Read Online The Barbershop Seven by Douglas Lindsay - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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a variety of celebrity undergarments were brought on and the contestants attempted to identify them from the stains. She had finished her second cigarette by the time the adverts arrived. Lowering the volume, she turned to look at her boy.
'Why are you making wine, Mum?'
She shrugged. Not all questions in life have answers , she thought. 'I didn't have enough sugar to make marmalade,' she said, and pulled hard on her newly lit cigarette. 'So, how are you? You're looking a wee bitty fed up?'
He sat back, staring at the ceiling. Could he talk to his mother? Probably not. He'd never been able to before, so why should he suddenly be able to start now? Mothers aren't for talking to; they're for obeying and running after. At least, that's what his mother was for. Iron hand in iron glove.
'Ach, I'm just a bit cheesed off at work and all that, you know. It's nothing.'
She drew heavily on the cigarette. 'Oh aye, what's the problem?'
'Just they two that I work with, they're really getting to me. Keep taking all my customers, so they do. Pain in the arse, to be quite frank.'
Now Cemolina shook her head. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Saw conspiracy. Believed Elvis was abducted by aliens on the instructions of the FBI. 'It doesn't surprise me. Yon Chris Porter. He's a Fenian, isn't he? Can't trust a bloody Tim.'
Barney shook his head. 'No, mum, the other one's just as bad.'
She looked surprised. 'Wullie Henderson? He's a fine lad. Goes to watch the Rangers every week, doesn't he?'
Barney nodded. Felt like he was in the lion's den. Even his mother put great store by football. 'Maybe he does, Mum, but that's not the point.'
'Oh, aye. What is the point, then?'
'I don't know. They take all my customers. Make me look bloody stupid in front of everyone. They're all laughing at me.' He stopped when he realised that he sounded like a stroppy child with a major humph, lip petted, face scowling. Cemolina hadn't noticed. Either that, or she was used to seeing him like this.
'So, what are you going to do about it then?'
Barney stared at the floor, wondering what to say. Felt he had to obey the golden rule of not confessing murderous intent to your mother – notwithstanding the Norman Bates Exception , when you and your mother are the same person – and his villainous ardour had been partly quashed by Bill's horrified reaction to his nefarious scheme. There was little point in talking to her about it. And who was he fooling anyway? He wasn't about to kill anyone. He was Barney Thomson, sad pathetic barber from Partick. No killer he.
He shrugged his shoulders, mumbling something about there being nothing that he could do. Sounded like a wee boy.
'Why don't you kill them?' she said, drawing forcefully on her cigarette, as far down as she could go.
He stared at her, disbelief rampaging unchecked across his face. 'What did you say?'
'Kill them. Blow their heads off, if they're that much trouble to you. Your old dad used to say, "if someone's getting on your tits, kill the bastard, and they won't get on your tits any more".'
Barney looked at her. Staring at a new woman, someone he'd never seen before. His mother. His own mother was advising him to kill Wullie and Chris. Stern counsel. She couldn't be serious, could she? Was that the kind of thing his father used to say? He remembered him as kind, gentle; distant memories; soft focused, warm sunny summer afternoons.
'D'you mean that?'
She shrugged, lit another cigarette. 'Well, I don't know if they were his exact words, it's been about forty year after all, but it was something like that I'm sure.'
'No, not that. D'you really think that I should kill them? Really?'
'Of course I do. If they're upsetting you that much, do away with them. You've been in yon shop a lot longer than they two heid-the-ba's. You shouldn't let them push you about. Blow their heads off.'
A huge grin began to spread across Barney's face. He had found a conspirator. A confidante in the most unlikely of
'Why are you making wine, Mum?'
She shrugged. Not all questions in life have answers , she thought. 'I didn't have enough sugar to make marmalade,' she said, and pulled hard on her newly lit cigarette. 'So, how are you? You're looking a wee bitty fed up?'
He sat back, staring at the ceiling. Could he talk to his mother? Probably not. He'd never been able to before, so why should he suddenly be able to start now? Mothers aren't for talking to; they're for obeying and running after. At least, that's what his mother was for. Iron hand in iron glove.
'Ach, I'm just a bit cheesed off at work and all that, you know. It's nothing.'
She drew heavily on the cigarette. 'Oh aye, what's the problem?'
'Just they two that I work with, they're really getting to me. Keep taking all my customers, so they do. Pain in the arse, to be quite frank.'
Now Cemolina shook her head. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Saw conspiracy. Believed Elvis was abducted by aliens on the instructions of the FBI. 'It doesn't surprise me. Yon Chris Porter. He's a Fenian, isn't he? Can't trust a bloody Tim.'
Barney shook his head. 'No, mum, the other one's just as bad.'
She looked surprised. 'Wullie Henderson? He's a fine lad. Goes to watch the Rangers every week, doesn't he?'
Barney nodded. Felt like he was in the lion's den. Even his mother put great store by football. 'Maybe he does, Mum, but that's not the point.'
'Oh, aye. What is the point, then?'
'I don't know. They take all my customers. Make me look bloody stupid in front of everyone. They're all laughing at me.' He stopped when he realised that he sounded like a stroppy child with a major humph, lip petted, face scowling. Cemolina hadn't noticed. Either that, or she was used to seeing him like this.
'So, what are you going to do about it then?'
Barney stared at the floor, wondering what to say. Felt he had to obey the golden rule of not confessing murderous intent to your mother – notwithstanding the Norman Bates Exception , when you and your mother are the same person – and his villainous ardour had been partly quashed by Bill's horrified reaction to his nefarious scheme. There was little point in talking to her about it. And who was he fooling anyway? He wasn't about to kill anyone. He was Barney Thomson, sad pathetic barber from Partick. No killer he.
He shrugged his shoulders, mumbling something about there being nothing that he could do. Sounded like a wee boy.
'Why don't you kill them?' she said, drawing forcefully on her cigarette, as far down as she could go.
He stared at her, disbelief rampaging unchecked across his face. 'What did you say?'
'Kill them. Blow their heads off, if they're that much trouble to you. Your old dad used to say, "if someone's getting on your tits, kill the bastard, and they won't get on your tits any more".'
Barney looked at her. Staring at a new woman, someone he'd never seen before. His mother. His own mother was advising him to kill Wullie and Chris. Stern counsel. She couldn't be serious, could she? Was that the kind of thing his father used to say? He remembered him as kind, gentle; distant memories; soft focused, warm sunny summer afternoons.
'D'you mean that?'
She shrugged, lit another cigarette. 'Well, I don't know if they were his exact words, it's been about forty year after all, but it was something like that I'm sure.'
'No, not that. D'you really think that I should kill them? Really?'
'Of course I do. If they're upsetting you that much, do away with them. You've been in yon shop a lot longer than they two heid-the-ba's. You shouldn't let them push you about. Blow their heads off.'
A huge grin began to spread across Barney's face. He had found a conspirator. A confidante in the most unlikely of
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