They nodded at Barney as they walked past, then they were gone, out into the morning rain. Chris and Barney looked at each other. Barney didn't know what the look said; no words were exchanged.
An hour and a half later they found themselves alone in the shop, having worked their way through half a dozen customers. Barney was feeling rather pleased with himself, as he grabbed a look at his paper. In quick succession he had executed a long at the back, short at the sides, a not too much off the top, tapered at the sides and back, and a Bobby Ewing '83. They had each, in their own way, been immaculate haircuts, barbery out of the top drawer, smooth, elegant and polished. A trio of satisfied customers, the money from the healthy tips still jangling in Barney's pocket. Had this been America there would have been loud whoops and cheers, and cries of good hair!, and he and Chris would have exchanged high fives and banged heads. Barney imagined the word would already be going around Partick – "Want good hair? Barney Thomson's your man."
The door opened and a young lad entered. He nodded at the two barbers. 'Wullie not in today?'
'No, he's got the day off,' said Chris. 'I'll do your hair if you want to sit down.'
The lad hesitated, looked a bit embarrassed. 'No, it's all right, I'll go to this other bloke, if that's ok?'
Chris didn't care. 'Aye, sure, no problem, mate.'
Barney did, however. He lowered the paper and looked at the boy as he walked over. He was delighted. This was the kind of thing he'd always wanted and it hadn't taken long. Maybe he should've killed Wullie ages ago.
Stood up, offered him the chair.
'Hello, young fellow, how's it going?' Tried to keep the enormous grin from his face. Didn't entirely succeed.
'All right, mate,' said Allan Duckworth, 'how about you?'
'Aye, aye, can't complain, can't complain.' He swirled the cape around dramatically, draped it over the customer and reached for the towel to put at his neck. 'So, what will it be the day, my friend?'
'Oh, you know, just a haircut,' he said.
Just a haircut. Music to the barber's ears. Carte blanche to do as you pleased. What could be easier? The smile on Barney's face increased by another inch or two on either side as he picked up the electric razor.
'What d'you make of those Rangers?' he said after a minute or two. 'Lost four games in a row now, eh? Really struggling.'
'Aye, but they're still six points clear at the top of the league.'
'Five.'
'Five, is it?'
'Aye. But you know, they're only that far ahead because everybody else is so crap.'
'Aye, you're right about that.'
And so the conversation continued, and so the day continued. Barney cut more hair than he had had to do in a single day for many a year and he loved every minute of it. Quite forgot about Wullie, other than to be glad he wasn't there to take business from him. And customer after customer left the shop with hair from the Gods; hair for which movie stars would have paid hundreds of dollars, for only four pounds plus tip. People would recall this day for years and how they had been privileged to have had their hair cut by a man at the zenith of barbetorial invention.
They had seen the final customers off by ten past five. Chris had grown more and more uneasy during the day as no word had come from Wullie; his initial lack of concern giving way to worry. Imagined all kinds of disasters but never the truth.
Exchanged few words with Barney and after everyone had gone, told him to leave and that he would lock up. Barney accepted and, after clearing away the fallen hair around his chair, put on his jacket and walked from the shop. It had been a glory day for him, the best that he could remember. And any day which he didn't round off by stabbing someone would from now on be viewed as a success.
But as he stepped out into the bleak rain of an early March evening, he was forced to return to the real world. He was going to have to face the consequences of his actions. He had to go and see Cemolina and discover the gruesome truth of how she had disposed of the body. He hadn't worried about it all day because he hadn't thought about it. Now, however, the time was at hand.
And however bad he imagined it was going to be when he got to her house, it was nowhere near as bad as it actually was.
13
The Freezer Full Of Neatly
Packaged Meat
Barney stood on the threshold of his mother's door, giving himself pause. Trying to come to terms with the ill feeling he had about what lay within. Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs. It was not just his mother's soup remark which still rang in his ears; something else, a sense of grave foreboding.
He opened the door and walked into the flat, calling out her name. There came no reply but that was not unusual. However, there was an ominous feel to the house. Silence. No television played in the sitting room, no other sound. He sensed death; could smell it. Perhaps she was out on her grotesque errand, he thought. Yet somehow he knew it was not that.
He walked quickly along the hall and into the sitting room. In the dark, at first he saw nothing, because he wasn't expecting to see what was there. Then he realised that his mother was lying, sprawled on the floor, her head resting at an awkward angle. A cup lay spilled at her side, its contents splashed across the carpet; a murky brown stain all that was left of a milky coffee, three sugars.
He stared at her, rooted to the spot. Shock. Then through the gloom, he saw her eyelids flicker, dashed to her side and knelt down.
'Mum! Mum! Are you all right?'
Cemolina flickered her eyelids. Bloody stupid question, she thought, of course I'm not all right. But she had not the strength to say it. Her life was fading quickly, the strain on her heart intolerable. Had he come two minutes later, Barney would have found her dead.
She tried to lift her head off the carpet. She had something to tell him. She must before she went.
'I'll call an ambulance,' he said quickly, beginning to get up, but he was stopped by the slight movement of her head.
'No,' she croaked, 'too late for that.'
He could barely hear her but he knew what she was trying to say. He put his mouth up close to her ear, gently squeezed her hand.
'It's not too late, Mum, you've still got a chance. I'll get an ambulance.'
He started to get up again but she brushed his hand as she made an effort to grab it before he moved away. He looked at her; she said something to him which he could not make out. Torn between fetching help and letting her talk to him. Didn't know what to do. Knew deep down that it was already too late. Bent down, put his ear close to her mouth. Fighting back the fear; his mother was dying.
'The fre…' she whispered, her voice on the point of expiration.
'Sorry, Mum, I didn't hear you. Did you say frisbee?'
It hit him; he was listening to the last words of his mother. Her dying words. He put his head nearer, as the tears started to form at the sides of his eyes.
'Free…' she croaked, her voice barely audible.
He screamed within his head. These were his mother's dying words, he had to hear them. She was making the grand effort, so must he. This could be what stood forever on her headstone. He had to understand.
'Frisbee, Mum? What about a frisbee?'
She summoned up the juices of life for one last great effort. Held her hand out, grabbed the sleeve of his coat to pull him closer. She paused to conjure up new energies, then spoke slowly and powerfully into his ear.
'Not frisbee, you dunderheid. Freezer! It's in the freezer!'
The words 'what's in the freezer, mum?' – pointless words for he knew well what she meant – hung suspended on his lips, half uttered and then forgotten, as his mother folded from her last great effort. Having said what she must, the will was gone, and her body settled lifelessly on to the floor. Her fingers remained gripped to his jacket. A death grip. He grabbed her head, pressed his cheek against it and wept, his other troubles forgotten.
He stayed like that for a long time, unable to let go, as if by hanging onto her body h
e was in some way hanging onto her life. Finally he pulled himself away and, after having trouble detaching her gripping fingers, he sat wearily down beside the telephone and started making calls.
*
Two hours later, Barney and his elder brother Allan sat and blankly stared at the carpet. They didn't see each other much, had never got on particularly well. And here they sat, sharing something for the first time in over twenty years.
Allan lived a moderately opulent existence on the periphery of Perth, in a house which Barney envied, with a wife that Barney yearned for. Three children and a dog completed the picture-perfect life and Barney would never know that Allan was even more miserable than he was himself.
'Well, my brother, I'd better be getting back. Barbara will be wondering what's happened to me. I didn't leave much of a note.'
Barney's grief was marginally pushed aside for a second. He hated it when Allan called him 'my brother', which he always did, and the mention of Barbara – attractive, intelligent, delicious Barbara, who had never watched a stupid soap in her puff – had pangs of jealousy thumping loudly at the doors of his grief, demanding entry.
'I'll be back early tomorrow morning to get on with the arrangements.'
'You can stay the night with Agnes and me, why don't you?' said Barney. Something within him wanted Allan to say yes, some basic fraternal thing which made him want to hang on to his brother, even though he knew that there was no way he would accept. And would he not be ashamed to take his brother back to his flat in any case?
'No, that's all right, Barney, thanks. I'd better be getting back. Thanks all the same.' He stood up, started to put his jacket on. 'Will you be going to your work tomorrow? You know, it's all right if you do, because I can take care of everything.'
Like the unwanted belch of curry back into your mouth, four days after you've eaten a vindaloo, reality kicked Barney stoutly in the balls.
His work. The shop. Wullie. The corpse. The freezer.
Shit.
He cleared the image from his head and looked at Allan. Maybe he could tell him everything. Allan, the older brother. The sensible older brother. He'd know what to do.
Phone the polis and get him locked up, probably.
'Aye, aye, I've got to go to work,' he said. He wasn't telling Allan anything. 'There's one of the other lads off at the moment, so there's only the two of us the now, you know. I'd really better go in.'
Allan nodded. 'No problem. Don't you worry, I'll see to everything.'
They said their farewells, Barney saw his brother to the door. Returned to the sitting room, hesitated. He had to go and look in the freezer, but he desperately didn't want to. Tried to persuade himself that he could postpone it until morning, but he knew he might as well get it over with.
His mother had a huge freezer, he knew that. Plenty of space for a body. He and Allan had always asked her why she bothered; now it had been of use. Had she known all this time that she might one day have need of concealing a corpse? Of course not, Barney, don't be so bloody stupid, he muttered.
He walked with some trepidation into the kitchen. The big freezer dominated the room, taking up one whole wall to the left as he walked in. Stopped and stared. Not just big enough to hold one body, he thought. Big enough to hold several.
Put his fingers on the handle and left them there. Whatever he was about to see, he knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. Wullie's body, hideously curled up, his face distorted in agony and shock; was that what awaited him?
He swallowed and slowly lifted the lid of the freezer. A plume of vapour drifted out to meet him and he stared into it, waiting for it to disperse. Suddenly it was all there in front of him. Meat. The freezer was packed with meat. And then it struck him, and he felt his stomach push at the back of his throat.
This eclectic array of packets, frosted over reds and browns. This was Wullie. Neatly packaged, easy to handle, ready to use, Wullie.
He prodded something. It was frozen solid. She must have worked fast, he thought, because it had all been in here a long time. The freezer was tightly packed, every inch taken with bones and various chunks of meat and flesh. He poked at a couple of things, his face a mask of horror and wonder, then wriggled something free from the frozen mass.
It was a foot, sweetly severed below the ankle. On the side of the package, neatly printed on a white label, were the words W. Henderson / 11 Mar / Left Foot. He dropped it back into the crowd, lifted another one. An indeterminate lump of flesh and organ. W. Henderson / 11 Mar / Part of viscera (unsure which) it read. Quickly put it back, lowered the lid. Didn't want to see any more.
He rested his hands on the edge of the freezer and stared blankly at the top of it for a while. Trying to examine his emotions to discover what he really thought about it.
'What were you doing, Mum? You labelled Wullie. Did you have to go so far as to label him? Was this thing not grotesque enough for you?'
He lowered his head still further. And as he stood hunched over the freezer, the thought which had been nagging away since he'd first looked inside, finally broke out into the open. It had been a distant nag, something he couldn't place, but then suddenly it was there; stark naked in front of him, screaming. The idea of it chilled his heart; hairs rose slowly on the back of his neck.
The freezer was full, absolutely full to the brim. There was no way that the whole of this huge compartment was taken up with Wullie.
He opened the lid again, looked inside. Started picking up bits of Wullie, dumping them on the floor out of the way. A femur. The heart. An arm. The head. Christ! the head, the eyes removed. Packages of flesh, all neatly wrapped and labelled. He quickly lifted them all and then dumped them noisily on the floor. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Untidily arranged in ill-fitting row after ill-fitting row. God! he thought, these couldn't all be Wullie. It couldn't possibly be as he feared, but his blood thumped through his body, his breath caught in his throat. What else could it be?
Finally he dared to look at another one of the packages. His heart froze, his mouth dropped in horror. The writing was neat and in his mother's own hand. Louise MacDonald / 5 Mar / respiratory system.
Louise MacDonald. The name had been in the newspapers that morning. The latest victim of the deranged killer.
He let the package fall out of his hand, back into the freezer. Landed with a metallic thud. Christ almighty! His mother. His own mother! What had she left him with? More than just Wullie. A lot more than just Wullie.
He closed the lid and slumped down onto the floor, resting his back against the freezer. Sat amongst Wullie, the frozen packets strewn about the floor. The closest they'd been in a long time.
Barney Thomson, barber, ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. His breath came in spasms. His heart thumped. The doorbell rang.
He jerked his head back and smashed it into the freezer. Bit his tongue. 'Christ!'
He stood up in a panic. The door! It couldn't be the polis already. Stared out of the kitchen into the living room as if he expected Special Branch to come charging into the flat. Felt hot and cold; frightened.
The door bell rang again. Quiet, urgent, wanting.
He swallowed. Might just be Allan having forgotten something. Looked at the mass of frozen food on the floor, decided to leave it where it was. Kicked it into the centre of the kitchen then closed the door behind him. Down the hall, round the corner, looked at the door. Could see the outline of a man behind the frosted glass panel.
A man alone, although it was not Allan.
Barney hesitated, staring at the grey figure. Imagined Death standing there, come to collect his dues. But it was he himself who was Death. He shivered, didn't want to answer the door, but now the man on the other side might be aware of Barney's presence. The light behind him.
The doorbell was pressed again. Get it over with, Barney.
He stepped forward, pulled open the door. Stared at his tormentor. A young, nervous looking man stared back. Late twenties perhaps. Chec
ked jacket; Kay's catalogue. Debenham's tie; small blue and red bicycles on a yellow background. Mole beneath his lower lip, skin like feta cheese. Big hair; a Marc Bolan. Faint smell of cheap aftershave. Apples.
'Aye?' said Barney, as the younger man clearly was not about to start a conversation. Felt the commotion of his heart dampen.
Young man coughed, continued to look embarrassed. Nervous curiosity. Eventually he spoke.
'Mature woman, looking for love?' he said in a small voice.
14
Dead Mum Stalking
Barney sat quietly munching his dinner, Agnes opposite him at the table, a mug of coffee in her hands. He was glad that she'd cooked him fish, because he didn't think he'd be able to face meat. Nor would he for a long time, he reflected, as he stuffed a huge chip into his mouth.
The thought of the freezer turned his stomach; he tried to force it out of his mind, concentrate on his dinner. He was hungry but knew he wouldn't be able to eat anything if all he could think about was Wullie and all those others.
Agnes was looking at him, attempting consolation, the memory of her own mother's death stirring within her feelings of sympathy for her husband which she hadn't felt for some years. The television was playing in the background but for once she was paying more attention to Barney. She did have one ear, however, listening out for what was going to happen when Chenise and Manhattan discovered that Blade had been doing nights at a working men's club.
Finally Barney gave up the ghost and pushed the plate away. The memory of Wullie's face, twisted and distorted under a clear plastic bag, was too much for him. And how many more distorted faces were in that freezer, he kept asking himself. What were the newspapers saying now? Five or six? Was the freezer really that big?
The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (Barney Thomson #1) Page 11