The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Read online

  The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt

  by

  Douglas Lindsay

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2011

  copyright © 2000, 2003, 2011 Douglas Lindsay

  A version of this book was published by Piatkus in 2000 and by Long Midnight Publishing in 2003 under the title The Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Douglas Lindsay has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Photo by AlicePopkorn2

  Visit Douglas Lindsay at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-14-9

  Version 2-1-3

  Also by Douglas Lindsay

  Novels

  Lost in Juarez

  Barney Thomson series

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson

  A Prayer for Barney Thomson

  The King Was In His Counting House

  The Last Fish Supper

  The Haunting of Barney Thomson

  The Final Cut

  Novellas

  The End of Days

  Also by Blasted Heath

  Dead Money by Ray Banks

  Phase Four by Gary Carson

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson by Douglas Lindsay

  The Man in the Seventh Row by Brian Pendreigh

  The Killing of Emma Gross by Damien Seaman

  All The Young Warriors by Anthony Neil Smith

  Keep informed of new releases by signing up to the Blasted Heath newsletter. We'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!

  A Chronologically Disadvantaged Prologue

  Brother Festus. An honest man. Weird name; honest nevertheless.

  They'd called him a variety of things in school. Foetus. Fester. Fetid. Fungus. One Horse, although that's a completely different story. Neither had he been strong, the schoolboy Festus, and so he'd been teased and bullied, every aspect of his character remorselessly picked apart, exaggerated and turned into an object of ridicule. Hair too long, hair too short; wearing school uniform, not wearing school uniform; gunk in his ears, food in his teeth, gloop in his eyes, Y-fronts too big; no pubes, then later a thick forest of wiry agriculture; voice like a girl, voice like a moron; good at art, bad at tech; chipolata penis, hairy arse, breasts too big, testicles like peas, tongue like a Spam sandwich. Everything.

  Somewhere there's a queue, and it's populated by comedians just waiting to tell another queue of talk show hosts that their comedy came from being bullied at school. Festus had tried that too, but he hadn't had the jokes, and so there'd been another reason to tease him.

  Humour having failed, he'd retreated to that place in the head where everyone goes, but only the sad and solitary remain. And he had never left.

  And so, time and bitter experience had brought him to the Holy Order of the Monks of St John, in north-west Sutherland, fifteen years prior to his imminent untimely death. An austere existence to accompany his austere thoughts, for life had taught this man never to attempt to expand his mind. It was a place where no one teased him, and no one cared about the idiosyncrasies which plagued his personality and appearance. He had found his home, a job to suit his underdeveloped intelligence, and people with whom he could associate. Brother Festus was in his element.

  He'd arrived in the mid-eighties, and so easily missing the events of Two Tree Hill. He'd heard about them, of course. Low whispers in dark corners, though there was much which was left unsaid. Two Tree Hill; the very name caused Festus's stomach to churn at the personal memories it induced – the world's injustice against one man. A man alone, cast from society, as Festus had been himself.

  And so, at this time of murder and terror, heartache and horror, the dichotomy of faith against reality, and the continuing serial of corpulent bloodshed, Brother Festus was about to be another victim. Not, however, of the man who wreaked vengeance for the iniquities of Two Tree Hill. Festus was about to fall victim to that other great serial killer – the act of God.

  Festus swept the stairs. A small flight leading down into the main part of the abbey church. His brush moved ponderously across cold stone, his eyes never straying from the work he was about. He had to wash them next. Not his usual employment, but the new floor cleaner, Brother Jacob, had vanished. Festus was happy to sweep the floors and the stairs. Happy, in his own way.

  The storm raged outside, every crack and joint and bolt and buttress ground its teeth in strained agony. Stained windows stood tight against the wind, inside the church nothing stirred. Not a draught blew, not a mouse roared, not a spider waved a forward leg, not a dog had its day. The strained quiet of the grave, statue and sculpture looking down on the back of Brother Festus as he bent to his work. God's work.

  Sculptures of holy men, whose names had long since been dumped into the damned sepulchre of time; the Virgin Mary, sanguine and resigned to her place in history; a strange, lonely bemused Jesus at the Last Supper, with the disciples nowhere in attendance, while the son of God told his best parables – There was this bar, right, and in walked a Sadducee, a Pharisee and an Australian – and no one listened, but for a detached foot, the foot of Judas; the angel Gabriel, a good-looking guy, bearded and sad, eyebrow raised to some melancholy contradiction, a seraph's question as to the corruption of man and all that lies before him, a sculptor's vague musing on the limits of consequence; a bitter St Francis, the mad monk, scattering bread, a statement of his sexual desperation, his face lined with pain, his eyes scarred by the decades of frantic do-gooding, defying the black heart which lies within us all; and a substantial gathering of gargoyles, fine figures, their heads no more grotesque than comic caricature, the classic 1400s, pre-Reformation, Gothic Götterdämmerung. One of these, it would be, that would kill poor Brother Festus. By accident, indeed, or perhaps by the hand of God. For God's hands are, to quote some Italian gangster somewhere, pretty fucking big, you know what I mean?

  Brother Festus moved slowly down onto the floor of the church. Cold stone, under which the bodies of buried Crusaders still lay, their names long since worn from the tombstones of opprobrium, so that most of the brothers were no longer aware of the bare skulls which stared up at them as they walked across the floor.

  These were men who had died on the most unholy of Holy Crusades, men for whom the bell had tolled. A dagger in the guts, a scimitar drawn swiftly across the neck, hot oil poured into a tortured open mouth. They all watched Brother Festus, waiting to welcome him to their eternity of tortures.

  Festus swept the floors.

  What do monks think of when they are about mundane tasks?

  God? His existence or otherwise? Deities in general? Some petty infatuation with one of the other monks, or with a long-remembered girl in a photograph which he keeps secreted beneath his mattress? Sport, perhaps, a metaphor for life which once tugged at him, gave him something to live for, so that years later he still recalls the missed birdie opportunity or the dropped catch at silly mid-wicket; the missed smash from the back of the court, the mistimed tackle; the perfect goal unbelievably ruled offside. Or maybe the average monk thinks of nothing as he sweeps the floor. His mind is blank, random visions and thoughts flickering minute distances below the surface, yet never seeing the light.

  In that way, Brother Festus was entirely average, h
is mind an empty desert, thoughts for nothing. And so it was that he did not see the gargoyle, strangely misplaced from its perch upon high, where it had rested for over five hundred years. Resting and waiting; waiting for the opportunity to fall on an unsuspecting monk and to pierce his flesh. A monk like Brother Festus.

  Festus swept the floor, mind a long way away. The gargoyle broke away from its base; the stone cracked noiselessly, a precise split. The sort of clean break that you would think only a master craftsman could achieve.

  The fall was silent and swift. Five seconds earlier and it would have smashed into the floor in front of Festus; five seconds later and it would have missed him to the rear. But the timing was meticulous and, from on high, from the roof of the church, from the midst of the elaborate super-sculpture, from the gods, it came.

  It was an interesting gargoyle, based at the time on a local farmer with a nose like a parsnip. Long, corrugated, and mild to the taste.

  The gargoyle spun in free-fall, like a high-diver completing some elaborate octuple somersault, before the fall was sharply arrested as it thumped into Festus and the nose embedded itself into the back of his skull. And stayed there.

  Festus collapsed to the floor, the gargoyle impaled upon him by the nose, so that he looked like a man with two heads. The blood seeped out slowly, running down his pallid cheeks and onto the floor; blood from Festus's head mixing with that from the gargoyle's bloodied nose.

  Festus was dead. The Crusaders lay in wait below, anticipating the arrival of their brother. The abbey church was quiet. Not a mouse roared, not a dog had his day. And somewhere, somewhere, there may have been the sound of the architect of Festus's timely accident going about his business.

  That Old Dead Cow

  'What d'you do at the weekend, then?'

  'I can't believe the lift isn't working. Twelve sodding floors.'

  'You don't think the council's got better things to do with their money than spend it on the bastards who live here? What d'you do at the weekend?'

  'No wonder these places are riddled with low life. They build these sodding great monstrosities bloody miles from the nearest shop or pub. They've got nothing.'

  'Don't give a shit.'

  'Even the sodding lifts don't work. Imagine you're some single mum with three weans and ten bags of shopping.'

  'The single mum's probably about sixteen, and the stupid wee slapper went and shagged some fifth year with a foosty moustache, just so she could get pregnant and get the house. What was she expecting? A bungalow in Bearsden? What d'you do at the weekend?'

  'Nothing, same as every other weekend. You, however, sound like you've got something to tell me.'

  'Did a bit of shagging.'

  'I'm shocked. Who was it this time? Did you have to make do with Aud, or did you play away from home?'

  'Well, you could say I played a home leg and four away legs at the same time.'

  There was a brief pause in the conversation. They plodded past the third floor.

  'You slept with your wife and four other birds at the same time?'

  'Aye.'

  'Bollocks!'

  'Pure right I did. Bloody brilliant.'

  'You shagged five women at the same time?'

  'Aye. Orgasms all round, 'n all.'

  'And what did Aud have to say about this?'

  'She had the screaming thigh sweats for it. Loved it.'

  'She loved it?'

  'Aye.'

  'She said that?'

  'Aye.'

  'Really? Aud? Actually said that she loved it?'

  'Well, not in so many words, you know.'

  'What did she say?'

  'Well, nothing, but I could tell. Totally into it. Four women. She loved it.'

  'And who were they?'

  'Who?'

  'What d'you mean who? These four mythical women that your wife was so delighted for you to sleep with that she joined in?'

  'Just a bunch of women, you know. Women.'

  'Just a bunch of women? Four women off the street? Four women you met in a bar? Four women you got out a Malaysian catalogue? Your cousins? Robert Palmer's backing band? The Bangles? All Saints? Who?'

  'Just a bunch of women.'

  'You're full of crap.'

  'They were just women. I didn't get their names. I was snaking four birds at once and you think I gave a shite about what their names were?'

  'So where d'you meet them?'

  'In town.'

  'In town? So, you were just walking down Argyll Street and you and Aud stumbled across four compliant women who all wanted to go to bed with both of you?'

  'Aye.'

  'On Argyll Street?'

  'What? Well, all right, not Argyll Street. Some street.'

  'Sauchiehall Street? Renfield Street? Walt Disney Street?'

  'Piss off, Mulholland.'

  'How often have you given evidence in court, Sergeant?'

  'What are you saying?'

  'You're making it up.'

  'No way.'

  'You're totally making it up.'

  'Shite.'

  'You're talking pish. You always talk pish when it comes to sex. Every time. You could talk pish for Nike, you. You're full of it. I can just see the advert for the new line of Nike sportswear for talking pish in, with you standing on some Brazilian beach, cheesy music in the background, and talking the biggest load of pish anyone's ever heard.'

  'Ok, so it wasn't four.'

  'How many?'

  'Three.'

  'How many?'

  'It was three.'

  'How many?'

  'I'm telling you, it was three.'

  'How many?'

  'All right, it might've been two, but Aud was there 'n all, so that makes three.'

  'Bollocks. How many?'

  'Christ's sake, all right. It was two of them, and Aud doesn't know anything about it.'

  'You are full of shite, Ferguson. Who were they?'

  'Just a couple of birds.'

  'Whores?'

  'Naw!'

  'You sure?'

  'Naw! You think I can't score without paying for it?'

  'Pay for it? I bet you nicked them and did a deal.'

  Silence.

  'There were still two of them, and it still counts.'

  'You are a sad bastard, Sergeant.'

  No reply. They got to the twelfth floor, walked with silent footfalls along the hall to the graffitied door. A cold wind blew in through the broken window at the end of the landing. A dog had left its calling card on the floor; a toy car with all the tyres removed waited patiently near by.

  'You've got to get a grip, Ferguson. One of your superiors finds out about that kind of thing, you're fucked.'

  'You're my superior.'

  'Aye, well lucky for you I don't care. You ready?'

  'Aye.'

  Detective Chief Inspector Joel Mulholland knocked on the door. Somewhere inside, a glass was dropped on the floor.

  ***

  'Get out of my face, you numpty-heided eejit!'

  Ferguson pushed the man in the chest, forcing him back against the wall. Didn't get out of his face. An ugly face it was too; pockmarked, like wet cement that had been attended to by a child on a pogo stick. Lips like thin broken biscuits, moustache the neatly clipped hair of a German woman shot-putter's armpits.

  'Numpty-heided eejit, Billy? Can you not do better than that? Is that as rude as that miniscule little napper of yours can think of?'

  Billy McGuire gritted his teeth and stared at the ground. Ignored the hand still pushing at his chest, drifting to his neck.

  'Come on, wee Billy, you know where the Big Man is. We all know you know, you know we know, just save us all the time and tell us.'

  McGuire said nothing. Lips were sealed. Not any criminal code of conduct, however. If he remained silent, he'd get hassle from the police and possibly convicted of a minor offence or two. If he opened his mouth, he'd get his lips and nose nailed to the floor. He was constantly reminde
d of the fate of Wee Matt the Helmet, whose flaccid penis had been squeezed into the jaws of a double hole punch. These were not men to wrong.

  'Sod it, Sergeant,' said Mulholland. 'Bring him in, see what we can do. No point in hanging around here.'

  Ferguson grabbed McGuire by the collar and led him to the front door. Out onto the landing and then the slow trudge down the stairs, strange smells drifting up to meet them. They both knew this was just another pointless arrest. McGuire wouldn't talk. This day would see them no nearer the heart of the drugs racket they'd been chasing for the previous three months. Going through the motions.

  'See that shite on the telly on Saturday night?' said Ferguson.

  'What shite was that?' asked Mulholland. 'The shite where some bampot brags about having sex with twenty-five birds, when in fact all he did was pull his pudding to some soft-core crap on Channel 5?'

  Unabashed. 'The Rangers. Load of pish. See all they bloody foreigners. If you're going to sign shite, you might as well sign Scottish shite. Just 'cause some eejit's got a name like Marco Fetuccini or Gianluca Spaghetti, doesn't mean they can kick a ball. Load of pish.'

  Mulholland trudged down another flight of stairs. Thinking about the weekend. Another series of arguments; irrelevant, vapid and senseless. Just like the irrelevant, vapid senseless day which he was enduring now. Feeling sorry for himself. Imagined it was justifiably so.

  'Didn't see it,' he said eventually.

  'Can't even beat Dundee,' said Ferguson. 'Absolute shite. Bloody St Johnstone at the top of the league. What a joke. We used to be one of the best countries in Europe, for Christ's sake. We used to win things. Now we're lucky if we can beat one of they mince sides from Latvia, with a name like Locomotive Tallinn, or Rice Krispies 1640.'