Murderers Anonymous (45 page)

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.