The Barbershop Seven (242 page)

The snow had stopped, the clouds had cleared and the day was turning back to being crisp and clear and sharp and wonderful, and they kicked the snow as they walked.

'You seem calm,' said Frankenstein.

'Yes,' said Monk.

'Are you an alien inhabiting my sergeant's body?'

'Not any more.'

'Ah, fuck,' said Frankenstein.

'What?' asked Monk.

Frankenstein pointed at his car and the robust yellow clamp attached to the front right.

'Crap,' he said. 'That's it, that's what happens.'

'What d'you mean?'

'This is what happens when you start investigating weird shit. People don't want you investigating weird shit and bad stuff starts to happen to you. Particularly when the weird shit is attached to a personal friend of the Prime Minister. We're the police for crying out loud, and we're getting clamped. Bastards.'

They approached the car. Frankenstein pointlessly booted the clamp.

'All that stuff you get in movies about Satan and weird shit 'n' all. It's all a load of crap. This, wheel clamping, small time annoyances, this is true Satanism on the front line. This is the kind of thing they do.'

Monk smiled. Frankenstein the expert.

He muttered something dark and turned away, taking his phone from his pocket. Monk leaned back against the car, looked up at the blue sky. In her relaxed state was wondering if Frankenstein was beginning to lose it. Didn't mind if he was. In the cold, clear light of day, it all seemed dubious and absurdly speculative. Satan did not walk amongst them.

So many things seem sensible or possible or realistic in the middle of the night, or in the darkness of your own mind, or around the table amongst a group of conspirators, but once they're out in the open, to be judged by those not affected, the radical idea can seem stupid and inane, exposed and ludicrous.

Satan? Although if there was a Satan, then logically that would mean there was a God, and just at that thought Monk felt a warmth inside her and the vision of a kind guy leaning across her bed touching her forehead flitted through her mind and was gone.

Frankenstein turned, dragging his feet, putting his cell phone back in his pocket.

'Called a mate of mine down at Piccadilly,' he said. 'He's going to send someone along to get the thing off. Jesus, these people get my humph right up.'

'What people?'

'God, I don't know. Everyone.'

'All right,' she said, 'so where do we go now?'

Frankenstein grunted again, stared at his feet, didn't look her in the eye. Monk watched him for a few seconds, then looked around at the undisturbed snow in the trees. Thought about Barney Thomson, wondered how he was getting on today. Hoped she could see him that evening.

'So,' said Frankenstein, kicking snow, 'you're in love with Barney Thomson?'

Monk looked up, surprised.

'You really want to talk about that?' she asked, at the same time delighted to have the chance to discuss Barney, even if it was only with Frankenstein.

'Not really,' said Frankenstein. 'Thought I should ask, but I couldn't give a shit.'

'Yeah,' said Monk, ignoring him. 'The real thing. Straight up, first time I saw him. Just keeps getting heavier and heavier every time we meet. Can't stop thinking about him, you know that way. Don't think I've had anything like this before. God, might be the real thing. You read about this in magazines. I mean—'

'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, interrupting. 'Not the kind of magazines I read.'

'It's just like—'

'You know, Danno, you can probably stop talking now.'

'Right.'

'He knows something he's not telling us. It's the same as the last time. There's weird shit going on, I have no idea what it is, and I think he does.'

Monk let out a deep breath and stared at the snow.

'Right,' she said.

Frankenstein kicked some snow and muttered under his breath, then said
fuck
quite loudly and started to wander away.

***

B
arney was just about to call it a wrap on his last day of work at Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. And for the first time in a long while, he'd really quite enjoyed himself. From quiet beginnings, and without really taking off into any sort of mad rush, he had spent the entire afternoon cutting the hair of the company employees. And maybe it was just him, but it seemed as if they were getting younger and younger as the day progressed. So many of the older young guns had been killed, that they'd had to resort to hiring twelve-year-olds.

Just after five, last cut of the day. He'd bestowed a series of beautiful cuts, everything from a Belgrade Mafia Spectacular to a Hoagy Carmichael, in a glorious afternoon of barbetorial invention. For the final cut he'd been requested to deliver a millimetre perfect Johnny Depp (
Chocolat
), and he was about his business, pleased with the overall effect and nearly finished. Jack Beckett, head of accounts, second haircut in four days, was quite happy with what was going on in the mirror, thinking his new look was in keeping with his senior position in money laundering.

With a final elaborate fanfare, and the use of a series of heavy mechanical implements, Barney patted the hair into place and called time on the event. Not much conversation had taken place between them, in order to facilitate a quick and precise piece of work, but the haircut was done and Barney was feeling good about the day.

Beckett stood up, still admiring himself in the mirror. Did a few things with his head in order to follow the movement of the hair, swishing it this way and that. Wondered about asking for lime green fluorescent ends, so that it would look really cool in the dark. Maybe next time. This was a haircut so damn cool, it didn't need embellishment.

'Thanks, Dude,' he said to Barney.

Barney almost pulled an Anthony Hopkins (
Remains Of The Day
) on him for Illegal Use Of The Word Dude, but instead took his proffered hand and shook it.

'No bother, big fella,' he said. 'A pleasure.'

Beckett turned, gave himself another once over in the mirror, and then was gone, legging it out into the rugged wilds of the offices of BF&C. Barney watched him go, checking the hair more than anything else. Another beaut of a cut, although he felt only satisfaction at a job well done, rather than any hubris at his own god-like hairdressing qualities.

He turned back to his workplace and started clearing up, confident that he'd seen the last of the collective. Lifted the brush, started sweeping the detritus of the Johnny Depp into a pile. Glanced outside at the grey, darkening skies. Something made him lay down the brush and go to the window. He looked down on the river, out across London, the city still predominantly white. The day had grown colder as it progressed, and the clouds suggested more snow. A tour boat was passing beneath him, no more than six or seven cold souls admiring the regenerated east end as they floated on by.

He turned back and looked at his work station. Two pairs of scissors, one razor with nine different attachments, a cut-throat razor, combs and brushes and product. That was his life. And it was time to scoop it up and move it to Millport. Suddenly he felt the weight of melancholy, of being alone in a quiet place. The melancholy of leaving something behind.

The problem with Millport, the problem he had run away from, was of a small shop with few customers and three employees. When he returned he was going to have to tell Keanu that he wasn't required any more. Maybe even Igor. How could he do that to either of them?

Money. It always came down to money.

He started to sigh, stopped it halfway; there was no one here to sigh for, no one with whom to share his despondency. Daniella Monk, that was who he wanted, but what was there going to be for her to do in a weary town on the dreich west coast of Scotland? She was a London girl, didn't seem weighed down by the city as Barney was. When removed from it she might be lost.

And so he made the decision that this would be his last night in London, a train to Glasgow the following day, the train down to Largs, the boat over to the island, and then maybe he would walk the five miles round to the town, rather than catching the bus. If it wasn't raining, which it very possibly would be.

He lifted himself away from the window and the snow. Toyed with the idea of leaving everything as it was, a kind of Mary Celeste of the barbershop world, his last testament to working in the Big Smoke. And maybe, if Harlequin Sweetlips managed to get hold of him, it would be his last testament to the world.

Avoid Sweetlips, he thought to himself, lifting the brush and giving up on the last testament idea, and go and see Daniella Monk one last time before heading off. See how it goes, maybe imply that she could come with him if she wanted to.

Then, maybe not. Maybe he could just leave without ever seeing Monk again. She could be his lost love, the one he would fondly remember for the rest of his life. His might-have-been. If his life was Shakespeare – and there had been enough death in it for it to have been a couple of acts of Titus Andronicus – Monk would be the tragic, misunderstood love, only revealed when one or other of them lay on their deathbed. She would be the woman his biographers would recall as his one true love, who haunted him for the rest of his days. It would suit his poor, treacherous soul. His artistic soul.

The door opened. He turned. Jude Orwell. Barney's heart sank even further. Had said his goodbyes, didn't feel any further need to spend more time with the man.

'Mr Orwell,' he said, formally.

'You're still here, Barn,' he said.

'My soul has already left,' said Barney. 'It's back in Scotland, and tomorrow I'm going to catch a train to join it. You know, might even take the sleeper tonight.'

'That's cool, Barn,' said Orwell, 'but seeing as you're still here, I need you for the next hour. Can you do it?'

'For this meeting with Bethlehem?'

'Yeah.'

Barney leaned on the end of his brush.

'No,' he said. 'And by that, I mean, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. In case of any doubt that those words might generate in the listener, can I reiterate my stance by saying, absolutely, one hundred percent, categorically, no. The answer is no.'

Orwell smiled, rather than dropping to his knees, as Barney had been expecting.

'Everyone's got his price, Barn,' he said. 'I know you're leaving, but I just need you for this. Voting rights, you know.'

'Thought you were getting someone else?'

Orwell looked down at the carpet. He wasn't lying, just uncomfortable with the truth.

'I put Achebe in as Head of MAD,' he said.

'I know,' said Barney.

Another hesitation.

'Got a call from Bethlehem after that. Someone in the company must've been speaking to him. Told me to hold all recruitment until he returned this evening. Fortunately I hadn't informed him of your resignation at this point, but it means I can't replace you. I need you. Totally. If you're not there, it's me and Achebe against Bethlehem and this woman. Split down the flippin' middle, and we're shafted. Won't get anywhere.'

Barney wanted to smile. The machinations of business. Marginally more complex versions of the games you play in the school playground, but that was all it was.

'No.'

'I'll pay you a consultancy fee.'

'No.'

'Really, Barn,' said Orwell, pushing the envelope, or whatever it is they say they're doing, as Barney leaned on his brush and tried to concentrate on not picking it up and whacking Orwell over the head with it. 'I'm talking cash. We have cash. A large cash fee for one hour's work, that's all it needs. You've done some stellar stuff in the last couple of days, man, I need you there with me. Name your price. You can have the cash, and you can be walking out of here in a couple of hours with money behind you.'

The salesman in him detected the change in Barney's attitude.

'I don't know what your life plans are, Barn, or what your financial set-up is, but flippin' heck, mate, you're a barber. It can't be that great. Everyone needs a little extra.' A pause. Could see Barney's mind working. 'What d'you say?'

Barney was still leaning on the broom, but was annoyed for allowing himself to be brought into this. Orwell, unfortunately, was right. He did need money. Enough money to get back home and keep the shop going for another few years.

Was this serendipity in its purist form? Just as he had started to consider the problem inherent in his return to the Millport shop, the solution appeared in his inbox.

'A hundred and fifty thousand,' said Barney suddenly and absurdly.

He had chosen to start high, thinking that Orwell would negotiate him down. However, such was Orwell's desperation that the man just burst out laughing at having made the sale. At any price, he'd thought walking into the room, and that was what he had. A hundred and fifty thousand was nothing. In fact, it was cheap, if it helped get Bethlehem out.

'Sorted,' he said, walking forward and extending his hand. 'A hundred and fifty grand, you sit in on the meeting, you don't contradict anything I say, you back me up totally when required, you follow my lead in everything.'

Barney smiled.

'Smashing,' he said.

'Right,' said Orwell, 'leave all this stuff. It can be the testament to your final day as a barber at my company. Come on, we've not got much time before Bethlehem gets here, and we need to—'

The door opened. Orwell stopped in his stride. He and Barney turned. Thomas Bethlehem was standing in the doorway. And beside him was the new Head of Other Contracts, a very, very attractive woman, already known to one of the two men currently in the meeting room.

––––––––

F
rankenstein and Monk were sitting in the car. The clamp had been removed, but Frankenstein had not moved on. Monk had eventually dozed off, realising that she was still suffering from the day before. Had left hospital much too early. Was surprised that when she woke up, after seemingly having been asleep for hours, they were still sitting in the same place. Frankenstein was wide awake, staring straight ahead.