The Singer Read online

flickering glow across his features, which I had never seen properly before. It transpired that he possessed what boys are incredibly annoyed to hear described as a “pretty boy” face, with high cheekbones and a pointy chin, and an incipiently cheerful expression.

  “Haven’t I seen you before, at some of the other gigs?” He asked, as if noticing me for the first time.

  “Probably. Actually, to tell you the truth—” I paused.

  “What?”

  “Well—I go to all of them. I think you’ve got the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

  “What, really?” He said, his face lighting up.

  “Of course. It’s just so… well, what I mean to say is—I think that to create music is one of the most beautiful things a person can do. To create something that can entrance so many people, and inspire them and make them happy—well, I can’t think of anything better than that.”

  He seemed to like that a lot.

  We walked to the end of the high street. Slogans and images continued to flash across the sky above us. When we reached the junction, he stopped.

  “Where are you from here, then?” He asked. The last sky train had gone an hour ago.

  “Only a few streets away,” I replied, “I can get back OK from here.”

  “I’ll walk back with you.” He said. “I might as well. Besides, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “But what about you, then?” I replied, remembering the abandoned steam bike by the side of the road. “Walking back on your own from mine. What if those punks get you? I don’t want anything to happen to you, either.”

  In the end, we reached a compromise—he walked me back to my house, and then I walked him back to his, where we both stayed. That seemed the most logical solution.

  Information: Turbine Bikes

  These machines are used almost exclusively by the infamous Steam Punks, due to their incredible performance. The power of these machines is awesome, but the more modern diesel engines are much more practical and economical to produce.

  The most prestigious of the turbine bikes is the Megawatt Rocket as owned by Sticky Harry, the leader of the dreaded Cinderford association. The Megawatt Rocket is the ultimate, the most efficient of the bikes currently available, using a modern Bowman heat exchanger, Parsons turbine and ultra efficient condenser system; it also has an exhaust steam after cooler, reducing the need for frequent water stops. In spite of all the refinements the petroleum generator still has to be hand pumped prior to flint ignition and there is a wait for the boiler to build up to full pressure, giving the punks even more time for mischief. The flints have to be replaced frequently, so it is quite a common sight to see them being lit with a glowing cigarette end, the trademark of Sticky Harry.

  The Characteristic of the Megawatt range, apart from the large brass winged M emblem, is the ostentatious array of fibre optic lighting fed from a single acetylene lamp source.

  Although almost entirely paid for from the proceeds of crime, not all the members of the association can afford a Megawatt. A few have old ageing models, although powerful, their turbines are little more than a glorified version of the turbochargers used on the latest generation of diesel engines. The frequent water stops enraging the short temper of Sticky Harry.

  The Singer

  I remember when I first broached the subject of becoming a Singer to the rest of the band. We were on tour at the time, and getting quite popular by then. Our album, Modern Synthesis, had been selling really well—to the extent that they were considering releasing it in the most up-to-date form, the digital micro-punch card that looked set to be the next big thing. We’d just come offstage from a particularly successful performance—the place was packed to bursting with as many people as the hall’s limited size could allow. I remember that all through the set, I could see you there on the floor in front of the stage, dancing around like crazy, infecting me with your enthusiasm. You were always there, watching me, supporting me, and the sight of you never failed to reassure me and fill me with confidence. I’d started to love you properly by then, of course, as I’m sure you could tell, and I’d reached the point where everything I did, I did for you.

  Our final reprise wound to a close and I mumbled a broken “thank you” in my stage voice, before sidling bashfully off stage. In the wings were waiting a couple of reporters from one of the magazines, waiting to interview us as the “next big thing”. We obligingly stood around stiffly in near silence, creating as much taciturn awkwardness as possible while still managing to provide a few mournful and senseless answers to their questions. Avoiding the first interviewer’s eye, we shyly informed her that we wrote what we felt and were glad to see that other people felt the same way too. We assured the second interviewer that, yes, our lyrics may be poignant and introspective, but they were the truth, and there was no point in pretending life was wonderful and happy when, in reality, the world was far from perfect. I think I remember mentioning at some point that love was full of pain and sadness, as I thought that might go down well. Inspired, Reese added that life was just a pointless trial and you can’t avoid getting hurt. The other two just lingered about at the back, trying to look pensive and fragile, as if someone even speaking to them would cause them considerable emotional anguish (thus avoiding having to think up anything to say).

  This seemed to satisfy the reporters sure enough, and soon they were merrily on their way, their notepads brimming with enough material to induce awed empathy and pity in a thousand readers’ broken hearts. Drained by our encounter, we slunk rapidly to the haven of our dressing room, stopping briefly to hastily scrawl signatures upon various proffered objects in a spidery hand. Finally, we reached the room and hurried in, slamming the door behind us.

  “Is that it? Has everyone gone?” I asked.

  “I think so.” Replied Reese.

  “Thank God!”

  The release of tension was tangible. I breathed a sigh of relief and flung myself down contentedly on a handy chesterfield. Reese removed his black bondage leather jacket to reveal a t-shirt with a duck on it and what appeared to be a girls’ scarf—it had sparkly bits in it and everything. I wondered whether he realised he was wearing it—maybe I should tell him.

  A loud jangling noise came to my attention.

  “Er - you can put that down now,” I said to Richard, who appeared, inexplicably, to be holding a large wind chime. I hoped to God he hadn’t used it on stage, although I’m sure I would have noticed of he had. Happily, he relinquished it and went off to play Frisbee with the other one. Meanwhile, Reese had opened a large tin of cakes and was offering them round.

  “Would you like a cake?”

  “No thanks,” I replied, automatically, without actually stopping to think whether I wanted a cake or not. It turned out I did, and I immediately regretted my decision.

  “Hot chocolate?” He said, handing me a mug and pouring me a copious amount out of a checked tartan flask.

  “Er… thanks.” I said, taking it from him and viewing the room, wondering how I ever managed to get myself landed with such lunatics.

  I suppose by now this calls for a proper introduction. Well then—hello, welcome to the band, pleased to meet you. There are four of us, obviously, and (as was the fashion at the time) each of us has a profound and impressive-sounding stage name. Allow me to introduce the members of the band: Numb Prospero, Yellow Emperor, Bazooka and… Richard. (He didn’t want a stage name—he said he thought it was “silly”). You know me, of course—the famous front man Numb Prospero, real name Alex Young. Then, of course, there was the keyboard player, Yellow Emperor, AKA Reese. Strangely to us (we knew him), he was the one who got all the girls, apparently on account of his sickeningly blue eyes and wheat—coloured hair. But if they were to really get to know him, they would think he was a bit weird. He was very quiet and liked baking, and had a copious appetite for sweet things. In fact, he was always to be seen eating one thing or another, and seemed to maintain the required “fetching
ly undernourished” look through sheer determination alone. In truth, I’d never seen anyone quite as calmly happy and content as he was. And although he could seem quite guileless, he was actually fairy practical and was usually the one responsible for looking after the rest of us and keeping us in order.

  Yellow Emperor and myself usually wrote most of the lyrics, but the band’s musical prowess could be more or less entirely attributed to the “twins”, Bazooka and Richard. Out of all of us, these two were by far the strangest. Nobody knew where they’d come from or who they really were (although it became obvious pretty soon that they definitely weren’t real twins—in fact, they weren’t even related), and their eccentric demeanour more than equalled the curious circumstances under which they were found. There are, in fact, two alternative stories concerning how they joined our band, and it is up to you to choose which one to believe.

  The first one would be better if it was truer. In this version, Reese and I were walking through the streets of Cinderford one morning when we discovered two wraithlike forms underneath a bridge, clinging to each other for warmth, frozen and half-starved. Being in need of a bassist and drummer at the time, and not having much else on that week, we decided to take them in, and, after we had fed and cleaned them and waited for whatever nameless