Todd clenched his jaw, as a new hot mass of anxiety manifested inside the barber’s gut and twisted within him, as the beadle cleared off the cushion on the barbering chair with his handkerchief, then once again commented on the modesty of the shop. The barber obviously did not take it personally, but the thought that Bamford might see his tonsorial parlor as inferior for the judge’s liking caused him great discomfort.
‘There would be no benefit of acknowledging shame and embarrassment’ He reminded himself. The power of confidence can sway a man.
And so Todd forced himself to stand tall and remove the heavy coat from the beadle’s grasp. He hung the expensive, dark leather garment over his bent arm and with all the feigned grace he could muster, waltzed over to the coat rack where he set the thing to hang.
The words that Bamford offered as he sat in the chair echoed in the barber’s head… The implication that he would recommend this shop to Judge Turpin… He was only steps away from touching what he had dreamed of so passionately… Sliding a razor across the throat of the man who had destroyed not only Todd’s life, but his entire family’s.
His heart pounded in his chest as he swallowed the truth to just how close he was to achieving this miracle.
“Who would that be?” The barber asked as he approached the vanity, where he removed a white sheet from one of the wooden drawers.
The beadle let his eyes flutter closed, shoving away the creeping sense of dread that snaked its cold hands around his shoulders like an old friend.
There was nothing to fear here. Perhaps it was just another bout of paranoia. The man had been prone to them for so long that they were almost commonplace. Still, Bamford sat rigid in the barber’s chair and snapped his nervous eyes awake.
He thought to suggest some more light, another candle, anything to brighten up the small space and set his racing mind at ease ; but he bit his fat tongue and wrung his hands as discreetly as he could manage. He had done enough damage as it was. The last thing he wanted was to upset the one person who could offer him a pomade.
“ My dear friend - he’s a judge at the courthouse. I’m sure you’ve seen his honor around. He is so dreadfully overworked these days, you see. Of course, “ here, Beadle shot the barber a fleeting glance while his back was turned to him, “ he doesn’t appreciate the finer things. I can’t say he has ever had a properly pomaded head. “
Bamford found himself comforted by the chatter of his own voice, and though he willed himself to shut his mouth at once, he could not.
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