The Barbershop Seven (239 page)

The eighth floor. The door pinged. Orwell walked out of the lift and stood in the small reception area at the entrance to MAD. Silence, no one to be seen. The desks behind reception were all empty, not even the sound of voices coming from an office. A serene calm, before the inevitable storm of the day.

Orwell looked up and down the corridor, and now, having become accustomed to the sound of the silence, he was able to hear the low rumble of voices from down the corridor. A closed door, the conspirators gathered.

The feeling came back. This was no innocent gathering of the plebs, conducting some second or third string company business. This was a coup, and it was a good thing he was here to stop it. And so, unarmed and in possession of none of the facts, Orwell walked quickly along the corridor, guards in his wake, didn't knock and opened the door into Justin Steinbeck's office.

––––––––

J
ude Orwell stepped into Justin Steinbeck's office and quickly closed the door behind him. Scanned the faces of the conspirators for signs of complicity, thinking that he would need a trained eye to spot any obvious attempts to hide wrongdoing and anti-company conspiracy. He needn't have worried. These were not seasoned veterans he had just walked in amongst. These were young lads, nervously awaiting their first entry into the world of the plotter, sweating and uncomfortable with their decision to play Brutus.

As Orwell quickly stared about them looking for signs of betrayal, Achebe's jaw dropped about two feet, clunking noisily off the table top; a strange sound like that which might accompany complete loss of bowel control could be heard coming from young Pinter's direction; Salinger's eyes went wider than the gap in Madonna's front teeth; and Steinbeck looked shocked and said, 'Aw crap!' rather loudly.

Orwell walked further into the room, allowing the four lads time to compose themselves, which they did very quickly; in some cases, quickly enough that they imagined they'd been pretty cool about it.

Quick scan of the table and it was apparent that they were expecting another couple of conspirators, including someone at the head of the table. Orwell walked round and pulled out the seat, sat down. The others were silent, waiting for him to pronounce, none of them with the confidence to go on the offensive, which was needed.

Being caught with their pants down to that level required in-your-face assertiveness, the balls to attack with all guns, demanding to know what Orwell was doing at their meeting at that time in the morning, because Orwell did not have line management control of any of them bar Achebe. None of them had it, though; none of them had the power. Orwell would have done had he been in their shoes, even when he'd been as young as them, but this crew weren't in his class.

'Who are you waiting for?' he asked, looking Steinbeck straight in the eye. And for once, quite unequivocally, Taylor Bergerac was nowhere to be seen in his head.

'What?' said Steinbeck, lamely. 'This?' he added.

Orwell held his gaze until Steinbeck wilted and dropped his eyes, then Orwell looked around the table, taking in each in turn, and none of them could stand up to him for more than a few seconds.

'While Mr Bethlehem is out of the country,' said Orwell slowly, 'I am the head of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, with full executive powers. You know what I'm saying about full executive powers? Hire and fire, gentlemen. I'm leaving this room in thirty seconds, and if I leave without knowing who else you were expecting, then each of you can walk out past me, go to your desks and clear them.'

He paused, looked around the room.

'I doubt any of you are old enough to have children, but if you do, I'll make sure you never see them again.'

There were two spare chairs. He knew who it would be, but he wanted to break the coven, make one of them snap, create divisions, ensure that they would never again meet as a collective. And when this was all over and the future of the company had been sorted out, then more than likely the four of them would be on their way in any case. Pre-pubescent bastards.

'Fifteen seconds,' he said grimly, looking around the table, wondering who it was who'd crack. Question was, as he studied the nervous glances and sweaty upper lips, which one wouldn't crack.

'Ten,' he said, and he started to lift himself from the chair.

'Waugh & Blade!' said Pinter at a rush, and since Orwell had been looking at Achebe at the time, he could tell that he'd been narrowly beaten to it.

He stood up, pushed the chair back.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said. 'I'll leave you to it. Looks like your chiefs might not be coming. You Indians have a nice meeting without them. You can conspire about who gets to control the tea fund.'

He walked from the room, closed the door slowly behind him, and immediately Pinter was subjected to an inquisition from the three suddenly confident and outraged junior executives.

***

M
onk stirred, turned over in bed. Coming out of sleep, dragging herself from a bizarre dream where she and Barney Thomson were married and walking around their home, a house infested with thousands of weird mutating bugs. A giant red flying ant was zooming at her across the room, when she managed to escape from the dream, open her eyes, and see that she wasn't surrounded by two-inch bees. Immediately the pains in her legs and back came to her and she remembered instantly where she was.

Turned gently onto her back, felt a slight easing of the pain and pressure, opened her eyes. White ceiling, the room slowly coming to dull life with the grey light of morning. For a second the vague memory of having spoken to someone in the middle of a disturbed night came to her then was gone almost instantly.

'How are you feeling?' said the voice from the side of the bed.

She turned slowly. Eyes caught the time on the clock first of all, 10:57, then she looked at the man sitting at the side of the bed. Barney Thomson, casually dressed, looking tired.

'Sore,' she said. 'How are you?'

'I'm all right,' said Barney.

'You been there all night?' she asked.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'More or less.'

'You didn't have to do that,' she said, sleepily, and he didn't answer.

Her hand appeared from under the covers and he took it.

'Didn't feel like going home,' said Barney, and she smiled.

And then the door burst open on their brief romantic encounter. Barney didn't bother turning. Monk looked up. Frankenstein, agitated and abrupt, caught the hands together before she withdrew hers and brought it back under the covers. Frankenstein suddenly feeling like he should've knocked, looked a little sheepish.

'Yeah, sorry,' he said.

Barney glanced over his shoulder, said nothing. Monk began to wake up properly. Work once more set to intrude.

'Come on,' said Frankenstein, with much less boorishness than he'd intended when making his grand entrance. 'We have to go.'

'Come on,' said Barney, same words, entirely different meaning.

'Work to do, Danno,' said Frankenstein, ignoring the love interest. 'They said you needed a night's rest and you've had it. Get your clobber on, it's time to get a shift on. Two more murders last night. The entire fucking city is turning into an abattoir. And those fingerprints have turned up again for numbers three to five.'

'Last night's m.o.?' asked Monk, immediately getting back into the groove, sitting up in bed and feeling aches all over her body with the movement. Barney closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. The killing spree continued. Harlequin Sweetlips, his Saturday night dinner date. What did that make him, consorting with evil?

'A slit throat and a decapitation, head punted into a rubbish skip.'

'Cool,' she said. 'That sorts out my desire to have breakfast.'

'You can grab a Danish on the way over to St. Paul's.'

'St. Paul's? Cathedral?' said Monk, the words beating out the other obvious ejaculation,
a Danish?

'Yes,' he said, 'you've heard of it, have you?'

'Who's dead?' asked Barney, the question only just occurring to him. So little impression must these people have made on him that he hardly seemed bothered which of them might have been put to the sword.

'Waugh and Blade,' said Frankenstein. 'It's all becoming a blur. And as long as it's these marketing wankers who keep dying, to be honest I don't really give a toss. Monk, are you getting dressed, or what? Bloody snow everywhere, 'n' all. City's in chaos.'

'It snowed?' asked Monk, looking at Barney.

'Aye,' he said, softly. 'It's lovely. Air's crisp and fresh.'

'Pain in the arse,' said Frankenstein. 'Fucking March, 'n all.'

Barney stood up, pushed the chair away from behind him.

'Some privacy would be nice,' said Monk, the comment entirely directed at Frankenstein.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, I suppose. I'll, eh, yeah,' he said, and he retreated from the room, annoyed that he couldn't be harder on her, looking at Barney as he went.

Barney shrugged, stared down at her.

'I should get into the office, see what kind of flap everyone's in. Think I might make this my last day.'

'Get out before you're got,' she said.

'Aye. I mean, I'm presuming I'm not going to be included on anyone's list, but then, all these reptiles were thinking the same thing.'

She nodded.

'It's nice to have you back,' she said.

'What d'you mean?' asked Barney.

She stared. She analysed her own comment. She didn't know where it had come from.

'I don't know,' she said. 'I don't know.'

He leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek.

'I'll call you later,' he said.

She nodded, another of those significant glances.

'It's nice to be back,' he said, and then Barney Thomson – alive by the soul of Daniella Monk and by the grace of God, or by the desperation of God's marketing techniques – walked out of the hospital room, past Frankenstein worrying at a coffee machine, and off down the corridor.

––––––––

B
arney Thomson walked into the reception area of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane for the last time, trailing snow into the room, further besmirching the once sanitised area. Nodded at Imelda, who was kicking back, feet on the desk, microphone off, filing her nails. Acknowledged Barney with a casually tapped foot. Barney got to the elevator, and then, much like Orwell that morning, although for different reasons, turned back and stood in front of her. She raised her eyebrows, not really being bothered to talk much at that moment.

'Imelda,' said Barney, and she raised her eyebrow a further couple of millimetres in response.

'Have I missed something?' he asked.

'Nothing much more than's been happening around here lately.'

He gave her another few seconds to see if there'd be anything further, then said, 'And what would that be exactly?'

She finally looked him in the eye, letting out a long sigh in the process. If I have to explain this to one more bloody person, she was thinking, although in fact she'd only explained it to one person so far, and that was someone to whom she'd volunteered the information.

'Mr Waugh is dead. Mr Blade is dead.'

'I know,' said Barney, patiently. 'There have been people getting murdered all week, but it hasn't made you put your feet on the desk. What's up with you, Imelda?'

She abruptly took her feet off the desk, straightened her shoulders and leaned forward, hands held together, fingers entwined. Instant change in the woman, and all because Barney had asked about her, rather than anything to do with the company. She respected men who took a genuine interest in her well-being, and while that might have been a far-fetched interpretation of his question, that was how she chose to take it.

'Well,' she said, 'Mr Orwell was very rude to me this morning, and I am almost of a mind to walk out of here.'

'Was he?' said Barney. 'How did that manifest itself?'

'He was pulling rank in a most unbecoming manner. A good manager does not need to pull rank,' she said.

'Absolutely,' said Barney.

'And,' she said, leaning further forward, drawing Barney into her inner circle of close friends, 'apparently he went straight upstairs and did it again. Mr. Pinter in accounts, Mr. Salinger in Press and Mr. Steinbeck in MAD have all resigned this morning. Already left, no notice, packed their drawers and gone. Betty on the eighth floor is saying it's because of Mr Orwell.'

'Getting out before someone kills them, eh?' said Barney.

'I don't know,' she said, pleased to have another friend around. 'But I'll tell you this, Mr Thomson, the place is like a ghost ship. There've been people phoning in sick all morning. The word's definitely out about what's happening with the company and, with the exception of workers not coming in, the phone isn't ringing anymore. No one calls here. I might as well not be here. Between you and me, I've already spoken to someone at McDuff & McCall, you know, about another position.'

Barney leaned forward, drawing Imelda into his inner circle of close friends.

'Between you and me, Imelda,' he said, 'this is my last day here, too.'

Imelda sat back, nodding.

'I can't say I blame you,' she said. 'Really, this place is becoming quite intolerable. If only Mr Bethlehem hadn't gone away for quite so long.'

Barney nodded. 'Aye,' he said. 'Too bad about that.' Funny, all this happening whilst he was away. 'When's he back?' he asked.

'Well,' she said, leaning even further forward, so that her bum was well off her seat. 'They're saying he's flying in from Rome late afternoon, but I've been speaking to Mary, who makes all his travel arrangements, and apparently he's due to fly to Glasgow a few hours later. Hopefully when he sees what's been going on, he'll stay longer. You know.'

Barney nodded.

'Very interesting, Imelda,' he said. 'I should probably go upstairs and see what's happening.'

'Very good, Mr Thomson,' she said, and Barney turned and walked to the elevator. Imelda watched him go and then, confidence returned after finding her new friend, stayed in an upright position and started clicking away industrially at her PC.