The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (15 page)

Herman scribbled something else in his book. The Abbot seemed distracted. He found it all disturbing. Would confide in no one, but the murder of two of his monks had begun to make him question his faith. And if he had doubts, how many of his number were feeling the same way?

Brother Herman scribbled on. Barney wondered what he was doing. Finally Herman raised his eyes. ‘Thank you, Brother. That will be all for the moment.’

‘Oh. Right. Stoatir.’ Barney felt relief wash over him, like a sponge soaked in honey.

‘Stoatir, Brother Jacob?’ said the Abbot. ‘These are dark times for us, my brother. You would do well to spend much of it in prayer.’

Barney nodded. ‘Of course, Your Grace. Brother, I mean. Aye.’ Looked at Herman, was further reduced in size. Decided it was time he took his leave. Opened his mouth, but there was nothing else to say. Walked backwards slowly towards the door, then turned and was gone.

As he walked down the corridor, relief continuing to wash over him like a towel submerged in champagne, he wondered why it was that when he had nothing to fear and much about which to feel guilty, he still felt only one step ahead of the inquisition.

Once again, Brothers Steven and Jacob were on gravedigging detail; so soon after the first time. A hole for Brother Morgan; late, lamented. An afternoon’s work, for the burial the following morning. Accompanied by Brother Edward; a telegraph-pole youth, face the colour of white wine. Three to dig the hole – an arduous task in this frozen, crusted earth – two to fill it in again after the funeral. Barney had thought that he might escape the work, now that he was the official monastery barber. His hands needed protecting. Had been on the point of taking out an insurance policy on them before he’d had to disappear. Had got the idea from something he’d read about Betty Grable. A million dollars on her legs. Or had it been her ears? Had thought that perhaps he’d escape the heavy work, now that they all realised what a precious commodity were his hands. Yet, no; no such good fortune. Realised he had a long apprenticeship to work before he would be offered the small gifts which passed for favours in this murderous place.

It was mid-afternoon on the same day as the discovery of the body. Brother Herman had examined the corpse, had discovered everything he needed to know. Not much doubt over the cause of death, every other avenue open to him examined, no intention of calling in any outside authority for the necessary post-mortem. A cold day. The clear blue skies had clouded over, replaced by low, grey cloud. But still bright. It would snow again later, some of the monks had been saying. Reckoned that this might be a winter like the winter of ‘47. Snow around the abbey from November until June. That was the prediction.

The mere mention of June had had Barney thinking. Could he possibly still be here then? Still hiding? Might not the world have forgotten about Barney Thomson in six months’ time? Would it not have moved on to some other macabre story? What he needed was for some other serial killer to strike, preferably in Glasgow, to take the country’s mind off him. But of course, the minute anyone else was killed in Scotland, the murder would be blamed on Barney Thomson. No escape.

Barney was not to know the headline in that morning’s Record:
Barber-Surgeon in Sheep Slaughter Mystery; Farmers Outraged
. He was right, however, in thinking that every crime that had ever been committed was being placed at his doorstep. A robbery in Dundee; a rape in Arbroath; shoplifting in Paisley; an unsolved murder in Edinburgh from 1976; Bucks Fizz winning the Eurovision Song Contest in 1981; Don Masson’s penalty miss against Peru in Argentina; the murder of Riccio. There wasn’t a crime against humanity that wasn’t being laid at his door by an hysterical press and public whose imagination was being whipped to a frothy cream. Barney Thomson was the ultimate demon figure, to such an extent that within two weeks the Barney Thomson of the newspapers was unrecognisable from the Barney Thomson of reality. Only the police had maintained a sense of proportion, having a not unreasonable number of officers on the case, now headed by DCI Mulholland; while telling the press that they had every available man and woman in Scotland on it. And all the while, the monks were unaware of the supposed evil within their midst.

The earth was hard; rock-like. Brothers Steven and Edward hacked away with pick-axes, Barney shovelled out the broken earth. A slow business, and although it was still two hours until nightfall, they knew that they would do well to be finished by the time it got dark. They were cold and hungry. Steven, accepting of his fate, cold and hungry; Edward, happy that he was doing penance for his perceived crimes of the past, cold and hungry; and Barney, miserable, fed up, shaking, wishing he had run off to the Caribbean, cold and hungry. Kept letting out long sighs, waiting for one of the others to take him up on the offer he was making to complain. He waited in vain. Felt like his ears were about to drop off. And his nose.
Killer Revealed as Man With No Nose or Ears; Fingers Also Gone
. Barney shivered.

‘It’s a bit cold, eh?’ said Barney, to break the monotony.

Brother Edward continued to swing the blunt pick-axe into the frozen ground. Enjoying the cold and hardship. Sometimes it paid to suffer. He didn’t care if Barney was cold.

Steven straightened up, looked at Barney, then surveyed the surrounding countryside. Breathed deeply the cold air, felt it sting the inside of his nostrils. Smiled and looked at Barney.

‘Come on, Jacob. It must make you feel alive, man. Breathe it in. Enjoy it. Just think how you’d be feeling if you were having to work like this in sweltering heat, the sweat dripping off you, bugs chewing at your face. Bend your back, get stuck in, my friend. This is life as it is. Look forward to dinner and a cup of the Lord’s finest wine.’

Barney shook his head. ‘It’s bloody freezing. I doubt I’ll survive ‘til my dinner. I’m knackered.’

Steven smiled. White teeth showed bright under grey cloud.

‘All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Tiredness, my friend. You haven’t known it until you’ve known it in war. That’s what they say.’

‘Experience of that, have you?’ asked Barney.

Steven smiled again and once more bent his back.

‘Afraid not, my friend. But Brother Frederick, he’ll tell you all about it. He may be old, but there’s not a shell nor a rainfall nor a bath of mud that he can’t remember. You could learn a lot. As for me, the wars of the soul and the mind are the only ones I’ve fought. Though, who knows? Perhaps they may be the bloodiest wars of all. What say ye, Edward?’

Brother Edward stared into the hole which was slowly taking shape beneath their swinging axes. Carried on working as he thought. Had always considered the war with the opposite sex to be the bloodiest of all. Had won a few battles there, now suffered the guilt of the victorious.

‘Might that have been Great War poetry you were quoting there, Brother?’ said Edward. Didn’t want to talk about his own private battles. Three years in God’s house had not healed the scars.

‘You recognised it?’

‘Aye, I did.’

Great War poetry? thought Barney. What a load of keich. Wished they would talk about football. Didn’t know the irony.

‘There’s something always bugged me about the Great War,’ said Edward.

As they talked, they began to swing their axes in time, one striking into the solid earth rhythmically after the other. Barney shovelled.

‘What was that, Brother?’

‘Gas.’

‘Gas?’

‘The poison gas issue,’ said Edward, unconsciously speaking in time with the striking of the axes. ‘They say that when the Germans first started using gas, and before the Brits had been given their masks, they used to pish into a sock and hold it over their mouths. Breathe through it, you know.’

Brother Steven had heard this. Struck robotically, his pick-axe a dull scimitar of the Lord’s will.

‘What I want to know,’ said Edward, ‘is this. Who was the first guy to do it? I mean, I’m sure the chemistry’s all right, and all that.’

‘Something to do with ammonia, probably,’ said Steven.

‘Whatever. Anything about pish is to do with ammonia. But here’s the thing. Who was the guy who first thought of it? Who, when the gas came over and all the troops were running around bricking their pants, panicking and turning yellow, was the first guy to stand there like James Bond, be really cool, and say, “Don’t know about you lot, but I’m pishing in my sock”?’

Steven struck mightily into the ground; the earth yielded to his strength.

‘See what you mean. The guy must have been out there. On the edge. A visionary.’

‘Exactly,’ said Edward. His axe struck massively the earth. ‘The guy was a visionary. So how come none of us has ever heard of him? I mean, there’s all sorts of famous geezers from the Great War. Owen and Sassoon and all the rest of that mob. Haig, Kitchener, the Red Baron… Blackadder. So how come this bloke’s not famous? He must’ve saved thousands of lives.’

‘They probably shot him,’ said Steven, axe cleaving its way through sundered earth.

‘Shot him?’

‘Sure. Think about it. Picture the scene,’ said Steven. Barney, despite himself, was picturing the scene. He was in the trenches. In fact, he was digging a trench, steadfastly shovelling dirt; his spade clawed hard into lumpy earth. ‘Early on in the war. Everyone already realises it’s a bum rap and they’re going to be there for years. A few shots are getting fired every now and again. The men are sitting around, smoking a few joints, reading letters from home, hanging out. You know the score. Suddenly, a few shells come over and next thing you know, the air smells of some cheap French toilet water. Within seconds everyone starts choking and turning yellow.’ He paused. ‘Can you see it?’

Edward nodded. ‘I’m there.’

‘So, our hero, we’ll call him Corporal Jones, is a bit of a chemist. Realises the only way to survive is to breathe through pish. So in the middle of the mayhem and panic and tumult, he sits down on a bench, cool as a pint of cider, removes a sock, and whips out his knob and pishes into it. Then he sticks it over his gob. Easy. The rest of the men are looking at him as if he’s an alien. Pointing and saying to each other, “Check out Jonesy, the bastard’s pishing into his sock.” So they all stand around and gawp, and despite Jonesy’s best efforts to get them to follow his example, within minutes they’re all dead.

‘So, a bit of a wind picks up, blows away all the gas. Some lieutenant-colonel or other charges up to the front to check it out, once the danger’s past, of course, and there’s Jonesy safe as houses and everyone else dead to the world. “What went on here?” asks Colonel Bumfluff. “Well, sir,” says Jonesy, “the Germans gassed us and I was the only one to pish in my sock.” Think about it. Our hero was going to have a bit of a credibility problem. Next thing he knows he’s been court-martialled and shot, because that’s what they did in those days. Two minutes late for work and you got a bullet in the back of the head.’

Edward heaved his axe into the hard ground with mighty abandon.

‘Could be right. But if he got shot and all the others died, how did it catch on?’

‘They probably tested it out to see if he was telling the truth; but not until after they’d killed him, of course. Probably sent Mrs Jones an apology along with the telegram telling her he was dead. So days after Jonesy died for his trouble, pishing in your sock was all the rage. In fact, there were probably blokes who pished in their socks even when they didn’t have to. Sock sniffers. Expect they shot them as well.’

‘Aye, I suppose you’re right, Brother. Too bad the guy has never been recognised.’

Steven nodded. Plunged the axe verily unto the frozen soil.

‘Aye. I can see the statue,’ said Steven, and he laughed. Edward laughed along with him, Barney also, although only to cover the feeling of exclusion. But soon the laughter died among the three men, because this day was no day for laughter, and this was not just any digging work which they were undertaking. This was work to bury one of their own – the second in a few days.