The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'I feel like I should give you a tip, you know, but that's just not the kind of principles we're looking to apply here. You understand, right?'

  'Totally,' said Barney, getting with the vibe.

  'Cool,' said Orwell standing up.

  A final check in the mirror, then he walked to the window, having already established that he could afford fifteen seconds to look down on the Thames. A few boats, the water dull, dull grey, the colour of the skies and so much more. The seconds ticked off in his head. He felt his brain refresh with every one, then he turned away from the view across London and back to Barney.

  'I'm out of here,' he said. 'Any thoughts?'

  'Water retention?' asked Barney, just checking in case Orwell had already moved on to marketing the hole in the ozone layer as a freedom zone from the prison cell of atmospheric allotropic oxygen.

  'Sure,' said Orwell. 'What d'you think I meant?'

  'Niagara Falls,' said Barney.

  A quizzical look crossed Orwell's face, and then he smiled broadly.

  'Niagara Falls,' he said. 'That is a quality name, my good man. Hook line?'

  Barney hesitated, then he too looked out at the colourless day.

  'Niagara Falls,' he began, immediately sounding like Bergerac or Lovejoy. 'Take two, head for the bathroom and watch your feet deflate ... '

  Orwell laughed, conversation over and already he was on his way. Slapped Barney on the back as he walked past, shaking his head, the smile still on his face.

  'You're good, bud, you are good.'

  And he was out of the door, leaving it open, and heading back to his office to do some further quality work on the Exron portfolio.

  Barney watched him go, looked back at the river as it pottered its way down from the centre of the metropolis, then lifted the phone and put a call through to Jack Beckett, summoning the man for what would be the greatest ever haircut on God's earth.

  Interview With A Barber XXIX

  Barney had just finished a regulation Wayne Rooney on a tattooed muppet from the post room, who had managed to squeeze himself in before all the bright young things from upstairs. Wayne had just exited stage left and Barney was expecting Bertram W. Dixon from Accounts to come in, when he looked up from his hair sweeping at the sound of two sets of footfalls.

  He glanced at them both, not sure who he should be more interested in seeing. The woman he had been thinking about too much for the past twenty-four hours, or the policeman he had last seen in Millport, a couple of years and several lifetimes previously.

  'Why am I not surprised?' he said, straightening up. Although, as a matter of fact, he was.

  'What is it with you?' said Frankenstein.

  Monk stared at Barney. Barney smiled quizzically at the question, looked between the two of them.

  'It wasn't me,' he said. Half-joking. Unsure if they were here to accuse him of anything.

  Frankenstein hadn't been sure how he intended to play his first meeting with Barney Thomson in London, but the words fell out of his mouth before he'd had a chance to really think about them.

  'Then maybe you'd like to explain why the minute someone gets murdered anywhere in the world, you're in the vicinity?' said Frankenstein.

  Barney stopped the movement of the brush, which he had unconsciously started up again. He straightened his shoulders. The curious smile died away. He stared at Monk. Felt like he knew her a lot better than he ought to know someone with whom he'd had a five-minute conversation. Looked at her like she was a friend, someone to help him out of an awkward situation, rather than one of the police officers on a murder enquiry.

  'I don't know,' he said. 'It doesn't make any sense.'

  'It does if you killed him,' said Frankenstein.

  Barney laid down the broom, sat back against the countertop which ran underneath the mirror. Monk looked at the reflection of the back of Barney's head. She felt flushed. How the hell was she supposed to be objective feeling like this?

  'Are you here to take me in?' asked Barney.

  'Of course not,' said Frankenstein. 'I trusted you last time, but after that, you were supposed to stay on the stupid little island, grow old, and never go near trouble ever again. Then you show up in London, cut a guy's hair and that night he's murdered. Holy crap, why are you here?'

  Barney stared at Frankenstein, then allowed his eyes to drift to Monk.

  'The seagull came back,' said Barney slowly, with a shrug. He turned and looked down at the mesmerising grey river. Constantly drawn to water. Monk followed his gaze. Frankenstein glanced at her; the two of them shared a look.

  'What seagull?' asked Monk.

  Barney turned at the sound of her voice. Could he be surprised by any of this? Was this not just the reason he had been brought down here? Hadn't he acknowledged, the second he'd walked out of the shop, that he was walking away from the quiet solitude of small town life and into the brutal city, and that murder would not be far behind?

  'The pathologist says the murder was committed by a woman,' said Frankenstein and Monk glanced at him, unable to hide her surprise, 'so we're not here to bring you in. I'd just like to know why you're here, and I was hoping for something that didn't involve seagulls.'

  Barney breathed out a heavy sigh. He had known since the start. It was time for his final reckoning. He often wondered if the conversation he had had with the Devil two years previously had been real, imagined, dreamed. But he knew, however, he knew that what had been said then would come true, that some day he would be back.

  Frankenstein backed away to the door.

  'I'm going to speak to some people, see what everyone else has to say about Barney Thomson,' he said. 'You're going to tell Sergeant Monk what it was you were doing the evening before last and exactly why you pitched up at this dumb-ass marketing company the day before one of their senior members of staff got a wine glass in the eye.'

  Frankenstein glanced at Monk, then turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Barney Thomson and Detective Sergeant Monk watched him go, watched the door close, stared at the door for a few seconds.

  She turned and looked at him. Barney held her gaze. Did he wish that they had met under other circumstances? In what other circumstances would he have been likely to meet her?

  'So I'm not under arrest?' he said softly.

  ***

  The day muddled by, much as days do. London was as London does. A suspicious package on the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road caused chaos for a couple of hours. Turned out to be a lunch box; no bombs, just a new Acne-Reducing Low-Fat Philadelphia sandwich with cucumber. On rye. So, there were a few thousand people even more cheesed off than they would otherwise have been, including by chance a couple of the junior guys from BF&C; and life went on.

  Orwell consulted Bethlehem by phone about bringing Barney Thomson into the true fold of the company, a possibility about which Bethlehem was lukewarm – a reasonable enough concern, seeing as he was wanting to sign Messi or Kaka, whereas Barney was the guy who did Roberto Carlos' hair.

  So, in order to impress upon Bethlehem the need to sign up the untried rookie, Orwell organised a small gathering in his office to discuss another of the new Exron products. (Bethlehem had wanted him to go through Waugh in MAD. However, Orwell had an intense personal dislike for the man, sensing in him a rival for the head of the company, should Bethlehem ever be ousted.)

  Orwell, Barney Thomson, Piers Hemingway and John Wodehouse met to discuss another innovative bathroom product from the people who had once brought you all the electricity you could ever need for 2 cents a day. Orwell was aware that Barney had spent a long time with the police sergeant, but had put that down to the sergeant grilling the most obvious man in the building; the hairdresser, the man who heard all the gossip. The meeting began ten minutes after Detective Sergeant Monk had left Barney Thomson for the day, and so Barney walked out of his new hairdressing home with still just the one haircut under his belt, and a lot of desperate, disappoi
nted customers.

  The meeting was captured, unknown to the others, on speakerphone for Bethlehem to get a taste of Barney in the groove. Orwell was confident that Barney would come through and he was not disappointed. Bethlehem heard the following, as the meeting unfolded:

  Orwell: Right, people, glad we're all here. John, Piers, this is Barn who, I can tell from your great hair, you've already met. He's just going to sit in on this one for a short time, see which way the ball bounces once it lands on the green.

  Hemingway: Sure.

  Orwell: Right, gentlemen, another of the great little products from the guys at Exron, as they attempt to conquer the toiletries market. This afternoon we have a product with the working title, Wet Dream Begone.

  (Even Bethlehem had squirmed at this point.)

  Hemingway: You're kidding me!

  Wodehouse: That's like, so ick.

  Orwell: It's the final frontier in personal hygiene. No one's touched it before. Every other issue has been addressed. The people at Exron recognise that there's a massive untapped teenage market out there. Massive.

  Wodehouse: What teenager is going to have the neck to go into a shop to buy that?

  Orwell: There are other ways. They can be issued by schools, for example. The people at Exron don't care if they get their money from the mum concerned about sheets, from the government, or from the ejaculating teenager himself.

  Barney: This is gross. If we're going to even talk about it, don't mention specifics and come up with another name for wet dream.

  (Snap of the fingers from Orwell.)

  Orwell: Exactly. Another name. We need a product identifier that says everything in two or three words. Mentions the problem and kills it in one phrase. Clinical, scientific, precise, we need to take the ickiness out of it and put it at the forefront of youth hygiene concerns, right beside toothpaste and acne cream.

  (A few beats. Bethlehem, with a new millennium concentration span of less than five seconds, was getting bored already.)

  Wodehouse: Nighttime Ejaculation Incident.

  Orwell: Keep it coming.

  Hemingway: Early Morning Sperm Capture Facility.

  Orwell: Keep it coming.

  (Another few beats. A bunch of women would've been having a right old laugh by now, but this was a serious business.)

  Barney: Midnight Express.

  (A short silence, while Bethlehem's interest perked up, and Hemingway and Wodehouse wished they'd said it.)

  Orwell: Barney, you are the man! What d'you think fellas?

  Wodehouse: Got it.

  Hemingway: Yeah. Totally.

  Orwell: (Laughing) That nails that sucker.

  (And he hadn't been talking about Wet Dream Begone either.)

  So, Bethlehem had been duly impressed and, once the worker ants had been driven from the office, he and Orwell had made the decision to invite Barney into the very heart of the organisation.

  ***

  Daniella Monk had had a disconcerting day. A long time with Barney Thomson, nothing really to tell. She knew that Frankenstein had left her there so that she could get an impression of him, and she could bring that back to the station and they could compare notes.

  Her impression was not helpful. Barney struck her as a lonely man, full of melancholy and sorrow, yet strong and emotionally self-sufficient, and consequently she could not have found him more attractive. She had expected Frankenstein to return for her, but after two hours she went looking for him and found that he had long since departed the building. She'd had to stop herself returning to speak to Barney, and had taken the chance to speak to others in the company about this mysterious, rogue barber who had turned up in their midst.

  Frankenstein had talked to a few people but had grown disgruntled with the very notion of Barney Thomson being involved in this business and at the possibility of what else lay in store, and so he had quickly returned to the office to think dark, uncomfortable thoughts, play underpant basketball and wait for Monk to return.

  ***

  Orwell, having spoken to Bethlehem about Barney, turned his attention to the portfolio of Waferthin.com and, more importantly, the portfolio of Taylor Bergerac. That was something which really needed consideration.

  At some stage, whilst wondering how he was going to make his way into the affections of such an amazingly attractive woman, he'd realised that what he had to do was market himself, and since marketing was his game, he'd spent a fruitful hour treating himself as the client, and working out the various threads of his campaign. No woman on the planet, he thought, could fail to fall for the wiles of the man who had brought the world: Pirelli. Tyres That Make Love To The Road. As Driven by Julio Iglesias.

  The Keys To The Citadel

  Barney Thomson had finally been able to get down to some business, in what was to be his last day cutting hair for a while. After a morning featuring a solitary haircut, he had chalked off almost fifteen by late afternoon.

  Whether it was because the word had got around that he was creating the hair of the gods, or whether it was because everyone knew even before Barney himself that he was about to be offered Head of TV Contracts and this was their last chance for a free haircut, no one would ever know. But he worked his way through them all, the old panache still there, chatting happily when required, handing out advice on marketing matters if asked, and dishing out a good line on relationship issues whenever needed.

  A little after six o'clock, his last haircut of the day dispatched, Barney was going about the business of clearing up for the night. Hair already swept up, he was cleaning the scissors and brushes and combs and other heavy implements the modern barber requires. Humming the old Hoagy Carmichael standard Riverboat Shuffle, slave to the routine, doing everything slowly and methodically, much as he had done in barbershops for nearly thirty years. Thinking about Daniella Monk as he went, wondering when she would next come by. Not really bothered if he would be taken into custody, because what did it matter? His fate would be as it would be. Mostly he wondered absurdly if this was what falling in love felt like. Had never happened to him before. He had just seen it in films, heard the music.

  The door opened. He looked round, sure it was going to be her. That was what fate did for you. Instant deflation at the smiling face of Jude Orwell.

  'Hey, Barn,' said Orwell, 'wanted to have a word. You got a minute, mon ami?'

  Barney nodded. As of that moment, he had the rest of his life.

  'Cool,' said Orwell, and he walked into the room. Was on an absurdly false high, based on the previous hour when he had put together the outline for his great marketing campaign to woo Taylor Bergerac. 'I'm just going to put a few things to you about the company, fill you in, you know what I'm saying?'

  Barney slumped down into the barber's chair, folded his fingers in his lap, looked up at Orwell's eager face.

  'I'm here for you,' said Barney.

  'Cool,' said Orwell again and, as he spoke, he began to pace slowly around the room, his hands emphasising every point. 'Right, we're Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane at the moment, you got that?'

  'Drummed into me every day,' said Barney.

  'But when we were formed, there were five of them, five partners, each with equal prominence within the firm.'

  He dug into his pocket, lifted out a cheap lipstick and held it up to show Barney.

  'Borrowed this offa Ro, thought I might need it. If you don't mind?' he asked, indicating the mirror. Barney shrugged, his curiosity at least activated. Orwell moved forward and wrote in red on the mirror, Moses, Bethlehem, Crane, Forsyth, & Zivkovic. Turned around, looked at Barney, held his arms out.

  'I mean, Barn,' he said. 'Lousy name for a company, but that was how it was. They each held an executive position, doesn't really matter who did what.'

  'So don't tell me,' said Barney glibly, when he thought that he might.

  'Eh, OK,' said Orwell slightly hesitantly, and then he was off again. 'Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department, Marketing Consultancy, Chief of S
taff, Head of TV Contracts, Head of Other Media Contracts. So, not long after the kick-off, Moses and Zivkovic left, but the constitution never changed. Bethlehem just worked it so that the new people coming in were totally on his side. And though they didn't get their name on the door, they got the vote. But Bethlehem knew how to play them. It was a superb strategy. He had the two new votes on the board and therefore an overall majority. Total control, which he then used to oust the other two founder members. Only, by this time, the firm was getting a bit of a name, Forsyth and Crane had brought in some business, he felt it expedient to leave their names up there. Didn't matter to him, man, he had it nailed.'

  Barney nodded his understanding.

  'Only trouble for Bethlehem,' Orwell continued, 'the constitution remained the same, and it's never changed. He didn't care about that either, such was his control. Any time he felt threatened, he'd just boot the guy out of the firm.' A wee pause, a cheeky grin. 'Until now. Out of town just too long, a few rumblings in the belly of the beast, and you know what I'm saying? There are opportunities.'

  Barney was silent. Hadn't cottoned on to the fact that he was about to be asked to be Head of TV Contracts; wondered if Orwell was about to tell him that the position of barber had been made an executive one with voting rights.

  'What d'you think?' asked Orwell, when he realised he wasn't getting anything in return for his remarkable story of business skullduggery. 'Fitzgerald held a voting position. Now that he's pegged it, we need that position filled. What with Bethlehem being away, distracted, whatever the hell it is he's doing, you know, there's a chance for one of the others to get in there.'

  'Why am I here?' asked Barney. Not concentrating.

  'I want you to be Head of TV Contracts, amigo,' said Orwell.

  'You're kidding me,' said Barney.

  'I am not,' said Orwell, brandishing the lipstick. 'I bloody am not. You're good, Barn, damned good. Way better than these spotty oiks like Hemingway and Wodehouse. You're a bleeding natural, mate, got this biz totally pegged. I've already agreed it with Bethlehem. We get you in there, you come in onside with my camp, and then we only need one of the other positions and we can force Bethlehem out.'