It had been a long time for Brother Herman, but he'd never forgotten. And so, he was surprised when he encountered the murderer. Shocked even, although he would have thought himself too hard to feel shock.
It happened in the depths of night, as Brother Herman had known it would. There was an inevitability about it. He had for five days now envisaged this meeting. Played it through his mind, knowing what he was going to say, knowing how he was going to fend off his attacker, extract a confession, and then do whatever else was going to have to be done. And he had no fear. God would be his judge and his protector. And should something go wrong, it would be because God willed it. Although, on this occasion, he would not give God's Will too much of a say in the matter.
The oldest trick in the book. One of them anyway. A pillow beneath the harsh sheets on the bed to make it look as if he slept. For Brother Herman knew his attacker would come, and on this third night of his vigil, it began.
At the slow creak of the door, Herman's head bolted up, although he had not been in the deep throes of sleep. There was a sliver of light from outwith, the dark figure etched against it, then the door was closed, the room was engulfed in darkness again, and the only sound was the soft pad of bare footfalls across the stone floor. A brief hesitation and then the sudden and frantic thrash of the knife into the padded bed. A burst of furious anger, then it was over, and the killer fumbled in the dark for the object of his vengeance. Emitted a low curse when realisation dawned.
Had Brother Herman struck now, had he approached the killer from the back and brought the knife down into his neck, had he struck the mighty blow from behind, unannounced and unexpected, then victory might have been his, and Herman might have lived. But that had never been his intention; deceit was not his way. And especially not now, now that he had seen, in the obscure light of the doorway, who the killer was. There were too many questions to ask. This man could not die, taking his secrets with him.
'Brother?' said Herman, at the same time as he flicked a match and put light to the small candle on the table beside him.
The killer turned. 'Herman,' he said. 'You were expecting me?'
Herman stood, so that the two tall men faced each other in the dancing gloom. 'Not you, I must confess, but someone.'
The killer took a step towards him and stopped. He still held the knife in his hands, a light and comfortable grip. Herman kept his weapon concealed within his cloak.
'Why, Brother?' said Herman. 'Before we finish this, you must tell me why.'
The killer stared through the dark, their eyes engaged.
'Two Tree Hill,' he said eventually.
Herman stared quizzically back. Two Tree Hill? He knew of the place, not many miles from the abbey. There had been a time when the monks had frequented it, but those days were long since gone.
'What do you mean?' asked Herman. 'It is years since we've been there. Not since...' And his voice trailed away at the bitter memory which belonged to Two Tree Hill. 'But that was long before you came to us, Brother,' he said.
'My father was there,' said the killer, and the voice was dead.
'Your father? But how could that be?' Herman was on the back foot. He hated being on the back foot, but he was too confused, too intrigued to do anything about it.
The killer hesitated. What did these idiots know? Why was he even bothering to waste time explaining himself? He wasn't some two-bit villain in a Bond movie who wanted everyone to know his motives. He just wanted these men to pay for their crimes and, if there was a Hell, to have eternity to feel their remorse.
'Brother Cafferty,' said the killer. 'My father was Brother Cafferty.'
Herman gasped. Cafferty! There was a name he had not heard in many years, and his mind quickly fizzed through the events of that fateful day on Two Tree Hill. Cafferty had been at the centre of it all. In a way, Cafferty had been the casualty, but surely it had been nothing.
'You're joking?' he said, aghast.
The killer took another step forward, the knife nestling snugly in his clenched fist.
'You're taking revenge?' said Herman. 'You're taking the lives of all these fine men of God because of what happened that day? Why, it's absurd!'
'Are you forgetting my father was kicked out of the abbey?' said the killer, the voice spitting venom; years of hate boiled over, like some strangely overfilled pan of rice. 'He was never the same man again, to which my very existence testifies.'
Herman stood amazed. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and, in the dim light of the candle, the killer could see the saliva glinting on the tip of his tongue, behind which the inside of his mouth became a black hole.
'But Two Tree Hill?' said Herman. 'It was nothing! Brother Cafferty could have gone to another abbey. We would have said nothing. That meagre stain would never have followed him.'
'He didn't want to go to another abbey, though, did he? You ruined him. Meagre stain, indeed, you bastard! You tarnished him for life. You painted him with the brush of odium, dipped in a paint pot of ignominy and humiliation. He turned to drink and drugs and gambling. The man I grew to know as my father was a broken man. He'd been decent and honest once, until you killed him. You,' he said, dragging it out again, 'killed him.'
Herman's mouth closed; the hardness returned. This was, by some way, the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Even more ridiculous than Brother Adolphus's explanation on why he'd had a lingerie catalogue under his bed. It would be laughable, if it weren't so serious.
'This is absurd, Brother,' he said, and this time it was he who took a step forward, the knife clutched firmly in his right hand, hidden by the dark and the great swathes of cloak. 'You cannot possibly be committing these murders because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That really would be the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my entire life.'
The killer was offended; furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. 'What do you mean?' he said.
'This,' said Herman, and his left hand gestured through the air, indicating all the murders that had gone before. 'Who in their right mind would commit these atrocities over this? It would be the most futile gesture which could possibly be conceived of. Two Tree Hill was nothing. It was an inconsequential event, on an inconsequential day. Good heavens, it must be almost thirty years ago now.'
'Twenty-seven,' said the killer. 'Twenty-seven.'
'Hah!' barked Herman. Had decided to provoke his man into anger and then take him when he was consumed by wrath, his effectiveness duly diminished.
'You sad little cretin, Brother,' snapped Herman. 'You think that anyone still remembers that day? You think anyone cares? What use is revenge, Brother, when no one knows why you're doing it? What use is revenge, when the reason is so mediocre as to be completely insignificant?'
'Mediocre? Is that what you're saying?'
'Aye, Brother,' said Herman, 'it is.'
'Mediocrity be damned!' said the killer, the voice beginning to strain, a quality of pleading to it.
'All this, and it's for nothing! You pathetic little man!'
One last taunt. It happened, and Brother Herman was proved wrong. The killer's effectiveness had not been diminished by wrath. He was a younger man, he was stronger, he was faster; and while he was being all these things, Herman's knife became entangled in the luxurious and sweeping fabric of his cloak.
The knife pierced mightily the throat of Brother Herman, and he staggered back, his fingers clutching at the warm explosion of blood. He fell heavily against the wall, the eyes stared wildly at his murderer, and then, as he began the slow slide to the floor, his hand finally escaped the prison of his cloak, only for the knife to drop uselessly to the ground.
Herman sat on the floor, eyes staring up at the man who two minutes before he'd thought he could easily take in a fight. On the back foot, that'd been the problem. And deserted by God. And also this: you just never know when you're getting old. That was his one last thought.
Their eyes met in one final wrestling match which somehow Herman managed to win.
His mouth opened as the killer's eyes dropped, and Herman uttered his final words on God's earth.
'He lied to you, son. Your father must have lied.'
***
He could still feel the blood pumping through the veins. A mad, liquid rush – he could feel the pain of it squeezing through confined spaces. Heart racing, chest thumping, head aching, mouth dry, hair standing on end, frantic points of pain jagging his body – the biggest rush he had had yet from murder. Brother Herman. One of the ringleader bastards who had condemned his father to a life of ruin. Brother Herman, the biggest bastard in this place of bastards. Had deserved everything he'd received. The other monks would probably throw a feet-up party when they heard he was dead.
On a high of murderous delirium, the killer almost stumbled into Barney Thomson. Would have done so, had not Barney heard his irregular footfalls coming towards him and hidden behind a pillar at the last minute.
However, the killer sensed something as he came into the small hall, the interconnection of four corridors. The place where Barney Thomson had chosen to make a rendezvous with Detective Sergeant Dip. A curious place for a secret assignation, but Barney Thomson was no conspirator.
The monk stopped, slowed down; he fingered the knife, now thrust into the folds of his cloak, but still warm with blood. Blood that he could taste; and he could smell the presence of another human being. His nose twitched. Someone was watching him, he could feel it; someone lurking in the shadows. He hadn't been followed, he was quite sure of that, so whoever it was would not know the sad fate of Brother Herman.
'Hello?' he said to the empty chamber. 'Who's there?'
No reply, and he began slowly to circle the room. Almost completely dark, but for the bare light of a smouldering fire, itself only minutes away from death.
Barney Thomson hid behind a pillar and waited. He watched the man before him, on the cusp of showing himself. Some of the monks he could trust; some of them he couldn't. Already had the two lists drawn up in his mind. This man was on the A-list. This man he thought would not betray him. Yet something stayed his hand as, all the while, his heart ba-boomed inside his chest, the sweat beaded on his face and he forced his teeth together to stop them chattering. He'd had too much of this in the past year, and this wouldn't be the last time, he thought. Or, then again, it might.
'Hello?' said the killer, and his eyes swept past the pillar behind which Barney hid. Barney sucked his stomach in. The predator kept circling, and all the while Barney grew more uneasy. There was something in the way he moved; and the monk was quickly removed from the A-list. Could this be the killer, he wondered. Who else, apart from himself, would be wandering the corridors at this hour? This was not a part of the monastery where any of the monks needed to go at night; that was why he'd chosen it.
The monk circled; Barney twitched.
'Hello?'
'Hello,' came the reply.
Barney twitched so hard his head banged silently off the stone pillar. He managed to keep his mouth shut as his hand went to the instant bump. He risked a glance round the corner of the pillar. The police. Of course.
The killer stared through the gloom, himself surprised. Sheep Dip had appeared as if from the shadows, and instantly the killer assumed that here was the man who had been watching him for the previous few minutes.
'Good evening,' he said, cool regained, fingers once again clutching the sticky hilt of the knife.
'You're not Barney Thomson,' said Sheep Dip, and was immediately annoyed at himself for mentioning the name.
'Barney Thomson?' said the monk. 'Never heard of him. Not one of the brothers,' he added warily.
'No,' said Sheep Dip. Had to move the conversation on. 'Late to be abroad, is it not, Brother?'
The monk shrugged. 'I couldn't sleep, Sergeant. Too many things going on.'
His mind was racing. Going through all the options. His hand clutched the knife, and that remained his favourite option of all; especially since his blood still fizzed with the rush of the last murder. There were pros and cons to be considered, however. This man before him was no Brother Herman, stupid and slow. This was a sensible policeman, a big man who would be faster than he looked.
'And do you think it's wise to be walking corridors when there's some lunatic on the loose?'
The monk's eyes narrowed. Barney Thomson? Brother Jacob. It made sense. He must be some criminal who was on the run, and who they had tracked to the monastery. They thought that Barney Thomson was the monastery killer, and he only just managed to keep the smile from his face.
'I have God to protect me,' said the monk. They couldn't be that stupid, could they, he thought. The only thing Brother Jacob could kill was conversation.
'God hasn't made a very good job of protecting your brothers,' said Sheep Dip, staring through the gloom at the monk. Something was missing and he didn't realise it. His instinct was gone; he stood before a killer covered in blood, and he didn't see it. Sheep Dip had always had instinct. Now it had been repressed by this house of God.
'This Barney Thomson,' said the monk. 'You think that he's the one who's been doing these terrible things?'
'Barney Thomson? Naw, not him. He's just a feckless idiot. I doubt the man could tie his own shoelaces. Folk like Barney Thomson are what God had left over when he'd finished making snot.'
Barney Thomson bristled; and in any other situation he would seriously have thought about almost doing something.
'So whom do you suspect, then, Sergeant?' said the monk.
The tone of voice, and instantly it hit Sheep Dip. The killer stood before him. Sure as eggs were eggs and the day would die, this was the man they were looking for. What was wrong with his radar that it had taken him two minutes to realise?
The monk saw it in his face. The dawning recognition. Sheep Dip was too surprised to hide it; and instantly the knife in the killer's hand had been freed and he was lunging towards Sheep Dip.
Sheep Dip dived to the side, stumbling. Brain in confused overload. Fumbling for the gun tucked in his back. Kicking himself. He avoided the first lunge and regained his footing. Hand on the butt of the gun, he swept it forward. The killer knew what was coming, knew he had to make one last effort before the gun was upon him.
His knife swept wildly through the air; the blade, dulled by blood, black-red in the emaciated light of the wretched fire; the killer-monk gasping with effort, his head exploding with the outrageous pleasure of the fight.
The Dip
'I know guys are weird, 'n all, but surely it doesn't take half an hour to go to the toilet?'
The listing of dream alternatives had long since expired – too painful to think about – and they had been sitting in silence. Mulholland stared into the fire, which had gradually burned lower. Contemplating the thought that he would have to add more fuel, coming along with the realisation that Sheep Dip had been gone a long time; realisation which he had been doing his best to ignore.
'It takes all kinds of lengths of times,' he said. 'Surely you've read that in a Blitz! article? Why Men Take Ages To Shit. Or Tell the Length of a Man's Cock from How Long He Spends on the Toilet. Or Men and Shit - The Savage Truth.'
'Very funny. You don't think something might have happened to him?'
'Sheep Dip? The Sheepmeister? Mr Dippidy Fucking Idiot-Face? I doubt it,' Mulholland said, while he presumed that Sheep Dip already lay dead, throat slashed, blood everywhere. Felt guilty about being so callous. 'The amount that guy eats, it might well take him half an hour.'
'We should go and look for him,' Proudfoot said, ignoring the ill-humour which she had quite become used to.
'How do you mean that, exactly?'
'How do you think I mean it? We should go and look for him. Something might have happened.'
'Look, it's freezing out there, down those corridors. It's warm in here. He's probably just gone in search of some more food, and if he hasn't, and he's already dead, it's not as if we're going to be able to do anything for him now, is it? Are you
a doctor?'
'Chief Inspector?'
Mulholland rubbed his hand across his face. Looked with yearning once more into the fire.
'God, all right, then. But if we find him sitting on the bog reading a porn mag, I'm going to be pissed off.'
***
Mulholland appeared from the toilet, clutching a candle in his right hand, the jumping shadows mixing with those from the candle of Proudfoot. Proudfoot shivered.
'Well?' she said.
'Now I know how George Michael feels,' he said. 'Anyway, the cupboard is empty. Not a bare arse to be seen, Sheep Dip's or otherwise.'
'So what do you think, then?'
'I think he was lying when he said he was going to the toilet. I think he had other things to do. Some lead he wanted to follow up and not tell us about; some other business with one of the inmates; who knows?'
'So, do we look for him?'
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 20
