The Barbershop Seven (136 page)

'Would that be your Wellington's Waterloo or your Napoleon's Waterloo,' she asked.

'This is our chance for the name Jesse Longfellow-Moses to become synonymous with world statesmanship. Television is the new war, and this is my chance at glory!'

Minnie nodded. Very impressive. The viewers of the world would be geeked.

'If television is the new war, what's war then?' she sighed.

'There's not a person in any land on the planet will not know the name Longfellow-Moses,' he said, ignoring her.

'War is the new peace,' she said, staring at the floor.

'I'll be JFK. I'll be Martin Luther King, I'll be Frank Sinatra. Chairman Mao.'

'War is the new ice cream.'

'We have to grasp this moment, seize the ruddy day!
Carpe diem
! Bloody Hell, I shall be magnificent tomorrow night. The world will be wowed by my munificence, my vision, my poetry. God, what an opportunity.'

'War is the new pink,' she said, then decided she should shut up. Might as well let the man get carried away by the weight of his own bum fluff.

'Right,' he said, suddenly considering practicalities. 'We have to mobilise the troops. We need to get Weirdlove, start working out who we need, what kind of set-up we're going to have.'

'Bloody champion,' he added, as he turned and marched from the room, still doing a Neville Chamberlain with the piece of paper.

Minnie watched him go, had a little flutter that she too was going to be on worldwide television, did not give in to it, at least, not yet, then turned back to the latest shenanigans on the Channel 5 movie. Two women this time, and she settled further down into her seat, for the best two minutes of the evening.

––––––––

B
arney was safe in his room, channel surfing. Had briefly stopped on the same tripe as Minnie Longfellow-Moses, but on the whole was giving no show more than a minute and a half. On autopilot, zipping through the wonders of digital entertainment. Beach volleyball, stock car racing, Brazilian soap opera, documentary, docu-soap, docu-drama, docu-sport, docu-sex, docu-documentary, game shows, quiz shows, blooper shows, gardening and cooking and makeover and decorating. All utter, utter bollocks.

As ever, when Barney was sitting alone in his room, there was a knock at the door. He turned, looked at the time, a quarter to eleven, shook his head.

'Should just leave the bloody door open,' he mumbled, as he got up. 'Or put a sign up.
Enter All Ye Who Pass Within A Hundred Yards. Hang Around. Make Yourself At Home. Get On My Tits.
'

He opened the door. It was Tom & Jerry.

'Hi,' said Solomon, walking straight passed Barney. Kent followed, nodding his greeting with a slight facial movement.

'Come in,' said Barney. 'Nothing I like more on a Thursday evening than some Loony Tunes.'

Solomon stopped abruptly so that Kent walked into the back of him.

'Listen, cowboy,' he said, 'if you're thinking of the two of us as Tom & Jerry, that's as may be, I don't give a shit. But T&J were MGM, not fucking Loony Tunes. You got that?'

Barney held up his hands in a placatory gesture. He closed the door and leant back against it. Didn't want to walk back into the heart of the room, sit down, get comfortable. Didn't want this to last.

'Where were you between eight and nine tonight?' said Solomon abruptly. It was late, Solomon had been called away from a night of potential loving, and he was in no mood for messing around either. Something which Barney sensed, and so he did not even consider artifice of any sort. He wasn't about to start protecting Father Michael. What did he care about any of them?

'I was in the Assembly building,' he said.

'Too bloody right you were,' said Solomon. 'Caught by more fucking cameras than Kylie Minogue when she gets her arse out. You want to tell us what you were doing?'

'I received a note inviting me,' said Barney.

'Oh, very fucking clever,' said Solomon. 'You didn't want to tell us about it earlier?'

Barney shrugged. Wasn't going to allow them to put him on the defensive.

'Didn't know who it was from, what it was about. It could've been anything,' he said. 'I don't have to tell you every time I go for a shit.'

'Yeah, very nice, cowboy,' said Solomon. 'Can we take it you went to see the religious comedian, Father Michael?'

Barney nodded. It was inevitable that they'd know who else was there. More cameras than on Kylie Minogue's arse after all.

'Aye,' he said, but didn't volunteer any more information.

'Well,' said Solomon, 'you might like to consider that if you'd told us the fuck what was going on, Father Michael might still be alive.'

Barney's head dropped back against the door. Jesus, another one. And not a politician this time. It was spreading. Had he cared about Father Michael? Not in the least, but if he could've acted differently so that he might still be alive, then that was something to regret.

'You think I killed him?' asked Barney, raising his head, although the possibility did not bother him in the least.

'We know you didn't,' said Kent, sticking his wee nose into the conversation for the first time.

'He jumped from the roof. Enough people saw him before he took the final plummet for us to know it wasn't murder. Note in his own handwriting in his jacket pocket.'

'Oh,' said Barney. 'What did it say?'

'What did he tell you?' asked Solomon quickly.

Barney breathed in. Should he further implicate Blackadder? Why bother? The last thing Michael had said was to implicate himself, and just because Barney hadn't believed a word of it, didn't mean he couldn't share the knowledge as if it might've been true.

'Said that he'd committed these murders,' said Barney.

Solomon nodded.

'Right enough,' he said, 'that's what he wrote in his note. Confessed to it all. Did you believe him?'

Barney shrugged.

'No reason not to,' he said.

'Very well,' said Solomon. 'Told us where to find the bodies of the victims. We've already unearthed Malcolm and that Benderhook clown. Others'll take a bit longer. Bottom of the sea, most of them, apparently. Anyway, we've checked out his place, there's no end of incriminating evidence.'

'He say why he did it?' asked Barney, a little curious at last. Very surprised to hear that Father Michael actually had proof of his own guilt.

Solomon raised an eyebrow. Kent took advantage of the gap in conversation.

'God told him,' he said.

'Ah,' said Barney. 'What better reason could he give?'

'It's bullshit,' said Solomon.

'You think he's covering for someone?' asked Barney.

'As sure as a horse's knackers, he's covering for someone,' said Solomon.

'Nah,' said Kent, 'you can read all sorts of things into it, but I reckon he did it. We're clear.'

Solomon slung him a sideways glance, looked back at Barney.

'Maybe,' said Solomon, 'maybe not. Who the fuck knows? We'll have to do a bit more investigation, despite what Clark Kent here thinks.'

'God, here we go with the Clark Kent jokes again,' muttered Kent.

'Did he say anything else?' said Solomon. 'Why did he call you up there in the first place?'

Barney held his gaze. Look 'em straight in the eye and they'll never know you're lying.

'Maybe he felt the need to confess before killing himself,' he said.

'Why not do it to a priest, then?' retorted Solomon. 'Barbers used to taking confessions, are they?'

'All the time,' said Barney quickly. Then he relaxed, took the edge from the conversation. 'Look, I don't know. Maybe he felt embarrassed about going to a priest. Maybe he wanted to confess but didn't want to be judged.'

'You'd think God would judge him,' said Solomon flatly.

'Not if God told him to commit the murders in the first place,' Kent chipped in.

Solomon grumbled and moved towards the door. Barney stepped out of the way.

'Expect you'll have to answer a few questions to the investigating team tomorrow,' said Solomon. 'It could be all over, or it could be still out there, waiting to come back and grab us by the shorts. We'll see. In the meantime, you shouldn't have to employ too much guile to ask the others about him, see what they come up with. Blackadder and Farrow in particular, seeing as they were both shagging the bloke.'

They stood at the door, waiting to see if Barney would volunteer anything further. They could've waited all night. Solomon turned, walked out into the hall, Kent at his heals.

'He didn't mention Blackadder at all when you saw him, did he?' said Solomon, stopping, casting one last significant look his way. 'You know, he implicated her a couple of days ago. Maybe he's covering for her.'

Barney shook his head, betrayed nothing. If there was more information to be discovered about Dr Blackadder, he would take care of it himself.

'Nothing,' he said.

Solomon nodded. Kent nodded. Solomon turned away and walked off down the corridor, Kent in his wake. Barney closed the door, stood inside looking at the confines of his prison, then began wandering around the room turning off the electrical appliances.

***

H
e was garbed in rich blue Chinese style pyjamas, about to get into bed, teeth cleaned and face shinier than a pair of scissors, when there was another knock at the door.

He looked at the bed, warm and inviting, the sheets calling to him, much in the way that they do, then he turned and trudged through the apartment, mumbling, 'Pain in the arse,' as he went. Opened the door to find Parker Weirdlove.

'What?' said Barney.

'We need to talk,' said Weirdlove, and he pushed past Barney and stormed into the room.

Barney turned, left the door open, wondered about smacking Weirdlove on the mouth, but decided that electric blue pj's designed by Veron Veron were not a fitting outfit for getting into a fight.

'What?' he said again.

'Close the door,' barked Weirdlove, who was back in full blown arse-kicking mode.

'You were just leaving,' said Barney, not following his instruction.

Weirdlove thought about getting into a heated discussion, but decided that he couldn't have a serious argument with a man in electric blue pj's.

'You've heard of Larry Bellows,' said Weirdlove, as a matter of fact.

'No,' said Barney.

'Talk show host,' said Weirdlove. 'Cutting edge. American. Great hair. He does behind-the-scenes stuff with A-list celebs and royals. Charles and Camilla, Posh and Becks, McCartney and Heather, the Blairs, you know, the usual suspects. They're doing JLM tomorrow night.'

'So,' said Barney, 'where does he fit into the A-list celebs and royals categories exactly?'

Weirdlove gave him an 'I'm not answering that' look.

'We're doing the show, that's it. Not just Jesse and Minnie, but all his staff, X, me, the docs, you, the lot of us,' he said.

'But not Michael,' said Barney, dryly.

Weirdlove hesitated.

'You heard about that, eh? Well, the timing's not great, the guy could've been instantly the best known priest in Scotland.'

'You don't think it's at all questionable,' said Barney, 'to be doing a documentary like this when one of JLM's team has just been revealed as the man who murdered most of the cabinet? Aren't questions going to be asked about JLM?'

'No they bloody are not!' barked Weirdlove, taking a step towards him. 'The man is above reproach, and don't even bloody think about starting that kind of talk. You got that?'

'Yes, kimosabe,' said Barney with mock salute. 'Now, tell me why you felt you had to inform me of this at eleven-thirty at night, then get the fuck out of my face.'

Weirdlove breathed deeply and noisily, nostrils flaring. Like a bull. Or a dolphin.

'As I said, everyone close to the First Minister will be involved. He wants to present a united team. All of us, his family, the cabinet.'

'The cabinet?' said Barney, much in the tone that anyone would've used.

'We will be working strenuously tomorrow to fill the vacant positions. This is our chance to show that, despite these setbacks, Scotland still has a fully functional, working government.'

'Ah,' said Barney. 'You were fair farting around filling the vacancies before, but now that television has hoved into view, you'd better get on with it.'

'The First Minister wants to make sure that everyone is looking at their best. We're talking close to twenty people, so you've got a busy day ahead of you. You got that?'

Barney nodded. In his short space of time here, he had seen no signs of any panic or rushed action, not with any government difficulties and certainly not with the general slaughter and mayhem that was taking place. But, by Christ! here comes television, and it was all hands to the pump.

'Yes, boss,' said Barney. 'You intending to draft in outside help?'

'No, we bloody well are not,' said Weirdlove. 'You're it. JLM has kindly allowed you to work out of his private en suite. When we have a full list of participating names in the morning, we'll draw up an appointments list and you'll have to stick to it. No slippage or you're in trouble.'

Weirdlove walked to the door, stopped as he got to Barney, stood virtually nose to nose, so that Barney could smell the
stegosaurus of beef
which Weirdlove had eaten for dinner.

'Fuck up, and you're out of here,' said Weirdlove.

Another lingering look of suspicion bordering on animosity, then he walked quickly past Barney and along the corridor, the very way that Solomon and Kent had departed a short time previously.

Barney closed the door, turned off the light, stood in the quiet darkness of his sitting room for a short while, then walked wearily back towards the glorious welcoming arms of his bed.

***

H
e lay there for an hour, head buzzing. Staring at the pictures the shadows cast on the ceiling. Thinking about Father Michael. Thinking about the cabinet ministers who had slowly been whittled away.

What value is a life? Because the press weren't interested, was the implication that the dead were not important? There were still mothers and fathers having to bury their children. There were children whose mothers and fathers would not be coming home for dinner. There would be husbands and wives left distraught. Because the press barely thought them worthy of mention, because most people in Scotland probably didn't even know that there was a Minister for Justice or a Minister for Parliamentary Business, did not mean that those lives were any less important than the lives of the rich and famous who adorned the cover and inside twenty pages of every tabloid when they died.