The Singer Page 5

us.

  Alex shielded his wide eyes from the sun and spoke with more conviction than I had ever heard before. “Grace, my mind was made up years ago—it’s unavoidable.” He looked at me as if he was explaining the simplest thing in the world.

  “Look, I have to devote my life to what I love. It’s part of me—I wouldn’t even be myself if I didn’t do it. And you know you couldn’t live with yourself if you knew you’d stopped me from fulfilling the entire purpose of my existence.”

  Even though I knew it was inevitable it still came as a shock, and I couldn’t help trying to plead with him, persuade him not to do it, if only for my sake; but I knew that it was useless.

  “I’ll always love you, Alex, but I’ll miss that part of you—I know you never thought you had much to say, but I listened, and I thought what you had to say was just as important as anyone else. I feel as if I’ll be losing you, and I’ll never see you again—at least not that part of you anyway.”

  I wanted to tell him, I’ll miss your infectious laugh, your sense of humour, and your occasional weirdly insightful comments. I’ll miss the incredibly annoying way you hum almost constantly while I’m trying to concentrate on something. I’ll miss your funny accent, the way you swallow your words, your incongruous confidence, and I’ll miss… well, just you.

  I stared out across the wooded hill, wondering if I could see his province from here. I felt a deep poignancy which I could barely articulate to myself, let alone to him. I felt as if I’d be losing something that contributed to the essence of what he was, and somehow, that would make him less complete, broken in some way.

  But I was being selfish, of course. How could I let the wonderful talent he had go to waste? Surely it would be just as much of a crime not to make the most of such a rare and distinctive gift. I knew he’d say that singing was the only thing he was good at anyway, so it was the only thing he could do. This wasn’t true, but in the end I still wanted him to do it. His beautiful voice was what had drawn me to him in the first place, and it was still the thing I loved about him the most. And this way he could spread it across the world. I wanted everybody to hear it and to find the beauty in it that I did. I wanted him to be rich, successful, and famous, to have his name remembered after he was dead and everything else he dreamed of—I wanted all these things for him if that was what made him happy. But also, selfishly, part of me just wanted to keep him to myself, for things to just stay the same. But I knew from the start that that was never going to happen, and I knew I’d stand by him whatever he decided to do. I loved him that much, you see.

  But I didn’t tell him any of that. Instead, I took his hand and we retraced our steps down the steep hill, drawn towards the black metropolis of Cinderford by our own momentum.

  The Singer

  The Portobello Junkshop headquarters was the shiniest building in Cinderford. The plate glass windows reflected the sun in a blinding silver glow, constantly maintained by an armada of abseiling window cleaners in a perpetual battle against the smog and soot that had settled in triumph upon the surrounding buildings. This was Endoplasmic-Reticulum’s domain. In his lurid checked sporting jacket, he moved among his surrounding minions like a trawler cutting through an ice flow, the only solid and corporeal figure in an industry of frail and insubstantial waifs. He stood like a calm island of sense in a sea of artistic temperaments, neuroticism and emotional turmoil. And such was the secret of his success—without his stalwart and businesslike anchorage, all those talented wrecks and divas would have drifted into beautiful decay and obscurity long ago. His philosophy was that there was nothing wrong with tortured genius, as long as it could be harnessed. As such, he had generated a considerable revenue built on the flighty foundation of beautiful freaks and fragile egos.

  As we entered his office, four boys passed us on the way out. They were even younger than us, and looked as if they could be knocked over in a light breeze. When they saw us, they stammered and stared at their feet as they stumbled past us. One of them was wearing white winklepickers with silver heels. It stands to reason—if you’re going to spend your whole life shoegazing, you might as well wear nice shoes.

  We pushed open the door of his office. He was sitting with his feet up on the desk, smoking an awful black cigar.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, motioning for us to sit down. There was only one other chair so Bazooka sat cross-legged on the floor, while Richard perched on the desk. Reese contented himself with balancing the rim of a large potted plant by the door.

  “Who were they?” I asked, pointing to the corridor outside.

  “The Lost Boys? Oh, don’t worry about them.” Said Endoplasmic-Reticulum dismissively. “It’s you we need to be talking about right now. And if what you’ve told me is true, then we’ve got something big on our hands. Now, before we go any further, I must confirm: is it truly your intention, after this current tour is over, to become a Singer?”

  “Of course it is!” I replied. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “Yes, but plenty of artists say that—it’s those that go through with it that are the special ones. Now, as you must realise, it’s a very complex, lengthy and, above all, expensive process. It’s going to take a lot of money—not to mention recovery time, and the upheaval it will be to your career. If you’re going to go through with this, I’m willing to finance your transformation—but I need to know it’s going to be worth it.”

  “Of course it will!” I said.

  “No—I mean it. There are hundreds of other artists out there, just clamouring to be in your position. I need to know that I’m right in putting my investment in you. I need to know that you’ll work hard to live up to such a prestigious position, and that you won’t let me down. I’m giving you this chance, and you’ve got to make the most of it. I’m thinking, a concept album, a tour of Europe, even America—once you’ve broken in there, you’ll have the world at your feet. I can make you immortal. I can make you a star—but you’ve got to work hard for me in return.”

  “Of course I will,” I protested. “I’ll do it all and more—I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s my dream too.”

  “Well, I’ll put you in for a consultation with Doctor John Doe next week. He’s got to make sure you’re fit for the operation. Now, I’m sure you’re aware of the consequences - ”

  “Yes, I am—and I’m ready for that. It’s worth it. But just one thing—perhaps I could arrange to meet another Singer first, just to know what to expect?”

  He looked serious, just for a moment. Then he smiled and shrugged apologetically.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not usually our practice here at Portobello Junkshop. All the other Singers are usually so busy all over the place it’s hard to get hold of them—but that shouldn’t matter, surely?” He looked at me slyly. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “No, of course not!” I replied. I suppose meeting another Singer wasn’t that important. But I would have liked to, just to put my mind at rest.

  “Good. Well, here are some forms for you to sign to confirm your acceptance of the risks, and to place your responsibility in our hands. And here’s a contract signing you over to Portobello Junkshop for another five years. And this disclaimer needs too be signed to confirm that you’re in good health and state of mind. Here’s another giving Portobello Junkshop control of any revenue earned by the band…”

  Reese shot me a worried glance, but I took them distractedly and hastily signed them all. I didn’t care about any of that—Endoplasmic-Reticulum had given me the go-ahead. He’s given us all a ticket to stardom. He was going to turn me into a god, and that was all that mattered.

  We were standing in a new hotel room, in another town, more or less the same as all the others, save for a few token differences. It doesn’t matter where—after a while, the places all blend into one anyway. We’d just come back after another performance, to another packed hall of people. The tiredness was beginning to set in. I’d stared at the same crowde
d dance floors, every night, for so long that whenever I closed my eyes the image was still imprinted on the inside of my retina. We’d started improvising, changing the songs, adding new lyrics and swapping the instruments around, but you can only travel around for so long before the repetition begins to take its toll. Luckily, we were never bored for too long.

  Things were beginning to get serious for the band, and when you go on tour you see a lot of things, you’re exposed to a lot of new people and experiences. You grow up fast, and before you know it you’ve become a different person, doing things you never even dreamed you’d get to do. People tell you you’re good, and you believe them, and you think you can do anything and live forever. You begin to gain confidence in yourself, and at the same time you’re terrified of when it’ll all come crashing down around you. It’s sad, really, how quickly and easily that naïve innocence can be worn away.

  Reese had invited some of the girls back, and was trying to proffer them Madeira cake, which they politely refused—they weren’t here for Madeira cake. The twins were sitting in the corner by the mini-bar, drinking a pint glass of beer between them out of a couple of straws they’d stuck together into another straw to make a kind of double-headed, Siamese