The Barbershop Seven (112 page)

Hoagy Carmichael was just singing about two sleepy people, and Barney was wishing that he could be one sleepy person, when there was a knock at the door. He checked the clock, quarter past midnight, but there was no skip in the heart, as there might have been at receiving a visitor at such a late hour. He felt like Mr Spock in
Star Trek III
. Like he was a thing, rather than a human being. Not, of course, that Spock was ever likely to feel like any more than half a human being, but you know what we're talking about here.

He got up, trudged the short distance over crisp carpet, and opened the door. One of the two doctors was standing outside, minus the spectacles, and dressed for the evening, a cool, pale blue blouse tucked into cool, pale blue jeans.

'Hi there,' she said, and Barney nodded. Couldn't remember which one of the two of them it was. Psychiatrist or physician?

'You've met a lot of people today,' she said, smiling, seeing the look on his face. 'I'm the shrink. Blackadder.'

'Aye, aye,' said Barney, trying to look cool, 'I know. It's late,' he added, because he thought he should say something, and it was the first thing that came into his head.

'Yeah,' she said, 'sorry. I just got off work, you know. I thought you might still be up. Parker wanted me to have a word.'

'Right,' said Barney. Then it clicked that he was supposed to invite her in, which is pretty much what any clear-thinking man would've done already with a woman who looked like Dr Rebecca Blackadder. Jesse Longfellow-Moses did not consider surrounding himself with people or things that were unattractive. 'You want to come in?' he said, attempting to cover for the fact that he'd just thought of it.

'That'd be nice,' she said, and she glided past him into the room, and he closed the door behind her.

'Most people call me Edmund,' she said, 'but it's getting a little tired. Rebecca's fine.'

'Rebecca,' he repeated, and looked at her, standing in the middle of the room, arms hovering at her sides. He felt awkward. 'Not sure if I've got anything to offer you,' he said, referring to a drink. His dinner had been brought to him by a different woman from the one who had delivered his breakfast. Same outfit, same hair, different gene pool. There had been a small menu card on the tray informing him that he was being served
an enchantment of chicken, with sun-roasted potatoes, mango en papillote and caramelised comfit of whole-wheat pitta bread
. Very nice it'd been too. Accompanied by a half bottle of an outstandingly fruity South African, which he'd polished off without appreciating a single drop.

'There's a drinks cabinet,' she said, pointing to the corner, 'but I'm cool.'

'Oh, right,' said Barney. 'Sit down,' he added, remembering some manners.

Rebecca Blackadder smiled and lowered herself into the single armchair opposite the one at which she knew Barney would have been sitting. Barney hesitated, then plumped himself down, subdued by the weight of resignation.

'Hoagy Carmichael,' she said.

'Aye,' replied Barney. 'I think I like it, but I'm not sure.'

'What's the last thing you can remember?' she asked, looking into his eyes. Would usually have a notebook at hand for this kind of thing, but sometimes it was better to be without.

Barney held her gaze for a second then lowered his eyes. He'd been thinking about this all day; and it had been a long, long day. He tried to think again, but it felt like such an effort and he just didn't have the will to do it. Maybe tomorrow, after a good night's sleep.

Outside they could hear the first heavy drops of rain, as the heat of the day which had lingered long into the night, had finally brewed up the storm which had threatened since late afternoon.

'It's just shadows,' said Barney, finally, although he did not look at her. 'I keep thinking about running across a moor, chasing someone, but I've no idea who or where or when. It's almost like it happened to someone else.'

'It did, in a manner of speaking,' said Blackadder, and Barney raised his eyes. 'You died just under two and a half years ago,' she said.

This, at last, had some effect on him, and a shiver worked its way down his back, as the rain began to gain momentum, so that there was now a loud tapping at the window. He still didn't look at her. So he was dead after all. It would certainly explain the bizarre world into which he'd been thrown.

'You were involved in chasing a murderer across open moorland in the Borders. No one knows if you fell or were pushed, but your body was found at the bottom of a cliff.'

Barney breathed out and nodded, but that information had done nothing to get him any nearer remembering the past. It was still an effort; it was still more than he wanted to think about. He looked up. His face was pale, his eyes weary.

'So, what is this? Heaven? Hell? Is this what Hell's like?'

'This is the real world, Barney,' said Blackadder. 'You were brought back, so to speak.'

Barney gazed at her. He had only vague memories of his past, he'd been dead, and now he wasn't anymore.

He just wanted to go to bed.

'I'm tired,' he said. And he was, all of a sudden.

Blackadder nodded and stood up. The first roar of thunder exploded above them, although they had not noticed the preceding bolt of lightening.

'We can talk again tomorrow, if you prefer,' she said. 'It must have been a long day.'

'Aye,' said Barney, and he hauled himself to his feet to see her out. 'You're going to Brussels as well?' he asked.

'We all go everywhere with him,' she said simply, then walked to the door. She didn't agree with what had been done to Barney Thomson, and she pitied him. But there would be time to talk to him later, as long as it didn't all go dreadfully wrong.

'What kind of man is he?' said Barney, as Blackadder stood in the doorway.

She stopped; she engaged his tired eyes; she hesitated. The walls had ears, but then, she also knew that JLM would never get rid of her.

'He's just an ordinary man, several rungs higher up the ladder than he ought to be. They ran out of good men to run the Scottish parliament when Dewar died, and now we're all stuck with the likes of Jesse Longfellow-Moses. So, it's all gone to his head, and he can't get enough of it. Wants to leave his mark.'

'Should be a low-grade manager in the civil service,' said Barney. Which more or less hit the hammerhead on the nose.

She smiled and nodded.

'Absolutely. About the level that most politicians deserve to be.'

They exchanged one of those glances that Barney had never been able to fathom, then she dropped her eyes, turned and was gone. His eyes fell on the back of her jeans, the delicious movement of the hips. He closed the door quickly, then leant forward, his forehead resting against the cold wood.

So he'd been dead, and now he wasn't anymore. That made sense. It certainly explained the general feeling of being completely fucked up that was pervading every thought.

Barney turned slowly, then began walking round the room, switching off the small table lights. A quick detour to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth with what felt like someone else's toothbrush, then crawled into the cold luxury of the bed.

And in the background, as he drifted off to a nondescript sleep, he listened to Hoagy Carmichael, melancholy and slow.

––––––––

T
hough kings be clothed in armour,

wrought of gold and silver,

and cowed on bended knee,

the people come before them,

in awe of their munificence

so wise in their decree.

The kings of old look down from heav'n,

The blessed morn does rise,

Upon this new crowned king of earth...

'I'm stuck,' said JLM, pencil in his mouth.

Minnie Longfellow-Moses looked over the top of Blanche Wiesen-Cook's biography of Eleanor Roosevelt, eyebrow raised.

They were sitting up in bed, one in the morning, JLM with a cup of diet hot chocolate on his bedside table, Minnie with an Irish coffee. An Irish coffee of absolute in-your-face quality at that. JLM was wearing pink and white striped pj's, she was looking pretty hot in a silk, low-cut Bravissimo thing.

'Speech to the European parliament?' she asked, to which JLM snorted; a sound which Minnie had ceased to find attractive a long time ago.

'You're kidding me? Don't give a shit what I say to that bunch of losers. I've left it to Parker. Even he'll probably farm it out to one of the press boys to muddle together for us. That lad at the BBC over there writes a good speech.'

She had turned back to her book within two seconds of him opening his mouth, but she continued the conversation with only a tenth of her mind on it; which was more or less what she usually gave to JLM.

'Don't you ever worry that he's going to rip the pish out of you one day?' she said. 'Get you to say something that you're not going to realise is really stupid or insulting.'

'What? You mean like referring to the Italians as wops?'

'I was thinking he might manage a little more subtlety than that,' she said dryly.

'I can spot subtlety you know,' he said, and she smiled. 'No, the guy knows who's boss when we show up.'

She nodded. Every day with Jesse Longfellow-Moses was a day waiting to blow up in his face, and she was amazed that he'd lasted almost three years without it happening more seriously than it had.

'So what are you stuck with?' she asked.

'My submission to the parliament arts exhibition,' he said.

She stopped reading and looked over the book at him again. She reached for the coffee and took a slow drink, getting the combination of whiskey, coffee and cream to perfection, then licked her top lip in a movement that would have had another man – one whose marriage hadn't staled many years previously – leaping athletically across the bed.

'The what?' she asked.

'Parliament arts exhibition,' he said. She noticed the forced air of nonchalance, and couldn't wait to hear what was coming next. 'There are a couple of rooms in Queensberry House that are still empty. Can't afford to install the sort of art they were intending to. So we're going to have a little exhibition thingy, with members of the parliament contributing. You know, poetry, paintings, sculptures, whatever. At the end of it, we'll sell some of the stuff off, keep some of the art in there. Lovely idea,' he added, 'really super.'

'And whose idea was it?' she asked.

He studied his notebook with intense concentration, pencil tapping against his teeth, as if he hadn't heard the question. Eventually he turned and looked at her, mouthed acknowledgement, and looked back at his work of art.

'Oh, mine,' he said. 'Really rather pleased with it.'

'So what are you contributing to this, then?'

'Oh,' he said casually, 'I've got a few ideas. Doesn't look like too many of the proles in the house will come up with anything, so I may end up with a separate section to myself. You know, First Minister, people are going to be more interested in what I've done than anyone else, anyway. Don't you think?'

He turned to her, a very genuine look on his face. She nodded and smiled.

'Yes, dear,' she said. 'So what are you working on at the moment?' She took another slow sip of coffee, the glass over her face covering the amused smile. It wasn't often that Minnie Longfellow-Moses had the chance to feel superior to her husband – only every time she spent more than two minutes with him. Which, fortunately, wasn't very often.

'Just a little poetical piece,' he said. 'It's called
The Wisdom Of The Kings
. Lovely piece,' he added. 'Just looking for my final line.'

'Go on,' she said.

JLM studied his notebook again. Might not be too bad if Minnie came up with something. It wasn't like she would expect joint credit.

'The kings of old look down from heav'n, The blessed morn does rise, Upon the new crowned king of earth...'

'With shit all down his thighs,' said Minnie casually, turning back to Eleanor Roosevelt.

I'm not rising to that, thought JLM. For God's sake, thought Minnie. The public, when they read that shite, will think it's about Jesus. But I know who it's about, the stupid arse.

'Might just leave it 'til the morning,' he said. 'Clear head.'

She reached for what was left of her coffee and ignored him. He poured his legs out of the bed, and headed to the en suite for final ablutions.

***

M
elanie Honeyfoot's killer was a little surprised upon hearing that the Minister for Finance had gone missing. The expected headlines in the Evening News,
Finance Minister Found With Brains Splatted Across Pillow
or
The Bitch Is Dead
or
Honeyfoot Blags The Big One
or
Honeyfoot: The Nation Celebrates
, had not materialised. Instead, it had become clear that someone had disposed of the body and tidied the place up. Bizarre. The killing had almost been a public service. Or so it had seemed, to one particular mind. Why not let the public in on the good news? Why tease them with the wonderful possibility of the witch being dead, but without letting them in on the truth?

Bizarre it may have been, but it did mean something. That rather than there being only one person in Edinburgh who knew who'd killed Melanie Honeyfoot, there were at least two. And so Honeyfoot's murderer knew that a deal more circumspection would be required when the next unfortunate victim hoved into view.

For there was little doubt that there would be more.

––––––––

'W
innie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie,' said JLM.

The hysterical screech with which she replied to his patronising tone was more than the second generation cell phone could cope with, and the words distorted so much that he couldn't actually understand what she said.

He held the phone away from his head so that the shrill shriek of the banshee was broadcast throughout the limousine. JLM looked at the other passengers, Parker Weirdlove, Barney Thomson, and crack bodyguard, The Amazing Mr X. He smiled wryly, a bonding typa thing with the other guys in the back – that could easily have been accompanied by the clink of beer bottles – feeling superior to women in general, and Winona Wanderlip in particular.