The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'By Christ, Chief Inspector, you're even slower than I gave you credit for. I don't know about this monastery shite, but I'm the guy who's killing folk in Glasgow, ya numpty. Me,' he added, pointing to his chest, 'Leyman fucking Blizzard. God, you're slow. Fuck sake, you can't even find a serial killer when he's standing in front of you with two dead bodies and a murder weapon in his hand. How stupid are you?'

  Mulholland shrugged. Realised he looked a bit thick. Wondered if Proudfoot had worked out the obvious before he had.

  'Couldn't give a shit, mate. There are so many serial killers these days it's hard to keep up. Leyman Blizzard one week, some other sad bampot the next. Who cares?'

  The Sid James smile died on Blizzard's face. He lowered the crossbow and aimed it roughly in the general direction of the five. Dillinger continued her deliberate back-pedal. Barney waited for an arrow in the throat, because that was the inevitability of it.

  'You're full of shite, Chief Inspector. It's your job to catch me, so don't come it. Can't believe the crassness of you lot, sometimes. Taking a weekend off to shag a bird when there are folk getting shafted all over the shop.'

  Mulholland shook his head, laughed a light, bitter, unamused laugh.

  'I'm off the case, Blizzard. I couldn't care less. Go back to Glasgow, mate, and kill another few hundred of them. There's got to be, what, a million or so in the city. They can cope. On you go, you stupid arse, I don't give a shit. I've retired.'

  Blizzard stared down at them. Getting annoyed, but keeping an eye on Dillinger, now only a few yards from the door.

  'Barney?' said Blizzard. 'That right?'

  'White man speak truth,' said Barney.

  Mulholland turned back to Barney. 'Did you know this guy was doing all this crap?'

  'Not me,' said Barney. 'Not this time. Thought he was just an old bloke.'

  'What is it about you, mate?' said Mulholland. 'You keep turning up with these bloody nutters.'

  Barney shook his head. 'No idea, but it's getting on my tits.'

  'I bet it is.'

  'Hey, this would make a brilliant movie, wouldn't it no?' said Socrates. 'A bit of lesbian shagging and a deranged old cunt with a crossbow. It's just like Star Trek or something.'

  Mulholland gave him a quizzical look and then turned back to Blizzard, still mean and armed up on the pulpit. He had had enough. And despite the swinging bodies in front of him, did not believe for a second that any of them were going to come to any harm. Or perhaps just did not care.

  'Come on, then, you old arse,' he said up to the pulpit, 'what's the score? You've got us all where you want us, so what's next?'

  Blizzard twitched, mouth in a sneer. The crossbow shook slightly in his hand. His eyebrows knitted together, so much more telling black than grey.

  'You know,' said Blizzard, 'I had intended just to kill the one of you, you know. I was going to kill seven folk in all. Seven. It's a good number.'

  'Go on, then, Batman,' said Mulholland, his usual tired voice that he reserved for the criminal element at their most narcissistic. 'Why seven? I'm sure we're all interested.'

  Dillinger had almost reached the door. Freedom awaited. A quick dash and she could have been there in a second. Back out into the rain, a run for freedom, and she could concentrate on Arnie's dead eyes and the sadness that would engulf her. Yet at the door to freedom, she fatally hesitated. A combination of doubt and curiosity. There was something about this madman which gripped her; and she feared for the others should she flee. What kind of person was she to get herself out at their expense? A decent, honest woman, Katie Dillinger, those four murdered husbands aside. And she would pay for that decency.

  'Seven!' exclaimed old Leyman; different, yet the same as the wee, grey-haired man who had been handing out Jimmy Stewarts with a certain degree of confidence only the day before. 'Seven is the number of God, and I am his head executioner. I am the begetter of life and the bringer of eternal misery. I exercise his will. I am our vengeful God incarnate. I shall be king!'

  'Jings,' said Socrates, 'how far up his own arse is this guy?'

  'Seven,' continued the mad Blizzard, unconcerned with the comments from the cheap seats, 'is the number of angels he sent down to proclaim the New Jerusalem. It's everywhere. Seven Deadly Sins. The Seven Wonders of the World. The Seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse.'

  'The Magnificent Seven,' said Mulholland, ignoring the last remark.

  'What?'

  'Blake's Seven,' said Proudfoot.

  'Ooh, I really liked Blake's Seven,' said Socrates. 'Not that there were ever seven of the bastards.'

  'The Seven Samurai,' said Mulholland, voice still flat. 'And Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.'

  'The TR7,' said Proudfoot. Had had sex in a TR7 when she was fifteen.

  'Shut it!' barked Blizzard. 'Just shut it, the lot of you.'

  'The number seven bus from Springburn to Auldearn,' said Socrates.

  'Shut up!'

  'Celtic beat Aberdeen seven-nil last season,' said Mulholland. 'You're right. It is everywhere. Good choice, you old wank. Couldn't have picked a better number.'

  'Listen you brain-dead polis scumbag,' said Blizzard, 'I'm warning you. Seven might be a brilliant number 'n' all that, but I'm more than willing to make it eleven. The five of you just shut the bastard up. Let me finish.'

  'Who were the first six?' asked Proudfoot. Voice low and calm. Back to normal. Recognised that he was about to vent the anger they were building within him. Took a step forward as she said it, and Mulholland joined her in the small movement. If the two of them charged the pulpit from different sides, there was no way he'd get them both with a single crossbow. Assuming, of course, he didn't have another fifty weapons stashed about his person.

  'Ah,' said Blizzard, relaxed and back on home territory. A murderer at ease with his subject matter. 'Glad you asked. These two numpties, obviously. Then there were the last three in Glasgow, and the first one youse probably don't know about. I never saw it in the papers, you see, so I don't know if they found the body.'

  'What about the minister?' said Mulholland.

  'What?'

  'That garb you're wearing. The manse. I'm assuming you killed him.'

  Blizzard looked awkwardly at the floor. The crossbow sagged a little and suddenly the arrow didn't look so sharp.

  'Maybe,' he said.

  'And his wife?' said Mulholland, going on. 'You left her down the pub, did you?'

  'Might've,' said Blizzard, gritting his teeth.

  'So in fact,' said Mulholland, enjoying humiliating a man with an armed weapon, 'you've already killed eight people, and if you take out one of us, that'll be nine. You senile old arse. I mean, nine's a good number too. Let's see. Frank Haffey let in nine goals against England in '61 ...'

  'Shut it! Shut it the lot of you.' Crossbow straightened, finger twitched.

  'What started you off, then?' said Proudfoot. In again, just in time.

  Blizzard looked down upon his flock. Top lip went like Bad Elvis, but he quickly settled back into Goldfinger mode.

  'Don't know who the bastard was, he just asked for it.'

  'Go on, Batman, explain yourself. I can see you're just dying to,' said Mulholland, taking another step forward.

  Blizzard appeared not to notice, but he did. He noticed everything. Very old, and sharp as a button, Leyman Blizzard.

  'He was dressed as Santa Claus,' said Blizzard.

  'Ah,' said Mulholland. 'That makes sense.'

  Blizzard sneered; the very name was enough. Santa Bastarding Claus.

  'I suppose you'll think I'm mad if I tell you this,' said Blizzard.

  Mulholland held his hand up towards the swinging bodies, taking another step forward. 'Mad? Not at all. Wouldn't dream of it. This is all perfectly normal.'

  Blizzard twitched. Lowered the crossbow to accommodate the encroachment of Mulholland and Proudfoot.

  Dillinger could be gone for sure now if she acted swiftly. Yet she did not move. Rapt, with this grand
instance of the psychotic mind.

  'I was raised in Glasgow. Got married, the whole biscuit. But I was traumatised by Santa Claus in childhood, and eventually it got the better of me and I had to leave. Started killing folk, so I took myself away. Went to Cuba where there wouldn't be any mention of the guy. Forty year I was away. Didn't kill a soul. I was fine. Then they bastards decided to start celebrating Christmas, so I thought, bugger it, I should be all right now, I'll just go home. So I came back in the summer. Set up a shop cutting hair, thought I'd be fine. Come home to die really, that was me. Then I was walking along Argyll Street one day and I sees him. Santa Claus. Don't know what happened. I just felt the old feelings, you know. I followed the bloke that night and I strangled him. Felt good.'

  Mulholland had moved forward another few feet. Approaching the pulpit, but he had no idea of how to storm the thing, being as far off the ground as it was. He and Proudfoot were just going to have to take a side each and hope that Blizzard missed with his first shot. And if it gets either of us, he thought, let it be me.

  'I'm just dying to know,' said Mulholland, 'how you were traumatised by Santa Claus.'

  The others looked on, fascinated. Barney saw part of his life's history unfold. Dillinger had even taken another step or two back into the belly of the church. Socrates kicked back and smiled. Miller time.

  'I saw my mummy kissing him,' said Blizzard. Said it defiantly, because he knew deep down that it was a really, really stupid thing to be traumatised by.

  ''Scuse me?' said Mulholland.

  'I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus,' said Blizzard. 'I was upset. I came downstairs one Christmas Eve, and I sees my mother snogging this big cunt with a white beard. Don't know where my father had got to. He must've been out with his mates. I was fair upset. I thought my parents loved each other, I thought I came from a happy home. That night I realised my life was a lie. And if the one thing I held dear was a lie, well then, wasn't it all a lie? Life. The whole thing. I could never look at that bastard Claus again without getting upset. Just got worse over the years, you know. The bastard. Started killing folk when I was about twenty-three.'

  'You saw your mummy kissing Santa Claus?' said Proudfoot. Another step closer. 'Really?'

  'Aye. Too right.'

  'Underneath the mistletoe, by any chance?'

  Blizzard thought about it, but didn't have to think for long. It was still there, etched in his memory. The very scene, every detail clear as if it had been the previous night. The fire dying out; the old gramophone playing softly, the Paul Whiteman Orchestra; a sparse tree, a few presents beneath, presents which he had barely been able to open the next day, never mind play with; the mistletoe suspended from the light fitting; his mother giggling quietly, while tickling Santa Claus underneath his beard so snowy white.

  'Aye,' he said eventually. 'Under the bloody mistletoe. Bastard.'

  They looked up at him. The crossbow wavered. Candles burned, and the bare sockets of plundered eyes looked down upon them.

  'You're fucking kidding me,' said Mulholland.

  Blizzard ground his teeth together. None of these people ever understood. That was why he hadn't bothered explaining it to the Murderers Group, because what did they know? Soft bastards, the lot of them. Except Goldman. He had a certain respect for Goldman.

  'Didn't think you'd understand,' he said. 'None of you lot ever understand the likes of me. Too good for the lot of you. Aren't we, Barney?'

  Barney said nothing. Looked lost. This couldn't be happening again. Despite the dream, despite the knowledge he'd been sure he'd had, it still seemed so incredible. Why me? he thought. Why me?

  'Don't you think,' said Proudfoot, 'that it was your father dressed up as Santa Claus?'

  The crossbow wavered. Blizzard twitched; the sneer hovered around his face.

  'What?'

  'Well, there's got to be hundreds of dads who dress up as Santa Claus for their children. They probably knew you were awake, or made enough noise to disturb you, so that you'd get up and see him. What age were you?'

  Blizzard swallowed.

  'Five,' he said.

  'See? You were five. It was your dad dressed as Santa Claus for your benefit. Did you ever talk to them about it when you were older?' she said, all the time getting closer, Mulholland at her side.

  Slowly he shook his head. His life flashed before him.

  'Naw,' he said, 'I never liked to.'

  Almost there. Classic situation for a counter-attack, even with the height of the pulpit to be scaled. Very close, the prey distracted and unsure of himself, as he stared into some vague point in the distance. Mulholland had a hundred words of abuse on the tip of his tongue, but the time was not now. Not yet. A dash round the back, up the stairs, and he could get him.

  Close enough, about to move. Proudfoot was poised, waiting on Mulholland's signal. Barney stood isolated, rooted to the spot. Socrates watched their pulpit approach and shook his head. Much too obvious, he thought.

  Dillinger had heard enough. All these sad old men were the same. Just plain daft. And so she decided it was time to go. Another few seconds and it might all be over, but she had waited long enough.

  A few quick steps backwards, almost to the door, and then she turned and was on the point of exit. Grabbed the handle, door open. But Blizzard was not slow. Saw the movement out of the corner of his distracted eye, did not hesitate. Lifted the bow and in an instant had fired off the arrow. Into her back. Dillinger collapsed, falling out of the church into the rain.

  'Hey, nice shot,' said Socrates, turning quickly, looking at the stricken Dillinger. I'm definitely not shagging her the night, he thought.

  Barney turned in despair; another down. Mulholland and Proudfoot took their chance, their prey disarmed. Mulholland round the back and up the stairs; Proudfoot, suddenly Jade Weapon, leaping at the front of the pulpit.

  And with the door open, the wind and rain howled into the church and the candles started to blink out, hundreds at a time; so that darkness approached the altar in a calamitous, headlong rush.

  It all happened in an instant. Mulholland almost upon him. Proudfoot coming over the wall of the pulpit. Barney rooted to the spot. The church plunging into gloom. And Blizzard reached for the other loaded crossbow he had on the shelf in front of him, and in a second had it raised and fired into the chest of Proudfoot.

  With a thud it exploded into her ribcage, firing her backwards off the pulpit, so that she fell back and crashed down onto the floor, her head cracking off the cold stone. In the twinkling of a killer's eye the lights were out and Mulholland was upon Blizzard. But he had instantly lost interest. He'd had enough of killers, there were no more loaded weapons to hand. He pushed Blizzard to the side, and leapt over the end of the pulpit to land at his lover's side, shouting 'Proudfoot!' as he jumped.

  And in the dark, Blizzard picked himself up, made his way down the stairs, looking stealthily around him in the dark as he moved. A moment's hesitation and then out he went through a rear exit, his escape route clearly established beforehand. His work was done. Ten downed. Anger and psychosis assuaged, amid completion and revelation.

  Kate Dillinger lay dead. And alone. To rise to meet her lover Medlock.

  Mulholland held Proudfoot's head and desperately felt for some sign of life. Heart still going, faint breaths. 'Erin,' he said softly. 'Erin. Don't die on me. Not like this.'

  And his heart beat so strongly with fear that it could have made up for hers. You don't know what you've got until you lose it, the thought started thumping into his head.

  He'd walked away before, but he'd believed he could easily walk back in. But there would be no walking back into this. This would be the end for his bloody fantasy of Erin Proudfoot and happiness.

  So when her eyes flickered open, his heart thumped even more, his head floated.

  'How would you like me to die on you?' she said softly, lips barely moving.

  'Oh, Christ, Erin, are you OK?'

  The barest smile c
rossed her lips. The eyes slowly closed.

  'Course I'm not, you stupid bastard,' she said quietly.

  Socrates sat and watched from a few yards away. Began to smile. That mad, impetuous thing called love. Mind you, he said to himself, she's probably still going to peg it.

  Barney watched for a few seconds. But these two were not his business. Not any more. Something else, much grander, much more ominous, awaited him. And so he walked past Socrates without a word, and then past the desperate couple on the floor, and headed out the back way on the trail of Leyman Blizzard.

  The Eternal Midnight Of Barney Thomson

  Barney could feel The Force. It guided him through the trees as he followed the path of Leyman Blizzard. Since the old man had left the church he was yet to catch sight of him, but somehow he knew he was going in the right direction; or was being led that way.

  There was a thick forest of pine behind the church, mixed in with firs and deciduous trees of various shapes. An ancient wood of the type that it was rare to encounter in these days of forestation, with identical rows of trees in regimented lines, ending in a mathematically precise border. So leaves and bare branches and the spidery touch of fir brushed against Barney's face. The rain did not fall with any force within the forest, but everything was sodden and clinging, so that it felt as if there were hands grabbing at him as he went.

  He stopped every so often to try to listen for Blizzard's movements, but the noise of the forest in the rainstorm was all-consuming. Leaves in the wind, water pouring through trees, and there was little chance of him hearing anything else.

  He did not fear the hand suddenly appearing from the forest; a knife in the face or the crossbow aimed at his head. For he knew there would be a confrontation. It had been fated. It was what he was being led to, and before Leyman Blizzard struck him down, as he was absolutely sure he would do, he would receive some form of absolution. For he knew truly the identity of this man who ran from him, and led him on at the same time.