Something about this story refused to accept standard filing in my brain. I pondered the problem and, after a bit of brow furrowing, came up with the reason why.
‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘unless you were playing chess at the age of about two...’
Both Disvan and Fersen burst out laughing.
‘Well,’ said Mr Disvan, brushing away a tear, ‘at least no one could ever accuse you of racing ahead of the story.’
‘My dear boy,’ said Fersen, still vastly amused, ‘it may interest you to know that Lenin described me as a “fine old fellow, for a class enemy”. There are books in my library that I personally took from the sack of Constantinople in 1453. I attended the death bed of the Old Man of the Mountains in 1090—that’s how I know his beautiful final words “nothing is true” etc. etc. It was I who broadened the sexual horizons of Richard the Lionheart! Mr Oakley, my contract is an ancient one, made when being an Englishman was quite a novelty. I’m as old as the hills—but much more charming.’
There was an element of sly boasting in this for all Fersen’s self-effacement. Although no lighthouse of morality myself, I was obscurely offended. Something more than just curiosity guided me to ask the right question to deflate his ancient esteem.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘since you should know; what is... what is it like?’
Suddenly, without even time for a gear change, he had become evasive, a nervous old man with watery eyes.
‘What is what like, Mr Oakley?’
‘Your place… You know, Hell.’
All the colour drained from Fersen like a reverse flood. His cheeks hollowed as he sank back into the seat.
‘Ah, that,’ he said slowly, clearly putting a brave face on some bitter recollection. ‘Yes, I have, er, a taste of that, just for the day, once a year. It’s... um, part of my contract for some reason.’
I had the misfortune to catch his eyes and saw such depths in them that I gripped the table edge in my anxiety not to fall spend eternity falling within.
‘What can I say, Mr Oakley.’ Fersen was looking through me into a distance that I didn’t care to investigate. ‘I don’t think the words have been invented yet. You are asking me to venture beyond the frontier of language.’
‘Go on,’ urged Mr Disvan, a mischievous grin on his face, ‘you could at least mention the hundred mile slalom of ice-cold razorblades.’
Mr Fersen shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Or the Esther Rantzen in the Tokyo rush-hour experience.’
‘Suffice it to say,’ said Fersen, very firmly indeed, his good humour all exhausted, ‘falling back upon Shakespeare again:
“I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
make thy two eyes like stars start from their—” ’
It was my turn to interrupt through squeamishness. ‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ I said hastily. ‘I get the picture.’
Disvan had the look of victory about him. ‘Just so long as you do, Mr Oakley,’ he said quietly.
* * *
‘Now is the time to say—goodbye,’ sang Mr Fersen, mockingly.
‘Goodbye,’ said Mr Disvan and disappeared back in to the Argyll.
Fersen looked shocked and upset. ‘What a distressingly literal man he is,’ he commented.
To be fair, though, it was time for Mr Fersen to go. The party was over, the Binscomites had expressed their gratitude, and his Rolls-Royce with its lithesome optional extras had turned up to collect him. A few people had drifted to the Argyll’s door to see him off.
The Binscombe early hours were peaceful and surprisingly bright. We stood in a pool of electric light from the adjacent lamp post and looked up at the rooftops and stars in the darkness beyond. Mr Fersen clearly found the scene more entrancing than even the fiercest Binscombe patriot (ie Mr Disvan).
I seized my chance to prove that this was all an unsettling fancy, another piece of Disvan-inspired sawdust in the motor-oil of life.
‘Tell me,’ I said, edging forward. ‘It’s not all true, is it?’
‘Nothing is true, Mr Oakley,’ said Fersen, ‘but everything is permissible.’
‘Answer my question please. Is it true, all that Devil stuff? I mean, you’re not really a...’
‘An infernal talent scout?’ prompted Fersen. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr Oakley.’
‘But I don’t even believe in... So how can I believe in the... ‘
Mr Fersen winced at the mere suggestion of the deity’s name.
‘Language, please,’ he said earnestly.
The beautiful young boy and girl in the car were making no bones about their desire for Mr Fersen to join them. He noticed their unease and sighed.
‘Well, business calls, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘There is no peace for the wicked.’
I think that was meant to be his final bon mot and he turned to leave. Then something clearly occurred to him. An inner debate was under way.
‘Mr Disvan isn’t about, is he?’ he said furtively.
I confirmed he was not.
‘Well,’ Fersen went on, tentatively licking his lips, ‘it is rather naughty of me, and I did promise, I suppose... ‘
‘What?’
‘Though what I promised,’ he continued, attempting to convince himself, rather than me, ‘was not to recruit personally. It’s a bit of a fine point but... oh well, let’s be a devil.’
He turned his best smile upon me.
‘Mr Oakley, I suspect you’re a man after my own heart, a man of the flesh and the world. You needn’t negotiate a deal with me. You can go straight to the top and score something special. Here, have a card.’
He reached into his breast pocket and handed me a small, gold-edged rectangle of card. It was strangely warm, almost vibrant, to the touch. A hint of some spicy, acidic perfume came along with it.
TREBLE SIX PLC
Incorp MORNING STAR ENTERPRISES
it said, in elaborate, scrolling letters.
METAPHYSICAL MORTGAGE BROKERS—
London, New York, Tehran, Tirana, Pandemonium.
Then there was an eight digit number.
My reading was distracted by a polite cough from Mr Fersen. He was studying me from the open window of his car. The shiny monster’s engine was gently turning, preparing to pull away.
‘I recall,’ he said, ‘that some splendid old friends of mine, the, er,’ he looked a little embarrassed, ‘the Rolling Stones, had “sympathy for the Devil”. Whereas you, Mr Oakley, my fine fellow, have now gone one better. You actually have his telephone number!’
* * *
There was something unearthly about the card, something special that would not let me burn it or forget it, that made it ever present in my mind, night and day. ‘This is what heroin addiction must be like,’ I thought, ‘only without the periodic comfort of reaching cloud nine.’
The ensuing forty-eight hours were a torment of indecision. There were moments when I fancied negotiating a lifetime of joy. There were others when I was terrified of the payoff. I suspected that the Almighty would be a subtle and inventive judge, that he would lay on something a lot worse than mere ‘wailing and gnashing of teeth’. Five minutes later it would occur to me that the prince of fleshly delights might have interesting ideas regarding the brightening up of his followers’ social life.
In the end it was too big a decision for me. I needed guidance. I needed to see how higher authority and stronger shoulders would decide. I spoke to Mr Disvan and he agreed. We posted the card to the Archbishop of Canterbury and awaited developments.
EVERY LITTLE BREEZE
‘A disco?’ I shrieked. ‘You, go to a disco? Do my ears deceive me?’
For some reason this last comment amused the Argyll regulars more than it ought. Mr Disvan hushed them.
‘No, Mr Oakley,’ he replied, ‘you were receiving loud and clear. We’ve been invited to a party at the “Young Dudes” nightclub in Goldenford. By implication, you�
��re invited too. Are you with us?’
It was an ordinary Saturday evening in Binscombe, ie pretty stolid. I could do with some noise other than dominoes hitting the table but on the other hand, I’d heard things about the ‘Young Dudes’ establishment.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t much fancy heading a beer bottle.’
Mr Disvan smiled understandingly.
‘There’s no problem on that front, Mr O. The Bretwaldas, Alfred, Hengist, Horsa and Vladimir, are coming with us.’
That put my mind at rest. Trouble-wise, the Bretwaldas, more mountain range than family, would have given a squad of Gurkhas pause for thought. Coincidentally, Mr Limbu, one-time Gurkha sergeant, also seemed to be one of the would-be partyers. That settled it. Flying glassware and early hours in Casualty were probably off the agenda.
‘And there’s wall-to-wall tottie down there of a Saturday night,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, as if that would clinch the argument for me. Actually, to be honest, it did.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m game. But who’s invited us?’
‘A Binscombe ex-pat,’ answered Disvan, shuffling into his coat. ‘An exile in Goldenford. It’s her birthday. I think you’ll like her.’
‘Why?’
The Binscomites were playing up for some reason. They pretended they were unable to hear me and craned forward, grinning widely, cupping their ears.
‘You’ll have to speak upwards,’ said the landlord. ‘Do what? Pardon?’
As so often happened, I didn’t get the joke and therefore tried to ignore it. ‘Why will I like her?’ I repeated, at the same volume.
Mr Disvan was mildly amused but didn’t join in the japeries.
‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘she’s a bit brash and modern, like yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
‘A nice girl, mind—but a site harsh on the ears,’ he went on. ‘That doesn’t matter though; we go equipped. Have you got the gear, Mr Limbu?’
The little man widened his habitual smile and nodded.
‘Good. Right then, we go!’
We all stood up (me slowly and last of all). There was about a score of us, the usual Argyll faces plus wives and/or girlfriends. To my surprise, I saw that the landlord didn’t begrudge the evaporation of his custom.
‘I give you my blessing,’ he said, mock solemnly, waving us on our way. ‘Say “Kissy kissy!” to Madame Noise for me.’
‘The bells! The bells!’ shouted Hengist Bretwalda, clapping his hands to his ears and mimicking agony. Everyone laughed uproariously.
I already had that acidy stomach, cliff-top feeling once associated with going back to school, now linked to knowing Mr Disvan. To coin an appropriate phrase, I didn’t like the sound of this.
* * *
‘Rhubarb rhubarb, rhubarb rhubarb,’ said Mr Disvan.
‘What?’ I screamed, wishing desperately I could lip-read.
The sprightly young lady in flowing black leaned forward into intimate proximity.
‘He said,’ she translated, right into my ear, ‘ “Mr Oakley, please meet Ms Louise Saxon”.’
Her hennaed hair smelt lovely and I was sorry when she drew back.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I roared. ‘Oh, God save us—I said NICE TO MEET YOU!’
The encounter wasn’t going too well. I knew full well that I looked like I’d been through a hedge backwards, as Disvan would say. The bouncers at the door had seen to that.
When we’d arrived, the Bretwaldas had sauntered to the head of the queue and shepherded our contingent in, entirely ignoring the serried door guardians. The men in tight suits thought it politic not to intervene but compensated by shoving me, the nervous straggler of the group, around a bit and ruffling my hair. I pretended not to notice—no mean feat.
‘Safely’ inside, Mr Limbu had handed out earplugs and mufflers which I refused, thinking it another yokel joke. It was a bad move. Once through the double doors and onto the dance floor, I felt as if my brain was going to boil. The music was like a nova inside your head and falling into treacle at the same time. There was no escaping it. I acclimatised a little in the short time it took for me to get to Mr Limbu and mug an earmuff off him—but that was probably just parts of my hearing closing down.
The writhing youngsters through whom Disvan and the Bretwaldas led us didn’t seem to mind the heat and noise and strobes. They were presumably hard-core patrons and used to it. I suddenly felt old.
All in all, I was in no state to met our host, the Young Dudes’ manageress, Ms Louise Saxon. I’ve already mentioned the hedge business. My earmuffs were half off, pulling my hair into weird shapes. I was sweaty and wearing a depressed expression. She looked at me once, couldn’t believe it, and looked again. I knew at that moment we would only ever be friends.
Handing over the DJ’s box to a youth with a day-glo Mandela tee-shirt, she led us out of the sound inferno and into a bare passageway. It was only then, with a good wall between me and the music, that I recognised the tune. I felt sure I would be hearing its echoes for weeks hence.
Like commandos come home, the Binscomites got rid of their equipment with palpable relief. Mr Limbu, our quartermaster, stored the ear protectors away for future use.
We followed Ms Saxon up some concrete stairs and round various claustrophobic corridors. The music ebbed and flowed as we put distance between us and its origin, but it never entirely left us. She seemed to be in a hurry, too pushed even for conversation. In the end we were travelling at a jog-trot behind her. I had given up trying to control events and was moving with the madness. It seemed the best way.
Suddenly things started to make a bit more sense. We rushed into a large room and stopped. It was obviously Louise’s living quarters. There was a (single) bed in one corner, various more or less feminine inspired pieces of furniture and, unsurprisingly, the most almighty stereo system. She crossed to it and flicked a switch. The room was suddenly filled to the brim with music. It wasn’t as bad as the disco below, I could even recognise Little Richard’s voice, but, for conversation to prosper, we’d all be hoarse as hell in the morning.
I now had time and breath to look around. The decor was student bedsit meets cultivated taste: Joy Division posters and Japanese lacquer, Roger Dean and Sir Peter Lely. If pressed to analyse or incited to bitchiness, I would have said that one part of Ms Saxon suffered from arrested development. It was everywhere evident. Once upon a time, this room must have been a storeroom or the like. Then, for some reason, Louise had set up shop here, in earshot of the constant music, and tried to domesticate it. She had only partially succeeded.
However, she seemed friendly enough when not on the run. Along one wall was provided a wallpapering table covered with a generous spread of food and drink. One or two people were already tucking in, a spot of dancing broke out and things got quite convivial. True, the party never had a hope of being a chit-chat gathering but pretty soon it developed a life of its own. I started to enjoy myself.
Mr Disvan contrived to lure Louise Saxon into the corner furthest from the music storm where exchange of speech was just about possible. A few other shell-shocked guests, myself included, joined them there.
‘...long way,’ I caught him saying as he surveyed the surroundings, ‘Yes, A long way indeed.’
Louise shrugged her thin shoulders
‘It does the trick,’ she answered. ‘It’s what’s required.’
He appeared to doubt this, but was too polite (or couldn’t be bothered) to say so.
‘Happy birthday, anyway,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, who’d also joined us. He too studied our bare surroundings with a certain wistful sadness. ‘The operation’s still on offer, by the way,’ he said (shouted) eventually, ‘entirely gratis and for free.’
Louise looked glad to hear it but shook her head.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to throw in the towel just yet.’
Mr Disvan made a face as if to say ‘you might as well’. In present conditions it was be
tter than trying to put it into words.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, cheerfully, ‘but it’s not all unmitigated disaster you know. Have you seen how much we charge for lager? Have you seen how much those louts drink of it? I tell you, this place is a licence to print money.’
This time it was Doctor Bani-Sadr’s turn to look underwhelmed.
‘You might make more money than with your old business,’ he said. ‘Maybe tapes of birdsong would have never make you rich but, look at you, you’re a prisoner here. Why not have your eardrums pierced like I’ve offered and there’s an end to it all.’
‘Precisely,’ said Louise. ‘You said it yourself. An end to sound, a world of silence. At least in here I have my music.’
‘My oath, you do,’ commented Disvan, ‘so much music people can’t bear to visit you more than once a year.’
Again she shrugged. I didn’t understand any of this but I could see, as plain as anything, that the issue had cost her dear. She had been tempered and toughened by it.
‘Mr Oakley,’ shouted Louise with a wicked gleam in her eyes, ‘are you trying to catch flies or just puzzled?’
I clamped my jaw shut a split second too late. Disvan, Bani-Sadr and the others had a laugh at my expense. Then, before I could regroup, the second Saxon wave went in.
‘Puzzled it is then,’ she said, brushing her braided hair back from her forehead. ‘Well if that’s so, let me tell you a few things. I wasn’t always a Disco Queen, provider of entertainment to the white-socks brigade, a dismisser of bouncers, or waterer of drinks. Oh no, I used to be artistic, sensitive even. I used to have a little recording company. It got quite successful in an organic, low key sort of way. We produced—and I mean produce, not churn out—cassette tapes for the discerning end of the market. I bet you never bought one.’
‘Um...’
‘No, I thought not—and why should you have? You don’t strike me as a “New Age music” sort of person. In fact you don’t strike me as a musical sort of person at all.’
Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 42