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

Air Jordans, sticks His feet on the table, downs a couple of cold ones, switches on the TV and gets a few angel babes to snuggle up to His beard. You know what I’m saying?’
    Barney continued snipping quietly at the back of Brother Steven’s neck. This just wasn’t the same as discussing theology with his mate Bill Taylor over a couple of pints in the pub.
    ‘You mean, that’s the kind of thing that goes on here?’
    ‘You’re kidding me, Jacob!’ said Steven smiling. ‘Of course not. We’re talking about pillows here, not fifty-seven channels of satellite TV and a six-pack of Bud. But the Abbot knows how to do it. Just the odd comfort here and there to keep the natives happy. That’s all it takes. Course, there’s a lot more he could do, but you can’t go too far, can you? We’re monks after all.’
    ‘Aye,’ said Barney. ‘Fair enough.’
    ‘But then, of course, there’s the yin-yang business. The whole enigma of good-bad, dark-light, positive-negative, all of that. The Abbot allows us the comfort of pillows and cushions, but at the same time you’ve got to keep the product of your hirsutery so that Brother Herman can use it for making hairshirts. Equal and opposites, that whole bag. Pain-pleasure, you know.’
    ‘Hairshirts?’ asked Barney, pausing mid-cut.
    ‘Hairshirts. It’s a medieval thing, yet still relevant in today’s monastery. It’s what your modern penitent monk likes to wear.’
    ‘Aye, right,’ said Barney, totally lost.
    ‘You know, when you’ve committed a sin. You get a shirt made so that all the hairs are prickly on the inside. Really jaggedy-arsed. It’s a pain in the backside. Brother Herman loves the damn things. Well, he loves getting the other monks into them the minute he has an opportunity. Just wait till you see him with the scent of blood in that long, thin nose of his. On how serious the sin depends how long you get to wear the shirt. Do your penance.’
    Barney’s eyes were opened. He had never heard of the hairshirt before. Might have thought it a good idea, except that if the Abbot found out about his past he was going to have to wear his hairshirt for the next three or four centuries.
    ‘So who makes them?’ he asked, getting his mind away from his guilt, to which it had begun to stray.
    ‘Brother Herman himself. Mad as they come, that’s what I think. Wouldn’t be surprised to find he sticks razor blades in there sometimes.’
    ‘You’ve worn one?’ asked Barney.
    Brother Steven smiled. ‘My friend, he makes them specifically so they’ll fit me. I’m his best customer.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Barney snipped away, doing a fine job around the back of the neck. Distracted, yet nevertheless performing with consummate ease and control. Brother Steven’s neck had never been in safer hands, but Barney could already feel the hairshirt around him. Not the worst punishment on the planet surely, but if it was to be worn day after day for a long time – and his sins most definitely merited a long time – then it would indeed be Hell. Began to wonder if he should leave before Brother Herman got the chance to indict him for something.
    ‘Well, you know, I can live with it. Learned to. Anyway, he hasn’t got me for a couple of months. Not since he caught me taking a quick suck on a smoke out in the forest one day. I swear he’s got cameras out there. Watching.’
    Barney stood back. The scissor work was finished; now for the more delicate razor operations. His hand was steady.
    ‘That’s it, Jacob, cameras. I’d bet on it.’ He smiled and relaxed. Didn’t care if Brother Herman did have cameras in the forest. ‘If he hadn’t closed down my operation, that is.’

    ***

    The forest was still. Late evening, darkness long since descended. A clear sky, no moon, so that the number of stars was beyond counting. A panorama of brilliant white dots against the fathomless black background. The air was freezing, the night bright with the stars and the snow. Nothing