The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Mundane's just what you want it to be, honey,' he said, and she nodded, even though she didn't know what he meant. Helpfully, and unsurprisingly, since he was a talker, he elaborated. 'Hell, everything's mundane if you do it often enough. You make movies all your life, it becomes mundane. You have twenty number one records; mundane. You snort enough cocaine offa the breasts of naked women' – Hertha Berlin blushed – 'that becomes mundane too. Sure, this might be mundane now, but it was fresh when we first started, and now it's good mundane. I like it. Keeps me young. I'm telling ya, honey, physical-wise, I'm a lot better off now than when I first got here. Ain't that the truth.'

  Hertha Berlin finished her tea and topped up her cup. Poured some more for the handyman at the same time.

  'Thing is,' he said, 'look at those folks upstairs. Maybe they've got money, maybe they ain't, but there ain't none of them happy. Not real, down-to-the-damned-socks happy. Just a-trundling through this and a-trundling through that. Most of them ain't going nowhere. You just need to stop every now and again and look at your life, know what I'm saying, honey? That's what I did in '77. Realised I was in a world of hurt, and I got on outta there. But these fellas, they don't know shit. There was an old fella in Greece by the name of Aristotle, and you know what he used to say, honey?'

  Hertha Berlin lowered the cup and licked some tea from her lips; wondered if it still made her look as alluring at seventy-one as it had done fifty years previously.

  'I sure don't,' she said, in a strange amalgam of accents.

  'The unexamined life is not worth living. Yesiree. That's what that good fella said. And no doubt about it, he had a point.'

  The handyman crammed another biscuit into his mouth and stood up. Washed it down with the last of his fourth cup of tea. Brushed the crumbs from his jeans and nodded.

  'Gotta go clear that drain out back, honey. I'll be an hour or two, I expect, 'cause that little fella's gonna cause me a whole heapa trouble. I can feel it. You'll have my supper ready 'round about seven?'

  Hertha Berlin nodded, standing herself and already beginning to clear away the dishes.

  'Aye, aye,' she said. 'Chicken casserole the night.'

  The handyman smacked his lips.

  'Sounds delicious, honey,' he said. Grabbed his coat and his hat. 'See ya later, alligator.'

  'Bye,' said Hertha Berlin.

  Door open and then out he went into the cold. She stared after him for a while, wondering how it was that you could be seventy-one and have the same sort of mad infatuation that you got when you were fifteen. Weren't you supposed to grow out of that kind of thing?

  The words to Love Me Tender quietly began to escape her lips, and Hertha Berlin went about the business of washing up and getting the dinner ready.

  Tidings Of Comfort And Joy

  The fire crackled and spat, the tree sparkled in the corner. The gang of chums was gathered around the tree drinking Hertha Berlin's coronary-inducing Christmas punch, waiting for the annual present exchange.

  The presents were all present and correct, it was just one of the participants who was missing. Sammy Gilchrist had yet to return after leaving the previous meeting. They'd also had to wait for Morty Goldman, but he had been back for some twenty minutes.

  Conversation was low, but the alcohol was flowing and the mood was improving. Chances were, they mostly thought, the night had potential. One or two of the inmates who saw themselves failing in their love quest were already thinking of calling on a couple of outside agencies of sex to provide the entertainment. Things could have been worse. And given the obtuse minds involved, the gift exchange was usually pretty interesting.

  Barney waited nervously, the words of his grand venture into poetry going through his head. Wondering if Dillinger would know it was him who had written it; and wondering how he'd tell her it was him, on the assumption she didn't work it out.

  'You don't think something's happened to him?' said Dillinger to Arnie Medlock. Barney had been watching them talking for the previous ten minutes, and had assumed it was far more intimate than it actually had been. His own attempt at introductory conversation – 'Apparently if you pull a condom over your head you can still breathe for nearly three minutes' – had crashed and burned, and she'd wandered off in search of something more conversationally appetising. Barney needed better lines.

  'Who?' said Medlock. He was in his element. Playing the king; the senior figure; the captain; the skipper, the chief, the boss; El Presidente; General Fantastic; Mr Invincible; The Amazing Captain Sperm. He saw himself as the Godfather to these people, and the Christmas weekend was his time to establish that position even more. And like so many, the hubris got worse with drink.

  'Sammy,' said Dillinger, slightly annoyed. Fully aware that Medlock knew about whom she was talking. Hated it when he did his Al Pacino.

  'That poof?' said Medlock. 'He's a jessie. Wee Morty just looked at him funny and the guy creamed his pants. He'll be back, the sad bastard, you can count on it. Won't want to miss out on his present.'

  Dillinger took another dive into the depths of her Christmas punch and bit her bottom lip. Could see the weekend falling to pieces, despite the current revelry and good humour among the inmates.

  'What if something's happened to him?' she said. 'I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this weekend.' And she caught the eye of Morty Goldman as she said it, then his eyes slimed away from hers.

  'Settle down, babe, everything's going to be fine,' Medlock said, then noticed her looking at Goldman. 'Don't worry about Morty, for goodness sake. I can take care of him. He's a bit daft, but he's under control.'

  He rested his hand on hers to reassure her, and she felt a sense of relief at the words. Yet Medlock could not have been farther from the mark. For Morty Goldman was not fine, not by any means.

  Barney saw the blatant hand-touching and recoiled. Buggerty shit-farts, he thought. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

  Silver bells, silver bells, lah-de-de-dum-de-de-lah-lah... So sang Bing Crosby for the eighth time that weekend. The drink was the thing, and none of them was getting fed up with it. Then in the midst of the Christmas festivities, the door opened and in walked Sammy Gilchrist. A bit of mud on his shoes, face slightly damp with sweat, hair a bit wet, breathing hard, but trying to cover it up. The appearance of the guilty man about him.

  Morty Goldman slung him a sly look, then turned away; the carpet to contemplate. The carpet and other things.

  Medlock nodded towards Gilchrist and Dillinger followed. Relaxed when she saw him, Medlock felt the tension leave her fingers.

  'Told you,' said Medlock. 'The big poof was probably out pulling his pudding behind a tree somewhere.'

  Gilchrist moved straight for Hertha Berlin's pungent punch. Ladled a glassful, swallowed, went through the appropriate facial contortions, then poured another glass.

  He turned and surveyed the scene and realised that everyone was watching him. An antagonistic few words flashed through his head, but in the air there was the feeling of Christmas, so he went for conciliation.

  'Sorry about that,' he said. Still a little breathless. 'Just went for a wee walk and I got caught in the rain, you know. Pishing down like a bastard the now. So are we doing the presents?' he added, sitting down away from Morty Goldman.

  'Aye, we are,' said Dillinger. 'Glad you're back all right, Sammy.'

  'No bother.'

  'Poof,' murmured Arnie Medlock under his breath, to general amusement. Sammy Gilchrist snarled and took another long swallow from his second lethal punch. Could already feel it having the required effect on his limbs and head.

  'Right,' said Dillinger, 'come on, round the Christmas tree. Arnie's going to be Santa Claus.'

  Medlock quaffed the rest of his quadruple Lagavulin and headed for the tree. Magnanimous look on his face. Santa Claus. The bearer of gifts. The controller of people's emotions. The Almighty. That was him. And Dillinger pottered after him, Santa's little helper. Barney watched in envy.

  The annual C
hristmas present handout. Something childish about it, something alien to the very being of this group, but Dillinger thrust it upon them every year, and every year they moped and grumped, but every year they enjoyed it all the same.

  So they topped up their drinks and they gathered round into a small circle. Eleven wise men or women, and they were all overcome by the atmosphere, the lights, the music, the alcohol and the general feeling of goodwill. Even Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman were prepared to lend a hand to the air of geniality. Even the jealous Barney.

  Nat King Cole had headed into enemy territory on O! Holy Night, and the Christmas tree shimmered.

  'Hope I'm going to get loads of condoms,' said Billy Hamilton, and laughed.

  'You don't need them for rubber women, Billy,' said Arnie Medlock, and he laughed louder and longer and was joined by the others, including Hamilton, because he had that Christmas feeling, which only comes once a year.

  'Right, then,' said Medlock, delving into the sack beneath the tree where all the presents had been discreetly placed. 'Ho fucking ho. The first one's for Katie herself. There you go, hen.'

  Instant nerves for Barney. A stranger in this crowd, wishing he had left, but here was a good reason to still be here. Wondered if his long-thought-out poem would bring home the goods. Also worried that she would instantly recognise it as being from him and would denounce him publicly in front of the others.

  'No, no,' she said, 'I'll go last. Let one of the others have theirs.'

  Her protest was greeted with a chorus of disapproval, and Medlock thrust the present into her hands.

  'On you go,' he said. 'Santa says,' he added, magnanimously.

  Dillinger smiled and began to unwrap the gift with a certain childish abandon. Barney watched nervously. Felt like a teenager; or at least what he assumed teenagers felt like, because he'd never felt much like a teenager when he'd been one.

  The paper came off and all was revealed.

  A box of chocolates. A man of limited imagination, our Barney. Had thought long and hard, had even gone so far as to check out a couple of lingerie shops, but hadn't had the nerve. It was all in the poem, he thought. The chocolates were mundane, he knew that, but the poetry would sort her out.

  She smiled appropriately and seemed genuinely pleased. Knowing the sort of thing that the others got up to, she immediately suspected Barney. The conservative idea of a new boy. If he was still here the following year, she thought, he'll be buying vibrators the same as the rest of them.

  'That's brilliant,' she said, beaming. 'Thanks.'

  She hasn't noticed the poem! thought Barney. She hasn't noticed the poem. It was still in the wrapping. Bugger, bugger, bugger. I can't say anything. Shit, shit, shit. Bugger. Should I say? If I say she'll know it was me.

  The poem! he screamed silently at her.

  Medlock reached into the bag for the next present. Barney nearly exploded in frustration. The poem! Look at the poem!

  'Here,' said Ellie Winters, who from now on would be known to Barney as The Saviour, 'is that not a card or something in the wrapper for you, Katie?'

  Medlock hesitated. Dillinger lifted up the wrapper, fished out the small card and opened it.

  'Ooh, it's a poem,' she said, with a little more enthusiasm than she would feel once she'd read it.

  'Read it out!' a few of them cried.

  Dry throat, Barney held his breath.

  'All right, all right,' said Dillinger. Medlock eyed her suspiciously. Bloody poetry, he thought. Should he find out who sent it, he'd kill them.

  She quickly looked over the poem – and then decided to read it out, despite what it said.

  You're nice, you're smooth, you're sexy as fuck;

  You're hard, you're strong, you're tough.

  I want to kiss you everywhere

  And see you in the buff.

  And feast my eyes on every inch

  Of your delicious body,

  And do the kind of sordid things

  That Big Ears did to Noddy.

  A long silence. Dillinger looked up, slightly red. Trying not to look at Barney, because this was the sort of thing that none of the others would have written. And she knew all their handwriting.

  'Ooh,' she said, to no one in particular.

  'Fuck,' said Ellie Winters. 'Smooth bastard that, eh? Your luck's in the night, ya bitch.'

  'You never know,' said Dillinger, and finally she risked a glance at Barney. Barney stared at the floor. Arnie Medlock fumed.

  'Jesus!' said Socrates. 'I didn't know that Big Ears and Noddy were shagging. Bloody hell. You just don't know, do you?'

  Without further hesitation, Medlock handed out the next present. Morty Goldman held out his hand, Medlock got the feel of a clammy finger, and the show was once again on the road. Dillinger snuck another glance at Barney and this time he caught her eye. Bright red.

  And so the presents continued. A large kitchen knife for Morty. A pump-action shotgun for Socrates. False breasts for Annie Webster (and she was not amused). A blow-up rubber woman, with real hair, moving parts and fully operational triple orgasm mechanism for Billy Hamilton (who always got a blow-up rubber woman). Half a litre of cyanide for Ellie Winters. A working replica 1940s Luger for Bobby Dear. A full set of Davie Provan videos for Fergus Flaherty. Four different types of lubricating jelly for Barney; a present originally intended for the ubiquitous Hammer Galbraith. A range of penis rings and other genital attachments for Sammy Gilchrist. Round they went, and each was pleased or disinterested in turn, and none of them went so far as to be upset by their gift. It was Christmas, and for all that the Day of Days was two days away, when it came it would not match the feeling of drunk relaxation that they each felt now. For Christmas Day itself would either be spent in unruliness with family, or passed alone in front of the television, succour only to be gained from Jimmy Stewart or Judy Garland.

  Arnie saved the most important to last. He always received an original or limited-edition Conan Doyle. It was a Christmas tradition within the group. A bit of a bugger for whoever picked Arnie's name from the hat, but it was expected of them. He was their spiritual leader, after all, with Dillinger more the secretary and the accountant.

  Medlock was the one they all looked up to, and none of them begrudged him his rare gift.

  In fact, this year Bobby Dear, who was not especially fond of the man, had searched long and hard through the bookshops and antique markets of the west of Scotland, and had uncovered a near-pristine copy of a 1901 edition of The Sign of Four. Not a first edition, but a good catch all the same. He knew Arnie would be chuffed, and despite himself intended to discreetly let slip that it was him who had bought it.

  Sadly, what was left of The Sign of Four lay smouldering under a pile of ashes in the heart of the fire, which spat and crackled.

  Arnie lifted his present to his ear and gave it a shake. Broke into a broad smile.

  'Sounds like a book,' he said, and the others laughed.

  He frowned along with the smile, however, because he had heard a slight movement with the shake and knew that this was no book. He opened it up. The others looked on, vaguely indifferent. Another Sherlock Holmes, and who cared? Most of them had been forced into dingy bookshops on behalf of Arnie Medlock at some time, and each of them breathed a sigh of relief when they didn't pick him in the yearly draw.

  Arnie held up his gift. Face like thunder. The others suddenly showed a little more interest. Morty Goldman, who had been sitting stroking his knife, suddenly leaned forward, eyes lit up. Dillinger held a hand to her mouth.

  There was a gasp or two. Frank and Bing broke out into God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The fire spat. The Christmas tree sparkled. And the rough nail on the end of the discoloured human finger which Medlock held in his right hand glinted dully in the light.

  He looked quickly up at the others, and none of them showed anything other than shock or at least genuine interest. Here we go again, thought Barney. Once more unto the breach.

  Medlock g
ritted his teeth and looked each one of the group in the eye.

  'When I find out who did this,' he said, the voice that murdered at least a couple of farmers menacingly low, 'you're in big fucking trouble. Big trouble.'

  And they all looked back at Medlock, then glanced around at one another. The Christmas feeling had gone.

  Let nothing you dismay.

  Frontier Justice

  An hour later, and the mood was still low. Not all of them in the lounge; splinter groups having headed to the kitchen to plunder vast quantities of food, or having made for the snooker room to lose yet another game to Medlock.

  Barney had waited for his chance; Dillinger, Winters and Webster had been in conversation, the Snatch Batch as Socrates had called them, discussing the distressing turn of events.

  Dillinger wanted to call the police, but that was not an option open to them. None of the people present delighted in the involvement of the authorities in any aspect of their lives; and, what was more, at least three of them had never been convicted, or even suspected, of their crimes. The Feds would not be welcome snooping around and asking awkward questions. The severed finger would have to be ignored or, more likely, left to Arnie to sort out. Frontier justice.

  And that was the point of the snooker table, as suspects were brought before him to be interviewed around the green baize.

  Morty had been first, as he was everyone's favourite suspect, and he had submitted to the interrogation with a sly, ironic smile. Then Sammy Gilchrist and Socrates; currently Bobby Dear, placid and dour. Medlock was not looking for anyone to confess, he just asked innocent questions in an expert way; and using all his criminal psychopathic knowledge, he knew that he would be able to spot the one responsible when he saw them.

  Webster and Winters had gone off to hit the bar, leaving Dillinger on her own. Staring into the depths of the fire, recently puffed up, the wood augmented, by Hertha Berlin; out of whose sight the finger would be kept.