The Singer Page 12

struck up a song, and the crowd relented—but there were a few catcalls mixed in with the cheers. The song itself was nothing like anything I’d heard before. After a while I recognised it as one from their latest album (which, to be honest, seemed to have gone over most people’s heads), one of the many they’d never performed—but it was barely recognisable. It was louder, wilder, more frantic—and Alex seemed electrified with some sort of insane power—you could almost see the sparks flying off him as he sang with glorious abandon.

  He looked completely mad. Gone were the days of his relatively conventional outfits and inconspicuous appearance. Instead, he seemed to have become some sort of decadent caricature of a rock star, with enormous, tangled hair, skin tight leather trousers and massive, terrifying boots covered in chains and metal spikes. His vest displayed most of his machinery and his metal arm. He had transformed himself, like his voice, into something unreal and superhuman, embracing this aloof persona of larger than life proportions. I didn’t mind, of course—he could make any image look compelling. And if this is what sold in America, so be it. But I was sure there was something else going on here.

  I didn’t expect the band to have changed so much either. One of the twins (I could never tell which) still looked like a shocked ghost, but the other one looked almost normal now—in fact, I thought they’d brought in someone else at first. And as for Reese, well, I barely recognised him as the good-looking pinup boy they always put at the front in daguerreotype shoots. My long-suffering friend would have been dismayed at the deterioration, had she not by now transferred her fickle affection to Pete from the Lost Boys. As it was, she barely seemed to notice. But it was indeed a very sad demise, and I wondered what had happened to him. He had finally overstepped the narrow line between “fetchingly malnourished” and “worryingly emaciated”, and now just looked unhealthily gaunt and ill. His eyes looked huge in his deathly pale face, making him seem very young and fragile. He was, after all, only eighteen. And, worst of all, his beautiful shiny hair the colour of butterscotch had lost all its lustre and now hung dull and lifeless across his face. I had absolutely no idea how Alex had allowed his friend to get into such a state—hadn’t he noticed? Was Reese ill—and wasn’t there anything Alex could do to help him?

  My attention was drawn to the words Alex was singing—there was something not quite right about them. And then I realised—they actually made sense. He was singing, and his words sounded real, and serious, and heartfelt—this wasn’t like Alex at all. It made me wonder—was it still just an act, or did he now really believe all that tortured soul stuff? I always thought he was just tricking us all, giving us all what we wanted—but I knew that look on his face and it certainly didn’t seem ironic anymore.

  By now the song had stopped and Alex was speaking again. I remembered his lovely halting, boyish voice from the old days, with that familiar accent from the Provinces. I’d forgotten how wonderful it was to hear him speak.

  “This feels incredible!” He was saying, his voice ringing out across the cavernous interior of the Royal Albert Hall. “I feel like I can breathe again. Just being able to say things—I don’t get the chance to talk much, for obvious reasons.”

  There were a few laughs—he smiled, encouraging them.

  “So I just thought I’d say this while I had the chance.” And although I was far away, just a face in an enormous crowd, I could have sworn he was looking straight at me.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for being so fantastic, for supporting me through all this—I’ve been gone for so long and I’ve really missed you. I couldn’t have done any of it without you. I love you. I really love you, and I know I don’t say it often enough, but it’s true.”

  I felt as if I was floating upwards, above the teeming crowd, above everything—I just couldn’t contain my joy. He’d said it! He’d finally said it—at last I was sure that he felt the same towards me as I did to him. Nothing could have dampened my happiness right then. The knowledge that someone loves you, has been thinking of you, cares about what happens to you, feels so secure and comforting it’s like being wrapped in a warm blanket, insulated against the rest of the world.

  But he hadn’t finished.

  “I Know I shouldn’t be saying this.” He continued, confidently. “But I don’t think it’s right, or fair, the way I’m being used—manipulated, like a puppet. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? That I, Numb Prospero, am little more than a slave to this ruthless industry I’m in. I signed my free will over to them when they made me into a Singer. And now I have to sing for them forever until I’ve repaid that debt.”

  The audience was in shocked silence. Alex glanced distractedly to the side of the stage and I saw movement there. Some sort of scuffle seemed to have broken out in the wings. Hurriedly, he pressed on.

  “But we’re all slaves, in some way, aren’t we? None of us have our full freedom. And this is what the next song is going to be about. It’s called Paradigm Shift -”

  The band struck up, fervently, and he began to sing:

  “Take away these chains so I can be free -”

  Then, suddenly, three things happened all at once. The first was that Alex’s voice abruptly cut out, and he was left mouthing silently into thin air, shocked. Evidently, the backstage struggle had won out and somebody had pulled the power cable on Alex’s amplifier. I though I caught a glimpse of lurid checked tartan from behind the large boxes. But we were given no time to react to this because, barely seconds later, a grinding discord of minor keys sounded as Reese collapsed onto his keyboard, then keeled over in a dead faint. The twins took advantage of the distraction by choosing that moment to embrace in a passionate kiss of Hollywood proportions.

  At the sight of this incendiary diorama, the already edgy crowd broke out into a full-on riot. I tried in vain to make my way towards the stage, desperately forcing a route through brawling fists and panicked shrieks. Pointlessly, uselessly, I kept yelling out Alex’s name, over and over again, until the word seemed to lose all meaning.

  The Singer

  It didn’t take long for Reese to come round. No one could find anything wrong with him except that he looked like he was starving to death. But he was refusing all offers of food. Someone took me aside.

  “If you can’t get him to eat anything, he’s going to die.”

  This was interesting. I’d never know anyone who was gong to die before.

  Once things had calmed down a bit, and people had stopped blustering around him, I went and sat down where he was. I took out my pen and scribbled furiously. I was glad I had a captive audience for once, and he couldn’t just walk off and ignore what I’d written.

  What the bloody hell is going on? You’ve got to eat something.

  “What’s the point?” He replied, dejectedly. “If I eat, I’m only going to throw it up again, and then the whole vicious circle will start over. I don’t want to have to do that anymore. I’m tired of it! So tired…” He buried his head in his hands.

  This was ridiculous. It would be highly inconvenient if Reese was to die. I needed him to play the keyboard, for God’s sake! I tried to persuade him.

  Can’t you just stop yourself?

  “I don’t want to—why should I? Besides, I think I’ve gone too far for that.”

  Nothing is irreversible.

  He seemed unconvinced. But if nobody could make him eat, I couldn’t see what else I could do. Maybe I could find another keyboard player somewhere. Then I remembered his favourite drink—hot chocolate, with no milk, to look like black coffee. Surely he wouldn’t be able to resist that.

  A few minutes later, I set his favourite “I ♥ CATS” mug down beside him.

  Drink this. Don’t think about what you’re doing.

  He picked up the mug cautiously and took a tentative sip. He grimaced.

  “You make really terrible hot chocolate.” He said, smiling wanly. But he continued to slowly drain it nonetheless. I started scribbling again.

  Do you have a deat
h wish?

  “I’m fine, honestly!”

  I don’t think he even believed me that he was killing himself. He was much too deep in denial for that. But he opened up a little.

  “I wanted to be perfect.” He said. “All this attention on me, once the band had taken off—I felt the pressure to be as ideal as I possibly could. And if I was perfect, maybe it would help me find someone who I actually felt something for…”

  I know about your surgery.

  He didn’t look too surprised. Instead he came clean.

  “When I had it done, it was fine to start with. I felt wonderful, free, like a burden had been lifted off my shoulders—I could do exactly as I wanted. But after a while the coldness and loneliness sets in, and it’s agony, like a physical pain—I just couldn’t bear it anymore. All I had to think of was me, and my appearance, and I began to obsess about myself and—well—at least doing it made me feel something. I was desperate—and now I don’t know what to do. I just want to go back to how I was before.”

  Surely the feeling will pass?

  “I used to think that.” He replied. “All of it was bearable, even enjoyable, not having any attachments—as long as I kept moving on, quickly, so I never got bored, so I always maintained hope—but then something made me stop and think. I met a girl who I thought I could love, if I had a heart.”

  Who was it?

  “What does it matter? It’ll never happen. It was just one of Grace’s friends—but she was perfect for me. She was really funny, and nice, and she liked the same things as me -”

  (Twee and cake, that’s not hard, I thought to myself.)

  “– and she seemed to be interested who I really was, rather than, you know, what I could do to her…” He coloured. It always amazed me how, given his extensive experience in matters such as this, he could still be so awkward when it came to talking about them.

  “It was like she saw me as an actual person, not just some famous rock star eye candy she could say she’d ”met“. And I tried to be able to love her, I really did—I searched deep inside me for that extra spark, but there was nothing. I felt nothing at all—just kind of numb, and empty.”

  And now you want your heart back so you can fall in love with her?

  I wished I could express vague incredulity in writing. It seemed like a lot of fuss to be making over just one person.

  Reese nodded. “I suppose I do.”

  Just then, a resounding crash echoed through the room as Endoplasmic-Reticulum flung the door open. He stood in the doorway, a picture of ill-contained irate rage.

  “You.” He said, choked. “Outside. Now.”

  I went. What could I do?

  He was pacing outside the door, puffing on his black cigar, his face still a florid shade of vermillion. As soon as he saw me his eye took on a steely and determined glint. He stepped right forward, trapping me against the wall. I could smell the foul reek of the cigar and fought my utmost not to cough.

  He knew I hated the smell, and he knew I’d had a sensitive throat ever since the transformation. He’d been witness to the ridiculous lengths I’d had to go through to preserve my voice. Bottle upon bottle of buttercup cough mixture, honey and lemon tea (which I hated—Reese always made it too sweet), avoiding chocolate or milk or anything that could ruin my precious voice; remembering to close all the windows at night and the ridiculous amount of vitamins and supplements I had to take to prevent my newly weakened throat from becoming infected.

  I knew he meant business. Soon enough, he spoke.

  “What the bloody hell was that?” He asked. “Look what you’ve done! Do you want to go and ruin everything? You ungrateful little bastard! You don’t care, do you? As long as you cause a commotion, get plenty of attention—you don’t care if you destroy everything I’ve built…”

  He’d built?

  I tried to shout, losing myself, forgetting I could make no sound.

  “Enough of your mummery.” He smiled. “Unless you toe the line, you’re out.”

  What?!

  “See, you’re listening now, aren’t you? What would you be, if I dropped you? Nothing! Nothing at all. I can make your name muck. You think you’re the only one with talent? There are hundreds of others just waiting to take your place. And none of the other labels would hire you—I have them all under my influence. You’d be cast out, a nobody, unable to speak, unable to sing, unable to do anything at all.”

  Of course, I realised later that he would never have done such a thing. I was such a great money-spinner that I could have taken up gangster rap and he would have been forced to go along with it. But at the time, with my vision clouded with anger, I felt trapped—I would have done anything to escape. If only I’d waited a while, given it a few more months, calmed down and thought about it pragmatically—but that had never been one of my strong points. And it’s too late now, anyway.

  I took the notebook hanging round my neck (yellow and green herringbone, the one that I used to love so much) and scribbled my answer desperately:

  Then what if I don’t want to be a Singer anymore?

  “Restoration?” He laughed cruelly. “That’s a risky process, Alex—even more precarious than transformation. You could die from it. And returning your voice costs money—money that you don’t have.”

  I didn’t understand. I was rich, wasn’t I? Rich beyond my wildest dreams…

  He continued: “You haven’t even finished paying for your transformation yet. And you must remember that I have complete control over your revenue. You can’t have access to it unless I want you to. Don’t you recall that document you signed, all those months ago when your heart was full of fire?”

  Months? Was that all? It seemed like years.

  He shook his head. “No, you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  All of a sudden, the sight of his ugly, sneering face filled me with murderous rage. Before I could think what I was doing, my metal arm had shot forward with the fountain pen I was holding, aiming to stab him straight in the face. But before I could do anything he’d grabbed my wrist and knocked the pen out of my hand.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” He mocked. “I’d break your wrist if it wasn’t made of titanium.” He pushed me a side roughly and strode down the corridor. “Now for the others. I’ve got a bone to pick with them too, and no mistake.”

  Endoplasmic-Reticulum strode round the corner in a businesslike manner, a look of cruel anticipation on his face. But seconds later, there was a resounding crash and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. I ran to see what was going on. Grace was standing above him, wielding my keytar with a wild and vicious expression on her face that I’d never seen before. She looked absolutely terrifying.

  Grace

  I’d heard everything, of course. And I couldn’t believe it! No wonder Alex had acted the way he had. I had never, in my whole life, heard anyone speak to him like that. He was Numb Prospero: how could anyone treat him with such disrespect? This was what had been making him so distant all this time, I realised. It had nothing to do with me. It was this man that was making him so worried, keeping him from me and working him too hard—well, if Alex truly didn’t want to be a Singer anymore, I didn’t see why this dreadful man should stand in the way of that decision. I would support Alex in anything he tried to do—and if he became just another ordinary person again, I’m sure in the long run he’d be far happier. With fewer distractions, he’d begin to appreciate the other good things in his life.

  I knew Endoplasmic-Reticulum should be taught a lesson. I was going to negotiate with him, persuade him to let Alex have the money, but when it came to it I just couldn’t control my anger. Still, when he came round he might think twice about treating people the way he was accustomed to. And at least it had bought us some time to decide what to do.

  But Alex didn’t seem to agree at all. He ran up and forced the keytar out of my hand.

  What on earth did you do that for? He mouthed silently. You could have killed him!


  He looked at me coldly, without a hint of sympathy or understanding.

  “I’m sorry!” I sobbed. “I was thinking of you…”

  Grace, please. He mouthed. Please, just go.

  “But-”

  Please, for me. I’ll be back soon, I promise.

  I nodded, although I didn’t understand. I didn’t feel like I understood anything anymore.

  The Singer

  I didn’t really know when I’d be back at all. And I was still worrying about what all this would do to my reputation. Not that it mattered anymore—not with what I’d decided to do. And I’m sorry to you for doing it—but it had to be done.

  I stepped over Endoplasmic-Reticulum’s prone, groaning form and into the dressing room, only to see Reese emerging from the bathroom, wiping toothpaste from the side of his mouth. My heart sank.

  I reached for my backup pen.

  You did it again, didn’t you?

  “I’m sorry!” Replied Reese, looking anxious and contrite. “I can’t just stop.”

  You’ll die!

  “So what? I don’t care anymore, I really don’t!”

  Right, you’re coming too.

  “Where?”

  Doctor John Doe.

  Together, we might be able to persuade him, I thought. And I needed someone to do the talking.

  “But he can’t do anything. He can’t restore either of us—not without the money.”

  I didn’t care. I was still going to try. I’d do whatever it took to get my voice back. After all, what had I to lose?

  I glanced around the room, searching for the twins, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. In fact, I now realised, I hadn’t seen them since the fracas on stage. They were probably just off in a corner somewhere, doing stuff. They’d be fine, I thought. I didn’t know at the time, of course, that I’d never see them again.

  Time was running out. Endoplasmic-Reticulum could wake up at any point, and then our chance would be gone. I gestured for Reese to come to the door, but he shook his head, leaning heavily against the wall.

  I didn’t have time for this. Before he had chance to protest, I’d picked him up by the legs in a rugby tackle and thrown him over my shoulder. Even though he was taller than me, I managed to lug him quickly and quietly out of the back door of the building.

  The moon was high, and cast silver shadows over the towering buildings. In the alleyway behind the theatre, it was eerily quiet, but I could still hear the remnants of the riot going on in the street in front. In fact, if anything, the shouts and screams now seemed even louder and more desperate. Then I spotted the reason why.

  A shaft of moonlight reflected off the gunmetal of a lone steam bike, parked up against the wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised to my horror that the shadows behind it were full of them—row upon row of the dreaded vehicles, more than I’d ever seen before, glinting malevolently under the full moon.

  Damn. How could I