Written in Dead Wax (2 page)

It now acted like a giant refrigerating unit, chilling the whole place. The floors were soon stingingly freezing and my little house as cold and damp as a cave. Sinister black mould took hold above the windows in the spare room.

My cats looked at me with matching appalled expressions, wanting to know what the hell I’d done.

After Dizzy had been run over, I’d ended up with two kittens, sisters, called Fanny and Turk. Now a year old, they had manifested very different personalities. But they looked at me with identical expressions of betrayal as the floor gradually transformed into a freezing slab of stone.

Turk took to spending all night outdoors, perhaps on the theory that it wasn’t any colder out than in. Meantime, Fanny took to climbing inside my duvet at night, a refugee from the cold. I mean right inside. She crept in through the slit in the duvet cover and curled up, a warm bundle at my feet as I slept.

Every morning as soon as I finished breakfast I went out for the day—there was no point staying in the freezing house. The cats followed me out through the door and took up their stations among the frost-struck stalks in my front garden.

I then spent the entire day outside, and so did they.

My one extravagance was a London Transport travel card, which allowed me—for an extortionate fee—unlimited use of buses and trains. I’d owned a car for a few years, but the novelty of sitting unmoving in traffic jams had rapidly worn off. So these days when it was too cold to stay at home, I took my trusty travel card and set out.

To hunt for records. This is what I did.

I went west then south, towards Twickenham. I spent the rest of the day working my way back home, seeking out every charity shop, junk shop or antique shop that might have a crate of old vinyl lurking somewhere.

I was wearing my crate-digging shoes, which were cut low and were therefore comfortable when I was crouching on the floor, as I so often was, going through a musty box of records. It’s largely a discouraging business—in the crates I’d find the usual mix of unconvincing rock and pop, leavened by the occasional brass band or church choir. Now and then you’d discover a dozen identical albums by some singer or group you’d never heard of, and realise they’d been donated by the artists themselves. You’d stumbled on the heartbreaking marker of a failed career.

Just as the low winter sun was sinking in the sky, in a little shop near the bridge in Richmond, I struck gold. An original Elvis RCA red label. It was in beautiful shape. My first impression was that someone had really looked after it. Or, better yet, never played it. I wondered what domestic upheaval—death, house move, existential crisis—had led to it being discarded here. When you thought about the series of coincidences that were required for this object to be right here and right now, in my hot little hands, it was dizzying.

The cover was immaculate. But what was the record going to be like? My hands trembled as I took a look. The LP crackled as it came out of the sleeve, the static electricity causing the hairs on my arms to stir. The black vinyl gleamed. Pristine, virginal and perfect. I could see my reflection in it, grinning foolishly.

I paid the pittance they wanted for it and headed out into the winter night with the carefully wrapped record tucked safely under my arm.

The best part was I could sell it without a qualm.

I recognise the virtues of Elvis. Like Sinatra, he has an enormously relaxed voice, which is consequently relaxing and pleasurable for the listener. Listening to these guys is like sitting in the most comfortable armchair in the world. But Elvis also had a glutinous and saccharine way with ballads, which, I felt, lumbered him with the same Achilles’ heel as Stevie Wonder. No more sappy slow numbers, guys.

Anyway, I already had the complete Leiber-Stoller recordings and that was enough Elvis for me.

I set off homewards, changing buses on the winter roads. Heading back to my icy house I felt like a trapper returning to his frozen cabin with a prime pelt.

Except, in this case, no animals had been harmed.

When I got home I would resume the usual winter routine, which consisted of making supper before retiring to my glacial bed, warmed only by a hot water bottle and, with any luck, an opportunistic cat. With the difference that, tonight, I’d first go online and flip the Elvis LP, scoring enough money for us to live on for a few more weeks.

* * *

When I got home I immediately knew something was wrong. Fanny was outside the front door, shivering, and she darted in after me. There was music coming from the living room. I hurried in there and froze in the doorway.

Sitting on my sofa was Stuart “Stinky” Stanmer, listening to my hi-fi. Turk cautiously emerged from hiding behind a speaker as I came in with her sister.

“I let myself in, sorry,” said Stinky. “I had to. The neighbours would have spotted me otherwise. You know, my fans.” I had known Stinky since university. Like me he had been an aspiring DJ, working his way up through college radio. But unlike me he had prospered, to such an extent that he had recently acquired his own radio show and even subjected the nation to an occasional appearance on television.

“Actually, Stinky,” I said, “my neighbours are quite blasé about the presence of stars around here. Because of the Abbey and all that.”

He looked out the window at the white shape of the Abbey against the dark winter sky. There were discreet floodlights that made it look moonlit, even on a night with no moon. “I suppose they would be,” he said wistfully. Painful as it was to accept, there were people more famous than he.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by if you were at home.”

“And even if I wasn’t,” I said. The record he’d been so presumptuously playing had reached the end of the side. The cartridge was now riding noisily in the run-out groove. I went and rescued it, taking the LP off the turntable. It was a Japanese
Godzilla
soundtrack. I returned it to its sleeve. While I did so, Stinky leaned back on the sofa. Fanny, walking across the room, gave him a wide berth.

“So what are you up to?”

“Oh, this and that,” I said, filing the album away on the shelf. I was sure he knew damned well anything I might be up to. I suspected that, under a variety of pseudonyms, Stinky was one of the most avid followers of my blog, Facebook page and Twitter stream. He poked at the piles of CDs on my coffee table.

“Playing a lot of CDs, I notice.”

“I have to listen to something while I’m changing records.”

“Or while you’re turning them over—eh?” Stinky chortled. Now that he’d created a variation on the joke, he allowed himself to laugh at it. I noticed that he’d been looking through the stack of records I’d left on the armchair. They were in a different sequence to the way I’d left them. The armchair is where I’m in the habit of keeping the records I’m currently listening to. My top picks.

No doubt he’d been making notes.

Since Stinky had a radio show he also had a constant voracious need for new material. And because he had a virtually infallible tin ear himself, he needed to get ideas from people like me.

After some desultory conversation and much bragging—both professional and sexual—from Stinky, I finally managed to get rid of him, shutting the door behind him with a small moan of relief. He had let himself in by using the key I kept under the plant pot. I decided I would have to hide the key somewhere else. But if I did that, would I remember where I put it? I stood there, holding it in my hand, then I sighed and returned the key to its traditional place.

I got on the computer and listed the Elvis LP on my website. It sold within the hour and for slightly more than I’d hoped. I decided I would go out and celebrate. It so happened it was half-price burger night at Albert’s, my local gastropub. So I went there and had a meal and a glass of wine. It was a very good burger—they filled the beef patty with butter and herbs—but rather spoiled by Albert insisting on switching on the radio behind the bar. No one else in the pub seemed to mind, but I felt someone had to speak out against noise pollution.

“Can’t we have a bit of hush?” I said.

“Just want to catch this one programme,” said Albert.

“I thought there was a no-music rule in here.”

“This is the exception that proves the rule.” He tuned in the radio and as he did so three cute Eastern European au pairs, all with matching blonde hair, hipster jeans and discreet tattoos, drifted towards the bar to listen. A treacly, insinuating voice came on and I realised with a sinking feeling of inevitability that it was Stinky.

Of course. The Stinky Stanmer show.

“That was a CD,” said Stinky. “After all, I have to listen to something while I’m changing records. And turning them over, eh? Now here on vinyl is a little something I found.” The music started and, thankfully, he stopped talking. I recognised the music.
Godzilla versus Anguirus
by Akira Ifukube. It sounded great. It was, of course, the LP I’d had on my turntable when he’d come around. He must have raced out and bought a copy as soon as he’d left my place. Or, more likely, had one of his minions do so.

I reflected philosophically that at least he’d had the good sense to choose the best track on the record. Then I realised it was the
first
track on the record.

He probably hadn’t got any further.

All three au pairs were swaying their hips to the music. It sounded like Sonny Blount commissioned to score a sixties spy movie. As the au pairs began to bop around, Albert gazed worshipfully at the radio like Nipper in an old HMV advertisement and shook his head in admiration.

“Where does he find this stuff?”

I got very drunk.

* * *

The next morning I woke to a hammering hangover and the ringing of the doorbell. I jumped out of bed, displacing a scandalised Fanny, and pulled on my ratty old dressing gown. I shuffled to the door and opened it, blinking in the daylight.

A young woman was standing there. She was wearing jeans, a camelhair coat and black polo neck sweater. Her jet-black hair was cut short in the manner of the silent movie star Louise Brooks. She looked at me. Her implausible, almost laughable, physical perfection suggested she was a model or actress. I knew at once why she was here.

“I’m not the gatekeeper,” I said.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Well, that sounds rather alarming.”

“This isn’t the gatehouse.”

“Just as well, since you aren’t the gatekeeper.”

“You want the Abbey. It’s the large white building behind my house. But this isn’t the gatehouse and I’m not the gatekeeper.”

“Well, maybe you should be. I’m sure it’s a nice job. There’s probably a uniform.” She gazed at me in my dressing gown. “And it might involve epaulettes. I like epaulettes. In fact, I just like the word.” She looked at me. “Epaulettes.” Her eyes were a disconcerting clear cornflower blue. I studied them for signs of blatant drug abuse, but could find none.

“To get to the Abbey,” I told her, “you need to go back onto the main road, drive about fifty metres and turn right.”

“Who said I was driving?”

“How else did you get here?”

“Perhaps a friend dropped me off.”

“Well, you can walk from here. It’s only two minutes. A minute and a half. The Abbey.”

“I don’t want the Abbey,” she said. “I want you.”

Despite the evidence of her clear blue eyes I decided she must be off her rocker on something. I said, “Me? Really? Why?” She took out a card and handed it to me. It was a cheap and rather gaudy business card and it was very familiar.

Because it was one of mine.

Underneath my name and address I’d printed the words
VINYL DETECTIVE
.

“Where did you get this?” I’d handed out a bunch of the cards, at record shops and gigs, pubs and clubs. But that had been years ago.

She looked at me and then at the card in my hand. “Is this you?”

“This is me.”

She took back my card and handed me one of her own. I felt like I was in a novel by Trollope. Her card read:

N. Warren
CONSULTANT | INTERNATIONAL INDUSTRIES GMBH

Unlike my card, it was printed on heavy cream paper stock and beautifully embossed. I gave it back to her. “The thing is, if you’re trying to sell me something…”

“I am not trying to sell you something,” she said, somewhat impatiently. She glanced over my shoulder. “Look, could we talk indoors?”

“Of course. But I have to tell you I really don’t have any money to invest in any… schemes.”

She turned in the narrow hallway to watch me as I closed the door behind us. “I told you, I am not selling you anything. I am not trying to get you to invest in anything. I don’t have any
schemes
.” She gazed at me.

I became suddenly very conscious of how scruffy I must look, wearing my ratty old black cotton bathrobe, my bony knees and hairy toes on display. Meanwhile there she was, poised, chic and flawless. Compared to her I was basically a Basil Wolverton cartoon.

She said, “I am here to offer you a job.” At least her mouth moved and words came out that sounded like that.

I clutched my dressing gown a little closer around me. “A job?”

“Yes. You are capable of doing what you claim here?”

“What do I claim?” I said. I’d printed up the cards in an airport once when I was between flights and very bored. Possibly also very drunk.

She sighed and handed me the card. It had my name and address and some nonsense about how I could find any record for anyone. For a fee. It was boastful trash—but perhaps not sufficiently boastful or trashy because it had failed to ensnare a single client.

Until now.

My heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe I
was
about to get a job. I told myself not to get too excited. Obviously this would turn out to be some kind of hilarious misunderstanding.

“You know what,” I said. “If you’re looking for a record, really the best thing to do is search on the Internet.”

“The Internet will be of no help in this situation.”