I see him in the mirror as a gust of wind sweeps him up to the locked door, his dark curly hair bedraggled and blowing from side to side. After staring at the CLOSED sign for a few seconds, he squints through the rain-flecked glass in my direction. I know exactly what’s coming next and my muscles tense up in anticipation.
He tries the handle. Of course he does. And when the door doesn’t open, instead of getting the hint, he knocks on it.
‘Hello?’ he calls. ‘Are you still open?’
Snarling internally, I shake my head. Without turning around to look at him or downing tools, I reply in a loud voice: ‘What does the sign say?’
His answer is delivered with a satellite delay. ‘Um, but I can see you’re still working.’
Bloody idiot, I think, refusing to look at him other than through the mirror. ‘We’re closed!’ I bellow. ‘Like it says on the sign.’
There’s silence for a moment and I hope he’s got the message. But my heart sinks as he remains huddled in the doorway, chin tucked into his flimsy coat, which clearly wasn’t designed with a British winter in mind.
‘Can’t you squeeze me in?’ he pleads. ‘It won’t take long. Come on – it’s horrible out here. I’m soaked through and freezing cold. Can’t you cut me some slack?’
I squeeze my left hand into a tight fist and take a deep breath in a bid to stop myself from really lashing out. ‘No. Try somewhere else. We’re closed.’
Incredibly, he doesn’t give up for another few minutes. He stays there, moaning and groaning, like it’ll make a difference, but I tune him out and get on with the job in hand, no longer acknowledging him. Eventually he goes away, with a sullen, half-hearted kick to the door to mark his departure and a few choice insults.
‘Does that happen a lot?’ the ruddy-faced chap in the chair asks as I continue to hack through the top of his thick grey hair with the thinning scissors.
‘Often enough,’ I reply.
He chuckles and says no more, which suits me perfectly. Barbers have a reputation for enjoying small talk – chatting for the sake of it – but that’s not me. I hate all that. I’m here to cut hair, full stop. I’ve no interest in what people have got planned at the weekend or when and where they’re next going on holiday. Seriously, who cares? It’s not like we’re friends or anything. And I’m not an advice service or a counsellor either. Got a problem? Get help from a specialist. Need a short back and sides? That I can help you with … I’ll do a damn good job of it too, particularly if I’m left alone to get on with it. It’ll be decent even if I’m distracted. Better than most cuts you’ll get around here – on the edge of Manchester’s Northern Quarter – and almost certainly lower priced.
That’s thanks to my no-nonsense business model. I’d call it cheap and cheerful, but for the fact I’m a grumpy sod. There’s no faffing around with fancy décor. I definitely don’t try to court the hipsters with any of that vintage nonsense, or by providing organic coffee and a fridge full of craft ales. And rather than huge wall-hung TVs and a snazzy sound system, there’s a cheap FM tuner locked into Radio 2. But if what you want is a good, quickly executed, well-priced haircut with minimal chat, then I’m your man.
I’m not exactly rolling in cash as a result – hence the reason I work alone, despite the two empty barber chairs alongside me – but I do okay. It keeps the wolf from the door.
A while back, I came up with the bright idea of renaming the place No Frills, Top Skills. I’ll hold my hands up: it was something I initially thought of on a rare night out, having had a skinful. I chewed it over for some time afterwards, though. Unlike most of my drunken ideas, I still liked it sober. I even messed around designing some potential logos. And yet in the end I never got around to changing it from what it’s always been: Luke’s Barbershop, plain and simple, named after me.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. That was my late father’s motto – and I guess it rubbed off on his son. The faded, peeling shopfront sign outside is a good example. I have thought about replacing it, but I seriously doubt the cost would be worth my while. So why bother? Would it really generate enough new customers to pay for itself? Besides, as the hub of Manchester’s alternative, bohemian scene, the Northern Quarter is all about shabby chic, right? That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Having finished my final cut of the day, I go through the motions of showing the customer the back of his head with a hand mirror. ‘Is that okay for you?’ I ask.
‘Perfect, thank you,’ he replies, nodding vigorously.
A couple of minutes later, payment dealt with and coat retrieved, he heads to the door and I let him out, greeted by a strong gust of wind that rattles the door in its frame. ‘There’s talk of a really nasty storm this evening,’ he says, turning up his collar and shuddering. ‘High wind warnings and all that. Looks pretty wild already.’
‘It’s probably the press blowing things out of proportion, as usual,’ I reply, having heard the same on the radio. ‘There’s always a storm about to batter Britain these days. Desperate for sales, aren’t they? I take it all with a pinch of salt. They’ll be issuing panicky heat wave warnings again before we know it.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ he says, screwing up his face dubiously. ‘Thanks, anyway. Bye now.’
‘See you,’ I add out of habit, although I’ve no idea whether I actually will or not. I’m fairly sure I haven’t cut this bloke’s hair before and, since we barely spoke, I don’t have the foggiest idea whether he’s local or passing through, maybe going to or from one of the nearby train and bus stations. He sounded vaguely northern to me, although accents don’t mean much in the city, since people from all over the place live here.
If he hadn’t been a customer, I wouldn’t have bothered engaging in his tedious weather chat. One of my neighbours at home, a busybody pensioner called Doreen, tried having a similar conversation with me as I left the flat this morning.
‘Not wearing any waterproofs?’ she asked, collaring me as I headed down the communal stairs to exit the building. ‘You might regret that later on. There’s talk of a big storm coming.’
‘Whatever,’ I told her, keeping walking. ‘I don’t have time to worry my head about that nonsense.’
‘But it’s—’
‘Listen, some of us have jobs to go to, businesses to run. Can’t chat. Goodbye.’
Recalling the disgruntled look on Doreen’s face after I said this earlier, I lower the shutters on the shop, so as to avoid any more chancers asking for a quick last-minute cut. Then I turn up the radio as I clean and disinfect all my scissors, combs, clippers and so on. I move on to sweeping and mopping the floor before wiping down the mirrors and other surfaces, making sure everything is spick and span for when I open up again tomorrow morning. I might not run a fancy barbershop, but I take pride in keeping the place clean and hygienic. That’s really important to me – and not just to avoid getting closed down. Certain things in life need to be done properly, end of story.
By the time I get outside, it’s dark and bitterly cold, pretty much as you’d expect for a Thursday evening in late January. The rain has eased, but the wind really has got up, despite me pooh-poohing the forecast earlier, and I’m glad to be in my long wool overcoat and beanie hat. The headgear is not a good look, especially for a man due to turn forty later this year, but it’s something of a necessity for a baldy like me when there’s a bite in the air.
I might be a barber, but ironically my own head of hair is pathetic. There’s very little left of it on top; it’s gradually ebbing away on the back and sides, leaving me with little choice but to shave what remains. I can at least do this myself: small mercies. Not a great advert for my business, though, is it? I’m like a dentist with rotten teeth.
I spot a homeless person crashed out on the ground, apparently asleep or in some kind of stupor. They’re lying in the doorway of a neighbouring shop, which is already closed for the night. I stop for a moment and cough, before saying in a loud voice: ‘You shouldn’t be here. You’re on private property. I’ve just called the police and they’re on their way to move you along.’
I hope this lie will be enough to get them to shift, assuming they’ve registered it. Wrapped up as they are in a sleeping bag and hoodie, facing away from the pavement, I can’t even tell if they’re male or female. Whatever, they shouldn’t be here. This is outside the main ‘begging zone’ at the heart of the city centre; the last thing I want is for that to start spilling over here, potentially affecting my business. The bargain service I offer is already undervalued. I definitely don’t need down-and-outs dossing on the doorstep and putting off customers.
‘Go on, shoo,’ I add, after my first comment goes ignored. ‘There must be better places to crash than this.’
Still I get no reply other than a faint groan. I’m tempted to persevere, but in the end I’m too tired and cold to bother. So with one final hollow threat that the police will be here any minute, I let out a noisy sigh before continuing on my way.
As I walk along the pavement in the direction of my flat, all the buildings around me seem to rattle and shake in sync with one another, like a menacing percussion ensemble. Various pieces of litter – newspaper sheets, snack wrappers, cans and bottles – bob and weave their way alongside me, occasionally making contact. A couple of times I really have to fight to hold my ground as a strong gust threatens to sweep me off course. One minute I’m almost being blown into passing traffic; the next I’m dodging a fellow windswept pedestrian.
Plodding on, regardless, dreaming of a hot shower and a brew when I get home, I curse repeatedly under my breath and wonder how this walk could get any worse.
As if in reply, and without prelude, the heavens open. Driving rain and hail take it in turns to hammer down on me. I’m soaked through in seconds and look around desperately for shelter. My flat is still several minutes’ walk away, but having left the busy shop and bar-lined streets near work behind me, there’s nowhere immediately obvious to wait out the worst. On one side of the street is a large open-air car park, where I can see various people running to their vehicles. Most of the other side is taken up by the rear of a former warehouse that’s been converted into offices. Sadly, all the entrances are round the front, so there’s not even a doorway in sight to run towards.
‘Come on, think!’ I shout at myself, continuing forward. Drenched like I’ve jumped fully clothed into a swimming pool, I’m racking my brains for somewhere to go as the deluge continues and the wind does its utmost to knock me off my feet.
‘Come on,’ I cry again, my voice carried away in a fierce gust. It makes a nearby lamppost jiggle around in a way that looks comical and precarious at the same time. Having walked this way on so many previous occasions, I really should be able to think of somewhere to take shelter, but still nothing comes to mind.
I spin around full circle, scanning my surroundings, but it doesn’t help.
Screw it. I’m wasting time now and only getting wetter in the process. I decide to press on towards my flat, running for a bit until I’m out of breath and even more infuriated at the bloody weather.
The rain eases off for a minute or two and I pray the worst is over. Then it’s hailing again with a vengeance – of course it is – and I feel like I’m being bombarded with mini golf balls.
Turning a corner, I see a ramshackle old building wrapped in scaffolding. Someone else, wearing a canary-yellow raincoat, is already cowering under the lowest platform of the towering temporary structure, so I make a dash to join them. It doesn’t exactly look like an ideal shelter, but better some cover than none.
‘All right?’ I grunt at the brightly dressed figure.
It turns out to be a woman – late twenties, early thirties at a guess, from what I can see of her. She jumps at the sound of my voice, having been looking in the other direction. But once her wide brown eyes land on my face, she soon flashes me a smile from within the circle of her coat’s wide hood.
‘Gosh, you startled me,’ she says in a husky, confident voice. ‘You look like you could have done with getting here a few minutes ago … and maybe wearing something a bit more waterproof.’
‘Hmm,’ I reply, wiping the ice-cold moisture out of my eyes with my right hand.
‘I don’t know about you, but I wish I’d taken the weather forecast more seriously,’ she adds. ‘I figured they were probably exaggerating, based on past experience.’
I raise my eyebrows and nod. ‘You’re not kidding.’
The wooden planks above us do offer protection from much of the downpour – although we have to take care to avoid the leaky spots, which are like mini waterfalls. The creaking, rattling sounds all around, particularly when the wind gusts, are disconcerting to say the least.
Relax, I tell myself, as an extra fierce squall makes everything around us shudder and shake. My new companion and I both look upwards and then at each other; I stretch my mouth into a grimace.
She keeps smiling, looking way calmer than I feel. ‘I’m sure it’ll ease off soon.’
‘You reckon?’ I reply. ‘I’m not convinced.’
We remain where we are for several more minutes as the rain and hail keep on coming in alternating onslaughts, like a freakish tag team working at the wind’s behest.
And then all hell breaks loose as the fiercest gust yet roars, pounces, bites and refuses to let go.
Heart in mouth, I see and hear the scaffolding above and all around teeter and then finally tip.
‘We need to move now!’ the woman shouts. But I’m frozen to the spot in terror as, with a series of mighty and devastating crashes and crunches, it all starts coming down.
That’s it, I think. Game over.
Then I feel myself being shoved to one side and, with a sudden jolt of intense pain to my head, I’m out of it.
Nothingness envelops me.