The Barbershop Seven (243 page)

They sat in a long silence while Monk slowly came from the depths of dreamless slumber. She stretched, rubbed her eyes, yawned. Smelled coffee, noticed there was a cup sitting in the holder beside her. She looked at Frankenstein.

'That still warm?' she asked.

Frankenstein nodded without looking round. 'Been there about twenty minutes, but they were too damned hot to start with so it should be OK.'

She picked it up, took a sip. Felt the warmth and the taste slide slowly inside. Rested her head back, was aware of the pains from the day before, residual aches all over her body.

'Why are we still here?' she asked eventually.

Frankenstein drained his cup of coffee.

'If we go back to the station, Strumpet will rip us to shreds. He's already demanding we get back there. So if we go, we're toast.'

'So you thought we'd sit here instead? Interesting tactic. You reckon if we just don't go back to the station for, say, another three months, he'll have forgotten about it?'

Frankenstein finally turned and looked at her. She was surprised to see him smiling. If he'd been human she might have thought she'd amused him.

'Funny. We're going to sit here until the Archbishop leaves the premises. And then we're going to follow him. Actually, you're going to follow him. At that point, I'll go back to the station and hope that Strumpet's gone home for the night.'

Monk glanced over at St Paul's Cathedral, imposing in the gathering grey gloom of late afternoon.

'So why didn't you just leave me here and go back to the station this afternoon? I mean, I can't believe you're actually scared of him.'

Frankenstein glanced at her, held her gaze for a second, then looked forward again without saying anything. She regarded him curiously.

'Does this mean that you stayed here to let me sleep, that you're waiting to make sure that I'm all right? Seriously?'

She smiled. She had him pegged.

'Don't be absurd, Sergeant,' he said. 'There are pints of beer that I care more about than you.'

She laughed, ignoring the last remark.

'You're sweet sometimes,' she said eventually.

Frankenstein humphed. Monk laughed again, smiled, stared out the window. Drank coffee, drank in the warm silence. Slowly the smile faded. Her eyes drifted along St. Paul's. She thought about the odds and the angles.

'Aren't there going to be about six ways out of that place?'

'There are three likely exit points, and we have the other two covered.'

'Cool,' she said. 'So we're staking out the Prime Minister's personal religious adviser. Is someone recording this for YouTube?'

'Yeah, you keep up the witty banter, Sergeant,' said Frankenstein. 'That'll see us through the boredom of the next couple of hours.'

She took another sip of coffee and smiled again. The sky darkened. The cars queued up around them. A cyclist narrowly avoided clipping the car's wing mirror. Pedestrians surged and waned.

'And you do know that Barney Thomson is going to end up involved in this in some way?'

She looked at him curiously. 'Why?'

'That man isn't a bad penny,' muttered Frankenstein, 'he's a biblical fucking plague.'

***

T
he meeting was finally assembled, each member of the caucus carefully checking out the others, none of them quite sure how it was all going to go; and, in some cases, without any real idea what they were actually doing there. At the top of the table was the Chief Executive, Thomas Bethlehem. To his right, Head of Accounts, Jack Beckett, present but without any voting rights. His hair looked great. Next, Bethlehem's Chief of Staff & Operations, Jude Orwell, and then Head of TV Contracts Barney Thomson. No one at the other end of the table, and heading back up the table towards Bethlehem, there sat the Union Representative, who had insisted on being present despite also not having any voting rights, the wonderful and demure Imelda Marcos. Next to her the new Head of MAD, Nigel Achebe, and then finally at Bethlehem's left hand, his new Head of Other Contracts. A very attractive woman, drawing a reasonable amount of attention from the men in attendance, and inspiring cautious looks of antipathy and loathing from Imelda Marcos. And it wasn't Harlequin Sweetlips, who had flown to London with Bethlehem but had then gone off on some brief mission of her own. (Although in this instance her mission had been to get a bagel and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.)

It was Taylor Bergerac, formerly of Waferthin.com.

Five minutes in and Bethlehem was conducting the meeting as if nothing was amiss. No more than a passing reference to the dear departed souls, those wretched victims of Harlequin Sweetlips. Not so much as a nod nor a wink to all the skullduggery and shenanigans which had been taking place behind his back, and he had moved freely into outlining the list of contracts which he had managed to gain for the company during the course of his trip overseas; a trip that was not yet complete, as he would shortly be heading north of the border to complete the biggest deal in British marketing history.

He gave no concession to the fact that he was bidding to save his place in the company, but it was an excellent pitch all the same. Of the two men lined up behind Jude Orwell, only Barney was not sitting there debating whether he had fallen in behind the wrong man, and whether now might just be the time to switch allegiance. Barney was as impressed with Bethlehem as Achebe currently was, but just didn't actually care enough about any of it to give consideration to whose side he was on.

Jude Orwell, however, had not heard a word. Suddenly the company, on which he had been desperate to get his hands, no longer seemed at all important. For instead of him stealing the firm away from Bethlehem, it had been Bethlehem who'd been the thief. Taylor Bergerac was sitting right beside him, in the wondrous, incredible, astounding flesh. Every inch of her a work of glorious art, every curve a corner at Le Mans, every eyelash a whip to pain his back, and he could not take his eyes from her.

He was gawping. It hadn't gone unnoticed amongst the rest of the crazy gang, but he didn't care. She glanced at him occasionally, met his eye, and her face was rich with contempt. Orwell didn't see it, though; too confused and conflicted to know what Bergerac was thinking. Managed to drag his eyes away from her a couple of times to look with resentment at Bethlehem, but always looked away before he caught his eye. Tried telling himself to focus on the meeting, that he still had it in the bag, that he was going to triumph and shaft Bethlehem despite his pathetic stunt, but he couldn't think about business. Not now. Not when there was a goddess at the table, and the goddess was ramming him up the anal passage with an extendable umbrella.

'Further to that,' Bethlehem continued, completely ignoring Orwell and concentrating on those whose vote he would have to swing, 'I've actualised an initial contact with Fiat. Travelling back there tomorrow; no point in dealing with the London end, that's where all the people at the likes of Carter go wrong. You get in at base camp. So I'll be pitching a few ideas about how they should be speaking to their audience in Britain. Got a good in, quietly confident, and we're looking at mega on that one.'

Another look around the room, deciding which of the men to target on this call. A straightforward decision.

'Nigel,' he said, talking to a man he'd never even seen before as if he might have been his oldest friend, 'I'll be looking for your help. In fact, it might be best if you met me in Rome on Wednesday morning. You cool with that? Go out there tomorrow evening, have Imelda book you a suite at the Hilton. We can hook up in the bar for a late night chat about tactics. Obviously need to get you out of this ridiculous MAD thing. You're a quality ideas man, we need you in marketing.'

Achebe nodded. Temporarily lost for words, which didn't go down at all well with Bethlehem, because this was a business where you could never afford to be lost for words. Not for a second. Still, the main unspoken thing emanating from Achebe's id during his brief temporarily lost for words period, was that his vote had just most definitely switched.

'See you in the bar at 2200hrs,' he said eventually, which represented a reasonable salvage operation.

'Cool,' said Bethlehem, acknowledging the quality of the recovery.

Then he took a glance at Beckett and Barney Thomson. Beckett didn't have a vote, Thomson did, although already he didn't actually need it; had enough in the bag. Orwell hadn't even noticed.

Bethlehem paused, assessing the situation. He knew people, that was why he was so good at what he did, that was why he was always in complete control. He studied Barney. Barney held his gaze in return, and the two men read each other straight off. Barney, the consummate barber, the man who'd spent his life listening to the stories of other men, who had learned to see inside their heads, knew what Bethlehem was about. Bethlehem had Barney's disinterest equally pegged; curious as to what he was doing there.

'Jack!' he said, suddenly turning to Beckett, 'you've been pretty quiet.'

Truth be told, they had all been quiet, as Bethlehem had so far been exercising a complete monopoly of the meeting.

'Just taking it in,' said Beckett quickly.

'Excellent,' said Bethlehem. 'It's more important to listen than to talk. We've obviously been having some staffing difficulties recently, which I don't really want to discuss. Clearly, however, there's a lot of work to be done regenerating the company. We're going to need a good man heading up recruitment. Might be time to move you over from accounts. I know you're good with figures, but your real strength is people, I think we both know that. As soon as this meeting is over, we'll have you heading up MAD. We need a return to the old ways, the old values, you know. I'm looking at creating a new revamped and revitalised Personnel Branch, much, much bigger resources, and I'd like you, Jack, to lead the team.'

Head of Personnel. Not even Human Resources. I am good with people, thought Beckett, totally convinced.

He nodded, immediately comfortable with his new authority.

'I'd be honoured, sir,' he said. 'I've already got some good ideas regarding the places we can start thinking about drawing talent from.'

'Fantastic,' said Bethlehem. He paused, looking around the table, even taking in Orwell this time. Orwell, for his part, had finally woken up. Maybe it was the mention of Human Resources, but something had dragged him from his stupor. He had studied Beckett's face as he'd spoken to Bethlehem, and he'd realised what had just happened. Suddenly he felt a hand gripping at his stomach, the abrupt realisation of panic, that all his plans had just been swiped out from under him. He'd sat like a rock, a dead weight, stupefied by the presence of Taylor Bergerac, whilst Bethlehem had manipulated the meeting to his complete advantage.

Orwell swiftly looked at Achebe, who was looking back at him, but immediately averted his eyes. Him as well. That was the important one, and he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He looked at Barney. Barney was bored. Bethlehem hadn't got to him, but that didn't matter. Achebe had been pilfered from right under his nose.

''Melda,' said Orwell, looking at her. Imelda Marcos did not feel so uncomfortable, did not feel the need to avert her eyes. Didn't say anything, but her contempt for Orwell was there for him to read.

He looked around the table, aware that everyone was looking at him, waiting on him. If there was going to be a vote, if there was going to be some dramatic change in the company, it was going to come from Orwell. This was his big moment. This was what he had planned for months. Instead he had allowed himself to be so utterly shafted by Bethlehem that he was suddenly abandoned in pathetic impotence. Even if Barney backed him, if the hundred and fifty thousand he'd handed over was to work in his favour, what good would it do him? The vote would still be 3-2.

He could attempt a rally, only needed to win back Achebe's vote, then he could get that turncoat Beckett out of there, but he knew, even though he hadn't really been listening to how Bethlehem had won Achebe over, that there was no chance. And Orwell's way was one of subtlety and deceit, sophistication and intrigue. He knew he couldn't win an open battle with Bethlehem across the boardroom table. He needed to have had them sewn up before he got here, which he'd thought he had done. Stitched up by the presence of Taylor Bergerac, and finally Orwell's eyes settled on her.

'Jude,' said Bethlehem, 'I think everyone might be waiting to see if you have anything to say.'

Orwell dragged his eyes away from the poison of Bergerac and looked at Bethlehem. He had tried to talk himself up into thinking that he was walking in here as an equal, if not the man in charge, and instead he had been completely and utterly laid waste. Shafted beyond his most awful imaginings. He didn't feel Bethlehem's equal, he felt two inches tall. Every insecurity he'd ever bottled up inside was now flooding to the surface, rushing and pushing and galloping its way from his subconscious, so that he felt as if he was physically shrinking. Seemed like he was now looking up at Bethlehem from a position of complete humiliation, degradation and obloquy.

'Jude?' Bethlehem said, the name now spiked with scorn.

Orwell swallowed, mind kicking into some sort of action. Knew there was nothing to be done for now. Maybe it was back to the drawing board, but he couldn't give up this easily. Had to retreat, withdraw to the safety of his own office, reassess where he'd gone wrong and then return with new battle strategies, armed with new weapons, and surrounded with people he could rely on.

'After such a tumultuous time for the firm,' said Bethlehem, 'I would've thought that the Chief of Staff & Operations might have had some comment regarding the situation.'

The two men stared at one another, the rest of the table forgotten. Orwell read everything in the gaze; he'd been utterly defeated, and for all the time that he thought he'd been conspiring against Bethlehem, building his power base and getting ready to triumph and assume complete command & control functions, it'd been Bethlehem who'd held all the cards, who still controlled his own and the company's destiny.