Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 36
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 36 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“Certainly!” Lightfoot bobbed. “I’m dying to see what you’ve acquired.”
Merry reached behind her head, and at first I thought she was giving him her cross. But her hands came away with a silver chain. At the end hung a locket, which she deposited in Lightfoot’s outstretched palm.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, holding it aloft and watching it spin, flashing wet with rainwater.
My jaw dropped. She got jewelry?
“Is that real silver?” Tom blurted.
“Obviously.” Merry glared at him before turning back to Lightfoot. “I wanted to get something special. Something that really mattered to someone. But the story of how I got it is actually pretty simple. It was just yesterday. Because while the boys were running around town, I was stuck in my room. I was quite angry about it at the time, but I’m actually glad now, because it gave me time to think. About a lot of things… including the plan that got me that locket.
“Thursday was the first day the wardens allowed me out for good behavior. I went down to the city centre after school to hatch my plan. It went like this: Whenever a woman passed, I’d stop and remark about something she was wearing. A piece of jewelry, or a scarf. Something unique, that you couldn’t just pick up at David Evans. I’d say, ‘Oh, that’s just like my mam’s—!’” She mimed pointing, and covered her mouth.
And then, without warning, her head was in her hands, and she was sobbing. Tom and Iain looked at one another in alarm. Godwyn arched an eyebrow, while Lightfoot stroked his beard.
“I—I’m sorry,” Merry sniffled. “It’s just that she’s—and I…” She was trembling with emotion. And then she wasn’t. She sidestepped and spun, and she was consoling an invisible person where she’d just been standing. Her hand stroked an invisible back. “Poor dear, what’s the matter?”
She pivoted, and was herself again, inconsolable. “It’s my mam. There was a terrible accident, and…” She devolved into incoherent blubbering.
Pivot. “Hush now, that’s all right.” More back rubbing. “It’s all right. Go ahead and cry.”
Pivot. “Th-thank you, so m—m-much. I just… can’t believe she’s…” Sob. “It’s only a been a week, and—” Sniffle. “—when I saw your scarf, I…” When she raised her head, her eyes really were wet. “It’s just like the one she was wearing in the… oh my god, I can’t believe she’s gone…”
Merry straightened and transformed again; from the distraught, motherless version of herself, into the calm, confident version we were used to. Lightfoot regarded her like a sea lion who’s just performed a choice bit of calculus. “I had do that five or six more times till I got the locket. I ended up with pocketfuls of tissues, and two silk handkerchiefs. I was starting to worry no one was going to take the hint, but it worked out in the end. When I came home last night, my mam asked me why I’d been crying. I told her I’d bumped my elbow on a desk. Clumsy me.”
A slow smile spread over Lightfoot’s face, and his moustaches quivered. “Well played,” he clapped his hands, “Very well played.”
“Is that a pun?” Godwyn snarled, turning away. “I hate puns!”
“All the more reason.” Lightfoot’s eyes twinkled as he handed Merry back her pendant. “I grow ever more certain of your bright future, Meredith.” She accepted pendant and praise with a cheery bow and strutted back into line while the rest of us came to terms with this new version of Merry.
Had she been able to do that all this time?
“She’s bloody terrifying,” Iain murmured.
“And you, Mister Lloyd?” asked Lightfoot.
“Me?” Iain blinked dumbly. “Oh—right. Sure.” He fumbled with his bag.
“Guess it’s best for last, then,” Tom said, just loudly enough for everyone to hear.
I craned my neck to see what Iain had brought. All I could tell was that it was big and square. The moment Lightfoot’s silvery fingers touched it, his eyes widened, and he gasped. As he turned it over in his hands, a glossy black record slid hissing halfway out of its sleeve. Lightfoot traced the grooves with his fingertips. “…It’s music!”
While wondering how he could possibly know that, I got a look at the cover. A black man, a soldier perhaps, sat at a piano, in what appeared to be a pub, or perhaps a barn… that’d presumably been taken over as some kind of Allied outpost in World War II. History wasn’t my strong suit, but the tied-up Nazi and the flag beside him gave it away. The piano player had a cap on his head, a cigarette between his lips, a rifle slung over one shoulder, and a look on his face like you’d just walked in on something you shouldn’t have. Beyond him, a dark-haired woman guarded the door. There were sticks of dynamite, grenades, a radio, piles of hay, and… for some reason, a cow. The wall said VIVE LA FRANCE, and the record’s title was stenciled at the top: Underground, Thelonious Monk.
“It’s a recording,” Iain nodded, just as bewildered as the rest of us. When Lightfoot tilted his head and frowned, he explained, “A… way of listening to music that was played in the past.”
“Those thin lines—” Stuart pointed, “were etched with a needle that captured sound moving through the air. When you trace them back with a stylus and amplify them, you can recreate the original. The wider lines that aren’t engraved mark periods of silence between songs.”
“Miraculous…” Lightfoot extracted the record with an air of reverence and held it flat, level with his nose. His eyes tracked back and forth across the surface.
“It’s been sitting behind the counter at this music shop by Parc Tawe for as long as I can remember,” Iain said. “Along with a couple other albums, arranged like some kind some kind of shrine. My dad likes to go there and browse. I don’t know why, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I started thinking about things that people wouldn’t want to part with. Funny thing is, I didn’t think it would be that hard. I definitely didn’t think it’d take as long as it did.
“The bloke that runs the music shop has long, greasy hair, and always wears black. Old band shirts. Piercings. He looks like he’d be into uh… other kinds of music. But when I told him I wanted that record, you’d think I was asking for his first-born.
“He was like, ‘No way. Not for sale.’
“I said, ‘Good. Because I don’t wanna buy it.’
“He squinted at me. ‘You just said you wanted to buy it.’
“I said, ‘No, I said I wanted it.’”
Iain chuckled. “He said, ‘Kid, are you trying to rob me right now?’ His hand slid under the counter, and I didn’t know if he was going to shoot me or call the police.
“I said, ‘No, I want you to give me that record.’
“And he laughed at me! ‘This ain’t Star Wars, kid. Mind tricks ain’t gonna work.’
“But I shook my head. ‘Tell me what I have to do to get that record. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.’
“He looked at me like I was daft. ‘Why the hell would I do that?’
“‘Because it’s an opportunity,’ I said. ‘Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Uh—as long as it’s legal. And, y’know… not gross.”
“For a while we just looked at each other. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally he said, ‘Just so I we’re clear, you want me to give you this record.’
“‘Yeah.”
“‘But you don’t have any money.’
“‘Uh huh.’
“‘How old are you?’
“‘Sixteen in January. Why?’
“He was silent so long I started to get uncomfortable. He came out from behind the counter, headed toward the back of the shop. ‘Follow me.’ I kept some distance between us, in case he was going outside to beat me up. But he went through a door, into a dark room full of boxes. Looked kind of like that.” Iain nodded at the album cover. “Without the German. Or the cow. He crossed his arms and said, ‘You look strong enough. You organize this room—clean it from top to bottom—and I’ll let you have the Underground.’
“I looked around. ‘You want me to clean this? It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since that record was made.’
“He laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s probably about right. You want it or not?’
“I looked at him. Looked at the room. ‘I’ll do it.’
“‘Right o,’ he said, and started walking back toward the front. ‘Two hours on school days. No more’n five on Saturdays. You can start next week.’
“‘I said, ‘Great. Can I have the record?’
“And he gave me that look again, like I was stark raving, and said, ‘I don’t know you from Adam, kid. I’ll keep my end of the bargain when you’ve kept yours.’”
“Monday, I went back and started cleaning. And every day after. Even after eight hours, I’d barely made a dent. But—” Iain smiled. “Yesterday, as I was leaving, Owen called me over—that’s his name, Owen—and he said, ‘You know, I really didn’t think you’d do it. I figured you were either a scammer a very incompetent thief. But I can see now you’re a man of your word.’ And he gave it to me—just like that! Fool that I am, I actually argued with him.
“‘But I haven’t finished cleaning.’
“‘You will,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’ And that is how I got the record.”
“Haven’t gone today, though. Have you Lloyd?” Tom observed.
Iain glared. “I’ll phone him later and tell him it was ‘cause of the rain. I’ll be there tomorrow. He’ll understand. I am a man of my word.”
Tom snorted. “I thought Petey went to a lot of effort, but you outdid him. Went and got yourself a job!”
Iain ignored him. “You need a machine to listen to it. I’m afraid I haven’t got one—”
“No no,” Lightfoot shook his head. “I can hear it.” He tilted his head to one side and closed his eyes.
“I don’t hear anything,” Godwyn complained. “Let me see.” He swooped down and snatched at the record with a gnarled claw. But all he succeeded in doing was knocking it from Lightfoot’s hand. There was a collective gasp as the thin black disc tumbled end over end toward the floor. We held our breath, waiting for the record to shatter into a million pieces. Instead, it landed on one edge, wobbled in gradually smaller circles, and eventually came to rest, as far as we could tell, entirely undamaged. Iain’s face was bloodless. You could’ve heard a pin drop.
“Godwyn!” Lightfoot’s bark reverberated in the narrow confines of the room.
“What?” the Fomorian whined, flitting out of reach. “You dropped it! Besides, it’s fine. See?” He dove down, snatched the record, and bobbed up again. His plump cheeks swelled as he inhaled, and he let out a blast of air and spittle that surely left the thing dirtier than before. “Good as new!” He shoved it back into Lightfoot’s hands and drifted away in a huff.
Lightfoot tracked him through narrowed eyes, his lips a tight downward bow of disapproval. Sighing through his nose, he slid the record back into its sleeve, then held it out for Iain. As Iain took it, the bard managed a smile. “Cleverly done, Mister Lloyd. Of course, you pass.”
Iain grinned, some of the color returning to his face. Back in line, we greeted him with back pats and congratulations.
“Music!” Stuart shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it!”
“We can’t all be brilliant.” Iain sounded like he was only half joking.
“All right, Mister Firth!” Lightfoot said with a share of his previous jollity. “It seems you’re the only one left. Are you ready to show me what you’ve brought?”
