The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (46 page)

‘It was never offside,’ said Steven, and the line had never been uttered more dangerously.

‘Whatever. The goal is chopped off, and our guy goes ape-shit. Attacks the ref, does the whole pissed-off player thing. This fixture’s been getting played for over two hundred years, and your man becomes the first player to be sent off. So, everyone’s a bit embarrassed, the game gets abandoned, and the guy not only gets his marching orders from the match, he’s sent packing from the abbey as well, head hung in shame and all that. A bit like Christopher Lambert in
Highlander
without the physical abuse. And the fixture’s never been held since. In fact, I don’t think we’ve spoken to that lot in years. It’s a bit like England and Pakistan at cricket after that Mike Gatting business, except it’s still going on.’

Edward shrugged. The tension had eased from him with the explanation. It almost seemed normal again; to be having a discussion about football.

‘And?’ said Mulholland, still searching for the thing that would incite a man to murder.

‘That man was my father,’ said Steven.

‘Which man?’

‘The man who scored the goal.’

‘What? The offside one?’ said Edward.

‘It wasn’t offside! Don’t you fools see that? It was a perfectly good goal, and they ruined his life over it. He was never the same.’

Mulholland waved his hands in front of him, trying to shake away what had just been said. His head shook in time.

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You’re telling us that you’ve just murdered over thirty men because of a bad offside call?’

‘It wasn’t bloody offside!’ said Steven.

‘I heard it was a mile offside,’ said Edward.

Steven raised the gun and pointed it at him.

‘Fuck it!’ shouted Mulholland. ‘I don’t care if it was offside or if there were fifteen fucking monks standing on the sodding goal line. You’re saying that you’ve just murdered all these men because of a refereeing decision? Over thirty men dead for that? Are you serious? Are you seriously serious? Are you really serious, you weird-as-fuck, stupid, ignorant, cretinous moron? You numpty, brainless, twat-faced, shit-brained, heid-the-ba’d, twat-brained, shit-faced, couldn’t-piss-in-a-blanket Spam-head? I’ve eaten fish suppers with more brains than you. You can’t honestly be saying that you’ve just killed more people than live in the suburbs of Shanghai because of a bad offside call. That would just have to be the most ridiculous, fuck-witted piece of stupid fuck-headedness I’ve ever heard of.’

Steven frowned. He should have known they wouldn’t understand. Such was the abuse that the enlightened must face.

‘It was a really, really bad decision,’ he said.

Mulholland didn’t know what to say. This was stupid. Most crimes were stupid, but this was up there in the Top One of really stupid crimes he’d investigated. This was beyond stupid. This was the Real Madrid 1960 European Cup-winning side of stupidity.

‘Well, why didn’t you go after the referee?’

Steven smiled, lowered the gun from his aim on the shaking Edward and rested it once more against Proudfoot’s head. ‘I did, several years ago. But it was this mob I really wanted. It was them who drove my father away from the place he loved. It was them who ruined his life. It was them who forced him to die a broken man, and it was on his deathbed that he told me about the injustice of Two Tree Hill. I knew then that he must be avenged.’

Mulholland was still aghast; and aghast at himself for even indulging in conversation about it.

‘So why kill them all? If it was in the seventies, most of this lot couldn’t even have been here.’

Steven shrugged. The gun was raised, then came back down to rest on Proudfoot’s head. She had wondered if Mulholland would manage to effect her escape, but she had now resigned herself to the bullet in the back of the head. Someone this insane would not spare her.

‘I took my time. I tried to find records of the day to see who’d been here at the time, then I was going to take them out. Spare the innocent, you know? But, of course, they had long ago destroyed any record of their
Day of Shame
, so there was nothing to find. And none of them would talk about it, of course. Then I was discovered in my searches by Brother Saturday. I had to kill him and that kind of opened up a bit of a wasps’ nest. Got rather carried away, I have to admit, but I tell you, it’s been one Hell of a ride. Anyway, when I realised you lot were coming, I thought I’d better get a move on. Otherwise, I’d have lingered a lot longer over it.’

Mulholland still shook his head. Staggered. He was used to stupidity, but this was unbelievable.

‘But a bad offside decision?’ he said, still incredulous.

‘That’s the point,’ said Edward. ‘It wasn’t a bad decision. Everyone says he was a mile offside.’

‘Hey, you can think what you like, Brother Shagger, but the fact is, I know it was a good goal, and I know that your lot deserved to die.’

‘What about Sheep Dip?’ said Mulholland.

‘That idiot? Just stumbled into him in a corridor, thought I might as well take him out. He was dangerous, you see, so I had to get rid of him when I had the chance. You two? I stood over you two nights ago as you lay sleeping, and I decided to leave you alive for a while longer. I wasn’t that bothered about whether you died or not, and to be honest, there’s no way you were ever going to catch me. So, I might kill you now, and I might not. Who knows? There is one thing I want from you first, though. You do this, and I might let you and your girlfriend here live.’

All stupidity aside, it had to come to it eventually. They weren’t going to stand there forever, discussing bad offside decisions and their consequences.

‘What can I possibly do for you?’ said Mulholland.

Steven smiled. He lifted the gun from Proudfoot’s head, waved it at Edward, and then lowered it again. This time he ostentatiously exercised his trigger finger and pushed the gun harder against her scalp.

‘You can kill him,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Edward. ‘What are you talking about?’

Mulholland glanced out of the corner of his eye at him, looked back to Steven. ‘What’s the point?’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Chief Inspector. Just having a bit of fun. I’m curious to see how keen you are on your girlfriend here, you know? Just how much are you prepared to do for her?’

‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Aye, all right, whatever. But you want her to be, it’s pretty obvious. So, let’s just find out how much. You want her to live, you kill sad little Brother Edward.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Edward.

‘She’s a police officer,’ said Mulholland. ‘She knows I’m not going to do it. She’s prepared to die in the line of duty. It comes with the job.’

‘Yes, Mulholland, but are
you
prepared for her to die in the line of duty? Think about it, my friend. If you don’t do it, all three of you are going to die anyway. But you kill Edward here, I might well let the two of you go. In fact, I
will
let you go. And I’m a man of my word. All you have to do to get your freedom is put your hands round the boy’s neck, squeeze for two minutes, kill someone who is as good as already dead, and you and your friend are out of here.’

Mulholland looked into Proudfoot’s eyes. Pale blue and frightened. His mind raced through the alternatives. The distance between himself and Steven, the time it would take for a blind charge; how to communicate to Edward the possibility that Steven’s plan presented – that Edward could feign death; the alternative of doing as Steven suggested, keeping him talking until something else came to mind. His mind was a mess, but not once did his eyes stray from those of Proudfoot. Scared and nervous, but something about them which said that if this was it, then so be it. You’ve got to go some time, and rather this than a car crash or a debilitating illness. A bullet in the back of the head in the line of duty. She wriggled, wishing that she were free to taunt Steven about being such a total moron; at least get a good sneer in before he brought the curtain down.

‘Can’t decide, eh?’ said Steven. ‘The clock ticks, my friend. Ten seconds and your girlfriend gets a bullet in the brain.’

‘Leave her out of it, for God’s sake.’

‘Eight… seven… wasting time, Mulholland.’

Mulholland took a step towards him, his mind in confusion. He turned and looked at Edward; maybe if he could just fake it, but would Edward know to play along? He tried doing something with his eyes at the man, but Edward stared back, frightened. Contemplating a dive over the other side of the hill. It’d be a job to run away, but how many bullets was the man going to have left?

‘Four seconds, Chief Inspector.’

Proudfoot closed her eyes. Would she die instantly, or would there be some sort of sensation before she went? Searing pain? Heat? Epiphany?

Mulholland hesitated. Three seconds, two seconds. Made his mind up, but only on an attempt to buy more time. He turned towards Edward. Hands around the throat, look him in the eye as he strangled him, and hope the guy worked it out before he had to kill him. Feigning death was the only way.

‘One second…,’ said Steven, intending to drag that second out a little longer, to increase the agony.

Proudfoot took her final breath; Edward saw Mulholland coming and went with instinct. It made sense. If either way he stayed here he was going to die, then he might as well make a run for it. Feigning death did not occur to him, and at the sight of Mulholland turning he was gone. On the back foot, then he turned, sprinting heavy-legged through the snow and the few yards until he could disappear over the other side of the ridge.

The gun cracked its subdued explosion; a firework of blood sprayed across the snow.

Mulholland turned back to Steven, heart thumping again; mouth open; ears singing. The bullet had sung past his head on its way into the late Brother Edward’s back. And by the time Mulholland turned, Steven once more held the gun to Proudfoot’s head.

‘Hey, Chief Inspector, I didn’t think you were going to play. So, what the hell. They’re all dead now. Bastards.’

Mulholland calmed down quickly, though he could yet hear the bullet. His eyes engaged with Proudfoot’s once more, and they were now more settled. She had already faced the inevitability of death, and it had passed her by. When it came for real in the next few seconds, she would be ready.

Mulholland knew he was going to have to run at them, he knew he was going to be too slow, he knew that he would be shot and then so would Proudfoot. And the game would be done. He could try talking to gain more time, but what use was more time?

‘Right then, dick-face,’ he said, ‘get it over with.’

Steven twitched. The gun shook in his hand. About time, thought Proudfoot.

‘What do you mean,
dick-face
? I’m the one with the gun. Who are you to call me
dick-face
?’

‘I’m the guy who knows that you’re a dick-face, that’s who.’ Mulholland smiled – might as well go down verbally fighting; on another level, trying to get the madman annoyed and distracted, standard police stuff – and waved his hands. ‘I mean, what am I supposed to call you? You’ve spent all your life planning to avenge some crap refereeing decision when, as far as anyone can tell, it was right. Your dad was just an idiot, and you’re an even bigger idiot. What kind of sad, pathetic moron spends his life planning to avenge a lousy refereeing call? I’ll tell you what kind. The dick-faced kind, that’s who, dick-face.’

All the time he was taking slow, mincing, invisible steps towards them. Pointless words, but if he could keep it up, get the balance between keeping Steven interested and getting him so annoyed that he shot instantly, he might get close enough. But it was a long fifteen yards, which had become a long ten yards, and it was still too far on a good surface, never mind with the snow between them.