The Barbershop Seven (181 page)

Barney studied the back of Luciens' head and snipped carefully around a patch which 2Tone had obviously got his hands on at some time in the past.

Another strange little episode of his life was over. Maybe he would stay here for a while after all, let something other than wandering and loneliness become normal.

'You could give away little plastic, moveable figures of Christ with every confession,' suggested Barney.

Luciens nodded.

'Top!' he said. 'You know, I really think we could go somewhere with this. You know, maybe we could draw up a blueprint over a pint tonight? You on?'

Barney thought about it but not for long. What was there to think about?

'Sure,' he said. 'We can put together a portfolio and present it to the Archbishop in Glasgow.'

'Top,' said Luciens. 'You in, Igor?'

Igor raised his head from his serene dreams of Garrett Carmichael. He had no idea what they'd been talking about.

'Arf,' he said.

'Cool,' said Luciens. 'The more the merrier.'

Barney looked at Igor and nodded.

'The Kendall tonight at eight, it is then,' said Barney, so that Igor picked it up. 'Although, Igor might have other things to do.'

Igor nodded and then returned to his sweeping. Barney watched him for a second, took another glance out at the unflustered sea, took a moment to be aware of the smell coming in on the breeze, and then turned back to his customer.

'But you wouldn't sell burgers!' said Luciens, coming up from another thinking session. 'Or soft drinks for that matter. No sir, that would be like blasphemous, and you can't have that.'

'Not in this life,' said Barney.

'No way,' said Luciens.

'Arf!'

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Published by Blasted Heath, 2013

copyright © 2008 Douglas Lindsay

First published in 2008 by Long Midnight Publishing

For Kathryn

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L
ate September, the summer still clinging to the islands in the Clyde estuary. A strange and alien mugginess to the evening after a still day of sun and cloud and no wind and flat seas. Even the seagulls were silent, perched on railings and white walls, faces turned to the south searching for a breeze.

The town had been listless all day. People huddled in cool doorways. Now the night was uncomfortable and the small room above the bar on Cardiff Street was warm and lazy.

There were ten of them sitting around the table. Two women, eight men. Each one of them in it for the money, not one with the slightest trust in any of the others. Squabbles and petty bickering.

Tonight had been slightly different, none of them seeming to have the energy to fight. There had been routine discussion, the usual arguments from the old woman, but for once no one had taken her up on any of her contentions.

Everything seemed normal. Everything seemed to be continuing as it had now for three years. But nothing ever stays the same; nothing lasts forever; all things must pass...

He drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the room. Nine others. It was an absurd amount of people to have in on an operation such as this. It was flabby, and once the whole thing started to disintegrate, there would be too many people to talk and too many people trying to pick up the last of the pieces.

Too many people, not enough pieces.

The fruits of their ill-conceived labour were never going to increase, and so there was only one way to improve on his own personal profits. When the time was right, when it became apparent that everything was about to implode, then it would be time to start reducing the number of the group.

No honour amongst thieves.

'You want another drink?'

He looked at the young man to his right and smiled. Maybe not everyone needed to die.

'Aye, that'd be nice, thanks. A gin and tonic.'

The younger man stood and squeezed his shoulder, headed for the bar. He watched him for a second, letting his eyes stray down the length of his jeans. Then he turned back to the table, surveyed the others, and wondered which of them would be the first to go.

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T
he first week in November. Now that the clocks have gone back, the evening seems to arrive in an unexpected rush and the mild breeze of early autumn has been usurped by a bitter wind whipping in cold off the sea.

It has been a troubled day out in the bay, a restless sea, agitated waves snapping at the few boats left buoyed on the shore side of the two small islands which shelter Newton beach. However, as the cold afternoon progressed, the wind died and now, as darkness begins to creep from the east and enclose the town of Millport in its sombre fist, a strange fog has settled over the town and the sea is still. The still of the grave.

Barney Thomson turned away from the window of the barber shop. The fog was so thick he could barely see the ten yards across the road to the white-painted promenade wall. He felt the chill of early evening, even though it was warm in the shop and it had been two hours since he'd last stepped outside to breathe in the remains of the day.

'It's a little flowery,' he said, 'although maybe you were getting away with it until the line about the grave.'

The young man sitting in the third barber's chair closed the lid on his laptop and smiled.

'It's totally cool,' said Keanu McPherson, a child of Bill & Ted, if ever there was one. 'You have to have something about the grave, man, you know. Grave's are like, so symbolic.'

'You think?'

'Totally.'

Barney smiled and glanced at the clock. Almost seven o'clock. He could have gone home two hours ago, but always there seemed to be someone else drifting into the shop for a late afternoon cut, or just for a chat or a piece of advice. And what was it that he was going home to exactly?

'You should head off,' he said, something he'd already said fourteen times.

The summer had been busy. Millport was changing again; people seemed to be coming back. Terrorism, the war in Iraq, airport queues, all-over body searches, the possibility of getting blown up in mid-air, the likelihood of getting held up at the airport for three days. People were staying home. Millport had had its best summer in two decades and Barney hadn't been able to keep up.

He'd advertised for an assistant and had had just four applications. One old fellow whose fingers were so arthritic he could barely hold a pair of scissors, but who had claimed that scissors were no longer necessary for today's barber. Another old guy who had fallen asleep while Barney was giving him his informal chat. A third old guy who had ranted incessantly during the informal chat, and who had clearly wanted to use the barber shop as a platform for his futuristic views on the deportation of all women to the kitchen. And Keanu McPherson, 21, who had actually been trained as a barber.

They'd had a good summer. Somewhere along the way he'd intended letting McPherson go, however it hadn't happened yet and now he wasn't sure if it would. The customers liked him, and what did Barney care if his workload was cut in half?

Keanu McPherson stood up, tucked the laptop under his arm, grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall and held up a farewell hand.

'Adios, my old amigo,' he said.

'See you tomorrow,' said Barney.

The door opened. He felt the chill of the night sweep into the shop, and then it was closed again and the sound of McPherson's footsteps quickly vanished into the fog.

Silence.

He turned round and looked at the shop. Another day done. There hadn't been a real customer in over an hour and a half. What was it he was waiting for?

He now had a house round on Kames Bay, looking back over the town and beyond to the hills of Arran. He enjoyed the walk back after work, even now that it was dark. Feeling the sea in the air, the taste of salt on the wind. Sometimes he'd stop at the Crocodile Fryer and pick up a fish supper, so that he'd meander even more slowly back to his house. Sometimes he wouldn't stop at the house and he'd walk on round the island. Forming great philosophies or maybe just with a blank mind. Getting used to being settled again after years of wandering, becoming accustomed to Millport, the pace of the town, the people, knowing that at last he'd found the place he was going to stay.

The door opened. Barney turned quickly, surprised, trying to shake off the fright. There was an old fella standing just inside the door. An old, green wax coat, undone, a wool sweater underneath. A neat, grey beard. Grey hair, eyes the colour of the sea. Barney noticed his hands, a fisherman's hands, calloused, resilient.

'You gave me a fright,' said Barney, slightly disconcerted by the stare. In a town of old fellas, here was one he didn't recognise.

The man smiled and removed his coat.

'Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. You got time to give an old man a haircut?'

Barney looked unnecessarily at the clock.

'Of course,' he said.

'Just a quick dash with a pair of scissors,' said the guy. 'In a bit of a rush, as I expect you are yourself.'

He slipped into the chair. Barney went about his business. Sorted out the cloak, the rubber hair-falling-down-neck shield, scissors, comb. Action.

'You here visiting?' asked Barney, once he had embarked on the cut. Hadn't needed to ask what was required. Here was a man who would clearly benefit from a Cary Grant.

The old guy was off, mind elsewhere. Finally he caught Barney's eye in the mirror and snapped back to the present.

'Just stopping at the pier for a couple of things. Got a small fishing vessel, the Albatross. Working out of Ullapool. Heading back out into the Kyles tonight.'

'In this fog?' asked Barney curiously.

The old guy glanced out the window, then he looked back at himself in the mirror. Face expressionless, as if the fog wasn't there.

'Needed to pick up food for Grudge.'

'Grudge?'

The man giggled, a strange but delightful sound from an old throat.

'My lab. He travels everywhere with us. He's a wee gem. Found him on a night just like this up at Tighnabruaich.'

Barney nodded and smiled. There was a beautiful serenity about the old man. Outside the evening was cold and grey, the clawing mist enveloping the town. The fisherman was like a warm and lazy summer's afternoon.

The quiet of an autumn day fell upon the shop. There was silence outside, and inside just the snip of the scissors, the occasional click of steel against the comb. Barney was on autopilot. The fisherman stared into the mirror.

Barney had to snap himself out of the reverie when he suddenly realised that he had finished. The Cary Grant was done. He removed the cape, brushed away the hairs which had escaped onto the old man's shoulders and nodded at him in the mirror.

The old fella stood up, admired himself in the mirror for a few seconds, then ambled across the shop and took his jacket from the peg. He turned and stared out at the fog as he slipped it over his shoulders, then he searched around in his pocket for something. Barney took a brush and started to sweep up, as ever giving the customer time to sort out the finances.

'I don't have any money,' said the old guy, a statement of fact delivered with no apology.

Barney looked quizzically at him. He was surprised but not at all bothered. There was something about the man that made it all right.

'How are you going to get food for Grudge?' he asked instead.

The old fella smiled and tapped his pocket.

'Already dealt with that. I'll drop the money by the next time I'm in town.'

Barney shrugged.

'Whenever.'

The fisherman looked away from Barney around the shop, taking in the white walls and the adverts for Gillette, the three large mirrors, the pictures of George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and the painting of Alan Rough, playing against Iran in 1978.

'Nice place,' he said. 'Bright.'

He looked at Barney, smiled again, and then walked out into the fog and the chill evening. Barney got the blast of cold as the door closed, and watched the green of the jacket slip away and disappear into the mist.

He shivered. Caught sight of his reflection in the window.

Barney Thomson, barber. Fifty-five and a half.

He stopped another shudder before it racked his spine any further, then he bent over the brush and finished off sweeping up the remains of the old fisherman's cut.

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T
he mist had cleared by the following morning; the day had the fresh beauty of mid-autumn. The air was crisp, the sea flat calm. There was a weak sun coming from over the mainland.

The forty-five foot yacht, Cruachan, was puttering along the coast of Bute, having spent the night nestled away from the fog in Rothesay Bay. Headed down the firth in search of a wind, three men were sitting on deck, looking over at the Isle of Cumbrae, enjoying the stillness of a calm day at sea. Bacon sandwiches, tea. The surrounding hills were green, the mountains of Arran bathed in a beautiful light. They had been disappointed to awake to no wind and the prospect of a day running on the engine, but the glory of the surroundings more than made up for it.

Up ahead, coming round the head of Little Cumbrae, they could see a medium-sized tanker heading towards them. The only other boat present was a small fishing vessel, sitting dead in the water near the shore on Kilchattan Bay. No movement on board. The three men had been keeping an eye on it for the previous few minutes, waiting for some sign of life.

It was just before eight-thirty when they came to the bay, and the small trawler was a hundred yards across the calm water.

'Cut the engine,' said one of the three men.

The man at the engine followed the other's gaze to the fishing vessel. Nothing out of place, no sign of trauma. And yet there was an air about it. Maybe it came from the silence of the morning, maybe from the lack of movement on the boat. Perhaps it was just the peculiarity of a fishing vessel sitting in this place at this time. He cut the power and they steered the boat round directly towards the fishing vessel.