As agreed, the three friends continued to have nothing to do with each other other than the monthly nights round at Ray’s, and then they only ever talked about records – they never talked about themselves, they never gossiped, they never discussed what was happening in the news. Originally, this had meant that they wouldn’t be bringing up their problems, letting their personal lives interfere with their friendship. The strange thing now was that they were all doing fine. But they didn’t tell. Martin had bought a house, Ray was engaged to be married and Hilly had become a father. Most folk thought it was Hilly’s parenthood that had turned him into a more reasonable bloke, but Martin and Ray liked to believe it was the time they spent together, listening to their records and talking about them, that had brought on the change that meant, for the first time, Hilly actually appeared to be interested in folk when he was talking to them.
Over the festive season there was no exchange of presents or even cards, instead the three friends compiled lists of their records of the year, compared them, and analysed those that were in the papers and those featured on the radio. During the summer they timed their holidays so’s not to coincide with the first Tuesday of every month. There was no illness or problem that kept them from their appointments. They were never late, nobody ever left early.
The summer was always a lean time for new releases. In view of this, it was agreed to forego the norm and have an evening in which they brought along lists of their all-time favourites. Top two hundred singles, top hundred LP’s. For the whole month they never went out. Wanting to be as sure of their lists as they could, they stayed in and played and played and played.
It proved to be a great night. Easily the best yet. So many records they’d forgotten about. They’d had near-enough identical top fives but after that it was just classic after classic after classic. The lists were beyond dispute. It was almost scary that there were so many great records that they all knew off by heart, that they all knew so much about. Thinking about it, there had to be thousands. Those they’d listed had only been a fraction. The lists had been too limiting. Next time round – if there was to be a next time round, there was some debate as to that – they’d specialise. Not in terms of genre – that was crass – but in terms of period.
That night, they opened up, they shared their dreams. In turn, they fantasised about putting their knowledge into words or owning record shops; but, like when they were young, they only ever fantasised about it. Although they now had the talent and the financial clout to make it happen, they didn’t want to be involved. Partly this was because it would break the rules of their friendship, but mostly it was because they realised they were still what they’d always been – they were fans. It was for this reason that none of them – excepting Ray’s brief flirtation – had ever pursued the performing side: they didn’t want to be stars, they wanted to have stars. In the same way that, by and large, folk don’t want to be Gods, folk want to worship Gods.
And so things continued.
Until, that was, the evening one month short of the third anniversary of their first meeting.
Hilly didn’t turn up.
Hilly was never late. He’d never been late for anything in his life. He just didn’t do things like that.
Martin and Ray waited. They didn’t start. They wouldn’t start without Hilly.
After about an hour, the phone rang. It was a guy who introduced himself as being Phil, Hilly’s brother-in-law.
There’d been an accident, Phil said, Hilly had been involved in an accident up at his work.
It seemed important for Phil to take his time and explain as best he could everything that had happened.
It was ten days ago. Hilly had been doing a flitting over the old town. They’d been taking a chest-freezer down a flight of stairs when the guy at the top end had lost his grip. While the guy endeavoured to retrieve his grip, Hilly had tried to wedge the chest-freezer against the bannister. But, somehow, the chest-freezer slipped, pushing Hilly down the stairs.
Phil said he wasn’t sure what had happened after that, but next thing anybody knew was that Hilly was flat out at the foot of the stairs. He must’ve lost his footing or something because the chest-freezer hadn’t moved. It had stayed put, perfectly wedged between the bannister and the wall.
Ray asked if Hilly was alright.
Phil took a deep breath. No, he said, Hilly wasn’t alright. Hilly was in a coma. He’d been unconscious for ten days.
As much as Ray had been half-expecting something like that, the actual words still managed to shock him in a way that amounted to nothing less than physical pain.
Ray asked when they could go up and visit. Phil said whenever, they could come up any time they wanted.
Ray thanked Phil for letting them know, and said they’d probably be up later on.
Ray told Martin. They talked about what they should do.
They were both thinking along the same lines, but they didn’t want to do it – they didn’t want to make a tape up for Hilly.
It seemed corny. It seemed sick. It seemed like interfering.
But the more they went on about it, the more it made sense. Really, it was the only thing they could do. That was what this night was all about. The records were more important to Hilly than Martin and Ray ever were. Hilly was the one who always said he’d rather be blind than deaf. It was one of those challenges he always set the other two, like a childhood dare – would you rather be blind or deaf?
The deciding factor was when they got round to thinking about what would’ve happened if the circumstances had been reversed. It’s what Hilly would’ve done. Hilly wouldn’t even have thought about it, he’d just have gone ahead and done it.
Ray looked out the list of Hilly’s all-time favourite records. They used that as their guide to make the tape up.
It proved to be a truly horrible experience, listening to all these records, records that would normally have got them so excited, records, as Hilly put it, that made them feel so alive. After a while, they turned the sound as low as they could get away with, and busied themselves doing other things. Martin made a few calls, Ray went for petrol.
Even so, the process, by its very nature, could not be speeded up, and once they’d filled a side of a C-90, they called it a day, and headed up to the hospital.
They always said that the thing about folk in these situations was how normal they looked, how peaceful, but Hilly didn’t look normal. He didn’t look pained or distressed or harmed in any way, but in no way could you have said he looked normal.
There were four visitors already sitting round the bed.
Other than to say hello, Martin and Ray hadn’t spoken to Hilly’s mum for close on ten years, but she acknowledged them as though she’d only just seen them the day before. The passing of so much time didn’t seem to mean anything.
A bloke stood up and offered his hand. He introduced himself as being Phil, Hilly’s brother-in-law, the guy that had phoned. Phil introduced the two women sitting by the bedside as being his sisters, Sarah and Julie. A second later he added that Sarah was Hilly’s wife. Martin and Ray hadn’t seen Sarah since the day of the wedding. If they hadn’t been told her name, they wouldn’t’ve recognised her.
Phil started to apologise for taking so long to let them know, but stopped when Ray shook his head to indicate that it didn’t matter.
Martin took the tape and the Walkman from his bag. He asked if it was okay to leave them. The folk seemed a bit unsure but nobody objected. Martin explained as how the tape was made up of Hilly’s favourite records. Everybody looked at Martin as though he was talking some kind of foreign language.
Hilly’s mother told Martin just to go ahead. She put her arm around Sarah’s shoulder and said,