'Aye,' he said. 'On the radio, was it?'
He looked up. His voice sounded hangdog, but there was a light in the eyes that Blackadder wouldn't have recognised had she known him before. He was no longer a man who was most comfortable feeling sorry for himself.
'Could tell by the way she ignored you all morning,' she said.
'Ah,' said Barney. He'd obviously noticed that Blake was ignoring him, but was cool enough about the whole thing not to feel like a piteous rejected teenager. 'That what she usually does?'
'Yeah,' said Blackadder. 'She's pretty much had every one of us in that room. Apart from Father Michael, of course. Did her best, but you have to admire the man's commitment to the cause.'
'Haven't spoken to him,' said Barney.
'Not many of us have,' said Blackadder, and she tucked into her parfait of cauliflower in a predestination of seven cheeses, with an explosion of thyme and an epidemic of rosemary.
'Funny woman, all the same,' said Barney.
'You could say that,' said Blackadder. 'Pious when it suits her, that's our Alison.'
Barney nodded, forked another piece of banana, munched it and then washed it down with a wee sip of a fruity Californian chardonnay, robustly bodied, exquisitely finished, with hints of Kate Winslet, summer fruits and the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Quotations.
He looked around the canteen, sparsely occupied. It was elegantly decorated, fine pictures on the wall – apart from the ones of JLM – rich carpet, an atmosphere of stilled refinement, which quite went against most of the politicians who dined there. However, as they also had to pay for their meals, and it was expensive, it was not much used. Another waste of money. JLM's entourage had their meals paid for, and so ate there every day.
What did the police seriously think he could do, thought Barney, mind rambling. He was a barber or, more appropriately, a stylist, which was what he'd become. He wasn't anybody's man on the inside of the cabinet. He was in no position to investigate the disappearance and possible murder of three members of the Executive. Was he supposed to ask the waiter if he had any ideas?
'So,' he said to Blackadder, deciding he might as well get on with it and dive clumsily into the murky waters of investigation, 'what d'you make of all these disappearances?'
Rebecca Blackadder toyed with a piece of Swedish-cheddar enrobed cauliflower and licked an imaginary particle of sauce from the corner of her mouth.
'You interested for any particular reason?' she said.
Barney shrugged. Where previously he would've looked like a giraffe in pink pyjamas with an inflated condom on his head when trying to look inconspicuous, he had now learned the ability to blend.
'Nah,' he said casually, and she bought it. They were in the government buildings, the cabinet were dropping like flies; it'd be odd if they didn't talk about it.
And that's when he had his first incisive thought on the subject. There were all these people in JLM's office, hanging out endlessly all day, doing nothing. It wasn't as if they never spoke to each other. Yet none of them ever talked about the cabinet. And neither did JLM, apart from when Weirdlove forced him into it. Barney himself wasn't acting suspiciously by raising the subject, the rest of them were suspicious by not raising it.
'Just seems kind of weird,' he said.
'Well,' said Blackadder, taking an expensive napkin to her chops, 'it's one of three things.'
Barney raised an eyebrow, continuing to fill his face with food.
'Oh, aye?' he said.
'One,' she said, and she began to count them off on her fingers. It's the age of the visual aid after all. 'There's a bit of cosmic payback going on. God, they're all politicians. You think the people are the slightest bit concerned? Hell, no, they're cheering. Look, before today there's been two of them gone AWOL, and it's not even been the headlines in the papers. The public are more interested in joke TV like Pop Idol and Big Brother, or the latest freak millionaire, or how many minutes Robert Downey has lasted out of rehab this week. If they give a shit about any politician, it's JLM and who he's shagged or who he's ripped off or who he's going to shag or rip off. With the exception of Wally, public recognition of the cabinet is absolute zero. The cabinet are nothing, masquerading as marginally more than nothing. I know the reasons JLM ignores them are completely wrong, but the essence of it is right. They are individually and collectively a complete waste of space.'
By the time she'd finished her wee speech, Barney was almost done with his meal. She had a nice voice, all the same, and he was quite happy to sit and listen to it all day.
'Aye,' he said, 'but who's actually doing it?'
'Don't know,' she said with a shrug. 'A disaffected public, maybe.'
'All right,' he said, 'what about two and three?'
'Two,' she said, 'JLM is getting them all bumped off one by one, until he's the only one left in the government.'
'Don't think so,' said Barney. 'The way he operates at the moment, he might as well already be the only one in the government. Why bother to authorise murder? He might be able to worm his way out of the corruption and sex scandals, but even he'd have a job getting away with a pile of corpses.'
'Fair point,' she said. 'So, here's my third idea. They're not actually dead, any of the three of them, despite the blood that's been found at the scenes of two of the crimes. They're all going off somewhere secret to plan a coup d'état, and they're going to march triumphantly into Edinburgh at some point in the next few weeks to regain control of the country.'
'That'd be fun,' said Barney.
'It certainly would,' she said.
'Does JLM have the Army on his side?' he asked.
'You know,' she said, 'I don't think JLM has anyone on his side. Apart from that idiot X.'
'What about Weirdlove?' said Barney.
Blackadder gave a very slight shrug of the shoulders with accompanying face.
'Good question, Barn,' she said. 'Good question.'
And that was all Barney was going to get from Dr Rebecca Blackadder, who soon after signalled a change of conversational direction by discussing a spangly tassel top that Veron Veron had designed for JLM to wear to a rumba night at the Scottish Labour Party Conference.
To Cabinet, To Cabinet, To Buy A Fat Pig
JLM looked around the table at his cabinet colleagues. There had been chatter amongst them before he walked in, but they'd all bowed to his greatness and quietened down upon his arrival. Now they were waiting for him to pronounce. He had yet to decide what he was going to do with the Tourism, Culture and Sport brief, assuming that Wally's return was not imminent. The only clear thing was that he couldn't possibly give it to airhead chick, Patsy Morningirl.
JLM himself was still feeling battered from a bruising and rumbustious press briefing. He had been asked twenty-three questions in all, split more or less down the following lines: who did he think was murdering his cabinet colleagues? (3 questions); was it true he'd had sex with three prostitutes in one night? (4 questions); had he murdered his secretary? (3 questions); what was he going to do about all the Rwandan war criminals living in Scotland? (2 questions); was he ready to admit that he had defrauded the taxpayer of more than £2m? (3 questions); just how hard had Winona Wanderlip bitten his cock? (6 questions); was he prepared to admit that his policy on care for the elderly was in total disarray? (1 question); and what did he call that hairstyle he was sporting? (1 question). The last one was the only one which he'd answered directly.
Furthermore, the bastarding BBC had broadcast the whole bloody thing live. When he found out who was responsible, that was another pair of bollocks which were going to get a good sharp rap.
He pretended to look through the papers which Weirdlove had given to him for the meeting, gave the appearance of making a few final mental notes, and looked up at the quickly diminishing throng of the cabinet, now reduced to Wanderlip, Malcolm Malcolm III of the Clan Malcolm, Nelly Stratton, Fforbes Benderhook, Trudger McIntyre and Kathy Spiderman.
'Well,' said
JLM, with a half-hearted smile, 'seems like there are only seven of us now. They'll be calling us the Magnificent Seven. That'll be lovely, don't you think?'
He looked around the pond of disinterested faces. As his eyes drifted past hers, Wanderlip made a small gnashing movement with her teeth, sending deep psychological discomfort straight to his groin.
'Can I be frank?' said Nelly Stratton.
'Oh yes, please,' said JLM.
'It'll more likely be the Invisible Six and the Up His Own Arse One,' she said, looking at the others for confirmation. Only Wanderlip nodded.
JLM tried to laugh it off, but he almost choked on it.
'Very good, Nelly,' he said.
'Or,' she continued, 'the Doomed Six and the Narcissistic One.'
'Yes,' he said, nodding.
Behind him a small smile came to the lips of Parker Weirdlove. The Amazing Mr X looked out of the window, checking for snipers.
'Or how about,' said Stratton, running with the joke, as all the best comediennes do, 'the Discombobulated Six and the Vainglorious One?'
'All right, Nelly,' said JLM in fluent schoolteacher, 'I think we know where you're coming from.'
'The Neglected Six and The Unbelievably Conceited One,' she said quickly.
'Enough!' ejaculated JLM. 'Can we get down to business?'
There were a few nods around the table, albeit only from the men.
'That'll be a first,' said Nelly, and Wanderlip nodded this time. 'You usually storm in here, issue a few decrees, then walk out.'
'And what makes you think I'm not going to do that this time?' said JLM quickly.
And he stared sharply at them all, attempting to quieten any further dissension in the ranks.
'Right,' he began, 'Wally's gone off, don't know where. At first I suspect we all thought he was just banging some pointless little bit of skirt, but if that'd been the case he'd probably have been back in under five minutes. No, it would appear that he has gone the same way as Melanie and Peggy, wherever that may be. I doubt any of us has any idea, although I'm sure that won't stop the police from making their usual unnecessarily brutal enquiries.'
He looked around the table. Here we go, each and every one of them thought, already starting to prattle on without actually saying anything, admiring the sound of his own voice, and not in the least interested in what anyone else has to say.
'So,' he continued, 'we have to consider what we're going to do with his portfolio, such as it is.'
'Whilst also considering the redistribution of Peggy and Melanie's portfolios at the same time,' chimed in Wanderlip. And she ground her teeth together for effect as she said it.
JLM stared across the table, and he suddenly had a thought. A wonderful, delicious, magnificent thought. The bloody woman had clearly left his house the previous night and phoned up every newspaper on the planet to tell them of her knob-biting proclivities; off the record, no doubt. So, since it was already out there and he did not consider he could be any further embarrassed by the revelation, why not make the most of it? Why not, and this would really give her a good solid thump in the nads, get the police to charge her with assault. And bloody grievous assault at that.
An arrest, a charge, a court hearing, he could get Dr Farrow to take the teeth imprints from his penis, and bingo, Wanderlip would have a criminal record. At some stage along the way, hopefully fairly early on, she would be out on her ear. And, if he wanted to rub salt into the gaping wound, he could bring a civil action once she'd been found guilty of the assault charge. Say, £4m, that'd be a good round number. Embarrassment, loss of fertility, stress, throbbing loins, there was no end to the things that he was suffering because of her unprovoked attack.
'Absolutely, Winnie,' he said. 'Quite right. Lovely. We must do something about that.'
And suddenly the day did not seem so bleak. He had the perfect route to getting rid of Wanderlip. Herr Vogts would be arriving in less than half an hour to begin formulation of the Euro plan; he was confident he could brush off most of the other difficulties that the press kept banging on about. He was about to instigate an invite to the next G8 and, if he was really fortunate, whoever it was who was one by one removing his cabinet for him would continue to do so, and he would have to pay them even less attention than he currently did.
He glanced out of the window behind Wanderlip's head. The sun was indeed shining.
'Champion,' he said. 'I'll get the Finance and Education portfolios back where they belong, and promote MacPherson and Eaglehawk appropriately. Parker, get me some recommendations for two new deputies in those departments. And we'll need to find a new Minister for Tourism and the rest of that portfolio. Leave Patsy where she is as no.2. I'm open to any suggestions from the table, otherwise Parker if you can come up with a couple of names.'
He looked around the room once more. This time his shoulders were straighter, his voice was more confident. He filled the end of the room with his presence.
'Lovely,' he said, when there were no immediate calls from the floor. Of course they weren't going to suggest any names. There was so little talent in the parliament, they would struggle to come up with a single nominee to be in charge of the tea fund. 'Right, we need to get back out there and present a united, solid face. Until we know for sure what's happened to Melanie, Peggy and Wally, we have to carry on as if nothing's happened. We fill the gaps, we carry on, we kick arse. We stand together, and united we stand, united in the stand against everything that our enemies stand for. We're in it together to the bitter end, through the rough and the smooth. We each stand or fall by the collective actions of the collective. We are one, and the one is all of us. We eat as one, we breathe as one, we shit as one. We eat, breathe and shit kinship in the face of adversity. This will be our finest hour! Are you with me?'
Of the six people around the table, all the men had stopped listening to him at around the time that he'd started sounding like Winnie the Pooh. Wanderlip had heard it all and gave JLM a suitable look of contempt.
'Sounds like you're going to pish all over us again,' said Stratton.
JLM nodded and smiled disarmingly. At least you're switched on, you nebby wee cow, he thought.
'Right people,' said JLM, shuffling his papers like he was a newsreader, 'we're through. Let's get out there and kick some backsides.'
'Excuse me,' said Wanderlip, as the men in the room began evacuation procedures. Each of them slumped back into their seats with a resigned sigh. What was the stupid arse going to say now?
'Yes?' asked JLM. One word, a very, very patronising tone.
'Is there the slightest possibility that we could discuss policy, now that we're all in the same room?' said Wanderlip. 'I've got some major issues here, you know. There's a rumour that MotoCell are thinking of closing their communications factory in Bathgate.'
'Why's that a problem?' said JLM. Weirdlove regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
'Several thousand jobs!' said Wanderlip, in a duh-huh tone. 'You know how many millions we, the Executive, have plunged into the bloody thing? We have given them massive government support to keep the factory going, and now it looks like they're just going to pull out, moving the entire operation to Azerbaijan.'
JLM nodded soberly. The loss of thousands of jobs never looked good. Of course, none of the decisions around MotoCell had ever had anything to do with him. It was all the work of his predecessor, Wanderlip and the chancellor in Westminster. So, it could all work out well for him.
'You know, Winnie,' he said, 'I don't even know where Azerbaijan is. Anyone else got any points?'
The men were all keen to get going, and had nothing to say. Nelly Stratton could've talked all day, but just didn't see the point. Wanderlip was too apoplectic to speak. The words would eventually come, but not before JLM had said 'Champion!' and walked out the room, Weirdlove in his wake, The Amazing Mr X ahead of him, armed with rocket launched CS gas canisters.
***
Twenty minutes later Nelly Stratton was standing at
the window of a small ancillary room on the top floor of the Assembly Building, with nothing but towels, brooms, cleaning fluids and large packets of rough-around-the-edges toilet roll for company. Looking out at the sun on Arthur's Seat, the tourists still pounding their way to the top, to be buffeted by the winds that always blow up there.
She was waiting for someone. Another of her little clandestine meetings, of which she generally had one or two a day. This was a little different however, as she wasn't looking to undermine the idiotic leader of the Executive. She had had enough of his total elimination of parliament in the decision making process. As Minister for Parliamentary Business, she was offended by his complete disregard for the seat of government, and she had not been at all fooled by his stupid Three Musketeers speech at the cabinet meeting. However, she had other concerns for the moment.
She was here to find out more about the disappearance of her cabinet colleagues. Not that she was sure the person coming to visit her would be able to help her out, but she had a feeling. With Honeyfoot, she had been unconcerned. Filiben had been a little more troubling, because there was a possible connection with her intended challenge to JLM's authority. But Wally, this was the one which had hit Stratton the hardest. Wally was harmless, the political equivalent of a mild dose of feminine itching. If someone wanted him out, then they might possibly want them all out. It could even be that Stratton's was the next neck on the chopping block.
The door opened, Stratton turned away from the window and the warmth of the sun on her face. The man glanced again along the corridor behind him, stepped into the ancillary room and closed the door.
'Mrs Stratton,' he said. 'A pleasure to be called to another of your little conflabs.'
'Cut the shite, Parker,' she said, 'and tell us what's going on with all these folk going missing.'
Eaglehawk Rolls Up His Trouser Leg And Joins The Fellowship
'Herr Vogts!' said JLM, broad smile on his face. 'Delighted to see you. Come in, come in!'
The Barbershop Seven Page 94