The Forensic Records Society

by Magnus Mills

  ‘Spring’s on the way,’ I remarked.

  ‘Really?’ said James.

  He was carrying a tea-tray loaded with cups and saucers, and some biscuits on a plate.

  ‘Your favourite,’ he declared. ‘Malted Milk.’

  We sat down and he handed me my tea.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘Well, I’m rather disturbed by our friends in the Confessional Records Society.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘They’re behaving more and more unreasonably.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So I think we ought to find out what they’re up to.’

  James was of the opinion that the CRS (as he called them) had gone too far in their recent treatment of Keith. He therefore proposed that someone should attempt to infiltrate them and then report back to the rest of us.

  ‘The person I have in mind,’ James explained, ‘should appear wholly guileless so as to be acceptable to the CRS, yet at the same time he must be immune to malign influences. In other words he needs to be straightforward and incorruptible.’

  ‘Do you mean me?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said James, ‘I mean Mike.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen he fills both categories.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he does.’

  Apparently James had already made contact with Mike and intended to brief him before the next meeting of the Confessional Records Society.

  ‘But that’s tonight,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ James answered. ‘I’m afraid he’s being thrown in at the deep end with hardly any preparation. There’s even a risk they might try to convert him to their cause, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take.’

  ‘Does anybody else know about this?’ I enquired.

  ‘Not outside our immediate circle,’ said James. ‘I think it’s best to keep it amongst ourselves until we’ve heard Mike’s report.’

  ‘Is he going alone?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Very commendable of him.’

  ‘And I suggest we all keep well clear of the Half Moon until next Monday evening.’

  ‘Right.’

  Traditionally when I visited James he played me a record or two prior to my departure. It was a custom which had prevailed for many years, and which had figured as an important part in our lives. I recalled, for example, that the first time I ever heard ‘See Emily Play’ was in James’s music room. Likewise, a decade later it was me who introduced him to ‘Where Were You?’ In both instances we shared something original and it created a kind of bond between us. This morning, however, I sensed a change. I’d been hoping to hear the mysterious record that was lying on his turntable, but for some reason the opportunity never arose. James merely gathered up the cups and saucers and put them on the tea-tray. Next thing I knew I was being shown into the hallway. Seemingly the long-lasting custom had been summarily broken, which I thought was a great shame.

  He was still carrying the tray, and I noticed the kitchen door was closed.

  ‘Shall I hold it open?’ I enquired.

  James paused a second before answering.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  ‘Alright, well I’ll see you next Monday then.’

  ‘OK.’

  The house remained quiet as we said our goodbyes, but I couldn’t help thinking there was someone waiting behind the kitchen door.

  I spent the rest of Tuesday preoccupied by a number of misgivings. Not only had James been oddly unforthcoming, but there was also the prospect of Mike facing the Confessional Records Society entirely on his own. I pondered how he would cope when he was placed ‘on the spot’ by the other members and then made to explain his selection. The injunction on their posters and leaflets was unambiguous: BRING A RECORD OF YOUR CHOICE AND CONFESS! It sounded to me as if the society was reaching out to people who were ashamed of the choices they made; or who perhaps led a furtive existence where they could only listen to music in secret. Whatever the reason, I suspected Mike was in for a difficult evening. By mid-afternoon I’d come to the conclusion that he was in serious need of moral support, and I then began debating the idea of going to the Half Moon in case he ran into any unpleasantness. Obviously I had no intention of gatecrashing the meeting, but I decided that no harm would be done if I looked into the pub about ten o’clock to check Mike was alright. Furthermore, it occurred to me that there’d be no possibility of bumping into anybody else from the Forensic Records Society because James had advised everyone to keep away. With the coast clear, I could ease my worries over a pint of Guinness. That was the plan anyway.

  When I walked into the Half Moon at ten o’clock the bar was unattended. I presumed George was in the cellar performing some duty or other, so I loitered patiently until he came back. A glance around the place told me business was thriving. All the tables and chairs were occupied and I noticed, unusually, that the clientele consisted wholly of women. They sat in groups, gossiping loudly and clutching in their hands pink numbered tickets of the type issued at cheese counters in supermarkets. Occasionally one of them would peer at the doorway leading to the back room, and it gradually dawned on me that they were waiting to go in. Considering it was a Tuesday evening the turnout was remarkable (much better than the Forensic Records Society ever managed) but it struck me they were starting rather late. I then realised I could hear music playing in the back room. It was only faint, yet I barely took a moment to recognise the distinctive tones of ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’.

  The meaning of all this information was still sinking in when I heard somebody ascending from the cellar. In the circumstances it was a very welcome sound. I was now desperately in need of a drink; I also looked forward to a reassuring dose of George’s gruffness. Oddly, though, the approaching footsteps were much lighter than the publican’s weary plod, and a few seconds later expectation gave way to shock as Alice appeared at the top of the stairs. She was carrying a carton of wine glasses, having seemingly run out of them due to the large influx of women. Vaguely I remembered George mentioning weeks earlier that he was going to have to take a night off to attend a meeting of the Licensed Victuallers Association. I guessed that the night in question had duly arrived and that Alice was his chosen stand-in. After placing the carton on the end of the counter, she turned around to see if anyone wanted serving. When she saw me her face darkened.

  ‘Come to confess, have you?’ she enquired.

  ‘Confess what?’ I replied.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ I said. ‘Pint of Guinness please.’

  With ill-disguised scorn she moved away and began filling a glass. Meanwhile, the record playing in the back room was rapidly nearing its conclusion. I listened as best I could as it stuttered to a halt. There then followed a brief hiatus during which I thought I heard raised voices, but the constant hubbub surrounding me made it impossible to tell what was being said. All of a sudden Mike emerged from the back room carrying a record and headed directly for the exit. His face looked extremely pale.

  ‘Mike!’ I called, but he paid me no attention.

  Having just ordered a pint I was reluctant to go in pursuit of him, so I remained where I was and settled down on a bar stool to see how events unfolded. A minute or so after Mike’s hurried departure I sensed a wave of anticipation passing amongst the groups of women.

  ‘Here’s Phillip,’ said one of them.

  Out of the back room walked the man in the long, leather coat.

  ‘Who’s next?’ he asked.

  ‘Me,’ replied a blonde woman near me. ‘Number eleven.’

  ‘Come along then.’

  It took her several seconds to gather her belongings, and while he waited the man cast his eyes over the animated throng. An instant later his gaze met mine. He stared at me coldly before turning his attention once more to the
blonde woman. I thought she looked rather apprehensive as he led her into the back room and closed the door.

  ‘So his name’s Phillip,’ said somebody nearby. ‘At least you know that much about him.’

  I glanced around just as Alice placed my pint on the bar.

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘That’s not why I’m here at all.’

  ‘Really?’

  I detected a note of mistrust in her voice, but I decided I was under no obligation to explain myself so I said nothing else and paid for my drink with the exact money. Just then I heard a record start up in the back room. It was ‘The Day Before You Came’, and while it was playing I wondered what could have gone wrong with Mike’s confession. He’d appeared highly distressed when he left the Half Moon and I was beginning to regret not going after him when I had the chance. On the other hand I was slightly cross about his choice of record. Presumably it was my copy of ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’ that he’d brought with him this evening, and I felt he really should have asked my permission first. Moreover, I wasn’t absolutely sure if it was the sort of thing the Confessional Society was seeking. Something a little less abstract would probably have been more suitable; but then again who was I to judge? To tell the truth I was still quite perplexed by their methods and objectives. All I knew for sure was that Mike’s attempt to penetrate them had failed at the first hurdle.

  ‘The Day Before You Came’ ended and after a few moments the blonde woman emerged from the back room. With some alarm I noticed she was in floods of tears, but I soon realised they were actually tears of joy. Her friends (also in tears) flocked around her offering their congratulations. Meanwhile, the next woman in the queue eagerly awaited her turn to confess. How different it all was to a typical meeting of the Forensic Records Society.

  I was disinclined to stay any longer, so I finished my pint and prepared to leave. As I edged my way towards the door, however, the man in the long, leather coat reappeared. I tried to avoid his gaze, but when he saw me he moved swiftly to block my path.

  ‘Not going so soon, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid so,’ I replied. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘you’re always sorry, aren’t you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your favourite word, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to confess then?’

  ‘No!’ I snapped. ‘I haven’t!’

  ‘Well, come back if you ever change your mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll always be here for you.’

  With that he stepped aside and I headed for the door, fully aware that Alice had witnessed the entire exchange.

  A few days later I received a memo from James informing me that an extraordinary meeting of the Forensic Records Society would be held the following Monday. Its purpose was to discuss ‘certain matters arising’. In consequence there would only be time for one record apiece. The memo had apparently been circulated to all members.

  On the appointed evening I arrived at five to eight and discovered Chris, Dave and Barry huddled in a group around the corner table. They each gave me a nod as I came in, then continued talking while I ordered a drink at the bar. The pub was relatively quiet, and I overheard part of their conversation.

  ‘“Essence of giraffe”,’ murmured Barry.

  I glanced across at them and they all looked away.

  ‘Who are they talking about?’ said George. ‘You or me?’

  Evidently he’d overheard them too.

  ‘Neither,’ I replied. ‘It’s a highly obscure reference. Nothing personal.’

  For my own reasons I decided not to join them. Instead I waited at the bar until Rupert, Keith and Mike arrived. I assumed James (and Alice) had already gone into the back room.

  Eventually Mike approached me.

  ‘You know the record I borrowed?’ he asked. ‘Could I keep it another week?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ I said. ‘You like it then, do you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Some people see it in a different way,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too abstract for them.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I peered at him enquiringly, but he said no more so I didn’t pursue the issue further. No doubt it would all be resolved once the meeting began. A minute went by and the clock ticked around to eight o’clock; then we all trooped into the back room and sat down. James had set the red portable in its usual place, which I took as a positive sign. After all, the primary reason we came here was to play records, not talk. Nevertheless I supported the strategy James had put in motion. It was patently necessary for us to address the menace imposed by the Confessional Records Society. Our integrity was at stake and we could no longer simply ignore them. The priority, therefore, was to find out what had happened to Mike the previous Tuesday evening. Alice was in position behind the corner bar, and at James’s suggestion Mike went and bought himself a stiff drink.

  Meanwhile, James made an introductory speech.

  ‘Now, as you know,’ he said, ‘we’ve lately been subjected to the unwanted attentions of the CRS. Why they wish to obtrude on us remains unfathomable, so after due consideration I asked Mike to try and discover what he could about their inner workings. Alright, Mike, when you’re ready I’ll leave you to take up the story.’

  By now Mike had got his drink (a bottle of strong lager) and returned to the table. He poured half the contents into a glass and swigged it down.

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘what they do is they come around beforehand taking a list of names.’

  ‘Sorry, Mike,’ James interrupted. ‘Who are “they” exactly?’

  ‘There’s three of them,’ Mike answered. ‘The leader’s this bloke in a long, leather coat called Phillip, and his two helpers are both called Andrew. Anyway, as I was saying, they come around beforehand with this list and take everybody’s name, then you give them the record you’ve chosen and receive a pink numbered ticket. After that you have to wait until they call you.’

  ‘You mean you go in alone?’ asked Barry.

  ‘Correct,’ said Mike. ‘It’s quite daunting.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘It seems they’ve diverged from the classic American model,’ said James. ‘Over there everybody participates together.’

  ‘Not over here, though,’ remarked Barry.

  ‘No,’ agreed James. ‘Not over here.’

  Mike took another swig of his lager.

  ‘Once they’ve called you in,’ he continued, ‘Phillip takes charge. He sits you down in front of a hi-fi and plays your record; then you’re supposed to tell the three of them why you like it. Trouble was, I didn’t get very far.’

  ‘Why was that?’ enquired James.

  ‘Well I’d chosen “Another Girl, Another Planet”,’ Mike replied, ‘but when I mentioned it was precisely three minutes long Phillip denounced me as a fake.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Dave. ‘How dare he?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Mike, ‘but the two Andrews backed him up and next thing I knew I was being shown the door.’

  ‘Without explanation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Poor Mike looked pale and shaken from merely having to relive the experience. He quickly finished his lager and went over to the bar for another. When he came back James offered words of consolation.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘you’re definitely not a fake.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mike.

  There was a brief silence, finally broken by Keith.

  ‘So why do you like it?’ he asked.

  He posed the question in all innocence and plainly meant no harm. Even so, I heard a gasp of shock from most of the others. Mike, I noticed, had turned even paler than before.

  ‘You don’t have to answer that question,’ James announced at length, ‘but in a way I’m glad Keith asked it. The point is that we in the Forensic Re
cords Society are purists. We don’t allow comments or judgements and that’s why the notion of “confession” is so alien to us. The act of listening is what’s important; we’re not searching for any inner meaning. For this reason we can rest assured. We have nothing to fear from the CRS because we occupy the moral high ground. All the same we must continue to be wary of them.’

  ‘Their approach makes me shudder,’ said Dave.

  ‘Me too,’ said Barry.

  An outbreak of babble amongst the entire gathering indicated we were unanimous in our concurrence. This in turn signalled that the ‘extraordinary’ session was over and that normality could resume.

  ‘OK,’ said James. ‘Anybody who wants drinks can get them now, and then we’ll play some records.’

  The next few minutes saw a general rush to the bar.

  Equally normal, needless to say, was Alice’s hostility towards me. I went and bought a pint each for me and James, and the whole transaction took place in deadly silence. This I found somewhat disconcerting. I was unsure whether James was aware of the situation, but if he was he didn’t show it.

  Fortunately the Forensic Records Society acted as a powerful restorative, and once proceedings were underway I swiftly forgot my troubles and cares. Everyone had obeyed the instruction to bring only one record each, which meant we had plenty of time; we could listen to them at our leisure without worrying too much about the clock. As a reward for his services Mike was allowed the first go, and he obliged by handing James a copy of ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.’ (I discovered afterwards that the recording had a duration of five minutes five seconds; clearly Mike was beginning to branch out.)

  My turn followed and I selected ‘Heroes and Villains’. Next up was Barry, who’d chosen ‘Road Runner’. After him came Dave. His choice was also called ‘Roadrunner’.

  ‘Just a coincidence,’ he insisted.

  The songs were completely different, by different performers from different decades with different styles and employing different production techniques. Even the layout of the titles was different. I couldn’t help suspecting, however, that Dave and Barry were engaged in some kind of game with one another. After giving it further thought I remembered that their selections had been ‘linked’ on previous occasions too. When Dave chose ‘On the Road Again’, for example, Barry chased it with ‘Born to be Wild’. A coincidence maybe, but I had my doubts.