Mulholland nodded. 'So you're hitting the sauce, Barney?'
Barney stared into the headlights. Eventually said, 'Aye, aye. You know how it is. Bit of a strain all that monastery stuff.'
'Know what you mean,' said Mulholland. 'Downed a few quintuples myself in the last year.'
'So what are you doing down here, then?' asked Barney.
The door opened and in came Hertha Berlin, almost unnaturally quickly. As if she'd been expecting to serve tea for two. She breezed through the lounge and set the tray down on the table. Tea, milk, sugar and a variety of cakes and biscuits that the handyman – who was currently devouring a double giant extra jumbo whopper burger with chips, down in the heart of the kitchen – had forgotten to eat.
'Thanks a lot,' said Proudfoot. Vaguely suspicious of the whole set-up, including Hertha Berlin. Would still drink the tea, however.
There was an odd sucking noise from the happy couple, Bing moved on to It came upon a midnight clear, and Berlin strode purposefully from the room.
'We quit,' said Mulholland. 'Well, I quit. Not certain that Proudfoot has completely made her mind up yet.'
Swung her a look.
'Sure I have,' she said.
'Oh,' said Barney. Sammy Gilchrist raised an eyebrow. Didn't believe it.
'And we're going to get married.'
'Oh,' said Barney. 'I thought you two were shagging, right enough.'
'Congratulations,' said Dillinger, still eyeing them with a degree of suspicion. Ex-polis, that explained a thing or two. Still, you couldn't trust them even when they were dead, never mind just because they'd retired. She should know; she'd been married to one. Until she'd killed him.
'Thanks,' said Mulholland.
'When's the big date?' Dillinger asked.
Mulholland took the cup of tea that Proudfoot thrust into his hand, then looked at his watch.
'Tonight,' he said. 'In just over an hour.'
The others looked at the clock on the mantelshelf.
'You're getting married at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night?' said Dillinger.
Barney got the strange sensation of a colony of bugs marching up his back; he shivered and stared at the floor. You don't get married at eleven o'clock on a Sunday evening. This had to be wrong. It was bizarre, unnatural, and you'd think they'd realize. Or was he only feeling this because he himself was on edge?
Mulholland shrugged; Proudfoot smiled from behind her cup. Young and in love; and not thinking very clearly.
'Aye,' said Mulholland, 'it's a bit daft, but you have to grasp these moments. We'll tell you about it on the way.'
'What do you mean?' said Barney and Dillinger in harmonic unison. The perfect couple.
'We're getting married at a church a mile or two down the road. Don't have all the paperwork and all that, but we're going to do the religious part and then get the paperwork sorted out next week. The minister's a bit odd, but enthusiastic. A lovely man. All we need are a couple of witnesses.'
Mulholland cast a glance around the room, and through to the snooker table. Just how insane was this whole thing going to get?
Getting married on a whim? Not entirely unreasonable. If he hadn't gone off his napper six months ago, he and Proudfoot would have been together for a year by now, and might well have been married already. But Barney Thomson as a witness? Just how insane was that? And he looked at the two lovers in front of the fire, and knew he was getting nowhere with either of them. Another glance at the suspicious characters in the snooker room. Looked at Barney and shrugged.
Barney shook his head. For the first time in his life his brain moved quickly and everything fell into place. Like a punch from the 60's Ali, like a twenty-mile-wide meteor in the face, like a thunderbolt from the gods fired from on high, it hit him. A church, late at night, this strange company he kept.
He'd been wondering all along what the dream meant and what events could possibly lead to it having some sort of significance. And here he was in a strange old house, with a collection of murderers and psychotics, and now two punch-drunk ex-police officers; and they were taking him off to a church in the middle of the night.
This was it for him. And his face began to lose colour as the others stared at him; the smile that had come with the suggestion, dying on Dillinger's face as she watched. And the thoughts worked themselves out and clarified themselves, and he made his decision. If this was the way things were planned out, then there was nothing else to do but to walk headlong into those plans. Running and avoiding would only delay the inevitable.
'What?' asked Mulholland, having watched the thoughts run and gather in Barney's head.
'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing. You two sure about this? You want the greatest serial killer ever to walk the planet to be a witness at your wedding?'
Mulholland laughed.
'Come on, Barney. If anyone other than you knows that all the stuff in the papers is nonsense, it's us. You're a big jessie.'
Barney laughed sadly and shook his head. A life less bloody ordinary than this had anyone ever known? Weird as damn fuck, right to the end. If the end this was to be.
'How d'you meet the minister?' he asked 'When did you decide to get married? What's the story?' For they could not surely just be getting married to suit his dreams. They could not have been sent to the monastery in search of him a year ago to end up at this moment. A pishing wet, bleak Sunday in Advent, surrounded by all sorts of psychopaths and ne'er-do-wells.
'No time for the Spanish Inquisition, my friend,' said Mulholland. 'To be honest, and I think I speak for us both, we're a bit fucked up, but we've decided to go for it. Seizing the blinking day and all that. Never been a better reason to get married. You coming? We'll tell you everything, such as it is, on the way there.'
Barney stared back. What were his options? Accept his fate, and at least approach it head on, eyes open – even if he didn't know exactly what he was looking for – or stay here with the merry band of thugs in this house of demons.
He shrugged, attempting an air of lightness he did not feel. It was time to face the nameless fear and to accept his fate. A brave man. It was not as if he had run from it these past few weeks; he had merely been waiting for it to show its hand. And now it awaited him, poised like a coiled snake, to strike him down.
'Count me in,' he said. 'I owe you.'
'Thanks,' said Mulholland. 'Appreciate it, mate.' Then he turned to Dillinger and shrugged at her. 'Sorry, ma'am, don't know your name. What d'you think? Don't really want to split up the happy couple,' he added, nodding in the direction of the Winters/Webster combo, slobbering away in phallic envy.
Dillinger swallowed and looked around the lounge. Bing trudged wearily into another bloody Christmas number; the fire waned; the tree sparkled, the lesbians snuggled on the floor, oblivious to everything, and everyone else was gone. In previous years the second night had been a riotous party – copious drinking, mad dancing, laughter, arguments, ebullience, games, idiocy, joie de vivre. A party, and a bloody good and noisy one at that, regardless of the low numbers. But this? It seemed almost to be admitting defeat to walk out on the evening, but then who was left? Of the other ten, Barney was about to go, three were missing, four had retired to the snooker room, and the two women had very definitely nailed their passion to the bedpost for the night.
She could join the men in the snooker room, but somehow it all seemed so pointless. And as she stood and looked around this depleted room, she considered that perhaps she was looking at the end of the Murderers Anonymous group she had run for over ten years.
'Aye, all right,' she said. 'I'd like that. Haven't been to a wedding in years.'
Mulholland swigged his tea; still too hot for such violent swallowing, and it burned his tongue.
'Brilliant,' he said. 'It's all coming together. We should get going, mind you. Don't want to keep the minister waiting. And it'll give us less chance to change our minds.'
Barney swallowed. His life awaited. No time for second thoughts
, no time now for repentance. He must face what the future had to offer him. Katie Dillinger bowed her head in similar resignation. This group she had fought so long to keep together had fallen apart before her eyes in just a few short hours. She intended to be back that night, but somehow it felt as if she was walking away forever.
'I'll get my coat,' she said. A voice of melancholy, that Mulholland could read despite the strange mental fugue by which he'd been afflicted. He stopped her with a touch to the arm; had no idea of the thoughts and regrets coursing through her head.
'We appreciate it,' he said. And she half smiled, turned and walked slowly from the room.
They watched her go in curious solemnity, her mood communicated to both Mulholland and Proudfoot. A check on their good humour. The weight of the night fell upon them and they shared the gloom of Barney and of Katie Dillinger and of the house.
'Is there a bathroom I can use?' asked Proudfoot, staring at the floor, the rich warmth of the carpet.
'Out there, second door on the left,' said Barney, before Mulholland could ask how the hell he was supposed to know whether or not there was a bathroom.
This time they both watched Proudfoot go; small steps; she was tired. Fingers moving on her left hand, head down. Beautiful, even from behind, Mrs Rolanoytez's coat too large and old for her, dragging damply on the floor.
'When did you decide to get married, then?' asked Barney, beginning to walk towards the hall in search of his own coat.
'Last night,' said Mulholland.
'Right,' said Barney. 'Stunning.'
Couldn't think of anything else to say. Mind on other things, his brain pulled in a hundred different directions; yet all of them down.
'So why did you try to hand yourself in?' asked Mulholland. 'We let you go, for God's sake. What was the problem?'
Barney shook his head as they passed out into the hall. Behind them, one of Annie Webster's eyes flicked open to watch them go. She followed them out of the room, then closed it again and delved back into the amorous arms of Ellie Winters.
Annie had relationship issues that could usually only be resolved with a knife.
'Couldn't hack it,' said Barney, reaching for his coat. 'Just couldn't settle anywhere. Went from place to place, but nowhere seemed to be for me. So eventually, I just thought, bugger this, I can't run all my life. Decided to come back to Glasgow and hand myself in. Course, I gets back here and no bastard wants me. They all think I'm an impostor. So, what the hell, eh? It's not like I give a shite after all I've been through.'
Dillinger appeared beside them, coat buttoned, face heavy. About to walk out on the herd. Desert the sinking ship. Get a transfer to Rangers just before your team gets relegated.
'We ready?' she said.
Mulholland was still staring at Barney, thinking about what he'd said. Because what had he just created for himself but a life such as the one that Barney had turned his back on? They were different people, certainly, but perhaps the results would be the same. He imagined he could just walk away from life, and that his days would somehow be filled, but what if every life needed structure? What if his life needed structure? Would he find himself turning up at Maryhill police station in ten months' time asking for his job back? And would they look at him and ask who he was?
'Just waiting for Proudfoot,' he said.
He was getting married. That would give him some purpose. And the doubts set in, and he wondered.
He stared at the floor, the rich tapestry of a 60's brown-and-orange carpet. A hideous carpet. The 60's and 70's had a lot to answer for, he thought, as he let his mind wander off in positive distraction.
Footsteps. Les trois misérables raised their heads and stared at Socrates McCartney. Shaggy and smiling.
'Did I hear youse say there's going be a wedding?' he said.
Mulholland nodded. 'Aye.'
'Right,' said Socrates. 'Stoatir. Don't mind if I join youse? I love weddings. Think it's got something to do with the fact that I made such a bollocks of my own.'
Mulholland looked at him and did the shoulder thing.
'Sure,' he said. 'Don't suppose it can get any weirder than it already is.'
***
Proudfoot washed her hands and stared into the mirror. She could see the tiredness in her face, the beginnings of lines and wrinkles which she would never lose. Used to be beautiful, that's what she told herself these days, although she'd never thought it at the time. The first sign of grey in her fringe, and the now common signs of defeat and depression in her eyes.
She had lived her life not knowing what she wanted, and it had never seemed a problem before. This last year had brought it out into the open, however. Here she was, drifting aimlessly. The odd pointless affair, the continuing pointless job. And now, to be married.
She swallowed, splashed more water on her cheeks, then looked at her dripping face in the mirror. Where did you go, Erin Proudfoot?
And although it was within the line of sight of the mirror, she was so suddenly gripped by a peculiar sorrow that she did not notice the tiny panel in the bathroom wall pushed back into place.
Her husband-to-be awaited. And so she reached for the towel, dried her face, then spent another few seconds looking into the eyes that once she'd known. It was time to start the rest of her life. And all she had to do was shake off the burden of melancholy and she could be happy...
And the figure who had watched her these last couple of minutes in the bathroom, who had gazed eagerly upon the soft white skin of her legs, who had licked his lips in anticipation and hunger, who had recognized her for the police officer that she was, made his way slowly down the secret passageway that ran throughout the house. And he smiled, and his tongue twitched, and he tightly gripped the knife in his right hand, and already thought he could taste the blood.
For he was about to make his move.
The Sorrow Of Hertha Berlin
'I tell ya, honey, if there's one thing gets up my ass, it's milk floats.'
Hertha Berlin walked in on the handyman, up to his eyes in food and drink. Shovelling away the remains of the day's repasts. A small dollop of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth and a milk moustache. He took another large bite from his sausage burger and pointed the glass of milk at Berlin.
'You're looking way too serious, honey. Come and sit yourself down and I'll talk to you about milk floats.'
'There's something going on,' she said 'Something serious.'
He took another large bite, even though his mouth was still full.
'Sure there is, honey, and it's me eating my supper. Come and join me. Put your feet up.'
She shook her head and started to fuss around the room. Something to tell him with which he was not going to be too pleased. Should have discussed it with him before she'd done it, but she knew he would have talked her out of it. Had to be done though. Just had to be.
'Something serious with that lot up by,' she said. 'There's something funny going on.'
'Thing is,' he said, spraying a couple of small pieces of tomato onto the table, 'they obviously just don't spend money on milk float technology in this country. Here we are, the beginning of the third goddam millennium, and we've done all sorts of different shit. There's been men on the moon, there's digital TV, there's electric toothbrushes – hell, they're even cloning goddam pigs, for Chrissake – but we still can't get a milk float to safely convey five hundred pints of the stuff quicker than fifty goddam yards every three days. Those damned things just clog up the roads. Pain in the ass.'
'I really ought to tell you something.'
'Course, it's not really the technological aspects of it that's the problem. In the States they've got milk floats can do nought to sixty in under three seconds, without breaking a bottle. The problem is, you people are too damned interested in saving money. That's all you're about.'
Hertha Berlin had started pacing; biting her bottom lip, rubbing her thumb into the palm of her hand. The handyman bit massively into another burger, even t
hough he hadn't finished the one he still had bits of in his mouth.
'You're no' listening to me,' she said, no longer looking at him. On the other side of the kitchen, staring at the cold stone floor.
'Sure I'm listening, honey. I'm just not interested. Those folks upstairs can just keep themselves to themselves far as I'm concerned. I'm talking about milk floats, baby. You see, you can tell a lot about a country from their milk floats ...'
'Would you listen!' she suddenly snapped. Tongue like a snake, zipping out. Eyes blazing, with fear and worry as well as annoyance. He did go on sometimes, her handyman. Her glorious, wonderful handyman.
The glorious, wonderful handyman giggled. Showed the pieces of burger bun stuck to his teeth.
'Sounds like you must be menstruating, honey. Thought you were too old for all that shit. Obviously everything's still in fine working fettle, eh? What d'ya say, honey?'
'I've called the police,' she said quickly, just to get it out. Let the words out into the open and braced herself for the reaction. Should have discussed it before I did it, she thought, and repeated the phrase over and over in her head.
He paused, ninety per cent eaten burger in one hand, twenty-three per cent eaten burger in the other. A soggy cornflake – Berlin knew that the handyman liked all kinds of things in his burgers – dropped from his mouth and onto the table. Some strange liquid concoction that he was intending for his late supper came to the boil on the huge old Aga which steamed away in the corner.
'What? You're kidding me. You called the Feds? Why the damned screaming children of Moses did you call the Feds? You know what you've done? We can't have the damn Feds all over the joint.' He stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. Stretched his hands out in appeal to her, a burger in each.
'I had to. There's something not right, you know?' she said, voice pleading.
'What? What's not right? What are you saying, honey? You called the Feds and said “Excuse me, there's something not quite right, can you send a SWAT team?” You said that? What?'
'Surely you can see it. They're a funny bunch and no mistake. Three of them have gone missing, you know that? I mean, why come all the way down here from the Big Smoke, and then not eat your dinner?'
The Barbershop Seven Page 77
