Written in Dead Wax

by Andrew Cartmel

  “We want to get the hell out of here,” I said.

  She began to slow her pace. “Maybe he wasn’t dead.”

  “He was dead.”

  But she had stopped, so I had to stop too.

  We were standing outside the little local supermarket with the occasional shoppers hustling past us and snow starting to come down from a clear sky. Ree was getting a stubborn look on her face and I realised with a sinking feeling that I might be in for a battle here I couldn’t win. “Maybe he’s just sick,” she said. “He might be in bad shape and need our help.” I took a deep breath before I replied, and just then we heard the sirens.

  They were coming from the direction of the river. Approaching from Hammersmith. They came around the bend in the road by the Bull’s Head, shot across the mini roundabout and turned right into Elms Avenue. There was an ambulance and two police cars. A group of children ran past us and followed them.

  I looked at Ree. We followed the kids. By the time we turned left into Elms Avenue there were a dozen neighbours and passers-by stopping to take a look, in addition to the kids. A big enough crowd for us to get lost in. We stood there and watched as the police and medics got out of their vehicles and hurried towards Jimmy Genower’s house. Ree looked at me.

  “Okay,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do. Let’s get out of here.”

  The snow began falling heavily as we walked back past Barnes Pond, white flakes disappearing into the cold black water. She looked at me. “They got here fast. The cops.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Almost like someone wanted us to get caught there with him.”

  22. A RED WIG

  I phoned Tinkler as we walked home and he was waiting for us when we reached my estate. “What’s the matter?” he said as he fell in step beside us. Ree and I looked at each other. “Well?” said Tinkler.

  I cleared my throat. “You remember that bloke we met the other night at the Bull’s Head?”

  “What bloke? Oh the moronic prick of a bass player with his fucking silly stories? The arrogant, brainless, boorish tattooed wonder?” Something in our faces must have cued him, because he went quiet.

  “He’s had an accident,” I said.

  Tinkler peered at us. “Just before he could sell you the record?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Christ.”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence.

  The sun was low in the winter sky and threw the angular shadow of the crane across us as we entered the square and crossed it, heading towards my house. The crane was recently arrived, a hefty red and white piece of equipment on the back of a truck with the name REDGEAR CRANE HIRE on it. It was parked in the alley leading off the square where it was being used in the dismantling of the boiler.

  We paused for a moment to look at the work in progress. The boiler room was in a sunken area, a basin adjacent to our square, about twenty feet below us where there had once been a car park. We couldn’t get too close to the edge because the first thing the contractors had removed was, of course, the handrail which had previously served as a safety barrier.

  The boiler had been dismantled and was lying around in the form of giant steel components severed from the whole. I remembered how I used to think of that vast boiler as a sleeping dragon.

  The dragon’s bones, I thought.

  The cats heard us coming and streaked through the door as we opened it, back from their adventures in the snow. I took off my shoes, hung up my coat, and excused myself, going into the bathroom where I vomited violently and noisily. I was thinking of Jimmy Genower’s dead eyes. I flushed the toilet, brushed my teeth and came out to find Ree and Tinkler looking at me with concern.

  I avoided their gaze and went into the kitchen to feed the cats. I poured out some biscuits into their bowls, only for these to be ignored after a quick tentative sniff, as was the custom of late. “They’ve lost their appetite,” I said to Tinkler, who had wandered in to join me.

  “What?” The concept of not having an appetite was utterly alien to Tinkler.

  “They just don’t seem to be eating,” I said.

  “They must be eating something.”

  “Not nearly enough. In the winter they need a lot of calories.”

  “They’re not the only ones,” said Tinkler, opening the fridge and peering into it. “Have you got any grapes?”

  Before I could reply, the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. Standing there was Tanya, my postwoman. She looked agitated. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “But I’ve just been robbed.”

  “Christ,” I said.

  “Shit,” said Ree, peering over my shoulder. “What happened?”

  “I was just doing my walk, just headed for your place in fact, and I’d taken out the post ready and this bloke came running past.”

  “Big?” I said. “Athletic build?”

  She gave me an odd look. “Yes. At first I thought he was just a jogger. I had my headphones on so I didn’t really notice him. But then he ran right past me and snatched something from me. Right out of my hand, he did. Cheeky bugger.” She was obviously angry, and a little shook up.

  “What did he get?”

  “What?”

  “You said he stole something. What was it?”

  “A calendar, I think.”

  “A calendar?”

  “Yes. It was addressed to one of those ladies who lives next door to you. Why would anyone want to steal a calendar?”

  I said, “Did you see what colour his hair was? The runner?”

  “No. He was wearing a woolly hat.”

  At that stage I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been wearing a long flowing auburn wig. Tanya was looking a bit pale now, with the aftershock of the encounter. “Are you all right?” I said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want a coffee?” I said. “A cup of tea?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She gave me a crooked smile. “For a moment I thought it was one of your LPs, but thank god, I reckon it was just a calendar. Probably had meerkats on it.” She handed me my post and left. I closed the door and looked at Ree.

  “You know, it does look like an LP,” she said. “A calendar.” She shook her head. “Is there an LP coming to you in the mail?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “And I think we’re going to have a little change of plan about that.” I hurried to my laptop and sent an email to Alan at Jazz House, asking him not to ship the record of HL-003, the Richie Kamuca, just yet, but to hold it for us. I then asked him if he would do me a favour and outlined what I wanted. Then I settled back on the sofa. Through the window I could see Ree in the back garden, having a cigarette. It was dark now and the streetlights had come on. I watched the smoke from her cigarette glow strangely in their yellowish sodium light.

  And I sat thinking.

  Tinkler wandered in from the kitchen and said, “About those grapes?”

  “Bottom shelf at the back,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave me a sceptical look and went back into the kitchen. I returned to my thoughts. Ree came back inside with a gust of cold air, closing the door behind her and taking off her shoes. Tinkler came back in munching away at a bowl of grapes.

  I said, “Does anybody need to use the bathroom?” They both gave me a strange look, but shook their heads in unison as though operated by the same puppeteer.

  “Okay.” I took out my phone and holding it carefully in full view, went into the bathroom with it. I set the phone on a shelf beside the window and came out again, closing the door behind me. I came back into the sitting room where Tinkler and Ree were waiting. The looks they’d given me before were nothing compared to the strangeness of the ones they gave me now.

  “What was that about?” said Tinkler.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Okay. Would you? It would be nice.”

  I took a deep breath. “These fuckers are always one step ahead of us,” I said.


  “This would be the Aryan fuckers,” said Ree.

  “Correct.”

  “And I want it to stop. I want to be one step ahead of them for a change.”

  “Okay,” said Tinkler.

  “Good,” said Ree. “But how do we achieve that?”

  I sat down. “Well, to start with, we figure out how they’ve managed to be one step ahead of us.”

  “You left your phone in the bathroom,” said Ree.

  “You think it’s bugged,” said Tinkler.

  I nodded. “I’m sure someone is picking up my calls. But for all we know…”

  “They might also be able to listen in,” said Ree, “even when the phone is off.”

  I nodded. “If they installed some kind of microphone.”

  “Man,” said Tinkler, glancing towards the bathroom, “your phone is seriously bugged.”

  “But are you sure it’s the phone?” said Ree.

  “No.” I could have checked it using the hardware we’d bought at the Spook Store—if I still had it. But I’d thrown it all away when I’d thought Nevada was dead. It had been just too painful to look at, so I’d simply thrown it all in the communal rubbish bin, thousands of pounds’ worth of electronics, rattling into oblivion.

  Just then my email dinged. It was Alan at Jazz House getting back to me about my query. He’d checked the record and provided the two letters from the dead wax.

  Ree watched over my shoulder as I took out my notebook and added the new information.

  “What now?” said Tinkler.

  “Now we go to the big record mart at Wembley.”

  “You think you’ll find something there?”

  “There will be at least two dealers who’re likely to have something for us. So we go see them tomorrow. And we go very carefully. We especially don’t mention anything about it on the contaminated phone.”

  “What do we do with the contaminated phone?” said Tinkler.

  Ree raised her hand. “I’ll put it somewhere safe. Until we think of a way of using it. Against them.”

  “Carry the fight to the enemy. Nice.”

  After dinner Ree settled down on the sofa and curled up, like a cat deciding it had found a place to sleep. “Sorry,” she yawned, “jet lag.”

  * * *

  The next morning I made real coffee. I’d discovered the trick for enjoying this every day. On waking you have a cup of instant to give yourself the energy to embark on the ordeal of making the real stuff. I’d just finished grinding the beans—always the most stressful part—when the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door.

  It was Nevada.

  “Can I come in?” she said.

  I couldn’t think or, for a moment, speak. I said, “Okay.”

  She stepped past me. I smelled her perfume again and my heart started beating raggedly. I closed the door and turned to face her. I said, “Look—”

  “Don’t say anything,” she said. “Just let me say my piece.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  “But, listen—”

  “No. You listen to me. Just listen.” She went into the kitchen and sat down. That had always been her favourite chair. She looked up at me. “A lot of the things you said in Japan were true. I did behave unforgivably.”

  “Nevada—”

  “Just listen, please. This isn’t easy. I know you should never forgive me for letting you think I was dead. But I just want to try and explain. I don’t want you to forgive me. I just want you to understand.” She looked at me. “Can you do that?”

  “But, Nevada,” I said.

  “Just listen. You have to try to understand what it was like. It was dark, and they were firing guns at us—remember?—and I was shit-scared, as who wouldn’t be. But I was chasing them. And they got away. They roared off into the night and I came back and found the whole place in flames. And you were gone. I thought you’d run out on me.” She looked at me. “I didn’t know you thought I was dead. It was only later that even occurred to me.” She looked down. “After I saw you in Japan, I phoned Hughie. To tell him, and to tell everyone, that I was still alive.”

  She looked at me again, and there was anger in her eyes now. “And I also wanted to know why he told you I was dead. Do you know what he said? He said he saw me lying in the ditch and it just looked to him like they’d shot me and I was done for. Well, he certainly didn’t stick around to find out, did he? I was out of that ditch in about two seconds flat. But good old Hughie already had the idea firmly fixed in his mind, such as it is.”

  She reached over and took my hand. “So thanks to him, you thought I was dead and I thought you’d run out on me. I was in a state of shock. I retrieved the record and the cover, what was left of them, and I walked to the station and I caught the first train back to London. All the way there I thought I was going to come back to you, to confront you, to see what had happened. But when I got to London I just kept going, to Heathrow, and there was a flight just getting ready to board. For Japan.” She gazed up into my eyes. “Everything just fell into place, as if that was the way it was meant to happen.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I’ve got to tell you—”

  “Not yet. Just let me finish. I flew back with the fragments of the record in my bag and I knew that the mission was over and we’d failed. And I knew that all I’d done was bring danger into your life. I’d nearly got you killed. It didn’t seem right to go back to you, because it might just put you in danger again. I didn’t want to do that.” She squeezed my hand.

  “You see,” she said. “I just thought you’d be safer without me.”

  She looked up as the bedroom door opened. Nevada fell silent and watched as Ree walked into the kitchen. She was wearing one of my baggy, oversized t-shirts.

  As it happened, it was one that Nevada had been fond of wearing.

  Ree came over and kissed me and put her arm around my shoulder.

  Nevada stared at us. “I didn’t know you had company,” she said slowly.

  “I tried to tell you,” I said.

  “That’s right. I suppose you did.”

  Ree sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee, taking her time. The air in the kitchen crackled with tension, like static electricity before a storm.

  The front door opened and a familiar voice called, “Hey there, hep cats!” Footsteps approached down the hall and the same voice said, “The door was open so I just—”

  Stinky came into the kitchen and froze. He looked at Nevada, then at Ree, then at me, then at Ree again. Ree looked at me and said, “Friend of yours, Chef?”

  “Stinky,” I said. “This isn’t a good time.”

  I walked Stinky back into the hall. He immediately began speaking in a low, urgent, confidential tone. “Listen, Chef,” he said. “Why don’t we go out some time? Bring your girls and I’ll bring mine. We can double date. Or quadruple date. Or actually quintuple date because I’ll bring three girls.”

  “Stinky, please.” I urged him out the door and felt my entire body relax as he finally left and I closed the door behind him. But you almost had to admire the way he had instantly picked up on the nickname. In his need to be in with the in-crowd, Stinky was always the first with a new piece of slang or catchphrase.

  I went back into the kitchen. “You managed to get rid of him?” said Nevada.

  “Stinky had to hurry off to phone an escort service.”

  Ree drained her coffee and stood up. “You guys can finish your talk. I’ll get dressed and go out and have a cigarette.”

  “You smoke?” said Nevada.

  “Yeah.”

  “And your face is so beautifully unlined, for a smoker. That’s so unusual. But then, there’s plenty of time.”

  “Plenty of time for all sorts of things,” said Ree, and she went into my bedroom. As the door closed Nevada looked at me.

  “You slept with her?”

  Was there any point in denying it, or dissembling? “Ah,” I stammered. �
��Yes?”

  “Is she good in bed?”

  “What?”

  “Is she?”

  “Please, Nevada.”

  “Better than me?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “As good?”

  “No.”

  She stared towards the bedroom. “Well, at least I know she’s lousy in the sack.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said. She glared at me.

  “What, then?”

  “Things were better with you because I loved you.”

  She looked at me. “So you don’t love her?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve only just met her.”

  “Well, give it time. Plenty of time for all sorts of things,” she quoted. She stood up. “I suppose I’d better be off.” Then she paused. “I almost forgot. Here’s a souvenir for you.” She took it out of her bag and set it on the counter. It was the scorched cover of Easy Come, Easy Go and the melted misshapen piece of vinyl.

  “Good luck,” she said. “With everything.” She went out and the door closed behind her and she was gone.

  * * *

  Ree and I travelled to the record mart in Wembley separately. I went in a taxi with Clean Head and Ree got a cab driven by Clean Head’s friend. They both took great pains to avoid being followed, and were in radio contact with each other all the way. So we reached the exhibition centre with a clean bill of health.

  I was familiar with the floor plan of the record mart from previous visits and I knew all the shortcuts. As we made our way through the crowd, a skinny guy in frosted denim with a large badge that identified him as the official event photographer stalked us, repeatedly taking our picture with his bulky digital camera.

  When I say “our picture”, I actually mean Ree’s picture.

  “Am I a celebrity?” she said.

  “Sort of. He’s not accustomed to having an attractive woman to photograph. They’re a bit of a rarity at this kind of event.”

  “Maybe I should take off my top.”

  “That would probably cause his brain to melt and run out through his ears.”

  I’d decided there were three dealers worth visiting and by cutting around on the walkway behind the exhibition area, and avoiding the crowds, we were able to hit all three in swift succession. The first was a total bust, but at the second one, run by a guy called Florien, we struck gold.