The End Of Days

by Douglas Lindsay

  Barney Thomson was sitting in a comfy chair. He had been told to wait, presumed that the PM had a function later that constituted some kind of haircutting emergency.

  'Climate change, Barney?' said the PM looking up. 'We never got to finish our chat. What's your take?'

  'Well,' said Barney, looking up from Private Eye, 'I'm not a scientist.'

  'Neither am I, and I talk about it all the time. Besides, you're a barber. Barbers know stuff.'

  'It's like everything,' said Barney, quite happy to chat. He was bored. 'It's all about big business. Businesses fighting it because they're affected by new regulations, and on the other side, businesses trying to make fast money out of the new energy sources. Everyone's just trying to make money. Really, what are you going to do? If we really are affecting the climate by the way we live, are you going to put £1000 tax on a flight to Paris, close down four of the terminals at Heathrow, and make flying only for the seriously wealthy? Are you going to put £20 tax on a litre of petrol? Because if you were serious, that's the kind of thing you'd have to do. But you're not. And you're a government who has to court business, so you open up new terminals everywhere and allow new runways. And anyway, compared to India and China we're small potatoes, very, very small, tiny potatoes, so it hardly matters.'

  'So, you think I should do what?'

  'Nothing,' said Barney. 'The planet's going to Hell anyway. I'd just issue a leaflet advising people what to do once society has fallen apart. Stockpile tinned pineapples, that kind of thing.'

  The PM nodded sagely, running over the political implications of telling everyone that it was too late and that the very infrastructure of human life on earth was going to vanish, so they might as well make the most of it.

  'Thanks, Barney,' he said, 'you can go now.'

  Barney looked up, having delivered his latest homily while still reading the magazine.

  'I thought you wanted your hair looked at again?'

  'My hair's fine.'

  'Well why am I still here?'

  'Because I wanted to speak to you about climate change.'

  'You could have done that ten hours ago.'

  'I'm Prime Minister.'

  Barney Thomson rose to his feet and headed towards the door.

  'You're coming to Copenhagen with me next week,' said the PM.

  Barney turned to look at him, wondering if it was an offer. But it wasn't.

  'My days are already numbered,' he said to himself, as he left the office and closed the door behind him.

  Later That Night, London, England

  Later that night, in London, England, as the lights slowly went off, one by one, in the offices of the Houses of Commons, the killer once more appeared, as if by magic, and began to skulk the corridors of the old palace, searching for his next victim.

  Friday 4th December 2009

  0123hrs London, England

  The killer Utterson had turned his hand to the Lords.

  It was a gruesome scene. Four bodies in one room, each brutally murdered. Blood on the walls and on the carpet and on the desks and the furniture and the lampshades. One of the Lords had been decapitated, his head kicked into a corner. Another disemboweled, his entrails left in a trail across the floor. The third had been bound to a chair, eyelids sliced off, mouth taped, and his wrists slit, so that he'd slowly bled to death while being forced to survey the apocalyptic scene before him. The fourth had just died of old age.

  So, in fact, only three of them had been brutally murdered.

  The two police officers stood at the door to the small meeting room and watched as the SOCOs picked their way through the carnage. It was impossible for them to move without getting blood on their white cat suits.

  'Tell me if you're going to throw up,' said DCI Frankenstein to DS Hewitt.

  Hewitt shook his head. 'I grew up playing violent computer games and watching sick serial killer movies. I'm immune to all this stuff.'

  Frankenstein gave him a sideways glance.

  'Youth of today?' he said.

  'Exactamundo.'

  Frankenstein started to turn away, stopped, wanted to make himself look at the scene for a while longer. Burn it into his head.

  'Who called it in?'

  Hewitt gestured backwards with his head, aimed at no one in particular.

  'The wife of one of these old fellas. Started phoning people when he hadn't returned home by ten o'clock. Apparently he was usually asleep in his supper by then. One of the guards came looking, found this.'

  Frankenstein looked over his shoulder.

  'Where's the guard?'

  'Oh, think they took him off for counselling and stuff.'

  'Already?'

  'Like, studies in the US have shown that the quicker you get counselling, the less likely you are to be psychologically harmed by this kind of thing. Apparently in New York these days, the police patrol with a counsellor in every car. Like, their mission statement is to get to a victim or witness of crime and ask them if they feel disrespected within ten minutes of the crime taking place.'

  Frankenstein surveyed the scene behind him, a bustle of shocked workers, police officers, more forensics.

  'One in three cars also carries a documentary crew,' said Hewitt.

  Frankenstein turned back to the Room of Death.

  'Do we know when this lot are due to go into Christmas recess?' he asked.

  'I'll check. Like I doubt they work up until the afternoon of the 24th.'

  'Ain't that the truth,' muttered Frankenstein, wishing he had a job that allowed him to only work eight or nine weeks of the year.

  0759hrs London, England

  The PM petulantly pushed the newspapers off the desk. Here he was, suddenly at the peak of his career, and the media were barely taking any notice of him.

  'What do I have to do?' he said, looking at Prime Ministerial aide Bleacher, Barney Thomson, diary secretary Lucy, and cabinet secretary Blaine. 'I'm busting my balls here. I've ordered more troops to Afghanistan, I'm crushing the other guy in my iron fist, I opened up a can of whoop-ass at PMQs, I told the Prime Minister of Pakistan how to run his country, and I've got the best hair of my life. What else can I do? Yet what do we get today? More Tiger flippin' Woods. Banks, banks, banks. The Mail says they cost forty thousand a family, the Telegraph, five and a half. Hah! Seems I'm not the only one can't do maths. And now these bloody murders and everyone's going to be peeing in their pants about that.'

  They were all staring at him, waiting for the invitation to speak.

  'Well?' said the PM. 'What about me?' Another pause. 'People say, where's our Obama? Well, don't they see? I'm their Obama. It's me. I could be PM for twenty years. I can cement our place as a world leader.'

  There was another extended pause around the room. None of them gawped at the PM in quite the manner that his words demanded. They were all quite used to his self-obsession; even Barney Thomson, who had only been there three days.

  'Prime Minister,' said Blaine dryly, 'we lead the world in pregnant teenagers, binge drinking teenagers, divorce, cocaine addiction and litter. If you'd like to be the Prime Minister who cements that, I salute you, but I just came in to remind you that there's an emergency cabinet meeting to discuss the crisis at 0900hrs.'

  He turned to leave.

  'What crisis?' barked the PM, scowling.

  'The murders,' said Blaine. 'At Westminster,' he added, in case the PM might have thought he meant Midsomer.

  Blaine left the room, with the PM watching him go as if Blaine was the one who was on another planet. Lucy was looking as if she wanted to talk, so he turned his perplexed gaze upon her.

  'The meeting with the US Ambassador has been pushed to 11, but we're still on for lunch with the Chairman of the Royal Bank of Scotland at 12.30.'

  He gave her a look to suggest continued bemusement, then she departed.

  Barney watched the two of them go with envy, wishing that it would be so straightforward for him. Prime Minister, your hair is fine, I'll se
e you in a month...

  The PM looked from Bleacher to Barney with stupefaction. 'Is it just me?' he said.

  He sighed heavily and slumped down into his seat. Behind him, Mrs. Thatcher looked sternly down, thinking that no cabinet secretary had ever spoken to her like that. At least, not so that they escaped with their testicles intact.

  'We need to decide what line to take with the cabinet,' said Bleacher, deciding that it was better just to get on with business.

  'In relation to what?' said the PM.

  'The murders,' said Bleacher sharply. 'There's panic over there, both houses. People are talking about adjourning parliament early, everyone going home.'

  'Well, that'll not do them much good, will it?' snapped the PM. 'If someone is coming after them, he'll just follow them home. What are they all going to want? An armed guard of five each?'

  'I've heard twenty,' said Bleacher, and the PM snorted.

  Barney Thomson sat back, wondering how he had become a fly on the wall to the running – or lack of it – of the country.

  'I've heard twenty,' Bleacher repeated, 'and I've also had it costed. Millions of pounds. You think the public are going to accept that kind of money being spent to protect MPs and Lords? Most of them would probably be prepared to vote for the guy who's doing the killing. But we can't just let it go on or else democracy falls.'

  'Don't be dramatic,' said the PM. 'Anyway, what are you suggesting? We can't let it go on, but we can't protect them.'

  'I'm saying that we can't let them go back to their constituencies. It's much easier to protect them here in London. We sort it out here, the police catch the killer in the next day or two, and then we can move on. And hopefully, no one else gets murdered. Unless it's someone we'd be happy to see taken out of the way.'

  'All right,' said the PM. 'Bloody hell, this is an outrage. I just want to get on with running the damned country, cementing my place in the world order, creating history. Since day one, day bloody one, there's been this kind of thing.'

  'There has never,' said Bleacher darkly, 'been this kind of thing.'

  Another heavy and unattractive sigh from the PM, then he looked at Barney, his new advisor.

  'They say you've been around death, murder, mayhem and slaughter before. What do you make of it, Barney Thomson?'

  Barney snapped from an idyllic daydream, of sitting on a bench on the west coast of Cumbrae, a warm afternoon, the waves washing gently against the rocks.

  'Jings,' he said. 'Well, you've possibly got your average serial killer, a bit deranged, just out to have some sadistic fun. Then there's the possibility that there's someone faking the sadism. They're actually cold and calculating, and have a definite purpose. Perhaps revolution. They're trying to overthrow the government, and rather than doing it by a military coup, they're doing it by means of a serial killer coup. Maybe that's the modern way.'

  'That would be extraordinary,' said the PM, as Bleacher gave Barney another dark look.

  'However,' said Barney, 'most likely you've just got some serial killing nutjob, intent on satisfying some sort of depraved bloodlust. Happens all the time.'

  The PM looked darkly at the floor, all kinds of possibilities playing in his head at this dark and dangerous time for the state. His eyes fell on the cover of the Daily Star. I'm Never Knobbing Kate Again, Claims Upset Pete.

  2146hrs London, England

  Barney Thomson sat in the Sherlock Holmes nursing his second pint of cider. He'd had his fish and chips; he'd munched his way through a bag of peanuts. He'd had enough unhealthy food for the night, and the alcohol had started to taste bitter. The PM hadn't asked him to do anything to his hair today, not even before meeting the American. Barney had trailed around after him, without ever being called into action. Like a substitute that never gets brought on.

  The two chairs opposite Barney were pulled out and DCI Frankenstein and DS Hewitt sat down at his table. Barney lifted his glass, not at all surprised.

  'Gentlemen,' he said.

  'Barney,' said Frankenstein. 'This is DS Hewitt. He's new.'

  'Like, hi and stuff,' said Hewitt.

  'Like, hi,' said Barney in return. He looked at Frankenstein and suddenly started to smile. 'So,' he said, 'what can I do for you? Want me to be your deputy again?'

  Frankenstein set his pint down on the table.

  'There have been four murders, and you know what? They made out on the TV that they were pretty gruesome, but a couple of those this morning, gruesome ain't the word. They were animalistic.'

  Hewitt was nodding. 'Like totally,' he said, not really adding anything to the conversation.

  'Come to pick my brains?' asked Barney.

  'Look,' said Frankenstein, 'I don't want to imply that you're Hannibal Lecter or anything, but there's some amount of weird stuff going on here, and you're as good a person as I know to talk to about it.'

  Barney stared into the bottom of his glass. Everywhere he went.

  'So, I'll level with you,' said Frankenstein. 'Yes, I want to pick your brains, and yes, I've come to make you my deputy.'

  Barney smiled ruefully.

  'Coolio!' said Hewitt. 'Like, can you do that?'

  Barney sat back in his chair, spreading his hands in a gesture of vanquishment.

  'I'm all yours. Get me a cup of coffee and tell me everything.'

  1157hrs London, England

  It was a dark and cold night in London, England. The Palace of Westminster was still, bar the five hundred or so extra police and security guards who had been drafted in. All over London MPs and Lords slept uneasily, expecting at any moment to be woken by the killer's blade.

  Utterson, however, would be quiet that night. Whether it was because of the extra security, or because he had done what he'd come to do, or indeed, as Barney Thomson had suggested, because he was off with his fellow conspirators, discussing how to parley their initial success into regime change, no one knew; for no one can truly know the mind of a serial killer.

  Not even, renegade barbershop legend, Barney Thomson.

  Monday 7th December 2009

  0734hrs London, England

  'What did you do all weekend?' asked the Prime Minister.

  Barney Thomson, barbershop death junky pursuivant, was standing behind him, poised with a pair of scissors, ready to engage the Prime Ministerial hair.

  Tasked with bringing the PM's barnet into the 21st Century, and enlisted by police officer DCI Frankenstein as some kind of rogue deputy into the Metropolitan Police Force, Barney Thomson had grabbed both opportunities by the testicles and had gone home to Scotland for a couple of days. He had breathed the air and listened to the gulls, had sat and watched the sun go down behind the hills of Bute in mid-afternoon. He had only been in London for three nights, but it had seemed like a month. A month which had once again been blighted by blood, horror, mutilated bodies and a deranged serial killer on the loose.

  'Went to Scotland,' he said.

  'Ah, Scotland,' said the PM. 'Another thorn in my bloody side. What is that eejit thinking? Independence... Sure, you can be independent, you doughnut-eating wanker. There you go, you can have your nearly-empty oil fields and you can have your bloody Royal Bank of Scotland, along with its debt. It's all yours. They'd be bankrupt on day one. Day one! D'you have a nice time? I quite like Scotland.'

  'Aye,' said Barney. 'What are you looking for today?'

  'Well, we've got this big finance speech this morning, and we're getting ready for Copenhagen. So we need to be bold, I want a haircut of vision. Something that says, you know, Gandhi, something like that.'

  'Gandhi was bald.'

  'It's a higher notion than just hair, Barney, you ought to know that. I want a haircut that transcends hair. That's what Gandhi had. He had a haircut that didn't even need hair. I want something like that, but a haircut that doesn't need hair but has hair anyway. You see where I'm coming from? You know that today politics isn't about policy, it isn't about substance or platforms or issues or taking a stance. It'
s about hair. That's why you're here, and that's why I did so well last week. Did you see those polls in the Sundays? I'm on fire. Now give me a Gandhi.'

  'But with hair,' he added a second later, in case Barney had missed that bit.

  0834hrs Westminster London, England

  They were walking quickly along the corridors of Westminster, in the manner that the Prime Minister had picked up from Martin Sheen in The West Wing. He had even tried saying walk with me to Barney while Barney had been giving him a haircut, but that hadn't worked so well.

  On this occasion he was walking with the quartet of Barney, his aide Bleacher, Blaine the Cabinet Secretary, and his Diary Secretary Lucy. The PM was holding up a photofit of a particularly unattractive man.

  'What kind of haircut would you call that, Barney?' asked the PM, showing him the photo.

  Barney hummed and hawed for a second, then said, 'Well, that there is definitely an Ovid.'

  'Ovid? You might be right,' said the PM. He handed the picture back to Bleacher. 'And they say this is him?'

  'One of the secretaries in the Lords came forward. She hadn't wanted to in case the reason she was working late got out.'

  'Which was that she was banging someone she shouldn't have been?'

  'Exactly. I'm not even going to tell you who or you'll be sick. Anyway, she met this guy in a corridor, asked him who he was. He had a pass and said his name was Utterson.'

  The PM thought for a second then shook his head.

  'Utterson?'

  'Yes,' said Bleacher.

  'I've got to pull a Vienna on that one,' said the PM.

  'Sorry?' said Bleacher.

  'It means nothing to me.' The PM turned and winked at Barney as if he hadn't just used a joke that had gone out of fashion in 1986.