Murderers Anonymous (47 page)

'What is it about you, mate?' said Mulholland. 'You keep turning up with these bloody nutters.'

Barney shook his head. 'No idea, but it's getting on my tits.'

'I bet it is.'

'Hey, this would make a brilliant movie, wouldn't it no?' said Socrates. 'A bit of lesbian shagging and a deranged old cunt with a crossbow. It's just like
Star Trek
or something.'

Mulholland gave him a quizzical look and then turned back to Blizzard, still mean and armed up on the pulpit. He had had enough. And despite the swinging bodies in front of him, did not believe for a second that any of them were going to come to any harm. Or perhaps just did not care.

'Come on, then, you old arse,' he said up to the pulpit, 'what's the score? You've got us all where you want us, so what's next?'

Blizzard twitched, mouth in a sneer. The crossbow shook slightly in his hand. His eyebrows knitted together, so much more telling black than grey.

'You know,' said Blizzard, 'I had intended just to kill the one of you, you know. I was going to kill seven folk in all. Seven. It's a good number.'

'Go on, then, Batman,' said Mulholland, his usual tired voice that he reserved for the criminal element at their most narcissistic. 'Why seven? I'm sure we're all interested.'

Dillinger had almost reached the door. Freedom awaited. A quick dash and she could have been there in a second. Back out into the rain, a run for freedom, and she could concentrate on Arnie's dead eyes and the sadness that would engulf her. Yet at the door to freedom, she fatally hesitated. A combination of doubt and curiosity. There was something about this madman which gripped her; and she feared for the others should she flee. What kind of person was she to get herself out at their expense? A decent, honest woman, Katie Dillinger, those four murdered husbands aside. And she would pay for that decency.

'Seven!' exclaimed old Leyman; different, yet the same as the wee, grey-haired man who had been handing out Jimmy Stewarts with a certain degree of confidence only the day before. 'Seven is the number of God, and I am his head executioner. I am the begetter of life and the bringer of eternal misery. I exercise his will. I am our vengeful God incarnate. I shall be king!'

'Jings,' said Socrates, 'how far up his own arse is this guy?'

'Seven,' continued the mad Blizzard, unconcerned with the comments from the cheap seats, 'is the number of angels he sent down to proclaim the New Jerusalem. It's everywhere. Seven Deadly Sins. The Seven Wonders of the World. The Seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse.'

'
The Magnificent Seven
,' said Mulholland, ignoring the last remark.

'What?'

'
Blake's Seven
,' said Proudfoot.

'Ooh, I really liked
Blake's Seven
,' said Socrates. 'Not that there were ever seven of the bastards.'

'
The Seven Samurai
,' said Mulholland, voice still flat. 'And
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
.'

'The TR7,' said Proudfoot. Had had sex in a TR7 when she was fifteen.

'Shut it!' barked Blizzard. 'Just shut it, the lot of you.'

'The number seven bus from Springburn to Auldearn,' said Socrates.

'Shut up!'

'Celtic beat Aberdeen seven-nil last season,' said Mulholland. 'You're right. It is everywhere. Good choice, you old wank. Couldn't have picked a better number.'

'Listen you brain-dead polis scumbag,' said Blizzard, 'I'm warning you. Seven might be a brilliant number 'n' all that, but I'm more than willing to make it eleven. The five of you just shut the bastard up. Let me finish.'

'Who were the first six?' asked Proudfoot. Voice low and calm. Back to normal. Recognised that he was about to vent the anger they were building within him. Took a step forward as she said it, and Mulholland joined her in the small movement. If the two of them charged the pulpit from different sides, there was no way he'd get them both with a single crossbow. Assuming, of course, he didn't have another fifty weapons stashed about his person.

'Ah,' said Blizzard, relaxed and back on home territory. A murderer at ease with his subject matter. 'Glad you asked. These two numpties, obviously. Then there were the last three in Glasgow, and the first one youse probably don't know about. I never saw it in the papers, you see, so I don't know if they found the body.'

'What about the minister?' said Mulholland.

'What?'

'That garb you're wearing. The manse. I'm assuming you killed him.'

Blizzard looked awkwardly at the floor. The crossbow sagged a little and suddenly the arrow didn't look so sharp.

'Maybe,' he said.

'And his wife?' said Mulholland, going on. 'You left her down the pub, did you?'

'Might've,' said Blizzard, gritting his teeth.

'So in fact,' said Mulholland, enjoying humiliating a man with an armed weapon, 'you've already killed eight people, and if you take out one of us, that'll be nine. You senile old arse. I mean, nine's a good number too. Let's see. Frank Haffey let in nine goals against England in '61 ...'

'Shut it! Shut it the lot of you.' Crossbow straightened, finger twitched.

'What started you off, then?' said Proudfoot. In again, just in time.

Blizzard looked down upon his flock. Top lip went like Bad Elvis, but he quickly settled back into Goldfinger mode.

'Don't know who the bastard was, he just asked for it.'

'Go on, Batman, explain yourself. I can see you're just dying to,' said Mulholland, taking another step forward.

Blizzard appeared not to notice, but he did. He noticed everything. Very old, and sharp as a button, Leyman Blizzard.

'He was dressed as Santa Claus,' said Blizzard.

'Ah,' said Mulholland. 'That makes sense.'

Blizzard sneered; the very name was enough. Santa Bastarding Claus.

'I suppose you'll think I'm mad if I tell you this,' said Blizzard.

Mulholland held his hand up towards the swinging bodies, taking another step forward. 'Mad? Not at all. Wouldn't dream of it. This is all perfectly normal.'

Blizzard twitched. Lowered the crossbow to accommodate the encroachment of Mulholland and Proudfoot.

Dillinger could be gone for sure now if she acted swiftly. Yet she did not move. Rapt, with this grand instance of the psychotic mind.

'I was raised in Glasgow. Got married, the whole biscuit. But I was traumatised by Santa Claus in childhood, and eventually it got the better of me and I had to leave. Started killing folk, so I took myself away. Went to Cuba where there wouldn't be any mention of the guy. Forty year I was away. Didn't kill a soul. I was fine. Then they bastards decided to start celebrating Christmas, so I thought, bugger it, I should be all right now, I'll just go home. So I came back in the summer. Set up a shop cutting hair, thought I'd be fine. Come home to die really, that was me. Then I was walking along Argyll Street one day and I sees him. Santa Claus. Don't know what happened. I just felt the old feelings, you know. I followed the bloke that night and I strangled him. Felt good.'

Mulholland had moved forward another few feet. Approaching the pulpit, but he had no idea of how to storm the thing, being as far off the ground as it was. He and Proudfoot were just going to have to take a side each and hope that Blizzard missed with his first shot.
And if it gets either of us
, he thought,
let it be me
.

'I'm just dying to know,' said Mulholland, 'how you were traumatised by Santa Claus.'

The others looked on, fascinated. Barney saw part of his life's history unfold. Dillinger had even taken another step or two back into the belly of the church. Socrates kicked back and smiled. Miller time.

'I saw my mummy kissing him,' said Blizzard. Said it defiantly, because he knew deep down that it was a really, really stupid thing to be traumatised by.

''Scuse me?' said Mulholland.

'I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus,' said Blizzard. 'I was upset. I came downstairs one Christmas Eve, and I sees my mother snogging this big cunt with a white beard. Don't know where my father had got to. He must've been out with his mates. I was fair upset. I thought my parents loved each other, I thought I came from a happy home. That night I realised my life was a lie. And if the one thing I held dear was a lie, well then, wasn't it all a lie? Life. The whole thing. I could never look at that bastard Claus again without getting upset. Just got worse over the years, you know. The bastard. Started killing folk when I was about twenty-three.'

'You saw your mummy kissing Santa Claus?' said Proudfoot. Another step closer. 'Really?'

'Aye. Too right.'

'Underneath the mistletoe, by any chance?'

Blizzard thought about it, but didn't have to think for long. It was still there, etched in his memory. The very scene, every detail clear as if it had been the previous night. The fire dying out; the old gramophone playing softly, the Paul Whiteman Orchestra; a sparse tree, a few presents beneath, presents which he had barely been able to open the next day, never mind play with; the mistletoe suspended from the light fitting; his mother giggling quietly, while tickling Santa Claus underneath his beard so snowy white.

'Aye,' he said eventually. 'Under the bloody mistletoe. Bastard.'

They looked up at him. The crossbow wavered. Candles burned, and the bare sockets of plundered eyes looked down upon them.

'You're fucking kidding me,' said Mulholland.

Blizzard ground his teeth together. None of these people ever understood. That was why he hadn't bothered explaining it to the Murderers Group, because what did they know? Soft bastards, the lot of them. Except Goldman. He had a certain respect for Goldman.

'Didn't think you'd understand,' he said. 'None of you lot ever understand the likes of me. Too good for the lot of you. Aren't we, Barney?'

Barney said nothing. Looked lost. This couldn't be happening again. Despite the dream, despite the knowledge he'd been sure he'd had, it still seemed so incredible. Why me? he thought. Why me?

'Don't you think,' said Proudfoot, 'that it was your father dressed up as Santa Claus?'

The crossbow wavered. Blizzard twitched; the sneer hovered around his face.

'What?'

'Well, there's got to be hundreds of dads who dress up as Santa Claus for their children. They probably knew you were awake, or made enough noise to disturb you, so that you'd get up and see him. What age were you?'

Blizzard swallowed.

'Five,' he said.

'See? You were five. It was your dad dressed as Santa Claus for your benefit. Did you ever talk to them about it when you were older?' she said, all the time getting closer, Mulholland at her side.

Slowly he shook his head. His life flashed before him.

'Naw,' he said, 'I never liked to.'

Almost there. Classic situation for a counter-attack, even with the height of the pulpit to be scaled. Very close, the prey distracted and unsure of himself, as he stared into some vague point in the distance. Mulholland had a hundred words of abuse on the tip of his tongue, but the time was not now. Not yet. A dash round the back, up the stairs, and he could get him.