It’s not the screams that will do for me so much as the music. If they could play one LP forward then I’d be happy but Rob’s obsessed that there’s a message, somewhere, backwards and he’s trusting no one else to find it. I’m pretty sure it has more to do with Simon scratching the fuck out of the Dead when they started so that now Rob’s made a nest at the arse end of the library and he’s letting no one near.
Every time in the 60s and it goes wrong. I don’t know why we bother.
There’s gunfire outside which might be bad or might be Simon. He’s got those eyes here, too dry from not enough blinking and if we’ve been here a day he’s not slept for three. The last I saw of him he was laughing over by the door, naked to the waist but for a straw hat and scarf and packing more pistols than a pirate. This time it’s the Yardbirds and the same for the next, and the next. Outside and a tallyman sneaks by. It’s dark but his sunglasses reflect the fires, the scissors that make for his fingers not at all.
“Stop it!” says Moz, shouting. Rob’s looking angry but Moz decided on minute-one that this time – no piggy. It’s Duncan that's still screaming, hung half from the ceiling and half from the floor on phone flex and fishing line. Moz is red. His head is burning so that shouting and spitting it might be from the heat. I wish he’d put down the cricket bat. Half bat to be exact, he lost the end six inches on Duncan. I wish Duncan would shut up.
The 60s are rubbish. It’s not Austin Powers, and it’s certainly not the Monkees. The hippies you think you’ll find are nowhere to be seen. Everyone still dresses like their Dad, or at least here. Or not here exactly because this is the library. Good stone walls, sturdy, with narrow windows and built at the same time as the town hall - a moat. We should be safe and we would be safe but nothing’s got a paperback and the records started to skip.
The tides so far out we can’t even see the New Wave.