The Vinyl Detective: Low Action by Andrew Cartmel

Author:Andrew Cartmel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

17: STOPPED CLOCK

Nevada said, “A cup of tea would be lovely.”

“Then let’s get you one. Or two, rather,” the woman laughed. It was a polite, meaningless social laugh, but nonetheless rather engaging. We fell in behind her as she strode along, flip flops slapping softly on the pink carpet.

“You’re Mindy?” I said.

She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at me. Her teeth, even by normal light, were in very good shape. I don’t know why that should have surprised me, but it did.

“Right first time. Mindy Fewston. How did you know? Was it Frank bellowing my name?”

“Afraid so,” said Nevada. “For some reason he fled when he saw us. Opened the door and then fled. We’re trying hard not to be offended.”

“Yes, sorry about that. Please don’t be. Offended, that is.”

We were now walking through what I supposed you’d call a living room. It was a very large space and looked to me like it had originally been two rooms, which at some point had been turned into one by some ruthless removal of walls. Like most living rooms it had a sofa and armchairs, in this case actually two sofas, but there the resemblance ended.

Because this place was so crammed with wall shelves and freestanding display units that there was hardly room to move, let alone live. The display units were glass cubicles fitted with shelves and LED lights to illuminate what was on those shelves.

The spaces on the wall between shelving units were hung with framed posters, crammed uncomfortably close together. The posters were all for punk gigs, and as far as I could see all featured the Blue Tits. Some of the posters were crudely hand-lettered specimens, others were boringly typographic. But a few were striking examples of photography and design.

What’s more, there were records. Not just LPs and 45s, but also CDs and cassettes. Exclusively by the Blue Tits, of course. As we followed Mindy through the room I did my best to scan all these while on the move without actually getting whiplash. I couldn’t see the original pressing of the first album anywhere among them.

The recordings on show only made up a very small portion of the stuff in here. On the shelves was a daunting assortment of other items. These included stacks of books, magazines and newspapers, not to mention black leather dog collars bristling with chrome studs and spikes; black leather jackets similarly decorated; denim jackets covered with cloth patches featuring lettering or cartoons; a vast assortment of gleaming safety pins exhibited on black velvet as though they were precious items in a jeweller’s window; a huge number of enamelled or tin badges, ditto; several electric guitars and bass guitars, in various states of disrepair but nonetheless displayed as if they were holy relics; baseball caps and T-shirts; boots and shoes; stockings—all black, all fishnet, all torn; some skirts in leather, spandex and latex; and a black bin liner which had been modified to form a kind of garment, and was displayed on a mannequin to prove it.

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