The Forensic Records Society

by Magnus Mills

  I spent the next day carefully selecting my three records for the inaugural session; then when evening came I headed for the Half Moon. James was waiting outside as arranged.

  ‘Ready and willing?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  When we got inside we saw that a minor incident was taking place. George was standing at the top of the cellar stairs, barring the way to Barry who was trying his best to get past.

  ‘I’ve told you twice,’ said George. ‘You can’t go down there.’

  ‘But I need to get the red portable,’ Barry protested. ‘The meeting starts in five minutes.’

  He evidently assumed the red portable belonged to the Forensic Records Society; and that he was therefore free to appropriate it for his own purposes. George, however, was immovable.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to get permission from the owner.’

  While this conversation was going on I’d noticed there were several newcomers in the pub. They were all watching the exchange with interest, and I guessed most of them were recruits for the New Forensic Records Society.

  Barry was standing with his back to us, but now in exasperation he turned away from George and found himself face-to-face with me and James.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, plainly startled. ‘You’ve come to join us, have you?’

  ‘Yes,’ James replied. ‘Something amiss?’

  ‘He wants to use your record player,’ announced George. ‘I’ve told him he’ll have to ask you.’

  At these words Barry stiffened visibly.

  ‘It’s yours, is it?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ James answered.

  ‘I see.’

  Barry was unable to hide his dismay at the revelation, and I realised that James had the opportunity to smother the new society at birth merely by denying access to the red portable. Instead, though, he pulled a veritable masterstroke.

  ‘Would you like to borrow it?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean you don’t mind?’ said Barry.

  ‘Not if it’s in a good cause, no.’

  ‘Well, we are a forensic society.’

  ‘That’s alright then.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Barry. ‘Very generous of you.’

  He continued to bow and scrape for a little longer, then headed down into the cellar to fetch the red portable. I glanced briefly at James but he showed no sign of having triumphed. Nonetheless the past few moments had seen a crisis forestalled. Barry’s supplication had been witnessed by numerous onlookers (including Dave and Rupert) and I knew for sure that James had regained the advantage.

  When we went through to the back room I discovered that the corner bar was not in use. There was no sign of Alice and I supposed she had other commitments for the evening. A second discovery was rather less obvious, but gradually I discerned that the so-called recruits were actually friends of Barry and Dave. They included some women, a fact which represented a positive step for the forensic movement in general. Even so, it swiftly became clear that the meeting had been ‘packed’ in order to give it the veneer of success. First of all I noticed the nods of recognition the newcomers gave one another as they took their seats around the table; and it later struck me that none of them were being particularly attentive when the records were playing (I even saw somebody stifling a yawn). Fortunately I could tell that James was equally aware of the deception; and no doubt he would adjust his tactics accordingly.

  Despite the slight delay the session proceeded more or less on schedule. Barry presided over the red portable and we heard a number of engaging contributions, such as ‘Heart Don’t Leap’ and ‘The Beginning of the Twist’. At the conclusion of each record Dave enquired whether there were any comments or judgements. Initially there were none, but as the evening unfolded the situation started slowly to change. My opening choice was ‘Shipbuilding’, and when it finished there was the usual prolonged silence. After a polite pause Dave spoke.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Are there any comments or judgements?’

  ‘Well, it’s alright to listen to,’ remarked the woman sitting opposite me, ‘but you can’t really dance to it, can you?’

  Nothing else was said, and so we moved on.

  Barry had brought ‘Driving Away From Home’, and Rupert followed with ‘Everything I Own’. Neither of these produced any comments or judgements, and then it was James’s turn. To my astonishment he handed Barry a record with a plain white label, completely blank except for some figures handwritten in ink. The idea had never occurred to me that James would present Alice’s demo in a rival session, yet here it was lying before us. Presumably the gambit was all part of his grand scheme. I felt a stir of expectation pass around the table as Barry placed the record on the deck and switched on. This was only the second time I’d heard it, and again the sound that emerged from the red portable was at once serene, solemn and mesmerising: the guitar blending perfectly with the voice; the words insightful; the melody sweet yet subdued.

  While it was playing I thought I detected a draught in the room, from somewhere behind me. It was barely perceptible, and I guessed that a latecomer had stealthily opened the door and come inside. Nobody else appeared to notice. Everyone was gazing transfixed at the turntable when the record reached its end and stopped. There was a long silence, which was finally broken by Dave.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Are there any comments or judgements?’

  ‘Well, it’s alright,’ remarked the woman sitting opposite me, ‘but you can’t really dance to it, can you?’

  ‘What!?’ cried an irate voice behind me.

  Everybody looked up in alarm as Alice marched across the room, seized the record from the deck and smashed it over James’s head.

  ‘There!’ she snapped. ‘You can’t dance to it now, can you?’

  Next instant she turned and went stalking out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Another stir passed around the table.

  ‘Any more comments or judgements?’ asked Dave.

  He’d evidently decided that the best course of action was to continue the meeting as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ said James.

  The record had broken into two halves, and as I watched him gather up the pieces it struck me that he might have overplayed his hand. This was a shame really because when the evening began the odds had been stacked in his favour. His reputation for integrity, alongside his ownership of the red portable, had bestowed on him a degree of authority in the eyes of all present. Now, however, he’d suffered public humiliation; and he was hardly in a position to question Dave and Barry about their founding precepts. The intention of our visit was to demonstrate the errors of their ways, but it seemed the plan would now have to be discarded.

  Nevertheless, as the session resumed I started to sense that a lesson had been learned. The next record we heard was ‘Ain’t That Enough’, and when it finished Dave declined to ask if there were any comments or judgements. It was the same for the next record, and the one after that. In fact, by the end of the meeting it was patently clear that the practice had been abandoned. Barry merely played the records and returned them to their sleeves. I glanced at him once or twice and thought he looked rather despondent. Perhaps he’d realised there was nothing new about the New Forensic Records Society; and that his bid for independence had been entirely fruitless.

  Certainly he showed scant gratitude when he restored the red portable to its rightful owner. Without ceremony he handed it to James and muttered a curt ‘thank you’ before heading out to the main bar with his companions. For a few moments James and I were alone, but I decided not to mention Alice’s abrupt departure. Instead I broached the subject of the Perceptive Records Society. They were due to meet the following evening.

  ‘Do you want me to continue my diplomatic mission?’ I enquired. ‘I know you’re quite sceptical about it.’

  �
��Well, I was at the outset,’ James replied, ‘but lately I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe a little compromise is called for.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’ll do no harm to keep all channels open.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Will you be joining me then?’

  ‘No,’ said James. ‘You’re doing perfectly alright on your own.’

  With this endorsement ringing in my ears I emerged from the back room and discovered it was five past eleven. All but a few people had departed. Normally at this hour George would be busy closing the bar and brusquely ordering dawdlers to leave the premises. Tonight, though, he was in an altogether different mood. He could almost be described as mellow. He stood behind his counter slowly polishing a glass, and when I passed by I noticed his eyes were glistening.

  ‘Goodnight, George,’ I said.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he answered, but plainly his mind was far away.

  When I got home I went straight to my turntable and played ‘Mentally Murdered’ three times in succession; then I lay on my bed and dozed fitfully. To tell the truth I was exhausted. In less than twenty-four hours I was destined to attend a meeting of the Perceptive Records Society. It would be my third consecutive foray in a week and I was beginning to feel as if I was on some sort of treadmill, yet it was unthinkable to cry off at this crucial stage. I knew I had no choice except to ride the wave and see where it took me.

  Thankfully the perceptives weren’t considered to be a ‘hostile’ party. On the contrary, I found them very welcoming when I arrived at the Half Moon the next evening. There was even a space reserved for me at the round table: a near-perfect position equidistant between the quadrophonic speakers. All the same, I sensed I was under close scrutiny once the session began. Chris, Barry and Mike were well aware of my forensic leanings and by now they must have been wondering why I kept coming back week after week. For my part I had no wish to arouse their suspicions unnecessarily, but I was equally determined not to share my perceptions with anybody. In consequence my first selection was ‘MMM MMM MMM MMM’, a record which I regarded as wholly impenetrable.

  Keith responded rather predictably with ‘21st Century Schizoid Man’; Mike followed with ‘Spock’s Missing’; and Chris completed the opening set with ‘Somewhere Across Forever’.

  So far, so perceptive.

  Undoubtedly these were all excellent choices, yet I couldn’t help thinking my hosts were keeping their big guns in reserve. My intuition told me to prepare for a surprise: some masterful recording that would force me to bow to their supremacy. Meanwhile I continued to act as though it was business as usual.

  My next presentation was ‘Time Has Come Today’, to which they all listened attentively, and then Keith revealed his second offering. It was a record with a plain white label, entirely blank except for the figures 9/25 handwritten in ink.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked with amazement.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ said Keith, ‘but, believe me, I had to jump through a lot of hoops.’

  He placed it on the deck and lowered the arm. The sound that emerged from the speakers was at once serene, solemn and mesmerising: the guitar blending perfectly with the voice; the words insightful; the melody sweet yet subdued.

  I glanced around the table and noticed Mike was holding a stopwatch.

  ‘Blimey,’ he said, when the record ended. ‘Three minutes precisely.’

  ‘Perfect,’ remarked Chris.

  In the same instant the door opened and George burst into the room. His eyes were gleaming fiercely.

  ‘Whose record is that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mine,’ Keith replied, removing it from the deck and returning it to its sleeve.

  ‘How much do you want for it?’

  By now George had crossed the floor and was standing over us.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Keith. ‘It’s not for sale.’

  Chris, Mike and I gazed at one another in silence. We all understood why Keith was unwilling to part with his trophy. George, however, refused to take no for an answer. He reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a large bundle of banknotes.

  ‘How about twenty?’ he said, peeling off the amount and holding it in his other hand.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Keith. ‘It’s extremely rare and I obtained it only with great difficulty.’

  ‘Forty,’ said George. He peeled off a second note.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sixty.’

  I’d never seen George behaving like this before. On all questions of money he was normally best described as highly acquisitive, but tonight he’d gone completely out of character. I could only assume his desire to possess the record had got the better of him.

  In the meantime Keith was struggling to resist the pressure.

  ‘Why don’t I make a few enquiries,’ he suggested, ‘and see if I can get you a copy?’

  ‘I thought you said it was rare,’ George retorted.

  ‘Well, yes … it is.’

  ‘Hardly worth the effort then.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Look,’ said George flatly, ‘you might as well sell it to me while you’ve got the chance. Name your price and let’s be done with all this shilly-shallying.’

  Sad to say, Keith failed the ultimate test.

  Chris, Mike and I watched with consternation as eventually he buckled under George’s ceaseless onslaught, accepted a sum which I will not disclose, and handed over the record.

  ‘Good lad,’ said George. ‘I’ll leave you a pint in the pump for luck.’

  Keith waited until his tormentor had departed, then turned to the rest of us and apologised for his weakness.

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Chris. ‘Forget it.’

  I remember little about the remainder of the session. No doubt we played several more records and greeted them with keen ears, but in truth the memory is dim. All I know for certain is that the four of us agreed to steer well clear of the Public Meeting Hall on Thursday evening. The episode with George had exposed the vulnerability of the Perceptive Records Society, and the last thing any of us needed was a brush with the confessionals.

  As it transpired, though, they had serious problems of their own. During the next day or two I heard reports that the Thursday meeting had dissolved into a debacle, with several people fainting amid displays of mass hysteria. I considered myself fortunate to have avoided these excesses.

  A secondary development came in the form of an invitation. It arrived by post on Friday morning and read as follows:

  YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND

  ‘A GRAND UNVEILING’

  AT

  THE HALF MOON

  MONDAY 7PM

  The envelope was addressed to me care of the Forensic Records Group. I later discovered that James, Chris, Mike, Dave, Barry, Rupert and Keith had all received identical invitations. It seemed George was oblivious to the divisions that lay between the various societies, and saw us merely as members of a composite ‘group’.

  There was no hint as to what exactly was being grandly unveiled. Accordingly, we were a curious bunch when we arrived at seven on Monday evening. The only clue was a small glass cabinet which had been mounted high on the wall behind the bar, and which was temporarily hidden by a velvet curtain. The rest of the pub was looking very spick-and-span, and George himself was dressed in his best suit. I was pleased to note that James, Barry and Chris were engaged in an earnest discussion on some matter of mutual interest, their previous enmities apparently forgotten. There were a few other guests as well. Mingling amongst them was the woman from the other night, the one who only liked records you could dance to. Her name was Sandra, and she told me she was rather excited about the grand unveiling.

  ‘You’ll be seeing lots more of me in future,’ she added. ‘I’m the replacement barmaid.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You can call me Sandy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Our conversation was interrupted by
a call to order from George. Once we’d all fallen silent he announced that he’d recently made a purchase. He had saved for the nation a rare record which was in danger of vanishing into oblivion. Now, thanks to his intervention, it was preserved for evermore, safely locked in a glass cabinet. With tears in his eyes he pulled a cord and swished aside the velvet curtains, and we all applauded a record with a plain white label, entirely blank except for some figures handwritten in ink.

  ‘Aren’t you going to play it?’ somebody enquired.

  ‘Oh no,’ George replied. ‘It’s far too precious for that.’

  Seemingly the exhibit was to be viewed henceforth as a historical document. Nobody opposed George’s decision, so there it remained.

  After the brief ceremony had concluded the beer began to flow in liberal amounts. One or two newcomers assumed that the drinks were on the house but they soon learned they were wrong: we had to pay for them ourselves. Nonetheless, the evening continued in a relaxed and convivial atmosphere. Just before eight o’clock there was a slight lull in proceedings, and James seized the opportunity to issue an invitation of his own.

  ‘Would anyone like to come through to the back room,’ he said, ‘and listen to some records?’

  The response was unanimous. We quickly took our places at the round table while James went down to the cellar and fetched the red portable. In the meantime Sandy volunteered to operate the corner bar, an offer which George gleefully accepted. Naturally all the forensic regulars had brought their records along, and James had taken the further precaution of providing a few extras for potential new recruits. This turned out to be a wise measure. We were about to begin the session when two forlorn figures appeared in the doorway.