Proudfoot looked at her and shrugged. 'He's a teenager,' she said.
'Might be,' came the small voice from the bathroom.
The mother gave Proudfoot a concerned glance, then looked pleadingly at the blue bathroom door.
'We love you, son, we really do.'
'How can you, Maw, you called me Malcolm? I mean, what kind of name is Malcolm? It's a crap name.'
'That was your father,' she said.
Proudfoot rolled her eyes. Beam me up, Mr Worf, and take me away from here forever.
'It's a name of kings, Malcolm,' said Proudfoot. 'A name of kings.'
There was hefty pause from within. The wheels were in motion; smoke appeared from under the bathroom door.
'Who?' he said eventually. 'What kings were called Malcolm?'
She held her head in her hands. If I had a gun, she started to think, but she had been told four times a week for the past year to fight those thoughts. You won't rid Sutherland from your mind by killing people yourself, she was continually being told. Maybe, she thought; maybe not.
'Malcolm I, Malcolm II, Malcolm III. They were all called Malcolm.'
'Who were they?' he asked. His mother looked at Proudfoot as if she was mad, and she was not far off. 'I mean, what country were they kings of?'
'Scotland, Malcolm, they were kings of Scotland. A long time ago, maybe, but that's the pedigree of the name your parents gave you.'
'Pedigree? You mean, like the dog food?' said Malcolm.
Proudfoot stared at the floor. Imagined the headlines. Crazed Police Sergeant Sets Hamster Free as Mother and Son Die in Hail of Bullets.
'It's a beautiful name, Malcolm. An ancient, regal, royal name of kings.'
No immediate riposte. She could hear him thinking. The good and the bad of emerging from his hideout running through his mind. And then, after the pause, the inevitable.
The lock clicked, the door to the bathroom slowly swung open, and Malcolm Reid stood framed in the sunlight which streamed through the bathroom window. It highlighted wisps of hair around his head; it almost looked as if he had a halo; he was dressed in a long white bathrobe; on his face was the fustiest of fusty little goatees.
He stood with his arms spread at his side, the palms of his hands facing forward; staring at his mother.
'Is that right, Maw?' he said. 'Is that right? Did you name me after the kings?'
'Where's Huey?' she said in response, as he emerged farther from the light, and the halo faded.
'He's under my bed,' he said. 'I was making it all up. I never even had him in there. Was I really named after a king, Maw?'
'You little bastard!'
Time to go, thought Proudfoot, and she was already on her way down the stairs. If there was going to be a domestic assault, she could let it happen; then if someone got called out to it, it wouldn't be her, because they didn't let her near anything physical.
'You were named after your Uncle Malcolm, and he was a bloody eejit 'n' all!' she heard Margaret Reid cry as she reached the bottom step, and with more words of anger in the air, she was at the front door and out into the street.
She stood for a second looking up at the high, grey clouds, the sun poking through in inappropriate places. Took a moment, had a few thoughts. One day at a time, one pointless crime at a time. Crime? Not even that. When was the last time she'd been allowed anywhere near a crime?
And with that sad thought, she was on her way. It was just another day in late December, getting close to the time of year when salt was viciously rubbed into the wound of being alone.
And in less than an hour she would be back on that other pointless, endless job they'd had her on for over five months. One of three officers tasked with tracking the movements of a killer on whom they had nothing; a desperate bid to claim a success, among so much failure. And so, night after night, drowning in bars and sitting outside houses, and looking through binoculars, and not for a second could she imagine that she would ever discover anything they could use.
Not for a second.
Eureka!
Later in the afternoon, on Barney's second day of cutting hair, and it was as if he had never been away. Indeed, it might even have been the case that this new, well-balanced, egalitarian Barney Thomson, no longer living in fear of detection, was even more of a whizz with a pair of scissors than his bitter former self. There had been a slow but steady flow of customers through the door, as if sensing his arrival – Hire him and they will come, the voice in the field might have said to Leyman Blizzard. Blizzard was siphoning off the easier cuts, or the cuts that didn't really matter – the Jimmy Stewarts, the skinheads, the children – leaving Barney with the bulk of the more complex work; from the Jimmy Tarbucks to the Mesolithic Preternatural Pot-boilers, and from the Chris Evans '96 to the Gargantuan Liberace Crevice Creepers; and it had even been slightly sunnier in Greenock than normal for late December; that is to say, the sun had shone for approximately four minutes just after lunch.
So, it seemed, life could not have been better for Barney. He was striking up a rapport with customers based on shared interest and intelligent conversation; he could go to the pub every night, or just choose to sit in front of the TV without having to watch the kind of mindless soap opera that used to have Agnes slobbering in anticipation – although he'd probably watch the episode of Return to Beluga Bay when Tray and Pesticide fell out with Condom; he might even visit Cappielow Park on a Saturday afternoon to watch Morton's continuing struggle with reality.
And naturally, being so content with his lot, having everything he could possibly want, with no need for anything else in his life, Barney was as miserable as shite.
Human nature, you see. To always want something more.
'You ever see Eureka! with Gene Hackman?' asked Leyman Blizzard, as they discussed the matter. Just gone four o'clock, no customers of which to speak. They chatted between themselves, and Barney valued the words of wisdom from the old man.
'Didn't see it,' he said. Never even heard of it.
'Good film,' said Blizzard. 'Anyway, Gene Hackman's a gold prospector. That's what he does, that's his life, doesn't know anything else. For years and years he trawls slowly through Alaska, or one of they cold places, miserable as fuck, not finding a bloody sausage. Then suddenly, one day, bugger me with a pitchfork, if he doesn't suddenly come up with the biggest gold find in the history of mankind. Masses of the stuff. More gold than you could stick up your arse. Instantly makes him the richest man on the planet. Anything he wants. Huge mansion, boats, planes, all the women he can eat, the works. And guess what?'
'He's miserable as sin,' said Barney, catching up with the analogy.
'Exactly. Miserable as a bull with no dick in a field full of cows. Ends up dying, the daft bastard. And you know why? 'Cause it's all about not getting what you want, 'cause as soon as you do, there's nothing left. You have to leave yourself needing more than you have or you just die. I'm telling you, son, you have to be wanting for something. It's human nature.'
Barney sat in his barber's chair and stared back at himself in the mirror. He could recognise all the changes in himself from two years previously. He looked older, a few more grey hairs, but there was something a bit fuller and more confident about his face than before. Whereas he'd used to look like a scarecrow, now there was a bit of the Sean Connery about him. So he liked to think. A bit of the hard bastard.
'You might be right, Leyman,' he said. 'You might be right.'
The door opened, a cold breeze followed in the first customer in twenty minutes. The man removed his coat, stuck his hat on a peg – the only time he ever wore a hat was to the barber's, a precautionary measure, so that he had something with which to cover the evidence when he left – and turned to face them. The barbers, in turn, went into their new routine.
'What'll it be, son?' asked Blizzard before the man had been ushered to a seat. One of the easier ones and Blizzard would take charge, having regained a certain amount of confidence working next to
the master; one of the harder on the list, and Barney was the man.
'Could you do me a Zombie?' he asked.
Barney nodded. It was one for him.
'Aye, fine. Why don't you sit down there, mate?'
Leyman Blizzard winced at the thought of what might have happened if he'd had to make the cut, then buried himself in that day's Evening Times. Headline: Heeeeeeeeeeere's Barney! He's Back as Milngavie Plumber Put to the Sword.
Barney did the usual with the cape and the towel, lifted a comb and a plant spray gun, and got to work. The Zombie was the latest in post-modern, retro-club Louisville chic, and Barney had never executed one before. He'd seen the pictures, however, and was confident.
'Haven't seen you here before,' said the customer, Davie Whigmore, twenty-six, late of Claverton and Sons, now peddling low-budget window replacements for Arthur Francis Ltd.
'Naw,' said Barney. 'Just started yesterday. Just moved into the area. Not been here long. A couple of days.'
'Oh, aye, where've you come from?' said Whigmore, wondering why anyone who had the choice would move to Greenock.
'Well, here and there,' said Barney. 'You might have heard of me. I'm Barney Thomson.'
Whigmore looked Barney in the eye in the mirror, then turned around – narrowly avoiding serious injury – and looked more closely at his face.
'Aye, you do look like him, now that you mention it, mate,' he said, assuming the position once more. 'Didn't notice it when I came in. So, you must be on the run, then?'
'Aye, aye. Well, I was, I suppose, not sure anymore.'
'Pretty cool, though, isn't it?' said Whigmore. 'I mean, you're like the Fugitive or the Incredible Hulk. Or the A-Team even. Fleeing from justice. Flash bastard, eh? You must get hundreds of women?'
Barney shook his head. Leyman Blizzard stared over the top of the newspaper.
'None so far,' he said.
'Oh, right. Too bad, mate.'
'It's never going to happen,' said Barney. 'Apart from the obvious, that I'm an ugly bastard ...'
'Don't know, mate, there's a bit of the Sean Connery about you.'
'Aye, well, whatever. Apart from that, no one believes me. I mean, do you actually think that I'm the real Barney Thomson?'
Whigmore laughed.
'Of course I don't. You think I'd let you anywhere near my head with a pair of scissors if I thought you were the real, actual, slash-'em-as-soon-as-look-at-'em Barney Thomson? No way.'
'You see?' said Barney. 'I've got a major credibility problem. I look like the guy, I'm fully prepared to admit to being the guy, but no one believes me because there are so many crackpot heid-the-ba's out there who aspire to be me. Very strange.'
Whigmore nodded, nearly putting the Zombie in jeopardy. Fortunately, the barber doing a Zombie has a certain amount of leeway.
'I suppose you're right. That's what it's all about these days, isn't it? Credibility. I mean, the Big Man's going to have a hell of a job if there's ever a second coming. Imagine some bloke turns up and says I'm the Son of God 'n' all that. Who on earth's going to believe the guy? In fact, let's face it, there are probably hundreds of guys every year saying they're the Son of bleeding God, and they all end up in asylums and stuff. Can you blame the doctor who commits them? Course not. What's he supposed to think? But what if the real Son of God has actually made his comeback already and some eejit stuffed the guy into a loony bin? It's bound to happen. So, I can see your point, mate. If you are the real Barney Thomson, and that's not to say for one second that I think you are, no one's going to believe you.'
'Exactly,' said Barney. 'Exactly.'
Whigmore settled back more easily into his seat; started to think of some incontrovertible truths. Everywhere you go in life you find people pretending to be someone they're not; from the big lie like the man cutting his hair as he sat, assuming the identity of another, so that they could impress or make themselves the centre of attention, to the more subtle variety, where one might betray one's own personality to cover some excess that one doesn't want shown; right down to the more petty stuff which is purveyed every week in every bar in the country, such as men hitting on women; Here, love, I'm a big mate o' Ewen McGregor's, you know, and I'm going over to Hollywood next month to help him shag some women.
Lies, lies, everywhere.
Barney thought nothing much at all, as he tried to do most of the time these days. Just running through his mind was some vague musing on why it was that he was so unhappy, and what it was that he really wanted from life. If not this, then what could it be? Or was the old man right? Are you automatically condemned to misery the instant you get what you want? Was that the penalty you paid for achieving your goals?
And so the day went as it wound its way to an inevitable conclusion. And all the time, in the endless tussle of inconsequence inside his head, he tried to ignore the memory of the dream that haunted him; and the dread of the future which deep down he knew lay at the heart of his unease.
And To Them Were Given Seven Trumpets
Sometimes the group gathered at a bar for the evening. Eleven murderers out in public. Katie Dillinger always worried on these occasions, because some of them could be a bit boisterous; but they weren't schoolchildren, and she couldn't stop it happening if they decided to do it. Always considered it best to be on hand, so that she could be the United Nations peacekeeping force to their volatile local difficulty.
They were all in attendance this evening, building up a state of excitement. For this was the week of their Christmas retreat; two days in the country, away from judgemental eyes, where they could be themselves, as far as that could go; murder being pretty much off limits.
They were perched around a large table, consuming one end of the bar, in a standard 4–4–2 formation. Dillinger in goal, then a flat back four of Billy Hamilton, Ellie Winters, Annie Webster and Sammy Gilchrist; four strung across the midfield, in Fergus Flaherty, Bobby Dear, Paul Galbraith and Morty Goldman, and the two showmen up front, Socrates McCartney and Arnie Medlock.
The men were jostling for position. They were going away for a weekend where there would be three women to eight men. An ugly imbalance to please no one – except the women – so tough times lay ahead. It was early days and there would be much work to be done once the weekend started, but now was the time for points-scoring and unobtrusive denunciation of the opposition.
As ever the great topics of the day had been discussed as the evening had gone on. Should the Old Firm apply to join the English Premiership or a North Atlantic league and leave the rest to get on with it; was Edward G. Robinson a woman; global warming, myth or nightmare; cornflakes, mundane drudgery or breakfast cereal to die for; the Sixth Commandment, and did God really mean it to be interpreted the way it has been; was Richard II really a poof; milk or plain chocolate; Jim Bett, mug or magician?
Galbraith had something to say to Katie Dillinger; uneasy about saying it, because there was not a lot of truth in what he would say. And they all knew that Dillinger could tell a lie from a long way off.
The truth was, he had better things to do with his weekend than spend it with this mob. And Dillinger might just have been expecting him to make a move on her and bring some competitive element to her yearly rendezvous with Arnie Medlock. Delicacy would be required, and he had pressures from Sophie Delaux to consider. And all sorts of other issues.
First of all he had to disengage himself from the dull Bobby Dear.
'People who take one sugar,' Dear was saying, 'are poofs. That's what we used to say in the army. No sugar is fine, that's a definite statement. Five or six sugars, that's a definite statement. But one or two sugars. Absolute shite. Wishy-washy, can't make up their minds. Shite, I say.'
'Sorry, mate,' said The Hammer Galbraith, 'got to have a word with Katie, you know. Be back with you in a second,' he added, a monstrous lie. I'd die rather than come and talk to you again, might have been nearer the truth. Bobby Dear nodded, didn't really understand.
Galbraith m
ade his way around the table, clutching his seventh pint of heavy. Thought processes were still working smoothly, but there was always the possibility of a breakdown between brain and mouth. Stopped to listen for a second to Socrates, who had moved back down the wing, and was chatting to Ellie Winters. Giving her the usual line. Same old, same old.
'So what do you do, if you're not a philosopher or a footballer, then?' asked Winters. Hoping that this would induce the reciprocal question, for she loved to tell people how she made her living. Socrates took a swig from his pint, then dug into his inside coat pocket and produced a card. Handed it over with a roguish smile.
Spider-Be-Gone Inc.
Socrates McCartney
for all your spider removal needs
____________________________________
Also: Unwanted pests, bugs, vermin & snakes
24 hr service
Tel.: 0898 985 7898
email: [email protected]
Winters looked quizzically at him. A smile came to her lips, for she was sharp as a button and could already see the potential.
'You remove spiders?'
'Aye.'
'From where?'
Socrates shrugged. He knew he was cool.
'From wherever spiders get to. Which is pretty much everywhere really.'
'So, like if somebody's got a spider in their bath, they call you up, and you go and remove it?' she asked, still a little incredulous that such a service existed.
'Aye. I get five or six calls a day and at least one of them's a bath. I turn up, put the spider into a wee carton, take it outside and release it, and I'm on my way.'
She shook her head. 'And how much do you charge for that?'
'Ten pound call-out. Then a fiver for the first spider, and three quid thereafter. Special discounts for big jobs like garden sheds and attics.'
Ellie Winters was beginning to find Socrates McCartney attractive. Despite his nose. And despite the fact that she wasn't really into men.
'So some woman phones you up if there's a spider in the bath, and you charge her fifteen pounds for the all of two seconds it takes to remove it?'
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