The pulpit was empty. The church silent. The flames of ten thousand candles burned.
'Bloody hell,' said Mulholland, voice in awe. 'Bloody hell.'
The others stared in equal wonder. While Mulholland and Proudfoot had plodded wearily between manse and big house on the hill, their minister had been at the most wondrous work. How could I possibly decline the invitation to wed, thought Proudfoot?
Barney felt the confusion of contradiction, for this was not how his dream went; this was not what he had expected. This was to be an occasion of light and beauty; a wedding with the blessing of angels. Not the dark, sinister world that he inhabited and which his dreams had promised.
Dillinger said nothing. Her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, such as they had not been since she'd been a child. And suddenly the woes of the day were forgotten, for this was some kind of majesty. A wonder the like of which she would never know again.
'Well, you can fuck me up the arse with a duck,' said Socrates.
Mulholland took a step farther into the midst of magic. He turned slowly as he walked, taking it all in. There were candles lining the aisle, candles along every pew, candles around every wall, on every surface. Walls of light and flame. He looked at Proudfoot and saw that she shared his awe. And so bereft of his police instinct was he that he could not see the sense of it, could not see the malign thought behind the enchantment.
'Hello!' he shouted. 'Hello.'
He looked up at the low-level gods, but in the box seats candles burned and nothing stirred. Wooden beams, high above, looked dully down upon them. Ropes around two on either side of the altar, and he did not notice them at first. Looked back at the others.
'All dressed up and nowhere to go,' he said.
'Maybe he's gone to get some more candles,' said Socrates.
Barney felt it first. Like the fetid breath of Death at his shoulder. He turned quickly, saw nothing but small flames; yet he sensed the presence as if it was running all over him. They were not alone, and whatever haunted this church along with them shared not their wonder at the surroundings. This bloody façade, for there was nothing honest in the light.
'He's here,' said Barney.
Mulholland turned.
'Where?' he said. Then 'Who?' when he saw Barney's face.
And suddenly it happened in a rush of falling flesh and rope against wood.
They turned at the sliver of sound from the pulpit. A click or a cut. Quietly it went. And from the gods they came. Either side of the pulpit, falling at an equal rate. Two bodies wrapped in rope, which unwound with the fall from the roof.
Six feet above the ground the ropes tightened and twanged at full stretch; the bodies, suspended by the neck, bobbled and bounced until, at last, they came to a sad end and hung limply from the roof.
Mulholland stared at them, police brain still to kick in. Proudfoot was numb. Barney, with opened mouth, expectant. It had been inevitable. Katie Dillinger, hand to mouth, instant shock.
And the bodies of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton, their eyes cut from their heads, throats slit so the blood covered the rope around their necks, swung softly in the still air.
'Cool,' said Socrates.
Will The Real Morty Goldman Please Step Forward?
Morty had fought it off long enough. The inner demons that had raped his mind since those blighted teenage years, and which had briefly escaped for a limited period only in the 80's, were now running rampant. All the frustration of a psychosis kept in check was now laid waste. He was unbound and could do whatever he wanted; as if a brace had been removed from around his head. Suddenly, unequivocally, deliciously, he was free, and the real Morty Goldman could at last be welcomed back into the world.
Heeeeeeeeeeeeere's Morty! A big hand, ladies and gentlemen, your friend and mine, Morty Goldman. Let's hear it for Morty! Morty Goldman, ladies and gentlemen, Morty Goldman.
Shackles. The news that the police were expected at the house had not remained a secret for long. The conversation between Hertha Berlin and the soon-to-be-ex-handyman overheard, word of the arrival of the forces of Good had spread like fire around the few inmates left, and they had each, in their own way, acted accordingly.
The handyman would not go ill-prepared. He would leave on foot, certainly, but he had local knowledge and a place to stay, no more than three miles away. A place where another woman awaited his infrequent visits with a cup of hot chocolate, a plate of toasted sandwiches, a couple of glasses of whisky and a warm bed. The handyman need worry about nothing.
Bobby Dear went his own way. Imagined himself a military man, well suited to the rigours of outdoor life. He was a man who had served his time for his crimes, but had no desire to further engage the police. He would escape armed with everything someone on the run through open or forested countryside could need. A map, compass, rations, a torch, a hefty pair of boots, a light tarpaulin, matches, a small can of kerosene, some teabags, a condom, a sawn-off shotgun and fourteen large pairs of women's undergarments. And as a result he would survive, and return unscathed to Glasgow, where, scarred by the experience, he would kill once more.
Although this time he would save his savagery for sheep.
No more need be said.
Fergus Flaherty the Fernhill Flutist intended to go the same way as Bobby Dear. Out onto the open moor and through the forest, for he was a man who had done a bit of walking in his time. However, he was unfortunate enough to be the one who made the second sighting of Morty Goldman following his disappearance prior to dinner.
The first person to see him had been Sammy Gilchrist, just after Morty had emerged leaping from the secret passageway that led from the bathroom to the lounge; knife glinting in the fading light of the fire, eyes glinting in the glint from the knife.
Bing was singing some pointless twaddle about how it was looking a lot like Christmas, but in a way he was right. There was a lot of red around, a good colour for decorations, as Morty flailed savagely at poor Sammy Gilchrist.
No ordinary stabbing, this was the frenzied work of a madman unleashed. Whipping the knife viciously across his face and body; keeping him alive for as long as possible while he terrorized him with the weapon, fending off the not insignificant ripostes from Gilchrist; before plunging the knife deep into his heart, and dragging the serrated edge along his chest cavity. There was as much blood on Morty as there was on Sammy.
And it was in on this that Fergus Flaherty had the misfortune to walk.
A slightly frenzied look in his eye himself, as he made final preparations to flee. He opened the door to the lounge and found himself not three yards away from a crazed Morty Goldman. Bug-eyed, covered in the blood of Sammy Gilchrist, in the process of hacking off his right arm with the knife. For he intended to stay and feast.
The police might have been on the way, but he was happy to while away the hours in prison. There would always be other Sammy Gilchrists; and he would enjoy this one while he had the chance.
And two had always been better than one.
He pounced on Flaherty in an instant, even before the necessary profane ejaculation had escaped Flaherty's lips. No messing about, no preliminaries. A knife in the face, and then another thrust up under the guts and deep into his chest cavity. Fergus Flaherty, the man who'd done more for the flute industry than James Galway could have ever dreamt of, was dead in seconds. Yet Morty unleashed the full extent of his venom, and continued to thrash wildly at the body for nearly half a minute, the knife thudding into the chest and face, the body rising up with the pull of the knife, then bouncing softly on the floor.
Annie Webster and Ellie Winters had missed the fun in the lounge by a few minutes. Off upstairs to Webster's bedroom to savour the wonders of female flesh. A new experience for Webster – yet she was not surprised – but a familiar one for the seasoned Winters. For she had long ago dispensed with the services of men. Had not looked at one in anger since she'd been accosted by three drunken youths outside a club on Hope Street, and had had to kil
l two of them to prevent them violating her. Women, women all the way, and she'd been much the happier for it.
Annie Webster, however, had intimacy issues. The principal issue being that she felt compelled to murder anyone who saw her naked. Sometimes before the goose was cooked, sometimes after.
She liked Ellie Winters and her tender caress, and she would submit to the romance of it. So, while Bobby Dear fled and Morty wielded his knife, on the second floor of the house, blissfully unaware, Ellie Winters kissed Annie Webster softly on the lips, then moved down her naked body to tease and bite her erect nipples.
The house was laid waste. What was supposed to have been a joyous weekend had become a disaster. Morty Goldman let loose, four of the party dead, soon to be joined by another. Dear on the run. Barney Thomson, Katie Dillinger and Socrates about to confront the other evil abroad this dark night. The weekend was utterly destroyed; and there would be no getting their money back.
Not even if they wrote to Watchdog.
***
All the while, Hertha Berlin sat alone at the kitchen table, unaware of the gruesome events unfolding in the lounge; waiting for the police, her thoughts consumed by her folly, and how the rest of a life can be slaughtered by the simplest of unthinking actions, as much as by any psychopath with a knife.
Her future was bleak and held neither the comfort of the past twenty years, nor the adventure of the fifty that had preceded them. Like that of Anthony Hopkins in Remains of the Day, her life had finally been shattered by the inability to express her feelings. But then, what would have been the point? At least Emma Thompson had been waiting for Tony with her legs open. What would the handyman have done had she made any kind of advance? He would have laughed, he would have broken into a chorus of Hound Dog and he would have hit the Jedburgh–Moffat interstate before she could have bitten her tongue.
There was a slight noise, a gentle movement. So oppressed by gloom was she that she could barely lift her head to look at the door. One of the merry band of morons looking for a turkey sandwich, she thought. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? Didn't they know that her life was over? Why couldn't these damned people just look after themselves? Why couldn't the whole world just go and bugger off?
'Hey, Hertha, honey,' said the deep voice from the door. 'You just gonna sit there, or you wanna take a trip down to the ocean?'
Hertha Berlin looked up. For the first time in decades a smile, an impossible smile, came immediately to her face. A tear as quick to her eye. The handyman stood, framed in the doorway, jacket on, bag over his shoulder. Sideboards on his cheeks, a determined look in his eye. Hell, he knew what he was doing.
She gasped, caught her breath, put her hand over her mouth.
'Come on, honey,' he said, 'don't just sit there looking like some chick at my '68 NBC Special. You gonna come or ain't ya?'
Hertha Berlin stood up. Her chest swelled, she looked for her coat on the back of the door. She walked round the table, suddenly shaking, her legs barely able to support her insubstantial weight. She tugged at the solitary pin that held her bun together, and as her long, smooth grey hair cascaded around her shoulders, she stood before the handyman, a woman reborn. Suddenly there was a light in her eye, a beauty in her smile, and the hairs on her top lip faded to nothing.
'I sure am, honey,' she said.
And the handyman touched her hair and the back of her neck, sending shock waves of tiny orgasms rampaging through her body. Like a surge of Panzers crossing the border into Czechoslovakia.
'Come on, baby,' he said, 'there's a place I know we can spend the night. A little old lady's gonna have a plate of burgers and a warm bed. And in the morning we can go wherever you want.'
Hertha Berlin pulled on her coat. A woman released. As her arms stretched, her blouse was pulled across her breasts, and the handyman licked his lips.
'Memphis,' she said. 'I'd like to go to Memphis.'
The handyman laughed and shrugged.
'Wherever you want, Hertha, baby, wherever you want.'
Fall On Your Knees
The bodies of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung in the thin air of the church, warmed by the flames of ten thousand candles. The blank, black depths of their bloody eye sockets stared down at this elective congregation, rapt in their attention. The ropes around their necks appeared to be dragging down the corners of their mouths. Foreheads furrowed, and they blindly scowled at their audience. Arnie in particular, upset at the ruin of a good weekend. And they swung in silence, slowly, in a vague circular motion.
The killer had intended letting his audience stew. That was part of the whole serial killer milieu, the modus operandi, the thing, the standard procedure, the usual technique. A cliché perhaps, but what the hey? Some clichés were there because they were good ideas. Bacon and egg. It's a cliché, but who's going to fight it? You don't say, bugger this, I'm having aluminium with my eggs this morning, just to be different.
However, this serial killer just could not contain himself. His audience was before him; he was Auric Goldfinger, waiting to explain his plot to rob Fort Knox; he was Jimmy Jones, waiting to denounce the Devil and order his flock to their deaths; he was Genghis Khan, waiting to book his crew on the 10.15 to Constantinople. This was it. The moment that every self-respecting serial killer waits for. His big finish.
And so, announcing himself with a laugh from beneath the rim of the pulpit, a hideous sound which filled the church and reverberated around the flaming walls and statues, a sound which quailed the congregation, yet toughened the resolve of Mulholland and Proudfoot – for there was nothing better than to be able to face your enemy – Leyman Blizzard, hair blackened, dog collar hugging his neck, the Reverend Rolanoytez's glasses perched on the end of his nose, raised his head into view.
He stared down at his flock, mocking smile upon his face. There's nothing a madman needs more than an audience. There really ought to have been an orchestra playing, but he hadn't had the time to fix it all up. Ode to Joy or O! Holy Night. Something big. And the audience stared up at him and waited.
Mulholland would be the first to act, and was in the process of a quick step forward when Blizzard raised his arms to the rafters and showed the small, loaded crossbow he held in his right hand. Dillinger took a step back. Mulholland and Proudfoot stood firm. Socrates smiled. Barney, for his part, knew now for sure that he would die. He was ready to meet it, and he remained steady.
'Leyman?' said Dillinger. 'What are you doing here? What's going on?'
The others turned. Mulholland questioned with his eyes. Aware that he should know this man.
'This is extraordinary,' said Socrates. 'I mean, how cool is this?'
'You know him?' said Barney to Dillinger.
'Aye,' she said, never taking her eyes off the crossbow. 'He was part of our group. I knew it was going to go wrong with him when he left. I could tell. I always know when they're about to stray.'
'What group?' asked Mulholland.
'What about you?' said Dillinger to Barney, ignoring the question, because that was not a discussion she wanted to get into.
Leyman Blizzard looked down upon his flock and enjoyed their confusion.
'I work for the guy,' said Barney. He looked up at him, the old smiling face beaming down. And the relationship went some way beyond that; but that was for himself and Blizzard to sort out. If he gave him the chance.
Mulholland thumped a theatrical hand off his forehead, closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked round at Barney then back up at Blizzard.
'Jesus,' he said, 'I knew it. I saw you in the fucking shop. Yesterday morning. Grey hair, beard, no glasses.'
Blizzard laughed a dirty old laugh. Sid James without the humour.
'Brilliant, Chief Inspector. I was wondering how long it'd take you to work it out. I thought you might have got it at dinner, but you're obviously too slow. No wonder you haven't caught yon serial killer. Thick as shite.'
Mulholland turned to Proudfoot and lifted his shoulders.
Still didn't see the extent of what was going on. Shook his head.
'Sorry love,' he said, 'didn't get it. Brain's in too much of a fudge.'
She touched his hand. Here they were, thrown once more into adversity, and love would out.
'Come on, I was there too. I'm as bad.'
Sid James laughed again, dirty and dangerous.
'Ah!' he said. 'Young fucking love. Isn't it great? Too bad one of you is going to peg it.'
Mulholland turned back to the pulpit. No more than ten yards away, looking up into the face of their latest madman. Proudfoot stood beside him, still holding his hand. Barney watched. Dillinger had started to take small, surreptitious steps back towards the door; although, of course, Blizzard noticed every movement. Socrates settled down into a pew to watch the action. No more feared the old man's crossbow than he would a bath full of spiders.
'Okay,' said Mulholland. 'What's it all about this time?'
Had been through too much to feel threatened, despite the crossbow waving maniacally in the air.
'What d'you mean this time?' said Blizzard.
Mulholland held his arms out.
'We come up against one of your lot every week, just about. There's the nutter up in Glasgow at the moment, there was the nutter at the monastery last year. There's Barney here. No offence, Barney.'
Barney shrugged. Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung slowly, round and round, up on high. The ropes creaked softly, the candles burned, and it was as if the two of them were no longer there. Two bodies, eye sockets penetrating into the thoughts of everyone in the church, and with the violence of the fall, fresh blood had begun to drip, drip, drip; and they were part of the furniture.
The Barbershop Seven Page 79