Igor could see his partner, Garrett Carmichael, coming their way along the street, and as usual he couldn't stop the smile coming to his face.
'The trouble with everyone having a voice,' said Barney, 'is that those with wisdom are given no more precedence than those with stupidity. And there are a lot more people with stupidity. Reason is being lost.'
As usual, when Barney contradicted him, Keanu didn't have anything to say in reply.
'Exactly,' said McGuire. 'Which is why society will collapse. We're all doomed.'
Barney smiled and turned away again.
'Except me, probably,' continued McGuire morosely. 'I'll survive and there'll be nobody to treat my sciatica. Typical.'
The door opened and Garrett Carmichael stepped into the shop, the last stronghold of male domination. Igor was still smiling. The other men looked at her. Carmichael kissed Igor on the cheek, acknowledged the others with a nod.
'Putting the world to rights?'
'Just about sorted it out for the day,' said Keanu.
'If you ever want to run for office, I'll vote for you,' she said, and Keanu returned to the finishing touches of Old Man McGuire's hair, a bashful smile on his face.
'Aye, on you go,' said McGuire. 'You might as well open up the gates of Hell and drown us all in fire, chemical waste and disease-ridden putrescence. Course, my place is pretty much like that anyway.'
Carmichael and Keanu shared a rueful smile, and then she turned and stood at the window in between Barney and Igor. The three of them looked out at the dying of the day.
She smiled a lot in the shop, a defence against the melancholy which seemed to hang over the place. It was an attractive melancholy, a feeling that sucked you in, a feeling that was strangely comfortable; a feeling which acknowledged that life was shit, bad things would happen, and there was nothing you could do about it but sink into a gloom that would be duly rewarded with some kind of ensuing misery, heartache, murder, disaster and prostate problems.
'When's the good sergeant done?' she asked.
''Bout half an hour,' said Barney.
'You guys doing anything tonight?'
The question fell into silence for a moment, and then they both laughed. They were in Millport.
'Dinner and a movie,' said Barney.
'What you watching?'
'Frontier Blues,' said Barney. 'It's Iranian, set on the border with Turkmenistan. It says on the box that nothing happens.'
'Your kind of movie.'
'Iran's got a border with Turkmenistan?' said Keanu from behind.
Barney nodded.
'Aye,' said McGuire, 'if you can call it a border.'
'Can we borrow it when you're done?'
'Sure.'
Silence came to them once more. A car drove by heading in the direction of the pier, quickly followed by the bus. Across the road a young lad rode his bicycle along the pavement. Beyond the promenade wall the silent grey sea continued to lie still and unruffled, the islands in the bay hushed and green.
'I see your seagull's still here,' said Carmichael eventually.
10 Downing Street, London, England
'The point I would make is this...'
The Prime Minister was standing at the lectern which had been set up in the corner of his office at Number 10 Downing Street, so that he could practice speeches and responses to the press. The room had been completely redecorated in the last year, the walls painted a delicious maroon and hung with portraits of the PM's many personal heroes. Winston Churchill. Adam Smith. Bono. Michael Portillo. Princess Diana.
His only audience was Logan, his principal aide, who was listening to him without looking up, as he was quickly glancing through that morning's newspapers. Just like the fucking Telegraph to use the phrase smoking gun, he thought.
'Britain today has evolved into a society where we celebrate mediocrity,' said the PM somberly. 'We hand out A grade A levels like sweeties, we frown upon competitive school sports days, and we cheer with rapturous applause even the most dreadful contestant on Britain's Got Talent and X-Factor. The point I would make is this. Why is it that no one is celebrating the coalition government? We have been entirely mediocre in almost everything we've done. We have redefined mediocrity for the 21st century...'
He paused, his shoulders slumped a little. He looked curiously at Logan.
'What do you think?' he asked, leaning forward in a slightly concerned manner, his hands on either side of the lectern.
'I'm not sure, Prime Minister,' said Logan. 'Let me get Pryce to have another look at it for you.'
The Prime Minister nodded, stepped away from the lectern and walked over to the window. Then, looking down on the rear of the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, he said, 'Anything in there about the PALP on Newsnight last night? Let me explain, Jeremy, let me explain... The self-righteous, pompous, holier-than-thou little shit. I've created a new kind of centre... What a wanker. And Paxman introduced him with the words, one of the men leading the charge or some shit like that. He's led, if you'll excuse the expression, fuck all... that's what he's led. How can you lead when all you've done is jump on the bloody bandwagon? You can't lead from the back of the wagon. You can't lead from, you know, you can't lead from underneath the shit the horses have deposited on the Mall.'
Logan, still flicking through the newspapers, hadn't looked at the PM. He rarely got beyond the headline of the Mirror but usually that was enough. Today it was some boring celebrity in an almost invisible awards ceremony dress; but they'd still had a dig at the PM on a side column. One day, one day soon, the Daily Mirror would be put in its place.
The Prime Minister walked away from the window, his hands buried in his pockets. On the wall beside the door there was a small mirror so that the PM could have a last check of how he looked every time he stepped out of the office. The previous incumbent of Number 10 had had all the mirrors removed; the one before that had had mirrors all over, including on the ceiling.
'Any luck with the new barber?' he asked, checking out his hair.
He had vowed never to have a personal hairdresser, but it was quickly becoming apparent that he had no choice.
'Prime Minister, we need to deal with the issue of internal rebellion. Everything else, everything... gay marriage, Europe, the economy, etc., etc., they're all side issues. We've got internecine warfare on our hands, and it'll tear us apart if we don't keep our eye on the ball.'
The Prime Minister had looked in the mirror the entire time. Eventually he turned. Not for the first time Logan thought that there was something demonic in his demeanor.
'Don't talk to me about Boris,' said the PM. 'I don't want to hear it. And get me a barber.'
With that the PM walked quickly from the office, leaving behind a trace of menace mingled with Lynx Africa.
The Next Day, Millport Golf Course, Isle of Cumbrae
Barney Thomson, renegade barbershop legend, had taken himself out for a round of golf. The course was quiet and he was sitting on the 7th tee, eating a sandwich, drinking a cup of tea and looking out over the Firth of Clyde, the low hills of Bute and the mountains of Arran beyond. A beautiful afternoon. The shop had been quiet, and Keanu and Igor had practically forced Barney out the door with an instruction to go and enjoy himself. Barney had stood on the pavement, just out of sight of the shop, wondering what to do with himself. He'd felt like a character in crack Iranian movie, Frontier Blues. After ten minutes or so, he had decided to make one of his infrequent trips to the golf course.
So far he'd taken thirty shots over the first six holes. Eight over par, but for him this represented a decent start to the round. The seventh was slightly longer than most of the holes on the course, but a good downhill drive, avoiding the heather, would set him up to continue with his solid start. A score in the low 90s would represent a decent morning's work.
'Hmm,' thought Barney. 'It is a universal truth that a single man enjoying a bit of peace and quiet is about to get the moment completely and utterly fucked.'
>
He looked over his shoulder and then back up the Clyde towards Weymss Bay. Nothing. He'd hardly seen anyone else on the course, but now, looking down over the next five holes, which ran back and forth across the hill, he could see an old fellow standing on the tenth tee. He didn't seem to be holding a golf club or, indeed, to have a bag anywhere near him. He was standing, looking up the hill, looking up towards Barney, he suddenly thought.
Barney watched him for a few moments, then finally, with a shiver, looked away. He took another bite of the sandwich. If Sergeant Monk had been with him, one or other of them would have said that it was quiet... too quiet. But Monk had gone off that morning for a three-day course in Glasgow. Early spring in Millport was passing very, very slowly.
He got the sense of it first, as he usually did these days. Something was coming. Usually something came by walking along Stuart Street and entering through the front door of the shop. Today, however, it was going to creep up on him at the golf course.
He looked down at the tenth tee. It stared blankly back at him, the old fellow gone. Barney swallowed. He glanced over his shoulder. Something made him get to his feet. He felt it first, and then suddenly he could hear Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. Quiet, but quickly growing in volume. He couldn't yet source the location of the sound, but it was obvious what was happening.
They were coming for him. Again. And that was where the peculiar feeling in his gut was coming from. There was a coalition government of perpetual crisis, and once more the only thing a Prime Minister could think about was his hair.
Barney Thomson let out a long sigh as the volume of the music increased, then he took his driver from the bag, placed the ball on the tee, lined up the club and, without a practice swing, laced a two hundred and seventy yard drive down the fairway. However, the normally glorious sound of a perfectly struck tee shot was obscured by the noise of the seven Apache helicopters which had appeared over the hill behind him.
That Evening, England
It was all coming together. Unlike all those episodes of the A-Team, however, this was nobody's plan. This was fate. This was all kinds of bad shit converging at the same time.
A government under fire, a triple-dip recession creeping upon them like some virulent, unstoppable plague. Barney Thomson summoned to work at Number 10 Downing Street. North Africa in crisis. The Middle East in turmoil. The provenance of every cheap piece of food under question. Every second celebrity accused of child abuse. Society on the verge of disintegration.
All this coupled with the sad and curious fate of Second Lieutenant Lawson. Although his family had been told that the young Royal Marine was – like the three men under his command – missing, presumed dead, Lawson's body had indeed been recovered from the house, deep in the mountains of Afghanistan. The sad part of Lawson's demise was that he would never again get to see his family, or they him; the curious part was that, a little more than six months since the night at the mysterious white house in the mountains, Lawson's body remained not entirely dead.
Not far from London, deep in the Oxfordshire countryside, Lawson was locked in a room, strapped to a table, his every move videoed and examined and watched over by a team of scientists in white coats.
It had begun.
The Next Day, London, England
The two men were sitting in the restaurant of the Wolseley on Piccadilly, eating breakfast. Barney Thomson was tucking in to a full English. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain & Northern Ireland was eating two caviar omelettes. They were both drinking coffee.
'The curious thing, Mr. Thomson...' said the Prime Minister. He had a dot of caviar on his top lip, but as he was dabbing at his mouth with the heavy white linen napkin every thirty seconds or so, it wasn't due to last. 'The curious thing is that when you cut the hair of my predecessors you quickly became their principal advisor, even though the last guy combined that with accusing you of mass murder. I accept that haircutting is your superpower. It's like you're one of the X-Men. But why is it that everyone ends up installing you as this kind of sage, and why is it that the minute you turn up anywhere people start dying?'
Barney Thomson speared a sausage. He couldn't just cut hair. He could eat breakfast.
'You lot are so used to surrounding yourselves with sycophants,' said Barney, 'that you find it surprisingly stimulating to have someone talk common sense. Some refreshing honesty makes you think, especially when you've had years of having your back slapped.'
The PM nodded sagely. 'Actually they suck my cock, but I see what you mean.'
'As for the high body count?' Barney shook his head and stared off into the corner. A shadow passed across his face.
How could he answer that? For years now his life had lurched from one macabre bloodbath to another. His life was one long Shakespearean tragedy. A Russian movie. A noir novel. Just when things seemed like they couldn't get any worse, up came Fate wearing a pair of size 12 hobnail boots to toe him firmly in the testicles.
'All right, I see that I struck a chord there,' said the PM. 'For the moment I'll accept that it's not of your doing and won't arrest you for anything.'
'No one's been murdered yet, have they?'
Barney was aware that his voice had a strange neophyte, desperate quality to it that he didn't recognise. The thought of it, of more murder, death and blood, haunted him.
'No,' said the PM, although he hid the answer behind a mouthful of egg. 'All right,' he said sharply, after dabbing at his mouth, 'say something sage and not suck-upish.'
Barney looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He could feel his mood slump.
Why had he come? That was all. That was the question. He hadn't been forced onto that helicopter. He could have ignored them, he could have been rude, he could even have pretended not to have been Barney Thomson. Would they have known any different? Who, in all the world, actually knew who Barney Thomson really was?
And yet, here he was, in London, England, having breakfast with the Prime Minister, being asked to say something sage.
'You need to get rid of the Chancellor,' he said. 'He's dragging you down. Unless, of course, you want him there so that there's someone in the government for people to hate more than you. Then, of course, you'd have to give the job to someone else, and everyone's going to want it to be the Business Secretary, but you can't do that, you can't risk the remote possibility of the economy turning round under his watch. And there aren't any other Conservatives you can give it to 'cause they're all shit. So, actually, maybe you should just keep the Chancellor.'
The PM shook his head. Barney hadn't really got anywhere near sage.
'The point I would make is this,' he began, immediately going into disingenuous politician mode, 'the Chancellor is doing a very difficult job at a difficult time. He was left the most preposterous economic situation by the previous government...'
'Just under 4% annual growth...' chipped in Barney.
'Yes, and a national deficit that made Greece, Spain and Ireland combined look like a single mother of one with a credit card bill of two pounds fifty. And just last week I was talking to a real person, an actual single mother of one, so I know what I'm talking about. Let me be absolutely clear about this...'
Barney had switched off. Forlornly he cut into the yolk of the second egg and wondered when the body count would start.
As the PM realised that Barney wasn't listening to him, he stopped talking for a moment, looked with curious menace across the table, and then said, 'Perhaps it would be best if you just stuck to cutting hair.'
Palace of Westminster, London, England
The Defence Secretary was staring wide-eyed at the Top Secret document which was open in front of him. Originally written as a three hundred page report, it had been reduced to two sides of A4, so that it could be read in an open folder without any need to turn the page. The Defence Secretary liked everything to be as simple as possible, although he had been persuaded that his idea that all defence policy reports should fit into
one Twitter message was stretching economy of information just a little too far.
A slight line of drool had begun to run down his chin. His mouth had been open so long that it should have gone dry, yet he was salivating.
'What's the defence budget at the moment?' he asked finally.
The two men on the other side of the desk were scientists. That wasn't really their area.
'I believe it's about 36 billion, Sir,' said the one on the right. His name was Newlove Spragwick, but it wasn't a name he used very often. 'Pounds,' he added.
The Defence Secretary looked shocked.
'36 billion! Billion? Holy crap! That's masses!'
'Almost 37,' said the other scientist. His name was Kelvin MacKenzie. He didn't use his name much either. Generally they referred to each other as One of Two.
The Defence Secretary was still in awe of the incredible information that was contained in the folder in front of him. The Defence Chiefs did not know about it yet, and they were guaranteed not to like it. It was set to cast the comfortable world of the Army, Navy and Air Force into oblivion. There would be a new fighting force that would rule all the others obsolete. There would be a new type of war, a war that could not be lost. He looked at these two sides of A4 and immediately identified the possibility of Britain being great once more, of Britain once more forging a magnificent pan-global empire.
'And you think it would cost this much?' He was still shaking his head.
The UK could have the premier fighting force in all the world for less than £1billion. He would be the defence secretary who introduced it, and then he could parlay the tremendous PR and glory that would come from this magnificent cost-saving gesture in these desperate economic times, into a leadership bid for his party, aided and abetted by the complete screw-up that the PM was making over the economy, gay marriage, Europe and everything else.
He would be Prime Minister and Britain would lead the world. Give it a year or two and Obama and Merkel and Hollande would be sucking his balls.
Barney Thomson, Zombie Killer: A Barney Thomson Novella Page 2