The Barbershop Seven (107 page)

'Buzz Lightyear?' he said quietly to himself. 'What in the name of fuck is that all about?'

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A
warm evening in August, the handyman did his final rounds. Checking doors were locked, computer terminals switched off, bins free of anything the cleaners ought not to be getting their hands on. It had been two years since Professor McLaurity had left a severed foot in the bucket, but it had been the first thing the handyman had been warned of when he'd arrived.

Not long in the job, but he already felt at home.

Checked the place out at the end of the day and at weekends; a few odd jobs around the building; shared a few cups of tea and the odd burger with the scientists; a few hours a day, and that was all it needed. Ten to twelve in the morning; a couple of hours of his choosing in the afternoon; nipped over from the house at close of play – sometimes after eleven – to check everything had been locked up. Easy. Hertha kept house for Professor Snake, who was about as nice an old man as you could have wished for, and the two of them couldn't have been happier.

The handyman wiped some dust from a laboratory table and made a mental note to check it again the following day after the cleaners had been in. Had to keep them on their toes. Wouldn't find dust like that if Hertha had been cleaning, he thought. And he laughed to himself.

'She sure is a feisty lady,' he said quietly, with a smile.

Hertha Berlin had blossomed. In a whole range of ways.

Still shaking his head and laughing, and already thinking of the night to come, he opened up the door at the end of the laboratory and stuck his head round. Looked at the long line of large jars filled with pink fluid.

They had done a bit of travelling, the handyman and Hertha Berlin. Had gone to all the handyman's old haunts. Memphis, Hawaii, Vegas, a few long, lonely highways. There had been some who'd recognised him, but no one had liked to say. After a few months they had returned to Scotland, had answered an ad in a local newspaper, and had settled down in the employ of the University of St Andrews.

The handyman looked along the line of jars and shook his head.

'There sure is some amount of weird shit going on,' he said. 'Weird goddam shit.'

The innocently titled Department of Human Biology contained many jars, with many body parts kept therein. In formaldehyde, or whatever fluid they could lay their hands on at the time. Limbs, organs, entrails, appendages, brains. They were all there.

The handyman looked into the Brain Room. Jar after jar of human brains. And in particular, since this was in support of Dr Gabriel's fifteen-year study on the physiology of the psychotic mind, the brains of ex-criminals; each jar neatly labelled. Malky Eight Feet. Brendan Buller, the Brechin Bastard. Wee Janice Twinklefingers. Dr Crevice. Captain Nutcruncher. Big Billy One Hand.

And so on the jars went. And right at the end, at eight months the most recent addition to the troupe, in a jar much like any other, the brain of the greatest serial killer that Scotland had ever known.

The brain of Barney Thomson.

The handyman shook his head again and flicked the light switch. Pulled the door closed and turned the key. Moved up to the secondary lock, then threw the dead bolt – as if any of the brains were getting out. Turned the tertiary lock, then locked the four padlocks. Finally zipped round the combination.

The Brain Room was the prized asset of the Department of Human Biology.

The handyman shook his head again and smiled.

'Weird goddam shit,' he said, twiddling the last knob. 'Still,' he added, beginning to walk off, already thinking of the quadruple pork burger with extra fries and mayonnaise which awaited him at home, 'there ain't no way there's any brains gonna get stolen outta that room. No way. There's none a these brains getting stolen and put into some weird goddam Frankenstein monster type a shit. No brains getting taken outta there, no siree. No siree.'

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Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

copyright © 2004 Douglas Lindsay

First published in 2004 by Long Midnight Publishing under the title
The King Was In His Counting House

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M
elanie Honeyfoot's life was conducted to the tunes of children's rhymes and TV themes, which constantly played in her head. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been; Bear In The Big Blue House; Tom & Jerry; To market, to market to buy a fat pig. Whatever seemed most appropriate at the time. She had found herself standing up in parliament arguing the finer points of a finance bill with her irritating opponent from the opposition, to the accompaniment of Winnie the Pooh. And every time she had to sit and listen to the First Minister, one of the old rhymes about kings came to her.

It wasn't that she had any children of her own. She had far too many things to achieve before she sacrificed her political ambitions at the altar of nine months of haemorrhoids, backache, alcohol deprivation, pâté and soft cheese deprivation, Prozac deprivation, chronic fatigue, heartburn, Carpal-tunnel syndrome, the inability to turn over in bed without the help of a crane, 24-hour vomiting and horrendous mental angst, concluding with God knows how many hours of screaming agony, to be swiftly followed by months of sleepless nights and tortured nipples, and years of no end of different types of stress and heartache.

The problem was that she had three brothers and four sisters, all of whom were festooned with children of various ages. All manner of the little buggers, whose company she was constantly forced to keep, and who were interested in her because they saw her on the television every so often, which made her almost on a par with Bob The Builder and Pingu.

She awoke on an unusually warm and sunny Thursday morning in mid-September, having dreamt about Rolie Polie Ollie's Uncle Gizmo. Not unusual in itself, although the sexual nature of the dream had been a little disconcerting. She lay with her eyes closed, Rolie's theme tune playing in her head. Thinking of the day ahead. The mundane drudgery of the boxes in the office that were going to have to be dealt with; the appearance on Scotland Today, something that always had her ridiculously dry-mouthed and weak-kneed; the early meeting with the First Minister, Jesse Longfellow-Moses; the two-minute appearance in front of parliament, all because that spineless little SNP twat wanted to get his own ugly mug on the box.

The meeting with the First Minister was the only item on the list which gave her even the merest ghost of excitement. In the year and three months since his re-election the man had become encumbered by the most insufferable self-importance. Now that they had finally moved into the new parliament building at the bottom of the Royal Mile, and JLM at last had an office that he could truly call his own, his conceit had even started outstripping his criminality. The back benches were rumbling and the muck-raking in the press about JLM, which had been running ever since he'd been elected – infidelity, dodgy-dealing, cronyism – had begun to intensify. The fact that it had started spreading to the cabinet was the really interesting thing.

She was just entering the fifteenth rendition of Rolie's theme, when something made her open her eyes and turn to her left. A slight movement.

She was not alone.

The sudden sight of the shock of black hair was a bit of a kick up the backside of her poise, as she hadn't realised that she'd spent the night in anyone's company. Certainly the previous evening had been very relaxed and suitably alcohol-fuelled, but it wasn't as if she was in the habit of forgetting entire nights of her life.

'Hello,' she said, after the little breath of air had escaped from the back of her throat.

'Morning,' said her bedfellow.

'Did we, eh...?' asked Honeyfoot.

'Have relations?'

Very old fashioned. Honeyfoot nodded. This was absurd. The previous night had seen the usual crew down at Beanscene – ministers, deputy ministers and varying degrees of sycophant – drinking too many vodka mixers, talking interminably about the role of the Executive and JLM's presidential inclinations, and listening to one of those bollock-thumping acoustic acts that Beanscene uncovered in spades. And, as usual, at a little before eleven o'clock, she had left the bar alone. [Honeyfoot imagined that her romantic ambitions lay splattered against the rocks of a) your average man's mistrust of a female politician, and b) the world's obsession with scrawny women. For she was, as they say, no stranger to a doughnut.]

'Yes,' said Honeyfoot, 'relations.'

'No, no relations, although, to be honest, I wouldn't say no if you were to offer.'

Honeyfoot looked away, and glanced at the digital clock. 0639. The morning was bright and the pale summer curtains – the woman in the shop had described their colour as
supreme of August beige
, as if they might be something you had served to you with broccoli and sautéed potatoes – barely kept out the light.

'You've spent the night, though?' asked Honeyfoot.

Her guest laughed lightly.

'No, no, you're getting the situation wrong. I've just arrived. I see where you're coming from, though.'

Honeyfoot looked with a little consternation, and pulled the light summer duvet – featuring a design styled
pycnidium blue
– up closer to her neck. Then she noticed that her visitor was fully clothed.

'Why?' was all she said at first.

'JLM sent me,' came the reply.

'At twenty to seven?'

'Well, he kind of left the timing up to me, you know.'

Honeyfoot was unimpressed. Rolie Polie Ollie had been replaced, for some reason that her mind would not have been able to fathom had she had the time to try, by Hey Diddle-Diddle.

'You couldn't have, like, knocked?' she said. 'And come at least an hour later?'

Her early morning visitor smiled.

'Well, you know, these things are better done at peculiar hours.'

'What things?' said Honeyfoot quickly. She wondered what was coming. JLM bloody well wasn't going to sack her, was he? That would be so typical of the man. She'd supported him all the way and now he was about to do the old Thatcher trick. Keep a constant turnover of government ministers so that no one individual had the chance to get their feet under the table, unless they were completely incompetent and therefore no threat to the seat of power. How many more of the cabinet would be getting these early morning visits? And from the likes of this clown? Who the Hell did JLM think he was?

'The bastard better not be about to fire me,' said Honeyfoot. She felt a bit ridiculous, having this conversation lying naked in bed, the covers at her chin, still a little damp after her Uncle Gizmo-fuelled erotic dream.

'Fire? No, no, not fire. Much too vulgar. Much.'

'What are you saying?' asked Honeyfoot quickly, heart rate increasing, suddenly very concerned, suddenly thinking that this wasn't going to be so ridiculous after all.

'Well, all right, maybe fire isn't so bad a word.'

There was a swift swish of arm against
pycnidium blue
duvet and Honeyfoot was looking at a 7.62mm calibre handgun with silencer attachment. She attempted the word 'what', but there came nothing but a strange little ejaculation of air.

The last thing she saw was the smile of her killer. All transpired so quickly, she didn't have time to move. Or think. Or react in any way. Just die.

Doof.

A sterile thud, and man that was all she wrote for Melanie Honeyfoot.

The blood soaked into the sheets and into the duvet cover, so that it began to look less like
pycnidium blue
and a bit more like
hacienda maroon
. And, as Honeyfoot's killer blew purposelessly over the top of the silencer and rose smoothly from the bed, the clock clicked round to 0640 and Good Morning Scotland blurted on, with talk of a warm front, sunny blue skies and an Indian summer.

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S
ometimes when the sun hits you first thing in the morning, bursting in through open curtains and creeping slowly across the floor, the warmth on your face is glorious. A delicious sensation that conjures up myriad remembrances; of warm summer days lying in fields, the buzz of insects and white clouds lazily drifting behind trees; of ice cream in the garden and adults drinking tea; of sandy beaches and laughing children and cold seas trundling facetiously up the sand; of long cycles along country lanes, the crunch of tyres on gravel, the bike juddering in your hands; of lying on grass-covered hills, the burble of a nearby stream mingling with the distant din of a jet, inching across the blue sky.

And sometimes it just plain bites you on the arse.

Barney Thomson sat up quickly in bed, the sun harsh on his face. He looked around the room and did not recognise it. Nothing. Not the maroon carpet, nor the walls painted cream to pick out the simple floral design on the floor, nor the rich furnishings, nor the clothes folded neatly over the back of a chair.

He let his head fall back onto his pillow and pulled the light, summer duvet over his face. Lying covered up, with his head enshrouded, somehow seemed more natural and the ugly sensation with which he had woken began to fade. And in his shroud he tried to remember where he was, but nothing would come, his brain shooting in a hundred directions at once.

The knocking at the door came again, and he realised it was that which had brought him so sharply from his dreamless slumber and not the sun. He pulled the cover quickly from his face and stared at the door. Deep mahogany, solid and stern.

'Come in,' he said, and he barely recognised his own voice or even the words that came out.

The door opened and a young woman walked in, carrying a tray of breakfast materials. She smiled, her teeth were extraordinarily white, and she was dressed in dark blue. Neatly cut trousers and a top with a high, Chinese buttoned neckline. The outfit was edged with very fine red and gold, and had a beautiful presence of its own, of uniformity and of lavish, unnecessary expense.