Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (58 page)

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m buggered if I’m gonna go through it all again for you. Help yourself to one of the bloody tapes. Get Disvan to tell you everything. Why should my life be the only one ruined?’

And with that fond farewell she swept herself and Doctor Bani-Sadr away, deeper into the stereo vortex.

Mr Disvan shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘take no notice, she doesn’t mean it’. I felt pretty sure she did, and wore an appropriate expression. He noted this and crossed to a table where mountains of records and tapes were piled. A moment of searching allowed him to select an undistinguished cassette tape which was then stored away in his jacket pocket.

‘Rhubarb rhubarb, rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb,’ he said. ‘I SAID: TO UNDERSTAND IS TO FORGIVE, MR OAKLEY. This will give us something to listen to on the way home.’

It was only long and patient persuasion from Disvan and others that prevented me from heading for home there and then. That and the fact that I didn’t have transport.

‘She’s more to be pitied than resented, Mr Oakley,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr when he eventually returned, flushed and wheezing, from Louise’s clutches. ‘How would you fancy a total neurotic aversion to peace and quiet?  It’s the worst case of Raudive-voice phobia I’ve ever come across.’

This begged an obvious question but I didn’t get the chance to put it. Ms Saxon bowled up, well oiled and profusely apologetic, in order to drag me into the dancing. My huff-quotient was still quite high and I started to refuse the kind offer. Then, courtesy of a shove in the back from Vladimir Bretwalda, I found myself sprawled out in the middle of the room anyway.

‘Go on, Mr O,’ he bellowed after me. ‘You don’t miss a chance normally!’

Once I was back on my feet and dusted down, the evening started to improve. Louise Saxon had got over her attack of whatever it was and turned out to be quite sweet. In fact, she was sweet to quite to a number of people and then got too smashed to be sweet to anyone but, all in all, I was pleased with the Band-Aid she put on my ego.

Then when she’d been safely tucked up in her cot, we all helped clear away the wreckage and prepared to go. Mr Disvan was the last out of the room (he’d lingered to write a little thank you note on our behalf) and as he leaned back in to dim the lights, something occurred to my befuddled, pounded brain.

‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘Aren’t you going to turn off the music?’

He shook his head.

‘No. I put a loop tape on; it’ll be going all night.’

‘Why? What for?’

‘It’s Louise’s wish.’

‘But why?’

He smiled wickedly.

‘Because, Mr Oakley, in Louise’s life, as someone once said: “the beat must go on”.’

*  *  *

I was honoured on the way home. I was allowed to sit along with Mr Disvan, in the front of Alfred Bretwalda’s Transit. We were all a bit subdued, and it may have been the unnatural silence that impelled Disvan to reach forward for the car stereo.

‘Do you have to?’ I mumbled, my head already beginning to pulsate with tomorrow’s hangover. ‘Haven’t you had enough music for one night?’

He turned to look at me.

‘Sufficient for a geological era to come, I assure you,’ he said reasonably. ‘However, what I was about to put on was the tape young Louise said you could take. I thought it might interest you.’

The circumstances surrounding its acquisition were a shade fuzzy. Was that when Louise was angry with me or not? I couldn’t recall.

‘It’s not heavy metal, is it?’

‘Heavy, possibly. Metal, no. Heavy metal—definitely not.’

‘Okay then, fire away.’

Mr Disvan inserted the cassette tape and pressed the play button. I tried to concentrate and waited patiently.

‘I can’t hear a thing,’ I commented eventually. ‘I reckon you picked up a blank tape.’

Disvan looked wistfully at the road ahead.

‘Of your two statements,’ he said, ‘only the first was correct. After this evening’s battering you can’t hear anything. Blow your nose hard and listen again.’

It was easier to comply than argue so I did as he suggested. My ears cleared slightly. I couldn’t quite believe what they told me.

‘It’s just a load of dicky-birds,’ I blurted out. ‘Lots of birdies singing away.’

‘There’s more than just “dicky-birds”, as you put it, Mr Oakley. There’s a commentary, a story attached.’

‘And I’ve not long got back to sleeping normal after hearing it last time,’ interrupted Alfred Bretwalda, our chauffeur, ‘so if you’re going to explain all, you’ll excuse me if I sing loudly so as to miss it this time round.’

‘Me too,’ echoed Doctor Bani-Sadr from the back. ‘I was doling out Nembutal like sweets after the previous recitation. Speak low and keep it to yourselves whilst we all sing along with Alfred.’

My nerves were jangled into sobriety. The Argyll regulars weren’t normally community singing types. There must be a really good reason for their conversion. I was going to say wasn’t it simpler to just ask Mr Disvan to shut up—but remembered that no one ever, ever, did that.

Mr Bretwalda, previously in a cheerful mood after a fracas with some policemen in the High Street, now wore a face like thunder. I could see he was racking his brain for a suitable tune. Everyone else waited on his decision. Then, at last, memory files examined as far back as school assembly days, his bass barrage of a voice came forth:

‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless Lord, O abide with me...’

The others, even Doctor Bani-Sadr, a card-carrying atheist, seemed to know the words and joined in. Connecting instantly with my cultural subconscious, their song stimulated those areas of the mind dealing with depression and despond. Thus resigned, I turned to Mr Disvan like a lamb to the slaughter.

Always happy when applying
coups de grace
, he was smiling broadly. Sadly, from where I was sitting, I could hear him over the noise of the song.

‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that you’ve never come across “Raudive voices”?’

I said he took it right.

‘Well, don’t reproach yourself, Mr Oakley. In your line of work there’s no call for you to do so. Whereas, in Ms Saxon’s previous occupation...’

‘Which was?’

‘Recording engineer and small record label manager. She was more or less bound to come across them. Most folk in that field do. Of course, you can ignore them, disbelieve them or whatever. People get by well enough. Mind you, that said, the golden rule is never to let them master you, otherwise you’re on the road to Raudive voice phobia—like poor Ms Saxon. It’s the occupational hazard, you see.’

This wasn’t turning out as bad as I thought. As ‘Abide with me’ was coming round for the second time, my curiosity felt bold enough to venture out.

‘But you haven’t said what these...’

‘Raudive voices.’

‘Raudive voices are.’

‘No, well, there’s not much you can say. There’s so little really known on the subject. If you’d listened more carefully to Ms Saxon’s tape, you’d have more or less the full story.’

‘But since my ears aren’t presently up to that...’

He nodded his agreement.

‘Okay, in those circumstances, I can add a little background. Incidentally, do you own a tape recorder, Mr Oakley?’

‘Yeah, I bought a nice matt-black unit recently. There’s a double tapedeck along with CD and turntable. I’ve also got a Walkman to use on the train. What of it?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that if you ever feel like disposing of them, I might make you a reasonable offer...’

Doctor Bani-Sadr caught this remark, if no other. ‘Disvan always makes a fair profit out of this story,’ he said, briefly leaving off singing. I assumed he was joking.

Mr Disvan frowned and pressed on.

‘The first mention of Raudive voices was in the early Sixties,’ he said briskly. ‘I suppose it coincides with the introduction of tape recorders for the general market. Anyhow, some people who’d recorded various bits and pieces noticed that, sometimes, that wasn’t all they picked up. Quite often there’d be inexplicable extras on their tape. You’d not notice it with noisy recordings, but with quiet stuff—like birdsong and that—there were occasions you couldn’t fail to. That’s how Ms Saxon got caught, poor girl, out all on her own in a wood, miles from anywhere, recording the dawn chorus. It seemed all right at the time, but back in the studio...’

Mr Disvan had succeeded in making me edgy.

‘But what, for God’s sake?’

I’d forgotten that Disvan didn’t like offences against the third commandment. He looked upset and of two minds whether to continue his tale.

‘Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O thou who changest not, abide with me.’

sang the Binscomite choir, grinding implacably on. They weren’t lifting my spirits at all.

‘What I was about to add,’ said Mr Disvan, a trifle peevishly, ‘was that people were finding voices on their tapes. Indistinct, weak voices maybe, but voices sure enough, once you listened out for them.’

‘I don’t really want to ask this, but what do they say?’

Disvan had his own way of relating events, and wouldn’t be side-tracked by to-the-point questions.

‘These were male and female voices,’ he went on, ‘speaking in all sorts of languages, sometimes two or three different ones in the same sentence. And another funny thing—all the voices were sort of clipped and monotone. Almost inhuman.’

‘Yes, right; but what did—’

‘They’ve been picked up all over the world, even in the most rigorous controlled conditions, even through special “Faraday Cages” designed to exclude outside signals. I’m not saying it happens every time—just enough times to worry. And, of course, you have to be listening carefully to notice the Raudive effect even when you do pick it up. Still, they’re an undeniable phenomenon. After the Swede, Juergenson, first went into print in... oh, ‘63, I think, the Latvian, Dr Raudive, who gave them his name, made about eighty thousand positive recordings. On the quiet, it’s a respectable field of study nowadays.’

‘Mr Disvan, what the hell do they say?’

He turned right round in the seat. The headlights from oncoming cars played wildly across his old, cold face.

‘They’re very polite, Mr Oakley. They generally address you by name. Then they always say the same thing: “We are watching you”.’

‘
BUT AFTER THIS, THE JUDGEMENT’

‘Well,’ said Mr Disvan, anxious as ever, just like Pollyanna, to see the bright side of things, ‘this match is becoming very competitive.’

‘You mean,’ I interpreted, ‘this match should be stopped.’

‘That’s one way of seeing it,’ Disvan conceded.

As if on cue, Vladimir Bretwalda, the Binscombe captain, once again gave the coded call sign for general melee, and rugby was forgotten as the two sides brawled about in the mud. The referee wasted breath on his whistle before an ‘accidental’ shoulder propelled him to the fight’s ground-zero and he was lost to view.

‘That tall one, number eight,’ bellowed Bretwalda senior unhelpfully from the touchline, seeking the ears of his three sons. ‘Take him out! Kill!’

‘The annual Binscombe v Goldenford match is a bit of a derby,’ said Mr Disvan, pretending not to notice Bretwalda’s contribution, ‘so what else can you expect?’

‘Rugby?’ I hazarded

‘Oh,’ he replied, a little taken aback by my unreasonable demand, ‘well, there’ll be a higher proportion of that later on when they settle down.’

‘As opposed to tribal warfare with a printed match programme, you mean?’

Disvan frowned and thought my question through with great care.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed at last.

By dint of using his boots and fists just like everyone else, the referee had regained his feet, sent a man off, studied the various injuries and got play resumed. The ball and associated zone of conflict moved on up the field away from us, rendering the depressing spectacle less distinct and therefore more tolerable.

Mr Disvan seemed to sense my relief.

‘I thought you liked rugby, Mr Oakley’ he said.

‘I do,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But this...’

I pointed towards the latest atrocity where, a full ten yards from the ball and run of play, the Goldenford prop stood grinning and triumphant before two prone Binscomites, blissfully unaware of twenty stones worth of Hengist Bretwalda bearing down on him like a train from behind.

Doctor Bani-Sadr joined us, fresh from the on-field fray and patching up some unfortunate to take further damage. Always pleased to feel useful, he was more than normally cheerful today.

‘Good job I brought plenty of stitch thread,’ he beamed. ‘I’ll be sewing away like a Spitalfields sweatshop later on.’ He sighed with pleasure. ‘I like the annual challenge match,’ he said. ‘It makes such a change from the usual sniffs and snuffles.’

I felt there was a degree of indecent relish in that and (more or less) said so. ‘I wonder you don’t bring blood and artificial limbs and really have yourself a good time!’

Disvan and Bani-Sadr looked at each other as though I’d had a rare good idea.

‘It’s a thought,’ said the Doctor, musing to himself. ‘I could get some plasma bags in my case... But no, amputations and transplants are best left to the hospital boys, Mr Oakley. Thanks for the suggestion, though.’

At that point Goldenford scored and I was sufficiently disenchanted to feel like applauding. However, that would have been unwise, for the evolutionary-disadvantaged section of the Binscombe crowd, piqued by the turn of events, had taken up a low chant of ‘kill, kill, kill’. The Goldenford supporters, no less committed, no less willing to travel back to the savannah-time, responded in kind.

‘Welcome to the fifteenth century, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan.

‘An overestimate, surely?’ I replied.

Doctor Bani-Sadr, despite his obvious enjoyment of the day, didn’t want me to feel too isolated.

‘Perhaps you prefer a subtler style of rugby, Mr Oakley’ he said. ‘Flair instead of slog, France instead of England, so to speak.’

‘Anything rather than this. I mean, look, they’re ignoring the ball. And the ref’s down again, and...’

‘You should have been here when Oscar Tug played for us,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘We could rely on skill to win in them days.’

This stopped me in my tracks.

‘Oscar Tug?
The
Oscar Tug, captain of England, “Lion of the South”, played for Binscombe? You jest.’

‘I jest not, Mr Oakley. He always used to select, train and lead the Binscombe team out. We never lost against Goldenford then.’

I couldn’t help but be impressed.

‘I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know he came from Binscombe.’

‘There’s much you don’t know about, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan. ‘You have a lot to learn.’ It sounded almost like a threat.

‘Is that so.’ My reply had more than a
soupçon
of sarcasm as makeweight.

‘Yes, it is,’ he said, unabashed. ‘And I include within that the knowledge that Oscar Tug is Binscombe born and bred and still lives here.’

The interesting revelations kept on diffusing my attempted indignation.

‘Really? He’s got a house here?’

Suddenly, Mr Disvan was less confident in his answer. Doctor Bani-Sadr chose that moment to feel the cold and bury himself deeper into his coat.

‘No...’ said Disvan, cagily. ‘I said he lives here.’

‘But not in a house?’

‘No.’

‘Then how come I’ve never seen him?’

‘Because, Mr Oakley,’ came the very admonitory reply, ‘he’s in a place you never go.’

I didn’t like his tone. I went to all the places I should do. Who did he think he was—my father?

‘Oh yes?’ I said. ‘And where might that be, pray?’

‘
Le mot juste
. He’s in church, Mr Oakley, in church.’

‘Oh.’

‘Exactly,’ said Disvan, as if he’d proven something.

‘And the last time Mr Oakley was in church,’ guffawed Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘a man in a dog collar threw water all over his head!’

That was a bit rich since Bani-Sadr’s own atheism made Stalin look agnostic, but I let it pass in order to press on with the ‘hunt the sensible answer’ game.

‘What’s he doing there?’ I asked.

‘Praying,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr with distaste.

‘Seeking sanctuary,’ said Disvan, correcting him. Bani-Sadr shrugged his shoulders, cheerfully conceding the point.

‘He reckons he’s actually a
baal teshuva
,’ Disvan continued, still half concentrating on the distant game. ‘You know, a penitent. If you asked me though, I’d say the sanctuary motive was uppermost. Still, who am I to judge? We must be generous minded.’

At that suspiciously coincidental moment, the referee’s mind ran out of generosity and he called the game off. In parts of the field, however, battle continued regardless.

‘Things generally improve after the ref’s thrown in the towel,’ explained Mr Disvan. ‘Without his provocative presence, the teams shape up and get down to playing proper rugby.’

‘They realise that if they don’t behave themselves,’ added the doctor, ‘there’s no one else to make them. The linesmen can still decide on penalties and things...’

I recognised this as a prime slice of strictly Binscombe logic, but recognised it too late to prevent acceptance. To my intense annoyance I even found myself nodding in agreement. Yet again, their world view had penetrated the armour of reason.

‘Hang about!’ I said, the effort of the mental gear change creasing my brow. ‘That’s the biggest load of—’

‘Proof of the pudding, Mr Oakley’ interrupted Mr Disvan with his approximation of an innocent smile. ‘Proof of the pudding.’

He was gesturing towards the field of play and I saw this particular pudding being proved. The teams were freshly interested in the ball’s whereabouts and play was becoming fluid and skilful. A Bretwalda-led drive was, at that very moment, heading forcefully (but fairly!) towards the Goldenford line.

Somehow it all seemed like a subtle insult—and probably deliberate at that. I’d come out to see rugby, not some devious sermon about the liberating alternatives to rationality. Deep inside I felt that, without first asking permission, the Binscombe
summa theologiae
was being preached to me.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I said abruptly, turning on my heels. Like a well drilled dance team, Disvan and the doctor moved with me, one on either side, matching my steps.

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Mr Disvan amiably. ‘Why watch that foregone conclusion? Especially when there’s a chance to meet your sporting hero.’

In my illogical annoyance, I’d quite forgotten about the Oscar Tug business. It now returned to me, coupled with the realisation that my path was being discreetly shepherded by my two companions in the general direction of St Joseph’s Church. Like a beckoning finger, its eccentric spire could be seen peeping over the trees of the ‘Glade’ which mysteriously survived in the centre of the village.

I decided to go along with it. There was nothing better to do prior to the Argyll’s opening time and the great Oscar Tug had indeed been a childhood hero of mine. I could still recall dim, falsely pleasant memories, of wet prep school afternoons when I’d tried to emulate his exploits—before I lost three front teeth in a tackle and took up the badminton option instead.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘why not? If you think he’ll see me.’

‘Oh, he will, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, full of assurance. ‘Being trapped there all the time, he likes fresh company.’

That could have struck an alarm bell in my mind but I didn’t let it.

‘But can’t we meet him for a drink in the Argyll?’ I asked. ‘Why must it be the church?’

‘Sanctuary, Mr Oakley. I already told you that.’

‘From whom, though?’

This gave Disvan pause for thought, and I could see he was struggling for an answer.

‘Debt collectors,’ he said at last. The reply caused a cold smile to dawn across Doctor Bani-Sadr’s face.

‘Now I know you’re having me on,’ I said. ‘Oscar Tug was a wealthy man, what with the TV commentating, the South-African coaching, and all that. And anyway, you can’t claim sanctuary against...’

‘Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan with great finality, ‘sad to say, not all debts are financial.’

*  *  *

By the time I’d thought it through and added up all my misgivings, it was too late to change the scenario. We were at the church.

Aside from theological objections, after the events of the previous Christmas Eve I was none too eager to darken St Joseph’s door again. Sadly, however, the bonds of cultural conditioning, elastic but not brittle, would not permit me to just turn and scamper away. The church’s door was open, Mr Disvan and Doctor Bani-Sadr were watching me. Had it been a dinosaur’s maw gaping before me, I would still have had no choice but to enter in.

Inside it was cool and peaceful, a sudden and welcome transition from the motorised discord of St Joseph’s Street outside. I recalled I had to be careful of churches in general. Even the most modern, most brutal, 1960s God-bunker, had a certain seeping air of sanctity. Combined with the vote of confidence of those buried within and without, such sanctity carried a risk of it being sticky. It might adhere to the visitor and accompany him home, injecting a spiritual venom deadly to the sort of full and active social life I liked to lead. I had scheduled the meaning-of-life sort of thing for the tail end of my existence, if at all, and didn’t want my plans upset at this early stage.