The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  'It's all right,' said Blade, a little disappointed, thinking that maybe Waugh had brought the evening to an early end as he'd intended inviting him upstairs. 'I'll walk.'

  'It's a long way,' said Waugh, immediately suspicious of his new partner and wondering what he was up to.

  Blade smiled, relaxed, trying to ease the other man's fears.

  'I've walked a lot these last few years. Helps me think.'

  'All right, my friend,' said Waugh. 'Be safe.'

  They shook hands again, then Marcus Blade turned away from Waugh and walked out of the St. James's Club for the last time.

  Waugh watched him until he was being accompanied by George the doorman, and he was sure he would be escorted from the premises. He drained his glass, considered sitting in peace and having another drink now that his guest was gone, but decided instead that he really ought to get to bed and have a decent night's sleep before the big day.

  The two police officers who should have been watching Waugh at this point were not in attendance. Waugh had done them a favour by giving them the slip on the escalators out of Leicester Square. Detective Constables Russell and Mallot would be severely reprimanded for their negligence, but actually all it meant was that they got to live, instead of dying alongside Waugh. In life, however, you generally don't get to know exactly how the alternative scenario would have played out, and neither of their careers would ever recover. But at least they got to watch Scotland win the World Cup in 2014.

  Waugh stood up, took a look around the room at the few remaining late diners – Tom Cruise was having dinner with Kermit The Frog, and he wondered what that was all about – then walked slowly from the room and up the stairs. Past reception, up to the first floor and along to room number five, the one he always took. The rooms weren't large but they were perfect for the single gentleman looking for a bed in the city for a night.

  Into the room, folded his jacket over the back of a chair, considered turning on the television, decided that would mean he'd still be sitting there an hour later, so removed his tie and walked into the bathroom. Final ablutions, bathroom light off, clothes off, into the dark blue pyjamas neatly folded on top of his pillow. Considered picking up Richard Nixon's autobiography, still lying on the bedside table from three nights previously, the last time he'd stayed there, but elected not to. Another invitation to stay up too late, when it wasn't needed. Pulled the covers back, slid into bed, hand to the light switch. There was a knock at the door.

  Gave him a little fright, which quickly passed. Maybe it would be George with something about Blade. The man had probably caused a scene of some sort. Bloody idiot. He breathed deeply, dispatched the feeling of unease he had about the door knock and walked softly across the dark green carpet. Opened the door to be greeted not by George, but by a woman holding a small tray.

  'Your complimentary night-time service, sir,' she said.

  Waugh looked at the woman and then down at the contents of the tray; a small tub of oil, a tub of gel, a candle and a match. He looked back at the woman, beginning to smile.

  'Is this new?'

  'Just began last night, sir. Would you care to avail yourself of this service?'

  And as the words tripped from her mouth, Harlequin Sweetlips sounded like an absolute angel.

  Another pause from Waugh, but there was no way that he wasn't biting. Quite happy to bat for either side. He stepped back and gestured for her to walk past.

  'Come on in, love,' he said. 'Come on in.'

  And thus did he sign the warrant for his own death.

  ***

  Marcus Blade walked quickly down Piccadilly. Spring in his step, the old fire returning with every minute of each day back in the fold. He had many times considered the comeback, always held off. Thought it through, always saw the disasters rather than the potential success. But once the offer had been placed in front of him, there was never any possibility of him saying no, even when the offer had come from a bunch of fruitcakes like Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Yet it had allowed him, within a couple of days of making his return, to contemplate getting into a position of being one of the two principals in the company. And the main creative executive at that. How long before Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane became Blade & Waugh, and then just Blade Marketing Inc?

  Hadn't even tried keeping tabs on the marketing world, other than by studying the work of those for whom he had blazed the trail. The new directions were obvious and frequently clumsy. He had been smooth in the past and he was already in completely slick mode. A demon, an absolute demon.

  'You are the man,' he said, through the smile.

  Course, it doesn't pay to get ahead of oneself in any game. You never know when the Harlequin Sweetlipses of the world are going to be just around the corner.

  And on this occasion, Harlequin Sweetlips herself was on the case, having caught him at a good pace, after leaving the St. James's only nine and a half minutes behind. Nothing against Blade whatsoever, and without Waugh he would amount to little in the company. No need to kill the man, but she'd made her decision three hours earlier, when she'd first spied Blade and Waugh together. Had recognised Blade straight away, of course, as the legend he'd once been.

  She checked the distance between herself and her prey, steadied her walk. Nothing between them now, and if he turned he would see her. Not that it mattered, because all he would see was an extremely attractive woman walking behind him. He would be blind to the instrument of his death.

  And, as if by magic, Blade decided to make it even easier for her. Bursting for a pee, ducked into a dark alleyway, away from the traffic and the few people who were still abroad. Sweetlips smiled, knowing what he would be up to, and quickened her pace. To die with your knob in your hand; a fine way to go for any man.

  She turned the corner into the alley, footsteps silent. Blade, the legend, with his back to her, peeing vigorously, making slight moaning noises at the joy of release. Steam rose in front of him. I'd love to chop your chopper off mate, thought Sweetlips, but the chances of getting peed on are too great.

  Like a Samurai master, or a Jedi master, or any kind of master really, except say a maths master or an English master, which wouldn't really be relevant, she produced the long knife from inside her jacket. A ten inch blade, a thing of beauty. She stopped. Blade still did not get it. Any form of sixth sense which he might have possessed, totally diminished by the various layers of the day's alcohol.

  She hesitated, impressed at least by the size of his bladder. It's true, men did have greater capacity.

  'Psst!' she said, quietly. 'Legend!'

  Blade turned, absolutely caking his pants.

  'Ugghh,' he said, rather ungracefully, a not particularly fitting epitaph for the man who brought you Don't Vote For Michael Foot, He's A Wanker and Where There's Argies, There's Bargies. Join The Paratroopers Today!

  'Is that it?' she said, knife behind her back, so that Blade suddenly wondered if his fear had been inappropriate. He was still holding himself firmly in his right hand, so that he presumed she was referring to his lack of size in the reproductive department, rather than his lack of erudition under pressure.

  'What?' he said nevertheless, still not hurrying to bury his manhood under his M&S red & whites.

  'You used to be somebody,' she said, with a sneer.

  Suddenly Blade's eyes lit up. With recognition, rather than by the lights of a passing car. He fumbled away his subdued penis, pulled the zip, turned to face Harlequin Sweetlips. Sweetlips swallowed, realising that for the first time in all of this, someone had seen through the disguise.

  'I know you,' said Blade, stating what was obvious from the reaction.

  'Good,' said Sweetlips, masking her surprise. 'They say it's best when you know your killer.'

  Suddenly there was a flurry of arms and legs, as Blade made a quick move, and Sweetlips brought the knife round from behind her back in a sweeping motion. However, she was a trained killer and he was a flatulent forty-seven-year-old deadbeat. Th
ere would be no contest. He raised his arm, intended to stop the blow, never got near her, and the blade plunged down at Blade's neck with extraordinary force, Sweetlips' adrenaline pumping even more than usual, from the shock of recognition. The blade swept through Blade's neck, the flesh, the sinew, the bone, so that in an instant the head plunged forward, but did not completely fall off, held in place by a sliver of skin. His body slumped against the wall. His head dangled by an emaciated, bloody strand.

  'Fuck me, Blade, how did a loser like you see through me?' she said, and with that she brought the knife up forcefully between his head and his chest, slicing through what remained of his neck. The head bobbled away from the body, and then she leaned back and caught it perfectly on the volley with her left foot as it fell, kicking it into a large metal bin almost eight feet away. Blade's body gave way and plunged down into the pool of his own urine. The head nestled into the bin, beside the detritus from a Chinese restaurant.

  'Two-nil, you Arsenal fuck,' said Sweetlips, and then she stepped back from her latest victim, heart pounding with the kill as usual, studied the stricken body on the ground for a few seconds then turned and walked back out onto Piccadilly.

  All's Well In Heaven And Hell

  Barney Thomson clicked the scissors together. He was standing at the back of the barbershop beside an empty chair. There were two other chairs in the shop, both of which were occupied. Two young barbers were cutting the hair of young men, both of them working with an extravagant flair and panache, chatting easily as they did so.

  Barney felt strangely detached, so he reached out to touch the chair next to him, just to see if he could feel it. His fingers came to rest on the firm imitation dark red leather. He looked back to the other two barbers and tuned into the conversation.

  'It's all about confidence,' the first one was saying. 'You need a manager who gives the team confidence. It's just eleven guys against eleven guys after all. Why shouldn't Scotland be able to win the World Cup, that's all I'm saying? Why shouldn't they? Look at it this way. If you watch Murray versus Federer or Murray versus Nadal, you can tell they're world class. You can tell that if you played them at tennis, they'd kick your arse. But watch a professional football team on a bad day, man they don't look any better than a park team. A professional tennis player will not send down a first serve that travels at twenty-five miles an hour, but a professional footballer will shoot from thirty yards and hit the corner flag. That's what makes football so great. That's what makes it possible for Scotland, in any given tournament, to win the World Cup. And another thing ... '

  The young barber talked on. Barney glanced at his customer. The customer's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to have any eyeballs at home. Two dark holes stared blankly back at the mirror, his face expressionless. Barney looked along and tuned into the next barber.

  ' ... and that's the thing, women just don't get it. You finish having sex, and then immediately you start wondering what it is you're going to have for lunch. Me, I like to have a peanut butter sandwich as soon as I'm done shagging, but see the amount of birds that get upset by that, it's pure mental so it is. They want to lie there feeling all romantic and all that crap, but I don't complain about that, do I, so how come they need to gob off about me getting tucked into a peanut butter sarnie? Oh, aye, and sometimes I like to put jam on it 'n' all, because you know ... '

  Barney glanced at the customer. The same empty eye sockets, the same dull expression. In fact, if he looked closely enough, maybe it was even the same customer. This seemed a little weird.

  He turned and looked along the long line of men and boys waiting to get their hair cut. No point in just standing around, he thought.

  'You, my good man,' he said to the first customer, 'you're up.'

  The guy looked up, but didn't quite manage to look Barney in the eye.

  'I'm just going to wait for the next barber, if that's all right.'

  Barney shrugged and stepped along to the next in line. Unconsciously waved a pair of scissors at the guy.

  'You, Sir, time to step up to the big chair.'

  The guy, an old fella with long grey flowing hair, didn't even look at Barney, just shook his head.

  Barney hesitated and then moved to the next guy along. It felt hot. He ran his finger inside his shirt collar. Yet all the customers seemed to be dressed in big heavy coats.

  'Your turn,' he said.

  The third bloke in the queue looked up. A city man, dressed in an expensive blue suit, plain white shirt, dark pink tie.

  'I intend to wait for one of the other two,' he said, looking Barney firmly in the eye.

  'Are you sure?' asked Barney.

  'Oh, yes. I've heard you're not very good. Everyone says that these other two guys cut hair with an unrivalled brio and verve, while you ... they say you're just shite. And also the dullest conversationalist ever to have picked up a pair of scissors.'

  He held Barney's gaze for another two seconds and then lowered his head.

  'No,' said Barney, moving onto the next bloke, 'don't hold back, tell it how it is, why don't you? You, Mr Baseball Cap, let me do you a Daniel Craig.'

  A young man wearing a baseball cap looked round at Barney.

  'I prefer to wait,' he said coldly, his eyes dead.

  Barney stared at him. It all seemed a bit odd, but there were plenty more people in the queue to ask. He looked at the next guy, a middle-aged bloke with thick dark hair tied in a pony tail. Like all the others, he was staring blankly at the floor, not looking at Barney.

  'All right, my good man,' said Barney, 'you're up. What can I get you?'

  The guy shook his head and gestured towards the two younger barbers, who were still cutting hair with panache and brio and élan and verve, and were still talking up a storm.

  'I'll wait,' he said dully, without raising his head.

  'Might be a long wait,' said Barney casually. He had to cut someone's hair.

  'I've got a lifetime,' said the guy, his head still not lifted.

  Barney felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. The peculiar tone of the man's voice. He took an involuntary step backwards, his eyes staying on the sinister lowered head.

  'That's not much of a life,' said Barney, unsure of what else to say, unsure that he should actually be saying anything.

  Slowly, very slowly, so that it seemed to take forever in itself, the man with the pony tail lifted his head. The face that looked up at Barney was old and grey and wizened, the lips a dull grey, the nose had been broken, and the eyes shone a deep, deep red. The cracked grey lips broke into a corrupt and malicious smile.

  Barney felt his skin crawl. He looked over his shoulder. Suddenly the two barbers were no longer cutting hair with zest, they were staring at him, as were their customers, all four men with black hearts and eyes that were a deep, dangerous red.

  Barney took another step back and inadvertently trod on the foot of the first customer in the queue. He jumped away from him, looking down as the guy looked up at Barney, the eyes flashing at him, the same as the others. Barney bumped against the empty barber's chair and finally looked again at the customer to whom he had last spoken.

  Slowly – the man did everything slowly – he raised himself out of the chair and now, standing, he seemed to be seven feet tall. He looked down at Barney then raised his right index finger, with its jagged and broken yellow nail.

  'Welcome to Hell, Barney Thomson!' he screamed, and then his face creased in a maniacal laugh.

  ***

  Monk was still awake. Eleven thirty-seven, kept glancing at her watch. Each time thinking that she really ought to be asleep by now. Having a strange recurrence of that weird feeling you have as a kid, when it bothers you not to be asleep, as if something bad's going to happen to you just because you haven't been able to doze off. Her mind was all over the place, a mixture of tiredness and drugs. Couldn't understand not being asleep either, seeing as she was so exhausted. Yet sleep wouldn't come, eluding her as surely as the murder
er of all those poor innocent marketing executives would elude her.

  She moved around the bed, constant turning, side to side. Couldn't settle. Head intermittently consumed by a weird hallucination: all her body parts had been removed and were lying in a jumble at the foot of the bed. Knew that she wouldn't be able to get to sleep until she'd fixed them all into the right place. But no matter how hard she tried, she always ended up putting legs where arms should be, and arms where the head should be. Just couldn't get it right, therefore couldn't get to sleep. Felt cursed to toss and turn all night, yet every time she looked at the clock it barely seemed to have advanced. Aware on some level that she was hallucinating, but at the same time could not ignore all that was going on around her, could not ignore the fact that she had to get her legs fitted back into the correct positions. And every so often, in the midst of this insane waking nightmare, she saw the crushed skull of Barney Thomson, the skull that she had not actually seen, but which she knew was going to be a constant in her life for a long time to come.

  'Hey,' said a soft voice next to her, and she stirred suddenly, heart picking up. Tried to lift herself from the bed, but collapsed back into it with the effort. Turned and looked at the man, dressed mostly in black, who had pulled a seat into the side of her bed. No idea who He was, brain managed at least to be curious as to how He'd been able to get past the guards that Frankenstein had positioned outside her room.

  'Hi,' she said, head still everywhere, another human voice not the immediate focus which it might have been.

  'How're you doing?' said the man, and without waiting for an answer He reached out and felt her head. 'Hell,' He said, 'you're burning up, girl.'

  And at the touch of His hand, for the first time in hours it seemed, she felt the heat go out of her face. She felt a wonderful sense of cool spread around her entire body. Instantly everything seemed to be back in place, her arms and legs slotted in where they should be.