The handyman waved a burger.
'You called the police and said that some of our guests didn't eat dinner? That's an offence in this country?'
'It's not just that,' she said. Rattled. Confused. Wondering whether she was going to look stupid when the police arrived.
'What, then? Someone look at you funny? Did you not like somebody's aftershave? What? I said you must be menstruating.'
'There's those two strangers just arrived. I didn't like the look of them. And now there's three from our lot left with them to go down to the kirk.'
The handyman spread his arms, shrugged, seemed to relax. 'At last, I can see your point. Going to church on a Sunday. That is criminal.'
The calm before the storm.
'What is the matter with you! Who cares if they go to the damned church? I don't care. I don't care if they go to the damned church. Jesus, I'm just a bigga bigga bigga hunka nerves right now, honey. A big hunka nerves.'
'The phone lines are down!' she said, ever more exasperated. 'I had to use Mr Thornton's mobile.'
'Jeez Louise, baby, there's a storm a-blowing out there. These damned lines are always down.'
'There's more.'
He dropped his shoulders, let his expressive burgers fall to his side. He breathed deeply and let the air slowly out through his nose. Finally gave her the time of day. He did, after all, have a soft spot for Hertha Berlin.
'Go on, honey, I'm listening to ya.'
'One of the strangers,' she said. 'I was listening at the door, and he said that the minister down at the kirk was a lovely man. A lovely man, I tell you, that's what he said.'
'And?'
'Well, everyone knows the Reverend Rolanoytez is a total bastard.'
The handyman was not sure what to do. So he took a large but unfulfilling bite from one of his burgers. Technically an illegal immigrant, unknown to the taxman and with more people to hide from than just the authorities, the handyman could have done without the unwanted attentions of the police. Not if they were going to start snooping around his business. He crammed the last of both burgers into his mouth, so that his fat cheeks were huge and bloated and misshapen, then pushed his seat away and walked around the table.
'Ighths tgmhhym tghg ghhgh, hchughny,' he said.
Hertha Berlin stared at him, much in the same way as she'd once stared at Dr Jorg Franks in the heart of the Brazilian jungle.
The handyman chewed quickly, swallowing large chunks of something which could almost pass as meat. Soon finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
'It's time to go, honey,' he said. 'I can't wait for these guys. And when the Feds arrive, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my name.'
My God, what have I done? Hertha Berlin looked stone-faced across the kitchen at the man she had loved these past twenty years or so. A silent adoration, and now one pointless, stupid act and he was about to leave. Did not even think of rushing to the phone and calling them off, for he had nailed his colours firmly to the mast. Giving her instructions on what to do when the police arrived. Not a thought of asking her to go with him. But then, why should he? She was an unattractive old woman in her seventies. Older even than her years, after all the things she'd seen. Wrinkled and pale, ugly grey hair and the definite substance of a moustache. Humourless and severe in equal measure, which no lightness of thought or heart would ever be able to penetrate. Why should this man who had been with so many women show even the slightest interest in her?
For years she had contented herself with what she had. She saw him every day, she cooked for him, they talked. What more could she ask for? There were millions out there who would die for the same privilege. And now, with one thoughtless act, she had tossed it all to the wind.
'Of course not,' she said. Voice stern, as ever.
The handyman nodded and strode quickly to the door, muttering as he went, 'Probably done me a favour, honey. I shoulda left this place years ago.'
He paused in the doorway; her heart fluttered in an instant of hope, then leapt as he turned and looked at her.
Say something! Say anything! If not you, then I must, she thought. But words of hope or appreciation or love or even desperation were not her words, and in an instant the moment would be gone.
He nodded at her, and could not think of much to say to this woman who had been his cook for over twenty years. As stern and unforgiving as the first day he'd seen her. He wrongly assumed that she had hated cooking every meal she'd ever had to make for him. That was what everyone had always assumed by the cold front to the unbeknown warm heart of Hertha Berlin.
'Thanks, honey,' said the handyman.
Berlin's mouth opened and not so much as a breath was released. The handyman gave her a few seconds and was not surprised by the frosty heart presented to him. And so, with a nod of the head, he was gone.
The door closed, the handle clicked loud in the silence. Hertha Berlin stood and looked at the end of her sad little fantasies and dreams.
He would not be gone immediately. He would be down to his house to pack the few essentials she knew he kept close to his heart. There was time yet to go after him, to tell him everything she felt. But she could sit there for a hundred years and never think of a reason for him to be interested in her.
And so she dropped down into the warm seat that he had just vacated, pulled it up to the table, rested her elbows in among the burger crumbs and pieces of tomato, held her head in her hands and, for the first time in over sixty years, her face wrinkled in emotion, her chest heaved, and she began to sob.
But no tears came, so she would not even have that release. So many years of suppressed emotion and she was a tangle of conflicting thoughts and passions and jealousies and sorrows. The man she loved was gone, and she could not even weep for him.
Hertha Berlin hung her head low.
And They Walked On In Silence, Down The Road Darkly...
... four forlorn figures, heads bowed into the falling rain. And Socrates.
Barney contemplating the immediate future, feeling sure that his ultimate fate awaited him. There was a point to every recurring dream, and now it stood before him, arms open, ready to welcome him into its evil fold for all eternity.
Katie Dillinger contemplated the future of her group, which she had moulded and cajoled and inspired for years. On the verge of falling to pieces, or perhaps having already done so. Maybe it had all been much more to do with Arnie Medlock than she'd supposed. And now that he had suddenly disappeared, all cohesion was gone. He'd been the glue that had bound them together, not herself, as she'd always thought. No more Arnie, and the group was dead. She realised it, as finally and surely as Hertha Berlin had realised that she would never see the handyman again. And that Arnie had been murdered by one of the group, of that she was equally convinced. It was not like him to just disappear. A good man, Arnie Medlock.
Mulholland contemplated the future. Marriage. Every day, more or less, with Erin Proudfoot. A big decision, made as easily as deciding on breakfast cereal. A lifetime of compromise, not getting everything, or anything, you wanted. Children? Hadn't even discussed it, but then didn't all women want children? It was one of their things. They want to sleep with Sean Connery, they want at least ten children, and when they hit sixty they start knitting. Mulholland had them sussed, and now he was about to commit himself to one for the rest of his life. That seemed a very, very long time.
Proudfoot wondered if she'd like a boy or a girl.
Concentrating on the offspring question, because she didn't want to contemplate the reality of what she was about to do. Commit to someone for the rest of her life.
It seemed right, but it also seemed madness. A romantic story to tell their grandchildren – if they missed out all the stuff about multiple murders – but that was only if they survived together long enough to start a family. What if they hated it?
Socrates minced along the road, wondering what the basic guidelines were in life on hitting on a bird who was just a
bout to get married. Proudfoot, despite the worry on her face, beat Katie, Annie and Ellie any day. Maybe not put together, because Socrates wouldn't have thrown any of those three out of bed for farting biscuits. But Proudfoot had got to be worth a go. Despite the presence of her boyfriend no more than ten yards away.
So, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a mound ...
'What's the score then, hen?' he said, dropping in line beside her. Rule 1 of the unsolicited approach. Keep it simple. If that doesn't work, move casually on through the other five rules.
Proudfoot raised her eyes from the road and looked at him. Wondered what demons had dragged Socrates into the bosom of alcohol.
'How do you mean that?' she asked, disinterested.
'You and the big guy,' he said. 'You don't look too happy there.'
'We're OK,' she said.
Socrates hummed and raised his eyes. Saw an opportunity.
'You sure you know what you're doing, hen? You're a good-looking bird. Maybe you'd be better off with some smooth bastard rather than your miserable friend here.'
'Like you?' she said, smiling.
'Aye, well, aye,' he said. 'I'm glad you noticed. Smooth, erudite and available. That's me.'
'Available?'
'Oh aye. I was going out with a bird until a few week ago, but it went tits up.'
'Oh aye?'
'Aye. Accused her of shagging for biscuits one night and she buggered off.'
'Shame.'
'I know. I was a bit pissed and my tongue got the better of me. Told her a few truths. So she kicked me in the ba's, broke my Beatles CDs in half and urinated all over my settee.'
'Vicious.'
'That last one was a bit of a turn-on to be honest, but after the toe in the nuts I was hardly in a position to do anything.'
'Too bad.'
'Aye,' he said, and stared contemplatively at the ground. 'Still, I was right. She did shag for biscuits. Anyway, the point is, I'm free and all yours. What about it?'
'I'm damp.'
'Really?'
'If I wasn't getting married tonight, I'd have you.'
'It's not too late,' he said hopefully, and in the dark he could still see the look she slung him and that was all it took.
He shrugged and moved a few feet away from her on the road. What the hey, it was worth the asking.
'Blow out with the two women back at the house, then, did you?' she said.
She was happy to continue the conversation, despite the initial premise. Mulholland walking away in front, she was aware of the darkness around them. The wind and rain in the trees, rustling leaves, the ghosts of footsteps. The creeping feeling of someone skipping through the forest, watching their every move.
'Just a couple of dykes,' said Socrates, doing his best at nonchalance.
'Right,' said Proudfoot.
And maybe Socrates didn't want to talk after all, and his head sunk a little lower, and he drifted imperceptibly away from her, looking at his feet.
The bare branches of trees rustled in the rain and gentle breeze. The night was suffocating in the intensity of its darkness. And the forest surrounded them, in a way that it had seemed not to when they had so lightly walked up the road in search of the house.
On they muddled, Mulholland a few yards in front, the church and Proudfoot's future getting ever closer. And every step of the way she heard a sound in the woods and could feel the penetration of eyes into her soul, as surely as she would soon feel the zing of an arrow.
Maybe she was about to do the right thing. The trouble with romance – there was no right and no wrong. Just possibilities. There must be a perfect one for everyone, that's what she'd always thought. Even Jade Weapon had met the man of her wildest desires and fantasies. Of course, he had been immediately killed by the Bulgarian Secret Service, and Jade had had to personally murder half the population of Sofia. Maybe Proudfoot was Jade Weapon, and Mulholland her Spunk McCavern.
And the rest of the sad group of five were no different, with various strange and melancholic thoughts in all their heads.
Barney found his life passing before him, but not at a flash. It was all there, like a video on slow rewind. Present day back to birth, a dirge through several thousand haircuts. He didn't want to think about all of this, but it was all coming to him nevertheless. And he could think of no explanation for it other than that it must presage his death.
And, by God, what a bloody dull life it'd been until the previous couple of years. Perhaps it was better ended. And so his mind took him back through the years of neglect to the essence of life; dull marriage, back to dull college and dull school. Wasted opportunities, missed chances, lacklustre thoughts and insipid actions. And all the while, one grand truth awaited him, when he reached the end of this bleak odyssey through his days.
***
Eventually they came to the manse with the church behind. The house was dark, all lights extinguished to the night. Inside, the bodies of the Reverend and Mrs Rolanoytez began the long process of decomposition, although they would be discovered later this night before they had gone too far. If only Mulholland had thought to act upon the vague suspicions aroused within him by the dark manse, then events might not have unfolded in the manner in which they did. But he stared at the great house, hesitated only slightly, then walked on by to the church.
Stained-glass windows greeted them, illuminated from behind and magical with the light and the rain splashing upon them.
Their pace slowed, the church awaited. It should be snowing, thought Proudfoot briefly, but the thought was submerged beneath all the doubt and concern and confusion. And the nerves. For she was nervous as she could not recall having been for many years. Put it down to her impending betrothal; knew, inside, that there was some much greater impending doom.
Mulholland had been a few yards ahead of her nearly all the way. Now he stopped and turned, spoke to her for the first time since they'd left the house. Had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he couldn't even begin to explain. What they were about to do was wrong, but he could not bring himself to say it. She had been through enough without him dumping her at the altar. Maybe it would work out; maybe it wouldn't.
'You all right?' he asked.
She met his eye and did her best to smile. I feel bloody awful, she wanted to say. This was the man she was going to marry, after all. She should have been able to say anything to him. Anything but the truth.
'A bit nervous,' she said, and added the uneasy laugh.
He held out his hand and took hers. Squeezed tightly and hoped he managed to convey emotions other than what he was actually feeling. Wrapped up as she was against the rain, cold face peering out from an oversized hood, he thought, as always, that she was beautiful. But there had to be more than that.
'You sure you two want to do this?' asked Dillinger.
Barney stood apart, saying nothing. Stared up at the church. His life had reached the point to which it had been dragging him back, and he knew. He knew everything. The great wooden doors were closed but they would open and behind them would be his destiny. Of that he was now completely convinced.
Socrates huddled against the rain and waited. Looked at his watch. Had expected to be up to his eyes in one of the women by now. Playing it cool would usually have worked. But he didn't mind. Easy-going, Socrates. Very easy-going.
Mulholland and Proudfoot did not notice Socrates, they did not notice Barney, suddenly detached and staring wide-eyed at his doom. They considered the question and both knew that you could not answer something like that without giving primary concern to the other's feelings.
'Aye,' said Mulholland, 'I'm sure.'
Proudfoot swallowed and nodded. Why not? How difficult is it to become unmarried these days? If marriage was all that awaited them in this church.
'Aye,' she said. 'Me too.'
Dillinger shrugged. Could easily tell that they were making a mistake, but then perhaps all the reticence was due to nerves. Maybe they were a
s right for each other as any other couple.
'Right,' she said. 'Let's do it, then.'
'Aye,' said Mulholland. 'Come on.'
He nodded at Proudfoot then turned towards the doors. The women fell in behind, then Socrates, glad to get out of the rain. Beginning to wonder if he should have a go at Dillinger, despite promising Barney he wouldn't. No honour among thieves.
Barney barely noticed them move. Consumed by the hazardous thoughts of revelation.
'Come on, Barney,' said Dillinger, walking past him. 'We're on. The happy couple are going to do it.'
Barney looked at them as they walked up the stairs and Mulholland opened the door. He knew who awaited them now, and he knew that these two would not be married.
He knew he should say something, he should stop them and face this himself, because he was really the one this concerned. But his tongue was stilled, his head numb as the two lovers walked into the church, out of the rain and the cold. Socrates and Dillinger walked behind them and Barney dragged the pillars of his legs into action and moved slowly up the stairs.
Into the church, eyes locked at his feet in concern, not wishing to face his future. The door closed behind him, then Barney looked up at the others and at the church. The wall of light...
He had fully expected it to be the church of his nightmares, but this could not have been farther from it. A glorious building inside, magnificently lit with ten thousand candles. Not a shadow in the place, as row upon row of small flames filled the huge theatre. Yet the only true illumination of what awaited them came from the few candles around the door that had been extinguished with the draught.
Enormous wooden beams in the roof; a vast, circular stained-glass window behind the altar, depicting the Penultimate Supper, the one where Jesus predicted that Simon Peter would get a sex change and that Judas would win the Eurovision Song Contest for Israel; ten, maybe fifteen statues around the sides of the church and at the foot of pillars; a majestic pulpit, projecting the preacher some ten feet above his congregation, from where five hundred years' worth of ministers had sternly lectured their flock on the perils of fornication, sortilegy, jealousy, desire and going to watch Queen of the South on a Saturday afternoon. A large Christmas tree sat up against the back of the church, beneath the round window. Fifteen feet high, immaculately decorated, reams of gold and silver cascading in perfect uniformity from every branch; visions of angels randomly dotted among the decorations playing silent tunes on golden flutes. The whole a perfect encapsulation of the beauty of Christmas, and somewhere Bing Crosby laid heartily into Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.
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