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.
'Jesus Christ,' gasped Grooby.
He immediately felt the surge from his stomach, and he turned away and vomited violently into the corner. Goldman sat and rocked and stared and was not concerned with his audience. He was sated, but was content to munch away until he was officially interrupted. Presumed that Grooby would not take that upon himself.
Throwing up indeed! When that idiot Lecter ate flesh, it was chic! It was 90's retro, it was fava-tastic, it was now; it was almost comedic in a BBC sitcom kind of a way. Bastard.
Morty sung along in his head to the song; his own words.
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
Morty is cool.
***
The police arrived in force some twenty minutes later as a result of a desperate call from Grooby. He sat in the hall, propped against a wall, bum going numb. Could see the edge of Goldman's arm through the crack in the open door. Making sure he didn't go anywhere, but without confronting him. Unaware of the death of Ellie Winters upstairs, while Webster rocked back and forth, humming Rocking around the Christmas Tree. Within minutes the house was opened up, Webster was discovered and not a room was left clear of investigation.
Not a trace did they find of the handyman or of young Hertha Berlin. For at least those two people had escaped the night with their worlds intact.
But they still had Hertha Berlin's words on the peculiarity of the group who had gone calling at the church, and so of the twenty-three police officers who turned up in the first wave, four were dispatched to the kirk of the late Reverend Rolanoytez...
***
... where shepherds watched their flocks.
Katie Dillinger lay dead, an arrow in the back. Punctured her lung, and she was gone, gone, gone, joining her husbands in eternal misery, in a very special place.
Mulholland sat cross-legged, quite still. Holding Proudfoot's head in his lap. Constantly talking, encouraging responses from her. Attempting to keep her going until the ambulance arrived. Had never talked so much in all his life, and she smiled occasionally and could barely understand what he was saying.
He held her head, hoped not to cry. Ignored Socrates sitting close by, recently returned from attempting to find a phone. Had discovered all the lines in the area had been cut; the work, he assumed, of Leyman Blizzard; although, as it happened, it had been the afternoon's work of Sammy Gilchrist, who had been intending a little mayhem of his own, before being overtaken by events.
Socrates had searched the manse of the Reverend Rolanoytez for more modern telecommunications equipment, but had found only a 1930s gramophone. That, as well as a large collection of animal traps, several hundred Commercial Off The Shelf (COTS) porn mags, and two bodies. Had decided not to make the trip back up the road to the old house as he suspected things might have become a little too intense. And so he sat, close by, trying not to listen to Mulholland's endless embarrassing chatter. Many words of love, and he cringed at most of them. Men could be such saps for a bird with an arrow in the chest.
Mulholland talked of times past; the first occasion they'd met; her uninterested face; losing his temper, giving into romance, the great breadth of emotion in the thrall of which he had been held. A life in seconds, and then minutes, and on and on. Over an hour they waited before they heard the siren of the police car approaching. Over an hour with the occasional word from Proudfoot, and the faint heartbeat, and gentle gasps of air. And he had hope.
Finally, after all that time, they were approached by Sergeant Barnes, late of Grampian CID. Socrates saw him first. Not traumatised by the uniform like some of the others, and pleased in his way. Had been beginning to think that he really ought to make more of an effort to get to a phone than just walking the fifty yards to the manse.
Mulholland looked up, could say nothing.
'Better get an ambulance, Big Man' said Socrates. 'The lassie's got an arrow in the chest, of all things. Going to ruin her tits if it's not taken out soon. Whacked her napper 'n' all. And she's one of your mob, so you'd better get a shifty.'
Sergeant Barnes quickly bent over Proudfoot to check for himself, then radioed for the ambulance.
Soon the other policemen entered the church. Gallacher, Watson and Torrance, three of the Borders' finest. And they spread out and started to thump their way around the aisles.
'You do this?' said Sergeant Barnes to Socrates.
Socrates shrugged and remained cool.
'Naw, it was some old guy. Buggered off out the back about an hour ago. Long gone by now, I imagine. Long gone.'
Mulholland looked up at the sergeant. Head muddled, no more substance there than the endless stream of consciousness he had been babbling.
'He's right. It was an hour ago or more. He killed the lassie up the top there first, then shot the sergeant.'
Barnes leaned over and took a closer look. One of their own, indeed.
'Nice-looking bird,' he said. 'She still breathing?'
Mulholland glanced up. Proudfoot's eyelids flickered open.
'Aye,' they said in unison, her voice barely audible.
'Right enough,' said Barnes.
Then he stood up and looked around at this bleak place, now illuminated by the dull and mundane electric lights. Looked properly for the first time at the two bodies dangling from the rafters, noticed that the eyes were gone.
Turned away.
'What the fuck were you doing here anyway?' he asked.
Mulholland looked up again. That should have been What the fuck were you doing here anyway, sir? he thought.
'Getting married,' he said. 'That was the plan.'
And he shook his head and looked away from the pale face, drained of blood. But everywhere he looked he saw death, and he could take no comfort from it. Turned back to her, ran his fingers along her brow.
'The ambulance is coming, Erin. You've got to hang in there. Won't be long.'
There was a slight movement in his arms, she lifted her eyes, her lips parted.
'See me,' she said. 'Jade Weapon. Tough as old shite. I'm not dying yet.'
'You better not. If you're Jade Weapon, we've got some amount of shagging still to do.'
The smile stayed on her lips as she let her eyelids close.
'You're on. I'll be Jade Weapon, you can be Buzz Lightyear.'
Mind not quite in gear.
And, as best he could, he held her tightly. And in the dim, dreary distance, the ambulance was diverted from the house to the church, and Sergeant Barnes directed one of his men to cover up the faces of the two hanging bodies.
Socrates watched Mulholland and Proudfoot from a few yards away, eyes narrowed and shaking his head.
'Buzz Lightyear?' he said quietly to himself. 'What in the name of fuck is that all about?'
Epilogue: A Warm Evening In August
A warm evening in August, the handyman did his final rounds. Checking doors were locked, computer terminals switched off, bins free of anything the cleaners ought not to be getting their hands on. It had been two years since Professor McLaurity had left a severed foot in the bucket, but it had been the first thing the handyman had been warned of when he'd arrived.
Not long in the job, but he already felt at home.
Checked the place out at the end of the day and at weekends; a few odd jobs around the building; shared a few cups of tea and the odd burger with the sc
ientists; a few hours a day, and that was all it needed. Ten to twelve in the morning; a couple of hours of his choosing in the afternoon; nipped over from the house at close of play – sometimes after eleven – to check everything had been locked up. Easy. Hertha kept house for Professor Snake, who was about as nice an old man as you could have wished for, and the two of them couldn't have been happier.
The handyman wiped some dust from a laboratory table and made a mental note to check it again the following day after the cleaners had been in. Had to keep them on their toes. Wouldn't find dust like that if Hertha had been cleaning, he thought. And he laughed to himself.
'She sure is a feisty lady,' he said quietly, with a smile.
Hertha Berlin had blossomed. In a whole range of ways.
Still shaking his head and laughing, and already thinking of the night to come, he opened up the door at the end of the laboratory and stuck his head round. Looked at the long line of large jars filled with pink fluid.
They had done a bit of travelling, the handyman and Hertha Berlin. Had gone to all the handyman's old haunts. Memphis, Hawaii, Vegas, a few long, lonely highways. There had been some who'd recognised him, but no one had liked to say. After a few months they had returned to Scotland, had answered an ad in a local newspaper, and had settled down in the employ of the University of St Andrews.
The handyman looked along the line of jars and shook his head.
'There sure is some amount of weird shit going on,' he said. 'Weird goddam shit.'
The innocently titled Department of Human Biology contained many jars, with many body parts kept therein. In formaldehyde, or whatever fluid they could lay their hands on at the time. Limbs, organs, entrails, appendages, brains. They were all there.
The handyman looked into the Brain Room. Jar after jar of human brains. And in particular, since this was in support of Dr Gabriel's fifteen-year study on the physiology of the psychotic mind, the brains of ex-criminals; each jar neatly labelled. Malky Eight Feet. Brendan Buller, the Brechin Bastard. Wee Janice Twinklefingers. Dr Crevice. Captain Nutcruncher. Big Billy One Hand.
And so on the jars went. And right at the end, at eight months the most recent addition to the troupe, in a jar much like any other, the brain of the greatest serial killer that Scotland had ever known.
The brain of Barney Thomson.
The handyman shook his head again and flicked the light switch. Pulled the door closed and turned the key. Moved up to the secondary lock, then threw the dead bolt – as if any of the brains were getting out. Turned the tertiary lock, then locked the four padlocks. Finally zipped round the combination.
The Brain Room was the prized asset of the Department of Human Biology.
The handyman shook his head again and smiled.
'Weird goddam shit,' he said, twiddling the last knob. 'Still,' he added, beginning to walk off, already thinking of the quadruple pork burger with extra fries and mayonnaise which awaited him at home, 'there ain't no way there's any brains gonna get stolen outta that room. No way. There's none a these brains getting stolen and put into some weird goddam Frankenstein monster type a shit. No brains getting taken outta there, no siree. No siree.'
###
The Resurrection Of Barney Thomson
Published by Blasted Heath, 2012
copyright © 2004 Douglas Lindsay
First published in 2004 by Long Midnight Publishing under the title The King Was In His Counting House
Prologue: And The Doughnut Eaters Shall Inherit The Girth
Melanie Honeyfoot's life was conducted to the tunes of children's rhymes and TV themes, which constantly played in her head. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been; Bear In The Big Blue House; Tom & Jerry; To market, to market to buy a fat pig. Whatever seemed most appropriate at the time. She had found herself standing up in parliament arguing the finer points of a finance bill with her irritating opponent from the opposition, to the accompaniment of Winnie the Pooh. And every time she had to sit and listen to the First Minister, one of the old rhymes about kings came to her.
It wasn't that she had any children of her own. She had far too many things to achieve before she sacrificed her political ambitions at the altar of nine months of haemorrhoids, backache, alcohol deprivation, pâté and soft cheese deprivation, Prozac deprivation, chronic fatigue, heartburn, Carpal-tunnel syndrome, the inability to turn over in bed without the help of a crane, 24-hour vomiting and horrendous mental angst, concluding with God knows how many hours of screaming agony, to be swiftly followed by months of sleepless nights and tortured nipples, and years of no end of different types of stress and heartache.
The problem was that she had three brothers and four sisters, all of whom were festooned with children of various ages. All manner of the little buggers, whose company she was constantly forced to keep, and who were interested in her because they saw her on the television every so often, which made her almost on a par with Bob The Builder and Pingu.
She awoke on an unusually warm and sunny Thursday morning in mid-September, having dreamt about Rolie Polie Ollie's Uncle Gizmo. Not unusual in itself, although the sexual nature of the dream had been a little disconcerting. She lay with her eyes closed, Rolie's theme tune playing in her head. Thinking of the day ahead. The mundane drudgery of the boxes in the office that were going to have to be dealt with; the appearance on Scotland Today, something that always had her ridiculously dry-mouthed and weak-kneed; the early meeting with the First Minister, Jesse Longfellow-Moses; the two-minute appearance in front of parliament, all because that spineless little SNP twat wanted to get his own ugly mug on the box.
The meeting with the First Minister was the only item on the list which gave her even the merest ghost of excitement. In the year and three months since his re-election the man had become encumbered by the most insufferable self-importance. Now that they had finally moved into the new parliament building at the bottom of the Royal Mile, and JLM at last had an office that he could truly call his own, his conceit had even started outstripping his criminality. The back benches were rumbling and the muck-raking in the press about JLM, which had been running ever since he'd been elected – infidelity, dodgy-dealing, cronyism – had begun to intensify. The fact that it had started spreading to the cabinet was the really interesting thing.
She was just entering the fifteenth rendition of Rolie's theme, when something made her open her eyes and turn to her left. A slight movement.
She was not alone.
The sudden sight of the shock of black hair was a bit of a kick up the backside of her poise, as she hadn't realised that she'd spent the night in anyone's company. Certainly the previous evening had been very relaxed and suitably alcohol-fuelled, but it wasn't as if she was in the habit of forgetting entire nights of her life.
'Hello,' she said, after the little breath of air had escaped from the back of her throat.
'Morning,' said her bedfellow.
'Did we, eh...?' asked Honeyfoot.
'Have relations?'
Very old fashioned. Honeyfoot nodded. This was absurd. The previous night had seen the usual crew down at Beanscene – ministers, deputy ministers and varying degrees of sycophant – drinking too many vodka mixers, talking interminably about the role of the Executive and JLM's presidential inclinations, and listening to one of those bollock-thumping acoustic acts that Beanscene uncovered in spades. And, as usual, at a little before eleven o'clock, she had left the bar alone. [Honeyfoot imagined that her romantic ambitions lay splattered against the rocks of a) your average man's mistrust of a female politician, and b) the world's obsession with scrawny women. For she was, as they say, no stranger to a doughnut.]
'Yes,' said Honeyfoot, 'relations.'
'No, no relations, although, to be honest, I wouldn't say no if you were to offer.'
Honeyfoot looked away, and glanced at the digital clock. 0639. The morning was bright and the pale summer curtains – the woman in the shop had described their colour as supreme of August beige, as if
they might be something you had served to you with broccoli and sautéed potatoes – barely kept out the light.
'You've spent the night, though?' asked Honeyfoot.
Her guest laughed lightly.
'No, no, you're getting the situation wrong. I've just arrived. I see where you're coming from, though.'
Honeyfoot looked with a little consternation, and pulled the light summer duvet – featuring a design styled pycnidium blue – up closer to her neck. Then she noticed that her visitor was fully clothed.
'Why?' was all she said at first.
'JLM sent me,' came the reply.
'At twenty to seven?'
'Well, he kind of left the timing up to me, you know.'
Honeyfoot was unimpressed. Rolie Polie Ollie had been replaced, for some reason that her mind would not have been able to fathom had she had the time to try, by Hey Diddle-Diddle.
'You couldn't have, like, knocked?' she said. 'And come at least an hour later?'
Her early morning visitor smiled.
'Well, you know, these things are better done at peculiar hours.'
'What things?' said Honeyfoot quickly. She wondered what was coming. JLM bloody well wasn't going to sack her, was he? That would be so typical of the man. She'd supported him all the way and now he was about to do the old Thatcher trick. Keep a constant turnover of government ministers so that no one individual had the chance to get their feet under the table, unless they were completely incompetent and therefore no threat to the seat of power. How many more of the cabinet would be getting these early morning visits? And from the likes of this clown? Who the Hell did JLM think he was?
'The bastard better not be about to fire me,' said Honeyfoot. She felt a bit ridiculous, having this conversation lying naked in bed, the covers at her chin, still a little damp after her Uncle Gizmo-fuelled erotic dream.
'Fire? No, no, not fire. Much too vulgar. Much.'
'What are you saying?' asked Honeyfoot quickly, heart rate increasing, suddenly very concerned, suddenly thinking that this wasn't going to be so ridiculous after all.
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 82
