The Barbershop Seven (237 page)

'Two-nil, you Arsenal fuck,' said Sweetlips, and then she stepped back from her latest victim, heart pounding with the kill as usual, studied the stricken body on the ground for a few seconds then turned and walked back out onto Piccadilly.

––––––––

B
arney Thomson clicked the scissors together. He was standing at the back of the barbershop beside an empty chair. There were two other chairs in the shop, both of which were occupied. Two young barbers were cutting the hair of young men, both of them working with an extravagant flair and panache, chatting easily as they did so.

Barney felt strangely detached, so he reached out to touch the chair next to him, just to see if he could feel it. His fingers came to rest on the firm imitation dark red leather. He looked back to the other two barbers and tuned into the conversation.

'It's all about confidence,' the first one was saying. 'You need a manager who gives the team confidence. It's just eleven guys against eleven guys after all. Why shouldn't Scotland be able to win the World Cup, that's all I'm saying? Why shouldn't they? Look at it this way. If you watch Murray versus Federer or Murray versus Nadal, you can tell they're world class. You can tell that if you played them at tennis, they'd kick your arse. But watch a professional football team on a bad day, man they don't look any better than a park team. A professional tennis player will not send down a first serve that travels at twenty-five miles an hour, but a professional footballer will shoot from thirty yards and hit the corner flag. That's what makes football so great. That's what makes it possible for Scotland, in any given tournament, to win the World Cup. And another thing ... '

The young barber talked on. Barney glanced at his customer. The customer's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to have any eyeballs at home. Two dark holes stared blankly back at the mirror, his face expressionless. Barney looked along and tuned into the next barber.

' ... and that's the thing, women just don't get it. You finish having sex, and then immediately you start wondering what it is you're going to have for lunch. Me, I like to have a peanut butter sandwich as soon as I'm done shagging, but see the amount of birds that get upset by that, it's pure mental so it is. They want to lie there feeling all romantic and all that crap, but I don't complain about that, do I, so how come they need to gob off about me getting tucked into a peanut butter sarnie? Oh, aye, and sometimes I like to put jam on it 'n' all, because you know ... '

Barney glanced at the customer. The same empty eye sockets, the same dull expression. In fact, if he looked closely enough, maybe it was even the same customer. This seemed a little weird.

He turned and looked along the long line of men and boys waiting to get their hair cut. No point in just standing around, he thought.

'You, my good man,' he said to the first customer, 'you're up.'

The guy looked up, but didn't quite manage to look Barney in the eye.

'I'm just going to wait for the next barber, if that's all right.'

Barney shrugged and stepped along to the next in line. Unconsciously waved a pair of scissors at the guy.

'You, Sir, time to step up to the big chair.'

The guy, an old fella with long grey flowing hair, didn't even look at Barney, just shook his head.

Barney hesitated and then moved to the next guy along. It felt hot. He ran his finger inside his shirt collar. Yet all the customers seemed to be dressed in big heavy coats.

'Your turn,' he said.

The third bloke in the queue looked up. A city man, dressed in an expensive blue suit, plain white shirt, dark pink tie.

'I intend to wait for one of the other two,' he said, looking Barney firmly in the eye.

'Are you sure?' asked Barney.

'Oh, yes. I've heard you're not very good. Everyone says that these other two guys cut hair with an unrivalled brio and verve, while you ... they say you're just shite. And also the dullest conversationalist ever to have picked up a pair of scissors.'

He held Barney's gaze for another two seconds and then lowered his head.

'No,' said Barney, moving onto the next bloke, 'don't hold back, tell it how it is, why don't you? You, Mr Baseball Cap, let me do you a Daniel Craig.'

A young man wearing a baseball cap looked round at Barney.

'I prefer to wait,' he said coldly, his eyes dead.

Barney stared at him. It all seemed a bit odd, but there were plenty more people in the queue to ask. He looked at the next guy, a middle-aged bloke with thick dark hair tied in a pony tail. Like all the others, he was staring blankly at the floor, not looking at Barney.

'All right, my good man,' said Barney, 'you're up. What can I get you?'

The guy shook his head and gestured towards the two younger barbers, who were still cutting hair with panache and brio and élan and verve, and were still talking up a storm.

'I'll wait,' he said dully, without raising his head.

'Might be a long wait,' said Barney casually. He had to cut someone's hair.

'I've got a lifetime,' said the guy, his head still not lifted.

Barney felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. The peculiar tone of the man's voice. He took an involuntary step backwards, his eyes staying on the sinister lowered head.

'That's not much of a life,' said Barney, unsure of what else to say, unsure that he should actually be saying anything.

Slowly, very slowly, so that it seemed to take forever in itself, the man with the pony tail lifted his head. The face that looked up at Barney was old and grey and wizened, the lips a dull grey, the nose had been broken, and the eyes shone a deep, deep red. The cracked grey lips broke into a corrupt and malicious smile.

Barney felt his skin crawl. He looked over his shoulder. Suddenly the two barbers were no longer cutting hair with zest, they were staring at him, as were their customers, all four men with black hearts and eyes that were a deep, dangerous red.

Barney took another step back and inadvertently trod on the foot of the first customer in the queue. He jumped away from him, looking down as the guy looked up at Barney, the eyes flashing at him, the same as the others. Barney bumped against the empty barber's chair and finally looked again at the customer to whom he had last spoken.

Slowly – the man did everything slowly – he raised himself out of the chair and now, standing, he seemed to be seven feet tall. He looked down at Barney then raised his right index finger, with its jagged and broken yellow nail.

'Welcome to Hell, Barney Thomson!' he screamed, and then his face creased in a maniacal laugh.

***

M
onk was still awake. Eleven thirty-seven, kept glancing at her watch. Each time thinking that she really ought to be asleep by now. Having a strange recurrence of that weird feeling you have as a kid, when it bothers you not to be asleep, as if something bad's going to happen to you just because you haven't been able to doze off. Her mind was all over the place, a mixture of tiredness and drugs. Couldn't understand not being asleep either, seeing as she was so exhausted. Yet sleep wouldn't come, eluding her as surely as the murderer of all those poor innocent marketing executives would elude her.

She moved around the bed, constant turning, side to side. Couldn't settle. Head intermittently consumed by a weird hallucination: all her body parts had been removed and were lying in a jumble at the foot of the bed. Knew that she wouldn't be able to get to sleep until she'd fixed them all into the right place. But no matter how hard she tried, she always ended up putting legs where arms should be, and arms where the head should be. Just couldn't get it right, therefore couldn't get to sleep. Felt cursed to toss and turn all night, yet every time she looked at the clock it barely seemed to have advanced. Aware on some level that she was hallucinating, but at the same time could not ignore all that was going on around her, could not ignore the fact that she had to get her legs fitted back into the correct positions. And every so often, in the midst of this insane waking nightmare, she saw the crushed skull of Barney Thomson, the skull that she had not actually seen, but which she knew was going to be a constant in her life for a long time to come.

'Hey,' said a soft voice next to her, and she stirred suddenly, heart picking up. Tried to lift herself from the bed, but collapsed back into it with the effort. Turned and looked at the man, dressed mostly in black, who had pulled a seat into the side of her bed. No idea who He was, brain managed at least to be curious as to how He'd been able to get past the guards that Frankenstein had positioned outside her room.

'Hi,' she said, head still everywhere, another human voice not the immediate focus which it might have been.

'How're you doing?' said the man, and without waiting for an answer He reached out and felt her head. 'Hell,' He said, 'you're burning up, girl.'

And at the touch of His hand, for the first time in hours it seemed, she felt the heat go out of her face. She felt a wonderful sense of cool spread around her entire body. Instantly everything seemed to be back in place, her arms and legs slotted in where they should be.

'I don't know you,' she said, looking at Him more closely. 'How did you get past the guards?'

'Oh, they're lousy,' said God. 'Anyway, I'm God, so you know, I can pretty much do anything I like. Part of the whole supreme being gig. You've got to dig it.'

Monk dropped her head back into the pillow. She'd just been touched by the Hand of God and she felt delicious. Still tired, but now it felt like a warm sumptuous weariness and she was in the right place. Bed. Enveloped by the covers, sinking back into the mattress and the sheets and blankets and pillows. Beautiful.

'
The
God?' she asked sleepily.

'Sure,' said God. 'I can, like, set a bush on fire or something, if you want me to prove it.'

Monk smiled, shook her head.

'Nah,' she said, 'I believe you. Bit surprised you're an American though.'

'Suppose you thought I'd be British?' He said.

'The world's such a shambles, I always thought you'd be Italian,' said Monk, and God laughed for the first time in a while.

'That's pretty funny, Monk. Need to remember to tell the wife.'

Monk opened her eyes, now on the verge of sleep, wanting to take one last look at this man who had saved her from the longest night of her life. Glanced at the clock. Almost one o'clock. Suddenly time was flying by. Had she fallen asleep whilst the guy had been here? Had every sentence been separated by ten minutes of dozing?

'It was nice of you to come and see me,' she said. 'You just doing the hospital rounds.'

'Not quite,' said God. 'I'm here to offer you your dreams. Anything you want.'

Monk smiled at the thought. Her head seemed to disappear even further into the soft top pillow. Anything she wanted. A beach, gin & tonic, sun, sea, a warm breeze, nowhere to go and no one to go there with. Or maybe a queue of men to choose from, all doing their best to impress. A queue of men. One man. Barney Thomson, and the thought of him interrupted the feeling of ease by which she had been overcome and, though still tired and ready to drift away, now she knew it would be into a troubled sleep.

'I can bring him back,' said God softly, the sound of His voice massaging her ill-feeling. 'Barney Thomson,' He said, 'I can bring him back.'

She shivered slightly, but a good shiver. Turned over so that she was lying on her side staring at Him. Felt like a little girl, snuggled up in bed, talking to her daddy; and her daddy was telling her that everything was going to be all right, and she could have anything she wanted.

'What d'you mean?' said Monk.

'I'm God,' said God. 'I can do anything. And I know what troubles you. I can bring him back.'

'Why d'you let him die in the first place?' she said.

Here we go, thought God, ruefully. Everyone's a critic. But He was enjoying His chat with Monk, relaxed into it, almost taking comfort from the warmth that she was taking from Him.

'Life is as life does, Monk,' He said. 'There are rules, and just because I've got this whole omnipotent being vibe going on, doesn't mean I don't have to abide by them. But this is one of the rules. In return for your soul, I can give you anything you want, even if that's Barney Thomson.'

'My soul?'

'Sure thing, Sweetlips,' He said. (Just a little joke to Himself.)

'I'm selling my soul to God?'

'Yep.'

'I have to spend an eternity in Heaven?'

'Yep.'

'That can't be all bad,' she said dreamily.

'Well, you know, there's no rock music, no sleeping around, no drugs, everyone's really nice to each other. It's not everyone's kick, you know what I'm saying?'

Doesn't sound so bad, she thought. Imagine everyone being nice to each other. There'd be no need for police work, no need to see the bloody horrible crap that she had to put up with each day.

'Isn't that Satan's thing?' she asked. 'Buying people's souls?'

God sighed. If one more person said that to Him, He'd probably smack them over the head with a thunderbolt. But He liked Monk, liked the thought of having her around for eternity.

'Satan doesn't damn well need to do it anymore, does he?' He said, leaning forward. 'Most of the damned planet is going to Hell anyway. The guy doesn't need to bother. The dude sits around all day snorting coke, watching football and boning Lucrezia Borgia up the ass.'

Monk smiled.

'That's Hell? That doesn't sound so bad either.'

'Hey,' said God, raising His eyebrows, 'that's his Hell. Don't get carried away thinking it's a bed of roses for the rest of you. It sucks, man. It's Hell down there.'

She smiled again. This was nice. This was how hospital visits should be. Beautifully relaxing, and she could just drift into a deep restful slumber. And when she woke up, Barney Thomson would be there sitting beside her. And such was her feeling of ease and goodwill that she was able to completely subvert the intrusion of the knowledge that it wasn't really going to happen. This wasn't God, this was just some wonderful hospital worker with a gift, doing the rounds late at night, putting the patients who had yet to fall asleep at ease.