The Barbershop Seven (106 page)

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.

––––––––

T
he 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.

***

T
he 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...

***

... w
here 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.