'What time?' he asked.
'Got a couple of things to do first,' said Sweetlips, and this time Barney did look at her. A few things to do. Jude Orwell, Anthony Waugh or John Wodehouse he wondered. Which one was for the chop tonight? Maybe Monk's men would put a stop to it before it happened, and he'd be left alone at the restaurant, while his date was taken into police custody.
She returned his gaze, felt a little unnerved. He knew. Not just what kind of woman she was, he knew what was on her agenda for the evening. John Wodehouse. In fact, Wodehouse had been on the agenda for the entire evening, with the potential of a little fun before the climax. However, there was no reason why he couldn't be polished off quickly, and she could go for the more interesting option of Barney Thomson.
But then, if he knew, why was he having dinner with her? She knew the firm had had their meeting a couple of nights earlier. She knew they'd all been warned. She knew why Wodehouse wasn't concerned, the stupid little cretin, but Barney Thomson, why hadn't he bought into the warning? Especially when he could see the danger right there in front of him?
Because he had his own agenda. Everyone has their own agenda.
'Call it eight-thirty. Poons, Leicester Square,' she said.
Barney studied her face then turned away. Surprisingly public, he thought, and immediately started to contemplate the thinking behind the venue.
Sweetlips took one last look at the austere features of the first man to capture her interest in twelve years, then she turned and walked slowly from the office. Knew he wouldn't turn and watch her go, didn't look back over her shoulder.
Poons at eight-thirty, with the blood of John Wodehouse on her hands and conscience, would be time enough to look at him. She had at least managed to put one over on him at the end, leaving him to contemplate the convoluted thinking about her choice of restaurant, when in fact it was only because she liked the duck.
Work that out you fuck, she thought as she closed the door behind her, then chided herself for getting too competitive.
Probably just because she likes the duck, Barney thought to himself, seeing a couple of ducks in the water, far below.
The door opened behind him. Closed his eyes. Knew it wouldn't be Sweetlips back again. Hoped it would be Monk, but she would have allowed herself to be announced. It had to be someone from the company, and someone senior at that, or they would have been polite enough to knock. Orwell or Waugh. Had already had his post-morning meeting chat with Orwell, must be Waugh.
'Thomson,' said Waugh, taking the position at the window vacated by Sweetlips. Barney was wondering if he shouldn't just get a breakfast bar built at the window, and he and all his visitors could sit there, looking out on London as they had a natter.
'Mr Waugh,' he said. 'A good showing at the meeting. Very solid.'
'That's what I wanted to talk to you about,' said Waugh.
'Go on,' said Barney. There's the rub with telling two different sides you're going to get into bed with them, then choosing to sit in a chair. They both bitch at you.
'We could have absolutely friggin' crushed the bugger, there and then. The meeting was turned against him, the river was flowing, it was all in our favour, and what did you do? You said nothing, then you made some dramatic little friggin' speech, then you walked out? Completely broke the spell. What the hell was that, Thomson? I didn't get you that job so you could sit on your stupid arse and not get involved.'
Stupid arse, eh? Maybe it had been the recent visitation of the virgin Sweetlips, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, Barney got annoyed. Fed up with all of these people. They could be as stupid as they liked, and he didn't have to care, but he didn't have to sit here and take their crap.
'You didn't get me the job,' said Barney, harshly, looking Waugh in the eye.
'What does that mean?'
'It means, Orwell had the same idea. He floated it to me months before you, he gave me a live audition with some of the other crew, then he and Bethlehem agreed that I should get the position. All before you thought of it. I owe you nothing. Not, however, that I consider I owe Orwell anything either.'
Waugh raged silently. Veins thumped in his head, teeth gritted.
'Why didn't you say?' he asked bitterly.
'Too busy laughing,' said Barney, dryly.
'Well,' he said, 'you did a friggin' awful job for someone who's supposed to be on his side.'
'I said I owe him nothing.'
Waugh growled, turned and walked quickly from the room. Stopped at the door and, however angry, realised that he hadn't actually got any sort of an answer from Barney.
'Whose side are you on?' he asked sharply of Barney's back.
Barney stared out at the grey, grey day. Time to leave this place, he thought, if it wasn't already too late.
'My own,' he said.
Felt Waugh's eyes carve holes in his back, then the door was opened and slammed shut. He sighed, shook his head. Another bridge burned, and he couldn't really have cared less. Which, in the case of a psychotic vindictive bastard such as Waugh, was possibly a mistake.
When The Rain Comes
The two officers assigned to watch and guard John Wodehouse noticed the woman even before they realised that she was Wodehouse's intended date for the evening. Sitting alone in the window of the bar on Leicester Square, staring out at the raindrops pinging off the wet ground. She had a beautiful air of melancholy, a haunting sadness that would attract men even more than physical allure. Blonde hair in a neat bob, not much make-up, a little lipstick, very pale purple. Chin resting in the palm of her hand, and they both temporarily took their eyes off Wodehouse to watch her. Switched back onto him when he arrived at her table and kissed her on the cheek before sitting down. Would have kissed her lips, but she moved her face at the last second. Still, the lad Wodehouse was so pumped full of confidence at that moment that it did little to dent it. Wodehouse ordered a drink, and another whatever for the lady, and the two officers settled back to watch, assuming that if this melancholic lady was to be the murderer – and on first sight neither of them thought for a second that she was – she wasn't going to be doing anything in Leicester Square at this time of the evening.
Half an hour later Harlequin Sweetlips walked from the bar, pulling the collar of her coat up around her neck. The on-off drizzling rain of the day had given way to a torrential downpour, and it was into this that she dragged poor Wodehouse. The lad was none too impressed with having to subject his $3500 Armani jacket to this weather, but he was so suitably intoxicated by the glory of Sweetlips that he had no option but to trail out after her, to be led wherever she wanted to go. And her final words before rising from the table and leading him out into the storm – let's go up some alleyway and fuck in the rain – had been a bit of a rallying call.
Holding hands they trotted across Leicester Square and out onto Charing Cross Road. Pinky and Perky, the policemen on duty, growled at having to venture out into this weather, pulled their coats tight, and dashed out of the door on the trail of the endangered species.
'Where are we going?' asked Wodehouse innocently, laughing, beginning to enjoy the rain, dodging the tidal waves thrown up by the taxis, and the low umbrellas of the old women on the street.
'I know a place,' said Sweetlips. 'Come on.'
And she quickened her pace. Knew fine well that Little & Large were on their tail, and had no particular desire to get away from them. More than content for them to see the ritual that was about to take place; she could handle three of them at once. Wasn't as if she hadn't before.
'This is crazy!' yelled Wodehouse above the sound of a double-decker, and suddenly she veered off to her right onto Flitcroft Street, and they were away from the traffic, the sounds of their footfalls louder between the narrow walls. Past the music shops, round the corner, and she stopped, the church of St Giles-in-the-Field in front of them. Sweetlips collapsed in a doorway, out of breath after the exertions of running for a couple of minutes; Wodehouse rested
beside her, his panting all the harder and more genuine. He put his right hand on her coat, breathing hard, laughing, smiling, having fun.
'Fuck's sake, Harley,' he said, 'you are outrageous.'
'You think?' she said, and the ease of just those two words belied the look of over-exertion.
'This is going to be so Nine And a Half Weeks,' said Wodehouse, and he leaned forward and kissed her, though his mouth and nostrils gaped.
She took it for a few seconds, then pulled back, laughing herself.
'More Psycho than Nine And A Half Weeks, Babe,' she said.
Wodehouse laughed.
'How d'you mean, Babe?' he asked.
Really, you'd think he'd have learned. Despite the warnings, despite his fellows being murdered by an inappropriate woman, despite what had happened in the previous week, none of it mattered one bit to John Wodehouse. He still didn't get it. He still thought he was above it all, still thought he was indestructible.
Sweetlips had thought she might actually do Wodehouse in a doorway in the pouring rain, but already she could hear the footsteps of Plod and Sod less than twenty yards away. A quick kill, it would all be over and done with, and if she still felt she needed sex, there was always Barney Thomson later on.
She produced the blade – a new one this time, just four inches of steel, but more than enough – and with a beautiful flowing movement lifted it and buried it in the centre of Wodehouse's head before he could even register surprise. So thick-skinned about his own invincibility that he didn't see it coming, even when he saw it coming. Stupid really, rather than thick-skinned.
She left the knife embedded for a second, then pulled it out with a marvellous sucking sound, like removing a rubber glove, and stepped forward as Wodehouse's body pitched to the side and his head smacked into the doorway. When Batman and Robin turned the corner at something between a trot and a sprint, she was poised and waiting, knife above her head.
They juddered to a halt, eyes wide, but with no weapons ready.
'Haaa-Waaaah!' she screamed, because she'd always wanted to do the martial arts movie thing.
'What?' said Robin, while Batman looked down at the stricken figure of John Wodehouse.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Like Zorro. Three swishes of the knife; one to take out Batman, a quickie between the two, and then one to take out Robin, while he was still standing unprepared for the attack, hypnotised by the very presence of Harlequin Sweetlips. Throats slit, they fell at her feet, like so many men before them. She stood poised for a few more seconds, knife still held aloft, genuinely breathing hard now with the sheer glory of the kill. Then slowly she lowered her arm and held the blade open to the rain to wash away the blood.
She turned quickly at a low noise behind. A guy with a beard, a bit dishevelled, but not an out and out jake. However, he was loitering in the area because he'd been indulging in an illegal substance or two. Not entirely clear-eyed, he looked down at the three bodies, blood running in rivers, then up into Sweetlips' face.
'Did you do that?' he asked, a curious question, given that she was standing with a knife in her hand, and he had actually seen her do it.
'Don't think so,' said Sweetlips. Even if he was clear-headed enough to go to the police, which she recognised he wasn't, the description he gave them was only going to be extant for another five minutes or so.
She let the knife fall from her fingers and clank to the ground, where it came to rest nestling in at Batman's armpit. Or aisselle, as the country was about to know it.
'Right,' he said.
'Good,' said Sweetlips, smiling. 'Glad we got that cleared up.'
She nodded and turned, and when she caught her last sight of him, he had already begun to lose interest. Back round the corner the way she'd come, and she was running through the rain, the laurels of satisfaction still transmitted to the world by the enormous smile on her face, and once more out onto a quiet and horribly wet Charing Cross Road.
Big Gesture Small Politics
The phone buzzed, Orwell casually flicked a finger at a button, imagining he was in some TV show. Frequently lived his life as if he was under constant watch. Half-expected that Hell, if it existed, would actually involve having to sit in front of a large TV screen, watching your life in constant playback for all eternity. How stupid were we all going to feel doing that? So, when he remembered, he tried to look cool even when he was alone.
'Rose, come on,' he said. 'It's Saturday evening, I don't even know why you're here. Go home, leave me alone. No calls means no calls. I'm mega here, you know that.'
'You've got a visitor,' said Rose, taking no notice.
'Like, a visitor?' said Orwell, adding extra incredulity to his voice on top of that which he actually felt. 'You are so kidding me, Rose. I said no calls. What does that mean, Rose? It means I don't want any phone calls, and I don't want some moron calling round to the office trying to see me. No calls is no calls, Rose. Get with the programme.'
He clicked off. There was work to be done. Not actual work work, because this was Saturday evening. The work was the job of luring Taylor Bergerac to his bed, which was beginning to involve the most elaborate of stratagems.
He was currently working on a plan that would allow him to bring his penthouse apartment in New York into play, because women just absolutely fell for that the minute they knew it existed. His trump card; the chance to make love high above Manhattan, in a glass-roofed apartment. The city below, the stars above. Hoped he'd be able to toss it into the mix to impress her further, when they'd already become involved, but if it was needed now, then so be it. He just had to work out how best to establish the absolute jaw-dropping grandeur of the location.
The door opened. Rose stuck her head round.
'You have a visitor,' she said quietly, looking him in the eye.
He breathed out, a long slow breath.
'Rose,' he said calmly, voice rock steady. 'Seriously, darlin'. There is no one on the planet, no one, who I want to see in this office right now. If the Queen is out there, tell her to come back in the morning.'
'I'll send her in,' said Rose, and turning, left the door open.
'Jesus!' said Orwell. 'Jesus, Rose! What do I have to do?'
The door was pushed open a little further; the frustration and annoyance slid off Orwell's face. For all the grandiose planning and optimism that he'd been forcing down his own throat for the past couple of days, he hadn't even remotely expected Taylor Bergerac to turn up at his office. He'd talked a good game, sure enough, but the true litmus test of his confidence, his own inherent expectations, had been absolutely zero. Not for a second, while Rose had been forcing this visitor on him, had he thought that it wouldn't be work of some description.
Yet, here she was, Taylor Bergerac, in the flesh. A maroon gabardine over a starkly contrasting white blouse, slim legs going in the right direction. Orwell stood up, his heart suddenly galloping. Like everyone who ever did the lottery, not expecting in a million years to win it; the sudden realisation of a life-changing moment, and you don't know what to do with it, or yourself.
'Taylor,' he managed to say. 'Like, hi!'
'Mr Orwell,' said Bergerac, and she closed the door behind her and walked into the middle of his office. Even the Mr Orwell remark didn't dampen Orwell's magnificent moment, it registering nothing on the Obviously She Thinks You're An Idiot scale. He stood with his arms open, waiting in wondrous happiness, the smile which he was at least trying to control, galloping around his face, much in the way that his heart was gambolling around his chest.
'This is, like ... . yeah,' said Orwell. 'Totally, like, yeah. Can I get you anything? Gin & tonic maybe?'
'I'm only going to say this once,' said Bergerac.
'Sure,' said Orwell, still not grasping the essence of her tone. 'Like it. Totally to the point.'
She took another pace towards him. He smiled.
'Stop sending me all this stupid fucking crap. Stop the calls, stop the stupid fucking billboards with your pasty l
ittle head stuck on someone else's body. Stop the ridiculous singing morons turning up at the office and outside my house. Stop it all! Now! Enough. Last man on fucking earth, you know what I'm saying. Last man on earth! Leave me alone!'
Orwell was a bit taken aback, at the vehemence as much as the words.
'How d'you mean that?' he said rather stupidly.
'Leave me the fuck alone, Orwell,' said Bergerac.
'I meant, the last man on earth?'
'As in, I wouldn't touch you if you were it.'
'OK. Right.'
He stared gormlessly at her. While he hadn't actually been expecting her to turn up at his door at all, if he'd thought she'd bother to make the effort, it would at least have been with romantic intent, not to tell him to clear off. Bit of a crushing blow.
'Didn't you see that e-mail I sent you this morning?' he said, trying to instil some level of confidence into his voice.
'Which one?' she said dryly. Not that it mattered, as she hadn't read one word of any of them
'The one with the story about the time I met Uma Thurman in an elevator and I advised her to pull out of The Lord Of The Rings. It's completely relevant here. Totally.'
Bergerac stood, right foot forward, hands on hips, looking at Orwell in a kind of a Beverly Hills way. Not entirely sure what planet he was on, almost curious as to the relationship between his chance encounter with Uma Thurman – if it had ever actually taken place – and their current situation, but with no intention of ever asking, and generally just marvelling at the downright ballsy insanity of the man.
'What?' he said, and a smile came to his face, because he thought the mention of his great Uma story might have begun to do the trick.
'You defy my understanding of human life,' she said. 'Seriously.'
His smile broadened.
'That's cool, right?'
'Why didn't you just call me up and ask me out? You didn't even speak to me before you started this crap.'
He held his hands out, the smile now imprinted on his face.
'I'm a big gesture guy,' he said and started to laugh. Walked casually round from behind his desk, hands into his pockets and back out again. Still edgy, despite the confidence he was exuding.
The Barbershop Seven Page 178