'You're taking the piss, right?' said Mulholland.
The lined and furrowed brow creased a little more, the old grey head shook.
'I'm only telling you what is being said Chief Inspector, but these are deeply superstitious people you have come amongst. Once you head into Sutherland and Caithness, they're not like you Lowlanders with your English ways and your fancy Channel 5 reception. You must respect them, for only then will they respect you. However, I think if you find anyone who has had contact with this man, they will be reluctant to talk. He is seen by many in these parts to have been wronged.'
'He and his mother murdered eight people!'
'We've all read the papers up here and, for myself, I have read the reports, such as you have deemed to send my way. Clearly the mother was the main culprit, and if he acted to cover up the actions of his sick parent, then should he be judged a criminal?'
They stared at him. Proudfoot saw his point; Mulholland was speechless. This was a police officer he was talking to, not some brain-dead hippie or civil rights activist.
'And how he is hounded by your press,' said McKay. 'Barney Thomson Ate My Goat. Barney Thomson Slaughters Virgin In Sacrifice Blunder. The Congo – It's Thomson's Fault. It's absurd, you must see that. All of it.'
Mulholland rested farther back in the chair. It may have been absurd, the media may have been totally demented and desperate bedfellows of sensationalism, but it didn't mean that Barney Thomson should be excused his crimes, no matter how much had been his mother's doing.
McKay looked uncomfortable, as he shuffled some unnecessary papers on his desk; drummed his fingers, scratched an imaginary itch on his left ear. Breathed deeply enough through his nose that it was almost a snort.
'Anyway, I thought I might assign someone to you to ease your way around.'
'What?'
'Help you out, you know. Show you what's what?'
Mulholland leant forward, white knuckles. McKay stared at a report on his desk: Dolphins – Talk Show Hosts or Talk Show Guests?
'For God's sake! We're not in some foreign country. Their accents might be a bit weird, but we won't need it translated. Jesus, we're not children, we don't need any help!'
McKay lifted his eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a way by a junior officer.
'You will remember your place, Chief Inspector,' he said quietly.
Their eyes clashed and fought some pointless testosterone-laden battle, before Mulholland inched backwards, giving way. Proudfoot watched him from the corner of a narrowed eye. McKay pressed the intercom.
'Send in Sergeant MacPherson, Mrs Staples, please,' he said.
Ah! thought Proudfoot. Another Sergeant MacPherson on the Barney Thomson case, just as before. Must be something in that. No such thing as a coincidence in policing. Or life in general.
The door opened, in he came. Tall, broad-shouldered, kind face. They looked round. Proudfoot liked what she saw, Mulholland thought he recognised him.
'This is Detective Sergeant MacPherson, who'll be working with you. I'm sure he'll be of the greatest assistance.'
He nodded, the two of them returned it, Mulholland grudgingly.
'My name's Gordon,' said MacPherson, Highland accent broader than the Firth, 'but everyone calls me Sheep Dip.'
Proudfoot smiled. I'm not going to ask, thought Mulholland. Turned to the sound of the Chief Constable pushing his chair away from the desk.
'Right then, Chief Inspector, if there's anything else you're needing, you can let me know. Keep us posted, and if there are any activities required to be undertaken in and around any of the towns you visit, perhaps you'd be kind enough to notify the local constabulary. Sergeant MacPherson will no doubt help you out.'
'No bother,' said Sheep Dip.
Brilliant, thought Mulholland. Wondered if he would have to tell them every time he checked into a B&B or put petrol in the car or took a piss.
They stepped outside the office, past Mrs Staples, and then out into the open-plan where the heart of Highland crime detection snoozed the afternoon away. A lost dog in Dingwall. A child stuck up a tree outside Drumnadrochit. A teenager baring his bum in Beauly, that second can of McEwan's his undoing. An accident involving a tractor and a low-flying Tornado on the Strathconon road out of Marybank. Heroin with a street value of £23 million seized on a Russian trawler in the Moray Firth.
A normal day.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt
Barney felt at home. A pair of scissors in his right hand, a comb in his left, a cut-throat razor at his side. No other tools with which to work. Barbery at its most coarse, unfettered by electric razors or blow-dryers or artificial lights. No cape around the victim to squeeze the neck and protect the virgin body from follicular contamination. Barbery as it must have been practised in olden days, when men were men and the earth was flat. Raw, Stone Age barbery, where every snip of the scissors was done by instinct, where every cut was a potential disaster, every clip a walk along a tightrope of calamity, every hew a cleave into the kernel of the collective human id. Barbery without a safety net. Barbery to put fear into the breast of the bravest knight, to quail the heart of the stoutest king. A duel with the Satan of pre-modernism, where strength became artistry and genius the episcopacy of fate. Total barbery; naked, bloody stripped of artifice.
'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 out 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 o
dd 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.'
The Barbershop Seven Page 27
