The Barbershop Seven (224 page)

(Even Bethlehem had squirmed at this point.)

Hemingway: You're kidding me!

Wodehouse: That's like, so ick.

Orwell: It's the final frontier in personal hygiene. No one's touched it before. Every other issue has been addressed. The people at Exron recognise that there's a massive untapped teenage market out there. Massive.

Wodehouse: What teenager is going to have the neck to go into a shop to buy that?

Orwell: There are other ways. They can be issued by schools, for example. The people at Exron don't care if they get their money from the mum concerned about sheets, from the government, or from the ejaculating teenager himself.

Barney: This is gross. If we're going to even talk about it, don't mention specifics and come up with another name for wet dream.

(Snap of the fingers from Orwell.)

Orwell: Exactly. Another name. We need a product identifier that says everything in two or three words. Mentions the problem and kills it in one phrase. Clinical, scientific, precise, we need to take the ickiness out of it and put it at the forefront of youth hygiene concerns, right beside toothpaste and acne cream.

(A few beats. Bethlehem, with a new millennium concentration span of less than five seconds, was getting bored already.)

Wodehouse: Nighttime Ejaculation Incident.

Orwell: Keep it coming.

Hemingway: Early Morning Sperm Capture Facility.

Orwell: Keep it coming.

(Another few beats. A bunch of women would've been having a right old laugh by now, but this was a serious business.)

Barney: Midnight Express.

(A short silence, while Bethlehem's interest perked up, and Hemingway and Wodehouse wished they'd said it.)

Orwell: Barney, you are the man! What d'you think fellas?

Wodehouse: Got it.

Hemingway: Yeah. Totally.

Orwell: (Laughing) That nails that sucker.

(And he hadn't been talking about Wet Dream Begone either.)

So, Bethlehem had been duly impressed and, once the worker ants had been driven from the office, he and Orwell had made the decision to invite Barney into the very heart of the organisation.

***

D
aniella Monk had had a disconcerting day. A long time with Barney Thomson, nothing really to tell. She knew that Frankenstein had left her there so that she could get an impression of him, and she could bring that back to the station and they could compare notes.

Her impression was not helpful. Barney struck her as a lonely man, full of melancholy and sorrow, yet strong and emotionally self-sufficient, and consequently she could not have found him more attractive. She had expected Frankenstein to return for her, but after two hours she went looking for him and found that he had long since departed the building. She'd had to stop herself returning to speak to Barney, and had taken the chance to speak to others in the company about this mysterious, rogue barber who had turned up in their midst.

Frankenstein had talked to a few people but had grown disgruntled with the very notion of Barney Thomson being involved in this business and at the possibility of what else lay in store, and so he had quickly returned to the office to think dark, uncomfortable thoughts, play underpant basketball and wait for Monk to return.

***

O
rwell, having spoken to Bethlehem about Barney, turned his attention to the portfolio of Waferthin.com and, more importantly, the portfolio of Taylor Bergerac. That was something which really needed consideration.

At some stage, whilst wondering how he was going to make his way into the affections of such an amazingly attractive woman, he'd realised that what he had to do was market himself, and since marketing was his game, he'd spent a fruitful hour treating himself as the client, and working out the various threads of his campaign. No woman on the planet, he thought, could fail to fall for the wiles of the man who had brought the world:
Pirelli. Tyres That Make Love To The Road. As Driven by Julio Iglesias
.

––––––––

B
arney Thomson had finally been able to get down to some business, in what was to be his last day cutting hair for a while. After a morning featuring a solitary haircut, he had chalked off almost fifteen by late afternoon.

Whether it was because the word had got around that he was creating the hair of the gods, or whether it was because everyone knew even before Barney himself that he was about to be offered Head of TV Contracts and this was their last chance for a free haircut, no one would ever know. But he worked his way through them all, the old panache still there, chatting happily when required, handing out advice on marketing matters if asked, and dishing out a good line on relationship issues whenever needed.

A little after six o'clock, his last haircut of the day dispatched, Barney was going about the business of clearing up for the night. Hair already swept up, he was cleaning the scissors and brushes and combs and other heavy implements the modern barber requires. Humming the old Hoagy Carmichael standard
Riverboat Shuffle
, slave to the routine, doing everything slowly and methodically, much as he had done in barbershops for nearly thirty years. Thinking about Daniella Monk as he went, wondering when she would next come by. Not really bothered if he would be taken into custody, because what did it matter? His fate would be as it would be. Mostly he wondered absurdly if this was what falling in love felt like. Had never happened to him before. He had just seen it in films, heard the music.

The door opened. He looked round, sure it was going to be her. That was what fate did for you. Instant deflation at the smiling face of Jude Orwell.

'Hey, Barn,' said Orwell, 'wanted to have a word. You got a minute, mon ami?'

Barney nodded. As of that moment, he had the rest of his life.

'Cool,' said Orwell, and he walked into the room. Was on an absurdly false high, based on the previous hour when he had put together the outline for his great marketing campaign to woo Taylor Bergerac. 'I'm just going to put a few things to you about the company, fill you in, you know what I'm saying?'

Barney slumped down into the barber's chair, folded his fingers in his lap, looked up at Orwell's eager face.

'I'm here for you,' said Barney.

'Cool,' said Orwell again and, as he spoke, he began to pace slowly around the room, his hands emphasising every point. 'Right, we're Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane at the moment, you got that?'

'Drummed into me every day,' said Barney.

'But when we were formed, there were five of them, five partners, each with equal prominence within the firm.'

He dug into his pocket, lifted out a cheap lipstick and held it up to show Barney.

'Borrowed this offa Ro, thought I might need it. If you don't mind?' he asked, indicating the mirror. Barney shrugged, his curiosity at least activated. Orwell moved forward and wrote in red on the mirror, Moses, Bethlehem, Crane, Forsyth, & Zivkovic. Turned around, looked at Barney, held his arms out.

'I mean, Barn,' he said. 'Lousy name for a company, but that was how it was. They each held an executive position, doesn't really matter who did what.'

'So don't tell me,' said Barney glibly, when he thought that he might.

'Eh, OK,' said Orwell slightly hesitantly, and then he was off again. 'Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department, Marketing Consultancy, Chief of Staff, Head of TV Contracts, Head of Other Media Contracts. So, not long after the kick-off, Moses and Zivkovic left, but the constitution never changed. Bethlehem just worked it so that the new people coming in were totally on his side. And though they didn't get their name on the door, they got the vote. But Bethlehem knew how to play them. It was a superb strategy. He had the two new votes on the board and therefore an overall majority. Total control, which he then used to oust the other two founder members. Only, by this time, the firm was getting a bit of a name, Forsyth and Crane had brought in some business, he felt it expedient to leave their names up there. Didn't matter to him, man, he had it nailed.'

Barney nodded his understanding.

'Only trouble for Bethlehem,' Orwell continued, 'the constitution remained the same, and it's never changed. He didn't care about that either, such was his control. Any time he felt threatened, he'd just boot the guy out of the firm.' A wee pause, a cheeky grin. 'Until now. Out of town just too long, a few rumblings in the belly of the beast, and you know what I'm saying? There are opportunities.'

Barney was silent. Hadn't cottoned on to the fact that he was about to be asked to be Head of TV Contracts; wondered if Orwell was about to tell him that the position of barber had been made an executive one with voting rights.

'What d'you think?' asked Orwell, when he realised he wasn't getting anything in return for his remarkable story of business skullduggery. 'Fitzgerald held a voting position. Now that he's pegged it, we need that position filled. What with Bethlehem being away, distracted, whatever the hell it is he's doing, you know, there's a chance for one of the others to get in there.'

'Why am I here?' asked Barney. Not concentrating.

'I want you to be Head of TV Contracts,
amigo
,' said Orwell.

'You're kidding me,' said Barney.

'I am not,' said Orwell, brandishing the lipstick. 'I bloody am not. You're good, Barn, damned good. Way better than these spotty oiks like Hemingway and Wodehouse. You're a bleeding natural, mate, got this biz totally pegged. I've already agreed it with Bethlehem. We get you in there, you come in onside with my camp, and then we only need one of the other positions and we can force Bethlehem out.'

'And that would be Waugh or Wodehouse?' asked Barney, doubtfully.

'Yeah, I hear you,' said Orwell. 'We're not even close, but with you in place, we're almost there. There are no problems, only solutions,
mon ami
.'

Barney smiled ruefully. A fine kettle of fish. Started thinking about Daniella Monk again, for no other reason than he found it hard to get her out of his head. Wondered what she would be doing now.

'What d'you say, Chiefo?' said Orwell. 'A hundred grand a year starting, can probably guarantee you triple that once we oust Bethlehem and I'm in sole charge of the whole shebang. A few points'll need to be ironed out along the way, but they'll sort themselves out.'

Barney shrugged. He had already done the maths. Even if every one of the employees wanted him to cut their hair, at the current rate he would be through them all in a little over seven working days. What was he going to do then?

'Sure,' he said eventually. 'To be honest, I think it sounds complete insanity, but what the heck?'

'Cool,' said Orwell, finally pocketing the lipstick, then clasping Barney by the hand.

'Arctic,' said Barney.

'Excellento,' said Orwell, and with that he began to head for the door. Wanted to get back to his Taylor Bergerac quest. 'You're going to rock, Barn!' he announced, as he hoofed it on out into the corridor.

Barney stared at the closed door for a short time, then turned back to his haircutting equipment. That had been a sudden change in career development. A ridiculous change at that. Did he really want to leave all this behind, no matter how tired he felt he had become of it?

The door opened behind him. Once more the thought of Daniella Monk came to mind. Once more he was to be disappointed as he swivelled round on the chair.

Waugh, head of Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department.

'Barney!' said Waugh, as if greeting an old friend. Barney nodded. Checked out Waugh's short back & sides with a professional eye. This man had had his hair cut by a professional London hair stylist in the last week. He wasn't here for a haircut.

'Can I talk to you a minute, Barney,' said Waugh, gravitating to the window.

'Sure,' said Barney. He could sit here all day. Wondered what Waugh was about to offer him.

'I'll cut to the last ball of the final over,' said Waugh, 'as I know you're a busy man.'

He paused, as if wanting Barney to confirm how busy he was, regardless of the fact that he was currently sitting doing nothing.

'These are strange times for the company,' Waugh continued, 'with Fitzgerald's murder and Bethlehem being out of town so long.'

He stopped. He stared out the window. He turned back.

'I should start by explaining how the executive voting structure of the company is organised,' he said.

'I know,' said Barney.

'You do?' said Waugh, surprised. 'Of course, of course, you're the barber, you're going to have learned all sorts of things.'

Slowly Waugh's eyes drifted to the lipstick writing on the mirror. A look of curiosity crossed his face, and then he turned back to Barney, a little more uncertain than before.

'So, you'll know that Fitzgerald's death leaves a crucial voting position unfilled?'

Barney nodded. Not any more.

'How would you like to fill that position?' asked Waugh. 'I've heard about the fantastic work you've been doing, and I've already spoken to Bethlehem. He's okayed the deal. You could be Head of TV Contracts, and with me that's a voting block of two. We'd only have to worry about the positions of Orwell and Wodehouse, and maybe we could sort one of those out quite easily, and then we can have a genuine pop at Bethlehem.'

He had overcome the moment of uncertainty, and now his eyes were wide with the excitement of the conspiracy. Barney was nearly asleep.

'Sure,' he said, 'that sounds brilliant. Head of TV Contracts, and working side by side with you. Fan-tastic.'

Laced with sarcasm, Waugh didn't pick up on any of it. He clasped his hands together, his eyes widened even, well, wider, and he smiled broadly.

'Friggin' marvellous,' he said. 'Well done, Barney, glad you're on board.'

'Wilco that, Squadron Leader,' said Barney, managing to avoid the salute.

Waugh stood before him as if he might have something else to say, then when neither of them did, he turned and walked from the office, rubbing his hands in a conspiratorial manner. Barney watched him go, and then looked at the writing on the mirror.