Wednesday 21 November 2007
Wednesday 14 November 2007
Wednesday 31 October 2007
A Hallowe'en Tale
The boy dressed alone. Still early in the day, but he was excited about the evening. The cd his father had put on before he went out had finished playing some time earlier. Show tunes. Maybe all from the same show, maybe a compilation, the boy hadn’t known. Didn’t like the music, didn’t care. It had been on in the background, as it always was, and then it had stopped. Now just the sound of the waves and the cries of the gulls. Those were the sounds he loved, they were the soundtrack to his sad life.
He fished around in the dressing up box, costumes from years past. Most Hallowe’ens his dad would get him a new costume, but not this year. Christmas had been lonely and bleak without his mother; then his dad had completely forgotten his birthday. That was how it was most days. His father consumed by grief, the boy struggling to get by, feeling like he had lost both parents in the car accident and not just his mum.
Mix and match, that’s what he would do this year. He slipped the Frankenstein mask on over his head and looked in the mirror. Frankenstein, Arabian prince costume, cowboy boots. He smiled weakly then looked down at the box of clothes. It was a work in progress. He slowly took off the mask and raked around through the magical box of costumes.
Late October, a bleak, cold day. Mid-afternoon, the clocks had changed a couple of days previously. Maybe another hour or two of light and then the night would crawl in from the east, across the hill above Kames Bay, and sweep across the town.
‘Like, you know, that guy… What d’you call him again?’
Barney Thomson put on his coat and turned to the others. Keanu was cutting the hair of a small round man who had only recently arrived on the island. Igor, Barney’s deaf, mute hunchbacked assistant, was sweeping up.
‘Which guy?’ said Keanu, neatly executing a tricky manoeuvre around the left ear.
‘The leader of the Fantastic Four,’ said the small round guy. ‘Mr Stretch? Captain Elastic? The Amazing Elongathon?’
‘Not sure,’ said Keanu. ‘I was too busy looking at the babe. Not that I can remember her name either.’
Outside a seagull cried.
‘The Incredible Bender?’ ventured the guy.
‘See you later, Igor,’ said Barney. Time to escape. He smiled at Keanu, opened the door and stepped outside. The debate continued inside, although it didn’t have too many places left to go.
Barney hesitated, turned and looked both ways along the street, then pulled the zip on his jacket up to the neck. The seagull was sitting on the white promenade wall across the road. It stared at him for a few seconds, as he looked back, and then it turned and lazily lifted itself into the air and flew away, back out to sea, the direction it always took. Barney walked across the road and stood at the wall, following the seagull’s flight, as it soared quickly up into the sky, across the small islands out towards Little Cumbrae.
Shuffling footsteps behind him and then one of the old fellas of the town was leaning on the wall, watching the sea and the gulls.
‘Is that your gull again, Barney?’ said Rusty Brown.
Barney smiled and nodded. Everyone in the town knew about Barney’s seagull. Every day it came to the wall across the road from the shop, every day it seemed to watch. It looked the same as every other seagull which swirled and flew and dived around the small seaside town of Millport, yet there was no doubt that it was the same gull every day.
‘Everyone’s talking about it,’ said Rusty Brown.
‘I know,’ replied Barney.
‘They’re saying it’s the ghost of someone from your past. Like one of those people you murdered.’
‘I never murdered anyone,’ said Barney glibly.
‘Whatever you say, Barney.’ He paused, glanced over his shoulder. ‘Mrs McKay from up the road thinks it’s the Princess.’
Barney gave him the eyebrow.
‘Which princess?’
‘Diana. Obviously.’
Barney looked surprised.
‘Diana? She died? You’re kidding?’
‘Of course she….,’ began Rusty Brown, until he realised Barney was being facetious, then he bumped him and laughed gently.
‘Really,’ said Barney, ‘why on earth would Diana be a seagull sitting on a wall in Millport looking at a barbershop every day?’
Rusty Brown sniffed and lifted himself up from the wall, looked up and down the road.
‘Aye, well, there’s weirder shit than that in life, my old friend’ he said and, with a hand clapped to Barney’s shoulder, he turned and walked on up the street, the cold wind rifling his trousers.
Millport Community Council had made an effort for Hallowe’en. A note had gone round to every house, requesting that each household which was willing to receive trick or treating children on the evening of the 31st put a carved pumpkin on their doorstep. Those householders willing to receive children, but without the time or inclination to carve a large gourd, could request a small pumpkin from the council instead.
Knowing they would be steered only in the direction of households which were inclined to greet them, the children of the town were geared up for a long and hopefully successful night of All-American candy grabbing.
The boy looked out the window as a small crowd of children, slightly younger than him, walked by, a couple of parents in tow. A devil, two witches, a couple of Jedi knights, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and a Britney Spears. He turned away and took one last look at himself in the mirror. In the end he had gone for simplicity. Pale make-up, black rings round his eyes, dressed in an out-sized white smock, white trousers, white shoes.
He had waited for his dad to come back, all the time knowing that he wouldn’t see him again until he got up the following morning. He wasn’t sure where it was his father went every day, although the man was not a drinker, which at least ruled out the five pubs on the island. He just knew that his dad needed help, but he was too young to know what to do about it.
He closed the bedroom door behind him and walked slowly down the stairs. All the kids had been talking about Hallowe’en at school, but none of them had asked him along. He almost understood. There had been an awkwardness about their approach to him ever since the accident, but the fact that his mother had died while taking him to a Hallowe’en party, had meant that no one had dared to have a Hallowe’en discussion anywhere near him.
Too scared to talk about Hallowe’en. He almost found the notion funny.
He lifted the small orange tub, opened the front door, and stepped out into the cold evening.
Barney knocked on the door and turned to look at the sea while he waited. Eternally drawn to the sea, one of the continuing surprises in his life. Maybe his forefathers had first crawled from the sea onto the beach at Kames.
The door opened. He turned to be greeted by a fairy princess witch and a Bob The Builder samurai.
‘Trick or treat?’ said Barney, unable to keep the smile from his face.
‘We say that to you!’ cried the little girl.
‘What’s in the bag?’ yelled the boy
Barney walked into the house, holding the plastic bag high up so the kids couldn’t see inside.
Igor appeared from the kitchen and waved. Barney, not trusting the Community Council pumpkin system, and hating the continual trawl of kids on a Hallowe’en night, had accepted an invitation to Igor and Garrett’s house for dinner. He could hide in the kitchen while they fielded the calls, their kids escorted round the town in a small collective organised by the PTA.
Dinner smelled good, a hint of cinnamon in the air. The doorbell sounded again almost immediately.
‘That’ll be Mrs Wilson this time!’ called Garrett, and the kids, having retreated to the safety of the television, once more leapt into the hall and raced to the door. Garrett appeared in front of Barney, up to her eyes in pumpkin pie, kissed him on the cheek and followed her kids to the door, where a gang of children, ten strong, a boisterous collection of wizards and ugly stepsisters, spidermen and frogs, awaited.
The young boy trod a lonely path around the town. Every now and again he passed groups of kids, laughing and singing, pushing each other around. He wondered where his dad was. Maybe he had found some solace with another woman. Maybe, the boy often wondered, he just couldn’t stand to be at home with his son, the reminder in flesh of what he had lost.
He wandered slowly up a garden path, a large pumpkin on the doorstep, a haunted house carving, three candles dancing inside. He stopped and looked up at the skeleton hanging down from the doorway and the child’s painting of a witch in the window, and he smiled for the first time in a long while. Then he stepped forward, rang the doorbell, took a pace back from the top step and waited.
The smell of dinner hung in the air, tantalising. However, it was for later, for when the children had returned, armed to the teeth with chocolate and sweets. Barney wondered if anyone had the fortitude anymore to give the marauding hordes of fetid spawn an apple or monkey nuts, the way they had in his day. Probably not. Or those would be the ones that the kids immediately turfed into the bin to make room for more sweets.
The doorbell went again. They were coming thick and fast.
‘Your turn, Barney,’ said Garrett, smiling.
Barney Thomson raised his glass of white wine.
‘Cheers,’ he said. Feeling hungry. Hoping the trail of kids would dry up soon so that they could get on with dinner. ‘Igor, this one’s all yours.’
Igor rolled his eyes then pushed himself up from the table. Dressed in a white laboratory assistant’s coat with an axe buried in his head and a fake scar on his cheek, he hustled up the corridor.
Barney watched Garrett fussing around the cooker for a short while, then raised himself up and walked down the corridor. Glanced out at the front door, where Igor was dispensing E-numbers and toxins to a horde of voracious velociraptors, then walked through to the front room of the house. In darkness.
He closed the door behind him, did not turn on any lights, walked to the window and looked out at the evening. Chill night, cloudy skies, dark tranquil sea. Felt the warm, enveloping weight of melancholy that such surroundings inevitably bring. Looked along the road to see how many more kids there were on the horizon, hadn’t realised that there were so many of them in the town. He left most of the kids who came to the shop to Keanu these days. Filtered them out, happier dealing with the other end of the age spectrum.
Along the road he saw a child walking alone, dressed all in white. Immediately drawn to him, the solitary figure. Saw himself, perhaps. Not that kids had gone out in such large groups when he was young, but he had hated going out at all, and if ever his mother had kicked him out the door, he would have walked alone, ringing as few bells as he felt he could reasonably get away with.
The boy looked sad, the orange tub swinging slowly and mournfully at his side, head turned to look at all the houses which he passed.
Igor’s work completed for the moment, the crowd at the door turned and walked happily back down the garden path. Full of laughs and excitement, scary noises and jokes, jabbering about whether or not Igor’s hunchback had been real. They swung out the gate, on the charge, just as the boy approached. Barney watched, wondering if the lad would be as detached as he himself would have been. Sure enough, the crowd walked by, ignoring him, he paused to let them pass, not even looking at them, and then stopped outside Garrett’s front gate. He looked up at the house, seemed to give it short consideration, then trod a weary path up to the front door. Barney watched him, intrigued. Could he be looking at himself, a simple outfit that his mother would have made him wear, reluctantly playing the part of a kid about town?
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ shouted Barney, and he walked out to the hall. Igor appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Arf?’
Barney forced a smile.
‘I’m on it,’ he said, and Igor shrugged and turned back into the kitchen.
Barney hesitated at the front door, suddenly unsure. What if the kid turned out to be just slightly weird and keen to sing a twenty verse song? He shook his head, smiled ruefully at himself, then opened the door.
The cold evening air rushed in. The garden path ran darkly down to the gate. In the distance he could still hear the laughs and shouts of the children who had just left. Somewhere back towards town a car travelled too quickly along the road. The child who had rung the doorbell, the child in white, was gone.
He stood for a second wondering how he had disappeared so quickly. He stepped forward, looking to see if he was hiding behind a bush or round the side of the wall. But he knew he wouldn’t find him there. Just by his demeanour he could tell that this was not a kid to playfully hide.
Barney Thomson walked quickly down the garden path, stepped out onto the pavement and looked up the road. The child was walking away, in the middle of the road, his shoulders slumped.
‘Hey, son!’ said Barney. In his subconscious he could hear the car approach, but he wasn’t thinking. Curious, concerned. Just not thinking.
The boy stopped and turned. White face. Grey eyes looked through the night at Barney. Barney felt his stomach curdle, his face blanch, his throat turn dry. Eyes and face of such horrible, awful sadness.
‘Oh my god,’ he said. A low mutter.
The boy stared through the night. The sea touched the rocks just down below. Somewhere along the green railings a seagull landed, settled its wings with a flutter, and looked at Barney Thomson.
The car turned the corner, still driving too fast. The boy hadn’t moved. Middle of the road, the car bearing down. At the last second Barney finally clicked into action. His hand outstretched, yet he was twenty yards away. And he was no Captain Elastic. Nothing he could do. He was to be a spectator at death, as had happened so often in the past.
The boy never seemed to notice. The car smacked into him, the frail white body flew up into the air, buckled and broken, tossed to the side. The car drove on.
Barney never saw the driver, never looked in through the windscreen. Just saw the boy being hit hard from behind, his body thrown away to the side, the car speeding, never breaking its pace, as if the driver had not seen the boy. As if the boy had never been there in the first place.
Barney’s horrified gaze followed the car for a second, trying to register the number plate, then he looked back at the road. The empty road.
The boy was gone. The body that had been so easily tossed aside and dumped on the ground had disappeared. Barney walked over and stood on the road, looking around at where he had seen the body fall.
His skin crawled, his stomach twisted, he felt the hairs stand on his head and neck. He walked hesitantly over to the grass to look down on the rocks, wondering if maybe the body had been thrown further than he’d thought. Nothing but darkness and the lick of the waves. He turned back and looked up at the cheery lights of Garrett and Igor’s house, the pumpkin lantern flickering in the doorway.
Mouth still open, heart still pounding, aware that no matter how often he encountered this kind of thing, there was nothing to prepare you for it, Barney Thomson looked along the road. Round to the town, back across Kames Bay. Then he turned and looked up the road, up to Farland Point, the lights of the mainland shining across the water.
And it was there that he saw him, in the distance. The small, frail hunched white figure, walking slowly along the pavement. White smock, white trousers, white shoes.
The old man looked down at the weathered headstone. Every year he came up to the cemetery, every year he promised himself that he would get the headstone cleaned up, every year he left and didn’t get around to it. Maybe this year he would. He should.
‘This time,’ he said softly, bending down and running his hand over the name of his wife, down across the worn stone, his old fingers marking out the name of his son. ‘It’s due.’
He bent lower and rearranged the fresh flowers one last time. Thirty-three years, and he could still see the car’s headlights, still see the look of horror on the face of his wife and son. Thirty-three years and he still cried.
He turned away from the grave, lifted the small bag and walked slowly away along the path between the headstones.
He fished around in the dressing up box, costumes from years past. Most Hallowe’ens his dad would get him a new costume, but not this year. Christmas had been lonely and bleak without his mother; then his dad had completely forgotten his birthday. That was how it was most days. His father consumed by grief, the boy struggling to get by, feeling like he had lost both parents in the car accident and not just his mum.
Mix and match, that’s what he would do this year. He slipped the Frankenstein mask on over his head and looked in the mirror. Frankenstein, Arabian prince costume, cowboy boots. He smiled weakly then looked down at the box of clothes. It was a work in progress. He slowly took off the mask and raked around through the magical box of costumes.
Late October, a bleak, cold day. Mid-afternoon, the clocks had changed a couple of days previously. Maybe another hour or two of light and then the night would crawl in from the east, across the hill above Kames Bay, and sweep across the town.
‘Like, you know, that guy… What d’you call him again?’
Barney Thomson put on his coat and turned to the others. Keanu was cutting the hair of a small round man who had only recently arrived on the island. Igor, Barney’s deaf, mute hunchbacked assistant, was sweeping up.
‘Which guy?’ said Keanu, neatly executing a tricky manoeuvre around the left ear.
‘The leader of the Fantastic Four,’ said the small round guy. ‘Mr Stretch? Captain Elastic? The Amazing Elongathon?’
‘Not sure,’ said Keanu. ‘I was too busy looking at the babe. Not that I can remember her name either.’
Outside a seagull cried.
‘The Incredible Bender?’ ventured the guy.
‘See you later, Igor,’ said Barney. Time to escape. He smiled at Keanu, opened the door and stepped outside. The debate continued inside, although it didn’t have too many places left to go.
Barney hesitated, turned and looked both ways along the street, then pulled the zip on his jacket up to the neck. The seagull was sitting on the white promenade wall across the road. It stared at him for a few seconds, as he looked back, and then it turned and lazily lifted itself into the air and flew away, back out to sea, the direction it always took. Barney walked across the road and stood at the wall, following the seagull’s flight, as it soared quickly up into the sky, across the small islands out towards Little Cumbrae.
Shuffling footsteps behind him and then one of the old fellas of the town was leaning on the wall, watching the sea and the gulls.
‘Is that your gull again, Barney?’ said Rusty Brown.
Barney smiled and nodded. Everyone in the town knew about Barney’s seagull. Every day it came to the wall across the road from the shop, every day it seemed to watch. It looked the same as every other seagull which swirled and flew and dived around the small seaside town of Millport, yet there was no doubt that it was the same gull every day.
‘Everyone’s talking about it,’ said Rusty Brown.
‘I know,’ replied Barney.
‘They’re saying it’s the ghost of someone from your past. Like one of those people you murdered.’
‘I never murdered anyone,’ said Barney glibly.
‘Whatever you say, Barney.’ He paused, glanced over his shoulder. ‘Mrs McKay from up the road thinks it’s the Princess.’
Barney gave him the eyebrow.
‘Which princess?’
‘Diana. Obviously.’
Barney looked surprised.
‘Diana? She died? You’re kidding?’
‘Of course she….,’ began Rusty Brown, until he realised Barney was being facetious, then he bumped him and laughed gently.
‘Really,’ said Barney, ‘why on earth would Diana be a seagull sitting on a wall in Millport looking at a barbershop every day?’
Rusty Brown sniffed and lifted himself up from the wall, looked up and down the road.
‘Aye, well, there’s weirder shit than that in life, my old friend’ he said and, with a hand clapped to Barney’s shoulder, he turned and walked on up the street, the cold wind rifling his trousers.
Millport Community Council had made an effort for Hallowe’en. A note had gone round to every house, requesting that each household which was willing to receive trick or treating children on the evening of the 31st put a carved pumpkin on their doorstep. Those householders willing to receive children, but without the time or inclination to carve a large gourd, could request a small pumpkin from the council instead.
Knowing they would be steered only in the direction of households which were inclined to greet them, the children of the town were geared up for a long and hopefully successful night of All-American candy grabbing.
The boy looked out the window as a small crowd of children, slightly younger than him, walked by, a couple of parents in tow. A devil, two witches, a couple of Jedi knights, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and a Britney Spears. He turned away and took one last look at himself in the mirror. In the end he had gone for simplicity. Pale make-up, black rings round his eyes, dressed in an out-sized white smock, white trousers, white shoes.
He had waited for his dad to come back, all the time knowing that he wouldn’t see him again until he got up the following morning. He wasn’t sure where it was his father went every day, although the man was not a drinker, which at least ruled out the five pubs on the island. He just knew that his dad needed help, but he was too young to know what to do about it.
He closed the bedroom door behind him and walked slowly down the stairs. All the kids had been talking about Hallowe’en at school, but none of them had asked him along. He almost understood. There had been an awkwardness about their approach to him ever since the accident, but the fact that his mother had died while taking him to a Hallowe’en party, had meant that no one had dared to have a Hallowe’en discussion anywhere near him.
Too scared to talk about Hallowe’en. He almost found the notion funny.
He lifted the small orange tub, opened the front door, and stepped out into the cold evening.
Barney knocked on the door and turned to look at the sea while he waited. Eternally drawn to the sea, one of the continuing surprises in his life. Maybe his forefathers had first crawled from the sea onto the beach at Kames.
The door opened. He turned to be greeted by a fairy princess witch and a Bob The Builder samurai.
‘Trick or treat?’ said Barney, unable to keep the smile from his face.
‘We say that to you!’ cried the little girl.
‘What’s in the bag?’ yelled the boy
Barney walked into the house, holding the plastic bag high up so the kids couldn’t see inside.
Igor appeared from the kitchen and waved. Barney, not trusting the Community Council pumpkin system, and hating the continual trawl of kids on a Hallowe’en night, had accepted an invitation to Igor and Garrett’s house for dinner. He could hide in the kitchen while they fielded the calls, their kids escorted round the town in a small collective organised by the PTA.
Dinner smelled good, a hint of cinnamon in the air. The doorbell sounded again almost immediately.
‘That’ll be Mrs Wilson this time!’ called Garrett, and the kids, having retreated to the safety of the television, once more leapt into the hall and raced to the door. Garrett appeared in front of Barney, up to her eyes in pumpkin pie, kissed him on the cheek and followed her kids to the door, where a gang of children, ten strong, a boisterous collection of wizards and ugly stepsisters, spidermen and frogs, awaited.
The young boy trod a lonely path around the town. Every now and again he passed groups of kids, laughing and singing, pushing each other around. He wondered where his dad was. Maybe he had found some solace with another woman. Maybe, the boy often wondered, he just couldn’t stand to be at home with his son, the reminder in flesh of what he had lost.
He wandered slowly up a garden path, a large pumpkin on the doorstep, a haunted house carving, three candles dancing inside. He stopped and looked up at the skeleton hanging down from the doorway and the child’s painting of a witch in the window, and he smiled for the first time in a long while. Then he stepped forward, rang the doorbell, took a pace back from the top step and waited.
The smell of dinner hung in the air, tantalising. However, it was for later, for when the children had returned, armed to the teeth with chocolate and sweets. Barney wondered if anyone had the fortitude anymore to give the marauding hordes of fetid spawn an apple or monkey nuts, the way they had in his day. Probably not. Or those would be the ones that the kids immediately turfed into the bin to make room for more sweets.
The doorbell went again. They were coming thick and fast.
‘Your turn, Barney,’ said Garrett, smiling.
Barney Thomson raised his glass of white wine.
‘Cheers,’ he said. Feeling hungry. Hoping the trail of kids would dry up soon so that they could get on with dinner. ‘Igor, this one’s all yours.’
Igor rolled his eyes then pushed himself up from the table. Dressed in a white laboratory assistant’s coat with an axe buried in his head and a fake scar on his cheek, he hustled up the corridor.
Barney watched Garrett fussing around the cooker for a short while, then raised himself up and walked down the corridor. Glanced out at the front door, where Igor was dispensing E-numbers and toxins to a horde of voracious velociraptors, then walked through to the front room of the house. In darkness.
He closed the door behind him, did not turn on any lights, walked to the window and looked out at the evening. Chill night, cloudy skies, dark tranquil sea. Felt the warm, enveloping weight of melancholy that such surroundings inevitably bring. Looked along the road to see how many more kids there were on the horizon, hadn’t realised that there were so many of them in the town. He left most of the kids who came to the shop to Keanu these days. Filtered them out, happier dealing with the other end of the age spectrum.
Along the road he saw a child walking alone, dressed all in white. Immediately drawn to him, the solitary figure. Saw himself, perhaps. Not that kids had gone out in such large groups when he was young, but he had hated going out at all, and if ever his mother had kicked him out the door, he would have walked alone, ringing as few bells as he felt he could reasonably get away with.
The boy looked sad, the orange tub swinging slowly and mournfully at his side, head turned to look at all the houses which he passed.
Igor’s work completed for the moment, the crowd at the door turned and walked happily back down the garden path. Full of laughs and excitement, scary noises and jokes, jabbering about whether or not Igor’s hunchback had been real. They swung out the gate, on the charge, just as the boy approached. Barney watched, wondering if the lad would be as detached as he himself would have been. Sure enough, the crowd walked by, ignoring him, he paused to let them pass, not even looking at them, and then stopped outside Garrett’s front gate. He looked up at the house, seemed to give it short consideration, then trod a weary path up to the front door. Barney watched him, intrigued. Could he be looking at himself, a simple outfit that his mother would have made him wear, reluctantly playing the part of a kid about town?
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ shouted Barney, and he walked out to the hall. Igor appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Arf?’
Barney forced a smile.
‘I’m on it,’ he said, and Igor shrugged and turned back into the kitchen.
Barney hesitated at the front door, suddenly unsure. What if the kid turned out to be just slightly weird and keen to sing a twenty verse song? He shook his head, smiled ruefully at himself, then opened the door.
The cold evening air rushed in. The garden path ran darkly down to the gate. In the distance he could still hear the laughs and shouts of the children who had just left. Somewhere back towards town a car travelled too quickly along the road. The child who had rung the doorbell, the child in white, was gone.
He stood for a second wondering how he had disappeared so quickly. He stepped forward, looking to see if he was hiding behind a bush or round the side of the wall. But he knew he wouldn’t find him there. Just by his demeanour he could tell that this was not a kid to playfully hide.
Barney Thomson walked quickly down the garden path, stepped out onto the pavement and looked up the road. The child was walking away, in the middle of the road, his shoulders slumped.
‘Hey, son!’ said Barney. In his subconscious he could hear the car approach, but he wasn’t thinking. Curious, concerned. Just not thinking.
The boy stopped and turned. White face. Grey eyes looked through the night at Barney. Barney felt his stomach curdle, his face blanch, his throat turn dry. Eyes and face of such horrible, awful sadness.
‘Oh my god,’ he said. A low mutter.
The boy stared through the night. The sea touched the rocks just down below. Somewhere along the green railings a seagull landed, settled its wings with a flutter, and looked at Barney Thomson.
The car turned the corner, still driving too fast. The boy hadn’t moved. Middle of the road, the car bearing down. At the last second Barney finally clicked into action. His hand outstretched, yet he was twenty yards away. And he was no Captain Elastic. Nothing he could do. He was to be a spectator at death, as had happened so often in the past.
The boy never seemed to notice. The car smacked into him, the frail white body flew up into the air, buckled and broken, tossed to the side. The car drove on.
Barney never saw the driver, never looked in through the windscreen. Just saw the boy being hit hard from behind, his body thrown away to the side, the car speeding, never breaking its pace, as if the driver had not seen the boy. As if the boy had never been there in the first place.
Barney’s horrified gaze followed the car for a second, trying to register the number plate, then he looked back at the road. The empty road.
The boy was gone. The body that had been so easily tossed aside and dumped on the ground had disappeared. Barney walked over and stood on the road, looking around at where he had seen the body fall.
His skin crawled, his stomach twisted, he felt the hairs stand on his head and neck. He walked hesitantly over to the grass to look down on the rocks, wondering if maybe the body had been thrown further than he’d thought. Nothing but darkness and the lick of the waves. He turned back and looked up at the cheery lights of Garrett and Igor’s house, the pumpkin lantern flickering in the doorway.
Mouth still open, heart still pounding, aware that no matter how often he encountered this kind of thing, there was nothing to prepare you for it, Barney Thomson looked along the road. Round to the town, back across Kames Bay. Then he turned and looked up the road, up to Farland Point, the lights of the mainland shining across the water.
And it was there that he saw him, in the distance. The small, frail hunched white figure, walking slowly along the pavement. White smock, white trousers, white shoes.
The old man looked down at the weathered headstone. Every year he came up to the cemetery, every year he promised himself that he would get the headstone cleaned up, every year he left and didn’t get around to it. Maybe this year he would. He should.
‘This time,’ he said softly, bending down and running his hand over the name of his wife, down across the worn stone, his old fingers marking out the name of his son. ‘It’s due.’
He bent lower and rearranged the fresh flowers one last time. Thirty-three years, and he could still see the car’s headlights, still see the look of horror on the face of his wife and son. Thirty-three years and he still cried.
He turned away from the grave, lifted the small bag and walked slowly away along the path between the headstones.
Sunday 21 October 2007
The Bloody Death of Barney Thomson - A Short Story
Something moved in the night. A dull thump. Barney Thomson opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A few seconds disconcerted. Blinked. From deep sleep to wide awake. Late September, a cold night, he felt warm under the duvet. Lying on his back. Hands behind his head, as if he’d been relaxing with his feet up on a desk. Usually he slept on his side.
Tried to remember where it was he’d been a second before. Had he been dreaming? Some part of his dream had brought him up suddenly to the surface. Maybe it had been something outside. Or in the room.
He felt the sudden shard of fear down his back, sat up quickly and looked round the room. Curtains open, the bedroom dull in the glow of a full moon. Glanced at the clock. 2:09am. The fear began to fade, the feeling of the noise which had awoken him began to ebb away with the night. He forgot that the muffled thud had come from outwith his body, had sounded real, had penetrated him.
The clock clicked over to 2:10am. A car drove slowly along the road outside, he felt the chill of the wind through the small gap in the open window. He laid his head back on the pillow. Eyes still open, no sign of tiredness coming back. Some part of him knew.
Then he realised why the scene made him feel uncomfortable. The chill wind. He had closed the window when he’d gone to bed. He sat bolt upright.
It was standing in the doorway. A dark figure. A moment’s hesitation and then it raced towards the bed. A flash of long, pointed teeth, Barney could see the swirl of claws dully reflecting the street lights. His mouth opened. He saw one green eye. A claw descended and Barney Thomson felt the slice of the sharp claw as it scythed through his neck. Warm blood dripped down his skin, soaking into his white t-shirt.
He stared up. A last look. The jagged end of a jagged claw thrust deep into his eye socket.
_________________________________________________________________
A chill late September morning. The guys of the barbershop were staring out of the window across the street to the cold, grey sea. Leaves lay on the ground, the few people who walked by were submerged beneath layers of clothes. Already felt like winter.
The shop was warm and lazy, the soporific quiet of a long off-season already setting in. Barney had his hands full, but only literally. A bacon roll and a cup of tea. Igor, his deaf, mute, hunchbacked assistant was leaning on his brush, drinking a cup of coffee. Keanu, the coolest barbetorial assistant this side of Weymss Bay, was leaning against the doorframe, cup of tea resting on the window ledge, roll in his hands.
‘Cold,’ said Keanu. ‘I mean, out there, not in here.’
‘Arf,’ muttered Igor. His wedding date had been set. The end of November. He tried not to let it consume him, but he couldn’t help it. Every statement seemed to impact on that day. Cold in September, what was it going to be like by November?
‘The weather’s so screwed up at the moment,’ said Keanu. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Cold now, twenty-five degrees in a month. You can never tell.’
Igor nodded and began to worry about it being too hot. What if there was a hurricane?
A seagull landed on the white promenade wall across the road. It looked in at the shop, seemed to wink directly at Barney, and then turned and flew away back out to sea. A moment, and then Igor and Keanu looked at Barney, who was staring impassively out across the water.
‘Did that seagull just wink at you?’ said Keanu.
Barney didn’t flinch, didn’t answer, didn’t turn. The seagull had winked at him, no question. It had looked right through him, into the depths of his soul. And then it had winked.
‘I dreamt I got murdered last night,’ he said. ‘Woke up sweating buckets.’
‘Arf,’ said Igor.
‘You dreamt you got murdered?’ said Keanu. ‘I thought they say that if you die in your dreams, you really die in your bed?’
Barney glanced at him and smiled. A small shrug.
‘Still here,’ he said.
‘Maybe I got that from a Bruce Spingsteen song,’ said Keanu.
‘Valentine’s Day,’ said Igor. Although the only word that crossed his lips was arf.
‘Maybe it’s if you pish yourself in your dreams…’ said Keanu, and let the thought drift off. Springsteen hadn’t written about that.
‘A guy came into my room,’ continued Barney, ‘leapt on top of me, slit my throat… I think it was a guy. It was a dream, you know. There was something not quite right about it.’
‘Did it seem real? I mean, did it happen in your own bedroom?’
‘It was real,’ said Barney. ‘Felt real even after I’d woken up. Couldn’t work out where it had happened, though.’
Old Rusty Brown walked past the shop on the other side of the road and waved casually in their direction. They waved back, watched him mince slowly away in the direction of his morning cup of tea, his morning paper and all that day’s news according to the Daily Express. Madeleine still missing, Diana still dead. The bus bringing a few wretched souls from the Largs ferry scuttled sombrely past. Far out to sea, a small vessel made its way towards Arran. The wind rattled the shop front.
‘Died in your dreams, and now a seagull winked at you,’ said Keanu. ‘You have some weird shit in your puff, my old friend.’
Barney popped the last of the roll ‘n bacon into his mouth. Everything is flawed, he thought. Bacon doesn’t retain heat. Maybe scientists are developing a bacon rasher that stays warm right to the end of the sandwich.
Keanu glanced at the impassive face of his boss and then looked back out to sea.
‘I reckon you ought to write a book,’ he said.
___________________________________________
Barney slept. The dream had come five nights running. Always the same. The same thump, the same confusion, the same dark figure, the same claw striking him down. The same sensation of warm blood crawling down his neck. Tonight he had popped some Zolpidem and headed straight to the sack. Knew that he would be groggy in the morning, but hoped that it would allow him to sleep through, too deep for any dreams to come. Any first-thing haircuts might veer towards the edge of litigation, but if things were at all ropey, he could just leave all the duties to Keanu.
A dull thump. Barney was brought up sharply from a cavernous, subterranean sleep. Dragged through a tunnel. Total confusion. He shot bolt upright in bed, no idea where he was, no idea what had woken him in the night. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the light. His chest heaved. He felt the unfamiliar chill of the wind and looked at the open window. Then his eyes were dragged back across the room.
A dark figure stood in the doorway.
____________________________________________
A pale sun. Not long before ten in the morning. Keanu had had a steady stream of old men through the door since eight-thirty, one turning up on cue just as the previous one was leaving. So far he had dished out a Steve Tyler, a Michael Jackson 1975, a Tony the Tiger and a Richard Dreyfus 'Jaws', and was currently trying to deal with an almost entirely bald ninety-five year old fella who had asked for a Thin Elvis. Beside him and around him, but never getting in the way, Igor swept.
‘So where’s the boss?’ said Thin Elvis suddenly, his head bobbing up as he slurped at a line of drool which had begun to cascade down his chin.
Keanu glanced at the clock. Where was Barney? Everyone asked. He wondered if anyone asked where he was when he wasn’t there.
‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘He’s had trouble sleeping recently. Maybe he managed to get his head down and decided to sleep through.’
He caught the old fella’s eye in the mirror, then returned to the cut. Felt Igor’s eyes on the back of his head. Didn’t turn. He was thinking the same thing that Igor had been thinking. You die in your dreams, you really die in your bed.
‘Did I tell you about my haemorrhoid operation?’ said the old bloke from behind a blast of spittle. ‘You can probably tell from the fact that I’m sitting on my big backside without my face contorted in tormented woe, that it was a triumph.’
He looked expectantly at Keanu and Igor, eyebrows raised.
‘And not an elastic band in sight,’ he added with a smile.
The door opened, saving the barbershop from any further revelations. Barney leant on the doorframe and waved at the guys. Igor leant on his brush and stared at him.
‘Man, you look like crap,’ said Keanu.
‘Long night,’ said Barney.
‘Still getting the heebee-jeebies?’
Barney nodded. Glanced over his shoulder to indicate the car.
‘Thought I’d take off for a few days, maybe the break will sort me out. You ok to hold down the fort?’
‘Arf,’ said Igor.
‘Sure,’ said Keanu. ‘I’ll keep all the old fellas in check.’
‘You’re not making too good a job of my Elvis,’ chirped the old fella from the chair. Keanu smiled.
‘Maurice,’ said Barney, ‘you could get plastic surgery and a wig, wear a white spangly suit and eat two million burgers, and you still wouldn’t look like Elvis.’
The old guy giggled. Barney exchanged a glance with Keanu, then they saluted each other.
‘Igor,’ said Barney, ‘stay away from the ladies.’
Igor smiled crookedly, then with another casual wave of the hand Barney stepped back, closed the door and walked out of sight.
They watched him go, and then Keanu turned back and looked at the almost bald head at the whim of his scissors.
‘Maurice,’ he said, ‘how about you embrace realism for a while?’
‘You mean, you want me to ask for a Kojak or a Yul Bryner?’ said the old guy.
Keanu caught his eye in the mirror.
‘Might make sense,’ he said.
‘Well you can fuckrightoff,’ said Maurice, smiling. ‘I want to look like the King.’
Outside, the seagull which had been watching Barney Thomson get into his car and drive off slowly in the direction of the Largs ferry, took one last look at the shop, then wheeled slowly away from the white promenade wall and flew off over the cold, grey sea.
____________________________________________
Barney felt like the drive. Took the tortuous route west, rather than any of the ferries across the Kyles and Loch Fyne. Over the Erskine Bridge, round sea lochs and past mountains, to Kintyre. As the crow, or the seagull, flew, it was no more than about twenty miles. However, it was a four hour drive down past Lomond, and round the end of all the sea lochs. Stopped for a while at the Ben Lomond at Tarbet. Fish and chips, a perfect cup of tea. Drove on.
Had thought about heading all the way to Campbeltown but had heard nothing but bad things from the old Millport collective. Turned right at Tarbert on Loch Fyne, and headed for the west coast of Kintyre. Down single tracks roads with passing places, sheep and ferns. Window open, he could smell the wet ground and the sea.
Fifteen miles or so down the road he came to the small village of Kilberrie, half a mile or so from the sea, a road running through it. The Kilberrie Hotel stood set back from the road, white walls and large windows looking out over the fields, across the sea to the paps of Jura. Barney pulled the car into the deserted car park. Wondered if the hotel was still open for business, or if the autumn lull had come suddenly early.
His feet crunched across stones. He pushed open the door and walked warily into the hotel lobby. Thick red carpet, a musty, smoky smell. A fireplace lay dormant, the room felt cold. A stag’s head looked down at him from above reception.
Barney stood at the counter feeling the unease. Front door open, but no other sign of life, no sign of the hotel being ready for business. Drummed his fingers on the countertop. Pinged the bell without thinking about it. A sharp sound in the smoky silence. Barney looked over his shoulder.
This is how horror movies start, he thought. Nightmares. A deserted and creepy hotel. Someone is about to arrive and tell him to leave this place.
Footsteps from the office and a small man appeared in reception, regarding Barney with a fair amount of suspicion. For a heavily balding, clean-shaven man, his head still managed to be all hair. Long strands of hair, occasionally crafted into a classic 1970’s combover, swirled about his head as if there was a strong wind blowing through reception, and his eyebrows created cavernous dark shadows across his face. More than anything, Barney noticed the beautiful, long, black eyelashes, an incongruous facial luxury in amongst the harsh surrounds of dry, ageing skin.
‘You’d like a room?’ said the man, raising one of those marvellous eyebrows, his voice an incongruous airy western lilt.
‘You have anything free?’ asked Barney.
‘Sure,’ said the old guy. ‘The whole place is deserted.’
‘Bit early for that,’ commented Barney, glancing at the walls.
‘Because of the Creep,’ and the old man glanced over his shoulder.
‘The Creep?’ said Barney.
‘The Creep,’ said the old guy, ‘that’s what they’re calling him. The ghost of a criminal who was murdered in the house two hundred years ago. Someone disturbed his spirit and now he’s haunting the place. Going into rooms, scaring the living daylights out of people…’
‘The Creep?’
The old guy nodded and looked over Barney’s shoulder to see if the Creep was about to approach reception.
‘You’re still here,’ said Barney.
‘I sleep up at the lodge,’ he said. ‘The Creep’s never been in the lodge.’
Barney nodded. Gave himself a moment, took another glance around the dark reception. Spirits flagged. How could he, Barney Thomson, expect to go anywhere without encountering death, mystery or demons in some form or another?
‘I’ll take the room,’ he said, and the old fella’s eyebrow crept a little higher.
_________________________________________
As soon as he entered he knew. Looked at the small gap in the window, felt the cold breeze coming in from the water. This was the room of his nightmares, this was the room where he would be attacked. But Barney Thomson had been through too much. It didn’t make him want to run away. He had to meet it head on.
Dropped his bag on the floor and walked over to the window. A view over fields, down to the sea. A bright day, the bald green hills of Jura beautiful in the late afternoon sun. He shivered and pushed down on the old wooden window frame. Wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder, but it wasn’t moving. The two inch gap and the cold wind it allowed to enter were staying.
He sat on the edge of the bed and then fell back, letting his head rest on a pillow. Stared at the ceiling. Felt no fear.
___________________________________________
Something moved in the night. A dull thump. Barney Thomson opened his eyes. A few seconds disconcerted. From deep sleep to wide awake. Early October, a cold night. Tried to remember where it was he’d been a second before. Had he been dreaming? He sat up quickly and looked round the room. Curtains open, the bedroom dull in the glow of a full moon.
2:09am. The fear began to fade. A car drove slowly along the road outside, he felt the chill of the wind through the small gap in the open window. He laid his head back on the pillow.
The chill wind. He remembered. The window he couldn’t close. He was in the room of his nightmares. He sat bolt upright.
It was standing in the doorway. A dark figure. A moment’s hesitation and then it raced towards the bed. A flash of long, pointed teeth, Barney could see the swirl of claws, dully reflecting the street lights. This was the moment of his dreams, this was the moment when he lay still and allowed the slice of a sharp claw to scythe through his neck.
Barney lifted himself up from the bed, but not quickly enough. It was upon him, arms swinging, claw scything through the air. Barney flinched. The claw swiped through soft tissue and the muscles in his neck. Warm blood dripped down Barney’s skin, soaking into his white t-shirt.
______________________________________________
Barney Thomson sat bolt upright in bed. Pouring sweat, pounding heart. His hand went to his neck, could still feel the swish of the blade. He looked at the open window, felt the chill wind. Didn’t wait this time, instantly felt the difference. The same dream, but for the first time he had awoken from it in the same room as the dream had just taken place.
He leapt out of bed, fumbled at the bedside light. Pressed the switch. Nothing. Pointlessly flicked it back and forth.
‘I could shed some light on things for you if you wanted,’ said a voice from the door.
Barney looked up. The figure was etched in darkness against the doorway. Barney could see nothing but shadows.
It laughed.
Barney grabbed the bedside lamp. Brass stem, small, brass-lined shade. Pulled the cord from the wall.
‘Bring it on,’ he heard himself say, and immediately felt embarrassed. Bring it on, for God’s sake… He’d be saying ‘bring the rain’ next.
‘Bring it on…?’ said the voice with scorn. He recognised him this time. The old man from the front desk. Who else could it be? This hotel had a cast of characters of one.
He stepped forward from the shadows. At least one part of Barney’s nightmare had been from the netherworld of dreams. No claws, no pointed teeth. Just an old guy with a scythe. Barney walked forward a pace, heart settling down, fear and panic gone. Once you are confronted with your terror, once battle is about to commence, then you can relax into it, knowing what’s coming. It’s the unknown that brings the fear.
'You're the Creep?' said Barney.
'Oh, I'm not the Creep,' said the old guy smiling.
They stared at each other across the grim shadows of the room. A few moments. Somewhere, away towards shore, a seagull pierced the early morning.
‘I’ve dreamed about you,’ said the old guy. ‘Strange. I’ve killed six already, six of you people, but you’re the only one I’ve seen coming. You’re the only one I’ve seen dying before it happened.’
‘I expect your mother took your teddy away when you were five,’ said Barney scornfully, immediately annoyed at himself for the glib cliché.
‘Killed her before she had the chance,’ said the old bloke with some hubris. Mostly to cover the fact that Barney wasn’t entirely inaccurate. The abuse had gone far beyond teddy bear removal however.
‘I’ve seen you coming too,’ said Barney. ‘Been dreaming about this for the past week.’
The old man lifted an eyebrow. Grinned broadly.
‘There’s some weird shit going on, right enough,’ he said. ‘Might be just about time to end it.’
Barney gripped the heavy metal of the lamp.
‘I’ve died quite enough in the past week, thanks very much,’ he said.
The guy barked out a laugh, then started to move forward, the scythe raised.
‘They say if you die in your dreams, you really die in your bed!’ he cried, and plunged forward.
‘I’m not in my bed!’ cried Barney, and with one simple easy movement, he swung his head to the side. The scythe came chopping past him, the wind whistling through Barney’s hair, Barney ducked to the side and swung the lamp up in a massive, powerful parabolic movement. It cracked into the side of the old guy’s head and sent him crashing sideways.
A moment’s action, and it was over. The scythe fell from his hands, his head banged on the edge of the bed, he collapsed to the floor. Barney stood over him, lamp still held above his head, waiting to swing down again. But there was no need. An old man, maybe a serial murderer, maybe not, but it hadn’t taken much. He lay on the floor, blood coming from the wound in his head, his breath coming in short little gasps.
Never taking his eye off him, Barney Thomson sat down on the edge of the bed and flicked open his mobile phone.
_________________________________________________
Detective Chief Inspector Shelley stood at the window of the bedroom and looked down as old man Morrison was taken out to the ambulance under police escort, to the accompaniment of a few birds and the grey light of dawn.
‘Funny business,’ he said over his shoulder. The police sergeant looked round, but seemed to realise that he wasn’t speaking to him.
‘It’s always a funny business,’ said Barney Thomson, who had moved in the interim, but was once again sitting on the edge of the bed.
Shelley turned and looked at him.
‘You’ve had this kind of thing happen before?’ he asked.
Shelley wasn’t used to mass murder, although he was beginning to suspect that the questions about all the disappearances they’d had reported in the last six months might just about to be answered.
‘Yeah,’ said Barney, with some melancholy. ‘You could say that…’
__________________________________________________
There was a fresh and cool breeze coming in off the sea as Barney walked along the street, stopped at the barber shop, and walked slowly inside. Just the day after he had left to go away for a few days.
Keanu looked up from the paper. Igor glanced over his hump from where he was sweeping up.
‘Arf?’ he said.
‘I’m cool,’ said Barney. ‘Didn’t take much.’
‘Nightmares gone?’ asked Keanu.
Barney closed the door behind him and nodded.
‘Should be,’ he said. ‘Slow day?’
Keanu smiled. ‘Oh, we’ve had a couple so far. Couple of old guys. Everyone talking about the football. Did you see it?’
Barney shook his head.
‘Rangers get gubbed?’
‘Won three-nil,’ said Keanu.
Barney glanced at Igor who nodded.
‘In France? You’re kidding?’
Keanu held up the back page of the paper for a him to take a look.
‘Arf?’ asked Igor.
‘Sure,’ said Barney, ‘a cup of tea would be great.’
He turned and looked outside, just as a seagull landed on the white promenade wall across the road. It stared in through the window and they held each others’ gaze for a short time. Was the seagull some harbinger of death that had not been satisfied by the way the small incident in Kilberrie had played out?
Or was it just a seagull?
‘I mean,’ said Keanu, ‘Rangers two wins out of two in the Champions League, Scotland top of a group containing France and Italy and the rugby team in the World Cup quarter-final. It’s like the Sound of Music or something.’
He smiled at the absurdity of the comment and looked back at the paper.
‘There’s a reality check round every corner,’ said Barney simply, as he leant on the window frame and looked out at the sea.
‘Look at this,’ said Keanu, ‘apparently they’re holding an inquest to establish whether or not Diana was killed by an illegal BBC phone-in competition…’
THE END
Tried to remember where it was he’d been a second before. Had he been dreaming? Some part of his dream had brought him up suddenly to the surface. Maybe it had been something outside. Or in the room.
He felt the sudden shard of fear down his back, sat up quickly and looked round the room. Curtains open, the bedroom dull in the glow of a full moon. Glanced at the clock. 2:09am. The fear began to fade, the feeling of the noise which had awoken him began to ebb away with the night. He forgot that the muffled thud had come from outwith his body, had sounded real, had penetrated him.
The clock clicked over to 2:10am. A car drove slowly along the road outside, he felt the chill of the wind through the small gap in the open window. He laid his head back on the pillow. Eyes still open, no sign of tiredness coming back. Some part of him knew.
Then he realised why the scene made him feel uncomfortable. The chill wind. He had closed the window when he’d gone to bed. He sat bolt upright.
It was standing in the doorway. A dark figure. A moment’s hesitation and then it raced towards the bed. A flash of long, pointed teeth, Barney could see the swirl of claws dully reflecting the street lights. His mouth opened. He saw one green eye. A claw descended and Barney Thomson felt the slice of the sharp claw as it scythed through his neck. Warm blood dripped down his skin, soaking into his white t-shirt.
He stared up. A last look. The jagged end of a jagged claw thrust deep into his eye socket.
_________________________________________________________________
A chill late September morning. The guys of the barbershop were staring out of the window across the street to the cold, grey sea. Leaves lay on the ground, the few people who walked by were submerged beneath layers of clothes. Already felt like winter.
The shop was warm and lazy, the soporific quiet of a long off-season already setting in. Barney had his hands full, but only literally. A bacon roll and a cup of tea. Igor, his deaf, mute, hunchbacked assistant was leaning on his brush, drinking a cup of coffee. Keanu, the coolest barbetorial assistant this side of Weymss Bay, was leaning against the doorframe, cup of tea resting on the window ledge, roll in his hands.
‘Cold,’ said Keanu. ‘I mean, out there, not in here.’
‘Arf,’ muttered Igor. His wedding date had been set. The end of November. He tried not to let it consume him, but he couldn’t help it. Every statement seemed to impact on that day. Cold in September, what was it going to be like by November?
‘The weather’s so screwed up at the moment,’ said Keanu. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Cold now, twenty-five degrees in a month. You can never tell.’
Igor nodded and began to worry about it being too hot. What if there was a hurricane?
A seagull landed on the white promenade wall across the road. It looked in at the shop, seemed to wink directly at Barney, and then turned and flew away back out to sea. A moment, and then Igor and Keanu looked at Barney, who was staring impassively out across the water.
‘Did that seagull just wink at you?’ said Keanu.
Barney didn’t flinch, didn’t answer, didn’t turn. The seagull had winked at him, no question. It had looked right through him, into the depths of his soul. And then it had winked.
‘I dreamt I got murdered last night,’ he said. ‘Woke up sweating buckets.’
‘Arf,’ said Igor.
‘You dreamt you got murdered?’ said Keanu. ‘I thought they say that if you die in your dreams, you really die in your bed?’
Barney glanced at him and smiled. A small shrug.
‘Still here,’ he said.
‘Maybe I got that from a Bruce Spingsteen song,’ said Keanu.
‘Valentine’s Day,’ said Igor. Although the only word that crossed his lips was arf.
‘Maybe it’s if you pish yourself in your dreams…’ said Keanu, and let the thought drift off. Springsteen hadn’t written about that.
‘A guy came into my room,’ continued Barney, ‘leapt on top of me, slit my throat… I think it was a guy. It was a dream, you know. There was something not quite right about it.’
‘Did it seem real? I mean, did it happen in your own bedroom?’
‘It was real,’ said Barney. ‘Felt real even after I’d woken up. Couldn’t work out where it had happened, though.’
Old Rusty Brown walked past the shop on the other side of the road and waved casually in their direction. They waved back, watched him mince slowly away in the direction of his morning cup of tea, his morning paper and all that day’s news according to the Daily Express. Madeleine still missing, Diana still dead. The bus bringing a few wretched souls from the Largs ferry scuttled sombrely past. Far out to sea, a small vessel made its way towards Arran. The wind rattled the shop front.
‘Died in your dreams, and now a seagull winked at you,’ said Keanu. ‘You have some weird shit in your puff, my old friend.’
Barney popped the last of the roll ‘n bacon into his mouth. Everything is flawed, he thought. Bacon doesn’t retain heat. Maybe scientists are developing a bacon rasher that stays warm right to the end of the sandwich.
Keanu glanced at the impassive face of his boss and then looked back out to sea.
‘I reckon you ought to write a book,’ he said.
___________________________________________
Barney slept. The dream had come five nights running. Always the same. The same thump, the same confusion, the same dark figure, the same claw striking him down. The same sensation of warm blood crawling down his neck. Tonight he had popped some Zolpidem and headed straight to the sack. Knew that he would be groggy in the morning, but hoped that it would allow him to sleep through, too deep for any dreams to come. Any first-thing haircuts might veer towards the edge of litigation, but if things were at all ropey, he could just leave all the duties to Keanu.
A dull thump. Barney was brought up sharply from a cavernous, subterranean sleep. Dragged through a tunnel. Total confusion. He shot bolt upright in bed, no idea where he was, no idea what had woken him in the night. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the light. His chest heaved. He felt the unfamiliar chill of the wind and looked at the open window. Then his eyes were dragged back across the room.
A dark figure stood in the doorway.
____________________________________________
A pale sun. Not long before ten in the morning. Keanu had had a steady stream of old men through the door since eight-thirty, one turning up on cue just as the previous one was leaving. So far he had dished out a Steve Tyler, a Michael Jackson 1975, a Tony the Tiger and a Richard Dreyfus 'Jaws', and was currently trying to deal with an almost entirely bald ninety-five year old fella who had asked for a Thin Elvis. Beside him and around him, but never getting in the way, Igor swept.
‘So where’s the boss?’ said Thin Elvis suddenly, his head bobbing up as he slurped at a line of drool which had begun to cascade down his chin.
Keanu glanced at the clock. Where was Barney? Everyone asked. He wondered if anyone asked where he was when he wasn’t there.
‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘He’s had trouble sleeping recently. Maybe he managed to get his head down and decided to sleep through.’
He caught the old fella’s eye in the mirror, then returned to the cut. Felt Igor’s eyes on the back of his head. Didn’t turn. He was thinking the same thing that Igor had been thinking. You die in your dreams, you really die in your bed.
‘Did I tell you about my haemorrhoid operation?’ said the old bloke from behind a blast of spittle. ‘You can probably tell from the fact that I’m sitting on my big backside without my face contorted in tormented woe, that it was a triumph.’
He looked expectantly at Keanu and Igor, eyebrows raised.
‘And not an elastic band in sight,’ he added with a smile.
The door opened, saving the barbershop from any further revelations. Barney leant on the doorframe and waved at the guys. Igor leant on his brush and stared at him.
‘Man, you look like crap,’ said Keanu.
‘Long night,’ said Barney.
‘Still getting the heebee-jeebies?’
Barney nodded. Glanced over his shoulder to indicate the car.
‘Thought I’d take off for a few days, maybe the break will sort me out. You ok to hold down the fort?’
‘Arf,’ said Igor.
‘Sure,’ said Keanu. ‘I’ll keep all the old fellas in check.’
‘You’re not making too good a job of my Elvis,’ chirped the old fella from the chair. Keanu smiled.
‘Maurice,’ said Barney, ‘you could get plastic surgery and a wig, wear a white spangly suit and eat two million burgers, and you still wouldn’t look like Elvis.’
The old guy giggled. Barney exchanged a glance with Keanu, then they saluted each other.
‘Igor,’ said Barney, ‘stay away from the ladies.’
Igor smiled crookedly, then with another casual wave of the hand Barney stepped back, closed the door and walked out of sight.
They watched him go, and then Keanu turned back and looked at the almost bald head at the whim of his scissors.
‘Maurice,’ he said, ‘how about you embrace realism for a while?’
‘You mean, you want me to ask for a Kojak or a Yul Bryner?’ said the old guy.
Keanu caught his eye in the mirror.
‘Might make sense,’ he said.
‘Well you can fuckrightoff,’ said Maurice, smiling. ‘I want to look like the King.’
Outside, the seagull which had been watching Barney Thomson get into his car and drive off slowly in the direction of the Largs ferry, took one last look at the shop, then wheeled slowly away from the white promenade wall and flew off over the cold, grey sea.
____________________________________________
Barney felt like the drive. Took the tortuous route west, rather than any of the ferries across the Kyles and Loch Fyne. Over the Erskine Bridge, round sea lochs and past mountains, to Kintyre. As the crow, or the seagull, flew, it was no more than about twenty miles. However, it was a four hour drive down past Lomond, and round the end of all the sea lochs. Stopped for a while at the Ben Lomond at Tarbet. Fish and chips, a perfect cup of tea. Drove on.
Had thought about heading all the way to Campbeltown but had heard nothing but bad things from the old Millport collective. Turned right at Tarbert on Loch Fyne, and headed for the west coast of Kintyre. Down single tracks roads with passing places, sheep and ferns. Window open, he could smell the wet ground and the sea.
Fifteen miles or so down the road he came to the small village of Kilberrie, half a mile or so from the sea, a road running through it. The Kilberrie Hotel stood set back from the road, white walls and large windows looking out over the fields, across the sea to the paps of Jura. Barney pulled the car into the deserted car park. Wondered if the hotel was still open for business, or if the autumn lull had come suddenly early.
His feet crunched across stones. He pushed open the door and walked warily into the hotel lobby. Thick red carpet, a musty, smoky smell. A fireplace lay dormant, the room felt cold. A stag’s head looked down at him from above reception.
Barney stood at the counter feeling the unease. Front door open, but no other sign of life, no sign of the hotel being ready for business. Drummed his fingers on the countertop. Pinged the bell without thinking about it. A sharp sound in the smoky silence. Barney looked over his shoulder.
This is how horror movies start, he thought. Nightmares. A deserted and creepy hotel. Someone is about to arrive and tell him to leave this place.
Footsteps from the office and a small man appeared in reception, regarding Barney with a fair amount of suspicion. For a heavily balding, clean-shaven man, his head still managed to be all hair. Long strands of hair, occasionally crafted into a classic 1970’s combover, swirled about his head as if there was a strong wind blowing through reception, and his eyebrows created cavernous dark shadows across his face. More than anything, Barney noticed the beautiful, long, black eyelashes, an incongruous facial luxury in amongst the harsh surrounds of dry, ageing skin.
‘You’d like a room?’ said the man, raising one of those marvellous eyebrows, his voice an incongruous airy western lilt.
‘You have anything free?’ asked Barney.
‘Sure,’ said the old guy. ‘The whole place is deserted.’
‘Bit early for that,’ commented Barney, glancing at the walls.
‘Because of the Creep,’ and the old man glanced over his shoulder.
‘The Creep?’ said Barney.
‘The Creep,’ said the old guy, ‘that’s what they’re calling him. The ghost of a criminal who was murdered in the house two hundred years ago. Someone disturbed his spirit and now he’s haunting the place. Going into rooms, scaring the living daylights out of people…’
‘The Creep?’
The old guy nodded and looked over Barney’s shoulder to see if the Creep was about to approach reception.
‘You’re still here,’ said Barney.
‘I sleep up at the lodge,’ he said. ‘The Creep’s never been in the lodge.’
Barney nodded. Gave himself a moment, took another glance around the dark reception. Spirits flagged. How could he, Barney Thomson, expect to go anywhere without encountering death, mystery or demons in some form or another?
‘I’ll take the room,’ he said, and the old fella’s eyebrow crept a little higher.
_________________________________________
As soon as he entered he knew. Looked at the small gap in the window, felt the cold breeze coming in from the water. This was the room of his nightmares, this was the room where he would be attacked. But Barney Thomson had been through too much. It didn’t make him want to run away. He had to meet it head on.
Dropped his bag on the floor and walked over to the window. A view over fields, down to the sea. A bright day, the bald green hills of Jura beautiful in the late afternoon sun. He shivered and pushed down on the old wooden window frame. Wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder, but it wasn’t moving. The two inch gap and the cold wind it allowed to enter were staying.
He sat on the edge of the bed and then fell back, letting his head rest on a pillow. Stared at the ceiling. Felt no fear.
___________________________________________
Something moved in the night. A dull thump. Barney Thomson opened his eyes. A few seconds disconcerted. From deep sleep to wide awake. Early October, a cold night. Tried to remember where it was he’d been a second before. Had he been dreaming? He sat up quickly and looked round the room. Curtains open, the bedroom dull in the glow of a full moon.
2:09am. The fear began to fade. A car drove slowly along the road outside, he felt the chill of the wind through the small gap in the open window. He laid his head back on the pillow.
The chill wind. He remembered. The window he couldn’t close. He was in the room of his nightmares. He sat bolt upright.
It was standing in the doorway. A dark figure. A moment’s hesitation and then it raced towards the bed. A flash of long, pointed teeth, Barney could see the swirl of claws, dully reflecting the street lights. This was the moment of his dreams, this was the moment when he lay still and allowed the slice of a sharp claw to scythe through his neck.
Barney lifted himself up from the bed, but not quickly enough. It was upon him, arms swinging, claw scything through the air. Barney flinched. The claw swiped through soft tissue and the muscles in his neck. Warm blood dripped down Barney’s skin, soaking into his white t-shirt.
______________________________________________
Barney Thomson sat bolt upright in bed. Pouring sweat, pounding heart. His hand went to his neck, could still feel the swish of the blade. He looked at the open window, felt the chill wind. Didn’t wait this time, instantly felt the difference. The same dream, but for the first time he had awoken from it in the same room as the dream had just taken place.
He leapt out of bed, fumbled at the bedside light. Pressed the switch. Nothing. Pointlessly flicked it back and forth.
‘I could shed some light on things for you if you wanted,’ said a voice from the door.
Barney looked up. The figure was etched in darkness against the doorway. Barney could see nothing but shadows.
It laughed.
Barney grabbed the bedside lamp. Brass stem, small, brass-lined shade. Pulled the cord from the wall.
‘Bring it on,’ he heard himself say, and immediately felt embarrassed. Bring it on, for God’s sake… He’d be saying ‘bring the rain’ next.
‘Bring it on…?’ said the voice with scorn. He recognised him this time. The old man from the front desk. Who else could it be? This hotel had a cast of characters of one.
He stepped forward from the shadows. At least one part of Barney’s nightmare had been from the netherworld of dreams. No claws, no pointed teeth. Just an old guy with a scythe. Barney walked forward a pace, heart settling down, fear and panic gone. Once you are confronted with your terror, once battle is about to commence, then you can relax into it, knowing what’s coming. It’s the unknown that brings the fear.
'You're the Creep?' said Barney.
'Oh, I'm not the Creep,' said the old guy smiling.
They stared at each other across the grim shadows of the room. A few moments. Somewhere, away towards shore, a seagull pierced the early morning.
‘I’ve dreamed about you,’ said the old guy. ‘Strange. I’ve killed six already, six of you people, but you’re the only one I’ve seen coming. You’re the only one I’ve seen dying before it happened.’
‘I expect your mother took your teddy away when you were five,’ said Barney scornfully, immediately annoyed at himself for the glib cliché.
‘Killed her before she had the chance,’ said the old bloke with some hubris. Mostly to cover the fact that Barney wasn’t entirely inaccurate. The abuse had gone far beyond teddy bear removal however.
‘I’ve seen you coming too,’ said Barney. ‘Been dreaming about this for the past week.’
The old man lifted an eyebrow. Grinned broadly.
‘There’s some weird shit going on, right enough,’ he said. ‘Might be just about time to end it.’
Barney gripped the heavy metal of the lamp.
‘I’ve died quite enough in the past week, thanks very much,’ he said.
The guy barked out a laugh, then started to move forward, the scythe raised.
‘They say if you die in your dreams, you really die in your bed!’ he cried, and plunged forward.
‘I’m not in my bed!’ cried Barney, and with one simple easy movement, he swung his head to the side. The scythe came chopping past him, the wind whistling through Barney’s hair, Barney ducked to the side and swung the lamp up in a massive, powerful parabolic movement. It cracked into the side of the old guy’s head and sent him crashing sideways.
A moment’s action, and it was over. The scythe fell from his hands, his head banged on the edge of the bed, he collapsed to the floor. Barney stood over him, lamp still held above his head, waiting to swing down again. But there was no need. An old man, maybe a serial murderer, maybe not, but it hadn’t taken much. He lay on the floor, blood coming from the wound in his head, his breath coming in short little gasps.
Never taking his eye off him, Barney Thomson sat down on the edge of the bed and flicked open his mobile phone.
_________________________________________________
Detective Chief Inspector Shelley stood at the window of the bedroom and looked down as old man Morrison was taken out to the ambulance under police escort, to the accompaniment of a few birds and the grey light of dawn.
‘Funny business,’ he said over his shoulder. The police sergeant looked round, but seemed to realise that he wasn’t speaking to him.
‘It’s always a funny business,’ said Barney Thomson, who had moved in the interim, but was once again sitting on the edge of the bed.
Shelley turned and looked at him.
‘You’ve had this kind of thing happen before?’ he asked.
Shelley wasn’t used to mass murder, although he was beginning to suspect that the questions about all the disappearances they’d had reported in the last six months might just about to be answered.
‘Yeah,’ said Barney, with some melancholy. ‘You could say that…’
__________________________________________________
There was a fresh and cool breeze coming in off the sea as Barney walked along the street, stopped at the barber shop, and walked slowly inside. Just the day after he had left to go away for a few days.
Keanu looked up from the paper. Igor glanced over his hump from where he was sweeping up.
‘Arf?’ he said.
‘I’m cool,’ said Barney. ‘Didn’t take much.’
‘Nightmares gone?’ asked Keanu.
Barney closed the door behind him and nodded.
‘Should be,’ he said. ‘Slow day?’
Keanu smiled. ‘Oh, we’ve had a couple so far. Couple of old guys. Everyone talking about the football. Did you see it?’
Barney shook his head.
‘Rangers get gubbed?’
‘Won three-nil,’ said Keanu.
Barney glanced at Igor who nodded.
‘In France? You’re kidding?’
Keanu held up the back page of the paper for a him to take a look.
‘Arf?’ asked Igor.
‘Sure,’ said Barney, ‘a cup of tea would be great.’
He turned and looked outside, just as a seagull landed on the white promenade wall across the road. It stared in through the window and they held each others’ gaze for a short time. Was the seagull some harbinger of death that had not been satisfied by the way the small incident in Kilberrie had played out?
Or was it just a seagull?
‘I mean,’ said Keanu, ‘Rangers two wins out of two in the Champions League, Scotland top of a group containing France and Italy and the rugby team in the World Cup quarter-final. It’s like the Sound of Music or something.’
He smiled at the absurdity of the comment and looked back at the paper.
‘There’s a reality check round every corner,’ said Barney simply, as he leant on the window frame and looked out at the sea.
‘Look at this,’ said Keanu, ‘apparently they’re holding an inquest to establish whether or not Diana was killed by an illegal BBC phone-in competition…’
THE END
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