The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'You speak to Strumpet about this?' asked Monk, to take her mind off the insanity of the driving.

  'Nah,' said Frankenstein, calmly finding a slot to fit into further up the road before he could be swiped by a large black diplomatic BMW. 'He'd have gone mental. The guy's still vacillating over what to do with the fingerprints. Look, there's some weird shit going on and someone tried to kill my sergeant, and I just want to get to the bottom of it.'

  She looked at him, the gruff face, the chewing gum being viciously chewed and regularly and grossly being stuck out on his tongue.

  'I appreciate that,' she said.

  'Don't,' he said gruffly, in case she might think him nice in any way.

  Slowly the traffic began to move as the giant American SUV with seventeen coffee cup holders which had been stuck in six inches of snow up ahead was set free.

  Monk sat back, smiled to herself. This was weird, and maybe she should have been spooked, yet above it all she still had the good feeling left behind by the late night visitor about whom she had completely forgotten.

  ***

  Last time into Orwell's office, Barney Thomson standing before him, shrugging his shoulders, just like the old times, back in the days when he'd been a shoulder-shrugging man. Now, however, it was due to cool indifference rather than a general bemusement at what others were talking about.

  'Barney, look around you,' said Orwell. 'The place is falling apart. The staff are dropping like flies, suddenly there's no new business coming in, the whole thing is a disaster. Bethlehem's back tonight and he's finished. Really, it's just going to be me and those who are willing to stand with me. And then we can start building something here, using the excellent client base which we already possess. But we'll need good minds to replace those we've lost, and you're the best marketing mind I've met in years, Barn. Sure you're raw, but that'll pass. The basic building blocks, the unfettered talent, it's there, man. You had it cracked the minute you walked in the door. It's that whole barber thing, man. You understand people, and that's why you can do this. You know what people will buy and why they'll buy it and what makes them buy it. You've just got this awesome barber aura around you, this thing that says you understand the very essence of the human id, you know the kernel, you dig the dichotomy of human existence. You're totally with every aspect of this, because of the barber milieu. You're like some sort of a thing, you're a dude, a cat, a rollercoaster man, but on a rollercoaster that's always going, you know, really straight and fast.'

  'That would be a train,' said Barney, to show that he hadn't fallen asleep.

  'See,' said Orwell, without showing the slightest bit of humour, 'you're funny, you're sharp, you're acerbic, clear-headed, quick-thinking. The world of marketing is crying out for men like you, not just this company. You and me, Barn, we could do great things. Think about it, Barn, once we gain overall control of the corporation, we could change the name to Orwell & Thomson, do a big stock market flotation, take over one of those even bigger office towers they're building half a mile further down the river. And we're not starting from scratch with a new company, we're booting Bethlehem and we're in. Total fucking regeneration, man. Jesus, we could open an office in New York. The Americans would love you, 'cause you've got that thing that none of them have over there. You know, they love that whole British acerbity gig, and you've got it totally nailed. You could be huge in New York, or LA even. Christ, LA, man! You'd have them eating out of the palm of your hand. Can't you see it, Barn? Orwell & Thomson, of London, New York and Los Angeles. God, that could be so awesome. We could each have one of those big LA mansions, big parties, loads of women, they love the English out there.'

  'I'm Scottish,' said Barney.

  'Exactly,' said Orwell, 'even better. You've got that William Wallace vibe. They cream their knickers for that over there these days. Jesus, man, the ancestors of their entire country left Scotland in 1746, for Christ's sake. They'd buy into you like they buy into Japanese fucking gadgets. Jeez, Barn, there's nothing stopping you. There's nothing stopping us.'

  'I'm going back to Millport,' said Barney.

  'Don't do this to me, Barn!'

  'I'm going back to my little shop. Two barbers, two chairs, one little guy sweeping up. That's all.'

  'Barn, God, Barn, this is insane. I need you tonight, Barn. The meeting, the voting structure. Don't you see, now that Waugh's dead, we've got a great shout. You, me and whoever I can put in as Head of MAD. We can fuck Bethlehem out the old window.'

  Barney looked down at him, Orwell leaning forward across the desk, the strain of the day showing on his face.

  'You looked tired,' said Barney. 'You should get some sleep before your man returns.'

  Orwell settled back, finally defeated in his attempts to lure Barney to stay. The argument had been going on for fifteen minutes, and one of the reasons why he respected Barney so much was because he knew he wouldn't change his mind. The reason he wanted him to stay was exactly the reason why he wouldn't. Time to give up, and time to start thinking about who to get to replace him in the meeting.

  'You have to leave today?' he asked.

  'Don't see the point in staying,' said Barney. 'Sorry it didn't work out.'

  'Yeah,' said Orwell.

  Barney stepped forward. Orwell stood up and the two men shook hands, and then Barney turned and walked from his office, closing the door behind him. Orwell slumped down into his seat and stared at the closed door. There were doors closing all over the place for him. He turned to his PC, checked his e-mail. Eleven messages since he'd been talking to Barney, but none of any consequence to the day's events, and none from Taylor Bergerac.

  He was beginning to lose sight of her big gesture.

  Moral Outrage - The New Fragrance For Men

  The man had a small moustache and square shoulders which he wore with pride. He looked down from the extra half inch they gave him.

  'The Archbishop is busy,' said Yigael Simon. 'The Archbishop will be busy later on this afternoon, and then again tomorrow. As some like to say around here, the Archbishop will be busy until the end of days. If you'd like to leave your card I can try to squeeze you in later in the year.'

  Frankenstein closed his eyes and turned away. It was his method of anger management. Long gone were the days when an outraged officer could vent that anger on the suspect or interviewee.

  'We need to speak to the Archbishop today,' said Monk.

  'Good cop, bad cop?' said Simon glibly. Frankenstein caught the explosion in his throat. 'How nice, if a little clichéd,' Simon added.

  'There's no good or bad, we merely need to speak to the Archbishop in relation to an investigation which we are currently conducting.'

  'You're surely not suggesting that the Archbishop is guilty of a crime.'

  'No ... ' began Monk, but that was as far as she managed to get.

  'Listen, Hitler,' said Frankenstein, and Monk disappeared inside her jacket. 'The man's fingerprints are all over at least three murder weapons. If you'd like that little snippet of information released to the press in the next ten minutes, then keep on talking the way your are. Otherwise, give your man a call, tell him we're here, and show us the fuck through.'

  Simon raised an eyebrow.

  ***

  They had been ushered into a small, dark office. Shelves of old books, set in between old paintings. A large dusty desk. It looked as though someone had worked there sixty or seventy years previously.

  The paintings, unsurprisingly, were all biblical. Old, dark pictures, which had never been restored and took close examination to even see what story they were telling. Frankenstein was depressed into submission by the place and had spent the fifty minutes since they'd been dumped there by Simon, sitting with his head in his hands, muttering. Monk couldn't hear what he was saying, just caught the occasional expletive.

  For some reason, she loved the room. It felt warm and safe and smelled of the old books. It was a room in the house of an old uncle that you only occasionally vis
ited as a child, a room you would sneak off to, to explore. A room of an uncle she'd never had.

  'You should take a look at these,' she said suddenly, her voice crisp and fresh in the warm, muggy room. Frankenstein stirred.

  'Can't be bothered getting up,' muttered Frankenstein in reply. 'Just more weird religious shit, I expect.'

  'It's all,' she began, and then she hesitated. She shook her head, moved on to the next painting. 'It's all the final judgement, you know. Jesus coming down and splitting everyone into teams.'

  Frankenstein glanced up, looked quickly around the room. He could make out a few of the paintings.

  'All of them?' he asked. 'All of these are about the same thing? The judgement of the human race?'

  'Yep,' she said. 'Pretty weird. It's like it's the Final Judgement room.'

  'And this is where they leave their visitors for extended periods?'

  'Maybe we're in here for good. Maybe by coming here we've chosen to be judged,' said Monk. She looked at the door, then turned to the nearest bookshelf and took down a thin volume.

  'Notes on Mark's Gospel and the End of Days ... ' she said, her voice trailing off.

  'Fuck's sake,' said Frankenstein.

  He rose quickly and walked to the door. Getting freaked. Suddenly haunted by his surroundings, as he was haunted by the insanity of this case, and as he had been haunted by what had happened to the last serial killer he had come across, two years ago in the town of Millport.

  As he put his hand to the door knob, the door opened and a man he recognised from television, dressed as an Archbishop, opened the door and stared him in the face. Middlesex looked as though he was surprised to find Frankenstein directly on the other side of the door.

  They stared at each other in silence for a short while, then Middlesex closed the door behind him, walked quickly through the small office and sat down behind the solitary large desk. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at the two police officers, one standing with an old book in her hands, one standing by the door looking as though he thought he should be somewhere else.

  'What is it?' said Middlesex brusquely. 'I have an important day.'

  Monk had, for some reason, been expecting someone more godly. A quiet, reserved man, perhaps, someone with the weight of God on his shoulders. Instead, she had been given a politician.

  'This isn't your office,' she said.

  Middlesex glowered at her, glanced at Frankenstein, waiting to hear his part in proceedings.

  'If everyone in the Metropolitan Police Force is as insightful as you, Sergeant Monk, it's a wonder that there's so much crime in the city.'

  'Is this some kind of Final Judgement room?' she asked, ignoring the words and the tone.

  Middlesex sucked in his breath.

  'Even at this low level, you appear to be meddling in matters that you don't understand. Christianity, the very basis of our religion, is not about Christmas and Easter eggs and children's stories about Jesus. We are talking about eternal life in God's kingdom. The entire basis of Christianity is the final judgement. Nothing else matters. What are sixty or seventy years on this earth compared to an eternity in Heaven? Or an eternity in complete and utter damnation?'

  He paused. He glanced between the two of them. He didn't like the police. He didn't want a visit from them, but most of all, he feared they might already know more than he wanted them to know.

  'Do you have any dealings with the firm of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane?' asked Frankenstein sharply.

  Middlesex held his gaze. The question which struck directly at the heart of what he didn't want them to know. So, were they fishing, or did they have anything concrete?

  Why would they come here to fish if they didn't have some reason to? Someone must have talked, someone other than Bethlehem, who he knew to be completely trustworthy, and who he knew had not been in London since the mayhem at BF&C had begun.

  'I have read about them in the news,' he said. 'Other than that ... '

  He held Frankenstein's gaze, completely ignoring Monk, his look seemingly drawn from the pits of Hell. Perhaps the room allowed him to get into character, thought Monk.

  'Your fingerprints have been identified on all the murder weapons so far,' said Frankenstein coldly.

  Middlesex looked sharply at him.

  'What?' he barked.

  'Your fingerprints were on the weapons used to kill Hugo Fitzgerald, Piers Hemingway, John Wodehouse and two police officers. There will possibly be more, once we have the results back. Do you have any explanation for that, Sir?'

  Middlesex straightened his shoulders. He looked sternly between Monk and Frankenstein.

  'I am a man of God,' he said, voice severe.

  'History doesn't really stand you in great stead with that argument,' said Monk glibly.

  'You can be a man of Doughnuts for all we care at the moment. We need you to explain how your fingerprints got to be on those weapons.'

  Middlesex took his eyes off them and stared at the far wall of the office. It looked like he was staring directly at a dark, foreboding painting of Christ casting the damned to Hell.

  'Why now?' he said suddenly. 'That first man you mentioned was murdered last week. If my prints were on that weapon why are you only talking to me now? There must be something else going on here.'

  Frankenstein hesitated. Had wondered what kind of man the Archbishop was going to be. Had hoped he wouldn't be a lawyer.

  'I'm afraid if you are going to question me further, I will need to have a lawyer present,' he added. 'Unless you intend taking me into custody, pulling some anti-terror legislation out of the hat, and holding me without counsel for forty-two days. I have connections. I know people.'

  Frankenstein glanced at Monk for the first time since Middlesex had entered the room. This had gone about as badly as it was possible to go, and the first thing that Middlesex was going to do when they left this dreadful dark office was lift the phone and call in the dogs of State.

  'Are we finished?' asked Middlesex coldly.

  Frankenstein didn't reply. He glanced at Monk, looked back quickly at Middlesex and then turned to the door.

  'How long?' said Monk, looking at Middlesex.

  'What?' he demanded in reply.

  'How long until the day of judgement?'

  Frankenstein stared at her, a strange creep of nerves up his spine. He yearned for the days when he would have found that question absurd.

  'Satan already walks in our midst,' said Middlesex coldly. 'He wears many disguises. It will not be long before the Lord reclaims his realm. We will all be judged before God. Who then will be able to stand?'

  The door opened. She looked round to see the back of Frankenstein leaving much more quickly than he had entered. She glanced at Middlesex, laid the book down on the desk and followed her boss from the small, dingy office, that no longer seemed quite so warm and comfortable.

  Steam Pants!

  Barney walked into the small office on the tenth floor, which he had used as a barbershop for three days. Had a couple of pairs of scissors to pick up. Collect them, find one or two people to say goodbye to, if there was anyone there, and then he'd be on his way. One more night in London, maybe, and then head off. Not sure what to do about Daniella Monk. Harlequin Sweetlips was an easier problem with which to deal, as she would just be better avoided. Maybe he wouldn't be given the choice anyway. Hadn't seen her for two days, perhaps he wouldn't again. Her business with Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, assuming that it was her business and not someone else's, must almost be at an end. Then she would more than likely disappear into the ether and never be heard from again. Until, at least, a spate of bizarre murders in the middle of Texas or Ohio or the Brazilian rainforest.

  Daniella Monk was an altogether trickier problem. Did not for a second want to leave her behind, but he didn't want to stay in London. Would she want to go and live in Millport? Did anyone really want to go and live in Millport? Yet there was something else, some strange notion lurking in
his subconscious, that told him that he owed her much.

  'All right?' said a voice behind him.

  He turned, to be greeted by the smiling face of Nigel Achebe.

  'Hello,' said Barney. 'Still here?'

  'Yes, no problem for me, my friend. I am onto a good thing, no point in walking out without being pushed. And if you get pushed, you've got actions you can take. The courts, no?'

  'Aye,' said Barney, 'suppose you're right. I'm walking, all the same.'

  'Well, that's cool, we've all got our own ideas. Listen, you have time to give me a quick once over? A number one should not take you more than a couple of minutes.'

  Barney nodded. Why not? It wasn't as if he was walking out of here to go and be a marketing consultant somewhere else. This was what he was going back to, might as well start now.

  'Sure, son,' said Barney, and Nigel Achebe, whose confidence had been strangely growing throughout the day, took to the big chair.

  Settled down, studied himself in the mirror, sucked his lips, liked what he saw. Looking good, feeling good. Barney threw the cape around him, taped the velcro at the back, gave the razor an unnecessary brush, plugged it in. Studied the blank canvas of the head before him, really nothing to be done other than what had been requested, bit of tidying at the back, and he set the buzzer going.

  'You're looking very chipper,' said Barney, going straight into smooth barber-chat mode, 'for one who was busted as a conspirator this morning.'

  Achebe smiled.

  'I am Nigerian,' he said. 'We have a way of coming back. I am reborn.'

  'Smashing,' said Barney. 'How did that work?'

  Achebe eyed him in the mirror. Barney could tell he was considering whether or not to take the plunge of conversation, knew instinctively that he'd go for it.

  'Yes,' said Achebe, as a way of starting, 'I have to admit I was about to walk out with the other three. Then Mr. Orwell took a look at an outline I put before him on Friday, and then he comes looking to ask me to stay. Life is just so totally screwed up. Offered me Head of MAD, which seems crazy, but he says it is only temporary. Suits me for the moment.'