The Barbershop Seven (151 page)

Classic anxiety dream.

He awoke with a start, was immediately aware of the awful taste in his mouth. Sat upright too quickly, felt terribly dizzy and immediately let his head back down on the pillow.

'Shit,' he said, as the room swirled above him. He closed his eyes and instantly his head began to spin and churn. When he opened them again to lose the feeling, the room was still in a tailspin. Focus. He needed to focus. He looked at the clock. 12.31. He never slept that late. He kept his eyes focused on the red numbers, hoping to keep the nausea at bay. His head was pounding, throat dry, horribly dehydrated. Water, he hadn't drunk enough water. Never did. What had he been drinking anyway? Red wine. Three bottles, maybe four. Four bottles of red wine!

Murder! It came back to him. He was supposed to be thinking of an interesting way to commit murder. He'd thought he would find something on the web and he must have spent seven hours on there. And as he'd surfed, he'd drunk red wine. And as his frustration had grown, the more he had drunk. Elaborate methods were everywhere but when it came to it the deaths would usually be through loss of blood or lack of air or poison or fluid in the lungs. But thinking of a genuinely original way to end life? He wasn't a doctor or a scientist. He was nobody. And so he had gone to bed at just after one in the morning, at least three bottles of red wine inside him. Which explained the spinning room.

The doorbell rang again, as it had done half a minute earlier, which was the reason he had woken up in the first place.

'Shit,' he muttered, but there was no way he was even going to begin trying to get out of bed. Head back on the pillow and he stared at the ceiling. Felt marginally better. He would lie still for another ten minutes, then get up very, very slowly. Pop three
Nurofen On The Piss Extra-Strength
and drink several pints of water. Sit in front of the TV. Maybe venture some toast in an hour or so. Go out for a walk in mid-afternoon. Think of a new way to kill someone. He groaned.

The phone rang, the sound penetrating viciously into his head. He groaned again, reached out.

'Hello,' he mumbled.

'James!' barked Ephesian. 'Get out of bed. Answer the door!'

'What?' said Randolph, not entirely able to keep abreast of what was happening.

'The door!'

'How d'you know there's someone at the door?' he asked stupidly.

'Because it's me who's there,' snapped Ephesian.

'Oh,' said Randolph. 'Oh, shit, I'll be right there.'

He hung up and staggered down the stairs, his head bouncing off the walls. He opened the door in his jogging bottoms and 1982 New England Patriots top, with an unshaven, sleep-ravaged face and absolutely minging of alcohol. Ephesian swept past him.

'For God's sake, James, you're disgusting. Take five minutes to have a shower and swallow a bottle of mouthwash. We need to talk. I'm going to make myself some coffee.'

Ephesian marched into the kitchen and James Randolph minced pathetically back upstairs.

***

F
rom his bedroom window, Romeo McGhee could see down into Ruth Harrison's kitchen. She was standing with her back to the sink, clutching a small glass in her hands. He'd had a good laugh at her performance with the spider in her hair, but he had also seen the genesis of it.

Romeo McGhee had been watching Ruth Harrison from his bedroom window for years. Fancied her in a strange kind of way. He also had a vantage point on her bathroom window, although the frosted glass meant that whilst he was aware of how much of her life she spent in there, he could never actually see what she was doing. He could use his imagination, however.

He also knew about the Reverend Dreyfus. And he knew that Ruth Harrison had stumbled out of the garden shed after picking something up out of the bottom drawer of the freezer. And he also knew what she'd done with it after she'd convinced herself that there were no more spiders about her person.

***

'W
e have a problem,' said Ephesian.

'Of course,' replied Randolph.

'What d'you mean, of course? Have you the faintest idea what I'm talking about?'

Randolph took another sip from his hot cup of milky coffee, five sugars, not enough caffeine. He now smelled of shower gel, toothpaste and alcohol, his hair was still wet and spiky and he was wearing a dark blue Lacoste polo shirt.

'What?' he said.

'Jonah Harrison,' said Ephesian.

'What about him?' asked Randolph. He hadn't spoken to anyone the previous day after leaving Ephesian's house.

'He died going to the bathroom.'

'Jesus,' said Randolph.

'Fell on the stairs, smacked his head off the wall.'

Randolph nodded. Ephesian stared at Randolph's chin across the divide. Still waiting for him to catch up with the conversation.

'And how's that a problem?' asked Randolph eventually.

'Because,' answered Ephesian, 'of the contents of his freezer.'

He glowered at the crocodile on Randolph's top, anticipating the penny dropping at any moment, which finally it did.

'Ah,' he said, looking for all the world like a man who'd been waiting all his life to drink three or four bottles of wine in order to turn into one of the lower invertebrates. 'And Ruthie doesn't know anything about it?'

'Of course she doesn't,' said Ephesian. 'You need to go round there and get it back. Today.'

'And how exactly am I going to get to look in her freezer?'

Ephesian's head twitched.

'She's not going to be there. I'm about to call her and inform her that the Reverend Dreyfus has just left my house. I will say that he requested I contact her and ask her to meet him at the Manse in twenty minutes time. Ruth, obviously, will find this a little strange, but nevertheless will take the opportunity to go round there to see him.'

'Won't she call him to check?'

'No,' said Ephesian coldly. That, of course, was exactly what he had said to Jacobs when his man had suggested the idea.

'You don't know women,' Ephesian continued, as if he himself did. 'If she calls to check then she runs the risk of him cancelling. She will just go, at which point you go to her house, you don't even have to break in, you just go to the back garden, into the shed and retrieve the goods.'

Randolph nodded, his head bobbing up and down above his coffee cup.

'What can go wrong?' said Randolph, thinking that this task was a lot easier than the kind of thing Ephesian usually threw at him to keep him busy.

'Quite,' said Ephesian, with suitable acknowledgement to all the things which could go wrong.

––––––––

B
arney walked into a small office situated not far along Stuart Street from the barbershop, its window looking out on the same grey and blustery day. Closed the door behind him to the happy tinkle of the bell and shook off the cold. Garrett Carmichael looked up and smiled.

'Hi,' said Carmichael.

'Hello,' said Barney, determined not to rise to any flirtations that might come his way. Not that he was being presumptuous, but he did recognise that quality in himself these days, the quality which got under the skin of women. That whole Clint Eastwood
Man With No Name
vibe. Even though, of course, he had more of a Steve Buscemi
Man Called Barney
vibe going on, but there was still something about that to get the ladies talking. 'How are the kids?' he added, because he thought he should.

'They're fine,' said Carmichael. 'Course Hoagy asked me this morning if I was pregnant which made me feel really good about myself, but I whacked him one and he's promised not to do it again.' She flashed her smile.

Still unsure what to say, Barney blundered, 'You're not pregnant then?'

'No!' she said. 'God, you're as bad as the kids!'

Barney felt suitably contrite and took a place at the other side of the desk from her. Don't say anything, he was thinking. Don't say anything! That was the real thing about
The Man With No Name
. He hardly ever opened his mouth and consequently never said anything stupid. Perfect. Igor has more chance of getting this woman, thought Barney. Then he realised he was thinking about getting her which was not what he wanted, so he closed his mind to it and concentrated on a small patch of wall two feet to the left of her head.

He was right about Igor, however.

Carmichael produced a couple of documents and passed them across the table.

'All you have to do is read those over, sign them where indicated and hand them back. Mr Ephesian will sign when the monies have been paid. I would advise you to get a solicitor to study them. There's no one else on the island but you should be able to get hold of someone in Largs. I can recommend a couple if needs be.'

'Sure,' said Barney, taking the papers and idly looking at them, in that way where he wasn't going to take any of it in. 'Who are you going to recommend?'

She looked in her drawer, fished around for a couple of cards, then handed them over.
MacKenzie, Berrie, Lee & Rosen
and
Medway, Nadel-Klein & Dance
.

'They're both cowboys, but what do you expect from the legal profession?' she quipped.

'Great,' said Barney.

They looked at one another. Neither really knowing what the other was thinking or what to say next. Barney battling the urge to speak because he knew it would be inane, knowing that he'd be better off back in the shop talking to old men about the war and how they liked the sound of aluminium foil scrunching or the feel of opposing magnets.

'How was my mum's?' asked Carmichael to extend the agony.

'Fine,' said Barney. And then finally he found the resolve to stand up, clutching the papers in his right hand.

'Should get back to the shop. There's bound to be some other octogenarian war hero looking for an Enrique Iglesias.'

'Sure,' said Carmichael. 'You want to have dinner tonight?'

Barney hesitated. Here we go. The first test. What was it he'd penned in for the night? Have dinner at the house, go for a walk along the front, listen to the waves coming up on the beach and the rocks, early to bed with an old adventure of Parlabane.

'I told your mother I'd eat at hers. I'm kind of scared to change that. She's probably killed a cow specially.'

'It's all right,' said Carmichael, 'I already took the liberty. She's going to look after the kids. We can go out.'

'Oh,' replied Barney. 'Right. Better come then.'

'Great,' said Carmichael. 'I'll call later.'

'Right.' A pause, wondered if there was anything else to say.

'Be sure to get the papers checked before you sign them.'

'Aye,' said Barney, and he turned awkwardly and left the office. Carmichael watched him go, kept her gaze up and out to the troubled sea for a short while, then once more buried her head in the minutiae of small time island property matters.

Barney breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to the shop. He entered just as Igor had finished sweeping up from the previous customer and a new customer was just removing his coat. The two men looked up at Barney as he entered.

'The new barber?' said the customer, an old chap in a cloth cap.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Take a seat.'

Cap off and hung up, the old fella muddled into the seat.

'Tremendous,' he said. 'I'll have a
Ricky Martin
, and while you're doing it I'll tell you about the time I met a lovely American girl in Bali.'

'That sounds interesting,' said Barney.

'Arf,' mumbled Igor bitterly.

***

T
here have been various ways to get to the Isle of Cumbrae from the mainland over the years. Various sizes of passenger ferries to the main pier in Millport, car ferries to the same destination, a briefly operated hovercraft in the mid-60s. They all evolved into a car and passenger ferry which runs, out of season, once an hour from Largs – more regularly summer and weekends – directly across the water to a landing slip on the far side of the island from the town, from where a bus completes the passenger journey.

As Barney settled down into the straightforward fluff and pamper of the
Ricky Martin
, a black Audi drove slowly up the Cumbrae slip, the last of only four cars on the 11:45 crossing. There are certain places where a black Audi A4 with reflective windows would not be out of place. Cumbrae was not one of them, however, and everyone noticed as the car slowly reached the top of the slope and then paused while the driver decided which way he should go.

'Which way d'you think, Luigi?' he asked.

The passenger in the front seat removed his sunglasses and looked at the driver. Then he pointed at the
Millport 4
sign right in front of them.

'I just can't work it out,' said Luigi, sarcastically. 'Who knows what that sign means? I can't work it out.'

'I didn't see the sign,' said the driver starting to move off, the sound of the engine barely audible.

'What d'you mean, you didn't see the sign? It's right there in front of you. The three cars in front all went this way. The stinkin' bus is pointed this way. How many stinkin' signs are you looking for? There are more signs here than the blessed St Paul got on the road to Damascus, for Chrissake's.'

They drove on in silence, smoothly coming up behind an old Ford in front.

'I didn't see the sign,' muttered the driver after a while.

'Tony,' said Luigi, 'sometimes you're just a fucking idiot. Me, I drive halfway across Europe and I don't miss a sign. You, you need left and right written on your stinkin' socks.'

***

S
hortly after making the call to James Randolph, Bartholomew Ephesian stood in the library of his large house on the hill. This was one of the rooms with its back to the view of Bute and Arran, but still the view up the hill of Cumbrae towards the highest point in the centre of the island and the far reaches of the golf course, was more than enough to regularly hold him there. Many a rainy day had been spent sitting in one of the large comfy chairs by the window, a book in his lap, looking out over the grass and rocks and sheep and the grey skies, so that he'd be lucky if he read a page. And always his thoughts were the same, always thinking about the one great day which lay in the future and the part which he would have to play in it.