The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Aye,' said Barney. 'Nightmare weather.'

  Bobby Dear stared at him. Had something of the comfortable, cardiganed Richard Briers about him. Except, of course, that these days Richard Briers is as likely to play a bad guy. So behind Dear's placid exterior lurked a heart of pure evil, thought Barney.

  'You think this is bad?' said Dear. 'You should have seen it in the Falklands in '82. Makes this look like the desert. And we had the Argies shooting at us.'

  'Soldier, eh?' said Barney. Sharp as a button.

  'Commissioned, if you don't mind,' said Dear. 'Was a lieutenant-colonel in the Highland Fusiliers. Bloody murder that campaign, bloody murder.'

  Said lieutenant like an American. Barney didn't notice. Already wishing he hadn't opened his mouth. Wondering at the Pandora's box he might just have opened up for himself. What if he got stuck with the bloke all weekend? Two complete days of old soldier's stories. Oh ... my ... God.

  'What happened?' asked Barney. Knew from experience that you had to attempt to keep control of the conversation. Ask questions, try to take the talker in the direction in which you want him to go. What happened, he thought, mapping out the questions in his head, followed by How did you get here, and then What can you tell me about Katie, because he could talk about her all night.

  'What do you mean, what happened? We won, you idiot. Kicked some Argie arse, boy. Didn't you watch the news?'

  Barney felt stupid. 'So how did you get here, then?' he asked quickly, attempting to regain the control he'd lost by the previous question.

  Bobby Dear breathed in deeply and Barney waited for another verbal assault. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillinger's mouth no more than an inch from Medlock's ear, lips moist, and he wished he could cut that ear off, violently and painfully.

  The bus swerved around an unexpectedly tight corner; Billy Hamilton accidentally swayed into Annie Webster's lap, his hand brushed her thigh, and both received a quick pulse of excitement.

  'Damn fool question,' said Dear, 'but I might as well give you an answer. Your lot are always too bloody thick to work these things out for yourselves. A bit mundane, I'm afraid, compared to some of these stories the others come out with. Reckon most of them are making it up, mind. Couple of these blokes have never killed anything other than time. That's what I think. And you yourself, I suppose, your story's pretty fantastic, if you are who you say, and half the things you read in the paper are true.'

  'They're not.'

  'Dandy. Glad to hear it. Thought it was a load of Argie's bollocks. Anyway, I met a girl in the seventies. Usual thing. Eyes like pools, voice like an angel, tits like the Himalaya and a plum duff sweeter than a toffee apple. Brains too, apparently, that's what they all said, though I never spotted them myself. You can lead a woman to water, but you can't make her think, that's what I always say. Anyway, married her, of course, because that's what you did back then. Nowadays they just screw 'em and spend the next eighteen years dodging the CSA. No, no, that wasn't for me. Did the right thing. Made an honest woman of her. Showed her a thing or two 'n' all, I reckon. No question. Showed her the world, yes indeed. Germany, Cyprus, even managed to get her down to Egypt for a month or two. Showed her the world.'

  Barney's mouth dropped open a little. He could tell. He might possibly just have made the biggest mistake of his entire life. He had turned the key, and opened up this great sarcophagus of tedium, a momentous Ark of the Covenant of monotony, a humungous golden chest of dreary wonders. He could be here for days. He could be stuck listening to this bloke forever. He could die.

  'Know what she did? I went off to fight for Queen and country. Didn't really agree with it myself, did I? I mean, it was that bloody woman engaging in flagrant electioneering, let's face it. Handed over Hong Kong easy enough, didn't she? I mean, who gives a stallion's bollocks about the bollocking Falklands, but off we went, poles up our arse, to fight for justice and all that bollocking nonsense. Anyway, while I was away fighting the evil horde, the bloody woman screws my best mate, Old Jock McAllister. The wife, I mean, not Thatcher. I get back and she tells me she's leaving me for the old soak. Pissed off, I don't mind telling you, I was pissed off.'

  'So you killed them?'

  'Bloody right, Barney Thomson, bloody right. Bullet in the back of the napper for them both. Deserved everything they got. Waited for the RMPs, and handed over my revolver. Wore my Union Jack boxers throughout, 'cause I did it for the Queen just as much as I shot all those bleeding Argies. And let me tell you, I shot a few of them.'

  Barney's eyes had glazed over. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was why he'd had that grave sense of foreboding. Because he was going to be stuck for the rest of his life listening to this man. Could be he'd start inviting himself round for tea in the evenings; coming in for a haircut; coming along to the pub. God, Leyman would be cheesed off.

  But the future had other things in store for Barney Thomson, and the minibus jumped and stalled and jolted to a halt. Dear stopped mid-flow, in the middle of a description of what he'd said to his wife as an explanation for her murder. Other conversations came to a premature end and a few tired or bored heads were lifted.

  The minibus had stopped in a large driveway facing the house that would be their home for the following two nights, and each of them gazed with curiosity at what was betrayed to them by the headlight's beam.

  Bloody hell, thought Barney. Just like Psycho, thought Morty Goldman. The Shining, thought Arnie Medlock. Must be murder to clean, thought Katie Dillinger. Fanny magnet, thought Billy Hamilton. Dracula! thought Fergus Flaherty. This must be worth a packet, thought Socrates McCartney. Good divisional HQ, thought Bobby Dear. Play Misty for Me, thought Annie Webster. Fucking scary, thought Sammy Gilchrist, you could murder somebody here. Going to be a lot of spiders, thought Ellie Winters.

  'Big fucking house,' said Socrates McCartney, in awe.

  And it was, it was a big house. Four storeys high, conical towers at each corner, high, sloping roof in the centre of the building. A massive wooden front door awaited them.

  No one added to McCartney's reasonably accurate comment. What else was there to be said? And they each stared in wonder at this magnificent late-seventeenth-century monstrosity, stuck away in the heart of the Borders, buried behind hills and woods and the low mist that hung in the glen through almost half the hours of daylight.

  Katie Dillinger swallowed, but she was impressed. They'd said on the phone that it was an imposing place. And she was glad there was a housekeeper and that they wouldn't have to clean up after themselves.

  'Right,' she said, turning round; and despite his immediate trepidation at seeing this place, despite the vague feeling of association with his recurring dream, Barney's first thought was of relief that Dillinger was no longer talking to Arnie Medlock, that he might now be able to redress the balance. 'This is it. Grab your things and pile out. Make sure you don't leave anything 'cause Bobby isn't staying here with us.'

  Bobby Ramsey glanced over his shoulder at the mention of the name, but the look said nothing. Bloody right I'm not staying here, he thought. Bloody right.

  And so this motley crew, this testament to the ill effects of bad life choices, this Garibaldi of insouciance, this plethora of criminality, this belligerent bastardisation of immoderate human behaviour patterns, began to collect their belongings and troop off the bus. Barney faffed and prevaricated and let others go before him, in the hope that Bobby Dear would move on and latch on to some other poor sod.

  He collected his bag and slid himself out of the bus, into the pouring rain, last of all. And they each scampered the short distance to the doorway and the great stone awning that protected the front of the house.

  There were no lights on, there was no sign of life. Dillinger took the lead and let the huge brass knocker explode in sound upon the door; and the noise mingled with that of the rough diesel engine and Bobby the Bus Driver lurching into third gear and staggering away back up the drive. And with the bus went the only light that
was available to them, and they were left alone in total darkness. And so Dillinger knocked again and they waited, the rain cascading all around them.

  They felt the cold now, in the midst of this downpour; a few shivers racked bodies, a few glances were cast out into the dark of night. But these were murderers all, and there was little fear. Barney shivered too and looked at Dillinger, jacketless and cold. I could offer her my jacket, he thought. It would be cool, smooth, cavalier, errant and romantic. The act of a chevalier.

  'Got stuck with old Bobby, I see,' said Socrates McCartney, talking softly in Barney's ear.

  Barney turned.

  'Sorry?'

  'Stuck with old Bobby on the bus. See you made the mistake of talking to him.'

  Barney nodded. Was about to excuse himself – although he suddenly felt self-conscious about his chivalrous act – when from nowhere Arnie Medlock swooped towards Dillinger, jacket outstretched, to the rescue; and received an affectionate touch of the arm in gratitude.

  He who hesitates... Barney sighed – ever his lot – and turned to Socrates.

  'Aye, well, you know,' was all he could be bothered saying.

  'Bit of a boring bastard, eh?' said Socrates.

  Barney smiled ruefully, but felt condemned to defend him, in the usual British manner.

  'Don't know,' he said. 'Seemed all right to me. Interesting story, fighting in the Falklands and all that.'

  'That what he told you?'

  Here we go, thought Barney. Out of my depth again.

  'Bollocks, was it?' said Barney, in a world-weary way. Why did he always end up with the nutters? Of course, if you're going to join a murderers anonymous group, what do you expect?

  'Total,' said Socrates, as finally the great wooden door swung open, and a small, neatly dressed woman waited to greet them. 'Murdered a family of seven in Ayr 'cause they wouldn't let him use their phone after his car broke down outside their house.'

  'Ah,' said Barney. 'That sounds more like it.'

  'Works in Edinburgh with some big stock market mob. Lives in Bearsden. Rich, posh bastard. Serial liar, though, that's his problem. Give you another story tomorrow, soon as look at you. He was in South America, mind you. Argentina '78, with the rest of the sad bastards who thought we were going to win the World Cup. That's what really turned him into a headcase. Tragic, so it was.'

  And with that, the further education of Barney having been promulgated, Socrates lifted his bag over his shoulder and marched after the others into the house. And Barney stood on the periphery of the pouring rain, the last of the crew, and wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.

  Back in the minibus, Bobby Ramsey slowed as he reached the end of the drive and the turning back out onto the main road. He was surprised to see a car now sitting opposite the exit, a lone figure inside staring back past him at the house. But he couldn't have cared less as he shuddered away up the road, and had forgotten about the car almost before he'd come to the next turning.

  Inside the car sat Detective Sergeant Crammond, who, with a slight smile, lifted his phone and dialled the station. The smile grew with the ring.

  'DS Proudfoot,' said the voice. Bored. Reading Jade Weapon probably, thought Crammond.

  'Erin,' he said, 'just phoning up to completely ruin your weekend, mate.'

  Barney Sings The Greens

  'Aluminium-free deodorant. I mean, have you ever heard of such pish? Aluminium-free deodorant. That's what they're selling these days. I mean, who the fuck knew there even was aluminium in deodorant? Did you? Did you know there was aluminium in deodorant?'

  Barney suddenly realised he'd had a question fired at him and turned slowly to Socrates.

  'Sorry?' he said. 'Oh, deodorant. No, no, I didn't. Maybe they mean the can.'

  Socrates McCartney speared a piece of deep-fried scampi, which had been relaxing on a divan of lettuce, then waved his knife in Barney's direction.

  'The can? Here, I hadn't thought of that. So you mean there's no can? It's deodorant in a bag? How would that work?'

  Barney was distracted. He was in a good news/bad news situation. They were at dinner and he had managed not to be sitting next to the psychotic Bobby Dear. That was the good news. Unfortunately, he was at the other end of the table from Katie Dillinger, who was once again receiving the close attentions of Arnie Medlock.

  The man was a smooth-talking bastard and Barney didn't stand a chance against him. Unless he was to kill him, of course. That'd make all the difference. And when the police showed up, there would be no end of suspects. Barney could be in the clear.

  'Don't know,' he said absent-mindedly, toying with a piece of scampi himself. Had never really liked scampi, Barney Thomson. More of a crab man.

  'Maybe,' said Socrates, 'you like get your bag, bung it in the oven for a couple of minutes to warm the deodorant up, stick it under your arm, then let the air out and it all drifts up to your pits. What d'you reckon?'

  'Sounds possible,' said Barney.

  'It's just pish, though, i'n't it?' said Socrates. 'It's everything these days. You can't drink coffee or eat butter, you can't lie under a sunbed, you can't even let your weans watch Tom and fucking Jerry, for God's sake. Supposed to be too violent. I mean, what a load of pish that is. I've been watching Tom and Jerry since I was three, didn't do me any harm. It wasn't like I ever thought you could stick a frying pan down somebody's gullet and think they'd be all right two seconds later.'

  Barney gave him an awkward sideways glance. 'You did murder three people, though,' he said.

  Socrates polished off the remainder of his starter and took a satisfyingly large swallow of cheap Bulgarian white. Dry, with a gravelly texture, lemony overtones, fruity underbelly, a long nose and a rare skin condition.

  'Suppose you've got a point,' he said. 'Anyway, I always thought that wee Jerry was a pain in the arse, myself. Vicious little bastard. Vicious.'

  They were arranged around the table for maximum effect, with regards to the situation of eight men and only three women. Arnie Medlock had free range at Dillinger, with Barney left to stew in his jealousy and pent-up testosterone more than three seats away. Annie Webster had Sammy Gilchrist on one side and Billy Hamilton on the other, and was constantly being dragged between the two. And just to keep them both on edge, she continually sent enticing looks the way of the legendary Barney Thomson – who had so far completely failed to notice. He had caught her eye once, but he'd thought she'd been having trapped-wind trouble. Meanwhile, Ellie Winters was surrounded by Bobby Dear, Fergus Flaherty and Morty Goldman, all of whom were vying for her attention; although Goldman was only doing it in a strange, silent, non-interactive kind of way. They all supposed themselves in with a chance, and despite Winters' general dislike of the opposite sex, fifteen glasses of wine and she could be anyone's. Of the assembled company only Socrates was uninterested. Or perhaps just playing it cool.

  The dining room was hung with huge pictures of boring men in red riding jackets and austere women with that I've been standing here for fifteen hours in this enormous dress; I'm starving, I'm dying for a pee, I could kill for a Marlboro Light, and I can't wait to be emancipated look on their faces. The cornices had been carved by master craftsmen of old – craftsmen for whom angels sang and elves wove spells of necromancy and magic, and who had been smoking large quantities of drugs. The sideboard was bedecked with crystal and silver, the dining table was large and opulent, the drapes thick velvet, the fireplace sixteenth-century Venetian; a chandelier hung above the table, lights sparkling in opalescence. A Christmas tree, decorated as if by Cary Grant in The Bishop's Wife, shone in the corner.

  'Fucking flash gaffe this, i'n't it?' said Socrates, for he was a man who needed conversation.

  'Aye,' said Barney after a while, the question again taking its time to penetrate.

  'You seem distracted, mate,' said Socrates.

  Barney nodded and pushed the remainder of his starter away from him. Arnie Medlock was on the verge of success. He could tell. The
two of them were almost smooching. If they started that up, Barney might as well go home; a walk to the nearest bus station, however far it was in the pouring rain, and he could be gone. No problem.

  'Fancy our Katie, do you?' said Socrates, following the doleful look of Barney across the great expanse of the table to the far side of the room. Barney was no longer one for bullshit and lies. Not after all he'd been through.

  'Aye,' he said. 'I do.'

  'Well go for it, then, Big Man.'

  Barney turned to look at Socrates, gestured up the table at the two of them, Dillinger whispering some seeming affection in Medlock's ear, and shrugged his shoulders.

  'Ach, don't you worry about that, Big Man,' said Socrates. 'Medlock's full of shite. Always makes his move every year, never gets anywhere. Reckon Katie's a lesbo myself, which doesn't do you much good either, but at least Medlock won't be feasting on her the night, know what I mean? So I think you just ought to charge in there and take control. You're a hard bastard, mate, are you no'? I've read all about you in the papers.'

  Barney gave him a sideways glance. If only he'd known. But then maybe he'd get more respect from these people if they believed all that nonsense.

  'What about Medlock?' he said. 'What's he doing here?'

  Socrates snorted into his wineglass.

  'That big poof? Shagged a couple of farmer birds, their blokes came after him, and he did the business. Cut one of the guy's testicles off, then left the bloke bound and gagged in some deserted house in a scheme on the edge of Springburn. Couple of council workers found him six months later. Arnie had stemmed the flow of the guy's blood from his gonads, so he died of starvation or some shite like yon.' Barney swallowed. 'And he just clean chopped the other guy's head off with an axe. He'd just been watching Highlander apparently, so he was into all that decapitation stuff. Then he mashed up the bastard's body and fed it to the pigs.'

  Barney swallowed again.

  'And how long'd he get?'