by Magnus Mills
As the session continued I began to reflect on my own position in the Forensic Records Society, and I soon decided I was scarcely better placed than Keith. Not only was I being constantly assailed by Alice, but now Barry had joined in the attack too. It all swung around the ludicrous allegation that I didn’t really like music, a claim which could be neither proved nor disproved. I was no longer even certain if I could depend on James’s support: his ongoing secrecy regarding the mysterious record suggested the opposite. It was still lying on the table where Keith had left it, and I’d been harbouring the thought that we might actually get to hear it sometime during the evening. This hope was abruptly dashed when Alice came around from behind the bar and took it away. She was wearing her usual platform shoes, and as she passed by I again wondered how on earth she managed to walk in them. James probably knew the answer, but I could hardly ask him.
Chris was now on his second selection: he’d chosen ‘Days of Pearly Spencer’. For the next few minutes we sat at the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and the record seemed to capture the mood of the meeting. Despite the vast array of music on offer, the overriding tone had drifted gradually into melancholy. I was coming to regret my failure to defend Keith more robustly, and I was clearly not alone in this sentiment. He was our newest recruit, after all, and in hindsight I realised we’d treated him most shabbily.
The sense of betrayal deepened when we emerged from the back room at eleven o’clock and found Keith sitting on his own in the corner. On the table in front of him were three empty beer glasses. For some reason I’d assumed he’d go straight home after being suspended; instead he’d spent a solitary evening only a few yards away from us. This made the punishment seem even harsher. There was no sign of the women in the T-shirts, and it occurred to me that in his present state Keith would have been very easy prey for them. I was just considering whether I should go and console him when I was joined by Mike.
‘I forgot to bring your record back,’ he said. ‘Alright to borrow it for another week?’
‘Suppose so,’ I said. ‘A week’s not very long, is it?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but a fortnight is.’
He didn’t need to elaborate further: I could tell how he felt merely by the look on his face. Mike plainly shared my misgivings about the treatment meted out to Keith, and like me he’d failed abjectly to speak out on his behalf. We had to do something to redeem our shortcomings and in a few moments we reached a tacit agreement: together we would form a united front. A force for moderation. We were powerless to overturn the sentence, but at least we could offer Keith some moral support. Our resolve vanished just as quickly, however, when James and Alice suddenly appeared from the direction of the back room. James was carrying the red portable, and when he noticed Keith he gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement before descending into the cellar. Alice ignored Keith (and me) and went to help George close the main bar. It was now well past eleven and the Half Moon was emptying rapidly. In consequence we only had time to nod at Keith as we filed past him and headed into the darkness of the night.
When I got home I went straight to my turntable and played ‘Babylon is Burning’ three times in succession; then I climbed into bed and lay dwelling on the situation we’d got ourselves into. Was it really beyond human capacity, I pondered, to create a society which didn’t ultimately disintegrate through internal strife? Or collapse under the weight of its own laws? Or suffer damaging rivalries with other societies? Because there was no question that all these fates awaited us if we carried on as we were. The threat they posed loomed ever larger as I drifted off to sleep. They probably accounted for the peculiar dream I had just before dawn in which somebody was removing my records from their sleeves one by one and ‘skimming’ them recklessly into oblivion. Amidst the chaos it was difficult to tell whether the culprit was James the Puritan, Alice the Accuser or Phillip the Confessor, or possibly a combination of all three, but I was thankful when daybreak came and I finally awoke.
In the cold light of a spring morning I saw the matter in a much clearer perspective. Immediately I realised that my concerns about Keith were completely out of proportion. For a start he’d already been examined and rejected by the CRS, so it was hard to imagine them trying to recruit him again. Furthermore, the diligence he’d applied after the episode with the long-players showed him to be a true forensics man. Recently he’d committed an indiscretion for which he’d paid dearly. Hence in the final analysis the sentence he’d received was essentially for his own good; I had little doubt that once he’d served it his standing in the society would improve by leaps and bounds. With these thoughts in mind I decided that all Keith needed to do was bide his time.
There was a crucial factor, however, which I hadn’t allowed for. When I arrived at the Half Moon the following Monday I saw Mike, Dave, Barry, Chris and Rupert at the usual corner table. Sitting amongst them was Keith, and he was holding forth on a subject of apparent urgency. I bought a pint of Guinness before going over to join them.
‘I just had to tell somebody,’ Keith was saying. ‘It’s absolutely marvellous.’
‘Worth getting expelled for?’ said Mike.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Keith, ‘and anyway I was only suspended.’
The exchange told me they were discussing the mysterious record, and all of a sudden I was overcome with jealousy. This was both irrational and foolish, but I was unable to suppress a sense of having missed out. Ever since I’d seen it lying on the turntable I’d felt I had some kind of stake in the record, although admittedly a minor one. I’d been convinced that sooner or later I’d be amongst the first to be let into the secret, yet now Keith had gone and stolen a march on me. He’d effectively moved above me in the pecking order, and I had no choice but to listen meekly with the others as he described what he’d heard.
‘It’s a girl with a guitar,’ he said. ‘Very basic, probably a demo, but also quite sophisticated.’
‘You mean like “Drive Away My Heart”?’ enquired Dave.
‘Sort of,’ replied Keith, ‘but it’s more unearthly. Almost ethereal actually.’
‘You mean like “Song to the Siren”?’ suggested Barry.
‘Yes, but rather edgy too.’
‘“White Rabbit”?’
‘Not that edgy.’
‘“Night Terror”?’
‘Closer,’ said Keith, ‘but not as dark.’
He was plainly struggling to find the appropriate words, and this only served to deepen my envy. I was certain that if I’d been in his place I could have expressed it much better. Unfortunately I wasn’t.
‘When you say it’s a girl with a guitar,’ I asked, ‘do you mean a girl or a woman?’
‘Well, a young woman I suppose,’ Keith answered.
‘And what sort of guitar?’
‘Acoustic, but interestingly enough I thought it could easily have been played on an electric and sound even better.’
‘So she could front a band, could she?’ said Mike.
‘Oh yes,’ declared Keith. ‘No question about it.’
For some reason we all lapsed into silence, and as I looked at my companions I debated whether any of them had drawn the same conclusion as me. In my opinion it was obvious that the ‘girl’ on the record was Alice, but I was unsure if the others had yet realised. If they had they didn’t let on, so I resolved for the time being to keep it to myself. Besides, they were most likely preoccupied with the coming session. It was almost eight o’clock, so we gathered up our records and prepared to move. Keith remained all alone at the corner table, and when we headed for the back room I noticed some women in T-shirts eyeing him closely.
So began the eighth meeting of the Forensic Records Society. In the outside world spring had arrived and the days were getting longer, but all we were interested in was playing our selections to one another. First up was Rupert, who’d chosen ‘Here I Am Baby, Come and Take Me’, and Dave followed with ‘Sock It to �
�Em J.B. Part One’. We seemed set for a successful evening, and I was delighted when Barry’s turn came around and he submitted ‘Happenings Ten Years Time Ago’. This was another of my perennial favourites, and as we listened I sensed that I wasn’t alone in my appreciation. Chris, for example, appeared to be paying particular attention to the record, and after the fade-out I wasn’t surprised when he made one of his concise utterances:
‘“Pop group, are you?”’ he said.
Those were his only words, but we all knew exactly what he meant. Well most of us did anyway. A small minority had a different interpretation, and this caused a rift which would have far-reaching consequences for the society.
‘Sorry,’ said Barry, ‘but it’s “What group are you?”’
‘No,’ replied Chris. ‘It’s definitely “pop group”.’
‘He’s right,’ I added. ‘“Pop group, are you?”’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Barry. ‘I’ve heard it a thousand times.’
‘So have I.’
‘“What group are you?”’ said Dave. ‘It makes sense.’
‘So does “pop group”.’
‘Yes, but it’s wrong.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
By this stage voices were being raised and hostile glances exchanged. Behind the corner bar I was aware of Alice regarding us all with mounting disdain, and as the bickering intensified she decided to intercede.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ she cried. ‘It hardly makes any difference, does it?’
In the shocked silence that ensued, James turned to Alice and addressed her directly.
‘Actually it does make a difference,’ he said. ‘A great deal of difference.’
Alice stared at him in astonishment.
‘However,’ James continued, ‘this is neither the time nor the place for such disputes. Therefore, to avoid further disruption I propose an outright ban on quotations from records.’
‘Isn’t that a bit stern?’ I ventured.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said James. ‘In fact it’s my belief that we’ve been too tolerant for too long. The purpose of these meetings is to listen to records without comment or judgement. Anything else is a mere distraction.’
‘S’pose.’
‘So if everyone agrees, the ban can start immediately.’
The shocked silence was yet to fade away, and with every second that ticked by James further tightened his grip on the Forensic Records Society.
‘Agreed then,’ he said at length. ‘Whose turn is it next?’
‘Mine,’ said Chris glumly.
I glanced at him and knew at once that he was wallowing in disgruntlement. Poor Chris! His moments of occasional glory had been snatched away without recompense, and I had to admit I felt rather sorry for him. Of course, James was perfectly correct in calling for a ban on quotations. All the same I lamented the passing of a quaint tradition, seemingly never to be revived.
It so happened that Chris had chosen ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, a record which in normal circumstances would have provided plenty of quotable lines. Instead, when it ended he was obliged to observe a code of silence.
By all appearances the meeting continued much as it had before, and there was no obvious cause for concern. Just beneath the surface, though, was an underlying tension which broke through from time to time as we worked around the table. It was barely anything, scarcely perceptible, but when Mike selected ‘Six Months in a Leaky Boat’ I began to sense that rebellion was afoot.
Maybe James sensed it too. Despite his recent consolidation of power he looked decidedly unsettled. Perhaps he was suffering the loneliness of leadership, or possibly he regretted contradicting Alice (a surefire recipe for trouble). Whatever the reason, he was plainly agitated about something. He was sitting opposite me, and as I watched him abstractedly shuffling his records I suddenly recognised one of the labels. It was plain white and bore the figures 4/25, which meant he was again in possession of the mysterious recording. We were now late into the evening and James had already played his first two choices, so I assumed he was saving it until last.
Meanwhile Dave and Barry had their final turns, and they each chose alternative versions of ‘I’m a Man’.
‘Just a coincidence,’ remarked Barry, but I wasn’t so sure. From where I sat it looked like yet another case of insurgency.
The meeting was drawing to a close and only one selection remained unplayed. After a brief pause James removed the mysterious record from its sleeve and placed it on the deck. We all shared the feeling of excitement: finally we were going to hear it in the refined setting of the Forensic Records Society.
Our expectations were dashed, however, when Alice abruptly stalked around from behind the bar and seized the record.
‘But I thought you agreed,’ James protested.
‘Yes, well, I’ve changed my mind,’ said Alice. ‘It’s quite obvious this lot aren’t ready yet.’
With that she turned and headed for the door, leaving us all staring at each other in disappointment. A minute or so later George appeared and began tidying up the corner bar.
‘I’ve temporarily swapped jobs with Alice,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I’m not sure why.’
There was nothing left to do except pack away our records. In those dying moments I remembered that Keith had spent the entire evening all alone, so as soon as I was ready I rushed out to see how he was. To my consternation I discovered him laughing and joking with the women in the T-shirts; and when I tried to catch his attention he looked right through me.
It was gone eleven and Alice was hard at work washing, polishing and stacking the empty glasses. There was no chance of obtaining a late drink from her, so I returned to the back room to try my luck with George. Sadly he wasn’t in the mood for granting favours, which meant this option was closed as well. Actually he’d almost finished tidying, and once he’d emptied the till his duties would be complete. He propped open the door with a broom, then deftly removed the till drawer and carried it away.
‘Switch the lights out, will you?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be locking up in ten minutes.’
Barry and the others had already begun drifting homeward. The only person left in the room was James. He was sitting at the table gazing at the red portable, and didn’t seem to notice me until I sat down opposite.
‘What did Alice mean,’ I asked, ‘when she said we weren’t ready yet?’
James regarded me for several moments before replying.
‘You won’t be offended?’ he enquired.
‘I’ll try not to be.’
‘Well the truth is she thinks we’re all emotionally retarded.’
‘What? You included?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said James, ‘though perhaps to a lesser extent than the rest of you.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’ve probably gathered she’s a musician,’ he continued.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thought so.’
‘About a year ago she recorded a demo with this up-and-coming producer. It was a low-budget outfit and they only pressed twenty-five copies, most of which were sent off to the big record companies.’
‘How come nobody snapped her up then?’
‘Good question,’ said James. ‘The trouble is, Alice is a very private person and doesn’t like performing live. When the labels found out they lost interest and said no thank you.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s made her very choosy about who hears the remaining copy.’
‘Is there only one?’
‘Yep.’
‘But surely,’ I said, ‘this would be the ideal place to play it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t allow comments or judgements.’
Surprisingly, James appeared unimpressed by the logic of my argument. He shook his head slowly and gave a long sigh before rising to his feet.
‘It’s not that simple,’ he said. ‘She thinks we’re all emotionally retarded.�
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‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘I’ve been trying to persuade her for weeks and now she’s gone and changed her mind again.’
I realised I was ill-equipped to offer James advice on the subject, so I didn’t pursue the conversation any further. It also struck me as the wrong time to tell him about Keith’s encounter with the women in the T-shirts. This was probably the last news he wished to hear at present.
Nonetheless it was clear that we couldn’t merely abandon Keith to his fate. There was no sign of him when I eventually left the Half Moon, and by the time I’d walked home I’d become deeply concerned about his welfare. Oh I was aware that his suspension only had another seven days to run, after which he could resume full participation in the Forensic Records Society. Yet tomorrow was Tuesday and the women from the CRS were summoned to their confession. What hope would Keith have if they tempted him to join them? None at all, I imagined, which was why I felt constrained once more to pay an unofficial visit.
The worst part of such a plan was the interminable waiting. I woke up next morning much earlier than usual having spent a restless night worrying in case James discovered what I was up to. As far as I knew the instruction to avoid the Half Moon on Tuesdays still stood, and I was taking a great risk going anywhere near the place. After careful reflection, however, I decided that James had his hands full dealing with Alice and was therefore unlikely to bother about me. Even so, there were many hours until evening and I found the time dragged heavily. I finally resorted to counting and playing all the records in my collection by women performers. The process took me most of the day, and the statistics were inconclusive. According to my research I owned sixty-eight records featuring women singing either solo or with a band, plus a large number of ‘mixed’ ensembles. I wondered what Alice would make of these figures considering that, in her opinion, a) I didn’t like music and b) I was emotionally retarded. Still, it helped pass the time.
