The Barbershop Seven by Douglas Lindsay

Author:Douglas Lindsay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: douglas lindsay, barney thomson, tartan noir, robert carlyle, omnibus, black comedy, satire
Publisher: Blasted Heath Ltd
Published: 2013-10-31T04:00:00+00:00

God Is Not A Man, That He Should Lie

Once JLM had marched from his office with his brief for the day and a spanking new and very short haircut – 'I love it! I love it!' Veron Veron had cried – Barney returned to the midst of the others. The two doctors worrying away at their laptops; Veron busying himself at his dummy, this time creating an elegant, but unnecessarily elaborate thing for JLM's meeting with a Thai prince that had been pencilled in for three weeks hence, (but which was destined never to happen); Father Michael absorbed in whatever hidden messages he was divining from the sermon on the mount; and Alison Blake buried in her Bible, and now avoiding Barney like he was, well, a religious freak or something.

Barney had two pieces of mail, which was unexpected. One internal, one external. He made himself a cup of tea, sat down in the large comfy seat next to Blake, said 'Morning,' with a smile, and got a nodded grunt of a reply, and opened the first of the two letters.

It was from a woman in Aberdeen, who had given him her home phone number, her cell phone number, her business phone number, her e-mail address, her business e-mail, business fax, business cell phone, home and business addresses, car registration number, date of birth, chest measurement and what size of big pants she wore. It read:

Dear Mr Thomson,

I've noticed in the last couple of days how wonderful the First Minister is looking. What with his new hair, I suddenly realise that he's been telling the truth all this time and that his policies are brilliant and the right thing for Scotland.

You are a God. Will you marry me? I'm not a great catch, but I make a lovely pie and my personal hygiene is mostly impeccable.

Please contact me. And please don't think I'm desperate, but I'd really like to start a family, and my husband's not interested.

Yours, hopefully,

Lillian K McEwan

Barney read it a couple of times, wondered if he should give it to security or something, then slipped it into his pocket and thought he might show it to Blackadder later to get a psychiatric profile of the woman.

The second letter had come through internal post, and was only marked up with his name, which had been typed in Garamond. He opened it, unfolded the letter. It read:

You've had contact with the police. Meet me at 10am in conference room 3c, Queensberry House.

Barney read it again, four times. He looked at the clock. A little after nine. He glanced around the room to see if anyone was staring at him. Was it one of these comedians? Unlikely. But who had heard that he'd had dealings with the police? Was it an open secret? Did everybody know details of every single visitor he had in his room? Oh aye, Barney had the police round last night, and he knobbed the vicar the night before; he's also had Blackadder round there, but

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