'It sure is a misty night,' he said loudly into the fog.
Frankenstein, Proudfoot and Barney Thomson came running into view, unavoidably surprised by the sudden intervention of MI6. They crashed to a halt, out of breath.
'Fuck me,' said Frankenstein. 'That scream?' he added quickly, not wanting to get into any amiable discussion about the weather.
'It came from just up ahead,' said Deirdre.
'I won't ask what you freaks are doing out here,' said Frankenstein. 'Come on.'
He took off, and they charged full-tilt into the mist. Not far and they were at the bottom end of Cardiff Street, just down the road from the bar, although the Incidental Mermaid remained well out of sight.
'Barney?' said Frankenstein.
Barney stared into the mist. Still thick and clawing. Perhaps that was the worst thing on this dreadful evening. He had seen death before. He had seen so much blood, so many dismembered limbs, he had become anaesthetized to it. But this mist, this fog which so enshrouded them, it seemed that even though they were outside, they were encased in a walking coffin. No escape. The only way to be able to see further than a few feet was to go indoors, and when they'd done that there had been blood and death. As there inevitably would be the next place they entered.
'The pub up the road,' said Barney. Gut instinct. 'The Mermaid.'
He looked around the group, waiting for some contradiction perhaps, and then he pushed on into the fog. Up the road fifty, seventy yards, and the dark frontage of the Mermaid appeared out of the gloom in front of them. The door was ajar.
Away to their left Fyodor Dostoevsky ran up the hill, the sound already lost in the fog. Barney turned, made sure the full assembly was behind him, gave Frankenstein a look which said to expect more of what they had seen in Deadman's Café, and then he pushed the door fully open and walked into the chill of the pub, the others piling in behind them.
The body of Kent Carrington lay slumped over the bar, his severed head placed on the counter beside him. His eyes were still wide open in fear, his lips drawn back.
'Fuck,' muttered Frankenstein.
Barney walked over to the bar. Proudfoot held her head in her hands, the turmoil boiling inside her. She needed to breathe. She needed space, but she was experiencing the same feeling of complete entrapment, of being incarcerated in a deep, dark cave.
'Jeepers!' said Deirdre.
'It sure looks like he's had a spot of trouble,' said Fred. 'Come on girls, let's look for clues.'
Proudfoot leant her head against the wall, back turned. Barney looked at the blood spattered wall of the bar, red marks in an arc that would have been familiar to him had he seen any of the earlier victims, across the bottles and glasses and peanuts and other savoury snacks. No message written on the wall this time, but perhaps the killer had known how close behind they were. No time.
Frankenstein noticed the prone figure on the floor, walked over quickly. The head still attached, he knew instantly that this person would not be dead.
Turned the head round. Semester.
'Fuck,' he muttered again. Bent over him, listened to the heart beat. He slapped Semester's face a couple of times, a very slight reaction.
'Barney!' he called. 'Whisky, get me some whisky.'
Barney looked down at the prone figure, and then walked hurriedly round the bar, stepping on blood, not caring about this dreadful scene of carnage, and grabbed a bottle of Teachers.
'Chief Inspector,' he said. Frankenstein looked up and Barney under-armed the bottle perfectly into his outstretched hand.
'Good throw!' said Deirdre. 'Have you guys ever played slow pitch softball?'
Frankenstein sat Semester's head on his knee, poured whisky into the cap, then dabbed some around his nose and gently poured a little onto his lips and into his mouth.
'This shite'll wake anybody up,' he muttered.
A second or two, a cough, and then Semester was choking and spluttering, forcing himself to sit up. Frankenstein thumped him on the back, Semester pulled himself away from the detective and dragged himself up onto his knees. He looked at Frankenstein, the horror of his last waking moment still on his face, then down at the bottle of Teachers in Frankenstein's hands.
'Christ, did you have to?' he asked.
'You all right?' said Frankenstein.
'Aye,' said Semester. 'Where's the barman?' And he looked past Frankenstein and Deirdre and saw the slumped, decapitated body of Kent Carrington.
'Aw Jesus. He was a dull man,' said Semester, 'but he didn't deserve that.'
'Come on,' said Frankenstein, 'we need to keep moving.'
He helped Semester to his feet. Proudfoot was still leaning against the wall, but had at last allowed herself to look round, giving her some relief at the sight of Semester still standing. Barney Thomson came round from the other side of the bar. Blood on his shoes. Fred was examining the clean cut-off marks of the severed head of Kent Carrington. Selma was down on the floor, beside the bar, looking for clues.
'Right,' said Frankenstein. 'Let's head out. Stick close together. We head for the boatyard.'
'Aha!' exclaimed Selma from the floor, and she stood up, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together.
Frankenstein looked at her with curious agitation.
'I think I might just have found the clue that solves this mystery!' exclaimed Selma.
The others all stared at her. Fred and Deirdre smiled.
'Well, Miss fucking Marple, are you going to tell us what it is?' said Frankenstein.
'I need one more clue and I'll be sure,' said Selma, 'and I think we might just find it at the boatyard!'
'Super,' said Fred, 'let's go.'
And the three agents from MI6 headed quickly out into the night. Frankenstein hesitated a second, looking at the three left in the bar.
'Didn't I say the boatyard?' he said. 'I said the boatyard, and now fucking Catwoman there, the ace defective, solves the mystery. God, these people are pissing me off.'
The Dostoevsky Theory
Igor, Bernard and The Dog With No Name were still creeping around the boatyard in the middle of the night. Igor had become the de facto leader, not a position with which he was particularly comfortable, but it made sense given the rest of the crew.
They had stumbled over anchors and masts, bumped into boats, tripped over tarpaulins. Igor was beginning to lose faith. He had sensed the danger and evil inherent in the night, and had thought that the same sixth sense would inevitably lead him to it. Instead, he was stumbling around the boatyard, one of three Stooges, having to accept that he had no real idea of what he was doing.
'Maybe we should go inside one of the sheds,' said Bernard, tapping him on the shoulder. Bernard had continued to talk to him throughout, ignoring the fact that Igor couldn't hear him and was making no effort to understand. This time, however, Bernard pointed at the door which they were passing to make sure he got his point across.
Igor slumped a little beneath his hump. Of course they had to go inside, but for some reason he had been avoiding it. Would inside one of these dark, dank sheds make him feel even more claustrophobic than he did out here?
He held up his hand in acknowledgement, put his hand on the door handle hoping it would be locked. It turned slowly. He pushed the door open. The shed was in total darkness. They couldn't see five inches in front of them, never mind the few feet of visibility they had outside.
'Like, wow, man,' said Bernard, 'this is so creepy. You OK, Dog With No Name?'
The dog let out a low whimper. Igor waved his hand at them to quieten them down, but they couldn't see it. Bernard fumbled around on the wall by the door until he found the light switch.
Click!
Igor turned and looked at him, bathing the place in light not being part of his plan. Bernard quickly closed the door behind him, the Dog With No Name shuffling into the cramped space.
'Like, come on, my little hunchbacked buddy, it was like super-creepy with no lights on.'
Igor l
ooked daggers at him, but didn't turn the light off. The damage, if there was to be any, had been done. The three of them turned and looked round the cramped shed. Packed full of tools and boating equipment, the same shed in which Frankenstein had talked to Bladestone earlier in the day. Inevitably the three pairs of eyes were drawn to the mark on the wall where, until a few days previously, the axe had hung, its outline still clear on the wall.
'Like, oh my gosh!' said Bernard. 'It's even creepier with the lights on!'
The Dog With No Name buried into his leg, its head lowered. Igor glanced quickly around the rest of the shed. Through the jumble of all kinds of everything that filled the place, there were two doors at either end of the room. One directly in front of them, somewhere that was obviously frequently used, a clear passageway leading through the stramash of equipment. The path to the door at the back was littered with junk.
'Arf,' muttered Igor, indicating with his hand.
Walking past the axe-mark on the way, he led them to the first door. Pushed it open. The small room flooded with dull light from the rest of the shed. Big shadows and dark corners. A sink, a table top, a small fridge. Igor looked around, this insignificant kitchen itself packed with all sorts of spare parts and other assorted workshop paraphernalia.
Bernard poked his head over Igor's hump. The Dog With No Name looked between Igor's legs.
'Like, wow, man,' said Bernard, 'there's a fridge!'
Igor backed off, as the other two raced round either side of him to examine the contents of the fridge. They flung the door open, and tried not to allow themselves to be too disappointed with the results.
Milk and cheese, a bit of margarine.
'It's all dairy, man,' said Bernard, and then, just to bring a little more brightness into his room, he noticed the small loaf sitting in amongst a selection of socket wrenches on the worktop.
'Like, wow!' he said. 'Looks like we might be having a sandwich after all, Dog With No Name, old buddy.'
The Dog With No Name barked. Igor left them to it, walked through the shed and started picking his way across the quagmire of equipment and tools and general workshop mayhem which littered the floor between him and the door at the rear of the room. Stumbled a couple of times, went over on his ankle. The single bare light bulb which hung in the entrance to the shed cast long shadows here; a lot of the smaller items which littered the floor were obscured. Igor, treading carefully, reached the door.
Tried the handle. It turned but the door would not open. He pushed harder. Finally planted his feet and put his shoulder against it. Suddenly, with a loud creak and a scraping along the floor, the door flew back and Igor tumbled into the small dark room at the back of the shed.
He stood for a second, staring into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Could make out the flat surface of a table, not much else.
Beneath the table, something scraped along the ground. Igor, heart in mouth, ready for action, fumbled for the light switch.
***
They walked quickly, knowing the killer was ahead of them, convinced that they were moving in the same direction. None of them really wanted to meet the killer head on, none of them had the faintest idea what they would do once confronted with the swinging axe of death. Except Fred, who was full of plans and schemes, although most of them consisted of somehow tripping the fiend up, pulling his mask off, handing the villain over to the proper authorities, and then heading for the nearest café for a celebratory milk shake and muffin.
'Why that bar?' said Frankenstein, walking quickly beside Barney, Proudfoot tucked in just behind them. 'Why that café?'
'I don't know,' said Barney. 'It's a sleepy town, but there's always weird shit going on in any place. There were rumours that some little secret society used it as a meeting place, but we all assumed it was just small town trivial business. We've had that kind of thing here before.'
'Aha! That might just be the other clue we've been needing!' said Selma, with some finality.
'You think?' said Barney. 'Fantastic.'
'Wonderful,' said Frankenstein, brusquely. 'Who was in this society?'
'Can't help you,' said Barney. 'Don't know what they did, don't know who was in it. Like I said, we've had this sort of business here before, and that kind of thing never, never repays curiosity.'
Frankenstein grunted.
'I suppose you're about to tell us who the man in the mask is?' he snarled at Selma.
'It's not a man in a mask,' she said with triumph. 'It's an actual old gentleman with the strength of a man a quarter of his age.'
'Gee, Selma, you think?' said Fred. Fred was convinced it was a man in a mask.
Frankenstein shook his head and walked on. Wishing that he had armed himself, or that there were at least armed officers on the island, so that they could just blast the killer first, then worry about who exactly he was when he was lying flat on his back, twitching.
They walked on, passing the football field, only a couple of hundred yards or so from the boatyard. Tension palpable.
'I reckon,' said Deirdre, 'that this time we might just be dealing with a genuine one hundred and fifty year-old Russian novelist, and if we're looking to apportion blame, we need look no further than the nuclear power station right across the water. The papers are right, there's something weird out there and the government's to blame.'
They all turned and looked in the direction of Hunterston B nuclear reactor, although of course they couldn't see five yards of the mile and a half that separated them.
'Usually people theorise about two-headed fish and giant amphibians,' said Frankenstein caustically.
'Well that may be,' said Deirdre, 'but how can any of us say? We all know that the beaches and the sea within twenty miles of all Britain's nuclear power stations are completely ruined. The government's been covering it up for decades. That's what they do. Could any of us be surprised if suddenly an aberrant mutant pre-Communist era author was accidentally created by these forces we can't possibly even seek to understand?'
Fred and Selma nodded seriously.
'You're insane,' said Frankenstein.
'There's weirder shit than that, my friend,' said Fred. 'I've seen the files.'
Frankenstein grumbled, the MI6 collective walked on, shoulders back, ready for anything, and so they all descended into silence and strode towards the boatyard, determined to meet whatever fate lay in store.
Ship Of Fools
The noise came again. Igor fumbled around on the wall, his movements becoming more frantic. A back room. Maybe there was no light switch. Another twitch of a foot, or something, a claw or a hand. He stepped to the wall, ran both his hands over it, coming up against cobwebs, disturbing huge spiders which had lain there unruffled for a long time.
A large black spider scuttled onto his hand and he brushed it away. He found a power point, moved his hand along the small ledge of wood. Another noise behind him. The foot scraped back and forth, back and forth, a frantic movement. One of Barney's ghosts?
He found the light switch, clicked it, another spider on the cuff of his jacket, looked under the table.
There were two men under there, bound together, back to back, arms strapped to their sides and strapped round two table legs. Their feet had been bound; large strips of grey tape had been strapped around their mouths.
Igor noticed the smell of urine and faeces, which had for some reason been hidden in the darkness. This back room was a prison, and these men had been here for some time.
He bent down and struggled with the tape around their mouths. Made a small gesture to them, returned to the workshop, lifted the first sharp implement that he could find, then returned to the back room and quickly slit the gags. And although it hadn't stopped either of them from breathing, they both immediately started panting, desperate for air in their mouths, to inhale large quantities at once.
Igor recognised them both. Colin Waites and Craig Brown, the two missing trawlermen. They must have been bound and gag
ged here for several days now. They would have trouble walking.
He cut the ropes on their feet and then the straps binding them to the table. The two men moved apart, crawling along the floor, legs and arms numb. Igor stood over them, and then thought of Bernard and the Dog With No Name in the other room, making sandwiches. He held up his finger to indicate that he would just be a minute.
The gate at the front of the yard creaked. Igor tensed. Waites and Brown started trying to drag themselves to their feet. Within seconds Bernard and the Dog With No Name were in the back room, sandwiches abandoned.
'Like, did you hear...,' began Bernard, and then he saw the two guys struggling to their knees and breathed in the stench of the room.
'Like, wow! I'm guessing you two are the guys from the trawler!' said Bernard.
'Who are you?' said Waites.
'Bernard! My name's Bernard,' said Bernard. 'We're MI6.'
'Arf,' muttered Igor darkly.
'Fucking government,' said Waites.
Igor put his finger to his lips and indicated outside. Waites nodded. Bernard glanced out the door, then looked into the small, spider-ridden, malodorous room that was their only other option. Neither called to him as much as running away as fast as he could in any direction.
Igor glanced round the door and looked across the ten yards of cluttered workshop floor to the light switch, then he pointed at Bernard and pointed at the switch.
'Me? I don't think so,' said Bernard. 'Dog With No Name, will you do it for some Unnamed Snacks?'
The Dog With No Name shook its head.
'If you're worried about the guy in the mask,' said Craig Brown, from underneath his matt of shaggy hair, 'it hardly matters, he can see in the dark.'
'You've seen The Incredible Captain Death?' exclaimed Bernard.
Igor poked him and put his fingers to his lips.
'The Incredible Captain Death?' said the other two in unison.
Igor looked around them all, making the quiet! sign. There weren't many times in his life that Igor wished he could speak. He enjoyed his existence, hiding behind deafness and his hump and an inability to communicate like most of the rest of humanity. And now that his life was filled with Barney Thomson and Garrett Carmichael, two people who understood everything he tried to say but couldn't articulate, it didn't seem to matter. However, every now and again there came moments when he wished, to the bottom of his very soul, that he had the capability to shout at people, explain everything in thirty seconds and, more than anything else, tell them to shut up.
The Barbershop Seven Page 160
