Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel

slipped the LP out of the inner sleeve. The black vinyl gleamed as I put it on the turntable. I switched on the motor and lowered the arm. The complex insect head of the cartridge kissed the playing surface, the diamond-tipped stylus finding the run-in groove and riding smoothly towards the music. I looked at Tinkler. He was grinning at me.
    “Listen to that,” he said.
    “What?” said Nevada. “I can’t hear anything. It’s completely silent.”
    “That’s the point,” I said. “It means it’s a good pressing. On virgin vinyl.”
    “I’m glad someone around here can lay claim to being a virgin,” said Nevada.
    Then the music started. It reminded me of those late fifties sessions by Monk and Coltrane with the piano and the saxophone seeming to come from the same place and speak in the same voice, with a perfect shared language. But this had more structural complexity, more apparently unplanned design, like Mingus. It was beautifully recorded.
    “It doesn’t sound any better than my iPod,” said Nevada.
    She was still sitting at the table where we’d eaten our lunch. “Come over here,” I said impatiently. “Sit on the sofa.” She got up and approached, a little warily.
    “Where do you want me?”
    “Exactly where this opportunistic buffoon has planted himself.” I nudged Tinkler and shoved him over so that the spot in the middle of the sofa was free. “Sit here.”
    “All right.”
    Nevada sat between us. Her perfume distracted me for a moment and then I said, “Here, lean forward a bit.”
    “What am I doing?”
    “Looking for the sweet spot,” said Tinkler. “The perfect place to hear the music. From the point of view of imaging.”
    “From the point of view of imaging. I see.”
    “These speakers, his Quad electrostatics, aren’t really designed for use as near-field monitors,” explained Tinkler.
    “No, of course not,” said Nevada. “Everyone knows that. Near-field monitors, hah!”
    “But if you get just the right placement the imaging is fantastic.” This was true.
    “Put your head here,” I said.
    “This is like being at a rather highly regimented orgy,” said Nevada. But she leaned forward. “Not that I’d know.” She sat patiently yet sceptically listening. “I don’t think I can hear anything special,” she said.
    Tinkler leaned impatiently towards her. “Light that thing, take a few hits and then see if you can’t hear anything special.”
    She duly lit it. After a few moments, and much puffing, Nevada said, “Good lord.”
    “There? You see?”
    “My sweet lord.” She moved her head out of the sweet spot, then back in. She let out a low whistle, then turned to give me a sidelong look. Her pupils were dark and enormous. “But you know what,” she said. “I think it’s just the drugs.”
    It wasn’t just the drugs. I wasn’t smoking and I could hear it.
    I manoeuvred myself into the sweet spot, jostling her warm thigh against mine, pressing her gently back across the sofa towards Tinkler. “I’m being crushed,” he cried. “I’m being crushed against Nevada Warren! For god’s sake don’t stop.”
    He and Nevada giggled. Long gurgling giggles. It sounded as if their intellects had already dropped by dozens of IQ points. But they kept smoking.
    I leaned forward and listened. It was like I was in the room with the musicians.
    “Why don’t you roll us another one of those,” said Nevada, at length.
    “I’ve got the cigarette papers,” said Tinkler. “All I need is some roach fodder. A business card perhaps?” He looked at Nevada.
    “You’re not using one of my business cards, sport,” she said.
    “Oh well, then how about tearing the cover off one of these rare and expensive-looking records?”
    I knew he was bluffing, but he still succeeded in putting a twinge of apprehension in me. My precious records. “The cardboard is too heavy for your purposes,” I said. I reached in my pocket and found the square of paper Kempton had given me at