by Magnus Mills
He continued in this manner for several minutes, during which he was accompanied by assorted cheers, screams and whoops from his audience. Ultimately, though, he got down to business.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Now have we brought all our yesterdays? … I’m sorry … my apologies … have we all brought our yesterdays?’
Another cheer signalled that the answer was yes.
‘Good,’ said Phillip. ‘Very good.’ His voice softened as he held the microphone closer to his lips. ‘Now I want you to come down to the front, one by one, and confess to me in person.’
There was a prolonged shuffling of feet, then all at once an eerie silence descended over the Meeting Hall. Even the surrounding streets seemed to go quiet in anticipation of what was to follow. Once or twice during the next half-hour I thought I heard the desultory rise and fall of a string quartet, somewhere deep in the heart of the building, but it was too faint to be certain. Mike and I stood together gazing through the railings, listening to nothing in particular, both of us awestruck by the immensity of the occasion.
After a while the door opened and the two Andrews emerged, carefully closing it behind them. From this distance they appeared to have a surreptitious air about them, so I watched them closely as they paused at the top of the steps and glanced all around.
‘I think they’re looking for us,’ said Mike.
‘And they’ve spotted us too,’ I replied. ‘Here they come.’
Even as I spoke the pair of them nodded to one another, then moved swiftly down the steps.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to get involved with that lot.’
We turned on our heels and began walking in the opposite direction.
‘Hey!’ called a voice behind us. ‘Wait!’
We sped up, and so did they.
‘I wish I hadn’t bothered coming,’ Mike panted. By now we were almost having to run, and our pursuers were still drawing nearer.
‘We only want to talk!’ cried one of them, but we ignored the plea and kept going. Eventually they gave up.
‘That was close,’ I said, when we were several streets away. ‘I’m going to steer clear of that place in future.’
‘Me too,’ said Mike.
By complete chance we’d ended up outside the Half Moon, so we decided to drop in for a pint. The pub turned out to be fairly busy, and I for one found it quite a relief to be back amongst normal Thursday-evening customers. Mike, though, was having difficulty shrugging off recent memories.
‘I can’t understand it,’ he said, as we settled down at our usual corner table. ‘Why would somebody bake a cake and then leave it out in the rain?’
‘Probably a metaphor,’ I ventured. ‘You know, like Mrs Robinson and her cup cakes.’
Mike peered at me uncomprehendingly.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost me entirely now.’
Privately it occurred to me that Mike ought to take his enquiries to the Perceptive Records Society. Let them try and explain the meaning of everything. I realised, however, that it would be churlish to voice my inner thoughts. Instead I changed the subject to more pressing matters.
‘How long,’ I said, ‘before Phillip hires a football stadium to hold his meetings?’
‘Good question,’ Mike replied.
‘The way he takes advantage of his people is most alarming.’
‘Yes, but it’s their choice, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well,’ said Mike, ‘they go to the meetings of their own accord so they must know what they’re letting themselves in for.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘If they want to be fleeced for a fiver every week it’s up to them,’ he added. ‘It makes no difference to us.’
‘“Us” being who?’ I asked.
‘The forensics, of course,’ he said, with disbelief. ‘Who do you think I mean?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So you’re not abandoning the cause then?’
‘Of course not!’
‘But you spent last night with the perceptives.’
‘All part of the same movement as far as I’m concerned,’ said Mike. ‘They’re just an offshoot.’
It was gratifying to hear him talk like this, and I began to get a clearer picture of his allegiances. Nevertheless he proceeded to make it plain that he was dissatisfied with the current arrangements and would probably give the Monday session a miss for a week or two.
‘James is too strict,’ he said bluntly. ‘At least Chris and Keith give me a bit of freedom.’
‘What about the CRS?’ I asked. ‘I presume you don’t count them as part of the same movement.’
‘No,’ said Mike. ‘They’re not serious about music.’
‘They play good records now and again.’
‘Maybe they do,’ he said, ‘but only by accident.’
It was my turn to buy a round of drinks, so I went over to the bar and quickly got served by George. He was in a relatively good mood.
‘Some friends of yours were here last night,’ he said, indicating the wall opposite. I followed his gaze and saw that another notice had recently appeared:
NEW FORENSIC RECORDS SOCIETY
MEETS HERE
TUESDAYS 9PM
BRING THREE RECORDS OF YOUR CHOICE
I read the words with astonishment, then read them again just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, but there was no doubt about it. The implications were shattering. The upstart society was patently much more than a mere ‘offshoot’ (to use Mike’s expression). On the contrary, all the evidence signalled that we were in the midst of a coup. The culprits had pounced on the vacant Tuesday-night slot with the obvious aim of stepping directly into our shoes. Furthermore, they had lots of time on their side. It was only Thursday, which gave them the best part of a week to organise a recruitment drive. For a brief instant I felt impelled to rush round and tell James the disastrous news, and perhaps even urge him to take countermeasures. In the back of my mind, however, I knew such efforts would be futile. After all, it was James’s intractability that lay at the root of all the disaffection we’d experienced. He was hardly going to change his ways at this late stage, so I was left with a stark choice between deserting him or remaining loyal. It goes without saying I chose the latter course.
George was naturally elated at the prospect of some extra business. He was whistling a merry tune as he filled our glasses and placed them on the counter.
‘So who put the notice up?’ I enquired.
‘I just told you,’ George replied. ‘Some friends of yours.’
‘Yes, but who exactly?’
‘Can’t say any more,’ he announced. ‘It’s a commercial agreement.’
Despite his obfuscation George actually told me quite a lot. I’d already guessed who the suspects were, and I now knew they were paying for the privilege of hiring the back room. This in turn meant they were deadly serious in their intentions. All of a sudden I recalled the evening when Dave, Barry and Rupert had spoken to one another in urgent whispers. In retrospect I saw clearly how these murmurings had spawned a conspiracy, and I couldn’t avoid a sense of despair at their foolhardiness. Here we were facing the threat of annihilation by the CRS, and they’d chosen this very moment to undermine our leadership! I assumed their objective was to recast the Forensic Records Society in a mould of their own devising (hence the prefix ‘New’). Yet the original guidelines laid down by James had proved indispensable time and again. True enough, he tended to be rather severe in their enforcement, but I doubted if the challengers would ever find a better system. Indeed, once they’d seized the helm they were likely to be just as restrictive as him.
I was still pondering this state of affairs when I became aware of excited voices coming from the street outside. It sounded as if a great multitude was approaching the Half Moon, and seconds later the double doors swung open. I watched in dismay as the pub was gradually swamped with men and women clad in T-shirts bearing the words
: I CONFESSED. Seemingly the Confessional Records Society had decided to adopt the place for their socialising. It was a free country, of course, and this was their prerogative. All the same, I had no wish to be overrun by a crowd of babbling zealots. It was a shame really. In appearance and conduct they were barely different to forensic people (as a matter of fact, from my observations they were unfailingly friendly, generous and considerate to others). For reasons of their own, however, they regarded records in a completely different light to us. They viewed them as little more than props and accessories, and saw no intrinsic value in the records themselves. Accordingly there existed a gulf between the two persuasions which could never be bridged.
I was highly tempted to make a swift exit, especially when it occurred to me that Phillip and the two Andrews might turn up at any minute. The reality, though, was that I’d just purchased two pints of beer. Nobody was leaving until they’d been drunk. I made my way through the throng and rejoined Mike, who was eyeing the newcomers warily.
‘Hard to imagine now,’ he said, ‘but it’s only a couple of weeks since I attended a confession myself.’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Luckily they rejected me.’
‘Yes.’
There was a slight possibility that we might be recognised, but actually the confessionals were so wrapped up in their own world they remained blissfully unaware of us. As a consequence we were able to eavesdrop without being detected. We listened in fascination while they relived their precious few seconds alone with Phillip (apparently they had to queue for this); and we quickly learnt that he’d already taken advance payment for future engagements. We also discovered the name of the record he’d chosen for the next mass confession: ‘My Heart Will Go On’.
‘We could do with one or two icebergs around here,’ Mike remarked. ‘It’s getting a bit hot and sticky.’
‘Do you want to get going then?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’
We finished our pints and headed for the door. Outside, darkness had fallen. Mike and I said goodnight and we went our separate ways, and only after he’d gone did I realise I’d neglected to tell him about the New Forensic Records Society. Too late now. Perhaps he’d find out for himself in the coming days; or maybe he already knew but had avoided the subject to spare my feelings. Either way, it scarcely made any difference. The unvarnished truth was that there were now three separate record societies each with the same basic purpose.
When I got home I went straight to my turntable and played ‘Substitute’ three times in succession. After that there was nothing I could do except wait patiently for Monday to come around.
Fortunately I had plenty to occupy me. Following my last visit to James’s house I’d decided to embark on a side-project of my own. My plan was to play all my records that faded in and out. In the event it took me longer to find them than to play them. After hours of research I came up with ‘Ambassador of Love’, ‘I Wanna Be Adored’, ‘Boys Better’, ‘I See the Light’, ‘Geno’ and ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’.
The latter title was turning out to be something of a perennial, and while it was playing I considered the short history of the Forensic Records Society. Back in the winter we’d started out with such high ideals that the difficulties we now faced would have been almost inconceivable. Yet within a few months we’d witnessed bickering, desertion, subterfuge and rivalry. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that only a miracle could save us now.
At eight o’clock on Monday evening I arrived at the Half Moon and found that Alice had exchanged duties with George. I had no idea if this was temporary or permanent, but for the time being she was running the main bar while he oversaw operations in the back room. Vaguely I recalled a similar swap taking place on a previous occasion, and as I went through to join James I wondered what the reason could be.
Unsurprisingly there were no other members present, but in spite of this James seemed wholly unconcerned. He sat presiding over the red portable as though it was a normal Monday session. George, however, was hovering restlessly behind the corner bar, plainly apprehensive about his dwindling sales. As a gesture of goodwill, therefore, I immediately went and bought a pint apiece for me and James.
‘Rather quiet,’ I said, when I took my place opposite him.
‘Can’t be helped,’ James replied.
‘Shall we wait another five minutes, just in case?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We can’t change our policy because of other people’s failures.’ He went over to the door and closed it firmly. ‘Latecomers will not be admitted,’ he announced. ‘Now, would you like to begin?’
In view of such a sparse turnout I’d been expecting the meeting to be awkward and embarrassing, but actually James’s insistence on maintaining the formalities made it much easier. All we had to do was take turns and submit our records. The fact that we weren’t allowed comments, judgements or quotations made the procedure beautifully simple.
My opening selection was ‘I’m Your Puppet’, and James responded with ‘Games People Play’. I then chose ‘If I Were a Carpenter’, James followed with ‘Reason to Believe’, and while we were listening the thought struck me that all these recordings were roughly of the same ilk. Generally our Monday gatherings were characterised by a huge variety of styles and performances, yet tonight we appeared to have stumbled into one particular field. Moreover my next choice was ‘Morning Dew’, a song which again fell into the same broad category. I spent several moments debating whether this could have any significance, but ultimately I decided it was probably nothing more than chance.
In the meantime James went to the corner bar and bought another couple of pints. As I awaited his return my eyes gradually strayed across the table to where his final record was lying. With a sudden jolt I noticed its plain white label, completely blank except for some figures handwritten in ink, and I realised that once again I was looking at Alice’s demo.
I swiftly averted my gaze when James rejoined me carrying two full glasses. He placed them between us and sat down; then he slipped the record from its sleeve and put it on the deck. At this point I sensed that James wished to say something, but being constrained by his own rules he was obliged to remain silent. Instead, we passed a minute or so watching the froth on our beers settle. In the background I was aware that George had run out of jobs to do and was now peering at us curiously from behind his counter.
‘Anything wrong?’ he enquired at length.
‘No, no,’ James replied; and at last he reached over and switched the record on. The sound that emerged from the red portable was at once serene, solemn and mesmerising: a guitar blending perfectly with a voice; the words insightful; the melody sweet yet subdued.
After it ended we said nothing. This was not because of our doctrine but because really there was nothing left to say. We’d listened to it forensically and that was all we could do.
James offered no explanation as to why Alice had relented about her record being played to other people (especially me). He merely lifted it from the turntable and returned it to its sleeve.
George, of course, was subject to none of our conventions, yet he too was seemingly lost for words. Throughout the rendition he stood statuesque at his post as if a spell had been cast upon him. Even when it finished he didn’t move for a good while; and I saw that his eyes were glistening, perhaps with some distant memory of times long gone.
The session was now officially over, so James unplugged the red portable and began packing it away. I collected my three records together, nodded at George, and then carried my pint through to the main bar. The clock told me it was half past ten, although I couldn’t imagine where the time had gone. Alice was busy serving some customers, but I saw her glance in my direction as I headed for our usual corner table. As soon as she was free she vanished into the back room, and shortly afterwards George came out and resumed his former duties. He looked thoroughly bewildered by the ceaseless
swaps and changes.
I didn’t see Alice again that evening, but eventually James appeared bearing in his arms the red portable. I went and held open the cellar door, and he descended the steps. A few minutes later he joined me at the table.
He was still in a sombre mood, and for a long period we both sat there quietly reflecting on our situation. The outlook was mixed to say the least. On the positive side, we’d finally had a public airing of Alice’s demo. Set against this, though, was the pronounced absence of all the other members of the Forensic Records Society. Something plainly needed to be done, but I was mildly surprised when I heard James’s solution.
‘Well,’ he said, abruptly ending the silence, ‘if they won’t come to us, we’ll just have to go to them.’
‘What?’ I demanded. ‘You mean the New Forensics?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought you of all people would never surrender.’
‘It’s not a matter of surrendering,’ said James, ‘but I’m afraid we have no choice but to grasp the nettle.’
His proposition was to attend the opening meeting of the New Forensic Records Society, and to ask some awkward questions.
‘We’ll get them to outline their founding precepts,’ he explained. ‘Most likely they won’t have given them any proper consideration, and with any luck we’ll make them see the errors of their ways.’
For my part I considered the plan to be highly risky, but James insisted we could carry it off. Accordingly we agreed to visit the Half Moon the following evening, and to ensure we arrived together we arranged to rendezvous outside.
When I got home I went straight to my turntable and played ‘Eve of Destruction’ three times in succession; then I lay on my bed and reviewed our prospects.
The problem with James’s strategy was that it assumed the New Forensic Records Society comprised a bunch of novices, whereas actually they were seasoned veterans of the forensic process. Dave, Barry and Rupert were perfectly capable of contriving their own set of precepts, and for all we knew they may have come up with a superior formula. After all, they’d seen for themselves the limitations of allowing no comments, judgements or quotations. Perhaps they’d even gone so far as to abolish these regulations altogether. Barry seemed especially well versed in constitutional issues and I could easily envisage him putting pen to paper when it came to drawing up the rules. Furthermore, I’d long suspected him of harbouring ambitions of his own. He clearly envied James and it was quite possible that the new society had been established simply to give him the power he craved.