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

had sat and listened; smiling occasionally, nodding sagely at the appropriate moments, moments when Barney had not necessarily been expecting them to nod. For they had seen it all before. The new monk, unfamiliar with the conventions and truths of monastic life, whose tongue would not be still. Every now and again one of these types might survive the rigours of this austere existence, but usually they would last no longer than a snowman in the Sahara.
    Few within the walls were prepared to put their money on Brother Jacob lasting longer than a few weeks; even if any of them had possessed money, and if the Abbot had not closed down the tote operated by Brother Steven.
    For now, however, following Ezekiel’s admonishment, Barney snipped quietly. Kept his mouth shut, his thoughts to himself. Tried to think of everything else he had said that afternoon, wondered if he had strayed beyond the boundaries of discretion; words which had been allowed to pass, but which had not gone unnoticed. He could not remember; thought of goldfish.
    Brother Ezekiel stared at the wall; no mirrors here. His thoughts, like those of many of his colleagues, were still consumed by the unfortunate demise of Brother Saturday, and by futile speculation on who might have perpetrated the crime. Ezekiel was among those who believed that the Abbot should call on the outside agencies of the law, but the Abbot’s word must be respected. If he had faith in the ability of Brother Herman to get to the bottom of the murky river of truth, then so should the rest of the monks. But what if Herman was not so above suspicion as everyone thought? Ezekiel’s brow furrowed; he made a mental note not to voice that doubt to anyone.
    The door swung open behind them, the cold air rushed in. Barney shivered and turned. Remembered to stop cutting as he did so. How many times in the old days, before his renaissance of the previous March, had he forgotten that fundamental law and inadvertently swiped off an ear?
    ‘Time for one more?’ asked Brother Steven, closing the door behind him. ‘I heard you’re only doing this barber gig twice a week.’
    Barney looked down at the tonsured head of Brother Ezekiel. Dome shaved to perfection, back of the head cut with Germanic precipitousness. In fact, the haircut was finished. Realised that the only reason he’d still been cutting, was that he hadn’t wanted it to end. When he was done here, he would be required to spend an hour or two in religious contemplation; to commune with God.
    ‘Aye, fine,’ he said. ‘Come on in. I’m done, in fact.’
    He lifted the towel from around Ezekiel’s neck, shook the detritus of the cut onto the floor, stepped back, allowed Ezekiel to stand. Ezekiel ran his fingers along the back of his neck. Was impressed with the lack of hair having worked its way down to irritate and annoy.
    ‘Thank you very much, Brother, a good haircut, I believe,’ he said, although he could not possibly know. ‘Your hands must have been guided by God.’
    Barney smiled, thinking, bugger off! God had nothing to do with it, mate. Knew he should not be having such thoughts.
    ‘Goodbye, Brother,’ he said instead, as Ezekiel took his leave. Off in search of a mirror, knowing of at least two of the monks who kept one hidden beneath a pillow.
    Brother Steven took his seat. He turned, giving Barney an encouraging look.
    ‘Heard you’re doing some fine work, Brother,’ he said. Barney said nothing, felt pleased nonetheless. ‘They’re saying in the kitchens that if Marlon Brando had cut Martin Sheen’s hair in Apocalypse Now , this is how he would’ve done it. Cutting hair like a god-king.’
    Barney shrugged, placed the towel around Steven’s shoulders.
    ‘It’s nothing. Just my job.’
    Steven nodded, knowing exactly from where Barney came.
    ‘What’ll it be, then?’ asked Barney. Presumed it was going to be another Name of the Rose job, although he did wonder how many of them had actually ever seen Name of