by Mark White
Chapter 10
2.30pm: ‘You stay here and look after the farm. I’m going alone.’
‘But dad,’ pleaded Aidan, wiping tears away from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. ‘They’re my brothers. I want to see them.’
‘Boy, you’ll do as you’re bloody well told. You’re sick – you can’t be going outside with a fever like that. Stay inside by the fire where it’s warm. I’ll not be gone long.’
Aidan Carter turned his face into his pillow and quietly wept. He knew there was no point in pushing his father: when Mick Carter said no, he meant no; and pity the man who insisted on trying to change his mind. Mick had told his son of Jed and Lee’s deaths as soon as Sergeant Jennings had left the farm. He’d been subtle enough to spare him the grisly details, telling him instead that they’d been banged up for the night for fighting and had been found dead the next morning. He didn’t know anything more than that, he’d told him, but was due down at the Station for three o’clock to find out the full story. Aidan, the youngest brother at only fourteen years old, had burst into tears, tears that almost three hours later had yet to dry. He’d went to hug his father, an automatic and understandable reaction for a son given the circumstances, but Mick had pushed him away, uncomfortable with the kind of closeness his son was asking of him. For what must have been a good hour at least, the two of them, father and son, had sat side by side in front of the fire, saying nothing, the only sound being the random crackling and spitting of burning logs. Eventually, Mick had stood up and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’ll fetch you some broth,’ he’d said. ‘You need to keep your energy up if you’re to fight the fever.’ Aidan hadn’t replied, but had just sat there silently, staring into the flames and trying his hardest to picture his brothers’ faces, terrified at the prospect of not being able to remember what they looked like. They weren’t the kind of family to take photographs, especially not since their mother had walked out on them six years earlier. There were one or two yellowing family pictures on the wall, but the youthful faces of his brothers bore little resemblance to how they looked now. Or more accurately; how they looked last night.
Mick pulled on his boots and fastened his dirty, torn overcoat. ‘I’ll take the Massey,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll need it on these roads.’ Retrieving his crook from the coat stand, he reached the door and stopped, not turning around, and hung his head down towards his chest. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said, his voice quieter and softer than usual. ‘We’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.’ With that, he opened the door and stepped into the blizzard outside, leaving his only son all alone in the world to fend for himself.
He walked across the rear yard to the barn opposite the house, his right hand fishing in his coat pocket for the keys to his tractor. Although the barn was completely exposed to one side, the tough sheets of corrugated iron that constituted the other three sides stood firm against the onslaught of the wind and snow, protecting the hay bales that were stacked up inside ready to be taken out to the sheep on the hills. The barn’s relative warmth and dryness came as a welcome relief to Carter, who paused to catch his breath. Removing the keys from his pocket, he headed to the tractor parked at the far end of the barn, but as he made his way towards it, he was stopped dead in his tracks by a peculiar sight in front of him. On top of the tractor’s bonnet was perched the biggest, blackest raven he’d ever seen. It must have been a good three to four feet in length, with a thick beak at least six inches long protruding from its head like a sharp, blackened knife blade. However, it was not the bird’s size that struck Carter as unusual, but its eyes: piercing, bright red eyes that stared directly at him like blood-red rubies.
For a moment, the two of them remained where they were, eyeballing each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Out on the moors, ravens and carrion crows were common place, but in all his years spent outside working the land, he’d never come across a bird with eyes like this. His left hand tightened around the ram’s horn at the top of his crook. He slowly raised the crook, taking care not to scare the bird away. He needn’t have worried: the raven showed no signs of fear towards him; nonchalantly remaining perched on the hood of the Massey Ferguson, staring at him like he was prey.
‘Look at me like that, will you?’ said Carter. ‘I’ll fucking show you, you ugly, black bastard!’ With a gut-wrenching scream, he lunged at the bird with his crook raised high above his head, uncontrolled rage on his face as he lashed out in blind fury. The raven watched the stick as it came towards it, and with the deftness of a matador it hopped silently from the bonnet and flew outside and around the back of the barn. Carter, swinging into thin air, lost his balance and fell against the tractor, raising his hand in the nick of time to prevent his head from smashing into the side of the engine. Steadying himself, he breathed in huge gulps of air, trying to catch his breath and return his senses to somewhere near normality. He was still leaning against the tractor, recovering from the rush of blood to the head and wondering what the hell it was he’d just seen, when a cold, calculating voice came from behind him; causing every hair on his body to stand on end.
‘Come now, Mr Carter. Is that any way for a man of the country to behave towards our feathered friends? I thought you farmers were supposed to be at one with nature? Your behaviour is most disappointing, if I may say so. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh. After all, it’s not every day that a man loses two of his children in such a…how should I phrase it…such an unfortunate way.’
Carter steadied himself, his pulse racing hard. He turned to face the man behind the voice. Their eyes met and Carter gasped. Blackmoor stood grinning before him, draped in a long, black cloak. Only his head was exposed; gaunt, hollow eyes staring confidently at Carter, reading his thoughts like an open book.
After a considerable pause, Carter summoned up the courage to speak, but his voice came across broken and uneven. ‘Who…who…ergghh…who are you?’
‘My name, not that it will shortly be of any significance to you, is Benedict Blackmoor. I am a tenant at Fellside Hall.’
‘What are you doing on my farm?’ asked Carter. ‘And how…how do you know about Jed and Lee?’
‘Two questions at once? Let me try to answer them both together. The purpose of my visit to your farm, Mr Carter, is one of both business and pleasure; although pleasure has the upper hand.’ For a brief moment, Carter thought he saw Blackmoor’s black eyes change to the same bright red colour as those of the raven, before returning to black once more. His upper lip peeled back as he smiled, revealing an even row of white, polished teeth. Never in his forty-six years had Carter encountered anyone with such a strong, powerful presence, which seemed to pull him involuntarily towards him; willing Carter to be with him, to please him.
‘Permit me to come straight to the point, Mr Carter. I am here to kill you – just like I killed your two sons this morning. Not the happiest of news for you to hear, I grant you. However, I can assure you that your death will not be in vain. There is no cause more worthy of dying for than that of His return.’
Carter took a step back from Blackmoor, who began to slowly walk towards him, the intensity in his eyes growing as he sensed Carter’s fear. ‘Wait! Why are you doing this?’ he asked, panic rising within him. ‘You don’t have to do this – what have I ever done to hurt you?’
‘Sshhhh. It’s not your fault, Mr Carter. He needs blood, and soon. You and your boys will not be missed; your selfish and greedy ways have endeared you to nobody.’ He took another step towards Carter, and from beneath his cloak he withdrew a long, broad knife. Carter’s eyes fixed on the curved blade, and the long, sharp nails protruding from Blackmoor’s crooked fingers that gripped the hilt. He began to groan, abject terror coursing through his veins. He wanted to run, to scream; but he couldn’t move. Blackmoor’s hold on him was too strong. He tripped on a flagstone and thudded to the ground, landing on his backside with a high-pitched yelp.
‘Please,’ Carter cried. ‘Let me see my boys. I n
eed to see my boys. They didn’t deserve this.’
‘You’ll see them soon enough,’ Blackmoor replied. ‘Come on…get up.’
‘I…I can’t,’ he said. He was telling the truth. His legs were like jelly, fear having sapped any remaining strength he had left. He became conscious of a warm, wet feeling around his crotch; his bladder emptying itself like that of an incontinent child. ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ he cried. ‘I didn’t mean to be a bad man. I tried to be good, honest I did. But I couldn’t help the way I was. I couldn’t help it, damn it!’ He started crying, unrestrained, long-overdue crying that came from deep within him; unfamiliar tears of sadness streaming down his weathered face. He knew he was going to die, he’d known it the very moment he’d laid eyes on Blackmoor. There was an inevitability about it all; no point in fighting it anymore. Blackmoor held out his left hand, and despite his knowledge of what was to come, Carter reached out his own hand and accepted it.
‘Try not to worry,’ Blackmoor said, pulling Carter to his feet. ‘It will all be over soon. Maybe you and your children will have more luck in the next life, eh?’ His face suddenly changed, becoming greyer, more serious; and as Carter stared into his eyes, they began to glow; the same, deep ruby-red as the raven that had greeted him earlier.
‘Wait, wait…please!’ he pleaded. But it was too late. Blackmoor thrust the knife into Mick Carter’s stomach; the razor-sharp blade sliding effortlessly into his flesh like it was cutting through hot, melted butter. Agonising pain shot through his body, causing his eyes to almost burst out of their sockets as he violently inhaled a huge lungful of air. He could feel the knife inside him, jarring against his spine and vital organs, scratching every nerve ending in his body like nails across a blackboard. Even as he stood there bleeding to death, he was unable to take his eyes away from those of his killer: he didn’t see Blackmoor pull out the huge ram’s horn from inside his cloak, placing it near the gaping wound in his gut to collect the blood that poured from it; but he felt the full force of the knife as Blackmoor wrenched it upwards inside him towards his chest, glancing off a rib before cutting into his heart.
Blackmoor’s eyes blazed like burning-hot furnaces at the pure ecstasy he felt at taking this man’s life away from him; the power and absolute sense of dominance surging through him like a bolt of lightning. The rush of adrenaline almost forced him into hysteria, his mouth wide open at the exquisite pleasure of his actions. ‘Yes, YES!’ he cried, Carter’s blood now overflowing the ram’s horn, spilling down over Blackmoor’s hand and onto the dry, stone floor of the barn. ‘This is for you, my lord! I am honoured to do this in your name!’
Carter gulped at the air like a drowning fish, his life-force draining from him along with the last of his blood. He could feel no pain now, only an approaching sense of nothingness, of falling into an infinite, all-consuming darkness from which he would never return. With a final shudder, his body stiffened and died, a lifeless vessel without further purpose; beginning its slow, one-way journey to decay and putrefaction.
When he was certain that Carter was dead, Blackmoor allowed the corpse to slide from his knife onto the ground. A feeling of calm engulfed him: he suddenly felt tired; a satisfied, post-orgasmic fatigue flowing through him in gently-rippling waves. He stared at the horn in his left hand, full to the brim with fresh, warm blood. As he wiped the blade clean on a nearby hay bale, he thought he heard a noise coming from the house, like that of a metal pan being dropped onto a tiled floor. He quickly withdrew to a dark corner of the barn behind the tractor, contemplating his next move. He could hear a door being opened, followed by the voice of a boy shouting into the wind. ‘Dad? Dad? I didn’t hear you leave – are you still there? Dad?’
So, there’s one left, is there? Another rotten piece of fruit from Carter’s loins. Do I let him go, or do I reunite him with the rest of his clan? He listened to the boy’s approaching footsteps as he crunched his way towards the barn. It would appear that the fool is making that decision easy for me. He crouched further into the dark recess of the barn, waiting – waiting for the boy to discover his father lying dead on the ground; his guts spilling from the gaping wound that stretched from his belly button to the middle of his chest. Two birds with one stone, he thought. He will be pleased.
He watched the boy as he rushed to the side of his father, screaming hysterically for him to wake up. He poured some of Mick Carter’s blood from the horn onto the floor, creating space for more to be added. He looked at the boy, who was now kneeling beside his father and praying to God to bring him back; to not leave him all alone. Blackmoor stared at the crying boy without emotion; his face devoid of either pity or leniency. He came out from behind the tractor, revealing himself to Aidan Carter, who just looked at him in despair and pointed to his father. ‘Help,’ he whispered. ‘Please can you help me?’
Blackmoor opened his arms, inviting the boy to join him. ‘Come here,’ he said to him, beckoning him over. ‘I can help you.’
The boy stared helplessly into Blackmoor’s eyes, drowning in their depths just as his father and brothers had before him. Without saying a word, he stood up and walked slowly towards him, like an abandoned lamb searching for its mother.
Blackmoor smiled, and drew out his knife.
Chapter 11
3.30pm: They’d hardly spoken to one another for almost an hour now, preferring instead to pass the time by half-heartedly attending to paperwork and minor administrative duties. If the truth be told, neither Cara Jones nor Brian Jennings was in much of a mood for talking as they awaited the imminent arrival of Mick Carter. They didn’t know what to expect; how could they? How could they begin to understand the thoughts that would be running through the mind of a man who’d just lost two of his children in such a tragic way? All they could do was hope that they could manage to keep him calm, while at the same time preparing themselves for the distinct possibility that keeping calm would be the last thing he was likely to do.
For what must have been the twentieth time in as many minutes, Jennings checked the clock on the Station wall and then looked at his watch to make doubly sure it was telling him the correct time. He and Cara had been waiting in the Station for over an hour now; Carter had agreed to come for three o’clock, but as yet there was still no sign of him. Jennings stood up and went to the window, peering through the blinds to see if he could see him approaching. When it became evident that he wasn’t, he began pacing the floor of the Station like a caged tiger: back and forth, back and forth; his eyes focusing on the floor in front of him. Cara pretended not to notice him, trying to keep her eyes on the computer screen. The atmosphere was tense enough without her adding to it by questioning the state of her boss’s mental health. Of course he wasn’t alright – why would he be, given the circumstances? She wasn’t exactly the happiest camper in the park either. Far from it. She’d never had to deal with a situation like this before; or anything that had come even remotely close to it. Jennings had told her earlier that she didn’t need to be here when Carter came, that perhaps it would be better if he handled the situation alone, but Cara had insisted otherwise. She wanted to be there to support him; she wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving the two men alone together. Besides, what if Carter lost his temper and tried to tear the place apart? What if he came armed, ready to take his anger out on Jennings? After all, hadn’t Jennings been responsible for the boys’ welfare? Couldn’t he, shouldn’t he, have realised that something was wrong? No; there was no way on earth she was prepared to leave him to face Mick Carter alone.
Jennings suddenly stopped pacing and rushed to the window again, looking up and down the street as if he had heard someone coming. When he was absolutely sure that there was nobody there, he sighed and returned to his seat on the opposite side of the desk to Cara. ‘Where the hell is he?’ he asked. ‘He was supposed to be here over half an hour ago. It’s not like it’s your average run-of-the-mill appointment down at the dentist, is it?’
‘Maybe he’s got stuck in the s
now,’ she said, keen to try and fire up a conversation. ‘Do you think we should try to call him?’
‘I’m not sure he even has electricity, never mind a telephone,’ replied Jennings. ‘He’ll not be stuck, either; he’ll be coming in his tractor. I’m telling you, Cara, something’s not right. No man in his right mind would turn up late to see his dead children. What could be more urgent than that?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘But you know, there’s always the chance that he’s changed his mind. I mean, it can’t be easy for him to come down here knowing what’s waiting for him.’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t stack up, but maybe you’re right. Either way, I’m not prepared to wait here all afternoon to find out. I’ll give it another half an hour. If he decides to come any later than that, he’ll just have to wait ‘til tomorrow.’
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Cara. ‘Headquarters called earlier. They’re bringing a team in on Monday. That’s the earliest they can get a council plough to clear the road all the way up here. The council’s operating with a skeleton crew as it is, and it would appear that Shepherd’s Cross isn’t a priority, dead people or no dead people.’
‘Skeleton crew? The lazy buggers!’
‘Council cuts, I’m afraid. They’ve clamped right down on weekend overtime. They’ve taken all the goodwill out of the job. I’m not surprised the staff are holding firm.’
‘Hmm…all the same, it’d be nice if we could just turn up to work whenever we felt like it. Still, I suppose another day or so isn’t going to hurt.’