by Stuart Keane
B-Side
All Tied Up With String #3
By
Stuart Keane
Copyright © Stuart Keane 2017
Published: March 2017
Publisher: Stuart Keane
The right of Stuart Keane to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
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All Tied Up With String #3 – B-Side is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.stuartkeane.com
Lorraine Sadler – Come On Down
Well, we’re making progress; we’re at B-Side, the third instalment in the All Tied Up With String (ATUWS) series. Trust me, we’re just getting started.
With eleven more entries to go, this series was certainly a challenging prospect, but I’m also discovering a whole host of benefits from creating these personalised stories. With the restrictions and theme in place, the stories become trim, unique and compact. This is never a bad thing. It allows me to be creative in ways not often provided to an author, much like a film maker with a small budget, limited locations and ideas. With B-Side, that stood true more than any other story in the series. The reason? It takes place in one location, includes only two characters, and involves one of my greatest hobbies: rock music. Not only was I aware of my limitations while writing B-Side, but I was aware of the subject matter; rock music has a special place in my heart and I truly wanted to do it justice.
In Cipher, the previous story in the series, I shared with you a hope, hope that one of my readers would ask me to put a horrific spin on video games. This would come to fruition, but rock music was my solid second choice, as both were top of my ‘horror to-do’ list. In fact, I already broached the topic of rock music with my short story, Swan Song, back in Whispers – Volume 1: A Collection, but why stop at one story? I wanted another shot at a rock-based story, and I was very lucky to get both within the first three ATUWS volunteers.
However, aside from this sheer luck, B-Side also had an unexpected result.
This story rekindled my love for rock and roll.
I’ll explain why.
My personal music taste is vast and varied; some would call it eclectic, and some would disagree with my taste completely (you can’t please everyone) but one thing that rings true across my iPod playlists and my CD collection; the main influence is rock music. My father was a major inspiration to me in this department. Every day passed with a different lesson in rock; whether it was tuning my untrained ear to the ballads of Meat Loaf, adapting to the unique sounds of the Manic Street Preachers and James, allowing U2 and Dire Straits into my life, or listening to my father’s all-time favourite, Bruce Springsteen. My music education was solid; and this story gave me a chance to pay tribute to that. Heck, the latter of those artists even inspired an entire segment of the story; isn’t it funny how things play out?
Which brings me to the story contributor.
I first met Lorraine Sadler at Birmingham Comic Con, back in early 2016. Lorraine was a rarity at that point; someone who’d read my work but never approached me on social media, and though these moments are becoming more regular as the conventions go on, she was one of the first to approach me in person and truly humble me. That feeling will always exist when I meet a new reader who recognises me from their reading library. We’re acquaintances on social media now, but our connection started through her discovery of my work. A proud moment.
I’ve only met her the once, but after discussing rock music with her for this story – and adding some personal touches – I would be keen to meet Lorraine again. For a coffee, a chat, or just to reminisce about our all-too-common hobby. True rock fans are hard to find in modern day society, but I’m happy to say that Lorraine is one. Her passion for the genre, and the heart at the centre of her story, helped me to rediscover my love for the music that all too often becomes the soundtrack to my busy life.
Which is why this story is one of my favourites so far.
Lorraine Sadler, I hope you enjoy this one.
B-Side
Subject: Rock Music
Music. From the symphonies of death (the Danse Macabre), to the chilled relaxation of Bob Dylan, music takes me where nothing else can. Where will it take me now?
– Lorraine Sadler
Records. Records everywhere.
And the rest.
Unneeded clutter. An utter mess.
Bollocks.
Lorraine Sadler rubbed the back of her neck, stared at the living room floor – what was visible, anyway – and groaned. She slumped onto her armchair and roamed her weary gaze across the unmitigated chaos before her. The intensity of the sunlight through the small window forced her hand; it scooted to her face and covered her narrowed eyes. The sweat on her forehead reminded her that the sun was unrelenting today. A sense of overwhelming hesitation surged within.
Why did I decide to do this?
Why today?
I could be out drinking, walking in the park, enjoying a nice pub lunch.
Hell, I could be at the beach. Enjoying a Mr Whippy or bright pink candy floss.
Lorraine sipped her coffee and exhaled, leaning back. The cushion beneath her followed suit, sighing in chorus as her gentle weight slumped into the comforting seat. The woman couldn’t help but smile, and see the funny side of the incredible situation.
Of all the days to tidy the storage cupboard.
What were you thinking?
Three decades of Lorraine’s life lay before her, spread out on the carpet in a haphazard fashion, disguised as forgotten trinkets and cool mementos and valuable collectibles, items that would be deemed useless to a stranger but held vital nostalgic importance to their owner. True, she’d forgotten about much of the treasured debris that littered her living room floor in the long years that had passed, such was the way of the world, but the cherished memories soon came surging back.
Lorraine started to organise and relive the glorious moments in her mind’s eye, those that stood the perilous test of time, fond events that would never leave her. She grinned as she eyed the empty Desperados bottle, a strange keepsake from Lisa and Steve’s wedding. Of all the things to claim from such a joyous day; still, the smile took her back to a happy time in her life, a moment shared with close friends and family. She recollected how she had smuggled the item out of the venue, glanced down at her chest, and blushed.
Moving on, she thought.
Lorraine leaned forward and scattered a pile of torn, multi-coloured concert wristbands. She picked up a black strip of paper and recalled parts of the event; sitting on the grass with a circle of friends, drink flowing, and chowing down on a huge chicken burger. Her stomach rumbled as the thought set in, a pure coincidence. She gazed at the other wristbands, remembered performances from some of the finest rock acts to ever grace a stage; euphoric melodies, elaborate sets, explosive pyro – a mainstay of modern rock music – and late nights fuel
led by junk food and expensive festival beverages. Lorraine had shared these memories with Carla, one of her few friends, and cherished them dearly.
Amazing moments with amazing people.
She eyed a pair of dusty sunglasses, the right hand lens smeared with white stains – the result of a chewing gum bubble disaster. The confectionary had swelled and exploded on her face, effectively ruining the sunglasses. Even hand sanitizer was useless in its attempt to remove the dubious looking marks. She reminisced about that moment, and rubbed the disfigured lens with her thumb.
Lorraine chuckled, scooped the bands into her hand and placed them on the coffee table. The frayed ends tickled her palm as she placed them aside. She removed herself from the armchair, dropped to her knees and waded into the sea of mess. She bundled a bunch of books together, many bought and signed from a variety of authors at a host of comic conventions, piled several special edition DVDs in the middle of the floor, hoisted a box of knick-knacks towards her, shook it, and slid it to the side. Lorraine glanced around her; she could finally see the carpet. That meant one thing.
Progress.
After a moment, she crossed her legs and placed herself before her immense record collection, a variety of rare LPs and singles from three different decades, vintage vinyl that was once again coming back into fashion.
Nothing sounds quite like vinyl.
The scratches, the crisp sound, the superb clarity.
Lorraine sighed.
Given the chance, I would listen to them all now, in sequence, relive my youth and young adulthood. Nothing conjures a lost memory quite like a good record.
The immense collection consumed a third of the floor before her; apt, considering it was her most prized possession. She tucked her hair behind an ear and laid a delicate hand on the first record. The protective plastic crinkled beneath her touch. With a finger on either side of the casing, she collected the LP and turned it.
Bad Company by Bad Company, one of her favourites. Forgotten images of a simple bedroom and a basic record player, the latter of which was her only possession at that point in her young life, occupied her mind. She would sit and listen to her records for hours, the music would define and consume her entire world, something that would never change. She chuckled, shook her head and continued. Her fingers continued to dance across the records. Scarlett and other Stories by All About Eve and Five Man Acoustical Jam by Tesla jolted fond memories from afar. Lorraine smiled and continued to rifle through the pile until she reached the singles, a smaller pile of square covers.
Positively 4th Street by Bob Dylan. One of Lorraine’s favourite songs, the bitter lyrics detailed deception and betrayal on a highly personal level for the singer. The single never saw an album release, and was twinned with From a Buick 6 on its B-side, another superb Dylan track. The latter had actually inspired the title for a Stephen King novel, From a Buick 8. Lorraine loved how music and horror literature collided in that way, songs inspiring books, and vice versa. Her eyes fixated on the single. She rotated it in her hand, sniffed the dusty cover, and after a slight pause, she decided to put it on.
I wonder how many times I played this in the past.
Hundreds, no, thousands?
Oh well. Time for one more.
As Lorraine slowly rose to her feet, she knocked the pile of singles with her knee. A few records toppled and spilled onto the carpet, their plastic coats sliding them across the surface. She glanced down, groaned, retrieved them, and returned them to their rightful place. Her eyes narrowed as she picked up the last remaining record.
I don’t recognise this one.
The sleeve was blank, a faded chocolate brown with no inscriptions or markings. A red piece of tape was attached to the sealed side. The centre of the record itself had a blue label with yellow patterns, but again, no text was present. Lorraine turned it over in her hand, confused.
Surely the band would label their records…
And then it hit her.
Ah shit. I remember.
Back in the 80’s. The memory momentarily paralysed her, and disabled all movement. A long-forgotten chapter in her life, one buried deep beneath three decades of happiness and sadness and a whole host of significant events suddenly became paramount inside her head, drowning out her immediate surroundings. The elapsed thought stormed to the front of her cerebral cortex like a stunted rocket, the weight and gravity of the brief memory stunning the woman into a stoic state.
I completely forgot…
A stern rap on the front door managed to wrench Lorraine from her reverie.
Irritated, she shook her head and cursed under her breath. After putting the records back on the pile, she stood up, and walked across the room. The prickly heat in the lounge was stifling, uncomfortable. As she unlocked the door, Lorraine quickly adjusted her hair; the trademark blonde fringe was visible at the top of her eye line, which meant it was in place. She wiped her brow, sighed, and opened the door.
And groaned.
“Hello, Lorraine.”
Jackie McMahon.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Hi, Jackie.” Lorraine folded her arms, looked beyond the visitor and studied the empty street. No one was watching with an intruding eye, no one had sent the woman to her door. After a moment, her gaze returned to the unwelcome woman before her. “Everything okay?”
“It was,” Jackie said, looking behind her. A smirk appeared on her gaunt face. Her eyes studied Lorraine with vehement trepidation. “Who are you looking for?”
Lorraine almost said Jesus, but the tired joke would be totally lost on Jackie. She eyed the street again. None of the neighbours wanted to rub this woman’s personality the wrong way; it was tougher than coarse granite, and Jackie had all the humour of a dead rat. Besides, with political correctness currently at an all-time high in their fractured society, a religious joke could be deemed the end of the world. Instead, she smiled. “No one. Just having a gander at the outside world. It’s a lovely day out.”
Jackie nodded, one swift dip of her angular chin. Her beady eyes studied her neighbour with hidden contempt. “I see. I’m here to invite you to a barbeque. It’s tomorrow afternoon. The whole street is welcome to come, and I’d love to see you there. Hey, maybe you can bring some of your excellent homemade coleslaw?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Lorraine muttered.
Jackie smiled. “You know I’m not one for a jape, Lorraine. Why would I be joking?”
For a moment, Lorraine suspected the woman was being jovial, pulling her leg. Or totally naïve. Her eyes narrowed with incredulity at the raw display of barefaced cheek. Anger rose from deep within, which jumbled the bitter words in her throat, until she composed herself.
For a whole minute, an uncomfortable silence existed between the two.
Then, “You destroy my marriage … take away the only man I loved, and you expect me to come to your sodding barbeque?”
“Now, now, Lorraine,” Jackie replied, offering a wry smirk. “Let bygones be bygones. Forgiveness is the key to –”
“Fuck your forgiveness,” Lorraine spat, the words sudden and violent. “You can shove it up your arse. You nearly ruined … no, you ruined my life. The fact you’re even here, on my fucking doorstep with false invitations of friendship, is an affront in itself, a fucking liberty. Do I tolerate you because we’re neighbours? Yes. Is it difficult? Immensely. Do I have to be friends with you? No. Do I want to come to your sodding barbeque to boost your beloved social strata? No, I fucking don’t.”
Jackie chuckled, the seriousness of the situation lost on her. “Now, Lorraine –”
“Goodbye,” Lorraine concluded. Her left hand trembled, shaking the front door.
Jackie nodded, another dip of the angular chin, and retreated. She said nothing and dropped her beady gaze. Lorraine watched her go, the anger boiling deep and perverse. She slammed the door and returned to the chaos.
The wracking sobs shattered her bravado seconds later.
The co
ol water was a blessed relief on her swollen face. Lorraine twisted the tap, hesitated for a moment, glanced in the mirror and sighed. Plumes of hot breath misted the water-spotted glass. She didn’t wipe it clean, couldn’t be bothered. The woman touched her cheeks and stroked the raw puffiness, a pink swelling that emphasised the exhaustion in her weary eyes. Imaginary tears still dripped from her chin, the pain from her life still stabbed at her heart. It was bearable now, tolerable. On other days, it nearly broke her, sent her into a hateful oblivion. Despite recent events, today was one of the better days. She sniffed and forced a smile.
Don’t let Jackie McMahon ruin your day.
She’s not worth it.
Not worth it.
You were doing fine until she popped up.
Lorraine closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again.
The smile was still etched on her face.
All good. You can do this; onwards and upwards.
Today is a good day.
Besides, you have records to listen to.
No longer forced, the smile on her face became genuine. With pep in her step, Lorraine emerged from the bathroom and returned to the vast mess on her living room floor. A brief surge of joy pushed the horrid thoughts of failure and betrayal to the back of her mind. The dark corners of her fragile state welcomed them with gleeful abandon.
The mysterious record sat alone in the centre of the carpet.
Lorraine frowned and glanced at the stack of records, certain she’d returned it to its upright position. She located the remaining singles and counted them with a pointed finger. Confused, she knelt down and collected the item. It was then that she noticed the red tape was faded to a pale orange, and still intact. The record had never been removed from its sleeve.
It struck her as odd; she opened and listened to all of her records, they were a prized possession for a valid reason, but the memory she’d battled mere moments earlier explained the unique scenario.
The ’80s. Drink, drugs, sex … and other salacious activities.
The Sir George Robey, Finsbury Park, London, 1987. A notorious venue for the budding musician; any up-and-coming band with suitable transport and instruments could find themselves playing on the vomit-soaked stage, singing until their throats bled raw. Sometimes, the stifled air was as blue as the building’s gaudy exterior, but people loved to attend, and were always guaranteed a good time. The venue was immensely popular with promoters of music and fans alike, and played host to a number of household names during its tenure. The Pogues, Hawkwind, Blur, No Doubt, and a plethora of others. Years later, following a fire and abandonment, the place was finally demolished, but Lorraine’s memory still stood clear and concise.