'Mr Gilchrist does indeed take an unwarranted moral high ground. This ethical masturbation of his really is rather tedious. His is a self-righteousness born of unnecessary benevolence to his own misdeeds of the past. We've all been victims of absurd law suits, but that's hardly justification for murder.'
'What about you?' exploded Gilchrist. 'You skin-slicing-off weirdo?'
Too late, he remembered to whom he was speaking. Morty Goldman paraded a tortuous smile, the likes of which most of the group had only ever witnessed once or twice. Showed no teeth.
'I'm not pretending that what I did has any ethical superiority. It was cruel, disgusting and really rather unpleasant. I ought to have gone to prison for my crimes, I know that.'
Ought to have gone to prison? thought Barney. Bloody hell. And he started to question his decision to cede to his penis and stay. When you decide to do something, you should just do it. Bugger the wait for public transport and the possibility of romance. Yet here he was, still prevaricating, a sucker for one nice word from Dillinger.
'That's why I'm here. But at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. At least I'm not claiming some sort of honourable code as justification for my murders. At least I don't,' continued Morty, and the voice had taken on a sudden immediacy, a sly quality tending to evil, and bones were chilled, 'pretend to be some sort of arse-wiping Jedi knight, fighting the forces of evil on behalf of humanity. You're just a stupid prick, Gilchrist. A fucking stupid little prick, and one day you might well get what's coming to you. One day soon.'
You could have heard a piece of tinsel drop.
The fire dully roared and sharply crackled in the hearth; the tree sparkled, green and gold in the corner; outside, a buzzard cried and a mouse scurried beneath some shrubbery; somewhere the handyman bit massively into a quadruple cheeseburger with relish, humming the opening lines to I Got Stung as he went.
'Why don't we just calm down?' said Arnie Medlock, the voice of reason. 'Maybe we should give this a miss and get the housekeeper in. Have some drinks and food and think about opening the presents. We're here to enjoy ourselves.'
Sammy Gilchrist and Billy Hamilton, the two principal protagonists, stared at the carpet and nodded. Didn't meet Medlock's eyes as he looked at them. Morty Goldman had a steady gaze, however. Steady. The desire to impress Ellie Winters had gone. He was aware of all the old feelings again. The bad feelings.
'Fucking Medlock,' he muttered.
Arnie Medlock was not a man to be intimidated. Even so, this was a card-carrying, skin-wearing psychopath, not a regular, run-of-the-mill hard man.
'Watch it, you,' he said.
Morty Goldman sneered.
'Fucking Medlock,' he said again. 'Think you're hard? I've eaten guys like you for my breakfast. And I mean eaten. You're nothing, Medlock. You're a pathetic, sexually inadequate fuckwit. No wonder gorgeous Katie here didn't sleep with you last night. No dick, no brain, no heart, no balls. You in a nutshell, fuckwit-face. You're nothing.'
Arnie Medlock stared across the rich tapestry of the carpet. His face twitched. A vein throbbed in his neck. He bit his bottom lip, hard enough that he could taste the blood. Looked round at Dillinger, seated between himself and Socrates McCartney on the large settee. She did her best to placate him with a smile, while they both wondered how Morty Goldman knew that they hadn't slept together.
With the timing of one of the better episodes of Star Trek TNG, the door opened. Hertha Berlin, brandishing tea and Christmas cake.
'I thought you might like some tea,' she said. 'And there's a cheeky wee half-bottle of Johnnie Walker in the pot to keep you going.'
They watched her as she entered, an intimidating array of eyes pinning her down. And in this heightened atmosphere of draining tension and tangible aggression, there was more than one person viewing Berlin as a potential victim. Hertha Berlin was not daunted, however. Seen worse than this lot, she reckoned, although that was only because she thought they were barbers.
The tray was laid on the table, she clinked around with a few cups and saucers, then turned back to face them.
'Would there be anything else, now?'
'No, thank you, Miss Berlin,' said Dillinger. Still marginally in charge of the proceedings. 'That'll be all.'
'Right, then. Enjoy your tea.'
And off she went. Hertha Berlin. A woman of secrets. And there the tea sat. Still tension hung over them like a thick North Sea haar. Still no one wanted to be the first to talk, lest Morty Goldman threatened to turn them into soup. Still the fire crackled and the Christmas tree sparkled. Morty was enjoying his sudden emergence as the group lunatic and leant back in his comfy sofa, eyeing each of the others slowly and in turn.
'Aw, fuck this,' said Sammy Gilchrist, 'I'm going for a walk. Can't be bothered with all this shite.'
Up he rose, the tension shattered. Some were relieved.
'It's pouring, Sammy,' said Dillinger.
'Don't care,' he threw back over his shoulder.
To the door and out, and he immediately felt the weight lift from his shoulders when he stepped from the room, and worried not about the effects of leaving Annie Webster to the charms of Billy Hamilton for the next couple of hours.
Dillinger stood up. This was supposed to be an enjoyable weekend, and there was no point in sitting there in silence for the rest of the day.
'Come on, Annie,' she said, 'give us a hand, will you?'
And Annie Webster nodded and lifted herself out of an ancient comfy seat, then Fergus Flaherty said, 'Big Sammy's probably just away to pish up a tree,' because it was the closest thing to a joke he could think of, and it got a laugh, and the tension was gone; and Morty Goldman retreated to his shell. For now.
Drinks were served; someone switched on the CD player and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas filled the room; the crowd ate cake and broke off into small groups to chat about Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman and the weather. And no one noticed when ten minutes later Morty Goldman snuck out through the door, and was gone into the midst of the rain-strewn day.
The Magnificent Hugh Rolanoytez Extravaganza
Like some sort of Brad Pitt, Mulholland took to his fishing with a reverential relish. Treat the river with respect and it will respect you. The river is your friend. It may be your friend, but it's also your god. The river controls you and holds you in the palm of its hand. It can give, but it also takes away. Do not betray the river or you will die. All of that.
He was in the middle of it, waders clinging to his legs, water up to his thighs, the bottom of his jacket dipping into the cold. Not happy, but content in that freezing cold, miserable as shite, grumpy, hungover, depressed, angry, buggered kind of way peculiar to the Scots. A cold day at last, as winter reared its head. Rain had finally stopped. Casting his fly short distances, snagging it on the riverside grass every time he tried to extend the pitch. Had been at it for nearly six hours and had caught just the one fish; the younger brother of an extremely small fish that he'd failed to catch.
Mind still in gloop, he did his best to focus. Fishing gear in the back of his car. A walk for a mile or two, had found a petrol station, bought a sandwich. Got into conversation with the Sunday best wee woman in the shop. Had been directed to the closest river, and had ignored the instruction about there being no fishing for salmon allowed at this time of year, not that you could fish for salmon on a Sunday in any case, so, son, you'd better think twice or Big Alec will be after your testicles.
Could do with tea and food, but had now been standing in the water, using the same bedraggled fly, for nearly two hours. Focused had become mechanical and one-track.
And so he couldn't see the eyes in the undergrowth, the body cowering behind the trees. Watching the fishing line fizz and snap behind him, and wondering if the line would be strong enough to pull around Mulholland's neck, to tighten, and to strangle the life out of him.
He could tell Mulholland was distracted in what he did; wondering whether it would be possible to s
teal up on him, grab the line and do what must be done; or whether he should step free of his hiding place, make himself known and then take him. Or he could drown him, or hit him over the head with a rock, or throw a heavy stone at him from a distance; although he'd never had much of a throwing arm.
So many choices.
And as he stood and thought and peered through the remnants of winter leaves and the bare protection of trees, another option presented itself. For down from the road and along the bank came Erin Proudfoot, and the killer lowered himself farther into the undergrowth and imagined the sweet taste of a woman.
'Mulholland!'
She looked out across the water. All of ten yards. A still day, barely a zephyr bothered the last of the leaves and the bare branches. The water was slow and it bubbled and trundled on by. No background noise from any nearby road, no planes overhead. Still, calm, cool winter's day. Grey cloud. Peaceful.
A slight noise among fallen leaves, and Proudfoot turned. Stared into the shadows of the trees and saw nothing. Assumed a bird or a rabbit.
'Mulholland!' she said again. 'Brought you some tea.'
He turned, dragged from the mire. As his head swivelled, he looked right into the killer's eye, it briefly registered and then was gone by the time he saw Proudfoot.
The memory of it left him vaguely troubled, but what he'd seen was gone.
'What?' he said.
She held up a bag. Food, tea, everything you might want after having been fishing for hours.
'Thought you might want something to eat. Brought you some tea.'
He stared at her for a while, brain not yet out of first. The fly lay limply in the water. A couple of fish swam by underneath. 'What a joker,' one of them said, 'using a mayfly in December,' and by the time the other had thought of a reply, he'd forgotten what had been said in the first place.
'Just stick it down by the bag,' said Mulholland.
He continued to look at her for a while, then turned and resumed his aimless flicking of the line across the water. Trying to remember what had transpired between them the previous night, but could remember nothing. Only knew that he'd awoken with them both slouched in the car, the dregs of several bottles of wine surrounding them.
Anything could have been said. Still remembers the decision to get married, however.
'Piss off!' she called out, though they were close enough and the water still enough for her not to have to shout. A brief contemplation of leaving him to it and taking the food back with her, but decided to be more pig-headed than that.
He turned again.
'What?' he said. 'What now?'
'Come and have something to eat, you ignorant sod. You must have been here ages. I didn't get this stuff together just for you to completely ignore me. I'm going to be your wife, remember, so put the bloody rod away and come and get something to eat.'
He turned away, gave one last pointless toss of the fly into the water, a toss treated with disdain by the river life beneath, and then he turned and waded back to the bank.
Proudfoot busied herself with unpacking her bag. In the trees the watcher was fascinated by the last line. Had stumbled across these two, quite by chance, but he knew well who Mulholland was. Supposed to be out hunting him, and here he was, inadequately hunting fish instead. And they were to be married. Slowly he began to creep through the damp leaves and twigs, so that he could listen. Never miss an opportunity, that was the killer's code.
'When did you wake up?' she said.
Mulholland started to struggle out of his waders.
'About seven, I think. Still dark, anyway.'
'And have you eaten since then?' asked Proudfoot.
Annoyed at him, but mostly for not looking after himself. Taking the whole marriage thing seriously. This was her man.
'Bought a stack-load of food from the petrol station down the road,' said Mulholland.
She removed the plastic lids from two cups of tea, and the steam rose into the cold December air.
'That's funny. The woman I spoke to in the shop remembers you buying a sandwich and a can of Coke, and nothing else.'
He laid out a jacket and sat down. Raised his eyebrows.
'Checking up on me?'
'I am a detective.'
'Right,' he said, and lifted one of the teas. Just a sip in case it was too hot, and then a longer gulp. Just right and it hit the spot. Melanie's tea had always tasted like socks.
'So you reckon we're still doing this marriage thing, then?' he said.
She bit into a closed-face, triangular-cut, white bread, disencrusted cheese and smoked ham sandwich, with cucumber, lettuce and tomato and a light spreading of mayonnaise.
'Why? You changing your mind?' she asked through the food.
He shrugged and took a bite out of an open-faced, square-cut, heavily crusted, wholemeal Belgian pâté sandwich, with a thin garnish of fresh cucumber. He waved it at her.
'Good sandwich, by the way. You choose 'em or were they all that were left?'
'My choice.'
'So we are compatible. Maybe I will marry you.'
'So what, have you changed your mind?'
He watched the river, cold and grey. How many days since they'd stood and watched the Clyde? Three maybe, that was all, and not much had happened in between, yet it felt so long. Time slowing down. That's what happened when you stepped into the mire.
'It just seems kind of stupid,' he said after a while. There was a sadness in his voice, and it was heartfelt.
She munched her way through the sandwich. Followed his gaze into the river. Thought exactly the same things that he did, except for one. So what if it was stupid?
'Everything's stupid,' she said. 'You standing in a river for God knows how long. That's pretty stupid. Life is stupid. You coming down here in the first place. Whatever. It's all stupid.'
He distractedly nodded. Feeling depressed again, good sandwich or not, and she joined him in melancholy.
'I must've said a couple things last night,' said Mulholland. 'Sorry if I offended you.'
Her turn to shrug.
'Doesn't matter if you did. Can't remember what you said anyway. Expect I was talking pish 'n' all.'
The river rolled on by. The sun momentarily made an appearance before once again being swallowed up by the layers of cloud. There was a noise in the trees just behind them. Mulholland barely noticed, Proudfoot turned slowly and saw nothing. Birds or rabbits.
'You want just to go back to Glasgow?' she said. 'I don't know how long this bloody group are going to be here. It's not as if I can barge in there and check out what they're doing.'
'When are you off duty?'
'Not till midnight.' She shrugged. 'Sod it, maybe I should just come off duty now. I've left my post, after all. I mean, she could nip out while I wasn't looking and go and kill somebody, and I wouldn't give a shit.'
Mulholland laughed softly. 'Fine words for a police officer.'
He turned and looked at her. Her face was colourless with the cold and he noticed for the first time how poorly she was dressed for the weather. Her lips were soft and pale, her hair touched her cheeks. And in this grey light, she was beautiful.
'Sorry, Erin,' he said, removing his jacket, 'I'm being a pig.'
She started to protest, but he held it towards her and she gratefully took it from him and slipped her arms inside. She could feel the warmth of his body, got the faint smell of him. And for all that she'd hated him for the last six months, you can only hate what you can love, and she had missed him.
'Stay with me,' he said, and she closed her eyes to the words. 'Phone them up tomorrow and tell them where they can stick their job.'
She drained her cup of tea to give an air of calm. 'You think? Are you sure you want to be with me?' she asked.
Trying to keep a level head. As ever, carried away on nothing but a little tenderness. If she were Jade Weapon, she would shag him breathless, karate-chop him to his neck, then toss him to the fishes.
Then
his hand was extended to hers, the first genuine moment of tenderness between them, so that neither of them noticed the slight movement in the bushes behind, the small noise of someone scrambling over damp ground.
He leant forward and gently kissed her on the lips. A short touch, then pulled away, his hand still on hers, the other rested against her cheek. With the warmth of his jacket around her and of his hand on hers, her heart melted.
'You've got smoked-ham breath,' he said.
She pursed her lips then breathed out massively over him.
'You're right, you are a pig,' she said.
He laughed, she joined him, and at last there was some light in their lives.
And well away from the riverbank, out of earshot, the footsteps strode more confidently across wet ground. As off went the killer to sabotage Proudfoot's car, and the radio in the car, and thereby lead the happy couple along the road he wished them to walk. To lead them to play their part in the magnificent extravaganza which had quickly formed in his criminal head.
Liz Taylor? She's A Woman. No Question
'And Cary Grant, he was a woman, yes siree,' said the handyman. As ever, Hertha Berlin was spellbound with his tales of Hollywood in the 60's. 'Steve McQueen, there was another one.'
Berlin poured him another cup of tea. Glad to be away from the strange crowd in the lounge. Raised tempers and voices. It was ever the way with the Christmas crowd, when expectations were up and more drink than normal was consumed. She preferred the midweek bookings, with companies sending their people on team-building events. Everyone was hacked off and grumpy and expecting to be miserable, and consequently much less bother.
'Did you know anyone else famous?' she asked.
'Sure, honey,' said the handyman, cramming his mouth full of pancake. 'I knew 'em all. Jimmy Stewart, Eastwood, Newman, Ann-Margret, Liz Taylor, the lot of 'em. Bobby Mitchum, he was a big friend of mine.'
Berlin shook her head and sipped quietly from her cup.
'It must seem terribly mundane being stuck here in the south of Scotland, after all that fuss,' she said.
The handyman looked at her and considered the statement, thinking it was worth a decent answer. It was something he'd given much thought to these past twenty-three years. Trading in the glamour, the women, the drugs, the parties, the booze, the handguns, the television sets and the celebrity pals for a quiet life, from which he knew he would never escape.
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 72