Jemima pauses, before saying. “What do you want?”
“I’ve written a song about you. It’s going to be on our next record. I just wanted you to know.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” says Jemima.
“I think about you a lot. Come back to me. Skip work and come over.”
“It’s the weekend.”
“Oh,” I say. “Perfect.”
“It’s before breakfast and you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” I reply.
“I’m sure that’s only temporary.”
“Come back to me. I want you, Jemima.”
“Really? How many women have you slept with in the past twenty-six hours?”
I think for a moment, counting. “Um, give me a second...”
“You’re such an arsehole.”
“I’m not an arsehole, I’m just fragile. Lonely.”
“No, you’re just an arsehole.”
“I’m filling the void you’ve left in my life. You could destroy the void.”
“You’re just an arsehole.”
“I don’t think that’s fair.”
“Jack,” sighs Jemima. “At some point, you have to at least entertain the idea that you’re an arsehole.”
“I’m not,” I say, softly. “Though entertaining, it seems, is something I am very good at...”
Jemima groans.
“It’s just that...” I continue, “I’m from another planet. I’m lost here. I’m...” I hear a beeping tone on the other end of the line and realise Jemima has already hung up on me.
I put my mobile on the table next to me and light another cigarette, singing a different Ocean Colour Scene song, deciding which one I should take to the band first. This one is ‘The Day We Caught The Train’. When I sing the lyrics the band will ask me, “Who’s Groucho?” and I’m not sure I will know what to say.
A luxury vehicle picks me up and drives me half an hour to the edge of the city. Amelia meets me in the circular driveway outside of NorthWest Studios, inspecting me for a moment before leading me inside. She’s a striking woman. Mid-forties. Brownish, blonde hair that she often has up in a bun. Fair complexion and finely shaped eyebrows. Perfect teeth. She regularly files her painted fingernails, always with the same calm care. Just as a chef sharpens their knives. Amelia almost always wears figure-hugging shirts and fitted pinstripe suit pants. She’s also a gym junkie, though she would tell you otherwise.
“How are you feeling, Jack? Ready to record some music?” she asks, a little uncertain.
“Sure, I’m ready.”
“How’s your voice?”
“Good. I’ve been warming it up this morning. Got some new songs.”
Amelia smiles. “Fantastic. That’s great. Well, follow me.”
NorthWest Studios is unassuming from the outside. Its derelict brick is surrounded by dense, tall gardens. But once you follow the path through the two glass doors, you step into a world of decadence. The inside walls are golden oak, the colour of honey. In fact, most of the surfaces are wooden, with each studio designed by the top sound engineers in the world. It’s expensive to record here, but those artists with money behind them book rooms here without giving it a second thought. Out in the city there are aspiring musicians working their skin to the bone to afford a single day at NorthWest. Or perhaps just long enough to record some drum tracks.
As Amelia and I pass through the waiting room and by the front counter, she asks that a pot of tea and some organic honey be brought to the recording booth for me. A young male employee, with glasses and a moustache, nods and says he’ll get it “right away”. Once we head down the corridor, we arrive at the main studio where the orchestra is setting up. Dylan is lying on his back against one wall, reading a newspaper. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, even though it’s not too bright in here. Emerson and Cohen are beyond a glass window, in the mixing booth. I can see our producer, Joseph, standing over the wide mixing desk, adjusting bells and whistles.
Big Bang Theory is working on a symphonic album. Some songs are new, most are old, but they’re each backed by a twelve-piece orchestra. I question whether this is a truly important and creative exercise. One could argue that this release is another way to wring some more coinage from our fanbase. But, so far, the songs sound good.
I record vocals for one of the “new” tracks. Nobody except me knows that the song was originally written by an Australian band called Birds Of Tokyo. I lay down my vocals for ‘Wayside’. Then we record ‘Off Kilter’, another Birds Of Tokyo song. When I finish singing my vocal part, Joseph nods enthusiastically at me through the window of the mixing booth. I hear his voice through my headphones.
“You might have nailed it on the first take, Jack. Do you want to lay down another one for safety?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I was happy with that.”
Once I finish some of my vocals, I head into NorthWest’s kitchen to get some more tea and honey. Amelia follows me in, closing the kitchen door behind her.
“Sorry, Jack. I know you’re trying to stay focused, so I’ll be quick,” she says.
“Focusing is overrated,” I mumble, studying the kettle to find its on switch.
“I’m not going to lie to you. We could have a situation on our hands.”
“Then get a hand towel,” I reply, nonchalantly, switching the kettle on. “Wipe it off.”
“That’s very funny,” says Amelia, who often substitutes that phrase for actual laughter. “But the media are really sinking their teeth into this story.”
“I think you’ll find that our involvement in this is circumstantial.”
“Absolutely,” says Amelia, nodding adamantly. “Of course.”
“Can’t we just point that out to people when we do our next round of interviews?”
“Yes, but we have to show some concern. These missing girls are all fans of the band and some of them even have professional connections with us.”
“I am concerned,” I say, squeezing a sachet of honey into my mug. “The situation is totally fucked. But I don’t want to talk to any newspapers or TV stations if they’re all trying to imply that any of this is our fault. We didn’t choose our demographic.”
“Well...” says Amelia, delicately, “some of the outlets are saying that Big Bang Theory are encouraging reckless behaviour in teenagers...”
I smile at Amelia. “I see... were you reckless as a teenager?”
Amelia looks slightly taken aback. “Um, well... yes. I mean, not really. Maybe.”
“I wasn’t reckless as a teenager,” I say. “I was boring.”
“Well, you couldn’t afford to be reckless. You were a survivor,” says Amelia, softly, referring to my fabricated history as a homeless person. A wild man living beyond society’s nurturing embrace.
I smile again. I often forget that I have a secret story to maintain. No one, including Amelia, knows the truth. “That’s right. It wasn’t easy living out there. But... teenagers do reckless things without any prompting. That’s my point.”
The real reason I wasn’t reckless is because I sat indoors throughout my teenage years reading astronomy books and teaching myself the guitar. I was quite fond of Black Sabbath records. I picked up calculus very quickly at high school. While people my age were stepping out into the world with a university degree and getting married, I was spinning around and around in human centrifuge training, learning to maintain focus while g-forces moved the blood away from my brain and eyes. At those speeds, your vision begins to tint a grey colour, as if you’re looking through sunglasses. Some guys went to football matches. Some guys impregnated their girlfriends and negotiated mortgages. I did High-G training, defended freedom in foreign countries, flew fighter jets and was later launched into space. It was all at the expense of a traditional life containing a house and children. It also seemed like it would be the death of my dream to become a successful musician.
Emerson comes back to my apartment after the recording session
, to hang out. Dylan and Cohen have gone for coffee with two of the violinists. Or maybe they were the cellists. The luxury car drops us off outside my building and we cross the footpath. The doorman lets us into the foyer. Emerson waits while I go into the postal room and check my mailbox. There’s a wad of letters, which I flick through while Emerson and I ascend in the elevator to the top level. Level 38.
Most of the envelopes are uninteresting, except for one. It’s brown and looks a little tattered. Aged. It has ornate trimmings, possibly gold plated. In calligraphic handwriting it says on its front, “Join us.”
“Looks a little ominous,” says Emerson, glancing at the envelope.
I turn it over and open it, tearing off the chunk of red wax that’s been used to seal it. Inside is an equally stylised piece of paper. On quick inspection I read that it’s an invitation to the opening of an art exhibition. Something called the Marioneta de Carne.
“You heard of this?” I ask Emerson, handing him the invitation as the elevator opens at our floor.
“Maybe,” he says, reading as we walk toward my apartment. “I think this is that thing they’re talking about on the news.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a bunch of sculptures that are made from people. Like, body parts and stuff.”
“Wow. That doesn’t really sound like something I’d want to go to.”
Emerson shrugs. “Could be kinda interesting. It’s been a big controversy.”
“Sounds gruesome,” I say, letting us into my apartment. I throw the mail, including the invitation, on my kitchen counter, then head for the living room. “Help yourself to the liquor,” I tell Emerson, who peruses the bottles in my kitchen.
Emerson joins me in the living room with two glasses in his hand. He places one on the coffee table in front of me. “One limonata on ice.”
“Winning,” I say, leaning forward in the sofa to reach the glass.
We watch a music channel for a while, commenting occasionally on particular songs or music videos. Then one of our own videos comes on. It’s for a song we released called ‘The Thief & The Heartbreaker’. It was originally recorded by a band from Earth called Alberta Cross. I was a fan.
In the video, which is mostly animated, a black stick-figure is running through desert-like landscapes. Just running and running, its featureless body bounding over red, arid terrain as two suns set behind it.
“What’s this video about again?” asks Emerson.
“Not sure. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t think it was explained,” says Emerson, shrugging.
“The director told me, I think. I don’t know. Something about a dream?”
Emerson shrugs again and sips on his drink. Then a buzzing emanates from his pocket and he answers his mobile phone. “Yuh,” he says. “Oh, hey man... not a lot, just at Jack’s... um, yeah we could probably use something.... cool, well head on over.... you know the place, yeah? Nice one.”
“Who was that?” I ask, sipping my drink.
“Roy.”
“What’s he bringing?”
“Not sure. Depends what he’s got at the moment, I guess.”
Fifteen minutes later Roy knocks on the door and Emerson lets him in. Roy has an olive complexion, a week’s stubble and a greasy ponytail. He’s wearing a tattered t-shirt, ripped jeans and slip-on shoes.
“Jack, what’s shaking? You look well, my friend,” says Roy, wandering through the apartment into the living room and dropping on to the single sofa adjacent to me. Emerson joins me on the large sofa.
“Thank you, Roy,” I reply, cycling through channels on the television. “How’s business?”
“Great,” says Roy, who looks a little spaced. His eyes watch the television as programs flicker and disappear. “Things are great. Demand is getting bigger. Good times.”
“So those anti-drug campaigns on TV aren’t working then?” says Emerson, with a grin.
“No, not at all. They’ve improved business. Helped spread the word. People want to try out some gear. They find people like me to hook ‘em up.”
“Well if someone is speaking out against drugs, that just means they haven’t tried them yet,” says Emerson, sipping his drink.
“You ain’t lyin’,” says Roy.
“So what’s been happening?” I ask him.
“Nothing much. I was pretty drunk this morning and it was raining so I went to the beach. Went for a surf. Good times, man,” says Roy, who starts pulling small bags from his pockets and placing them on the coffee table. Plastic pouches of powder, clear gels and pills.
I look at Roy’s assortment. It’s all the usual suspects. The bread and milk items of the drug user. Staples that you always have at home. Cane. Pills. Gas. Grass. Lysergide. Uppers. But what goes up must come down.
“We’ll take it all,” says Emerson, casually. He looks at me and shrugs.
“Sure,” I add.
“Cool,” says Roy, who looks happy. “Because you guys are my best customers, I’ll do you a good price. Cost price.”
“Thanks for looking after us,” smiles Emerson.
Roy then stands up and starts digging into his back pocket, looking for something. “I’ve got something else for you guys. I don’t want you to freak out though.”
This peaks our interest. Roy produces a small metal tin, no bigger than a matchbox. It’s a metallic green colour, old and chipped. He places it on the table and, pausing for dramatic effect, pulls the lid. Emerson and I both lean forward to see inside. There’s four capsules in there. Two green, two white. Emerson and I exchange a glance, each guessing what the drug might be.
“Is that...?” asks Emerson.
“Yes,” says Roy. “A pretty good find, yes? A friend of mine encountered these. They are only small hits, but you’ll get the idea.”
“Fuck,” I say. “That’s hectic, Roy. That’s really hectic.”
“How long do they last?” asks Emerson.
“About six or seven hours,” replies Roy. He picks up one of the green capsules. “You take the green one, then half an hour later you take the white one. Then lie down somewhere and get ready. You can’t forget to take the white one, because it brings you out of the coma.”
This drug that Roy is offering us isn’t supposed to exist. I’ve never seen it before. Only heard about it from people. Junkies boasting in nightclubs. There’s rumours that there are dens where people go to take it. Underground labs. A drug that sends you into a weeklong hyper reality. A playground in your mind that is real, as believable and tangible as anything else you’ve ever experienced. A mental wonderland without rules or consequences.
“So Narc dens are real then?” asks Emerson.
“Fuck yeah,” says Roy. “I’ve seen one, man. Had a look around. Fucked up.”
“Were there many people?” I ask.
Roy just smiles. “Hundreds.” Roy likes to tweak a fair bit. He’s partial to a good hallucinogen. I don’t know whether to believe him. Then he continues. “They’re all hooked up to tubes, man. They get fed slowly. Lasts a week. A week in paradise. Medical students are wandering around checking people’s vital signs. Emptying their shit bags. Wild stuff.”
“Wild,” I say, sipping my drink. “Well, we’ll take them then. How much?”
“Five grand each,” says Roy.
Emerson shrugs. “Done.”
“What happens if you don’t take the white one? Does the dream last forever?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” says Roy. “But you’ll die eventually. That’s why in the dens they have you hooked up to the tubes. Keep you from starvin’.”
“How real is the dream?” asks Emerson.
“As real as you and I sittin’ here now.”
A minute barely passes after I’ve farewelled Emerson and Roy before there’s a quiet knock at my door. I reluctantly get back up from the sofa and wander to the peephole. Laurie is standing outside with an anxious expression on her face. I open the door and she looks relieved. She’s
wearing a white singlet top and grey trackpants. Her hair is up in a ponytail and though she’s only used minimal make-up, I can see foundation on her face.
“Hi,” she says, hesitantly.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I feel a bit run down,” she says, sheepishly.
“Yeah. I can imagine.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good, I suppose. Still need some more sleep, I think. Been a big day. Recording and stuff.”
“Oh, cool,” says Laurie.
There’s a pause. It’s remotely awkward.
“So, what’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing much. I’ve got the place to myself. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out or something.”
I feel a small knot in my stomach. It’s an ambiguous sensation. I can’t tell if it’s guilt or nerves. Or whether I’m turned on by Laurie and what transpired between us. I don’t know whether to be concerned that there is currently a sex tape of me and Laurie together. But the more I consider it, the less I care.
“Umm,” is all I say, my brain analysing a long list of potential scenarios.
Laurie looks a little upset that I haven’t immediately accepted her invitation. “It’s ok,” she says. “You’ve probably got to sleep or practice or something. I won’t bother you.”
I feel myself relent. “No, it’s cool... what’s the point of us sitting on our own in separate apartments, right?”
Laurie smiles. “I know. I’d rather hang out with you than be by myself.”
I stand aside, motioning for Laurie to enter. “It’s my turn to be host.”
I allow Laurie control of the television. She aims the remote at my broad flatscreen TV, flicking through channels. She’s curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, with no more than half a foot of space between us. I watch her face as she concentrates on each programme long enough to decide whether it’s interesting. My heart feels like it’s beating faster, straining slightly against my ribs.
Laurie notices that I’m watching her. “What?” she says, turning pink.
“You’re being too indecisive,” I say, with a smile.
“Well, I can’t decide! Everything is boring.”
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