The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Yet, it was me you hated,' said Bethlehem, smugly, 'and I'm still in charge of the company. You always were a screw-up, Marge.'

  'I've killed your people!' she screamed.

  'I don't care,' said Bethlehem slowly. 'Really, I don't give a shit. Go back to London and kill some more of them. I'll give you their addresses if you like.'

  'So,' said Monk, 'Middlesex hired you to market some Anglican thing, and we all know that any change in the church is going to have a lot of people pissing in their pants.'

  'Exactly,' said Bethlehem, before Sweetlips could get in with any of her wild cackling. 'There was all sorts of weird religious shit going on, that I didn't really get involved in. This guy,' he added, waving a slightly offended finger at Middlesex's corpse, 'was always talking about judgement day and the end of days, and all that stuff. The end is nigh, for goodness sake. He thought that Christianity should present a united face at the time of their final judgement, wanted to reunite with Rome.'

  'As if that would help,' said God bitterly.

  Monk turned and looked at God. She recognised Him from somewhere.

  'And you,' she said, turning back to Sweetlips, 'were working with Bethlehem, but at the same time you were hired by this other party to spike the deal. So you started committing murder, didn't matter who, but it suited you for it to be at Bethlehem's firm. The plan was that you'd work with Simon to implicate Middlesex as a murderer, so that ultimately this breakaway thing he was doing would fail.'

  Sweetlips smiled, but now the smile seemed more psychotic than sweet. Harlequin Psycholips.

  'Well, aren't you just the right little Inspector Fucking Morse?'

  'Why didn't you just kill Middlesex in the first place?' said Bethlehem.

  'That would've made him a martyr. The plan was to ruin him, turn him into a murdering scumbag, to crush his ideals at the same time as crushing him.'

  'Whose plan was it?' asked Bethlehem. 'To scupper the deal?'

  Sweetlips laughed. 'The queue was this long,' she said. 'No one likes that amount of messing with the establishment.'

  Suddenly there was a loud sucking noise as Bergerac drained the bottom of her giant cup. Everyone turned.

  'What?' she said. 'Don't mind me. This is like watching the last five minutes of Miss Marple.'

  'And Jesus,' said Bethlehem, 'who are you going to turn out to be?'

  'Well, I'm not Jesus ... ' said Bergerac.

  'Ain't that the truth,' said God glibly, cutting in.

  'And where did you get the popcorn and medium diet drink?'

  Attention distracted, Sweetlips saw her chance. His head turned from her, Bethlehem was a sitting duck. Despite knowing it was inevitable, Monk still did not see it coming, as Sweetlips suddenly took the ultimate revenge she had been plotting for years, the revenge which she had put herself through so much to be able to enact.

  In a flurry of arms and legs she was on top of Bethlehem, wielding the knife with vicious strokes, scything side to side, flailing wildly, composure gone with the hedonistic act of ultimate retribution. Bethlehem yielded to her fury, his head an instant spurting mass of blood. Monk lunged across the room at Sweetlips, forcing her from him, throwing her to the floor. As she did so, the body of Bethlehem toppled off the seat, a slow, beautifully silent movement, until his bloody head smacked dully off the table and he crumpled horribly onto the floor.

  Immediately Sweetlips was on her feet, her clothes covered in Bethlehem's blood. Finally called into action, Barney leapt over the table to protect Monk, lest she be next in line; Monk struggled to her feet, breathing hard, poised for the fight. Sweetlips backed off, so that she was standing by the door, a few yards between her and each of her combatants.

  A few seconds while they all assessed the situation. Four down, two to go. Sweetlips covered in blood, a wild and crazy woman, capable of anything. Monk wanting to bring her down. Barney, once more in the midst of carnage and mayhem, yet suddenly he could see the Clyde stretching dull and grey before him as he stood at the window of his small barbershop, watching the gulls. And he relaxed, which was probably stupid given the situation, but he knew that was where he was going next. Not that far from where they now were, but a million miles away from the Harlequin Sweetlips and the Thomas Bethlehems and the Jude Orwells of this life.

  'Put the knife down,' said Barney.

  Sweetlips, breath coming hard through wild nostrils and lips that were no longer sweet, stared at him with a crazy smile. There was no way she was leaving this room in the company of anyone. From the off she had intended being the only one to walk out alive, and the fact that there were two strange guests that she wouldn't be dealing with had not changed her conviction.

  'Do what he says,' said Daniella Monk. 'Put the knife down, and we can talk about this.'

  All right, thought Monk, as Sweetlips burst into a really annoying cackle, that was a pretty stupid thing to say. When there's blood everywhere and a still-pumped lunatic with a blade, you don't talk about it. At least, the still-pumped lunatic with the blade doesn't talk about it.

  'You're next, sweetlips,' said Sweetlips, looking, as she said it, at Monk's lips, and thinking that, right enough, her lips were sweet. Then she looked sideways at Barney, who had taken a step or two towards her. 'Don't even think about it, Barn,' she said. 'It could be just you and me, you know. I've spared you so far. We could rule the world!'

  Barney gave her a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look.

  'How are you going to do that?' he asked. 'You going to murder everyone on the planet so that it's only the two of us left?'

  'Don't, Barney!' she shouted at him.

  'Well,' he said, 'that's like the stupidest thing I've ever heard any of you muppets say. Put the knife down and stop talking pish.'

  That's the way to do it. Make 'em feel small, that'll sort 'em out.

  She finally cracked, the smooth and elegant and graceful Harlequin Sweetlips having completely given way to the out-of-control monster, and with it, having given away her advantage. She charged at Barney, anger-driven, forgetting everything that had so far allowed her to dominate men, to kill them even when they threatened to fight back.

  Barney braced himself. Sweetlips lunged towards him, knife raised. Then with a sudden whack from the side, Sweetlips was reeling and Monk had knocked the knife from her hand. Sweetlips fell towards Barney and he did not hesitate in thumping her firmly in the face, a beautiful closed-fist punch that knocked her head back, as she fell to the ground. Face bloodied, Sweetlips spun away from them. Monk charged. Sweetlips was barely on her feet, then Monk was on top of her again, punching viciously at her head and throat. Sweetlips swung back, but she was on the defensive.

  Barney leapt across the room, lifted the knife. Knew what needed to be done. There were no half measures with someone like Harlequin Sweetlips.

  Monk planted a superb head-butt, middle of the face. Sweetlips' head jerked back, smacked off the floor. Monk grabbed her by the collar, setting her up for another forehead to the nose. But Sweetlips was too good for that, too good to have her arms allowed free. With massive force, she brought her hands up from the floor, the hard edges of her fists hitting either side of Monk's neck. Monk cried out, hands automatically going to the weakened area. Sweetlips pushed up, lifting Monk off her, and then reciprocated the head butt, a fabulous blow to the nose, splitting Monk's face apart, blood instantly leaping from the open wound.

  Monk fell back, two blows and almost defeated; Sweetlips jumped on top of her, hands reaching for the neck. Harlequin Sweetlips could snap a neck in two seconds; trained by the appropriate Americans.

  Then, as her hands found their way round the defenceless, bruised neck of Daniella Monk, Sweetlips jerked upwards, her grip turning limp, as her own knife was thrust powerfully into the top of her spine. She spun round as the knife was removed, so that when Barney thrust down with the follow-up jab, it was into her neck. Sweetlips, her eyes locked on Barney Thomson, the man whom she had spared and who had fin
ally stabbed her in the back right enough, fell away, and slumped down dead onto the floor.

  Barney stood over her, breathing hard, eyes cold, his heart strangely calm. Made sure she was dead, lolled her head from side to side with his foot. Bent down, checked for breath, which he knew was not going to be there. Yet he felt that Sweetlips was a woman of that quality. You might never be sure.

  He contemplated another thrust of the knife, decided against. The woman was dead. He looked at Monk, who had sat up, blood and tissue spread across her face, one hand on her nose, the other at her neck. She looked down at Sweetlips, stricken at last.

  'That went about as well as could be expected,' said Barney, and Daniella Monk gurgled a painful laugh through the blood.

  The sound of the hand clap was slow and quiet and filled with derision. They turned quickly, expecting to see the laughing face of Bergerac.

  There was no one there. Bergerac was gone. The man whose name they had never learned was also gone. Barney and Monk were alone with five dead bodies, and all that remained was an air of malice and of unfinished business.

  The Last Judgement Of Barney Thomson

  The cyclical nature of things being as they are, Barney sat down once more beside Monk as she lay in a hospital bed. She had massive bruising to the neck, a bandage over her nose, and bruising around the eyes. He had no injuries, just another dead body on his hands. Monk had gone straight to hospital, nothing too serious. Barney had been taken into custody, having owned up to the murder of Sweetlips. He had expected to spend rather a long time there, but a strangely rational senior detective had listened without judgement to Barney's story, and then released him on the grounds that he did not intend fleeing the country.

  'You look awful,' said Barney.

  Monk smiled through the bruises and the bandage.

  'How come you're here?' she asked, voice sounding a little strange, what with her nose being bandaged and an odd shape at that.

  'No idea,' said Barney. 'Told some detective my story, he listened, then he let me go. I'm not allowed to leave the country, apparently. So I'm afraid we'll have to cancel that trip to the Seychelles.'

  Monk smiled.

  'That was the weirdest evening I've ever had in my life,' she said.

  'I suppose,' said Barney. 'It's certainly in my top ten.'

  Monk started to laugh and then quickly stopped herself, as the movement was so uncomfortable.

  Another silence. All along Monk, despite herself, had not failed to see Sweetlips as some sort of love rival. But there's nothing to make your girlfriend more secure about a potential love rival, than stabbing the potential love rival in the back. That'll do it every time.

  'So, now that you're back in Scotland, are you staying?' she asked.

  'Thought I might,' said Barney. 'Can't leave the country.'

  She nodded, winced at the pain the movement caused her.

  'Are you looking for company?' she asked.

  Her eyes were bright in amongst the discolouration of her face.

  'You sure you want to stay up here?' asked Barney. 'It rains a lot.'

  'I've heard that. I can cope with it for a few days. Maybe a week or two. See how we get on, eh?'

  'Aye,' said Barney. 'Course there are people who come here for a week or two and end up staying forever. You've got to be careful of that.'

  Monk's hand appeared from under the covers, much as it had when she had been visited by God the previous night. Barney stretched forward and took hold of her fingers, a touch that was electric for them both, then the two of them settled back and looked into each other's eyes.

  ***

  An hour later, Monk having drifted off to sleep, Barney tore himself away from her side and walked down the corridor to the coffee machine. He stopped suddenly as he was walking into the small waiting area.

  There were two people there, sitting a few seats apart, both drinking coffee, waiting for him.

  'Very touching,' said Taylor Bergerac. 'Time to pack your bags.'

  Barney felt that cold grip on his spine, the old familiar feeling, the sensation of fear which he had lost years previously, but which had been re-introduced to him by Harlequin Sweetlips in all her various guises.

  'Hold onto your hat,' said God. 'As my good mate Bob wrote, you ain't goin' nowhere.'

  Bergerac slurped noisily at the coffee, winced, cursed under her breath.

  'Damn, that coffee's still hot. Keeps burning my lips.'

  'Well, there's some sort of irony,' said God.

  'Bite me,' snapped Bergerac.

  Barney shook his head, then walked forwards slowly and sat down opposite the two of them. He leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair.

  What had he been thinking? That a happy life with Monk on his small Scottish island awaited him? How foolish and premature.

  Slowly he lifted his head, looked from Bergerac to God.

  'God?' he asked tentatively.

  God nodded, aware that it was a pretty big concept for people to grasp.

  'Why are you here?'

  'I have a vested interest,' replied God. Bergerac snorted, then took another careful sip of coffee as God gave her an angry look.

  'You mean, beyond the fact that you have an interest in all people?'

  'Piece of crap,' interrupted Bergerac. 'This guy is mine, all mine, and under the Tripoli Convention there's nothing you can do about it. Nothing. So cut the crap and let's get this thing over with. Barney Thomson is mine, I'm calling him in, and. ... ' and she hesitated, then looked from God to Barney, 'you are dead, my friend.'

  Barney wanted to be phlegmatic about this, he wanted to summon every reserve of indifference he could muster, he wanted to ooze cool, he wanted to be James Bond. But suddenly he was scared and he found that he had no strength to fight it.

  'The Tripoli Convention?' he said, looking up at God.

  God was shaking His head, staring at the floor.

  'One of the old deals we worked out millennia ago. If one of us does a deal with the living which affects their eternal soul, the other can't interfere. That's how it goes.'

  'And,' said Bergerac, 'if a further deal is unwittingly done by the other party, that deal is null and void as precedence is always given to the original deal, unless both signatories are willing to overlook the primary agreement. And I'm not. Look, I've invested a lot in this guy. I toyed with him, I plunged him into endless situations with murderers, I've had fun. I particularly liked all those dead monks.'

  'Bastard,' muttered God.

  'Not to mention bringing him back from the dead, of my own accord, I might add, after he'd fallen off that cliff. The dude is mine.'

  God leaned back, let out a long sigh.

  'Crap,' He muttered. 'I'm going to have to get my people to take a look at that Convention again.'

  'Yeah,' said Bergerac, 'and then my people are going to bite your people on the ass. Don't even go there, pal.'

  Bergerac stood up, took another sip from the endless cup of caffeine.

  'Come on, dude, I've wasted enough time on this.'

  She held her hand out towards Barney. Barney Thomson raised his head, looked into the eyes of Taylor Bergerac, eyes that burned a deep and dark spiteful red.

  Third time unlucky. Confused and scared, no real idea of where he had gone wrong in life, Barney Thomson was about to die.

  He looked at God, feeling helpless. 'I don't understand,' said Barney. 'What deal do I have with you?'

  'Well, as part of the convention, I'm not really supposed to tell you, but seeing as you're about to get stiffed ... You died a coupla days ago.'

  'No I didn't,' said Barney quickly.

  Bergerac snorted again.

  'Yes, you did,' said God. 'In the car crash. Not realising that you had a deal going on with Scrooge over there, I did a deal with your girlfriend, your life for her eternal soul. Under the general quid pro quo of the deal, you'd get to spend eternity with her too. Except,
you can't, and my deal is null and void, because you already had one.'

  Barney looked up at God. Barney's normally impassive face was laden with sadness for once. Barney Thomson finally had something to regret after years of self-delusion and years on the run from life. There was no cosy little barber's shop that could save him from this. There would be no more old men sitting in front of him chatting casually about women and the world banking crisis and whether Nietszche was gay.

  'Fuck,' he said to God, and God nodded and shrugged His shoulders.

  'That's what you get when you shake hands with the Devil,' He said.

  Barney finally lifted his elbows from his knees and straightened his back. Some time and at some point you had to face the consequences, and whoever said those consequences weren't going to last for all eternity?

  Taylor Bergerac was standing over him, a wicked smile on her face.

  'Come in Number Seven,' she said rather prosaically, 'your time's up.'

  She held out her hand again, her face somehow managing to radiate warmth, rather than the horrific malevolence of what lay beneath.

  Barney looked into the red eyes and felt empty inside, all hope lost, the confused choirs of angels that had sung through his life now chanting a mournful lament for his imminent demise. The game was up, his number had been called. He lifted his hand.

  'Hang on a second,' barked God, standing up and pushing Bergerac in the shoulder, away from Barney's outstretched hand. It seemed a curiously thuggish physical act from an omnipotent being.

  'For Christ's sake,' said Bergerac, her eyes flashing a violent red once more. 'What now? Can't I just do my job in peace?'

  God studied Bergerac's face closely. Barney looked up at the two of them, no real clue as to what was going on.

  'What?' said Bergerac, trying to stand up to God's glare. But there was no denying, sometimes she just plain found God intimidating. And on this occasion, she realised that God was on to her.

  God turned to Barney, although every now and again He cast a disdainful look back at Bergerac.

  'Here's how it works. You, some guy, whoever, let's call him the customer, does a deal with me or this idiot. We shake on it. That's the deal. The customer shakes hands with the Devil, or he accepts the Hand of God, that's him cast in stone. So, the next day the customer wakes up and doesn't remember a thing. He'll get in life what it was he wanted, and then when the time comes, either me or Captain Connivance here will pitch up and reintroduce him to the original deal he made.'