The Barbershop Seven (241 page)

'Is this some kind of Final Judgement room?' she asked, ignoring the words and the tone.

Middlesex sucked in his breath.

'Even at this low level, you appear to be meddling in matters that you don't understand. Christianity, the very basis of our religion, is not about Christmas and Easter eggs and children's stories about Jesus. We are talking about eternal life in God's kingdom. The entire basis of Christianity is the final judgement. Nothing else matters. What are sixty or seventy years on this earth compared to an eternity in Heaven? Or an eternity in complete and utter damnation?'

He paused. He glanced between the two of them. He didn't like the police. He didn't want a visit from them, but most of all, he feared they might already know more than he wanted them to know.

'Do you have any dealings with the firm of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane?' asked Frankenstein sharply.

Middlesex held his gaze. The question which struck directly at the heart of what he didn't want them to know. So, were they fishing, or did they have anything concrete?

Why would they come here to fish if they didn't have some reason to? Someone must have talked, someone other than Bethlehem, who he knew to be completely trustworthy, and who he knew had not been in London since the mayhem at BF&C had begun.

'I have read about them in the news,' he said. 'Other than that ... '

He held Frankenstein's gaze, completely ignoring Monk, his look seemingly drawn from the pits of Hell. Perhaps the room allowed him to get into character, thought Monk.

'Your fingerprints have been identified on all the murder weapons so far,' said Frankenstein coldly.

Middlesex looked sharply at him.

'What?' he barked.

'Your fingerprints were on the weapons used to kill Hugo Fitzgerald, Piers Hemingway, John Wodehouse and two police officers. There will possibly be more, once we have the results back. Do you have any explanation for that, Sir?'

Middlesex straightened his shoulders. He looked sternly between Monk and Frankenstein.

'I am a man of God,' he said, voice severe.

'History doesn't really stand you in great stead with that argument,' said Monk glibly.

'You can be a man of Doughnuts for all we care at the moment. We need you to explain how your fingerprints got to be on those weapons.'

Middlesex took his eyes off them and stared at the far wall of the office. It looked like he was staring directly at a dark, foreboding painting of Christ casting the damned to Hell.

'Why now?' he said suddenly. 'That first man you mentioned was murdered last week. If my prints were on that weapon why are you only talking to me now? There must be something else going on here.'

Frankenstein hesitated. Had wondered what kind of man the Archbishop was going to be. Had hoped he wouldn't be a lawyer.

'I'm afraid if you are going to question me further, I will need to have a lawyer present,' he added. 'Unless you intend taking me into custody, pulling some anti-terror legislation out of the hat, and holding me without counsel for forty-two days. I have connections. I know people.'

Frankenstein glanced at Monk for the first time since Middlesex had entered the room. This had gone about as badly as it was possible to go, and the first thing that Middlesex was going to do when they left this dreadful dark office was lift the phone and call in the dogs of State.

'Are we finished?' asked Middlesex coldly.

Frankenstein didn't reply. He glanced at Monk, looked back quickly at Middlesex and then turned to the door.

'How long?' said Monk, looking at Middlesex.

'What?' he demanded in reply.

'How long until the day of judgement?'

Frankenstein stared at her, a strange creep of nerves up his spine. He yearned for the days when he would have found that question absurd.

'Satan already walks in our midst,' said Middlesex coldly. 'He wears many disguises. It will not be long before the Lord reclaims his realm. We will all be judged before God. Who then will be able to stand?'

The door opened. She looked round to see the back of Frankenstein leaving much more quickly than he had entered. She glanced at Middlesex, laid the book down on the desk and followed her boss from the small, dingy office, that no longer seemed quite so warm and comfortable.

––––––––

B
arney walked into the small office on the tenth floor, which he had used as a barbershop for three days. Had a couple of pairs of scissors to pick up. Collect them, find one or two people to say goodbye to, if there was anyone there, and then he'd be on his way. One more night in London, maybe, and then head off. Not sure what to do about Daniella Monk. Harlequin Sweetlips was an easier problem with which to deal, as she would just be better avoided. Maybe he wouldn't be given the choice anyway. Hadn't seen her for two days, perhaps he wouldn't again. Her business with Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, assuming that it was her business and not someone else's, must almost be at an end. Then she would more than likely disappear into the ether and never be heard from again. Until, at least, a spate of bizarre murders in the middle of Texas or Ohio or the Brazilian rainforest.

Daniella Monk was an altogether trickier problem. Did not for a second want to leave her behind, but he didn't want to stay in London. Would she want to go and live in Millport? Did anyone really want to go and live in Millport? Yet there was something else, some strange notion lurking in his subconscious, that told him that he owed her much.

'All right?' said a voice behind him.

He turned, to be greeted by the smiling face of Nigel Achebe.

'Hello,' said Barney. 'Still here?'

'Yes, no problem for me, my friend. I am onto a good thing, no point in walking out without being pushed. And if you get pushed, you've got actions you can take. The courts, no?'

'Aye,' said Barney, 'suppose you're right. I'm walking, all the same.'

'Well, that's cool, we've all got our own ideas. Listen, you have time to give me a quick once over? A number one should not take you more than a couple of minutes.'

Barney nodded. Why not? It wasn't as if he was walking out of here to go and be a marketing consultant somewhere else. This was what he was going back to, might as well start now.

'Sure, son,' said Barney, and Nigel Achebe, whose confidence had been strangely growing throughout the day, took to the big chair.

Settled down, studied himself in the mirror, sucked his lips, liked what he saw. Looking good, feeling good. Barney threw the cape around him, taped the velcro at the back, gave the razor an unnecessary brush, plugged it in. Studied the blank canvas of the head before him, really nothing to be done other than what had been requested, bit of tidying at the back, and he set the buzzer going.

'You're looking very chipper,' said Barney, going straight into smooth barber-chat mode, 'for one who was busted as a conspirator this morning.'

Achebe smiled.

'I am Nigerian,' he said. 'We have a way of coming back. I am reborn.'

'Smashing,' said Barney. 'How did that work?'

Achebe eyed him in the mirror. Barney could tell he was considering whether or not to take the plunge of conversation, knew instinctively that he'd go for it.

'Yes,' said Achebe, as a way of starting, 'I have to admit I was about to walk out with the other three. Then Mr. Orwell took a look at an outline I put before him on Friday, and then he comes looking to ask me to stay. Life is just so totally screwed up. Offered me Head of MAD, which seems crazy, but he says it is only temporary. Suits me for the moment.'

'There you are,' said Barney, running the razor slowly across the top of his napper. 'What was the outline?'

'Part of the Exron deal,' said Achebe.

'Ah,' said Barney. 'The never ending story.'

'Steam Pants,' said Achebe.

Barney nodded, negotiated the ears.

'Missed that one,' he said. 'Sounds like a leftover from the Soviet block. Something from the '50s to help their athletes during the winter.'

Achebe laughed. 'I do not think that's where the people at Exron are coming from.'

'So what are they then?' asked Barney. 'Pants which produce steam as a primary purpose, or are they technically advanced underwear, producing steam as a by-product?'

'Well, there is the thing,' said Achebe. 'They are opening the line with two products, aimed at the top end of the market, you know the underwear connoisseur, the man or woman of refinement, the upper echelons of society, looking for that little bit extra in underpant sophistication.'

'It's amazing such people exist,' said Barney.

'They have polled.'

'Of course.'

'So, they are launching with the Condensation Special, a firm pant, lined with some sort of light steam resistant alloy, intended to gently heat the buttocks and genital area. You know, for that delicious glow around the bottom on those cold winter mornings. I am thinking the marketing campaign will feature a man and a woman walking hand in hand through the snow-covered streets of Boston, smiling contentedly, with the tag line,
Warmth Without Discomfort, The Future Of Underwear
.'

'I know I'd buy a pair,' said Barney, sweeping across the head with vigour and a certain flamboyance. 'Does the woman come as standard?'

Achebe laughed.

'The second type at launch,' he continued, 'will be of a more sexual nature, yet still stylish and comfortable, and able to be worn in any day-to-day situation. This will be a pant with at least seven or eight different moving parts, able to satisfy and encourage any of the numerous erogenous zones situated around the underwear area. The pants themselves will be steam powered, with a small escape valve at the side letting out the superfluous vapour.'

'That sounds like a quality pant,' said Barney.

'Exactly. For the campaign I am thinking, you know, some hot but not out and out babe figure, say Jorja Fox from CSI. We show her doing some show-type situation, you know picking some fellow's head out of a pond, or cutting up maggots, then reveal that all the while she is getting a sexual kick from the underwear. You know, the point being, it does not matter what you are doing, any time of the day, does not matter who you are, you could be getting turned on.'

'Maybe you just want to show someone sitting at their office desk,' said Barney, the razor sweeping majestically around the right ear area with extraordinary flourish.

'You think?' said Achebe. 'Well, we shall see. I think Mr. Orwell quite liked it. Anyway, I am going for the tag line,
The Vapour Delight: Pants So Advanced They Need Their Own Power Source
.'

'Excellent,' said Barney.

'The packaging for the two specials will feature a picture of a man or woman standing around in the pants, with the line
Wearing Suggestion
underneath.'

'You've got all the angles covered,' said Barney.

'Yes,' said Achebe. 'You can see why Mr. Orwell came back on his hands and knees.'

Barney smiled, making the final looping swish with the razor, and that was that for the number one all over. He popped the guard off the razor and started touching up the back of the neck and the general aural area.

The door opened. A young bloke Barney had never seen before poked his head in.

'Hi,' he said.

'Aye?' said Barney, looking at him in the mirror, while he applied the finishing touches to the rear of Achebe's neck.

'Márquez, Accounts,' said Arid Márquez, previously number three at Accounts, now suddenly thinking he might have a shot at the top job – although he didn't – and deciding that he really ought to have his hair cut in an appropriate manner. Currently sporting a bit of an unnecessary Spandau Ballet. (Marcus Blade had been impressed for about two seconds.) 'Heard you were back cutting hair,' he said.

Barney straightened, turned and looked at him. He'd been back cutting hair for less than five minutes. Neither of the parties involved had left the room. How did this stuff get around? He shrugged, didn't care, not even interested enough to ask.

'Take a seat,' he said. 'I'm nearly done.'

Another few buzzes with the razor into the back of Achebe's neck, and he was finished. Márquez loitered behind, unwilling to sit down, for he who sits down in marketing isn't keeping up with those who are running, that's what he was thinking. Orwell had taught him that.

Barney whipped the cape off, brushed away quickly at Achebe's shoulders and stepped back. Achebe looked in the mirror, very impressed, ran his hand across his head, stood up and shook Barney by the hand.

'It has been a pleasure,' he said.

'Thanks,' said Barney.

Achebe embraced him with one last smile, and walked from the office, saying 'Mr Márquez!' to Márquez as he passed him.

'Sit down,' said Barney, indicating the seat.

Márquez looked at the seat, checked the door, worrying about what to say. Looked at Barney and back to the seat.

'You can't do a haircut to go?' he asked.

––––––––

T
homas Bethlehem stood on the tarmac at Fiumicino Airport, Rome, pulling his coat tightly into his chest against the strength of an alien cold wind gusting across the airfield. Preparing to board his new Learjet 85. Due to arrive at London City at 1642hrs, he would be met by car and dropped at his Canary Wharf office at 1723hrs. Meeting called for 1730hrs, and he would have Orwell sorted, and anyone else who needed putting down, put down by 1751hrs. If there was anybody left.

'What are they doing having us standing on the runway with a wind like this?' he said to the woman next to him.

Harlequin Sweetlips snuggled in closer to him, tucked up against his arm, using him as a shield against the cold.

'Doesn't seem so bad from where I'm standing,' she said, with that wicked little smile of hers.

Bethlehem snorted in a manner that was not quite as unattractive as the word snort suggests, and held her tightly against him.

***

F
rankenstein and Monk walked away from St Paul's Cathedral slightly twitchy and looking over their shoulders. Talk of Satan and the End of Days was the kind of thing that happened in movies. Yet Monk still had a peculiar serenity about her that was not rubbing off on Frankenstein.