by Rod Glenn
Overall, his initial thoughts were that of a war zone, not a crime scene. Wiping snow from his eyes, he noticed rows of black body bags laid out by the roadside further up the street beyond the Miller’s Arms. As he watched, more were placed there by shuffling soldiers and paramedics with each passing minute.
A uniformed police officer approached them at a stoop, holding his hat down with one hand as the wind from the rotor blades blew the snow from the top of it. As he approached, the helicopter lifted jerkily off the ground and rose up into the darkness, buffeted by the high winds.
“Chief!” he called to them above the din with more than a hint of relief in his frayed voice. He was panting hard from the cold and exertion, the cold air betraying him with every hot breath.
“Hasslebrook?” Hewitt asked, taking the man’s hand.
“Yessir. The search has uncovered over two hundred bodies so far, including Detective’s Wright and Mitchell and PC Bainbridge.”
Hewitt let out an angry grunt then asked, “Survivors?”
“One so far, but she’s in a critical condition, so we have not been able to glean any information from her at all yet. We managed to persuade the air ambulance to fly her out about ten minutes before you arrived. They don’t normally fly at night or in these conditions, but under the circumstances …” His voice trailed off, unsure how to finish.
Hewitt nodded, content for him to leave it there.
“Still no suspects?” Wilkinson asked almost dreamily, his head unable or unwilling to move beyond the body count, and reeling to digest the sheer scale of the nightmare unfolding around him. With the helicopter gone, the swirling snow died down somewhat and the roar of the wind with it.
“We have one; a certain Hannibal Whitman who Wright and Mitchell were up here to interview.”
“Could one man possibly be responsible for all this?” Wilkinson uttered, his eyes starting to stream from the icy snow. He wiped his face with a gloved hand and glanced from Hasslebrook to his superior.
“Nothing’s impossible, son,” Hewitt said evenly, ruffling his collar against the bitter wind. He stood and surveyed the chaotic scene in silence for some time as fresh falling snow quickly coated his hat and shoulders. The faces of everyone who passed close by, including Hasslebrook’s, had a haunted sheen to them. Some mass primeval fear had been evoked from within this place. Even the air, despite the icy wind, felt … tainted somehow. They were doggedly going about their duty, ingrained training heaving them through this frozen hell, but this was one night that none of them would ever forget. The men and women around him would take these scenes to their graves, and would most probably have many a restless and sweat-soaked night from this day forward.
A young constable stepped out of a house across the road, clutching a Santa Clause hat close to his chest. He appeared dazed and confused as his gaze switched from the impossibly vivid red hat to the dark pandemonium around him. As Hewitt watched, squinting, he realised that the officer was weeping openly.
The events in Haydon would join the ranks of the Moors murders, the Ripper murders, Hungerford, Shipman, the Wests, but it would top them all by a long, long way. If it was Hannibal Whitman, then he had single-handedly managed to wipe an entire village off the map.
“This bastard has to be the devil himself,” Wilkinson muttered, his face deeply troubled.
Hewitt tore his eyes away from the young constable to the sergeant, then after a moment’s contemplation, said solemnly, “Maybe. He wears many disguises.” He continued to look upon the frenzied scene around them, then, as an afterthought, he added, “Well, what I say is, when you’re dealing with the devil, praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.” His words were flat and humourless, and his sunken eyes settled on the black tree line of the woods beyond the borders of the village.
A killer was out there somewhere; a killer who was indiscriminate of age, race, gender or creed. This monster had to be stopped. As that thought consumed him, his chest began to tighten with the onset of another coughing fit.
The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgrace,
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace,
Hate your next-door-neighbour, but don't forget to say grace,
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.
EPILOGUE
9th January.
The entry bell tinkled as the door opened to admit a new arrival. The movie and game store was crammed with wall and free-standing shelving, overflowing with games and films and all manner of merchandise. Posters of films, past and present, adorned every square inch of wall and ceiling space; from classics to modern gore-fests and everything else in-between. A big flashing red and blue neon sign on the far wall above the counter boldly declared, MOVIE MANIAC. To the left of the sign, a poster menacingly declared, Man is the warmest place to hide, and to the right; A motion picture destined to offend nearly two thirds of the civilised world. And severely annoy the other third.
A skinny man with badly pock-marked skin and greasy brown shaggy hair stood behind the counter, reading Empire magazine, dressed in a faded Snatch (Stealin’ stones and breakin’ bones) t-shirt.
As the newcomer approached the counter, Perry kept his eyes glued to the interview of cult horror director, John Carpenter.
“How you doing, dickhead?” Han said, offering his startled underling a weary smile.
“Jesus, man!” Perry said, clapping a hand onto the glass top counter. “Scared the shit outta me there! Was just reading an interview with JC – the unholy one.”
“Cool; I’ll have to have a read after you.” Han was clean-shaven with a recently cropped crew-cut and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. One arm was tucked under his leather jacket in a sling. Most of the bruising on the side of his head had faded as had the grazes.
“Hey, what happened?”
“Fell off my damn bike, would you believe?” Han said with a dismissive wave of his free arm. “A branch skewered my arm. Nice gash in my other shoulder too. Got great scars to show you.”
“Bummer. Mind, you never could ride for toffee.”
“Your heartfelt concern is touching, mate.”
Perry grinned at him. “Good to have ya back, buddy.”
Shrugging off his jacket, he slung it over the counter and said, “Cuppa wouldn’t go amiss.”
“No probs, bro.” Perry disappeared into the back office and proceeded to fill a kettle. “So, you got the book finished then?”
Han pulled up a stool and sat at the counter, glancing around at the old place; the shelves, posters and wall-mounted flat screen televisions depicting a muted trailer for the latest blockbuster. His eyes settled on a poster with the faces of Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman which declared, The scariest comedy of all time! Somewhat distant, he replied, “Aye, just about. Doubt it’ll ever get published though.”
Popping his head round the doorframe, Perry said, “Doesn’t matter, bud. It’s a major achievement just to get it written.”
“True,” Han said, but could not draw his eyes away from the screaming head of Gene Wilder with a shock of mad scientist hair.
There was a clattering of cups which finally broke the spell as Perry said, “Much poontang down there then?”
A hesitation then, his voice distant, he said, “There was one …” An image of Lisa flashed before his eyes, her face twisted with rage and her eyes burning with fire. He had to shake his head to dislodge the disturbing vision.
“Knew you’d get some; you always do, you jammy twat,” Perry was saying.
Han forced out a hollow laugh and arched his back, stretching out a nagging ache. “You got a way with words, buddy.”
“Fucking lyrical gangsta, me!”
“Knob.”
“Charming!” Perry shouted as he squeezed teabags and added some milk. Bringing two mugs through, one The Empire Strikes Back and the other with the masked face of Hannibal Lecter, Perr
y continued, “I take it you weren’t that much out in the sticks not to hear about that crazy shit up in Northumberland?”
Han nodded and without looking at his friend, took the Hannibal mug. Staring into the steaming tea, he muttered, “They do have TVs and radios down there, you plonker.” As an afterthought, he added quietly, “Terrible business.”
“That sorta crazier-than-fiction shit would make a helluva film, eh?”
Han ignored him, still staring at his tea.
Casting the subject aside with a shrug, Perry said, “So, what’s next then?”
Han glanced at him as the question sunk in. It was something he hadn’t even considered since his fraught escape from Haydon into Scotland. What could possibly come next after Haydon? Until now, he hadn’t even thought it possible that there could be a next.
He found that his gaze had drifted back to Gene Wilder. Blinking, he looked back to his friend and said, “I’ll just walk the Earth.”
Sitting down, Perry smiled knowingly. “What ya mean, walk the Earth?”
Han sighed, but managed a more sincere smile this time. “You know, walk the Earth, meet people ... get into adventures. Like Caine from Kung Fu.”
“Or Jules, eh?”
They both laughed – Han’s more of a snort – then both took sips of their tea. Han glanced up over the rim of his mug to study his friend. Perry was Perry, the Tarantino wannabe. Nothing had changed, well, not here anyway. He had changed. Haydon had changed him.
The image of a hulking, monstrous form, emerging out of the storm flashed across his vision.
THE END
BIOGRAPHY
Rod lives in the beautiful North East of England with wife, Vanessa. He also dabbles in a spot of acting.