The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  Weirdlove nodded, making a note on his clipboard. His lips twitched. Barney fluttered away around the fringes of JLM's hair, making it marginally more bouffant. The Amazing Mr X stared at the door and waited.

  'Do you want me to patch the call through to Ms Wanderlip for you, sir?' asked Weirdlove.

  JLM looked troubled, made a show of studying his watch and thinking. Shook his head; Barney saw it coming, and diverted the mousse massage just in time.

  'Just not enough minutes in the day,' he said. 'I'll call her later. If we have to announce it to the press before she knows about it, I'm sure she'll understand.'

  'Absolutely, sir,' said Weirdlove.

  'Lovely,' said JLM. 'Anything else?'

  Weirdlove drew a deep breath, studied his notes.

  'Just one other thing, sir,' he said. 'The Herald's picked up on a story about a suspected Rwandan war criminal living in Glasgow. Looks like they're going to try and make something of it. Might get a little sticky.'

  'What did he do?' asked JLM.

  Weirdlove studied his notes. His face contorted slightly as he reread the details.

  'He's accused of helping to take injured Tutsis to a hospital, to the point where it was horrendously overcrowded. About three thousand people in a hospital for a few hundred.'

  'And that's a crime?'

  'Then he set fire to the hospital and burned them alive. His men macheted to death anyone who tried to escape.'

  There was a pause. Barney swallowed and glanced at Weirdlove. JLM lowered his eyes, while the picture of what had happened unavoidably came to mind. Even The Amazing Mr X looked up.

  'Jesus,' said JLM. Then he shook his head. 'Where is Rwanda anyway?' he asked, regaining normal transmission.

  'Central Africa, sir,' said Weirdlove. 'East of the Congo.'

  'Africa?' said JLM. 'God, you live and learn, don't you? All this time I'd been hearing about Rwandan war crimes, I thought it was one of the Baltic states or something. So it didn't happen in the Second World War?'

  'No,' said Weirdlove, slowly. '1994.'

  'Christ,' said JLM, 'nobody's going to give a shit then. Just leave me to it, I'll say all the right things. We done?'

  Weirdlove looked back at his notes. Reread over the story of the Rwandan war criminal. Wanted to say something else, but knew the tone in JLM's voice. He could leave it for another day.

  'Yes, sir,' he said.

  'Excellent,' said JLM, 'lovely. Barn? You done?'

  JLM admired his new hair, which was barely different, in the mirror. Barney, who wanted to stick the scissors into the back of his head, nodded and laid down his tools.

  'Clear,' he said.

  'Champion,' said JLM, standing up. 'Absolutely lovely. Come on, team.'

  And, as he marched to the door, The Amazing Mr X leapt up to dive out the door in front of him, checking the outer office for terrorists, spies, hoodlums and journalists.

  Uh-oh...

  The Rev Blake was dressed in civvies: fuck-me boots, blue jeans and a thin, maroon crushed velvet top. She wasn't wearing any underwear, either, but Barney Thomson had yet to notice. She had her glass of white wine, Barney had a bottle of Miller. (Barney Thomson never used to drink American beers at home. Now here he was; he'd be at the Coors Lite next.) She was on the sofa, he was sat opposite on a large comfy chair. Another woman back at his place, a minister at that, and it seemed no more or no less surreal to him than the rest of the previous few days.

  'You just have to watch what she's saying, that's all,' said Alison Blake, forcing a discussion about Rebecca Blackadder that Barney didn't want to have. 'She's a bit of a loose canon.'

  'Aye, whatever,' he said. 'Don't really want to talk about her.'

  'I understand,' said Blake. 'I realise it must be difficult for you. You've been unconscious a long time.'

  Barney eyed her suspiciously, took a swallow of beer, set the bottle down on the small table at the side of his chair.

  'Unconscious, eh?' he said. 'What story are you going to tell me, then?'

  Blake leant forward, and the shifting position of the v-neck and the movement of the top against her chest, gave Barney the first inclination of the no-underwear thing. Tried not to think about it.

  'The truth,' she said earnestly. 'You can trust me.' Was on the point of invoking God, but thought the better of it. He would either believe her or not; God wouldn't come into it.

  'All right,' said Barney. 'Tell me what you know.'

  She rested her forearms on her knees. Held her glass in both hands between her legs.

  'You were chasing a man called Leyman Blizzard across a moorland in the Borders,' she said, crisply. Tell it quickly and convincingly. Be honest about the face. The same rules applied as when teaching the word of God to sceptics.

  Barney nodded. Leyman Blizzard. The name did more than ring a bell. Blizzard, the old bugger. Had murdered Katie Dillinger in the church.

  'Go on,' he said.

  'You fell off a ledge, smacked your head on a rock. You were found the following morning, having been out on a cold, wet night. Comatose. Another half hour and you would've been dead.'

  'All right,' said Barney, 'sounds plausible so far.'

  'You were in hospital for over two years. It was a big thing at first, because of your past. Barney Thomson caught and in a coma, all that kind of stuff. Headlines in the newspapers for a while. Strathclyde Police launched an inquiry, then at some stage Blizzard handed himself over and told his story. There was, to be frank, a bit of revisionism done on your life, and you were more or less exonerated for your past crimes.'

  'That's what Rebecca said.'

  'At least she got something right,' said Blake, caustically. 'Big news one day, might as well be dead in a ditch the next. Having handed himself in, Leyman Blizzard obviously changed his mind, and he managed to escape. So, he was that month's celebrity psychopath. Centrefold in Playloony. The whole nine yards.'

  Barney nodded. Long term unconsciousness was a bit more credible as an explanation.

  'How did I get to be here, though?' he asked.

  More credible perhaps, but he doubted whether anyone in this situation would be able to convince him of the veracity of any explanation.

  'You were just languishing in a hospital. The serial barber that time forgot. Happens to everyone that's famous for five minutes. Your wife divorced you...'

  'My wife?' he said, and another large part of his life came moseying back in on a lame horse.

  'There was an obscure question to parliament about you one day, from some obscure MSP. Disagreement about whether or not to turn off the life support. Jesse got interested. He may look like this absurdly egotistical narcissist, but there's a decent man in there somewhere. Got interested in your story, got you moved to a private medical facility. The Father and I, well, we've been saying our prayers for you. I know what I look and sound like sometimes, but I do have faith. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.'

  That'll be the Bible then, thought Barney.

  'It can make a difference,' she continued, talking through his thoughts, 'and with you, well it did. Last week you started showing signs of improvement. Sudden indications of brain activity. And, well, JLM decided to have you moved to our apartments. We were waiting for you to wake up. Here you are.'

  Barney stared at the floor, the thin carpet, cold and clinical. Another day, another story. Only difference being that this time it wasn't in the realms of scientific fantasy.

  He sat back in his chair, stretched out, pressed his hands against his face. Left them there. Just wanted everyone to leave him alone. Had been interested the night before when Blackadder had told her story, but now he didn't want anyone's concern, didn't want to hear any more stories. Left alone in a dark room for several days, and he'd probably come up with the answer himself.

  He jumped at her touch; her soft fingers against the back of his hand. Felt the gentle whisper of her breath and then her lips against his forehead. A delicat
e kiss, lingered over only briefly and then she knelt down on the floor.

  'You don't believe me,' she said.

  Barney took his hands away from his face, opened his eyes, but didn't look at her. Stared at the ceiling. Swallowed.

  'Don't know what to believe,' he said.

  She ran her fingers down the side of his face, a tender touch, let her hand linger beside his lips. After a few seconds, he found himself kissing her fingers.

  'You can put your faith in me, Barney,' she said. 'Put your faith in the Lord. He will show you the way, I promise. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.'

  He turned and looked down at her, her pale face a few inches away in the dim light of the evening room. He felt like crying, he felt like breaking down into a billion separate molecules, or melting into a hundred gallons of water, so that he could just wash away.

  Her hand was still against his face; she lifted her eyes, her mouth, she lifted her head close to his, he could smell the scented soap with which she'd washed half an hour earlier. Her lips met his, soft and gentle, and he gave into them and melted into a hundred gallons of water so that he was washed away.

  Well, for God's sake, let's not get carried away. They snogged and then she led him off to the bedroom, where the lad Barney gave as good as he got.

  The First Bite Is The Deepest

  Two o'clock in the morning, JLM was lying in bed reading one of his press scrapbooks. He'd been keeping them since he'd made his first speech to the Scottish Labour Party Conference in Perth as a teenager, thirty years previously. His favourite ones were from just before he became First Minister, when the press were in the business of talking him up; which contrasted markedly with their attitude since he'd become First Minister, when they'd done everything to drag him down.

  So that was what he was reading now as he lay alone in bed with his nightly cup of diet hot chocolate. An article entitled Cometh The Hour, Cometh The Man To Save Scotland. There were several on the same theme, as all the Scottish broadsheets had rallied to his cause following the ignominious departure of his predecessor.

  It made comforting late night reading after a stressful day. Bloody Ayrshire, he'd thought, as he generally couldn't be bothered heading any further west than Livingston. No end of mindless questions from the buggering minions during the day, a good speech wasted on the suits of the Chambers of Commerce, and then a grilling from some bloody awful Herald journalist – a man who he'd ensure would never again darken the press room door when JLM was in attendance – about the Rwandan thing, a subject he just wouldn't let go. So reading his own press from a while ago was the equivalent of the warm cup of chocolate at his bedside. Solace at the end of a lousy day.

  Tomorrow, however, he hoped for better things. There was a G8 conference coming up in Toronto, and he was determined to be there. As far as he could tell, he had as much right as the bloody PM, and just because the PM had rebuffed the suggestion when he had run it by him, did not mean that there wouldn't be other ways to try and force the issue. So he would be having a meeting with a representative from the Canadian government. That, and Herr Vogts would be arriving from Germany for some serious work on how to bypass Westminster on the introduction of the Euro.

  He was just rereading the paragraph about his unusual breadth of vision, when he heard a bit of a stramash downstairs. Raised voices, thumping footsteps, and he looked at the clock. Minnie was away for a few days, attending a conference on women's issues in The Hague. Piece of bloody nonsense, JLM had thought, but it got her out of his hair for a while, and allowed her to feel that she was making a contribution to the world. Besides, it didn't do him any harm to be seen to have an effective wife.

  He was still contemplating why she would be back this early, when the door to his bedroom was thrown open and Winona Wanderlip careered into the room. She looked wild and exciting, her hair tossed to the skies, much of it defying the fundamental laws of physics. Her beige summer jacket was pulled to one side, as if someone had made an ineffectual grab at her arm and she had been in too much haste to sort it out. Mouth wide and pouting, heart pumping like a piston, adrenaline coursing through her body at a rate of a hundred and seventy-three pints a minute, she stood in the centre of the bedroom.

  Behind her, a bit beleaguered and looking a wee bitty embarrassed, came The Amazing Mr X, who came and stood next to her, although not so close that she could've had a swing at his testicles.

  'Sorry, boss,' he said to JLM. 'She scared me.'

  'That's all right, X,' said JLM. 'You can wait downstairs. Ms Wanderlip won't be staying long.'

  At those words she fizzled some more, a strange noise escaping from her body, like the sound of rain on electricity pylons. The Amazing Mr X looked at her with a mixture of fear and contempt, then turned and walked from the room.

  JLM waited until the door closed, then closed the scrapbook over and straightened his shoulders.

  'Winona,' he said. 'You've got one minute and then I'm calling the police.'

  'What the Hell are you playing at?' she said.

  'I'm only trying to run the country the best I can,' he said, disarmingly.

  'I know what you're up to. You put every single job in the government onto my plate, and when eventually cock-ups start getting made, you can blame me and kick me out. Either that or I choose to jump ship. I'm not bloody stupid.'

  'Winona, you credit me with too much guile,' he said.

  'Do I bollocks, you bollocking idiot,' she barked. 'Anyway, it's not guile, it's arrogance and superciliousness and disdain and narcissistic up-your-own-arse-ness. Well, I'm here to tell you you're not getting away with it. I've had enough.'

  'Oh, well, have you now?' said JLM slyly. 'What are you going to do, Winnie? Throw your teddy in the corner? Withdraw your £1.50 a week from the tea club? Write a letter to Woman's Weekly maybe? Lovely. Or perhaps to the agony aunt in the Daily Record? Dear, whatever the Hell her name is, my boss is giving me too much responsibility. I'm only a woman, how am I supposed to cope?'

  She didn't pounce immediately. She was no unfettered wolf leaping at the injured deer; no savage lion, all muscle and teeth, jumping on the exhausted wildebeest; no vicious anteater, sticking its snout into the hill and gobbling up all the workers who'd been happily building a swimming pool for the little 'uns. She waited. She stood over the bed, trying to control her anger. She'd had therapy, that was no secret. Rage control. Hadn't had the choice after the judge had ordered it, following the incident over the last parking space at Murrayfield. All the exercises they'd taught her to go through, they all pushed from different directions in her mind. Think one thing, think another, concentrate, concentrate, don't lose control.

  'Your time's up, number seven,' said JLM. Voice as dismissive as he could make it. Loved nothing better than winding up Winona Wanderlip.

  She lost control. And when she moved, it was with a surprising speed, agility and a nimbleness that belied her slightly clumsy bearing. JLM, who had been assuming the usual steam out the ears, throw the odd handbag, scream a bit, and then leave, banging the door behind her routine, was caught totally unawares.

  She stepped forward, threw back the covers and, like Johnny Weismeuller or Mark Spitz, dived forward on top of JLM. Pitched it perfectly, so that her face landed smack beside his crotch, then with her mouth wide so as to encapsulate the full breadth of his tackle, she bit down hard. Kept her teeth closed for a second, shoogled her head from side to side a bit, then stood up.

  Just for a wee moment or two, JLM was silent. His face turned white. His mouth was open, wider than Wanderlip's had been two seconds earlier. There were tears in his eyes.

  'Is that all you've got to say?' said Wanderlip, having stood back up and regained her composure.

  A weird hissing sound escaped from JLM's throat. He was clutching his testicles. His whole body was numb, apart from the screaming pain at its centre.

 
'Here's what you're going to do,' she said, firmly. 'You rearrange the distribution of work within cabinet by close of play, or I go to the press about the amount of money you're spending on that bloody entourage of yours. And the train. And everything else. You got that?'

  He didn't reply. He was still in no position to talk, as he began to curl up into the foetal position.

  Wanderlip turned and walked slowly from the room. Stopped at the door, faced him, tried not to smile.

  'I would've thought I might've had to open my mouth a bit wider than that, Jesse,' she said.

  And with that last put-down she was gone.

  Jesse Longfellow-Moses curled up into a ball and began the rest of his long night, which was sure to be a painful one.

  International Barber Of Mystery

  Tuesday morning. Barney Thomson stared at the remains of his breakfast, which he'd demolished with some vigour in a little under twenty minutes. The usual full works, and he'd already decided to give himself just another couple of mornings of it, before laying off and settling for cereal and grapefruit before his heart clogged up and he was dispatched back to wherever it was he'd come from.

  The news was on in the background, mostly talk of the chaos surrounding the Executive, what with its missing ministers and workload generally being amalgamated into one department. It was the first time he'd really focused on it, what with his head generally being all over the place. But sure enough, here he was, back in the saddle, cutting hair, and there was quite possibly a multiple murderer on the loose in the city. This thought having occurred to him, and having brought back no end of memories from his previous existence, he stopped thinking about it and decided to wallow in the events of the night before instead.

  To put it bluntly, for the first time in so long he couldn't remember, he'd had biblical relations with a woman. And it'd been brilliant. He may have been dead or unconscious for two and a half years, but there was plenty of life in the old pistons, no mistake.

  So, and you can't take this away from the big fella, there was a smile on his face. Alison Blake may have been called by Christ, but it hadn't stopped her shagging like a horse. She had left at some time after three, a final kiss on his warm lips, and a promise of more to come.