16. Light on the Subject...

Tuesday 20th December 2005

Just what I needed to patch up the puncture in my soul. A good evening out with the boys. And it was¦

Tuesday Night at The Hippodrome. By invitation only. Me, Sherlock, Yoyo, Billy, a 4-pack apiece, Billy's cock-eyed snooker table, a couple of Sherlock's funny fags, Bruce's Lucky Town in good crackly vinyl on one of Billy's old stereograms¦

¦tonight I'm steppin' lightly and feelin' no pain¦

Cookin'.

We cued off at 8¦ me and Sherlock against Billy and Yoyo. We thought it was fairer that way, since Billy and I are used to the geography of the table, with its plateaus and dips and winding river valleys. You don't need to be a talented cue-man to do a swerve shot or a grand massé on that baby. Even screw-back is unnecessary if you're shooting uphill.

But none of that really mattered anyway, when you factored in the playing styles of Sherlock and Yoyo. We hadn't gotten too far into the first frame before we gave up any pretence at seriousness ' if we had any in the first place.

Yoyo's approach to the game is probably the same as his approach to karate: go in hard enough and something's bound to land. There wasn't much consideration over his shots: mark object ball ' level cue ' fire. He made Ronnie O'Sullivan look contemplative ' except the only balls he potted were flukes: odd ones nudged in accidentally in the general buckshot scatter.

Sherlock, on the other hand, approached things with the careful deliberation of Napoleon setting out his strategy map at Waterloo. First, he'd walk up to the table and look at the general lie of the balls. Then he'd chalk his cue. Then he'd walk completely around the table. Then he'd chalk his cue again. He'd hold the cue out over a couple of balls and swing it about a bit to check the angles. Then he'd stand back, take off his hat, turn it around, and put it back on. Then he'd chalk his cue again. Then he'd put his bridge hand on one cushion and slide the cue through the crook of his thumb, like a violinist on a fast movement. Then he'd stand back again, continuing to move the cue through his hand in an elaborate masturbatory pantomime. He'd step to one side and tilt his head one way, then step back and tilt it the other way ' his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the table the whole time. It was like watching a mating display by some bizarre, ungainly bird ' halfway between a puffin and a pigeon. Finally, he'd approach the table again at a completely unexpected spot, line up a completely unexpected ball, take a completely unexpected shot, miss, then thump the butt of his cue on the floor and drag it behind him like a tail as he slumped back to his chair and his can.

And that was how the games progressed. Yoyo's explosions and Sherlock's ponderings, interspersed with the more practised, break-building turns of myself and Billy. In just over two hours, we managed three frames ' one to each of us, plus a decider that finished in a draw on the black. And who should pot that? Sherlock. The only ball he managed to put away in the entire evening. Some sort of justice, if you like. Though, by that time, we were all quite pissed, so the potting of the final ball was a bit academic. It hit four cushions before going in anyway, so it was hardly planned.

When we'd finished, Billy switched off the stage lights and we made our way upstairs to the old Circle, settling ourselves on the recliners and settees he had on display up there. I took out my bottle of cheap rye, and we passed it around in the silvery darkness. The cloud that had blocked out the sky all day had lifted, and the moon through the clerestory windows gave us all the light we needed. I didn't need to imagine hard to see us all as sitting out under the stars somewhere ' on a ledge above a prairie, say, with the moon-glistened bulks of the furniture stacks below us as rocks and clumps of trees. It was a nice way to round off a nice evening. We could just completely relax, feel the spirit settling in, let the chat drift between us like fire smoke. Just what my play was going to be about ' when I finally got around to it. New Year now, it looked like. Fresh start.

"Cushtie, Sherlock said. "I could quite happily live like this, you know. Your pick of comfortable furniture. A snooker table. And all the space and air as well. He took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Yo. "You're a lucky fellah, Billy.

I could only see Billy in silhouette, but I saw his pony-tailed head nod in contented agreement. And seeing it nailed a thought that had swung like a loose board through my mind all evening. But I hadn't said anything. No sense in spoiling things unnecessarily, I thought.

Billy, though, was already up on it.

"Yep¦ Take an army to shift me out of here, mate.

I looked at him again. He was as still as a rock now, his head down, his gaze fixed on the stage below ' like a lone audience member, when the house lights have dimmed, anticipating the rise of the curtain. I looked down there, too. The dark puddle outlines of the piano and the snooker table. A scratch of light where the moon caught the piano top. Nothing else.

A flame suddenly flared next to me as Sherlock lit a smoke. His eyes were also on Billy.

"You say that like you're expecting something, Bill, he said, lightly.

Billy sat back on his chair and put his feet up on the balcony rail, crossing one boot over the other, casual as you like.

"What's the saying? he said. "Always expect the unexpected.

His chair creaked as it pivoted back on its hind legs.

"I may not have much, but I've got a bit of savvy. You need it in this game. You see a thing and you know. That's why you won't see any rubbish here. He chuckled quietly. "Apart from that snooker table, of course.

Yoyo handed him the bottle and he took a pull.

"See, the thing is¦ I know what I'm sitting on with this place. I know it's worth a good few quid. Prime bit of council property. But it ain't got much of a use for them, really, has it. Town's already got a theatre and a cinema. Then again, you can't go pulling a place like this down. It ain't listed or nothing, but it's almost as old as the town is. Be a bloody uproar. So¦ what's the best thing to do with it? I know ' we'll let someone use it who can look after it. A caretaker, like. Better still¦ instead of paying him, let him set up shop, charge him rent and rates. Bit of an income, place kept in order. Good deal all 'round. And all the while, the place is sitting there, gaining in value. Just like a rare bit of furniture, in fact. You keep hold of it, up in the attic. Then one day, when you fall on hard times¦ you can always flog it on.

He was quiet for a moment. Unmoving.

"I've tried to get a lease on this place, but they won't have it. Gives 'em more flexibility with me, see. Gives 'em an ace hand. And now, a little dicky's told me they've got themselves in a bit of shtuck. Well¦ you don't have to look too far into that, do you.

I saw Yoyo's head swing forward ' his mohican slicing into the the gloom like the end of a chainsaw. "If they give you any grief, mate, they'll have fuckin' me to contend with.

Billy moved his head slightly, chuckling. "Thanks, Yo¦ but I ain't worried. It'll turn out alright. He raised his hand and tapped the side of his nose. "My savvy again. And a bit more than that, too, perhaps.

He took another swig from the bottle, then held it up towards the moonlight. At first I thought he was checking how much was left. Then I realised it was more like he was offering up a toast. Certainly, there was a sense of a 'calling to order' in it. Leastways, we all fell silent suddenly. All, I suspect, staring at the bottle too.

And it was at that moment that something else entered our combined consciousness. Something beyond our mundane little realm entirely.

A sound.

Or rather, a collection of sounds. So low, though, that you might almost have mistaken them for background noise ' like traffic passing on the streets outside, or the distant wash of the sea on the beach. Except this seemed to be coming from somewhere very much closer.

The lightest ripple of musical notes, it seemed ' damped, yet distinct¦ like someone brushing a gloved hand over the strings of a harp. It was very brief ' over before you were even properly conscious of it ' but finishing on a note that didn't quite end the phrase. And just as you thought it had faded to nothing, that final note came quivering back for no more than a second or two. It had a different quality to it now, though¦ more like the sound you get when you run a wet finger around the rim of a glass. High, too. Way up in the soprano range.

And that was it. It almost¦ not quite, perhaps, but almost¦ almost had the timbre of a voice.

And then it stopped completely, and the moment was gone, and we were back where we were ' like we'd come out of a spell. Like that time when you wake up in the morning, and you're aware that you're awake, but you're still not quite there¦ and then you are. That was when I realised that, without even thinking about it, I'd been holding my breath.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Then Billy lowered the bottle again.

"What, said Yoyo, ever so quietly, "the fuck was that? 

Billy sighed. A deep, satisfying sigh. One that flowed as free as a stream, not sourced in anxiety at all.

"Just the place, Yo. Old buildings are like old men¦ always creaking somewhere. Always making some funny noise.

But Billy's eyes were still fixed on the stage. I looked down there again, too. The same dark shapes bulked up. Nothing had changed.

Except¦ I sat forward in my seat and looked harder. The sliver of light on the piano top had vanished ' as if something had moved across it. I shut my eyes and rubbed them. When I looked again, I saw I'd been wrong. The light was still there ' a luminous silver line, like it had always been.

"Perhaps you've got mice in the piano, Sherlock mused. "That's what it sounded like to me.

Billy dipped his head in a quiet chuckle.

"Then that's probably all it was, he said.

Though that's not what he thought.

And nor, I have to say, did I.