Murderers Anonymous (49 page)

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
.