The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  'The Incredible Captain Death?' said the other two in unison.

  Igor looked around them all, making the quiet! sign. There weren't many times in his life that Igor wished he could speak. He enjoyed his existence, hiding behind deafness and his hump and an inability to communicate like most of the rest of humanity. And now that his life was filled with Barney Thomson and Garrett Carmichael, two people who understood everything he tried to say but couldn't articulate, it didn't seem to matter. However, every now and again there came moments when he wished, to the bottom of his very soul, that he had the capability to shout at people, explain everything in thirty seconds and, more than anything else, tell them to shut up.

  Not that shouting at anyone to tell them to shut up because you want them to be quiet as there's potentially a masked murderer in the yard actually makes any sense. It would have been nice to have had the option, however.

  The others in this dim little back room all nodded and looked slightly sheepish. People always assumed that Igor would be a follower rather than a leader. He gave them another harsh look and then edged round the corner of the door.

  'Igor?' whispered Craig Brown from behind. Igor turned, a look of annoyance on his face. A look that suddenly died. 'What happened to Ally?'

  Igor's face changed. He couldn't speak, but wouldn't have had to say anything in this situation in any case.

  'Shit,' muttered Waites.

  'I'm sorry,' Igor silently mouthed.

  He dropped his eyes and turned back to the door. There would be time for regret and sadness later, but for the moment he sensed the inherent danger.

  He looked across the cluttered main room of the shed. Were they going to hide in this dim muddle all night? Looked at his watch. It wasn't even ten o'clock. The fog had made it seem like it had been evening forever, and yet only a few hours had passed. There were still another ten before dawn, and what then? What if this clawing fog was still in place?

  He stared at the door, the door which led back out into the gloom. That was really their only option. Get out of here, and get across the road to one of the hotels. See if there was a free room where Waites and Brown could clean up. Hope there was some police presence there. Notify the families of the missing fishermen. At last, some light in the darkness of this horrible few days.

  He turned, finger to his lips again and beckoned them all to follow him. Exaggeratedly mouthed be careful! as he indicated the floor. Another pause to see that they were actually going to follow him, as he was not used to leading, and then he turned and started edging his way through the minefield towards the door.

  Immediately Bernard banged his knee off a small wooden cabinet, a dull thud, and he hopped comically on one leg while the others looked daggers at him.

  'Like, sorry, man!' he whispered.

  And then, as they all turned away and started to pick their slow and meandering path through the debris, came another sound from outside. The same as before. The slow, agonising creak of the front gate as it was pushed painfully open. Hearts skipped beats. Everyone looked at Igor, eyes full of fear.

  Hesitation, then another sign from Igor, and they started once more to mince slowly across the floor. Seconds passed, nerves held. The two fisherman feeling lost and confused, facing up to the death of their friend, uncomfortable, legs cramped and stiff. Bernard and The Dog With No Name, hungry and scared, and wishing they were back in London, working in an office chasing down distant drug rings and unseen terrorists. Igor, trying to be sure of himself, trying to have a belief in his own abilities to lead this sorry gang of fools out of this place. How could they believe in him if he didn't believe in himself?

  They collected at the door. Igor looked them over, and then started indicating with sweeping hand manoeuvres that he intended switching off the light, opening the door and heading out of the boatyard.

  'Cool, charades!' said Bernard. 'Light, light. The Unbearable Lightness of Being?'

  The Dog With No Name nudged him.

  'Switch?' said Bernard. 'You think it's switch? The Switches of Eastwick?'

  Igor started cutting his hand across his throat, amazed as most other people were when they met Bernard and discovered his chosen occupation. To give him some due, however, he could keep a secret.

  'Beheading...beheading...The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?'

  Colin Waites clamped his hand on Bernard's shoulder.

  'Shut up,' he said, with great deliberation. 'You're an MI6 muppet. The man is trying to say that he will turn the light out, we will go outside and leave this place. Fucking capiche?'

  Bernard nodded.

  'Did you just say capiche?' said Craig Brown.

  Igor once more drew a dramatic hand across his neck to silence everyone. They all acknowledged the leader, then Igor quickly put one hand on the door handle and turned off the light. He waited a second, could hear the whimper of the Dog With No Name in the darkness behind him, and then slowly began to lower the handle.

  Just outside the door, something scraped along the ground. Another muffled sound. Igor froze.

  The Breaking Of The Guard

  Despite the thick fog, the killer moved easily between the boats, knowing every anchor, every mast, every misplaced nautical item left sitting around the yard. He had a small bag, and every so often he would bend down, turn something over or empty out a small metal tube and place it inside. The bag was slowly filling up.

  Beneath his Dostoevsky mask, which he had specially ordered through www.noveltydeadrussiannovelistmasks.com some weeks previously, when his demonic plans had first come to him in the form of a strange and powerfully dark dream, the killer was working his way towards his goal. The operation was at an end. He would clear up on the profits. There would be none of the other ten to share in the bounty or talk to the police. Only dear old Cudge and the two fishermen bound and gagged beneath the table to be taken care of. He had so far been unable to bring himself to dispose of the youthful Brown and Waites, but the time was getting close.

  Having worked his way down the line of boats, he came to the small building at the end of the row and stood outside the door. He clutched the small bag in one hand and reached out for the door handle with the other.

  ***

  Igor looked at the others, but now, with the light off, he could no longer see them, even though they stood only a few feet away, such was the intensity of the darkness inside the shed.

  He steeled himself. He had had to put up with much in life, the deaf, mute hunchback's lot. Whatever demon waited for him outside, whatever man in a mask stood on the threshold of this door, regardless of what that man might have done to anyone else in this town, Igor could handle it.

  Looking through the darkness, imagining the frightened faces of his small, ragtag army, Igor said with vigour, verve and panache, 'I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game's afoot! Follow your spirit and, upon this charge cry, 'God for Igor, Scotland and St Andrew!''

  Sadly this bold, if highly derivative, rallying call came out only as 'Arf!'

  Igor faced the door, handle still depressed, could hear further movement outside, and, heart in mouth, stomach churning, pulled the door open.

  Detective Chief Inspector Frankenstein would later admit that he damned near died of fright. He hadn't actually noticed Igor the deaf, mute hunchback on the island before and creeping around a boatyard in thick fog with a deranged lunatic killer on the loose wasn't the best time to get his initial introduction.

  He staggered more than stepped back into Barney Thomson, directly behind him. Igor stared at him. The Dog With No Name bravely poked its head out of the door, followed by Bernard and the two fishermen.

  'Fuck,' said Frankenstein loudly, a sharp crack of the word, not even swallowed up by the density of the fog. 'Who the fuck are you?'

  'Arf!' said Igor.

  'Igor,' said Barney, 'my assistant. Jesus, Colin and Craig! You guys ok?'

  'Jesus?' said Bernard. 'Jesus is here?'

>   Craig Brown nodded.

  'Physically, I suppose,' said Colin Waites, 'but mentally we're screwed. Probably need post-traumatic stress counselling for decades. And we smell like shit.'

  Barney smiled. That was the Colin Waites he knew.

  'We should get you across the road to one of the hotels, get you cleaned up, call your families.'

  'Hi guys!' said Fred, appearing behind.

  The Dog With No Name barked.

  'Freddie!' said Bernard, relieved that his own people had arrived.

  The gang, now suddenly grown to eleven in number, twelve including the Dog With No Name, gathered in a circle outside the door of the workshop.

  'So, you're Waites and Brown,' said Frankenstein, looking between the two fishermen. 'I know you want to get away from here, but this guy has murdered at least three people tonight. You need to tell me everything you can that might possibly help us. Everything.'

  Craig Brown's head twitched. He looked blankly to the side of Frankenstein's head. He wasn't saying anything about the mask of Fyodor Dostoevsky. Waites squeezed his arm. Barney and Proudfoot recognised the look on their faces, wanted to intervene to save them from this at this time, but they knew they couldn't. The guy was still out there and Frankenstein had to push them for everything they could think of.

  The MI6 gang waited excitedly for anything that might be a new clue.

  'There were three of you on the boat,' said Frankenstein. Aware that they couldn't stand there forever but knowing he had to gently ease one of them in to talking about their ordeal.

  Waites stared at the ground.

  'There were four,' he said.

  Frankenstein and Proudfoot looked surprised. The MI6 gang perked up.

  'I knew it!' said Selma.

  Frankenstein glanced round sharply at her. His face demanded an explanation, but she was too busy making notes in a small book. No time for getting into an argument with the security services. He turned back quickly to Waites.

  'Who was the fourth?'

  Waites looked uncomfortably at his fellow fisherman, but Brown was staring randomly off into the mist. There was no way back for him, at least not this evening.

  'An Irish guy,' he said. 'Crichton, Gram Crichton.'

  'What happened to him?' said Frankenstein.

  Waites swallowed. Dry mouth. Stared at the floor.

  'He got him. The guy in the mask. It was a thick fog out, thick as this. We were coming through the Kyles, puttering. So slow. Then a boat came alongside. Right in beside us. Touching us. But there didn't seem to be anyone on board. Gram says he'll go over and take a look. Just as he steps on board, we're all watching, this guy leaps up out of nowhere, axe held above his head...'

  He swallowed again, reliving the moment, the scene, for the thousandth time in the past five days, although this was the first time he'd been in a position to put it into words.

  'Swipes the guy's head off?' said Frankenstein.

  Waites nodded.

  'Clean...' he began, and his voice drifted off.

  'And what happened to Deuchar?' said Frankenstein quickly, worried that if he lost Waites for five seconds, it could be forever.

  'The guy came on deck,' he said, each word forced out, each strand of the memory dragged from some place in his head where he had tried to hide it away. 'We were all scared. He just stood there. It was like a fucking horror movie. Fucking creepy. Then he steps forward, turns the axe head round and whacked me and Craig on the napper. Hardly had time to move. We woke up back there, tied together, in the pitch black. I didn't even know where we were until we saw Igor.'

  'Deuchar?' repeated Frankenstein.

  Waites shook his head.

  'Just before I got whacked, I saw him collapse. I didn't know what it was. Fainted. Heart attack. I don't know.'

  His head dropped. Frankenstein gave him a second. All the time he could feel it though. The menace was out there and, more probably, in here. In the boatyard, possibly only yards away through the mist.

  'Who was Gram Crichton?' said Frankenstein.

  Waites stared at the ground. The others were becoming restless. They could sense it too. The lurking menace, the foreboding evil. Frankenstein took a step forward, held Waites' arms.

  'Who was Gram Crichton?'

  'We picked him up in Ireland,' said Waites, his voice beginning to break. It didn't matter who Gram Crichton was or why they had picked him up. All he could see was the look on Crichton's face as his head spiralled through the air.

  Craig Brown stared into the fog.

  'We were smuggling diamonds,' said Waites eventually.

  Frankenstein stared at him, mouth open. Beside him Selma gave a little squeal of excitement. Frankenstein turned sharply.

  'You bastards knew about this all along?'

  'We're MI6, my friend,' said Fred. 'We know everything.'

  Frankenstein stepped closer, away from Waites, getting into Fred's face.

  'And you couldn't share that information, you bastard?'

  'You were investigating the murders,' said Fred. 'We left you to it. We did our part, you did yours, and now the two investigations have come together. We can share clues!'

  Frankenstein felt his blood pressure shooting, the anger pinballing around inside his head far outweighing any feelings of trepidation and impending death. He stabbed his finger into Fred's chest.

  'Stick your fucking clues up your stupid arse,' he said, teeth bared.

  Fred nodded, mind already working. Memo to Vauxhall Bridge: add DCI Frankenstein to the list.

  Igor felt it first. He turned quickly. The others noticed the movement. Eyes, heads followed the look, a frightened stare towards the row of boats, albeit boats which were still obscured by the fog.

  Brown looked up for the first time since coming into the assembled group, his face engulfed by terror. He was back.

  No time to move. None of them.

  The killer was upon them, axe held high above his head, charging into their midst, brutality in mind. The group split asunder. The killer headed straight for Fred of MI6.

  'You don't frighten me!' said Fred boldly, standing tall, braced to tackle his masked assailant head on.

  The killer swung the axe, a beautiful parabolic swipe, cutting through the mist and then cutting through Fred's neck with ease and grace and panache. Fred's body collapsed instantly, his head toppling off with some force, a few feet from his body.

  'Like, wow, Fred!' yelped Bernard. 'Are you all right, buddy?'

  Selma and Deirdre took one look at Fred's scuppered body and turned and legged it into the mist. Which is what the others had already done, Barney Thomson included. Fred was gone. There was nothing to be done to help him now.

  The killer stood over Bernard. He bent forward, the contempt on his face evident despite the latex.

  'Fucking MI6,' he muttered, and then he himself turned and ran headlong into the mist.

  The small gathering had completely dispersed. All that remained of the circle outside the door of the boatyard workshop was the crumpled and decapitated body of Fred of MI6, blood spilling out into a pool on the ground. Bernard stood over him, the Dog With No Name nuzzled in beside his leg.

  The Four Corners

  Colin Waites grabbed Craig Brown by the arm and pulled him away. No idea where they were heading, they stumbled across the gate at the exit of the boatyard, out into the small lane leading on to the main road round the island. Confused, frightened, disorientated and hurting. But away from the boatyard, and safe.

  Selma and Deirdre ran around wildly, not knowing where they were going, scared and bewildered. It just wasn't like Fred to get his head cut off like that. It would not be long, after a few frantic seconds of bumping into boats and tripping over masts, before they would have gone a full short circle, and would be back beside Bernard and the Dog With No Name and Fred, in his state of bloody woe.

  The police contingent, Dr Trio Semester and Igor in tow, rushed to the side in convoy, running into a brick
wall, and staying pressed up against it, breathing hard, listening for any further commotion in the fog.

  Barney Thomson dashed out of the way, no idea in which direction he'd run. Tripped over something metal, fell against the side of a wooden boat, straightened himself up. Looked around into the heart of the mist. Heart thumping, but the composure was still there. Tense but not afraid. He could hear stumbling, no voices. A flight through the mist, someone moving swiftly between the boats. A few frantic seconds, and then everything had died down.

  Silence.

  He became aware of the sound of his breathing and made the conscious effort to slow it down, to take slow deep breaths. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Channelled the tension, let the cold sweat pass.

  The message on the wall of the café had been there for a reason. This whole thing, whatever it was, seemed to be as much about him. The killer was out there for him, to toy with him. Maybe he and the killer were entwined in a way that he had yet to work out. His ghosts had not been arriving over a long period, building to this conclusion. Whatever unsettled feelings he might have had before this past week, there had been no dark mirrors of the soul into which he could gloomily stare, until precisely the evening, perhaps even precisely the time, that the crew of the trawler Bitter Wind had been laid waste.

  And so, with his mind working to some sort of inevitable conclusion, he was neither surprised nor frightened when a tall figure began to appear through the mist, although he still found himself pressing back against the wooden hull of the Golden Cavalier III, as if he might be able to merge into the boat and make himself invisible.

  The man in black emerged fully from the mist and stood before Barney. Two feet between them, the rubber Dostoevsky mask curled into a smile.

  Barney considered his options. The classic fight or flight? But that wasn't why the two of them were standing here. There would be no fight, and flight was clearly pointless. It would be the third option in the adrenaline-fuelled, testosterone-laden situation. Dialogue.

  'Not running, Barney?' said Dostoevsky.

  Recognised the voice. The same as the old man who had come in for a haircut and sat in the front of the DCI's car. An older version, he now realised, of the young guy who had come in looking for a Bruce Willis.