The Barbershop Seven (238 page)

'So, are you going for it?' asked God. 'This is delicious, Monk, 'n' all, but I really should be getting a move on. There's a couple of other folks I need to see here.'

'My soul for Barney Thomson?' she asked, opening her eyes and looking at Him. Completely swallowed up by His gaze.

'That's the deal,' said God, and He held out His hand.

Monk pushed her arm out from under the covers and shook God by the hand.

'The Hand of God,' she said, smiling.

'Yeah,' said God. 'It's a bit of a thing. You're pretty lucky, Sweetlips.'

'Hey,' said Monk, 'you scored against England in the '86 World Cup.'

'Yeah, I know,' said God. 'I hate the English.' And He laughed, and it was the most gorgeous laugh Monk had ever heard.

'So what,' she said, 'I wake up in the morning and Barney Thomson'll be sitting there in front of me?'

'Yep,' said God. 'Only you'll remember nothing about this, and it'll be as if he never died. You'll be reminded of the deal when you die and you go to Heaven.'

'I'll forget I ever met you?'

'Yeah. Sorry.'

'That's a shame.'

She dragged her hand back under the covers, closed her eyes again, started the final descent into sleep.

'You really think I've got sweet lips?' asked Monk, her voice very drowsy, eyes still closed.

God didn't answer and in her half-sleep she assumed He'd already left. Business complete, Barney Thomson would be back the following day, if only this unreality was real. Then she felt the soft touch of God's lips on hers, a beautiful delicate lingering kiss, and as He pulled away, she finally fell into the arms of sleep.

***

B
arney Thomson stared along the long line of customers waiting to get their hair cut. Now, he noticed, it stretched on for infinity. An endless row of customers none of whom would want Barney to cut their hair.

Satan stood over Barney, then extended his hand and pushed Barney back so that he stumbled and nearly fell. Barney regained his balance, but the small amount of physical intimidation had been enough to get him annoyed.

'I've been waiting for you, Barney Thomson,' said Satan. 'It's been ten years since you sold your soul to me, and now your time is up. And this is your Hell, Barney Thomson, your very own personal Hell!'

Satan's head twitched, as a spasm of hatred fizzled across his face.

Barney glanced around at the two young barbers and then looked along the long, long line of customers whose hair he would never get to cut. He looked at the clock on the wall which showed 12:29pm, the time of his death, and would forever show that time. He looked out of the window and all he could see was grey, as if an incredibly thick mist had descended. He turned back to Satan, still standing over him with a sneer.

'You have been judged for all eternity, Barney Thomson! Welcome to your Hades, your very own Pandemonium!'

'Doesn't seem too bad,' said Barney, looking curious. 'I thought it would have been, I don't know, scarier.'

Satan lashed out to Barney's right and kicked the barber's chair.

'Goddamit, I hate it when you people say that. Jesus, it's not about fear, it's not about burning flames and all that shit. It's about mental torture, you bastard, putting you in the situation you find the most trying. This is yours!'

Again the head twitched.

Barney looked along the long line of baleful customers. He would never get to work on any of them ...

'Doesn't seem so bad,' he said, with a shrug.

'What?'

'This,' said Barney. 'I mean, sure if you're—'

'No, no, no!' barked Satan. 'None of your explanations. You're faking it. I've seen the file. I've checked up on you. This is what you used to hate. This is what drives you demented. This is wh—'

'Exactly,' said Barney, and Satan's whole face was starting to turn as red as his eyes. He didn't like being interrupted. 'I used to hate it. Ten years ago. I've grown. I've changed. I mean, would I choose to be here for all eternity? Well, no, who would? But it's not very, well, Hellish, is it? Just, kind of boring.'

'Liar!' shouted Satan. 'I've seen the file.'

'Who wrote the file?' asked Barney.

Satan hesitated. Seemed to be calming down, coming off the boiling anger. He squeezed his fingers together. He cricked his neck, cracked the bones in his hands. He opened his mouth to reveal clenched, jagged teeth.

'Well,' he said eventually, 'at some point I decided to contract that shit out.'

'You went to outside contractors?'

'Yes,' admitted Satan grudgingly. 'Never been the same since. Bloody Outerserve.'

'Well, there's your problem,' said Barney. 'Right there. You might save yourself some money, although even the maths are questionable, but you never get as good a service. What were you thinking?'

Satan scowled and stared at the barbershop floor, a floor covered in the hair of beasts of all sorts.

'Aw, crap,' he said. 'What do we do now? This kind of set up, you know Personal Hells, they cost a lot of money.'

'No one else you can use it for?' asked Barney helpfully.

'There's another guy,' said Satan, 'barber just like you, or just like you used to be, but he's a pious cunt. The other bloke'll get him. No, what am I going to do with you, that's the question.'

Suddenly Barney wondered if he shouldn't just have kept his mouth shut.

A door at the back of the shop opened, a door that Barney hadn't been aware of before. A man Barney didn't recognise was standing there, a clipboard in his hands.

'Barney Thomson,' he said, looking around the shop, along the queue. He hadn't been properly briefed.

'Yep,' said Barney. 'That's me.'

'What's going on?' barked Satan.

The man at the door did not say anything further, but he held the clipboard at his side, lifted his right hand and beckoned Barney with his index finger. A pale, well-manicured index finger.

Barney glanced at Satan and then started walking towards the door.

'What the fuck?' barked Satan. 'What's going on? You can't leave here. I own you!'

The door was open, the finger beckoned, and Barney did not look over his shoulder again. Satan was left standing in a pool of impotent rage, surrounded by the construct of an ineffectual subcontractor, his mouth open, pointless words of hateful rage screaming across his lips.

And Barney Thomson was gone.

––––––––

T
he Telegraph: '
Murder Rate Reaches Epidemic Proportions
'; The Times: '
Head In Rubbish Wins Turner Prize
'; The Sun: '
Serial Killer Goes Flippin' Mental
'; The Mirror: '
Head In Skip Not Art, Just Gross, Claims Mum
'; The Express: '
10 Reasons Why The London Serial Killer Is An Asylum Seeker
'.

Monday morning. A new day dawned, bright and fresh. The Lord was upon the world.

London awoke to a drop in temperature and a fall of snow. The city was carpeted in white, fresh and crisp, the heavy snow starting at around 3am, and falling until just before six. So the day began muffled and clean, a new start, a day full of possibilities. It's a magical world, and part of that magical world once more was Barney Thomson. Monk had shaken the Hand of God and He had been true to His word. The past had been duly altered, Barney had escaped from the massive car crash even healthier than Monk, and had spent the night sitting by her bed. Anyone who'd had any knowledge of Barney's demise had had that knowledge taken away. Barney Thomson was back and Monk was going to Heaven for eternity. God had warmed to Monk and had chosen to celebrate Barney's rebirth by covering the city in white, so that the day ahead was a blank page, waiting to be picked up and drawn upon.

A new beginning.

***

J
ude Orwell walked to work through the snow, head tripping on a caffeine overdose. Up since 3:32, trying to get back into the groove, trying to get his head out of the sludge that had been infecting it since Taylor Bergerac first walked into his office. Not that he considered she'd walked from his office for the last time, but he at least realised that there was other work to be done, that his fortunes were coming to a definite crossroads. Walking to work at 6:39, the drugs of eleven cups of espresso zipping through his body, having to stop the walk becoming a skip. The two police officers in his wake were unimpressed by the earliness of his early morning and unprepared for the snowfall.

It was a big day ahead for Orwell, and he had to use his last few hours before the return of Bethlehem to sort the troops into order, gather everyone into his camp. Considered that Waugh was almost going to be more of a problem than Bethlehem, an opinion which would obviously change once he heard the good news of Waugh's death.

Round the corner, swipe card out, through the door, kicked the snow off his shoes and he was positively running up the stairs to the offices of BF&C, soon to be Orwell Marketing Strategies Inc. Not that it bothered him, but he had a quick flash of pleasure that he would for once beat Imelda Bloody Marcos into work, and he wouldn't have to feel he was being judged as he walked through the uncontaminated reception area.

'Another one early,' said the deadpan voice from behind reception, as he opened the glass door. 'All looking for promotion, are you?'

Orwell stopped, stared at her. The surprise at seeing her, at first making him neglect what she'd said.

'Do you live here, 'Melda?' he asked. 'Do you have, like, a private bathroom and stuff?'

'I don't live here,' said Imelda, 'but I do have a private bathroom.'

'Why?' said Orwell. 'You're a receptionist.'

Imelda wagged her finger at him.

'We don't use that word. Remember who'll be putting the call through to you should a certain representative from Waferthin.com phone.'

Orwell hesitated, knew she had him beaten, as always, then walked quickly towards the lift. Both elevators were at the eighth floor, which was odd for this time in the morning. Pressed the button, stood back and waited. Watched the numbers crawl down through the floors, and finally Imelda's opening words came back to him. He turned. She was typing away ferociously while the officers stood at the doorway.

'What did you mean?' he asked.

She lifted her head, that vague look of condescending curiosity on her face that she reserved for all the men of the firm.

'Sorry?'

The elevator pinged behind him.

'What did you mean when you said another one in early? Who else is in? Waugh?'

Imelda did that thing where she looked like she was considering whether or not it was a worthwhile question to answer, then looked at her screen, bashed in a few numbers, looked up.

'Mr Waugh isn't in yet,' she said, and then she returned to thrashing away feverishly at the keyboard. 'Lovely that it snowed,' she added, without looking up.

Orwell watched her, then stepped towards her as the elevator door fizzed shut behind him.

'What did you mean,' he said more slowly, 'that there are others?'

She lifted her head, that patronizing look again. This time it really got up his back, driven by the worry and fear of what had been happening in the company whilst he'd slept. Secret meetings, plots and conspiracies. You couldn't trust anyone.

'Listen, 'Melda, you might be able to control which calls I receive, but I control whether you get to walk through that fucking door in the morning. Look away from your fucking monitor and tell me who's in.'

His mind raced. The eighth floor: Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department. Waugh was having a meeting, yet he himself hadn't arrived. Orwell glanced at the door, expecting him to enter at any second. The two police goons constantly in his wake stared at him, he imagined they could see right into his head, read his insecurities. Maybe it was the fellow under Waugh who was looking to undermine and usurp virtually every senior executive in the company. What was his name? Justin something.

'Justin Steinbeck,' said Imelda, voice like a clipped moustache. 'Nigel Achebe, Michael Pinter and Tad Salinger.'

Orwell walked towards her, forehead like a ploughed field.

'Who the fuck are these people? Mike Pinter? Who the fuck is that?'

'It's Michael,' said Melda, trying to regain some of the ground she'd lost by Orwell's major bout of rank-pulling. 'He doesn't like M—'

'Whatever,' snapped Orwell. 'Enough, 'Melda, who the fuck is he?'

'He's the Deputy Head of Accounting,' she replied, coldly.

The deputy head? Think, Orwell, think. The ringleader must be massing his forces. If he couldn't rely on the man at the top, which he wouldn't have been able to do with the new man Beckett in accounts, he was doing the classic coup d'état tactic of bringing in the number two, with the promise of promotion. It was worse than he'd thought.

'Salinger?' he said.

'Press and Public Relations,' she said.

'Number two?' he asked quickly.

'Number one,' she said.

Number one? He had to keep in better touch with these people. At least he knew Achebe, and that he was suddenly a
something
in the company, having risen up quickly with all the new vacancies.

'That new guy, Blade,' said Orwell, 'what about him?'

Imelda shook her head.

'And Barney Thomson?'

Another shake of the head, followed by a crisp, 'I've told you everything I know.'

Orwell waited a few seconds, decided that his strong-arm tactics had worked and that she was telling him the truth, then he turned and walked quickly to the elevator. At least Thomson hadn't turned against him. The question was, where were Waugh and Blade, because Blade was definitely Waugh's man. The presence of Steinbeck suggested that maybe it was him who was leading the charge.

Into the lift, pressed the button. His guards leapt in after him. The door closed. And as he started moving up, he suddenly became aware of his own paranoia. Perhaps he was just getting carried away with himself. So there were four guys from their firm having a meeting before seven in the morning. Didn't mean that it had to be a conspiracy. Meetings before seven were what it was all about in business. Perhaps there was some work that had to be conducted with India or something. Could be anything, for God's sake. Just because he knew this was a big day, didn't mean that all these other losers further down the food chain had to be aware of it.