The Singer Page 6

twin straw - just like they’d share a milkshake in the old days. (We used to take them for little outings sometimes as a special treat). I stood there looking pensive and wistful as required, except this time I actually was feeling rather pensive and wistful, as I was getting nervous about the operation and my imminent transformation into a Singer. I was distracted from my musings, however, when I noticed that a couple of the girls had gone over and were bothering the twins, who were looking politely baffled. That sort of thing would only confuse them, so I went over to Reese to tell him.

  “You’ve got to go and explain to them about the twins—that Richard and Bazooka don’t know what’s going on most of the time.”

  Reese rolled his eyes. “Can’t you do it?” He replied exasperatedly. “I’m sick of explaining—I don’t know what to say. Besides, we can’t protect them forever. We don’t own them—they’re going to have to learn about real life sooner or later.”

  But I didn’t want to do that yet—I still felt responsible for them. We were the ones who’d found them and rescued them, so it was our duty to look after them, as they were plainly incapable of looking after themselves. If you took your eyes off them for one minute…

  “No, Richard!” I shouted—I could see he’d got his hands on something again. “That’s not sherbet!” Too late. I sighed exasperatedly. “Damn. We’ll never get them to go to bed now!”

  “It’s OK, we can get some more from the Midnight Paperboy. He should be coming round in a minute.” Replied Reese.

  “That’s not the point!” I protested, defeated. No wonder they didn’t know what was going on most of the time.

  I carried on trying to write lyrics for my new song. It wasn’t going that well. Time passed. The Midnight Paperboy dropped in for a cup of tea, but was soon called away again on business (none of his papers were newer than two weeks old, but they were all extremely expensive and contained very interesting free gifts). Bazooka ran up to present me with a picture he’d drawn before retreating to his corner to tend to Richard. More time passed. Reese and the girls disappeared. Richard passed out in Bazooka’s lap and was carried tenderly to bed. The flat grew quiet and cold and still I stood there, not being able to rid my mind of worry. I wasn’t having second thoughts—my mind was truly made up—but I couldn’t help feeling anxious and nervous. It was only natural. Everything was going to change soon, and I knew I should be making the most of things as they were while I could, but I couldn’t help feeling a little sad and wistful about what I was going to lose. I was worried in case something went wrong. I was sad because I knew I’d miss talking to you, and I hoped I’d still be able to tell you how I felt, and that things would still be the same between us. But mainly I was just scared.

  I’d lost track of time by the time Reese tiptoed out of his room again, closing the door silently behind him. He switched on the kettle and began rifling through the cupboards to retrieve some Madeira cake.

  “Can’t you sleep either?” He asked in sympathy.

  “No—I keep worrying about the operation.” I admitted.

  “That’s not like you, worrying. Here, I’ll do you a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake and you’ll feel better in no time.”

  “No, I’m fine, honestly.” Cake was Reese’s solution to everything. He sometimes couldn’t sleep and would stay up all night baking cakes, which was rather surreal. Then he’d spend the whole day eating the damn things.

  “You know how, sometimes, you just feel kind of…numb?” Speculated Reese. It was one of those one-sided conversations that could only take place very late at night, reaching momentous and profound proportions, the darkness filling the silence between words.

  “You know,” He continued, “When no matter what you do, it doesn’t really make you happy—not truly, deep down. You just kind of feel…nothing.”

  He handed me a mug of tea anyway. He’d settled for hot chocolate, no milk—a useful drink for him as it could easily pass off as businesslike black coffee when trying to keep up appearances. He began to dip his Madeira cake in the hot chocolate, which always infuriated me.

  “What are you up to, anyway?” He asked, spotting my favourite notebook on the table (a green and yellow herringbone pattern on a cloth covering—it seemed sufficiently arty and important-looking for the purposes of writing profound and meaningless lyrics in, and would, hopefully, at least lend them some credibility).

  “I was just trying to write the lyrics for this song, but I can’t think of anything.”

  “Surely you just make up stuff until you’ve got enough words to fill up a track.”

  “Yeah, that usually works, but this time my heart’s just not in it.”

  “I tell you what I really want to do,” Opined Reese. “I think we should write a song about something nice—something we like and we think is fun.”

  “Hmm…I don’t know,” I said sceptically. “What like?”

  “How about…cats?” Hazarded Reese.

  “Cats?”

  “Yeah, cats are nice. You know—all warm and furry and that. We could write a song about how much we liked them.”

  “I don’t like cats.” I replied.

  “Yes you do.”

  “I don’t!”

  “You must do,” He insisted. “It’s written on your mug.”

  I turned round the mug of tea I was holding. Sure enough, it was emblazoned with the brash legend “I ♥ CATS”, and the statement was supported by a series of naïve art diagrams of different cat breeds and the superfluous subscript: “lovely cats”.

  “This is your mug!” I told him, enraged. “You just gave it to me!”

  “Oh, all right then.” He conceded.

  Reese possessed a lot of things of that genre. So far, he had accumulated a series of t-shirts, mugs, key rings etc. that imparted an enthusiastic and favourable attitude towards New York, Paris, cats, cake, tea and, inexplicably, Whitesands (wherever that was). Indeed, he “hearted” a lot of things—but I wondered whether there was anything he actually loved.

  Grace

  It was one of those weird, disjointed days that couldn’t be placed—as if it didn’t really fit in with the context of whatever else was happening at the time. We’d all gone on a day trip to the seaside—their tour must have finished and I suppose it was a kind of holiday to take the band’s mind off what was to come. Alex was to begin his transformation into a Singer very soon, and in his trepidation had descended into almost complete silence, as if in anticipation of his imminent fate. We were sitting on deckchairs (thoughtfully provided by Reese) on the beach, absorbing the weak sunlight and watching the twins as they attempted to build a sandcastle whilst also being terrified of water, seaweed, creatures and the actual sand. You could tell when you got close up that they didn’t actually resemble each other that much, in fact, it was obvious that they weren’t really related at all. I suppose most people would find this a disappointment but I thought it was intriguing—I wondered when they had met each other, where they’d got the idea to become twins and whether they had realised straight away that they could make something of their similarity.

  Reese was having a tremendous time in the sea. It turned out that he was actually an extremely good surfer, and used to have a summer job as a lifeguard at Whitesands bay in Pembrokeshire before he’d moved to the city. I was surprised that Alex didn’t already know this about his friend’s past. Anyway, Reese didn’t seem to mind the freezing sea, despite the fact that it was March and his collarbones jutted out. Alex was lying back on the deckchair with his eyes closed in a vaguely worried frown. I thought he was asleep until he spoke hesitantly.

  “It’s all going to be OK, isn’t it?” He asked.

  “Of course it is!” I told him, although I was far from certain. “I’ll miss you though.”

  I already missed him. I didn’t like the way he was becoming the tortured soul he’d pretended to be but always secretly scorned. I didn’t like his long silences and serious expressions, or the way his buoyant confide
nce seemed to have been dampened. He was being given his dream—this was what he’d always wanted, and because he’d wanted it, I wanted it for him too, despite my selfish desires to the contrary. But I suppose it was understandable that he should worry that it wouldn’t be all he had hoped for. It was a huge gamble and a huge sacrifice, and I could only hope that after it was all done he would return to some semblance of his former self.

  “I won’t be gone that long.” He said. “And once I’m out, once I’m better, well—just think of it.”

  He turned, and smiled, and I could see that familiar excited glint in his eye—and all at once he was the same old Alex again.

  “Endoplasmic-Reticulum’s planning a tour of Europe, maybe even America—and if we can make it there, well, we can make it anywhere. Just think of the possibilities!”

  I thought their manager was planning a little too far ahead. I hoped he realised Alex wasn’t just a moneymaking franchise. He’d need time to recover, surely, time when we could be together again for a while, and I hoped Reticulum wouldn’t push him too hard, and that he wouldn’t have to go away again so soon. I felt as if I’d only just got him back and he was already being taken away from me. But then, of course, I was also excited for him about the tour—I just wanted time to stop for a little while beforehand, that’s all.

  I was awoken from my reverie with a jolt by a