The Barbershop Seven (102 page)

'Blow out with the two women back at the house, then, did you?' she said.

She was happy to continue the conversation, despite the initial premise. Mulholland walking away in front, she was aware of the darkness around them. The wind and rain in the trees, rustling leaves, the ghosts of footsteps. The creeping feeling of someone skipping through the forest, watching their every move.

'Just a couple of dykes,' said Socrates, doing his best at nonchalance.

'Right,' said Proudfoot.

And maybe Socrates didn't want to talk after all, and his head sunk a little lower, and he drifted imperceptibly away from her, looking at his feet.

The bare branches of trees rustled in the rain and gentle breeze. The night was suffocating in the intensity of its darkness. And the forest surrounded them, in a way that it had seemed not to when they had so lightly walked up the road in search of the house.

On they muddled, Mulholland a few yards in front, the church and Proudfoot's future getting ever closer. And every step of the way she heard a sound in the woods and could feel the penetration of eyes into her soul, as surely as she would soon feel the zing of an arrow.

Maybe she was about to do the right thing. The trouble with romance – there was no right and no wrong. Just possibilities. There must be a perfect one for everyone, that's what she'd always thought. Even Jade Weapon had met the man of her wildest desires and fantasies. Of course, he had been immediately killed by the Bulgarian Secret Service, and Jade had had to personally murder half the population of Sofia. Maybe Proudfoot was Jade Weapon, and Mulholland her Spunk McCavern.

And the rest of the sad group of five were no different, with various strange and melancholic thoughts in all their heads.

Barney found his life passing before him, but not at a flash. It was all there, like a video on slow rewind. Present day back to birth, a dirge through several thousand haircuts. He didn't want to think about all of this, but it was all coming to him nevertheless. And he could think of no explanation for it other than that it must presage his death.

And, by God, what a bloody dull life it'd been until the previous couple of years. Perhaps it was better ended. And so his mind took him back through the years of neglect to the essence of life; dull marriage, back to dull college and dull school. Wasted opportunities, missed chances, lacklustre thoughts and insipid actions. And all the while, one grand truth awaited him, when he reached the end of this bleak odyssey through his days.

***

E
ventually they came to the manse with the church behind. The house was dark, all lights extinguished to the night. Inside, the bodies of the Reverend and Mrs Rolanoytez began the long process of decomposition, although they would be discovered later this night before they had gone too far. If only Mulholland had thought to act upon the vague suspicions aroused within him by the dark manse, then events might not have unfolded in the manner in which they did. But he stared at the great house, hesitated only slightly, then walked on by to the church.

Stained-glass windows greeted them, illuminated from behind and magical with the light and the rain splashing upon them.

Their pace slowed, the church awaited. It should be snowing, thought Proudfoot briefly, but the thought was submerged beneath all the doubt and concern and confusion. And the nerves. For she was nervous as she could not recall having been for many years. Put it down to her impending betrothal; knew, inside, that there was some much greater impending doom.

Mulholland had been a few yards ahead of her nearly all the way. Now he stopped and turned, spoke to her for the first time since they'd left the house. Had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he couldn't even begin to explain. What they were about to do was wrong, but he could not bring himself to say it. She had been through enough without him dumping her at the altar. Maybe it would work out; maybe it wouldn't.

'You all right?' he asked.

She met his eye and did her best to smile.
I feel bloody awful
, she wanted to say. This was the man she was going to marry, after all. She should have been able to say anything to him. Anything but the truth.

'A bit nervous,' she said, and added the uneasy laugh.

He held out his hand and took hers. Squeezed tightly and hoped he managed to convey emotions other than what he was actually feeling. Wrapped up as she was against the rain, cold face peering out from an oversized hood, he thought, as always, that she was beautiful. But there had to be more than that.

'You sure you two want to do this?' asked Dillinger.

Barney stood apart, saying nothing. Stared up at the church. His life had reached the point to which it had been dragging him back, and he knew. He knew everything. The great wooden doors were closed but they would open and behind them would be his destiny. Of that he was now completely convinced.

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.

––––––––

M
orty 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.