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

him.’
    Barney swallowed, stared at the desk. Saw himself in the story. ‘What sort of accident was he in?’
    The Abbot shook his head. Sombre eyes.
    ‘He ran over a six-year-old boy with a full trolley in Tesco’s.’
    Barney stared.
    ‘That’s a supermarket, apparently,’ said the Abbot, ‘although I presume you know that.’
    Barney wanted to meet Brother Camberene. Sounded like his kind of man.
    The Abbot looked up, let the weight of Camberene lift from his shoulders.
    ‘So, what I’m trying to say is this. If you do not find your answers among us, we shall not condemn. We are here to help you. If you find that this life is not for you, we would wish you on your way with the love of God and the love of all our hearts. And should you find contentment here, you will have our love and understanding as you learn our ways, and the ways of the Lord.’
    Speech over. Barney was a little wide-eyed.
    It was like being at Sunday school. He was reminded of Miss Trondheim. Tall, dark complexion; black hair, one growing out of a mole on her left cheek. And Mr Blackberry. Short; Stewart Granger hair, although he had once come in with a Robert Mitchum.
    No words came his way. He tried to look at one with God.
    The Abbot was used to such reticence.
    ‘However, Jacob, having said that, if there is something about your past which you wish to share with me, I am here to listen. If there is something from which you run, it is often best to face it, even if it is from within these walls.’
    Giving the new brother his first chance to speak, the Abbot knew he would say nothing. They all arrived with their secrets and insecurities, and in time they would out. But not yet.
    ‘No, no, you know,’ said Barney. ‘I thought I’d try something new. Bit disillusioned with life, you know.’
    The Abbot nodded, pursed his lips.
    ‘It is late in life for a change, Jacob. No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse. Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
    ‘You should remember those words, Jacob.’
    ‘What?’ said Barney, surprised. ‘You make wine up here? This far north?’
    The Abbot smiled. ‘You have much to learn, Jacob. You should read your Bible.’
    ‘Aye. Right.’
    The Abbot looked into the heart of Barney Thomson, wondering what lay therein. Knew that sooner or later it would emerge, but there was no hurry. Had no reason to suspect him of the murder of Brother Saturday. No more than any of the others, at any rate.
    ‘One final point, Jacob, as you start out on this new road which lies ahead. As you can see, ours is a simple life. We have little contact with the outside world and we take care of most of our own needs. Might there be a skill from your past which you would be able to share with us?’
    Barney thought. Dare he tell them about barbery? Might it put them on to him? But they obviously had no idea what was going on in the outside world.
    ‘I’ve done a bit of haircutting in my time,’ he said.
    The Abbot raised an eyebrow. ‘A barber?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Well. It is indeed many years since we had a professional hirsutologist in our midst. A most noble trade.’ His hand automatically strayed to the back of his neck. ‘Brother Adolphus does his best, but sadly his skills in this direction are somewhat lacking. Despite all our prayers.’
    Barney felt a swelling of his heart. It had only been two weeks, during which time he had given the odd one-off haircut around the Highlands, but he had missed the click of the scissors, the bite of the razor into the back of the neck, the pointless chatter. Wondered if St Johnstone were managing to hang on at the top of the league.
    ‘Could do with a bit of a haircut myself,’ said the Abbot.
    ‘Oh, aye?’ said Barney, feeling