'You've been frightening my friend,' I said.
I DID NOT INTEND TO.
'Push off.'
THAT DOESN'T WORK, I AM AFRAID.
I did turn around then. He was about seven feet tall in his, yes, his platform soles. And, yes, he wore flares, but somehow you'd expect that. Wayne had said they were black but that wasn't true. They weren't any colour at all, they were simply clothes-shaped holes into Somewhere Else. Black would have looked blinding white by comparison. He did look a bit like John Travolta from the waist down, but only if you buried John Travolta for about three months.
It really was a skull mask. You could see the sting.
'Come here often, do you?'
I AM ALWAYS AROUND.
'Can't say I've noticed you.' And I would have done. You don't meet many seven-foot, seven-stone people every day, especially ones that walked as though they had to think about every muscle movement in advance and acted as though they were alive and dead at the same time, like Cliff Richard.
YOUR FRIEND HAS AN INTERESTING CHOICE OF MUSIC.
'Yes. He's a collector, you know.'
I KNOW. COULD YOU PLEASE INTRODUCE ME TO HIM?
'Could I stop you?'
I DOUBT IT.
All right, perhaps four cups. But the lady serving said there was hardly anything in it at all except orange squash and home-made wine, and she looked a dear old soul. Apart from the Wolfman mask, that is.
But I know all the dancers were standing like statues and the music was just a faint buzz and there were these, all these blue and purple shadows around everything. I mean, drink doesn't do that.
Wayne wasn't affected. He stood with his mouth open, watching us.
'Wayne,' I said, 'this is-'
A FRIEND.
'Whose?' I said, and you could tell I didn't take to the person, because his flares were huge and he wore one of those silver identity bracelets on his wrist, the sort you could moor a battleship with, and they look so posey; the fact that his wrist was solid bone wasn't doing anything to help, either. I kept thinking there was a conclusion I ought to be jumping to, but I couldn't quite get a running start. My head seemed to be full of wool.
EVERYONE'S, he said, SOONER OR LATER. I UNDER-STAND YOU'RE SOMETHING OF A COLLECTOR.
'Well, in a small-' said Wayne.
I GATHER YOU'RE ALMOST AS KEEN AS I AM, WAYNE.
Wayne's face lit up. That was Wayne, all right. I'll swear if you shot him he'd come alive again if it meant a chance to talk about his hobby, sorry, his lifetime's work.
'Gosh,' he said. 'Are you a collector?'
ABSOLUTELY.
Wayne peered at him. 'We haven't met before, have we?' he said. 'I go to most of the collectors' meetings. Were you at the Blenheim Record Fest and Auction?'
I DON'T RECALL. I GO TO SO MANY THINGS.
'That was the one where the auctioneer had a heart attack.'
OH. YES. I SEEM TO REMEMBER POPPING IN, JUST FOR A FEW MINUTES.
'Very few bargains there, I thought.'
OH. I DON'T KNOW. HE WAS ONLY FORTY-THREE,
All right, inspector. Maybe six drinks. Or maybe it wasn't the drinks at all. But sometimes you get the feeling, don't you, that you can see a little way into the future? Oh, you don't. Well, anyway. I might not have been entirely in my right mind but I was beginning to feel pretty uncomfortable about all this. Well, anyone would. Even you.
'Wayne,' I said. 'Stop right now. If you concentrate, he'll go away. Settle down a bit. Please. Take a deep breath. This is all wrong.'
The brick wall on the other side of me paid more attention. I know Wayne when he meets fellow collectors, They have these weekend rallies. You see them in shops. Strange people. But none of them as strange as this one. He was dead strange.
'Wayne!'
They both ignored me. And inside my mind bits of my brain were jumping up and down, shouting and pointing, and I couldn't let myself believe what they were saying
OH, I'VE GOT THEM ALL, he said, turning back to Wayne, ELVIS PRESLEY, BUDDY HOLLY, JIM MORRISON, JIMI HENDRIX, JOHN LENNON...
'Fairly wide spread, musically,' said Wayne. 'Have you got the complete Beatles?'
NOT YET
And I swear they started to talk records. I remember Mr Friend saying he'd got the complete seventeenth-, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century composers. Well, he would, wouldn't he?
I've always had to do Wayne's fighting for him, ever since we were at primary school, and this had gone far enough and I grabbed Mr Friend's shoulder and went to lay a punch right in the middle of that grinning mask.
And he raised his hand and I felt my fist hit an invisible wall which yielded like treacle, and he took off his mask and he said two words to me and then he reached across and took Wayne's hand, very gently ...
And then the power amp exploded because, like I said, Wayne wasn't very good with connectors and the church hall had electrical wiring that dated back practically to 1800 or something, and then what with the decorations catching fire and everyone screaming and rushing about I didn't really know much about anything until they brought me round in the car park with half my hair burned off and the hall going up like a firework
No. I don't know why they haven't found him either. Not so much as a tooth?
No. I don't know where he is. No, I don't think he owed anyone any money,
(But I think he's got a new job. There's a collector who's got them all - Presley, Hendrix, Lennon, Holly - and he's the only collector who'll ever get a complete collection, anywhere. And Wayne wouldn't pass up a chance like that. Wherever he is now, he's taking them out of their jackets with incredible care and spinning them with love on the turntables of the night ...)
Sorry. Talking to myself, there.
I'm just puzzled about one thing. Well, millions of things, actually, but just one thing right at the moment.
I can't imagine why Mr Friend bothered to wear a mask.
Because he looked just the same underneath, idio - officer.
What did he say? Well, I daresay he comes to everyone in some sort of familiar way. Perhaps he just wanted to give me a hint. He said DRIVE SAFELY.
No. No, really I'll walk home, thanks.
Yes. I'll mind how I go.