He sat down on a flat rock and looked back across to the town, the eternal fairy lights strung out between the lampposts.
'None of it means a thing,' he muttered to himself, throwing a small piece of seaweed at the water.
Something was washing up on the quiet waves onto the rocks. He stared at it for a while, wondering what it was, wondering where it had been thrown into the water so that it ended up on the rocks at Millport. Ardrossan? Dunoon? Larne? Boston?
From nowhere he felt the crawl of tiny insects up his spine, and he reluctantly leant forward to take a closer look. A step, still watching his shoes against the incoming tide. He reached out to lift the piece of rubbish, then hesitated when he realised what it was.
He swallowed, did his best to dismiss the ill-feelings which swamped over him again, then reached out and lifted the flesh coloured piece of latex rubber out of the water.
He held it up in front of him, extended his fingers to stretch the rubber, and looked into the empty eyes of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
A second, another moment of fear, then he muttered, 'Aw, fuck it,' poked his fingers through the empty eye sockets, turned the mask inside out and threw it as far as he could out into the sea.. The mask landed lightly, was taken by a wave, and then was swept quickly beneath the water.
Barney Thomson, barber, took one last look out over the sea, then turned away and did not wait to see if the mask was going to resurface.
###
The Final Cut
Published by Blasted Heath, 2013
copyright © 2010 Douglas Lindsay
First published in 2010 by Long Midnight Publishing
For Kathryn
Prologue
The wind had changed.
Barney Thomson stood waiting for the customer to pronounce. The shop was quiet, which was why Barney had allowed him the five minutes it had taken so far, while the man had studied his crusty napper in the mirror, attempting to come to a decision about his hair. As far as Barney could make out, his options were more or less limited to a 'short back & sides', or 'an even shorter back & sides'.
Barney looked out of the window. The sun had begun to shine weakly, although the roads and pavements were still drenched from the rain which had been falling most of the day. Winter in Millport was full on, bleak, wet and mild. It would be another couple of months before spring clumsily walked into town, the remnants of a clawing wind draped around its shoulders, and then the few tourists would start to arrive, the buses coming round from the ferry would actually have some passengers on them, and the town would once more raise its head above the dreich blanket.
Barney glanced over his shoulder. The other barber, Keanu MacPherson, was dozing quietly in his chair, a paperback copy of that month's latest bestseller, The Lost Children of Ngor Lak – due soon for the full cinema treatment with Kate Winslet, Colin Firth and Helena Bonham-Carter – lay open on his chest. Barney's assistant, Igor, the deaf, mute hunchback, was pushing his broom solemnly across the floor. Old Rusty Brown, face like ripples on wet sand, was waiting patiently for Barney to finish, not wanting to disturb MacPherson from his siesta.
They couldn't go on much longer like this. Barney couldn't afford to continue to run the shop like an old-time Communist shipyard, a job for everybody. There wasn't enough work for one barber, never mind three. Or, at least, two barbers and a man with a hump who swept up.
Barney sighed heavily. There must be more than this played though his head, not the first time the thought had crossed his mind.
His life had been a series of adventures involving mass murder, headless corpses, a lot of blood, decapitated sheep, severed limbs, heads-in-a-jar and the regular round of routine police enquiries. It was old news for Barney. Yet this new news, this quiet island life which stretched away from him like the sea heading towards the horizon, this new life felt no more right than the one which he had tried to escape.
Barney watched the sun on the wet pavement for a short while, then looked out at the sea glimmering above the white stone-washed promenade wall. A yacht was flying in the wind, sail straining. He watched it for a short time, until it had disappeared behind the buildings on the pier. Feeling jealous. Listened to the ululation of the seagulls, the mournful sound which seemed to come and go with the sun. He shivered and turned back to his customer.
'What's it to be then, mate?' he asked, hoping to bring the hours of waiting to a definite conclusion.
'Well,' said the man, finally ready to enter into some conversation, 'I've been sitting here trying to decide between an Omar Shariff '68 and a Robert Redford,' he said, beginning to hesitate again, and Barney wondered if he was going to have to spend the rest of his life standing behind this man. By the time the bloke said, 'And I've decided to go for a Jack Lemmon, Paper Tiger,' Barney was pondering what scientists of the future would make of his own petrified corpse, standing behind a barber's chair with a pair of scissors and a can of Cossack in his hands.
'It was Save The Tiger,' said Barney.
'What?'
'The Jack Lemmon movie. It was Save the Tiger, not Paper Tiger.'
'You're thinking of Paper Moon with Ryan O'Neal,' said Rusty Brown.
'Never heard of that,' said the customer. 'Aren't you thinking about Blue Moon?'
'Nah,' said Barney, 'that was Blue Moon of Kentucky.'
'Are you saying I've got hair like fried chicken?' said the customer suddenly, giving Barney the eye.
'You'd like a Jack Lemmon, Save The Tiger, would you, sir?' said Barney, drawing the conversation to a mercifully quick conclusion
'Aye,' said the man.
'Fine,' said Barney.
He raised his scissors and set about his business.
'Ella Fitzgerald!' barked Keanu MacPherson, suddenly jerking to life and joining the conversation several minutes too late. He looked around at the assembled company and then felt embarrassed.
'Shit, like, sorry guys, must have dozed off. Did I miss anything?'
Barney stared at him and then glanced once more out of the window.
'Not much chance of that,' he murmured.
***
The same weather system which had dragged cold winds and bleak rain across the Clyde was also encompassing the rest of the country.
London hunched under demented, low grey skies. The two men sitting in the small office on the first floor of Number 10 Downing Street were aware of the sound of the rain drumming against the window. Usually the Prime Minister chose to sit behind his desk, however when it came to spiritual matters he preferred to join his visitor at the small chairs beside the coffee table. Somehow it never seemed right to address the representatives of God from behind a desk.
The Archbishop of Middlesex was leaning forward, his teacup trembling slightly in the saucer, looking intently at the PM. He had just asked the man if he believed in God. Really believed. The PM stared at the window, the dim great light from outside. Felt like it was almost dark already, yet it wasn't even lunchtime.
Politicians can't admit to not believing in God. It's almost rule number one. Yet at the same time, they can't admit to actually believing in Him either, because too many people are then going to think you're a fruitcake. You have to strike a balance between faith and credibility.
'I believe firmly in Christian values,' he said, as if he was speaking to the press corps during his monthly grilling.
Middlesex laid the saucer back down on the small table. A politician's answer, he thought, but he wasn't going to make the conversation any more uncomfortable than it already was.
'Well, Prime Minister, I'm sure you'll agree that Christian values are what Britain today so sorely lacks. Sharing and loving, putting the needs of others first, a sense of community, these are all things which have been lost to the greed of western society. We are bringing up successive generations of fat, violent, greedy, selfish children.'
'Well ... ' the PM began to bluster.
'Don't gainsay me, Prime Minister, I am your adviser, I'm not Andre
w Marr. You don't have to pretend. The country, the very basis of our society, is in peril. Regardless of whether or not you believe, there can be little doubt that we need God. Britain needs God. Britain needs the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, and we need to worry less about ourselves and what size of flat screen television we possess and which Caribbean island we're going to during the February school break because our pampered kids are demanding the sun ... We should be concerned about the future of our children, the welfare of our neighbours, the state of the planet we live on today ... '
Aw crap, thought the PM, it's bad enough your being religious, don't get green on me as well.
'And this is why the very nature, the fundamental basis of how religion in this country works, needs to be changed. And for that to happen I'm going to need your help.'
The PM lowered his head then stood slowly, turned his back and walked to the window. His reflection looked back at him, the day outside succumbing to sepulchral darkness. The PM clasped his hands behind his back, the material of his suit jacket straining slightly at the shoulders. Don't mess with religion, that was the one piece of advice his predecessor had given him. Nothing about lying to the public, invading other countries or buggering up the economy; just don't mess with religion.
He nodded slowly.
'All right,' he said eventually. 'Go ahead. You have my support. But just, you know ... You'll have to be canny. Don't go leaping in, don't say anything without clearing it through here first. And you know ... before you do anything, get in one of those firms. Marketing guys, consultants, they know the score. It's what we do. Professional advice.'
'That's already in hand, Prime Minister,' said the Archbishop, who had risen and joined the PM, looking across the short width of Downing Street to the rear of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. The PM grunted. The two men stared into the abyss of government, a strange feeling having passed between them. Almost as if they had just made a decision of momentous importance.
A black Mercedes pulled slowly into Downing Street and stopped just short of the door to Number 10. The PM looked down and remembered his meeting with the American ambassador. He sighed heavily, kept the swear word to himself.
'Thank you for coming,' he said, without looking at Middlesex. 'Keep me posted.'
The Archbishop of Middlesex put a kindly and godly hand on the Prime Minister's shoulder.
'The End of Days, Prime Minister,' he said. 'That is what we face. We shall all be judged.'
Then, with a final squeeze of the PM's shoulder, he turned and walked slowly from the office. The PM waited until the door was closed, then muttered a quiet expletive to himself and slumped back into the chair behind his desk.
The Armpit Question
There were three of them in the office, a cold day in March, the sounds of a distant London coming across the river. Piers Hemingway, Deputy Chief of Staff, Hugo Fitzgerald, Head of TV Contracts, and John Wodehouse, Head of Other Contracts. They were trying to get a fix on women's armpits. Which can be difficult.
Hemingway was in charge and had already outlined the problem. They had just won a contract with failed energy giant Exron, who had decided to make a comeback into the world of big business by branching out into the global women's toiletries market. They wanted a sleek, expensive product, blue-ribbon end of the market, and would be launching with a major television campaign. The whole thing would ooze class. Top of the range product for top of the range people.
The first ad would have a woman stepping out of the shower in an enormous bathroom. She would dry herself off, letting the towel fall to the ground, whilst showing as much breast, nipple, bum cleavage and pubic hair as they could squeeze past the watchdogs, after which she would apply her Exron deodorant to her perfectly shaved armpits.
'Trouble is,' said Hemingway, 'we need another word for armpit. It's just not classy enough.'
Fitzgerald nodded and tapped his pen. Desperate to be first.
'What's wrong with underarms?' said Wodehouse, who was standing at the window looking down on the river. Slow boats on the Thames.
'Too public school,' said Hemingway. 'It is so last century.'
'It's what Proctor & Gamble have been using,' said Wodehouse.
'The client,' said Hemingway, 'is looking to outclass them by some margin. We need a new word for armpit, and it isn't underarm.'
Wodehouse stared out of the window, Fitzgerald and Hemingway stared at the table, pens tapping. Brainstorming; how the majority of advertising is concocted. Apart, of course, from washing powder adverts which are all rubbish and made from the same standard model.
'Take it oxters is out of the question?' said Wodehouse from the window.
'Yep,' said Hemingway, nodding, 'not even close.'
'Vertically-opposed shoulders,' said Fitzgerald, cautiously. However, he didn't raise his eyes, because deep down he knew it wasn't quite right.
'Nah,' said Hemingway, shaking his head. 'Good effort, though.'
Wodehouse sucked in his cheeks. Vertically-opposed shoulders. Fitzgerald was such an idiot. Still, there was no point in standing there feeling bitter. It was ideas which led to advancement, not bitterness. This was a good chance to go head to head with Fitzgerald and show him who was boss.
'The concave abyssal plane,' said Fitzgerald, perking up, and looking expectantly around the others.
Wodehouse snorted and tried to fight the resentment.
'Yeah, nice try, Hugo,' said Hemingway, 'but it's a little too scientific.'
'Luxury Perspiration Point,' suggested Wodehouse.
'Upper Body Limb Vertex,' said Fitzgerald, stupidly.
'Subordinate Collar Bone Terrain,' said Wodehouse.
'Silvicultural Anti-Convex Environment,' said Fitzgerald.
'Keep 'em coming,' said Hemingway quickly, to interrupt the flow, 'that's good work. We're not quite there, yet.' Not even close, he thought, but you don't publicly disparage.
'Duplex Hormonal Dispatch Orientation,' said Wodehouse, descending into absurdity.
'Not quite there yet,' repeated Hemingway.
Hemingway knew that Orwell would be down in a few minutes and he wanted them to have something before he got there. Jude Orwell would have the answer in about five seconds, but it would be better for them all if they could think of something before he arrived. Hemingway didn't suffer from the same insecurities as the others though, so he didn't care which one of them came up with the idea.
'The Love Pit,' said Wodehouse from the window, in the appropriate tone of voice.
Hemingway nodded, chin resting in his entwined fingers.
'Not bad,' he said. 'Not bad.'
'That could apply to about twenty-five different areas of the female anatomy,' said Fitzgerald, jealously.
'Yeah,' said Hemingway, 'but it doesn't mean a campaign won't change the perceptions of the British people. For the moment, it's all we've got.' Then he said The Love Pit over to himself in an advert voice, to try to get used to the idea. It didn't matter if people thought it was stupid the first time they heard it; it was whether it would be the accepted term after they'd been hearing it for six months.
The door opened and they all looked up as Jude Orwell walked into the room, closing the door behind him. None of them actually rose and saluted but they all thought about it. Orwell felt the Force. He wasn't head of this company. Not yet. But the day was coming.
He threw the folder he was carrying onto the table and sat down next to Hemingway, back against the chair, feet propped on the desk. These men were in thrall of him; he had no one to impress.
'Tell me what you've got,' he said.
Hemingway glanced at the others, then looked Orwell in the eye.
'The Love Pit,' he said.
A loud horn sounded far below at the front of the building, as a BMW cut up a Jag.
'The Love Pit,' repeated Orwell, and Wodehouse continued to watch the boats on the river, butterflies in his stomach, as he waited for the boss to pronounce.
'Don't like it,' said Orwell, after an eternity. 'It's the use of the word pit, you see. Wrong word to use. Totally wrong.'
'Yeah,' said Hemingway, 'you're right.'
Bloody bastard, thought Wodehouse.
'You got anything else?' asked Orwell.
'There are others, but zenith-wise Love Pit was the actualisation of the discussion to this point,' said Hemingway.
Orwell breathed deeply, then let the air out in a long sigh.
'So, what do we have?' he said rhetorically. 'The chick steps out of the shower, dries herself off, shows us a bit of boob, then as she reaches for the deodorant, the voiceover – and I'm assuming here we're talking Bergerac or Lovejoy – says something like, Exron ... for your armpits.'
'Yep,' said Hemingway.
'You can see why we need another word for it,' said Orwell. 'We'd be as well getting Cilla Black at this rate.'
'Totally,' said Hemingway, quite happy to suck up to anyone in a suit.
Orwell removed his cell phone from its holster, flicked the top, pressed a button with his thumb, and kicked back even more.
'Rose,' he said, 'I need the French word for armpit. Yeah, armpit.'
As soon as he said it, the others stared at the carpet, kicking themselves. The French translation. Simple, easy, straightforward. One of the basics. That was why Orwell was the upcoming King. That was why Thomas Bethlehem, the chief executive of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, had to watch his back.
'Thanks, Rose,' said Orwell, and he was closing the cap and fitting the phone back into the holster as he said it.
They all waited, wishing they'd made that call.
Orwell held his hand aloft to illustrate his vision. Without saying a word, he conjured up the image of the naked überchick, towel at her feet, clean and sparkling and reaching for the deodorant.
'Exron,' he said, in his best Bergerac, 'Pour L'Aisselle.' And he looked around the room and smiled. Hemingway nodded, Wodehouse shook his head and smiled ruefully at the floor.
The Barbershop Seven Page 164