The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence

by Corin Reyburn

  It’s all up to you and me. Learn to love thy neighbour, for he shall be your only means.”

  Chapter Ten

  ELECTRIC BLISS

  The Electric Ballroom smelled of piss, sweat, and white euphoria. A streak-thin hiss hovered in the air, akin to a wave of panic that when turned on its side became utter bliss. Bodies and blackness so thick you could barely see a foot in front of you. A line outside the door that extended down and around King’s Cross square. The Arcana had been busy all week promoting the show, making sure anyone who was possibly interested became definitely interested in a show they absolutely couldn’t miss.

  The floor was loud and packed, each person pressed up against strangers, bare arms touching one another, shifting their feet to get a better view. They spoke to each other by shouting over the music that blasted between sets or kept themselves busy with their cleverbands, but stilled, silenced, and gazed up as bright blue lights flicked on to full blast up on the stage.

  From fog and steel a figure emerged, wrapped head to toe in a silver cape. On cue of the low rumble from Muzzy’s strings, the cape pooled at Saint Fox’s feet, revealing the frontman wearing Montreal’s tight black leather jacket and even tighter black trousers, posed with his arms to the sky. He strode over to where his guitar sat waiting—red, with a black and white union jack painted across it in smooth lacquer. He slung it across his shoulder, and hit the first chord as the crowd cheered. The stage lights faded from blue to red, bathing him in an eerie pink glow.

  “You all feeling good tonight? You look beautiful,” Sam’s voice echoed throughout the crowded venue. “This one’s called ‘Money Dance’.”

  With that, the band erupted. The first song surged, the second pulled, the third made them almost mad. Electric distortion squealed through the crackling air, a sound that should have been a bloody offence to their ears but it was sweet, sweet and sad, striking something utterly lost and ready to be moulded inside each individual in the crowd that night, sending reverberation back and forth between spectacle and spectator, a string of nervous tension vibrating on a wire, an entire audience of hundreds holding one breath as they stood captivated, each one silently pledging their hearts that night to Saint Fox.

  Watching from the side of the stage along with Sam’s flatmate, Sailor, Kit was almost caught up in it, or was completely if she were honest with herself. Sam’s songs were flawless, full of rally chants as he channeled disillusionment into action, coupled with some of the catchiest guitar riffs she’d ever heard. They were technically simple, yet sounded complex and were easily memorable. Sam’s guitar rose to a frenetic crescendo as he beat against the strings with all the theatrical flair he could muster, seeming everywhere on stage at once, sliding to his knees, dark hair laced with silver glitter in the pulsing strobe lights that billowed upwards to form a sort of alienesque halo.

  The fist-pumping anthems were interlaced with slower, darker tunes, an ominous promise for revenge wrapped in electricity and light. Zephyr’s war drums and Muzzy’s low vibrations ran from the audience’s feet, up their jelly-filled legs, and straight into their hearts, beating an eternal presence there.

  “He’s fantastic, isn’t he?” Sailor shouted to her over the music.

  “Yeah, he is. Makes me miss it,” she said.

  On stage, Saint Fox and The Independence took their fake-out bows to wild cheers before disappearing, then reappearing for the encore. It ended with Saint Fox and Muzzy crashing into Zephyr’s drum kit, knocking everything over while the guitars hissed feedback and cymbals crashed to the floor. Squares of black and silver glitter rained down from the ceiling over the band and audience, coating everyone’s hair in streaks of shimmer.

  “G’night, everyone! We’ll see you soon! Thanks for coming out to see us; it means the world. You know, we are The Independence—all of us. Brothers in arms. We love you…we’ll see you next time!”

  Kit and Sailor caught up with the band backstage. “That was bloody fabulous,” Sailor said, effortlessly falling into step beside Sam. He threw a purple towel over Sam’s hair and ruffled it, a mix of sweat, glitter, and pomade soaking the fabric. “That was like watching Iggy Pop perform. Or Elvis. Shyte man, you even brought me to tears at one point. You made my mascara run.” He slung an arm across Sam’s shoulders as the frontman grinned, vibrating with post-show adrenaline.

  “You were his first groupie long before he was even in a band, weren’t you,” Muzzy slapped Sailor on the back, sending him stumbling forward a few steps.

  “Oi! Watch the hair, mate,” Sailor said.

  “Hey, has anyone seen Jeeves?” Sam asked. “Didn’t think he’d miss our first gig playing to over a thousand. Sweet and intimate, but just big enough to be a mob. So, where is the mad genius?”

  “He was here for the first half of the set,” Kit said, right in step with the band. “Said he had something to attend to.”

  “What would that be, I wonder?”

  “Dunno. He sort of...babbled some tech-sprinkled word salad and moonwalked out of the club.”

  “Figures. Where’s your blonde friend?”

  “Amsterdam,” she answered, toying with the bracelets on her wrist. Delia seemed to be always flying off somewhere with someone new, this week to Amsterdam with two girls she’d met last Thursday at a club, next month to Singapore with an ex-boyfriend she was ‘absolutely just friends with now.’ Kit pegged her as one of those people with plenty of money to travel despite the fact she seemed perpetually unemployed. Even back when Kit had been making industry money, her paychecks weren’t big enough to afford many luxuries after everyone and their brother had taken a cut of her profits.

  Kit could practically visualise the loose threads of her friendship with Delia already unraveling, a broken cord that had never been plugged in all the way. Still, it had gotten her here.

  To Sam, to Jeeves. To the music.

  “Well, we’ve got everyone we need right here,” Sam said, slinging his arm around her. “We’ve done ourselves proud. This calls for a drink or eight.”

  “Here, here,” Muzzy chimed in. “Let us partake in the spoils of electric war.”

  Once they were settled backstage, Sam raised his bottle high in the air. “To rock n’ roll,” he said. “To fame, and an impending lack of fortune.”

  The group clanked their drinks together with unanimous cheers. Muzzy bluestreamed a demo of a couple new songs into the speakers, the sweet strains weaving dark earth, light, and magic throughout the greenroom.

  “What’s this one called?” Kit asked.

  “‘Love Junkie’. What do you think?”

  “I like it,” Kit said. “Lots of layered guitars.”

  “Yeah, well, in the studio you can layer on as many as you like. I’m not sure how we’re gonna work this one out live though, but you know we’ve been talking about finding another guitar player,” Sam said, staring pointedly at her as a lazy smile spread across his face.

  “Got anyone in mind?” she ventured.

  “‘Ey, well there’s a certain curly-haired guitarist I’ve got my eye on, and I’m not talking about that guy from Guns N’ Roses who just kicked it.” He slid an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close. “Do you know someone who fits the description? Think she’d be up for it? I’ve been listening to her stuff and from what I’ve heard, she’s a way better player than me, though to be fair that’d be just about anyone...”

  Kit slapped his arm. “I’m sure she finds it a very interesting proposition,” she said, “though she might be wondering if your all-boys club can handle her.”

  “We can definitely handle her! We’ll handle ‘er all at once,” Muzzy called from his corner of the couch, where he was gesticulating wildly in some inane conversation with Sailor.

  “Woooo,” Sailor said. “You’ll have to beat them off with a stick, love. Or just beat them off.” Sailor had become somewhat indiscernible from the grey leather couch he was seated on, covered head to toe in a skintight jumpsuit resemb
ling an emergency blanket. He receded into a tight ball, inhaling from the electronic joint he rarely parted with; tonight it’d been making the rounds between Sam, Kit, Muzzy, and himself, Seth refusing in favour of his own pack of Sterling Evergreen.

  “Enough of that,” Sam said. “No pissin’ her about, all right? You’ve heard her albums, she plays better than most folks out there, man or woman.”

  “Thanks, love, but I don’t need you to protect me from this lot,” she said, jutting her chin forward. “I can rumble with you lads any day. Bring it on.” She turned to Sam. “You sure your ringleader won’t mind?”

  “To be honest, I’ve already discussed it with Jeeves. He’s all for it. In fact, it was sort of his idea. But this is a democracy, so let’s take a vote,” Sam offered, eyes scanning the room. “Who says ‘aye’?”

  “Aye,” said Seth, tipping his beer bottle towards her.

  “Aye-yi-yi,” said Muzzy.

  “Ayeeeeeeeeee,” Sailor slurred from his human cocoon.

  “You don’t get a vote,” Sam told him.

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cause you’re not in the band! You don’t even play any instruments.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Sailor. “Besides, I blow the horn.”

  “Speaking of, I gotta take a leak,” said Sam.

  “Coming with ya,” Sailor responded. He extracted himself from the couch, skip-running to catch up with the quick steps of his flatmate.

  The toilet was about fifteen degrees colder than the backstage lounge. Two out of four stall doors broken and flecks chipping off the tile in zigzag patterns, an odd contrast in comparison to how the lounge was kept, decorated in faux leather and stocked with plenty of designer drinks.

  Sam stepped up to the second urinal, Sailor to the third.

  “So I guess you’re on the road to bein’ famous now, ‘eh?”

  “Sailor, I’m just trying to have a nice, quiet piss. Can’t you shut it for one second?”

  Sailor leaned in, kissing him sloppily on the cheek, too high and happy to notice the abrupt change in Sam’s demeanor or contemplate its indications.

  “Oi! I said give it a rest, will ya?” Sam pulled away, tucking himself back in and storming over to the sink.

  “The pressures of fame gettin’ to ya already, Sammy boy?”

  Sam scrubbed hot water over his hands and face. “Maybe.”

  “I’d say I know how to take the edge off, but I can tell you’re not in the mood.”

  “Correctamundo. Maybe some other time.”

  Sailor joined him at the sinks, preening a bit and pulling faces in the mirror. Sam had to laugh.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Sailor said. “Anything else I can do to lend a hand?”

  “Nah.” He watched the tap run for a bit before facing his reflection in the dusty mirror. “Just—what if I’m not cut out for this? I mean, playing music is brilliant, and the fact that so many people came out to the show tonight is great, but...”

  “But...?”

  “But, I don’t know. Jeeves, and the Society, it’s just...turning fans into an army. An army of what? He speaks in riddles, he’s half crazy. Sometimes I wonder if he has a plan at all.”

  Sailor placed his chin on Sam’s shoulder, matching his frown in the mirror. “Put it this way, mate. What else ya gonna do? World is shyte. At least he’s tryin’ something, or thinks he is. An’ he had no small part in promoting this gig tonight. That’s something.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Sailor.” He reached up, scritching his hair. The Sailor in the mirror smiled.

  “You know Sailor’s not my real name, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. But every time you’re pissed you tell me it’s something different. You gonna tell me tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” Sailor said, grinning wryly. He gave Sam a friendly smack on his bicep and pulled away.

  “Fair enough.”

  “C’mon, let’s go see what those other stoner revolutionaries are up to.”

  Sam and Sailor headed out into the hall, back into the fray.

  Chapter Eleven

  WAITING FOR THE MIRACLE

  Benson Bridges finished primary school at the age of eight. By sixteen, he had created twelve unique technological inventions which he’d never bothered to patent. Some would say Benson had thrown thousands of pounds down the drain. But he loved creation, hated business, and didn’t mind if his flat was forty square meters and a complete mess.

  He preferred to work at home most days, but today was stuck working at Janus Jeeves’ obscenely decorated flat. The man insisted. He wanted biweekly updates, said it was part of Bez’s duties now that he’d been promoted to ‘Magician,’ his formal-informal title amongst the Arcana. Jeeves had gifted him the title immediately after Benson had brought Sam over that first night.

  “Is it ready?” Jeeves asked, his face mere inches from Benson’s across the communal table currently serving as workspace. Customised widescreen tablets light as a feather designed by Benson himself, with decacore i21 processors and upgraded memory capacity, lined the table in either direction, staffed by his own little team of quiet-as-mice programmers. He was now a manager.

  “Shove off, these things take time,” Benson said. “Jayla, any luck?” he asked the girl across and two screens to the left from him.

  “No joy,” the dark hair girl responded.

  “This sequence keeps throwing an error; he don’t like anything I’ve been feeding him. Gotta keep tweaking it ‘til it bypasses these permissions,” said Benson.

  “I know baby, I know, I just want to see the program in action,” said Jeeves, punctuating his words with a few spazzy thrusts of his hips.

  “Can you go away? Your weird dancing makes it hard to concentrate. If you want us to finish this on time, you gotta give us some space.”

  “Suit yourself.” Jeeves strutted away from his kitchen table with moves somewhere between modern dance and tango.

  Five minutes later he strutted right back in.

  “How’s it goin’?” His black and yellow chiffon sleeve covered half of Benson’s face.

  Benson swatted him away, annoyed. “Remind me again why’m I doin’ this, eh mate? You harass me all the time and you don’t even pay me, except in curry. I quit a decent paying job at that camera shop, dull as it was, to sign on and do this full time, you know.”

  “You love curry, baby. Must be your Korean blood. I once had some Korean blood in me,” Jeeves mused.

  “First of all, this curry ain’t nothing like Korean curry; it’s Punjabi and you know it. It ain’t all the same.”

  “I know that, Bezzy-Bez. I’ve been everywhere. I get spices no one but the rich can afford.” Jeeves crouched beside him, breathing the aforementioned spices in Benson’s ear. “I get them illegally.”

  “Is that one of the laws?” Benson asked dryly. “Thou must obtain one’s spices illegally?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Jeeves said. “But yes, it falls in line with the rest of it. You know that. And you know why you’re doing this. Tell me now, tell me extra quickly. Why are you doing this?”

  Benson sighed. “Because I believe.”

  “Because you believe!” Jeeves exclaimed with his whole person. “Because you know. And because you got the big maths computer brain, baby. Only way to take down a computer is with a computer. That much is obvious.” The maestro took a deep breath, calming a tad. “And I believe in you,” he told Benson, fixing the lad with an earnest look. “Why, you’re the key to this whole thing.”

  Benson ignored the compliment. “It’s gonna be brilliant when it’s finished,” he said. “Gonna be mayhem, but the kind we need. I just hope Sam can rally together enough people.”

  “Have faith, my son,” said Jeeves, crossing himself like a priest. He folded his hands and bowed down until his head touched the picnic table. “Fan army grows as we speak,” he said, popping back up.

  “So, when we set this thing off...what about people
who don’t have the Dot? I mean, I know there’s not many of them, but they’re out there.”

  “Ahhh. Those people are already on our side. They don’t even have to listen to Saint Fox and The Independence. They’re ready to play. Been doing it this whole time.” Jeeves put his hands on Benson’s shoulders and squeezed, squinting at the display like he understood the lines of code.

  While Benson’s baby continued to throw SQL errors, Janus Jeeves sat on the floor and thought about the world. This would work. It wouldn’t be like last time. The people would rise up—unified, and follow them singing and dancing into the light. He was doing the right thing. Previous attempts in previous lives had only been practice. This time, with Saint Fox by his side, this time it would ricochet around the globe, pinging and ponging until all were almost free, until this time ran straight into next time.

  Two hours later, Benson shouted eureka. “We’re in! Finally.”

  “Yeehaw,” said Jeeves. “Sooo...is it ready?”

  “Only 1,051 more sequences to go,” Benson said. Jeeves slapped his hand to his forehead, spinning dramatically before crashing to the ground.

  “If only the revolution relied on art instead of maths,” he said from the floor.

  “If only,” Benson said, returning to his work.

  

  Kit had to change trains four times across seventeen stops to get to Sam and Sailor’s flat in South London. Between the District line shut down for maintenance and the nonstop pouring rain that amplified the paradoxical aggressive zombie nature of crowds, the trip took over an hour.

  Still, she was only ten minutes late, and Sam Numan did not seem to mind at all.

  The flat was just as sparse as she’d imagined it, a place for eating, sleeping, drinking, and writing music. Amps crowded up one side of the room, and papers with chords, licks, and lyrics written in biro were scattered across the floor. The air smelled of afternoon rain, vodka, burnt tea, and damp.