Rod Glenn - Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

Sinema

The Northumberland Massacre

Rod Glenn

www.rodglenn.com .

A Wild Wolf Publication

Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2011

Copyright 2011 Rod Glenn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

First print

All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-907954-07-8

www.wildwolfpublishing.com

MORE TITLES BY ROD GLENN

The King of America: Epic Edition

The Killing Moon

Sin ema 2: Sympathy for the Devil

To the demon inside embrace it, but keep it harnessed.

There is a potential Whitman inside all of us. It is only the choices we make in life that hold him at bay.

I would like to thank Vanessa for her continued support and patience, my good mate, Tony Wright, as my main sounding board and help with the splashes of ketchup! Thanks also to my brother, Karl and old buddy Jamie Mitchell, for their critiques and help in fine honing and also to Jamie Armstrong as my rugby guru. I owe huge thanks also to my editor, Claire Rushbrook, for the professional finishing touches and Richard Daborn (www.richarddaborn.com) for his captivating artistry on the front cover.

Unhappy the land that has no heroes

No, unhappy the land that needs heroes

~ Bertolt Brecht

AUTHOR S FOREWORD

Unhappy the land that has no heroes No, unhappy the land that needs heroes. Now there is indeed a conundrum, and possibly a clearer insight into this story as there ever could be, in such a strange and murky world.

This is the story of a man. An ordinary man, by most accounts. And yet, this man voluntarily steps over the deeply ingrained line drawn by civilisation and our own moral code. Reaching a point of no return, the ensuing events are bloody and catastrophic. I must stress, kind reader, that there are horrors within these pages. The horrific scenes you will bear witness to are not for the faint-hearted. And yet, there are no monsters or goblins, no vampires or werewolves. This is real horror. Real life. So take heed, and if you should hesitate, turn back now and pick up a Harry Potter . Ms Rowlings wonderful books are positive and upbeat, with a real sense of hope that good will overcome. This aint. This is dark and dirty. Enjoy!

Rod

Sinema

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 Like Alice in Wonderland

CHAPTER 3 The girl and the playground

CHAPTER 5 Joe versus the Argies

CHAPTER 6 Tess of the Jabbermouths

CHAPTER 7 Lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may

CHAPTER 8 Headed right for the middle of a monster

CHAPTER 9 The Dark Man is coming

CHAPTER 10 There's a number on the wall for all of us, angel

CHAPTER 11 Twos company, threes a bloodbath

CHAPTER 12 The morning after the night before

CHAPTER 14 Mi casa, su casa

CHAPTER 15 Ill huff and Ill puff and Ill blow your house in

CHAPTER 16 Slaughterhouse blues

EPLIOGUE

CREDITS

PROLOGUE

Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings,
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.

23rd December. Whoo-ee! This is better than a hog-killing!

The blizzard reached a writhing frenzy of gusting, icy wind and driving snow, pierced only by a small shape, low in the black sky, being buffeted by the raw Northumberland winter. Angry, swollen clouds filled the sky, obliterating moon and stars. The sea of mature pines below was laden with a heavy coating of snow, the top layer whipping and swirling amongst the swaying treetops. Not a light could be seen.

The windscreen wipers of the Northumbria Police helicopter lashed frantically from side to side to preserve the pilots view. Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed forehead as he fought with the collective lever and cyclic yoke in order to maintain altitude and bearing. Despite the gruelling task, he managed to whistle a cheery festive tune.

G ood King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even ...

The two plain clothed policemen in the back had remained silent for the best part of the journey from Newcastle Airport, but now, as they neared their destination, the older of the two finally spoke up with an irritated glance toward the pilot. I dont think thats particularly appropriate, given the circumstances. The tall, almost skeletal, man looked swamped in his thick overcoat, scarf and woolly hat. His features were gaunt, the grey skin drawn tight across bony cheekbones and sunken around the eyes and temples.

The whistling stopped, but the pilot offered no apology.

His younger colleague, looking pale, rather hesitantly said, How could this happen, Super?

We dont know the hows or whys yet, son, we just have the facts, Chief Superintendent Hewitt said flatly. Three-fifteen AM phone ringing. Weve got a major situation, Sir He needed strong black coffee, a cigarette and a lot of answers.

Leaning forward in his seat, switching his attention to the pilot, he asked, Any news of Wright or Mitchell yet?

The frail helicopter rattled with a renewed assault from the elements, delaying the pilots reply. There was a brief stomach-churning jolt as they dropped lower, but the pilot was quick to compensate. Without taking his eyes from the explosive fury of the snowstorm materialising out of the darkness beyond the windscreen, the veteran pilot said in a calm, even tone, No, Sir. No further updates.

Dont you think calling in the Army was a bit excessive? Sergeant Wilkinson was saying. The twenty-eight year old Geordie was only two months into his promotion to the rank and, for the first time, was feeling out of his depth.

Hewitt turned to stare at the younger man. A bit excessive? he repeated incredulously. Weve got multiple murders, a crime scene the size of a dozen St. Jamess Parks and suspect or suspects still at large. Im going to use every damn resource I can, Sergeant.

He let out a sigh which turned into a wheezing, bronchial cough. Wilkinson opened his mouth to speak, but the old man offered a dismissive wave with his free hand as the other covered his mouth with a Northumberland Tartan handkerchief. Once the cough had subsided, rasping, he added, Youre the local, Wilks; Division told me that you were born and bred in Rothbury, and thats not a kick in the arse off where were headed. Shoving the hanky back into his coat pocket, he stared with rheumy eyes at his subordinate. Im going to need you on this.

Wilkinson took a deep breath and ran a hand across his bristly crew-cut.

Forest gave way to undulating moors, thick with snow-encrusted heather and coarse grasses. A solitary, isolated farmhouse, black and lifeless swept by below them. No beacon or searchlight offered to light their way, but they pushed on into the darkness regardless with bleak resolve. Woodland once again rushed up beneath them, heaving like black, turbulent water. The helicopter swung low over the twisted, nightmarish shapes then, abruptly, the village materialised out of the storm.