PART 2-Death in Hemingworth

The journey had been undertaken on autopilot. He had made the same trip a week before hand and a year previous had come close on his way to a conference in Hull. The M1, M18 was long but simple. Motorway driving held no fear for him these days. It was different from years ago when he used to get anxious at the thought of long journeys. Very different from his first days as a community psychiatric nurse in South West London from 1982 until 1986 when he had had no confidence driving because there had been such a long time span between passing his test in 1975 and owning his first car in 1981. He had toughed it out and daily driving around Wimbledon, Richmond, Putney and Roehampton had soon helped him become a seasoned driver.

 

The children’s Nana and Granpa had asked to have them for a rare stopover in Leicester. It was his opportunity, he knew the children would be in safe hands and he had not contrived it. It had to be this weekend.

 

He found driving an enjoyable experience and was proud of his sharpness, ability to anticipate and judge traffic speeds and conditions; today though he was on auto as his mind was numb. He had only twice been on the eastern section of the M62. A few months back when he had applied for a job in Manchester and had driven up to Prestwich to see the Chief Executive for an informal interview and when he conducted his ‘dry run’

 

He had carried out the dry run the week previous when the children had been in Yorkshire with Alice. He had always fantasised about his ability to be a secret agent or an assassin. He had been fascinated by Frederick Forsyth’s ‘Day of the Jackal’ and he admired the cold determination of the assassin in the story. He was a big fan of Gerald Seymour and also enjoyed John Le Carre, although he found some of his books hard going.  He knew that his self-determination, tough mindedness and ability to tolerate isolation made him an ideal candidate for subversive activity. He had always known that he had the propensity to be cold and calculating. He had once planed the murder of the man who had killed his cousin in a night-club. The man had a reputation for gratuitous violence; he had for no good reason picked on Michael and attacked him, punching him in the face as he stood in the foyer of the club waiting for his friend to return from the toilet. Michael had gone home to his bachelor pad with a bloodied nose and dented pride. He died two days later from an infection after his cerebral spinal fluid leaked from his brain through the eggshell thin bone, the cribiform plate of the ethmoid, between his nose and his skull. The blow had caused his nasal bone to slightly perforate the thin plate and allowed the infection to invade his cranium. It was an injury from a blow said to be practised by the SAS with the heal of the hand thrust up sharply against the tip of the nose so that the nose bone penetrated through the thinnest bone in the skull causing instant death. McPherson felt he would have taken joy from killing such scum and would have done it save for the reticence of his older brother who refused to be roped-in and the distance involved. He had planned to have his brother keep the guy under surveillance for some time before he travelled up from the south, killed him and headed back before anyone knew he was gone. He had no qualms. He had decided the guy was scum and knew that he could kill him without remorse. He also knew that the planning would make it almost impossible for the police to make a connection. Most homicides were in the heat of the moment and involved people who knew each other. His own connection with the guy was tenuous to say the least and his character was without question. He had always regretted that the b*****d had got away with killing Michael in cold blood. In fact he often thought of killing the perpetrator and rationalised that it would be even easier with the passage of time because the police would have an even worse time establishing a motive.

 

For now his mind was set on another task to be carried out as planned. He left the M62 at junction 34, the Selby junction, turning right after a couple of miles onto the A645 which ran parallel to the motorway through the villages of Snaith and Rawcliffe as it headed to Goole. He took a left turn just before the road ducked under the M62 and carried on into Goole. He passed through the village of Airmyn before rejoining the main road just north west of Goole and crossing the river Ouse shortly after. He missed the left hand turn that would have taken him directly on to the A63(T) and had to negotiate his way around Howden before turning left onto the trunk road that would deliver him to his destination. He passed through the village of Newsholme and knew that he was almost there. He had no concept of how long the journey had taken but it was now dusk on this late October day. The weather had been dreadful of late, following on from a miserable summer. In fact, there had been little summer to speak of but at least further south there had been some sunshine. He felt sorry for his mother in Glasgow who depended on good weather to get out and about and who had had, like everyone in the Central Lowlands of Scotland, to endure the most miserable of summers on record.

 

He had planned to arrive late in the day, preferably after dark so that he was less visible. He didn’t really know why that was, as he had decided he didn’t care if he was caught or not. He just knew it had to be done. They both had to pay for what they had done to him and the children. Over the months he had struggled to cope. Only the full time nanny and his ability to control his finances and work away at reducing the debt she had left when she walked out on them back in that fateful January gave him hope for the future.

 

Another idea was beginning to enter into his head and his anger turned to Alice and her new partner. He began to resolve that if he was going to end his own life then he would take them with him. It felt selfish but he needed to be brutal right now. His anger at life and the universe in general was extreme. He was still in shock over what had happened over the space of a few months.  The precious things that had been snatched away from him; all the things he had held dear for all these years.

 

In the weeks leading up to this day of inevitability, as he thought of it, came the final blows that pushed him over the top. Firstly the divorce was about to be made absolute and he could see the look of smug self satisfaction on Alice’s lips when she collected the children. She was also making things difficult for him to carry on working as she refused to pay for the nanny who had had to be retained because it had been impossible to put the necessary patchwork of early morning, afternoon and evening and holiday cover arrangements into place. Such arrangements had to be fairly solid as he could not continue to give his attention to everything in his life if child care arrangements were to frequently break down. He had not forgiven Alice for twisting the knife again by taking the children to Euro-Disney in August, in the full knowledge that they had planned as a family to go to Disneyland Florida that same October. It seemed such a callous act, particularly as she knew that he would not be able to afford a holiday while she had ‘swaned’ off to San Francisco with the b*****d and went to Euro Disney. He decided to end such wickedness; wickedness that she had tried to accuse him of when now her true nature was beginning to emerge. The selfishness, the need for constant self-aggrandisement and total disregard for others; she had everybody fooled. Yes he knew what he himself had done was wrong but he now understood what she had done to him over the years, the constant wearing down until his only place of power in the relationship was in bed. Even there it was limited power and she held the cards for 95 percent of the time. He knew it had to be done. He wondered if all killers felt so certain about what they were about to do.

 

The fact that his marriage was ended, he felt the children’s lives were in ruins, his career was smashed against the rocks and he faced dismissal and the failure of his relationship with Holly left him absolutely no hope.  Welded to his feelings about his ex wife he had nothing to loose.  He needed to rid himself of the burning anger that raged inside his chest and this was the only solution.

 

His mind drifted back to the inquiries he had been involved with at the Health Authority, Brunton, Stamp, Pathak and Stephens-Pride. He wondered if being so exposed to these cases had made him hard and insensitive to murder. He thought that perhaps these mentally disordered offenders, as they were known, were stable like him prior to committing the act. He wondered if he himself was stable. He didn’t give it much thought, his mind was on the task in hand again. 

 

They suspected nothing. It was just the end of another week. No kids this weekend so they could do as they pleased and would spend Friday evening down the local as usual. Alice had just arrived back from Oxford where she had been working with Thames Valley Police. A connection she was very proud of. He had not been away this week but had been sorting out the arrangements for moving into the house they were buying together and had been over to Selby to see his son. His other son refused to associate with his father following the split with his mother-his wife of thirty odd years.

They had established quite a presence in the village where they were viewed as the life and soul of everybody’s party. They were the perfect hosts and everyone knew them. Alice’s dinner parties were already legendary and together with his public school charm they were in great demand. They were viewed as ‘YUPPIES’ of sorts despite their ages. An epithet that Alice had enjoyed before she and John had the kids in tow and one she had been determined to regain. She might have increasing debts now but she was far happier than she had ever been. She was having fun. She could even have her kids when it suited her.

Not everyone in the village was so enamoured by the couple. Retired school-teacher Mrs Trueby thought the age difference to be ‘too much’, ‘bordering on obscene’ she told friends. ‘And besides how could she leave such sweet children for a relationship with an older man. Their father must be a saint’ she pronounced with an air of one who knows such things. The vicar a portly figure, who often took tea with Mrs Trueby, was equally troubled by the couple although he resolved to try to be non-judgmental about it. Alistair Dance the local MP and a business-man had no time for management consultants, whom he viewed with suspicion. He felt that this branch of life was populated by people who failed to make it in a corporate environment but who were ready to tell others how they should do so. A bit like teachers really he thought. And the couple had had the cheek to make it known that they both harboured political ambitions. He would need to keep them close to him so that he knew what they were up to. He didn’t trust them at all. The local publican had no such qualms. The couple were a publicans dream, full of chat, good at socialising and a magnet for the other regulars who revelled at Alice’s mix of beauty and her ability to hold her own in the bar, tell jokes and drink most men under the table. The couple literally held court.

 

It would be the same this evening, they would be there until closing and then a select group including Alice and her partner would stay for a '‘lock in'. Afterwards they would walk the short distance back to their rented cottage sometime after two in the morning.

 

He had planned to arrive early enough to watch them leave home for the pub and to lay in wait in case they had a change of plan. It was always possible that they could be invited to a party or had other things scheduled. He was determined to get it done one way or another. When he had been up, in Alice’s consultancy parlance, to ‘scope’ the job the week previously he had found a secluded spot in which to park his car. It could not be seen from the pub and he would not arouse suspicion by being parked there. It was well hidden and in an out of the way spot with a good view of the route they would take. The cottage was in a quiet cul-de-sac, which was where he'd decided to strike. It was where their defences would be down as they returned to the security of their house in a state of happy intoxication. Not that in a village as peaceful as Hemingworth they would have much cause to feel ill at ease and having been there for some time now they were used to the place. Not the sort of village where a double-murder is likely to occur.

 

He reached his spot a little after seven PM. He drove past once and had a look to make sure before returning and parking carefully by reversing into the small disused lay-by. He switched off his headlights. It was a warmer night than of late with a moderate cloud cover, penetrated periodically by shafts of strong moonlight. He could see the cottage where the light in the lounge showed through a small parting in the heavy velvet curtains. He suddenly panicked, thinking that they may have gone out already and left the light on as a deterrent to potential intruders. Within a short time his mind was put at ease as the landing light came on, quickly followed by the bathroom. A few minutes later the upstairs front bedroom light came on and to his satisfaction he caught a glimpse of them both before she hauled the heavy curtains closed. They were probably changing after dinner. She would go and soak in the bath and spend about half to three quarters of an hour drying her hair, dressing and putting on her make up. He reckoned they would leave for the pub by just after eight-thirty.

 

He had thought long and hard about his method. He had thought about trying to make it look like an accident by tampering with the brakes on their cars or just torching the place when they had both returned and fallen asleep. He knew that he could not then guarantee their fate. And he wanted to be sure. There would be no second bite at this one. There had to be certainty and more importantly finality. It had to all end in one horrific and final act. He knew that that was all he had the stomach for. He wanted to give love but it was impossible with so much hatred always weighing him down like a heavy meal sitting undigested in his belly.  He thought about a hammer or other heavy weapon but although silent and less intrusive than say a knife, the end result still was difficult to determine. He thought of strangulation with a garrotte, silent, no mess and probably definite if the pressure was kept up long enough, but would he fight strongly and would she interfere; a foul up waiting to happen. A knife on the other hand was easy to obtain and could be more punishing. He felt so incensed that he had rehearsed the whole event in his head. He planned to lay in wait, slip out behind them and slit the partner’s throat. A deep unforgiving and immediate gash from which his life would be choked in a blood soaked froth. He would be immediately incapacitated and she so shocked that he could then go on to deal with her. He intended to stare into her eyes before running her through the way she had run him through. He wanted her to watch that smug b*****d, who, back in January, had calmly told him over his cell phone that Alice and he planned to live together, yes he wanted her to watch him die first in a most horrific way and to know who had slain him. He wanted her to see the coldness in his heart and to know what she had done. He knew he would not flinch at the task. His anger was like pitch black in his mind; a rage of demons thrashing about tormenting his soul. He wanted to see her try to take control and then see that he was no longer under her spell. He wanted to see the realisation as it dawned upon her that this was a time of final retribution; the closing scene. The Bob Seager song ‘The Famous Final Scene’ played in his mind as he thought about it, a song from one of many albums that they had shared on the route to Cornish holidays all those years ago in Fowey. It all seemed so distant and meaningless now and it was she who had stripped those happy days of any meaning.

 

He was shocked though at the ease with which he got his hands on the firearms. He had seen documentaries about how easy it was to obtain guns in cities like Manchester and Glasgow. Even in these places he would not know where to start so in Northamptonshire he had not even given a thought to the idea, until they quite literally fell into his hands. He knew that the right people could get you most things, at a price. But the risk of asking around could really screw up his plans and he couldn’t afford such a c**k up. He had heard stories of police stings as a result of people asking around. He wasn’t prepared to risk prison without first achieving his goal, so he had decided against trying to get a gun.

 

The upstairs light suddenly died and cast an air of a dark unoccupied and sleeping house. Within seconds the front door opened and he saw them in the yellow glow of the hall lights spill into the small cottage garden laughing and chatting. He felt his anger rise, he wanted to hurt them. He wanted them to feel the pain that he was feeling.  He was angry but he was cold as stone; lifeless and without any feelings but for the blunt hatred.  A dark and unresolved hatred that hung inside him swirling like a chilling mist over his heart and lungs.

 

They were dressed in light casual clothing, which indicated that they planned to go no further than the pub. It had clouded over and although not cold it looked as if it could rain at any moment. He watched as they reached the end of the cottage garden path, opened the old warped wooden gate and turned left on to the roadway. He lost sight of them for a moment as they passed another cottage set between them and his vantage-point. At the mouth of the cul-de-sac they turned left again round the gentle sweeping bend leading up to the church yard. The pub was only a couple of yards further up the road and he could see through its window quite a lot of movement there already. Suddenly his stomach tightened in panic. They passed the pub and carried on up the hill. Where the f**k where they headed? They held hands and chatted like young lovers. He was ready to leap from the car. To follow them so that he could be sure he knew where they were at all times. The road he was on was set above the village. It was a road to nowhere in particular but had once been a main route before the A63(T) had been built. It was a stump of a road now, the sort of old withered stump that such bypasses leave in their wake. It didn’t go anywhere although on foot it was possible to reach the old road down to the Ouse and then cut across country to Cliffe, the next village along. It was often used by campers or ramblers and the lay-by where he sat, although now somewhat overgrown was still accessible enough for one car. The week previously, he had seen a lone jogger use the route, which provided a climb out of the village and a lovely country run beyond. That had been earlier in the evening though and now, in the near pitch dark, it would have been foolish to run the route. The risk of turning an ankle or worse, breaking a leg, was not worth it to any seasoned runner. He sat bolt-upright ready to get out onto the road. He was aware that if he did he ran the risk of arousing suspicion. The couple stopped and were knocking on the door of a large whitewashed double fronted cottage next to the churchyard. The door was opened, a friendly greeting and within seconds another couple had emptied from the house, the male reaching behind the door for a light jacket before closing and locking it and following the others back towards the pub. He watched with a sense of relief as the four went in the side entrance of the picturesque coaching house. He settled back into his seat. He moved his left hand reassuringly under the sweater slumped lifeless upon the passenger seat, along the stock of the 12 bore sawn off and felt the hardness of the Smith and Wesson revolver beside it…

 

…He woke with a start. It took a few seconds for him to work out where he was. The only light in the compartment of the car in which he sat was from a soft red glowing ignition indicator and the green digital figures on the clock recessed into the fascia of the dashboard. He felt a sense of panic, had he missed them, the clock showed 22:31 so probably not. He was somewhat dazed and he felt himself shiver so he took the Guernsey sweater from over the shotgun and the handgun on the passenger seat, and pulled it over his head. All of the Gurnsey sweaters he had were from Cornish holidays with Alice. They had been a statement of contentment. They didn’t have separate ones they just shared. There was an acceptance that Cornwall was time-out, jeans and sweaters, time to relax and make the best of it despite the weather. The sweaters were about sharing and being together without pretence and look where it had got them. She had thrown it all in his face. He looked across at the pub, the lights were still blazing. He pressed the button in the door armrest and the passenger window slid silently down. He listened and could just hear the faint sounds of revelry carried from the pub on the stiff breeze, which was now teasing at the trees around him. Large spots of rain were beginning to fall. He quickly closed the window. He looked across to the cottage some three to four hundred yards away as the crow flies. No lights on. He breathed a sigh of relief but gasped it short with the thought that they might have left already and decided to have an early night. He had to know otherwise the whole plan was in jeopardy. It was a risk but he decided to take it. He had no option. He had to go and take a look. There was little point driving past, he had to go on foot with the risk that he would meet someone on the way. He even ran the risk of bumping into them if they left the pub at the wrong moment, but he had no choice, he needed the reassurance that he was still in control of the situation. He took the sleeveless combat vest he had bought at Northampton Market off of the back seat and slipped it on. He checked that the two fishing knives were in place and tucked the revolver into the inside pocket after breaking it open and checking the chamber. He had stripped the revolver time and time again at home, he had cleaned it and greased it and cleaned it again. He had fifteen rounds for the revolver and 12 fat cartridges for the old beaten Purdey, once the proud half of a pair of handsome guns with crafted walnut stocks but now a sad and much disowned instrument. It worked though, as did the revolver. He had tested them both very carefully.

 

When Peter had asked him to do him a serious favour he was taken aback. He had known Peter since moving into the village, he was the adopted son of a near neighbour and they saw a lot of him when he was still living at home. He had a reputation as a hard man and during his teen years had been a constant strain on his adoptive parents. He was not very bright, suffered from epilepsy, drank heavily and got himself into all sorts of bother. Never anything too heavy though. He was a very stocky lad who had a tendency to shave his head, which together with his tattoos and a single earring in his left ear made him look very mean and menacing. He had a heart of gold though and simply loved working. He had worked for years in a local timber yard and had survived a number of redundancy rounds because he was worth his weight in gold. He was said to work like a pig in s**t. The last workplace cull he did not survive however, and not long after the business went under. Peter was taken on by a local scaffolding company for whom he had worked casually over the years and whose owner also knew him through playing rugby for a local side together. His epilepsy did not seem to feature in the equation. The fact that Peter would be climbing up and down high scaffold towers did not bother his new boss or Peter himself.

 

Peter was the ideal rugby player. He was fit, tough and had no sense of danger or pain. McPherson had played a few games with Peter and he loved to have him in the side. He knew he could rely on Peter and he himself gave close support to Peter’s play. Peter had shacked up with a local girl. She was into drugs and prostitution and the relationship ended when after the birth of their child she refused to reform her lifestyle. Peter was a bit of a hot head but he had rarely fallen foul of the law. Peter moved out of the village and McPherson had not seen him for at least two years until he turned up out of the blue one evening in July and asked for a big favour. He explained that he had got in too deep with some nasty people and needed a safe haven for some ‘gear’ until he could dispose of it properly. McPherson did not ask too many questions. He took the battered hold-all and when he looked inside had coolly looked Peter in the eyes and told him straight that he would deal with the contents. Peter had been so relieved that McPherson knew something pretty awful was about to happen. He was not surprised to read in the local paper a matter of weeks later that Peter and a number of others had been arrested for robbery and conspiracy to rob. He had had no contact from Peter since. In the holdall was the sawn-off Purdy, the Smith and Wesson revolver, 60 rounds and 24 cartridges. He had always wanted to own firearms. It felt very risky though and his adrenaline pumped each time he thought of the hold-all. He cleaned the weapons well, wiped off any prints, wrapped them in oil soaked rags and dug a hole behind his garden shed. The weapons literally came to him as if in answer to a prayer. He took the risk of taking them down to the old railway in the early mornings. Local farmers could often be heard out shooting on their land in the area.  He took care to go well out of the village towards Market Harborough, which is where the old route, now a cycle track, reached after ten miles of switching through the Northamptonshire countryside. He practised as much as he dare, until he felt familiar with the weapons. The sound of a shotgun was far from unusual in these parts but a handgun might raise suspicion and of course he could not chance being seen with either.

 

He pulled on the thin calf-hide gloves then checked the shotgun was loaded before wrapping it in a plastic Marks and Spencer carrier bag. He climbed out of the car and went to the boot where he removed the old pair of Wellington boots and the old cycling waterproofs, purchased at a car boot sale. He climbed into the waterproofs and replaced his casual shoes with the boots. A gentle drizzle had begun which made his appearance, should he be seen, less conspicuous. He pointed the infrared key and locked the car before placing the key carefully into his jeans pocket beneath the rain gear. He had planned to avoid getting covered in blood and knew that he would have no opportunity to get cleaned up before getting out of the immediate vicinity once he had killed them both.

 

He moved a couple of yards down the track, away from the village and stopped. He stood quietly scanning the scene, listening and watching. It was dark and very quiet. Only the now steady splashing of rain on foliage and tarmac and slate, occasionally interrupted by a burst of mirth from the pub could be heard. An owl hooted deep in the nearby woods and in the far off distance he heard the sound of a train. Other than that nothing moved in and around the village and no other sound could be heard. He turned slowly and walked down the gradient to the ‘J’ junction, left would take him into the cul-de-sac and towards what would be his killing ground, right would after a few yards be towards the pub on the bend before the Churchyard. He stopped at the junction and looked around. He looked back up towards the lay by and was pleased that he could not see the car, which was in total darkness and shielded from the road by the overgrown brambles and overhanging trees. Suddenly the front door of the pub burst open in a glare of light and noise and out onto the pavement stepped two middle-aged men. They half turned to continue their banter with the assembled throng; he could smell the beer and the smoke from where he stood stock-still. They hooted with laughter before the two closed the door and turned hand in hand up the hill towards the churchyard and the large detached cottages beyond.

 

He stood still against the side of the dry stone wall that edged the old road. He looked around again. He dared not move until he was sure that the ‘lovers’ were out of earshot. He didn’t need to go further though. He had heard her voice; the once happy tones that he had worshiped as she held court at parties, with dinner guests and at family affairs. The voice that he remembered warming to when in a different part of the house and he heard her speak to one of the children. The voice that used to sing with such joy all those year ago, it was a different voice now though; the voice that had laughed in his face from hotel rooms as she was about to go off and shag that b*****d. It was hateful, it mocked at him scornfully. This used to be yours but it’s not yours now it screamed. He could not imagine that one he had loved so deeply could destroy his soul, and for what. And what chance had she given him.

 

He wondered if Brunton, Stamp, Pathak and Stephens-Pride had gone through the same pain before they killed their victims. He doubted it but he thought it somewhat ironic that he, an ordinary bloke could have dealt with so much misery over the months and here he was prepared to act like the people he was supposed to be protecting the public from. Maybe it had hardened him. Maybe he had always had madness in him. Maybe everyone has the potential he thought.  He decided to move down to the cottage, they could leave at any time and in this rain they would hardly hang around. He had to get to them before they got inside the cottage. Who knows they might have a shotgun inside, and in any case once inside they had an advantage and an element of control over him. He had to strike before they opened the door. The rain had matted down his hair and was running in warm rivulets down his face mingling with the salt from his tears. He sobbed uncontrollably and he didn’t know why.

 

Suddenly he heard a deep laugh, which set the hair on the back of his neck on end. It was his voice. It carried on the wind. They were out of the pub and he could now make out her voice from time to time carried between sheets of rain. He heard the relaxed, semi-inebriated tones, the warm inflections in the voices. He felt his anger rise again. How could the woman that loved him suddenly be so in love with another, and without warning? He felt the hurt like a hot knife slicing at his brain. He closed his eyes as if to ward off the demons and the pain. He had no time to think. He didn’t want to think he’d done his share of thinking in the months from January when she left until Holly in mid June. He had been alone, entirely alone with his grief and his disbelief. His anger at how she had gone about her deceit, even bringing that overweight old fart to their home. In the months before Holly, life had been so isolated and even more so in the vast and empty space since Holly decided she was not ready for a serious relationship. That had been the worst time for him. To have been given hope when he didn’t go in search of it only to have it snatched back so quickly. He felt angry but empty inside, he felt detached. He had nothing in his mind except his anger. He moved quickly to the side of the cottage gaining shelter from the now driving rain. He put the Marks and Spencer bag on the ground between his feet. He thought of reaching for the shot gun, of blasting them as they approached the beaten old oak door, no contact a more detached action, but he left it where it was, instead he took one of the slim, surgically sharp folding fishing knives from the inside pocket of his combat jacket. He spread the blade and held the knife by the smooth wood handle in his right hand. They were stumbling along the dry stone wall of the cottage; he could see their figures silhouetted against the dim streetlights of the main road. They were struggling through the old broken gate, him pushing it and lifting it at the same time as they rushed to get out of the rain. They were half way down the garden path and he could feel the adrenaline excitement as his anger built to a bursting crescendo. They were oblivious to him, to his feelings, to the terrible hurt they had caused the children. All they cared about was their own happiness. She had taken what she wanted, her career, the b*****d and the kids every fortnight and half of all the holidays. Selfish b******s he screamed inside. He heard the echoed voice down the mobile telephone as that b*****d calmly told him that his wife of fifteen years was going to leave him and that they intended setting up home together. He hugged the shadow. They were passed him and heading for the door, he was frightened, he was angry. It reminded him of the time when as a student nurse he had decided to defend his girlfriend’s honour against Patrick Ng who they had regarded as a friend but who had stolen some of her possessions from her room in the nurses home. He remembered deciding to do it as Ng and he walked together across the dark hospital grounds between the male and female nurse’s homes. He was s**t scared. He was not a fighter and he didn’t know if the Chinaman knew kung fu or not. He decided to strike swiftly and without mercy. No risks, surprise and savagery floored the other man and he didn’t get up for more, he simply scuttled away into the darkness.

 

She stood in front fumbling with her handbag to find the keys, he was a couple of paces behind waiting to get in out of the rain. McPherson moved swiftly and silently round the corner and in one swift motion grabbed him in a vice like grip round his neck and chin with his left arm, yanking his head backwards so that his back arched and his knees buckled. McPherson’s strong upper body strength, his anger and the element of surprise gave the older, less fit man little chance to respond. Without hesitation and with hatred he never knew he was capable of he sliced through the flesh of the helpless victim’s throat with one swift and violent slash. He felt a ripping and a small amount of resistance as the razor sharp gutting knife found the trachea and oesophagus. It felt like slicing a chicken. The sweet smell of warm blood flooded his senses and drove him on. He finished the deep slashing stroke with vehemence, tugging the knife all the way across his victim’s neck. He let go his grip and the b*****d fell like a sack of potatoes. There was a terrible guttural sound as he gasped for breath but only inhaled cupfuls of his own blood. He was drowning in it. He had intended to stand and look her in the eye so that she knew what she had done and so that she could know what he had done but something drove him on. She had half turned in the darkness still fumbling with the keys, blinking wide eyed and disbelieving into the dimly lit garden. She was strangely silent. Her eyes were as beautiful as the day he had first met her. It had taken seconds and her mind seemed frozen. He saw the smug smile begin to break nervously on her lips. He drove the knife deep into her back and as she dropped he kept stabbing. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t care anymore. He was hurting her for the hurt he had felt these last terrible months of his life. He knew what he was doing but it didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t feel as if he were hurting a human being. He had dissociated himself from the real horror of his action and was punishing her for her wickedness. He lost count of the number of times that he drove the knife into her. Suddenly his anger stopped. She was still on the ground. Neither victim had called out or screamed, it had been eerily silent. He could hear a few faint gurgling sounds coming from the b*****d but he knew these were the sounds of death. He stood for a few seconds the rain pouring from his hair and down his waterproofs. He stood over the now lifeless forms. He didn’t look at them he just stood tasting the freshness of the rain on his lips.  They meant nothing. She was nothing. The fifteen years of marriage had been wiped out by her actions and now he had wiped the slate clean. The b*****d would not be so cocky now. He felt pleased with himself. He folded the knife and slipped it into the Marks and Spencer carrier bag with the still cold sawn off shotgun. He turned and headed back to his car. The rain was now driving in sheets blown in gusts of wind that tugged at his clothing. He reached the car and looked back down towards the cottage. A more peaceful scene he could not have anticipated. To all intents and purposes it was a sleepy little village in rural North Yorkshire, hardly the sort of place for a double homicide. Tomorrow would herald an awakening for this community. Some would be shocked with disbelief, some would have it known that they thought that she had it coming.

 

His nose was full of the stench of blood. He knew that he had blood all over his face and hands. He allowed the rain to cascade down his face and he held his hands to the heavens in a gesture of surrender.  After a few moments to allow the torrent of rain to do its work, he went to the rear of the hatchback car and opened the door. He removed the large plastic screen wash container, now full of water and poured half of the contents over his head and torso. He washed his hands in half of the remainder before stripping off the waterproofs and stuffing them into the black plastic bin liner. He washed his hands again with the rest of the water before replacing the container in the back of the car. He placed the combat jacket in the back of the car after removing the revolver. He placed the Marks and Spencer bag in the boot beside the bin liner and closed the hatch. The car started first time after he had disarmed both immobilisers, His legs felt jelly-like and his stomach felt like he was about to have diarrhoea. He put the car into gear moved off slowly and left the village without seeing another living soul.  Soon he had turned back onto the A 63 (T).

 

The journey cannot have been more than 30 miles. He had left the M18 at junction 2 and headed cross country. Now he sat on a quiet street outside a small detached bungalow, looking up the hill at one of the highest houses in the village. He had never seen it before but he knew from her description that it was the right house. He felt as if he was coming home, he felt safe. He had so wanted to have Holly’s parents in his life, to learn about them and to visit the village. They would not find him here; there was no reason to look for him in this quiet village. Only Holly knew of his tenuous connection with the place and very few people who knew the village and Holly’s parents knew about Holly and McPherson. He closed his eyes and thought of how it might have been had Holly not been so screwed up and he so emotionally corrupt. He wanted to share himself with Holly, to be with her, to love her and to be loved by her. He wanted to make her a ‘happy bunny’. But it was not to be. He settled into his seat. Exhaustion had suddenly caught up with him and sleep came as soon as he closed his eyes.

Reviews

[Claire Twinn]

A very unexpected twist here, all the boundaries becoming blurred, roles reversed. Is this the same guy who fights for social justice? Are we all on the brink of potential homicide? It all feels very possible...

(Boring spelling point: I've noticed you sometimes mix up lose and loose)

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Thanks Claire, I think we all are given the right conditions on the brink. Anyway, spoken like a true teacher! I speak Glasweigan not the Queens English so my proof reader is on the case this weekend if she gets time.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

The role reversal is central to the tale. none of us are that far from madness!