The Barbershop Seven (154 page)

'Good afternoon,' he said, trying to keep the uncertainty from his voice. 'You are visiting?'

Tony raised an eyebrow, all diplomacy foreign to him. Thinking, as always on these occasions, that he was looking at the enemy. Luigi stepped forward, smiling broadly.

'My brother and I are in Scotland for a few days. My parents, they met here just after the war. We were born in Glasgow but we moved back to Italy in the sixties. We are visiting some of the places they used to take us as small children. Largs, Millport, you know, the Clyde coast. We loved it. Did we not, Tony?'

Tony, being a single cell stupid shit, was about to get into a discussion on their respective parentage when, strangely for him, the penny dropped with a surprising clunk and he turned smiling to the priest.

'I love everything about Scotland,' he said. 'The weather, the ice cream, the football.'

'Yes,' said Father Roosevelt, 'well the ice cream I believe we got from you. You are clearly lying about the football, despite Celtic's defeat of Inter Milan in the European Cup Final of 1967...'

One stinkin' game and they're still talking about it, thought Tony. And Luigi.

'...and the weather, well, the levels of your diplomacy are legion and multi-layered. You know, last year there were over three hundred and fifty-seven different types of dreich weather recorded on the west coast of Scotland.'

'But the ice cream!' said Tony, concentrating on something that he'd said right.

'The cathedral,' said Luigi, looking to get Tony away from the subject of ice cream before he started talking about his favourite flavours. 'It is very impressive for such a small building, no?'

Roosevelt nodded, turned and looked round at the small area of the nave and chancel.

'Yes,' he said, head still going. 'The Cathedral's founder was the 6th Earl of Glasgow. Got quite carried away with the religious controversies of the day, bless him, and fortunately for all of us, I think, he was determined to revive the Episcopalian movement in Scotland. He commissioned William Butterfield to design the church and the adjoining college buildings.'

Let's talk about all the times Italian teams have knocked Scottish teams out of Europe, thought Tony. Let's talk about Juventus beating Rangers 4-1 at Ibrox in 1995. Let's talk about Celtic getting knocked out of the first round of the European Cup by Juve 1981. Let's talk about Dundee losing 5-1 to AC Milan in the 1963 European Cup semi-final. Or Dundee United losing 3-0 to Juve, or Hearts losing 4-0 to Inter, or Hibs getting spanked 6-0 by Roma.

'In 1876 it became the seat of the Bishop of The Isles and thus the church was elevated to the status of Cathedral of The Isles. It's a most fascinating history.'

Roosevelt smiled but he could tell he had sufficiently bored them that they wouldn't be asking any more questions.

The authorised version, thought Luigi, and he joined the priest in a bout of vigorous nodding. It wasn't the real reason this cathedral had been built and given such a special place in the church but he knew Roosevelt was not about to divulge that information.

'Thank you, Father,' said Luigi, 'you are right, this is a fascinating place. It is fine if we take a look around?'

Roosevelt smiled but for the first time thought he detected something in Luigi's eyes. The thrill of his conversation with Ephesian having died away, he now felt more attuned to his conversation with the two Italians. He smiled again at Luigi while he quickly went back over in his head what they'd said to him. It was odd though, this encounter coming so soon after his conversation with Ephesian. The Lord moved in mysterious ways indeed.

'Where did you say your parents met?' he asked, hoping not to give away his sudden interest.

'Scotland,' said Luigi. 'You don't mind if we look around?'

'Whereabouts, exactly? It's always interesting to me where our Italian friends settled after the war.'

It may have been intended as an innocent question but it stuck out a mile as an attempted subtle act of interrogation. Immediately everyone knew that everyone else was suspicious and they were all on the defensive. Tony decided to put his extensive knowledge of Scottish football to its fullest use.

'Albion,' he said. 'Albion Rovers. Lovely place.'

Luigi, none the wiser, nodded. Father Roosevelt clasped his hands together and smiled.

'You are welcome to look around,' he said abruptly. 'There is much here that is beautiful. I have some business to which I must attend, I do hope you can excuse me.'

'Of course,' said Luigi. 'We have already taken up enough of your time.'

'Good day,' said Roosevelt.

Luigi nodded. Tony said, 'Your Grace,' because he was used to talking to men of the cloth like that. Luigi gave him a kick and Father Andrew Roosevelt turned and walked slowly away from the chancel and back into the college buildings.

Tony waited until he was gone and then said, 'Albion Rovers, eh? Check it out. Who's a single cell stupid shit now?'

'Yeah, well, let's not get carried away with your stinkin' genius and help me find something peculiar.'

Tony shrugged, sniffed, clutched at his groin and then began a not particularly close examination of the winged bull of St Luke, carved into the font.

***

B
artholomew Ephesian placed the red phone back in the cradle, then stood and looked out of the window. The nine calls had been made; the brotherhood had been alerted. The time had been set, the location was ready, as it had been for over a century, and now it was just a matter of waiting. This week there would be no Tuesday meeting; the Priory would meet on Wednesday, and under much more auspicious circumstances. He took out a small notepad and scribbled down the few things that needed taking care of before midnight the following evening.

James Randolph needed to recover the necessary item from Jonah Harrison's freezer; he himself had to speak to his boy and give him an induction into the ways of the brotherhood; there was the small matter of taking the appropriate artefact from amongst the decorative whims of the inside of the cathedral; and he and Jacobs had to come up with some means of dealing with Ping Phat upon his arrival. That would not be the least of his problems.

There was a knock at the door and Jacobs entered. Ephesian did not turn, his gaze staying where it was, locked on the grey waters of the firth, the hills of Arran as ever shrouded in mist and clouds.

'Mr Randolph is here,' said Jacobs. Ephesian nodded. That was one of the items off the list.

'Send him in,' he said coldly. It would be nice to be able to get rid of Randolph now but he needed him for his last piece of dirty work the following evening. And once he had completed the small task which he'd been set, then it would probably be time for him to be dispatched in a small car accident.

If only he himself had not been so discomfited by the sight of flowing blood. Red, red is the rose...

Jacobs retreated and a short time later James Randolph appeared. Had Ephesian turned to look at him he would have noticed that he was even more pale and nervous than normal, he would have recognised the agitated working of the hands, fingers locking and unlocking in a constant movement.

'You have it?' he asked coldly.

Randolph swallowed. His stomach was cramped with fear. Ephesian turned finally and looked at him, knew immediately from his posture that things had not gone according to plan. His eyes stared at a book on a shelf just to Randolph's right.

'What happened?' he asked.

Randolph still couldn't speak. Throat so dry he could've been stuck in a desert for forty days and forty nights.

'James,' said Ephesian, 'talk to me. If there's a problem, I'm sure it's not your fault.'

Randolph swallowed. His throat hurt.

Ephesian rose quickly from his seat. Wasn't yet annoyed, just wanted to get on with it. Peculiarly for him he was aware of Randolph's anxiety, as usually the feelings of others went quite over his head. He went to the drinks cabinet, poured out a glass of Bunnahabhain, handed it to Randolph. Randolph swallowed it quickly, enjoyed the ache of the flavour against his throat, coughed suddenly, wiped away a little spillage on his chin.

'Speak to me,' said Ephesian.

'It wasn't there,' said Randolph quickly, unable to look Ephesian in the eye.

Ephesian breathed heavily, stared at the rug and then turned away and went to the window. Looked down on the firth, eyes wide, watched a small sailing boat battling with the winds in the middle of the channel.

It wasn't there. Randolph was an idiot but he wasn't that much of an idiot. Either Jonah hadn't kept it where he'd said he did or else Ruth Harrison had already found it and moved it.

Jonah Harrison, despite the gambling and the insane credit card debt about which Ephesian well knew, had been a trustworthy man. A sad loss to the fellowship, particularly now with the fruits of their labours about to be harvested. He'd trusted Harrison completely. So if it had been moved, there was only one explanation. He turned back to Randolph, could see immediately that the man had relaxed.

'The wife must have found it but we know she hasn't gone to the police. Might have been better if she had. Go round there, speak to her, find out what she's done with it.'

Randolph nodded. More responsibility.

'Take Jacobs,' Ephesian added. 'Better take Jacobs.'

And Randolph felt relieved and annoyed at the same time.

––––––––

T
here's a saying amongst aurally-challenged, mute hunchbacks, and it goes like this: just because you're deaf, doesn't mean you can't hear.

Igor had a reputation amongst the ladies as a good listener. None of them knew whether it was because he could lip-read or if it was because he instinctively knew what you were saying, but not one of his many confidantes in town doubted for a second that he understood everything they said to him. They could tell him what they liked and Igor was never judgemental. That was one of the many beauties of the man.

Ruth Harrison had returned home from her devastating meeting with the Reverend Judas Dreyfus, her heart broken. Perhaps the townsfolk would think she mourned for her dead husband and that might be no bad thing. She was shattered and broken and she did not care. She'd gone home, she had opened the fridge door and she had determined that she would spend her days sitting in front of the television, watching awful confrontational chat shows about men who were bastards, and she would drink wine at such a lovely steady pace that she would always be drunk. And then she had heard the footsteps padding heavily on the upstairs landing, she had heard the bathroom door open and close, she had heard the stream of urine and then the toilet flush, and she had immediately run out of the house, nerves shredded, in desperate need of someone to talk to. Someone she could trust.

She opened the door to the barber shop. For the first time that day Barney was inactive, the seemingly endless stream of old men looking for young haircuts having finally dried up. He raised an eyebrow, knowing that this woman was not here for a bouffant hair-do and a tonne of product.

She looked at Igor. Igor returned the look from where he swept. Igor's face automatically showed compassion for her loss, although he knew that she had long since tired of Jonah, his financial whims and his repellent personal habits.

'I need to talk, Igor,' she said.

Igor smiled and ushered her to the bench. Ruth looked at Barney. Igor shrugged sympathetically, as if to say, we're all in it together. He's one of us. She looked at Barney with uncertainty but was swayed by Igor's expression. If Igor trusted this man, then so would she.

She sat down, looking from barber to barber's hunchbacked assistant and back again.

'Barney Thomson,' said Barney, putting her at ease.

'Ruth Harrison,' she said.

'Ah,' said Barney. 'I'm sorry.'

She nodded in that way that you do, then turned back to Igor. Some day she would need to talk to him about the Reverend Dreyfus but not yet. Not while the wound was open and bloody and sore and being feasted upon by the maggots of melancholy.

'This is going to sound strange, so I'll just say it.' She hesitated, she steeled herself. 'Jonah's still in the house.'

Igor look surprised. Barney immediately thought of the prosaic and wondered if the ambulance had still to come to remove the body. That happens in today's Britain.

'How d'you mean?' he asked.

She turned to Barney, wondering if she should give him the whole story. His eyes were trusting and, whilst telling herself that all men were bastards, she decided that she would take him into her confidence.

'I was in the bathroom yesterday, really needed to go. Jonah comes to the door hammering to get in, I said, well to be honest, I said, go and pee in the kitchen sink. He must have been desperate, you know, I didn't realise. Else, you know, I would have let him in and everything.'

Igor knew that that was a whopperooni of a fib.

'So he thumped down the stairs and that's when he tripped and banged his head. That's how he died.'

Both Barney and Igor had already heard the story but they both shook their head sympathetically as if hearing it for the first time.

Igor did a thing with his hands.

'Oh aye,' said Ruth, 'they came and took him away really quickly. Even cleared up, you know. Luciens was very helpful, wouldn't even take a cup of tea.'
Of course, he's a man, and therefore a complete shite of the highest degree.
'It's not that.'
It's the fact that Dreyfus dumped me, it's the fact that Jonah is going to haunt me for the rest of my friggin' life because I wouldn't let him go to the toilet. It's the fact that the stupid bastard kept something unmentionable wrapped in a small bag in the bottom drawer of the freezer.

'What is it?' asked Barney.

'He's still in the house,' she repeated after another pause, another bite at the bottom lip of uncertainty.

Barney and Igor waited.

'He's haunting me. Or something. I don't know how many times I've heard it since yesterday afternoon. He was in his office before he died. Came out of there up to the bathroom door. Now there are footsteps coming out his office door, they pad up to the bathroom, the door opens and shuts, he takes a pee and then flushes the toilet.'