B-Side: All Tied Up With String #3

by Stuart Keane

  Lorraine had visited the place while half-cut, on the insistence of a friend. After a few watered-down beers and a packet of peanuts, and a confession to being uncomfortable in the bodily warmth and beer-tinged muskiness of the venue, she had purchased the record from the resident DJ. He didn’t give a name, she didn’t remember what he looked like, and social media websites were years away in the technological world, so he simply gave her a stiff warning; listen only when she was ready; at her wits’ end or while on an ultimate euphoric high. Then, listen to the B-Side. Only then would the record make sense.

  By the time she vacated the venue and found herself on the damp cobblestones of London, she was completely inebriated. The record ended up in her handbag, and later her collection, the strange warning forgotten on a wave of heavy sleep and a violent hangover.

  And now?

  Now, she had the chance to rectify that.

  Euphoric high or wits’ end. The latter certainly applies.

  Lorraine shrugged her shoulders.

  Better late than never, she mused.

  With a gentle sigh, she tore the faded red tape with a thumb, slipped the vinyl from its home and walked over to the record player. She lifted the lid and placed the black disc on the turntable. Lorraine lowered, peered across the record’s contours and ran a hand through her blonde locks. After a moment, she positioned the arm over the record and lowered it.

  The first scratches of the stylus escaped the wall-mounted speakers and prickled at her ears. A relieved sigh escaped her lips.

  Heaven.

  There’s nothing quite like vinyl.

  This brings back so many…

  Memories.

  The music began and immediately Lorraine was transfixed. The beautiful harmonies of a classical piano began to sway on the humid air, and were soon accompanied by the skilled vibrations of a harmonica. The sublime duet of the instruments hitched a smile onto her face, and Lorraine found herself closing her eyes, immersing herself in the music. An acoustic guitar made its grand entrance and ramped the song into the stratosphere.

  Lorraine slumped onto the sofa, eyes still closed, genuine awe making her wobble at the knees. She caressed the arms of the sofa with wandering palms and leant back, letting the song consume her, relax her. The song and the superb composition of the instruments conjured fond reminders of some of the most classic rock songs performed by a Hall of Fame worthy line-up of musicians; Bruce Springsteen, Bryan Adams, Jon Bon Jovi, David Bowie, Billy Joel, Roger Daltrey, Brian Jones, Eddie Vedder, John Lennon. The talent on that list was almost endless. A surplus of genres and several generations of music were combined into this very song, a surely impossible feat.

  It was majestic, and it began to take her breath away.

  Lorraine groaned and slumped into her seat; within seconds, a weird sensation overtook her. She felt her very being float into the air, felt her mind ease off and forget the treachery and savage pain that had consumed her battered soul for the past year. All vehemence and bitterness were washed away by the melancholy that trickled from the speakers, as if the mire and despair of her life remained in her tired body below, and her uplifting from it was the only escape, her only respite, her true salvation.

  For the first time in twelve months, Lorraine felt alive, whole, and unencumbered.

  She felt normal.

  The next three minutes passed in the blink – or closure, as the case would be – of an eye, the music levitating Lorraine to a state of high euphoria. Just as the DJ had dictated.

  The turntable arm bumped and floated away from the vinyl, its job complete.

  Lorraine opened her eyes and returned to normalcy.

  A crushing surge of heartbreak trickled through her scorching veins, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. Lorraine didn’t wipe them away, nor did she resist. She let them flow, fast and hard. They plinked on her collar, pattered the worn denim on her outstretched legs.

  Without thinking, she stood up and wobbled over to the turntable, flipped the record, and replaced the arm. Her fingers caressed the B-side of the record, anticipation and fear bubbling deep due to the DJ’s long-lost mutterings. Lorraine returned to her seat and perched on its edge.

  Again, the first scratchings of the record filtered through the speakers.

  At my wits’ end or while on an ultimate euphoric high.

  I just experienced both within a matter of…

  Lorraine paused, her thoughts silenced.

  What the…

  The sound that emitted from the speakers – if it could be described as such – was unlike anything she had ever heard. For some reason, Lorraine pictured a terrified woman screaming, her lips stretching and distorting like a chilling scene from horror film, but the sound that escaped her mouth was … well, it wasn’t a scream. Instead, she heard a dull, guttural screeching noise, like heavy concrete slowly being scraped along concrete. An occasional throb in the peculiar resonance reminded her of a relaxed heartbeat.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Combined, the alien sounds prickled at her flesh and ushered in a wave of rigid gooseflesh. The hairs on her neck stood on end, and she had the overwhelming urge to shut the record off.

  But she couldn’t.

  Lorraine was completely mesmerised.

  Nowadays, technology could create such a sound with no difficulty, by tweaking and adjusting recorded tracks and samples to extraordinary levels. It was the norm in horror movies and movie soundtrack collections. For the right person it would take mere minutes to conjure such a horrific noise. Back in the ’80s though, no … it wasn’t possible. Surely not. No instrument made by man, or known around the world, could make such a sound. And in the event concrete was actually used to make this unusual track, she doubted a mixer existed that could distort it to this sickening degree.

  And then, the noise was no longer her concern.

  The record finished. The turntable arm bumped and slid away once more.

  Lorraine struggled for breath as her brain burned hot, grasped at the arms of the sofa through sheer desperation and buckled, drool foaming on her chapped lips. She sucked at the humid air, suddenly relished it, but it couldn’t come quick enough. She felt her lungs collapsing in, her chest aching, felt her mind closing off to the world. Her eyes became heavy as her brain throbbed behind them, and Lorraine fought, in vain, to keep them open.

  They closed.

  When they opened three seconds later, the world before her was brighter, more colourful.

  She slapped at her chest, crushing her right breast in the process, but realised she was breathing correctly. No gasping, no shortness of air, no chest pains. Her palms cupped her skull gently, but the throbbing had resided. Nothing was wrong. The slick sheen of sweat on her forehead was the only anomaly.

  Strange, she thought.

  Lorraine stood up and walked to the kitchen. She poured a glass of cool water and gulped it down, savouring the crisp freshness of the liquid. Finished, she placed the glass in the sink and returned to the living room.

  Her gaze found the record player.

  Lorraine smiled.

  She no longer felt sad, distraught.

  Her shoulders no longer sagged, her heart no longer palpitated with profound pain.

  Lorraine also wore a genuine smile on her face.

  How is that possible?

  To prove it, she slid the DVD player forward and retrieved the photograph she had hidden many months ago, a framed wedding photo that stabbed at her heart but remained vital to her sanity. She gazed at it, her eyes blinking, and wiped the dust from the glass. She studied her white dress, her blissful smile, her expensive hairstyle. Her finger caressed the sun on the horizon, a beautiful backdrop that made the picture so perfect, a moment of utter beauty captured forever.

  She also studied Rick.

  Him.

  The bastard who ruined her life.

  Why did he do it? Why?

  He’s a man, that’s w
hy. Men can’t be trusted.

  Not all men. Just him. And a few select others.

  For the first time, she felt nothing when staring at the cherished photograph. The man was nothing but a stranger, just another person in an ancient instant caught on film. She frowned and chuckled, the sound loud in the humid silence. It took her by surprise.

  Lorraine lifted a fist and punched the glass. It cracked beneath the sudden impact. She tipped the broken glass onto the carpet and stripped the cardboard backing from its mooring. Lorraine tossed it across the room without a second thought and slipped the photograph from its frame. She held the photo aloft and sneered. With two fingers, she ripped the photograph down the middle, gently placed Ms Lorraine Sadler beside the TV, and screwed Rick into a small ball.

  You’re nothing to me.

  Not anymore.

  We’re done.

  A sharp rap on the front door interrupted her thoughts once again.

  Dammit.

  Lorraine hesitated and placed the screwed-up photograph beside her on the entertainment unit. With a hard sigh, she brushed the front of her shirt and strolled to the door. She opened it quickly, the movement almost violent.

  She said nothing as Jackie McMahon stared back at her.

  Again?

  “Hello, Lorraine.”

  She nodded, still silent.

  Jackie paused, unsure of how to continue.

  Lorraine narrowed her eyes and stared at the treacherous woman, her gaze cutting through her. She observed her angular chin, her frazzled, curly hair, and the curves of her thin face. Her clothes were a faded brown today, not faded green, although she only alternated between the two. In seventeen years, she’d never seen Jackie in anything other than those two colours, and she started to wonder if the woman was obsessed with camouflage, or the outdoors. Maybe she had family in the military and the colour scheme rubbed off on her pitiful taste, not that Jackie would ever join the armed forces. She was too much of a coward; she preferred to act out her own personal war on the suburban street. Maybe this was her uniform for doing so.

  Not that Lorraine cared.

  The clothes always draped over a figureless shape, bony shoulders and non-existent hips, a flat chest and stick-like legs that bowed in the middle. Jackie McMahon was a pathetic excuse for a human being, something that time had concluded through piles of evidence and bitter experience, and that wasn’t about to change.

  Yet, here she is, rubbing it in.

  “Our conversation was concluded, Jackie,” Lorraine replied, her voice flat.

  “I feel I should apologise,” Jackie said. “You know…”

  Lorraine blew out her cheeks. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Jackie took a small step forward. “I shouldn’t have invited you to my barbeque. It was heartless and irresponsible of me.”

  Lorraine nodded. “Yes, it was.”

  Jackie fumbled with her hands, wringing the knuckles. “You don’t have to come.”

  “I had no intention of doing so,” Lorraine chided.

  “Good. Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up.” Jackie turned to leave.

  “Is that it?”

  Jackie paused, looking over her shoulder. “Yes.”

  Lorraine stepped onto the porch, disbelief obvious on her weary face. She folded her arms to control herself, to maintain composure. “There wasn’t anything else you wanted to say?”

  “I’ve never been one to hold back on my words, Lorraine.” Jackie spun and faced her neighbour. “Whatever do you mean?”

  She clenched her fists and chuckled with disbelief. “You know what I mean.”

  Jackie raised her chin, her beady eyes studying Lorraine. A smile lifted her top lip, exposing green teeth. A furry tongue slipped from her mouth and roamed across her bottom lip. Lorraine could hear it slapping to the skin. “You’re talking about Rick, aren’t you?”

  Lorraine felt her forearms clenching against her chest, but said nothing. The silence was a suitable answer.

  “Rick left you because he no longer loved you. I don’t need to apologise for his actions. I’m a decent person, and I listen to my peers. He chose to confide in me; what was I going to do, say no?”

  “Yes. We were … friends, neighbours. You don’t get involved, you take yourself out of the equation and mind your own business. He left me because of your constant meddling. A word here, a piece of false advice there. On and on, for God knows how long. You were in his ear for months and he finally broke because of you.”

  “I’m not to blame here.” Jackie’s cheeks blushed red. “He broke because you no longer made him happy. This has nothing to do with me.”

  Lorraine sneered, “It has everything to do with you!”

  “Oh, I get it now. You want an apology from me for this, not the barbeque snafu.”

  Lorraine nodded. “Yes. I deserve one. I need closure –”

  “You deserve shit. If your marriage was so solid, if what you and Rick had was so sacred, he would have confided in you about his problems, not me. You could have seen a counsellor or attended therapy. You could have mended your relationship from within your precious home. Instead, he spoke to me on a daily basis because he was scared of you. I advised him, and helped him through his woes. I did what any good friend would do.”

  “You weren’t his friend, you just wanted to drive a wedge between us.” Lorraine raised her arms and gestured to the houses around her. “You see this fucking street as your own little puppet show. You hate it when the strings get cut, so you maintain control as much as you can. Even if it means deceiving your neighbours at every turn, people who trusted you.”

  “People do trust me.”

  “For how long, huh? How long will it be until you split Barry and Jan up? What about Karen and Alan? And I know your thoughts on Dave and Chris, not to mention the principle of gay marriage.”

  Jackie signed a Hail Mary. “It’s an unforgivable sin.”

  “See what I mean? You can’t keep that wonky fucking nose out of anyone’s business.”

  “So you want an apology?”

  “Yes,” Lorraine said, her point finally receiving some credibility.

  “Well, fuck you, Lorraine. You made that man miserable, so miserable, he confided in another woman. I had to watch him wither and shrink before he upped and left. You lost a husband when he walked out, but I lost a friend that day too.”

  Lorraine cracked her neck.

  The anger began to burn deep once again.

  Jackie placed her hands on her hips. “You know what he said to me, on that day?”

  Lorraine paused and blinked away the first remnants of fresh tears. The statement slowly sank in. Shock started to ripple through her body. “What day?”

  “The day he left. He turned up on my doorstep with his cases, to say goodbye.”

  Lorraine sagged a little. “After he left –”

  “Of course. He came to me, after he left your marital home. You thought he would leave without saying goodbye to me?”

  “Why … what…”

  “He asked me if he was making the right decision by leaving. I didn’t answer straight away, the cases took me a little by surprise, but after the months of discussion and confidence, the answer was simple. I told him the truth.”

  Lorraine rubbed the back of her neck, hissing between her teeth. “What … what did you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth,” she repeated.

  “Which was?”

  “Yes, you’re making the right decision.”

  “And this was on the day he left me?” Lorraine clarified, her voice croaking. “After he walked out on me?”

  Jackie nodded and smiled. “Hurts, huh?”

  Lorraine stumbled backwards, in silence.

  Jackie stepped forward, and veered beneath Lorraine’s porch. “Rick confided in me. I just wish he’d found a real woman to be happy with. A woman like me –”

  Lorraine yelled, swung her fist and clipped Jackie on the temple. The small
woman stumbled sideways with a gasp and toppled. Her body collapsed to the ground and her head cracked on the side of a concrete flowerpot, rendering the woman unconscious. Lorraine paused and looked up, scanning the neighbourhood. No activity, no people. No intrusive eyes.

  Curtains didn’t flutter, no one came running, no cars passed.

  Lorraine smiled, reached down, and dragged Jackie’s fallen frame into her house. The feat was simple; after all, she weighed hardly anything. Once inside, she closed the door.

  Jackie awoke to the melodic thrum of a rock song. The old woman didn’t recognise the track, although the sound was very familiar. She’d experienced such sounds through a host of friends; she’d never had her own family, no man had ever spent more than a few months in her strict company. Her friends had it all; children, grandchildren, pets, homes, fulfilled lives.

  Lives that Jackie had envied, lives that she’d been so desperate to be a part of.

  And to a degree, she had been.

  As a friend, a reliable babysitter, a neighbour, as the old kook down the street.

  As an ex-partner.

  As a confidant.

  Jackie had been present when those children had matured and discovered public radio and record players and, more recently, compact discs and little colourful boxes called iPods, and their own genres of music. Children changed on a yearly basis, and technology played a huge part in that. Music was, and still is, a huge part of people’s lives, but where music was once bold and beautiful, it was fast becoming more tedious and boring, more mass-manufactured than created, and more headache-inducing than ever. This song … to her, it was one of the former.

  Jackie had seen and heard it all in her time, through five decades of change, and it all sickened her. Modern youth had a lot to answer for with their selfies and YouTube and iPads. Life used to be so simple, but now?