The Barbershop Seven (101 page)

She shook her head and started to fuss around the room. Something to tell him with which he was not going to be too pleased. Should have discussed it with him before she'd done it, but she knew he would have talked her out of it. Had to be done though. Just had to be.

'Something serious with that lot up by,' she said. 'There's something funny going on.'

'Thing is,' he said, spraying a couple of small pieces of tomato onto the table, 'they obviously just don't spend money on milk float technology in this country. Here we are, the beginning of the third goddam millennium, and we've done all sorts of different shit. There's been men on the moon, there's digital TV, there's electric toothbrushes – hell, they're even cloning goddam pigs, for Chrissake – but we still can't get a milk float to safely convey five hundred pints of the stuff quicker than fifty goddam yards every three days. Those damned things just clog up the roads. Pain in the ass.'

'I really ought to tell you something.'

'Course, it's not really the technological aspects of it that's the problem. In the States they've got milk floats can do nought to sixty in under three seconds, without breaking a bottle. The problem is, you people are too damned interested in saving money. That's all you're about.'

Hertha Berlin had started pacing; biting her bottom lip, rubbing her thumb into the palm of her hand. The handyman bit massively into another burger, even though he hadn't finished the one he still had bits of in his mouth.

'You're no' listening to me,' she said, no longer looking at him. On the other side of the kitchen, staring at the cold stone floor.

'Sure I'm listening, honey. I'm just not interested. Those folks upstairs can just keep themselves to themselves far as I'm concerned. I'm talking about milk floats, baby. You see, you can tell a lot about a country from their milk floats ...'

'Would you listen!' she suddenly snapped. Tongue like a snake, zipping out. Eyes blazing, with fear and worry as well as annoyance. He did go on sometimes, her handyman. Her glorious, wonderful handyman.

The glorious, wonderful handyman giggled. Showed the pieces of burger bun stuck to his teeth.

'Sounds like you must be menstruating, honey. Thought you were too old for all that shit. Obviously everything's still in fine working fettle, eh? What d'ya say, honey?'

'I've called the police,' she said quickly, just to get it out. Let the words out into the open and braced herself for the reaction. Should have discussed it before I did it, she thought, and repeated the phrase over and over in her head.

He paused, ninety per cent eaten burger in one hand, twenty-three per cent eaten burger in the other. A soggy cornflake – Berlin knew that the handyman liked all kinds of things in his burgers – dropped from his mouth and onto the table. Some strange liquid concoction that he was intending for his late supper came to the boil on the huge old Aga which steamed away in the corner.

'What? You're kidding me. You called the Feds? Why the damned screaming children of Moses did you call the Feds? You know what you've done? We can't have the damn Feds all over the joint.' He stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. Stretched his hands out in appeal to her, a burger in each.

'I had to. There's something not right, you know?' she said, voice pleading.

'What? What's not right? What are you saying, honey? You called the Feds and said “Excuse me, there's something not quite right, can you send a SWAT team?” You said that? What?'

'Surely you can see it. They're a funny bunch and no mistake. Three of them have gone missing, you know that? I mean, why come all the way down here from the Big Smoke, and then not eat your dinner?'

The handyman waved a burger.

'You called the police and said that some of our guests didn't eat dinner? That's an offence in this country?'

'It's not just that,' she said. Rattled. Confused. Wondering whether she was going to look stupid when the police arrived.

'What, then? Someone look at you funny? Did you not like somebody's aftershave? What? I said you must be menstruating.'

'There's those two strangers just arrived. I didn't like the look of them. And now there's three from our lot left with them to go down to the kirk.'

The handyman spread his arms, shrugged, seemed to relax. 'At last, I can see your point. Going to church on a Sunday. That is criminal.'

The calm before the storm.

'What is the matter with you! Who cares if they go to the damned church? I don't care. I don't care if they go to the damned church. Jesus, I'm just a bigga bigga bigga hunka nerves right now, honey. A big hunka nerves.'

'The phone lines are down!' she said, ever more exasperated. 'I had to use Mr Thornton's mobile.'

'Jeez Louise, baby, there's a storm a-blowing out there. These damned lines are always down.'

'There's more.'

He dropped his shoulders, let his expressive burgers fall to his side. He breathed deeply and let the air slowly out through his nose. Finally gave her the time of day. He did, after all, have a soft spot for Hertha Berlin.

'Go on, honey, I'm listening to ya.'

'One of the strangers,' she said. 'I was listening at the door, and he said that the minister down at the kirk was a lovely man. A lovely man, I tell you, that's what he said.'

'And?'

'Well, everyone knows the Reverend Rolanoytez is a total bastard.'

The handyman was not sure what to do. So he took a large but unfulfilling bite from one of his burgers. Technically an illegal immigrant, unknown to the taxman and with more people to hide from than just the authorities, the handyman could have done without the unwanted attentions of the police. Not if they were going to start snooping around his business. He crammed the last of both burgers into his mouth, so that his fat cheeks were huge and bloated and misshapen, then pushed his seat away and walked around the table.

'Ighths tgmhhym tghg ghhgh, hchughny,' he said.

Hertha Berlin stared at him, much in the same way as she'd once stared at Dr Jorg Franks in the heart of the Brazilian jungle.

The handyman chewed quickly, swallowing large chunks of something which could almost pass as meat. Soon finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

'It's time to go, honey,' he said. 'I can't wait for these guys. And when the Feds arrive, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my name.'

My God, what have I done? Hertha Berlin looked stone-faced across the kitchen at the man she had loved these past twenty years or so. A silent adoration, and now one pointless, stupid act and he was about to leave. Did not even think of rushing to the phone and calling them off, for he had nailed his colours firmly to the mast. Giving her instructions on what to do when the police arrived. Not a thought of asking her to go with him. But then, why should he? She was an unattractive old woman in her seventies. Older even than her years, after all the things she'd seen. Wrinkled and pale, ugly grey hair and the definite substance of a moustache. Humourless and severe in equal measure, which no lightness of thought or heart would ever be able to penetrate. Why should this man who had been with so many women show even the slightest interest in her?

For years she had contented herself with what she had. She saw him every day, she cooked for him, they talked. What more could she ask for? There were millions out there who would die for the same privilege. And now, with one thoughtless act, she had tossed it all to the wind.

'Of course not,' she said. Voice stern, as ever.

The handyman nodded and strode quickly to the door, muttering as he went, 'Probably done me a favour, honey. I shoulda left this place years ago.'

He paused in the doorway; her heart fluttered in an instant of hope, then leapt as he turned and looked at her.

Say something! Say anything! If not you, then I must, she thought. But words of hope or appreciation or love or even desperation were not her words, and in an instant the moment would be gone.

He nodded at her, and could not think of much to say to this woman who had been his cook for over twenty years. As stern and unforgiving as the first day he'd seen her. He wrongly assumed that she had hated cooking every meal she'd ever had to make for him. That was what everyone had always assumed by the cold front to the unbeknown warm heart of Hertha Berlin.

'Thanks, honey,' said the handyman.

Berlin's mouth opened and not so much as a breath was released. The handyman gave her a few seconds and was not surprised by the frosty heart presented to him. And so, with a nod of the head, he was gone.

The door closed, the handle clicked loud in the silence. Hertha Berlin stood and looked at the end of her sad little fantasies and dreams.

He would not be gone immediately. He would be down to his house to pack the few essentials she knew he kept close to his heart. There was time yet to go after him, to tell him everything she felt. But she could sit there for a hundred years and never think of a reason for him to be interested in her.

And so she dropped down into the warm seat that he had just vacated, pulled it up to the table, rested her elbows in among the burger crumbs and pieces of tomato, held her head in her hands and, for the first time in over sixty years, her face wrinkled in emotion, her chest heaved, and she began to sob.

But no tears came, so she would not even have that release. So many years of suppressed emotion and she was a tangle of conflicting thoughts and passions and jealousies and sorrows. The man she loved was gone, and she could not even weep for him.

Hertha Berlin hung her head low.

––––––––

... f
our forlorn figures, heads bowed into the falling rain. And Socrates.

Barney contemplating the immediate future, feeling sure that his ultimate fate awaited him. There was a point to every recurring dream, and now it stood before him, arms open, ready to welcome him into its evil fold for all eternity.

Katie Dillinger contemplated the future of her group, which she had moulded and cajoled and inspired for years. On the verge of falling to pieces, or perhaps having already done so. Maybe it had all been much more to do with Arnie Medlock than she'd supposed. And now that he had suddenly disappeared, all cohesion was gone. He'd been the glue that had bound them together, not herself, as she'd always thought. No more Arnie, and the group was dead. She realised it, as finally and surely as Hertha Berlin had realised that she would never see the handyman again. And that Arnie had been murdered by one of the group, of that she was equally convinced. It was not like him to just disappear. A good man, Arnie Medlock.

Mulholland contemplated the future. Marriage. Every day, more or less, with Erin Proudfoot. A big decision, made as easily as deciding on breakfast cereal. A lifetime of compromise, not getting everything, or anything, you wanted. Children? Hadn't even discussed it, but then didn't all women want children? It was one of their things. They want to sleep with Sean Connery, they want at least ten children, and when they hit sixty they start knitting. Mulholland had them sussed, and now he was about to commit himself to one for the rest of his life. That seemed a very, very long time.

Proudfoot wondered if she'd like a boy or a girl.

Concentrating on the offspring question, because she didn't want to contemplate the reality of what she was about to do. Commit to someone for the rest of her life.

It seemed right, but it also seemed madness. A romantic story to tell their grandchildren – if they missed out all the stuff about multiple murders – but that was only if they survived together long enough to start a family. What if they hated it?

Socrates minced along the road, wondering what the basic guidelines were in life on hitting on a bird who was just about to get married. Proudfoot, despite the worry on her face, beat Katie, Annie and Ellie any day. Maybe not put together, because Socrates wouldn't have thrown any of those three out of bed for farting biscuits. But Proudfoot had got to be worth a go. Despite the presence of her boyfriend no more than ten yards away.

So, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a mound ...

'What's the score then, hen?' he said, dropping in line beside her. Rule 1 of the unsolicited approach. Keep it simple. If that doesn't work, move casually on through the other five rules.

Proudfoot raised her eyes from the road and looked at him. Wondered what demons had dragged Socrates into the bosom of alcohol.

'How do you mean that?' she asked, disinterested.

'You and the big guy,' he said. 'You don't look too happy there.'

'We're OK,' she said.

Socrates hummed and raised his eyes. Saw an opportunity.

'You sure you know what you're doing, hen? You're a good-looking bird. Maybe you'd be better off with some smooth bastard rather than your miserable friend here.'

'Like you?' she said, smiling.

'Aye, well, aye,' he said. 'I'm glad you noticed. Smooth, erudite and available. That's me.'

'Available?'

'Oh aye. I was going out with a bird until a few week ago, but it went tits up.'

'Oh aye?'

'Aye. Accused her of shagging for biscuits one night and she buggered off.'

'Shame.'

'I know. I was a bit pissed and my tongue got the better of me. Told her a few truths. So she kicked me in the ba's, broke my Beatles CDs in half and urinated all over my settee.'

'Vicious.'

'That last one was a bit of a turn-on to be honest, but after the toe in the nuts I was hardly in a position to do anything.'

'Too bad.'

'Aye,' he said, and stared contemplatively at the ground. 'Still, I was right. She did shag for biscuits. Anyway, the point is, I'm free and all yours. What about it?'

'I'm damp.'

'Really?'

'If I wasn't getting married tonight, I'd have you.'

'It's not too late,' he said hopefully, and in the dark he could still see the look she slung him and that was all it took.

He shrugged and moved a few feet away from her on the road. What the hey, it was worth the asking.