The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  A higher force of true evil.

  'What drugs have they got you on?' asked Frankenstein. 'I'm having a word with the doctors, 'cause I need you thinking straighter that this.'

  'I am thinking straight!' she protested, and she raised herself up in the bed. Shoulders back, shuffled her buttocks up, felt the pain of the movement in her legs. Took the blanket away from her chin. 'I saw her eyes, I saw the face. I know who we're looking for.'

  Frankenstein snorted out a knowing laugh.

  'Satan's a woman,' he said. 'Should've known. Did you get her phone number?'

  'No,' answered Monk, ignoring the faked derision, 'but I've seen her. I can do the photofit. Start asking more questions at the company.'

  Frankenstein took a deep breath and stepped away from the bed, back to the wall, still staring at her. If he could have acknowledged it in himself, he would have recognised the strange feeling in his gut as fear.

  'You know it,' she said.

  'What?'

  'I can see it in your face. The ridicule, the disbelief, it's feigned. It's something to do with Barney Thomson and what went on before between you. Tell me.'

  Frankenstein shook his head.

  'Nothing to tell,' he said. 'Seriously, nothing to tell.'

  'We're dealing with Satan here,' she said forcefully. 'I don't know how I know this. I don't know why he's manifesting himself as this woman, but this is what's happening. It's the work of the Devil!'

  'Monk,' he said forcefully, 'I'm getting you out of here, because if one of these comedians in a white coat hears you talking like that, they'll be lobotomising you by the end of the afternoon. Get dressed.'

  'Fine,' said Monk. 'I will.'

  'Good,' said Frankenstein. 'Get into your clobber and let's go.'

  Groaning under the strain, she pushed the covers back. Frankenstein quickly looked away in case he was going to get a sight of more than he was asking for.

  'I'll get out of here,' she said, 'then I'll get onto it and I'll get you proof. And I don't want any protection ... '

  And with those words, she swung her legs out of the bed, tried to stand up and collapsed into a great heap on the floor, bringing down a table of flowers with her. The nurse rushed in to find her lying on the ground, cursing, and Frankenstein standing over her looking lost and stupid and out of place.

  The Barber Surgeon Takes His Final Victim

  Orwell walked into reception, fingers buzzing, head buzzing along with them. Still nothing from the ephemeral Taylor Bergerac. Late Sunday afternoon, walking the corridors of a deserted building, trying not to feel like the lonely captain on a sinking ship. (Or at least, a lonely captain with his two bodyguards always nearby.) Worried about what Bethlehem was up to, wondering what Waugh had been doing with himself all day, unable to get in touch with his new able lieutenant, Barney Thomson.

  He stopped short, surprised to find himself not alone. Imelda Marcos was beavering away at her PC, fingers tripping lightly around the keyboard. Orwell watched her for a few seconds, waiting for her to stop and look up, but she was immersed. Or ignoring him.

  'What do you do, 'Melda?' he asked. 'We have millions of PA's and typists in this damn building. What is it that you type?'

  She raised her head slightly, stopped typing and gave him the eye.

  'Are you saying I'm just a receptionist?' she said, with tone.

  Whoops, thought Orwell, a lousy attempt at casual conversation.

  'You heard from Barney Thomson today?' he asked, moving on.

  She left the eye on him for another few seconds, then turned away.

  'It's Sunday,' she said in reply.

  'All right, of course,' said Orwell. 'Cool. And, you know, has there been anything from Ms Bergerac of the Waferthin.com company? Any word, a message or anything?'

  Imelda kept typing. At first she thought she'd just make him wait for a few seconds, tease him a bit, but then decided to spin that out into completely ignoring him altogether. Orwell watched her, curious.

  ''Melda?' he had to say eventually.

  She looked up, eyebrows raised, pretending she hadn't heard him the first time. God, she thought, men are so pathetic. Nice bit of skirt hoves into view, and they make a complete idiot of themselves. Living not too far from Taylor Bergerac, as she did, she had seen Orwell's absurd poster campaign, knew entirely what it was all about.

  'Yes?' she asked.

  'Em,' said Orwell at the look, beginning to wonder if Imelda Marcos had twigged what was going on with him and Taylor Bergerac – when of course, it wasn't just Imelda who'd worked it out, the entire company knew what a complete idiot he was making of himself – and might be toying with him. 'Waferthin.com, the panty liner company. Any messages?'

  Imelda held him with a stare for a few seconds, sighed heavily, looked at her computer as if checking some obscure Messages From Waferthin.com database, said, 'Oh yes,' and looked up. Waited for a few seconds to enjoy the look of excited anticipation that had suddenly sprung to Orwell's face, then looked back at the PC and shook her head.

  'Sorry,' she said, 'my mistake. That's just their original message from a few days ago.'

  Looked up, laughed inside at the forlorn hangdog expression, said, 'Sorry,' again very sincerely, and looked at the security monitor as the outside buzzer was sounded.

  'Ah,' she said, with a mixture of hostility and anticipation, 'it's one of the police officers. Maybe someone else has died.'

  Orwell's shoulders slumped. He turned, started to walk back to the lift, stopped, turned back. Maybe it was the female sergeant. She'd been all right, if not exactly on Bergerac's plane.

  'Which one?' he asked.

  'The female sergeant,' said Imelda, doing that laughing inside thing again.

  'I'll wait,' said Orwell, and he put his hands in his pockets and immediately went into gormless bloke who doesn't know what to do with himself mode, which he was still doing ten seconds later when DCI Frankenstein bumbled into reception. Orwell stared at him, then at Imelda.

  'Imelda?' he said, and she shrugged a sincere apology.

  'Frankenstein,' said Frankenstein. 'You're the comedian in charge?' he asked.

  Well, there's a question, thought Imelda, as did Orwell.

  'Yes,' he said, authoritatively.

  'Another one of your crowd gone. Barney Thomson. Can't work out from my sergeant whether he was still the barber. She said something about him being promoted. Whatever, died in a car accident. Nearly got my sergeant as well.'

  Orwell nodded. Shoulders straightened, not quite so gormless looking. Head spinning with information overload. From instant deflation and worry about Barney's death, that this thing might be aimed at him as much as Bethlehem, to relief that Barney had been killed in a traffic accident and not by a murderer's knife.

  'That's all right then,' he said, with a child's tact.

  'Why?' said Frankenstein, missing the boat.

  'Well, obviously, it's horrible,' said Orwell, recovering nicely, so he thought, 'but you know, at least he didn't get, you know, a knife in the old napperooni.'

  'A knife in the old napperooni?' said Frankenstein. 'Who the fuck is this guy?' he asked, looking at Imelda, who shrugged. 'A knife in the old napperooni? The guy was crushed in a car accident, after being stalked by a motorcyclist. It was as good as murder. My sergeant could have been killed. Thomson's head exploded. A knife in the old napperooni?'

  Orwell swallowed, nodded. Time to retreat into his natural reserve. This wasn't going so well. And if Barney was murdered, then back to thinking about what it all meant for the company.

  'Shit,' he said, because he had no other words.

  'Glad you're showing some fucking remorse,' said Frankenstein. 'Right, you and me are going upstairs, and we're going to try to get somewhere on this. I'm fed up fucking around every day with you people while you get picked off one by one. I want to know what the fuck is going on.'

  'Of course,' said Orwell. 'Sure. Come to my office.'

  'Right,'
said Frankenstein, and he walked to the lift, Orwell in his wake, neither of them looking at Imelda and the sly wee grin she had on her face.

  ***

  The body of Barney Thomson lay in the morgue at St Thomas' Hospital on the south bank. His had been a mostly mundane life, followed by a bizarre few years, with enough adventures to send anyone to their grave happy; or at least, thinking that they'd lived a life of their own, rather than vicariously through the lives of those they watched on TV.

  Under a sheet, his final resting place, the hands that had once carved the most exquisite haircuts ever seen in the British Isles, now broken and twisted, lying motionless at his side. A tranquil end, to wait until the body was given a perfunctory service with no one in attendance, before being dispatched to the Big Fire. Once more, Barney Thomson was gone, and this time there would be no coming back.

  ***

  Frankenstein looked down at the Thames, his back turned to Orwell, as so many who stood in these offices felt compelled to do. He'd heard everything he was likely to hear. It wasn't nearly as much as Orwell would have been able to tell him had he wanted, but Frankenstein wasn't in a position to arrest the man or beat him up, as he was disposed to do.

  Maybe, he was thinking, they should just stand back and let all these stupid arseholes die. Virtually each and every one of them had walked into it with their eyes open. And if they were going to be as unhelpful as every single one of them had been under questioning, then did they deserve to receive any help? Let 'em bleed.

  'It's the same as the NHS being forced to look after people with self-inflicted illness,' mumbled Frankenstein. 'Fuck 'em all.'

  'What?' said Orwell, dragged from his own Bergerac-inspired introspection.

  'Doesn't matter,' said Frankenstein.

  He turned his back to the river, looked at Orwell. Perhaps he was next. The two officers sitting outside his office might get it with him. Docherty and Clemens. Decent lads, he said to himself, though he hadn't met either of them before; deserved better than to be wasting their time, and putting their lives on the line for some mug like this.

  'So Bethlehem's back tomorrow late afternoon?' said Frankenstein.

  'Yeah,' replied Orwell. And he's bringing a bird, he thought, whatever that's all about. Not that he was mentioning that to Frankenstein, just the same as he wasn't saying anything about Margie Crane.

  'Brilliant,' said Frankenstein. 'I'll be back tomorrow evening, if not sooner, assuming that at least one of you wankers will get wasted in the interim.'

  'What?' said Orwell, paying attention. 'Are you allowed to call us wankers?'

  Frankenstein shrugged and headed for the door.

  'Until you stop getting yourselves killed and you start telling us the truth about what's going on with this poxy little company, as far as I'm concerned, you're all wankers.'

  He opened the door, stopped, looked back.

  'And if that use of language bothers you, you can make a complaint to my superior officer if you want. He's a wanker 'n' all. You'd like him.'

  Frankenstein was gone. Orwell caught a glimpse of the two officers sitting outside, reading magazines, charged with protecting his life. They looked bored. Had a ridiculous surge of annoyance at them – the bastards are supposed to be protecting me and they're reading magazines – totally at odds with the fact that he hadn't wanted them assigned in the first place.

  The door closed. Orwell stared at it for a few seconds, then lifted the phone and dialled the woman he thought was Margie Crane.

  ***

  The mortuary attendant was doing his evening rounds; checking everyone was still dead. They do that. Just in case. Checked the fellow before Barney – middle-aged heart attack victim, unexceptional – let the shroud back down over the face. Then Barney, and he hesitated, because he knew what this one was going to look like. Hand to the shroud, another pause, then he slowly lifted the sheet away from the face.

  Swallowed, breathed heavily. For all his hard-as-rock, nothing-bothers-me macho thing that he had going on, sometimes he still had to choke back the vomit; and this was one of those times.

  The head of Barney Thomson was a mangled, horrifically pulped mess.

  'God,' said Toby Shellfish, and he let the sheet drop back. Then, suddenly realising that on this occasion he wasn't actually going to be able to hold back the vomit, he ran hurriedly out of the room, aiming for the toilet. Unfortunately he was too slow, and suddenly his evening hamburger, as well as the hamburger and fries he'd had for lunch, came shooting up his throat and exploded out in front of him, carpeting the antiseptic corridor in vomit. Still running, he then slipped on the vomit, fell massively to the side, a tangle of arms and legs, completely unable to stop his head smashing into an old iron radiator attached to the wall. He made contact with a loud crack – didn't do the same kind of impressive damage to his head that Barney had had done to him, but it was enough – his skull cracked and his body tumbled hugely onto the floor. Then there was silence.

  And there he lay, waiting for the replacement shift at two o'clock in the morning, or another cadaver, whichever came first, in amongst his own vomit. Not actually dead from the blow to the head; death came more slowly, choking on his own sick, as more came up from his stomach, and he breathed it all back in. A sad end.

  And so, the insane career and life of Barney Thomson had taken its final victim.

  Buy One, Get One Free

  Anthony Waugh and the once legendary Marcus Blade were sitting in the St. James's Club in Park Place, enjoying a late night snifter. Cigars and cognac all round. Two elderly men in their smoking jackets, except they were both in their forties, and playing the game of the upper middle class stereotype. Blade felt like he was back, a good first couple of days in the office under his belt. Some solid work done on a new line in limited edition table polish – For That Once In A Millennium Shine – and a good introductory meeting with the equally once legendary George Michael, about re-inventing his image. (Blade had told him that it was obvious he was trying too hard, and that it was time he stopped writing all that rubbish about sex and politics, and stopped screaming louder and louder to get people to notice him. Michael had agreed whole-heartedly, and said that he would put it all into practice for his forthcoming album Fuck Me Up The Arse With Your Cock.)

  It was going well, and Blade felt like he was back in town. Two days and no signs of the stresses that had driven him away, that had caused the breakdown. And already, after this short period of time, he was beginning to notice the change in attitude of those around him; from I thought he was dead and That's the old loser who can't cut it anymore, to This guy is Premiership and I could eat his trousers.

  Waugh was also pretty full of his own spunk, seeing as he'd been the man with the foresight to bring Blade in from the cold. Sensible enough to realise that in the marketing business Blade was a hundred times better than Waugh himself, but in the people business that he, Waugh, was the man. They would be an exceptional team. Thomas Bethlehem and Jude Orwell were as good as finished.

  And like all their peers, neither Waugh nor Blade gave much thought to the general slaughter of the innocents that was taking place within BF&C. Grateful that it was taking place, as it had played into the hands of them both, but their thoughts barely extended beyond that. Didn't imagine for a minute that either of them was likely to be on Harlequin Sweetlips' chopping list. As it happened, Marcus Blade wasn't on her chopping list, but you know, sometimes you go into the supermarket with no intention of buying chocolate, wine and ice cream, but it doesn't mean you don't do it anyway.

  'Every couple of months, as far as I can make out,' said Waugh. 'He disappears for two weeks at a time, comes back with these amazing deals from overseas. Went to the States last time. The New York guys must've been fuming with some of the things he picked off from under their noses. Nothing huge, but still some friggin' unbelievable stuff that you wouldn't think the Yanks would give up. This time, though, I'm not sure. There's something a bit different. He's
playing at something.'

  Blade took a sip of his Château de Cartex d'Armagnac 1936, savouring the extraordinary whiff of blackcurrants, pine martens and Rowan Atkinson, and nodded his head. He used to be able to do that kind of thing in his day, and he would do so again.

  'What's his secret?' he asked, settling back, studying Waugh's face across the table. He was still not sure about his new partner, this man he hadn't met until three days earlier, this man on whom his future now relied. 'And more to the point, what's his weakness?'

  Waugh nodded his appreciation of the sage question. The secret of his success wasn't that important. Once he'd been brought down, it made no difference at all how he'd managed to get where he was. What mattered was his weakness and how he could be brought to his knees.

  'That's the question, Marcus,' said Waugh leaning forward. 'That is the friggin' question.'

  They played the game for another few seconds, eyeing each other, wondering what was going on, then they both burst out laughing at the same time.

  'We should retreat for the evening, I think, my friend,' said Waugh grandly, sounding for all the world as if he was in Lord Of The Rings.

  Blade looked at his watch. The old days had seen him up until four, two hours in bed, and then into the office. One of the reasons he had burned out so quickly, and he knew that he couldn't do that again.

  'Okey-dokey,' he said, trying to get away from the Lord Of The Rings vibe.

  'Good,' said Waugh. 'We meet at 6:45 in my office with the others, sort out some things before Orwell arrives. Are we clear?'

  They rose and shook hands across the table.

  'Can I call you a cab?' asked Waugh, who had his room at the club reserved for the night. And, although he found himself extremely attracted to Blade – another of the reasons he had lured him from the wastelands – there was no way he was going to jeopardise what he was currently building by inviting him to spend the night.