The Barbershop Seven (172 page)

Lao Tzu 604-531 BC

Barney stared at it for a second, nodded appreciatively and then handed it to Igor. Igor read it, nodded appreciatively and then slipped it into his pocket.

'Might start using that myself,' he said, although it disappointingly came out as
arf
.

'You should,' said Barney.

He looked at the customer again. The old fella held his gaze for a second or two and then looked down at the shelf in front of him, believing his point to have been made.

'I always used to think that Stipe sang
Don't blow your head off
in the middle of
Everybody Hurts
,' said Barney, at least bringing his chat a little up to date, even if he was completely ignoring the centuries-old Chinese philosophy.

***

J
ames Randolph sat on a bench along the sea front not too far from the barbershop. Legs crossed, jacket buttoned up, the wind blowing the invigorating smell of the sea into his face. Feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time, the fact that he had to kill someone that evening notwithstanding. The principal defining factor in his mood was that he had his method of murder. He was, for once in his life, about to pleasantly surprise his employer.

He had left the barbershop that morning with an idea in mind, which he had then spent three hours on the internet perfecting. It seemed so simple, yet he felt sure it had a glorious originality to it. All the best things in life have simplicity in them, of course. He should have known that right from the start. After having spent three days thinking up more and more elaborate plans to commit murder, he should have known that the idea when it came to him would be beautifully austere.

He had followed his few hours on the internet with a quick trip up to Glasgow and now he was back in Millport armed with all the necessary ingredients to commit the crime.

His relationship with Ephesian was peculiar and not one which was formally laid down on any contractual basis. He was nominally a part-time casual employee, yet one who was required to do something on Ephesian's behalf around the town on most days. Rarely, however, did he ever impress his boss. He would carry out his tasks with the minimum of fuss and little imagination, but as long as he achieved his goals to some degree, he knew he could rely on Ephesian's loyalty. Tonight, however, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he really was going to impress him.

He had no idea, of course, that Ephesian had moved on into a thick morass, a sea of troubles like he had never imagined, and that he had already relieved Randolph of his duties. Jacobs had now been tasked with committing the murder to drain the blood that was required for the ceremony. Jacobs had also been tasked with getting rid of Randolph.

Ephesian, however, had never done his two-week personnel management course on an island in the middle of a Welsh lake, living on worms and beetles and Fruit Loops, running over hot coals in his bare feet, and masturbating himself into a frenzy in a mass polyglot of chanting, cannibalistic sub-mutants. He wasn't versed in business best practice of passing information down the chain of command. And so Randolph had not been kept abreast of the decision-making process and was unaware of how Ephesian envisioned things panning out.

James Randolph, happy in his ignorance, turned round on his bench every now and again and looked at the short stretch of the shopfront along Shore Street, which encompassed both the barbershop and the small solicitor's office of Garrett Carmichael, checking that his prey was still at work for the late afternoon.

He looked back out to sea then picked up the plastic bag which had been sitting on the bench beside him and held it in his lap. It was plain yellow, good quality, no supermarket advertising on the side, something in which Randolph always took a strange pleasure. This evening, however, it was the contents which were much more important.

Across the water, above the hills of Arran, the sun was, for the first time that day, beginning to force its way through the clouds, so that long, translucent drops of golden sun were streaking from the clouds down onto the sea.

'Drops?' said Randolph quietly to himself. 'You can hardly call them drops.'

***

J
acobs walked into the bedroom. The late afternoon sun, which James Randolph was watching smother the sea in new light, was also shining brightly into the only room upstairs in the big house which was ever occupied. He stood in the middle of the room staring at Ephesian, waiting for the man to turn and look at him. Knew that he would not but thought that he ought to give him the opportunity.

Ephesian was aware of the presence in the room. Knew it would be Jacobs but could not bring himself to turn. His world was unravelling before him. Every time he attempted to get things into some kind of order, every time Jacobs managed to persuade him that the pieces were falling into place, they immediately suffered another setback.

He was sitting at his window seat, another vantage point from where he frequently watched the firth below, although now his head was in his hands and he was swaying very slightly from side to side.

'Sir,' said Jacobs quietly but with urgency and annoyance.

Ephesian twitched. He wasn't turning, not yet. He had another couple of hours to sit here at least, head down. He wanted Jacobs to go away and sort everything out, before returning later in the evening to tell him that all the problems had been taken care of. And he wanted Jacobs to tell him that Ping Phat was on his way back to fucking China.

Ping Phat! He had a sudden and very uncomfortable thought that Phat might have come up the stairs with Jacobs and be at this moment standing in the doorway, laughing silently at him. So some strange fear of embarrassment it was that suddenly roused him from his mental prison and he stood up quickly, his heart beating wildly, staring at Jacobs.

Ping Phat wasn't there but Ephesian's breaths still came in short stabs, he still felt the unnerving touch of a cold sweat.

'The Italian is gone,' said Jacobs. 'We can't worry about him. He's taken nothing, he will have found nothing.'

'Are you sure?' asked Ephesian, looking at the carpet.

'Yes,' said Jacobs. 'Now that Ping Phat is here we must use it to our advantage. Establish what he is after, establish whether he has the Grail.'

Ephesian's head twitched; his entire upper body seemed to accompany the movement.

'He is a straightforward man,' continued Jacobs. 'If he has the Grail, he will not hide it from us. He will make demands. That is how he works. If he does not possess it, we can return to our original assumption. Then we target Father Roosevelt and we should be in possession of the Grail before late evening.'

Ephesian trembled again, a more minor tremor.

'Let's go, sir,' said Jacobs. 'Once we have the Grail, I can commit the required murder, you can speak to Anthony about indoctrinating him into the brotherhood, and then we can relax for the last couple of hours before the rite. We are almost there.'

This time Ephesian managed to listen to him and to accept the words without the accompanying facial spasm. Jacobs had done it again. Smoothed over the worst of the events, put as good a spin on the facts as possible.

Ephesian felt a shiver course its way through his body. He stared at the door and breathed deeply. Time to meet Ping Phat, fragile self-assurance currently intact.

'Right, come on,' he said, as if he felt some basic need to at least act like he was in charge.

'Very good, sir,' said Jacobs, falling nicely back into the old Jeeves routine.

––––––––

––––––––

A
nother day done and dusted, the third in the shop. Everything already felt very familiar, mundane almost. Today, what with experiencing an exorcism and the general weirdness of having had someone else's soul walk through his body, had been a little different to the norm, but the afternoon had in the end taken an accustomed turn, the usual series of old guys requesting inappropriate haircuts.

Barney and Igor were standing somewhat forlornly at the shop window, looking out over the sea. They had yet to put the
Closed
sign on the door but it was now into early evening and they were sure no more customers would come. The brief excitement of the day having passed, Barney had lapsed once more into the melancholic solemnity of his mid-life crisis.

Maybe he could go on a walking tour of Africa. Visit every country on the continent by foot; that would be a suitably grand British piece of insanity to mark the complete lack of achievement in his life up to this point.

Did he have the survival skills to handle the jungle, the desert, the savannah, the townships, the leach-infested rivers, the market places selling masks to tourists, the marauding, pot-smoking machine gun-toting teenagers in northern Congo, the land mines in Western Sahara? Did he know enough about Africa to last ten minutes in any one of the forty-three countries? Course he didn't.

So, Africa it was then. That would be a grand old few years out of his life. He could come back, should he survive, and appear on Richard & Judy and BBC Breakfast. He could write a book and do celebrity get-me-out-of-here shows.

'Arf,' said Igor, by way of telling Barney to tuck it in.

'Aye,' muttered Barney, 'I'd be lucky if I could walk through flippin' Greenock without getting taken to the cleaners.'

The door opened and an old geezer stuck his head in. Barney was beginning to wonder if anyone ever died on Millport or if this was where people were sent to exist for all eternity.

'You're not still open?' said the old guy.

Barney looked at Igor, glanced round at the clearly still open shop and turned back to the old fella.

'Aye,' he said, 'we are.'

The old guy snorted.

'I don't believe it,' he said, then he closed the door and minced unconvincingly away back up the street.

Barney and Igor stared out the window.

'Pub bet,' said Barney.

'Arf.'

A movement across the road caught his eye. James Randolph had finally risen from his vantage point on the promenade. Barney had been thinking about the vague strangeness of his manner in the shop that morning, wondering what he was up to. How do they kill lambs?

'You close up, will you?' he said, touching Igor's arm.

'Arf.'

He grabbed his jacket, opened the door, turned the
Closed
sign round as he went, then passed silently out into the cold of early evening. Igor watched him go and then hurriedly began to tidy everything away.

Barney paused. There were a few others abroad but nowhere near enough for Barney to be able to blend into the crowd. Fortunately, however, Randolph was entirely distracted by following his prey and had not noticed Barney leaving the shop.

And along the road, less than a hundred yards ahead, Barney saw the object of James Randolph's intent. Garrett Carmichael had just left her office and was walking quickly along Shore Street in the direction of her house, hurrying to get home after a late afternoon at the office.

Barney started walking after them, as Randolph crossed the road and casually approached Carmichael. They both worked for Ephesian. They knew each other well; there was nothing strange or menacing in his approach. Had James Randolph seen Garrett Carmichael in the street on any other day he would have spoken to her. This was no different. Apart from the fact that he was carrying with him an unmarked plastic bag containing the world's most dangerous cheese sandwich.

Barney was close enough to hear the greeting that passed between the two as Randolph came alongside. He had no idea why he was suddenly worried but he found himself quickening his pace to catch up.

In the shop, his well-developed sixth sense screaming at him, Igor also realised the impending danger to Garrett Carmichael and was even more concerned than Barney.

***

'I
f tea you are now in position to make, grateful I would be.'

Jacobs nodded at Ping Phat, managed to keep the contempt from his face when looking at the drained whisky glass, then looked around the rest of the gang to enquire after their tea needs. The female assistant caught his eye.

'Mr Phat is very particular about his tea, something about which I did not inform the previous Mr Jacobs as I sensed he was not an expert.'

Jacobs took the compliment and smiled.

'Particular?' he asked. Ephesian stood a little to the side, staring at his desk, wishing they could ignore the formalities.

'He takes twenty-three sugars,' she said.

'Ah,' said Jacobs.

'In order to facilitate this,' she continued, 'he requires the boiling water to be placed directly into the cup. There must be no intermediate teapot stage. The sugar should then be added to the hot water, while the water as yet remains uncontaminated by tea of any description.'

Oh, Jesus Christ!
thought Ephesian,
will you just get on with it!

'The teabag, which will be of a mild green tea, should then be placed in the sweet water for two minutes, stirred once with a silver teaspoon and then withdrawn.'

Jacobs' face sagged into a withering Jeeves.

'Mr Ephesian does not keep teabags of any description in his home. We have
Sir Thomas Lipton Chinese Green Tea no.14
, if that would be appropriate, but I would then require further instruction on the preparation process.'

The assistant glanced at Ping Phat who slowly nodded.

'Mr Phat finds that acceptable,' she said to Jacobs. 'Do you have a small tea-retaining device which can be placed in the cup and then removed?'

'Do you mean a metal bag?' asked Jacobs.

She thought about this for a second and then nodded.

'Yes, I believe you might call it a metal bag.'

'Then, there is your answer,' said Jacobs, who was veering horribly into pomposity, such was his way. 'We have no teabags in the house, metal or otherwise. We have tea leaves, we have a pot, we have a strainer and a holder in which to place the strainer once the tea has been poured.'