The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Ach, it's they two bastards, Wullie and Chris,' said Barney. 'I don't know who they think they are. Keep taking all my customers. It's getting to be a right blinking joke.'

  Bill nodded. In the past he had been on the receiving end of one of Barney's one hour fifteen minute Towering Inferno haircuts, and in the end had been forced to move from the area to avoid subjecting himself to the fickle fate of his friend's scissors.

  'They're good barbers, Barney.'

  Barney stopped what he was doing, the words cutting to his core. Dropped his dominoes, placed his hands decisively on the table. Fire glinted in his eye. A green glint.

  'And I'm not, is that what you're saying, Bill? Eh?'

  Bill quickly raised his hands in a placatory gesture. 'No, no, Barney, I didn't mean it that way, you know I didn't.'

  'Like hell you didn't. Et tu, Bluto?' said Barney, getting within inches of quoting Shakespeare.

  'Look, mate, calm down, I didn't mean anything. Now pick up your dominoes and get on with the game.'

  With a grunt, a scowl and a noisy suck of his teeth, Barney slowly lifted his weapons of war and, unhappy that Bill had seen what he held in his hands, resumed combat.

  The game continued for another couple of minutes before Bill felt confident enough to reintroduce the subject. The quiet chatter of the pub continued around them, broken only by the occasional ejaculation of outrage.

  'So what's the problem with the two of them, Barney?' he asked gingerly.

  Barney grumbled. 'Ach, I don't know, Bill. They're just making my life a misery. They're two smug bastards the pair of them. Getting on my tits, so they are.'

  Barney was distracted, made a bad move. He didn't notice, but Bill did. Bill The Cat. Suddenly, given the opening, he began to play dynamite dominoes, a man at the pinnacle of his form, making great sweeping moves of brio and verve, which Barney wrongly attributed to him having had a glimpse of his hand.

  'So what are you going to do about it?' said Bill, after administering the coup de grâce.

  Barney, vanquished in the game, laid down his weapons and placed his hands on the table. Looked Bill square in the eye. They had been friends a long time, been through a lot. The Vietnam war, the Falklands conflict, the miners' strike. Not that they'd been to any of them, but they'd watched a lot of them on television together. And so, Barney felt able to confide the worst excesses of his imagination in Bill.

  He leant forward conspiratorially across the table. This was it, a moment to test the bond to its fullest.

  'How long have we been friends, Bill?' he asked, voice hushed.

  Bill shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know. A long time, Barney.' His too was the voice of a conspirator, although he was unaware of why he was whispering.

  Barney inched ever closer towards him, his chin ever nearer the table.

  'Barney?' asked Bill, before he could say anything else.

  'What?'

  'You're not going to kiss me, are you?'

  Barney raised his eyes, annoyed. Didn't want to be distracted at a time like this. 'Don't be a bloody mug, you eejit. Now listen up.' He paused, hesitating momentarily before the pounce. 'Tell me Bill, do you know anything about poison?'

  'Poison? You mean like for rats, that kind of thing?'

  'Aye,' said Barney, thinking that rats were exactly what it was for.

  'Oh, I don't know…' said Bill. Then, as his rapier mind began to kick in and he saw the direction in which Barney was heading, he sat up straight. He looked into the eyes of his friend. 'You don't mean…?'

  'Aye.'

  'You've got rats in the shop!'

  Barney tutted loudly, went through the headshaking routine, then slightly lifted his jaw from two inches above the table.

  'No, no! It's not rats I want to poison.' He took a suspicious look around about him to see if anyone was listening. 'Well, it is rats, but the human kind.'

  This took a minute or two to hit Bill, and when it did it was a thumping great smack in the teeth. As the realisation struck, there came a great crash of thunder outside and the windows of the pub shook with the rain and the wind. He stood up quickly, pushing the table away from him, almost sending the drinks to a watery and crashing grave.

  This momentarily dramatic display attracted the attention of the rest of the bar, who had, up until then, been sedately watching snooker on the TV. Barney panicked, fearing his plan would be discovered before he had even begun its formulation.

  'Sit down, Bill, sit down for God's sake.'

  Bill looked down at him, horror etched upon his face for a few seconds, then slowly lowered himself back into the seat. The two men stared at each other, trying to determine exactly what the other was thinking, trying to decide how they could continue the discussion. Bill was clearly unimpressed with Barney's idea. Barney, absurdly, wondered if he could talk him into it.

  'Look,' said Barney eventually, attempting to sound hard and business-like, although Bill knew he was soft, soft as a pillow, 'I want to know if you can help me or not.'

  The look of horror on Bill's face increased tenfold. 'Commit murder? Is that it? Murder?'

  Barney looked anxiously around to see how many people had noticed Bill's raised voice. Fortunately, the rest of the bar had returned to more mundane interests.

  'Look, keep your voice down.'

  Bill leant forward, once again regaining the mask of the grand conspirator. 'You can't seriously be thinking of killing Chris and Wullie? They're good lads. For Christ's sake man, I know Wullie's father.'

  Barney shook his head. He had chosen the wrong man.

  'Huh! Good lads my arse. They'll get what's coming to them.'

  'But why?'

  Barney thought about this for a second or two. It was a reasonable question, demanding a good answer. He fixed his gaze on Bill. 'Because they're asking for it.'

  'You're not making any sense, Barney, and whatever you're planning, I don't want any part of it, d'you hear me? Keep me out of it.'

  He rose from the table again and started to put on his coat. Barney felt chastened, looked up anxiously.

  'Very well, Bill. I'm sorry you feel that way,' was all he said.

  Bill pulled on his cap, nodding shortly to Barney as he made to go.

  'We never had this conversation, eh, Bill?' said Barney.

  Bill looked him hard in the eye. Was there an implied threat in the voice? If he didn't help him, could it be that he'd be included in Barney's murderous plans? Another potential victim? Deep down, however, he could not believe that Barney was serious. Still waited for him to say that it was all a joke.

  'I don't know about that, Barney, I really don't know,' he said. Their eyes battled with each other – two weak men – and then Bill turned and walked from the pub, out into the squalid storm of the night.

  6

  The New Merlot

  Holdall sat looking out of the window. Evening rain spattered against the glass. Street lights illuminated the rain in shades of grey and orange. There was a tangible silence in the room. The silence of a courtroom awaiting a verdict; the silence of a crowd awaiting a putt across the eighteenth green.

  The Chief Superintendent read the latest report on the serial killer investigation, fumbling noiselessly with a pipe. The only light in the room was from the small lamp on the desk, shining down onto the paper which the old man was reading. It cast strange shadows around the room, the old face looked sinister under its curious glare.

  Chief Superintendent McMenemy had been on the force for longer than anyone knew, and his presence in the station went beyond domination. 'M' they called him, and no one was quite sure whether it was a joke. There was no Moneypenny, no green baize on the door, but he was a considerable figure. A grumpy old man, much concerned with great matters of state. And perhaps his senior officers liked the implication; if he was M, then they must be James Bond – although in fact, most of them were 003s, the men who mess up and die in the pre-credit sequence of the movie.

  He put the pipe to his
mouth and sucked on it a couple of times while attacking it with a match, eventually managing to get it going. Tossed the box of matches casually onto the table, looked at Holdall. There was nothing to be read in those dark eyes – Holdall shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Long, unnerving silences, another of his trademarks. He continued to suck quietly on his pipe, finally pointed it at Holdall.

  'Well, Robert, what have you got to say for yourself?'

  Holdall tried to concentrate on the question. It was a good one. What did he have to say for himself exactly? He couldn't say the truth – that he'd felt like a bloody idiot giving the press conference and had made something up so that he wouldn't look stupid. Apart from anything else, it was destined to make him look even more stupid when he couldn't produce the promised serial killer, and he had to explain that one to the press.

  He looked into the massive black holes of M's eyes, wondering what to say. M grunted and picked up the report so that he could toss it back onto the desk.

  'You've got the whole country thinking we're just about to collar someone, when as far as I can see we're no nearer making an arrest than we were at the start. What in God's name were you thinking, man?'

  Holdall stared at the floor, trying to pull himself together. Be assertive, for God's sake. The one thing the old man hated was a bumbling idiot. Straightened his shoulders, looked him in the eye. Tried to banish the picture of Mrs Holdall brandishing a frying pan, which had inexplicably just come into his head.

  'I thought maybe we should try and sound positive for once. We've spent two months coming across as losers, sir. It's about time people started thinking that we've got some balls about us. If we haven't come up with anything in the next few days, we'll have to say that our enquiries in this respect have come to a dead end. But at least we'll look as if we've got some spunk, and that we're putting something into this investigation. Certainly the shit'll be on our shoes the next time someone is murdered, but until then we have to look as if we're getting somewhere.

  'We know nothing about this killer, sir. Why he's doing it, what motivates him… It could be that he won't kill again. Who knows? Or it could be that we come up with a lead in the next few days. We need to show some assertiveness. Try to create some momentum.'

  He looked into the impassive face, the eyes which hadn't moved from Holdall while he'd talked, the expression of stone. Now M turned his seat round so that it faced the window, and he stared at the night sky, the dull orange reflection in the low clouds. His pipe had gone out and he once more began to fumble with the matches.

  Holdall waited for the reaction. The fact that he hadn't immediately exploded was a good sign. He'd half expected to be out of a job already.

  Eventually, after several minutes of working the pipe, followed by ruminative smoking, M turned back to Holdall, holding him in his icy stare. He considered his words carefully; when he spoke, he spoke slowly.

  'Well, I'm not sure about this, Robert, and I'd rather you'd talked to me about it first. But on reflection, perhaps it wasn't too bad a strategy. Of course, if pieces of dismembered body start turning up in the post tomorrow morning, like confetti at a wedding, then we're in trouble.' He stopped, pointed the pipe. 'You're in trouble.'

  He swivelled the chair back so that he was looking out of the window again, showing Holdall his imperious profile. M toyed with his pipe, tapping it on the desk.

  'It might be a good idea if you came up with something solid in the next two days, Robert.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  He added nothing and Holdall shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering if he'd been dismissed. Never rise until you've been told, however, he said to himself.

  Finally, M turned, a look of surprise on his face that Holdall was still there.

  'That will be all, Chief Inspector.'

  *

  Mrs Cemolina Thomson was eighty-five, and lived alone in a twelfth floor flat in Springburn. Smoked eighty cigarettes a day, an obscure brand she'd discovered during the war, containing more tar than the runways at Heathrow; spent her days watching quiz shows on television. Donald Thomson had died when Barney was five years old, and ever since she'd attempted to rule the lives of her children. Her eldest son had long since escaped her clutches, leaving Barney to face the brunt of her domineering personality. Her attitudes had not so much progressed with the century through which she had lived, as regressed to some time between the Dark Ages and the creation of the universe. She was a white, Protestant grandmother with a bad word for everybody.

  Barney let himself into the flat, was immediately struck by a smell so rancid it turned his stomach. His first grotesque thought – perhaps his mother had lain dead in the flat for some days, the smell her decomposing body. He steeled himself for the stumble across her rotting flesh, but knew that that wouldn't be it. He had talked to her the night before. Even his mother's crabbed body would not decompose so quickly – certainly not in the damp chill of Scotland in early March.

  The first rooms off the hall were bedrooms, and he looked into those to see if she was there. However, as he neared the kitchen, he realised that was where the smell most definitely emanated from. Quickened his pace, burst through the door.

  Cemolina stood stirring a huge pot of steaming red liquid, wearing an apron; curlers in her hair. He wondered whether the stench was coming from the pot or from the horrendous stuff women stick in their head when they do a home perm. Decided it was too bad even for that. Must be the pot.

  'What the hell are you doing, Mum? That stuff's minging!'

  She turned her head. Beads of sweat peppered her face at the effort she was making, her face flushed.

  'Hello, Barnabas, how are you? Nearly finished,' she said, turning back to her strange brew.

  Visibly wincing, as he always did at the mention of his name, he walked over beside her and looked down into the pot. It was a deep red, thin liquid, bubbling slightly. Up close the stench was almost overwhelming, but Barney did not withdraw.

  'What on earth are you making, Mum, for God's sake?'

  'What does it look like?' she barked, unhappy at his tone.

  'I honestly haven't the faintest idea. What in God's name is it?'

  She tutted loudly, bustling some more. 'It's wine, for God's sake, surely you can see that?'

  He stared, new understanding, even less comprehension. Maybe that explained it, but he knew nothing about viniculture.

  'Is this how you make wine?' he said.

  She stopped stirring, looked him hard in the eye, lips pursed, hands drawn to her hips. Nostrils flared. He knew the look, having suffered it for over forty years, and prepared to make his retreat.

  'Well, I don't know about anybody else, but it's how I make wine. Now away and sit down, and I'll be with you in a few minutes.'

  He nodded meekly, made his exit and closed the door behind him. Glad to escape the kitchen. Went into the sitting room and opened up the windows letting the cold, damp air into the house, clean and refreshing. Stood there for a couple of minutes breathing it in, trying to purge the stench of the kitchen, then withdrew into the room and sat down. Found the snooker on BBC2 and settled back on the settee.

  He didn't have long to wait before his mother walked into the room, red-stained apron still wrapped around her, a bustle in her step. Tutted loudly when she saw the open windows, closed them noisily, then sat down to light herself a cigarette. Sucked it deeply, two long draws, then with a shock realised that there was snooker on television.

  'For Christ's sake, what are you watching this shite for? Whose Pants! is on the other channel,' she said, grabbing the remote and changing it over.

  Barney rolled his eyes, looked at his mother and thought that he might as well not be there. She sat engrossed in the television, while a variety of celebrity undergarments were brought on and the contestants attempted to identify them from the stains. She had finished her second cigarette by the time the adverts arrived. Lowering the volume, she turned to look at her boy.

  '
Why are you making wine, Mum?'

  She shrugged. Not all questions in life have answers, she thought. 'I didn't have enough sugar to make marmalade,' she said, and pulled hard on her newly lit cigarette. 'So, how are you? You're looking a wee bitty fed up?'

  He sat back, staring at the ceiling. Could he talk to his mother? Probably not. He'd never been able to before, so why should he suddenly be able to start now? Mothers aren't for talking to; they're for obeying and running after. At least, that's what his mother was for. Iron hand in iron glove.

  'Ach, I'm just a bit cheesed off at work and all that, you know. It's nothing.'

  She drew heavily on the cigarette. 'Oh aye, what's the problem?'

  'Just they two that I work with, they're really getting to me. Keep taking all my customers, so they do. Pain in the arse, to be quite frank.'

  Now Cemolina shook her head. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Saw conspiracy. Believed Elvis was abducted by aliens on the instructions of the FBI. 'It doesn't surprise me. Yon Chris Porter. He's a Fenian, isn't he? Can't trust a bloody Tim.'

  Barney shook his head. 'No, mum, the other one's just as bad.'

  She looked surprised. 'Wullie Henderson? He's a fine lad. Goes to watch the Rangers every week, doesn't he?'

  Barney nodded. Felt like he was in the lion's den. Even his mother put great store by football. 'Maybe he does, Mum, but that's not the point.'

  'Oh, aye. What is the point, then?'

  'I don't know. They take all my customers. Make me look bloody stupid in front of everyone. They're all laughing at me.' He stopped when he realised that he sounded like a stroppy child with a major humph, lip petted, face scowling. Cemolina hadn't noticed. Either that, or she was used to seeing him like this.

  'So, what are you going to do about it then?'

  Barney stared at the floor, wondering what to say. Felt he had to obey the golden rule of not confessing murderous intent to your mother – notwithstanding the Norman Bates Exception, when you and your mother are the same person – and his villainous ardour had been partly quashed by Bill's horrified reaction to his nefarious scheme. There was little point in talking to her about it. And who was he fooling anyway? He wasn't about to kill anyone. He was Barney Thomson, sad pathetic barber from Partick. No killer he.