The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  He shrugged as he looked around the room. Looking for someone to provide the answer.

  'Analyse it, Billy,' said Dillinger. 'We can help you, but you know that answers to this kind of thing have to come from within. Only you can tell what the problem is. Only you can ask yourself if you think you might do to this man Eason what you did before.'

  He nodded, looked at her with eyes wide.

  'Oh, aye, I think I might. That's the trouble. I think I might kill him.'

  'But why?'

  'I don't know. I suppose he just gets on my tits.'

  Dillinger nodded. 'Very good, Billy, tits are good. If you can admit that that's all it is, then it's the first step. The guy annoys you. Now you have to address that annoyance. We can't all go around killing people just because they're annoying. You have to address that issue. That's why we're all here.'

  She took her eyes off him and looked around the room. The same old faces, fighting the same malignant spirits they had all fought for years. From 'The Hammer' Galbraith, to Socrates McCartney, they were all in it together.

  'Has anyone else got anything to suggest? I know we've all been there.'

  Arnie Medlock cleared his throat, but Annie Webster was in first with a question. Her own story was a vastly different one. A much deeper psychosis. This was not something with which she could associate.

  'Did you not get counselling and that before you got released from prison?' she said.

  Billy Hamilton looked at her, slightly surprised.

  'I never went to prison,' he said.

  'Oh. Did you get off on some technicality or something?'

  Hamilton didn't know what to say. There were a few awkward glances passed between the group. He looked to Dillinger for help, and she rode in on her pleasure-beach donkey to his assistance.

  'Billy's one of our Unknowns,' she said to Annie Webster.

  'How do you mean?'

  'He's never been caught. That's why you're sworn to secrecy when you join, Annie. Some of our group have served time for their crimes and some have never been apprehended. At least those few have realised that they've done wrong and are here to make sure it doesn't happen again.'

  She turned back and stared at him with awe.

  'So you're wanted by the polis?' she said.

  Billy Hamilton shrugged.

  'Not really. I mean, they've no idea it was me who did it. They thought it might be someone at the firm, but there were about forty of us there queuing up to do the guy in, so it didn't really help them. It was like that scene in Airplane! where there's a big line of folk waiting to smack that screaming woman about, only I was at the front and no one else got to have a go.'

  'Oh.'

  Annie Webster looked around the room. She hadn't realised, but it was fairly obvious. Five months now since she'd committed her crime, five months since she'd strangled Chester Mackay. The police had been following her around ever since, but they hadn't got anything on her yet, and they never would. But strangely, despite her own case, she had assumed that the rest of the group had all served time. Like The Hammer and Katie and Sammy Gilchrist. But they hadn't covered that point the previous week; obviously just hadn't come up. She swallowed and tried to decide if this made any difference. Were the ones who had never been apprehended any more dangerous than the ones who had served their time? Felt a tingle of excitement at the thought. The thrill of danger. She was among more than thieves.

  Her eyes fell on each of the group one by one and each time she wondered, and each time she knew that the person at whom she was looking knew what she was thinking; trying to decide whether or not they were a fugitive from justice.

  At last she was ready to speak. The question was there, yet still she hesitated.

  'Come on, Annie,' said Katie Dillinger, 'say what you're thinking.'

  And to a man and woman the collective of the Bearsden chapter of Murderers Anonymous watched closely this newcomer to their midst. They were all here to be judged, regardless of whether or not they might like it.

  'Right,' she said, swallowing. Might as well get it out there. It wasn't like it was an obsession of hers, or anything, but she was curious. For over a year now there had been nothing else in the papers, and where else might he turn up but here? It would be perfect for him. Perfect. And it was not too often that you got the opportunity to meet a legend.

  'I don't suppose one of you is Barney Thomson?'

  Larry Bellows Sings The Blues

  'Hey, hey, hey,' said Larry Bellows, smile wider than the moon, slapping his hands on the desk in front of him. 'It's got to be said, folks, they're a nice pair. Hee, hee, hee.'

  And off went Burt Keynolds and Pamela Anderson to general audience whooping, applause, delirium and star adulation. Burt turned and winked, Pammy laughed, and the two guest seats beside Larry awaited their next victim.

  Larry settled back in his chair, shaking his head. Waited for the general audience mayhem to calm down to a few rogue claps and whoops. Leaned forward.

  'And hey, she's got a real fine set of bazookas on her 'n' all, eh, folks?'

  Further uproar; as ever. Bellows leaned back and discreetly pressed his finger against the side of his nose, hoping to dislodge any cocaine which might have been caught up in the general turbulence of his nasal hair. (Still four and a half minutes till the next commercial break.) He smiled some more, the audience whooped and cheered.

  Off-stage, his next guest stared at the floor and waited. Mouth a little dry, the feeling in his stomach more general discomfort than butterflies.

  At last, several Quiet Please! prompt cards having been held aloft, the audience settled down into an expectant silence. Larry leaned forward, the smile disappeared, his brow furrowed, and he switched from David Letterman to Ed Murrow. The look that got him an Emmy nomination every year.

  'Listen, folks,' said Larry, sucking in his audience, 'tell ya what. We're gonna get a little more serious now, that's the truth. For there's a fella just arrived in this country for a lecture tour, and he's got some folks in an almighty stink. Some saying he shouldn'ta had a visa, some saying he shoulda been locked up the minute he stepped offa the plane. Well, hey, you know me, folks, I'm a fair-minded guy, I like to listen to all sides. And here we are, about to hear the story direct from the horse's mouth. Ladies and gentlemen, you all know who I'm talking about. Direct from Scotland, England, Barney Thomson, ladies and gentlemen, Barney Thomson.'

  The audience erupted. Whoops, applause, cheers, jeers, catcalls, proposals of marriage, a cacophony of over-reaction. A few seconds' wait, and then the reluctant star stepped out into the limelight. Like a rabbit. Looked at the audience, wide-eyed and furry-tailed. Could see lights and angry faces and excited faces, mouths wide in anticipation, contorted in anger. All for him. Didn't realise that the audience was always like this whether the guest was Elvis, Hillary Clinton, Winnie the Pooh or Mr Ed. And so he stuttered across the studio, took Larry Bellows' hand, minced round the front of the desk and sat nervously down in the seat closest to his host. He was aware of the sweat on his brow, the tremble upon his lips.

  Eventually the clamour died to silence. Bellows placed his hands on the desktop and took in the audience, camera and Barney Thomson with an all-embracing, concerned smile.

  'Hey, Barney, how does it feel to be Stateside at last?'

  Barney stared at his host. Feeling quite lost in this unfamiliar environment. Stunned by it all. Stunned to near silence. And, to boot, a tricky first question.

  'Don't know,' he said at last. 'All right,' he added at a mumble.

  Bellows smiled and nodded his head. Looked at the audience; didn't let his eyes say anything just yet. 'Great,' he said.

  He leaned beneath his desk and lifted up a hardback book, which he then held to the camera. It zoomed in onto Barney's serious face on the cover, under the words Forty-Three Ways to Bloody Death – A Barber's Story.

  'Right, folks, what we have here is the autobiography of this man they call Barney Thomson. A barbe
r, a writer, and, some might say, a murderer. We can all reach our own conclusions, but here we have the man himself to tell his side of it. So,' he said, turning to Barney, 'are you a murderer? Do you belong on Death Row with the scum and the sleaze and the slime? Are you the evil, deranged serial killer of the media, or are you just some poor sap sucked into a turbulent whirlpool of death out of which you've been unable to escape?'

  Barney froze. Another hard one. Swallowed. Mind going. Slowly.

  'Don't know,' he said.

  Bellows nodded seriously.

  'Right,' he said. Already realised that he was going to have to do all the talking. Which was fine. Gave him more opportunities to be Dan. And that would be Rather, as opposed to Desperate or Marino. 'Let's start with your mother. A serial killer, right?'

  Barney nodded. An easy one.

  'I suppose.'

  'She killed six people in all. Five men, one woman. Chopped up the bodies and kinda hid them in her fridge. Right?'

  'Aye, I suppose.'

  Bellows shook his head. 'That's a pretty goddam weird thing to do, ain't it?'

  Barney shrugged. 'Don't know.'

  'I mean, you must be like really embarrassed?'

  'Don't know,' said Barney.

  Bellows smiled – this time a small knowing one to the audience – shook his head and looked at his desk. Still holding the book towards the camera.

  'Then you accidentally,' – did the inverted comma thing with his left hand – 'killed your two work colleagues. One with a pair of scissors and one with a broom. Right?'

  Barney shrugged. Becoming ever more hunched, with arms folded. A psychologist's dream.

  'I suppose, aye,' he said.

  'Your mother died, and you had to dispose of the eight bodies. And the way you tell it in this here book, now, and listen to this one, folks, is that there were four Federal officers on to your case, and just as they were about to bring you in they all just kinda, like, killed each other in some weird Reservoir Dogs typa shoot-out. Am I telling it straight, barber fella?'

  'Don't know,' said Barney. 'What's Reservoir Dogs?'

  A particular section of the audience whooped and cheered. Some laughed. Bellows held up his hands. This was serious now.

  'Right, let me get this straight,' said Bellows, reading from the monitor. Hadn't known the first thing about Barney Thomson until two minutes previously. 'You thought you'd got away with it, but then one of the bodies turned up, and you fled to some monastery in the north of England to get away from the Feds?'

  'Scotland.'

  'Right, like I said, England. But if it wasn't just the damnedest thing, there was a serial killer there too and this fellow just happened to murder thirty-two monks.'

  There were extended oohs and aahs from the audience. There was no such thing as coincidence. Not on the Larry Bellows show.

  'Aye,' said Barney.

  Bellows shook his head and gave his audience the knowing look. This was shootie-in. There was nothing easier than turning the audience against a guest who wouldn't open his mouth.

  'Well, if that ain't just the damnedest thing, eh, folks? And the way you tell it, barber fella,' said Bellows, 'is that a coupla Feds caught up with you at this point, and they let you clean go 'cause they knew you'd done nothing wrong? Like, is murdering your work colleagues in cold blood legal in England or something?'

  Barney's head withdrew a little farther into his shoulders. The sweat beaded on his brow, he was aware of the redness in his cheeks. A low rumble of disapproval started to come from the audience.

  'Scotland,' he muttered.

  'So you killed this serial killer at the monastery, after he'd bumped off all these other fellas – honest and true men of God, I might add,' said Bellows, looking at the audience, and the low whoop of disapproval grew, 'then the Feds just upped and let you go. Seems to me to be kinda strange, barber fella, I have to say. What next? That was about ten months ago, right?'

  Barney shrugged and his head almost disappeared. Slouching right down, hoping the camera wouldn't be able to see him.

  'Don't know,' he said. 'Just been walking the Earth and getting in adventures. You know.'

  Bellows finally placed the book flat on the table. The noise from the audience died away to silence.

  'You mean,' said Bellows, 'like Cane in Kung Fu, like Jules was gonna do in Pulp Fiction?'

  'Don't know,' said Barney.

  Bellows smiled, nodded. Time to wrap up. Almost a commercial break, almost time to reintroduce some nose therapy.

  'Seems to me, folks,' said Bellows, 'that this fella here is just a plain murderer, no more and no less than that. And he's been getting away with it far too long. Far too long. Seems to me that the time has come for this fella to face some retribution. Seems to me it's time for this fella to get the punishment his crimes deserve. What d'ya say, folks?'

  Barney retreated farther into his shell. Looked at Bellows. Waited for the audience reaction, but they were silent.

  'Right, folks,' said Bellows, 'that's all for now. Rejoin us in two minutes, when we're really gonna get down with the latest sounds from Celine Dion. See ya, folks.'

  Somewhere Barney could hear the interval music, but the audience remained silent. No whoops, no cheers, no jeers. He stared at the desk. Half an eye on Bellows, but now that the interview was over, Bellows was no longer interested. He could begin to forget about Barney Thomson, and as soon as the drugs kicked in – in about fifteen seconds – he would have completely forgotten the previous five minutes.

  Barney felt a chill, rubbed his hands up his arms. Didn't yet dare look round at the audience. Took their silence as hostile. Could feel their eyes burning into him. One pair in particular. Malevolent eyes, wishing him nothing but ill. Eyes that took as read what Bellows had just said about crime and punishment. It was time for Barney to face the music.

  Bellows got out of his seat and bent down behind his desk. Barney could see the back of his head, couldn't see his hands. The draught around his shoulders was getting colder. Felt a spot of rain on his head.

  The hair on Bellows's head changed colour. Black to grey. His jacket went the other way. Grey to black. Barney straightened up and sat back. Could feel the tentative tentacles of terror teasing his testicles. Up his back, hairs on his neck standing. Turned and looked at the audience. They were gone.

  The seat was gone from under him and he was standing looking at Bellows from a few yards away. But it was no longer Bellows. It was a minister, crouched before God, praying.

  They were in a church, roof leaking, the pews worn with time, unkempt from misuse and the dripping of water and the attentions of rats and mice and insects and spiders. The windows were broken and more rain entered this benighted house of God from every side; and wind howled through the church, rattling the few fittings left intact.

  Only one window remained as it had been, and Barney looked up at it. High above the altar, large red and brown stained glass, in the style of the eighteenth century, a bloodied Jesus looking down upon his flock. His face was tortured, the eyes filled with hatred, cheeks hollow and dark, the mouth etched in a sneer for all eternity. I shall look upon you and you shall be damned, he said, and Barney knew it to be true.

  And below this embittered and resentful Son of God knelt the minister that once was Larry Bellows, his hands clasped in supplication, neck bent to the whims of the Messiah Low words escaped his mouth, a solemn prayer. Barney tried to hear the words and tried to see his face, for he knew that it would no longer be the face of Bellows. However, he could get no closer. And neither could he turn around, for something stopped him; yet he knew that he must, for evil lurked at his shoulder, Satan waited to dance upon his grave. But no matter the feelings that suddenly haunted him, the creeping of his flesh, the pounding of his heart, he was frozen. And he knew that whatever approached him from behind had the blessing of this bloody Jesus.

  He could hear it now. Above the low murmur of the cleric; above the storm, and the sound of th
e rain drumming against the roof and splashing on the floor and pouring through the windows; above the wind whistling through the church, what remained of shattered panes of glass, sucked from their fittings, and smashed on withered stones; above it all he heard the shuffling. A steady dragging across the floor, something low and something evil, and it was coming his way and he could not turn to face it.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed for the first time the slaughtered sheep. Hung by the neck, blood dripping from the wound in its side. Dangling above the font, its eyes removed, blood streaming from the sockets. Yet those empty sockets stared at him. They could see behind him and the look crossed the sheep's face. And beyond the tumult of the storm and the shattered church and the shuffling of his fate, he began to hear the words of the minister, and the prayer aimed at the disapproving Lord.

  He knew it was a prayer for him and his lost soul. His heart throbbed, his breath stalled in his arid throat. And then it came, the touch at his shoulder. A shiver racked his body so violently his neck muscles spasmed. There were no words which could save him from this menace, and it waited to offer him up to the demons of eternity. He closed his eyes...

  Barney Thomson woke up. Panting, sweat on his forehead, the air rushing in great gulps into his chest. He fumbled for the light and looked around the small, sparsely furnished room that had been his home for over four months.

  A dream, it had just been a dream. But it had been the same dream that he'd had for weeks, and as his head settled back onto the pillow, and his mind tried to clear the terror from the reality, he knew that in every recurring dream there was truth or there was portent.

  And as ever, when he had woken from this nightmare, he lay awake for hours afterwards, unable to allow himself the risk of sliding back into the netherworld to which his bloody past now took him. So he stared into the dark and analysed, and he had begun to believe that he was being told by some higher force to return to his roots; to go back to Glasgow, to face what he had run from for almost a year. We must all be judged, and this dream was telling him that it would be better to be judged here on Earth.