The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Of course I do. If they're upsetting you that much, do away with them. You've been in yon shop a lot longer than they two heid-the-ba's. You shouldn't let them push you about. Blow their heads off.'

  A huge grin began to spread across Barney's face. He had found a conspirator. A confidante in the most unlikely of places.

  'I can't believe you're serious.'

  'Why not? They're bastards, aren't they? You says so yourself. Especially yon Fenian, Porter.'

  'Wullie's worse.'

  She looked sad, downcast. 'I don't know. A good Protestant lad gone wrong.'

  Barney gazed upon his mother with wonder. That her mind was now undoubtedly caught in a tangled web of senility was completely lost upon him, so delighted was he to find an enthusiast. He was about to broach the subject of poison, when she realised that the adverts had long since finished. She held up her hand and returned her gaze to the television.

  The presenter, an annoying curly-haired man with thick Yorkshire accent, was holding up a gigantic pair of shorts, festooned with numerous revolting stains. A caption at the bottom of the screen gave a choice of four celebrities. The giggling girl, all lipstick and false breasts, partnered by Lionel Blair, pressed the buzzer, giggling some more. 'Pavarotti!' she ejaculated, and with a 'Good guess luv, but not correct this time. A big hand for that try though, ladies and gentlemen', from the presenter, the audience erupted.

  And so the show continued for another ten minutes, before with a 'thanks for watching, ladies and gentlemen, please tune in next week when once more it will be time to Name That Stain!', it was over. Cemolina lowered the volume again, turned back to Barney, the look of the easily satisfied on her face.

  'So, you're going to blow their heads off?' she said, her look giving a stamp of approval.

  Barney stroked his chin in murderous contemplation. 'I was, eh, thinking of poison. D'you know anything about it?'

  Cemolina grabbed the arms of the chair, lifting herself up an inch or two. She was a slight woman, but still she presented an imposing figure, especially to the weak son.

  'Poison!' she shrieked. 'Poison, did I hear you say?'

  Barney flummoxed about in his seat for a second, a landed fish. Recovered his composure enough to speak, although not enough to stop himself looking like a flapping haddock.

  'What's wrong with poison?'

  Her head shook like a tent in the wind. 'It's womany for a start. You'd have to be a big jessie to want to poison somebody. Did I bring you up as a girl? Well, did I?'

  'No, mum,' he said.

  'No, you're damned right I didn't. Act like a man, for pity's sake. You've got to give it laldie, Barney, none of this poison keich. Blow their heads off. Carpet the floor with their brains. Or get a hammer and smash their heads to smithereens.'

  'Mum!' There was a growing look of incredulity on his face, horror in his voice. He had long known that everyone had their dark half, but he'd never really thought that everyone included his own mother.

  Cemolina looked aghast. 'You want them dead, don't you? You says so yourself, so what are you blethering about?'

  'Aye, aye, I do, but something simple. I don't like mess.'

  She screwed up her face, waved a desultory hand. 'Well, I didn't think you'd be that much of a big poof. I just thought that if you were going to do it, you might as well have some fun while you're about it.'

  Barney looked at his mother with some distaste. Maybe she was mad. But then, it had been him who'd been thinking about killing them in the first place. She had merely added some enthusiasm to the project.

  'Ach, I don't know, mother. I'll have to think about it. I certainly don't think that I could beat anybody's head to a pulp.'

  She scowled at him and turned her attention back to the television to see which quiz show would be on next.

  'I cannot believe you're being such a big jessie. Your father would've been black affronted, so he would,' she said, turning the volume back up. 'Black affronted.'

  'Yes, mum,' said Barney.

  He couldn't do it. Not anything violent. He knew he couldn't. Perhaps, however, he could get someone else to do it for him. A hired hand. There was a thought. And as the opening strains of Give Us A Disease started up, he sank further into the soft folds of the settee and lost himself in barbaric contemplations.

  A Pair Of Breasts

  Margaret MacDonald glanced up at the television, which had been droning away in the background all morning. They were running over the previous night's football results. She raised her eyebrows. Rangers had lost two-nil at Motherwell. Typical. That was why Reginald had been in such a foul mood when he'd come in last night. And still this morning. Stomping around like a toddler who'd been woken up too early, and then charging out the door without saying a word to her. God, men were so pathetic.

  Her eyes remained on the television, but she wasn't watching. She was thinking about Louise, as she had been for the past three days. It wasn't like her to just vanish. Nearly twenty now, and there had been plenty of times in the past when she'd gone off for the night without letting them know where she was. But three days.

  Felt that nervous grip on her stomach, the tightening of the muscles, which she'd been experiencing more and more often. Gulped down some tea, tried to put it out of her mind. It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other things to think about.

  The doorbell rang. She jumped. Looked round in shock, into the hall, could just make out the dark grey of a uniform through the frosted glass of the front door. Swallowed hard to fight back the first tears of foreboding. It was the police. The police with news about Louise.

  The doorbell rang again. Feeling the great weight resting upon her shoulders, she rose slowly from the table, inching her way towards the door. Whatever she was going to find out wouldn't be true until she had opened that door and had been informed. Her hand hovered over the key; she wished she could suspend time; wished she could stand there forever, and never have to learn what she was about to be told.

  She turned the key, slowly swinging the door open, the first tears already beginning to roll down her cheeks.

  'You all right there, hen, you're looking a bit upset?'

  She started to smile, and then a laugh came bursting from her mouth. A big, booming, guttural laugh which she had never heard herself make before. She put her hand out, touched the arm of the postman.

  'I'm sorry, Davey, it's nothing. I thought you were going to be someone else, that's all.'

  'Christ, who were you expecting? The Pope?'

  She laughed again, and for the first time looked past him. It was a dark and murky morning, the rain falling in a relentless drizzle. The winds of the previous day had abated, but still it was horrible, as it had been for weeks.

  'God, it's a foul morning to be out, Davey.'

  The postman smiled. 'I'm not in it for the weather, hen.' He rummaged inside his bag and pulled out a small parcel. 'There's this and a few letters. I'd better be going.'

  She took the post from him, looking through it to see if there was one with Louise's handwriting. Looked up to see Davey MacLean already walking down the road, hunched against the rain, the hood of his jacket drawn back over his head.

  'Thanks, Davey. I'll see you later.' He responded with a cool hand lifted into the gloom and then, the Steven Seagal of his trade, went about his business with a certain violent panache.

  She closed the door, retreated into the kitchen, shivering at the cold weather. Dropped the letters onto the table – nothing from Louise, fought the clawing disappointment – and studied the parcel. She wasn't expecting anything, didn't recognise the handwriting. Postmarked Ayr. Ayr? Who did she know in Ayr?

  Then suddenly it was there. A horrible sense of foreboding. A cold hand touching her neck, making the hairs rise; the chill grip on her heart. She let the package fall from her fingers and land on the table. Her stomach tightened, she began to feel sick. Walked slowly over to the drawer beside the sink and lifted out a pair of scissors. She s
tarted back to the table, but suddenly the vomit rose in her throat, and she was bent over the sink, retching violently, as the tears began to stream down her face.

  The Accidental Barber Surgeon

  It came sooner than Holdall had feared. Every morning he'd sit in his office waiting for the phone to ring, the angry herald of more news of stray body parts popping through someone's letter box. Every time the phone rang he'd assume the worst, and given what he'd told the press the evening before, he was even more fearful this particular morning.

  However, fate did not even bother to tease him. There came no endless stream of calls concerning more mundane matters, leading to the dramatic one confirming his worst fears. The dreaded call arrived first, and within three minutes of him sitting at his desk.

  A woman in Newton Mearns, a woman with a missing daughter, had received what appeared to be two breasts, neatly packed into a small wooden box, that morning. So she had turned up on the doorstep of her local police station, hysterical, and who could deny her that, demanding to speak to the bloody idiot who'd been on television the previous night implying that the police had as good as got their man.

  The policeman on duty had done his best to calm her down, and had then put the call through to Holdall to tell him the grim news. And to ask him what the hell he'd meant when he'd talked to the press the previous evening.

  When the call had come down from McMenemy's office, Holdall had not been the least surprised. Ill became those who were summoned up there two days running.

  ***

  The rain was falling in a relentless drizzle against the window of the shop, the skies grey overhead, the clouds low. Every now and again someone bustled past the shop front, their collar pulled up against the cold wind, a dour expression welded to the face.

  The shop was near deserted, as it had been most of the day. Wednesdays were usually slow, and with the cold and miserable weather, this day had been even worse. Barney had had to do only two haircuts all day, both of which had been ropey; one indeed, so bad that he thought it might lead to retribution. He hadn't liked the way the man had asked Wullie for Barney's address on his way out, and had been surprised that Wullie had claimed ignorance on the matter. Nevertheless, it was a day for keeping his head down.

  At three o'clock Wullie had offered Chris the chance to go home early, telling Barney that on the next quiet day he could take his turn of an early departure. After that there were only three more customers, all of whom had wanted Wullie to cut their hair. Barney had sat and read a variety of newspapers then had finally given in to the boredom and had fallen asleep, his dreams a web of exotica.

  He awoke with a start to slightly raised voices, dragged from a screaming drop down a black, bottomless shaft. Barney stretched, yawned, squinted at the clock. Two minutes past five. Time to go. Thank God for that.

  He stood and stretched again, busying himself with clearing up, not something that would take very long. Took his time, however, doing as many unnecessary things as possible, not wishing to leave before Wullie. He listened to the idle chatter from the end of the shop and was not impressed.

  'Now 16th century Italian art,' said Wullie, as he put the finishing touches to a dramatic taper at the back of the neck, 'there's the thing. Full of big fat birds getting their kit off. It doesn't matter what the painting's about, in every one there's always about five or six huge birds with enormous tits.'

  The customer nodded his own appreciation of 16th century Italian art as much as he could, given that there was a man with a razor at the back of his neck.

  'I mean,' Wullie continued, after pausing to pull off some intricate piece of barbery, 'you've got some painting of a big battle scene or something, or a nativity scene for Christ's sake, and they'd still manage to get in some great lump of lard, bollock naked, legs all over the place, dangling a couple of grapes into the gob of another suitably compliant naked tart, with nipples like corks, and her lips pouting in a flagrantly pseudo-lesbian pose. I love it, so I do. It's pure brilliant.'

  'Even so,' said the customer, holding up his finger as Wullie produced a comb to administer the finishing touches, 'I still don't think it's a patch on modern art. That's got far more life and soul to it than a bunch of birds with their kit off.'

  Wullie stopped combing, looked at the man as if he was mad.

  'You're joking? I mean, fair enough, if they painted a bit of paper completely orange, then put a red squiggle in the middle of it and called it A Boring Load Of Crap That Took Me Two Minutes And Isn't Worth Spit, then that'd be fine. But they don't. They'll do that, then call it Sunrise Over Manhattan or Three Unconnected Doorways, or I'm A Pretentious Wank So You've Got To Give Us Three Million Quid. Piece of bloody nonsense.'

  'No, no you've got it all wrong. These things have got a depth and soul to them that the likes of you can't see. If you can't see what an artist is saying, then it's because you're not in tune with the guy. That's hardly his fault.'

  Wullie shook his head as he dusted off the back of the neck.

  'Come off it. Any nutter can splash paint onto something and call it Moon Over Five Women With Hysterectomies,' – Wullie was indeed a new man – 'or something like that. My two year-old niece could do it, and she wouldn't get three million quid.'

  'Of course not,' said the man, as Wullie removed the cape from around his neck and handed him a towel, 'and that's the point. If just anyone does it, it doesn't mean anything. The artist, however, is expressing himself, is letting you see what's inside. It means something because it comes from within, from his soul. That's what gives it heart, and that's why people are willing to pay money for it. Artists bare themselves to the public.'

  Wullie thought about this for a second or two. The man stood, brushed himself down.

  'A fine defence of modern art you've constructed there,' said Wullie eventually.

  'Aye, thanks,' said the customer, fishing in his pockets.

  'However, it's a complete load of pants.'

  The man produced a five pound note from his pocket.

  'You're not listening to me, Wullie.' He paused, stared at the ceiling, tried to think of how he could best get his point across. He was not used to such intellectual debate. Reaching for his jacket, he found what he was looking for. 'Let's put it this way. Say some wee muppet playing at St Andrews hacks out of the rough at the side of the green and it flies into the hole. Now, it may seem like a great shot, but let's face it, he didn't have a clue what he was doing. You know he's lucky. But if Tiger chips from the rough and it flies into the hole, you know he meant it. It's a thing of beauty. It's art. The execution and the outcome are the same, but the intentions are different. That's what it's all about.'

  He stopped on his way to the door, holding out his hands in a gesture of 'there you have it'.

  'Are you saying,' said Wullie, 'that Tiger Woods is the same as one of they bampots who throws paint onto a picture?'

  The man laughed.

  'I'll never win. See you next time, Wullie, eh. See you, Barn.'

  The barbers said their goodbyes, Barney grudgingly, then Wullie turned to start his final clearing up for the day after fixing the Closed sign on the door.

  Still muttering at the discussion which had just finished, Barney completed the minutiae of clearing his things away. Now that Wullie had finished, he felt free to go. Naked Italian women; these people didn't half talk some amount of mince.

  'Can I have a word, Barney?'

  Barney looked up; Wullie walked towards him and sat in the next seat up from his. Barney looked into Wullie's eyes and sat down, suddenly feeling a tingle at the bottom of his spine. It could've been the label on his Marks and Spencer's boxer shorts, but he had the feeling that it was something worse.

  'Wullie?'

  Wullie was staring at the floor. Looked awkward, like a seventeen year-old boy not wanting to tell his father he'd written off his new Frontera San Diego. He struggled with himself, then his eyes briefly flitted onto Barney and away again.

 
; 'Em, this isn't very easy, Barney. I'm not really sure how to say this,' he said. Looked anywhere but into Barney's eyes. Barney stared, a look of incredulity formulating across his face. He couldn't be going to say what he thought he was, could he?

  'I'm afraid we've hired a new barber, Barney. It's an old friend of my dad's who's just moved into the area. You know, my dad wanted to give him a job and...'

  Barney switched off, knowing what was coming. He couldn't believe it. Felt a strange twisting in his stomach, a pounding at the back of his head. Cold, wet hands. The gutless, gutless coward, making himself out to be merely the messenger of his father's decision, rather than the instrument of it.

  How the hell could they let him go? He was the only one in the place who could give a decent haircut. Certainly he was better than these two young idiots, surely everyone could see that? But of course, Wullie would have been telling his father something completely different. Maybe his mother had been right; poison wasn't good enough for him, not violent enough.

  '...so, you can work here for another month if you like, or we'll understand if you want to leave now, and we'll keep your wages going for the rest of the month. You don't have to make any decision right now, but if you could let us know in the next couple of days.'

  Not once had he been able to look Barney in the eye, and then he sat, an attempted look of consolation on his face, eyes rooted to the floor.

  Barney was in a daze, a thousand different thoughts barging into each other in his head. Could not believe it had happened, could not believe that they had had the nerve to do this to him. He was by far the most superior barber of the lot of them. This was ridiculous. His immediate thoughts were of violent retribution. Vicious, angry thoughts involving baseball bats, sledgehammers and pick axes.

  But he couldn't show his hand. Not yet. He had to be calm about it. If he was going to avenge this heinous crime, he had to be calculating and cold; he had to pick his moment. Cool deliberation away from the scene of the crime was required. And as he sat staring angrily into Wullie's eyes, which remained Sellotaped to the floor, he decided that he would have to stay in the shop, however great the feeling of humiliation, however great his desire to leave.