Barney Thomson & The Westminster Christmas Massacre - Episode 9

by Douglas Lindsay - 08:33 on 11 December 2009

The story so far: The old order is disappearing. With sea levels rising, and the international hegemony of big business and government unwilling to seriously address the issue, the world is on the verge of collapse. The old world of men is vanishing, the world of gigantic monster plankton is upon us. Against this backdrop of despair and armageddon, the British government is under attack from the serial killer Trelawny, a man whose murderous motives are a mystery. And yet the Prime Minister remains convinced that Washington are behind it all, and so is preparing to launch a counter attack against the eastern seaboard of Maine, to establish a bridgehead, whence to conquer America, and once more bring them under the wings of empire.

0747hrs   London, England

Commons Criminals screamed the Daily Express, as it implied that there was more than one serial killer at large in the Houses of Parliament.

The PM had other matters on his mind, as the newspapers lay at his feet. He was flicking through the short dossier. He had called his plan to invade the United States, Operation Thunder Thunder. The military chiefs had done his bidding, completing the task which he’d set them; they had outlined a plan for the first forty-eight hours of Operation Thunder Thunder; landing troops on the coast of Maine, taking Portland and the declining naval air station at Brunswick, moving in-land and then capturing the state capital, Augusta, including TV, radio and Police HQ. They had also outlined the effects of stationing a Polaris submarine off the east coast and threatening to nuke New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Miami and Manchester-by-the-Sea. Then they had outlined the effects of actually carrying out the threat.

At no stage had they sweet-talked the process and made it sound anything other than what it was; a mind-blowing act of complete and utter stupidity, which would lead to the end of Britain as a functioning sovereign state.

‘When they say stupid,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘one gets the feeling that they’re disrespecting the entire concept of invading America. There’s no credit here, for example, for the element of surprise. Look at Pearl Harbour; the Japanese just killed them for months after that, because they hadn’t been expecting it. We can do the same thing.’

‘It didn’t turn out too well for the Japanese in the end, Prime Minister, did it?’ said Bleacher, the chief Prime Ministerial aide, a man who now saw it as his duty to prevent total world  destruction and eradication of the human race. (Although that was going to happen anyway, because no one wanted to give up their big cars or their flights to Sydney.)

‘Aye,’ said the PM, ‘but it took nigh on four years before the Yanks nuked them. We could make some gains, and then get out on our own terms.’

‘Sir,’ said Bleacher, ‘they would have nuked them on Day One if they’d had the capability. And when it came to it, they pretty much nuked them the first chance they had, once the weather had cleared. And then they did it again, just for the hell of it.’

‘Hmm,’ said the PM, and then finally he lifted his eyes from the dossier and looked in the mirror. Barney Thomson was standing behind him, waiting for some Prime Ministerial direction. The PM and his new hair had been carrying all before them for the previous seven or eight days, thanks to the skills and craftsmanship of Barney Thomson, whose artistry had been honed in the realms of the gods.

‘Think I’d suit a Marshal Tito today. In keeping with the whole war-time mentality that’s sweeping the capital.’

‘Sure,’ said Barney. ‘reckon that might be perfect. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

Barney was playing the game, but he had his own plans. He’d had enough, and was determined he was going back to Scotland that night - and never returning - regardless of what the PM thought or said.

The PM looked satisfied, and flicked over to the next page of the dossier. The page that listed the genocide that would occur from first use of nuclear weapons.

‘It’d cement my place in the history books.’ he said, and neither Barney nor Bleacher knew if he was talking about the attack on American soil, or his latest political haircut.



1113hrs   London, England

DCI Frankenstein and DS Hewitt were on coffee and doughnuts when Barney Thomson walked in to the small office. Barney looked at the table, where the coffee machine and plate of spare doughnuts patiently awaited a third person to the meeting. There was a radio playing, a boy’s choir singing the Coventry Carol. Barney looked at the two policemen, and Frankenstein nodded in the direction of breakfast.

‘Help yourself,’ he said.

Barney nodded, poured himself a cup of coffee, milk no sugar, put two doughnuts on a plate, then pulled up a seat.

‘Nice,’ he said, indicating the music.

‘Radio 3,’ said Hewitt. ‘Get us.’

‘I keep waiting for the Angel Gabriel to walk into the room and bless us, or some crap like that. Some holy crap. Christmas...’

‘So, gentlemen,’ said Barney, through a mouthful of sugar-sprinkled, ‘what brings me here? Is this you gathering all the suspects in the room, Poirot-esque, to explain who did it? And I’m the only suspect.’

‘If we could explain who did it, we’d call a prime time ITV reality show,’ said Frankenstein. 

‘How cool would that be?’ said Hewitt.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Frankenstein, through a mouthful of fondant cream, ‘we’ve been over the tapes endlessly, hundreds of man hours, everyone in and out of the building. Every conceivable entrance is covered, no other way in. Firstly, there’s no one who looks like the photofit we have of Trelawny.’

‘Bad photofit,’ said Barney.

‘Ain’t that the truth, dude,’ said Hewitt. ‘Like, totally,’ he then said, to answer his own rhetorical question.

‘Perhaps. But if this guy ain’t walking in and he ain’t walking out, it means there could be someone inside pulling a Tom Cruise Mission Impossible...’

‘Like, wearing a mask,’ threw in Hewitt.

‘Exactamundo,’ said Frankenstein. ‘And whether he’s wearing a mask or not, it means that one of these people who’s walking in and walking back out again is the killer. One of these MPs, one of these secretaries, one of these security guards.’

‘There can’t have been too many people in the middle of the night?’ said Barney. ‘And you’ve a few nights now, you must be able to narrow it down.’

‘We have,’ said Frankenstein.

‘Like, totally,’ said Hewitt.

Barney nodded. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘How many did you narrow it down to?’

‘Five,’ said Frankenstein. ‘Just five.’

‘And five shall be the number of the counting,’ said Hewitt, although most of the words were unintelligible owing to the fact that he had crammed an entire doughnut into his mouth.

Barney nodded, took a drink of coffee, not too hot, washed down the doughnut. Contemplated the second one, which stared up at him from his plate, like a giant empty dead eye waiting to be eaten by a hungry orc.

Barney decided he didn’t want the doughnut.

Then he looked up, something in the tone of Frankenstein’s voice.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m one of them.’

‘Yep,’ said Frankenstein. ‘The PM was over there each of those nights, and you were there too. Giving him a haircut at one in the morning, were you?’

Barney narrowed his eyes, took another sip of coffee, partially hiding his face behind the cup. Wondering if they were seriously thinking that he might be the killer.

Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have previous...

‘You know what he’s like. Calls me up at any time. I’m his new idiot savant.’

‘Like, cool,’ said Hewitt.

‘And were you with him the entire time?’

Barney shook his head.

‘I spent much of it sleeping on a sofa. My life here is that rubbish.’

‘And then, strangely, the murders stopped when you went back to Scotland at the weekend.’

Barney nodded. He knew he hadn’t killed anyone, but how could he blame anyone else for thinking that?

‘So the PM was also here all those nights,’ said Barney, deciding to move the conversation on.

‘Like, foshizzle,’ said Hewitt.

‘Will you stop that!’ snapped Frankenstein.

‘Like, sure,’ said Hewitt.

‘Yes,’ said Frankenstein, ‘the PM was here every night. However, the Chief Constable has instructed us that we won’t be including him in our list of suspects of people who might want to overthrow the government by serial killer.’

‘That seems narrow minded,’ said Barney.

‘Privilege of rank,’ said Frankenstein drily.

‘Which leaves three,’ said Barney.

‘Names which I’m not at liberty to discuss with you, given your recent elevation to the role of suspect.’

‘And demotion to the Official Deputy substitute’s bench...,’ said Barney.

‘Like, totally, and stuff,’ said Hewitt.

Barney sighed heavily and looked down at the remaining doughnut on his plate.

‘I guess I may as well tuck into this,’ he said.

‘Sure,’ said Frankenstein. ‘And whatever you do, don’t leave town.’

Barney Thomson looked up as he bit into the doughnut and a large globule of jam squished out. Where had he heard that before?



2134hrs   London, England

The night was dark and cold in London, England. These were grim times in the capital, as the city faced up to a collapsing economy, the dark prelude to class war, rising sea levels which threatened to engulf the banks of the Thames, a government in crisis, members of Parliament being murdered by the dozen, and now the threat of war with America.

The streets were strangely quiet, as if the people knew that the worst of times was upon them, that the great battle of the age was about to begin. The clubs were quiet, the restaurants half-empty; the binge drinkers had stayed home. Not that they weren’t binge drinking.

And as one of Britain’s four Polaris submarines - HMS Vainglorious - moved into waters off the eastern seaboard of the United States, and three small frigates headed towards the coast of Maine, carrying a few hundred men, all that the Army could muster - one man did take to the streets of London, heading for Euston station and the late night train to Glasgow.

Barney Thomson had had enough.

Carrying a small bag, happy to leave some of his things at the hotel, he walked along the road, heading for Westminster tube station. There was no escape for him, he realised that. Wherever he went, murder and death followed, and there was nothing he could do. And yet now, for the first time in so long he couldn’t remember, he was actually a suspect again.

He was tired, he just wanted to be home. And so, like the MPs who had gone back to their constituencies, happy to believe that everything would be fine, Barney Thomson was going to put himself on a train to Glasgow, go back to his small shop on the coast, and imagine that all this murder and political squalor and slime would just go away.

As the first of the frigates sighted land; as the Prime Minister stood at the window of Number 10 Downing Street, looking gravely over at the back of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, wondering how history would remember him; as the few MPs remaining in London for the weekend looked over their shoulders in fear; as the delegates at Copenhagen argued over percentages and numbers, flushing the future away into the over-polluted mire of decay as they did so; as the skies turned black and cold and the rainforests burned, Barney Thomson was approached by a plain-clothed officer, who took him by the arm and asked Barney to accompany him to the station.

Barney turned and took a quick glance at his face. He didn’t want to go to the station, he didn’t want to be in London any more. He pushed the officer off, and broke into a run. Another officer appeared from nowhere, ahead of Barney, and Barney threw his bag at him, catching him in the face.

Barney ran to his left, down a small alleyway, his feet clipping frantically off the damp ground.

The officers were only doing their job. They had been told that Barney was a prime suspect in the Westminster Christmas Massacre case. They couldn’t let him get away.

They both stopped, they let Barney run. Then, with Barney not more than fifty or sixty yards away, they both raised their guns and took aim...

END OF PART ONE

To be continued: Tuesday 15th December 2009

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