Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (12 page)

‘I cannot say. It has no place in my memory.'

‘No place in your memory?'

‘It is not human!' repeated Maggie. ‘Yet somehow it is. So strange,' she whispered again, closing her eyes. ‘So very strange.'

‘Not human.' Doreen's brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Yet it has human qualities?'

‘The very best. How valuable it would be to us. How precious. It wields much power, even though it knows it not. That is why the men of the lights desire to control it. They cannot be allowed or much will be lost.'

‘Is it a machine? Some kind of computer, perhaps?'

‘It is not made by the hand of man. It springs from Mother Earth.'

Doreen nodded. She'd heard such a pronouncement before. The Pythia was telling her that whatever it was, it was certainly natural. ‘Look again, Pythia,' she urged. ‘Tell me what you see.'

There was another pause. Maggie swayed slightly on her iron stool, hardly surprising since she'd just downed a quart of Jenny's wicked rhino-flattening cider in record time. Alcohol infused her mind, liberating the visions within, but there was only a limited time before the booze welled up to overpower her trance. She groaned softly, then hiccupped with surprising violence. ‘I cannot see,' she mumbled. ‘Its mind is so strange. There is no connection. It is not human.'

‘Guide me, Pythia,' pressed Doreen gently. ‘You have never failed us before. I am Gaia. Show me the way.'

‘It purrs.'

‘It purrs?' exclaimed Doreen, in a state of some considerable confusion. ‘Is it a cat?'

‘No, it does not have enough legs, yet it purrs.'

‘I do not understand. I need to know more.'

‘It has a child's love for its mother.'

‘But it is not a child.'

‘No. It is not human,' reasserted the Pythia firmly.

‘Can you see a shape? Is it large or small?

Maggie inclined her head slightly, as if listening intently to a distant whispering voice. ‘A colour! I see a colour.'

‘What colour do you see?'

‘Blue. So blue!' Then, with increasing wonder. ‘Yes, so beautifully blue.'

Doreen caught her breath, a sudden blaze lighting her eyes. Her face flushed with excitement. ‘Is it an animal?' she asked firmly.

‘Yes.'

Sandra turned to Doreen, puzzled. ‘What kind of an animal is blue and purrs?'

‘Yes, I have it,' said Doreen, smiling for the first time since entering the Oracle. ‘You say it darts here and there like a feather. Like a feather, Pythia. Is it a bird?'

Maggie swayed again, fully immersed in her visions, even though the smoke was dying down now. The Oracle stank of burnt juniper, a scorched, rank, aromatic pungency. Her closed eyes fluttered and rolled continuously beneath their lids as if she were in deep REM sleep.

‘No. Yes. Maybe.'

There was no doubt she was sitting on the fence with that one.

Doreen persisted. ‘I ask again, Pythia, do you see a bird?'

‘Yes, I see now. It is a bird. A big bird.'

‘And it is blue?'

‘As blue as the sky. Find it and you will find salvation.'

‘Of course, it had to be. I know exactly where to find this bird,' said Doreen, relaxing with a small smile of triumph.

‘The macaw,' muttered Sandra, nodding.

‘Yes,' said Maggie firmly. ‘Yes, Gaia, she is nearing her time at last. Salvation for us will come through them both, the blue bird and the woman. The two are as one, like mother and son. Look for the blue bird and you will find all you seek, but you must find it quickly. These men will attack very soon. Before the next full moon. You must hasten. Much will be lost if she falls.'

‘What is the nature of this attack?'

‘Violence. Be careful, Gaia.'

‘What must I do?' asked Doreen decisively.

‘Have courage. All is not yet lost, but the bird and the woman must be gathered in quickly. That is your part. Your action will set things in motion, like the tiny drop of rain that starts a thunderstorm. It is your only hope against this wickedness. They will follow her to their doom. Here, it must be here, where we can help, but it is very dangerous. Stray only a little and the Sisterhood will be destroyed. Take c-courage and, and you –' she suddenly pointed at Sandra. ‘You are going to have such … such a lot …' Maggie's words became increasingly disjointed as she finally wilted under the relentless alcoholic onslaught of the cider.

‘Yes, Pythia, what am I going to have?' asked Sandra urgently, but it was too late. Maggie began to emerge from her trance, coughing and hiccupping. Her head snapped up and her eyes suddenly popped open.

‘That's your lot, Gaia! No more! Hope it wasn't too bad,' she slurred in her normal voice, then sniggered helplessly. The Pythia of the Sisterhood of Helen was now completely and hopelessly blootered.

‘Damn,' muttered Doreen. ‘I needed just a few more seconds.' The nature of these things defied any logic. It was pointless Maggie re-entering her trance; the visions pertaining to the attack would not be repeated. If Doreen persisted in her questioning, then the Pythia would simply sink into silence, a sort of grumpy oracular sulk. She only ever pronounced once.

Doreen could not help but feel disappointed. Had it been Alice on the stool, then the information would have poured in, but Maggie had done her best. Self-doubt plagued her, clogging her mind, affecting her vision. Most of what she'd said was already known. However, Doreen was now aware of several new facts. There were five men ranged against them and these men were already weakened by their own internal strife. That they will very soon make their move against Celeste Timbrill and her famous macaw had already been guessed by Alice, but it looked like Doreen would now have to intervene personally, which was a little worrying. Doreen was not a woman of action. Unless it involved curling tongs, of course. Then came the intriguing prophesy about Sandra. Now, what was going on there? Was it to do with the coming conflict or something completely unrelated? Experience had taught Doreen not to discount anything said by the Pythia, however seemingly trivial.

‘Yeah, yeah, OK, so we're in for a choppy ride, but what about me?' Sandra was almost hopping from foot to foot in exasperation. ‘Come on, Maggie, you can't leave me hanging like that.'

‘My, is the world spinning or is it me?' Maggie slid off the stool and collapsed in a giggling heap at Doreen's feet, embracing her legs. ‘No, I've had a think about it and decided it's definitely me. God, that cider has some punch. Take some home for Bernie. He'll love it.' The Pythia sighed happily, a dreamy smile of contentment on her rubicund face. ‘I do love you, Gaia,' she mumbled, ‘and you always wear the most gorgeous shoes. Very comfy. Oh, yes, and Sandra, you're going to have sex. Lots and lots and lots of sex! About bloody time, too.' Moments later, she was asleep, snoring gently with her cheek resting on Doreen's burgundy and tan Mary Janes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How quickly hair grows.

Philosophers and academics worldwide occasionally gather to debate really important questions, to ponder weighty matters, and these admirably lofty intellects sometimes amuse themselves by considering those professions without which humanity could not survive, professions for which there will always be a demand, and the greatest minds on earth always boil it down to just two; undertakers and hairdressers. Celeste mused upon this, the subject of the last Royal Institute Christmas Lecture, as she drove from Prior's Norton to Tewkesbury. She had no immediate plans to engage the former, but the mirror revealed a need to employ the latter. Her hair remained as it always had been: long, wavy, thick, a glorious sweep of the most gorgeous tint of vibrant copper, a colour which unfailingly turned heads each time she walked down the street.

Celeste's route could frequently be determined by the breadcrumb trail of men lying concussed at the bases of lamp posts across town. Just join the dots.

The hue remained completely natural and she'd still, after all these years, never met anyone who had exactly the same unique shade. She'd let it grow since marrying. James liked it that way. He adored the way it was now long enough to sprout from the crown of her leather hood and still cascade in flowing tresses over her shoulders and breasts.

However, as all women will testify, there is an importance to visiting the salon which almost all men simply fail to comprehend. This is one of the basic incompatibilities between the sexes and those few men who actually make the effort to bridge that divide, to show even a fraction more understanding than the grudgingly obligatory, ‘Yes, dear, your hair looks lovely,' are whisked immediately into a nirvana of gastronomic and sexual ecstasy.

Occasionally, if they're really lucky, both at the same time!

When a woman announces in irritation that her hair is a mess and that she needs – no, it is more than needs – that she is compelled by a deep-seated psychological necessity to get down to the salon, then there is no power in heaven nor earth capable of deflecting her determination – and for that the manufacturers of brushes, combs and mirrors will always be eternally grateful.

And shampoos.

And conditioners. Especially conditioners.

Once, many years ago, shampoos contained – well, shampoo, but nowadays, with a multi-billion pound industry driven by the planet's most powerful corporate chemical companies and guided by slick advertising campaigns feeding on feminine paranoia, there is a positively kaleidoscopic range of available products, all containing something impressively exotic guaranteed to make your hair as irresistible to men as hot double chocolate fudge cake to a class of dieters. Even the most rudimentary browse along the supermarket shelves will reveal serum with coconut, honey, orange peel concentrate and kiwi fruit, or extra-hold conditioner with molasses, rosemary, lemon, marzipan, jojoba and sesame seed butter. There's even a super new ethical green shampoo containing essence of vanilla, hempseed oil, cloves, a light seasoning of thousand island dressing and a soupçon of rhino dung extract, all blended with the distilled tears from poverty-stricken children living in countries still unable to reliably generate electricity.

And that's just the natural substances. Matters become exceedingly interesting when chemists grin and rub their hands together. Now we're in an entirely different ball game. Take polyquaternium, for instance, a substance found in shampoo which sounds like it could easily double up as the exciting ingredient in a weapon of mass destruction. A supervillain's dream.

‘I will use the polyquaternium bomb, have no mistake!'

‘You bastard!'

‘Mr President, such language. The Pilgrim Fathers would not approve.'

‘But the children – have pity on the children!'

‘Rest assured they will all arrive at the pearly gates with unfeasibly shiny hair.'

Little wonder the ozone layer quietly gave up the ghost.

Some products now have so many active ingredients that an abandoned bottle, given sufficient time at the back of a warm bathroom cabinet, contains all the necessary chemical compounds to propagate a new form of life. A mini-world where nature weaves her magic wand, where the progression through single-celled creatures to more complex organisms gallops along at a merry pace until tiny mammals appear, and if they are by chance hirsute then they will develop new shampoos of their own – and so the universe proceeds in stately splendour, driven ever onwards by the twin unstoppable powers of evolution and hair care products.

Tewkesbury was a pleasant little town, Y-shaped, with the War Memorial at its heart. Cars hurtled around it like rampaging Cherokees around a wagon train. The main streets were lined with many timber-framed buildings, giving the centre a nostalgic, chocolate-box, medieval feel. Numerous alleyways plunged off to either side, veins branching from the main arteries to penetrate deep amongst the jumbled houses behind. It was here the Avon and Severn met, and both were notorious for flooding, the locals accepting this annual deluge with typical Gloucestershire stoicism. Every year the town became surrounded by creeping brown waters, every year the news crews turned up to pester the locals and every year they were told to mind their own business and shove off back to London in no uncertain terms.

Celeste left Wilf back at the cottage playing one of Bertie's favourite games – Hide the Nut. Her baby was very good at this. He always found the nut, wherever it was hidden. Knowing that should keep them happily occupied for a few hours, she parked up and took a coffee and Danish pastry in a quaint tea shop adjacent to the Abbey, then strolled along the High Street. Despite her worries, the day was so fine she found herself in a really rather good mood, as any woman normally would be with such beautifully painted toenails and so pleasurable a sex life. Goodness, had that been a wonderful evening. She smiled at the memory and tossed her head, hair swinging luxuriantly. Behind her, a man fell over a litter bin.

Yes, it was a lovely morning.

Although she liked Tewkesbury very much, to her mind the town lacked a really first-class leather fetish boutique. But that wasn't too much of a problem, she had an excellent relationship with a London specialist who helped her in that direction. She visited the bank, had a new battery put in her watch, and generally nosed in shops, all to cheerful greetings. People here were always happy to pass the time of day, to chat, to smile. She was reminded very much of the friendliness of Manaus. That town, too, was located at the confluence of two rivers, although she had to admit the Negro and the Solimoes had a bit more punch than the Avon and Severn.

Finally, it was time for her appointment. She had been using
Snippets
since moving from London. The salon was small and friendly, with just three chairs. The girls were very good, the prices reasonable, the tea and biscuits excellent and the conversation entertaining. What more could you want from a hairdressers?