The Barbershop Seven (125 page)

'You know something you're not telling me?' asked Wanderlip.

'Not at all,' he said. 'If JLM wanted rid of people he could just sack them. You're a bit of an exception, because you're this thing in the press. But the others; Jesus, you can tell what it's like. There're four of them dead or missing, and apparently there's only one paper leading with it tomorrow. No one cares.'

'So who then?' asked Wanderlip.

'It's impossible, Winnie,' said Weirdlove. 'Impossible to say. Maybe Eaglehawk. Took out Honeyfoot to get promoted, then he takes out a few others just to make it look like there's a serial killer after you all. Who knows? I'd just watch your back, given what's happened to your colleagues.'

'Thanks,' she said. 'I needed those comforting words.'

'I'm just saying, that's all,' he said, raising a defensive hand.

Wanderlip looked around the crowd, bathed in interval light. Was the killer here, in amongst the crowd? Had she been followed from Edinburgh, and at some stage of the second half, while the audience danced to Middle of the Road, would a silent bullet come whizzing her way?

She stared at a man who looked uncomfortable in his tartan flares and tartan denim jacket and wondered if he could be the hit-man sent to blend in and get her. Or then again, maybe he was just a poor sap who'd been feeling like a complete idiot since his wife had made him get dressed in his retro-gear.

You could just never tell. It could be anyone. It could be Parker Weirdlove.

Winona Wanderlip shivered and turned to listen to Weirdlove, as he started to tell the story of the future of Scotland in space.

***

L
ate in the evening, Alison Blake lay back, her head resting on her right hand, her right hand resting on her pillow. She had just extinguished her post-sex cigarette, exhaled the last lungful of smoke through circled lips. She had the warm, luxuriously relaxed and contented feeling about her body that comes with post-sex cigarettes and occasionally even comes with sex.

Today had been the usual dismal run with JLM, getting to spiritually advise him for three minutes, knowing that every word she spoke was either going straight over his head, or not even reaching his head in the first place.

She ran a contemplative hand through the hair of the man lying flat out next to her; the only man who she could call regular in her wide ranging pantheon of sleeping partners.

'That was heavenly,' she said, although it hadn't been. It'd been
all right really
, or
could do better
, or
one day you might get the hang of it, but I'm not holding me breath
.

The man stirred but said nothing. His hand moved under the covers and touched the bare skin of her stomach, gave her a wee affectionate squeeze, and was then withdrawn back to the safety of his side of the bed.

'No problem, baby,' he said eventually. 'Like strawberry blancmange.'

***

C
onrad Vogts also had an interesting evening. Sitting up until quarter to midnight, playing cards with James Eaglehawk and wiping him out for several hundred Euros, whilst having a long and involved chat about the possibility of Scotland's entry into the Eurozone, without the barbed interjections of Parker Weirdlove. (Vogts had also wanted to have a long and involved chat about Scotland's entry to the Eurovision Song Contest, but Eaglehawk hadn't been so concerned about that.) Vogts recognised JLM for what he was; all show, all PR, all political ambition. Eaglehawk was shrewd however, an operator prepared to bide his time, a man who would not be seen to make mistakes. There were few in the voting public who would buy a used car off him, but then only because there are a million people selling used cars. If you needed a used car, and there was only one person selling them, you wouldn't really have any option.

So, after several hours of gin rummy, a few beers and a couple of fish suppers, Conrad Vogts and James Eaglehawk had reached something of an understanding about the future of the Scottish Executive, and about the future of Scotland itself.

They had also reached an understanding on the future of Jesse Longfellow-Moses, and about the number of his days.

––––––––

T
he unnatural heatwave continued into the following morning, Edinburgh and the rest of Scotland, waking to the seventh balmy day in a row. The newspapers were full of pictures of kids with ice cream all over their faces, near naked shots of gorgeous bits of tottie prepared to peddle their dignity for a few moments in the sun, and the usual talk of global warming and water shortages. The odd unscrupulous editor pulled library photos or articles that they'd used the last time there was hot weather for more than a day and a half.

So interested were the papers in the weather, that it had become something else to keep the cabinet murders off the front pages. Not that they didn't make the most of it on the insides:
Two More Gone, As Nation Rejoices
, The Scotsman;
Four Down, Six Of The Bastards To Go
, The Herald;
McLaven Falls Faster Than He Used To In The Box
, The Celtic View;
The Nebby Wee Cow Didn't Deserve To Die But Who Cares?
, The Daily Record;
Wanderlip & Spiderman The Only Two Left With Breasts (Or Balls) In The Cabinet
, The Sun;
North East Man Grows Potatoes
, The Aberdeen Press & Journal. The story
German Flies In On Secret Mission To Align Independent Scots To Euro
, was buried on page 56 of the Financial Times. No one noticed.

For this seventh day of hot weather, JLM finally decided he would like something a little seasonal to be going on with, so had asked for a Paul Newman
Long Hot Summer
. For the first time in ten different hair styles, it was actually going to involve Barney in removing some hair.

Which was what he was doing, as he went through the normal morning rigmarole of Parker Weirdlove outlining to his boss the day ahead, JLM cussing and muttering about what a waste of time it all was, and of The Amazing Mr X, standing very still, listening for the slightest sound that might herald an assassination attempt and warrant the use of the self-loading, hand-held bazooka which he had started carrying around with him.

'Look,' said JLM, suddenly, butting into Weirdlove's outline, bringing a well-practised death-ray look from his sidekick, 'I'm really not interested in all the press stuff and this bloody annoying appearance in parliament. I mean, really, the cabinet don't bloody do anything. It hardly makes any difference that they keep dying. Government in crisis, my arse. The fewer of them there are, the better we'll all get on. Can't argue with that, can you, Barn?'

Barney nodded.

'Absolutely, sir,' he said, drawing another scorcher from Weirdlove.

'No, we need big stuff,' said JLM. 'You manage to rearrange that thing with the Canadians we had to cancel because of Stratton and that absurd business with her blood?'

'Had to put it off until next Monday, I'm afraid,' said Weirdlove, to the accompanying groan. 'We'll fit it in between your appearance on
Celebrity Who Wants To be A Millionaire
and your appearance before the Parliamentary Committee on Misappropriation of Public Funds.'

'Christ!' said JLM, turning round, catching Barney unaware this time, and getting a good old slice of the hair on the back of his head removed. 'I'm appearing on
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire
?'

'Well,' said Weirdlove, 'it's only the Scottish version. It's hosted by Craig Brown, and they're dubbing it
Who Wants To Be An Underachiever
?'

'Still,' said JLM, 'TV is TV. Mustn't forget that. What was that other thing you mentioned?'

'Not important,' said Weirdlove. 'And I've got some initial costings for you on the whole space thing.'

JLM nodded, as Barney went about repairing his shattered work of the last few days. The Paul Newman
Long Hot Summer
was about to turn into a Bruce Willis
Any Movie In Which He's Got A Baldy Napper
.

'Yes,' said JLM, 'space. I've been thinking about that, and you know, perhaps it might be a little extravagant. What d'you think?'

'Indeed, sir,' said Weirdlove, 'I believe the voting public might prefer it if you concentrated on the health service and transport for a while.'

'God, Parker, bugger them!' he said. 'We have to think big picture here. Big Picture! I was just thinking, that once we go UDI, the bloody English might pop their heads above the parapet and think about sending troops or something. What d'you think? So I thought maybe we should have some bollocking good defences established, and a few tricks up our sleeve, if you know what I'm saying. Lots of troops, heavy fighting equipment, a bit of a navy and an air force, then bollocks to the bloody English. We'd be in the whole Taiwan situation. Maybe they'd be able to beat us, but it would take them so long and they'd get such a bloody nose out of it, they'd know better than to try. Once we've got our independence, well, we can start to be a bit of a player on the world stage. Send our boys on peacekeeping missions to Africa and the like. That'd be champion, eh?'

Weirdlove couldn't think of an immediate reply. Sometimes, despite everything, JLM still left him speechless.

'And, well, with all that kind of thing, that kind of input to the world stage, all the pomp and all that, we might be able to supplant the bastarding English on the permanent council at the UN. What d'you think? We in with a shout?'

Weirdlove still did not reply.

'Barn?' said JLM, looking for a response from someone.

'Lovely idea,' said Barney. 'You yourself might even manage to become the first head of government to become UN Secretary General whilst still in power.'

Weirdlove rolled his eyes.

'Jesus, Barn!' said JLM, 'that's bloody brilliant. Does the UN constitution allow that? Whatever, anyway, champion. Parker, here's what I want you to do. I need proposals for creating our own armed forces. When we split away from the bastards down south, we'll get a percentage of the existing military, but we need a good solid infrastructure before then. I need figures, and I want a judicious balance between land, sea and air. We need to think about options to get us the finance. I'm talking, just off the top of my head here, privatising the entire health service and introducing health insurance, handing roads over to industry and letting them put tolls on every motorway, A and B road. I'm talking privatising education, letting the people pay for their children's schooling right from the off. I genuinely think they might like that, more of an input and everything, you know?'

He paused while he wondered if there was any other way in which he could help the people of Scotland by absolutely shagging them.

'There must be no end of different ways we could hand control of the country back to the people, don't you think? I'm sure we could persuade them of the need for this, particularly if we invoke the threat of an invasion from the English.'

'For example,' said Weirdlove, 'I expect you could persuade the civil service to pay the government for the privilege of working for us.'

'You know, Parker,' said JLM, 'I think that might well be the case.'

JLM lapsed into silence, while he considered the glory of his plans. Yet to notice that Barney was giving him a slightly downgraded haircut on the one he'd asked for. Weirdlove looked through his notes to see if there was anything else he could tell the boss which was liable to scupper the smooth running of the day. But given that he was able to bluster his way through any question about murder, Hookergate, fraud, or any other business, it didn't seem to matter.

'And I was thinking,' said JLM, as Weirdlove folded the clipboard under his arm, and waited with a patient smile, 'I was reading Linklater in Scotland on Sunday at the weekend. A good article about the Second Enlightenment. I think we should aim for that, don't you? Scotland should be this place where big ideas are born. We should be enlightened and erudite as a nation. I was thinking of founding a kind of Longfellow-Moses trust, you know, establishing a series of centres around the country, where the intellectuals of the day could meet and debate the ideas that I was handing down from above for the advancement of society. The Jesse Longfellow-Moses Enlightenment Forum, I thought we could call it. How's that sound?'

Weirdlove didn't answer.

'Barn?' said JLM.

'Champion,' said Barney.

The Amazing Mr X stared out of the window and thought about
Tom & Jerry
.

JLM finally noticed his hair, looking quizzically in the mirror.

'Is that what Paul Newman looked like in
Long Hot Summer
?' he asked.

Barney stood back and observed the symmetrical beauty of JLM's US Marine haircut.

'Near as dammit,' he replied. 'Near as dammit.'

––––––––

O
nce JLM had marched from his office with his brief for the day and a spanking new and very short haircut – 'I love it! I love it!' Veron Veron had cried – Barney returned to the midst of the others. The two doctors worrying away at their laptops; Veron busying himself at his dummy, this time creating an elegant, but unnecessarily elaborate thing for JLM's meeting with a Thai prince that had been pencilled in for three weeks hence, (but which was destined never to happen); Father Michael absorbed in whatever hidden messages he was divining from the sermon on the mount; and Alison Blake buried in her Bible, and now avoiding Barney like he was, well, a religious freak or something.

Barney had two pieces of mail, which was unexpected. One internal, one external. He made himself a cup of tea, sat down in the large comfy seat next to Blake, said 'Morning,' with a smile, and got a nodded grunt of a reply, and opened the first of the two letters.

It was from a woman in Aberdeen, who had given him her home phone number, her cell phone number, her business phone number, her e-mail address, her business e-mail, business fax, business cell phone, home and business addresses, car registration number, date of birth, chest measurement and what size of big pants she wore. It read: