The wrought-iron front gate creaked as we opened it. Apart from the distant buzz of traffic, it was eerily silent. I paused as we stepped through the gateway. There was the sudden sound of footsteps.
I looked around, but it was just a his-and-hers pair of sports freaks out jogging.
Jogging in the middle of the night.
They ran along the pavement outside the gate, not even glancing our way, their panting breath just audible.
I watched them go as we walked up the narrow stone steps to a narrow green front door. On either side of it the police tape hung down. It looked like it had been cut through the middle. By the police themselves, I hoped. I sorted through the keys, jingling them on the ring, until I found the right one to open the door. It seemed strange not to have a rush of cats accompanying us as we entered.
It was dark and cool and damp inside. “I can’t see anything,” said Nevada.
I switched on the light, to reveal a scene of chaos. The small front entry hall, staircase leading up from it, and room to the right were all completely covered with LPs. Or at least they had been before the police had begun their crime scene investigation. A narrow pathway had been cleared through the hall, and up the stairs, with the records shoved to one side. I picked up one album. There was a size 12 boot print on it.
“Our British police,” I said. “Aren’t they wonderful?” In fairness, though, it was almost impossible to move in the place without stepping on a record. They were piled everywhere in toppled heaps like frozen waves. “It’s like sand dunes,” I said.
“Vinyl dunes,” said Nevada. We looked around at the apparently endless mess. It appeared an impossible task. “Well, let’s get cracking,” she said. Under her jauntiness I already sensed an edge of despair. She looked at me. “Where should we start?”
“Right here, I guess.” I crouched down and commenced looking through the records starting with those nearest the door and working my way in. “Luckily I remembered to wear my crate-diving shoes. I mean crate-digging. You’ve got me doing it now.”
“It’s more like diving,” said Nevada, “the way you launch yourself at them.”
She went off to explore the house and I set to work, pacing myself. Even with the right footwear, grovelling around on the floor like this for half the night would prove pretty taxing on the muscles in my legs and my lower back.
And half the night looked like an optimistic estimate.
I moved quickly through the records, checking the covers then stacking them in neat ranks against the wall, out of the way. A few had been badly mangled by people, presumably cops, treading on them. But most had escaped unscathed.
The records, at least those near the door, were all proving to be classical. Mostly on smaller European labels like Hungaroton and Supraphon. The light in the hallway wasn’t great, coming from one dim bulb in a floral glass bowl suspended from the ceiling, moths battering it as I worked. Nevada came back down from the upper levels of the house and perched on the steps, watching me. She was showing uncharacteristic levels of patience.
I reached the staircase and started working my way up them, step by step, going through the records and stacking them neatly. Nevada retreated to the landing above and sat there, watching me again, feet dangling, her shoulder bag squeezed between her legs. There was a fluorescent tube affixed above the stairs and the light was better here. I sorted through the records quickly and efficiently. She stayed put as I moved up towards her. By the time I was working beside her legs, my chin on a level with her knees, I had reached the last of the records on the stairs.
We looked at each other.
“Nothing?” she said.
“Not yet.”
She sighed. I said, “I’d better go back downstairs and work through the rest of the ground floor.”
“All right.” She remained sitting disconsolately at the top of the stairs, drumming
I looked around, but it was just a his-and-hers pair of sports freaks out jogging.
Jogging in the middle of the night.
They ran along the pavement outside the gate, not even glancing our way, their panting breath just audible.
I watched them go as we walked up the narrow stone steps to a narrow green front door. On either side of it the police tape hung down. It looked like it had been cut through the middle. By the police themselves, I hoped. I sorted through the keys, jingling them on the ring, until I found the right one to open the door. It seemed strange not to have a rush of cats accompanying us as we entered.
It was dark and cool and damp inside. “I can’t see anything,” said Nevada.
I switched on the light, to reveal a scene of chaos. The small front entry hall, staircase leading up from it, and room to the right were all completely covered with LPs. Or at least they had been before the police had begun their crime scene investigation. A narrow pathway had been cleared through the hall, and up the stairs, with the records shoved to one side. I picked up one album. There was a size 12 boot print on it.
“Our British police,” I said. “Aren’t they wonderful?” In fairness, though, it was almost impossible to move in the place without stepping on a record. They were piled everywhere in toppled heaps like frozen waves. “It’s like sand dunes,” I said.
“Vinyl dunes,” said Nevada. We looked around at the apparently endless mess. It appeared an impossible task. “Well, let’s get cracking,” she said. Under her jauntiness I already sensed an edge of despair. She looked at me. “Where should we start?”
“Right here, I guess.” I crouched down and commenced looking through the records starting with those nearest the door and working my way in. “Luckily I remembered to wear my crate-diving shoes. I mean crate-digging. You’ve got me doing it now.”
“It’s more like diving,” said Nevada, “the way you launch yourself at them.”
She went off to explore the house and I set to work, pacing myself. Even with the right footwear, grovelling around on the floor like this for half the night would prove pretty taxing on the muscles in my legs and my lower back.
And half the night looked like an optimistic estimate.
I moved quickly through the records, checking the covers then stacking them in neat ranks against the wall, out of the way. A few had been badly mangled by people, presumably cops, treading on them. But most had escaped unscathed.
The records, at least those near the door, were all proving to be classical. Mostly on smaller European labels like Hungaroton and Supraphon. The light in the hallway wasn’t great, coming from one dim bulb in a floral glass bowl suspended from the ceiling, moths battering it as I worked. Nevada came back down from the upper levels of the house and perched on the steps, watching me. She was showing uncharacteristic levels of patience.
I reached the staircase and started working my way up them, step by step, going through the records and stacking them neatly. Nevada retreated to the landing above and sat there, watching me again, feet dangling, her shoulder bag squeezed between her legs. There was a fluorescent tube affixed above the stairs and the light was better here. I sorted through the records quickly and efficiently. She stayed put as I moved up towards her. By the time I was working beside her legs, my chin on a level with her knees, I had reached the last of the records on the stairs.
We looked at each other.
“Nothing?” she said.
“Not yet.”
She sighed. I said, “I’d better go back downstairs and work through the rest of the ground floor.”
“All right.” She remained sitting disconsolately at the top of the stairs, drumming
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