Seeds of Evil

by Robert Kitchen

  ‘Now you can enjoy the finale. The boy was forced to his knees. Knowing what was about to take place Clara tried desperately to break free but it was useless, her bindings were too tight. Nathan Black forced her to watch the violation of her son as well.

  ‘God what have they done to deserve this? What have I done?’ The words came out as garbled incoherent nonsense. ‘What sort of mother am I,’ she castigated herself. ‘I can’t even pray to for God’s intervention.’ At last it was over. The boy was cast aside like a broken toy. Clara knew that her poor children would never recover from the abomination. ‘In the name of all that is holy, call us home Lord,’ but she knew that her prayers were futile. She thought of her husband, surely his sins were to blame for what had happened. She did not really believe it but in fact she was partially correct. The beast sat opposite, seemingly catching his breath. Finally he spoke, ‘You are wondering why I have came into your home and ruined your life. Well Clara I shall tell you. You deserve that much at least. A snivelling coward calling himself a patriot ended the life of a young man, his name was Jason also. Someone similar to your husband I imagine. I am going to make George Blackmore pay a thousand fold for every act of terrorism that he ever committed. Unfortunately it is you who will feel the pain. The real agony is about to begin and when you husband hears about it he will suffer in torment. He looked deliberately into her eyes whilst pulling the boy’s flaxen hair. Then without compassion drew the blade across Jason’s exposed throat. Clara watched in horror as the life’s blood of her darling son spilled to the floor. His hands were bound behind him so that he lay like a sacrificial lamb as his young life ebbed away. In despair the mother shut her eyes tightly trying to blot out the horror that had invaded her home. Tears were spilling back down her throat threatening to suffocate her, she prayed that they would. All hope was gone, she accepted the fact as she witnessed the death of her son. Strangely she became very still as her demeanour took on a look of serenity. Black gazed into her eyes to perceive a vision of inner contentment. Clara Blackmore was not a churchgoer but the niggling doubts of judgement day were ever present since her childhood and as she observed her son’s last fragile thread of life break, she was certain that they would reunite in paradise. The devil had came to her home but the Lord would have first claim on their souls. For the first time since his decision to seek revenge Nathan was unsure. This was not in the script. How can she be so composed whilst a stranger murdered her brood? In a frenzy of anger he plunged the weapon repeatedly into the little girl and with each thrust he turned to observe the reaction of her mother. In frustration he ripped the gag from her mouth. ‘Why are you not screaming you fucking bitch? Say something, why don’t you, you heartless cunt?’ he yelled, completely out of control.

  ‘Is that what you want? To watch and gloat at your brave deed this evening. To tell you that I am suffering because of your sick distorted lust for vengeance. I am sorry but I can not accommodate you. For what you have done here tonight I forgive you. These are not the actions of a human but the hand of Satan himself drove you to this. May the lord have mercy on your poor misguided soul. My babies are in heaven now and I shall join them after you have finished what you came here to do. Lord knows that we shall never meet again. Your soul was lost a long time ago. I pity you for ahead of you lies an eternity of torment.’

  ‘You really believe all that horse shit. People will find out what torture is like when they find what remains of your body. I hope your husband has a good memory because he will have trouble deciphering what you are, never mind whom you are.’ Such were Black’s final words before he commenced dissecting his helpless victim, relishing every wince of pain. Clara refused to cry out, to give the beast the satisfaction that he so obviously desired. Defiance was her only weapon and she determined to use it to the fullest. As she was breathing her last he drove the knife upward into her most private place. ‘That’s you well and truly fucked,’ he cackled.’

  Maximum media coverage was what Black was trying to accomplish so with this in mind he had fabricated a sound recording, using the voices of local politicians. Excitedly he dialled the numbers of three well-known local journalists. In each case he played the tape giving the names and addresses of the deceased. The final sentence was directed at terrorists of both persuasions. ‘Thanksgiving is a time to rejoice but remember. HE WHO SOWS THE SEEDS OF EVIL SHALL REAP HIS HARVEST IN HELL.’ The first two reporters rejected the message out of hand as the ravings of a lunatic or some elaborate hoax. Walter Dane of the Belfast Telegraph, on the other hand, took it very seriously indeed. Quickly he prepared for what he hoped would be front-page news. Armed with notebook, cameras and several well-sharpened pencils he rushed to the scene. Dane had been in the business for almost thirty years but nothing had prepared him for the horror that was about to confront him. The front door was ajar so he placed the index finger of his gloved hand on the panel and tentatively pushed. There was a resistance so he exerted more pressure calling out, ‘Hello is anyone home,’ as he did so. Hearing no response to his greeting Dane, showing an intrepid journalistic spirit, forged ahead into the hallway. He looked to the floor to decipher what had hindered his progress and was shocked to see what appeared to be a human hand trapped beneath the door. Fighting fear and repulsion he carried on into the lounge. The room was in total darkness. Tenuously he groped for the light switch gasping a sigh of relief as his finger scratched across the protrusion. Steeling himself for what he was about to discover, he snapped the lever. His eyes took a second to adjust to the brightness but the streetwise reporter was devastated by the carnage. An involuntary yelp escaped from his lips as the full horror sunk in. Ashen faced he surveyed the scene, telling himself that he was a professional. That his prime objective was to record as much as possible in the short time allotted. His first priority was to inform the authorities of his gruesome discovery. Fully aware of the consequences he had no intentions of falling foul of the law. The law in this field being in the very capable hands of Detective Inspector James Keiver, the man who would most likely head up the investigation. The full extent of the butchery had not registered but as he began to take notes, the blood, torn flesh and death’s indescribable stench, finally took their toll. ‘Merciful God,’ he gurgled, rushing out into the freezing, sweet air. The contents of his stomach splattered across the Blackmore’s manicured lawn, leaving his tongue coated with the bitter taste of stale whiskey. Taking barely seconds to recover his composure, the cunning, calculating reporter’s brain took command. He had allowed himself ten minutes to jot down as much as possible before putting the call to the police. Using the skill and guile nurtured through years of journalism he re-entered the house and casting a professional eye over the scene, recorded as much data as humanly possible in the time allotted. A second wave of nausea overtook him but he fought back the urge to retreat. Blotting out the scene of unbelievable inhumanity before him, he continued to describe the slaughter in detail. Carefully he tip-toed around the pieces of human debris being extremely careful not to tread on the blood which was congealing in clots, resembling some grotesque artist’s pallet. Professionalism had taken control. He searched around the room for a suitable point from whence he could photograph the area. It was then that he observed the macabre message for the first time. Painted on the wall in what he suspected was the victim’s blood were the words that he had heard earlier. Remembering the taped message a chill caressed his spine. His hand was shaking as he recorded the message. It read ‘Those Who Sow the Seeds Of Evil Shall Reap The Harvest In Hell’ ‘My God,’ he uttered, ‘What crime could have been committed to bring about such savage retribution.’ In spite of his initial reaction, he was beginning to calculate the rewards such a story would engender. Using the camera as speedily as he could, without the risk of damage to the end product, he shot two rolls of film. Satisfied that he had gleaned as much as was humanly possible from the scene he beat a hasty retreat. With deliberation the reporter dialled the number on hi
s mobile. Dane was a sly old fox who knew the rules. Informing the police before calling the story in was his most prudent course of action. He was aware that by so doing he in no way compromised himself or the publication. He had watched other fresh faced journalists being charged as accessories after the fact or hindering the police with their inquiries for ringing the wrong number initially. Walter Dane was too long in the tooth to let such unprofessional behaviour catch him out. As he awaited the arrival of the investigating team he busied himself secreting the film of the murder scene. In due course they arrived and began to take his statement. He smiled as a young constable asked the question, ‘Why have you taken so long to inform the authorities?’ Looking suitably aggrieved, he told the young man that he had phoned the police as soon as was humanly possible. Why had he not informed them when he first received the call from the murderer? To which he informed the young man that he was a professional journalist and did not want to be made a fool of by some prankster. He felt that it was his civic duty to check on the validity of the information before bothering the police. No he did not touch anything in the building apart from switching on the light. Yes he had taken copious notes, that was, after all, what his employers paid him for. The questions were endless and he regretted waiting for the RUC to arrive before ringing in a brief account of what had taken place. ‘Excuse me constable but I do have a deadline to meet. Can I at least have an hour alone to formulate my account of the tragic affair?’ He was trying to get away before Keiver arrived, he could not believe his luck that the inspector, usually so punctual, was not already on the scene. ‘After all it was I who called you in the first place,’ continued Dane. ‘Someone has to report this crime to the populace and while you detain me another journalist is probably, even as we speak, writing the story of his career. I fail to see how I can be of further assistance to you.’ The constable was beginning to waiver when an all too familiar voice boomed from behind them.

  ‘You wouldn’t be trying to flee the scene of a crime, would you now Wally?’ The smile quickly faded as he turned to face Detective Inspector James Keiver. ‘Ach there you are Jimmy,’ he greeted the policeman.

  ‘Why would the bugger ring a three a penny hack like yourself Dane, eh?’

  ‘Come on now Jimmy, don’t be starting with all the crap. Do you see how many reporters are here already? Christ the last time I saw a hoard like this was at the Royal wedding. Give us a break big man.’

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do Wally.’ The policeman knew how the acronym annoyed the other. ‘Be a good boy, give me the film and I’ll play the idiot that you think I am. I promise to let you have some of them back when the time is right.’

  ‘What film Jimmy?’ replied Dane, feigning ignorance. ‘I rushed here as soon as your man hung up. Didn’t have time to tool up with a camera and the like.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me Wally,’ he drew the name out to annoy the little reporter even more. ‘I’m beginning to reconsider my offer. In fact I may send you down to the station for a day or two. Yes I could hold you on suspicion of murder. Of course we wouldn’t call it that. You know the phrase, after all you have used it often enough. Assisting police, et cetera, et cetera. You could read all the reports from a cell, course you would miss your precious deadline by about forty hours or so,’ he sniggered. ‘Picture the irony Wally, after the press conference tomorrow. All the papers will carry the story, even yours. Of course someone else from your rag will get the credit.’

  ‘You are one devious bas…’ he started to protest, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Now now Wally, I hope you are not about to use abusive language. I expect a certain amount of decorum from a professional man such as yourself.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the little reporter dejectedly. ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Now there’s a fine upstanding citizen. You give me the films, both of them mind and you can leave right away to call in your story. I shall then read it and if it falls within the realms of common decency, you can print it. You’ll be twenty-four hours ahead of the rat pack. Cant say fairer than that.’

  ‘I suppose I can live with that,’ answered the other gruffly, trying to hide his elation. ‘What are the restrictions?’

  ‘Usual stuff, no names until the next of kin are informed. No graphic detail of the attack. You can allude to the message without printing the text verbatim. I want to keep that under my hat for a day or two but you will be the first to report it when I’m ready and I I’ll even let you have the picture of the wall.’

  ‘Promise Jimmy,’ enthused the journalist.

  ‘Scout’s honour Walter.’ Dane smiled for the first time, pleased at the correct use of his name. ‘It’s a deal Jimmy,’ said the reporter, offering his hand. As the policeman took it he also smiled, enjoying the distraction from his dreadful task. ‘I’ll come with you to the vehicle to fetch the film. We don’t want too many people knowing our business do we?’ Upon arrival at the car Dane handed both spools to Keiver who promptly pocketed them. In record time he had completed the first copy for the inspector’s perusal. ‘Excellent Walter but I expected nothing less. You can run along and print it now. Mind you if I read any deviations, I shall not be best pleased, you follow my drift?’ ‘This reporter was the first to know of the tragedy,’ quoted Keiver. ‘This is going to make you a VIP Walter, congratulations. ‘What appears at first glance to be a biblical quotation was left by the intruder, the meaning of which we have yet to decipher,’ he continued. ‘Very nice, thanks for your co-operation. We don’t want any loonies getting hold of the text, else we’ll have to wade through a thousand bogus bloody confessions. By the way Walter, do you know who those unfortunate people are?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I don’t. I was going to get the names via the city hall.’

  ‘Ach you’ll find out soon enough anyway. I’ll save you the bother. Remember last week’s post office raid in the country?’

  ‘Aye the army gave a good account of themselves for a change.’

  ‘The survivor, George Blackmore, they were his family.’

  ‘Jesus, do you think there is a connection.’

  ‘Buggered if I know Walter. Hope we don’t have some misguided patriotic header on our hands. Anyway I’ll be in touch and remember not a word until Blackmore has been informed. God but he got dealt some hand of cards this week.’

  A grim faced newsreader told the nation of the atrocity on television’s breakfast bulletin the following morning. ‘A Belfast family was found brutally murdered at their home on the outskirts of Belfast this morning. Police who described the attack as frenzied and bestial, believe that it may be the work of a deranged individual. Names of the victims who include a son and daughter, as well as the children’s mother, can not be released until the next of kin have been informed.’ Dane sighed with relief as he completed his scrutiny of the morning papers. Not one had carried the story. So far so good, he was still ahead of the game. His would be the name on everyone’s lips after the Telegraph hit’s the streets later today.

  The tear streaked face of a bereaved George Blackmore stared blankly through his prison bars. His body was found exactly two hours after his return from identifying his loved ones. Reports indicated that he had stuffed a sock down his own throat blocking the passage of air to his lungs which in turn ended his life.

  Nathan Black read the report of the terrorists horrific death in a local newspaper, whilst vacationing in the Swiss ski resort of St. Moritz.

  CHAPTER 22

  The plastic cup from his thermos flask slipped from the hand of Billy Clements. ‘For fuck sake Billy wud ye luk what yer doin, Jesus ye near scalded me there,’ screamed Davy Johnston. ‘What’s the matter anyway ye luk like ye seen afuckin ghost.’ Clements handed him a newspaper which reported the murders of the Blackmore family and consequent suicide of the father. ‘Did ye know these people?’ asked his work-mate showing concern.

 
‘Sort of,’ he lied. ‘The mother Clara was a friend of me sister’s.’

  ‘Oh did she work with her or somethin?’ pressed Johnston.

  ‘No they just went to dances together, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said the other, shaking his head. ‘Bloody shame all the same. Wonder what drives a man to do somethin like that? Hangin’s too good for him. Will ye be goin to the funeral then Billy? Says here they’re all gettin buried together, should be some turn out.’

  ‘Naw I didn’t know her all that well,’ answered Clements casually, the initial shock having passed. ‘I suppose our Patsy’ll be there though.’ Changing the subject to football, Clements ensured that the conversation was quickly forgotten. He waited until after lunch feigning illness for leaving early. ‘Christ I don’t feel great Davy. I’m away te see the gaffer, do ye know I’m as sick as a dog.’

  ‘Shite it’s probably that auld canteen grub. Ye wouldn’t catch me in there if they paid me te ate yon muck. Why don’t ye get yerself a nice girl te make yer sandwiches for ye? It’s about time ye were married anyway,’ advised his friend sagely.’

  ‘Aye that’d be right, I’ll take me chances we the canteen. Think I’ll hit it on the head for the day. Don’t know whether I’ll make it in the morra or not, anyway I’ll see ye when I see ye.’

  ‘Fuck, wish I was single again,’ thought Johnston. ‘I’d love to be able to afford to be sick.’

  Stretching expansively, Connor gave a sigh of contentment as he felt the warm body next to him. She was here in his flat but the question was how could he keep her? Silently he watched the even rise and fall of her breasts. Watching the perfection that was Moira he felt the sudden grip of fear. He had decided that he would not risk losing her and that left him with only one option but breaking the news to Daley would not be easy. You just didn’t retire from the movement. He sneered at the old cliché, once in never out. Suppose I could get out eventually, he presumed but in his heart he knew that he was deluding himself, ‘When I’m sixty four,’ he hummed. Moira mumbled some incoherent