Murderers Anonymous (24 page)

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.'