The Vinyl Detective--Flip Back, page 6
I didn’t know about suddenly, but he was right. It was cold in the guitar room. Maybe our host had decided to economise on the central heating as well as the lighting, so he could channel his funds into more important areas. Like recreational drugs, and guitars. Or maybe it was just the power of suggestion. Anyway, now I was shivering, too. The sensation was so sudden, and strong and unaccountable, that I thought of the old expression ‘someone walking over my grave’.
I looked over at Tinkler. He was briskly rubbing his hands, so evidently he was feeling the cold as well. “You know what would really warm us up?” he said. He gave Tom Pyewell a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Burning a million dollars.”
I felt my heart contract. In a long and eventful history of Tinkler saying inappropriate things, this really took the cake. What in god’s name was he thinking? That this would break the ice or something? And what had become of the shy and nervous Tinkler who had been looking for the most respectful way to address Mr Pyewell?
Right now Mr Pyewell was staring at us in disbelief. He looked at me as if for a cue on how to respond—if that was indeed what he was looking for, then he was out of luck—and then back at Tinkler. And then his shoulders started to heave.
It took me an understandable second or two to realise that he was laughing.
Tom Pyewell raised his chin and let his head fall back, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Tinkler stared at me, then he started too. And then, after a moment, I found myself joining in, largely out of a giddy sense of relief.
There was the sound of rock star footsteps on the stairs and Erik Make Loud came hurrying in. It reminded me of one of our cats rushing in whenever she suspected her sister might be getting a treat. They didn’t like the possibility of missing out on something, and neither did Erik.
He stared at us. The expression on his face just made us laugh harder.
“What’s going on?” he said, when he could finally make himself heard.
Tom Pyewell wiped the tears from his eyes and pointed to Tinkler and said, “This bastard here is a funny bastard, isn’t he?”
“I told you you’d like him,” said Erik mildly. He sat back down in his armchair and folded his hands on his chest.
“Did you really?” said Tinkler. “Did you really tell him that?” Erik nodded. Tinkler grinned. He was pleased as Punch. I could see that getting away with this would make him insufferable. Or more insufferable.
“This bastard was talking about the money,” said Tom Pyewell.
Erik swivelled his head to Tinkler and gave him a look that was somewhere between horror and admiration. “The money? You mean…”
“Burning the money,” said Pyewell unequivocally.
“I told them not to bring that up,” said Erik.
“No you didn’t,” I said.
“Well, I meant to.”
Pyewell was shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, it mattered at the time. You can bet it bloody well mattered. Fucking Max fucking Shearwater. We’d all worked so hard for that money. And we didn’t have as much of it as he did.”
Max Shearwater had written most of the band’s material, so most of the composing royalties went to him, making him the richest member of the group. I said, “Does that mean he contributed more to the…”
“Bonfire?” said Pyewell, thoughtfully helping me out with the word. “Nope. We all donated equal shares. It just meant that he was better able to absorb the loss afterwards.”
“Equal shares,” said Erik. He shook his head.
“Yeah,” said Pyewell. He was grinning wryly. He seemed perversely proud.
“Why did you do it?” I said.
He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Did you regret it?” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Right away.” Pyewell twisted around in his chair, the better to look me in the eye. “It was bad. It was bad in the way that you’d expect—we’d just burned a million fucking dollars. Gone from our wallets, right? But it was also bad in a way you wouldn’t expect. Or at least in a way that we didn’t expect. People just hated us. Just. Hated. Us. They took it personally. I mean, it was like we’d burned their money instead of our own. I guess it was because people worked so hard all their lives and never earned a fraction of what we did.” I was impressed with this level of empathy coming from a wealthy musician. Or a formerly wealthy musician. Maybe that was what made the difference.
“So when we burned it, it was as if we were saying that none of it meant anything. None of it mattered. They slaved their guts out and could hardly make ends meet and there we were burning a million dollars with gay abandon. It was like a…”
“A big fuck off,” said Erik.
“Yeah, exactly. Which I suppose is exactly what Max intended. He was always the big provocateur. And it was Max’s idea. But we went along with it, I must admit that. We were all willing participants. Except for Norrie. It drove Norrie nuts. But in the end when he saw that Max was serious about doing it, and so were we, he went along with it, too. He organised the press coverage and everything.” Pyewell grinned. “He used to like to say he got ten million dollars’ worth of publicity out of it.”
I said, “So according to Norrie, the band made a handsome profit from Max’s bonfire.”
Pyewell shook his head, frowning. “It certainly didn’t feel that way at the time.” Then he smiled and turned to Tinkler. “Have you got anything else controversial you want to talk about?”
Tinkler nodded happily. “Yes. Is it true that you and Max Shearwater are both broke?”
Erik’s eyes widened and he flushed bright red. Tinkler’s done it now, I thought. But Tom Pyewell didn’t miss a beat. He just shrugged affably and said, “Nope, I’m doing quite well, thank you. Thank goodness. And old Max is rolling in it. But he always was rich. Comes from a wealthy family, don’t you know. Bugger never had to do a day’s honest work in his life.”
“So I guess that means the band isn’t getting back together,” said Tinkler. “Since you’re not hurting for money.”
Pyewell shrugged again. “Well, never say never, as they say. And we’re all still talking to each other. But we’re not talking about that. Not at the moment.” He smiled. He seemed entirely at ease now, in fact genuinely friendly.
As if sensing the profound change of mood, Bong Cha chose this exact moment to join us. She came into the guitar room carrying a white oval tray, which looked like a miniature surfboard. It was almost as long as she was tall and she carried it with her widely spaced hands palms up on the underside. It was a masterpiece of finely judged balancing.
The contents of the tray suggested that she’d recently organised a ram raid on a seafood wholesaler. There were blinis piled with curls of reddish smoked salmon and tiny wedges of bright yellow lemon, all sitting on clusters of green rocket leaves. Dark brown triangular slices of rye bread had formations of fat pink prawns resting on them, embedded in some kind of pale green sauce and decorated with crescents of lime. Arrayed on a large circular black plate with a gold rim was a radiating formation of creamy-green halved avocadoes, their hollows filled with what looked like sour cream and alternating dollops of red and black fish roe. In a silver ice bucket there was the traditional bottle of blueberry vodka nestling in a white jacket of frosted chips. Plus plates, glasses, cutlery, napkins. Besides being an impressive balancing act, carrying all this stuff was a considerable feat of strength.
Tom Pyewell’s face lit up at the sight of Bong Cha. “Oh, celestial princess!” he cried.
“Don’t any of you buggers bother helping me,” snarled Bong Cha in her best Brummie accent. Cue four grown men scrambling to their feet like frightened children. The low glass and chrome coffee table was in front of the sofa where Tinkler and I had been sitting, and now a path was cleared to it by a swift rearrangement of chairs, and the table itself was cleared of clutter.
Bong Cha lowered the tray onto the table while Erik displayed a rare example of making himself useful by dragging over another armchair so Bong Cha could join us. There was clearly no question of her disappearing back upstairs without partaking of the food and drink. In this respect at least, the Make Loud household was commendably egalitarian. And Erik garnered some extra brownie points, from me at least, by pouring drinks for everyone.
We began to eat and drink, and the mood in the room became even more relaxed. I decided now was the time. I leaned forward, and I guess my whole manner suggested getting down to business, because Tinkler immediately realised what was afoot and he took it so seriously he even set down his plate of food, watching me with his big, eager eyes. I tried not to let them put me off.
I cleared my throat and said, “Tom…” I’d decided to take a chance on first names. Mr Pyewell sounded both ridiculously formal and like someone in a nursery rhyme. He looked at me.
“I was wondering,” I said, “if you might have a copy of one of your old records. Which you might be willing to part with.”
“Part with?” he said, thoughtfully gnawing at a salmon blini.
“To sell to us. We’re looking for an original pressing of the first release—”
“With the flip back cover,” added Tinkler, who despite extensive assertions of how he couldn’t be involved in the negotiations, now couldn’t resist sticking his nose in.
“Ah,” said Tom Pyewell. “Wisht.”
And, at that very moment, as if to accompany the name of the album, there was a loud metallic cracking, which changed instantly into a sort of crystalline spattering, transmuting just as quickly into a thick, low thud of impact.
I turned my head and saw that a dark hole had appeared in the white wall on the far side of the room. I looked the other way and saw that one of the tall, barred windows now had a small, irregular hole in its glass surrounded by a milky halo with a complex web of cracks spraying outwards from it.
It was a bullet hole.
7. RED AND GREEN
I was the first to realise what was happening, because I was the only one who’d been in a situation like this before. “Someone’s shooting at us,” I said. Everybody was busy either looking with puzzlement at the hole in the wall or at the hole in the window.
Now they all turned to look at me.
My voice had been calm, matter of fact, even conversational. But now it cracked with tension. “Get down,” I said.
I slid off the sofa and dragged Tinkler onto the floor with me.
The others didn’t move, just stared at the two us, lying there face down in the dusty carpet. Tom Pyewell looked puzzled, Erik irritated, Bong Cha thoughtful. “Get down,” I repeated. “Someone is shooting at us.”
“Don’t be bloody silly,” said Erik. And, instead of getting down he stood up.
Immediately there was the metallic report of the gun, the crystalline rupture of the window glass and another thud as—thank god—a bullet again dug into the wall instead of flesh. But it must have passed so close to Erik that he heard its flight, because he lifted his hand protectively to his ear, like a man who’d been buzzed by a wasp.
“You fucking fool,” said Bong Cha. “Get down!” I realised she was on the floor now beside Tinkler and me. She lunged across the carpet in a sort of slithering, high-speed crawl and grabbed Erik around the legs, toppling him with a low rugby tackle.
He collapsed among us, narrowly missing both the coffee table and Tom Pyewell, who had joined us on the floor a fraction of a second after Bong Cha.
We all lay there, or crouched, staring at each other through a tangle of disarrayed limbs and the legs of the coffee table. “Someone’s shooting at us,” said Erik. He sounded both puzzled and pissed off, but at least now he was up to speed.
“There he is,” said Tinkler in a voice so altered by fear that I hardly recognised it.
We all turned and saw, standing outside the window, beyond the black iron bars, something from a nightmare.
It was a tall, forbidding figure. He wore a red ski mask but otherwise was dressed all in black. And he had a gun in his hand, which he was just now pointing rather carefully towards us.
“Get out,” I shouted. I headed for the door in a scrambling motion, which was half running and half crawling, keeping hunched as low as I could. Tinkler was right behind me and so were the others.
I heard another shot behind us and then we were out of the guitar room and in the hallway.
As I was to learn, most of Erik’s basement was given over to the guitar room and the laundry room. They were divided by a long white corridor, which ran the entire width of the house, and that was where we emerged now in a frightened cluster. Without any need for discussion we all turned to our left and ran towards the staircase that was set in the far rear corner of the basement. Directly in front of us as we ran was the barred window placed to the left of the staircase, which let a cold grey light into the corridor. That light was abruptly interrupted as a shape reared up outside the window.
It was another tall figure, also dressed all in black. But the ski mask on this one was bright green, and he had a tiny dandified flash of scarlet emerging from a pocket on his chest—a coloured handkerchief.
He was holding a gun, which he now lifted and aimed.
We all turned and ran the other way. “The laundry room,” yelled Bong Cha. “In here!” She dodged through a doorway to her left. We all followed.
Because I’d been the first out of the guitar room, closely followed by Tinkler, and because we had reversed the direction in which we’d been fleeing, I was now the last in our short line of terrified fugitives. I was acutely aware I had a maniac with a gun at my back, so I crouched low, leaning forward as I ran.
Which was just as well. Because there was a sudden cracking noise behind me and then the sickeningly familiar sound of a window being broken by gunshot. I thought I heard something hum over my head, and I definitely heard something smack into the wall at the far end of the corridor. But then I was through the door on the left and in the laundry room with the others.
We all stood there, panting, looking at each other.
The laundry room was a long rectangular space. To my left, at the far end, was a wall with a door in it, which led to what looked like a small toilet area. In front of us, the long back wall of the room had a built-in drying rack for clothes and a counter with a sink running along it. More to the point, this wall was blank and windowless—a very welcome sight.
It must have been the rear of the property and presumably the structure behind it cut off any light, so windows were a waste of time from the point of view of daylight. Though of course they would still have allowed a scenic view of the concrete moat that extended around all four sides of the building to more than head height.
To my right was the other short wall of the room. This did look out onto the moat, with a single barred window set into it.
That was one window too many for me.
Immediately to my right were the large white metallic cubes of a clothes washer and matching dryer. The washing machine was likely plumbed into the wall but the dryer would only be connected to it by an electrical cable. And, luckily for us, it was nearer the door than the washer. I grabbed the rear corner of it and began to shove it away from the wall. “Give me a hand,” I said. I didn’t say please. Good manners had gone by the board.
Tinkler, very much to his credit, immediately leapt to my assistance. He got on the other side of the dryer and managed to rock it forward.
“What are you doing?” said Bong Cha.
“Leave that alone,” said Erik, the scandalised property owner.
We ignored both of them. There was now enough space between the back of the dryer and the wall that I could step between them. I insinuated myself into the gap, unplugged the red rubberised power cable and threw it clanking on the top of the machine. Then I wedged myself against the dryer and pushed. Tinkler was instantly at my side helping me, and both Bong Cha and Tom Pyewell were grabbing the dryer at the front and manhandling it towards them. Erik was still watching with a petulant look on his face. “What are you all doing?” he said.
“Protection,” said Bong Cha, and with no further explanation assisted us in shunting the dryer forward. It moved with a complaining screech of its metal underside as we dragged it across the concrete floor. As the rear of the dryer drew level with the front of its companion washing machine, I said, “Okay. Stop. Now the other way.”
I came out from behind the dryer and threw my weight against the near side of it. Everyone else helped—even Erik, who either by now had worked out what we were doing or was simply following Bong Cha’s lead.
With all of us working on it, the dryer lurched sideways with one quick metallic squeal so that it now stood in front of the washer instead of beside it.
I ducked down behind this reassuring improvised wall of metal and so did the others. I was shaking and it felt as if something bulky and difficult to swallow had lodged in my throat. My heart was pounding so fast and so hard that my blood slammed painfully at the tips of my fingers and the rims of my ears.
That pounding slowed down a little now, but not much.
It was surprisingly comfortable sitting on the floor. The big metal cubes of the washer and dryer were reassuringly solid at our backs, shielding us from the window, and the concrete was warm beneath us, evidently heated by some kind of underfloor system. I found myself thinking that the cats would like it. I wondered if I’d ever see the furry little buggers again. Or Nevada.
But that was not the way to think. Be positive and we’d get out of this in one piece. Nevada… If only I could get in contact with her. If only I could tell her what was happening…
That was when I did the obvious thing and dug out my phone—only to realise that everyone else had beaten me to it and were already staring glumly at their own screens. Except for Bong Cha.
“I’ve got no signal,” said Erik.
