adventure and experiment would be finished. He could then go back to his life with Jumanji and Movie Maniac. A growing desperation to return to the life he once knew – to some sort of normality – took hold of him. Emotionally, he felt threadbare and nearing the bottom of his well.
He wondered absently, as sleep gently embraced him, calming his shattered nerves, how much poontang Perry had been getting while he had been away, and whether Ju would remember him after all these months. Ju, of course, would be delighted to see him, but Perry, on the other hand, well, that would be the end of his reign of power. Poor Perry; at least he’ll have got his end away a few times while he’d been in charge. My gift, to you …