Written in Dead Wax (14 page)

I sat there for a moment then reached out and touched her bare shoulder and gave it the most gentle of shakes. Her skin was warm. I could smell her scent in the bedroom. She stirred lazily at my touch and rolled over and looked at me, both eyes open now. The cats rolled with her, keeping themselves luxuriously curved against the contours of her body. She smiled up at me. “Time to get up?” she said.

I cleared my throat, “You said to…”

One of her hands drifted up and fell lightly on my shoulder, moving to my neck. It rested there for a moment and then seemed to apply just the slightest pressure. I wasn’t sure whether I had imagined this or not, but nonetheless I leaned forward, moving my face down towards hers.

Then the doorbell rang.

The sound caused both the cats to jump off the bed and flee as though pursued by demons. They raced out of the room and Nevada and I stared at each other. The doorbell rang again, then again, then again. I rose from the bed, feeling a vertiginous sense of unreality. This couldn’t actually be happening. I walked out in the hall where the cats were waiting tensely, watching me, and went to the front door. I opened it.

Standing there was Stinky.

“Hey there, hipster!” he said, grinning at me. Some distant corner of my brain tried to decide if this was some would-be catchphrase he was trying to popularise. He stepped past me, into the house.

“Stinky,” I said.

Perhaps there was something in my voice, or my eyes, because he stopped dead and gave me an odd look. He said, “You weren’t busy, were you?” I noted the presumptive use of the past tense.

I glanced outside. The plant pot wasn’t disturbed. “You didn’t look for the keys then?” I said. “And try to let yourself in?”

“I always ring first,” he said virtuously.

There was a movement from the direction of the bedroom and Nevada wandered out, dishevelled and sleepy, wearing one of my baggy t-shirts. She peered at us and then said, “Oh, it’s just him,” and went back in.

But that glimpse of her, emerging tousled from my bedroom, was enough to cause Stinky to rock back on his heels as if from a physical blow. He looked at me, rendered, for the moment at least, speechless. “Look, Stinky,” I said. “This isn’t a good time.” I stepped back to the door and held it open wide. “If you don’t mind…”

Stinky shook his head, like a prize fighter shaking off a punch, and then turned and left without a word. I closed the door behind him and sighed. For a long moment I stood in the hallway, a man becalmed, then I went back into the bedroom.

Nevada was in the bed again, the cats curled up beside her. She even looked like she had gone back to sleep. I had an eerie, but by no means unpleasant, jolt of déjà vu.

It was as though the clock had been set back.

I sat beside her on the bed again. She stirred and the cats moved with her, clinging to her body. I reached down and put my hand on her warm bare shoulder and left it there. She half rolled over and lifted a hand towards my face. I moved down to meet it, towards her face. She turned to me, eyes closed and mouth open.

The doorbell rang.

The cats leaped off the bed again in a scandalised convulsion. The jangling clamour of the doorbell repeated itself, frenzied and idiotic. I stared down into Nevada’s face but she wouldn’t open her eyes. I didn’t blame her.

She rolled over and I thought I heard her sigh. Her body seemed to shrink under the covers. The doorbell continued its mad merry pealing.

I got up off the bed and, moving like a man wading through slowly setting cement, went to the door and opened it.

Tinkler was standing there, holding a shopping bag. He looked a little anxious. “I was beginning to think you weren’t in,” he said. “I was ringing and ringing,” he added. “Have your listening habits finally rendered you deaf?” He brushed past me and walked into the house. “Or maybe it’s incessant acts of onanism. Wait a minute, that only makes you blind.” I turned to him and tried to say something, but found I had temporarily lost the power of speech.

The cats were greeting Tinkler, wheeling happily around his ankles. “It’s the twins,” he said. “Hello!” He turned to look at me, his face happy, open, expectant.

“Tinkler,” I managed to say. “What are you doing here?”

Nevada came out of the bedroom. She was dressed now and wide awake and combing her hair. “Is that Tinkler? Ah yes. Hi.”

“Hi.”

All I could say was, “What are you doing here?”

“I invited him,” said Nevada. I looked from one to the other.

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” said Tinkler. “But you know public transport. So unpredictable.”

Nevada shrugged. “No problem.”

I said, “You invited him here?”

Tinkler grinned and reached into his shopping bag, drawing out a jumbo pack of Kettle Chips, cheddar cheese flavour. “Provender.” He dropped them back into the bag then delved into his pocket and drew out a familiar-looking small plastic pack full of dense green herbage. “And I’m making a delivery.”

I looked at Nevada. “You’ve used up your last consignment already?”

She shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a party girl.”

Tinkler went and sat down on the sofa, throwing the bag down on the coffee table. “I’m just as glad to have the stuff out of the house. My sister arrives tomorrow.” Nevada went and sat down beside him.

“Does she take after you, Tinkler?”

“She’s a devout Christian and championship tennis player,” I said. “They’re like two peas in a pod.”

I was gradually recovering my mental faculties, but I still felt like someone had taken my brain out of my head, used it as the ball in a vigorous round of Alice in Wonderland croquet, and replaced it. I went into the kitchen and reapportioned the lunch so it would serve three, then returned to the sitting room with it. We ate, and after lunch I put
Easy Come, Easy Go
on the turntable.

Then I sat on the sofa with Tinkler and Nevada and we all listened. I moved into the sweet spot.

It was like I’d stuck my head through a hole in a wall, and on the other side was 1955. I was there at the time and place the music was being made. I looked at Tinkler. “This is really good.”

“It’s stunning.”

And then Rita Mae started singing.

“This is beautiful,” said Nevada.

“But listen to this bit,” I said. “There’s some kind of imperfection here.” I looked at Tinkler. “Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” volunteered Nevada.

“That little pop?” said Tinkler. “I heard it. Do you think it’s a flaw in the vinyl?”

“Actually,” I said, “I’ve a listened a few times and I think it’s on the original master tape. In fact, I think it’s some kind of artefact from the microphone they used.”

Tinkler said, “You mean like when the singer gets too close to the mike? That’s why they have pop shields.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there was some kind of rogue plosive or something.”

“Rogue plosive,” said Nevada. “That’s a good name for the hero of a swashbuckler. Rogue Plosive, scourge of the seven seas.”

The record had ended and the needle was riding in the run-out groove with a slow rhythmic thunk. I took the record off the turntable and put it carefully back in its inner sleeve. Then back in its outer sleeve. Then I put the whole thing in one of the resealable plastic covers I buy from Japan for this purpose, and sealed it.

“What’s that for?” said Nevada.

“To protect the record,” I said.

“From what? Venereal disease?”

“From Tinkler’s greasy little fingers, for a start.” Finally, after a protracted interval and much scrunchy noise that sounded like a scary synthesiser soundtrack, Tinkler had succeeded in tearing open the foil bag and getting at his cheddar Kettle Chips. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Also,” I said, “it helps it slide into place more easily.” I went to my shelf of records and after much peering at the hard-to-read spines, found the right spot just between Russ Garcia and Stan Getz.

“Slides in more easily, does it?” said Nevada from the sofa, and Tinkler spilled his Kettle Chips. She got up and came over. “Here, let me have a go.” She took the record from me and moved to slide it into place on the shelf. But she’d already blown it.

She was holding it the wrong way round.

“For shit’s sake don’t do that,” cried Tinkler. “It’s back to front.”

She peered at him suspiciously. “What difference does it make?”

“If you slide it in like that the open edge will be pointing out, with the record in it. And the spine, with the name of the record on it, will be shoved out of sight. And it will get lost between the records on either side.” Tinkler shook his head solemnly. “Which in a big record collection like this pretty much means you’ll never see it again. It will have vanished, like a fish diving back into the ocean.”

A little later, the taxi came and picked Nevada up. Tinkler caught a ride back to Putney with her. He rang me later that night. “I figured out why you were so pissed off to see me.”

“When?”

“When I turned up today. It was because you thought I was interrupting something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you actually think you have a chance?”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“You do! You do! You actually thought you were going to get laid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“With Nevada! I mean by Nevada. I mean on Nevada. Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, you lost me back at hello,” I said. He sighed and hung up.

It was twenty minutes before he called back. “
Was
I interrupting something?” he said. “I mean,
did
you have a chance?”

“I’m going to switch my phone off now, Tinkler.”

“You’re going to have to switch it on again sometime.
And then I’ll be there.
”

* * *

The next morning, almost from the instant that I awoke, Tinkler was ringing me. I didn’t answer his calls. He continued ringing after breakfast as I headed out of the house and caught the 493 bus. Despite her nap at my place yesterday, Nevada had declared herself exhausted and decided we couldn’t commence operations until two o’clock today. But I saw no reason to waste the morning, so I hopped on the bus and went hunting.

It felt good to be flying solo and it was even pleasant using public transport instead of Clean Head’s taxi. Plus I felt a certain relief that I was actually making use of my travel card which I had, after all, paid for.

The 493 was a very useful bus, going south into Wimbledon and passing the charity shops of virtually every obscure hamlet on the way. I got off the bus at each one of these, pausing for a thorough search of the crates. This made it a slow and often interrupted journey, but the weather was nice and I found an excellent little stash of albums on ECM, including the Jimmy Giuffre reissue. They were all in immaculate shape and I fully suspected them of having washed downstream from the Tomas Helmer mother lode. I bought them, bagged them and caught another bus.

Tinkler rang constantly. And each time I looked at his number flashing and, with a mixture of affection and malice, ignored the call.

It was about twelve thirty and I was just thinking of heading homewards when I got a call from Nevada. “Where are you?” she demanded, dispensing with any formalities or greetings.

“I’m in Wimbledon. I thought I’d make an early start. We’re covering more ground this way.”

“
We
aren’t doing anything, because
we
aren’t together. I am standing here in your house…”

“In? Oh, right.” I remembered she had the key. “How are the cats?”

“I am standing here and you’re in fucking Wimbledon.”

“It’s a nice little village. There’s more than the tennis.”

Her voice was cold. “This is not funny. You should not be out there on your own.”

“I see,” I said. “Because I’m not to be trusted.”

“It’s nothing to do with that,” she said. There was a note of exasperation in her voice.

“Then what is it to do with?”

She was silent for a moment and then she said, “Are you coming back?”

“Yes, right now.”

“All right. I’ll wait for you. But I want this understood. If you ever strike out on your own again, our arrangement is at an end.” I thought this was a spectacularly idle threat. But she sounded convincing enough.

She hung up before I could reply. I stared at the phone and it started ringing again almost immediately, but it was Tinkler. I decided to take the call, if only so I could moan to him about Nevada and her behaviour, which had left me more than a little angry. Tinkler would understand.

“Hello.”

A woman’s voice, tight with tension, said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

I realised it was Tinkler’s sister. “Maggie?” I said.

“I’m using Jordon’s phone.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I—”

“You’d better sit down,” she said.

The Charing Cross Hospital is, confusingly, not located anywhere near Charing Cross. It is in fact many miles west of there, in my neck of the woods, in Hammersmith. I have no idea why this is. And, just to add to the confusion, there is also a Hammersmith Hospital, which of course isn’t anywhere near Hammersmith but lies adjacent to Wormwood Scrubs, far to the north.

The ambulance took Tinkler to the Charing Cross Hospital. Thanks to Maggie’s status as a member of the medical fraternity we got the VIP treatment. They even vouchsafed us a glimpse of the patient lying in the Intensive Therapy Unit.

I wish they hadn’t.

His long hair had all been shorn and there was a large dressing on one side of his head.

Monitor wires were stuck all over him and rose from him in a frightening hedgehog effect. His face was so pale it was almost grey and his features were scrunched up, like some poor miserable sleeping creature.

We stood in a brightly painted corridor in the accident and emergency unit. The whole place was colour coded, with coloured footprints and lines painted on the floor to tell you where to go. Nevada said, “What happened exactly?” She’d arrived at the hospital just before Maggie and I were given the shocking tour of the ITU ward, and I have to say she seemed as shaken as I was.