The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Gillete, Wilkinson Sword, oh yes,' said JLM. 'Makers of fine razors, the pair of them. Absolutely.'

  And so JLM went on, as Barney took a strangely long time to not cut his hair. He was rather enjoying the comfort and safety of the barber's shop, which he hadn't expected. But here he was, back where he had spent most of his working life – possibly – and feeling very much at home. The smell, the stillness, the relaxed atmosphere, albeit a relaxed atmosphere compromised by the presence of the First Minister. He felt at home. Back in the saddle. He was an F-15 pilot, having spent years in double wing exhibition jobs at air shows, back at the controls of a fighter. He was Good King Richard, back from the crusades, ready to kick Prince John's arse. He was East Berlin after the Wall had fallen. He was Clint Eastwood in Space Cowboys. He was Bill Clinton after he put the Monica thing behind him. Well, let's not get carried away.

  However, he couldn't drag it out for ever, and eventually Parker Weirdlove returned from a brief shopping expedition for some delicious pink embroidered underwear, to inform JLM that he was falling behind the curve and had better be getting a move on. Barney wrapped up the cut, which wasn't hard seeing as he hadn't done anything, and off they went.

  ***

  Barney got back to Edinburgh a little after three, having been dismissed before JLM's duties were over, JLM having pronounced that his hair was 'solid' for the day. Barney couldn't face his room, and had retreated to the World's End to hide behind a bottle of beer and some nuts. He'd discovered something else while in the Perth shopping mall, a fact that related to all these stories he'd been told about his puff, and he wanted to think about it over a large amount of alcohol.

  Had spent a quiet hour or two contemplating his past and what to do about his future, when he was approached by two men seasonally attired in long coats and dour expressions, clutching large pints of lager in their cool fingers.

  Solomon and Kent.

  'Mind if we join you?' said Solomon, sitting down at Barney's table.

  Barney smiled and waved the appropriate hand. Kent followed and both he and Solomon took long drinks from the watering hole.

  'Nothing new for you today, I'm afraid,' said Barney. 'Although I did overhear the tail end of a conversation on the Nash Equilibrium which might interest you.'

  'I doubt it,' said Solomon. 'I don't even know what that is.'

  'Economics theory, apparently,' said Barney.

  'Outstanding,' said Solomon. 'Who gives a shit? If you want to get into casual chit-chat, I'll be willing to discuss Tom & Jerry, but beyond that I'm not much of a conversationalist.'

  'Ain't that the truth,' said Kent.

  'Zip it, wise guy,' said Solomon.

  'I never liked the Cat Concerto, for all the plaudits it got,' said Barney.

  'I hear you, pal,' said Solomon.

  'At least it got away from the sickening violence and depravity of some of the others,' interjected Kent.

  'Listen to him,' said Solomon. 'Sergeant Kent's a bit of a girl sometimes. Anyway, we're not here to talk about T&J. We've got a little bit of a heads up, thought you might like to see if you can dig up a bit more.'

  Barney nodded, tapped into some more beer nuts. Sat back, defensively folded his arms, offered himself up for negotiation.

  'After I'd finished with you last night,' said Solomon, 'I had a few things to do, finally got around to your girlfriend's room at about two o'clock this morning. Thought I might as well be ballsy and rang the bell. Nobody home. So I decided to wait around.'

  'Hid in a cupboard,' said Kent.

  'Yeah, whatever,' mumbled Solomon.

  'Like he was a broom or cleaning fluid,' said Kent.

  'He gets the picture.'

  'The DCI's found his place at last,' said Kent, smiling.

  'Are you finished or am I going to have to put your face in a food blender?'

  'I'm finished,' said Kent, easily. Fairly confident that Solomon would never actually do the food blender thing.

  'Anyway, if I can continue the narrative. About ten minutes later, she shows up. The coroner reckons that both Benderhook and the other guy were stiffed by then, so she ain't off the hook. And here's the interesting thing. She was not alone. After your little night out with the girl, she was obviously feeling a bit lonely about the fact that she didn't get into your Homer Simpson boxers, you know what I'm saying?'

  'Go on,' said Barney, a little warily, first signs of jealousy, to go with his regret at landing Blackadder with police surveillance.

  'She was with another one of your crowd,' said Solomon, 'which is no surprise, as there's got to be no end of little shenanigans going on between the lot of you.'

  'Weirdlove?' said Barney. Had had his suspicions.

  'Even better,' said Kent.

  'Like you were there, smart arse?' said Solomon. 'The priest guy.'

  'Father Michael?' said Barney, surprised. So the guy did do more with his life than look at ridiculous depictions of JLM as Christ.

  'That's the guy,' said Solomon.

  'It was him who first doubted Dr Blackadder to me,' said Barney.

  'Well,' said Solomon, 'who knows? Maybe he was giving her spiritual counselling because he's worried about her.'

  'At two in the morning?' said Barney.

  'Exactamundo. More likely he was banging her senseless. You and I both know that that whole priest celibacy thing is on its last legs. Anyway, some time after three she kicks him out, kissed her on the doorstep, the usual routine. She closes the door on him, and I think, shit it's three in the morning, I'll let her go. See what the old priest is up to, because if there's one thing more suspicious than a psychiatrist creeping around at three in the morning, it's a fucking priest creeping around at three in the morning. Right?'

  Not as suspicious as a grown man hiding in a cupboard, thought Barney.

  'Exactamundo,' he said, instead.

  'So, he doesn't go far, your priest buddy. Walks along the corridor, goes into his own room. I checked this morning where you all are. Right little hotel you've all got to yourselves there, eh? I just chance it, wait a while to see if he'll re-emerge. Police instinct you see. I knew not to wait around for the doc, I knew that the priest would come back out. So, ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, about to give up, when, here he comes, walking down the street. Hullo! it's our friend the old shagger himself. Father whatsisname. And where should he go to this time, but to the room of the other fucking medico, or whatever these women are.'

  'Louise Farrow?' said Barney.

  Hadn't thought much about Louise Farrow, perhaps because his gut instinct told him that she was the one who was telling the truth about his past.

  'Precisamundo,' said Kent.

  'Listen to that fucking idiot,' said Solomon. 'Precisamundo. Yeah, Louise Farrow, the GP. I starts snooping around outside, into various rooms using the old skeleton key. Brought the old guts into play to make sure I didn't walk in on anyone. Found a room directly opposite the doc's. The girl hadn't shut her bedroom curtains, I'm telling you, and what is that all about? She and the priest were going at it like fucking elephants. You know what it was like?'

  'Can't begin to imagine,' said Barney.

  'It was like watching TV with the volume turned down, you know. I could see her wee face screaming and yelling in pleasure. She loved it.'

  'You stayed and watched, did you?' said Barney.

  'Hell, yes,' said Solomon. 'Miss a show like that?'

  Barney nodded.

  'So,' said Barney, 'what are you saying here?'

  'I'm saying nothing, Batman,' said Solomon. 'I'm just giving you a little information about your priest guy, that's all. I can't give you a clue about how to do it, but see what you can find out. There's clearly a lot of shit going on in that little fraternity of yours, this is just giving you a little more of a pointer in the direction you should maybe be headed.'

  Barney nodded, drank some beer, stared at the floor. Had a mind to tell them about the note he'd received that morning. If this wa
s a movie he'd be sitting there shouting at the character to tell the police about the frigging note, yet here he was, and he knew he wasn't going to mention it.

  'But really,' said Barney, 'why should a priest and a doctor sleeping together have anything to do with the cabinet getting murdered?'

  Solomon lifted his pint, which he'd hardly touched, and drained it in one smooth and quick gulp. Swallowed, belched massively into the back of his hand, placed the glass back on the table.

  'Call it police intuition, Barn,' he said. Kent made a face beside him. 'When you've spent as long as I have doing this stuff, things begin to add up. Is there an automatic connection between the two? No. But all I can see is that the cabinet is getting murdered, which is a bit fucking odd, and on the other hand, there's a priest and a doctor having outrageous sex, not long after the priest has very likely knobbed a psychiatrist, and that's also a bit fucking odd. When you've got two seemingly unrelated fucking odd things going on, there's a fair shout that they're not as unrelated as you thought they were in the first place. You know what I'm saying?'

  Made sense, in a roundabout kind of way.

  'I'll see what I can do,' said Barney.

  'Perfectamundo,' said Kent.

  Solomon slung him a look.

  'Are you taking the piss, or are you just an idiot?' he asked.

  'I think it's sweet that you can't tell the difference,' said Kent.

  Solomon looked at him with scorn, shrugged his eyebrows at Barney.

  'Right, we're outta here,' he said.

  'You want to tell me something first?' said Barney.

  He trusted Solomon, felt sure he would get an honest answer from him to an honest question.

  'Go on,' said Solomon. 'But be quick about it.'

  'That story you told me about the brain thing,' said Barney. 'Bullshit?'

  Solomon smiled.

  'Total,' he said. 'How d'you work it out?'

  'Why d'you do it?' said Barney.

  'Tell you the lie?' said Solomon. 'Just took a chance, you know. Yours is a pretty fucking weird situation, just thought we'd try to exploit it a bit to get you on our side.'

  'Thanks,' said Barney.

  'You never actually believed it though?' said Solomon.

  'Nah,' said Barney, which was the truth.

  Solomon stood up, lifted his glass to drain the last drops of it.

  'How'd you find out?' he asked.

  'Doesn't matter,' said Barney.

  'Don't suppose it does,' said Solomon. 'You'll let us know in the usual manner,' he added.

  'Sure,' said Barney.

  Solomon walked off. Kent quickly downed some more of his lager, nodded at Barney, and followed his superior from the bar. Barney watched them go, then leant back in his chair, bottle in hand.

  So Louise Farrow was at it as well? He downed some more beer, stared at the table, wondered where it was all going to end. Fair enough, no reason for her not to be having relations when the rest of them were at it.

  And just because she was sleeping with a priest, did not mean that the story she had told Barney about his past had been a false one. Especially when Barney had found several copies of Barney Thomson: Urban Legend in a remainder bookshop in Perth. That he definitely did not look anything like the Barney of old had been verified; which had left only Solomon's story out of the others which could've been true. And the final nail had just been firmly hammered into that one.

  Barney Takes Confession

  Barney stayed in the bar for the rest of the afternoon and into early evening. Sank a few beers, had a medallion of sea bass, with Norwegian potatoes and an aperture of water melon, which was tasty enough. Finally left at a little after seven, time to go home and get changed and have a shower. If he was going to get murdered at all during this clandestine meeting, he didn't want it to happen while he stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

  He arrived back in his room, stripped, showered, got dressed in one of the Veron Veron inspired Chinese outfits and plonked himself down in a seat to listen to In The Cool, Cool, Cool Of The Evening, before venturing out into the cool, cool, cool of another early autumn's evening in Edinburgh. Visiting the Parliament Assembly building on a Thursday night, there would be a queue of security guards wondering what he was up to, and the same would go for whoever it was who had invited him there. So good chance he wasn't actually going to get garrotted or impaled on some spike or other.

  ***

  James Eaglehawk spent Thursday evening in a hotel room out near the airport. His wife was at home, minding the children, parked in front of Jurassic Park V, with a pint of cider and some Kettle chips. Herr Vogts had instructed Eaglehawk to excuse himself to her for the evening, the easiest thing on the planet for a politician to do, and to get around to this hotel. There would be a wee present there, he said, to cement their friendship, a confirmation of the brave new world that lay ahead for them both as part of this great alliance.

  Eaglehawk had arrived to find several dossiers laid out on the bed. They were each marked accordingly, depending on which scandal against Jesse Longfellow-Moses they provided firm evidence of. Hookergate – sworn testimony that not only had JLM been aware of his secretary's business practice, but that he had also availed himself of those services, and had then conspired in her murder when she had threatened to sell her story; damning evidence, including photographs and DNA samples. (Even after checking in the first folder, Eaglehawk was laughing in amazement, wondering where Vogts had got hold of killer stuff like this.) Disneygate – a video tape of a speech JLM had given seven years previously, where he'd denounced Disney as prophets of evil. World Cup 2014gate – documented proof of discussions between JLM and the Faroes government to intentionally sink their own bid. Entouragegate – written evidence of JLM's team and their cost to the taxpayer. Taxgate – corroboration of the extensive tax avoidance measures which JLM had taken over the previous ten years or so, defrauding the Inland Revenue of over £300K. Godgate – tape of a conversation JLM had had with Father Michael, where they had jointly dismissed the Bible as 'the Disney of its times'. Rwandagate – evidence that JLM had applied pressure to the Herald to stop them running the story of the suspected war criminal living in Glasgow. Shaggate – substantiation of other affairs of JLM's, some where he'd paid for the pleasure, some where he hadn't.

  It was never ending, file after file of doom, enough to sink a phalanx of First Ministers, not just the one. Eaglehawk couldn't even bring himself to read it all, it was all so glorious. He just fell onto the centre of the bed and lay there, crying with laughter. JLM was finished, absolutely dyed-in-the-bollocks finished. Eaglehawk could feel the glory of it in all the senses in his body. It was as if he'd snorted every known mind-blowing substance at once. He was floating, absolutely bloody floating. Flying high above JLM, and pishing on him from the loftiest height possible. He was in the stratosphere, JLM was in the mud, and he was going to dump on the bastard, and grind him into the slime and muck, so that he would become indistinguishable with it. JLM would become part of the suppurating ooze of the world, the repellent fetid gunk, as one with the rancid decaying pus. And he would leave him there to fester, and when the sun finally came out and once again shone on Jesse Longfellow-Moses, it would serve only to dry him up and turn him to dust. And in the end JLM would be blown away with the wind.

  James Eaglehawk cackled hysterically.

  'Fuck you, Jesse!' he shouted. 'Fuck you!'

  There was a knock at the door. The laugh caught in Eaglehawk's throat.

  He sat up, looked at the papers strewn around him on the bed, like rose petals strewn before a king. The knock came again. Relaxed, casual, inviting.

  He got off the bed, heart beating even faster than before. What next? What other dreams could Herr Vogts have come up with? He opened the door.

  There were two women, early twenties. One blonde, one Chinese. Wearing long overcoats and too much make-up.

  'Hi,' said the blonde. 'My name's Willing.'

  'A
nd my name's Able,' said the Chinese girl.

  Eaglehawk gasped, more or less.

  'Where's Ready?' he asked with a smile, and Leslie Phillips couldn't have delivered the line better.

  'We were hoping that'd be you,' said Able, wickedly.

  'Ah,' he sort of croaked. 'Do come in,' he added, without the slightest hint of hesitation. A brief picture of Mrs Eaglehawk flashed through his head, but it was of a woman content with her lot, her cider and her video, and it had vanished as soon as it'd appeared.

  The women smooched past him, brushing their hands against his genitals as they went. He shuddered at the touch, closed the door behind them, turned to face the room. He swallowed, couldn't believe the luck of what was about to happen. What a friend he had in Herr Vogts!

  Willing and Able shrugged off their long overcoats, which fell at their feet, and Eaglehawk feasted his eyes on two fabulously horny women in incredibly tacky underwear. Then he walked slowly forward, into the lion's den, and buried his face deep in his own destruction.

  ***

  Barney opened the door to Conference Room 12 and walked in. Closed the door behind him, looked around the room. A large table in the centre, maybe twenty chairs around it. The usual whiteboards and projectors set up at one end, a table with a water cooler and coffee machine at the other. There was a beautiful hush, like walking into a chapel an hour before the service.

  He walked to the window and looked out over the low central building, the leaf windows of the roof brightly illuminated. Two nights ago at this time, the evening had been muggy and warm. Now that the summer was over for another nine months, the evening seemed so much darker, the clouds heavy and threatening, the air cold.

  He wasn't nervous. He didn't know if he was even interested. Had given it consideration while he'd sat in the bar, but the thoughts hadn't amounted to much. Presumably the message had referred to the murders. Presumably he'd been summoned because someone knew that he was involved with the police; it appeared to be, after all, a fairly open secret.