The Barbershop Seven (167 page)

'Where are you?' asked Tony, louder this time, because he was confused and annoyed.

'Stop looking like you're talking to someone, you moron. Lean on the post box beside you and try to look casual.'

Tony looked at the box and suddenly wondered if that was where the voice was coming from. Then he leant on it, looking as conspicuous as an Italian Vatican-sponsored hoodlum in Millport in the middle of April was going to.

'Are you in the freakin' post box?' he said, looking down in through the hole.

'I said don't be conspicuous, you idiot. Do not look in the fucking box!'

Tony straightened up, still looking at the box, doing the full Italian hand gesturing routine thing.

'So you're in the box?' said Tony.

'Of course I'm not in the box! What's the matter with you?'

Tony stared at the box and then finally settled down and stopped looking like a blot on the landscape. He leant against the box, tried to look relaxed and stared super-casually up the road.

As it was, he was not being watched as Luigi had presumed he would be. Bartholomew Ephesian's mind had been on other things and the Italians had slipped through the net of his concerns. That Jacobs had also let the problem escape, was indicative of the pressures he too was feeling, despite his efforts to be the rock for his employer's fragile self-belief.

'So where are you then?' asked Tony.

'I'm on the hill above the golf course,' said Luigi. 'Don't look up here!' he added with a stage whisper, at exactly the point that Tony turned and looked up at the hill above the golf course.

'So are you, like shouting?' he asked, turning and looking back into the woods. 'How come I can hear you?'

'Cause there's a microphone in the freakin' post box,' said Luigi, with exasperation.

Tony looked back at the post box, nodding his appreciation.

'This is some fucking post box,' said Tony. 'Maybe this country isn't as backward as it looks.'

'I put it there, you idiot. Jesus, how did I end up with a partner this stupid?'

'Yeah, well, the guy you sent to talk to me last night was even more stupid than I was, so what does that make you?'

Luigi started to object in the usual manner but actually saw his point, so instead made an abrupt change of subject.

'Did you find anything in the cathedral?' he asked.

Tony shook his head and turned and looked up at the hill.

'I can't see you up there, are you sure that's where you are?'

'I'm hiding behind a stinkin' bush. Stop looking up here and tell me if you found anything in the cathedral.'

Tony shrugged, glancing at a passing car, while attempting to appear even more casual than he already was.

'I couldn't find nothin', but then, I'm an idiot. Go figure.'

He smiled at his ironic self-deprecation.

'You still there?' he asked, looking at the post box.

'I'm thinking,' said Luigi.

And while he was thinking, he was lying down on the cold grass, on top of approximately thirty-seven individual little pieces of rabbit droppings, looking through the bushes behind him to where the big house of Bartholomew Ephesian sat austerely staring down over the golf course, down to the Firth of Clyde.

'Big house, big problems,' he muttered quietly.

Ephesian's house had been the number two location on his agenda, after the cathedral. From where he now lay, concealed in the bushes and grass, he had a clear view of the road leading up to the house, as well as the two main windows at the back, which overlooked the westward view. So he had already had several sightings of Ephesian and Jacobs, although had decided not to try to follow them about the town. Tony would have to be his eyes and ears, no matter how blind and deaf that made him.

'Mouse?' said Tony. 'Did you say something about a freakin' mouse? I hate mice.'

***

'D
o you think we should postpone?' asked Ephesian, finally voicing what he had been thinking.

Jacobs stared at his employer's back, well used to his crumbling confidence in the face of setbacks.

'I think that would be unwise, sir,' said Jacobs. 'The longer we leave matters, particularly now that the Grail has been moved, the more chance there is of something going wrong.'

'Of something going wrong?' said Ephesian strongly. 'You don't think enough has already gone wrong?'

'We're almost there, sir,' said Jacobs soothingly. 'We must hold our nerve. The Brotherhood are forewarned and will be in attendance. McGhee's foolishness plays into our hands. I no more want him as part of the
Prieure
than do you, but if he comes, he is coming straight back with the hand which is all we need. One of our two main problems solved. The money means nothing and we have a replacement for Jonah Harrison.'

'And Lawton?' said Ephesian. 'And the Grail? And bloody Phat, who will be turning up here any minute?'

Jacobs hesitated, sorting out how to order everything, to minimise the concern.

'With McGhee replacing Harrison, Lawton's injuries just leave us where we were to begin with, needing to find a willing participant to the ritual. Your son Anthony is likely still that person, despite his brief association with the Italians.'

'And they're another thing! Jesus.'

'But we have the package which was held in Lawton's freezer, his replacement is a formality, however unwanted. Ping Phat? All the more reason to insist on conducting the ceremony tonight. What if we postpone and he decides to stick around? He could cause all sorts of trouble.'

Ephesian's head twitched.

'The Italians we can do nothing about, until it is time and we see what moves they are likely to make. Despite his previous ham-fisted attempts to negate the problem, we can probably count on Constable Gainsborough to deal with them as they arise.'

Ephesian grunted.

'Having thought ourselves in trouble, suddenly we are left with one real problem,' said Jacobs. He paused.

'The Grail,' said Ephesian.

'Yes,' answered Jacobs.

He checked his watch then looked round at the clock. Almost one o'clock in the afternoon.

'We have just over eleven hours in which to find it,' he said, and Ephesian blurted out a bitter laugh.

'We should postpone,' he muttered, shaking his head.

He turned and glanced at Jacobs' waistcoat, then turned away and looked down once more at the slight wind ruffling the flags on the golf course away to his right.

––––––––

'I
s there anything else we should know before we go in?'

The strange collective of six, about to embark on their mission to send Jonah Harrison on his way from the house, were standing outside on the front lawn. The Reverend Merlot Tolstoy was leading the way but had stopped with her back to the front door to address her troops. She looked each of the five members of the company in the eye, searching their souls. She had been told about the manner of Jonah's death and the reason he hadn't been able to enter the shrine of eternal urination in the first place. She had been told of Igor's use and abuse of the fragile Ruth. She had not been told of the severed human hand in the freezer, as neither Barney nor Ruth had considered that relevant.

Her look lingered longest on Ruth, as she was obviously the one who would have something to tell. Long enough, in fact, that Ruth felt compelled to say something.

'I'm scared of spiders,' she blurted out uncomfortably.

'That's all right, madam,' said Tolstoy, 'We doubt that that will come into play. Anything else?' she added, broadening her scope around the group once more. It was intended as a final remark, to be ignored, before they entered the temple of doom.

'I'm afraid of the dark,' said Thomas Petersen nervously.

'Oh, for pity's sake,' muttered Monroe. 'It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Course, the way this weather's closing in, it'll be dark by half past. Have you seen those clouds?'

'Not a problem,' said Tolstoy. 'We don't require darkness.'

Final look around the crowd. Ready to roll.

'I'm scared of wide open spaces,' Ruth Harrison chipped in at the last second.

'We'll be inside,' replied Tolstoy quickly.

'I can get claustrophobic in a small room with too many people,' said Petersen. 'And sometimes the light bothers me. You know, if it's too bright.'

'We believe we're doing this on the upstairs landing, so it'll be nice and open, with plenty of room for the six of us, and with this cloud cover the light shouldn't be too bad.'

'I hate flying,' said Ruth.

'Me too!' blurted Petersen hurriedly.

'You know,' added Ruth, 'not the actual flying part, just the take off and landing and when it gets bumpy.'

'Aye,' said Petersen, 'that's what gets me too. I think.'

'Really, folks,' said Tolstoy, retaining her patience, 'we're walking up the stairs, not taking a helicopter.'

'Helicopter?' said Petersen, perturbed, 'I wouldn't even go near a helicopter.'

'I don't think I'll ever be able to walk up a flight of stairs again after this,' said Ruth. 'I'll be traumatised for life. Like Agnes from number eleven. Couldn't walk up stairs again after the time she found her old man in bed with his best mate, Brian.'

'I think we could do with some focus here,' said Barney.

'Absolutely,' chirped Tolstoy. 'What the man said. It's time.'

'I hate Des O'Connor,' said Petersen.

'Arf.'

'Let's go,' said Tolstoy, and she turned, opened the door and took the first step into the house.

She stopped. She listened. Barney came in behind her and stood at her shoulder, examining the silence, whilst the others waited outside.

'Nothing,' said Tolstoy after about thirty seconds.

'Maybe he's waiting for us,' said Barney.

'Maybe.'

'For pity's sake,' said Monroe, 'if I stand out here much longer my sciatic nerve'll go, then I'll never see the last of it.'

Tolstoy turned and addressed her troops once more.

'We're going up. Everyone come into the house and stay close together. If anyone starts to drop off the back, call out for assistance.'

'I thought we were only going upstairs?' said Petersen.

Ruth Harrison suddenly grabbed hold of Igor's hand. He winced slightly but squeezed her hand all the same, and then this bizarre collective minced into the house and began to trudge heavy-legged up the stairs.

'I bet I end up missing the snooker,' muttered Monroe.

***

T
he magnificent six were holding onto one another's hands, although this was making a majority of the men feel a little uncomfortable as there weren't enough women to go around. Their discomfort was being added to by the general feeling of unease in the house, a feeling of evil and of some unseen possessed spirit. Ruth was shaking with fear and anxiety, delighted to be holding onto Barney and Igor.

'We must all put our faith in the Lord God,' said Tolstoy, and Barney wasn't sure if she was referring to the group or just herself.

'Oh for crying out loud,' muttered Monroe.

'Are you sure?' asked Petersen.

They had been in the house for just under twenty minutes and had so far yet to bear witness to the shuffling footsteps of Jonah Harrison. Barney and Igor were curious as to what had happened to the old fella. Petersen was growing increasingly nervous. Monroe was having his high level of scepticism duly rewarded. Tolstoy was beginning to think that it was all a complete load of nonsense but knew she had to go through with the whole shebang in order to justify her fee. Ruth was beginning to feel like you do when you call the TV repairman and the flippin' thing starts working fine the second he walks through the door.

'I am the man that hath seen affliction by the rod of his wrath,' began the Reverend Tolstoy, embarking on the odd bit of
Lamentations
because she thought she ought to be saying something. That thing she'd said to Barney earlier on the phone, about basing her exorcism on a 5th century Aramaic ceremony, had been a complete load of mince. She was just plain winging it. 'He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light. My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.'

'I know how that feels,' said Monroe in a low mutter, still aggrieved that he was between Petersen and Igor.

'He was unto me as a bear lying in wait, and as a lion in secret places. He hath caused arrows of his quiver to enter into my reins. I was a derision to all my people; and their song all the day.'

'Oh, aye?' mumbled Monroe.

'Where are you going with this, exactly?' asked Petersen.

'He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath made me drunken with wormwood. He hath also broken my teeth with gravel stones.'

'Well, you wouldn't want to go to a dentist around here,' muttered Monroe.

'O Lord!' exclaimed Tolstoy, upping the tempo, 'fill us with your grace and your munificence. Come amongst us and be one with our circle of faith. My heart is fix'd, Lord; I will sing, and with my glory praise.'

That ought to do it, thought Barney.

'My God! Moab's my washing-pot,' she blurted on, quoting any old part of the Bible she could get her hands on, 'my shoe I'll over Edom throw.'

'Are you sure you've done this before?' asked Petersen.

'My Beloved Jesus, there is a darkness in this house that rends its very spirit. We beseech you, come into this dark land and free the haunted and accursed souls and let them go on their way to Heaven! Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake.'

She paused. She looked upwards at the badly needing painted white ceiling, with a very unpleasant purple floral border. The scepticism around the circle was growing and she was getting the vibe. Time for some more Old Testament, she thought.

'O Heavenly Father, the flesh that toucheth any unclean thing shall not be eaten; it shall be burnt with fire: and as for the flesh, all that be clean shall eat thereof. But the soul that eateth of the flesh of the sacrifice of peace offerings, that pertain unto the Lord, having his uncleanliness upon him, even that soul shall be cut off from his people!'