'The Hammer?' asked Barney.
'He's all right, and he's not coming anyway. But we each pick a name out the hat and have to buy a present for that person. So you'll have to take The Hammer's place.'
And she fished around in her coat pocket and handed Barney the small piece of paper.
'That'll be yours. I haven't looked at it,' she said.
Barney took it, wondering what on earth he would buy one of these delinquent idiots, and would they kill him if they didn't like the gift and discovered who'd bought it. And so he reluctantly opened up the crinkled piece of paper, read the name, and that old rubbery face displayed nothing.
'Are you in?' she said.
Barney looked up, eyes slightly brighter than before, but otherwise no change to the face. Yet choirs of angels had suddenly broken triumphantly into a chorus of hosannas; a raucous cascade of sparkling fireworks had exploded in the night sky, whites and purples and reds and greens, an orgiastic eruption of colour; a thousand-and-one gun salute had just been fired from the barbican of a magnificent hilltop castle; the gods had risen as one and were cheering Barney's name as if he were one of their own. For Barney had drawn the name Katie Dillinger, and he had his golden opportunity.
'Aye,' he said, sipping nonchalantly from his near-full pint. 'Why not?
***
Mulholland stared at the bottom of his fifth pint of Tennents. Drinking too much since he'd got back up to Glasgow, but it'd only been two days, and he knew he was pretty close to walking out on McMenemy and his ridiculous search for Barney Thomson. He could head back up north, forget the police, forget Barney, forget McMenemy, forget Erin Proudfoot and her pale face and beautiful lips, and spend his days up to his waist in freezing water trying to catch fish that had long since headed down to the African coast for a bit of warmth.
Maybe he'd continue the counselling, but if he'd ditched the police, they wouldn't pay for it any more, and there was no way he'd be able to afford the eight-million-pounds-a-minute fees of Murz and her crew. Maybe he could date Murz and get his counselling for free. She might have been fifty and a bit hairier than you'd like in a woman, but there'd still been something about her.
He delved into the bottom of a packet of crisps and came up with crumbs. Lifted his glass, stuffed the empty packet back inside and headed to the bar. Elvis on the jukebox. You saw me crying in my beer... Mulholland could hear him singing.
Quiet pub, didn't have to wait. A large-breasted barman approached.
'Pint of Tennents and a packet of salt and vinegar, please, mate,' he said.
The barman went about his business, and Mulholland wondered if it wouldn't be better if perhaps he were just to die.
***
Later on that night, the killer sat at home, drinking beer and eating pizza. And he watched The Silence of the Lambs, and thought to himself that Lecter was a complete pussy and that he could take him out with one swish of a knife.
Fava beans, my arse.
The Stankmonster, The Plain Jane & The Sophie Marceau
William Stanton squinted up at Barney, as he put the finishing touches to an exquisite Special Agent Dale Cooper; which would nevertheless leave him a laughing-stock among his mates. Stanton was slightly distracted, even though he was in full flow on one of his pet subjects.
'Aye, I'm telling you, that's what it says these days. And another one. Have you seen it, on the top of milk cartons? A big sticker that says Keep in Fridge? I mean, what kind of delinquent arse is that aimed at? Who needs to be told to keep their milk in the fridge?'
Barney was uninterested. Blizzard read the paper. Barney shrugged. Stanton attempted to catch his eye.
'Keep in fridge. You know what that says to me?'
Barney shook his head. Not really paying attention. Another night had passed when he had awoken screaming. Mind in turmoil.
'That says that they think I'm a fucking idiot. That's what it says. I'm going to sue. I'm going to sue them for disparaging my intelligence.'
Blizzard glanced over. Barney stood back and surveyed the finished product. Hadn't been concentrating, but he knew he'd done a good job all the same. This haircut would go far. Reached for the rear-view mirror and let the bloke have a look.
Stanton did not pay attention. Accepted the cut, but looked quizzically at Barney. There was recognition in his eye. Perhaps he realised that he might just have had his hair cut by a celebrity. Barney laid down the mirror and began the decloaking operation.
'Keep away from fire, that's another one,' said Stanton, not even listening to himself. 'On every bit of clothing you get nowadays. Who, in the name of God, is that aimed at? Where will I put this jumper while I'm not wearing it? Em, let me see, in the drawer or in the fire? Em, not sure really. I mean, for goodness' sake, what a load of shite. Bloody bastards,' he added, handing over the cash, and regarding Barney with some curiosity.
Barney didn't notice, headed to the till. Stanton decided to indulge his inquisitiveness.
'Have I seen you before, mate?' he asked, reaching for his coat.
Barney shrugged, turning back to him and handing over the change.
'Probably in the paper. I'm Barney Thomson,' he said.
William Stanton nodded, took the change from Barney. Forgot to give him a tip.
'The barber?' he asked.
Barney laughed and indicated the surroundings.
'Aye, but the barber?' asked Stanton.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'I'm the barber. Tried handing myself in, but they're not interested. Just don't believe I am who I say. There you go.'
And he reached for the brush and started to clear up.
Blizzard took a little more notice, but not much. Reading the personal ads. 'Woman. 65. Moustache and large lump on her face. Weekly change of pants. Likes mince. Seeks barber from Greenock, mid-80s.'
'There you go, who'd have thought it. I've had my hair cut by a legend. Wait till I tell Denise,' said Stanton. 'And did you really murder all those nuns at the weekend, like it says in the paper?'
Barney laughed softly and resignedly again; shrugged his shoulders.
'Do I look as if I murdered any nuns?' he said, looking up.
Stanton shook his head.
'Suppose not,' he said. 'Suppose not. Right, thanks anyway, mate. Stoatir of a haircut, by the way.'
Barney acknowledged the compliment, and bent once more over his brush. The bell tinkled and Stanton was gone, out into the mild drudgery of another late December day. Three days before Christmas, with the promise of ill-cheer and untold misery in the air. And presents; lots of presents.
Barney swept; Blizzard read the paper. Barney contemplated the dream of the night before, Blizzard wondered about the exact nature of the big lump on the face of Mrs Clean Weekly Pants.
'Oh, aye, Leyman,' said Barney, looking up. 'I nearly forgot. You don't mind if I nip off a bit early the day? This mob I've joined are going away for the weekend, you know, and they asked if I wanted to go with them.'
'A weekend, eh? Where're you off to?'
'Down south, somewhere. Jedburgh, Kelso kind of a way.'
Blizzard looked at him. Being deserted by his new friend already. Another night in the pub on his own. All thanks to the lure of womankind.
'Thinking with your dick, son, are you?'
Barney didn't even bother laughing it off. Mind on other things, the dream removing all thoughts of Katie Dillinger, so that he had awoken that morning in quite a different mood from that in which he'd gone to bed.
'Aye,' he said, 'I suppose. I've got to buy her a present,'n' all. I was pleased at the time, but now I've no idea what to get her.'
Blizzard nodded and sucked his teeth.
'Can I give you the benefit of my years of experience, son?' he asked.
Barney smiled – a sad smile – and rested on the end of his broom.
'Aye,' he said. 'Go on.'
Blizzard laid down the paper and pointed at him.
'It doesn't matter what the fuck you give them.
They'll either want to shag you, or they won't.'
Barney shook his head, still smiling. Brilliant.
'Tell you what you can do, son, though. I'll tell you what does work.'
'Go on.'
'They aye open up for a bit of poetry.'
'Poetry? Get a grip, Leyman. This is the West of Scotland. She'll think I'm a poof.'
Blizzard picked up the paper again and prepared to read about Absolutely Bloody Desperate from Kirkintilloch.
'I'm telling you, son. Poetry's the thing. Give them a nice poem, and their legs open up like you're pulling a zipper. No bother. A zipper.'
Barney laughed and bent to his work. Poetry. Where was he going to find poetry at this short notice? Unless he was to write it himself.
And before he could even begin to wonder what might rhyme with 'shag you', his mind was once more enveloped by the dark dreams of the night before, and the far-off face of his nemesis.
***
'You see, there are three kinds of women.'
Barney nodded. Gerry Cohn was in full flow.
'There's your common-or-garden stankmonster. There's your Plain Jane. Then there's your no' bad-looking bit of stuff. You know, your Sophie Marceau or your Uma Thurman. I mean, obviously you can sub-divide they three categories to an infinite amount, to be fair, but when it comes to it, you've got those basic three.'
Barney nodded. He was not in the mood for the Gerry Cohns of the world. His thoughts were still plagued by the remnants of the dream; and every so often he tried to recapture the face which had presented itself to him, and when it did not come, he did his best to not think of it, hoping that it might come subconsciously to mind; and when it did not, he concentrated his thoughts upon it, and so it went on. And thus he left his brain in neutral, as Gerry Cohn did his stuff.
'So, what about this lassie you're wanting to shag, then, Big Man? Which of the three does she fit into?'
Barney let his brain judder into first. Where did Katie Dillinger fit into all of this? Had she some obscure, subconscious part to play in these recurring dreams and his daily dread? Was it all just an equal and opposite reaction to his optimism over the potential of his relationship?
'Somewhere between the good looking and the average, I suppose,' he said.
'Aye, aye,' said Cohn, 'I know what you mean. Quite often there's cross-pollination between substrata. That concept makes up quite a part of the paper I'm writing on it for my PhD, you know. Usually the movement's between the Plain Jane and the good-looking bit of stuff ones, right enough. You meet some lassie, she looks plain enough. A couple of months later, you've got to know her a bit better, she seems all right, good sense of humour and all that, and you want into her knickers. All of a sudden she's in the A-band. It's common. Course, it's just yourself who thinks she's a looker, not your mates.'
'Aye,' said Blizzard from behind the Mirror – Thomson Butchers Cow in Abattoir – 'but a stankmonster is aye a stankmonster.'
'How right you are, mate,' said Cohn.
Barney slid back into neutral and tried to concentrate on the dream. He was sure that the minister, the haunting spectre on his knees, praying for Barney's soul, had revealed himself at last. He still felt the shock of revelation, greater than the impact of just recognising someone he knew. But when he'd woken, the face was gone, and all that had been left was the terrible feeling of dread; of Death at his shoulder.
'You're looking a bit distracted there, Big Man,' said Cohn. 'You're not obsessing about the bird, are you?'
Barney looked down at the head of hair beneath him. The requested John Lennon (Let it Be) was already in danger of becoming a John Lennon (Sergeant Pepper), and if he was not careful, it could become a John Lennon (Some Time His Hair Was Really Short).
He laid the scissors down on the table and looked around the shop. Blizzard read the paper, the back sports page pointed at him. Barcelona Tea Lady on Way to Ibrox in Swap Deal with Amaruso. He ran the final comb through the hair of Gerry Cohn.
'Naw, it's not that,' he said. 'Just been getting bad dreams.'
Cohn nodded as he viewed the final effort. Not too bothered about the retro-slide of his Lennon haircut, but glad it hadn't gone any farther.
'Portent of your own death, that kind of thing?'
Barney didn't even bother being surprised.
'No' sure,' he said. 'Might be. Hard to say.'
'Sure they're not just a rehash of the day's events?' volunteered Blizzard, placing the paper down on the bench. Liked nothing better than a discussion on the swings and roundabouts of outrageous ontology; the precincts and harvests of metaphysics.
Barney emitted a long sigh as he removed the cape from around Cohn's neck.
'Might be, Leyman,' he said, 'but if they are, they're someone else's day's events, not mine. And I wouldn't like to be the poor bastard whose days they are.'
Cohn stood up and admired himself in the mirror. He was into Wee Senga Saddlebag's pants with this napper, no problem.
'Well, you know what they say,' he said, digging no deeper into his pocket than required, 'if it's not a rehash of the day's events, then it's a harbinger of something. And if it ain't good, then it's bad.'
They stared at one another.
'You can quote me on that last one, if you like,' he added.
Robotic, Barney fetched Cohn his coat from the hanger and placed it over his shoulder. Why couldn't dreams be just that? Wasn't that allowed? He'd had plenty of good dreams, dreams from which he'd awoken to find the harsh reality of normal life. None of those bloody dreams had been a portent of things to come, so why should the one with Death creeping up at his shoulder ever happen, recurring or not?
'I wouldn't worry, Barney,' said Blizzard, 'we're all a long time old, my friend. Especially me. You've got nothing to be scared of about dying. No' just yet.'
Barney nodded and thanked Cohn for the meagre tip. Dying? He'd never been afraid of dying, and felt even less so now. So what else could it be?
'The unknown,' said Cohn, as he opened the door to the outside, allowing in the cold wind from the Clyde. 'Now there's something to be afraid of. See you, lads.'
And he left them staring at the door. Barney wide-eyed and knowing. He had just seen the light; the obscure truth which fitted his ill feeling like an old sock.
'What d'you make of that?' said Blizzard.
Barney didn't answer immediately; lifted his brush and attended to the detritus at his feet, still not looking at the floor. Sensing where the hairs were. The brush his light sabre, the hairs evil agents of the Emperor.
'The man's got a point,' he said after a while, head still down. 'The man's got a point.'
And so taken with the final words of Gerry Cohn had they been that, though they were both staring through the window at the street outside, neither of them noticed Sophie Marceau as she walked past, naked from the waist up, on one of her regular shopping trips to Greenock.
Giant Octopus Eats Mum Of Five
Barney propped his brush up against the wall, turned and surveyed the shop, mentally twiddling his thumbs. Early Saturday afternoon, nothing to be done and nothing to be gained. A Mario Van Peebles had just left the shop, not another customer in sight. Probably pick up later on, but his heart wasn't in it. Not today. Contemplating the haunting of his dreams and the paradox of the possibilities of the weekend ahead. The chance to get to know Katie Dillinger. The infinite potential of the sleeping arrangements. Well, the two possible sleeping arrangements. One where he got to sleep with her, and one where he didn't.
And so, on and on, his mind went. He'd noticed some jealous glances from the others when talking to her, and perhaps he wouldn't be the only one looking to make his move. And if he did get anywhere, what then? It'd been a long, long time. Would he still remember? Would he still function in all the appropriate places?
This occupied his mind, alongside the overwhelming sense of foreboding. The weekend loomed large with promise, but also with apprehension and unease. A group of murdere
rs alone in a house together. It was almost a joke. Why shouldn't he feel unease?
But it was more than that, this feeling that plagued him. Much more.
'Why don't you leave, son?' said Blizzard.
Barney was plucked from his meandering mind.
'Sorry?'
'Bugger off. I can tell you've got other things on your mind, so why not just get on? Go home and pack, or whatever you've got to do for your big night.'
'That'll only take five minutes.'
'Doesn't matter, son. Away and buy the bitch her present, or write some magic bit of poetry. I can see your mind's not on your work. Cut a wee bit too much off that last yin's hair. Bugger off and I'll take care of things. Working with you's given me a lot more confidence. Hope you noticed I gave some bastard a Brad Pitt (Se7en) earlier. Not bad, eh?'
Barney smiled weakly and nodded. He had noticed. It'd been a stinker, but at least Leyman was more relaxed about these things now. So what if it had been a stinker; it'd grow back.
'You sure?' he said, avoiding comment.
'Aye, aye, of course I am. No bother. Just bugger off and leave me to it.'
Barney smiled, genuinely this time. He was a good man, old Leyman, and there were not many of them left.
He grabbed his coat and grabbed his hat. Turned to face the old man, and as he did so, taking in the shop, he felt the strangest movement up his back and over his shoulders, so that his entire body shivered and the hairs crept up on his neck. A cold hand gripped his spine. He turned quickly, looking around the small silence of the shop. And as quickly as it had come, the shiver died, the feeling subsided. An end to sighs. He looked at the scissors that lay on the table and did not know that he would never lift them again in anger.
He looked up. The shop stared blankly back at him, as did old Blizzard.
'There's a nice card shop up by there, son. Get a blank one, with Christmas shite on the front, one of they old paintings of Paris in the snow, or some shite like yon. Then stick your poem in the middle. Something like, You're the fairest girl, a bonnie lass; I want to shag your tits and lick your arse. Like yon. She'll be gagging for it.'
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