Murderers Anonymous

by Douglas Lindsay

  The chatter and laughter continued as she cleared away the remnants of the scampi à la lettuce. Men hitting on women; women being coy with men; men pretending not to hit on women; women pretending not to notice that men were hitting on them; men pretending that women were hitting on them and not the other way about; women attempting to hit on men in a passive-aggressive, non-sexual, fudged-outlines kind of a way; men looking on in seething jealousy and impotence as bastards like Arnie Medlock stole their women. The usual roundabout of a Saturday night cattle market. Miss Berlin had seen it all before, and knew that inevitably it would end in tears. Or even murder.

  Socrates quickly downed his third glass of wine as he surveyed the scene. A new man since he'd got his murderous past off his chest. Relaxed, confident, more chilled than a '93 Australian sauvignon blanc which has been in the fridge for a fortnight.

  'Might have a go at one of the chicks myself tonight. You never know, eh? I'll leave Katie to you, mind you, if you're going to get wellied in there. You are going to have a go, right?'

  The big question. When it came to it, the biggest question of all. Love was involved.

  'Are you finished?'

  Barney looked up at the clipped tones of Hertha Berlin. Voice like a skelped buttock, she waited with a handful of plates. Tone of voice which meant that what she said actually translated as, 'So you hated my food, then, did you, you bastard? Well, I'm coming into your room in the middle of the night to either garrotte you with my nose hair or disembowel you thoroughly with a blunt instrument'.

  Barney swallowed.

  'Aye,' he said. 'Finished.'

  The new, improved, low-cal, sodium-extracted, warp-enhanced, plutonium-enriched, caffeine-inhibited, aluminium-free Barney Thomson was still intimidated by a strong woman, and in part he wilted. But she rudely lifted his plate from in front of him and was gone in a whirr of legs, plates, arms and a long-since-faded blue rinse.

  'What about the old bird?' said Socrates, smiling and leaning towards him. 'Would you shag that?'

  Barney screwed up his face. To tell the truth, such was his infatuation with Katie Dillinger, should Madeleine Stowe have walked in, fettered by neither clothing nor morals (nor taste), he would pass her on to the next poor sap.

  He was about to attest to the negative when he saw the inevitable unfold across the table. The horror, oh! the horror, he thought, becoming frighteningly, pretentiously poetical.

  It almost happened in slow motion. There was laughter, there was arm-touching, there was an obvious connection. The words of Socrates McCartney had meant nothing to Barney. He'd known there was something between Dillinger and Medlock; and now, as if watching a slow-motion replay on Match of the Day, analysed from twenty different angles by Alan Hansen, it unfolded before him in frightening detail. The laugh, the grin, then the lasting smile, the touch of the arm, the lean forward, and then the soft kiss on the side of the cheek. And not Medlock kissing Dillinger, for that could be almost acceptable. It was her, the Desdemona, the harlot, the siren of enticement, who leant forward and planted her soft red lips onto Medlock's cheek, and then left them there for that second or two longer than was normally required by Chapter 5, Paragraph 3, Sections 5a to g of the Department of Environment, Transport and the Regions Official Charter on Cheek Kissing.

  Barney felt it as sure as if it was his cheek that was being kissed, or his cheek that was being crushed to a pulp with a battering ram, along with his heart. His mouth closed, his eyes half shut, his shoulders wilted, and the potential of the weekend died like an animal downed by a sniper. He might as well go home. And first thing tomorrow morning, that was exactly what he was going to do.

  Socrates saw it too, and rested his hand quietly on Barney's shoulder.

  'Too bad, mate,' he said. 'Too bad.' Barney did not respond, for what was there to say? 'Looks like he's going to get his fill of her, no mistake,' said Socrates, continuing. Barney stared into the mire. 'Yep, he's going to be up to his armpits in that baby tonight. Goes like a tank, apparently, that's what all the other guys who've shagged her say. Old Arnie's going to be pumping away like a piston for most of the night.'

  His words began to penetrate. Barney gave him a look.

  'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Yesiree. It's all-night action for Arnie. The old studster's hitting the back of the net, no question. The Big Man is in there, pure in there. Shag-a-roonie. She'll be lying on her back when he comes,' he added, beginning to break into song.

  Barney breathed deeply and sat back in his chair. The laughter continued; Dillinger held on to Medlock's arm with ever greater tenderness. Barney eyed Miss Berlin and decided that he just wasn't desperate enough. It was Dillinger he'd wanted, but now Medlock was firmly in his way.

  I could kill him, he thought. Fucking kill him. And with his jealousy and his seething resentment, he meant it. Absolutely, he meant it.

  'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Lucky guy.'

  Punch Drunk

  It was one of those days when it seemed the whole world was on the streets. It was hot, so that your shirt stuck to your chest and your armpits smelled like they'd been napalmed.

  But not Jade Weapon's armpits. They were smooth, delicious and fragrant, and smelled of sex.

  'Who's she shagging this time?'

  Proudfoot looked over the top of the book. Mulholland looked tired; older, she realised suddenly, than when they'd first started working together the previous year. Hadn't really noticed in the last couple of days. Lines on the face; not yet any grey hairs, but all in the eyes. They had seen too much. And in that moment, it also occurred to her that she saw the same thing when she looked in the mirror. They had both seen enough misery and death to fill anyone's boots, and unquestionably it was time to get out before they saw any more.

  A blinding flash of light, but perhaps it'd lead to nothing. She'd never just acted on these things. Usually blinding flashes of light were gone when you woke up the next morning.

  'Oh, everyone,' she said.

  Mulholland smiled. Wearily; time to go.

  'Where've you been?' she asked. Nearly two hours since she'd received the call from Crammond, and she'd spent the time concocting the stories she would use to explain why she was so late. Flat tyre, called out to something by the chief, couldn't be bothered, dum-de-dum...

  'Just walking,' he said.

  'In Maryhill?'

  'Way beyond. Ended up at the university. Walked through the grounds, the tree-lined avenues. Past all those prepubescent students. Some of them looked about seven, for God's sake. And they're all holding hands and snogging and practically having sex and smoking God knows what.'

  'You're getting old,' she said.

  He laughed and shook his head. A sad, resigned movement. Resigned; that was appropriate.

  'Aye, I suppose.'

  They looked at each other. Tired eyes, and they recognised the look they shared. A few days of indifference having followed several months of loathing and ignoring. But now even indifference seemed pointless.

  He shrugged his shoulders again. Maybe they could have been something, he thought, but there was no point now. Not with all the baggage they'd carry around with them.

  'I'm off,' he said.

  'Where to?'

  'Back up north, I suppose. Do a spot of fishing.'

  'Right. You're off off?'

  What was that feeling that had just stabbed at her unfeeling soul?

  'Aye. McMenemy ripped me to shreds, so I told him to fuck off. And I resigned, so I won't be going to the plods up there either.'

  'I heard a few of them talk about it, but I wasn't sure whether it was true.'

  He smiled.

  'It was a dream. You know how you go through life thinking that someone or other higher up the food chain is an idiot, and you always think it'd be nice to be able to tell them? Everybody thinks it; everybody wants to do it, but no one ever does, 'cause you know you're going to get the push. You just can't do it.'

  She smiled bro
adly, nodding. Absolutely right. She'd even wanted to tell Mulholland that, while wanting to sleep with him at the same time.

  'But you did ...'

  'It was beautiful. I just went for it. Threw it all at him. Mostly just said the word fuck at him for a couple of minutes, but I managed to get in the odd insult as well. I shall take it to my grave.'

  A genuine smile broadened across his face. The glory of release, of being free of what had ailed him for years; combined with the temporary insanity of not caring what came next.

  'You should smile more often,' said Proudfoot, suddenly; and his smile lessened but did not die. She shook her head to cover up the intimacy of the remark, quickly changed the subject. 'What are you going to do now, then? Just fishing?'

  He stared at her for a few seconds, lost in the thought, then shrugged.

  'I suppose. Not sure really. I'll do that for a while, then who knows? It's not really a job, fishing, is it? I'll be all right for a bit, then I can start panicking when I run out of money.'

  'Aye.'

  And there the conversation ended. A lot more to say, no words to say it in. In his harmless way, Barney Thomson had taken another couple of victims, but life is like that. It gives, it takes away. It leaves broken promises and broken hearts in its wake.

  Something like that.

  Another shrug from Mulholland. Time to go and break all ties with the past, regardless of how painful the break might be.

  'Got to go. Get up there tonight, be up early for the fishing tomorrow.'

  She stared at him; her eyes drifted to the floor.

  'Right,' she said. 'See you.'

  'Aye.'

  He stood and looked at her. She lifted her eyes and looked back. Jade Weapon rested uneasily in her fingers. What would Jade do? Apart from shag him and kill him? So much crap had gone before, yet still they were fettered by convention and discomfort.

  He turned to go. The Jade Weapon inherent in Proudfoot emerged.

  'Why don't you come with me tonight?' she said; instant butterflies, dry throat.

  He stopped, slowly turned back to her.

  'Are you going anywhere interesting?'

  'Down to the Borders. This woman I've been following for the last few months. Apparently she's gone away for the weekend. Crammond called me a couple of hours ago to come and take over, so I really ought to be going.'

  'A couple of hours ago?'

  She smiled and shrugged. Hair moved across her face. Lips red. Mulholland stared into the depths of the old familiar gold mine.

  'Well,' she said, 'the guy's an idiot.'

  Mulholland laughed again. Softly. Thoughts of going away for the night with Proudfoot charging around his head. And longer than the night, perhaps. With the sudden release and freedom had come revelation. Hadn't he just been thinking about this for the last four hours, wandering the avenues and cloisters of the university? Spending time with Proudfoot. Spending his entire life with Proudfoot.

  'So what about it?' she said, feeling more confident at the absence of an instant refusal. 'Bound to be fishing down there.'

  Mulholland let his thoughts untangle. 'Aye, all right,' he said at last. 'Why not?'

  Proudfoot stood up and lifted her coat from her chair.

  'Your enthusiasm has me soaking,' she said.

  'Good thing you've got your jacket.'

  Proudfoot lifted Jade Weapon, threw her arms into her coat and followed Mulholland from the office. A few remaining desk officers watched them go – the office was already buzzing with Mulholland's soon-to-be-legendary denunciation of McMenemy – then the door was closed behind them and they were gone.

  ***

  Sitting in Mulholland's car much later, heading south on the concrete part of the M74, left turn at Moffat. Not much to be said between them, neither worrying about the impetuosity and inevitability of what they were doing – throwing themselves once more into the heart of a relationship. The rain swept across the hills and lashed the motorway; artics flew by in the outside lane, travelling too fast and throwing gallons of spray into the air. Old Fiestas trundled down the inside lane doing less than forty. Cars with full beam flashed by in the opposite direction. Services promising expensive petrol and all-night accommodation flashed by on their left. A silence grew between them, yet it was not awkward in nature. Proudfoot dozed, pondering the do's and don'ts of making a certain dramatic move. Mulholland listened to Middle Elvis, volume low, and barely audible above the concrete. Guitar Man. Quitting your job and heading off into the unknown. It was all there. Chucking in your life, walking away, and hoping you're lucky enough to find a four-piece band somewhere looking for a guitar player.

  'So this is it,' he said to break the silence, without remotely intending seriousness. 'You and me back on. Is that what we're talking here?'

  She stirred and stared into the darkness, and wondered why Elvis didn't just tell the Colonel to go stuff himself.

  'What do you think?' she said as an answer.

  He shrugged in the dark.

  'Don't know. I mean, I was in love with you before. You were a pain in the arse, and I hated the way you ate cornflakes. And if I'd had to listen to At My Most Beautiful one more bloody time, I would have stuck the CD player in the bin. And you do talk some amount of utter pish. But you know, I thought I was in love, and I haven't stopped thinking about you since God knows when, so, well, I don't know.' Ran out of things to say. Being too honest. Not sure where his tongue was going to take him. 'Your turn,' he said, to get out of it.

  She nodded. Had forgotten in the muddle if she'd listened to REM as much as she had just to annoy him. And she hated cornflakes.

  This was it. Chance to throw in there the thing that she had been honestly waiting for him to say six months before. No reason why she couldn't say it herself.

  'We could get married,' she said, taking the plunge.

  But then, why not? That's what you do when you're in love. She loved him, no question. It was the equal and opposites thing. To hate someone as much as she'd hated him, she must have loved him as well.

  He laughed; bit of an ugly laugh.

  'Married?'

  'Aye.'

  'Why would we want to do that?' he said.

  'Don't know,' she said. 'Something to do.'

  'Bit of a crap reason to get married, Officer. You've got to get to know each other, spend more time together, understand one another, all that stuff. You need all of that.'

  She shrugged sleepily. 'I know you perfectly. You're an unemployed, miserable, grumpy bastard. What else is there to know? We've spent plenty of time together, we've both been traumatised by the same thing, so we understand one another. And we've slept together so we know we're compatible in that respect. What else is there? And we were talking about it six months ago and for a night it seemed like a good idea. You just buggered off and blew it out the water. So what if it's taking a bit of a chance? Let's face it, you tried it the right way with your wife and it was rubbish. By all accounts.'

  A well-constructed argument.

  Mulholland nodded. 'Aye, well, I suppose you might have a point.'

  She rested her head against the seat belt, attempting to make herself comfortable enough for sleep. Closed her eyes.

  'That's settled, then. We are going to the Borders after all, so we can nip along to Gretna.' She yawned at her own suggestion. Sleep would soon come.

  'Settled, then,' he said. And stared ahead into the spray from a passing fuel tanker and immediately started to think of something else.

  And on they drove into the night, while Crammond stewed. Not knowing the danger that would come from this chance decision. For how is anyone to know the future?

  Unless you are Barney Thomson, and the future comes to you in dreams.

  Into The River Of Night Where The Waters Run Cold

  The post-dinner period on the first of two nights for the Murderers Anonymous group Christmas weekend. A time for checking out the opposition, and perhaps laying the foundations for
a more fruitful night the following evening.

  The men were in splinter groups, eyeing up their romantic adversaries, eyeing up the women. The three women were grouped around a table in the corner of the large billiards room, downing copious amounts of wine, and laughing louder and longer as the evening drifted into Sunday morning.

  Arnie Medlock had been at the snooker table since just after dinner, taking on all comers and beating each of them by a mile. Excellent safety shots, good long potter, comfortable around the cushions. Only a hesitancy with the rest and an uneasiness with regulation pots into the centre pockets had prevented him from making it as a pro. That, and a tendency to insert a snooker cue into the anal passage of anyone who beat him. The pros just don't go in for that kind of thing. Any more.

  Socrates sat with Fergus Flaherty and Billy Hamilton, the latter two discussing their chances with Ellie Winters and Annie Webster respectively. As did Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman, united by a desire to infiltrate the bedclothes of a different woman. Morty was unimpressed by Sammy Gilchrist, however; extremely unimpressed. Morty was beginning to think certain things.

  Bobby Dear was the current victim lying down to Medlock on the snooker table, and all the while Barney sat alone. As was his wont.

  His mind was involved in the normal male pursuit of wondering how he was going to manage to get a woman into his bed; and equally contemplating the usual male likelihood of total failure. He didn't stand a chance of moving ahead of Arnie Medlock. The guy was smooth, funny, built like a 747 and used the snooker cue as if it was an extension of his penis.

  All evening he had been casting smiles and winks the way of Dillinger from the table, as he brushed aside the opposition; and every time she had met his eye and coyly smiled back. And not once had she looked the way of Barney, and he felt quite out of place. He was here to befriend and bed Katie Dillinger, and he had as much chance of it as he did of running naked through a vat of molten steel and coming out with all his chest hair intact.