“How good I was.”
“How good was that?” the girl hardly seemed to want to know.
Stu nearly demanded what was wrong with her if she wasn’t able to hear. He already resented having been provoked to sound as though he was boasting. “I’ll find out,” he told Vin. “I’ll tell you when I’ve heard it all.”
“Bet you can’t wait,” the girl said.
“We’ll let you carry on,” the man said as he hurried her out of the shop.
Stu could have thought the bell had rendered Vin more combative. “Never mind scaring off the customers,” Vin said.
“I never. He took her out for being rude. Anyway, I brought them in.”
“Not so I noticed.”
“Me and the band did. You saw how he wanted to know who we were. You ought to play us more often. Come to think, why don’t we make copies to sell?”
“That’s not my style and you’ve been around long enough to know it.” Before Stu could decide if this referred to copyright or the vintage image of the shop, Vin said “You don’t want to go on about selling. You didn’t sell him your disc or any bastard else.”
“You didn’t either,” Stu blurted, not immediately grasping how much he’d antagonised his employer. “I will another time,” he promised. “You know I’ll do anything I can for the shop.”
“Like what, Stew?”
“Anything at all.” In some desperation Stu said “Maybe I can get her on the bus to tell everyone I work here.”
“That’d be a smash.”
Stu couldn’t tell from Vin’s doleful face how skeptical this was. Perhaps Stu shouldn’t have undertaken quite so much, but surely the tour would like to know. He only wished he’d taken time to hear precisely what she was saying about him before he mentioned her, and now he was anxious to listen. Did she vary her commentary? How often would the tour pass his house while he was at the shop?
Vin changed the record as soon as the first side was over, but Stu held back from objecting. He jammed the kettle under the tap in the sink and plugged it in behind the counter, where it hissed at the first tracks on Rubber Soul. “That’s what the public want,” Vin said, though Stu thought fewer people were lingering outside than while the Scousers had been audible. He confined himself to making coffee in the Vigorous Vinyl mugs Vin had ordered before changing the name of the shop. “Fair enough, you’re good for something,” Vin said as he took his mug.
Stu only just stopped short of retorting that he was good for a lot better. He’d been hired because Vin had seen him with the Scousers, after all. When the next prospects ventured into VVV he asked if he could help and loitered near them to enthuse about whichever album either of them took out of the racks, though he had to commute between them once they moved to opposite ends of the shop. Eventually one man bought a Pacemakers album. “Let’s hope we never need one,” Stu said, and thanked him and his partner for supporting the shop and urged them to come back.
“Don’t get in a stew about it,” Vin said with additional moroseness once they were alone. “Give the buggers room to breathe.”
Stu tried keeping his distance from a customer and made no sale. He might as well have been at home to listen for the tour guide. He was acutely aware how Vin was observing him while packaging albums the shop had sold online. Vin was at the post office when Stu succeeded in selling three Rolling Stones albums to a man who’d brought just one to the counter. “I got rid of a bunch of Stones,” he told Vin as soon as he plodded into the shop.
“Hope you didn’t need an operation,” Vin said, lengthening his face.
After that the shop felt like an obstacle to going home, the way too many of the last hours of a school day used to feel. Stu jogged and then rather less than jogged uphill to catch the bus home. The first one sailed past without stopping, and the next one had standing room only, like a Scousers’ concert—he couldn’t recall which. He lurched about whenever the bus stopped or started or changed speed, and lurched worse as it turned along a road not on the route. “Where are we going?” he cried.
The driver gave him less than a second in the mirror. “Police.”
The road the bus ought to have used was cordoned off as a crime scene, and the mass of diverted traffic wouldn’t have been able to overtake a funeral. By the time the bus reached Stu’s stop he was nearly half an hour later than he’d meant to be home. He ran and trotted and trudged panting to his house, where his hands shook so much that he had to use both of them to aim the key at the lock. He clutched the banister and hauled himself upstairs to fumble the bedroom window open and drag the chair across the room.
Suppose he couldn’t hear the guide even if the tour hadn’t already passed by? The harder he strained his ears, the more they filled up with the pounding of his heart. He’d fallen onto the chair, but as soon as he was able to stagger to his feet he craned out of the window. He could hear no sound beyond the thuds like the action of a pile-driver that felt capable of shaking his skull. He was gripping the sill with both hands so as to lean out another few inches by the time he heard the guide. As he struggled to distinguish words—the effort felt like striving to focus his entire body—he only seemed to squeeze the voice smaller. Once the bus came into sight he did his utmost to relax, and a few words reached him. The guide was saying someone was a legend and a genius, but Stu couldn’t yield to believing whom she had in mind until she described him as Ringo’s favourite drummer.
Was that going a little too far? Perhaps not if the audience accepted it, and as the bus coasted alongside his house Stu saw them begin to smile up at him. When he stuck his fists out of the window and flourished his thumbs, some of his audience returned the gesture. “Visit me at Vin’s Vintage Vinyl,” he called after the bus, and didn’t sink onto the chair until his stomach began to throb.
He only wished he’d heard all the guide’s comments about him. Might there be a later tour on Fridays? Enough of last night’s pizza was left that he didn’t need to go out to fetch dinner, and he hurried back to the bedroom window, where he held the chilly carton on his lap. All the voices he heard were on the street or in the houses, and they could hardly be talking about him. When he started to jerk awake from nodding towards the remains of the last slice of pizza, he sent himself to bed.
The voice that kept wakening him couldn’t be the guide’s. If it wasn’t in Stu’s head, it certainly couldn’t be on the bus, even once the dawn set about seeping into the room. How early was the first tour? Did he have time to listen to it before he left for work? He waited as long as he dared, finishing off the pizza for breakfast, and then had to dash for the bus into town. At least he had news for Vin, though for a while he wondered if he would ever regain enough breath to tell him.
Vin had made himself coffee, and Stu wasn’t sure how to take the departure from the protocol. “Kettle’s been on.” Vin seemed to think he needed to be told.
As Stu stirred in the contents of one of the cartons of milk Vin pocketed from fast food restaurants—barely enough to turn the coffee even slightly paler—he said “I didn’t get the chance to hear everything they say about me yet, but—”
“I wasn’t asking,” Vin said and raised all the noise he could find in the bare floorboards as he went to open the door.
He put Abbey Road on the turntable and gave Stu a warning look that Stu found unnecessary if not worse. By the time the album ended, having abandoned the drummer and the rest of the band, not a single customer had visited the shop. Saturday ought to be the busiest day, and Stu watched Vin growing glummer. Halfway through the first side of the mystery tour Vin said “We need to bring more people in or I may as well trade from home.”
“How are you going to do that? Bring them in, I mean.”
“Maybe it wants somebody that can.”
“Well, there is.” When this earned him a stare that scarcely even hinted at a question, Stu said “There’s me.”
Vin was silent long enough to have thought of quite a few words before sayi
ng “I meant a girl.”
“We don’t need them. You saw that one yesterday. They aren’t on our wavelength.”
“My wife is.” Almost as ominously Vin said “Not much to look at any more, that’s her trouble. No use to my shop.”
“Well then there’s still me. I don’t need to look like anything except who I am. I started to tell you, I did hear some of the things they’re saying about me. Don’t think I’m boasting, will you, but they’ve got me down as a legend and a genius and Ringo’s fave.”
“That’s what you think, is it, Stew?”
Stu didn’t want to be trapped into making the claims for himself. “What I think, I’ve thought of a slogan for us.”
“Then maybe you’re some use.”
“Visit him at Vin’s Vintage Vinyl.” When Stu didn’t see even a glimmer of recognition he said “That’s me.”
He thought the weary clang of the bell that announced the day’s first customer had robbed him of a response until Vin muttered “Just leave it, Stew.”
Could Vin doubt him, or did he think Stu’s inclusion on the tour wouldn’t help the shop? He wasn’t going to undermine Stu’s rediscovered confidence. Stu kept close to any customers in case they wanted his advice, but managed to hold back from pointing out the Scousers’ album and drawing attention to the drummer. Less than half an hour before the shop was due to close he said “Do you mind if I leave a bit early as long as we’re so quiet?”
“Going on your tour, are you?”
“That’d wow them, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t be expecting that.” When Vin gave him a look that seemed determined to fend off his enthusiasm Stu said “I want to go and hear. Not just for me, not even mostly.”
“Been telling yourself that, have you, Stew?”
“That’s not my name,” Stu said with a fierceness that, in all the years since his second wife had left him, he’d forgotten he possessed. “I’m not a pan of Scouse.”
“Sounds more like that’s all you think you are, a bit of one.” Before Stu’s rage could find another word Vin said “Go on, go home and sort your head out. That’s what the weekend’s for.”
Stu had a better use for it, and he’d be bringing the proof to the shop. He reached the homeward stop less than a minute ahead of a bus. The police had restored its usual route, and he was home so early that he only just missed the penultimate tour of the day, which left him feeling prickly with frustration. At least he had time to make sure he heard everything about him on the final tour.
He mustn’t risk being unable to hear. He dodged out of the house to stand behind the tree outside the front garden, and wondered how much he resembled a drunk overtaken by a need. Sometimes he’d been like that—both his wives had lectured him about it more than once—but he couldn’t afford to be now, financially or otherwise. In any case, his neighbours oughtn’t to be watching him; they would have a better reason when they heard the guide. Here was the tour at the end of the road at last, and as the bus turned towards him he put the tree between them.
Suppose it prevented him from hearing? Should he just stroll along the road? It might look as if he was loitering in search of praise—as if he needed that to lend him confidence. He’d begun to tear strips of bark off the tree by the time he heard his name. The bus was on the far side of the tree, and he kept it there by sidling around the trunk. As soon as it was well past he sprinted to the next tree, and thought he glimpsed passengers turning away from gazing at his house. He followed the tour to the end of the road, where he had to let it go, having run out of cover. Whether since the trees were in the way or because his exertions had amplified his heart, he’d failed to hear another word.
When his pulse had finished shaking his body he let go of the last tree and limped back to the house. “What have you been up to now?” he could hear his wife demanding—either of his wives. They’d accused him of making too much of all his Scousers posters, as if both of them weren’t doing that themselves. He’d argued all night with the first one after she’d torn a poster on the wall by the stairs—only dusting, she’d said. He’d waited for her replacement to carry on the damage, and she was gone too once she had. Being unmarried had let him have the posters framed under glass, although that left them feeling less alive to him. Now that the tour was bringing it all back to life he shouldn’t need them so much.
The light from the street glared out of the frames, and the contents went dark as he shut the door. Might there be another tour today? Even if that was only a hope, a couple of pieces of toast would keep him going while he waited. He kept stopping after just one bite for fear that the crunching that resounded through his head might deafen him to the approach of the bus. When at last it grew too dark and cold for him to imagine there would be one, he brushed the crumbs off his lap and out of the window, then leaned on the sash to haul it down. He drew the curtains before switching on the light, and then he got ready for bed. He wanted to be awake well in time for the first Sunday tour.
His name wakened him, but he couldn’t tell how high the voice had been. He thought it might have been falsetto, the way the Scousers sang—and then he realised what it must be, and lurched out of bed. His feet were tangled in the quilt, so that he almost fell headlong as he floundered to the window. The rumble of the sash blotted out the guide’s next words, which surely couldn’t be responsible for the behaviour of her customers. While Stu couldn’t see many people on the bus, as it passed his house they were pointing and laughing at him.
The tour was almost out of sight before he managed to laugh in response. He supposed he might have reacted like them if he’d seen himself standing naked at the window, blinking dozily at the world. He didn’t mind being a Scouse joke for once, especially since the wall under the windowsill had preserved his decency. He used the bathroom as speedily as he was able and dressed on his way back to the window. As he fumbled to fasten the strap of his wristwatch he was disconcerted to find it was nearly noon. He’d been roused hours later than he’d planned to sleep.
He still didn’t feel awake. Surely he had time to make himself a coffee before the next tour, but he left the front door open so that he would hear the guide while he was in the kitchen. The mug spattered his hand with drops that felt like embers as he tramped down the slippery path to his gate. There was no sign of the tour, but might he have failed to hear it by straining too hard? His shaky hand was smarting in half a dozen spots by the time he succeeded in carrying the mug to the chair at the bedroom window. He didn’t know how many bitter sips he’d swallowed when he saw the bus sneaking up the road.
He hadn’t been hearing his pulse, but now he did. Could it have deafened him to the commentary, or was the guide waiting until her passengers saw his house? She didn’t speak as the bus nosed past the gate, but she must already have mentioned him, since the scattered passengers were gazing up at him. Although their faces didn’t change when he waved and stuck his thumbs up, he was overtaken by the notion that they were trying not to laugh.
He had to be mixing them up with the earlier tour, and he just needed to be more awake. He took gulps of coffee that felt as if they were skinning his mouth. His head was throbbing with caffeine, not to mention his attempts to hear the guide, before the tour reappeared. As he watched the bus cruise towards his house she didn’t utter a single word, and he was suddenly convinced that she’d been talking about him while he couldn’t hear. Was the bus slowing to give the passengers a better look at him? Faces turned up to him, and as his arms shivered with his struggles not to gesture he was sure he saw lips writhing in an effort to suppress mirth.
He heard laughter as trees hid the bus. What had she said about him? He dropped the mug, splashing his ankles, and stalked downstairs, grabbing the banister at every step. She must think he was stupid if she imagined she could prevent him from hearing her remarks. He marched to the end of the road to watch for the next tour.
When it showed up on the main road he withdrew behind the first tree, but he must have t
aken too long over making sure it was her bus. The tree wasn’t quite broad enough to hide him, and as the bus turned the corner a passenger craned to watch him. Stu dodged around the tree, but more people twisted in their seats to spy him. As the bus sped towards his house he heard it trailing laughter. He was unable to catch up with it, not that he knew what he would have done if he had, and so he retreated into the house.
He oughtn’t to have let the guide realise he could hear. On the next tour she kept her comments well out of earshot, but he wasn’t fooled. Even if the passengers didn’t point and laugh, he could see how their faces were hiding whatever she’d said about him. Each reappearance of the bus enraged him further, and when he started breaking splinters off the windowsill he stormed down to stand at the gate. Staring fiercely at one consignment of passengers didn’t daunt them; some of them didn’t even bother withholding their amusement until they were out of sight, while the guide pretended she was too busy driving to notice him. His drumming on the gate failed to impress the next group, though the performance scattered bits of wood across the pavement, and his vocals fell short of restoring his image, however high he strained his voice. It left his throat raw, and he’d had enough of trying to counteract her mockery. He snatched out his phone—for once he was grateful to his last wife, who’d nagged him to buy the mobile so that she would be able to locate him—and found the number for the Beatles tour.
He might have known the office would be shut on Sundays. He needn’t think they were refusing to answer, having recognised his number. The chilly twilight sent him into the house, but he wasn’t about to close the window. How many tours did he still have to watch? It seemed there was just one, and perhaps ending her day made the guide careless of whether Stu heard, unless she wanted to provoke him to put on more of a show. As the bus entered the road she grew loud enough for his neighbours to hear. Scotty and the Scousers had become a cult band, she was saying, partly thanks to the Beatles. John Lennon had told their drummer he was Ringo’s favourite as a joke. People in the know packed the Scousers’ gigs out because the drummer was the best in the business—the best laugh. He’d earned the nickname Chicken Drumsticks because he played as if he was using them.
The Spectral Book of Horror Stories Page 2
