by Hannah Howe
Chapter Three
I followed Derwena and Milton into the basement down a flight of irregular, uneven steps. In the basement, I saw Tim wandering around in the background, his slender frame disappearing behind stone columns, only to reappear moments later, like a phantom walking through walls.
The basement resembled the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise – everywhere you looked, there were knobs and faders, and bright lights, dancing to the sound of music. The basement was lit by a series of bright, electric strip lights and one of those lights illuminated the man sitting at the controls, a young man in his early twenties. He had round, wire-framed spectacles and a mop of curly hair. He looked as if he’d just left university. Indeed, he was wearing a faded University of California tee-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. He was nodding in time to the music, a rhythmic beat pulsating behind a screeching guitar, while twiddling some knobs. I assumed that this was Nerd.
A tall man in his late thirties stood beside the controls, overseeing the production. I assumed that this was Woody. He too was dressed in ragged jeans and a scruffy tee-shirt. Woody’s tee-shirt had a sexist comment emblazoned across the front, though thankfully the comment had faded with age. Woody had long, permed hair, bottle-blond, lively blue eyes and a long, craggy face. His skin was leathery and suntanned, and it contained an orange, artificial glow. Lines and wrinkles dominated his features and although ruggedly handsome, he had a face that had clearly seen a lot of high living.
Derwena entered a booth. She placed headphones over her ears then nodded in time to the music. She gazed through the glass panels of the booth, waiting for Woody’s cue. And when he raised his index finger, she started to sing.
Derwena had a bluesy, sultry voice, quite sensual if you like that kind of thing. However, ‘Fire and Ice’ was a fast-paced pop number and she struggled to reach the high notes. After three re-takes, she ripped off her headphones and stormed out of the booth, clearly agitated, distressed.
“How am I supposed to sing this?” she complained, waving a lyric sheet at Woody. “This line has got double-glazing in it. How am I supposed to sing a line with double-glazing in it?”
“Sing it, baby,” Woody growled, “and sing it good, because if this album isn’t a hit we’ll be reduced to making jingles for double-glazing. So sing it. One more time, baby, with feeling!”
Derwena returned to the booth. She placed the headphones over her ears. For the umpteenth time the backing track to ‘Fire and Ice’ started up. And, once again, Derwena struggled with the high notes. Clearly, the song was not suited to her voice.
“I can’t sing in here,” Derwena complained as she stepped out of the booth. She threw the headphones on to the flagstone floor. In places, the basement floor was covered in carpet. Idly I wondered if the loud, vibrant pattern of the carpet would suit my office and concluded that I’d go for something plain. Once I’d gathered together my savings.
“My stars said that the moon is in the seventh house and that Jupiter is aligned with Mars, and therefore it’s not a good idea for me to sing today,” Derwena insisted. “And anyway, there are too many distractions.”
“Such as?” Milton sighed.
“The wind. I can hear the wind.” Derwena sidled up to Milton and placed her arms on his shoulders. With his shoulders taking her weight, she swayed seductively in front of him. “Can’t you do something about the wind, Milt my sweetness?”
Milton removed Derwena’s arms from his shoulders. He paced the basement, not exactly like a tiger – I don’t think Milton had it in him to be ferocious – more like a disgruntled alley cat.
“We’re in a basement, chiselled out of solid rock,” he explained patiently. “There are no windows. There are no outside distractions. There is no wind.”
Derwena pouted. She looked on the verge of tears. Tim had disappeared behind one of the columns while Nerd was still nodding in time to the music though, bizarrely, the music had stopped. Meanwhile, Woody had his hands in his trousers and was adjusting his wedding tackle. I felt like I’d wandered into a circus and was standing among the clowns. I hate the circus. I hate clowns.
“Now you’re just being mean!” Derwena blurted before storming out of the basement. Milton gave Tim a well-practiced nod and Tim ran after the diva. Tim’s role appeared to be all round gopher and comforter. Whatever his salary, he earned his corn.
While Nerd fiddled with the controls, Milton attempted to restore some semblance of order. He ushered Woody in my direction and made the introductions.
“Sam, this is Woody. Woody, this is Sam. Sam is helping us out on the stalker.”
“Hey,” Woody gave me a cheesy grin, “you’re cute. Why don’t we go and sit on my couch?”
Thankfully, the couch was a generous three-seater and I managed to squeeze myself into one corner while Woody reclined in the seat furthest away from me.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked, his rugged face still swathed in a vulgar grin.
“Derwena’s lover.”
He nodded while crossing and uncrossing his legs. “I’m her lover, writer, arranger, producer...I’m the main man.”
I smiled politely while glancing around the recording studio. For some reason, I wondered if rats found their way into the basement. Probably not; after all, for all its Victorian creepiness, the building did have all mod cons. All the same, I was tempted to raise my legs and place them on the couch, offering them to Woody’s lecherous gaze. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. In the event, I kept my feet firmly on the ground, concluding that the rats offered the lesser threat.
“You know how I got my name?” Woody leered.
“I can’t imagine.” I turned away, my face a picture of wholesome innocence.
“I’ve got this reputation, see,” Woody continued. “I’m always ready. Quick to get wood, you know what I mean?” He tapped his crown jewels with his open palm, in case I should miss the point. He leaned over towards me and whispered, “There’s a fantastic four-poster bed in the west wing. Have you seen it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“I could show you the bed.” His leer intensified. “I could show you a good time.” His hand wandered over my thigh. “You look as if you could do with a good time.”
“Tell me about your music,” I mumbled, easing his hand back into his lap.
“Are you a dyke?” he frowned. He tilted his head to one side and eyed me quizzically.
“Just call me old-fashioned.”
Woody beamed, his right hand returning to my thigh. “I like old-fashioned chicks.”
“I don’t fool around!” I slapped his hand with my open palm. The crack caught Nerd’s attention, though after a quick glance, he returned to his knobs.
“Jeez.” Woody was appraising me, eyeing me with a look of confused sympathy. “I was only trying to be friendly. No need to go all ape-shit on me.” He leaned forward and stared at my forehead, as though trying to peer into my brain. “You got some monkeys dancing around in there?”
I inclined my head, allowing my hair to fall over my face. It was one of the reasons why I wore my hair long, so that in moments of embarrassment I could allow my hair to fall over my face.
“Tell me about your new album.” My voice was quiet, strained.
“Midas Melange.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s gonna be huge, a number one with a bullet. I called it Midas Melange because Midas means gold, right, and a melange is a concoction of various styles. On this album, we’ve decided to mix a lot of musical styles, a jazz track, some prog, heavy metal, a ballad, folk, blues, reggae, hip-hop, pure pop, trance, even a punk track. What do you think, sounds like a winner?”
Sounds unlistenable. I nodded politely. “Sounds great.”
“Yeah. This album will really showcase Derwena’s voice, her versatility.” Woody reached over and picked up an acoustic guita
r. “What do you think of this?”
He played a few notes and I recognised the tune. My moment of discomfort had passed, so I swept my hair away from my face, allowing it to cascade over my shoulders. “Sounds like Ode to Joy.”
“It is Ode to Joy. I’ve paired it with a Shakespearean sonnet, Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day. It’ll be our classical track on the new album. I’m pushing for it to be the first single, but Milt isn’t so sure.”
Milt has taste. But I kept that thought to myself. Instead, I said, “Tell me about the stalker.”
Woody shrugged his broad shoulders. He looked nonplussed. “What’s to tell?”
“Have you seen him?”
“No.” He thought for a moment, then replied, “Though I did see something strange moving in the shadows the other night.”
I made a note in my notebook. I was Sam the enquiry agent again, not Sam the object of desire. I was back on firmer ground.
“You want to know my thoughts on the stalker?” Woody asked enthusiastically.
“Share them with me.”
“I reckon the stalker is a ghost from medieval times, a ghost that haunts this castle.”
I folded my notebook. Why did I bother? Woody reckons that he earned his nickname through his sexual prowess, though the phrase ‘as thick as two-short planks’ came to my mind.
“The castle is Victorian,” I explained as though talking to a very young child.
“Yeah.” His enthusiasm remained undiminished. “But the ghost wouldn’t know that. To a medieval ghost all castles are medieval. I reckon we need a ghost buster, not a private eye.”
I slipped my notebook and pen into my shoulder bag and threw my bag over my shoulder. “Thanks for your input.” I stood and walked towards the stairs.
As I set foot on the stairs, Woody bellowed, “I tell you who’s seen the stalker.”
I paused, turned and raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Deke Spencer.”
“Who’s Deke Spencer?”
“Deke’s an old friend of Derwena’s; their families were close at one time; they go way back.”
I took a step back into the basement. My notebook and pen were in my hands again. I prepared to write. “Where will I find Deke?”
“He lives out down St Hilary way, Tusker Hall, a big house.”
“I know it.”
Woody put two fingers together and mimicked smoking a joint. “If you see him, tell him we need some love.”
Rock ‘n’ roll, a sex maniac and now drugs. I was living the dream.
