“Or apples. You weren’t picking berries on the common. Or apples.” I stared at her. I finally got it. “You were picking mushrooms.”
Magic mushrooms.
“That’s right.” She extracted another slice of the tart and put it on a plate. “It’s exactly the right time of year. And the common was positively dotted with them.” She handed the plate to Clean Head, who accepted it eagerly.
“So it’s that kind of party,” she said, lifting her fork.
Tinkler was staring at the minuscule slice of hallucinogenic dessert on the plate in front of him. Saying nothing, which was odd.
“That’s why I can only serve you these little teeny slices,” said Nevada. “Because larger ones would cause your skull to go ka-boom.” She selected a third slice, put it on a plate and handed it to me.
I stared at it. The brown layer underneath the apricots was disconcerting. Not to say sinister. “It’s going to taste a bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Magic mushrooms taste like shit,” said Tinkler, with the manner of a man who knew.
“Don’t worry, boys,” said Nevada. “I soaked them overnight in sugar and Cointreau.” She served herself a slice. Clean Head had already started, spearing dainty chunks of tart and devouring them with evident relish.
“I’m sorry,” said Tinkler, lifting his fork glumly, “but I have a confession to make.”
“You’re not going to say you can’t eat it,” said Nevada.
“No, of course I’ll eat it. But it won’t have any effect on me.”
“Do you want a bigger piece?”
“No.” He shook his head gloomily. “It won’t do any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve taken mushrooms, I’ve taken ecstasy, I’ve taken acid—”
“Tinkler, you dark horse!”
“And I’m immune to hallucinogenic drugs.”
“I’m sure it will be completely different when you try some of Auntie Nevada’s hand-picked fungi.”
Tinkler shrugged. “I’m not so sure.” He picked up his fork and started eating. I looked at my own serving with hesitation.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat the dessert my own true love had prepared for me with her fair hands. It’s just that I don’t believe in tampering with my brain chemistry—numerous cups of high-end coffee aside.
I twirled my fork in my fingers, stalling for time.
The wedge of tart stared up at me, beginning to look very vivid against the bright red plate. It was like the emblem of some drug-crazed Mod. It looked positively lethal. I wondered if I could sneak it into the kitchen under some pretext and pitch it into the bin without anyone being the wiser. I glanced across the table at Nevada.
She knew me far too well for any such knavery.
Now she watched keenly as I pressed my fork into the tart and took the first mouthful. It was much better than I expected. In fact it was good. You could taste the mushrooms, just about, but they merely provided a kind of background meatiness to the flavour.
I found I was actually enjoying it and polished off the rest while Nevada watched with approval. I told myself that perhaps, like Tinkler, the mushrooms would have no effect on me.
* * *
I don’t know how long it took the drugs to come on, because the first thing that went was my sense of time. Indeed, my whole perception of time changed. Instead of a continuous flow, it began to arrive in discrete intervals. It was like the difference between a sine wave on a graph and a square wave. Separate moments arrived as individual snapshots.
I only realised just how far gone I was when I started talking to the cat.
Fanny had come in through the cat flap, evidently curious about what was going on with the grown-ups. She settled down on the floor and I went over and knelt beside her. My hand felt like it was sinking into her warm fur as I stroked her back. I could feel every individual hair, like a living filament with a delicate electrical charge.
She tilted her little head and stared up at me. Her eyes were enormous. I gazed into them and they were like the green and yellow landscape of an exotic planet. I could see details—oceans, mountains, plains.
And then she started talking to me.
Fanny spoke in a soft, attenuated, echoing voice. It was a pleasant enough voice, but strangely not in any way feminine. But then I realised, why should a female cat sound like a female human?
I hadn’t considered this before.
She didn’t move her lips when she spoke, of course. Cats don’t have lips like ours, anyway. The words just appeared over my head, somewhere above my pulsing brow centre.
She said, “You know when you’re having a bath and I come and scratch on the side because I want to have a drink from the taps?”
“Yes?”
“Well, sometimes you don’t hop out of the bath right away, and I can’t clamber in and get my drink.”
“It’s not so simple,” I said. “I mean, I get out as quick as I can, but I still have to pull the plug and the bath has to drain. You can’t just clamber in while there’s still bath water in there. You’d get your paws wet.”
“Well, it just isn’t good enough,” said Fanny.
“What about this,” I proposed. “While you’re waiting I could turn on the tap in the bathroom sink and lift you up to drink from it?”
There was a snort of suppressed laughter and I looked up to see Tinkler standing over me holding a long cardboard tube to his lips. It was the tube his Rolling Stones poster had come in and he was speaking into it. The tube gave his voice an eerie, echoing tone.
So Fanny hadn’t been talking to me after all.
It had been a cruel hoax.
“You drug-addled halfwit,” he said.
* * *
According to what I’d read, there should have been no hangover with magic mushrooms. But like so much prodrugs propaganda, I found this was wildly wide of the mark. Or at least, I was the exception to the rule.
The next day I felt like the inside of my skull had been sand-blasted. And the world seemed a strange place. Everything looked normal, but slightly off, as if overnight the size and shape of familiar objects had been subtly altered.
I managed to make my morning coffee, deploying the familiar but somehow unearthly implements. Nevada joined me, chopped up some raw Aberdeen Angus beef with the kitchen scissors and served it to the cats as their breakfast. She moved to the sink to wash the scissors and suddenly stopped and gave a little cry.
I went to join her. She was looking at the metal pie dish that, last night, had still contained three quarters of the magic mushroom tart.
It was now completely empty, except for a few crumbs.
Nevada spun around to stare at Turk and Fanny who were busy demolishing their breakfast. She said, “Do you think the cats could have eaten it?”
I went and looked. “Only if they used a fork and a plate and put them in the sink afterwards.” Nevada and I looked at each other.
“Tinkler,” we said, simultaneously.
Nevada picked up her phone and dialled his number. As soon as he answered she said, “Tinkler, how could you?” She put her hand over the phone and looked at me. “He said he was peckish.”
She resumed speaking into the phone. “Peckish or not, your fucking head will explode.” She checked her watch. “Will already have exploded. What? Christ.” She listened for a long time then hung up.
“It seems that when he got home, late last night, his boss was waiting for him on his doorstep. Apparently there was some kind of crisis at work. Some sort of super important database had failed or something and they needed Tinkler to go in and fix it. So he did.”
“He did? He fixed it? After eating all those magic mushrooms?”
“Yes. And apparently he did such a great job his boss is now buying him a champagne breakfast.”
“I guess he really is immune,” I said.
* * *
I took my coffee outside and sat in our back garden. I was sitting there when the
doorbell rang.
I heard Nevada go and answer it. There was a man’s voice and a woman’s voice—not Nevada’s—and then Nevada’s voice again. Two people at the door. It could only be the Jehovah’s Witnesses or some other equally enthusiastic sect, proselytising on the doorstep. I sighed and rose from my chair. Underneath, where she had been sheltering in my shadow, Fanny gave a little squeak of alarm at being suddenly and cruelly exposed to the fearsome naked rays of the brutal British autumn sun.
I went in to help Nevada. It seemed unfair to let her deal with these callers on her own. And there was always the terrifying possibility she might invite them in for coffee or something.
As I stepped through the back door I heard a woman’s voice, soft and tentative, saying, “Is this the correct address for the Vinyl Detective?”
And a man’s voice; brusque, peremptory and brooking no opposition. “We want to hire him.”
3. THE CLIENT
Nevada had indeed invited our visitors in. She was standing with them in the sitting room in the uncertain configuration of strangers who have just met. The couple definitely didn’t look like any Jehovah’s Witnesses I’d ever seen.
The man had an abundant crop of grey hair so pale it was almost white, combed and styled with narcissistic care. His eyebrows were darker, thick charcoal hyphens above emphatic greyish blue eyes. He gave the impression of disciplined good health and carefully cultivated athleticism. He must have been at least in his sixties, but he seemed powerful, vigorous and forceful.
He was neatly turned out and was dressed, as Nevada would later remark, as if he had just looted a branch of L.L.Bean.
The woman was a quite different proposition. She was perhaps twenty years younger than him, but beefy and solid-looking. Despite being smaller she must have weighed considerably more. Her big amiable face was like a cylinder on which various features had been stuck—jutting ears, a snub nose. She was dressed in grey and pink tracksuit bottoms and a matching sweatshirt with a large slogan that read YOUR SUSHI’S GETTING COLD.
The tracksuit was clean but very rumpled and, along with her brown hair, which hung down in irregular strands, gave an impression of disorganisation that contrasted sharply with the man’s chiselled neatness. His shoes were brown patent leather and polished to an improbable mirror gleam. Hers were white trainers, new but already muddy and scuffed, with the shoelaces loose and flopping in the currently fashionable manner.
He was buttoned down and squared away; she was shambolic.
The only common denominator between the two of them was the fact that strapped around their waists they both wore what we call a bum bag and the Americans call a fanny pack. Whatever you call it, it’s not exactly a fashion statement.
They had identical bright red ones.
The man looked at me as I came in. He said, “My name is John Drummond and this is Lucille Tegmark.” There was no offer of a handshake and he seemed to deliver this latter piece of identification reluctantly, as though unhappy about being associated with the woman, but making the best of it.
She smiled at me. “Lucy,” she said, correcting him. She had a trace of an accent that I couldn’t immediately identify. On the other hand, he definitely sounded American.
Fanny packs it was, then.
Nevada was grinning at me. “They’re looking for you.”
“I know. I heard.”
“They want to hire you.” As Nevada said this I noticed the man wince as if, having actually caught sight of the famed Vinyl Detective in the flesh, he was having second thoughts. That was fine with me.
“Won’t you sit down, please,” said Nevada, who had suddenly become hostess of the year. And, before I could stop her, she added, “I’ll get you some coffee. We’ve just made some. It’s nice and fresh.”
“Smells good,” said the man, as though reluctantly conceding a point in a negotiation. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” said the woman, and promptly sank into one of our comfy leather armchairs. The man gave her a look of tired disgust, then walked to the dining table, pulled out one of the wooden chairs facing it and sat down. I noticed he’d chosen the least comfortable seat in the room. Even at this early stage in our acquaintance this struck me as absolutely characteristic of the guy.
I wondered if L.L.Bean manufactured any hair-shirts. If so, he would certainly be their top customer.
He sat in the chair stiffly, leaning back slightly, as if to place himself as far as physically possible away from the woman.
And from me.
Fanny had followed me in from the garden and instantly gone into concealment. Now she emerged from her hiding place under the unoccupied armchair, where she had been sheltering just in case our visitors had turned out to be, for example, a Mossad hit squad with the wrong address. She wandered over to the man and sniffed at his shoes.
Without looking at her, he lowered his powerful, hairy hand and tickled her under the chin. Fanny luxuriated in the attention, the treacherous little trollop. Meanwhile in the kitchen Nevada was clattering around, looking for cups and generally making coffee-serving sounds.
“Thank you for the hospitality,” said the woman—Lucy Tegmark.
“No problem.”
“We missed breakfast,” said Lucy, shooting a look at the man, who ignored her. “We were in such a hurry to get here.” She kept looking at him and he kept on ignoring her. “I’m certainly looking forward to lunch.”
“There’s a place nearby we can recommend.” Nevada leaned around the kitchen door. She smiled at me. “Isn’t there, darling?” She was holding in her hands a tray that had leaned against the wall in my kitchen unused for approximately the last ten years. She was wiping it with a sponge, as well she might, since it was covered with the dust of ages.
Apparently she had decided that our guests were of such a calibre that they would be insulted if they weren’t served refreshments on a proper tray.
“Thank you,” said Lucy. “That would be great.” She looked at the man, who continued to ignore all her cues. “And thank you for the coffee,” she said. “Doesn’t it just smell delicious?”
It certainly did, because it was the pot I had just prepared and it was the good stuff—some of the last of my dwindling supply of ca phe cut chon beans from Indo-China. The one time in my life when I’d actually had money, had in fact very briefly been extremely wealthy, I’d managed to treat myself to a few small luxuries before the shit had hit the fan and the money had vanished like the abstract fantasy it basically was.
One of those luxuries had been the coffee beans. If I’d been given any choice in the matter, I would have slipped into the kitchen and decanted the remainder of that pot of coffee into a thermos and hidden it from view until our guests had safely departed, all the while making them some instant. Come to think of it, even the jar of organic Ecuadorian shade-grown freeze-dried instant coffee was probably better than they deserved, particularly the man, who was now giving me a look with his cold little blue eyes, as if sizing me up as the slacker I so manifestly was.
He said, “We’ve come about that record. All the Cats Love Valerian.” The baroque title sounded strange coming out of his military mouth. “We read about it on your website.”
“Your blog,” Lucy Tegmark corrected him.
“I’m sorry,” I said, with an immense feeling of relief—maybe we’d be able to get rid of these two without even having to serve them coffee, “but that record’s not for sale.” Although the thought of the look of scandalised horror on Tinkler’s face did almost make the notion worthwhile. “In fact we gave it to a friend as a gift.”
“We’re not looking to buy the record,” said the man. “We want to talk to you about her.”
“Her?”
“Valerian,” said the woman.
“Valerie Anne,” said the man firmly. “Valerie Anne Drummond.” A faint little alarm bell began to ring in my head, a sense that I was missing something, or had forgotten something very important.
“Her and her son,” said Lucy. The man shot her a look of pure hatred. She couldn’t have been unaware of it, but she merely smiled complacently, as if it was what she had come to expect, and perhaps even enjoy. She just sat there letting his hostility wash over her.
I said, “The little boy who went missing?”
“We don’t need to get into that,” said the man tightly.
Lucy chuckled. “The Colonel here seems to think we can employ you to do a job for us without actually telling you what that job is.” She hitched around in the chair so she was looking at me. “We need your help,” she said simply.
I went and sat in the chair opposite her so she wouldn’t have to contort herself. I said, “We’re talking about Valerian’s son, the little boy who disappeared just after she died?” It had been a cause célèbre at the time, and a huge scandal.
“Or disappeared just before.” She looked at me. “No one knows exactly what happened. That’s why we want to hire you.” She glanced at the man. “If the Colonel here can bring himself to allow you a full briefing.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be fully briefed. She turned back to me. “We want you to look into his disappearance.”
“I find vinyl,” I said. “Rare records. Not missing persons.”
At this point Nevada, who had been eavesdropping in the kitchen, came hastily bustling through with four cups, the sugar bowl and a petite jug of milk perched on the freshly washed and gleaming tray. She made a major production of serving everyone. The Colonel gave her a genuine flash of a smile as she set the cup down before him. He leaned over the cup and inhaled with pleasure and approval, as well he might. “Smells great,” he grunted. He looked up at her and his icy blue gaze actually seemed to warm for an instant. Nevada beamed proudly as if the making of the coffee had actually had something to do with her.
“I find records,” I repeated, before things got too cosy. “I don’t—”
Nevada came to me and took my hand. “Let’s just hear what the people have to say, honey.” Her tone was all sweetness, light and reason. She gave me her big eyes and, although I knew she was working me, I was putty in her hands. I sighed and sat back in my chair.
The Run-Out Groove Page 2
