'Jesus Christ,' gasped Grooby.
He immediately felt the surge from his stomach, and he turned away and vomited violently into the corner. Goldman sat and rocked and stared and was not concerned with his audience. He was sated, but was content to munch away until he was officially interrupted. Presumed that Grooby would not take that upon himself.
Throwing up indeed! When that idiot Lecter ate flesh, it was chic! It was 90's retro, it was fava-tastic, it was now; it was almost comedic in a BBC sitcom kind of a way. Bastard.
Morty sung along in his head to the song; his own words.
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him
Morty is cool.
***
The police arrived in force some twenty minutes later as a result of a desperate call from Grooby. He sat in the hall, propped against a wall, bum going numb. Could see the edge of Goldman's arm through the crack in the open door. Making sure he didn't go anywhere, but without confronting him. Unaware of the death of Ellie Winters upstairs, while Webster rocked back and forth, humming Rocking around the Christmas Tree. Within minutes the house was opened up, Webster was discovered and not a room was left clear of investigation.
Not a trace did they find of the handyman or of young Hertha Berlin. For at least those two people had escaped the night with their worlds intact.
But they still had Hertha Berlin's words on the peculiarity of the group who had gone calling at the church, and so of the twenty-three police officers who turned up in the first wave, four were dispatched to the kirk of the late Reverend Rolanoytez...
***
... where shepherds watched their flocks.
Katie Dillinger lay dead, an arrow in the back. Punctured her lung, and she was gone, gone, gone, joining her husbands in eternal misery, in a very special place.
Mulholland sat cross-legged, quite still. Holding Proudfoot's head in his lap. Constantly talking, encouraging responses from her. Attempting to keep her going until the ambulance arrived. Had never talked so much in all his life, and she smiled occasionally and could barely understand what he was saying.
He held her head, hoped not to cry. Ignored Socrates sitting close by, recently returned from attempting to find a phone. Had discovered all the lines in the area had been cut; the work, he assumed, of Leyman Blizzard; although, as it happened, it had been the afternoon's work of Sammy Gilchrist, who had been intending a little mayhem of his own, before being overtaken by events.
Socrates had searched the manse of the Reverend Rolanoytez for more modern telecommunications equipment, but had found only a 1930s gramophone. That, as well as a large collection of animal traps, several hundred Commercial Off The Shelf (COTS) porn mags, and two bodies. Had decided not to make the trip back up the road to the old house as he suspected things might have become a little too intense. And so he sat, close by, trying not to listen to Mulholland's endless embarrassing chatter. Many words of love, and he cringed at most of them. Men could be such saps for a bird with an arrow in the chest.
Mulholland talked of times past; the first occasion they'd met; her uninterested face; losing his temper, giving into romance, the great breadth of emotion in the thrall of which he had been held. A life in seconds, and then minutes, and on and on. Over an hour they waited before they heard the siren of the police car approaching. Over an hour with the occasional word from Proudfoot, and the faint heartbeat, and gentle gasps of air. And he had hope.
Finally, after all that time, they were approached by Sergeant Barnes, late of Grampian CID. Socrates saw him first. Not traumatised by the uniform like some of the others, and pleased in his way. Had been beginning to think that he really ought to make more of an effort to get to a phone than just walking the fifty yards to the manse.
Mulholland looked up, could say nothing.
'Better get an ambulance, Big Man' said Socrates. 'The lassie's got an arrow in the chest, of all things. Going to ruin her tits if it's not taken out soon. Whacked her napper 'n' all. And she's one of your mob, so you'd better get a shifty.'
Sergeant Barnes quickly bent over Proudfoot to check for himself, then radioed for the ambulance.
Soon the other policemen entered the church. Gallacher, Watson and Torrance, three of the Borders' finest. And they spread out and started to thump their way around the aisles.
'You do this?' said Sergeant Barnes to Socrates.
Socrates shrugged and remained cool.
'Naw, it was some old guy. Buggered off out the back about an hour ago. Long gone by now, I imagine. Long gone.'
Mulholland looked up at the sergeant. Head muddled, no more substance there than the endless stream of consciousness he had been babbling.
'He's right. It was an hour ago or more. He killed the lassie up the top there first, then shot the sergeant.'
Barnes leaned over and took a closer look. One of their own, indeed.
'Nice-looking bird,' he said. 'She still breathing?'
Mulholland glanced up. Proudfoot's eyelids flickered open.
'Aye,' they said in unison, her voice barely audible.
'Right enough,' said Barnes.
Then he stood up and looked around at this bleak place, now illuminated by the dull and mundane electric lights. Looked properly for the first time at the two bodies dangling from the rafters, noticed that the eyes were gone.
Turned away.
'What the fuck were you doing here anyway?' he asked.
Mulholland looked up again. That should have been What the fuck were you doing here anyway, sir? he thought.
'Getting married,' he said. 'That was the plan.'
And he shook his head and looked away from the pale face, drained of blood. But everywhere he looked he saw death, and he could take no comfort from it. Turned back to her, ran his fingers along her brow.
'The ambulance is coming, Erin. You've got to hang in there. Won't be long.'
There was a slight movement in his arms, she lifted her eyes, her lips parted.
'See me,' she said. 'Jade Weapon. Tough as old shite. I'm not dying yet.'
'You better not. If you're Jade Weapon, we've got some amount of shagging still to do.'
The smile stayed on her lips as she let her eyelids close.
'You're on. I'll be Jade Weapon, you can be Buzz Lightyear.'
Mind not quite in gear.
And, as best he could, he held her tightly. And in the dim, dreary distance, the ambulance was diverted from the house to the church, and Sergeant Barnes directed one of his men to cover up the faces of the two hanging bodies.
Socrates watched Mulholland and Proudfoot from a few yards away, eyes narrowed and shaking his head.
'Buzz Lightyear?' he said quietly to himself. 'What in the name of fuck is that all about?'
Epilogue: A Warm Evening In August
A warm evening in August, the handyman did his final rounds. Checking doors were locked, computer terminals switched off, bins free of anything the cleaners ought not to be getting their hands on. It had been two years since Professor McLaurity had left a severed foot in the bucket, but it had been the first thing the handyman had been warned of when he'd arrived.
Not long in the job, but he already felt at home.
Checked the place out at the end of the day and at weekends; a few odd jobs around the building; shared a few cups of tea and the odd burger with the scientists; a few hours a day, and that was all it needed. Ten to twelve in the morning; a couple of hours of his choosing in the afternoon; nipped over from the house at close of play – sometimes after eleven – to check everything had been locked up. Easy. Hertha kept house for Professor Snake, who was about as nice an old man as you could have wished for, and the two of them couldn't have been happier.
The handyman wiped some dust from a laboratory table and made a mental note to check it again the following day after the cleaners had been in. Had to keep them on their toes. Wouldn't find dust like that if Hertha had be
en cleaning, he thought. And he laughed to himself.
'She sure is a feisty lady,' he said quietly, with a smile.
Hertha Berlin had blossomed. In a whole range of ways.
Still shaking his head and laughing, and already thinking of the night to come, he opened up the door at the end of the laboratory and stuck his head round. Looked at the long line of large jars filled with pink fluid.
They had done a bit of travelling, the handyman and Hertha Berlin. Had gone to all the handyman's old haunts. Memphis, Hawaii, Vegas, a few long, lonely highways. There had been some who'd recognised him, but no one had liked to say. After a few months they had returned to Scotland, had answered an ad in a local newspaper, and had settled down in the employ of the University of St Andrews.
The handyman looked along the line of jars and shook his head.
'There sure is some amount of weird shit going on,' he said. 'Weird goddam shit.'
The innocently titled Department of Human Biology contained many jars, with many body parts kept therein. In formaldehyde, or whatever fluid they could lay their hands on at the time. Limbs, organs, entrails, appendages, brains. They were all there.
The handyman looked into the Brain Room. Jar after jar of human brains. And in particular, since this was in support of Dr Gabriel's fifteen-year study on the physiology of the psychotic mind, the brains of ex-criminals; each jar neatly labelled. Malky Eight Feet. Brendan Buller, the Brechin Bastard. Wee Janice Twinklefingers. Dr Crevice. Captain Nutcruncher. Big Billy One Hand.
And so on the jars went. And right at the end, at eight months the most recent addition to the troupe, in a jar much like any other, the brain of the greatest serial killer that Scotland had ever known.
The brain of Barney Thomson.
The handyman shook his head again and flicked the light switch. Pulled the door closed and turned the key. Moved up to the secondary lock, then threw the dead bolt – as if any of the brains were getting out. Turned the tertiary lock, then locked the four padlocks. Finally zipped round the combination.
The Brain Room was the prized asset of the Department of Human Biology.
The handyman shook his head again and smiled.
'Weird goddam shit,' he said, twiddling the last knob. 'Still,' he added, beginning to walk off, already thinking of the quadruple pork burger with extra fries and mayonnaise which awaited him at home, 'there ain't no way there's any brains gonna get stolen outta that room. No way. There's none a these brains getting stolen and put into some weird goddam Frankenstein monster type a shit. No brains getting taken outta there, no siree. No siree.'
***
About the author
For news, reviews, interviews and lots more about Douglas Lindsay and our other great authors, visit Blasted Heath. Sign up to the newsletter and we'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!
Murderers Anonymous Page 32