The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) by Douglas Lindsay Page A

Father, for I have sinned, he could imagine himself saying, though he had never attended confession in his life. I committed murder. Well, more manslaughter really. I didn’t mean to do it. Chris and Wullie, the men I worked with. They were a pain in the arse – sorry, Father – but I didn’t really want them dead.
    Then my mother died and I discovered six bodies in her freezer. Forgive her as well, Father, she knew not what she did. I wronged, I know that. I should have confessed all, like Bart does in that episode of The Simpsons when he cuts the statue’s head off. But I panicked. I disposed of all the bodies and made it look like Chris was the killer. There were four policemen on to me, but they all shot each other. That definitely wasn’t my fault, it was just stupidity. So, I suppose…
    ‘Brother Jacob,’ said the Abbot, closing his book and looking up. Barney’s heart danced; he ended his silent confession.
    ‘It’s not too cold for you?’
    Barney was freezing.
    ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he said. Shivered; hairs stood erect, goose bumps rampaged across his body like German storm troopers.
    The Abbot nodded; knew that Barney lied.
    He took his time, considering his words. The Abbot, Brother Copernicus. Had renounced the pleasures of the world in his early twenties, had been at the monastery since the fifties. Hair was greyed; the paunch of youth had long ago given way to a sinewy body, engulfed by the cloak. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes which saw more than eyes were meant to. Not, however, a man without humour.
    ‘I’m sorry that your first week has been blighted by such terrible circumstances, Jacob. A terrible business.’
    No bother, thought Barney. I’m thinking of opening a shop; Cadavers ‘R’ Us .
    ‘I’m sorry too, Your Grace,’ he said.
    The thin lips stretched and smiled. The eyes too. ‘It’s all right, Jacob, I’m not the Pope. Brother Copernicus will do.’
    Barney smiled and nodded. Relaxed a little. Felt more at ease.
    ‘How are you settling in, Brother?’
    Barney pondered the question.
    Bad points: no gas or electricity; no hot water; lamps out by eight o’clock, up at five-thirty; a thin single bed, hard wood, two coarse blankets; no entertainment, no distractions but for the scriptures and other works of religious learning; day after day on his hands and knees cleaning the floors; praise be to God; God the father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost; God all-seeing, God divine; God this, God that, God the next thing. God, God, God, God, God, God, God. Bloody God.
    Good points: the food wasn’t too bad; a cup of wine with dinner every night; there was no contact with the outside world, so no one had ever heard of Barney Thomson. That was about it.
    ‘Not bad, you know.’ Laughed self-consciously. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, but I’m all right.’
    The Abbot nodded. Drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk. Long, cold fingers. Barney could feel them at his throat; shivered, tried to clear his head of fears and sorrows.
    ‘Our monks come here for all sorts of reasons, Jacob. It is not for me to question or examine them. We, each of us, must be content in our hearts that we are where we belong. There are many who come here and realise after a time that this life is not for them. One such was Brother Camberene, who came to us for a few sad months last year. He’d been involved in a tragic accident, blaming himself for the resulting fatality. He was racked by guilt, his life tortured by anguish. He stopped going to work, his wife left him. After a time, the river of fate, which winds its way through the lives of us all, led him to us. But I am afraid that even we could not provide the answers for which he searched. He spent a few unhappy months, then moved on. A sad and desperate, restless soul. We all still say our prayers for Brother Camberene, but I am afraid that we might never hear of him again. However, wherever he may be, we know that God is with