The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (25 page)

And so, just like he had when he’d accidentally killed Wullie Henderson eight and a half months previously, he would once again avoid confrontation with the authorities for as long as he could.

He stood up, leaned against the shelving. He felt weak, but knew he must hide quickly. As he considered the monastery buildings and whether he could find somewhere to hide where he wouldn’t die of cold, he wondered if outside there might be some part of these islands where the name Barney Thomson would not be considered evil, where someone called Barney Thomson might walk a free man. He was not to know the headline in that morning’s Scotsman:
Bring Me the Head of Barney Thomson, Screams First Minister.

‘Aye, aye, it’s a long time since we had one of you lot up from Glasgow, and a’ that, you know,’ said Big Davie.

The snowplough ground slowly towards Durness. Mulholland, Sheep Dip and Proudfoot were squeezed into the cab, thighs pressed against thighs. Sheep Dip took large bites from a small chocolate bar, and Mulholland could feel himself resenting every mouthful, as if it reduced his space by some infinitesimal amount. A doppelgänger for his annoyance at not getting to press his legs against Proudfoot.

‘You’re from Glasgow yourself, then?’ said Proudfoot.

‘Oh, aye. My mother and father split up when I was a wean. My mum took us back to Cambuslang, you know. Load of shite. Came back up here as soon as I could get away without her phoning the Daily Record. Haven’t seen her in about six year. Daft cow.’

Mulholland stared at the snow on the road ahead. Mind numbed. Big Davie looked across Mulholland and Sheep Dip, who for his purposes might not have been there, at the alluring Proudfoot.

‘So, you’re a woman, then?’ he said.

Proudfoot didn’t look round. She stared at the snow on the road. Didn’t really have an answer for that. Hadn’t thought about it in a while.

‘Check the big brain on Davie,’ said Mulholland, muttering.

‘Aye,’ said Big Davie, ‘I notice these things. It’s not often you get a woman polis around here, you know. Not that you look like a polis, or anything like that.’

‘So what do I look like?’ she said.

Big Davie gave Mulholland a quick glance.

‘One of they supermodels or a film star or something,’ he said.

It was a crap line; but it’d worked in the seedy bars of Bettyhill and Scrabster. Wee Alison McVitie; Big Janice McLeod; Esther
The Bedtester
Cummins; Phyllis
Froglegs
Duncan; Big Effie MacFarlane. The list was long.

Mulholland laughed. Proudfoot switched from cynicism to annoyance. Sheep Dip cracked open a bag of Maltesers and popped six of them into his mouth. He’d had the same thoughts about Proudfoot himself, but he knew what Mrs Dip would have to say about it. The Big Mary incident had just about been the last straw.

‘Piss off, you,’ said Proudfoot, addressing Mulholland.

‘Aye,’ said Big Davie, seeing his opportunity, ‘could see you on one of they magazine covers, you know. Cosmo or something.’

‘Aye,’ said Mulholland. ‘Erin Proudfoot on why she’s shagged her last beefburger.’

‘Would you shut your face?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ said Big Davie, ‘you get a lot of they polis women who are absolute stankmonsters, you know. Look like they could crush a cannonball between their thighs. A bit of rough. You’ll know what I mean,’ he said to Mulholland. Nudged him in the ribs

‘Aye,’ he replied. Already wondering if he should commandeer the snowplough. Toss Big Davie into a snowdrift. He glanced at him. Big Davie was well named. Not unlike Big Effie MacFarlane.

‘The only time you usually get a good-looking bit of pig crumpet is on the telly, you know. Like yon Charlie’s Angels or something like that. See yon Farrah Fawcett. She’s got a face like a bag of spanners the now, you know, but see when she was younger, I’d’ve dragged my balls three mile over broken glass just to wank in her shadow. All tits and arse and no brains in her heid. You can’t beat that in a bird.’

Why is it, thought Mulholland, that wherever you go in life, you will always find a Glaswegian talking pish?

‘So how long you been in the polis, then, hen?’ asked Big Davie. Time to turn on the charm.

‘Ten years,’ said Proudfoot. Couldn’t be bothered with him, but she’d spent all her life talking to idiots like this, so she could do it and switch off at the same time. And it was annoying Mulholland.

‘Ten year, eh? Stoatir. You must have caught a few criminals in that time, eh?’

‘Aye, one or two,’ she said.

‘Brilliant. I mean, being a woman, and all that, you know. ‘Cause women just aren’t like us, you know. In’t that right, Chief,’ he said. Nudged Mulholland again.

‘Ever thought of being a policeman yourself?’ said Mulholland dryly.

The snowplough ground on; slower than a slow Sunday when it’s raining outside, the BBC are showing a forty year-old Doris Day movie, and Sky have plumped for Motherwell versus Dundee.

‘The one that always gets me,’ said Big Davie, ‘is the toilet thing.’

For a second he concentrated on a tight bend in the road, leaving them in suspense. When he resumed on a short straighter section, he said nothing. Knew how to hook an audience, did Big Davie. Well aware of the nation’s scatological fascination. Did not have to wait long.

‘Go on, then,’ said Proudfoot. ‘You’re going to explain that at some point, so you might as well get it over with.’

Sheep Dip tilted back his head and poured the remaining Maltesers down his throat.

‘Think about it,’ said Big Davie, lifting a finger. ‘You’ll know what I’m getting at, Big Man. How many times have you been sitting in the boozer, in a crowd, you know; a few blokes, a few birds, and then one of the women’ll say, I’m away for a pish. Then the next thing is that there’s some other bird saying no bother, hen, I need one myself, I’ll come with you, and off they go, hand in hand to the bog. How many times have you seen that?’

‘Lost count,’ replied Mulholland.

‘Hundreds,’ said Sheep Dip, chocolate in his teeth.

‘Exactly. So what I want to know is, what do they do when they get there? I mean, no one’s saying they’re screaming lesbians, or anything like that, you know. So what is it they do? I mean, if you’re sitting there and some bloke says to you,
I’m going for a pish, want to come?
what are you going to think? You think, this guy’s a bloody poof and I’m going to kick his heid in. There’s just no way on this earth that two guys are going to go to the bog together, unless they’re flaming, know what I mean? But with women it’s different. They quite happily swan off to the bog, arm in arm, to squeeze into the same cubicle together and compare knickers.’

They left him to it. Proudfoot tried to remember the last time she’d gone to the toilet accompanied, and had to admit it hadn’t been too long ago. Mulholland drummed a mental finger.

‘Course,’ said Big Davie, ‘if I was a woman, I expect I’d need some help going for a pish. I mean, it’s no’ as if they’ve got anything to hang on to. Who knows, eh?’

He didn’t get an answer. The snowplough was another fifty yards nearer Durness. Big Davie had not finished.

‘Oh, aye, that was another good-looking bird. What was her name? The one in
Cagney and Lacy
? The blonde bit. Good-looking bit of stuff. Shite programme, of course, but she was all right, you know. I mean, back then. She’s nothing to look at now, mind, but see ten year ago, I’d’ve smeared my balls in raw meat and swum through shark-infested waters just to get a whiff of her armpit.’

Mulholland wondered if he could arrest Big Davie for talking mince in adverse weather conditions.

‘I think that might just about be it, though. What do you think, Big Man?’

Mulholland didn’t reply. How about driving a snowplough under the influence of stupidity?

‘See, that’s my point, hen,’ said Big Davie, once more directing his attention to Proudfoot. ‘Usually good looking women don’t join the polis. But here you are, pure in there, and all that. A dream thing in uniform. A babe in blue. A bit of snatch with some authority. You can’t beat it. So, what’s the score?’

One of the great laws of physics, she thought. Proudfoot’s law, number eight hundred and thirty-five. If you’re in a snowplough with two guys – she ignored Sheep Dip; Sheep Dip was like having a dog along for the ride – one of whom you want to smother in ice cream, and one of whom you wouldn’t touch with a stick the length of the diameter of the universe, you can guarantee that it’ll be the pre-humanoid who makes the move.

‘Not sure, you smooth-talking bastard,’ she said. Which was the truth. ‘Enjoyed it on TV, I suppose. Always wanted to be in the police.’

‘Right,’ said Big Davie. ‘No bother, hen. Sometimes it just seems like life leads you one way or the other and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re just drifting down the river without a paddle, the trees of the forest passing you by, like shite off a stick.’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Something like that.’

‘Very existentialist,’ said Mulholland. He’d had enough.

‘Existentialist, Big Man?’ said Big Davie.

‘Whatever.’

‘Do you actually know what existentialist means?’

Mulholland didn’t answer.

‘Are you saying that living a life where you drift from one course of action to another without rhyme nor reason, with no control over any eventuality, is an existentialist existence? Clearly, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about. The existentialist ideal covers a shit-load of doctrines denying objective universal values, holding that a bloke’s got to create they values for himself through action, and by living each moment to the full.
Carpe diem
and all that. What’s that got to do with drifting aimlessly through life taking what comes, like your gorgeous sidekick here?’

‘My life’s not aimless,’ said Proudfoot.

‘Now that you’ve met me?’ he said hopefully.

Mulholland raised his eyes. Wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. Back policing Partick Thistle home games. Anything.

‘Looking for a date tonight, Davie?’ she said.

‘You asking?’ said Big Davie.

‘Davie, if the choice was between a night out with you and three hours with a headache and a nine-tonne earth remover wedged up my nose, I’d reach for the Nurofen and take my chances with the JCB.’

‘Oh,’ he said. Swept powerfully round a tight corner.

‘So sex is out of the question, then?’

‘Aye.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said. Rejection was no problem. Big Davie’s Law of Acquisition: if you propositioned a hundred women a week and ninety-nine refused, you were still getting a shag.

Time to move on. Or back, as it might have been.

***

The snowplough chugged noisily away on up the road, heading for Rhiconich and on to Laxford Bridge, where it would meet up with the plough from Ullapool. Proudfoot, Mulholland and Sheep Dip watched it go for a few seconds, glad to be released; then they walked up the drive of the first B&B in Durness.

This one to check, two hotels, then they would take it from there. They were unsure where the next hotels were going to be down the road; unsure how they were going to get there. Each of them thinking privately that they might have been coming to the end of the road. For all the obvious signs and myriad clues, it could be that Barney Thomson had just disappeared into the ether. They could spend a pointless night in Durness and then what? Turn back, head down to Glasgow, give it another few days before the Chief Super kicked them both off the case and lined up some other sacrificial dope to take the drop. The future.