A few early run-ins with the local constabulary had taught Icarus discretion. And, having read a great deal on the science of detection and seen a great many movies, a very great many movies, Icarus had become adept at covering his tracks and leaving no clues behind at the “crime scene”.
But, as relocating had to be instinctive, rather than premeditated, there was always a margin of error. And the possibility of capture and internment was never far away.
On this particular day, being the one on which our epic tale begins, Icarus sat in Stravino’s shop in the cinema seat nearest the door. Sunlight, of the early morning spring variety, peeped down at Icarus through the upper window glass and grinned upon his hairy head.
The seat that Icarus occupied was number twenty-three and had once been number twenty-three in the three and ninepenny stalls of the Walpole Cinema in Ealing Broadway.
But the Walpole Cinema had been demolished and, during the course of that demolition, the rows of seats numbered from twenty-three to thirty-two had been relocated.
By Icarus Smith.
In fact there were a great many items to be found amongst the fixtures and fittings of Stravino’s shop that owed their presence to the science of relocation. An understanding existed between the barber and the relocator and Icarus Smith was assured of free haircuts for life.
Today he thought he’d have a Tony Curtis.
There were three other clients in the shop of Stravino. One sat in the barber’s chair, the other two upon the relocated seats. The one in the chair was Count Otto Black, a legendary figure in the neighbourhood. Count Otto possessed a genuine duelling scar, a Ford Fiesta called Jonathan and a bungalow with roses round the door. Count Otto was having his mustachios curled.
Two seats along from Icarus sat a soldier home on leave. His name was Captain Ian Drayton and he was a hero in his own right, having endured sufficient horrors to qualify for a medal. Between Captain Ian and Icarus Smith sat the third man. He was not Michael Rennie.
The third man’s name was Cormerant and Cormerant worked for a mysterious organization known as the Ministry of Serendipity. Cormerant wore the apparel of the city gent, pinstriped suit and pocket watch and bowler hat and all. Cormerant muttered nervously beneath his breath and shuffled his highly polished brogues amongst the carpet of clippings. On his lap was a black leather briefcase, containing, amongst other things, a pair of black leather briefs.
Icarus Smith was aware of this briefcase.
Cormerant was unaware of his awareness.
At the business end of the barber’s shop, Stravino went about his business. He teased the tip of a mustachio with a heated curling tong and made mouth music between his rarely polished teeth.
“Living la vida loca in a gagga da vida,” sang the Greek.
“Cha cha cha,” sang Count Otto, in ready response.
It might well be considered fitting at this point to offer the reader some description of Stravino. But let this only be said: Stravino looked exactly the way that a Greek barber should look. Exactly. Even down to that complicated cookery thing they always wear above their left eyebrow and the shaded area on the right cheek that looks a bit like a map of Indo-China.
So a description here is hardly necessary.
“Hey ho hoopla,” said the Greek, breaking song in midflow to examine his handiwork. “Now does that not curl like a maiden’s muff and spring like the darling buds of May?”
“It does too,” agreed the count. “You are za man, Stan. You are za man.”
“I am, I truly am.” Stravino plucked a soft brush from the breast pocket of his barbering coat and dusted snippings from the gingham cloth that cloaked the count’s broad shoulders. The professional name for such a cloth is a Velocette, named after its inventor Cyrano Velocette, the original barber of Seville.
Stravino whisked away the Velocette with a conjurer’s flourish and fan-dancer’s fandango. “All done,” said he.
“Your servant, sir.” The count rose to an improbable height and clicked his heels together. “It is, as ever, za pleasure doing business with you.”
“One and threepence,” said the Greek. “We call it one and six, the tip included.”
“Scandalous,” said the Bohemian count. But he said it with a smile and settled his account.
“Captain,” said the Greek, bidding the count a fond farewell and addressing his next client. “Captain, please to be stepping up to the chair and parking the bum thereupon.” Captain Ian rose from his seat and made his way slowly to the barber’s chair. It had to be said that the captain did not look a well man. His face was deathly pale. His eyes had a haunted hunted look and his mouth was a bitter thin red line.
Stravino tucked the Velocette about the captain’s collar.
“What is it for you today?” he asked.
“For me today?” The captain gazed at his ghostly reflection in the tarnished mirror. The mirror was draped about with Spanish souvenir windmill necklaces and votive offerings placed there to honour St Christopher, the patron saint of barbers. On the glass shelf beneath were jars of brilliantine, shaving mugs and porcelain figures, statuettes of Priapus, carved soapstone marmosets and Stravino’s spare truss.[1]
“Do what thou wilt,” said the blanched soldier, who had studied the works of Crowley.
“Then today I think I will give you a Ramón Navarro.”
Outside a number sixty-five bus passed by.
The driver’s name was Ramón.
Stravino took up his electric clippers, held them close by his ear, thumbed the power and savoured the purr.
Icarus snaked his hand around behind his seat and sought out the brown envelope. There are many traditions and old charters and somethings attached to the barbering trade. The brown envelope is one of these, but one which few men know.
In the days before the Internet and the invention of the video, the days in fact in which this tale is set, there was little to be found in the way of real pornography. There was Tit Bits and Parade and the first incarnation of Playboy magazine, which was far too expensive to buy and always kept on the top shelf of the newsagent’s. But there was only one place where you could view real pornography. Real genuine down-to-business smut. And that was in the barber’s shop.
And that was in the brown envelope.
Today things are different, of course. Today the discerning buyer can purchase a specialist magazine dedicated to his (or her) particular whimsy in almost any supermarket.
But way back when, in the then which is the now of our telling (so to speak), there was only the brown envelope.
Icarus peeled back the flap and emptied the contents of the brown envelope onto his lap. There were four new photographs this week. The first was of two Egyptian women and a Shetland pony. The second was of two blokes from Tottenham (who can tie a knot’n’em). The third showed a midget with a tattooed dong and the fourth a loving couple “taking tea with the parson”.
A musician by the name of Cox would one day write a song about the first three. He would sadly die in a freak accident whilst trying to engage in the fourth.
Icarus perused the photographs, but found little in them to interest him. Cormerant glimpsed the photographs and turned his face away. Icarus became aware of Cormerant’s most distinctive watch fob.
“Babies,” said Stravino, his clippers purring towards the crown of the captain’s head. “What do you think about babies, then?”
“I don’t,” said the captain. “Why should I?”
“You can’t trust them,” said Stravino. “They pee in your eye when you’re changing their nappies. And do you know why that is?”