The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  Speech over. Barney was a little wide-eyed.

  It was like being at Sunday school. He was reminded of Miss Trondheim. Tall, dark complexion; black hair, one growing out of a mole on her left cheek. And Mr Blackberry. Short; Stewart Granger hair, although he had once come in with a Robert Mitchum.

  No words came his way. He tried to look at one with God.

  The Abbot was used to such reticence.

  'However, Jacob, having said that, if there is something about your past which you wish to share with me, I am here to listen. If there is something from which you run, it is often best to face it, even if it is from within these walls.'

  Giving the new brother his first chance to speak, the Abbot knew he would say nothing. They all arrived with their secrets and insecurities, and in time they would out. But not yet.

  'No, no, you know,' said Barney. 'I thought I'd try something new. Bit disillusioned with life, you know.'

  The Abbot nodded, pursed his lips.

  'It is late in life for a change, Jacob. No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse. Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.

  'You should remember those words, Jacob.'

  'What?' said Barney, surprised. 'You make wine up here? This far north?'

  The Abbot smiled. 'You have much to learn, Jacob. You should read your Bible.'

  'Aye. Right.'

  The Abbot looked into the heart of Barney Thomson, wondering what lay therein. Knew that sooner or later it would emerge, but there was no hurry. Had no reason to suspect him of the murder of Brother Saturday. No more than any of the others, at any rate.

  'One final point, Jacob, as you start out on this new road which lies ahead. As you can see, ours is a simple life. We have little contact with the outside world and we take care of most of our own needs. Might there be a skill from your past which you would be able to share with us?'

  Barney thought. Dare he tell them about barbery? Might it put them on to him? But they obviously had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

  'I've done a bit of haircutting in my time,' he said.

  The Abbot raised an eyebrow. 'A barber?'

  'Aye.'

  'Well. It is indeed many years since we had a professional hirsutologist in our midst. A most noble trade.' His hand automatically strayed to the back of his neck. 'Brother Adolphus does his best, but sadly his skills in this direction are somewhat lacking. Despite all our prayers.'

  Barney felt a swelling of his heart. It had only been two weeks, during which time he had given the odd one-off haircut around the Highlands, but he had missed the click of the scissors, the bite of the razor into the back of the neck, the pointless chatter. Wondered if St Johnstone were managing to hang on at the top of the league.

  'Could do with a bit of a haircut myself,' said the Abbot.

  'Oh, aye?' said Barney, feeling useful. 'I'm sure I could help you out.'

  'That would be good,' said the Abbot. 'Later on this afternoon, perhaps. After prayers, before dark. I wouldn't mind a Brother Cadfael.'

  Barney smiled and nodded. A Brother Cadfael, eh? Had done one of them a couple of years previously. Piece of cake. Was there any other haircut he could possibly give these people?

  ***

  The door closed behind Barney Thomson; the Abbot stared after him for a short while. A closed door. How many doors were closed within the monastery, and for what reasons hidden in the depths of a mysterious past?

  He sighed, slowly lifted himself from the chair. He turned and stared out at the bright, white morning. Snow upon snow, stretching across the forest to the hills in the distance. And yet the full cold blast of winter had not arrived.

  For a time he watched a buzzard circle above the forest. Silent brown against the pale blue sky.

  Meanwhile, Barney Thomson walked along the corridors of the monastery, a whistle marginally beneath his lips. Light of heart for the first time in a fortnight, having completely failed to notice the exact meaning of some of the Abbot's words. That the monks had little contact with the outside world. Little, but not none, as he had thought.

  As he took to his bucket and mop for the first time that morning, The Girl From Ipanema momentarily escaped his lips.

  ***

  The third floor of the monastery, at the north end, a room of bright light; the library. Brother Morgan leant over his desk, large hand gripping small quill pen, etching out the clear rounded figures. Translating into English the original Greek of a series of third-century letters. He was one of only three of the monks who read Greek – for some of the others there was a painful learning process, for the rest, ignorance.

  The translation was a task he had been on for some weeks; begun in the days when he'd still been Saturday's assistant, content with his lot, little thought for advancement. A monk was all Morgan had ever wanted to be. Librarian's apprentice had been a bonus. Anything else was unasked for and unwanted. He would be happy for someone else to be made librarian and for him to retain the role which he had held for many years. Trusted all the brothers, yet was worried that a similar fate might befall him as befell Saturday. Perhaps Saturday had died because of some lovers' tiff within the monastery walls, or maybe he'd died because of his position. It was the latter which worried Morgan.

  There was a noise across the room, from within the rows of shelves. Morgan lifted his head, stilled his pen. Even in the bright light of the room, the shelves were in shadow. A conspiracy. He felt a shiver at the back of his neck. Insects crawling across his skin.

  'Hello?'

  A movement. A rat? There hadn't been rats in the monastery for over a hundred years. That's what they said.

  'Hello?' he repeated, with more urgency. Annoyed. Didn't like being disturbed at his work. Knew how easy it was to make mistakes when you lost concentration. One of the reasons he'd dropped out of life.

  The annoyance masked his trepidation.

  A figure appeared from among the shelves. He relaxed.

  'Hello, Brother,' said Morgan. Relief. Impatience too, as the monk emerged from the shadows.

  The visitor held up a small volume. Didn't smile. Stared from the depths of plunging eye sockets.

  'It is many years since I have studied the original Latin translation of Paul's letters,' he said. 'I have been most remiss. You will record that I have removed this volume?'

  'Certainly, Brother,' said Morgan, wondering why people had to be so bloody clandestine.

  Brother Morgan watched as the monk slowly walked from the library and closed the door behind him. Lifted his pen. Back to work. Why did some of the brothers feel the need for mystery? There was enough darkness at the monastery as it was.

  As he began the slow movement of the pen across the thick page, he felt a cold draught of air at his feet. Looked up. The door to the library swung open an inch or two.

  And a cold wind blew.

  Is He Is, Or Is He Ain't

  Mrs Mary Strachan bent her ear towards the television, trying to listen to the news above the sound of her husband rifling the Scotsman, at the same time as she struggled through a tricky interpretation of Quintus Horatius Flaccus's second book of epistles.

  'For pity's sake, man, would you haud yer wheesht with yon paper? I can't hear the telly.'

  James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper even more.

  'Help m'boab, woman, what are you on about? You know fine well that you can't watch television and translate Horace from the original Latin at the same time. Not since you lost your eye in the sheep incident last March.'

  'Ach, flech to you, James Strachan, flech to you. My mother always said you were a manny of little vision. I should've listened to her.'

  'Ach, away and boil your heid, woman,' he said, settling on the inside sports pages. Rangers Fail In �
�45 Million Bid For Six-Year-Old Italian. 'What did your mother know? The woman spent all her days doing wee jobbies at the bottom of the garden. Had a clue about nothing.'

  'Don't you be maligning my mother, James Strachan. It wasn't my mother who was arrested for stealing underwear off Mrs MacPherson's washing line.'

  He looked over the paper for the first time. 'Jings to crivvens, woman, I don't believe it. Must you bring yon up every single day? We read that we ought to forgive our enemies; but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends. Think about that, woman.'

  'Don't you go quoting Cosimo de'Medici at me, James Strachan. D'you think I can show my face in the supermarket without people talking about it? Well, do you? There's not a day goes by when I don't hear the whispers. Not a day goes by?'

  'For pity's sake, woman, it was seventy-three year ago.'

  'That may be, James Strachan, that may be. But it might as well have been yesterday, as far as this town is concerned.'

  'Ach, away with you, Mary Strachan. There was nobody in this town alive seventy-three year ago except me and thee.'

  'Jings to goodness, James Strachan, what does that matter? You think anyone alive today was around when the English sucked us into the Act of Union? We still hate them for it.'

  'Help m'flipping boab, what are you on about, Mary Strachan? You and your Act of Union. If it wasn't for the Act of Union we'd all still be living in peat bogs and eating oats for dinner.'

  'There you go, havering again, James Strachan, havering again. Here, look at yon!'

  She broke off, pointing at the television. The lunchtime news.

  'See, I told you!'

  James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper. 'Told me what? What are you talking about?'

  'That picture, that Barney Thomson character. He was the one who stayed here just over a week ago. I told you it was him.

  He glanced up, then buried his head in the paper. 'Ach, away and stick your heid in a pan of tatties. What would a serial killer be doing staying in a place like Durness? Serial killers live in big houses with all the windows boarded up. I've seen the films.'

  She shook her head, pointed at the television. 'Look at those eyes, I'd recognise them anywhere. That man's a serial killer if ever there was one, and he stayed right here in this house. Slept in the bed yon German couple are sleeping in at the moment.'

  James Strachan lowered the paper again. He stared at the television, then at his wife. 'And what if it was? What of it? He's gone now. Are you going to run along to the police, are you?'

  Mary Strachan bristled. Shoulders back, chin out.

  'Well, I don't know about that. He looked a nice enough lad. Maybe they've got the wrong one, you know.'

  'You just said he looked like a serial killer!'

  'Aye, but you know, these things are hard to tell. And it's not as if you're one to talk.'

  'Ach, away and shite, woman,' he said, from deep within the rugby reports. Scotland Select New Zealander Whose Granny Holidayed On Skye Once.

  ***

  Proudfoot climbed into the car beside Mulholland. Found him reading Blitz! and eating the last of the sandwiches. Didn't mind, as she'd had everything she'd been going to get from the tourist information within ten minutes. Had stopped for a bite to eat.

  'Surprised you're not listening to Simply Red,' she said. Shivered, removed her coat and threw it onto the back seat. The sleet was softening, turning to snow.

  'I'm sure you are. Just reading something here,' he said, tapping the magazine. 'Apparently, if you coat your breasts in dried alligator milk, it'll improve your orgasm strength. I'm assuming that's aimed at women, though.'

  'Didn't work for me.'

  He gave her a look, saw she was joking. Closed the magazine.

  'Right, then. What are we looking at? You get a list?'

  'Yep. Everywhere that anyone could stay in Inverness, a long list of places outside of town as far north as he could've gone. Lot of them closed for winter, so it cuts it down at least.'

  He checked his watch.

  'Just after two. Got to see Inspector Dumpty of Northern Constab, get that over with, then we can start. Split up and get on with it. Should be done with Inverness before it's too late, meet back here between six and seven. You get two lists?'

  'Yes,' she said tetchily.

  'Just checking. Ferguson wouldn't have thought of it.'

  Proudfoot thought of the woman she'd dealt with at the tourist information. Ferguson would still be there, fixing up a date.

  'Lets get it sorted how we'll split it. At the end of the day we'll find somewhere to spend the night, then set off tomorrow and take each town as it comes.'

  She nodded. Couldn't think of anything she'd less like to be doing; couldn't think of a single aspect of police work which currently appealed to her.

  'How was the pint?' she asked.

  'Very informative,' he said, smiling. 'Too bad you weren't there.'

  Bastard, thought Proudfoot.

  ***

  As they might have supposed, they had to wait to see the Chief Constable, a man of whom they had heard tell. They found themselves in a small room, unsatisfactory mugs of tea having cooled on the table, the Moray Firth slate grey to match the skies, barely visible between the walls of wet buildings. Unsure of what to expect of their man, for what policeman likes outsiders coming onto his patch?

  In turn they sat at the desk, then paced the short floor space, then looked out at the grey day. Wrestled, in their heads, with their own thoughts of depression and loneliness and unease. Proudfoot more comfortable with those thoughts than Mulholland.

  Finally the door opened, shattering the atmosphere. Relief swiped at Mulholland.

  'The Chief Constable will see you now,' said the maroon cardigan, masquerading as the middle-aged woman beneath.

  ***

  The Chief Constable stood with his back to them, staring out over the cold estuary. Looking for dolphins, although he hadn't seen one in over three months. The door closed behind them and they waited, much as they had already been waiting.

  They were in the midst of the opulence they had come to expect from chief constables; thick carpet, huge desk, comfy chair, photographs on the wall with the senior police officer in question shaking the hand of an even more senior police officer or a low-budget member of the royal family – although, in this case, all Chief Constable Dr Reginald McKay had been able to manage was a picture of himself directing traffic outside Balmoral Castle.

  'Dolphins,' he said.

  Mulholland and Proudfoot shared a glance. Here we go.

  'What about them?' asked Mulholland, reluctantly playing the game.

  'Used to be a cartload of them out there. Used to be able to stand here for hours, watching them in the distance. Where are they now? Haven't seen one in months.'

  The question disappeared into the room. It's probably Barney Thomson's fault, thought Proudfoot.

  Reginald McKay left them standing for another minute before turning round, nodding at his visitors and sinking into the green depths of his comfy chair. He stared absent-mindedly at some papers on his desk, while ushering them into two less salubrious chairs. Finally engaged their eyes, looking from one to the other. 'I'm greatly troubled, I must admit,' he said.

  'Aye,' said Mulholland. Down to business at last.

  'I've spoken to all sorts of groups, but no one seems to have any idea what's happened to them.'

  'Them?'

  'The dolphins. Ach, I know it's cold out there, but they're fish.'

  'No they're not.'

  'Whatever. They don't mind the cold. But I haven't seen one in months. Hard to believe that something really terrible hasn't happened. Some terrible tragedy. Effie thinks it's the Russians, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Norwegians didn't have something to do with it. Bunch of idiots, the lot of them.'

  'Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.

  'Thomson?' said McKay. 'Norwegian, is he? Not surprised.'

  'We ne
ed to talk about him. That's why we're here.'

  McKay nodded. A man of infinite years, hair greyed, face lined, eyes dimmed. 'Of course, laddie. You big shots from Glasgow, I suppose you'll be wanting to get on with things.'

  'Aye,' said Mulholland. Big shots. Jesus.

  'You'll be intending to traipse all over the Highlands, will you?'

  'For as long as it takes.'

  'Well, good luck to you laddie. I'm sure you'll find traces of your man, but I doubt you'll find the man himself.'

  'You've heard tell of him, then?'

  'Aye, aye, we've been getting reports from all over.'

  They leant forward, Mulholland's eyes narrowed.

  'No, laddie, don't go peeing your pants. There's nothing definite, you know. It's all conjecture and vague noises. Whisperings you might say. Rumours in the wind.'

  Mulholland leant back in his chair, eyes remained narrowed.

  'What kind of rumours?'

  McKay tapped a single finger on the desk, looked from one to the other. Didn't like outsiders, they never understood. Unlike dolphins. They understood everything.

  'We're getting reports. Vague things without any real meaning, nothing to put your finger on. We think he might be working to get some money. We've been hearing of whole communities where the men have all suddenly been given the most wondrous haircuts. Hair of the gods, they're saying. Some say he's more of a loose cannon, bouncing all over the place, giving out haircuts with fickle irregularity. You'll have heard of the Brahan Seer?'

  Mulholland shrugged, Proudfoot nodded, so McKay looked at her.

  'They say he wrote of such a man. Prophesied his coming.'

  'What?' said Mulholland.

  'He told of a man who would come into the community and wield a pair of scissors as if his hands were guided by magic. A man who could call the gods his ancestors. A man who would cut the hair of all the warriors in the kingdom, so that the strength of many kings would be in the hands of each of them. A man who would come out of tragedy and leave one morning in the mists before anyone had risen, never to be heard of again. A god, may be, or a messenger of the gods. But whatever, his time would be short, his coming a portent of dark times ahead, yet his passing would be greatly mourned. A messiah, in a way, although perhaps that might be too strong a word to be using. Anyway, they are saying that maybe Barney Thomson might be that man.'