Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘Intersex?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’s sex between two different species, like a frog and a goat, or a kangaroo and a tarantula.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ said Barney and the bench customer together, followed quickly by an ‘Arf!’ from the rear of the shop.

  ‘Ha!’ said Walker, ‘the old magic’s still there,’ and he walked forward towards Barney, arm outstretched. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Thomson.’

  Barney, not entirely sure that Walker’s intersex explanation had been a joke, smiled guardedly and shook his hand.

  ‘Nice of you to come over, Mr Walker. You bring those Strattocutters with you?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Walker, ‘that I did.’

  ‘You’re thinking you might cut someone’s hair?’

  Walker gave a small shoulder movement in response, and then, once again, the eyes of the shop turned to the customer on the bench, a man who had just begun to turn his thoughts back to the Hemingway.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Would you mind letting Mr Walker cut your hair?’ said Barney.

  The customer looked at Barney, looked at Walker, then back to Barney.

  ‘That’s not a great line, by the way,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not as bad as ‘would you mind letting the blind guy fly the plane’, or ‘would you mind letting my dog do your open heart surgery’, but even so. A man’s hair is often the only thing that stands between him and total oblivion, so you have to factor that in here. Have you, for example, ever cut anyone’s hair before?’

  Walker laughed.

  ‘Fifty years’ experience,’ said Walker. ‘I can do everything from high and tight to an undercut comb over pomp.’

  ‘Well, I don’t even know what that last one is...’

  ‘And did I mention I use what are generally recognised as the finest pair of haircutting scissors ever produced? The Bender Strattocutter 4-70.’

  Walker reached into his pocket and brought out a small package, maroon velvet, folded over and tied with a piece of dark brown ribbon. He held it flat in the palm of his hand, then slowly pulled the ribbon. The flaps of the velvet fell away, revealing the celebrated scissors within.

  Igor and Barney took a step closer to look upon them with awe. Old Man Hoskins didn’t turn, but regarded them warily in the mirror. The customer looked at them, and all he saw was a pair of scissors.

  ‘There were only fifteen pairs ever produced,’ said Walker. ‘Hand made by the legendary scissor-maker, Godric Bender, the mad, Welsh genius who moved from Rhyl to Chicago in the 1920s. These very scissors once cut the hair of Al Capone, they cut the hair of Franklin Roosevelt, and they cut the hair of Blind Lemon Pie. They’re even rumoured to have once been buried in the back of Funny Boy Floyd’s neck. They’ve done the rounds, son, you can count on them.’

  ‘Nice argument, grandpa,’ said the customer, ‘but you could stick me in a Mercedes W11 and I’d barely be able to drive it out the pits. It’s not about the scissors, it’s about the barber. And your mistake here is to hold the scissors like that in the open palm of your hand. You’re shaking like fuck, mate.’

  A second while the rest of the shop stared at the vibration of the scissors, and then Walker quickly clasped them in a tight grip and attempted to wave the subject away into the afternoon air.

  ‘My left hand,’ he said. ‘Got a little condition coming on there, no big deal. My right hand, my scissor hand, is absolutely fine.’

  He held his right hand aloft to demonstrate its steadiness, and then lowered it almost immediately.

  ‘I’ll wait for Barney,’ said the customer.

  He held Walker’s gaze for a moment, glanced at the velvet bag held unsteadily in his left hand, then settled back in the seat, and lifted his book. Conversation over.

  ‘Igor,’ said Barney, ‘could you get Mr Walker a cup of tea, please? Take a seat, boss, we can have a chat. And I’d like a closer look at those scissors when I’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Arf,’ muttered Igor softly, and only Barney amongst those present knew what he meant: ‘Should’ve been a diplomat.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Barney, and as Walker took a seat in the vacant barber’s chair, Barney returned once more to Old Man Hoskins.

  ‘Right then, Edward,’ he said, ‘let’s get you wrapped up here.’

  ‘I’m still confused about some of those letters,’ said Hoskins.

  Barney caught his eye in the mirror.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘We got it all sorted out. All the way to the end of the alphabet.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Old Man Hoskins looked a little confused, and then seemed to accept it.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘I can explain it to Margaret when I get home.’

  34

  The Classic Island Crime Novel

  Cancelled Ferry Situation

  The Klown sat on a bench looking out over Newton bay, as the sun disappeared away to his right. It was a cold late afternoon, and perhaps the solitary man could have drawn some attention with the peculiarity of his action, sitting still with little but a hoodie and coffee in a disposable cup to keep him warm. Yet no one wanted to look at him. Ask someone who wasn’t looking at him, why they weren’t looking at him, and they couldn’t have answered. There was a guy sitting on a bench drinking coffee, and they weren’t looking at him, that was all. Nothing to see here.

  The Klown himself was not thinking about how people weren’t looking at him. He was thinking about penises, a thought accompanied by an inevitable sense of disappointment.

  He had butchered Wojciechowski on a whim. Wojciechowski had still been alive, and he’d enjoyed the feeling of power, and Wojciechowski’s palpable sense of desolation. He could see what he’d been thinking. His attacker wouldn’t take the time to remove the penis if he was then going to kill him. Why bother? Which meant that a) Wojciechowski had believed he wasn’t going to die, and b) he had a few moments of staring into the future, imagining what life would be like penis-lite.

  The horror.

  Then he’d killed him.

  And so, wishing to establish a pattern that might help give the Klown some presence, a calling card to cement his place amongst the serial killers of the modern age (beyond the fact that he left an actual calling card), he had started severing penises every time.

  What had it been about though? That was the trouble with it. Sure, it made a terrific story, and it probably struck fear into the hearts of men all over the country, but what had it actually meant? If it didn’t have meaning, then it was little more than decoration, a silk purse from a sow’s ear, and what was the point in that? Where was the renown and the glory? From where would the medals come? Should he end up in prison, he’d likely be laughed at. They’d think he himself was sexually inadequate, perhaps, or had some other kind of issue. What possible respect would he ever be given?

  And so he sat with his cup of coffee, looking out on the chill water of Newton bay, the town stretching along the front in either direction, the Crocodile Rock getting lost in the dark to his left, and tried to reverse construct a point to the series of penectomies with which he had terrorised the Scottish barbershop community over the previous couple of weeks.

  And he had nothing.

  Nevertheless, the die had been cast. The Koiffing Klown had his m.o. and there was nothing to be done. It wouldn’t be good for his reputation if he changed method at this stage. It had to be all penis removal, all the way, from now on, that was just how it was going to have to be.

  Bold move coming to Millport, he had to accept that. When the next victim on the Klown’s list had got on that ferry, it had certainly given him pause. Islands could be difficult to get off. There was always the possibility that the police would shut it down, spending the next few days, perhaps even weeks, searching vehicles and interviewing everyone who intended to leave the island. And it wasn’t as though he knew Cumbrae well enough to know if there
was anywhere he could lay low. It seemed unlikely on such a small island. Everyone must know everyone else, and there was hardly a forest in which he could hide.

  However, there was something about the danger that attracted him. With what difficulty had all these murders presented him? It would be good to have the added uncertain element of small town island life.

  ‘You all right, mate,’ said a random chap walking past with a dog on a lead, the first passer-by to inadvertently catch the Klown’s eye.

  ‘Fuck off,’ muttered the Klown, looking away with a scowl, and the dog walker gave him a what’s the matter with you? scowl in return.

  THE END OF THE DAY in the shop, and Barney, Igor and Charles Walker were sitting around chewing the fat. Despite originally viewing the old man’s presence with a degree of scepticism, Barney had found he quite enjoyed his company.

  They’d only found one customer willing to submit to Walker’s tired, shaky old hands, and it had not gone well. Walker himself had called time on the cut a few minutes in, handing the Bender Strattocutters over to Barney for him to finish the job.

  And now the day was done, the last customer had been dispatched, Igor had swept up the final hair and all that was left of the day was to have a late afternoon cup of tea and wait for the detective sergeant to present herself for the day’s round up and the walk back along the front to their house on Marine Parade.

  ‘What’d you think of the scissors?’ asked Walker, having taken a sip of tea and indicated to Igor its quality.

  ‘Majestic,’ said Barney. ‘If Grace Kelly in High Society was reborn as a pair of scissors, it would be these scissors. Never cut hair with anything like that before. Felt like an extension of my fingers.’

  ‘And they suited you perfectly,’ said Walker, continuing the scissor love-in. ‘As though you and the Strattocutters were meant for each other.’

  ‘Too bad you already massacred the guy’s head,’ muttered Igor, ‘Jesus couldn’t have brought that guy’s hair back to life.’

  All Walker heard was Arf! He looked curiously at him, but received no greater understanding in return. Barney smiled knowingly at Igor, accompanied by a small shake of the head.

  ‘Can’t let you keep them, I’m afraid, son,’ said Walker. ‘I owe those scissors everything.’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect to keep them,’ said Barney.

  ‘Aye, they’re getting buried with me,’ said Walker. ‘An old man’s conceit, I’ll admit, but wherever I’m going after this particular joy ride is over, I want those scissors with me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be invaluable to you six feet underground trapped in a small box, in the dark, when you’re dead,’ said Barney, and they laughed together.

  And then silence fell across the shop as Walker accepted his time here was coming to an end. His last flirtation with the majesty of the barbershop was over, and he would have to accept he should never go anywhere near another one. Not, at least, with any intent to cut hair. Those days – despite the Strattocutters – were done.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘thank you very much for the hospitality. Nice to have one last turn in the saddle, but I think we all know I oughtn’t to lift a pair of scissors in anger ever again.’

  ‘Arf!’

  ‘Ha,’ said Walker. ‘I think even I understood that one.’

  He took a long drink of tea, nearly coming to the end of the mug, then laid it down on the small table by the customer bench and got to his feet.

  ‘Thanks for popping by, Charles,’ said Barney. ‘You’re welcome any time.’

  Walker nodded, looked between the two men, and found himself patting his coat pocket to make sure he wasn’t leaving the scissors behind. The others saw the gesture, Igor recognising that what he was actually doing was making sure the hunchback hadn’t stolen them. Barney also picked it up, Walker realised he’d been rumbled, and suddenly there was a moment of awkwardness. However, before it could descend into grievance, shouting and drawn blood, the door opened and Detective Sergeant Monk stepped inside.

  ‘Hey ho,’ she said to Barney and Igor. ‘Mr Walker, you came. How’d the barbershop business go? Good to get back in the saddle?’

  ‘I was terrible,’ said Walker, relieved to be distracted from the ghost of a scissor theft accusation, and he chuckled softly.

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ said Monk, then she looked at Barney and Igor and added, ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yep, I can’t lie,’ said Walker, ‘the final voyage of the Hindenburg went better than my last haircut. Fortunately a trained professional was on hand to rescue the situation.’

  ‘You think you avoided a law suit?’ she asked Barney.

  ‘We’re cool,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Well, in other news, the boat’s off.’

  ‘The boat?’ said Walker. ‘To the mainland?’

  ‘Yep. Broke down an hour or two ago on its way over to Largs. Drifted for a while, fortunately the weather wasn’t bad. They managed to get a tugboat up from Weymss Bay to bring it in, get the passengers and cars off, but they haven’t worked out the problem yet, and they can’t get a replacement up here until the morning. So...’

  ‘Might take a shot at swimming it,’ said Walker, and he laughed, then he added, ‘Guess I’d better go and speak to the hotel by the pier. Shouldn’t be too bad.’

  ‘You can come and stay with us, Charles,’ said Barney. ‘We’ve got plenty of space.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, laddie,’ said Walker, ‘ I couldn’t poss –’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ said Barney. ‘We can have a nice evening sitting around talking about the old days, like guys in a Springsteen song. It’ll be fun.’

  Barney didn’t really mean it, he wasn’t terribly excited about sitting around talking about the old days, but he knew the chances of Walker getting in at the George were slim, particularly if the boat being out of commission had been known about for some time.

  ‘That’s settled,’ said Monk, clapping her hands together, jumping into the middle of Walker’s hesitation.

  She looked at Barney, they shared the what the hell look and the we’d better hope he’s not the serial killer look, and some part of the evening at least was set.

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ said Walker, ‘that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Arf!’ said Igor, and this time, no one really understood what he meant.

  35

  All Things Must Pass

  ‘Why are you here?’

  DCI Solomon was drinking tea with Constable Gainsborough when Monk returned to the office. Darkness across the island, a regular November evening. No rain, some cloud, a little wind, cold, but not too cold, nothing exceptional about it.

  ‘I’ve got a hunch,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Wait, how are you here? I mean, the ferry’s off for –’

  ‘Got a boat to bring me over.’

  ‘OK, so what’s the hunch?’ said Monk, as she shook her head to Gainsborough’s silent offer of a cup of tea.

  ‘We’re working on the basis that Norman Lindorf is the killer. Sure, it could be Bertram Pool, or it could be fuck knows who. Nothing to say it’s not going to be someone we haven’t even considered, some guy or woman who just walks in off the sidelines at the last minute. But, for the moment at least, all signs point to Norman, and Norman’s old boss just got stiffed, so that means Norman’s other work colleague has got to be considered a target.

  ‘We told her to keep her head down, and we were going to put a couple of people on her. She, not unsurprisingly, asked what the point of that was. I mean, can’t blame her, after that shitshow in Portobello last night. She said she wanted to come here to see the kid at the barbershop, and I thought, maybe it’s not a bad idea.’

  He let the fact of it not being a bad idea sit in silence for a while. It wouldn’t necessarily be any easier to protect her, but it might be harder for the killer to come and go undetected.

  ‘You’re using her as bait,’ said Monk.

  ‘I don�
��t think of it like that,’ said Solomon, ‘but basically, yes. Nevertheless, she’s just doing what she wanted to do, and here I am, the officer in charge of the investigation, following her to make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘And are you going to keep watch outside Keanu’s flat this evening?’

  Solomon nodded silently.

  ‘We all should,’ said Monk, including Gainsborough in the suggestion.

  ‘I’m in,’ he said.

  ‘It didn’t go well for –’

  ‘I’m in,’ repeated Gainsborough, cutting her off, and he took another drink.

  Despite the variety of murders that had mysteriously come to Millport since the arrival of Barney Thomson, Gainsborough had never really felt himself threatened, and still had a youthful air of invincibility. Not that he was so young anymore, either. Time passes, even in the Barney Thomson cinematic universe.

  ‘OK, thanks, Thad. Maybe we can split the time tonight, one of us at least should work tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Let’s play it by ear,’ said Gainsborough. ‘Who knows how the evening’ll pan out, right?’

  ‘Ugh,’ was all Monk could think to say to that, then she looked at Solomon. ‘We’re on board, boss. What d’you want us to do?’

  ‘Low profile,’ said Solomon. ‘Let’s not get anyone too worried. You know where this Keanu character lives, I take it?’

  ‘Sure, but the early part of the evening is better than that. We’re all going to the Covenanter’s Head for something to eat, so watching over Sophia will be easy enough to begin with. I’ll be in the same room.’

  ‘Who’s all?’ asked Solomon.

  ‘Barney, me, Igor and his partner Garrett, Keanu and Sophia, and old Walker, the guy from the barbershop convention. You should come.’

  ‘Walker? The fuck is he doing here?’ said Solomon sharply, ignoring the invite. ‘Really?’

  ‘He lives across on the mainland...’

  ‘We all do!’