I Am (Not) the Walrus (18 page)

30

Tuesday

As the bus pulls into Brunswick Station, I catch sight of Michelle standing under the clock, right where we agreed to meet. According to the clock, it's four, and I should already be at Julie McGuire's. My concern for the bass is now added to my worry about being late. The last thing I want is to get to Julie's, find she's out, and have to carry the bass all the way home again.

A moment later, both bus and Michelle are out of sight as the bus turns a corner. I stand up before the bus stops, and then get thrown forward as it jerks to a halt, but I'm back on my feet in a second. With a huge sense of relief, I grab the bass and race up the aisle.

Michelle is waiting by the door.

“Oh man, I'm sorry you had to wait,” I say as I step down onto the asphalt. “There was a big accident on Coast Road. We got held up for half an hour.”

“It's okay, Toby.” She grabs my shoulders, pulls me towards her, and kisses me on the cheek. “I think I'm getting used to the idea that you're always late.”

I'm not sure if the kiss is a friend kiss, or a boyfriend kiss, so I just pat her left shoulder. I can't hug her anyway, as I have the bass in my other hand, and I don't want to put it down. My relief at being reunited with the bass is fading fast. Now I'm just paranoid having it with me. There are a lot of sketchy-looking characters around, and every time one of them glances at me I think they know that I'm holding a bass worth five thousand pounds.

“I was hoping we'd have time to get that second cup of tea.” She folds her arms and tips her head from side to side. “We're probably too late, right?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Julie told me to be there by four.” I shrug to show that I'm not sure of the significance of this fact. “I kind of assumed that it was due to the fact that Live Oak was a dodgy place to be after dark.”

Michelle laughs. “Live Oak?” She gives me a comical frown mixed with a smile, then does sidelong looks either way. “This is Live Oak,” she says. “Who told you it was dangerous?”

“A bloke called Jasper,” I say. “He's the guy who tracked down Julie for me.” I switch the bass over to my left hand. It gets heavy quickly. “Maybe we should give the bass back first, and then get tea. To be honest, I want to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” says Michelle. “Besides, then you won't have to lug it about with you.”

I think about telling Michelle how much the bass is worth. Then I decide not to. One stressed-out person in our group is enough. Besides, I can always tell her after I give it back.

Julie's house is only about five minutes from the bus station, and in the opposite direction to Mariner Street. We hurry past used car showrooms, fast food restaurants, and empty shops. Barnard Street itself is lined with crumbling Victorian row houses and empty lots. Number 27 is almost at the top of the hill where it sags between two empty, overgrown lots, like a condemned criminal in front of a firing squad.

The front door is at the top of an ornate set of steps. There's an intercom on the right of the door. Underneath are six buzzers, plus there's one separate bell under the intercom-buzzer set, and another bell on the right side of the door. None of them have any names or numbers.

“Which one is Julie McGuire?” I say. “And which one is the psycho-hatchet-murderer?”

“Hmm.” Michelle taps the upper-right buzzer. “This one,” she says.

“How can you tell?” I say.

“Just a guess,” says Michelle. “It's cleaner than the top left, and she lives on the top floor.” She raises her eyebrows. “If the buzzer is cleaner, then someone has been pushing it a lot.” She wags her finger at me. “Ex-punk-rocker ladies always get more visitors than psycho-hatchet murderers. Don't they teach you anything in those schools in Port Jackson?”

“The sex life of flowers and French irregular verbs,” I say. I shift the bass into my left hand, place my fingertip an inch from the buzzer, and stop. “So I'll follow your judgment on this.”

I'm just about to push the buzzer when she grasps my forearm. “Are you sure you really want to do this?” she says. “You don't have to give the bass back.”

“Brilliant,” I say. Keeping my fingertip an inch from the buzzer, I turn and scrutinize her for a moment. I give her the biggest smile I can muster in order to hide the fact that I'm a little pissed off at her. “You were the one who talked me into this.”

“Me?” She spreads the palm of her hand across her collar bones.

“Naturally,” I say. “Who else would I be talking about?”

“Please.” She holds out her hands and backs away from me slightly. “Don't do this just because of me.”

I shake my head. She's right. I don't really want to dump the responsibility onto her. “I want to do it,” I say. “Sorry. I'm just a bit agitated.”

“Is it because I'm here?” Michelle frowns. “Did you tell her I was coming?”

“No. No way.” I take in a long breath. “I'm really glad you're here. I don't think it'll make much difference to Julie.”

“I suppose not,” she says. “What time is it now?” She rolls her lips over her teeth.

“Late.” I raise my arm and push the doorbell. It makes no sound. I stand back and look up at the cracked front of the building, without knowing exactly what I'm looking for. Maybe someone leaning out.

“Aargh!” Michelle does a pretend scream, squeezes my upper arm with both hands, and pushes her head against my shoulder. “How could I be stupid? Hatchet murderers get more callers, of course!”

I don't know why or how I do this; I twist toward her while she's still holding onto my arm. Then I lean down and brush my lips against hers.

She increases the pressure on my arm. “Hiya,” she says. “Do I know you by any chance?”

“I think we met,” I say. I lean down, and give her a lingering kiss.

“Hello!” The harsh intercom voice jerks me back to reality like an alarm clock. “Is that Toby?”

I pull back from Michelle, but breaking away is too sudden, so I lean my forehead against hers while I speak. “Yes. It's Toby,” I say. It's an odd sensation speaking to a disembodied voice on an intercom while I'm gazing into Michelle's eyes. “My friend Michelle is here as well. Is that okay?”

“Fine,” says the voice on the intercom. “Come right up.”

The door buzzes. I lean on it, and it opens inward. I switch hands with the bass yet again, and usher Michelle in ahead of me. As she passes, I kiss her one more time.

31

Tuesday

“I wish you'd come a bit earlier.” A voice echoes down the stairwell to the lobby. I look up to see where the voice is coming from, and get a kind of reverse vertigo. The staircase winds upward, past giant doorways, crumbling pillars, and cherubs with their wings and noses knocked off.

“I don't think this place was built with ex-punk-rockers and axe murderers in mind,” whispers Michelle as we climb.

“Why are you whispering?” I say.

“Maybe there are some archdukes taking a nap,” she says, pointing to one of the doorways as we pass.

“Sorry to rush you,” says Julie, as we reach the top floor.

Until this morning, I didn't even know if Julie McGuire was alive or dead. Now here she is right in front of me, all in black, in sharp contrast to faded greens and browns of the walls and doorways.

“I was hoping we'd have a bit more time.” She pushes open her door, which is about twice as tall as she is. “I have to go somewhere and I'm late already.”

Maybe this explains why she's so dressed up.

“Sorry we're late,” I say as I stand aside to let Michelle go in first. “The bus got stuck in a traffic jam.”

The hallway is pretty narrow, one side being taken up by an overflowing bookcase.

“Oh, well, can't be helped,” says Julie. She leans forward and gives Michelle a peck on the cheek as she passes. “Aren't you pretty?” she says.

Michelle's cheeks go red. “Thanks,” she says, as she squeezes past a fragile-looking table with a phone on it.

“Just a statement of fact,” says Julie. “I'm just staying here at the moment while I'm moving out of my flat. I don't normally live in this level of squalor.”

In spite of the shambles, the place is actually pretty clean except for a slight background pong. The smell is familiar, but I can't quite place it until something soft nudges my leg.

“Oh, don't let the cats out,” Julie says.

I look down and wedge a morbidly obese ginger cat against the wall with my leg. Julie stoops down and wedges the football-cat under her elbow. “Come in, Madison,” she says. “Otherwise you'll be spending the night in the hall.”

With the cat under one arm, she wraps the other arm around my neck and kisses me on the cheek. “It's so nice to meet you, finally.” She dances across the floor like a soccer player as she tries to maneuver a calico cat away from the door. “Come into my studio.” I squeeze in past owner and cats into a slightly more intense cat-pong.

I make my way down the hall to a kitchen jammed with books. Books on chairs, books on tables, books on the floor.

“Let me see, let me see!” says Julie.

She bustles past me, lifts a pile of books off the table, and distributes the books onto other stacks on the floor and the couch.

“Sorry about the clutter.” She splays her fingers on the table as if it's a piano. “Why don't you plonk it down here?”

“Oh, wow,” says Michelle, picking a paperback off one of the piles. “My mum reads Ruth Rendell books.”

“Honey.” Julie spins around. “Please don't mess things up,” she says. “There's actually an order to these.”

I lower the case gently onto the table. After the Rupert incident at the beach it seems to have developed some uneven edges, and I don't want it to scratch the tabletop.

“Whoa.” Julie turns back to me, and presses her palms together as if she's praying. “You know I hadn't really thought much about this.” She blows out a long breath and rests her chin on her raised fingertips. Her hands are heavily veined. They look a lot older than her face. “I'm kinda nervous.”

“Yeah.” I shake my arms to get the blood flowing again after the weight of the bass. “Me too.”

“You know what?” she says. “It really is a weird situation.” She flips up the catches—one, two, three—and raises the lid as if the case contains holy relics, and maybe it does in a way.

She whistles.

Michelle comes around from behind me. “I forgot how beautiful it was,” she says.

“Yup,” says Julie, and lets out a short laugh. “Pretty, and a pain in the arse.”

She gives Michelle a harsh glance, and just for a moment, I'm not completely certain that she's referring to the bass.

Julie looks down at the bass and takes in a long breath. “I never thought I'd see this again.” She puts her hands back into her prayer position. “You don't know anything about this instrument, do you?”

“Just that my brother came home with it one night,” I say. “He gave it to me when he went away,” I add quickly. “It wasn't him who stole it. He paid for it. He bought it about eighteen months ago.” I have to clear my throat. I'm not a good liar. Of course, I don't know for certain that he didn't steal it, but now I'm guessing that he might well have done just that.

“Oh. I know who stole it.” Julie lifts the instrument out of its case. Without looking at me she says, “I know exactly who stole it.” She rests the body on the table and slides a veined hand up the neck as if she's stroking one of her cats. She smiles at me. “It wasn't you, and it wasn't your brother.” She plays a few notes.

The intonation is clumsy, and the timing is off, but it's just about recognizable as “Day Tripper.” She's no Paul McCartney, but she's better than either Rupert or Shawn.

“Nice,” I say. I'm getting better at lying.

She purses her lips as she looks at me. “Now you.” She passes the bass over to me.

“Last time,” I say. I put my foot up on a chair, prop the body on my leg, and play the same lines. It really is the last time, so I throw in every slide, trill, and decoration I can think of. Probably the best I've ever played it.

Julie bends down and scoops up the calico cat. “That”—she gestures toward my fingers with the puzzled-looking cat—“is nice.”

“It's okay,” I say.

“You know what's funny?” She strokes the top of the cat's head with her chin. “Over the years I must have heard a hundred people play that instrument.” The cat begins to purr loudly. “Every single one played a Beatles riff when they picked it up.” The cat flails its legs, and Julie places it back on the floor. “Uncanny. Right?”

“I suppose,” I say. I offer the instrument back to Julie, but when she places her hands on it I have to make a real effort to let go of it. I want to leave before I change my mind. “I don't want to be rude, but we need to get going. If you don't have the reward money, then it doesn't matter.” I have a sudden urge to grab the bass back, so I step away and thrust my fingers into my pockets. “But if you did have it, the money would come in handy.”

“How would you feel if instead of giving you a reward”—Julie runs her fingers down the strings—“I just gave the bass right back to you?”

This completely throws me, but before I can speak Julie says, “This probably sounds mad, but the bass has been bad luck for me.”

With impressive speed the calico cat jumps on to the table and settles into the case. Julie ushers it aside with the back of her free hand. “It's been stolen more than once,” she says. She places the instrument in its case, but the cat immediately settles down on top of it, as if it's the most comfortable bed in the world.

“The first person who stole it was a girl.” She points at Michelle. “Younger than you, sweetheart.” She turns back to me. “She was a Beatles fan—a groupie really—and she stole it from George Harrison.”

I gasp. “This was George Harrison's bass!”

Julie picks up the cat. “Let me tell the story,” she says. “George invited her to Abbey Road Studios.” The cat blinks as Julie scratches its head. “They were going to go out for the evening, but the group was working on ‘Back in the USSR.' A sales rep showed up at about ten p.m. with some free samples of Fender guitars and basses, one of which was this.” She taps the case. “Paul was intending to play bass, but he was busy working on the piano part, so he asked George to play some bass lines, and he used this instrument.

“When he was done, he left it on a couch next to the groupie. She fell asleep while she was waiting. She woke up some time later. It was three a.m., and the band was still playing and shouting at one another. The girl was pissed off that George had left her waiting, and it was pretty obvious that he wasn't going to take her out, so she quietly picked up the bass and walked home with it.

“When she woke up the next afternoon she was racked with guilt, but what could she do? She could hardly take it back at that point. Eventually she taught herself to play it.” Julie grins. “Not terribly well, as you just heard.”

“You were the groupie?” says Michelle.

“Bingo,” says Julie without looking at her.

“But why do you think it's unlucky?” I say.

“That was the high watermark of my life.” She taps the case again. “Aged fourteen.” She clasps her hands in front of her chest. “In spite of being a fairly lame musician I got into a number of bands, partly based on the fact that I had George Harrison's bass, and partly because I was cute.” Now she does look at Michelle. She shakes her head. “Boy, you should have seen me back then, sweetheart.”

Julie turns back to me. “That was the sum total of my life.” She nods her head. “Then along comes your brother. One way or another he gets the bass, and voilà. My luck changes overnight. The very next day—and I swear to God I'm not making this up—I get a publishing deal for a book I'd been working on for about five years.”

“That is amazing,” says Michelle.

“The day after that”—she stabs her finger at Michelle—“I file for a divorce from my deadbeat husband.” She plays a drumbeat on the edge of the bass.

“Divorce isn't lucky,” I say.

“Trust me, honey,” says Julie. “Divorce isn't always a bad thing. So.” She bends down while still holding the cat, plucks a toy mouse off the floor, and dangles it by its tail in front of the cat. “Call me a superstitious fool, but I'm not quite as enthusiastic about getting the bass back as you might think.”

“Couldn't you sell it?” I say.

She shakes her head. “I'm done with it,” she says. “It's not one of the really valuable ones.”

“But it was George Harrison's,” says Michelle. “That must make it worth thousands.”

“Aren't you the clever one,” says Julie, “but you only have my word for it. To sell it based on the fact that George Harrison once touched it, you would need to authenticate it at one of the big auction houses like Sotheby's.” She lifts the cat above her head as if it's some kind of sacrifice. The cat doesn't seem to mind. “No receipts. No authentication. Nothing distinctive about the bass, really. Poor old George is no longer with us to verify anything. Worst-case scenario, Sotheby's checks the serial number and finds out that it was stolen. They give it back to Fender-CBS, and Fender-CBS put in a glass case in some executive's office where nobody ever looks at it.”

“I thought possession was nine-tenths of the law,” I say.

“Between you and me perhaps.” Julie makes a coughing laugh. “Between one of us and a multi-national corporation, probably not.”

“If you really don't want it, then I'll keep it,” I say.

“Deal.” Holding the cat in one hand, she latches the case with the other, lifts it off the table, and holds it out with the handle pointed toward me. “Thank you for letting me see it again.” She drops the cat to the floor, takes my hand, then closes my fingers around the case handle.

Just as she does this there's a loud buzz, which makes me jump. Then I realize it's the doorbell. I turn to look down the hall and catch Michelle's eyes. She smiles at me.

I turn my attention back to Julie. She seems to have aged ten years in just a few seconds.

She's standing. “Crap.” She is no longer smiling. “Toby, I wish you'd gotten here earlier,” she says. “Take the bass and go. Right now. Don't argue.” She pushes Michelle and me toward the door. “It was a stolen bass, but now I'm giving it back to you. It is no longer a stolen bass.”

I'm not sure whether I really should keep the bass, but she steps out of my reach, giving me no choice in the matter.

“Let's hope that giving it away creates good karma.” Julie makes her way back into the hall. “Hi,” she says into the intercom. Her voice sounds different than when she buzzed me in. She sounds her age. She turns to me. “Toby, please leave right now.” She opens the door and stands by it. “Bye, bye. Michelle, it was nice to meet you.”