'Apparently Jesus was a shortarse,' said Barney, carefree around the left ear. Forgetting where he was, to whom he was talking. Brother Ezekiel raised an eyebrow.
Barney was revelling in the primitive conditions. In one afternoon he had reeled off a Sean Connery (Name of the Rose), a Christian Slater (Name of the Rose), an F Murray Abraham (Name of the Rose) and a Ron Perlman (Name of the Rose); as well as the Abbot's Brother Cadfael. No cash, no tips, just quiet words of praise and heartfelt thanks for doing the Lord's work.
'Four foot six, they say. With a hunchback.'
Brother Ezekiel coughed portentously into the back of his hand.
'You're forgetting where you are, Brother Jacob.'
Barney stopped, scissors poised. Thought about it. Said, 'Oh, shit, aye.'
Brother Ezekiel closed his eyes in silent prayer for the errant monk. Disparaging the Lord, swearing – you could always tell a new recruit.
Barney lapsed into silence. He ran the comb through the hair, clicked the scissors. The light from outside was beginning to fade and he was glad of the three candles which flickered on the small shelf. He was supposed to be keeping his head down and his mouth shut. His language wasn't too bad – not by Glasgow standards – but it was still unnecessarily unsavoury for within the monastery walls.
He had been doing fine. Head down, only speaking when spoken to. Like any new recruit in any walk of life. Don't make a noise until you had your feet under the table. However, a couple of hours of barbery had been his undoing. He'd been all right during the Sean Connery and the Abbot's Cadfael. Finding his feet, getting back into the groove, reacquainting himself with his scissors fingers. However, ten minutes into the Christian Slater, Brother Sledge had made an innocent remark about the weather and Barney had been unleashed, his mouth running ahead of him like a leopard on amphetamines.
And so, he'd covered all the great topics of the day: the profligacy of that year's December snow; the situation in Ngorno Karabakh; apparently Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings in a fortnight; fifteen reasons why Beethoven wasn't as deaf as he liked to make out; six kings of Scotland who were circumcised at the age of fifty; how Sid James nearly beat out Giscard D'Estaing to the French presidency in 1974; why Kennedy only won the US presidency because he kept J Edgar Hoover supplied with edible underwear; Errol Flynn was a woman; apparently Jesus was a shortarse. Barney had been full of it; total, inexorable bollocks. He'd been at the peak of his form, talking the sort of crap of which most guys with fifteen pints in them could only dream.
The monks had sat and listened; smiling occasionally, nodding sagely at the appropriate moments, moments when Barney had not necessarily been expecting them to nod. For they had seen it all before. The new monk, unfamiliar with the conventions and truths of monastic life, whose tongue would not be still. Every now and again one of these types might survive the rigours of this austere existence, but usually they would last no longer than a snowman in the Sahara.
Few within the walls were prepared to put their money on Brother Jacob lasting longer than a few weeks; even if any of them had possessed money, and if the Abbot had not closed down the tote operated by Brother Steven.
For now, however, following Ezekiel's admonishment, Barney snipped quietly. Kept his mouth shut, his thoughts to himself. Tried to think of everything else he had said that afternoon, wondered if he had strayed beyond the boundaries of discretion; words which had been allowed to pass, but which had not gone unnoticed. He could not remember; thought of goldfish.
Brother Ezekiel stared at the wall; no mirrors here. His thoughts, like those of many of his colleagues, were still consumed by the unfortunate demise of Brother Saturday, and by futile speculation on who might have perpetrated the crime. Ezekiel was among those who believed that the Abbot should call on the outside agencies of the law, but the Abbot's word must be respected. If he had faith in the ability of Brother Herman to get to the bottom of the murky river of truth, then so should the rest of the monks. But what if Herman was not so above suspicion as everyone thought? Ezekiel's brow furrowed; he made a mental note not to voice that doubt to anyone.
The door swung open behind them, the cold air rushed in. Barney shivered and turned. Remembered to stop cutting as he did so. How many times in the old days, before his renaissance of the previous March, had he forgotten that fundamental law and inadvertently swiped off an ear?
'Time for one more?' asked Brother Steven, closing the door behind him. 'I heard you're only doing this barber gig twice a week.'
Barney looked down at the tonsured head of Brother Ezekiel. Dome shaved to perfection, back of the head cut with Germanic precipitousness. In fact, the haircut was finished. Realised that the only reason he'd still been cutting, was that he hadn't wanted it to end. When he was done here, he would be required to spend an hour or two in religious contemplation; to commune with God.
'Aye, fine,' he said. 'Come on in. I'm done, in fact.'
He lifted the towel from around Ezekiel's neck, shook the detritus of the cut onto the floor, stepped back, allowed Ezekiel to stand. Ezekiel ran his fingers along the back of his neck. Was impressed with the lack of hair having worked its way down to irritate and annoy.
'Thank you very much, Brother, a good haircut, I believe,' he said, although he could not possibly know. 'Your hands must have been guided by God.'
Barney smiled, thinking, bugger off! God had nothing to do with it, mate. Knew he should not be having such thoughts.
'Goodbye, Brother,' he said instead, as Ezekiel took his leave. Off in search of a mirror, knowing of at least two of the monks who kept one hidden beneath a pillow.
Brother Steven took his seat. He turned, giving Barney an encouraging look.
'Heard you're doing some fine work, Brother,' he said. Barney said nothing, felt pleased nonetheless. 'They're saying in the kitchens that if Marlon Brando had cut Martin Sheen's hair in Apocalypse Now, this is how he would've done it. Cutting hair like a god-king.'
Barney shrugged, placed the towel around Steven's shoulders.
'It's nothing. Just my job.'
Steven nodded, knowing exactly from where Barney came.
'What'll it be, then?' asked Barney. Presumed it was going to be another Name of the Rose job, although he did wonder how many of them had actually ever seen Name of the Rose. Or Brother Cadfael for that matter.
Steven ran his hand across his chin.
'Think I'll go for a Mike McShane (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves). What d'you think? Think that'll suit me?'
Barney stared at the top of Steven's head. Had never heard of Mike McShane. Presumed, correctly, that it couldn't be too different from any other haircut he'd given that day.
'Perfect,' he said.
'Great. I'll go for that then.'
Steven settled back, that look of satisfied contentment on his chops. The look of someone who knew that life was a bowl of curried lamb keich, but who was quite content with the fact. At one with his own, and other's, foibles.
Barney lifted his comb and scissors and set about his business. A contented customer and a contented barber, the perfect combo. He was about to launch into a discussion of the casuistic fundamentals of Morton's Fork when he remembered his earlier edict to keep his thoughts to himself. So he stuck to his business, as the light faded and the candles flickered.
Brother Steven's tongue could never be still, however.
'Incensed with indignation Satan stood unterrified, and like a comet burned that fires the length of Ophiuchus huge in the Arctic sky, and from his horrid hair shakes pestilence and war,' said Brother Steven. Let the words mingle with the flickering shadows and the dim orange light.
'Aye, right,' said Barney. Paused. No reason for not talking now; he was being invited. 'What was that exactly?'
'Milton,' said Brother Steven. 'I always dug that line about hair. You know, shaking out pestilence and war. Must have seen some hair like that in your time, eh?'
Barney nodded, wondering what to say. As o
ut of his depth as he used to be when discussing football.
'Aye,' he said. 'I've seen some amount of shite come out of hair right enough. Ach, shit, sorry, I did it again. Ach, bugger, there I go, I mean…'
'No problem, Jacob, I know where you're coming from. It's not easy coming here. Got the same problems myself. You think the Abbot wants to hear his monks quoting Milton? Not a chance. Swearing in its own way, too. You've just got to come to terms with the new way of life. But don't sweat it, my friend, we've all been there. I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide. That's what I always say.'
'Aye, very good,' said Barney. 'I'll do that 'n all, then.'
He lapsed into silence. Considered that sometimes silence was best. Brother Steven, however, was a talker.
'So, you know what you're doing with all the hair clippings, Jacob?'
'Putting them out, I suppose,' said Barney.
Steven shook his head; Barney narrowly avoided penetrating deep into the flesh of his neck with the icy steel of the scissors. Barber Accidentally Murders New Best Friend – God Miffed, thought Barney. Yet he knew that any headline he saw himself in would not be anything like as overwrought as the one or two he'd seen from the real press before dropping out of life. Barber Surgeon Ate My Cat, Claims Housewife; Killer Barber On Run, Eats Human Flesh; Depraved Sex Secrets of Barber-Pervert.
'Oh, aye,' said Barney. 'What is it I do with them, then?'
'This is a poor place, Brother, as you'll have seen. We need to use everything we can get our hands on. There's very little which is not recycled. The hair that's cut from our heads will go into the making of pillows and cushions. The whole comfort bag. It's that what goes around comes around kind of thing. I know some of them think it's a bit out there, but I like it. I mean, the traditionalists, Brother Herman and all that lot, well, they're peeing in their cloaks about it. You can't worship God without suffering, all that kind of rubbish. But, you know, I always think that God must enjoy His little comforts too. There's got to be some nights when the Big Fella just kicks off His Air Jordans, sticks His feet on the table, downs a couple of cold ones, switches on the TV and gets a few angel babes to snuggle up to His beard. You know what I'm saying?'
Barney continued snipping quietly at the back of Brother Steven's neck. This just wasn't the same as discussing theology with his mate Bill Taylor over a couple of pints in the pub.
'You mean, that's the kind of thing that goes on here?'
'You're kidding me, Jacob!' said Steven smiling. 'Of course not. We're talking about pillows here, not fifty-seven channels of satellite TV and a six-pack of Bud. But the Abbot knows how to do it. Just the odd comfort here and there to keep the natives happy. That's all it takes. Course, there's a lot more he could do, but you can't go too far, can you? We're monks after all.'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Fair enough.'
'But then, of course, there's the yin-yang business. The whole enigma of good-bad, dark-light, positive-negative, all of that. The Abbot allows us the comfort of pillows and cushions, but at the same time you've got to keep the product of your hirsutery so that Brother Herman can use it for making hairshirts. Equal and opposites, that whole bag. Pain-pleasure, you know.'
'Hairshirts?' asked Barney, pausing mid-cut.
'Hairshirts. It's a medieval thing, yet still relevant in today's monastery. It's what your modern penitent monk likes to wear.'
'Aye, right,' said Barney, totally lost.
'You know, when you've committed a sin. You get a shirt made so that all the hairs are prickly on the inside. Really jaggedy-arsed. It's a pain in the backside. Brother Herman loves the damn things. Well, he loves getting the other monks into them the minute he has an opportunity. Just wait till you see him with the scent of blood in that long, thin nose of his. On how serious the sin depends how long you get to wear the shirt. Do your penance.'
Barney's eyes were opened. He had never heard of the hairshirt before. Might have thought it a good idea, except that if the Abbot found out about his past he was going to have to wear his hairshirt for the next three or four centuries.
'So who makes them?' he asked, getting his mind away from his guilt, to which it had begun to stray.
'Brother Herman himself. Mad as they come, that's what I think. Wouldn't be surprised to find he sticks razor blades in there sometimes.'
'You've worn one?' asked Barney.
Brother Steven smiled. 'My friend, he makes them specifically so they'll fit me. I'm his best customer.'
'Oh.'
Barney snipped away, doing a fine job around the back of the neck. Distracted, yet nevertheless performing with consummate ease and control. Brother Steven's neck had never been in safer hands, but Barney could already feel the hairshirt around him. Not the worst punishment on the planet surely, but if it was to be worn day after day for a long time – and his sins most definitely merited a long time – then it would indeed be Hell. Began to wonder if he should leave before Brother Herman got the chance to indict him for something.
'Well, you know, I can live with it. Learned to. Anyway, he hasn't got me for a couple of months. Not since he caught me taking a quick suck on a smoke out in the forest one day. I swear he's got cameras out there. Watching.'
Barney stood back. The scissor work was finished; now for the more delicate razor operations. His hand was steady.
'That's it, Jacob, cameras. I'd bet on it.' He smiled and relaxed. Didn't care if Brother Herman did have cameras in the forest. 'If he hadn't closed down my operation, that is.'
***
The forest was still. Late evening, darkness long since descended. A clear sky, no moon, so that the number of stars was beyond counting. A panorama of brilliant white dots against the fathomless black background. The air was freezing, the night bright with the stars and the snow. Nothing stirred; the forest slept.
And in among the white farrago of Christmas trees, beside a burn where a slender stream of water trickled through the ice, sat Brother Morgan. Back resting uncomfortably against a young Douglas fir, hands and face blue with the cold, lips purple, yet a smile on those lips and in the eyes. At peace with the Lord. The front of the thin white tunic in which he was clothed was soaked through with blood, dried to a dark red, now frosted white.
And inserted deep into Morgan's neck, the instrument of his death – a pair of scissors. Long, thin, cold steel; scissors which, a few hours earlier, had been used to cut the hair of Brother Steven after the fashion of Mike McShane in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.
Where Are You, Barney Thomson?
A few phone calls made, breakfast eaten, the day ahead planned out. They set off. No conversation over their food, no conversation in the car. They picked up Sheep Dip, inserted him in the back, and headed off across the Kessock bridge for the Black Isle and then Dingwall. Endless hours down labyrinthine country roads in search of elusive B&Bs. Knowing there was little chance of success; an awkwardness in the car, born of discomfort and attraction, the strange intruder in the back, and a knowledge that they might well be wasting their time.
Phone calls for Mulholland the night before. One to Superintendent McMenemy. Nothing to report, and duly he'd had his verbal punishment. What were they supposed to have achieved after one day? More than they had, obviously. The country expected. Had felt the whiplash of the voice down the line; two feet tall.
Three calls to Melanie, three messages left on the answer-phone. Had begun to assume that she had already left, when she'd called his guest house late at night. Had heard on the grapevine that he was travelling with Proudfoot. Knew her from station nights out. Jealous. So it had become a fifty-minute phone call which had been even more uncomfortable than talking to the Chief Super. On the defensive from the off. No one up front, eight at the back, and only a couple of guys in midfield, hopelessly trying to wrest control of the game. No chance.
Had come off the phone unsure if he'd ever speak to her again; and unsure if he ever wanted to speak to
her again. Confused as always. Didn't want to think about it; couldn't help it.
Proudfoot. Unhappy. In her work, in her personal life. Nothing to be done about it. The ever-present fear of the unknown; except now she could put a name to that fear. Barney Thomson. Not for her to know that Barney Thomson was a harmless unfortunate. A man for whom bad luck was as much a way of life as bad judgement. Saw him dressing in human skin and stalking his prey; might never know him for the man he was. Fluffy.
Pondered, as she sat silently in the car, what she could do other than police work. What did the police train you for other than the police? Security guard? Not a chance. Minder to someone with more money than humility? A mega-celeb perhaps? Trailing around the world in private jets and limousines; getting sucked into all-night sex with Hollywood stars; having Brad Pitt cover you in chocolate sauce then lick it off; meeting presidents and attending premières; going to the States and getting to shoot lunatics with impunity. She could do that, but wondered how you found out about such jobs. Had never heard of anyone from Partick getting one. It would all be down to luck, and that was something she never got. Except now she was getting to drive around with Joel Mulholland for a few days, stay in the same place every night. Away from his wife and from the station. Another world. Wondered if something might happen, tried not thinking about it too much.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 7
