Barney's mind rambled all over the place. His crimes of the past; bad haircuts he had known; lives he had ruined, either by inadvertent murder or by giving one of his infamous Poseidon Adventure cut-and-blow-dries; the life he had left behind, the life he'd come to.
But most of all, Barney wondered what he was doing there. Sitting in a cold, damp corridor, waiting to be seen by the Abbot, or Brother Herman. Or both. He had not the faintest idea what he'd done to warrant the attention. Presumed it was because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut, though he'd thought at the time, that as Brother Cadfaels go, he'd totally nailed the sucker.
Trouble was, you could just never tell. How many times in the past had he given a haircut the like of which only kings could dream and the gods deliver, only to be rebuked by some ignorant cretin with no eye for a cut of wondrous beauty and construction. Like his famous Billy Connolly '81, which he'd given to a young chap, on request, a few years previously; a haircut from God's own factory, a haircut from Satan's nightmares, a haircut of erudition and infinite jest; yet a haircut which had been scorned by the customer, resulting in no tip and a near bar-room brawl when they'd bumped into each other in the pub three days later. Some people just did not appreciate talent.
Barney was an artist, and like all of his kind, misunderstood in his lifetime.
He could not imagine that the Abbot was such a man; he'd seemed happy enough after the cut. Perhaps, Barney pondered, he had a secret mirror somewhere, and had checked the cut after it'd been given. Barney's imagination raced. Maybe the Abbot had a lot more than a hidden mirror. Suddenly saw the Abbot inside his secret hideout, a massive operations cell underneath the monastery. Something from a Bond film – huge maps on the walls with lights displaying the locations of all the Abbot's nuclear warheads. Saw the Abbot sitting in a large white leather chair, stroking a cat. SPECTRE: Special Executive for Corruption, Terrorism, Revenge and Ecumenicalism. A worldwide network of monasteries, ostensibly there to lead a Christian life straight out of the Dark Ages, but in actuality a front for an organisation of religious terrorism. He wondered if beneath the monastery there was a tropical pool of piranha fish, kept starving for weeks; waiting for Barney, and all because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut.
He clenched his fists, palms sweaty; closed his eyes, swallowed. He was aware of the faint rumour of his heart, becoming stronger. After all he had been through, was this to be the end?
With a violent click of ominous quiet, the door to the Abbot's study opened. Barney swallowed, Brother Herman summoned him into the Demon's Lair.
***
Barney sat before the Abbot, Brother Herman stood at the Abbot's shoulder, the hired hand. The Abbot looked troubled.
'You know why you are here, Brother Jacob?' he asked.
Barney swallowed. Eyes shifted between Abbot and bodyguard. His heart had kicked into low gear for rapid acceleration; felt like it was about to come crashing out through his chest to throb on the desk in front of him. Wondered if the Abbot had a switch under his desk; a trapdoor. One press, an instant, and Barney would be food for the fishes. Shark breakfast. Raw Barney; plenty of meat on him. The sharks would love it, and all because of a bad haircut. It had been bound to happen one day.
'Aye, Brother Blofeld, I do,' he said. Mouth dry.
'Blofeld?' The Abbot squinted, as if looking directly at the sun.
'Abbot, sorry. Brother Abbot,' said Barney. Tried to get his concentration under control. His imagination was leaping so far ahead of him it was in a different time zone; a different dimension, slightly out of sync with his own. 'It's about your haircut. I'm sorry, really. I was sure I'd done a good job. Maybe I could give you a Sean Connery. Or an F Murray Abraham.'
The Abbot shook his head; recognised Barney's babbling for what it was. Normally he would have smiled, but today was not for that. He had lost another of his monks, there was nothing about which to smile. He raised his hand. His left hand.
'Brother, dear Brother. The haircut was fine. I couldn't be happier about the cut. In fact, the whole monastery is talking about the great breadth of your God-given talent. You are a barber apart. A hirsutologist of the highest order. The wings of angels must flutter in your presence when you take to the scissors. If only Eve could have resisted eating apples like you cut hair, then there would be a lot less misery in the world.'
Barney relaxed. Almost smiled. Wings of angels, eh? That's me, he thought, no mistake. Nice to be appreciated.
Brother Herman frowned. A haircut was a haircut was a haircut. Didn't know what all the fuss was about. Thought that all the junior monks should have their heads shaved and be forced to wear a crown of thorns. A jaggedy-arsed crown of thorns at that, (just in case there was such a thing as a crown of thorns which wasn't jaggedy-arsed.) Mental head shake, and he switched back on, so that he could scrutinise the reaction of Brother Jacob to the information he was just about to receive. Knew that the Abbot's approach would be too soft.
'And talking of scissors, Brother Jacob, it is scissors which have led me to bring you here today. The very scissors, I believe, with which you showed your mastery yesterday afternoon.'
Would you shut up about the sodding haircuts, thought Herman.
'You will be aware that Brother Morgan was missing from breakfast this morning, and that the search for our dear brother was called off after no more than twenty minutes.'
Barney nodded. Brother Morgan. Bugger. He was about to be accused of murder, that was it. And he'd known all along. Had never truly believed that he was going to be roasted for a bad haircut; that had been denial. When the search for Morgan had been called off so quickly, it was obvious something had happened to him.
'The minute they called it off,' Brother Steven had said, 'and Morgan hadn't hoved into view with a couple of Uberbabes under his arms, reeking of weed and breathing alcohol fumes all over the Abbot as he told him what he could do with his monastery, it was obvious the guy had been stiffed.'
'I'm afraid our dear brother was found dead.' Barney nodded. Naturally. 'It ails me to tell you that he had been murdered.' Barney continued to nod. Almost went without saying. Did anyone die without being murdered anymore? Still hadn't spotted the connection with the mention of scissors. 'And it pains me greatly to tell you that Brother Morgan was stabbed. Stabbed with a pair of scissors.' Barney nodded again. The penny still refused to drop. Knew that scissors were an excellent instrument of death, having used them himself, however inadvertently. 'The scissors with which you cut the hair of six monks yesterday afternoon.' Barney nodded. Haircutting scissors. Long, thin, sharp. Superb for the job. Kill someone every time.
The penny dropped. So did Barney's chin. Suddenly words were rushing to get out of his mouth, like troops over the top of a Great War trench. And to the same effect.
'I didn't do it! You don't think I did it, do you? Me? I didn't do it. Why would I want to kill the librarian? I didn't even know there was a librarian? A librarian? Do we have a library? Brother Morgan, I thought the librarian's name was Brother Florgan. Or Jorgan, maybe. I've never even heard of Brother Morgan.'
The Abbot lifted his hand once more.
'Jacob, Jacob, be still your tongue. No one is here to accuse you of killing Brother Morgan.' There was an almost imperceptible twitch in Herman's eye. 'No one suspects you, dear friend. At least, no more than they suspect anyone else, for we must all be under suspicion at this grave time. Yet it is the Lord who will be our judge.'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'it'll be the Lord, right enough.' Thought, as he said it, that if he was to be judged by the Lord, he was in serious trouble. As he would, in fact, were he judged by anyone.
'I have called you in so that Brother Herman can ask certain questions pertaining to the scissors. When you last saw them and so forth. Just because you were known to have had them last does not make you any more of a potential killer than the rest. Any one of us could have taken the scissors. Be not afraid, Brother. Answer Brother Herman truthfully, and God will be on your side.'<
br />
God. Right. Good old God. You can always count on the Big Guy.
Barney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nodded at the Abbot, then looked at Brother Herman. Herman spoke, his lips hardly moving. Low voice, the threatening monotone that Barney had grown to dread.
'Brother Jacob,' said Herman. Said the name Jacob as if it might be Judas. As if he might know that the man to whom he was talking was not really called Jacob. 'Can you tell us the names of all the monks to whom you administered barbery yesterday afternoon?'
An easy enough opening to the inquisition. Reminded him of his police questioning from the past. And that had always developed into something much more sinister and difficult to negotiate.
'Well, there was the Abbot. That was a Brother Cadfael, as you know. Then there was a Sean Connery for Brother Brunswick.' From deep within the folds of his cloak, Brother Herman produced a notebook and began to write down the names, momentarily throwing Barney from his stride, but he started up once again after a glance from those sunken eyes. 'A Christian Slater for Brother Jerusalem, an F Murray Abraham for Brother Martin, and a Ron Perlman for Brother Ezekiel. Oh, aye, and I finished off with a Mike McShane for Brother Steven. Have to be honest, I wasn't sure what a Mike McShane looked like, but he—'
'Enough commentary, thank you, Brother,' snapped Herman, and Barney quailed before the voice. 'At what time did you finish cutting Brother Steven's hair?'
Barney stared at the floor. The questions seemed easy enough, but you could never be sure. Having difficulty getting it into his head that this time he hadn't actually done anything wrong.
'Well, you know, I'm not sure. It was dark, mind, right enough. About five, something like that.'
'Five,' said Herman in a low voice, writing it down. 'And what did you do with your equipment after that?'
Barney bit his lip. Wondered how guilty he was looking. Herman made him nervous. Noticed that the Abbot also bit his lip, and wondered if Herman made him nervous too.
'You know, I just kind of left it there beside the wee sink. I thought I should, you know, that's what Brother Adolphus says to us to do.'
Herman scribbled something in the notebook; Barney waited. Wondered what he could be writing. Scissors left beside sink. Big deal. How long could it take to write that?
'And of all these monks, was there anything that struck you as suspicious? Any of them take an undue interest in the scissors, or any other instrument at your disposal?'
Barney looked down, thinking. Had any of the brothers enquired about the scissors? Why should they have? Was about to dismiss the question when he remembered Brother Martin, the F Murray Abraham. He'd mentioned it. He'd asked about the scissors. What was it he'd said? Something about how sharp they were. Couldn't remember exactly.
Looked up at Brother Herman. Martin's words came back to him as he lifted his head. Sharp scissors, Brother, he had said. You could kill someone with them. That had been it. Damning words, but surely just a chance remark. Or had he known about Barney's past?
'Naw, nothing that I can think of,' said Barney.
Herman noticed the hesitation, the doubt. Filed it away. Every little bit was useful.
'Your last cut was Brother Steven?'
'Aye, that's right.'
'And he was with you when you left?'
This was a dawdle, thought Barney.
'Naw, he'd already gone, you know. I stayed behind just to clear up. Make sure I kept all the hair clippings, for the hairshirts and all that.'
'Hairshirts?' said the Abbot.
Brother Herman gave Barney a Reservoir Dogs look. Barney kept his mouth shut.
'And what did you do once you'd finished clearing up, Brother Jacob?'
Barney had a good answer to that one; took his time.
'Went and prayed, you know. To God,' he added as an afterthought, just in case anyone was going to have any doubts.
Herman scribbled something else in his book. The Abbot seemed distracted. He found it all disturbing. Would confide in no one, but the murder of two of his monks had begun to make him question his faith. And if he had doubts, how many of his number were feeling the same way?
Brother Herman scribbled on. Barney wondered what he was doing. Finally Herman raised his eyes. 'Thank you, Brother. That will be all for the moment.'
'Oh. Right. Stoatir.' Barney felt relief wash over him, like a sponge soaked in honey.
'Stoatir, Brother Jacob?' said the Abbot. 'These are dark times for us, my brother. You would do well to spend much of it in prayer.'
Barney nodded. 'Of course, Your Grace. Brother, I mean. Aye.' Looked at Herman, was further reduced in size. Decided it was time he took his leave. Opened his mouth, but there was nothing else to say. Walked backwards slowly towards the door, then turned and was gone.
As he walked down the corridor, relief continuing to wash over him like a towel submerged in champagne, he wondered why it was that when he had nothing to fear and much about which to feel guilty, he still felt only one step ahead of the inquisition.
Life. Death. Socks.
Once again, Brothers Steven and Jacob were on gravedigging detail; so soon after the first time. A hole for Brother Morgan; late, lamented. An afternoon's work, for the burial the following morning. Accompanied by Brother Edward; a telegraph-pole youth, face the colour of white wine. Three to dig the hole – an arduous task in this frozen, crusted earth – two to fill it in again after the funeral. Barney had thought that he might escape the work, now that he was the official monastery barber. His hands needed protecting. Had been on the point of taking out an insurance policy on them before he'd had to disappear. Had got the idea from something he'd read about Betty Grable. A million dollars on her legs. Or had it been her ears? Had thought that perhaps he'd escape the heavy work, now that they all realised what a precious commodity were his hands. Yet, no; no such good fortune. Realised he had a long apprenticeship to work before he would be offered the small gifts which passed for favours in this murderous place.
It was mid-afternoon on the same day as the discovery of the body. Brother Herman had examined the corpse, had discovered everything he needed to know. Not much doubt over the cause of death, every other avenue open to him examined, no intention of calling in any outside authority for the necessary post-mortem. A cold day. The clear blue skies had clouded over, replaced by low, grey cloud. But still bright. It would snow again later, some of the monks had been saying. Reckoned that this might be a winter like the winter of '47. Snow around the abbey from November until June. That was the prediction.
The mere mention of June had had Barney thinking. Could he possibly still be here then? Still hiding? Might not the world have forgotten about Barney Thomson in six months' time? Would it not have moved on to some other macabre story? What he needed was for some other serial killer to strike, preferably in Glasgow, to take the country's mind off him. But of course, the minute anyone else was killed in Scotland, the murder would be blamed on Barney Thomson. No escape.
Barney was not to know the headline in that morning's Record: Barber-Surgeon in Sheep Slaughter Mystery; Farmers Outraged. He was right, however, in thinking that every crime that had ever been committed was being placed at his doorstep. A robbery in Dundee; a rape in Arbroath; shoplifting in Paisley; an unsolved murder in Edinburgh from 1976; Bucks Fizz winning the Eurovision Song Contest in 1981; Don Masson's penalty miss against Peru in Argentina; the murder of Riccio. There wasn't a crime against humanity that wasn't being laid at his door by an hysterical press and public whose imagination was being whipped to a frothy cream. Barney Thomson was the ultimate demon figure, to such an extent that within two weeks the Barney Thomson of the newspapers was unrecognisable from the Barney Thomson of reality. Only the police had maintained a sense of proportion, having a not unreasonable number of officers on the case, now headed by DCI Mulholland; while telling the press that they had every available man and woman in Scotland on it. And all the while, the monks were unaware of the supposed evil wi
thin their midst.
The earth was hard; rock-like. Brothers Steven and Edward hacked away with pick-axes, Barney shovelled out the broken earth. A slow business, and although it was still two hours until nightfall, they knew that they would do well to be finished by the time it got dark. They were cold and hungry. Steven, accepting of his fate, cold and hungry; Edward, happy that he was doing penance for his perceived crimes of the past, cold and hungry; and Barney, miserable, fed up, shaking, wishing he had run off to the Caribbean, cold and hungry. Kept letting out long sighs, waiting for one of the others to take him up on the offer he was making to complain. He waited in vain. Felt like his ears were about to drop off. And his nose. Killer Revealed as Man With No Nose or Ears; Fingers Also Gone. Barney shivered.
'It's a bit cold, eh?' said Barney, to break the monotony.
Brother Edward continued to swing the blunt pick-axe into the frozen ground. Enjoying the cold and hardship. Sometimes it paid to suffer. He didn't care if Barney was cold.
Steven straightened up, looked at Barney, then surveyed the surrounding countryside. Breathed deeply the cold air, felt it sting the inside of his nostrils. Smiled and looked at Barney.
'Come on, Jacob. It must make you feel alive, man. Breathe it in. Enjoy it. Just think how you'd be feeling if you were having to work like this in sweltering heat, the sweat dripping off you, bugs chewing at your face. Bend your back, get stuck in, my friend. This is life as it is. Look forward to dinner and a cup of the Lord's finest wine.'
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 9
