Curse Of The Clown Read online

  A man entered. A man with whom we’re already familiar. Norman. He’d stepped in the door with confidence, but then the self-assurance seemed to leave him as he observed the three men standing at the shop window, watching the world go by outside.

  ‘Hi,’ said Norman, with as much strength as he could muster in the syllable.

  It was apparent he wasn’t looking for a haircut, and the men of the Millport barbershop greeted him with familiar west of Scotland reserve.

  ‘Quiet today?’ said Norman.

  Keanu and Barney looked round at the shop, the empty barber chairs, the deserted customer bench, then back to Norman.

  ‘You’re not after a haircut,’ said Barney.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can we help? And you can close the door while you talk.’

  Norman realised he was standing half in, half out, which was no way to stand, then he stepped fully into the shop, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Think I’ll be wasting your time, gents,’ he said, finding his voice, though his tone was muted, deflated.

  Barney’s brow furrowed, beginning at last to get a sense of something. The something, however, was not what the seagull of doom across the road had arrived to deliver. Instead, he had the sudden sensation of looking in the mirror.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Barney. ‘As you can see, not busy. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m...’ Hesitation, then he finally found the words. ‘You’d think the amount of times I’ve done this, I’d get better at it. I’m looking for work.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Barney.

  There, at least, was one part of the recognition. That it had not been instantly obvious was perhaps because the man was in his late forties or early fifties. Turning up at a shop in the hope of finding work was something you’d be more likely to expect from a gap-year student.

  ‘You’ve experience?’ asked Barney.

  Now that he was tuned in, it was obvious the man had years of it.

  ‘Three decades,’ said Norman.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Barney. ‘Must be tough. What happened at your last place?’

  Norman hesitated. Realised he was speaking to someone who understood. Not just that, there was something about Barney, something of the kindred spirit. Like he’d been in the same situation.

  ‘You want a cup of tea?’ asked Barney, relaxing, aiming to relax Norman, who looked as though he could use being relaxed. ‘I’ll be blunt. As you can see, we’re deadly quiet. There’s an occasional weekend in the summer when the three of us are rushed off our feet, but most days find us doing this for much of it.’

  ‘Living the dream,’ said Keanu.

  ‘Arf,’ said Igor, then he tapped Norman on the arm, collected the mugs from Keanu and Barney, and walked to the rear of the shop to get another round of tea in.

  ‘So, what happened? You get let go? Downsizing, something like that?’

  Norman stared at them for a second, then turned and followed their gaze out of the window. Across the road, the white promenade wall, the small islands in the bay, the sweep of grey blue sea tipped with white, away to Little Cumbrae, the mainland to the south.

  The seagull was gone.

  ‘Didn’t fit in,’ said Norman eventually.

  ‘Right,’ said Barney. ‘They let you go for someone younger?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Norman, bitterness creeping into his voice. Couldn’t help it. Wanted to be able to talk about it without anger, but it was always there, just beneath the surface.

  Barney, however, saw nothing amiss. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognise it. He was already getting flashbacks. All those years ago, the old shop in Partick, him and Wullie and Chris, the endless, aimless chatter about football and women, the sneering of customers, Barney cast adrift, an outsider in a shop that had been his home for years.

  ‘It’s tough,’ said Barney. ‘The world is changing. We dinosaurs are getting left behind.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’ve still got a few years left I reckon,’ said Keanu, curious about Barney’s demeanour. The melancholy that had come from nowhere. Keanu himself did not really like the cut of Norman’s jib. Something about him he couldn’t place.

  ‘I thought there was still a need for the dinosaur,’ said Norman. ‘It’s not as though every customer wants to look like he plays for Celtic.’

  Barney nodded, though he was now looking out to sea. A moment, then he said, ‘Fewer in number every day, dwindling with the passing of the times.’

  ‘I got asked for some footballer’s cut on my last day,’ said Norman. ‘Had no clue who the guy was. Ended up arguing with the customer, the boss starts going for me, right there, in the middle of the shop. First thing, really. Think he was drunk, can you believe that? Said they didn’t need me any more. We need a guy who knows the footballers, he said. I said I’d watch the football, but...,’ and he ended the sentence with a forlorn hand tossed to the air.

  ‘Aye,’ said Barney. ‘We’ve all been there.’

  ‘Come on, granddad,’ said Keanu, ‘you do all right.’

  ‘How many shops have you been to?’ asked Barney, ignoring Keanu’s input.

  ‘If I was counting, I’d say one hundred and sixty-three,’ said Norman.

  What d’you mean, if you were counting, thought Keanu. You’re obviously counting!

  He’d decided, however, that this conversation was no place for him. He would let the old guys reminisce about the glory days, when all anyone ever wanted was a high and tight, or a perm, and he retreated from the window, taking a mug of tea from Igor, passing with three mugs in hand, as he went. They exchanged a glance, Igor nodding in acknowledgment of the silent communication.

  Barney let out a long sigh at the number, still finding himself back in the old days. Had his life played out differently, had he got as far as being let go from the shop in Partick, would he have had the gumption and the nerve to walk into shop after shop, hearing rejection after rejection, well over one hundred and fifty times? And now, here was this man on an island with one barbershop. It may not have been far from the mainland, but it was still a positive effort.

  Not, of course, that he would actually be offering him anything. There was just nothing to offer.

  ‘You thought of opening your own shop?’ asked Barney, the idea coming from nowhere. Obvious, really.

  ‘Crossed my mind,’ said Norman, taking the tea from Igor, nodding in thanks. ‘Just, you know, I’m a barber. Don’t really know anything about running a business. Probably don’t have enough money.’

  Barney took his tea, thanked him silently, then Igor chose to retreat from the window, leaving the old warriors to their doom, and he joined Keanu, busy doing nothing, at the back of the shop.

  ‘It’s fairly straightforward,’ said Barney. ‘Not much to a barbershop. Overheads aren’t too bad. You just need to rent out a small unit, not cramped, but you don’t need much space if you’re in there by yourself. Plenty of one-man operations.’

  ‘Got a flea in my ear from a few in the last couple of months,’ said Norman.

  ‘Pick your spot. If you need some money, put a business plan together, go along to a bank. Someone’ll help you out. As you say, not everyone these days wants their hair cut in the modern fashion. There are a few old fellas left out there still needing a trim.’

  Outside, the wind blew, the waves jostled and rose and fell and broke on the rocks, and seagulls whirled in the chill, late morning sun. The men drank their tea, the island and the sea and the world outside continued about the day.

  Norman considered the idea of owning his own shop. He’d given it some thought before, of course, but had thrown little more than a passing glance in its direction. This was what he’d needed, however. Some encouragement. A prod. And so he began to make plans, dreams already formulating. His own shop. His own rules. His own music playing, his own posters on the wall, everything done at his pace. If he did so well that he needed to employ someone else, he’d be the one in charge. It would be his domain,
his world, his word, his voice.

  Barney looked over his shoulder, aware that he had unintentionally forced his comrades from their usual position by the window, excluding them from the conversation. Just because he was having a small epiphany, looking into the mirror of this bland man who was likely considered too dull by barbershops throughout the land, didn’t mean that Igor and Keanu would realise what he was thinking.

  Barney smiled, Igor and Keanu smiled back, an understanding look that said the nutter is all yours! then Barney turned back to the window, the light laugh still on his lips.

  Norman caught his eye. A moment, a snap of the fingers, Barney froze inside at the recognition, and then the moment had passed, and they were standing together looking out of the window at a bright and breezy day.

  23

  Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

  At eleven-fifteen in the evening, Barney and Sergeant Monk finally walked back into their own house in Millport. The house was cold, and since they knew they wouldn’t be going to bed any time soon, Barney turned on the heating, hesitated between the kettle and the wine in the fridge, Monk noticed the prevarication and shouted, ‘Wine, please!’ as she headed up the stairs, and Barney took two glasses from the cupboard.

  The last three hours at the Comrie Hydro had been a whirlwind of frantic police activity. The place had already been on lockdown, although it had become apparent that the down hadn’t been nearly locked as much as it should’ve been, and so further officers were called. Cars were searched, bags were searched, every guest and member of staff was re-interviewed, and each guest was immediately marched from the premises and sent on their way.

  The body of Landon Prentice was discovered by search dogs in an air vent. Meanwhile, the body of a yet unnamed man, from whom the other rogue penis had been removed, was found inside a top loading washing machine.

  Logically the police knew they were likely letting the killer leave the hotel when they pushed everyone out, but there was little they could do. Thumper Adams had quickly brought a lawyer on board, and there’d been no way for the police to keep over fifty people confined in the building, pending a successful conclusion to their inquiry. And it was entirely possible, of course, that the killer would already have fled before the confinement had begun.

  Charles Walker was questioned at length about the movements of his leather briefcase, and how it was possible that the balloon came to have been left inside. Walker, naturally, did not have an answer. He had, however, left his briefcase unattended in his room, and also in the hotel lobby for a while, and so the killer would have had access to it without his knowledge.

  Written on the requisite small note, attached to the red, helium-filled balloon, had been the picture of a demonic clown, and the words, Tick tock, tick tock, The Koiffing Klown will have your cock.

  Despite having been quite fond of the briefcase, he’d been happy to hand it over to the police. Few men still long for the use of a briefcase after it’s housed an unwanted, bloody, severed penis. He’d been upset that they’d also taken away his prized pair of Bender Strattocutters, but the police had naturally insisted on the bag, and everything inside it, being impounded.

  And so the sad troupe of barbers had retired from the calamitous conference. Barney and Monk had driven off, and Igor and Keanu had driven off, Sophia not coming with Keanu at this point, and they’d come in convoy back to Largs, and they’d had to leave their cars in the town overnight, and Monk had called a police boat from along the coast, and it had delivered them to Millport pier.

  Soon enough Barney and Monk were sitting at the window on the first floor, looking out over the town, as the waves touched the shore and, in the far distance, the hills of Arran disappeared behind low cloud in the night.

  ‘What’d the death count get to in the end?’ asked Barney.

  They had driven home in a mixture of silence, and general chitchat about the traffic and the weather and music they were listening to, and anything but what had happened at the hotel. The subject, however, could not be avoided forever.

  ‘Just three,’ said Monk. ‘Plus the guy from Edinburgh a week ago makes four.’

  ‘You got all the penises matched up?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  They drank, sitting in darkness, each with a small bowl of Pringles. Monk had stuck one of those 1950s Sinatra misery albums on her phone, plugged it into a speaker, and so New York melancholy was their companion.

  ‘That’s something I suppose,’ said Barney, absent-mindedly.

  ‘What is?’ asked Monk, it being so long since the last staccato burst of conversation she’d forgotten what they’d said.

  ‘The penises match up. Would’ve been a nightmare if they hadn’t.’

  ‘True. Sounds like that was what they were looking at, at first. Nevertheless, bodies and genitals usually even themselves out in the end.’

  Barney smiled at that, she caught the movement of his lips in the night.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asked, and leaned over and squeezed his arm.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Barney.

  She let those words drift out into the dark, let silence consume them, let them dissolve into nothing.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten of fine,’ she said, ‘where one is actually fine and ten is, like, so not fine you’re a supersonic rocket of not fine waiting to explode, how fine are you?’

  Monk lifted a crisp, took a crunch. Sinatra was singing about how miserable he was feeling, and how he was never going to feel anything but miserable ever again.

  ‘One,’ said Barney.

  ‘Liar.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘All right, three maybe, but I’m not giving you any more than that.’

  ‘That still seems low. I mean, there’s the argument that you’re immune to the horror as you’ve been here so many times in the past, but then there’s the other argument where you’re being worn down, and the incessant serial killer crap that plagues your life is bound to finally crush your spirit. And I live with you, and I know it’s more the latter than the former.’

  Barney stared straight ahead. Frank crooned into the silence, something or other about his heart being crushed like ice in a mixer. Frank, thought Barney, at least you never got your knob cut off. Would’ve made a hell of a song, though.

  ‘Seven,’ he said. ‘You’re right. So, I’ll say seven.’

  She squeezed his arm again.

  ‘Maybe I should just sign up to be on some serious crime squad somewhere. I mean, if I’m going to be continually confronted with this shit, then why not? The way it is now, I live a quiet life on a dull island in a grey little corner of the planet. I reasonably have the expectation that nothing will happen, ever. Doesn’t everyone who lives here have that expectation? And yet, regardless, this absurd life always finds me. Murder finds me. So, rather than being caught out by it, rather than being constantly surprised, how about I go balls out and embrace it. Sign up, get on a team, I could be a full-time serial killer consultant, and then I’d get up in the morning, fully prepared for what’s to come.’

  He turned, and they looked at each other through the darkness.

  ‘Not sure anyone would take you, to be honest,’ said Monk. ‘I mean, these ad hoc things you get dragged into are one thing, but if it was a full-time, permanent position, you’d need to go through a lot more hoops.’ A beat. ‘Doubt you’d pass the security clearance.’

  ‘Funny,’ he said.

  ‘I try.’

  ‘How about you?’ he asked.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you also signed up for the quiet island life. You came here specifically because nothing ever happens. You’d had enough of the crimes and crooks and thugs of London, and this was supposed to be a bit more relaxing.’

  ‘Hey, I volunteered today, I didn’t have to come up to Comrie. I was worried about you. It’s fine. And anyway, it won’t follow us back down here. Whoever this is,
their grudge is with the barbershop establishment of Scotland, not with you.’

  Barney took a drink, looked round at her, held the stare until she met his gaze.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve just done that. I mean, you more or less just guaranteed some poor bugger in Millport is going to get his penis swiped off.’

  She hit his arm. ‘All right, all right,’ she said, and she leaned forward, tapped the table and said, ‘touch wood.’

  ‘I don’t know, think you might have been a bit too slow there, Sergeant,’ said Barney. ‘We’d better hope that by the time the Koiffing Klown gets to Millport he’s gone back to taking out customers rather than barbers.’

  Monk rolled her eyes. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘The Koiffing Klown’s going to have to come through me, and he probably doesn’t know what to do with women.’

  Barney gave her a glance, she sheepishly acknowledged in her look there was no place for such bravado, and then they looked back out at the night, lifted their drinks, and settled in to watch the tide come in and the world go by. Sinatra, for his part, was having another bottle of single malt.

  SUNDAY DAWNED COLD and bright, the sea throwing water at the shore, waves spurting high above the rocks, the wind capricious, and the papers stacked high at the newsagents with tales of the latest serial killing outrage to grip Scotland. It wasn’t just the National doing a killer clown mock-up on its front page.

  Every single newspaper led with the story. Barber Convention Cut To Shreds, and Police Cock-Up Leads To Penis Outrage, and Heads Roll As Members Slashed, and Is Sturgeon Klowning Around? and Parliament Panic At Profligate Penis Purge, and Haircut Costs Rocket As Barber Shortage Looms, and Trump Anally Rapes Statue of Liberty, Claims Jesus Told Him To Do It.

  A quiet day on the island, as Sundays in November were wont to be, and no one had any complaints. Keanu wrote a blog about their weekend at the barbershop convention from Hell, while Garrett and Igor binge-watched the Die Hard series, although when it came to it they didn’t watch number five, conventionally re-watching the first in its stead.