The Singer Page 11

and meaningless—I almost recoiled at their superficiality and pretension. Why had I ever written them? This time, just this once, I wanted the chance to sing something I actually meant.

  Richard wandered in, looking dazed and confused.

  “Ah, and you two!” Added Endoplasmic-Reticulum, seemingly oblivious to the fact that only one of the pair was there, “We’ll have no funny business on stage tonight, eh? Don’t want any of our fans to get the wrong impression.”

  Richard looked acutely upset and embarrassed, defenceless without the support of his twin. I suddenly realised how scared and insignificant he looked on his own. He stared at the floor, flushed magenta as his hair, mumbled something incoherently and left the room hurriedly.

  It was as if my eyes had been opened to the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. In any other industry such treatment would seem completely unacceptable. Yes, I didn’t think the Twins’ public displays of affection would do the band much good either, but I wanted to be able to tell them that myself, in my (hopefully more tactful) way. This was my band; I should be the one in control, and here he was, acting as if I didn’t know how to run the show myself. And I’d taken it all lying down, because it gave me renown and success in return. I’d considered it a fair sacrifice. But I shouldn’t have to make any more sacrifices—I’d made the ultimate sacrifice, surely? I was a Singer, cultural royalty, notorious worldwide for my charismatic and enigmatic stage persona—I’d given up my words, but with it, I realised now, I’d relinquished the reigns of my own career. And now I wanted it back.

  I picked up the fountain pen hanging round my neck and started crossing our songs, adding new ones to the end of the list. One of them was Paradigm Shift.

  “What are you doing?” Yelled Reticulum, as if I’d gone completely mad.

  I wrote my answer at the bottom of the page:

  I’m changing some of the songs on the list.

  When he read my reply, his face darkened. He snatched the page off me and tore it to pieces in from of my face.

  “You’re in no position to make any changes. You’ll play what you’re told.” He snarled, and swept form the room in a flurry of garish tartan.

  Before I could even think about this, I became aware of the sound of a massive row that must have been going on for some time. There were screams and bangs, and ominous noises of breaking objects. Presently, the door burst open and Richard and Bazooka entered, tearing at one another in a wild rage. Reese ran in behind them, and eventually we were able to separate them. Bazooka had a black eye and what looked like scratch marks down one side of his face. Richard’s nose was bleeding. They were both breathing heavily. But in addition to this, there was something odd about them that I couldn’t put my finger on right away. I looked at Reese and shrugged. He rolled his eyes. I don’t think he liked having to do the talking.

  “Look, what’s going on?” He said, resigned to the fate of having to take charge. “You two never fight! You… well, you love each other.” He seemed to find the word very difficult to pronounce.

  “That’s why we fight!” Said Bazooka, wild-eyed. “We love each other, but what is there for us to do? I love him, but I hate him too because I resent not being normal. Having to hide away, like I should be ashamed… ashamed of love…”

  Reese flinched at the word.

  I was dumbstruck (no irony intended.) I’d never heard Bazooka talk so eloquently (and coherently) before. But whatever he was on (and there was no question that he was not on anything), had made him want to speak out. And it was the first time I’d heard him refer to himself in the singular. He continued:

  “There has to be something more. We kiss, and then we hurt each other because… because I just want to… I don’t know. Because I don’t know what else to do. I just love him so much. I wish there was something more…”

  “Don’t worry,” Said Reese. “There is.”

  (Oh, why had we put it off so long?)

  Richard still hadn’t spoken. And then I noticed the difference between them. While Richard still had his massive head of black bird’s-nest hair, Bazooka’s was cut very short.

  What happened to your hair? I scribbled. I showed it to him.

  “It was getting in my eyes.”

  “But we’re a shoegazing band—that’s the point!” Cut in Richard. “It was so selfish of you. Now I’m going to have to cut mine off too, and I don’t want to!”

  “How many more times?” Exclaimed Reese, exasperated. He seemed very tired. “You don’t have to be the same! You’re two different people! Just because you love something doesn’t mean you have to become it. Being different makes life more interesting—liking different things, having different…er…skills. You can complement each other, rather than clash.”

  “What would you know?” Said Bazooka. “You never stay with any one girl for more than ten minutes.”

  (Fifteen if you’re on form, I thought.)

  Reese was suddenly silent. Bazooka’s comment seemed to have saddened him. He let go of Richard and I let go of Bazooka, tentatively. Luckily, they did not attempt to tear one another’s throats out. They walked up and stood in from of one another, like flawed mirror images.

  “Actually, I quite like your short hair.” Said Richard, quietly. “I can see your face, and it’s quite nice, even though it’s different to mine.”

  I though I was going to take a leaf out of Reese’s book and vomit.

  I glanced around me at the wreckage that was my band. Richard had blood on his shirt and Bazooka’s clothes were torn. Reese looked drained and had broken into a cold sweat. And I hadn’t even changed into my stage outfit yet.

  Just then, a stage hand stuck her head round the door.

  “This is your five minute call.” She said.

  I decided I’d give them something worth waiting for.

  Grace

  Just as I’d finally got used to missing him, he was back. I hadn’t even seen him yet—he’d gone straight from the airship to the hectic, insane preparations for the homecoming concert. (Yes, it was a “concert” now, never a gig, he was too big for that.) I was thrilled and terrified. I hadn’t seen him for so long—would he have changed? Had he missed me? Had he kept my letters? Would he still want me, or was he too important for that now? There must have been plenty of distractions in America. That would explain the brief postcards I had intermittently received but treasured as a sparse collage across my wall. My job stacking library shelves, all I was good for, was scarcely enough to distract me from my musings. Did he ever think of me? Had he been with other girls? To be honest, I didn’t really care what he’d done as long as he’d take me back. Such was the extent of my blind, idiotic devotion.

  The crowd were growing restless. We’d been here for quite a while now—every extra second seemed like agony. But I knew that as soon as I saw him, as soon as I’d heard his voice, my worries would float away. I was only hoping it would have the same effect on the increasingly restive crowd.

  The Singer

  I could hear the tumult of voices in the auditorium from backstage, and the knowledge that you were out there waiting for me gave me a heady thrill of excitement and confidence.

  “Are we going to go on?” Asked Reese, restless.

  I’d already been wired up, so I didn’t risk opening my mouth. Instead I hastily scrawled a message:

  Just go along with what I say, OK?

  The twins nodded, looking excited. They loved improvisation.

  I looked down at the metal links fixed round my ankle. I was generally kept chained to the drum kit. This was used as a kind of gimmick, a representation of the tortured life I’d chosen as a sacrifice to my art (but also had the functional purpose of preventing me from ranging past the length of my wires and inadvertently unplugging myself.) But I felt as if, this time, I needed something more. Just before we were about to walk on, I was struck by and idea. I pointed at Reese’s scarf.

  “Give me your scarf!” I mouthed silently.

  “What
?”

  I gesticulated wildly. Reese shook his head, nonplussed. I was usually far too dignified for ungainly mimes and charades, but this time I was desperate. In the end he got it.

  “But why do you want it?” He asked, confused. “You always hated it. You said it was a girl’s…”

  I snatched it off him impatiently and tied it over my mouth as if I had been gagged. If they didn’t get the message from this, they never would. Without his scarf, I could see Reese’s collarbones jutting out, and I thought I could make out the scar on his sternum where the surgery and been performed.

  Finally we took to the stage. I heard the roar of excitement hit me like a wall of sound. It sounded different, somehow, rowdier, more violent—but I trusted you, and the thought that you were out there, watching me, was enough to silence any doubts I had about what I was going to do. The air of rebellion seemed to have infected the twins, too—they took to the stage with linked hands, their fingers interlaced. The stage was so massive it seemed to take aeons just to reach our places. Through the pyrotechnics that marked our entrance and the blinding stage lights I could make out the sheer, immeasurable vastness of the auditorium.

  I took my place. I removed the gag from my mouth, and I spoke out.

  Grace

  I had absolutely no idea what was going on. They were acting like complete lunatics. Alex was ranting incoherently at the audience—there were some impatient yells from the stands. Eventually, they