The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  Herman Blackadder tried to smile, but he was hurtin', hurtin' bad. He'd been watching his children for months now, but had spoken only to Michael. He'd taken at face value his son's assertion that Rebecca was deeply troubled and that meeting her father might tip her over the edge. However, like everyone else attached to the political world, Michael had had his own agenda. Fully cognisant of the details of Rebecca's affair with Minnie, he'd been trying to drive them apart; which explained his implication of her in the murders, an attempt to have her locked up and torn away from her lover. (Although, his thinking that prison was the best place to send a woman to get her away from lesbian sex, was probably a little out of focus.)

  In time Herman Blackadder had realised that Michael was the troubled one of the pair, from his absurd marriage to Farrow, to his planetary infatuation with Blake.

  'I'm deeply sorry, my sweet angel, I truly am,' said Blackadder. 'But it was all an MI6 plot. I spent twelve years in a Bolivian prison. Since then I've been working in a secret government research centre. There's not a day gone by when I haven't thought about you.'

  'A secret government research centre!' she cried.

  'Yes,' he said. 'We've been investigating reanimating dead life forms. In the last couple of years we've progressed onto human beings. We've kept bodies in stasis after they've been declared technically brain dead, and we've been able to bring them back, sometimes years later.'

  'Oh my God!' exclaimed Rebecca, and automatically she looked at Barney.

  Barney rolled his eyes.

  'Yes, Mr Thomson,' said Herman Blackadder. 'You were one of our experiments, our most successful to date, in fact. I had you introduced into the First Minister's inner circle, to give me another excuse to get close to my family. I was so beginning to tire of this sordid Morningirl business.'

  'Yeah, yeah,' said Barney.

  'It's true! Everything that you've heard before has been a lie!'

  'Don't care,' said Barney. And you know, he didn't.

  'Daddy!' exclaimed Rebecca again, just because she was still in shock. Her old man looked at her with pity.

  'I'm sorry, Rebecca, I should've spoken to you earlier, I know,' he said, 'but Michael counselled against it. When I realised the full horror of his infatuation with the Rev Blake, I started looking into her activities. I knew what she was up to, even before she started. I followed her around, clearing up after her, hoping that it would never come out, because I knew Michael would get sucked into the whole thing. And as it was, he found out in any case and could not handle it all.'

  'He was a pathetic fool!' said Blake, a little put out that Morningirl had pulled off her mask and was massively stealing her limelight. For God's sake, she was the mass murderer here, the attention should be on HER!

  'Excuse me,' said DCI Solomon to Blackadder, 'but you didn't think of informing the police at any stage?'

  Herman Blackadder breathed deeply and shook his head.

  'I truly am sorry, Detective Chief Inspector,' he said.

  Solomon nodded. He liked it when people addressed him using his full title.

  'That's fine, sir. Cuff her, Kent,' he said to DS Kent.

  And then, live on television, in front of a viewing public that had reach the heights of 17million, DCI Solomon moved forward and placed the Rev Blake under arrest. The Kabinet Killer had been caught.

  'And you know what?' said Solomon turning and looking at the crowd, who were all a little shell-shocked by now, 'we only came here to arrest Wanderlip for biting Longfellow-Moses on the knob.'

  And so they arrested Winona Wanderlip as well, cuffing her with that extra set which DS Kent always carried about with him.

  'We close in fifteen,' said Mandy suddenly, and the camera swung back round onto Bellows, who affixed the cheesy grin to his face and straightened his shoulders.

  'Gee, folks,' he said, 'that was one helluva show. Totally unscripted, because you just couldn't write that stuff. Tree-mendous. See you next week on Larry Bellows Live! when we'll be meeting another couple who pass for celebrity in this country. Goodnight and God bless!'

  The credits rolled, Velure exhorted the company to wave to the camera, which only the politicians did, and then the picture turned to black and it was all over.

  There were a few in attendance who had it in mind to make a quick dash for it, but as soon as the show was finished, another couple of police officers – who'd ostensibly been there as security – charged onto the set and arrested JLM and Parker Weirdlove. And you couldn't say that they didn't have it coming.

  In the end the police took everybody from the show, including Larry Bellows, into custody, just to save time, before releasing the appropriately innocent.

  Champion, as Jesse Longfellow-Moses might have said, had he not been arrested with his political career in tatters at the end of the evening.

  For The Lips Of A Strange Woman Drop As An Honeycomb, And Her Mouth Is Smoother Than Oil; But Her End Is Bitter As Wormwood, Sharp As A Two-Edged Sword. Her Feet Go Down To Death; Her Steps Take Hold On Hell

  Barney Thomson sat in his room. Late Friday night, watching extended highlights of that evening's edition of the Larry Bellows show. It made good viewing, and he was pleased to see that he had been almost entirely excluded from the show. The toe thing got a mention, of course, but more as the device by which Blake had finally been trapped, rather than of any interest into whose pocket she'd secreted the digit.

  For once the news headlines were actually paying attention to the drama surrounding the Scottish Executive, albeit the confession of the Kabinet Killer barely warranted a mention. Colour pictures of Jesse Longfellow-Moses and James T Eaglehawk in the buff were all the news, as well as the tales of lesbian and homosexual sex, and the variety of arrests that had taken place in the wake of the show.

  Larry Bellows' agents were already in negotiation with the US networks, Bing Velure was already on a plane to New York.

  Barney hit the off switch, lifted his beer and walked to the window of his apartment. He looked out at the courtyard, and the steady stream of drizzle that fell in front of the lights. He no longer had the desperate compunction to get away the next day, but he wasn't going to hang around much longer in any case. Someone, some time would be voted into the position of First Minister, he presumed, and it was unlikely that they would want the personal entourage with which JLM had encumbered himself. He would give it a day or two's thought, and then he would be on his way.

  He put the bottle to his mouth, tipped the cold liquid down his throat. This seemed normal, somehow. Cast adrift from society. No friends, nowhere in particular to go. Just wandering alone, looking for something as much as he was looking for nothing.

  There was a knock at the door and Barney dropped his eyes and stared down at the wet cobbles, three floors beneath him. One last visitor to cast a shadow before he turned out the lights.

  'It's open,' he called.

  The door opened and closed again, soft footsteps crossed the carpet, the woman came and stood beside him. She breathed softly. He knew who it was without turning. Had known, in fact, that she would come and join him at some stage.

  They stood and watched the rain falling from the Gods as if to wash away the stains that had blighted the Scottish capital that evening. Barney waited. She became lost in the restricted view, the cobbles shining under the street lights.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, eventually. 'I should've told you about Minnie.'

  'That's all right,' said Barney.

  'No,' she said, 'it's not. It's just, people judged me. Michael judged me. He would've done anything to split Minnie and me up.'

  'Yeah,' said Barney. 'Anyway, I don't think we were meant to happen. I don't think I'm meant to happen with anyone.'

  'Don't say that,' she said, looking at him for the first time, although he never moved his eyes from the street below.

  'Well,' he said, 'it's not self-pity or anything. I don't know, I just don't feel right. In this body. In this head.'

&nb
sp; She said nothing. She looked back out at the cleansing of the night.

  'Do you believe my father?' she said.

  Barney smiled again, had another drink. It had just been another explanation thrown into the mix, right at the end of the show. Like a chef suddenly remembering to add bay leaves to the bolognaise ten seconds before dishing up. It seemed no more or no less relevant than any of the accounts which had preceded it. Brain transplant, coma, hypnosis, rapid cell development, reanimation, zombification, the undead, alien virus, cartoon character brought to life by ancient curse; they could go on forever. Did it matter? He was here now, and that was all that seemed important. He didn't care what had gone before, he just had the present to sort out, a future to decide what to do with. His life was like a field covered in snow; a fresh, clean canvas, waiting to be, well, fucked up probably.

  'Sounds spot on, doesn't it?' he said, caustically

  'God, I don't know. I'm sorry, I'd really like to be able to help you.'

  'Maybe you're Dr Who,' she added, after a short silence.

  Barney smiled. 'Christ, I hope not,' he said. 'Seven lives, I'll be around for bloody ages.'

  'I should have told you about Minnie,' she said again, interrupting the mild outbreak of good humour.

  'You said that already,' said Barney.

  'Yes,' she said.

  And they lurched once more into silence, and eventually their hands found each other and they stood together looking out into the wet of a cold autumn night in Edinburgh.

  ***

  The Prime Minister flicked off the television, stood up and looked out of the window onto Downing Street. He'd been in power for seven years now, and not once in all that time of rough-riding over others and no end of Machiavellian schemes, had any of his plans come off with such wonderful panache as this one.

  He'd been in favour of Scottish devolution from the start, he'd backed it, he'd pushed it, he'd prodded it into place. And right from the off, it had been a complete disaster. The only possible way to get out of the whole thing without he himself looking like a turkey, was for it to completely self-implode. It had been going that way anyway, but a little helping hand had been all it had needed to push it over the edge. All right, they now owed the bloody BBC a thing or two, but that would be an easy enough favour to cancel out. What he had just watched, for the third time, had been more than worth it. And a particular delight seeing the Chancellor's little patsy, Wanderlip, get her comeuppance.

  'It went well,' he said to the visitor, who was slouched on a sofa, bottle of beer in his hand. 'You did an excellent job.'

  'Thank you, Prime Minister,' said the man.

  'I owe you much,' said the Prime Minister.

  'Nah,' said the man. 'I enjoyed it. Another German beer and a fine pair of women to snuggle down with for the night, and we'll be even.'

  The Prime Minister turned and smiled. If only all the slime he dealt with in politics were as easy to satisfy.

  'Certainly, Conrad,' he said. 'Did you have any specific women in mind?

  Where Are They Now

  Despite allowing his hair to grow back into a piecey Tom Cruise (Time Magazine cover), Jesse Longfellow-Moses was sentenced to twenty years in prison for the murder of Veronica Walters. Two months later he was declared delusionally insane, and received a frontal lobotomy. The doctor also mistakenly removed his penis.

  Minnie Longfellow-Moses married Dr Rebecca Blackadder in Reno, Nevada. They were both killed when the Southern Californian lesbian commune in which they were living was stormed by the FBI, looking for Moon Landing Conspiracy Theorists.

  Dr Herman Blackadder is the Director of MI6.

  Veron Veron is living in London, working for Stella McCartney. He is unmarried, and still bears a tattoo of Minnie Longfellow-Moses on his spleen.

  The Amazing Mr X was picked up, as he hoped, by Hollywood. He was sacked from his position as personal bodyguard to Cameron Diaz for dressing in his employer's underwear. He is currently appearing in Oklahoma, off-Broadway.

  James T Eaglehawk was proven to be a shallow, cheating, conniving, ruthless, duplicitous, underhand, lying bastard. He transferred to the Westminster Labour government and is now Foreign Secretary.

  Dr Louise Farrow moved to St Andrews where she eventually married Prince William.

  Parker Weirdlove was arrested for the twenty year-old murder of Alan Davis. He was repeatedly gang raped in prison, until his release, when he became principal secular advisor to the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland.

  Winona Wanderlip was sentenced to ten years in jail for her part in the murder of Alan Davis. She escaped on her way to prison and fled to Beverly Hills, California. She was killed when the house in which she was living was stormed by the FBI, searching for New World Order Conspiracy Theorists.

  Conrad Vogts is Chancellor of Germany.

  The Reverend Alison Blake was tried for the murders of the eight cabinet ministers and found Not Proven. Unable to find employment with the Church of Scotland, she transferred to the Catholic Church and is now Archbishop of Argyll.

  The Scottish Parliament was closed down and all executive powers transferred back to Westminster. The beautiful £400m building, which grew out of the land, was turned into a Museum of Modern Art. It was later inadvertently burned down by council workers after being mistaken for a landfill site.

  Barney Thomson is walking the earth and getting in adventures. You can next read about him in the upcoming thriller, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Barber.

  ###

  The Last Fish Supper

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

  copyright © 2006 Douglas Lindsay

  First published in 2006 by Long Midnight Publishing

  Prologue: 2 Deaths

  Jonah Harrison was the kind of guy who twisted the seatbelt every time he sat in a car.

  The town of Millport on the island of Cumbrae in the Firth of Clyde. 2:46 on a grey and bleak Monday afternoon in April. Jonah had been sitting at his laptop for three hours. On-line, fingers tapping. Awaiting the outcome of the 2.40 at Kempton Park. He was two thousand down on the day, nearly thirty thousand down on the year. January had been good, but he'd lost all his gains in one abysmal afternoon at Taunton in late February, and the six weeks since had been increasingly ugly. He was out of control, and the time he didn't spend at his computer was generally used to complete credit card applications. A few months earlier he'd had no interest in the horses whatsoever, but he'd been given a copy of Seabiscuit: An American Legend for Christmas, he'd devoured the book, and he'd immersed himself in horse racing ever since, uncovering a gambling addiction along the way. It's good to discover new interests in your later years, other than drooling and shouting at teenagers.

  Jonah was also unhappily married, his wife was having an affair with the local Church of Scotland minister, and he had a small malignant tumour in his colon which was still some vicious wasting months short of making itself known.

  However, none of that actually mattered as he was about to die on his way to taking a pish.

  His legs were shaking under the desk; from the waist down he looked like Elvis. In fact, from the waist up he looked like Elvis. Circa '77, serious contender for the lead role in the upcoming Hollywood action flic, Fat Bastardman. No stranger to the buffet table, no alien at the fish and chip shop, doughnut poster child for the new millennium, it was Jonah who had eaten all the pies. He had been needing to go to the bathroom for over an hour, but had continually put if off, such was his obsession.

  At 7-1, Brother's Leap had seemed a decent bet. He had placed well in a couple of previous outings at Goodwood Park and Thatcham, the ground suited him. So Jonah had gone for a clear thousand on the bet, in the hope of wiping off a quarter of the year's losses in one swoop.

  He rose hurriedly from the desk, pushing the laptop away from him and finally logging off, as Brother's Leap trailed in ninth of ten. A month earlier the loss of a grand in one go would've had his insides curling up like a sna
ke, but now it was nothing. Forget about it and get back on with the business. Only ever one click away from the next big score.

  He walked briskly up the hall and pushed on the bathroom door. Locked. No surprise, as Ruth more or less lived in there. He knocked loudly.

  'Ruthie, come on!'

  Ruthie, however, was not about to escape the enslavement of the bathroom mirror, to which she was as much beholden as was he to the heirs of Seabiscuit.

  'I'm still doing this,' she replied calmly, although she could tell from the peculiar quality of his voice that he must be desperate.

  'Ruthie!' he ejaculated.

  'You bursting?' she asked calmly, while applying Duraglut Face Cement to the canyons in her cheeks.

  'Aye!' he called, hopping pathetically from one leg to the next, 'I am bursting. Are you done?'

  She paused, keeping Jonah at his barn dance shindig for another few seconds, while her mind drifted to the Reverend Dreyfus, a delicious man of upstanding character.

  'No,' she said eventually. 'Go and pee in the kitchen sink.'

  He banged his fist against the door to accompany the heartfelt exasperated grunt. Leant his head against it for a second, before quickly accepting his fate.

  He turned hurriedly and broke into a run over the five yards of the upstairs landing. The stairs were steep, not to be taken in a rush and certainly not by the man who'd eaten all the curry. On top of which Jonah had his weak ankles to think about.

  He blundered down the first few steps much too quickly. His ankle gave way – didn't break or anything, just twisted round as if someone was ringing water from it – and he pitched forward. Twenty-two and a half stones of unsightly animal blubber flew through the air. He landed on his head on the step fifth from the bottom. Ought, at least, to have stopped himself with his arms, but they were too busy flailing around trying to grab at banisters. And while his ankle had survived the twist without breaking, his neck was not so fortunate. Sudden rupture of the top of the spinal cord, the neck buckled and snapped, slight crunching of bone, and less than a second later his full weight thundered onto the bottom of the steps and down onto the floor.