The Vigilante

“Sam…please…stop! I beg you!” Samuel Sowden’s wife raises her hands in an attempt protect herself from any further blows from her husband. The beating he’s unleashed on her today is especially harsh…harsher than normal.

“You’re no better than that cunt…Anne Lister.”  He smacks his wife’s hands out of the way with one hand, then slaps her again with the other. “Telling me I have to fix the roof of this shit hole I’m paying my hard-earned money for! Accusing me of being drunk at work! Who does she think she is?!”

His wife’s lip is bleeding profusely. The bruises on her arms and neck are numerous and large, already turning a deep shade of purple. “Please, Sam…no more.”

Sam raises his leg and stomps his foot on his wife’s back, slamming her fully to the dirt floor, the air leaving her lungs in an instant. She can’t even scream…she can’t breathe. She lays there, all out of fight, her lungs desperate for air. If Sam is going to finally keep his promise and kill her, then he’d best get on with it.

Sam steps back and wipes his mouth on the filthy, nasty sleeve of his tattered shirt. He blames his lot in life on his wife and children. Three of them…rug rats, all of them. And his pitiful excuse of a wife. Nothing but wasted space and mouths to feed. If it wasn’t for them, he’d be off, exploring the world. He’d walk to the closest coast line, if he could, climb aboard a packet and sail to America. Yep, that’s what he’d do. But he can’t…he’s tied to these four useless pieces of shit. People he can’t stand and wants no part of.

He turns to a corner in their small, dilapidated farmhouse and sees his three children huddled in a corner. The oldest boy, Thomas, has his arms draped over the shoulders of his little brother and sister, hoping for the ability to protect them should Sam turn his anger their way. Thomas would have liked to help his mother, but he’s too afraid of what his father will do to the young ones. He would love nothing more than for Sam to just leave…do as he threatens day after day and just go. They’d all be better off if Sam would just disappear. 

“And you, you little shit bastard!” Sam’s chest is heaving with anger, sweat pouring off him from the brutal beating he delivered to his wife. He points his wobbly finger menacingly at Thomas. “You sat there in that pub…right next to me…and you thanked her…you thanked her! And for what?! For over charging me to live in this fucking piece of shit?!!  You should have been on my side!! You should have said it wasn’t fair, what she’s doing to us!!!”

Sam storms over to the children and violently grabs Thomas’ shirt, the other two children scattering like rats. He rips the sleeve of where it meets Thomas’ chest when he yanks him to the center of the room, Thomas almost tripping over a kitchen stool. Sam punches Thomas in the head, the force of his blow certain to leave a massive black eye. 

“Fuckin’ pussy boy!!  Elsie!! You worthless piece of shite!!”

Sam punches Thomas again on the other side of his face and cuts his cheek, blood spewing from the shallow wound. Thomas does his best to crawl away from Sam and hide under the table. Sam struggles to pull him out from underneath the furniture, but he’s finally exhausted. The two beatings he’s delivered have him spent. He spits on Thomas and his mother, and leaves the shamble of a house, wandering out to the stinky pig pen. At least there he can mingle amongst his own kind.

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Anne Lister wanders down the winding road to check on the men. They’re cutting out a new road from the upper Shibden Valley into Halifax. Too many people are wandering onto her property in an effort to shorten their trip down to the town, and she wants to stop that nonsense as soon as possible. This new road ought to do the trick.

The sound of her shoes crunching against the gravel causes Mr. Pickles, the foreman of the small team of men (all of whom are tenants on Lister land) to look up.

“Ah!  Morning, Missus!”

“Good morning, Pickles. You’ve made a start.”

“Aye, cracking on whilst weather’s good.”

“Excellent. Very good.” Anne eyes Thomas Sowden a short distance away, badly bruised with a large cut on his face. Anne frowns and walks over to him, whispering softly to keep the matter private.

“Thomas, how are you? How are things at home?” She reaches up to touch his chin and examine his face. Thomas looks at her defeatedly and shrugs. It’s evident how things are going just by his appearance. 

“How often does this happen, Thomas?” He bows his head and lightly shakes it side-to-side. “It’s me mother. She gets it the worst. Seems like he’s doing it more often the last few weeks. He gets drunk down ‘t pub then comes back and beats her to a pulp. I can’t do nowt about it, I’ve got the other two to worry ‘bout.”

“So there’s no one else? It’s just you and your mum?”  Thomas nods. 

“He’s going to kill her. He’s already given her a limp. He wrecked her leg last year and now she can’t even walk without cane.”

Anne silently nods with concern and reaches over to squeeze Thomas’ forearm. “Be strong, Thomas. I’ll see what I can do. Back to work you go.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Thomas returns to the team of men and quietly gets on with the task at hand. 

Anne is furious but retains a serious sangfroid throughout. She walks back over to Pickels and inquires about Sam Sowden’s whereabouts.

“Where is Sam today, Mr. Pickles?”

“Not sure, Missus. He didn’t show up like he said he would.”

Anne hums, acknowledging that this is typical behavior for Sam. “If he does show up, please have him come to the Hall immediately. Do not allow him to do one second of work on my property, is that understood?”

Anne intimidates Mr. Pickles, it’s no secret. “Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

Anne nods once and sets off back up the hill. She turns around briefly and walks backward as she speaks. “I’ll stop back by later and see what kind of progress you’ve made. Carry on.”

Pickles nods and waves, thankful to have Miss Lister out of his hair for a few hours. Under his breath he comments to no one there, “Carry on, my arse.”

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Later that day, as the evening hour approaches, Sam Sowden is walking drunkenly up the long road toward his shit hole farm. He sings out loud the songs from his childhood, as the road in front of him shifts and sways, causing him to lose his balance more than once. He hiccups and belches on numerous occasions, then spits just to finish off the foul cacophony.

It’s getting dark, and even without the haze of an alcohol-infused mind, it would be hard for anyone to see more than 20 feet ahead. 

It comes from nowhere. The long tail of the whip smacks against his throat, then wraps tightly around the skin and cuts off all flow of oxygen. Sam is yanked backward and into the air, then lands on the dirt road with a thud. His hands claw at the rope as he tries desperately to breathe. 

Someone, he can’t tell who, wiggles the rope and frees it from his neck. He gasps and wheezes as he inhales with force, starving for air. He looks around, searching for his attacker, but there’s no one there. Did he imagine it? Is he really that drunk that his mind is playing these kinds of tricks?

He stands up and stumbles around, his arms stretched out before him, ready to fend off the next possible attack.

“Who…who’s out there?!”

BAM! Sam sees white light as he falls to the ground, the right side of his head whacked by the tail of the whip. The pain is excruciating and he screams.

“Aaaaagh! Oh God!  Please! Stop!! Who are you?!! Why are you doing this?!!”  

He scoots up on all fours as he tries to get his bearings, his right ear ringing with pain. 

The next attack comes from behind. The very tip of the whip wraps around his face and cuts a deep lash into his cheek, blood dripping from the wound.

“AAAAAGH!! No!! Please!!”

Still on all fours, Sam hears someone walk up next to him. He can barely make out the outline of their boots in the dark. The voice is low and quiet.

“You will never hurt anyone in your family ever again, Sam. And do you know why?”

Sam stays on all fours, whimpering from the pain, scared for his life, snot flowing out of his nose and dripping to the ground. 

“Nuh…” is all he can manage to say. He’s shaking so hard, unable to make sense of what’s happening.

“Because you’re going to die tonight, Sam.”

Before it even registers in Sam’s little brain, the stranger slams a foot down on Sam’s back, just like he did to his wife only yesterday. He wheezes and squirms like a dying fish, fighting for a single breath of air. The stranger lifts the foot again and slams it down on the back of Sam’s neck, directly onto the occipital bone, snapping the brain stem. 

Sam is dead. His lifeless body is left on the side of the road for whatever wildlife chooses to feed on him tonight. The stranger stands over him for a brief moment and uses both hands to wind up the whip, then tucks it into a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Like a ghost, the stranger calmly turns and walks away, back across the hills of Shibden Valley and into the night.