The Forensic Records Society

by Magnus Mills

  ‘Do you think you could have a word with this guy?’ he said quietly. ‘He seems to have come to the wrong place.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Leave it to me.’

  I spotted an empty table and sat down, and a few moments later Barry directed the man towards me. Swiftly I debated what to say. He was still clutching his records, which fortunately provided me with a suitable opening. Even so, the task I faced was far from easy. It was my duty to explain to him that the society was still in its infancy and was therefore unprepared for long-players; secondly, that in our opinion LPs lacked the conciseness and immediacy of singles (our preferred medium); and, finally, that there simply wasn’t enough time for long, drawn-out performances lasting ten, twelve or even fifteen minutes. I only hoped I could make him understand without causing any further upset. As soon as he spoke, though, I realised I’d completely misread the situation.

  ‘I came here last Tuesday,’ he announced, ‘to try and join the Confessional Records Society.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I said.

  ‘But they turned me away.’

  ‘Why was that then?’

  ‘They said it was the wrong kind of confession.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Needless to say I was astounded by this disclosure. Not only did it strike me as preposterous that a newly established society should reject potential recruits, but also I was becoming increasingly baffled as to what they meant by ‘confession’. Perhaps, I surmised, they didn’t know themselves. The man standing in front of me obviously didn’t, but at least I now had the chance to find out a little more about them, if only indirectly.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘You can confess to me if you like.’

  He glanced all around him.

  ‘You mean here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t there a special room set aside for the purpose?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, yes, thank you. That certainly would be appreciated.’

  I indicated a chair opposite mine and he sat down. His name, apparently, was Keith.

  ‘So what do you want to confess?’ I enquired.

  ‘An episode from the past,’ he said. ‘Years ago I went on holiday to my auntie’s house in Ireland and one morning while I was having a bath I started singing “Happiness is a Warm Gun” and when I came out of the bathroom my auntie smacked me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She said I’d been rude about the Mother Superior.’

  ‘Jumping the gun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Keith fell silent and sat gazing across the table.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you alone in the bath?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was this when you were a child?’

  ‘No,’ said Keith. ‘It was when I was a grown-up.’

  I considered the story for a minute or so.

  ‘Sounds like a reasonable confession to me,’ I said at length.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Keith.

  ‘But the other society rebuffed you?’

  ‘Correct.’

  A related question then occurred to me.

  ‘How many of them were there?’ I asked. ‘Roughly.’

  ‘In the other society?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Three,’ he said. ‘Three men.’

  The pub door swung open and Mike came in, followed closely by Rupert. A glance at the clock told me it was five to eight. I rose to my feet and gave Keith an encouraging nod.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I hope that’s been of some help to you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he answered. ‘Like a pint?’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite unnecessary.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he insisted. ‘Pint of Guinness, is it?’

  ‘Er … yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to be quick; it’s nearly time to go in.’

  This last remark came as a surprise, because I’d been expecting Keith to head straight for home once he’d made his confession. Now it seemed he planned to join us, which put me in a very awkward position. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he couldn’t bring his long-playing records into the meeting, especially now he was buying me a pint.

  Under the circumstances I decided my best bet was to go through to the back room and apprise James of what was happening. I was sure he’d know what to do, so I casually slipped away. However, when I tried the door at the end of the passage I found it was locked. I knocked and waited. There was no reply. I knocked again and this time the door opened by an inch and the barmaid peered out. The instant she laid eyes on me she closed it again. I knocked for a third time and after a long delay she opened up once more.

  ‘What?’ she demanded.

  ‘I need to speak to James.’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s busy.’

  Now a second voice spoke from somewhere within. It belonged to James.

  ‘Who is it, Alice?’ he asked.

  ‘Nobody,’ she answered, closing the door again.

  The hour was very nearly eight o’clock and I could hear the others coming. In desperation I knocked a bit harder, but to no avail. A few seconds later I was joined by Mike and Rupert.

  ‘Evening,’ said Mike, giving the door a friendly tap. Immediately it opened and he led the way inside. Next came Rupert, and then Chris and Dave. Behind them was Keith, carrying a pint in each hand and his long-players tucked beneath his arm. After they’d all filed past me Barry appeared. He was holding back a little and looked rather displeased.

  ‘I thought you were going to sort this out,’ he murmured as he went by. ‘It’s all highly improper.’

  I shrugged and followed him into the room, where James was presiding over the red portable. He was observing everybody as they came in, and I saw him glance briefly at Keith’s records. Alice, meanwhile, stood waiting in silent attendance behind the corner bar. She acknowledged none of us, but instead stared impassively over our heads.

  People were already taking their places around the table, and I saw that Keith had saved a chair for me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, settling down beside him.

  James was sitting opposite, quietly assessing the situation. He’d plainly grasped that there’d been a misunderstanding, and when he began his opening remarks he was careful to employ diplomatic language.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we seem to have an irregularity.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but on this occasion it can probably be overlooked.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Humanitarian.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Barry.

  A muted grunt from Dave suggested that he, too, was in disagreement. Nonetheless, James had known me long enough to detect the urgency of my implied appeal. He responded by reaching over to the red portable and changing the speed to 33rpm.

  Keith, of course, remained totally oblivious to the ideological dispute that was seething all around him. He sat innocently behind his small stack of long-players waiting for the meeting to start, and looked pleasantly surprised when he was asked to do the honours.

  ‘Right,’ said James, addressing him directly, ‘as the newest member you’re entitled to begin proceedings.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Keith. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Can you hand me your first selection please?’

  Now it was my turn to look surprised. In view of Keith’s recent confession I’d assumed he would present ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’ for his opening choice. The famous double gatefold jacket was actually lying at the top of his stack, so I was astonished when he slid an entirely different record from underneath and passed it over. This also had a gatefold jacket, but there the similarity ended. I watched in stunned disbelief as James laid the long-player on the turntable and lowered the arm.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ said Barry.

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Dave.


  ‘As a matter of fact it’s “Out-Bloody-Rageous”,’ said Keith. ‘Nineteen minutes ten seconds.’

  ‘Really?’ uttered Mike, clearly impressed by the information.

  ‘The fade-in alone extends to almost five minutes,’ Keith added.

  ‘Blimey.’

  The record started and I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d reached a crucial juncture, and Mike’s evident interest in Keith’s offering had served as a useful distraction from the impending crisis. Barry and Dave were on the verge of rebellion, but they’d been temporarily forestalled. Convention obliged them to desist from comment or judgement once the record had begun. Instead they sat and listened with indignant rage to the sound of a disjointed keyboard emerging very gradually out of the static. This took an extraordinarily long time and meanwhile they really had no alternative than to drink their beer and make the most of it.

  As the instrumental wended its way onward, I wondered if the future of the Forensic Records Society would hinge on this particular piece of music. I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t because I thoroughly enjoyed our Monday evenings in the back room of the Half Moon. On the surface everything seemed quite normal. We sat around the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and there were no obvious signs of discontent. I knew, however, that Dave and Barry were far from satisfied with the current arrangements, and I was unsure about the others. Mike concentrated so intently on each record that he appeared to be concentrating on ‘concentrating’, but otherwise he was unreadable. Chris and Rupert were equally opaque (I’d seen Chris raise his eyebrows once or twice but that was all). Yet it was plain that the society needed to adapt in order to survive. From its earliest inception we’d decided on an ‘organic’ approach, and it occurred to me that maybe we’d allowed it to evolve too quickly. Perhaps, for example, the original template devised by James had been unduly rigid and required subtle alterations. His edict forbidding comments or judgements certainly put paid to any valid ‘deconstruction’ of recordings through informed discussion. On the other hand there’d never been a specific ban on long-players, and this oversight threatened to open the floodgates. Seen from an overall perspective the society’s constitution had been severely weakened: indeed, to judge by Dave and Barry’s reaction a split was more than likely.

  As I sat contemplating these problems I noticed I’d practically drained my glass of Guinness. It was unusual for me to drink it so swiftly and I concluded that my doubts and reservations must have made me especially thirsty. Not to worry, though: there were still several minutes before ‘Out-Bloody-Rageous’ was due to finish, so I took the opportunity to buy another pint each for Keith and me. I left my seat and headed for the corner bar, forgetting for a moment who was in charge of it. Only when I was standing face-to-face with Alice did I remember, and by then it was too late. She regarded me sternly as I attempted my best smile.

  ‘Two pints of Guinness please,’ I said.

  Her response was to turn away and take two empty glasses from the shelf before slowly filling them. The process took two or three minutes, during which she neither spoke to me nor looked in my direction. This was possibly because she was applying herself wholly to the task, but I suspected it was more likely a demonstration of outright contempt for me. My theory was confirmed when I came to pay for the drinks.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, handing her some cash.

  Again she said nothing, and when she returned with the change she put it on the counter rather than placing it in my hand. Finally she moved away and began tidying the shelves. As I carried the drinks to the table I realised it was going to take some time to get on the right side of her.

  ‘Out-Bloody-Rageous’ eventually ended and James removed it from the turntable. Now that it was over I expected to hear a storm of protest from Barry and Dave, but to my surprise there was none, not even a flurry. Instead, Barry expressed his dissent by handing James a copy of ‘This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us’. Dave followed with ‘Anyone Can Make a Mistake’ and after that the meeting resumed its former civilised tone. Mike’s offering was ‘Ain’t Got a Clue’ and Rupert chose ‘Redemption Song’; James was next with ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ while Chris contributed ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. I completed the first round by selecting ‘Do Anything You Wanna Do’ and then, of course, it was Keith’s turn again. I watched in consternation as he produced yet another double gatefold sleeve from his stack.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ he announced. ‘“Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict”.’

  Keith’s unwitting but repeated contravention of the rules at last stirred James into action.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘We don’t allow any comments or judgements.’

  ‘Sorry,’ came the reply. ‘Won’t happen again.’

  I waited for James to mention long-players as well, but for some reason he didn’t. He merely took the record from Keith and placed it on the deck. A few seconds later the sound of a fly being swatted signalled the start of ‘Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict’. Once more we had no alternative other than to sit and listen.

  While the track was playing Chris went over to the bar for another beer; then Mike and Rupert; then Barry and Dave; and I noticed Alice was charming to all of them. Her disdain was apparently reserved for me alone. At the same time, however, I sensed that each of us was somehow under close observation. When she wasn’t serving drinks she adopted a detached manner as she busied herself with various minor duties. Even so, I could tell that she was fully absorbing all the goings-on around the table; not only the different choices we made, but also the brief exchanges between us. Alice took everything on board, not least the fact that James was founder of the Forensic Records Society and therefore the supreme presence to whom we deferred. It wasn’t until long after that I discovered the significance of her accumulated knowledge.

  Keith’s record was now drawing towards its climactic ending, and we listened in awe as the deranged voice ranted and raved and ultimately died away. A few more seconds went by, and then Chris broke the silence:

  ‘That was pretty avant-garde, wasn’t it?’

  It was all he said, but we knew exactly what he meant.

  Most of us did anyway.

  ‘Hang on a sec!’ exclaimed Mike. ‘I was told we weren’t allowed to make comments or judgements!’

  ‘You aren’t,’ James replied, ‘but in this case it was neither one nor the other.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘A quotation.’

  ‘Well I didn’t hear it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said James. ‘It requires the right kind of ears.’

  I had no idea whether the remark was supposed to be an insult or a piece of helpful advice, but whatever the intention it rendered Mike momentarily speechless. Meanwhile, Barry was becoming increasingly exasperated. It was his turn to present the next record, but instead of handing his selection to James he withheld it until he had everybody’s attention. When at last he spoke his tone was grave.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that there’s different rules for different people.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Dave.

  A hush fell over the entire gathering.

  ‘How do you mean?’ James asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t wish to cause any upset,’ said Barry, ‘but I always assumed we favoured singles over long-players.’

  ‘Correct,’ James answered. ‘We do.’

  ‘Do we?’ declared Keith, plainly taken aback.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said James, ‘but you weren’t to know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Keith. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘My fault,’ I said. ‘I should have told you after you confessed.’

  No sooner had I spoken than I regretted it. Across the table James glanced at me sharply.

  ‘I thought we were going to have nothing to do with co
nfessions,’ he said. ‘That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘It was supposed to be private,’ Keith added. ‘Just between me and you.’

  In different ways, they both looked as if they felt deeply betrayed. Silence filled the room. Many eyes were upon me and I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but fortunately Dave rode to my rescue.

  ‘I’ve got a confession,’ he said flatly, ‘if anybody wants to hear it.’

  I watched as James quickly weighed up the situation. The meeting had ground to a halt for a variety of conflicting reasons, and Dave’s offer appeared to provide a solution. Maybe this would clear the air a little.

  ‘Alright,’ said James at length. ‘Go ahead.’

  There was a pause as Dave composed himself.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘a long time ago I spent an evening with a fellow called Jeremy Woodhouse. I can’t remember how I knew him or what I was doing in his tent but there were three other people present besides me and I got the strong impression they all wanted me to leave. So eventually I did, and just before I departed he told me about this record that had just been released. He said I should check it out because it was probably the best record I would ever hear.’

  Dave paused again.

  ‘Is that your confession?’ asked James.

  ‘No,’ Dave replied. ‘My confession is that I didn’t listen to it for another thirty years. Not properly anyway.’

  ‘What was the record?’

  ‘“Tears of a Clown”.’

  ‘And was he right about it?’

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ said Dave. ‘We’re not allowed comments or judgements.’

  ‘Have you got a copy with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well let’s play it now then.’

  It was actually Barry’s turn next, but he voiced no objection so Dave handed over his record and we spent the next few minutes listening to ‘Tears of a Clown’. After that the session resumed as normal.