'There you are,' said Barney, running the razor slowly across the top of his napper. 'What was the outline?'
'Part of the Exron deal,' said Achebe.
'Ah,' said Barney. 'The never ending story.'
'Steam Pants,' said Achebe.
Barney nodded, negotiated the ears.
'Missed that one,' he said. 'Sounds like a leftover from the Soviet block. Something from the '50s to help their athletes during the winter.'
Achebe laughed. 'I do not think that's where the people at Exron are coming from.'
'So what are they then?' asked Barney. 'Pants which produce steam as a primary purpose, or are they technically advanced underwear, producing steam as a by-product?'
'Well, there is the thing,' said Achebe. 'They are opening the line with two products, aimed at the top end of the market, you know the underwear connoisseur, the man or woman of refinement, the upper echelons of society, looking for that little bit extra in underpant sophistication.'
'It's amazing such people exist,' said Barney.
'They have polled.'
'Of course.'
'So, they are launching with the Condensation Special, a firm pant, lined with some sort of light steam resistant alloy, intended to gently heat the buttocks and genital area. You know, for that delicious glow around the bottom on those cold winter mornings. I am thinking the marketing campaign will feature a man and a woman walking hand in hand through the snow-covered streets of Boston, smiling contentedly, with the tag line, Warmth Without Discomfort, The Future Of Underwear.'
'I know I'd buy a pair,' said Barney, sweeping across the head with vigour and a certain flamboyance. 'Does the woman come as standard?'
Achebe laughed.
'The second type at launch,' he continued, 'will be of a more sexual nature, yet still stylish and comfortable, and able to be worn in any day-to-day situation. This will be a pant with at least seven or eight different moving parts, able to satisfy and encourage any of the numerous erogenous zones situated around the underwear area. The pants themselves will be steam powered, with a small escape valve at the side letting out the superfluous vapour.'
'That sounds like a quality pant,' said Barney.
'Exactly. For the campaign I am thinking, you know, some hot but not out and out babe figure, say Jorja Fox from CSI. We show her doing some show-type situation, you know picking some fellow's head out of a pond, or cutting up maggots, then reveal that all the while she is getting a sexual kick from the underwear. You know, the point being, it does not matter what you are doing, any time of the day, does not matter who you are, you could be getting turned on.'
'Maybe you just want to show someone sitting at their office desk,' said Barney, the razor sweeping majestically around the right ear area with extraordinary flourish.
'You think?' said Achebe. 'Well, we shall see. I think Mr. Orwell quite liked it. Anyway, I am going for the tag line, The Vapour Delight: Pants So Advanced They Need Their Own Power Source.'
'Excellent,' said Barney.
'The packaging for the two specials will feature a picture of a man or woman standing around in the pants, with the line Wearing Suggestion underneath.'
'You've got all the angles covered,' said Barney.
'Yes,' said Achebe. 'You can see why Mr. Orwell came back on his hands and knees.'
Barney smiled, making the final looping swish with the razor, and that was that for the number one all over. He popped the guard off the razor and started touching up the back of the neck and the general aural area.
The door opened. A young bloke Barney had never seen before poked his head in.
'Hi,' he said.
'Aye?' said Barney, looking at him in the mirror, while he applied the finishing touches to the rear of Achebe's neck.
'Márquez, Accounts,' said Arid Márquez, previously number three at Accounts, now suddenly thinking he might have a shot at the top job – although he didn't – and deciding that he really ought to have his hair cut in an appropriate manner. Currently sporting a bit of an unnecessary Spandau Ballet. (Marcus Blade had been impressed for about two seconds.) 'Heard you were back cutting hair,' he said.
Barney straightened, turned and looked at him. He'd been back cutting hair for less than five minutes. Neither of the parties involved had left the room. How did this stuff get around? He shrugged, didn't care, not even interested enough to ask.
'Take a seat,' he said. 'I'm nearly done.'
Another few buzzes with the razor into the back of Achebe's neck, and he was finished. Márquez loitered behind, unwilling to sit down, for he who sits down in marketing isn't keeping up with those who are running, that's what he was thinking. Orwell had taught him that.
Barney whipped the cape off, brushed away quickly at Achebe's shoulders and stepped back. Achebe looked in the mirror, very impressed, ran his hand across his head, stood up and shook Barney by the hand.
'It has been a pleasure,' he said.
'Thanks,' said Barney.
Achebe embraced him with one last smile, and walked from the office, saying 'Mr Márquez!' to Márquez as he passed him.
'Sit down,' said Barney, indicating the seat.
Márquez looked at the seat, checked the door, worrying about what to say. Looked at Barney and back to the seat.
'You can't do a haircut to go?' he asked.
The Satanic Clamp
Thomas Bethlehem stood on the tarmac at Fiumicino Airport, Rome, pulling his coat tightly into his chest against the strength of an alien cold wind gusting across the airfield. Preparing to board his new Learjet 85. Due to arrive at London City at 1642hrs, he would be met by car and dropped at his Canary Wharf office at 1723hrs. Meeting called for 1730hrs, and he would have Orwell sorted, and anyone else who needed putting down, put down by 1751hrs. If there was anybody left.
'What are they doing having us standing on the runway with a wind like this?' he said to the woman next to him.
Harlequin Sweetlips snuggled in closer to him, tucked up against his arm, using him as a shield against the cold.
'Doesn't seem so bad from where I'm standing,' she said, with that wicked little smile of hers.
Bethlehem snorted in a manner that was not quite as unattractive as the word snort suggests, and held her tightly against him.
***
Frankenstein and Monk walked away from St Paul's Cathedral slightly twitchy and looking over their shoulders. Talk of Satan and the End of Days was the kind of thing that happened in movies. Yet Monk still had a peculiar serenity about her that was not rubbing off on Frankenstein.
The snow had stopped, the clouds had cleared and the day was turning back to being crisp and clear and sharp and wonderful, and they kicked the snow as they walked.
'You seem calm,' said Frankenstein.
'Yes,' said Monk.
'Are you an alien inhabiting my sergeant's body?'
'Not any more.'
'Ah, fuck,' said Frankenstein.
'What?' asked Monk.
Frankenstein pointed at his car and the robust yellow clamp attached to the front right.
'Crap,' he said. 'That's it, that's what happens.'
'What d'you mean?'
'This is what happens when you start investigating weird shit. People don't want you investigating weird shit and bad stuff starts to happen to you. Particularly when the weird shit is attached to a personal friend of the Prime Minister. We're the police for crying out loud, and we're getting clamped. Bastards.'
They approached the car. Frankenstein pointlessly booted the clamp.
'All that stuff you get in movies about Satan and weird shit 'n' all. It's all a load of crap. This, wheel clamping, small time annoyances, this is true Satanism on the front line. This is the kind of thing they do.'
Monk smiled. Frankenstein the expert.
He muttered something dark and turned away, taking his phone from his pocket. Monk leaned back against the car, looked up at the blue sky. In her relaxed state was wondering if Frank
enstein was beginning to lose it. Didn't mind if he was. In the cold, clear light of day, it all seemed dubious and absurdly speculative. Satan did not walk amongst them.
So many things seem sensible or possible or realistic in the middle of the night, or in the darkness of your own mind, or around the table amongst a group of conspirators, but once they're out in the open, to be judged by those not affected, the radical idea can seem stupid and inane, exposed and ludicrous.
Satan? Although if there was a Satan, then logically that would mean there was a God, and just at that thought Monk felt a warmth inside her and the vision of a kind guy leaning across her bed touching her forehead flitted through her mind and was gone.
Frankenstein turned, dragging his feet, putting his cell phone back in his pocket.
'Called a mate of mine down at Piccadilly,' he said. 'He's going to send someone along to get the thing off. Jesus, these people get my humph right up.'
'What people?'
'God, I don't know. Everyone.'
'All right,' she said, 'so where do we go now?'
Frankenstein grunted again, stared at his feet, didn't look her in the eye. Monk watched him for a few seconds, then looked around at the undisturbed snow in the trees. Thought about Barney Thomson, wondered how he was getting on today. Hoped she could see him that evening.
'So,' said Frankenstein, kicking snow, 'you're in love with Barney Thomson?'
Monk looked up, surprised.
'You really want to talk about that?' she asked, at the same time delighted to have the chance to discuss Barney, even if it was only with Frankenstein.
'Not really,' said Frankenstein. 'Thought I should ask, but I couldn't give a shit.'
'Yeah,' said Monk, ignoring him. 'The real thing. Straight up, first time I saw him. Just keeps getting heavier and heavier every time we meet. Can't stop thinking about him, you know that way. Don't think I've had anything like this before. God, might be the real thing. You read about this in magazines. I mean—'
'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, interrupting. 'Not the kind of magazines I read.'
'It's just like—'
'You know, Danno, you can probably stop talking now.'
'Right.'
'He knows something he's not telling us. It's the same as the last time. There's weird shit going on, I have no idea what it is, and I think he does.'
Monk let out a deep breath and stared at the snow.
'Right,' she said.
Frankenstein kicked some snow and muttered under his breath, then said fuck quite loudly and started to wander away.
***
Barney was just about to call it a wrap on his last day of work at Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. And for the first time in a long while, he'd really quite enjoyed himself. From quiet beginnings, and without really taking off into any sort of mad rush, he had spent the entire afternoon cutting the hair of the company employees. And maybe it was just him, but it seemed as if they were getting younger and younger as the day progressed. So many of the older young guns had been killed, that they'd had to resort to hiring twelve-year-olds.
Just after five, last cut of the day. He'd bestowed a series of beautiful cuts, everything from a Belgrade Mafia Spectacular to a Hoagy Carmichael, in a glorious afternoon of barbetorial invention. For the final cut he'd been requested to deliver a millimetre perfect Johnny Depp (Chocolat), and he was about his business, pleased with the overall effect and nearly finished. Jack Beckett, head of accounts, second haircut in four days, was quite happy with what was going on in the mirror, thinking his new look was in keeping with his senior position in money laundering.
With a final elaborate fanfare, and the use of a series of heavy mechanical implements, Barney patted the hair into place and called time on the event. Not much conversation had taken place between them, in order to facilitate a quick and precise piece of work, but the haircut was done and Barney was feeling good about the day.
Beckett stood up, still admiring himself in the mirror. Did a few things with his head in order to follow the movement of the hair, swishing it this way and that. Wondered about asking for lime green fluorescent ends, so that it would look really cool in the dark. Maybe next time. This was a haircut so damn cool, it didn't need embellishment.
'Thanks, Dude,' he said to Barney.
Barney almost pulled an Anthony Hopkins (Remains Of The Day) on him for Illegal Use Of The Word Dude, but instead took his proffered hand and shook it.
'No bother, big fella,' he said. 'A pleasure.'
Beckett turned, gave himself another once over in the mirror, and then was gone, legging it out into the rugged wilds of the offices of BF&C. Barney watched him go, checking the hair more than anything else. Another beaut of a cut, although he felt only satisfaction at a job well done, rather than any hubris at his own god-like hairdressing qualities.
He turned back to his workplace and started clearing up, confident that he'd seen the last of the collective. Lifted the brush, started sweeping the detritus of the Johnny Depp into a pile. Glanced outside at the grey, darkening skies. Something made him lay down the brush and go to the window. He looked down on the river, out across London, the city still predominantly white. The day had grown colder as it progressed, and the clouds suggested more snow. A tour boat was passing beneath him, no more than six or seven cold souls admiring the regenerated east end as they floated on by.
He turned back and looked at his work station. Two pairs of scissors, one razor with nine different attachments, a cut-throat razor, combs and brushes and product. That was his life. And it was time to scoop it up and move it to Millport. Suddenly he felt the weight of melancholy, of being alone in a quiet place. The melancholy of leaving something behind.
The problem with Millport, the problem he had run away from, was of a small shop with few customers and three employees. When he returned he was going to have to tell Keanu that he wasn't required any more. Maybe even Igor. How could he do that to either of them?
Money. It always came down to money.
He started to sigh, stopped it halfway; there was no one here to sigh for, no one with whom to share his despondency. Daniella Monk, that was who he wanted, but what was there going to be for her to do in a weary town on the dreich west coast of Scotland? She was a London girl, didn't seem weighed down by the city as Barney was. When removed from it she might be lost.
And so he made the decision that this would be his last night in London, a train to Glasgow the following day, the train down to Largs, the boat over to the island, and then maybe he would walk the five miles round to the town, rather than catching the bus. If it wasn't raining, which it very possibly would be.
He lifted himself away from the window and the snow. Toyed with the idea of leaving everything as it was, a kind of Mary Celeste of the barbershop world, his last testament to working in the Big Smoke. And maybe, if Harlequin Sweetlips managed to get hold of him, it would be his last testament to the world.
Avoid Sweetlips, he thought to himself, lifting the brush and giving up on the last testament idea, and go and see Daniella Monk one last time before heading off. See how it goes, maybe imply that she could come with him if she wanted to.
Then, maybe not. Maybe he could just leave without ever seeing Monk again. She could be his lost love, the one he would fondly remember for the rest of his life. His might-have-been. If his life was Shakespeare – and there had been enough death in it for it to have been a couple of acts of Titus Andronicus – Monk would be the tragic, misunderstood love, only revealed when one or other of them lay on their deathbed. She would be the woman his biographers would recall as his one true love, who haunted him for the rest of his days. It would suit his poor, treacherous soul. His artistic soul.
The door opened. He turned. Jude Orwell. Barney's heart sank even further. Had said his goodbyes, didn't feel any further need to spend more time with the man.
'Mr Orwell,' he said, formally.
'You're still here, Barn,' he said.
; 'My soul has already left,' said Barney. 'It's back in Scotland, and tomorrow I'm going to catch a train to join it. You know, might even take the sleeper tonight.'
'That's cool, Barn,' said Orwell, 'but seeing as you're still here, I need you for the next hour. Can you do it?'
'For this meeting with Bethlehem?'
'Yeah.'
Barney leaned on the end of his brush.
'No,' he said. 'And by that, I mean, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. In case of any doubt that those words might generate in the listener, can I reiterate my stance by saying, absolutely, one hundred percent, categorically, no. The answer is no.'
Orwell smiled, rather than dropping to his knees, as Barney had been expecting.
'Everyone's got his price, Barn,' he said. 'I know you're leaving, but I just need you for this. Voting rights, you know.'
'Thought you were getting someone else?'
Orwell looked down at the carpet. He wasn't lying, just uncomfortable with the truth.
'I put Achebe in as Head of MAD,' he said.
'I know,' said Barney.
Another hesitation.
'Got a call from Bethlehem after that. Someone in the company must've been speaking to him. Told me to hold all recruitment until he returned this evening. Fortunately I hadn't informed him of your resignation at this point, but it means I can't replace you. I need you. Totally. If you're not there, it's me and Achebe against Bethlehem and this woman. Split down the flippin' middle, and we're shafted. Won't get anywhere.'
Barney wanted to smile. The machinations of business. Marginally more complex versions of the games you play in the school playground, but that was all it was.
'No.'
'I'll pay you a consultancy fee.'
'No.'
'Really, Barn,' said Orwell, pushing the envelope, or whatever it is they say they're doing, as Barney leaned on his brush and tried to concentrate on not picking it up and whacking Orwell over the head with it. 'I'm talking cash. We have cash. A large cash fee for one hour's work, that's all it needs. You've done some stellar stuff in the last couple of days, man, I need you there with me. Name your price. You can have the cash, and you can be walking out of here in a couple of hours with money behind you.'
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