“I prefer the term world control,” said Icarus.
“Well, at least we know where all the workers in the orange jumpsuits and hard hats are,” said Johnny Boy. “They’re squeezing heads in barber’s shops.”
Icarus released the barber’s head. “There’s more to this,” he said.
“What?” said Johnny Boy. “More than world control?”
Icarus addressed the barber. “Are there operatives all over the world doing this?” he asked. “Or only here in England?”
“Only here, as far as I know,” said the barber.
“I thought as much,” said Icarus.
Johnny Boy looked up at the lad. “There are all kinds of colours whirling around you,” he said. “Just what’s going on in your mind?”
“Only this. What if all this angel and demon carry-on is a localized phenomenon? Centred right here in London. And what if it’s natural for people to be able to see demons and angels? Without needing the Red Head drug?”
“Then they’d see them, wouldn’t they?”
“And some do. But they’re considered mad. But the rest don’t. And why? Because they’re having their heads subtly massaged every time they go to the barber’s or the hairdresser’s. From when they’re children onwards.”
“And the massages affect the brain so people can’t see the truth?”
“That’s what I think,” said Icarus.
“Angels and demons?” said the barber. “You talking the jobbies from the bull’s behind parts, that’s what I’m thinking in my head.”
“Just a couple more questions,” said Icarus, “and then I’ll be done with you.”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment,” said the barber. “Also the Geneva Convention and the Waldorf salad. I tell you nothing more.”
“How many people work here?” asked Icarus.
“I tell you that,” said the barber. “About half a dozen. Me, Philomena the masseuse, Mr Cormerant the wages clerk, some guards that walk up and down. The chauffeur, no, he got stabbed in the corridor. The new chauffeur, the women in the canteen where nobody goes to eat, because the food tastes like pigeon poops. And the guv’nor, of course.”
“The guv’nor runs the Ministry?”
“That’s what guv’nors do, ain’t it?”
“And what is the guv’nor’s name?”
“Mr Godalming,” said the barber.
“Mr Godalming?” said Johnny Boy.
And so did Icarus Smith.
“Mr Godalming,” said the barber once again.
Icarus looked at Johnny Boy.
And Johnny Boy looked back at him.
“This Mr Godalming,” said Icarus to the barber. “What does he look like? Does he by any chance look like Richard E. Grant?”
“Ha ha ha,” the barber laughed. “No, he look nothing like Richard E. Grant. His father look like Richard E. Grant. But he don’t. He look more like Peter Stringfellow. He’s young Mr Godalming.
“Mr Colin Godalming.”
“Still waiting for Mr Godalming, Laz?” said the maitre d’ with a grin.
“In a manner of speaking,” said I. “I’m right, I assume, that this is the bar where all the media types come after they’ve been interviewed by daytime TV.”
“You’re right there, my friend.”
“Perfect,” said I. “Because I saw this guy on TV today and I’d really like to meet him.”
“Yeah?” said Fange. “Who’s that?”
“Celebrity hairdresser,” said I. “Looks a bit like Peter Stringfellow. The name’s Godalming.
“Mr Colin Godalming.”
15
“It’s a mullet,” said Fangio the malnourished maitre d’.
“It’s a what?” I asked, in a readiness of response.
“The haircut Peter Stringfellow has. Mullet, the classic 1970s haircut, as favoured by members of the Bay City Rollers and damn near everybody else. Peter Stringfellow is the last man on Earth to favour the mullet, now that Pat Sharp’s done away with his.”
“I’m more of a Ramón Navarro man, myself,” said I. “I can’t be having with hair that sticks out under my fedora.”
“Class,” said the string bean Fangio. “Pure class.”
“So he comes in here, does he, this Colin Godalming?”
“Regular as clockwork,” said the wasted one. “He should be arriving here”, Fangio studied the watch on his twig-like wrist, “in about ten minutes’ flat, or if not flat, then he’ll walk in upright, as usual.”
Oh how we laughed at that one.
“Well,” said I, to the half-starved meagre shrimp of a maitre d’. “That leaves us with ten minutes of prime toot-talking time.”
“You won’t get a word out of me,” said the scrawny wretch, “until you drop all those derogatory references to my slender, yet perfectly proportioned, physique.”
“Do you have to run around in the shower to get wet?” I asked.
“I’m warning you, Laz.”
“I heard that you once took off all your clothes, painted your head red and went to a fancy dress party as a thermometer.”
“One more and you’re out of here!”
“All right, fair enough. So what do you want to talk toot about?”
“Well, actually, Laz, I’m thinking about buying a sofa. Is there anything you’d particularly recommend?”
“Hm,” said I. “A sofa. Well, it all depends on getting one that’s the right size and shape, at the price you can afford.”
“Go on,” said the maitre d’ with the slender, yet perfectly proportioned, physique.
“You see, you have your chesterfield, your G Plan three-seater, also available as a two, your classic chaise-longue, your Le Corbusier chaise-longue and your drop-end Bavarian chaise-longue with the tapestried upholstery and silk vanity tassels.”
“You sure know your sofas,” said Fangio.
“Buddy,” I told him, “in my business, knowing your sofas can mean the difference between buttering scones on a battered settee and licking lard on a love couch. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”
“I know where you’re coming from,” said the Fange. “For I’ve been there myself, on a cheap away-day to Norwich. What else would you suggest?”
“Well, there’s your studio couch, your box ottoman, your oak settle, which with the addition of cushions can easily be converted into a sofa.”
“I had an aunt who converted to Islam once,” said Fangio. “She thought she was converting to North Sea gas, but she ticked the wrong box on the application form.”
“Did she have a sofa, your aunt?”
“No, just an armchair and a pair of pouffes.”
“Ample seating. Did she live on her own?”
“She does now, the pouffes moved out. They’ve opened a candle shop in Kemptown.”
“The air’s very bracing in Kemptown. Someone told me that it was good for rheumatism. So I went there and caught it.”
“You can’t catch rheumatism, can you?”
“It all depends who’s throwing it,” I said. “Boys will be boys.”
And we paused for a moment to take stock and think of the good times.
“My problem regarding the sofa remains unsolved,” said the slim boy. “I’d like the best, but I can only afford the very worst.”
“Ah,” said I. “What you have there is a Couch 22 situation.”
Oh how we laughed once more.
Fangio dried his eyes upon an oversized red gingham handkerchief. “My, I did enjoy that,” said he. “That was top class toot. But look, here comes Mr Godalming.”
“Colin Godalming,” said Johnny Boy. “This would be the third child of God, who inherits the Earth. Mr Woodbine told us all about him.”
“Yes,” said Icarus. “I’m well aware of that.”
“And it makes sense,” said Johnny Boy, “if God’s family have all been forced to move down here to Earth. Colin has his father murdered and falsifies His will. So he now owns the planet.”
“Yes yes,” said Icarus. “I get the picture.”
“And he’s teamed up with the wrong’uns, which is why he came up with this scheme to massage everyone’s heads, so they can’t see what’s really going on. He’s been planning it all for years.”