The Barbershop Seven (88 page)

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T
he minibus travelled the slow roads of the Borders bereft of first, second and fourth gears, all of which had departed in a robust judder somewhere south of Peebles; so that every time they came to a tight bend, the driver could go no lower than third, and the bus shuddered round the corner in a series of vibrations and jerks, spilling drinks and causing general mayhem with elaborate hairstyles; while providing those women bedecked in tight underwear a little more pleasure than they'd otherwise anticipated.

The rain came down in great crashing torrents, and Bobby Ramsey leant forward and peered into the dead of night. Only seven thirty, as he headed towards the final short stretch of labyrinthine turns and convolutions, but it was black all around them. Occasionally a dark grey hill was evident against the night; a light in a farmhouse window set back from the road; and occasionally another vehicle passing them in the opposite direction, for no one was going where they were going.

Barney had sat in silence on the way south, staring dolefully at the sight of Arnie Medlock, making moves – he assumed he was making moves – on Katie Dillinger. He'd hoped to get the seat next to her, but he hadn't had the confidence to barge in and take control of the situation. And so he had dithered, Arnie had won the prime seat, and Barney had ended up next to Bobby Dear, the wealthy accountant type, from whom Barney had not heard a word.

So he had stewed in his own jealousy, attempting to hear above the roar of the diesel engine and the conversation of the others what was being said. Felt ridiculously like a spurned lover, even though he had no claim on this woman. Could imagine himself doing a variety of vicious things to Medlock, even though he had, until an hour ago, thought him to be a perfectly pleasant bloke. (As pleasant as a member of Murderer's Anonymous was likely to be.)

Barney did not see himself as one of the others; did not even consider the possibility that some of them might be as feckless as he himself.

He looked out at the rain and the passing hedges and walls and trees, beyond which the darkness held its secrets. He had been contemplating engaging Dear in conversation, but for all the mild-mannered-accountant demeanour to the man, he could recognise the killer's guise that lurked behind that kind face. Still, he had joined the group to talk to this kind of person, not to become embroiled in romance. That had been an entirely unexpected subsidiary element.

As the minibus lurched around another corner he could see and hear Dillinger laughing, then leaning towards Medlock and whispering something in his ear. Barney seethed. Felt that strange anger and discomfort that comes with envy and suspicion, and which had replaced his nervousness over the weekend's potential, and the foreboding brought on by the premonition of his own wake.

Barney bit the bullet.

'Nightmare weather,' he said, nodding. Looked at Bobby Dear to see if it had registered. Dear, only slowly, became aware that he was being addressed.

'Talking to me?' he said at last. A Piccadilly Scot by the sounds of it, thought Barney. Had heard tell of such creatures, but you didn't get many of them in Partick.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Nightmare weather.'

Bobby Dear stared at him. Had something of the comfortable, cardiganed Richard Briers about him. Except, of course, that these days Richard Briers is as likely to play a bad guy. So behind Dear's placid exterior lurked a heart of pure evil, thought Barney.

'You think this is bad?' said Dear. 'You should have seen it in the Falklands in '82. Makes this look like the desert. And we had the Argies shooting at us.'

'Soldier, eh?' said Barney. Sharp as a button.

'Commissioned, if you don't mind,' said Dear. 'Was a lieutenant-colonel in the Highland Fusiliers. Bloody murder that campaign, bloody murder.'

Said
lieutenant
like an American. Barney didn't notice. Already wishing he hadn't opened his mouth. Wondering at the Pandora's box he might just have opened up for himself. What if he got stuck with the bloke all weekend? Two complete days of old soldier's stories. Oh ... my ... God.

'What happened?' asked Barney. Knew from experience that you had to attempt to keep control of the conversation. Ask questions, try to take the talker in the direction in which you want him to go.
What happened
, he thought, mapping out the questions in his head, followed by
How did you get here
, and then
What can you tell me about Katie
, because he could talk about her all night.

'What do you mean, what happened? We won, you idiot. Kicked some Argie arse, boy. Didn't you watch the news?'

Barney felt stupid. 'So how did you get here, then?' he asked quickly, attempting to regain the control he'd lost by the previous question.

Bobby Dear breathed in deeply and Barney waited for another verbal assault. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillinger's mouth no more than an inch from Medlock's ear, lips moist, and he wished he could cut that ear off, violently and painfully.

The bus swerved around an unexpectedly tight corner; Billy Hamilton accidentally swayed into Annie Webster's lap, his hand brushed her thigh, and both received a quick pulse of excitement.

'Damn fool question,' said Dear, 'but I might as well give you an answer. Your lot are always too bloody thick to work these things out for yourselves. A bit mundane, I'm afraid, compared to some of these stories the others come out with. Reckon most of them are making it up, mind. Couple of these blokes have never killed anything other than time. That's what I think. And you yourself, I suppose, your story's pretty fantastic, if you are who you say, and half the things you read in the paper are true.'

'They're not.'

'Dandy. Glad to hear it. Thought it was a load of Argie's bollocks. Anyway, I met a girl in the seventies. Usual thing. Eyes like pools, voice like an angel, tits like the Himalaya and a plum duff sweeter than a toffee apple. Brains too, apparently, that's what they all said, though I never spotted them myself. You can lead a woman to water, but you can't make her think, that's what I always say. Anyway, married her, of course, because that's what you did back then. Nowadays they just screw 'em and spend the next eighteen years dodging the CSA. No, no, that wasn't for me. Did the right thing. Made an honest woman of her. Showed her a thing or two 'n' all, I reckon. No question. Showed her the world, yes indeed. Germany, Cyprus, even managed to get her down to Egypt for a month or two. Showed her the world.'

Barney's mouth dropped open a little. He could tell. He might possibly just have made the biggest mistake of his entire life. He had turned the key, and opened up this great sarcophagus of tedium, a momentous Ark of the Covenant of monotony, a humungous golden chest of dreary wonders. He could be here for days. He could be stuck listening to this bloke forever. He could die.

'Know what she did? I went off to fight for Queen and country. Didn't really agree with it myself, did I? I mean, it was that bloody woman engaging in flagrant electioneering, let's face it. Handed over Hong Kong easy enough, didn't she? I mean, who gives a stallion's bollocks about the bollocking Falklands, but off we went, poles up our arse, to fight for justice and all that bollocking nonsense. Anyway, while I was away fighting the evil horde, the bloody woman screws my best mate, Old Jock McAllister. The wife, I mean, not Thatcher. I get back and she tells me she's leaving me for the old soak. Pissed off, I don't mind telling you, I was pissed off.'

'So you killed them?'

'Bloody right, Barney Thomson, bloody right. Bullet in the back of the napper for them both. Deserved everything they got. Waited for the RMPs, and handed over my revolver. Wore my Union Jack boxers throughout, 'cause I did it for the Queen just as much as I shot all those bleeding Argies. And let me tell you, I shot a few of them.'

Barney's eyes had glazed over. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was why he'd had that grave sense of foreboding. Because he was going to be stuck for the rest of his life listening to this man. Could be he'd start inviting himself round for tea in the evenings; coming in for a haircut; coming along to the pub. God, Leyman would be cheesed off.

But the future had other things in store for Barney Thomson, and the minibus jumped and stalled and jolted to a halt. Dear stopped mid-flow, in the middle of a description of what he'd said to his wife as an explanation for her murder. Other conversations came to a premature end and a few tired or bored heads were lifted.

The minibus had stopped in a large driveway facing the house that would be their home for the following two nights, and each of them gazed with curiosity at what was betrayed to them by the headlight's beam.

Bloody hell, thought Barney. Just like
Psycho
, thought Morty Goldman.
The Shining
, thought Arnie Medlock. Must be murder to clean, thought Katie Dillinger. Fanny magnet, thought Billy Hamilton.
Dracula
! thought Fergus Flaherty. This must be worth a packet, thought Socrates McCartney. Good divisional HQ, thought Bobby Dear.
Play Misty for Me
, thought Annie Webster. Fucking scary, thought Sammy Gilchrist, you could murder somebody here. Going to be a lot of spiders, thought Ellie Winters.

'Big fucking house,' said Socrates McCartney, in awe.

And it was, it was a big house. Four storeys high, conical towers at each corner, high, sloping roof in the centre of the building. A massive wooden front door awaited them.

No one added to McCartney's reasonably accurate comment. What else was there to be said? And they each stared in wonder at this magnificent late-seventeenth-century monstrosity, stuck away in the heart of the Borders, buried behind hills and woods and the low mist that hung in the glen through almost half the hours of daylight.

Katie Dillinger swallowed, but she was impressed. They'd said on the phone that it was an imposing place. And she was glad there was a housekeeper and that they wouldn't have to clean up after themselves.

'Right,' she said, turning round; and despite his immediate trepidation at seeing this place, despite the vague feeling of association with his recurring dream, Barney's first thought was of relief that Dillinger was no longer talking to Arnie Medlock, that he might now be able to redress the balance. 'This is it. Grab your things and pile out. Make sure you don't leave anything 'cause Bobby isn't staying here with us.'

Bobby Ramsey glanced over his shoulder at the mention of the name, but the look said nothing. Bloody right I'm not staying here, he thought. Bloody right.

And so this motley crew, this testament to the ill effects of bad life choices, this Garibaldi of insouciance, this plethora of criminality, this belligerent bastardisation of immoderate human behaviour patterns, began to collect their belongings and troop off the bus. Barney faffed and prevaricated and let others go before him, in the hope that Bobby Dear would move on and latch on to some other poor sod.

He collected his bag and slid himself out of the bus, into the pouring rain, last of all. And they each scampered the short distance to the doorway and the great stone awning that protected the front of the house.

There were no lights on, there was no sign of life. Dillinger took the lead and let the huge brass knocker explode in sound upon the door; and the noise mingled with that of the rough diesel engine and Bobby the Bus Driver lurching into third gear and staggering away back up the drive. And with the bus went the only light that was available to them, and they were left alone in total darkness. And so Dillinger knocked again and they waited, the rain cascading all around them.

They felt the cold now, in the midst of this downpour; a few shivers racked bodies, a few glances were cast out into the dark of night. But these were murderers all, and there was little fear. Barney shivered too and looked at Dillinger, jacketless and cold. I could offer her my jacket, he thought. It would be cool, smooth, cavalier, errant and romantic. The act of a chevalier.

'Got stuck with old Bobby, I see,' said Socrates McCartney, talking softly in Barney's ear.

Barney turned.

'Sorry?'

'Stuck with old Bobby on the bus. See you made the mistake of talking to him.'

Barney nodded. Was about to excuse himself – although he suddenly felt self-conscious about his chivalrous act – when from nowhere Arnie Medlock swooped towards Dillinger, jacket outstretched, to the rescue; and received an affectionate touch of the arm in gratitude.

He who hesitates... Barney sighed – ever his lot – and turned to Socrates.

'Aye, well, you know,' was all he could be bothered saying.

'Bit of a boring bastard, eh?' said Socrates.

Barney smiled ruefully, but felt condemned to defend him, in the usual British manner.

'Don't know,' he said. 'Seemed all right to me. Interesting story, fighting in the Falklands and all that.'

'That what he told you?'

Here we go, thought Barney. Out of my depth again.

'Bollocks, was it?' said Barney, in a world-weary way. Why did he always end up with the nutters? Of course, if you're going to join a murderers anonymous group, what do you expect?

'Total,' said Socrates, as finally the great wooden door swung open, and a small, neatly dressed woman waited to greet them. 'Murdered a family of seven in Ayr 'cause they wouldn't let him use their phone after his car broke down outside their house.'

'Ah,' said Barney. 'That sounds more like it.'

'Works in Edinburgh with some big stock market mob. Lives in Bearsden. Rich, posh bastard. Serial liar, though, that's his problem. Give you another story tomorrow, soon as look at you. He
was
in South America, mind you. Argentina '78, with the rest of the sad bastards who thought we were going to win the World Cup. That's what really turned him into a headcase. Tragic, so it was.'

And with that, the further education of Barney having been promulgated, Socrates lifted his bag over his shoulder and marched after the others into the house. And Barney stood on the periphery of the pouring rain, the last of the crew, and wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.