Hangman Read online

  Hangman

  by

  Craig Saunders

  Copyright © 2017 Craig Saunders

  All characters in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  2rd Edition

  Editors: Colin F. Barnes. Dave Thomas.

  1st edition published as ‘The Noose and Gibbet’/Anachron Press/2013

  Cover art from Outsiderzone/Canstock. Lettering and design © Craig Saunders

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Hangman

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Craig Saunders

  Acknowledgments

  I wanted to take a minute to thank two people who’ve helped me along the way for no gain, no thanks, but just because they’re good people doing what good people do - Matt Shaw and Iain Rob Wright, gentlemen both.

  A huge thanks, too, to Dave Thomas, the second editor to work on this novel.

  The biggest, though, and my eternal gratitude, to Colin F. Barnes, who first saw something worth working with in this story.

  Love you all.

  Craig

  The Shed

  2017

  Hangman

  Upon the gallows hung a wretch,

  Too sullied for the Hell

  To which the law entitled him.

  Emily Dickinson, Upon the gallows hung a wretch

  Hangman, hangman, hold it a little while,

  Think I see my friends coming, riding a many mile.

  Friends, did you get some silver?

  Did you get a little gold?

  What did you bring me, my dear friends, to keep me from the Gallows Pole?

  What did you bring me to keep me from the Gallows Pole?

  Led Zeppelin, “Gallows Pole”

  1.

  The rope burned the ancient oak as it was drawn high over the bough.

  The naked man sobbed, but he was more boy, still, than man. His name was Luke. Luke Brightmore: a child on the cusp of manhood at nineteen years of age.

  He shivered from terror and the cold. It was the middle of night in a long, brutal winter. Rain fell slantways across the potted road and the boy’s bare shoulders. Light from a torch shone from the boy’s slick skin, and the black road, too. In the glare of the torch it was hard to make out the faces of the men who took him from his shared bed.

  To Luke, they looked like monsters. Teeth bared with shadow and light playing across their exaggerated features, they seemed part ape, part human.

  Not one of them spoke, despite Luke Brightmore’s pleas ... despite his begging.

  It was just a joke. Some kind of local fuckery. Nothing more.

  But it wasn’t, and he knew it. There was something in their eyes that shone out eager against the dark: a hungry, dangerous look, their anticipation almost sexual. Their breath misted in the air.

  The villagers watched while one man strung the rope from the tree. Another man, broad with thick strong arms, held the boy tight. Luke bit down, blood poured into his mouth but the man didn’t even cry out. He could tear the flesh from the man’s arm and he wouldn’t cry out.

  “Please—” he said.

  Then one of them placed the noose about the man-child’s neck and pulled it tight enough to cut off his words.

  The rope burned Luke’s skin.

  They hoisted him high. Luke grunted, and then his wind was gone.

  His neck cracked, but didn’t break. The rope bit tight. Tears leaked from Luke's eyes and he stared into space, not seeing the villagers or the tree or the rain. He could see nothing but black, and God, he thought. All he wanted was his mum, dad, and baby sister.

  Somewhere deep down, he swam away, under the rain, through the agony in his neck and throat and head. He swam deep down and looked up at the rain on the water, and the water there was warm.

  Then he sank, panicking, because he could not breathe. But it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  As his feet kicked, the large man watched and licked the blood from the bite in his arm. He tied off the rope with a satisfied last nod at the hanged boy, he and the villagers turned back through the wind and the rain toward the village.

  They left Luke Brightmore behind, hanging from the bough of the tree, swinging in the wind.

  *

  2.

  Grant Bridges braked hard, swerving into the verge and bumping the nearside wheels on a random piece of curb as a tractor roared by. The driver of the tractor obviously had no intention of stopping for anyone.

  “Fuck’s sake!”

  “Grant!” said Marianne Bridges, Grant's wife of five years.

  “What?”

  “William,” she said, flicking her head at the backseat. “Would you just take a bloody gum and stop swearing?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “He won’t be,” said Marianne, “You keep driving like that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re driving like a dick.”

  “You want to drive? I’ve been driving since bloody six o’clock.”

  “No.”

  “Well—” Grant thought about telling his wife to shut up, but thought better of it. She was right. He was driving like a dick. Not as much of a dick as the tractor driver, though.

  “You see that tractor?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Bridges, he thought, forever building bridges.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t swear like that. I’m just ... tetchy.”

  “All right,” said Marianne. “I’m sorry, too. That fucking tractor scared the shit out of me,” she added with a smile and a wink.

  “Marianne!”

  “Oh, pop a gum, will you? He’s asleep.”

  Grant laughed. Marianne was pretty good at building bridges herself.

  “Friends?” he said.

  “BFF.” She leaned over to kiss her husband on the cheek.

  “What’s a BFF?”

  “Show you when we get to the hotel,” said Marianne, and touched Grant's leg.

  “Promises, promises,” said Grant, with a little cough.

  “As long as you take a shower first. You stink.”

  Grant shook his head. Laughed. “Better be worth it.”

  “Oh, it’ll be worth it.”

  All the while William, not so little anymore at seven years old, slept on in the backseat, head down on his chest and a line of drool attaching his chin to his jumper.

  While they’d been sitting at the side of the road, the windows had misted. Grant wondered what the hell a tractor was doing on this shitty little country road in the middle of winter. He wiped at the mist with the palm of his hand and pulled out, back on the road to The Noose and Gibbet.

  *

  The Noose and Gibbet, the brochure said, was a 16th century building, recently restored. There was a horrible picture of an actual noose hanging from the gibbet. It looked like a child’s hangman game—if it’d been draw by Edgar Allan Poe.

  Marianne flicked the brochure over and checked the directions again. “Told you we should get sat-nav.”

  “Wouldn’t have to if you could read a map,” said Grant, but he was joking. This time. He’d been such a dickhead since giving up smoking that she’d almost gone out and bought him cigarettes herself.


  “Okay, honey,” she said, keeping her voice light. “I don’t think we’re anywhere near it. Hang on … there.” Up ahead was a turning with a small sign with arrows pointing out from it—a typical country sign. She didn’t recognize the other two villages on the signpost, but it didn’t matter, because one hand pointed at the turning, and she had good eyes.

  “Frampton,” she said, triumphant.

  “All right, smart arse,” said Grant. That edge was in his voice again.

  Marianne didn’t push it. When he’d been smoking, she could have ribbed him, but not now.

  He took the turning, heading onto a narrow one-lane track overhung with ancient trees, deadfall crunching under the tires of the car, and sometimes bouncing up to hit the undercarriage.

  “You sure about this?”

  “No, but this goes to Frampton, and the Noose and Gibbet is in Frampton.”

  Grant grunted, and Marianne hated him a little for it. Not enough for a divorce, but maybe...

  Just one little injury to add to a long, long list.

  “Shit!” he said, jumping, then laughed. “Fuck.”

  “What?” she said, looking up. Then she saw what he was seeing and laughed, too, because it was so corny.

  “Looks pretty good, though, doesn’t it?”

  Marianne got a good look as they drove underneath the swinging corpse.

  “Is he?”

  “Naked? Yeah. Nice touch.”

  “Grant—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, and you know what I’m going to say, so let’s just get there, okay?”

  She nodded, another strike against Grant, because she knew full well what he’d say. Of course it’s not fucking real. And she’d end up feeling even shittier than she did now.

  She turned to check on William, and there he was in the backseat, eyes wide, silent tears running down his cheek.

  “Honey?” she said.

  “Mummy, that boy is dead.”

  Marianne felt chills break out along her spine, because William felt things ... knew things.

  And when she thought about it, so did she. Didn’t she? Not all the way, like William seemed to know things. William was more ticklish than she was ... but he was crying in the backseat and she wasn't laughing.

  “Grant, go back,” she said.

  *

  3.

  Sam Green rolled over, sighing, reached out for Luke Brightmore. His side of the bed was cold.

  She didn’t worry about it. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a boy had left her naked and used in bed. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d got what she wanted and not cared either way.

  She slid out from the warmth of the duvet and pushed herself up, raring to go, ready for the day.

  The bed had been pretty comfortable. She missed its warmth as soon as she was out from under the covers. The bed was one of the best things about the hotel.

  The hotel was sweet. But the village ... the village was beautiful.

  She thought about what she’d do with the day as she prepared to get up and out. She took a shower, first, to wash off the smell of sex. It was kind of a symbolic thing for her. She was too young to settle, and hadn’t found anyone that interested her for longer than a couple of nights.

  She didn’t wear any makeup ... like her mother had always told her, she was pretty enough without it. She wasn’t especially proud of her looks ... after all, it was largely genetics and diet ... but she knew she was good-looking enough.

  She got dressed and checked the weather through the window. She opened it a crack to let out the lingering smells of the night. The air was brisk and chilly, with a light mist. A perfect day, like she remembered from her childhood, coming up to Norfolk to stay with her grandparents.

  She smiled at the memory of them, tinged with sadness because she missed them so much. She wished they could have been around to share in her success. Sam Green, the young author—hell, probably one of the youngest ever to hit the bestseller lists—went downstairs, ate breakfast alone, and looked out at the fine, misty rain through the old sash windows.

  Table service came from a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. Sam ordered the full vegetarian English with extra tomatoes.

  She waited, reading the latest pages of her novel on her Kindle. My second novel, she thought, smiling and sitting back when her breakfast came. The meal was too hot, served on a burning plate the waitress handled with a tea towel.

  “Plate's hot,” said the girl, unnecessarily.

  Sam read some more of her novel, checking through the first-line edits, and smiled again, just a small thing, a slight upturn of her lips. Satisfied, but not overly so.

  Her mother said many things to her, and one of them was that pride came before the fall. Sam took care to keep grounded. That was why she’d come to this old village—the next village over from the one where her grandparents had lived. She planned on taking a walk out there to see the old house today.

  The Noose and Gibbet was a lovely old hotel, with great service so far, and although the people weren’t necessarily warm, she had everything she wanted. Even the gibbet outside the door that served as a pub sign, with the noose hanging almost low enough for someone to put their own neck into, should they want, was a quaint, if macabre, touch.

  It had always been there, it seemed. She’d come to this very pub for meals when she’d been a child, with her grandmother and grandfather, although she’d never had reason to stay.

  The hotel's grand stairs creaked. The rooms smelled a little musty. There was mildew on the windowsills inside, and the glass panes ran with condensation. But it was perfect for her. No one knew her, it was quiet enough to read in peace, and the food—although too hot— was amazing.

  Life was good. Twenty-one years old, her second contracted novel to read through, money in the bank, and carefree sex with a boy named Luke Brightmore into the bargain.

  Life really didn’t get much better.

  *

  4.

  Grant reversed the car. The wheels spun on the thick gravel surface of the road—the oldest in Norfolk, it seemed, in a county well-known for its shitty roads.

  His face was pale. Hell, he was shaking. He wasn’t expecting this ... of course he wasn’t. What was supposed to be a making-up weekend had already turned to shit.

  William, too, was white as a sheet.

  “You all right, buddy?” Grant said. Obviously he was concerned. It wouldn’t be the first time William had freaked out. Like Grant admitted to Marianne one night, he didn’t really get William. He felt he was more Marianne’s child than his. The two of them seemed to have bonded better than he ever could with his child. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to, or didn’t try. He just couldn’t seem to get past that kind of wariness that came from raising a strange child. Fey, he supposed.

  William shook his head. “I want to go home,” he said, his words reverting into the kind of speech a younger child held onto, a hint of that babyishness, despite nearly three years of school. Ordinarily William was well-spoken, but he was obviously afraid.

  Grant reversed the car, looking over his shoulder, one hand on the wheel, the other hand on the back of Marianne’s seat. He reversed until his wife told him to stop. He turned around and saw the boy dangling there, and felt sick, because he couldn’t believe he’d ever taken what he supposed was a corpse for a mannequin or some kind of elaborate fake for daft southern tourists. There was something in the way the body swung, some set of the limbs, that was unmistakably human.

  Just a boy, he thought, and felt his gorge rising, ready to hurl right there in his lap.

  Marianne was first out of the car, followed by Grant. Grant took a second to put his head between his knees, standing there in the soft rain, until he felt strong enough to look again.

  “Wait there, buddy, okay?” he told William, the rear door shut but the driver’s door left open. He wondered why he didn’t shut the door. Wondered whether he could get a
pack of cigarettes in the village, or even from the hotel. People didn’t have those vending machines anymore, where you could by a pack of cigarettes with sixteen or seventeen instead of twenty for nearly double the price. The kind of vending machine only drunk and desperate people went too. He was a long way from drunk, but he was fucking desperate.

  Grant looked from William to the boy swinging in the gentle breeze and rain. Looked back to William again. William was shaking, but there wasn’t much Grant could do about it. Thank God William couldn’t see the hanged boy.

  Marianne was already standing under the body, one hand over her mouth, looking up. Grant walked away from the car and stood under the naked boy, too, looking up with his own hands running their way through his wavy hair like he did when he was angry or confused or upset. At the moment he felt all three emotions at once, coursing through him, making his hands shake as he raked his hair again and again.

  The cold misty rain landed on his face, in his eyelashes, as he looked up at the boy.

  “Marianne—”

  “He’s real, right? Hung himself from the tree.”

  You couldn’t deny it. Close up like this, there was no way the boy was some kind of effigy. There was something about the way his skin looked, the way his hair hung limp on his face. A kind of stiffness to his limbs… but Grant’s eyes were drawn to the boy’s penis, and he noted the way it wiggled slightly, like it was jumping, but it was only because of the wind. Only because of the wind.

  He forced himself to look away, to look at Marianne.

  “Call the police, Marianne.”

  “We should call an ambulance.”

  “He’s dead, Marianne. He’s dead. It’s too late for an ambulance.”

  Grant put his arms around her, holding her face against his shoulder. He felt her stiffen, slightly, at his touch, but he didn’t let go. “There’s nothing we can do for him. Don’t look anymore, honey,” he said.