The Forensic Records Society

by Magnus Mills

  ‘Is this the Forensic Records Society?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but we’ve already started.’

  ‘Well, sorry for being late,’ he said, ‘but I’ve only just seen the notice. I rushed straight home to collect my records.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said. ‘Just a minute then.’

  I closed the door and went over to James and Chris.

  ‘There’s a guy outside,’ I explained. ‘Says he had to go home and fetch his records.’

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ said James. ‘We can’t admit latecomers: it’s too disruptive.’

  ‘Couldn’t we make an exception just this once?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘So what shall I say?’

  ‘Tell him to come back next week,’ James answered. ‘It’ll be a good test of his commitment.’

  At these words I saw Chris raise his eyebrows. He voiced no opinion, however, so I returned to the door. When I opened it the man outside peered at me expectantly. He was plainly eager to join us and I regretted having to disappoint him. I slipped into the passageway and closed the door behind me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, adopting a conciliatory tone. ‘Could you come back next week?’

  The eager expression faded.

  ‘But I collected my records especially,’ said the man.

  ‘Sorry,’ I repeated. As the moments ticked by it struck me that James should have been out here dealing with this. After all, he was the hardliner, not me. I was only the messenger. Eventually I heard the man take a deep breath; then came a final plea.

  ‘So I can’t persuade you to change your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well!’ he snapped, glaring at me before turning away and marching down the passage. He shoved open the outer door and next instant he was gone.

  When I went back inside, James and Chris were waiting patiently.

  ‘All dealt with?’ asked Chris.

  ‘More or less,’ I answered, ‘but he appears to have taken it quite personally.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said James. ‘He’ll be alright.’

  I wasn’t so sure, and as the meeting resumed I wondered how I’d have felt if I’d been rejected in such an abrupt manner. Actually it took me a good while to recover from the incident. In consequence I paid scant attention when James played the next record. He’d chosen ‘Atlantis’ as his first selection, but the unfolding narrative just went right over my head. All I could picture was the look of dismay on the man’s face when I told him he couldn’t come in. Surely, I thought, the purpose of the society was to encourage people to embrace the cause, not deter them. This was rather different from James’s definition, which verged on puritanical.

  ‘Atlantis’ was still on the wane when at last I emerged from these disquieting thoughts. Chris was gazing serenely at the red portable, while James retained his more solemn expression. All indications showed that we’d settled on a perfect formula, and therefore I decided for the time being to keep any misgivings to myself.

  We each had two records remaining, and the rest of the evening went by pleasantly enough. There was unspoken agreement that our combined choices were rounded, wide-ranging and tasteful. Furthermore, Chris made it clear that he fully intended to come back the following week.

  ‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘Just what I’ve been searching for.’

  ‘Shame about the low turnout,’ remarked James, after he’d gone. ‘Probably due to all that snow.’

  I didn’t bother to mention that there’d been a thaw over the weekend. The snow was long departed. We wandered out to the bar, only to discover that George was on the point of closing.

  ‘You cut that a bit fine,’ he said, mercifully reaching for two fresh glasses. ‘You should learn to keep your eyes on the clock.’

  It was two minutes past eleven, and we were at a loss to explain the situation.

  ‘We’ve only played nine records,’ I said. ‘Even at a stretch it should have taken an hour at the most.’

  ‘Yes, very peculiar,’ agreed James. ‘We lost a few minutes while that guy was at the door, but even so there’s another hour entirely unaccounted for.’

  ‘Perhaps you were whisked away in a time machine,’ suggested George.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ said James, ‘but whatever the reason, we’ll need to be careful when membership starts building up.’

  ‘You’re confident it will then, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ James replied. ‘Actually I originally considered a much wider advertising campaign, but on second thoughts I concluded that an organic approach would be better.’

  ‘You mean word of mouth?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Apart from the two of us, the pub was now empty. George had begun polishing glasses and placing them upside down on a shelf.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s so special about these vintage records then?’

  ‘They’re not necessarily vintage,’ said James.

  ‘Well, the ones you played tonight certainly were,’ George retorted. ‘I could hear them through the door and I remembered all of them from my youth.’

  ‘Those were just what we chose for this evening,’ explained James. ‘We’ll have new ones as well sometimes.’

  ‘But I didn’t think they made them any more.’

  ‘Certainly they do,’ said James. ‘Oh, I admit they’re not as widely available as they used to be, but you can still get them if you know where to go. Even one of the flagship stores still sells them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘In fact, some performers insist on including a proportion of proper records in their output.’

  All this was evidently news to George, and in a way I felt rather sorry for him. It was obvious he needed to get out and about a bit more. Even so, the point he’d made about us playing vintage records was quite valid: none of this evening’s choices had been less than thirty years old. James could protest all he liked, but the truth was that we tended to favour the tried and tested recordings over the recent upstarts. With this in mind, I determined to bring some of my more modern acquisitions to next week’s meeting.

  Meanwhile, there remained the question of what to do with the red portable. James was reluctant to lug it to and fro each week, so eventually George agreed to lock it safely in the back room.

  ‘Nobody else uses it,’ he said. ‘Only you.’

  It was time to leave.

  ‘Odd about that lost hour,’ I said, when we got outside.

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘Very odd.’

  I pondered the subject on my way home, but I could come up with no reasonable explanation.

  I met James in the Half Moon the following Thursday. Apparently, during our absence there’d been several enquiries about the Forensic Records Society. Somebody had even demanded to know our names.

  ‘Did you tell them?’ James asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘They’re not secret, are they?’

  ‘No, no,’ said James. ‘Just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘Can you remember who it was?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I was quite busy,’ replied George, ‘and I didn’t pay much attention. I suppose it could have been the chap who wears the long, leather coat, but I can’t really remember.’

  There were a few other people waiting to be served, so James and I found a table in the corner and sat down. We had a clear view of the back-room door, and after a while we saw a man with spiky hair go over and read our notice. He then went to the bar and spoke to George, who nodded in our direction. Next moment the man was standing over us.

  ‘The perfect pop song is precisely three minutes in length,’ he announced. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘It depends,’ I said. ‘Would you like to sit down and discuss it?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It soon transpired that the spiky haircut matched the newcomer’s personality exactly. He appeared to think that a conversation comprised a series of question
s and answers fired back and forth like some frantic game of ping-pong. Moreover, he was seemingly fixated by the duration of records as expressed in minutes and seconds.

  ‘Mike,’ he said by way of introduction, harshly scraping a chair into position. ‘“God Save the Queen”. How long?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I replied. ‘Three minutes?’

  ‘Three twenty,’ he snapped back. ‘“Smash It Up”. How long?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Two fifty. “Stand Down Margaret”. How long?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Three thirty-two. “Complete Control”. How long?’

  ‘Three ten,’ said James.

  ‘Oh … er … yes.’

  James’s sudden interjection briefly knocked the wind out of Mike’s sails. Or perhaps he’d simply run out of energy. Either way, his response to this evidently correct answer was to cease his cross-examination and fall silent. He sat back in his chair and stared at the pint glass he’d brought with him.

  I glanced around the interior of the Half Moon. It was a usual Thursday evening and people were surging back and forth between the various local pubs. Every week was the same. They reminded me of herds of wildebeest constantly roaming from one source of water to another, never settling anywhere, and always on the move. Judging from his exuberant manner, I fully expected Mike to join the restless throng at any moment and follow them into the night. Instead, however, he seemed content to remain sitting at our table, which was a haven of stillness. The comparative quiet allowed him a few moments of reflection, and very soon he returned to his previous theme.

  ‘Three minutes precisely,’ he said. ‘That’s the objective.’

  He spoke as if he were uttering an immutable truth which had been handed down by some higher authority. I had no particular view on the matter and hence felt unable to contradict him, but I thought I sensed James stirring in the chair opposite mine.

  ‘Never been attained though,’ Mike added.

  This last assertion was too much for James. ‘Are you sure?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yep,’ came the reply. ‘There’ve been many attempts, but perfection continues to elude us.’

  James considered the pronouncement.

  ‘“Hands Off … She’s Mine”,’ he said. ‘That must be close.’

  ‘Close,’ said Mike, ‘but not close enough. Three minutes and one second.’

  This time it was James who fell silent. We had reached an impasse, so I took the opportunity to get another round of drinks.

  ‘Like a pint?’ I asked, peering at Mike.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Lager please.’

  ‘Righto.’

  While I was waiting at the bar I looked back once or twice to our table in the corner. I could see Mike and James sitting side by side, both of them gazing wordlessly into space. From what I could judge, they shared obsessions that were similar but not identical, a situation which made communion between them unworkable for the present. Instead, there was an uneasy truce. Furthermore, I suspected that James disagreed with Mike’s definition of perfection. I managed to obtain a tray from George, loaded it with three glasses, then quickly returned to my companions.

  ‘This Forensic Society of yours,’ said Mike, as I sat down. ‘Open to all comers, is it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Just turn up at nine o’clock on Monday with three records of your choice.’

  ‘Any length,’ added James.

  I thought his remark was a quite unnecessary provocation, but in the event Mike took it at face value.

  ‘So less than three minutes is OK?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘Less than two minutes?’

  ‘Well …’

  Before I could answer, James broke in again.

  ‘“Like a Rolling Stone”,’ he said. ‘Six minutes precisely. Does that make it doubly perfect?’

  Mike looked at James with bewilderment.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Never heard of it.’

  He downed his pint, thanked me for my generosity, then rose from the table and walked away.

  ‘See you Monday?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘See you Monday.’

  Once Mike was lost from view, James gave a sigh.

  ‘How could he have gone through life without ever hearing it?’ he said. ‘Hardly seems credible.’

  ‘Maybe he was born too late,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘Or perhaps his line of descent was different from ours.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll just have to make allowances for him, that’s all.’

  The encounter with Mike was the closest we ever got to a recruitment drive. Mostly we relied on our ‘organic’ approach, and when I turned up the following Monday I could tell it was beginning to work. I walked into the Half Moon and saw Chris standing at one end of the bar, and Mike at the other. There were also a couple of blokes sitting at the corner table who were obviously waiting for something to happen. As I came in, they all peered hopefully in my direction. I hadn’t bothered arriving early because I knew there was no need, but according to George the rest of them (including Chris) had been there since eight o’clock.

  ‘Where’s James?’ I asked. ‘Out the back?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied George. ‘He’s been here since eight as well.’

  It was five to nine, so I decided to go through to the back room to see if James was ready. To my surprise I found the door locked from the inside. I gave it a knock.

  ‘James,’ I called, ‘it’s me,’ and after a short delay he opened up.

  ‘Sorry,’ he explained. ‘I had to lock it. They’ve all been pestering me for the past hour.’

  ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I must say they look very eager.’

  ‘Anyway, they can come in now, if you’d like to tell them.’

  I obeyed his instruction and at nine o’clock we all filed into the back room. James had prepared it exactly the same as the previous week, with the red portable again taking centre stage on the table. The two newcomers, I noticed, glanced at it in a deferential manner as they drew near. They were called Dave and Barry, and each carried a small clutch of records. So did Chris, Mike and I.

  ‘Thanks for coming everybody,’ said James. ‘Now, Barry, would you like to get proceedings underway?’

  Barry handed over his first record and James laid it carefully on the turntable before switching on. The moment it started I knew what it was. Apparently, Mike did too.

  ‘“How I Wrote Plastic Man”,’ he announced. ‘Four minutes nineteen seconds.’

  James immediately stopped the record.

  ‘Sorry, Mike,’ he said, ‘but you must try and remember this is primarily a listening society. We don’t allow comments or judgements, especially while records are playing.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Mike. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Has everyone else got the message?’ James added.

  There was a murmur of assent.

  ‘Good.’

  James was about to re-start the record when Barry spoke.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘It’s “Elastic Man”.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like “Plastic Man” to me,’ said Mike.

  ‘That’s deliberate,’ said Dave. ‘He sings “Plastic Man” to be controversial, but it’s actually “Elastic Man”.’

  ‘What’s it say on the label?’

  ‘“Elastic Man”.’

  ‘Can we please proceed!’ snapped James.

  ‘Sorry,’ they all chorused, and at last he managed to play the record in its entirety. Next in turn was Mike. As I expected, he’d brought along a set of short, hard-core performances including a breakneck version of ‘She’s Not There’ which lasted barely two minutes. My first offering was ‘Nothing to Fear’, followed later by ‘Geraldine’ and ‘That’s Entertainment’. Chris, on the other hand, had opted for something much more traditi
onal. We sat around the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and listened to the jangling introduction, a chorus, two verses, another chorus and a jangling fade-out. Afterwards there was a long silence, finally broken by Chris:

  ‘“Take me for a trip upon your magic, swirling ship.”’

  It was all he said, but we knew exactly what he meant. Well, most of us did anyway.

  ‘How come he’s allowed to speak and not me?’ demanded Mike.

  ‘Nobody’s allowed to speak,’ said James firmly; then, realising he’d probably overstepped the mark, he softened his tone a little. ‘Is there anything you’d like to add?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never heard that one before.’

  ‘You must have.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Mike. ‘How long is it?’

  James peered at the label.

  ‘Two minutes eighteen seconds.’

  ‘Their follow-ups were even shorter,’ said Dave. ‘Two minutes two seconds and two minutes four if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mike, evidently fascinated by this information. ‘I’ll have to check them out.’

  James, meanwhile, had lapsed into a resigned silence. I could see he was suffering deep inner turmoil, so I decided to intercede.

  ‘Time for the next choice,’ I said.

  It was Dave’s turn, and he presented James with a copy of ‘Come As You Are’. This served to revive James’s interest and from then on the meeting went fairly smoothly. The only interruption came at the end of the final record, when George knocked at the door and looked in.

  ‘You know it’s almost eleven?’ he said. ‘If you want last drinks you’d better hurry up.’

  We swiftly packed away our gear and headed for the bar.

  ‘How on earth did that happen?’ said James, after we’d got our pints. ‘We played eighteen records, so that should have been ninety minutes maximum. Even with the delays I thought we had at least another half-hour to spare.’

  ‘So did I,’ I said. ‘It’s a good job George came and told us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still a mystery, though.’

  After conferring with George we decided that the best solution was to bring future gatherings forward to eight o’clock.