The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (44 page)

‘There were a stack-load of other things,’ said Edward. ‘Some said he had a cloven hoof, and you can guess why he’d want to hide that. Some said it was a gangrenous stump, some said leprosy, some said he had two left hands, some said he had a pincer. There were all sorts of things. All sorts. Don’t know that any of them… what?’

Mulholland and Proudfoot stared at one another. Immediately they both took quick looks over their shoulders and around the unprotected, vulnerable field of snow which marked their territory. Suddenly the enemy had become much, much more dangerous.

‘What?’ said Edward. Martin said nothing, but his eyes squinted at the two police officers, his mind slowly beginning to catch up. ‘What?’ said Edward again.

‘Two left hands,’ said Martin.

Mulholland stood up and took a more solid look around the area. Vulnerable didn’t cover it. They were sitting ducks. But then there were four of them and one of him, and as long as they stuck together and kept their eyes open.

‘No,’ said Edward, ‘no way. That was just about the weirdest of the lot. How can you tell? Just because his left hand was there and so was Brother Steven’s… Oh.’ The slow process of Edward’s thoughts. ‘Steven? Steven? What are you saying?’

‘What do you know about him?’ said Mulholland, directing his question at Martin. He could ask questions of Edward some time in the future, when his brain was in the same time zone as the rest of them.

‘Not sure,’ said Martin. ‘He always played the straight man, you know. Knew a lot of stuff, was quite literary. Used to quote stuff all the time, philosophers and that, but that was it. I suppose none of us knew the guy. He seemed to be friendly enough with Brother Jacob, mind you.’

‘In it together?’ said Proudfoot.

Mulholland shook his head. ‘We’re not making the same mistake twice. Barney Thomson isn’t killing anyone. In fact, I’d bet your gran’s arse that the bloke’s dead already. Shit, we’ve been stupid.’

‘How were we supposed to know that the Abbot had two left hands? How could we know that?’

‘Not just that,’ said Mulholland, ‘it’s everything, right from the off. We both knew it wasn’t Thomson. It had to be one of the monks, and we never investigated it properly.’

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said Edward, voice slightly fevered.

‘What?’ said Proudfoot and Mulholland in unison.

‘Are you saying that those two left hands both belonged to the Abbot, and that it was Brother Steven who killed him rather than Barney Thomson?

‘Brilliant, Brother,’ said Proudfoot. ‘Well caught up. The rest of us realised that about eight minutes ago.’

‘Help m’boab,’ said Edward. ‘Help m’fucking boab.’

And the words disappeared into the snow, and nothing else was said for some time. Mulholland stood and looked at the snow, moving in a slow circle. Wondering where Brother Steven lay, wondering to what advantage they would be able to put this new knowledge.

While fifty yards away, Steven lay and watched, toying with the possibility of taking Mulholland out where he stood with a single shot. However, this he decided against, and instead he pondered what it was that had suddenly brought Mulholland to his feet. That, and why they’d been so stupid as to burn their tent.

Inevitably the day dawned. Low, cold skies, the snow no longer falling, the white on the ground reflected dull grey with the clouds. The four of them were still huddled around the fire, although it had long since extinguished; a strange clutch at a straw of comfort. Edward was asleep where he sat, cross-legged, hands clasped as if in prayer in his lap, his head hung. Martin was in exactly the same position, but his eyes were open, staring at the circle of charred wood and black ash which was all they had left to cling to. Proudfoot was sleeping in an uncomfortable position, her legs splayed, her arms tucked, her head in Mulholland’s lap. And only he sat alert, constantly on the lookout for Brother Steven. The new threat.

Occasionally he wondered what had become of Barney Thomson, but it was an irrelevance. Suddenly it was no longer about him, and their situation appeared all the more perilous. Regardless of how many had already perished at the hands of the killer, when he’d assumed it had been Barney Thomson there had still been something unlikely about the whole thing; he still held the firm belief that, if it came to it, he’d be all right because there was no way that the miserable barber was doing anything to him. Murderer or not, he had it in his head that Barney was a big girl’s blouse.

However, now the goal posts had been shifted. In fact, not so much shifted as had been transported to a different pitch for a different sport on a different planet in a different universe. It was like being 5-0 down with twenty minutes left, thinking you’re playing Sprackly Heath Ladies’ Over-60s Dominoes XI, and that you’ll be able to come back no problem; when it turns out that in fact you’re playing the 1970 Brazil team, and that not only are you not coming back, you’re about to get pumped even more.

Mulholland’s mind was rambling.

He looked down at Proudfoot, her face cold and blue; at ease, nevertheless. He felt like he could stay that way; he could sit there for days, with this cold face in his lap. But he had to be willing. He had almost totally failed in his duty to protect the monks, but he could at least make sure that she made it back to safety. As for himself, did he care anymore? Wife gone (good riddance), job down the toilet (good riddance), and that was all there had been in his life up to that point. Could he go and start from scratch?

The whole thing was getting near the end. He felt it; he knew that Steven must make his move before they reached Durness. It seemed like they’d been ambling through the Highlands one day and the next plunged into confrontation, death and terror; a confrontation that was screaming towards a conclusion. And the weight on his shoulders that was the manifestation of this thought dragged him farther and farther down, so that he no longer cared. And yet the fear was still there, so from where did that emotion come?

He shook Proudfoot’s shoulder, felt her muscles tense; her eyes opened and she sat up. A moment’s hesitation, then she looked about her, saw the dawn of the day, felt the embarrassment of having fallen asleep on his lap and moved away from him.

‘We should get going,’ she said.

‘Aye,’ he replied. He turned to Edward and nudged his ribs. ‘Come on, we’ve got to move.’

Edward’s head lifted slowly up, his eyes opened and wrinkled, a low groan escaped the back of his throat. He immediately thought of Brother Raphael, and avoided turning his head to where the naked body lay covered with snow.

‘Right,’ he said, and was the first person to stand up. The quicker they moved, the quicker they could return to civilisation, the quicker he could get on with his life. Not for a second did he allow himself to think about death. Death happened to other people, and not to him. Not for a long time yet. That was what he thought.

As the others stood up, brushing themselves free of snow, starting the painful, uncomfortable process of getting their muscles moving and the warmth charging through their bodies, Brother Steven watched from afar.

He had backed off some since dawn had poked its uncertain head into the day. Disappointed that the night had not presented further opportunities, but murder was a waiting game. Everyone knew that.

He could probably have managed to take them on with two of them sleeping, but why bother? He’d come so far, achieved so much, why risk everything at this stage? His plan: to give it another couple of hours, see if he was presented with any more propitious moments, and, if not, bring out the Colt. And he had another, altogether more exciting plan for that. And so, let them taste the bittersweet tang of hot lead; let them feast on the brutal pungency of a steel bullet; let them enjoy the festival of punishment that manifested itself in the searing heat of the monster which was spewed forth from the gun; let them wallow in a cauldron of ballistic Parmesan and let their heads drown in a plate of bloody ordnance.

Steven’s mind was also rambling. But he watched closely, preparing to move. He would track them all the way; if they slipped, if they strayed, if they wandered slightly from the course, he would pounce. And if they did not stray, he would shoot them.

A bloody good plan.

And as the four shook themselves down and prepared to start the final long haul to Durness, and as Brother Steven watched every move, Barney Thomson was still far from coming up with that brilliant plan. In fact, Barney slept. Soundly, eyes firmly shut, mind not even dreaming, head lodged in the pillow of a cloak, he slept. And as the others moved off and Steven shadowed them as closely as he could, Barney let it all pass him by.

***

Progress was slow. Men who walk through snow for a living, if there are such men, would have had trouble with this terrain. And as the morning passed, Mulholland began to doubt that they would reach Durness by evening. But he also knew they could not stop and be sitting ducks again. Whatever the weather and whatever the light, they had to limp on until they reached the safety of the town. He knew, however, his beating heart and his fevered mind told him, that they would not even get close to Durness before they had to answer the challenge. It was imminent. He could feel it. Everywhere.

As for how much ground they were covering and their exact location, he had no clue. Brother Martin led the way, claiming to know where he was going; and Mulholland had to trust him, for he himself could not have been more lost. Visibility wasn’t bad, but it could have been a hundred miles and it wouldn’t have made any difference. When everything was white, it was white.

He made his way past Edward and came up behind Martin, who he could tell was only grudgingly waiting for the rest of them.

‘Martin!’ he called out from some fifteen yards back to save the final effort of catching him up. Martin turned slowly and waited for him. Plucked himself from the dream of a Swiss chalet in winter; snow outside, a roaring fire and a strumpet of naked women inside.

‘You know where we are?’ asked Mulholland.

‘No problem,’ Martin said. He pointed to his left without looking. ‘That’s Ben Fleah over there, behind it is Beinn Achrah.’ Made-up names, but he knew Mulholland wasn’t going to know any better. Mulholland looked into the impenetrable white, one snow-covered physical feature pretty much blending into another.

‘How can you possibly tell?’ he asked.

Martin shrugged. Behind them, Edward and Proudfoot trudged slowly along their footfalls. Heads down, dreaming or depressed, their minds on other things. Neither of them looked up, or behind; and so Proudfoot did not notice that she was becoming detached at the back, and neither did Edward. Brother Steven noticed, however. Brother Steven noticed everything.

‘Just can,’ said Martin. ‘I know these hills pretty well. When you’re living with a bunch of goons like that mob, you like to get out sometimes.’

‘To the town?’

‘That would’ve been totally awesome, but I could never do it, you know? A guilt thing. Masochistic too, because I always teased myself. Allowed myself the chance to get there, but didn’t do it. I don’t know what that was all about, but I wasn’t the only one doing weird stuff.’

‘Well, you can do it now,’ said Mulholland.

A large smile began to spread across Martin’s face. ‘You’re right about that,’ he said. ‘Bloody right.’

Despite the tension, and his cement-mixer stomach, Mulholland laughed. Relief. Another clutch at a straw of comfort.

‘So, what are you going to do, then?’ he said. ‘What’s first on the list?’

The smile remained plastered to Martin’s face. ‘Sex,’ he said. ‘Stacks and stacks of sex.’

‘Available in Durness, is it?’

‘Don’t care. I’ll get it somehow. There’s sex to be had in most places, and I’m gagging for it. So that’s first, then I’m going to get steaming pished out of my face, then I’m going to have some more sex, then get a decent night’s sleep in a warm, comfy bed, then I’m going to get up, have the fullest breakfast they have to offer, then I’m going to have stacks more sex.’