Dead Men's s Boots

‘No, that’s shit,’ he grumbled, stopping abruptly. ‘The sounds are too similar.’ He rotated the bigger of the two coffee cups out of the line-up and replaced it with an empty Coke can from the next table along. He tested it out, seemed saË oue rtisfied with it, tried again – and again, built up gradually from slow and steady to fast and furious, as if the rhythm had its own internal logic that dictated an accelerando tempo.

My rough-and-ready accompaniment became more confident, even though I was reading the sheet music upside down: actually I was reading it less and less, because I was starting to see where the rhythm was going and to anticipate what shape my own part of it was meant to take.

It was only a beginning, but it was strengthening with every moment that passed. Even though I was well outside my comfort zone I was glimpsing the weave that John had made: the binding that was the first phase of an exorcism.

But Pomfret slowed down and stopped. ‘Look,’ he said, tapping the sheet.

‘He’s adding in extra lines to the stave here. He’s got to have three drummers now – one with a full kit and two with tablas or something. And it all goes crazy, because the new guy is a half-beat out from the other two. He’s just driving a bus through the rhythm.’

‘It closes the gap,’ I murmured, still hearing the beat inside my head. ‘It sneaks around behind them and closes the gap. This is incredible. Don’t stop.’

‘I’ve only got two hands,’ Pomfret said. He looked at his watch.

‘And I’ve got to go, anyway. Look, whatever this stuff is, I wouldn’t waste too much time on it if I were you. It’s going to sound like shit whatever it’s played on. If it’s something Lou put you onto, she’s probably having a joke with you.’

I came down reluctantly from the one-step-removedfrom-reality zone I’d started to float away into. I stood up, gathering the sheet music with care. ‘It’s no joke,’ I assured him. ‘Thanks for your help. When’s your next gig?’

Pomfret blinked owlishly behind his oversized spectacles.

‘Tuesday,’ he said. ‘The Lock Tavern in Chalk Farm.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘I want to hear what you’re like when you’re Speedo Plank.’ I checked out a couple of places where Juliet might have been; talked to a few people who might have seen her; got nowhere, not particularly fast.

The next few hours were going to be agony. I prowled around central London like a banished ghost looking for somewhere new to haunt.