The Barbershop Seven (245 page)

Bergerac gripped the gun and felt the glorious tension of the kill in her arms and neck.

The door opened. A man stepped into the room. Orwell started, tore his eyes from Bergerac. Recognised the visitor, but couldn't place Him, thus sinking even further into commotion and bewilderment than he had previously. Bergerac turned slowly, recognised the one who had just entered, and settled back down into her seat, gun hidden, eyes rolling.

'Hey, Dude,' said God, nodding at Orwell. 'Miss,' he said to Bergerac. Bergerac nodded without looking at Him. There was always some idiot liable to come along and get in the way of a good murder.

'Jesus,' said Orwell, 'who are you again? You're a client?'

'What d'you mean, who am I?' said God, annoyed. 'I'm God, you idiot, who the Hell d'you think I am?'

'Jesus,' said Orwell, 'God. The other day. I am so all over the place.'

'Yeah, I know,' said God, 'I've been watching.'

He pulled out a seat and sat at the far end of the table, the chair which had been vacant during Bethlehem's demolition job. Drummed His fingers on the table, waited to see if Orwell was going to say anything for himself. Had been making all His approaches over the previous few days to people while they'd been alone, but it'd been obvious that He couldn't afford to wait until Orwell was alone or his soul would already be gone.

'What can I do for you?' asked Orwell.

'As the man said,' said God, 'it's not about you doing something for me, it's about me doing something for you.'

'What?' said Orwell. 'What?' And he looked at Bergerac, who was sitting submissively staring at the table, and almost wanted her to start up on him again, just to give him some continuity, some certainty in his life.

'That was good advice you gave me the other day,' said God. 'Buying souls. Very solid idea, got people queuing up. It's obviously a long term thing, you know, but there's going to be a big pay-off in a few decades, you know what I'm saying?'

Bergerac tutted loudly. God slung her a glance. Orwell hardly noticed.

'Well,' said Orwell, not entirely sure of what to say, 'that's great. It's good there's been something positive out of the last few days.'

'Definitely,' said God. 'So, been watching, I've seen the shit you're in, thought I might as well come round to see you with an offer, you know. Before it's too late. What d'you think, Bud? As good as it gets.'

From nowhere Orwell felt light-headed and he leaned more heavily back against the window sill. An offer from God. How would that manifest itself, what could he get in return for his soul?

'Jesus fuck,' he said, not attempting to moderate his language in any way, which to be honest was getting on God's wick a bit. 'I wouldn't know where to start at the moment.'

God looked at Bergerac, felt a little curious about her. Had kept her head down since He'd walked in. Wasn't about to suggest to Orwell that he could have Bergerac on a plate, because that would just be a total waste of the biggest payment he would ever make. Dealing with Bethlehem would be much more fulfilling for both of them.

'Think strategically,' said God. 'Big issue, rather than short term sexual gratification, eh?'

Bergerac tutted loudly again. God slung her a glance but didn't say anything. Beginning to contemplate just taking her out of the equation altogether with a thunderbolt or something.

Orwell was trying to get his head into gear, trying not to think of Taylor Bergerac and the contemptuous look with which she had destroyed him.

'So in return for you helping me nail Bethlehem and take control of the company, you get my soul for eternity?'

'You've nailed more than Bethlehem, friend,' said God. 'Right on the money. I'm obligated to point out the usual caveats about the lack of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll in Heaven, but you know that already.'

Bergerac muttered something under her breath. God was beginning to think the time was nigh to eliminate her from proceedings.

Orwell stared at God, the benign presence at the far end of the table. He didn't really believe of course, not for a second. Hadn't believed it was God when He'd walked into his office the first time, hadn't even believed it when He'd torched poor Joyce across the table. Believed strangely that He would be able to help him get rid of Bethlehem, but not that he would be required to spend an eternity in some dull-ass place with no rock music and no recreational pharmaceuticals.

'Yep,' said Orwell, 'I think I might take you up on that, but I'm hoping we're not talking an instant deal here, because I'd like an hour or two to think about your end of the bargain.'

God raised His eyebrows. Didn't like being dictated to, and certainly not by pointless little cretins like Orwell.

'I'll give you two minutes, then the offer closes,' He said.

'Right,' said Orwell, instantly capitulating.

'Fuck,' said Bergerac looking up, 'I've heard enough. Enough already!'

'God, what now?' said Orwell. 'Can't we just have two minutes' consistency of conversation here? Please!'

Bergerac ignored him and looked at God. God studied Bergerac properly for the first time, then suddenly realisation dawned, His shoulders dropped and He slumped back in His chair.

'Aw, crap,' said God. 'It's you. You damn well pop up everywhere, you son-of-a-bitch.'

'Not everywhere,' said Bergerac, 'just where I have a vested interest.'

God held out His hands and looked to the skies. Pleading to Himself.

'I'm just trying to do my job, here,' He said. 'I don't need you sticking your horny-headed tail-assed backside into my business.'

Bergerac leant across the table, eyes blazing red for the first time, getting into God's face.

'This sucker,' she said extremely slowly, doing that whole George Clooney
From Dusk 'Til Dawn
thing that God also had down pat, 'sold his soul to me fourteen years ago.'

'Oh for crying out loud,' said God.

'You are sticking your whiter than white ass into my business.'

God stood up, shaking His head.

'Sorry man, really, I'm sorry. No idea. I'm going to have to speak to my people. Someone obviously screwed up big.'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Bergerac. 'But I'm telling ya, Bud, I'm not happy about you moving in on my territory.'

God smiled.

'All's fair in Heaven and on Earth,' He said.

'Screw you,' said Bergerac, giving God the finger.

Orwell, who was beginning to feel like David Beckham at a convention of Stephen Hawkings, poked his nose in to try to seek some understanding of what was going on.

'I'm getting a little lost here,' he said.

God and Bergerac looked at him with a due mixture of scorn, pity and contempt.

'You sold your soul to me when you were fifteen,' said Bergerac, 'because you wanted to sleep with your English teacher.'

God rolled His eyes.

'Mrs Cairns?' said Orwell.

'Mrs Cairns,' repeated Bergerac.

'She was hot for me!' said Orwell.

'The only reason,' said Bergerac, 'she went anywhere near your sorry, spotty little manhood, was because you sold your soul to me, and I turned her head so that she didn't know what the fuck she was doing.'

Orwell's mouth opened. Nothing immediately came out. He looked at God. He looked back at Bergerac. He thought of his fumbling, desperate, guilt-ridden fifteen minutes with Mrs Cairns.

'You are, I don't know, what?' he said.

'I,' said Bergerac, 'would be Satan, Prince of Darkness. I've just been toying with your pathetic soul for the last few days, you stupid anonymous little shit, because I'm a complete bastard. Now it's time to call in your number.'

This wasn't really helping Orwell. God, Satan, it was all getting a little too theological for him and he was beginning to believe that maybe he'd been transported to an asylum somewhere.

'So it's you who's been killing all the guys in the company?' said Orwell.

'Hell, no,' said Bergerac, invoking her hometown, 'that's some chick with her own agenda. Nothing to do with me, although you have to admire the quality of the work. But sure, I came along for the ride. I like to get more closely involved when there's murder going on.'

'I'm confused,' said Orwell.

'Fantastic,' said Bergerac. 'Let me aid you in your confusion.'

She pulled the gun from her coat pocket, and before there was even time for the surprise to register on Orwell's face, Bergerac had popped a bullet in his head, splattering his face across the window and Orwell's soul was descending to Hell.

The door opened, and Docherty and Clemens, the two police officers tasked with guarding Orwell, burst in all of a twitter. Two more perfect shots to the middle of the face, heads exploding everywhere and blood flying around the room, and they were both dead in crumpled bloody heaps on the floor.

God wiped the blood off His face, looking at Bergerac with contempt.

'For crying out loud,' He said. 'You're a piece of work.'

Bergerac smiled, the smile that had first so tormented Jude Orwell.

'Just trying to keep the natural order of things,' she said. 'Even if some of the rest of us aren't.'

'And what is that supposed to mean?'

Bergerac walked over to God and poked a finger in His chest. They held each other in a long stare.

'Barney Fucking Thomson,' said Bergerac eventually, 'that's what.'

God shrugged.

'I made a deal,' He said.

'And so did Thomson,' said Bergerac. 'With me. And a lot earlier than you did.'

'Hey, just remember,' said God, 'I'm the deity here. You're just some dumb-ass fallen angel.'

Bergerac shook her head and started to walk away.

'That just drives me nuts, all that deity shit. I don't want to hear it. I'm telling you, the Thomson thing isn't over, not by any stretch.'

Bergerac raised her middle finger at God as she walked out and then she was gone.

'Dumb ass,' muttered God, then He stood up, looked in the mirror, shook His head, and headed off to find the nearest bathroom.

––––––––

M
onk was on a plane to Glasgow. She had followed the Archbishop of Middlesex to Gatwick, had almost lost him, had managed to pick up his trail again, track him to the shuttle to Glasgow and somehow be lucky enough to get the last seat on the plane.

Middlesex and his mini-entourage were at the front of the plane, Monk fourteen rows back. She was bored, slightly anxious about what was going to happen at the other end, trying not to drink more than one small bottle of wine.

Macedonian Chardonnay. She didn't like flying, nerves tingled with every bump. She sipped slowly and waited for the plane to go into a catastrophic nosedive.

***

B
arney Thomson was also on a plane flying to Glasgow, for an out of the way meeting at which Thomas Bethlehem was acting as chief marketing consultant, and at which Barney had for some reason been employed to act as Bethlehem's advisor. Or rather, Bethlehem's co-advisor.

Barney had had time to get all his things together, and had tried to reach Daniella Monk before he left. That was the one thing that made him reluctant to head for home. Monk, however, was nowhere to be found. Even Frankenstein had been posted missing.

So, thinking that it wasn't like he was moving to Australia and that he was still only a short flight away, Barney had headed out to London City airport to board Bethlehem's private plane, knowing all the time that this would be the end of him and Monk, the end of something that hadn't really started. If he was to see her again, and he didn't even know how that was going to happen, whatever they had would likely be gone. It had been a holiday romance in its way. Without the holiday. Or much romance for that matter.

And so he sat on the plane heading north with Thomas Bethlehem, a private jet with seating for up to twenty people. However, on this flight there were more crew attending to their needs, than there were passengers.

Barney Thomson sat at the window, looking down on the bright white cloud beneath. It seemed like the whole of Britain was covered in cloud, and he wondered if it was snowing beneath it all, or if it would just be dreich and damp and Scottish to the end.

He kept his eyes on the window. Didn't want to look round, didn't want to catch the eyes of Bethlehem's other two assistants, brought along for the trip.

Taylor Bergerac was there, Bethlehem's newly installed right hand. Bethlehem had become enamoured of Bergerac in much the same way as had Orwell, and he had yet to see the true blackened soul lying dead and heartless beneath the gorgeous exterior.

His other assistant had been with him a little longer, but not quite as long as he realised. Harlequin Sweetlips sat across from Barney Thomson. Occasionally she stirred her gin & tonic, occasionally she looked out of the window at the floor of cloud, occasionally she glanced at the briefing she had prepared for Bethlehem for that evening's meeting; mostly, however, she stared at the back of the head of Barney Thomson, daring him to turn round and look at her. She wasn't sure why Barney was there, but neither was she surprised. Barney Thomson, she knew, had his part to play in the lives of them all.

Barney Thomson looked out of the window as the light faded to grey, and felt the eyes of Harlequin Sweetlips burning into the back of his skull.

***

T
he two planes arrived at Glasgow International Airport fifteen minutes apart. Half an hour later, three cars were heading along the M8 towards the Stirling turn off.

In the lead was a large black limousine containing the delegation from Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Some way behind that car, was a smaller vehicle, a black Audi, containing the delegation from the Archbishopric of Middlesex, including the Archbishop himself. Trailing behind that vehicle was an unmarked police car being driven by Detective Sergeant Monk. Frankenstein had used an old contact to make sure she'd have a car waiting for her, as they'd been pretty sure that the Archbishop and his crew weren't going to have to stand for an hour at the Hertz counter.