Trackman

by Catriona Child

  Drum kit in pieces, I'm leaving the band.

  Bass and toms abandoned, door slammed.

  Pre-chorus:

  Back when Antelope Carcass was all that we had.

  Remember we said that we'd die for the band.

  What happens when everything's taken away?

  What happened to wanting to plaaaaaayyyyyyy…

  Chorus:

  Antelope Carcass is over.

  Antelope Carcass is lost.

  Antelope Carcass dead and decaying.

  Antelope Carcass through.

  Solo

  Bridge:

  Then something happened that changed me.

  A stranger who played me a song.

  The song that started us all off,

  On that rock 'n' roll road that's so long.

  And now Axl says Slash is a cancer.

  I don't want us to end up that way.

  Who cares if we don't hit the big time.

  We'll keep rocking the rest of the day

  Pre-chorus:

  And Antelope Carcass is all that we have

  And yeah, we would all still die for the band.

  No one can ever take it away.

  All we need to do is to plaaaaaayyyyyyy…

  Chorus:

  Antelope Carcass not over.

  Antelope Carcass is strong.

  Antelope Carcass alive and we're rocking.

  Antelope Carcass belongs!

  When the song finishes, my legs are wobbly and the images start to fade. The guy lunges at me and at first I think he's going to go mental, like the cinema guy, but he shakes my hand instead. He squeezes it and the pressure eases the pain in my hands. He looks like he's about to say something but instead he turns, his jacket floating out behind him like Dracula and heads back inside the lift.

  Three is a magic number.

  This one has taken the wind out of me. My legs turn to jelly and I lean against the wall. I feel amazing but knackered. Much better than any porn DVD could make me feel.

  I drag myself back to the counter and lean over the silver, metallic surface, use a till to prop myself up.

  The voices are shouting over each other.

  Now do you believe? Three. Three is. One finger, one thumb. You can't blame me for being sceptical. Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman. Now do you accept your gift? One finger, one finger, one. Three. Three. Three is. Three is. Why me? Trackman Trackman. Magic number. One arm, one leg. What do I do now? Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving. Magic number. Three. I'm not crazy. This is real. I believe. I believe. Magic. Number. Three.

  Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm

  I rest my forehead on the counter, close my eyes. I think I'm going to pass out. I don't know how long I stand like that for. It feels like I'm awake but asleep at the same time.

  'Excuse me? Are you alright?'

  I look up and the guy in the leather jacket is back.

  'Aye, just a bit wobbly that's all.'

  'You've gone a bit white.'

  'Have I?'

  I rub my hand across my face.

  'I just wanted to say thanks, eh?'

  The guy hands me a blue carrier bag which has a six-pack of Tennents and a tub of Pringles in it.

  'Eh… thanks very much,' I say and take the bag.

  'It's not nearly enough, but it's the best I could do on short notice.'

  'Cheers.'

  'No, thank you.'

  The lager is straight from the fridge. I take one of the cans and hold it between my hands. It's sweet and cold. I try to think of something cool to say to the guy and then feel like a total wanker when I come out with:

  'The Trackman doesn't need thanks.'

  The guy leans forward and I think he's going to bow before me, but he's off again. Up the stairs and out of the shop, his boots rattling the staircase.

  My hands sting and I'm a bit dizzy, but I feel fucking great. I could have donated a year's wages to charity and then shagged Jennifer Aniston and I don't think I'd feel this good.

  After the last couple of years, I'd take anything. Anything if it makes me feel better.

  You know that button on the computer: system restore. It's like time travel. You click a date in bold on your online calendar, and your computer restores everything back to the way it was on that date. I spend all my time wishing I could click that date in bold. Go back and restore everything to the way it was.

  Then this fucking box lands in my lap and I'm feeling things I thought had died with Lewis. I thought the nerve endings to joy and pleasure had been cut.

  Bullet proof… I wish I was.

  That guy thought I was amazing, just because I played him a fucking Guns n' Roses song.

  This is an adrenaline buzz. A sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll high. This is like when you hit puberty and you realise what your cock's for.

  This is something I want more of.

  'You'd better hide those in case Laura catches you on the shop floor with them,' Ryan says as he emerges from the Games department, 'where did you get them anyway?'

  'Eh… I helped this guy find a film he's been looking for, he couldn't remember the name of it.'

  'Oh aye, what film was it?'

  'The Trackman, part three.'

  11

  I'm a Believer

  Fuck it, he said, and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered.

  Davie dropped the orange juice.

  MY BEDROOM'S IN darkness.

  Davie's mum and dad had rented a holiday home in the middle of nowhere. There were no street lights outside the window and when the lights were turned off, it was black inside the room.

  Davie woke up in the middle of the night, needing to pee. It was so dark he couldn't move, he was frozen to the sheets.

  Fight or flight.

  Fright.

  His arms and legs wouldn't work. He couldn't move. He could hear Lewis breathing in the other bed, but he couldn't see him. Couldn't even make out a head, a lump under the blankets, nothing.

  My bedroom's in darkness but I can still make out shapes. Semi-darkness. As dark as it ever gets in the middle of a city. The streetlights shine in through the thin, cheap curtains, casting shadows and shapes. The rented furniture and the piles of clothes and CDs change form, morph into figures. People watching me. They're not real. Not real. I know they're not real. Blink them away, blink them away.

  I glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table, the time in red light blinks out from the darkness.

  3:41

  I've been lying awake for about forty-five minutes now.

  Where do the nights of sleep go to when they do not come to me?

  When I'd gone to bed a few hours earlier, I'd fallen asleep instantly. Even the racket coming from Alfie's room hadn't kept me up. Then I had one of those dreams. One of those dreams where Lewis is still alive. I have them every now and again. I wake up and have to remind myself that it's just a dream. Just a dream. It's hard to get back to sleep after those dreams.

  We were in a house, that I knew was my folks' house, even though it looked nothing like their actual house. Lewis and I were playing the computer, but he kept telling me that he wanted to go into the kitchen. He had to go into the kitchen. The dream me knew that something bad was in there and I kept saying to him no, don't go in there. Stay and play with me. He opened the kitchen door and that was when I woke up. I woke up and my groggy brain and half-closed eyes saw a figure at the end of my bed. I sat up and it merged into a rucksack, hanging off a chair. Sleep and shadows playing their tricks.

  I've not been able to get back to sleep. My eyes are tired and heavy and they want to close, but they don't bring sleep.

  I know it sounds stupid, but focusing your mind on one thing really does help. It doesn't have to be sheep, it can be anything. The repetitive motion of the counting helps to relax you into sleep.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.

  Trackman Trackman Tra
ckman Trackman Trackman Trackm

  To distract myself from the bad dream, I've been going over what's been happening with the MP3 player; going over it again and again and again and again. The girl in the phone box. The guy at the cinema. The Guns 'n' Roses fan. I can't deny what's happening now. I said to myself in the park: three times. If it happens three times then you have to believe it.

  I'm a believer.

  I sit up and crawl down to the end of the bed where I can reach my rucksack. I put my hand in to rummage around for the MP3 player, but it's sitting on top of all my crap. The bag is warm around it, like it's been left switched on. I pull it out and lie back down, so I'm the wrong way round in bed. My feet stick out from under the duvet onto the pillows and my head is flat against the mattress. I pull the duvet over my head and rest the MP3 player on my stomach. It goes up and down, up and down, up and down, as I breathe, rising and falling with the movement of my chest.

  It's weird and scary and exciting and unbelievable all at the same time. In fact whenever I think of it, adjectives just tumble around in my brain, until a giant FUCK comes out of nowhere and stamps on them all like the foot in Monty Python.

  It's funny how in the middle of the night your entire point of view changes. Earlier on today all I'd wanted to do was tell people what I'd discovered. I kept going over the conversations in my head. What I would say. How Susan would react. How Alfie would react. I decided that as soon as I got home, I'd tell Alfie what had been happening to me.

  Davie heard Alfie's bedroom door open and New Order blared out into the hallway.

  Alfie.

  Aye? Alfie turned and looked round, as if it could have been anyone shouting on him in his own hallway.

  It's me.

  Alright, Davie boy, how's it going?

  You got a minute? I want to show you something.

  For you, anything. Just let me go for a pish first though, eh?

  Davie hovered in the hallway. The red bulb in Alfie's room was switched off and the only light was coming from a desk lamp on the floor. It spotlit an ashtray full of half-smoked rollies and Davie could smell weed.

  Davie heard the toilet flush and waited for Alfie to emerge.

  Davie, what you up to?

  You said you'd come and look at something.

  So I did, lead the way.

  Alfie followed Davie into the living room and put the kettle on while Davie rummaged about for the MP3 player on the sofa. He had definitely left it there; he was sure he had. Davie started to feel a bit funny, uneasy, like it wasn't such a good idea anymore. What if telling someone broke the spell? What if it meant the MP3 player disappeared? Davie didn't want to go back to his nothing, humdrum life. The life where he was no longer the Trackman but just plain old Davie.

  Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm

  Davie stuck his hand down the back of the couch and rummaged about underneath the cushions. Steam from the kettle was starting to fill the room. Davie pulled out fifty pence and an elastic band before he found the MP3 player.

  Hey, I could use that, Alfie said and took the elastic band from Davie. He squeezed it over his hand and wore it around his wrist like a bracelet.

  Davie watched Alfie as he leant against the kitchen counter and stirred milk into the mugs of tea. The teaspoon tinged against the side of the mugs and Davie realised that the MP3 player was still. No pulsating energy. No hum of power. Just a plastic box. Dead. Playing dead?

  Oh, did you finally get it working? Alfie asked and nodded at the player.

  Aye, well sort of. It's a bit strange.

  Come on, spit it out.

  Davie hesitated. What would Alfie think of him if he told him what was happening?

  Well, it's like, almost like it's got a mind of its own. It's kind of hard to explain actually. Just forget about it.

  Nah, come on, tell me.

  Well it called me the Trackman, and it played this lassie a song. A song that meant something to her.

  He knew how daft it sounded when he said it out loud, so he stopped himself, didn't mention the other two people, just the girl. That was enough. He felt sick, like his stomach was empty. Hollow. He shouldn't have tried to tell Alfie, this was wrong. All wrong.

  Alfie put down his tea and picked up the player; his hands were covered in oil and dirt and Davie had to grip the sofa to stop from grabbing the player back. Alfie was getting it all dirty. He was covering it in greasy fingerprints.

  Alfie put the headphones on and tapped his nails against the player, like a bank robber in an old movie trying to open a safe. The noise grated inside Davie's head. Went right through him. All he could see was the dirt under Alfie's fingernail tap, tap, tapping. Scratching and scraping and tapping.

  Davie swallowed down the bile gathering in his throat.

  This was wrong. This was wrong. This was wrong.

  So you're the Trackman? Alfie said taking off the headphones and putting the MP3 player down on the counter. He picked up his mug of tea, blew on the surface and took a drink. Davie took the opportunity to swipe back the MP3 player. He rubbed it against his t-shirt, wiping away the dirt of someone else's touch.

  It sounds pretty fucked-up to me. You're the chosen one or something. Alfie put down his mug and waved his arms up and down in an 'I'm not worthy' salute. Davie smiled back and put the MP3 player in the muffler pocket of his hooded jumper. Safe now. Safe now. Safe now.

  What are you going to do? Alfie asked.

  Davie shrugged his shoulders.

  Nothing I suppose. To be honest I was pretty stoned, I probably just imagined it. You know how paranoid I can get.

  The room began to spin around him, but he couldn't keep his eyes off the screen.

  I could take it into my workshop and mess about with it if you like? Open it up and see what's inside.

  Alfie ran a hand through his hair.

  Nah, you're alright. I bet it's nothing. Me being an idiot.

  Davie felt the MP3 player hiss inside his jumper, warning Alfie off like a cornered snake.

  Did you try googling 'Trackman' or anything? Alfie asked.

  Aye, nothing. Davie was struck at how easy the lies were coming. Usually he was a shite liar, but this was easy. Natural.

  Oh well, worth a shot. I thought maybe, you know, like, in Dr Who, where they find mentions of the Doctor on the internet. It could be part of some world-wide mystery. Bad Wolf!

  Davie nodded at him, wondering how he could end this conversation. Just end it. Now.

  Oh, imagine if it was a time machine, Alfie said.

  I think you're getting a bit carried away.

  Yeah I know. If it was though, I'd love to go back to the sixties and shag Marianne Faithfull.

  I might have known you'd use my powers of good for debased purposes.

  Come on, she was gorgeous back then.

  Aye I suppose. I don't think it's a time machine though. I think it's just a fucked-up MP3 player with a fucked-up owner.

  Aye, pity.

  There was a noise outside and Davie and Alfie both moved towards the window. It was the alkie from next door, locked himself out again. Davie watched as the old boy staggered into the middle of the road and began to shout up at the next along window.

  Jean. Jean. Jean! JeAN! JEAN. JEAN!

  The MP3 player buzzed inside Davie's jumper, as the old boy's screams began to get more desperate. Davie put his hands across his middle: he didn't want Alfie to see.

  Don't reckon Jean's up for his pish tonight, Davie said.

  Aye, can't really blame her, although I feel sorry for that old boy.

  How's the music coming along?

  Oh aye, great, eh? That soldering iron works a treat. I got carried away just melting stuff onto other stuff.

  Davie felt a cold sensation against his stomach as Alfie left the room. Freezer burn. The old boy next door had stopped shouting now.

  I'm sorry, Davie patted his jumper. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that.

  Supe
rheroes have a history, a tradition of maintaining their secret identity. I can't break that.

  I place my hand on the player as it lies still on my stomach. I'm breathing in stale air under the duvet and I lift it away from my face. The air changes, becomes cool and fresh against my skin.

  In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

  Why do I have the MP3 player? Why has it chosen me of all people? That's the one thing I am sure of. Alfie was right. It chose me. Chosen. I am chosen.

  Maybe it's a chance for me to do a bit of good in the world. Redeem myself for the lives that I've ruined.

  A second chance. Second. Chance.

  It's kind of ironic that I've been given this chance to help complete strangers, when I couldn't even help my own family.

  In a parallel universe, I help Lewey. I help Mum. I help Dad. We're a family.

  After the funeral they went back to Susan's house for tea and sandwiches. Davie's mum was still surrounded by friends and relatives. Everywhere she went she leant on someone. His dad was nowhere to be seen, taken off as soon as the cars dropped them at the house. Lewey's school photo was on the mantelpiece; his tie was squint and his hair had been recently cut. His eyes followed Davie wherever he went, like the fucking Mona Lisa. Davie couldn't escape Lewis's eyes. He left the room, went through to the kitchen. Aunt Chrissie was in there, trying to be busy. Can I get you a drink, Davie? A glass of wine or orange juice?

  I sit upright. If I can't sleep then I should just get up. Get up and go and do something. I shouldn't lie here, thinking about things I don't want to think about. Going back to places I've tried to shut out.

  They talked about him like he wasn't there.

  He just needs some time. When you've had a shock like that, the repercussions sometimes take a while to manifest.

  Bad dreams, insomnia, flashbacks, panic attacks, depression.

  I think we should give him sleeping pills for the first few days. Just to get him through the initial stages.

  I push the duvet off me and am hit by the chill of early morning. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving. No central heating or double glazing in this old flat. The alarm clock tells me it's just after five. I can hear the seagulls outside squawking at each other.