Published by Blasted Heath, 2011
copyright © 2001, 2003, 2011 Douglas Lindsay
A version of this book was published by Piatkus in 2001 and by Long Midnight Publishing in 2003 under the title A Prayer for Barney Thomson
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Silver bells, grey clouds, Christmas-time in the city. Sleigh rides on snow. Santa Claus and bright-eyed children. Mulled wine and mince pies. Tinsel on pine trees, snow falling on oaks. Mistletoe and indiscretions. Peace on Earth, goodwill to men. The baby Jesus, shepherds, the Three Wise Men, Bing Crosby and Perry Como. Ding dong merrily on high, hark! the herald angels sing, good Christian men rejoice. Turkey, sage & onion stuffing and roast tatties. Cold and frosty mornings, sledging on hills of thick snow. School's out, work's closed, cold feet roasting by an open fire. In the air there's the feeling of Christmas.
Of course, it was still only October.
Santa Claus rang a mournful bell outside the St Enoch's centre on Argyll Street. Passers-by gave him barely a glance, though none were surprised to see him. The adverts had already been on television for a month, the decorations already adorned the shops, Cliff Richard had just released some gawping syrupy mince about love and understanding. And so they came and went and some of them dipped into their pockets to toss a desultory coin into the green-tinsel-rimmed red bucket; but most passed on by. It would be many weeks before the majority felt the guilt associated with the time of revelry, and began to hand over wads of dosh to the army of charities. The mournful bell was this scene incarnate. Weary shoppers trudged the precinct, dodging the Big Issue, heads down against the wind. A mild day, but bleak and drab. A hint of rain in the air, the low cloud oppressive. Not a Scottish team left in Europe, the Premier League already decided after the first Old Firm fixture; draws with Latvia, Scotland playing ten men at the back; the parliament going down the toilet, ignoring Glasgow as it went; prices going up, buildings coming down, the summer gone, and all with nothing to look forward to. Except Christmas.
This particular Santa Claus, as it happened, Wee Magnus McCorkindale from Bishopbriggs – Corky Nae Nuts to his pals – was representing no other charity than himself. But who was to know? The occasional passer-by who tossed a dejected coin into his bucket assumed what anyone would.
'Save the Children!' shouted Corky Nae Nuts every few seconds. On the assumption that no one was listening, he occasionally shouted 'Save the Whale!' or 'Save the Rainforest!' or 'Save the Thistle!'
Bleak but mild went the day. Still some in shirtsleeves despite the threat of rain, still women in summer skirts and men in T-shirts. Corky, the poor bastard, was boiling in his thick red jacket and horse-hair beard. Another couple of hours, went his plan, and he would have enough for a weekend at the boozer, a good trip to William Hill's, and maybe even sufficient remaining to tempt Sandra Dougan, a lady of available reputation, into a rampant ten-to-fifteen-minutes.
None of the pedestrians knew what went through this uncomfortable-looking Santa's head; and nor did he know what they were thinking. Which was good. Best not to know the secrets of others. Definitely best not to know.
This year's serial killer emerged from the shopping mall empty-handed and headed off up Argyll Street. Not thinking of Christmas. Hadn't done so in a long, long time. Wearing a jacket and too warm with it. He looked at the women on this grey day, wondered at the clothes and the shoes that some of them wore, but appreciated the acres of skin and cleavage still bared to the warm, dull day. Heard the bell of Corky Nae Nuts, but it penetrated no further than his subconscious at first, for he did not see the dingy red of his last year's Santa outfit. Thinking of nothing much but vague musings on the disintegration of the ozone layer and of moral standards and of the values of the current generation; the rules that now applied that didn't used to, and the rules that applied no longer; the in-your-face generation; the age of marketing, with limited-edition chocolate bars and bags of crisps.
But Corky's bell was loud and eventually, as our killer was already ten yards beyond, the sound penetrated and he turned and looked through the crowd. The bell rang, a pound coin clinked into the bucket and nestled beside a brace of tens. And he did not see Corky Nae Nuts. He saw red.
He saw Santa Claus.
––––––––
'My name's Billy, and I'm a murderer.'
A ripple of applause circled the room. Ten people clapping slowly, but appreciatively.
'Good lad, Billy,' said a voice, and he was not sure who said it, but it was good to hear. Might have been the blond guy, might have been one of his mates, might have been the Fernhill Flutist, might even have been one of the women, for the voice was lost in his relief.
The applause died away. Billy Hamilton looked around the room, engaging the eyes of a few. A good turnout on this mild evening in mid-December. No football on the TV. The small moustache that had plagued his top lip since he was fourteen was sucked briefly under the confines of his thin bottom lip. His right thumb vigorously rubbed the palm of his left hand. He let go of the moustache then bit his lips. Eventually his eyes settled upon a woman at the back of the small group. Blue jeans, blue jumper, blue shoes, blonde hair and a face that had seen the inside of the occasional women's prison. Katie Dillinger, the leader of the band.
'Well done, Billy. Now, what have you got to tell us all this week?'
The moustache shrugged along with the shoulders.
'Not sure, really, I've not got that much to say,' he said. 'Youse have all heard my story and ...'
'I haven't Billy,' said a young woman, not two chairs away from Hamilton's place in the circle.
'That's right,' said Dillinger. 'It's been a while since you spoke, Billy, and Annie's only been here two weeks. Why don't you tell your story again, then when you've done that, just tell us what you've been up to recently.'
Hamilton looked at Annie Webster and nodded. Not too keen on having to repeat his story for the fifth time since he joined the group – he was counting – but some women were impressed by it, and Annie Webster looked like the kind of woman he might like to impress. Young, blonde, breasts for Britain.
'Sure I won't bore the rest of you with it?' he said, casting his eyes around the room at the people who had become his friends.
'Don't be daft, Billy,' said Arnie Medlock. 'We're all here for you, you know that.'
Hamilton smiled. A new set of friends he'd found at the age of thirty-three. Not many people could say that. And these were real friends, not some fair-weather collection for the good times down the pub on a Friday night. These were people who would put out on your behalf, and Arnie Medlock more than the rest.
He gave Arnie another quick nod of acknowledgement, then prepared to go into his past one more time; albeit not for the last. He rooted his eyes to the floor, licked his lips, rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath.
'It was about six year ago,' he began, and tried to divorce himself from the words as he said them. 'I was working in an accountant's in Hope Street, just up from the station. I'd been there a few year, so I was getting paid well enough to be doing OK with myself. Had a wee place up Great Western Road. My motor was all right. Used to go out on Friday with my mates. Shagged some birds, you know how it is ...' – he cast his first glance at Annie Webster, with an attempted roguish smile, but roguishness was out given the nature of his moustache – '... did a bit of this, a bit of that. Had my season ticket for the Rangers ...'
'We'll cure you of that, if nothing else,' said Medlock, and Hamilton smiled again.
'I had it made, you know. Couldn't have wanted anything else. It'd have been nice if Rangers had been able to get past third-division Maltese sides in Europe, but that aside, life was a bag of doughnuts. But that's the thing, isn't it? You start thinking like that, and you're asking to be shagged. The trouble was, I started having a few problems at work, you know. There was one of those high-fliers there. Graduated a couple of years after me, but the minute he arrived he was angling to be made a partner. In his first year, getting paid buttons, and this bastard was acting like he owned the joint. Course, he got away with it because he was good, I'll give him that, but there were a few of us who would just've loved the chance to knife him in the back.'
He glanced apologetically at Annie Webster, who gave him a reassuring look in return, then he hurried back to the narrative, his voice picking up pace so that it was soon blazing a trail through his tale of jealousy, blackmail, revenge and breakfast cereal.
'So, I think I could still have put up with that, or maybe moved to another company, which I probably could've done because I'm no mug with a ledger, but there was a problem. Got into a wee bit of debt, you know. A few too many trips to the bookies; went to see Scotland in a couple of World Cup qualifiers overseas; doing a bit too much smack at the weekends, you know the score. Got myself into a bit of bother with a money-lender called Sammy the Buddhist out Blantyre way. One of the boys in the boozer put me on to him. Seemed like a decent enough chap at the time, but of course the minute I fell behind with the payments he developed serious designs on my gonads. So, being in a bit of a quandary, I did what any self-respecting accountant would do. I fiddled the books. Did a good job too, mind. Got myself enough cash to pay off Sammy the Buddhist and had enough left over to go to the Juventus game in Italy.'
He looked up, glanced around the room for the first time, received a few nods of encouragement.
'Not bad, you know. I thought I'd got away with it. Course, I couldn't have been more wrong. You see, I'd counted without Mr Garden Rake Up His Arse. The bastard digs the ugly out the books, and next thing you know, I'm sat with him in Smokey Joe's All Night Bar for the Criminally Secretive discussing the terms of his blackmail. 'Cause, you see, for all his whiter than white, arse-sucking, holier than thou bollocks, he was just as much a petty criminal as the rest of us. So he gets down to it, starts taking money off me, and before you know it I'm paying this eejit even more than I'd owed Big Sammy.'
Billy Hamilton leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. Now he was giving Annie Webster his undivided attention. He looked her square in the eye; she accepted his gaze. The air fizzed with tension. He breathed deeply and decided it was cigarette time. Top pocket and his hands were shaking as he took out the smoke and lit up.
'Just take your time, Billy,' said Katie Dillinger.
He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out slowly.
'Aye, aye, I know,' he said. 'So, I don't know when it happened, or why it happened when it did, but finally I snapped. I just thought, well, fuck you, Batman. Followed him home one night after the pub, when I knew he'd had a few drinks and the edge would be off, then waited until the lights were out, broke in at the back, picked the first implement I could find in the kitchen, went upstairs and killed the bastard. Loved every second of it 'n' all, I have to admit that. I have to admit that,' he said again, his eyes drifting more thoughtfully back to the floor.
'What did you kill him with?' asked Webster, thrilled by the story, her fingers twitching.
'A box of Sugar Puffs,' he said.
'Wow!'
They engaged looks for a while, then he turned away and stared at Katie Dillinger, having misinterpreted the look from Webster. Who was going to be impressed by that, he thought.
'Very good, Billy,' said Dillinger. 'And how do you feel after that? Does it bring it all back? If you were in the same situation today, what would you do?'
He rubbed his hands. He felt the rest of the group staring at him. This was what it was all about. This was why he was here. It was a relaxed setting, they were all friends, but there was still pressure. The pressure to come to terms with what you'd done in the past, and every time he talked about it he betrayed himself; the fact that he was a long, long way from coming to terms with that past. And it was obvious to the whole room that he still felt anger at Lawrence Burr. The sarcastic, condescending bastard.
Would he still have done the same? Bloody right he would.
He sucked on the cigarette again, almost biting the filter off with his lips. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He struggled.
'My name's Billy, and I'm a murderer,' he said after a while, his eyes once again rooted to the floor. There were a few nods in sympathy around the room. No one clapped.
The man next to him, Paul Galbraith, Paul 'The Hammer' Galbraith, gripped his arm briefly in encouragement. 'You're a good lad, Billy,' he said.
'And what about now, Billy?' said Dillinger, knowing she had to get him talking. 'What have you been up to recently? Do you feel there are any stresses on you at the moment?'
Hamilton breathed deeply and stared at the floor. Back to the present. A brief flirtation with the age-old 'Why am I here?' Would he still think about Lawrence Burr if he didn't come to these damned meetings?
'Nothing much. You know I moved to that mob up in Byres Road. Bit of a small concern, but it's all right. At least you don't get arseholes like Burr there, you know. So, all right, I suppose.'
'And what about your new colleague?' said Dillinger. 'You expressed some concerns about him the last time, didn't you?'
Bugger it, he thought, you remember everything. The last time he'd just made some chance remark, nothing more. A chance remark about that odious little cretin, Eason, and now she was giving him the POW camp treatment.
He breathed deeply once more. Count to ten, Billy, he thought. Count to ten. Smoke; deep inhalation.
One ... she's right, all the same. Two ... this is why you're here. Three ... it's not just about coming to terms with the past. Four ... it's about the present, and even more about the future. Five ... you're here to make sure you don't do again what you did to Burr. Six ... there's no way you're going to be so lucky the next time. Seven ... so be honest with yourself as much as with them. Eight ... get it off your chest. Nine ... exorcise your demons, Billy, when you have the support to do it. Ten ... then sever the guy's testicles first chance you get.
'You're right,' he said, looking up at Dillinger. 'You're right. It's the same thing. I mean, the guy's not some prepubescent genius or anything. He ain't the Mozart of accounting, don't get me wrong.'
'So what is it, then?'
'I don't know. He's got the panache of Homer Simpson, he's uglier than some bird showing her wares in Bonkers on a Tuesday night, his hair's a mess, he got his dress sense from eastern Europe, and he thinks just because Abba are in these days, it's cool to like the Brotherhood of Man. I mean, the guy could not be less of a threat. And I realise that that was the problem with Burr. Even before the blackmail started, I felt my position threatened by him. But this guy. I don't know. He's a total Muppet.'
He shrugged as he looked around the room. Looking for someone to provide the answer.
'Analyse it, Billy,' said Dillinger. 'We can help you, but you know that answers to this kind of thing have to come from within. Only you can tell what the problem is. Only you can ask yourself if you think you might do to this man Eason what you did before.'
He nodded, looked at her with eyes wide.
'Oh, aye, I think I might. That's the trouble. I think I might kill him.'
'But why?'
'I don't know. I suppose he just gets on my tits.'
Dillinger nodded. 'Very good, Billy, tits are good. If you can admit that that's all it is, then it's the first step. The guy annoys you. Now you have to address that annoyance. We can't all go around killing people just because they're annoying. You have to address that issue. That's why we're all here.'
She took her eyes off him and looked around the room. The same old faces, fighting the same malignant spirits they had all fought for years. From 'The Hammer' Galbraith, to Socrates McCartney, they were all in it together.
'Has anyone else got anything to suggest? I know we've all been there.'
Arnie Medlock cleared his throat, but Annie Webster was in first with a question. Her own story was a vastly different one. A much deeper psychosis. This was not something with which she could associate.
'Did you not get counselling and that before you got released from prison?' she said.
Billy Hamilton looked at her, slightly surprised.
'I never went to prison,' he said.
'Oh. Did you get off on some technicality or something?'
Hamilton didn't know what to say. There were a few awkward glances passed between the group. He looked to Dillinger for help, and she rode in on her pleasure-beach donkey to his assistance.
'Billy's one of our Unknowns,' she said to Annie Webster.
'How do you mean?'
'He's never been caught. That's why you're sworn to secrecy when you join, Annie. Some of our group have served time for their crimes and some have never been apprehended. At least those few have realised that they've done wrong and are here to make sure it doesn't happen again.'
She turned back and stared at him with awe.
'So you're wanted by the polis?' she said.
Billy Hamilton shrugged.
'Not really. I mean, they've no idea it was me who did it. They thought it might be someone at the firm, but there were about forty of us there queuing up to do the guy in, so it didn't really help them. It was like that scene in Airplane! where there's a big line of folk waiting to smack that screaming woman about, only I was at the front and no one else got to have a go.'
'Oh.'
Annie Webster looked around the room. She hadn't realised, but it was fairly obvious. Five months now since she'd committed her crime, five months since she'd strangled Chester Mackay. The police had been following her around ever since, but they hadn't got anything on her yet, and they never would. But strangely, despite her own case, she had assumed that the rest of the group had all served time. Like The Hammer and Katie and Sammy Gilchrist. But they hadn't covered that point the previous week; obviously just hadn't come up. She swallowed and tried to decide if this made any difference. Were the ones who had never been apprehended any more dangerous than the ones who had served their time? Felt a tingle of excitement at the thought. The thrill of danger. She was among more than thieves.
Her eyes fell on each of the group one by one and each time she wondered, and each time she knew that the person at whom she was looking knew what she was thinking; trying to decide whether or not they were a fugitive from justice.
At last she was ready to speak. The question was there, yet still she hesitated.
'Come on, Annie,' said Katie Dillinger, 'say what you're thinking.'
And to a man and woman the collective of the Bearsden chapter of Murderers Anonymous watched closely this newcomer to their midst. They were all here to be judged, regardless of whether or not they might like it.
'Right,' she said, swallowing. Might as well get it out there. It wasn't like it was an obsession of hers, or anything, but she was curious. For over a year now there had been nothing else in the papers, and where else might he turn up but here? It would be perfect for him. Perfect. And it was not too often that you got the opportunity to meet a legend.
'I don't suppose one of you is Barney Thomson?'
––––––––
'Hey, hey, hey,' said Larry Bellows, smile wider than the moon, slapping his hands on the desk in front of him. 'It's got to be said, folks, they're a nice pair. Hee, hee, hee.'
And off went Burt Keynolds and Pamela Anderson to general audience whooping, applause, delirium and star adulation. Burt turned and winked, Pammy laughed, and the two guest seats beside Larry awaited their next victim.
Larry settled back in his chair, shaking his head. Waited for the general audience mayhem to calm down to a few rogue claps and whoops. Leaned forward.
'And hey, she's got a real fine set of bazookas on her 'n' all, eh, folks?'
Further uproar; as ever. Bellows leaned back and discreetly pressed his finger against the side of his nose, hoping to dislodge any cocaine which might have been caught up in the general turbulence of his nasal hair. (Still four and a half minutes till the next commercial break.) He smiled some more, the audience whooped and cheered.
Off-stage, his next guest stared at the floor and waited. Mouth a little dry, the feeling in his stomach more general discomfort than butterflies.
At last, several Quiet Please! prompt cards having been held aloft, the audience settled down into an expectant silence. Larry leaned forward, the smile disappeared, his brow furrowed, and he switched from David Letterman to Ed Murrow. The look that got him an Emmy nomination every year.
'Listen, folks,' said Larry, sucking in his audience, 'tell ya what. We're gonna get a little more serious now, that's the truth. For there's a fella just arrived in this country for a lecture tour, and he's got some folks in an almighty stink. Some saying he shouldn'ta had a visa, some saying he shoulda been locked up the minute he stepped offa the plane. Well, hey, you know me, folks, I'm a fair-minded guy, I like to listen to all sides. And here we are, about to hear the story direct from the horse's mouth. Ladies and gentlemen, you all know who I'm talking about. Direct from Scotland, England, Barney Thomson, ladies and gentlemen, Barney Thomson.'
The audience erupted. Whoops, applause, cheers, jeers, catcalls, proposals of marriage, a cacophony of over-reaction. A few seconds' wait, and then the reluctant star stepped out into the limelight. Like a rabbit. Looked at the audience, wide-eyed and furry-tailed. Could see lights and angry faces and excited faces, mouths wide in anticipation, contorted in anger. All for him. Didn't realise that the audience was always like this whether the guest was Elvis, Hillary Clinton, Winnie the Pooh or Mr Ed. And so he stuttered across the studio, took Larry Bellows' hand, minced round the front of the desk and sat nervously down in the seat closest to his host. He was aware of the sweat on his brow, the tremble upon his lips.
Eventually the clamour died to silence. Bellows placed his hands on the desktop and took in the audience, camera and Barney Thomson with an all-embracing, concerned smile.
'Hey, Barney, how does it feel to be Stateside at last?'
Barney stared at his host. Feeling quite lost in this unfamiliar environment. Stunned by it all. Stunned to near silence. And, to boot, a tricky first question.
'Don't know,' he said at last. 'All right,' he added at a mumble.
Bellows smiled and nodded his head. Looked at the audience; didn't let his eyes say anything just yet. 'Great,' he said.
He leaned beneath his desk and lifted up a hardback book, which he then held to the camera. It zoomed in onto Barney's serious face on the cover, under the words Forty-Three Ways to Bloody Death – A Barber's Story.
'Right, folks, what we have here is the autobiography of this man they call Barney Thomson. A barber, a writer, and, some might say, a murderer. We can all reach our own conclusions, but here we have the man himself to tell his side of it. So,' he said, turning to Barney, 'are you a murderer? Do you belong on Death Row with the scum and the sleaze and the slime? Are you the evil, deranged serial killer of the media, or are you just some poor sap sucked into a turbulent whirlpool of death out of which you've been unable to escape?'
Barney froze. Another hard one. Swallowed. Mind going. Slowly.
'Don't know,' he said.
Bellows nodded seriously.
'Right,' he said. Already realised that he was going to have to do all the talking. Which was fine. Gave him more opportunities to be Dan. And that would be Rather, as opposed to Desperate or Marino. 'Let's start with your mother. A serial killer, right?'
Barney nodded. An easy one.
'I suppose.'
'She killed six people in all. Five men, one woman. Chopped up the bodies and kinda hid them in her fridge. Right?'
'Aye, I suppose.'
Bellows shook his head. 'That's a pretty goddam weird thing to do, ain't it?'
Barney shrugged. 'Don't know.'
'I mean, you must be like really embarrassed?'
'Don't know,' said Barney.
Bellows smiled – this time a small knowing one to the audience – shook his head and looked at his desk. Still holding the book towards the camera.
'Then you accidentally,' – did the inverted comma thing with his left hand – 'killed your two work colleagues. One with a pair of scissors and one with a broom. Right?'
Barney shrugged. Becoming ever more hunched, with arms folded. A psychologist's dream.
'I suppose, aye,' he said.
'Your mother died, and you had to dispose of the eight bodies. And the way you tell it in this here book, now, and listen to this one, folks, is that there were four Federal officers on to your case, and just as they were about to bring you in they all just kinda, like, killed each other in some weird Reservoir Dogs typa shoot-out. Am I telling it straight, barber fella?'
'Don't know,' said Barney. 'What's Reservoir Dogs?'
A particular section of the audience whooped and cheered. Some laughed. Bellows held up his hands. This was serious now.
'Right, let me get this straight,' said Bellows, reading from the monitor. Hadn't known the first thing about Barney Thomson until two minutes previously. 'You thought you'd got away with it, but then one of the bodies turned up, and you fled to some monastery in the north of England to get away from the Feds?'
'Scotland.'
'Right, like I said, England. But if it wasn't just the damnedest thing, there was a serial killer there too and this fellow just happened to murder thirty-two monks.'
There were extended oohs and aahs from the audience. There was no such thing as coincidence. Not on the Larry Bellows show.
'Aye,' said Barney.
Bellows shook his head and gave his audience the knowing look. This was shootie-in. There was nothing easier than turning the audience against a guest who wouldn't open his mouth.
'Well, if that ain't just the damnedest thing, eh, folks? And the way you tell it, barber fella,' said Bellows, 'is that a coupla Feds caught up with you at this point, and they let you clean go 'cause they knew you'd done nothing wrong? Like, is murdering your work colleagues in cold blood legal in England or something?'
Barney's head withdrew a little farther into his shoulders. The sweat beaded on his brow, he was aware of the redness in his cheeks. A low rumble of disapproval started to come from the audience.
'Scotland,' he muttered.
'So you killed this serial killer at the monastery, after he'd bumped off all these other fellas – honest and true men of God, I might add,' said Bellows, looking at the audience, and the low whoop of disapproval grew, 'then the Feds just upped and let you go. Seems to me to be kinda strange, barber fella, I have to say. What next? That was about ten months ago, right?'
Barney shrugged and his head almost disappeared. Slouching right down, hoping the camera wouldn't be able to see him.
'Don't know,' he said. 'Just been walking the Earth and getting in adventures. You know.'
Bellows finally placed the book flat on the table. The noise from the audience died away to silence.
'You mean,' said Bellows, 'like Cane in Kung Fu, like Jules was gonna do in Pulp Fiction?'
'Don't know,' said Barney.
Bellows smiled, nodded. Time to wrap up. Almost a commercial break, almost time to reintroduce some nose therapy.
'Seems to me, folks,' said Bellows, 'that this fella here is just a plain murderer, no more and no less than that. And he's been getting away with it far too long. Far too long. Seems to me that the time has come for this fella to face some retribution. Seems to me it's time for this fella to get the punishment his crimes deserve. What d'ya say, folks?'
Barney retreated farther into his shell. Looked at Bellows. Waited for the audience reaction, but they were silent.
'Right, folks,' said Bellows, 'that's all for now. Rejoin us in two minutes, when we're really gonna get down with the latest sounds from Celine Dion. See ya, folks.'
Somewhere Barney could hear the interval music, but the audience remained silent. No whoops, no cheers, no jeers. He stared at the desk. Half an eye on Bellows, but now that the interview was over, Bellows was no longer interested. He could begin to forget about Barney Thomson, and as soon as the drugs kicked in – in about fifteen seconds – he would have completely forgotten the previous five minutes.
Barney felt a chill, rubbed his hands up his arms. Didn't yet dare look round at the audience. Took their silence as hostile. Could feel their eyes burning into him. One pair in particular. Malevolent eyes, wishing him nothing but ill. Eyes that took as read what Bellows had just said about crime and punishment. It was time for Barney to face the music.
Bellows got out of his seat and bent down behind his desk. Barney could see the back of his head, couldn't see his hands. The draught around his shoulders was getting colder. Felt a spot of rain on his head.
The hair on Bellows's head changed colour. Black to grey. His jacket went the other way. Grey to black. Barney straightened up and sat back. Could feel the tentative tentacles of terror teasing his testicles. Up his back, hairs on his neck standing. Turned and looked at the audience. They were gone.
The seat was gone from under him and he was standing looking at Bellows from a few yards away. But it was no longer Bellows. It was a minister, crouched before God, praying.
They were in a church, roof leaking, the pews worn with time, unkempt from misuse and the dripping of water and the attentions of rats and mice and insects and spiders. The windows were broken and more rain entered this benighted house of God from every side; and wind howled through the church, rattling the few fittings left intact.
Only one window remained as it had been, and Barney looked up at it. High above the altar, large red and brown stained glass, in the style of the eighteenth century, a bloodied Jesus looking down upon his flock. His face was tortured, the eyes filled with hatred, cheeks hollow and dark, the mouth etched in a sneer for all eternity. I shall look upon you and you shall be damned, he said, and Barney knew it to be true.
And below this embittered and resentful Son of God knelt the minister that once was Larry Bellows, his hands clasped in supplication, neck bent to the whims of the Messiah Low words escaped his mouth, a solemn prayer. Barney tried to hear the words and tried to see his face, for he knew that it would no longer be the face of Bellows. However, he could get no closer. And neither could he turn around, for something stopped him; yet he knew that he must, for evil lurked at his shoulder, Satan waited to dance upon his grave. But no matter the feelings that suddenly haunted him, the creeping of his flesh, the pounding of his heart, he was frozen. And he knew that whatever approached him from behind had the blessing of this bloody Jesus.
He could hear it now. Above the low murmur of the cleric; above the storm, and the sound of the rain drumming against the roof and splashing on the floor and pouring through the windows; above the wind whistling through the church, what remained of shattered panes of glass, sucked from their fittings, and smashed on withered stones; above it all he heard the shuffling. A steady dragging across the floor, something low and something evil, and it was coming his way and he could not turn to face it.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed for the first time the slaughtered sheep. Hung by the neck, blood dripping from the wound in its side. Dangling above the font, its eyes removed, blood streaming from the sockets. Yet those empty sockets stared at him. They could see behind him and the look crossed the sheep's face. And beyond the tumult of the storm and the shattered church and the shuffling of his fate, he began to hear the words of the minister, and the prayer aimed at the disapproving Lord.
He knew it was a prayer for him and his lost soul. His heart throbbed, his breath stalled in his arid throat. And then it came, the touch at his shoulder. A shiver racked his body so violently his neck muscles spasmed. There were no words which could save him from this menace, and it waited to offer him up to the demons of eternity. He closed his eyes...
Barney Thomson woke up. Panting, sweat on his forehead, the air rushing in great gulps into his chest. He fumbled for the light and looked around the small, sparsely furnished room that had been his home for over four months.
A dream, it had just been a dream. But it had been the same dream that he'd had for weeks, and as his head settled back onto the pillow, and his mind tried to clear the terror from the reality, he knew that in every recurring dream there was truth or there was portent.
And as ever, when he had woken from this nightmare, he lay awake for hours afterwards, unable to allow himself the risk of sliding back into the netherworld to which his bloody past now took him. So he stared into the dark and analysed, and he had begun to believe that he was being told by some higher force to return to his roots; to go back to Glasgow, to face what he had run from for almost a year. We must all be judged, and this dream was telling him that it would be better to be judged here on Earth.
And if not that, then what of this whisper for his soul?
––––––––
'My name's Barney, and I'm a murderer.'
It was a busy reception desk; two officers behind the counter going about their business; fourteen or fifteen various members of the public, from concerned parents to assorted criminal element, on the other side, awaiting their turn. The man in the green jumper and purple Teflon C&A slacks had finally reached the front of the queue after an hour and a half. But this was a man who was used to waiting. Time meant very little to him, and so he had sat and listened to the problems of others while watching the occasional drama unfold. He was unsure if he was doing the right thing, but if it would rid him of his nightmares, then it had to be done.
The desk sergeant continued to write slowly, the laggard movements of the pen betraying a slight trembling of the fingers. After a while he lifted his head and looked at the middle-aged man, two yards across the counter. There was a discernible twitch in the sergeant's eye; his lips drifted between a sneer and a smile; a vein throbbed in his forehead, another in his neck. Needed a cigarette. He deliberately put down the pen, then leant forward, the palms of his hands flattened on the desktop. His head twitched.
'Barney?' he said.
'Aye,' said the man in green. 'Barney.'
'You don't mean Barney Thomson?' said the sergeant.
A glimmer of a smile came to the man's lips, but it died quickly, as had all his smiles this past year or so.
'Aye, aye,' he said. 'Barney Thomson. I suppose you'll have heard all about me.'
The desk sergeant nodded.
'Oh aye, Wee Man, everyone knows all about you. It'll be you who killed your two work colleagues in the barber's shop, disposed of the bodies of your mother's victims and may, or may not, depending on your point of view, have had something to do with the murder of thirty-three monks in the monastery in Sutherland about a year ago. Am I right?'
'Aye, aye,' said the man in purple Teflon breeks, 'that's me. Mind you, I definitely didn't kill any of they eejits in the monastery. I was there right enough, but it wasn't me that did it. Apart from the real murderer, of course.'
'Aye, of course,' said the sergeant. He went silent, fixing the man with a disconcerting stare. Didn't move a muscle, his eyes burrowing into the man. Like a jackhammer into cheese.
The silence continued.
'What?' said the man eventually. Beginning to feel unnerved. The strength of his conviction disarmed.
The sergeant raised himself up to his full height – some seven or eight feet – then continued his stare from on high. Finally he pointed a finger back into the depths of reception at another, younger man sitting on a bench; a man with Elvis sideboards and hair that required cutting by an experienced barber.
'See that wee guy sitting over there?' he said, and the man in green nodded. He had noticed him earlier; Sideboards Elvis had been sitting there since he'd arrived.
'Funny thing is,' continued the desk sergeant, 'that he's Barney Thomson 'n' all. And strangely enough, if it isn't just the kind of coincidence to make you want to slash your wrists in astonishment, but there's another Barney Thomson back here getting interviewed as we speak.'
He finished, raising his eyebrows as he did so.
'What d'you mean?'
'What do you think I mean, heid-the-ba'? Are you that stupid, Wee Man? You're the fifth Barney Thomson we've had in here today. Yesterday we had a couple and the day before that we had seven – two of them were Nigerians.' The desk sergeant continued to stare across the divide; the man in Teflon wilted. 'You getting the picture yet, Wee Man? In the past year we've had nearly a thousand Barney Thomsons giving themselves up. There isn't a stupid bastard out there who doesn't want to be Barney Thomson. There are sheep who think they're Barney Thomson. My mother thinks she's Barney Thomson. And now it's just over a week before Christmas, so even more of you sad bastards are crawling out of the woodwork.'
'But ... but I am Barney Thomson. I really am.'
'Fine. You want to be Barney Thomson, that's fine by me. You going to show us some ID?'
The man in Teflon patted his empty pockets. The shoulders slowly shrugged at the even more contemptuous look winging its way across the counter in his direction.
'Don't have any,' he said eventually. Very, very small voice.
'You don't have any?' said the sergeant. 'That's not much bloody good, is it, Wee Man? You could've made a bit more of an effort. Even the saddest bastards who come in here make at least a token attempt. Last week we had a wee seventy-five-year-old woman saying she was Barney Thomson, but at least she'd made the effort to score the name out on her Blockbuster video card and write Barney bloody Thomson in crayon across the top. Initiative, you see,' he added, prodding his head with his forefinger.
'But ... but I am Barney Thomson. I've just been away, you know. Where am I going to get any ID?'
The desk sergeant folded his arms across the Wyomingesque expanses of his chest. Delved back into his hard stare for a second or two, then shook his head.
'Very well, Mr Thomson,' he said, 'have it your way. If you'd just like to take a seat I'll try to get around to seeing you some time before I die. But I'm promising nothing.'
'Oh, right,' said the man. 'Right.'
And so, as the desk sergeant turned his attention to another man who had been waiting some amount of time, a man with a duffel bag full of light armour over his shoulder, Barney Thomson, the genuine Barney Thomson among a thousand impostors, turned and walked out of Maryhill police station and back onto the streets of Glasgow.
***
It had been a strange year for Barney Thomson. Not quite as strange as the year that had preceded it – from now on any year that did not see him involved, indirectly involved, implicated in or downright completely innocent of at least forty murders would seem tame – but strange nevertheless.
Set free to walk the Earth and get in adventures with the good wishes of two officers of the Strathclyde constabulary, he had discovered that it was very difficult to settle somewhere far from home. It took a peculiar kind of man to walk into a new town, penniless and without an identity, and create a life for himself; and Barney Thomson was not that man.
The previous year had seen some sort of epiphany for him, no question of that. It had been his year of awakening. It had threatened to turn him into some sort of vegetable, but he had emerged a stronger man, with an excellent sense of perspective and a firm grasp of the vagaries of the human mind. This year's model was almost a well-rounded individual, but still he was not comfortable with strangers; still he was a Glasgow man.
And so, though his year of wandering the Earth had taken him around Scotland, and even briefly into enemy territory south of the border, he had constantly felt the pull to return to Glasgow. The city of his fathers, a world of opportunity, a town where a boy could become a man, a man could be king, a king a god, and a god the very begetter of the Armageddon of disillusion, the eviscerator of failure and the gatekeeper to the crucible of realpolitik. (You thought some amount of shite while walking the Earth and getting in adventures.)
He had contemplated all sorts of ways of going home. New identities, beards, any number of facial or sartorial gimmicks to fool the forces of the law. But there remained shreds of decency and honesty in the man, there remained a feeling that he ought to have faced punishment for his crimes; punishment beyond his own mental torture and physical hardship. And then there were the dreams. Night after night, waking in a cold sweat. A talk-show host abusing him, a minister, his back turned, murmuring softly for Barney's soul, while all the time Death crept up at his shoulder. The very thought made him shiver.
And so he had returned to the very police station from which the forces of the law had emerged to interview and hound him over the accidental deaths of his two work colleagues, and the serial-killing hobby of his mother. He had walked into this demon's lair, he had proclaimed his identity; he had at last done the decent, honest, deed.
And what did he do now that he had been spurned? Give it another go perhaps, at some other station, just to test the water. Presumably he would get the same reaction. And if they were not interested, then so be it.
Fuck 'em.
That's what he thought as he headed down the street. Nervousness suddenly evaporated, a new insight into life in Glasgow given to him. Everyone said they were Barney Thomson, so no one was particularly going to believe he was who he said. There were more lines on his face than there had been, a lot more grey hair. He could walk among the masses and no one need ever know. He might look a bit like the bloke in the photos, but then everyone's got a double. That's what they said. It could just be, he thought, that he was a free man.
But there are different types of freedom, and it would take more than waiting in a police station for an hour and a half to free him from his nightmares.
Might as well go and visit the wife, he thought, walking with a little more purpose than of late, up the street. Would take about twenty minutes. Didn't feel nervous. Or interested or bothered for that matter, but he thought he might as well check out how she was doing. It was not as if she was going to have any friends to whom she could report his homecoming.
And as he dodged the cars and felt more at one with his fellow pedestrians than for some time, he wondered if the lousy soap operas his wife always watched, such as Anal Accident Ward B and Only the Bald, would be as bad as they always had been.
––––––––
He was happy enough, Stevie Grogan, happy enough. Loved his two boys, his wife, God and the White Album, approximately in that order. Job was all right, though he couldn't afford satellite TV – which was just as well from the marriage fulfilment point of view, given the amount of sport he would have watched – and he had to take the family to that Monaco on the Clyde, Millport, for their holiday every year. Jean Grogan hated it, spending all her time cleaning, but the boys would be all right for another couple of years, until puberty kicked in and they wanted to have sex, smoke drugs and beat up old people, rather than look for crabs in rock pools and cycle endlessly around the island.
Not concentrating as he drove that night, which was nothing unusual. With some unexpected serendipity, which had been absent for most of the rest of his life, he was listening to Wreck on the Highway, that Springsteen paean to gloom, heartache, loneliness and desperation. Talking in his head to Jean, trying to explain how he'd almost slept with one of the plutonium tarts at work, but that he hadn't, so that was the main thing; not the fact that he'd only been thwarted by Plutonium Tart's indifference, rather than his own conscience. Sounded good in his head.
Used his hands to talk sometimes. Which was what he was doing when the cat ran out in front of him. A cat called Blue Hawaii. One hand loosely held at the bottom of the wheel, one hand nowhere near. Grogan's body tensed in shock, his loose hand tugged desperately at the wheel, the other flew aimlessly between gear-stick and nowhere. The open section of road in front careered away from him and suddenly he was heading towards a field; black as black.
Blue Hawaii the cat watched.
Difficult to say if Grogan would have survived if he'd braked hard and early. But something happened. His life flashed before him, and he had his defining moment of clarity, his epiphany, and at once it all seemed obvious. The insurance policy, the endowment, it was all set up. He was better off to his family dead than alive.
He would not go quietly; he would not go slope-shouldered to his grave. He would die like a man ...
And so, not knowing what lay out there beyond the limited horizon of his headlights, he floored the accelerator. Better to go flat out than to die in some desperate rearguard action. And with that extra acceleration, as the car left the road it partially lifted off, clearing the low wall it would otherwise have smacked into; and consequently hit a tree, some twenty yards away, more than ten feet off the ground.
The car bent and buckled and fell broken to the ground, where it landed directly on the top of the corpse of Wee Corky Nae Nuts, whose body had lain undetected for over nine weeks.
The car exploded in a stupendous ball of flame, the tree burned, the bodies burned, the night came alive with fire.
And although the police would eventually be able to identify the corpses of Stevie Grogan and Corky Nae Nuts, and they would know that Wee Corky had been dead for over two months, the cause of his death would remain in ashes, and they would not know to add him to the list of victims of that year's serial killer. A list which was about to begin to grow.
And as the flames tasted the cold night air, off ran Blue Hawaii the cat, in search of another victim.
––––––––
'Good afternoon, everyone.'
The 'hellos' and 'good afternoons' were returned to him from around the room. He steadied himself, tried not to think too hard of what he was about to do. He had been coming to the group for more than a year and had yet to talk. At every meeting Katie Dillinger had asked quietly, with no hint of coercion, if he was ready to speak. At every meeting he had balked and hidden behind the jokes and the forced good humour.
Finally, though, he was ready. If any of them had asked him to explain what was so different about that afternoon, he wouldn't have been able to answer; but none of them would, for they had all been there in that blighted place, where truth would out and the past would be faced. Perhaps it was the proximity of Christmas, that great embellisher of every negative emotion, that multiplier of sadnesses. But for whatever reason, it was the turn of Socrates, and so urgent was the need to talk, now that it had come, that he could not wait for the next meeting and Dillinger had called a surprise session of the group. Not all of them had been able to attend, but there were enough to hear his cry.
'My name is Socrates and I'm a murderer,' he said at last, and the room was filled with applause.
Socrates McCartney smiled. Katie Dillinger clasped her hands and waved them at him, a huge smile on her face.
'Well done, Socrates,' she said. 'Well done.'
He smiled again, but then the applause died away and he was left with a silence that he himself had to fill.
'Youse have probably all been wondering for ages how I got my name. People usually do. There are two options, of course. They think it's either 'cause of the philosopher geezer or yon Brazilian fitba' player with bad hair and a fusty beard. And you know, there's a possibility about both, 'cause I have been known to spout some amount of philosophical shite in my time, and I can also blooter a ball into the net from thirty yards if I've got half a bottle of J&B down my neck. Even had a trial for Albion Rovers when I was a lad, but I couldn't be arsed. Truth be told, I was beginning to think I might be a bit of a poof in those days and I thought the communal baths might tip me over the edge. So I jacked it in and started hanging out in aerobics classes with a bunch of women.'
'Did it work?' asked Paul Galbraith. The Hammer.
'Oh aye, no bother. I think I was just confused due to some post-pubescent crush on David Cassidy in The Partridge Family. Anyway, I chucked the fitba'. If it's no' for you, it's no' for you. There you are, a philosophical thought to take home with you the night,' he said, smiling at the daftness of the last remark and being rewarded with a few smiles in return. A brief pause and he was back in the flow.
'Anyway, it's nothing to do with fitba' and it's nothing to do with philosophy. Socrates was a horse that ran in the two-fifteen at Ayr on the twenty-third of October 1981. Nothing special about the lad, just a wee horse. Fourteen to one, bit of an outsider. Now I wasn't a gambling man or anything like that, just had a wee bet every now and again. Never had a problem with it. I had a friend in the business but, and he used to sling sure things my way every now and again, you know. I never asked how he knew, I never queried his business or the horse-racing business, I wasn't interested. So I started slowly, you know. The first time he told me, I stuck a wee fiver on. Gradually, as I began to trust the guy, I upped the bets. And here's the thing. He was never wrong. Never. By the time it came to wee Socrates, I must've been paid out on more than twenty bets. I was never extravagant, you know, so I hadn't made millions, but I had a few thousand by then. Had spent it all, of course. Anyway, I meets this bird. Nice enough looking bit of stuff. Different class. You could tell. Didn't shag me on the first night. Took me nearly a week to get into her knickers, so I knew she was for me. Decided to get married, and you know how it is, one thing led to another, and it ended up we were going to have the biggest wedding since Elizabeth the First...'
'She was never married,' said Morty Goldman, a man of compulsive obsessive personality, and the most dangerous in the room. A quiet lad, you might have thought, however. The sort you'd take home to meet your folks. Bearsden born and bred, unlike some of these other interlopers.
'Aye, fine, whatever. Some other rich bastard, then. It was going to be huge. But, of course, my dad couldn't afford it, and she didn't even know who her dad was, so where was the money going to come from? Especially, you see, since I'd promised the lassie a nice house up in these parts, and a honeymoon in Bermuda. She was all excited, and I didn't like to tell her that I couldn't afford a tenement flat in Govan and a honeymoon in Montrose. But I loved her,'n' all that, so I had to get the money from somewhere. So, along comes my mate with this horse. Socrates. Good fucking timing, so's I thought. Fourteen to one. What a chance. He gave me three days' notice, don't put the bet on till just before the off, the usual thing. So's in that three days I borrowed and collected as much money as I could. Put myself in debt with about five different bastards. All sorts that youse just wouldn't want to mess with. The sort of eejits that make Billy's Sammy the Buddhist bloke look like, I don't know, a Buddhist. These were bad men. But I did it. Got together about ten grand. Suspicious, I know, but I just thought, sod it. This is my chance, I've got to do it.'
He stopped to take a breath. He was coming to the crunch, and they all knew what was going to happen next.
'And sure enough, the horse won,' he said eventually, confounding all expectations. 'I had a hundred and forty grand, I paid back all the bampot moneylenders, and I was sitting pretty. Life was a bed of roses. I was made, you know. Blinking made. Started calling myself Socrates in honour of that fine beast. I could've shagged that horse, no question.'
A few puzzled looks around the room, the temporary pause in the narrative finally filled by the inevitable question, voiced by The Hammer.
'What's the score, then, Big Man? I thought you were going to say the horse lost and you killed your mate?'
Socrates shook his head, and stared ruefully at each member of the group in turn. Now that it came to it, he was quite enjoying being the centre of attention. He'd got them hooked. A natural storyteller. He could be on Radio 4. Book at Bedtime, with Socrates McCartney.
'I made an arse of it,' he said. 'I mean, I only needed about thirty grand to be going on with. I could've paid for the wedding, booked the honeymoon, and put a down payment on a decent enough house, you know. But I had too much cash, I couldn't handle it all. I was twenty-two and I couldn't cope. I freaked, no other word for it. Booked myself a first-class ticket to Las Vegas and went and stayed in some posh gaffe. For two weeks I played all the big casinos, shagged hundreds of birds, did all sorts of drugs, totally went for it, you know. Right in there. The big time. Best two weeks of my life. Blew the lot. I mean, after a week, I might even have been ahead of the game, I'm no' sure, but by the end I'd blown the lot. And of course, I'd walked out on the work without a word, thinking I was some sort of big shot with no need for a job. And I didn't tell wee Agnes where I was going. So I gets back to Bridgeton, and what do I have? Fuck all. I've lost all my money, I've no job, I've nothing. I have to tell Agnes, of course, and you can't blame the lassie, she's fucked off.'
'What exactly did you tell her?' asked The Hammer.
'The works. I just went for it. Told her everything. The money, the gambling, the shagging, the drugs.'
'And?'
'She dumped me. Told me to sling my hook, and buggered off with my wee mate Billy Milk Teeth.'
'You can't blame the lassie,' said Katie Dillinger.
'Oh, aye, I didn't. I'm no' saying that. To be fair to the girl she did the right thing. I'm no' saying any different. Not at all. Billy was a decent enough lad, I wasn't blaming him either.'
'So what happened?' asked Dillinger.
'She sent her three brothers round to do me in and I killed them.'
'Oh.'
'I mean, I didn't mean to. It wasn't as if I was blaming them for what happened. It wasn't as if I gave a shite. But they turned up to kick my head in and I lost my rag. Went a bit off my napper. Started smacking them about a bit, and ended up wellying the living shite out of them all. Felt bad about it, you know, when it was all over. I'm a bit of a philosopher, like I said, and I've thought about it long and hard. Rage, you see, is just like any other human need. Once it's sated, well, it's done, isn't it? It's all a matter of control. It's like when you're gasping for sex and you hitch up with some stankmonster just for the sake of it; but as soon as you've emptied your sacs you look at her and wonder what you were doing. Or when you're hungry and eat any old mince just to fill your belly. It might leave a bad taste in the mouth, and you can't believe you were so hungry that you needed to eat some shite like that, but you did. Same with rage. After I'd done it, I was a bit embarrassed. Felt really guilty. Even phoned the polis.'
He stopped and looked around the room; slowly shrugged. They were all staring at him; some with wonder, some with sympathy. But they were all killers here, and none of them stared in judgement. That was not their game.
'That's it, really. Don't know what else to say. Got some amount of years in the slammer. Can't even remember how many the old bastard of a judge sent me down for. Anyway, got out a couple of year ago. Thought I was OK at first, but I have to admit I still feel rage. I think the jail's made it worse. Can't be sure. They probably shouldn't have let me out, but you're no' going to say no, are you? So when I heard about youse lot I thought I'd give it a go. And youse've been a big help to me. I mean, it was a bit intimidating at first, what with being in Bearsden, but I think I fit in.'
There were several nods around the room. One or two of the company thought he fitted in like a forest fire in the Amazon, but they nodded anyway in case he decided to kill them.
'So why do you keep the nickname?' asked Dillinger. 'Doesn't it always remind you of what happened?'
Socrates shrugged.
'It's a really cool name. Birds love it. Course, most of the birds I hang out with have never heard of the fitba' player, and they're too thick to know about the Greek bastard, but it still makes me sound all exotic and foreign, you know.'
'Don't you think you'd be better off just being yourself?'
Socrates McCartney stared at Katie Dillinger. He rested his back against the chair, and for the first time in his entire life considered that question. Was it not just better to be yourself? It was a question he'd heard asked within this group before, but he never thought that it applied to him. But of course it did, and now this baring of his soul, this outing of his past and telling of his secrets, was forcing him to think about it. Was it better to be yourself, laid naked and bare to the world, hidden behind no sophistry and no tricks, than to put up a front, a brick wall of deceit and subterfuge?
'Nah,' he said, after giving it due thought, 'I'm a total arsehole in real life.'
And that, a few relevant details concerning the present day and the continuing juxtaposition of rage against relaxation aside, was the story of Socrates McCartney.
––––––––
Late afternoon, the seventeenth day in December. A robin or a bell or a ball behind the door on the advent calendar; a dark chocolate turned white. Still mild and grey, no sign of winter. As Socrates McCartney told all, Barney Thomson stood on a pavement, staring across a busy road at a small barber's shop.
He didn't know how long he stood there. People came and went around him; some bumped him, some told him to move, most passed on by and noticed nothing. Grey lives on a grey day, no one with time for anyone else. This was life in the new millennium. But Barney felt the beating of his heart and an unexpected dryness at the back of his throat. A barber's shop.
It was now almost a year since he'd picked up a pair of scissors in anger. He had carried them around with him all this time, but he had been traumatised; no question of that. The shock of the unremitting murder and mutilation had had its effect, and it was many months since he had even thought of barbery, never mind attempted to practice it.
Yet here he was, standing no more than fifteen yards from a shop. He could smell it; the shampoo, the hair oil, the warm air from the dryer, the hair itself. Dirty sometimes, clean others, but never odourless. And he stared at the small sign in the window, which he'd passed by an eternity ago. Help Wanted. Experience Preferred.
Help to do what? Sweep up; make tea; wash hair; or cut hair? He didn't know, but whatever it was, it was working in a barber's shop. Back where he belonged, in that land of giants.
His head was a swirl of his past and his future. The years in Henderson's before he'd accidentally killed his two colleagues; the few days haircutting at the monastery, before he'd become implicated in another serial killer's murders. Great haircuts he had given, disasters for which he was to blame. For every magnificent Lloyd George '23, there had been a Deep Impact or an Ally McCoist (World Cup '98). He had given haircuts with which a king would have been content, yet he had also dealt enough stinkers to fill several series of Ally McBeal law suits. And he knew not what his life held for him, for every decision he made he found thrown back in his face.
He would walk the Earth; yet he could not face it. He would hand himself in; yet the police would not take him. He would go and see his wife; yet she had moved, leaving no forwarding address. What remained?
And so he stood looking across at the small shop that perhaps held his salvation. He didn't know what had led him to Greenock. Just looking around for somewhere cheap to stay; had seen an advert in the paper; thought he might as well give it a go beside the cold Clyde. And now, settled in his bedsit above a baker's, he had wandered up the street and almost immediately stumbled across the advert in the shop window. Help Wanted. It could be his very own motto. And no doubt fate was playing its hand.
There was a gap in the traffic and he took the plunge. Across the road, didn't stop to think, straight into the shop. Knew he would not be kept waiting, for he had yet to see anyone come or go in all the time he'd been watching.
He closed the door behind him and took a moment to breathe in the surroundings. A small thin room. Two barber's chairs against one wall, fronted by the requisite sinks and individual mirrors; an inconsiderable bench along the other. A couple of sad pictures on the walls. Greenock in olden days, when the Clyde had bustled with activity; a lone dog on a deserted street.
'Haircut?' said the old man, not bothering to rise from his seat. Expecting nothing. Hadn't had to cut anyone's hair since ten o'clock that morning.
'Help wanted,' said Barney.
The old man nodded. An interesting face, something ancient and grey about it, but with an uncommon vigour to him. In his seventies, maybe. Life in those old eyes, and a face that had seen much. Grey beard, grey hair and thin; very thin.
'What can you do?' said the man. Gave Barney a long look, and there may have been the light of recognition in his eyes. Someone who might actually know me for who I am, thought Barney, but the thought did little to excite him.
'I've cut a bit of hair in my time,' he said.
The old man nodded.
'Aye, I can see that, son,' he said. 'You've got the look. What's your name?'
Barney hesitated. What if he did recognise him? Maybe he didn't want to hand himself in after all. Maybe he wanted to be free to work in a small barber's shop in Greenock.
Now, there was ambition.
'Thomson,' he said. 'Barney Thomson.'
A slight smile came to the old man's face; but the look in his eyes was warm.
'The murderer bloke?' he asked.
Barney shrugged. 'Aye, I suppose.'
The old man stood up and laughed.
'Aye, sure you are, son,' he said, extending his hand.
'The name's Blizzard. Leyman Blizzard.' Barney took his hand. A firm grip, cool fingers. A man to trust. 'I reckon you're full of shite, son, but you've got the job. We'll see what you can do. Can't promise much in the way of wages, mind, no' unless business picks up a bit.'
Barney looked around the shop again. Spit and sawdust. Needed money spent on it, but money came from customers.
'How d'you manage to stay open?' he asked.
Blizzard shrugged.
'No' many overheads, you know. As you can probably tell.'
Barney looked around and wondered why exactly it was that the old man needed help; except for the painting and decorating. Needed the company maybe, and if that was all it was, then perhaps it'd be ideal. For there was no doubt that he was in need of it himself.
'Could do with a bit of paint,' said Barney.
Blizzard threw a hand into the air in a gesture of hopelessness, and for the first time Barney noticed his fingers. Bent and gnarled. He wondered how he could possibly cut hair at all.
'Which chair's mine?' he asked, after realising he was staring at the old man's hands.
Blizzard shrugged. 'The one nearest the window, if you like. I couldn't give a shite myself.'
Barney was already standing beside that chair, and he looked at it and rested his hand on the crudely covered suede headrest. Magic or fate or some benign conjuration. Maybe it was evil sorcery. He had come in from the cold, and not only had the police turned him away, he had walked into a barber's shop, had been given a job cutting hair and had been presented with the window seat. It was as if a higher force was at work. Yet nothing had made him come to Greenock; nothing had made him walk up this street. That was all of his own accord. So, it could all just have been luck.
The door to the shop opened. A customer. Magnetically attracted by Barney, he thought, in this new contrived reality of his. He itched to once more lift the scissors in anger, but he deferred to his boss.
'What'll it be, mate?' asked Blizzard, as the man – Jamie Spencer, twenty-seven; going prematurely bald; married with two girlfriends; financial analyst, whatever that meant; already the worse for wear for too much alcohol; nose tending to redness; could run a hundred metres in under twenty-five seconds – closed the door behind him.
'Can you do me a Lutheran, Three at the Back, Cloistered Short Back and Sides?'
Blizzard looked at him, mouth slightly open, showing white teeth and a bit of drool.
'That's a fucking haircut?' he said.
'Aye, I can do that,' said Barney. 'Sit yourself down there, mate.'
Of course, the last time he'd done that cut he'd made a total hash of it; but a bit of concentration and a steady nerve would see him through.
Jamie Spencer eased himself into the chair nearest the window; Leyman Blizzard gave Barney the nod. Smiled to himself, the old man, at this sudden interruption and being immediately relegated in his own shop. But he was not wont to care.
Barney flexed his scissor fingers and prepared for his first haircut in nearly a year. Back in the saddle. Suddenly, from nowhere, thrust onto the stage. Once more at the helm. Returned to the Starship Enterprise, like Spock in the first movie. Sean Connery in Never Say Never Again. Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park. The coelacanth.
He was back.
––––––––
Statistically most murders take place after the hours of darkness; or, at least, they do in the netherworld of Barney Thomson.
Not that Barney would automatically be implicated in the murder that took place that evening – though there would be some who suspected – some eight hours after the end of the extraordinary biweekly meeting of Bearsden Murderers Anonymous; but inevitably, there would be a coming together. It was his destiny.
Jacob Wellingborough, an average man. Fourteen years in the plumbing trade; married with three children; a part-time mistress whom he saw on an occasional basis; holidays twice a year, once with the family in Spain, once with his mates in the Lake District; new car every second year; season ticket at Ibrox; half-hour drive to work; satellite TV, News of the World, Surprise, Surprise and Club International. An ordinary man.
The unexamined life is not worth living.
So some people think; one man in particular, as far as this story goes. Someone who could not bear the ordinary; who could not countenance the mundane; who quailed at those who might disdain originality; who could not see the merits of an ordinary life. And so he sat at home each night battling with those demons which told him to challenge that ordinariness; told himself that life need not be exceptional to be worth living; that life could go on without catechism and analysis.
How many years had he denied the truth and the inevitability of his nature? How many times had he sat with friends, talking through his weakness and the demons that drove him away; and now the demon that had reignited the evil within him, less than a year after his return? The demon that had been the naked, flaming torch to his blistering desire for revenge upon the world? Even the honest hearts of Murderers Anonymous had not been able to help. Because, for all his time in confession and self-revelation, he had never admitted to anyone what had driven him to murder in the first place; what had pushed him to the edge, then tipped him over into the abyss.
And so Wee Magnus McCorkindale had had to die. And now many others would follow, though their crimes might have been insignificant.
Jacob Wellingborough walked out of the pub, said goodbye to Davie Three Legs, Charro and Baldy McGovern. Monday night, Christmas quiz night at the Pea & Korma, another second-place finish behind the Govan Guzzlers (none of whom were from Govan, and all of whom had sipped lemonade quietly throughout the night). A ten minute walk to the house. Sometimes he took the car because there were never police around that area, but tonight he'd decided to walk. One of the last decisions he'd ever take.
He was thinking of a variety of things. Fives the next night; couldn't believe he had let Baldy say that Clark Gable had won an Oscar for Gone with the Wind; Janice at the weekend, if he could get away from Margaret and the kids; struggling to get the particular doll Miriam wanted for her Christmas; couple of awkward calls in the morning; his mind rambled on. Turned when he heard the footsteps behind him. A bit surprised when he saw who it was; stopped and waited. Fatally.
'How you doing, mate, didn't expect to see you?' he said.
The killer smiled; fingers twitched on the knife held in his hot right hand, thrust inside his jacket pocket.
'Just been seeing some mates.'
'Right. Excellent,' said Wellingborough.
And so they started walking along together, side by side, with nothing to say. Wellingborough felt uncomfortable.
The killer was a little nervous; this would be the first cold one in some time. McCorkindale had been in the heat of the moment. And it was wrong – at least he had the conscience to know that.
'Do you know what the capital of Djibouti is?' said Wellingborough to break the awkward silence.
'Djibouti? Don't even know where it is.'
'East Africa. I mean, I knew that, but I didn't know what its capital was, you know. Should've guessed, I suppose. Djibouti's also the name of the capital, you see. No imagination these people.'
'That's funny,' said the killer.
'How come?' said Wellingborough, turning to face his nemesis.
'Because that's what I've been thinking about you.'
'What?'
Wellingborough looked at his murderer. A moment's recognition. The dawn of realisation. He saw the knife coming up out of the corner of his eye, but in no way was he expecting it, and so it went, the sharpened blade, into his back and into his kidneys and through the viscera, so that the point emerged at the other side, breaking the skin of his stomach.
Wellingborough's mouth opened, his eyes were wide, his pupils dilated; a hoarse query escaped his throat, followed by a grunt as the knife was thrust deeper into his body cavity and upwards beneath his chest. 'Why?' his final word, that great philosopher's question; and then he collapsed and the killer chose to leave the knife where it was, and among the flashing images that raced through Wellingborough's brain as his life soaked away was the first picture he had of the killer wearing gloves and thinking it was odd as the weather was so mild for December. And men don't wear gloves anyway. Not really.
The killer stood over the body until the spasms had stopped, and the last breath had been taken. A quick glance up the road in both directions, and then he disappeared into the bushes, so that by the time the body was discovered late on that December night, there would be neither sign nor trace of the perpetrator of the crime.
***
He felt the touch of the sheep in the dark. The cold fleece, damp with water and blood, brushed against his face, then swung back into him after he'd pushed it away. He stumbled away from it, tripping over something soft. He steadied himself against a pew. The wind stopped suddenly. He lifted his head; tried to hold his breath, though his chest screamed to pant. The roar from the broken windows was instantly stilled, and now in the quiet he could hear clearly the low prayer from the broken lips of the clergyman, and the shuffling coming ever closer from behind.
Couldn't bring himself to turn, even though he knew in this darkness he would see nothing anyway. A prayer for his soul, that was what he heard; then he became aware of the echo of the words, and the low voice behind accompanying the shuffling. Whatever it was behind him, whatever demon crept up in preparation for laying its hand on his back, it was mimicking the prayer of the minister. Repeating the words, the voice cruel and mocking, a callous burlesque. A prayer for the soul of Barney Thomson, for not only would he die, he would be condemned to an eternity in Hell.
Barney screamed in impotent terror.
And, as ever, he awoke in the night, sheathed in sweat, clutching the blankets, dragged howling from his nightmare before the true nature of the evil could reveal itself.
––––––––
'You ever consider Jelly Babies, mate?'
Barney Thomson had considered many things; Jelly Babies not being one of them. He shook his head and snipped a couple of unnecessary hairs from just behind the right ear.
'How d'you mean?' he asked.
The bloke submitting to Barney's scissors lifted his hands beneath the cape; making it look, to someone with an eye for that kind of thing, as if he had a pair of massive erections.
'Jelly Babies,' he said. 'I mean, think about it. Is that not just the strangest thing. Jelly Babies. You know, they're always there. You eat them when you're a bairn, you grow out of them, and then you don't think about it when you grow up.'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'you're right. You don't.'
'Well, think about it now, Big Man, that's all I'm saying. Jelly Babies. Consider the concept. They are asking you to eat babies. Is that not just a bit strange? You're eating babies. Every bit of them. The eyes, the nose, the arms, the intestines. You know, folk go on about cannibals as if they're weird, but there are millions of school weans out there eating babies every day. Maybe the body parts aren't too well defined,'n' all, but a baby's a baby. They're asking us to eat babies. You just couldn't introduce something new like that nowadays. They only get away with it 'cause they're an institution. Like mince and tatties, only sweeter.'
Barney stood back and admired his handiwork. His first Jimmy Stewart in nearly a year, only his third haircut in his second day back on the job, and clearly the old magic was still there. Just about finished this one, and he hadn't lost it. Not at all. A firm hand, a steady eye, that was all that was required.
Unlike some...
He glanced over at the work being done on the shop's other chair. Leyman Blizzard was doing his best, but this was a haircut from Satan's own factory; the sort of haircut that two months with a bulldozer, three metric tonnes of cement and a brothel full of politicians couldn't hope to salvage. There had been a time when he would have looked askance upon such tawdry work, when he would have cast aside the conventions of honourable workmanship and denounced the haircut to anyone who would listen. But that was then. Barney had gained a sense of perspective. He was working on a rainy day in a small shop, on the outskirts of an old city on the west coast of an unfulfilled country, on the edge of a divided continent, at the heart of an insignificantly small planet, in an inconsequential solar system, at the bottom end of a meagre galaxy, downtown in the great Gotham City of the universe. Who cared if he, or anyone else, gave a bad haircut?
He nodded at the mince and tatties remark, then stood back from the final snip. His work here was complete. He could send the man packing with a haircut answering to every Euclidean assumption, and turn his attention to the solitary chap in the queue. Although, as it happened, Leyman Blizzard came to the end of his magnum opus in malfeasance just before Barney, and he assumed he would take the next customer.
'That's you, mate,' said Barney, 'all done.' Not before time, he thought. Jelly Babies had been the end of it, but what had gone before had ranged far and wide and touched upon almost every topic in the Barbershop Handbook.
The man looked in the mirror, somewhat surprised. There was yet much in his repertoire which required airing, not least the bare bones of his thesis on Lysenkoism and its applicability to ghetto culture. All his mates had heard it and they'd all told him to shut up the minute he opened his mouth, but barbers had no option but to listen. But he was happy enough with the results, so he rose from his chair as the cape was withdrawn, handed over the required money, stuck a cheeky wee fifty pence into Barney's hand, and was gone; murmuring as he went strange thoughts on the demise of Spangles.
Just ahead of him went Leyman Blizzard's customer, the Hair of Horrors upon his shattered head, all sorts of condemnation and humiliation awaiting him, his haircut set to be the concubine to reprobation.
Barney pursed his lips. He and the old man looked at one another, each with a common understanding of the other's abilities. And Blizzard realised he'd made a good decision.
'You take the next customer, son,' he said.
'You sure?' asked Barney. 'You were done first, boss.'
'Naw, naw, on you go, on you go,' he said, and the customer, his heart singing with triumphant relief, stepped up to Barney's chair. A young man, due to go on a surprise last-minute date with the object of his affections, and desperate not to look like a complete idiot.
Barney did the thing with the cape and the towel at the back of the neck, and could feel The Force returning to him. Just like the good old days. Except nowadays he could make a reasonable job of cutting hair. He was back. He was refreshed. This was his Elvis NBC Special. He ought to have been dressed in black and surrounded by babes.
'What'll it be, son?' he asked.
The lad looked at him, considered again what he was about to do.
'I want to look like Elvis,' he said.
A sign.
'Thin Elvis,' said Barney, 'I assume from the fact that you're thin?' Sharp as a button.
'Aye,' said the lad. 'Thin Elvis. Like he looked in Girls, Girls, Girls. Make me look like that.'
Barney had never seen Girls, Girls, Girls, but he could cope. And so he set to work with his scissors, a comb, some shampoo, a hairdryer, a Euro-size can of mousse, two litres of olive oil, half a kilo of fettuccine and a certain degree of panache.
Leyman Blizzard sat and watched; didn't say much at first. The lad said nothing, being altogether too nervous. He had heard tell that Wee Jean McBean, a girl of moist reputation, would forego any sort of lovemaking preliminaries – dinner, dancing, presents, desperate pleading – for an Elvis look-alike. If this haircut went well, he was in there and he knew it.
'What did you think of the haircut I just did, son?' asked Leyman Blizzard after a while.
Barney glanced over at his new boss, remembering to stop cutting hair as he did so, something he wouldn't always have done in the past. He considered his answer and thought of this: there are two kinds of time in life. There's a time for candour, and then there's a time for bollocks. This, thought Barney, was most definitely, with bright, spanking knobs on, a hundred-piece orchestra playing Ode to Joy, and a herald of exultant angels singing hosannas upon high, a time for bollocks.
'It was brilliant. A fine piece of barbery. Hirsutology from the top drawer. A haircut of stunning eloquence. Pure magic.'
Leyman Blizzard rubbed his hand across his beard and nodded.
'Thought it was a load of shite myself,' he said.
'Oh.'
'Can't cut hair to pee my pants,' said Blizzard, and the young lad looked at him out of the corner of his eye, thanking some higher force that he'd been saved. 'Not since a long time passed. You might just be the man to save this shop, son. That was a good job you just did there. A Jimmy Stewart. I can just about manage one of them myself these days, but not much else.'
'What happened?' asked Barney, although he knew the answer. It happened to them all. Eventually the steadiness disappeared, the hand–eye co-ordination was lost, and even the most basic aspects of barbery became a trial.
'Just the usual, son,' said Blizzard. 'Just the same shite that happens to every bastard when they get old. I've been doing this job for near on fifty year. Now I'm washed up. I'm finished. You know who I am? I'm Muhammad Ali when he fought Larry Holmes. I'm George Best when he played for Hibs. I'm Sinatra when he did the Duets albums.'
'Jim Baxter when he went back to Rangers,' said the lad.
'Aye, that's me all right. At a dead end. I'm Arnold Palmer; I'm Sugar Ray Leonard; I'm Burt Reynolds.'
'Steve Archibald when he signed for Barcelona,' said the lad.
'That was at the peak of his career,' said Blizzard.
'Aye, but he was still shite.'
'Fair point. Anyway, I'm all of those people, all of them. I've got about three regular customers left and one of them's so short-sighted the daft bastard can't see what a mess I'm making of his head. I don't know you from Adam, son. I just know your name, and you might be that bloody murdering eejit who disappeared up in the Highlands, 'cause they say he could cut a mean hair or two, I don't know, but you look to me like a hell of a barber. I'll up your wages if I can, and help you out with the Jimmy Stewarts, and I'll leave the rest to you. You're the boss. How about it?'
Barney looked over at Leyman Blizzard. The expression on his face betrayed his astonishment. How many years in Henderson's had he searched in vain for such recognition? How many times in the distant past at that shop had he completed some masterpiece, only to see his work ignored, his genius disregarded, so that eventually his confidence had gone and he had become the bitter pursuivant of mediocrity? And now, after just three haircuts, there was a man willing to reward him for doing a good job. It was as if he had found the father figure he had been missing all these years.
'I'd like that very much, Mr Blizzard,' he said. 'That'd be brilliant.'
'Stoatir,' said the old man. 'And you can call me Leyman.'
They exchanged a glance. A special bond had been created. It was if he were Skywalker to Leyman Blizzard's Yoda. That is, if Yoda had been absolutely shite at cutting hair.
'Here,' said the lad, having found his tongue with the denunciation of Steve Archibald, 'is your name Barney Thomson?'
Barney nodded, now flowing smoothly through the Elvis Girls, Girls, Girls.
'Aye, it is,' he said.
'Bit of a coincidence that. I mean, you being a barber 'n' all?'
Barney Thomson looked down at the lad and took a moment. He turned to Leyman Blizzard, looked around the small barber's shop which had become his new home – the two chairs, the small bench, yesterday's newspapers and five-month-old Sunday Post supplements, and no concessions to Christmas but for the picture of a former Spice Girl, naked but for a discreetly placed bit of tinsel, on the cover of the Mirror – had a glance out of the large windows of the shopfront at the miserable December rain sweeping in off the Clyde, then looked once more at his customer. A shiver eased its way down his spine. All this time stranded in some sort of pointless emasculation, thinking that his only real choice was to hand himself in and face the vicious music of public scorn, when it had proved the simplest thing in the world to walk back into the old ways. The simplest thing in the world. He was back doing what he always loved; he had the same name; he had changed in all sorts of ways, but still he was the same man; and yet he might as well have been someone completely different.
'Not really,' he said. 'Actually I'm the real Barney Thomson.'
The lad caught his eye in the mirror to see if he was being serious, then smiled.
'Aye, right,' he said, 'I bet you say that to all the birds.'
––––––––
Jade Weapon opened fire with her submachine-gun, riddling the bathroom door with holes and pumping the Russian agent, cowering behind, full of hot lead.
'Come on, Malcolm. Do you really want to be in there all day?'
'I want to be in here for the rest of my life. Why don't you just leave me alone? I want to get some sleep.'
'Your mum and dad are really worried. You don't want to do that to them, do you?'
'I've made your favourite, Malcolm! Mince!'
'I hate mince!'
Detective Sergeant Erin Proudfoot turned round to Malcolm Reid's mother and waved at her to keep quiet. Matters were at a delicate stage. At any moment, he could flush his sister's pet hamster, Huey, down the toilet. This was no time to be talking of mince.
Proudfoot looked at her watch. She had been here for nearly half an hour. Called out to a domestic; could have been anything. Assault; battery; arson; noisy neighbours; murder, even; or it could have been a noxious fourteen-year-old, locked in the bathroom, threatening to flush his sister's only pet down the toilet if he didn't get to go to Big Angus's party that Friday night. Had turned out to be the last on the list.
It was never like this on Cagney & Lacey, she thought. Well, maybe in one episode.
What would Jade Weapon, star of the erotic crime thrillers with which she had been filling her spare time at the office, do? Kill someone; sleep with someone else; cause mayhem and damage and be home in time for g&t and three-in-a-bed sex. But Jade Weapon never had to deal with people like this. The mundane, real world.
'Look, Malcolm, it's not about the hamster. Just let Huey go and then we can talk some more,' she said. Mrs Reid gripped her by the arm as she said it. Can't believe I'm saying this crap, thought Proudfoot.
'Naw!' he shouted, and there was an edge to his voice. Margaret Reid gasped. She knew the tone. The same tone he'd used just before he'd tipped his sister's maggot collection into a fish-pond.
'He's getting serious,' she said frantically.
Proudfoot glanced over her shoulder. Delivered her best Back off or I'll arrest you for being a bloody idiot look.
Margaret Reid recognised it, for she had in the past been arrested for being a bloody idiot, and backed off.
'I'm not going anywhere till she says it's all right for me to go to the party. Big Angus gives brilliant parties. She's got one more minute or the hamster gets it. I'm serious.'
One minute or the hamster gets it. Fuck me, thought Proudfoot. It's come to this. I know what Jade Weapon would do, she thought. She'd boot the door in, kick the stupid little bampot's head in, then ram the damned hamster up his backside.
'Come on, Malcolm. It's not even about Big Angus's party, is it?'
She could almost see him thinking through the bathroom door.
'What d'you mean?'
Fine. So maybe it wasn't about Big Angus's party. It didn't mean she actually had a clue what it was about. But then, not in a million years could she have cared.
It had been a long year for Erin Proudfoot, since she and Joel Mulholland had set the notorious Barney Thomson free, and had then engaged in the angry hostilities of romance. A bloody case, the mental scars of which had dominated the few months of their desperate, passionate, bitter relationship, when everything from marriage to suicide had been considered.
Six months now since Mulholland had imploded and disappeared up the west coast somewhere – not a card or a letter – leaving her behind in solitary meltdown. Still she saw her psychiatrist four times a week; still her psychiatrist told the superintendent not to put her anywhere near real criminal activity; and still he lied to her about it, and she imagined she was in better mental health than she was. Occasionally she pondered Mulholland's whereabouts, but she'd made no effort to go after him.
She knew he'd gone a little – or completely – insane himself. She'd heard tell, but just rumour and gossip around the station. But whatever feeling had been there was now gone.
And so there had been a couple of flings in the interim, but her scars had brought to her an intensity that her lovers could not handle. Buxton had been one, another of the CID sergeants. A few evenings, then one night, and she'd scratched his back so that the sheets had been soaked with blood; and that had been that. Then there'd been the idiot she'd met outside the Disney shop in the St Enoch's centre. He'd thought he was picking her up, while all the time it had been the other way round. Again he'd been quick to her bed, but when her nails had been unleashed and she'd cried 'Havoc!' and let rip the dogs of war, he'd crumbled and cracked and off he'd gone, tail between his legs to mourn the death of femininity.
'It's about your parents, Malcolm. I know that.'
'What d'you mean?' said the mother. 'What d'you mean?'
Proudfoot looked at her and shrugged. 'He's a teenager,' she said.
'Might be,' came the small voice from the bathroom.
The mother gave Proudfoot a concerned glance, then looked pleadingly at the blue bathroom door.
'We love you, son, we really do.'
'How can you, Maw, you called me Malcolm? I mean, what kind of name is Malcolm? It's a crap name.'
'That was your father,' she said.
Proudfoot rolled her eyes. Beam me up, Mr Worf, and take me away from here forever.
'It's a name of kings, Malcolm,' said Proudfoot. 'A name of kings.'
There was hefty pause from within. The wheels were in motion; smoke appeared from under the bathroom door.
'Who?' he said eventually. 'What kings were called Malcolm?'
She held her head in her hands. If I had a gun, she started to think, but she had been told four times a week for the past year to fight those thoughts. You won't rid Sutherland from your mind by killing people yourself, she was continually being told. Maybe, she thought; maybe not.
'Malcolm I, Malcolm II, Malcolm III. They were all called Malcolm.'
'Who were they?' he asked. His mother looked at Proudfoot as if she was mad, and she was not far off. 'I mean, what country were they kings of?'
'Scotland, Malcolm, they were kings of Scotland. A long time ago, maybe, but that's the pedigree of the name your parents gave you.'
'Pedigree? You mean, like the dog food?' said Malcolm.
Proudfoot stared at the floor. Imagined the headlines. Crazed Police Sergeant Sets Hamster Free as Mother and Son Die in Hail of Bullets.
'It's a beautiful name, Malcolm. An ancient, regal, royal name of kings.'
No immediate riposte. She could hear him thinking. The good and the bad of emerging from his hideout running through his mind. And then, after the pause, the inevitable.
The lock clicked, the door to the bathroom slowly swung open, and Malcolm Reid stood framed in the sunlight which streamed through the bathroom window. It highlighted wisps of hair around his head; it almost looked as if he had a halo; he was dressed in a long white bathrobe; on his face was the fustiest of fusty little goatees.
He stood with his arms spread at his side, the palms of his hands facing forward; staring at his mother.
'Is that right, Maw?' he said. 'Is that right? Did you name me after the kings?'
'Where's Huey?' she said in response, as he emerged farther from the light, and the halo faded.
'He's under my bed,' he said. 'I was making it all up. I never even had him in there. Was I really named after a king, Maw?'
'You little bastard!'
Time to go, thought Proudfoot, and she was already on her way down the stairs. If there was going to be a domestic assault, she could let it happen; then if someone got called out to it, it wouldn't be her, because they didn't let her near anything physical.
'You were named after your Uncle Malcolm, and he was a bloody eejit 'n' all!' she heard Margaret Reid cry as she reached the bottom step, and with more words of anger in the air, she was at the front door and out into the street.
She stood for a second looking up at the high, grey clouds, the sun poking through in inappropriate places. Took a moment, had a few thoughts. One day at a time, one pointless crime at a time. Crime? Not even that. When was the last time she'd been allowed anywhere near a crime?
And with that sad thought, she was on her way. It was just another day in late December, getting close to the time of year when salt was viciously rubbed into the wound of being alone.
And in less than an hour she would be back on that other pointless, endless job they'd had her on for over five months. One of three officers tasked with tracking the movements of a killer on whom they had nothing; a desperate bid to claim a success, among so much failure. And so, night after night, drowning in bars and sitting outside houses, and looking through binoculars, and not for a second could she imagine that she would ever discover anything they could use.
Not for a second.
––––––––
Later in the afternoon, on Barney's second day of cutting hair, and it was as if he had never been away. Indeed, it might even have been the case that this new, well-balanced, egalitarian Barney Thomson, no longer living in fear of detection, was even more of a whizz with a pair of scissors than his bitter former self. There had been a slow but steady flow of customers through the door, as if sensing his arrival – Hire him and they will come, the voice in the field might have said to Leyman Blizzard. Blizzard was siphoning off the easier cuts, or the cuts that didn't really matter – the Jimmy Stewarts, the skinheads, the children – leaving Barney with the bulk of the more complex work; from the Jimmy Tarbucks to the Mesolithic Preternatural Pot-boilers, and from the Chris Evans '96 to the Gargantuan Liberace Crevice Creepers; and it had even been slightly sunnier in Greenock than normal for late December; that is to say, the sun had shone for approximately four minutes just after lunch.
So, it seemed, life could not have been better for Barney. He was striking up a rapport with customers based on shared interest and intelligent conversation; he could go to the pub every night, or just choose to sit in front of the TV without having to watch the kind of mindless soap opera that used to have Agnes slobbering in anticipation – although he'd probably watch the episode of Return to Beluga Bay when Tray and Pesticide fell out with Condom; he might even visit Cappielow Park on a Saturday afternoon to watch Morton's continuing struggle with reality.
And naturally, being so content with his lot, having everything he could possibly want, with no need for anything else in his life, Barney was as miserable as shite.
Human nature, you see. To always want something more.
'You ever see Eureka! with Gene Hackman?' asked Leyman Blizzard, as they discussed the matter. Just gone four o'clock, no customers of which to speak. They chatted between themselves, and Barney valued the words of wisdom from the old man.
'Didn't see it,' he said. Never even heard of it.
'Good film,' said Blizzard. 'Anyway, Gene Hackman's a gold prospector. That's what he does, that's his life, doesn't know anything else. For years and years he trawls slowly through Alaska, or one of they cold places, miserable as fuck, not finding a bloody sausage. Then suddenly, one day, bugger me with a pitchfork, if he doesn't suddenly come up with the biggest gold find in the history of mankind. Masses of the stuff. More gold than you could stick up your arse. Instantly makes him the richest man on the planet. Anything he wants. Huge mansion, boats, planes, all the women he can eat, the works. And guess what?'
'He's miserable as sin,' said Barney, catching up with the analogy.
'Exactly. Miserable as a bull with no dick in a field full of cows. Ends up dying, the daft bastard. And you know why? 'Cause it's all about not getting what you want, 'cause as soon as you do, there's nothing left. You have to leave yourself needing more than you have or you just die. I'm telling you, son, you have to be wanting for something. It's human nature.'
Barney sat in his barber's chair and stared back at himself in the mirror. He could recognise all the changes in himself from two years previously. He looked older, a few more grey hairs, but there was something a bit fuller and more confident about his face than before. Whereas he'd used to look like a scarecrow, now there was a bit of the Sean Connery about him. So he liked to think. A bit of the hard bastard.
'You might be right, Leyman,' he said. 'You might be right.'
The door opened, a cold breeze followed in the first customer in twenty minutes. The man removed his coat, stuck his hat on a peg – the only time he ever wore a hat was to the barber's, a precautionary measure, so that he had something with which to cover the evidence when he left – and turned to face them. The barbers, in turn, went into their new routine.
'What'll it be, son?' asked Blizzard before the man had been ushered to a seat. One of the easier ones and Blizzard would take charge, having regained a certain amount of confidence working next to the master; one of the harder on the list, and Barney was the man.
'Could you do me a Zombie?' he asked.
Barney nodded. It was one for him.
'Aye, fine. Why don't you sit down there, mate?'
Leyman Blizzard winced at the thought of what might have happened if he'd had to make the cut, then buried himself in that day's Evening Times. Headline: Heeeeeeeeeeere's Barney! He's Back as Milngavie Plumber Put to the Sword.
Barney did the usual with the cape and the towel, lifted a comb and a plant spray gun, and got to work. The Zombie was the latest in post-modern, retro-club Louisville chic, and Barney had never executed one before. He'd seen the pictures, however, and was confident.
'Haven't seen you here before,' said the customer, Davie Whigmore, twenty-six, late of Claverton and Sons, now peddling low-budget window replacements for Arthur Francis Ltd.
'Naw,' said Barney. 'Just started yesterday. Just moved into the area. Not been here long. A couple of days.'
'Oh, aye, where've you come from?' said Whigmore, wondering why anyone who had the choice would move to Greenock.
'Well, here and there,' said Barney. 'You might have heard of me. I'm Barney Thomson.'
Whigmore looked Barney in the eye in the mirror, then turned around – narrowly avoiding serious injury – and looked more closely at his face.
'Aye, you do look like him, now that you mention it, mate,' he said, assuming the position once more. 'Didn't notice it when I came in. So, you must be on the run, then?'
'Aye, aye. Well, I was, I suppose, not sure anymore.'
'Pretty cool, though, isn't it?' said Whigmore. 'I mean, you're like the Fugitive or the Incredible Hulk. Or the A-Team even. Fleeing from justice. Flash bastard, eh? You must get hundreds of women?'
Barney shook his head. Leyman Blizzard stared over the top of the newspaper.
'None so far,' he said.
'Oh, right. Too bad, mate.'
'It's never going to happen,' said Barney. 'Apart from the obvious, that I'm an ugly bastard ...'
'Don't know, mate, there's a bit of the Sean Connery about you.'
'Aye, well, whatever. Apart from that, no one believes me. I mean, do you actually think that I'm the real Barney Thomson?'
Whigmore laughed.
'Of course I don't. You think I'd let you anywhere near my head with a pair of scissors if I thought you were the real, actual, slash-'em-as-soon-as-look-at-'em Barney Thomson? No way.'
'You see?' said Barney. 'I've got a major credibility problem. I look like the guy, I'm fully prepared to admit to being the guy, but no one believes me because there are so many crackpot heid-the-ba's out there who aspire to be me. Very strange.'
Whigmore nodded, nearly putting the Zombie in jeopardy. Fortunately, the barber doing a Zombie has a certain amount of leeway.
'I suppose you're right. That's what it's all about these days, isn't it? Credibility. I mean, the Big Man's going to have a hell of a job if there's ever a second coming. Imagine some bloke turns up and says I'm the Son of God 'n' all that. Who on earth's going to believe the guy? In fact, let's face it, there are probably hundreds of guys every year saying they're the Son of bleeding God, and they all end up in asylums and stuff. Can you blame the doctor who commits them? Course not. What's he supposed to think? But what if the real Son of God has actually made his comeback already and some eejit stuffed the guy into a loony bin? It's bound to happen. So, I can see your point, mate. If you are the real Barney Thomson, and that's not to say for one second that I think you are, no one's going to believe you.'
'Exactly,' said Barney. 'Exactly.'
Whigmore settled back more easily into his seat; started to think of some incontrovertible truths. Everywhere you go in life you find people pretending to be someone they're not; from the big lie like the man cutting his hair as he sat, assuming the identity of another, so that they could impress or make themselves the centre of attention, to the more subtle variety, where one might betray one's own personality to cover some excess that one doesn't want shown; right down to the more petty stuff which is purveyed every week in every bar in the country, such as men hitting on women; Here, love, I'm a big mate o' Ewen McGregor's, you know, and I'm going over to Hollywood next month to help him shag some women.
Lies, lies, everywhere.
Barney thought nothing much at all, as he tried to do most of the time these days. Just running through his mind was some vague musing on why it was that he was so unhappy, and what it was that he really wanted from life. If not this, then what could it be? Or was the old man right? Are you automatically condemned to misery the instant you get what you want? Was that the penalty you paid for achieving your goals?
And so the day went as it wound its way to an inevitable conclusion. And all the time, in the endless tussle of inconsequence inside his head, he tried to ignore the memory of the dream that haunted him; and the dread of the future which deep down he knew lay at the heart of his unease.
––––––––
Sometimes the group gathered at a bar for the evening. Eleven murderers out in public. Katie Dillinger always worried on these occasions, because some of them could be a bit boisterous; but they weren't schoolchildren, and she couldn't stop it happening if they decided to do it. Always considered it best to be on hand, so that she could be the United Nations peacekeeping force to their volatile local difficulty.
They were all in attendance this evening, building up a state of excitement. For this was the week of their Christmas retreat; two days in the country, away from judgemental eyes, where they could be themselves, as far as that could go; murder being pretty much off limits.
They were perched around a large table, consuming one end of the bar, in a standard 4–4–2 formation. Dillinger in goal, then a flat back four of Billy Hamilton, Ellie Winters, Annie Webster and Sammy Gilchrist; four strung across the midfield, in Fergus Flaherty, Bobby Dear, Paul Galbraith and Morty Goldman, and the two showmen up front, Socrates McCartney and Arnie Medlock.
The men were jostling for position. They were going away for a weekend where there would be three women to eight men. An ugly imbalance to please no one – except the women – so tough times lay ahead. It was early days and there would be much work to be done once the weekend started, but now was the time for points-scoring and unobtrusive denunciation of the opposition.
As ever the great topics of the day had been discussed as the evening had gone on. Should the Old Firm apply to join the English Premiership or a North Atlantic league and leave the rest to get on with it; was Edward G. Robinson a woman; global warming, myth or nightmare; cornflakes, mundane drudgery or breakfast cereal to die for; the Sixth Commandment, and did God really mean it to be interpreted the way it has been; was Richard II really a poof; milk or plain chocolate; Jim Bett, mug or magician?
Galbraith had something to say to Katie Dillinger; uneasy about saying it, because there was not a lot of truth in what he would say. And they all knew that Dillinger could tell a lie from a long way off.
The truth was, he had better things to do with his weekend than spend it with this mob. And Dillinger might just have been expecting him to make a move on her and bring some competitive element to her yearly rendezvous with Arnie Medlock. Delicacy would be required, and he had pressures from Sophie Delaux to consider. And all sorts of other issues.
First of all he had to disengage himself from the dull Bobby Dear.
'People who take one sugar,' Dear was saying, 'are poofs. That's what we used to say in the army. No sugar is fine, that's a definite statement. Five or six sugars, that's a definite statement. But one or two sugars. Absolute shite. Wishy-washy, can't make up their minds. Shite, I say.'
'Sorry, mate,' said The Hammer Galbraith, 'got to have a word with Katie, you know. Be back with you in a second,' he added, a monstrous lie. I'd die rather than come and talk to you again, might have been nearer the truth. Bobby Dear nodded, didn't really understand.
Galbraith made his way around the table, clutching his seventh pint of heavy. Thought processes were still working smoothly, but there was always the possibility of a breakdown between brain and mouth. Stopped to listen for a second to Socrates, who had moved back down the wing, and was chatting to Ellie Winters. Giving her the usual line. Same old, same old.
'So what do you do, if you're not a philosopher or a footballer, then?' asked Winters. Hoping that this would induce the reciprocal question, for she loved to tell people how she made her living. Socrates took a swig from his pint, then dug into his inside coat pocket and produced a card. Handed it over with a roguish smile.
Spider-Be-Gone Inc.
Socrates McCartney
for all your spider removal needs
____________________________________
Also: Unwanted pests, bugs, vermin & snakes
24 hr service
Tel.: 0898 985 7898
email: spiderbegone@bug.com
Winters looked quizzically at him. A smile came to her lips, for she was sharp as a button and could already see the potential.
'You remove spiders?'
'Aye.'
'From where?'
Socrates shrugged. He knew he was cool.
'From wherever spiders get to. Which is pretty much everywhere really.'
'So, like if somebody's got a spider in their bath, they call you up, and you go and remove it?' she asked, still a little incredulous that such a service existed.
'Aye. I get five or six calls a day and at least one of them's a bath. I turn up, put the spider into a wee carton, take it outside and release it, and I'm on my way.'
She shook her head. 'And how much do you charge for that?'
'Ten pound call-out. Then a fiver for the first spider, and three quid thereafter. Special discounts for big jobs like garden sheds and attics.'
Ellie Winters was beginning to find Socrates McCartney attractive. Despite his nose. And despite the fact that she wasn't really into men.
'So some woman phones you up if there's a spider in the bath, and you charge her fifteen pounds for the all of two seconds it takes to remove it?'
Socrates finished off his pint with a spider-be-gone flourish.
'Right there,' he said, 'you've hit the nail on the head. Women. It's always women. No bloke's ever going to have the neck to call me out, even if they're scared. No bloke's going to let his bird call me out if they're in the house. So it's aye women on their own who give us a call. Think about it,' he said, tapping the side of his napper, 'it's the biggest phobia in Britain. There are about a gazillion spiders out there, and most of them find their way into someone's house at some stage. It's perfect. And, of course, the best bit is that these birds are usually so grateful that I've rid them of their pest that they give us a shag.'
Socrates smiled. Winters smiled too, shaking her head.
'You're serious?'
'Aye, hen, it's brilliant. The perfect job. I get paid good cash, and I get laid at least twice a day. Brilliant. Mind you ...' he said, rising to head off to the bar.
'What?'
'Spiders give us the willies. The bath ones are all right, 'cause you just stick a glass over the bastard. But see garden sheds, I fucking hate them. Another vodka, hen?'
Winters smiled, a move which enhanced the small, pale hairs along her top lip.
'Aye,' she said. 'Another vodka. No ice.'
'Right, hen,' said Socrates, and off he went. The hunter-gatherer.
The Hammer smiled too. Socrates was all right. In his way. Now it was time to talk his own brand of bullshit.
Dillinger was politely listening to Billy Hamilton's thesis on how Britain and Ireland could have won the Ryder Cup in 1987, and maybe another few times as well, without the addition of the European players. Not even sure what sport the Ryder Cup was, Dillinger, but was nodding in all the right places.
Galbraith leant over her, completely ignored Billy Hamilton. He could have crushed wee Billy like a paper cube. Didn't care if he annoyed him.
'Sandy Lyle, brilliant player, brilliant. Faldo couldn't lick his shoes, even now,' were Hamilton's last few words on the subject.
'Here, Katie, can I have a word?' said The Hammer.
Billy Hamilton attempted to give him a Robert de Niro, but with the foosty moustache and insipid eyes, it was more of a Terry-Thomas.
'Sure,' said Dillinger, delighted to escape. 'Sorry, Billy, I'll be back in a minute.'
'Aye, right,' said Hamilton, and his moustache wilted.
The Hammer and Dillinger wandered over to the bar, away from the crowd. To their right Arnie Medlock and Sammy Gilchrist exploded in near-violent argument over the nature of Wordman's Theorem, but they ignored it and leant against the sodden bar. Brushed away the beer and the peanuts, and the detritus of urine from unwashed fingers.
'What's up?' she said.
The Hammer nodded, lips clenched. Looked her in the eye.
'Got a few things to do this weekend,' he said.
Dillinger's eyebrows plunged together.
'What are you saying?'
He shrugged, lifted his pint and waved it around a little.
'This and that. Stuff, you know. And the bastard is us going on Saturday and coming back on Monday. Just can't get the day off work.'
'It's Christmas Eve!'
'You know what it's like at that place.'
'So you're not coming?'
He stared at her. Expressionless.
'Pretty much,' he said.
'Paul?' she said, a little pained. She could be cool, she could achieve her air of aloofness, she could be judgemental, but she still had feelings same as every other human, and a lot of those feelings were for The Hammer. A good man; brutal, perhaps, but always a good bet on the weekend away in case tempers frayed and the true nature of some of their crowd emerged. 'I thought, well you know ...' she said, and let the sentence drift off.
The Hammer shrugged again. Stay firm, he thought.
'Just got things to do, you know. Sorry, love, but that's the way it goes.'
'What are you doing, then?' asked Dillinger. Could tell there was something else going on in there. None of this lot ever told the truth.
The Hammer could no longer look her in the eye. Quickly downed the rest of his pint. He didn't owe her anything. He had vague feelings for her, but he could afford to lose them. And, of course, if the worst came to the worst, he could always just kill her. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before.
Drained the glass, rested it in a pool of sludge. Arnie Medlock drunkenly yelled something about Wagner's antagonistic interdependence with Nietzsche; someone obscurely put George Harrison's Behind That Locked Door on the juke-box; across the bar punches were thrown in a discussion on Paul McStay's overall contribution, or lack of it, to Scottish football; outside a car smashed into a lamppost; overhead, a plane, destined to crash into the side of a Spanish mountain after a near-miss with an Air Afrique 737 flown by the pilot's brother-in-law, roared quietly through the night sky.
'Got to go, babe,' he said. Put a small piece of paper in her hand. 'Here's my name for the Christmas draw. You'd better give it to someone else.' Cheekily leant forward and kissed her on the lips, didn't look her in the eye, and was gone. The Incredible Captain Bullshit, that was how he'd been known at university. Until the incident with his ex-girlfriend, after which he'd became the Incredible Captain Bloodbath.
Katie Dillinger watched him go. Curious and moderately hurt. Looks like me and Arnie Medlock this weekend, she thought.
She turned and surveyed her merry men and women. Arguing, chatting, flirting, pointing, shouting, talking, posing. A flawed bunch who she would lead away for a weekend in an isolated house in the Borders; and as she surveyed them, a shiver ran up her back and suddenly she felt a cold draught of dread and a vision of blood and of a slashed throat came to her, and was gone in the time it took to lift her glass and nervously swallow the remnants of her fifth vodka tonic of the night.
***
Number three. Or number two, as the police would think, for it would be some time before they realised that Wee Corky Nae Nuts had been murdered by the same man.
The killer was keeping better count, however. For the moment. Seven was his intended number. A good number, seven. Seven seals.
The same thing for supper every night now for two months. Home from the pub, then Spam fritters, chips and mushy peas. The pleasure of it was beginning to wear off. He had only been able to finish them these past couple of nights owing to the wine with which he'd been washing it down. A New Zealand chardonnay. Strangely it didn't recommend on the label that you should drink it with Spam fritters, so he was thinking of writing to the vineyard and getting them to change the wording. A light, fruity wine with excellent length, firm thighs and a hairy arse, with overtones of strawberries, lime and mince. Delicious as an aperitif, or as an accompaniment to fish, chicken, salad, Spam fritters, chips and mushy peas. Buy it or we'll break your legs.
He swallowed the remainder of the bottle and headed on out into the night. It had turned a little colder, and there was light December rain in the air. A jacket, certainly, but he still didn't need a jumper. Might not even have needed the jacket in fact, if he hadn't required somewhere to conceal the knife.
Not sure yet of his intended victim. Might be male, might be female. You just never knew until it happened.
He was moderately disturbed by himself, since this psychotic urge had been reawakened. Sometimes, however, you just had to follow through on your urges. And so he caught a lonely bus to a different part of the city, and on this dank night he would see another lonely figure plying a desolate trade and, with a smile upon his face, he would move in for the kill.
***
And in the small hours of the morning, as the killer made his way home on an even lonelier bus, and as the body of Jason Ballater lay slumped in a bloody mess against the wall of a public WC; and as the rain fell softly against the bedroom windows of the city; and as the night wept for the departed and all the souls who would lose the fight for life, Barney Thomson awoke from a nightmare, the prayers for his own soul still ringing in his head, the spectre of death still standing at his shoulder, his heart thumping, pains across his chest, drenched in sweat.
––––––––
Feet up, eyes closed.
If it had been a warm, sunny day, the air filled with luxurious summer smells, the occasional bug buzzing by, and if some bikini-clad überchick had been running at his beck and call, fetching cold beers and endless packets of Doritos, while performing a vast array of indescribably erotic things to his body, then it would have been high up in the top ten list of things to do when you were dead.
But it was Scotland in December, so you took what you could get. It was not too cold, he had a cup of tea and a ham, cucumber and mustard sandwich, and he was on his own; which, while not as good as hanging out with a bikini-clad überchick, was way up on being with some cretinous idiot who'd irritated the ham sandwich out of him.
Which just about classified everyone Detective Chief Inspector Joel Mulholland knew these days, such ill-humour had he been in these recent months.
The river rolled by, water splashing against rocks and rounding up twigs and leaves to sweep them downstream; a variety of fish loafed about, avoiding the meagre fare on offer at the end of Mulholland's line; a zither of wind rustled what leaves remained on the trees; clouds occasionally obscured the sun, before passing on their way. Somewhere overhead a plane headed west, carrying on board, by some strange coincidence, Mulholland's ex-wife, although he was not to know. It was some seven months since they'd had any direct contact, all communication between them now being conducted through, on the one hand Weir, Hermiston, Jekyll & Silver, and on the other Goodchap, Neugent, Turkey & Bratwurst.
Generally there are two or three ways you can go when nearly thirty people under your protection are murdered, and you get to view most of the mutilated bodies along the way. There's the way where you throw yourself back into your work, doing whatever minor tasks the superintendent will let you near. There's the way where you go completely off your head, wander around the streets, naked bar the pair of underpants on your head, singing the first eight verses of Old Shep. Or you can go quietly insane, get transferred to some sleepy backwater, and spend your days fishing and doing paperwork on whatever local youth has chosen to fall into the river the night before, after drinking too much gooseberry wine at his Uncle Andy's fiftieth birthday party.
Sergeant Erin Proudfoot had opted for the first on the list. It was the only way for her, and she had been rewarded with every trivial task coming the way of Maryhill police station for ten months; from the theft of some old granny's thimble collection, to missing cats and stray libidos, she'd seen it all.
Mulholland had tottered between the other two. A few months of intense romance with Proudfoot and then, with the breaking of any other day, but a day on which reality had finally kicked in, he'd gone gently off his head. Over thirty men dead, a police officer downed among them, he'd had to view the sort of carnage at which Genghis Khan would have winced. He had taken it out on Proudfoot – love by any other name – and when at last he had edged towards quiet insanity, he'd been posted, at his request, to the requisite sleepy town in Argyll, to fish and sleep and eat and occasionally solve some innocent crime. (Not that major crime didn't happen in Argyll, it was just that none of it was put the way of Joel Mulholland.)
So they had gone their separate ways, these two, but they had this in common. They were both in counselling, and would be for some time to come; unless destiny played its hand, as it has a tendency to do.
Not that Mulholland gave much thought to counselling as he felt a gentle pull on his fishing line; in fact, he didn't think about much at all. The past was there to be dredged up four or five hours a week by Dr Murz, and not at any other time. And if he was required to face that past in order to return to normality, then, he occasionally opined to the doctor, who needed normality?
The tug on the fishing line came a little harder. Might have something, he thought, as he tried to rouse himself from the waking dream; a dream which, as usual, had dark edges and strange, evil creatures poised to enter at any moment, should he let his guard down. Eyes slowly opened; a man stood in front of him, fingers wet from where he'd been tugging the line.
Mulholland stared for some time. Nothing worse than being interrupted when you're in the middle of nothing. The other man looked around at the trees and the river and the blue sky; there was a light smell of wood burning in the air, and despite the mildness, the promise of a crisp early evening.
'Very tree-ie around here,' said Constable Hardwood.
Mulholland closed his eyes, trying to drift back into the world of non-demons he had just left.
'Arboreal, Constable,' he said. 'The word is arboreal.'
'Aye,' said Hardwood. 'And there's a lot of trees 'n' all. Reminds me of a place my dad used to take me fishing when I was a lad.'
'Oh aye,' said Mulholland, eyes firmly closed, his netherworld receding all the time. 'Where was that?'
'About fifty yards along the river there,' said Hardwood, pointing.
'Har-de-har-har, Constable. You want to tell me what I can do for you?'
Hardwood smiled at the closed eyes. There'd been a time, not long after Mulholland arrived, when he'd been in awe of the man. There'd been a glint of madness in his eye and stories were legion of the affair at the monastery, as if he himself might have had something to do with all the murders. But over time Hardwood and the rest of the station had come to realise that Mulholland was merely shell-shocked, not mad. Harmless in his way. Although you could never be completely sure; that's what Sergeant Dawkins said.
'You're wanted,' said Hardwood.
'I'm fishing.'
Hardwood nodded and stared around at the trees. Didn't know the name of any of them. They were green, and in the winter the leaves come off; that was the limit of his knowledge. Trees weren't his thing. Constable Lauder said that Mulholland had threatened him with a knife not long after he'd arrived, but no one really believed it. And if it had been true, then so be it, because if anyone deserved to be threatened with a knife...
'It's important,' said Hardwood.
'Don't care,' said Mulholland, eyes firmly shut.
Hardwood nodded again. Beginning to wonder what to do next. On the one hand he had the perhaps not psychopathic but at least a bit strange Joel Mulholland; while on the other he had Superintendent Cunningham, a woman who ate men's testicles for breakfast. And lunch.
Tough call. He balked.
'You're still here, Constable,' said Mulholland, eyes closed, the taste of ham, cucumber and mustard in his mouth.
'Aye.'
'What could you possibly want now that I've sent you on your way?'
Hardwood didn't move. He'd known Mulholland would be like this; and he'd been told to get him under any circumstances.
'You really are needed, sir,' he said, knowing that it wasn't enough. He would need more than that to persuade the shell-shocked victim from his fishing perch.
'Don't give a hoot, son,' said Mulholland. 'Go back and tell Geraldine that she can stick her head up her arse. You can help her to stick her head up her arse if you want; you have my authority.'
The fishing line was tugged again; a sharp pull. Mulholland snapped. Eyes open, he sat up, filled with the instant rage to which he had been prone for months. Did not even try to contain it.
'Bloody hell, Constable, I told you to fuck off! It's my day off, I've got nothing to go in for, so would you just get out of my face? Leave me in peace and tell Geraldine she can go and piss in her shoes. I'll see her in the morning.'
'That wasn't me, sir,' said Hardwood dryly.
'What?'
There was another tug at the line, Hardwood nowhere near it. As ever with his explosions of anger, Mulholland felt instant regret; and as ever, it ruined the sound basis for his argument and put him a couple of goals behind.
It was time, he thought, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead, that Murz started earning her money. He didn't need counselling a few hours a week, it should be all day every day for the next twenty years. And so he ignored the jumping line.
'Sorry, Constable, that was bad.'
'That's all right, sir,' said Hardwood.
'So what's the score, then? Why's Geraldine so keen to see me? Wanting into my pants?' said Mulholland glibly, as he hauled himself from his seat and began to wind in his third fish of the day; three fish he would never get the chance to eat.
'Likes 'em younger than you, sir,' said Hardwood and Mulholland laughed.
'Right, Constable. About your age, by any chance?'
Hardwood smiled, Mulholland shook his head. So it went, and he began to get his equipment together, fishing posted to the back of his mind.
Soon he would be dispatched back to Glasgow, to be once more commissioned to follow the trail of Barney Thomson; and to be once more landed in the dark heart of a murderer's lair, to taste the putrid flesh.
'Whatever it's going to be,' said Mulholland, 'I'll bet it's a load of pants.'
'Aye,' said Hardwood, knowing no more than Mulholland. 'No doubt.'
––––––––
Barney stepped back and looked at the hair from a different angle. It was not going well. In fact, it was downright ugly. There had been more successful invasions of Russia in the previous two hundred years than this. It was time for retrospection, perhaps even damage limitation.
The Tyrolean Überhosen was one of the most complex haircuts ever to have emerged from Austria, and only three or four barbers outside the general Anschluss area had ever been able to master it. And for all his greatness, for all his communication with the gods of barbery, for all the angels fluttering their wings at his shoulder, and for all the elves weaving necromancy into the very fabric of his comb and scissors, rendering household plastic and steel into wondrous instruments of sortilege and legerdemain, transforming him from the journeyman barber of his past to the thaumaturgist of the present, turning water to wine by the agency of the theurgical jewels of his workmanship, Barney Thomson wasn't one of those three or four; and he was making an arse of it.
It was a tough haircut, no question. Ask any barber in Britain to perform it and they will quail at the very mention, for the line between success and failure is a fine one, and the consequences of that failure can be monumentally disastrous.
Of all the law suits brought against barbers in Great Britain over the final twelve years of the twentieth century, more than half were as a direct result of a failed Tyrolean Überhosen. See a man wearing what is obviously the first hat he could get his hands on, on a warm day when no headwear is required, and it's a sure bet that under that ill-fitting hat is a failed attempt at this haircut of which only kings can truly dream.
Why do men take the chance, many have wondered; but only those who have never seen the finished article in all its glory. It is questioned only by those who have never seen a man, bedecked in a perfectly executed Tyrolean Überhosen, strolling through town, with more confidence about him than Muhammad Ali when he fought Sonny Liston (or anyone else for that matter), men in awe of his every word, desperate women tearing frantically at his trousers, and the sun shining down upon him while rain soaks everyone else in his vicinity.
The barber who can execute the Tyrolean Überhosen is a wealthy man, for he can command a huge fee for every cut. And so Barney had dreamed of this day. Twice before, at Henderson's so very long ago, he had been asked for the cut, but he hadn't had the confidence to agree to do it. Not with those others in the shop just waiting to pass comment; not with his confidence shattered, and even the simplest Frank Sinatra '62 causing him problems. But now he'd been offered the chance of his shot at greatness, and such was his confidence, such was the air of indefatigability about him, the all-conquering hero of hirsutology he believed himself to have become, that he'd taken it on with barely a second thought, and hardly a trembling finger.
Twenty-five minutes in, however, and it was, as previously reported, getting ugly. It was not happening the way it was supposed to; the cut itself was uneven, the hair was not sitting as it should; the razor had buzzed unnecessarily long in his hand. Of course, not every head of hair is right to be turned into this cut, and this was indeed such a head of hair. Even Gert Struble, the famous late-nineteenth-century barber-cum-philosopher from Salzburg, would have been unable to successfully transform this head. Barney had known of this limitation, but bravado had forced his hand.
'How's it going, mate?' asked Wolfie Hopkins, not long returned from a walking holiday in the Tyrol and keen to emulate all the gigolos living it up at the expense of a variety of fabulous women.
Barney hesitated. There's a time for candour, etc., etc. This was a new, more-confident-with-the-customers Barney, however. Was there any point in lying? He could hardly cut the guy's hair down to nothing; he had more hair than Barney the Bear, a bear he'd once seen in a zoo; and the jug of water treatment would be completely lost on the bloke. Perhaps it was time to cut his losses.
'I have to be honest with you, mate. I don't think it's going too well. I'm sorry, but I just don't know what else I can do.'
Leyman Blizzard looked over from where he was struggling through a Zeppo Marx. He'd never even heard of a Tyrolean Überhosen, and he was not about to think critically.
Wolfie Hopkins pursed his lips and nodded. He'd already realised, even though there'd obviously still been some way to go. No fool, Wolfie Hopkins, he'd known the difficulty, been aware of the consequences, he'd known that his hair was probably not suited; and he'd also known that if the barber was sensible and pulled out in time, there would still be other, albeit less attractive, options open to him.
'That's all right, mate,' said Wolfie. 'Is there anything else you can do?'
Barney breathed deeply and took a further step back. Suddenly felt relieved. The haircut wasn't happening, he'd been foolish to start it in the first place, but at least the customer was being realistic.
'Might be able to do you a Lionel Blair,' he said.
Wolfie Hopkins laughed harshly. 'You've got to be joking, mate. Never.'
'Aye, aye, right enough. Don't want to leave you looking like that, eh? What about a William Shatner or maybe even an Estonian Eleemosynary Euclidean Short Back and Sides?'
Hopkins turned around. 'Bloody hell,' he said, 'that last one sounds flash. What is it, exactly?'
'Basically,' said Barney, wondering how he could word this so that it lived up to its name, 'it's a short back and sides.'
Wolfie Hopkins stared into the mirror. The dream had gone. He knew not that he currently sat in the chair of the finest barber in Scotland, but he doubted anyway that any other barber in the country would have been able to give him the cut he desired. Sometimes it made sense just to sit back, take what was coming to you, and go with the flow. Two days to the office Christmas party, and he was as well taking the safe option at this stage. It was not as if he desperately needed great hair to get the women anyway. He could always rely on his charm, his impressive good looks, and if all else failed, his horse-sized genitals.
'Aye, that'll do, mate,' he said. And Barney, breathing a sigh of relief, got down to business.
***
Late afternoon in the shop. Getting dark outside. It was about the time that people were beginning to think of packing up work for the day; that the latest Glasgow killer was beginning to wonder about his next victim; and about the time that Joel Mulholland was heading back to Glasgow, to once again face the reality of police work and murder investigation.
Barney was working steadily through a Burt Lancaster '65; Leyman Blizzard was giving a young lad a Jimmy Stewart even though he'd asked for a Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink; while one customer sat and waited, reading that day's edition of the Evening Times. Headline: Thomson Strikes Again, City in Grip of Fear.
Barney had seen these headlines, of course, and such was his sense of defeat at the hands of inevitability that he was not in the least surprised that some murderer should have kicked off a killing spree within a few days of his return to the city. He would almost have been surprised if it hadn't happened. But he doubted that anyone was going to turn him in, so disbelieving were all his customers that he was who he claimed to be.
He might have had alibis for the evenings in question, he wasn't sure. There was a fair chance that when the murders were committed he'd been sitting in the Paddle Steamer, bored stiff, listening to the bit about how Leyman had cut Elvis's hair in 1960, how he'd got the King's earwax caught under his fingernail, and how he hadn't washed for a fortnight. Although perhaps he'd been sitting in front of the television at home, with no one to vouch for him but Les Dennis or Peter Sissons.
There was a healthy debate on adverts taking place; or at least, the sort of debate where all the participants are on the same side.
'Load of pish,' said Barney's Burt Lancaster, 'and pretentious pish at that. But that's no' the main thing. You want to know what the main thing is?'
Barney nodded; at a delicate stage, adjacent to the right earlobe.
'When was the last time you saw an advert where the man in it didn't look like a total wank stain on the pants of society? Eh?'
'Aye,' said Leyman Blizzard, 'what he said!'
'I mean,' Burt Lancaster continued, 'every single advert you get these days where there's a bird and a bloke, the bird's as cool as you can get, and the guy's a flipping idiot. You know, if there's two folk eating breakfast cereal, and one of the cereals is a stunning bit of stuff, while the other's a load of shite, gives you haemorrhoids, and makes you look like a total arseface just 'cause you're eating it, you can bet that it's the bird who's eating the new packet of Just Perfect, or Fucking Stunning, or New Fibre Wheato-Flakes or Some Packet of Shite That Makes You Shit Like A Horse And No Want Lunch Until About Three In The Afternoon. And if it's a motor, it'll have some stupid name like the new Fiat Pants or the Renault Smug Bastard, and there'll be some bird who's all racy and chic and gorgeous who'll know all about the car and know how to drive it, while the poor slob of a bloke'll just be sitting watching the fitba', and would much rather be in his Wartburg, and the implication'll be that the bloke can't drive properly 'cause he's got no dick. It absolutely rips my knitting.'
'Rips your knitting?' said Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink. 'The ones I hate are those domestic ones where the bloke's a total knobend and the bird's got to show him how to do the washing up, or put the washing machine on, or turn on the telly or wipe his arse. It's dreadful.'
'Sexist,' said Burt Lancaster. 'Bloody sexist. You couldn't get away with doing it the other way about.'
'Naw,' said Hasselbaink, 'you couldn't. Adverts are all dominated by women these days. You can't fart without there being some advert for tampons or Canesten or washing-up liquid, or some other women's shite like yon. Shocking.'
'Canesten?' said Leyman Blizzard. 'Did he no' use to play for Morton?'
'You know why it is, though?' said Barney, ignoring Blizzard.
'Why?' said Hasselbaink and Lancaster in unison.
'It's because these advertisers know that women are more susceptible to these things. I mean, let's face it, most of the stuff that gets advertised on the telly's a load of shite, right? They tell you something's going to make your teeth whiter than white, or make you more attractive, or make your shoes shinier, or some shite, whatever, but it's all a load of kiech. Like yon Twix advert from a while back where some bloke would take a galumphing great bite out of some other chocolate bar, jamming the bloody thing so far back down his throat he couldn't breathe, then some eejit would take a minuscule bite from a Twix and then start prattling on about how brilliant he was because he had so much of his bar left, and that the other guy was a wanker. It was all a load o' pish.'
'So?'
'Well, you see, women can't see through all that. They're no' as astute as us men. They're more susceptible to the adman's bullshit. Men have smart, intuitive, clear-thinking, rapier-like minds. Women are just stupid. So the admen have to pander to women's stupidity, knowing that men are too sage to be fooled by them. Too sage,' he repeated.
Burt Lancaster, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Leyman Blizzard stared into the mirror, thinking deeply about what Barney had just said. Sounded about right, they thought.
'Wait a minute,' said Blizzard. 'Wasn't Canesten the guy that went to the Rangers and got his leg broken?'
––––––––
'I've thought of a good advert for that crap you drink,' said Barney to Leyman Blizzard.
Blizzard downed the dregs of his neat whisky and laid the glass back on the table.
'Good for you, son,' he said. 'You can tell me all about it after you've got me another.'
Barney shook his head. 'Jings,' he said. 'I wish you'd stop drinking that stuff as if it was lager. You've had about five of them and I'm still on my first pint.'
'That's 'cause you drink like a pussy,' said Blizzard, and Barney finished off the rest of his pint in one gulp as some concession to peer pressure, then headed for the bar.
They were in Barney's new local; the bar that had been Blizzard's home from home for some time. The Paddle Steamer; ten minutes' walk from Barney's flat, and where he now found himself for the third night running. The occasional game of dominoes, but mostly they sat and talked, reliving great haircuts from the past. In Blizzard's case this consisted entirely of his insistence that he'd cut Elvis's hair when he'd stopped at Prestwick on his way back from Germany in 1960. The story usually came between his fifth and sixth doubles, but sometimes earlier. Barney hadn't heard it yet that evening; it was due.
'Pint of Tennents and a double for Leyman,' said Barney, and the barman nodded and went about his business.
Barney looked around the bar as he waited. Saw the same old faces. Only the third night and already it was as familiar as anything he'd ever known. The faded wallpaper, the one-armed bandits unchanged in the corner since time began, Old Jack the barman, and the occasional barwoman, Lolita. This was his new life; and if it already seemed mundane and overly familiar after three evenings, what would it be like after a few years? A decade? Or worse, would he still be here when he was eighty-five, telling some younger man in the bar how he'd once cut Billy Connolly's hair before he'd become famous.
He exchanged money and drinks and headed back to the table. Blizzard was leering unattractively at a woman fifty years his junior at a nearby table.
'Stop that, Leyman,' he said, as he sat down, 'you're frightening her.'
'Bollocks,' said the old man, 'she fancies me.'
'Aye, in your dreams.'
Blizzard downed half the drink in one then laid the glass on the table.
'Right then, son, tell us about this brilliant advert you've got. Though I don't know why you're telling me, 'cause it's no' as if any bastard needs to persuade me to buy it.'
'Right,' said Barney, 'here we go. The Teletubbies are driving along the road in a motor, right?'
'Who the fuck are the Teletubbies?'
'You know, they stupid bastards on the telly. Four big fat bastards, of different colours 'n' all that. One of the blokes has got a handbag.'
'A handbag? A big, fat, funny-coloured bloke with a handbag? What kind of shite do you watch on the telly, anyway?'
'Help m'boab, Leyman, every bastard's heard of the Teletubbies. Anyway, they're all driving along in the motor, when all of a sudden they hit something in the middle of the road and they crash.'
'They hit what? What kind of thing are you going to just get in the middle of the road?'
'I don't know, something. A pheasant or some shite like that.'
'You really think you're necessarily going to crash just 'cause you hit a pheasant?'
'Fuck, all right, then, they hit a lamppost. That better?'
'A lamppost? In the middle of the road? Where the fuck are these people?'
'God, Leyman, you're a cantankerous old bastard. Right, a bloody huge dog runs out in front of them, they swerve to avoid it, and they hit a lamppost at the side of the road. How's that?'
'That seems plausible. Don't think that's going to sell you much whisky, though, is it? What's your slogan going to be? Drink This Shite and You Might Crash Your Motor and Die? That's brilliant, son. Think you should stick to your day job.'
'They haven't been drinking yet.'
'So why do they crash the motor, then?'
'Because of the fucking dog!'
'Oh aye, aye, right enough. Right, on you go. There's these four weird-looking bastards with handbags in a motor. To avoid hitting a dog they drive into a lamppost. Got you. What happens next?'
Blizzard finished off his sixth double whisky of the night.
'Right. They all die, except the wee one, the red one, you know.'
'The red one? One of them's red?'
'Aye, and she doesn't die.'
'She? I thought they were all blokes?'
'Naw. There's a couple of blokes and a couple of birds.'
'So it's one of the birds who's got a handbag? Nothing wrong with that, son. You made it sound sinful.'
'Naw, it's one of the blokes who's got the handbag.'
'How come?'
'I don't know, do I? Bloody Hell, Leyman, let me finish. So they're all dead, right?'
'I thought the red one wasn't dead?'
'Aye, right, they're all dead except the red one. Right?'
'Right. But I think you'd better get to the point, 'cause I'm beginning to think your talking a load of shite.'
'Right. We switch to a couple of months later, and the wee bastard's sitting in a bar quaffing double whiskies. Pissed out her socks, so she is. And she keeps downing the doubles in a oner. Then she slams her glass down on the bar, and says to the barman, “Again, again. Again, again.”'
Blizzard stared across the table, looking a bit bemused. There was a loud cheer from around the dartboard, the sound of lager filling a glass from a malfunctioning tap. The woman Blizzard had been eyeing up slapped her hand viciously onto the face of the man sat across the table from her, before he got up and headed to the bar. Somewhere there was the vague sound of arguing over the exact consistency of Jupiter's atmosphere.
'What in the name of fuck are you talking about, son?' said Blizzard eventually.
'You've got to watch the programme,' said Barney. 'I mean, I've only seen it a couple of times myself.'
'Load of shite, by the sounds of it. Right, son, tell you what. You away and buy me another couple of shots. I'm going to have a go at this bird that's been giving me the eye while her shag's at the bar. And if I blow out, when you get back I'll tell you all about the time I cut the King's hair. Rare story, that one. Rare.'
Barney rose once more from his seat. Not that bloody rare, he thought to himself, as he headed off across the pub.
***
'What are you saying, son?' asked Leyman Blizzard.
Barney stared across the table. There are all sorts of different ways in which drunkenness manifests itself, no question about that. Leyman Blizzard's was fairly harmless. He didn't get aggressive, he didn't slur his words, he didn't get maudlin, he didn't marry someone he shouldn't, he didn't pick fights just for the hell of it. What did happen was that he talked incessantly about Elvis.
'Don't,' said Barney. 'Just don't keep telling me about bloody Elvis. I know you cut the bastard's hair. I know you told him he should stick to rock 'n' roll and that if he'd listened to you he'd still be alive today. I know all that. Give us a break, will you?'
'Are you saying that I've told you all this before, is that it, Mr Fancy Pants Haircutting Bastard?'
'Aye, you told me last night, and the night before that. And you also mention it in the bloody shop every time some idiot with black hair walks in. Just give us a break. Could you no' have cut John F. Kennedy's hair tonight or something?'
'But I didn't cut that bastard's hair. I cut Elvis's hair, didn't I no'?'
'Aye, so you've said.'
Leyman Blizzard held his hands up in some sort of weird, drunken gesture; waved them around a little; nodded his head.
'All right, son, all right, you may have a point. But face it, at least I'm pissed when I start going on about the King, and at least it's a true story. You, on the other hand, are always sober and haven't shut up about how you're Barney bloody Thomson since you got here.'
Barney did the 'Penalty, ref!' gesture and shook his head.
'What do you want me to say, Leyman? I am Barney Thomson, I can't help it. I am who I am.'
'There you go with your cod philosophy. Why don't you hand yourself in to the polis, then?'
'Come on, Leyman, I've tried that. You know I've tried it. They're no' interested. The second lot I went to I even suggested they do a DNA test on me, and the bloke told me to clear off. Said they'd run out of money to do DNA tests 'cause they'd done so many in the past year. What can I do, Leyman? I'm stuffed. And you're stuck with me.'
Blizzard swallowed the last of his fourteenth and final whisky for the night – a man who knew his limit. He shook his head, reached across the table and gripped Barney by the hand. Barney felt a little self-conscious and hoped no one was looking.
'You'll be the saviour of my shop, son,' said Blizzard. 'I can't imagine it without you now. I hope you're going to be here for years to come. You're a good pal, 'n' all.'
He took his hand away as he spoke, allowing Barney to feel more comfortable and appreciate the sentiment. Needed, liked and respected. What more could he really want?
'Just a couple of bits of advice,' continued Leyman, and Barney was not entirely sure he wanted to hear them. 'First of all, you've got to get yourself a shag, Big Man. There are plenty of women out there, you've got to get stuck in, you know?'
'Right.'
'And another thing. Don't know if this is for you, or no'. Might be, might not. We'll see.'
He did an exaggerated thing with his hand while he paused, indicating maybe, maybe not. Barney leaned forward, although he didn't know why he was that interested. When is advice from drunk men ever even remotely applicable to this planet, never mind the situation to which they are referring? Barney was not to know that this advice would seem strangely relevant, would seem like the perfect foil to the uncertainties over his past and would ultimately plant him firmly, once more, in the nest of vipers.
He strained to hear above the cheering coming from the dartboard area.
'I know somebody who knows somebody else,' said Leyman, lifting his eyebrows.
'Aye?' said Barney, when nothing else was immediately forthcoming.
Blizzard tapped the side of his nose in an exaggerated manner; winked excessively; nodded his head. And then he slowly collapsed onto the table, so that his face lay in among the whisky swill, his mouth was squashed open and his nose was bent to the right.
Some other time, then, thought Barney.
––––––––
Once more back where it all began. Joel Mulholland sat across the desk from Chief Superintendent McMenemy, as the old man read the only folder remaining on his spartan desk. One late December morning, still the weather outside that nothing, grey, mild, humourless weather that pollutes Scotland for much of the year. And Mulholland sat there and watched the old man, with nothing, grey, mild, humourless thoughts on his mind.
Had no idea why he was there; could not even begin to care; and had already decided that if he didn't like the sound of what he was about to be told, he'd tell McMenemy where he could stick his job, and where he could stick the entire police force. Although, after several hours of thought on what it could be that required his presence in front of the self-styled M of the Strathclyde police, the only explanation he could think of was so that M could tell him that he was not wanted any more.
That would make sense. He was a wash-out, and he knew it. Couldn't have given a hoot either. He'd got enough money in the bank that he could afford to go to some quiet little village somewhere, settle down, and live a life of trundling nothingness... for up to a fortnight. After that, when he'd run out of cash, who knew what he'd do. Rob banks maybe.
M raised his head and stared seriously across the old desk at Mulholland. The clock ticked high up on the wall, cars skittered past outside, somewhere a woman bit noisily into a bar of chocolate she'd seen advertised on TV at the weekend. McMenemy's eyes searched Mulholland's face for any sign of spirit, but he could find nothing. He had heard, of course, what he'd been up to. Weekly reports had come back to McMenemy from Murz and Cunningham. He knew the state of Mulholland's mind; and he thought he'd found the perfect way to get him out of it. Expected, as he sat, that Mulholland would know exactly why he was there; and couldn't have been more wrong.
'It's been a few months, Chief Inspector. How've you been?'
Mulholland shrugged. How is anybody? Is anyone ever as bad as they say they are, or as good as they think they might be?
'All right,' he said, trying not to dwell on introspection.
'Done some work up the west coast,' McMenemy said, half-question, half-remark. He knew everything Mulholland had worked on this past six months, and knew that little of it would have had any meaning or interest. His wife had gone; his life too, and to a place from where it would be very difficult to retrieve.
'Some,' Mulholland replied. A few cases, one arrest; only surviving up there as a favour from Cunningham to McMenemy, repaying an old debt.
'How do you feel?' McMenemy asked. 'Ready yet for some real work, or do you think you need a little longer where you are?'
He knew full well the answer to that question. The soft touch was not working. If he left Mulholland where he was, he would never get his officer back. He was not the best man he'd ever had, but he was a good detective, and there were few enough of them around. He had decided there might only be one way to bring him round. Shock tactics. Put him back in the same situation as before, and see how he reacted. If he failed, and failed to the point where he even lost his life, then what had the police lost as a result? And should he succeed, and they got their man back, then it would have been justified. A bit like M sending James Bond after Scaramanga in The Man with the Golden Gun, thought McMenemy. Bond was washed up, had been brainwashed by the Russians, and might as well have been dead. If he was killed by Scaramanga, then so be it. If he killed the greatest assassin on the planet, then he'd proved that he was back.
Mulholland is my Bond; and Barney Thomson his Scaramanga, thought M, in one of his more ridiculous thoughts of the previous fifty years.
Mulholland weighed up his answer to the last question. Did not feel like being honest about it, and decided to hold off from the bitter whims of veracity for a little while longer.
'Not sure, sir,' he said, while thinking that if he was ordered back to Glasgow now, he was heading to Oban and catching the first boat to some remote island where crime was a thing of the future.
McMenemy nodded and clasped his hands in front of him. He knew how to read one of his officers, and he could read Joel Mulholland. Maybe this would indeed be to push him too far.
'You'll have seen the newspapers, heard what's been happening in Glasgow these past couple of nights.'
Mulholland stared at his boss, trying to think. Besides the blatant act of not caring, there remained the semblance of integrity and the need to at least give some sort of an answer. So he tried to think if he'd heard anything of the news or of anything mentioned at work in the previous few days, but there was nothing there. The way Cunningham had spoken implied that there were things going on that he should know about, but he'd barely ever paid her any attention anyway, and the previous day hadn't been any different.
McMenemy had waited long enough for an answer. He cleared his throat, opened the drawer at his right hand and took out a remote control for a video and television. He indicated to Mulholland that he should turn around to watch the TV just behind; then fumbled with the buttons to get the whole thing rolling.
Mulholland turned and watched as the screen jumped to life and the creaky closed circuit video footage rolled. A man stood at the counter of a police station, engaged in muted conversation with the desk sergeant; a policeman whose body language suggested some apathy.
They watched for a couple of minutes, until the man turned away from the desk and walked out of the police station, the sergeant hardly even noticing where he'd gone. McMenemy shut the television down and waited for Mulholland to turn and face him, and it was some time before he dragged himself back around from the blank screen.
What had just gone through his head? Even he did not know. Not even a jumping of his heart when he'd first seen the man, so dead was his mind to everything that had gone before.
'Recognise him?' asked McMenemy.
Mulholland breathed deeply. The old man hadn't so much as toyed with his pipe since he'd walked in but he could smell it all the same. It was in the fabric of the room. And when he did eventually decide to go, or was kicked ruthlessly into touch, it'd take years for his successor to rid the place of his smell.
'Barney Thomson,' he said. 'Good old Barney. What was that all about?'
'Decided to hand himself in,' said McMenemy.
'Right. Got him at last,' said Mulholland, wondering why the man couldn't just have walked away and started a new life when he'd had the chance.
'Not as such,' said McMenemy. 'The desk sergeant let him go, didn't get an address. Apparently he tried to offer himself up to a small station in Partick later the same day, but they're being hush-hush about it. Embarrassed as hell, same as us.'
Mulholland laughed. Bloody typical. The Glasgow polis at their finest.
'Looked like Sergeant Mullen, to me. He had his reasons, I suppose,' he said and McMenemy shrugged.
'These things happen. There hasn't been a crackpot lunatic within a hundred miles of Glasgow who hasn't handed himself over in the last ten months, claiming to be Thomson. There's even been a book. Fifty-Seven Ways to Make the Police Think You're Barney Thomson. Quite funny actually, though I wouldn't say that in public. So, of course, when the real thing turns up, our man was so pissed off about all the other idiots that he let him go. A constable spotted him on the tape a couple of days later. You're about the only man here who's seen him in real life. You can confirm it's him, can you?'
'Looks like him.'
'Exactly. And we let him go. If the press ever find out they'll have my testicles on toast, so it's mouths shut. Of course, I've had Mullen's testicles on toast, but there's no way I'm standing for any of that business with my own testicles. Which is all the more likely in view of what's happened this week.'
Mulholland raised his eyebrows. Here we go again drifted through his head.
'He's at it again,' said McMenemy. 'There've been another couple of murders in the city. West End as usual. The bloody city's shitting its pants again. I can't believe it. Bloody nightmare. Why me? Why can't the bastard go and plague some other district of Glasgow for once, or Edinburgh, even? There're plenty of people in Edinburgh he could kill.'
Mulholland smiled. Good old Barney; a fool for anything.
'What makes you think it's him?' he said. Smiled, but inside he was laughing. They were just back where they'd been the previous year, when every crime, no matter how absurd, was blamed on Barney Thomson.
'Good God, it has all the hallmarks of the man. He's known to have been in the area for a few days, and all of a sudden there are bloody murders all over the place. It follows the man around, and eventually you have to stop thinking that it's all coincidence. The man is a killer.'
The smile had not left Mulholland's face. Time to use it.
'Bollocks,' he said.
'I beg your pardon.'
'Bollocks. Barney Thomson never actually murdered anyone in his life. He accidentally killed his work colleagues, and that's the end of it. He's no more of a murderer than you or me, Superintendent. He's nothing. He couldn't hurt a bloody fly, even if he wanted to. Why can't you just leave the man alone?'
'Chief Inspector!'
Mulholland shook his head, then relaxed back into his seat. Had said what he had to say. If the old fool wanted his officers to spend their time chasing shadows and ghosts and false reputations, then that was fine by him. As long as he was not one of those officers.
'Your condition appears to be even worse than I was led to believe, Chief Inspector. Barney Thomson is the most feared criminal of the last hundred years. I had hoped the prospect of going after him once again might get your juices flowing, but I fear I may be wrong. He escaped you once, and if you still had it in you, and it appears that you may not have, I would have thought you would be determined to bring him once more to justice.'
McMenemy stared deeply into his eyes again, then stood up and turned to look out into the gloom of late morning. The streetlights were on, cars were streaming past on the road outside, pedestrians frittered by, many in fear of the killer who once again stalked the streets.
He still intended sending Mulholland out on the case; the previous few words more intended as shock tactics.
Mulholland watched the old man's back. Barney Thomson. Death did seem to follow the man around, but he was no killer. And the man had saved his life, no question about that. If it hadn't been for Barney Thomson, he wouldn't have been sitting there.
It had seemed like a good thing at the time.
Not that he was about to tell McMenemy that he had chosen to let Barney go. This past half-year of introspection had given him a strange sense of perspective, but not so strange as to allow him to happily confess to such an indiscretion. On the one hand, it'd been the right thing to do. On the other, there was no chance on Planet Earth that McMenemy would see it that way.
'For what can I take your silence?' said McMenemy without turning. 'These are troubled times, Chief Inspector. The people of Glasgow are living in terror. Good and honest men cannot walk the streets for fear that they might be struck down by this Satan of the West End. We, the citizens of this great city, stand as one, petrified to the point of dilatoriness, frozen in inertia, waiting for some hero of the hour to come forward and seize the day, to reclaim the city for the common man, from this vampire of justice. Barney Thomson sucks the very lifeblood from us all, Chief Inspector, and we are all haunted by him. He has left this station bereft of qualified officers and I, indeed we all, are desperately in want of one fine man to emerge from the swamp of inactivity, the fen of fecklessness and the quagmire of trepidation to lead us to the New Jerusalem of salvation, where men and women can walk along the avenues of hope, with heads held upon high and in the great and certain knowledge that they will live to see the next day dawn, that they will watch their children grow old, and see their dreams become the corporeality of hope, the very verisimilitude of the redemption of the soul.'
Mulholland nodded.
'I think I missed some of that,' he said. 'Could you repeat it?'
McMenemy turned. Unused to such flippancy when he waxed as the poet of the force. Preferred a little more awe in his officers. Mulholland might just about be too much of a loose cannon. However, he knew that loose cannons are often the only ones capable of hitting the target. Certainly they were in the world of cliché and soundbite which he inhabited.
'You think this is funny, Chief Inspector?' he said.
'No,' replied Mulholland. 'No, I don't.'
'What, then? You're not saying much for yourself.'
Mulholland hesitated, but the truth bubbled below the surface.
'Go on, Chief Inspector, might as well spit it out. Say what you're thinking.'
'Two things,' said Mulholland quickly, and such was his lack of spirit these days that his heart was not even in his mouth as he said it. 'Firstly, Barney Thomson is absolutely, definitely, no questions asked, sure as a fucking dog is a dog and mince is mince, not the killer. Maybe he's back in Glasgow, and maybe he's not, but there's not a malicious bone in his body. He's weak, he's a bit slow, he's nothing special, but he certainly isn't a killer. Just not a chance. Not a chance.'
McMenemy nodded. 'Very well,' he said. 'You seem quite concerned. Perhaps then you would care to find the real killer, if you so stoutly believe that Thomson is innocent? Anyway, you have something else to say.'
'You talk the biggest load of shite of anyone I've ever met in the force.'
McMenemy looked down from his position at the window. He considered this for some time, during which he took his seat once more behind the desk. Not for a second did he take his eyes from Mulholland, who did not retreat from the stare. All sorts of male hormones were flying. This was the stuff of cinema.
'Of course,' said McMenemy after a while, 'you're right. How'd you think I got to be chief superintendent?'
'Ah.'
McMenemy stared at his detective and wondered if he was right to be doing what he was about to do. Instinct was what it was all about, however, and once he'd had it. He'd had it in spades, and that was really why he'd got to where he was. And right now his instinct said to go with Mulholland.
'Son,' he said, 'you can try and wind me up as much as you like, but you're on the case. And if you refuse, I'll send you back to Sutherland. I hear that monastery's started up again. Right?'
Mulholland looked across the chasm.
'Right,' he said.
Right.
And Mulholland's eyes sank down to the carpet, and even though he may not in actuality have been heading back to Sutherland and the terrors of the year before, that was where his mind now took him, as it dragged him kicking and screaming back into the miserable past.
––––––––
Barney wrapped up his fourteenth cut of the day. Leyman Blizzard had just finished his third. It was a dull day down the Clyde, as it was in the centre of Glasgow. Dull but mild. There were a lot of frogs in Greenock, and the spiders were large for the time of year. And the people, generally, unhappy.
Two Jimmy Stewarts and an Anakin Skywalker for Leyman; he'd botched the latter horrendously, but in doing so had made the lad look much less of an idiot. And four Claudio Reynas, a David Ginola World Cup '98, a double chicken burger with cheese, a Cary Grant (Dyan Cannon retro), a J.R. Ewing, two Frank McGarveys, a lamb biryani, a Cardassian Forehead Transmogrifier, and two Des Lynams for Barney.
The final Claudio Reyna handed over his cash. A crisp, shiny ten-pound note for a £4.50 haircut. Barney headed towards the till.
'Keep the change, mate,' said the bloke, pulling on his Nike Rain Protection System.
Barney raised an eyebrow.
'You sure, my friend? That's a big tip.'
Manny Jackson gave Barney a long look. Knew there was something familiar about him, but couldn't quite place it. This barber had an honest face, mind, and that meant a lot to Manny. That, and he'd just given him a magnificent haircut. Deserved every bit of the tip.
'No bother, mate,' he said, glancing at himself in the mirror. The wife was going to be delighted. And the girlfriend. And her girlfriend would probably like it as well. (Yes, a man who admired honesty, Manny Jackson.) This haircut would keep him going for a month. 'Worth every penny,' he added.
Barney shrugged. Not in the mood to be appreciated.
'Thanks a lot,' was all he said.
Manny Jackson delivered a parting smile, then walked out into the drab, sullen December day. And immediately, as had happened to every one of Barney's dream haircuts that day, his hair was pummelled by the wind coming in off the Clyde, and the style utterly laid waste. (And as so often happens in life, the best-laid plans and most fevered dreams of Manny Jackson would also be brutally laid waste, when late that very day he would meet his death at the hands of Mrs Jackson, who for too long had suffered in silence the fate of the betrayed wife. The concerned reader need not fear for her plight, however, as she was destined to find a jury only too willing to be convinced by her pleadings of justification.)
Barney turned to Leyman Blizzard, who was slowly working his way through the Mirror. Headline: Thomson Expected to Reduce Global Population by 50% in Next Twenty Years.
'Nice of the lad, I suppose,' he ventured, devoid of enthusiasm.
Blizzard nodded and looked over the picture of four semi-naked women and the article on how four semi-naked women can be good for your sex life.
'Big tipper?' he asked.
'Five fifty,' said Barney, and Blizzard let out a low whistle.
'Magic,' he said, then tried to return to reading the paper, while Barney went about the meticulous business of sweeping up the hairs from another hirsutological triumph.
Blizzard seemed distracted, however, and Barney himself felt ill at ease. Sometimes his dreams came to him early on in the night, so that should he manage to get back to sleep, he might wake in the morning and feel nothing for it. But that morning he had woken just before seven o'clock, panicking, heart thumping and full of dread, body clammy and hot, the sheets already sodden. He had turned on all the lights and the television, he had leaped into the shower, he had had his breakfast. But none of it had helped, and fourteen haircuts later he remained filled with unease. He had never before had recurring dreams, but this one felt like it was closing in on him. When he allowed himself to think about it for too long during those bleak waking hours, he could feel the hand close around his guts. Real fear, that was what it was, and he couldn't place it. And it was odd, for he knew he no longer feared death. So what could be worse than that? What could truly be a fate worse than death?
No more customers awaited. A little after 3.45 in the afternoon. A slow time, until perhaps the odd straggler arrived late in the day. Blizzard, typically these days, found that he could not muster the concentration to read the paper for longer than a few seconds at a time and decided to rejoin Barney in conversation. Barney swept the floor. Knew every hair on the back of the head of the minister in the dream.
'I was going to tell you something last night, was I no'?' said Blizzard.
Barney couldn't really remember. Wondered if he was about to hear about Elvis again.
'Not sure,' he said.
'Aye, aye I was. It's something that a bloke in here told me once. Thought it might be just the thing for you, what with you being a serial killer 'n' all that.'
Barney looked up. The door opened. As it does, when you don't want it to. A young man entered: mid-twenties, grey eyes, sharp nose, verdant moustache haunting his top lip, Plasticene smile, head beautifully adorned by a recently executed Sinatra '62; Gap suit, dark grey, collar-high neckline. This was not a man who had come for a haircut, and the barbers looked at him warily.
'Hello there,' said the intruder.
They nodded guardedly in reply.
'Bit grim,' he said. 'The weather, I mean,' he added, getting no response.
'What can we do for you?' said Blizzard. 'You're no' here for a haircut.'
Adam Spiers smiled broadly.
'I like that,' he said. 'Sharp. You know what's what. You can recognise who's a customer and who's not a customer. You may be old, but at least your brain isn't turning to sludge the way it does with some people the second they hit sixty. I like that. I think we can work together. You're sharp. Very sharp. I like that.'
They looked at him. Barney clutched onto the brush as if it might be a useful implement – he had, after all, used such an instrument in the act of manslaughter. Blizzard's mouth opened slightly; a droplet of saliva waited to roll from his bottom lip.
'What are you selling?' he said.
'Selling?' said Spiers. 'Selling? I'm not selling anything. I'm here to help you sell. I'm here to help you turn this small business into a multinational hirsutological concern. I'm the begetter of your dreams. I am the Wishmaster. I'm the Bottle Imp, without the bad shit at the end. I'm Robin Williams in Aladdin. I'm Robin Goodfellow, I'm Puck, I'm a hobgoblin, a flibbertigibbet, a leprechaun. I'm everything you ever wanted.'
'What the fuck are you talking about?' snapped Blizzard.
Suddenly he had the concentration to return to reading the paper.
'Let me introduce myself. I'm Adam Spiers and I work for Magpie, Klayton, Parmentle and Clip. Pleased to meet you both.'
'A lawyer?' asked Barney.
'A consultant,' said Spiers.
They stared at him.
'What d'you mean?' said Blizzard after a few seconds' concentrated staring. 'Who do you consult?'
'You,' said Spiers. 'I consult you. You ask for my help, I give you advice on how to run your business, you pay me lots of money, then I depart, leaving your business stronger, fitter, better managed and healthier than when I arrived.'
'So you're an expert in barbershops, then?' said Barney.
'Don't know anything about them,' admitted Spiers, stating one of the consultant's fundamental principles.
'So you're going to ask us how we run our business and charge for it at the same time?' said Blizzard.
'Basically.'
'Right. Fuck off.'
Spiers smiled and shook his head. Looked around, quickly assessed the situation of this unfamiliar environment as only a highly paid consultant can, and sat down in one of the barber's chairs.
'No, no,' he said, still smiling, 'you don't understand.'
'I think I do,' said Blizzard.
'No, you can't possibly. Just give me a couple of minutes of your time.'
'No.'
'You see, we at Magpie, Klayton, Parmentle and Clip are dedicated to the service of our customers.'
'Piss off.'
'I mean, look around you. Clearly you have a fine little shop here. You've got your chairs and your mirrors and your five-month-old Sunday Post colour supplements. All very good. But where are your customers? Where's your output, where's your input? Do you have a management structure in place? You need properly laid down channels of communication between your staff. A chain of command from one level to the next, so that the ideas that prosper in the fertile undergrowth of lower management will not be lost.'
'There are two of us.'
'You need targets. Soft targets, hard targets, stretch targets. You need to take a blue sky approach. You need buzzwords. I mean, have you got any buzzwords? We can make some up for you. And there's more. You'll need to establish an Integrated Project Team, where all aspects of your business are catered for.'
'An Integrated Project Team?' said Blizzard, looking round at Barney. 'What language is this guy speaking?'
'Fluent wank,' said Barney.
'You need to look to every facet of your concern to see where you can make savings. There is nothing which can't be done better, faster and cheaper. Through us you would have access to barbershop best practice. You'll be able to see the latest management techniques from outside industry. We'll teach you to facilitate meetings, map your processes and organise problem-solving and team-building sessions.'
'Map our processes?' said Blizzard. 'We cut hair!'
Adam Spiers opened his arms in an expansive gesture. I'm getting close, he thought. Another couple of words out of them and I'll be able to start charging.
'OK, so you cut hair. But do you both cut hair in the same way? Does one of you cut hair more quickly because he uses a different method? If the other was to change, would you be able to make savings? So, we'd help you to facilitate a meeting where you would map the process of cutting hair. What's the first thing you do? What next? Do you use a razor first, or the scissors? Do you wet the hair? Do you use a blow dryer? What kind of shampoo do you use? We go through all of that and, at the end, so that no one feels compromised, we have a clean-up session where we make two lists, one under a happy face and one under a frowny face. We see what we've achieved and what problems have to be addressed.'
They stared at him as if he was an alien.
Which he was.
'Am I making sense?' said Spiers. 'We're talking the latest in Experio-Millennium Consultative Indoctrination. We're talking buzzwords, we're talking maturity model frameworks, we're talking baseline assessments.'
'You're talking shite,' said Barney.
'That's a good point. Let's park that under a frowny face and come back to it. Shite, that's a good point. But what you have to ask yourself is this. Do I want to run my business as if it was a dodgy little barbershop in Greenock, or would I rather it was run as a staggeringly successful multinational corporation, like Boeing or Pizza Hut? We at Magpie, Klayton, Parmentle and Clip have advised Microsoft, we've advised Tesco's, we account for more than eighty-five per cent of the annual budget of the Ministry of Defence. We're huge. We have the knowhow to transform this small shop into a cross-continental, barbetorial conglomerate. You could be the McDonald's of the barbershop business.'
They were still looking at him as if he was an alien. He stared back. He was used to this, but it didn't mean he wouldn't get their business.
'What planet did you say you were from, again?' said Blizzard.
'So what we're talking about is a maturity model framework within a best practice, baseline assessment scenario. You'll need critical success factors, strategic objectives, key performance indicators and an overall vision. You'll need to develop management plans, human resource plans and a definition of the skills gap. You'll need a mission statement. Everyone's got a mission statement these days. How about, As God be our witness, we, the honest and true barbers of Blizzard's Hair Emporium, do solemnly swear to deliver the finest haircuts on Earth, in as short a space of time as possible. And all at low-cost prices.'
Blizzard stuck his fingers in his ears, started waving his head around and humming Nessun Dorma.
'You'll start with a matrix of functions and accountability, on which you'll be able to judge your hard and stretch targets against your query resolution. We're talking plenary sessions, we're talking empowerment, we're talking multi-divisional sanctioning, we're talking cross-integration fertilisation, we're talking triangulated post-nineties matrix differentiation, we're talking ...'
'You're making this up,' said Barney.
'What?'
'You're not just talking shite, you're actually just making it up as you go along. When you're a barber you spend your life listening to shite, and you can recognise it from fifty mile. And you're full of it.'
'You can think that if you like, my friend, but the fact is that if you don't employ a consultant in this forward-thinking day and age, you'll be left behind. Make no mistake. Analysts predict that by the year 2015 the only businesses left will be those employing a full-time consultant. Don't do it and you're dead.'
'And how many of those remaining businesses will themselves be consultants?' asked Barney.
Spiers stared at him then pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. A wafer-thin computer notebook. Thinner than any panty liner. He flicked it open, tapped in a few numbers, looked up and smiled.
'About seventy-three per cent,' he said.
Blizzard had stopped wailing. Barney smiled.
'So in fact, the best way for any business to survive is for them to move into the consultancy world?'
This gave Spiers some pause. He looked at Barney and thought he recognised a rare intellect. A man at the peak of his mental powers; or, at least, at the meagre hilltop of his mental powers.
'Aye,' said Spiers, 'I suppose that might be the case.'
'So really, rather than us do all this crap about matrices and shite like yon, we really ought to just become consultants? Blizzard and Thomson, we could call ourselves. What d'you think of that, Leyman?'
'Sounds like a load of shite to me, son,' said Blizzard, 'but I'd go along with it. It'd be better than sitting here listening to this heid-the-ba'.'
'Perhaps,' said Spiers, 'we at MKPC might be able to give you a consultation on how to consult?'
'You mean,' said Barney, 'that the consultant consults another consultant for a consultation on how to consult?'
'Aye, we do it all the time. That's why there are so many of us.'
'Right. So how about if we give you a wee consultation on the cheap, just as a practice run.'
'You give me a consultation?' said Spiers, breaking into a condescending smile, from which his face would never recover. 'All right, why not?'
'Right,' said Barney. 'My advice to you is this. Fuck right off. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds, don't even stop to go to the fucking toilet. Just get the fuck out of this shop before I stick this broom up your arse. I've killed someone with one of these before, you know.'
Spiers's condescending smile travelled a little farther to the outer reaches of his face.
'I don't think you fully understand,' he said. 'We're talking about multidisciplinary, interdepartmental, cross-purpose ...'
'Fuck off!' said Barney, grabbing Spiers by the arm. 'That's a multifunctional, no questions asked, no shite, final and irrefutable offer.'
He opened the door and shoved Spiers out into the street.
'I obviously caught you at a bad time,' said Spiers. 'I'll be back next ...'
Barney slammed the door closed and pulled the Venetian blind. He turned back to Blizzard, who was watching him with an amused look. Barney considered his actions of the last two minutes and how his heart had not even picked up a beat. Two years previously he wouldn't have had an argument with a feather duster. Now he was telling people they were talking shite, threatening them with a broom and throwing them out of the shop. And more than that, thinking nothing of it.
'Very impressive, son,' said Blizzard.
'Thanks,' said Barney, as he slowly walked back to his station and began again the cheerless task of sweeping up. Unseen misery still resting on his shoulders.
'You've obviously got a knack for this kind of thing. A wee bit of a mean streak behind that placid exterior. Maybe you are that murdering bastard after all. Good on you.'
'Thanks,' mumbled Barney. Wasn't that just going to make all the difference in the world?
'Oh aye, I was going to tell you about this group,' said Blizzard, after a couple of minutes' attempting to drag his previous thoughts into the present. 'I know a bloke who knows a guy. Think I might be able to get you someone's phone number. You know. Seeing as you're a serial killer 'n' all that.'
Barney looked up; stopped sweeping.
'What kind of group?'
'One of they self-help groups. You know, for folk that've done the kind of shite you done.'
'A self-help group for killers?'
'Aye. That's what the bloke said. Think I know where I can get hold of the bastard.'
Barney stared at him. A group of like-minded people. People who might know what he was thinking. Maybe that might be worth it.
'Aye, all right,' he said. 'You never know, eh?'
'Right,' said Blizzard. 'I'll see if I can get you the number.'
'Aye,' said Barney, and once more returned to his sweeping.
Blizzard rustled the paper. Already beginning to forget the last conversation. His mind the same tangled mass of pointless information as anyone else's.
'What d'you make of these four birds,' he said. 'Would you shag any of them?'
––––––––
There are two kinds of men in the world. There are those who are crap at sex; and then there are those who have never even had sex. So thought super-spy Jade Weapon, as she lay back on the cool grass of a Kingston summer's evening. The three men attending to what they believed to be her erogenous zones were making a lousy job of it, and she couldn't wait until she got the green light from Walter Dickov, watching the action via satellite back at HQ in Geneva, to take the three of them out.
'Come on, Walter,' she said pointlessly to the humid night. As usual, she could hear him, but had no link-up to speak back to the bastard.
'Who's Walter?' said the abject British agent, the best that M16 could manage, as he thrust manfully, barely touching the sides of Weapon's disinterested sex hole.
'Walter?' she said, between the panting breaths of her sexual assailant. 'He's a guy with a dick. Unlike you three women.'
'Yeah, right,' said the British agent, as he continued to trudge away.
'Come on, Walter, you bastard,' she said once more to the night. 'You must've seen enough by now, for God's sake.'
And so, at last, it came, the crackling voice in her ear. Eliminate the spies. Those three words that fired her sexuality much more than any man she had ever met.
Jade Weapon grabbed the throats of her two mammiferous assailants and, with a gentle tweak of her thumbs, killed them both instantly. The other agent looked up with an air of British curiosity.
'Time to die, Dickless,' said Jade Weapon.
'Don't mind if I finish,' said Bond. Jeremy Bond.
'Didn't even know you'd started,' said Jade Weapon, as she closed her thighs firmly around the weak ribs of the agent, and squeezed the little breath out of him that was required. Done and dusted in ten seconds.
Men are so weak, she thought, as she sat astride her fifteen-litre Harley Davidson, fired off a volley of bullets from the side-mounted machineguns, just in case there happened to be any men watching from the nearby forest, then tore off across the hills and mountains to where her boat waited at the other end of the island.
***
'God, I wish I could be like Jade Weapon,' muttered Erin Proudfoot quietly. Cool, smooth, fit, quick-thinking, testicle-crushingly confident, horny as hell and breasts like a behemoth.
She leaned back in her chair as she read. Feet perched on the desk. Tea break. The report on the four missing teddy bears in Byres Road could wait. As could the phone call to the woman who thought her husband had been abducted by the Federation of Alien Presbyterian Churches. And both of those were ahead of the student locked in the basement of the QM Union, reputedly transmogrifying into an insect.
The noise of the station went on around her, but no one spoke to her these days, not unless she spoke to them first. A bit of a mad glint in her eye, that's what they all thought, and so they tended to be wary of her. Even Detective Sergeant Ferguson had retreated from the sexual innuendo that he had once permanently employed.
If I were Jade Weapon, she thought, I'd take care of guys like Ferguson.
'Busy as ever?'
Proudfoot kept staring at the book. She stopped reading, but her eyes didn't leave the page. A voice from the not-so-distant past, but it might as well have been twenty years ago for all that it mattered. Still, for all the lack of feeling to which she aspired, for all that she would be as cool and unemotional as Jade Weapon, her heart immediately started thumping voraciously, her throat went into a dry panic, and ants began crawling up and down her spine.
She looked up at him eventually, hoping her face did not betray her emotions. He hadn't changed, but what had she been expecting? Massive weight loss? Eyes like black holes? Hollow cheeks? Bela Lugosi?
It had been six months since they'd seen each other. The last time had been another passionate night, when they'd talked as much as made love, when his intensity had been overwhelming, when she had thought he might kill her; yet in the morning his eyes had been dead, and she'd known there was something in his head that wouldn't be communicated.
They had escaped with their lives from an infamy of adventure, they had thrown everything of themselves at each other for a few months, and he had been the first to burn out. Just another sad little love story. The momentum of it, the speed with which it had all happened, the fear and the loathing, had carried them through, but once the emotions had been spent and at last a day had dawned cold and grey and hopeless, Mulholland had forced them to accept the reality of what had gone before.
'Not much to do,' she said eventually, after some endless eternity of a stare.
'Don't trust you with anything, eh?'
'No, no, it's not that,' she said, 'just don't have much on at the moment.'
'You don't have to lie, Sergeant. I know what it's like. I've been getting the same treatment up the coast. If some Councillor's wife's cat goes missing and they want to stick a chief inspector on it to try to impress the bastard, I'm the man. Otherwise, I get nothing. There are prepubescent constables getting more to do than me. I'm still supposed to be a detective chief inspector, but I'm getting the biggest load of shite that's ever been handed down.'
'You can't have,' she said.
'Why?'
'Because I've been getting that. You're right. I'm not busy. I've got plenty to do, but it's all alien abduction and teddy bears, and spending half my life following some stupid blond-haired bimbo who may, or may not, have killed her boyfriend five months ago. It's driving me nuts. Course, they think I'm nuts anyway.'
Mulholland laughed. Had sympathy for her; as well as all the other feelings packed neatly in his baggage.
'I had to investigate a sighting of Elvis,' he said.
'Robbing banks?'
'No, no, he was sweeping up leaves in Tarbet. The tax people read about it in the local paper and asked us to chase the guy. Thought that if he'd been domiciled in Britain for the last twenty-three years they'd be able to make a killing.'
Proudfoot smiled. Beat her teddy bears case, although only just. Her heart had settled, she had an unexpected feeling of relief. Some part of her, she was realising, had been afraid that Mulholland would be getting on with his life with no trouble at all, that she would have suffered scars that never touched him.
'And did you get him?'
'Oh aye, aye, I got him easy enough. I mean, the guy sweeps the streets every day. How hard is it to find someone like that?'
'And?'
'Oh, it was Elvis all right. No question. Got him to do a couple of verses of Long Lonely Highway to prove it. The big guy hasn't lost it. Still got a voice like an angel. Brought a tear to my eye.'
'Is he still a fat bastard?'
'No, no, he's thin. And blond. And he's hardly aged, in fact. Looks as if he's about thirty or so. But it's Elvis all right. Who else is going to know all the words to Long Lonely Highway?'
'You sure? By the end, Elvis couldn't remember the words to his own name, never mind his songs. Used to hold bits of paper.'
'Aye, but he was fine after he got out of rehab in the early eighties, he said. Hasn't looked back.'
'And now he can sweep roads with the best of them.'
'That's the King,' he said.
'We're talking shite,' she said.
Mulholland nodded.
'I hated you, you bastard,' she continued. He continued to nod. That sounded about right.
'You want to expand on that?'
He turned at the sudden clap on his back. Was greeted by a jolly face, not yet sodden with drink, a fresh moustache still struggling to come to terms with the rabid pink skin.
Detective Sergeant Ferguson, a smile charging untethered to all parts of his face.
'Boss!' he said. 'Magic to see you, Big Man. They let you out of the loony bin up by?'
'For a limited period only,' said Mulholland, smiling the best that he could these days.
'Brilliant. Good to see you back anyway. You haven't missed much, mate. The usual shite, you know. Stabbings like you wouldn't believe. All that crap. Barney Thomson's back doing the business. Good on the lad, that's what I say. And this place hasn't changed much. The usual sad lot, eh, Erin? Some of us have been doing a bit of shagging lately, of course. You know how it is, eh, boss? You two going to start up hostilities again, are you?'
No answer. Go on, Ferguson, thought Mulholland. Step in faeces and walk it through the house.
'Aye, well,' said Ferguson, 'whatever. You all right for a pint the night, mate? Tell you about the seven Chinky birds I shagged at the weekend?'
'Love to, Sergeant, but I can't. Got work to do, I'm afraid. They didn't call me back to listen to your crap, high on the agenda though it is.'
'Aye, right, boss. See you about, then. Maybe get together later in the week, eh?'
'Aye,' said Mulholland. Why not? No harm in listening to one man's sexual ravings over a couple of pints for an hour or two. No harm in anything when your mind is so screwed up you require brain surgery.
'Brilliant. See you around, then, eh? Presume you're up for the Barney Thomson business?'
'See you later, Sergeant.'
'Aye, right,' said Ferguson, tapping his nose. 'No problem. Need to know, and all that. No bother, mate.'
And off he went, to spread a little gossip. As you do.
They turned back to one another. The name was out there, but they could both ignore it for a little while longer.
'You were saying?' he said.
'I thought you were a total bastard,' she said.
'But not any more, then?'
She stared at him for a while and he stared back. When you're dead inside you can stare out the toughest situations: emotional, physical, violent, they're all within your capabilities. When you're dead inside, you can stare out Lecter.
She'd rehearsed this many times, while never thinking she would get the chance to say it. So, of course, when it came out it sounded nothing like she'd intended.
'Why do I have to explain it? That last night, God, I don't know. We talked about a lot of stuff. We were even going to run off to the Bahamas to get married at one point. Then up you get in the morning, without a bloody word, and walk into the station and get a transfer. Just like that. What a penis. God, I just used to lie awake at night and wish you were dead. I dreamed up at least fifty disgusting ways for you to die. My therapist even recommended I get a dummy and stick pins in it.'
'What kind of therapy was that exactly?'
'The right kind.'
'And did it work?'
'Don't know. Did you feel any of the pins going in?'
'All of them,' he said.
'Good. Anyway, it didn't do me any good, although it helped a bit after I'd put the doll through a mincer, mixed it up with some Kennomeat and fed it to my neighbour's dog.'
'I definitely remember feeling that.'
'Well, after that I calmed down a little. I suppose I realised that none of it was your fault. We were both buggered after what happened. Maybe you just had more guts than me to walk away from it. So then I just didn't want to think about you at all. I thought it would be best if I never had anything to do with you again. A total blank, you know. Pretend you didn't exist.'
'That work?'
She shook her head.
'For a while, but I couldn't stop thinking about you, not when I was trying to be in denial. So then I decided that I should just accept it all for what happened, that life goes on, and if I ever saw you again, then so be it. And here we are, and I'm totally cool about it. Don't really feel anything, except I'm sort of pleased to see you. But not that pleased.'
'Very mature,' said Mulholland, presuming that she was far more perturbed by his arrival that she would have him believe.
'Thanks.'
'I'm still at the hating you stage,' he said.
'You hate me?' she said, sitting up. Feelings aroused. 'What kind of arsehole are you? You were the one who left. You were the tube who talked about pitching up at a beach in the Caribbean one minute and who buggered off for the rest of his life the next. Why the fuck should you hate me?'
He looked down at her. Had talked this moment through his head many times as well. Yet in none of his rehearsals had he admitted to hating her, so he didn't know what to say next.
'Don't know,' he said.
Proudfoot shrugged. Let go of a long sigh and settled back in her chair.
'Maybe I do still hate you after all,' she said.
'Nice to see you back, sir,' said a passing sergeant, whose name Mulholland didn't remember. A tall woman, hair a different colour from that which he remembered. He nodded and smiled and didn't risk saying anything because the name was gone.
'Eileen Montgomery,' said Proudfoot softly.
'I knew that,' he said. 'Married to Ron, the airport guy.'
Brilliant, she thought. In possession of all the facts, just a few seconds too late. Just like they'd been in the monastery.
'So what are you going to do about it?' she asked.
'What? Eileen?'
'The fact that you still hate me.'
'Oh.'
There always comes a time. No matter how much fat you chew, or how long you take to pick the last of the flesh from the carcass of the chicken or however long you worry over the decaying tissue of the dead horse or plunder the carrion of prevarication, eventually you have to get down to business.
'You know what they say when you fall off a horse,' he said.
Proudfoot stared at him, and slowly smiled.
'You think you're going to ride me again, do you?'
He raised his eyes. Face went a little red.
'We're going back to look for Barney Thomson. Or rather, we're going to find the latest killer who every eejit, including our haemorrhoidal chief superintendent, thinks is Barney Thomson, but who bloody well obviously isn't.'
She looked at him and a million things went through her mind. She had been complaining for months about the pointless crap she'd been given to do, but did she really want anything harder on her plate? Did she really want some rabid serial killer to chase? And why on earth, when she'd been spending her working life on routine observation work that would dim the wits of the dimmest idiot, would they thrust her into the middle of the biggest investigation of the year? Why, if not to be part of Joel Mulholland's therapy?
She took her eyes off him and looked back to the book which she had never put down. Obviously Jade Weapon was not going to make it to the other side of Jamaica without being apprehended by at least seven or eight assailants.
Fantasy, fantasy. Much more intriguing and involving than real life. And so the next words in her head were not her own and they were not Mulholland's. They belonged to Weapon. Jade Weapon.
'Listen, fuckface,' said Jade Weapon to the swarthy Italian, who had suddenly leaped onto the back of her motorcycle, 'fuck me or fuck off, but don't fuck with my aerodynamics.'
––––––––
'Nice enough guy, you know.'
There followed a long silence. A clock ticked. A plane passed by overhead, some 33,000 feet above Milngarvie, the low white noise vaguely penetrating the new but single-glazed windows. Somewhere outside, the posthumous, souped-up version of Guitar Man thumped loudly from an open car window. A bird sang. Somewhere a woman screeched as she dragged a shaving system she'd seen advertised on the television down her leg, taking an inch-long gash from just above her ankle. The refrigerator hummed.
Proudfoot tapped the end of a nail on the Formica tabletop. Mission Impossible. Felt a twitch in her fingers sitting next to Mulholland again. Out of the blue her life had turned upside down; and what was going to happen when they found Barney Thomson, or when they found the real killer, or when Mulholland failed and McMenemy yanked him from the case? Would he vanish back up the coast, having tossed her world and her neatly wrapped emotions to the wind? Bloody men, she thought, and felt sleepy.
Mulholland hadn't taken his eyes off Allan Watson. Spaceman to his mates. 'Call me Spaceman,' he'd said to Mulholland when he'd arrived.
'Spaceman,' he said. 'About ten minutes ago now, I asked you to tell me everything you knew about Jason Ballater. Is that it? Nice enough guy? The bloke was thirty-three, you've known him since nursery school, you're shagging his sister and, it would appear, his wife, and the sum total of your knowledge of the bloke is that he was a nice enough guy. Don't you think you could elaborate a little, or are we going to have to break it down into idiot-proof, tsetse-fly-bollock-sized, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire-type questions?'
'Don't know.'
'Don't know. That's it?'
'I shagged his mum 'n' all. That any good to you?'
Proudfoot took another glance at him to see if there was any possible reason why all these women might be interested in him, and when it was not obviously apparent she looked back at the table. Pink, with a disconcerting brown pattern running through it.
It was hot in the kitchen, the result of the heating up full, coupled with the still mild temperatures for the time of year. She could feel her eyes getting heavy. Here she was, having wanted to be put on a real crime for the last few months, and now she couldn't even be bothered looking at the suspect. Or whatever he was. Couldn't stop herself from looking at the investigating officer, however.
'His mum?' said Mulholland. 'We've just been talking to his mum. You slept with her?'
Spaceman barked out an apologetic laugh; did a short bit of hand movement. But his movements were languid; it was hot and soporific, and he was even more tired than Proudfoot. Had had a late night at the Montrose. Office Christmas revelry; all sorts of women in front of whom to make an idiot of himself.
'Aye, aye, I know what youse are thinking. She's a right bogmonster, I know that. But you see, it was years ago, and it was different then. She was all right, you know. Tits still in about the right place, not so many wrinkles. It was one of they rites of passage things, you know. Like you get in the films.'
'Rite of passage?' said Mulholland. You can go away for six months, it can seem like years, but nothing changes. People still talk the biggest load of utter bollocks.
'Aye, you know. Rite of passage. It was one of they hot summer days. I comes round to see wee Jason, forgetting that he'd gone off fishing with his dad. I was about sixteen, I think. Agnes asks us in, and you know how it is. I was rampant, you'll know that yourself, mate. We all are at that age.' Proudfoot squinted out of the corner of her eye at Mulholland; he ignored her. 'Agnes was wearing just about nothing, seeing as it was so hot, you know. She bent over, I got a swatch of her boobs, she sees me looking, the next thing you know we're doing the bare bum boogie on the kitchen floor. Magic, by the way.'
Mulholland rested his face against his hand, so that his cheek squidged up and his left eye almost closed. My God! He'd forgotten what it was like to interview people.
'She taught me everything there is to know. It was brilliant, so it was. What to put in where. What holes are for what, all that stuff. 'Cause, you know, women have got about seven or eight holes down there. There's all sorts of stuff going on that men just don't know about.'
Mulholland gave in to it. Why not? It wasn't as if he was going to tell them anything that would be of any use. He turned to Proudfoot, who had allowed herself to smile.
'Seven or eight? That right?' he asked.
'Double that,' she said.
'See!' said Spaceman. 'See! No matter how many times you get stuck in down there, there's always something else hidden behind some big floppy pink flap that you—'
'All right, Spaceman. I think maybe we should get back to the subject in hand.'
Proudfoot looked at Mulholland. Saw the vague embarrassment and allowed herself to laugh. First time in months. Light relief. No thought for the nature of the crime they were investigating, for it seemed as if that was taking place in some parallel universe.
Spaceman held up his hands. Despite the fact that he hadn't even been trying, Mulholland had got him talking, and now he was prepared to discuss anything. Tongue loosened, he'd got the woman to lighten up, and now that she was smiling Spaceman could see that she was all right. Nice-looking bit of stuff. If he could nail her, he thought, it'd be a good one to tell his mates. Not that he could tell Jason.
'All right,' he said. 'He was a poof.'
The smile died on Proudfoot's face. Not at the information, but at the return to formality; the return to the other universe where people got murdered.
Mulholland straightened up. Eyes open. Mind almost kicked into gear.
'Ballater was gay?'
'Aye,' said Spaceman. 'He was on the game.'
'You serious? He was married. He was thirty-three, he wasn't some spotty youth with no money. He was on the game?'
Christ, he thought. Does no one lead a normal life any more?
'That was wee Jason, I'm afraid. Confused, you know. Decent upbringing on the one hand, had a good set of values and all that stuff. Then on the other hand, he was a raging bum artist. He did it for a bit of extra cash when he was a lad, and never really lost the habit. Didn't do it that often these days, you know. Knew it was wrong, 'n' all that, but he couldn't kick it.'
'And his wife?'
'Doesn't know a thing. I knew he was doing it, 'cause he'd give us a call and ask us to cover for him. You know. I didn't really approve, but seeing as I felt a bit guilty 'cause I used tae shag his missus on a Saturday when he was at the fitba', I used to do it for him.'
'And Tuesday night?'
Spaceman shrugged. 'Same as usual. Gave us a call at work. Said he was going down the Pink Flamingo. That was his wee code word for when he was hitting the streets. Anyway, there you are.'
Mulholland settled back in his chair. Sometimes, just when you weren't looking for it, a breakthrough hit you smack in the face. Something that had seemed dead-end and random suddenly had meaning to it, and various different avenues opened up in front of you.
'You know anyone else from that side of his life?'
Spaceman reeled. 'Arse bandits? You kidding me? I didn't want to know any of that mob, mate. No chance.'
Mulholland rubbed his forehead. Stakes had been raised. There was some serious work to be done, and none of it would have anything to do with Barney Thomson. As long as he could get McMenemy to see that.
He looked at Proudfoot, but she had swum back into her reserve, and her eyes were once more rooted to the table, her fingers tapping out the beat. Perhaps she was even less likely to be of use than he himself, he thought.
McMenemy had made a mistake ordering him to do it, and he had made a mistake asking Proudfoot.
'I also shagged his aunt, by the way. D'you want to know all about that?'
––––––––
The tall man coughed. It was a gentle, high-pitched cough. Sounded like a girl. He looked around the room, smiling at the others as best he could. The scar between his nose and his top lip hindered him in this. As ever.
The weekly meeting of the crowd, after the extraordinary general meeting called by Socrates McCartney three days earlier. Bloody show-off, Sammy Gilchrist had thought. And here he was now, with his own evil and his own desire to return to ways of old.
'For those of you who don't know me,' he began, as he always began, even though they all knew him well, even those who had yet to hear his tale, 'my name's Sammy. A few years ago I murdered some total bastard, and I have to admit, as I stand before you all, I want to do it again. Not to the same bastard, of course. Another bastard.'
He broke off and noticed the few knowing nods around the group. As far as they knew, of all of them, Billy Hamilton's designs on Mark Eason included, Gilchrist's was the greatest need to repeat his crime. Gilchrist was the one most haunted by the past, and now haunted by the present. The whims and tastes and growing frustrations of Morty Goldman were unknown to them, for when Morty spoke, he never spoke the truth.
'Has she been in touch again?' asked Katie Dillinger.
Sammy Gilchrist scoffed, a noise like a pig's grunt.
'Not her,' he said. 'It's never bloody her, is it? It's always Julian bastarding Cruikshank. That's Julian bastarding Cruikshank of Bastard, Bastard, Bastard, Cruikshank and Bastard, for those of you who don't know. I mean, I hate that guy. No top lip, a moustache that's even more stupid than Wee Billy's here, and those suits that you know cost more than your house. But it's a rational hate, all the same. I can see both sides. The bloke's only doing his job, you know. If it wasn't him it would be some other bastarding lawyer, so that doesn't bother me so much. Really it doesn't, despite the suits and the moustache. It's that bastarding woman that pisses me off.'
'Your ex-wife?' asked Annie Webster. She had never heard Sammy Gilchrist's story, had only heard tell of it from others. She knew there was an ex-wife lurking in the background.
'No, no, not her,' he said. 'She's all right. I mean, I can't blame her for what she did. It was my own fault, you know? But I'm sort of ambivalent towards her now. If I see her again, fine. If I don't, fine. You know? If it wasn't for Priscilla, I'd probably never give her a second's thought.'
'Who's Priscilla?' asked Webster. 'That the woman you want to kill?'
'No, no, that's my daughter, you know. Wee Priscilla. Going to be a golfer, I think. A golfer.'
'I'm confused,' said Webster.
'Tell Annie your story,' said Dillinger.
'Do I have to?'
'It's good to get it out, Sammy,' she said. 'You know that.'
'What's the point?' he said. 'You know whenever I tell it, it just gets my back up and I want to get out there and kill the bastarding bastard all over again.'
'But that's not what it's about, Sammy. We're all here for you, and you're here for us. When you let yourself down, then you let us all down. Tell your story and maybe we can help you. If not ...'
'You all know the bastarding story.'
They locked eyes. She could talk for twenty minutes, thought Dillinger, and she wouldn't get anywhere. Every time she spoke to him, she knew he was getting closer. There were many of those here who she knew she had saved from the act of murder. In fact, since she'd started the group she'd never really lost a member – so she thought, although she had her suspicions – but of all of them, Sammy Gilchrist was the closest. Closer than Billy Hamilton, with his pointless jealousies, closer than Annie Webster, with her intimacy issues, closer, for the moment, than Morty Goldman and his taste for fine meats, and closer than she herself, and she twitched at the thought.
'I don't,' said Annie Webster. 'I'd like to hear it.'
Sammy Gilchrist stared at her, and received a warm stare in reply. Billy Hamilton noticed it too, and wondered if Gilchrist was thinking the same thing that he'd thought when he'd told his story for Annie Webster. And so his mind wandered, and he wondered if maybe he shouldn't just eliminate Gilchrist from the equation, so that when he made his move at the Christmas weekend there would be no unnecessary competition.
'Aye, all right, love,' said Gilchrist.
Love! thought Billy Hamilton, and his eyes never left Annie Webster for the duration of the story, and not once did her eyes leave Sammy Gilchrist. Just a Murderers Anonymous prostitute, he'd come to think, moving from one hardened killer to the next, glorying in the danger.
'It was about ten year ago. I'd been married for about three year. No big deal, you know. We were getting on all right. The odd fight, and all that, but nothing major, and things were about as good as they're going to get. Had a lovely wee girl, just about a year old; I did have to travel through to Edinburgh every day for the work, which was a bit shitey, but that was about it. Used to go and watch the Thistle every now and again, you know the score. An ordinary life.
'So one night me and Janice, that's the wife, are sitting in a restaurant with the bairn. One of these family places with plenty of weans in, and our wee one, Priscilla, tucking into a plate of macaroni. The name's a bit of a nightmare, but the missus was a big Elvis fan. So I was sort of glad we didn't have a boy. Anyway, there was a wee lassie behind us, about ten or eleven, who caught sight of the bairn, and Priscilla starts up with that goofy smile she had. She's miserable as shite now, of course, but she can hit a three-iron further than I can. So she starts smiling at the lassie, and this wee lassie smiles back. Priscilla was looking as cute as you like; a wee stunner, you know, absolutely magic, and this wee lassie was obviously besotted with her.
'Anyway, we bugger off and they bugger off, not a word is exchanged. And that's that, you know.'
He looked around the room. They all, Webster excepted, knew what was coming; but they were engrossed just the same. The next part never ceased to amaze. Only Billy Hamilton was distracted. Only Billy Hamilton did not stare at Sammy Gilchrist, although his thoughts were all for him.
'So, jump about a year. We're back in the same place. First time since the last, you know. Sure enough, sitting at the same table as before are this wee lassie and her father. No mum, but there's another bairn this time. Really young, you know, maybe just a couple of months old. Didn't really remember them myself, but Janice recognised them. Course, this time Priscilla wasn't bothering her arse. She was two by then, so she was already getting to be bitter and cynical about the hand she'd been dealt. So there's no smiling going on, but the other wee lassie looks happy enough.
'So I wasn't bothering my backside, but this other bastarding bloke comes up and starts chatting away and all that, you know. Nice as ninepence, seemed like a reasonable bloke. The bastard ends up sitting having a drink and all that, and the wife is quite taken with his latest wean and she exchanges names and phone numbers and all the rest of it, and there you are. A pleasant evening had by all, so you might think. Aye, well right.
'The bastard never phones, of course, and we never phone him 'cause we don't really give a shite. We forget about him, and then, a couple of months later, we get absolutely, sure as eggs is sodding eggs, bastarding shafted up the arse something rotten. A pole-axe up the jacksy. You know what it was?'
He stared at Annie Webster; Billy Hamilton fizzed. So she showed an interest in everyone's story? She put herself about, sold her favours so easily. A week ago he'd thought she might be the one for him. Now what? She was a whore, nothing more. A tuppence-ha'penny bitch; spread 'em and bed 'em. Billy Hamilton viciously rubbed the palms of his hands.
'It was a letter from some big-shot lawyer. Julian Cruikshank to be precise. It was a law suit. This bastarding eejit was suing me and the missus. Well, in fact, he wasn't suing me and the missus, he was suing Priscilla. It seems like the previous time we had dinner, their wee girl had been so besotted with our baby that she'd decided she wanted one of her own. So she went off shagging. She was ten years old, and she went out to get whatever she could find. Got pregnant within a couple of months to some fifteen-year-old hackbut who'd been on the brain transplant waiting list since birth. She didn't know what she was doing – Christ, she was ten years old. However, the minute they find out she's up the duff, the bloke decides it's all our fault since it was seeing Priscilla that made their wean want a baby in the first place. So he sues her. Priscilla. Sure as you like, can't bastarding believe it, he sues our two-year-old girl for undue influence, and for inciting his stupid little shit of a daughter into getting herself up the duff. Absolutely bloody incredible. What a litigious society we live in, eh? Can you believe it, Annie, love?'
She shook her head, and their eyes looked across the few yards of floor and became one.
'That's just weird,' she said.
Billy Hamilton's nostrils flared.
'I mean, to be fair to his missus at the time, she thought he was an absolute Spamhead. She was mad about the whole bloody thing, apparently. And it turned out that ever since they'd learned about their wean, he'd brought her to the same restaurant every night waiting for us to return. Which was why the missus wasn't there, 'cause she thought he was a moron.
'Anyway, some things are stupid, and some things are unbelievably, incredibly, bastarding stupid. That the bastard sued at all was the stupid part. The incredible bit of it was that he won. The court ordered that Priscilla, the now three-year-old Priscilla, had to support this other baby, who was two years younger than her, until she was sixteen. And pay over a hundred thousand pounds' worth of damages to the father for emotional distress.'
'You're kidding!' said Annie Webster.
Tart! Billy Hamilton wanted to scream.
'If I was, love,' said Sammy Gilchrist, 'I wouldn't be here now. So, you know, I did what any father would have done. I knew the bloke was the driving force behind it all, and that the missus probably wouldn't pursue it if he wasn't around. So, I killed the bastard. Took a day off work, waited for him to emerge from his house in the morning, then knifed the guy in the back, as he deserved.
'So that was that. It was broad daylight, a reasonably busy street. I was caught, slammed in the nick, and the bloke's bastarding wife screwed us for everything we had. Janice was broke, so she buggered off with Priscilla to stay with some cousin in Canada. Divorced me in the nick, married her cousin's ex-wife, one of these weird lesbian things, which I'm not even going to try to understand, and now I see Priscilla about once a year. The only decent thing about it was that the judge could see the sense of my actions, and gave me a pretty skimpy sentence. Got out after a few year, and now here I am. Sad, alone, miserable as a bastarding donkey.'
'You poor thing,' said Webster. 'You poor thing.'
'Aye, well, that may be. Anyway, our lawyers suggested we sued him back. Can't even remember what it was he said we should sue him for, but you know what they're like. Self-perpetuating bastards the lot of them. Turn everything to their favour, to give themselves as much work as possible. He said we should sue the father, the mother, the judge, the jury, and the owner of the restaurant. But I wasn't going for all that crap. I just wanted to get out there and get an old-fashioned revenge. You know ...'
The door behind him slowly opened, and he took his eyes off Annie Webster for the first time in ten minutes and turned and looked as Barney Thomson made his first entrance into the Bearsden chapter of Murderers Anonymous.
Barney stood and stared, feeling nervous. Sammy Gilchrist stared back, as did the others. Billy Hamilton, the self-self-self of Billy Hamilton, wondered if this was the Feds come to bust him. But the man before them clearly did not possess the thuggish confidence of the average copper.
'Barney?' said Dillinger. 'Barney Thomson?'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'That's me.'
Glances were thrown around the room. Not Oh jings, we have a feverish, rabid serial killer in our midst glances, however. More of a Here we go again, another Barney Thomson sort of a glance, seeing this was the third Barney Thomson they'd had visit them in a year. The hardest looks, however, were reserved for Dillinger, as she would have sanctioned the visit.
'Glad you could make it, Barney,' she said. 'Why don't you come in and take a seat. Sammy's telling his story.'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Aye, right, no bother.'
And so Barney entered the very midst of the group and took a seat between young Billy Hamilton and Fergus Flaherty the Fernhill Flutist. They all looked suspiciously at him, all except for Annie Webster, who embraced him with a huge smile, realising that this might be her chance to associate with a legend. Or even sleep with a legend.
Barney was embarrassed and wondered, even in his nervousness, if she fancied him. There was a bit of the Sean Connery about him, these days, after all. Billy Hamilton decided that he'd probably kill Barney at some point, although he did not yet know if it would be before or after Sammy Gilchrist.
'Where was I?' asked Sammy Gilchrist, not best pleased by the interruption; not when it was another Barney Thomson. He looked at Annie Webster for a reply, but she was too busy staring at the legend across the semicircle.
Sammy grated his teeth.
'The law suit,' said Katie Dillinger. She'd handled worse than the likes of Sammy Gilchrist in a mildly bothered mood.
'Aye,' said Gilchrist, becoming the second of the coterie to look Barney over with a professional eye. 'The law suit. Christ, I don't know what happened at the time, maybe I should just have sued the bastard. But you know what it's like these days. You can't open a newspaper without seeing the story of some eejit suing some other eejit. A bird suing her ex-husband; a bloke with a bad haircut suing the barber.' Barney winced, decided to avoid eye contact with Sammy Gilchrist. 'Some polis who witnessed a crime suing the chief constable for post-traumatic stress disorder. Surgeons suing health authorities 'cause they're scared of blood, pilots suing airlines 'cause they're scared of flying, priests suing the Church 'cause they can't have sex. There was even one where some heid-the-ba' crashed his motor 'cause he didn't take his cardboard sun protector off the windscreen, then sued because it didn't say you had to on the back of it. It's just bloody stupid, the whole thing. So I thought, well, bugger that, I'm not suing any bastard. It just seemed more honest to knife the guy. No arsing about, just a good old-fashioned stabbing. No shite, no law suits, no ridiculous claims for staggering amounts of cash. Honest.' He delivered the last word with a stab of the finger. Not often that murder could be called honest, but in his case he felt it justified.
It took some of the others back. How honest had they themselves been? And none of them thought of prior misdeeds more than Annie Webster, who was no longer looking at Sammy Gilchrist, or the legend that was Barney Thomson. Instead she stared at the floor and thought of Chester Mackay, among others, and of her miserable past.
'So what now?' asked Katie Dillinger. There was nothing any of them said that could make her review her life. She had heard it all before. 'Why has the lawyer been back in touch?'
'Looking for more money, of course,' said Gilchrist. 'Why else? I mean, obviously I couldn't pay everything I was supposed to at the time. So every time I earn so much as a sixpence, the bastard pops up out the woodwork looking for a hundred per cent share in it. And if he hears of me actually spending any money, he shows up with all sorts of criminal henchmen attached.'
'I thought you'd fixed up some deal from a couple of months back?' said Fergus Flaherty.
'Aye,' said Gilchrist, 'I did. But then last week I bumps into that bastarding woman in Marks and Spencer's in Sauchiehall Street. Had just bought myself a two pound thirty-nine sandwich. That was it. She stops and looks at me, then looks at the sandwich, then bursts out laughing. Laughing! Can you believe it? And so off she trots to her lawyer to tell tales, and the next thing you know I'm getting threatened in the usual manner about how I've obviously got more money than I'm letting on so let's all move along to the nearest bastarding judge.'
A few heads shook around the room. Annie Webster looked upon him with a degree of sympathy once more. Even Barney, who did not know the full details of the story, could see the injustice of it.
'And you know the worst thing. I found out last week that the bloody woman is about to get married again to some rich bastard out Aberfoyle way. I mean, she's probably delighted I killed her husband. The guy was a wank. Now she's just doing me for every single penny she can get, even though she doesn't need any of it. Unbelievable.'
'So why don't you do something?' said Flaherty, an edge to the voice, suggesting exactly what it was that he had in mind.
'I'm going to,' said Gilchrist.
'Fergus!' snapped Katie Dillinger. 'Don't encourage him, for God's sake.'
She looked at Sammy Gilchrist and she knew what he meant to do. And maybe this time she could see the point. When you've lost everything, and the instigator of your downfall continues to kick you when you're down, what other way is there for you to act? What else can you do? When you have nothing to lose, why shouldn't you commit the ultimate crime?
'You still coming at the weekend?' she asked. Their Christmas weekend, and two days in which to achieve salvation.
Sammy nodded. 'Suppose so,' he said. 'If I'm not in the nick.'
She let out a long breath. It was more than just a pointless couple of days away, this weekend retreat. In the past she had saved more than one wayward heart from committing further murder. It was a good opportunity to become more closely involved with her group than the rest of the year allowed. The one time when she could devote full nights to the collective.
And just how far would she be prepared to go during those nights to help Sammy Gilchrist? And if she did everything she could, would there not be others who might fall prey to that bitter bastard, jealousy?
'You've been before, Sammy. It's a good weekend. There are a couple of excellent sessions, you know it can help you. You can maybe do some one-to-one stuff, to help you get through it. You never know. It's only two days away, Sammy, so don't do anything stupid. All right?'
Gilchrist stared at her for a while. Then stared at Annie Webster, who gave him a reassuring smile. One-to-one sessions. Sounded good, he thought.
And it would be a long time before there were any more one-to-one sessions after he'd killed that bitch and had been nicked. So he could wait. Might, in fact, just take her out on Christmas Eve, when they got back. That'd fuck her family up good and proper. In fact, maybe he'd take her family out on Christmas Eve, let her stew in her own misery, then take her out a couple of days later.
Whatever. He could wait. See what Katie Dillinger and Annie Webster had to offer. Maybe a two-to-one session ...
'Aye, all right,' he said. 'We'll see.'
Dillinger could read every single thought going through his head and knew that this would be tough. But this was why she was here; this was why she'd started this group in the first place.
Now for another tough nut to crack, or possibly a soft, pointless waste of time.
'Right,' she said, turning and looking into the near-insipid eyes of Barney Thomson. 'Barney. I'll not give you any shite. You're the third Barney Thomson we've had in here in a year. I'm sure all the others are pissed off at me for inviting you along. Persuade us you are who you say you are. Tell us something we don't know. Give it your best shot.'
Barney swallowed and nodded. He'd expected to be able to sit at the back for a little longer than this, to rest easy in his anonymity, but he'd known that he would have to speak at some point.
And so, at last, it was time to talk. The odd brief explanation aside, he had never really told his story. Many times it had been formulated in his head, many times he'd yearned for a captive audience. Now at last they sat before him. It was time to open up the doors of divulgence and spit the clotted words of truth onto the fires of revelation. These people expected to scorn him, and so he had to persuade them of the veracity of his words and let them all follow him; this Pied Piper of adumbration, this ringmaster of axiomatic necessity, this bedevilled master of ceremonies, this pantheon of verity and rectitude.
'I really am Barney Thomson, honest,' he began.
––––––––
Barney stepped into the church, his feet crunching through autumn leaves. He had been here before, but the memory was vague. He had a strange feeling that it ought to have been more familiar than it was. He pulled his coat closer to him, as the wind howled through broken windows and the door swung and creaked. There ought to have been someone waiting for him, but he could not think who it should be. In any case, he was alone.
He looked up. There should have been something there. Something evil. Something swinging from the ceiling, its hollow eyes staring at him. But there was nothing but faded and peeling paint, leaves falling in through holes in the roof.
Barney shuffled up the aisle, his feet dragging through the sodden autumn mass. Took a look behind him as the door creaked again but it was merely the wind. An old desolate church and he was alone. And with this realisation came relief. The dark of night and nothing to fear. Perhaps at last he would be free... and he thought about it and looked around the blighted kirk, and could not remember what it was that he needed to escape.
Then, as he reached the front of the church and stood beside the remnants of the pulpit, he came to the point of the evening. And it induced no fear at first, no thumping heart. Just curiosity.
For in the corner there was a television. Small, portable, old. A round aerial on top, giving an unimpressive picture of a street scene at night. Live as-it-happened action, that was what he was seeing.
He stepped closer.
Volume down low, but he could hear it now that he was near. The click of a woman's hurried footsteps across a wet road. Blonde hair, coat pulled tightly against her, as protection against the cold, or against the evil that stalked her. She glanced over her shoulder and from the look in her eye, she could see what was coming behind. Barney only had sight of her, however, not of the one who stalked her.
She passed a couple in the street, tried to talk to them, but they were not interested. They walked on, giggling and laughing, consumed by each other; the feral beauty of young infatuation.
And so she walked on, starting to break into a run, but her shoes were not made for running. Barney began to feel nervous for her, for himself. Perhaps there was also someone behind him. But he did not look round. Eyes locked on the television. Thought he recognised this place. Near the centre of town, past Anderston, down towards the crane at Finneston. She walked on, hurriedly, in no particular direction. Waved at a passing taxi; the taxi drove on. Not even employed, the driver on his way home; had forgotten to switch off the light.
The camera pulled back and Barney got his first glimpse of the girl's pursuer. Just the back of his head, but he recognised that in itself. The dark hair, badly combed. The head of a minister. Had seen it somewhere before. No more than ten yards away from the woman.
Barney flinched; his mouth was dry. Decided it was time to leave, but he could not. He could not move. This wasn't real, yet he didn't have the control he should. And anyway, there was something behind him too that he did not want to see. Perhaps the same man who was closing in on the woman.
The shivers ran all over him; his heart thumped truly now. He would turn away, but he was not allowed. The woman broke into a run, she stumbled and instantly the beast was upon her. It wielded a knife, hand over the victim's mouth to dull the scream, and a vicious slash to the top of the leg. Barney winced and closed his eyes.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Barney Thomson awoke, screaming, face bathed in sweat.
––––––––
The crane loomed large, casting a dull shadow in the half-light of morning. The Finneston Crane. Monument to the recumbent past; grand testament to the flourishing Glasgow of old; as majestic as the rooftops of Florence, as architecturally precise as the Eiffel Tower. The very begetter of the soul of this great city; the physical manifestation of the strength and purpose that lay at its heart.
A big hunk of metal. And at its foot lay a body, red coat stained darker red with blood. The fourth victim of this year's serial killer.
The murder had featured a few stages. Stabbed in the leg as a foretaste; an aperitif. Gagged and bound, but conscious. While Cindy Wellman had watched, the skin had been stripped from the top of her thigh to more than halfway down her leg. This had hurt, and she'd fainted three times. Each time, however, her killer had woken her before continuing. He had thought of using the skin to strangle her, but it'd snapped seconds after he tightened it around her neck. So instead he'd thrust it deep down her throat, thus suffocating her in a matter of a few, frantic, thrashing seconds.
Creative, but disgusting. As is much of modern art.
Having committed his crime, the killer had made his way home for a relaxing cup of tea, a few minutes' pointless late-night television, and then a good night's sleep. He had, he had to admit, even disturbed himself a little with this crime, and intended not to repeat it. Sometimes convention wasn't so bad. Next time he would return to the more straightforward stabbing scenario.
The body had been discovered – in the usual manner – by illicit lovers at half past three in the morning. Two men, by chance, both firmly in the closet; one a bank clerk, the other a well-known Premiership footballer. An anonymous call had been placed to the authorities, and the police were thinking that there might have been a lead in that call, when there was none.
The body still lay where it had been discovered, five hours previously. There was the usual crime scene. Yellow tape; more officers than were necessary. The ghouls of the press and public as close as they could get, trying to see what all the fuss was about. Two plainclothes officers moving within the crowd, on the basis that forty per cent of murderers, taking pride in their work, would return to the crime scene after the event. A helicopter circled overhead. Squad cars came and went, headed off to round up the usual suspects. Somewhere a woman bit into a chocolate pretzel she'd seen advertised on the television.
Mulholland and Proudfoot stood and stared. The cadaver was finally being placed into the removal bag, everyone who'd needed to look and prod having had their turn; every clue that could be garnered from the position and substance of the body as it had lain having been so.
Proudfoot was white, blood having retreated inside to mix with the haunting of her stomach and her heart. She was being taken back down a long black tunnel to the events of the previous winter, and everything she'd seen then was returning to torment her.
Mulholland felt nothing. In his way he was a lot less ready to address the demons of the past. Still hiding from it all, and it was possible that he would never emerge from that hiding place. Maybe it would penetrate his consciousness in ten, twenty, thirty years' time. Or maybe he would take all the feelings of terror, desperation and inadequacy to the grave. Whatever; as he watched the victim of the most vile of murders being enclosed in the Big Bag, he felt nothing. 'Well,' he said, 'that's not something you see every day.'
Proudfoot barely heard him. One of the medics gave him a From Dusk till Dawn look; the other was as tied up as Proudfoot in horrors of the soul and did not notice.
'What?' she said eventually. Took so long to speak that Mulholland had almost forgotten what he'd said. He shook his head and said nothing.
A small boat passed by on the Clyde, those on board craning to have a look at the activity. Seeing nothing, they went on their way, but they would later tell anyone who would listen that they'd been there and that they'd seen everything.
The two detectives glanced at one another and then looked around. Activity everywhere, none of it to much end. Finally their eyes settled on the water, and the grey Clyde coldly flowing past.
Another bleak day, the colour of the river. And there they stood, for neither knew of any point in rushing to their tasks. The immediate work was awful and bore no relation to solving the crime. Inform the relatives; speak to the press. Perhaps there might be some clues to be gleaned from the former, but unlikely at the moment of revelation. 'Your daughter's dead. What were you doing at midnight last night, by the way?' Couldn't do it like that. Not any more, at any rate.
Detective Sergeant Ferguson approached. Looking sombre for once, but only because he hadn't eaten anything in ten hours. They were aware of his approach; only Mulholland bothered to take it in.
'You're in luck,' said Ferguson.
Mulholland raised an eyebrow. 'You mean she's not dead?'
'Better than that. Her parents are dead, so you don't have to tell the mother.'
'A blessing,' said Mulholland dryly. 'What about boyfriends, husbands, that kind of thing?'
'She wasn't married, that's about it. Worked at a wee solicitor's up in Bearsden. Got the address.'
'Bearsden, eh? Brilliant. Better start there, then. See if you can get the doc to write her a sick note and we can drop it off.'
Ferguson laughed. 'Aye, right. A sick note. Nice one.'
'It's arbitrary,' said Proudfoot, still staring abstractly across the Clyde. A paper bag floated slowly past; an empty bottle, a packet of cigarettes, a bedraggled cuddly toy, and somewhere a child cried.
Mulholland watched as the body was laid to rest in the ambulance and the doors closed upon it. Pondered on what it must be like to ride in the back of one of those with the deceased. Would you constantly be waiting for the zip to be undone and a hand to suddenly appear? If there was an unexpected movement within the bag, would you dare open it?
'Why d'you say that?' asked Ferguson.
'Got a feeling,' she said. 'It's nobody he knew. It's just a guy committing murder in an entirely random way. No motive, no reason, just doing it. Might not even know why. He's just out wandering the streets and the mood takes him. The gay bloke from the other night, that's the same. Nothing to do with him being gay.'
'Right,' Ferguson said. 'Like when you're driving along the road and you pass a chippie, and you get a whiff of a fish supper. You're not hungry, but you think, what the fuck, and dive in and buy one.'
'Then again,' said Mulholland, joining in, 'sometimes you might not go in at all. You might ignore the urge, or you might not even feel it.'
'Exactly,' said Proudfoot. 'And this is our man. He goes out late, for whatever reason, and so he doesn't see too many people. Most of them that he does see, he thinks nothing of. But something hits him every now and again. Something snaps. Some weird, primeval thing. Some memory buried deep in the subconscious, and this vicious, bestial action kicks in.'
'And he buys a fish supper.'
'Right. He buys a fish supper,' she said, nodding.
The three of them watched the ambulance drive off, scattering the assorted officers of the law. The SOCOs were hard at work; every piece of potential evidence being carefully placed in small, airtight bags by rubber-gloved fingers. Every cigarette butt, every piece of broken glass, every leaf, every stone.
'What d'you want us to do, boss?' asked Ferguson.
Mulholland continued to watch the ambulance go, out of the conference centre carpark, onto the road, up onto the Expressway, until it was lost behind concrete walls and articulated lorries. There was bound to be someone upset by her death, he thought. There always was.
'How many people at this law firm?' he asked.
'About twenty, I think.'
'Better come with us. And grab ...' and Mulholland's voice tailed off as he realised that he couldn't remember the names of any of the constables still circulating the area. 'Grab someone to come with us. We can do the rounds. Might come up with something.'
'It was arbitrary. We'll get nothing,' said Proudfoot. 'Unless one of them was with her last night.'
Mulholland nodded but said nothing. Probably right.
Didn't think the chief superintendent would be too impressed, however, if he told him they hadn't bothered to investigate the girl's life, based on his sergeant's hunch that it would be a waste of time.
'Come on, Sergeant, let's go,' he said.
And off they meandered, to plunder the soul of the investigation.
––––––––
'I've been meaning to ask you,' said Leyman Blizzard. 'How d'you get on last night, by the way? I presume you went to this meeting I told you about, seeing as you weren't at the boozer?'
Barney swept the floor as he thought of a reply. He'd never been particularly adept at formulating opinions – mostly because he'd never had any – and so his brain moved in time with his brush as he thought about the night, and thought about what he would say and what he wouldn't.
And after several minutes he finally came up with an answer.
'It was all right,' he said. 'You know,' he added as an afterthought.
'Right,' said Blizzard. 'How many folk were there?' he asked, thinking he might get a more definite reply to a more definite question.
Barney swept. Didn't feel like talking. Whatever good may have come out of the evening had instantly been taken away by the night. Another night, another nightmare. Different this time; more evil, more truth. More real.
'Ten or eleven,' he said eventually. 'I think there were a couple of folk missing, but that's the way it goes. I thought it'd be monthly or weekly, maybe, but they have these blinking things every two or three nights sometimes. Most of these folk are desperate, apparently. All seems a bit strange.'
Blizzard nodded. A collection of murderers sitting in the same room? Strange?
'Did you tell your story, then? Any of the bastards believe you?'
Barney stopped sweeping and looked at the old man. The thought of last night gave him a moderately good feeling in among the weight of dread. But how much should he say to old Blizzard, for he did not want to put a curse upon it?
'Told a bit of my story. If I'd told it all, I'd still be there. They were mostly sceptical, you know, and I suppose I can't blame them. There was one woman seemed all right, mind. I think she might have thought I was telling the truth.'
'Sounds like you want to shag her,' said Blizzard.
'What?'
'You've got a sudden light in your voice when you mentioned her. So what's the score? Good-looking? Big tits?'
Barney swept the floor. Feeling embarrassed and very uneasy talking about it, although he didn't know why. Because he was still married perhaps? But then, she was good looking, she did have magnificent tits, and he did want to shag her.
'I don't know, do I?' he said from behind the brush. 'I don't know anything about tits.'
The old man laughed. 'Away with you lad, you're full of it. There's no' a man jack of us who hasn't spent several years of his life manhandling God's greatest gift.'
Barney stared at him. He tried to remember the last time he'd even so much as seen Agnes's breasts, and it seemed so long ago that it might even have been lost in the mists of the late seventies. Like the Starsky and Hutch episode where Hutch nearly died; he couldn't remember much about it, but he'd know it if he saw it again.
Hutch. He'd wanted to be Hutch when he was younger. He'd already been in his twenties himself, with his life going nowhere, and he'd fancied the thought of being some action hero, thumping down backside first onto the top of beat-up old Fords, solving crimes and chatting up women with a reasonable degree of panache. And like so many others in life, he'd done nothing about it, except drift his way through barbery, wasting the best years of his life.
Then finally, a year ago, he'd been given his chance to start that new life and do whatever he'd wanted. And what had he ended up doing? Returning to the West of Scotland to live in a tiny flat overlooking the Clyde, and to work in a barber's shop ...
'Haw, son! You're daydreaming,' said Blizzard to the glazed eyes. 'Hello! Hello!'
Barney returned, but the feeling of melancholy remained; to walk hand in hand with the feeling of dread.
'Aye, sorry, just thinking about something.'
'So what's the score, then, son? Is she nice? That's easy enough to answer, is it no'?'
Katie Dillinger. There had definitely been a connection there, he'd been sure of it. It had been a long time, but he could still recognise it. He'd caught her staring at him, even when one of the others had been doing the talking. Could have been because he'd been new, but you never could tell. And she'd even touched his shoulder before he'd left. Brought a shiver. And of course, she'd invited him to come along to the pub that evening with them.
'She was lovely,' he said. 'Seemed quite interested in me, you know. I mean, it might just have been because it was my first night and she's the leader of the group. I'm not sure.' He shrugged and returned to the slow sweep. Something told him that it was too late for those kinds of thoughts.
'So,' said Blizzard, rustling the paper, 'are you going to shag her, or what?'
Barney looked up, head shaking. How on earth was he supposed to know? If a woman approached him, butt naked and proclaiming loudly, 'Take me, Barney, take me, and fill me with your manhood!', he'd still hesitate and wonder if there wasn't some other interpretation to be placed on her actions.
'Not sure,' he said. Then he leant on the brush and decided to open up to Blizzard. If nothing else, it'd take his mind off the hand at his shoulder, the knife hanging over his head. 'But I'd like to, you know. I have to admit it. And she's asked me down the pub the night.'
Blizzard perked up. 'Just the two of you? You'll be shagging by midnight, son, no doubt about it. Friday night out on the piss, stop for a kebab on the way home, then it's pants off and away you go. Magic, son. Good on you.'
'Afraid not, Leyman,' said Barney. 'Most of the crowd's going. You never know, though, eh? Might get in there, I might not.'
'Aye, aye,' said Blizzard, looking back at the paper – headline: Thomson Ate Too Much GM Food as Child, New Claim – 'aye, aye.'
Barney looked at him for a few more seconds. The shop door opened and the first customer for nearly forty minutes walked in. The torpor of a Friday afternoon. They both looked at him, as Angus Collins removed his Adidas Cold Exclusion Cloaking Device. Collins stopped and looked from one to the other.
'Any chance of a Two-Point Saturated Ukrainian?'
Barney shrugged. Blizzard looked blank.
'Over to you, son,' he said, and delved back into the paper.
And Barney, filled with a strange mixture of expectation and gloom, went about his business.
––––––––
McMenemy stared from his office window at the three youths below. Hanging out on the street corner. Loitering with intent to something or other. Specifically outside the police station to see if anyone would come and do something about it. Which they wouldn't.
They guzzled Mad Dog, they hurled abuse and appropriate hand gestures at passing motorists, they verbally assaulted the occasional passing woman.
The police wouldn't touch them. Not when there was a serial killer to be caught; and people still driving at thirty-five in a thirty zone.
Mulholland waited. Staring dolefully at the desk in front, hands clasped, a couple of fingers tapping gently against the back of those hands. He hummed a tune. Was expecting to be told off for not yet having apprehended the killer, be it Barney Thomson or otherwise.
He'd had a long day doing the rounds of Cindy Wellman's work colleagues and friends. Knew a lot more about her as a person, but nothing at all about what had led to her murder. Out with friends, but had parted company while still in the centre of town, to make her own way home. There the trail ran cold, except for a sighting of her being followed by a man whom they would now like to interview.
He couldn't concentrate on any of it. His head was filled with that obscure sludge which had been there for nearly a year now. Everything much of a muchness – something like the state of the Scottish football squad. A quagmire of mediocrity, nothing rising to the surface.
Barney Thomson, fishing, the Thistle, Tom Forsyth's goal in the '73 Cup Final, Melanie, Proudfoot, Cindy Wellman's right leg, Michael Palin in Brazil, Scalextric, they shoot horses, don't they?
'How's it going?' asked M abruptly. Still with his back turned, still staring at the three youths; one of whom was unzipping his fly, preparing to put on a show for an approaching female of the species.
Mulholland shrugged, a gesture that was naturally lost on the boss. Didn't really care how it was going.
'There doesn't appear to be a connection between the three victims. Still digging, of course, might get somewhere, but I don't think so. Got a possible sighting of someone seen with Cindy Wellman just before she must have been killed. It's a bit vague, but the computer geeks are putting a picture together. We'll see what they come up with.'
M grunted. Youth Culture 2001 placed his willie into the public domain, while passing compliant female prepared to laugh at him.
'Look anything like Barney Thomson?' asked M.
'Couldn't look less like him if it was a picture of a dog,' said Mulholland.
M grunted again. 'Don't know about that. Seems to me there's always been something canine about Barney Thomson.'
'Aye, he's a poodle.'
'Something primal; something zoomorphic; something bestial, animalcular and therianthropic. He is filled with some sort of basic instinct. A need for blood, a need to sup on the very essence of the human pneuma, a need for the destruction of the quiddity of kinship that transcends our perception.'
'Or an old Labrador who's lost his eyesight and the use of his legs.'
'Perhaps you should try to get the graphics people to include more of the features of Barney Thomson in the computer image.'
Mulholland finally paid some attention to what the boss was saying. Shook his head, which was again lost on M.
'It's not Barney Thomson, sir.'
'How do you know?' said M sharply, turning around at last; and consequently missing the action, as the passing woman turned back on the still-leering youths, kicked one of them brutally in the testicles, head-butted another – a precision hit – and punched the last one in his Adam's apple, rendering him breathless and close to death for some ten to fifteen minutes, before going on her way.
'The man seen walking after Cindy Wellman looked nothing like him.'
'But you don't know that it was this man who killed her,' said M quickly, waving an emphasising finger.
Mulholland made a Referee! gesture. See! cried his spirit, you can still get worked up about something.
'So what? The point surely is to speak to the last person seen with her, whether he's the murderer or not. We have to find the guy. What's the point in telling everyone it's Barney Thomson, when it wasn't him seen following her, and it probably wasn't him who killed her?'
M leant forward, knuckles white, resting on the desktop. A bulldog face.
'What's the point? I'll give you the blasted point, Chief Inspector. Everyone in Glasgow knows that Barney Thomson is a deranged killer, and that he's on the loose. And now what? You want me to tell them that there's another killer as well, and there's double the chance of them getting skinned alive or hacked up piece by piece? There'd be panic. Bloody panic.'
Mulholland's mouth was slightly open. You couldn't drive a bus in, but the man was aghast. McMenemy was mad, completely mad.
'You listen to me, Chief Inspector,' said M, beginning to foam slightly at the corners. 'You just listen to me. For the purposes of this case, for the purposes of the public and most of all for the purposes of your investigation, you are looking for Barney Thomson. No one else. You got that? I couldn't give a shit if there's another killer out there. I don't want any computer graphics or photofits or descriptions or anything of that sort released to the public, implicating anyone other than Barney Thomson. He is clearly, unequivocally, without a shadow of a doubt, our serial killer. You go after him, Chief Inspector. Him and nobody else.'
Mulholland continued to stare. Toppling over onto the side of incredulity. And so, a few things came to mind. What happened when Barney was in custody and the murders continued? How many members of the public would be duped by the real serial killer, because they were on the lookout for Barney?
He voiced none of it.
'Right,' he said, letting out a sigh. 'Right.'
M slowly sat down, never taking his eyes off Mulholland.
'There's a lot riding on this, Chief Inspector. I've brought you back because I thought you could do me a job. Don't let me down.'
Mulholland said nothing. Tasked with bringing the wrong man to justice. He might as well nip out into the street and arrest the first person he saw. Of course, the first person he saw would be a young lad clutching what was left of his genitals.
'You are going to have to enter the belly of the beast, 127,' said M, and Mulholland began to switch off. 'You must show bravery, stout-heartedness, daring and bravado. You must place your head in the jaws of the lion, and you must not display pusillanimity.'
Yeah, yeah, yeah... And so, as M continued, Mulholland began to slide back down into his nest of sludge, and the only coherent thought he could truly manage was that he wished he were no longer there. And in his head he was standing on a riverbank, wrist flicking, fish jumping at the flies he projected across the water.
––––––––
Jade Weapon stood over the German agent, the steel toe of her red, thigh-length leather boot pressed up against Horst Schwimmer's trembling love-knob. The large machine gun she held in her right hand, which nestled against the inside of her even larger, yet firm, breast, was aimed at Schwimmer's forehead. A forehead beaded with sweat. Yet, as he looked up at her, nervous and expecting to die, he couldn't help but notice her enormous nipples straining against the thin fabric of her Lycra vest.
'Tell me where the formula is hidden or you eat lead,' said Weapon, in the east European monotone she used to cover up her middle-class, suburban upbringing.
'Gotten Himmel,' said Schwimmer. 'Vorsprung durch technik. Franz Beckenbauer, bratwurst, Helmut Kohl.'
With an instantaneous splash of red, Weapon opened fire, pumping fifteen rounds into Schwimmer's face in less than two seconds. His head exploded like a pumpkin. But hey, that's the way it goes.
***
Erin Proudfoot laid the book down for a second and took her first sip from the mug of tea which had been going cold on the small table next to her for nearly fifteen minutes. Glanced at the clock. Not even nine. The rest of the evening stretched out before her like a great mound of compost. Then bed, and another night of waking sleep, until another bloody day would dawn.
Another night sitting in on her own, drowning in misery. That was her. Should have been down the Bloated Fish, or whatever Friday night dive should happen along, watching her prey, the pointless stalk she'd had on for the previous five months. But Detective Sergeant Anderson, the other poor sap who, along with Crammond, had been dragged into the painful operation, had wanted to change for Saturday night and she'd agreed. Agreed without thinking twice.
For she had no idea of what it would lead to, this forthcoming Saturday night, which would turn into a long, long Sunday.
Thank God for Jade Weapon, she thought. However, there were only two more books to read in the series – Jade Does Dallas and Fast Train to Nowhere – and then she was finished. Who knew what excitement she'd be able to introduce into her life then?
She took another swallow of tepid tea, screwed her face up, did her best to ignore the feelings of depression and loneliness, and delved back into the novel.
Some days your head gets obliterated into a pulp by fifteen rounds from a semi-automatic. And some days it doesn't.
***
Another night at the Bloated Fish. Friday, a good crowd in. Not too many of the Murderers Anonymous group, most of them with other matters to take care of before going away for the weekend.
Arnie Medlock, in all his pomp. Katie Dillinger, lips soft and red, hair golden, teeth white like a new pair of M&S pants; a bit of the Georgia out of Ally McBeal about her, attractive yet insipid. Billy Hamilton, having turned up on the off-chance that Annie Webster would be there, and being sorely disappointed. (DS Anderson sat outside Webster's flat all night, fell asleep, and missed her when she left, then missed her again when she returned three hours later.) Billy would have to make do with Ellie Winters, a woman of some mystery. Socrates McCartney, in all his new-found, loose-tongued liberalism, chatting to Arnie Medlock, although the chatter concealed a certain amount of contempt. And lastly, Barney Thomson, sitting beside Katie Dillinger, toying with his pint of lager. Talking to a woman in an almost intimate situation, for the first time in over three hundred and fifty years. Or thereabouts.
Arnie Medlock kept a close watch, but suspected that Barney was all sour looks and no bottle. He wouldn't be any hassle; even though he could hear Dillinger enticing Barney to come with them for the weekend. I could crush Thomson like a digestive biscuit, he thought to himself, even though he had Socrates muttering about the size of spiders in Bearsden in his left ear.
'I don't know,' said Barney. 'I don't really feel like I'm one of you, you know.'
'Come on, Barney,' said Dillinger, running her finger around the top of her wine glass, an act which had Barney twitching in his seat, and which Medlock caught out of the corner of his eye. 'It's the perfect chance to get to know everyone. I won't lie to you. You see, I didn't think we'd be able to fit you in, but we have a vacancy. One of our number's dropped out, last-minute job. Don't know what the lad's up to,' she said, covering up all those feelings of rejection and annoyance which she'd done her best to ignore for the past couple of days. She would, of course, never see Paul The Hammer Galbraith again.
The wine glass began to sing. Somewhere distant, Barney was aware of Socrates talking about beetles and Medlock saying that when he was in Africa they'd had beetles bigger than dogs; while on his other side, Billy Hamilton talked about Northern Exposure, telling Ellie Winters that he dreamed of Rob Morrow every second or third night, but not in an erotic way, while Winters yawned. The pub was full. Elvis's Blue Christmas filled the air.
'What's the score, again?' said Barney, giving himself more time. His natural inclination was to say no, after all.
He had two options: one, spend a weekend in an old house, where every guest is a murderer, or, two, don't.
Tricky.
'We meet here at four o'clock tomorrow, and we've got a minibus hired to take us down. Get there in time for dinner, hang out, have a few drinks, then bed. On Sunday, we do what we want in the morning; play golf, go for a walk, lie in bed, whatever. Then usually there's a discussion in the early afternoon, then exchange presents, back into dinner and drinking. Everyone gets drunk, we all have a brilliant time. And the minibus comes and picks us up on Monday afternoon. What do you think?'
Barney nodded, took a small swig from his pint. Didn't want to have lager breath.
'And besides,' said Dillinger, realising she'd trapped her man, 'you have to come. We need someone to replace The Hammer in the exchange of presents.'
'The Hammer?' asked Barney.
'He's all right, and he's not coming anyway. But we each pick a name out the hat and have to buy a present for that person. So you'll have to take The Hammer's place.'
And she fished around in her coat pocket and handed Barney the small piece of paper.
'That'll be yours. I haven't looked at it,' she said.
Barney took it, wondering what on earth he would buy one of these delinquent idiots, and would they kill him if they didn't like the gift and discovered who'd bought it. And so he reluctantly opened up the crinkled piece of paper, read the name, and that old rubbery face displayed nothing.
'Are you in?' she said.
Barney looked up, eyes slightly brighter than before, but otherwise no change to the face. Yet choirs of angels had suddenly broken triumphantly into a chorus of hosannas; a raucous cascade of sparkling fireworks had exploded in the night sky, whites and purples and reds and greens, an orgiastic eruption of colour; a thousand-and-one gun salute had just been fired from the barbican of a magnificent hilltop castle; the gods had risen as one and were cheering Barney's name as if he were one of their own. For Barney had drawn the name Katie Dillinger, and he had his golden opportunity.
'Aye,' he said, sipping nonchalantly from his near-full pint. 'Why not?
***
Mulholland stared at the bottom of his fifth pint of Tennents. Drinking too much since he'd got back up to Glasgow, but it'd only been two days, and he knew he was pretty close to walking out on McMenemy and his ridiculous search for Barney Thomson. He could head back up north, forget the police, forget Barney, forget McMenemy, forget Erin Proudfoot and her pale face and beautiful lips, and spend his days up to his waist in freezing water trying to catch fish that had long since headed down to the African coast for a bit of warmth.
Maybe he'd continue the counselling, but if he'd ditched the police, they wouldn't pay for it any more, and there was no way he'd be able to afford the eight-million-pounds-a-minute fees of Murz and her crew. Maybe he could date Murz and get his counselling for free. She might have been fifty and a bit hairier than you'd like in a woman, but there'd still been something about her.
He delved into the bottom of a packet of crisps and came up with crumbs. Lifted his glass, stuffed the empty packet back inside and headed to the bar. Elvis on the jukebox. You saw me crying in my beer... Mulholland could hear him singing.
Quiet pub, didn't have to wait. A large-breasted barman approached.
'Pint of Tennents and a packet of salt and vinegar, please, mate,' he said.
The barman went about his business, and Mulholland wondered if it wouldn't be better if perhaps he were just to die.
***
Later on that night, the killer sat at home, drinking beer and eating pizza. And he watched The Silence of the Lambs, and thought to himself that Lecter was a complete pussy and that he could take him out with one swish of a knife.
Fava beans, my arse.
––––––––
William Stanton squinted up at Barney, as he put the finishing touches to an exquisite Special Agent Dale Cooper; which would nevertheless leave him a laughing-stock among his mates. Stanton was slightly distracted, even though he was in full flow on one of his pet subjects.
'Aye, I'm telling you, that's what it says these days. And another one. Have you seen it, on the top of milk cartons? A big sticker that says Keep in Fridge? I mean, what kind of delinquent arse is that aimed at? Who needs to be told to keep their milk in the fridge?'
Barney was uninterested. Blizzard read the paper. Barney shrugged. Stanton attempted to catch his eye.
'Keep in fridge. You know what that says to me?'
Barney shook his head. Not really paying attention. Another night had passed when he had awoken screaming. Mind in turmoil.
'That says that they think I'm a fucking idiot. That's what it says. I'm going to sue. I'm going to sue them for disparaging my intelligence.'
Blizzard glanced over. Barney stood back and surveyed the finished product. Hadn't been concentrating, but he knew he'd done a good job all the same. This haircut would go far. Reached for the rear-view mirror and let the bloke have a look.
Stanton did not pay attention. Accepted the cut, but looked quizzically at Barney. There was recognition in his eye. Perhaps he realised that he might just have had his hair cut by a celebrity. Barney laid down the mirror and began the decloaking operation.
'Keep away from fire, that's another one,' said Stanton, not even listening to himself. 'On every bit of clothing you get nowadays. Who, in the name of God, is that aimed at? Where will I put this jumper while I'm not wearing it? Em, let me see, in the drawer or in the fire? Em, not sure really. I mean, for goodness' sake, what a load of shite. Bloody bastards,' he added, handing over the cash, and regarding Barney with some curiosity.
Barney didn't notice, headed to the till. Stanton decided to indulge his inquisitiveness.
'Have I seen you before, mate?' he asked, reaching for his coat.
Barney shrugged, turning back to him and handing over the change.
'Probably in the paper. I'm Barney Thomson,' he said.
William Stanton nodded, took the change from Barney. Forgot to give him a tip.
'The barber?' he asked.
Barney laughed and indicated the surroundings.
'Aye, but the barber?' asked Stanton.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'I'm the barber. Tried handing myself in, but they're not interested. Just don't believe I am who I say. There you go.'
And he reached for the brush and started to clear up.
Blizzard took a little more notice, but not much. Reading the personal ads. 'Woman. 65. Moustache and large lump on her face. Weekly change of pants. Likes mince. Seeks barber from Greenock, mid-80s.'
'There you go, who'd have thought it. I've had my hair cut by a legend. Wait till I tell Denise,' said Stanton. 'And did you really murder all those nuns at the weekend, like it says in the paper?'
Barney laughed softly and resignedly again; shrugged his shoulders.
'Do I look as if I murdered any nuns?' he said, looking up.
Stanton shook his head.
'Suppose not,' he said. 'Suppose not. Right, thanks anyway, mate. Stoatir of a haircut, by the way.'
Barney acknowledged the compliment, and bent once more over his brush. The bell tinkled and Stanton was gone, out into the mild drudgery of another late December day. Three days before Christmas, with the promise of ill-cheer and untold misery in the air. And presents; lots of presents.
Barney swept; Blizzard read the paper. Barney contemplated the dream of the night before, Blizzard wondered about the exact nature of the big lump on the face of Mrs Clean Weekly Pants.
'Oh, aye, Leyman,' said Barney, looking up. 'I nearly forgot. You don't mind if I nip off a bit early the day? This mob I've joined are going away for the weekend, you know, and they asked if I wanted to go with them.'
'A weekend, eh? Where're you off to?'
'Down south, somewhere. Jedburgh, Kelso kind of a way.'
Blizzard looked at him. Being deserted by his new friend already. Another night in the pub on his own. All thanks to the lure of womankind.
'Thinking with your dick, son, are you?'
Barney didn't even bother laughing it off. Mind on other things, the dream removing all thoughts of Katie Dillinger, so that he had awoken that morning in quite a different mood from that in which he'd gone to bed.
'Aye,' he said, 'I suppose. I've got to buy her a present,'n' all. I was pleased at the time, but now I've no idea what to get her.'
Blizzard nodded and sucked his teeth.
'Can I give you the benefit of my years of experience, son?' he asked.
Barney smiled – a sad smile – and rested on the end of his broom.
'Aye,' he said. 'Go on.'
Blizzard laid down the paper and pointed at him.
'It doesn't matter what the fuck you give them. They'll either want to shag you, or they won't.'
Barney shook his head, still smiling. Brilliant.
'Tell you what you can do, son, though. I'll tell you what does work.'
'Go on.'
'They aye open up for a bit of poetry.'
'Poetry? Get a grip, Leyman. This is the West of Scotland. She'll think I'm a poof.'
Blizzard picked up the paper again and prepared to read about Absolutely Bloody Desperate from Kirkintilloch.
'I'm telling you, son. Poetry's the thing. Give them a nice poem, and their legs open up like you're pulling a zipper. No bother. A zipper.'
Barney laughed and bent to his work. Poetry. Where was he going to find poetry at this short notice? Unless he was to write it himself.
And before he could even begin to wonder what might rhyme with 'shag you', his mind was once more enveloped by the dark dreams of the night before, and the far-off face of his nemesis.
***
'You see, there are three kinds of women.'
Barney nodded. Gerry Cohn was in full flow.
'There's your common-or-garden stankmonster. There's your Plain Jane. Then there's your no' bad-looking bit of stuff. You know, your Sophie Marceau or your Uma Thurman. I mean, obviously you can sub-divide they three categories to an infinite amount, to be fair, but when it comes to it, you've got those basic three.'
Barney nodded. He was not in the mood for the Gerry Cohns of the world. His thoughts were still plagued by the remnants of the dream; and every so often he tried to recapture the face which had presented itself to him, and when it did not come, he did his best to not think of it, hoping that it might come subconsciously to mind; and when it did not, he concentrated his thoughts upon it, and so it went on. And thus he left his brain in neutral, as Gerry Cohn did his stuff.
'So, what about this lassie you're wanting to shag, then, Big Man? Which of the three does she fit into?'
Barney let his brain judder into first. Where did Katie Dillinger fit into all of this? Had she some obscure, subconscious part to play in these recurring dreams and his daily dread? Was it all just an equal and opposite reaction to his optimism over the potential of his relationship?
'Somewhere between the good looking and the average, I suppose,' he said.
'Aye, aye,' said Cohn, 'I know what you mean. Quite often there's cross-pollination between substrata. That concept makes up quite a part of the paper I'm writing on it for my PhD, you know. Usually the movement's between the Plain Jane and the good-looking bit of stuff ones, right enough. You meet some lassie, she looks plain enough. A couple of months later, you've got to know her a bit better, she seems all right, good sense of humour and all that, and you want into her knickers. All of a sudden she's in the A-band. It's common. Course, it's just yourself who thinks she's a looker, not your mates.'
'Aye,' said Blizzard from behind the Mirror – Thomson Butchers Cow in Abattoir – 'but a stankmonster is aye a stankmonster.'
'How right you are, mate,' said Cohn.
Barney slid back into neutral and tried to concentrate on the dream. He was sure that the minister, the haunting spectre on his knees, praying for Barney's soul, had revealed himself at last. He still felt the shock of revelation, greater than the impact of just recognising someone he knew. But when he'd woken, the face was gone, and all that had been left was the terrible feeling of dread; of Death at his shoulder.
'You're looking a bit distracted there, Big Man,' said Cohn. 'You're not obsessing about the bird, are you?'
Barney looked down at the head of hair beneath him. The requested John Lennon (Let it Be) was already in danger of becoming a John Lennon (Sergeant Pepper), and if he was not careful, it could become a John Lennon (Some Time His Hair Was Really Short).
He laid the scissors down on the table and looked around the shop. Blizzard read the paper, the back sports page pointed at him. Barcelona Tea Lady on Way to Ibrox in Swap Deal with Amaruso. He ran the final comb through the hair of Gerry Cohn.
'Naw, it's not that,' he said. 'Just been getting bad dreams.'
Cohn nodded as he viewed the final effort. Not too bothered about the retro-slide of his Lennon haircut, but glad it hadn't gone any farther.
'Portent of your own death, that kind of thing?'
Barney didn't even bother being surprised.
'No' sure,' he said. 'Might be. Hard to say.'
'Sure they're not just a rehash of the day's events?' volunteered Blizzard, placing the paper down on the bench. Liked nothing better than a discussion on the swings and roundabouts of outrageous ontology; the precincts and harvests of metaphysics.
Barney emitted a long sigh as he removed the cape from around Cohn's neck.
'Might be, Leyman,' he said, 'but if they are, they're someone else's day's events, not mine. And I wouldn't like to be the poor bastard whose days they are.'
Cohn stood up and admired himself in the mirror. He was into Wee Senga Saddlebag's pants with this napper, no problem.
'Well, you know what they say,' he said, digging no deeper into his pocket than required, 'if it's not a rehash of the day's events, then it's a harbinger of something. And if it ain't good, then it's bad.'
They stared at one another.
'You can quote me on that last one, if you like,' he added.
Robotic, Barney fetched Cohn his coat from the hanger and placed it over his shoulder. Why couldn't dreams be just that? Wasn't that allowed? He'd had plenty of good dreams, dreams from which he'd awoken to find the harsh reality of normal life. None of those bloody dreams had been a portent of things to come, so why should the one with Death creeping up at his shoulder ever happen, recurring or not?
'I wouldn't worry, Barney,' said Blizzard, 'we're all a long time old, my friend. Especially me. You've got nothing to be scared of about dying. No' just yet.'
Barney nodded and thanked Cohn for the meagre tip. Dying? He'd never been afraid of dying, and felt even less so now. So what else could it be?
'The unknown,' said Cohn, as he opened the door to the outside, allowing in the cold wind from the Clyde. 'Now there's something to be afraid of. See you, lads.'
And he left them staring at the door. Barney wide-eyed and knowing. He had just seen the light; the obscure truth which fitted his ill feeling like an old sock.
'What d'you make of that?' said Blizzard.
Barney didn't answer immediately; lifted his brush and attended to the detritus at his feet, still not looking at the floor. Sensing where the hairs were. The brush his light sabre, the hairs evil agents of the Emperor.
'The man's got a point,' he said after a while, head still down. 'The man's got a point.'
And so taken with the final words of Gerry Cohn had they been that, though they were both staring through the window at the street outside, neither of them noticed Sophie Marceau as she walked past, naked from the waist up, on one of her regular shopping trips to Greenock.
––––––––
Barney propped his brush up against the wall, turned and surveyed the shop, mentally twiddling his thumbs. Early Saturday afternoon, nothing to be done and nothing to be gained. A Mario Van Peebles had just left the shop, not another customer in sight. Probably pick up later on, but his heart wasn't in it. Not today. Contemplating the haunting of his dreams and the paradox of the possibilities of the weekend ahead. The chance to get to know Katie Dillinger. The infinite potential of the sleeping arrangements. Well, the two possible sleeping arrangements. One where he got to sleep with her, and one where he didn't.
And so, on and on, his mind went. He'd noticed some jealous glances from the others when talking to her, and perhaps he wouldn't be the only one looking to make his move. And if he did get anywhere, what then? It'd been a long, long time. Would he still remember? Would he still function in all the appropriate places?
This occupied his mind, alongside the overwhelming sense of foreboding. The weekend loomed large with promise, but also with apprehension and unease. A group of murderers alone in a house together. It was almost a joke. Why shouldn't he feel unease?
But it was more than that, this feeling that plagued him. Much more.
'Why don't you leave, son?' said Blizzard.
Barney was plucked from his meandering mind.
'Sorry?'
'Bugger off. I can tell you've got other things on your mind, so why not just get on? Go home and pack, or whatever you've got to do for your big night.'
'That'll only take five minutes.'
'Doesn't matter, son. Away and buy the bitch her present, or write some magic bit of poetry. I can see your mind's not on your work. Cut a wee bit too much off that last yin's hair. Bugger off and I'll take care of things. Working with you's given me a lot more confidence. Hope you noticed I gave some bastard a Brad Pitt (Se7en) earlier. Not bad, eh?'
Barney smiled weakly and nodded. He had noticed. It'd been a stinker, but at least Leyman was more relaxed about these things now. So what if it had been a stinker; it'd grow back.
'You sure?' he said, avoiding comment.
'Aye, aye, of course I am. No bother. Just bugger off and leave me to it.'
Barney smiled, genuinely this time. He was a good man, old Leyman, and there were not many of them left.
He grabbed his coat and grabbed his hat. Turned to face the old man, and as he did so, taking in the shop, he felt the strangest movement up his back and over his shoulders, so that his entire body shivered and the hairs crept up on his neck. A cold hand gripped his spine. He turned quickly, looking around the small silence of the shop. And as quickly as it had come, the shiver died, the feeling subsided. An end to sighs. He looked at the scissors that lay on the table and did not know that he would never lift them again in anger.
He looked up. The shop stared blankly back at him, as did old Blizzard.
'There's a nice card shop up by there, son. Get a blank one, with Christmas shite on the front, one of they old paintings of Paris in the snow, or some shite like yon. Then stick your poem in the middle. Something like, You're the fairest girl, a bonnie lass; I want to shag your tits and lick your arse. Like yon. She'll be gagging for it.'
Barney laughed, shook his head. With the words, the feeling went. Back on his own two feet, but still troubled.
'We're closed on Monday, by the way, eh?' he said. 'Christmas Eve?'
'Monday?' said Blizzard, mock exasperation. 'Bloody hell, son, you've only been here five minutes and already you're wanting days off to go out shagging?'
And the warm smile returned and the old man laughed wickedly into his beard. 'Aye, course we're closed. Merry Christmas, son. See you in the boozer when you get back. Ho fucking ho, eh?'
Barney turned to go, stopped and looked back at the old man. A father figure, created almost overnight. The father he'd never had. And he was swept up by feelings of warmth and sadness and regret, and he knew not from where any of them came. It was almost as if this scene was a waking dream, a brief connection with his nightmare, and it was gone. 'Thanks, Leyman,' he said.
'Aye, son, now away and bugger off. I don't need nursing.'
'Merry Christmas.'
'Load of shite, son, but the same to you.'
Barney smiled again, turned and was gone. Blizzard watched him go, shook his head, then lifted the paper. Giant Octopus Eats Mum of Five.
And strangely enough, Barney closed the door behind him and bent his head into the wind at just exactly the moment when Detective Sergeant Best, the recipient of the Mario Van Peebles – watching over the shop and waiting for reinforcements – was forced to answer the call of nature.
***
Just after midday. Another day into December, another degree off the temperature, but still the day was grey and mild and bleak and nothing. The sort of day for sitting in a pub drinking copious amounts of alcohol. Although sometimes it could seem like every day is for that, no matter what the weather, no matter what there is in life.
It's like that. You've got to have something to look forward to, or you might as well spend your time looking at the dregs in a glass, or staring at a silent fishing line, or parked in front of crap TV. There has to be some focus; and when you're a policeman, you've got a huge murder case in front of you, and you're still not focused, you're losing the point.
Mulholland had had the brass section from Stop the Cavalry playing in his head all day. Dah-de-dah-de-dum-dum ... dah-de-dah-de-dum ... And on it went and he had given up trying to get rid of it. He tapped the beat out softly on the side of his glass with his wedding ring; drained the dregs of his second pint of lager. Sort of staring at Proudfoot's hands, sort of thinking of how those hands had ventured to several of the most intimate parts of his body, sort of thinking about getting another round in, sort of thinking about the case.
He knew he'd not given much lead to the investigation, but then how was he supposed to lead when the direction in which he'd been ordered was so hopelessly off the mark? Did M seriously believe that they should be after Barney Thomson? Maybe M himself was the serial killer, that might have explained it. Maybe he should indeed be after Barney Thomson, but just didn't want to accept it because he'd had him in his grasp the previous year and had decided to let him go.
He shook his head, rubbed his forehead. He ought to just get out, leave it to someone who could do a better job. He was wasting everybody's time. He presumed there must be some young go-getter left on the force who would like to run with it, and was resenting Mulholland for having been brought back.
There are always issues, that's the thing. Everyone has their own issues. M had his, whatever they were, in looking for Barney; he himself had his own in not looking for him. Whoever else was brought into the investigation would have their own angle. Everyone has an angle.
'You think I did the right thing?' he said into the space which had been devoid of conversation for some ten minutes. 'Letting him go?'
'You're speaking, then?' said Proudfoot, dragged from her own melancholia. 'Thought the next time you opened your mouth it would be to offer up the next round.'
'Driving,' he said.
'Oh, aye, where're we going, then?'
Their eyes engaged, and when he couldn't think of a reply she looked back into her drink and watched the bubbles rise slowly to the surface. Her mood a combination of being sucked into his gloom and the realisation that she did not want what she'd asked for this past year. She didn't want to be back in the saddle after all, she didn't want to have to be spending her Saturday evening on suspect-watch, she didn't want any of it; and so now she had no clue what she wanted.
Mulholland? Did she want back into the turbulence of that? Fighting one minute, wanting to get married the next. Except there was no fight left in either of them.
'Probably not,' she said finally answering his question. 'Seemed like a good idea at the time, but it just means we're having to look for him now.'
'D'you think he might be the killer?'
She shrugged and ran her fingers around the top of the glass. There would have been a time when the action was laced with sexual tension between the two; now it was just something to do for a few seconds. Mulholland stared at her hands.
'No,' she said, shortly. 'But if he was locked up, or appearing on chat shows, or whatever, we wouldn't have to be chasing him now, would we? We might be able to concentrate on the real guy, not some bloke who can't stick a fork into a mushroom without feeling guilt.'
Mulholland's shoulders dropped another micro-inch. That was about the size of it. It'd been a good idea at the time, but now they were lumbered with it. There was someone out there to be caught and their hands were tied.
He became aware of the television playing quietly in the background, a few desperate souls at the bar watching. The early afternoon news, a report on the hunt for this year's serial killer. It drifted through the usual details, including a review of all the murders, an overview of the suspects (total – one), and a rundown of the key police officers involved. Mulholland looked away when he saw his own face on the screen, accompanied by McMenemy's words that his men were on it twenty-four hours a day.
'Macaroon bars.'
He could feel a few pairs of eyes on him from the bar; could imagine the thought processes.
'Macaroon bars. Get your macaroon bars here. Macaroon bars.'
He glanced at Proudfoot, but she hadn't even noticed. Took a quick look up and caught the eye of a woman sitting at the bar, already staring at him. Imagined there was something accusatory in her look, so turned away. Fuck 'em. It was McMenemy's problem. He could spout all he liked, but when he had his force looking for the wrong man, then it might as well have been a thousand of them on the case for twenty-four thousand hours a day, they were still not going to catch the real killer.
'Macaroon bars!' said the macaroon bar salesman, walking through the pub. A little more feeling this time. He carried a full box of macaroon bars, and had been walking the streets and pubs of Glasgow for nearly two hours. 'Macaroon bars, get your macaroon bars here!'
The landlord gave him the once-over, decided not to eject him. These fly-by-night macaroon bar salesmen came and went with the wind; and it was not as if they took any of his crisps and peanut business.
Mulholland couldn't help but hold the gaze of the woman at the bar. Evelyn McLaughlin, as it happened; on the lookout for a certain type of man. He got a strange feeling that something was about to happen; a peculiar and vague sense of foreboding. He stared at her for a little while longer, but her expression was blank, the eyes gave nothing away. Mid-twenties perhaps. Black hair, waxed eyebrows, intensifying the apparent Culloden look which perhaps lay beneath the banality of the stare. Banal and bellicose at the same time; Mulholland never had been much good at working out women.
'Macaroon bars! Get your macaroon bars here!'
He looked around the bar, trying to identify the possible origin of the unease he was feeling. Proudfoot stared into her drink, the customers – Evelyn McLaughlin excepted – drank their pints and watched TV and talked aimlessly of momentous topics, while the macaroon bar salesman plied his trade in ever-increasing, powerless frustration.
'Macaroon bars! Get your macaroon bars here! Macaroon bars!'
Mulholland toyed with his drink, unable to pick the source of his disquiet, finally lifting the near-empty glass to his mouth to finish it off. He became aware of Evelyn McLaughlin approaching, waxed eyebrows in full flow. He warily looked at her as she came to rest beside him.
Proudfoot gave her the time of day, seeing as she had nothing else to think about.
'Macaroon bars! Get your macaroon bars here! Some cunt buy one. Macaroon bars!'
'Here,' said McLaughlin, as the macaroon bar salesman grudgingly gave up the ghost, barely giving enough time for the quality of his advertising campaign to take hold, and made his way out into the street, 'you that polis that's just been on the telly?'
Mulholland looked at her, a quick appraisal to see if there might be a knife or some other implement tucked away in the foliage of her clothing. A tight red dress, nothing much showing except the usual array of fat.
He nodded. A subdued sense of ill feeling all because he was about to be subjected to a volley of verbal abuse from a punter.
'Well, how come you're not out catching that bloody Barney Thomson, then, ya bampot? This you on it twenty-four hour a day, is it? Magic that, i'n't it no? Sitting in a fucking boozer with your bit of skirt and a pint of heavy?'
'It's lager.'
'Lager? Well, that's all right, then, i'n't it, ya polis bastard.'
She placed her hands on her hips and they stared one another out. Proudfoot contemplated the thought of being Mulholland's bit of skirt, and decided she couldn't care less. She's been called worse.
'That all you've got to say for yourself, ya bastard?'
'Just about,' he said.
She snorted. Very, very attractive.
'Anyway,' she went on, 'that's no' why I'm here. I don't really give a shite whether you catch that bloke or not. I mean, I'd be delighted for him to kill most of the people I know, and that.'
'Kind words,' said Mulholland.'
'Aye, right. Anyway, what I'm really here for is to say that me and my mate Elsie have got a bet on about who can shag more folk off the telly by Christmas. That bitch is about six ahead of me, seeing as she shagged the entire Albion Rovers team in the space of a couple of hours. So, seeing as you've just been on the box, I was wondering if you'd like to shag me, or what. I mean, I'm like that, I'm not interested in foreplay or orgasms or any of yon shite. Two seconds' penetration'll do, and you're in my book. We could go into the bog, and I'll be pure like that, and you'll be back here with your miserable bird in less than a minute.'
Mulholland almost smiled; first time in months.
'This is my wife, I'm afraid. Can't do it.'
'Your missus? This soor-faced pudding? I could give you a much better time, even if it was only for two seconds. I bet she hasn't shagged you in about six months.'
Good guess, thought Proudfoot; damn near spot on. She nodded.
'See what I mean? No wonder you're a miserable cunt, married to a pound of mince like this. Come with me, Big Man, and I'll show you a good time. Suck a melon through a straw, me. Throat like a vacuum cleaner.'
Mulholland smiled. 'Put like that, hen, I'm tempted. Twenty-four hours a day, though, that's me. Always on the job. Couldn't even spare you that two seconds.'
'Aye, well, whatever. Think you're full of shite, whatever you say. When you find yon bastard and you've got more time on your hands, then give us a call. Having said that, don't bother if it's after Christmas, 'cause you're an ugly bastard.'
And so the lounge bar überchick made her way back to her Bacardi Breezer, and Mulholland could continue the great weight of thought needed to decide whether or not to get in another round.
'She's got you pegged,' said Proudfoot.
'Watch it, Sergeant.'
The door to the bar swung open, then rocked closed behind the weight of Detective Sergeant Ferguson. He approached Mulholland, eyeing up the vixen in red as he did so.
'Nice bit of stuff at the bar,' he said, arriving at the table.
They viewed him as they might a small child.
'You used to police the Thistle home games decades ago when they were still a decent enough outfit and used to get on the telly, didn't you?' said Mulholland.
'Aye, why?'
'Oh, no reason. What is it that brings you steaming into the bar?'
'The boss is just about to get a round in, if that's why you're here,' said Proudfoot.
'A round? Wouldn't mind a pint, but I think we better get a move on. There's been a sighting of Barney Thomson. Some geezer phoned in to say he'd had his hair cut by the bloke in a wee shop in Greenock.'
Mulholland let out a long sigh and shook his head.
'No news of the real killer, then?' he said.
Proudfoot grabbed her bag and coat. Something to do at last, although she felt no hint of tension or excitement. So what if they'd found Barney Thomson, she thought; as did Mulholland.
Out they went, into the grey gloom of early afternoon. Mulholland could smell the cigarette smoke on his jacket; he could taste the bitter remnants of the lager on his tongue. Beginning to need to go to the toilet. The ordinary scene around them as he got into the passenger seat of Ferguson's car seemed less ordinary today. It was somehow challenged, as if at odds with itself. But really, it was he who was at odds with it, and the weight of the world sat uneasily on his shoulders. There was something not quite right. Some weird Jungian thing going on.
'What's the score, then, Sergeant?' he said.
Ferguson cut up the only Rover 75 sold in the previous six months, and pulled out into the flow of traffic.
'Bloke goes in for a haircut, an Agent Cooper, apparently.'
'That's a little more information than I needed, Sergeant.'
'I'm setting the scene.'
'I know what a sodding barbershop looks like.'
'So, the guy goes in for his Agent Cooper. Not the film version Agent Cooper, but the TV show Agent Cooper.'
'Thought it was the same?' said Proudfoot, already beginning to doze in the back.
'Whatever, I'm just reporting what I was told. I never watched that shite. Anyway, the bloke does a good job. The guy thinks he recognises him, asks him who he is, and he quite happily admits to being Barney Thomson.' Mulholland gave a sideways glance. 'So, he goes home and calls the local Feds. They're a keen lot, and obviously with nothing better to do, so they send one of their plods along to get his napper seen to. So the guy gets his hair cut by Thomson, asks him a few questions, and again he readily admits to who he is. Which, let's face it, ties in with the fact that he was giving himself up all over the shop. So the plod leaves with a stoatir of a haircut – a Mario Van Peebles, no less – and waits outside for the cavalry.'
Ferguson steamed through the traffic, towards the confines of the westbound M8.
'So, have the locals moved in?'
Ferguson snorted.
'Have they bollocks. They're all shitting their breeks, which is fair enough. Waiting for you two, by the sounds of it. They're watching the shop, waiting to see if he makes a move.'
'So he doesn't know they're on to him?'
'Doesn't know shite.'
Mulholland shook his head, then winced and extended his braking foot as Ferguson nearly drove into the back of a green Peugeot.
'What are they going to do,' said Mulholland, once they were back in the clear, shooting up the middle lane of a dual carriageway, 'if he makes a move before we get there? Hide, and see if the Scouts can follow the guy?'
Ferguson shrugged. Had a couple of mates on the force down there. All in it together. Could tell that Mulholland was no longer a team man; if, indeed, he was anything at all.
'Can't blame them, really,' he said. 'That Thomson's a murderous bastard.'
'He's a big poof.'
'He's still a mad bastard.'
'If he's mad, it's only because we won't leave him in peace to cut hair. And all the time we worry about this guy, and go careering off across the country looking for him, the real killer is pishing himself laughing at us wasting our time. There's better things to be doing than this, Sergeant, and the local bloody plods can't even be bothered their backside going in and arresting him.'
'What about you!' said Ferguson, as he headed slowly up the slip road onto the motorway. 'You were sitting in the pub.'
'Shut up, Sergeant. I get enough lip from this one,' he said, indicating the back of the car.
They both glanced behind. Proudfoot's head was resting uncomfortably against the rear window. She slept, the smile of the curiously perturbed on her face.
They turned back and Ferguson accelerated into the midst of the flow. And off they went in search of Barney Thomson, to the exact little barbershop on the edge of Greenock where he had been working this past week; and which he had walked out of some half-hour earlier.
––––––––
The car pulled into the side of the road. Apart from the twenty or so grown men and women secreted in inadequate hiding places or attempting to blend in with the crowd, it was a perfectly normal afternoon scene. A grey day, the suggestion of rain, cars coming and going, pedestrians doing their thing. Walking for example.
Ferguson had had the heat up higher than necessary, the music down low. Proudfoot had slept soundly; Mulholland had stared dumbly at the passing grey day, contemplating his bank account. Could he afford to jack in the job and spend his days fishing? A life on the riverbank, watching the water trundle by, bugs buzzing above the water and fish nibbling at the surface, had got to be worth the trade-off of having no money coming in.
He could take a pay-off from the Feds; eat the fish he caught; go out all day and so use few utilities. No mates, family all gone to the big football terrace in the sky, so no phone calls. He could live on buttons.
But then there was the issue – and it was an issue – of Proudfoot. Could he bring himself to leave her again? Ought he not really to ask her to come with him? They could argue on a permanent basis. They could wind each other up. They could enrage each other, and press all the wrong buttons. All that, coupled with fantastic sex.
Ferguson turned off the engine. Springsteen was cut off in mid-stride; the last line and sudden silence filtered through to Mulholland. He snapped from his myth of El Dorado; a fish, some fourteen pounds at least, snapping frantically on the end of his line, Proudfoot saying not bloody fish again for dinner. He looked at Ferguson, glanced behind at their sleeping beauty.
'I'd drive all night again just to buy you some shoes?' he said to Ferguson. 'You don't half listen to some amount of shite, Sergeant.'
Ferguson shrugged. 'Always thought it was quite poignant.'
'Poignant? You? You thought it was poignant when Alan Rough played his last game for Scotland.'
'I'm hurt.'
'I bet you are.'
Mulholland turned round and tapped Proudfoot gently on the leg. Got the mild shock from physical contact. A remnant of the past, or the underlying flicker of interest. He ignored it.
'Wake up, Sergeant, the evil monster awaits.'
Proudfoot stirred, dragged herself uneasily from her dreams of disembodied hands and midnight killers.
'Right,' she said, taking in the surroundings. 'I'm on it.'
They got out of the car, another three Feds to add to the ever-increasing collection. There were some in uniform, crouching behind cars; some in plainclothes milling around, pretending to look in shop windows, mingling with the crowd, yet still standing out a mile. And that crowd continued to grow, as grandstanders and gloaters added to the throng.
'You know who's in charge?' asked Mulholland.
'You see,' replied Ferguson, 'I've never been sure about it. Is it that he's driven all night once before to buy her some shoes, and he's saying he'd do it again? Or is it that the last time he drove all night it was for some completely different article of clothing, and he's saying that he'd also be prepared to do it to buy her shoes. I'm not so sure. What d'you think, Erin?'
'You talking about Springsteen?'
'Aye.'
'I think it's a pile of pish.'
Mulholland stopped and held up his hands.
'Stop! Sergeant, who's in charge?'
Ferguson smiled and flicked open the notebook.
'An Inspector Hills.'
'Thank you. You may continue your discussion.'
Mulholland approached the nearest uniform lurking behind a car, surveying the situation as he went. The small barber's shop was directly across the road, the view inside largely obscured by a blind.
He aimed his badge at the uniform. 'Inspector Hills?' he said. No mood for civility.
Constable Starkey, a woman of some infinite depth, completely wasted on her chosen profession, indicated two men standing outside the door of a small grocer's, pretending to be interested in tomatoes. Mulholland turned away without a word.
'Hills?' he said, approaching.
'Aye,' said the taller of the two. A good man; honest face, broad shoulders, firm handshake. Someone to rely on in a crisis. 'Graeme Hills. You must be Detective Chief Inspector Mulholland?'
'Aye.' He briefly contemplated introducing his sergeants into the fold, but decided not to bother. This wasn't going to take very long. 'What's the score, then?'
'Got the report an hour or two ago,' said Graeme Hills, arms crossed. 'The guy seemed fairly certain it was him. We got one of our men to go to the shop, on a purely customer-orientated basis. Got a lovely Mario Van Peebles off the bloke, by the way. Anyway, it's Barney Thomson all right. Talked quite openly about it. Our man said it seemed, I don't know, that there was an air of melancholy about him.'
Mulholland breathed deeply, stared across at the shop. Couldn't be bothered with any of this.
'So why didn't he arrest him?'
Hills did a thing with his eyebrows.
'We're talking Barney Thomson here. Our guy was alone and under strict instruction to wait for back-up.'
Mulholland nodded. Fair enough, perhaps. He'd had his own reservations about Thomson until he'd discovered his true nature. However, that didn't excuse everything.
'And what do these three or four hundred officers represent, if not back-up?'
Hills did something with his mouth.
'We're not armed. We thought it best to wait for you, seeing as you've direct experience of the bloke. Got the place covered. Can't really see into the shop properly, but there's no way he's getting out without us getting him.'
'I'm not armed, either,' said Mulholland.
Hills did something with his cheeks.
'That's your call, Chief Inspector. You know how to deal with him. We've got no experience of him.'
Mulholland gave him his best Morse face. Waste of bloody time, he thought.
'So why haven't you got this road closed off, if you think he's so dangerous?'
Hills pointed up and down the road in a completely aimless gesture. 'And alert him to us?' he said. 'He knows nothing of us being here. We're sharp, discreet and smooth. There could be three hundred polis out here and he wouldn't have a clue. My officers blend in like trees in a forest. They're the SAS. They're the Pink Panther. They're Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair. They're Sean Connery in Entrapment. We can move in and get him any time.'
Mulholland continued to look unhappy; Ferguson nodded in a 'seems reasonable' gesture; Proudfoot looked across the road at the shop, wondering if it really was Barney Thomson in there. Why would this be any different from any other hoax they'd had in the past year?
Mulholland shook his head and turned to Ferguson.
'Right, Sergeant, me and Proudfoot will go in, you wait just outside the shop in case he makes a break for it. Your discreet Pink Panther-type unarmed heroes got the back covered, Inspector?'
'Of course,' said Hills.
'Brilliant. Right, let's go.'
'But you're not armed,' said Hills to Mulholland as he walked away. 'Shouldn't you wait for some armed back-up?'
Mulholland looked over his shoulder.
'Have you called any?'
'Well, no.'
Mulholland shrugged and stepped out into the road, saying, 'Come on, Sergeant, you joining me, or are you just going to stand there gawping at the pavement?' to Proudfoot as he went.
Proudfoot wandered a few steps behind, taking oblique notice of the traffic. Face to face, once again, with Barney Thomson. She remembered a year earlier heading north to hunt for him, full of fears and trepidation and terror. And now... now she vaguely wondered what she was going to have for dinner.
Hills watched them go. He'd heard tales of Mulholland and Proudfoot; great odysseys that painted them mad as hell. And here was confirmation. Walking unarmed into the lion's den, the stench of alcohol on their breath. These maverick cops were all alike.
***
The door to the shop opened; Blizzard looked up as they entered. A man with a great shag of black hair who could well have been there for a cut. No idea about the woman. But he could tell that this was not business; at least, not his business.
'You're not fucking consultants, are you?' said Blizzard, with a casual charm.
Mulholland produced his badge. Proudfoot looked around, realised that she'd never before been inside a barbershop. Then it occurred to her that she couldn't care less either way and turned to look at the old man. They both noticed the obvious absence of anyone remotely resembling Barney Thomson.
'Polis,' said Mulholland to back up the badge. 'We're looking for Barney Thomson.'
Blizzard humphed.
'Thought you'd be by eventually,' he said. 'The lad buggered off about forty minutes ago. I noticed your lot gathering outside like a pack of hyenas. Stupid wankers. Anyway, he's gone till after Christmas.'
Mulholland's shoulders dropped another inch or two. Proudfoot switched off. The same old story.
'Who the fuck are you?' said Mulholland, vaguely annoyed at the old man; couldn't think why.
'Blizzard,' said Blizzard. 'Leyman Blizzard. And don't talk to me like that, or I'll kick your arse.'
'So if you had Barney Thomson working in your shop, why didn't you report it?'
Blizzard sat back, straightened his shoulders. Had always hated the polis.
'What was the point? He's a nice enough bloke, and there's no way he's the killer youse are looking for. And besides, he's tried handing himself in and youse weren't interested. And you just watch your tone, son.'
Mulholland had no argument. Barney was indeed not the killer they were looking for, and the police did look stupid turning up here, mob-handed, to arrest the man when he'd already tried to hand himself in and had been turned away.
'Where'd he go? Where does he live?'
'He's away for the weekend somewhere. Don't know where. Why don't youse just leave the bastard alone?'
Joel Mulholland stood and stared at the floor, at exactly the same mark as Erin Proudfoot, and neither of them could think of an answer. Why didn't they just leave him alone? And why didn't they just walk away from this bloody stupid investigation?
Old Leyman Blizzard said nothing, and waited for them to go.
––––––––
Mulholland had refused to sit. Knew what was coming, already aware of what was in his head to do. McMenemy was on the prowl, stalking the few yards between his desk and the window, head bent to the ground, looking at the pattern of the carpet. Trying to control his burgeoning rage. Eyebrows knotted together, teeth set hard. A man on the verge of a verbal explosion.
Mulholland was not far off the same.
'Will you sit down, Chief Inspector?' McMenemy barked one more time. 'Sit down!'
'I'm not staying,' said Mulholland dryly.
McMenemy stopped his endless backwards and forwards charge and engaged his eye. The Klingon warbird de-cloaked and about to unleash photon torpedoes. Of course, those Klingon warbirds were rubbish.
'Damned right you're not staying! Damned right. You let the man go from right under your nose. My God! He's a monster and he roams our streets free, because of you! You had him in his shop and you let him go!'
Mulholland moved forward and pressed his hand against the desktop.
'He was gone by the time I got there. It was the bloody local plods who let him go. And you know why? They were so shit scared of him because of the press and the likes of you, making the guy out to be so much more than he actually is. Watch my lips, sir. He's not the killer.'
McMenemy pointed a finger, arm outstretched, from no more than three yards across the desk.
'Don't you watch my lips at me, my boy. This is it for you, Sergeant Mulholland. You can report for front desk duty on Monday morning, and consider yourself lucky you're not busted all the way down. You should be plodding the damned streets for your incompetence.'
'I'm incompetent? You're the arsehole chasing after a big, mild-mannered bloody jessie!'
McMenemy's pointing finger wilted a little. His nostrils flared. Eyes widened, then slowly narrowed as he lowered his arm. From the side of the room came the low hum of the fish tank. Cars outside cruised at forty-five in a thirty zone. There was a distant tantrum of a Salvation Army brass band breaking heartily into Good Christian Men, Rejoice, and the tune started playing in Mulholland's head. Aware of his own breathing; could hear McMenemy's breath, thick and clogged through his nose, lips clenched shut.
Now ye hear of endless bliss, Jesus Christ was born for this...
'What did you just call me?'
The words snapped out into the room. Cold, short, violent.
McMenemy pulled his shoulders back and stared at Mulholland, waiting for the answer. Or an apology. But Mulholland did not quail. He had had enough, and it was time to go. And if you're going to go, you might as well do an Al Pacino, And Justice for All...
He took another step towards him, and placed both hands on the desktop. Leaned closer.
'I called you an arsehole. And you know what, Chief Superintendent? You know what? I was right. You are an arsehole.'
Straightened up, waiting to see the reaction. Had rolled the word arsehole around his tongue, as if it were a Cuban cigar. If you're going to burn your bridges, you might as well do it properly.
McMenemy rose to his full, intimidating height. A good six three in his socks, and no mistake. Looked down on him, face beginning to snarl. An easy-going man, really, turned to madness.
'Get out of my office, Mr Mulholland, and get out of my station. You're finished, boy. Absolutely finished. I should have listened to Geraldine Cunningham. You're a useless waste of space. A has-been. You might as well have died in the monastery last year, 'cause you're good for nothing. Get out, get out! Do not darken the door of this station again. Do you hear me?'
Mulholland started to turn, but suddenly felt like he had been given free reign.
'You know what you can do?' he said.
'Get out, right now, before you make this even worse,' said McMenemy.
'You know what you can do?' Mulholland repeated. 'You can fuck your job.'
He was starting to warm to his subject. A few steps away from the desk, pointing at his boss. His ex-boss. Getting serious, annoyed, flustered, excited. A great weight of frustration and anger to burn off before he walked out for the last time.
'Get out!'
'What are you going to do?' he said, starting to laugh. 'Call the police? You stupid, ignorant bastard. Well, you can fuck your job. And you know what else? You can fuck you, and fuck the station. And you can fuck your post of chief inspector. You can fuck Glasgow, fuck Barney fucking Thomson, fuck the real fucking killer, and you can stick your fucking job up your fucking fuckhole, you stupid fucking fuckbag!'
Final words uttered in triumph, a small piece of spit sent flying through the air in front of him. And McMenemy stood and stared. Strangely now the anger was gone, and slowly he sank down into his seat. And when he spoke again his voice was low and cold, and filled more fully with malice than at any time in the previous twenty years.
'Leave, please. Now. And be assured, Chief Inspector, that this matter is not over.'
Mulholland breathed heavily. Face flushed. Had loved every second of it. Knew from past experience that his voice would have travelled out from within these walls. He would be a hero! Word would spread, and they would all know him as the brave visionary he most certainly was. Either that, or the stupid, burned-out idiot.
'Yes it is,' he said in a low voice, and turned to the door. Quick snatch at the handle, door open, and he was gone out into the wide world of the station, where business went on as usual for a Saturday afternoon, and a few looked at him as he went by, and cared not whether they ever saw him again.
Walking quickly to get away from it all, and within half a minute Joel Mulholland was outside in the mild but bleak midwinter. A hint of rain in the air and he pulled his jacket close to him.
Stopped and took a moment. Turned and looked back up at the old building and immediately started to think of Erin Proudfoot. And so, as he began to wander the streets aimlessly, contemplating his new life, he could do little but think of her and what she would be doing as he slid rapidly into the oblivion that awaited him.
––––––––
The minibus travelled the slow roads of the Borders bereft of first, second and fourth gears, all of which had departed in a robust judder somewhere south of Peebles; so that every time they came to a tight bend, the driver could go no lower than third, and the bus shuddered round the corner in a series of vibrations and jerks, spilling drinks and causing general mayhem with elaborate hairstyles; while providing those women bedecked in tight underwear a little more pleasure than they'd otherwise anticipated.
The rain came down in great crashing torrents, and Bobby Ramsey leant forward and peered into the dead of night. Only seven thirty, as he headed towards the final short stretch of labyrinthine turns and convolutions, but it was black all around them. Occasionally a dark grey hill was evident against the night; a light in a farmhouse window set back from the road; and occasionally another vehicle passing them in the opposite direction, for no one was going where they were going.
Barney had sat in silence on the way south, staring dolefully at the sight of Arnie Medlock, making moves – he assumed he was making moves – on Katie Dillinger. He'd hoped to get the seat next to her, but he hadn't had the confidence to barge in and take control of the situation. And so he had dithered, Arnie had won the prime seat, and Barney had ended up next to Bobby Dear, the wealthy accountant type, from whom Barney had not heard a word.
So he had stewed in his own jealousy, attempting to hear above the roar of the diesel engine and the conversation of the others what was being said. Felt ridiculously like a spurned lover, even though he had no claim on this woman. Could imagine himself doing a variety of vicious things to Medlock, even though he had, until an hour ago, thought him to be a perfectly pleasant bloke. (As pleasant as a member of Murderer's Anonymous was likely to be.)
Barney did not see himself as one of the others; did not even consider the possibility that some of them might be as feckless as he himself.
He looked out at the rain and the passing hedges and walls and trees, beyond which the darkness held its secrets. He had been contemplating engaging Dear in conversation, but for all the mild-mannered-accountant demeanour to the man, he could recognise the killer's guise that lurked behind that kind face. Still, he had joined the group to talk to this kind of person, not to become embroiled in romance. That had been an entirely unexpected subsidiary element.
As the minibus lurched around another corner he could see and hear Dillinger laughing, then leaning towards Medlock and whispering something in his ear. Barney seethed. Felt that strange anger and discomfort that comes with envy and suspicion, and which had replaced his nervousness over the weekend's potential, and the foreboding brought on by the premonition of his own wake.
Barney bit the bullet.
'Nightmare weather,' he said, nodding. Looked at Bobby Dear to see if it had registered. Dear, only slowly, became aware that he was being addressed.
'Talking to me?' he said at last. A Piccadilly Scot by the sounds of it, thought Barney. Had heard tell of such creatures, but you didn't get many of them in Partick.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Nightmare weather.'
Bobby Dear stared at him. Had something of the comfortable, cardiganed Richard Briers about him. Except, of course, that these days Richard Briers is as likely to play a bad guy. So behind Dear's placid exterior lurked a heart of pure evil, thought Barney.
'You think this is bad?' said Dear. 'You should have seen it in the Falklands in '82. Makes this look like the desert. And we had the Argies shooting at us.'
'Soldier, eh?' said Barney. Sharp as a button.
'Commissioned, if you don't mind,' said Dear. 'Was a lieutenant-colonel in the Highland Fusiliers. Bloody murder that campaign, bloody murder.'
Said lieutenant like an American. Barney didn't notice. Already wishing he hadn't opened his mouth. Wondering at the Pandora's box he might just have opened up for himself. What if he got stuck with the bloke all weekend? Two complete days of old soldier's stories. Oh ... my ... God.
'What happened?' asked Barney. Knew from experience that you had to attempt to keep control of the conversation. Ask questions, try to take the talker in the direction in which you want him to go. What happened, he thought, mapping out the questions in his head, followed by How did you get here, and then What can you tell me about Katie, because he could talk about her all night.
'What do you mean, what happened? We won, you idiot. Kicked some Argie arse, boy. Didn't you watch the news?'
Barney felt stupid. 'So how did you get here, then?' he asked quickly, attempting to regain the control he'd lost by the previous question.
Bobby Dear breathed in deeply and Barney waited for another verbal assault. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillinger's mouth no more than an inch from Medlock's ear, lips moist, and he wished he could cut that ear off, violently and painfully.
The bus swerved around an unexpectedly tight corner; Billy Hamilton accidentally swayed into Annie Webster's lap, his hand brushed her thigh, and both received a quick pulse of excitement.
'Damn fool question,' said Dear, 'but I might as well give you an answer. Your lot are always too bloody thick to work these things out for yourselves. A bit mundane, I'm afraid, compared to some of these stories the others come out with. Reckon most of them are making it up, mind. Couple of these blokes have never killed anything other than time. That's what I think. And you yourself, I suppose, your story's pretty fantastic, if you are who you say, and half the things you read in the paper are true.'
'They're not.'
'Dandy. Glad to hear it. Thought it was a load of Argie's bollocks. Anyway, I met a girl in the seventies. Usual thing. Eyes like pools, voice like an angel, tits like the Himalaya and a plum duff sweeter than a toffee apple. Brains too, apparently, that's what they all said, though I never spotted them myself. You can lead a woman to water, but you can't make her think, that's what I always say. Anyway, married her, of course, because that's what you did back then. Nowadays they just screw 'em and spend the next eighteen years dodging the CSA. No, no, that wasn't for me. Did the right thing. Made an honest woman of her. Showed her a thing or two 'n' all, I reckon. No question. Showed her the world, yes indeed. Germany, Cyprus, even managed to get her down to Egypt for a month or two. Showed her the world.'
Barney's mouth dropped open a little. He could tell. He might possibly just have made the biggest mistake of his entire life. He had turned the key, and opened up this great sarcophagus of tedium, a momentous Ark of the Covenant of monotony, a humungous golden chest of dreary wonders. He could be here for days. He could be stuck listening to this bloke forever. He could die.
'Know what she did? I went off to fight for Queen and country. Didn't really agree with it myself, did I? I mean, it was that bloody woman engaging in flagrant electioneering, let's face it. Handed over Hong Kong easy enough, didn't she? I mean, who gives a stallion's bollocks about the bollocking Falklands, but off we went, poles up our arse, to fight for justice and all that bollocking nonsense. Anyway, while I was away fighting the evil horde, the bloody woman screws my best mate, Old Jock McAllister. The wife, I mean, not Thatcher. I get back and she tells me she's leaving me for the old soak. Pissed off, I don't mind telling you, I was pissed off.'
'So you killed them?'
'Bloody right, Barney Thomson, bloody right. Bullet in the back of the napper for them both. Deserved everything they got. Waited for the RMPs, and handed over my revolver. Wore my Union Jack boxers throughout, 'cause I did it for the Queen just as much as I shot all those bleeding Argies. And let me tell you, I shot a few of them.'
Barney's eyes had glazed over. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was why he'd had that grave sense of foreboding. Because he was going to be stuck for the rest of his life listening to this man. Could be he'd start inviting himself round for tea in the evenings; coming in for a haircut; coming along to the pub. God, Leyman would be cheesed off.
But the future had other things in store for Barney Thomson, and the minibus jumped and stalled and jolted to a halt. Dear stopped mid-flow, in the middle of a description of what he'd said to his wife as an explanation for her murder. Other conversations came to a premature end and a few tired or bored heads were lifted.
The minibus had stopped in a large driveway facing the house that would be their home for the following two nights, and each of them gazed with curiosity at what was betrayed to them by the headlight's beam.
Bloody hell, thought Barney. Just like Psycho, thought Morty Goldman. The Shining, thought Arnie Medlock. Must be murder to clean, thought Katie Dillinger. Fanny magnet, thought Billy Hamilton. Dracula! thought Fergus Flaherty. This must be worth a packet, thought Socrates McCartney. Good divisional HQ, thought Bobby Dear. Play Misty for Me, thought Annie Webster. Fucking scary, thought Sammy Gilchrist, you could murder somebody here. Going to be a lot of spiders, thought Ellie Winters.
'Big fucking house,' said Socrates McCartney, in awe.
And it was, it was a big house. Four storeys high, conical towers at each corner, high, sloping roof in the centre of the building. A massive wooden front door awaited them.
No one added to McCartney's reasonably accurate comment. What else was there to be said? And they each stared in wonder at this magnificent late-seventeenth-century monstrosity, stuck away in the heart of the Borders, buried behind hills and woods and the low mist that hung in the glen through almost half the hours of daylight.
Katie Dillinger swallowed, but she was impressed. They'd said on the phone that it was an imposing place. And she was glad there was a housekeeper and that they wouldn't have to clean up after themselves.
'Right,' she said, turning round; and despite his immediate trepidation at seeing this place, despite the vague feeling of association with his recurring dream, Barney's first thought was of relief that Dillinger was no longer talking to Arnie Medlock, that he might now be able to redress the balance. 'This is it. Grab your things and pile out. Make sure you don't leave anything 'cause Bobby isn't staying here with us.'
Bobby Ramsey glanced over his shoulder at the mention of the name, but the look said nothing. Bloody right I'm not staying here, he thought. Bloody right.
And so this motley crew, this testament to the ill effects of bad life choices, this Garibaldi of insouciance, this plethora of criminality, this belligerent bastardisation of immoderate human behaviour patterns, began to collect their belongings and troop off the bus. Barney faffed and prevaricated and let others go before him, in the hope that Bobby Dear would move on and latch on to some other poor sod.
He collected his bag and slid himself out of the bus, into the pouring rain, last of all. And they each scampered the short distance to the doorway and the great stone awning that protected the front of the house.
There were no lights on, there was no sign of life. Dillinger took the lead and let the huge brass knocker explode in sound upon the door; and the noise mingled with that of the rough diesel engine and Bobby the Bus Driver lurching into third gear and staggering away back up the drive. And with the bus went the only light that was available to them, and they were left alone in total darkness. And so Dillinger knocked again and they waited, the rain cascading all around them.
They felt the cold now, in the midst of this downpour; a few shivers racked bodies, a few glances were cast out into the dark of night. But these were murderers all, and there was little fear. Barney shivered too and looked at Dillinger, jacketless and cold. I could offer her my jacket, he thought. It would be cool, smooth, cavalier, errant and romantic. The act of a chevalier.
'Got stuck with old Bobby, I see,' said Socrates McCartney, talking softly in Barney's ear.
Barney turned.
'Sorry?'
'Stuck with old Bobby on the bus. See you made the mistake of talking to him.'
Barney nodded. Was about to excuse himself – although he suddenly felt self-conscious about his chivalrous act – when from nowhere Arnie Medlock swooped towards Dillinger, jacket outstretched, to the rescue; and received an affectionate touch of the arm in gratitude.
He who hesitates... Barney sighed – ever his lot – and turned to Socrates.
'Aye, well, you know,' was all he could be bothered saying.
'Bit of a boring bastard, eh?' said Socrates.
Barney smiled ruefully, but felt condemned to defend him, in the usual British manner.
'Don't know,' he said. 'Seemed all right to me. Interesting story, fighting in the Falklands and all that.'
'That what he told you?'
Here we go, thought Barney. Out of my depth again.
'Bollocks, was it?' said Barney, in a world-weary way. Why did he always end up with the nutters? Of course, if you're going to join a murderers anonymous group, what do you expect?
'Total,' said Socrates, as finally the great wooden door swung open, and a small, neatly dressed woman waited to greet them. 'Murdered a family of seven in Ayr 'cause they wouldn't let him use their phone after his car broke down outside their house.'
'Ah,' said Barney. 'That sounds more like it.'
'Works in Edinburgh with some big stock market mob. Lives in Bearsden. Rich, posh bastard. Serial liar, though, that's his problem. Give you another story tomorrow, soon as look at you. He was in South America, mind you. Argentina '78, with the rest of the sad bastards who thought we were going to win the World Cup. That's what really turned him into a headcase. Tragic, so it was.'
And with that, the further education of Barney having been promulgated, Socrates lifted his bag over his shoulder and marched after the others into the house. And Barney stood on the periphery of the pouring rain, the last of the crew, and wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.
Back in the minibus, Bobby Ramsey slowed as he reached the end of the drive and the turning back out onto the main road. He was surprised to see a car now sitting opposite the exit, a lone figure inside staring back past him at the house. But he couldn't have cared less as he shuddered away up the road, and had forgotten about the car almost before he'd come to the next turning.
Inside the car sat Detective Sergeant Crammond, who, with a slight smile, lifted his phone and dialled the station. The smile grew with the ring.
'DS Proudfoot,' said the voice. Bored. Reading Jade Weapon probably, thought Crammond.
'Erin,' he said, 'just phoning up to completely ruin your weekend, mate.'
––––––––
'Aluminium-free deodorant. I mean, have you ever heard of such pish? Aluminium-free deodorant. That's what they're selling these days. I mean, who the fuck knew there even was aluminium in deodorant? Did you? Did you know there was aluminium in deodorant?'
Barney suddenly realised he'd had a question fired at him and turned slowly to Socrates.
'Sorry?' he said. 'Oh, deodorant. No, no, I didn't. Maybe they mean the can.'
Socrates McCartney speared a piece of deep-fried scampi, which had been relaxing on a divan of lettuce, then waved his knife in Barney's direction.
'The can? Here, I hadn't thought of that. So you mean there's no can? It's deodorant in a bag? How would that work?'
Barney was distracted. He was in a good news/bad news situation. They were at dinner and he had managed not to be sitting next to the psychotic Bobby Dear. That was the good news. Unfortunately, he was at the other end of the table from Katie Dillinger, who was once again receiving the close attentions of Arnie Medlock.
The man was a smooth-talking bastard and Barney didn't stand a chance against him. Unless he was to kill him, of course. That'd make all the difference. And when the police showed up, there would be no end of suspects. Barney could be in the clear.
'Don't know,' he said absent-mindedly, toying with a piece of scampi himself. Had never really liked scampi, Barney Thomson. More of a crab man.
'Maybe,' said Socrates, 'you like get your bag, bung it in the oven for a couple of minutes to warm the deodorant up, stick it under your arm, then let the air out and it all drifts up to your pits. What d'you reckon?'
'Sounds possible,' said Barney.
'It's just pish, though, i'n't it?' said Socrates. 'It's everything these days. You can't drink coffee or eat butter, you can't lie under a sunbed, you can't even let your weans watch Tom and fucking Jerry, for God's sake. Supposed to be too violent. I mean, what a load of pish that is. I've been watching Tom and Jerry since I was three, didn't do me any harm. It wasn't like I ever thought you could stick a frying pan down somebody's gullet and think they'd be all right two seconds later.'
Barney gave him an awkward sideways glance. 'You did murder three people, though,' he said.
Socrates polished off the remainder of his starter and took a satisfyingly large swallow of cheap Bulgarian white. Dry, with a gravelly texture, lemony overtones, fruity underbelly, a long nose and a rare skin condition.
'Suppose you've got a point,' he said. 'Anyway, I always thought that wee Jerry was a pain in the arse, myself. Vicious little bastard. Vicious.'
They were arranged around the table for maximum effect, with regards to the situation of eight men and only three women. Arnie Medlock had free range at Dillinger, with Barney left to stew in his jealousy and pent-up testosterone more than three seats away. Annie Webster had Sammy Gilchrist on one side and Billy Hamilton on the other, and was constantly being dragged between the two. And just to keep them both on edge, she continually sent enticing looks the way of the legendary Barney Thomson – who had so far completely failed to notice. He had caught her eye once, but he'd thought she'd been having trapped-wind trouble. Meanwhile, Ellie Winters was surrounded by Bobby Dear, Fergus Flaherty and Morty Goldman, all of whom were vying for her attention; although Goldman was only doing it in a strange, silent, non-interactive kind of way. They all supposed themselves in with a chance, and despite Winters' general dislike of the opposite sex, fifteen glasses of wine and she could be anyone's. Of the assembled company only Socrates was uninterested. Or perhaps just playing it cool.
The dining room was hung with huge pictures of boring men in red riding jackets and austere women with that I've been standing here for fifteen hours in this enormous dress; I'm starving, I'm dying for a pee, I could kill for a Marlboro Light, and I can't wait to be emancipated look on their faces. The cornices had been carved by master craftsmen of old – craftsmen for whom angels sang and elves wove spells of necromancy and magic, and who had been smoking large quantities of drugs. The sideboard was bedecked with crystal and silver, the dining table was large and opulent, the drapes thick velvet, the fireplace sixteenth-century Venetian; a chandelier hung above the table, lights sparkling in opalescence. A Christmas tree, decorated as if by Cary Grant in The Bishop's Wife, shone in the corner.
'Fucking flash gaffe this, i'n't it?' said Socrates, for he was a man who needed conversation.
'Aye,' said Barney after a while, the question again taking its time to penetrate.
'You seem distracted, mate,' said Socrates.
Barney nodded and pushed the remainder of his starter away from him. Arnie Medlock was on the verge of success. He could tell. The two of them were almost smooching. If they started that up, Barney might as well go home; a walk to the nearest bus station, however far it was in the pouring rain, and he could be gone. No problem.
'Fancy our Katie, do you?' said Socrates, following the doleful look of Barney across the great expanse of the table to the far side of the room. Barney was no longer one for bullshit and lies. Not after all he'd been through.
'Aye,' he said. 'I do.'
'Well go for it, then, Big Man.'
Barney turned to look at Socrates, gestured up the table at the two of them, Dillinger whispering some seeming affection in Medlock's ear, and shrugged his shoulders.
'Ach, don't you worry about that, Big Man,' said Socrates. 'Medlock's full of shite. Always makes his move every year, never gets anywhere. Reckon Katie's a lesbo myself, which doesn't do you much good either, but at least Medlock won't be feasting on her the night, know what I mean? So I think you just ought to charge in there and take control. You're a hard bastard, mate, are you no'? I've read all about you in the papers.'
Barney gave him a sideways glance. If only he'd known. But then maybe he'd get more respect from these people if they believed all that nonsense.
'What about Medlock?' he said. 'What's he doing here?'
Socrates snorted into his wineglass.
'That big poof? Shagged a couple of farmer birds, their blokes came after him, and he did the business. Cut one of the guy's testicles off, then left the bloke bound and gagged in some deserted house in a scheme on the edge of Springburn. Couple of council workers found him six months later. Arnie had stemmed the flow of the guy's blood from his gonads, so he died of starvation or some shite like yon.' Barney swallowed. 'And he just clean chopped the other guy's head off with an axe. He'd just been watching Highlander apparently, so he was into all that decapitation stuff. Then he mashed up the bastard's body and fed it to the pigs.'
Barney swallowed again.
'And how long'd he get?'
Socrates finished off his wine and reached once more for the carafe.
'Arnie? Bastard's never been caught. Who knows how many more he's killed? So I'd watch him, I suppose, but I still reckon he's a total poof.'
'Oh,' said Barney.
The large wooden door leading towards the kitchen swung open, and Miss Berlin, housekeeper to the weird and dishonest, entered slowly, ready to clear away the plates.
A brief description: short, strong, old, grey hair, bespectacled, could crush a man's bollocks with a snap of her fingers. In her younger days she'd used to lift whole cattle and put them into the back of lorries. A hardy country gal, with the strength of ten men; hairy armpits and terribly robust underwear.
The chatter and laughter continued as she cleared away the remnants of the scampi à la lettuce. Men hitting on women; women being coy with men; men pretending not to hit on women; women pretending not to notice that men were hitting on them; men pretending that women were hitting on them and not the other way about; women attempting to hit on men in a passive-aggressive, non-sexual, fudged-outlines kind of a way; men looking on in seething jealousy and impotence as bastards like Arnie Medlock stole their women. The usual roundabout of a Saturday night cattle market. Miss Berlin had seen it all before, and knew that inevitably it would end in tears. Or even murder.
Socrates quickly downed his third glass of wine as he surveyed the scene. A new man since he'd got his murderous past off his chest. Relaxed, confident, more chilled than a '93 Australian sauvignon blanc which has been in the fridge for a fortnight.
'Might have a go at one of the chicks myself tonight. You never know, eh? I'll leave Katie to you, mind you, if you're going to get wellied in there. You are going to have a go, right?'
The big question. When it came to it, the biggest question of all. Love was involved.
'Are you finished?'
Barney looked up at the clipped tones of Hertha Berlin. Voice like a skelped buttock, she waited with a handful of plates. Tone of voice which meant that what she said actually translated as, 'So you hated my food, then, did you, you bastard? Well, I'm coming into your room in the middle of the night to either garrotte you with my nose hair or disembowel you thoroughly with a blunt instrument'.
Barney swallowed.
'Aye,' he said. 'Finished.'
The new, improved, low-cal, sodium-extracted, warp-enhanced, plutonium-enriched, caffeine-inhibited, aluminium-free Barney Thomson was still intimidated by a strong woman, and in part he wilted. But she rudely lifted his plate from in front of him and was gone in a whirr of legs, plates, arms and a long-since-faded blue rinse.
'What about the old bird?' said Socrates, smiling and leaning towards him. 'Would you shag that?'
Barney screwed up his face. To tell the truth, such was his infatuation with Katie Dillinger, should Madeleine Stowe have walked in, fettered by neither clothing nor morals (nor taste), he would pass her on to the next poor sap.
He was about to attest to the negative when he saw the inevitable unfold across the table. The horror, oh! the horror, he thought, becoming frighteningly, pretentiously poetical.
It almost happened in slow motion. There was laughter, there was arm-touching, there was an obvious connection. The words of Socrates McCartney had meant nothing to Barney. He'd known there was something between Dillinger and Medlock; and now, as if watching a slow-motion replay on Match of the Day, analysed from twenty different angles by Alan Hansen, it unfolded before him in frightening detail. The laugh, the grin, then the lasting smile, the touch of the arm, the lean forward, and then the soft kiss on the side of the cheek. And not Medlock kissing Dillinger, for that could be almost acceptable. It was her, the Desdemona, the harlot, the siren of enticement, who leant forward and planted her soft red lips onto Medlock's cheek, and then left them there for that second or two longer than was normally required by Chapter 5, Paragraph 3, Sections 5a to g of the Department of Environment, Transport and the Regions Official Charter on Cheek Kissing.
Barney felt it as sure as if it was his cheek that was being kissed, or his cheek that was being crushed to a pulp with a battering ram, along with his heart. His mouth closed, his eyes half shut, his shoulders wilted, and the potential of the weekend died like an animal downed by a sniper. He might as well go home. And first thing tomorrow morning, that was exactly what he was going to do.
Socrates saw it too, and rested his hand quietly on Barney's shoulder.
'Too bad, mate,' he said. 'Too bad.' Barney did not respond, for what was there to say? 'Looks like he's going to get his fill of her, no mistake,' said Socrates, continuing. Barney stared into the mire. 'Yep, he's going to be up to his armpits in that baby tonight. Goes like a tank, apparently, that's what all the other guys who've shagged her say. Old Arnie's going to be pumping away like a piston for most of the night.'
His words began to penetrate. Barney gave him a look.
'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Yesiree. It's all-night action for Arnie. The old studster's hitting the back of the net, no question. The Big Man is in there, pure in there. Shag-a-roonie. She'll be lying on her back when he comes,' he added, beginning to break into song.
Barney breathed deeply and sat back in his chair. The laughter continued; Dillinger held on to Medlock's arm with ever greater tenderness. Barney eyed Miss Berlin and decided that he just wasn't desperate enough. It was Dillinger he'd wanted, but now Medlock was firmly in his way.
I could kill him, he thought. Fucking kill him. And with his jealousy and his seething resentment, he meant it. Absolutely, he meant it.
'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Lucky guy.'
––––––––
It was one of those days when it seemed the whole world was on the streets. It was hot, so that your shirt stuck to your chest and your armpits smelled like they'd been napalmed.
But not Jade Weapon's armpits. They were smooth, delicious and fragrant, and smelled of sex.
'Who's she shagging this time?'
Proudfoot looked over the top of the book. Mulholland looked tired; older, she realised suddenly, than when they'd first started working together the previous year. Hadn't really noticed in the last couple of days. Lines on the face; not yet any grey hairs, but all in the eyes. They had seen too much. And in that moment, it also occurred to her that she saw the same thing when she looked in the mirror. They had both seen enough misery and death to fill anyone's boots, and unquestionably it was time to get out before they saw any more.
A blinding flash of light, but perhaps it'd lead to nothing. She'd never just acted on these things. Usually blinding flashes of light were gone when you woke up the next morning.
'Oh, everyone,' she said.
Mulholland smiled. Wearily; time to go.
'Where've you been?' she asked. Nearly two hours since she'd received the call from Crammond, and she'd spent the time concocting the stories she would use to explain why she was so late. Flat tyre, called out to something by the chief, couldn't be bothered, dum-de-dum...
'Just walking,' he said.
'In Maryhill?'
'Way beyond. Ended up at the university. Walked through the grounds, the tree-lined avenues. Past all those prepubescent students. Some of them looked about seven, for God's sake. And they're all holding hands and snogging and practically having sex and smoking God knows what.'
'You're getting old,' she said.
He laughed and shook his head. A sad, resigned movement. Resigned; that was appropriate.
'Aye, I suppose.'
They looked at each other. Tired eyes, and they recognised the look they shared. A few days of indifference having followed several months of loathing and ignoring. But now even indifference seemed pointless.
He shrugged his shoulders again. Maybe they could have been something, he thought, but there was no point now. Not with all the baggage they'd carry around with them.
'I'm off,' he said.
'Where to?'
'Back up north, I suppose. Do a spot of fishing.'
'Right. You're off off?'
What was that feeling that had just stabbed at her unfeeling soul?
'Aye. McMenemy ripped me to shreds, so I told him to fuck off. And I resigned, so I won't be going to the plods up there either.'
'I heard a few of them talk about it, but I wasn't sure whether it was true.'
He smiled.
'It was a dream. You know how you go through life thinking that someone or other higher up the food chain is an idiot, and you always think it'd be nice to be able to tell them? Everybody thinks it; everybody wants to do it, but no one ever does, 'cause you know you're going to get the push. You just can't do it.'
She smiled broadly, nodding. Absolutely right. She'd even wanted to tell Mulholland that, while wanting to sleep with him at the same time.
'But you did ...'
'It was beautiful. I just went for it. Threw it all at him. Mostly just said the word fuck at him for a couple of minutes, but I managed to get in the odd insult as well. I shall take it to my grave.'
A genuine smile broadened across his face. The glory of release, of being free of what had ailed him for years; combined with the temporary insanity of not caring what came next.
'You should smile more often,' said Proudfoot, suddenly; and his smile lessened but did not die. She shook her head to cover up the intimacy of the remark, quickly changed the subject. 'What are you going to do now, then? Just fishing?'
He stared at her for a few seconds, lost in the thought, then shrugged.
'I suppose. Not sure really. I'll do that for a while, then who knows? It's not really a job, fishing, is it? I'll be all right for a bit, then I can start panicking when I run out of money.'
'Aye.'
And there the conversation ended. A lot more to say, no words to say it in. In his harmless way, Barney Thomson had taken another couple of victims, but life is like that. It gives, it takes away. It leaves broken promises and broken hearts in its wake.
Something like that.
Another shrug from Mulholland. Time to go and break all ties with the past, regardless of how painful the break might be.
'Got to go. Get up there tonight, be up early for the fishing tomorrow.'
She stared at him; her eyes drifted to the floor.
'Right,' she said. 'See you.'
'Aye.'
He stood and looked at her. She lifted her eyes and looked back. Jade Weapon rested uneasily in her fingers. What would Jade do? Apart from shag him and kill him? So much crap had gone before, yet still they were fettered by convention and discomfort.
He turned to go. The Jade Weapon inherent in Proudfoot emerged.
'Why don't you come with me tonight?' she said; instant butterflies, dry throat.
He stopped, slowly turned back to her.
'Are you going anywhere interesting?'
'Down to the Borders. This woman I've been following for the last few months. Apparently she's gone away for the weekend. Crammond called me a couple of hours ago to come and take over, so I really ought to be going.'
'A couple of hours ago?'
She smiled and shrugged. Hair moved across her face. Lips red. Mulholland stared into the depths of the old familiar gold mine.
'Well,' she said, 'the guy's an idiot.'
Mulholland laughed again. Softly. Thoughts of going away for the night with Proudfoot charging around his head. And longer than the night, perhaps. With the sudden release and freedom had come revelation. Hadn't he just been thinking about this for the last four hours, wandering the avenues and cloisters of the university? Spending time with Proudfoot. Spending his entire life with Proudfoot.
'So what about it?' she said, feeling more confident at the absence of an instant refusal. 'Bound to be fishing down there.'
Mulholland let his thoughts untangle. 'Aye, all right,' he said at last. 'Why not?'
Proudfoot stood up and lifted her coat from her chair.
'Your enthusiasm has me soaking,' she said.
'Good thing you've got your jacket.'
Proudfoot lifted Jade Weapon, threw her arms into her coat and followed Mulholland from the office. A few remaining desk officers watched them go – the office was already buzzing with Mulholland's soon-to-be-legendary denunciation of McMenemy – then the door was closed behind them and they were gone.
***
Sitting in Mulholland's car much later, heading south on the concrete part of the M74, left turn at Moffat. Not much to be said between them, neither worrying about the impetuosity and inevitability of what they were doing – throwing themselves once more into the heart of a relationship. The rain swept across the hills and lashed the motorway; artics flew by in the outside lane, travelling too fast and throwing gallons of spray into the air. Old Fiestas trundled down the inside lane doing less than forty. Cars with full beam flashed by in the opposite direction. Services promising expensive petrol and all-night accommodation flashed by on their left. A silence grew between them, yet it was not awkward in nature. Proudfoot dozed, pondering the do's and don'ts of making a certain dramatic move. Mulholland listened to Middle Elvis, volume low, and barely audible above the concrete. Guitar Man. Quitting your job and heading off into the unknown. It was all there. Chucking in your life, walking away, and hoping you're lucky enough to find a four-piece band somewhere looking for a guitar player.
'So this is it,' he said to break the silence, without remotely intending seriousness. 'You and me back on. Is that what we're talking here?'
She stirred and stared into the darkness, and wondered why Elvis didn't just tell the Colonel to go stuff himself.
'What do you think?' she said as an answer.
He shrugged in the dark.
'Don't know. I mean, I was in love with you before. You were a pain in the arse, and I hated the way you ate cornflakes. And if I'd had to listen to At My Most Beautiful one more bloody time, I would have stuck the CD player in the bin. And you do talk some amount of utter pish. But you know, I thought I was in love, and I haven't stopped thinking about you since God knows when, so, well, I don't know.' Ran out of things to say. Being too honest. Not sure where his tongue was going to take him. 'Your turn,' he said, to get out of it.
She nodded. Had forgotten in the muddle if she'd listened to REM as much as she had just to annoy him. And she hated cornflakes.
This was it. Chance to throw in there the thing that she had been honestly waiting for him to say six months before. No reason why she couldn't say it herself.
'We could get married,' she said, taking the plunge.
But then, why not? That's what you do when you're in love. She loved him, no question. It was the equal and opposites thing. To hate someone as much as she'd hated him, she must have loved him as well.
He laughed; bit of an ugly laugh.
'Married?'
'Aye.'
'Why would we want to do that?' he said.
'Don't know,' she said. 'Something to do.'
'Bit of a crap reason to get married, Officer. You've got to get to know each other, spend more time together, understand one another, all that stuff. You need all of that.'
She shrugged sleepily. 'I know you perfectly. You're an unemployed, miserable, grumpy bastard. What else is there to know? We've spent plenty of time together, we've both been traumatised by the same thing, so we understand one another. And we've slept together so we know we're compatible in that respect. What else is there? And we were talking about it six months ago and for a night it seemed like a good idea. You just buggered off and blew it out the water. So what if it's taking a bit of a chance? Let's face it, you tried it the right way with your wife and it was rubbish. By all accounts.'
A well-constructed argument.
Mulholland nodded. 'Aye, well, I suppose you might have a point.'
She rested her head against the seat belt, attempting to make herself comfortable enough for sleep. Closed her eyes.
'That's settled, then. We are going to the Borders after all, so we can nip along to Gretna.' She yawned at her own suggestion. Sleep would soon come.
'Settled, then,' he said. And stared ahead into the spray from a passing fuel tanker and immediately started to think of something else.
And on they drove into the night, while Crammond stewed. Not knowing the danger that would come from this chance decision. For how is anyone to know the future?
Unless you are Barney Thomson, and the future comes to you in dreams.
––––––––
The post-dinner period on the first of two nights for the Murderers Anonymous group Christmas weekend. A time for checking out the opposition, and perhaps laying the foundations for a more fruitful night the following evening.
The men were in splinter groups, eyeing up their romantic adversaries, eyeing up the women. The three women were grouped around a table in the corner of the large billiards room, downing copious amounts of wine, and laughing louder and longer as the evening drifted into Sunday morning.
Arnie Medlock had been at the snooker table since just after dinner, taking on all comers and beating each of them by a mile. Excellent safety shots, good long potter, comfortable around the cushions. Only a hesitancy with the rest and an uneasiness with regulation pots into the centre pockets had prevented him from making it as a pro. That, and a tendency to insert a snooker cue into the anal passage of anyone who beat him. The pros just don't go in for that kind of thing. Any more.
Socrates sat with Fergus Flaherty and Billy Hamilton, the latter two discussing their chances with Ellie Winters and Annie Webster respectively. As did Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman, united by a desire to infiltrate the bedclothes of a different woman. Morty was unimpressed by Sammy Gilchrist, however; extremely unimpressed. Morty was beginning to think certain things.
Bobby Dear was the current victim lying down to Medlock on the snooker table, and all the while Barney sat alone. As was his wont.
His mind was involved in the normal male pursuit of wondering how he was going to manage to get a woman into his bed; and equally contemplating the usual male likelihood of total failure. He didn't stand a chance of moving ahead of Arnie Medlock. The guy was smooth, funny, built like a 747 and used the snooker cue as if it was an extension of his penis.
All evening he had been casting smiles and winks the way of Dillinger from the table, as he brushed aside the opposition; and every time she had met his eye and coyly smiled back. And not once had she looked the way of Barney, and he felt quite out of place. He was here to befriend and bed Katie Dillinger, and he had as much chance of it as he did of running naked through a vat of molten steel and coming out with all his chest hair intact.
He ought to pack up his troubles, go to bed, then make a move first thing in the morning. He belonged back in his studio flat in Greenock, or sitting with Leyman in the pub. A lonely Christmas, and then back to work and he could slide easily into his box and stay there till he died.
Romance wasn't for men like Barney Thomson. Never had been, never would be. Loneliness, unhappiness and cold fish suppers on windblown promenades, that was his lot in life.
It was his place to give other men the haircuts that helped them go out and get women. He was a giver. A provider. He was a slave to the demands of others; the polemic that drove the male soul. He was Kirk Douglas in Spartacus. He was Geordi La Forge in Roots. He was the downtrodden, the browbeaten, the subjugated, the depressed and the demoralised. He was India before independence. He was Russia under Stalin. He was thinking such a load of pish.
Time for bed; and to get away from this torture.
He rose slowly, wandered around to the small group. Might as well say goodnight to the instrument of his torment. Glanced at the old clock on the even older mantelshelf. Almost one o'clock. He had suffered this agony for nearly four hours since dinner. Time to put himself out of his misery, because no one else was showing any sign of leaving. This could turn out to be a very long night, and it was the last place he wanted to be.
'I'm off, then,' he said, standing above the select group of three women. 'Feeling a bit tired, you know.'
They looked up at him, mid-giggle. Drunk, all three.
'Barney!' said Dillinger. 'Don't be daft. We're just getting going. Why don't you stay?'
This plea was accompanied by the requisite giggle from Winters.
Barney hesitated; but he was not stupid. He could tell the discolouring effects of alcohol from several yards off. He would have loved her to mean it, but he was not seventeen. He knew that to stay was just to subject himself to more torture.
'It's all right, I'll just go to bed, thanks. It's late.'
He ignored the giggling Winters; smiled at Dillinger. A resigned I would've liked to have slept with you but I know I can't compete with Arnie Medlock, so I'll just go to bed myself and leave you to it smile. And suddenly Dillinger looked a little more serious and returned the smile. A compassionate if you're sure you have to go to bed then OK, but really I understand, because frankly, Barney, even though I think you're a nice enough bloke, I wouldn't touch you with a stick, you've got to understand that, and besides, Arnie's hung like a donkey smile.
He departed. Caught Arnie Medlock's eye on the way out, and did his best to return the goodnight. Closed the door behind him, and now he was alone in the great hallway of the house. Sudden quiet, the chatter distant. Grand stairs leading away to his right; enormous paintings hung randomly – a harvest table, laden with food; two wild dogs feasting on a felled sheep; a large faded port scene, with acres of greeny-blue water and few boats. And he climbed the stairs. Faded red carpet with brown pattern.
Arnie was a nice enough bloke, he could see that. It was just jealousy playing its demonic part which was turning him against the man. But truth be told, none of these people were for him, and this group was not for him. It was time for him to go the way of the other two Barney Thomsons they'd had that year and move quietly on.
A floorboard creaked beneath his feet and he shivered at the sound. And from the shiver, induced by a sound of his own making, he suddenly got the sensation of where he was, with whom he was. In a large, old, creepy house, where everyone was a murderer.
He swivelled quickly, and did not know where it came from, but suddenly the vision of the old church was in front of him. Silence but for the wind. The cleric on his knees. The one-eyed, bloodied sheep. The hand at his shoulder. Cold. A touch running along his back.
He turned hurriedly, looked back up the stairs. Straight into the eyes of an old painting; a maid, high white collar, hands folded in her lap, on a rocking chair. It seemed to move.
The vision of the church was gone, and once again he could hear the sounds of chatter and laughter from the billiards room. He started to climb the stairs again, past the old maid, who watched him go. It was dark at the top, and he still had to get to the second floor.
He wondered if the old housekeeper slept up here, or if there were old-fashioned servants' quarters down below.
Stopped as he reached the top of the stairs and stood on the first-floor hallway. Looked along the long passageway, the ends of it disappearing into darkness. Not sure who was sleeping where, but knew that Dillinger was on his floor.
And so what about that?
He shivered again, and started to make his way to the second floor. Looked up, and could see nothing at the top. A tentative climb, past pictures of stern figures in seventeenth-century dress. Hunters and officers and ladies with their hands neatly folded in front of them. They watched him go.
A floorboard creaked. Not from Barney's foot. He stopped at the halfway point; swallowed and did not breathe. Waiting for another sound; his heart thumped. He waited for it to come again. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and he could see into corners. Ornaments on tables. Old carvings and faces of evil.
Another sound, this time a definite movement from below. A swish of a footstep along a carpet. Then nothing. He had to exhale, drew another breath
Looked behind him, but he was sure that no one had followed him out. And the sound had come from along the corridor. Probably the old housekeeper. Going to the bathroom. Something like that.
The unknown. That was something to be afraid of. That was what the customer in the shop had said, and he'd been right. Barney climbed the stairs to the next level, determined now not to look back. That was the classic fault they always made in films. Walking one way, looking behind them, and when they turned, thwack, they had a serial killer in the face, and they were Shreddies.
He arrived at his floor; the stairs leading farther on to a horribly dark third floor. Now definitely aware that there was someone below. He could feel it and the sensation was growing. As in his dream. The sure knowledge that something is behind you. He looked along the dark corridor of the second floor. His room right at the end.
He needed to go to the bathroom first, but he just wanted to get into his room, turn the light on and lock the door.
Another noise from down below, another sliver of sound, and this time he was drawn to look. Nothing. The dead eyes of ancestors looked mournfully up at him and wondered at his concern. He turned back, half expecting to find a killer in front of him. The passageway extended before him, sullen and menacing.
Eyes ever more accustomed, he set out. Past old, warped mirrors, into which he dared not look. Paintings of battles at sea and horses on the hoof; men at arms and women with their hands folded neatly in their laps. The sensation of someone at his shoulder - which had gone with the quick look round - now returned and began to follow him along the corridor. Head down, he dared not look back. Imagination running riot. Saw no demons behind him; just killers and their contorted faces and their knives.
Couldn't tell what he was running from. Substance or imagination? He had faced killers, he had seen some horrible things. But this was real evil he imagined; the evil of his dreams.
And now the noise behind him was constant, a shuffling along the old carpet. Barney walked past paintings of angels, past an old ottoman, past a straight-backed chair, in which someone must have sat long ago, the cover worn.
He waited for his name to be spoken. To find out the truth of it; one of the others toying with him, a demon, or something worse. A shuffle, footsteps on the carpet, thought he could hear breathing. Key already in his hand, regretting that he'd locked the door. Heart hammering, head muddled, stomach gripped, almost in a run. Got to the door, started to hum some bizarre tune to cover up the sound. Brazil. Key fuddled in the lock. Daaaaaah, dee-dah-dee-dah-dee-dah-dee-daaaaaah.
The noise from behind stopped. The key clicked in the lock. Not for a second did he think to look round, and he was in the room. Light on, the door slammed shut, the key fumbled back into the lock and turned. A brief moment of exhausted exhalation, then a look around the room to see what lay in wait for him. Another classic of the movies.
And the room dully stared back at him, the centre light dimmed by the dusty cotton shade. Pale pink, ornate bedspread, dull paintings of animals and men at supper on the walls.
He could still feel it outside. Something. A presence. He backed away from the door into the centre of the room, then looked around, found the wall lights, and went around the room putting them all on. As much light as possible. Imagination still running riot, feasting on his uncertainty and renewed lack of confidence.
It was waiting for him. Something out there; something malevolent. Something even worse than the roomful of killers downstairs.
He checked under the bed, then took the large comfy chair and moved it into the centre of the room, from where he could see the door and the window. And into this he sank, wide awake, regretting that he had ever come here; but for the first time in several hours, not obsessing on Katie Dillinger.
For there was something else to think about. Something strange, something evil.
––––––––
'I bet your house is crap anyway.'
Mulholland looked around at Proudfoot's red lips, before allowing his gaze to drift down to her breasts. Suffering from the effects of an on-going eleven cups of wine. A light, fruity Australian; exuberant, polished, friendly and clean-shaven, with a hint of strawberry and subtle undertones of kerosene and the fourth series of Blackadder. Proudfoot was only marginally behind, as she downed her ninth cup, and filled it up again with the remainder of their fifth bottle. Enjoying the attentions of his eyes; wondering vaguely what would happen next, when knowing full well that neither of them was so much as capable of removing their clothes.
Three o'clock in the morning. Sitting in a cold car outside the seventeenth-century mansion that was home for the weekend to the Murderers Anonymous Bearsden chapter. They had stopped off in Jedburgh for some supplies on the way in, just to take longer and to annoy Crammond even more. (Crammond's annoyance ameliorated by the presence of a DCI.) All that had been open was an off-licence. Mulholland hadn't been able to decide whether to buy one or two bottles of wine, so had bought five.
And so they sat outside the house in the middle of the night. Would have been as well finding a B&B, but both avoided making the suggestion. Hardly likely that Annie Webster would be going anywhere now; and if she had, neither of them would have been in any state to drive after her.
'We could always have movie sex,' said Proudfoot, before Mulholland's fudged brain could get round to objecting to the previous remark.
'Sex?' he said. 'What?'
She took another long draw from the cup. The wine, she had to admit, had been tasting bitter these last few cups, but somehow, at three o'clock in the morning, it didn't seem to matter.
'I was just sitting here thinking, well, I'm feeling quite horny and you're looking at my breasts.'
'I'm not looking at your breasts.'
'You're looking at my breasts.'
'I am not!'
'You are absolutely looking at my breasts. Look, you're doing it now.'
'No way!' he said, gesturing wildly, looking at her breasts.
'Sure you are. Anyway, I was just thinking, I could do with a shag. But then I thought, bugger it, look at the state of us, we couldn't even get our clothes off, never mind manoeuvre into the back seat, never mind actually, you know, fuck.' A pause. Mulholland looked at her in that distractedly perplexed way of the utterly pissed. 'See what I mean?' she said.
'Haven't a clue what you're talking about.'
'Movie sex. You know in movies when they're in a fully-clothed clinch, and then the next thing you know, boom!, they're shagging. No one's taken any clothes off, there's been no fumbling around to find the right hole, 'cause you know, we've got seven or eight of them down there. It's just straight in there and off they go.'
'What?'
'Movie sex. And it's worse at the end. When do you ever see someone go to the bathroom after movie sex? They just roll apart and nod off, or both immediately pull their clothes on. What's going on? Either the guy's got a dripping condom to get shot of, or the bird's got a pint of the stuff cascading down her thigh. See what I mean?'
'I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,' he said, reaching for the empty bottle and tipping the last few drops into his cup. 'But I do get the impression you're being a bit vulgar. You must be drunk.'
'So are you. Which is why we can't have real sex.'
'I'm not looking at your breasts.'
'I didn't even mention my breasts.'
'Anyway,' he said, last of the wine into his mouth, 'you're getting away from the main issue, which is that you're trying to change me already. It was inevitable.'
'What?'
Proudfoot started looking around the back seat for the sixth bottle, which she'd been sure Mulholland had mentioned, but which she'd never actually seen.
'That remark about the house,' he said. 'I bet it's a crap house. We only decided to get married two minutes ago and already you want to change my way of life. It was itterly unevitable.'
'You're definitely pissed.'
'Whatever,' he said, waving an explanatory hand. 'You're all the same, you birds. Get your hook into a bloke and you're off. Change that, change the next thing. Get a new house, ditch all your mates, can't go to the pub any more, get a nose job, start wearing different clothes, don't like your motor, disown your relatives, change your job, don't shave so often, you're not shaving often enough, blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-blah. Change this, change that, watching too much footie on the telly. You're all the same. Bloody bastards. Go to the toilet, get the shopping, do fucking the next thing.'
'And you're not bitter about your divorce?'
'Lose weight, clean the motor out more often, don't drive so fast, can't go fishing any more, on and on and on and on and on. You're all the same.'
She turned her back on him, and leant further into the back seat area, searching among the empties for the sixth bottle.
'What're you doing?'
'Looking for the sixth bottle,' she snapped back at the tone.
'There is no sixth bottle.'
'You said you bought six!'
He held his hands out.
'See? See what I mean? Now you're even changing what I said in the past. You're Stalin. Simple as that.'
'Oh, shut up,' she said. She turned back and slumped down into the seat. Pulled her jacket more tightly around her. 'You don't half talk some amount of shite, you.'
'I won't stand for this,' he said, sitting where he was, numb from the waist down. And up.
'Look, why would I change you?' she said. 'You don't have any mates to give up, your family are all dead, you're way too ugly for a nose job to make any difference, you don't have a TV, and I don't give a toss about all that other stuff. So shut up and stop talking shite.'
He stared through the darkness and the intoxicating effects of two and a half litres of wine.
'Fuck,' he said, before attempting to get another microlitre of fluid from the cup. 'You must really love me.'
She shook her head and yawned. Suddenly felt very tired and very drunk. Late at night, surrounded by empty bottles, and cold and darkness. The burst of energy in search of the mythical sixth bottle having completely drained her.
'Like I said, you're full of shite,' she said.
'And you've got brilliant tits. Can I get a shot of them some time?'
The words 'I don't think they'd fit you' had not quite escaped her mouth and Mulholland had collapsed into a heap on the steering wheel. She smiled at something, although she wouldn't have been able to explain what, then reached out and touched his hair. Laid her arm on the dashboard, rested her head upon it, and within ten seconds had joined him in sleep.
***
Three o'clock in the morning. The revelry over for the night. Strangely Barney had set the tone and the others had drifted off to bed in his wake. They had gone in ones and twos, but even the twos had split up when the upper floors had been reached, and tonight all these people slept alone.
A few disappointed souls, but there remained ample time to jostle for position the next day. And, of course, one more night, when deeds would be done, agendas set and promises kept or broken.
Arnie Medlock had been the most disappointed of the lot, having considered his union with Katie Dillinger inevitable. But she had made her excuses, and he had been left alone; as alone as the others. Death and taxes, he had ruefully mumbled to himself, on finally retiring to his room. But it was not somewhere he hadn't been before, and he was confident of the following night's success. Disappointed, yet sanguine, Arnie Medlock.
And so the house slept. Most in their beds, Barney in his chair, from where he could watch the door and the window. But not, however, the secret door built into the wood panelling beside the bed.
The house slept, but for one. A lone figure, walking through the dark. Along corridors, searching out secret doors, down dark passageways. Never been here before, but a long night of searching had revealed every hidden doorway, every hidden passage, every concealed flight of steps or alcove, every area of the house blocked off for some clandestine use more than three hundred years previously.
Eyes adjusted, he visited each of the bedrooms in turn. Did not know into whose room he was about to walk until he was there; then he stood over the bed and watched the breathing of every potential victim. And none awoke to him. None conceded to a sixth sense.
He let the tip of his finger run along the cheek of Katie Dillinger; he touched the hair of Annie Webster and considered that at another time he might have had a chance with her; might even have forced her. He gently kissed the lips of Ellie Winters, and she stirred and tasted the night air, then shuffled in her sleep, and ended up all the way over on her other side. And he watched her for a further fifteen minutes, hand always on the knife in his jacket pocket, before he left, to follow another directionless passage.
He stood over Barney too, for a short time. A little more circumspect here, as his was the only room with the light left on, and he did not blend so easily into the dark. A few minutes, then he was gone.
And then, half an hour later, Barney awoke in terror, the vision having visited him again in the night; but this dream even more forceful, the stage having shifted to a large house, with old paintings on the walls, and the minister on his knees, supplicant to a vengeful God, praying for Barney's soul. And once again Barney had seen the face, and once again that face was gone from his memory the instant he awoke. Sweat on his forehead, heart pounding, mouth dry.
So Barney sat in his seat, eyes wide open, waiting for the dawn. And all the while, that year's serial killer made the rounds of the house, lurked in damp and dirty passageways, danced with the rats and stood over each of the members of the Murderers Anonymous Bearsden chapter.
––––––––
Proudfoot awoke, feeling just about as awful as it was possible for one single person to feel. Draped over the dashboard in the same position, all aches and pains and uncomfortable joints, yet with an empty bottle of Australian white now clutched curiously to her chest. She lifted her head and immediately a high-velocity train started sweeping through it. One, two, three, up and out of the car, bent over the side of the road, and vomiting violently over the wet grass and general shrubbery.
It was a full two minutes before the retching was over, her stomach had settled, and she had a temporary respite from nausea. She looked up, hands on her knees, throw-up on her shoes, face covered with sweat, panting, and saw her surroundings in daylight for the first time.
The car was parked off the road, no more than six inches away from the drop of a few feet into general bog. All around enclosed by trees, so that her immediate world was small. The aroma of rain on the forest and earth. Fresh and cold, the first hint of the chill of winter in the air. Beautiful. Across the road was the driveway up to the house; the bleak mansion slept quietly in partial obscurity. Then she finally noticed that Mulholland was no longer in the car and her head hurt so much she couldn't think straight as to where he might have gone.
Back into the car, searched her bag for something to help with a headache and came up empty. She closed the car door and wound down the window, let her head fall back on the headrest, did not even attempt to clear the growing fug in her head, and fell asleep in less than half a minute.
***
The late night had taken its toll of early morning risers at the weekend retreat. No one got up early on this Sunday. All except Barney Thomson, who hadn't slept since waking in a cold sweat at just before four o'clock.
He had waited for the dawn, from his position of uncomfortable terror, then, when he'd been satisfied that the night had been vanquished and the vampires put to sleep, he'd ventured out to plunge himself into a steaming shower.
And so now he made his way down the stairs that had caused him such terror the night before, past the same old paintings. In the half-light of a grey early morning, they looked more miserable than menacing, more despondent than intimidating. Wretched souls and sullen soldiers; distracted dogs, painted with the stilted strokes of an amateur brush. Barney was no art critic, but he could tell. Painted for a hobby, not for commission, most of these.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs he could smell breakfast, the glorious pungency of fried bacon, and he wondered who else had managed to drag themselves up at this time. Despite the night before, he had his first thought of the day of Katie Dillinger. Hoped it would be her who was up, and that she and Medlock had not spent the night together. Still, it was his intention to leave early regardless. He was not trapped there. Maybe even before he had seen any of them. Except the breakfast king.
He wound his way through stuffy rooms and short corridors with uneven floors until he found the kitchen and the origins of the magnificent aromas. Opened the door with little confidence, for his self-assurance was gone.
Hertha Berlin stood at the cooker, administering to a panful of frying breakfast goods. A man Barney had not seen before sat at the table, large jaw encircling a roll packed with every available morning enchantment. Sausage, bacon, black pudding, egg and mushrooms.
'How you doin' there, fella?' said the man through his breakfast bite. Mid-sixties maybe, bit of a paunch, distinct American accent through the food.
Barney looked awful. Unshaven, worry lines, whole ISO containers under his eyes, the look of the haunted man. His eyes themselves said it all, never mind the face.
'Fine,' he lied, 'just fine.'
'Surprised to see you up,' said Berlin. 'After the time you lot went to your beds, I thought it'd be lunch-time before I saw any of you.'
'Why are you making breakfast, then?' said Barney, taking a seat at the large kitchen table. Presumed breakfast would be served in the dining room, but for one of the first times in his life, he was glad of human company.
'I'm just feeding my man here. He likes a big breakfast. Got to keep him well fed for all his duties, you know. You'll be wanting something yourself, I expect,' she said.
The smell finally penetrated. Barney was the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
'I'm starving,' he said.
'Right. D'you want your food in here or will you be eating in the big room?'
'Oh, here's fine,' he said. 'I don't really feel part of that mob.'
The handyman raised his eyebrows and took another large bite from his breakfast roll. Hertha Berlin plundered the fridge for more food to heap into the frying pan. Every part of her bustled between fridge and cooker; the frying pan popped and sizzled.
'Aye, well, I'm not surprised. Right funny-looking lot, if you ask me. I said that last night, did I no'?'
'Sure,' said the handyman, spitting a small piece of sausage onto the table, 'sure you did, honey.'
Hertha Berlin started piling food into another roll.
'No' that we haven't had some strange folks staying here in the past. They Southern Baptists, they were a right weird bunch. And they devil worshippers from up Coldstream way, they were a queer lot. What kind of group are you, anyway?' she said, laying the roll in front of Barney.
Just in time, Barney remembered the code, and the word murderers did not pass his lips.
'We're barbers,' he said, uttering the unsurprising first thing that came into his head. 'Barbers.'
Hertha Berlin bustled, the handyman raised his eyebrows as he polished off his second roll and settled back to wait for this third. Would have to get on with a bit of plumbing soon, however.
Barney dived into his sandwich and decided he'd better change the subject.
'Either of you walking about at one o'clock this morning?' he said, a little more casually than he felt.
Looked at the table in discomfort as he said it, so missed the glance that passed between the two.
'We live in the houses at the bottom of the road, barber fella,' said the handyman. 'You heard someone at one in the morning, must've been one of your other barber folk.'
Barney nodded. Stared at the table. Fuck.
It had been the minister. He could feel it. The minister who infiltrated his dreams had followed him down here, and in this house full of killers he would be the obvious first victim. That was what the dream meant. He would die horribly. In fact, that was what the past two years had been pointing to. All this death and visceral carnage to which he'd been subjected must have had a point; and this was it. He would die, and die in a grotesque manner; his soul condemned forever to damnation; the very essence of his being cast asunder to wail for eternity in the belly of infernal Hades; destined for all time to suffer the persecution of the damned in the fiery pit of Erebus. His soul would be a bloody carcass on which the dogs of war would feast; his heart would be torn from his chest, ingurgitated by the beasts of fury, then spat out onto the playing fields of retribution; he would ride the black horses of the apocalypse and be tossed from his mount, head first into the crematorium of shattered illusion, where his very qi would be raped and plundered and tossed to the winds of abomination.
'This is a bloody good roll,' he said, to break his chain of thought.
'Damned fine,' said the handyman. 'Damned fine.'
***
An hour later, still early morning, still nothing much stirring the house bar the staff and the lost soul of Barney Thomson. He pulled the zip along his bag and prepared to head out into the cold of morning and the twenty-minute walk to the nearest bus station; and the projected five-hour wait, as this was the Borders and decent public transport was something that happened to other regions of the country.
He needed to get out, that was all; didn't care about the wait.
Put on his jacket, lifted the bag, out of the room and the door closed behind him. Minced along the corridor, head down, dejected. About to walk into the rest of his life. No hope of romance, no hope of anything different. For all the crap and the drama and the murder and the adventure of the last couple of years, here he was, going back to barbery and abject poverty of spirit. Nothing changed.
And anyway, why should he expect anything more? How many sad lives out there were blighted by disappointment? Millions of them. Absolute millions. Why should he be any different? He was just a guy. A bloke. A wee man. A shmuck. A duffus. He was the kind of guy John Steinbeck used to write about. He was Garth out of Wayne's World. He was nothing. He could be in an Ingmar Bergman movie. He was Woody Allen without the jokes.
A door opened behind him, but he walked on. Didn't care who it was. Probably Medlock, sex all over his face, with a comforting word in Barney's ear. Never mind, mate, he could hear him say, she was never going to be yours anyway. I'm way more interesting and I can shag like a bulldozer.
'Barney?'
The word stopped him like a bullet in the back of the head. That soft voice, delicate and succulent, smooth as a non-stick pan. And slowly he turned, throat dry, expectation suddenly pumped up from the deflation of less than three seconds previously.
Katie Dillinger stood at her door, still attired for the night. Looking a little rough, but gorgeous with it. Up all night with Arnie, he presumed, and the hope began to fade again before another word was said.
'Where are you going?'
Barney shrugged. 'Don't know,' he said. As eloquent as if he were sitting next to Larry Bellows.
She stepped into the corridor. Wearing dark green cotton pyjamas. Dishevelled. A bit of a gap had opened up between the buttons, so that Barney had the merest glimpse of the smooth curve of a breast. Tried not to look. Swallowed. Shook his head. Stared at the carpet. Could see breasts in the carpet just as much.
'You don't have to go,' she said. 'I know you feel a bit out of it, but today should be a good day. You can get to know us all a bit better. Should be all right.'
He looked her in the eye. Already knew that the decision was made for him.
'Just ... I don't know,' he said. 'Just feel like I should leave.'
She stepped towards him. The gap in the pyjamas closed and Barney's swift look was too slow to catch another glimpse, so he stared at the floor again.
Bare feet across the carpet. She stood in front of him, put her hand to his chin. Lifted his head so that their eyes engaged.
'I want you, Barney,' he heard her say. 'I want your huge cock to fill me up like a marrow.'
'What?' said Barney.
'I want you to stay, Barney,' she said. 'You'll have a good day then go back up with us tomorrow.'
Barney did not trust himself to speak. Best just to nod in silence as her hand fell away and he lost the electricity of her touch.
'All right,' he said. Utterly capitulating. Nothing to go on but a look and a touch. For all he knew Arnie could have been snoozing quietly in her bed as they spoke.
She smiled and backed off.
'I'm glad,' she says. 'I'll see you at breakfast?'
Barney nodded and watched her retreat to her room. He stood in the corridor and looked around at the grey light of day and wondered. Found himself staring at a painting of a woman, grey beyond her years, sitting slouched in a rocking chair, before a great hearth; eyes staring at him with contempt. You're all the same, she said to him. You haven't got a single principle that doesn't take second place to the contents of your pants.
'Fuck off,' mumbled Barney at the carpet, and walked slowly back up the corridor to his room.
––––––––
Tempers were becoming frayed. Angry words exchanged, fists clenched, jaws protruded and, in some cases, bottom lips stuck out. It was ever the way at their annual Christmas get-together, and Dillinger had often pondered the wisdom of including the session in their weekend event.
Discuss: The Morality of Murder.
It was why they were all there, after all, the only thing that bound these people, the only thing they truly had in common. So why not get down to the nitty-gritty, cut the bullshit of exaggerated storytelling, and discuss what it was all about? It was Christmas, so they could have free rein to admit that they'd enjoyed what they'd done, and that they'd do it again if they had the opportunity. An extension of what they did week in, week out, but the circumstances, the surroundings and the time of year combined to let tongues and minds roam free.
Of course, it was not the subject matter that really set the tone of tension. It was the testosterone and oestrogen flowing in great fluid quantities. Gallons of the stuff, swishing about inside each of them, as they jostled for position with members of the opposite sex.
There'd been one year when there had been equal numbers, and apart from the fact that none of the men had wanted to go anywhere near Peggy Penknife, the Paisley Penis Punisher, there had been limited discussion, a nod and a glance at the convention of present exchange, and then off they'd all gone to each other's bedrooms for some fearsome lovemaking.
This year was altogether more complex, however. Eight men, three women. A recipe for treachery, jealousy, lies, deceit, bedlam, uproar and possibly even murder; given the company. Rather nice to be one of the women, thought Dillinger, but as the leader of the dysfunctional bunch, she knew to not let things get out of hand.
So, it was Arnie Medlock and Barney Thomson, looking to make a move on Dillinger; and she knew which one she'd be going for that night. Sammy Gilchrist and Billy Hamilton were shaping up for a fight over Annie Webster. And Ellie Winters had the attention of Morty Goldman, Fergus Flaherty and Bobby Dear; the last of whom actually wouldn't have had a chance if he'd been the only bloke in a room full of eight million slabbering women.
All of which left Socrates, the wild card. Yet to show his hand. Or any other part of his body.
The discussion was nearing some sort of peak of intellectual debate; the very zenith of the brilliant criminal mind. Billy Hamilton and Sammy Gilchrist, vying for the mind and body of Annie Webster; who, if truth be told, would have had them both at the same time, and would then have killed them. Seeing as that was her thing. Though she hadn't confessed to so much in the meetings. A girl with intimacy issues.
'Away you and shite in a poke,' said Hamilton.
'Shite in a poke?' snapped Gilchrist, pointing a finger. 'I'll shite you in a poke!'
Both perched on the end of their seats; the others watched distractedly. Kind of enjoyable, the whole show, but they had their own arguments in which to become embroiled.
'What does that actually mean?' said Hamilton. 'You're just full of it, Big Man. Full of shite. And I'll tell you this. I've had enough of you and your bloody moral high ground. The bloke brought a ridiculous law suit so he deserved to die. All that shite. You're just a murdering, low-life, brain-dead scumbag, same as the rest of us.'
'Speak for yourself, you little bastard,' said Fergus Flaherty, the Fernhill Flutist. 'There's nothing wrong with me.'
This last line was from a man who'd murdered the entire family next door, using nothing but the flute of the youngest son, a lad who'd spent several weeks practising non-stop for the Twelfth of July. A bloody rampage, and he had taken out the boy, his two brothers and the mother and father, all inside fifteen minutes. With a flute. It had been messy.
'I agree with Billy,' said a quiet voice, from a large, comfy chair pushed a little farther back than all the others.
The explosion on Billy Hamilton's lips was temporarily averted. The sneer of Sammy Gilchrist was calmed. The fizzing tension in the room was turned to curiosity. For Morty Goldman rarely spoke.
They all turned and looked at him. Morty Goldman. At official group meetings they had heard him talk just the once, when he'd brought his story into their lives. Here was your classic skin-slicing-off-and-wearing-it, keeping-women-locked-up-in-a-cellar for months, stalking, bug-eyed, serial-killing lunatic. And for all the hardness and strength around the room, each of them found Morty Goldman a little intimidating. Except for Barney, who found him spectacularly intimidating, having been told his story the previous night by Socrates McCartney.
'Why is that?' asked Dillinger, to break into the shocked silence.
Morty pointed a finger at Gilchrist, and even this seasoned killer felt a chill at the look. Goldman was your classic combination of Jack the Ripper, Darth Vader, Genghis Khan and Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men.
Mainly, thought Goldman, because I have to say something. Otherwise Ellie Winters will never notice me.
'Mr Gilchrist does indeed take an unwarranted moral high ground. This ethical masturbation of his really is rather tedious. His is a self-righteousness born of unnecessary benevolence to his own misdeeds of the past. We've all been victims of absurd law suits, but that's hardly justification for murder.'
'What about you?' exploded Gilchrist. 'You skin-slicing-off weirdo?'
Too late, he remembered to whom he was speaking. Morty Goldman paraded a tortuous smile, the likes of which most of the group had only ever witnessed once or twice. Showed no teeth.
'I'm not pretending that what I did has any ethical superiority. It was cruel, disgusting and really rather unpleasant. I ought to have gone to prison for my crimes, I know that.'
Ought to have gone to prison? thought Barney. Bloody hell. And he started to question his decision to cede to his penis and stay. When you decide to do something, you should just do it. Bugger the wait for public transport and the possibility of romance. Yet here he was, still prevaricating, a sucker for one nice word from Dillinger.
'That's why I'm here. But at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. At least I'm not claiming some sort of honourable code as justification for my murders. At least I don't,' continued Morty, and the voice had taken on a sudden immediacy, a sly quality tending to evil, and bones were chilled, 'pretend to be some sort of arse-wiping Jedi knight, fighting the forces of evil on behalf of humanity. You're just a stupid prick, Gilchrist. A fucking stupid little prick, and one day you might well get what's coming to you. One day soon.'
You could have heard a piece of tinsel drop.
The fire dully roared and sharply crackled in the hearth; the tree sparkled, green and gold in the corner; outside, a buzzard cried and a mouse scurried beneath some shrubbery; somewhere the handyman bit massively into a quadruple cheeseburger with relish, humming the opening lines to I Got Stung as he went.
'Why don't we just calm down?' said Arnie Medlock, the voice of reason. 'Maybe we should give this a miss and get the housekeeper in. Have some drinks and food and think about opening the presents. We're here to enjoy ourselves.'
Sammy Gilchrist and Billy Hamilton, the two principal protagonists, stared at the carpet and nodded. Didn't meet Medlock's eyes as he looked at them. Morty Goldman had a steady gaze, however. Steady. The desire to impress Ellie Winters had gone. He was aware of all the old feelings again. The bad feelings.
'Fucking Medlock,' he muttered.
Arnie Medlock was not a man to be intimidated. Even so, this was a card-carrying, skin-wearing psychopath, not a regular, run-of-the-mill hard man.
'Watch it, you,' he said.
Morty Goldman sneered.
'Fucking Medlock,' he said again. 'Think you're hard? I've eaten guys like you for my breakfast. And I mean eaten. You're nothing, Medlock. You're a pathetic, sexually inadequate fuckwit. No wonder gorgeous Katie here didn't sleep with you last night. No dick, no brain, no heart, no balls. You in a nutshell, fuckwit-face. You're nothing.'
Arnie Medlock stared across the rich tapestry of the carpet. His face twitched. A vein throbbed in his neck. He bit his bottom lip, hard enough that he could taste the blood. Looked round at Dillinger, seated between himself and Socrates McCartney on the large settee. She did her best to placate him with a smile, while they both wondered how Morty Goldman knew that they hadn't slept together.
With the timing of one of the better episodes of Star Trek TNG, the door opened. Hertha Berlin, brandishing tea and Christmas cake.
'I thought you might like some tea,' she said. 'And there's a cheeky wee half-bottle of Johnnie Walker in the pot to keep you going.'
They watched her as she entered, an intimidating array of eyes pinning her down. And in this heightened atmosphere of draining tension and tangible aggression, there was more than one person viewing Berlin as a potential victim. Hertha Berlin was not daunted, however. Seen worse than this lot, she reckoned, although that was only because she thought they were barbers.
The tray was laid on the table, she clinked around with a few cups and saucers, then turned back to face them.
'Would there be anything else, now?'
'No, thank you, Miss Berlin,' said Dillinger. Still marginally in charge of the proceedings. 'That'll be all.'
'Right, then. Enjoy your tea.'
And off she went. Hertha Berlin. A woman of secrets. And there the tea sat. Still tension hung over them like a thick North Sea haar. Still no one wanted to be the first to talk, lest Morty Goldman threatened to turn them into soup. Still the fire crackled and the Christmas tree sparkled. Morty was enjoying his sudden emergence as the group lunatic and leant back in his comfy sofa, eyeing each of the others slowly and in turn.
'Aw, fuck this,' said Sammy Gilchrist, 'I'm going for a walk. Can't be bothered with all this shite.'
Up he rose, the tension shattered. Some were relieved.
'It's pouring, Sammy,' said Dillinger.
'Don't care,' he threw back over his shoulder.
To the door and out, and he immediately felt the weight lift from his shoulders when he stepped from the room, and worried not about the effects of leaving Annie Webster to the charms of Billy Hamilton for the next couple of hours.
Dillinger stood up. This was supposed to be an enjoyable weekend, and there was no point in sitting there in silence for the rest of the day.
'Come on, Annie,' she said, 'give us a hand, will you?'
And Annie Webster nodded and lifted herself out of an ancient comfy seat, then Fergus Flaherty said, 'Big Sammy's probably just away to pish up a tree,' because it was the closest thing to a joke he could think of, and it got a laugh, and the tension was gone; and Morty Goldman retreated to his shell. For now.
Drinks were served; someone switched on the CD player and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas filled the room; the crowd ate cake and broke off into small groups to chat about Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman and the weather. And no one noticed when ten minutes later Morty Goldman snuck out through the door, and was gone into the midst of the rain-strewn day.
––––––––
Like some sort of Brad Pitt, Mulholland took to his fishing with a reverential relish. Treat the river with respect and it will respect you. The river is your friend. It may be your friend, but it's also your god. The river controls you and holds you in the palm of its hand. It can give, but it also takes away. Do not betray the river or you will die. All of that.
He was in the middle of it, waders clinging to his legs, water up to his thighs, the bottom of his jacket dipping into the cold. Not happy, but content in that freezing cold, miserable as shite, grumpy, hungover, depressed, angry, buggered kind of way peculiar to the Scots. A cold day at last, as winter reared its head. Rain had finally stopped. Casting his fly short distances, snagging it on the riverside grass every time he tried to extend the pitch. Had been at it for nearly six hours and had caught just the one fish; the younger brother of an extremely small fish that he'd failed to catch.
Mind still in gloop, he did his best to focus. Fishing gear in the back of his car. A walk for a mile or two, had found a petrol station, bought a sandwich. Got into conversation with the Sunday best wee woman in the shop. Had been directed to the closest river, and had ignored the instruction about there being no fishing for salmon allowed at this time of year, not that you could fish for salmon on a Sunday in any case, so, son, you'd better think twice or Big Alec will be after your testicles.
Could do with tea and food, but had now been standing in the water, using the same bedraggled fly, for nearly two hours. Focused had become mechanical and one-track.
And so he couldn't see the eyes in the undergrowth, the body cowering behind the trees. Watching the fishing line fizz and snap behind him, and wondering if the line would be strong enough to pull around Mulholland's neck, to tighten, and to strangle the life out of him.
He could tell Mulholland was distracted in what he did; wondering whether it would be possible to steal up on him, grab the line and do what must be done; or whether he should step free of his hiding place, make himself known and then take him. Or he could drown him, or hit him over the head with a rock, or throw a heavy stone at him from a distance; although he'd never had much of a throwing arm.
So many choices.
And as he stood and thought and peered through the remnants of winter leaves and the bare protection of trees, another option presented itself. For down from the road and along the bank came Erin Proudfoot, and the killer lowered himself farther into the undergrowth and imagined the sweet taste of a woman.
'Mulholland!'
She looked out across the water. All of ten yards. A still day, barely a zephyr bothered the last of the leaves and the bare branches. The water was slow and it bubbled and trundled on by. No background noise from any nearby road, no planes overhead. Still, calm, cool winter's day. Grey cloud. Peaceful.
A slight noise among fallen leaves, and Proudfoot turned. Stared into the shadows of the trees and saw nothing. Assumed a bird or a rabbit.
'Mulholland!' she said again. 'Brought you some tea.'
He turned, dragged from the mire. As his head swivelled, he looked right into the killer's eye, it briefly registered and then was gone by the time he saw Proudfoot.
The memory of it left him vaguely troubled, but what he'd seen was gone.
'What?' he said.
She held up a bag. Food, tea, everything you might want after having been fishing for hours.
'Thought you might want something to eat. Brought you some tea.'
He stared at her for a while, brain not yet out of first. The fly lay limply in the water. A couple of fish swam by underneath. 'What a joker,' one of them said, 'using a mayfly in December,' and by the time the other had thought of a reply, he'd forgotten what had been said in the first place.
'Just stick it down by the bag,' said Mulholland.
He continued to look at her for a while, then turned and resumed his aimless flicking of the line across the water. Trying to remember what had transpired between them the previous night, but could remember nothing. Only knew that he'd awoken with them both slouched in the car, the dregs of several bottles of wine surrounding them.
Anything could have been said. Still remembers the decision to get married, however.
'Piss off!' she called out, though they were close enough and the water still enough for her not to have to shout. A brief contemplation of leaving him to it and taking the food back with her, but decided to be more pig-headed than that.
He turned again.
'What?' he said. 'What now?'
'Come and have something to eat, you ignorant sod. You must have been here ages. I didn't get this stuff together just for you to completely ignore me. I'm going to be your wife, remember, so put the bloody rod away and come and get something to eat.'
He turned away, gave one last pointless toss of the fly into the water, a toss treated with disdain by the river life beneath, and then he turned and waded back to the bank.
Proudfoot busied herself with unpacking her bag. In the trees the watcher was fascinated by the last line. Had stumbled across these two, quite by chance, but he knew well who Mulholland was. Supposed to be out hunting him, and here he was, inadequately hunting fish instead. And they were to be married. Slowly he began to creep through the damp leaves and twigs, so that he could listen. Never miss an opportunity, that was the killer's code.
'When did you wake up?' she said.
Mulholland started to struggle out of his waders.
'About seven, I think. Still dark, anyway.'
'And have you eaten since then?' asked Proudfoot.
Annoyed at him, but mostly for not looking after himself. Taking the whole marriage thing seriously. This was her man.
'Bought a stack-load of food from the petrol station down the road,' said Mulholland.
She removed the plastic lids from two cups of tea, and the steam rose into the cold December air.
'That's funny. The woman I spoke to in the shop remembers you buying a sandwich and a can of Coke, and nothing else.'
He laid out a jacket and sat down. Raised his eyebrows.
'Checking up on me?'
'I am a detective.'
'Right,' he said, and lifted one of the teas. Just a sip in case it was too hot, and then a longer gulp. Just right and it hit the spot. Melanie's tea had always tasted like socks.
'So you reckon we're still doing this marriage thing, then?' he said.
She bit into a closed-face, triangular-cut, white bread, disencrusted cheese and smoked ham sandwich, with cucumber, lettuce and tomato and a light spreading of mayonnaise.
'Why? You changing your mind?' she asked through the food.
He shrugged and took a bite out of an open-faced, square-cut, heavily crusted, wholemeal Belgian pâté sandwich, with a thin garnish of fresh cucumber. He waved it at her.
'Good sandwich, by the way. You choose 'em or were they all that were left?'
'My choice.'
'So we are compatible. Maybe I will marry you.'
'So what, have you changed your mind?'
He watched the river, cold and grey. How many days since they'd stood and watched the Clyde? Three maybe, that was all, and not much had happened in between, yet it felt so long. Time slowing down. That's what happened when you stepped into the mire.
'It just seems kind of stupid,' he said after a while. There was a sadness in his voice, and it was heartfelt.
She munched her way through the sandwich. Followed his gaze into the river. Thought exactly the same things that he did, except for one. So what if it was stupid?
'Everything's stupid,' she said. 'You standing in a river for God knows how long. That's pretty stupid. Life is stupid. You coming down here in the first place. Whatever. It's all stupid.'
He distractedly nodded. Feeling depressed again, good sandwich or not, and she joined him in melancholy.
'I must've said a couple things last night,' said Mulholland. 'Sorry if I offended you.'
Her turn to shrug.
'Doesn't matter if you did. Can't remember what you said anyway. Expect I was talking pish 'n' all.'
The river rolled on by. The sun momentarily made an appearance before once again being swallowed up by the layers of cloud. There was a noise in the trees just behind them. Mulholland barely noticed, Proudfoot turned slowly and saw nothing. Birds or rabbits.
'You want just to go back to Glasgow?' she said. 'I don't know how long this bloody group are going to be here. It's not as if I can barge in there and check out what they're doing.'
'When are you off duty?'
'Not till midnight.' She shrugged. 'Sod it, maybe I should just come off duty now. I've left my post, after all. I mean, she could nip out while I wasn't looking and go and kill somebody, and I wouldn't give a shit.'
Mulholland laughed softly. 'Fine words for a police officer.'
He turned and looked at her. Her face was colourless with the cold and he noticed for the first time how poorly she was dressed for the weather. Her lips were soft and pale, her hair touched her cheeks. And in this grey light, she was beautiful.
'Sorry, Erin,' he said, removing his jacket, 'I'm being a pig.'
She started to protest, but he held it towards her and she gratefully took it from him and slipped her arms inside. She could feel the warmth of his body, got the faint smell of him. And for all that she'd hated him for the last six months, you can only hate what you can love, and she had missed him.
'Stay with me,' he said, and she closed her eyes to the words. 'Phone them up tomorrow and tell them where they can stick their job.'
She drained her cup of tea to give an air of calm. 'You think? Are you sure you want to be with me?' she asked.
Trying to keep a level head. As ever, carried away on nothing but a little tenderness. If she were Jade Weapon, she would shag him breathless, karate-chop him to his neck, then toss him to the fishes.
Then his hand was extended to hers, the first genuine moment of tenderness between them, so that neither of them noticed the slight movement in the bushes behind, the small noise of someone scrambling over damp ground.
He leant forward and gently kissed her on the lips. A short touch, then pulled away, his hand still on hers, the other rested against her cheek. With the warmth of his jacket around her and of his hand on hers, her heart melted.
'You've got smoked-ham breath,' he said.
She pursed her lips then breathed out massively over him.
'You're right, you are a pig,' she said.
He laughed, she joined him, and at last there was some light in their lives.
And well away from the riverbank, out of earshot, the footsteps strode more confidently across wet ground. As off went the killer to sabotage Proudfoot's car, and the radio in the car, and thereby lead the happy couple along the road he wished them to walk. To lead them to play their part in the magnificent extravaganza which had quickly formed in his criminal head.
––––––––
'And Cary Grant, he was a woman, yes siree,' said the handyman. As ever, Hertha Berlin was spellbound with his tales of Hollywood in the 60's. 'Steve McQueen, there was another one.'
Berlin poured him another cup of tea. Glad to be away from the strange crowd in the lounge. Raised tempers and voices. It was ever the way with the Christmas crowd, when expectations were up and more drink than normal was consumed. She preferred the midweek bookings, with companies sending their people on team-building events. Everyone was hacked off and grumpy and expecting to be miserable, and consequently much less bother.
'Did you know anyone else famous?' she asked.
'Sure, honey,' said the handyman, cramming his mouth full of pancake. 'I knew 'em all. Jimmy Stewart, Eastwood, Newman, Ann-Margret, Liz Taylor, the lot of 'em. Bobby Mitchum, he was a big friend of mine.'
Berlin shook her head and sipped quietly from her cup.
'It must seem terribly mundane being stuck here in the south of Scotland, after all that fuss,' she said.
The handyman looked at her and considered the statement, thinking it was worth a decent answer. It was something he'd given much thought to these past twenty-three years. Trading in the glamour, the women, the drugs, the parties, the booze, the handguns, the television sets and the celebrity pals for a quiet life, from which he knew he would never escape.
'Mundane's just what you want it to be, honey,' he said, and she nodded, even though she didn't know what he meant. Helpfully, and unsurprisingly, since he was a talker, he elaborated. 'Hell, everything's mundane if you do it often enough. You make movies all your life, it becomes mundane. You have twenty number one records; mundane. You snort enough cocaine offa the breasts of naked women' – Hertha Berlin blushed – 'that becomes mundane too. Sure, this might be mundane now, but it was fresh when we first started, and now it's good mundane. I like it. Keeps me young. I'm telling ya, honey, physical-wise, I'm a lot better off now than when I first got here. Ain't that the truth.'
Hertha Berlin finished her tea and topped up her cup. Poured some more for the handyman at the same time.
'Thing is,' he said, 'look at those folks upstairs. Maybe they've got money, maybe they ain't, but there ain't none of them happy. Not real, down-to-the-damned-socks happy. Just a-trundling through this and a-trundling through that. Most of them ain't going nowhere. You just need to stop every now and again and look at your life, know what I'm saying, honey? That's what I did in '77. Realised I was in a world of hurt, and I got on outta there. But these fellas, they don't know shit. There was an old fella in Greece by the name of Aristotle, and you know what he used to say, honey?'
Hertha Berlin lowered the cup and licked some tea from her lips; wondered if it still made her look as alluring at seventy-one as it had done fifty years previously.
'I sure don't,' she said, in a strange amalgam of accents.
'The unexamined life is not worth living. Yesiree. That's what that good fella said. And no doubt about it, he had a point.'
The handyman crammed another biscuit into his mouth and stood up. Washed it down with the last of his fourth cup of tea. Brushed the crumbs from his jeans and nodded.
'Gotta go clear that drain out back, honey. I'll be an hour or two, I expect, 'cause that little fella's gonna cause me a whole heapa trouble. I can feel it. You'll have my supper ready 'round about seven?'
Hertha Berlin nodded, standing herself and already beginning to clear away the dishes.
'Aye, aye,' she said. 'Chicken casserole the night.'
The handyman smacked his lips.
'Sounds delicious, honey,' he said. Grabbed his coat and his hat. 'See ya later, alligator.'
'Bye,' said Hertha Berlin.
Door open and then out he went into the cold. She stared after him for a while, wondering how it was that you could be seventy-one and have the same sort of mad infatuation that you got when you were fifteen. Weren't you supposed to grow out of that kind of thing?
The words to Love Me Tender quietly began to escape her lips, and Hertha Berlin went about the business of washing up and getting the dinner ready.
––––––––
The fire crackled and spat, the tree sparkled in the corner. The gang of chums was gathered around the tree drinking Hertha Berlin's coronary-inducing Christmas punch, waiting for the annual present exchange.
The presents were all present and correct, it was just one of the participants who was missing. Sammy Gilchrist had yet to return after leaving the previous meeting. They'd also had to wait for Morty Goldman, but he had been back for some twenty minutes.
Conversation was low, but the alcohol was flowing and the mood was improving. Chances were, they mostly thought, the night had potential. One or two of the inmates who saw themselves failing in their love quest were already thinking of calling on a couple of outside agencies of sex to provide the entertainment. Things could have been worse. And given the obtuse minds involved, the gift exchange was usually pretty interesting.
Barney waited nervously, the words of his grand venture into poetry going through his head. Wondering if Dillinger would know it was him who had written it; and wondering how he'd tell her it was him, on the assumption she didn't work it out.
'You don't think something's happened to him?' said Dillinger to Arnie Medlock. Barney had been watching them talking for the previous ten minutes, and had assumed it was far more intimate than it actually had been. His own attempt at introductory conversation – 'Apparently if you pull a condom over your head you can still breathe for nearly three minutes' – had crashed and burned, and she'd wandered off in search of something more conversationally appetising. Barney needed better lines.
'Who?' said Medlock. He was in his element. Playing the king; the senior figure; the captain; the skipper, the chief, the boss; El Presidente; General Fantastic; Mr Invincible; The Amazing Captain Sperm. He saw himself as the Godfather to these people, and the Christmas weekend was his time to establish that position even more. And like so many, the hubris got worse with drink.
'Sammy,' said Dillinger, slightly annoyed. Fully aware that Medlock knew about whom she was talking. Hated it when he did his Al Pacino.
'That poof?' said Medlock. 'He's a jessie. Wee Morty just looked at him funny and the guy creamed his pants. He'll be back, the sad bastard, you can count on it. Won't want to miss out on his present.'
Dillinger took another dive into the depths of her Christmas punch and bit her bottom lip. Could see the weekend falling to pieces, despite the current revelry and good humour among the inmates.
'What if something's happened to him?' she said. 'I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this weekend.' And she caught the eye of Morty Goldman as she said it, then his eyes slimed away from hers.
'Settle down, babe, everything's going to be fine,' Medlock said, then noticed her looking at Goldman. 'Don't worry about Morty, for goodness sake. I can take care of him. He's a bit daft, but he's under control.'
He rested his hand on hers to reassure her, and she felt a sense of relief at the words. Yet Medlock could not have been farther from the mark. For Morty Goldman was not fine, not by any means.
Barney saw the blatant hand-touching and recoiled. Buggerty shit-farts, he thought. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Silver bells, silver bells, lah-de-de-dum-de-de-lah-lah... So sang Bing Crosby for the eighth time that weekend. The drink was the thing, and none of them was getting fed up with it. Then in the midst of the Christmas festivities, the door opened and in walked Sammy Gilchrist. A bit of mud on his shoes, face slightly damp with sweat, hair a bit wet, breathing hard, but trying to cover it up. The appearance of the guilty man about him.
Morty Goldman slung him a sly look, then turned away; the carpet to contemplate. The carpet and other things.
Medlock nodded towards Gilchrist and Dillinger followed. Relaxed when she saw him, Medlock felt the tension leave her fingers.
'Told you,' said Medlock. 'The big poof was probably out pulling his pudding behind a tree somewhere.'
Gilchrist moved straight for Hertha Berlin's pungent punch. Ladled a glassful, swallowed, went through the appropriate facial contortions, then poured another glass.
He turned and surveyed the scene and realised that everyone was watching him. An antagonistic few words flashed through his head, but in the air there was the feeling of Christmas, so he went for conciliation.
'Sorry about that,' he said. Still a little breathless. 'Just went for a wee walk and I got caught in the rain, you know. Pishing down like a bastard the now. So are we doing the presents?' he added, sitting down away from Morty Goldman.
'Aye, we are,' said Dillinger. 'Glad you're back all right, Sammy.'
'No bother.'
'Poof,' murmured Arnie Medlock under his breath, to general amusement. Sammy Gilchrist snarled and took another long swallow from his second lethal punch. Could already feel it having the required effect on his limbs and head.
'Right,' said Dillinger, 'come on, round the Christmas tree. Arnie's going to be Santa Claus.'
Medlock quaffed the rest of his quadruple Lagavulin and headed for the tree. Magnanimous look on his face. Santa Claus. The bearer of gifts. The controller of people's emotions. The Almighty. That was him. And Dillinger pottered after him, Santa's little helper. Barney watched in envy.
The annual Christmas present handout. Something childish about it, something alien to the very being of this group, but Dillinger thrust it upon them every year, and every year they moped and grumped, but every year they enjoyed it all the same.
So they topped up their drinks and they gathered round into a small circle. Eleven wise men or women, and they were all overcome by the atmosphere, the lights, the music, the alcohol and the general feeling of goodwill. Even Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman were prepared to lend a hand to the air of geniality. Even the jealous Barney.
Nat King Cole had headed into enemy territory on O! Holy Night, and the Christmas tree shimmered.
'Hope I'm going to get loads of condoms,' said Billy Hamilton, and laughed.
'You don't need them for rubber women, Billy,' said Arnie Medlock, and he laughed louder and longer and was joined by the others, including Hamilton, because he had that Christmas feeling, which only comes once a year.
'Right, then,' said Medlock, delving into the sack beneath the tree where all the presents had been discreetly placed. 'Ho fucking ho. The first one's for Katie herself. There you go, hen.'
Instant nerves for Barney. A stranger in this crowd, wishing he had left, but here was a good reason to still be here. Wondered if his long-thought-out poem would bring home the goods. Also worried that she would instantly recognise it as being from him and would denounce him publicly in front of the others.
'No, no,' she said, 'I'll go last. Let one of the others have theirs.'
Her protest was greeted with a chorus of disapproval, and Medlock thrust the present into her hands.
'On you go,' he said. 'Santa says,' he added, magnanimously.
Dillinger smiled and began to unwrap the gift with a certain childish abandon. Barney watched nervously. Felt like a teenager; or at least what he assumed teenagers felt like, because he'd never felt much like a teenager when he'd been one.
The paper came off and all was revealed.
A box of chocolates. A man of limited imagination, our Barney. Had thought long and hard, had even gone so far as to check out a couple of lingerie shops, but hadn't had the nerve. It was all in the poem, he thought. The chocolates were mundane, he knew that, but the poetry would sort her out.
She smiled appropriately and seemed genuinely pleased. Knowing the sort of thing that the others got up to, she immediately suspected Barney. The conservative idea of a new boy. If he was still here the following year, she thought, he'll be buying vibrators the same as the rest of them.
'That's brilliant,' she said, beaming. 'Thanks.'
She hasn't noticed the poem! thought Barney. She hasn't noticed the poem. It was still in the wrapping. Bugger, bugger, bugger. I can't say anything. Shit, shit, shit. Bugger. Should I say? If I say she'll know it was me.
The poem! he screamed silently at her.
Medlock reached into the bag for the next present. Barney nearly exploded in frustration. The poem! Look at the poem!
'Here,' said Ellie Winters, who from now on would be known to Barney as The Saviour, 'is that not a card or something in the wrapper for you, Katie?'
Medlock hesitated. Dillinger lifted up the wrapper, fished out the small card and opened it.
'Ooh, it's a poem,' she said, with a little more enthusiasm than she would feel once she'd read it.
'Read it out!' a few of them cried.
Dry throat, Barney held his breath.
'All right, all right,' said Dillinger. Medlock eyed her suspiciously. Bloody poetry, he thought. Should he find out who sent it, he'd kill them.
She quickly looked over the poem – and then decided to read it out, despite what it said.
You're nice, you're smooth, you're sexy as fuck;
You're hard, you're strong, you're tough.
I want to kiss you everywhere
And see you in the buff.
And feast my eyes on every inch
Of your delicious body,
And do the kind of sordid things
That Big Ears did to Noddy.
A long silence. Dillinger looked up, slightly red. Trying not to look at Barney, because this was the sort of thing that none of the others would have written. And she knew all their handwriting.
'Ooh,' she said, to no one in particular.
'Fuck,' said Ellie Winters. 'Smooth bastard that, eh? Your luck's in the night, ya bitch.'
'You never know,' said Dillinger, and finally she risked a glance at Barney. Barney stared at the floor. Arnie Medlock fumed.
'Jesus!' said Socrates. 'I didn't know that Big Ears and Noddy were shagging. Bloody hell. You just don't know, do you?'
Without further hesitation, Medlock handed out the next present. Morty Goldman held out his hand, Medlock got the feel of a clammy finger, and the show was once again on the road. Dillinger snuck another glance at Barney and this time he caught her eye. Bright red.
And so the presents continued. A large kitchen knife for Morty. A pump-action shotgun for Socrates. False breasts for Annie Webster (and she was not amused). A blow-up rubber woman, with real hair, moving parts and fully operational triple orgasm mechanism for Billy Hamilton (who always got a blow-up rubber woman). Half a litre of cyanide for Ellie Winters. A working replica 1940s Luger for Bobby Dear. A full set of Davie Provan videos for Fergus Flaherty. Four different types of lubricating jelly for Barney; a present originally intended for the ubiquitous Hammer Galbraith. A range of penis rings and other genital attachments for Sammy Gilchrist. Round they went, and each was pleased or disinterested in turn, and none of them went so far as to be upset by their gift. It was Christmas, and for all that the Day of Days was two days away, when it came it would not match the feeling of drunk relaxation that they each felt now. For Christmas Day itself would either be spent in unruliness with family, or passed alone in front of the television, succour only to be gained from Jimmy Stewart or Judy Garland.
Arnie saved the most important to last. He always received an original or limited-edition Conan Doyle. It was a Christmas tradition within the group. A bit of a bugger for whoever picked Arnie's name from the hat, but it was expected of them. He was their spiritual leader, after all, with Dillinger more the secretary and the accountant.
Medlock was the one they all looked up to, and none of them begrudged him his rare gift.
In fact, this year Bobby Dear, who was not especially fond of the man, had searched long and hard through the bookshops and antique markets of the west of Scotland, and had uncovered a near-pristine copy of a 1901 edition of The Sign of Four. Not a first edition, but a good catch all the same. He knew Arnie would be chuffed, and despite himself intended to discreetly let slip that it was him who had bought it.
Sadly, what was left of The Sign of Four lay smouldering under a pile of ashes in the heart of the fire, which spat and crackled.
Arnie lifted his present to his ear and gave it a shake. Broke into a broad smile.
'Sounds like a book,' he said, and the others laughed.
He frowned along with the smile, however, because he had heard a slight movement with the shake and knew that this was no book. He opened it up. The others looked on, vaguely indifferent. Another Sherlock Holmes, and who cared? Most of them had been forced into dingy bookshops on behalf of Arnie Medlock at some time, and each of them breathed a sigh of relief when they didn't pick him in the yearly draw.
Arnie held up his gift. Face like thunder. The others suddenly showed a little more interest. Morty Goldman, who had been sitting stroking his knife, suddenly leaned forward, eyes lit up. Dillinger held a hand to her mouth.
There was a gasp or two. Frank and Bing broke out into God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The fire spat. The Christmas tree sparkled. And the rough nail on the end of the discoloured human finger which Medlock held in his right hand glinted dully in the light.
He looked quickly up at the others, and none of them showed anything other than shock or at least genuine interest. Here we go again, thought Barney. Once more unto the breach.
Medlock gritted his teeth and looked each one of the group in the eye.
'When I find out who did this,' he said, the voice that murdered at least a couple of farmers menacingly low, 'you're in big fucking trouble. Big trouble.'
And they all looked back at Medlock, then glanced around at one another. The Christmas feeling had gone.
Let nothing you dismay.
––––––––
An hour later, and the mood was still low. Not all of them in the lounge; splinter groups having headed to the kitchen to plunder vast quantities of food, or having made for the snooker room to lose yet another game to Medlock.
Barney had waited for his chance; Dillinger, Winters and Webster had been in conversation, the Snatch Batch as Socrates had called them, discussing the distressing turn of events.
Dillinger wanted to call the police, but that was not an option open to them. None of the people present delighted in the involvement of the authorities in any aspect of their lives; and, what was more, at least three of them had never been convicted, or even suspected, of their crimes. The Feds would not be welcome snooping around and asking awkward questions. The severed finger would have to be ignored or, more likely, left to Arnie to sort out. Frontier justice.
And that was the point of the snooker table, as suspects were brought before him to be interviewed around the green baize.
Morty had been first, as he was everyone's favourite suspect, and he had submitted to the interrogation with a sly, ironic smile. Then Sammy Gilchrist and Socrates; currently Bobby Dear, placid and dour. Medlock was not looking for anyone to confess, he just asked innocent questions in an expert way; and using all his criminal psychopathic knowledge, he knew that he would be able to spot the one responsible when he saw them.
Webster and Winters had gone off to hit the bar, leaving Dillinger on her own. Staring into the depths of the fire, recently puffed up, the wood augmented, by Hertha Berlin; out of whose sight the finger would be kept.
Barney saw his chance; his prey was on her own. The mood may have gone, but still there were points to be scored, opportunities not to be missed. And so he pounced like a wildcat on the slow-moving mouse of Dillinger's distress.
He mooched over, the smooth-talking bastard in his element. Wondering how he could turn the finger thing to his advantage. Wondering how he could put all his experience of bodies and dismemberment to good use. Wondering what he could possibly say to sound mature and sensible, aloof yet concerned, nonchalant yet sensitive to the situation.
He sat down across from her and followed her gaze into the fire. At first she didn't appear to notice him. Quite distracted. Running through each of the group, trying to work out which one of them could have done the finger thing; as well as the small matter of whose finger it might have been. She drew the obvious conclusion that it had been removed from one of the past weeks' murder victims in Glasgow, and that this new serial killer who haunted the city was indeed one of their own.
'Bit of a bastard,' said the eloquent voice next to her.
It took a few seconds to filter through. Eventually she turned, saw Barney Thomson; the one of her group she knew the least, the one of her group of whom, if he was who he said, she should be most afraid. Except for Morty Goldman, of course. They made films about people like Morty Goldman.
'Sorry?' she said. Didn't smile at him. Thinking about the poem. Feast my eyes on your delicious body. She was sure it was Barney who'd written it. It had been embarrassing at the time, but what exactly had he meant by it? And now here he was, sitting next to her like an obedient puppy.
She couldn't see any danger in his face, she had to admit that. With all the others, particularly the real lunatics like Goldman and Winters, it was obvious and it was out there. In the eyes, the curl of the lips, the general demeanour. Not in Barney Thomson. He looked like a barber.
'Bit of a bastard,' he repeated, unable to think of anything else.
'What is?' she said. Furrowed brow as she examined him. Having started to convince herself that this man was the killer, now she could see the gormless look of him, with only the remotest hint of Sean Connery remaining.
'Eh,' said Barney, hesitating. 'The, eh, situation, you know. A bastard. The finger and all that.'
'I know,' she said. 'Any ideas?'
A wee tester to gauge the reaction.
'On what?' said Barney. Hoping she had gone off at a tangent, and was asking if he had any ideas who wrote The Poem. Or maybe, if he had any ideas as to how the two of them could spend the night together.
'How the finger got into Arnie's present,' said Dillinger.
'Oh, aye,' said Barney. The finger.
So there was a serial killer among them, he thought. Bugger it. There was always a serial killer; I'm in the mood for love.
'Someone's just having a wee joke,' he said. 'Pretty funny, really, when you think about it,' he added, smiling.
How could he get off the subject and on to more interesting matters such as sleeping arrangements and the hasty removal of women's underwear?
'You think it's funny?' she asked. Perhaps there was something of the serial killer about him after all. 'It was a real finger, Barney. Someone, somewhere, is missing it.'
'Aye, but they'll have another nine. I mean, how many d'you need?'
Smooth. Very smooth. She looked at him in a particular way.
'I'm glad you think this is amusing, Mr Thomson,' she said.
Mr Thomson! An arrow in Barney's heart, and he could feel the pain as sure as if the metal point had just plunged into his chest.
'No, no,' he said quickly. 'I didn't mean it like that, you know. Honest I didn't. I just meant...' God, I don't know. I just meant that I'm a total Muppet. I've forgotten how to relate to women, and I'm a bag of nerves. 'I don't know what I meant.'
He looked into the fire and she looked into his eyes. Could see the hopelessness there and could not associate the callousness of the words with the pusillanimity in the face. She didn't know what took hold of her, or what it was that so dissipated the suspicions of a minute earlier; but she gently touched his hand and squeezed his fingers.
'I understand,' she said.
Zing! Barney looked up at her. At last, suddenly, getting what he'd wanted, despite himself. Zing! I'm in the mood for love! And a million cheesy-listening songs broke out in Barney's head. I'm Errol Flynn, he thought. I'm Casanova. I'm Cyrano de Bergerac without the noggin. I'm John Malkovich in Dangerous Liaisons. I'm Joey in Friends. I'm alive! I'm Frankenstein's monster without the chip on his shoulder. I'm Peter Boyle. I'm Boris Karloff. I'm Robert de Niro.
Yet, despite the general goofiness of his thoughts, his face displayed nothing, as was ever his way. Still too early to get carried away. And the look he returned to her was as sad as the one she gave him; and he responded to her touch.
Something made Dillinger turn her head; and there in the doorway to the lounge, wiping his hands free of chalk on a dry rag, was Arnie Medlock. Eyes piercing, a look that could kill.
Her heart fluttered but she did not remove her hand from Barney's. Their eyes engaged for a while, then Medlock turned his back and was gone. Dillinger stared after him, briefly caught the eye of Socrates McCartney, who watched the action suspiciously from a corner afar, then looked back into the fire.
The flames hissed and crunched, and the fire slowly growled and emitted small noises as wood slipped and logs diminished.
Barney's eyes were lost within it, and he had not even noticed the attentions of Arnie Medlock. Dillinger stared into the fire and felt quite lost. And did not know that she would never see Arnie Medlock again.
––––––––
It was raining hard. Hard like wet stone and hard like a slug from a .45. The river was rising faster than a lump on a bashed skull and it seemed like it'd been raining for a million years. And in some ways, for Jade Weapon, it had been.
There's only one thing to do when it's raining, and raining hard, that's what Jade Weapon had always thought. Get hold of a man, shag the life out of him, and leave him dead in the gutter, 'cause that's where all men belong. So she grabbed the Turkish agent, tore down his pants and rammed his throbbing wet love-stick into her sopping engorged sex-hole.
Proudfoot trampled through the wet undergrowth that ran beside the road, dripping branches brushing against her face, the rain teeming down through the trees on top of her. Imagining what Jade Weapon would do in these circumstances; and knowing full well that Jade would grab Mulholland, wildly thrash about in a sexual frenzy for ten or fifteen seconds, then strangle him with her thighs.
Mulholland marched ahead, head down, no particular destination in mind. They had just passed the petrol station and found it long since closed, as this year's serial killer had known they would. And they had trudged along the road ever since, now almost four miles from where they had been fishing; and where they had found Proudfoot's car refusing to start, her radio refusing to work. It hadn't seemed such a long walk for Mulholland in the bright morning, especially given the few miles he'd hitched on the back of a tractor. Had seemed nothing at all for Proudfoot in her car.
Not sure if anything lay along this road before the mansion where Proudfoot's prey was spending her weekend. Vague memories of a house and a church, but neither of them was sure. And so they plodded on, aimlessly through sodden grass, with no plan and without any idea or care for their direction. A fine metaphor for both their lives.
Someone knew where they were, however. And he lay ahead and waited, his business already taken care of.
'Bloody hell, Mulholland,' said Proudfoot eventually, deciding it was time to be at least part Jade Weapon. 'Maybe we should just go back and wait at the car. One of these rare bastards who keep driving by and completely ignoring us is bound to stop some time.'
He stopped and turned, let her make up the few yards.
'It's bloody miles,' he said. Not angry, not frustrated. Face a blank look of determination; a determination to not care. 'We'll get there, and if you blow your cover with this lassie you're trailing, who gives a shit? You're quitting the force anyway, aren't you?'
She lifted her shoulders. The rain ran off her hair and down her forehead, cascading off the end of her nose. A steady stream of water. She was wearing his jacket, which had long since given up the ghost and was leaking water like the ill-fated 1970's prototype PG Tips overcoat.
'Look at you,' she said. 'Standing there in a jumper. You'll catch your death, for fuck's sake. And I'm not much better in this thing. We shouldn't have even started to walk in the first place. Let's just turn back and go and wait in the motor. It's miles to the house.'
He stared through the rain. She looked gorgeous. Cold face, water streaming all over it – vulnerable, beautiful, gorgeous. And somehow unattainable with it, despite their affections of earlier. And if she was vulnerable, was he the one to protect her?
Catch his death? Might be an idea. He could get ill with respiratory problems, be really cool for a few days like Val Kilmer in Tombstone, and then die. There was a way to go.
Didn't say a word. Just turned back and kept going the way he had been. Proudfoot considered turning away, but did not deliberate long. She couldn't lose him now. And so off she went, head down, charging after him. They could go together to that bloodied police station in the sky, in apathy; cold and wet and hypothermic.
'You're being an Advert Man, you know,' she said, drawing up alongside him.
Head down, he didn't even bother to lift it. Overcome once more by misery, melancholy and grumpiness.
'What?'
'An Advert Man. You know what men are always like in adverts. Stupid. Can't put the toaster on, can't work out how to get stains off the carpet. Can't put their underwear on the right way round. That's what you're like just now. Pig-headedly, blindly, ridiculously, stupidly heading to some place that's bloody miles away, even though you know it's wrong.' Laughing as she said it. Had given in to the rain and the possibility of dying as a result of wet clothes. Started banging her hand against the side of her head and saying 'daaaaaawwhhh'.
Mulholland shook his head and trudged on. Ignoring her, although a smile came to his face for the first time since they'd left the riverbank.
'And you'd be the Advert Woman, I suppose? Smooth, intelligent, cool as fuck and worth it?'
'Too right. Glad you know me so well.'
Equanimity resumed, Mulholland shivered with the cold. The day was turning to night, the temperature beginning to drop, the rain pelting down. His clothes clung to his skin and he dreamt of a hot drink beside a warm fire.
'Why do we always end up bloody freezing?' he asked.
She shivered too, as if being reminded of the cold had increased her sense of it.
'Must be fate,' she said.
Mulholland looked up and stopped immediately. Her head down, bent into the wind, she hardly noticed.
'There's bloody fate,' he said, as the killer's trap opened up before him, large and inviting. They had walked along the given road, and now they would drink in their salvation, and they were in no fit state to see the lair into which they were about to walk.
She stopped and followed his gaze. They had turned a corner, and there in the distance, some half-mile down a long straight stretch of road, was a house, lights in the windows glowing bright.
Relief, redemption, they were saved.
'Think there'll be room at the inn?' asked Proudfoot, as they began the trudge down the road, feet squelching noisily on tarmac.
'Don't give a shit,' said Mulholland. 'If they don't let us in we'll arrest them. Got my badge in that jacket pocket.'
'Thought you'd resigned?'
'I did. But I still have my badge. Thought I'd hang on to it for a year or two.'
And on they plodded through the rain. Trees at the side of the road thinned out, there was no protection at all, and so the rain thundered with unbroken intensity. A wall of water, spanking down in glorious sovereignty, creating pools and small lakes all over. But on they went regardless. The lights got slowly closer, the shape of the buildings ahead became clearer.
A large, detached house, late nineteenth century. And the closer they got, the more clearly they could see the spire of the church which lay some few hundred yards behind the house. A classical spire, reaching up into the gloom, atop a large church, hundreds of years old.
Proudfoot saw it first, Mulholland's eyes rooted to the mud and water, and occasionally the beacon of the lights in front of them.
'See the church?' asked Proudfoot.
'Church?' he said without looking up. 'Think you're dreaming.'
'Could mean that this is a manse. They're bound to ask us in and give us a nice bowl of soup.'
Mulholland's mouth hung open, breathing hard, swallowing rainwater.
'Don't give a shit,' he said. 'It can be a minister, a priest or a bloody hockey-mask-wearing psychopath. I'm going in there, I'm sitting down in front of the fire and I'm having a cup of tea. Don't give a shit if it's a manse.'
'That's the spirit,' she said, plodding after him through the loch.
***
Another ten minutes and they found themselves standing outside the door of the Old Manse. Shoes sodden, clothes clinging to them, still in the belly of the storm.
'Your shoes are soaking,' she said, looking down at his feet.
'Aye,' he said. 'Should have kept my waders on.'
'Aye,' she said. 'Shouldn't have left them behind that tree either. The river'll be up and away with them.'
'I'd trade them for a cup of tea at the moment.'
The door opened. A man in his slippered feet stood in the way of the light. C&A slacks, a crew-neck jumper his gran must have knitted for him a long time ago, under which could be seen the edge of his dog collar; a shock of black hair, kind face, blue eyes, white teeth. Young and old at the same time.
'The Lord bless you!' he said, a look of horror on his face. 'What a night to be out. Come in, come in. You can't be standing out there, whoever you are.'
Mulholland and Proudfoot dripped into the house and stood in the middle of the hallway, water pouring off them onto the carpet. Hit by a marvellous wave of warmth and the smell of home cooking. Pictures of rivers on the walls, thick patterned carpet, stairs leading up into the heights of the old manse. Low lights and an air of comfort.
'What has happened to you, in God's name?' asked the vicar. Fussing about, without actually doing anything. 'You're not from around here?'
'We were fishing,' said Mulholland. 'Car broke down, and there was no one at the petrol station.'
He could see into the sitting room, where a fire blazed in the hearth. A cup of tea, something – anything – to eat, and a seat beside the fire. Not even thinking of how they were going to get back.
'At the old river way by?' said the minister, pointing in the direction from which they'd just come. 'That's a fine distance, indeed. You must have been walking for an age.'
He gazed at them for another few seconds; soaked to the skin, water dripping, shoes creating massive puddles on the floor. Mulholland wondered where the wife was; the creator, he presumed, of the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen.
'Look, you can't just stand there, the two of you. You get your shoes off, because if you walk through the house like yon my wife'll have a fit, God bless her. Jings! I'll go up to the bathroom and get a couple of towels and then I'll see about getting you some clothes.'
And off he went, mincing up the stairs, muttering about the weather and the night and the folly of fishing. They watched him go, then went about removing their shoes and socks without spreading water over a radius of three or four miles.
'Nice old guy,' said Proudfoot. Wouldn't have been surprised to have been chased from the front door, minister or not.
'Recognise him?' asked Mulholland, voice a little lower.
She looked up the stairs, although he had now disappeared into the bathroom.
'Don't think so. Should I?'
'Not sure. Just something about him, about the face. Might have seen him before. Maybe on a case, maybe somewhere else, don't know.'
'Everyone looks like someone,' said Proudfoot, getting to the root of most appearance-based relationships. 'Or maybe he appeared on one of those docu-soaps on TV. Everybody else has.'
The minister appeared at the top of the stairs again, clutching a great pile of thick, cushiony towels, behind which he minced back down the stairs. Shoes removed and dumped in a pile on the welcome mat, they watched him come. Wondering what it was that was creating the smell, and hoping they were going to be offered some of it.
'There you go,' said the minister, handing out towels all round. Light pink for Proudfoot, dark blue for Mulholland. Old-fashioned was the Reverend Rolanoytez.
'Now you two get in there in front of that fire and get out of those wet things. I'll go and get the kettle on, then I'll find you some dry clothes to wear. If only mother hadn't gone out tonight, she'd be in her element. Still, she's left me with a fine rabbit stew for myself, and I'm sure there'll be enough to go around.'
'Thanks a lot,' said Mulholland, 'we really appreciate this.'
'Don't be daft, laddie,' said the minister. 'Don't be daft. The Lord smiles upon us all.' And off he minced towards the kitchen. They watched him go, then dripped their way into the sitting room.
A warm room in every way. Red carpet; walls lined with books and hung with old paintings; velvet curtains; fire roaring and the dinner table set for one, with a small candle burning. And they immediately began to strip off with no sense of embarrassment that he might walk in on them. They were freezing and this indeed was a Godsend.
Clothes off and dumped in a heap, and within a minute they were huddled in front of the fire, wrapped in light pink and dark blue, watching the flames and feeling the warmth and life return to their bodies.
Backs to the door, they didn't see the Reverend Rolanoytez make his way along the hall and back up the stairs. Small mincing steps, until he got to the main bedroom. Flicked the switch and in he went in bright light, hardly giving a thought to the two visitors downstairs. Except he had to find them something to wear, something not too incongruous. The younger ones today, he thought wrongly, they'd want something they liked, regardless of the situation.
'What have we got, then?' he said quietly, and began to rake through the two sets of clothes drawers. 'What have we got?'
Then he started to hum a quiet tune as he went about his business. Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart...
Lying on the bed behind him, the real Reverend Rolanoytez and the dear Margaret Rolanoytez said nothing. Had they just been bound and gagged, perhaps they might have tried to make some noise; if they'd dared. But as an extra precaution against the possibility of them alerting the outside world, their throats had been slit, and both lay dead; eyes and mouths open, staring wildly up at the ceiling, faces blue.
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.
––––––––
For the first time in several years there was a subdued atmosphere at the table for the Murderers Anonymous Christmas dinner. Not since Malky Eight Feet tried to grab Jenny Four Stretchmarks' boobs over pudding in 1993, resulting in a free-for-all fist fight, had there been such lack of good-humoured revelry.
Around the table set for eleven, there were three empty chairs. And like a team with three players sent off before the end of the match, those remaining were merely playing out time until dinner was over. However, the night ahead in this blighted house, with creaks and noises and ghosts in every corner, did not invite anticipation.
Barney was on a roll and had his wish; a seat next to Katie Dillinger with the added bonus that the one on the other side was vacant, Arnie Medlock having not returned.
It was a huge round table, elegantly set by Hertha Berlin. Cutlery all over the place and more glasses than you could have claimed at an Esso garage in the late 80's. Around the table from Medlock's vacant chair sat Bobby Dear, Ellie Winters, a gap for Morty Goldman, Socrates McCartney, Annie Webster, Sammy Gilchrist, Fergus Flaherty and a gap for Billy Hamilton.
They had waited long for the missing men to show – the Three Wise Men, Sammy Gilchrist would call them after tasting the prawn cocktail – but eventually they had started on the repast and now, in subdued humour, the merriment of Bing and Frank having finally failed them, they munched their way through turkey and roast potatoes, wee sausages, stuffing, a bit of bacon, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts.
Hertha Berlin appeared as if by magic. Not too concerned whether all her food was eaten, for she knew the handyman would polish off anything that remained. Quite pleased, in her way, that there was not the sort of riotous behaviour she'd been expecting, but was nervous nevertheless.
This crowd gave her a bad feeling and the fact that three of them were missing and out of sight only served to heighten her discomfort.
'Is everything all right for you?' she asked the assembled company, while looking straight at Dillinger. At least Dillinger appeared a solid sort, she thought. Honest. She was not to know that Dillinger had murdered her first four husbands. A knife in the throat every time. The fourth one had cottoned on to the pattern, but too late.
'Aye, thank you, Mrs Berlin, it's fine,' Dillinger said.
Barney watched her lips. Pale, red and full. He could kiss those lips. Right here, right now. Lean the few inches across the table and, if his memory served him correctly, pucker up as if he was drinking a Bud Lite straight from the bottle.
There were a few other nods around the table; a few other comments came to mind, but they all restrained themselves. Except Sammy Gilchrist, released from the presence of Medlock and Goldman, who felt free to air his concerns.
'The prawn cocktail was shite,' he said, 'but the turkey's all right.'
Socrates McCartney laughed; Fergus Flaherty sniggered.
There were one or two embarrassed looks around the table. Hertha Berlin gave Sammy Gilchrist her best Slow Train to Nuremberg look, the light grey hairs on her top lip glinting slightly in the candlelight. Gilchrist did not wilt, however. Morty Goldman and Arnie Medlock may well have intimidated him but he could still stand up to an old woman.
Hertha Berlin gave it her best, then quickly marched towards the door when she realised the stare was getting her nowhere. Out she went, and the door closed behind her with a precise, Germanic click.
'That's 'cause I pissed in it,' she muttered under her breath, making her way back to the kitchen.
Back in the dining room there was an awkward silence, filled only by Bing Crosby, sleigh bells ting-ting-tingling away.
'I thought the prawn cocktail was nice,' said Barney to fill the silence. 'A hint of ammonia perhaps, but you get that with fish sometimes.'
'Tasted like pish to me,' said Gilchrist, and the conversation died away once more.
They stared at the table and listened to some pointless line about coffee and pumpkin pie. Good old Bing. The fire crackled; the Christmas tree sparkled in what, to be frank, was becoming an irritating manner; Ellie Winters blew her nose and was caught inspecting the contents of the hankie by a glance from Bobby Dear.
'Doesn't look as if there's going to be much shagging the night,' said Socrates to bridge the gap.
Another few embarrassed looks around the table. Ellie Winters and Annie Webster stared at their thick slices of roast turkey – covered in Hertha Berlin's own special gravy – and thought that just because Dillinger's boyfriend, the seemingly pubescent Hamilton and the mad Goldman had disappeared, didn't mean that there was not love to be made.
So Annie Webster murmured something to Socrates that no one else could hear, just to keep Sammy Gilchrist on his toes, and gradually conversation broke out around the table. Like smallpox. And each of the inmates reached for their glass, wine was drunk, and tongues would be made gradually more loose.
'You think they're all right?' said Dillinger to Barney, strangely the only person to whom she felt like talking.
Despite the Noddy thing, rather than because of it.
'Who?' said Barney, mind not on the job. Had been wondering whether Fergus Flaherty would suit a Victor Mature or a Tyrone Power '45.
'Arnie,' said Dillinger, slightly annoyed. 'And Billy, and that awful little man, Goldman.'
Barney turned to her, a small piece of cauliflower protruding from his mouth. All sex.
'Are you allowed to say that?' he said. 'You think wee Morty's awful?'
She frowned at him to keep his voice down and glanced around the table. No one had noticed, however, all conjoined in the old black magic of love. Or at least, no one appeared to notice.
'He gives me the creeps,' she said, dropping her voice a little farther. 'I mean, I know it does him some good to come to the group, and I'm afraid of what would happen if we kicked him out, but he gives me the creeps all the same. Can't like everyone, I suppose,' she added, forcing a smile as she said it.
Barney nodded. You can't dislike everyone, that had always been more his way of looking at things. Although there had been times in the past when he'd proved that adage wrong.
'I thought he was all right,' said Barney. 'A bit weird, but that doesn't single him out among this mob, does it?'
Careless words and again Dillinger looked round the assembled throng to see if anyone was listening, but once more her look was ignored and the idle chatter of romance shimmered around the table.
'I suppose not,' she said.
And so dinner progressed, on and on, through the turkey and on to Hertha Berlin's Unique Recipe Christmas Pudding with brandy butter, then the coffee and mints and mince pies.
Barney and Katie Dillinger got along fine, in a one-sided kind of a way, with one of the parties looking for love, and the other looking for absolution. Socrates McCartney decided to take up the fight and engaged Sammy Gilchrist in a battle over Annie Webster, using words as weapons, each trying ever harder to outdo the other with witty throwaways, intellectual debate, and lengthy discussions on the relationship between Titian and tubes; Fergus Flaherty and Bobby Dear, free of the mad intentions of Goldman, vied for the hand of Ellie Winters.
And every now and again, Annie Webster and Ellie Winters exchanged a passing glance.
***
'So,' said the minister, 'are you two young lovers married?'
Both Proudfoot and Mulholland had their faces buried in rabbit stew. Cooked with onions, garlic and mixed herbs in half a bottle of red wine. Slow-cook for four to six hours. Food of the gods. Drinking red wine with it, despite initial hesitation after the night before. All going down like a dream. Mulholland in his dead man's clothes; a pair of slacks, by God!, a sweater and comfy shoes which almost fitted. He could have been Ronnie Corbett. Proudfoot in her dead woman's clothes could have been June. From Terry and June, that is, not mad June Spaghetti, who'd murdered a family of fifteen in Kirkcaldy because they wouldn't let her take a short cut through their back garden.
'Not yet,' said Proudfoot, 'but we're going to be.'
Cast a glance the way of Mulholland as she said it, but he showed no reaction to the statement. Up to his neck in Watership Down rejects. Might have thought twice about digging in so readily if he'd known that the meal, while being initially prepared by the moderately kind-hearted Mrs Margaret Rolanoytez, had been finished off by a man who had murdered five people in the past week and a half. And that was not to mention Wee Magnus McCorkindale, whose death now seemed light-years away. Like the Star Ship Voyager or the one-pound gallon of petrol. Remember that? Bastards.
'Any day now,' said Mulholland without looking up, and Proudfoot examined the words and tone in search of sarcasm, but his head was buried in his food, shovelling away like Bart and Homer, and he appeared to be serious.
'Oh, lovely,' said the doppelgänging Reverend Rolanoytez, politely picking away at a small plate of stew. Here was a man who had had his fill earlier. 'Where's the service to be?'
'Don't know yet,' said Mulholland, during a convenient gap in the sprint between the plate and his mouth. 'Might go to Gretna.'
Proudfoot slammed food into her mouth at an almost equal rate. Impressed by Mulholland's seeming willingness to discuss their betrothal. One minute he was for, the next against. That was how it seemed.
Men...
'You don't want to go to that dump,' said Rolanoytez, with unusual vigour. Mulholland looked up at last, colour returning to his cheeks. 'It's for the English and the Americans.' He hesitated to instill the required impression of giving the matter some thought. 'I could marry you here. We've got a lovely church. Beautiful for weddings.'
They looked at each other and back to the faker. No doubt, there was God's light in his eye. A broad smile came to the vicar's face and he clasped his hands together.
'Oh, what a lovely idea,' he said, and the smile broadened. 'You know I was wondering what it was that brought the two of you here, because you know God does not do things for nothing. And now he has spoken. It is kismet, it is the work of the Lord. I must marry the two of you, that is your destiny. That is why God has brought you to me.'
They took a break from the Great Food Race. They looked at Rolanoytez, they looked at one another. The smile in his eyes was infectious. A kind man, wishing to spread the light of God into the hearts of others. Proudfoot could feel the tears begin to well up. Daft, but there you are; she always had cried at moderately emotional points in her life. Like during the final episode of Blake's Seven or when unknowingly spending half the day with her skirt tucked into her pants.
Mulholland looked at her and could see that emotion. Felt it too. Wanted to reach across the table and kiss those warm lips.
'All right,' he said, nodding. 'You on?'
Proudfoot smiled through the first tear that had formed. This was it, they were about to start planning their wedding. She'd found her Lancelot; her hero; her knight in shining armour, her Lothario; her recently divorced, verging on middle-aged, moderately psychotic, grumpy sod.
'Aye,' she said.
'Right, then,' he said. Turned to Rolanoytez. 'When are you free?'
Rolanoytez licked a small amount of potato from his lips. The smile returned, although this time with a devilish, or psychopathic, edge.
'Tonight,' he said.
An instant. Then Mulholland frowned; Proudfoot looked like a kid who'd been offered a pot of paint and a spray gun in the house of a relative she didn't like.
'You can't do that, can you?' said Mulholland.
Rolanoytez laughed, and it sounded joyous and romantic and adventurous.
'Why not? It will be just wonderful! Seize the day, my children. This moment has been presented to us. Grasp it with both hands and do the will of the Lord.'
Mulholland lifted his shoulders and waved his fork around. A small bit of gravy fell to the floor and soaked into the carpet.
'Marriage licence? Posting banns? All that stuff?' he said.
Rolanoytez raised his shoulders and the smile returned to his face.
'And the Lord said, “There is but one moment, and that moment is now.” There would be paperwork to be done next week, but I am God's organ, here to do his bidding. A marriage made in the Lord's house is a true and a just one, and the bonds cannot be broken. You will require a couple of witnesses, and the bond can be made.'
There is but one moment and that moment is now.
Didn't really sound like Jesus, thought Proudfoot. More like Dead Poets Society. Of course, she hadn't stepped into a church since she'd been three, apart from during the case of Davie One Nut, who'd been strapped naked to a statue of the Virgin Mary on his stag night, and had frozen to death by the time he'd been discovered. And so her doubt passed.
Rolanoytez leaned forward, taking the hands of the soon-to-be-happy couple. His face was warm and encouraging and the light of love and hope beamed upon them.
'Do it, my friends. Take the Lord into your hearts and be wed before him.'
Getting carried away with it all. As you do. Not sure about the 'taking the Lord into my heart' bit, thought Proudfoot, but Mulholland looked glorious in the light of the fire and the candles; her James Bond.
'No,' said Mulholland. With infinite finality.
Proudfoot swallowed and sat back. Tears threatened once more. For all his words, when it came to it, maybe he hadn't changed at all. The Reverend Rolanoytez sensed the immediate intrusion of atmosphere and pushed his chair back, lifted his plate.
'Tell you what,' he said, voice filled with heavenly concern. 'Why don't I leave you alone for a minute while you have a wee chat to yourselves?'
He began to walk slowly from the room. And in a moment of cheeky psychosis, he winked at Proudfoot, smiled encouragingly and was gone.
The fire crackled. Mulholland spooned some more stew onto his plate. Head down, he didn't look at her. Knew what she was thinking, but she was wrong. He attempted to order his thoughts, but the sludge in his head was too thick.
Felt her eyes burrowing into him. The grace of another few days before the commitment was made was being snatched away. Ridiculously and absurdly, and he knew instantly that this would all be part of the game. Refuse the blistering romance of this, and Proudfoot would assume fear and lack of interest on his part.
'Well?' she said, the word whipping out.
He looked up. Stew on his lips. Tried not to show what he was thinking.
'It's stupid.'
'Why? What difference does it make? I thought you wanted to get married. You wanted to get married two minutes ago.'
'I know. Just not like this. I mean, we'll still have to go to a registrar, won't we? For all his sanctity of God's house crap, that old fart pronouncing us married in the middle of the night probably won't mean diddley-fuck. So what's the point?'
She threw her arms out. Losing the emotional self-defence.
'It's romantic, for Christ's sake. That's what marriage is supposed to be about, isn't it?'
'It's stupid. Let's take a few days to plan it.'
'Plan what? There's no family, no friends, no honeymoon, no flowers, no walk down the aisle. What's there to plan? This is it, Joel, you either want to do it or you don't.'
He looked her in the eye. Right enough. You either want it, Joel, or you don't. Didn't matter whether it was before an eccentric old minister in the middle of the night or in the cold light of day before a boring stiff in a suit in a registrar's office. The effect was pretty much the same.
'Look,' she said, not letting him away with further protestations. 'I know nothing about the law of it, but it probably means something. We'll be married in a church, for God's sake, and who would have thought that would happen? God's sake, Mulholland, I love you, and you, as far as anyone can tell, probably love me, so who gives a shit if it's the middle of the sodding night, it's pishing down like a whore's pyjamas, and it's probably illegal? Let's just go for it. It's romantic, it's spur of the moment, it's impetuous, it's Jade Weapon. You've walked out on me once before, and if you do it again I'll crush your balls like a dumper truck, you bloody bastard. So let's just, for fuck's sake, cut the crap, stop messing about, and get married.'
Mulholland dabbed the stew from his lips. Their eyes locked together. Hearts beating as one.
'That you quoting Shakespeare again?'
Proudfoot's shoulders collapsed in an emotional heap. Her impassioned plea greeted by the usual male defence to emotion. A cheap gag.
The Reverend Rolanoytez, who had undoubtedly heard every word, returned to the room and sat himself down at the table. God's light still shone in those eyes. He looked from one star-crossed lover to the other; waiting.
'What about witnesses?' said Mulholland, the first to speak.
The Reverend Rolanoytez did not hesitate. The big house lay a couple of miles up the road, and there awaited any number of potential victims.
'A mile or two up the road,' he said. 'It is some way, but I can give you rainwear to see you through the storm. There is a house of some size.'
'We know,' said Mulholland. He looked at Proudfoot, who shrugged.
'Ah, wonderful. There is a party there. A group of some description, on a Christmas weekend away. I'm sure you could find two of them to share in your joy. You could phone, but perhaps for something such as this you might need the personal touch. I shall ready the church. Turn on the heating and light the candles. I shall prepare everything. Finish your dinner and then set out for the house. I shall meet you at the church at eleven o'clock. Oh, dear Lord, it will be joyous!'
This is stupid, thought Mulholland. It was all wonderfully contrived, but the policeman in him was completely wasted.
Why not? he now thought, at last giving in to Proudfoot's emotion. Why not be stupid? He still had another couple of hours to back out. Still had another couple of hours to get lost in the woods.
'Let's do it,' he said. Heart of light and stone.
'You sure?' asked Proudfoot.
'Of course not,' he said, starting to laugh.
The smile spread across her face; tears fell. And the smile spread across the face of the Reverend Rolanoytez's killer. For he knew who would return with them from the big house.
He just knew.
––––––––
Post-dinner, the mood for the evening was set. Small groups had dispersed around the house, and the usual Christmas spirit had completely gone. Still no Arnie Medlock, Morty Goldman or Billy Hamilton. Annie Webster and Ellie Winters had finally and firmly nailed their colours to the mast. Ending more speculation than usually surrounds the election of a pope or the draw for the first round of the Champion's League, they had chosen to eschew the host of men, who had gathered to slobber at their doors, and were snuggling down together in front of the dwindling fire.
And so the men had gone their ways, suitably chastened and abandoned in all their masculine impotence. Mince without potatoes. They could have reacted by swarming around Katie Dillinger, but they had been warned off by the look on her face – she was clearly upset by the missing three, which was even worse than her being annoyed – and by the presence at her side of Barney Thomson. The evil Barney Thomson. For all these men had heard about the man; they knew what he'd done in the past, and they were beginning to think that maybe it had been his doing that so many of their number had fallen away. Perhaps he was taking them out, one by one. And so none would cross him, and none would get in the way of his attempted conquest of Dillinger.
Fergus Flaherty the Fernhill Flutist and Socrates McCartney were at the snooker table. Bobby Dear was watching them intently, waiting to play the winner. Developing a strategy.
Sammy Gilchrist was sitting in the lounge, pretending to read a book, keeping his eyes on Ellie Winters and Annie Webster. He'd heard about this kind of thing – of course he had – but he'd never actually seen it done. Wondering if they were going to get stuck in or whether they'd save it for the privacy of their room later on.
Barney and Katie Dillinger sat side by side on a huge sofa, staring at the dying fire; and in Barney's case, trying not to stare at the Webster/Winters combo.
'This is a disaster,' said Dillinger, breaking ten minutes of silence.
Barney slowly nodded. He didn't feel it so badly, but he could see it for what it was. If only he'd known, he could have spent the weekend sitting in the pub with old Leyman, talking about Elvis. Yet he was next to the woman and this evening had brought them closer. This still had potential.
If he could spend the night in the company of someone else, then he would grasp the opportunity. The walls had eyes, darkness had come, and once the lights went out who knew what walked the floors and skulked in secret passageways? And he knew that his nightmare awaited him, for when he finally closed his eyes.
He placed his hand on top of hers, squeezed slightly.
'Don't worry about it. They'll be fine,' he said. Didn't believe a word of it. Everyone in his life got murdered.
She let out a short, bitter little laugh.
'God, I don't know,' she said, but did not remove her hand from his. 'It's the same every year. There are tensions and doubts and anger. Always. But I usually manage to keep it in check. Or Arnie usually manages to keep it in check. Or The Hammer, but God knows what he's up to. I suppose it was bound to go wrong some time. But if one of this lot have done something to Arnie ...' and she let the sentence drift off.
'Arnie can take care of himself,' said Barney, not doubting for even a second that Arnie had already been turned into dog food.
'I'm scared for him,' she said. 'Really scared.'
Barney swooped.
He placed his arm around her shoulder and drew her towards him. It seemed so natural, although he had not had such intimacy with a woman in decades. And Dillinger gave in to the comfort and leaned towards him, resting against his chest.
Bing Crosby was joined by the Andrews Sisters for some mindless piece of Christmas twaddle, and the two unhappy couples snuggled down in front of the fire.
Sammy Gilchrist watched and wondered and waited.
***
They struggled on through the rain. Had done a lot of walking and they were both tired, but the meal and fresh clothes had revived them. And now they had waterproof jackets and an umbrella each, and so the relentless downpour did not seem so bad.
'Do you feel swept along by the tide?' asked Proudfoot, to break a long silence.
Mulholland considered his reply. They notice every word, every nuance, he said to himself. Be very careful.
'Aye, I suppose,' is all he could manage. 'And this. Going to a house which is occupied by a known murderer to ask for witnesses to our wedding. How stupid is that? How's it going to look with our lot if Annie pops up and volunteers?'
Proudfoot nodded and stared at the sodden ground. Couldn't the minister just have lifted the phone and brought in a couple of his parishioners? Still, she hadn't liked to say. It was their wedding, after all; it seemed reasonable that they should do some of the work, some of the asking. Perhaps the minister had been worried that someone from his congregation would report him to the Out of Hours Church Use Police.
'Don't care,' she said. 'I'm pretty sure I'm not going back, so what can they do to me? And they can't bring it out in the open because, to be honest, a lot of the stuff we've been up to in the last five months is illegal. I hope she does volunteer. God, who knows, maybe the bloke she killed asked for it. She's seemed nice enough to me these last few months.'
'Aye, but look at your judgement. You're marrying me.'
Proudfoot laughed and took him more tightly by the arm. Did not notice the tension in response.
'I've never had any judgement,' she said. 'That's why I joined the police.'
'Ah. The perfect officer.'
She laughed again and at the same moment saw the lights ahead through the trees. The house awaited them. More warmth and more comfort. She hoped. Never knew what sort of crowd they might encounter on a weekend away. Particularly when one of them was Annie Webster.
Immediately felt the possibility of embarrassing rejection. Turning up at someone else's party at nine-thirty on a Sunday night with an absurd request. Who the hell was going to want to come out on a night such as this?
Nervously aware of the tightrope of indecision along which her husband-to-be was walking.
'And I always thought you were in the zone,' he said, to take his mind off the inevitable. 'At least, when you weren't reading crap magazines and listening to pish music.'
'No, not me. I don't think I've ever been in the zone,' she said.
'Me neither,' said Mulholland. 'Unless it was when I scored a hat-trick for the Cubs against the 150th when I was nine. Certainly haven't been in the zone since I joined the polis.'
The house approached; inching its way towards them through the trees. Until, suddenly it seemed, it was there before them, huge and grey and sombre in the night, at the end of the long driveway. And they walked past where they'd spent the previous night, an age ago, and began the trudge down the driveway. Slowing down as they went, as neither particularly relished the thought of turning up at the house of a stranger. They were enjoying the walk, and maybe there was a feeling that what they were about to do would change things completely, and not just because they would be married.
'Maybe,' said Proudfoot, 'I hit the zone when I slept with every member of the first and second rugby fifteens in one weekend when I was in the sixth year. I was pretty hot back then.'
They walked on. Mulholland cast a sideways glance. Just the sort of information you want to receive on your wedding day. Such shredded emotions as his couldn't really compute the information quickly enough, however.
'Oh,' was all he said.
'I made that up,' she said after a while.
'Oh.'
'Honest.'
'That's good. I don't really think that's a zone, anyway. It's more of a planetary system than a zone. Still, you must have been very proud.'
'I didn't actually do it. I said that. I made it up.'
'Right.'
Their travels brought them to the front door; and out of the rain under the shelter of the porch, where Barney and his fellows had stood the previous evening. So close to this nest of vipers, this grand house of criminality, that had they been in any sort of zone themselves they might have sensed it. Evil lurked within. But they had both left their police zone a long way behind.
'You still love me?' she asked, as Mulholland rang the bell.
Love? The question came winging its cherub's way towards him. Who mentioned love? A jokey question, but you know what women are like, he thought. Laced with meaning.
Did he love her? Is that what this was all about? Charging through the night in the pouring rain to get married at midnight in the company of strangers. If not love, then what was it? Would I die for her? he wondered, for that was a way to judge. Would I give anything for her to be happy? Is she more important to me than life itself; and Partick Thistle?
He looked into her eyes, pale and grey in the dim light.
***
Not much else to say. Dillinger and Barney snuggled up on the couch, unsure of the horrors that awaited them in the night. She knew Arnie – at least, she thought she knew Arnie – she knew he would not just leave them. Something had happened to him, and if Arnie wasn't safe from one of their crowd, then neither were any of them.
She didn't know Barney, but she could tell a good and honest man by his face. She would stay with him tonight. If something romantic happened, then it happened, but she was not giving it thought. She needed succour and Barney was her man.
The doorbell rang, the grating bell slotting nicely in between Suzy Snowflake and The Snowman. Dillinger started slightly at the noise and sat up. Looked at her watch. Barney sat up with her, while the others in the room ignored it. Webster and Winters were becoming ever more comfortable; Sammy Gilchrist ever more engrossed.
'God,' she said, 'who do you think this is going to be?'
Barney shrugged. 'Probably some of the old housekeeper's mates. Come to drag her out on a Sunday night. Some big Germanic gang of goosestepping lunatics, off to invade somewhere for the evening. See if they can hang onto it longer than they hung onto Poland.'
'I've got a bad feeling about this,' she said, ignoring him. 'Something's not right. I'm going to get it.'
'Just leave it,' said Barney. 'It'll be for the ...'
And he didn't bother completing the sentence, for she was already scuttling through the lounge and out into the hall. He shrugged and slouched back down into the sofa. Thought he was unconcerned, but from nowhere the hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. Suddenly the one-eyed sheep, hung by its neck, swinging in the wind, came into his head. Sitting with Dillinger, he had managed to push it from his mind, but now it was back. The hanging sheep, the shuffling from behind, the presence of Death at his shoulder. The prayer for his soul. It all awaited him; and he felt the cold.
How immune he had become to it all, these last two years. Before all this had started, if he had found himself staying in a creepy old house with a group of convicted or unconvicted murderers, some of whom had gone missing, he would've been running. Now it almost seemed mundane. But the feeling of doom that had suddenly crept upon him was something to concentrate his mind. He'd had it for a few weeks now, and it was nothing to do with his current situation. Yet perhaps where he was, who he was with, would be the promulgator of events that were the making of the dream.
He stood and looked round at the door, knowing that someone would be brought into the house. Didn't know who, didn't know what effect it would have upon him, just knew that they would play a part in the unfolding of his future.
His heart beat no faster, for he had become impervious to moments of tension. And perhaps it was time for him to leave this life, for he had no lust for it any longer. Not that he'd ever had, but at least before he'd been stuck in his rut. Now, freed from that and emancipated in the world to do anything he chose, he had found that freedom was not for him either; yet the thought of returning to his rut was impossible. Not after he had seen what lay outside. Couldn't stand freedom, couldn't face the oppression of normal life.
But it was the dread of what came next, that undiscovered country, which ailed him. Once again he felt the hand at his shoulder, and he looked towards the door as it slowly swung open.
Four people walked into the room, Barney's mouth opened a little, and at last his heart skipped and jumped and picked up a little pace. Dillinger, followed by a man and a woman, with Hertha Berlin bringing up the rear offering tea and Christmas cake to the weary travellers.
Mulholland and Proudfoot quickly took in the room with the well-practised eye of the detective. The Christmas tree, the vanishing fire, the lesbians on the floor, the crazed and demented Sammy Gilchrist, lusting after the two lesbians on the floor. And the well-known, ever so popular, everybody's favourite serial killer, Barney Thomson, showing all his bottom teeth. Not the magnificent sparklingly white teeth of a dreadful chewing-gum advert, but white all the same. Good teeth. Hadn't had to visit the dentist in seventeen years.
'Bugger me! Barney?' said Mulholland. 'Barney flippin' Thomson. What the fuck are you doing here?'
Barney stared into the eyes of the law. They'd let him go once, but now that there was a new series of murders in the city and he was once more a suspect, would they be so forgiving? Assumed they must have come looking for him, and was therefore confused by the question. But they were here now, and so was he with his band of happy thieves. The last thing he could do, whether he actually liked many of these people or not, was tell them the nature of their group.
The glum Barney was as confused as ever when put on the spot. And so he said the first thing that came into his head.
'Don't know,' he muttered.
––––––––
Annie and Ellie were overcome by ardour. Two women, a tender passion. Lips meeting in soft caress; pale cheeks glowing by the fading light of the fire. They didn't even notice the arrival of the newcomers. Hands held lightly against cheeks, fingers running against the firm outline of a breast.
Jade Weapon opened fire with her World War II Bren gun, riddling the screaming lesbians full of lead. The blood poured from them and soaked swiftly into the carpet as their voices screamed in tortured agony. If there was one thing Jade Weapon hated more than men, it was lesbians.
Proudfoot looked quizzically at them. Annie Webster, in the midst of another woman. Hadn't betrayed any signs of that kind of behaviour in the previous five months. Not that it changed anything. Proudfoot shrugged, then turned back to Barney Thomson, a man she thought she'd never see again. Mulholland stared at Sammy Gilchrist, but his mind was not switched on and he thought nothing of him.
Yet Gilchrist wilted under the gaze and could spot the police a mile off. Took the executive decision to walk casually from the room; then stood barely out of sight behind the door into the snooker room, so that he could hear everything. Including the quiet sucking noises from the amorous couple.
'So would you like some tea or not?' asked Hertha Berlin.
They were plucked from their respective contemplations. Still full up from the vast meal they'd had fed to them; but a cup of tea on a wet night is always welcome.
'That'd be nice,' said Mulholland.
'Cake?'
'Sure. Anything would be nice.'
'Right you are,' said Berlin, and off she went, making her way to the kitchen. Where the handyman ate his supper, his fifth meal of the day.
The door closed once more on the small group. Dum-de-dum, the usual stuff from the CD player. We three kings of Orient are ... dum-de-dum-de-dum ... On sang Bing, in his relentless search for Christmas cheer. Bless him. The fire died slowly, the happy couple smooched, Sammy Gilchrist lurked in the snooker room, where Fergus Flaherty and Socrates McCartney continued to muddle their endless way through a four-and-a-half-hour frame of snooker while Bobby Dear awaited his turn; the clinking of balls drifting through to the lounge.
'You know each other, then?' asked Dillinger.
'Aye,' said Barney, hoping that Mulholland wouldn't explain the situation.
'Aye,' said Mulholland, 'we've had dealings in the past. Small world, Barney.'
'Aye,' Barney said again. Didn't like to venture anything further.
Polis, thought Dillinger. Written all over them in letters a gazillion miles high. And she'd just let them into the house without so much as a word. However, there was something a bit different about them. Somehow it was obvious that the edge had gone.
'What's the set-up here?' asked Proudfoot. Wouldn't have taken even a moderate detective to know that there was something behind this odd collection of people.
Barney hesitated. Never had been much good at handling the police, and certainly not when they'd just been thrust upon him.
Dillinger shrugged. 'We're AA,' she said. 'Bearsden branch.' Then realized as the words were coming out of her mouth that there were signs of alcohol consumption all around the room. 'This is our Christmas weekend away. Just a bit of fun. Have the odd drink. Group policy, and we can all keep an eye on each other. Seems to work.'
Mulholland nodded. 'So you're hitting the sauce, Barney?'
Barney stared into the headlights. Eventually said, 'Aye, aye. You know how it is. Bit of a strain all that monastery stuff.'
'Know what you mean,' said Mulholland. 'Downed a few quintuples myself in the last year.'
'So what are you doing down here, then?' asked Barney.
The door opened and in came Hertha Berlin, almost unnaturally quickly. As if she'd been expecting to serve tea for two. She breezed through the lounge and set the tray down on the table. Tea, milk, sugar and a variety of cakes and biscuits that the handyman – who was currently devouring a double giant extra jumbo whopper burger with chips, down in the heart of the kitchen – had forgotten to eat.
'Thanks a lot,' said Proudfoot. Vaguely suspicious of the whole set-up, including Hertha Berlin. Would still drink the tea, however.
There was an odd sucking noise from the happy couple, Bing moved on to It came upon a midnight clear, and Berlin strode purposefully from the room.
'We quit,' said Mulholland. 'Well, I quit. Not certain that Proudfoot has completely made her mind up yet.'
Swung her a look.
'Sure I have,' she said.
'Oh,' said Barney. Sammy Gilchrist raised an eyebrow. Didn't believe it.
'And we're going to get married.'
'Oh,' said Barney. 'I thought you two were shagging, right enough.'
'Congratulations,' said Dillinger, still eyeing them with a degree of suspicion. Ex-polis, that explained a thing or two. Still, you couldn't trust them even when they were dead, never mind just because they'd retired. She should know; she'd been married to one. Until she'd killed him.
'Thanks,' said Mulholland.
'When's the big date?' Dillinger asked.
Mulholland took the cup of tea that Proudfoot thrust into his hand, then looked at his watch.
'Tonight,' he said. 'In just over an hour.'
The others looked at the clock on the mantelshelf.
'You're getting married at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night?' said Dillinger.
Barney got the strange sensation of a colony of bugs marching up his back; he shivered and stared at the floor. You don't get married at eleven o'clock on a Sunday evening. This had to be wrong. It was bizarre, unnatural, and you'd think they'd realize. Or was he only feeling this because he himself was on edge?
Mulholland shrugged; Proudfoot smiled from behind her cup. Young and in love; and not thinking very clearly.
'Aye,' said Mulholland, 'it's a bit daft, but you have to grasp these moments. We'll tell you about it on the way.'
'What do you mean?' said Barney and Dillinger in harmonic unison. The perfect couple.
'We're getting married at a church a mile or two down the road. Don't have all the paperwork and all that, but we're going to do the religious part and then get the paperwork sorted out next week. The minister's a bit odd, but enthusiastic. A lovely man. All we need are a couple of witnesses.'
Mulholland cast a glance around the room, and through to the snooker table. Just how insane was this whole thing going to get?
Getting married on a whim? Not entirely unreasonable. If he hadn't gone off his napper six months ago, he and Proudfoot would have been together for a year by now, and might well have been married already. But Barney Thomson as a witness? Just how insane was that? And he looked at the two lovers in front of the fire, and knew he was getting nowhere with either of them. Another glance at the suspicious characters in the snooker room. Looked at Barney and shrugged.
Barney shook his head. For the first time in his life his brain moved quickly and everything fell into place. Like a punch from the 60's Ali, like a twenty-mile-wide meteor in the face, like a thunderbolt from the gods fired from on high, it hit him. A church, late at night, this strange company he kept.
He'd been wondering all along what the dream meant and what events could possibly lead to it having some sort of significance. And here he was in a strange old house, with a collection of murderers and psychotics, and now two punch-drunk ex-police officers; and they were taking him off to a church in the middle of the night.
This was it for him. And his face began to lose colour as the others stared at him; the smile that had come with the suggestion, dying on Dillinger's face as she watched. And the thoughts worked themselves out and clarified themselves, and he made his decision. If this was the way things were planned out, then there was nothing else to do but to walk headlong into those plans. Running and avoiding would only delay the inevitable.
'What?' asked Mulholland, having watched the thoughts run and gather in Barney's head.
'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing. You two sure about this? You want the greatest serial killer ever to walk the planet to be a witness at your wedding?'
Mulholland laughed.
'Come on, Barney. If anyone other than you knows that all the stuff in the papers is nonsense, it's us. You're a big jessie.'
Barney laughed sadly and shook his head. A life less bloody ordinary than this had anyone ever known? Weird as damn fuck, right to the end. If the end this was to be.
'How d'you meet the minister?' he asked 'When did you decide to get married? What's the story?' For they could not surely just be getting married to suit his dreams. They could not have been sent to the monastery in search of him a year ago to end up at this moment. A pishing wet, bleak Sunday in Advent, surrounded by all sorts of psychopaths and ne'er-do-wells.
'No time for the Spanish Inquisition, my friend,' said Mulholland. 'To be honest, and I think I speak for us both, we're a bit fucked up, but we've decided to go for it. Seizing the blinking day and all that. Never been a better reason to get married. You coming? We'll tell you everything, such as it is, on the way there.'
Barney stared back. What were his options? Accept his fate, and at least approach it head on, eyes open – even if he didn't know exactly what he was looking for – or stay here with the merry band of thugs in this house of demons.
He shrugged, attempting an air of lightness he did not feel. It was time to face the nameless fear and to accept his fate. A brave man. It was not as if he had run from it these past few weeks; he had merely been waiting for it to show its hand. And now it awaited him, poised like a coiled snake, to strike him down.
'Count me in,' he said. 'I owe you.'
'Thanks,' said Mulholland. 'Appreciate it, mate.' Then he turned to Dillinger and shrugged at her. 'Sorry, ma'am, don't know your name. What d'you think? Don't really want to split up the happy couple,' he added, nodding in the direction of the Winters/Webster combo, slobbering away in phallic envy.
Dillinger swallowed and looked around the lounge. Bing trudged wearily into another bloody Christmas number; the fire waned; the tree sparkled, the lesbians snuggled on the floor, oblivious to everything, and everyone else was gone. In previous years the second night had been a riotous party – copious drinking, mad dancing, laughter, arguments, ebullience, games, idiocy, joie de vivre. A party, and a bloody good and noisy one at that, regardless of the low numbers. But this? It seemed almost to be admitting defeat to walk out on the evening, but then who was left? Of the other ten, Barney was about to go, three were missing, four had retired to the snooker room, and the two women had very definitely nailed their passion to the bedpost for the night.
She could join the men in the snooker room, but somehow it all seemed so pointless. And as she stood and looked around this depleted room, she considered that perhaps she was looking at the end of the Murderers Anonymous group she had run for over ten years.
'Aye, all right,' she said. 'I'd like that. Haven't been to a wedding in years.'
Mulholland swigged his tea; still too hot for such violent swallowing, and it burned his tongue.
'Brilliant,' he said. 'It's all coming together. We should get going, mind you. Don't want to keep the minister waiting. And it'll give us less chance to change our minds.'
Barney swallowed. His life awaited. No time for second thoughts, no time now for repentance. He must face what the future had to offer him. Katie Dillinger bowed her head in similar resignation. This group she had fought so long to keep together had fallen apart before her eyes in just a few short hours. She intended to be back that night, but somehow it felt as if she was walking away forever.
'I'll get my coat,' she said. A voice of melancholy, that Mulholland could read despite the strange mental fugue by which he'd been afflicted. He stopped her with a touch to the arm; had no idea of the thoughts and regrets coursing through her head.
'We appreciate it,' he said. And she half smiled, turned and walked slowly from the room.
They watched her go in curious solemnity, her mood communicated to both Mulholland and Proudfoot. A check on their good humour. The weight of the night fell upon them and they shared the gloom of Barney and of Katie Dillinger and of the house.
'Is there a bathroom I can use?' asked Proudfoot, staring at the floor, the rich warmth of the carpet.
'Out there, second door on the left,' said Barney, before Mulholland could ask how the hell he was supposed to know whether or not there was a bathroom.
This time they both watched Proudfoot go; small steps; she was tired. Fingers moving on her left hand, head down. Beautiful, even from behind, Mrs Rolanoytez's coat too large and old for her, dragging damply on the floor.
'When did you decide to get married, then?' asked Barney, beginning to walk towards the hall in search of his own coat.
'Last night,' said Mulholland.
'Right,' said Barney. 'Stunning.'
Couldn't think of anything else to say. Mind on other things, his brain pulled in a hundred different directions; yet all of them down.
'So why did you try to hand yourself in?' asked Mulholland. 'We let you go, for God's sake. What was the problem?'
Barney shook his head as they passed out into the hall. Behind them, one of Annie Webster's eyes flicked open to watch them go. She followed them out of the room, then closed it again and delved back into the amorous arms of Ellie Winters.
Annie had relationship issues that could usually only be resolved with a knife.
'Couldn't hack it,' said Barney, reaching for his coat. 'Just couldn't settle anywhere. Went from place to place, but nowhere seemed to be for me. So eventually, I just thought, bugger this, I can't run all my life. Decided to come back to Glasgow and hand myself in. Course, I gets back here and no bastard wants me. They all think I'm an impostor. So, what the hell, eh? It's not like I give a shite after all I've been through.'
Dillinger appeared beside them, coat buttoned, face heavy. About to walk out on the herd. Desert the sinking ship. Get a transfer to Rangers just before your team gets relegated.
'We ready?' she said.
Mulholland was still staring at Barney, thinking about what he'd said. Because what had he just created for himself but a life such as the one that Barney had turned his back on? They were different people, certainly, but perhaps the results would be the same. He imagined he could just walk away from life, and that his days would somehow be filled, but what if every life needed structure? What if his life needed structure? Would he find himself turning up at Maryhill police station in ten months' time asking for his job back? And would they look at him and ask who he was?
'Just waiting for Proudfoot,' he said.
He was getting married. That would give him some purpose. And the doubts set in, and he wondered.
He stared at the floor, the rich tapestry of a 60's brown-and-orange carpet. A hideous carpet. The 60's and 70's had a lot to answer for, he thought, as he let his mind wander off in positive distraction.
Footsteps. Les trois misérables raised their heads and stared at Socrates McCartney. Shaggy and smiling.
'Did I hear youse say there's going be a wedding?' he said.
Mulholland nodded. 'Aye.'
'Right,' said Socrates. 'Stoatir. Don't mind if I join youse? I love weddings. Think it's got something to do with the fact that I made such a bollocks of my own.'
Mulholland looked at him and did the shoulder thing.
'Sure,' he said. 'Don't suppose it can get any weirder than it already is.'
***
Proudfoot washed her hands and stared into the mirror. She could see the tiredness in her face, the beginnings of lines and wrinkles which she would never lose. Used to be beautiful, that's what she told herself these days, although she'd never thought it at the time. The first sign of grey in her fringe, and the now common signs of defeat and depression in her eyes.
She had lived her life not knowing what she wanted, and it had never seemed a problem before. This last year had brought it out into the open, however. Here she was, drifting aimlessly. The odd pointless affair, the continuing pointless job. And now, to be married.
She swallowed, splashed more water on her cheeks, then looked at her dripping face in the mirror. Where did you go, Erin Proudfoot?
And although it was within the line of sight of the mirror, she was so suddenly gripped by a peculiar sorrow that she did not notice the tiny panel in the bathroom wall pushed back into place.
Her husband-to-be awaited. And so she reached for the towel, dried her face, then spent another few seconds looking into the eyes that once she'd known. It was time to start the rest of her life. And all she had to do was shake off the burden of melancholy and she could be happy...
And the figure who had watched her these last couple of minutes in the bathroom, who had gazed eagerly upon the soft white skin of her legs, who had licked his lips in anticipation and hunger, who had recognized her for the police officer that she was, made his way slowly down the secret passageway that ran throughout the house. And he smiled, and his tongue twitched, and he tightly gripped the knife in his right hand, and already thought he could taste the blood.
For he was about to make his move.
––––––––
'I tell ya, honey, if there's one thing gets up my ass, it's milk floats.'
Hertha Berlin walked in on the handyman, up to his eyes in food and drink. Shovelling away the remains of the day's repasts. A small dollop of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth and a milk moustache. He took another large bite from his sausage burger and pointed the glass of milk at Berlin.
'You're looking way too serious, honey. Come and sit yourself down and I'll talk to you about milk floats.'
'There's something going on,' she said 'Something serious.'
He took another large bite, even though his mouth was still full.
'Sure there is, honey, and it's me eating my supper. Come and join me. Put your feet up.'
She shook her head and started to fuss around the room. Something to tell him with which he was not going to be too pleased. Should have discussed it with him before she'd done it, but she knew he would have talked her out of it. Had to be done though. Just had to be.
'Something serious with that lot up by,' she said. 'There's something funny going on.'
'Thing is,' he said, spraying a couple of small pieces of tomato onto the table, 'they obviously just don't spend money on milk float technology in this country. Here we are, the beginning of the third goddam millennium, and we've done all sorts of different shit. There's been men on the moon, there's digital TV, there's electric toothbrushes – hell, they're even cloning goddam pigs, for Chrissake – but we still can't get a milk float to safely convey five hundred pints of the stuff quicker than fifty goddam yards every three days. Those damned things just clog up the roads. Pain in the ass.'
'I really ought to tell you something.'
'Course, it's not really the technological aspects of it that's the problem. In the States they've got milk floats can do nought to sixty in under three seconds, without breaking a bottle. The problem is, you people are too damned interested in saving money. That's all you're about.'
Hertha Berlin had started pacing; biting her bottom lip, rubbing her thumb into the palm of her hand. The handyman bit massively into another burger, even though he hadn't finished the one he still had bits of in his mouth.
'You're no' listening to me,' she said, no longer looking at him. On the other side of the kitchen, staring at the cold stone floor.
'Sure I'm listening, honey. I'm just not interested. Those folks upstairs can just keep themselves to themselves far as I'm concerned. I'm talking about milk floats, baby. You see, you can tell a lot about a country from their milk floats ...'
'Would you listen!' she suddenly snapped. Tongue like a snake, zipping out. Eyes blazing, with fear and worry as well as annoyance. He did go on sometimes, her handyman. Her glorious, wonderful handyman.
The glorious, wonderful handyman giggled. Showed the pieces of burger bun stuck to his teeth.
'Sounds like you must be menstruating, honey. Thought you were too old for all that shit. Obviously everything's still in fine working fettle, eh? What d'ya say, honey?'
'I've called the police,' she said quickly, just to get it out. Let the words out into the open and braced herself for the reaction. Should have discussed it before I did it, she thought, and repeated the phrase over and over in her head.
He paused, ninety per cent eaten burger in one hand, twenty-three per cent eaten burger in the other. A soggy cornflake – Berlin knew that the handyman liked all kinds of things in his burgers – dropped from his mouth and onto the table. Some strange liquid concoction that he was intending for his late supper came to the boil on the huge old Aga which steamed away in the corner.
'What? You're kidding me. You called the Feds? Why the damned screaming children of Moses did you call the Feds? You know what you've done? We can't have the damn Feds all over the joint.' He stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. Stretched his hands out in appeal to her, a burger in each.
'I had to. There's something not right, you know?' she said, voice pleading.
'What? What's not right? What are you saying, honey? You called the Feds and said “Excuse me, there's something not quite right, can you send a SWAT team?” You said that? What?'
'Surely you can see it. They're a funny bunch and no mistake. Three of them have gone missing, you know that? I mean, why come all the way down here from the Big Smoke, and then not eat your dinner?'
The handyman waved a burger.
'You called the police and said that some of our guests didn't eat dinner? That's an offence in this country?'
'It's not just that,' she said. Rattled. Confused. Wondering whether she was going to look stupid when the police arrived.
'What, then? Someone look at you funny? Did you not like somebody's aftershave? What? I said you must be menstruating.'
'There's those two strangers just arrived. I didn't like the look of them. And now there's three from our lot left with them to go down to the kirk.'
The handyman spread his arms, shrugged, seemed to relax. 'At last, I can see your point. Going to church on a Sunday. That is criminal.'
The calm before the storm.
'What is the matter with you! Who cares if they go to the damned church? I don't care. I don't care if they go to the damned church. Jesus, I'm just a bigga bigga bigga hunka nerves right now, honey. A big hunka nerves.'
'The phone lines are down!' she said, ever more exasperated. 'I had to use Mr Thornton's mobile.'
'Jeez Louise, baby, there's a storm a-blowing out there. These damned lines are always down.'
'There's more.'
He dropped his shoulders, let his expressive burgers fall to his side. He breathed deeply and let the air slowly out through his nose. Finally gave her the time of day. He did, after all, have a soft spot for Hertha Berlin.
'Go on, honey, I'm listening to ya.'
'One of the strangers,' she said. 'I was listening at the door, and he said that the minister down at the kirk was a lovely man. A lovely man, I tell you, that's what he said.'
'And?'
'Well, everyone knows the Reverend Rolanoytez is a total bastard.'
The handyman was not sure what to do. So he took a large but unfulfilling bite from one of his burgers. Technically an illegal immigrant, unknown to the taxman and with more people to hide from than just the authorities, the handyman could have done without the unwanted attentions of the police. Not if they were going to start snooping around his business. He crammed the last of both burgers into his mouth, so that his fat cheeks were huge and bloated and misshapen, then pushed his seat away and walked around the table.
'Ighths tgmhhym tghg ghhgh, hchughny,' he said.
Hertha Berlin stared at him, much in the same way as she'd once stared at Dr Jorg Franks in the heart of the Brazilian jungle.
The handyman chewed quickly, swallowing large chunks of something which could almost pass as meat. Soon finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
'It's time to go, honey,' he said. 'I can't wait for these guys. And when the Feds arrive, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my name.'
My God, what have I done? Hertha Berlin looked stone-faced across the kitchen at the man she had loved these past twenty years or so. A silent adoration, and now one pointless, stupid act and he was about to leave. Did not even think of rushing to the phone and calling them off, for he had nailed his colours firmly to the mast. Giving her instructions on what to do when the police arrived. Not a thought of asking her to go with him. But then, why should he? She was an unattractive old woman in her seventies. Older even than her years, after all the things she'd seen. Wrinkled and pale, ugly grey hair and the definite substance of a moustache. Humourless and severe in equal measure, which no lightness of thought or heart would ever be able to penetrate. Why should this man who had been with so many women show even the slightest interest in her?
For years she had contented herself with what she had. She saw him every day, she cooked for him, they talked. What more could she ask for? There were millions out there who would die for the same privilege. And now, with one thoughtless act, she had tossed it all to the wind.
'Of course not,' she said. Voice stern, as ever.
The handyman nodded and strode quickly to the door, muttering as he went, 'Probably done me a favour, honey. I shoulda left this place years ago.'
He paused in the doorway; her heart fluttered in an instant of hope, then leapt as he turned and looked at her.
Say something! Say anything! If not you, then I must, she thought. But words of hope or appreciation or love or even desperation were not her words, and in an instant the moment would be gone.
He nodded at her, and could not think of much to say to this woman who had been his cook for over twenty years. As stern and unforgiving as the first day he'd seen her. He wrongly assumed that she had hated cooking every meal she'd ever had to make for him. That was what everyone had always assumed by the cold front to the unbeknown warm heart of Hertha Berlin.
'Thanks, honey,' said the handyman.
Berlin's mouth opened and not so much as a breath was released. The handyman gave her a few seconds and was not surprised by the frosty heart presented to him. And so, with a nod of the head, he was gone.
The door closed, the handle clicked loud in the silence. Hertha Berlin stood and looked at the end of her sad little fantasies and dreams.
He would not be gone immediately. He would be down to his house to pack the few essentials she knew he kept close to his heart. There was time yet to go after him, to tell him everything she felt. But she could sit there for a hundred years and never think of a reason for him to be interested in her.
And so she dropped down into the warm seat that he had just vacated, pulled it up to the table, rested her elbows in among the burger crumbs and pieces of tomato, held her head in her hands and, for the first time in over sixty years, her face wrinkled in emotion, her chest heaved, and she began to sob.
But no tears came, so she would not even have that release. So many years of suppressed emotion and she was a tangle of conflicting thoughts and passions and jealousies and sorrows. The man she loved was gone, and she could not even weep for him.
Hertha Berlin hung her head low.
––––––––
... four forlorn figures, heads bowed into the falling rain. And Socrates.
Barney contemplating the immediate future, feeling sure that his ultimate fate awaited him. There was a point to every recurring dream, and now it stood before him, arms open, ready to welcome him into its evil fold for all eternity.
Katie Dillinger contemplated the future of her group, which she had moulded and cajoled and inspired for years. On the verge of falling to pieces, or perhaps having already done so. Maybe it had all been much more to do with Arnie Medlock than she'd supposed. And now that he had suddenly disappeared, all cohesion was gone. He'd been the glue that had bound them together, not herself, as she'd always thought. No more Arnie, and the group was dead. She realised it, as finally and surely as Hertha Berlin had realised that she would never see the handyman again. And that Arnie had been murdered by one of the group, of that she was equally convinced. It was not like him to just disappear. A good man, Arnie Medlock.
Mulholland contemplated the future. Marriage. Every day, more or less, with Erin Proudfoot. A big decision, made as easily as deciding on breakfast cereal. A lifetime of compromise, not getting everything, or anything, you wanted. Children? Hadn't even discussed it, but then didn't all women want children? It was one of their things. They want to sleep with Sean Connery, they want at least ten children, and when they hit sixty they start knitting. Mulholland had them sussed, and now he was about to commit himself to one for the rest of his life. That seemed a very, very long time.
Proudfoot wondered if she'd like a boy or a girl.
Concentrating on the offspring question, because she didn't want to contemplate the reality of what she was about to do. Commit to someone for the rest of her life.
It seemed right, but it also seemed madness. A romantic story to tell their grandchildren – if they missed out all the stuff about multiple murders – but that was only if they survived together long enough to start a family. What if they hated it?
Socrates minced along the road, wondering what the basic guidelines were in life on hitting on a bird who was just about to get married. Proudfoot, despite the worry on her face, beat Katie, Annie and Ellie any day. Maybe not put together, because Socrates wouldn't have thrown any of those three out of bed for farting biscuits. But Proudfoot had got to be worth a go. Despite the presence of her boyfriend no more than ten yards away.
So, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a mound ...
'What's the score then, hen?' he said, dropping in line beside her. Rule 1 of the unsolicited approach. Keep it simple. If that doesn't work, move casually on through the other five rules.
Proudfoot raised her eyes from the road and looked at him. Wondered what demons had dragged Socrates into the bosom of alcohol.
'How do you mean that?' she asked, disinterested.
'You and the big guy,' he said. 'You don't look too happy there.'
'We're OK,' she said.
Socrates hummed and raised his eyes. Saw an opportunity.
'You sure you know what you're doing, hen? You're a good-looking bird. Maybe you'd be better off with some smooth bastard rather than your miserable friend here.'
'Like you?' she said, smiling.
'Aye, well, aye,' he said. 'I'm glad you noticed. Smooth, erudite and available. That's me.'
'Available?'
'Oh aye. I was going out with a bird until a few week ago, but it went tits up.'
'Oh aye?'
'Aye. Accused her of shagging for biscuits one night and she buggered off.'
'Shame.'
'I know. I was a bit pissed and my tongue got the better of me. Told her a few truths. So she kicked me in the ba's, broke my Beatles CDs in half and urinated all over my settee.'
'Vicious.'
'That last one was a bit of a turn-on to be honest, but after the toe in the nuts I was hardly in a position to do anything.'
'Too bad.'
'Aye,' he said, and stared contemplatively at the ground. 'Still, I was right. She did shag for biscuits. Anyway, the point is, I'm free and all yours. What about it?'
'I'm damp.'
'Really?'
'If I wasn't getting married tonight, I'd have you.'
'It's not too late,' he said hopefully, and in the dark he could still see the look she slung him and that was all it took.
He shrugged and moved a few feet away from her on the road. What the hey, it was worth the asking.
'Blow out with the two women back at the house, then, did you?' she said.
She was happy to continue the conversation, despite the initial premise. Mulholland walking away in front, she was aware of the darkness around them. The wind and rain in the trees, rustling leaves, the ghosts of footsteps. The creeping feeling of someone skipping through the forest, watching their every move.
'Just a couple of dykes,' said Socrates, doing his best at nonchalance.
'Right,' said Proudfoot.
And maybe Socrates didn't want to talk after all, and his head sunk a little lower, and he drifted imperceptibly away from her, looking at his feet.
The bare branches of trees rustled in the rain and gentle breeze. The night was suffocating in the intensity of its darkness. And the forest surrounded them, in a way that it had seemed not to when they had so lightly walked up the road in search of the house.
On they muddled, Mulholland a few yards in front, the church and Proudfoot's future getting ever closer. And every step of the way she heard a sound in the woods and could feel the penetration of eyes into her soul, as surely as she would soon feel the zing of an arrow.
Maybe she was about to do the right thing. The trouble with romance – there was no right and no wrong. Just possibilities. There must be a perfect one for everyone, that's what she'd always thought. Even Jade Weapon had met the man of her wildest desires and fantasies. Of course, he had been immediately killed by the Bulgarian Secret Service, and Jade had had to personally murder half the population of Sofia. Maybe Proudfoot was Jade Weapon, and Mulholland her Spunk McCavern.
And the rest of the sad group of five were no different, with various strange and melancholic thoughts in all their heads.
Barney found his life passing before him, but not at a flash. It was all there, like a video on slow rewind. Present day back to birth, a dirge through several thousand haircuts. He didn't want to think about all of this, but it was all coming to him nevertheless. And he could think of no explanation for it other than that it must presage his death.
And, by God, what a bloody dull life it'd been until the previous couple of years. Perhaps it was better ended. And so his mind took him back through the years of neglect to the essence of life; dull marriage, back to dull college and dull school. Wasted opportunities, missed chances, lacklustre thoughts and insipid actions. And all the while, one grand truth awaited him, when he reached the end of this bleak odyssey through his days.
***
Eventually they came to the manse with the church behind. The house was dark, all lights extinguished to the night. Inside, the bodies of the Reverend and Mrs Rolanoytez began the long process of decomposition, although they would be discovered later this night before they had gone too far. If only Mulholland had thought to act upon the vague suspicions aroused within him by the dark manse, then events might not have unfolded in the manner in which they did. But he stared at the great house, hesitated only slightly, then walked on by to the church.
Stained-glass windows greeted them, illuminated from behind and magical with the light and the rain splashing upon them.
Their pace slowed, the church awaited. It should be snowing, thought Proudfoot briefly, but the thought was submerged beneath all the doubt and concern and confusion. And the nerves. For she was nervous as she could not recall having been for many years. Put it down to her impending betrothal; knew, inside, that there was some much greater impending doom.
Mulholland had been a few yards ahead of her nearly all the way. Now he stopped and turned, spoke to her for the first time since they'd left the house. Had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he couldn't even begin to explain. What they were about to do was wrong, but he could not bring himself to say it. She had been through enough without him dumping her at the altar. Maybe it would work out; maybe it wouldn't.
'You all right?' he asked.
She met his eye and did her best to smile. I feel bloody awful, she wanted to say. This was the man she was going to marry, after all. She should have been able to say anything to him. Anything but the truth.
'A bit nervous,' she said, and added the uneasy laugh.
He held out his hand and took hers. Squeezed tightly and hoped he managed to convey emotions other than what he was actually feeling. Wrapped up as she was against the rain, cold face peering out from an oversized hood, he thought, as always, that she was beautiful. But there had to be more than that.
'You sure you two want to do this?' asked Dillinger.
Barney stood apart, saying nothing. Stared up at the church. His life had reached the point to which it had been dragging him back, and he knew. He knew everything. The great wooden doors were closed but they would open and behind them would be his destiny. Of that he was now completely convinced.
Socrates huddled against the rain and waited. Looked at his watch. Had expected to be up to his eyes in one of the women by now. Playing it cool would usually have worked. But he didn't mind. Easy-going, Socrates. Very easy-going.
Mulholland and Proudfoot did not notice Socrates, they did not notice Barney, suddenly detached and staring wide-eyed at his doom. They considered the question and both knew that you could not answer something like that without giving primary concern to the other's feelings.
'Aye,' said Mulholland, 'I'm sure.'
Proudfoot swallowed and nodded. Why not? How difficult is it to become unmarried these days? If marriage was all that awaited them in this church.
'Aye,' she said. 'Me too.'
Dillinger shrugged. Could easily tell that they were making a mistake, but then perhaps all the reticence was due to nerves. Maybe they were as right for each other as any other couple.
'Right,' she said. 'Let's do it, then.'
'Aye,' said Mulholland. 'Come on.'
He nodded at Proudfoot then turned towards the doors. The women fell in behind, then Socrates, glad to get out of the rain. Beginning to wonder if he should have a go at Dillinger, despite promising Barney he wouldn't. No honour among thieves.
Barney barely noticed them move. Consumed by the hazardous thoughts of revelation.
'Come on, Barney,' said Dillinger, walking past him. 'We're on. The happy couple are going to do it.'
Barney looked at them as they walked up the stairs and Mulholland opened the door. He knew who awaited them now, and he knew that these two would not be married.
He knew he should say something, he should stop them and face this himself, because he was really the one this concerned. But his tongue was stilled, his head numb as the two lovers walked into the church, out of the rain and the cold. Socrates and Dillinger walked behind them and Barney dragged the pillars of his legs into action and moved slowly up the stairs.
Into the church, eyes locked at his feet in concern, not wishing to face his future. The door closed behind him, then Barney looked up at the others and at the church. The wall of light...
He had fully expected it to be the church of his nightmares, but this could not have been farther from it. A glorious building inside, magnificently lit with ten thousand candles. Not a shadow in the place, as row upon row of small flames filled the huge theatre. Yet the only true illumination of what awaited them came from the few candles around the door that had been extinguished with the draught.
Enormous wooden beams in the roof; a vast, circular stained-glass window behind the altar, depicting the Penultimate Supper, the one where Jesus predicted that Simon Peter would get a sex change and that Judas would win the Eurovision Song Contest for Israel; ten, maybe fifteen statues around the sides of the church and at the foot of pillars; a majestic pulpit, projecting the preacher some ten feet above his congregation, from where five hundred years' worth of ministers had sternly lectured their flock on the perils of fornication, sortilegy, jealousy, desire and going to watch Queen of the South on a Saturday afternoon. A large Christmas tree sat up against the back of the church, beneath the round window. Fifteen feet high, immaculately decorated, reams of gold and silver cascading in perfect uniformity from every branch; visions of angels randomly dotted among the decorations playing silent tunes on golden flutes. The whole a perfect encapsulation of the beauty of Christmas, and somewhere Bing Crosby laid heartily into Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.
The pulpit was empty. The church silent. The flames of ten thousand candles burned.
'Bloody hell,' said Mulholland, voice in awe. 'Bloody hell.'
The others stared in equal wonder. While Mulholland and Proudfoot had plodded wearily between manse and big house on the hill, their minister had been at the most wondrous work. How could I possibly decline the invitation to wed, thought Proudfoot?
Barney felt the confusion of contradiction, for this was not how his dream went; this was not what he had expected. This was to be an occasion of light and beauty; a wedding with the blessing of angels. Not the dark, sinister world that he inhabited and which his dreams had promised.
Dillinger said nothing. Her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, such as they had not been since she'd been a child. And suddenly the woes of the day were forgotten, for this was some kind of majesty. A wonder the like of which she would never know again.
'Well, you can fuck me up the arse with a duck,' said Socrates.
Mulholland took a step farther into the midst of magic. He turned slowly as he walked, taking it all in. There were candles lining the aisle, candles along every pew, candles around every wall, on every surface. Walls of light and flame. He looked at Proudfoot and saw that she shared his awe. And so bereft of his police instinct was he that he could not see the sense of it, could not see the malign thought behind the enchantment.
'Hello!' he shouted. 'Hello.'
He looked up at the low-level gods, but in the box seats candles burned and nothing stirred. Wooden beams, high above, looked dully down upon them. Ropes around two on either side of the altar, and he did not notice them at first. Looked back at the others.
'All dressed up and nowhere to go,' he said.
'Maybe he's gone to get some more candles,' said Socrates.
Barney felt it first. Like the fetid breath of Death at his shoulder. He turned quickly, saw nothing but small flames; yet he sensed the presence as if it was running all over him. They were not alone, and whatever haunted this church along with them shared not their wonder at the surroundings. This bloody façade, for there was nothing honest in the light.
'He's here,' said Barney.
Mulholland turned.
'Where?' he said. Then 'Who?' when he saw Barney's face.
And suddenly it happened in a rush of falling flesh and rope against wood.
They turned at the sliver of sound from the pulpit. A click or a cut. Quietly it went. And from the gods they came. Either side of the pulpit, falling at an equal rate. Two bodies wrapped in rope, which unwound with the fall from the roof.
Six feet above the ground the ropes tightened and twanged at full stretch; the bodies, suspended by the neck, bobbled and bounced until, at last, they came to a sad end and hung limply from the roof.
Mulholland stared at them, police brain still to kick in. Proudfoot was numb. Barney, with opened mouth, expectant. It had been inevitable. Katie Dillinger, hand to mouth, instant shock.
And the bodies of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton, their eyes cut from their heads, throats slit so the blood covered the rope around their necks, swung softly in the still air.
'Cool,' said Socrates.
––––––––
Morty had fought it off long enough. The inner demons that had raped his mind since those blighted teenage years, and which had briefly escaped for a limited period only in the 80's, were now running rampant. All the frustration of a psychosis kept in check was now laid waste. He was unbound and could do whatever he wanted; as if a brace had been removed from around his head. Suddenly, unequivocally, deliciously, he was free, and the real Morty Goldman could at last be welcomed back into the world.
Heeeeeeeeeeeeere's Morty! A big hand, ladies and gentlemen, your friend and mine, Morty Goldman. Let's hear it for Morty! Morty Goldman, ladies and gentlemen, Morty Goldman.
Shackles. The news that the police were expected at the house had not remained a secret for long. The conversation between Hertha Berlin and the soon-to-be-ex-handyman overheard, word of the arrival of the forces of Good had spread like fire around the few inmates left, and they had each, in their own way, acted accordingly.
The handyman would not go ill-prepared. He would leave on foot, certainly, but he had local knowledge and a place to stay, no more than three miles away. A place where another woman awaited his infrequent visits with a cup of hot chocolate, a plate of toasted sandwiches, a couple of glasses of whisky and a warm bed. The handyman need worry about nothing.
Bobby Dear went his own way. Imagined himself a military man, well suited to the rigours of outdoor life. He was a man who had served his time for his crimes, but had no desire to further engage the police. He would escape armed with everything someone on the run through open or forested countryside could need. A map, compass, rations, a torch, a hefty pair of boots, a light tarpaulin, matches, a small can of kerosene, some teabags, a condom, a sawn-off shotgun and fourteen large pairs of women's undergarments. And as a result he would survive, and return unscathed to Glasgow, where, scarred by the experience, he would kill once more.
Although this time he would save his savagery for sheep.
No more need be said.
Fergus Flaherty the Fernhill Flutist intended to go the same way as Bobby Dear. Out onto the open moor and through the forest, for he was a man who had done a bit of walking in his time. However, he was unfortunate enough to be the one who made the second sighting of Morty Goldman following his disappearance prior to dinner.
The first person to see him had been Sammy Gilchrist, just after Morty had emerged leaping from the secret passageway that led from the bathroom to the lounge; knife glinting in the fading light of the fire, eyes glinting in the glint from the knife.
Bing was singing some pointless twaddle about how it was looking a lot like Christmas, but in a way he was right. There was a lot of red around, a good colour for decorations, as Morty flailed savagely at poor Sammy Gilchrist.
No ordinary stabbing, this was the frenzied work of a madman unleashed. Whipping the knife viciously across his face and body; keeping him alive for as long as possible while he terrorized him with the weapon, fending off the not insignificant ripostes from Gilchrist; before plunging the knife deep into his heart, and dragging the serrated edge along his chest cavity. There was as much blood on Morty as there was on Sammy.
And it was in on this that Fergus Flaherty had the misfortune to walk.
A slightly frenzied look in his eye himself, as he made final preparations to flee. He opened the door to the lounge and found himself not three yards away from a crazed Morty Goldman. Bug-eyed, covered in the blood of Sammy Gilchrist, in the process of hacking off his right arm with the knife. For he intended to stay and feast.
The police might have been on the way, but he was happy to while away the hours in prison. There would always be other Sammy Gilchrists; and he would enjoy this one while he had the chance.
And two had always been better than one.
He pounced on Flaherty in an instant, even before the necessary profane ejaculation had escaped Flaherty's lips. No messing about, no preliminaries. A knife in the face, and then another thrust up under the guts and deep into his chest cavity. Fergus Flaherty, the man who'd done more for the flute industry than James Galway could have ever dreamt of, was dead in seconds. Yet Morty unleashed the full extent of his venom, and continued to thrash wildly at the body for nearly half a minute, the knife thudding into the chest and face, the body rising up with the pull of the knife, then bouncing softly on the floor.
Annie Webster and Ellie Winters had missed the fun in the lounge by a few minutes. Off upstairs to Webster's bedroom to savour the wonders of female flesh. A new experience for Webster – yet she was not surprised – but a familiar one for the seasoned Winters. For she had long ago dispensed with the services of men. Had not looked at one in anger since she'd been accosted by three drunken youths outside a club on Hope Street, and had had to kill two of them to prevent them violating her. Women, women all the way, and she'd been much the happier for it.
Annie Webster, however, had intimacy issues. The principal issue being that she felt compelled to murder anyone who saw her naked. Sometimes before the goose was cooked, sometimes after.
She liked Ellie Winters and her tender caress, and she would submit to the romance of it. So, while Bobby Dear fled and Morty wielded his knife, on the second floor of the house, blissfully unaware, Ellie Winters kissed Annie Webster softly on the lips, then moved down her naked body to tease and bite her erect nipples.
The house was laid waste. What was supposed to have been a joyous weekend had become a disaster. Morty Goldman let loose, four of the party dead, soon to be joined by another. Dear on the run. Barney Thomson, Katie Dillinger and Socrates about to confront the other evil abroad this dark night. The weekend was utterly destroyed; and there would be no getting their money back.
Not even if they wrote to Watchdog.
***
All the while, Hertha Berlin sat alone at the kitchen table, unaware of the gruesome events unfolding in the lounge; waiting for the police, her thoughts consumed by her folly, and how the rest of a life can be slaughtered by the simplest of unthinking actions, as much as by any psychopath with a knife.
Her future was bleak and held neither the comfort of the past twenty years, nor the adventure of the fifty that had preceded them. Like that of Anthony Hopkins in Remains of the Day, her life had finally been shattered by the inability to express her feelings. But then, what would have been the point? At least Emma Thompson had been waiting for Tony with her legs open. What would the handyman have done had she made any kind of advance? He would have laughed, he would have broken into a chorus of Hound Dog and he would have hit the Jedburgh–Moffat interstate before she could have bitten her tongue.
There was a slight noise, a gentle movement. So oppressed by gloom was she that she could barely lift her head to look at the door. One of the merry band of morons looking for a turkey sandwich, she thought. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? Didn't they know that her life was over? Why couldn't these damned people just look after themselves? Why couldn't the whole world just go and bugger off?
'Hey, Hertha, honey,' said the deep voice from the door. 'You just gonna sit there, or you wanna take a trip down to the ocean?'
Hertha Berlin looked up. For the first time in decades a smile, an impossible smile, came immediately to her face. A tear as quick to her eye. The handyman stood, framed in the doorway, jacket on, bag over his shoulder. Sideboards on his cheeks, a determined look in his eye. Hell, he knew what he was doing.
She gasped, caught her breath, put her hand over her mouth.
'Come on, honey,' he said, 'don't just sit there looking like some chick at my '68 NBC Special. You gonna come or ain't ya?'
Hertha Berlin stood up. Her chest swelled, she looked for her coat on the back of the door. She walked round the table, suddenly shaking, her legs barely able to support her insubstantial weight. She tugged at the solitary pin that held her bun together, and as her long, smooth grey hair cascaded around her shoulders, she stood before the handyman, a woman reborn. Suddenly there was a light in her eye, a beauty in her smile, and the hairs on her top lip faded to nothing.
'I sure am, honey,' she said.
And the handyman touched her hair and the back of her neck, sending shock waves of tiny orgasms rampaging through her body. Like a surge of Panzers crossing the border into Czechoslovakia.
'Come on, baby,' he said, 'there's a place I know we can spend the night. A little old lady's gonna have a plate of burgers and a warm bed. And in the morning we can go wherever you want.'
Hertha Berlin pulled on her coat. A woman released. As her arms stretched, her blouse was pulled across her breasts, and the handyman licked his lips.
'Memphis,' she said. 'I'd like to go to Memphis.'
The handyman laughed and shrugged.
'Wherever you want, Hertha, baby, wherever you want.'
––––––––
The bodies of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung in the thin air of the church, warmed by the flames of ten thousand candles. The blank, black depths of their bloody eye sockets stared down at this elective congregation, rapt in their attention. The ropes around their necks appeared to be dragging down the corners of their mouths. Foreheads furrowed, and they blindly scowled at their audience. Arnie in particular, upset at the ruin of a good weekend. And they swung in silence, slowly, in a vague circular motion.
The killer had intended letting his audience stew. That was part of the whole serial killer milieu, the modus operandi, the thing, the standard procedure, the usual technique. A cliché perhaps, but what the hey? Some clichés were there because they were good ideas. Bacon and egg. It's a cliché, but who's going to fight it? You don't say, bugger this, I'm having aluminium with my eggs this morning, just to be different.
However, this serial killer just could not contain himself. His audience was before him; he was Auric Goldfinger, waiting to explain his plot to rob Fort Knox; he was Jimmy Jones, waiting to denounce the Devil and order his flock to their deaths; he was Genghis Khan, waiting to book his crew on the 10.15 to Constantinople. This was it. The moment that every self-respecting serial killer waits for. His big finish.
And so, announcing himself with a laugh from beneath the rim of the pulpit, a hideous sound which filled the church and reverberated around the flaming walls and statues, a sound which quailed the congregation, yet toughened the resolve of Mulholland and Proudfoot – for there was nothing better than to be able to face your enemy – Leyman Blizzard, hair blackened, dog collar hugging his neck, the Reverend Rolanoytez's glasses perched on the end of his nose, raised his head into view.
He stared down at his flock, mocking smile upon his face. There's nothing a madman needs more than an audience. There really ought to have been an orchestra playing, but he hadn't had the time to fix it all up. Ode to Joy or O! Holy Night. Something big. And the audience stared up at him and waited.
Mulholland would be the first to act, and was in the process of a quick step forward when Blizzard raised his arms to the rafters and showed the small, loaded crossbow he held in his right hand. Dillinger took a step back. Mulholland and Proudfoot stood firm. Socrates smiled. Barney, for his part, knew now for sure that he would die. He was ready to meet it, and he remained steady.
'Leyman?' said Dillinger. 'What are you doing here? What's going on?'
The others turned. Mulholland questioned with his eyes. Aware that he should know this man.
'This is extraordinary,' said Socrates. 'I mean, how cool is this?'
'You know him?' said Barney to Dillinger.
'Aye,' she said, never taking her eyes off the crossbow. 'He was part of our group. I knew it was going to go wrong with him when he left. I could tell. I always know when they're about to stray.'
'What group?' asked Mulholland.
'What about you?' said Dillinger to Barney, ignoring the question, because that was not a discussion she wanted to get into.
Leyman Blizzard looked down upon his flock and enjoyed their confusion.
'I work for the guy,' said Barney. He looked up at him, the old smiling face beaming down. And the relationship went some way beyond that; but that was for himself and Blizzard to sort out. If he gave him the chance.
Mulholland thumped a theatrical hand off his forehead, closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked round at Barney then back up at Blizzard.
'Jesus,' he said, 'I knew it. I saw you in the fucking shop. Yesterday morning. Grey hair, beard, no glasses.'
Blizzard laughed a dirty old laugh. Sid James without the humour.
'Brilliant, Chief Inspector. I was wondering how long it'd take you to work it out. I thought you might have got it at dinner, but you're obviously too slow. No wonder you haven't caught yon serial killer. Thick as shite.'
Mulholland turned to Proudfoot and lifted his shoulders. Still didn't see the extent of what was going on. Shook his head.
'Sorry love,' he said, 'didn't get it. Brain's in too much of a fudge.'
She touched his hand. Here they were, thrown once more into adversity, and love would out.
'Come on, I was there too. I'm as bad.'
Sid James laughed again, dirty and dangerous.
'Ah!' he said. 'Young fucking love. Isn't it great? Too bad one of you is going to peg it.'
Mulholland turned back to the pulpit. No more than ten yards away, looking up into the face of their latest madman. Proudfoot stood beside him, still holding his hand. Barney watched. Dillinger had started to take small, surreptitious steps back towards the door; although, of course, Blizzard noticed every movement. Socrates settled down into a pew to watch the action. No more feared the old man's crossbow than he would a bath full of spiders.
'Okay,' said Mulholland. 'What's it all about this time?'
Had been through too much to feel threatened, despite the crossbow waving maniacally in the air.
'What d'you mean this time?' said Blizzard.
Mulholland held his arms out.
'We come up against one of your lot every week, just about. There's the nutter up in Glasgow at the moment, there was the nutter at the monastery last year. There's Barney here. No offence, Barney.'
Barney shrugged. Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung slowly, round and round, up on high. The ropes creaked softly, the candles burned, and it was as if the two of them were no longer there. Two bodies, eye sockets penetrating into the thoughts of everyone in the church, and with the violence of the fall, fresh blood had begun to drip, drip, drip; and they were part of the furniture.
'By Christ, Chief Inspector, you're even slower than I gave you credit for. I don't know about this monastery shite, but I'm the guy who's killing folk in Glasgow, ya numpty. Me,' he added, pointing to his chest, 'Leyman fucking Blizzard. God, you're slow. Fuck sake, you can't even find a serial killer when he's standing in front of you with two dead bodies and a murder weapon in his hand. How stupid are you?'
Mulholland shrugged. Realised he looked a bit thick. Wondered if Proudfoot had worked out the obvious before he had.
'Couldn't give a shit, mate. There are so many serial killers these days it's hard to keep up. Leyman Blizzard one week, some other sad bampot the next. Who cares?'
The Sid James smile died on Blizzard's face. He lowered the crossbow and aimed it roughly in the general direction of the five. Dillinger continued her deliberate back-pedal. Barney waited for an arrow in the throat, because that was the inevitability of it.
'You're full of shite, Chief Inspector. It's your job to catch me, so don't come it. Can't believe the crassness of you lot, sometimes. Taking a weekend off to shag a bird when there are folk getting shafted all over the shop.'
Mulholland shook his head, laughed a light, bitter, unamused laugh.
'I'm off the case, Blizzard. I couldn't care less. Go back to Glasgow, mate, and kill another few hundred of them. There's got to be, what, a million or so in the city. They can cope. On you go, you stupid arse, I don't give a shit. I've retired.'
Blizzard stared down at them. Getting annoyed, but keeping an eye on Dillinger, now only a few yards from the door.
'Barney?' said Blizzard. 'That right?'
'White man speak truth,' said Barney.
Mulholland turned back to Barney. 'Did you know this guy was doing all this crap?'
'Not me,' said Barney. 'Not this time. Thought he was just an old bloke.'
'What is it about you, mate?' said Mulholland. 'You keep turning up with these bloody nutters.'
Barney shook his head. 'No idea, but it's getting on my tits.'
'I bet it is.'
'Hey, this would make a brilliant movie, wouldn't it no?' said Socrates. 'A bit of lesbian shagging and a deranged old cunt with a crossbow. It's just like Star Trek or something.'
Mulholland gave him a quizzical look and then turned back to Blizzard, still mean and armed up on the pulpit. He had had enough. And despite the swinging bodies in front of him, did not believe for a second that any of them were going to come to any harm. Or perhaps just did not care.
'Come on, then, you old arse,' he said up to the pulpit, 'what's the score? You've got us all where you want us, so what's next?'
Blizzard twitched, mouth in a sneer. The crossbow shook slightly in his hand. His eyebrows knitted together, so much more telling black than grey.
'You know,' said Blizzard, 'I had intended just to kill the one of you, you know. I was going to kill seven folk in all. Seven. It's a good number.'
'Go on, then, Batman,' said Mulholland, his usual tired voice that he reserved for the criminal element at their most narcissistic. 'Why seven? I'm sure we're all interested.'
Dillinger had almost reached the door. Freedom awaited. A quick dash and she could have been there in a second. Back out into the rain, a run for freedom, and she could concentrate on Arnie's dead eyes and the sadness that would engulf her. Yet at the door to freedom, she fatally hesitated. A combination of doubt and curiosity. There was something about this madman which gripped her; and she feared for the others should she flee. What kind of person was she to get herself out at their expense? A decent, honest woman, Katie Dillinger, those four murdered husbands aside. And she would pay for that decency.
'Seven!' exclaimed old Leyman; different, yet the same as the wee, grey-haired man who had been handing out Jimmy Stewarts with a certain degree of confidence only the day before. 'Seven is the number of God, and I am his head executioner. I am the begetter of life and the bringer of eternal misery. I exercise his will. I am our vengeful God incarnate. I shall be king!'
'Jings,' said Socrates, 'how far up his own arse is this guy?'
'Seven,' continued the mad Blizzard, unconcerned with the comments from the cheap seats, 'is the number of angels he sent down to proclaim the New Jerusalem. It's everywhere. Seven Deadly Sins. The Seven Wonders of the World. The Seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse.'
'The Magnificent Seven,' said Mulholland, ignoring the last remark.
'What?'
'Blake's Seven,' said Proudfoot.
'Ooh, I really liked Blake's Seven,' said Socrates. 'Not that there were ever seven of the bastards.'
'The Seven Samurai,' said Mulholland, voice still flat. 'And Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.'
'The TR7,' said Proudfoot. Had had sex in a TR7 when she was fifteen.
'Shut it!' barked Blizzard. 'Just shut it, the lot of you.'
'The number seven bus from Springburn to Auldearn,' said Socrates.
'Shut up!'
'Celtic beat Aberdeen seven-nil last season,' said Mulholland. 'You're right. It is everywhere. Good choice, you old wank. Couldn't have picked a better number.'
'Listen you brain-dead polis scumbag,' said Blizzard, 'I'm warning you. Seven might be a brilliant number 'n' all that, but I'm more than willing to make it eleven. The five of you just shut the bastard up. Let me finish.'
'Who were the first six?' asked Proudfoot. Voice low and calm. Back to normal. Recognised that he was about to vent the anger they were building within him. Took a step forward as she said it, and Mulholland joined her in the small movement. If the two of them charged the pulpit from different sides, there was no way he'd get them both with a single crossbow. Assuming, of course, he didn't have another fifty weapons stashed about his person.
'Ah,' said Blizzard, relaxed and back on home territory. A murderer at ease with his subject matter. 'Glad you asked. These two numpties, obviously. Then there were the last three in Glasgow, and the first one youse probably don't know about. I never saw it in the papers, you see, so I don't know if they found the body.'
'What about the minister?' said Mulholland.
'What?'
'That garb you're wearing. The manse. I'm assuming you killed him.'
Blizzard looked awkwardly at the floor. The crossbow sagged a little and suddenly the arrow didn't look so sharp.
'Maybe,' he said.
'And his wife?' said Mulholland, going on. 'You left her down the pub, did you?'
'Might've,' said Blizzard, gritting his teeth.
'So in fact,' said Mulholland, enjoying humiliating a man with an armed weapon, 'you've already killed eight people, and if you take out one of us, that'll be nine. You senile old arse. I mean, nine's a good number too. Let's see. Frank Haffey let in nine goals against England in '61 ...'
'Shut it! Shut it the lot of you.' Crossbow straightened, finger twitched.
'What started you off, then?' said Proudfoot. In again, just in time.
Blizzard looked down upon his flock. Top lip went like Bad Elvis, but he quickly settled back into Goldfinger mode.
'Don't know who the bastard was, he just asked for it.'
'Go on, Batman, explain yourself. I can see you're just dying to,' said Mulholland, taking another step forward.
Blizzard appeared not to notice, but he did. He noticed everything. Very old, and sharp as a button, Leyman Blizzard.
'He was dressed as Santa Claus,' said Blizzard.
'Ah,' said Mulholland. 'That makes sense.'
Blizzard sneered; the very name was enough. Santa Bastarding Claus.
'I suppose you'll think I'm mad if I tell you this,' said Blizzard.
Mulholland held his hand up towards the swinging bodies, taking another step forward. 'Mad? Not at all. Wouldn't dream of it. This is all perfectly normal.'
Blizzard twitched. Lowered the crossbow to accommodate the encroachment of Mulholland and Proudfoot.
Dillinger could be gone for sure now if she acted swiftly. Yet she did not move. Rapt, with this grand instance of the psychotic mind.
'I was raised in Glasgow. Got married, the whole biscuit. But I was traumatised by Santa Claus in childhood, and eventually it got the better of me and I had to leave. Started killing folk, so I took myself away. Went to Cuba where there wouldn't be any mention of the guy. Forty year I was away. Didn't kill a soul. I was fine. Then they bastards decided to start celebrating Christmas, so I thought, bugger it, I should be all right now, I'll just go home. So I came back in the summer. Set up a shop cutting hair, thought I'd be fine. Come home to die really, that was me. Then I was walking along Argyll Street one day and I sees him. Santa Claus. Don't know what happened. I just felt the old feelings, you know. I followed the bloke that night and I strangled him. Felt good.'
Mulholland had moved forward another few feet. Approaching the pulpit, but he had no idea of how to storm the thing, being as far off the ground as it was. He and Proudfoot were just going to have to take a side each and hope that Blizzard missed with his first shot. And if it gets either of us, he thought, let it be me.
'I'm just dying to know,' said Mulholland, 'how you were traumatised by Santa Claus.'
The others looked on, fascinated. Barney saw part of his life's history unfold. Dillinger had even taken another step or two back into the belly of the church. Socrates kicked back and smiled. Miller time.
'I saw my mummy kissing him,' said Blizzard. Said it defiantly, because he knew deep down that it was a really, really stupid thing to be traumatised by.
''Scuse me?' said Mulholland.
'I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus,' said Blizzard. 'I was upset. I came downstairs one Christmas Eve, and I sees my mother snogging this big cunt with a white beard. Don't know where my father had got to. He must've been out with his mates. I was fair upset. I thought my parents loved each other, I thought I came from a happy home. That night I realised my life was a lie. And if the one thing I held dear was a lie, well then, wasn't it all a lie? Life. The whole thing. I could never look at that bastard Claus again without getting upset. Just got worse over the years, you know. The bastard. Started killing folk when I was about twenty-three.'
'You saw your mummy kissing Santa Claus?' said Proudfoot. Another step closer. 'Really?'
'Aye. Too right.'
'Underneath the mistletoe, by any chance?'
Blizzard thought about it, but didn't have to think for long. It was still there, etched in his memory. The very scene, every detail clear as if it had been the previous night. The fire dying out; the old gramophone playing softly, the Paul Whiteman Orchestra; a sparse tree, a few presents beneath, presents which he had barely been able to open the next day, never mind play with; the mistletoe suspended from the light fitting; his mother giggling quietly, while tickling Santa Claus underneath his beard so snowy white.
'Aye,' he said eventually. 'Under the bloody mistletoe. Bastard.'
They looked up at him. The crossbow wavered. Candles burned, and the bare sockets of plundered eyes looked down upon them.
'You're fucking kidding me,' said Mulholland.
Blizzard ground his teeth together. None of these people ever understood. That was why he hadn't bothered explaining it to the Murderers Group, because what did they know? Soft bastards, the lot of them. Except Goldman. He had a certain respect for Goldman.
'Didn't think you'd understand,' he said. 'None of you lot ever understand the likes of me. Too good for the lot of you. Aren't we, Barney?'
Barney said nothing. Looked lost. This couldn't be happening again. Despite the dream, despite the knowledge he'd been sure he'd had, it still seemed so incredible. Why me? he thought. Why me?
'Don't you think,' said Proudfoot, 'that it was your father dressed up as Santa Claus?'
The crossbow wavered. Blizzard twitched; the sneer hovered around his face.
'What?'
'Well, there's got to be hundreds of dads who dress up as Santa Claus for their children. They probably knew you were awake, or made enough noise to disturb you, so that you'd get up and see him. What age were you?'
Blizzard swallowed.
'Five,' he said.
'See? You were five. It was your dad dressed as Santa Claus for your benefit. Did you ever talk to them about it when you were older?' she said, all the time getting closer, Mulholland at her side.
Slowly he shook his head. His life flashed before him.
'Naw,' he said, 'I never liked to.'
Almost there. Classic situation for a counter-attack, even with the height of the pulpit to be scaled. Very close, the prey distracted and unsure of himself, as he stared into some vague point in the distance. Mulholland had a hundred words of abuse on the tip of his tongue, but the time was not now. Not yet. A dash round the back, up the stairs, and he could get him.
Close enough, about to move. Proudfoot was poised, waiting on Mulholland's signal. Barney stood isolated, rooted to the spot. Socrates watched their pulpit approach and shook his head. Much too obvious, he thought.
Dillinger had heard enough. All these sad old men were the same. Just plain daft. And so she decided it was time to go. Another few seconds and it might all be over, but she had waited long enough.
A few quick steps backwards, almost to the door, and then she turned and was on the point of exit. Grabbed the handle, door open. But Blizzard was not slow. Saw the movement out of the corner of his distracted eye, did not hesitate. Lifted the bow and in an instant had fired off the arrow. Into her back. Dillinger collapsed, falling out of the church into the rain.
'Hey, nice shot,' said Socrates, turning quickly, looking at the stricken Dillinger. I'm definitely not shagging her the night, he thought.
Barney turned in despair; another down. Mulholland and Proudfoot took their chance, their prey disarmed. Mulholland round the back and up the stairs; Proudfoot, suddenly Jade Weapon, leaping at the front of the pulpit.
And with the door open, the wind and rain howled into the church and the candles started to blink out, hundreds at a time; so that darkness approached the altar in a calamitous, headlong rush.
It all happened in an instant. Mulholland almost upon him. Proudfoot coming over the wall of the pulpit. Barney rooted to the spot. The church plunging into gloom. And Blizzard reached for the other loaded crossbow he had on the shelf in front of him, and in a second had it raised and fired into the chest of Proudfoot.
With a thud it exploded into her ribcage, firing her backwards off the pulpit, so that she fell back and crashed down onto the floor, her head cracking off the cold stone. In the twinkling of a killer's eye the lights were out and Mulholland was upon Blizzard. But he had instantly lost interest. He'd had enough of killers, there were no more loaded weapons to hand. He pushed Blizzard to the side, and leapt over the end of the pulpit to land at his lover's side, shouting 'Proudfoot!' as he jumped.
And in the dark, Blizzard picked himself up, made his way down the stairs, looking stealthily around him in the dark as he moved. A moment's hesitation and then out he went through a rear exit, his escape route clearly established beforehand. His work was done. Ten downed. Anger and psychosis assuaged, amid completion and revelation.
Kate Dillinger lay dead. And alone. To rise to meet her lover Medlock.
Mulholland held Proudfoot's head and desperately felt for some sign of life. Heart still going, faint breaths. 'Erin,' he said softly. 'Erin. Don't die on me. Not like this.'
And his heart beat so strongly with fear that it could have made up for hers. You don't know what you've got until you lose it, the thought started thumping into his head.
He'd walked away before, but he'd believed he could easily walk back in. But there would be no walking back into this. This would be the end for his bloody fantasy of Erin Proudfoot and happiness.
So when her eyes flickered open, his heart thumped even more, his head floated.
'How would you like me to die on you?' she said softly, lips barely moving.
'Oh, Christ, Erin, are you OK?'
The barest smile crossed her lips. The eyes slowly closed.
'Course I'm not, you stupid bastard,' she said quietly.
Socrates sat and watched from a few yards away. Began to smile. That mad, impetuous thing called love. Mind you, he said to himself, she's probably still going to peg it.
Barney watched for a few seconds. But these two were not his business. Not any more. Something else, much grander, much more ominous, awaited him. And so he walked past Socrates without a word, and then past the desperate couple on the floor, and headed out the back way on the trail of Leyman Blizzard.
––––––––
Barney could feel The Force. It guided him through the trees as he followed the path of Leyman Blizzard. Since the old man had left the church he was yet to catch sight of him, but somehow he knew he was going in the right direction; or was being led that way.
There was a thick forest of pine behind the church, mixed in with firs and deciduous trees of various shapes. An ancient wood of the type that it was rare to encounter in these days of forestation, with identical rows of trees in regimented lines, ending in a mathematically precise border. So leaves and bare branches and the spidery touch of fir brushed against Barney's face. The rain did not fall with any force within the forest, but everything was sodden and clinging, so that it felt as if there were hands grabbing at him as he went.
He stopped every so often to try to listen for Blizzard's movements, but the noise of the forest in the rainstorm was all-consuming. Leaves in the wind, water pouring through trees, and there was little chance of him hearing anything else.
He did not fear the hand suddenly appearing from the forest; a knife in the face or the crossbow aimed at his head. For he knew there would be a confrontation. It had been fated. It was what he was being led to, and before Leyman Blizzard struck him down, as he was absolutely sure he would do, he would receive some form of absolution. For he knew truly the identity of this man who ran from him, and led him on at the same time.
After a few minutes the forest broke, as it was bound to do in this green and pleasant land, where forests no longer stretch for mile upon mile. Barney stumbled over a low wire fence, then made his way across open farmland. He was free from the trees, and the rain hammered down upon him, his feet squelching through mud. Every so often he imagined he saw the grand impression of a recent footfall in the field, but he knew he was coming the right way regardless of whether he saw trace of his prey.
He was consumed. Haunted for several weeks, forced back in from the cold, he would face this man who had plagued him. Had no thought for Proudfoot, downed at last, a year after he had saved her life. Little thought for Katie Dillinger, the woman who had galvanized him into coming on this weekend, who had aroused his desire for the first time in decades. Dead, and he would never again feel that kind of desire for anyone.
Eventually he was over another low wire fence, the farmland turned to open moorland, and he was heading uphill through marsh and peaty bog; feet sucked into the ground, occasionally stepping on rocks. And he could feel it getting nearer. The presence. Whatever it was that had lured him into this whole thing, as surely as his feet were being sucked into the ground, was not too far in front of him. It had stopped running, and now waited for him to arrive; to deliver the final damned, crushing blow.
Barney stopped and looked ahead. In the pitch black of night and rain he could see vague shapes; rocks etched against the muddier black of the sky. And as his eyes swept around the rocks, his heart gave nothing more than a small jump, he lowered his head, and tramped off once more, determined to meet his fate. For just ahead, carved into the dead of night, standing on top of a large promontory of rock, was Leyman Blizzard. Hands held aloft in silent supplication to the gods, dog collar still around his neck, black coat and black shirt matted to his skin in the rain.
Up he climbed, struggling over wet rocks and jagged overhangs. Feet into large pools of water, plunged into bog and plucked out. Hands grasping wet rocks, slipping, jarring thumbs and fingers. But despite the struggle, eventually he closed in on the inevitable.
Up a final grassy bank on hands and knees, wet and cold and frozen to the bone, Barney at last got to his feet and walked out onto the large rock at the end of which stood Leyman Blizzard. Back turned, still, and it would be nothing for Barney to approach him and push him over the edge, for there was a drop large enough to send a man to his death. And that man could have been Leyman Blizzard.
One push.
But Barney stood still, waiting for the old man to turn. At last his heart beat a little faster, at last his mouth went dry and he licked rainwater from his lips to wet his throat.
And, at last, no more than five yards away, Leyman Blizzard turned.
Their eyes engaged. Not long since they'd looked upon one another in the church; and, indeed, barely any time since they'd stood in the shop and Barney had thought he had found the last decent man in the whole of Scotland. Only the previous afternoon, and it seemed as if it had happened a long time ago.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
'The Force is strong in you, young one,' said Blizzard.
Barney squinted into the rain. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'
'Ach,' said Blizzard. 'I'm just having a bit of fun.'
Barney's mouth dropped open. He shook his head and suddenly he felt very, very sad. That could've been his mother talking. These two had obviously been very well matched.
'Fun? You just murdered three or four people. I saved yon police lassie's life last year. And for what? So you could do her in? And the woman, Katie. She was all right. She didn't have to die. Why, Leyman?'
Blizzard shrugged. The storm raged around him, his long, dark coat unbuttoned and free to be blown in the wind.
He held his hands forward in appeasement.
'Sorry about that, son. You know, I didn't want to kill her. I knew you were into her pants. That's why I took out they two bastards.'
'What?'
'Medlock and Hamilton. They were both after her. Hamilton was angling for that other bird, but I overheard him talking to himself last night. He was into yon Katie no end. So I thought if I got rid of them you'd have a clear road, you know?'
Barney looked quizzically through the storm. The wind picked up, a great gust howled past them, and momentarily he lost his footing. Did not come near the edge. Straightened up, found himself another step or two closer to Blizzard.
'You did that so I could get into her pants?'
'Aye,' said Blizzard, smiling. 'I thought you'd appreciate it.'
Barney laughed. After all, it had come to this. One final stupid conversation at a cliff edge on a dark and stormy night, before he would inevitably be pushed to his death.
'Brilliant, Leyman. Absolutely stunning. You wanted me to get into her pants, so you killed her. What were you thinking? At least now she won't be able to say no?'
Blizzard shrugged and took a step closer.
'I didn't mean to kill her, son. It all happened so fast. It was just a blur, you know. I didn't mean it.'
Barney shook his head. This was bullshit. All the terrors, all the nights waking screaming, all his trials, for this. Another ridiculous conversation, like every conversation he'd ever had or listened to in a barber's shop. A fitting end. Two guys talking pish. Every barber should have such an end. Serendipity; the word could find no better use than this.
'So which one of us did you mean to kill?' said Barney. As if he didn't know.
Blizzard raised his eyebrows, rubbed his chin. There, he thought, is a good question.
'Not sure, son' he said. 'One of the polis, I suppose. I mean, I know they're not that bad, and I didn't realise they were off the case, but I mean, polis are polis, after all. Never had any time for them.'
Barney shook his head. The time of revelation was near. It was obvious who this man was; had been obvious since he'd first seen him. And with that revelation would come the certain end. That was what had been foretold; that was the omen that had been shown to him.
His mother had been mad; his mother had lived a lie all her life; his mother had finished that life by murdering six innocent people. It made complete sense that his father should also be a mad murderer; that he should have disappeared early on in his life, and that his mother would lie about his death; and it made sense that he should return now, to presage the end, and indeed to bring about that end.
There was a symmetry there, he supposed. Your mother and father bring you into the world; it almost made sense that they should ease your way out of it. (Not that that could work with successive generations, but this was a piece of philosophy in its infancy.)
His last two years had been murder, principally through the actions of his mother. A normal mother would have had him turned over to the police after the first manslaughter; and a normal mother would not have had six dead bodies in her freezer. And now, after these two hellish years, it would all be ended by his father, whom he'd thought dead, and with whom he was to be reunited on a wind and rain blown cliff top, above a desolate moor, at midnight.
'They were good people,' he said, delaying the inevitable. Funny how it was, that even though he had accepted what would be the circumstances of his own death, he still chose to put it off.
Blizzard took another step closer. 'Good schmood,' he said.
And now they were no more than a few feet apart. Barney looked into old Leyman's eyes and realised that it was like looking into a mirror. All those years he had thought his father dead. In retrospect he'd thought it odd that his mother had let neither him nor his brother attend the funeral; that there had been so little fuss and no visitors; that she had kept them away from people for so long. His father hadn't died at all; he had run off. And these last two years he had thought that if only his father had been here then none of this would've happened. How wrong! How wrong.
A lifetime of conviction, two years of belief, shattered over a day or two when reality had dawned.
Barney raised his arms to the side. He could run, but now that the end was near he felt he must accept his fate.
Where would he run to this time? He'd been running, and it wasn't for him. Neither was prison. He must accept what must come.
'There's something you want to tell me,' he said to Blizzard. Almost had to shout, as a great howl of wind pummelled them, and they both leaned into it.
Blizzard stood with rain pouring down his face, greatcoat blowing in the storm.
'What d'you mean, son?' he said.
Barney swallowed. Could feel the beginning of a tear coming to his eye. His father. About to engage that special bond which he had never truly known.
'You know what I mean,' he said. 'Dad.'
The rain cascaded off Blizzard's face, turning it into a cruel parody of the Niagara falls. Streams of black had begun to run down his forehead, from where the hair dye had finally given up the good fight. His mouth opened, his nostrils flared.
'What?' he said.
'Dad,' said Barney. 'I know it's you. I forgive you!'
Blizzard spread his arms, much in the manner that Barney was employing. 'You forgive me for what? What the fuck are you talking about, son,' he said. 'Dad? I'm no' your dad. Where'd you get that from?'
Barney swallowed again. The tears suddenly dried up. He took a step back. Self-assurance vanished into the rain. He suddenly found himself looking at an old man with no hold on him, with no part to play in his future. Except that of being his Death.
'Why are you going to kill me, then? Why did you lead me up here?' he said.
Blizzard raised an eyebrow.
'Kill you? Is that what you think of me, Barney? After you saved my shop? I'm not going to kill you, Barney, for God's sake. Why'd you think that, son? I thought it would be the polis bloke following me. Didn't realise the eejit would stay behind to look after his bird.'
'Oh,' said Barney. 'Oh.' Not good in an unexpected situation.
'Why did you think I was your father?'
Barney's brow furrowed as he attempted to think. It had all seemed so obvious a few seconds ago. The dream, the madness, the omens; they had all been coming together.
'I don't know,' was all he said. Had not stopped to think that this life of his may be incredible, but it was not supernatural.
Not yet.
'You bloody eejit,' said Blizzard, smiling. Face black with running dye, old white teeth showing, mad eyes glinting. 'What happened to your father, then?'
'He died when I was six,' said Barney, buffeted by the wind.
'Six! Who the fuck did you think I was, then?'
Barney stood looking at the old man. Wet and cold, clothes sticking to him. This felt as if he was back where it had all began. The last few days he had faced the inevitability of his death, and now that it would be denied to him, did he know what he would do with himself?
'I thought I'd come up here to die,' said Barney, ignoring the question. 'I don't think I know anything any more.'
'Die?' said Blizzard. 'That's just a load of mince, son. You've got years in front of you. Mind you, I don't think we can go back to the shop, 'cause yon polis'll know where to find us. Unless you killed the bastard before you left.'
'No!'
'Oh, ach well. You and me, son. We can move on. Start another shop some place else. Just the two of us. Blizzard and Thomson, barbery with a smile and a knife.'
Barney was struggling. Brain in overload. Immediately began entertaining the prospect; at the same time knew that this man was a murdering psychopath. Could not yet escape the thought that he was his father, so sure had he been. Could not escape the dread of the dream and the belief in his forthcoming death.
'Come on, Barney. I know what you must think of me. But you and me, we're the same. This kind of thing follows us around. But if we go somewhere there's no Santa Clauses, we'd be set up. I'd be fine, son, I promise. We could go to Africa, or somewhere like yon. Asia, or something. Somewhere miles away from this bollock-freezing place. How about it?'
The rain seemed to increase in intensity, the wind blew strong. Old Leyman seemed to grow taller and more imposing in the black of this long midnight. Barney Thomson stared through the night and saw his future stretch out long and strange before him. Perhaps it was not his fate to die after all. Perhaps there were adventures still to be had. It was an enormous world out there, and so far he had tasted the highs and lows of Scotland. There must be more than this; that was what he had often said to himself. This could be his chance to find out. The possibilities were infinite.
Blizzard took a step towards him.
'Come on, son, I know where I'm going. I'm making a break over these hills, I've got some money in my pocket, and I'm never looking back. This is it, son. Our future awaits.'
Barney looked into the passionate eyes. A world of opportunity awaited him. And then suddenly he thought of the eyes of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton. The eyes of Katie Dillinger, which would never see again. How could he possibly spend a life with this man? He himself had been responsible for the deaths of others, of that there was no doubt; but he was not a murderer. Yet this man who stood before him was. Most definitely. A loose cannon, a maverick, an unfettered beast. How could he ever trust him? How could he help to protect such a man from the authorities? It was madness to even consider travelling on with him.
He shook his head. His was a solo path, and that was what he must follow. The adventure could continue, but it must be on his own terms and in his own company.
He took a step back; Blizzard's eyes were wild, his mouth open, his hand outstretched.
'I have to go it alone,' said Barney.
And the sentence was barely free of his lips when it was followed by a loud cry as his foot slipped from the edge of the rock. Blizzard reached towards him, Barney frantically grabbed at his extended hand. Their fingers touched, hands clasped; and then slipped in the rain, and came free.
Barney made one more attempt to regain his balance; a frantic swirl of arms and legs and lunging body; and then he was falling off the side, heels making one last contact with the rock edge as he plummeted to the grave.
A short drop, no more than fifteen feet. In daylight, feet first, anyone could manage it. But in this storm Barney was out of control. His head cracked into a rock with a sound that Blizzard could hear; his neck snapped; his body crumpled into a fuddled heap, head twisted back at a hideous angle. And the rain fell and the wind blew.
Old Blizzard looked over the side, and so dark was the night that he could barely see the body below. He stared long enough and at last the pale stretch of Barney's neck looked up at him through the storm. Snapped like a Twiglet. He could see it. And the old man knew.
He backed slowly away from the edge of the rock in the bloody rain and howling gale. The brief few days when he'd imagined he might have found a soul mate of sorts were over. His was to remain a lone furrow after all.
He took one last look over the edge. Another simple future had been blown to the wind. For Barney Thomson was dead.
'Bugger that, well,' said Blizzard, as he turned and began the long walk to nowhere, dog collar soaked to his neck; a piece of clothing to which he might well remain attached.
Barber? Minister? What the hell, it was all about making people feel good about themselves. Or otherwise.
'Wonder what I can have for my supper,' he mumbled into the night.
––––––––
The police arrived just a little too late. Forty-three minutes too late. The doorbell rang and, with Hertha Berlin gone, no one answered.
Inside the house all was peaceful and quiet. Not a mouse stirred. On the third floor Annie Webster rocked slowly back and forth on her crossed legs, over the strangled body of Ellie Winters. To and fro, slowly rocking, eyes wide and staring at the pale skin of Winters; a dead duck.
Behind the closed door of the lounge, Morty Goldman indulged in another Christmas feast.
Sergeant Marcus Grooby stood outside. Not dressed for the rain, having dashed the ten yards from his car. Under the awning outside the front door, his hair soaked; he looked cold. Rang the bell again, eventually tired of waiting.
Wondered if this silence pointed to the reason for the call. Marcus Grooby, thirty-one years old, as good-looking as you're going to get in Scotland, dragged away from an evening at the station with Constable Caitlin Moore, and the usual Sunday night romantic dance. No crime, just idle chatter and harmless flirting. A decent bloke, unused to the careless world of the serial killer. About to be given a rude awakening.
He tried the door and it swung open before him. Warmth and the serenity of thick carpets oozed out at him, and he took the giant step across the door into the house.
Rugby on a Saturday, church on Sunday, occasional golf on Sunday afternoons, ran the Scouts on a Friday, every day at work a little bit different from every other. Used words like ma'am and homicide because he watched too many American TV shows.
Grooby stepped gratefully in out of the cold, walking into the centre of the great hall. Thick carpet, pictures on the wall, and he took it all in. Knew not yet what unfolded no more than ten yards away, behind the unlocked door. So, a few short steps, first door he came to, hand to the knob, and in he walked.
Morty Goldman looked up as the door opened. About to be rumbled, but he did not care. He had already done enough to satisfy his primal urge. And if he should end up in prison for the next few years, then so be it. The things that mattered to him; well, they existed in plenty, whether in prison or not.
Sammy Gilchrist lay dead; bloody, hacked apart, but untouched thereafter. Morty preferred the medium dry with a hint of petrol fume claims of Fergus Flahrty's body. Shirt ripped open, knife into the chest, the heart cut out. The black gap in the ribcage, where the ribs had been torn apart and splintered, the blood on the turquoise shirt, were the first things that Grooby saw.
Then the virtual stump, where Goldman had torn off Flaherty's arm, using nothing but brute force. So an unclean, messy split. Then Grooby saw Goldman himself, the scene whipping through his brain and his sensibilities in a nanosecond. Covered in blood, cross-legged and relaxed, in much the same position as Annie Webster. Except while Webster stared solemnly at her victim, Goldman ate his. Heart already devoured; Grooby was interrupting him with the arm up to his face. Blood everywhere, food on his teeth, quiet slurping and munching sounds fighting for space with the murmur of the fire and a subdued O! Come All Ye Faithful.
'Jesus Christ,' gasped Grooby.
He immediately felt the surge from his stomach, and he turned away and vomited violently into the corner. Goldman sat and rocked and stared and was not concerned with his audience. He was sated, but was content to munch away until he was officially interrupted. Presumed that Grooby would not take that upon himself.
Throwing up indeed! When that idiot Lecter ate flesh, it was chic! It was 90's retro, it was fava-tastic, it was now; it was almost comedic in a BBC sitcom kind of a way. Bastard.
Morty sung along in his head to the song; his own words.
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
Morty is cool.
***
The police arrived in force some twenty minutes later as a result of a desperate call from Grooby. He sat in the hall, propped against a wall, bum going numb. Could see the edge of Goldman's arm through the crack in the open door. Making sure he didn't go anywhere, but without confronting him. Unaware of the death of Ellie Winters upstairs, while Webster rocked back and forth, humming Rocking around the Christmas Tree. Within minutes the house was opened up, Webster was discovered and not a room was left clear of investigation.
Not a trace did they find of the handyman or of young Hertha Berlin. For at least those two people had escaped the night with their worlds intact.
But they still had Hertha Berlin's words on the peculiarity of the group who had gone calling at the church, and so of the twenty-three police officers who turned up in the first wave, four were dispatched to the kirk of the late Reverend Rolanoytez...
***
... where shepherds watched their flocks.
Katie Dillinger lay dead, an arrow in the back. Punctured her lung, and she was gone, gone, gone, joining her husbands in eternal misery, in a very special place.
Mulholland sat cross-legged, quite still. Holding Proudfoot's head in his lap. Constantly talking, encouraging responses from her. Attempting to keep her going until the ambulance arrived. Had never talked so much in all his life, and she smiled occasionally and could barely understand what he was saying.
He held her head, hoped not to cry. Ignored Socrates sitting close by, recently returned from attempting to find a phone. Had discovered all the lines in the area had been cut; the work, he assumed, of Leyman Blizzard; although, as it happened, it had been the afternoon's work of Sammy Gilchrist, who had been intending a little mayhem of his own, before being overtaken by events.
Socrates had searched the manse of the Reverend Rolanoytez for more modern telecommunications equipment, but had found only a 1930s gramophone. That, as well as a large collection of animal traps, several hundred Commercial Off The Shelf (COTS) porn mags, and two bodies. Had decided not to make the trip back up the road to the old house as he suspected things might have become a little too intense. And so he sat, close by, trying not to listen to Mulholland's endless embarrassing chatter. Many words of love, and he cringed at most of them. Men could be such saps for a bird with an arrow in the chest.
Mulholland talked of times past; the first occasion they'd met; her uninterested face; losing his temper, giving into romance, the great breadth of emotion in the thrall of which he had been held. A life in seconds, and then minutes, and on and on. Over an hour they waited before they heard the siren of the police car approaching. Over an hour with the occasional word from Proudfoot, and the faint heartbeat, and gentle gasps of air. And he had hope.
Finally, after all that time, they were approached by Sergeant Barnes, late of Grampian CID. Socrates saw him first. Not traumatised by the uniform like some of the others, and pleased in his way. Had been beginning to think that he really ought to make more of an effort to get to a phone than just walking the fifty yards to the manse.
Mulholland looked up, could say nothing.
'Better get an ambulance, Big Man' said Socrates. 'The lassie's got an arrow in the chest, of all things. Going to ruin her tits if it's not taken out soon. Whacked her napper 'n' all. And she's one of your mob, so you'd better get a shifty.'
Sergeant Barnes quickly bent over Proudfoot to check for himself, then radioed for the ambulance.
Soon the other policemen entered the church. Gallacher, Watson and Torrance, three of the Borders' finest. And they spread out and started to thump their way around the aisles.
'You do this?' said Sergeant Barnes to Socrates.
Socrates shrugged and remained cool.
'Naw, it was some old guy. Buggered off out the back about an hour ago. Long gone by now, I imagine. Long gone.'
Mulholland looked up at the sergeant. Head muddled, no more substance there than the endless stream of consciousness he had been babbling.
'He's right. It was an hour ago or more. He killed the lassie up the top there first, then shot the sergeant.'
Barnes leaned over and took a closer look. One of their own, indeed.
'Nice-looking bird,' he said. 'She still breathing?'
Mulholland glanced up. Proudfoot's eyelids flickered open.
'Aye,' they said in unison, her voice barely audible.
'Right enough,' said Barnes.
Then he stood up and looked around at this bleak place, now illuminated by the dull and mundane electric lights. Looked properly for the first time at the two bodies dangling from the rafters, noticed that the eyes were gone.
Turned away.
'What the fuck were you doing here anyway?' he asked.
Mulholland looked up again. That should have been What the fuck were you doing here anyway, sir? he thought.
'Getting married,' he said. 'That was the plan.'
And he shook his head and looked away from the pale face, drained of blood. But everywhere he looked he saw death, and he could take no comfort from it. Turned back to her, ran his fingers along her brow.
'The ambulance is coming, Erin. You've got to hang in there. Won't be long.'
There was a slight movement in his arms, she lifted her eyes, her lips parted.
'See me,' she said. 'Jade Weapon. Tough as old shite. I'm not dying yet.'
'You better not. If you're Jade Weapon, we've got some amount of shagging still to do.'
The smile stayed on her lips as she let her eyelids close.
'You're on. I'll be Jade Weapon, you can be Buzz Lightyear.'
Mind not quite in gear.
And, as best he could, he held her tightly. And in the dim, dreary distance, the ambulance was diverted from the house to the church, and Sergeant Barnes directed one of his men to cover up the faces of the two hanging bodies.
Socrates watched Mulholland and Proudfoot from a few yards away, eyes narrowed and shaking his head.
'Buzz Lightyear?' he said quietly to himself. 'What in the name of fuck is that all about?'
––––––––
A warm evening in August, the handyman did his final rounds. Checking doors were locked, computer terminals switched off, bins free of anything the cleaners ought not to be getting their hands on. It had been two years since Professor McLaurity had left a severed foot in the bucket, but it had been the first thing the handyman had been warned of when he'd arrived.
Not long in the job, but he already felt at home.
Checked the place out at the end of the day and at weekends; a few odd jobs around the building; shared a few cups of tea and the odd burger with the scientists; a few hours a day, and that was all it needed. Ten to twelve in the morning; a couple of hours of his choosing in the afternoon; nipped over from the house at close of play – sometimes after eleven – to check everything had been locked up. Easy. Hertha kept house for Professor Snake, who was about as nice an old man as you could have wished for, and the two of them couldn't have been happier.
The handyman wiped some dust from a laboratory table and made a mental note to check it again the following day after the cleaners had been in. Had to keep them on their toes. Wouldn't find dust like that if Hertha had been cleaning, he thought. And he laughed to himself.
'She sure is a feisty lady,' he said quietly, with a smile.
Hertha Berlin had blossomed. In a whole range of ways.
Still shaking his head and laughing, and already thinking of the night to come, he opened up the door at the end of the laboratory and stuck his head round. Looked at the long line of large jars filled with pink fluid.
They had done a bit of travelling, the handyman and Hertha Berlin. Had gone to all the handyman's old haunts. Memphis, Hawaii, Vegas, a few long, lonely highways. There had been some who'd recognised him, but no one had liked to say. After a few months they had returned to Scotland, had answered an ad in a local newspaper, and had settled down in the employ of the University of St Andrews.
The handyman looked along the line of jars and shook his head.
'There sure is some amount of weird shit going on,' he said. 'Weird goddam shit.'
The innocently titled Department of Human Biology contained many jars, with many body parts kept therein. In formaldehyde, or whatever fluid they could lay their hands on at the time. Limbs, organs, entrails, appendages, brains. They were all there.
The handyman looked into the Brain Room. Jar after jar of human brains. And in particular, since this was in support of Dr Gabriel's fifteen-year study on the physiology of the psychotic mind, the brains of ex-criminals; each jar neatly labelled. Malky Eight Feet. Brendan Buller, the Brechin Bastard. Wee Janice Twinklefingers. Dr Crevice. Captain Nutcruncher. Big Billy One Hand.
And so on the jars went. And right at the end, at eight months the most recent addition to the troupe, in a jar much like any other, the brain of the greatest serial killer that Scotland had ever known.
The brain of Barney Thomson.
The handyman shook his head again and flicked the light switch. Pulled the door closed and turned the key. Moved up to the secondary lock, then threw the dead bolt – as if any of the brains were getting out. Turned the tertiary lock, then locked the four padlocks. Finally zipped round the combination.
The Brain Room was the prized asset of the Department of Human Biology.
The handyman shook his head again and smiled.
'Weird goddam shit,' he said, twiddling the last knob. 'Still,' he added, beginning to walk off, already thinking of the quadruple pork burger with extra fries and mayonnaise which awaited him at home, 'there ain't no way there's any brains gonna get stolen outta that room. No way. There's none a these brains getting stolen and put into some weird goddam Frankenstein monster type a shit. No brains getting taken outta there, no siree. No siree.'
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