Murderers Anonymous (40 page)

'Tonight,' he said.

An instant. Then Mulholland frowned; Proudfoot looked like a kid who'd been offered a pot of paint and a spray gun in the house of a relative she didn't like.

'You can't do that, can you?' said Mulholland.

Rolanoytez laughed, and it sounded joyous and romantic and adventurous.

'Why not? It will be just wonderful! Seize the day, my children. This moment has been presented to us. Grasp it with both hands and do the will of the Lord.'

Mulholland lifted his shoulders and waved his fork around. A small bit of gravy fell to the floor and soaked into the carpet.

'Marriage licence? Posting banns? All that stuff?' he said.

Rolanoytez raised his shoulders and the smile returned to his face.

'And the Lord said, “There is but one moment, and that moment is now.” There would be paperwork to be done next week, but I am God's organ, here to do his bidding. A marriage made in the Lord's house is a true and a just one, and the bonds cannot be broken. You will require a couple of witnesses, and the bond can be made.'

There is but one moment and that moment is now.

Didn't really sound like Jesus, thought Proudfoot. More like
Dead Poets Society
. Of course, she hadn't stepped into a church since she'd been three, apart from during the case of Davie One Nut, who'd been strapped naked to a statue of the Virgin Mary on his stag night, and had frozen to death by the time he'd been discovered. And so her doubt passed.

Rolanoytez leaned forward, taking the hands of the soon-to-be-happy couple. His face was warm and encouraging and the light of love and hope beamed upon them.

'Do it, my friends. Take the Lord into your hearts and be wed before him.'

Getting carried away with it all. As you do. Not sure about the 'taking the Lord into my heart' bit, thought Proudfoot, but Mulholland looked glorious in the light of the fire and the candles; her James Bond.

'No,' said Mulholland. With infinite finality.

Proudfoot swallowed and sat back. Tears threatened once more. For all his words, when it came to it, maybe he hadn't changed at all. The Reverend Rolanoytez sensed the immediate intrusion of atmosphere and pushed his chair back, lifted his plate.

'Tell you what,' he said, voice filled with heavenly concern. 'Why don't I leave you alone for a minute while you have a wee chat to yourselves?'

He began to walk slowly from the room. And in a moment of cheeky psychosis, he winked at Proudfoot, smiled encouragingly and was gone.

The fire crackled. Mulholland spooned some more stew onto his plate. Head down, he didn't look at her. Knew what she was thinking, but she was wrong. He attempted to order his thoughts, but the sludge in his head was too thick.

Felt her eyes burrowing into him. The grace of another few days before the commitment was made was being snatched away. Ridiculously and absurdly, and he knew instantly that this would all be part of the game. Refuse the blistering romance of this, and Proudfoot would assume fear and lack of interest on his part.

'Well?' she said, the word whipping out.

He looked up. Stew on his lips. Tried not to show what he was thinking.

'It's stupid.'

'Why? What difference does it make? I thought you wanted to get married. You wanted to get married two minutes ago.'

'I know. Just not like this. I mean, we'll still have to go to a registrar, won't we? For all his sanctity of God's house crap, that old fart pronouncing us married in the middle of the night probably won't mean diddley-fuck. So what's the point?'

She threw her arms out. Losing the emotional self-defence.

'It's romantic, for Christ's sake. That's what marriage is supposed to be about, isn't it?'

'It's stupid. Let's take a few days to plan it.'

'Plan what? There's no family, no friends, no honeymoon, no flowers, no walk down the aisle. What's there to plan? This is it, Joel, you either want to do it or you don't.'

He looked her in the eye. Right enough. You either want it, Joel, or you don't. Didn't matter whether it was before an eccentric old minister in the middle of the night or in the cold light of day before a boring stiff in a suit in a registrar's office. The effect was pretty much the same.

'Look,' she said, not letting him away with further protestations. 'I know nothing about the law of it, but it probably means something. We'll be married in a church, for God's sake, and who would have thought that would happen? God's sake, Mulholland, I love you, and you, as far as anyone can tell, probably love me, so who gives a shit if it's the middle of the sodding night, it's pishing down like a whore's pyjamas, and it's probably illegal? Let's just go for it. It's romantic, it's spur of the moment, it's impetuous, it's Jade Weapon. You've walked out on me once before, and if you do it again I'll crush your balls like a dumper truck, you bloody bastard. So let's just, for fuck's sake, cut the crap, stop messing about, and get married.'

Mulholland dabbed the stew from his lips. Their eyes locked together. Hearts beating as one.

'That you quoting Shakespeare again?'

Proudfoot's shoulders collapsed in an emotional heap. Her impassioned plea greeted by the usual male defence to emotion. A cheap gag.

The Reverend Rolanoytez, who had undoubtedly heard every word, returned to the room and sat himself down at the table. God's light still shone in those eyes. He looked from one star-crossed lover to the other; waiting.

'What about witnesses?' said Mulholland, the first to speak.

The Reverend Rolanoytez did not hesitate. The big house lay a couple of miles up the road, and there awaited any number of potential victims.

'A mile or two up the road,' he said. 'It is some way, but I can give you rainwear to see you through the storm. There is a house of some size.'

'We know,' said Mulholland. He looked at Proudfoot, who shrugged.

'Ah, wonderful. There is a party there. A group of some description, on a Christmas weekend away. I'm sure you could find two of them to share in your joy. You could phone, but perhaps for something such as this you might need the personal touch. I shall ready the church. Turn on the heating and light the candles. I shall prepare everything. Finish your dinner and then set out for the house. I shall meet you at the church at eleven o'clock. Oh, dear Lord, it will be joyous!'

This is stupid, thought Mulholland. It was all wonderfully contrived, but the policeman in him was completely wasted.

Why not? he now thought, at last giving in to Proudfoot's emotion. Why not be stupid? He still had another couple of hours to back out. Still had another couple of hours to get lost in the woods.

'Let's do it,' he said. Heart of light and stone.

'You sure?' asked Proudfoot.

'Of course not,' he said, starting to laugh.

The smile spread across her face; tears fell. And the smile spread across the face of the Reverend Rolanoytez's killer. For he knew who would return with them from the big house.

He just knew.

Post-dinner, the mood for the evening was set. Small groups had dispersed around the house, and the usual Christmas spirit had completely gone. Still no Arnie Medlock, Morty Goldman or Billy Hamilton. Annie Webster and Ellie Winters had finally and firmly nailed their colours to the mast. Ending more speculation than usually surrounds the election of a pope or the draw for the first round of the Champion's League, they had chosen to eschew the host of men, who had gathered to slobber at their doors, and were snuggling down together in front of the dwindling fire.

And so the men had gone their ways, suitably chastened and abandoned in all their masculine impotence. Mince without potatoes. They could have reacted by swarming around Katie Dillinger, but they had been warned off by the look on her face – she was clearly upset by the missing three, which was even worse than her being annoyed – and by the presence at her side of Barney Thomson. The evil Barney Thomson. For all these men had heard about the man; they knew what he'd done in the past, and they were beginning to think that maybe it had been his doing that so many of their number had fallen away. Perhaps he was taking them out, one by one. And so none would cross him, and none would get in the way of his attempted conquest of Dillinger.

Fergus Flaherty the Fernhill Flutist and Socrates McCartney were at the snooker table. Bobby Dear was watching them intently, waiting to play the winner. Developing a strategy.

Sammy Gilchrist was sitting in the lounge, pretending to read a book, keeping his eyes on Ellie Winters and Annie Webster. He'd heard about this kind of thing – of course he had – but he'd never actually seen it done. Wondering if they were going to get stuck in or whether they'd save it for the privacy of their room later on.

Barney and Katie Dillinger sat side by side on a huge sofa, staring at the dying fire; and in Barney's case, trying not to stare at the Webster/Winters combo.

'This is a disaster,' said Dillinger, breaking ten minutes of silence.

Barney slowly nodded. He didn't feel it so badly, but he could see it for what it was. If only he'd known, he could have spent the weekend sitting in the pub with old Leyman, talking about Elvis. Yet he was next to the woman and this evening had brought them closer. This still had potential.

If he could spend the night in the company of someone else, then he would grasp the opportunity. The walls had eyes, darkness had come, and once the lights went out who knew what walked the floors and skulked in secret passageways? And he knew that his nightmare awaited him, for when he finally closed his eyes.

He placed his hand on top of hers, squeezed slightly.

'Don't worry about it. They'll be fine,' he said. Didn't believe a word of it. Everyone in his life got murdered.

She let out a short, bitter little laugh.

'God, I don't know,' she said, but did not remove her hand from his. 'It's the same every year. There are tensions and doubts and anger. Always. But I usually manage to keep it in check. Or Arnie usually manages to keep it in check. Or The Hammer, but God knows what he's up to. I suppose it was bound to go wrong some time. But if one of this lot have done something to Arnie ...' and she let the sentence drift off.

'Arnie can take care of himself,' said Barney, not doubting for even a second that Arnie had already been turned into dog food.

'I'm scared for him,' she said. 'Really scared.'

Barney swooped.

He placed his arm around her shoulder and drew her towards him. It seemed so natural, although he had not had such intimacy with a woman in decades. And Dillinger gave in to the comfort and leaned towards him, resting against his chest.

Bing Crosby was joined by the Andrews Sisters for some mindless piece of Christmas twaddle, and the two unhappy couples snuggled down in front of the fire.

Sammy Gilchrist watched and wondered and waited.

***

They struggled on through the rain. Had done a lot of walking and they were both tired, but the meal and fresh clothes had revived them. And now they had waterproof jackets and an umbrella each, and so the relentless downpour did not seem so bad.

'Do you feel swept along by the tide?' asked Proudfoot, to break a long silence.

Mulholland considered his reply. They notice every word, every nuance, he said to himself. Be very careful.

'Aye, I suppose,' is all he could manage. 'And this. Going to a house which is occupied by a known murderer to ask for witnesses to our wedding. How stupid is that? How's it going to look with our lot if Annie pops up and volunteers?'