The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  The conversation lulled once more, Chris was swift coming to the conclusion of his business. Barney skulked in the back room for a couple of minutes and then to his horror, as he emerged to make a quick exit, it was just in time to see Charlie put on his coat and head for the door.

  'Oh, there you are Barney,' he said. 'I'll be seeing you.'

  Barney had no words, returned the farewell with a lame nod.

  'Right, Chris, thanks a lot for squeezing us in,' said Charlie. 'I hope Wullie turns up in the next day or two.'

  'I'm sure he will.'

  And with that Charlie was gone. After he had stepped out into the street, Chris slowly closed the door behind him, locked it and slipped the key into his pocket. He turned round and faced Barney. Barney stood with his back up against the rear wall; frightened eyes, muscles tensed.

  It was time.

  Jolene Stabs Billy Ray Bob Billy Bob

  The two men stood face to face across the shop, the tension of unstated convictions thick in the air, Chris's finger twitching at the trigger of his suspicion. He stood in the centre of the shop, hands steady, eyes narrow, stance broad. Gary Cooper.

  Barney pressed against the rear wall, where his hand fell on the broom which he had just been using to clear up the detritus of the day. Grabbed it tightly, held it to his side, his knuckles white. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead; his face was pale. Knees weak, heart thumped, hands trembled. Gollum; he wilted under the persistence of Chris's gaze.

  Neither man yet felt confident enough to say anything. Chris didn't know what to say, still incredulous that Barney could have had anything to do with Wullie's disappearance. Barney waited only to react to whatever Chris might say, for he knew accusations would soon fly. He should've been desperately trying to think of excuses or stories to tell, but his mind was thick with fear. Clogged up. Needed a chimney sweep. His tongue flicked out to remove the moustache of sweat which had appeared above his top lip; a lizard surreptitiously reeling in a small insect.

  Chris found his own tongue. He couldn't stand there all night, and although he didn't have a clue what to say or how this might progress, he knew he must say something.

  'And what heavy bag of rubbish might this have been that you were taking out to your motor on Wednesday night? Eh, Barney?' he said. Spat out the name.

  Barney cowered before the question, his eyes ever more fearful. Tongue darted out in quick jabs; his fingers took a feverish grip on the broom, a staff for fighting. Now he was Robin Hood. A frightened Robin Hood.

  'Well?' Chris sneered at him, accusing finger pointing. 'You cut a lot of heavy hair on Wednesday, did you, Barney, is that what you're going to tell me?'

  Barney spoke. 'It was just some of my own stuff.'

  'What?' he shot back. 'What own stuff? You don't have any of your own stuff. What stuff of yours were you putting into rubbish bags?'

  With the words came the doubt. What if it had been something of his own that he'd been taking out? Why should he tell Chris about it? It wasn't as if they were friends. He might do a lot of things that Chris didn't know about. God, maybe he was making a complete idiot of himself. What was he doing anyway? Nothing less than being on the point of accusing Barney of Wullie's murder; a hell of a thing to be doing.

  It was not a throwaway line, a casual easily-ignored remark. Working late and carrying a heavy bundle to his car did not necessarily add up to Barney being a murderer. It was strange, and he was acting suspiciously, but it didn't make him a criminal. This was mild mannered Barney. Mild mannered, Barry-Manilow-with-scissors, Barney. Not some bug-eyed psycho.

  'Look, it was just stuff, all right? None of your business.'

  Chris had been walking towards him, now he hesitated, stopped. He was at an impasse. He couldn't force Barney to tell him what was in the bags and it was still a giant stretch of the imagination to assume that it had been Wullie's body.

  Still, there Barney stood before him, clutching desperately onto the broom handle. Would he be acting so suspiciously if he had nothing to hide? Why be so defensive if his actions were innocent? And the consistent interruption of Charlie when he'd been trying to speak to him. Obviously he hadn't wanted Charlie to mention what he'd been doing on Wednesday evening.

  He got there eventually; arrived at a conclusion. Barney was hiding something. Definitely. Perhaps it was nothing to do with Wullie, but then perhaps it was. It wasn't going to cost him anything to make the accusation – not his friendship, that was for sure.

  And Barney was due for the chop, he knew that. Not a friend, not a colleague.

  Chris's mind was made up.

  'Did you kill Wullie?' he said.

  Barney reeled, squeezed the broom handle ever tighter. 'No!'

  'Well what was in they bags then, Barney, what was in they bags? Eh? You think I'm some heid-the-ba' or something?'

  Chris walked slowly towards him again, finger jabbing out, the aggression on his face far greater than the confidence he felt about Barney being rightly accused. But the closer he came, the more he saw the fright in Barney's eyes. Knew he was right.

  'You did kill Wullie, didn't you? Didn't you? You knew he was going to sack you, didn't you, you miserable bastard?' he shouted, his voice consuming the small shop.

  Barney bent his knees, almost squatting. 'No!' he squealed, a scream of pathetic denial. 'I didn't mean to. It was an accident!'

  The words fell dead in the air.

  Silence enveloped the shop. Barney was down on the floor, pressed against the wall as much as he could be. Chris stood three or four feet away, amazement on his face. So Barney had killed Wullie! He was right.

  Now that the information was out there, neither of them knew what to do next. Chris stood over him, astonishment and anger growing on his face; Barney cowered beneath, awaiting his fate.

  Several things were flying around Chris's head. He wanted to kill Barney. He knew he shouldn't. He should call the police, make sure Barney didn't escape – that's what he should do. But what then? What if he tried to keep Barney in here until they arrived? Barney was a killer, he'd just admitted to it. What if he went for Chris as well? God, he looked pathetic enough, but he'd killed Wullie somehow. Maybe he was the killer. Perhaps he should just get out while he could, go straight to the police. And what might this bastard have done to Wullie's body? Chopped it up? Christ almighty. A piece of Wullie could be sitting in the post waiting for delivery to Moira's house the following morning.

  His wrath rose once more within him; the fire blazed in his eyes. Barney saw it, knew what was coming. Held the broom handle tightly in his grasp, prepared to defend himself.

  Finally, Chris's temper snapped. He leapt forward, hands outstretched, searching for the killer's throat. Barney was ready for him however, did what he could in his pathetic, overtly-defensive position. Thrust the broom hard at Chris as he dived towards him, hitting him square in the chest with the thick brush. The broom was old but the handle held, and such was the force of Chris's onslaught that the full weight of the broom on his chest unbalanced him; sent him toppling backwards. He grabbed at air to try and right himself, but there was nothing to grab hold of. His feet slipped from under him and he fell back.

  His head cracked off the sharp edge of the counter with a strange thud. Almost hollow, thought Barney, as he watched in horror. In a flurry of arms and legs, Chris collapsed to the floor, his head thumping down onto the ground; and there he lay. Motionless.

  After the brief commotion, silence descended. Barney still cowered against the wall, the broom clutched in his trembling hands, staring at Chris. Chris was silent and unmoving on the ground. And then slowly, from where his head lay on the floor, a pool of thick blood began to spread out, stealthily creeping across the tiles. On his face could still be seen an expression of surprise, but his features would not move again.

  Slowly Barney rose and crawled over beside him. He gingerly placed his ear on Chris's chest, held his breath as he listened. Nothing.

  He sat b
ack on the floor, staring at Chris. Couldn't believe it.

  'Christ, not again,' he said.

  ***

  Barney ate his dinner. Once again he was practising a good deal of denial in order to be able to eat, as it was the last thing that he felt like doing. But he was temporarily trying to forget the previous three days, to relax before he had to face the awfulness of what was to come.

  He had read somewhere once that the best way to rest the mind was to think of some idyllic and peaceful setting, to concentrate on it, imagine that you were there, smelling the aromas, hearing the sounds. So, as he sat at the dinner table, Agnes's tinned beef stroganoff – beef, by God! – flitting quietly between plate, fork and mouth, he imagined himself to be at the foot of Ben Ime, where the forest track comes to an end beside the small dam with the beautiful clear pool of water behind it.

  The sun was shining, there was a crispness in the air, the snow still covered the top half of the hills. He was sitting back after a hard day's walking, a cup of tea in one hand, a roast beef sandwich in the other. All of a sudden a small grey rabbit, its nose snuffling, overcame its fear and emerged from its hiding place in a nearby bush. It stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air, attempting to fathom what it was that Barney was eating. 'Ah, roast beef sandwich,' it said to itself. 'I like a bit of cow.'

  Barney looked away from the rabbit and back up the hill. The last section was steep and tricky in the snow but hardly treacherous. He could still see the footprints he'd left, stretching back up the mountain. He sighed a contented sigh and turned to the rabbit. 'Would you like some sandwich?' he said, and the rabbit nodded its head, its nose twitching in anticipation. Barney tossed the remains of his sandwich high into the air towards the rabbit, a few inches above its head. It leapt majestically up to grab the bread and seemed to pause in mid-air while it plucked the flying sandwich out of the sky. It could not keep its balance however, and fell backwards, landing flush on its back, impaling itself on a broken beer bottle.

  Barney had killed the rabbit.

  He snapped out of his idyll, jolted and unhappy, and stared once again into the abyss of real life. He had accidentally killed his two work colleagues and his mother had died leaving him a freezer full of butchered corpses. Maybe he'd be able to keep his job now, but only if he could keep out of prison.

  Chris's body lay dumped in the boot of his car, where he'd left it half an hour previously. Barney had no idea what to do with it. Or Wullie's body for that matter. Or any of the others. Maybe he could just mail them all to the relatives, bit by bit.

  The one small piece of breathing space that he had was that Chris lived alone. It might be a while before anyone reported him missing. Perhaps it would even have to be Barney himself, when Chris didn't turn up for work the following morning.

  He thrust a contemplative lump of potato into his mouth. If he was lucky, he thought with a smile, the police might think that Chris had killed Wullie and had done a runner. Not much chance of that, though. More like, they'd have him for both.

  He glumly stared ahead as he speared the final potato, popped it into his mouth and contemplated his fate. And he did not even notice Agnes squealing with delight, as Jolene accidentally stabbed Billy Ray Bob Billy Bob in the throat with a pencil.

  Russian Toilets

  Saturday mornings were always busy. They closed at lunchtime, there being football matches to attend, and usually had a rush of people to deal with before twelve-thirty. They were especially busy this morning because Chris hadn't shown up for work. Old man Henderson was there, and in Wullie's continued absence he had also called for their occasional Saturday girl, Samantha, which clearly went down well with all the men who came into the shop. Samantha always dressed for the occasion. Some consolation for not having either of their preferred barbers there. Few were those, however, with enough of a neck to sit it out and wait for her in particular, most preferring instead to leave it to chance, scowling disconsolately when they were called by Barney or James.

  James had been disgruntled when Chris hadn't arrived and had made a few phone calls to his apartment. Had decided he wouldn't bother Chris's parents with it, not yet. But with Wullie having seemingly vanished, it was giving him an uneasy feeling. No believer in coincidence either, Old James Henderson.

  He was by now exceptionally worried about his son and the family were convinced that something must have happened to him. Whatever the case, he was upset enough that morning that he hadn't felt like telling Barney that he wasn't wanted anymore; deciding to leave it until the following week. He was still trying not to contemplate the what if of Wullie not returning.

  Barney was cutting hair with robotic repetition. In trying not to think about the freezer, he found he had to think about nothing at all. He cut hair as if in a dream. Consequently, he gave some strange hair cuts that morning, but such was the peculiar glint in his eye that few complained.

  However, that's not to say that some of those strange haircuts were not dream tickets. Indeed one chap, as a direct result of the haircut he received from Barney, pulled a sensational woman that night. A babe, if ever there was one in Glasgow. And it just so happened, that two weeks later she murdered him in cold blood. So it could be said that Barney was responsible for another murder, but that might have been unfair.

  All morning, however, something niggled at his mind. Something which he'd thought about the night before. Whatever it was, it had been a good thought. A useful one. He couldn't remember it, but he was aware that it'd been helpful; but every time it was almost there, something snapped and it was gone.

  The morning dragged on, haircut after haircut, a busy and endless stream, and fortunately a long line of people who were not interested in conversation. He'd had to briefly concentrate when one chap asked him for a Brad Pitt-Vampire, but that hadn't proved as difficult as he'd thought it might. After that, things had pretty much been plain sailing. There was one customer who was used to seeing Wullie, and who had wanted to talk about football. He'd asked Barney what he thought about Rangers' game against St Mirren in the Cup, but Barney had only looked at the Premier League table; had never even heard of St. Mirren. The bloke realised quickly that he wouldn't be getting anywhere and fell into silence.

  Finally the long morning drew to a close. The Closed sign had been posted on the door and each of the barbers was left working on their final job. As the hour had approached, Barney's stomach had begun to churn. Realised that something was going to have to be done with this great weight of dead bodies. He could no longer afford to simply not think about it.

  Unfortunately, for his last job he got what all barber's hate to get when it is not looked for. A talker. A man with no particular favourite amongst the barbers and whose hair Barney regularly cut. Something in computers as far as he was aware. At least with this chap he hardly had to say anything. His concentration drifted in and out, catching the odd word or sentence. He'd started off on football, which Barney had completely ignored, then had moved onto the weather, and now, as Barney delicately negotiated the ears, he was onto the subject of toilets.

  'And Russian toilets! Let me tell you about Russian toilets.' He stopped, caught Barney's eye in the mirror. 'You ever been to Russia, Barney?'

  The question sank in only a second or two behind schedule. Barney shook his head, mumbled a negative.

  'You wouldn't believe it. Me and Wendy went there last year. I'm like that, you think the toilets in Buchanan Street are bad? The smell in these gaffes hits you from about twenty yards, and then you go down the stairs to them and there's just shite everywhere. The floors are covered with it. Then there's these stalls with just a small swing door, with a hole in the ground. There's pish and shite everywhere, and there's no bog paper. And there's always some huge fat Slavic bird sitting there, and you've got to pay her for the privilege of wading through gallons of weapons-grade excrement!' Paused for breath. Barney nodded at what he presumed was an appropriate moment. 'And the toilets on the trains! Unbelievable. There's no
bog paper, of course, there's pish everywhere, they're minging, and you get pubic hair in the soap because these people have never seen soap before, so they have a bath in the sink. Bloody awful country. And I'll tell you another thing,' he said, 'it's the same wherever you go, the minute you cross the channel. These people just have no conception. The French, the Belgians. They're all the same. Maybe the Germans are all right, but they've got plenty of other deficiencies to make up for it. And the further south you go, the worse they get...'

  Barney switched off, left him to it. The annoying nag at the back of his mind was right there, right on the cusp, waiting to be plucked out of the air; then it was gone and he'd lost it again.

  He vaguely turned his attention back to the inane ramblings of his last victim of the day, who had made another quantum leap of subject matter.

  '...and then he downloaded the whole bloody lot. So you know what he did then?'

  Downloaded? He wasn't still talking about toilets, was he, thought Barney. He shook his head and feigned interest, as he applied the finishing snips to the back of his hair.

  'Well, I must admit, I wouldn't have thought of this myself. You see, there was a guy called Johnson who left last week. Bit of a muppet, no one's ever going to see him again. So Ernie works out what the guy's password was, don't ask me how, gets into his computer and fixes it so it looks like it was Johnson who cocked it up. Brilliant! So when the Big Man finds out about it, which he did yesterday afternoon, he doesn't suspect a thing. Just assumes that it was Johnson all along. Ernie gets off scot-free, and Johnson's name is mud. But he doesn't care 'cause he's buggered off and is living in Switzerland or some shit like that. Amazing,' he said, laughing quietly to himself. 'Switzerland! Now there's a place where you'll get a decent toilet, if I'm not mistaken. Mind you, try flushing it after five in the evening and you'll get arrested. Think about that.'

  Barney nodded, then with a swish of the comb and a pat or two of the top of the head to ease the hair into its final, respectable shape, he was done.