Slaughterville Read online

  SLAUGHTERVILLE

  Rod Glenn

  www.rodglenn.com.

  A Wild Wolf Publication

  Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2017

  Copyright © 2017 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: 978-1-907954-65-8

  E-BOOK EDITION

  www.wildwolfpublishing.com

  MORE TITLES BY ROD GLENN

  The King of America: Epic Edition

  Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

  Sinema 2: Sympathy for the Devil

  Sinema 3: The Troy Consortium

  The Killing Moon

  Holiday of the Dead (contributor)

  Wild Wolf’s Twisted Tails (contributor)

  Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2 (contributor)

  No Chance In Hell

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

  Thank you Vanessa & Tony

  Unhappy the land that has no heroes …

  No, unhappy the land that needs heroes

  ~ Bertolt Brecht

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  This novel is based on my 2007 novel, Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre. With interest in a film adaptation of the novel, I was tasked with tweaking it to fit a cinematic audience. Unfortunately the first thing to go was my beloved original title, Sinema. There was too much confusion over what sort of film it would be. It needed to be blunt and to the point, hence Slaughterville emerged from the smouldering ashes of Sinema. As the original was released ten years ago, I also wanted to modernise it in the process of adapting it. It was during this process that the story began to alter in small ways, barely discernible ways initially. I say story, but it’s more the feeling of the story, rather than the events and characters themselves.

  Somewhere in this 2017 rewrite Sinema transformed into something more unsettling and surreal … it turned into Slaughterville.

  For those of you who have read Sinema, I hope you enjoy this re-imagined story. For those of you that haven’t, I hope you enjoy the ride.

  A word of warning. This is a deeply unsettling novel – have no doubt about that. But, if you have the nerve, I think you’ll find something engaging, interesting, unnerving, thrilling and down right terrifying.

  Rod

  PROLOGUE

  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 pilot’s 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.

  Good 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 don’t think that’s 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 don’t know the hows or whys yet, son; we just have the facts,” Chief Superintendent Hewitt said flatly. Three-fifteen AM … phone ringing. “We’ve 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 pilot’s 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.”

  “Don’t 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. “We’ve got multiple murders, a crime scene the size of Gateshead and suspect or suspects still at large. I’m going to use every damn resource I can, Sergeant.”

  He let out a sigh that 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 handkerchief. Once the cough had subsided, rasping, he added, “You’re the local, Wilks; Division told me that you were born and bred in Rothbury, and that’s not a kick in the arse off where we’re headed.” Shoving the hanky back into his coat pocket, he stared with rheumy eyes at his subordinate. “I’m going to need you on this.”

  Wilkinson took a deep breath and ran a hand across his bristly crew-cut. “Funny thing is,” he said, frowning, “I’d never heard of the place till you mentioned it to me.”

  “Well you’ve heard of it now.” As an afterthought, Hewitt added solemnly, “The whole planet will have heard of it by now …”

  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 regardless, into the darkness, 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.

  The small clusters of stone houses and shops were in darkness, apart from the illumination of flashing lights from emergency vehicles on the ground and dozens of bobbing beams from handheld flashlights. Snow swirled violently amongst the buildings and whipped at the deep drifts that had built up over two days of heavy snowfall. The figures on the ground appeared distorted and elongated, moving quickly from building to building, despite the shin-deep snow.

  “Looks like the power’s still out,” Wilkinson said, grimacing at the prospect of leaving the cosy confines of the helicopter.

  Hewitt grunted, but otherwise his attention remained fixed on the chaotic scene below. Whilst his face remained as grim and unmoving as a statue, his mind was boiling with unanswered questions. One elbowed its way through to the fore; was this nightmare over or just beginning? In response, a shiver danced across his bony shoulders.

  CHAPTER 1

  15th June – Six months earlier.

  The
man lying on his back in bed blinked as the drowsiness from a disturbed night’s sleep gradually ebbed away.

  The dream was still fresh in his mind, crystal clear down to every last detail. It had all seemed so real, so perfect. He was by no means new to this dream – he had experienced it time and time again over the last few years. Sometimes small details would alter, but the message was always the same. And yet, this time it had seemed so much more vibrant, so insistent. The urgency could no longer be ignored.

  He sat up, exposing a broad bare chest with a diminutive portion of fair hair. The red hair on his head was thicker, but closely cropped and receding. His chin had a dusting of fine stubble, and lack of sleep had left its bruised mark under his auburn eyes. The fat Labrador splayed beside him on the duvet lifted his head, curious at the disruption, then flopped back down, letting out a deep contented sigh.

  The man swung his powerful legs off the edge of the bed, and gazed absently at the curtained bedroom window, his mind a torrent of thoughts and emotions. A fine shaft of sunshine stole through a gap between the two panels to offer a hint of a warm early summer morning outside.

  The master bedroom of his modest three bedroom semi was decorated similarly to the rest of the house – plain magnolia walls and white woodwork with a generous helping of simple, but functional Scandinavian furniture and furnishings. However, what filled the room was anything but plain. Posters, pictures and memorabilia were scattered in random patterns across every wall and surface. A framed original film cell from Alien, accompanied by a petrified looking Sigourney Weaver, playing Warrant Officer Ripley, adorned centre stage above the headboard … last survivor of the Nostromo. Either side of it were similar cells from Enter the Dragon and Scarface. Bruce Lee, sporting nunchucks … Do not concentrate on the finger or you will miss all that heavenly glory … and Al Pacino in the iconic stance, complete with M-16 assault rifle … Say hello to my little friend.

  Either side of the window were rows of postcards collected over the years and carefully stuck to frame the window on both sides. Michael Caine in Zulu, Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, Richard Burton in Where Eagles Dare, Woody Harleson in Natural Born Killers, Steve McQueen atop motorbike in The Great Escape, Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, John Travolta and Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction and many more.

  The door had another tribute stuck to it – a signed poster of Anthony Hopkins, again in his role as Hannibal Lecter, as seen by Clarice Starling through his glass prison ... His therapy was going nowhere.

  All in all, the room, along with the rest of the house, was a not so subtle tribute to the silver screen.

  He stood up, his muscular body, ordinarily pale, seeming more so – almost translucent – in the poor light. Preoccupied, he dressed slowly in jeans and a Pork-Chop Express t-shirt. As he slipped on a pair of trainers, he said, “Ju, asshole and elbows, come on boy.” His accent was nondescript, lacking any local twang.

  Jumanji snorted his displeasure, but complied, jumping down rather gracelessly from the bed.

  The dog followed his master down the hall, past a huge poster of Michael Caine, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, from Get Carter ... You’re a big man, but you’re outta shape.

  Still on automatic pilot, he went about his routine of making a cup of tea and two slices of toast with honey. His body was going through the motions as his mind played the dream over and over in his head. Slowly, it was solidifying; taking shape, evolving.

  “I love the smell of tea in the morning. It smells like … breakfast,” he muttered to himself with a distant amused look.

  Sitting at a small breakfast table, he drank his tea out of a Lord of the Rings mug in silent contemplation, his gaze drifting out of the window to the postage stamp fenced lawn beyond. His thoughts were only interrupted briefly to tear off a piece of toast and cast it into the eager, salivating jaws of Jumanji. The Labrador swallowed it with one short gulp and sat, tail wagging furiously, for more. With only a mild awareness, he continued to eat the toast while his mind worked through his dream … his plan. Could this be what some religious nutters call destiny? Only the writers of history could answer that.

  As he swallowed the last dregs of tea, he seemed to snap out of his trance. At once, he stood up from the table and looked down to his faithful companion. “Come on, Ju, we’ve got some work to do.”

  Happy to be included, the dog let out a short, high-pitched woof and continued to wag his tail.

  The man sat at a computer desk in his small cluttered box bedroom-turned-study under the watchful eyes of Paul Newman and Robert Redford, making their famous Bolivian last stand … For a moment there I thought we were in trouble ... on the wall behind him and from a shotgun-brandishing Dustin Hoffman … Jesus, I got em all ... above his computer screen.

  The screen showed an installation bar nearing completion and the title, Whitman’s Country Guide: UK Edition, emblazoned above a silhouette of the British Isles.

  As he waited, he thumbed through a pocketbook of Zen meditations. Several of the short phrases held little interest, but he paused at one: We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want. He stared at the words for some time.

  The software pronounced the end of the installation process with a short sound-byte of Gerard Butler as King Leonidas, shouting, “This is Sparta!” After clicking through a couple of colourful welcome screens, he arrived at a menu screen with a number of filtration fields, allowing searches by place name, location, landmark or custom.

  Sitting forward, he clicked on the Custom icon. This brought up a drop-down list of options to fill the first part of the equation with a greater/less than/equal to option followed by an empty field.

  After taking a moment to study the different options, he chose POPULATION followed by < and then typed 500 in the empty field. The word searching flashed up briefly and was then replaced by an extensive list of place names.

  Ticking the box entitled Narrow Lookup, he then opted for KILOMETRES FROM URBAN AREAS > 30. After a moment, the list began to shrink. After a couple of minutes of chin-scratching and adjusting his position in the swivel chair, he further narrowed the lookup; SNOWFALL/YEAR > average. Only a few left. Last, but not least, CAPITAL CRIMES (based on 2010-2014 Home Office statistics) = zero. One place name remained: Haydon.

  His eyes widened as he studied the six innocuous letters. One? He glanced down at the book of Zen meditations and then back to the screen. Excitedly, he double-clicked the mouse over the name. An Ordnance Survey map of the village and surrounding area popped up in a new window with a few lines of text beneath it.

  Haydon, Northumberland. Pop.392.

  Set in the heart of England’s border county, amongst the picturesque Cheviot Hills and surrounded by unblemished woodland and moors. A quaint village lost in time. Local attractions include Cragside House, Lady’s Well, Rothbury, Wallington Hall, Hadrian’s Wall, Northumberland National Park.

  The highlighted words offered further information on the individual attractions. Clicking on Northumberland National Park opened up a new window that sent him to the park’s official website.

  Welcome … Northumberland National Park, the land of the far horizon – a landscape of limitless beauty from Hadrian's Wall to the Cheviot Hills.

  He clicked back to the map of Haydon and stared at the screen for several long minutes. His face remained unchanging, his eyes seemingly piercing through the screen to the tangle of cables and the wall beyond. After a minute, he nodded slowly and whispered, “Three-ninety-two? That would beat Pedro by at least forty-two.” Questioning himself, he added, “What about Shipman though?” He scratched his chin in deep thought.

  “Hmm, possibly as many as four hundred and fifty-nine, but only two-one-five confirmed, so officially not a problem.” Besides, Shipman’s cowardly injections were hardly Hollywood material.

  A little googling rewarded him with the telephone number of the nearest Tourist Information Centre. The phone rang for a couple o
f minutes before a bird-like voice answered, “Rothbury Tourist Information.”

  “Hi, I wonder if you could help,” he said, ignoring her abrupt tone. “I would like to visit a village called Haydon; do you know it?”

  “Yes, it’s not far from Blindburn. Business or pleasure?” Still a clipped tone, but a little more forthcoming. He couldn’t help but imagine a skinny old maid with a long beaked nose and narrow, squinting eyes.

  “Both,” he replied with just a hint of a smile angling the corner of his mouth. “Is there somewhere nice to stay in the village itself or would I need to look further afield?”

  “I’m pretty sure one of the pubs there is also a B&B; let me just check.” He heard the receiver clunk onto the desk (obviously not heard of mute or hold buttons out in the sticks yet) and then heard muffled rummaging through a filing cabinet. State of the art … whatever next, the wheel? Just as he laughed out loud, he heard the woman say, “Here it is. Are you okay?”

  Clearing his throat to suppress the snigger, he said, “Yes, fine, sorry got a bit of a cough.”

  “Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced and unhappy at not being let in on the joke. “The Miller’s Arms. It’s a quaint little place right in the village itself.”

  He made a mental note to check the dictionary for the latest definition of quaint, as a vision of dust, draughts and foist sprung to mind. But, what the hell, it would all be part of the experience. “That sounds fine. Do you have their number?”

  Always a business doing pleasure with you. As soon as he hung up, he dialled the number for the pub. A gruff, authoritative Scotsman answered on the third ring. “Miller’s,” was his succinct greeting.