The Black Pathway

by Mark C Sutton

  “I’ll see you soon, Howard. Give me a call.” She said.

  “Will do.” Replied Howard. Anita smiled.

  “Come on Jack, let’s get you home before this snow gets any worse.” She said to her young son. Howard watched as they walked away. Jack turned around and waved at him, and the teenager returned the gesture. For a brief moment, Howard felt his eyes moisten. Hurriedly, he wiped them dry with the sleeve of his coat.

  “No.” He whispered, quietly. “I don’t cry.” Or so I tell myself.

  ***

  Howard didn’t spend long inside “Steve’s Vinyls’; there was no new stock in, and therefore nothing of any interest for him at all. Instead, he headed a few doors down, to ‘Coldsleet Books’, a small, second-hand book-shop that, like most other retail outlets in the town, was pretty much on its last legs. Howard entered the shop, which was run by a hunched-over old lady called Minnie. When she saw Howard, Minnie smiled.

  “Ah, young Mister Trenton. We don’t see you in here very often.” She said.

  “How are you keeping, Min?” Smiled Howard.

  “Oh, not too bad, my dear. And yourself?” Minnie asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay… wish the weather would warm up a bit though.” Howard responded.

  “I know. It’s a bloomin’ cold one today.” The old lady agreed. “So, is there anything in particular that you’re looking for? Some books for college, perhaps?” Enquired Minnie.

  “No. I’m just browsing.” Answered Howard, and he walked over to one of the shelves that had a little cardboard sign pinned to the top of it, saying ‘True Crime’. There were only a handful of books under that heading. This didn't surprise Howard; if one wanted a decent selection of books in that particular genre, it usually meant a trip to Elman, which had three, much larger, stores that catered for readers.

  Howard pulled one of the true-crime books out, and looked at the cover with slight disgust.

  ‘Secrets of a South-Coast Viper - Inside the World of Gang Boss, Ricardo Velida’, the book was titled, accompanied by a photograph of an ageing chap, holding a large handgun. The old man looked, to Howard, a lot like the late comedy actor, Charles Hawtrey. God, I hate rubbish about fucking pseudo-mobsters, Howard thought to himself. He hurriedly pushed the book back onto the shelf, and pulled out a larger hardback next to it. Howard studied the cover.

  ‘The Greatest Act of All: Murder! - A Study into Donald De’ath and his Crimes - By Jed Fellows’. Underneath the book’s title was an aged picture of a camp-looking man standing on a theatre stage, and holding a bunch of flowers. Is this for real? Who the fuck is Donald De’ath? Wondered Howard Trenton. He sighed and put the book back in its place on the shelf. The next book that he looked at was of far more interest than the previous two Howard had briefly perused; it was a compendium concerning serial killers. From the cover, the faces of Charlie Manson, Theodore Bundy, Fred West, Reg Christie, Peter Sutcliffe, and several others, stared out towards Howard, who smiled back at them. These are my kind, thought Howard Trenton to himself, this is the group of individuals to which I belong. I didn't ask for it to be that way. It’s just the way that it is…

  Minnie, the book-store owner, interrupted Howard’s private thoughts.

  “That’s a good book, is that. Especially the stuff about Peter Sutcliffe. I used to live in Leeds, back in the very early nineteen eighties, when he was on the loose up there. They were frightening times.” Reflected Minnie.

  “It all happened long before I was born, Minnie… is he still alive?” Asked Howard.

  “Yes, as far as I know. I think that he ended up in one of those special hospitals… Rampton, or maybe it was Broadmoor.” Replied Minnie. “Mind you, there’s some people in Coldsleet who’ll tell you that there’s a killer doing the rounds in this neck of the woods.”

  “What? Here in this town?” Responded Howard.

  “No, not specifically in Coldsleet… well apart from that one girl… I can't remember her name now… but up along the north-west coast. There's been quite a few disappearances over the last two or three years.” Advised Minnie.

  “Really?” Asked Howard, who knew damned well what the elderly lady was talking about. Dark memories began to cascade through his mind…

  “Oh yes, and there was that one young woman who went missing from…”

  “From Elman. Yeah, of course, I remember that one well. There were posters of her put up at the College, asking for information about the disappearance.” Said Howard. “I thought that the teenage girl who vanished from Coldsleet was just a runaway?”

  “Well, that seems to be the general opinion… she was a bit of a tearaway, was Becky, but some around here aren’t so sure.” Minnie told Howard. “Did you not know her? She was about your age?” She asked. Howard shook his head.

  “I’ve only got a few friends Min, and that’s the way that I like it. I keep myself to myself. I don’t take too much notice of anyone else.” He replied. Except Howard did know, or rather, had known Becky Robinson, and on a very intimate level too. Because, not that long ago, Howard Trenton had murdered the young woman. By freezing her to death.

  Chapter Four

  Netherton farmhouse had been empty for almost twenty years, ever since the former owner, Len Goodman, had died from a sudden and massive heart attack. Since then, the elements had taken hold of the neglected building; one of the farmhouse walls had partially crumbled, and the roof had collapsed. Howard Trenton found a beauty in that; he’d never seen the farmhouse when it was intact, and couldn’t imagine what it had once looked like, either. It wasn’t something that he spent a lot of time dwelling on, truth be known. Howard preferred the structure to look just the way that it did; broken, and slowly falling apart.

  Howard walked around the side of the farmhouse, along a stone pathway that had almost disappeared under long tufts of overgrown grass. He came to a gate, which had come off its hinges. Howard, who was carrying a plastic bag, gently placed it on the floor, then lifted the gate, pulling it away from the wooden gate-frame. He leaned the gate against one of the farmhouse walls, picked up the plastic bag, and then walked into what was once a small back garden, but was now more like a jungle. Howard smiled.

  “Hello again, my little world.” He said. Howard carried on forwards, through the overgrown grass, weeds, and brambles, towards a small wooden fence that marked the edge of the garden. Leaning against the fence was a rusty old spade that Howard had left there following his last visit, six months ago. The handle was covered with something white and powdery.

  “Dried bird shit.” Mumbled Howard, who pulled the sleeve of his coat over his hand, before brushing away at the spade handle, a slight look of disgust on his face.

  When Howard had finished cleaning the handle of the spade, he put the plastic bag that he’d been carrying on the floor again, and then began to dig a small hole in the ground. Howard whistled a tune to himself as he performed this task. I’m glad that I bought that cd from Steve’s shop. There’s some great tracks on it, Howard thought. I’ll have to pop back down to Steve’s again, some time next week, see if he’s got any other albums by that band… they’re pretty good. Howard finished digging the hole in the ground. He propped the spade back up against the wooden fence, and then picked up the plastic bag that he’d laid down on the floor. Howard hovered over the hole, and tipped the plastic bag upside down. A dead cat fell from the bag, and into the makeshift grave that Howard had just dug. Howard looked down at the animal, which he had murdered the evening before. Half of its head was caved in, from where Howard had hit it repeatedly with one of Lucas’s hammers. The cats skull, and a slither of brain, were exposed. Howard grinned.

  “How do you like your new home, Buttons?” He asked the cat, a creature that wouldn't have been capable of replying, even if it hadn’t had its skull shattered. “I bet Mister Whitehouse is out and about, searching for you, right now… the stupid old shit. You’re all that he had left, but now you’re dead. He’ll be so fucking lonely without yo
u… serves him right, miserable bastard. Now, Buttons, what was it that your crusty old fart of an owner said to me? Oh, I remember… ‘You’re a weirdo, just like your mother was.’ And all because of a stupid argument over… I can’t even remember what it was about now. Not that it matters. He’s just lucky that… well, you know what I mean, don’t you, Buttons? It could have been your precious fucking master lying here in this garden right now, rather than you. Looks like you drew the short straw, little puddy cat.” With that, Howard threw a shovelful of dirt over the body of the dead feline, and then he began to whistle cheerily again.

  When Howard had finished burying Buttons the cat, he let the spade fall to the floor, and then walked a short distance, parallel to the wooden fence, until he reached a half-broken concrete post. Howard stopped walking, and stared down at the ground.

  “I wonder how you’re doing down there, my friend.” Said Howard. “It’s been about a year now.” He added. Howard sat down on the dirt, then he stroked the ground with his hand. “Nobody misses you in Coldsleet. Nobody at all.” Howard gave a little laugh. “Everyone thinks that you ran away. That’s probably because they all knew that you didn’t get along with your parents… plus I made it look like you’d left Coldsleet of your own volition. That was a clever move on my part.” Bragged Howard. He began to drift away, lost in his own memories. “I didn’t want all of the… fuss… that happened when the other one went missing… you know who I’m talking about… that silly little bitch from Elman. That was bad. Police everywhere. Reporters too. I didn’t like that. I hated having to go to college with those sleazy little fuckers knocking about all over the place. They still go on about… her… in that town. It’s all still a great big mystery, and you know what the people of Elman are like, they’re the same as in Coldsleet… they haven’t really got much else to talk about, coz they’re generally a bunch of fucking inbred, boring bastards. Every few months, there’s some article or other about her in the local rags, you know, speculating, theorising. It pisses me off, but there’s not much I can do about that, now. At least no-one has ever looked in my direction… but then, why would they? I’m just regarded as some quiet, slightly weird local college kid, who shares a house with his cousin’s family and inherited a small fortune from his mentally ill mother. I’m still under everyone’s radar… except I know that, one day, I’ll slip up. People like me always slip up in the end. I suppose that it’s the way that it has to be… it’s how lesser individuals discover the true Barbarians, monsters, that walk amongst them… and it keeps the little fuckers on their toes…”

  Howard looked across to the spot where he’d just buried the cat.

  “I’ve brought a new addition for the garden. A little pet to keep you company. He belonged to old Mister Whitehouse, but I decided to bring him here, to you and her.” Howard said. He looked around the rest of the garden, feeling slightly maudlin. “I don’t think I’ll be coming here again… well, not with someone else, if you know what I mean. I’ll still come to visit you and her, and Buttons too, but I won’t be planting any more flowers here. It’s common sense… when it’s time to do another one, and that time is approaching fast, they’ll have to go somewhere else. I don’t know where yet, but I’ll find a new place to put them. You see, I can’t keep dumping you all in the same spot, just in case I get caught. I don’t want them to be able to find out all of my secret stuff… and that’s what’ll happen, if I carry on bringing people here, to the farm.” Howard stroked the ground again. “When they catch me, they’ll find my journal too. After they’ve read that, they’ll know who I killed, and where some of them can be found. But not all of them. I’m not just gonna hand those fuckers everything on a plate. Some things have to be kept secret… it might give me some sort of bargaining position, in the future.” He said. “Anyway, I can’t hang around here all day. Best be going. Bye, girl.” Howard stood up, and then walked back to where Buttons was buried. He picked up the spade from off the floor, but instead of propping it up against the wooden fence, he took it back to the car with him, and placed it inside the boot. I won’t be doing any more digging up at this farmhouse again.

  ***

  When Howard got home that evening, he decided to spend the evening downstairs rather than in his bedroom. Howard wanted to be around Mary, who had been stopping at the house for almost a week. Lucas, Kay, and Mary were all sat on the sofa in the living room, watching a film on the television, when Howard joined them. They all looked up when he entered the room, and said ‘hi’ to him. Howard nodded, and sat himself down in the armchair.

  “What are you watching?” He asked. Lucas yawned.

  “It’s a film about some terrorist who’s kidnapped a bus-load of school kids. It isn’t very good.” Replied Lucas. He turned to his wife. “Actually, shall I see if there’s anything else on?” Lucas asked her.

  “Can you leave it? I think that it’s alright.” Kay replied.

  “It’s crap.” Chipped-in Mary. Howard looked at her, with a smile on his face, and Mary smiled back at him.

  That bad, huh?” Asked Howard.

  “Yep, it’s that bad. Does anyone fancy a cuppa?” Mary wanted to know. She got up from off the sofa.

  “Not for me.” Replied Lucas, who was drinking a can of beer.

  “Nor me.” Said Kay, nursing a glass of wine.

  “Howard?” Asked Mary.

  “Yeah, that’d be nice. I’ll come and help you.” Answered Howard, seizing the opportunity to get Mary on her own. The young woman walked off into the kitchen, and Howard followed behind her, admiring Mary’s backside as he did so.

  Mary and Howard entered the kitchen, and she flipped the light on. Mary walked over to the kettle, and filled it up with water from one of the kitchen taps.

  “Are you at college tomorrow?” She asked.

  “Yeah.” Replied Howard.

  “Are you taking your car? Or getting the bus?” Mary wanted to know.

  “Bus. It’s too much hassle trying to find a parking space at the college, especially on a Monday.” Howard advised her.

  “What time are you heading out at?” Asked Mary.

  “About eight thirty.” Answered Howard.

  “Cool. Do you mind if I tag along with you for the bus ride? I’ve got to pop into Elman, visit the bank. See if the stingy bastards will extend my overdraft a little.” Mary informed Howard, as she switched the kettle on.

  “That’s fine, I’d like the company. Are you not in work tomorrow then?”

  “No, I’ve got two days off. It’s nice actually, a Sunday night without the prospect of work looming over me the next day. I could get used to this.” Mary grinned. She sat down at the kitchen table, and Howard did the same. He gazed at Mary as she stared over towards the kettle. When she turned to face him, Howard diverted his gaze from her.

  Mary scratched at the back of her neck for a moment, then flicked her long, wavy hair from off her shoulder.

  “So, what have you been up to today, Howard?” She asked the teenager. Howard shrugged his shoulders.

  “Not much, really. I went for a drive, up near Knighton.” Howard lied. “I had a quick walk around the shops and stuff, but most places were shut, what with it being a Sunday and all… do you ever visit Knighton, Mary?” He asked. Mary shook her head.

  “I’ve been a few times… there’s not much there though, if I remember rightly.” Mary answered.

  “You’re right. Knighton is like Coldsleet. It’s a dying town.” Commented Howard. “Still, I prefer it that way.” He added. Mary gave him a curious look.

  “What do you mean?” She asked.

  “It’s better, you know… quieter. My mom… when she was alive… well, she told me that Coldsleet used to be… and we’re talking a long time ago… a really busy town. It was a big holiday destination, one of the biggest in the north-west. You look around the place, today, and you just can’t imagine that… all of those people, crowding the streets, getting in your way. No thanks. I prefer Coldsleet how
it is right now.” Said Howard.

  “Well, I suppose…”

  “Do you like decay, Mary?” Howard suddenly asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Replied Mary, slightly perplexed.

  “Decay. You know. When things begin to rot away. When they start slowly falling apart. Do you like that sort of thing, Mary?” Howard repeated his question. Mary didn’t know how to respond.

  “Let me have a think about that one while I finish off making the tea.” She said, giving Howard a look of curiosity.

  A minute or two later, Howard and Mary sat at the kitchen table, drinking their mugs of tea.

  “What I meant was… perfection. I think that it’s an ugly thing, Mary. You know, sometimes, I’ll be watching the television, and some model or other will come on, and I look at them, and do you know what?” Asked Howard.

  “You get a hard-on?” Quipped Mary. A quick look of disgust, mixed with embarrassment, shot across Howard Trenton’s face.

  “That’s filthy, Mary.” He commented. “Really filthy.”

  “Sorry Howard.” Said Mary, desperately trying not to start laughing at Howard’s apparently prim and proper attitude.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Howard replied, in a tetchy, irritated manner. “Where was I? Oh yes. I look at these models that you get, appearing on the television, with their perfect faces, perfect hair, perfect bodies… and they disgust me. There’s nothing remotely attractive about them… not to me, at any rate. But if I, say, you know, see a woman, and she’s a bit… well, how do I put it… not ‘rough’… that’s too strong a word… if I see a woman and she’s a bit… imperfect… then that’s much nicer, it’s… sexy.” Revealed Howard.

  “I see…” replied Mary. This guy’s a fucking weirdo, she thought to herself.