The Barbershop Quartet
'I'm not sure, really. What do you think?'
Barney looked at the back of the customer's head. The man was in his late eighties, weak-jawed, sallow-skinned and irresolutely-eyed; the customer who had been waiting behind Randolph. Had a good head of grey hair on him, however, demanding a straightforward short back and sides.
'I think a short back and sides would do you fine, sir.'
'Do you think?' said Thomas Petersen, studying his hair in the mirror, as if coming across it for the first time.
'Aye,' said Barney.
Igor looked suspiciously up from his sweeping.
'I had been thinking more of a Keanu Reeves type of affair. You don't think I'd suit that at all?'
The door opened and another old fella, his face hangdog all the way down to his knees, minced in, huddled against the cold as if it was minus fifty outside. He closed the door and regarded the occupants of the shop.
'Aye, it's all right for you lot sitting in here, with your heating and your fancy double glazing,' he muttered.
Igor rolled his eyes.
'If you'd just like to take a seat, I'll be done here in about ten minutes,' said Barney.
'Is that all?' said Thomas Petersen. 'Are you sure?'
'All right, all right, I'll sit down,' said the newcomer, 'but God knows what havoc that old bench is going to play on my haemorrhoids. I'd be better standing, but then if I do that my varicose veins'll pop and my hip replacement'll seize up. Can't sit, can't stand and Christ knows what it would do to me if I tried to kneel. Christ knows.'
'Igor,' said Barney, 'get the fella another cushion, please.'
Igor nodded a resentful acceptance and disappeared into the back room. The old fella tutted and looked out of the window.
'They say it's going to be this cold until the autumn and then it's going to snow for six months,' he said to no one in particular.
'So,' said Barney, deciding to ignore the ray of sunshine in the corner, 'a short back and sides all right for you, sir?'
Thomas Petersen looked doubtfully in the mirror.
'Well, if you're sure,' he said.
Barney lifted the electric razor, flicked the switch and swung the razor down onto the back of the customer's neck. Igor emerged and handed the new boy the cushion.
'I suppose technically that's a cushion,' he mumbled, as Igor trudged back to his sweeping, 'but it'll probably cause complete mayhem with the trapped nerves at the base of my spine.'
And then he sat down with a great deal of puffing and muttering, as Igor lifted the broom and imagined himself a Ninja.
And so, everybody in their place, the shop settled down. First customer getting his hair cut, second customer waiting on the bench, barber at his position, razor buzzing away in his fingers, barber's deaf, mute, hunchbacked assistant sweeping at invisible particles on the floor. The natural order of things.
Ruth Harrison had been dispatched for a walk along the front to get some fresh air. She was sitting on a green bench beside the crazy golf course, fingers crossed in her lap, jumping every time she heard footsteps on the pavement behind her. Trying to lose herself in an intimate world of seagulls and waves and rocks and sky, to wrap herself into a cocoon of all she had ever known. Return to some childhood place where the world could be blocked out and she could play and be in her own imaginary world for hours on end.
She was aware of the cars passing behind her every now and again but many of them slipped by unnoticed. So it was that, when the cavalry from wraithwreckers.com arrived in their twenty-four year-old red Peugeot, she did not see them. The car pulled up outside the barbershop, not too far from where she was sitting, as Barney had directed.
Merlot Tolstoy stepped out of the vehicle, put on her £1.99 Woolworth's shades, looked up and down Shore Street checking for possessed spirits and demons and any other agents of malfeasance, turned and looked out on what she saw as a godless, cruel sea, and then walked into the barbershop.
The four male occupants of the shop turned. The maroon shirt with white dog collar attachment was a bit of a giveaway, so that Barney and Igor immediately knew who had come into their presence. Thomas Petersen and old miserable-as-shite Jack Monroe regarded the newcomer with some concern.
'We're here,' said Tolstoy, authoritatively.
'Thanks for coming,' said Barney, not stopping the cut.
'No problem. Got here as fast as we could. Boat was running ten minutes behind schedule.'
'Ten minutes?' chimed Monroe. 'You're lucky it wasn't ten hours. And you call that a boat? It's a bath with an engine.'
Tolstoy hesitated then turned back to Barney.
'Are you ready to show us the infected property?'
'Give me another couple of minutes to finish this off, then I'll need to do the other gentleman, which won't take long...'
'Are you saying I don't have much hair?'
'...then we'll go. Ruth is waiting just along the front.'
Tolstoy glanced out the window and made a positive identification of the forlorn and scared woman on the bench.
'We saw her on the way by. Have we got a complement of six?'
'Well,' said Barney, 'there's you and me. There's Ruth, whose husband is the problem. There's Igor here behind the brush.'
'Igor,' said Tolstoy with a nod.
'Arf.'
'Then I thought we could ask these two gentlemen if they might help,' said Barney, giving them both a quick glance.
'Ask us what?' asked Thomas Petersen, sounding concerned.
'Typical,' said the old fella from the bench, 'that's what today's society's all about. Always asking, never giving. No doubt I'll end up doing it, whatever it is you want, but I won't like it, I'm telling you that now. Not one bit.'
'What is it?' asked Petersen, 'I mean, you're not saying much, but already I don't like the sound of it.'
'Exorcism,' said Tolstoy. 'We need a gathering of six.'
'Exorcism!' said Petersen, and fortunately Barney felt the explosion of worry and restlessness coming and knew enough to back away from the cut for five seconds, as Petersen's head swivelled round. Although, not all the way round.
'Standard procedure,' said Tolstoy. 'We do it all the time.'
And she gave Barney a bit of a don't blow my cover, we need these people look. Barney kept schtum.
'Who is 'we' exactly?' asked Jack Monroe from the bench.
'But exorcism,' worried Petersen, whose head had at least calmed down enough for Barney to restart the cut, 'how do you mean that? Are we talking demonic possession? Green vomit and bile and really bad language? I don't like bad language.'
'If there are more of you,' continued Monroe, 'why do you need us two to make up the six? Sounds like there's some sort of ecumenical insurance scam going on. You church people are only ever interested in money. Did you know the Catholic Church owns 51% of ExxonMobil? What is the matter with these people? Used to be the church was about values and decency. Not now.'
'Do we need overalls?' asked Petersen, interrupting.
'Arf!' barked Igor from behind his brush.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Enough talk. I'll finish these cuts, then the five of us are picking up Ruth and heading over to her house to see what's what. We cool?'
'We're cool,' said Tolstoy.
'Arf,' said Igor.
'I think so,' said Petersen with no conviction whatsoever.
'So Ruth's getting haunted by old Jonah, eh?' said Monroe. 'Serves her right for all those lovers of hers. I always said no good would come of it. Always said it.'
And he shook his head disapprovingly.
'Arf.'
The Postman Always Brings Mice
'Psst! Psst!'
Tony Angellotti stopped and looked around. He had walked up Cardiff Street, had kept going up the hill past the farm and was approaching the top of the town with the graveyard and golf course beyond.
He thought he'd heard something but decided he probably hadn't, and started to
walk on again.
'Psst! Tony!' Louder this time. Tony turned, as ostentatiously as Luigi had hoped he wouldn't.
'Luigi?' he said, looking into woods, up and down the road. 'Luigi?'
'Not so stinkin' loud, you idiot,' said Luigi. 'Try and look inconspicuous.'
'Where are you?' asked Tony, louder this time, because he was confused and annoyed.
'Stop looking like you're talking to someone, you moron. Lean on the post box beside you and try to look casual.'
Tony looked at the box and suddenly wondered if that was where the voice was coming from. Then he leant on it, looking as conspicuous as an Italian Vatican-sponsored hoodlum in Millport in the middle of April was going to.
'Are you in the freakin' post box?' he said, looking down in through the hole.
'I said don't be conspicuous, you idiot. Do not look in the fucking box!'
Tony straightened up, still looking at the box, doing the full Italian hand gesturing routine thing.
'So you're in the box?' said Tony.
'Of course I'm not in the box! What's the matter with you?'
Tony stared at the box and then finally settled down and stopped looking like a blot on the landscape. He leant against the box, tried to look relaxed and stared super-casually up the road.
As it was, he was not being watched as Luigi had presumed he would be. Bartholomew Ephesian's mind had been on other things and the Italians had slipped through the net of his concerns. That Jacobs had also let the problem escape, was indicative of the pressures he too was feeling, despite his efforts to be the rock for his employer's fragile self-belief.
'So where are you then?' asked Tony.
'I'm on the hill above the golf course,' said Luigi. 'Don't look up here!' he added with a stage whisper, at exactly the point that Tony turned and looked up at the hill above the golf course.
'So are you, like shouting?' he asked, turning and looking back into the woods. 'How come I can hear you?'
'Cause there's a microphone in the freakin' post box,' said Luigi, with exasperation.
Tony looked back at the post box, nodding his appreciation.
'This is some fucking post box,' said Tony. 'Maybe this country isn't as backward as it looks.'
'I put it there, you idiot. Jesus, how did I end up with a partner this stupid?'
'Yeah, well, the guy you sent to talk to me last night was even more stupid than I was, so what does that make you?'
Luigi started to object in the usual manner but actually saw his point, so instead made an abrupt change of subject.
'Did you find anything in the cathedral?' he asked.
Tony shook his head and turned and looked up at the hill.
'I can't see you up there, are you sure that's where you are?'
'I'm hiding behind a stinkin' bush. Stop looking up here and tell me if you found anything in the cathedral.'
Tony shrugged, glancing at a passing car, while attempting to appear even more casual than he already was.
'I couldn't find nothin', but then, I'm an idiot. Go figure.'
He smiled at his ironic self-deprecation.
'You still there?' he asked, looking at the post box.
'I'm thinking,' said Luigi.
And while he was thinking, he was lying down on the cold grass, on top of approximately thirty-seven individual little pieces of rabbit droppings, looking through the bushes behind him to where the big house of Bartholomew Ephesian sat austerely staring down over the golf course, down to the Firth of Clyde.
'Big house, big problems,' he muttered quietly.
Ephesian's house had been the number two location on his agenda, after the cathedral. From where he now lay, concealed in the bushes and grass, he had a clear view of the road leading up to the house, as well as the two main windows at the back, which overlooked the westward view. So he had already had several sightings of Ephesian and Jacobs, although had decided not to try to follow them about the town. Tony would have to be his eyes and ears, no matter how blind and deaf that made him.
'Mouse?' said Tony. 'Did you say something about a freakin' mouse? I hate mice.'
***
'Do you think we should postpone?' asked Ephesian, finally voicing what he had been thinking.
Jacobs stared at his employer's back, well used to his crumbling confidence in the face of setbacks.
'I think that would be unwise, sir,' said Jacobs. 'The longer we leave matters, particularly now that the Grail has been moved, the more chance there is of something going wrong.'
'Of something going wrong?' said Ephesian strongly. 'You don't think enough has already gone wrong?'
'We're almost there, sir,' said Jacobs soothingly. 'We must hold our nerve. The Brotherhood are forewarned and will be in attendance. McGhee's foolishness plays into our hands. I no more want him as part of the Prieure than do you, but if he comes, he is coming straight back with the hand which is all we need. One of our two main problems solved. The money means nothing and we have a replacement for Jonah Harrison.'
'And Lawton?' said Ephesian. 'And the Grail? And bloody Phat, who will be turning up here any minute?'
Jacobs hesitated, sorting out how to order everything, to minimise the concern.
'With McGhee replacing Harrison, Lawton's injuries just leave us where we were to begin with, needing to find a willing participant to the ritual. Your son Anthony is likely still that person, despite his brief association with the Italians.'
'And they're another thing! Jesus.'
'But we have the package which was held in Lawton's freezer, his replacement is a formality, however unwanted. Ping Phat? All the more reason to insist on conducting the ceremony tonight. What if we postpone and he decides to stick around? He could cause all sorts of trouble.'
Ephesian's head twitched.
'The Italians we can do nothing about, until it is time and we see what moves they are likely to make. Despite his previous ham-fisted attempts to negate the problem, we can probably count on Constable Gainsborough to deal with them as they arise.'
Ephesian grunted.
'Having thought ourselves in trouble, suddenly we are left with one real problem,' said Jacobs. He paused.
'The Grail,' said Ephesian.
'Yes,' answered Jacobs.
He checked his watch then looked round at the clock. Almost one o'clock in the afternoon.
'We have just over eleven hours in which to find it,' he said, and Ephesian blurted out a bitter laugh.
'We should postpone,' he muttered, shaking his head.
He turned and glanced at Jacobs' waistcoat, then turned away and looked down once more at the slight wind ruffling the flags on the golf course away to his right.
Et In Arcadia Ego
'Is there anything else we should know before we go in?'
The strange collective of six, about to embark on their mission to send Jonah Harrison on his way from the house, were standing outside on the front lawn. The Reverend Merlot Tolstoy was leading the way but had stopped with her back to the front door to address her troops. She looked each of the five members of the company in the eye, searching their souls. She had been told about the manner of Jonah's death and the reason he hadn't been able to enter the shrine of eternal urination in the first place. She had been told of Igor's use and abuse of the fragile Ruth. She had not been told of the severed human hand in the freezer, as neither Barney nor Ruth had considered that relevant.
Her look lingered longest on Ruth, as she was obviously the one who would have something to tell. Long enough, in fact, that Ruth felt compelled to say something.
'I'm scared of spiders,' she blurted out uncomfortably.
'That's all right, madam,' said Tolstoy, 'We doubt that that will come into play. Anything else?' she added, broadening her scope around the group once more. It was intended as a final remark, to be ignored, before they entered the temple of doom.
'I'm afraid of the dark,' said Thomas Petersen nervously.
'Oh, for pity
's sake,' muttered Monroe. 'It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Course, the way this weather's closing in, it'll be dark by half past. Have you seen those clouds?'
'Not a problem,' said Tolstoy. 'We don't require darkness.'
Final look around the crowd. Ready to roll.
'I'm scared of wide open spaces,' Ruth Harrison chipped in at the last second.
'We'll be inside,' replied Tolstoy quickly.
'I can get claustrophobic in a small room with too many people,' said Petersen. 'And sometimes the light bothers me. You know, if it's too bright.'
'We believe we're doing this on the upstairs landing, so it'll be nice and open, with plenty of room for the six of us, and with this cloud cover the light shouldn't be too bad.'
'I hate flying,' said Ruth.
'Me too!' blurted Petersen hurriedly.
'You know,' added Ruth, 'not the actual flying part, just the take off and landing and when it gets bumpy.'
'Aye,' said Petersen, 'that's what gets me too. I think.'
'Really, folks,' said Tolstoy, retaining her patience, 'we're walking up the stairs, not taking a helicopter.'
'Helicopter?' said Petersen, perturbed, 'I wouldn't even go near a helicopter.'
'I don't think I'll ever be able to walk up a flight of stairs again after this,' said Ruth. 'I'll be traumatised for life. Like Agnes from number eleven. Couldn't walk up stairs again after the time she found her old man in bed with his best mate, Brian.'
'I think we could do with some focus here,' said Barney.
'Absolutely,' chirped Tolstoy. 'What the man said. It's time.'
'I hate Des O'Connor,' said Petersen.
'Arf.'
'Let's go,' said Tolstoy, and she turned, opened the door and took the first step into the house.
She stopped. She listened. Barney came in behind her and stood at her shoulder, examining the silence, whilst the others waited outside.
'Nothing,' said Tolstoy after about thirty seconds.
'Maybe he's waiting for us,' said Barney.
'Maybe.'
'For pity's sake,' said Monroe, 'if I stand out here much longer my sciatic nerve'll go, then I'll never see the last of it.'
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 128