The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (47 page)

Steven twitched again. Saw Mulholland coming. Debating with himself whether or not to let him get nearer so that he could answer the outrageous taunts. But no, the closer he got the more chance there was of him making a move.

He lifted the gun, hand steady, perfect aim. One and a half centimetres above Mulholland’s right eye. Get him there and he’d twitch; he’d read that in a book once. Proudfoot could watch it, and then she could get hers.

Mulholland hesitated, recognised the look. Had seen it once from a moron in Hyndland who’d come at him with a knife. This was it.

One last look at Proudfoot – the eyes said everything – and then, mouth open and screaming, he charged towards Brother Steven.

From nowhere he came. Dressed in white, invisible to all until the last second, a man possessed, Barney Thomson sprang from behind Brother Steven, his hands reached his shoulders before the finger squeezed the trigger, so that when the gun went off the bullet flew harmlessly away into the low cloud.

Proudfoot fell forward into the snow; Mulholland raced towards her. Barney pushed Steven under him, grabbing at his right wrist to stop him manoeuvring the gun. He had the benefit of surprise for a few seconds, and so Steven wilted, but he was the stronger man. Barney struggled, managed to avoid the knee that Steven tried to thrust up into his groin.

Steven pushed back at him, raised him up, then pushed him over onto his back. Still Barney grabbed at his wrists, still Barney struggled to remember what it was about this particular plan that had been brilliant. Steven’s forehead came accelerating down, but Barney spotted it and took the blow to the side of his skull rather than to the bridge of his nose. Steven reeled for a second, hurt as much as his victim.

Mulholland undid the restraints around Proudfoot; they watched from no more than two yards away. A strange fascination. Then suddenly the realisation that he had to do something. Too late.

The gun was brought down into the midst of the wrestling match. Barney screwed up his face; Steven tried to steer the gun into Barney’s stomach, muscles tensed.

But Steven was a man who had lived his dream; a man whose time had come and gone; and a man who suddenly doubted his entire life. Barney was a man who had not come this far to go down like this.

The gun went off as Mulholland dived on top of them, another muffled thud. Sometimes it is not always the one who doesn’t care who loses…

Mulholland pulled at them, nothing yielded. Then slowly Steven’s shoulder gave in, and his body fell away from that of Barney Thomson. There was blood on them both, but the blood was Steven’s, and when he fell into the snow, the gun still clutched in his hand, he didn’t move.

Barney Thomson looked up at Mulholland, chest heaving, breath coming in short, desperate bursts, and he somehow managed to say a few short words. He knew he was looking at the police; he knew this would be the epitaph to his years of freedom. He knew that these very words might dictate the course of the rest of his life.

‘It wasn’t me,’ he said.

***

They had moved back over the hill, away from the final scene of bloody carnage, and far enough away from Martin’s body that it was out of sight. They had a vague idea in what direction they should be heading, and had retrieved Martin’s compass. One day they would get back to a road, or one day their bodies would be found on a hillside.

The clouds were still low, but they did not promise any more snow and they were stopping the temperature plummeting. So they took a rest before they set out on the final road, to sit in a small circle eating some of the food which they now had aplenty.

Barney had said nothing since he’d killed Brother Steven. Still could not believe that that had been the extent of his brilliant plan. How do you make yourself look innocent of murder? Run out and kill someone, then say, ‘
It wasn’t me
!’ That would convince anyone. Perhaps the circumstances would have helped, but you could never tell with the police. Bastards, most of them.

‘How did you find me?’ he said, deciding that it was time to get it over with. The temporary madness which had afflicted him in the monastery had gone. The tiredness which had allowed him to fall asleep while watching them had gone. He had tracked them by their footfalls, he had brought everything out in the open, and now he had to face the future.

‘By accident,’ said Mulholland. ‘We knew you were in Sutherland somewhere, but we only came to the monastery because of the other murders. How did you end up in a place like that?’

‘Nowhere else to go,’ said Barney. ‘I knew I had to go some place that no one would’ve heard of me. How was I supposed to know that there’d be some murdering eejit there ‘n all?’

‘Just like your mum?’ said Proudfoot.

Barney nodded, staring sadly at her. ‘You know about her, eh? I thought you might have worked it out. Does the press know, ‘n all?’

Mulholland shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. We’ve been stuck out here so long, who knows? The press have probably moved on by now, anyway. You know what they’re like. We just couldn’t work out the story with the other two. Henderson and Porter.’

Barney Thomson drew a deep breath. This was it. No more running; no more lies; no more fantasies. He might as well tell the truth, and face the music. Maybe he’d get to cut hair in prison.

‘I know you’re not going to believe me, but they were both accidents. Yon Wullie slipped on some water and fell into a pair of scissors I was holding. A couple of days later, that eejit Chris confronted me about it, we had a fight, and he fell and cracked his napper. You know.’

Mulholland took a bite from a stale sandwich. Proudfoot drank some water. Barney played with snow.

‘Is that really true?’ asked Mulholland.

‘Aye,’ said Barney, without any pleading in his voice. ‘Stupid, but true. Not as stupid as yon bampot Steven, mind you.’

‘So why didn’t you just go to the police after the first one? If it was an accident, what did you have to fear?’ asked Proudfoot.

Barney shrugged slowly, shaking his head. How many times had he asked himself that in the last few weeks? If only he’d gone to the police in the first place.

‘Don’t know. I was just stupid, like I says. Stupid.’

‘And what about the four police at the lochside? Did you have anything to do with that?’

‘Ah well, talk about stupid. I was there, and all that, you know, but they all just shot each other. Don’t know what they were on. Internecine, you know, stuff. It was like
The Godfather
.’

Mulholland stared at the legendary and infamous Barney Thomson close up. An ordinary man. If the press and public who so vilified him could see this… This was the great killer. Just a wee bloke, sitting in the snow looking slightly bemused and eating some cheese which had not been well served by the journey.

How would they take to him when they got back? How would he and Proudfoot fit into the whole Barney Thomson story when they were disclosed as the ones who’d caught him?

He shook his head, looked at the innocent in the snow. Caught him? What was he talking about? Barney Thomson had just saved their lives. They had no more caught him than they’d caught Steven. If they had finally found Barney it was because he’d wanted to be found. He’d trailed them across the snow, when he could have gone in the opposite direction. He’d given up his chance of freedom for them. How could he repay that?

‘You’d better get going, then,’ he said.

Both Proudfoot and Barney looked at him. Barney had cheese crumbs on his lips.

‘What d’you mean?’

Mulholland sighed heavily. Looked at Proudfoot. Initial surprise aside, she knew what he was thinking.

‘You saved our lives. You’re no more a killer than either of us two. The real evil in this is dead, and it was you who did it. If we take you back you never know how you’re going to get treated. You might as well just disappear. Go and make a life for yourself somewhere, if you can.’

‘Are you serious?’ said Barney, standing up.

Mulholland nodded. ‘Aye, I’m serious.’

Barney Thomson stared down at the two police officers. He had never known that the police could be like this. Bloody hell, he thought; and wondered again if it would have been this easy if he’d confessed right from the off.

‘Can I take some food for the walk?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have much left.’

‘As much as you like,’ said Mulholland. ‘We’ve got a stack-load.’

And, still in some state of shock, Barney set about loading up his rucksack, a sack which contained a torch, some firelighters, some matches, a compass, a change of clothes, and his scissors and a comb. Everything a man needed when he was on the run.

Suitably laden with food, his heart lighter than it had been in many weeks – and if he was honest with himself, possibly lighter than it had been in years – he looked down at Mulholland and Proudfoot for the last time.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You saved our lives, Barney,’ said Mulholland. ‘Thank you.’

‘Aye, right. Whatever.’

‘Where’ll you go?’ asked Proudfoot.

Barney drew a deep breath. He took a quick look over his shoulder at the snowscape which awaited him.

‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Just somewhere I can cut hair, I suppose. Some place where they need a barber. Wherever there are men in search of a steady pair of scissors; wherever there is injustice against the noble art of barbery; wherever there is evil being perpetrated in the name of hirsutology; wherever men are forced to grovel in the pit of abomination in order to receive what every man deserves, you will…’

‘Barney?’

‘What?’

‘If you don’t shut up I’m going to arrest you for talking pish. Now bugger off and get going. I’ve heard enough people talking mince in the last week. So you’ve got twenty minutes and then we’re moving, so you’d better get a shift on ‘cause I never want to see you again.’

‘Oh. Right then.’

And so, with a wave of the hand, the world’s last remaining barber surgeon took his leave of the police officers who had been sent to bring him to justice. Rucksack over his shoulder, boots sinking deep into the snow, Barney Thomson set off on his way. The world ahead was clean and white and untouched and, as long as he did not look back, there was no one else within sight. He was free.

They watched him go for a few minutes without a word, until finally he was lost in the snow and the grey gloom. They turned and looked at one another, but no words were said on the matter. Barney Thomson was gone. Proudfoot wanted to tell Mulholland that he had done the right thing, but the words didn’t come out. They saw the tiredness in each other; they both felt it in their bones. But there was nothing that would stop them getting back to civilisation, although who knew what awaited them there. An entire colony of monks had been wiped out before their eyes.

‘Right,’ said Mulholland, beginning to move. ‘It’s over. We should get our stuff together and get going. We might still be able to make it back tonight, if not before it gets dark. Then, who knows, we can have a fun-filled few days doing paperwork and talking to pissed-off chief superintendents.’

Proudfoot stood up, realising that her legs were weak. She had faced death; she was exhausted. But she would make it back to the town, no question. There were things to be taken care of.

‘When we get back to the hotel, before we announce our return or complete any paperwork…’ she said, starting to move necessary items from Edward’s rucksack to her own.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Fancy a shag?’

Mulholland stared at her across a ham sandwich, which he had been contemplating taking a last bite out of before storing it away. Their eyes disappeared into one another, and he bit erotically into the stale bread and dry ham.