by Rod Glenn
A face slowly materialised to one side of his shoulder. As it took shape, the void where its mouth was supposed to be worked soundlessly. Gradually, a button nose took shape, then small ears with stud earrings, then dark spiky hair.
Lisa stared at him with empty holes for eyes. Han could clearly see the bedroom wall, complete with mounted feline pictures, through the blanks where her eyes should have been.
Lisa’s dead mouth worked to form soundless syllables. YOU … WILL … DIE.
Han blinked wildly to dispel the ghastly vision then rubbed both eyes vigorously with his free hand. When he looked again, his former lover was gone.
A chill crept through his body and he suddenly became aware of his breath hanging in the air in front of him. Unnerved, he hastily left the room.
What's a little reunion without a little drama?
The three men remained flat against the side wall of the Post Office for a couple of minutes. Sam and Jimmy regaining their breath and settling their nerves, but Bryce just staring up at the dark sky.
“Cheeky fucker,” Bryce said and glanced back around the corner. Main Street was as they had left it, and no other soul had yet to appear. The only sound to be heard was Sam’s battered Fiesta as it continued to idle, combined with a soft hissing coming from the ruptured radiator.
“He’s changing positions,” Bryce said. “Time to move.”
On his haunches, with his back against the wall and his head in his hands, Jimmy muttered, “Where to?” Then, slowly lifting his head out of his hands, he continued, “I hate to be the voice of reason here – goes totally against me character, like – but there is nowhere to go!” His cheeks were damp from unseen tears.
“Quit griping,” Bryce retorted with marked impatience.
“I like griping.”
Bryce shot a glare towards him, but Jimmy refused to meet his stare, instead focusing his eyes on the opposite wall.
Sam smacked the palm of his hand against the icy, wet stone wall with a resounding slap. “Sh-shut up!”
Bryce and Jimmy turned their attention to him, surprised by his sudden outburst. The man wasn’t a local, so wasn’t coping too well. The same could be said for Jimmy, of course, but that was because of the shit he stuck into himself.
“Sorry, Sam,” Bryce said.
“Well, we got to think of something,” Jimmy said. “We cannat just sit here holding our dicks.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Well put.” He bent down to examine the graze on his calf. The material around the rip in his jeans was dark and sticky and blood had seeped into his sock and boot. With an irritated snort, he drew back up to his formidable height and said, “We need to get off the street so we can work out a plan.”
As the three men considered this, Sam caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He snapped his head to one side to stare down the lane. Renewed adrenaline coursed through his body as he scrutinised this potential new threat. It was a bedraggled woman, staggering towards them along the lane. Her features were slack and emotionless and her arms dangled loosely down by her sides.
Without taking his eyes off her, Sam nudged Jimmy and whispered, “L-l-look, wh-who’s she?”
Both Bryce and Jimmy turned to see who was approaching. They both recognised her immediately. “Carol, over here!” Bryce called to her.
She appeared not to notice, continuing unsteadily along the middle of the snow-covered lane. Her ankle boots were thick with snow and her jeans were soaked through. Despite the cold, she wore neither hat, gloves nor scarf, and her denim jacket was open to reveal a thin blouse. Her teeth were visibly chattering and her bright red hands, poking out of the sleeves of her jacket, were shaking.
Bryce rushed over to her, shouting to Jimmy, “Keep an eye behind us!” He slowed as he reached her and, after setting down the rifle against the wall, gradually raised his arms, beckoning. “Carol, it’s John. Are you okay, pet?” He gently placed his hands on her drooping shoulders and caught a strong whiff of brandy on her breath.
Carol seemed neither to recognise him nor even register his presence. She tried to continue her journey, so Bryce gently restrained her, forcibly halting her swaying progress. Her feet continued to shuffle in the snow for a moment, seemingly unaware that her body had halted. “Carol, it’s me,” he said again and tenderly squeezed her shoulders. This time her eyes slowly lifted from the snowy ground up to meet Bryce’s. Her teary, bloodshot eyes were glazed at first, but after a moment, they fixed on him and recognition followed.
“John?” her hoarse voice murmured.
Nodding, Bryce said, “Aye, pet, it’s me. You look freezing.”
“Steve’s dead,” she said dreamily. “So’s Janet … and Larry … and their beautiful little girl. I-I had to have a drink.”
Buttoning up her jacket, Bryce said, “Loads of people have been killed, Carol. It looks like it’s Han Whitman.” Turning to the others, he said, “We’ve got to get her indoors – she’s freezing.”
“My place is no good,” Jimmy said, glancing from Main Street to the discarded rifle.
“The farm’s too far, so we’ll have to try for an unlocked door.”
Stamping his feet to ward off the creeping cold, Sam looked around, searching for options.
His mind reeling, Bryce struggled to think coherently. After a moment, he said, “Carol, you mentioned Janet and Larry. Is their house locked? Have you come from there?”
Sagging into his arms, she started crying softly on his shoulder. “Please don’t make me go back there.” Her anguished, whispered voice was pleading.
“We’ve got to get off the street, Carol. It’s our best option.”
“Anyway,” Jimmy injected, “I thought you’d be happy.”
Bryce glanced at him – it was fleeting, but enough to halt a stampeding buffalo. In response, Jimmy raised his hands in mock apology then begrudgingly struggled to his feet.
“Come on,” Bryce said. Turning to Carol, he said in a more soothing tone, “Come on, pet, let’s get you into the warm.” He stooped to retrieve his rifle, before gently leading her back towards the Herring household.
Jimmy noticed the farmer’s slight limp, but remained silent and pensive.
CHAPTER 13
We're the cavalry. It would be bad form to arrive early; in the nick of time would do nicely.
Skidding and wheel-spinning along the one and only artery between Shillmoor and Blindburn, the muddy Northumbria Police Land Rover made slow and erratic progress towards the Haydon turnoff. A snowplough had made a fleeting dash between villages in the early hours, leaving six foot snowdrifts either side of the road, but since then several more feet of fresh snow had built up on the rutted surface.
The rolling Cheviot Hills and moors to the right of the road were blanketed with a brilliant white, broken only by intermittent stick-like trees – coal-black against the hoary backdrop – hedgerows and the occasional dry stone wall. The River Coquet, to the left, normally a trickle, was fast flowing and swollen with snowmelt, its normally shallow rocky riverbed lost beneath churning, icy water.
Within the warm confines, a uniformed police constable fought a battle of wills with the wheel. Accompanying him were Mitchell, in the front, and Wright in the back, his head lolling against the window, snoring.
“Worst weather I’ve seen up these parts since I was a kid,” the young driver, scarcely into his twenties, said in earnest.
Wright stopped in mid-snore. Without opening his eyes, he muttered, “And when was that? Last week?”
Rolling his eyes, Mitchell said, “Ignore him, lad. He’s always grumpy in the morning.” As the windscreen wipers worked tirelessly to clear the spray, he squinted to see the Haydon turnoff. “There it is,” he said finally. “Christ. You did bring a couple of shovels, Bainbridge?”
“Aye.”
“We’re gonna need ’em.”
The Land Rover slowed to a skidding halt by the junction. The snowplough had thrown a huge drift into the side road
, blocking it completely up to waist height. The road beyond was untouched with deep virgin snow.
Rubbing an ache in his neck, Wright eased his big frame out of the four wheel drive and stood by the roadside, eyeing the obstruction. Mitchell and Bainbridge joined him as the engine idled. The snow had died with the breeze, leaving the breath of the three officers’ hanging in the air in front of them. Mitchell suppressed a shiver and let out a sigh.
“You think they don’t want any visitors?” Wright said with mild irritation as he plucked his cigarettes out of his coat. “Should we radio in for the snowplough? Get him to sort out his mess?”
Mitchell shook his head. “The ploughs are working overtime to try to clear the main routes; they won’t have time to clear these secondary ones for ages yet. Do you want to hang round here waiting?”
Wright thought about it for a second as he lit up with his red dagger lighter. “Not particularly.”
“Well, we might as well just clear it ourselves.”
Wright turned to the young constable. “You heard the man. Jump to it.”
The dejected look Bainbridge gave him was enough to raise Wright’s flagging spirits. Zipping up his coat, he said, “Only joking, mate. Come on then, it won’t move itself.”
Between the three of them, they managed to clear a path in under an hour. As they finished, snow was starting to fall once again.
Glancing up at the solid roof of cloud above them, red-faced and puffing, Mitchell said, “Bloody typical. We better not hang about too long or we’re likely to be stuck here for Christmas. Can’t say that Shelly would be too happy about that!”
“Can’t have you missing the kid’s first Christmas, mate,” Wright said sincerely, blinking flakes out of his bushy eyebrows as he cast his shovel into the back of the Land Rover. His face, too, was red from exertion and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“I’m supposed to be going to my girlfriend’s parents for Christmas dinner,” Bainbridge said conversationally, adding his and Mitchell’s shovels to the pile of equipment in the back of the four wheel drive.
“Nobody cares,” Wright said evenly, then smiled at the resulting puppy dog eyes. “I’m joking! Jesus, you’re bloody sensitive for a copper.”
The slim officer shrugged defensively, but the gesture barely registered within his bulky florescent high visibility jacket.
The front door to Janet and Larry Herring’s home had been left half open and trampled snow had built up just inside the hallway. Pushing the door fully open with the muzzle of his rifle, Bryce peered into the darkened corridor. He could see all the way through to the kitchen, where he could just make out slender legs lying crumpled beyond.
He stepped inside, followed by Sam who was helping Carol, then Jimmy bringing up the rear. After checking the living room, they moved in to the kitchen where the bodies of Larry, Janet and Kerris met them.
Bryce stopped in the doorway. Despite everything that he had already seen and having a very good idea at what he would find here, the sight of the entire Herring family lying dead still caused him to pause. He recovered quickly, wiping the back of his hand across his dry lips, he turned to Sam and said, “Take Carol into the living room and sit with her there while me and Jimmy sort things here.”
Nodding, Sam gently coaxed Carol back down the hallway.
Folding his arms across his chest, Jimmy said angrily, “How come he gets the fucking babysitting job while I get shit detail?”
Bryce had started to fish his cigarettes out of his coat, but he paused to glare at Jimmy. “How about you grow the fuck up and start acting like a local, eh?” As Jimmy stared defiantly back at him, grasping for a witty comeback, Bryce continued. “She’s been through the mill long before all this shit – she’s on medication. She’s got an excuse, what’s yours?”
“It’s the gear, man,” Jimmy said, as if stating the obvious.
“You’ve got a smart mouth, Jimmy,” Bryce snarled and stepped closer to him. “You’ve been a stain on Haydon for years.”
Despite Bryce’s intimidating frame, Jimmy held his ground, looking up to the much bigger man. “Sticks and stones, John. I divvent answer to you or neebody.”
“You’re a worthless layabout who got his lass onto drugs, got her up the duff, and then dumped her like steamin’ shit.” Bryce bent closer to him, willing him to take a swing for him.
Despite his best efforts, Jimmy could not help but lean away from Bryce’s huge face, but with the farmer’s last words, his own anger overruled his fear. “She dumped me! I loved Lisa!” With that, the tremors returned with a vengeance and he had to grip both arms in fear that he would shake himself apart.
Sam popped his head around the door of the living room. Glaring down the hallway at the two men hovering at the threshold to the kitchen, he snapped, “F-f-f-for fuck’s sake! W-w-what’s the matter with y-y-you people?”
Bryce straightened up and entered the kitchen without another word. After a moment, still trembling, Jimmy followed. Before starting, Bryce produced his remaining two cigarettes and handed one to Jimmy.
They worked together in silence to lift the three bodies and set them outside in the car park at the back of the house. The snow had started once more and a powdery layer quickly built up covering the Herrings where they lay. After locking up, they briefly wiped over the bloodstains and swept up the broken glass, then beckoned Sam to join them.
Bryce filled the kettle and switched it on as Jimmy and Sam took seats at the patio table, the former trying hard to cast out the images of Kerris’ and Larry’s blood that had just been cleaned up. Spooning instant coffee into mugs, Bryce said, “I think we should secure this house and wait it out.” Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you two think?” His expression was unreadable.
They both nodded wearily, but remained silent.
“We need to get weapons for you three an’ all. We cannat just rely on Bertie.”
“Bertie?” Sam and Jimmy asked in unison.
“The Bassett,” he said with a nod towards the rifle leaning against the cooker.
“Ah.” Sam and Jimmy exchanged a glance, Jimmy rolling his eyes and Sam shrugging.
“Anyway,” Bryce continued, irritated at the interruption, “we need to sort summit out for you. Wish I’d brought the Webley as well. Either of you two done any shootin’?”
Sam shook his head, but Jimmy said, “Aye, once or twice. Me dad used to have an old double-barrel.”
Bryce thought about it for a moment, then said, “Much as I’d hate to trust you with a gun, I’d prefer at least two of us armed than not.”
“Touchin’,” Jimmy muttered, absently scratching the back of one hand.
“Means a trek to the farm though,” Bryce mused. “Not sure we should risk it – we’ll be out in the open. The only thing we’ve got in our favour is that he’s not a very good shot. Either that or he was just toying with us.”
“So we just stay here like sitting ducks?” Jimmy said, exasperated, but could think of nothing better to suggest. He continued scratching, moving up his arm. Bryce caught the action out of the corner of his eye, but refrained from commenting.
“I-if we w-w-wait for him, we can try to t-t-turn the t-tables on him; su-surprise h-him for a change,” Sam suggested, carefully trying to regulate his speech. The effort appeared to tire him quickly.
Bryce appeared to mull it over as he finished making the coffees. Passing them out, he said finally, “Think that might be a good idea. There’s only one of him; there’s three of us—”
“Four.” Carol had appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously. Her tear-streaked face and bloodshot eyes exaggerated her haggard features, prematurely ageing her, but there was a determination in the back of her eyes that was unmistakable.
The three men stared at her as Bryce handed her a steaming mug of coffee. As she gripped the mug in both hands, he offered her an encouraging smile and repeated, “Four.”
“Like t-the mu-musk
eteers,” Sam said and managed a weak smile.
Jimmy frowned. “It’s three musketeers, ya div.”
“Four including D’Artagnan, you prat,” Bryce said with a smirk.
“Wey, pardon me,” Jimmy said. “Get a load of the English professor here.”
Bryce shook his head, but he grunted a half laugh.
Sam offered Carol his seat and propped himself against the kitchen units, sipping his coffee.
She seemed reluctant at first to leave the imaginary sanctuary of the doorway, but then, hesitantly, Carol stepped forward and eased herself into the chair. She sat in silence, warming her hands on the hot mug and contemplating the dark brown liquid.
“You want to talk about it?” Bryce offered tentatively.
She remained quiet, seemingly transfixed by the steam drifting above her drink. But just as Bryce was about to change the subject, she let out a sigh and spoke. Her voice was hushed and gravelly, but once she started she seemed adamant to finish.
Carol proceeded to tell them everything that had happened, first at Steve’s house, then finishing with Janet drinking the wine. The three men listened in silence, nodding occasionally. At the mention of Han’s name, Bryce nodded slowly, but otherwise remained stone-faced.
When she had finished and sat back in morose contemplation, Bryce took the reigns, and explained his view of events leading to their meeting. He took a swig of coffee before skirting past the macabre discoveries of his wife and child, but otherwise recounted events quietly and matter-of-factly.
Sam had to turn away at the fleeting mention of Bryce’s murdered family, brushing tears from his eyes in the process. Everything had been a constant blur since he and Natalie had strolled down into the bar that morning, unaware and totally unprepared for the chain of events that were about to unfold around them. He had not even had time to grieve for her … his Natalie, his love. She had been taken from him in the blink of an eye; by a stranger, for seemingly no reason whatsoever.