Chapter 28

You might think it odd that I chose the front door but under the circumstances, I had to assume that whoever was trying to get in, meant to harm me. Why did I think that? A number of things occurred to me when I heard the key rattling in the lock. Firstly, the police wouldn’t attempt an entry like that when an armed killer was inside. They would surround the building, create a siege situation and then when they decided that forced entry was the only option remaining, they would use smoke bombs and stun grenades first, to disorientate the gunman, namely me. I knew it wasn’t the police. Bryn didn’t have a key or he would have used it when we first arrived. He told me where the key was and asked me to leave it safe when I left, therefore it wasn’t Bryn trying to get in. Whoever it was had a key so I had to assume it was his father, who I had just discovered was an affiliate, at the very least, to the cult that was hunting me.

He was trying to gain entry through the back door with a key. I didn’t know if he was aware that I was hiding in the house or not but I had to assume that he did, which would mean that he wouldn’t have come alone. No one in their right mind would attempt to take on an armed man who had demonstrated that he was willing to kill to survive. An average man planning to drive his target out of a building would use the tactics that he’d seen many times on the television, which was basically a load of crap made up by researchers and script writers. If he was trying to gain entry to the back of the house, then he would have ordered someone to guard the front of the house to act as an ambush, to kill the escaping target as they desperately fled the building. Grouse hunters use unarmed beaters to drive the birds towards an impenetrable line of double barrelled shotguns where they’re blown to smithereens. The safest thing for a smart grouse to do is to fly towards the beaters.

I knew that they couldn’t get in without breaking a window or door and they wouldn’t want to do that as a first option. They had banked on the key opening the door, so now they would need another plan of action. I had a few minutes and no more to react. I ran from the dining room into the kitchen, down the cellar stairs and looked for the generator. I hoped that there would be spare fuel down there. Sure enough, a five gallon jerry-can stood near to the rattling machine. I snatched it and bolted up the stairs. As I ran and planned my next vital steps, something in the cellar registered in my brain but it would have to be shelved until another time. I sprinted to the Welsh dresser and grabbed a reel of cotton from the drawer, skidding across the tiles and banging into the kitchen door frame, I ducked low and moved quickly along the hallway. I reached the front door and slid a brass bolt open, twisting the Yale lock at the same time, leaving it on the latch. I tied the end of the cotton around the handle and headed back to the kitchen, switching on the hallway light as I went, signalling to those outside that I was moving towards the front door. When I was safely in the kitchen, I tugged the cotton opening the front door. Shotguns roared shattering the leaded glass and long splinters of wood became deadly shrapnel as they were blasted from the door frame. The front door was decimated as shot after shot exploded around it. The light bulb at the base of the stairs shattered into a million particles and a split second before the light went out, I saw one of the pastel drawings disintegrate into pieces. As the shooters reloaded, I heard two sets of footsteps running away from the back door, passing the kitchen window and heading towards the front of the house. I ran to the cooker and switched on the electric rings, placing the petrol drum flat on top of them so that all four came into contact with it.

Another volley of shotgun blasts ripped chunks from the front door and the hallway walls, but this time there were more guns firing. I opened the back door and peered through the gap. The barns stood like inky black silhouettes against a darker backdrop. There could have been a shooter there but I doubted it. They were all at the front of the house, blowing the shit out of shadows. Happy that it was safe, I bolted for the barn. Every muscle in my body was tensed and I took shallow breaths as I ran, waiting for a shotgun blast to knock me off my feet. None came. As I reached the barn wall, I hid in the long weeds and scanned the farmyard behind me. Nothing moved. The shotgun blasts had become less intense and more sporadic. They sounded muffled and there were flashes of light in the windows that looked as if they were coming from inside the house.

I figured that they had reached the kitchen when I heard raised voices, some of them panicked and then the windows at the rear of the farm exploded. Glass clattered and smashed against the walls of the barn and pinged off the metal silo. Towers of flame erupted through the window frames, spiralling across the farmyard and into the air. Muffled screams were cut short by the explosion. A single figure staggered from the back door burning from head to foot. The mouth was open in a silent scream; a gaping black maw surrounded by orange flames. I could see the shape of a pair of Wellington boots bubbling and sizzling, the flames below the knee a different hue of orange to the rest. The figure dropped to its hands and knees and crawled a few yards before collapsing completely, the limbs twitching violently as life left the body and floated skyward with the smoke. I was mesmerised for a moment but then another scream came from the burning building. I realised that some of them may have survived. I sprang up and ran between the huge wooden doors into the barn. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, the scene before me stopped me in my tracks.

I took a flashlight from my bag and scanned the scene quickly, fearing that the light would attract my pursuers. The quad-bike was still parked there, the keys in the ignition. A Volkswagen Polo from the 1990’s was behind it, the tires slashed. The bonnet was raised and all the spark plug leads had been cut, along with the hoses and the fan-belt. The damage was recent. My first thought was that Bryn was part of the cult too and that he’d pretended to leave while he waited for backup. It wasn’t beyond reason that he was the niner, not his father. I played the torchlight around the entire barn and there was the answer to my question, Bryn right in front of me. He had been there all the time. As I looked into his eyes, I knew that he wasn’t a niner.

Bryn’s lifeless body was crucified to the wall; a pitchfork had been driven through one arm deep into the wood and two chisels drilled through the other. His throat had been slashed just below the chin and his tongue had been pulled through the wound so that it hung like a short pink tie against his neck. A piercing pang of guilt stabbed my guts but I had no time to feel sorry for him. I knew the gunshots and the explosion would bring the police down on top of me. They would see the flames from miles away. I had to get out of there quickly. It was difficult to ignore the butchered body of the young man who had helped me to get off the mountain, but I had to act if I was to escape the carnage.

Placing the Mossberg across the seat, I pushed the quad next to the VW and scanned the barn for a length of pipe. There was a green hosepipe rolled up and hung on a rusty nail. I cut a length and ran to the petrol flap. It was locked. I used my blade to pop the flap and then fumbled for the keys to open the cap. My hands were shaking and my breathing became laboured. Thick black smoke was drifting into the barn and the flames cast an orange glow over the farmyard. I threaded the pipe into the tank and sucked hard. The stinging liquid hit my lips and I spat it out and shoved the pipe into the bike’s tank. The fumes were acrid and began stinging my eyes as I siphoned the fuel from the car into the quad. The tank was full within minutes although it felt like an age, standing there staring at Bryn’s crucified corpse. His eyes watched me accusingly. I had made him leave for his own safety but all I’d achieved was his brutal death. Looking at the amount of blood, I guessed that he’d be pinned up while his heart was still beating. I wondered if his death was at his father’s hands or those of another.

“You fucking bastard!” The voice sent my heart into my mouth. Torchlight illuminated Bryn’s body and then blinded my eyes. I grabbed the gun and crouched behind the quad, my own torch now pointing at the man. His face was blistered and raw on one side, the hair gone and the ear nothing more than a smouldering lump. Smoke drifted from his charred clothes and his right hand looked like a blackened claw. “You fucking bastard!”

“I didn’t kill Bryn,” I said. “Put your gun down and move out of my way.”

“You fucking cunt,” the charred figure stepped forward. The grey curly hair and beard which remained on one side of his face, told me it was Bryn’s father. He looked like a character from Batman only far more sinister. His shotgun hung uselessly from a smouldering hand. He tried to raise it but the effort was too much. His knees buckled and he went down heavily. I climbed onto the quad and pressed the ignition button. The engine growled into life. “She’ll get you and you’ll burn in hell!” he shouted over the noise.

“You’re already there, arsehole.” I engaged first gear and steered around him, heading into the farmyard. What the police would make of the scene, I had no idea and didn’t really care, but I had a feeling that they would blame me. If his father hadn’t killed him, then one of his sicko friends must have. I could only hope that the killer had been barbecued in the farmhouse. The building was completely ablaze now and I could hear the helicopter moving closer. In the dark, I had a slim chance of making it across the fields to Barmouth, if I could find the gates which linked connecting the fields and avoid any rocks and ditches. Once there, I could circumnavigate the back streets avoiding the main roads and search for an opportunity to escape. The threads of a plan were beginning to form. If I could reach the coast, I could get to Anglesey avoiding the bridges and the roads, which the niners and the police would be watching. All I needed was a boat and someone who knew how to pilot it.