The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  He looked at Ben. He looked at Bill who had also risen and was standing at the ready.

  'Look, Ben, I'm just going for a slash,' said Trudger. 'You feel you have to come and hold my cock?'

  Ben took a step back, hurrumphed a bit, and puffed out his chest.

  'Don't worry,' said Trudger, 'I'm not going to escape through the bloody window.'

  He walked to the toilet. Bill and Ben returned to their seats and started talking about sports. They had already eyed up everyone who had been to the men's and knew it to be empty. They'd counted them all out, and they'd counted them all back again. However, they just hadn't thought laterally. The outer door to the ladies and gents was shared; they hadn't thought about the ladies, hadn't noticed the woman with the dark glasses and black, black wig who had disappeared in there half an hour earlier and who had yet to emerge.

  Trudger stood at the urinal. Had the toilet to himself, which you might think was fortuitous for his killer, but actually it was fortuitous for the others who'd decided not to use the toilet at that time, as his killer would've taken out any sundry volunteers to the slaughter. Trudger took his pish, let's not go into too much detail here. Gave the whole thing a shake, was about to tuck everything back inside his big purple pants when the Ride of the Valkyries descended from on high. Having suspended herself between cobwebbed pipes and the corners of the ceiling, she released her hold, transferred the knife from her teeth to her hand, and buried it to the hilt into the top of Trudger's head as she free fell on top of him.

  The two of them collapsed in a big heap on the floor, a tangle of arms and legs, Trudger's body twitching. The killer pulled the knife, raised herself up and then buried it back into his body, through his ribs, into his heart. Hesitated, contemplated cutting the heart from the chest, but wisely decided that she should not push her luck.

  She stood up, did not even bother to look back at the sixth member of the cabinet to die, cracked the bones in her fingers, checked herself in the mirror, straightened the wig, and walked quickly, but unhurriedly, back out into the bar, past Pinky and Perky, or whatever it was that Trudger called them, and on out the door.

  And, as she went, smiling at the thought of Trudger's body being imminently discovered by the next poor sap being summoned to the urinal of necessitation, a ghostly figure appeared as if from nowhere in the men's toilet. He stood over McIntyre's body watching the blood run onto the tiles, and heard the outer door of the toilets swing closed as the killer walked back into the pub.

  Then he locked the main door into the men's and set to work.

  ***

  By the time Bill and Ben decided that Trudger was taking an inordinately long period of time, even for a man who might've decided to take a dump, he was just nowhere to be found. There was blood right enough on the toilet floor, but there was no sign of the big fella anywhere.

  Bill and Ben had struck out.

  Ooh-Be-Dooh

  Jesse Longfellow-Moses stood in his office, taking in the scene outside, the window open slightly to let in the evening. The sun was on its way down, and although it was still warm, he could sense a change in the air. Tomorrow would be cooler, the day after would be a return to the usual drab awfulness of a regular Scottish early autumn.

  Most of the team were long gone; only Veron had lingered this evening, finishing off a sequinned orange lamé creation, which he considered ideal for JLM's speech to Glasgow City Council, but even he had been away nearly an hour.

  And all that time, JLM had stood alone looking out over Dynamic Earth and the rise of Arthur's Seat. Imagined himself up there, if he could ever be bothered his arse to walk up it, looking out over the city, back up the Forth towards the bridges, and in the other direction, away out to sea. Grand plans and visions fighting for attention in his head, along with the rampant insecurities which he fought so hard to quash, and which constantly told him he wasn't good enough to be where he was; that his visions were foolish, his plans for the country, folly.

  At least this country suited him, no doubt; what kind of world was it where people were more interested in instant fame and celebrity, the brief lives of others to be discussed over breakfast and then tossed out with the empty packet of Cheerios? What kind of country was it whose people would vote insatiably for Pop Idol and Big Brother, but wouldn't bother their backsides voting for political representatives who could shape their lives?

  Or was that another folly that the entire parliament, that parliamentary democracies everywhere, made? They didn't shape anything. It was the media who wielded real power, it was the media who shaped lives, it was the media who decided what we talked about over breakfast. Big Brother was real democracy, much more so than voting for one pointless politician unsuited to the job of running a council or a government or a European parliament over another. Who was more powerful, Murdoch or Bush? And even if you were to answer the latter, who would be more powerful in a year's time, or at the utmost, five years' time.

  And so, to add to the insecurities, the doubts would return about what ends he could finally achieve, and the realisation that to achieve greatness, to really affect people's lives, politics was not a tenth of the career route that was the media. Perhaps politics should serve as nothing more than his entry pass into the media. He was already taking up every offer to appear on television and radio that came his way.

  He was watching the path of a small single-engined plane as it headed north, when the door opened behind him. It closed again; whoever it was remained silent, waiting for JLM to turn around. He breathed deeply, his hour of solitude and reflection over.

  'There's been another one,' said Parker Weirdlove.

  JLM finally turned. Weirdlove was just inside the door, clasping his clipboard as ever to his chest. JLM said nothing, asked the question with his eyebrows.

  'McIntyre.'

  'Thought he had a couple of bodyguards?' said JLM.

  'He was taking a piss. Just vanished into thin air, leaving a little blood behind.'

  'Course he has. Any clues?'

  Weirdlove shook his head.

  'So who's left?' said JLM. 'Me, Winnie, Benderhook and Malcolm? Anyone else? I forget, I see them so little.'

  'No,' said Weirdlove, 'that's it. You should be careful. Where's X?'

  'Sent him off to get some dinner, told him not to come back until nine. I'm safe enough here.'

  Weirdlove took a couple of paces forward.

  'What makes you think that?' he said, quietly.

  JLM looked at him suspiciously.

  'Why d'you say that?' he said.

  'Stratton, McLaven, Spiderman, they all disappeared in the building,' said Weirdlove. 'You shouldn't think that you're invincible, especially when X isn't about. We've no idea who's doing this.'

  'No,' said JLM, 'we don't. What d'you think the police are doing?'

  'They don't have a clue,' said Weirdlove. 'Have you spoken to the Chief Constable?'

  'Yes,' said JLM. 'Decent enough chap, but he was more interested in my views on Disney videos, and why I wouldn't let my children watch them. At least it's all affirming my sentiments on the cabinet.'

  'No one gives a shit about them?'

  'Exactly.'

  'On the matter of the Disney thing,' said Weirdlove, looking at his clipboard, 'the Walt Disney Corporation has issued a claim against you, stating that by not allowing your children to watch their product, you're damaging the image of their company, etc, etc...'

  'How much?' said JLM.

  Weirdlove searched through the document for the figure, raised an eyebrow when he found it.

  '360 million pounds,' he said.

  JLM laughed.

  'Well, it's good publicity at least, eh?' he said.

  'Cracking,' said Weirdlove. 'You'll be shagged if you lose, however.'

  'Well,' said JLM, sitting down at his desk, and looking to sort out a final few things before The Amazing Mr X arrived and escorted him home for the night, 'I'm not going to lose, am I? I take it, just like who
ever started the story in the first place, they've yet to realise that I don't actually have any children.'

  'Well,' said Weirdlove, 'you'd think that might be an issue, but they appear to know that already.'

  'Go on,' said JLM wearily. Neither of them realising that they had already spent longer talking about this than they had about the disappearance of Trudger McIntyre. A man might be dead, an actual human being and everything, but it was nothing against the power and interest of a giant entertainment concern. In his own actions, he justified his thoughts of earlier. Media, media, media.

  'They accept that you don't have any children,' said Weirdlove.

  'This should be interesting,' said JLM.

  'But they contend that when you were first asked the question you dealt with it with a wry smile.'

  'They've actually used the expression 'wry smile' in their statement?' asked JLM, with, well, a wry smile.

  'Yes, sir,' said Weirdlove, 'they have. They accept that you thought it amusing to be asked a question about your children when you don't have any, but they contend that by not quashing the rumour you allowed it to grow into this urban legend typa thing, so that most people now not only believe that you do have children, but that you don't let them watch Disney product.'

  'And they think they've lost 360 million worth of business in Scotland?' said JLM. 'Jesus, they don't do that much, do they?'

  Weirdlove hesitated, but thought he might as well tell the truth and watch the smile come to the boss's face.

  'They're citing you as a major player within Europe, and as a consequence, your words have had an impact across the continent.'

  JLM did indeed smile. A major player in Europe? Cool. These guys were American. Most of them probably thought that Scotland was a town in England. Yet, they were aware enough to think that he, Jesse Longfellow-Moses, was a major player in Europe. Jesus. How unbelievably smooth was that? Would Blair or Chirac or Schröder be sued for that much? Probably not.

  'Champion,' said JLM. 'D'you think I should stop my children eating at McDonald's and Burger King?'

  'Definitely,' said Weirdlove, smiling.

  A Nice Spot Of Dinner, Put Your Foot In It, Go Home Alone

  Barney had had a nice bit of beef for his dinner. Actually it'd been called a monastery of prime Szechwan chateaubriand, enveloped in a parfait of blackcurrant roulade, with a fondant of kohlrabi and a splodge of Somalian potatoes, and at first it had kind of reminded him of The Thing with Kurt Russell, but he preferred to think of it as a nice bit of beef. Rebecca Blackadder had had fish and chips. Together they'd shared a stunning bottle of Norwegian claret; firm bodied and well-liposuctioned, enormously lengthed, capaciously flavoured and well fruity, with overtones of jammy dodgers and Jock Stein.

  They were onto dessert, although a bit behind the curve. It was one of those dining experiences in someone's front room; limited menu, stunning food, place small enough that you could hear every clink of every glass, every throwaway comment, every slurp of coffee, from every table. The other diners had already munched their way through a selection of after dinner mints. Due to Blackadder's late arrival at Barney's room at the beginning of the evening, they were still champing their way through a plethora of mild cheeses on sesame biscuits.

  They had talked of many things; flippant conversation about the world and music and television, and the more they talked and followed different paths of conversation, the more Barney remembered, the more aspects of life he discovered lurking in his memory. And all the time, as he became more and more sucked in by Blackadder's deliciously soft voice, he had the words of Louise Farrow guzzling at the back of his mind. The voice, the atmosphere, the wine, the food, the casual conversation, occasionally straying off into real meaning, it was all part of the torture.

  As dessert crunched to a conclusion and the coffee arrived, Barney became aware that they were holding hands across the table. Wasn't sure how they'd got there.

  'I just loved what you did with his hair today,' she said, after a lull in the conversation, during which they had gazed at the candle, flirted with each other's eyes. 'He looked pretty stupid.'

  Barney smiled.

  'Yeah,' he said. 'Didn't really intend that, but he was jumping up and down in his seat like a one-year-old. Swiped off a big bit of hair I didn't mean to.'

  'And you had to even it up?'

  'Exactly,' said Barney. 'I think he looks all right. The no hair/short hair brigade'll vote for him. I think I managed to persuade him of that.'

  Blackadder shook her head, smiled at the thought of the man. All part of the plan, imagined the Farrow-brainwashed Barney, but he was switched on enough to know not to trust anyone. Treat everyone with suspicion until you are absolutely dyed-in-the-bollocks certain of them, that was his motto.

  'He's just bizarre,' she said, and it was at least the fifth time in the evening that she'd started talking about him. But then, wasn't it natural? Doesn't everyone with an absurd superior, spend their life bitching about him to their colleagues and anyone else they can get their hands on. 'Full of these great visions, but doesn't realise that the people don't give a shit about politicians anymore. None of them. Look, the country doesn't even care that the cabinet are all dead.'

  'Aye,' said Barney.

  'It's like when he decided he wanted Highland Cathedral to be the national anthem.'

  Barney shook his head.

  'Don't know it,' he said.

  'It's this glorious tune, beautiful words, it's what Scotland's been looking for. If hearing Flower of Scotland sung by a large crowd makes the hairs stand on the back of your neck, this'll make you dissolve into a pile of mush. It's gorgeous. Give it time, let people get to know it properly, make it a thing, it'd be the people's choice. But Jesse leaps in, tells everyone that it's his decision, so of course they say, you're a politician, you can stick it up your arse. The press rise up in arms, there's uproar for a coupla weeks, then Jesse has to back down. Bloody stupid. Now, if the Sun or the Record had decided that Highland Cathedral was going to be the national anthem, bing! you've got it. Groundswell of opinion, people trust what their papers tell them, and it's shootie-in. But Jesse's only a politician, that's what he doesn't realise. He has no say.'

  Barney nodded in agreement. That was certainly the truth. Just a wee coincidence that JLM was coming to the same conclusion at approximately the same time.

  'What d'you think of Dr Farrow?' Barney suddenly found himself asking, to fill a moment's silence. Closed his eyes briefly as the words left his mouth, as he'd been telling himself all evening not to mention it. Wanted to believe in Blackadder, wanted to believe Farrow was the fraud. But while his heart spoke loudly, his head nagged with greater insistence that Blackadder was the pretender.

  She looked at him closely, watched the brief closing of the eyes. Hand was retracted under the cover of putting sugar into coffee.

  'What d'you mean?' she said. 'Has she been to see you?'

  Be cool, Barn, he thought. Be cool.

  'You've all been to see me,' he said casually. 'Except Veron of course. Don't know what's the matter with him.'

  'What was Louise saying?' asked Blackadder, bit of an edge to the voice, thought Barney, or was he just looking for there to be an edge to the voice? Could go round in circles all evening. Maybe he should just be honest with her. That's what friends do.

  'Usual stuff, you know. You've all taken it in turns to turn up on my doorstep and tell me my, what'd you call it, provenance. Like I was some sort of antique. My favourite was Weirdlove telling me I was a vampire. One of his family.'

  'No, seriously,' said Blackadder, not letting him away with cheap jokes, 'what did Lou say? I know we look like a bit of a team 'n' all, but then it also means I know her better than most. You've got to watch her. She's not one to trust. What did she say?'

  Well, he thought, doesn't do any harm to give her a bit of the truth, doesn't mean I have to mention the part about her and JLM being bosom buds.

  The waitress ar
rived at the table, sensed the change in atmosphere, as surely as JLM had sensed the change in the weather, so did not make any light remarks, as she had been doing throughout the evening. Cleared away the cheese board, piled plate on plate, asked if they wanted more coffee, which was a bit daft seeing as neither of them had touched what they already had, and made a swift exit. Having a fight at no.3, she said, when she returned to the kitchen.

  'She said that I wasn't Barney Thomson. Not my body, not my brain.'

  'Who are you then?' asked Blackadder suspiciously.

  'Just some unknown guy with amnesia. I've been brainwashed to think I'm Barney Thomson, so I do. I might as well be him, if no one else is.'

  Blackadder toyed with the salt cellar. Tapped a finger on top of it.

  'If that's the case,' she said, and her words drifted off. Had carelessly begun the sentence without knowing where it was going. Whether or not it was true, and how was Barney supposed to know, it had a ring of truth. The story she'd told him had been given to her by Parker Weirdlove. How far would she trust him?

  'What?' said Barney, but she had no reply. She toyed with her spoon, finally lifted her coffee now that it was cool enough to drink without slurping.

  He shrugged it off, and eventually the conversation moved on from Dr Louise Farrow, but the tide had turned, the feel of the evening had changed, with words barely spoken. And so, at the end of the night, each was vaguely suspicious of the other, and they parted with a kiss on the cheek and, at least on Barney's part, no little regret.

  ***

  Late in the evening, the cooling north wind having risen, Winona Wanderlip arrived at the town centre apartment of Parker Weirdlove. He greeted her on his doorstep without enthusiasm, ushered her in quickly, stood in the hallway in his t-shirt and boxer short pyjamas that he'd been wearing in bed. She had stepped out in a white blouse and thin skirt, unprepared for the cooler weather. Goose bumps on her arms, flush around the cheeks, fabulously erect nipples.