Trackman

by Catriona Child

I run up the stairwell, take the steps two at a time. My Converse boots are wet though and I slip on the vinyl flooring. I fall forwards, and crash against a bike someone's got tied up to the banister railing. The pedal catches and rips a hole in the knee of my cords.

  The door to number nine opens and I turn to see a pair of eyes watching me from behind a security chain. I give my spectator the thumbs up and the door shuts. The sound of it slamming echoes around the stairwell and hums in and out of the railings. Above me. Below me. Up and down. Up and down.

  I run my hand up the scratched, dull varnish of the wooden banister as I continue up the stairs. One step at a time. One finger. One thumb. One arm. One leg.

  I can tell Alfie's in before I put the key in the front door: there's all sorts of noise coming from inside the flat. I place my palm flat against the door and can feel the wood vibrate against my skin.

  He never went back in there, but sometimes stood outside with his palms flat against the door.

  I turn the key and push the door open; the noise hits me even harder. Alfie's bedroom door is closed, but the walls on either side pulse like a speaker. If I opened that door the noise would spill out and knock me down.

  I head straight to my own room, close the door behind me and try to soundproof the space with a few t-shirts I've left scattered across the floor. I stuff them around my door, sealing off the gaps like I'm in a fire-safety video. I'm surprised my furniture is still standing where I left it this morning, surprised it's not bounced all over the room, dancing to the noise that Alfie's making.

  My ears fill up with pressure; the hair inside sways from side to side, like a crowd listening to a ballad at a boyband concert. I put my hands over my ears, stick my fingers inside the canals, anything to try and ease the feeling that my eardrums are about to explode.

  Silence.

  'Davie? That you?' Alfie's voice shouts from the other side of my bedroom door.

  'Aye, it's me.'

  I pull the t-shirts out of the way and open the door. One gets jammed and I slide it back with my foot and kick it out into the hallway. It hits Alfie who's standing in front of me; he picks up the t-shirt and hands it back.

  'Cheers,' I say, and chuck it behind me into my room.

  Alfie's hair is all over the place and his eyes are wide and staring. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Doc from Back to the Future.

  'I've discovered my sound,' Alfie says, like he's just won the lottery.

  'Eh?'

  'I went to see this singer called Thomas Truax, eh? He's a total mentalist but he's fucking amazing. He's got all these mad instruments that he's made himself, and they add this ace sound to his songs.'

  'Sounds good.'

  'Aye, he's really inspired me. I've realised what's been wrong with my songs all this time. They've been lacking that special sound. I can't believe I never realised it before now. That's why the band never got anywhere, we were always missing something.'

  Alfie is wide-eyed and doesn't drop eye contact with me, not even blinking. I'm not really sure how to reply to his announcement so I stay quiet. I want to get rid of him so I can check out the MP3 player, but he's so excited I feel like I should humour him.

  'I'm making my own instruments,' he explains. 'It's fucking genius. Already some of the old songs are really starting to come alive. Did you not hear when you came in?'

  'Eh... aye, I thought I recognised that one... eh, what was it called again?'

  I try to remember the name of one of Alfie's songs. I know he had a couple named after old Amstrad games.

  Daley Thompson's Decathlon?

  Fantasy World Dizzy?

  My mind goes blank. I can barely remember what his band were called, let alone any of the songs. He's so hyped up, the question of what he's been taking trumps the quest for song titles in my head.

  'Blue Heart on the Moon?' Alfie asks me.

  'Aye, of course. That was it. Sorry, I couldn't think of the name there. Had a total mental block. Aye, it definitely sounds a lot different from when you and the band used to do it, like.'

  'I ken. It's so much better, isn't it? I knew you'd notice. That's just a prototype instrument too. I've not had time to get all the equipment I need yet. Imagine how ace it's gonna sound once I get properly sorted.'

  'Aye, cool.'

  'I just wanted to come and tell you, eh? I'm so wired about it all. I feel like that missing jigsaw piece has just been found down the back of the couch. I need to get back to it though. I've got all these ideas just racing around me, I need to get it all down on paper while it's fresh.'

  Alfie waves his arms around his head while he's talking to me. I've seen him on speed before, but this is something else. I'm waiting for him to grab me by the collar and shout, 'Great Scott!'

  'Cool, brilliant, eh?' I reply.

  I glance inside his bedroom as he turns his back on me. Fuck knows what he's up to in there. Well, apart from the musical instrument project of course. The red light bulb he insists on having doesn't give out much light, and it's like staring into my granny's old electric fire. I can make out shapes and shadows, but nothing concrete. The face of David Bowie stares down at me from one of Alfie's posters, the glam rock make-up looks even stranger behind the crimson glow. Alfie flashes me a manic smile before closing the bedroom door. Doc morphs into Mr Hyde, and I have a sudden vision of Alfie hunched over his desk, stirring a steaming cauldron. I push the image away with a shrug. Alfie doesn't change personality from day to night: he's a constant state of anarchy.

  Davie held onto his pint and leant against the wall next to the stage. Alfie's band was playing, and Davie had come along to watch. The pub was a complete dive, a real old man's pub, but that didn't seem to bother Alfie. Despite the fact that only a handful of folk from Virgin and a couple of regulars were watching, Alfie strutted across the stage like he was Mick Jagger and Jim Morrison rolled into one.

  Almost immediately the noise kicks in again. I hesitate out in the hall for a few minutes, curious to see if I can actually recognise what it is he's playing.

  Nope.

  Must be an early album track or an obscure B-side.

  I soundproof my bedroom once more, as Alfie's new sound begins to seep through the walls into my room. I kick off my Converse and my damp cords, and sit down on my bed with the MP3 player.

  I turn it over and over in my hands.

  'Come on then, I'm on my own now. Do your thing.'

  I can't concentrate on anything with Alfie's racket next door. My head is tied up in knots. The noise buzzes around me like a bluebottle and the knots are pulled tighter. I'm surprised nobody's been up to complain. The noise must be reverberating all the way through the building.

  Let's try some simple breathing exercises first.

  Loosen your clothing.

  Sit with your back against the wall.

  Start by breathing out.

  Then breathe in.

  Then breathe out.

  Then breathe in.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  If you can, try and find somewhere quiet and peaceful.

  I fold out the headphones from the MP3 player and put them on. The rust has completely gone now and the hinges slide back and forward, back and forward, back and forward. No effort required. The padded covering on the headphones sucks onto my ears, a plunger on either side of my head. It's so tight that I feel my brain will be sucked right out of my skull if I remove them. All external sound vanishes. Peace. Quiet.

  It's like being underwater at the swimming pool. Noise and splash echoing off the bricks and the tiles, then bubbles and swoosh.

  I pull them away from my ears, then let them fall back down again.

  Pull away, fall back down, pull away, fall back down.

  Feel the difference between silence and noise.

  Underwater, then break the surface.

  Underwater, then break the surface.

  Underwater
, then break the surface.

  Underwater.

  Break the surface.

  Inhale.

  Shivery bite.

  The MP3 player is sparkling. The glitter rubs off on me, so when I look down at my palms they're sparkling too. The gaps between my fingers are glowing. The player feels alive. A sleeping baby. No movement on the outside, but all kinds of unseen shit going on inside. Under the surface.

  Whispering to me.

  I put the player down on my bedside table and lean back against the headboard. It was definitely vibrating earlier on, but now it's staying still. I didn't imagine it. All the way home on the bus, zzzzmmmmmm, zzzzmmmmmm, zzzzmmmmmm. Why's it staying still now?

  Come on, talk to me. Don't mess me about.

  I know there's more to it than just an MP3 player.

  Work, you stupid thing, work.

  Fuck sake, what am I doing? I'm acting like a crazy person.

  Waiting to go in. Waiting to be seen. Waiting to be picked up. Waiting for the pain to just get a tiny bit smaller. Waiting. Everybody seemed to be waiting at hospitals.

  I pick the player up and smack it down onto the bedside table in frustration.

  Fucking hell, what's wrong with me? Getting all worked up over a stupid, broken MP3 player.

  I pull the headphones off but all I can hear is Alfie's noise. He's got me trapped. I slip the headphones back on, push my bare legs under the duvet and lie my head down on the pillow. Keep Alfie's noise at bay. Close my eyes.

  It's oh so quiet.

  I sense movement behind my closed eyelids. The MP3 player is moving. I sit up. Pinch myself. I'm definitely awake and it's definitely moving. It shuffles across my bedside table and tumbles off the edge. I lunge towards it and manage to catch it before it hits the floor.

  Reflexes sharp. Put Craig Gordon to shame.

  As my hands grasp the player, I feel something surge through me.

  Zzzzmmmmmm!

  I'm different. Something's happened to me.

  I feel like I've been zapped with electricity. The hair all over my body is fizzing, standing to attention. My cock is hard and alert. It's amazing. I'm wide awake.

  I have the power.

  The LCD screen on the MP3 player lights up: electric blue. Bright. My hands are illuminated. I can see every line, every vein, every flake of skin.

  I glance up at the mirror at the opposite end of my room. Do I look different? My face is lit up: blue from the MP3 player.

  His face was illuminated when he opened the door. He took out the carton and unscrewed the lid.

  Words scroll along the LCD screen. Right to left.

  Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman

  There's a voice coming from the headphones. It starts off a whisper but then builds and builds. Julie Andrews appearing over the mountain. The voice repeats the same phrase.

  Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman

  It must be jammed: stuck on repeat. I've never heard a song like this in my life. Some sort of experimental pish? There seems to be a loose connection somewhere, because if I shift my hand position the voice and the words stop. Blue light goes out.

  Off.

  Click… off… gone.

  I have to keep my hands locked around the player, which is easier said than done seeing as I'm hanging off the bed after jumping forward to catch it.

  The voice reminds me of someone. It takes me a few minutes to place it. That old actor: James Mason. The more I listen to it, the more it starts to freak me out. When I think of him all these images merge in my head. Angelic James in Heaven Can Wait. Evil James in North by Northwest. Alcoholic and suicidal James in A Star is Born. Eddie Izzard and Rob Brydon doing James Mason impressions. Undermining his bad guy status. There's so many versions of him. Which one is this? It confuses me. This voice is confusing me.

  One finger. One thumb. One finger. One thumb.

  The covers of the DVDs I have to file away and alphabetise at work jump out at me.

  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

  Lolita.

  The Boys From Brazil.

  Salem's Lot.

  The Water Babies.

  I want to pull the headphones off but the voice stops me.

  Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman Welcome Trackman

  Okay, I get it, Welcome Trackman.

  Man You are the Trackman You are the Trackman You

  Fuck.

  I let go of the player, and it drops to the ground and bounces out of sight under the bed.

  That was a coincidence, right? The way it changed like it was answering me.

  I stretch my arm under the bed, pull the player out from underneath and blow the dust off it. Everything has stopped again.

  I shimmy my legs over the edge of the bed so that I'm sitting up now; my feet, still in the spotty socks, are flat against the wooden floorboards. I clasp my hands around the player and the voice and the words kick in again.

  Trackman You are the Trackman You are the Trackman

  My whole body is charged. Like there's a key in my back and someone's winding me up. There's a tingle spreading through me. It starts in my hands and flows out to the rest of my body.

  Davie's grandpa folded a piece of tissue paper over a comb, and began to play a tune on it.

  Come on, Davie, I'll teach you my party piece. Just hold it to your mouth and blow. You have to squeeze your lips together.

  Davie put two Penguin biscuits down on the table. It was time to pass on some wisdom to his little brother.

  Davie took the comb and tried to copy his grandpa. He couldn't do it though. The paper made his lips tickle and he rubbed at them with the comb, trying to scratch the itchiness away.

  My hair is sticking up; I could stick balloons to the wall.

  It's a good feeling.

  Good feeling.

  I play around with my hand placement.

  Hands on. Hands off. Hands on. Hands off. Hands on. Hands off.

  Karate-kid-esque.

  It's fucking weird the way the voice and the words keep stopping and starting. If I let go of the thing to take a closer look, it dies on me. I try fooling it and swap my hands for something else: my feet, the Harry Potter book. I'm Indiana Jones in Raiders: I have the bag of sand in one hand and I need to switch it smoothly and seamlessly for the golden idol.

  It doesn't work though. The platform sinks down and the booby traps are set off. The MP3 player is still and I'm being chased by a giant, stone ball.

  I can't sit still. I'm buzzing. I walk round and round my room, keep pace with the words from the headphones.

  Track. Man. Track. Man. Track. Man. Track. Man.

  The voice becomes friendly. Soothing. I forget the schizophrenia, all the different characters brought to life by James Mason. His voice is a mantra. Hypnotic.

  Click… off… gone.

  It's like the batteries have just died.

  I stop walking. Why has it stopped?

  I can't get it to start again.

  Nothing.

  'Come back. Talk to me.'

  I squeeze it as hard as I can. Shake it.

  'Hey, come on! Come back!'

  I jump as my bedroom door swings open. Alfie's standing in the doorway and he mouths something at me.

  I pull off the headphones. The flat's quiet. How long has he been outside my door? How much has he heard?

  'Sorry, man, just going for a pish and I thought I heard you shout me.'

  'Nah, just singing.'

  'You got it working then?' he nods at the MP3 player.

  'Eh... aye, kind of.'

  'You didn't sound half bad actually. I might use you when it comes to recording stuff.'

  'Aye, no bother.'

  Alfie shuts the bedroom door and I squeeze my hands. Exert pressure on the MP3 player. I'm not surprised when it burrs into life again, like it didn't want Alfie to see. It's a secret. Our secret.

  I throw myself onto the bed. Tap, tap, tap my feet against the
headboard. The headphones hang over my thigh and drag on the floor. The voice spills out of them and buzzes against the floorboards like the cicadas you hear in films. I lie awake and concentrate on the voice. Concentrate on it until it's all I can hear.

  Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track

  7

  Crush with Eyeliner

  So when she asked him if he was going for a drink after work, he said yes. He asked her if she was going too. She said yes. She smiled at him. Cool, he replied.

  Davie dropped the orange juice.

  I'M COMMITTING THE cardinal sin of the shop worker, breaking the most important rule in the book. Slouching. Leaning. Slumped over the counter with my head in my hands, and flicking through PC Gamer magazine. I have my story worked out if Laura happens to show up on the shop floor: research. Some customer asked me about this new game and I was just checking the reviews for him... blah, blah, blah. Load of pish, but I can't be arsed today. I can't be arsed most of the time, but today is worse than usual.

  Martha's kicking about over by the chart wall dusting the shelves, Ryan's on his break. They don't give a shit either, but at least Martha has the decency to look busy somewhere else. Ryan insists on doing whatever I'm doing. Two people leaning against the counter just looks like two people skiving, whereas if it's just me on my own then I can come up with an excuse.

  The in-store radio has been particularly shite today too.

  It's recorded in London and is then piped out to all the individual stores.

  Someone upstairs on the ground floor must have got pissed off with it and turned the volume down. It was blaring out earlier, but now you can only hear it if you go and stand directly under one of the speakers.

  All the records on the radio are shite.

  There's hardly any customers either, it's been dead all morning. I'm so fucking bored. Man, I'm never happy. I moan when there are customers and then I moan when we don't have any. We did have a visit from one of our regulars, B.O. Problem Man though. The smell of stale armpits is still clinging in the air like the moist warmth from a rotting bin-bag.

  Davie held his breath against the stale, unwashed smell of him.

  The excitement of the day so far has been changing the posters in the light boxes, which hang on the wall behind the tills like a noughts and crosses board. They're a fucking nightmare. Half of them are broken, the magnetic power starting to fade, so it's a risky business trying to slot them back onto the wall. There's a knack to it, I just don't seem to have it.