The Barbershop Seven (161 page)

He pushed past Roosevelt and walked quickly from the cathedral.

––––––––

T
he Holy Grail. The cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, the same cup in which Joseph of Arimathea caught Christ's blood. Taken by Joseph to France and then to England. The object of the great quests by King Arthur's knights. Or perhaps the Grail is something more intangible, a more ethereal concept. There are those who say the Grail is the bloodline of Christ himself, that it was not just the goblet that was taken by Joseph to France, but the very family of Christ. His wife, Mary Magdelene, and who knows how many offspring? This theory has Jesus not as the son of God but as the descendant of the kings of Israel, with the secret protected by knights and societies through the ages, waiting to explode the myth of Christ's divinity and to restore his descendants onto the throne of, well, who knows exactly? Maybe Israel, maybe a united Europe, maybe any old dodgy African republic they can get hold of.

The Grail, by these standards, is not a single item but a mass of documentation and artefacts and people. And yet, for all the museum of articles that make up the existence of the Grail, there is still at the heart of it, the small wooden cup. As seen in
Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade
.

And, whatever the truth of the nature of the Grail, the small wooden cup at its centre was exactly what had been hidden for one hundred and fifty years in the small compartment in the Cathedral of the Isles in Millport. It had been moved and then placed in the middle of the heavy mahogany table in Augustus Lawton's dining room. However the cup was no longer there; it had been stolen from Lawton, shortly after he himself had taken it from the Cathedral of the Isles.

Lawton had devoted years to the search and when, just a week earlier, he had made the breakthrough, it had been the defining moment of his life. A sense of duty had foolishly made him report his triumph to Ephesian, something which he'd quickly regretted. He had wrestled for a few days with the instruction not to remove the Grail but finally he had found the desire too great, the need to bring his life's work to fruition too pressing and he had visited the cathedral and taken the Grail back to his home.

Which was where he now remained, even though the Grail itself had been removed. He had not relinquished it lightly but eventually the blows which had rained down on his head had overcome him. He had collapsed, and his attacker had lain down the implement, a large brass sculpture of Archie Gemmill's goal against Holland in the 1978 World Cup Finals.

So, as Lawton lay unconscious, blood caked to the side of his head and pooled on the parquet flooring, the Grail was gone.

***

B
arney Thomson closed the door of the shop, turned the key, crossed the road to the shore side of the street and began walking along beside the white sea wall, face turned towards the breeze and the salty smell of the waves.

His night might have been considered a disappointment but he hadn't known what he was looking for. To end up in Garrett Carmichael's bed? Not at all; that was for others on the island, not him. Interesting conversation and a nice bit of food? That, generally, is the best you can expect from any dinner. The conversation had been curious and had muddled almost to a standstill after the Einstein incident; the food had been adequate. Barney had slid into some strange non-specific gloom and had lost interest. Consumed by thoughts of his impending mid-life depression, he'd suddenly found himself in need of time alone, to contemplate the great beyond.

So, as the evening had progressed towards dessert and coffee, he had felt the desire to talk gradually constrict within him, until his humour and sociability had disappeared into an angry and tight little ball at the centre of his stomach. Had been barely able to mutter a goodbye as Carmichael had left, saying that she needed to release her mum from the kids.

I'll probably need to apologise for being a miserable bastard, thought Barney, as a wave crashed against the wall beneath him, catching his face with the spray. He had stayed in the restaurant for more than an hour after she'd gone, drinking a further three cups of coffee and eating an
execution of kiwi fruit on an echelon of baked Alaska
. After that he had answered the pull of the barbershop, to do nothing more than open up and inspect the premises, turn out the lights, sit in one of the chairs and stare morosely out of the window.

Now he was walking forlornly along the front, heading back to his house for the night, wondering for how long this was going to be his life.

He took a last look at the sea, arrived at the door, checked his watch – still an hour before Mrs Donaldson's curfew – and walked in. Listened to the stillness for a second, then removed his shoes and coat and walked through to the kitchen. Didn't want anything else to eat, just thought he ought to report in to the camp commandant before retiring.

There was a man in the kitchen making himself a savoury snack. Caviar and cream cheese on Jacob's Cream Crackers. He looked up as Barney padded silently into the room in his socks. Rusty Brown, on whom Barney had bestowed the magnificent
Kobe Bryant
the day before.

'Barney,' said the old fella.

'Mr Brown,' said Barney. Didn't feel like talking.

'The lady of the house is just getting changed,' said Brown. 'One of the kids puked on her.'

Barney looked at the old man for a second, then started to turn.

'Look at this,' said Brown.

Barney turned back, the mother of all fuck-off expressions on his face. Brown ignored it.

'What colour would you say this was?' he asked, holding up the small 100g jar of caviar.

Barney stared at the jar.

'Black,' he said. 'It's caviar, it's black.'

'Come here,' said Brown, and he rose from the table and walked over to one of the work surfaces, which had a light attached to the kitchen unit above. 'Take a closer look.'

Barney ground his teeth. There's something about company that makes you realise that when you're so depressed your guts feel black and wasted, that it's not just that you're miserable; you're pissed off and miserable.

'Look at it,' said Brown. 'Come on.'

Barney stared into the jar. The caviar wasn't black. For no reason that he could establish he felt a wash of light.

'It's beautiful, don't you think?' said Brown.

Barney nodded. Brown was right. The caviar was a rich, dark, delicious purple. Black from a distance but on closer inspection it had so much more colour and warmth.

'Isn't that just the most wonderful metaphor for so many things in life?' said Brown, smiling, looking at Barney's face.

Barney just stared at the deep purple, strangely captivated.

'Don't you leave that jar open any longer, Rusty Brown, or the place'll be stinking of fish! That's the last thing we need!'

Neither man turned. Brown looked at Barney. A little smile came to his lips and he winked, for all the world like he was Burt Lancaster.

'Good night, Mr Brown,' said Barney. Rusty Brown smiled.

Barney looked at Miranda Donaldson as he walked past. She glowered in return. Neither said anything, until he was out of the room and walking through the hall to the stairs.

'Newton was an arsehole,' she muttered at his back.

He stopped. He didn't turn. He decided to ignore all the replies that automatically came to mind, then he started walking, the weight of the world on his shoulders, up the stairs.

––––––––

T
ony Angelotti smirked stupidly at Police Constable Gainsborough, who had taken his seat once more behind his desk and was contemplating a pot of Harrods No.372
Late in The Evening & Pissed Off Blend
. The call had come through from a higher power to release the Italian, as most everyone who hadn't been stupid had known it would. The higher power who'd actually made the call had been part of the Strathclyde Constabulary, taking instructions from descending echelons of higher higher powers.

'You can leave now,' said Gainsborough.

The smile broadened. Tony slowly lifted his closed right fist and then raised the middle finger with deliberate panache. Or what he thought was panache, but clearly wasn't.

'Fuck you.'

There are moments as a police officer, although not too many in Millport, when you want to take a tight hold of your truncheon and bludgeon some muppet to a bloody pulp. Usually when these moments occur, you take a tight hold of your truncheon and you bludgeon the muppet to a bloody pulp. Sometimes, however, your hands are tied.

'You're free to go,' said Gainsborough coldly.

'I know,' said Tony. The smug smile began to take over his entire face, like some conceited and self-righteous cancerous growth. Gainsborough couldn't take it any more, turned away and walked into the small kitchen off the back of the outer office to put the kettle on.

Tony laughed, opened the door and stepped out into the sea breeze cold of late evening. Closed the door and stood looking at the small scene before him. Tiny, rocky bay, playing field beyond, street lights in an arc for two hundred yards or so to his right, running alongside the row of houses that included Miranda Donaldson and Randolph Grey and the Millerston Hotel; to his left, the sea stretching out to the dark islands across the firth. He pulled his jacket closer to him, felt the wind on his face. He breathed deeply and there was something in the smell of the cold air that reminded him of the smell of the warm Mediterranean of his childhood.

'What the fuck am I supposed to do now?' he muttered.

He was a little over a hundred and fifty yards away from his hotel but what with him being a single cell stupid shit, he just didn't know whether to turn left or right. Briefly considered walking back into the police station and asking for directions but the manner of his departure precluded that as an option.

He turned at approaching footsteps and tensed, wondering if this would be another stupid attack by way of the stupid policeman. It's what he would have done himself, after all.

'Hey,' said the new guy, 'you must be like, the Italian, yeah?'

Tony attempted to broaden his shoulders even more.

'So what?' he replied belligerently. 'What does that make you?'

'You're Tony, right?' said the guy, smiling. 'That is so cool.'

'Why?' said Tony, thinking that yes it was cool that he was Tony, but who was this presumptuous little shit to say it?

'Because, Dude-o,' said the guy, 'that's my name too. Totally cool. People call me 2Tone,' he added, and held out his hand.

Tony regarded his hand with the same disgust as the nickname and folded his arms. 2Tone was oblivious to the body language and turned his unanswered extended hand into some sort of gesture of solidarity.

'Cool,' he said.

'What is?' asked Tony.

'I like spoke to some other Italian guy, you know? A friend of yours, asked me to like, give you a message.'

Tony regarded 2Tone with suspicion.

'What friend?'

'Didn't, like, give me his name or anything. The guy seemed a little wired, kinda creeped me out a little, you know. But he gave me a couple thousand to pass something on and another couple of thousand in it for me if I keep my mouth shut. Just like, grabbed me in the street, you know. So, here I am, Dude.'

Tony was trying to work everything out. Of course, there was no way he had the intelligence to work
anything
out, never mind everything. In fact, when he finally thought to say, 'So, what is it you've to tell me?' it was a small moment of triumph.

2Tone nodded. This was his moment to pass on the two thousand pound message.

'All right. He says he's checked out of the hotel. He said you'd know what he meant by that.'

After grabbing 2Tone off the street, and with no knowledge of the fact that he was dealing with the son of his principal adversary, Luigi had realised that the conversation which would unfold with his Tony was going to be between two idiots. However, having already dragged 2Tone into it, he hadn't wanted to ditch him and explain the story to someone else.

'That means he's moved to another hotel?' said Tony.

'That's the thing,' said 2Tone. 'He's not gone to another hotel, he's incommunicado, you know, underground. He's like a fox.'

'Why?' asked Tony.

'He thinks you'll get, like followed when you leave here. Like, there'll be some dude following you and all. He's worried they'll lead you to him. Then he wouldn't be a fox, he'd be, you know, like a rabbit or some stupid waiting-to-get-eaten animal like that.'

Tony shook his head and stared at the damp road. What kind of idiot did Luigi think he was? And what if he had been followed? What were these pointless islanders going to do about it?

'So won't you be followed the minute you leave here?' said Tony, giving 2Tone the look that he usually received from Luigi.

'Like, it doesn't matter, Dude,' said 2Tone, smiling stupidly. 'Firstly, he's like totally going to pay me to keep my mouth shut. And secondly, it completely doesn't matter, 'cause I like can't tell anyone anything anyway. And I'm not going to see him again.'

'So how the fuck is he going to pay you?'

2Tone still smiled. He wasn't entirely sure about that but it felt like an effort to think about it, so he wasn't about to. He also still had some of the message to deliver, so he needed to focus.

'He also said you should like keep checking out the cathedral.'

'And what the fuck's he going to be doing?'

2Tone did a kind of rapper thing with his hands.

'Don'no, Dude,' he said. 'I'm just a guy, I don't know shit.'

Tony nodded at that one. It wasn't often he got to feel intellectually superior when in conversation with even the most marginally sentient of lifeforms.

'Anything else?' he asked.

2Tone nodded sagely, using a thoughtful face.

'Think we're done, Dude,' he said.

'Good,' said Tony. 'I can go back to the hotel. You can go back to being an idiot.'

'Like, yeah, total, man. Oh yeah, wait a minute,' said 2Tone, shaking his head, 'there is something else. I'm such a dork.'