The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'What would you like?' he asked.

  The man hesitated then shrugged.

  'I was looking for a Bruce Willis Die Hard. What d'you think?'

  Barney caught his eye in the mirror.

  'That's a bit of a departure from the general prevailing shagginess that you've got going on here,' he said.

  Bruce Willis smiled.

  'It's just, well, you know...this might sound stupid.'

  'Go on,' said Barney. 'I'm no judge.'

  'I've been at sea for a while, but I'm done with that now. I just want, you know, a new life, you know what I'm saying? I want everything to be different, a new start, that whole bag.'

  Barney felt the shimmer of foreboding. Across his shoulders, the back of his neck. Although Millport was on a small island, it was not a seafaring community. He had gone a year and a half in this place without coming across anyone who worked their living from the sea, with the exception of Deuchar and his lads.

  'I know what you're thinking,' said Bruce, 'I'm just like one of those women who get dumped by their boyfriend. First thing they do is head down to the hairdressers and get their napper cut into a bob. I know, that's what it looks like, but it's different. Really. And it's not about women.'

  Barney started running his hands through the guy's hair, gauging the thickness, working out where he was going to start.

  'What's it about then?' asked Barney.

  Looked into the guy's eyes again. Dark, blue-grey.

  Bruce Willis lowered his eyes. He stretched his fingers out and stared at his hands.

  'You ever want to walk away from the past?' he said. 'Forget things you've done. Not sins necessarily. I'm not talking about divine misdeeds. Sometimes, though, you just want to run away.'

  Bruce Willis was still studying his hands. Barney looked at his own hands. Soft skin, slowly aging. Short nails, but neat, a couple of tiny strands of hair stuck beneath them. He flexed his fingers, studying the skin as it tightened and relaxed.

  Suddenly he felt the need to wash his hands. Was it just the hairs under the nails, or was there something else he needed to wash away?

  'It's what's inside that matters, isn't it?' said Barney distractedly.

  Bruce Willis glanced up and caught Barney looking at his fingers.

  'There's no escaping that,' he said.

  'No,' said Barney, 'I don't suppose there is.'

  He dragged himself away from his hands, looked Bruce Willis in the eye.

  'However,' said Bruce, 'you make the illusion of change, and sometimes the illusion, if you try hard enough, can impact on the reality. So, I'll have my Bruce Willis Die Hard and see if it makes me feel any different when I walk out of the shop.'

  'OK,' said Barney. 'I take it then that you also want to lose the beard?'

  'Go for it. I might ask you to shave it down to a bit of a goatee, see how that looks, but more than likely that'll just be getting off the train along the way to take a look, before getting back on again and completing the journey.'

  'I hear you,' said Barney. 'I'm no fan of sculpted facial hair, I have to admit, although I am occasionally obliged to administer it. Mostly to women of course.'

  They smiled at the joke, Barney ran his hand down the side of the guy's beard to scope the job. He was going to need heavy barbetorial equipment, the likes of which he didn't usually keep out front.

  'You're going to look pretty baby-faced once it comes off,' he said.

  Bruce Willis shrugged.

  'Not for long. And maybe that's part of the whole bag. Take a few years off me, like I can imagine they never happened.'

  Another look exchanged. Barney felt the shiver again, stronger this time.

  'I just need to go and get the lawnmower,' said Barney, the joke having been on his mind before the return to whatever peculiarity of conversation it was that haunted him about this man.

  Bruce Willis nodded and scratched his beard.

  'I was expecting you to charge me triple,' he said, smile disarming.

  The conversation seemed all over the place and Barney couldn't pin it down. He turned away and walked towards the back of the shop. Did he really need anything in the other room, or was he just going in there to break the spell? To wash his hands.

  'You ever kill a man, Barney?'

  Barney froze. Felt the words as much as heard them, and then felt the very real, violent shudder which racked his body. He turned quickly.

  Outside the shop, a single gull cried mournfully, the doleful sound cutting through the silence, a lament to the sins of Barney Thomson's past. Inside, the shop was empty. Empty, save for Barney Thomson, barber, looking lost and confused. The seat was empty; the customer was gone. Gone, that is, if he had ever been there in the first place.

  Shoes

  The police officers who had been roped in to the investigation were about their duties. A couple out on the choppy water, a couple currently heading up the craggy coasts of Argyll in search of the movements of the Bitter Wind. The rest were in the town, chasing up the lives of the three crew members, one dead, two missing.

  Proudfoot had headed out beyond the boatyard, to the rocky beaches out at the west bay, which she had been informed was a likely resting place for flotsam and jetsam, particularly after a bad storm. Along the way she had picked up Frankenstein, upon whom she had stumbled while he was out walking. And thinking.

  They stepped across a broken piece of fence, down some rocks and onto a small stretch of stony beach, Frankenstein watching every step. Nearly slipped a couple of times, felt safe on the beach. The sea surged sporadically onto the rocks. The hills of Arran were lost in cloud. Already the dying of the day seemed evident, even though it was still a couple of hours away.

  'I'm not dressed for this crap,' he muttered. 'You spend two hundred quid on a pair of shoes, you don't want to be walking around fucking beaches.'

  'You should've brought a pair of boots,' she said.

  He looked at her boots and shook his head.

  'How did you know to bring boots?' he muttered. 'I came down here thinking we'd be five minutes. You, on the other hand, probably brought your whole wardrobe.'

  She smiled, bending down to rummage through a matted pile of seaweed and rubbish.

  'Seriously,' said Frankenstein, 'how many pairs of shoes did you bring with you? Women can't leave the front room without enough shoes to last them until they die.'

  Proudfoot examined a sea-ravaged grey plimsole, then tossed it aside.

  'Five,' she said, straightening up and moving on. She had come along here on a whim, but was already wondering if this was something which should be getting done by fifteen officers, collecting and cataloguing everything they found. Just in case. They just didn't have the resources for that, not any more.

  'Five! Jesus suffering fuck! I mean, seriously, didn't you think you were just coming down here for one night?'

  She stopped and shrugged, then moved on.

  'Yeah,' she said. 'If I'd known it was going to be longer I'd have brought more.'

  Frankenstein muttered several dark expletives and watched where he put his feet.

  Proudfoot bent down and raked through another small tangle of seaweed and detritus. With the exception of making sure he didn't slip over, Frankenstein was paying no attention whatsoever to what might be lying on the beach. With Proudfoot kneeling down, he looked over her back, out across the water to Kilchattan Bay, where the trawler had been discovered the previous morning. He was trying to stay distant from the investigation, insomuch as he could being the lead investigating officer, and he knew inside that it was because he had such a bad feeling about it. The Bitter Wind may have been becalmed when it was found, but it had been surrounded by an ill wind that Frankenstein could feel in his soul. This thing, he knew, went much beyond missing persons and possible murder. Deeper, darker, murkier waters.

  'Bad news,' said Proudfoot standing up.

  'You leave your pedal-pushers in Glasgow?' quipped Frankenstein.

 
; She stared at him.

  'Was that supposed to be a joke about shoes?'

  'It was a joke about shoes.'

  'Pedal-pushers aren't shoes.'

  'They're not?'

  'Cut-off trousers, tight to the calf.'

  'Why would you push pedals with your trousers?'

  'You're such an old man sometimes.'

  'I always thought they were shoes, long pointy bits at the front.'

  'Can we talk about the case now?'

  'What d'you call those kinds of shoes then? You women have a name for everything.'

  'There's a torch here,' she said insistently, holding up a long, thin, green torch.

  'Why is that bad news?'

  'It's from the Bitter Wind. I remember it from yesterday. Which means that however the storm blew last night, it didn't just carry the remnants of the ship away out to the Irish Sea. If it brought the torch here, then it might well have brought something else.'

  'You'd better get looking then,' he said, rolling his eyes. Knew what she was saying, didn't want to think about it. This investigation was just going to keep getting bigger and bigger.

  'You know we need to get a team on this. A thorough search along this area of coastline. We're looking at eight to ten guys, at least. Come on, you need to make some calls.'

  Frankenstein muttered miserably, bent down, picked up a stone and hurled it at the water. The tide being out, he fell several yards short. He looked out to the grey sea and at the darkening skies, and knew that this was something which he should have organised properly for the full extent of daylight. Not a thing to rush into an hour and a half before it got dark.

  'I wish you wouldn't be so bloody right all the time, it's pissing me off. We'll never get it going for today. You and I'd better look now while we've got the chance, I'll get something cranked up for tomorrow.'

  Erin Proudfoot nodded, followed his gaze out across the cold water to the masked hills of Arran, and then once more lowered her head and began walking slowly along the beach.

  ***

  'You ever kill a man, Barney?'

  The words still clung to the walls, as if they were being repeated, over and over. The chair was empty. The door had neither opened nor closed. The man was gone. Vanished.

  Barney felt the chill, the cold draught of the presence which had infested the room. Had he known when the guy was sitting there? Had he known when he'd put his hand into his hair? He tried to think back, but even though it was only thirty seconds previously, he couldn't remember it, couldn't recapture the sensation of standing there with this thing in front of him.

  'You ever kill a man, Barney?'

  He walked to the door of the shop, opened it and stepped outside into the cold. Looked along the street, but knew that he wasn't going to see the tall, shaggy figure marching off along Stuart Street, having changed his mind about the image adjustment. Felt the cold, rubbed his arms, turned and looked back into the shop. Bright and warm. But did he want to go back in there?

  'Out looking for customers?' said a smiling voice.

  Barney turned. Keanu, laptop tucked under his arm, rubbing his hands together, walked past him into the shop. Barney followed, closing the door behind him.

  'I could murder a cup of tea,' said Keanu. 'Get you one?'

  Did you ever kill a man? Yes, he thought. But not murder. I never murdered anyone.

  'OK,' said Barney, vaguely. 'Tea would be good thanks. I need it.'

  Keanu laid the computer down on the counter and slung his jacket on the coat rack.

  'Cool,' he said. 'You must've been busy.'

  Barney watched him retreat into the back room, then turned and looked in the mirror, standing behind the chair in the usual position. Tired face, needing to shave, a mouth that seemed long, lips which had long forgotten how to smile. And eyes that were beginning to look haunted.

  Chicken Head

  The two police officers from Rutherglen had been doing the rounds all day and they were fed up. They'd started with the right amount of enthusiasm, but six and a half hours of listening to small town gossip had just about done for them. They were glad that the deal was for them to travel home every night, and that they wouldn't have to stay in Millport for the duration of the investigation. Two more houses to go, along the bottom end of George Street, round behind Kames, and then they'd be done. Report back to Proudfoot, tell her the little which they had to hand over, and they could be on the 5.15 back to Largs.

  'Still make it home in time for the Celtic game,' said Constable Gemmill.

  Constable Seymour stopped at the pink door and checked his notes.

  'Not watching it,' he said.

  'How come?'

  'Alison wants to go out for dinner. Just the two of us, you know.'

  Seymour lifted his hand to ring the bell. Gemmill caught his finger before he could press.

  'Celtic are playing Benfica tonight. You're going out for dinner with the missus?'

  Seymour shrugged.

  'Yep,' he said. 'That's about the sum of it. She wants to talk.'

  'Jesus,' muttered Gemmill, as Seymour pressed the bell. 'You've been married for twelve years. What can there be to talk about?'

  Seymour shrugged.

  'Women...' he said plaintively.

  The door opened. An old woman stared at them suspiciously, looking them both up and down, inspecting every button on the two uniforms.

  'The pair of you can just bugger off,' she said. 'I'm not paying.'

  Gemmill stopped himself laughing. Rolled his eyes instead.

  'We're conducting enquiries regarding the fishing vessel which was found abandoned off Kilchattan Bay yesterday morning.'

  'Oh,' she muttered. 'Well, you'se had better come in then.'

  And she turned, leaving the two policemen standing at the door.

  ***

  They sat in an old lounge on rugged sofas. Frayed floral carpets, wooden furniture, pill boxes and pottery, mirrors on the walls and pictures of young men on hay bales. Nelly Johnson was making the tea; Gemmill and Seymour were looking at their watches.

  'We're going to miss that ferry if the old bag doesnae hurry her arse.'

  Seymour glanced at his watch, then took a look at the old clock on the mantleshelf. He was close enough to read the small inscription on the clock face. Allison Clockmakers, Paisley, 1936. The room smelled of apples and pipe smoke. They wondered where Mr Johnson was.

  Nelly bustled back into the room, carrying a laden tray. Five different types of cake, shortbread and mince pies. A large pot of tea.

  'You'll have something to eat,' she said. An instruction rather than an offer.

  Gemmill and Seymour started to tuck in. Nelly watched them approvingly.

  'Mince pies,' said Gemmill, putting two on his plate. 'Haven't had one of them since...well, since last Christmas I suppose.'

  'It's a piece of shite,' said Nelly. Gemmill and Seymour were both drawn to look at the rich, mousse-like chocolate cake sitting grandly in the middle of the tray.

  'What is?' asked Seymour.

  'Mince pies and the tyranny of the supermarkets,' said Nelly. 'I mean to fuck, try and get a mince pie on the 26th December and you'll have more luck finding a Fenian at Ibrox. Christmas over, they're gone. Just like that. I mean to fuck, mince pies are a year round treat, they're not just for Christmas.'

  Gemmill and Seymour were staring at her, Gemmill with a mouth full of mince pie. She could see it churning around in his teeth as he gawped.

  'They should do adverts. I mean, like they do with dogs. They could have a dog eating a mince pie in June, or some shite like that, then you get one of they famous bastards off the telly to say something like, dogs aren't just for Christmas...and neither are mince fucking pies.'

  Gemmill and Seymour were still taciturn on the subject.

  'Couldn't you lot do something about it?' she said. 'I mean, what do you do all day anyway?'

  'Can I be blunt, Mrs Johnson?' said Gemmill. His name was Norman, but eve
ryone called him Archie.

  'Nelly,' she said. 'I hate anyone using that dead bastard's name. Been stuck with it all these years.'

  'Nelly, let me be blunt.'

  'What? About mince pies?'

  'Not mince pies. I'm not here to talk about mince pies.'

  'Neglecting your responsibilities...'

  'Mince pies are not the responsibility of the police.'

  'Fine, if that's...

  'You said when we came in, and to be honest, it's kind of the only reason we're still here, despite the delicious tea and the entertaining conversation about Christmas cakes...'

  'Mince pies aren't cakes.'

  'Whatever...'

  'To be honest they're not technically a pie either, not really, and obviously it's not like they're a fucking biscuit. I like to call them fancies. A Christmas fancy.'

  'You said you knew something about the fishermen,' snapped Seymour, as he could sense that Gemmill had lost control.

  Nelly Johnson stared at them from over the top of the mince pie from which she'd just taken a bite. Eyes narrowed. Seymour could imagine them turning red.

  'Very well,' she said coldly. 'It's about old Stan Koppen, lives in one of those little holiday homes, round past the Westbourne.'

  The policemen shook their heads.

  'No one else mentioned old Stan Koppen to you?'

  Another shrug. Gemmill checked his notebook, although it was entirely for show. No one had mentioned anything. She smiled. Loose tongue. She didn't owe Stan Koppen anything, even if he thought she did.

  No honour among thieves.

  'Everyone's too scared to open their mouths, but not me,' she muttered. 'Stan Koppen comes round here looking for trouble, he'll get a toe in the nuts from my size 6 Rosa Klebs.'

  'Tell us about Stan Koppen,' said Gemmill, writing the name Stan Koppen in his book, wondering if this was them finally getting somewhere and if it was going to ultimately keep him from watching the football. Although, deep down, he presumed that she was about to tell them that Stan Koppen preferred almond slices to mince pies and therefore was a total idiot.

  'Used to run a fishing boat out of the harbour. Did all right for himself, but you know, that was back in the days when there were fish in the sea, wasn't it? Nowadays, well God knows how they catch anything. It's all because of the Icelandics. And the Spanish.'