Murderers Anonymous (31 page)

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?'