Barney shook his head. 'It's bloody freezing. I doubt I'll survive 'til my dinner. I'm knackered.'
Steven smiled. White teeth showed bright under grey cloud.
'All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Tiredness, my friend. You haven't known it until you've known it in war. That's what they say.'
'Experience of that, have you?' asked Barney.
Steven smiled again and once more bent his back.
'Afraid not, my friend. But Brother Frederick, he'll tell you all about it. He may be old, but there's not a shell nor a rainfall nor a bath of mud that he can't remember. You could learn a lot. As for me, the wars of the soul and the mind are the only ones I've fought. Though, who knows? Perhaps they may be the bloodiest wars of all. What say ye, Edward?'
Brother Edward stared into the hole which was slowly taking shape beneath their swinging axes. Carried on working as he thought. Had always considered the war with the opposite sex to be the bloodiest of all. Had won a few battles there, now suffered the guilt of the victorious.
'Might that have been Great War poetry you were quoting there, Brother?' said Edward. Didn't want to talk about his own private battles. Three years in God's house had not healed the scars.
'You recognised it?'
'Aye, I did.'
Great War poetry? thought Barney. What a load of keich. Wished they would talk about football. Didn't know the irony.
'There's something always bugged me about the Great War,' said Edward.
As they talked, they began to swing their axes in time, one striking into the solid earth rhythmically after the other. Barney shovelled.
'What was that, Brother?'
'Gas.'
'Gas?'
'The poison gas issue,' said Edward, unconsciously speaking in time with the striking of the axes. 'They say that when the Germans first started using gas, and before the Brits had been given their masks, they used to pish into a sock and hold it over their mouths. Breathe through it, you know.'
Brother Steven had heard this. Struck robotically, his pick-axe a dull scimitar of the Lord's will.
'What I want to know,' said Edward, 'is this. Who was the first guy to do it? I mean, I'm sure the chemistry's all right, and all that.'
'Something to do with ammonia, probably,' said Steven.
'Whatever. Anything about pish is to do with ammonia. But here's the thing. Who was the guy who first thought of it? Who, when the gas came over and all the troops were running around bricking their pants, panicking and turning yellow, was the first guy to stand there like James Bond, be really cool, and say, "Don't know about you lot, but I'm pishing in my sock"?'
Steven struck mightily into the ground; the earth yielded to his strength.
'See what you mean. The guy must have been out there. On the edge. A visionary.'
'Exactly,' said Edward. His axe struck massively the earth. 'The guy was a visionary. So how come none of us has ever heard of him? I mean, there's all sorts of famous geezers from the Great War. Owen and Sassoon and all the rest of that mob. Haig, Kitchener, the Red Baron... Blackadder. So how come this bloke's not famous? He must've saved thousands of lives.'
'They probably shot him,' said Steven, axe cleaving its way through sundered earth.
'Shot him?'
'Sure. Think about it. Picture the scene,' said Steven. Barney, despite himself, was picturing the scene. He was in the trenches. In fact, he was digging a trench, steadfastly shovelling dirt; his spade clawed hard into lumpy earth. 'Early on in the war. Everyone already realises it's a bum rap and they're going to be there for years. A few shots are getting fired every now and again. The men are sitting around, smoking a few joints, reading letters from home, hanging out. You know the score. Suddenly, a few shells come over and next thing you know, the air smells of some cheap French toilet water. Within seconds everyone starts choking and turning yellow.' He paused. 'Can you see it?'
Edward nodded. 'I'm there.'
'So, our hero, we'll call him Corporal Jones, is a bit of a chemist. Realises the only way to survive is to breathe through pish. So in the middle of the mayhem and panic and tumult, he sits down on a bench, cool as a pint of cider, removes a sock, and whips out his knob and pishes into it. Then he sticks it over his gob. Easy. The rest of the men are looking at him as if he's an alien. Pointing and saying to each other, "Check out Jonesy, the bastard's pishing into his sock." So they all stand around and gawp, and despite Jonesy's best efforts to get them to follow his example, within minutes they're all dead.
'So, a bit of a wind picks up, blows away all the gas. Some lieutenant-colonel or other charges up to the front to check it out, once the danger's past, of course, and there's Jonesy safe as houses and everyone else dead to the world. "What went on here?" asks Colonel Bumfluff. "Well, sir," says Jonesy, "the Germans gassed us and I was the only one to pish in my sock." Think about it. Our hero was going to have a bit of a credibility problem. Next thing he knows he's been court-martialled and shot, because that's what they did in those days. Two minutes late for work and you got a bullet in the back of the head.'
Edward heaved his axe into the hard ground with mighty abandon.
'Could be right. But if he got shot and all the others died, how did it catch on?'
'They probably tested it out to see if he was telling the truth; but not until after they'd killed him, of course. Probably sent Mrs Jones an apology along with the telegram telling her he was dead. So days after Jonesy died for his trouble, pishing in your sock was all the rage. In fact, there were probably blokes who pished in their socks even when they didn't have to. Sock sniffers. Expect they shot them as well.'
'Aye, I suppose you're right, Brother. Too bad the guy has never been recognised.'
Steven nodded. Plunged the axe verily unto the frozen soil.
'Aye. I can see the statue,' said Steven, and he laughed. Edward laughed along with him, Barney also, although only to cover the feeling of exclusion. But soon the laughter died among the three men, because this day was no day for laughter, and this was not just any digging work which they were undertaking. This was work to bury one of their own – the second in a few days.
They lapsed into silence, the sound of their digging travelling clear up the snow-covered glen, through the thin, cold air. Monks at work, and despite the laughter and the idle conversation, weighed down by sadness and fear.
***
'How many more monks will die here?' asked the Abbot.
Brother Herman stared out the window of the Abbot's study, across the forest and hills of snow. A bright afternoon despite the low cloud, but snow would come later, he thought. His arms were folded across his chest, his face was long, eagle eyes stared out from deep sockets. His arms moved with the swelling of his chest, but faintly, so that it appeared he was hardly breathing.
'We cannot allow the police here, Brother Abbot, you know that. Any time the outside world has been allowed to breathe its fetid breath upon the abbey, it has spelt disaster. It would be no different this time. There can be no outside influence. They would contaminate, they would insinuate themselves into the very fabric of our lives, like a cancer, and destroy us utterly. That is how it will be, Brother Abbot.'
The Abbot sat, head bowed, the two men with their backs to one another.
'But I say again, Brother Herman. How many more monks will die here? How long must this go on? Until we are all dead? Until only one survives? It cannot be allowed to continue.'
'And neither shall it, Brother Abbot,' said Herman. He turned, the Abbot turned to engage his eye. 'Give me a few days, that is all I need.'
'You have some clue as to the perpetrator?'
Herman hesitated. Eyes narrowed. 'Not as yet, Brother, but I will. It is clear after this second crime that these deeds are related in some way to the library. I will go there, I will leave no monk unturned until I have discovered the truth. I am confident that I can uncover the m
eaning behind these deaths.'
The Abbot looked away, heart heavy. The tragedy of life.
'I must appoint a new librarian, but who would I give that post to now? Who would take it?'
Herman's eyes narrowed even further, burrowing into the back of the Abbot's head. Fingers twitched. 'I will be the next librarian.'
The Abbot swivelled, stared into the narrow slits of Herman's eyes.
'Brother? But you are not a learned man.'
'Only until I discover the identity of the killer of our brothers. And if they should come after me, well, then indeed shall they be found out and brought to justice.'
The Abbot breathed deeply and looked away. Two librarians dead. Anyone expressing an interest in the library now might possibly be the one who wanted rid of the previous incumbents. Maybe it was wise to have Brother Herman on hand to deal with all the enquiries to the library. But then, what if Herman became the next victim? What if Herman was not as safe from the black hand of Death as he believed? Could he sacrifice Brother Herman to his desire to bring this killer to justice?
'I am unsure, Brother. I am not sure that I can ask any of my brethren to put their lives at risk at this time.'
Herman nodded, a long slow movement. He knew well how to play the Abbot.
'Give me two days, Brother Abbot, that is all I'll need. If I have not found the killer by then, I will go along with your desire to bring in the police from outside.' He let the words hang in the cold air. 'Two days,' he repeated.
The Abbot stared at the floor. Maybe he would find God there, for in the last few days, he had lost sight of him. These were his darkest hours.
Eventually he spoke. His voice sounded strange, alienated from his body.
'Very well, Brother,' he said. 'Two days you shall have. After that, I am afraid, I must prevail upon you to bring in the outside agencies of the law. And who knows then what troubles we shall be in, for burying our dear departed brothers.'
Herman stared from deep eye sockets, pupils shone. He knew he could always get his way with the Abbot. That was what they were like; all of them. There to be manipulated. And, of course, on this occasion the Abbot was right to accede to his request.
'Thank you, Brother. I shall not fail you.'
The Abbot looked past furrowed brow, up into the black eyes.
'May the Lord be with you, Brother,' he said, then looked away. He thought that the Lord had forsaken this place; and the Lord would not be with any of them for a very long time.
Brother Herman bowed his head; the hood of his cloak moved forward and his face fell into shadow. Slowly, his feet noiseless on the stone floor, he walked from the room.
***
The hole was complete. Regulation. Four feet wide, seven feet long, six feet deep. Awaiting Brother Morgan.
The work of Steven and Edward was over, the earth chopped and hacked into shovel-friendly dirt. They stood at the edge of the grave looking down into the pit, watching Brother Jacob heave the soil up and over the top. Nearly finished. No longer cold now, Barney; sweating with the effort. Hands raw.
'Feels kinda weird,' said Steven. The expression on his face never changed.
'How d'you mean?' asked Edward.
'The scissors thing,' said Steven. 'The same scissors that were used to cut my hair, a few hours later are used to murder poor Morgan. There's got to be some weird karmic thing going on, don't you think?'
Barney hesitated before his next shovel. Not sure if Steven was addressing him or Edward. Too busy thinking about the words of Brother Martin. 'You could kill someone with those.' What had that been about? Would they really be the words of someone who intended to use the scissors as a murder weapon?
Decided to ignore Steven. Nothing to do with karma, he thought. It was God. God continuing to shit on him everywhere he went; surrounding him with death and murder. Reckoned that if he were the only person left on the planet, God would still find someone to die in his immediate proximity.
'See what you mean,' said Edward. 'Definitely something going on, no mistake. The interconnectedness of it. Got to be some Jungian thing happening. You must be freaked.'
'Don't know about freaked, Brother. I mean, I'm sure God's cool about it. Same with Jacob here. Just trying to do his job, and the next thing he knows his work implement has been embedded in Brother Morgan's neck. Could just as easily have been your pick-axe, Brother Brunswick's trowel, or Brother Raphael's soup ladle.'
'Aye,' said Edward, 'you're right. And you know, it's no different out there, in the real world. Lachlan, the young lad who makes the meat deliveries from Durness once a month, he was in this morning. Mentioned something that's been happening in Glasgow. Some serial killer's on the loose, apparently. He was about to tell me about it, but I asked him not to. Didn't want to hear it, not at the moment. Expect Brother David will get the full story when he goes into Durness next week.'
Edward shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. Sadly, it seemed, life in the monastery was more a mirror of contemporary life that any of them would wish.
'Are you all right down there, Brother Jacob?' said Steven, staring down into the grave. 'You're looking a little faint.'
Uma Thurman Serves Barney A Beer. Naked.
Late at night in the monastery; the monks lay awake with their fears, listening to the storm. Trees were tossed, shutters rattled, doors and floorboards creaked. They imagined that every noise was the sound of a killer on the move; wondered if they would be the next victim, the next on the slab of death. Each one could feel the sharpness of cold steel piercing their neck. They expected it at any second. Knew that if they fell asleep they might never wake up.
The Library Murders; that was what they were calling them, even though there was no evidence that that was where the murders had been committed. There was perhaps some comfort to them in that so far it had been the librarians who had died; these men, brave with their faith in God, would all have refused the position of librarian had it been offered to them. Delighted that Herman had taken it on; doubted that any killer would be so bold as to tackle Herman. There would be a brave man, and foolish.
And so much for those rumours which had suggested that a liaison between Morgan and Saturday had soured, leading to the murder of the latter by the former. There must be more to it than that, but the gossip of the monastery could furnish no clues. Something hidden among the books, they presumed – and they were wrong – but no one had any real idea.
Must be Brother Jacob, that's what some of them were thinking, although none would say it. Un-Christian to think so ill of someone, just because he was unfamiliar. But it all tied up. A new monk arrives, some of the regulars get murdered. Jacob must have brought something with him; some evil intent or malign spirit.
Through no fault of his own, Barney was as mistrusted within the monastery as he was on the outside.
And he lay awake also, the evil Barney Thomson. Cold. Listened to the sound of the wind, knowing that a blizzard blew without. He could feel it as if the snow were falling directly on top of him. His mind was a tangle, a swirling array of unfinished thoughts and ideas. Remorse, regrets, doubts. Dwelling on past crimes, constantly replaying them. How would it be now if he'd done things differently?
When he had killed Wullie; an accident, undoubtedly. If he had called the police immediately, what then? Would he have gone to prison, or could he have found some hot-shot lawyer to get him off? Guilty of manslaughter, no doubt, but a three-year suspended sentence. Then he would never have had to kill Chris; as long as he hadn't been in police custody when his mother had died, he could've cheerfully disposed of all the body parts in her freezer at some future date, and no one need ever have thought of the connection between those murders and himself. He might have had to leave the shop, but if you play these things correctly you can become a bit of a celebrity. Write a book; appear on one of those chat shows, Kilroy or Jerry Springer – I'm a Killer, But Really I'm A Decent Chap. He'd have been an ideal guest.
Public
sympathy would have flowed. He could have sold the film rights to the book, then taken the cash and set up his own shop up north somewhere. He remembered the cold; bugger the north. He could have gone to the Caribbean, or managed to swing a job on a cruise ship. Left Scotland forever, to cut the hair of the stars. Saw himself giving Sean Connery a Sean Connery, receiving an enormous tip. He could've forgotten all about Agnes – which he'd done anyway – and had his pick of women. Maybe even Barbara, the sister-in-law from the gods. He could've had one over on his sodding brother for the first time in his life.
Barney smiled in the dark. A beach-side shop; the waves lapping gently on the shore; a calypso band playing nearby; Barney cutting Robert Redford's hair, at a charge of several hundred pounds; while Barbara served them both cocktails, topless. And all that, if only he'd called the police after he'd killed Wullie, instead of bundling the body up and sticking it in the back of his car. What a fool he'd been.
Instead, it was the depths of winter, and Barney was renowned for all the wrong reasons. He was that month's pet hate figure. Centrefold in the Christmas edition of Serial Killer Monthly, hounded from his home, hounded to the farthest ends of the country, to feel his feet and testicles freeze up under a slender blanket in the bleakest inhabited building in Scotland.
The door to his room creaked slowly open; his senses awoke. But he did not move. Strangely he did not live in fear of the killer, as the rest of the monks did. Too close to death for too long, he didn't care any more. He did not fear death – just detection. Assumed it was Brother Steven, with whom he shared a room. Was aware that the brother had left not five minutes previously.
He felt a presence standing over him, but still did not open his eyes.
'Brother? Brother Jacob?' came the strained whisper. Not the voice of Steven.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 10