Published by Blasted Heath, 2013
copyright © 2010 Douglas Lindsay
First published in 2010 by Long Midnight Publishing
For Kathryn
––––––––
The wind had changed.
Barney Thomson stood waiting for the customer to pronounce. The shop was quiet, which was why Barney had allowed him the five minutes it had taken so far, while the man had studied his crusty napper in the mirror, attempting to come to a decision about his hair. As far as Barney could make out, his options were more or less limited to a 'short back & sides', or 'an even shorter back & sides'.
Barney looked out of the window. The sun had begun to shine weakly, although the roads and pavements were still drenched from the rain which had been falling most of the day. Winter in Millport was full on, bleak, wet and mild. It would be another couple of months before spring clumsily walked into town, the remnants of a clawing wind draped around its shoulders, and then the few tourists would start to arrive, the buses coming round from the ferry would actually have some passengers on them, and the town would once more raise its head above the dreich blanket.
Barney glanced over his shoulder. The other barber, Keanu MacPherson, was dozing quietly in his chair, a paperback copy of that month's latest bestseller, The Lost Children of Ngor Lak – due soon for the full cinema treatment with Kate Winslet, Colin Firth and Helena Bonham-Carter – lay open on his chest. Barney's assistant, Igor, the deaf, mute hunchback, was pushing his broom solemnly across the floor. Old Rusty Brown, face like ripples on wet sand, was waiting patiently for Barney to finish, not wanting to disturb MacPherson from his siesta.
They couldn't go on much longer like this. Barney couldn't afford to continue to run the shop like an old-time Communist shipyard, a job for everybody. There wasn't enough work for one barber, never mind three. Or, at least, two barbers and a man with a hump who swept up.
Barney sighed heavily. There must be more than this played though his head, not the first time the thought had crossed his mind.
His life had been a series of adventures involving mass murder, headless corpses, a lot of blood, decapitated sheep, severed limbs, heads-in-a-jar and the regular round of routine police enquiries. It was old news for Barney. Yet this new news, this quiet island life which stretched away from him like the sea heading towards the horizon, this new life felt no more right than the one which he had tried to escape.
Barney watched the sun on the wet pavement for a short while, then looked out at the sea glimmering above the white stone-washed promenade wall. A yacht was flying in the wind, sail straining. He watched it for a short time, until it had disappeared behind the buildings on the pier. Feeling jealous. Listened to the ululation of the seagulls, the mournful sound which seemed to come and go with the sun. He shivered and turned back to his customer.
'What's it to be then, mate?' he asked, hoping to bring the hours of waiting to a definite conclusion.
'Well,' said the man, finally ready to enter into some conversation, 'I've been sitting here trying to decide between an Omar Shariff '68 and a Robert Redford,' he said, beginning to hesitate again, and Barney wondered if he was going to have to spend the rest of his life standing behind this man. By the time the bloke said, 'And I've decided to go for a Jack Lemmon, Paper Tiger,' Barney was pondering what scientists of the future would make of his own petrified corpse, standing behind a barber's chair with a pair of scissors and a can of Cossack in his hands.
'It was Save The Tiger,' said Barney.
'What?'
'The Jack Lemmon movie. It was Save the Tiger, not Paper Tiger.'
'You're thinking of Paper Moon with Ryan O'Neal,' said Rusty Brown.
'Never heard of that,' said the customer. 'Aren't you thinking about Blue Moon?'
'Nah,' said Barney, 'that was Blue Moon of Kentucky.'
'Are you saying I've got hair like fried chicken?' said the customer suddenly, giving Barney the eye.
'You'd like a Jack Lemmon, Save The Tiger, would you, sir?' said Barney, drawing the conversation to a mercifully quick conclusion
'Aye,' said the man.
'Fine,' said Barney.
He raised his scissors and set about his business.
'Ella Fitzgerald!' barked Keanu MacPherson, suddenly jerking to life and joining the conversation several minutes too late. He looked around at the assembled company and then felt embarrassed.
'Shit, like, sorry guys, must have dozed off. Did I miss anything?'
Barney stared at him and then glanced once more out of the window.
'Not much chance of that,' he murmured.
***
The same weather system which had dragged cold winds and bleak rain across the Clyde was also encompassing the rest of the country.
London hunched under demented, low grey skies. The two men sitting in the small office on the first floor of Number 10 Downing Street were aware of the sound of the rain drumming against the window. Usually the Prime Minister chose to sit behind his desk, however when it came to spiritual matters he preferred to join his visitor at the small chairs beside the coffee table. Somehow it never seemed right to address the representatives of God from behind a desk.
The Archbishop of Middlesex was leaning forward, his teacup trembling slightly in the saucer, looking intently at the PM. He had just asked the man if he believed in God. Really believed. The PM stared at the window, the dim great light from outside. Felt like it was almost dark already, yet it wasn't even lunchtime.
Politicians can't admit to not believing in God. It's almost rule number one. Yet at the same time, they can't admit to actually believing in Him either, because too many people are then going to think you're a fruitcake. You have to strike a balance between faith and credibility.
'I believe firmly in Christian values,' he said, as if he was speaking to the press corps during his monthly grilling.
Middlesex laid the saucer back down on the small table. A politician's answer, he thought, but he wasn't going to make the conversation any more uncomfortable than it already was.
'Well, Prime Minister, I'm sure you'll agree that Christian values are what Britain today so sorely lacks. Sharing and loving, putting the needs of others first, a sense of community, these are all things which have been lost to the greed of western society. We are bringing up successive generations of fat, violent, greedy, selfish children.'
'Well ... ' the PM began to bluster.
'Don't gainsay me, Prime Minister, I am your adviser, I'm not Andrew Marr. You don't have to pretend. The country, the very basis of our society, is in peril. Regardless of whether or not you believe, there can be little doubt that we need God. Britain needs God. Britain needs the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, and we need to worry less about ourselves and what size of flat screen television we possess and which Caribbean island we're going to during the February school break because our pampered kids are demanding the sun ... We should be concerned about the future of our children, the welfare of our neighbours, the state of the planet we live on today ... '
Aw crap, thought the PM, it's bad enough your being religious, don't get green on me as well.
'And this is why the very nature, the fundamental basis of how religion in this country works, needs to be changed. And for that to happen I'm going to need your help.'
The PM lowered his head then stood slowly, turned his back and walked to the window. His reflection looked back at him, the day outside succumbing to sepulchral darkness. The PM clasped his hands behind his back, the material of his suit jacket straining slightly at the shoulders. Don't mess with religion, that was the one piece of advice his predecessor had given him. Nothing about lying to the public, invading other countries or buggering up the economy; just don't mess with religion.
He nodded slowly.
'All right,' he said eventually. 'Go ahead. You have my support. But just, you know ... You'll have to be canny. Don't go leaping in, don't say anything without clearing it through here first. And you know ... before you do anything, get in one of those firms. Marketing guys, consultants, they know the score. It's what we do. Professional advice.'
'That's already in hand, Prime Minister,' said the Archbishop, who had risen and joined the PM, looking across the short width of Downing Street to the rear of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. The PM grunted. The two men stared into the abyss of government, a strange feeling having passed between them. Almost as if they had just made a decision of momentous importance.
A black Mercedes pulled slowly into Downing Street and stopped just short of the door to Number 10. The PM looked down and remembered his meeting with the American ambassador. He sighed heavily, kept the swear word to himself.
'Thank you for coming,' he said, without looking at Middlesex. 'Keep me posted.'
The Archbishop of Middlesex put a kindly and godly hand on the Prime Minister's shoulder.
'The End of Days, Prime Minister,' he said. 'That is what we face. We shall all be judged.'
Then, with a final squeeze of the PM's shoulder, he turned and walked slowly from the office. The PM waited until the door was closed, then muttered a quiet expletive to himself and slumped back into the chair behind his desk.
––––––––
There were three of them in the office, a cold day in March, the sounds of a distant London coming across the river. Piers Hemingway, Deputy Chief of Staff, Hugo Fitzgerald, Head of TV Contracts, and John Wodehouse, Head of Other Contracts. They were trying to get a fix on women's armpits. Which can be difficult.
Hemingway was in charge and had already outlined the problem. They had just won a contract with failed energy giant Exron, who had decided to make a comeback into the world of big business by branching out into the global women's toiletries market. They wanted a sleek, expensive product, blue-ribbon end of the market, and would be launching with a major television campaign. The whole thing would ooze class. Top of the range product for top of the range people.
The first ad would have a woman stepping out of the shower in an enormous bathroom. She would dry herself off, letting the towel fall to the ground, whilst showing as much breast, nipple, bum cleavage and pubic hair as they could squeeze past the watchdogs, after which she would apply her Exron deodorant to her perfectly shaved armpits.
'Trouble is,' said Hemingway, 'we need another word for armpit. It's just not classy enough.'
Fitzgerald nodded and tapped his pen. Desperate to be first.
'What's wrong with underarms?' said Wodehouse, who was standing at the window looking down on the river. Slow boats on the Thames.
'Too public school,' said Hemingway. 'It is so last century.'
'It's what Proctor & Gamble have been using,' said Wodehouse.
'The client,' said Hemingway, 'is looking to outclass them by some margin. We need a new word for armpit, and it isn't underarm.'
Wodehouse stared out of the window, Fitzgerald and Hemingway stared at the table, pens tapping. Brainstorming; how the majority of advertising is concocted. Apart, of course, from washing powder adverts which are all rubbish and made from the same standard model.
'Take it oxters is out of the question?' said Wodehouse from the window.
'Yep,' said Hemingway, nodding, 'not even close.'
'Vertically-opposed shoulders,' said Fitzgerald, cautiously. However, he didn't raise his eyes, because deep down he knew it wasn't quite right.
'Nah,' said Hemingway, shaking his head. 'Good effort, though.'
Wodehouse sucked in his cheeks. Vertically-opposed shoulders. Fitzgerald was such an idiot. Still, there was no point in standing there feeling bitter. It was ideas which led to advancement, not bitterness. This was a good chance to go head to head with Fitzgerald and show him who was boss.
'The concave abyssal plane,' said Fitzgerald, perking up, and looking expectantly around the others.
Wodehouse snorted and tried to fight the resentment.
'Yeah, nice try, Hugo,' said Hemingway, 'but it's a little too scientific.'
'Luxury Perspiration Point,' suggested Wodehouse.
'Upper Body Limb Vertex,' said Fitzgerald, stupidly.
'Subordinate Collar Bone Terrain,' said Wodehouse.
'Silvicultural Anti-Convex Environment,' said Fitzgerald.
'Keep 'em coming,' said Hemingway quickly, to interrupt the flow, 'that's good work. We're not quite there, yet.' Not even close, he thought, but you don't publicly disparage.
'Duplex Hormonal Dispatch Orientation,' said Wodehouse, descending into absurdity.
'Not quite there yet,' repeated Hemingway.
Hemingway knew that Orwell would be down in a few minutes and he wanted them to have something before he got there. Jude Orwell would have the answer in about five seconds, but it would be better for them all if they could think of something before he arrived. Hemingway didn't suffer from the same insecurities as the others though, so he didn't care which one of them came up with the idea.
'The Love Pit,' said Wodehouse from the window, in the appropriate tone of voice.
Hemingway nodded, chin resting in his entwined fingers.
'Not bad,' he said. 'Not bad.'
'That could apply to about twenty-five different areas of the female anatomy,' said Fitzgerald, jealously.
'Yeah,' said Hemingway, 'but it doesn't mean a campaign won't change the perceptions of the British people. For the moment, it's all we've got.' Then he said The Love Pit over to himself in an advert voice, to try to get used to the idea. It didn't matter if people thought it was stupid the first time they heard it; it was whether it would be the accepted term after they'd been hearing it for six months.
The door opened and they all looked up as Jude Orwell walked into the room, closing the door behind him. None of them actually rose and saluted but they all thought about it. Orwell felt the Force. He wasn't head of this company. Not yet. But the day was coming.
He threw the folder he was carrying onto the table and sat down next to Hemingway, back against the chair, feet propped on the desk. These men were in thrall of him; he had no one to impress.
'Tell me what you've got,' he said.
Hemingway glanced at the others, then looked Orwell in the eye.
'The Love Pit,' he said.
A loud horn sounded far below at the front of the building, as a BMW cut up a Jag.
'The Love Pit,' repeated Orwell, and Wodehouse continued to watch the boats on the river, butterflies in his stomach, as he waited for the boss to pronounce.
'Don't like it,' said Orwell, after an eternity. 'It's the use of the word pit, you see. Wrong word to use. Totally wrong.'
'Yeah,' said Hemingway, 'you're right.'
Bloody bastard, thought Wodehouse.
'You got anything else?' asked Orwell.
'There are others, but zenith-wise Love Pit was the actualisation of the discussion to this point,' said Hemingway.
Orwell breathed deeply, then let the air out in a long sigh.
'So, what do we have?' he said rhetorically. 'The chick steps out of the shower, dries herself off, shows us a bit of boob, then as she reaches for the deodorant, the voiceover – and I'm assuming here we're talking Bergerac or Lovejoy – says something like, Exron ... for your armpits.'
'Yep,' said Hemingway.
'You can see why we need another word for it,' said Orwell. 'We'd be as well getting Cilla Black at this rate.'
'Totally,' said Hemingway, quite happy to suck up to anyone in a suit.
Orwell removed his cell phone from its holster, flicked the top, pressed a button with his thumb, and kicked back even more.
'Rose,' he said, 'I need the French word for armpit. Yeah, armpit.'
As soon as he said it, the others stared at the carpet, kicking themselves. The French translation. Simple, easy, straightforward. One of the basics. That was why Orwell was the upcoming King. That was why Thomas Bethlehem, the chief executive of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, had to watch his back.
'Thanks, Rose,' said Orwell, and he was closing the cap and fitting the phone back into the holster as he said it.
They all waited, wishing they'd made that call.
Orwell held his hand aloft to illustrate his vision. Without saying a word, he conjured up the image of the naked überchick, towel at her feet, clean and sparkling and reaching for the deodorant.
'Exron,' he said, in his best Bergerac, 'Pour L'Aisselle.' And he looked around the room and smiled. Hemingway nodded, Wodehouse shook his head and smiled ruefully at the floor.
'Excellent,' said Hemingway.
'You sure the Margies and Joes are going to know what a l'aisselle is?' asked Fitzgerald.
It was no big deal questioning Orwell. He was quite happy to answer all critics from within, because he was comfortable with his own ball-breaking confidence. His men all knew they could say what they wanted. No Tony Blair or Margaret Thatcher this man. Critics were welcome.
He smiled and patted Fitzgerald on the back as he walked past him, folder back under his arm.
'The woman's going to be putting the stuff on her armpits at the time, Hugo. If some people are just too stupid to work out what the hell a l'aisselle is, do we actually want them to buy the damned product?'
Laughing at his own line, he turned once more and embraced the three of them with a smile.
'You cool with the rest of it, Piers?' he asked.
'Sure,' said Hemingway.
And with that, Orwell was gone.
The door closed and once again the room was silent, the only noise the sounds of a cold London in March. Wodehouse turned away once more and looked down at the hypnotic river below. Fitzgerald stared at the table and felt a little foolish.
'Right,' said Hemingway, 'you heard the man. Let's get on with it, there's plenty more to sort out.'
'Totally,' said Wodehouse.
Bloody suck up, thought Fitzgerald.
––––––––
'Will the rain ever stop?'
Barney Thomson turned away from the window of the shop and looked behind him. He could see Igor in the back room making another cup of tea. Back hunched, bending over the worktop. Fifth cup that day, not yet eleven o'clock. Nothing much else to do.
Barney stared at Keanu. The lad was kicked back, feet up on the edge of the counter, nearing the end of The Lost Children of Ngor Lak. Had so far managed to stay awake.
It had been a long slow winter, the three of them hanging on until the spring rush. If it ever came. Barney had begun to think that maybe it was time he went on the move again. He didn't need to sell the shop. He could leave Igor in charge, Keanu would be able to take care of the haircutting, and Barney would have the safety net to return to should his peregrinations be unfulfilling. Maybe they would take in enough money for the two of them to get by if he wasn't around.
'What?' asked Barney.
Keanu looked up. He was smiling.
'What?' he said.
'You said something,' said Barney. 'About the rain.'
Keanu looked mildly curious, thought about it for a second, but couldn't remember having said anything for the previous twenty minutes. Shook his head, looked back at the book. Immediately started smiling again.
Barney stared around the room. He'd known it wasn't Keanu who had spoken. Hadn't been his voice. He shivered, looked back out of the window.
Igor appeared at his side, two cups of tea in hand, Keanu's already placed at his side. Barney took the cup and nodded. Igor stood beside him and the two of them stared across the road, across the white promenade wall, out to sea.
A single seagull circled slowly across the road, and then came to rest on the wall across from the shop. It turned and looked at Barney, seemed to stare straight into his soul. Igor shivered and glanced at Barney.
The gull had haunted Barney Thomson in the past, but had not been seen in over two years. Two weeks previously, however, it had reappeared.
'Arf,' muttered Igor.
Barney nodded. 'I know, my hunchbacked little friend,' he said. 'He's back.'
'Who's back?' asked Keanu, appearing beside them.
Barney glanced back at the book, now placed on the counter.
'What happened?'
'The Kate Winslet and Helena Bonham-Carter characters just had sex, but they're done now and it got a little flat afterwards. Thought I'd take a break. Maybe a customer'll come in.'
Barney smiled. Not much chance of that. There was barely anyone walking along the street, never mind coming in looking for a haircut of any description.
'Ah, the seagull's back,' said Keanu, noticing the bird staring at them from across the wall. 'I guess some weird shit's about to go down.'
'You think?'
Keanu nodded, then placed a hand, the one which didn't have an obligation to a cup of tea, on Barney's shoulder.
'You know, my haircutting genius of a friend, that once that wee fella pitches up, gloom, mayhem and disorder cannot be far behind. I say, bring it on. It's about time something happened around this joint.'
'Arf,' said Igor.
Barney didn't reply. He stared into the black eye of the gull across the road. The notion struck him. This was his fate. How many years had he been looking into the black eye of the gull? Now here he was, too restless to settle, too tired to face more gloom, mayhem and disorder.
The weight of his unhappiness settled on the shop. The wind forced the rain against the window, chains clanked across the street. Two old women scowled past, their heads bowed to the weather, on their way to the Post Office. If it was still in business. A car drove by spraying water across the pavement. Human life moved on. Once more the main street was deserted. The three men stood and looked across at the gull.
Igor saw them first, staring along the street in the direction of Kames. Slowly Barney and then Keanu picked up on his gaze, and they followed his look along the road.
Two men, dark suits, black ties, black, expensive shoes. No overcoats, seemingly oblivious to the weather. They walked at a steady pace, eyes straight ahead. They were on the other side of the road, but there was no doubt where they were heading.
'And as if by magic ... ' said Keanu.
'Hmm,' said Barney. 'I don't think it's magic.'
Keanu looked back at the gull as it shuffled backwards off the white promenade wall and turned and flew away out across the sea. He waved his cup in its direction.
'How does he know? I mean really, it's a dumb-ass seagull, but it knows when there's shit about to happen. How weird is that?'
Neither Barney nor Igor answered. Barney knew, but he wasn't about to get into some strange discussion which might, frankly, verge into metaphysics and the nature of good and evil.
The two men crossed the road without checking for traffic. They still hadn't looked at the barbershop, but it was obvious that this was their intended destination. Suddenly Igor and Keanu got the sense of what was about to happen. These two men were coming for Barney, and even though it might not be in any particularly invasive way, even though they weren't about to force Barney to go with them, they knew that Barney would go.
They looked at Barney. Barney stared straight ahead, his eyes never leaving the two men as they neared. Suddenly the dull idyll of the barbershop was about to be shattered, as surely as if a bomb had been dropped on them.
The door opened. The two men walked in. They looked like Federal Agents. Men on a mission, at the very least on a mission to be inordinately cool. They left the door open. They weren't staying.
Keanu and Igor waited for them to produce badges and guns. The announcement of their government credentials. Barney glanced at his jacket on the peg on the wall. Looked back out to sea, to see whether the gull was still in the area. The cold day, the grey sea looked back at him.
'One of you is Barney Thomson,' said one of the men. His voice was too high-pitched for his clothes, had a thin east London accent.
'We're from PricewaterhouseCoopers,' said the other guy, in what sounded like a staged American accent.
'Why the fuck are you dressed like that, then?' said Keanu, annoyed at these men who were about to shatter his sylvan barbershop bliss.
'Mr Thomson,' said High Pitch, looking directly at Barney now, 'we're headhunters for a firm in the City. Our client, Mr Bethlehem of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, is looking for a personal barber.'
Keanu looked disdainfully at them, the questions queueing up in his mouth. Why Barney? How had they even heard about Barney? Were they going to give him a trial? An interview? What was so special about Barney?
The questions stalled at the last one. Barney had a few questions himself, but he didn't need to ask them. This moment had been coming for a while.
Barney put his hand on Igor's shoulder and squeezed. Igor looked sorrowfully up at his boss. The shop had been gripped by sadness. If the men in suits felt it, they were at least oblivious to the fact that they had caused it.
'Arf,' said Igor. Even Keanu understood him. You can't go. Not like this, not just suddenly dropping everything. This is your home. This is your job. We're your friends. This is your life. We need you ...
Barney squeezed Igor's shoulder more tightly then let go. He felt the weight of sudden sadness even more heavily than the others. An instant oppressive melancholy, that staying in the shop would not conquer.
'Sorry,' he muttered to Igor. 'I'll get my coat,' he added, talking to the men in suits, then he patted Keanu on the arm as he walked past.
Two and a half minutes later, Barney Thomson walked from his barbershop in Millport and neither Igor nor Keanu knew if he would ever be back.
––––––––
The waitress appeared beside him, as she had done repeatedly throughout his one hour stay. She was always more attentive to customers whom she found attractive – she was no different from any other member of the world's waiting collective – and Barney had the disenchanted look about him that she so loved in men. Tired eyes, but eyes that showed depth and intelligence and wisdom. She had tried to make conversation, but he hadn't been interested, and she'd consequently found him all the more beguiling.
'Can I get you anything else?' she asked, the third time she'd used those words to start her approach, a poor second to is everything all right for you, sir?
Barney looked up. Confident enough in himself to recognise her attraction, but not interested. He knew he had the look about him, the look of the traveller, the look of one who walked amongst men, restless and weary. Women loved that, but he also knew he could never be as interesting as they hoped he was going to be. He was running from life and the strangulation of attachment and community; he was no warrior.
'I'm all right, thanks, Selina,' he said. 'I should be going shortly.'
'You can't go out in that,' she said, wishing that every word which left her mouth could be more erudite.
'Places to go,' said Barney.
Selina, name-badged to an adoring world, stared at him and wondered where it was that this man had to go to. Somewhere dangerous, she imagined. The eyes said as much. The rest of the people in here were taking a break from shoe-shopping or were about to go off to meet their mother-in-law or their accountant. But this man, who'd drunk three cups of tea and eaten two pieces of cherry pie, he would have grander designs.
'All right there, darlin',' said a man's voice behind her. 'You going to stand there ogling that bloke all day? Get us a cheese sandwich, luv.'
Selina smiled at Barney, no trace of embarrassment.
'Got to go,' she said.
Barney smiled, said nothing.
'You're welcome,' Selina added as an afterthought, and turned round to the next table, to the man who was after some mature cheddar.
Barney turned and looked once more out of the window. During the brief intercourse with the waitress the rain had begun to ease, although not yet enough for anyone to venture out from under cover. He checked his watch again, lifted the cup to his mouth, and looked outside at pools of water dancing with the raindrops.
***
Thirty-five minutes later, Barney was off the Docklands Railway, and walking the short distance to the building which housed the offices of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Checked the small gold nameplate screwed into the wall, pressed the buzzer and waited. The rain had all but ceased, but there was a cold wind bustling down here from the river, and he pulled his jacket tightly around him.
'Hello?' crackled at him, and he looked up into the small camera which was showing him to the receptionist and the security guards on each level of the building.
'Barney Thomson, barber,' said Barney, and immediately the door buzzed. He pushed it open and he walked into the domain of the seventh largest advertising agency in Britain. Up some stairs, around a corner, through another door and he was into reception.
The waiting area suggested everything you'd expect from a modern, chic, marketing operation. Sleek, minimalist Scandinavian furniture in pale colours; a few stark modern pictures of nothing in particular, painted in pallid blues and yellows; abrupt chairs, built for style rather than comfort; and a tremendous feeling of freshness and light and cleanliness. Almost as if there was a giant invisible panty liner soaking up all the dirt and darkness and grime.
They made TV adverts in offices like this.
The receptionist was sitting behind a clean-lined desk of pale brown veneer, straight-backed and elegant, her fingers surgically attached to her keyboard. She wore one of those little mics in front of her lips, as if she was Madonna and at any minute was liable to start gambolling full-chested around the room singing Like A Prayer. She went by the name of Imelda Marcos – not the Imelda Marcos, mind, although she was partial to a new pair of shoes – and was ready for Barney with a clipped smile and eyebrows that met in the middle.
'Mr Thomson?'
'I was ten seconds ago,' said Barney. Already tired of the purity of it all. If there had been a marketing agency reception on The Little House On The Prairie, it would've been this clean and wholesome.
'You're three and a half minutes early,' said Imelda, the smile vanishing, never to return. 'Would you like a drink?'
'What've you got?' asked Barney, looking around the area and choosing to sit down in an ergonomically designed comfy chair, with cushioning to suit the average Scandinavian backside.
Imelda Marcos's back was up. There'd been the ten seconds ago sarcastic remark, and now the bloke had had the temerity to sit down without first being offered a seat. Her voice rattled out, Gatling gun rapid-fire. Barney was a Zulu and she was Welsh.
'Latte, espresso, decaf, New York decaf, cappuccino, Earl Grey, lapsang souchong, Darjeeling or iced hydrogenated mineral water?'
Barney crossed his legs. 'A cup of tea would be nice,' he said. 'PG Tips if you've got it.'
Imelda gave him the Stare for a few seconds, pressed a quick button and spoke into her Like A Prayer microphone.
'Cup of English Breakfast for Barney Thomson,' she clipped. 'No sugar.'
***
First there were The Folk Who Filled The Vacancies, then there was Personnel, then Human Resources. Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane had a Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department. Situated on the third floor, MAD employed nine people. The head of the department rarely conducted interviews himself. However the hair of his employees was something about which Thomas Bethlehem felt very strongly, and he had asked Anthony Waugh if he wouldn't mind taking charge of the barber interviews. The proximity of the two dictates that the state of your hair impacts on the state of your brain, Bethlehem had once ridiculously pronounced, although he hadn't meant it. Still, he liked his employees well turned out and deliciously manicured.
Waugh was a seventh generation Oxford graduate, brought in by Bethlehem at great expense from Saatchi to help attract superior quality staff. Waugh had come for the money, and had no intention of ever settling at what was a smaller company. He was not entirely unlike those highly paid overseas dumplings who sign for Rangers and Celtic for a couple of years, before leaving for England; except that he was genuine top quality – he was Christian Vieri rather than Daniel Cousin – and the top three London agencies hadn't understood what he was playing at working for BF&C.
Bethlehem wanted to conquer the business in Britain, he wanted to be a player on the international scene, he wanted to do it from the base which he already had, and he'd known the only way to get there was to hire the best people. And the way to get the best people was to hire the best human resources man he could get hold of. Anthony Waugh had not come cheaply, but he'd had his price, same as everyone else on the planet.
'You worked for the Scottish First Minister?' said Waugh, looking up from a piece of paper Barney couldn't read. Waugh was bored. He was no fan of Bethlehem, and considered that he was doing this absurd barber thing more as a favour to the boss, rather than under some sort of diktat. However, he'd never had any intention of spending his day interviewing a stream of haircutters to find out if they knew what a mullet was. He had used his contacts, he had sent out his people, and he had selected his man. This pretence at an interview was to keep it all above board, keep Bethlehem happy, and would allow him to tick another box on the way to his big city bonus. To all intents and purposes, however, Barney already had the job.
'Not for long,' said Barney. 'Just a few days. Didn't really work out.'
Waugh scanned the next couple of lines, even though it was already in his head.
'Since then you've worked in Millport, but from the fact you're here, I guess you're not settled there. The peripatetical man who can't settle, is that you?'
'More Incredible Hulk than Aristotle,' said Barney.
'He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god,' said Waugh, quoting the legendary Greek marketing executive.
Barney smiled. Not a lot you can say to people when they're going to quote ancient philosophy at you. A neat little one liner from the livid green giant might have been appropriate, but then the big fella never really did say much that was worth repeating.
'Sometimes the soul needs to wander as much as the mind,' he said, saying what the Incredible Hulk was probably thinking under all those rage issues that kept coming to the surface.
'Indeed,' said Waugh. 'And how long d'you think you'll work for Mr Bethlehem before your mind and soul need to wander?'
Barney shrugged. 'You people asked me to come here,' he said. 'You'll get what you pay for. I'm not promising you anything, except that I can do any haircut that any of your employees will ask for.'
'You haven't much experience with women,' said Waugh quickly.
'How d'you mean that?' said Barney. Either way, and it was obvious what he'd meant, he was right. Twenty years of dull, dull marriage, followed by the most slender of flings, hardly constituted experience with women; and he wasn't exactly a hairstylist either.
Waugh laughed softly and held his hands open in explanation.
'Not much,' said Barney, 'but really there's not a lot to it. It's all in the talk and how much product you persuade them they need on their hair.'
Waugh smiled. 'Women are simple,' he said, echoing one of the guiding principles that had made Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane what it was.
'Ain't that the truth,' said Barney, playing along, while actually thinking that most women have more personality strands than there are grains of sand in Australia.
Waugh nodded, looked back at the mysterious piece of paper in front of him. Nothing else to say. Time to get back to more important matters.
'Thanks for coming in,' said Waugh, looking up and, by use of the international eyebrow symbol, indicating that it was time for Barney to hoof it on out of there.
Barney rose quickly.
'Thanks,' he said.
'You can find your way down to reception,' said Waugh.
'Sure,' said Barney, to the top of Waugh's head.
He turned and walked quickly from the office, closing the door behind him. He nodded at Waugh's secretary as he walked though the outer office – the secretary smiled, recognising the primordial attractiveness of the wanderer in Barney – then down the stairs and into reception, where Imelda Marcos was doing a full throttle Express Yourself, then he was down the final flight of steps and back out into the cold of a bleak Docklands morning in March.
***
By the time Barney had returned to the small flat in NW1 in which he had already been installed by the contracted out men from PwC, there was a message on his answering machine from Imelda Marcos informing him that he had secured the barber position, and requesting that he report for work promptly at eight o'clock the following morning.
––––––––
The offices of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane took up all of a ten storey block in Canary Wharf. Joe Forsyth had negotiated a long term deal on the property in the mid-nineties, picking his moment during a bad week when it looked like the market would lose the momentum it had built up after the calamities of '92. With the change of address on the letterhead, from Birmingham to NE14, the fortunes of the company had changed overnight. Ever since, the story of BF&C had been one of growth and increasing market-share.
The departure of the last remaining founding partners other than Bethlehem – there had originally been five in all – had seen barely a blip in the rise of the company, as the sheer bravado and exuberance of Thomas Bethlehem had seen them through potential difficulties with clients initially attracted by either Forsyth or Margie Crane.
Forsyth had gone quietly, the culmination of endless disagreements with Bethlehem over the ethics of the company and their business. Bethlehem wanted to have fun, sleep with lots of women and make huge amounts of money. He had known all along that Forsyth's idealism made him easy meat for the carnivores of the world of marketing, so that when the going got tough, Forsyth got going.
Crane had departed after an incident with a Lebanese prostitute and two sachets of illegal drugs had left her position untenable. Knowing his feelings on women, she had presumed she'd been set up by Bethlehem, although she hadn't. So she had left with a chip on her shoulder, albeit quietly, and with her tail between her legs. Despite the fact that her departure had meant a far bigger slice of the cherry pie for him, Bethlehem had almost been sad to see her go.
Crane had started a small firm in Birmingham, pitching for the bottom end of the billboard business. Forsyth had gone off to Australia to fight for the rights of the Aboriginals. Bethlehem had lost interest the minute the two of them were out of the door. And their first names, Margie and Joe, had become the bywords in the company for the general public, the masses out there who read the Sun and the Mirror, who watched Ant & Dec and Corrie and Eastenders, who played football and drank down the pub, who wore their cell phones like cowboys wore their guns, and who were there to be duped and controlled and made to buy any old shit that people like Thomas Bethlehem were paid to make them want to buy.
***
Barney turned as the door opened and his first customer of the day, the first of his new position, walked into the small office, which had been converted overnight into a barber's shop. There would be no money exchanging hands, however. Barney was paid as an employee of the company, the other employees would get their hair cut on the company. Thomas Bethlehem was that serious about hair.
Barney lifted himself off the barber's chair, where he had been sitting at the tenth floor window, looking out on the Thames.
'Morning,' said Barney. He knew from his appointments list, already handed to him by Imelda Marcos, that this was Hugo Fitzgerald, Head of Television Contracts.
Fitzgerald nodded, hung the jacket of his suit on a hanger, and slid into the seat, which he then swivelled round away from the window so that he was looking in the large mirror. He settled back, opened up a folder he had brought in with him and waited to be set upon. Barney knew that Fitzgerald would be expecting to be asked what he wanted, but he could see that this was a man whose head demanded a jejune, but appropriate, Brad Pitt. And so, with an apposite cape tossed around the neck, Barney picked up his new razor, flicked the switch, felt the old familiar buzz in his fingers and got to work.
Fitzgerald glanced up quickly from his folder and said from underneath a raised eyebrow, 'Brad Pitt?'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Brad Pitt.'
Fitzgerald nodded appreciatively, as if relishing a fine cup of coffee, and looked back at his folder. Barney handled the nod, so as not to remove any ears, and kept about his business. Two days after he'd left Millport, seamlessly transported to another life.
Barely twenty seconds and Fitzgerald tossed the folder onto the counter under the mirror in front of him, an act of almost childish petulance. Aware of how it had looked, Fitzgerald straightened his shoulders and caught Barney's eye in the mirror.
'The rubbish I have to put up with,' he said.
Barney raised an inquiring forehead. Here we go, he thought. A confessional. Sometimes made the day go a little more quickly; sometimes made the day an horrendous, god-awful nightmare. Could go either way.
'New client?' said Barney.
Fitzgerald checked Barney's eye in the mirror again.
'Yeah,' he said. 'You got a nose for this stuff?'
'I'm a barber,' said Barney.
Fitzgerald held his gaze for another second, then lifted the folder and held it in front of him, as if this would allow Barney to see inside it.
'Savoury snacks. God,' said Fitzgerald, 'it's come to this. Savoury flippin' snacks.'
'Which company?' asked Barney.
'Dundee Salted Snacks,' said Fitzgerald, the words falling out of his mouth as if they were being pushed off the edge of a cliff.
'They do Fisherman's Chips, don't they?' asked Barney.
'Yeah,' said Fitzgerald grudgingly.
'That's a good crisp,' said Barney. 'Tasty and crunchy. Pretty big company too, I would've thought.'
'Not so big.'
'Must be Columbia Tristar next to your Channel 5.'
Fitzgerald raised a different kind of eyebrow this time. But people were going to have to learn; when they hired Barney Thomson, they got it told to them straight.
'Lovely analogy,' said Fitzgerald. 'Fact is, they're a dinosaur. We need to be getting a bigger share of the telecoms business, not this prehistoric, antediluvian, stuck in the Middle Ages stuff.'
'Crisps?' said Barney. 'Everybody eats crisps.'
'Exactly,' said Fitzgerald. 'Crisps. Any idiot can sell crisps. I don't want to be selling crisps.'
'Got to be a lot of money in it,' said Barney.
'Yeah, it's all right, but we need money combined with kudos, you know what I'm saying? You don't get esteem in this business doing adverts for five year-olds featuring old footballers. Look,' he said, becoming a little more animated, so that Barney took the wise decision to suspend the hostilities of the cut until his customer had calmed down, 'what does it amount to? How d'you market crisps? One, TV. Two, regardless of how gawping your product is, make it look cool. Three, get Alan Shearer or some other ex-footie player who's instantly recognisable to the thick as mince populace. Four, get wise with your packaging, so that salt and vinegar becomes sea salt and balsamic vinegar, cheese and onion becomes blue cheese and chive, smoky bacon has to be oak smoked pork and caramelised banana, blah blah, the usual stuff. And that's about it. God, the public are too flippin' stupid to know any better. Tell them anything you want, they'll lap it up.'
The brief conflagration having died down, Barney resumed working. You're nice, he thought, but resisted the brief temptation to give him a Pitt The Younger, rather than a Brad Pitt.
'Well then,' said Barney, 'why not just do it and move on? Give the man his spit-roasted pork and red Leicester flavour, take his money and shuffle him quietly out of the door. Don't worry about it, don't bleat, just do it and get on with the next job. If you do it well, no one's going to denounce you for having taken the work in the first place.'
Fitzgerald stared straight back at himself in the mirror. His mouth was watering. He quite liked the sound of spit-roasted pork and red Leicester flavoured crisps, even this early in the morning. He might use that. Not that he would tell Barney Thomson.
Barney silenced the razor in order to brush some loose hairs from the mechanism. He took a moment to look out on the river, corrupted grey under cloudy March skies. Had the sense that the conversation was over; the confessional had not turned out so bad after all. As he blew across the top of the razor, and looked back down at what was turning into an absolutely superb Brad Pitt, Fitzgerald rested further back against the chair and closed his eyes.
'You might be right,' he said, as he felt the hum of the razor against the back of his head.
––––––––
Detective Sergeant Daniella Monk stared across the small table. She was at a McDonald's, which was not the place for the conversation she was having, but for three months now she had been eating lunch here at the behest of Sergeant Khan. He had more or less looked like he'd been at the fish suppers since the start of their relationship; after a month of burgers and fries, she had reverted to salads and water, and was only just regaining her former shape.
'You hardly know me, Majid,' she said, in response to his recent protestation of love. Had begun to fear that there might be a ring lurking somewhere about his plain clothes.
Sergeant Majid Khan sat back and placed his hands flat on the table top.
'Monk,' he said, 'God, when was the last time you fell in love?'
She continued to stare across the table. How was he expecting her to answer? Did he really think she was going to say that she loved him? Men could be so awkward.
'It's not about knowing someone,' he said. He looked imploringly across the table. 'It's a gut reaction. It's the first look in someone's eye, it's that instant click. The thrill of the touch. I loved you the second I laid eyes on you. It didn't matter that I didn't know you.' Paused, waited to see how his speech was going down. For some reason took the blank face as a positive. 'You don't compile a list of fifty things you know about someone, check them off and if they pass forty or so, then you decide you love them. It's more fundamental than that, more organic. It's a smile, it's hearing your voice in my head all the time. It's watching you de-seed a watermelon. I've lived in this city for thirty-five years, yet everywhere I go reminds me of you. I've investigated three murders at Covent Garden, but when I think of that place, it reminds me of a conversation we had about opera two months ago.'
That's nice at least, thought Monk. If a little psychotic in its own right.
'I've sat alone in rooms with serial killers and I couldn't give a shit, but I get nervous before I lift the phone to call you. I've seen bodies that've been slashed and brutalised beyond the realms of imagination, and I could eat a Big Mac whilst looking through them for evidence. Yet my stomach churns when I know we're going to meet.'
Another pause, another stare deep into her eyes. Monk didn't really want to think about Khan's stomach churning. Khan continued to be glass half full about her silence.
'Loving someone is finding out things you don't like and it just not bothering you. I know we don't know everything there is to know about each other, but there's nothing you could do or say that I wouldn't completely forgive.'
She didn't know what to say. This was what you wanted to hear from someone you loved right down to your socks, not someone with whom you vaguely enjoyed eating French fries. And he was right; love isn't about knowing someone.
'I love you, Monk,' he said, not for the first time, but increasing the pressure by taking hold of her fingers. 'You walked into my heart and you're there to stay. You're my forever lover.'
Uh-oh, she thought. There's a fine line between romance and sick bag and he'd just leapt over it with all guns blazing.
His hand moved to his jacket pocket. Monk froze. He felt the frigidity in her fingers, but ignored the sign. Seemingly in slow motion, her eyes widening in horror, she watched as he pulled a small box from his coat and brought it up onto the table. Her mouth opened. She tried to stop herself gaping. He released her fingers so that he could use both hands to open the box. He looked into her eyes, stupidly reading her horror as gobsmacked amazement. The box shaking in his slightly trembling hands, he opened the lid and held the diamond ring towards her.
'Monk,' he said, and she couldn't take her eyes off the glittering stone, 'I love you and I know that you love me. Be my wife.'
Monk managed to drag her eyes away from the ring and look into his eyes. She was spellbound. Her first marriage proposal at the age of thirty-four. Her mum would be delighted. Well, actually, the fact that it had come from a second generation Pakistani immigrant would have her mother very possibly dying of a heart attack, but as long as she never discovered the ethnic origin of the proposer, she'd be able to pass on the glad tidings with impunity.
'Here, love,' said the McDonald's employee at Monk's shoulder, 'you gonnae eat any mair of they chips?'
The spell was broken. They'd finished their lunch a quarter of an hour earlier and the waitress – if that's what you call them in McDonald's – had been looking to clear the table for some time, having nothing else to do.
'You're Scottish,' said Monk. Khan looked at the two women, disturbed that his big moment was being interrupted. Served him right for being stupid enough to do it in a fast food joint.
'You're a flippin' detective,' said the waitress.
'Yeah,' said Monk, 'you're right, I am. You can take them away.'
The waitress cleared the table around the ring, while Monk and Khan sat in quiet and despairing impotence waiting to rejoin their marriage proposal discussion. All plastic and paper crap suitably removed, she nodded at them, looked back at Monk, shook her head and walked off.
Khan pushed the ring another inch across the table and took hold of her fingers with both hands this time.
'What d'you say, Monk?' he said. 'You make my heart sing.'
'Ugh!' said Monk, withdrawing her hand. 'That's too far, bucko. You were doing OK, although, you know I wasn't about to say yes, but the walking into your heart thing, the forever lover remark, and now this.'
He looked suitably hurt; she felt suitably bad for him.
'It's just, I know you're right,' she said. 'You're right about falling in love, and that's how I know I don't love you.'
'It might come,' he said, ditching all his principles about falling in love in search of a persuasive argument.
'And what if I meet someone who I fall for the way you've fallen for me? What then?'
This one made him think. No real argument, no comeback, nothing to say. Knew she was right, knew that she'd been going off the relationship. The whole marriage idea had been a desperate attempt to cling onto something he was losing. Not the first.
'I don't know, Monk,' he said, and she could tell he was getting close to the part where he would lose his dignity, 'I just know I love you and that this can work. We can work.'
He paused. She knew what was coming. He looked sincerely into her eyes; he gripped her fingers once more.
'Try to see it my way ... ' he began singing softly, more Russell Watson than Lennon or McCartney. Monk rose quickly to her feet, holding her hand out in front of her.
'Red card!' she said.
'Monk!' he pleaded.
'I'm taking the last train to Clarksville, dude,' she said. 'Catch you later.'
And with that she was out of the door, faster than a speeding bullet, leaving poor old Khan and his diamond ring alone at the table. He watched her go, considered chasing after her, decided against, then quickly slipped the ring into his pocket, looking around to see how many others in the place had noticed him.
In short, everybody. And he felt very, very stupid.
––––––––
Just after two o'clock in the afternoon. Jude Orwell, Chief of Staff of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, had already heard plenty of good things about the new barber in town and had decided to check the guy out for himself. Had come looking for a Hugh Jackman (X-Men). He had a 2:10 with a couple of women from a feminine hygiene company, so he'd decided to kill two birds and have the meeting while he got his hair cut. It never crossed his mind that he wasn't showing the two women from the feminine hygiene company much respect. He knew nothing about the company, and his PA, Rose, had been unable to unearth any hard information, but the name pretty much said it all as far as he was concerned. Waferthin.com.
Barney was going about his business, creating a magnificently precise Wolverine around the contours of Orwell's head, still a minute or two before the ladies were due to arrive.
'What d'you know about feminine hygiene?' asked Orwell, as he had already realised that Barney was a good fella off whom to bounce ideas.
'It's a positive in itself,' said Barney, cagily. Just how had that question been intended, he wondered.
'Can't argue with that, Sunshine,' said Orwell. 'But, you know, you get these aisles in supermarkets, which are just completely devoted to all sorts of, like, well pads and things. What is that all about? There are millions of them. It's worse than cheese. Different thicknesses, different sizes, different rates of absorption, different pads for different knickers, some have wings, some have straps, some have buttons and badges and clips and studs and knobs and switches. I mean, how many ways can there be to stick a piece of concentrated cotton wool down your pants?'
'Wouldn't it have been someone like you who suggested all that stuff in the first place?' said Barney, fluffing away with some product, which is more or less essential with a Hugh Jackman.
Orwell smiled quietly under his unfolding mop.
'Good point, Batman. They said you were switched on.'
The door opened. Rose with the two executives from Waferthin.com.
'Your 2:10,' she said, as the women walked in. 'Ilona Strawberry and Taylor Bergerac,' she added, and then swiftly withdrew, closing the door behind her.
At first Orwell regarded the women in the mirror, but 1.24 seconds into regarding them in the mirror, he turned round so that he could see them full on. Usually when getting your hair cut, turning round in the middle of it can lead to the most dire of consequences, however as Barney Thomson was also looking at the two women, Orwell didn't need to worry.
Strawberry and Bergerac were cut from the same cloth, as if it was a specific requirement for executives from their firm. Late twenties, suits of rich primary colours, no make-up but for the lipstick to match their accessories, unpretentious hair, and both outstandingly beautiful.
'Taylor Bergerac,' said the first one, extending her hand, first to Barney and then to Orwell, as he scrambled out of his chair like it was kick-off at Le Mans. So much for being cool with the ladies. Bergerac had a firm grip, clear eyes, nice smile, long auburn hair and a ridiculous name.
'Good to meet you,' said Orwell.
Barney said nothing, managing to retain nonchalance under pressure far better than his customer.
'Ilona Strawberry,' said the other, giving her hand first to Barney and then Orwell. Firm grip, eyes hidden behind preposterously chic sunglasses, bit of an edge to the smile, unsure about the mouth, short black hair, totally absurd name. Barney wondered if these people had been Christened by totally absurd parents, or if they'd made the names up when they'd started a dotcom.
'Thanks for coming over,' said Orwell. 'Sorry, I'm just getting a thing. I'm done.'
Barney raised an eyebrow. Bergerac smiled.
'A Hugh Jackman?' she asked.
'Totally,' said Orwell.
'Still got some way to go, I think,' she said, glancing at Barney for confirmation. Barney nodded.
'Go right ahead,' said Strawberry. 'We can still talk.'
Orwell looked at Barney as if needing confirmation from a man that this was all right. He had totally lost control of the situation; all the expertise which he usually brought to the job, all the knowledge about manipulating clients, dominating proceedings, manoeuvring meetings to your best advantage, all completely shot to oblivion because of a couple of women. Barney smiled.
'Sit down,' he said.
Orwell looked a little uncertain, then gestured to the women to be seated in the two chairs which he'd had brought in for the occasion, then he sat back down in the barber's chair. Barney waited until Orwell was settled, glanced at the outrageously chic women, legs crossed in the corner, and then got back to work.
'So,' said Orwell, trying to regain the composure which he realised he had lost, 'how can we do business?'
'Thanks for meeting with us, Mr Orwell,' said Strawberry, meeting his eyes in the mirror, from behind her dark glasses. 'We hope you can be of assistance to us.'
Orwell parted the hands in an almost papal gesture.
'I'll see what I can do.'
'We want you,' said Bergerac, 'to help us get a contract.'
Orwell switched to her, trying to look her in the eye and not the breast. Which is important.
'Sounds interesting,' he said. 'What kind of breasts are we talking about? Contract, obviously,' he added quickly.
'For London 2012,' said Strawberry.
Orwell nodded. There were already most of the usual contracts out there. The endorsements that always ended up on the table of Nike and Coca Cola. And Pringles, for that matter.
'We want you,' said Bergerac, 'to help us get the gig as Official Panty Liner to the Games.'
Orwell couldn't help it. He laughed. The smile spread across his face, but died quickly when he realised he was the only one laughing. Pretty much a rule of thumb in business, not to laugh at your clients.
'Yeah, right,' he said, a little warily. 'Is that, like, a thing?'
'Not at the moment,' said Strawberry.
'We want you to ensure it gets to be a thing,' said Bergerac, 'and to ensure that it is Waferthin.com that gets the contract.'
Orwell looked at the two women, then glanced in the mirror at Barney, as if he needed some male assistance to get him out of this. He should have let Fitzgerald take the meeting like he'd wanted to in the first place. Had to learn to trust the men under him.
'Well, you know,' he began, aware that they were getting much the better of him, 'we can see what we can do, but, I mean, usually the promotional stuff is like sportswear and drinks and stuff. You know, stuff that athletes actually use.'
'You don't think athletes wear panty liners?' said Strawberry.
Orwell nodded and did something with his hands. Totally unprepared, looking stupid, this was a disaster so far.
'For the last World Cup in Germany,' said Bergerac, 'they had an official salted snack, an official motor fuel, an official cheese, an official board game, an official lighter fluid, an official toilet duck ... Shall I go on?'
He nodded again. He did something with his hands. He had to think of something to say, very quickly.
'So, have you got an example of your panty liner with you today?' he asked, and then tried not to shrivel up with embarrassment at the question and the fact that he had unavoidably looked at the crotch of both of them as he'd spoken.
'It doesn't exist yet,' said Strawberry, at least not letting him stew in his disconcertion.
Orwell nodded his head again, unaware that he was looking like one of those awful 70's bobbing duck things.
'Sounds good,' he said. 'Tell me more.'
'It's a concept at the moment, rather than an actual panty liner,' said Bergerac, continuing the thing where the women alternated who spoke, to keep the opposition on its toes.
'And when will it be an actual panty liner?' he asked.
'Never,' said Strawberry. 'We get the contract, we market the product, we get many more contracts on the back of the Olympic gig, we take the money and then we fold. We never make the panty liner. We end up looking like just another dotcom that didn't make it.'
Orwell stared at her. Genius. Right from the first at bat, as soon as they'd walked in. No bullshit, cut to the chase. These were remarkable women, and he'd had the stupidity to be having his hair cut.
'Why are you telling me this? You don't know us from squat,' he said.
'What makes you think that?' said Bergerac.
'You got us taped and stuff?' he asked.
There was a knock and Rose stuck her head into the room. Your timing's off, Rose, thought Orwell. I needed you five minutes ago. I'm into this now, I'm making contact with this woman here.
'There's a call,' said Rose, and he shook his head.
'Bad timing, Ro, catch you in twenty,' he said.
'I think you should take it,' she said.
'Look, Ro, I'm busy. Drop it, park it, do whatever with it. You know I don't like getting interrupted in the middle of stuff. I've got the women, there's the hair thing, give me twenty.'
Rose walked into the office, despite the look he shot her, bent down and whispered into his right ear that Thomas Bethlehem was on the phone, and that they both knew that Mr. Bethlehem did not like to be kept waiting.
Orwell stared at the two women, felt as if they knew why he was being dragged away. He was the subordinate. Bloody Bethlehem, almost as if he'd known that Orwell was hitting it off with at least one of these amazing women.
'All right, Ro,' he said, and he looked at Barney in the mirror, so that Barney backed off.
He stood up, as Rose walked from the office, leaving the door open so that he would be sure to follow.
'Look, I really have to go for a few minutes. I'm sorry, I'll be back as soon as I can,' he said, directing the comment entirely at the women, rather than the man who stood behind him, cutting his hair.
As one, Bergerac and Strawberry rose; Bergerac opened up a small case, removed a file and handed it to Orwell.
'Everything you need is in there,' she said. 'Let us know when you've read it, and we can see what we can do for each other.'
Orwell paused, mouth slightly open, staring into Bergerac's eyes. We can see what we can do for each other. The words had poured from her mouth, laced with sexual tension. The back of his throat was dry, he had completely forgotten any resentment he had about Bethlehem.
'Yeah, yeah,' said Orwell, 'sure. Maybe we can sleep together later.'
'Talk later,' he added, a few seconds further on when he'd realised what he'd said.
Bergerac smiled and nodded, gave him a wee bit of an odd look, then followed Strawberry from the room.
Orwell watched them go, then turned to Barney and gave him a look. Barney gave him nothing in return. Orwell removed the cape, brushed a couple of times at his shoulders, checked the mirror to see what state his projected Hugh Jackman was at, ruffled his hair a bit, said, 'Top birds, eh?' and walked out, without waiting for a reply.
Barney watched him go, then started to tidy up the detritus of what had been a half-completed Wolverine. A minute, then he laid down the brush, walked over to the window and looked down at the river.
'There goes a man who is about to make a complete arse of himself,' he muttered softly.
––––––––
'You ever heard of Bing Crosby?'
Hugo Fitzgerald smiled, making good eye contact. The evening was going well, as his evenings with women did. The general day-to-day frustrations of the office had been left behind, principally because he felt he was beginning to nicely control the whole Exron contract.
For this evening's meal he had gone for Gordon Ramsay. The guy was so yesterday that Fitzgerald knew he was being innovative in returning to him, because there's nothing more chic than retro. Velouté of cauliflower with a brunoise of scallops to start, followed by dorade royale with a ragoût of blette, rounding it all off with oven roasted caramel bananas en papillote. Strathpeffer mineral water and an elegant Puligny Montrachet.
'Of course I have,' said Harlequin Sweetlips and Fitzgerald nodded.
'Name me some of his songs,' he said, smiling. The meal was past, they were sipping at their cups of New York decaf, and nibbling sexually on those mints that he'd been buying from the small chocolatiers at the far end of Bond Street for the past five years.
Sweetlips was playing her own games.
'Not so easy, is it?' said Bethlehem.
'White Christmas,' she said, taking the edge from a fondant mint, the chocolate melting on her tongue. 'And Moonlight Becomes You, that was one of his.'
Fitzgerald nodded, smiling. He polished off his glass of Montrachet, lifted the bottle, hung it over Sweetlips' glass, although he knew she wouldn't take it, then poured the remainder into his own glass at the shake of her head.
'You know he never sung a note?' he said.
'How do you mean?' she asked. Maybe she was bored. Maybe it was time to get on with the evening's main event.
'It's one of those big Hollywood secrets that people don't talk about. When he made his first film, early '30s sometime, the producers signed him up 'cause they thought he had the right look. Young yet mature, take him home to your mum, boy next door crap. Trouble was, he couldn't sing a damn note.'
'Bing Crosby?'
'Not a damn note,' said Fitzgerald, holding his hands out in a sincere gesture. The smile was broader, so that those dimples appeared in his cheeks. 'They drafted in some other guy, even weirder to look at than Bingo, and he did the singing. A wee Jewish fella.'
'So what happened?'
Sweetlips ran her fingers around the rim of her defunct wine glass, an elegant creation, the small cup perched on top of a slim, six-inch stem. She thought Fitzgerald was all right. Hopelessly lost up his own rectal passage, but that came with the territory. Despite all the crap, he was a decent enough guy, and the dimples made him look cute. She could almost fancy him. Just a shame about what was going to happen.
'Well,' said Fitzgerald, leaning more closely towards her, 'that first movie was huge, so they had to do another one. Next thing they know, boom, Crosby is bigger than Jesus. The studios were stuck with him, and Crosby was stuck with the wee Jewish fella.'
Sweetlips sat back. Her blouse had an Oriental neckline, but the heavy silk of it lay wonderfully on the curve of her breasts, far more alluring than any brash show of cleavage.
'Wasn't the Jewish fella fed up?' she said, playing along.
'Hell, no. He loved it. He was quite happy hanging around in the background. Lived his life in some prodigious mansion in Beverly Hills. Plenty of money, plenty of women, he didn't care. It was perfect.'
She stared at him, the smile a fraction under her lips.
'Nah,' she said eventually, 'don't buy it. People would've known.'
'Course they knew,' said Fitzgerald. 'Hell, at first everyone in the business knew. But in those days, there were all sorts of secrets. Every second star was gay or lesbian or a lizard, Jesus all sorts. Still are. Next to that, the Crosby thing was nothing. And eventually, it just got forgotten about. That's how these things go.'
She coyly let the faintest edge of a smile come to her lips.
'All right,' she said, lazily. 'It's possible.'
'It's a crazy world out there, Harley,' said Fitzgerald.
'Now that,' she said, 'I do believe.'
'So what do you think?' he asked, and his face moved a little closer across the table, his forearms flattened out. His eyes were bright; his teeth were white. 'True or false?'
'Bing?'
'Yep.'
She started to give it some serious thought, then decided to be magnanimous. Give the poor sod one last triumph to take to his grave.
'True,' she said. 'Not entirely convinced, but I'll buy it.'
The smile widened on Fitzgerald's face, and now the dimples, on closer inspection, actually looked a little disfiguring.
'Nice try, Batgirl,' he said, and the eyebrows were raised to accompany the smile. 'I made it up.'
Well! I am shocked, she thought. She giggled and threw her hair back.
'See what I mean?' he said. 'That's how it is these days. Fact is, Harley, if you say anything in life with conviction, you'll be believed. They'll fall for it every time. Lower fat? What the Hell is that? Who cares? The pond life still buy the damn stuff, and when they don't lose weight, they blame it on the fifteen bottles of Tesco's Chilean Chenin they quaffed at New Year's. People'll buy any crap you tell 'em if you look 'em in the eye and mean what you say. That's what we're good at.'
'The company is awesome,' he continued, as she was giving him some space. He was warming to his subject, building to the climax that would result in his evening's conquest. 'We are totally going to be kings. That's why you're making a good move, babe. Bethlehem is good, Orwell's good, but you and me together, we can be better than any of them.'
'Still,' she said, the smile a little more wicked than before, 'only the eighth biggest in Britain at the moment.'
'Seventh,' he said. 'Three years ago we weren't in the top twenty. Now we're kicking butt. Thomas for sure, but all of us. Another two years and we'll be up there, especially with you and me at the helm.'
She ran her finger along her bottom lip. A fine final eruption of enthusiasm from the lad Fitzgerald, she thought, and now presumably he will make his move. Good luck to him.
Fitzgerald incorrectly read the whole finger along the lip thing, but that was inevitable, given that had he known the true agenda of Harlequin Sweetlips it was pretty much a dead cert that he wouldn't have invited her to dinner.
'It's time,' he said. She nodded.
His hand shot out. He grabbed her roughly by the hair, and brought her head forward so that their faces met across the table. His tongue plunged into her mouth. Her head twitched, her lips matched his, she took it for a few seconds, then bit hard onto his tongue.
His head shot back, surprise on his face, tasting blood in his mouth, but the smile broader than before, the pain flaming his desire. He loved pain; loved it when they fought back.
'Hey!' he said. 'That was brutal.'
She didn't say anything. Her eyes blazed.
'Let's do it,' he said, leaning forward again.
She nodded her head slowly.
'Yeah,' she said. 'Let's.'
She lifted her empty wine glass and held it up to show him, as if offering it for a toast. He looked at her quizzically, assuming she had some weird sexual thing in mind. But when she moved it was with speed and grace, an almost balletic quality to the motion.
She brought the wine glass down on the edge of the table, so that the cup snapped off with a loud crack at the top of the stem and spiralled into the air, then in the same flowing movement she brought the stem up and plunged it into his right eye, through the ball and deep into the socket, forcing it in the full six inches, so that the base of the glass rested up against his face.
The initial spurt of blood was arrested by the bottom of the glass, so that as Fitzgerald pitched forward, his head thudding noisily on the table, the blood squirmed uneasily from underneath the glass and began to spread across the white table cloth, which had up until now only been despoiled by a smidge of blette.
Then she caught the cup on its downward spiral.
She drained the dregs from the glass, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. She looked down at the back of Fitzgerald's head, the blood now spreading to contaminate his Harvey Nicholls smart but casual.
'Brunoise of scallops,' she said softly. 'Pretentious little shit.'
And with that, Sweetlips lifted her bag, took out the small kit she had brought along to wipe the scene clear of evidence while planting more evidence along the way, and got to work.
***
Three-thirty in the morning and Fitzgerald's place was a throng of Feds. The scenes of crime officers were doing their bit. Taking prints, picking up hairs with tweezers, doing the DNA thing.
The body was where it had sat for just under six hours. Prints had been taken from the bottom of the wine glass, but the stem had still to be removed from the eye socket. Harlequin Sweetlips had added a new set of fingerprints to the mix, and so the SOCOs were in the process of collecting them from a variety of different places around the house.
The officer in charge of the investigation – having been dragged from a mundane assault along the bottom end of the Tottenham Court Road – Detective Chief Inspector Frank Frankenstein, 43, stood over the corpse.
'Hugo Fitzgerald,' said Daniella Monk, looking at the few notes that she had made since arriving in the apartment ten minutes prior to her boss. 'Thirty-three. Worked for a firm of marketing consultants just along the river. Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Pretty big, apparently. Unmarried. Member of the MCC.'
'Jesus,' said Frankenstein.
'None of your prejudices,' she said.
'Zip it, Danno,' said Frankenstein. 'What else?'
'Not much. Did you know you could get Endive & Beetroot scented shampoo?' she asked.
Frankenstein grunted. 'Sounds like a packet of crisps,' he said gruffly.
'Big into Bulgarian folk music,' she added.
'Oh, for God's sake,' said Frankenstein.
'Apart from that, nothing. The flat's all show and no substance.'
Frankenstein let out a long sigh, then straightened his back, as his sergeant was always telling him to do to get rid of the humph, and stretched his arms out wide. As soon as he had done it, however, his mind moved on and the humph returned. He looked around the room.
'All show, no substance. Not often you see that these days,' he said glibly. 'What the hell do marketing consultants do anyway?'
Frankenstein was in his second year with the Metropolitan Police, having transferred from Strathclyde. Unusually amongst his colleagues, he enjoyed his work. However, he still hadn't got used to London. Every day he thought about going home.
'They're the people who decide what kind of chocolate bar we're all going to like next year,' said Monk. 'It's because of them you get miniature Mars Bars, wipes for absolutely everything on the planet and limited edition packets of crisps.'
'Ah,' said Frankenstein. 'That's good. At least one of them's dead.'
And with that he turned his back on Monk and the corpse, and began to walk from the apartment.
'I take it you know where to find the offices of Bethlehem, Humpty & Dumpty?' he threw over his shoulder.
'Yeah,' she said, in his wake.
'We'll go there in the morning,' he said. 'I'm going to bed. Expect you'll be wanting to get back to Sergeant Khan.'
'Dumped him,' she said.
Frankenstein grunted. 'About bloody time,' he said, as he pulled open the front door, before stepping back with some annoyance, as another three SOCOs entered to continue their intelligence gathering activities.
––––––––
Barney Thomson awoke suddenly, bolt upright in bed, looking around the room, trying to remember who and where he was. Almost thirty seconds of confusion, a strange divine madness of having no idea to his identity or location, and then the already chaotic noise of the buses and other traffic outside weaved its way insidiously into his head, and he remembered London and he remembered haircutting and the offices of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane.
He let his head fall back onto the pillow, ran his hand through his hair, which he'd had cut very short. A long breath. Recognised the uneasy feeling that had dragged him from a deep sleep. Another of the dreams that constantly troubled him, although all recollection of it had gone. Closed his eyes, tried to see where he had just come from, but the dreams were always impossible to get back. Maybe this time there had been something more.
He shivered, a violent shudder throughout his body, and he opened his eyes again seeking daylight. Swung his legs out from under the sheets, sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.
Murder. There had been murder.
Or was that just London on any given night? Of course there had been murder. But this was close to home, this was going to have been someone he knew. It was starting again. It followed him everywhere he went, his eternal curse. He hadn't even been able to escape it by dying, couldn't escape it by running from town to town, city to city, couldn't escape it by settling down in small town Scotland. Didn't even have to be told that it had started, he instinctively knew.
'What did I do to deserve this?' he said bitterly, rose from the bed in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, then pulled the curtain and looked down on another bleak morning in central London.
Somewhere, someone knew exactly what Barney was thinking. They knew the question that Barney had just asked in what he'd thought was an empty room, and they knew the answer.
***
Jude Orwell was sitting at his desk. Rose had just shown Frankenstein and Monk into his office, after she herself had informed him of Fitzgerald's death. While Thomas Bethlehem was away, trawling the Continent for new clientele, Orwell led the line, and took the heat when one of the employees unexpectedly received a wine glass in the eye.
Orwell waited. Monk was looking at the wallpaper; a rich velvet, with '60s retro, sub-Warhol banana imprint. Frankenstein was looking around the office, his eyes finally settling on a Monet print. All style, no substance, he had already decided, and that was even without knowing how much the wallpaper cost.
'So, God,' said Orwell, because neither of the officers seemed to be on the verge of saying anything.
'I quite like Monet,' said Frankenstein, and Orwell squirmed as he pronounced the t. 'Course, they're saying he's the new Charlie Brown,' Frankenstein added.
Frankenstein turned and gave Orwell a knowing smile, as if they were two art connoisseurs together, sharing a private joke, and Orwell forced the smile back.
'You don't pronounce the t in Monet,' said Monk.
Frankenstein gave her a look over his shoulder then smiled wryly at Orwell, continuing the thing between the two of them, as if they were superior.
'Look, eh, you know, like, God,' said Orwell, trying to retrieve the situation, before Frankenstein suggested that they hoof it across the river to the Tate Modern for a couple of hours' art appreciation, 'Hugo. You know, what happened?'
'Danno,' said Frankenstein, as he turned his attention to another print in amongst the bananas. Modern art this time. However, as he couldn't actually decide what it was a picture of, he was destined not to look at it for too long.
'His body was found in his apartment in the middle of the night by a neighbour. Door left open. He'd been dead for around six hours.'
'My God,' said Orwell, 'He was young, eh? Like, twenty-nine or something?'
'Thirty-three,' said Frankenstein over his shoulder, taking the words from Monk's lips.
'Right,' said Orwell. Thirty-three. Bloody Hell. He'd looked young for his age. Definitely popping all sorts of stuff. Live fast, die young, we all get what we deserve.
'He was murdered,' said Monk, waiting for the reaction.
Orwell's mouth opened and a strange little sound escaped. His pupils shot out large. His eyes were wide. He showed no effort to mask the initial surprise, and nor did he seem to be faking it. He closed his mouth and, as he stared at her, he tried to remember what he'd been doing the night before in case they were here to question him in connection with the murder.
'You all right?' she said, taking a step closer to him.
Orwell nodded. Under other circumstances – that is, circumstances where he wasn't obsessing about Taylor Bergerac, Waferthin.com gal – he would've found Daniella Monk extremely attractive.
'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'yeah. I mean, God, Hugo. What happened? You know who did it? Are you questioning anyone?'
'The investigation is in its infancy,' she said, taking an expedient seat. 'I wonder if we could just ask you a few things?'
Frankenstein had moved onto just idly staring at the wallpaper and was nodding his appreciation of pop culture.
'Sure,' said Orwell, feeling ridiculously unsettled. It wasn't as if he'd murdered Hugo Fitzgerald.
'Warhol's the new DC Comics, that's what they're saying nowadays,' said Frankenstein, turning around with a knowing smile.
***
Frankenstein and Monk walked back through the large open plan office of the station. The place was buzzing as always, but the frenetic activity, the voraciously thumped computers, the phones being shouted at, the cell phones ringing, belied the fact that it was all routine, all mundane, all slaves to the prosaic nature of everyday crime.
'Didn't get much,' said Monk, as they walked into Frankenstein's office, which was an untidy affair bereft of any noticeable order.
'Danno,' said Frankenstein, as he walked behind his desk, slumped down into the chair and looked at the desktop to see if there was anything in amongst the mire of paper that was new and should be considered, 'you never do in this life. When did we leave there?' he added, looking up at the clock on his wall which hadn't worked in six months.
'Forty minutes ago,' she said.
'Good,' he said. 'Go back there on your own.'
'Why?'
'Because,' said Frankenstein, 'you're a woman. Seemed to be mostly men in that building. Talk to some of them. Start with Orwell again, then work your way up from the bottom. And I heard they've got a barber. Speak to him. Barbers know shit. People talk to barbers, say things they shouldn't.'
'Why didn't you just tell me to stay when we were there?' she said, making her way to the door.
'I was thinking,' he shot back.
She pulled the door open.
'Pain in the neck,' she muttered, as she went.
'Zip it, Danno,' said Frankenstein and, with another derisive look thrown his way, she headed out of the door.
––––––––
Piers Hemingway and John Wodehouse were in Orwell's office, discussing the division of Fitzgerald's work. The man's body might almost still be warm, but they couldn't let things lie in this business. Orwell had touched base with Bethlehem somewhere in the south of France, and had been given the go-ahead to sort out the bulk of Fitzgerald's in-tray. The conversation had been brief. Bethlehem had sounded distracted, almost disinterested. Orwell found it fascinating; wondered if Bethlehem was losing interest, saw his chances of making inroads into the company grow with every day Bethlehem was gone. Had the go-ahead to appoint Fitzgerald's successor, a problem to which Orwell was already giving thought; albeit, not as much thought as another problem that was playing on his mind.
'Right,' said Hemingway, who was reading down the list, 'we've done the wine gums, Ethiopian immigration fiasco, diet headache tablets for women and the pension security thing. That just leaves WonderSocks.'
'Yeah,' said Wodehouse, 'WonderSocks.'
Orwell shook his head. Wodehouse also shook his head. Then nodded. Big contract, they had given it to Fitzgerald because it was a shootie-in.
'What have we got so far?' asked Orwell.
Hemingway sighed and looked over the rough outline that he and Fitzgerald had worked through in ten minutes the previous week.
'We're looking at a nationwide billboard campaign. We're thinking Naomi or Kate, maybe go Hollywood and get Uma or Liv, not sure.'
'What about Kate Winslet?' said Orwell, although as he spoke he was actually thinking about Taylor Bergerac, the main issue which was occupying his mind.
'Too chunky,' said Hemingway.
'Been at the mince pies,' said Wodehouse, shaking his head.
'Jesus, give the girl a break,' said Orwell. 'She's hot.'
'Fine, if we were looking at her breasts,' said Hemingway. 'We're selling socks. We need to stay focused,' he added, because he could tell Orwell wasn't entirely switched on, and he was feeling a new lease of confidence with Fitzgerald's sudden departure. Fancied himself in pole position for the Head of TV Contracts gig. 'So,' he continued, 'we're looking at some slim überbabe, she's in the buff, full frontal breast shot ... '
'So we are looking at her breasts?' said Orwell, smiling. 'You see, Piers, we're always looking at their breasts.'
'The client specified slim,' said Hemingway.
'Slim,' said Wodehouse.
'There'll be the usual stink after the girl's tits go up all round the country,' said Hemingway, 'so we'll have to be ready with the back-up poster as soon as we get the call from the ASW.'
'For the follow up,' said Orwell, 'the bird has to be staring out at the public with a look that says, you could've been looking at my boobs right now if it hadn't been for the complaint from that boring old twat sitting next to you on the bus.'
'Totally,' said Hemingway.
'Yeah,' said Wodehouse.
'Socks can be sexy,' said Hemingway, 'that's the hook. She's lying back on the carpet ... '
'Looking as if she's just been shagged?' said Orwell.
'Depends who we go with. If it's Uma or Naomi, you probably want to go with that whole ice-queen, you can look but you better not touch thing. If we end up with Cameron Diaz, we'd go with the shagged look.'
'Good point,' said Wodehouse.
'She's on the carpet,' said Hemingway, 'with her feet propped up on the edge of a leather sofa. Black and white photograph, socks alone are in bright colour. We'll use a variety, with at least ten different posters.'
'Excellent,' said Orwell. 'How much of that came from Fitzgerald?'
'About twenty-eighty,' said Hemingway, fluffing out his own part in the piece. Orwell bought it and nodded. Any of them could've done it in their sleep. Poor old Hugo, going through the motions.
'And TV?' asked Orwell.
'We're going for a combo of the sex thing and the scientific aspect. Horny and naked-except-for-socks bird walking through a chic apartment, while we explain that WonderSocks improve your posture, thereby making your breasts look great, they ensure your feet are fragrant, even at the end of the day, and they help you go to the bathroom, lose weight, make your hair shine, get rid of spots, banish cellulite forever and reduce stress.'
'Excellent,' said Wodehouse.
'And some sort of spiel like ... Feel the magic. Enter a world of ecstasy and freedom. Dive into a beautiful pool of orgasms and feel the pleasure and rapture caress your entire body. Give in to the breathtaking intensity of what the New York fashion critics are calling the most exciting socks produced anywhere in the world in all of history ... '
'Nice. And we're using the same chick as for the billboards?'
'Yeah,' said Hemingway.
'Sounds good, Piers, I like the way you're going with it. When do we have to present?'
'End of next week,' answered Hemingway.
'Cool. Can you have a full outline with me by Monday afternoon?'
'No problem,' said Hemingway.
'Easy,' said Wodehouse.
Orwell sat back and nodded. Twenty-five minutes and that was a wrap on the work of Hugo Fitzgerald. That was how it was sometimes. Didn't mean he wouldn't have been Premiership some day, but certainly not now. Dying might be a cool career move for movie stars, but in advertising it's a complete wash-out.
Hemingway rose and walked from the room, Wodehouse on his coat-tails. When the door was closed, Orwell stood up and looked out of the window. Had a wonderful view up the north bank towards the city, as well as out across the river and away south. Almost time, he thought, to nip along to the Wilbury Close for a quick pint. Sort out a few things in his head.
In the thirty-three minutes between Frankenstein and Monk leaving, and the arrival of Hemingway and Wodehouse, Orwell had concentrated on the Waferthin.com file. It was good work, an excellent presentation of a quality business plan. Trashed the opposition, talked their own product up to the sky. There was no mention, of course, of what they had verbalised to him – Orwell thought in terms of words like verbalise – that the genuine business plan included a definite intention to fold the company.
Three and a half seconds after Hemingway and Wodehouse had left the room, the door opened. Orwell didn't turn round.
'The police sergeant is back,' said Rose.
Orwell's heart sank, his initial thought being that this would be the pointless little man who had so offended him, because he'd had exactly the same opinions on art as he had himself. He turned to see Rose usher Daniella Monk into the room, and immediately he relaxed.
'If you've got a few more minutes,' said Monk.
'Just going for a pint,' he said. 'You want to come, Sergeant?'
Monk hesitated – bad move to let them dictate the location – but then the alternative was his office with absurd banana wallpaper.
'Sure,' she said.
***
Monk sat and stared at the floor of the Wilbury Close while Orwell got the drinks in. She'd ordered a half cider and hoped it wouldn't be Strongbow, that ultimate triumph of marketing over taste. While she waited, she looked at an empty packet of Honey Roasted Nuts – roasted in solar-powered ovens, may contain nuts – and tried not to let her prejudices get the better of her. Orwell represented everything that she hated about life in the new millennium, style over substance, money over values. Quietly hoping that he was going to turn out to be the killer.
Orwell returned with the drinks and lowered himself into a soft chair. Half Strongbow for Monk, pint of Heineken for himself.
'Cheers,' he said, raising his glass, and she nodded and took a sip. She shouldn't even have been there. She should have had a quick ten minute chat in his office, and then gone amongst the staff.
'What can you tell me about Hugo Fitzgerald?' she said, getting on with it.
'Not a lot,' said Orwell. 'Been with the company a couple of years, a while before I got there. Risen up through the ranks. Maybe not as fast as he ought, but he was getting there. Head of TV Contracts, one of the major positions.'
'So you dealt with him directly?'
'All the time.'
'How many staff does the company employ?'
'Two hundred and thirty-one.'
Monk took out a notebook and started jotting down, trying to obscure with her hand what she was writing.
'Fairly equal men and women?' she asked. There was no answer and she lifted her head. Orwell was looking a little uneasy. 'Equal numbers of men and women?' she repeated.
'Well, you know,' said Orwell, 'I don't believe these things are straightforward.'
'What does that mean?' she said. 'Either it's fairly equal or it's not.'
'Two hundred and eleven of the staff are male orientated.'
A clock ticked. A woman at the bar opened a bag of crisps.
'Male orientated. You mean they're men?'
'Yeah, they're men,' he said.
'So,' said Monk, 'the company employs twenty women. Right?'
'Yeah, Monk, you know, I want to say that that's about right. About twenty women,' he said.
Monk? Who did this guy think he was?
'And how many of those female orientated employees are secretaries or typists?' she asked.
Orwell nodded and took another long drink. It wasn't his company, but he was representing it here and now; and it wasn't as if he didn't agree with Bethlehem's recruitment policy.
'About one hundred percent,' he said.
'That would be all of them, then?' she said.
'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'all of them.'
'That's not exactly representative of today's workforce now, is it?'
'I don't know,' said Orwell. 'I mean, I don't know. Isn't it?'
'The company does not employ any women in executive positions, Mr Orwell. That's not representative.'
'Hey, look,' he said, 'apart from the lousy jobs that men won't do, we don't employ them in clerical positions either. We ain't biased.'
She closed her notebook.
'You're going to explain that,' she said.
Orwell leaned forward. Might as well be open, because this was a murder enquiry about Hugo Fitzgerald, not some trumped up complaint from the equal ops brigade.
'Look, bottom line is, Monk,' he said, 'and I don't mean this personally, but Mr Bethlehem believes that you can't trust women. That's the truth, and you know, I'm inclined to agree with him. Now this may be old fashioned, and you may not like it, but it's what I believe, so I'm owning the statement. Women are unreliable. They have loose tongues. They have no conception of discretion. I don't know if that's genetic, but it's the truth. Then there's the whole menstruation thing, and of course, the fundamental need to go and have a baby the minute they get into a position of responsibility. There are all sorts of issues going on with women.'
'I've heard about men from your planet,' she said.
'Hey, look, Monk,' he said, and she was about to smack his head open over the Monk thing, 'I know what you're thinking. A lot of men ain't much better, and I agree. Okay, we don't menstruate, and the baby thing's way off, but men have faults too. But lets park that for the moment. Basically, men are like dogs. You can read 'em like a book. Happy, pissed off, whatever, it's obvious. But women are like cats. You never know what they're thinking. They'll suck up when they want something, but they've always got their own agenda, and as soon as a better deal comes along, bad-a-bing, they're outta there.'
She took a long drink, holding his gaze throughout.
'Bad-a-bing,' she said.
'Look, it's Mr Bethlehem's company,' he said. 'He has to run it the way he thinks best. We interview women for jobs, course we do, and if ever we get an applicant we think is up for it, she'll be in there.'
'As long as she's had a hysterectomy?' said Monk, witheringly.
'Monk,' said Orwell, and she pursed her lips, 'it is what it is. You want another?'
She straightened her shoulders, until she realised she was pushing out her chest and that Neanderthal Man would probably take it as a come on. So she relaxed and rose to her feet, despite the fact that Orwell was not even half way through his pint.
'I'm going to get back to your office and speak to some of the people who worked with Fitzgerald,' she said.
'Sure thing,' said Orwell. 'Ask for Waugh in MAD, he'll be able to help you out.'
'Thanks,' said Monk, although she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, and with a nod she turned and walked to the door.
'See you, Monk,' he said to her back She stopped, then turned back and returned to the table, stood over him, held his condescending gaze for a few seconds.
'If you call me Monk again,' she said, 'I'll rip your scrawny little dick off and stick it down your throat. You got that, dude?'
Orwell nodded, said nothing. Monk held his gaze, then walked quickly away, stepping out into the damp chill of a late morning in March.
––––––––
Monk opened the door to the small shop on the tenth floor. Caught the view first, the main window staring along the Thames towards the barrier, then she looked at the man sitting in the barber's chair, feet on the floor, staring out into space. He didn't turn at the sound of the door. Long day, she presumed, not looking for any more customers. She waited, curious, but he didn't look round.
'Barney Thomson?' she said eventually.
Another second and then Barney turned to face her. Careworn face, eyes that had seen too much. She saw the same attractiveness that most women who saw Barney Thomson for the first time recognised; and she had the sudden shock of wondering if this was a moment such as Sergeant Khan had been talking about the day before.
'Aye,' he said. 'Hair cut?'
'Do I look like an employee?' she asked, her previous two hours in the building having given her a fair understanding of the few women who worked in the establishment.
'Fair point,' said Barney. 'You'll be the police sergeant that everyone's been talking about.'
'Yeah. Can I ask you a few questions?'
Barney gave a slow shrug of the shoulders in reply. There always seemed to be police officers in his life. Didn't make any difference to him anymore what they asked. Had felt the weight of the world on those shrugging shoulders all day, his premonition of the morning having turned out to be true. Fate would have its day once more.
'Take a seat,' he said.
'I'll stand,' she replied. She walked to the window and stood looking down at the murky waters of the river, turning her back on him. This guy was just a routine interview, all in the course of her enquiries; straight bat, ignore the attraction.
'You're employed by the company to do the hair of the staff?' she asked to start the ball rolling.
'You are in the police,' said Barney in reply.
She started to turn, but stopped herself.
'You could be freelance, getting paid for each individual job,' she said with a tone. 'I'm establishing that you're paid by the company, and the employees don't pay for the haircuts themselves.'
Barney smiled.
'Fair point,' he said. 'I'm paid a flat wage, the employees make appointments, they get their hair cut for free.'
'Any of them tip?' she asked, expecting that the type of person employed in this company would take the opportunity not to.
'Not yet,' said Barney.
'How long have you worked here?' she asked, this time venturing a glance over her shoulder. Caught his eye, saw that look again, confirmed the fact that there might be a thing there, and she turned away.
'This is my second day,' said Barney.
This time she turned all the way round.
'You're kidding me?'
'Is that a disappointment to you?' asked Barney.
'What happened to the last barber?' said Monk.
'I'm the first.'
She held his gaze and then laughed, thinking of Frankenstein and his brilliant idea of her speaking to the guy who does the hair, and all the information he'd have at his fingertips.
'You've got a nice smile,' said Barney from nowhere, and it slowly faded from her lips.
'Thank you.'
Another look exchanged.
'Why are you telling me that?' she said suddenly.
'Because you have.'
'So how many haircuts have you done in the last two days?' she asked, again at a rush. Get the questions back on track, stop acting like an idiot.
'About twelve,' said Barney. 'Couldn't tell you all the names, but if you speak to Madonna on the front desk, she's probably got a note of them.'
And Monk found herself exercising that nice smile of hers again. Madonna on the front desk ...
'You do Hugo Fitzgerald?' she asked.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Did a good job too. Complete waste.'
She slowly tapped a pen on the notebook she'd taken from her pocket, whilst standing at the window.
'Anyone talking about his murder today?' she asked.
Barney smiled again. Maybe he was enjoying the police interview this time. Maybe he was just enjoying it because of Daniella Monk. She could be asking him anything. All words would sound sweet from those lips.
Jesus, Barney, he thought, get a grip of yourself.
'Not in any proactive sense,' he said. 'There were no confessions, nor I'm afraid, any implicating of anyone else in the company. Bit disappointing really.'
Monk took the sarcasm this time, slipped the notebook into her pocket. The guy's second day on the job. What was the point? Maybe in a month's time, if they still hadn't got anywhere, he might be useful; might have heard something in those intervening weeks.
'I'll leave you to it,' she said. 'I should be getting back to the station.'
She took her eyes from his and walked past him to the door. Didn't turn, door open.
'D'you want to have dinner tonight?' said Barney to her back. Well, why not? Nothing ventured.
She paused, turned, a slight stiffening of the frame.
'Pardon me?' she said, although of course she had heard just fine and it was entirely a giving-herself-extra-time manoeuvre.
'Dinner?' said Barney. 'I went to a Japanese place last night. Thought I'd go back. Exceptional.'
She stalled, although this time just by staring at him a bit vaguely. You don't have to know someone to fall in love. It's in the look in the eyes, the smile, the words playing in your head.
'Can't,' she said automatically. Didn't know why. Defence mechanism. She contemplated some further explanation, but then decided that it wasn't necessary, and quickly turned once more and was gone.
Barney watched the door for a while, wondering if she was going to come back in, but knowing that she wouldn't. Still, he thought, as he looked out at the damn clouds, which were as bleak as they'd been a minute earlier, here he was, back in the old routine, and it was a fair bet that he'd be seeing more of Daniella Monk.
***
Matty Goldbeck, a strange little man who did things with powder and sprays and microscopes, one of the army of SOCOs who'd been all over the crime scene, walked into Frankenstein's office to find him sitting in the same position as Monk had left him some time earlier.
'Got a match on the fingerprints,' said Goldbeck. Not one for introductions.
'God, what happened?' said Frankenstein. 'Usually takes you comedians about six days to come up with that kind of stuff.'
'Fuck you,' said Goldbeck, going straight into the ready banter common between police officers and scientists.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Frankenstein. 'Anyone we know?'
Goldbeck looked down at the paper in his hands, bearing the two representations of the matching prints. He lifted his head and looked at Frankenstein.
'Sort of. You're not going to like it.'
'It's not my mother again, is it?'
'The Archbishop of Middlesex,' said Goldbeck, and he shrugged and tossed the piece of paper down onto Frankenstein's desk.
Frankenstein glanced up at Goldbeck.
'Why am I not going to like that? Why do you suppose I even give a shit? You think I'm religious or something? Jesus.'
'He's the PM's personal religious adviser.'
Frankenstein wanted to curse again and say that he didn't care, but it wasn't like that didn't make a difference. He closed his eyes. Why couldn't it just have been a straightforward brutal murder enquiry? Fun for everyone. In five seconds Goldbeck had introduced politics and religion.
'Fuck,' he said eventually. 'I don't know anything about that shit. Tell me.'
Goldbeck dragged a chair towards him with his right foot and sat down across the desk.
'You know about the whole turmoil within the Anglican church ... ' he began, but was stopped by the look on Frankenstein's face. 'Whatever. There's turmoil in the Anglican church. Factions. These people are bastards, brutal. Anyway, vicious religious infighting, go figure. They created a new Archbishopric last year, a kind of compromise position. Middlesex, based at St Paul's.'
'And he's adviser to the PM?' said Frankenstein.
'Yep.'
'And his fingerprints are all over the weapon that was used to murder Hugo Fitzgerald?'
'Yep.'
'Holy fucking crap,' said Frankenstein softly, voice deep with melancholic resignation. He sat forward, shoulders hunched, rested his forearms on the desk.
'Now, don't bite my arse off, but I have to ask. Are you sure?'
Goldbeck smirked. 'Fair question,' he said. 'Yes, I'm sure.'
Frankenstein let out another long sigh, slowly let his forehead drop to the desk. He banged it a couple of times then sat up straight, looked across the desk at Goldbeck.
'Jesus fucking Christ,' he said. 'I mean, for a start, why on earth do we have the fingerprints of an Anglican Archbishop on file in the first place?'
'He was stopped for drink driving a couple of years ago.'
'Ah.'
Frankenstein stood up, turned and looked through the small window out into the grey of a bleak afternoon in London.
'Bollocks.'
He heard Goldbeck push back his chair, and then the slow footsteps retreat from his office as Goldbeck threw a 'see you' over his shoulder. Frankenstein didn't turn. He looked out at the grey clouds, already beginning to accept that there was no way he possessed the delicacy which was going to be required in handling this situation.
––––––––
Harlequin Sweetlips had had an excellent, exhilarating day. Still had the monumental rush, the blood pumping, sheer visceral excitement of the kill the night before. Could feel the stem of the wine glass smoothly penetrating the skull. That explicit moment of death, when the weapon is an extension of the hand and the arm and the intention and the desire, and it all becomes one. Better than any other feeling in the world.
She had walked the streets of the city all day, looking people in the eye, daring them to know what she had done, loving the thrill of knowing what no one else knew; that she was the killer about whom they were reading in the Standard.
She stepped into the bar and looked quickly around the room. Music not too loud, a decent crowd in, a few full tables, a couple of guys sitting at the bar. Had decided not to head back to Paris that evening, and didn't yet feel like going to her London home to sit alone in her apartment, no matter how impossibly chic it was. So, needed to sit in the company of her fantastic fellow man. Didn't have to talk to any of them, just didn't want to be alone. The demons came when she was alone, and they were forever nasty.
Demons are as demons do.
She approached the bar and sat down. Barman still busy with an order of two Buds and some horrible vodka mixer, the idea for which had been conjured up in the offices of the largest marketing organisation in London. He cast a glance her way, acknowledged her, and quickened the delivery of his current order so that he could get around to her. Didn't like to keep the ladies waiting, particularly ones who looked like Harlequin Sweetlips.
Given a few seconds to spare, she held her hands out in front of her and studied her nails. Delicious varnish, a very dark red. Each nail approximately half a centimetre from the end of the finger. Good quality uniformity across both hands, but then if you're going to pay £1700 for a manicure it's got to be a pretty damn good one. And underneath the top quality varnish, her fingers still shook; an imperceptible tremble. Wouldn't have known it was there, except that she could feel it. She knew her whole body was still shaking, from her heart to the ends of her toes. A good vibration, in tune with the buzzing in her head.
She caught the next man along at the bar staring at her, strange look in his eye. He turned away as soon as she noticed him, but she'd seen the light of recognition and it increased the pounding in her chest. It'd been a fleeting glance, less than a second, but she'd read it. She knew the human condition; she knew what went on in the minds of men. This bloke hadn't looked at her and thought the usual things that men thought when they saw Harlequin Sweetlips. He hadn't used his nanosecond to undress her or to wonder what kind of performance she'd put up in bed. He hadn't exercised a little guilt and included his wife or girlfriend in his ephemeral fantasy with this woman at the bar. He hadn't been thinking about sex in any form, which was the case with every other man she met. She was gorgeous and she gave off the vibe. But this guy hadn't got it, or if he had, he'd seen something else which had overridden it.
She swallowed. She let her hands rest on the bar. Tapped a fingernail on the counter. She don't like California, it's cold and it's damp ... Looked at the row of single malts behind the bar. Hadn't touched them in three years. Best not to now.
'What can I get you, love?'
Violently snapped from her reverie, so sudden that she felt it in the tension in her neck. She stared at the barman, taking a few seconds to focus; trying to get her mind off the troubled feeling which had immediately begun to haunt her with the glance from the man sitting three yards away, now toying with a bottle of Miller.
'Vodka tonic?' she said, almost as if expecting them not to have it.
'Sure,' said the barman.
'Long glass, loads of ice,' said Sweetlips.
'Always,' he said.
There passed some pointless look between them and he turned to fetch the long glass. She tried to stop herself looking along the bar again, and managed it for less than a second. The man who had disconcerted her so much was doing that man-at-a-bar thing, staring blankly at the marks in the wood, bottle in hand, tapping it gently on the surface. Thinking about nothing at all, some might say, but Harlequin Sweetlips knew he was thinking about her.
Her drink appeared in front of her, and once again she was brought sharply back to focus, and she wondered how long she'd been staring.
'Six-eighty, please, love,' said the barkeep, and Sweetlips dug into her pocket for a ten pound note. She looked back along the bar, as the barkeep felt the whisper of jealousy; here was a spectacularly attractive woman who was going to be sharing her secrets with someone at his bar other than him.
She took a sip from her drink, the first cold fantastic touch on her tongue and her throat immediately calming the anxiety. Wintry, fresh alcohol. This time she didn't remove her eyes from him, no intention of doing so until he looked at her.
The man could feel her gaze burrowing into the side of his head. Had recognised the colour of the murderer, had recognised from the look in her eye that she had seen right through him, had known that he had known her. The longer his life went on, the more encounters he had with serial murderers, the more he stumbled across those who would cry havoc and wreak terrible vengeance on society for whatever ailed their minds, the more he recognised those murderers, possibly even before they had descended into the hell which led them to their crimes.
He turned finally and looked her straight in the eye; immediately saw into the depths, saw such brutality and such blunt malignancy of spirit that he felt a sudden turning in the stomach, taking him by surprise, because he hadn't thought that anything could scare him anymore.
He had recognised the evil within.
'What are you doing later?' asked Harlequin Sweetlips, regaining her confidence, feeling the power restored.
He smiled, relaxing with the words. No matter the depths of malevolence, words were only ever words. No intention was ever good or bad, only ever expedient. She may have represented some evil greater than even he had ever come across, but what could she do to him that had not been done before? Were not his wanderings so lonely and distracted and forlorn, that it would be to his benefit for someone to bring them to a necessary conclusion?
He put the bottle to his mouth, tipping the last of it down his throat. Settled it back on the counter, rose from his chair. Did up the buttons on his coat against the rain which he presumed would still be falling outside, lifted his collar and finally turned to face her.
'Well,' he said slowly, 'I'm about to go home and have an early night, and you ain't coming. I might be back here tomorrow night and I might not. My answer might be different then and it might not. There'll only be one way for you to find out.'
Harlequin Sweetlips took a slow drink and set her glass back down on the bar. Stared at Barney Thomson. Barney returned the gaze.
'Goodnight,' he said with a beautiful lie of outward calm, and Sweetlips said nothing as he turned his back and headed towards the door, feeling the vicious chainsaw of her stare rampage violently across his body as he went.
***
DCI Frankenstein was troubled, but not by the body before him. The fingerprints of the Archbishop of Middlesex were the source of his stress. He had yet to speak to anyone about it, and had yet to even start to think how he was going to speak to the Archbishop himself. No idea where to start, well aware of the nest of vipers which awaited him.
He and Monk were at the mortuary, where the body of Hugo Fitzgerald still lay, pale and quiet. They were standing over the cadaver, looking down at the face, the mouth slightly open, lips cold, the black wound in the forehead.
One of Fitzgerald's neighbours had reported seeing him entering his building with a woman, but the description of his female companion, beyond the wearing of a silk blouse with a Chinese neckline, was thin and practically useless. Of course, the Harlequin Sweetlips who was seen with Hugo Fitzgerald, looked nothing like the Harlequin Sweetlips who had just met Barney Thomson in a bar. Think Uma Thurman, then think Pulp Fiction and Beautiful Girls. Or Dangerous Liaisons and Gattaca. Or The Avengers and Jennifer 8. Harlequin Sweetlips appeared in a different form before every man that she would murder, or think about murdering. She was a shapeshifter.
(The fact that she always wore the neck-high Chinese type of blouse, regardless of her hair colour or spectacles or lipstick, would do nothing to help pinpoint her. As soon as it became known that the killer wore those outfits, it became the latest in London chic and sales of the things rose faster than they had since the release of Dr No.)
'Looks pretty dead to me,' said Frankenstein. 'What d'you say, Danno?'
'More or less,' said Monk.
'So, how d'you get on?' he asked casually. 'Find out anything from the barber?'
She hesitated. Frankenstein glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Monk stared at the dark hole in the forehead and she put her hand out and ran her finger, covered by thin plastic gloves, along the wound.
'Don't touch the patient, please,' said a mordant voice behind her, and she quickly withdrew her hand as the pathologist returned from her office and stood in between them. Dr Roberts, 40, unmarried, slightly resentful, never getting to do the kind of things that police pathologists get to do on TV crime dramas, such as catching criminals and stuff. A not entirely unattractive woman, but still rough as the inside of a septic tank some mornings.
'You have anything new?' said Frankenstein, as he had avoided Roberts most of the day.
'Died at around nine-thirty last night,' she began. 'Stem of the wine glass, as you know. As intimated by the fact he was still at the dinner table, he hadn't had sex yet. Ate most of his dinner though, by the looks of things. Died with a full stomach,' she added, caustically.
'Can any man want more than that?' said Frankenstein.
'Pretty sure we have a female killer,' said Roberts. 'From the angle of the insertion, his assailant was standing over him. Maybe 5'4”, 5'5”. Right handed. There were traces of lipstick around his mouth, but couldn't lift any DNA from it.'
'A female killer?' said Frankenstein, his brain still on the definitely male fingerprints. At least that was something.
'Almost 100%.'
'So how come you can't lift the DNA?' asked Frankenstein, criticism inherent in the tone now that he had relaxed somewhat about the Archbishop and his errant fingers.
'No idea,' replied Roberts sharply. 'Clarted on just before she did the necessary, I don't know.'
'So,' began Frankenstein, 'the guy probably thought he was going to get to plant his seed and he gets wasted.'
Both Monk and Roberts gave him a sideways glance. Every time that Roberts had to deal with Frankenstein she became more and more convinced that his near ancestors had only just developed lungs.
'You've got it pegged,' she said.
'What kind of lipstick?' asked Monk and Frankenstein gave her a glance.
'Tesco's own, £1.49, forget about tracing it.'
'Knew what she was doing letting him kiss her,' said Monk.
'Maybe she kissed him,' said Frankenstein. 'She was forward enough to plant a wine glass in his brain.'
'Well,' said Roberts, 'don't string me up on it, you know, don't crucify me with this at a later date, because I know what you lot up there are like, but at this stage I'd say he kissed her. You know.'
You have issues, thought Monk.
'How do you people tell that?' muttered Frankenstein.
'This is what I do,' said Roberts.
Frankenstein nodded, put the back of his hand to his mouth and noisily cleared his throat.
'Fine,' he said. 'Come on, Danno, we've got stuff to talk about. You'll let us know if you get anything else?' he threw at Roberts as they walked away.
'I'll mail it to the zoo,' she replied in a low voice, loud enough for him to hear.
They walked out, Frankenstein scowling, Monk with a smile on her face. Nothing like being cheered up by visiting the dead.
'Right,' said Frankenstein. 'We need to talk. Tell me what you learned at the factory. You know, I mean the office of this dumb-ass place.'
'I could have written it all down on one piece of paper. In fact, I did.'
'And was it a big piece of paper?' he asked glibly, and she answered him with a look.
'What about my idea of going to the barber?' he asked. 'The whole thing about barbers being in the know, all that stuff.'
She didn't answer. Strangely she became aware of her cheeks starting to go red. He glanced at her, and she wondered if he could see through her.
'What?' he asked.
'It was only his second day,' she said quickly. 'Couldn't tell me much.'
Frankenstein grunted. 'Crap,' he said. 'Only decent thought I've had so far.'
He glanced again, caught her smiling; now he stopped as he came to a double swing door.
'I hate it when you do that,' he growled, then walked on. 'Why are you smiling?'
'He was kind of cute,' she said. 'The barber. You'd like him. Scottish.'
'You think I'd like him because he's cute and Scottish? I don't fucking like Ewan MacGregor, and he's cute and Scottish. And I fucking hate that wee bastard McEvoy. I could probably name a thousand cute and Scottish people, and I hate all of them.'
'He had a look about him, like he'd been places, like he knows things. It's really attractive. He's not the best looking, you know, bit of the Hoagy Carmichael about him ... '
'What's his name?' asked Frankenstein gruffly. He'd only asked the question to shut her up, but as soon as it was out of his mouth he realised that he knew the answer. Some sixth sense and he knew instantly what she was going to say. He stopped and looked at her.
'Barney Thomson,' she said, curious as to the look on his face. She liked the sound of the name on her lips.
Frankenstein closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.
'Aw, fuck,' he said eventually.
'What?' she asked.
He shook his head. This just got worse and worse. Politics, religion and now Barney Thomson. And he had a horrible feeling about just what that might entail.
'I didn't say I'd go out with him,' said Monk defensively.
Frankenstein raised an alarmed eyebrow.
'Holy crap,' he muttered. 'Look, come on, we need to talk about something else.'
He walked off, Monk bringing up the rear, curious what he had to tell her about Barney Thomson.
'Got the fingerprints off the murder weapon,' he said.
'They're on file?' she asked.
'Oh, fucking yes,' he replied. 'And you're going to have to be very discreet, because I'm incapable.'
***
Sweetlips followed him all the way home. He wondered if she might be on his trail, but he never looked back. Thought it might be better to just not know. So Barney Thomson arrived back at the one bedroomed flat, let himself in at the ground floor, managed to stop himself turning round, walked up the stairs, let himself in, made a cup of tea, fished out a couple of milk chocolate digestives and settled down in front of Newsnight and the economic meltdown. And all the time he thought about the woman who was more than likely standing across the road, looking up at his first floor apartment, wondering whether to pay him a call.
He stopped himself looking out the window. If he had done, he would have seen Harlequin Sweetlips leaning against a lamppost, considering her next move, all the time her hand in her coat pocket, fingers running up and down the long cold blade. The blade that she had not had to use the previous evening on Hugo Fitzgerald.
As Newsnight blundered to another conclusion, and Barney trooped into the kitchen to rinse out his cup and mince off to bed, Harley Sweetlips stood on the butt of her fifteenth cigarette of the evening, tapped the blade with her fingers, and started walking across the road.
––––––––
A typical morning at BF&C. Bethlehem nowhere to be seen, Orwell running the show and leading the line with a new client. This one promised to be a little different from the norm, and Orwell had unusually invited along Hemingway and Sam Joyce, a junior exec from within the ranks who he had brought in to unsettle Hemingway. Orwell knew that Hemingway wanted the Head of TV Contracts job and had no intention of giving it to him. Neither was he going to hand it to a precocious halfling like Joyce, he was just using him to keep Hemingway in his place.
The door to the office opened, the three of them stopped talking and looked at the man who was standing just inside the small room. The traffic on the Westferry Road, nine floors below, seemed far away. With the door open, they could hear the vague sounds of the office outside. The clock above the door ticked noisily, the way it had since it had fallen off the wall at Christmas, under the strain of Jospin and Flockhart's perpendicular midnight romp, when they had re-defined the concept of mistletoe for the new Millennium.
The man was dressed in a long, dark trench coat, jeans and a pair of 2009 CK sneakers; looked as though He hadn't shaved in a few days, although there was a neatness about the neckline that betrayed the use of a beard trimmer; wearing a pair of Armani sunglasses, with His black hair tied in a short pigtail; there was something of the Michael Stipe about His face; and He was chewing a lollipop, the movement of His lips occasionally displaying the blazing whiteness of His teeth.
God, in the twenty-first century.
He closed the door behind Him and walked forward towards the table that ran the length of the room, and sat down at the opposite end from the others, some thirty feet away. It was their meeting, it ought to have been they who were in charge, but they stared at God, waiting for Him to talk. It was rare to have such a high-powered client; and one with the kind of resources that the Lord would have.
God leaned forward, so that His elbows were resting on the table, and finally took the lollipop from His mouth. Cherry flavour; His tongue was dark red.
'I just want you fellas to know,' He began, the accent New England, 'that I think you're a pain in the ass. The lot of you. I'm not happy that I'm having to do this. We clear?'
'Got you,' said Orwell, eventually. 'We understand, totally.'
'I doubt you get the full extent of my antipathy, but we'll leave it at that.'
'Why are you here, then?' said Hemingway, still flushed with his new found post-Fitzgerald confidence, which had not been dented as much by Joyce's inclusion as Orwell had thought it would. (Joyce was an anonymous journeyman, from whom Hemingway felt no threat whatsoever.) Then Hemingway swallowed, regretted his new found confidence, and felt a tramping tingle down his spine.
The eyes of God flashed red behind the Armanis, the look that plagued a nation with cancers crossed His face, then He relaxed and thrust the lollipop back in His mouth, His lips twisting into a smile around it. Hemingway, having been so brave as to voice the thoughts of the other two, swallowed again, and somehow managed to hold the gaze of their visitor.
God removed the sweet once more and wagged it at him.
'Zip it, fella,' He said. 'I'm gonna lay it out, you're gonna give it some thought right now as we sit here, and I'm gonna tell you whether I like what you've got to say. We clear?'
'Totally,' the three of them answered at once.
'What seems to be the trouble?' Orwell added, with much less confidence than he would usually have put the question.
Lollipop back in the mouth, God sat back and spread His hands.
'Here's the deal, fellas,' He began. Then He stared at them, as he considered His words. When he started speaking again, His voice was precise and clipped and clear, enunciating every syllable, so that He sounded like George Clooney in From Dusk 'Til Dawn. 'At the end of the 1950's, there were just under five billion souls in Heaven. Five billion. Approximate number you understand, 'cause to be honest the bookkeeping's always been lame. At the same time there were under one billion in Hell. Well under. We're talking close on six-to-one ratio. We were kicking their butts, it was awesome. We were the Patriots, and those guys were the Lions, you get me?'
'You've lost us there a bit with the sporting reference, but we know where you're coming from,' said Hemingway. Joyce waited his chance to make his grand appearance off the bench.
'Whatever,' said God, waving His lollipop. 'Fact is, it wasn't even close. But then, I guess I have to hold my hand up and say I got complacent. The whole rock 'n roll era just caught me with my head up my ass. Didn't see it coming. Before I knew what was happening, that guy downstairs was catching me hand over fist.'
He stopped suddenly, at the hand which had been raised at Him; from Hemingway again, who was showing far too little respect for the Almighty.
'What?' He said, that look flashing across His face again.
'Just out of interest,' said Hemingway, wishing, really, that he'd kept his mouth shut, 'what do you call him? Satan, I mean,' he added, when no immediate answer was coming.
'I call him Satan, you idiot,' said God angrily. 'What the Hell d'you think I'd call him?'
God fixed him with the stare – the one that could, under other circumstances, have turned him into a pillar of salt – slung it casually round the other two, making sure that no one else would ask any stupid questions, then leaned forward again.
'I was saying, things got a little outta hand. Once the '60s and '70s hit, man I was in a complete tailspin. In a world of hurt. So I got the guys round and, against my better judgement, we decided to call in outside help. Got some of your typa fellas in. Consultants,' He said, spitting out the word. 'Raped us for God knows how much money, several million, and you know what we got outta that? TV evangelists, for crying out loud, that was their big plan. Jimmy Swaggart, for Chrissake. Pain in the ass.'
He was rambling a bit, but no one liked to say.
'So why are you back?' said Hemingway, although he already knew the answer. It's the modern way. If you go to one lot of consultants and they give you rotten advice, you don't blame consultancy as a whole, you go to another lot of consultants.
'Buster,' said God, displaying an old-fashioned turn of phrase, 'it's only 'cause I got outvoted on the council, 'cause I've got to tell you, I think you guys suck.'
No one likes that kind of criticism, not even from the Lord. Or, perhaps, especially from the Lord.
'Only meeting market demand,' said Orwell, bravely.
'Yeah, whatever,' said God. 'Look, here's the deal. Religious worship is hitting an all-time low, across the planet. If something doesn't happen soon, that six-to-one ratio is gonna get reversed. It's already nearly fifty-fifty. We have to do something now, before it's too late.'
'And you've got to be losing no end of people to Islam these days as well,' said Joyce, carelessly making his grand entrance into the discussion. 'At least percentage-wise.'
The coda was barely out of his mouth, when God's toast-'em look crossed His face again, and this time He let rip with a fireball from the back of His throat and burned the guy in a blazing inferno from across the other side of the room. A fraction of a second's scorching conflagration and Joyce was a small heap of ashes on his chair. So much for his rapid advancement through the company.
Orwell and Hemingway looked at the small pile that had been Joyce, then turned slowly to God. They had, to give them the benefit of the doubt, actually been sceptical that they were talking to the genuine, authentic God. Until then.
'That was very Old Testament,' said Orwell. The death of Joyce was a bit of a waste, but it'd be something to tell the grandchildren. You had to get these things in perspective.
'Watch it, pal,' said God, the voice a little more weighted with menace than it had been. 'How many Goddam Gods do you people think there are, for crying out loud? I'm it. The only one. Numero Uno. Don't make me go all biblical on you, sonny. All you people are worshipping the same person. Jews, Christians, Muslims. You're all worshipping me! Jesus, I can't believe that this planet is so screwed up.'
He cast another look at the two who were left, waited for an interruption, didn't get it.
'Right, glad we got that straightened out. Where was I? So, anyway, the council thinks I need some gimmick or other, you got me?'
They nodded. Everyone needs a gimmick.
'Personally,' continued God, 'I reckon I should just pull another Noah's Ark stunt, and kill everyone. Wouldn't even bother with the ark this time. I'm telling you, I wrote the book on mass genocide with that one. Now it's a damn children's story.'
'It'd probably be best if you didn't,' said Orwell.
'Yeah, yeah,' said God. 'Look, I heard from some of my people that you guys were pretty good. You've got twenty seconds, I don't like jerking around. What d'you think?'
Orwell and Hemingway looked at God and then diverted their eyes. Twenty seconds to tell God how to reverse the tide of the planet's moral fibre. The guy had to be joking.
'If you gave us Joyce back, it might help,' said Orwell, well into the seventh second.
'The guy is toast,' said God, with finality.
'Maybe you could do some kind of limited edition offer,' said Hemingway quickly, just because that was what they said to all their clients these days, whether they be in cars, books, breakfast cereal, chocolate bars or haemorrhoid cream.
'How would that work?' asked God, suspiciously.
'You know, like a limited edition religion or something. Only so many can join,' answered Orwell, and if truth be told, his voice was beginning to tail off a bit at the end because he realised it was a rotten idea.
'Crap,' said God. 'Small religions are cults, and everybody that's in a cult is viewed as weird. Cults can be cool, but it's not the way ahead to mass market success. You guys oughta know that.'
'Sure, sure,' said Orwell, kicking himself. They should've kept their mouths shut, but their time was up and the last thing they wanted was God walking out of there and taking His business elsewhere. There had to be something.
Ominously, God looked at His watch, His head shaking.
'Time's up fellas,' He said. 'Looks like I might as well take myself along to the next load of suckers, see what they can come up with.'
Hemingway caught his breath, but there was nothing there. The tank was dry, totally dry.
'Why don't you buy souls?' said Orwell from nowhere. Hemingway glanced at him.
'Go on,' said God, pausing in His movement up out of the chair.
'The whole Satan thing,' said Orwell. 'Does he still do it? I mean, do people still sell their souls to him?'
'You kidding me?' said God. 'He doesn't need to. Every sucker and their grandmother is already going to Hell. That bastard just sits around on his be-hind all day getting blow jobs offa Marilyn Monroe and Catherine the Great. Pain in the ass.'
'Yeah,' said Hemingway, leaping in, 'Jude's right. Get people to sell their souls to you. It's awesome. The best idea ever.'
God settled back in the chair and looked along the length of the table. Sell your soul to God. It had come to this.
'That was small time stuff for that guy,' He said. 'A tortured musician here and there, the odd sportsman. A cornershop operation.' He paused, looked at Orwell. 'The occasional marketing executive.'
'Well, make yours a global concern,' said Orwell, ignoring the look.
'An international conglomerate,' said Hemingway.
'It's not as if you don't have the resources,' said Orwell.
'And it's not as if you can't be in several places at once,' said Hemingway.
'You could be like Boeing or Pizza Hut,' said Orwell.
'Microsoft,' said Hemingway.
'British Petroleum,' said Orwell.
God held up His hand so that they stopped, a little annoyed, now they were flowing. Usually this was the point where they would run all over the client, talking them into the ground, and getting them to sign an absolutely enormous cheque before they left the office. But the smell of what He had done to Joyce was still fresh in the air.
God sucked His lollipop and stared at the table. He'd always thought the soul-selling thing was cheap trash. Satan was tabloid to His broadsheet; this would be the equivalent of the Washington Post having naked breasts on the front page.
Sometimes, however, you just have to bite the antelope on the arse ...
'Yeah, I like it,' He said, as if He were the man from Del Monte. 'A trial run over the next week or two, then I'll get back to you. Let you know if I think it's going to work. Then we can talk about a fee,' He added, just before Orwell felt able to raise the issue.
God pushed himself out of his chair, straightened His coat, nodded at the two men and turned to go. Meeting over.
'Any chance we can get Joyce back?' said Orwell. 'He might be important to the firm.'
God turned at the door and took the lollipop from His mouth.
'You sure about that? The guy banged your last girlfriend.'
Orwell hesitated. He wanted to argue the point, he wanted to let God know who was in charge; but then, God already knew.
God turned slowly, opened the door and was gone.
The two of them sat and looked at the closed door for a while. Relieved, and strangely exhausted.
'He's right,' said Hemingway, after a while. 'Joyce did bang your girlfriend.'
––––––––
Frankenstein was playing office basketball with that morning's copy of the Mirror and an old pair of Y-fronts.
He had stuck the butt section of the pants to his noticeboard with a couple of drawing pins, and had lodged a pencil in the elastic to create the tent-like effect with the opening at the top. He was tearing the pages of the paper in half and scrunching them up. It was a game he'd learned from Blue Peter back in the Richard Bacon days, and he was useless at it.
Monk walked into the office. She watched the piece of paper leave Frankenstein's hand then followed its arc until it clipped the edge of the white underwear and fell to the ground. Her eyes stayed on the pants for a few seconds, then she turned back, just as the next missile was released.
'I hope they're clean,' she said.
'Might be,' said Frankenstein, defensively. He had found the Y-fronts in his bottom drawer and was uncertain of their exact provenance. He wasn't entirely sure if they were his, and a quick sniff had revealed only a vague aroma of pencils and other stationery items that had been lurking beside them in the drawer. 'What have you got?'
'Right enough about the lipstick. One of over two hundred thousand sold in the last couple of years since its introduction.'
'And the lippy is all we've got?' said Frankenstein.
'More or less,' said Monk.
'Apart from the minor detail of the fingerprints. Any thoughts on this Archbishop of Middlesex character?' he asked casually, letting the bottom half of page 17 – principal story: Man In Sex Change Lawsuit After Penis Grows Lichen – out of his grasp, sending it hurtling in a curve towards the underwear of uncertain authentication. It missed.
She parked herself in a chair across from him.
'Done some research. Had a word with a guy I used to work with who covers Number 10. This guy, the Archbish, is never out of there. Forever spiritually advising the PM.'
'That's all we fucking need.'
'And the guy travels around a fair bit. For example, on the night of the murder he was in Glasgow.'
Frankenstein perked up, raised his eyebrows.
'Tell me we have three hundred witnesses who watched him do some religious shit.'
'Not entirely. But he definitely went there that afternoon and returned the next day. So unless he snuck back down under an assumed name or on a private jet, he spent the night there. And given that Roberts said the killer was definitely a woman ... '
Frankenstein let out another long sigh. 'Aye. But it doesn't explain the fingerprints. Whatever. Look, go and find me something that gives us an explanation on the fingerprints without us having to interview the guy.'
Monk smiled and stood up as he let another piece of scrunched-up paper fly. The usual division of responsibility.
'And I need to talk to you about something else,' he said, voice almost a mumble.
She stopped, curious at his tone.
'Barney Thomson,' he said. 'The barber.'
She immediately felt her face begin to flush, a little awkward, but at the same time delighted to have got on to her new favourite subject.
'The guy has a bit of a past I need to tell you about.'
'You know him?'
'Well, aye, I met him on a case a couple of years ago. Made him a deputy for a night.'
Monk looked astonished. Mouth fell open.
'You what?'
'Don't look at me like that. Why is it that women have to overreact all the time? It's like they have this looking-amazed gene. Drives me nuts.'
'You know this guy? From Scotland? You made him a deputy?'
'Yes,' said Frankenstein, 'I made him a deputy. I was on an urgent inquiry and I needed deputies. So I made him one.'
'Where were you? Dodge City?'
'God, it's like working with Woody Allen.'
'So, what do you have to tell me?'
He sighed again, couldn't stop himself. Kept muttering politics, religion, Barney Thomson, as if they were a triumvirate of evil, a triangle of investigative disaster.
'It's a long story,' he said, 'you'd better sit down.'
***
Orwell stepped into the sparkling splendour of reception a little after ten o'clock, to find Imelda Marcos standing in front of the floor-length mirror opposite the main door, trying out a pair of turquoise Renèe Chapeau alligator-skin stilettos.
''Melda,' he said.
'Mr Orwell,' she replied, without turning. 'What d'you think?'
'They go with your hair, your trousers and the jacket, but you're going to have to lose the lip gloss. You know if the barber's free? Thomson?'
'I'm not wearing any lip gloss,' said Marcos, turning to face him.
'Cool,' said Orwell, wisely choosing to completely ignore this part of the conversation. 'The barber?'
Marcos slung him a look and walked crisply back to her desk, butt cheeks swishing together in muscular tandem. A quick check of her PC, a pointless check at that, seeing as she knew fine well that Barney had not passed through the front door so far that morning.
'He's a no-show,' she said, and Orwell immediately looked at the clock, even though he knew to the second what the time was.
'Late on his third day on the job?' said Orwell.
'Very questionable,' said Marcos.
Orwell, who had almost forgotten about the death of Fitzgerald, had a sudden and reasonably cogent thought.
'Anyone else not in yet?' he asked.
'Everyone else accounted for,' said Marcos. 'Sergeant Monk checked a while ago, Thomson didn't come up because he's new, and to be perfectly honest, I forgot about him.' She paused, then added, 'You think he might be dead?'
Orwell let out a long sigh. It was a possibility. And then what was he going to do? It'd be damned hard for a completely new barber to pick up a Hugh Jackman at some indeterminate midway point. He could always find a new Head of TV Contracts, but the hair thing, that was an altogether more serious matter.
'Fuck it,' he said, 'the guy was picking up a good rep too. This bimbo who nailed Fitzgerald, you think she might've stiffed Barn?'
The door opened. Barney Thomson, armed with swipe card and looking fresh from a lie in, walked into reception and looked from Marcos to Orwell, as they gave him the stare.
'You're not dead then?' said Orwell.
'Well, who knows?' said Barney. 'Maybe I am. Having a nice chat?'
'You're late,' said Orwell.
Barney immediately started walking towards the lift which would take him up to the top floor. Pressed the button and turned back to Orwell as he waited.
'Imelda informed me that there were no clients before ten-thirty, and nor were there likely to be with the usual round of pan-office meetings in the morning. I said I'd be in just after ten and agreed that she'd page me if I was needed before then, should one of your lot have had some sort of hair emergency. I have no idea how a hair emergency would manifest itself, and being a barber with a pager sounds the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my entire life, but it seems reasonably in keeping with the rest of the office.'
Orwell slung a zinger at Marcos.
''Melda?'
She did a thing with her mouth and had the decency to look moderately sheepish.
'Sorry,' she said. 'Yeah, we talked at COP yesterday. My memory just totalled.'
'Jesus, 'Melda,' said Orwell, 'we could've been launching a three thousand person manhunt here.'
'For him?'
He waved his hands and walked after Barney as the lift arrived.
'Forget about it, 'Melda. We soldier forth,' he said, and she had forgotten about it by the time he'd finished his sentence, and had returned to checking out the shoes in the mirror.
'Hold the phone, Batman!' he said, and gave a little leap into the elevator. 'You up for finishing off the Hugh Jackman?'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'if you think it's at all appropriate.'
***
Thirty-three minutes later, and the haircut which had started nearly twenty-one hours previously was finally being brought to a successful conclusion. Jack Beckett, head of Accounts, was being made to wait.
Orwell and Barney were having a good chat about the biz, Orwell running a variety of ideas for current projects past him and relishing his feedback. He trusted Barney; at first it had come out of the fact that Barney had liked most of his ideas, but then, the more they had talked, Barney's own ideas had started to emerge, and they were a damn sight more switched on than a lot of the comedians who worked there. Already they had worked their way through the new Watkinson's Sword razor with six blades – Sword Sex; the campaign on behalf of Rod Stewart as he started his new career as a TV evangelist; and the billboard to sell napalm to a sceptical Highland market for heather burning – Napalm. It'll Take Your Breath Away!
'Am I getting paid for any of this?' asked Barney, doing a final turn with a pair of tongs. There's a lot of tong work in a Hugh Jackman.
'Don't remember negotiating anything before we started,' said Orwell, with an impish smile. However, he was already hatching a plan to move Barney from the barbershop to the shop floor, as it were. Barney was wasted with a pair of scissors, he thought, no matter how exceptional he was.
Barney produced a final can of product, spraying it liberally in the general vicinity of Orwell's head. It was, in fact, a complete placebo, but it always induced that little extra bit of satisfaction in the customer, the belief that something dramatic was being done to them.
'We nearly done?'
'Aye,' said Barney.
'Total,' said Orwell. 'Right, last one. Exron, you know the corrupt energy guys?'
'Think I've heard of them,' said Barney.
'They're branching out into women's toiletries, logical next step. We've nailed the deodorant commercial, but they're also looking to introduce a variety of other products including water retention tablets. Big, big business. Most chicks retain water like an upturned umbrella, you know what I'm saying?'
'You're right,' said Barney.
'So, we have to push the envelope here and come up with a product name and a slogan to accompany the billboard. For this one they're not really pushing the Exron effect, you know, they just realise it's a burgeoning market. Needs to be tapped.'
'Sure,' said Barney already giving it some thought, as he completed the final act of fluffing for best possible effect.
He stood back. Orwell stopped thinking about work for five seconds to study himself in the mirror, then Barney stepped forward and removed the cape from around his neck.
'Outstanding,' said Orwell. 'You are totally the man.'
'Thanks,' said Barney.
'I feel like I should give you a tip, you know, but that's just not the kind of principles we're looking to apply here. You understand, right?'
'Totally,' said Barney, getting with the vibe.
'Cool,' said Orwell standing up.
A final check in the mirror, then he walked to the window, having already established that he could afford fifteen seconds to look down on the Thames. A few boats, the water dull, dull grey, the colour of the skies and so much more. The seconds ticked off in his head. He felt his brain refresh with every one, then he turned away from the view across London and back to Barney.
'I'm out of here,' he said. 'Any thoughts?'
'Water retention?' asked Barney, just checking in case Orwell had already moved on to marketing the hole in the ozone layer as a freedom zone from the prison cell of atmospheric allotropic oxygen.
'Sure,' said Orwell. 'What d'you think I meant?'
'Niagara Falls,' said Barney.
A quizzical look crossed Orwell's face, and then he smiled broadly.
'Niagara Falls,' he said. 'That is a quality name, my good man. Hook line?'
Barney hesitated, then he too looked out at the colourless day.
'Niagara Falls,' he began, immediately sounding like Bergerac or Lovejoy. 'Take two, head for the bathroom and watch your feet deflate ... '
Orwell laughed, conversation over and already he was on his way. Slapped Barney on the back as he walked past, shaking his head, the smile still on his face.
'You're good, bud, you are good.'
And he was out of the door, leaving it open, and heading back to his office to do some further quality work on the Exron portfolio.
Barney watched him go, looked back at the river as it pottered its way down from the centre of the metropolis, then lifted the phone and put a call through to Jack Beckett, summoning the man for what would be the greatest ever haircut on God's earth.
––––––––
Barney had just finished a regulation Wayne Rooney on a tattooed muppet from the post room, who had managed to squeeze himself in before all the bright young things from upstairs. Wayne had just exited stage left and Barney was expecting Bertram W. Dixon from Accounts to come in, when he looked up from his hair sweeping at the sound of two sets of footfalls.
He glanced at them both, not sure who he should be more interested in seeing. The woman he had been thinking about too much for the past twenty-four hours, or the policeman he had last seen in Millport, a couple of years and several lifetimes previously.
'Why am I not surprised?' he said, straightening up. Although, as a matter of fact, he was.
'What is it with you?' said Frankenstein.
Monk stared at Barney. Barney smiled quizzically at the question, looked between the two of them.
'It wasn't me,' he said. Half-joking. Unsure if they were here to accuse him of anything.
Frankenstein hadn't been sure how he intended to play his first meeting with Barney Thomson in London, but the words fell out of his mouth before he'd had a chance to really think about them.
'Then maybe you'd like to explain why the minute someone gets murdered anywhere in the world, you're in the vicinity?' said Frankenstein.
Barney stopped the movement of the brush, which he had unconsciously started up again. He straightened his shoulders. The curious smile died away. He stared at Monk. Felt like he knew her a lot better than he ought to know someone with whom he'd had a five-minute conversation. Looked at her like she was a friend, someone to help him out of an awkward situation, rather than one of the police officers on a murder enquiry.
'I don't know,' he said. 'It doesn't make any sense.'
'It does if you killed him,' said Frankenstein.
Barney laid down the broom, sat back against the countertop which ran underneath the mirror. Monk looked at the reflection of the back of Barney's head. She felt flushed. How the hell was she supposed to be objective feeling like this?
'Are you here to take me in?' asked Barney.
'Of course not,' said Frankenstein. 'I trusted you last time, but after that, you were supposed to stay on the stupid little island, grow old, and never go near trouble ever again. Then you show up in London, cut a guy's hair and that night he's murdered. Holy crap, why are you here?'
Barney stared at Frankenstein, then allowed his eyes to drift to Monk.
'The seagull came back,' said Barney slowly, with a shrug. He turned and looked down at the mesmerising grey river. Constantly drawn to water. Monk followed his gaze. Frankenstein glanced at her; the two of them shared a look.
'What seagull?' asked Monk.
Barney turned at the sound of her voice. Could he be surprised by any of this? Was this not just the reason he had been brought down here? Hadn't he acknowledged, the second he'd walked out of the shop, that he was walking away from the quiet solitude of small town life and into the brutal city, and that murder would not be far behind?
'The pathologist says the murder was committed by a woman,' said Frankenstein and Monk glanced at him, unable to hide her surprise, 'so we're not here to bring you in. I'd just like to know why you're here, and I was hoping for something that didn't involve seagulls.'
Barney breathed out a heavy sigh. He had known since the start. It was time for his final reckoning. He often wondered if the conversation he had had with the Devil two years previously had been real, imagined, dreamed. But he knew, however, he knew that what had been said then would come true, that some day he would be back.
Frankenstein backed away to the door.
'I'm going to speak to some people, see what everyone else has to say about Barney Thomson,' he said. 'You're going to tell Sergeant Monk what it was you were doing the evening before last and exactly why you pitched up at this dumb-ass marketing company the day before one of their senior members of staff got a wine glass in the eye.'
Frankenstein glanced at Monk, then turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.
Barney Thomson and Detective Sergeant Monk watched him go, watched the door close, stared at the door for a few seconds.
She turned and looked at him. Barney held her gaze. Did he wish that they had met under other circumstances? In what other circumstances would he have been likely to meet her?
'So I'm not under arrest?' he said softly.
***
The day muddled by, much as days do. London was as London does. A suspicious package on the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road caused chaos for a couple of hours. Turned out to be a lunch box; no bombs, just a new Acne-Reducing Low-Fat Philadelphia sandwich with cucumber. On rye. So, there were a few thousand people even more cheesed off than they would otherwise have been, including by chance a couple of the junior guys from BF&C; and life went on.
Orwell consulted Bethlehem by phone about bringing Barney Thomson into the true fold of the company, a possibility about which Bethlehem was lukewarm – a reasonable enough concern, seeing as he was wanting to sign Messi or Kaka, whereas Barney was the guy who did Roberto Carlos' hair.
So, in order to impress upon Bethlehem the need to sign up the untried rookie, Orwell organised a small gathering in his office to discuss another of the new Exron products. (Bethlehem had wanted him to go through Waugh in MAD. However, Orwell had an intense personal dislike for the man, sensing in him a rival for the head of the company, should Bethlehem ever be ousted.)
Orwell, Barney Thomson, Piers Hemingway and John Wodehouse met to discuss another innovative bathroom product from the people who had once brought you all the electricity you could ever need for 2 cents a day. Orwell was aware that Barney had spent a long time with the police sergeant, but had put that down to the sergeant grilling the most obvious man in the building; the hairdresser, the man who heard all the gossip. The meeting began ten minutes after Detective Sergeant Monk had left Barney Thomson for the day, and so Barney walked out of his new hairdressing home with still just the one haircut under his belt, and a lot of desperate, disappointed customers.
The meeting was captured, unknown to the others, on speakerphone for Bethlehem to get a taste of Barney in the groove. Orwell was confident that Barney would come through and he was not disappointed. Bethlehem heard the following, as the meeting unfolded:
Orwell: Right, people, glad we're all here. John, Piers, this is Barn who, I can tell from your great hair, you've already met. He's just going to sit in on this one for a short time, see which way the ball bounces once it lands on the green.
Hemingway: Sure.
Orwell: Right, gentlemen, another of the great little products from the guys at Exron, as they attempt to conquer the toiletries market. This afternoon we have a product with the working title, Wet Dream Begone.
(Even Bethlehem had squirmed at this point.)
Hemingway: You're kidding me!
Wodehouse: That's like, so ick.
Orwell: It's the final frontier in personal hygiene. No one's touched it before. Every other issue has been addressed. The people at Exron recognise that there's a massive untapped teenage market out there. Massive.
Wodehouse: What teenager is going to have the neck to go into a shop to buy that?
Orwell: There are other ways. They can be issued by schools, for example. The people at Exron don't care if they get their money from the mum concerned about sheets, from the government, or from the ejaculating teenager himself.
Barney: This is gross. If we're going to even talk about it, don't mention specifics and come up with another name for wet dream.
(Snap of the fingers from Orwell.)
Orwell: Exactly. Another name. We need a product identifier that says everything in two or three words. Mentions the problem and kills it in one phrase. Clinical, scientific, precise, we need to take the ickiness out of it and put it at the forefront of youth hygiene concerns, right beside toothpaste and acne cream.
(A few beats. Bethlehem, with a new millennium concentration span of less than five seconds, was getting bored already.)
Wodehouse: Nighttime Ejaculation Incident.
Orwell: Keep it coming.
Hemingway: Early Morning Sperm Capture Facility.
Orwell: Keep it coming.
(Another few beats. A bunch of women would've been having a right old laugh by now, but this was a serious business.)
Barney: Midnight Express.
(A short silence, while Bethlehem's interest perked up, and Hemingway and Wodehouse wished they'd said it.)
Orwell: Barney, you are the man! What d'you think fellas?
Wodehouse: Got it.
Hemingway: Yeah. Totally.
Orwell: (Laughing) That nails that sucker.
(And he hadn't been talking about Wet Dream Begone either.)
So, Bethlehem had been duly impressed and, once the worker ants had been driven from the office, he and Orwell had made the decision to invite Barney into the very heart of the organisation.
***
Daniella Monk had had a disconcerting day. A long time with Barney Thomson, nothing really to tell. She knew that Frankenstein had left her there so that she could get an impression of him, and she could bring that back to the station and they could compare notes.
Her impression was not helpful. Barney struck her as a lonely man, full of melancholy and sorrow, yet strong and emotionally self-sufficient, and consequently she could not have found him more attractive. She had expected Frankenstein to return for her, but after two hours she went looking for him and found that he had long since departed the building. She'd had to stop herself returning to speak to Barney, and had taken the chance to speak to others in the company about this mysterious, rogue barber who had turned up in their midst.
Frankenstein had talked to a few people but had grown disgruntled with the very notion of Barney Thomson being involved in this business and at the possibility of what else lay in store, and so he had quickly returned to the office to think dark, uncomfortable thoughts, play underpant basketball and wait for Monk to return.
***
Orwell, having spoken to Bethlehem about Barney, turned his attention to the portfolio of Waferthin.com and, more importantly, the portfolio of Taylor Bergerac. That was something which really needed consideration.
At some stage, whilst wondering how he was going to make his way into the affections of such an amazingly attractive woman, he'd realised that what he had to do was market himself, and since marketing was his game, he'd spent a fruitful hour treating himself as the client, and working out the various threads of his campaign. No woman on the planet, he thought, could fail to fall for the wiles of the man who had brought the world: Pirelli. Tyres That Make Love To The Road. As Driven by Julio Iglesias.
––––––––
Barney Thomson had finally been able to get down to some business, in what was to be his last day cutting hair for a while. After a morning featuring a solitary haircut, he had chalked off almost fifteen by late afternoon.
Whether it was because the word had got around that he was creating the hair of the gods, or whether it was because everyone knew even before Barney himself that he was about to be offered Head of TV Contracts and this was their last chance for a free haircut, no one would ever know. But he worked his way through them all, the old panache still there, chatting happily when required, handing out advice on marketing matters if asked, and dishing out a good line on relationship issues whenever needed.
A little after six o'clock, his last haircut of the day dispatched, Barney was going about the business of clearing up for the night. Hair already swept up, he was cleaning the scissors and brushes and combs and other heavy implements the modern barber requires. Humming the old Hoagy Carmichael standard Riverboat Shuffle, slave to the routine, doing everything slowly and methodically, much as he had done in barbershops for nearly thirty years. Thinking about Daniella Monk as he went, wondering when she would next come by. Not really bothered if he would be taken into custody, because what did it matter? His fate would be as it would be. Mostly he wondered absurdly if this was what falling in love felt like. Had never happened to him before. He had just seen it in films, heard the music.
The door opened. He looked round, sure it was going to be her. That was what fate did for you. Instant deflation at the smiling face of Jude Orwell.
'Hey, Barn,' said Orwell, 'wanted to have a word. You got a minute, mon ami?'
Barney nodded. As of that moment, he had the rest of his life.
'Cool,' said Orwell, and he walked into the room. Was on an absurdly false high, based on the previous hour when he had put together the outline for his great marketing campaign to woo Taylor Bergerac. 'I'm just going to put a few things to you about the company, fill you in, you know what I'm saying?'
Barney slumped down into the barber's chair, folded his fingers in his lap, looked up at Orwell's eager face.
'I'm here for you,' said Barney.
'Cool,' said Orwell again and, as he spoke, he began to pace slowly around the room, his hands emphasising every point. 'Right, we're Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane at the moment, you got that?'
'Drummed into me every day,' said Barney.
'But when we were formed, there were five of them, five partners, each with equal prominence within the firm.'
He dug into his pocket, lifted out a cheap lipstick and held it up to show Barney.
'Borrowed this offa Ro, thought I might need it. If you don't mind?' he asked, indicating the mirror. Barney shrugged, his curiosity at least activated. Orwell moved forward and wrote in red on the mirror, Moses, Bethlehem, Crane, Forsyth, & Zivkovic. Turned around, looked at Barney, held his arms out.
'I mean, Barn,' he said. 'Lousy name for a company, but that was how it was. They each held an executive position, doesn't really matter who did what.'
'So don't tell me,' said Barney glibly, when he thought that he might.
'Eh, OK,' said Orwell slightly hesitantly, and then he was off again. 'Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department, Marketing Consultancy, Chief of Staff, Head of TV Contracts, Head of Other Media Contracts. So, not long after the kick-off, Moses and Zivkovic left, but the constitution never changed. Bethlehem just worked it so that the new people coming in were totally on his side. And though they didn't get their name on the door, they got the vote. But Bethlehem knew how to play them. It was a superb strategy. He had the two new votes on the board and therefore an overall majority. Total control, which he then used to oust the other two founder members. Only, by this time, the firm was getting a bit of a name, Forsyth and Crane had brought in some business, he felt it expedient to leave their names up there. Didn't matter to him, man, he had it nailed.'
Barney nodded his understanding.
'Only trouble for Bethlehem,' Orwell continued, 'the constitution remained the same, and it's never changed. He didn't care about that either, such was his control. Any time he felt threatened, he'd just boot the guy out of the firm.' A wee pause, a cheeky grin. 'Until now. Out of town just too long, a few rumblings in the belly of the beast, and you know what I'm saying? There are opportunities.'
Barney was silent. Hadn't cottoned on to the fact that he was about to be asked to be Head of TV Contracts; wondered if Orwell was about to tell him that the position of barber had been made an executive one with voting rights.
'What d'you think?' asked Orwell, when he realised he wasn't getting anything in return for his remarkable story of business skullduggery. 'Fitzgerald held a voting position. Now that he's pegged it, we need that position filled. What with Bethlehem being away, distracted, whatever the hell it is he's doing, you know, there's a chance for one of the others to get in there.'
'Why am I here?' asked Barney. Not concentrating.
'I want you to be Head of TV Contracts, amigo,' said Orwell.
'You're kidding me,' said Barney.
'I am not,' said Orwell, brandishing the lipstick. 'I bloody am not. You're good, Barn, damned good. Way better than these spotty oiks like Hemingway and Wodehouse. You're a bleeding natural, mate, got this biz totally pegged. I've already agreed it with Bethlehem. We get you in there, you come in onside with my camp, and then we only need one of the other positions and we can force Bethlehem out.'
'And that would be Waugh or Wodehouse?' asked Barney, doubtfully.
'Yeah, I hear you,' said Orwell. 'We're not even close, but with you in place, we're almost there. There are no problems, only solutions, mon ami.'
Barney smiled ruefully. A fine kettle of fish. Started thinking about Daniella Monk again, for no other reason than he found it hard to get her out of his head. Wondered what she would be doing now.
'What d'you say, Chiefo?' said Orwell. 'A hundred grand a year starting, can probably guarantee you triple that once we oust Bethlehem and I'm in sole charge of the whole shebang. A few points'll need to be ironed out along the way, but they'll sort themselves out.'
Barney shrugged. He had already done the maths. Even if every one of the employees wanted him to cut their hair, at the current rate he would be through them all in a little over seven working days. What was he going to do then?
'Sure,' he said eventually. 'To be honest, I think it sounds complete insanity, but what the heck?'
'Cool,' said Orwell, finally pocketing the lipstick, then clasping Barney by the hand.
'Arctic,' said Barney.
'Excellento,' said Orwell, and with that he began to head for the door. Wanted to get back to his Taylor Bergerac quest. 'You're going to rock, Barn!' he announced, as he hoofed it on out into the corridor.
Barney stared at the closed door for a short time, then turned back to his haircutting equipment. That had been a sudden change in career development. A ridiculous change at that. Did he really want to leave all this behind, no matter how tired he felt he had become of it?
The door opened behind him. Once more the thought of Daniella Monk came to mind. Once more he was to be disappointed as he swivelled round on the chair.
Waugh, head of Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department.
'Barney!' said Waugh, as if greeting an old friend. Barney nodded. Checked out Waugh's short back & sides with a professional eye. This man had had his hair cut by a professional London hair stylist in the last week. He wasn't here for a haircut.
'Can I talk to you a minute, Barney,' said Waugh, gravitating to the window.
'Sure,' said Barney. He could sit here all day. Wondered what Waugh was about to offer him.
'I'll cut to the last ball of the final over,' said Waugh, 'as I know you're a busy man.'
He paused, as if wanting Barney to confirm how busy he was, regardless of the fact that he was currently sitting doing nothing.
'These are strange times for the company,' Waugh continued, 'with Fitzgerald's murder and Bethlehem being out of town so long.'
He stopped. He stared out the window. He turned back.
'I should start by explaining how the executive voting structure of the company is organised,' he said.
'I know,' said Barney.
'You do?' said Waugh, surprised. 'Of course, of course, you're the barber, you're going to have learned all sorts of things.'
Slowly Waugh's eyes drifted to the lipstick writing on the mirror. A look of curiosity crossed his face, and then he turned back to Barney, a little more uncertain than before.
'So, you'll know that Fitzgerald's death leaves a crucial voting position unfilled?'
Barney nodded. Not any more.
'How would you like to fill that position?' asked Waugh. 'I've heard about the fantastic work you've been doing, and I've already spoken to Bethlehem. He's okayed the deal. You could be Head of TV Contracts, and with me that's a voting block of two. We'd only have to worry about the positions of Orwell and Wodehouse, and maybe we could sort one of those out quite easily, and then we can have a genuine pop at Bethlehem.'
He had overcome the moment of uncertainty, and now his eyes were wide with the excitement of the conspiracy. Barney was nearly asleep.
'Sure,' he said, 'that sounds brilliant. Head of TV Contracts, and working side by side with you. Fan-tastic.'
Laced with sarcasm, Waugh didn't pick up on any of it. He clasped his hands together, his eyes widened even, well, wider, and he smiled broadly.
'Friggin' marvellous,' he said. 'Well done, Barney, glad you're on board.'
'Wilco that, Squadron Leader,' said Barney, managing to avoid the salute.
Waugh stood before him as if he might have something else to say, then when neither of them did, he turned and walked from the office, rubbing his hands in a conspiratorial manner. Barney watched him go, and then looked at the writing on the mirror.
'Not for the first time,' he muttered to himself, 'I walk amongst idiots.'
––––––––
'So,' said Monk, having finished off a respectable pint of Thatcher's Dry, 'I like the way you blanche every time someone mentions the Archbishop?'
Frankenstein snorted.
'I don't blanche,' he said gruffly. 'Blanche, for God's sake.'
'You blanche.'
'I don't fucking blanche.'
'Whatever,' she said, smiling. 'Whatever it is that you do, it indicates you're not happy about it.'
'Well, neither should you be, because you're the one who's going to have to go and talk to him.'
'Me?'
'Yes. If you can't come up with some other fingerprint explanation, you're going to have to go and talk to him. You.'
'So what are we talking about?' she asked. 'An informal chat, or are we getting the man in officially for questioning? His fingerprints were all over a murder weapon after all.'
Frankenstein mumbled something incoherent, tapped his fingers.
'The question,' he said eventually, 'isn't whether the Archbishop touched that glass. It's how someone else managed to put his fingerprints on it. And why. And I hate to think what the answer to that might be.'
'Why?'
'Religion, politics. Jesus, is there a worse combination on the planet? Apart from the fact that it might have been a woman and Barney Thomson might be involved. Holy mother of crap. Is there anything else?'
She shrugged, thought about Barney.
'How did you get on with Thomson anyway?' asked Frankenstein. 'Anything useful?'
Monk automatically shook her head. Tried to stop herself smiling, although Frankenstein wasn't really looking at her anyway. She thought about the questioning of Barney Thomson. How hard had she been concentrating? How much of that time had she spent imagining herself in his arms, naked, lying back on the desk?
She closed her eyes, shook her head as if that might help dispel the image.
'Fitzgerald was just a blank, that's the trouble,' said Frankenstein, abruptly changing tack. 'No life other than the company.'
'It is the company,' said Monk, shrugging. 'Whoever killed Fitzgerald wasn't interested in him per se, they were taking a pop at the company as a whole.'
'You think?' said Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' she replied. 'They're like the Borg. I know they have a hierarchy and all, but they're a collective. They eat, drink, shit the same principles. They're clones. So what if it was Fitzgerald who was killed? It could easily have been any one of the others, and maybe it will be.'
'If we're lucky,' said Frankenstein.
'We should look at it,' said Monk.
'Cordon off the entire building and put twenty-four hour protection on all the employees?' asked Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' said Monk. 'We'll have the resources to do that.'
'Yeah,' said Frankenstein. 'Or maybe we could just tell them all to be careful. That might be easier.'
Monk nodded. That was all they could do. And she doubted for one second that any of them would pay the slightest attention. She settled back, a brief journey into work, and once more her head returned to the thoughts that had been dominating it all day. Frankenstein stared at the dirty floor and tried to shut his mind to his dread fear.
'You ever been in love?' asked Monk suddenly, getting to the root of her distraction.
Frankenstein spat some bitter over the table, then dragged the sleeve of his coat across his face. Looked at her as if she had some sort of weird facial infection.
'What?' said Monk.
'What's the matter with you?' snapped Frankenstein. 'Love? Are pulling my pudding?'
'I just, I don't know, just wondered.' She lifted her glass, tipped it to drain the dregs. Glanced over the top to see his look of incredulity.
'Look, piss off!' she said. 'We don't just have to talk about work every time we sit in a flippin' pub. I thought I'd broaden the scope of the discussion.'
'Love?' said Frankenstein. 'What's wrong with football or, God, I don't know, films or politics or cooking or something? Love?'
'Yeah,' said Monk, 'well, that's what it is. Love. You ever been in love?' she asked again.
Frankenstein took a long drink from his pint, settled the empty glass on the table, then he let out a ripper of a burp, his hand barely acknowledging his open mouth.
'No, Sergeant,' he said eventually, 'I've never been in love. I've been married for almost twenty years for God's sake. What d'you think?'
'You might have loved her once.'
'Got her up the duff, Sergeant. Love never entered into it.'
'Have you not met anyone since then who, you know, just knocked you out the first time you met them?'
Frankenstein nodded.
'You know, I got put on my back one night by a right hook from some minger in Bridgeton when I was called out on a domestic.'
'You're funny,' said Monk.
'Tell you what,' said Frankenstein, 'I think it's my round. I'll get the drinks in and I'll give it some thought while I'm at the bar. Although, since I presume you're wanting to get something off your chest, I'm actually hoping you'll have thought of something else to talk about by the time I get back. You know what I'm saying?'
'Your concern is almost heartbreaking,' said Monk. 'But I think I'll head off, try to get to bed sometime before midnight.'
'Suit yourself,' said Frankenstein. 'Last chance,' he added, as he rose to his feet.
'I'll bail,' said Monk, pushing her chair back from the table.
'Whatever,' said Frankenstein. 'You can be in early tomorrow morning. One of us should be.'
Monk smiled, nodded, turned and walked away; Frankenstein humphed at nothing in particular and minced over to the bar, hunch in full working order. As she got to the door of the bar, a woman heading in the same direction noticed her, held it open.
'Thanks,' said Monk.
'You're welcome,' said Harlequin Sweetlips, and she walked off quickly, having waited for Barney Thomson for nearly an hour, and having finally decided that no matter what she had thought about him during her first meeting, no man was deserving of her spending her time sitting mournfully in a bar, desperately hoping he would show his face. Maybe she would be missing him by doing this, but it wasn't as if she didn't know where he lived. And worked.
Monk watched Harlequin Sweetlips for a couple of seconds, no sixth sense that this might be the woman she was looking for, then turned in the opposite direction and started the quick walk to the tube station.
***
Ten minutes later, Barney Thomson walked into the bar, curious as to whether Harlequin Sweetlips would be in attendance, curious as to why he was bothering to look for her. The woman had scared him. He had recognised her evil, and yet he felt himself drawn back in search of her. It wasn't physical attraction, on any level. It was the peculiar lure of danger, aware that just knowing the woman was putting himself in the line of fire. Knew so much from such a brief encounter at the bar. That was all it had taken. The attraction in his life was Daniella Monk, a woman with whom he had made an instant connection. Had spent the best part of the day thinking about her, but still the thought of Sweetlips clawed at him.
Quick check round the room, accepted that Sweetlips wasn't there. Squeezed in at the bar, rested his elbows, raised his eyebrows at the barman who acknowledged his presence, as he went about fulfilling another order.
So, what was it? Was he looking to die? Was he so desperate for some adventure in his life, for something different, that he was prepared to place himself in the jaws of the beast? Whatever, he thought, as he waited to order his Miller, it seemed the beast wasn't that interested in him.
His beer approached from the other side of the bar, the barman instinctively knowing what Barney would order, and Barney settled down to eat, drink and be unhappy.
Ten yards away, his back turned away from him, Detective Chief Inspector Frankenstein sat hunched over his third pint, ruing the day Barney Thomson had walked into his life, and unaware that the man of his nightmares was sitting so close by.
––––––––
The following morning Taylor Bergerac awoke to the full weight of Jude Orwell's shock & awe tactics, starting with the overnight delivery to her apartment of one thousand, three hundred and seventy-nine white roses. The billboard across the road from her apartment had, for the previous two weeks, been displaying a pair of Intimissimi breasts, beautifully filling their latest product. Overnight, in a thoroughly clandestine operation, the picture of two tits, had been replaced by the picture of a single tit. The smiling, cheesy, preposterously affected face of Jude Orwell. Twenty-three feet high, sixteen feet wide. A head-only shot. Beside his face the poster bore the legend: Go With What's Good For You. Jude Orwell.
Things did not improve when she arrived at the office. A different billboard had been plastered up across the road, again proclaiming Orwell's wonderfulness, the picture showing him smiling and pointing at the camera. And he had blessed her e-mail account with seventeen messages, covering a variety of different topics and approaches.
There was also a small understated bouquet of pink carnations – a lovely counterpoint, he'd thought, to the totality of the message at her house; a hand-delivered box from Harrods' jewellery department, containing a diamond pendant of a single, large stone; an envelope containing a package he had produced on his Mac, outlining to the thousandth degree all his personal qualities; a life-size cardboard cut-out of himself, left standing at the side of reception, its hands extended, bearing a sheer silk negligée; all that, and waiting in reception a troubadour, equipped with lyre, ready to serenade Bergerac with an amusing and self-deprecating piece that Orwell had produced, to the tune of Dancing in the Moonlight. The first line, We'll get 'em off most every night, more or less summed up the whole, and strangely it was pretty much all the gallant troubadour managed to evince, before being dispatched from the premises.
Shock & awe is as shock & awe does. It didn't work. The presents were returned, the e-mails were deleted unopened, the flowers were dispatched straight to the bin. However, many a great campaign has a slow start, and just because you don't score against the Faroe Islands in the first ten minutes of your first qualifying game, doesn't mean you're not going to win the World Cup.
***
Barney Thomson took a look out of the window as the Thames wearily wound its way towards the sea, then turned and faced his desk and chair. His own office, modern art prints on the wall – one of which was a delicious deep red, not unlike Hugo Fitzgerald's tablecloth – luxury carpet, decent view, all traces of the lad Fitzgerald removed.
Barney had never sat behind a desk before, just as he'd never had an offer from a woman in a bar before, and had never fallen for a woman the first time he'd laid eyes on her. Life went on, new things happened, and as the months and years went on stretching further away from his previous trapped existence in Glasgow, so he delved further into the hilarious pool of life, as Jesus originally described it. After so long as a cypher, so long spent adrift and impotent as life happened to other people, he was now willing to let himself be drawn into almost anything. Yet, he now knew that things no longer just happened to Barney Thomson by accident. Someone was controlling matters, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
He was, as Garrett Carmichael's six-year-old daughter had often told him back in Millport, nothing but a prawn.
He nodded to himself, then he shrugged, then he shook his head, then he smiled, then he felt the loose-fitting tie at his neck, another first. Barney Thomson in a shirt and tie. Someone, somewhere, would be turning in their grave. He just wasn't exactly sure who that'd be. He pulled the chair back, sat down then shuffled in closer to the desk. Before him there was an in-tray, an out-tray, a telephone, a keyboard, a monitor with the hard drive embedded in the desk, and a small silver executive toy, the final vestige of the presence of Hugo Fitzgerald. Barney picked it up, a magnetic cube with scores of little silver magnets attached to it, studied it for a second, and then dropped it into the bin which he had kicked as he'd shuffled his legs under the desk. He pressed the on-button on the monitor and it hummed into life. There was a yellow sticky attached to the monitor, stating: Username: Barney Thomson, Password: Barberissimo.
'They couldn't just have made it 1234?' he muttered.
Nothing in the out-tray, a couple of files in the in-tray. He lifted the first one and opened it. Glanced at the title, then looked at the phone. Pressed the intercom button, through to the woman who'd just been introduced to him as his PA.
'Mary?' he asked tentatively, not entirely sure of the technology.
'What can I get for you?'
'Any chance of a cup of tea?'
'Certainly, Mr Thomson. English Breakfast?'
'Thanks,' said Barney, and clicked off. English Breakfast, identifiably different from Scottish Breakfast or Irish Breakfast by the different coloured box, if not the actual taste.
He looked back at the open folder. Dundee Salted Snacks, the client he'd heard about during his first haircut on the job. He scanned through it quickly, made an instant decision based on all the principles he'd learned since he'd first walked through the door four days earlier, then turned to the PC, logged on, ignored the one hundred and forty-three junk e-mails which had accumulated since six o'clock the previous evening when his account had been activated, and sent off a quick outline to Orwell, on the way forward for Dundee Salted Snacks. An outline that involved signing up Ally McCoist and selling limited edition bags of crisps using the following flavour guidelines: Spit-Roasted Bacon & Red Leicester; Sea Salt & Asparagus; Charcoaled Guinea Fowl; Oak-Smoked Chicken & Honey; Stilton & Black Grape; Balsamic Vinegar & Organic Sodium; Wood-Charred Giraffe & Oregano.
The door opened as Barney sent the e-mail on its way and Mary walked in, a pot of English Breakfast on a tray, with two croissants, strawberry jam, and two cups. He lifted an eyebrow at her.
'The police sergeant would like to talk to you, Mr Thomson. Sergeant Monk. Would you care to receive her?'
Heart did a little skip, warning shots were fired across the bow by his subconscious. This could be the real thing. There was no one on the planet he would rather was walking in here right now. Straightened his tie, wished he had time to look in the mirror. Started saying ridiculous things in his head such as don't say anything stupid, and don't be yourself.
Mary walked out. Monk walked in. Suddenly Barney felt ridiculous. A snap of the fingers and in an instant it seemed absurd that he should be sitting here behind a stupid desk, wearing a shirt and tie, playing at being some sort of executive. Just because you could predict a few football scores, didn't mean you got to be coach of Real Madrid. Same here; just because you knew better than some university educated muppet how to sell an absurd toiletries product, didn't mean that you were deserving of sitting behind a desk pretending to be something you're not.
You are what you are, and Barney wasn't a guy in a shirt, helping to shift things he knew to be ridiculous. And it had only taken five minutes and the entrance of Daniella Monk for him to realise it.
She closed the door and stood looking at him. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk, hesitated, wasn't entirely sure what to say. Indicated the tea and croissants. Imagined that whatever came out his mouth was going to sound absurd, because of the shirt and tie.
'Weren't you a barber yesterday?' she asked, the tone a little bit wicked, but there was an accompanying smile. The same smile that had first beguiled him two days earlier, and now it relaxed him.
'Tomorrow I'm going to drive the bus, the day after I'm going to be President of Uzbekistan,' he said, and she laughed.
'Seriously,' she said, 'what the Hell are you doing?'
And that was it, all that it took. Fifteen seconds ago he'd felt preposterous, then a smile and a laugh from this woman, and suddenly he felt normal again, felt like it was the people at BF&C who were being preposterous, whilst he was just the dude in the middle, taking advantage of the situation.
'They seem to be missing someone,' he said.
'You're not wrong,' she replied. 'But when the pilot dies, you don't let the toilet attendant fly the plane.'
He laughed. She pulled up a chair opposite his desk and sat down.
'How d'you take your tea?' she asked, attending to the breakfast things laid out before them.
'So, just imagine you're the toilet attendant ... ' began Barney.
'It's not that much of a stretch,' she said, pouring the first cup.
'Hardly any milk, no sugar. You take a break from your regular toilet duties to clean out a cockpit. While you're up there, the pilot says to you, wouldn't mind just flying this thing for a while, would you? I'll watch. So, you do it, you don't crash, no one dies. Next day, the pilot gets murdered, they're looking around for someone to fly the 747 to Sydney, and they grab the first person who comes to mind.'
'The toilet attendant.'
'Exactly.'
She passed over the tea and a croissant on a plate, helped herself to the same.
'They must be pretty desperate,' she said.
'On first appearances,' said Barney, cutting the end off his croissant and dunking it in the jam, 'but that would be to ignore my latent genius as a marketing guru.'
That smile again.
'Well, it's a bit of a bummer,' she said, through some croissant, 'because as the barber to this company of freaks, I had you pegged as my main informant in the investigation.'
'Ah,' he said, 'that makes sense. Have you lost interest in me now that I'm a high-powered business executive?'
'More or less,' she said, smiling and then suddenly she looked down at her plate, saw the strawberry jam, and the vision of Fitzgerald's bloodied head came to mind, and she felt guilty having a flirtatious conversation while there was murder to be solved. She took a drink of tea to wash the croissant away, and to feel the burn on her throat. Focus. Barney Thomson wasn't going anywhere. There would be plenty of time when this business was concluded.
'What?' said Barney, noticing the change, then he nodded as he picked up the vibe. There may have been a rapidly growing understanding between them, but there was a time and a place.
It always intruded into his life. Murder, wherever he went. He couldn't meet anyone. He couldn't relax into any situation without the bloody theme of murder raising its head. But then, without it, Daniella Monk would not currently be sitting opposite him, and neither would he be sitting behind a desk, wondering how to head up the marketing campaign to sell sou'esters to Niger.
Harlequin Sweetlips came suddenly into his head; not that he knew the name, not yet. Sweetlips had killed at some time in her life, Barney had no doubt. Perhaps it'd been a while ago, or maybe she was the killer this time around. That might seem like too much of a coincidence, but then the attempted pick-up in the bar might not have been the chance encounter that Barney had presumed at the time. Maybe he'd been an intended victim and something had stayed her hand. A brush with a death which had never materialised.
But he didn't want to tell Daniella Monk that he'd met Harlequin Sweetlips. Couldn't pinpoint the reason, just didn't seem right. Not yet. Maybe if he saw Sweetlips again, maybe if there was a next time, a next time with more contact, he might be able to establish something further; although he wasn't sure how that would play out, not without him dying at any rate. Whatever, now was not the time to tell Daniella Monk, no matter how much good sense suggested it.
'We can wait,' he said, with a strange confidence.
'Yeah,' said Monk, and she reached for her croissant, before deciding that she probably shouldn't even be eating that.
***
Monk spent the day at the company offices, speaking to everyone she had so far not covered, in her search for anything that might lead them to the killer of Hugo Fitzgerald. Another seemingly fruitless day, yet she felt sure that the answer to the mystery had something to do with the absurd company of BF&C and was not just specific to Fitzgerald.
She was still there when Orwell arrived at the office for the first time that day, following a morning meeting at Tory Party Head Office, lunch with William Hague and then a productive afternoon's shop on Oxford Street, building up more ammunition for his attack on the sensibilities of Taylor Bergerac. He hadn't given her his cell phone number, liking the thought of the over-the-top forage into her affections and then making himself unavailable. Had expected a host of messages, calls and e-mails from her when he returned, and was categorically disappointed. Nothing. Two seconds, then he had switched back to positive mode and rationalised that she was a busy woman, more than a little overwhelmed, and wanted to take her time in her response. In the meantime, he would continue his impressive assault on her affections and shortly victory would be his. (It said a lot about the man – mostly his massive lack of inner confidence – that it hadn't even occurred to him to just call her up and ask her out to dinner.)
So Rose gave him a few minutes back in his office, time to settle in, assuming he'd be quickly scanning e-mail for work rather than signs of Taylor Bergerac, and then she appeared at the door.
'Mr Orwell,' she said softly.
'Ro,' he said. 'Nice afternoon. I mean, it's pishing down 'n' all, but you know, it's still nice. You could sell afternoons like this one to anyone, if you did it the right way.'
'Mr Orwell,' she said again, with a little more insistence, 'Sgt Monk is here.'
Daniella Monk, he thought. Monk. Nice enough girl, not in Bergerac's league.
'You'd better send her in,' he said, and leaned back against the chair, waiting for the latest onslaught from the law.
***
Monk had made four pages of notes, without obtaining anything useful. Orwell was standing at the window, as he had done for most of the twenty-five minutes she'd been there. She wasn't so stressed anymore. She'd cooled down. She thought him rude for presenting his back to her for interview, rather than complicit.
'So, when are you expecting Mr Bethlehem to return?' she asked.
Orwell looked down at the river. There was a damned good question, and she wasn't the only one asking it. He was in Italy at that moment, as far as anyone knew. He'd heard tell that he'd been to Glasgow a couple of times, but nothing concrete.
'Not sure,' he said.
'Doesn't seem to be around much?' she said.
'He's hard to pin down sometimes,' Orwell replied, 'then suddenly he'll come back and he's got deals with Saab, Motorola and Sony. That's how he does business.'
Monk nodded. The guy was a ghost, and she was beginning to think that the only way to really get to the bottom of it was to bring him in. Hard, however, when he was out of the country and no one seemed to know anything about him.
'You know where he is?'
'Nah,' said Orwell. 'Seems to spend every night in a different place.'
No point in giving the police any more than they had to; as everyone in the company had been instructed.
'So, do you think Fitzgerald had enemies, or the firm has enemies, or do you think Bethlehem has personal enemies?' she said.
'Thomas is the company,' said Orwell, then he turned and looked over his shoulder at her, as he had been doing every so often. 'When you're on the way up in business, there's always someone else on the way down.' And, if Orwell had his own way, that someone would soon be Thomas Bethlehem; that was obviously more than Monk needed to know.
'Wouldn't they just try to screw you business-wise?'
'Sure thing, Monk,' he said, nodding. 'I suppose you're right.'
It was the seventh time he'd called her Monk, and her annoyance had long since given way to resignation.
'So, can you think of any individuals that might hold that strong a grudge?' she asked.
He turned away again and looked down on the river. Women with a grudge against Thomas or this great company of men. God, there could be hundreds, it didn't just have to be business, did it?
'What about Margie Crane?' asked Monk, in reaction to the silence.
Orwell never turned. She couldn't see the look on his face. Edged round towards her after a few seconds.
'Doubt it,' he said. 'Scampered off with her tail between her legs apparently. Wouldn't have thought there was much chance of ever seeing her again, you know.'
'You know where I can find her?' asked Monk anyway.
'Birmingham or somewhere like that,' said Orwell. 'Rose'll probably be able to tell you.'
'Right,' said Monk. 'And what about Forsyth?'
'Spends most of his time in Australia,' he said. 'I suppose he could be hiring some bird to do his dirty work for him, but as far as I know he wasn't that pissed about leaving.'
'Right,' said Monk. She looked up from her notebook. It was a wrap. 'Would you be able to get the employees together before they leave tonight. These guys have to be aware that there's the possibility that this was a hit against the company, rather than against Mr Fitzgerald himself.'
'Sure,' said Orwell, 'sure. I'll get Ro to tell 'em all to get down to the cafeteria. Anything else?'
'We're done,' she said.
'Fine,' said Orwell. 'Can you just give me a couple of minutes, I've got a call to make, then I'll join you downstairs.'
And Monk nodded and walked from the office, leaving him to make his first call of the day, which strangely had nothing whatsoever to do with any of the working accounts currently under his attention.
***
Monk gave her talk, twenty minutes in all, to the women as well as the men, because there was nothing to say that if there was to be another victim, that they wouldn't be female. And they all sat and took it in, and many were nervous and many were given to think thoughts that they hadn't up until now. In short, it brought it all home to them. And of the seven men who were on dates that night, three would cancel and four would ensure their evening took place in a public place, and that they would not be alone with the woman at any time.
One of those would be Piers Hemingway. His date was with a woman he knew very well indeed, and he did not suspect for one second that the talk being given by the very, very attractive police sergeant was in the least bit appropriate to him. However, he arranged to meet his date in public all the same.
Nice try.
––––––––
Piers Hemingway took a quick look at his watch. It was almost time to go, but he had only just begun the meeting with Orwell, Barney Thomson and John Wodehouse. Six fifty-three and most of London would already be on its way out of the office. He needed to get home and have a shower, but he was on the tenth floor discussing one of the upcoming summer's blockbusting CD collections.
'At this stage,' said Orwell, 'the client's just looking for a title. Pure and simple. Once that's sorted, we'll have a couple of weeks to come up with the campaign, but these things usually sell themselves.'
'What's the collection?' asked Hemingway, almost cutting off the end of Orwell's sentence. In a hurry.
'Songs by a bunch of women,' said Orwell. 'The usual suspects, you know. Macie Gray, Beyonce, Climi, etc, etc.'
'What's the problem?'
Orwell nodded at Wodehouse. 'John's been doing some research on titles already used for similar albums. Tell us what you've got, John.'
John Wodehouse looked down at his list and started reading slowly.
'So far I've found, Woman, vols. 1, 2 and 3. A completely different CD entitled Woman. Then there's Independent Woman, Wild Hearted Woman, Fire Woman, Country Woman, Simply Woman and Celtic Woman, vols 1 and 2.'
He glanced up; no one said anything. He got a bit of a get on with it feel.
'A Woman's Heart,' he continued, earnestly, 'A Woman's Voice and Any Woman's Blues. I'm a Good Woman, vols. 1 and 2, Love of a Woman, Power of a Woman, A Woman in Love, Woman and Love, and Woman to Woman.'
'Like the sound of that one, mind you' said Orwell, and Hemingway nodded. Barney was staring out of the window, thinking about women in his own way. Daniella Monk and Harlequin Sweetlips. Wodehouse's voice was low and dull, the office was warm, and he could feel the first creep of sleep cuddling his eyes. Give into it and it would be over him in waves. Delicious sleep.
'Natural Woman,' said Wodehouse, '100 Hits – Women, Woman – The Collection, New Woman Classics, and a bunch of others in the New Woman range, The Very Best of All Woman, Real Women Have Curves ... '
'Oh my God ... ' blurted Orwell.
'A Woman's Place is in The Groove, and Story of a Black Woman,' said Wodehouse, and looked up from the list. The others were shaking their heads, but of course, he wasn't finished. 'Then there's Female, Female of the Species, The Female Touch vols 1 and 2, Favourite Female Vocalists, The Greatest Female Vocalists, The Greatest Female Voices Ever and another couple of country and blues things. That's just a quick check of the main ones out there at the moment. Expect there'll be more.'
'It's like a whole different artform,' said Hemingway. 'They've probably all got the same songs on them.'
'Exactly,' said Orwell. 'Which is why we're here. Have to make the Margies and Joes who have bought all that crap, go out and buy this crap. So, let's have it. John, you've been the lead man on this so far, any ideas?'
Hemingway felt a tingling of the spine. He couldn't sit there like a lemon making weak jokes, letting his former deputy take over.
'A Woman's Place Is In The Kitchen,' said Wodehouse seriously.
Good, thought Hemingway, the lad doesn't have a clue.
'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'it's easy enough to come up with gags,' which was big of him, seeing as he hadn't come up with anything himself, 'but we need sensible ideas,' and he looked around the three men, already accepting that he was probably dependent on Barney for anything decent.
'Women Rock,' said Hemingway, quickly.
'Women Roll,' said Wodehouse.
'All Woman,' said Hemingway.
'Total Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Total Rock, Total Woman,' said Hemingway.
And suddenly, with a snap of the fingers, they were rolling, jousting like knights of old, nerves strained, adrenaline pumping, hot-palmed and armpits sweating. Barney was vaguely amused. Orwell was bored. He wanted to be tackling the issue of Taylor Bergerac.
'Utter Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'The Consummate Woman,' said Hemingway.
'There's no such thing,' said Wodehouse, who could've been the company's poster child.
'There is to our target audience,' said Orwell.
'The Complete Woman,' said Hemingway.
'Absolute Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Completely Absolute Women Rock,' said Hemingway.
'Absolutely Complete Women Roll?' said Wodehouse.
'Assuredly Female,' said Hemingway.
'Absolutely Incontrovertibly Totally Completely Utterly Definitely Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Naked Women Go Rock!' said Hemingway.
'Complete & Perfect Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Just Woman,' said Hemingway, returning to basics.
'Totally Bare-Bummed Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Whole Woman, Utterly Female,' said Hemingway, getting carried away.
'Butt-Naked Pygmy Women Go Jesus!' said Wodehouse, losing control of all mental functions.
Barney was falling asleep, Orwell had stopped listening to them some time previously, and to be fair to the lads Hemingway and Wodehouse, they had probably already come up with at least ten perfectly adequate titles. After all, who really cared?
'You just don't get albums with men glorifying their maleness, do you?' said Orwell, pondering the question himself. 'Not PC, I expect. And would you really want to buy a CD entitled Man To Man anyway? I don't think so.'
'A Woman's Touch,' said Hemingway, ignoring Orwell's ruminations because he was so pumped.
'A Woman's Feel,' said Wodehouse.
Barney Thomson sighed.
'Woman Is As Woman Does,' said Hemingway.
'A Woman In Your Bush Is Worth Two In The Hand,' said Wodehouse.
And so they went on ...
***
Monk took the train to Birmingham. Margie Crane sounded the best option for a woman with a grudge, driven to wreak this kind of terrible vengeance. Rose had given her the phone number, but she had decided that turning up on the doorstep was a better option. And it got her out of London for a few hours, away from Frankenstein and away from Barney Thomson, as if that might stop her constant visions of him.
She'd never been to Birmingham before and was pleasantly surprised. Cafés and trees and boulevards and statues and fountains. She wondered what lay beneath it all, but stopped herself thinking about it.
She stood on the pavement outside Crane's house and looked up at the row of terraced homes. Victorian, probably, but she was no expert. Near the centre of the city. Well maintained, trees surrounded by metal fences lining the street, as well as rows of BMWs and Audis and Jaguars, and it was obvious that however dismissive the people at BF&C had been about Margie Crane, she was doing all right for herself.
She walked up a short flight of steps, which led off the street, up to the maroon door. Rang the bell and waited.
The street was quiet, no cars, no one out walking. Just after eight on a cold and damp evening in March. Everyone already safely locked up in their house, kids already packed off to bed, after mummy and daddy had got home from the office and spent the requisite ten minutes reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
She rang the bell again, left it another short while, then produced a set of keys, tried a few, found one that fitted, and walked into Margie Crane's house.
***
Piers Hemingway had finally escaped – after the meeting had settled on A Woman's Magic, Barney's first suggestion – and now he and Harlequin Sweetlips were walking along the Thames embankment, looking across at all those stern government buildings, which give that part of London an Eastern European feel. Chill evening but dry, still a few people abroad. You would think old Piers had nothing to worry about.
Sweetlips was dressed full on. High, Chinese neckline, all the appropriate bumps displayed to their best advantage, hair in a very, very erotic short black bob. The full femme fatale routine, and yet Hemingway just didn't see this coming. Too busy talking about himself. And the company.
'I'm working on this insurance portfolio at the moment. Total scam.'
'Your entire business is a scam,' she said, smiling her killer smile.
'Yeah, well, maybe. Anyway, it's called Brazil. The name means nothing, it's just a cool name they've given it so that they can use sun, sea and sex to sell it.'
'Good idea,' she said simply, and she held onto his arm a little more tightly, pressed her body up against his a little more closely, and laid her head on his shoulder, so that he felt like a man.
'Exactly. So I've come up with this great line. Brazil: first it was a country, then it was a nut. Then it was a football team, next it was Terry Gilliam's motion picture event. Now, the Royal Bank of Scotland, in association with Picture Perfect Assurance brings you, Brazil, The Life Insurance Policy. For all those times when life's a beach.'
She stopped. She looked at him. He finished, the smile on his face changed to a quizzical look.
'What?' he asked.
'You wrote that?' she asked.
'Sure, Babe.'
'That's so brilliant,' she gushed. 'I mean, really, you are so talented.'
Hemingway's smiled returned, his biggest smile ever. The poor fool, completely sucked in.
They started walking again.
'Yeah,' he said, 'I guess it is pretty amazing.'
And they laughed. Which was nice for Piers, seeing as he was about to die. Good to peg it with a smile on your face. There's not many of us will be able to say that.
At this point there were another fifteen people on the embankment in their close vicinity. However, none of them were actually watching the seemingly happy couple, the woman with the black hair, snuggled into the tall, gangling man, and so their eyewitness accounts of the ensuing events would be shaky.
'So, Miss Sweetlips,' said Hemingway, suddenly feeling imbued with the confidence of kings, 'how about heading back to my place and getting it on? I mean, no messing about, no foreplay, let's just do it.'
Sweetlips laughed. She was almost genuinely amused.
'Can't,' she said, however, with a damning finality.
He was curious. All part of the old game, he presumed.
'Why?'
''Cause,' she said, and she wrinkled her nose as if she was in a sitcom, 'I'm not a necrophiliac.'
He screwed his face up, just a few seconds behind the curve.
'But I'm not dead,' he said, rather stupidly.
The look on Sweetlips' face changed. Laughter to death in an instant. He could see it, right there, a witness to the transformation. The microwave equivalent of Jekyll into Hyde. And the horror rose in his throat, the sure and certain knowledge that he was about to die. And the cry that he ejaculated was deflated and cramped as the knife was brought up and thrust deep into his stomach, up under the rib cage and into his chest. His body jerked up with an awkward movement, his mouth opened and only a dull croak emerged. And then, continuing the flowing movement of it all, Sweetlips had him up and over the barrier, and within three seconds of her taking the knife from within her light summer coat, Hemingway's body was splashing heavily into the water.
She cried out for help, screaming, terrified because her boyfriend had fallen into the river. She screamed wonderfully well. The crowd gathered; none of them had seen a thing.
Hemingway's body floated face down in the water. Sweetlips screamed even louder. Two men jumped into the river to try and rescue him. In a frantic flurry of arms and legs they swam to the body. They lifted the head out of the water and started dragging him to the side.
And as they clumsily hauled the dead weight up onto some steps, and as the growing crowd of onlookers stared down and saw the knife embedded into his chest cavity, the screaming had stopped. And when, shocked and frightened, they looked round for the woman with the bobbed black hair who had been walking with the victim, they could not see her. For Harlequin Sweetlips had already moved on.
***
Monk was back on the train one hour and fifty-three minutes later. She'd taken a call from Frankenstein telling her about the death on the Thames, a murder in early evening in a public place, that no one had witnessed; but she had been on the verge of leaving anyway.
Margie Crane's house had given up few secrets. That could possibly have been because someone else had already been there ahead of her. The house – a tastefully decorated affair of beautiful paintings, rococo sculptures, Moroccan rugs, elegant furniture, with shelves of original editions of classic literature – had been completely trashed. Impossible to tell if it had been done during a search or purely as an act of vandalism. But it had been a thorough job, the entire house laid waste. The effect had been presented as vandalism, with paintings unnecessarily slashed, sculptures needlessly shattered, wallpaper stripped. But that did not mean the whole was not there to hide the piecework; the minute detail that might have been searched for, and might have been found.
There were layers of dust on everything, a couple of months' worth of junk mail behind the door.
Monk had removed all the letters that might be remotely personal, had decided against calling the local Feds, and headed for New Street.
And as she sat on the train reading through the various pieces of correspondence, she discovered that Margie Crane had not been as dormant in the world of Thomas Bethlehem as Orwell had implied.
Amazing, she thought, that some of these people realised that the Royal Mail still existed.
––––––––
Barney Thomson leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. One day down as a marketing executive, who knew how many to go? How long would he last before he was drawn back to his life's natural place? More pointedly, how long before this whole thing came to a head and the purpose in his being dragged down to London became apparent?
Maybe it wasn't so much the manipulation of the hair of men that grabbed him; more the position of a barber, standing behind another man whilst clutching a sharp instrument which could, under other circumstances, be used to slit his throat or be plunged into his head. Total control, that was what you possessed as a barber. Total control without necessarily having any inherent self-confidence or ability.
Maybe he just felt the immediate pull back to the barber's chair because of habit; it was all he'd ever known.
However, on this evening, that was not what exercised his mind. His head back, staring at the ceiling, he was thinking about the woman he had met in the bar two nights previously, and who he now felt with absolute assurance was at that moment standing outside his apartment, watching and waiting. He did not know if the wait was for him to emerge, or for him to turn the lights off and go to bed. Either way, he knew she was there, her eyes burrowing through the walls.
Harlequin Sweetlips was a murderess if ever he had encountered one, and yet he had not even been close to telling the police sergeant about it. He had rationalised it with the obvious question: what exactly would he have said to her?
Barney: Well, Sergeant, I had a drink with a woman who gave off the weirdest serial killer-type vibe.
Monk: And how did that manifest itself exactly?
Barney: You know, it was a thing. A vibe. A thing.
Monk: I see. And how did you manage to pick up the vibe?
Barney: It's hard to explain.
Monk: Try me.
Barney: My mother was a serial killer. I once killed a man who'd just murdered thirty-two monks. I attended a Murderers Anonymous group. I slept with a woman who killed eight members of the Scottish cabinet. I have been haunted by Satan and have seen his brutal and murderous work at close quarters. I'm the spawn of Death and murder has been my constant companion these last few years. It's always with me.
Monk: Like backache.
Barney: Exactly.
Monk: Isn't there anything you can take for that?
Barney: You mean, like Nurofen Serial Killer?
Monk: Yeah.
Barney: I don't think they make that yet.
Monk: Too bad.
It wasn't going to work. Harlequin Sweetlips was his problem for him to sort out. He'd dealt with her like before, and if this absurd life of his continued, he would do so again. And what if one of these days he never got to wake up in the morning, or the end came with his full cognisance, watching the knife descend from above, until it penetrated his forehead and closed his eyes forever? What if the end came in a fizz of slashing silver, his face contorted in agony and terror, his soul dispatched to the everlasting torment it more than likely deserved? What if one night his life was to be drawn to a swift and bloody conclusion, as the pitiless blade of mortality was plunged viciously into his horrified face? Would anyone care?
His eyes were closed, and despite the feeling of unease about the presence of Harlequin Sweetlips outside, and despite his own thoughts of death which were becoming more and more grotesque, slowly he drifted off to sleep, and his head slumped down onto his chest.
***
Harlequin Sweetlips flicked the cigarette butt onto the pavement, one of her classically staged movements. There was only one person watching, but Harry Monkton, on his way home to another undistinguished evening of PlayStation 3, was in no state of mind to be attracted by the balletically casual movements of a woman on a street corner, stubbing out a fag. He walked on. Sweetlips hadn't even noticed him in any case.
She looked up at Barney's window, the light still burning behind the curtains. Watching TV, maybe fallen asleep. Checked her watch again. Past midnight. Barney Thomson wasn't the sit up late on his own watching TV personality type; he must've fallen asleep. So, would he want a late night visitor? Time to decide. Strangely she felt the flutter in her stomach, the old nervousness. Men; the only thing that had ever bothered her, that had ever tightened her nerves, made her mouth go dry.
In her time she had risen to her feet and spoken to a room full of hundreds; she had appeared on live television; she had walked out on stage in front of eighty thousand people; she had met presidents and prime ministers, kings and queens; she had crossed borders with illegal arms and drugs; she had stared into the eyes of a South American militiaman with a machine gun, twenty kilos of uncut heroin strapped around her waist; and there hadn't been a tingle in her body. Her conviction had been total. But men, they were the driver of her nerves. Just the ones in which she was genuinely interested, the ones who got under her skin, not the pointless little Lost Boys of BF&C.
There was a particular type she fell for and it hadn't happened often in her life; maybe twice before. And now, behind the walls across the street, there was a third. Fallen asleep on his settee, staring at the ceiling, thinking about me as much as I'm thinking about him, thought Harlequin Sweetlips. And, with fate playing its capricious games, it was almost inevitable that, as she had discovered the previous day, the man was working for BF&C, along with the abject collective. How foreseeable that had been; she had not met him in that bar for nothing. This man with whom she'd had no business in her entire life, was going to be as entangled in her immediate future as any of the clowns at the company, who would one by one receive their just desserts.
And the thought of him, and the thought of their next contact, made her stomach feel uncomfortable and excited her at the same time. The nerves of infatuation, the first light and excitement of new love.
She lit another cigarette. The image of the previous two occasions when she had fallen for a man – or rather the bloody image when she had put herself out of her misery – came to mind. She made the decision that she wasn't going to interrupt Barney Thomson's slumber this evening. The nerves in the pit of her stomach died away, and she turned and started the long walk back across London.
***
Chief Superintendent Dick Strumpet, an absurd gentleman with an enormous moustache, was storming around the room waving wildly in a series of mad extravagant gestures, subjecting Frankenstein and Monk to the occasional volley of spittle, as it flew across the room in great arcs.
'Fuck's sake!' he bellowed. 'What the fuck is that?'
Frankenstein had bravely just allowed Monk to break the news about the Archbishop of Middlesex's fingerprints, and Strumpet was taking it much as they'd expected.
'Don't shoot the messenger,' said Monk, who was a little daunted, but was at least able to keep telling herself that she was being shouted at by a man named Strumpet. How bad could it get? You can only ever allow yourself to be intimidated by shouting; how much you are daunted is within your power. Focus.
Strumpet stopped his free-flowing movements around the room – Frankenstein felt like he was watching tennis; not that he'd ever watched tennis – and paused beside the picture of him meeting the Queen when she'd bestowed upon him the GCMG after a minor terrorist thing in the early nineties.
'The messenger?' he screeched. 'I don't even know what a fucking messenger is, Sergeant. I suppose you think it's someone who's delivering a fucking message? Is that what you think?'
Monk swallowed. Don't be intimidated by an idiot shouting.
'Yes, sir,' she managed to say without her voice squeaking. Straight back, look him in the eye, be more forceful. He admires forceful women, that's what they say. Don't cower.
'Well, you're not delivering a fucking message!' he cried at the zenith of his lungs. 'Hello! You're delivering the progress report on a murder investigation! And now you're telling me that the main suspect is the Prime Minister's religious adviser, and one of the most respected theologians in the entire fucking country.'
'No one's saying he's a suspect,' said Frankenstein, making a surprise interjection into the conversation. Monk glanced sideways.
Strumpet moved his eyes from Monk to Frankenstein, very slowly, very deliberately, laced with menace. So he hoped. Frankenstein liked to keep his head down, but wasn't quite as enthralled by the masturbatory explosions of Strumpet's wrath.
'What?' yelled Strumpet, cranking it up a notch. Voice now tagged with amazement. 'You don't think fingerprints, in themselves enough to get a conviction for just about any fucking crime on Planet Earth, are indicative of the man being a suspect?'
'He's not on our list,' said Monk.
'Yet,' added Frankenstein, 'something doesn't add up, so we need to speak to him, try to get to the bottom of what's going on.'
'And how do you intend to do that?' asked Strumpet, voice now very low and threatening. The method actor's calm before the storm. 'Call me Dumbo,' he added, obscurely.
'What?' asked Frankenstein.
'I'm all ears ... ' said Strumpet, his voice dropping even lower.
Monk kept the smile from her face. She could laugh about it later. Frankenstein stared balefully into his Superintendent's eyes.
'I realise it's a sensitive matter, Sir ... '
'Sensitive, he says.'
'Which is why we're here. Rather than just charging blindly over there, I thought we should speak to you first.'
'Oh, well that was fucking thoughtful.'
The voice was starting to pick up again. Frankenstein decided to go on the offensive.
'You can get mad and you can shout all you like, but the fact is that the guy's fingerprints are on at least the first murder weapon, possibly the second if they can get anything after the body's been in the river. Therefore we have to speak to him. There is no option.'
Strumpet slumped into his chair and stared across the desk. Monk and Frankenstein both realised that the danger moment had passed and there'd been no total explosion. Still unsure of what was going to come next, but they both felt the tension ease.
'Right,' said Strumpet, eventually. 'You're right. Fucking crap. Just, you know, let me give it some thought.'
He stared away from them, descended from the height of his annoyance, suddenly distracted.
'You're right,' he added as an afterthought. 'But for the moment you need to be discreet. Take discreet to new levels. If this gets out we're all, all three of us, completely fucked.'
A pause.
'Tell no one,' said Strumpet, continuing at last. 'No one. You understand what I mean by that?'
They nodded. Strumpet abruptly waved his hand towards the door, feeling mild palpitations in his chest.
Monk and Frankenstein stood up and trooped out of the room, closing the door behind them. They stared at Mrs Trevanian, typing away furiously as ever, then walked through the outer office and into the corridor.
'Well, he didn't kill us,' said Monk.
'Not yet,' said Frankenstein. 'Just wait 'til you fuck up.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'
Frankenstein pushed open a swing door and sent a young PC with a tray full of six coffees for a Burton.
––––––––
An emergency Saturday morning meeting at the offices of BF&C, all necessary parties in attendance. Apart, of course, from the perennially absent Thomas Bethlehem. Jude Orwell was nominally running the meeting, whilst in effect leaving most of the talking and organisation to Anthony Waugh, head of Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department. Barney Thomson, the latest wunderkind of the marketing world, was feeling a little out of place, but trying to focus on enjoying the surrealism of the moment. Take what comes, enjoy it while you can.
Once you've been sucked into the partner-kids-mortgage prison, seizing the day is no longer an option. But Barney was free of that. He could live his life like he was in a male cosmetics advert. He could go sailing and pull birds and climb mountains and drive fast cars and deep sea dive and paraglide. He could even help Exron launch their new range of cosmetics. Relax, he told himself as Waugh burbled on, and have fun.
However, when you're constantly having to tell yourself to relax and have fun, you're clearly doing neither.
John Wodehouse was in the groove. Getting back all the old confidence which he'd had in spades at Oxford and which had been torn from him the second he'd landed in the real world. But now he was zipping up the company pecking order and he felt empowered. Not for a second did he consider he was in line for the same fate as Fitzgerald or Hemingway. Imagined that the two who'd died had had it coming, and if not, had at least been careless. Not for him some indiscreet date with a strange woman. A straight bat, nothing stupid and he'd be all right. Like the date he had that night. Cast-iron, guaranteed safe as houses.
Spot of dinner, discuss a little bit of business, back to his place, perfectly secure on home ground, and then a solid all-nighter. Couldn't beat it.
There were two others in attendance at the meeting, both dragged in unexpectedly from the sidelines. The first was Marcus Blade, a veteran of the trade and a one-time legend, a man who had not been heard of in years, after becoming a victim of burn-out in the mid-'80s.
That he'd helped create the '80s, then collapsed before he could enjoy them, was the popular myth around him. Most people in the business had heard of him, and most believed him dead. However, he'd spent the previous twenty-two years living in a small flat in Fulham, smoking cheap dope, listening to Radio 4, and painting pictures of fruit and empty cigarette packets. Only forty-seven, a hero that no one knew still existed.
Waugh was pleased that he'd found him. It was the first offer Blade had had since the Thatcher years, and he'd surprised himself by accepting it without a second's thought. Orwell had been genuinely gobsmacked at his arrival; and naturally was exceptionally doubtful that the bloke would still have it. A lot had happened in twenty-two years. Still, it was cool to be sharing a room with a legend, and a distracted Orwell had allowed him to be installed as Deputy Chief of Staff.
Wodehouse, while wallowing in his new-found confidence, found himself staring at Blade every few seconds, having heard all about him and having previously belonged to the Blade-is-dead pattern of belief.
The other member present was the latest of the wet-behind-the-ears brigade, dragged from obscurity to help out at Other Contracts Department, as number two to Wodehouse. Nigel Achebe, a Nigerian lad who'd arrived from Kaduna on a student visa three years previously and who had worked every day since. Poised to go far, as long as he could evade the happy blade of Harlequin Sweetlips, of course.
So, a fine collective, gathered around the table to discuss the direction of BF&C, such as it was, i.e. downhill. Waugh, focused, poised, a coiled snake; Orwell, slightly in awe of Blade, but his mind mostly on his latest, so far unproductive, moves on Taylor Bergerac; Barney, trying to persuade himself he was having fun; Blade, in a non-specific state of confusion; Wodehouse, feeling the Force; Achebe, in awe of everything, trying to pull himself out of the burger joint and to stop wishing everyone a nice day; and bringing the collective up to the Magnificent 7, there was the absent, but still overbearing presence of Thomas Bethlehem. The Marcus Blade of his day, except that Bethlehem was no burn-out.
'I'm making a hundred calls an hour,' said Waugh. 'A hundred. No one wants to come here. It's like we've got the plague and no one wants to get on the plane. The WHO might as well come along here and strap a friggin' banner to the front of the building, quarantining the joint. Enter here all ye who want to DIE!' and he bellowed the final word, mostly to get everyone's attention, because Anthony Waugh was a man who could tell when minds were wandering.
Blade raised an eyebrow at him, but it wasn't like he needed the heads up on why Waugh had been so desperate as to go looking for him.
'There's no doubt we're struggling,' said Orwell, trying to drag himself back into the conversation and going against one of his guiding principles by wasting words.
'Struggling?' said Waugh.
'You lost any business yet?' asked Blade, getting back into the groove.
Orwell shook his head.
'We've managed to market a good game. Even managed to get the Standard today to ignore the fact that Hemingway worked for us, so the business hasn't really picked up on it yet. Well, our business will have, our competitors, but the people who use us, the government and the poxy little salted snack companies, they haven't a Scooby.'
'Doesn't mean you're in the clear,' said Blade.
'As sure as eggs is eggs,' said Orwell, with a little bit of a tone.
'Blade's got a point,' said Waugh, who was destined to talk up everything that Blade came out with in a blatant attempt to justify employing him in the first place. 'We can think we're immune, we can attempt news management and damage limitation all we want, but it'll get out there, and one day soon the business is going to melt away just like it never existed. Melt away.'
'Like it never existed,' said Wodehouse, sensing the shift in the balance of power.
There was a pause in the conversation, everyone suddenly taking note of the change in tactics and the power struggle that had not really been acknowledged until that second. Waugh and Orwell were on.
Achebe bit his bottom lip. Wodehouse suddenly felt uncomfortable, but straightened his back even more and looked Orwell in the eye. Orwell swallowed, but still struggled to shift the image of Bergerac from his head. Waugh leaned forward, positive body language, applying the pressure. Blade smiled, realising that he had at least had the good sense to come in on the right side. Barney mentally kicked back and decided that he was in fact enjoying himself after all. He unintentionally caught Waugh's eye and got a bit of a we're all in it together nod. Orwell noticed and slung Barney a what the fuck's going on? Barney glanced between the two men, giving them both an I'm my own man, and if I'm in the mood I might just have a go at overthrowing Bethlehem myself.
'We can manage it,' said Orwell forcefully, trying to control the meeting, but knowing that his head wasn't right for this kind of thing. Bloody women, infecting his brain with sludge. Bloody women. 'Take the pragmatic approach, deal with each problem as it arises.'
'That's madness!' barked Waugh. 'Friggin' madness. When you can see the problems that are going to arise, you deal with them before they come up. A problem tackled is not a problem, full stop.'
'Equalise before they score,' said Blade, thinking he was being cutting edge, and missing by at least a couple of decades.
'Then you end up putting resources into areas where they might not even be needed, and we're low enough on resources as it is.'
'There are always more people,' said Waugh, realising as he said it that it was a weak argument, easily countered. Orwell duly pounced like the hyena on rotting flesh.
'That's why you hired Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go boy here,' he said, adding quickly, ''Scuse me, Marcus, but you know what I'm saying.' Blade nodded, whilst his antipathy towards Orwell grew.
'And what are we going to do anyway?' Orwell continued. 'Fitzgerald and Hemingway were defenceless against this woman, if it was the same one. The police don't know shit and we're stuck. God, we could just be waiting to get picked off. What do we do?'
'It's not about the murders,' said Waugh. 'It's not about who's dying. It's about the public's perceptions of why it's happening.'
'And we're controlling those perceptions!' exclaimed Orwell, getting sucked into an argument he didn't want to have.
'For now,' said Waugh, 'on a flimsy day-to-day basis. We need something solid. We need something to take to the bank.'
Waugh's face twitched involuntarily, the way it always did when he was trying to control his temper. Orwell didn't respond. He'd been drawn into an argument he wasn't going to win and where he also happened to agree with Waugh in any case. So he looked around the room, hoping that someone else would come in, someone other than Blade, and either lend him support or at least give him an honourable way out.
Silence, and with it the obvious feeling that the meeting was siding with Waugh.
'Thomas'll be back in a couple of days,' said Orwell. 'And God knows the contracts he'll come with. We should wait it out until he gets here.'
Couldn't believe the words as he was saying them. How bad had he got, how wasted had his mind become that he was invoking the name of Thomas Bethlehem to try to stave off other internal rivals.
'We need to do something now,' said Blade, using we for the first time.
'And what d'you think that is?' snapped Orwell. 'You're not selling fucking Spandau Ballet to thirteen-year-old girls now, Marcus.'
Wow! thought Wodehouse, that's pretty cool. Achebe felt even more out of his depth than he'd expected.
'We need to attack it,' said Waugh, still talking in generalities, because of course he had no specifics at his disposal. 'So first of all we address exactly what it is that needs to be attacked.'
'We can't employ new staff and we're liable to start losing business in the very near future,' said Wodehouse forcefully, and Orwell slung him an angry look. Insolent little shit, he thought.
Suddenly Barney rose to his feet, naturally grabbing everyone's attention as he did so.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'this is madness. I'm leaving.'
'You can't!' said Orwell, still thinking that Barney was an ally.
'Bloody right,' said Waugh.
'Wrong,' said Barney. 'I've had enough for today. The obvious thing for you to do is to start murdering executives from other marketing companies, using similar MO's to the murders of Fitzgerald and Hemingway. Levels the playing field, makes it look like all the companies are in the same boat. The police might know it's bogus, but the rest of the business world, they're not going to care, they'll just see it in black and white as ever. The bigger firms might even suffer more than you just because of who they are.'
A beautiful silence. The five other men sat back and stared at Barney, more than a little curious. What a brilliant idea, and to have the balls to throw it into a meeting of this size, with this many confederates. Any one of these men could be straight off to the police. But despite the awfulness of the suggestion, only Achebe was actually appalled by it. Only he had the decency to feel the horror in his bones.
'I was joking,' said Barney, after seeing the looks on their faces. 'Don't even think about it.'
They stared at him. A couple of them smiled.
'I'll tell,' he added, smiling at his own joke. 'Now, I'm off. I'm going to have some tea.'
And with that he turned and walked smoothly from the room, closing the door behind him. They watched him go and all five of them stared at the closed door for at least a minute after he was gone. For all his silence throughout most of the meeting, Barney had presence, and now that he was away, they felt it.
'Who was that masked man?' said Blade jokingly, to break the reverie.
'The barber,' said Waugh. 'He's just the friggin' barber.'
––––––––
Barney was sitting in his office, feet on his desk, looking out of the window at the leaden sky. Leaden. Think of another word for leaden, he thought. Grey skies are always leaden. Sombre. Brooding. Grim. Oppressive. Sullen. Miserable as flippin' shite. Checked his watch, was about to go for lunch. Some in-built thing told him he couldn't go until after twelve. Only twelve minutes to go and he would be on his way to pizza.
The door opened and Jude Orwell came charging into the room, looking stern. No thoughts of Taylor Bergerac at the moment. Needing a word with Barney Thomson.
'Jesus, Barn,' he said as his opening salvo, 'what the fuck was that?'
'What d'you mean?' asked Barney, some part of his subconscious making him remove his feet from the desk and straighten his shoulders, so that suddenly he looked like a television presenter.
'That thing with Waugh?' said Orwell.
'Don't get you,' said Barney, thinking that he might as well just deny, deny, deny. Didn't feel like getting into any argument with Orwell that would lead to an unnecessary delay in getting hold of his lunch.
'He looked at you in a funny way,' said Orwell, not entirely sure what he was going to do with Barney in denial.
'He looked at me?'
'Yeah.'
'In a funny way?'
'Yeah.'
Barney slowly shrugged his shoulders.
'Don't know,' he said.
'Fuck, Barn,' said Orwell, 'you're supposed to be on my team. Mine. You and me, we're having a go at the World Championship here. I need you to back me up, not leave me, you know ... '
'Floundering?' suggested Barney.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Orwell, drifting off.
'You were mince,' said Barney. 'I don't see how I can help you when your mind is that far off the job. If I had joined you, that would still only have meant there was one man on the team.'
'Fair point,' said Orwell, ire deflating pretty quickly.
'If you're that rubbish when confronted by Waugh, what are you going to be like when Bethlehem returns?'
'I'll nail him,' said Orwell forcefully.
'Not if Waugh's got the hammer,' said Barney.
Orwell stood over him, agitated, hating the fact that Barney always seemed to get the better of him. He had spent years talking over people, never having to play second fiddle, and now his head was in a complete fudge over a woman, and he'd brought someone into his gang who seemed to hold all the aces.
'You work with me,' said Orwell through gritted teeth, 'and together we make sure he doesn't get it.'
'Totally,' said Barney, and Orwell stared him out for a couple of seconds, and then turned on his heels and legged it from the room, doubting as he went the perspicacity of his move in promoting Barney out of the barber's chair.
Barney watched him go, checked his watch, eight and a half minutes to go, and then he lifted his feet back up onto his desk. Plenty of time for Waugh to make an appearance, he thought. Deny, deny, deny.
However, as it was, Waugh missed him by four minutes, seventeen seconds.
***
Barney had ordered a twelve-inch Hawaiian with garlic bread and a glass of Australian Chardonnay when the chair opposite him was pulled out and he looked up to be once more confronted by Sergeant Daniella Monk. Hair a bit mushed up and looking very, very attractive for it. A far greater temptation than your Taylor Bergeracs or even Harlequin Sweetlips of the world, wearing a grey jacket and blue shirt, top three buttons undone. Silver chain around her neck, small blue pendant.
'Mind if I join you?' she said, and Barney smiled.
'You following me, officer?'
'Our meeting is entirely coincidental,' she said, just as a teenage waitress, with three mouths to feed, appeared beside her with a ready smile and a Madonna mic attached to her napper.
'Good afternoon. Would you like to see the menu, Madam?' she asked.
'It's all right. I'll have salmon tagliatelle and a Diet Pepsi, please,' Monk replied, giving her a quick glance.
She punched a couple of numbers into her little electronic handset, the smile disappearing while she concentrated, then she switched it back on as required.
'Would you like anything to start or a side order perhaps? Maybe garlic bread or some fries?'
Monk turned and looked up.
'You're asking me if I want to eat fries with pasta? That's the reason the Europeans think we're Neanderthals.'
'Breaded garlic mushrooms perhaps, or how about a selection from our salad bar? Help yourself for only two pounds forty-five.'
'Salmon tagliatelle and a Diet Pepsi please,' Monk repeated, looking away from the interrogation.
'Would that be a further order of salmon tagliatelle and Diet Pepsi, subsequent to the order you've previously placed, or is that a repeat of your earlier order?'
Monk turned slowly and looked up at her, then she took out her police badge from inside her grey jacket.
'If you don't go and get my order right now, I'll arrest you for being an idiot in charge of a microphone. Now fuck off.'
'Your order will take a few minutes,' the waitress said crisply. 'My name's Cheyenne and I'll be your waitress today if there's anything else you require.'
And she was gone, leaving Barney and Monk alone. At last.
'That's really cool, that badge thing,' said Barney. 'You do it often?'
'Every day,' said Monk. 'It's not like this is a great job, so you might as well take advantage of all the perks.'
'She's going to spit in your pasta.'
Monk laughed and they lapsed into a relaxed silence, borne of easy familiarity. Only their fourth meeting, and already they were comfortable in each other's space. Like mayonnaise and chips.
'You back across the road?' he asked.
'A few more questions to ask. The Piers Hemingway murder, and a couple of other points.'
'Yeah, I was in a meeting with him last night. Couldn't have been much before he pegged it.'
'He say who he was going out with?'
Barney smiled.
'Well you know, he did leave her name and address, phone number, cell phone number, a couple of photographs, a full set of fingerprints and a DNA sample, but nothing that would be of any use to you.'
'All right, all right, I can be off duty for half an hour.'
'I don't mind,' he said, as Cheyenne the Happy Waitress appeared beside them and placed Barney's food and Monk's drink on the table.
'Is everything all right for you, sir?'
'Thanks,' said Barney.
'You're welcome,' she chanted. 'Enjoy your meal.'
And off she scuttled to check on the progress of the pair of salmon tagliatelles.
'So, you getting anywhere?' he asked.
'You can start,' she said, in response to his reluctance to lift his cutlery. 'If you give me some of that garlic bread.'
'Sure,' he said, and they tucked in.
'We're pretty shagged,' she said, in reply to the question about whether or not they were getting anywhere, as opposed to the fact that they were now destined to prematurely run out of garlic bread.
'Nothing?'
'Got a couple of things, but they're a little suspect. We have a suspicious set of fingerprints, but we're not sure what we can do with them yet.'
'And the other?' he asked.
She hesitated. Shouldn't really go discussing police business with an outsider, and in particular one who worked at the company where all the murders were being committed. And someone who might be a suspect. Who really ought to be a suspect.
Still, talking to Frankenstein was like talking to the old brick wall, so where else did she have to go? Going on her familiar gut feeling, she knew well that Barney wasn't one of them across the road, one of that crowd. He was even more out of place in there than she was.
'What do you know about Margie Crane?' she asked.
'The name on the door?' he asked in reply.
'Yeah.'
'Nowt,' he said, which didn't surprise her in the least. 'I've heard her name mentioned, along with the other guy, but that's it. She back on the scene?'
'Quite the reverse,' said Monk. 'She's disappeared, no one's heard from her in over two months. Checked with South Midlands CID. She lives in Birmingham. Reported missing in the middle of January. Nothing since then. Checked out her apartment. It'd been trashed.'
'Connected to this?' asked Barney.
'She'd been getting letters from several employees at the company. Weird shit, difficult to follow. Coded, presumably. No idea what she was up to. Started something, and then just walked away from it. Or was dragged away from it.'
'Who sends letters anymore?' asked Barney. 'Particularly this lot, the poster children of the text generation.'
'Exactly,' said Monk.
And, as if by magic, but actually by the hand of Cheyenne, the first lot of salmon tagliatelle arrived on a golden plate and was deposited on the table with the usual rounds of obeisance.
'Enjoy your meal,' said Cheyenne.
'I'm going to take a sample of this,' said Monk, 'and have it analysed, and if there's so much as a trace of saliva in it, I'm coming back and shutting this place down.'
A hesitation, and then the lizard-tongue hand of Cheyenne crept out, slowly removed the plate, and she was gone. Without so much as an 'I'll be right back, madam'.
'So who was actually sending the letters?' Barney asked, more specifically.
Monk paused again, tapped her fork on the table wishing she had some pasta to put it in, then once more plunged into discussing the investigation with someone to whom she really ought not to be talking. Someone who had a couple of hours previously, after all, happily suggested that his fellows commit murder.
'Fitzgerald,' said Monk, then after a pause, 'and Hemingway.'
Barney raised his eyebrows. 'Cool,' he said, 'the deceased. Any others? You know who's going to be next?'
'Three more,' she said, and she stopped, thinking that she really, really ought not to divulge any more information. They had already assigned officers to watch over the three remaining individuals who had gone on this new list of potential victims; assuming that there was some link between the murders and the letters to Crane, which they had no reason to actually suspect at all.
'Orwell, Waugh and Wodehouse,' she said, unable to stop her mouth. An age-old problem. Got her into no end of trouble in the past.
'Ah,' said Barney. 'What about the master?'
'Bethlehem? Nothing.'
'So have you told the happy trio that they're potentially next in line?'
Monk shook her head, took a long drink, ice cubes freezing against her teeth.
'Talked to each of them about Crane, nothing specific. Might not be linked, but they're all lying about having had any contact with her. Not sure how to play it yet. Anyway, we've got the three guys covered, so we should be all right. And if we're lucky, they'll lead us to her.'
'Why are you telling me?' asked Barney, interrupting the flow of non-essential information.
'Good question, Barney Thomson,' she said, and she looked deep into his eyes to give him the answer, which he'd known anyway, even before he'd asked the question. She was feeling the same thing he was. A real connection between them, instant and honest, a connection that would go beyond the need for conversation.
'Apart from this thing that appears to be going on between us ... ' she began.
'You think there's a thing?'
'You don't?' she asked, undaunted.
He smiled and shrugged. Of course there was a thing.
'Apart from this, you're a curiosity, and you're involved in this in some way whether you like it or not. You're not down here because you were summoned by the Devil.'
Barney hesitated, his fork at his lips, then started eating again. Didn't look her in the eye.
'So,' she continued, 'we haven't put these three guys in the picture yet. No point in frightening them.'
'They wouldn't be frightened,' said Barney. 'They think they're invincible. Supermen one and all.'
'What on earth are you doing there?' she asked. 'And I don't mean, just as that idiotic marketing executive. Why aren't you just working in some shop somewhere, doing what you do?'
Barney tucked into some more pizza. Shrugged. No real answer.
'Just walking the earth, getting in adventures,' he said.
'No wife, no kids, no mortgage?'
'Pretty much. Every day is a blank page.'
She looked into his eyes, swallowing up everything that they gave away. Took another drink, using the glass to cover her face.
'What's that like?'
Cheyenne appeared beside them, armed to the teeth with what was the second of the two salmon tagliatelles, which she placed in front of Monk.
'Enjoy your meal,' she intoned.
'I'll also check for all other foreign substances which would not normally be present in a fish pasta dish with a cream sauce.'
Cheyenne gave Monk a blank stare. 'Enjoy your meal,' she said, although this time she delivered the time-honoured catchphrase with all the malice she could convoke, and then turned on her heels and made for another table.
'It's a mixed bag,' said Barney. 'Like everything else. There's nothing with a good side that doesn't have its bad.'
'Yeah,' she said. 'I know about that.'
And she finally got to take her first mouthful of salmon tagliatelle, which was damned fine, and then she looked at her watch and realised that she had twenty-seven minutes to get back to the station for that afternoon's briefing, which was going to be a bit of a struggle.
'Shit,' she said.
'Got to go?'
'Yeah. Shit,' and she quickly crammed in two more mouthfuls and reached inside her jacket.
'I'll get it,' said Barney. 'On you go.'
She hesitated, nodded, forked a final mouthful, downed some of her drink.
'Cheers,' she said. 'Sorry. Next time.'
'Aye,' said Barney.
And Monk was gone, leaving Barney Thomson alone with a mid-Pacific pizza and the remainder of the pasta.
He was just contemplating his current state of affairs, and affairs seemed the appropriate word, when Cheyenne appeared at the table once again, clutching the second lot of cola/pasta in her hot little hands. She looked quizzically at Barney, having noticed Monk's dash for the door.
'I'll eat 'em,' he said, and Cheyenne smiled, feeling more comfortable with the man alone, and edged the condiments out of the way to place the plate on the table.
'Is there anything else I can get for you, Sir?' she asked, smiling.
'I'm fine, thanks,' said Barney, and Cheyenne, teeth bared to the world, turned and went about her business.
––––––––
Jude Orwell was a man on a mission; the mission codenamed Get Into Taylor Bergerac's Pants. Not that it was a great codename. In fact, it was more of a mission statement than a codename.
That morning had seen his latest round of cool moves. Firstly, a change of billboard outside her house – this time a giant poster of him, standing on a beach, sun-tanned and be-muscled in nothing but a g-string, looking out to sea at a glorious computer-enhanced sunset. In fact, the entire picture had been constructed by computer, as underneath the $2,000 suits, Jude Orwell was a bit of a pasty weasel. Happy enough to deal with the problem of what Bergerac would think when she finally saw him naked, when the time came.
He had also covered her route from home to work in many more posters, including space on the back of buses and taxis using the route, outlining in a variety of ways his qualities as an all-round top bloke. It'd cost a lot at such short notice, but Orwell had money and he knew which strings had to be pulled to get things done in London. The fact that he was spending so much time on it, while his executives were murdered and others plotted against him, was an irritation, but he imagined that Bergerac would succumb at any moment, and then he could return to the main business of exploiting the difficulties suddenly thrust upon BF&C to his own advantage.
To add to the billboard overkill, he'd also developed the strategy of the previous day a little further, in terms of e-mail, gifts and a singing ensemble to greet her in the morning. This time he arranged for an acoustic four-piece to do a kind of REM Automatic For The People-esque paean on how miserable his life would be without Bergerac in it, although once more they only managed to get to the end of the first line – Jude Orwell and the game of life, yeah, yeah, yeah – before she had them forcibly removed from her immediate vicinity. Taylor Bergerac had seen enough. It was time to have a little chat.
***
Into the lion's den came Harlequin Sweetlips. Actually, given that she was the lion, she was in fact walking into the wildebeest's den. Yet she felt a little threatened in the offices of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, surrounded as she was in her perception, by enemies.
Saturday afternoon, and strangely it was business as usual at BF&C. The troops were rallying to the beleaguered cause. Appointments arranged, the stout men and few women of the firm giving up their weekend to aid the infirm firm. And so, as Sweetlips entered the dragon's lair, Imelda was sitting straight-backed and efficient at her desk, doing a variety of things on her PC, and there were two others in the exceptionally sterile waiting area. One was a potential client, oblivious to the traumatic events at the company, and keen to enlist Jude Orwell's help in recruiting more people to join MI6. (Their previous three campaigns under the slogans You No Longer Have To Keep It A Secret; Just 'Cause You're A Lager-Drinking Ned Doesn't Mean We Won't Take You; and Just Imagine How Cool You'll Sound When You're Chatting Up Birds Down The Boozer, had failed to catch on, and the department was suffering a bit of a recruitment crisis.) The other in the waiting room was a potential new employee, still not finished his final year at Cambridge, but Waugh had heard news of him and had dragged him down for a chat with the promise of an enormous starting package.
Harlequin Sweetlips gave them the once over, pegged them both for what they were, then approached Imelda, who in turn immediately blanked her screen.
'Good afternoon,' said Imelda, with her usual amount of reserve when approached by an attractive woman.
'Hi,' said Sweetlips, who had met Imelda before on any number of occasions, but who today was wearing a fetching, and entirely convincing blonde wig and dark glasses, with her face clarted in enough product to mask the most recognisable face on the planet. Whoever that might be. Imelda couldn't spot Harlequin Sweetlips coming, not from two damned feet. 'I have an appointment to see Barney Thomson.'
Imelda looked unsure, aware of no such appointment, checked the appropriate list to make sure, then turned back to Sweetlips, shaking her head.
'I'm sorry, I don't have a note of any appointments for Mr. Thomson this afternoon. What did you say your name was?'
'Sweetlips,' said Sweetlips, and as always, Imelda was drawn to look at her lips, and while not recognising them as belonging to anyone she knew, at least recognised that they were indeed sweet. 'Harlequin Sweetlips,' Sweetlips breathed, in a way that oozed sex, even to members of her own sex who'd never considered having sex breathed at them by a woman.
Imelda shivered, felt a little disconcerted and tapped through to Barney's office.
'Just hold on a second, please,' she said, this time unable to look Sweetlips in the eye. Sweetlips, the brutal bastard, kept her eyes on Imelda the whole time, daring her to return the stare.
'Aye?' said Barney, lifting the phone.
'There's a Harlequin Sweetlips here to see you, Mr Thomson,' said Imelda. 'Says she has an appointment.'
Barney sat forward in his chair, having been, to be honest, almost asleep when the phone rang. Heating up high in his office, no meetings organised, he, at least, was wondering what he was doing there when he could be sitting at home trying to stop himself falling asleep. Head wandering through various conversations he could have with Daniella Monk; and some ideas already concocted and written out in preparation for the next group therapy session, masquerading as a promotional meeting. Barney was on top of things, so that the announcement of Harlequin Sweetlips was a bit of a jolt to the system. He was awake now. He hadn't learned the name of his brief encounter at the bar, but he knew this would be her.
'Aye,' he said, 'aye, sorry. I forgot to mention it. Send her up, Imelda.'
He hung up. Imelda pressed a button or two, curious as to what was going on.
'You can go up,' she said, barely able to look Sweetlips in the eye. 'Ninth floor, turn left out of the elevator.'
Sweetlips stood over the desk, enjoying the strength of her power, forcing Imelda to look up at her. Their eyes met, and Imelda felt herself undressed, felt naked and alive, felt like she wanted to have sex with Sweetlips there and then, on the floor of reception, in front of the Cambridge lad and the MI6 chap. She swallowed.
'Thanks,' said Sweetlips, and with that she turned and walked towards the elevator, and Imelda could not take her eyes off her until the doors had closed.
***
They stood at the window watching the Thames. Neither of them had yet spoken; they'd been standing there for over fifteen minutes. A safe couple of feet apart. Barney had known he'd feel uncomfortable with the desk between them, so had been standing at the window to await her arrival. She'd walked straight past Mary, hadn't knocked, and had entered and stood beside him without a word.
The river was hypnotic. Another dull day, nothing happening out there. It wasn't as if this part of the Thames ever saw too much action, but it didn't matter. All rivers are hypnotic, this as much as any other. They could stand there all day. Although Harlequin Sweetlips hadn't come here to look at the river. Wanted to see how much she could exert her control over Barney Thomson and, in fact, was a little pleased to see that she didn't have anything like the control she had over everyone else. Wondered if it was because of the strength of the man's character, or if it was because she had been forced to make the approach.
'You didn't go back to the bar,' said Sweetlips eventually, turning and looking at him at the same time, which surprised him.
'I did,' said Barney. 'Just not when you were there, obviously.'
'That seems believable,' she replied caustically. Eyes still on him, then, when it was apparent that he wasn't going to look at her, she looked back out on the river. Kicking herself for coming here. The man had the advantage; it was outrageous that she'd allowed herself to get into this position. He held her in thrall. Madness.
Look at me, you fuck! she screamed silently at him. Felt a rage growing inside her at his coolness, his taciturnity. His dumb-fucking control. Maybe he was just too stupid to get it? But she knew that wasn't it. Barney Thomson totally got her, every last ounce of her. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and tried to control her wrath. No point in doing it here, no point in blowing all the beautiful cover she had so fabulously constructed over the previous few days; not to mention the weeks and months and years of planning.
'Dinner tonight?' she asked, hating herself for having to ask. Feeling degraded by the question. Why the Hell was she having to ask him?
Barney hesitated, and not for effect either. Dinner with Harlequin Sweetlips? The insanity of walking eyes open, head first into a date with evil. And what would he do if Daniella Monk turned up and asked him to dinner? Why pursue an interest in someone like Sweetlips, whatever that interest might be, when he had Monk waiting for him?
'What time?' he asked.
'Got a couple of things to do first,' said Sweetlips, and this time Barney did look at her. A few things to do. Jude Orwell, Anthony Waugh or John Wodehouse he wondered. Which one was for the chop tonight? Maybe Monk's men would put a stop to it before it happened, and he'd be left alone at the restaurant, while his date was taken into police custody.
She returned his gaze, felt a little unnerved. He knew. Not just what kind of woman she was, he knew what was on her agenda for the evening. John Wodehouse. In fact, Wodehouse had been on the agenda for the entire evening, with the potential of a little fun before the climax. However, there was no reason why he couldn't be polished off quickly, and she could go for the more interesting option of Barney Thomson.
But then, if he knew, why was he having dinner with her? She knew the firm had had their meeting a couple of nights earlier. She knew they'd all been warned. She knew why Wodehouse wasn't concerned, the stupid little cretin, but Barney Thomson, why hadn't he bought into the warning? Especially when he could see the danger right there in front of him?
Because he had his own agenda. Everyone has their own agenda.
'Call it eight-thirty. Poons, Leicester Square,' she said.
Barney studied her face then turned away. Surprisingly public, he thought, and immediately started to contemplate the thinking behind the venue.
Sweetlips took one last look at the austere features of the first man to capture her interest in twelve years, then she turned and walked slowly from the office. Knew he wouldn't turn and watch her go, didn't look back over her shoulder.
Poons at eight-thirty, with the blood of John Wodehouse on her hands and conscience, would be time enough to look at him. She had at least managed to put one over on him at the end, leaving him to contemplate the convoluted thinking about her choice of restaurant, when in fact it was only because she liked the duck.
Work that out you fuck, she thought as she closed the door behind her, then chided herself for getting too competitive.
Probably just because she likes the duck, Barney thought to himself, seeing a couple of ducks in the water, far below.
The door opened behind him. Closed his eyes. Knew it wouldn't be Sweetlips back again. Hoped it would be Monk, but she would have allowed herself to be announced. It had to be someone from the company, and someone senior at that, or they would have been polite enough to knock. Orwell or Waugh. Had already had his post-morning meeting chat with Orwell, must be Waugh.
'Thomson,' said Waugh, taking the position at the window vacated by Sweetlips. Barney was wondering if he shouldn't just get a breakfast bar built at the window, and he and all his visitors could sit there, looking out on London as they had a natter.
'Mr Waugh,' he said. 'A good showing at the meeting. Very solid.'
'That's what I wanted to talk to you about,' said Waugh.
'Go on,' said Barney. There's the rub with telling two different sides you're going to get into bed with them, then choosing to sit in a chair. They both bitch at you.
'We could have absolutely friggin' crushed the bugger, there and then. The meeting was turned against him, the river was flowing, it was all in our favour, and what did you do? You said nothing, then you made some dramatic little friggin' speech, then you walked out? Completely broke the spell. What the hell was that, Thomson? I didn't get you that job so you could sit on your stupid arse and not get involved.'
Stupid arse, eh? Maybe it had been the recent visitation of the virgin Sweetlips, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, Barney got annoyed. Fed up with all of these people. They could be as stupid as they liked, and he didn't have to care, but he didn't have to sit here and take their crap.
'You didn't get me the job,' said Barney, harshly, looking Waugh in the eye.
'What does that mean?'
'It means, Orwell had the same idea. He floated it to me months before you, he gave me a live audition with some of the other crew, then he and Bethlehem agreed that I should get the position. All before you thought of it. I owe you nothing. Not, however, that I consider I owe Orwell anything either.'
Waugh raged silently. Veins thumped in his head, teeth gritted.
'Why didn't you say?' he asked bitterly.
'Too busy laughing,' said Barney, dryly.
'Well,' he said, 'you did a friggin' awful job for someone who's supposed to be on his side.'
'I said I owe him nothing.'
Waugh growled, turned and walked quickly from the room. Stopped at the door and, however angry, realised that he hadn't actually got any sort of an answer from Barney.
'Whose side are you on?' he asked sharply of Barney's back.
Barney stared out at the grey, grey day. Time to leave this place, he thought, if it wasn't already too late.
'My own,' he said.
Felt Waugh's eyes carve holes in his back, then the door was opened and slammed shut. He sighed, shook his head. Another bridge burned, and he couldn't really have cared less. Which, in the case of a psychotic vindictive bastard such as Waugh, was possibly a mistake.
––––––––
The two officers assigned to watch and guard John Wodehouse noticed the woman even before they realised that she was Wodehouse's intended date for the evening. Sitting alone in the window of the bar on Leicester Square, staring out at the raindrops pinging off the wet ground. She had a beautiful air of melancholy, a haunting sadness that would attract men even more than physical allure. Blonde hair in a neat bob, not much make-up, a little lipstick, very pale purple. Chin resting in the palm of her hand, and they both temporarily took their eyes off Wodehouse to watch her. Switched back onto him when he arrived at her table and kissed her on the cheek before sitting down. Would have kissed her lips, but she moved her face at the last second. Still, the lad Wodehouse was so pumped full of confidence at that moment that it did little to dent it. Wodehouse ordered a drink, and another whatever for the lady, and the two officers settled back to watch, assuming that if this melancholic lady was to be the murderer – and on first sight neither of them thought for a second that she was – she wasn't going to be doing anything in Leicester Square at this time of the evening.
Half an hour later Harlequin Sweetlips walked from the bar, pulling the collar of her coat up around her neck. The on-off drizzling rain of the day had given way to a torrential downpour, and it was into this that she dragged poor Wodehouse. The lad was none too impressed with having to subject his $3500 Armani jacket to this weather, but he was so suitably intoxicated by the glory of Sweetlips that he had no option but to trail out after her, to be led wherever she wanted to go. And her final words before rising from the table and leading him out into the storm – let's go up some alleyway and fuck in the rain – had been a bit of a rallying call.
Holding hands they trotted across Leicester Square and out onto Charing Cross Road. Pinky and Perky, the policemen on duty, growled at having to venture out into this weather, pulled their coats tight, and dashed out of the door on the trail of the endangered species.
'Where are we going?' asked Wodehouse innocently, laughing, beginning to enjoy the rain, dodging the tidal waves thrown up by the taxis, and the low umbrellas of the old women on the street.
'I know a place,' said Sweetlips. 'Come on.'
And she quickened her pace. Knew fine well that Little & Large were on their tail, and had no particular desire to get away from them. More than content for them to see the ritual that was about to take place; she could handle three of them at once. Wasn't as if she hadn't before.
'This is crazy!' yelled Wodehouse above the sound of a double-decker, and suddenly she veered off to her right onto Flitcroft Street, and they were away from the traffic, the sounds of their footfalls louder between the narrow walls. Past the music shops, round the corner, and she stopped, the church of St Giles-in-the-Field in front of them. Sweetlips collapsed in a doorway, out of breath after the exertions of running for a couple of minutes; Wodehouse rested beside her, his panting all the harder and more genuine. He put his right hand on her coat, breathing hard, laughing, smiling, having fun.
'Fuck's sake, Harley,' he said, 'you are outrageous.'
'You think?' she said, and the ease of just those two words belied the look of over-exertion.
'This is going to be so Nine And a Half Weeks,' said Wodehouse, and he leaned forward and kissed her, though his mouth and nostrils gaped.
She took it for a few seconds, then pulled back, laughing herself.
'More Psycho than Nine And A Half Weeks, Babe,' she said.
Wodehouse laughed.
'How d'you mean, Babe?' he asked.
Really, you'd think he'd have learned. Despite the warnings, despite his fellows being murdered by an inappropriate woman, despite what had happened in the previous week, none of it mattered one bit to John Wodehouse. He still didn't get it. He still thought he was above it all, still thought he was indestructible.
Sweetlips had thought she might actually do Wodehouse in a doorway in the pouring rain, but already she could hear the footsteps of Plod and Sod less than twenty yards away. A quick kill, it would all be over and done with, and if she still felt she needed sex, there was always Barney Thomson later on.
She produced the blade – a new one this time, just four inches of steel, but more than enough – and with a beautiful flowing movement lifted it and buried it in the centre of Wodehouse's head before he could even register surprise. So thick-skinned about his own invincibility that he didn't see it coming, even when he saw it coming. Stupid really, rather than thick-skinned.
She left the knife embedded for a second, then pulled it out with a marvellous sucking sound, like removing a rubber glove, and stepped forward as Wodehouse's body pitched to the side and his head smacked into the doorway. When Batman and Robin turned the corner at something between a trot and a sprint, she was poised and waiting, knife above her head.
They juddered to a halt, eyes wide, but with no weapons ready.
'Haaa-Waaaah!' she screamed, because she'd always wanted to do the martial arts movie thing.
'What?' said Robin, while Batman looked down at the stricken figure of John Wodehouse.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Like Zorro. Three swishes of the knife; one to take out Batman, a quickie between the two, and then one to take out Robin, while he was still standing unprepared for the attack, hypnotised by the very presence of Harlequin Sweetlips. Throats slit, they fell at her feet, like so many men before them. She stood poised for a few more seconds, knife still held aloft, genuinely breathing hard now with the sheer glory of the kill. Then slowly she lowered her arm and held the blade open to the rain to wash away the blood.
She turned quickly at a low noise behind. A guy with a beard, a bit dishevelled, but not an out and out jake. However, he was loitering in the area because he'd been indulging in an illegal substance or two. Not entirely clear-eyed, he looked down at the three bodies, blood running in rivers, then up into Sweetlips' face.
'Did you do that?' he asked, a curious question, given that she was standing with a knife in her hand, and he had actually seen her do it.
'Don't think so,' said Sweetlips. Even if he was clear-headed enough to go to the police, which she recognised he wasn't, the description he gave them was only going to be extant for another five minutes or so.
She let the knife fall from her fingers and clank to the ground, where it came to rest nestling in at Batman's armpit. Or aisselle, as the country was about to know it.
'Right,' he said.
'Good,' said Sweetlips, smiling. 'Glad we got that cleared up.'
She nodded and turned, and when she caught her last sight of him, he had already begun to lose interest. Back round the corner the way she'd come, and she was running through the rain, the laurels of satisfaction still transmitted to the world by the enormous smile on her face, and once more out onto a quiet and horribly wet Charing Cross Road.
––––––––
The phone buzzed, Orwell casually flicked a finger at a button, imagining he was in some TV show. Frequently lived his life as if he was under constant watch. Half-expected that Hell, if it existed, would actually involve having to sit in front of a large TV screen, watching your life in constant playback for all eternity. How stupid were we all going to feel doing that? So, when he remembered, he tried to look cool even when he was alone.
'Rose, come on,' he said. 'It's Saturday evening, I don't even know why you're here. Go home, leave me alone. No calls means no calls. I'm mega here, you know that.'
'You've got a visitor,' said Rose, taking no notice.
'Like, a visitor?' said Orwell, adding extra incredulity to his voice on top of that which he actually felt. 'You are so kidding me, Rose. I said no calls. What does that mean, Rose? It means I don't want any phone calls, and I don't want some moron calling round to the office trying to see me. No calls is no calls, Rose. Get with the programme.'
He clicked off. There was work to be done. Not actual work work, because this was Saturday evening. The work was the job of luring Taylor Bergerac to his bed, which was beginning to involve the most elaborate of stratagems.
He was currently working on a plan that would allow him to bring his penthouse apartment in New York into play, because women just absolutely fell for that the minute they knew it existed. His trump card; the chance to make love high above Manhattan, in a glass-roofed apartment. The city below, the stars above. Hoped he'd be able to toss it into the mix to impress her further, when they'd already become involved, but if it was needed now, then so be it. He just had to work out how best to establish the absolute jaw-dropping grandeur of the location.
The door opened. Rose stuck her head round.
'You have a visitor,' she said quietly, looking him in the eye.
He breathed out, a long slow breath.
'Rose,' he said calmly, voice rock steady. 'Seriously, darlin'. There is no one on the planet, no one, who I want to see in this office right now. If the Queen is out there, tell her to come back in the morning.'
'I'll send her in,' said Rose, and turning, left the door open.
'Jesus!' said Orwell. 'Jesus, Rose! What do I have to do?'
The door was pushed open a little further; the frustration and annoyance slid off Orwell's face. For all the grandiose planning and optimism that he'd been forcing down his own throat for the past couple of days, he hadn't even remotely expected Taylor Bergerac to turn up at his office. He'd talked a good game, sure enough, but the true litmus test of his confidence, his own inherent expectations, had been absolutely zero. Not for a second, while Rose had been forcing this visitor on him, had he thought that it wouldn't be work of some description.
Yet, here she was, Taylor Bergerac, in the flesh. A maroon gabardine over a starkly contrasting white blouse, slim legs going in the right direction. Orwell stood up, his heart suddenly galloping. Like everyone who ever did the lottery, not expecting in a million years to win it; the sudden realisation of a life-changing moment, and you don't know what to do with it, or yourself.
'Taylor,' he managed to say. 'Like, hi!'
'Mr Orwell,' said Bergerac, and she closed the door behind her and walked into the middle of his office. Even the Mr Orwell remark didn't dampen Orwell's magnificent moment, it registering nothing on the Obviously She Thinks You're An Idiot scale. He stood with his arms open, waiting in wondrous happiness, the smile which he was at least trying to control, galloping around his face, much in the way that his heart was gambolling around his chest.
'This is, like ... . yeah,' said Orwell. 'Totally, like, yeah. Can I get you anything? Gin & tonic maybe?'
'I'm only going to say this once,' said Bergerac.
'Sure,' said Orwell, still not grasping the essence of her tone. 'Like it. Totally to the point.'
She took another pace towards him. He smiled.
'Stop sending me all this stupid fucking crap. Stop the calls, stop the stupid fucking billboards with your pasty little head stuck on someone else's body. Stop the ridiculous singing morons turning up at the office and outside my house. Stop it all! Now! Enough. Last man on fucking earth, you know what I'm saying. Last man on earth! Leave me alone!'
Orwell was a bit taken aback, at the vehemence as much as the words.
'How d'you mean that?' he said rather stupidly.
'Leave me the fuck alone, Orwell,' said Bergerac.
'I meant, the last man on earth?'
'As in, I wouldn't touch you if you were it.'
'OK. Right.'
He stared gormlessly at her. While he hadn't actually been expecting her to turn up at his door at all, if he'd thought she'd bother to make the effort, it would at least have been with romantic intent, not to tell him to clear off. Bit of a crushing blow.
'Didn't you see that e-mail I sent you this morning?' he said, trying to instil some level of confidence into his voice.
'Which one?' she said dryly. Not that it mattered, as she hadn't read one word of any of them
'The one with the story about the time I met Uma Thurman in an elevator and I advised her to pull out of The Lord Of The Rings. It's completely relevant here. Totally.'
Bergerac stood, right foot forward, hands on hips, looking at Orwell in a kind of a Beverly Hills way. Not entirely sure what planet he was on, almost curious as to the relationship between his chance encounter with Uma Thurman – if it had ever actually taken place – and their current situation, but with no intention of ever asking, and generally just marvelling at the downright ballsy insanity of the man.
'What?' he said, and a smile came to his face, because he thought the mention of his great Uma story might have begun to do the trick.
'You defy my understanding of human life,' she said. 'Seriously.'
His smile broadened.
'That's cool, right?'
'Why didn't you just call me up and ask me out? You didn't even speak to me before you started this crap.'
He held his hands out, the smile now imprinted on his face.
'I'm a big gesture guy,' he said and started to laugh. Walked casually round from behind his desk, hands into his pockets and back out again. Still edgy, despite the confidence he was exuding.
'Well, at least we have something in common,' she said, and the tone had changed back to what it had been at the start. Time to lose the wonder at the man and get back to business.
'What d'you mean, Babe?' he said, leaning back against his desk, standing right in front of her. Folded his arms, then unfolded them again when he realised it was bad body language.
'I mean this,' she said, and she took another step towards him, so that she was more or less in his face. 'This stops now. Everything, every last fucking thing. It stops now. And if it doesn't, you will reap the benefit of one of my big gestures. And if you don't know what I mean by that, then you're even more of a fucking idiot than you look.'
Another second or two standing in his face to hammer home the point.
'Cool,' he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
She turned and walked to the door.
'Big gesture?' he said.
She opened the door and turned back to face him.
'We've given the London 2012 account to Carter & Carter.'
Another pause and she was on her way. The door closed behind her. She had been playing her own game, had acted out every line. Having a bit of a laugh.
Orwell stared at the door for a few seconds, then walked forward into the space she had just vacated, trying to get the scent of her. Which he did. He breathed in. He closed his eyes, imagined she was still there.
'Getting closer,' he said quietly to himself, and he ran his hand through his hair.
Big gesture, he thought. Now that sounded like something he wanted to know more about.
––––––––
Barney Thomson and Harlequin Sweetlips were having an enjoyable evening. Relaxed, amiable, no pressure. Almost as if there'd been a silent agreement between them not to worry about any events currently taking place, not to concern themselves with anything that had gone on in the past. A couple like any other. As they sat at dinner, they could've been an advert pair, doing a spot for indigestion tablets or any women's product you care to mention. Have Your Period And Eat Five Spice Peking Duck At The Same Time, With The All-New Ultra-Slim Limited Edition Capacity All-Evening Panty Liner. It Makes Sense, Because So Do You.
And there seemed to be no pressure about what would come after. No sexual tension in the air, no unspoken intangible about murder. They chatted amiably about the advertising business and the people you met who worked in advertising and the ridiculous concepts they created. They laughed, they talked, Barney did not feel threatened. He only thought about Daniella Monk eighty or ninety times, which isn't so much in the space of three hours.
And when the jasmine tea was done and dusted, they nodded to one another, walked down the stairs and back out into a wet, bustling London evening.
***
Daniella Monk leaned against the railings of St Giles-in-the-Field and looked up at the spire, the falling rain illuminated by the church spotlights. Despite the presence of seventeen police officers, and most of the area being sealed off, there were still a couple of guys shooting up in the grounds of the church; comfortable in the knowledge that they were unlikely to be interrupted by CID investigating a triple murder, with two of their own dead.
Monk had finally been able to leave the office at a little after seven, and had been able to spend a rare half hour at home – most of which time she'd spent contemplating calling Barney Thomson and managing to stop herself – before the phone rang. It hadn't been Barney, as she'd hoped it would be, and she'd been summoned to the latest murder scene.
She had spent the entire afternoon trying to locate Margie Crane. A lot of enquiries made, but no progress whatsoever.
Footsteps behind her and she was able for a short time to take her mind off Barney Thomson. Didn't turn, waited for Frankenstein to come alongside.
'They were good lads,' he said, resting his arms on the top of the railing, looking directly at the two middle-aged junkies and that day's dose.
'Yeah,' she said, immediately feeling guilty that she'd hardly given DCs Jobe and Knights a second thought. Hadn't met either of them before. Wondered if Frankenstein had, for all his good lads remark.
'Jobe had a kid. Three months,' said Frankenstein.
Monk closed her eyes, swallowed. Saw the baby sleeping soundly, the mother looking over the edge of the cot, tears in her eyes, breaking up. Was the joy ever worth the potential pain of all the things that could go wrong? Started to think about children, a weird broodiness, became aware that her thoughts always turned back to herself. Everybody else's problems were digested into how she would deal with that situation. Was she any more selfish than anyone else? She always kept it inside; the rest of the world would consider her compassionate. Only she knew the truth. Maybe everyone was the same.
More introspection out of someone else's pain.
'Told me the other day that his missus is struggling. You know, post-natal. Christ, what's this going to do for her? What chance has the kid got?'
'All right,' said Monk, sharply. Didn't want to think about DC Jobe's family. What good would it be to them, her thinking about their pain?
'It's a pish world,' said Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' said Monk.
They stood in the rain, watching one of the junkies drop his needle and loll over on his side, into the wet grass.
'Goldbeck managed to get the Archbishop's fingerprint from the knife used to kill Hemingway,' said Frankenstein quietly. As if he didn't want to admit it, didn't want it to have happened.
Monk didn't reply. It could have been worse, she was thinking. It could have been the Prime Minister's fingerprints this time. Or the Queen's. Did they have the Queen's fingerprints on their database, she wondered.
'We'll need to speak to Strumpet again. Crap,' he added, his voice tailing away. 'Look, did you speak to any of these comedians?' he said, deciding he had to stop sounding so abject, indicating the guys in the churchyard.
'Any that we could find. Surprisingly, none of them had anything to report.'
'Useless wankers,' muttered Frankenstein. 'Fucking useless.'
'It's just life,' said Monk.
'Very deep,' said Frankenstein.
'What was Wodehouse doing coming up a street like this with a woman?' said Monk. 'He was looking to get laid. Well, he got what was bloody coming to him. I spoke to those people, I told them the score, I told them to be careful. They all think they're invincible.'
Frankenstein nodded.
'Maybe you're right, Danno. And there's a three-month-old kid left fatherless because of it.'
'All right with the three-month-old kid, Sir,' said Monk.
Another pause. Monk tried to put thoughts of real life out of her head. The everyday crime, that wasn't real. It was just a job. Babies being left without fathers, that was real, that was pain. She knew all about that.
'You manage to get anything on the Crane woman?' asked Frankenstein.
'Nope,' she said. 'Disappeared like white nuns into the snow.'
He gave her a sideways glance.
'What the fuck does that mean?'
'Just a story I heard once.'
There was a pause. She turned and looked at him.
'You know,' said Frankenstein, 'I think that guy might be dead.'
Monk looked at him quizzically, wondering who he was talking about, then clicked and followed his gaze to the comedian slumped in the grass.
'Nah,' she said.
'Yeah,' said Frankenstein. 'I can tell. He's dead. Still, if he's lucky, someone'll find him in the morning. Come on, let's get out of this rain, get back to the station, you can tell me about the Crane.'
'Yeah,' said Monk, and they turned and walked back towards the murder scene, past the tent which was covering the area, an area which had already received a good wash down from the Heavens, long before the police had ever arrived.
***
Jude Orwell stayed in the office until nearly midnight, beavering away. One of only two of the BF&C collective left on the potential and speculative list of victims, he had been given pause by the news of Wodehouse's death, and had blithely accepted that there were now two police officers sitting outside his office. However, he had been energised by his visit from Taylor Bergerac, the smell, the beauty, the allure of her. Even more entranced than he had been whilst in his earlier shock & awe stage. His obsession scaling new heights, he no longer seemed to care about Wodehouse or the company. Not until he had been able to completely scratch this itch, not until he had been able to find out about Bergerac's Big Gesture, something which had captivated his imagination. Able, in his deluded infatuation, to ignore the fact that she'd told him to fuck off, and to ignore her tone and everything else she'd said. She had, undoubtedly, looked at him with wonder for a few seconds, and that was the moment he continued to play in his head. That was the moment onto which he would cling.
He sat at his laptop, devising new ways to impress, new ways to get the message of Jude Orwell over to a sceptical audience. This was his finest hour, no doubt, and success would be his. The next day, when she had met the full barrage of his latest stun & respect tactics, he would indeed find out about the exact nature of the Big Gesture. And once he had that out of the way, and once he had his mind and his life back, then he could put this new genius, these new fantastic ideas he was developing, this new culture of supreme promotion into the company itself, and he could sort out Anthony Waugh and even the legendary Thomas Bethlehem himself.
'Big Gesture,' he mumbled into his shadow, 'you will be mine.'
And you know, he was right.
***
God sat at a bar, nursing His second vodka tonic of the evening. Didn't want to overdo it, because for all the all-powerful deity aspects of His character, vodka still didn't sit well with Him. Sure, He could drink pints of the stuff, it wasn't like He was ever going to fall over drunk or start grabbing women and telling them He loved them. It just gave Him a killer of a headache in the morning. Killer.
A man came and sat beside Him, empty beer in his hand. God had seen him sitting alone at a table all night, steadily working his way through a crate of Miller. Had known the bloke would come and talk to Him, what with Him being God and all. Knew all the guy's problems. Wife having left him for the vicar; children grown up and away from home; banned from the golf club for repeatedly doctoring his medal cards; prostate trouble as a result of years of stress working in advertising. An empty life. And now he had decided, after a long evening sitting on his own, to come and talk to the fellow at the bar. People were drawn to God.
'You're looking a bit down there, Pal,' said God, thinking He might as well get on with it. Had already concluded three pieces of business this evening and was on a roll. All right, it wasn't exactly going to turn the world upside down, but God was, by nature, a big picture guy. Knew you had to think strategically. These things took time, and He had the patience.
The bloke – a stout chap by the name of Edwin Burrows – snorted and banged his bottle on the bar to order another.
'Wife?' asked God. 'Work? Kids?'
Burrows turned and looked into the eyes of God and saw a lot there.
'You're a perceptive fellow,' he said.
'Yeah,' said God.
'All three,' said Burrows quickly. 'All pissing three.'
'You want a way out, Bud?' asked God.
The next Miller appeared on the bar and Burrows rolled a couple of coins the way of the barkeep.
'You American?' asked Burrows.
'Not exactly,' said God. 'Picked up the accent watching too many movies.'
'Ouch,' said Burrows, and God shook His head, wishing He wouldn't make these stupid jokes about Himself.
God took a long drink, started contemplating a third, decided quickly against. Had a busy morning ahead of Him, couldn't risk having a head with a plague of tortured synapses.
'Right, Bud,' he said abruptly, 'I'm outta here. Tired, got a busy day coming up. You want a way out or not?'
'Sure,' said Burrows, 'who wouldn't?'
'Plenty of people,' said God. 'Lots of folk like to achieve things and work their way through problems themselves, without going for an easy fix.'
'That is so last century,' said Burrows.
'Yeah, whatever. Last chance.'
'What are you offering?'
'Anything,' said God. 'Kill the vicar maybe, give your wife syphilis, make your kids call every day and visit every month, turn your business around so that you can buy the golf club, even throw in a scratch handicap. And no more prostate problems. What d'you say?'
Burrows was stunned. He'd always known he'd been a heart-on-his-sleeve type of a guy, but this was insane. He surely didn't have golf-cheat written on his forehead.
'How much?' was all he said.
'Eternity in Heaven,' said God.
'Heaven?' said Burrows. 'Are you an angel? Cary Grant in The Bishop's Wife, something like that?'
'Hey,' said God, smiling, 'that was a great movie, wasn't it? Had a hand in some of the screenplay myself, you know. Quality work.'
Burrows nodded, took some beer, thinking it might help with understanding to whom he was talking.
'I'm no angel,' said God. 'I'm the line manager. So, what's it to be? Heaven or not?'
'Eh, yeah,' said Burrows. 'Seems sensible.'
'There's no rock music,' said God.
'Ella?'
'Sure, Bud.'
'All right. Can you give the wife HIV instead of syphilis?'
God shook His head. 'Sorry, fella, Satan's got the copyright on that one. All his work, can't help you out there. I could do something more classically painful and disfiguring. Leprosy, something like that.'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Burrows. 'Any generic STD should do the trick.'
'Cool,' said God. Burrows held out his hand, and they shook on it.
'I am outta here,' said God, and He downed the last of His vodka and headed for the streets. Burrows watched Him go, enjoying a tremendous feeling of well-being, a feeling which had, however, worn off by the time the following morning dawned, spinning and hungover. Nevertheless, by the end of that day, one of his children had visited, the other two had called, he had seven new clients, his wife had a bit of an itch, he'd gone round Wentworth in 71 with a lovely eagle at the last, and the vicar had died in a car accident.
––––––––
One-fifteen in the morning and Monk finally got to walk away from the station, everything done for the early hours that could be. Head buzzing but extremely tired. Didn't want to go home. Five murders, all stabbings, seemingly by the same hand. They had a serial killer in town, and it was her job – amongst others – to catch her. With every murder the pressure would grow, and at every level of the department. Work was going to become intolerable until they caught this woman.
She needed company. She wanted to talk it over with someone, sit up until early morning discussing the case. At least it would help her take her mind off her latest love interest. Only, it was her latest love interest with whom she wanted to sit up late into the night talking.
Got into her car, turned on the ignition, stared straight ahead. Barney Thomson. At this time of night, only fifteen minutes from where she was. Likely to be alone. Would he be alone? He had loner written all over him. He might have women on occasion, but not late into the night. That's what she thought.
She pulled out of the station car park and headed north.
***
Seventeen minutes later she pulled the car up outside the apartment building, checked the address on the piece of paper and turned off the engine. Sat for a short time, composing herself, thinking about what she was doing. How stupid was she going to feel if he wasn't alone? Or worse, if he said that he was tired and didn't let her in at all? Nothing more humbling than leaving yourself open to rejection. She took a deep breath, concentrated on the signals she'd been getting from him, which she knew to be right, and got out of the car. Walked up a short path, stood at the entrance beside the short row of buzzers. Barney Thomson, the name written in pen, third down. She hesitated again.
Heard a noise inside, as an inner door swung open. A woman's footsteps on tile, and then the outer door opened and suddenly Detective Sergeant Daniella Monk was two feet away from Harlequin Sweetlips, the murderer they had been seeking for the past few days.
Sweetlips looked at her. Monk recognised something in her eyes, but nothing tangible, nothing she could formulate into words. A photograph maybe. Seen the face before. She paused. There was something there, but neither of them recognised what it was. Suddenly Monk realised that Sweetlips was holding the door open, and she stepped forward to pass her.
'Thanks,' she said.
Sweetlips nodded. They finally dragged their eyes from one another, and then Sweetlips was gone and Monk walked into the building. Walked slowly, trying to identify why she'd just had the most enormous shiver convulse her body, and why she still had a feeling of great unease. Looked over her shoulder through the glass doors, but Sweetlips had vanished, and the night was cold and damp and menacing. Monk turned and walked quickly up the stairs.
Found Barney's door, another pause, final chance to walk away and not make an idiot of herself. Checked her watch. 1:37.
She rang the bell and it was only then that it occurred to her that the woman she'd met at the entrance might have been leaving Barney's apartment. Hot under the collar. Contemplated turning and walking quickly down the stairs. Get out the building before he answered. But then, if he came after her and saw who it was, how stupid was she going to come across? She had to stay.
The door opened. Barney Thomson in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, expecting Harlequin Sweetlips. His face showed it too and she knew he hadn't been asleep.
'Hello,' said Barney. 'This is, em, a bit weird.'
Monk looked down the stairs, turned back to him.
'Sorry, had she just left here?'
Barney didn't really know what to say to that, so he completely avoided the question, in true politician's style, although as with politicians, the answer was obvious from the evasion.
'Come in,' he said.
'It's all right,' said Monk. 'I shouldn't have come round. I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Come on,' said Barney, pulling the door wide open. 'Come in. You look dreadful.'
She choked on a laugh.
'Thanks,' she said, and walked past him into his apartment.
Barney looked down the corridor, almost expecting Sweetlips to be waiting there, then closed the door and followed Monk into the lounge. Sparsely decorated, no pictures, small TV, open-plan kitchen.
'You don't look like you're staying,' said Monk, standing in the middle of the room.
'Coffee or alcohol?' asked Barney.
'Coffee please,' she said.
'Probably won't,' said Barney, going about the business of coffee.
She nodded, looked around for a chair, slumped down. Not feeling as stupid as she thought she might the first time it had occurred to her that she was arriving as his previous visitor left. It had almost taken the pressure off. She'd been seeing Barney as a potential love interest, and in an instant, a snap of the vicious fingers of romance, that was gone. Too exhausted to feel anything about it.
'What's up?' he asked.
She rested her head back on the seat and suddenly felt all the tiredness come rushing back through her body. Maybe she did want to sleep after all. Could feel all her muscles relax, her whole body sink into the chair, felt the arms of the chair wrap around her and enclose her and make her feel safe and warm.
'John Wodehouse,' she said, the voice already heavy.
'Ah,' said Barney. So much for the police escort. Hoped they wouldn't put one of them onto him.
'His bodyguards were killed as well. One of them had a three-month-old baby,' she added, voice becoming a mumble. 'What's that going to be like for the mother? Horrible.'
The voice trailed off. Her head had turned to the side. Asleep.
'Monk?' said Barney.
He walked round the kitchen bar and stood beside her. Looked down at her pale, tired face. Checked the clock. Would they expect her back into work on a Sunday? Five murders to solve, of course they would, and pretty early. Should set his alarm for her.
He walked into the bedroom to fetch a blanket, returned and laid it gently across her. He had just spent five hours with Harlequin Sweetlips and all thoughts of her were gone. He sat down beside Monk and stared at her face, imagining the kiss of her lips. And eventually he let his hand drift to her head so that he could run his fingers through her hair, and he sat like that for a long, long time.
***
And all the time he sat beside Daniella Monk, running his fingers through her hair, Harlequin Sweetlips stood across the road, looking up at the window. The curtains were drawn, and from down there she would not have been able to see in any case, but she stood and watched. Feeling rejected, feeling usurped, and feeling that maybe it was about time that something was done about Barney Thomson.
––––––––
Barney let Monk sleep long into the morning. Even dug out her cell phone and switched it off. Changed the clocks in the sitting room and also her watch, so that when she awoke she didn't dash up and fly around in a mad panic.
She woke at a little after midday to find Barney sitting looking at her. Cloudy day outside, no way to tell that the sun was high in the sky. Checked her watch, looked curiously at Barney, shook her head to clear the fug.
'It's before eight?' she asked.
'Aye,' said Barney. Had spent the laziest of lazy Sunday mornings sitting beside her, reading the Observer, finding it hard to look at the paper.
'Feel like I've been asleep for days,' she said. 'I should get going.'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Have a shower first. I've laid out a towel and a clean shirt.'
Gave him a look, felt some of the feelings she suddenly remembered extinguishing just before falling asleep.
'Thanks.'
'No problem. Go, get on with it. You'll be late for work.'
She nodded, stood up, stretched and walked from the sitting room.
***
'Feels later than eight-twenty,' she said, as they walked down the stairs, she to head into the station, Barney to go into the centre of town. Walk in a park, do whatever, didn't want to sit around his flat all day.
'It is,' said Barney.
'Go on.'
He got to the bottom, held the inner door open for her, then the outer. Once outside, she felt the plain early-afternoon-ness of the day.
'Jesus, Barney,' she said, 'what time are we talking here?'
'Twenty past twelve.'
'What? God, Barney, you're kidding me?'
'You needed the sleep,' he said, not in the least defensively.
'What time is it? Really?' she asked, looking at her watch again. Started digging out her phone.
'It's twelve-twenty,' said Barney. 'I know you're going to get your arse kicked, but you're exhausted. You're not going to be able to work anything out when you've not slept enough.'
Arrived at the car, saw the time on her phone, checked for messages, found the most recent of seven, all of which were from the station. Whr fck ru?
'God, Barney, you're not my mother. Jesus. We're in the middle of the biggest investigation in London in years.'
'It's fine,' said Barney, exuding the air of a Jedi master. No way for him to know it was going to be fine. In fact, it pretty definitely wasn't going to be fine, but with events about to take the turn that they were, she was more or less going to be excused being five hours late for the office.
'Fuck,' she said. Didn't have the words for the level of exasperation she was feeling. 'I'm dead.'
'It's cool,' said Barney. 'Could you give me a lift?'
She did a bit of a girlie squeal thing, about which she immediately felt embarrassed, then opened up and got into the car. Started up, barely giving Barney time to get in, squealed the tyres, drove off.
'I don't believe this,' she said. 'You switched my mobile off?'
'Aye.'
'And what have you done all morning?' she asked.
'Went through your bag, sat and watched you like some deranged serial killer. Nothing much, but I had fun.'
She tried to stop herself smiling at him, turned a corner too fast, tyres screeched again, nearly hit an oncoming white van.
'Monk, you're late,' said Barney. 'Accept it, don't die.'
Still felt like she was sitting next to her mother, but was aware of her foot lifting a fraction from the accelerator. Able to stop at the next junction without a scream of brakes. Tapped her fingers on the steering wheel waiting for an old geezer to crawl out into the traffic.
'Who was she?' asked Monk, thinking she might as well get that particular part of the evening out into the open.
Barney pursed his lips. Monk was the real thing; don't start with a lie.
'Picked her up in a bar the other night. Maybe she picked me up, hard to tell. Went out to dinner last night. Poons.'
'Oh, yeah, what did you have?' asked Monk, trying to be normal. She liked Poons, hadn't been there in a couple of years. Not since she'd split with Maurice. God, there'd been a guy. Well, a Muppet, more than a guy.
'We both had duck,' said Barney. 'Not the same dish.' Mundane chat, a necessary rehabilitator. Still, had to get on with the facts. 'Anyway, back to my place for coffee, she left. Bit awkward at the end. I don't really get women sometimes. We weren't looking for the same thing.'
'Who is she?' asked Monk, getting out onto the main road on the back of the old geezer, and receiving a hefty honk from a BMW. Wanted to ask about sex, didn't feel able to yet.
Barney thought about Sweetlips. What did he actually know, and what did he want to tell Monk?
'To be honest, I'm not really sure.'
She looked at him, too long really, what with her driving a car in heavy traffic. Could've been Cary Grant in a '50s Hitchcock drama, until Barney gave a little nod with his eyebrows, and she turned back just in time to veer around a stationary yellow Daf 7T lorry.
'Crap,' she said, as she moved into the outside lane and automatically slowed a little further.
'You mess with my head,' she muttered. 'Just don't talk to me until you tell me where you want dropped off.'
Barney smiled, rested his head back on the seat. Closed his eyes. He was tired. Had been awake all night. A preposterous night. A few hours with Harlequin Sweetlips and a few hours with Daniella Monk. A bizarre night for him to have. Barney Thomson and two women. Amused him, made him uncomfortable at the same time. Maybe he needed to escape from this just as much as he needed to escape from the insane firm of marketing consultants.
His eyes shot open. Had he been asleep?
He looked at Monk, who was staring straight ahead, expressionless. He stared along the road, suddenly aware that there was something wrong, his sixth sense rocketing from nought to sixty.
He looked over his shoulder, the hairs starting to rise on the back of his neck. Monk picked up on his agitation, took a quick glance at him.
'What?' she said.
'Don't know,' he said. 'There's something.'
He looked through the trees in the park to their left, turned and glanced up at the windows of the houses across from the park.
'What? Come on, Barney, you're freaking me out.'
The moped appeared beside them, overtaking on the outside. They both turned at the same time.
The rider was a slender figure dressed in black leather, with an old-fashioned helmet and dark goggles. Long brown hair flowed beautifully from beneath the helmet. The head turned towards them. Barney and Monk were transfixed. Beneath the goggles the lips, the full red lips, sweet and gorgeous, parted in a wide smile.
'Is that her?' said Monk. Knew it was. Feelings scattered between loathing and anger, disdain and fear. Not fear, terror.
The black helmet nodded curtly in brief acknowledgment of them. They couldn't see the eyes, yet they transfixed them. Dark pools, invisible behind the goggles, yet they stared crazily into their depths.
The rider lifted her right hand from the bars and pointed forwards. Monk looked round.
Monk's car, travelling at forty-three miles per hour, smacked into the back of a stationary Volvo.
The car crumpled. Barney Thomson and Detective Sergeant Daniella Monk went from forty-three miles per hour to stationary in a fraction of a second.
The wreckage sprayed into the air in a tumult of noise, crashing metal, air bags and wrecked body parts.
Body parts. Car and human.
The small moped with the rider in black, accelerated along the road, evading the flying wreckage, turned a corner and was lost to the early London afternoon.
***
Orwell looked down on the Thames from his position on the tenth floor. Back in work, nowhere else to go. Wondering about Bethlehem for a rare few minutes, rather than Taylor Bergerac. Had received a text message that morning, as long-winded as Bethlehem's usually were. The man had studied English at Cambridge, and you knew from his texting that he couldn't bring himself to write abbreviated or bad prose.
I will be returning tomorrow late afternoon. Assemble whoever is left for a five-thirty, although just the main players, not the pond life. Recruited new Head Of Other Contracts; do not, repeat do not fill that position yourself. Alert Waugh. She will be coming with me. Lay out the red carpet. Bethlehem.
Orwell lifted his phone and read the message for the eighth time. How long must it have taken the man to write that? For someone so switched on, he had so many bizarre little foibles and eccentricities. Maybe they were all like that.
He turned away from the river and sat down once more at his desk. The laptop had switched to the screensaver he'd had made up of Taylor Bergerac's face, bouncing around from side to side. He'd spent the morning firing off another barrage of exceptionally cool material, guaranteed to get her back over here and guaranteed to get her to reveal this big gesture she had talked about. It had taken a lot to get his mind off it, but the message from Bethlehem had been enough.
Bethlehem had had nothing to do with recruitment in all Orwell's time there, yet here he was out of the blue, recruiting into the marketing positions. Must have known that everyone else was scheming in his absence, so he was defending his corner. At least Waugh wouldn't be able to get his hands on the position of Head of Other Contracts, as he might have done. Better that the power lay with the devil he knew, the one he'd been preparing to deal with.
But a woman, what was he thinking? There'd never been a place for women in this company, not since Margie Crane. And the red carpet?
Had a sudden moment of realisation, that the time spent on Taylor Bergerac should really have been spent on strengthening his position in the company in the last few days. A lot of Bethlehem's men were gone, it would've been the perfect opportunity to manoeuvre his own troops into good positions. But he'd been preoccupied, and now he was battling Waugh as much as Bethlehem.
Orwell looked at Taylor Bergerac's beautiful head pinging around the monitor, and the moment of realisation was gone. When she was his, and all his efforts had paid off, he would then have the confidence and power to attack the company from all sides.
Still looking at her face, he folded his arms, slouched down into his seat and rested his chin on his chest.
***
There was the stillness of the battlefield after the last shell has been sent down, after the last bullet has been fired. After the last soldier has died. The hubcaps had stopped rolling, the glass had stopped tinkling to the ground, the noise of bending, catastrophically collapsed metal had ceased.
Steam rose silently from in amongst the morass of the two cars into the chill winter's afternoon. The Volvo had been parked, unoccupied. Of the two occupants of the Peugeot, one of them had been saved by the airbag, although bruised and hurt and traumatised. The other had not been so fortunate, if to survive would have been any kind of fortune. Head on chest, blood running from the mouth, the body limp and smashed and broken, tangled up and mangled in an horrendously peculiar position.
A bloody and horrible death.
––––––––
'What the fuck's it all about? That's the fucking question.'
Monk stared blankly at the end of the bed, as she had been doing for most of the last thirty minutes. There weren't many parts of her body which she could move.
DCI Frankenstein was very exercised about the fact that there had been an attempt made on her life, because that was how he saw this. Black and white. The woman who had been killing members of the BF&C clan, had come after one of the investigating officers. Logically she might well have been going after the barber turned executive at the company, but in the change of modus operandi, Frankenstein detected a change in strategy. The killer, or whoever was behind the killer, was coming after the investigating officer.
Monk wasn't so sure and was solely exercised by the fact that Barney Thomson, the man she thought that she would love, was dead.
She had already made her mind up on the matter of where the threat might have come from, but was too confused to have any real idea what it meant. Had not voiced her thoughts to Frankenstein, but she had barely spoken to him since he had arrived. Disinclined to begin with, his opening words of, 'Your friend's head was squashed like a cabbage,' had not encouraged her to get involved in the conversation.
'Don't know,' she mumbled.
She had been driving the car. She was the one who had been distracted. Barney Thomson had died because she had caused the car to crash. The face behind the mask, the mask of goggles and lipstick, what had that meant? A distraction. A fatal distraction. But there was no point in blaming her. She had not made Monk look away from the road. She had not forced Monk to be so inattentive.
Daniella Monk was not part of the new millennium's blame culture. She did not believe that everything could be pinned on someone else. She did not believe that she had been held by pure force of evil to keep her eyes off the road. She was at fault and Barney Thomson was dead because of her.
Frankenstein burbled on, unaware.
'Jesus, they'll go after anyone these days. And in our line of work, there're so many bastards out to get us, when it does happen, it's impossible to tell who's responsible.'
Monk nodded. Not that impossible, not if you had seen the look on the face of that woman, the eyes behind the goggles. The woman who held the door open for her the night before as she entered the building at Barney's house. The face that had smiled at her from the black moped.
'Satan,' she said, voice dead. Still staring blankly ahead.
'What?' said Frankenstein.
At least she'd escaped censure for being missing in action all morning. Like Gascoigne in the '91 Cup Final, escaped with indiscretion because of injury.
'Satan,' she repeated.
'What?' said Frankenstein again. He had heard her. He wanted his voice to convey scorn, and maybe it had, because she wouldn't know what he was thinking. But he was thinking of a series of murders in the town of Millport. He was thinking of how it had seemed impossible that the man they arrested for those crimes could actually have carried them out. Not without help, or not without being possessed. And he was thinking, as he had every single day for the previous two years, of how that man had been killed, along with two police officers in his holding cell. No one else had entered the cell. They'd had no specific means by which to commit murder or suicide, the CCTV cameras had shown nothing, and yet there had been one unmistakeable fact. They were dead, someone or something had killed them, and he'd had no idea how it had happened.
'That's crazy, freaky talk,' said Frankenstein, when she answered him with a stare.
She didn't say anything. Under the white covers, surrounded by the quiet smell of antiseptic and death, time to think, head doing strange contortions because of what had happened, through tiredness or as a result of whatever drugs they would automatically have started pumping into her body the minute she'd been admitted, it all seemed reasonable. Not only reasonable; obvious. There had to be some explanation for all that was shit in the world, and just for the moment she didn't want to believe that it was all the fault of mankind.
A higher force of true evil.
'What drugs have they got you on?' asked Frankenstein. 'I'm having a word with the doctors, 'cause I need you thinking straighter that this.'
'I am thinking straight!' she protested, and she raised herself up in the bed. Shoulders back, shuffled her buttocks up, felt the pain of the movement in her legs. Took the blanket away from her chin. 'I saw her eyes, I saw the face. I know who we're looking for.'
Frankenstein snorted out a knowing laugh.
'Satan's a woman,' he said. 'Should've known. Did you get her phone number?'
'No,' answered Monk, ignoring the faked derision, 'but I've seen her. I can do the photofit. Start asking more questions at the company.'
Frankenstein took a deep breath and stepped away from the bed, back to the wall, still staring at her. If he could have acknowledged it in himself, he would have recognised the strange feeling in his gut as fear.
'You know it,' she said.
'What?'
'I can see it in your face. The ridicule, the disbelief, it's feigned. It's something to do with Barney Thomson and what went on before between you. Tell me.'
Frankenstein shook his head.
'Nothing to tell,' he said. 'Seriously, nothing to tell.'
'We're dealing with Satan here,' she said forcefully. 'I don't know how I know this. I don't know why he's manifesting himself as this woman, but this is what's happening. It's the work of the Devil!'
'Monk,' he said forcefully, 'I'm getting you out of here, because if one of these comedians in a white coat hears you talking like that, they'll be lobotomising you by the end of the afternoon. Get dressed.'
'Fine,' said Monk. 'I will.'
'Good,' said Frankenstein. 'Get into your clobber and let's go.'
Groaning under the strain, she pushed the covers back. Frankenstein quickly looked away in case he was going to get a sight of more than he was asking for.
'I'll get out of here,' she said, 'then I'll get onto it and I'll get you proof. And I don't want any protection ... '
And with those words, she swung her legs out of the bed, tried to stand up and collapsed into a great heap on the floor, bringing down a table of flowers with her. The nurse rushed in to find her lying on the ground, cursing, and Frankenstein standing over her looking lost and stupid and out of place.
––––––––
Orwell walked into reception, fingers buzzing, head buzzing along with them. Still nothing from the ephemeral Taylor Bergerac. Late Sunday afternoon, walking the corridors of a deserted building, trying not to feel like the lonely captain on a sinking ship. (Or at least, a lonely captain with his two bodyguards always nearby.) Worried about what Bethlehem was up to, wondering what Waugh had been doing with himself all day, unable to get in touch with his new able lieutenant, Barney Thomson.
He stopped short, surprised to find himself not alone. Imelda Marcos was beavering away at her PC, fingers tripping lightly around the keyboard. Orwell watched her for a few seconds, waiting for her to stop and look up, but she was immersed. Or ignoring him.
'What do you do, 'Melda?' he asked. 'We have millions of PA's and typists in this damn building. What is it that you type?'
She raised her head slightly, stopped typing and gave him the eye.
'Are you saying I'm just a receptionist?' she said, with tone.
Whoops, thought Orwell, a lousy attempt at casual conversation.
'You heard from Barney Thomson today?' he asked, moving on.
She left the eye on him for another few seconds, then turned away.
'It's Sunday,' she said in reply.
'All right, of course,' said Orwell. 'Cool. And, you know, has there been anything from Ms Bergerac of the Waferthin.com company? Any word, a message or anything?'
Imelda kept typing. At first she thought she'd just make him wait for a few seconds, tease him a bit, but then decided to spin that out into completely ignoring him altogether. Orwell watched her, curious.
''Melda?' he had to say eventually.
She looked up, eyebrows raised, pretending she hadn't heard him the first time. God, she thought, men are so pathetic. Nice bit of skirt hoves into view, and they make a complete idiot of themselves. Living not too far from Taylor Bergerac, as she did, she had seen Orwell's absurd poster campaign, knew entirely what it was all about.
'Yes?' she asked.
'Em,' said Orwell at the look, beginning to wonder if Imelda Marcos had twigged what was going on with him and Taylor Bergerac – when of course, it wasn't just Imelda who'd worked it out, the entire company knew what a complete idiot he was making of himself – and might be toying with him. 'Waferthin.com, the panty liner company. Any messages?'
Imelda held him with a stare for a few seconds, sighed heavily, looked at her computer as if checking some obscure Messages From Waferthin.com database, said, 'Oh yes,' and looked up. Waited for a few seconds to enjoy the look of excited anticipation that had suddenly sprung to Orwell's face, then looked back at the PC and shook her head.
'Sorry,' she said, 'my mistake. That's just their original message from a few days ago.'
Looked up, laughed inside at the forlorn hangdog expression, said, 'Sorry,' again very sincerely, and looked at the security monitor as the outside buzzer was sounded.
'Ah,' she said, with a mixture of hostility and anticipation, 'it's one of the police officers. Maybe someone else has died.'
Orwell's shoulders slumped. He turned, started to walk back to the lift, stopped, turned back. Maybe it was the female sergeant. She'd been all right, if not exactly on Bergerac's plane.
'Which one?' he asked.
'The female sergeant,' said Imelda, doing that laughing inside thing again.
'I'll wait,' said Orwell, and he put his hands in his pockets and immediately went into gormless bloke who doesn't know what to do with himself mode, which he was still doing ten seconds later when DCI Frankenstein bumbled into reception. Orwell stared at him, then at Imelda.
'Imelda?' he said, and she shrugged a sincere apology.
'Frankenstein,' said Frankenstein. 'You're the comedian in charge?' he asked.
Well, there's a question, thought Imelda, as did Orwell.
'Yes,' he said, authoritatively.
'Another one of your crowd gone. Barney Thomson. Can't work out from my sergeant whether he was still the barber. She said something about him being promoted. Whatever, died in a car accident. Nearly got my sergeant as well.'
Orwell nodded. Shoulders straightened, not quite so gormless looking. Head spinning with information overload. From instant deflation and worry about Barney's death, that this thing might be aimed at him as much as Bethlehem, to relief that Barney had been killed in a traffic accident and not by a murderer's knife.
'That's all right then,' he said, with a child's tact.
'Why?' said Frankenstein, missing the boat.
'Well, obviously, it's horrible,' said Orwell, recovering nicely, so he thought, 'but you know, at least he didn't get, you know, a knife in the old napperooni.'
'A knife in the old napperooni?' said Frankenstein. 'Who the fuck is this guy?' he asked, looking at Imelda, who shrugged. 'A knife in the old napperooni? The guy was crushed in a car accident, after being stalked by a motorcyclist. It was as good as murder. My sergeant could have been killed. Thomson's head exploded. A knife in the old napperooni?'
Orwell swallowed, nodded. Time to retreat into his natural reserve. This wasn't going so well. And if Barney was murdered, then back to thinking about what it all meant for the company.
'Shit,' he said, because he had no other words.
'Glad you're showing some fucking remorse,' said Frankenstein. 'Right, you and me are going upstairs, and we're going to try to get somewhere on this. I'm fed up fucking around every day with you people while you get picked off one by one. I want to know what the fuck is going on.'
'Of course,' said Orwell. 'Sure. Come to my office.'
'Right,' said Frankenstein, and he walked to the lift, Orwell in his wake, neither of them looking at Imelda and the sly wee grin she had on her face.
***
The body of Barney Thomson lay in the morgue at St Thomas' Hospital on the south bank. His had been a mostly mundane life, followed by a bizarre few years, with enough adventures to send anyone to their grave happy; or at least, thinking that they'd lived a life of their own, rather than vicariously through the lives of those they watched on TV.
Under a sheet, his final resting place, the hands that had once carved the most exquisite haircuts ever seen in the British Isles, now broken and twisted, lying motionless at his side. A tranquil end, to wait until the body was given a perfunctory service with no one in attendance, before being dispatched to the Big Fire. Once more, Barney Thomson was gone, and this time there would be no coming back.
***
Frankenstein looked down at the Thames, his back turned to Orwell, as so many who stood in these offices felt compelled to do. He'd heard everything he was likely to hear. It wasn't nearly as much as Orwell would have been able to tell him had he wanted, but Frankenstein wasn't in a position to arrest the man or beat him up, as he was disposed to do.
Maybe, he was thinking, they should just stand back and let all these stupid arseholes die. Virtually each and every one of them had walked into it with their eyes open. And if they were going to be as unhelpful as every single one of them had been under questioning, then did they deserve to receive any help? Let 'em bleed.
'It's the same as the NHS being forced to look after people with self-inflicted illness,' mumbled Frankenstein. 'Fuck 'em all.'
'What?' said Orwell, dragged from his own Bergerac-inspired introspection.
'Doesn't matter,' said Frankenstein.
He turned his back to the river, looked at Orwell. Perhaps he was next. The two officers sitting outside his office might get it with him. Docherty and Clemens. Decent lads, he said to himself, though he hadn't met either of them before; deserved better than to be wasting their time, and putting their lives on the line for some mug like this.
'So Bethlehem's back tomorrow late afternoon?' said Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' replied Orwell. And he's bringing a bird, he thought, whatever that's all about. Not that he was mentioning that to Frankenstein, just the same as he wasn't saying anything about Margie Crane.
'Brilliant,' said Frankenstein. 'I'll be back tomorrow evening, if not sooner, assuming that at least one of you wankers will get wasted in the interim.'
'What?' said Orwell, paying attention. 'Are you allowed to call us wankers?'
Frankenstein shrugged and headed for the door.
'Until you stop getting yourselves killed and you start telling us the truth about what's going on with this poxy little company, as far as I'm concerned, you're all wankers.'
He opened the door, stopped, looked back.
'And if that use of language bothers you, you can make a complaint to my superior officer if you want. He's a wanker 'n' all. You'd like him.'
Frankenstein was gone. Orwell caught a glimpse of the two officers sitting outside, reading magazines, charged with protecting his life. They looked bored. Had a ridiculous surge of annoyance at them – the bastards are supposed to be protecting me and they're reading magazines – totally at odds with the fact that he hadn't wanted them assigned in the first place.
The door closed. Orwell stared at it for a few seconds, then lifted the phone and dialled the woman he thought was Margie Crane.
***
The mortuary attendant was doing his evening rounds; checking everyone was still dead. They do that. Just in case. Checked the fellow before Barney – middle-aged heart attack victim, unexceptional – let the shroud back down over the face. Then Barney, and he hesitated, because he knew what this one was going to look like. Hand to the shroud, another pause, then he slowly lifted the sheet away from the face.
Swallowed, breathed heavily. For all his hard-as-rock, nothing-bothers-me macho thing that he had going on, sometimes he still had to choke back the vomit; and this was one of those times.
The head of Barney Thomson was a mangled, horrifically pulped mess.
'God,' said Toby Shellfish, and he let the sheet drop back. Then, suddenly realising that on this occasion he wasn't actually going to be able to hold back the vomit, he ran hurriedly out of the room, aiming for the toilet. Unfortunately he was too slow, and suddenly his evening hamburger, as well as the hamburger and fries he'd had for lunch, came shooting up his throat and exploded out in front of him, carpeting the antiseptic corridor in vomit. Still running, he then slipped on the vomit, fell massively to the side, a tangle of arms and legs, completely unable to stop his head smashing into an old iron radiator attached to the wall. He made contact with a loud crack – didn't do the same kind of impressive damage to his head that Barney had had done to him, but it was enough – his skull cracked and his body tumbled hugely onto the floor. Then there was silence.
And there he lay, waiting for the replacement shift at two o'clock in the morning, or another cadaver, whichever came first, in amongst his own vomit. Not actually dead from the blow to the head; death came more slowly, choking on his own sick, as more came up from his stomach, and he breathed it all back in. A sad end.
And so, the insane career and life of Barney Thomson had taken its final victim.
––––––––
Anthony Waugh and the once legendary Marcus Blade were sitting in the St. James's Club in Park Place, enjoying a late night snifter. Cigars and cognac all round. Two elderly men in their smoking jackets, except they were both in their forties, and playing the game of the upper middle class stereotype. Blade felt like he was back, a good first couple of days in the office under his belt. Some solid work done on a new line in limited edition table polish – For That Once In A Millennium Shine – and a good introductory meeting with the equally once legendary George Michael, about re-inventing his image. (Blade had told him that it was obvious he was trying too hard, and that it was time he stopped writing all that rubbish about sex and politics, and stopped screaming louder and louder to get people to notice him. Michael had agreed whole-heartedly, and said that he would put it all into practice for his forthcoming album Fuck Me Up The Arse With Your Cock.)
It was going well, and Blade felt like he was back in town. Two days and no signs of the stresses that had driven him away, that had caused the breakdown. And already, after this short period of time, he was beginning to notice the change in attitude of those around him; from I thought he was dead and That's the old loser who can't cut it anymore, to This guy is Premiership and I could eat his trousers.
Waugh was also pretty full of his own spunk, seeing as he'd been the man with the foresight to bring Blade in from the cold. Sensible enough to realise that in the marketing business Blade was a hundred times better than Waugh himself, but in the people business that he, Waugh, was the man. They would be an exceptional team. Thomas Bethlehem and Jude Orwell were as good as finished.
And like all their peers, neither Waugh nor Blade gave much thought to the general slaughter of the innocents that was taking place within BF&C. Grateful that it was taking place, as it had played into the hands of them both, but their thoughts barely extended beyond that. Didn't imagine for a minute that either of them was likely to be on Harlequin Sweetlips' chopping list. As it happened, Marcus Blade wasn't on her chopping list, but you know, sometimes you go into the supermarket with no intention of buying chocolate, wine and ice cream, but it doesn't mean you don't do it anyway.
'Every couple of months, as far as I can make out,' said Waugh. 'He disappears for two weeks at a time, comes back with these amazing deals from overseas. Went to the States last time. The New York guys must've been fuming with some of the things he picked off from under their noses. Nothing huge, but still some friggin' unbelievable stuff that you wouldn't think the Yanks would give up. This time, though, I'm not sure. There's something a bit different. He's playing at something.'
Blade took a sip of his Château de Cartex d'Armagnac 1936, savouring the extraordinary whiff of blackcurrants, pine martens and Rowan Atkinson, and nodded his head. He used to be able to do that kind of thing in his day, and he would do so again.
'What's his secret?' he asked, settling back, studying Waugh's face across the table. He was still not sure about his new partner, this man he hadn't met until three days earlier, this man on whom his future now relied. 'And more to the point, what's his weakness?'
Waugh nodded his appreciation of the sage question. The secret of his success wasn't that important. Once he'd been brought down, it made no difference at all how he'd managed to get where he was. What mattered was his weakness and how he could be brought to his knees.
'That's the question, Marcus,' said Waugh leaning forward. 'That is the friggin' question.'
They played the game for another few seconds, eyeing each other, wondering what was going on, then they both burst out laughing at the same time.
'We should retreat for the evening, I think, my friend,' said Waugh grandly, sounding for all the world as if he was in Lord Of The Rings.
Blade looked at his watch. The old days had seen him up until four, two hours in bed, and then into the office. One of the reasons he had burned out so quickly, and he knew that he couldn't do that again.
'Okey-dokey,' he said, trying to get away from the Lord Of The Rings vibe.
'Good,' said Waugh. 'We meet at 6:45 in my office with the others, sort out some things before Orwell arrives. Are we clear?'
They rose and shook hands across the table.
'Can I call you a cab?' asked Waugh, who had his room at the club reserved for the night. And, although he found himself extremely attracted to Blade – another of the reasons he had lured him from the wastelands – there was no way he was going to jeopardise what he was currently building by inviting him to spend the night.
'It's all right,' said Blade, a little disappointed, thinking that maybe Waugh had brought the evening to an early end as he'd intended inviting him upstairs. 'I'll walk.'
'It's a long way,' said Waugh, immediately suspicious of his new partner and wondering what he was up to.
Blade smiled, relaxed, trying to ease the other man's fears.
'I've walked a lot these last few years. Helps me think.'
'All right, my friend,' said Waugh. 'Be safe.'
They shook hands again, then Marcus Blade turned away from Waugh and walked out of the St. James's Club for the last time.
Waugh watched him until he was being accompanied by George the doorman, and he was sure he would be escorted from the premises. He drained his glass, considered sitting in peace and having another drink now that his guest was gone, but decided instead that he really ought to get to bed and have a decent night's sleep before the big day.
The two police officers who should have been watching Waugh at this point were not in attendance. Waugh had done them a favour by giving them the slip on the escalators out of Leicester Square. Detective Constables Russell and Mallot would be severely reprimanded for their negligence, but actually all it meant was that they got to live, instead of dying alongside Waugh. In life, however, you generally don't get to know exactly how the alternative scenario would have played out, and neither of their careers would ever recover. But at least they got to watch Scotland win the World Cup in 2014.
Waugh stood up, took a look around the room at the few remaining late diners – Tom Cruise was having dinner with Kermit The Frog, and he wondered what that was all about – then walked slowly from the room and up the stairs. Past reception, up to the first floor and along to room number five, the one he always took. The rooms weren't large but they were perfect for the single gentleman looking for a bed in the city for a night.
Into the room, folded his jacket over the back of a chair, considered turning on the television, decided that would mean he'd still be sitting there an hour later, so removed his tie and walked into the bathroom. Final ablutions, bathroom light off, clothes off, into the dark blue pyjamas neatly folded on top of his pillow. Considered picking up Richard Nixon's autobiography, still lying on the bedside table from three nights previously, the last time he'd stayed there, but elected not to. Another invitation to stay up too late, when it wasn't needed. Pulled the covers back, slid into bed, hand to the light switch. There was a knock at the door.
Gave him a little fright, which quickly passed. Maybe it would be George with something about Blade. The man had probably caused a scene of some sort. Bloody idiot. He breathed deeply, dispatched the feeling of unease he had about the door knock and walked softly across the dark green carpet. Opened the door to be greeted not by George, but by a woman holding a small tray.
'Your complimentary night-time service, sir,' she said.
Waugh looked at the woman and then down at the contents of the tray; a small tub of oil, a tub of gel, a candle and a match. He looked back at the woman, beginning to smile.
'Is this new?'
'Just began last night, sir. Would you care to avail yourself of this service?'
And as the words tripped from her mouth, Harlequin Sweetlips sounded like an absolute angel.
Another pause from Waugh, but there was no way that he wasn't biting. Quite happy to bat for either side. He stepped back and gestured for her to walk past.
'Come on in, love,' he said. 'Come on in.'
And thus did he sign the warrant for his own death.
***
Marcus Blade walked quickly down Piccadilly. Spring in his step, the old fire returning with every minute of each day back in the fold. He had many times considered the comeback, always held off. Thought it through, always saw the disasters rather than the potential success. But once the offer had been placed in front of him, there was never any possibility of him saying no, even when the offer had come from a bunch of fruitcakes like Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Yet it had allowed him, within a couple of days of making his return, to contemplate getting into a position of being one of the two principals in the company. And the main creative executive at that. How long before Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane became Blade & Waugh, and then just Blade Marketing Inc?
Hadn't even tried keeping tabs on the marketing world, other than by studying the work of those for whom he had blazed the trail. The new directions were obvious and frequently clumsy. He had been smooth in the past and he was already in completely slick mode. A demon, an absolute demon.
'You are the man,' he said, through the smile.
Course, it doesn't pay to get ahead of oneself in any game. You never know when the Harlequin Sweetlipses of the world are going to be just around the corner.
And on this occasion, Harlequin Sweetlips herself was on the case, having caught him at a good pace, after leaving the St. James's only nine and a half minutes behind. Nothing against Blade whatsoever, and without Waugh he would amount to little in the company. No need to kill the man, but she'd made her decision three hours earlier, when she'd first spied Blade and Waugh together. Had recognised Blade straight away, of course, as the legend he'd once been.
She checked the distance between herself and her prey, steadied her walk. Nothing between them now, and if he turned he would see her. Not that it mattered, because all he would see was an extremely attractive woman walking behind him. He would be blind to the instrument of his death.
And, as if by magic, Blade decided to make it even easier for her. Bursting for a pee, ducked into a dark alleyway, away from the traffic and the few people who were still abroad. Sweetlips smiled, knowing what he would be up to, and quickened her pace. To die with your knob in your hand; a fine way to go for any man.
She turned the corner into the alley, footsteps silent. Blade, the legend, with his back to her, peeing vigorously, making slight moaning noises at the joy of release. Steam rose in front of him. I'd love to chop your chopper off mate, thought Sweetlips, but the chances of getting peed on are too great.
Like a Samurai master, or a Jedi master, or any kind of master really, except say a maths master or an English master, which wouldn't really be relevant, she produced the long knife from inside her jacket. A ten inch blade, a thing of beauty. She stopped. Blade still did not get it. Any form of sixth sense which he might have possessed, totally diminished by the various layers of the day's alcohol.
She hesitated, impressed at least by the size of his bladder. It's true, men did have greater capacity.
'Psst!' she said, quietly. 'Legend!'
Blade turned, absolutely caking his pants.
'Ugghh,' he said, rather ungracefully, a not particularly fitting epitaph for the man who brought you Don't Vote For Michael Foot, He's A Wanker and Where There's Argies, There's Bargies. Join The Paratroopers Today!
'Is that it?' she said, knife behind her back, so that Blade suddenly wondered if his fear had been inappropriate. He was still holding himself firmly in his right hand, so that he presumed she was referring to his lack of size in the reproductive department, rather than his lack of erudition under pressure.
'What?' he said nevertheless, still not hurrying to bury his manhood under his M&S red & whites.
'You used to be somebody,' she said, with a sneer.
Suddenly Blade's eyes lit up. With recognition, rather than by the lights of a passing car. He fumbled away his subdued penis, pulled the zip, turned to face Harlequin Sweetlips. Sweetlips swallowed, realising that for the first time in all of this, someone had seen through the disguise.
'I know you,' said Blade, stating what was obvious from the reaction.
'Good,' said Sweetlips, masking her surprise. 'They say it's best when you know your killer.'
Suddenly there was a flurry of arms and legs, as Blade made a quick move, and Sweetlips brought the knife round from behind her back in a sweeping motion. However, she was a trained killer and he was a flatulent forty-seven-year-old deadbeat. There would be no contest. He raised his arm, intended to stop the blow, never got near her, and the blade plunged down at Blade's neck with extraordinary force, Sweetlips' adrenaline pumping even more than usual, from the shock of recognition. The blade swept through Blade's neck, the flesh, the sinew, the bone, so that in an instant the head plunged forward, but did not completely fall off, held in place by a sliver of skin. His body slumped against the wall. His head dangled by an emaciated, bloody strand.
'Fuck me, Blade, how did a loser like you see through me?' she said, and with that she brought the knife up forcefully between his head and his chest, slicing through what remained of his neck. The head bobbled away from the body, and then she leaned back and caught it perfectly on the volley with her left foot as it fell, kicking it into a large metal bin almost eight feet away. Blade's body gave way and plunged down into the pool of his own urine. The head nestled into the bin, beside the detritus from a Chinese restaurant.
'Two-nil, you Arsenal fuck,' said Sweetlips, and then she stepped back from her latest victim, heart pounding with the kill as usual, studied the stricken body on the ground for a few seconds then turned and walked back out onto Piccadilly.
––––––––
Barney Thomson clicked the scissors together. He was standing at the back of the barbershop beside an empty chair. There were two other chairs in the shop, both of which were occupied. Two young barbers were cutting the hair of young men, both of them working with an extravagant flair and panache, chatting easily as they did so.
Barney felt strangely detached, so he reached out to touch the chair next to him, just to see if he could feel it. His fingers came to rest on the firm imitation dark red leather. He looked back to the other two barbers and tuned into the conversation.
'It's all about confidence,' the first one was saying. 'You need a manager who gives the team confidence. It's just eleven guys against eleven guys after all. Why shouldn't Scotland be able to win the World Cup, that's all I'm saying? Why shouldn't they? Look at it this way. If you watch Murray versus Federer or Murray versus Nadal, you can tell they're world class. You can tell that if you played them at tennis, they'd kick your arse. But watch a professional football team on a bad day, man they don't look any better than a park team. A professional tennis player will not send down a first serve that travels at twenty-five miles an hour, but a professional footballer will shoot from thirty yards and hit the corner flag. That's what makes football so great. That's what makes it possible for Scotland, in any given tournament, to win the World Cup. And another thing ... '
The young barber talked on. Barney glanced at his customer. The customer's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to have any eyeballs at home. Two dark holes stared blankly back at the mirror, his face expressionless. Barney looked along and tuned into the next barber.
' ... and that's the thing, women just don't get it. You finish having sex, and then immediately you start wondering what it is you're going to have for lunch. Me, I like to have a peanut butter sandwich as soon as I'm done shagging, but see the amount of birds that get upset by that, it's pure mental so it is. They want to lie there feeling all romantic and all that crap, but I don't complain about that, do I, so how come they need to gob off about me getting tucked into a peanut butter sarnie? Oh, aye, and sometimes I like to put jam on it 'n' all, because you know ... '
Barney glanced at the customer. The same empty eye sockets, the same dull expression. In fact, if he looked closely enough, maybe it was even the same customer. This seemed a little weird.
He turned and looked along the long line of men and boys waiting to get their hair cut. No point in just standing around, he thought.
'You, my good man,' he said to the first customer, 'you're up.'
The guy looked up, but didn't quite manage to look Barney in the eye.
'I'm just going to wait for the next barber, if that's all right.'
Barney shrugged and stepped along to the next in line. Unconsciously waved a pair of scissors at the guy.
'You, Sir, time to step up to the big chair.'
The guy, an old fella with long grey flowing hair, didn't even look at Barney, just shook his head.
Barney hesitated and then moved to the next guy along. It felt hot. He ran his finger inside his shirt collar. Yet all the customers seemed to be dressed in big heavy coats.
'Your turn,' he said.
The third bloke in the queue looked up. A city man, dressed in an expensive blue suit, plain white shirt, dark pink tie.
'I intend to wait for one of the other two,' he said, looking Barney firmly in the eye.
'Are you sure?' asked Barney.
'Oh, yes. I've heard you're not very good. Everyone says that these other two guys cut hair with an unrivalled brio and verve, while you ... they say you're just shite. And also the dullest conversationalist ever to have picked up a pair of scissors.'
He held Barney's gaze for another two seconds and then lowered his head.
'No,' said Barney, moving onto the next bloke, 'don't hold back, tell it how it is, why don't you? You, Mr Baseball Cap, let me do you a Daniel Craig.'
A young man wearing a baseball cap looked round at Barney.
'I prefer to wait,' he said coldly, his eyes dead.
Barney stared at him. It all seemed a bit odd, but there were plenty more people in the queue to ask. He looked at the next guy, a middle-aged bloke with thick dark hair tied in a pony tail. Like all the others, he was staring blankly at the floor, not looking at Barney.
'All right, my good man,' said Barney, 'you're up. What can I get you?'
The guy shook his head and gestured towards the two younger barbers, who were still cutting hair with panache and brio and élan and verve, and were still talking up a storm.
'I'll wait,' he said dully, without raising his head.
'Might be a long wait,' said Barney casually. He had to cut someone's hair.
'I've got a lifetime,' said the guy, his head still not lifted.
Barney felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. The peculiar tone of the man's voice. He took an involuntary step backwards, his eyes staying on the sinister lowered head.
'That's not much of a life,' said Barney, unsure of what else to say, unsure that he should actually be saying anything.
Slowly, very slowly, so that it seemed to take forever in itself, the man with the pony tail lifted his head. The face that looked up at Barney was old and grey and wizened, the lips a dull grey, the nose had been broken, and the eyes shone a deep, deep red. The cracked grey lips broke into a corrupt and malicious smile.
Barney felt his skin crawl. He looked over his shoulder. Suddenly the two barbers were no longer cutting hair with zest, they were staring at him, as were their customers, all four men with black hearts and eyes that were a deep, dangerous red.
Barney took another step back and inadvertently trod on the foot of the first customer in the queue. He jumped away from him, looking down as the guy looked up at Barney, the eyes flashing at him, the same as the others. Barney bumped against the empty barber's chair and finally looked again at the customer to whom he had last spoken.
Slowly – the man did everything slowly – he raised himself out of the chair and now, standing, he seemed to be seven feet tall. He looked down at Barney then raised his right index finger, with its jagged and broken yellow nail.
'Welcome to Hell, Barney Thomson!' he screamed, and then his face creased in a maniacal laugh.
***
Monk was still awake. Eleven thirty-seven, kept glancing at her watch. Each time thinking that she really ought to be asleep by now. Having a strange recurrence of that weird feeling you have as a kid, when it bothers you not to be asleep, as if something bad's going to happen to you just because you haven't been able to doze off. Her mind was all over the place, a mixture of tiredness and drugs. Couldn't understand not being asleep either, seeing as she was so exhausted. Yet sleep wouldn't come, eluding her as surely as the murderer of all those poor innocent marketing executives would elude her.
She moved around the bed, constant turning, side to side. Couldn't settle. Head intermittently consumed by a weird hallucination: all her body parts had been removed and were lying in a jumble at the foot of the bed. Knew that she wouldn't be able to get to sleep until she'd fixed them all into the right place. But no matter how hard she tried, she always ended up putting legs where arms should be, and arms where the head should be. Just couldn't get it right, therefore couldn't get to sleep. Felt cursed to toss and turn all night, yet every time she looked at the clock it barely seemed to have advanced. Aware on some level that she was hallucinating, but at the same time could not ignore all that was going on around her, could not ignore the fact that she had to get her legs fitted back into the correct positions. And every so often, in the midst of this insane waking nightmare, she saw the crushed skull of Barney Thomson, the skull that she had not actually seen, but which she knew was going to be a constant in her life for a long time to come.
'Hey,' said a soft voice next to her, and she stirred suddenly, heart picking up. Tried to lift herself from the bed, but collapsed back into it with the effort. Turned and looked at the man, dressed mostly in black, who had pulled a seat into the side of her bed. No idea who He was, brain managed at least to be curious as to how He'd been able to get past the guards that Frankenstein had positioned outside her room.
'Hi,' she said, head still everywhere, another human voice not the immediate focus which it might have been.
'How're you doing?' said the man, and without waiting for an answer He reached out and felt her head. 'Hell,' He said, 'you're burning up, girl.'
And at the touch of His hand, for the first time in hours it seemed, she felt the heat go out of her face. She felt a wonderful sense of cool spread around her entire body. Instantly everything seemed to be back in place, her arms and legs slotted in where they should be.
'I don't know you,' she said, looking at Him more closely. 'How did you get past the guards?'
'Oh, they're lousy,' said God. 'Anyway, I'm God, so you know, I can pretty much do anything I like. Part of the whole supreme being gig. You've got to dig it.'
Monk dropped her head back into the pillow. She'd just been touched by the Hand of God and she felt delicious. Still tired, but now it felt like a warm sumptuous weariness and she was in the right place. Bed. Enveloped by the covers, sinking back into the mattress and the sheets and blankets and pillows. Beautiful.
'The God?' she asked sleepily.
'Sure,' said God. 'I can, like, set a bush on fire or something, if you want me to prove it.'
Monk smiled, shook her head.
'Nah,' she said, 'I believe you. Bit surprised you're an American though.'
'Suppose you thought I'd be British?' He said.
'The world's such a shambles, I always thought you'd be Italian,' said Monk, and God laughed for the first time in a while.
'That's pretty funny, Monk. Need to remember to tell the wife.'
Monk opened her eyes, now on the verge of sleep, wanting to take one last look at this man who had saved her from the longest night of her life. Glanced at the clock. Almost one o'clock. Suddenly time was flying by. Had she fallen asleep whilst the guy had been here? Had every sentence been separated by ten minutes of dozing?
'It was nice of you to come and see me,' she said. 'You just doing the hospital rounds.'
'Not quite,' said God. 'I'm here to offer you your dreams. Anything you want.'
Monk smiled at the thought. Her head seemed to disappear even further into the soft top pillow. Anything she wanted. A beach, gin & tonic, sun, sea, a warm breeze, nowhere to go and no one to go there with. Or maybe a queue of men to choose from, all doing their best to impress. A queue of men. One man. Barney Thomson, and the thought of him interrupted the feeling of ease by which she had been overcome and, though still tired and ready to drift away, now she knew it would be into a troubled sleep.
'I can bring him back,' said God softly, the sound of His voice massaging her ill-feeling. 'Barney Thomson,' He said, 'I can bring him back.'
She shivered slightly, but a good shiver. Turned over so that she was lying on her side staring at Him. Felt like a little girl, snuggled up in bed, talking to her daddy; and her daddy was telling her that everything was going to be all right, and she could have anything she wanted.
'What d'you mean?' said Monk.
'I'm God,' said God. 'I can do anything. And I know what troubles you. I can bring him back.'
'Why d'you let him die in the first place?' she said.
Here we go, thought God, ruefully. Everyone's a critic. But He was enjoying His chat with Monk, relaxed into it, almost taking comfort from the warmth that she was taking from Him.
'Life is as life does, Monk,' He said. 'There are rules, and just because I've got this whole omnipotent being vibe going on, doesn't mean I don't have to abide by them. But this is one of the rules. In return for your soul, I can give you anything you want, even if that's Barney Thomson.'
'My soul?'
'Sure thing, Sweetlips,' He said. (Just a little joke to Himself.)
'I'm selling my soul to God?'
'Yep.'
'I have to spend an eternity in Heaven?'
'Yep.'
'That can't be all bad,' she said dreamily.
'Well, you know, there's no rock music, no sleeping around, no drugs, everyone's really nice to each other. It's not everyone's kick, you know what I'm saying?'
Doesn't sound so bad, she thought. Imagine everyone being nice to each other. There'd be no need for police work, no need to see the bloody horrible crap that she had to put up with each day.
'Isn't that Satan's thing?' she asked. 'Buying people's souls?'
God sighed. If one more person said that to Him, He'd probably smack them over the head with a thunderbolt. But He liked Monk, liked the thought of having her around for eternity.
'Satan doesn't damn well need to do it anymore, does he?' He said, leaning forward. 'Most of the damned planet is going to Hell anyway. The guy doesn't need to bother. The dude sits around all day snorting coke, watching football and boning Lucrezia Borgia up the ass.'
Monk smiled.
'That's Hell? That doesn't sound so bad either.'
'Hey,' said God, raising His eyebrows, 'that's his Hell. Don't get carried away thinking it's a bed of roses for the rest of you. It sucks, man. It's Hell down there.'
She smiled again. This was nice. This was how hospital visits should be. Beautifully relaxing, and she could just drift into a deep restful slumber. And when she woke up, Barney Thomson would be there sitting beside her. And such was her feeling of ease and goodwill that she was able to completely subvert the intrusion of the knowledge that it wasn't really going to happen. This wasn't God, this was just some wonderful hospital worker with a gift, doing the rounds late at night, putting the patients who had yet to fall asleep at ease.
'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.
***
Barney 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.
––––––––
The 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.
***
Jude 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.
The eighth floor. The door pinged. Orwell walked out of the lift and stood in the small reception area at the entrance to MAD. Silence, no one to be seen. The desks behind reception were all empty, not even the sound of voices coming from an office. A serene calm, before the inevitable storm of the day.
Orwell looked up and down the corridor, and now, having become accustomed to the sound of the silence, he was able to hear the low rumble of voices from down the corridor. A closed door, the conspirators gathered.
The feeling came back. This was no innocent gathering of the plebs, conducting some second or third string company business. This was a coup, and it was a good thing he was here to stop it. And so, unarmed and in possession of none of the facts, Orwell walked quickly along the corridor, guards in his wake, didn't knock and opened the door into Justin Steinbeck's office.
––––––––
Jude Orwell stepped into Justin Steinbeck's office and quickly closed the door behind him. Scanned the faces of the conspirators for signs of complicity, thinking that he would need a trained eye to spot any obvious attempts to hide wrongdoing and anti-company conspiracy. He needn't have worried. These were not seasoned veterans he had just walked in amongst. These were young lads, nervously awaiting their first entry into the world of the plotter, sweating and uncomfortable with their decision to play Brutus.
As Orwell quickly stared about them looking for signs of betrayal, Achebe's jaw dropped about two feet, clunking noisily off the table top; a strange sound like that which might accompany complete loss of bowel control could be heard coming from young Pinter's direction; Salinger's eyes went wider than the gap in Madonna's front teeth; and Steinbeck looked shocked and said, 'Aw crap!' rather loudly.
Orwell walked further into the room, allowing the four lads time to compose themselves, which they did very quickly; in some cases, quickly enough that they imagined they'd been pretty cool about it.
Quick scan of the table and it was apparent that they were expecting another couple of conspirators, including someone at the head of the table. Orwell walked round and pulled out the seat, sat down. The others were silent, waiting for him to pronounce, none of them with the confidence to go on the offensive, which was needed.
Being caught with their pants down to that level required in-your-face assertiveness, the balls to attack with all guns, demanding to know what Orwell was doing at their meeting at that time in the morning, because Orwell did not have line management control of any of them bar Achebe. None of them had it, though; none of them had the power. Orwell would have done had he been in their shoes, even when he'd been as young as them, but this crew weren't in his class.
'Who are you waiting for?' he asked, looking Steinbeck straight in the eye. And for once, quite unequivocally, Taylor Bergerac was nowhere to be seen in his head.
'What?' said Steinbeck, lamely. 'This?' he added.
Orwell held his gaze until Steinbeck wilted and dropped his eyes, then Orwell looked around the table, taking in each in turn, and none of them could stand up to him for more than a few seconds.
'While Mr Bethlehem is out of the country,' said Orwell slowly, 'I am the head of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, with full executive powers. You know what I'm saying about full executive powers? Hire and fire, gentlemen. I'm leaving this room in thirty seconds, and if I leave without knowing who else you were expecting, then each of you can walk out past me, go to your desks and clear them.'
He paused, looked around the room.
'I doubt any of you are old enough to have children, but if you do, I'll make sure you never see them again.'
There were two spare chairs. He knew who it would be, but he wanted to break the coven, make one of them snap, create divisions, ensure that they would never again meet as a collective. And when this was all over and the future of the company had been sorted out, then more than likely the four of them would be on their way in any case. Pre-pubescent bastards.
'Fifteen seconds,' he said grimly, looking around the table, wondering who it was who'd crack. Question was, as he studied the nervous glances and sweaty upper lips, which one wouldn't crack.
'Ten,' he said, and he started to lift himself from the chair.
'Waugh & Blade!' said Pinter at a rush, and since Orwell had been looking at Achebe at the time, he could tell that he'd been narrowly beaten to it.
He stood up, pushed the chair back.
'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said. 'I'll leave you to it. Looks like your chiefs might not be coming. You Indians have a nice meeting without them. You can conspire about who gets to control the tea fund.'
He walked from the room, closed the door slowly behind him, and immediately Pinter was subjected to an inquisition from the three suddenly confident and outraged junior executives.
***
Monk stirred, turned over in bed. Coming out of sleep, dragging herself from a bizarre dream where she and Barney Thomson were married and walking around their home, a house infested with thousands of weird mutating bugs. A giant red flying ant was zooming at her across the room, when she managed to escape from the dream, open her eyes, and see that she wasn't surrounded by two-inch bees. Immediately the pains in her legs and back came to her and she remembered instantly where she was.
Turned gently onto her back, felt a slight easing of the pain and pressure, opened her eyes. White ceiling, the room slowly coming to dull life with the grey light of morning. For a second the vague memory of having spoken to someone in the middle of a disturbed night came to her then was gone almost instantly.
'How are you feeling?' said the voice from the side of the bed.
She turned slowly. Eyes caught the time on the clock first of all, 10:57, then she looked at the man sitting at the side of the bed. Barney Thomson, casually dressed, looking tired.
'Sore,' she said. 'How are you?'
'I'm all right,' said Barney.
'You been there all night?' she asked.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'More or less.'
'You didn't have to do that,' she said, sleepily, and he didn't answer.
Her hand appeared from under the covers and he took it.
'Didn't feel like going home,' said Barney, and she smiled.
And then the door burst open on their brief romantic encounter. Barney didn't bother turning. Monk looked up. Frankenstein, agitated and abrupt, caught the hands together before she withdrew hers and brought it back under the covers. Frankenstein suddenly feeling like he should've knocked, looked a little sheepish.
'Yeah, sorry,' he said.
Barney glanced over his shoulder, said nothing. Monk began to wake up properly. Work once more set to intrude.
'Come on,' said Frankenstein, with much less boorishness than he'd intended when making his grand entrance. 'We have to go.'
'Come on,' said Barney, same words, entirely different meaning.
'Work to do, Danno,' said Frankenstein, ignoring the love interest. 'They said you needed a night's rest and you've had it. Get your clobber on, it's time to get a shift on. Two more murders last night. The entire fucking city is turning into an abattoir. And those fingerprints have turned up again for numbers three to five.'
'Last night's m.o.?' asked Monk, immediately getting back into the groove, sitting up in bed and feeling aches all over her body with the movement. Barney closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. The killing spree continued. Harlequin Sweetlips, his Saturday night dinner date. What did that make him, consorting with evil?
'A slit throat and a decapitation, head punted into a rubbish skip.'
'Cool,' she said. 'That sorts out my desire to have breakfast.'
'You can grab a Danish on the way over to St. Paul's.'
'St. Paul's? Cathedral?' said Monk, the words beating out the other obvious ejaculation, a Danish?
'Yes,' he said, 'you've heard of it, have you?'
'Who's dead?' asked Barney, the question only just occurring to him. So little impression must these people have made on him that he hardly seemed bothered which of them might have been put to the sword.
'Waugh and Blade,' said Frankenstein. 'It's all becoming a blur. And as long as it's these marketing wankers who keep dying, to be honest I don't really give a toss. Monk, are you getting dressed, or what? Bloody snow everywhere, 'n' all. City's in chaos.'
'It snowed?' asked Monk, looking at Barney.
'Aye,' he said, softly. 'It's lovely. Air's crisp and fresh.'
'Pain in the arse,' said Frankenstein. 'Fucking March, 'n all.'
Barney stood up, pushed the chair away from behind him.
'Some privacy would be nice,' said Monk, the comment entirely directed at Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, I suppose. I'll, eh, yeah,' he said, and he retreated from the room, annoyed that he couldn't be harder on her, looking at Barney as he went.
Barney shrugged, stared down at her.
'I should get into the office, see what kind of flap everyone's in. Think I might make this my last day.'
'Get out before you're got,' she said.
'Aye. I mean, I'm presuming I'm not going to be included on anyone's list, but then, all these reptiles were thinking the same thing.'
She nodded.
'It's nice to have you back,' she said.
'What d'you mean?' asked Barney.
She stared. She analysed her own comment. She didn't know where it had come from.
'I don't know,' she said. 'I don't know.'
He leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek.
'I'll call you later,' he said.
She nodded, another of those significant glances.
'It's nice to be back,' he said, and then Barney Thomson – alive by the soul of Daniella Monk and by the grace of God, or by the desperation of God's marketing techniques – walked out of the hospital room, past Frankenstein worrying at a coffee machine, and off down the corridor.
––––––––
Barney Thomson walked into the reception area of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane for the last time, trailing snow into the room, further besmirching the once sanitised area. Nodded at Imelda, who was kicking back, feet on the desk, microphone off, filing her nails. Acknowledged Barney with a casually tapped foot. Barney got to the elevator, and then, much like Orwell that morning, although for different reasons, turned back and stood in front of her. She raised her eyebrows, not really being bothered to talk much at that moment.
'Imelda,' said Barney, and she raised her eyebrow a further couple of millimetres in response.
'Have I missed something?' he asked.
'Nothing much more than's been happening around here lately.'
He gave her another few seconds to see if there'd be anything further, then said, 'And what would that be exactly?'
She finally looked him in the eye, letting out a long sigh in the process. If I have to explain this to one more bloody person, she was thinking, although in fact she'd only explained it to one person so far, and that was someone to whom she'd volunteered the information.
'Mr Waugh is dead. Mr Blade is dead.'
'I know,' said Barney, patiently. 'There have been people getting murdered all week, but it hasn't made you put your feet on the desk. What's up with you, Imelda?'
She abruptly took her feet off the desk, straightened her shoulders and leaned forward, hands held together, fingers entwined. Instant change in the woman, and all because Barney had asked about her, rather than anything to do with the company. She respected men who took a genuine interest in her well-being, and while that might have been a far-fetched interpretation of his question, that was how she chose to take it.
'Well,' she said, 'Mr Orwell was very rude to me this morning, and I am almost of a mind to walk out of here.'
'Was he?' said Barney. 'How did that manifest itself?'
'He was pulling rank in a most unbecoming manner. A good manager does not need to pull rank,' she said.
'Absolutely,' said Barney.
'And,' she said, leaning further forward, drawing Barney into her inner circle of close friends, 'apparently he went straight upstairs and did it again. Mr. Pinter in accounts, Mr. Salinger in Press and Mr. Steinbeck in MAD have all resigned this morning. Already left, no notice, packed their drawers and gone. Betty on the eighth floor is saying it's because of Mr Orwell.'
'Getting out before someone kills them, eh?' said Barney.
'I don't know,' she said, pleased to have another friend around. 'But I'll tell you this, Mr Thomson, the place is like a ghost ship. There've been people phoning in sick all morning. The word's definitely out about what's happening with the company and, with the exception of workers not coming in, the phone isn't ringing anymore. No one calls here. I might as well not be here. Between you and me, I've already spoken to someone at McDuff & McCall, you know, about another position.'
Barney leaned forward, drawing Imelda into his inner circle of close friends.
'Between you and me, Imelda,' he said, 'this is my last day here, too.'
Imelda sat back, nodding.
'I can't say I blame you,' she said. 'Really, this place is becoming quite intolerable. If only Mr Bethlehem hadn't gone away for quite so long.'
Barney nodded. 'Aye,' he said. 'Too bad about that.' Funny, all this happening whilst he was away. 'When's he back?' he asked.
'Well,' she said, leaning even further forward, so that her bum was well off her seat. 'They're saying he's flying in from Rome late afternoon, but I've been speaking to Mary, who makes all his travel arrangements, and apparently he's due to fly to Glasgow a few hours later. Hopefully when he sees what's been going on, he'll stay longer. You know.'
Barney nodded.
'Very interesting, Imelda,' he said. 'I should probably go upstairs and see what's happening.'
'Very good, Mr Thomson,' she said, and Barney turned and walked to the elevator. Imelda watched him go and then, confidence returned after finding her new friend, stayed in an upright position and started clicking away industrially at her PC.
***
'You're going to tell me why we're finally storming St. Paul's Cathedral?' asked Monk.
Frankenstein lowered his window, looked along the queue of traffic, shouted, 'Come on to fuck!', beeped his horn, rolled his window up again because the snow had started to fall and was coming in, studied the traffic in the oncoming lane, decided there was no point in pulling any sort of authority stunt because there was just plain nowhere to go, and sat back.
Monk was feeling reasonably mellow. Curious about what they were doing, and enjoying Frankenstein being in a terrible mood. It always allowed her to sit back on the sidelines and make better assessments of whatever situation they were in. She sipped at her coffee then finished off her Danish.
'Tasty Danish,' she said.
Frankenstein nodded, without particularly looking at her.
'You going to tell me the story?' she said.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, jabbed at the horn, to add to the general bedlamic cacophony that was engulfing that exact snowy white spot of Trafalgar Square.
'Your story yesterday afternoon,' he said, 'you know, what you said. About Satan. At the time I just thought you were being a fucking fruitcake. Off your head with the trauma and all that.'
'Thanks,' she said.
'Don't mention it. Thought you'd flipped your trolley and were in need of extended hospitalisation.'
'Okay,' she said.
'Frontal fucking lobotomy case ... '
'But now?' she said, trying to advance the conversation beyond a series of base insults.
Frankenstein humphed, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Looked over his shoulder, checking there was no one from The Sun in the back seat. Off His Rocker! Senior Policeman Pins Crimes On Man With Pointy Tale and Horns!
'Did some legwork yesterday evening, with you having your night off,' he began, and she ignored the way he'd put it. 'When I say legwork, I obviously mean that in the modern sense.'
'You spent eight hours on the internet?'
'Ten. Got looking at lots of biblical shit, got into old texts ... '
'You read the Bible?' she asked, amused and surprised.
'We've all read the Bible on this job,' he said. 'I was reading older shit than that. The Apocrypha, shit like that. Old shit.'
'You're not going to tell me you read it in the original Aramaic?' she asked with a smile.
'Got onto message boards, looked into the background of our friend Barney Thomson, dragged up some old police files from Scotland at three in the morning, which didn't make me popular.'
'And?' she asked.
He paused, stared dead-eyed up the road at the long queue.
'I began to get a bit spooked. Wondered if maybe there was something in it. You know, the end of days, final judgement, all that malarkey. And then I started wondering if maybe it all tied in with this Archbishop business. Thought we should go and speak to him.'
She stared at him, surprised and for the first time that day, a little scared. How could DCI Frankenstein ever get spooked? And just how spooked had he been that he felt the need to mention it?
Monk gasped as Frankenstein saw a gap in the on-coming traffic and suddenly skidded out into that lane and started driving insanely on the wrong side of the road.
'You speak to Strumpet about this?' asked Monk, to take her mind off the insanity of the driving.
'Nah,' said Frankenstein, calmly finding a slot to fit into further up the road before he could be swiped by a large black diplomatic BMW. 'He'd have gone mental. The guy's still vacillating over what to do with the fingerprints. Look, there's some weird shit going on and someone tried to kill my sergeant, and I just want to get to the bottom of it.'
She looked at him, the gruff face, the chewing gum being viciously chewed and regularly and grossly being stuck out on his tongue.
'I appreciate that,' she said.
'Don't,' he said gruffly, in case she might think him nice in any way.
Slowly the traffic began to move as the giant American SUV with seventeen coffee cup holders which had been stuck in six inches of snow up ahead was set free.
Monk sat back, smiled to herself. This was weird, and maybe she should have been spooked, yet above it all she still had the good feeling left behind by the late night visitor about whom she had completely forgotten.
***
Last time into Orwell's office, Barney Thomson standing before him, shrugging his shoulders, just like the old times, back in the days when he'd been a shoulder-shrugging man. Now, however, it was due to cool indifference rather than a general bemusement at what others were talking about.
'Barney, look around you,' said Orwell. 'The place is falling apart. The staff are dropping like flies, suddenly there's no new business coming in, the whole thing is a disaster. Bethlehem's back tonight and he's finished. Really, it's just going to be me and those who are willing to stand with me. And then we can start building something here, using the excellent client base which we already possess. But we'll need good minds to replace those we've lost, and you're the best marketing mind I've met in years, Barn. Sure you're raw, but that'll pass. The basic building blocks, the unfettered talent, it's there, man. You had it cracked the minute you walked in the door. It's that whole barber thing, man. You understand people, and that's why you can do this. You know what people will buy and why they'll buy it and what makes them buy it. You've just got this awesome barber aura around you, this thing that says you understand the very essence of the human id, you know the kernel, you dig the dichotomy of human existence. You're totally with every aspect of this, because of the barber milieu. You're like some sort of a thing, you're a dude, a cat, a rollercoaster man, but on a rollercoaster that's always going, you know, really straight and fast.'
'That would be a train,' said Barney, to show that he hadn't fallen asleep.
'See,' said Orwell, without showing the slightest bit of humour, 'you're funny, you're sharp, you're acerbic, clear-headed, quick-thinking. The world of marketing is crying out for men like you, not just this company. You and me, Barn, we could do great things. Think about it, Barn, once we gain overall control of the corporation, we could change the name to Orwell & Thomson, do a big stock market flotation, take over one of those even bigger office towers they're building half a mile further down the river. And we're not starting from scratch with a new company, we're booting Bethlehem and we're in. Total fucking regeneration, man. Jesus, we could open an office in New York. The Americans would love you, 'cause you've got that thing that none of them have over there. You know, they love that whole British acerbity gig, and you've got it totally nailed. You could be huge in New York, or LA even. Christ, LA, man! You'd have them eating out of the palm of your hand. Can't you see it, Barn? Orwell & Thomson, of London, New York and Los Angeles. God, that could be so awesome. We could each have one of those big LA mansions, big parties, loads of women, they love the English out there.'
'I'm Scottish,' said Barney.
'Exactly,' said Orwell, 'even better. You've got that William Wallace vibe. They cream their knickers for that over there these days. Jesus, man, the ancestors of their entire country left Scotland in 1746, for Christ's sake. They'd buy into you like they buy into Japanese fucking gadgets. Jeez, Barn, there's nothing stopping you. There's nothing stopping us.'
'I'm going back to Millport,' said Barney.
'Don't do this to me, Barn!'
'I'm going back to my little shop. Two barbers, two chairs, one little guy sweeping up. That's all.'
'Barn, God, Barn, this is insane. I need you tonight, Barn. The meeting, the voting structure. Don't you see, now that Waugh's dead, we've got a great shout. You, me and whoever I can put in as Head of MAD. We can fuck Bethlehem out the old window.'
Barney looked down at him, Orwell leaning forward across the desk, the strain of the day showing on his face.
'You looked tired,' said Barney. 'You should get some sleep before your man returns.'
Orwell settled back, finally defeated in his attempts to lure Barney to stay. The argument had been going on for fifteen minutes, and one of the reasons why he respected Barney so much was because he knew he wouldn't change his mind. The reason he wanted him to stay was exactly the reason why he wouldn't. Time to give up, and time to start thinking about who to get to replace him in the meeting.
'You have to leave today?' he asked.
'Don't see the point in staying,' said Barney. 'Sorry it didn't work out.'
'Yeah,' said Orwell.
Barney stepped forward. Orwell stood up and the two men shook hands, and then Barney turned and walked from his office, closing the door behind him. Orwell slumped down into his seat and stared at the closed door. There were doors closing all over the place for him. He turned to his PC, checked his e-mail. Eleven messages since he'd been talking to Barney, but none of any consequence to the day's events, and none from Taylor Bergerac.
He was beginning to lose sight of her big gesture.
––––––––
The man had a small moustache and square shoulders which he wore with pride. He looked down from the extra half inch they gave him.
'The Archbishop is busy,' said Yigael Simon. 'The Archbishop will be busy later on this afternoon, and then again tomorrow. As some like to say around here, the Archbishop will be busy until the end of days. If you'd like to leave your card I can try to squeeze you in later in the year.'
Frankenstein closed his eyes and turned away. It was his method of anger management. Long gone were the days when an outraged officer could vent that anger on the suspect or interviewee.
'We need to speak to the Archbishop today,' said Monk.
'Good cop, bad cop?' said Simon glibly. Frankenstein caught the explosion in his throat. 'How nice, if a little clichéd,' Simon added.
'There's no good or bad, we merely need to speak to the Archbishop in relation to an investigation which we are currently conducting.'
'You're surely not suggesting that the Archbishop is guilty of a crime.'
'No ... ' began Monk, but that was as far as she managed to get.
'Listen, Hitler,' said Frankenstein, and Monk disappeared inside her jacket. 'The man's fingerprints are all over at least three murder weapons. If you'd like that little snippet of information released to the press in the next ten minutes, then keep on talking the way your are. Otherwise, give your man a call, tell him we're here, and show us the fuck through.'
Simon raised an eyebrow.
***
They had been ushered into a small, dark office. Shelves of old books, set in between old paintings. A large dusty desk. It looked as though someone had worked there sixty or seventy years previously.
The paintings, unsurprisingly, were all biblical. Old, dark pictures, which had never been restored and took close examination to even see what story they were telling. Frankenstein was depressed into submission by the place and had spent the fifty minutes since they'd been dumped there by Simon, sitting with his head in his hands, muttering. Monk couldn't hear what he was saying, just caught the occasional expletive.
For some reason, she loved the room. It felt warm and safe and smelled of the old books. It was a room in the house of an old uncle that you only occasionally visited as a child, a room you would sneak off to, to explore. A room of an uncle she'd never had.
'You should take a look at these,' she said suddenly, her voice crisp and fresh in the warm, muggy room. Frankenstein stirred.
'Can't be bothered getting up,' muttered Frankenstein in reply. 'Just more weird religious shit, I expect.'
'It's all,' she began, and then she hesitated. She shook her head, moved on to the next painting. 'It's all the final judgement, you know. Jesus coming down and splitting everyone into teams.'
Frankenstein glanced up, looked quickly around the room. He could make out a few of the paintings.
'All of them?' he asked. 'All of these are about the same thing? The judgement of the human race?'
'Yep,' she said. 'Pretty weird. It's like it's the Final Judgement room.'
'And this is where they leave their visitors for extended periods?'
'Maybe we're in here for good. Maybe by coming here we've chosen to be judged,' said Monk. She looked at the door, then turned to the nearest bookshelf and took down a thin volume.
'Notes on Mark's Gospel and the End of Days ... ' she said, her voice trailing off.
'Fuck's sake,' said Frankenstein.
He rose quickly and walked to the door. Getting freaked. Suddenly haunted by his surroundings, as he was haunted by the insanity of this case, and as he had been haunted by what had happened to the last serial killer he had come across, two years ago in the town of Millport.
As he put his hand to the door knob, the door opened and a man he recognised from television, dressed as an Archbishop, opened the door and stared him in the face. Middlesex looked as though he was surprised to find Frankenstein directly on the other side of the door.
They stared at each other in silence for a short while, then Middlesex closed the door behind him, walked quickly through the small office and sat down behind the solitary large desk. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at the two police officers, one standing with an old book in her hands, one standing by the door looking as though he thought he should be somewhere else.
'What is it?' said Middlesex brusquely. 'I have an important day.'
Monk had, for some reason, been expecting someone more godly. A quiet, reserved man, perhaps, someone with the weight of God on his shoulders. Instead, she had been given a politician.
'This isn't your office,' she said.
Middlesex glowered at her, glanced at Frankenstein, waiting to hear his part in proceedings.
'If everyone in the Metropolitan Police Force is as insightful as you, Sergeant Monk, it's a wonder that there's so much crime in the city.'
'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.
––––––––
Barney 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.
––––––––
Thomas 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.
***
Frankenstein 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.
The snow had stopped, the clouds had cleared and the day was turning back to being crisp and clear and sharp and wonderful, and they kicked the snow as they walked.
'You seem calm,' said Frankenstein.
'Yes,' said Monk.
'Are you an alien inhabiting my sergeant's body?'
'Not any more.'
'Ah, fuck,' said Frankenstein.
'What?' asked Monk.
Frankenstein pointed at his car and the robust yellow clamp attached to the front right.
'Crap,' he said. 'That's it, that's what happens.'
'What d'you mean?'
'This is what happens when you start investigating weird shit. People don't want you investigating weird shit and bad stuff starts to happen to you. Particularly when the weird shit is attached to a personal friend of the Prime Minister. We're the police for crying out loud, and we're getting clamped. Bastards.'
They approached the car. Frankenstein pointlessly booted the clamp.
'All that stuff you get in movies about Satan and weird shit 'n' all. It's all a load of crap. This, wheel clamping, small time annoyances, this is true Satanism on the front line. This is the kind of thing they do.'
Monk smiled. Frankenstein the expert.
He muttered something dark and turned away, taking his phone from his pocket. Monk leaned back against the car, looked up at the blue sky. In her relaxed state was wondering if Frankenstein was beginning to lose it. Didn't mind if he was. In the cold, clear light of day, it all seemed dubious and absurdly speculative. Satan did not walk amongst them.
So many things seem sensible or possible or realistic in the middle of the night, or in the darkness of your own mind, or around the table amongst a group of conspirators, but once they're out in the open, to be judged by those not affected, the radical idea can seem stupid and inane, exposed and ludicrous.
Satan? Although if there was a Satan, then logically that would mean there was a God, and just at that thought Monk felt a warmth inside her and the vision of a kind guy leaning across her bed touching her forehead flitted through her mind and was gone.
Frankenstein turned, dragging his feet, putting his cell phone back in his pocket.
'Called a mate of mine down at Piccadilly,' he said. 'He's going to send someone along to get the thing off. Jesus, these people get my humph right up.'
'What people?'
'God, I don't know. Everyone.'
'All right,' she said, 'so where do we go now?'
Frankenstein grunted again, stared at his feet, didn't look her in the eye. Monk watched him for a few seconds, then looked around at the undisturbed snow in the trees. Thought about Barney Thomson, wondered how he was getting on today. Hoped she could see him that evening.
'So,' said Frankenstein, kicking snow, 'you're in love with Barney Thomson?'
Monk looked up, surprised.
'You really want to talk about that?' she asked, at the same time delighted to have the chance to discuss Barney, even if it was only with Frankenstein.
'Not really,' said Frankenstein. 'Thought I should ask, but I couldn't give a shit.'
'Yeah,' said Monk, ignoring him. 'The real thing. Straight up, first time I saw him. Just keeps getting heavier and heavier every time we meet. Can't stop thinking about him, you know that way. Don't think I've had anything like this before. God, might be the real thing. You read about this in magazines. I mean—'
'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, interrupting. 'Not the kind of magazines I read.'
'It's just like—'
'You know, Danno, you can probably stop talking now.'
'Right.'
'He knows something he's not telling us. It's the same as the last time. There's weird shit going on, I have no idea what it is, and I think he does.'
Monk let out a deep breath and stared at the snow.
'Right,' she said.
Frankenstein kicked some snow and muttered under his breath, then said fuck quite loudly and started to wander away.
***
Barney was just about to call it a wrap on his last day of work at Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. And for the first time in a long while, he'd really quite enjoyed himself. From quiet beginnings, and without really taking off into any sort of mad rush, he had spent the entire afternoon cutting the hair of the company employees. And maybe it was just him, but it seemed as if they were getting younger and younger as the day progressed. So many of the older young guns had been killed, that they'd had to resort to hiring twelve-year-olds.
Just after five, last cut of the day. He'd bestowed a series of beautiful cuts, everything from a Belgrade Mafia Spectacular to a Hoagy Carmichael, in a glorious afternoon of barbetorial invention. For the final cut he'd been requested to deliver a millimetre perfect Johnny Depp (Chocolat), and he was about his business, pleased with the overall effect and nearly finished. Jack Beckett, head of accounts, second haircut in four days, was quite happy with what was going on in the mirror, thinking his new look was in keeping with his senior position in money laundering.
With a final elaborate fanfare, and the use of a series of heavy mechanical implements, Barney patted the hair into place and called time on the event. Not much conversation had taken place between them, in order to facilitate a quick and precise piece of work, but the haircut was done and Barney was feeling good about the day.
Beckett stood up, still admiring himself in the mirror. Did a few things with his head in order to follow the movement of the hair, swishing it this way and that. Wondered about asking for lime green fluorescent ends, so that it would look really cool in the dark. Maybe next time. This was a haircut so damn cool, it didn't need embellishment.
'Thanks, Dude,' he said to Barney.
Barney almost pulled an Anthony Hopkins (Remains Of The Day) on him for Illegal Use Of The Word Dude, but instead took his proffered hand and shook it.
'No bother, big fella,' he said. 'A pleasure.'
Beckett turned, gave himself another once over in the mirror, and then was gone, legging it out into the rugged wilds of the offices of BF&C. Barney watched him go, checking the hair more than anything else. Another beaut of a cut, although he felt only satisfaction at a job well done, rather than any hubris at his own god-like hairdressing qualities.
He turned back to his workplace and started clearing up, confident that he'd seen the last of the collective. Lifted the brush, started sweeping the detritus of the Johnny Depp into a pile. Glanced outside at the grey, darkening skies. Something made him lay down the brush and go to the window. He looked down on the river, out across London, the city still predominantly white. The day had grown colder as it progressed, and the clouds suggested more snow. A tour boat was passing beneath him, no more than six or seven cold souls admiring the regenerated east end as they floated on by.
He turned back and looked at his work station. Two pairs of scissors, one razor with nine different attachments, a cut-throat razor, combs and brushes and product. That was his life. And it was time to scoop it up and move it to Millport. Suddenly he felt the weight of melancholy, of being alone in a quiet place. The melancholy of leaving something behind.
The problem with Millport, the problem he had run away from, was of a small shop with few customers and three employees. When he returned he was going to have to tell Keanu that he wasn't required any more. Maybe even Igor. How could he do that to either of them?
Money. It always came down to money.
He started to sigh, stopped it halfway; there was no one here to sigh for, no one with whom to share his despondency. Daniella Monk, that was who he wanted, but what was there going to be for her to do in a weary town on the dreich west coast of Scotland? She was a London girl, didn't seem weighed down by the city as Barney was. When removed from it she might be lost.
And so he made the decision that this would be his last night in London, a train to Glasgow the following day, the train down to Largs, the boat over to the island, and then maybe he would walk the five miles round to the town, rather than catching the bus. If it wasn't raining, which it very possibly would be.
He lifted himself away from the window and the snow. Toyed with the idea of leaving everything as it was, a kind of Mary Celeste of the barbershop world, his last testament to working in the Big Smoke. And maybe, if Harlequin Sweetlips managed to get hold of him, it would be his last testament to the world.
Avoid Sweetlips, he thought to himself, lifting the brush and giving up on the last testament idea, and go and see Daniella Monk one last time before heading off. See how it goes, maybe imply that she could come with him if she wanted to.
Then, maybe not. Maybe he could just leave without ever seeing Monk again. She could be his lost love, the one he would fondly remember for the rest of his life. His might-have-been. If his life was Shakespeare – and there had been enough death in it for it to have been a couple of acts of Titus Andronicus – Monk would be the tragic, misunderstood love, only revealed when one or other of them lay on their deathbed. She would be the woman his biographers would recall as his one true love, who haunted him for the rest of his days. It would suit his poor, treacherous soul. His artistic soul.
The door opened. He turned. Jude Orwell. Barney's heart sank even further. Had said his goodbyes, didn't feel any further need to spend more time with the man.
'Mr Orwell,' he said, formally.
'You're still here, Barn,' he said.
'My soul has already left,' said Barney. 'It's back in Scotland, and tomorrow I'm going to catch a train to join it. You know, might even take the sleeper tonight.'
'That's cool, Barn,' said Orwell, 'but seeing as you're still here, I need you for the next hour. Can you do it?'
'For this meeting with Bethlehem?'
'Yeah.'
Barney leaned on the end of his brush.
'No,' he said. 'And by that, I mean, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. In case of any doubt that those words might generate in the listener, can I reiterate my stance by saying, absolutely, one hundred percent, categorically, no. The answer is no.'
Orwell smiled, rather than dropping to his knees, as Barney had been expecting.
'Everyone's got his price, Barn,' he said. 'I know you're leaving, but I just need you for this. Voting rights, you know.'
'Thought you were getting someone else?'
Orwell looked down at the carpet. He wasn't lying, just uncomfortable with the truth.
'I put Achebe in as Head of MAD,' he said.
'I know,' said Barney.
Another hesitation.
'Got a call from Bethlehem after that. Someone in the company must've been speaking to him. Told me to hold all recruitment until he returned this evening. Fortunately I hadn't informed him of your resignation at this point, but it means I can't replace you. I need you. Totally. If you're not there, it's me and Achebe against Bethlehem and this woman. Split down the flippin' middle, and we're shafted. Won't get anywhere.'
Barney wanted to smile. The machinations of business. Marginally more complex versions of the games you play in the school playground, but that was all it was.
'No.'
'I'll pay you a consultancy fee.'
'No.'
'Really, Barn,' said Orwell, pushing the envelope, or whatever it is they say they're doing, as Barney leaned on his brush and tried to concentrate on not picking it up and whacking Orwell over the head with it. 'I'm talking cash. We have cash. A large cash fee for one hour's work, that's all it needs. You've done some stellar stuff in the last couple of days, man, I need you there with me. Name your price. You can have the cash, and you can be walking out of here in a couple of hours with money behind you.'
The salesman in him detected the change in Barney's attitude.
'I don't know what your life plans are, Barn, or what your financial set-up is, but flippin' heck, mate, you're a barber. It can't be that great. Everyone needs a little extra.' A pause. Could see Barney's mind working. 'What d'you say?'
Barney was still leaning on the broom, but was annoyed for allowing himself to be brought into this. Orwell, unfortunately, was right. He did need money. Enough money to get back home and keep the shop going for another few years.
Was this serendipity in its purist form? Just as he had started to consider the problem inherent in his return to the Millport shop, the solution appeared in his inbox.
'A hundred and fifty thousand,' said Barney suddenly and absurdly.
He had chosen to start high, thinking that Orwell would negotiate him down. However, such was Orwell's desperation that the man just burst out laughing at having made the sale. At any price, he'd thought walking into the room, and that was what he had. A hundred and fifty thousand was nothing. In fact, it was cheap, if it helped get Bethlehem out.
'Sorted,' he said, walking forward and extending his hand. 'A hundred and fifty grand, you sit in on the meeting, you don't contradict anything I say, you back me up totally when required, you follow my lead in everything.'
Barney smiled.
'Smashing,' he said.
'Right,' said Orwell, 'leave all this stuff. It can be the testament to your final day as a barber at my company. Come on, we've not got much time before Bethlehem gets here, and we need to—'
The door opened. Orwell stopped in his stride. He and Barney turned. Thomas Bethlehem was standing in the doorway. And beside him was the new Head of Other Contracts, a very, very attractive woman, already known to one of the two men currently in the meeting room.
––––––––
Frankenstein and Monk were sitting in the car. The clamp had been removed, but Frankenstein had not moved on. Monk had eventually dozed off, realising that she was still suffering from the day before. Had left hospital much too early. Was surprised that when she woke up, after seemingly having been asleep for hours, they were still sitting in the same place. Frankenstein was wide awake, staring straight ahead.
They sat in a long silence while Monk slowly came from the depths of dreamless slumber. She stretched, rubbed her eyes, yawned. Smelled coffee, noticed there was a cup sitting in the holder beside her. She looked at Frankenstein.
'That still warm?' she asked.
Frankenstein nodded without looking round. 'Been there about twenty minutes, but they were too damned hot to start with so it should be OK.'
She picked it up, took a sip. Felt the warmth and the taste slide slowly inside. Rested her head back, was aware of the pains from the day before, residual aches all over her body.
'Why are we still here?' she asked eventually.
Frankenstein drained his cup of coffee.
'If we go back to the station, Strumpet will rip us to shreds. He's already demanding we get back there. So if we go, we're toast.'
'So you thought we'd sit here instead? Interesting tactic. You reckon if we just don't go back to the station for, say, another three months, he'll have forgotten about it?'
Frankenstein finally turned and looked at her. She was surprised to see him smiling. If he'd been human she might have thought she'd amused him.
'Funny. We're going to sit here until the Archbishop leaves the premises. And then we're going to follow him. Actually, you're going to follow him. At that point, I'll go back to the station and hope that Strumpet's gone home for the night.'
Monk glanced over at St Paul's Cathedral, imposing in the gathering grey gloom of late afternoon.
'So why didn't you just leave me here and go back to the station this afternoon? I mean, I can't believe you're actually scared of him.'
Frankenstein glanced at her, held her gaze for a second, then looked forward again without saying anything. She regarded him curiously.
'Does this mean that you stayed here to let me sleep, that you're waiting to make sure that I'm all right? Seriously?'
She smiled. She had him pegged.
'Don't be absurd, Sergeant,' he said. 'There are pints of beer that I care more about than you.'
She laughed, ignoring the last remark.
'You're sweet sometimes,' she said eventually.
Frankenstein humphed. Monk laughed again, smiled, stared out the window. Drank coffee, drank in the warm silence. Slowly the smile faded. Her eyes drifted along St. Paul's. She thought about the odds and the angles.
'Aren't there going to be about six ways out of that place?'
'There are three likely exit points, and we have the other two covered.'
'Cool,' she said. 'So we're staking out the Prime Minister's personal religious adviser. Is someone recording this for YouTube?'
'Yeah, you keep up the witty banter, Sergeant,' said Frankenstein. 'That'll see us through the boredom of the next couple of hours.'
She took another sip of coffee and smiled again. The sky darkened. The cars queued up around them. A cyclist narrowly avoided clipping the car's wing mirror. Pedestrians surged and waned.
'And you do know that Barney Thomson is going to end up involved in this in some way?'
She looked at him curiously. 'Why?'
'That man isn't a bad penny,' muttered Frankenstein, 'he's a biblical fucking plague.'
***
The meeting was finally assembled, each member of the caucus carefully checking out the others, none of them quite sure how it was all going to go; and, in some cases, without any real idea what they were actually doing there. At the top of the table was the Chief Executive, Thomas Bethlehem. To his right, Head of Accounts, Jack Beckett, present but without any voting rights. His hair looked great. Next, Bethlehem's Chief of Staff & Operations, Jude Orwell, and then Head of TV Contracts Barney Thomson. No one at the other end of the table, and heading back up the table towards Bethlehem, there sat the Union Representative, who had insisted on being present despite also not having any voting rights, the wonderful and demure Imelda Marcos. Next to her the new Head of MAD, Nigel Achebe, and then finally at Bethlehem's left hand, his new Head of Other Contracts. A very attractive woman, drawing a reasonable amount of attention from the men in attendance, and inspiring cautious looks of antipathy and loathing from Imelda Marcos. And it wasn't Harlequin Sweetlips, who had flown to London with Bethlehem but had then gone off on some brief mission of her own. (Although in this instance her mission had been to get a bagel and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.)
It was Taylor Bergerac, formerly of Waferthin.com.
Five minutes in and Bethlehem was conducting the meeting as if nothing was amiss. No more than a passing reference to the dear departed souls, those wretched victims of Harlequin Sweetlips. Not so much as a nod nor a wink to all the skullduggery and shenanigans which had been taking place behind his back, and he had moved freely into outlining the list of contracts which he had managed to gain for the company during the course of his trip overseas; a trip that was not yet complete, as he would shortly be heading north of the border to complete the biggest deal in British marketing history.
He gave no concession to the fact that he was bidding to save his place in the company, but it was an excellent pitch all the same. Of the two men lined up behind Jude Orwell, only Barney was not sitting there debating whether he had fallen in behind the wrong man, and whether now might just be the time to switch allegiance. Barney was as impressed with Bethlehem as Achebe currently was, but just didn't actually care enough about any of it to give consideration to whose side he was on.
Jude Orwell, however, had not heard a word. Suddenly the company, on which he had been desperate to get his hands, no longer seemed at all important. For instead of him stealing the firm away from Bethlehem, it had been Bethlehem who'd been the thief. Taylor Bergerac was sitting right beside him, in the wondrous, incredible, astounding flesh. Every inch of her a work of glorious art, every curve a corner at Le Mans, every eyelash a whip to pain his back, and he could not take his eyes from her.
He was gawping. It hadn't gone unnoticed amongst the rest of the crazy gang, but he didn't care. She glanced at him occasionally, met his eye, and her face was rich with contempt. Orwell didn't see it, though; too confused and conflicted to know what Bergerac was thinking. Managed to drag his eyes away from her a couple of times to look with resentment at Bethlehem, but always looked away before he caught his eye. Tried telling himself to focus on the meeting, that he still had it in the bag, that he was going to triumph and shaft Bethlehem despite his pathetic stunt, but he couldn't think about business. Not now. Not when there was a goddess at the table, and the goddess was ramming him up the anal passage with an extendable umbrella.
'Further to that,' Bethlehem continued, completely ignoring Orwell and concentrating on those whose vote he would have to swing, 'I've actualised an initial contact with Fiat. Travelling back there tomorrow; no point in dealing with the London end, that's where all the people at the likes of Carter go wrong. You get in at base camp. So I'll be pitching a few ideas about how they should be speaking to their audience in Britain. Got a good in, quietly confident, and we're looking at mega on that one.'
Another look around the room, deciding which of the men to target on this call. A straightforward decision.
'Nigel,' he said, talking to a man he'd never even seen before as if he might have been his oldest friend, 'I'll be looking for your help. In fact, it might be best if you met me in Rome on Wednesday morning. You cool with that? Go out there tomorrow evening, have Imelda book you a suite at the Hilton. We can hook up in the bar for a late night chat about tactics. Obviously need to get you out of this ridiculous MAD thing. You're a quality ideas man, we need you in marketing.'
Achebe nodded. Temporarily lost for words, which didn't go down at all well with Bethlehem, because this was a business where you could never afford to be lost for words. Not for a second. Still, the main unspoken thing emanating from Achebe's id during his brief temporarily lost for words period, was that his vote had just most definitely switched.
'See you in the bar at 2200hrs,' he said eventually, which represented a reasonable salvage operation.
'Cool,' said Bethlehem, acknowledging the quality of the recovery.
Then he took a glance at Beckett and Barney Thomson. Beckett didn't have a vote, Thomson did, although already he didn't actually need it; had enough in the bag. Orwell hadn't even noticed.
Bethlehem paused, assessing the situation. He knew people, that was why he was so good at what he did, that was why he was always in complete control. He studied Barney. Barney held his gaze in return, and the two men read each other straight off. Barney, the consummate barber, the man who'd spent his life listening to the stories of other men, who had learned to see inside their heads, knew what Bethlehem was about. Bethlehem had Barney's disinterest equally pegged; curious as to what he was doing there.
'Jack!' he said, suddenly turning to Beckett, 'you've been pretty quiet.'
Truth be told, they had all been quiet, as Bethlehem had so far been exercising a complete monopoly of the meeting.
'Just taking it in,' said Beckett quickly.
'Excellent,' said Bethlehem. 'It's more important to listen than to talk. We've obviously been having some staffing difficulties recently, which I don't really want to discuss. Clearly, however, there's a lot of work to be done regenerating the company. We're going to need a good man heading up recruitment. Might be time to move you over from accounts. I know you're good with figures, but your real strength is people, I think we both know that. As soon as this meeting is over, we'll have you heading up MAD. We need a return to the old ways, the old values, you know. I'm looking at creating a new revamped and revitalised Personnel Branch, much, much bigger resources, and I'd like you, Jack, to lead the team.'
Head of Personnel. Not even Human Resources. I am good with people, thought Beckett, totally convinced.
He nodded, immediately comfortable with his new authority.
'I'd be honoured, sir,' he said. 'I've already got some good ideas regarding the places we can start thinking about drawing talent from.'
'Fantastic,' said Bethlehem. He paused, looking around the table, even taking in Orwell this time. Orwell, for his part, had finally woken up. Maybe it was the mention of Human Resources, but something had dragged him from his stupor. He had studied Beckett's face as he'd spoken to Bethlehem, and he'd realised what had just happened. Suddenly he felt a hand gripping at his stomach, the abrupt realisation of panic, that all his plans had just been swiped out from under him. He'd sat like a rock, a dead weight, stupefied by the presence of Taylor Bergerac, whilst Bethlehem had manipulated the meeting to his complete advantage.
Orwell swiftly looked at Achebe, who was looking back at him, but immediately averted his eyes. Him as well. That was the important one, and he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He looked at Barney. Barney was bored. Bethlehem hadn't got to him, but that didn't matter. Achebe had been pilfered from right under his nose.
''Melda,' said Orwell, looking at her. Imelda Marcos did not feel so uncomfortable, did not feel the need to avert her eyes. Didn't say anything, but her contempt for Orwell was there for him to read.
He looked around the table, aware that everyone was looking at him, waiting on him. If there was going to be a vote, if there was going to be some dramatic change in the company, it was going to come from Orwell. This was his big moment. This was what he had planned for months. Instead he had allowed himself to be so utterly shafted by Bethlehem that he was suddenly abandoned in pathetic impotence. Even if Barney backed him, if the hundred and fifty thousand he'd handed over was to work in his favour, what good would it do him? The vote would still be 3-2.
He could attempt a rally, only needed to win back Achebe's vote, then he could get that turncoat Beckett out of there, but he knew, even though he hadn't really been listening to how Bethlehem had won Achebe over, that there was no chance. And Orwell's way was one of subtlety and deceit, sophistication and intrigue. He knew he couldn't win an open battle with Bethlehem across the boardroom table. He needed to have had them sewn up before he got here, which he'd thought he had done. Stitched up by the presence of Taylor Bergerac, and finally Orwell's eyes settled on her.
'Jude,' said Bethlehem, 'I think everyone might be waiting to see if you have anything to say.'
Orwell dragged his eyes away from the poison of Bergerac and looked at Bethlehem. He had tried to talk himself up into thinking that he was walking in here as an equal, if not the man in charge, and instead he had been completely and utterly laid waste. Shafted beyond his most awful imaginings. He didn't feel Bethlehem's equal, he felt two inches tall. Every insecurity he'd ever bottled up inside was now flooding to the surface, rushing and pushing and galloping its way from his subconscious, so that he felt as if he was physically shrinking. Seemed like he was now looking up at Bethlehem from a position of complete humiliation, degradation and obloquy.
'Jude?' Bethlehem said, the name now spiked with scorn.
Orwell swallowed, mind kicking into some sort of action. Knew there was nothing to be done for now. Maybe it was back to the drawing board, but he couldn't give up this easily. Had to retreat, withdraw to the safety of his own office, reassess where he'd gone wrong and then return with new battle strategies, armed with new weapons, and surrounded with people he could rely on.
'After such a tumultuous time for the firm,' said Bethlehem, 'I would've thought that the Chief of Staff & Operations might have had some comment regarding the situation.'
The two men stared at one another, the rest of the table forgotten. Orwell read everything in the gaze; he'd been utterly defeated, and for all the time that he thought he'd been conspiring against Bethlehem, building his power base and getting ready to triumph and assume complete command & control functions, it'd been Bethlehem who'd held all the cards, who still controlled his own and the company's destiny.
'If you've nothing to say, I think it's reasonable to expect your resignation on my desk before I return to Rome this evening.'
The words were accompanied by a lifting of the eyebrows and Orwell felt it right down to his boots, felt the weight of Bethlehem's $15,000 shoes squashing him into the dirt.
Bethlehem started smiling, then he looked down the table to Imelda Marcos, who recoiled, surprised at suddenly being drawn into the battle.
'Imelda,' said Bethlehem, and Orwell looked down the table, feelings of insecurity suddenly being replaced by a growing anger at his humiliation. 'I've realised how long you've been wasted sitting at the front desk. I was thinking on the plane on the way over here that maybe you need some more responsibility. Perhaps not the full portfolio that Jude was realising, but certainly I'd like to see you as my Chief of Staff in the short term. See how it goes, Imelda, and we could maybe look at expanding your portfolio in the future.'
Imelda Marcos had never before heard her name applied in the same sentence as the word portfolio. She gaped. Orwell breathed out a long disgusted sigh, turned back to Bethlehem, this time looking daggers at him, rather than from his previous position of defeat.
'Yes,' said Imelda eventually, unable to think of anything else.
'Fantastic,' said Bethlehem, and he looked around the room. Achebe turned to Imelda, gave her a smile and a you're one of us wink; she gushed back at him.
Bethlehem's eyes fell on Barney Thomson. The meeting had been brief and he had completely dominated it, as intended. The only problem for him, the only thing that exercised his doubt, that made him think that perhaps everything wasn't as smooth as he'd hoped, was the presence of this man. He had been a complete cypher, watching the action unfold, seemingly disinterested; so much so, that he could smell his disinterest. Yet Bethlehem had a sense of the man, and it had suddenly given him an uneasy feeling. Felt like there would be more to come from Barney Thomson, another part for the man to play in his life. And a more important part than sitting anonymously at a board meeting.
Having avoided him at first, Barney finally looked up and met Bethlehem's eyes. Once more the others picked up on the interplay between two of the principal characters.
'What d'you know about TV Contracts?' asked Bethlehem bluntly, although without having the confidence the question suggested. It demanded a negative answer. It demanded that Barney know nothing about it, that he could tear Barney apart in front of these people.
'Nothing,' said Barney, with equal bluntness. No reason for him to get sucked into gunslinging, particularly when the way for him to win was to walk away without any fight whatsoever.
'So,' said Bethlehem, voice dropping a notch or two, a more sadistic coldness creeping in, although he knew himself that it was only for the benefit of the others in the room, 'what is it that makes you qualified to be Head of TV Contracts at a firm like Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane?'
Barney contemplated a few minutes of Mexican stand-off, winding him up perhaps, some mischief-making, capitalising on a situation where he didn't care and Bethlehem did. However, he didn't even have the heart or the interest for that. Might as well be honest, because no one cared any more, and the man who had hired him to this position had been completely defeated.
'Your man,' said Barney, indicating Orwell without taking his eyes off Bethlehem, 'paid me large sums of money to sit here and back him up, notwithstanding the fact that I haven't actually had to do it, as it's hard to back someone up when they're not contributing anything to a meeting. Subsequent to this, however, I intend going on my way and never setting foot amidst your sad collective ever again. So, I know nothing about TV contracts, and I don't care.'
Bethlehem snorted, looked with disgust at Barney. Annoyed at himself for having started a conversation he'd realistically known he was never going to win.
'You're fired,' he said abruptly.
'I've already resigned effective the end of this meeting,' said Barney.
'Is the meeting over? No. So I'm firing you before you resign.'
Barney smiled, kept Bethlehem's gaze. Bethlehem was angry at himself for creating this ridiculous situation, yet he couldn't stop himself.
'Nigel,' he said, 'you'll be the new man in charge of TV, you cool with that?'
Nigel Achebe nodded, tried not to gush, re-assuming a position of voting rights, and in marketing too, not in that stupid position that Orwell had given to him.
Bethlehem quickly looked around the rest of the room. Everyone else of one accord apart from the broken Orwell, all rebellions quashed. He was once more able to walk away and get on with the major business of the evening, safe in the knowledge that the Prince Johns of the firm had either been killed or at the very least, kicked soundly into touch.
'We're done,' he said brusquely. 'I've got an hour or two to look over a few things before I'm back at the airport. I'll be gone a few days, will likely return to the office Friday. I want to see every position filled by then, Beckett, we clear on that? Imelda can work with you on staffing.'
Beckett nodded, unimpressed with the boss's sudden change in humour, and with the fact of having to work with the receptionist.
'And I want you two,' he continued, looking at Bergerac and Achebe, 'to coordinate with Beckett to make sure you've got the right people behind you.'
Achebe nodded. Taylor Bergerac looked Bethlehem in the eye and wondered what the Hell he thought he was doing speaking to her as if she was some lackey. Remained silent.
Bethlehem rose to his feet, pushing the chair away behind him. Another quick look at the collective, checked the clock.
'Those of you who are staying, start making calls. I want progress this evening. Jude, write the letter and get the fuck out of the building by 1800hrs. You,' he said, looking at Barney, 'just get the fuck out.'
Barney saluted. Bethlehem fizzed and was quickly on his heels and out of the room, leaving the door open as he went. The others watched him go, then there were a few uncomfortable looks around the room, mostly directed the way of Orwell, the defeated general.
No need to linger, thought the spared few, and Marcos, Beckett and Achebe were quickly on the hoof, following their intrepid leader back out into the wilds of the company floor.
Three little Indians left in the room. Taylor Bergerac drilling holes into Orwell's skull, Orwell staring at the table, Barney Thomson getting to his feet, preparing to take his newly enforced leave from company headquarters. Orwell finally managed to lift his head and look someone in the eye; Barney as opposed to the woman who had just wholly buggered him.
'Barney,' he said.
'You made an arse of that,' said Barney.
Orwell nodded. 'Yeah,' he said.
'Or,' said Barney, indicating the demure but vicious figure of Taylor Bergerac sitting across the table, 'you had an arse of it made for you.'
Orwell breathed deeply. Barney shrugged. Another idiot bites the dust. But Orwell could be back, with another firm, if he could resuscitate his confidence. That itself would probably be in doubt, however.
'See you around, boss,' he said.
'Yeah,' said Orwell.
There was a certain camaraderie in the look that passed between them, but these were two men who would never see each other again, and they could afford to be dishonest in their presumptions of solidarity. Barney took a look at Bergerac, thought maybe there was something he recognised about her, couldn't really tell without her looking into his eyes, but she was still digging into Orwell's brain. There's a commonality between all women, thought Barney. That capability to betray and destroy men that is always there, no matter now dormant it might lie.
As he was about to move away she suddenly turned and looked at him, so that he got the insight into who she really was. Deep into her eyes, and he knew her. Got the shiver all across his back, felt the hairs on the back of his head tingle, the uncomfortable feelings of uneasiness and maybe even fear, that came with the realisation. He faced her for a few seconds, with Orwell looking between the two of them wondering what was being played out, and then Barney Thomson turned quickly and left the room.
He closed the door behind him, another barrier between him and the woman he'd just left – as if that would be enough – and walked quickly along the corridor to his new office, the room was also instantly about to become his old office.
'Time to get the F out of D, Barney,' he said to himself.
***
In the conference room, there were only two remaining. Jude Orwell and Taylor Bergerac, in a position that he had dreamt about for much of the previous four days. Him, her and a table. There were so many things he could do. But these were not the circumstances he'd anticipated. What was about to happen was not what he'd worked so hard to achieve.
Having said that, he was about to get fucked right enough.
'Right, you,' said Bergerac. 'I believe we've got a few things to sort out.'
Orwell swallowed, and for no reason that he could explain, suddenly felt very, very frightened.
––––––––
Barney walked for the last time into the reception area of Bethlehem, Forsyth and Crane, on his way to the front door. He stopped and looked at Imelda, as she enjoyed her final shift as Receptionist before heading upstairs. He walked slowly over and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
'Imelda,' he said, 'it's been a pleasure. Good luck with your new powers.'
'Thank you very much, Mr Thomson,' she replied.
They smiled at the formality, and then she walked round the desk and held her hand out towards him. He hesitated and then took it, shook it, drew her in towards him and gave her a long, lingering kiss on the lips. He drew away from her and nodded. Imelda blushed, and had a quick sensation of who was that masked man? as he turned and walked to the door.
'Mr Thomson.'
Barney stopped, closed his eyes. Just let me go, he thought. Hesitated with his hand at the door, but something made him turn, something made him realise that his work here was not finished, this story was not yet closed.
Thomas Bethlehem was walking briskly through reception. Imelda returned to her position to watch events.
'Mr Thomson,' said Bethlehem, 'you intrigue me.'
'Good,' said Barney, 'then let me go. Honestly, there's nothing beneath the intriguing front. No depth, no substance.'
'Oh, I doubt that,' said Bethlehem. 'I'm about to head off for a thing, a big piece of business we've been working on. Maybe you could join us.'
'No,' said Barney.
'I'd pay you a one-off consultancy fee,' he said sharply. 'And, as a matter of fact, I can give you a lift back to Glasgow.'
Barney stared into the smooth marketing eyes.
***
Jude Orwell faced his Nemesis. Had thought all along that his Nemesis would be Bethlehem, or maybe even the late Waugh, but instead it had turned out to be Taylor Bergerac, the previous object of his desire and affections. Bergerac sat back, looking strangely across the table. Orwell was having trouble holding her gaze, his eyes drifting to and from her, head all over the place, no idea what to do or to think. Finally cracked, stood up, turned his back and walked to the window. Heart thumping stupidly, the instant he turned his back the sensation of two holes being drilled in his spine. He leaned on the sill, looked down at the grey river ten floors below, the snow all around. Closed his eyes, wished he could be swallowed up.
He knew what the night held for him. Get hold of Weird Johnny down at the Pink Flamingo, and he'd have these feelings of unease and inadequacy sorted out in minutes. It was the only way, for the moment. Lock himself into that shit world for a few days, feel the weird that Johnny always promised, then come back in a week or two, in a fit state to return to business. At the moment, though, he felt so low that it was hard to imagine ever being in such a state again. Corrupted and broken.
'You're a stupid, snivelling little shit,' said Bergerac behind him. 'How could you imagine for one second that I was going to go for you?'
Orwell swallowed. Couldn't turn and look at her, couldn't trust himself to say anything. Already accepted that he would just have to stand there until she chose to leave, and if she chose instead to stay to ridicule and belittle him, to pound and crush him into the carpet even more than Bethlehem had done, then he was just going to have to take being pounded and crushed into the carpet.
'Look at me,' she said, the words spat out with scorn.
Taylor Bergerac was here to finish him off. Jude Orwell was not destined to walk out of the conference room; due to be dispatched the same way as the five other fools from BF&C. He would be wheeled out on a stretcher, along with the two police officers who were currently standing outside the room, finally aware of the true identity of the outrageously attractive woman who had consumed his mind.
'Look at me,' she repeated. 'Turn your pathetic little head. Now!'
Orwell was broken and deconstructed. Felt bruised and battered, crushed, put through the wringer, tossed from the eighty-fifth floor, splattered on the pavement. He turned slowly, a dismal wretch.
Looked into Bergerac's eyes, as slowly she raised herself to her feet.
'What goes around comes around,' she said, smiling all of a sudden.
'What?'
Her hand reached into the pocket of her long coat, where the small gun nestled, itching to blow a hole in Orwell's face.
'You pay for everything in life,' said Bergerac, 'and sometimes you have to pay more quickly than anticipated.'
'What d'you mean?' said Orwell, who was feeling lost.
'Just depends on who you owe,' said Bergerac, 'and unfortunately for you, you're in debt to a complete bastard.'
'What? What?' said Orwell, continuing his slide into total mental confusion.
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.
––––––––
Monk 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.
***
Barney 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.
***
The 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.
Monk was unaware of the lead car, the car containing Barney Thomson, Thomas Bethlehem and two of the most dangerous women to walk the face of God's Earth.
The hosts of the meeting, which was to be held in a small house overlooking a small loch in central Scotland, were already in place.
'Stirling cut off,' muttered Monk to herself, noticing the Audi veering away to its left.
She felt oddly nervous, could not place the source of her discomfort. Wondered what she would do if it turned out that the Archbishop was just heading off to the hills for a few days. At what point was she going to confront him and ask him exactly what he was up to?
She kept her eyes on the lights of the Audi up ahead and tried to switch off the concern. What would happen would happen, and she'd need to deal with it when it came.
***
As they drove on, one of the men in the lead car was getting a sense of where they were going, and it wasn't just the driver. Barney Thomson watched the dark countryside go by, no snow up here, as they cut off the M9 at Stirling and headed out towards Callander. He had been out this way before, seemingly centuries earlier, almost in another life. There seemed an inevitability about his life, that in some way it was coming full circle. This wasn't quite where it had all started, that would have been in the dingy little barbershop in Partick, but this place held dark memories, a place that still haunted him after all these years.
There were several towns they could be going to, several hotels at which they might stop, but he knew it would be none of them. They were heading out past Callander, on the road to Loch Lubnaig.
He didn't know who was controlling all this, and he was positive it wasn't Thomas Bethlehem, but of the two women who were travelling with him, one of them he felt sure was a brutal, sadistic and entirely cold-hearted killer, while the other ... . well, the other was much, much more unpleasant.
'Where are we going?' asked Bethlehem suddenly. He had been staring blankly out of the window, letting the dreary night speed by, lost in thought. There had been no conversation since the car journey had started. 'What was wrong with the hotel in Glasgow?'
Sweetlips glanced at him, gave a small shrug. Barney noticed a rare look of puzzlement. Sweetlips knew no better than Bethlehem.
'I chose it,' said Bergerac, not looking at Bethlehem. 'A neutral venue in an out of the way facility.'
'Facility?' said Bethlehem. 'We hanging out with the military?'
'It's a hut,' replied Bergerac tersely.
Bethlehem shrugged. Immune to the tone. Looked back out of the window at the dark grey of evening. Barney felt drawn to look at Bergerac. He stared at the pale, smooth skin of her beautiful cheeks, the perfect red of her lips. Could not take his eyes from her. And even though she wasn't looking at him, he could tell that she knew he was staring. He wanted to look away, but it was as though she had him in some kind of mind lock, and the beauty that held his gaze was terrible.
Suddenly Barney felt himself being drawn down a dark tunnel, his mind hurtling through black space. He closed his eyes, but he was still in the same place, travelling at a thousand miles an hour, the dark black of his life flashing past.
The vision closed in. Barney was standing in the barber's shop in Partick, where he had plied his trade for over twenty years. It had been a decade and a lifetime since he'd left, but he remembered every corner, every pair of scissors, every nick out of every chair, every scuff mark on the floor, every unsold can of Brylcreem that had sat sadly on a shelf for fifteen years.
He felt something on his chest and looked down. His shirt was covered in some strange red substance that looked like blood, but couldn't be. How could his shirt be suddenly covered in blood? And then he noticed what was lying on the floor at his feet.
A body. The body of Wullie Henderson, his old boss, a pair of scissors buried in his stomach. Wullie was dead, by Barney's hand.
He looked around the shop, glanced at the time. 5:07pm. It was dark outside, the blinds were drawn. Barney could feel a growing sense of panic, but not at being suddenly thrust into the netherworld of his past. The panic came from knowing that he was going to have to do something about the body lying at his feet, and quickly too.
He staggered away from the body, his mind racing, his heart thumping. What did you do with a dead body? He had no idea. How was he supposed to know what to do in these circumstances?
Phoning the police made sense, but he knew that they wouldn't believe he hadn't meant to kill Wullie. Phoning the police would be the equivalent of going down to the travel agents to book a ten year holiday in a prison of his choice. Phoning the police would be insane.
He needed help, but he had no one to ask. Even if he did, how could he drag anyone into this mess of his own doing?
'Barney,' said a voice away to his right. A calm, reassuring voice.
He turned. There was a woman sitting in the corner. Long brown hair, her legs crossed. Beautiful lips, pale skin. Up until now Barney had remembered everything, had a sense of déjà vu about proceedings. But not this. This was new.
'Who are you?' he asked. 'The police?'
She smiled, a warm reassuring smile.
'Not the police, Barney. The police won't help you, will they? I can help.'
Barney stared at her. He couldn't remember this at all.
'How can you help?' he asked. 'Take the body away?'
'Oh no, you have to do that yourself. But I can give you advice, make sure things go a little more smoothly than they might otherwise.' She smiled again. The look on her face became a little more wicked. 'Turn heads,' she added.
Barney could feel his throat dry, his breath catching. He looked over his shoulder, wondered if there was anyone outside. Turned back to the woman in the corner. She was now sitting at a desk, a parchment in front of her, a pen lying at its side.
'All you have to do is sign this,' she said, indicating the parchment.
Barney walked over and glanced down at the piece of paper. It was blank. He looked fearfully up into the eyes of the woman.
'What am I signing?' he asked.
'Do you want my help or not?' she asked, the voice suddenly with a bitter edge.
Barney looked down at the blood on his shirt, turned back and stared at the body of Wullie Henderson on the floor.
'I have nothing to give,' said Barney, turning back.
The woman had become harder. The beauty was fading.
'We all have something to give, Barney Thomson,' she said, and this time the voice sounded much deeper, much more menacing, and suddenly Barney knew. His soul. He was trading his soul in order to get out of this mess, to get out of the tricky problem created by accidentally stabbing his boss in the chest with a pair of scissors.
It's hard to get a grasp on eternity as a concept, especially when faced with the difficulties of the present.
He lifted the pen, held it over the paper for a second, and then began to scrawl his name. There was no ink. He stopped and looked at her, curious, despairing. He just wanted this to be over with.
She leaned over, took the pen, and gently pressed the nib against Barney's chest. The pen immediately began to draw up the blood.
'You can sign using the blood of your victim,' she said, holding the pen back to him. 'Fitting, don't you think?'
Barney took the pen, stared at the drop of red blood hanging on the nib, then leaned forward and slowly signed his name. He glanced up at the woman. She was gone. The parchment signed, she had instantly disappeared. As had the desk, the parchment and the pen from Barney's hand.
He turned and looked at the body, glanced back over his shoulder. He felt sure that there had been something there a second ago, but the memory of it was completely gone.
'Come on,' said the voice in his head, 'you have to get a move on. Now, here's where you start.'
The voice rattled out instructions, and Barney Thomson got to work clearing up the detritus of the first instance of accidental murder in his life.
Barney shuddered and opened his eyes. Stared straight at Bergerac, who was now sitting with her head resting back on the chair, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. It looked like she might be about to start snoring, but it was impossible to imagine Taylor Bergerac snoring.
Barney took his eyes from her and looked out of the window. The dark forest flew by, as they headed away from Callander, having passed quickly through.
He looked at his own dim reflection in the window. The scene from the shop, the memory that he did not actually remember, now stamped on his brain.
The voice, he remembered it well. The common sense and clear-cut decision making that had come from nowhere. At the time he'd had no idea how on Earth he had managed to acquire it, but now he knew. Now he knew that all those things the man in the Fyodor Dostoevsky mask had told him two years previously had been true.
The voice had come at a terrible cost.
––––––––
It was almost time for the formal signing of the papers; centuries of mistrust and suspicion about to be swept away in one dramatic gesture. It was a moment to be written in the history books, a moment that could so easily have been accompanied by the most splendid pageantry; however, all the interested parties had agreed that for this ever-increasingly secular society, low key was best.
When the formal announcement was made to Parliament and the public, there would be outrage, no question. There would be old legislation brought out and quoted and re-quoted. There would be arguments in the Lords and in the Commons and in the press and on the streets, in village halls and churches and in pubs. People would argue and fight, because that's what people did. In reality, however, they'd be no more interested than they were in that week's reality TV show, be it dancing, surviving, singing or living in a house.
The men and women sitting around the table, however, had to believe that this was more important than Celebrity Get Me To The Toilet!
There were ten people sitting round the table in their little factions. Noticeably, the largest contingent was from the marketing agency, the people who would try selling the new religious product to Britain, and the rest of the Anglican world.
The implication was obvious; it didn't really matter what decisions the meeting would come to, it was how they were sold that was important.
Given that of the four marketing people, one of them was there to make serious mischief, one was there to commit murder, and one of them was Barney Thomson, it seemed inevitable that there would be a certain underachievement in their performance.
The Anglican Church delegation of three was headed by rogue archbishop, Middlesex, acting without the knowledge of the Archbishop of Canterbury, but with the support of the Prime Minister and of many bishops in England and around the world.
The hosts of the meeting were another three-man team, representing the Catholic church in Rome. The Archbishop of Argyll, the unacknowledged Head of the Church in the UK, his principal private secretary, the man who had so far been conducting the negotiations on his behalf, and a representative from the Vatican, Bishop Carlonni.
The factions were getting themselves together. Argyll's PPS had just delivered the tea and biscuits to the table. Bethlehem was standing at the window, looking down on the dark waters of Loch Lubnaig. He'd been a little surprised by the location, but recognised that these were delicate matters and that secrecy and the utmost discretion were required.
'Perhaps we should call the meeting to order, gentlemen,' said Argyll.
Bethlehem turned and nodded, and took his place at the table, sitting in between Harlequin Sweetlips and Taylor Bergerac. Barney Thomson was on the other side of Bergerac, aware that his insides were empty, and that he had been gripped by an overwhelming and crushing weight of gloom.
'A pleasure to meet you at last,' said Argyll, looking at Middlesex with anything but pleasure. 'You can assure the meeting that you are here on the right authority?'
Middlesex nodded.
'Yes, I have the paperwork in place. I am here by the wishes of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And while you know that we do not yet have full parliamentary approval, we can assure you that this will be directly forthcoming, pursuant to a successful outcome to this meeting.'
'And Her Majesty the Queen?' asked Argyll.
Middlesex stared at the table and when he raised his head his eyes held a look of malicious intent.
'She will do as she is told, as always.'
'Good,' said Argyll.
He looked around the room, could not stop his eyes lingering on Sweetlips and Bergerac, even though he tried not to. Finally he turned to Bethlehem.
Bethlehem held his gaze. Sweetlips had been his principal negotiator on the contract. Bergerac had somehow inveigled herself along, and if he was honest, he had paid Barney Thomson to come because the man had worried him, and he thought it better to keep him in his sights.
'There seem to be a lot of you,' said Argyll.
'You are about to tell the Anglican church and all its members that they are to be re-united with Rome and once more come under the umbrella of the Vatican. We would have an easier time selling sand in Egypt. I thought it necessary.'
Argyll grunted.
'There will be a storm in a media tea cup, and all sorts of people who are not stakeholders in the situation, but who want to shout their mouths off, will do so. Eventually, however, time will pass, the Anglican church will re-align itself completely behind us, and things will fall into place. These are secular times. The time has come for the Christian church to regroup, to put down new roots and new foundations, so that it might once again begin to grow.'
'A time for old alliances to be renewed,' said Bethlehem.
Argyll raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Middlesex nodded.
Argyll's PPS pushed three copies of a thick document across the table towards Middlesex. One of Middlesex's party reached out and placed the documents in front of Middlesex.
'You've scrutinized every line?' asked Middlesex of the man on his right, in a rehearsed conversation opener.
'There are two or three minor points which I feel need addressing at this stage,' he replied, and the two sides squared up across the table. Argyll shook his head and wondered if this would be a classic Anglican filibuster.
Barney Thomson switched off. This was what all the secrecy was about. The Anglican church realigning with Rome, and Thomas Bethlehem had been brought in to sell it to a sceptical congregation. If there was actually a congregation left.
'Does it make your blood run cold?' asked Bergerac in a low voice, looking round at Barney.
Barney stared into the dark, dead eyes.
'What d'you mean?' he asked.
'Well, you know, all this religious shit. It's not for the likes of us. We're ... . too dangerous, too rebellious. Too damned interesting.'
'I don't think I'd group you and me together,' said Barney a little uncomfortably.
Bergerac smiled.
'Why not? You sold your soul to the Devil ... I am the Devil ... '
She smiled wickedly. Barney looked into the horrible depths of the eyes and turned away. And, for seemingly the hundredth time in his life, he felt the horrible bugs of fear crawl up his spine.
The voices droned on around him. He paid no attention. Bethlehem was engaged, unlike the rest of his group. Bergerac was listening with detached amusement. Sweetlips was just detached, edgy, twitchy, the nervous energy building up to her final, brutal revenge on the man she had hated for so many years.
Barney pushed his chair away from the table and walked to the window. The conversation continued unabated behind him. Everyone there knew that Barney Thomson was not a character who was central to proceedings.
He stood at the window, looking out at the black water. The loch was about thirty yards away through the darkness, and with the dim lights behind him he was mostly looking at his own reflection, but there was a clear sky and a large, low moon which he could see reflected on the water.
The place where he had disposed of Chris Porter's body; the loch beside which he had stood in the pouring rain as four police officers had murdered each other in a petty squabble over who had arrest rights on Barney Thomson. The place where his utterly bizarre life had truly begun.
And where it would now end. Of that, as he felt the burning stare of Taylor Bergerac slice through his back and through his soul and the very kernel of his id, he was sure.
***
Daniella Monk was crouched low behind a tree, looking up at the window of the small hut by the shores of Loch Lubnaig. Barney Thomson had just walked to the window and was looking out over the grim, dark water.
Her heart was cartwheeling.
'Aw crap, Barney,' she said. 'You had to prove Frankenstein right. What on earth are you doing here?'
She could hear the sound of the loch lapping softly on the shore behind her. Rain in the air, a cold night.
'Something's going to happen,' she muttered at the dark night. 'There's too much weird shit going on, too many weird people collected in one room. Crap.'
Barney had moved away from the window again and had sat back down beside the evil Taylor Bergerac.
Did she wait here until someone got killed, or did she just pick her moment and burst in? Waiting for the moment seemed more sensible, but then what if someone really did get killed and what if that person was Barney Thomson?
***
Voices were being raised, the discussion of the last-minute minor details not going well. Barney had wandered off again, found the kitchen, made some coffee and had set it out on the table for anyone who wanted it.
Bethlehem was becoming agitated that the two parties seemed further apart than they had when they'd started the negotiations. However it turned out, it did not look like there would be any signing that night. Harlequin Sweetlips was becoming agitated that the evening was dragging on without getting to the main event.
Taylor Bergerac was not in the least agitated. It wasn't like she didn't have a vested interest in the future of the various Christian churches, but this evening she had a devil-may-care attitude about her which she couldn't shake off. In any case, she was here to conclude her final piece of business with Barney Thomson. The absurd church argument was of secondary importance.
'And then there's this God business,' said Middlesex angrily. That drew the attention of those who had been slowly losing interest in the discussion, and those who'd had no interest in the first place.
'Isn't God why we're here in the first place?' said Argyll, softly.
'I don't mean that,' said Middlesex. 'This blasted God story that's all over the place. Everyone's talking about it. It's all over the bloody internet. Some blasted charlatan is going around helping people out and saying that in return they must spend eternity in Heaven. Selling their souls to God, that's what they're calling it. Some nutjob's even started a website sellyoursoultogod.com. It's an outrage.'
Bethlehem had heard about the meeting his guys had had with the God figure, and kept his head down. Taylor Bergerac snorted.
'And what's this got to do with us?' asked Argyll.
'Well, obviously it's just the kind of stunt you lot would pull,' said Middlesex.
'Outrage!' barked Argyll.
'Come on,' said Middlesex, getting down to his streetfighter roots, 'it has Vatican-sponsored written all over it. You lot are so desperate you'll do anything.'
'You outrageous son of a bitch!' cried the Vatican representative. 'If you ask me it is time to leave.'
'And you, Sir,' said Argyll to Middlesex, 'are so desperate that you will stoop to getting into bed with the Catholic church.'
He spat the words out across the table, laced with irony, sarcasm, and all the demented religious fervour that he could muster. Despite the talks of the last few months, despite the gains that both sides could see from some kind of union, they just couldn't cast centuries of hatred and religious divide aside for the sake of a little political expediency.
'I think it might be time to leave,' said Middlesex, although he did not move.
'At least we agree on something,' said Argyll, standing abruptly.
As Argyll's aides rose to join him, Bethlehem, who was looking at his largest contract being flushed down the toilet, reached out across the table.
'Gentlemen, please!' he implored. He hesitated as he realised that he wasn't entirely sure what to say that would heal centuries of enmity, bitterness, division and acrimony. 'You know, think about God and stuff,' he finally said.
Everyone stared. Bethlehem wilted, not entirely sure where that line had come from. He had lost his mojo in five fleeting seconds.
'We can do a re-package,' he added, desperately. 'You know, the whole Catholic-Protestant reunion thing. It'll be like Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park.'
Argyll and Middlesex both looked at Bethlehem with contempt, then cast an angry glance at each other.
'How much are you paying this idiot?' asked Argyll, and then he quickly walked from the room with the two members of his team. His PPS stopped at the door and looked back over the assembled company.
'Can you turn out the lights?' he said, a weak parting line as the Catholic church strode off into the night.
Middlesex looked angrily at Bethlehem once more, as if the whole thing was his fault. The meeting had fallen apart, and now there was nothing left except the representatives of a renegade group of Anglicans, and their overpaid help from the City.
The room was quiet. They could hear the muffled sound of car doors being opened and slammed shut. The engine started, the car driving quickly off into the cold night.
The two sides looked across the table at each other. Harlequin Sweetlips' fingers twitched.
The door opened.
––––––––
The man closed the door slowly behind Him, then walked around the table and sat down in the seat recently vacated by the Catholic church. Everyone was looking at the newcomer with some curiosity, and all were aware that a strange but charismatic presence had walked into their midst. Only Bergerac seemed unimpressed.
'Look what the cat dragged in,' she muttered under her breath. One or two of the others looked at her. God gave her the eyebrow.
'That's the Catholics gone, is it?' He said, looking around the assembled company.
Everyone seemed a little too in awe of Him to speak, even though they didn't actually know who He was.
'There were certain matters of small print on which we failed to meet agreement,' said Middlesex, finally finding his voice. 'Perhaps you might enlighten us as to whom it is I am speaking?' he added, feeling strangely impertinent as the words crossed his lips.
God snorted and rolled His eyes.
'Trust you not to know,' He said.
'Listen, Dude,' said Bethlehem, leaning forward. 'Maybe you could help out a little here. We're in crisis. We were on the point of doing this big thing, you know, an actual thing, real news, creating history, but there's just the odd sticking point. Maybe you could help us out. Not sure who you are, but I could take you on as, I don't know, on a temp basis for this project. See how you get on.'
'That's very magnanimous of you,' said God, 'but I'll pass. I just thought I'd come in here, amongst all you conspirators and murderers and suspects and victims, and get a front row seat. Privilege of rank.'
Barney Thomson closed his eyes. Had a horrible feeling that this was going to be about him. Bethlehem and Middlesex looked confused.
'Suspects ... .murderers ... ?' mumbled Middlesex.
'Victims?' said Bethlehem.
'Your capacity to plot and conspire and finagle is remarkable given your downright stupidity. In case you hadn't noticed, this small collective here includes a murderer, another killer whose blame has not yet been entirely determined, a murder suspect, at least two impending victims, a Supreme Being and a fallen angel, albeit one with, I have to grudgingly concede, phenomenal powers.'
Bergerac didn't look up but did at least nod an acknowledgement to God for the compliment.
'There's a police officer outside waiting to see if anything happens, which is very prescient of her, don't you think?' added God.
Barney looked up from the table. They were in Scotland. It could be any police officer, but there had only been one female police officer involved in the mayhem up to this point. He rose quickly and stood at the window, looking out into the night.
It was dark, too dark to see. Shadows and shapes of bushes and the moon glinting off the water. He glanced over his shoulder at God.
'Wave her in,' said God casually. The more the merrier.
Barney held His gaze for a second and then turned back. Somehow he now knew where to look, and he stared into the bushes without being able to see anything and indicated for Monk to come inside.
He repeated the gesture, was aware of some movement in the direction he was looking, and then turned and walked back uncertainly to the table.
Aware that there was another coming to join them, there was an instant hiatus in conversation. Middlesex was on the point of leaving. The whole thing had been a disaster, and he was no longer entirely sure why he was there. There was just something about this man at the table.
Middlesex's two aides, Yigael Simon, who had previously taken such a dislike to Frankenstein and Monk, and his colleague, to whom he was inexorably linked, Maurice Garfunkel, were getting twitchy. Garfunkel had no idea what was going on, was beginning to feel frightened of what he was being dragged into. Simon, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on, and had even less reason to want to stay.
The door opened again. Everyone turned. Monk walked into the room, looking a lot more relaxed and sure of herself than she felt. She closed the door behind her. Her gaze automatically fell on Barney Thomson and they looked at each other with concern.
'Who are you?' said Bethlehem gruffly. Usually the master of control, Bethlehem felt that things were getting a little out of hand. The deal was shot. There didn't seem to be any point in still being there.
'Detective Sergeant Monk,' she replied, then she sat down in the seat next to Barney. Silently and without a look, their hands joined under the table, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Harlequin Sweetlips.
'So, Sergeant,' said God folding His arms and kicking back, 'this is fun. Is this the part, now that you've got everyone gathered together, where you reveal who the murderer is?'
Monk stared back at God, unsure as to why this man made her feel slightly intimidated and yet strangely relaxed.
'What murders?' said Bethlehem.
Monk turned, a look of curious disdain on her face. Detached her hand from Barney's. There was work to be done. She needed to give herself a shake and try to take some control of this situation.
'Your staff, you idiot,' she threw across the table at him.
'Oh,' said Bethlehem.
Her eyes swept round the table, taking it all in. She had no idea if the murderer was here. They had hardly progressed at all in the investigation, and there were too many people in attendance whom she didn't recognise. And yet, murderers usually came from within. It was not entirely unlikely the killer would be present, and since there were only two other women, it narrowed the field. However, she decided to start with what she knew, and so she turned to Middlesex.
'I asked you earlier today what dealings you had with Bethlehem, Forsyth and Crane, and you implied you had none.'
'I didn't say that. I cannot be blamed for what information you choose to draw from a conversation.'
'Cut the crap,' said Monk. 'You were evasive and clearly you had something to hide. Maybe now that you've been caught at the same table, you can be honest about your fingerprints on the murder weapons.'
'Outrage!' cried Middlesex. 'You cannot make that kind of accusation in public'
'It's not an accusation,' she said. 'It's the truth.'
'It is inappropriate in this company,' barked Middlesex.
'I already knew, Bud,' said God glibly.
'Me too,' added Bergerac, raising her hand. She was getting a bit bored and was wondering when the fun was going to start.
'Me too,' added Sweetlips, lips smiling sweetly.
Monk looked at the three of them, something telling her that it was normal for Bergerac and God to know, but that there was something going on with Sweetlips.
'And just, you know, who the fuck are you?' she said, looking at Sweetlips. 'You just always seem to be around.' She paused, then threw in Frankenstein's joke, as if marking his absence. 'You're not a bad penny, you're a biblical plague.'
Sweetlips smiled, and she looked at Barney.
'Funny. I'm a friend of Barney's,' she said. 'A close friend.'
Despite the obvious manipulation intended in the remark, it still whacked Monk in the stomach, even more so than seeing Sweetlips leave Barney's apartment late on a Saturday evening.
Everyone else looked at Barney. He stared harshly back at Sweetlips. He felt like the odd man out. At that moment, all he wanted was to get back to the barbershop. That was where he belonged, and as soon as this was over, he would get back to Glasgow, spend the night in a hotel, and then the following morning be on the train to Largs. By the afternoon he could be standing behind an old geezer, trimming his ear hair and talking about the balance of power in Scottish football. That was his place.
Yet he knew it was not his fate.
Bethlehem studied Monk, wondering where she was going with this, and wondering how he could take command. He had no idea who'd been killing his people, and neither had he cared. It had allowed that idiot Orwell to foster hopes of a takeover but he'd dealt with that easily enough. What really bothered him was this complete fiasco. This was a huge contract which, controversial or not, would have led to further huge contracts. He needed to get out of there, right now, and start repairing the damage, salvage the deal. That was all that mattered.
'Thought you were here as my adviser,' said Bethlehem, ruefully.
'That too,' said Sweetlips, and she gave Bethlehem a wicked look, the first hint of what was to come. He failed to notice.
Sweetlips, as ever, was in possession of a knife, a blade of beautiful silver. She was contemplating whether to use it, and on whom. There were none of them here who didn't deserve it; except Barney maybe, she still had a soft spot for him. That perhaps was reason enough. Eight victims at once might be a push, but the two for the price of one policeman deal just off the Charing Cross Road had been easy enough, so there was no reason she couldn't expand on that earlier triumph. In the end, it didn't really matter. Whatever anyone else thought, she had been working for herself all along, and there was only one person in the room who really mattered.
'This is pointless, Detective,' said Yigael Simon unexpectedly. 'You are clearly not in a position to make an arrest, or to identify anyone as the killer. You equally obviously have nothing of any significance in relation to the Archbishop, and we certainly do not wish to conduct any further discussion before a crowd of misfits and ne'er-do-wells.'
'What did you just call me?' barked God.
'The truth is the truth, no matter who's at the table,' said Monk, trying to recover from Sweetlips' bitter words.
'Almost poetic,' said Simon, 'but pointless nevertheless. Archbishop, I think it might be time for us to take our leave.'
With that, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. The Archbishop did not immediately join him, although Garfunkel automatically got as far as moving his seat.
Monk stared at Simon.
'You,' she said. 'There was something funny earlier today. When the Chief Inspector mentioned the fingerprints on the murder weapon, you raised your eyebrow. That was it, a raised eyebrow. That's not right.'
'Perhaps you don't like my moustache,' said Simon, a sentence that dripped disdain.
'It could be anything,' she said, ignoring the moustache line. 'Fingerprints, murder, maybe you had something to do with the car accident that nearly killed me last night.'
Simon snorted. 'If I'd wanted you dead you would be.'
Both God and Bergerac were pleased that things were picking up. Barney was beginning to tense up. He had been here before. He didn't know where it was coming from, but he knew something was afoot and, as the doomsayers would have us all believe, the end was nigh.
'No, there was something about you earlier. You'd been expecting us. You were waiting to throw a spanner in the works.'
'Fuck you,' said Simon, losing the required cool reserve that had been the barrier between Middlesex and the real world for so long. 'Why would we hamper you, you idiot? Your pathetic investigation suited us.'
'What?'
Simon breathed deeply, took a step back from the argument into which he was being drawn, held her gaze then dropped his eyes and looked at the table. Sweetlips was giving him a zinger of a look, Monk caught it, stared between the two of them.
'Who would us be in that scenario?' she asked.
Middlesex too looked a little curious at the sudden acknowledgement of a relationship between Sweetlips and his most trusted aide.
'Yigael?' said Middlesex curiously. 'Us? What did you mean by us?'
'I think we should go,' said Simon, and he leaned forward and started gathering the papers in front of him, like an old-fashioned newsreader.
He glanced up at Monk, but wasn't getting sucked into it again. Monk waited, accepted she wasn't getting anywhere.
'You?' she said to Sweetlips, suddenly. 'What's the score with you?'
Sweetlips stared back, a smile at the edge of her lips. She smiled a lot, Sweetlips, and few complained because of her great lips. But it was beginning to get on Monk's nerves.
'You care to answer the question?' Monk prompted.
Sweetlips stared long and hard, but was aware that the look that drilled into the heads of men, was not going to work so well on Daniella Monk.
'I believe Mr Simon is correct,' said Sweetlips slowly. 'You have nothing on anyone. You clearly know nothing about the case, consequently there seems little to be gained from this conversation, keen though I am to instruct you in a few ways of the world.'
'You then,' said Monk, quickly, looking at Bethlehem, not wanting to linger over Sweetlips' stonewalling, 'you don't seem to give a shit.'
'This is pointless,' said Bethlehem.
'You don't care about your employees being murdered?'
Bethlehem tapped a contemplative finger. Didn't like the tone, didn't really want to be sitting here listening to this, when he had to get back out there and rescue his deal. Might even be required to go to Rome to try to speak to the Big Fella himself. This was all very unnecessary.
'Yes, Detective, Sergeant, whatever you are,' he said 'you're right. People are expendable, especially in marketing. There's always someone else. Give me any idiot and I'll give you a marketing man in a week. I am Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, it barely matters who the foot soldiers are. Most of them can't cope with working with someone with my panache in any case. I just need them for the back-up work, to let the big companies know that we're a big player. But it's all me.'
Monk was staring at Bethlehem, but she still noticed the twitch in Sweetlips' eye, the sneer in her mouth. Here was a woman who did not agree that Thomas Bethlehem was Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane.
Crane. She looked back at Harlequin Sweetlips. Margie Crane? Did that make sense?
'You killed them,' said Monk suddenly, looking at her, forcing Sweetlips to look away from Bethlehem, switching off the animosity as she did so.
'What?' said Bethlehem. 'Who?'
Sweetlips smiled. Very good, she thought. Only taken you God knows how long.
'I don't think so,' lied Sweetlips. 'I've been working with Thomas for the past six months. Why would I want to kill any of his people?'
'Because it's part of you,' said Barney, a sudden late entrant to the conversation. God raised an eyebrow at him. 'It's written in your eyes, in every muscle in your body, in every line in your face.'
'What d'you mean, every line on my face, you cheeky bastard?'
Barney smiled. Well, there was a little crack in the make-up.
'At first I wasn't sure who it was you'd killed,' said Barney, 'or whether you'd actually done it at all yet, but watching you now, I know. You've killed them all, every one of Bethlehem's little crowd of losers.'
God nodded silently to Himself, impressed by Barney Thomson's gift for understanding others.
Sweetlips laughed, trying to regain the momentum of the conversation. Monk watched the faces of Bethlehem and Simon, Middlesex and Garfunkel, trying to determine what was going on inside. Only Garfunkel looked out of his depth; only he looked completely innocent and scared.
If Sweetlips was the killer, did any of the others know anything about it? Bethlehem looked disinterested, glancing at the door, contemplating just getting up and leaving. Didn't care, and Monk was almost of a mind to let him go. He would be perturbed and a bit confused if Sweetlips was the serial killer, not outright annoyed or upset. Simon, on the other hand, already knew. He wasn't disinterested; he just didn't want to be in the same room as any of them.
'Barney, you have the heart of a killer yourself,' said Sweetlips.
'You're clutching,' he said quickly.
This time Bergerac smiled quietly to herself. Barney Thomson's moment was coming.
'No,' said Sweetlips. 'Your presence here is the peculiar one, not mine. I work here. Why are you always cropping up? What's your excuse?'
'He doesn't need one,' said Monk. 'Tell us what you know.'
'I know nothing,' said Sweetlips. 'You can try all you like, but you won't place me at any of the crime scenes.'
Monk glanced quickly around the room. Knew this thing was coming to a head, wanted to be on top of things when they completely unravelled. Should she just take her into custody, find out what twenty-four hours of questioning could reveal?
'You're thinking you'd like to take me into custody,' said Sweetlips, ballsing it out as ever, the smile back on her chops. 'Sure, why not? Call my lawyer. Maybe after fifteen years in the courts you'll be allowed to take a DNA sample from me. As if that'll help.'
Sweetlips smiled sweetly at Monk, head cocked a little to the side in a cheeky Audrey Hepburn-type manner that made Monk want to bludgeon her head to a pulp.
'They've already got it,' said Barney, 'so any time you wanted to go back to Scotland Yard for a discussion, I'm sure they'd be delighted.'
'What?' said Sweetlips, the voice suddenly edgy. 'What d'you mean?'
The mask slips, thought Monk, and she looked at Barney, eyes narrowing, wondering what he had been up to.
Simon looked up, suddenly more interested in events. Bethlehem had started to gather papers together. He was leaving.
'I've already given them a sample,' said Barney.
'Who gives a shit?' said Sweetlips, losing the veneer a little. 'Who gives a shit about your sample?'
'Not my sample,' said Barney. 'I've given them a sample of you. You were at my flat, touched plenty of surfaces. They'll get a match.'
Sweetlips suddenly didn't seem so sweet. Even in murder there had been something cool about her, but now the facade was down, the killer was coming to the surface.
'Fuck you, Barney,' she said. 'And I thought your biggest mistake was not sleeping with me when you had the chance.'
Barney lowered his eyes, avoided the look from Monk.
Both God and Bergerac were smiling, although for different reasons. Bergerac was enjoying the descent into chaos and the inevitable upcoming bloodbath; God's smile was more rueful, as He was being presented with yet another example of just how much He'd screwed up the human race all those centuries ago.
'Harley?' said Bethlehem, smiling curiously. 'You killed my guys? I mean, like, seriously? You killed them? I mean, like, I don't give a shit 'n' all, but why?'
'Crane!' said Simon from the other side of the table. 'This has gone far enough. We're leaving,' he barked, and he stepped away from the table, holding the papers which would forever remain unsigned.
Sweetlips snorted at the use of the name, then looked sideways at her former partner. Bethlehem leaned back, the evil and the lie and the outrage unfolding before him. The eyes held everything in them, and finally he was able to see what had been hidden from him for the past six months; by a rhinoplasty, breast reduction, weight loss of 40lbs, white teeth, a collagen smile and fabulous sex.
'Margie?' said Bethlehem. 'You're kidding me.'
She laughed again. For her, it all boiled down to the same old thing. Revenge. Her revenge against Thomas Bethlehem, for using her and then knifing her in the back. Revenge against him and all the spotty little morons who had done his bidding in his company. The side plot – Simon's absurd deal with the Prime Minister, to use the murders as a device to smear Middlesex in order to scupper the breakaway Anglican collective – had been of no interest to her. She had taken their money, by God she had spent it, but it had meant nothing to her.
'Mrs Crane,' said Simon, 'we're leaving now.'
'No, you're not,' said Monk, and she rose quickly and walked to cover the door. Heart thumping, aware that she was far outnumbered by people who just didn't want to be there.
'Let me repeat,' said Simon, bizarrely attempting to be the man in charge, when he clearly wasn't, 'that there is little point to this, and nothing to be gained. We are leaving.'
'I want to hear this,' said Bethlehem.
'What's there to hear?' said Sweetlips. 'You think you're getting out of here alive?'
'Oh, for God's sake,' said Monk. 'Is that a confession? Really? You killed all those arrogant morons at this guy's firm?'
Sweetlips twitched, scowled, gritted her teeth. Her lips lost much of their sweetness.
'It's not his firm, it's my firm,' she snarled.
'Oh, for crying out loud,' barked Monk. Sure enough, but it was time to get the deranged homicidal unhinged fanatical revenge-fuelled lunatic to spill the beans.
'Come on then,' she said, 'you serial killing super-genius. Spit it out, Margie Crane. Fucking Sweetlips,' Monk added with scorn.
'Fuck you,' said Sweetlips, then she looked around the room. On the point of spilling the beans, and Simon recognised it. Middlesex had no idea what was going on; Garfunkel was desperately praying to someone who just so happened to be sitting three yards away from him; Bethlehem was still confused, trying to come to terms with just how much he'd been fooled. That and the fact that he'd been sleeping with Margie Crane for six months and he'd always thought she was a dog. Barney was watching Simon, knew what was coming.
'You keep your mouth shut!' barked Simon.
'Fuck you 'n' all,' said Sweetlips. 'I'll say what I damn well please.'
Whatever else happened, Simon knew that he couldn't let Sweetlips spill the beans. If he had to sacrifice himself for others, then so be it.
Papers down in front of him and suddenly he was leaping hugely across the table, surprising agility in the man given his height, but then he was ex-RAF.
Suddenly the room was all movement, as Monk rushed towards the warring parties. Too slowly. Simon was on Sweetlips in the blinking of an eye, but Harlequin Sweetlips was not slow.
Knife out and up, so that as Simon descended upon her, he was to fall hideously onto her blade. She stepped to the side, and let him crash unhindered to the ground. Withdrew the blade, then brought it down into his back, as Monk came upon her seconds too late.
Sweetlips whipped the knife from Simon's back, then pirouetted out of the way, as Monk crashed down onto the floor beside the stricken body. Sweetlips was beside her, perfectly positioned for the kill, but she wasn't interested in Monk, not yet at any rate.
Middlesex had stood up and backed off, Garfunkel beside him. Sweetlips was flowing round the room, her movement balletic.
God was watching, now more or less disgusted with what His finest creation was stooping to. Bergerac was eating popcorn. Barney Thomson had leapt to Monk's side, only concerned with her and none of the others. Most of them seemed to be getting what was coming to them.
Middlesex showed fear. Garfunkel showed abject terror. Sweetlips swung the blade, a beautiful flowing movement, slit Middlesex's throat, and the man would never lie again. She grabbed him by the head, swung his limp body round just before it collapsed, and thrust it at Monk as she leapt up off the floor.
Monk was knocked to the side, giving Sweetlips enough time to karate kick Garfunkel in the chest, stab him in the eyeball as he fell back, and then safely pirouette to the corner of the room, where she turned to face the rest of the assembled company.
Her breath was coming in short, excited gasps. Her hair was dishevelled, her make-up smudged. But the look on her face was one of triumph.
She knew not the explanation for the presence of God and Bergerac, but she knew that they would not interfere. It was just the police officer, Thomas Bethlehem, the object of her hatred, and the continuing chimera that was the mysterious Barney Thomson.
'Sweetlips!' said Monk, moving towards her. 'You're under arrest. Hand over the knife. Now!'
'Settle down ... ' muttered Barney. 'She's not handing anything over.'
'Fuck you,' said Sweetlips, 'and your dog.'
They watched her closely, the three of them, Monk, Barney and Bethlehem, thinking much the same as all those who'd died at BF&C. She might be a killer but she's not getting me.
––––––––
'You,' said Sweetlips, pointing the knife at Monk, 'are fucking dead.' She then turned it on Bethlehem, who had swivelled in his seat to better take in the action, now that she was behind him. 'You are so fucking dead it's not true. And you,' she concluded, looking at Barney, 'I don't want to kill you but you've got it coming. How could you betray me like that?'
Barney did a look at yourself in the mirror kind of thing, and she scowled in return.
She glanced at Bergerac and God, still unsure of what to make of them. God looked tired and fed up, His head resting in the palm of His hand. Bergerac was slurping noisily from a large cup of Pepsi Max.
'Jesus,' said Monk. 'You know, I don't think I even want to listen to your why I did it speech. You're such a fruitcake.'
'You're first,' said Sweetlips.
'It's not like I care,' said Bethlehem, 'but how did you manage to get all the lads in the firm to go out with you?'
'That's getting into dangerous, why I did it, Scooby Doo-type territory,' said Monk, which was a good point.
Sweetlips laughed, a bit of a cackle. She was getting less cool with every second.
'Your lovely band of hired hands were all working for me. All of them. They knew I was plotting to overthrow you, and I conspired with each and every one of them individually. They all thought they were going to get their name on the front door. Pathetic.'
'Yet, it was me you hated,' said Bethlehem, smugly, 'and I'm still in charge of the company. You always were a screw-up, Marge.'
'I've killed your people!' she screamed.
'I don't care,' said Bethlehem slowly. 'Really, I don't give a shit. Go back to London and kill some more of them. I'll give you their addresses if you like.'
'So,' said Monk, 'Middlesex hired you to market some Anglican thing, and we all know that any change in the church is going to have a lot of people pissing in their pants.'
'Exactly,' said Bethlehem, before Sweetlips could get in with any of her wild cackling. 'There was all sorts of weird religious shit going on, that I didn't really get involved in. This guy,' he added, waving a slightly offended finger at Middlesex's corpse, 'was always talking about judgement day and the end of days, and all that stuff. The end is nigh, for goodness sake. He thought that Christianity should present a united face at the time of their final judgement, wanted to reunite with Rome.'
'As if that would help,' said God bitterly.
Monk turned and looked at God. She recognised Him from somewhere.
'And you,' she said, turning back to Sweetlips, 'were working with Bethlehem, but at the same time you were hired by this other party to spike the deal. So you started committing murder, didn't matter who, but it suited you for it to be at Bethlehem's firm. The plan was that you'd work with Simon to implicate Middlesex as a murderer, so that ultimately this breakaway thing he was doing would fail.'
Sweetlips smiled, but now the smile seemed more psychotic than sweet. Harlequin Psycholips.
'Well, aren't you just the right little Inspector Fucking Morse?'
'Why didn't you just kill Middlesex in the first place?' said Bethlehem.
'That would've made him a martyr. The plan was to ruin him, turn him into a murdering scumbag, to crush his ideals at the same time as crushing him.'
'Whose plan was it?' asked Bethlehem. 'To scupper the deal?'
Sweetlips laughed. 'The queue was this long,' she said. 'No one likes that amount of messing with the establishment.'
Suddenly there was a loud sucking noise as Bergerac drained the bottom of her giant cup. Everyone turned.
'What?' she said. 'Don't mind me. This is like watching the last five minutes of Miss Marple.'
'And Jesus,' said Bethlehem, 'who are you going to turn out to be?'
'Well, I'm not Jesus ... ' said Bergerac.
'Ain't that the truth,' said God glibly, cutting in.
'And where did you get the popcorn and medium diet drink?'
Attention distracted, Sweetlips saw her chance. His head turned from her, Bethlehem was a sitting duck. Despite knowing it was inevitable, Monk still did not see it coming, as Sweetlips suddenly took the ultimate revenge she had been plotting for years, the revenge which she had put herself through so much to be able to enact.
In a flurry of arms and legs she was on top of Bethlehem, wielding the knife with vicious strokes, scything side to side, flailing wildly, composure gone with the hedonistic act of ultimate retribution. Bethlehem yielded to her fury, his head an instant spurting mass of blood. Monk lunged across the room at Sweetlips, forcing her from him, throwing her to the floor. As she did so, the body of Bethlehem toppled off the seat, a slow, beautifully silent movement, until his bloody head smacked dully off the table and he crumpled horribly onto the floor.
Immediately Sweetlips was on her feet, her clothes covered in Bethlehem's blood. Finally called into action, Barney leapt over the table to protect Monk, lest she be next in line; Monk struggled to her feet, breathing hard, poised for the fight. Sweetlips backed off, so that she was standing by the door, a few yards between her and each of her combatants.
A few seconds while they all assessed the situation. Four down, two to go. Sweetlips covered in blood, a wild and crazy woman, capable of anything. Monk wanting to bring her down. Barney, once more in the midst of carnage and mayhem, yet suddenly he could see the Clyde stretching dull and grey before him as he stood at the window of his small barbershop, watching the gulls. And he relaxed, which was probably stupid given the situation, but he knew that was where he was going next. Not that far from where they now were, but a million miles away from the Harlequin Sweetlips and the Thomas Bethlehems and the Jude Orwells of this life.
'Put the knife down,' said Barney.
Sweetlips, breath coming hard through wild nostrils and lips that were no longer sweet, stared at him with a crazy smile. There was no way she was leaving this room in the company of anyone. From the off she had intended being the only one to walk out alive, and the fact that there were two strange guests that she wouldn't be dealing with had not changed her conviction.
'Do what he says,' said Daniella Monk. 'Put the knife down, and we can talk about this.'
All right, thought Monk, as Sweetlips burst into a really annoying cackle, that was a pretty stupid thing to say. When there's blood everywhere and a still-pumped lunatic with a blade, you don't talk about it. At least, the still-pumped lunatic with the blade doesn't talk about it.
'You're next, sweetlips,' said Sweetlips, looking, as she said it, at Monk's lips, and thinking that, right enough, her lips were sweet. Then she looked sideways at Barney, who had taken a step or two towards her. 'Don't even think about it, Barn,' she said. 'It could be just you and me, you know. I've spared you so far. We could rule the world!'
Barney gave her a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look.
'How are you going to do that?' he asked. 'You going to murder everyone on the planet so that it's only the two of us left?'
'Don't, Barney!' she shouted at him.
'Well,' he said, 'that's like the stupidest thing I've ever heard any of you muppets say. Put the knife down and stop talking pish.'
That's the way to do it. Make 'em feel small, that'll sort 'em out.
She finally cracked, the smooth and elegant and graceful Harlequin Sweetlips having completely given way to the out-of-control monster, and with it, having given away her advantage. She charged at Barney, anger-driven, forgetting everything that had so far allowed her to dominate men, to kill them even when they threatened to fight back.
Barney braced himself. Sweetlips lunged towards him, knife raised. Then with a sudden whack from the side, Sweetlips was reeling and Monk had knocked the knife from her hand. Sweetlips fell towards Barney and he did not hesitate in thumping her firmly in the face, a beautiful closed-fist punch that knocked her head back, as she fell to the ground. Face bloodied, Sweetlips spun away from them. Monk charged. Sweetlips was barely on her feet, then Monk was on top of her again, punching viciously at her head and throat. Sweetlips swung back, but she was on the defensive.
Barney leapt across the room, lifted the knife. Knew what needed to be done. There were no half measures with someone like Harlequin Sweetlips.
Monk planted a superb head-butt, middle of the face. Sweetlips' head jerked back, smacked off the floor. Monk grabbed her by the collar, setting her up for another forehead to the nose. But Sweetlips was too good for that, too good to have her arms allowed free. With massive force, she brought her hands up from the floor, the hard edges of her fists hitting either side of Monk's neck. Monk cried out, hands automatically going to the weakened area. Sweetlips pushed up, lifting Monk off her, and then reciprocated the head butt, a fabulous blow to the nose, splitting Monk's face apart, blood instantly leaping from the open wound.
Monk fell back, two blows and almost defeated; Sweetlips jumped on top of her, hands reaching for the neck. Harlequin Sweetlips could snap a neck in two seconds; trained by the appropriate Americans.
Then, as her hands found their way round the defenceless, bruised neck of Daniella Monk, Sweetlips jerked upwards, her grip turning limp, as her own knife was thrust powerfully into the top of her spine. She spun round as the knife was removed, so that when Barney thrust down with the follow-up jab, it was into her neck. Sweetlips, her eyes locked on Barney Thomson, the man whom she had spared and who had finally stabbed her in the back right enough, fell away, and slumped down dead onto the floor.
Barney stood over her, breathing hard, eyes cold, his heart strangely calm. Made sure she was dead, lolled her head from side to side with his foot. Bent down, checked for breath, which he knew was not going to be there. Yet he felt that Sweetlips was a woman of that quality. You might never be sure.
He contemplated another thrust of the knife, decided against. The woman was dead. He looked at Monk, who had sat up, blood and tissue spread across her face, one hand on her nose, the other at her neck. She looked down at Sweetlips, stricken at last.
'That went about as well as could be expected,' said Barney, and Daniella Monk gurgled a painful laugh through the blood.
The sound of the hand clap was slow and quiet and filled with derision. They turned quickly, expecting to see the laughing face of Bergerac.
There was no one there. Bergerac was gone. The man whose name they had never learned was also gone. Barney and Monk were alone with five dead bodies, and all that remained was an air of malice and of unfinished business.
––––––––
The cyclical nature of things being as they are, Barney sat down once more beside Monk as she lay in a hospital bed. She had massive bruising to the neck, a bandage over her nose, and bruising around the eyes. He had no injuries, just another dead body on his hands. Monk had gone straight to hospital, nothing too serious. Barney had been taken into custody, having owned up to the murder of Sweetlips. He had expected to spend rather a long time there, but a strangely rational senior detective had listened without judgement to Barney's story, and then released him on the grounds that he did not intend fleeing the country.
'You look awful,' said Barney.
Monk smiled through the bruises and the bandage.
'How come you're here?' she asked, voice sounding a little strange, what with her nose being bandaged and an odd shape at that.
'No idea,' said Barney. 'Told some detective my story, he listened, then he let me go. I'm not allowed to leave the country, apparently. So I'm afraid we'll have to cancel that trip to the Seychelles.'
Monk smiled.
'That was the weirdest evening I've ever had in my life,' she said.
'I suppose,' said Barney. 'It's certainly in my top ten.'
Monk started to laugh and then quickly stopped herself, as the movement was so uncomfortable.
Another silence. All along Monk, despite herself, had not failed to see Sweetlips as some sort of love rival. But there's nothing to make your girlfriend more secure about a potential love rival, than stabbing the potential love rival in the back. That'll do it every time.
'So, now that you're back in Scotland, are you staying?' she asked.
'Thought I might,' said Barney. 'Can't leave the country.'
She nodded, winced at the pain the movement caused her.
'Are you looking for company?' she asked.
Her eyes were bright in amongst the discolouration of her face.
'You sure you want to stay up here?' asked Barney. 'It rains a lot.'
'I've heard that. I can cope with it for a few days. Maybe a week or two. See how we get on, eh?'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Course there are people who come here for a week or two and end up staying forever. You've got to be careful of that.'
Monk's hand appeared from under the covers, much as it had when she had been visited by God the previous night. Barney stretched forward and took hold of her fingers, a touch that was electric for them both, then the two of them settled back and looked into each other's eyes.
***
An hour later, Monk having drifted off to sleep, Barney tore himself away from her side and walked down the corridor to the coffee machine. He stopped suddenly as he was walking into the small waiting area.
There were two people there, sitting a few seats apart, both drinking coffee, waiting for him.
'Very touching,' said Taylor Bergerac. 'Time to pack your bags.'
Barney felt that cold grip on his spine, the old familiar feeling, the sensation of fear which he had lost years previously, but which had been re-introduced to him by Harlequin Sweetlips in all her various guises.
'Hold onto your hat,' said God. 'As my good mate Bob wrote, you ain't goin' nowhere.'
Bergerac slurped noisily at the coffee, winced, cursed under her breath.
'Damn, that coffee's still hot. Keeps burning my lips.'
'Well, there's some sort of irony,' said God.
'Bite me,' snapped Bergerac.
Barney shook his head, then walked forwards slowly and sat down opposite the two of them. He leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair.
What had he been thinking? That a happy life with Monk on his small Scottish island awaited him? How foolish and premature.
Slowly he lifted his head, looked from Bergerac to God.
'God?' he asked tentatively.
God nodded, aware that it was a pretty big concept for people to grasp.
'Why are you here?'
'I have a vested interest,' replied God. Bergerac snorted, then took another careful sip of coffee as God gave her an angry look.
'You mean, beyond the fact that you have an interest in all people?'
'Piece of crap,' interrupted Bergerac. 'This guy is mine, all mine, and under the Tripoli Convention there's nothing you can do about it. Nothing. So cut the crap and let's get this thing over with. Barney Thomson is mine, I'm calling him in, and. ... ' and she hesitated, then looked from God to Barney, 'you are dead, my friend.'
Barney wanted to be phlegmatic about this, he wanted to summon every reserve of indifference he could muster, he wanted to ooze cool, he wanted to be James Bond. But suddenly he was scared and he found that he had no strength to fight it.
'The Tripoli Convention?' he said, looking up at God.
God was shaking His head, staring at the floor.
'One of the old deals we worked out millennia ago. If one of us does a deal with the living which affects their eternal soul, the other can't interfere. That's how it goes.'
'And,' said Bergerac, 'if a further deal is unwittingly done by the other party, that deal is null and void as precedence is always given to the original deal, unless both signatories are willing to overlook the primary agreement. And I'm not. Look, I've invested a lot in this guy. I toyed with him, I plunged him into endless situations with murderers, I've had fun. I particularly liked all those dead monks.'
'Bastard,' muttered God.
'Not to mention bringing him back from the dead, of my own accord, I might add, after he'd fallen off that cliff. The dude is mine.'
God leaned back, let out a long sigh.
'Crap,' He muttered. 'I'm going to have to get my people to take a look at that Convention again.'
'Yeah,' said Bergerac, 'and then my people are going to bite your people on the ass. Don't even go there, pal.'
Bergerac stood up, took another sip from the endless cup of caffeine.
'Come on, dude, I've wasted enough time on this.'
She held her hand out towards Barney. Barney Thomson raised his head, looked into the eyes of Taylor Bergerac, eyes that burned a deep and dark spiteful red.
Third time unlucky. Confused and scared, no real idea of where he had gone wrong in life, Barney Thomson was about to die.
He looked at God, feeling helpless. 'I don't understand,' said Barney. 'What deal do I have with you?'
'Well, as part of the convention, I'm not really supposed to tell you, but seeing as you're about to get stiffed ... You died a coupla days ago.'
'No I didn't,' said Barney quickly.
Bergerac snorted again.
'Yes, you did,' said God. 'In the car crash. Not realising that you had a deal going on with Scrooge over there, I did a deal with your girlfriend, your life for her eternal soul. Under the general quid pro quo of the deal, you'd get to spend eternity with her too. Except, you can't, and my deal is null and void, because you already had one.'
Barney looked up at God. Barney's normally impassive face was laden with sadness for once. Barney Thomson finally had something to regret after years of self-delusion and years on the run from life. There was no cosy little barber's shop that could save him from this. There would be no more old men sitting in front of him chatting casually about women and the world banking crisis and whether Nietszche was gay.
'Fuck,' he said to God, and God nodded and shrugged His shoulders.
'That's what you get when you shake hands with the Devil,' He said.
Barney finally lifted his elbows from his knees and straightened his back. Some time and at some point you had to face the consequences, and whoever said those consequences weren't going to last for all eternity?
Taylor Bergerac was standing over him, a wicked smile on her face.
'Come in Number Seven,' she said rather prosaically, 'your time's up.'
She held out her hand again, her face somehow managing to radiate warmth, rather than the horrific malevolence of what lay beneath.
Barney looked into the red eyes and felt empty inside, all hope lost, the confused choirs of angels that had sung through his life now chanting a mournful lament for his imminent demise. The game was up, his number had been called. He lifted his hand.
'Hang on a second,' barked God, standing up and pushing Bergerac in the shoulder, away from Barney's outstretched hand. It seemed a curiously thuggish physical act from an omnipotent being.
'For Christ's sake,' said Bergerac, her eyes flashing a violent red once more. 'What now? Can't I just do my job in peace?'
God studied Bergerac's face closely. Barney looked up at the two of them, no real clue as to what was going on.
'What?' said Bergerac, trying to stand up to God's glare. But there was no denying, sometimes she just plain found God intimidating. And on this occasion, she realised that God was on to her.
God turned to Barney, although every now and again He cast a disdainful look back at Bergerac.
'Here's how it works. You, some guy, whoever, let's call him the customer, does a deal with me or this idiot. We shake on it. That's the deal. The customer shakes hands with the Devil, or he accepts the Hand of God, that's him cast in stone. So, the next day the customer wakes up and doesn't remember a thing. He'll get in life what it was he wanted, and then when the time comes, either me or Captain Connivance here will pitch up and reintroduce him to the original deal he made.'
Barney was watching God, letting the sound of His voice wash over him. He could just sit there all day.
'Tell me about your deal,' said God, looking at Barney. 'He must've reminded you about it by now.'
'We don't have time for th—'
God silenced Bergerac with the palm of His extended hand.
'You know, I killed my boss in —,' began Barney.
'I know that part,' said God, although there was no tone to His voice. 'I'm looking for the actual pact with the Devil.'
Barney shook his head and stared at the carpet. Bergerac muttered and turned her back.
'Apparently some guy pitched up and I signed a piece of paper, and ... '
'I knew it!' shouted God. 'You sneaky sonofabitch!'
'Ah, fuck you, you self-righteous bastard,' said Bergerac.
'What?' said Barney. Suddenly he just wanted this to be over. He wanted to be going where he was going, or he wanted to get a cup of coffee and go back to the room and sit with Monk.
'Well, of course I'm self-righteous, you heathen, I'm God!'
'What?' shouted Barney. 'Would you just tell me what's going on?'
He looked at God, and then at Bergerac. Bergerac had turned, her face flaming bitter red, the eyes scarlet and glaring.
'You've been duped,' said God. 'The memory of the deal with Satan, she implanted that in your head. No one signs anything in this business. We still deal in handshakes in our game. If you'd shaken her hand just then ... ' and he ran His finger across His neck. 'Man, I nearly missed it, the oldest trick in the book.'
'So why didn't you implant a dream where I shook your hand?' said Barney, looking at the flaming face of doom.
Bergerac pouted, shook her head, looked embarrassed.
'It's not ethical,' she muttered. 'You're allowed to try to dupe, but you have to stay within the rules. Crap.'
'So, all that stuff about you controlling my life and bringing me back from the dead?' asked Barney, standing up. Annoyed suddenly, and not just from the safety of having God standing next to him.
'Hell, I made all that shit up,' said Bergerac. 'You're just some sad loser who kept having weird shit happen to him. I kinda latched on to you because it was fun.'
Barney closed his eyes. His head dropped. Just as his life had started to make some sort of sense. A strange and inexplicable perverted sense, but it had seemed to have order.
He opened his eyes. Bergerac was gone. He turned, a thought that he would suddenly be alone, but God was still standing next to him.
The two men stared at each other for a few moments. Finally God shrugged.
'Don't listen to her,' said God, 'she's full of crap.'
Barney smiled ruefully, looked over his shoulder, expecting her to be back, to be behind him, to be everywhere.
'What now?' he asked, turning back to God.
'You get the cup of coffee you came along here for, you take it back to the room, and you sit with Monk until she wakes up.'
'That's it?'
'In the morning you get back to Millport, by tomorrow afternoon you can be cutting hair and Monk can be sitting on a bench looking across the sea to the mountains on Arran.'
Barney felt his breath catch in his throat. Just the thought of that normality. The island, the sea air, the cry of the gulls, the sound of the waves, the mountains across the water.
Barney Thomson looked down. God was holding His hand out towards him. Barney looked curiously into His eyes.
'What's the deal?' he asked.
'There's no deal,' said God smiling. 'I just wanted to shake your hand.'
Barney smiled and took the Hand of God. God patted him on the shoulder, lowered His hand and mock saluted.
'I'm on my way, Bud. Take care of yourself, and look after Monk. She deserves it.'
Barney nodded. God turned and began to walk away and then suddenly He wasn't there anymore. Barney stared at the space where He'd been, still feeling the warmth of His presence. Under other circumstances he might have been expecting the imminent return of Taylor Bergerac, but he knew she wouldn't be back.
He glanced over his shoulder, then walked slowly to the coffee machine and began to read through the fifteen different available options to see if he could find a plain, ordinary coffee in amongst the lattes and the cappuccinos and the machiatos.
***
There were two reasons why Barney had been released so quickly from custody by the police. One was the intervention of a higher power, as Barney might have supposed. The other was that Barney had confessed to the murder of a person whose body was not found by the police.
Barney and Monk had left the small hut and had called in the local police. They had then waited by the side of the road nearby, Monk bruised and bloodied, lying in Barney's arms.
The police had arrived, they had interviewed the two survivors, and they had taken Barney's statement. However, they were curious as to his confession to killing Harlequin Sweetlips, as in the hut where the murders had taken place there were only four bodies. Thomas Bethlehem and the three representatives of the prematurely destabilised breakaway Anglican movement. There was no knife, there was no Harlequin Sweetlips. Wherever she was, she had not lain dead in the room.
Harlequin Sweetlips, the woman that they had all supposed to be Margie Crane, was gone.
––––––––
The executives from Exron were very impressed with the presentation on behalf of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. The fact that none of those currently representing the marketing company had been there when the deal had originally been settled, while disturbing at first, now seemed of little importance. It was clear that this was a quality piece of work.
The new senior executive at the firm, Jolanda Heartspring, was doing a fine job. One item remaining, she knew she had them well and truly hooked.
'So, finally we come to the Exron condom,' said Heartspring, and the executives from the latest toiletries operation on the planet all leaned forward.
'We're going,' Heartspring continued, 'for the FBS Condom from Exron. We'll have a guy and a girl lying in bed, really really jejune, post-coital bliss. You know, two people who've just had the shag of their lives. Then the hook line comes up; FBS Condoms from Exron. For that once in a lifetime experience, every night of your lives.'
There were nods and smiles along the row of panty-men.
'FBS?' said one of the bum-fluffs, curiously.
Heartspring smiled cheekily. She knew she had them.
'We never say,' she said. 'Never. However, we let it out as one of those urban myth type things, you know. Just let it grow around the country. It's never official, but everyone knows. Every time they see a billboard or a TV ad or a magazine, they'll know. But they'll feel like they've got a piece of knowledge that no one else has. It's going to be beautiful.'
The panty-men were sucked in. They leaned forward even further.
'Tell us,' said one of them.
'Yes,' said another. 'Tell us.'
Heartspring took a pace forward. The room waited expectantly. There was a hushed silence. The crowd was tense. Overhead a plane continued to circle, held in a never ending waiting pattern for Heathrow. A couple of tourist boats plied an unsatisfactory trade along the river. Cars zipped along Westferry, too fast in the rain.
Heartspring nodded, let the smile come and go from her face. Her eyes widened. The smile returned. The name meant nothing, the green eyes, the blonde hair, it all meant nothing. What mattered was what was inside, and the person who had been Margie Crane, the person who had become Harlequin Sweetlips, was now standing before expectant executives of Exron finally in control of the company she had helped create. And when she spoke, she spoke slowly and confidently, the words enunciated like George Clooney in From Dusk 'Til Dawn.
'Fucking Brilliant Shag.'
The room erupted in enthusiasm.
And it would not be until the moment of her death when she would be re-introduced to her malevolent benefactor, that Margie Crane would realise the cost at which she had managed to attain everything she'd ever wanted.
***
Barney Thomson lowered the handle, pushed the door open and walked into the small shop. The single barber, currently cutting the hair of old man McGuire, looked round, as did McGuire, old man Fraser on the bench, and the small hunchbacked figure stooped over a broom, sweeping up at the back of the shop. They looked at Barney, and then at the woman standing behind him, a heavy bandage across her nose.
'Oh my God!' said Keanu. 'Barney. Oh my God! Didn't expect you back so soon.'
It had been eight days. It had flitted past on Millport, where nothing had happened. It felt strangely like a lifetime away for Barney.
Barney shrugged.
'Couldn't stay away,' he said.
'Holy crap,' said Keanu, 'this is awesome. It's been quiet as a grave around here without you.'
He walked forward and shook Barney warmly by the hand. He looked at Monk, standing just behind Barney. It was impossible to tell how she felt about being thrust into this male company, as the bandage obscured much of her face.
'Hi,' said Keanu, extending his hand.
She took his hand, smiled through the bandage.
'Hi,' she said. 'You must be Keanu.'
Keanu's smile broadened. He looked at Barney with respect, pleased that he'd been talking about him, assuming the best.
'So you're here to stay?' he asked.
Barney glanced over his shoulder at her, a warm look, then turned away and left them to it. He walked to the back of the shop, where Igor was still standing staring at him, surprised that he had come back.
'I thought I'd lost you,' said Igor, although as ever this sadly came out as, 'Arf.'
Barney stood before his friend and nodded.
'You didn't think I was going to leave you in charge of this place for too long now, did you?' he said.
Igor smiled in his peculiar way. Barney put his hand on Igor's shoulder.
'I'm back, my friend.'
Still holding onto him, he turned and the two men surveyed the small scene. Keanu and Monk getting acquainted. A customer in the chair, another one waiting. Outside the seagulls circled and cried, the sea breeze blew, the waves restlessly controlled the bay, clouds flitted across a grey sky.
'And this time,' said Barney, 'I'm not going anywhere for a long time.'
'Arf,' said Igor.
Old man Fraser finally looked up from the bench.
'Very touching,' he said. 'You bugger off on holiday without a word of warning, and then when you finally get back to work you stand around for an hour and a half talking winsome pish. I'm ninety-one you know. If you don't cut my hair soon I'm going to die.'
Barney Thomson laughed, smiled, took off his jacket, threw it casually onto a peg, and then walked over to the barber's chair where his scissors and razors and brushes and combs lay neatly arranged where he'd left them the week before.
###