The Barbershop Seven (236 page)

And there he lay, waiting for the replacement shift at two o'clock in the morning, or another cadaver, whichever came first, in amongst his own vomit. Not actually dead from the blow to the head; death came more slowly, choking on his own sick, as more came up from his stomach, and he breathed it all back in. A sad end.

And so, the insane career and life of Barney Thomson had taken its final victim.

––––––––

A
nthony Waugh and the once legendary Marcus Blade were sitting in the St. James's Club in Park Place, enjoying a late night snifter. Cigars and cognac all round. Two elderly men in their smoking jackets, except they were both in their forties, and playing the game of the upper middle class stereotype. Blade felt like he was back, a good first couple of days in the office under his belt. Some solid work done on a new line in limited edition table polish –
For That Once In A Millennium Shine
– and a good introductory meeting with the equally once legendary George Michael, about re-inventing his image. (Blade had told him that it was obvious he was trying too hard, and that it was time he stopped writing all that rubbish about sex and politics, and stopped screaming louder and louder to get people to notice him. Michael had agreed whole-heartedly, and said that he would put it all into practice for his forthcoming album
Fuck Me Up The Arse With Your Cock
.)

It was going well, and Blade felt like he was back in town. Two days and no signs of the stresses that had driven him away, that had caused the breakdown. And already, after this short period of time, he was beginning to notice the change in attitude of those around him; from
I thought he was dead
and
That's the old loser who can't cut it anymore
, to
This guy is Premiership and I could eat his trousers
.

Waugh was also pretty full of his own spunk, seeing as he'd been the man with the foresight to bring Blade in from the cold. Sensible enough to realise that in the marketing business Blade was a hundred times better than Waugh himself, but in the people business that he, Waugh, was the man. They would be an exceptional team. Thomas Bethlehem and Jude Orwell were as good as finished.

And like all their peers, neither Waugh nor Blade gave much thought to the general slaughter of the innocents that was taking place within BF&C. Grateful that it was taking place, as it had played into the hands of them both, but their thoughts barely extended beyond that. Didn't imagine for a minute that either of them was likely to be on Harlequin Sweetlips' chopping list. As it happened, Marcus Blade wasn't on her chopping list, but you know, sometimes you go into the supermarket with no intention of buying chocolate, wine and ice cream, but it doesn't mean you don't do it anyway.

'Every couple of months, as far as I can make out,' said Waugh. 'He disappears for two weeks at a time, comes back with these amazing deals from overseas. Went to the States last time. The New York guys must've been fuming with some of the things he picked off from under their noses. Nothing huge, but still some friggin' unbelievable stuff that you wouldn't think the Yanks would give up. This time, though, I'm not sure. There's something a bit different. He's playing at something.'

Blade took a sip of his Château de Cartex d'Armagnac 1936, savouring the extraordinary whiff of blackcurrants, pine martens and Rowan Atkinson, and nodded his head. He used to be able to do that kind of thing in his day, and he would do so again.

'What's his secret?' he asked, settling back, studying Waugh's face across the table. He was still not sure about his new partner, this man he hadn't met until three days earlier, this man on whom his future now relied. 'And more to the point, what's his weakness?'

Waugh nodded his appreciation of the sage question. The secret of his success wasn't that important. Once he'd been brought down, it made no difference at all how he'd managed to get where he was. What mattered was his weakness and how he could be brought to his knees.

'That's the question, Marcus,' said Waugh leaning forward. 'That is the friggin' question.'

They played the game for another few seconds, eyeing each other, wondering what was going on, then they both burst out laughing at the same time.

'We should retreat for the evening, I think, my friend,' said Waugh grandly, sounding for all the world as if he was in
Lord Of The Rings
.

Blade looked at his watch. The old days had seen him up until four, two hours in bed, and then into the office. One of the reasons he had burned out so quickly, and he knew that he couldn't do that again.

'Okey-dokey,' he said, trying to get away from the
Lord Of The Rings
vibe.

'Good,' said Waugh. 'We meet at 6:45 in my office with the others, sort out some things before Orwell arrives. Are we clear?'

They rose and shook hands across the table.

'Can I call you a cab?' asked Waugh, who had his room at the club reserved for the night. And, although he found himself extremely attracted to Blade – another of the reasons he had lured him from the wastelands – there was no way he was going to jeopardise what he was currently building by inviting him to spend the night.

'It's all right,' said Blade, a little disappointed, thinking that maybe Waugh had brought the evening to an early end as he'd intended inviting him upstairs. 'I'll walk.'

'It's a long way,' said Waugh, immediately suspicious of his new partner and wondering what he was up to.

Blade smiled, relaxed, trying to ease the other man's fears.

'I've walked a lot these last few years. Helps me think.'

'All right, my friend,' said Waugh. 'Be safe.'

They shook hands again, then Marcus Blade turned away from Waugh and walked out of the St. James's Club for the last time.

Waugh watched him until he was being accompanied by George the doorman, and he was sure he would be escorted from the premises. He drained his glass, considered sitting in peace and having another drink now that his guest was gone, but decided instead that he really ought to get to bed and have a decent night's sleep before the big day.

The two police officers who should have been watching Waugh at this point were not in attendance. Waugh had done them a favour by giving them the slip on the escalators out of Leicester Square. Detective Constables Russell and Mallot would be severely reprimanded for their negligence, but actually all it meant was that they got to live, instead of dying alongside Waugh. In life, however, you generally don't get to know exactly how the alternative scenario would have played out, and neither of their careers would ever recover. But at least they got to watch Scotland win the World Cup in 2014.

Waugh stood up, took a look around the room at the few remaining late diners – Tom Cruise was having dinner with Kermit The Frog, and he wondered what that was all about – then walked slowly from the room and up the stairs. Past reception, up to the first floor and along to room number five, the one he always took. The rooms weren't large but they were perfect for the single gentleman looking for a bed in the city for a night.

Into the room, folded his jacket over the back of a chair, considered turning on the television, decided that would mean he'd still be sitting there an hour later, so removed his tie and walked into the bathroom. Final ablutions, bathroom light off, clothes off, into the dark blue pyjamas neatly folded on top of his pillow. Considered picking up Richard Nixon's autobiography, still lying on the bedside table from three nights previously, the last time he'd stayed there, but elected not to. Another invitation to stay up too late, when it wasn't needed. Pulled the covers back, slid into bed, hand to the light switch. There was a knock at the door.

Gave him a little fright, which quickly passed. Maybe it would be George with something about Blade. The man had probably caused a scene of some sort. Bloody idiot. He breathed deeply, dispatched the feeling of unease he had about the door knock and walked softly across the dark green carpet. Opened the door to be greeted not by George, but by a woman holding a small tray.

'Your complimentary night-time service, sir,' she said.

Waugh looked at the woman and then down at the contents of the tray; a small tub of oil, a tub of gel, a candle and a match. He looked back at the woman, beginning to smile.

'Is this new?'

'Just began last night, sir. Would you care to avail yourself of this service?'

And as the words tripped from her mouth, Harlequin Sweetlips sounded like an absolute angel.

Another pause from Waugh, but there was no way that he wasn't biting. Quite happy to bat for either side. He stepped back and gestured for her to walk past.

'Come on in, love,' he said. 'Come on in.'

And thus did he sign the warrant for his own death.

***

M
arcus Blade walked quickly down Piccadilly. Spring in his step, the old fire returning with every minute of each day back in the fold. He had many times considered the comeback, always held off. Thought it through, always saw the disasters rather than the potential success. But once the offer had been placed in front of him, there was never any possibility of him saying no, even when the offer had come from a bunch of fruitcakes like Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Yet it had allowed him, within a couple of days of making his return, to contemplate getting into a position of being one of the two principals in the company. And the main creative executive at that. How long before Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane became Blade & Waugh, and then just Blade Marketing Inc?

Hadn't even tried keeping tabs on the marketing world, other than by studying the work of those for whom he had blazed the trail. The new directions were obvious and frequently clumsy. He had been smooth in the past and he was already in completely slick mode. A demon, an absolute demon.

'You are the man,' he said, through the smile.

Course, it doesn't pay to get ahead of oneself in any game. You never know when the Harlequin Sweetlipses of the world are going to be just around the corner.

And on this occasion, Harlequin Sweetlips herself was on the case, having caught him at a good pace, after leaving the St. James's only nine and a half minutes behind. Nothing against Blade whatsoever, and without Waugh he would amount to little in the company. No need to kill the man, but she'd made her decision three hours earlier, when she'd first spied Blade and Waugh together. Had recognised Blade straight away, of course, as the legend he'd once been.

She checked the distance between herself and her prey, steadied her walk. Nothing between them now, and if he turned he would see her. Not that it mattered, because all he would see was an extremely attractive woman walking behind him. He would be blind to the instrument of his death.

And, as if by magic, Blade decided to make it even easier for her. Bursting for a pee, ducked into a dark alleyway, away from the traffic and the few people who were still abroad. Sweetlips smiled, knowing what he would be up to, and quickened her pace. To die with your knob in your hand; a fine way to go for any man.

She turned the corner into the alley, footsteps silent. Blade, the legend, with his back to her, peeing vigorously, making slight moaning noises at the joy of release. Steam rose in front of him.
I'd love to chop your chopper off mate
, thought Sweetlips,
but the chances of getting peed on are too great
.

Like a Samurai master, or a Jedi master, or any kind of master really, except say a maths master or an English master, which wouldn't really be relevant, she produced the long knife from inside her jacket. A ten inch blade, a thing of beauty. She stopped. Blade still did not get it. Any form of sixth sense which he might have possessed, totally diminished by the various layers of the day's alcohol.

She hesitated, impressed at least by the size of his bladder. It's true, men did have greater capacity.

'Psst!' she said, quietly. 'Legend!'

Blade turned, absolutely caking his pants.

'Ugghh,' he said, rather ungracefully, a not particularly fitting epitaph for the man who brought you
Don't Vote For Michael Foot, He's A Wanker
and
Where There's Argies, There's Bargies. Join The Paratroopers Today!

'Is that it?' she said, knife behind her back, so that Blade suddenly wondered if his fear had been inappropriate. He was still holding himself firmly in his right hand, so that he presumed she was referring to his lack of size in the reproductive department, rather than his lack of erudition under pressure.

'What?' he said nevertheless, still not hurrying to bury his manhood under his M&S red & whites.

'You used to be somebody,' she said, with a sneer.

Suddenly Blade's eyes lit up. With recognition, rather than by the lights of a passing car. He fumbled away his subdued penis, pulled the zip, turned to face Harlequin Sweetlips. Sweetlips swallowed, realising that for the first time in all of this, someone had seen through the disguise.

'I know you,' said Blade, stating what was obvious from the reaction.

'Good,' said Sweetlips, masking her surprise. 'They say it's best when you know your killer.'

Suddenly there was a flurry of arms and legs, as Blade made a quick move, and Sweetlips brought the knife round from behind her back in a sweeping motion. However, she was a trained killer and he was a flatulent forty-seven-year-old deadbeat. There would be no contest. He raised his arm, intended to stop the blow, never got near her, and the blade plunged down at Blade's neck with extraordinary force, Sweetlips' adrenaline pumping even more than usual, from the shock of recognition. The blade swept through Blade's neck, the flesh, the sinew, the bone, so that in an instant the head plunged forward, but did not completely fall off, held in place by a sliver of skin. His body slumped against the wall. His head dangled by an emaciated, bloody strand.

'Fuck me, Blade, how did a loser like you see through me?' she said, and with that she brought the knife up forcefully between his head and his chest, slicing through what remained of his neck. The head bobbled away from the body, and then she leaned back and caught it perfectly on the volley with her left foot as it fell, kicking it into a large metal bin almost eight feet away. Blade's body gave way and plunged down into the pool of his own urine. The head nestled into the bin, beside the detritus from a Chinese restaurant.