Barney switched off, knowing what was coming. He couldn't believe it. Felt a strange twisting in his stomach, a pounding at the back of his head. Cold, wet hands. The gutless, gutless coward, making himself out to be merely the messenger of his father's decision, rather than the instrument of it.
How the hell could they let him go? He was the only one in the place who could give a decent haircut. Certainly he was better than these two young idiots, surely everyone could see that? But of course, Wullie would have been telling his father something completely different. Maybe his mother had been right; poison wasn't good enough for him, not violent enough.
'…so, you can work here for another month if you like, or we'll understand if you want to leave now, and we'll keep your wages going for the rest of the month. You don't have to make any decision right now, but if you could let us know in the next couple of days.'
Not once had he been able to look Barney in the eye, and then he sat, an attempted look of consolation on his face, eyes rooted to the floor.
Barney was in a daze, a thousand different thoughts barging into each other in his head. Could not believe it had happened, could not believe that they had had the nerve to do this to him. He was by far the most superior barber of the lot of them. This was ridiculous. His immediate thoughts were of violent retribution. Vicious, angry thoughts involving baseball bats, sledgehammers and pick axes.
But he couldn't show his hand. Not yet. He had to be calm about it. If he was going to avenge this heinous crime, he had to be calculating and cold; he had to pick his moment. Cool deliberation away from the scene of the crime was required. And as he sat staring angrily into Wullie's eyes, which remained Sellotaped to the floor, he decided that he would have to stay in the shop, however great the feeling of humiliation, however great his desire to leave.
'I'll stay for the month,' he said abruptly.
'What?'
Wullie looked up at him, for the first time, surprised. He hadn't expected an answer so quickly, hadn't expected the one he'd been given and, moreover, he'd been thinking about the phone call to the shop that morning from Serena, the girl from the Montrose. Wondering if that was her real name, anticipating Friday night; vague intimations of guilt.
'I'll stay for the month.'
Wullie stared briefly at the floor again. He and his father had assumed that Barney would just take his leave. Hadn't reckoned on an awkward month with Barney still in the shop. He looked up.
'All right, that'll be great. You're sure now?'
'Aye,' said Barney, almost spitting the word out. Managed to contain his wrath. Fingernails dug into palms. Wrath would have to be for later.
'Right then. That's great, Barney. I'll let my dad know.'
That's great, is it? You've just stabbed me up the backside with a red hot poker, and you think it's great because I accepted it. Fucking bastard. He thought it, didn't say it.
Wullie attempted another look of consolation, succeeded only in a tortoise-like grimace. Went about his business.
Barney stood up to clear away a couple of things which didn't need clearing away. Didn't want to immediately storm out of the shop, knowing his presence would unsettle Wullie. Didn't want him to be at ease any earlier than he should be. Although, should he ever be at ease?
As he lifted an unnecessary pair of scissors from his workplace, he realised his hands were shaking. Didn't want Wullie to see what effect it was having on him. Steadied himself, lifted a cup to get a drink of water. Filled it at the sink next to his workplace – Scottish tap water, the sweetest tasting drink; that was what he'd always thought; not today however. But as he raised it in his still trembling hand, the cup slipped free. Struck the edge of the sink surround and disgorged its contents, some over Barney, mostly over the floor. He muttered a curse. The water ran over the smooth tiles of the floor, a mocking river of humiliation to his disgrace. Mumbling a few other appropriate words which came to mind, he grabbed a towel to dry himself off. Wullie looked over at him and started to walk into the rear of the shop.
'I'll get a mop, Barney,' he said.
Like burning someone's house down, then offering to replace the welcome mat, thought Barney.
'Don't bother, I'll do it in a minute,' he growled, but Wullie felt the restlessness of the guilty and scurried off to retrieve the mop anyway. Barney shook his head and began to clear away the final few things lying around his work area. He lifted the pair of scissors again and studied them, his eyes drifting to Wullie, his back turned to him in the storeroom at the rear of the shop.
What damage I could do with these, he thought, but he knew he never would. If he was to avenge this crime, it would have to be by some subtle act of treachery, not a brutal and bloody stabbing.
He still held the scissors as Wullie emerged from the storeroom with the mop, walking towards him. Barney pursed his lips, tried not to appear too angry.
'Look, Wullie, it's all right. I said I'd get it.'
'I'll just give you a hand, Barney, it's no bother.'
Fine last words.
Wullie stepped forward to start clearing up the water, not noticing it had run so much towards him. His first step was firmly placed into a pool of lying water on a smooth tile, and his foot gave way. He attempted to regain his balance, and in doing so fell towards Barney. Barney raised his hands to catch him. Automatic reaction.
Wullie slumped heavily into Barney and his outstretched hands. Neatly, exactly, with medical precision, the scissors entered through Wullie's stomach and jagged up under his rib cage. He rested in Barney's arms for a few seconds, then pulled back to look at him, an expression of stupefied surprise on his face.
He lurched back, blood pouring from the wound, the scissors embedded in his stomach. Fell back against the chair, which toppled backwards, allowing him to slump down onto the floor. His back rested against the bottom of the chair, his eyes stared blankly one last time up at Barney, his head fell forward onto his chest.
Barney stared mutely down at the body on the floor and the pool of blood spreading across the tiles. His face mouthed silent words of horror, his voice a hushed croak of wind, and finally when it found some substance, it was the weak and desperate voice of the frightened.
'Fuck,' he said.
9
Garbage Removal
Holdall stared blankly out of the window, wondering why it had stopped raining. It deserved to be raining. It had been an awful day, the sort of day when it bloody well ought to rain, because any other type of weather was completely inappropriate.
He'd been annihilated by McMenemy early on, and given instructions to set about investigating every missing persons case that had been reported in the past week, interview every family, and to follow up every new one that came in, anywhere in the West of Scotland. So he had been sent out on the rounds, and worst of all, Robertson had been put in charge of the investigation. Detective Chief Inspector Brian Robertson – the biggest bastard on the force. Think yourself lucky you're not suspended, McMenemy had said to him. Quite the reverse, Holdall had thought.
The day had been spent trailing round Glasgow, wet and dreich and unremittingly miserable, interviewing a series of women whose sons had unquestionably run off to London, and one man whose wife had, without any shadow of a doubt, fled the country with her boss. Her husband, however, was still holding out some hope that she'd been brutally murdered, and was optimistically checking the post every morning.
The day had indeed been long, and then, having returned half an hour earlier, Barney'd had to face Robertson to be given the latest update on the case and his instructions for the following day. Which bore a remarkable similarity to his instructions for the day he'd just endured. Any more than a week of this and he'd be resigning.
I may resign anyway, he reflected as he stared out of the window, noticing with some satisfaction that the rain had just begun to fall again.
*
Quiet descended upon the shop. The body lay inert and slouched, propped against the t
oppled chair, the blood slowly spreading across the floor. Barney stood over it, staring dumbly at the bloody scene. His mind was numb, his feet anchored to the spot, even as the blood began to spread towards them.
'Shit,' he said eventually. It hung in the air, awaiting addition. 'Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.'
The blood about to touch his shoes, he jumped away from it, started pacing around the room. His heart thumped loudly, he began to sweat, his face beaded with perspiration, flirting dangerously with panic. He had killed Wullie. God, he'd killed Wullie. He might have been a gutless bastard, but he hadn't meant to kill him. Not yet, anyway. If he had been going to do it, it would have had to have been on his terms. Why hadn't Wullie just let him clear up the water himself? The bloody idiot. And why had he had to sack him? If he hadn't done that, this wouldn't have happened.
The memory of that, the dismissal, nudged at him again, the feelings of annoyance returned. Maybe it was Wullie's own fault. It was true. If he hadn't sacked him, it wouldn't have happened. Good logic.
He stood on the far side of the shop beside the door, staring at the corpse, the steady flow of blood now beginning to ease. Don't feel bad about it, part of him was trying to say, Wullie got what he deserved. Think about it, it was true. If he hadn't been such a gutless little coward, then he wouldn't be dead now. Perhaps the punishment didn't quite fit the crime, but then what had he been about to do to your life, Barney?
He stood for some minutes arguing with himself over the rights and wrongs of Wullie lying in a pool of blood. Suddenly it hit him – he was going to have to tell someone about it. He would have to call the police, he would have to tell Wullie's wife, Moira. It wasn't just about him and Wullie. There were other people involved. The guilt began to grow. He tasted the blood, felt it damp on his hands. Thought about MacBeth.
What was he going to say to the police? Well, officer, he'd just sacked me and although I didn't mean this to happen, I do think you can see that it was perfectly justified. Very well, Mr Thomson, the officer would say, we'll let you off just this once. But don't murder anyone else.
Of course not. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. And once the police found out that Wullie had intended to sack him, as they surely would from Wullie's father, then they would be more than willing to believe that Barney had meant to kill him.
The phone rang.
His heart stopped beating for some seconds, while it clattered up through his mouth, hit the ceiling and bounced off the floor a few times. He got over the shock, gathered himself together; the phone was still ringing.
He stared blankly at it. 'Shit, what do I do? If I answer it, it places me at the scene of the crime.'
Somewhere in Barney's head there was a calm, calculating half, trying to get him under control. It was that which had reminded him of Wullie's treachery. It was that which now tried to drag him back from the precipice of panic.
'You work here. That places you at the scene of the crime.'
He stared at the phone, trapped in his indecision, the ringing persistent. He still had much to decide upon and this was forcing him to a decision too quickly.
'If I don't get it, I can say I left the shop around five with Wullie still here.'
'Don't be a fool,' his other half replied. 'What if someone sees you leave the shop now? You're caught for a liar. You're bound to go down.'
'But why should I? Why should I go down? I didn't do anything. Not intentional, like.'
'Come on, you fool. No one's going to believe that. If you leave the shop and let the body lie, you've had it. Answer the phone. If it's someone looking for Wullie, say he's already left.'
Barney hesitated. Had to be done, though.
Slowly he walked over, lifted the receiver.
'Henderson's?'
'Oh, hullo, Barney, it's Moira. Is Wullie still there?'
His heart crashed frantically out through his ribs, cannoned off the wall and, after bouncing several times around the room, eventually returned to rest, shaken and battered.
Wullie's wife. It was Wullie's wife. Shit, shit, shit. Stay calm, Barney, stay calm.
'Eh, no, Moira, he's not. He, eh, just left a couple of minutes ago. He shouldn't be too long, you know.'
'Right, thanks then, Barney. Goodn…'
A thought suddenly occurred to him and in his fright he did not ignore it. Give yourself more time, Barney.
'Oh aye, Moira, I forgot. He said he was going to do a bit of shopping or something before he went home.' Not bad for off the cuff, he thought.
'Shopping? What shopping's he doing? Wullie's never been into a shop in his life!'
'Eh, I don't know, Moira, he didn't say.' Maybe it hadn't been so brilliant after all.
'Oh God, I wonder what he's up to now. I'll kill that eejit when I see him, so I will. He's pure dead.'
Appropriate, but you won't have to. The dark, clinical half of Barney, which was beginning to emerge almost as an independent being, interjected into his thoughts – get off the phone before you say anything else stupid!
'Aye, right, well, I'm sure it's nothing, Moira,' he said.
'Aye, well it better not be, or I'll skelp his arse for him.'
'Aye, right. Goodnight, Moira.'
'Aye,' she said, and then she was gone.
He hung up the phone and slumped down into his seat, relief washing over him in great waves. He'd handled it reasonably well and he'd managed to get himself a little more time.
Then the waves washed away and once again he was high and dry. His eyes fell upon the corpse, lying in the pool of blood. Blood; how odd it looked. Much darker than he imagined it would be. Maybe it was just the low lighting in the shop. That low lighting for which he had been profoundly grateful in the past, when, after dark on winter days, atrocious late afternoon haircuts had gone unnoticed.
Maybe now he would get to keep his job. A smile wandered aimlessly across his mouth, stopping as it went, to linger on the spoils of victory. They'd need the new barber to cover for Wullie, so they wouldn't have any reason to sack him. Smashing. At least that was something. Only, however, if he could avoid being arrested for murder.
Harsh truth: he was going to have to do something with the body which lay before him. Whatever he did, he would have to be analytical and cold. This was not Barney. He needed this new, unrealised dark half to think for him. He sat back, attempting to focus. No time to waste, and whatever had to be done, would need to be done quickly. Finally, after staring blankly at the body on the floor for some time, his dark half arrived on a gleaming white horse, followed by a large posse.
'Now, Barney, you've got to be clear about this.' Barney sat back to listen, not really sure who was doing the talking. 'If the body is discovered here in the shop, then you've had it. You'll be charged with murder and you'll spend the next fifteen years in jail. You're going to have to dispose of it. You have to clean up all traces of blood from the shop and remove your bloody clothes.' Barney looked at himself. God! He'd hardly noticed – the huge patch of blood where Wullie had fallen against him. 'Once he's reported missing, the polis'll call, so there can't be any traces of murder. And you're going to have to be quick about it, so get to work.'
Barney stared at the corpse a little while longer, deciding what had to be done. His independent self thinking for him, as if he had been possessed. Finally, his mind put straight on the matter, he set to work with feverish determination, thinking all the time that the police were about to come bursting in through the door.
They kept some large black plastic bags in the back of the shop, for the general detritus of the day – hair clippings, rubbish, corpses – and in these he wrapped up the body, binding it tightly with string. As is always the case with new murderers, he was surprised by the weight of the corpse and how difficult it was to manhandle, but still he was able to work efficiently and quickly; more quickly than he'd ever cut anyone's hair. He cleaned the blood that had collected on the outside of the bags, then placed the body beside the door awaiting remov
al. Then there were the traces of blood to be removed, the large pool of it, and all the other smudges and marks which had been spread around the floor and the furniture.
Forty minutes later he stood beside the door and surveyed the shop. It looked good. It looked like it was supposed to look. Barber Clears Away Dead Body In Record Time. All traces of the murder were gone and he had cleaned up Wullie's workplace and removed his jacket to make it look as though he'd departed as normal. Over a hundred and fifty pounds in his wallet, another small bonus to bring a smile to his face. All that remained to tell the tale was the bulky black package on the floor and the blood on Barney's clothes. There was nothing he could do about that until he got home but he was able to cover up the worst of it with his jacket.
All looked well and only one immediate problem remained. How to get the body out to his car, unseen. It was just after six o'clock, a busy hour, but the street in which the shop stood was off the main road and usually quiet.
He turned off the lights, opened the door and poked his head out into the street. There was one car driving past and the main road seemed busy, but there were no pedestrians in the immediate vicinity. All seemed clear. He had little option anyway. He had to risk it.
He walked up the road to where his car was parked, giving a small prayer that it had been returned that morning, and reversed it back down the road so that it was directly outside the door. Opened the boot, took another few furtive looks over his shoulder, went back into the shop.
He looked around once again in the near dark, the light from the street throwing strange shadows into the corners; a final check to make sure that everything was normal; turned his attention to the plastic bags. First of all he attempted to lift the body onto his shoulder, a task at which he completely failed. Resigned himself to dragging it along the floor. Lifted the bags firmly at one end, making sure to grab the body through the plastic so as not to tear it, and started walking backwards out of the shop, into the murk and the drizzle, pulling the dead weight.
The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (Barney Thomson #1) Page 7