The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  There was a knock at the door. Barney glanced at the clock. He was due with JLM in fifteen minutes to get his hair prepped for an appearance on Radio Scotland. This would be someone come to collect him. Or it might possibly just be Alison Blake come back for some nefarious sexual purpose. (A whole new world had suddenly opened up.)

  He approached the door. It crossed his mind to take the chance that it would indeed be the Rev Blake, and to do it naked, with his manhood upstanding before him. Good sense prevailed, however, and he opened the door fully clothed, and rather tentatively. Which was just as well, because Detective Chief Inspector Solomon wasn't used to seeing naked men at this time in the morning.

  'Aye?' said Barney. Still had a little marmalade on the edge of his mouth. Some sixth sense told him it was there, and he licked it off as Solomon produced his badge.

  'DCI Solomon,' he said, 'and yes, before you ask, I'm wise as fuck. This is Sergeant Kent. You Thomson?'

  'Aye,' said Barney. 'Suppose I am. And you're right, you do look wise.'

  'None of your sarcasm,' snapped Solomon, albeit with a certain good-humour. 'You got a minute, because we're coming in?'

  'Since you put it like that,' said Barney, stepping back and allowing them entry. 'I'm due with the First Minister in fifteen minutes.'

  Solomon grunted.

  'Appearing in another carpet commercial, is he?'

  'Radio Scotland,' said Barney.

  Solomon smiled ruefully, as Barney closed the door.

  'Wouldn't want to be seen on the radio with bad hair,' said the DCI.

  'Exactly,' said Barney, smiling.

  Having gained access, and the confidence of the interrogatee with a little banter, Solomon stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Had wondered how it was that the First Minister had been keeping his employees. Had a good eye for a quality sound system and DVD/digital TV set up. This was the best. Several thousand pounds worth of the taxpayers' money in those alone.

  Barney watched them, wondering what they were up to. Here to arrest him for sleeping with an agent of the Lord? Perhaps it was in that morning's newspapers. High Ranking Barber Shags Vicar, Sentenced To Death. Or, Thomson In New Outrage Against Society. Or maybe they had put two and two together, arrived at sixty-four, and were here to arrest him for the murder of the disappearing cabinet ministers. Reprieved Barber Can't Kick Killer Habit. Born Again Hirsutologist Cuts Swathe Through Cabinet; Citizens Erect Monument In His Honour. Could be anything.

  'So,' said Barney. 'They're going to be expecting me soon. You going to arrest me before then?'

  Solomon grunted, shook his head.

  'Nah,' he said. 'Why'd you think we'd do that?'

  Barney shrugged. No reason, he thought. He looked at Sergeant Kent, a quiet man, who was staring solemnly out of the window at the morning sun. Wishing he was somewhere else, thought Barney.

  'Why're you here then?' asked Barney.

  'Thought it was about time we checked in,' said Solomon.

  He eyed Barney for a few seconds, then decided to go for it. When he started talking, his voice raced along like Parker Weirdlove or Herr Vogts. Maybe, Barney thought, a few seconds in, there's trouble with the tape speed inside my head.

  'Expect there's been a couple of people told you some things about why you're here, where you came from and that kind of thing. Yeah?' he asked, then zipped on to the next sentence without pausing for Barney to answer. 'Well, whatever you've heard, forget it. I don't know what kinda shit these goons here'll have been trying to get you to believe, but you can't trust any of 'em. And I mean, any of 'em, even the religious ones. Hell, they might be the worst.'

  'So why am I here?' said Barney, with some resignation.

  'You're part of an undercover police programme,' said Sgt Kent, suddenly from out the blue. Barney raised an eyebrow. Even Solomon gave Kent a swift look.

  'That's novel,' said Barney. 'Do elaborate.'

  Solomon jumped in before Kent could say anything else.

  'There's a fella at St. Andrew's University been doing some research into the criminal mind,' he said quickly. 'Between you and me, the guy's an absolute fucking fruitcake. And he stinks to high heaven, never fucking washes, spends so long in that lab of his. Anyhow, he's been doing experiments reactivating the brains of dead criminals.'

  'Ah,' said Barney, butting in. 'That sounds plausible.'

  'Cutting edge work,' said Sgt Kent, nodding. 'The man's a leader in his field.'

  'Yeah,' said Solomon, giving Kent another destructor-ray glance. 'Whatever, to cut out most of the crap, on our behalf he will fit the brain of a dead criminal into a fresh corpse. Do all sorts of reactivating shit, then bingo, you've got a new person.'

  'The trick is,' said Kent, 'that the doctor has isolated the gene that leads to criminality, and he removes it. It's really pretty clever.'

  'What Dr Fucking Einstein here is trying to say,' said Solomon, 'is that we end up with a person with rare insight into the criminal mind, but who has lost the will to commit criminal acts.'

  'Brilliant,' said Barney. 'Don't believe a word of it.'

  Solomon laughed again. It was a nice laugh, and he knew not to use it around real criminals because it was totally inappropriate.

  'Yeah,' said Solomon, 'I can see why. It's pretty fucking weird, there's no denying that. But, my man, it's true.'

  'Then,' said Barney, 'whose body is this? It looks exactly like me?'

  'Good point,' said Kent.

  'Yeah,' said Solomon. 'The doctor does this thing where he implants the memory of your new body, so that's how you remember yourself looking.'

  'You're making this up,' said Barney.

  'There's weirder fucking things than that in life, Mr Thomson,' said Solomon, 'and they're true.'

  Barney laughed.

  'You've persuaded me,' he said, smiling.

  'Thought I might,' said Solomon.

  'The strangest thing is,' said Kent, and Solomon started silently mimicking his speech, 'that the doctor couldn't find the criminal gene in your brain.'

  'Ah,' said Barney. That would tie in with what he was beginning to remember about his past life. 'You must be disappointed.'

  'Why?' said Solomon and Kent together, and they scowled at each other.

  'Pht! goes your insight,' said Barney, doing an accompanying little hand manoeuvre.

  'Well,' said Kent, 'we don't think so.'

  'Yeah,' said Solomon, 'I don't think so, I can't vouch for anyone else. You've been around a fair amount of shit in your life, so we're confident. You're our man on the inside of the Executive, and we're pretty sure you can come through.'

  'Marvellous,' said Barney, and finally he sat down on the settee opposite the two police officers. He settled back; he looked at them expectantly. Something like this had been inevitable. Later in the day it seemed reasonable for him to anticipate visits from the Flying Squad, the FBI, MI5, MI6, the CIA, NASA, Blue Peter, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and Thirty-Seven-Year-Old Puerto Ricans For A Safer Eurotunnel. 'What exactly is it you'd like me to do?'

  'Well,' said Solomon, 'your remit has kind of changed in the last few days.'

  'Dramatically,' said Kent.

  'Would you shut up?' said Solomon. 'Whose show is this?'

  'You're taking an age to get there,' said Kent, sullenly.

  Solomon hesitated on the brink of a 'can it, Sergeant' type of remark, pointed a finger, didn't say anything, then turned back to Barney.

  'There's been murmurings about Longfellow-Moses and the death of his secretary. Bit of a weird business. So, we decided to try and get someone on the inside. A plant. Get a closer look, gather some evidence, you know the score.'

  'Be a snitch?' said Barney.

  'Mole,' said Solomon. 'When the First Minister decided he wanted his own hairdresser, we got the doctor to activate you and planted you in the middle of the forest.'

  'So what makes you think that removing the criminal gene is going to turn anyone into
a mole personality type?' asked Barney.

  Solomon shrugged slowly, while giving Kent a quick 'don't even start talking' glance.

  'There are certain rewards in it for you,' he said. 'But we can talk about that later.' Solomon checked his watch. 'Look, you'll have to be going soon. To cut the bullshit, we now need you to poke your nose into the cabinet's business, if you can. Find out who's behind these two disappearances. You think you can do that?'

  Barney smiled. It was like he was being made a deputy. How utterly bizarre; if it was true. Couldn't believe anything, of course.

  'You mean, can I be discreet, perceptive, incisive, trenchant and shrewd?' he asked. 'I seriously doubt it.'

  Solomon smiled. Kent regarded Barney with a little suspicion.

  'I'll speak to you again in a couple of days,' said Solomon.

  And with that he walked past Barney, Kent in his wake. Barney smiled at them, then shook his head and stared at the carpet. Just how many more explanations about his presence here was he going to receive?

  The door opened and closed again, and Barney let out a long sigh and drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. Maybe it was time to just walk out. Get out of this prison of a hotel room, out of Edinburgh, because this city wasn't his city, get on the road and see where he ended up. He could go and live overseas for the first time in his life. He could be Barney Thomson, International Barber of Mystery. He laughed at the thought.

  There was a cough behind him.

  He rose quickly and looked at the door.

  Parker Weirdlove was standing inside, arms folded across his clipboard and chest. Must've crept in silently, as the police officers departed.

  'Who the fuck were they?' he asked.

  Barney Thomson did not answer immediately.

  Make It So

  Longfellow-Moses looked as though he was studying the work Barney was doing on his hair – today he'd requested a Gregory Peck Mocking Bird – but his mind was elsewhere, grappling with big thoughts, whilst trying to ignore the continuing throb in his loins. Weirdlove was standing in the corner, checking his clipboard. The Amazing Mr X was standing silent, mean and tall, by the door.

  'Can you get some figures for me?' said JLM, from the depths of his reverie.

  Weirdlove looked up from the bullet points he had noted down to help JLM negotiate his way through the radio appearance; they consisted mostly of differing ways to shift the conversation away from his sexual affairs, Hookergate, his other dodgy business affairs, his denial of Disney videos to his children, and the Rwandan war criminal thing.

  'No problem, sir,' he said. 'What kind of figures would you like?'

  'Space,' said JLM, and he pursed his lips in a Churchillian kind of a way. Looked sombre and serious and statesmanesque.

  Barney raised an eyebrow. The Amazing Mr X stood poised with his surface-to-surface missiles primed and ready to rock.

  'How d'you mean that?' asked Weirdlove. As he said it, he glanced suspiciously at Barney, as he had been doing for the past half hour. He did not believe that the two men who had been leaving Barney's room as he arrived, had been Jehovah's Witnesses.

  'It's just so vast,' said JLM. 'I mean, seriously, it's like this lovely, huge, enormous blancmange.'

  'D'you actually know what a blancmange is, sir?' said Weirdlove.

  'Whatever,' said JLM. 'There was some show, used to be on tv, where they said that space was the final frontier. Can't remember what it was called. Lovely stuff. Anyway, you know, they were right. Space is like this, well, thing.'

  'What kind of figures were you looking for, sir?' asked Weirdlove, recognising one of his boss's flights of fancy, wanting to get to the crux of it, so that he could shoot it down in flames and then move on to something worthwhile.

  'Have you any idea,' JLM began, 'of the size of NASA's annual budget?'

  'Is this a test, or are you wanting me to find out?' said Weirdlove dryly.

  'God, Parker,' said JLM, 'I don't have that kind of info at my fingertips. Find out, man.'

  '$13.6billion,' said Barney. 'That's about £7billion, give or take.'

  JLM smiled, gave Weirdlove a wry 'you'd better keep up' look. JLM had been impressed so far by Barney's general silence and good behaviour since they'd had their little chat.

  'Lovely,' said JLM. 'Thanks, Barn. What's our annual budget?'

  'About £24billion,' said Weirdlove quickly, annoyed at himself that he was actually bothered that he answered before Barney. 'That's about $40billion,' he added.

  'Yes, thank you' said JLM, 'I can do the math.'

  Weirdlove shot an imaginary dagger into the back of JLM's head. JLM looked statesmanesque and pondered his position.

  'All that money more or less accounted for?' he asked. 'Our 24 billion, I mean. It's rather a lot, isn't it? You'd think there'd be a few spare pennies.'

  'Is it all accounted for?' said Weirdlove, wearily. 'Every last penny, sir. And we've still got three-hundred-year-old hospitals, the central belt road system is hopelessly inadequate, our tourism policy is shambolic, the rail network is wretched, the councils are impotent and bankrupt, our social services are in chronic decline, our fisheries policy in disarray, police numbers are plummeting, there's an increase in reported crime across the board, the prisons are overcrowded yet arrest rates are down, anyone of any talent, be it in sport, business, science or the arts must go to England or abroad to meet their potential, the west is riven by bigotry and sectarianism, education is desperately short of money, the exam system is in chaos, the young feel let down and ignored, the old feel betrayed, your care for the elderly package is a prescriptive hash job, and the rest of us in the middle can only find the strength to carry on because our applications to emigrate to Australia have been denied. All that, and our football's shite and BBC Scotland comedy output is pathetic. There are,' he said, voice slowing at last, 'no spare pennies.'

  'Be that as it may,' said JLM, waving a dismissive hand, 'how d'you feel about instigating a space programme of some description?'

  Weirdlove breathed deeply. Barney continued to study the back of the royal head, and wondered if Gregory Peck's hair ever actually varied from film to film. Like his facial expression.

  'We could probably push it through parliament without too much trouble,' said JLM, continuing unabashed. 'I could give them one of my vision speeches, you know the ones. Space is just such a lovely thing, don't you think? How much d'you think it would cost to have a space programme of some sort, Parker?'

  Weirdlove mentally tapped his brain on the clipboard. Count to ten. Count to ten. Don't lose your temper.

  'It depends what you were looking ...'

  'You see,' said JLM, cutting him off, and raising his temperature a little further, 'I was reading this article in the Herald Tribune. Did you know that NASA are still using the same rocket technology as they were in the '60s? Did you know that not only have they not made advances in manned space flight, they've actually regressed to the point where it would take longer now to get a man to the moon, than thirty years ago? It's madness! Complete madness! There's a big universe out there. It's beautiful and lovely and delicious. And we're stuck down here. It's time someone did something about it.'

  'Well,' said Weirdlove, starting again, 'it depends what you're looking for, sir. If you want to buy a box of fireworks out of Woolies, let them off and get someone to make a note of their trajectory, that'll probably only cost you about a tenner. If you want to push the boundaries of rocket science and send men into deep space, that would probably take up most of our 24 billion. Course, we'd have to shut down the schools, the hospitals, the prisons, the police forces, the fire service...'

  'We could call it,' said JLM, oblivious, 'the Jesse Longfellow-Moses Space Research Centre. Lovely ring to it, don't you think?' he said. 'I'm sure I could push that through parliament. What d'you say, Barn?'

  'It would certainly be something for the country to rally around, sir,' said Barney, sounding like Jeeves. Then he gave Weirdlove a defensi
ve look which said, 'that was what you told me to say'.

  'Indeed,' said JLM. 'Get me some figures, Parker, will you?'

  'Have you a specific objective in mind?' asked Weirdlove, barely masking the acerbity.

  JLM looked at the ceiling, as if pondering the stars. Barney stood back, having finished the cut. Hands off, and the man looked more or less the same as he did whether he was supposed to be George Clooney, Frank Sinatra, Gregory Peck or Ella Fitzgerald.

  'Men on Mars by the year 2010,' he said grandly.

  'Right,' said Weirdlove, making a note, 'and do you want to bring any of them back alive at all?'

  JLM hesitated. Would the public think the mission a failure if the men never got back? Probably bloody would, the ignorant bastards. They never cared about the boundaries getting pushed; always had to pee their pants every time somebody pegged it in the furtherance of human knowledge.

  'Don't care myself,' said JLM, 'as long as they send pictures. But, I suppose we'd better or the press'll get on their bloody high horse.'

  'Very good, sir,' said Weirdlove.

  JLM finally noticed that Barney had finished. He examined the hairstyle for signs of Gregory Peck-idity, found them, stood up and walked round the chair.

  'Champion,' he said to Barney, slapping him on the arm. 'Smashing job. Right men, let's go and kick the BBC's arse for them.'

  The Amazing Mr X leapt to open the door, jumped out ahead of JLM, checked the vicinity for spies and terrorists, then cleared the First Minister for egress.

  The Lad Wally Takes His Final Dive

  'Different class,' said Wally McLaven, rubbing his hands together. 'That's what I mean by quality. Absolutely brilliant. That's the kind of thing that makes all the difference in life. Real quality, to be fair. Different class. Now, can you show us your other breast?'

  McLaven was recruiting a new secretary. Just because some people had moved on in the world, and thought that it was horribly sexist, disgusting and primitive to ask a teenage girl to show you her breasts before you considered offering her a job, didn't mean Wally couldn't still exist in the Dark Ages. Amanda Cartwright was his fourth interviewee; two of the previous three had downright refused to take their clothes off and had been asked to leave; the other had reluctantly given Wally a look at her breasts, but had stopped short of offering a feel, despite Wally's claims that he was making sure she was lump-free.