I Am (Not) the Walrus (6 page)

8

Thursday

“Could I make a phone call?” I say.

“Of course.” She gathers up her coffee and the envelopes, then heads for the door.

“It's to Brunswick,” I say. “Is that long distance?”

“It is,” says Mom, “but it's after six so you're okay. Do you have the number?” she says.

“No. I was just going to dial some random digits,” I say.

She ignores my comment and says, “Do you have the code for Brunswick?”

I shake my head.

“01375.” She almost smiles. “Don't talk too long,” she says, “or I really will take your bass away.”

Mom leaves and I push the door closed. I take out the note and examine it.

What am I going to say?

Why am I even doing this?

Maybe I'll just hang up if she answers. I think I just want to know if Julie McGuire is real. I want to know that should it become necessary, I could give her the bass back, although I'm not sure how I'm going to find that out from a phone call.

I dial the code, then the number.

The phone makes a weird beeping sound, and a robot woman says, “The number you have dialed is not available. Please check your number and dial again.”

I key in the number again, but get the same message. I examine the note to see if there's another hidden number, or if I've read it wrong, but it's fairly clear.

I open the kitchen door and call to Mom, “The code for Brunswick is 01375, right?”

“01375,” comes the reply.

I try yet again, and still get the robo-woman.

I turn off the light, and head out into the hall.

“Did you get ahold of them?” says Mom from the living room.

“No,” I say. “I just keep getting the wrong-number message.”

“What's the number?” she says.

I push open the door to the living room. She's lying on the sofa with a pair of glasses propped on her nose. She holds out a hand for the note, but I just read it out to her. I don't want her to know what's in the rest of the note. “553554.”

“Is that it?” She sits up.

“Were you expecting more?” I say.

“Actually yes,” she says. “You only have six digits. They added a three to the start of all the Brunswick numbers a few years ago.”

“A few years ago?” I say.

“You know, I'm not sure. More than five years ago I think,” she says. “If you don't mind me asking, how on earth did you come by an out-of-date number for Brunswick?”

“It's just an old friend of Shawn's,” I say.

She pushes up her glasses. “Does this person have a name?”

“Mom!” I say. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

“Toby,” says Mom. “I don't think you know this, but Shawn had some iffy friends. Not good people to be mixed up with.”

“What do you mean by iffy friends?” I say.

“Just not a good crowd,” she says.

“I'll give it one more try,” I say. “It's an old number. I'm probably not going to get through to them anyway.”

I go back to the kitchen. I dial the Brunswick code, the three, and then the number. I'm so convinced that I'm going to get robo-woman again that I almost put the phone down. But it rings. It rings four times, and finally someone answers.

Nobody speaks. I wait for one, two, three heartbeats. Maybe the line went dead. “Hello?” I say.

“Good evening, good sir.” A man's voice. Maybe about Frosty's age, and with an accent. It sounds to me like an English person putting on an American accent. Or maybe it's an American impersonating an English accent.

“Oh, hello,” I say again. I was so ready for no answer that I haven't thought how I was going to approach this. “I'm sorry to bother you—”

“It's no sweat,” he says quickly. “What can I do for you? Hey, I recognize your accent. Are you calling from London? I love London. I'm hoping to get down there before too long. Yeah. Buckingham Palace, Paddington Station, Kensington Gardens. Cool.”

“Oh, no. I live in Port Jackson, actually.” I sense this is not going to be easy, but I think about Mom, and the firm, fair, and friendly thing. “Look, this is probably a long shot—”

He interrupts again. “Port Jackson. Yeah, Port Jackson is a cool place. I've had some fine times there in the past. Maybe some fine times still to come if you know what I mean.”

I have no idea how to respond to this so I just say, “I'm trying to trace someone by the name of Julie McGuire. I was wondering if she still lived there.”

He doesn't respond for a while. Maybe he's hung up. I'm just about to put the phone down again when I hear laughter in the background, presumably from a TV.

Then it's his voice again. “Julie McGuire?” he says. “You know, now that you mention her name, I do get the feeling I know her. Maybe if you could give me some clue as to what this is about it might jog my memory?”

“My brother had the number,” I say. I'm not sure how much information I should give out over the phone to a stranger, but he sounds trustworthy, and maybe that firm, fair, and friendly rule works. It would be fair to trust him unless I have a really good reason not to, and if I'm friendly I might find what I need to know. “He's in the navy, and we were sorting out his things, and we found this number.”

I pause to see if this jogs his memory, but he doesn't say anything.

“You see,” I say, “he had something that belongs to Julie, and we'd like to give it back.”

“What kind of thing?” he says.

Okay. Maybe it's risky to give out so much detail, but he's really the only lead I have to Julie, so I suppose I'm going to have to chance it. “A bass guitar. An electric bass,” I say.

There's a pause. I hear more laughter in the background, and then a sound that is obviously clapping, but it actually makes me think of rain.

“An electric bass?” he says, and pauses again.

Maybe he doesn't know what an electric bass is.

I start to say, “It's like an electric guitar—”

“Oh, no,” he says. “I know what an electric bass is.”

More clapping in the background.

“Yeah,” he says. “You would want to give that back. Those things can be pretty valuable. Hey, don't tell me. It's not a Fender is it?”

Is this bloke beginning to get a little too curious, or is it just me being paranoid? Be fair and friendly. “You know,” I say, “does any of this ring a bell? I mean if you don't know Julie McGuire—”

“Whereabouts are you in Port Jackson?” he says.

“Listen,” I say. “I need to go. I'm sorry I bothered you.”

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I'm pretty certain I can help you. By the way, I used to live just above Memento Park. Brackett Street. You know it?”

“Sure.” I really don't want to be rude to this guy, but I think I have to. To be honest, he sounds drunk. Maybe I should try him again when he's sober. “I know it well. Listen. Does Julie still live there? I can't really talk for long. My mom's worried about the phone bill.”

“No problem, my friend,” he says. “I get the picture in full color, and in 3-D. No problem. So you're near Memento Park?”

“I have to go,” I say.

“You know,” he says. “I bet you live in one of the season streets. You're not in Summer Street are you? I used to have a really good friend in Summer Street.”

“No,” I say.

“What's that?” he says. “No you don't live in Summer Street, or no you don't live in the seasons streets?”

“I'm going to hang up,” I say. “My mom is standing behind me. She wants to use the phone.”

“Oh, I understand,” he says. “I completely understand. Here, why don't you leave your name and number, and I'll call you back.”

I take the phone away from my hand. Just before I put my hand over the earpiece, I hear his voice but not what he says. I put the handset back on its cradle.

I take a long breath with my eyes shut. How could I be so stupid? I might as well have told him everything. He probably has caller ID. He knows my number. I stare at the phone a while longer. If he calls back I want to pick up right away. But he doesn't call back. Maybe if he's drunk he won't remember the call. I back away from the phone as if it's an unpredictable dog. I get halfway up the stairs. I turn again. Still it doesn't ring.

I was wrong. Zack was right. Trying to give back the bass is just a waste of time.

Finally, I get back to my room and take out the note again. It could easily be fake. It could even have been written by the bloke I was just speaking to. The thought makes my stomach turn.

I take out my copy of
Fahrenheit 451
and turn to the title page.

Written in neat blue ink are the words: Katrina Morgan. I hold the note next to Katrina's handwriting.

Totally different.

9

September last year

It was the final evening of the summer holidays last year and I was standing on Katrina's doorstep. I had my back to the door and the whole of Port Jackson in front of me.

I breathed in the cool air, and strode across the front lawn. Her parents preferred me to use the path, but it wound around the flower beds a little too much for my liking, and I was feeling in a direct kind of mood that evening.

As I stepped gingerly between the stalks of lilies and chrysanthemums, I pondered some of the things Katrina had told me. Apparently being sex-obsessed was only
the tip of the iceberg. I was also rude, mean, selfish, and dishonest. In short, I was a bad, bad person, and that is why I had been dumped.

Having just been dumped, I didn't really feel in the mood to sit in my room and do homework, so I headed toward the downtown area, which was almost ninety degrees to my route home.

I took Denmark Street, which goes all the way into the shopping district. The only problem with Denmark Street was that it went past school. I'd been to school enough times already today, and I had enough bad memories to keep me going for one evening, so I took a detour that looked like it went in the right direction. Ombard Street, the sign said, although it looked like some of it might have been broken off. It was a side road I'd never been on before. According to my sense of direction, Ombard Street should have allowed me to bypass the school by a couple of blocks, then get back onto Denmark Street. Naturally this was not my night, and Ombard Street turned sharply and immediately came to a dead end. But at the dead end, with all its lights spilling out onto the dark street, was a music shop.

I had a bass. It was my brother's, and I'd been playing it for a year or so while he was away. I'd always thought I should have my own instrument. Maybe that was a sign of my selfishness, that I was happy to play someone else's guitar rather than provide my own. I crossed the narrow street and went inside.

The door pinged once as I opened it, and again as I closed it. The room I'd stepped into looked as if a tipper truck full of old, battered, and unwanted musical equipment had been emptied into it. It was crammed floor to ceiling with instruments I recognized, including saxophones, trumpets, trombones, accordions, and violins, but there were a number of instruments I'd never seen before. Dangling from the ceiling was something that looked like a combination of a saxophone and a trumpet. Right next to it was a violin with a triangular body, and standing next to the door was a trombone with piano keys.

At first I thought the place was empty, but then an echoing voice said “Good evening.” Even with the echo, I could tell that the voice had a faint foreign accent of some kind.

Once I got used to the dim light, I could see that there was actually a pathway between the piles of instruments on the floor. I made my way down this path toward where the voice had come from.

Next to the counter was what appeared to be a seven-foot-tall saxophone with a pair of trouser legs attached to it. With the other weird instruments, I wasn't surprised to see a sax with legs but then the legs moved back, revealing that they were not actually part of the instrument, but belonged to a man with a face the color of rosewood and shoulder-length dreads. Clutched in his hands were a number of rods and plates, presumably from the sax.

“May I help you?” he asked. I could hear the accent more strongly now. Maybe it was a little French, but not really from any place I could put my finger on. He put his head back into the gigantic bell of the sax.

I did a quick survey of everything that was hanging from the ceiling. Drums, cymbals, bits of oboes, cellos, banjos, and bongos, but no guitars or basses I could see. Maybe it was one of those shops that only catered to the kind of musicians who wore thick glasses and beards without mustaches.

“Do you have any electric guitars or basses?” I said.

“Upstairs,” came the reply. Without taking his head out of the sax he pointed to the back corner of the showroom with a screwdriver. I stepped carefully in the direction of the screwdriver. Hidden in the shadows was a narrow flight of steps with a handwritten sign saying guitars and basses.

“Thanks,” I said, and climbed the stairs.

The second floor was even more amazing than the first. I almost felt like I ought to genuflect. Or maybe it was more a museum than a church, because three of the four walls were jammed to bursting point with electric guitars and basses, all different colors and shapes, and all of them either old or ancient.

The instruments dangling from the first wall were totally in keeping with the downstairs. All crazy shapes and colors. I didn't recognize a single one.

Not so the second wall. This one was taken up by Japanese copies of famous American guitars. These were all well made, and good to play. It was the third wall that got my attention though. These were all the original American guitars and basses, made by Gibson, Fender, Rickenbacker, and Gretsch. The Cadillacs of the guitar universe.

The fourth wall was a window that looked out onto Ombard Street.

The first thing I did was start counting the instruments, but I got sidetracked at the twentieth one. It was a p-bass, the same as Shawn's, but this one was really battered. Most of the lacquer was gone, leaving the bare wood of the body. The price tag said ninety-nine, ninety-nine. I could afford that. I could get a part-time job and it wouldn't take me too long to save up. I pulled the bass off the wall, propped it on my knee, and plucked a few notes. Funnily enough, for a bass that looked like a piece of driftwood, it felt really good to play. I moved up and down the fret board. It was perfectly in tune. I turned around, sat on the stool, and plugged the instrument into the amplifier. I placed my fingers on the fret board and plucked three notes. I could feel the sound in my mouth. It made me swallow. Before I could play another note, a series of footsteps hammered up the little staircase. A face appeared in the doorway before the notes even stopped ringing off the walls. The older gent from downstairs.

“Stop,” he pleaded, with his palms out. “Stop!”

I froze with my hands hovering just above the strings. Was it dangerous? Was it toxic? Would my hair fall out now that I'd touched it?

The gent crossed the room in about three steps. He slid the guitar off my lap. I was as rigid as a shop dummy.

“It is a 1962 Fender Precision bass,” gasped the gent as he placed it back on the wall, hooking its little loop of guitar string over the hook.

“But it's only ninety-nine pounds,” I said. “I could
buy it.”

“Nine thousand,” muttered the gent, “nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds. I'm selling it for a collector friend of mine. It's not just the most valuable instrument you have ever touched.” He prodded himself in the chest with his thumb. “It's the most valuable instrument I have ever touched.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“It's okay,” said the gent. He reached past me, unhooked another p-bass from the wall, and handed it to me.

He said, “Give it a whirl.”

This time I folded my fingers around the neck and body as if it was a priceless vase. As if the slightest knock would shatter it. Then I sat down on the stool with it.

The gent shuffled around behind me, plugged one end of a lead into an amp, then plugged the other end into the bass.

I played a quick blues line. I felt I was supposed to comment so I said, “Sounds nice.”

He gave me a not-quite-a-grin, and said, “Put it through its paces.” Then he turned his back on me and clumped back downstairs.

Once he was gone I relaxed and began playing a bass line I'd heard on the radio a couple of days earlier. I ran through it a couple of times. I was just about to start a third verse when a voice next to me made me jump.

“Brilliant,” said the voice. “That's ‘Nowhere Man,' right?”

I was so shocked that I almost dropped the guitar. The owner of the voice was a kid from school. I'd seen him a few times, but I didn't know him. “Yup. ‘Nowhere Man,'” I said. “You have a good ear.”

“Thanks,” he said. “My dad played my first Beatles record when I was a baby,” he said, “and I haven't stopped listening to them since.” He reached his hand over to me. “I'm Zack, by the way. If you don't mind me asking, are you in a band?”

I twisted around in my seat so I could reach over the bass and shake his hand. “Not at the moment,” I said.

He sat down on top of the amp. “I've been trying to put together a band for a while,” he said. “And I want to play mostly Beatles stuff.”

“Good idea,” I said. “The songs are great. Everybody likes them.”

He spread his hands. “I don't have a bass player yet. I mean, would you be interested?”

To be honest, my first thought was to say no, but then I thought back about what Katrina said about me not having any friends. I think I just wanted to prove her wrong. I nodded. “We could give it a go.”

“I think it's going to be amazing.” Zack sprung up, and selected a telecaster from the wall. “This is what I have,” he said, then pointed at the p-bass on my knees. “You have your own axe, right?”

I was going to say yeah, sure, but Katrina came back to me again, with all that stuff about me being devious, so I said, “I have my brother's p-bass. He's in the Navy so he doesn't use it.”

“Do you think he's going to want it back?” said Zack.

“It's not so much that,” I said. “It's more like I don't feel right about using his stuff while he's away. I was trying to find one of my own.”

“Let's do ‘Nowhere Man.'” Zack sat down opposite me, and plugged his guitar into the same amp. I counted us in. We played a couple of verses with me playing bass and Zack playing chords, and then he jumped in with the guitar solo. I'd never listened to it that carefully before, but Zack was playing it note-for-note exactly as it was on the record, and I realized right away that it was a difficult solo, and that Zack was a pretty good musician.

“That's amazing,” I said. “You make it look so easy.”

“I mostly play along to records,” he said. “It's the first time I've ever played it with someone else.” He pointed to my bass. “Is your brother's bass as good as that?”

“I think it might be better, actually,” I said. “You know, I was wondering. Are all p-basses worth like ten thousand pounds?”

“No.” He reached over and peered at the swinging tag on the one I was playing, which I hadn't noticed. “This one is only four hundred. I think the older they are the more valuable they are.”

“My brother's p-bass is old,” I said.

“Could be worth something,” said Zack. “Are you thinking of selling it?”

“No way,” I said. “It's not mine to sell. I was just thinking if it was valuable it ought to be insured.”

“Ask Harry,” said Zack. “He can tell you how much it's worth in an instant.”

“Is that Harry downstairs?” I said.

“Yeah. Harry Haller,” said Zack. “It's his shop. He's a great guy.”

“My ears are burning.”

We both turned to face Harry Haller, who was once again at the top of the stairs.

“That sounded very nice,” he said, “but I'm afraid I have to kick you out. My wife has dinner on the table, and she does not care for cold food when it is supposed to be hot.”

“Thank you for letting me play, Mr. Haller.” I handed him back the bass. “Sorry about the other bass.”

“You can call me Harry.” He hooked it back in its slot and turned to me. “You're welcome to play any instrument in the store, but please ask me first before you take down any of the old Gibsons and Fenders.”

“My brother has a p-bass,” I said. “I think it's pretty old. I was wondering how much it was worth. I mean, I should get it insured if it's valuable.”

He grinned at me. “What is your name, my friend?”

“Toby.”

“I could take a quick look, Toby, and give you a ballpark figure,” he said. “I charge twenty pounds to do a full evaluation, and if it's an old precision bass, then you should do that. You will need to get it properly insured, and an insurance company will honor my evaluation.”

“But the most it could be worth is about ten thousand,” I said.

Harry Haller laughed, and pointed to the one I'd played earlier. “This one is just the most valuable instrument I have played. A couple of months ago a precision bass was sold in New York for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Yikes,” said Zack.

“And the prices are still going up,” said Harry. “The p-bass you were playing is ten years old. It's just a second-hand bass, not worth as much as a new one. The bass I rescued from you is about thirty years old. You know how much that one is worth. The p-bass that sold for a hundred thousand dollars was nearly sixty years old.”

“Wow.”

“Does your brother's bass have a solid case?” said Harry.

“No, just a gig bag. A soft case,” I said.

“Follow me.” Harry led us downstairs. He rooted around behind the counter and produced something that looked like a black coffin. “Here. Take this,” he said. “It's a precision case. It's old. It's solid, and it's very heavy, but it will protect your bass in all but the worst accidents, and you look pretty strong.”

“I don't have any money on me,” I said.

“Take it,” said Harry. “Bring it back if you buy a better one. It's just taking up space here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“What did I tell you?” said Zack. “A really decent bloke.”