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