The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  The Anglican Church delegation of three was headed by rogue archbishop, Middlesex, acting without the knowledge of the Archbishop of Canterbury, but with the support of the Prime Minister and of many bishops in England and around the world.

  The hosts of the meeting were another three-man team, representing the Catholic church in Rome. The Archbishop of Argyll, the unacknowledged Head of the Church in the UK, his principal private secretary, the man who had so far been conducting the negotiations on his behalf, and a representative from the Vatican, Bishop Carlonni.

  The factions were getting themselves together. Argyll's PPS had just delivered the tea and biscuits to the table. Bethlehem was standing at the window, looking down on the dark waters of Loch Lubnaig. He'd been a little surprised by the location, but recognised that these were delicate matters and that secrecy and the utmost discretion were required.

  'Perhaps we should call the meeting to order, gentlemen,' said Argyll.

  Bethlehem turned and nodded, and took his place at the table, sitting in between Harlequin Sweetlips and Taylor Bergerac. Barney Thomson was on the other side of Bergerac, aware that his insides were empty, and that he had been gripped by an overwhelming and crushing weight of gloom.

  'A pleasure to meet you at last,' said Argyll, looking at Middlesex with anything but pleasure. 'You can assure the meeting that you are here on the right authority?'

  Middlesex nodded.

  'Yes, I have the paperwork in place. I am here by the wishes of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And while you know that we do not yet have full parliamentary approval, we can assure you that this will be directly forthcoming, pursuant to a successful outcome to this meeting.'

  'And Her Majesty the Queen?' asked Argyll.

  Middlesex stared at the table and when he raised his head his eyes held a look of malicious intent.

  'She will do as she is told, as always.'

  'Good,' said Argyll.

  He looked around the room, could not stop his eyes lingering on Sweetlips and Bergerac, even though he tried not to. Finally he turned to Bethlehem.

  Bethlehem held his gaze. Sweetlips had been his principal negotiator on the contract. Bergerac had somehow inveigled herself along, and if he was honest, he had paid Barney Thomson to come because the man had worried him, and he thought it better to keep him in his sights.

  'There seem to be a lot of you,' said Argyll.

  'You are about to tell the Anglican church and all its members that they are to be re-united with Rome and once more come under the umbrella of the Vatican. We would have an easier time selling sand in Egypt. I thought it necessary.'

  Argyll grunted.

  'There will be a storm in a media tea cup, and all sorts of people who are not stakeholders in the situation, but who want to shout their mouths off, will do so. Eventually, however, time will pass, the Anglican church will re-align itself completely behind us, and things will fall into place. These are secular times. The time has come for the Christian church to regroup, to put down new roots and new foundations, so that it might once again begin to grow.'

  'A time for old alliances to be renewed,' said Bethlehem.

  Argyll raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Middlesex nodded.

  Argyll's PPS pushed three copies of a thick document across the table towards Middlesex. One of Middlesex's party reached out and placed the documents in front of Middlesex.

  'You've scrutinized every line?' asked Middlesex of the man on his right, in a rehearsed conversation opener.

  'There are two or three minor points which I feel need addressing at this stage,' he replied, and the two sides squared up across the table. Argyll shook his head and wondered if this would be a classic Anglican filibuster.

  Barney Thomson switched off. This was what all the secrecy was about. The Anglican church realigning with Rome, and Thomas Bethlehem had been brought in to sell it to a sceptical congregation. If there was actually a congregation left.

  'Does it make your blood run cold?' asked Bergerac in a low voice, looking round at Barney.

  Barney stared into the dark, dead eyes.

  'What d'you mean?' he asked.

  'Well, you know, all this religious shit. It's not for the likes of us. We're ... . too dangerous, too rebellious. Too damned interesting.'

  'I don't think I'd group you and me together,' said Barney a little uncomfortably.

  Bergerac smiled.

  'Why not? You sold your soul to the Devil ... I am the Devil ... '

  She smiled wickedly. Barney looked into the horrible depths of the eyes and turned away. And, for seemingly the hundredth time in his life, he felt the horrible bugs of fear crawl up his spine.

  The voices droned on around him. He paid no attention. Bethlehem was engaged, unlike the rest of his group. Bergerac was listening with detached amusement. Sweetlips was just detached, edgy, twitchy, the nervous energy building up to her final, brutal revenge on the man she had hated for so many years.

  Barney pushed his chair away from the table and walked to the window. The conversation continued unabated behind him. Everyone there knew that Barney Thomson was not a character who was central to proceedings.

  He stood at the window, looking out at the black water. The loch was about thirty yards away through the darkness, and with the dim lights behind him he was mostly looking at his own reflection, but there was a clear sky and a large, low moon which he could see reflected on the water.

  The place where he had disposed of Chris Porter's body; the loch beside which he had stood in the pouring rain as four police officers had murdered each other in a petty squabble over who had arrest rights on Barney Thomson. The place where his utterly bizarre life had truly begun.

  And where it would now end. Of that, as he felt the burning stare of Taylor Bergerac slice through his back and through his soul and the very kernel of his id, he was sure.

  ***

  Daniella Monk was crouched low behind a tree, looking up at the window of the small hut by the shores of Loch Lubnaig. Barney Thomson had just walked to the window and was looking out over the grim, dark water.

  Her heart was cartwheeling.

  'Aw crap, Barney,' she said. 'You had to prove Frankenstein right. What on earth are you doing here?'

  She could hear the sound of the loch lapping softly on the shore behind her. Rain in the air, a cold night.

  'Something's going to happen,' she muttered at the dark night. 'There's too much weird shit going on, too many weird people collected in one room. Crap.'

  Barney had moved away from the window again and had sat back down beside the evil Taylor Bergerac.

  Did she wait here until someone got killed, or did she just pick her moment and burst in? Waiting for the moment seemed more sensible, but then what if someone really did get killed and what if that person was Barney Thomson?

  ***

  Voices were being raised, the discussion of the last-minute minor details not going well. Barney had wandered off again, found the kitchen, made some coffee and had set it out on the table for anyone who wanted it.

  Bethlehem was becoming agitated that the two parties seemed further apart than they had when they'd started the negotiations. However it turned out, it did not look like there would be any signing that night. Harlequin Sweetlips was becoming agitated that the evening was dragging on without getting to the main event.

  Taylor Bergerac was not in the least agitated. It wasn't like she didn't have a vested interest in the future of the various Christian churches, but this evening she had a devil-may-care attitude about her which she couldn't shake off. In any case, she was here to conclude her final piece of business with Barney Thomson. The absurd church argument was of secondary importance.

  'And then there's this God business,' said Middlesex angrily. That drew the attention of those who had been slowly losing interest in the discussion, and those who'd had no interest in the first place.

  'Isn't God why we're
here in the first place?' said Argyll, softly.

  'I don't mean that,' said Middlesex. 'This blasted God story that's all over the place. Everyone's talking about it. It's all over the bloody internet. Some blasted charlatan is going around helping people out and saying that in return they must spend eternity in Heaven. Selling their souls to God, that's what they're calling it. Some nutjob's even started a website sellyoursoultogod.com. It's an outrage.'

  Bethlehem had heard about the meeting his guys had had with the God figure, and kept his head down. Taylor Bergerac snorted.

  'And what's this got to do with us?' asked Argyll.

  'Well, obviously it's just the kind of stunt you lot would pull,' said Middlesex.

  'Outrage!' barked Argyll.

  'Come on,' said Middlesex, getting down to his streetfighter roots, 'it has Vatican-sponsored written all over it. You lot are so desperate you'll do anything.'

  'You outrageous son of a bitch!' cried the Vatican representative. 'If you ask me it is time to leave.'

  'And you, Sir,' said Argyll to Middlesex, 'are so desperate that you will stoop to getting into bed with the Catholic church.'

  He spat the words out across the table, laced with irony, sarcasm, and all the demented religious fervour that he could muster. Despite the talks of the last few months, despite the gains that both sides could see from some kind of union, they just couldn't cast centuries of hatred and religious divide aside for the sake of a little political expediency.

  'I think it might be time to leave,' said Middlesex, although he did not move.

  'At least we agree on something,' said Argyll, standing abruptly.

  As Argyll's aides rose to join him, Bethlehem, who was looking at his largest contract being flushed down the toilet, reached out across the table.

  'Gentlemen, please!' he implored. He hesitated as he realised that he wasn't entirely sure what to say that would heal centuries of enmity, bitterness, division and acrimony. 'You know, think about God and stuff,' he finally said.

  Everyone stared. Bethlehem wilted, not entirely sure where that line had come from. He had lost his mojo in five fleeting seconds.

  'We can do a re-package,' he added, desperately. 'You know, the whole Catholic-Protestant reunion thing. It'll be like Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park.'

  Argyll and Middlesex both looked at Bethlehem with contempt, then cast an angry glance at each other.

  'How much are you paying this idiot?' asked Argyll, and then he quickly walked from the room with the two members of his team. His PPS stopped at the door and looked back over the assembled company.

  'Can you turn out the lights?' he said, a weak parting line as the Catholic church strode off into the night.

  Middlesex looked angrily at Bethlehem once more, as if the whole thing was his fault. The meeting had fallen apart, and now there was nothing left except the representatives of a renegade group of Anglicans, and their overpaid help from the City.

  The room was quiet. They could hear the muffled sound of car doors being opened and slammed shut. The engine started, the car driving quickly off into the cold night.

  The two sides looked across the table at each other. Harlequin Sweetlips' fingers twitched.

  The door opened.

  The Agatha Christie Moment Turns Nasty

  The man closed the door slowly behind Him, then walked around the table and sat down in the seat recently vacated by the Catholic church. Everyone was looking at the newcomer with some curiosity, and all were aware that a strange but charismatic presence had walked into their midst. Only Bergerac seemed unimpressed.

  'Look what the cat dragged in,' she muttered under her breath. One or two of the others looked at her. God gave her the eyebrow.

  'That's the Catholics gone, is it?' He said, looking around the assembled company.

  Everyone seemed a little too in awe of Him to speak, even though they didn't actually know who He was.

  'There were certain matters of small print on which we failed to meet agreement,' said Middlesex, finally finding his voice. 'Perhaps you might enlighten us as to whom it is I am speaking?' he added, feeling strangely impertinent as the words crossed his lips.

  God snorted and rolled His eyes.

  'Trust you not to know,' He said.

  'Listen, Dude,' said Bethlehem, leaning forward. 'Maybe you could help out a little here. We're in crisis. We were on the point of doing this big thing, you know, an actual thing, real news, creating history, but there's just the odd sticking point. Maybe you could help us out. Not sure who you are, but I could take you on as, I don't know, on a temp basis for this project. See how you get on.'

  'That's very magnanimous of you,' said God, 'but I'll pass. I just thought I'd come in here, amongst all you conspirators and murderers and suspects and victims, and get a front row seat. Privilege of rank.'

  Barney Thomson closed his eyes. Had a horrible feeling that this was going to be about him. Bethlehem and Middlesex looked confused.

  'Suspects ... .murderers ... ?' mumbled Middlesex.

  'Victims?' said Bethlehem.

  'Your capacity to plot and conspire and finagle is remarkable given your downright stupidity. In case you hadn't noticed, this small collective here includes a murderer, another killer whose blame has not yet been entirely determined, a murder suspect, at least two impending victims, a Supreme Being and a fallen angel, albeit one with, I have to grudgingly concede, phenomenal powers.'

  Bergerac didn't look up but did at least nod an acknowledgement to God for the compliment.

  'There's a police officer outside waiting to see if anything happens, which is very prescient of her, don't you think?' added God.

  Barney looked up from the table. They were in Scotland. It could be any police officer, but there had only been one female police officer involved in the mayhem up to this point. He rose quickly and stood at the window, looking out into the night.

  It was dark, too dark to see. Shadows and shapes of bushes and the moon glinting off the water. He glanced over his shoulder at God.

  'Wave her in,' said God casually. The more the merrier.

  Barney held His gaze for a second and then turned back. Somehow he now knew where to look, and he stared into the bushes without being able to see anything and indicated for Monk to come inside.

  He repeated the gesture, was aware of some movement in the direction he was looking, and then turned and walked back uncertainly to the table.

  Aware that there was another coming to join them, there was an instant hiatus in conversation. Middlesex was on the point of leaving. The whole thing had been a disaster, and he was no longer entirely sure why he was there. There was just something about this man at the table.

  Middlesex's two aides, Yigael Simon, who had previously taken such a dislike to Frankenstein and Monk, and his colleague, to whom he was inexorably linked, Maurice Garfunkel, were getting twitchy. Garfunkel had no idea what was going on, was beginning to feel frightened of what he was being dragged into. Simon, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on, and had even less reason to want to stay.

  The door opened again. Everyone turned. Monk walked into the room, looking a lot more relaxed and sure of herself than she felt. She closed the door behind her. Her gaze automatically fell on Barney Thomson and they looked at each other with concern.

  'Who are you?' said Bethlehem gruffly. Usually the master of control, Bethlehem felt that things were getting a little out of hand. The deal was shot. There didn't seem to be any point in still being there.

  'Detective Sergeant Monk,' she replied, then she sat down in the seat next to Barney. Silently and without a look, their hands joined under the table, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Harlequin Sweetlips.

  'So, Sergeant,' said God folding His arms and kicking back, 'this is fun. Is this the part, now that you've got everyone gathered together, where you reveal who the murderer is?'

  Monk stared back at God, unsure as to why this man made her feel slightly inti
midated and yet strangely relaxed.

  'What murders?' said Bethlehem.

  Monk turned, a look of curious disdain on her face. Detached her hand from Barney's. There was work to be done. She needed to give herself a shake and try to take some control of this situation.

  'Your staff, you idiot,' she threw across the table at him.

  'Oh,' said Bethlehem.

  Her eyes swept round the table, taking it all in. She had no idea if the murderer was here. They had hardly progressed at all in the investigation, and there were too many people in attendance whom she didn't recognise. And yet, murderers usually came from within. It was not entirely unlikely the killer would be present, and since there were only two other women, it narrowed the field. However, she decided to start with what she knew, and so she turned to Middlesex.

  'I asked you earlier today what dealings you had with Bethlehem, Forsyth and Crane, and you implied you had none.'

  'I didn't say that. I cannot be blamed for what information you choose to draw from a conversation.'

  'Cut the crap,' said Monk. 'You were evasive and clearly you had something to hide. Maybe now that you've been caught at the same table, you can be honest about your fingerprints on the murder weapons.'

  'Outrage!' cried Middlesex. 'You cannot make that kind of accusation in public'

  'It's not an accusation,' she said. 'It's the truth.'

  'It is inappropriate in this company,' barked Middlesex.

  'I already knew, Bud,' said God glibly.

  'Me too,' added Bergerac, raising her hand. She was getting a bit bored and was wondering when the fun was going to start.

  'Me too,' added Sweetlips, lips smiling sweetly.

  Monk looked at the three of them, something telling her that it was normal for Bergerac and God to know, but that there was something going on with Sweetlips.

  'And just, you know, who the fuck are you?' she said, looking at Sweetlips. 'You just always seem to be around.' She paused, then threw in Frankenstein's joke, as if marking his absence. 'You're not a bad penny, you're a biblical plague.'