Murderers Anonymous

by Douglas Lindsay

  He ought to pack up his troubles, go to bed, then make a move first thing in the morning. He belonged back in his studio flat in Greenock, or sitting with Leyman in the pub. A lonely Christmas, and then back to work and he could slide easily into his box and stay there till he died.

  Romance wasn't for men like Barney Thomson. Never had been, never would be. Loneliness, unhappiness and cold fish suppers on windblown promenades, that was his lot in life.

  It was his place to give other men the haircuts that helped them go out and get women. He was a giver. A provider. He was a slave to the demands of others; the polemic that drove the male soul. He was Kirk Douglas in Spartacus. He was Geordi La Forge in Roots. He was the downtrodden, the browbeaten, the subjugated, the depressed and the demoralised. He was India before independence. He was Russia under Stalin. He was thinking such a load of pish.

  Time for bed; and to get away from this torture.

  He rose slowly, wandered around to the small group. Might as well say goodnight to the instrument of his torment. Glanced at the old clock on the even older mantelshelf. Almost one o'clock. He had suffered this agony for nearly four hours since dinner. Time to put himself out of his misery, because no one else was showing any sign of leaving. This could turn out to be a very long night, and it was the last place he wanted to be.

  'I'm off, then,' he said, standing above the select group of three women. 'Feeling a bit tired, you know.'

  They looked up at him, mid-giggle. Drunk, all three.

  'Barney!' said Dillinger. 'Don't be daft. We're just getting going. Why don't you stay?'

  This plea was accompanied by the requisite giggle from Winters.

  Barney hesitated; but he was not stupid. He could tell the discolouring effects of alcohol from several yards off. He would have loved her to mean it, but he was not seventeen. He knew that to stay was just to subject himself to more torture.

  'It's all right, I'll just go to bed, thanks. It's late.'

  He ignored the giggling Winters; smiled at Dillinger. A resigned I would've liked to have slept with you but I know I can't compete with Arnie Medlock, so I'll just go to bed myself and leave you to it smile. And suddenly Dillinger looked a little more serious and returned the smile. A compassionate if you're sure you have to go to bed then OK, but really I understand, because frankly, Barney, even though I think you're a nice enough bloke, I wouldn't touch you with a stick, you've got to understand that, and besides, Arnie's hung like a donkey smile.

  He departed. Caught Arnie Medlock's eye on the way out, and did his best to return the goodnight. Closed the door behind him, and now he was alone in the great hallway of the house. Sudden quiet, the chatter distant. Grand stairs leading away to his right; enormous paintings hung randomly – a harvest table, laden with food; two wild dogs feasting on a felled sheep; a large faded port scene, with acres of greeny-blue water and few boats. And he climbed the stairs. Faded red carpet with brown pattern.

  Arnie was a nice enough bloke, he could see that. It was just jealousy playing its demonic part which was turning him against the man. But truth be told, none of these people were for him, and this group was not for him. It was time for him to go the way of the other two Barney Thomsons they'd had that year and move quietly on.

  A floorboard creaked beneath his feet and he shivered at the sound. And from the shiver, induced by a sound of his own making, he suddenly got the sensation of where he was, with whom he was. In a large, old, creepy house, where everyone was a murderer.

  He swivelled quickly, and did not know where it came from, but suddenly the vision of the old church was in front of him. Silence but for the wind. The cleric on his knees. The one-eyed, bloodied sheep. The hand at his shoulder. Cold. A touch running along his back.

  He turned hurriedly, looked back up the stairs. Straight into the eyes of an old painting; a maid, high white collar, hands folded in her lap, on a rocking chair. It seemed to move.

  The vision of the church was gone, and once again he could hear the sounds of chatter and laughter from the billiards room. He started to climb the stairs again, past the old maid, who watched him go. It was dark at the top, and he still had to get to the second floor.

  He wondered if the old housekeeper slept up here, or if there were old-fashioned servants' quarters down below.

  Stopped as he reached the top of the stairs and stood on the first-floor hallway. Looked along the long passageway, the ends of it disappearing into darkness. Not sure who was sleeping where, but knew that Dillinger was on his floor.

  And so what about that?

  He shivered again, and started to make his way to the second floor. Looked up, and could see nothing at the top. A tentative climb, past pictures of stern figures in seventeenth-century dress. Hunters and officers and ladies with their hands neatly folded in front of them. They watched him go.

  A floorboard creaked. Not from Barney's foot. He stopped at the halfway point; swallowed and did not breathe. Waiting for another sound; his heart thumped. He waited for it to come again. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and he could see into corners. Ornaments on tables. Old carvings and faces of evil.

  Another sound, this time a definite movement from below. A swish of a footstep along a carpet. Then nothing. He had to exhale, drew another breath

  Looked behind him, but he was sure that no one had followed him out. And the sound had come from along the corridor. Probably the old housekeeper. Going to the bathroom. Something like that.

  The unknown. That was something to be afraid of. That was what the customer in the shop had said, and he'd been right. Barney climbed the stairs to the next level, determined now not to look back. That was the classic fault they always made in films. Walking one way, looking behind them, and when they turned, thwack, they had a serial killer in the face, and they were Shreddies.

  He arrived at his floor; the stairs leading farther on to a horribly dark third floor. Now definitely aware that there was someone below. He could feel it and the sensation was growing. As in his dream. The sure knowledge that something is behind you. He looked along the dark corridor of the second floor. His room right at the end.

  He needed to go to the bathroom first, but he just wanted to get into his room, turn the light on and lock the door.

  Another noise from down below, another sliver of sound, and this time he was drawn to look. Nothing. The dead eyes of ancestors looked mournfully up at him and wondered at his concern. He turned back, half expecting to find a killer in front of him. The passageway extended before him, sullen and menacing.

  Eyes ever more accustomed, he set out. Past old, warped mirrors, into which he dared not look. Paintings of battles at sea and horses on the hoof; men at arms and women with their hands folded neatly in their laps. The sensation of someone at his shoulder - which had gone with the quick look round - now returned and began to follow him along the corridor. Head down, he dared not look back. Imagination running riot. Saw no demons behind him; just killers and their contorted faces and their knives.

  Couldn't tell what he was running from. Substance or imagination? He had faced killers, he had seen some horrible things. But this was real evil he imagined; the evil of his dreams.

  And now the noise behind him was constant, a shuffling along the old carpet. Barney walked past paintings of angels, past an old ottoman, past a straight-backed chair, in which someone must have sat long ago, the cover worn.

  He waited for his name to be spoken. To find out the truth of it; one of the others toying with him, a demon, or something worse. A shuffle, footsteps on the carpet, thought he could hear breathing. Key already in his hand, regretting that he'd locked the door. Heart hammering, head muddled, stomach gripped, almost in a run. Got to the door, started to hum some bizarre tune to cover up the sound. Brazil. Key fuddled in the lock. Daaaaaah, dee-dah-dee-dah-dee-dah-dee-daaaaaah.

  The noise from behind stopped. The key clicked in the lock. Not for a second did he think to look round, and he was in the room. Ligh
t on, the door slammed shut, the key fumbled back into the lock and turned. A brief moment of exhausted exhalation, then a look around the room to see what lay in wait for him. Another classic of the movies.

  And the room dully stared back at him, the centre light dimmed by the dusty cotton shade. Pale pink, ornate bedspread, dull paintings of animals and men at supper on the walls.

  He could still feel it outside. Something. A presence. He backed away from the door into the centre of the room, then looked around, found the wall lights, and went around the room putting them all on. As much light as possible. Imagination still running riot, feasting on his uncertainty and renewed lack of confidence.

  It was waiting for him. Something out there; something malevolent. Something even worse than the roomful of killers downstairs.

  He checked under the bed, then took the large comfy chair and moved it into the centre of the room, from where he could see the door and the window. And into this he sank, wide awake, regretting that he had ever come here; but for the first time in several hours, not obsessing on Katie Dillinger.

  For there was something else to think about. Something strange, something evil.

  The Sixth Bottle

  'I bet your house is crap anyway.'

  Mulholland looked around at Proudfoot's red lips, before allowing his gaze to drift down to her breasts. Suffering from the effects of an on-going eleven cups of wine. A light, fruity Australian; exuberant, polished, friendly and clean-shaven, with a hint of strawberry and subtle undertones of kerosene and the fourth series of Blackadder. Proudfoot was only marginally behind, as she downed her ninth cup, and filled it up again with the remainder of their fifth bottle. Enjoying the attentions of his eyes; wondering vaguely what would happen next, when knowing full well that neither of them was so much as capable of removing their clothes.

  Three o'clock in the morning. Sitting in a cold car outside the seventeenth-century mansion that was home for the weekend to the Murderers Anonymous Bearsden chapter. They had stopped off in Jedburgh for some supplies on the way in, just to take longer and to annoy Crammond even more. (Crammond's annoyance ameliorated by the presence of a DCI.) All that had been open was an off-licence. Mulholland hadn't been able to decide whether to buy one or two bottles of wine, so had bought five.

  And so they sat outside the house in the middle of the night. Would have been as well finding a B&B, but both avoided making the suggestion. Hardly likely that Annie Webster would be going anywhere now; and if she had, neither of them would have been in any state to drive after her.

  'We could always have movie sex,' said Proudfoot, before Mulholland's fudged brain could get round to objecting to the previous remark.

  'Sex?' he said. 'What?'

  She took another long draw from the cup. The wine, she had to admit, had been tasting bitter these last few cups, but somehow, at three o'clock in the morning, it didn't seem to matter.

  'I was just sitting here thinking, well, I'm feeling quite horny and you're looking at my breasts.'

  'I'm not looking at your breasts.'

  'You're looking at my breasts.'

  'I am not!'

  'You are absolutely looking at my breasts. Look, you're doing it now.'

  'No way!' he said, gesturing wildly, looking at her breasts.

  'Sure you are. Anyway, I was just thinking, I could do with a shag. But then I thought, bugger it, look at the state of us, we couldn't even get our clothes off, never mind manoeuvre into the back seat, never mind actually, you know, fuck.' A pause. Mulholland looked at her in that distractedly perplexed way of the utterly pissed. 'See what I mean?' she said.

  'Haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

  'Movie sex. You know in movies when they're in a fully-clothed clinch, and then the next thing you know, boom!, they're shagging. No one's taken any clothes off, there's been no fumbling around to find the right hole, 'cause you know, we've got seven or eight of them down there. It's just straight in there and off they go.'

  'What?'

  'Movie sex. And it's worse at the end. When do you ever see someone go to the bathroom after movie sex? They just roll apart and nod off, or both immediately pull their clothes on. What's going on? Either the guy's got a dripping condom to get shot of, or the bird's got a pint of the stuff cascading down her thigh. See what I mean?'

  'I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,' he said, reaching for the empty bottle and tipping the last few drops into his cup. 'But I do get the impression you're being a bit vulgar. You must be drunk.'

  'So are you. Which is why we can't have real sex.'

  'I'm not looking at your breasts.'

  'I didn't even mention my breasts.'

  'Anyway,' he said, last of the wine into his mouth, 'you're getting away from the main issue, which is that you're trying to change me already. It was inevitable.'

  'What?'

  Proudfoot started looking around the back seat for the sixth bottle, which she'd been sure Mulholland had mentioned, but which she'd never actually seen.

  'That remark about the house,' he said. 'I bet it's a crap house. We only decided to get married two minutes ago and already you want to change my way of life. It was itterly unevitable.'

  'You're definitely pissed.'

  'Whatever,' he said, waving an explanatory hand. 'You're all the same, you birds. Get your hook into a bloke and you're off. Change that, change the next thing. Get a new house, ditch all your mates, can't go to the pub any more, get a nose job, start wearing different clothes, don't like your motor, disown your relatives, change your job, don't shave so often, you're not shaving often enough, blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-blah. Change this, change that, watching too much footie on the telly. You're all the same. Bloody bastards. Go to the toilet, get the shopping, do fucking the next thing.'

  'And you're not bitter about your divorce?'

  'Lose weight, clean the motor out more often, don't drive so fast, can't go fishing any more, on and on and on and on and on. You're all the same.'

  She turned her back on him, and leant further into the back seat area, searching among the empties for the sixth bottle.

  'What're you doing?'

  'Looking for the sixth bottle,' she snapped back at the tone.

  'There is no sixth bottle.'

  'You said you bought six!'

  He held his hands out.

  'See? See what I mean? Now you're even changing what I said in the past. You're Stalin. Simple as that.'

  'Oh, shut up,' she said. She turned back and slumped down into the seat. Pulled her jacket more tightly around her. 'You don't half talk some amount of shite, you.'

  'I won't stand for this,' he said, sitting where he was, numb from the waist down. And up.

  'Look, why would I change you?' she said. 'You don't have any mates to give up, your family are all dead, you're way too ugly for a nose job to make any difference, you don't have a TV, and I don't give a toss about all that other stuff. So shut up and stop talking shite.'

  He stared through the darkness and the intoxicating effects of two and a half litres of wine.

  'Fuck,' he said, before attempting to get another microlitre of fluid from the cup. 'You must really love me.'

  She shook her head and yawned. Suddenly felt very tired and very drunk. Late at night, surrounded by empty bottles, and cold and darkness. The burst of energy in search of the mythical sixth bottle having completely drained her.

  'Like I said, you're full of shite,' she said.

  'And you've got brilliant tits. Can I get a shot of them some time?'

  The words 'I don't think they'd fit you' had not quite escaped her mouth and Mulholland had collapsed into a heap on the steering wheel. She smiled at something, although she wouldn't have been able to explain what, then reached out and touched his hair. Laid her arm on the dashboard, rested her head upon it, and within ten seconds had joined him in sleep.

  ***

  Three o'clock in the morning. The revelry over for the night
. Strangely Barney had set the tone and the others had drifted off to bed in his wake. They had gone in ones and twos, but even the twos had split up when the upper floors had been reached, and tonight all these people slept alone.

  A few disappointed souls, but there remained ample time to jostle for position the next day. And, of course, one more night, when deeds would be done, agendas set and promises kept or broken.

  Arnie Medlock had been the most disappointed of the lot, having considered his union with Katie Dillinger inevitable. But she had made her excuses, and he had been left alone; as alone as the others. Death and taxes, he had ruefully mumbled to himself, on finally retiring to his room. But it was not somewhere he hadn't been before, and he was confident of the following night's success. Disappointed, yet sanguine, Arnie Medlock.

  And so the house slept. Most in their beds, Barney in his chair, from where he could watch the door and the window. But not, however, the secret door built into the wood panelling beside the bed.

  The house slept, but for one. A lone figure, walking through the dark. Along corridors, searching out secret doors, down dark passageways. Never been here before, but a long night of searching had revealed every hidden doorway, every hidden passage, every concealed flight of steps or alcove, every area of the house blocked off for some clandestine use more than three hundred years previously.

  Eyes adjusted, he visited each of the bedrooms in turn. Did not know into whose room he was about to walk until he was there; then he stood over the bed and watched the breathing of every potential victim. And none awoke to him. None conceded to a sixth sense.

  He let the tip of his finger run along the cheek of Katie Dillinger; he touched the hair of Annie Webster and considered that at another time he might have had a chance with her; might even have forced her. He gently kissed the lips of Ellie Winters, and she stirred and tasted the night air, then shuffled in her sleep, and ended up all the way over on her other side. And he watched her for a further fifteen minutes, hand always on the knife in his jacket pocket, before he left, to follow another directionless passage.