The Forensic Records Society

by Magnus Mills

  Nonetheless the two offerings were heard in respectful silence. James had indeed spoken the truth: the strength of the Forensic Records Society lay in the purity of its methods. We listened to records forensically, without comment or judgement. This was our doctrine, and it served as a great leveller.

  Gradually we worked our way around the table, with Chris, Rupert and Keith all taking their turns. Last in line was James, and when I glanced in his direction I recognised the record lying before him. It had a plain white label and was inscribed with the figures 4/25. The mysterious record! All of a sudden I realised why James hadn’t played it the other day when I visited him: he was obviously waiting to present it in the rarefied conditions of the Forensic Records Society. Ever since the early days he’d been opposed to the idea of ‘trial runs’, and I was pleased to note he was still practising what he preached. In a way this added to the excitement. Obviously we had a treat in store and James was saving it until the end of the session. Just as his turn came, however, we were rudely interrupted. The door opened and George looked in.

  ‘Come on, you lot!’ he growled. ‘It’s gone eleven o’clock.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ said James.

  ‘Yes, it can,’ George replied. ‘I’ve already rung the bell twice.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t hear it.’

  Despite our protestations we knew there was no use in arguing with George. James quickly handed each of us our records before packing away the red portable; then we all made for the door. George didn’t even allow anyone to stay behind and help Alice with the tidying up. He wanted us out of the back room and that was that. When we got into the main bar we peered at the clock in disbelief. Once again time had slipped past us unobserved.

  ‘I’ve given up even trying to understand it,’ said James.

  ‘Same here,’ I answered.

  I could tell there was something else bothering him too. As the others dispersed he drew me aside.

  ‘Can you drop by and see me tomorrow morning?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’d like you to help me with an experiment.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Ten o’clock?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  When I got home my first job was to put the evening’s choice of record back in its proper place (my collection was filed in strict alphabetical order). I happened to notice that the sleeve didn’t match the label, and only then did I realise I’d been given the wrong record: instead of ‘Heroes and Villains’ I was holding a copy of ‘Looking For Lewis and Clark’. This, I remembered, had been Keith’s offering. The reason for the mix-up, of course, was George’s sudden interruption of the meeting. I assumed James had been in such a hurry to pack everything away that he’d inadvertently switched the records. For a moment I was disquieted by the discovery because I had no idea where Keith lived, but then I decided he could probably be trusted to safeguard my precious record until the following week. In the meantime I retained his as collateral.

  At ten o’clock next morning I went to see James. He greeted me rather coolly, I thought, and led me directly to his music room. Standing in the middle of the floor was a hard, wooden chair. Above it hung a bare light bulb.

  ‘Sit down, will you?’ he said.

  Over on his turntable I could see a record with a pink label which I recognised immediately. I sat down on the chair and tried to make myself comfortable.

  ‘Right,’ said James. ‘What I’d like you to do is confess.’

  I gazed at him in astonishment.

  ‘Confess to what?’ I demanded.

  ‘I haven’t told you yet.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I know the idea sounds unorthodox to your ears,’ he continued, ‘but it’s imperative that we learn how the confessional mind functions.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Is this the experiment you mentioned?’

  ‘Correct,’ James answered. ‘Now, I’ve taken the liberty of choosing the subject of your confession beforehand. There’s a certain record I know you’re particularly fond of, so with your permission we’ll begin with that.’

  He stepped across to the turntable and switched it on. Seconds later I heard the opening bars from ‘Man of the World’. They were followed by a plaintive voice singing.

  I signalled to James and he stopped the record.

  ‘You don’t think it’s a bit too obvious for a confession?’ I asked. ‘He’s telling us about his life.’

  ‘No need to worry at this stage,’ said James. ‘Just let it play right through and then you can tell me your thoughts.’

  ‘OK.’

  He restarted the record and I listened carefully until the end. To tell the truth I didn’t even need to listen. I knew every note and every word by heart. All the same I never tired of hearing it. Finally the turntable came to a halt.

  ‘So?’ said James.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘The best description would be pathos, I suppose.’

  ‘You mean poignancy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  James regarded me in silence for several moments.

  ‘That’s not the reason you like it though, is it?’ he said at length.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘What else then?’

  ‘Marvellous ensemble performance.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said, ‘but again that’s not the reason.’

  ‘No.’

  I puffed out my cheeks and pondered long and hard. This business of ‘confessing’ was actually quite difficult.

  ‘What about the words?’ prompted James.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I said. ‘The words are excellent.’

  ‘Words have never been your chief interest though, have they?’ said James. ‘They’re much more Chris’s territory than yours.’

  ‘S’pose.’

  I began to sense that James was trying to ‘lead’ me in a particular direction with his line of questioning. If this was indeed the case, then I was being rather slow on the uptake. In desperate search of inspiration I glanced at the record lying motionless on the turntable, and all of a sudden I knew what I had to say!

  ‘The main reason I like it,’ I announced, ‘is because of the “pling” at the very end.’

  ‘Much better,’ said James.

  ‘It’s only a trick with the guitar,’ I continued, ‘but it provides the record with a perfect signature. Moreover, I like the fact that the “pling” is preserved in the groove for all eternity.’

  ‘Good.’

  I cast my eyes around the room and felt a powerful wave of energy surging through me.

  ‘All these records look the same,’ I declared, ‘but they’re all different. Different performers, different styles, different producers and different influences. There’s a unique sound preserved in each and every groove, and that’s why records are so important!’

  The instant I ceased talking I felt the energy fading away. James was now peering at me intently.

  ‘Good,’ he said again. ‘You’ve proved yourself thoroughly capable of making a confession.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I murmured.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And I always thought I was a closed book.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t want to do it too often,’ I said. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  James paused a moment before answering.

  ‘So you’ve nothing else to confess then?’ he asked.

  I noticed he was still peering at me with the same intent expression.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, feeling mildly affronted by the remark. ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You should get Keith to come here if you want to experiment,’ I added. ‘He’d be a much better candidate than me.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said James.

  He was still acting rather frostily, so I was relieved when he suggested we adjourn to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  ‘I suppose you’ve earned it,’ he said grudgingly.
r />   Once he’d boiled the kettle and located the biscuit tin he began to ease up, but even then only slightly. I watched as he paced restlessly around the kitchen, opening cupboards and closing them again. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere I tried to engage him in a bit of gossip.

  ‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Talking of Keith, I meant to tell you he accidentally took home my “Heroes and Villains” last night.’

  James stopped pacing around and turned to face me.

  ‘Keith did?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I ended up with “Looking For Lewis and Clark”.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d mentioned it earlier.’

  With that he strode out of the kitchen towards his music room, returning half a minute later with my copy of ‘Heroes and Villains’.

  ‘So presumably Keith’s got your record?’ I said.

  ‘Presumably, yes.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not mine: it’s Alice’s.’

  James appeared deeply troubled by the loss. Mislaying someone else’s record was a serious misdemeanour and he would doubtless have to explain himself to Alice. Worse, he’d clearly suspected me of being involved in the ‘switch’ and was probably now suffering a profound sense of guilt about it. For this reason, I decided not to pursue the matter.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be perfectly safe with Keith until next Monday,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said James.

  Lurking in the back of my mind, however, was a picture of the mysterious record. It had held a fascination for me ever since I’d first laid eyes on the plain white label inscribed with the figures 4/25. I’d caught a glimpse of it once or twice since then, and on each occasion it became increasingly enticing. We’d come very close to hearing it the previous evening before George barged in on us, and then it had chanced to fall into Keith’s hands. I wondered how long he’d resist the temptation to play it. After all, the next meeting was nearly a week away. It seemed a very long time to wait.

  Meanwhile I pretended to be totally unaware of the secrecy surrounding the record. I asked James nothing about it, and likewise he told me nothing. Instead we began preparing for the following Monday. Our principal objective was to practise the art of listening without comment or judgement. Therefore we put the recent upheavals behind us and looked forward to a fruitful session of the Forensic Records Society. Unfortunately we hadn’t bargained for our opponents’ next move.

  I walked into the Half Moon at ten to eight and saw Mike, Rupert, Chris and Dave sitting at the usual corner table. They were being besieged by a group of women all dressed in identical T-shirts bearing the words: I CONFESSED. Among them I recognised the tearful blonde woman from the other week. At that very moment she was homing in on Chris, urging him to join her and her companions in the Confessional Records Society. He wore a dazed expression and appeared nonplussed by the assault. Over at the bar I noticed Barry on his own, so I swiftly joined him. He’d just bought a round of drinks, but was in no particular hurry to return to the table.

  ‘I’m waiting till they’ve gone,’ he said. ‘They’ve been here twenty minutes already.’

  ‘Must be having a recruitment drive,’ I remarked.

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Barry. ‘What I can’t understand is why they’re so keen to enrol newcomers when they’ve already turned Keith and Mike away.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ I said. ‘They’re seeking people who are capable of making a proper confession. People who’ll bare themselves to their cohorts. Keith and Mike failed to match these requirements.’

  Barry peered at me closely.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘You seem to know a lot about the subject.’

  ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘I’ve just done a little research, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of joining them then?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  He continued peering at me for several seconds, and I thought I detected a hint of suspicion in his manner.

  ‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘there’s absolutely no question of my defecting to the CRS. Can you imagine me in one of those T-shirts? I don’t think so. Apart from looking ridiculous, they’re the trappings of a movement that’s inherently weak. It’s a complete sham. It has no proper foundations, so instead it reassures itself with a constant stream of new recruits. Hence all those women pestering Chris and the others. Yet even newcomers are weeded out if they don’t fit the bill. The CRS aren’t really interested in listening to records: they only want to tell other people about them. Keith and Mike were rejected out of hand, so what chance would I have? I’m a forensic man through and through.’

  ‘Well, I’ll concede that,’ said Barry. ‘You definitely like listening to records.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Whether you like music,’ he added, ‘is a different matter entirely.’

  ‘What!’ I said in dismay. ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘Nobody,’ he replied. ‘I reach my own conclusions.’

  I was about to demand what these conclusions were, exactly, when I noticed James emerge from the back room and gaze all around the pub. He appeared rather preoccupied and seemed oblivious to the women in the T-shirts. Actually he looked as if he was searching for someone in particular, and I then realised that the only person missing was Keith. A glance at the clock told me it was now almost eight. James withdrew into the back room with a very worried expression on his face, so I decided to go through and offer what assistance I could.

  The door was ajar as I approached, and before entering I happened to peek inside. The sight I beheld made me stop in my tracks. Alice was standing with her hands on her hips, glaring fiercely at James and speaking to him in a low, intense voice. For his part James stood meekly absorbing the flak. Alice was undoubtedly very cross, and while I was pleased to discover I wasn’t the only person being given a hard time lately, the scene was nevertheless quite disturbing. Evidently both Alice and James were unaware of my presence, so I stealthily returned the way I’d come and waited for a couple of minutes. Very soon the others joined me and then we all entered the back room en masse. In that short interval everything had changed. Alice was now behind the bar polishing glasses and James sat staring nonchalantly at the red portable. I only hoped the ceasefire could be maintained for the duration of the meeting.

  After formally noting Keith’s absence, James allowed us a few seconds to prepare our selections.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s Rupert’s turn to begin, I think.’

  Rupert had chosen ‘Train to Skaville’ as his first offering, but just as he handed it to James the door burst open and Keith walked into the room. He was clutching a record.

  ‘You must forgive this interruption,’ he proclaimed, ‘but I have a confession to make.’

  It was obvious he was in a highly distressed condition.

  ‘Come in and close the door,’ said James calmly. ‘You don’t want anyone outside to hear, do you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Keith. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’

  He turned and pulled the door to, then walked over and placed the record on the table. It had a plain white label inscribed with the figures 4/25.

  ‘Last week,’ he said, ‘in the flurry of departure I accidentally took this record home with me.’

  ‘Is that your confession?’ said James.

  ‘No,’ said Keith. ‘My confession is that I played it.’

  From somewhere behind the bar I heard a sigh of exasperation. Presumably James heard it too.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I must say I’m very surprised.’ His tone remained calm and measured. ‘After your experience the other week I’d have thought you’d know better than to play other people’s records without permission. You said yourself you felt violated, and that was merely after someone looked through you
r collection. This is much worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Keith in despair. ‘I tried to resist for several days, but eventually temptation got the better of me.’

  ‘A disappointing lapse.’

  ‘Marvellous record, though,’ Keith added. ‘It’s …’

  ‘Yes, that’s enough, thank you,’ said James firmly. ‘Don’t forget comments and judgements are forbidden.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  James paused to consider the case.

  ‘Well, you do appear rather contrite about this,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Keith. ‘I am.’

  ‘Even so, you’ll understand that some kind of penalty must be incurred.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a stunned silence all around the table.

  ‘So if everyone’s in full agreement I suggest a fortnight’s suspension from the society.’

  The stunned silence persisted. I had no idea what the others were thinking, but I was so surprised by the severity of the punishment that I found myself at a complete loss for words. Furthermore, it seemed to me that although James was handing down the sentence, it was Alice who stood behind him urging retribution. Without doubt, her brooding presence had affected the final outcome.

  ‘Agreed then,’ said James. ‘Alright, Keith, we’ll see you in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Keith. He turned and headed for the door, and next moment he was gone.

  ‘Isn’t there a danger of driving him into the arms of the CRS?’ I ventured.

  ‘That’s just a risk we’ll have to take,’ James replied. ‘It’ll be a good test of his commitment.’

  I was sure I’d heard James utter this remark before somewhere, and I had an uneasy feeling about it. Across the table I noticed Chris raising his eyebrows just as he’d done on many previous occasions, so perhaps he remembered it too. He voiced no opinion, however; and neither did Barry, who tended generally to be very outspoken on questions of form. Instead the meeting resumed as if the interruption had never taken place. The difference was that now there were only seven of us listening to each others’ records, rather than eight, which struck me as a sorry state of affairs. It was always the same when sanctions were applied for the sake of some principle. Keith may have paid a heavy price for his misconduct, but the true cost fell on the rest of us.