Frankenstein's jaw set in stone. Proudfoot would later tell her husband that she had felt a palpable weakening of the knees, a reaction out of a book or a film. She leant against the door and quickly turned away, after her eyes had absorbed the full horror of the scene before them.
***
'Kingly conclaves stern and cold, where blood with guilt is bought and sold...'
Barney Thomson stirred. Still slumped in his seat by the window, finally being roused from a deep sleep. The voice seemed to be part of a dream, but a dream which woke him up.
'You can never escape guilt, my old friend, it's always there.'
He sat up in his chair, looking out of the window. Saw the reflection in the glass and turned. The monk was sitting on the bed. Barney felt no fear, no awareness of the supernatural. Still dreaming. A waking dream, perhaps, but a dream.
'I'm dreaming,' he said.
The monk smiled and leant forward, holding out his hand. Barney stared it at suspiciously, and then finally leant forward and shook it. A firm grip.
'Feel real enough?' said the monk, smiling, and he clasped his left hand on top of Barney's right, to make the handshake even warmer. 'Good to see you again, old buddy.'
Barney detached himself from the conviviality of the impossible handshake and leant back. Only a vague feeling of uneasiness. More curiosity.
'I killed you,' said Barney. 'On the snow near Durness. I saw you dead, Brother Steven.'
'You died too, buddy,' said Steven. 'Bottom of a cliff. Everyone says so. Yet you're sitting here in front of me as clear as I'm sitting in front of you.'
Barney made a small movement of his hand. Couldn't explain that either.
'So, if we're both dead...?'
'Nobody's saying that anyone's dead, my friend. The finality of death is over-estimated.'
Steven smiled, then he stood up and walked to the window. And now that he was standing up straight, his robes unfurled, Barney could see the red marks in the area of the stomach, and in the back. The marks where the bullet had entered and travelled through his body and out the other side.
'Good view of the power station,' said Steven. 'Doesn't matter where you are in this town, you can see it. It's kind of ominous, don't you think? Got that whole, portending doom bag, like you're just waiting for it to go up. Waiting for the rumble, the accident, and then the whole of the west of Scotland is blanketed in deforming radioactive gloom for decades and centuries.'
He looked down at Barney, noticed that he was staring at the gunshot wounds.
'Some say that everything portends, everything foreshadows. You can watch cherry blossom slowly emerge on a spring morning, and from that draw a prophesy for the world.'
Barney was still trying to extract something from this bizarre encounter. This wasn't guilt. He had no guilt about his part in the death of Brother Steven. It had been an out and out accident, and came only after Brother Steven had gone on a deranged murder spree and was in the process of trying to kill Barney. No guilt.
'This is not just about guilt, my friend,' said Steven. 'There's worse than that in the ultimate reckoning we must all face before God.'
Barney looked up into his face. There was a knock at the door. He turned, the knock seeming to have been against his skull. A dull thud.
'Come in,' he said.
The door opened, and Andrew poked his head round the door.
'Everything OK, Mr Thomson? Just up to collect your plate.'
Barney stared at him, then turned back to the window. Brother Steven was gone.
Of course Brother Steven was gone. Brother Steven was dead. Brother Steven had never been there.
'Aye, it was great, thanks. Sorry, I should have put the plate out on the landing.'
'Ach, don't bother yourself, Mr Thomson.'
And as Andrew came fully into the room to lift the plate and the glass, Barney rubbed the palm of his hand, where he could still feel the firm grasp of Brother Steven.
Scenes Of Crime Fantastic Five (SOCFF)
The wolves had gathered. The police had been mobilised, and another boatload had been brought back across from the mainland, dragged from comfortable evenings in front of the television or down the pub.
Frankenstein's strongest emotion, on discovering the decapitated head of Stan Koppen, had been relief. He would still face questions on why he had not visited this house earlier in the day, but at least it wasn't as bad as the man having done an OJ Simpson, and Frankenstein being hung out to dry.
The body of Koppen had been left sitting upright on the sofa. His head had been severed with a very sharp instrument and left sitting on top of the television. The blood which had run down the television screen had long since hardened, and the sicko-pervo-porn which had been running on a continuous loop, had been playing behind a screen of drip-dried red. The colour of sun-roasted tomatoes.
The pathologist, Dr Trio Semester, had come down from Glasgow, himself sucked from watching an episode of Midsomer Murders, a show he clung to out of loyalty to Bergerac. He had made his initial examination, and was on the point of allowing the head and body to be bagged up. Frankenstein was waiting for a chat. Proudfoot was outside, sitting on the steps of one of the other cabins, looking out over the cruel, black sea.
Semester removed his rubber gloves with a satisfying smack, placed them in the makeshift forensic bin, closed his bag, and wandered over to stand beside Frankenstein, who had watched over him for the previous forty minutes. The two men stared at each other. Semester shrugged.
'He's definitely dead,' he said.
Frankenstein laughed. Semester turned and looked over the crime scene.
'Too early to say the cause of death.'
Frankenstein laughed again.
'You're a sick bastard.'
'Thanks. Died a while ago. At least fourteen hours, maybe twenty. I'll let you know. Either way, it's probably too late to stick the head back on. I mean, they can do amazing things these days, but this...'
Frankenstein was still laughing. Clapped his hand on Semester's shoulder.
'Anything, apart from the obvious, that we should know about? Murder weapon?'
'Well,' said Semester, taking his time, because he rarely said anything without thinking carefully about it, even if it was a sick gag, 'I'd say we're looking for a guy with a sword. Or a very, very big axe. Same as your other headless wonder along the road.'
Frankenstein folded his arms and looked into Koppen's dead eyes.
'You think we're in Highlander territory?' he said seriously.
'Immortals, there can be only one, all that kind of thing?'
'Yeah. I mean, not actual immortals, just someone who watched the movie twenty years after everyone else, and has decided to have a go at it himself.'
Semester nodded at the possibility then patted Frankenstein on the shoulder. 'There's weirder shit than that in the world,' he said.
He walked past Frankenstein to the door, stopped at the step.
'I'll get on with it now, if you can get the body up to the lab as quickly as possible. I'll get what I have to you first thing in the morning. Anything to save having to go home.'
Semester saluted and walked off into the night. Across the short driveway Proudfoot watched him go, watched the bustle of activity, and then caught Frankenstein's eye. They looked at each other for a while, Frankenstein wondering with the look if he was going to have to get a new sergeant for the job. Everyone knew the delicate balance that was the mind of Detective Sergeant Erin Proudfoot, and this was no longer an investigation into the mysterious disappearance of a couple of guys from a trawler. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, they had a serial killer on their hands. Twenty-four hours earlier they had been in an episode of Scooby Doo. Now they were in a Hannibal Lecter movie. In some ways, for him, that seemed more manageable. Which was not the case for Proudfoot.
A small van pulled to a stop at the bottom of the driveway. A couple of police constables on duty walked quickly over to it, as four people and a dog
leapt out.
'Hey,' said the blond man at the head of the gang. 'MI6,' he quipped, flashing a card.
The policeman studied it with curiosity, and then looked round at Frankenstein. Frankenstein, while not exactly ecstatic at the arrival of the security services, waved them through. Fred, Bernard, Selma, Deirdre and the Dog With No Name came quickly up the driveway and bounded up the steps to the small cabin.
'The Incredible Captain Death?' said Fred with enthusiasm.
'What?' said Frankenstein looking incredulous, although he invariably looked incredulous at most things.
'The Incredible Captain Death has struck again?' said Fred. 'Another murder!'
'I, em...' he began, but was for once more or less speechless. So, instead of telling Fred to fuck right off, which he was disposed to do, he stood back and ushered the gang into the small front room of the cabin.
The four-people-and-a-dog collective walked in and stood hunched together in the middle of the room.
'Jeepers!' said Deirdre.
'Like, wow, man,' said Bernard, 'this guy's got no head!'
The Dog With No Name barked.
'Let's look for clues,' said Fred. 'There might be something here to point to the killer's true identity.'
He caught Frankenstein's eye, couldn't help but notice the continuing look of scepticism and wonder.
'It's all right, friend,' said Fred, 'there's always someone behind the mask.'
Frankenstein shook his head and turned away. Minced across the driveway and sat down on the step next to Proudfoot. She shuffled over, repositioning her forearms on her knees.
They looked out over the sea. They were spending a lot of time looking out over the sea, but nothing attracts the gaze of even the most hardened heart like a large body of water. They sat for a long time. Various police officers came and went. Forensics. Looking for clues. Like Fred and the gang.
'I'd be smoking by now,' said Frankenstein, 'but I'm not, so that I don't kill you. Or your uncle......I just wanted you to know.'
She smiled weakly, pulled her coat more closely to her. She was cold, sitting here so long in still silence.
Soon be Christmas, she thought. Six weeks. She and Mulholland were going to spend a couple of nights on Skye. Was she going to be in any mood for it now? This would take longer than six weeks to recover from.
'Who are those guys?' she asked. 'The ones with the dog. I wasn't listening.'
'MI6.'
'You're kidding?'
'MI6. I checked them out. Not that any cunt will tell me why they're here, sticking their noses into our investigation, but what the hell. If they help solve the crime so that we can get back to Glasgow, I'll take anything.'
'You must be desperate.'
'Sergeant, I'm getting that way. That was a sick weird guy who did that in there, as sick as the other one he did last night. Assuming we're only dealing with one guy, and it's too scary to think that there might be more than one of them in a wee place like this. I hate this. It's a shitty crime to be investigating. I hate it, I want off it, but I'm not so stupid as to want to be pulled. Which I might well have been had Koppen done a runner, rather than had his head lopped off. As it is, I'll still have some explaining to do when the Chief gets the full story.'
She had nothing to say. It was a horrible investigation, for all sorts of reasons. Sitting here staring out at the sea wasn't really helping anyone, but there had to be some amount of reflection in any case. Thoughts never became coherent if you didn't take the time to let them fall into place.
'They think there's a masked killer called The Incredible Captain Death,' said Frankenstein, and then he started to laugh.
'What? Who?'
'Four guys and a dog over there. They're calling the killer The Incredible Captain Death.'
'MI6? And they're calling the killer The Incredible Captain Death?'
Frankenstein was laughing harder. He nodded, started coughing. It was infectious, Proudfoot leant forward, hand running through her hair, a curious smile giving way to laughter. Cathartic laughter.
In the bushes across the road, the freelance photographer, who sold every photograph he took to Getty Images, was lurking in the bushes. He got a couple of good shots of the two principal investigating officers in the dark and sinister case of The Incredible Captain Death, besides themselves laughing. After taking the pictures, he stood up, still obscured by shrubbery and darkness, surveyed the crime scene, and decided that it was time to upload everything that he'd just done.
'That's a wrap,' he said to himself.
The Millport Dawn
A sunny day, Barney woken by the light, the sun cutting across the room. He lay still for a long time, trying to piece everything together. Truth and imagination. Where he was and why he was lying in a strange bed. He remembered Brother Steven.
He finally sat up and looked out the window. The familiar view, the world was unchanging.
He noticed the pile of newspapers sitting on the table just inside the door and, draped over the armchair, a clean set of clothes. It was like he'd been unconscious in a Bond movie. Checked his watch. 7:45am. Hadn't missed much. Still forty-five minutes before he had to open the shop. If he was going to open the shop.
He slid out of bed and walked over to the newspapers. There was a small note placed on top from Andrew: Thought you might like to see these. Barney scrunched the note up and threw it into the bin, then looked at the front page of the Scotsman. Barber Surgeon Back With A Killer Bang. He started to read the report, but then moved the paper to the side and leafed quickly through the headlines in the other papers.
The Mail: He's A Killer All Right, But Is He Also An Illegal Immigrant?; The Herald: Hairdressing Fiend In LibDem Leadership Bid; The Sun: Amazing Sex Secrets of Barbershop Death Junky; The Express: MI6 Insider Claims Diana Still Dead!; The Mirror: Bloody Killer Mauls Next Victim, Trawler Heroes Feared Slain; The Times: “I Did It!” Bastard Killer Confesses All To The Times; The People: Police Laugh-a-thon As Death Toll Soars; The Independent: Mass Millport Slaughter Fails to Stem Planet Population Growth, World Running Out of Water; The Guardian: Guardian Re-Re-Launch Unaffected By Killer's Return; The Daily Record: Killer Barber In Incredible Captain Death Head Slash Thriller; The Telegraph: Unlucky Barber Once More Caught Up In Death Frenzy, Likely To Be Unfairly Persecuted.
Barney piled them up, turned away and walked to the window. The road outside was quiet. A few cars parked, none driving by. No pedestrians. A woman and a dog in amongst the long grass on the other side of the football field. A couple of kids on the charge across the grass, a smaller dog running wild between their legs.
After newspaper headlines like that you might expect to see a horde of expectant rumour desperadoes on the doorstep, Barney playing the part of Graham Chapman in The Life of Brian, standing naked at the window to find a crowd of hundreds at his feet. But there was no one. And that wouldn't be because there was no interest or there were no rumourmongers. Andrew had been as good as his word. Hadn't told a soul. Discretion was something rare, to be prized in this age.
Barney turned away from the window and went into the bathroom, removed his t-shirt and boxer shorts and stepped into a steaming hot shower.
***
Fifteen minutes later, as he got to the bottom of the stairs, Andrew appeared from the bar, as if on cue. The two men looked at each other for a second. Barney shrugged.
'I was just about to bring your breakfast up,' said Andrew. 'Thought you might need a full Scottish.'
'I appreciate it,' said Barney. 'When the ghosts are coming into your room at night, might as well get out there and face whatever tune is playing. Which way for breakfast?'
'Just into your left,' said Andrew, then he took a step closer and lowered his voice. 'A word of warning. There are three journalists in there, and someone else, I don't have a clue who it is. Watch him. The guy in the gorilla mask.'
Barney smiled curiously, patted Andrew appreciatively on the shoulder and walked through to the
small breakfast room. It was the room directly below Barney's, and the sun was streaming straight in, making it bright and warm.
There were three people sitting at the table by the window, talking in low voices, although the room was small enough that everything was clear. Their topic of discussion appeared to be whether or not the legendary outlaw Barney Thomson was also The Incredible Captain Death. Or the Trawler Fiend. Three tables were empty. There was one other table, occupied by a lone figure, currently eating scrambled egg, bacon, mushrooms, two types of sausage and black pudding, with a full rack of toast and a teapot overflowing with abundance.
He glanced at Barney as he entered. He was wearing a grey jersey, light blue jeans. It was clearly a man, but his face was obscured by a full-head gorilla mask. The holes for the eyes and mouth were pronounced enough to allow good vision and space into which a full fried breakfast could easily be fitted.
Barney nodded at the guy in the mask. The masked head nodded back with, if Barney wasn't mistaken, a certain amount of panache.
'Barney,' it said.
Barney couldn't stop himself staring at it. He had become, he liked to think, a fairly cool guy over the years. Maybe not Sean Connery, as some claimed, maybe not Clint Eastwood, but reasonably cool. Val Kilmer in Tombstone, at the very least. However, the past few days, the visitations, the remembrances of his past, they had dented that cool. He was on edge. He no longer had the air of a man that women would be automatically drawn to. And he had become the kind of guy apt to stare at men in masks. Particularly when he was sure that he recognised the voice, even if he couldn't place it straight away.
'You look worried, Barney,' it said. 'Tired. You should get more sleep at night. Or maybe you can't. Can you sleep at night, Barney? After all that you've done and all you've got away with? Can you sleep at night, never having faced your reckoning?'
Barney tried to look through the mask, tried to place the voice, but there wasn't a single clear thought to be had in his head.
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