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eternity ago. Help Wanted. Experience Preferred .
    Help to do what? Sweep up; make tea; wash hair; or cut hair? He didn't know, but whatever it was, it was working in a barber's shop. Back where he belonged, in that land of giants.
    His head was a swirl of his past and his future. The years in Henderson's before he'd accidentally killed his two colleagues; the few days haircutting at the monastery, before he'd become implicated in another serial killer's murders. Great haircuts he had given, disasters for which he was to blame. For every magnificent Lloyd George '23, there had been a Deep Impact or an Ally McCoist (World Cup '98). He had given haircuts with which a king would have been content, yet he had also dealt enough stinkers to fill several series of Ally McBeal law suits. And he knew not what his life held for him, for every decision he made he found thrown back in his face.
    He would walk the Earth; yet he could not face it. He would hand himself in; yet the police would not take him. He would go and see his wife; yet she had moved, leaving no forwarding address. What remained?
    And so he stood looking across at the small shop that perhaps held his salvation. He didn't know what had led him to Greenock. Just looking around for somewhere cheap to stay; had seen an advert in the paper; thought he might as well give it a go beside the cold Clyde. And now, settled in his bedsit above a baker's, he had wandered up the street and almost immediately stumbled across the advert in the shop window. Help Wanted. It could be his very own motto. And no doubt fate was playing its hand.
    There was a gap in the traffic and he took the plunge. Across the road, didn't stop to think, straight into the shop. Knew he would not be kept waiting, for he had yet to see anyone come or go in all the time he'd been watching.
    He closed the door behind him and took a moment to breathe in the surroundings. A small thin room. Two barber's chairs against one wall, fronted by the requisite sinks and individual mirrors; an inconsiderable bench along the other. A couple of sad pictures on the walls. Greenock in olden days, when the Clyde had bustled with activity; a lone dog on a deserted street.
    'Haircut?' said the old man, not bothering to rise from his seat. Expecting nothing. Hadn't had to cut anyone's hair since ten o'clock that morning.
    'Help wanted,' said Barney.
    The old man nodded. An interesting face, something ancient and grey about it, but with an uncommon vigour to him. In his seventies, maybe. Life in those old eyes, and a face that had seen much. Grey beard, grey hair and thin; very thin.
    'What can you do?' said the man. Gave Barney a long look, and there may have been the light of recognition in his eyes. Someone who might actually know me for who I am, thought Barney, but the thought did little to excite him.
    'I've cut a bit of hair in my time,' he said.
    The old man nodded.
    'Aye, I can see that, son,' he said. 'You've got the look. What's your name?'
    Barney hesitated. What if he did recognise him? Maybe he didn't want to hand himself in after all. Maybe he wanted to be free to work in a small barber's shop in Greenock.
    Now, there was ambition.
    'Thomson,' he said. 'Barney Thomson.'
    A slight smile came to the old man's face; but the look in his eyes was warm.
    'The murderer bloke?' he asked.
    Barney shrugged. 'Aye, I suppose.'
    The old man stood up and laughed.
    'Aye, sure you are, son,' he said, extending his hand.
    'The name's Blizzard. Leyman Blizzard.' Barney took his hand. A firm grip, cool fingers. A man to trust. 'I reckon you're full of shite, son, but you've got the job. We'll see what you can do. Can't promise much in the way of wages, mind, no' unless business picks up a bit.'
    Barney looked around the shop again. Spit and sawdust. Needed money spent on it, but money came from customers.
    'How d'you manage to stay open?' he asked.
    Blizzard shrugged.
    'No' many overheads, you know. As you can probably tell.'
    Barney