Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

The Z Room model was one of market domination. Large shops, lots of barbers, a mix of men and women. A shop for all customers. You wanted a quick short back and sides, with a bit of manly chat on last night’s football, there would be a barber to meet your needs. You wanted a young woman who’d take her time, maybe throw in a little scalp massage along the way, a little bit of flirtation, a little bit of pampering, that was available. Same, if you wanted pampered by a young man. The décor was a perfect blend of retro-modern, a Rorschach test of what you expected to see in a shop. Different customers saw it in different ways.

  A busy Saturday morning, five new barbers in for a trial, alongside a few regulars. Ten chairs being worked, every one of them occupied.

  Norman was unaccountably nervous. Six months since he’d been let go by Danny, several job applications getting nowhere, a couple of trial shots which had failed, a single two-week period of holiday cover, which had ended ignominiously following a stand-up row with a customer on his final day.

  Yet throughout the six months, Norman saw himself as a victim. The problem wasn’t him, it was the shop owners and it was the customers. No one else seemed to have standards anymore. No one else seemed to care the way he did.

  Six months in the barbershop wilderness, however, had finally got to him, and so that morning in Stirling he was uncomfortable. He woke in the night, he couldn’t eat breakfast, he arrived at the train station an hour early, and walked around Stirling in the cold light of a spring morning trying to compose himself.

  Every so often he would hold his hands out flat and he would see the shake. He would try to stiffen them, and the shake would travel up his wrists to his forearms.

  Standing a hundred yards along Glasgow Road from the shop, five minutes before he was due to arrive for the morning, he stopped one last time. He straightened his shoulders, he held his hands out before him, he tensed them.

  ‘You’ve got this, Norman,’ he said.

  He was unconvincing, even to himself, the tremble in his fingers worse than it had been at any time that morning.

  ‘Ha!’

  He looked round quickly, swallowing, slapped out of his nervous reverie. There was a man walking past him, barely stopping, throwing the comment over his shoulder.

  ‘Time to lay off the booze, pal,’ he said.

  He walked on. Norman cursed silently. He watched him go. The man slowed, and then turned into a shop.

  The Z Room.

  Norman’s heart sank.

  He instinctively knew. The man could have been a customer, arriving early, but that wasn’t it. He was a barber, everything about him told the story, and quite possibly he’d be the man in charge.

  Norman stood still, contemplated walking round the block another couple of times, contemplated walking away and not even attending the Saturday morning trial run, and then thrust his hands in his pockets, clenched his teeth and walked quickly to the shop.

  When he realised that Norman was one of his new trial recruits, the manager burst out laughing. From there it was all downhill.

  ‘JESUS,’ SAID PRENTICE, ‘H-suffering-Christ. How am I supposed to remember that?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Ha!’

  The Klown tapped the razor against the end of his fingers, the curl of his lips fighting the twisted smile of his makeup.

  ‘Really? That’s what this is about? You do understand who you’re talking to? I’m Landon bloody Prentice. I’m one of the biggest names in hairdressing in this country. I know the First Minister. I cut Ewan McGregor’s hair, I play tennis with Andy Murray, there are supermodels and actresses you wouldn’t believe who want to suck my dick. I’m everything you’ll never be, now wipe that stupid smile off your face and let me go. I don’t know who’s been killing these other fuckers, but it’s obviously not you, you spineless twat. Undo the bonds. This ends now.’

  In one quick movement, smooth, seamless, so fast Prentice only saw a blur, the Klown laid down the razor, lifted the duct tape, stretched out a length, then quickly thrust it against Prentice’s mouth and began wrapping it rapidly around his head. There was a bit of a struggle, but within no more than a few seconds, Prentice had been brutally and effectively gagged, and now the noise and protestations he was making were nothing more than dull, muffled sounds from somewhere in his throat.

  ‘I’ll be sure,’ said the Klown, laying down the roll of tape and lifting the razor, ‘to pass your dick around all the finest women in society. Be interesting to see if they’ll be happier sucking it once it’s no longer attached to you.’

  That was that for unnecessary, and to be honest pretty gross, conversation. With Prentice’s eyes wide with the affront of not getting his way, and the horror of what was to come, the Klown grabbed the end of his penis, pulled it straight and long, and then quickly swiped it off with the Hashimoto, Babylon steel, cobalt V15 cutthroat razor, which had been manufactured for the ultimate in hand-finished, shaving sophistication, but also, as it happened, provided the ultimate in hand-finished, sex organ removal sophistication.

  19

  Wise As Fuck

  ‘You’re a kite, dancing in a hurricane, Mr Thomson.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A kite.’

  ‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘Thought you said something else.’

  Solomon looked at him, thought about it, then shook his head.

  Early evening, sitting in the main hotel restaurant. The kitchen was closed, the staff dispatched, but the heating and the lights were still on, there were cups of tea, and there were snacks.

  There were a few people around, as the police operation of clearing the hotel was being wrapped up. Barney was waiting for Detective Sergeant Monk to be done with her duties, and Solomon hadn’t minded Barney sticking around. Not often, he reasoned, that you came across this kind of expertise in the field.

  Igor and Keanu were sitting with Sophia at another table, there were a few others in the room.

  ‘You jump from one multiple murder to the next, always avoiding suspicion.’

  ‘I do not always avoid suspicion,’ said Barney. ‘Suspicion, in fact, sticks to me like a flippin’ barnacle.’

  ‘Ha,’ muttered Solomon grimly. What did he know of Barney’s life other than the singular episode he’d previously shared? ‘Well, you have at least avoided arrest and charging.’

  ‘That’s because, the original incident aside, I’ve never done anything wrong.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then why does it keep happening? You’re a barber! You’re not a copper or a PI or, I don’t know, someone whose work automatically puts them in the line of fire. There are no other barbers, in all history, who happen upon a serial killer more or less every time they step out the door. Who are you, Barney Thomson, that’s the question?’

  Barney held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes dropped. Lifted his mug, took a drink of tea. Just the dregs gone cold of it left, and he swallowed it quickly and unsatisfactorily, and placed the mug deliberately back down on the table.

  ‘Met a guy once,’ he said. ‘A guy? Something like that. Met somebody, something, once. He said I’d sold my soul to the Devil, I hadn’t paid up, and my life was one long punishment. Hell come early. They were toying with me.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘It’s an explanation, I suppose. It’s not like I’m necking the champagne every night in celebration about the whole thing. If I never met another serial killer I’d be quite happy.’

  ‘Good move shacking up with a cop, by the way,’ said Solomon. ‘Decent cover.’

  Barney gave him a look – cover had been nothing to do with it – lifted his mug, shook his head, laid the mug back down.

  ‘So, have you spoken to this Janiça women who found the penises today?’ asked Solomon.

  ‘Why would I have spoken to her? I’m not actually part of the investigation.’

  ‘You might have seen her around.’

  ‘I haven’t.’
r />   ‘You think it weird it was the same woman both times?’

  Barney took a second, realised that the principal investigating officer was indeed asking for his advice, and said, ‘Kind of surprised she wasn’t sent home after the first one. I mean, what were they thinking?’

  ‘I spoke to her about that. She lives alone, she thought if she went home, she’d just sit and stare at a wall, consumed by the sight of a severed organ. Decided to stay at work, do the routine, the ordinary, get back into it, distance herself from the horror.’ A beat. ‘Didn’t work out so well for her.’

  ‘These penises she found,’ said Barney, ‘they didn’t belong to the people who’d been staying in the rooms?’

  ‘Nope. The second one was in a room being occupied by a woman who’d already checked out.’

  ‘So, presumably the Klown knew the room was empty,’ said Barney. ‘He knew someone had checked out, possibly was aware of the timing to allow him to get to the room in between the guest’s departure and the room being cleaned.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Solomon. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘So, either the Klown took a chance, or he’s got access to the hotel’s booking and check out system.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Solomon again. ‘That’s decent, Barney. We should look into –’

  He broke off as Keanu approached.

  ‘What?’ said Solomon.

  ‘You’re the main police officer?’ said Keanu.

  ‘Aye, DCI Solomon, and yes, I’m wise as fuck. What d’you want? We’re doing shit here.’

  Keanu looked at Barney, Barney shrugged.

  ‘As the man said,’ said Barney, ‘we’re doing shit. What’s up?’

  ‘This may be nothing,’ said Keanu. ‘Or, you know, it could be something.’

  ‘Jesus, just tell is what it is,’ snapped Solomon, and Barney smiled.

  ‘All right,’ said Keanu, defensively. ‘I mean, really? Sergeant Monk’s not like this.’

  ‘Sergeant Monk’s not like this? Is that what you’re here to tell me?’

  ‘Sophes, the girl I met last night,’ and he indicated his table, where Sophia was sitting with Igor, the two of them looking over.

  ‘Sophes? Fuck kind of name is that?’

  ‘She was telling me about this guy she used to work with. I mean, I don’t know, it could be nothing... ‘

  ‘Tell me about the guy,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Name was Norman. Sounds like an interesting character. Huge chip on his shoulder about her and this guy Danny who she works with. Used to get hardly any customers, was a really resentful type of guy, you know. Ended up being asked to leave, and he went kicking and screaming, threatening, that kind of thing.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two years ago, she says. But she says he was a real, creepy nutjob by the end. She’d heard on the grapevine that he’d tried to get another job, had crashed out of a couple of places, and then one time it got around the barbershop world in Edinburgh about this guy completely freaking out at customers, screaming and going mental, and they were all laughing at him because he was such a dweeb. That just made him worse, obvs. They were thinking of calling the police, but didn’t have to in the end.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Edinburgh,’ said Keanu. ‘Like I said.’

  ‘Because Edinburgh’s only got one street. Jesus.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘She heard intelligence of him since?’

  ‘No, that was it.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Solomon, ‘send her over.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What? Really? Yes, really! Jesus, send her over!’

  Barney gave Keanu a silent thumbs up, Keanu was pleased at the back-up, and then indicated for Sophia to join them.

  As she approached, another officer came up alongside the table, and handed Solomon a piece of paper.

  ‘This just came through from Dr Carew’s lab,’ said Police Constable Statham. ‘She said to show you straight away.’

  ‘Thanks, Mary,’ said Solomon, and he indicated that the constable could leave.

  A brief outline of test results, indicating that the second penis found that day by Janiça Dukič, was indeed the one that had been removed from Bill Romney.

  ‘Miss...?’ said Solomon, looking up.

  ‘Cane,’ said Sophia. ‘People call me Sophes.’

  ‘Not me, Miss Cane,’ said Solomon. ‘You want to take a seat?’

  He looked at Keanu, sending him with a head movement back to the table with Igor. Barney started getting to his feet.

  ‘You can stay,’ said Solomon.

  Barney looked dejectedly across the table. He really didn’t want to.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ he said.

  ‘Appropriate is for me to decide,’ said Solomon. ‘You’re staying.’

  ‘You’re deputising me?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m just making you an honorary detective for the next ten minutes, the way universities confer honorary doctorates on celebrities who obviously couldn’t pass an exam if it was made of fucking prune juice.’

  Barney held his look for a while, mentally kicked into touch the idea that he would be leaving any time soon, and settled back down into his seat.

  ‘Miss Cane,’ said Barney, deciding to test the limits of his new power by leading the interview, ‘Keanu just gave us the basics there. Maybe you could go over what you said to him about this man Norman. And there’s no such thing as too much information. You never know what might be of help.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Sophia, ‘I’m all over it.’

  Solomon looked ruefully at Barney, then with an imperceptible shake of the head, turned to Sophia.

  20

  The Bender Strattocutter 4-70

  There was a man sitting in the foyer of the hotel, a weekend suitcase beside him, an old leather briefcase in his lap. Although he was wearing his coat, he had such an air of permanence about him he didn’t look as though he was going anywhere. One could have imagined he’d been sitting there all weekend, if not for the fact he’d made what was going to turn out to be the solitary speech of the convention. It had been brief, it had promised more, and now none of what was to come would be delivered.

  Charles Walker was facing up to the end of the convention he’d built up from nothing. He’d been there at the beginning, more than thirty years previously, when the event had been held in the backroom of a coffee shop just behind the Tunnock’s factory in Uddingston. Thumper Adams had always been the lead man, but Walker had been the Chief Operating Officer, the one doing the hard graft.

  Walker had always been happy with the division of responsibility. He’d say a few words every now and again, he had everyone’s number, he did all the backroom schmoozing, and people in the know, in the business, knew who was the true power behind the rise of the Scottish Barbershop Convention to the premier league of business events in the UK.

  And now, what was to become of them? How many barbers would be in the queue to attend next year? This was the kind of disaster that brought an end to an institution. This was something from which people and events and companies and places did not recover. This was Chernobyl. Years from now the barbershop community of Scotland would pick over the remnants of a once great convention, the rise and fall, the grand idea that flew too close to the sun.

  ‘Jesus, Charles,’ he said to himself, his mind running fancifully away from him, ‘shut up.’

  He looked up as someone approached to sit in the vacant seat next to him. Barney Thomson, a barber looking almost as hangdog as he did himself.

  ‘Mr Walker,’ said Barney, settling down into the seat.

  The old man looked curiously at him.

  ‘Barney Thomson,’ said Barney, and the men shook hands on it.

  ‘Well, good grief,’ said Walker, ‘didn’t realise you were here. The living legend.’

  Barney made a rueful gesture in reply.

  ‘Wher
e are you based?’

  ‘Millport,’ said Barney.

  ‘Well, well, just around the corner,’ said Walker. ‘I’m near West Kilbride. Never knew you were so close. How’s the barbershop business over there?’

  ‘Adequate,’ said Barney. ‘How about you? Still cutting?’

  ‘No, no, gave it up long ago. It’s a place for the younger man, and woman, these days. I’m rather afraid to say, I don’t understand many of the modern ways. Did you know my old shop now offers customers a mochaccino? I don’t actually know what that is.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Barney, ‘we old fools are being left behind. You’re still organising this, though,’ and he indicated the hotel, the event, the catastrophe.

  ‘I think we both know this will be the end of it, but yes, up until today, this was my life. The young ones, the up-and-comers, they don’t want to organise. There’s little sense of community, other than sitting in a bar after work, or passing around the young women barbers. Sharing your expertise, doing something for others, helping colleagues, creating opportunities for the next generation, these are all things of the past. Everything’s about business nowadays. Money, money, money. How many customers can you get in, how much of a profit can you make, can you get funding or patronage from elsewhere? Can you believe one of the young barbers who comes here has a deal with the local Starbucks? Ha! And there’s another one who’s done a sponsorship deal with TikTok. What is TikTok? I don’t know. But their traditional salon has become the TikTok Barbershop, like it’s a sports stadium. And that kind of sponsorship branding was bad enough when it was sports stadiums.’

  ‘The old ways are passing,’ said Barney, ‘like the time of the elves in Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Walker, ‘comes now the time of men. And, as we know, men are assholes.’

  He barked out a laugh, and Barney joined him.

  For a moment they sat in silence, watching the quiet goings-on of the hotel lobby, as the police wrapped up this part of the investigation, preparing to clear the hotel for the evening. They both felt it, the heavy melancholy of the end of an era. This was an event Barney had never attended before, yet he recognised in its likely abrupt ending, that it represented another time, another age of commerce and customer interaction. They were dinosaurs, and their time was almost done.