The Barbershop Seven (93 page)

Bare feet across the carpet. She stood in front of him, put her hand to his chin. Lifted his head so that their eyes engaged.

'I want you, Barney,' he heard her say. 'I want your huge cock to fill me up like a marrow.'

'What?' said Barney.

'I want you to stay, Barney,' she said. 'You'll have a good day then go back up with us tomorrow.'

Barney did not trust himself to speak. Best just to nod in silence as her hand fell away and he lost the electricity of her touch.

'All right,' he said. Utterly capitulating. Nothing to go on but a look and a touch. For all he knew Arnie could have been snoozing quietly in her bed as they spoke.

She smiled and backed off.

'I'm glad,' she says. 'I'll see you at breakfast?'

Barney nodded and watched her retreat to her room. He stood in the corridor and looked around at the grey light of day and wondered. Found himself staring at a painting of a woman, grey beyond her years, sitting slouched in a rocking chair, before a great hearth; eyes staring at him with contempt.
You're all the same
, she said to him.
You haven't got a single principle that doesn't take second place to the contents of your pants
.

'Fuck off,' mumbled Barney at the carpet, and walked slowly back up the corridor to his room.

––––––––

T
empers were becoming frayed. Angry words exchanged, fists clenched, jaws protruded and, in some cases, bottom lips stuck out. It was ever the way at their annual Christmas get-together, and Dillinger had often pondered the wisdom of including the session in their weekend event.

Discuss:
The Morality of Murder
.

It was why they were all there, after all, the only thing that bound these people, the only thing they truly had in common. So why not get down to the nitty-gritty, cut the bullshit of exaggerated storytelling, and discuss what it was all about? It was Christmas, so they could have free rein to admit that they'd enjoyed what they'd done, and that they'd do it again if they had the opportunity. An extension of what they did week in, week out, but the circumstances, the surroundings and the time of year combined to let tongues and minds roam free.

Of course, it was not the subject matter that really set the tone of tension. It was the testosterone and oestrogen flowing in great fluid quantities. Gallons of the stuff, swishing about inside each of them, as they jostled for position with members of the opposite sex.

There'd been one year when there had been equal numbers, and apart from the fact that none of the men had wanted to go anywhere near Peggy Penknife, the Paisley Penis Punisher, there had been limited discussion, a nod and a glance at the convention of present exchange, and then off they'd all gone to each other's bedrooms for some fearsome lovemaking.

This year was altogether more complex, however. Eight men, three women. A recipe for treachery, jealousy, lies, deceit, bedlam, uproar and possibly even murder; given the company. Rather nice to be one of the women, thought Dillinger, but as the leader of the dysfunctional bunch, she knew to not let things get out of hand.

So, it was Arnie Medlock and Barney Thomson, looking to make a move on Dillinger; and she knew which one she'd be going for that night. Sammy Gilchrist and Billy Hamilton were shaping up for a fight over Annie Webster. And Ellie Winters had the attention of Morty Goldman, Fergus Flaherty and Bobby Dear; the last of whom actually wouldn't have had a chance if he'd been the only bloke in a room full of eight million slabbering women.

All of which left Socrates, the wild card. Yet to show his hand. Or any other part of his body.

The discussion was nearing some sort of peak of intellectual debate; the very zenith of the brilliant criminal mind. Billy Hamilton and Sammy Gilchrist, vying for the mind and body of Annie Webster; who, if truth be told, would have had them both at the same time, and would then have killed them. Seeing as that was her thing. Though she hadn't confessed to so much in the meetings. A girl with intimacy issues.

'Away you and shite in a poke,' said Hamilton.

'Shite in a poke?' snapped Gilchrist, pointing a finger. 'I'll shite you in a poke!'

Both perched on the end of their seats; the others watched distractedly. Kind of enjoyable, the whole show, but they had their own arguments in which to become embroiled.

'What does that actually mean?' said Hamilton. 'You're just full of it, Big Man. Full of shite. And I'll tell you this. I've had enough of you and your bloody moral high ground. The bloke brought a ridiculous law suit so he deserved to die. All that shite. You're just a murdering, low-life, brain-dead scumbag, same as the rest of us.'

'Speak for yourself, you little bastard,' said Fergus Flaherty, the Fernhill Flutist. 'There's nothing wrong with me.'

This last line was from a man who'd murdered the entire family next door, using nothing but the flute of the youngest son, a lad who'd spent several weeks practising non-stop for the Twelfth of July. A bloody rampage, and he had taken out the boy, his two brothers and the mother and father, all inside fifteen minutes. With a flute. It had been messy.

'I agree with Billy,' said a quiet voice, from a large, comfy chair pushed a little farther back than all the others.

The explosion on Billy Hamilton's lips was temporarily averted. The sneer of Sammy Gilchrist was calmed. The fizzing tension in the room was turned to curiosity. For Morty Goldman rarely spoke.

They all turned and looked at him. Morty Goldman. At official group meetings they had heard him talk just the once, when he'd brought his story into their lives. Here was your classic skin-slicing-off-and-wearing-it, keeping-women-locked-up-in-a-cellar for months, stalking, bug-eyed, serial-killing lunatic. And for all the hardness and strength around the room, each of them found Morty Goldman a little intimidating. Except for Barney, who found him spectacularly intimidating, having been told his story the previous night by Socrates McCartney.

'Why is that?' asked Dillinger, to break into the shocked silence.

Morty pointed a finger at Gilchrist, and even this seasoned killer felt a chill at the look. Goldman was your classic combination of Jack the Ripper, Darth Vader, Genghis Khan and Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men.

Mainly, thought Goldman, because I have to say something. Otherwise Ellie Winters will never notice me.

'Mr Gilchrist does indeed take an unwarranted moral high ground. This ethical masturbation of his really is rather tedious. His is a self-righteousness born of unnecessary benevolence to his own misdeeds of the past. We've all been victims of absurd law suits, but that's hardly justification for murder.'

'What about you?' exploded Gilchrist. 'You skin-slicing-off weirdo?'

Too late, he remembered to whom he was speaking. Morty Goldman paraded a tortuous smile, the likes of which most of the group had only ever witnessed once or twice. Showed no teeth.

'I'm not pretending that what I did has any ethical superiority. It was cruel, disgusting and really rather unpleasant. I ought to have gone to prison for my crimes, I know that.'

Ought to have gone to prison? thought Barney. Bloody hell. And he started to question his decision to cede to his penis and stay. When you decide to do something, you should just do it. Bugger the wait for public transport and the possibility of romance. Yet here he was, still prevaricating, a sucker for one nice word from Dillinger.

'That's why I'm here. But at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. At least I'm not claiming some sort of honourable code as justification for my murders. At least I don't,' continued Morty, and the voice had taken on a sudden immediacy, a sly quality tending to evil, and bones were chilled, 'pretend to be some sort of arse-wiping Jedi knight, fighting the forces of evil on behalf of humanity. You're just a stupid prick, Gilchrist. A fucking stupid little prick, and one day you might well get what's coming to you. One day soon.'

You could have heard a piece of tinsel drop.

The fire dully roared and sharply crackled in the hearth; the tree sparkled, green and gold in the corner; outside, a buzzard cried and a mouse scurried beneath some shrubbery; somewhere the handyman bit massively into a quadruple cheeseburger with relish, humming the opening lines to
I Got Stung
as he went.

'Why don't we just calm down?' said Arnie Medlock, the voice of reason. 'Maybe we should give this a miss and get the housekeeper in. Have some drinks and food and think about opening the presents. We're here to enjoy ourselves.'

Sammy Gilchrist and Billy Hamilton, the two principal protagonists, stared at the carpet and nodded. Didn't meet Medlock's eyes as he looked at them. Morty Goldman had a steady gaze, however. Steady. The desire to impress Ellie Winters had gone. He was aware of all the old feelings again. The bad feelings.

'Fucking Medlock,' he muttered.

Arnie Medlock was not a man to be intimidated. Even so, this was a card-carrying, skin-wearing psychopath, not a regular, run-of-the-mill hard man.

'Watch it, you,' he said.

Morty Goldman sneered.

'Fucking Medlock,' he said again. 'Think you're hard? I've eaten guys like you for my breakfast. And I mean eaten. You're nothing, Medlock. You're a pathetic, sexually inadequate fuckwit. No wonder gorgeous Katie here didn't sleep with you last night. No dick, no brain, no heart, no balls. You in a nutshell, fuckwit-face. You're nothing.'

Arnie Medlock stared across the rich tapestry of the carpet. His face twitched. A vein throbbed in his neck. He bit his bottom lip, hard enough that he could taste the blood. Looked round at Dillinger, seated between himself and Socrates McCartney on the large settee. She did her best to placate him with a smile, while they both wondered how Morty Goldman knew that they hadn't slept together.

With the timing of one of the better episodes of
Star Trek TNG
, the door opened. Hertha Berlin, brandishing tea and Christmas cake.

'I thought you might like some tea,' she said. 'And there's a cheeky wee half-bottle of Johnnie Walker in the pot to keep you going.'

They watched her as she entered, an intimidating array of eyes pinning her down. And in this heightened atmosphere of draining tension and tangible aggression, there was more than one person viewing Berlin as a potential victim. Hertha Berlin was not daunted, however. Seen worse than this lot, she reckoned, although that was only because she thought they were barbers.

The tray was laid on the table, she clinked around with a few cups and saucers, then turned back to face them.

'Would there be anything else, now?'

'No, thank you, Miss Berlin,' said Dillinger. Still marginally in charge of the proceedings. 'That'll be all.'

'Right, then. Enjoy your tea.'

And off she went. Hertha Berlin. A woman of secrets. And there the tea sat. Still tension hung over them like a thick North Sea haar. Still no one wanted to be the first to talk, lest Morty Goldman threatened to turn them into soup. Still the fire crackled and the Christmas tree sparkled. Morty was enjoying his sudden emergence as the group lunatic and leant back in his comfy sofa, eyeing each of the others slowly and in turn.

'Aw, fuck this,' said Sammy Gilchrist, 'I'm going for a walk. Can't be bothered with all this shite.'

Up he rose, the tension shattered. Some were relieved.

'It's pouring, Sammy,' said Dillinger.

'Don't care,' he threw back over his shoulder.

To the door and out, and he immediately felt the weight lift from his shoulders when he stepped from the room, and worried not about the effects of leaving Annie Webster to the charms of Billy Hamilton for the next couple of hours.

Dillinger stood up. This was supposed to be an enjoyable weekend, and there was no point in sitting there in silence for the rest of the day.

'Come on, Annie,' she said, 'give us a hand, will you?'

And Annie Webster nodded and lifted herself out of an ancient comfy seat, then Fergus Flaherty said, 'Big Sammy's probably just away to pish up a tree,' because it was the closest thing to a joke he could think of, and it got a laugh, and the tension was gone; and Morty Goldman retreated to his shell. For now.

Drinks were served; someone switched on the CD player and
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
filled the room; the crowd ate cake and broke off into small groups to chat about Sammy Gilchrist and Morty Goldman and the weather. And no one noticed when ten minutes later Morty Goldman snuck out through the door, and was gone into the midst of the rain-strewn day.

––––––––

L
ike some sort of Brad Pitt, Mulholland took to his fishing with a reverential relish. Treat the river with respect and it will respect you. The river is your friend. It may be your friend, but it's also your god. The river controls you and holds you in the palm of its hand. It can give, but it also takes away. Do not betray the river or you will die. All of that.

He was in the middle of it, waders clinging to his legs, water up to his thighs, the bottom of his jacket dipping into the cold. Not happy, but content in that freezing cold, miserable as shite, grumpy, hungover, depressed, angry, buggered kind of way peculiar to the Scots. A cold day at last, as winter reared its head. Rain had finally stopped. Casting his fly short distances, snagging it on the riverside grass every time he tried to extend the pitch. Had been at it for nearly six hours and had caught just the one fish; the younger brother of an extremely small fish that he'd failed to catch.

Mind still in gloop, he did his best to focus. Fishing gear in the back of his car. A walk for a mile or two, had found a petrol station, bought a sandwich. Got into conversation with the Sunday best wee woman in the shop. Had been directed to the closest river, and had ignored the instruction about there being no fishing for salmon allowed at this time of year, not that you could fish for salmon on a Sunday in any case, so, son, you'd better think twice or Big Alec will be after your testicles.