The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Very good,' said Barney. 'So what, you've also eliminated everybody in the building from your investigation?'

  'What would Sherlock Homes say now?' wisecracked Kent.

  'Ignoring the sideshow,' said Solomon, 'the logical conclusion is that it's someone, or a group, who have direct dealings with the cabinet. The people in each of the government departments don't really have too much business with the cabinet, except through their minister. So, to cut the crap, we're looking at a member of the cabinet itself, someone from the First Minister's office who has regular dealings with the cabinet, or one of the civil servants who has to deal with the cabinet. Sound good?'

  'Sure,' said Barney. 'Have to start somewhere.'

  'Exactamundo,' said Solomon. 'So, we realise you don't have access to all those groups. But what we're asking you to do is to integrate into the group you're already in. The First Minister's men and women.'

  'I've already shagged one of them,' said Barney. Boys will be boys.

  'Hey,' said Kent. 'Excellent.'

  'Yeah,' said Solomon, 'very good. Find out as much as you can, find out what they know, if any of them have dealings with any of the other two groups. Most of all, find out about Weirdlove, 'cause if ever there was a sinister motherfuck on this planet, that guy is it.'

  'Aye,' said Barney. 'You must've seen him this morning as you left.'

  Solomon shook his head. Kent gave Barney one of those suspicious little looks that he threw his way every now and again.

  'Nope,' said Solomon. 'Why'd you say that?'

  Barney shook his head. Because I was presuming he came in as you two left, he thought, but didn't say. Perhaps Weirdlove had ghosted in through the closed door. Perhaps he'd been in the room all along.

  'Doesn't matter,' said Barney. 'Look, I'll see what I can find out. What d'you want me to do? How should I contact you?'

  Solomon reached inside his coat pocket and produced a small red flag on a small brown pole. Kent rolled his eyes and hurrumphed.

  'When you think you've got something for us, doesn't matter how insignificant it seems, stick this in the window of your room. We'll get in touch.'

  'You're kidding me?' said Barney.

  'He likes to pretend,' said Kent, getting to his feet, 'that his life is a movie. All undercover trickery and car chases.'

  'Can it, Kent,' barked Solomon. 'You got anything to tell us, Barn, you put this in your window. You got that?'

  'Whatever you say,' said Barney, and he saluted.

  'Right,' said Solomon. 'We're out of here. Come on, Superman.'

  Kent made a face at Solomon's back and followed his leader to the door. As he passed Barney he put his hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and said, 'Well done on shagging the vicar, mate. Excellent.'

  And they left.

  When the door was closed, Barney turned round quickly, wondering if Parker Weirdlove was going to be standing inside again, as he had been before. Not this time, and Barney slumped back down into his seat.

  'How did they know I slept with the vicar?' he muttered to the room.

  Give It Up For The Rubettes!

  It was half-time at the '70s retro show at the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow and the appropriate generation had packed out the auditorium to watch the usual remnants of one of the century's darker decades of musical output. Of the eleven acts on the bill, there were at least two versions of the Bay City Rollers, an octogenarian line-up for Mud, featuring none of the original band members, Alvin Stardust and his 300lb codpiece, and a varied selection of has-beens, never-weres and be-glittered psychopaths whose egos had remained trapped on Top of The Pops for close on thirty years. It was, to be fair to the lads Fat Bastards, an appalling show. And the audience was fifty-three per cent larger than for the previous night's performance from Scottish Opera.

  In the middle of the back row, as inconspicuous as a person who was on Reporting Scotland every other night could be, was Winona Wanderlip, decked out in an enormous Rubettes hat, which she'd possessed since she was ten and had grooved along to Juke Box Jive. Along with an absurdly enormous pair of dark glasses, of the variety sported by Peters out of Peters and Lee, it made her blend in with the seventies crowd, so that no heads were turned in her direction.

  The man sitting next to her was dressed in a suit and tie, much as he always was. He stood out a mile, but still no one paid him any attention. Something about him made people not want to be caught looking at him.

  'It's got to be one of the cabinet,' said Wanderlip. 'Seriously, who else is interested? I don't even see JLM having anything to do with it. He just ignores us all anyway, so why bother killing us off?'

  'Quash the rebellion,' said Parker Weirdlove. 'It's good dictator skills. The slightest hint of trouble, and you ditch the ringleaders. Melanie was getting arsey; you said yourself that Peggy came out of your illicit cabinet meeting prepped to make a challenge; Nelly was, well, Nelly.'

  'And Wally?' said Wanderlip, giving him a sideways glance.

  'Exception to prove the rule,' said Weirdlove. 'I don't know.'

  'You know something you're not telling me?' asked Wanderlip.

  'Not at all,' he said. 'If JLM wanted rid of people he could just sack them. You're a bit of an exception, because you're this thing in the press. But the others; Jesus, you can tell what it's like. There're four of them dead or missing, and apparently there's only one paper leading with it tomorrow. No one cares.'

  'So who then?' asked Wanderlip.

  'It's impossible, Winnie,' said Weirdlove. 'Impossible to say. Maybe Eaglehawk. Took out Honeyfoot to get promoted, then he takes out a few others just to make it look like there's a serial killer after you all. Who knows? I'd just watch your back, given what's happened to your colleagues.'

  'Thanks,' she said. 'I needed those comforting words.'

  'I'm just saying, that's all,' he said, raising a defensive hand.

  Wanderlip looked around the crowd, bathed in interval light. Was the killer here, in amongst the crowd? Had she been followed from Edinburgh, and at some stage of the second half, while the audience danced to Middle of the Road, would a silent bullet come whizzing her way?

  She stared at a man who looked uncomfortable in his tartan flares and tartan denim jacket and wondered if he could be the hit-man sent to blend in and get her. Or then again, maybe he was just a poor sap who'd been feeling like a complete idiot since his wife had made him get dressed in his retro-gear.

  You could just never tell. It could be anyone. It could be Parker Weirdlove.

  Winona Wanderlip shivered and turned to listen to Weirdlove, as he started to tell the story of the future of Scotland in space.

  ***

  Late in the evening, Alison Blake lay back, her head resting on her right hand, her right hand resting on her pillow. She had just extinguished her post-sex cigarette, exhaled the last lungful of smoke through circled lips. She had the warm, luxuriously relaxed and contented feeling about her body that comes with post-sex cigarettes and occasionally even comes with sex.

  Today had been the usual dismal run with JLM, getting to spiritually advise him for three minutes, knowing that every word she spoke was either going straight over his head, or not even reaching his head in the first place.

  She ran a contemplative hand through the hair of the man lying flat out next to her; the only man who she could call regular in her wide ranging pantheon of sleeping partners.

  'That was heavenly,' she said, although it hadn't been. It'd been all right really, or could do better, or one day you might get the hang of it, but I'm not holding me breath.

  The man stirred but said nothing. His hand moved under the covers and touched the bare skin of her stomach, gave her a wee affectionate squeeze, and was then withdrawn back to the safety of his side of the bed.

  'No problem, baby,' he said eventually. 'Like strawberry blancmange.'

  ***

  Conrad Vogts also had an interesting evening. Sitting up until quarter to midnight, playing cards with Jame
s Eaglehawk and wiping him out for several hundred Euros, whilst having a long and involved chat about the possibility of Scotland's entry into the Eurozone, without the barbed interjections of Parker Weirdlove. (Vogts had also wanted to have a long and involved chat about Scotland's entry to the Eurovision Song Contest, but Eaglehawk hadn't been so concerned about that.) Vogts recognised JLM for what he was; all show, all PR, all political ambition. Eaglehawk was shrewd however, an operator prepared to bide his time, a man who would not be seen to make mistakes. There were few in the voting public who would buy a used car off him, but then only because there are a million people selling used cars. If you needed a used car, and there was only one person selling them, you wouldn't really have any option.

  So, after several hours of gin rummy, a few beers and a couple of fish suppers, Conrad Vogts and James Eaglehawk had reached something of an understanding about the future of the Scottish Executive, and about the future of Scotland itself.

  They had also reached an understanding on the future of Jesse Longfellow-Moses, and about the number of his days.

  Preparing For War And The Illumination Of The Masses

  The unnatural heatwave continued into the following morning, Edinburgh and the rest of Scotland, waking to the seventh balmy day in a row. The newspapers were full of pictures of kids with ice cream all over their faces, near naked shots of gorgeous bits of tottie prepared to peddle their dignity for a few moments in the sun, and the usual talk of global warming and water shortages. The odd unscrupulous editor pulled library photos or articles that they'd used the last time there was hot weather for more than a day and a half.

  So interested were the papers in the weather, that it had become something else to keep the cabinet murders off the front pages. Not that they didn't make the most of it on the insides: Two More Gone, As Nation Rejoices, The Scotsman; Four Down, Six Of The Bastards To Go, The Herald; McLaven Falls Faster Than He Used To In The Box, The Celtic View; The Nebby Wee Cow Didn't Deserve To Die But Who Cares?, The Daily Record; Wanderlip & Spiderman The Only Two Left With Breasts (Or Balls) In The Cabinet, The Sun; North East Man Grows Potatoes, The Aberdeen Press & Journal. The story German Flies In On Secret Mission To Align Independent Scots To Euro, was buried on page 56 of the Financial Times. No one noticed.

  For this seventh day of hot weather, JLM finally decided he would like something a little seasonal to be going on with, so had asked for a Paul Newman Long Hot Summer. For the first time in ten different hair styles, it was actually going to involve Barney in removing some hair.

  Which was what he was doing, as he went through the normal morning rigmarole of Parker Weirdlove outlining to his boss the day ahead, JLM cussing and muttering about what a waste of time it all was, and of The Amazing Mr X, standing very still, listening for the slightest sound that might herald an assassination attempt and warrant the use of the self-loading, hand-held bazooka which he had started carrying around with him.

  'Look,' said JLM, suddenly, butting into Weirdlove's outline, bringing a well-practised death-ray look from his sidekick, 'I'm really not interested in all the press stuff and this bloody annoying appearance in parliament. I mean, really, the cabinet don't bloody do anything. It hardly makes any difference that they keep dying. Government in crisis, my arse. The fewer of them there are, the better we'll all get on. Can't argue with that, can you, Barn?'

  Barney nodded.

  'Absolutely, sir,' he said, drawing another scorcher from Weirdlove.

  'No, we need big stuff,' said JLM. 'You manage to rearrange that thing with the Canadians we had to cancel because of Stratton and that absurd business with her blood?'

  'Had to put it off until next Monday, I'm afraid,' said Weirdlove, to the accompanying groan. 'We'll fit it in between your appearance on Celebrity Who Wants To be A Millionaire and your appearance before the Parliamentary Committee on Misappropriation of Public Funds.'

  'Christ!' said JLM, turning round, catching Barney unaware this time, and getting a good old slice of the hair on the back of his head removed. 'I'm appearing on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?'

  'Well,' said Weirdlove, 'it's only the Scottish version. It's hosted by Craig Brown, and they're dubbing it Who Wants To Be An Underachiever?'

  'Still,' said JLM, 'TV is TV. Mustn't forget that. What was that other thing you mentioned?'

  'Not important,' said Weirdlove. 'And I've got some initial costings for you on the whole space thing.'

  JLM nodded, as Barney went about repairing his shattered work of the last few days. The Paul Newman Long Hot Summer was about to turn into a Bruce Willis Any Movie In Which He's Got A Baldy Napper.

  'Yes,' said JLM, 'space. I've been thinking about that, and you know, perhaps it might be a little extravagant. What d'you think?'

  'Indeed, sir,' said Weirdlove, 'I believe the voting public might prefer it if you concentrated on the health service and transport for a while.'

  'God, Parker, bugger them!' he said. 'We have to think big picture here. Big Picture! I was just thinking, that once we go UDI, the bloody English might pop their heads above the parapet and think about sending troops or something. What d'you think? So I thought maybe we should have some bollocking good defences established, and a few tricks up our sleeve, if you know what I'm saying. Lots of troops, heavy fighting equipment, a bit of a navy and an air force, then bollocks to the bloody English. We'd be in the whole Taiwan situation. Maybe they'd be able to beat us, but it would take them so long and they'd get such a bloody nose out of it, they'd know better than to try. Once we've got our independence, well, we can start to be a bit of a player on the world stage. Send our boys on peacekeeping missions to Africa and the like. That'd be champion, eh?'

  Weirdlove couldn't think of an immediate reply. Sometimes, despite everything, JLM still left him speechless.

  'And, well, with all that kind of thing, that kind of input to the world stage, all the pomp and all that, we might be able to supplant the bastarding English on the permanent council at the UN. What d'you think? We in with a shout?'

  Weirdlove still did not reply.

  'Barn?' said JLM, looking for a response from someone.

  'Lovely idea,' said Barney. 'You yourself might even manage to become the first head of government to become UN Secretary General whilst still in power.'

  Weirdlove rolled his eyes.

  'Jesus, Barn!' said JLM, 'that's bloody brilliant. Does the UN constitution allow that? Whatever, anyway, champion. Parker, here's what I want you to do. I need proposals for creating our own armed forces. When we split away from the bastards down south, we'll get a percentage of the existing military, but we need a good solid infrastructure before then. I need figures, and I want a judicious balance between land, sea and air. We need to think about options to get us the finance. I'm talking, just off the top of my head here, privatising the entire health service and introducing health insurance, handing roads over to industry and letting them put tolls on every motorway, A and B road. I'm talking privatising education, letting the people pay for their children's schooling right from the off. I genuinely think they might like that, more of an input and everything, you know?'

  He paused while he wondered if there was any other way in which he could help the people of Scotland by absolutely shagging them.

  'There must be no end of different ways we could hand control of the country back to the people, don't you think? I'm sure we could persuade them of the need for this, particularly if we invoke the threat of an invasion from the English.'

  'For example,' said Weirdlove, 'I expect you could persuade the civil service to pay the government for the privilege of working for us.'

  'You know, Parker,' said JLM, 'I think that might well be the case.'

  JLM lapsed into silence, while he considered the glory of his plans. Yet to notice that Barney was giving him a slightly downgraded haircut on the one he'd asked for. Weirdlove looked through his notes to see if there was anything else he could tell the boss which was liable to sc
upper the smooth running of the day. But given that he was able to bluster his way through any question about murder, Hookergate, fraud, or any other business, it didn't seem to matter.

  'And I was thinking,' said JLM, as Weirdlove folded the clipboard under his arm, and waited with a patient smile, 'I was reading Linklater in Scotland on Sunday at the weekend. A good article about the Second Enlightenment. I think we should aim for that, don't you? Scotland should be this place where big ideas are born. We should be enlightened and erudite as a nation. I was thinking of founding a kind of Longfellow-Moses trust, you know, establishing a series of centres around the country, where the intellectuals of the day could meet and debate the ideas that I was handing down from above for the advancement of society. The Jesse Longfellow-Moses Enlightenment Forum, I thought we could call it. How's that sound?'

  Weirdlove didn't answer.

  'Barn?' said JLM.

  'Champion,' said Barney.

  The Amazing Mr X stared out of the window and thought about Tom & Jerry.

  JLM finally noticed his hair, looking quizzically in the mirror.

  'Is that what Paul Newman looked like in Long Hot Summer?' he asked.

  Barney stood back and observed the symmetrical beauty of JLM's US Marine haircut.

  'Near as dammit,' he replied. 'Near as dammit.'

  God Is Not A Man, That He Should Lie

  Once JLM had marched from his office with his brief for the day and a spanking new and very short haircut – 'I love it! I love it!' Veron Veron had cried – Barney returned to the midst of the others. The two doctors worrying away at their laptops; Veron busying himself at his dummy, this time creating an elegant, but unnecessarily elaborate thing for JLM's meeting with a Thai prince that had been pencilled in for three weeks hence, (but which was destined never to happen); Father Michael absorbed in whatever hidden messages he was divining from the sermon on the mount; and Alison Blake buried in her Bible, and now avoiding Barney like he was, well, a religious freak or something.