Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre by Rod Glenn

wild flowers and bracken, ever watchful of his footfalls. His eyes darted between the broken outline of Mandy and the ground in front of his feet. It was as his eyes flashed back to the girl that, stepping onto a mossy, felled branch, his Caterpillar boot slipped, sending him face first into the mulchy forest floor and snapping several smaller twigs and branches with knees and elbows in the process. Stifling an angry curse, he scrambled to a crouch and cast a furtive glance towards Mandy’s last position.
    A flutter of wings disturbed the leaves in the forest canopy, but otherwise there was deathly silence.
    She had stopped dead in her tracks and was staring into the shadowy trees with a look of unease etched into her pretty features. She was staring right towards him.
    He froze, not even daring to breathe.
    “Hello?” Her voice had an anxious edge to it.
    Still holding his breath, Whitman watched and waited, ignoring the protests from his straining thighs. A brown and orange meadow argus butterfly wavered past his still face, then settled on a low branch in a rare spot of greying light. His eyes followed it hypnotically for a moment then returned to the girl.
    She took one hesitant step towards the trees, still frowning, but then quickly changed her mind and spun back towards her destination. Heading off at a noticeably quicker pace, she glanced back one final time, her ill ease still apparent.
     
    The whole sky appeared bruised and prematurely darkened as the cloudbank settled across the early evening sky. The wind began to pick up as Mandy rushed onward towards Shillmoor. Without pausing for breath, she buttoned up her jacket and hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder. As the first droplets of rain struck the pot-holed road, Mandy glanced towards the heavens with scolding annoyance, diminishing any lingering nervousness.
    “Fuck,” she said simply to no one in particular. Her breathing had deepened from the exertion and strands of her blonde hair were plastered to her forehead.
    “Bitch, isn’t it,” Whitman said nonchalantly, stepping out of the trees to her side.
    “Shit!” Mandy jumped, flinging her arms out in a shaken spasm that caused her sports bag to fly off her shoulder and drop to the damp road. She spun round to face him, her cheeks suddenly drained with fright.
    “Sorry, hun,” Whitman said, raising his own gloved hands in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just having a little walk through the forest. Weather’s turning, eh?”
    Mandy took a couple of uncertain, shuffling steps away from him, visibly shaking and her eyes wild. “You … you’re following me.”
    Whitman feigned surprised innocence. “Me?” Then, abruptly, there was a subtle shift in his expression and, as suddenly as he had appeared, he dropped the act. Shrugging, he said, “Busted.”
    The unexpected admission caught Mandy off guard. Fear was momentarily replaced by confusion. “What?” Disbelief, as if she didn’t hear him correctly. She bent and picked up her bag, not taking her eyes off him for a second.
    Taking another step closer, Whitman nodded apologetically. His tone matter-of-fact, he said, “Yep, I’ve been following you since you left Haydon. I’m going to murder you and bury your dismembered body in the woods.”
    Any remaining specks of colour vanished from Mandy’s face. A deep down primal instinct told her that this man was not joking. His features and body language were a relaxed lie, but the intensity in his eyes revealed the complete horrific truth in an instant. She staggered backwards as if struck by a physical force.
    Rubbing his hands together, Whitman said, “Okie-dokie. Here we go.” He glanced up to the drizzling purple-grey sky and added, “This rain looks like it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
    Whitman’s blasé attitude both confused and appalled Mandy as she stumbled backwards into the middle of the road. Her mind was surging with conflicting instincts